June 16.

[168]Stow’s Survey, 1633, page 886.[169]The Times.[170]British Press.[171]New Times.[172]Williams’s Monmouth. App. 168.

[168]Stow’s Survey, 1633, page 886.

[169]The Times.

[170]British Press.

[171]New Times.

[172]Williams’s Monmouth. App. 168.

Sts. Quirius, orCyrandJulitta, Martyrs,A. D.304.St. John Francis Regis,A. D.1640.Sts. Ferreolus, orFargeau, andFerrutius,A. D.211 or 212.St. Aurelian, Abp.A. D.552.

1722. John Churchill, the great duke of Marlborough, died at Windsor-lodge, in a state of idiocy. He was son of sir Winston Churchill, an English historian, and born at Ashe, in Devonshire, 1650. At twelve years of age he became page to the duke of York, afterwards James II.; at sixteen he entered the guards, and distinguished himself under Turenne. He was called the handsome Englishman, married Miss Jennings, (the celebrated duchess of Marlborough,) obtained distinguished rank and offices, suppressed the duke of Monmouth’s rebellion, and served king James with apparent fidelity in the wane of his fortune, while he faithlessly made court to the prince of Orange. His great military achievements,under king William and queen Anne, were rewarded by munificent public grants, and a public funeral in Westminster-abbey.

Moss Privince Rose.Rosa muscosa.Dedicated toSt. Julitta.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Dear Sir,

A great deal has been lately attempted, by men of feeling minds, to prevent wanton cruelty towards animals; which (unhappily even in this enlightened age,) is but too prevalent.

The lower class of persons, to whom the care of the horse is intrusted, frequently possess less sense than those noble animals, which groan under their tyranny; we constantly find ignorant farriers, who think that a cure can only be effected, by most violent and painful remedies. It is to these brutal men, that the lameness of so many horses may be attributed; for, not understanding the beautiful and singular construction of the interior of a horse’s foot, by cutting away the hoof they contract the foot, and gradually prevent the elasticity so necessary: thus by repeated shoeing, the foot is cramped, as much so, as a man’s who would attempt to walk in a shoe considerably too tight for him. Lameness ensues, and these farriers pronounce the seat of lameness any where but where it actually exists; then comes firing and blistering, and every possible torture, and the poor animal lamed for life, long before his time, is consigned to the lowest drudgery, and subsequently to the dogs.

The inhuman rate at which horses are driven in stage coaches, conduces greatly to mortality; this consumption of animal life is, in some instances, one in three annually.

Soame Jenyns, whose works are well known, and who was himself a man of the finest feelings, in a paperOn Cruelty to Animals, adverts to the disciples of Pythagoras, who held that the souls of men, and all other animals, existed in a state of perpetual transmigration, and that when by death they were dislodged from one corporeal habitation, they were immediately reinstated in another, happier or more miserable, according to their behaviour in the former. Soame Jenyns favours this doctrine of transmigration, “first, from its justice; secondly, from its utility; and lastly, from the difficulty we lie under to account for the sufferings of many innocent creatures without it.” He says, “If we look around us, we cannot but observe a great and wretched variety of this kind; numberless animals subjected by their own natures to many miseries, and by our cruelties to many more,incapable of crimes, andconsequently incapable of deserving them, called into being, as far as we can discover, only to be miserable for the service or diversion of others less meritorious than themselves, without any possibility of preventing, deserving, or receiving recompense for their unhappy lot, if their whole existence is comprehended in the narrow and wretched circle of their present life.” He then proceeds to observe, that “the theory here inculcated, removes all these difficulties, and reconciles all these seemingly unjust dispensations, with the strictest justice. It informs us, that their sufferings may by no means be understood, but as the just punishments of their former behaviour, in a state, where by means of their vices, they may have escaped them. It teaches us, that the pursued and persecuted fox, was once probably some crafty and rapacious minister, who had purchased by his ill acquired wealth, that safety, which he cannot now procure by his flight; that the bull, baited with all the cruelties that human ingenuity, or human malevolence can invent, was once some relentless tyrant, who had inflicted all the tortures which he endures; that the poor bird, blinded, imprisoned, and at last starved to death in a cage, may have been some unforgiving creditor; and the widowed turtle, pining away life for the loss of her mate, some fashionable wife, rejoicing at the death of her husband, which her own ill-usage had occasioned. Never can the delicious repast of roasted lobsters excite my appetite, whilst the ideas of the tortures in which those innocent creatures have expired present themselves to my imagination. But when I consider that they must have once probably been Spaniards at Mexico, or Dutchmen at Amboyna, I fall to, with a good stomach and a good conscience. Never can I repose myself with satisfaction in a post chaise, whilst I look upon the starved, foundered, accelerated, and excoriated animals which draw it, asmere horses, condemned to such unmerited torments for my convenience, but I reflect, they must have undoubtedly existed in the fathers of the holy inquisition. I very well know that these sentiments will be treated as ludicrous by many of my readers, but they are in themselves just and serious, and carry with them the strongest probability of their truth. So strong is it, that I cannot but hope it will have some good effect on the conduct of those polite people, who are too sagacious, learned, and courageous to be kept in awe by the threats of hell and damnation; and I exhort every fine lady to consider, how wretched will be her condition, if after twenty or thirty years spent at cards, in elegant rooms, kept warm by good fires and soft carpets, she should at last be obliged to change places with one of her coach horses; and every fine gentleman to reflect, how much more wretched would be his, if after wasting his estate, his health, and his life in extravagance, indolence, and luxury, he should again revive in the situation of one of his creditors.”

