April 11.

Can’t you see by my hunch, sir,Faddeldy daddeldy dino,I am master Punch, sir,Riberi biberi bino,Fiddeldy, diddeldy, faddeldy, daddeldy,Robbery, bobbery, ribery, bibery,Faddeldy, daddeldy, dino,Ribery, bibery, bino.That merry fellowPunchinello,Dancing here, you see, sir,Whose mirth not hellItself can quellHe’s ever in such glee, sir,Niddlety, noddlety, niddlety, noddlety, niddlety, noddlety, nino.Then let me pass, old Grecian,Faddeldy, daddeldy, dino.To the fields Elysian,Bibery, bibery, bino.Fiddledy, diddledy, faddledy, daddledy,Robbery, bobbery, ribery, bibery,Faddledy, daddledy, dino,Ribery, bibery, bino.My ranting, roaring Pluto,Faddledy, daddledy, dino,Just to a hair will suit oh,Bibery, bibery, bino.Faddledy, daddledy, &c.Each jovial fellow,At Punchinello,Will, laughing o’er his cup roar,I’ll rant and revel,And play the devil,And set all hell in an uproar,Niddlety, noddlety, nino.Then let me pass, &c.

I therewith conclude this hasty communication, begging you to shorten it if you think proper.

I am, &c.W.S——.

Edwin’s song in the character of Punch is far less offensive than many of the songs and scenes in “Don Juan,” whichis still represented. This drama which is of Italian origin, the editor of theEvery-Day Book, in his volume on “Ancient Mysteries,” has ventured to conjecture, may have been derived from the adventures of the street Punch. The supposition is somewhat heightened by Edwin’s song as the Punch of Covent-garden.

Mean Temperature 48·32.

St. Mary Islington Old Church“Merry Islington.”

In March, an anonymous correspondent obligingly enclosed, and begged my acceptance of a ticket, for a parish dinner at Islington, on the 11th of April, 1738. It would have been rudeness to decline the civility, and as the editor was not prepared to join the guests at the great dinner, “not where they eat, but where they are eaten,” he appropriates the ticket to the use for which it was intended by the donor, T. H. of St. John-street.

It would do the reader’s heart good to see this ticket—“printed from a copper plate,” ten inches high, by seven inches wide—as large as a lord mayor’s ticket, and looking much better, because engraved by Toms, a fine firm artist of “the good oldschool,” which taught truth as an essential, and prohibited refinements, not existing in nature or sensible objects, as detraction of character.

It would do the reader’s heart good, I say, to see the dinner ticket I am now looking at. First, above the invitation—which is all that the lover of a dinner first sees—and therefore, because nothingprecedes it, “aboveall,”—is a capital view of theoldparish church, and the churchyard, wherein “lie the remains” of most of the company who attended the parish dinner—it being as certain that the remains of the rest of the company, occupy other tenements, of “the house appointed for all living,” as that they all lived, and ate and drank, and were merry.

This is not a melancholy, but a natural view. It may be said, there is “a time for all things,” but if there be any time, wherein we fear to entertain death, we are not fully prepared to receive him as we ought. It is true, that with “the cup of kindness” at our lips, we do not expect his friendly “shake,” before we finish the draught, yet the liquor will not be the worse for our remembering that his is a previous engagement; and, as we do not know the hour of appointment, we ought to be ready atallhours. The business of life is to die.

