DECEMBER.

While I have a home, and can do as I will,December may rage over ocean and hill,And batter my door—as he does once a year—I laugh at his storming, and give him good cheer.Derry down, &c.I’ve a trencher and cup, and something to askA friend to sit down to—and then a good flask:The best of all methods, to make Winter smile,Is living as I do—in old English style.Derry down, &c.

While I have a home, and can do as I will,December may rage over ocean and hill,And batter my door—as he does once a year—I laugh at his storming, and give him good cheer.Derry down, &c.

I’ve a trencher and cup, and something to askA friend to sit down to—and then a good flask:The best of all methods, to make Winter smile,Is living as I do—in old English style.Derry down, &c.

Now—whoever regards a comfortable fire, in an old-fashioned cottage, as a pleasant sight, will be pleased by thissketch, as a cheerful illustration of the dreary season; nor may it be deemed too intrusive, perhaps, to mention, that the artist who drew and engraved it, is Mr.Samuel Williams.

In this, the last, month of the year “the beautiful Spring is almost forgotten in the anticipation of that which is to come. The bright Summer is no more thought of, than is the glow of the morning sunshine at night-fall. The rich Autumn only just lingers on the memory, as the last red rays of its evenings do when they have but just quitted the eye. And Winter is once more closing its cloud-canopy over all things, and breathing forth that sleep-compelling breath which is to wrap all in a temporary oblivion, no less essential to their healthful existence than is the active vitality which it for a while supersedes.” Yet among the general appearances of nature there are still many lively spots and cheering aspects. “The furze flings out its bright yellow flowers upon the otherwise bare common, like little gleams of sunshine; and the moles ply their mischievous night-work in the dry meadows; and the green plover ‘whistles o’er the lea;’ and the snipes haunt the marshy grounds; and the wagtails twinkle about near the spring-heads; and the larks get together in companies, and talk to each other, instead of singing to themselves; and the thrush occasionally puts forth a plaintive note, as if half afraid of the sound of his own voice; and the hedge-sparrow and titmouse try to sing; and the robin does sing still, even more delightfully than he has done during all the rest of the year, because it now seems as if he sang for us rather than for himself—or rather to us, for it is still for his supper that he sings, and therefore forhimself.”[519]

The “Poetical Calendar” offers a little poem with some lines descriptive of the month, which are pleasant to read within doors, while “rude Boreas” is blusteringwithout:—

December.Last of the months, severest of them all,Woe to the regions where thy terrors fall!For lo! the fiery horses of the sunThro’ the twelve signs their rapid course have run,Time, like a serpent, bites his forked tail,And Winter on a goat bestrides the gale;Rough blows the north wind near Arcturus’ star,And sweeps, unrein’d, across the polar bar,On the world’s confines where the sea bears prowl,And Greenland whales, like moving islands, roll:There, on a sledge, the rein-deer drives the swainTo meet his mistress on the frost-bound plain.Have mercy, Winter!—for we own thy power,Thy flooding deluge, and thy drenching shower;Yes—we acknowledge what thy prowess can,But oh! have pity on the toil of man!And, tho’ the floods thy adamantine chainSubmissive wear—yet spare the treasur’d grain:The peasants to thy mercy now resignThe infant seed—their hope, and future mine.Not always Phœbus bends his vengeful bow,Oft in mid winter placid breezes blow;Oft tinctur’d with the bluest transmarineThe fretted canopy of heaven is seen;Girded with argent lamps, the full-orb’d moonIn mild December emulates the noon;Tho’ short the respite, if the sapphire blueStain the bright lustre with an inky hue;Then a black wreck of clouds is seen to fly,In broken shatters, thro’ the frighted sky:But if fleet Eurus scour the vaulted plain,Then all the stars propitious shine again.

December.

