May 2.

“A sable cloudTurns forth her silver lining on the night.

It is like some remnant of gentry not quite extinct; a badge of better days; a hint of nobility:—and, doubtless, under the obscuring darkness and double night of their forlorn disguisement, oftentimes lurketh good blood, and gentle conditions, derived from lost ancestry, and a lapsed pedigree. The premature apprenticements of these tender victims give but too much encouragement, I fear, to clandestine, and almost infantile abductions; the seeds of civility and true courtesy, so often discernible in these young grafts (not otherwise to be accounted for) plainly hint at some forced adoptions; many noble Rachels mourning for their children, even in our days, countenance the fact; the tales of fairy-spiriting may shadow a lamentable verity, and the recovery of the young Montague be but a solitary instance of good fortune, out of many irreparable and hopelessdefiliations.

“In one of the state-beds at Arundel Castle, a few years since—under a ducal canopy—(that seat of the Howards is an object of curiosity to visitors, chiefly for its beds, in which the late duke was especially a connoisseur)—encircled with curtains of delicatest crimson, with starry coronets inwoven—folded between a pair of sheets whiter and softer than the lap where Venus lulled Ascanius—was discovered by chance, after all methods of search had failed, at noon-day, fast asleep, a lost chimney-sweeper. The little creature, having somehow confounded his passage among the intricacies of those lordly chimnies, by some unknown aperture had alighted upon this magnificent chamber; and, tired with his tedious explorations, was unable to resist the delicious invitement to repose, which he there saw exhibited; so, creeping between the sheets very quietly, laid his black head upon the pillow, and slept like a young Howard.

“Such is the account given to the visitors at the Castle. But I cannot help seeming to perceive a confirmation of what I have just hinted at in this story. A high instinct was at work in the case, or I am mistaken. Is it probable that a poor child of that description, with whatever weariness he might be visited, would have ventured, under such a penalty as he would be taught to expect, to uncover the sheets of a duke’s bed, and deliberately to lay himself down between them, when the rug or the carpet presented an obvious couch, still far above his pretensions—is this probable, I would ask, if the great power of nature, which I contend for, had not been manifested within him, prompting to the adventure? Doubtless this young nobleman (for such my mind misgives me that he must be) was allured by some memory, not amounting to full consciousness, of his condition in infancy, when he was used to be lapt by his mother, or his nurse, in just such sheets as he there found, into which he was now but creeping back as into his properincunabulaand resting-place. By no other theory, than by this sentimentof a pre-existent state (as I may call it), can I explain a deed so venturous, and, indeed, upon any other system so indecorous, in this tender, but unseasonable, sleeper.

“My pleasant friendJem Whitewas so impressed with a belief of metamorphoses like this frequently taking place, that in some sort to reverse the wrongs of fortune in these poor changelings, he instituted an annual feast of chimney-sweepers, at which it was his pleasure to officiate as host and waiter. It was a solemn supper held in Smithfield, upon the yearly return of the fair of St. Bartholomew. Cards were issued a week before to the master-sweeps in and about the metropolis, confining the invitation to their younger fry. Now and then an elderly stripling would get in among us, and be good-naturedly winked at; but our main body were infantry. One unfortunate wight, indeed, who, relying upon his dusky suit, had intruded himself into our party, but by tokens was providentially discovered in time to be no chimney-sweeper (all is not soot which looks so), was quoited out of the presence with universal indignation, as not having on the wedding garment; but in general the greatest harmony prevailed. The place chosen was a convenient spot among the pens, at the north side of the fair, not so far distant as to be impervious to the agreeable hubbub of that vanity; but remote enough not to be obvious to the interruption of every gaping spectator in it. The guests assembled about seven. In those little temporary parlours three tables were spread with napery, not so fine as substantial, and at every board a comely hostess presided with her pan of hissing sausages. The nostrils of the young rogues dilated at the savour.James White, as head waiter, had charge of the first table; and myself, with our trusty companionBigod, ordinarily ministered to the other two. There was clambering and jostling, you may be sure, who should get at the first table—for Rochester in his maddest days could not have done the humours of the scene with more spirit than my friend. After some general expression of thanks for the honour the company had done him, his inaugural ceremony was to clasp the greasy waist of old dame Ursula (the fattest of the three), that stood frying and fretting, half-blessing, half-cursing ‘the gentleman,’ and imprint upon her chaste lips a tender salute, whereat the universal host would set up a shout that tore the concave, while hundreds of grinning teeth startled the night with their brightness. O, it was a pleasure to see the sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, withhismore unctuous sayings—how he would fit the tit-bits to the puny mouths, reserving the lengthier links for the seniors—how he would intercept a morsel even in the jaws of some young desperado, declaring it ‘must to the pan again to be browned, for it was not fit for a gentleman’s eating’—how he would recommend this slice of white bread, or that piece of kissing-crust, to a tender juvenile, advising them all to have a care of cracking their teeth, which were their best patrimony,—how genteelly he would deal about the small ale, as if it were wine, naming the brewer, and protesting, if it were not good, he should lose their custom; with a special recommendation to wipe the lip before drinking. Then we had our toasts—‘The King,’—the ‘Cloth,’—which, whether they understood or not, was equally diverting and flattering;—and for a crowning sentiment, which never failed, ‘May the Brush supersede the Laurel.’ All these, and fifty other fancies, which were rather felt than comprehended by his guests, would he utter, standing upon tables, and prefacing every sentiment with a ‘Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and so,’ which was a prodigious comfort to those young orphans; every now and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish on these occasions,) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking sausages, which pleased them mightily, and was the savouriest part, you may believe, of the entertainment:—