I am not a member of a parish club, but I have sometimes thought, if I could “do as others do,” and “go to club,” I should elect to belong to an old one, which preserved the minutes of its proceedings, and its muniments, from the commencement. My first, and perhaps last, serious motion, would be, “That each anniversary dinner ticket of the club, from the first ticket to the last issued, should be framed and glazed, and hung on the walls of the club room, in chronological order.” Such a series would be a never-failing source of interest and amusement. If the parish club of Islington exists, a collection of its tickets so disposed, might be regarded as annals of peculiar worth, especially if many of its predecessors in the annual office of “stewards for the dinner,” maintained the consequence of the club in the eyes of the parish, by respectability of execution and magnitude in the anniversary ticket, commensurate with that of the year 1738, with Toms’s view of the old parish church and churchyard. I regret that these cannot be here given in the same size as on the ticket; the best that can be effected, is a reduced fac-simile of the original, which is accomplished in the accompanyingengraving. Let any one who knows the new church of Islington, compare it with the present view of the old church, and say which church he prefers. At this time, however, the present church may be more suitable to Islington, grown, or grown up to, as it is, until it is a part of London; but who would not wish it still a village, with the old edifice for its parish church. That Islington is now more opulent and more respectable, may be very true; but opulence monopolizes, and respectability is often a vain show in the stead of happiness, and a mere flaunt on the ruins of comfort. The remark is, of course, general, and not of Islington in particular, all of whose opulent or respectable residents, may really be so, for aught I know to the contrary. Be it known to them, however, on the authority of the old dinner ticket, that their predecessors, who succeeded the inhabitants from whose doings the village was called “merry Islington,” appear to have dined at a reasonable hour, enjoyed a cheerful glass, and lived in good fellowship.

Immediately beneath the view of the old church on the ticket, follows the stewards’ invitation to the dinner, here copied and subjoined verbatim.

St. Mary, Islington.SIR,

You are desir’d to meet many others,Nativesof this place, onTuesday, ye11th Day of April, 1738, at Mrs.Eliz. Grimstead’s, yeAngel & Crown, in yeupper Street, about yeHour ofOne; Then, & there wth.Full Dishes,Good Wine, &Good Humour, to improve & make lasting thatHarmony, andFriendshipwhich have so long reigned among us.

Walter SebbonJohn BoothBourchier DurellJames SebbonStewards.

N.B.—The Dinnerwill be on the Table peremptorily atTwo.

Pray Pay the Bearer Five Shillings.

“Merry Islington!”—We may almost fancy we see the “jolly companions, every one,” in their best wigs, ample coats, and embroidered waistcoats, at their dinner; that we hear the bells ringing out from the square tower of the old church, and the people and boys outside the door of the “Angel and Crown, in yeUpper Street,” huzzaing and rejoicing, that their betters were dining “for the good of theparish”—for so they did: read the ticket again.

England is proverbially called “the ringing island,” which is not the worst thing to say of it; and our forefathers were great eaters and hard drinkers, and that is not the worst thing to say ofthem; but of our country we can also tell better things, and keep our bells to cheer our stories; and from our countrymen we can select names among the living and the dead that would dignify any spot of earth. Let us then be proud of our ancient virtue, and keep it alive, and add to it. If each will do what he can to take care that the world is not the worse for his existence, posterity will relate that their ancestors did well in it.

Mean Temperature 46·60.

One of the “Hundred Mery Tales” teacheth that, ere travellers depart their homes, they should know natural signs; insomuch that they provide right array, or make sure that they be safely housed against tempest. Our Shakspeare read the said book of tales, which is therefore called “Shakspeare’s Jest Book;” and certain it is, that though he were not skilled in learning of the schoolmen, by reason that he did not know their languages, yet was he well skilled in English, and a right wise observer of things; wherein, if we be like diligent, we, also, may attain unto his knowledge. Wherefore, learn to take heed against rain, by the tale ensuing.

Of the herdsman that said, “Ride apace, ye shall have rain.”

A certain scholar of Oxford, which had studied the judicials of astronomy, upon a time as he was riding by the way, there came by a herdman, and he asked this herdman how far it was to the next town; “Sir,” quoth the herdman, “it is rather past a mile and an half; but, sir,” quoth he, “ye need to ride apace, for ye shall have a shower of rain ere ye come thither.” “What,” quoth the scholar, “maketh ye say so? there is no token of rain, for the clouds be both fair and clear.” “By my troth,” quoth the herdsman, “but ye shall find it so.”

