October 18.

[353]Audley. Brady.[354]Fletcher in the “Faithful Shepherdess.”—The Satyr offers to Clorin,—grapes whose lusty bloodIs the learned Poet’s good,Sweeter yet did never crownThe head of Bacchus; nuts more brownThan thesquirrels’ teeththat crack them.——[355]Page 1360.

[353]Audley. Brady.

[354]Fletcher in the “Faithful Shepherdess.”—The Satyr offers to Clorin,

—grapes whose lusty bloodIs the learned Poet’s good,Sweeter yet did never crownThe head of Bacchus; nuts more brownThan thesquirrels’ teeththat crack them.——

[355]Page 1360.

St. Luke the Evangelist,A. D.63.St. Julian Sabus, 4th Cent.St. Justin.St. Monon, 7th Cent.

The name of this evangelist is in the church of England calendar and almanacs on this day, which was appointed his festival by the Romish church in the twelfth century. As a more convenient occasion will occur for a suitable notice of his history and character, it is deferred till then. It is presumed that he died about the year 70, in the eighty-fourth year of his age, having written his gospel about seven or eight years before.

At the pleasant village of Charlton, on the north side of Blackheath, about eight miles from London, a fair is held annually on St. Luke’s day. It is called “Horn Fair,” from the custom of carrying horns at it formerly, and the frequenters still wearing them. A foreigner travelling in England in the year 1598, mentions horns to have been conspicuously displayed in its neighbourhood at that early period. “Upon taking the air down the river (from London), on the left hand lies Ratcliffe, a considerable suburb. On the opposite shore is fixed a long pole with rams-horns upon it, the intention of which was vulgarly said to be a reflection upon wilful and contented cuckolds.”[356]An old newspaper states, that it was formerly a custom for a procession to go from some of the inns in Bishopsgate-street, in which were, a king, a queen, a miller, a counsellor, &c., and a great number of others, with horns in their hats, to Charlton, where they went round the church three times. This was accompaniedby so many indecencies on Blackheath, such as the whipping of females with furze, &c., that it gave rise to the proverb of “all is fair at Horn Fair.”[357]A curious biographical memoir relates the custom of going to Horn Fair in womens’ clothes. “I remember being there upon Horn-Fair day, I was dressed in my land-ladie’s best gown and other women’s attire, and to Horn Fair we went, and as we were coming back by water, all the cloathes were spoiled by dirty water, &c., that was flung on us in an inundation, for which I was obliged to present her with two guineas to make atonement for the damages sustained.”[358]Mr. Brand, who cites these notices, and observes that Grose mentions this fair, adds, that “It consists of a riotous mob, who, after a printed summons dispersed through the adjacent towns, meet at Cuckold’s Point, near Deptford, and march from thence in procession through that town and Greenwich to Charlton, with horns of different kinds upon their heads; and at the fair there are sold rams’ horns, and every sort of toy made of horn: even the gingerbread figures have horns.” The same recorder of customs mentions an absurd tradition assigning the origin of this fair to a grant from king John, which, he very properly remarks, is “too ridiculous to merit the smallest attention.”

“A sermon,” says Mr. Brand, “is preached at Charlton church on the fair-day.” This sermon is now discontinued on the festival-day: the practice was created by a bequest of twenty shillings a year to the minister of the parish for preaching it.

The horn-bearing at this fair may be conjectured to have originated from the symbol, accompanying the figure of St. Luke: when he is represented by sculpture or painting, he is usually in the act of writing, with an ox or cow by his side, whose horns are conspicuous. These seem to have been seized by the former inhabitants of Charlton on the day of the saint’s festival, as a lively mode of sounding forth their rude pleasure for the holiday. Though most of the painted glass in the windows of the church was destroyed during the troubles in the time of Charles I., yet many fragments remain of St. Luke’s ox with wings on his back, and goodly horns upon his head: indeed, with the exception of two or three armorial bearings, and a few cherubs’ heads, these figures of St. Luke’s horned symbol, which escaped destruction, and are carefully placed in the upper part of the windows, are the only painted glass remaining; save also, however, that in the east window, there are the head and shoulders of the saint himself, and the same parts of the figure of Aaron.