“Golden lads and lasses must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust—

“James Whiteis extinct, and with him these suppers have long ceased. He carried away with him half the fun of the world when he died—of my world at least. His old clients look for him among the pens; and, missing him, reproach the altered feast of St. Bartholomew, and the glory of Smithfield departed for ever.”

A philanthropist, who rejoices over every attempt to cheer helplessness, will not quarrel with the late annual treat of “Jem White.” Our kindnesses wear different fashions, and Elia’s report of thefestival is a feast for a feeling and merry heart. Mrs. Montague’s entertainment to the London chimney-sweepers was held every May-day, at her house, in Portman-square; she gave them roast-beef and plumb-pudding, and a shilling each, and they danced after their dinner. But Mrs. Montague and Jem White are dead; and now the poor fellows, though the legislature has interfered for their protection, want “a next friend” to cheer them once a year, and acquaint the sufferers that they have sympathizers. An extract from a letter to the editor of theEvery-Day Book, dated April 16, 1825, from Sheffield, in Yorkshire, is a reproach to us of the metropolis:—“In the ‘Chimney-sweepers’ Friend, and Climbing-boys’ Album,’ by Mr. James Montgomery, the poet, and editor of the ‘Sheffield Iris,’ is a literal representation of an annual dinner which that gentleman, and a few of us, give to the lads employed as climbing-boys in Sheffield. This we have done for about eighteen years in succession. From twenty-four to twenty-six attend; and their appearance, behaviour, andacquirements, (I may say,) do credit to their masters. They are a much better generation to look upon than they were when we first took them by the hand. On last Easter Monday, out of the twenty-four present, there were only two who did not attend Sunday-schools; which, in whatever estimation these institutions may be held, shows that once, at least, every week, these poor children looked like other people’s children, and associated with them; being clean washed, decently dressed, and employed in reading, or in learning to read: many of them couldwrite. Something of the kind is projected at Leeds. A benevolent lady, at Derby, has this year raised friends, and a fund, for an annual dinner to the climbing-boys there on Easter Monday.” Mr. Montgomery’s “Chimney-sweepers’ Friend” is a series of representations calculated to assist “the immediate relief of the sufferers, and the gradual abolition of this home slave-trade in little children.” His applications to distinguished characters for literary contributions to his work were successful. “May I,” he said, “entreat your aid to this humble cause? Were you to see all the climbing-boys in the kingdom (and climbing-girls, too, for we have known parents who have employed their own daughters in this hideous way,) assembled in one place, you would meet a spectacle of deformed, degraded, and depraved humanity, in its very age of innocence, (pardon the phrase,) which would so affect your heart that we should be sure of your hand.” Not one being of humanity can read the statements in Mr. Montgomery’s volume with a dry eye—not one but before he has half perused it will resolve never to let a climbing-boy enter his chimney again. Fathers and mothers of England, read the book! The “Examiner,” some time ago, related an anecdote much to the purpose, from a pamphlet by Mr. J. W. Orderson, late of Barbadoes; it is a fine specimen of pure feeling. “About fourteen years ago,” says Mr. Orderson, “a Mrs. P. arrived at Bristol, from the West Indies, and brought with her a female Negro servant, mother of two or three children left in that country. A few days after their arrival, and they had gone into private lodgings, a sweep-boy was sent for by the landlady to sweep the kitchen chimney. This woman being seated in the kitchen when littleSootentered, was struck with amazement at the spectacle he presented; and with great vehemence, clapping her hands together, exclaimed, ‘Whadisme see! La, la, dat buckarapiccaninny! So help me, nyung Misse,’ (addressing herself to the housemaid then present,) ‘sooner dan seeone o’minepiccaninniestanso, Idrownhe in de sea.’ The progress of the poor child in sweeping the chimney closely engrossed her attention, and when she saw him return from his sooty incarceration, she addressed him with a feeling that did honour to her maternal tenderness, saying, ‘Child! come yaw, child,’ (and without waiting any reply, and putting a sixpence into his hand;) ‘Whoyoumammy? You hab daddy, too? Whadembe, da la you go no chimney for?’ and moistening her finger at her lips, began to rub the poor child’s cheek, to ascertain, what yet appeared doubtful to her, whether he was really abuccara, (white.) I saw this woman some time after in the West Indies; and it was a congratulation to her ever after, thather‘children were not born to besweeps.’”