The scholar then rode forth, and it chanced ere he had ridden half a mile further, there fell a good shower of rain, that the scholar was well washed, and wet to the skin. The scholar then turned him back and rode to the herdman, and desired him to teach him that cunning. “Nay,” quoth the herdman, “I will not teach you my cunning for naught.” Then the scholar proffered him eleven shillings to teach him that cunning. The herdman, after he had received his money, said thus:—“Sir, see you not yonder black ewe with the white face?” “Yes,” quoth the scholar. “Surely,” quoth the herdman, “when she danceth and holdeth up her tail, ye shall have a shower of rain within half an hour after.”

By this ye may see, that the cunning of herdmen and shepherds, as touching alterations of weathers, is more sure than the judicials of astronomy.

Upon this story it seemeth right to conclude, that to stay at home, when rain be foreboded by signs natural, is altogether wise; for though thy lodging be poor, it were better to be in it, and so keep thy health, than to travel in the wet through a rich country and get rheums thereby.

Home.Cling to thy home! If there the meanest shedYield thee a hearth and shelter for thine head,And some poor plot, with vegetables stored,Be all that pride allots thee for thy board,Unsavoury bread, and herbs that scatter’d grow,Wild on the river’s brink or mountain’s brow,Yet e’en this cheerless mansion shall provideMore heart’s repose than all the world beside.Leonidas of Tarentum.

Home.

Cling to thy home! If there the meanest shedYield thee a hearth and shelter for thine head,And some poor plot, with vegetables stored,Be all that pride allots thee for thy board,Unsavoury bread, and herbs that scatter’d grow,Wild on the river’s brink or mountain’s brow,Yet e’en this cheerless mansion shall provideMore heart’s repose than all the world beside.

Leonidas of Tarentum.

Mean Temperature 46·76.

Birds.

About this time, according to Dr. Forster, whose observations on the migrations and habits of birds, are familiar to most persons acquainted with the natural history of our island, the bittern,ardea stellata, begins to make a booming noise in marshy places at eventide. The deep and peculiar hollow tone of this bird in the breeding season, can hardly be mistaken for that of any other: it differs essentially from the note of the same bird when on the wing.

The bittern booms along the sounding marsh,Mixt with the cries of heron and mallard harsh.

The bittern sits all day hid among the reeds and rushes with its head erect; at night it rises on the wing, and soars to a vast height in a spiral direction. Those who desire to see it must pursue a swampy route, through watery fens, quagmires, bogs, and marshes. The heron,ardea major, has now a nest, and is seen sailing about slowly in the air in search of its fishy prey, travelling from one fish pond to another, over a large tract of country. It is a bird of slow and heavy flight, though it floats on large and expansive wings.

Mean Temperature 46·57.

Spring.

Genial weather at the commencement of the year, dresses the meadows with the common and beautiful flowers that delight childhood.

The Cowslip.Cowslip, of all beloved, of all admired!Thee let me sing, the homely shepherd’s pride;Fit emblem of the maid I love, a formGladdening the sight of man; a sweet perfume,Sending its balmy fragrance to the soulDaughter of Spring and messenger of May,Which shall I first declare, which most extol,Thy sovereign beauties, or thy sovereign use?With thee the rural dame a draught prepares,A nectarous draught, more luscious to my tasteThan all thy boasted wine, besotted Bacchus!Maidens with thee their auburn tresses braid;Or, with the daisy and the primrose pale,Thy flowers entwining, weave a chaplet fair,To grace that pole round which the village trainLead on their dance to greet the jocund May;Jocund I’ll call it, for it lends a smileTo thee, who never smil’st but once a year.I name thee not, thou poor unpitied wretch!Of all despised, save him whose liberal heartTaught him to feel your wrongs, and plead your cause,Departed Hanway! Peace be to his soul!Great is that man, who quits the path of fame,Who, wealth forsaking, stoops his towering mindFrom learning’s heights, and stretches out his armTo raise from dust the meanest of his kind.Now that the muse to thee her debt has paid,Friend of the poor and guardian of the wronged,Back let her pleased return, to view those sports,Whose rude simplicity has charms for meBeyond the ball or midnight masquerade.Oft on that merry morn I’ve joined their throng,A glad spectator; oft their uncouth danceEyed most attentive; when, with tawdry show,Illsorted ribbons decked each maiden’s cap,And cowslip garlands every rustic hat.