The procession of horns, customary at Charlton fair, has ceased; but horns still continue to be sold from the lowest to “the best booth in the fair.” They are chiefly those of sheep, goats, and smaller animals, and are usually gilt and decorated for their less innocent successors to these ornaments. The fair is still a kind of carnival or masquerade. On St. Luke’s-day, 1825, though the weather was unfavourable to the customary humours, most of the visitors wore masks; several were disguised in women’s clothes, and some assumed whimsical characters. The spacious and celebrated Crown and Anchor booth was the principal scene of their amusements. The fair is now held in a private field: formerly it was on the green opposite the church, and facing the mansion of sir Thomas Wilson. The late lady Wilson was a great admirer and patroness of the fair; the old lady was accustomed to come down with her attendants every morning during the fair, “and in long order go,” from the steps of her ancient hall, to without the gates of her court-yard, when the bands of the different shows hailed her appearance, as a signal to strike up their melody of discords: Richardson, always pitched his great booth in front of the house. Latterly, however, the fair has diminished; Richardson was not there in 1825, nor were there any shows of consequence. “Horns! horns!” were the customary and chief cry, and the most conspicuous source of frolic: they were in the hat and bonnet of almost every person in the rout. A few years ago, it was usual for neighbouring gentry to proceed thither in their carriages during the morning to see the sports. The fair lasts three days.

One of the pleasantest walks from Greenwich is over Blackheath, along by the park-wall to Charlton; and from thence after passing through that village, across Woolwich common and Plumstead common, along green lanes, over the footpaths of the fields, to the very retired and rural village of East Wickham, which lies about half a mile on the north side of Welling, through which is the great London road to Dover. There are various pleasant views for the lover of cultivated nature, with occasional fine bursts of the broad flowing Thames. Students in botany and geology will not find it a stroll, barren of objects in their favourite sciences.

Floccose Agaric.Agaricus floccosus.Dedicated toSt. Luke, Evangelist.

[356]Hentzner.[357]Brand.[358]Life of Mr. William Fuller, 1703, 12mo.

[356]Hentzner.

[357]Brand.

[358]Life of Mr. William Fuller, 1703, 12mo.

St. Peter, of Alcantara,A. D.1562.Sts. Ptolemy,Lucius, and another,A. D.166.St. Frideswide, patroness of Oxford, 8th Cent.St. Ethbin, orEgbin, Abbot, 6th Cent.

The Last Rose of Summer.’Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone,All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!I’ll not leave thee, thou lone oneTo pine on the stem,Since the lovely are sleeping,Go sleep thou with them;Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from love’s shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?Moore.

The Last Rose of Summer.

’Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone,All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!I’ll not leave thee, thou lone oneTo pine on the stem,Since the lovely are sleeping,Go sleep thou with them;Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from love’s shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?

’Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone,All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone oneTo pine on the stem,Since the lovely are sleeping,Go sleep thou with them;Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from love’s shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?

Moore.

Tall Tickseed.Coreopsis procosa.Dedicated toSt. Frideswide.

St. Artemius,A. D.362.St. Barsabias, Abbot, and others,A. D.342.St. Zenobius, Bp.St. Sindulphus, orSt. Sendou, 7th Cent.St. Adian, Bp. of Mayo,A. D.768.

Woodcocks have now arrived. In the autumn and setting in of winter they keep dropping in from the Baltic singly, or in pairs, till December. They instinctively land in the night, or in dark misty weather, for they are never seen to arrive, but are frequently discovered the next morning in any ditch which affords them shelter, after the extraordinary fatigue occasioned by the adverse gales which they often have to encounter in their aërial voyage. They do not remain near the shores longer than a day, when they are sufficiently recruited to proceed inland, and they visit the very same haunts which they left the preceding season. In temperate weather they retire to mossy moors, and high bleak mountainous parts; but as soon as the frost sets in, and the snows begin to fall, they seek lower and warmer situations, with boggy grounds and springs, and little oozing mossy rills, which are rarely frozen, where they shelter in close bushes of holly and furze, and the brakes of woody glens, or in dells which are covered with underwood: here they remain concealed during the day, and remove to different haunts and feed only in the night. From the beginning of March to the end of that month, or sometimes to the middle of April, they all keep drawing towards the coasts, and avail themselves of the first fair wind to return to their native woods.—The snipe,scolopax gallinago, also comes now, and inhabits similar situations. It is migratory, and met with in all countries: like the woodcock, it shuns the extremes of heat and cold, by keeping upon the bleak moors in summer, and seeking the shelter of the valleys in winter. In unfrozen boggy places, runners from springs, or any open streamlets of water, they are often found in considerable numbers.[359]

Yellow Sultan.Centaurea suavcolens.Dedicated toSt. Artemius.

