These laboured nothings in so strange a styleAmazed th’ unlearned, and made the learned smile,
These laboured nothings in so strange a styleAmazed th’ unlearned, and made the learned smile,
These laboured nothings in so strange a styleAmazed th’ unlearned, and made the learned smile,
the children shouted aloud for their favourite Grimaldi; the priests, accompanied with bells, trumpets, and organs, thundered out the mass; the pious were loud in their exclamations of rapture at the devotion of the virgin, and the whole church was filled with a hoarse and confused murmuring sound. The sequel of this, as of most other similar representations, was a hearty dinner.
This adoration of the virgin, so prevalent in Romish worship, is adverted to in a beautiful passage of “Don Roderick.”
How calmly gliding through the dark blue skyThe midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams,Through thinly scattered leaves and boughs grotesque,Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage greyAnd massy, motionless they spread; here shineUpon the crags, deepening with blacker nightTheir chasms; and there the glittering argentryRipples and glances on the confluent streams.A lovelier, purer light than that of dayRests on the hills; and oh, how awfullyInto that deep and tranquil firmamentThe summits of Auseva rise serene!The watchman on the battlements partakeThe stillness of the solemn hour; he feelsThe silence of the earth, the endless soundOf flowing water soothes him, and the stars,Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh quenched,Scarce visible, as in the utmost depthOf yonder sapphire infinite are seen,Draw on with elevating influenceToward eternity the attempered mindMusing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,And to the virgin mother silentlyBreathes forth her hymn of praise.Southey.
How calmly gliding through the dark blue skyThe midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams,Through thinly scattered leaves and boughs grotesque,Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage greyAnd massy, motionless they spread; here shineUpon the crags, deepening with blacker nightTheir chasms; and there the glittering argentryRipples and glances on the confluent streams.A lovelier, purer light than that of dayRests on the hills; and oh, how awfullyInto that deep and tranquil firmamentThe summits of Auseva rise serene!The watchman on the battlements partakeThe stillness of the solemn hour; he feelsThe silence of the earth, the endless soundOf flowing water soothes him, and the stars,Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh quenched,Scarce visible, as in the utmost depthOf yonder sapphire infinite are seen,Draw on with elevating influenceToward eternity the attempered mindMusing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,And to the virgin mother silentlyBreathes forth her hymn of praise.
How calmly gliding through the dark blue skyThe midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams,Through thinly scattered leaves and boughs grotesque,Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage greyAnd massy, motionless they spread; here shineUpon the crags, deepening with blacker nightTheir chasms; and there the glittering argentryRipples and glances on the confluent streams.A lovelier, purer light than that of dayRests on the hills; and oh, how awfullyInto that deep and tranquil firmamentThe summits of Auseva rise serene!The watchman on the battlements partakeThe stillness of the solemn hour; he feelsThe silence of the earth, the endless soundOf flowing water soothes him, and the stars,Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh quenched,Scarce visible, as in the utmost depthOf yonder sapphire infinite are seen,Draw on with elevating influenceToward eternity the attempered mindMusing on worlds beyond the grave he stands,And to the virgin mother silentlyBreathes forth her hymn of praise.
Southey.
Mean Temperature 63·62.
[295]Dr. Aikin’s Athenæum.[296]Miss Plumptre.
[295]Dr. Aikin’s Athenæum.
[296]Miss Plumptre.
August 16, 1678, died Andrew Marvel, a man who “dared be honest in the worst of times.” He was the son of a clergyman at Hull in Yorkshire, where he was born in 1620. In 1633, he was sent to Trinity-college, Cambridge; in 1657, he became assistant to Milton in his office of Latin secretary to Cromwell; and at the restoration he was chosen to represent his native town in the house of commons.
His conduct was marked by inflexible adherence to the principles of liberty, and his wit as a writer was levelled at the corruptions of the court; yet Charles II. courted his society for the pleasure of his conversation. He lived in a mean lodging in an obscure court in the Strand, where he was visited by lord Danby, at the desire of the king, with his majesty’s request, to know in what way he could serve him; Marvel answered, it was not in the king’s power to serve him. Lord Danby in the course of conversation assured him of any place he might choose; Marvel replied, he could not accept the offer without being unjust to his country by betraying its interests, or ungrateful to the king by voting against him. Before lord Danby took leave he told him his majesty had sent him a thousand pounds as a mark of his private esteem. Marvel did not need the assurance; he refused the money, and after his noble visiter departed, borrowed a guinea which he wanted of a friend. This great man after having served his constituents for twenty successive years in parliament, was buried at their expense in the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields.