It appears from a volume of “Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South ofIreland,”[129]that there are romantic remains of antiquity connected with the celebration of May-day in that country of imagination. “Mummers in Ireland,” says the author, “are clearly a family of the same race with those festive bands, termed Morrice-dancers, in England. They appear at all seasons in Ireland, butMay-dayis their favourite and proper festival. They consist of a number, varying according to circumstances, of the girls and young men of the village or neighbourhood, usually selected for their good looks, or their proficiency,—the females in the dance, the youths in hurling and other athletic exercises. They march in procession, two abreast, and in three divisions; the young men in the van and the rear, dressed in white or other gay-coloured jackets or vests, and decorated with ribbons on their hats and sleeves; the young women are dressed also in light-coloured garments, and two of them bear each a holly bush, in which are hung several new hurling balls, the May-day present of the girls to the youths of the village. The bush is decorated with a profusion of long ribbons or paper cut in imitation, which adds greatly to the gay and joyous, yet strictly rural, appearance of the whole. The procession is always preceded by music; sometimes of the bagpipe, but more commonly of a military fife, with the addition of a drum or tamboureen. A clown is, of course, in attendance: he wears a frightful mask, and bears a long pole, with shreds of cloth nailed to the end of it, like a mop, which ever and anon he dips in a pool of water, or puddle, and besprinkles such of the crowd as press upon his companions, much to the delight of the younger spectators, who greet his exploits with loud and repeated shouts and laughter. The Mummers, during the day, parade the neighbouring villages, or go from one gentleman’s seat to another, dancing before the mansion-house, and receiving money. The evening, of course, terminates with drinking.May-eveis considered a time of peculiar danger. The ‘good people,’ are supposed then to possess the power and the inclination to do all sorts of mischief without the slightest restraint. The ‘evil eye’ is then also deemed to have more than its usual vigilance and malignity; and the nurse who would walk in the open air with a child in her arms, would be reprobated as a monster. Youth and loveliness are thought to be especially exposed to peril. It is therefore a natural consequence, that not one woman in a thousand appears abroad: but it must not be understood that the want of beauty affords any protection. The grizzled locks of age do not always save the cheek from ablast; neither is the brawny hand of the roughest ploughman exempt from a similar visitation. Theblastis a large round tumour, which is thought to rise suddenly upon the part affected, from the baneful breath cast on it by one of the ‘good people’ in a moment of vindictive or capricious malice. May-day is calledla na Beal tina, and May-eveneen na Beal tina,—that is, day and eve of Beal’s fire, from its having been in heathen times, consecrated to the god Beal, or Belus; whence also the month of May is termed in Irish ‘Mi na Beal-tine.’ The ceremony practised on May-eve, of making the cows leap over lighted straw, or faggots, has been generally traced to the worship of that deity. It is now vulgarly used in order to save the milk from being pilfered by ‘the good people.’—Another custom prevalent on May-eve is the painful and mischievous one of stinging with nettles. In the south of Ireland it is the common practice for school-boys, on that day, to consider themselves privileged to run wildly about with a bunch of nettles, striking at the face and hands of their companions, or of such other persons as they think they may venture to assault with impunity.”