[359]Dr. Forster’s Perennial Calendar.

Sts. Ursula, and her Companions, 5th Cent.St. Hilarion, Abbot,A. D.371.St. Fintan, orMunnu, Abbot, in Ireland,A. D.634.

After a harvest with a good barley crop, a few minutes may be seasonably amused by a pleasant ballad.

John Barleycorn.There went three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high,An’ they ha’ sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.They took a plough and plough’d him down,Put clods upon his head,And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn was dead.But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And show’rs began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surpris’d them all.The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong,His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,That no one should him wrong.The sober autumn enter’d mild,When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping headShow’d he began to fail.His colour sicken’d more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;Then ty’d him fast upon a cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell’d him full sore;They hung him up before the storm,And turn’d him o’er and o’er.They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.They laid him out upon the floor,To work him farther woe,And still as signs of life appear’d,They toss’d him to and fro.They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,The marrow of his bones;But a miller us’d him worst of all,For he crush’d him between two stones.And they hae ta’en his very heart’s blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise,For if you do but taste his blood,’Twill make your courage rise.’Twill make a man forget his woe,’Twill heighten all his joy:’Twill make the widow’s heart to singTho’ the tear were in her eye.Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe’er fail in old Scotland!Burns.

John Barleycorn.

There went three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high,An’ they ha’ sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.They took a plough and plough’d him down,Put clods upon his head,And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn was dead.But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And show’rs began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surpris’d them all.The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong,His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,That no one should him wrong.The sober autumn enter’d mild,When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping headShow’d he began to fail.His colour sicken’d more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;Then ty’d him fast upon a cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell’d him full sore;They hung him up before the storm,And turn’d him o’er and o’er.They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.They laid him out upon the floor,To work him farther woe,And still as signs of life appear’d,They toss’d him to and fro.They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,The marrow of his bones;But a miller us’d him worst of all,For he crush’d him between two stones.And they hae ta’en his very heart’s blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise,For if you do but taste his blood,’Twill make your courage rise.’Twill make a man forget his woe,’Twill heighten all his joy:’Twill make the widow’s heart to singTho’ the tear were in her eye.Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe’er fail in old Scotland!

There went three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high,An’ they ha’ sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down,Put clods upon his head,And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And show’rs began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surpris’d them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong,His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter’d mild,When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping headShow’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.

They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;Then ty’d him fast upon a cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell’d him full sore;They hung him up before the storm,And turn’d him o’er and o’er.

They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,To work him farther woe,And still as signs of life appear’d,They toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,The marrow of his bones;But a miller us’d him worst of all,For he crush’d him between two stones.

And they hae ta’en his very heart’s blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise,For if you do but taste his blood,’Twill make your courage rise.

’Twill make a man forget his woe,’Twill heighten all his joy:’Twill make the widow’s heart to singTho’ the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe’er fail in old Scotland!

Burns.

Hairy Silphium.Silphium asteriscus.Dedicated toSt. Ursula.

St. Philip, Bp. of Heraclea, and others,A. D.304.Sts. NuniloandAlodia,A. D.840.St. Donatus, Bp. of Fiesoli, in Tuscany,A. D.816.St. Mello, orMelanius, 4th Cent.St. Mark, Bp.A. D.156.

The two first bishops of Jerusalem were “the apostle St. James and his brother St. Simeon; thirteen bishops who succeeded them were of the Jewish nation.” Upon an edict of the emperor Adrian, prohibiting all Jews from coming to Jerusalem, Mark, being a Gentile Christian, was chosen bishop of the Christians in that city, and was their first Gentile bishop. He is said to have been martyred in 156.[360]

They who think the affections are always in season, may not deem these lines out of season.

TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION.To a Mother.In the sweet “days of other years,”When o’er my cradle first thy tearsWere blended with maternal fears,And anxious doubts for me;How often rose my lisping prayer,That heav’n a mother’s life would spare,Who watch’d with such incessant care,My helpless infancy.Those happy hours are past away,Yet fain I’d breathe an artless lay,To greet my mother this blest day,For oh! it gave thee birth;Hope whispers that it will be dear,As seraph’s music to thine ear,That thou wilt hallow with a tear,This tribute to thy worth.And thy approving voice would beMore sweet—more welcome far to meThan greenest wreaths of minstrelsy,Pluck’d from the muses’ bowers;And round this lowly harp of mine,I’d rather that a hand like thine,One simple garland should entwine,Than amaranthine flowers.My childish griefs were hush’d to rest,Those lips on mine fond kisses prest,Those arms my feeble form carest,When few a thought bestow’d—When sickness threw its venom’d dart,My pillow was thy aching heart—Thy gentle looks could joy impart,With angel love they glow’d.This world is but a troubled sea,And rude its billows seem to me;Yet my frail bark must shipwreck’d be,Ere I forget such friend;Or send an orison on high,That begs not blessings from the sky,That heav’n will hear a daughter’s sigh,And long thy life defend.

TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION.To a Mother.

In the sweet “days of other years,”When o’er my cradle first thy tearsWere blended with maternal fears,And anxious doubts for me;How often rose my lisping prayer,That heav’n a mother’s life would spare,Who watch’d with such incessant care,My helpless infancy.Those happy hours are past away,Yet fain I’d breathe an artless lay,To greet my mother this blest day,For oh! it gave thee birth;Hope whispers that it will be dear,As seraph’s music to thine ear,That thou wilt hallow with a tear,This tribute to thy worth.And thy approving voice would beMore sweet—more welcome far to meThan greenest wreaths of minstrelsy,Pluck’d from the muses’ bowers;And round this lowly harp of mine,I’d rather that a hand like thine,One simple garland should entwine,Than amaranthine flowers.My childish griefs were hush’d to rest,Those lips on mine fond kisses prest,Those arms my feeble form carest,When few a thought bestow’d—When sickness threw its venom’d dart,My pillow was thy aching heart—Thy gentle looks could joy impart,With angel love they glow’d.This world is but a troubled sea,And rude its billows seem to me;Yet my frail bark must shipwreck’d be,Ere I forget such friend;Or send an orison on high,That begs not blessings from the sky,That heav’n will hear a daughter’s sigh,And long thy life defend.

Those happy hours are past away,Yet fain I’d breathe an artless lay,To greet my mother this blest day,For oh! it gave thee birth;Hope whispers that it will be dear,As seraph’s music to thine ear,That thou wilt hallow with a tear,This tribute to thy worth.

And thy approving voice would beMore sweet—more welcome far to meThan greenest wreaths of minstrelsy,Pluck’d from the muses’ bowers;And round this lowly harp of mine,I’d rather that a hand like thine,One simple garland should entwine,Than amaranthine flowers.

My childish griefs were hush’d to rest,Those lips on mine fond kisses prest,Those arms my feeble form carest,When few a thought bestow’d—When sickness threw its venom’d dart,My pillow was thy aching heart—Thy gentle looks could joy impart,With angel love they glow’d.

This world is but a troubled sea,And rude its billows seem to me;Yet my frail bark must shipwreck’d be,Ere I forget such friend;Or send an orison on high,That begs not blessings from the sky,That heav’n will hear a daughter’s sigh,And long thy life defend.

Three-leaved Silphium.Silphium trifoliatum.Dedicated toSt. Nunilo.

[360]Butler.

St. Theodoret,A. D.362.St. Romanus, Abp. of Rouen,A. D.639.St. John Capistran,A. D.1456.St. Ignatius, Patriarch of Constantinople,A. D.878.St. Severin, Abp. of Cologne,A. D.400.Another St. Severin.

The annals of the saints are confused. St. Severin, Abp. of Cologne, is famous in the history of the church: by him, his own diocese, and that of Tongres, “was purged from the venom of the Arian heresy, about the year 390.” He “knew by revelation the death and glory of St. Martin at the time of his departure,” and died about 400. So says Butler, who immediately begins with “Another St. SeverinorSurin, patron of Bourdeaux,” said by some “to have come to Bourdeaux from some part of the east;” and by others, to have been “the same with the foregoing archbishop of Cologne.” It is difficult to make a distinction when we find “two single gentlemen rolled into one.” Whether one or two is of little consequence perhaps: their biographers were miraculists. He of Cologne led “an angelical life,” according to Butler, who adds, that “his life wrote by Fortunatus is the best:” the latter biographer achieved as great marvels with his pen, as his namesake with his wishing-cap.

Rushy Starwort.Aster junicus.Dedicated toSt. Theodoret.

St. Proclus, Abp. of Constantinople,A. D.447.St. Felix,A. D.303.St. Magloire,A. D.575.