Mean Temperature 62·65.
August 17, 1736, died Mr. Niblet, master of the copper mills at Mitcham, Surrey, renowned in the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” and in this column, for having made the ball and cross of St. Paul’s cathedral,London.[297]
Mean Temperature 63·52.
[297]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[297]Gentleman’s Magazine.
August 18, 1746, William, earl of Kilmarnock, aged forty-two, and Arthur, baron Balmerino, aged fifty-eight, were beheaded on Tower-hill, as traitors, for levying war against king George II., in behalf of the pretender.
At the foot of a flight of stairs in the tower, lord Kilmarnock met lord Balmerino, and embracing him said, “My lord, I am heartily sorry to have your company inthisexpedition.” At the Tower-gates, the sheriffs gave receipts for their bodies to the lieutenant, who, as usual, said, “God bless king George,” whereon the earl of Kilmarnock bowed; lord Balmerino exclaimed, “God bless king James.” They were preceded by the constable of the Tower hamlets, the knight-marshal’s men, tipstaves, and the sheriff’s officers, the sheriffs walking with their prisoners, followed by the tower warders, and a guard of musqueteers. Two hearses and a mourning coach terminated the procession, which passed through lines of foot soldiers to the scaffold on the south sideof the hill, around which the guards formed an area, and troops of horse wheeled off, and drew up in their rear five deep.
The lords were conducted to separate apartments in a house facing the scaffold, and their friends admitted to see them. The rev. Mr. Hume, a near relative of the earl of Hume, with the rev. Mr. Foster, an amiable dissenting minister, who never recovered the dismal effect of the scene, assisted the earl of Kilmarnock; the chaplain of the tower, and another clergyman of the church of England accompanied lord Balmerino, who on entering the house, hearing several of the spectators ask, “which is lord Balmerino?” answered with a smile, “I am lord Balmerino, gentlemen, at your service.” Earl Kilmarnock spent an hour with Mr. Foster in devotional exercises, and afterwards had a conference with lord Balmerino, who on their taking leave said, “My dear lord Kilmarnock, I am only sorry that I cannot pay this reckoning alone: once more farewell for ever!”
As lord Kilmarnock proceeded to the scaffold attended by his friends, the multitude showed the deepest signs of pity and commiseration. Struck by the sympathy of the immense assemblage, and the variety of dreadful objects on the stage of death, his coffin, the heading-block, the axe, and the executioners, he turned to Mr. Hume and said, “Hume! this is terrible,” but his countenance and voice were unchanged. The black baize over the rails of the scaffold was removed, that the people might see all the circumstances of the execution, and a single stroke from the headsman, separated him from the world.
Lord Balmerino in the mean time having solemnly recommended himself to the Supreme Mercy, conversed cheerfully with his friends, took wine, and desired them to drink to him “ane degree ta haiven.” The sheriff entered to inform him that all was ready, but was prevented by the lordship inquiring if the affair was over with lord Kilmarnock. “It is,” said the sheriff. He then inquired, and being informed, how the executioner performed his office, observed, “It was well done;” turning himself to the company, he said, “Gentlemen I shall detain you no longer,” and saluted them with unaffected cheerfulness. He mounted the scaffold with so easy an air, as to astonish the spectators. No circumstance in his whole deportment showed the least fear or regret, and he frequently reproved his friends for discovering either, upon his account. He walked several times round the scaffold, bowed to the people, went to his coffin, read the inscription, and with a nod, said “it is right;” he then examined the block, which he called his “pillow of rest.” Putting on his spectacles, and taking a paper out of his pocket, he read it with an audible voice, and then delivering it to the sheriff, called for the executioner, who appearing, and being about to ask his lordship’s pardon, he interrupted him with “Friend, you need not ask my forgiveness, the execution of your duty is commendable,” and gave him three guineas, saying, “Friend, I never was rich, this is all the money I have now, and I am sorry I can add nothing to it but my coat and waistcoat,” which he then took off, together with his neckcloth, and threw them on his coffin. Putting on a flannel waistcoat, provided for the purpose, and taking a plaid cap out of his pocket, he put it on his head, saying he died “a Scotchman.” He knelt down at the block, to adjust his posture, and show the executioner the signal for the stroke. Once more turning to his friends, and looking round on the crowd, he said, “Perhaps some may think my behaviour too bold, but remember, sir, (said he to a gentleman who stood near him,) that I now declare it is the effect of confidence in God, and a good conscience, and I should dissemble if I should show any signs of fear.”