Besides Jenyns’s suppositions, allow me to notice the crimping of fish, the skinning of eels alive, the whipping of pigs to death, to make them tender, the boiling of live crabs, having first put them in cold water to make them lively; together with the preference given to hunted hares, on account of their delicacy of muscles, softened by worry and exertion. These are but too common instances of a barbarous taste.

At this season of enjoyment and leisure, when we derive pleasure from contemplating the beautiful forms and appearances of nature, and are grateful for annual abundance, let us reflect on the criminal heedlessness wherewith we allow our appetites and pleasures to be indulged, by needless sufferings in the animals we subdue to our wants and whims. While we endeavour to inculcate kindness in our children towards one another, let us teach them kindness to the meanest of created beings. I know that theEvery-Day Bookwidely circulates in families; the humane sentiments that pervade it, must therefore have considerable influence, and for this reason I select it as a channel for conveying a humane suggestion.

I am, dear Sir,Yours sincerely,J. B.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,

The perusal of your remarks on the season and the winds, in theEvery-Day Book,page 707, reminded me of some lines I wrote at Ramsgate. If you know Wellington-crescent, where they were composed, you know a very pretty place, for either summer or winter residence.

I am, Sir, &c.

June6, 1825.

J. S.

THE EAST WIND.A summer sun in brightness glows,But, ah! the blighting east wind blows,And weighs the spirit down!All smiling is th’ enlivening ray,That tips with silvery tinge the spray,O’er ocean’s bosom thrown!Yet, all inviting though it seems,And tempts one forth to court its beamsI tremblingly retire:For I am one who hate and dreadThat eastern blast, and oft have fledIts pestilences dire!But the young shoots that round me riseAnd make me old,—(though still unwise)Feel no such fear as IBrimful of joy they venture forthWind blowing west, south, east, or north,If cloudless be the sky!They tripping lightly o’er the path,To them yet free from grief or scath,Press on—and onward still,With brow unwrinkled yet by care,With spirit buoyant as the air—They breathe at freedom’s will.Where shipwreck’d seamen oft deploreThe loss of all their scanty store,They rove at ebb of tideIn quest of shells, or various weed,That, from the bed of ocean freed,Their anxious search abide.Proud and elated with their prize,(All eagerness with sparkling eyes,)The treasures home are broughtTo me, who plunged in gloom the while.At home have watch’d the sea bird’s guile:—Or, in a sea of thought,Have sentmy spiritforth to findFit food for an immortal mind,Else of itself the prey!And in th’ abstraction of that mood.Full oft I’ve realized the good,We boast not every day.Sometimes tho’, with a courage bold,As ever faced the arctic’s cold,I pace the Colonnade;[173]And then am soon compelled to beat,And seek a cowardly retreat,Within the parlour’s shade!Sometimes the place,[174]warm shelter’d close,Where Sharwood’s decorated house,From roof to step all flowers,Shines forth as Flora’s temple, whereDominion falls to sea and air;—Napoleonic powers!There, snugly shelter’d from the blast,My eyes right pensively I castWhere famed sir Williams’s barkLies moor’d, awaiting the time whenThat Noah of citizens againShall venture on such ark!But, ah! still round the corner creeps,That treach’rous wind! and still it sweepsToo clean the path I tread:Arm’d as with numerous needle points,Its painful searchings pierce my joints,And then capsize my head!So home again full trot I speed,As, after wound, the warrior’s steed;And sit me down, and sighO’er the hard-hearted fate of thoseWho feel like me these east-wind woesThat brain and marrow try!Again upon the sea I look,Of nature that exhaustless bookWith endless wonder fraught:—How oft upon that sea I’ve gazed,Whose world of waters has amazedMan—social or untaught.And, spite of all that some may say,It isthe place from day to day,Whereon the soul can dwell!Mysoul enkindles at the sightOf such accumulated might;And loves such grandeur well!J. S.