A popular superstition related in the last quoted work, is, that at early dawn on May-morning, “the princely O’Donoghue gallops his white charger over the waters of Killarney.” The foundation of this is,

In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain named O’Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic Lough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and justice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of his subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as renowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a proof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous because it was mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers, called ‘O’Donoghue’sPrison’ in which this prince once confined his own son for some act of disorder and disobedience.

“His end—for it cannot correctly be called his death—was singular and mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions, he rose slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre, he paused for a moment, then turning slowly round, looked towards his friends, and waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short farewell, disappeared from their view.

“The memory of the good O’Donoghue has been cherished by successive generations, with affectionate reverence; and it is believed, that at sunrise, on every May-day morning, the anniversary of his departure, he revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are, in general, permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good fortune to the beholders: when it is granted to many, it is a sure token of an abundant harvest,—a blessing, the want of which, during this prince’s reign, was never felt by his people.

“Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O’Donoghue. The April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on May-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles, after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe that it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.

“The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit of Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface lay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble. The next moment a foaming wave darted forward, and like a proud high-crested war-horse, exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake towards Toomies mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior, fully armed, mounted upon a milk-white steed: his snowy plume waved gracefully from a helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light-blue scarf. The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burthen, sprung after the wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, while showers of spray, that glittered brightly in the morning sun were dashed up at every bound.

“The warrior was O’Donoghue: he was followed by numberless youths and maidens, who moved light and unconstrained over the watery plain, as the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were linked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O’Donoghue had nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse’s neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of attendants followed, with playful deviations, the track of their leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became involved in the mists which still partially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the wondering beholders: but the sound of their music still fell upon the ear, and echo catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss.”

Such is the story of O’Donoghue, in the words of the author of “Irish Legends,” an elegant work of amusing and recondite lore regarding the land of his fathers.

Misson, who travelled in Italy in the beginning of the last century, speaks of May there in these terms. “The present season of the year inspires all the world with joy and good humour; and this month is every where particularly remarkable for sports and festivals: but I neversaw a more diverting object than troops of young girls, who regaled us with dances and songs on all this road; though perhaps the rarity of the sex might, in some measure, contribute to heighten the pleasure we took in seeing these merry creatures. Five or six of the prettiest and best attired girls of the village meet together, and go from house to house singing, and wishing every where a ‘merry May.’ All their songs consist of a great number of wishes, which are commonly very pleasant; for they wish you may at once enjoy all the pleasures of youth, and of the blooming season: that you may be still possessed with an equal love, morning and evening: that you may live a hundred and two years: that every thing you may eat may be turned to sugar and oil: that your clothes and lace may never wear old: that nature may smile eternally, and that the goodness of its fruits may surpass the beauty of its flowers, &c. And then come their spiritual wishes: that the lady of Loretto may pour down her favours upon you: that the soul of St. Anthony of Padua may be your guardian angel: that St. Katharine of Sienna may intercede for you. And, for the burthen of the song, after every stanza, ‘Allegro Magio, Allegro Magio:’ ‘a merry, merry, merry May.’” To this picture of gladness might be added scenes from other countries, which testify the general rejoicing under the genial influence of the month.

All gentle hearts confess the quick’ning spring,For May invig’rates every living thing.Hark how the merry minstrels of the groveDevote the day to melody and love;Their little breasts with emulation swell,And sweetly strive in singing to excel.In the thick forests feed the cooing dove;The starling whistles various notes of love;Up spring the airy larks, shrill voic’d and loud,And breathe their matins from a morning cloud,To greet glad nature, and the god of day,And flow’ry Venus, blooming queen of MayThus sing the sweet musicians on the spray:Welcome thou lord of light, and lamp of day;Welcome to tender herbs and myrtle bowers,Welcome to plants and odour-breathing flowers,Welcome to every root upon the plain,Welcome to gardens, and the golden grain:Welcome to birds that build upon the breere,Welcome great lord and ruler of the year:Welcome thou source of universal good,Of buds to boughs, and beauty to the wood:Welcome bright Phœbus, whose prolific powerIn every meadow spreads out every flower;Where’er thy beams in wild effulgence play,Kind nature smiles and all the world is gay.Gawin Douglas, by Fawkes.