Besides his other perfections he was a queller of earthquakes. Butler instances that “Theophanes, and other Greek historians, tell us that a child was taken up into the air, and heard angels singing the Trisagion, or triple doxology,” which is “in the preface of the mass;” and that therefore St. Proclus “taught the people to sing it:” he says that “it is at least agreed, that on their singing it the earthquakes ceased.” Butler represents the style of this father to be “full of lively witty turns, more proper to please and delight than to move the heart.” Twenty of his homilies were published at Rome in 1630, whereof “the first, fifth, and sixth are upon the blessed Virgin Mary, whose title of Mother of God,” says Butler, “he justly extols.” He wrote upon mysterious theology and the church festivals, and was a great disputant.

Zigzag Starwort.Aster flexuosus.Dedicated toSt. Proclus.

Sts. CrysanthusandDaria, 3rd Cent.Sts. CrispinandCrispinian,A. D.287.St. Gaudentiusof Brescia,A. D.420.St. BonifaceI. Pope,A. D.422.

The name of this saint is in the church of England calendar and the almanacs, why Crispinian’s is disjoined from it we are not informed.

St. Crispin and St. CrispinianPATRONS OF THE GENTLE CRAFT.

“Our shoes were sow’d with merry notes,And by our mirth expell’d all moan;Like nightingales, from whose sweet throatsMost pleasant tunes are nightly blown;The Gentle Craft is fittest thenFor poor distressed gentlemen!”St. Hugh’s Song.

St. Hugh’s Song.

Thisrepresentationof St. Crispin and St. Crispinian at their seat of work, is faithfully copied from an old engraving of the same size by H. David. Every body knows that they were shoemakers, and patrons of that “art, trade, mystery, calling, or occupation,” in praise whereof, when properly exercised, too much cannot be said. Now for a word or two concerning these saints. To begin seriously, we will recur to the tenth volume of the “Lives of the Saints,” by “the Rev. Alban Butler,” where, on the 504th page, we find St. Crispin and St. Crispinian called “two glorious martyrs,” and are told that they came from Rome to preach at Soissons, in France, “towards the middle of the third century, and, in imitation of St. Paul, worked with their hands in the night, making shoes, though they were said to have been nobly born and brothers.” They converted many to the Christian faith, till a complaint was lodged against them before Rictius Varus, “the most implacable enemy of the Christian name,” who had been appointed governor by the emperor Maximian Herculeus. Butler adds, that “they were victorious over this most inhuman judge, by the patience and constancywith which they bore the most cruel torments, and finished their course by the sword about the year 287.” In the sixth century a great church was built to their honour at Soissons, and their shrine was richly ornamented. These are all the circumstances that Butler relates concerning these popular saints: most unaccountably he does not venture a single miracle in behalf of the good name and reputation of either.

OnCrispin’s-day, in the year 1415, the battle of Agincourt was fought between the English, under king Henry V., and the French, under the constable d’Albret. The French had “a force,” says Hume, “which, if prudently conducted, was sufficient to trample down the English in the open field.” They had nearly a hundred thousand cavalry. The English force was only six thousand men at arms, and twenty-four thousand foot, mostly archers. The constable of France had selected a strong position in the fields in front of the village of Agincourt. Each lord had planted his banner on the spot which he intended to occupy during the battle. The night was cold, dark, and rainy, but numerous fires lighted the horizon; while bursts of laughter and merriment were repeatedly heard from the soldiery, who spent their time in revelling and debate around their banners, discussing the probable events of the next day, and fixing the ransom of the English king and his barons. No one suspected the possibility of defeat, and yet no one could be ignorant that they lay in the vicinity of the field of Cressy. In that fatal field, and in the equally fatal field of Poictiers, the French had been the assailants: the French determined therefore, on the present occasion, to leave that dangerous honour to the English. To the army of Henry, wasted with disease, broken with fatigue, and weakened by the privations of a march through a hostile country in the presence of a superior force,—this was a night of hope and fear, of suspense and anxiety. They were men who had staked their lives on the event of the approaching battle, and spent the intervening moments in making their wills, and in attending the exercises of religion. Henry sent his officers to examine the ground by moon-light, arranged the operations of the next day, ordered bands of music to play in succession during the night, and before sun-rise summoned his troops to attend at matins and mass: from thence he led them to the field.