THE EAST WIND.

A summer sun in brightness glows,But, ah! the blighting east wind blows,And weighs the spirit down!All smiling is th’ enlivening ray,That tips with silvery tinge the spray,O’er ocean’s bosom thrown!Yet, all inviting though it seems,And tempts one forth to court its beamsI tremblingly retire:For I am one who hate and dreadThat eastern blast, and oft have fledIts pestilences dire!But the young shoots that round me riseAnd make me old,—(though still unwise)Feel no such fear as IBrimful of joy they venture forthWind blowing west, south, east, or north,If cloudless be the sky!They tripping lightly o’er the path,To them yet free from grief or scath,Press on—and onward still,With brow unwrinkled yet by care,With spirit buoyant as the air—They breathe at freedom’s will.Where shipwreck’d seamen oft deploreThe loss of all their scanty store,They rove at ebb of tideIn quest of shells, or various weed,That, from the bed of ocean freed,Their anxious search abide.Proud and elated with their prize,(All eagerness with sparkling eyes,)The treasures home are broughtTo me, who plunged in gloom the while.At home have watch’d the sea bird’s guile:—Or, in a sea of thought,Have sentmy spiritforth to findFit food for an immortal mind,Else of itself the prey!And in th’ abstraction of that mood.Full oft I’ve realized the good,We boast not every day.Sometimes tho’, with a courage bold,As ever faced the arctic’s cold,I pace the Colonnade;[173]And then am soon compelled to beat,And seek a cowardly retreat,Within the parlour’s shade!Sometimes the place,[174]warm shelter’d close,Where Sharwood’s decorated house,From roof to step all flowers,Shines forth as Flora’s temple, whereDominion falls to sea and air;—Napoleonic powers!There, snugly shelter’d from the blast,My eyes right pensively I castWhere famed sir Williams’s barkLies moor’d, awaiting the time whenThat Noah of citizens againShall venture on such ark!But, ah! still round the corner creeps,That treach’rous wind! and still it sweepsToo clean the path I tread:Arm’d as with numerous needle points,Its painful searchings pierce my joints,And then capsize my head!So home again full trot I speed,As, after wound, the warrior’s steed;And sit me down, and sighO’er the hard-hearted fate of thoseWho feel like me these east-wind woesThat brain and marrow try!Again upon the sea I look,Of nature that exhaustless bookWith endless wonder fraught:—How oft upon that sea I’ve gazed,Whose world of waters has amazedMan—social or untaught.And, spite of all that some may say,It isthe place from day to day,Whereon the soul can dwell!Mysoul enkindles at the sightOf such accumulated might;And loves such grandeur well!

Yet, all inviting though it seems,And tempts one forth to court its beamsI tremblingly retire:For I am one who hate and dreadThat eastern blast, and oft have fledIts pestilences dire!

But the young shoots that round me riseAnd make me old,—(though still unwise)Feel no such fear as IBrimful of joy they venture forthWind blowing west, south, east, or north,If cloudless be the sky!

They tripping lightly o’er the path,To them yet free from grief or scath,Press on—and onward still,With brow unwrinkled yet by care,With spirit buoyant as the air—They breathe at freedom’s will.

Where shipwreck’d seamen oft deploreThe loss of all their scanty store,They rove at ebb of tideIn quest of shells, or various weed,That, from the bed of ocean freed,Their anxious search abide.