Gawin Douglas, by Fawkes.

Although public notice has been given that anonymous correspondents will only be answered on thewrappersto thepartsof this work, and that those who attach their real names will be noticed privately, yet it is necessary to remark on one who is without a local habitation, and is out of the reach of the two-penny and general post. This is the communication alluded to:—

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,

I am the youngest of Three hundred and sixty-six brethren—there are no fewer of us—who have the honour, in the words of the good old Song, to call the Sun our Dad. You have done the rest of our family the favour of bestowing an especial compliment upon each member of it individually—I mean, as far as you have gone; for it will take you some time before you can make your bow all round—and I have no reason to think that it is your intention to neglect any of us but poor Me. Some you have hung round with flowers; others you have made fine withmartyrs’ palms and saintly garlands. The most insignificant of us you have sent away pleased with some fitting apologue, or pertinent story. What have I done, that you dismiss me without mark or attribute? What though I make my public appearance seldomer than the rest of my brethren? I thought that angels’ visits had been accounted the more precious for their very rarity. Reserve was always looked upon as dignified. I am seen but once, for four times that my brethren obtrude themselves; making their presence cheap and contemptible, in comparison with the state which I keep.

Am I not a Day (when I do come) to all purposes as much as any of them? Decompose me, anatomise me; you will find that I am constituted like the rest. Divide me into twenty-four, and you shall find that I cut up into as many goodly hours (or main limbs) as the rest. I too have my arteries and pulses, which are the minutes and the seconds.

It is hard to be dis-familied thus, like Cinderella in her rags and ashes, while her sisters flaunted it about in cherry-coloured ribbons and favors. My brethren forsooth are to be dubbed; one,SaintDay; another,PopeDay; a third,BishopDay; the least of them isSquireDay, orMr.Day, while I am—plain Day. Our house,Sir, is a very ancient one, and the least of us is too proud to put up with an indignity. What though I am but a younger brother in some sense—for the youngest of my brethren is by some thousand years my senior—yet I bid fair to inherit as long as any of them, while I have the Calendar to show; which, you must understand, is our Title Deeds.

Not content with slurring me over with a bare and naked acknowledgement of my occasional visitation in prose, you have done your best to deprive me of my verse-honours. Incolumn 310of your Book, you quote an antique scroll, leaving out the last couplet, as if on purpose to affront me. “Thirty days hath September”—so you transcribe very faithfully for four lines, and most invidiously suppress the exceptive clause:—

Except in Leap Year, that’s the timeWhen February’s days hath twenty and—

I need not set down the rhyme which should follow; I dare say you know it very well, though you were pleased to leave it out. These indignities demand reparation. While you have time, it will be well for you to make theamende honorable. Ransack your stores, learned Sir, I pray of you, for some attribute, biographical, anecdotical, or floral, to invest me with. Did nobody die, or nobody flourish—was nobody born—upon any of my periodical visits to this globe? does the world stand still as often as I vouchsafe to appear? Am I a blank in the Almanac? alms for oblivion? If you do not find a flower at least to grace me with (a Forget Me Not would cheer me in my present obscurity), I shall prove the worst Day to you you ever saw in your life; and your Work, instead of the Title it now vaunts, must be content (every fourth year at least) to go by the lame appellation of

The Every-Day—but—one—Book.Yours, as you treat me,Twenty Ninth of February.

To this correspondent it may be demurred and given in proof, that neither in February, nor at any other time in the year 1825, had he, or could he, have had existence; and that whenever he is seen, he is only an impertinence and an interpolation upon his betters. To his “floral Honours” he is welcome; in the year 992, he slew St. Oswald, archbishop of York in the midst of his monks, to whom the greater perriwinkle,Vinca Major, is dedicated. For this honour our correspondent should have waited till his turn arrived for distinction. His ignorant impatience of notoriety is a mark of weakness, and indeed it is only in compassion to his infirmity that he has been condescended to; his brothers have seen more of the world, and he should have been satisfied by having been allowed to be in their company at stated times, and like all little ones, he ought to have kept respectful silence. Besides, he forgets his origin; he is illegitimate; and as a burthen to “the family,” and an upstart, it has been long in contemplation to disown him, and then what will become of him? If he has done any good in the world he may have some claim upon it, but whenever he appears, he seems to throw things into confusion. His desire to alter the title of this work excites a smile—however, when he calls upon the editor he shall have justice, and be compelled to own that it is calumny to call this theEvery-day—but—one—Book.