Last of the months, severest of them all,Woe to the regions where thy terrors fall!For lo! the fiery horses of the sunThro’ the twelve signs their rapid course have run,Time, like a serpent, bites his forked tail,And Winter on a goat bestrides the gale;Rough blows the north wind near Arcturus’ star,And sweeps, unrein’d, across the polar bar,On the world’s confines where the sea bears prowl,And Greenland whales, like moving islands, roll:There, on a sledge, the rein-deer drives the swainTo meet his mistress on the frost-bound plain.Have mercy, Winter!—for we own thy power,Thy flooding deluge, and thy drenching shower;Yes—we acknowledge what thy prowess can,But oh! have pity on the toil of man!And, tho’ the floods thy adamantine chainSubmissive wear—yet spare the treasur’d grain:The peasants to thy mercy now resignThe infant seed—their hope, and future mine.Not always Phœbus bends his vengeful bow,Oft in mid winter placid breezes blow;Oft tinctur’d with the bluest transmarineThe fretted canopy of heaven is seen;Girded with argent lamps, the full-orb’d moonIn mild December emulates the noon;Tho’ short the respite, if the sapphire blueStain the bright lustre with an inky hue;Then a black wreck of clouds is seen to fly,In broken shatters, thro’ the frighted sky:But if fleet Eurus scour the vaulted plain,Then all the stars propitious shine again.

[519]Mirror of the Months.

Mr. Edward Bright, of Maldon, in the county of Essex, who died at twenty-nine years of age, was an eminent shopkeeper of that town, and supposed to be, at that time, the largest man living, or that had ever lived in this island. He weighed six hundred, one quarter, and twenty-one pounds; and stood about five feet nine inches high; his body was of an astonishing bulk, and his legs were as large as a middling man’s body. Though of so great a weight and bulk, he was surprisingly active.

After Bright’s death, a wager was proposed between Mr. Codd and Mr. Hants, of Maldon, that five men at the age of twenty-one, then resident there, could not be buttoned within his waistcoat without breaking a stitch or straining a button. On the 1st of December, 1750, the wager was decided at the house of the widow Day, the Black Bull in Maldon, when five men and two more were buttoned within the waistcoat of the great personage deceased. There is a half-sheet print, published at the time, representing thebuttoning up of the seven persons, with an inscription beneath, to the above effect.

Mean Temperature 41·10.

Winter may be now considered as having set in; and we have often violent winds about this time, which sweep off the few remaining leaves from the trees, and, with the exception of a few oaks and beeches, leave the woods and forests nothing but a naked assemblage of bare boughs. December, thus robbing the woods of their leafy honours, is alluded to by Horace, in his Epod.xi.:—

Hic tertius December, ex quo destitiInachiâ furere,Sylvis honorem decutit.

Picture to yourself, gentle reader, one of these blustering nights, when a tremendous gale from south-west, with rattling rain, threatens almost the demolition of every thing in its way: but add to the scene the inside of a snug and secure cottage in the country,—the day closed, the fire made up and blazing, the curtains drawn over a barricadoing of window-shutters which defy the penetration of Æolus and all his excarcerated host; the table set for tea, and the hissing urn or the kettle scarce heard among the fierce whistling, howling, and roaring, produced alternately or together, by almost every species of sound that wind can produce, in the chimneys and door crannies of the house. There is a feeling of comfort, and a sensibility to the blessings of a good roof over one’s head, and a warm and comfortable hearth, while all is tempest without, that produces a peculiar but real source of pleasure. A cheerful but quiet party adds, in no small degree, to this pleasure. Two or three intelligent friends sitting up over a good fire to a late hour, and interchanging their thoughts on a thousand subjects of mystery,—the stories of ghosts—and the tales of olden times,—may perhaps beguile the hours of such a stormy night like this, with more satisfaction than they could a midsummer evening under the shade of trees in a garden of roses and lilies. And then, when we retire to bed in a room with thick, woollen curtains closely drawn, and a fire in the room, how sweet a lullaby is the piping of the gale down the flues, and the peppering of the rain on the tiles and windows; while we are now and then rocked in the house as if in acradle![520]