Proud and elated with their prize,(All eagerness with sparkling eyes,)The treasures home are broughtTo me, who plunged in gloom the while.At home have watch’d the sea bird’s guile:—Or, in a sea of thought,

Have sentmy spiritforth to findFit food for an immortal mind,Else of itself the prey!And in th’ abstraction of that mood.Full oft I’ve realized the good,We boast not every day.

Sometimes tho’, with a courage bold,As ever faced the arctic’s cold,I pace the Colonnade;[173]And then am soon compelled to beat,And seek a cowardly retreat,Within the parlour’s shade!

Sometimes the place,[174]warm shelter’d close,Where Sharwood’s decorated house,From roof to step all flowers,Shines forth as Flora’s temple, whereDominion falls to sea and air;—Napoleonic powers!

There, snugly shelter’d from the blast,My eyes right pensively I castWhere famed sir Williams’s barkLies moor’d, awaiting the time whenThat Noah of citizens againShall venture on such ark!

But, ah! still round the corner creeps,That treach’rous wind! and still it sweepsToo clean the path I tread:Arm’d as with numerous needle points,Its painful searchings pierce my joints,And then capsize my head!

So home again full trot I speed,As, after wound, the warrior’s steed;And sit me down, and sighO’er the hard-hearted fate of thoseWho feel like me these east-wind woesThat brain and marrow try!

Again upon the sea I look,Of nature that exhaustless bookWith endless wonder fraught:—How oft upon that sea I’ve gazed,Whose world of waters has amazedMan—social or untaught.

And, spite of all that some may say,It isthe place from day to day,Whereon the soul can dwell!Mysoul enkindles at the sightOf such accumulated might;And loves such grandeur well!

J. S.

[173]Wellington-crescent.[174]Albion-place.

[173]Wellington-crescent.

[174]Albion-place.

Sts. NicandeoandMarcian, aboutA. D.303.St. Botulph, Abbot,A. D.655.St. Avitus, orAvy,A. D.530.St. Molingus, orDairchilla, Bp.A. D.697.St. Prior, Hermit, 4th Cent.

This saint, the proto-martyr of Britain, is in the church of England calendar and almanacs on this day, but he stands in the Romish calendar, on the 22d of the month.

St. Alban was born at Verulam, in Hertfordshire, in the third century, and went to Rome, where he served seven years as a soldier under Dioclesian. He afterwards returned to England, became a Christian, and suffered martyrdom in 303, during the dreadful persecution raised by Dioclesian. Several miracles are said by Bede to have been wrought at his martyrdom.[175]

The fame of Alban, recorded as it was by Bede, made a deep impression on the minds of the superstitious. “The Ecclesiastical History” of that author, was published in 731; and in the year 795, Offa, king of the Mercians, built a monastery to the honour of Alban, on the place where he had suffered, then called by the Anglo-Saxons, Holmhurst, but since, in honour of the martyr, named St. Alban’s. The town built near the abbey still retains the latter appellation; and the abbey-church is even yet in existence, having, at the suppression of the monasteries by Henry the Eighth, been purchased by a rich clothier of the name of Stump, for 400l., and converted by him into a parochial church, for the use of the inhabitants. In the year 1257, some workmen repairing this ancient church, found the remains of some sheets of lead, containing relics, with a thick plate of lead over them, upon which was cut the following inscription:—

“In hoc Mausoleo inventum estVenerabile corpusSancti Albani,ProtoMartyris Anglorum.”[176]

Monkey Flower.Mimulus luteus.Dedicated toSt. Nicandeo.

[175]Audley.[176]Brady’s Clavis.

[175]Audley.

[176]Brady’s Clavis.

Sts. MarcusandMarcellianus,A. D.286.St. Marina, 8th. Cent.St. Elizabethof Sconage, Abbess,A. D.1165.St. Amand, Bp. of Bourdeaux.

1815. The battle of Waterloo, which terminated the personal power of Napoleon, was fought on this day.

BATTLE OF WATERLOOThere was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium’s capital had gathered thenHer beauty and her chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage-bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying fleet—But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, nearer, deadlier than before.Arm! arm! it is!—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused by the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! they come! they come!”And wild, and high, the “Cameron’s gathering rose!”The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foeAnd burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle’s magnificently-stern array!The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend,—foe,—in one red burial blent!Byron.