Observing the axe in the executioner’s hand as he passed him, he took it from, him, felt the edge, and returning it, clapped the executioner on the shoulder to encourage him. He then tucked down the collar of his shirt and waistcoat, and showed him where to strike, desiring him to do it resolutely, for “in that,” said his lordship, “will consist your kindness.”
Passing to the side of the stage, he called up the wardour, to whom he gave some money, asked which was his hearse, and ordered the man to drive near.
Immediately, without trembling or changing countenance, he knelt down at the block, and with his arms stretched out, said, “O Lord, reward my friends, forgive my enemies, and receive my soul,” he gave the signal by letting them fall. His firmness and intrepidity, and the unexpected suddenness of the signal, so surprised the executioner, that the blow was not given with strengthenough to wound him very deep; another blow immediately given rendered him insensible, and a third completed the work of death.
Lord Balmerino had but a small estate. His lady came to London, and frequently attended him during his confinement in the Tower. She was at dinner with him when the warrant came for his execution the Monday following. Being very much shocked, he desired her not to be concerned. “If the king had given me mercy,” he said, “I should have been glad of it; but since it is otherwise, I am very easy, for it is what I have expected, and therefore it does not at all surprise me.” She was disconsolate, and rose immediately from table; on which he started from his chair, and said, “Pray, my lady, sit down, for it shall not spoil mydinner.”[298]
Mean Temperature 64·17.
[298]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[298]Gentleman’s Magazine.
It is noted in the “Historical Chronicle” of the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” on the nineteenth of August, 1755, under the head, “Stroud,” that at that time there were such quantities ofearwigsin that vicinity that they distroyed not only the flowers and fruits, but the cabbages, were they ever so large. The houses, especially the old wooden buildings, were swarming with them. The cracks and crevices were surprisingly full, they dropped out in such multitudes that the floors were covered; the linen, of which they are very fond, were likewise full, as was also the furniture, and it was with caution that people eat their provisions, for the cupboards and safes were plentifully stocked with the disagreeable intruders.
Mean Temperature 62·72.
On the twentieth of August, 1589, James VI. of Scotland afterwards James I. of England married the princess Anne of Denmark, daughter to Frederick II. She became the mother of the ill-fated Charles I.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—It was the custom in England in “olden tyme,” as the ancient chronicles have it, for “enamoured maydes and gentilwomen,” to give to their favourite swains, as tokens of their love, little handkerchiefs about three or four inches square, wrought round about, often in embroidery, with a button or tassel at each corner, and a little one in the centre. The finest of these favours were edged with narrow gold lace, or twist; and then, being folded up in four cross folds, so that the middle might be seen, they were worn by the accepted lovers in their hats, or at the breast. These favours became at last so much in vogue, that they were sold ready made in the shops in Elizabeth’s time, from sixpence to sixteen-pence a piece. Tokens were also given by the gentlemen, and accepted by their fair mistresses; thus ascribed in an old comedy of thetime:—
Given earrings we will wearBracelets of our lover’s hair;Which they on our arms shall twist(With our names carved) on our wrists.
Given earrings we will wearBracelets of our lover’s hair;Which they on our arms shall twist(With our names carved) on our wrists.
Given earrings we will wearBracelets of our lover’s hair;Which they on our arms shall twist(With our names carved) on our wrists.
I am, &c.H. M. Lander
King’s Bench Walk, Temple.
For the Every-Day Book.
Love Lane.’Tis fitter now to ease the brain,To take a quiet walk in a green lane.Byron.
Love Lane.
’Tis fitter now to ease the brain,To take a quiet walk in a green lane.
’Tis fitter now to ease the brain,To take a quiet walk in a green lane.
Byron.
This observation of our matchless bard, the idol and delight of our own times, though just, few I fear follow—either from want of inclination, or what is as bad, want of time. But there are some whose hours of toil, mental and bodily, do not preclude them from seeking the tranquil haunts of nature. With me, after nervous irritability and mental excitement, it has been, and is a favourite enjoyment,to quit the dusky dwellings of man, and wander among the fields and green lanes of our southern shore, while the sun is declining, and stillness begins to settle around.