His archers, on whom rested his principal hope, he placed in front; beside his bow and arrows, his battle-axe or sword, each bore on his shoulder a long stake sharpened at both extremities, which he was instructed to fix obliquely before him in the ground, and thus oppose a rampart of pikes to the charge of the French cavalry. Many of these archers had stripped themselves naked; the others had bared their arms and breasts that they might exercise their limbs with more ease and execution: their well-earned reputation in former battles, and their savage appearance this day struck terror into their enemies. Henry himself appeared on a grey palfrey in a helmet of polished steel, surmounted by a crown sparkling with jewels, and wearing a surcoat whereon were emblazoned in gold the arms of England and France. Followed by a train of led horses, ornamented with the most gorgeous trappings, he rode from banner to banner cheering and exhorting the men. The French were drawn up in the same order, but with this fearful disparity in point of number, that while the English files were but four, theirs were thirty deep. In their lines were military engines or cannon to cast stones into the midst of the English. The French force relatively to the English was as seven or six to one. When Henry gave the word, “Banners advance!” the men shouted and ran towards the enemy, until they were within twenty paces, and then repeated the shout; this was echoed by a detachment which immediately issuing from its concealment in a meadow assailed the left flank of the French while the archers ran before their stakes, discharged their arrows, and then retired behind their rampart. To break this formidable body, a select battalion of eight hundred men at arms had been appointed by the constable; only seven score of these came into action; they were quickly slain, while the others unable to face the incessant shower of arrows, turned their vizors aside, and lost the government of their horses, which, frantic with pain, plunged back in different directions into the close ranks. The archers seizing the opportunity occasioned by this confusion, slung their bows behind them, and bursting into the mass of the enemy, with their sword and battle axes, killed theconstable and principal commanders, and routed the first division of the army. Henry formed the archers again, and charged the second division for two hours in a bloody and doubtful contest, wherein Henry himself was brought on his knees by the mace of one of eighteen French knights who had bound themselves to kill or take him prisoner: he was rescued by his guards, and this second division was ultimately destroyed. The third shared the same fate, and resistance having ceased, Henry traversed the field with his barons, while the heralds examined the arms and numbered the bodies of the slain. Among them were eight thousand knights and esquires, more than a hundred bannerets, seven counts, the three dukes of Brabant, Bar, and Alençon, and the constable and admiral of France. The loss of the conquerors amounted to no more than sixteen hundred men, with the earl of Suffolk and the duke of York, who perished fighting by the king’s side, and had an end more honourable than his life. Henry became master of fourteen thousand prisoners, the most distinguished of whom were the dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, and the counts of Eu, Vendome, and Richmond. As many of the slain as it was possible to recognise were buried in the nearest churches, or conveyed to the tombs of their ancestors. The rest, to the number of five thousand eight hundred, were deposited in three long and deep pits dug in the field of battle. This vast cemetery was surrounded by a strong enclosure of thorns and trees, which pointed out to succeeding generations the spot, where the resolution of a few Englishmen triumphed over the impetuous but ill-directed valour of their numerous enemies. Henry returned to England by way of Dover: the crowd plunged into the waves to meet him: and the conqueror was carried in their arms from his vessel to the beach. The road to London exhibited one triumphal procession. The lords, commons, and clergy, the mayor, aldermen, and citizens, conducted him into the capital: tapestry, representing the deeds of his ancestors, lined the walls of the houses: pageants were erected in the streets: sweet wines ran in the conduits: bands of children tastefully arrayed sang his praise: and the whole population seemed intoxicated with joy.—Lingard.

This memorable achievement onCrispin’s-dayis immortalized by Shakspeare, in a speech that he assigns to Henry V. before the battle.

This day is called—the feast of Crispian:He, that outlives this day, and comes safe home,Will stand a-tip-toe when this day is named,And rouse him at the name of Crispian:He, that shall live this day, and see old age,Will yearly, on the vigil, feast his friends,And say,—To-morrow is St. Crispian:Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.Old men forget; yet shall not all forget,But they’ll remember, with advantages,What feats they did that day: Then shall our names,Familiar in their mouth as household words,—Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,Warwick, and Talbot, Salisbury, and Glo’ster,—Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered:This story shall the good man teach his son:And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remembered:We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;For he to-day that sheds his blood with me,Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,This day shall gentle his condition:And gentlemen in England, now abed,Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaksThat fought with us upon St. Crispin’s day.