BATTLE OF WATERLOO

There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium’s capital had gathered thenHer beauty and her chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage-bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying fleet—But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, nearer, deadlier than before.Arm! arm! it is!—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused by the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! they come! they come!”And wild, and high, the “Cameron’s gathering rose!”The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foeAnd burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle’s magnificently-stern array!The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend,—foe,—in one red burial blent!

Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying fleet—But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, nearer, deadlier than before.Arm! arm! it is!—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused by the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—“The foe! they come! they come!”

And wild, and high, the “Cameron’s gathering rose!”The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foeAnd burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle’s magnificently-stern array!The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend,—foe,—in one red burial blent!

Byron.

On the 18th of June, 1817, the Strand-bridge, a noble structure, erected at the expense of private individuals, was opened for the public accommodation, under the denomination of Waterloo-bridge, with military and other ceremonies.

“Buy a Broom?”

These poor “Buy-a-Broom” girls exactly dress now,As Hollar etch’d such girls two cent’ries ago;All formal and stiff, with legs, only, at ease—Yet, pray, judge for yourself; and don’t, if you please,Like Matthews’s “Chyle,” in his Monolo-Play,Cry “The Ev’ry-Day Bookis quiteright, I dare say;”But ask for the print, at old print shops, (they’ll show it,)And look at it, “with your own eyes,” and you’ll “knowit.”*

These girls are Flemings. They come to England from the Netherlands in the spring, and take their departure with the summer. They have only one low, shrill, twittering note, “Buy a broom?” sometimes varying into the singular plural, “Buy a brooms?” It is a domestic cry; two or three go together, and utter it in company with each other; not in concert, nor to a neighbourhood, and scarcely louder than will attract the notice of an inmate seen at a parlour window, or an open street-door, or a lady or two passing in the street. Their hair is tightened up in front, and at the sides, and behind, and the ends brought together, and so secured, or skewered, at the top of the head, as if it were constricted by a tourniquet: the little close cap, not larger than an infant’s, seems to be put on and tied down by strings fastened beneath the chin, merely as a concealment of the machinery. Without a single inflexion of the body, and for any thing that appears to the contrary, it may be incased in tin. From the waist, the form abruptly and boldly bows out like a large beehive, or an arch of carpentry, built downward from above the hips, for the purpose of opening and distending the enormous petticoat into numerous plaits and folds, and thereby allowing the legs to walk without incumbrance. Their figures are exactly miniatured in an unpainted penny doll of turnery ware, made all round, before and behind, and sold in the toyshops for the amusement of infancy.

These Flemish girls are of low stature, with features as formal and old fashioned as their dress. Their gait and manner answer to both. They carry their brooms, not under the left arm, but upon it, as they would children, upright between the arm and the side, with the heads in front of the shoulder. One, and one only, of the brooms is invariably held in the right hand, and this is elevated with the sharp cry “Buy a broom?” or “Buy a brooms?” to any one likely to become a purchaser, till it is either bought or wholly declined. The sale of their brooms is the sole purpose for which they cross the seas to us; and they suffer nothing to divert them from their avocation. A broom girl’s countenance, so wearisomely indicates unwearied attention to the “main chance,” and is so inflexibly solemn, that you doubt whether she ever did or can smile; yet when she does, you are astonished that she does not always: her face does not relax by degrees, but breaks suddenly into an arch laugh. This appearance may be extorted by a joke, while driving a bargain, but not afterwards: she assumes it, perhaps, as a sort of “turn” to hasten the “business transaction;” for when that is concluded, the intercourse ends immediately. Neither lingering nor loitering, they keep constantly walking on, and looking out for customers. They seldom speak to each other; nor when their brooms are disposed of, do they stop and rejoice upon it as an end to their labours; but go homewards reflectively, with the hand every now and then dipping into the pocket of the huge petticoat, and remaining there for a while, as if counting the receipts of the day while they walk, and reckoning what the before accumulated riches will total to, with the new addition. They seem influenced by this admonition, “get all you can, and keep all you get.”