Listlessly roving, whither I cared not, I have sauntered along till I felt my unquiet sensations gradually subside, and a pleasing calmness steal upon me. I know of nothing more annoying than that nervous thrilling or trembling, which runs through the whole frame after the mind has been troubled; it seems to me like the bubbling and restless swell of the ocean after a storm—one mass of fretful and impatient water, knowing not how to compose itself. But to come to the green fields. There is a lane leading from the grove at Camberwell called Love-lane; it is well so called—long, winding, and quiet, with scenery around beautifully soft—the lover might wander with the mistress of his soul for hours in undisturbed enjoyment. This lane is dear to me, for with it is linked all my early associations—the bird—the butterfly—the wild white rose—my first love. The bird is there still, the butterfly hovers there, and the rose remains; but where is my first love? I may not ask. Echo will but answer, “where!” yet I may in imagination behold her—I call up the shadowy joys of former times, and like the beautiful vision in “Manfred,” she stands beforeme:—
A thousand recollections in her trainOf joy and sorrow, ere the bitter hourOf separation came, never againTo meet in this wide world as we have met,To feel as we have felt, to look, to speak,To think alone as wehavethought allow’d.
A thousand recollections in her trainOf joy and sorrow, ere the bitter hourOf separation came, never againTo meet in this wide world as we have met,To feel as we have felt, to look, to speak,To think alone as wehavethought allow’d.
A thousand recollections in her trainOf joy and sorrow, ere the bitter hourOf separation came, never againTo meet in this wide world as we have met,To feel as we have felt, to look, to speak,To think alone as wehavethought allow’d.
What happy feelings have been ours in that quiet lane! We have wandered arm in arm, gazed on the scenery, listened to the bird. We have not spoken, but our eyes have met, and thoughts too full for utterance, found answers there. Those days are gone; yet I love to wander there alone, even now; to press the grass that has been pressed by her feet, to pluck the flower from the hedge where she plucked it, to look on the distant hills that she looked on, rising in long smooth waves, when not a sound is heard save the “kiss me dear,” which some chaffinch is warbling to his mate, or the trickling of waters seeking their sandy beds in the hollows beneath the hedgerows. I strolled thither a few evenings ago: the sun was softly sinking, and the bright crimson which surrounded him, fading into a faint orange, tinged here and there with small sable clouds; the night-cloud was advancing slowly darkly on; afar in the horizon were
The light-ships of the skySailing onward silently.
The light-ships of the skySailing onward silently.
The light-ships of the skySailing onward silently.
One bird, the lark, was singing his evening song among the cool grass; softly, sweetly, it died away, and all was silent deep tranquillity; a pleasing coolness came on the faint breeze over the neighbouring fields, pregnant with odours, refreshing as they were fragrant. It was twilight; the green of the distant hills changed to a greyish hue, their outlines were enlarged, the trees assumed a more gigantic appearance, and soft dews began to ascend; faint upshootings of light in the eastern horizon foretold the rising of the moon; she appeared at length above the clouds, and a deeper stillness seemed to come with her, as if nature, like man at the presence of a lovely women, was hushed into silent admiration; the grey clouds rolled away on each side of her as rolls the white foam of the ocean before the bows of the vessel; her course was begun, and,
“Silently beautiful, and calmly brightAlong her azure path I saw her glideHeedless of all those things that neath her lightIn bliss or woe or pain or care abide.Wealth, poverty, humility, and pride,All are esteemed as nothing in her sight,Nor make her for one moment turn aside.So calm philosophy unmoved pursuesThroughout the busy world its quiet way;Nor aught that folly wiles or glory woos,Can tempt awhile its notice or its stay:Above all earthly thoughts its way it goesAnd sinks at length in undisturbed repose.”
“Silently beautiful, and calmly brightAlong her azure path I saw her glideHeedless of all those things that neath her lightIn bliss or woe or pain or care abide.Wealth, poverty, humility, and pride,All are esteemed as nothing in her sight,Nor make her for one moment turn aside.So calm philosophy unmoved pursuesThroughout the busy world its quiet way;Nor aught that folly wiles or glory woos,Can tempt awhile its notice or its stay:Above all earthly thoughts its way it goesAnd sinks at length in undisturbed repose.”
“Silently beautiful, and calmly brightAlong her azure path I saw her glideHeedless of all those things that neath her lightIn bliss or woe or pain or care abide.Wealth, poverty, humility, and pride,All are esteemed as nothing in her sight,Nor make her for one moment turn aside.So calm philosophy unmoved pursuesThroughout the busy world its quiet way;Nor aught that folly wiles or glory woos,Can tempt awhile its notice or its stay:Above all earthly thoughts its way it goesAnd sinks at length in undisturbed repose.”