In “Times Telescope” for 1816, it is observed, that “the shoemakers of the present day are not far behind their predecessors, in the manner of keeping St. Crispin. From the highest to the lowest it is a day of feasting and jollity. It is also, we believe, observed as a festival with the corporate body of cordwainers, or shoemakers, of London, but without any sort ofprocessionon the occasion,—except theproceedingto agoodtavern to partake of a good dinner, and drink thepious memoryof St. Crispin.”

On the 29th of July, 1822, the cordwainers of Newcastle held a coronation of their patron St. Crispin, and afterwards walked in procession through the several streets of that town. The coronation took place in the court of the Freemen’s Hospital, at the Westgate, at eleven o’clock; soon after twelve, the procession moved forward through the principal streets of that town and Gateshead, and finally halted at the sign of the Chancellor’s-head, in Newgate-street, where the members of the trade partook of a dinner provided for the occasion. A great number of people assembled to witness the procession, as there had not been a similar exhibition since the year 1789.[361]

The emperor Charles V. being curious to know the sentiments of his meanest subjects concerning himself and his administration, often went incog. and mixed himself in such companies and conversation as he thought proper. One night at Brussels, his boot requiring immediate mending, he was directed to a cobbler. Unluckily, it happened to be St. Crispin’s holiday, and, instead of finding the cobbler inclined for work, he was in the height of his jollity among his acquaintance. The emperor acquainted him with what he wanted, and offered him a handsome gratuity.—“What, friend!” says the fellow, “do you know no better than to ask one of our craft to work on St. Crispin? Was it Charles himself, I’d not do a stitch for him now; but if you’ll come in and drink St. Crispin, do and welcome: we are as merry as the emperor can be.” The emperor accepted the offer: but while he was contemplating their rude pleasure, instead of joining in it, the jovial host thus accosts him:—“What, I suppose you are some courtier politician or other, by that contemplative phiz; but be you who or what you will, you are heartily welcome:—drink about—here’s Charles the Fifth’s health.”—“Then you love Charles the Fifth?” replied the emperor.—“Love him!” says the son of Crispin; “ay, ay, I love his long-noseship well enough; but I should love him much better would he but tax us a little less; but what have we to do with politics? round with the glasses, and merry be our hearts.” After a short stay, the emperor took his leave, and thanked the cobbler for his hospitable reception. “That,” cried he, “you are welcome to; but I would not have dishonoured St. Crispin to-day to have worked for the emperor.” Charles, pleased with the good nature and humour of the man, sent for him next morning to court. You must imagine his surprise to see and hear his late guest was his sovereign: he feared his joke upon his long nose must be punished with death. The emperor thanked him for his hospitality, and, as a reward for it, bade him ask for what he most desired, and take the whole night to settle his surprise and his ambition. Next day he appeared, and requested that, for the future, the cobblers of Flanders might bear for their arms a boot with the emperor’s crown upon it. That request was granted, and, as his ambition was so moderate, the emperor bade him make another. “If,” says he, “I am to have my utmost wishes, command that, for the future, the company of cobblers shall take place of the company of shoemakers.” It was, accordingly, so ordained; and, to this day, there is to be seen a chapel in Flanders, adorned with a boot and imperial crown on it: and in all processions, the company of cobblers takes precedence of the company of shoemakers.[362]

Fleabane Starwort.Aster Conizoides.Dedicated toSt. Crispin.Meagre Starwort.Aster miser.Dedicated toSt. Crispinian.

[361]Sykes’s Local Records.[362]European Magazine, vol. xl.

[361]Sykes’s Local Records.

[362]European Magazine, vol. xl.

St. Evaristus, Pope,A. D.112.Sts. LucianandMarcian,A. D.250.

It is noticed by Dr. Forster, that in a mild autumn late grapes now ripen onthe vines, and that the gathering of the very late sorts of apples, and of winter pears, still continues: these latter fruits, like those of the earlier year, are to be laid up in the loft to complete their process of ripening, which, except in a few sorts, is seldom completed on the trees.

Late Golden Rod.Solidago petiolaris.Dedicated toSt. Evaristus.

St. Frumentius, Apostle of Ethiopia, 4th Cent.St. Elesbaan, King of Ethiopia,A. D.527.St. Abban, Abbot in Ireland, 6th. Cent.

Evelyn says, “the loppings and leaves of the elm, dried in the sun, prove a great relief to cattle when fodder is dear, and will be preferred to oats by the cattle.” The Herefordshire people, in his time, gathered them in sacks for this purpose, and for their swine.

Floribund Starwort.Aster floribundus.Dedicated toSt. Frumentius.

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