The Cowslip.

Cowslip, of all beloved, of all admired!Thee let me sing, the homely shepherd’s pride;Fit emblem of the maid I love, a formGladdening the sight of man; a sweet perfume,Sending its balmy fragrance to the soulDaughter of Spring and messenger of May,Which shall I first declare, which most extol,Thy sovereign beauties, or thy sovereign use?With thee the rural dame a draught prepares,A nectarous draught, more luscious to my tasteThan all thy boasted wine, besotted Bacchus!Maidens with thee their auburn tresses braid;Or, with the daisy and the primrose pale,Thy flowers entwining, weave a chaplet fair,To grace that pole round which the village trainLead on their dance to greet the jocund May;Jocund I’ll call it, for it lends a smileTo thee, who never smil’st but once a year.I name thee not, thou poor unpitied wretch!Of all despised, save him whose liberal heartTaught him to feel your wrongs, and plead your cause,Departed Hanway! Peace be to his soul!Great is that man, who quits the path of fame,Who, wealth forsaking, stoops his towering mindFrom learning’s heights, and stretches out his armTo raise from dust the meanest of his kind.Now that the muse to thee her debt has paid,Friend of the poor and guardian of the wronged,Back let her pleased return, to view those sports,Whose rude simplicity has charms for meBeyond the ball or midnight masquerade.Oft on that merry morn I’ve joined their throng,A glad spectator; oft their uncouth danceEyed most attentive; when, with tawdry show,Illsorted ribbons decked each maiden’s cap,And cowslip garlands every rustic hat.

Mean Temperature 47·44.

To the Reader.

On Saturday, the 15th of April, 1826, No. 68, and Part XVII., of theEvery-Day Book, forming No. 16, and Part IV. of the second volume, were published by Messrs.HuntandClarke, of Tavistock-street, Covent-garden. As the removal of the office from Ludgate-hill may be an event of as much interest to the friends of the work as any other belonging to the day it is recorded here with the following explanation which was printed on the wrapper of thepart:—

“This step relieves me from cares and anxieties which so embarrassed my progress, in conducting and writing the work, as to become overwhelming; and Messrs. Hunt and Clarke will publish it much earlier than hitherto.

“To subscribers the present arrangement will be every way beneficial.

“They will have theEvery-Day Bookpunctually at a proper hour; and, as I shall be enabled to give it the time and attention essential to a thorough fulfilment of its plan, my exertions will, henceforth, be incessantly directed to that end. I, therefore, respectfully and earnestly solicit the friends of the work to aid me by their contributions. At the present moment they will bemostacceptable.

“Correspondentswill, from this day, be pleased to address letters and parcels to me, at Messrs. Hunt and Clarke’s, Tavistock-street, Covent-garden.

W. Hone.”

☞Six Indexes, with a Preface, Title-page, and Frontispiece to the first volume, will be ready for delivery before the appearance of the next sheet; and I hope the labour by which I have endeavoured to facilitate reference toeverygeneral and particular subject, may be received as somewhat of atonement, for the delay in these essentials. To guard against a similar accident, I have already commenced theindexto the second volume.

W. Hone.

April 15, 1826.

⁂Volume I.contains 868 octavo pages, or 1736 columns, illustrated byOne Hundred and Seventy engravings:Price 14s. in boards.