Coldly and calmly the full orb glided through the stillness of heaven. My thoughts were of the past, of the millions who had worshipped her, of the many she had inspired—of Endymion, of the beautiful episode of Nisus and Euryalus in Virgil, of Diana of the Ephesians, of the beautiful descriptions of her by the poets of every age, of every clime. The melancholy yet pleasing feeling which came on me I can hardly describe: my disquietude had ceased; an undisturbed calmness succeeded it; my thoughts were weaned from the grosser materiality of earth, and were soaring upward in silent adoration. I felt the presence of a divinity, and was for a moment happy. Ye who are careworn, whose minds are restless, go at the peaceful hour of eve to the green fields and the hedge-clothed lanes. If you are not poets, you will feel as poets; if you doubt, you will be convinced of Supreme Power and Infinite Love; and be better in head and heart for your journey.
S. R. J.
SONG.BY SAMUEL DANIEL, 1590.Love is a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that most with cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed it sighing criesHeigh ho!Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full, nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed it sighing criesHeighho![299]
SONG.BY SAMUEL DANIEL, 1590.
Love is a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that most with cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed it sighing criesHeigh ho!Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full, nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed it sighing criesHeighho![299]
Love is a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that most with cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed it sighing criesHeigh ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full, nor fasting.Why so?More we enjoy it, more it dies,If not enjoyed it sighing criesHeighho![299]
Mean Temperature 61·92.
[299]Communicated by C. T.
[299]Communicated by C. T.
We are told on the thirtieth of June, 1735, that her majesty (the queen of George II.) ordered “Mr. Rysbrack to make the bustos in marble of all the kings of England from William the Conqueror, in order to be placed in her new building in the gardens at Richmond.”
On the twenty-first of August, in the same year, we learn that the figures her majesty had ordered for Merlin’s cave were placed therein, viz. 1.—Merlin at a table with conjuring books and mathematical instruments, taken from the face of Mr. Ernest, page to the prince of Wales; 2.—King Henry VIIth’s queen, and 3.—Queen Elizabeth, who come to Merlin for knowledge, the former from the face of Mrs. Margaret Purcell, and the latter from Miss Paget’s; 4.—Minerva from Mrs. Poyntz’s; 5.—Merlin’s secretary, from Mr. Kemp’s, one of his royal highness the duke’s grenadiers; and 6.—a witch, from a tradesman’s wife at Richmond. Her majesty ordered also a choice collection of English books to be placed therein; and appointed Mr. Stephen Duck to be cave and library keeper, and his wife to an office of trust andemployment.[300]
Stephen Duck was a versifying thrasher, whom she got appointed a yeoman of the guard, and afterwards obtained orders for, and the living of Byfleet, in Surrey. The poor fellow sought happiness at the wrong end, and drowned himself in 1756.
Contentment, rosy, dimpled maid,Thou brightest daughter of the sky,Why dost thou to the hut repair,And from the gilded palace fly?I’ve trac’d thee on the peasant’s cheek;I’ve mark’d thee in the milkmaid’s smile;I’ve heard thee loudly laugh and speak,Amid the sons of want and toil.Yet, in the circles of the great,Where fortune’s gifts are all combined,I’ve sought thee early, sought thee late,And ne’er thy lovely form could find.Since then from wealth and pomp you flee,I ask but competence and thee!Lady Manners.
Contentment, rosy, dimpled maid,Thou brightest daughter of the sky,Why dost thou to the hut repair,And from the gilded palace fly?I’ve trac’d thee on the peasant’s cheek;I’ve mark’d thee in the milkmaid’s smile;I’ve heard thee loudly laugh and speak,Amid the sons of want and toil.Yet, in the circles of the great,Where fortune’s gifts are all combined,I’ve sought thee early, sought thee late,And ne’er thy lovely form could find.Since then from wealth and pomp you flee,I ask but competence and thee!
Contentment, rosy, dimpled maid,Thou brightest daughter of the sky,Why dost thou to the hut repair,And from the gilded palace fly?
I’ve trac’d thee on the peasant’s cheek;I’ve mark’d thee in the milkmaid’s smile;I’ve heard thee loudly laugh and speak,Amid the sons of want and toil.
Yet, in the circles of the great,Where fortune’s gifts are all combined,I’ve sought thee early, sought thee late,And ne’er thy lovely form could find.Since then from wealth and pomp you flee,I ask but competence and thee!
Lady Manners.
Mean Temperature 61·65.
[300]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[300]Gentleman’s Magazine.
This is the anniversary of the memorable conflict wherein Richard III. lost his life and crown.
King Richard’s Well.
King Richard’s Well.
For the Every-Day Book.
The well of which theaboveis a representation, is situate on the spot where the celebrated battle of Bosworth field was fought, by which, the long-existing animosities between the rival houses of York and Lancaster were finally closed. The king is said, during the heat of the engagement, to have refreshed himself with water from this spring. A few years ago a subscription was entered into, for the purpose of erecting some memorial of this circumstance, and the late learned Dr. Parr being applied to, furnished an inscription, of which the following is a copy.