Rather late in an autumn afternoon, in Battersea-fields, I saw one of these girls by herself; she was seated, with her brooms on her lap, in a bit of scenery, which, from Weirotter’s etchings and other prints, I have always fancied resembled a view in the Low Countries: it is an old windmill, near the “Red-house,” with some low buildings among willows, on the bank of the Thames, thrown up to keep the river from overflowing a marshy flat. To my imagination, she was fixed to that spot in a reverie on her “vader-land.[177]” She gazed on the strait line of stunted trees, as if it were the line of beauty; and from the motion of her lips, and the enthusiasm of her look, I deemed she was reciting a passage from a poet of her native country. Elevation of feeling, in one of these poor girls, was hardly to be looked for; and yet I know not why I should have excluded it, as not appertaining to their character, except from their seeming intentness on thrift alone. They are cleanly, frugal, and no wasters of time; and that they are capable of sentiment, I state on the authority of my imagining concerning this poor girl; whereon, too, I pledge myself not to have been mistaken, for the language of the heart is universal—and hers discoursed to mine; though from the situation whereinI stood, she saw me not. I was not, nor could I be, in love withher—I was in love with human nature.

The “brooms” are one entire piece of wood; the sweeping part being slivered from the handle, and the shavings neatly turned over and bound round into the form of a besom. They are bought to dust curtains and hangings with; but good housewives have another use for them; one of them dipt in fair water, sprinkles the dried clothes in the laundry, for the process of ironing, infinitely better than the hand; it distributes the water more equally and more quickly.

There is a print with this inscription. It is a caricature representation of Mr. Brougham, with his barrister’s wig, in the dress of a broom girl, and for its likeness of that gentleman, and the play on his name, it is amazingly popular; especially since he contended for a man’s right to his own personal appearance, in the case ofAbernethyv.The Lancet, before the chancellor. Mr. Brougham’s good-humoured allusion to his own countenance, was taken by the auditors in court, to relate particularly to his portrait in this print, called “Buy a Broom?” It is certainly as good as “TheGreat Bellof Lincoln’s-inn,” and two or three other prints of gentlemen eminent at the chancery-bar, sketched and etched, apparently, by the same happy hand at a thorough likeness.

Horned Poppy.Chelidonium glaucum.Dedicated toSt. Marina.

[177]Vader-land, a word signifying country, but infinitely more expressive; it was first adopted by Lord Byron into our language; he englishes it “Fatherland.”

Sts. GervasiusandProtasius.St. Boniface, Abp., Apostle of Russia,A. D.1009.St. Juliana Falconieri,A. D.1340.St. Die, orDeodatus, Bp.A. D.679 or 680.

1215. Magna Charta was signed, on compulsion, by king John, at Runnymead, near Windsor.

1820. Sir Joseph Banks, president of the royal society, died, aged 77.

The Summer Midnight.The breeze of night has sunk to rest,Upon the river’s tranquil breast,And every bird has sought her nest,Where silent is her minstrelsy;The queen of heaven is sailing high,A pale bark on the azure sky,Where not a breath is heard to sigh—So deep the soft tranquillity.Forgotten now the heat of dayThat on the burning waters lay,The noon of night her mantle gray,Spreads, from the sun’s high blazonry;But glittering in that gentle nightThere gleams a line of silvery light,As tremulous on the shores of whiteIt hovers sweet and playfully.At peace the distant shallop rides;Not as when dashing o’er her sidesThe roaring bay’s unruly tidesWere beating round her gloriously;But every sail is furl’d and still,Silent the seaman’s whistle shrill,While dreamy slumbers seem to thrillWith parted hours of ecstacy.Stars of the many spangled heaven!Faintly this night your beams are given,Tho’ proudly where your hosts are drivenYe rear your dazzling galaxy;Since far and wide a softer hueIs spread across the plains of blue,Where in bright chorus ever trueFor ever swells your harmony.O! for some sadly dying noteUpon this silent hour to float,Where from the bustling world remote,The lyre might wake its melody;One feeble strain is all can swellFrom mine almost deserted shell,In mournful accents yet to tellThat slumbers not its minstrelsy.There is an hourof deep reposeThat yet upon my heart shall close,When all that nature dreads and knowsShall burst upon me wond’rously;O may, I then awake for everMy harp to rapture’s high endeavour,And as from earth’s vain scene I sever,Be lost in Immortality!