If we happen to be wandering forth on a warm still evening during the last week in this month, and passing near a roadside orchard, or skirting a little copse in returning from our twilight ramble, or sitting listlessly on a lawn near some thick plantation, waiting for bed time, we may chance to be startled from our meditations (of whatever kind they may be) by a sound issuing from among the distant leaves, that scares away the silence in a moment, and seems to put to flight even the darkness itself;—stirring the spirit, and quickening the blood, as no other mere sound can, unless it be that of a trumpet calling to battle. That is the nightingale’s voice. The cold spells of winter, that had kept him so long tongue-tied, and frozen the deep fountains of his heart, yield before the mild breath of spring, and he is voluble once more. It is as if the flood of song had been swelling within his breast ever since it last ceased to flow; and was now gushing forth uncontroullably, and as if he had no will to controul it: for when it does stop for a space, it is suddenly, as if for want of breath. In our climate the nightingale seldom sings above six weeks; beginning usually the last week in April. I mention this because many, who would be delighted to hear him, do not think of going to listen for his song till after it has ceased. I believe it is never to be heard after the young are hatched.—Now, too, the pretty, pert-looking blackcap first appears, and pours forth his tender and touching love-song, scarcely inferior, in a certain plaintive inwardness, to the autumn song of the robin. The mysterious little grasshopper lark also runs whispering within the hedgerows; the redstart pipes prettily upon the apple trees; the golden-crowned wren chirps in the kitchen-garden, as she watches for the new sown seeds; and lastly, the thrush, who has hitherto given out but a desultory note at intervals, to let us know that he was not away, now haunts the same tree, and frequently the same branch of it, day after day, and sings an “English Melody” that even Mr. Moore himself could not write appropriate words to.

Mean Temperature 48·16.

C. L., whose papers under these initials on “CaptainStarkey,”[118]“The Ass, No.2,[119]” and“Squirrels,”[120]besides other communications, are in the first volume, drops the following pleasant article “in an hour of need.”

For the Every-Day Book.

Rummaging over the contents of an old stall at a halfbook, halfold iron shop, in an alley leading from Wardour-street to Soho-square yesterday, I lit upon a ragged duodecimo, which had been the strange delight of my infancy, and which I had lost sight of for more than forty years:—the “Queen-like Closet, orRich Cabinet:” written by Hannah Woolly, and printed for R. C. & T. S. 1681; being an abstract of receipts in cookery, confectionary, cosmetics, needlework, morality, and all such branches of what were then considered as female accomplishments. The price demanded was sixpence, which the owner (a little squab duodecimo of a character himself) enforced with the assurance that his “own mother should not have it for a farthing less.” On my demurring at this extraordinary assertion, the dirty little vendor reinforced his assertion with a sort of oath, which seemed more than the occasion demanded: “and now (said he) I have put my soul to it.” Pressed by so solemn an asseveration, I could no longer resist a demand which seemed to set me, however unworthy, upon a level with his dearest relations; and depositing a tester, I bore away the tattered prize in triumph. I remembered a gorgeous description of the twelve months of the year, which I thought would be a fine substitute for those poetical descriptions of them which yourEvery-Day Bookhad nearly exhausted out of Spenser. This will be a treat, thought I, for friendHone. To memory they seemed no less fantastic and splendid than the other. But, what are the mistakes of childhood!—on reviewing them, they turned out to be only a set of common-place receipts for working the seasons, months, heathen gods and goddesses, &c. insamplars!Yet as an instance of the homely occupations of our great-grandmothers, they may be amusing to some readers: “I have seen,” says the notable Hannah Woolly, “such Ridiculous things done in work, as it is an abomination to any Artist to behold. As for example: You may find in some Pieces,AbrahamandSarah, and many other Persons of Old time, Cloathed, as they go now a-daies, and truly sometimes worse; for they most resemble the Pictures on Ballads. Let all Ingenious Women have regard, that when they work any Image, to represent it aright. First, let it be Drawn well, and then observe the Directions which are given by Knowing Men. I do assure you, I never durst work any Scripture-Story without informing my self from the Ground of it: nor any other Story, or single Person, without informing my self both of the Visage and Habit; As followeth.

“If you workJupiter,the Imperial feigned God, He must have long Black-Curled-hair, a Purple Garment trimmed with Gold, and sitting upon a Golden Throne, with bright yellow Clouds about him.”