AQVA . EX . HOC . PVTEO . HAVSTASITIM . SEDAVITRICARDVS . TERTIVS . REX . ANGLIAECVM . HENRICO . COMITE . DE . RICHMONDIAACERRIME . ATQVE . INFENSISSIMEPRAELIANSET . VITA . PARITER . AC . SCEPTROAVTE . NOCTEM . CARITVRVSXI KAL . SEPT . A. D. MCCCCLXXXV.
Translation.
Richard the III. King of England, most eagerly and hotly contending with Henry, Earl of Richmond, and about to lose before night both his sceptre and his life, quenched his thirst with water drawn from this well.—August 22, 1485.
The Roman month was divided into kalends, nones, and ides, all of which were reckonedbackwards. The kalends are the first day of the month.—Thus the first of September being the kalends of September, the thirty-first of August would bepridie kalendarum, or the second of the kalends ofSeptember; the thirtieth of August would then be the third of the kalends of September. Pursuing this train the twenty-second of August, and the XI of the kalends of September will be found to correspond.
The battle of Bosworth field was fought on the twenty-second of August, 1485, “on a large flat spacious ground,” says Burton, “three miles distant from this town.” Richmond, afterwards Henry VII., landed at Milford-haven on the sixth of August, and arrived at Tamworth on the eighteenth. On the nineteenth he had an interview with his father-in-law, lord Stanley, when measures were converted for their further operations. On the twentieth, he encamped at Atherstone, and on the twenty-first, both armies were in sight of each other the whole day. Richard entered Leicester with his army on the sixteenth, having the royal crown on his head; he slept at Elmesthorpe on the night of the seventeenth. On the eighteenth he arrived at Stapleton, where he continued till Sunday the twenty-first. The number of his forces exceeded sixteen thousand—those of Richmond did not amount to five thousand. On each side the leader addressed his troops with a splendid oration“which was scarcely finished” says an old historian, “but the one army espied the other. Lord! how hastily the soldiers buckled their helms! how quickly the archers bent their bows and brushed their feathers! how readily the billmen shook their bills and proved their staves, ready to approach and join when the terrible trumpet should sound the bloody blast to victory or death!” The first conflict of the archers being over, the armies met fiercely with sword and bills, and at this period Richmond was joined by lord Stanley, which determined the fortune of the day.
In this battle, which lasted little more than two hours, above one thousand persons were slain on the side of Richard. Of Richmond’s army, scarcely one hundred were killed, amongst whom, the principal person was sir William Brandon, his standard bearer. Richard is thought to have despised his enemy too much, and to have been too dilatory in his motions. He is universally allowed to have performed prodigies of valour, and is said to have fallen at last by treachery, in consequence of a blow from one of his followers. His body was thrown across a horse, and carried, for interment, to the Greyfriars at Leicester. He was the only English monarch, since the conquest, that fell in battle, and the second who fought in his crown. Henry V. appeared in his at Agincourt, which was the means of saving his life, (though, probably, it might provoke the attack,) by sustaining a stroke with a battle-axe, which cleft it. Richard’s falling off in the engagement, was taken up and secreted in a bush, where it was discovered by sir Reginald Bray and placed upon Henry’s head. Hence arises the device of a crown in a hawthorn bush, at each end of Henry’s tomb in Westminster-abbey.
In 1644, Bosworth field became again the scene of warfare; an engagement, or rather skirmish, taking place between the parliamentary and royal forces, in which the former were victorious without the loss of a single individual.
G. J.
The late Mr. William Hutton, the historian of Birmingham, wrote an account of “The Battle of Bosworth Field,” which Mr. Nichols published, and subsequently edited with considerable additions. Mr. Hutton apprehended that the famous well where Richard slaked his thirst would sink into oblivion. A letter from Dr. Parr to Mr. Nichols, dated Hatton, September 13, 1813, removes theseapprehensions:—
“As to Bosworth Field, six or seven years ago I explored it, and I found Dick’s Well, out of which the tradition is that Richard drank during the battle. It was in dirty, mossy ground, and seemed to me in danger of being destroyed by the cattle. I therefore bestirred myself to have it preserved, and to ascertain the owner. The bishop of Down spoke to the archbishop of Armagh, who said that the ground was not his. I then found it not to be Mrs. Pochin’s. Last year I traced it to a person to whom it had been bequeathed by Dr. Taylor, formerly rector of Bosworth. I went to the spot, accompanied by the rev. Mr. Lynes, of Kirkby-Malory. The grounds had been drained. We dug in two or three places without effect. I then applied to a neighbouring farmer, a good intelligent fellow. He told me his family had drawn water from it for six or seven years, and that he would conduct me to the very place. I desired him to describe the signs. He said there were some large stones, and some square wood, which went round the well at the top. We dug, and found things as he had described them; and, having ascertained the very spot, we rolled in the stones, and covered them with earth. Now lord Wentworth, and some other gentlemen, mean to fence the place with some strong stones, and to put a large stone over it with the following inscription; and you may tell the story if you please.