The Summer Midnight.

The breeze of night has sunk to rest,Upon the river’s tranquil breast,And every bird has sought her nest,Where silent is her minstrelsy;The queen of heaven is sailing high,A pale bark on the azure sky,Where not a breath is heard to sigh—So deep the soft tranquillity.Forgotten now the heat of dayThat on the burning waters lay,The noon of night her mantle gray,Spreads, from the sun’s high blazonry;But glittering in that gentle nightThere gleams a line of silvery light,As tremulous on the shores of whiteIt hovers sweet and playfully.At peace the distant shallop rides;Not as when dashing o’er her sidesThe roaring bay’s unruly tidesWere beating round her gloriously;But every sail is furl’d and still,Silent the seaman’s whistle shrill,While dreamy slumbers seem to thrillWith parted hours of ecstacy.Stars of the many spangled heaven!Faintly this night your beams are given,Tho’ proudly where your hosts are drivenYe rear your dazzling galaxy;Since far and wide a softer hueIs spread across the plains of blue,Where in bright chorus ever trueFor ever swells your harmony.O! for some sadly dying noteUpon this silent hour to float,Where from the bustling world remote,The lyre might wake its melody;One feeble strain is all can swellFrom mine almost deserted shell,In mournful accents yet to tellThat slumbers not its minstrelsy.There is an hourof deep reposeThat yet upon my heart shall close,When all that nature dreads and knowsShall burst upon me wond’rously;O may, I then awake for everMy harp to rapture’s high endeavour,And as from earth’s vain scene I sever,Be lost in Immortality!

Forgotten now the heat of dayThat on the burning waters lay,The noon of night her mantle gray,Spreads, from the sun’s high blazonry;But glittering in that gentle nightThere gleams a line of silvery light,As tremulous on the shores of whiteIt hovers sweet and playfully.

At peace the distant shallop rides;Not as when dashing o’er her sidesThe roaring bay’s unruly tidesWere beating round her gloriously;But every sail is furl’d and still,Silent the seaman’s whistle shrill,While dreamy slumbers seem to thrillWith parted hours of ecstacy.

Stars of the many spangled heaven!Faintly this night your beams are given,Tho’ proudly where your hosts are drivenYe rear your dazzling galaxy;Since far and wide a softer hueIs spread across the plains of blue,Where in bright chorus ever trueFor ever swells your harmony.

O! for some sadly dying noteUpon this silent hour to float,Where from the bustling world remote,The lyre might wake its melody;One feeble strain is all can swellFrom mine almost deserted shell,In mournful accents yet to tellThat slumbers not its minstrelsy.

There is an hourof deep reposeThat yet upon my heart shall close,When all that nature dreads and knowsShall burst upon me wond’rously;O may, I then awake for everMy harp to rapture’s high endeavour,And as from earth’s vain scene I sever,Be lost in Immortality!

La Julienne de Nuit.Hesperis tristis.Dedicated toSt. Juliana.

St. Silverius, Pope,A. D.538.St. Gobian, Priest and Martyr, about 656.St. Idaburga,orEdburge.St. Bain, Bp. of Terouanne (now St. Omer,) and Abbot, aboutA. D.711.

This day is so distinguished in the church of England calendar. Edward was the king of the West Saxons, murdered by order of Elfrida. He had not only an anniversary on the 18th of March, in commemoration of his sufferings, or rather of the silly and absurd miracles alleged to have been wrought at his tomb; but he was even honoured by our weak forefathers with another festival on the 20th of June, in each year, in remembrance of the removal, ortranslation, as it is termed, of his relics at Wareham, where they were inhumed, to the minster at Salisbury, three years after his decease.

It is observed by Mr. Brady, on thetranslationof St. Edward, as follows:—

“At the period this solemn act of absurd pomp took place, all Europe was plunged in a state of profound ignorance and mental darkness; no marvel, therefore, that great importance should have been attached to such superstitious usage; but for what reason our reformers chose to keep up a recollection of that folly, cannot readily be ascertained.