The Twelve Months of the Year.

March.

Is drawn in Tawny, with a fierce aspect, a Helmet upon his head, and leaning on a Spade, and a Basket of Garden Seeds in his Left hand, and in his Right hand the Sign ofAries:and Winged.

April.

A Young Man in Green, with, a Garland of Mirtle, and Hawthorn-buds; Winged; in one hand Primroses and Violets, in the other the SignTaurus.

May.

With a Sweet and lovely Countenance, clad in a Robe of White and Green, embroidered with several Flowres, upon his Head a garland of all manner of Roses; on the one hand a Nightingale, in the other a Lute. His sign must beGemini.

June.

In a Mantle of dark Grass green, upon his Head a garland of Bents, Kings-Cups, and Maiden-hair; in his Left hand an Angle, with a box of Cantharides, in his Right the SignCancer, and upon his arms a Basket of seasonable Fruits.

July.

In a Jacket of light Yellow, eating Cherries; with his Face and Bosom Sunburnt;on his Head a wreath of Centaury and wild Tyme; a Scythe on his shoulder, and a bottle at his girdle: carrying the SignLeo.

August.

A Young Man of fierce and Cholerick aspect, in a Flame-coloured Garment; upon his Head a garland of Wheat and Rye, upon his Arm a Basket of all manner of ripe Fruits, at his Belt a Sickle. His SignVirgo.

September.

A merry and chereful Countenance, in a Purple Robe, upon his Head a Wreath of red and white Grapes, in his Left hand a handful of Oats, withall carrying a Horn of Plenty, full of all manner of ripe Fruits, in his Right hand the SignLibra.

October.

In a Garment of Yellow and Carnation, upon his head a garland of Oak-leaves with Akorns, in his Right hand the SignScorpio, in his Left hand a Basket of Medlars, Services, and Chesnuts; and any other Fruits then in Season.

November.

In a Garment of Changeable Green and Black upon his Head, a garland of Olives with the Fruit in his Left hand, Bunches of Parsnips and Turnips in his Right. His SignSagittarius.

December.

A horrid and fearful aspect, clad in Irish-Rags, or course Freez girt unto him, upon his Head three or four Night-Caps, and over them a Turkish Turbant; his Nose red, his Mouth and Beard clog’d with Isicles, at his back a bundle of Holly, Ivy or Misletoe, holding in fur’d Mittens the Sign ofCapricornus.

January.

Clad all in White, as the Earth looks with the Snow, blowing his nails; in his Left Arm a Bilet, the SignAquariusstanding by his side.

February.

Cloathed in a dark Skie-colour, carrying in his Right hand the SignPisces.

The following receipt, “To dress up a Chimney very fine for the Summer time, as I have done many, and they have been liked very well,” may not be unprofitable to the housewives of this century.

“First, take a pack-thred and fasten it even to the inner part of the Chimney, so high as that you can see no higher as you walk up and down the House; you must drive in several Nails to hold up all your work; then get good store of old green Moss from Trees, and melt an equal proportion of Bees-wax and Rosin together and while it is hot, dip the wrong ends of the Moss in it, and presently clap it upon your pack-thred, and press it down hard with your hand; you must make hast, else it will cool before you can fasten it, and then it will fall down; do so all round where the pack-thred goes, and the next row you must joyn to that, so that it may seem all in one; thus do till you have finished it down to the bottom: then take some other kind of Moss, of a whitish-colour and stiff, and of several sorts or kinds, and place that upon the other, here and there carelessly, and in some places put a good deal, and some a little; then any kind of fine Snail-shels, in which the Snails are dead, and little Toad stools, which are very old, and look like Velvet, orany other thing that was old and pretty; place it here and there as your fancy serves, and fasten all with Wax and Rosin. Then for the Hearth of your Chimney, you may lay some Orpan-Sprigs in order all over, and it will grow as it lies; and according to the Season, get what flowers you can, and stick in as if they grew, and a few sprigs of Sweet-Bryer: the Flowers you must renew every Week; but the Moss will last all the Summer, till it will be time to make a fire; and the Orpan will last near two Months. A Chimney thus done doth grace a Room exceedingly.”