[119]Mr. Audley, from Lardner.[120]Examiner, 1818.[121]Bourne.[122]Stubbes.[123]Strott’s Queenhoo Hall.[124]Stow.[125]Pasquil’s Palinodia, 1634, 4to.[126]Cities Loyalty Displayed, 1661, 4to.[127]He was a constant attendant in the crowd on Lord Mayor’s day.[128]Gentleman’s Magazine.[129]Published in 1825, fc. 8vo.

[119]Mr. Audley, from Lardner.

[120]Examiner, 1818.

[121]Bourne.

[122]Stubbes.

[123]Strott’s Queenhoo Hall.

[124]Stow.

[125]Pasquil’s Palinodia, 1634, 4to.

[126]Cities Loyalty Displayed, 1661, 4to.

[127]He was a constant attendant in the crowd on Lord Mayor’s day.

[128]Gentleman’s Magazine.

[129]Published in 1825, fc. 8vo.

St. Athanasius, Patriarch of Alexandria,A. D.373.

This learned doctor of the church, was patriarch of Alexandria; he is celebrated for his opposition to the Arians, and from his name having been affixed to the creed which contains his doctrines. He died in 373. Alban Butler says, the creed was compiled in Latin in the fifth century.

1519. Leonardo da Vinci, the painter, died.

Richmond.

In the beginning of May, a steam-boat for conveying passengers ascends the Thames in the morning from Queenhithe to Richmond, and returns the same day; and so she proceeds to and fro until the autumn. Before she unmoors she takes in little more than half her living freight, the remainder is obtained during the passage. Her band on deck plays a lively tune, and “off she goes” towards Blackfriars’-bridge. From thence, leisurely walkers, and holiday-wishing people, on their way to business, look from between the balustrades on the enviable steamer; they see her lower her chimney to pass beneath the arch, and ten to one, if they cross the road to watch her coming forth on the other side, they receive a puff from the re-elevating mast; this fuliginous rebuke is inspiring.

A Legal Lament.Ye Richmond Navigators bold all on the liquid plain,When from the bridge we envied you, with pleasure mix’d with pain,Why could you be so cruel as to ridicule our woes,By in our anxious faces turning up your steamer’s nose?’Twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’twas pitiful, ’twas wonderousPitiful, as Shakspeare says, by you then being under us,To be insulted as we were, when you your chimney roseAnd thought yourselves at liberty to cloud our hopes and clothes.The same sweet poet says, you know, “each dog will have his day,”And hence for Richmond we, in turn, may yet get under weigh.So thus we are consoled in mind, and as to being slighted,For that same wrong, we’ll right ourselves, and get you all indicted.*

A Legal Lament.

Ye Richmond Navigators bold all on the liquid plain,When from the bridge we envied you, with pleasure mix’d with pain,Why could you be so cruel as to ridicule our woes,By in our anxious faces turning up your steamer’s nose?’Twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’twas pitiful, ’twas wonderousPitiful, as Shakspeare says, by you then being under us,To be insulted as we were, when you your chimney roseAnd thought yourselves at liberty to cloud our hopes and clothes.The same sweet poet says, you know, “each dog will have his day,”And hence for Richmond we, in turn, may yet get under weigh.So thus we are consoled in mind, and as to being slighted,For that same wrong, we’ll right ourselves, and get you all indicted.

’Twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’twas pitiful, ’twas wonderousPitiful, as Shakspeare says, by you then being under us,To be insulted as we were, when you your chimney roseAnd thought yourselves at liberty to cloud our hopes and clothes.

The same sweet poet says, you know, “each dog will have his day,”And hence for Richmond we, in turn, may yet get under weigh.So thus we are consoled in mind, and as to being slighted,For that same wrong, we’ll right ourselves, and get you all indicted.