“Yours, &c.“S. Parr.”
Theinscriptionis given in the preceding notice of the battle of Bosworth by G. J., who likewise obligingly transmitted thedrawingof the well in its present state.
The editor is highly favoured by the interesting communication from a gentleman profoundly erudite in genealogical lore.
For the Every-Day Book.
The ravages inflicted by the all-subduing hand of time are not more distinctly traceable in the deserted hall of the dismantled castle, and the moulding fane of the dilapidated abbey, than in the downfall or extinction of ancient and distinguished races of nobility, who in ageslong past by have shook the senate and field, have scattered plenty o’er a smiling land, or, as alas! is too frequently the melancholy reverse, shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
Considerations of this nature have suggested a review of the few families remaining in our peerage, whose ancestors enjoyed that distinction.
“Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spentTheir antient rage on Bosworth’s purple field.”
“Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spentTheir antient rage on Bosworth’s purple field.”
“Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spentTheir antient rage on Bosworth’s purple field.”
The protracted duration and alternated reverses of the contest between the houses of Lancaster and York, added to the rancorous inveteracy indispensably inherent in a barbarous age, will account for the comparatively rare sprinkling of the immediate descendants of the followers and councillors of the Plantagenets in our present house of peers. In France, on the other hand, the contemporary struggle for the throne laid between an indisputed native prince, Charles VII. and a foreign competitor, our Henry VI. The courtesies of war (imperfect even as they existed in those days) were allowed fairer play, and those who escaped the immediate edge of the foeman’s sword were not handed over to the axe of the executioner.
The awful mortality which befell one eminent branch of our gallant Plantagenets at the period in question, is recorded in emphatic terms by their animated and faithful chronicler,Shakspeare:—
“Two of thy name, both dukes of Somerset,Have sold their lives unto the house of York,And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold.”
“Two of thy name, both dukes of Somerset,Have sold their lives unto the house of York,And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold.”
“Two of thy name, both dukes of Somerset,Have sold their lives unto the house of York,And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold.”
List of English Peerages now existing on the Roll, of which the Date of Creation is prior to the Accession of Henry VII.
List of Families now invested with the Dignity of Peerage, whose Ancestors in the Male Line, enjoyed the Peerage before the Accession of Henry VII.
Where a well-grounded doubt exists, an asterisk is prefixed to the name.
Mean Temperature 62·50.
August 23, 1305, sir William Wallace, “the peerless knight of Elleslie,” who bravely defended Scotland against Edward I. was executed by order of that monarch on Tower-hill. This distinguished individual is popular in England five hundred years after his death, through the well-known ballad
“Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,” &c.
“Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,” &c.
“Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,” &c.
Swallows are now preparing for their departure. On this day, in 1826, the editor observed hundreds of them collecting so high in the air that they seemed of the size of flies; they remained wheeling about and increasing in number upwardsof an hour before dusk, when they all took their flight in a south-western direction.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book
Sir,—The recent, and it is hoped still continued subscriptions in aid of suffering humanity, induce an observation, that to the very remote origin of collecting general alms, may be traced most of the mummeries practised in Christendom in the gothic centuries, and in the English counties, even till within our own memory. Among the Rhodians one method of soliciting eleemosynary gifts, called cheldonizing, or swallow-singing, is corroboratory of the assertion. This benevolence, or voluntary contribution, was instituted by Cleobulus of Lindos, at a time when public necessity drove the Lindians to the expedient of soliciting a general subscription. Theognis speaks of cheldonizing as taking place among the sacred rites practised at Rhodes in the month Boëdromion, or August, and deriving its name from the customarysong:—
The swallow, the swallow is here,With his back so black, and his belly so white;He brings on the pride of the year,With the gay months of love and the days of delight.Come, bring out the good humming stuff,Of your nice tit-bits let the swallow partake,Of good bread and cheese give enough,And a slice of your right Boëdromion cake.Our hunger, our hunger it twinges,So give my good masters, I pray;Or we’ll pull off your door from its hinges,And, ecod! we’ll steal young madam away.She’s a nice little pocket-piece darling,And faith ’twill be easy to carry her hence;Away with old prudence so snarling,And toss us down freely a handful of pence.Come, let us partake of your cheer,And loosen your purse strings so hearty;No crafty old grey beards are here,And see we’re a merry boy’s party,And the swallow, the swallow is here!