One phrase in the above should particularly recommend it to such of your female readers, as, in the nice language of the day, have done growing some time: “little toad stools, &c. and any thing that isold and pretty.” Was ever antiquity so smoothed over? The culinary recipes have nothing remarkable in them, besides the costliness of them. Every thing (to the meanest meats) is sopped in claret, steeped in claret, basted with claret, as if claret were as cheap as ditch water. I remember Bacon recommends opening a turf or two in your garden walks, and pouring into each a bottle of claret, to recreate the sense of smelling, being no less grateful than beneficial. We hope the chancellor of the exchequer will attend tothis in his next reduction of French wines, that we may once more water our gardens with right Bourdeaux. The medical recipes are as whimsical as they are cruel. Our ancestors were not at all effeminate on this head. Modern sentimentalists would shrink at a cock plucked and bruised in a mortar alive, to make a cullis; or a live mole baked in an oven (be sure it be alive) to make a powder for consumption.—But the whimsicalest of all are the directions to servants—(for this little book is a compendium of all duties,)—the footman is seriously admonished not to stand lolling against his master’s chair, while he waits at table; for “to lean on a chair, when they wait, is a particular favour shown to any superior servant, as the chief gentleman, or the waiting woman when she rises from the table.” Also he must not “hold the plates before his mouth to be defiled with his breath, nor touch them on the right [inner] side.” Surely Swift must have seen this little treatise.

C. L.

Hannah concludes with the following address, by which the self-estimate which she formed of her usefulness, may becalculated:—

“Ladies, I hope you’re pleas’d and so shall IIf what I’ve writ, you may be gainers by;If not; it is your fault, it is not mine,Your benefit in this I do design.Much labour and much time it hath me cost,Therefore I beg, let none of it be lost.The money you shall pay for this my book,You’ll not repent of, when in it you look.No more at present to you I shall say,But wish you all the happiness I may.”

H. W.

On the 16th of April, 1788, died, at the age of eighty-one, the far-famed count de Buffon, a man of uncommon genius and surprising eloquence, and often styled the “French Pliny,” because, like that philosopher, he studied natural history. Buffon was, perhaps, the most astonishing interpreter of nature that everexisted.[121]His descriptions are luminous and accurate, and every where display a spirit of philosophical observation; but the grand defect of his work is want of method, and he rejects the received principles of classification, and throws his subjects into groups from general points of resemblance. It may be more strongly objected, that many of his allusions are reprehensible; and, as regards himself, though he pretended to respect the ties of society, he constantly violated private morals. As an instance of his vanity, it is reported that he said, “the works of eminent geniuses are few; they are only those of Newton, Bacon, Leibnitz, Montesquieu, andmy own.” He was ennobled by patent; and no less distinguished by academical honours, than by his own talents. He left a son, who, in 1793, was guillotined underRobespierre.[122]

Worthless speculations, in recent times, have distressed and ruined thousands by their explosion; and yet this has happened with the experience of former sufferers before us as matter of history. In the reign of James I., speculators preyed on public credulity under the authority of the great seal, till the government interposed by annulling the patents. In the reigns of Anne and George I., another race of swindlers deluded the unthinking with private lotteries and schemes of all sorts. The consequences of the South Sea bubble, at a later period, afflicted every family in the nation, from the throne to the labourer’s hut. So recently as the year 1809, there were similar attempts on a less scale, with similar results. The projects of 1824-5, which lingered till 1826, were mining companies.

In the reign of George I., a Mr. Fallowfield issued “proposals for making iron,” wherein he introduces some reflections on the miscarriages of Mr. Wood’s project of “making iron withpulverised ore.” Fallowfield had obtained a patent for making iron withpeat, but delayed some time his putting it in practice, because of the mighty bustle made by Mr. Wood and his party. The proceedings of the latter projector furnish a fact under the present day.