The steam-boat is a good half hour in clearing the port of London, and arriving at Westminster; this delay in expedition is occasioned by “laying to” for “put offs” of single persons and parties, in Thames wherries. If the day be fine, the passage is very pleasant. The citizen sees various places wherein he has enjoyed himself,—he can point out the opening to Fountain-court, wherein is the “coal-hole,” the resort of his brother “wolves,” a club of modern origin, renowned for its support of Mr. Kean; on the left bank, he shows the site of “Cuper’s-gardens,” to which he was taken when a boy by his father’s foreman, and where the halfpenny-hatch stood; or he has a story to tell of the “Fox-under-the-hill,” near the Strand, where Dutch Sam mustered the fighting Jews, and Perry’s firemen, who nightly assisted John Kemble’s “What d’ye want,” during the “O. P. row,” at Covent-garden theatre. Then he directs his attention to the Mitre, at Stangate, kept by “independent Bent,” a house celebrated for authors who “flourish” there, for “actors of all work,” and artists of less prudence than powers. He will tell you of the capital porter-shops that were in Palace-yard before the old coffee-houses were pulled down, and he directs you to the high chimney ofHodges’sdistillery, in Church-street, Lambeth. He stands erect, and looks at Cumberland-gardens as though they were his freehold—for there has he been in all his glory; and at the Red-house, at Battersea, he would absolutely go ashore, if his wife and daughters had not gone so far in geography as to know that Richmond is above Battersea-bridge. Here he repeats after Mathews, that Battersea-steeple, being of copper, was coveted by the emperor of Russia for an extinguisher; that the horizontal windmill was a case for it; and that his imperial majesty intended to take them to Russia, but left them behind from forgetfulness. Others see other things. The grounds from which the walls of Brandenburgh-house were rased to the foundation, after the decease of fallen majesty—the house wherein Sharp, the engraver, lived after his removal from Acton, and died—the tomb of Hogarth, in Chiswick church-yard—“Brentford town of mud,” so immortalized by one of our poets, from whence runs Boston-lane, wherein dwelt the good and amiable Granger, who biographized every Englishman of whom there was a portrait—and numerous spots remarkable for their connection with some congenial sentiment or person.

The Aits, or Osier Islands, are picturesque interspersions on the Thames. Its banks are studded with neat cottages, or elegant villas crown the gentle heights; the lawns come sweeping down like carpets of green velvet, to the edge of its soft-flowing waters, and the grace of the scenery improves till we are borne into the full bosom of its beauty—the village of Richmond, or as it was anciently called, Sheen. On coming within sight of this, the most delightful scene in our sea-girt isle, the band on board the steam-boat plays “the lass of Richmond-hill,” while the vessel glides on the translucent water, till she curves to the bridge-foot, and the passengers disembark. Ascending the stone stairs to the street, a short walk through the village brings us to the top of the far-famed hill, from whence there is a sudden sight of one of the loveliest views in the world. Here, unless an overflowing purse can command the preference of the “Star and Garter,” we enter the pleasant and comfortable “Roebuck” inn, which has nothing to recommend it but civil treatment and domestic conveniences. The westward room on the second floor is quiet, and one of the pleasantest in the house. The walls of this peaceful apartment have no ornament, unless so can be called a mezzotinto engraving by Watson, after Reynolds, of Jeffery, lord Amherst, in armour, with a countenance remarkably similar to the rev. Rowland Hill’s in his younger days. The advantage of this room is the delightful view from its windows. Hither come ye whose hearts are saddened, or whose nerves are shattered by the strife of life, or the disturbances of the world; inhale the pure air, and gaze awhile on a prospect more redolent of beauty than Claude or Poussin ever painted or saw. Whatever there be of soothing charm in scenery, is here exuberant. Descriptionmust not be attempted, for poets have made it their theme and failed.

To the over-wearied inhabitants of the metropolis, the trip to Richmond is covetable. The lively French, the philosophic German, the elegant Italian, the lofty Spaniard, and the Cossack of the Don, pronounce the prospect from the hill the most enchanting in Europe. There was no itinerary of Richmond until Dr. John Evans, during a visit in 1824, hastily threw some memoranda into a neat little volume, illustrated by a few etchings, under the title of “Richmond and its Vicinity,” which he purposes to improve.

In honour of the female character, and in illustration of the first of May, should be added, that upon the coin of Dort, or Dordrecht, in Holland, is a cow, under which is sitting a milk-maid. The same representation is in relievo on the pyramid of an elegant fountain in that beautiful town. Its origin is from the following historical fact:—When the United Provinces were struggling for their liberty two beautiful daughters of a rich farmer, on their way to the town, withmilk, observed, not far from their path, several Spanish soldiers concealed behind some hedges. The patriotic maidens pretending not to have seen any thing, pursued their journey, and as soon as they arrived in the city, insisted upon an admission to the burgo-master, who had not yet left his bed; they were admitted, and related what they had discovered. He assembled the council, measures were immediately taken, the sluices were opened, and a number of the enemy lost their lives in the water. The magistrates in a body honoured the farmer with a visit, where they thanked his daughters for the act of patriotism, which saved the town; they afterwards indemnified him fully for the loss he sustained from the inundation; and the most distinguished young citizens, vied with each other, who should be honoured with the hands of those virtuousmilk-maids.