The swallow, the swallow is here,With his back so black, and his belly so white;He brings on the pride of the year,With the gay months of love and the days of delight.Come, bring out the good humming stuff,Of your nice tit-bits let the swallow partake,Of good bread and cheese give enough,And a slice of your right Boëdromion cake.Our hunger, our hunger it twinges,So give my good masters, I pray;Or we’ll pull off your door from its hinges,And, ecod! we’ll steal young madam away.She’s a nice little pocket-piece darling,And faith ’twill be easy to carry her hence;Away with old prudence so snarling,And toss us down freely a handful of pence.Come, let us partake of your cheer,And loosen your purse strings so hearty;No crafty old grey beards are here,And see we’re a merry boy’s party,And the swallow, the swallow is here!
The swallow, the swallow is here,With his back so black, and his belly so white;He brings on the pride of the year,With the gay months of love and the days of delight.
Come, bring out the good humming stuff,Of your nice tit-bits let the swallow partake,Of good bread and cheese give enough,And a slice of your right Boëdromion cake.
Our hunger, our hunger it twinges,So give my good masters, I pray;Or we’ll pull off your door from its hinges,And, ecod! we’ll steal young madam away.
She’s a nice little pocket-piece darling,And faith ’twill be easy to carry her hence;Away with old prudence so snarling,And toss us down freely a handful of pence.
Come, let us partake of your cheer,And loosen your purse strings so hearty;No crafty old grey beards are here,And see we’re a merry boy’s party,And the swallow, the swallow is here!
Plutarch refers to another Rhodian custom, which is particularly mentioned by Phœnix of Colophon, a writer of iambics, who describes the practice being that of certain men going about to collect donations for the crow, and singing orsaying—
My good, worthy masters, a pittance bestow,Some oatmeal, or barley, or wheat, for the crow;A loaf or a penny, or e’en what you will,As fortune your pockets may happen to fill.From the poor man a grain of his salt may suffice,For your crow swallows all, and is not very nice;And the man who can now give his grain and no more,May another day give from a plentiful store.Come, my lad, to the door, Plutus nods to our wish,And our sweet little mistress comes out with a dish;She gives us her figs, and she gives us a smile,Heaven bless her, and guard her from sorrow and guile;And send her a husband of noble degree,And a boy to be danc’d on his grand-daddy’s knee;And a girl like herself to rejoice her good mother,Who may one day present her with just such another.God bless your dear hearts all a thousand times o’er!Thus we carry our singing to door after door;Alternately chanting, we ramble along,And treat all who give, or give not, a song.
My good, worthy masters, a pittance bestow,Some oatmeal, or barley, or wheat, for the crow;A loaf or a penny, or e’en what you will,As fortune your pockets may happen to fill.From the poor man a grain of his salt may suffice,For your crow swallows all, and is not very nice;And the man who can now give his grain and no more,May another day give from a plentiful store.Come, my lad, to the door, Plutus nods to our wish,And our sweet little mistress comes out with a dish;She gives us her figs, and she gives us a smile,Heaven bless her, and guard her from sorrow and guile;And send her a husband of noble degree,And a boy to be danc’d on his grand-daddy’s knee;And a girl like herself to rejoice her good mother,Who may one day present her with just such another.God bless your dear hearts all a thousand times o’er!Thus we carry our singing to door after door;Alternately chanting, we ramble along,And treat all who give, or give not, a song.
My good, worthy masters, a pittance bestow,Some oatmeal, or barley, or wheat, for the crow;A loaf or a penny, or e’en what you will,As fortune your pockets may happen to fill.
From the poor man a grain of his salt may suffice,For your crow swallows all, and is not very nice;And the man who can now give his grain and no more,May another day give from a plentiful store.
Come, my lad, to the door, Plutus nods to our wish,And our sweet little mistress comes out with a dish;She gives us her figs, and she gives us a smile,Heaven bless her, and guard her from sorrow and guile;
And send her a husband of noble degree,And a boy to be danc’d on his grand-daddy’s knee;And a girl like herself to rejoice her good mother,Who may one day present her with just such another.
God bless your dear hearts all a thousand times o’er!Thus we carry our singing to door after door;Alternately chanting, we ramble along,And treat all who give, or give not, a song.
The song thusconcludes—