It appears from the following statement, that Mr. Wood persisted till his scheme was blown into air by his own experiments.

April 16, 1731. “The proprietors assert that the iron soproposedto be made, and which they actuallydid makeat Chelsea, on Monday, the 16th instant, is not brittle,but tough, and fit for all uses, and is to be manufactured with as little waste of metal, labour, and expense, as any other iron; and that it may and can be made for less than 10l.a ton, which they will make apparent to any curious inquirer.”

Whether this “call” upon the “curious inquirer” was designed to introduce “another call” upon the shareholders is not certain, but the call was answered by those to whom it was ostensibly addressed; for there is a notice of “Mr. Wood’s operators failing in their last trial at Chelsea, the 11th instant (May;) their iron breaking to pieces when it came under the greathammer.”[123]They excused it by saying the inspectors had purposelypoisonedthe iron! Had the assertion been true, Wood’s project might have survived the injury; but it died of the poison on the 3d of May, 1731, notwithstanding the affirmations of the proprietors, that “they actually did make iron at Chelsea, on Monday the 16th of April.”

Mean Temperature 47·95.

[118]Vol. i 965.[119]Ibid. 1358.[120]Ibid. 1386.[121]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.[122]General Biog. Dict.[123]Gentleman’s Magazine.

[118]Vol. i 965.

[119]Ibid. 1358.

[120]Ibid. 1386.

[121]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.

[122]General Biog. Dict.

[123]Gentleman’s Magazine.

Sir William Davenant, the reviver of the drama after the restoration of Charles II., and patentee of the theatre in Lincoln’s-inn-fields, died on the 17th of April, 1668. He was the son of an innkeeper at Oxford, where he was born in 1605; and after studying at Lincoln-college, became a page to Greville, lord Brooke, a literary nobleman, who encouraged his attainments. He cultivated acquaintance with the poetic muse, and the eminent wits of his time. His imagination, depraved by sensuality, was unequal to extensive flights in pure regions. He wrote chiefly to the taste of the court, prepared masques for its entertainment, and, on the death of Ben Jonson, had the honour of the laureateship. He served in the army of Charles I. against the parliament; was made lieutenant-general of the ordnance, knighted by the king at the siege of Gloucester, and, on the decline of the royal cause, retired to France, where he became a Roman catholic. In attempting to conduct a French colony to Virginia, he was captured by a parliament cruiser, and imprisoned in Cowes Castle, where he employed himself on “Gondibert,” a heroic poem, which he never finished. On this occasion his life was saved by Milton; and, when public affairs were reversed, Davenant repaid the service by protectingMilton.[124]

Davenant’s face was deformed by the consequences of vicious indulgence. The deficiency of feature exemplified in his portrait, is referred to by a note on a celebrated line in lord Byron’s “Curse of Minerva.”

Pope is said to have placed Davenant, as a poet, aboveDonne;[125]but, notwithstanding the authority, it is questionable whether Pope’s judgment could have so erred. He is further said to have observed, that Davenant “seemed fond of having it taken for truth,” that he was “more than a poetical child of Shakspeare;” that he was Shakspeare’s godson; and that Shakspeare in his frequent journies between London and his native place, Stratford-upon-Avon, used to lie at Davenant’s, the Crown, in Oxford. He was very well acquainted with Mrs. Davenant; and her son, afterwards sir William, was supposed to be more nearly related to him than as a godson only. One day when Shakspeare had just arrived, and the boy sent for from school to him, a head of one of the colleges (who was pretty well acquainted with the affairs of the family) met the child running home, and asked him, whither he was going in so much haste? The boy said, “To my godfather, Shakspeare.” “Fie, child,” says the old gentleman, “why are you so superfluous? have you not learned yet that you should not use the name of Godin vain?” The imputation is very doubtful.

Mean Temperature 47·00.

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