It should also be noticed, in connection with Mr. Montgomery’s volume in behalf of the chimney-sweepers, that a Mr. J. C. Hudson has addressed “A Letter to the Mistresses of Families, on the Cruelty of employing Children in the odious, dangerous, and often fatal Task of sweeping Chimnies.” To Mr. Hudson’s pamphlet, which is published at sixpence, there are two cuts, from designs by Mr. George Cruikshank.

It is observed by Dr. Forster, in the “Perennial Calendar,” that “the melody of birds is perhaps at no time of the year greater and more constant than it is at this present period. The nightingale, the minstrel of the eve; and the lark, the herald of the morn; together with the numerous birds whose music fills the groves all day, contribute, in no small degree, to the pleasure derived from the country in this month. Nor is the lowing of distant cattle in the evening, the hooting of the owl, and many other rustic sounds, deficient in power to please by association of ideas. Shakspeare has a beautiful comparison of the lark and nightingale in ‘Romeo and Juliet:’—

Scene.Juliet’sChamber.Jul.Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:It was the nightingale, and not the lark,That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;Nightly she sings on yon Pomegranate tree:Believe me, love, it was the Nightingale.Rom.It was the lark, the herald of the morn,No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaksDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east:Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.I must be gone and live, or stay and die.Jul.Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:It is some meteor that the sun exhales,To be to thee this night a torchbearer,And light thee on thy way to Mantua:Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.Rom.Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;I am content, so thou wilt have it so.I’ll say, yon grey is not the morning’s eye;’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow:Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beatThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads.I have more care to stay than will to go.”

Scene.Juliet’sChamber.

Jul.Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:It was the nightingale, and not the lark,That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;Nightly she sings on yon Pomegranate tree:Believe me, love, it was the Nightingale.Rom.It was the lark, the herald of the morn,No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaksDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east:Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.I must be gone and live, or stay and die.Jul.Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:It is some meteor that the sun exhales,To be to thee this night a torchbearer,And light thee on thy way to Mantua:Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.Rom.Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;I am content, so thou wilt have it so.I’ll say, yon grey is not the morning’s eye;’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow:Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beatThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads.I have more care to stay than will to go.”

Rom.It was the lark, the herald of the morn,No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaksDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east:Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Jul.Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:It is some meteor that the sun exhales,To be to thee this night a torchbearer,And light thee on thy way to Mantua:Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.

Rom.Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;I am content, so thou wilt have it so.I’ll say, yon grey is not the morning’s eye;’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow:Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beatThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads.I have more care to stay than will to go.”

Dr. Forster notices, that “beds of tulips begin now to flower, and about London, Haerlem, Amsterdam, and other cities of England and Holland, are seen in perfection in the gardens of florists, who have a variety of very whimsical names for the different varieties. The early, or Van Thol tulip, is now out of blow, as is the variety called the Clarimond, beds of which appear very beautiful in April. The sort now flowering is thetulipa Gesneriana, of which the names Bizarre, Golden Eagle, &c. are only expressive of varieties. For the amusement of the reader, we quote from the ‘Tatler’ the following account of an accident that once befell a gentleman in a tulip-garden:—‘I chanced to rise very early one particular morning this summer, and took a walk into the country, to divert myself among the fields and meadows, while the green was new, and the flowers in their bloom. As at this season of the year every lane is a beautiful walk, and every hedge full of nosegays, I lost myself with a great deal of pleasure among several thickets and bushes that were filled with a great variety of birds, and an agreeable confusion of notes, which formed the pleasantest scene in the world to one who had passed a whole winter in noise and smoke. The freshness of the dews that lay upon every thing about me, with the cool breath of the morning, which inspired the birds with so many delightful instincts, created in me the same kind of animal pleasure, and made my heart overflow with such secret emotions of joy and satisfaction as are not to be described or accounted for. On this occasion, I could not but reflect upon a beautiful simile in Milton:—

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