“Of the origin of translations of this kind, much has been written; and if we are to credit the assertions of those monkish writers, whose works are yet found in catholic countries, though they have themselves long passed to the silent tomb, we must believe not only that they had their source from a principle of devotion, but that peculiar advantages accrued to those who encouraged their increase. In the year 359, the emperor Constantius, out of a presumed and, perhaps, not inconsistent respect, caused the remains of St. Andrew and St. Luke to be removed from their ancient place of interment to the temple of the twelve apostles, at Constantinople; and from that example, the practice of searching for the bodies of saints and martyrs increased so rapidly, that in the year 386, we find almost the whole of the devotees engaged in that pursuit. Relics, of course, speedily became of considerable value; and as they were all alleged to possess peculiar virtues, no expense or labour were spared to provide such treasures for every public religious foundation. Hence translations innumerable took place of the decayed members of persons reputed saints; and where the entire bodies could not be collected, the pious contented themselves with possessing such parts alone as ‘Providence chose to bless them with.’ Without these sacred relics, no establishments could expect to thrive; and so provident had the persons been who laboured in their collection, that not a single religious house but could produce one or more of those invaluable remains; though, unless we are to believe that most relics, like the holy cross itself, possessed the power of self-augmentation, we must either admit, that some of our circumspect forefathers were imposed upon, or that St. John the Baptist had more heads than that of which he was so cruelly deprived, as well as several of their favourite saints having each kindly afforded them two or three skeletons of their precious bodies; circumstances that frequently occurred, ‘because,’ says Father John Ferand, of Anecy, ‘God was pleased so to multiply and re-produce them, for the devotion of the faithful!’

“Of the number of these relics that have been preserved, it is useless to attempt a description, nor, indeed, could they be detailed in many volumes; yet it may gratify curiosity to afford some brief account of such as, in addition to the heads of St. John the Baptist, were held in the greatest repute, were it for no other reason than to show how the ignorance and credulity of the commonalty have, in former ages, been imposed upon, viz.:—

“A finger of St. Andrew;

“A finger of St. John the Baptist;

“The thumb of St. Thomas;

“A tooth of our Lord;

“A rib of our Lord, or, as it is profanely styled, of theVerbum caro factum, the word made flesh;

“The hem of our Lord’s garment, which cured the diseased woman;

“The seamless coat of our Lord;

“A tear which our Lord shed over Lazarus; it was preserved by an angel, who gave it in a phial to Mary Magdalene;

“Two handkerchiefs, on which are impressions of our Saviour’s face; the one sent by our Lord himself as a present to Agbarus, prince of Edessa; the other given at the time of his crucifixion to a holy woman, named Veronica;

“The rod of Moses, with which he performed his miracles;

“A lock of hair of Mary Magdalene’s;

“A hem of Joseph’s garment;

“A feather of the Holy Ghost;

“A finger of the Holy Ghost;

“A feather of the angel Gabriel;

“A finger of a cherubim;

“The water-pots used at the marriage in Galilee;

“The slippers of the antediluvian Enoch;

“The face of a seraphim, with only part of the nose;

“The ‘snout’ of a seraphim, thought to have belonged to the preceding;

“The coal that broiled St. Lawrence;

“The square buckler, lined with ‘red velvet,’ and the short sword of St. Michael;

“A phial of the ‘sweat of St. Michael,’ when he contended with Satan;

“Some of the rays of the star that appeared to the Magi; with innumerable others, not quite consistent with decency to be here described.

“The miracles wrought by these and other such precious remains, have been enlarged upon by writers, whose testimony, aided by theprotecting careof the inquisition, no one durst openly dispute who was not of the ‘holy brotherhood;’ although it would appear, by the confessions of some of those respectable persons, that ‘instances have occurred of their failure,’ but that they always ‘recovered their virtue, when,’ as Galbert, a monk of Marchiennes, informs us, ‘they were flogged with rods, &c.!’”[178]

Doubtful Poppy.Papaver dubium.Dedicated toSt. Silverius.

[178]Brady’s Clavis.

St. Aloysius, orLewis Gonzaga,A. D.1591.St. Ralph, Abp. of Bourges,A. D.866.St. Meen, in Latin,Mevennus, alsoMelanus, Abbot in Britanny, aboutA. D.617.St. Aaron, Abbot in Britanny, 6th Cent.St. Eusebius, Bp. of Samosata,A. D.379 or 380.St. Leufredus, in French,Leufroi, Abbot,A. D.738.

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