For the Every-Day Book.DECEMBER MUSINGS.Sonnet Stanzas.Ανεμων πνεοντων την ηχω προσκυνει.PythagorasQuam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem—Aut, gelidas hybernus aquas cum fuderit auster,Securem somnos, imbre juvante, sequi!Tibullus.I love to hear the high winds pipe aloud,When ’gainst the leafy nations up in arms;Now screaming in their rage, now shouting, proud—Then moaning, as in pain at war’s alarms:Then softly sobbing to unquiet rest,Then wildly, harshly, breaking forth againAs if in scorn at having been represt,With marching sweep careering o’er the plainAnd, oh! I love to hear the gusty showerAgainst my humble casement, pattering fast,While shakes the portal of my quiet bower;For then I envy not the noble’s tower,Nor, while my cot thus braves the storm and blast,Wish I the tumult of the heavens past.Yet wherefore joy I in the loud uproarDoes still life cloy? has peace no charms for me?Pleases calm nook and ancient home no more,But do I long for wild variety?Ah! no;—the noise of elements at jar,That bids the slumbers of the worldling close,Lone nature’s child does not thy visions mar,It does but soothe thee to more sure repose!I sigh not for variety nor power,My cot, like castled hall, can brave the storm;Therefore I joy to list the sweepy shower,And piping winds, at home, secure and warm:While soft to heaven my orisons are sent,In grateful thanks for its best boon,Content!W. T.M.[521]

For the Every-Day Book.DECEMBER MUSINGS.Sonnet Stanzas.

Ανεμων πνεοντων την ηχω προσκυνει.

Pythagoras

Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem—Aut, gelidas hybernus aquas cum fuderit auster,Securem somnos, imbre juvante, sequi!

Tibullus.

I love to hear the high winds pipe aloud,When ’gainst the leafy nations up in arms;Now screaming in their rage, now shouting, proud—Then moaning, as in pain at war’s alarms:Then softly sobbing to unquiet rest,Then wildly, harshly, breaking forth againAs if in scorn at having been represt,With marching sweep careering o’er the plainAnd, oh! I love to hear the gusty showerAgainst my humble casement, pattering fast,While shakes the portal of my quiet bower;For then I envy not the noble’s tower,Nor, while my cot thus braves the storm and blast,Wish I the tumult of the heavens past.Yet wherefore joy I in the loud uproarDoes still life cloy? has peace no charms for me?Pleases calm nook and ancient home no more,But do I long for wild variety?Ah! no;—the noise of elements at jar,That bids the slumbers of the worldling close,Lone nature’s child does not thy visions mar,It does but soothe thee to more sure repose!I sigh not for variety nor power,My cot, like castled hall, can brave the storm;Therefore I joy to list the sweepy shower,And piping winds, at home, secure and warm:While soft to heaven my orisons are sent,In grateful thanks for its best boon,Content!

W. T.M.[521]

The gloominess of the weather, and its frequently fatal influence on the mind, suggest the expediency of inserting thefollowing:—

Dissuasions from Despondency.

These “Dissuasions” are ascribed to the pen of a popular and amiable poet.

Mean Temperature 40·17.

[520]Perennial Calendar, Dec. 2.[521]These stanzas are very little more than an amplification of the well known lines of Lucretius,Suave mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis,E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem.Cicero has expressed the same sentiment in his “De Natura;” see also lord Bacon and Rochefoucau amongst the moderns.W. T. M

[520]Perennial Calendar, Dec. 2.

[521]These stanzas are very little more than an amplification of the well known lines of Lucretius,

Suave mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis,E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem.

Cicero has expressed the same sentiment in his “De Natura;” see also lord Bacon and Rochefoucau amongst the moderns.

W. T. M

1826. Advent Sunday.

On the 3rd of December, 1729, died atParis, John Hardouin, a learned Jesuit, especially celebrated for his condemnation of the writings of almost all the Greek and Latin authors as forgeries in the middle ages. He supposed that all history, philosophy, science, and even divinity, before the middle of the XIVth century, had been forged in the abbies of Germany, France, and Italy, by a set of monks, who availed themselves of the taking of Constantinople by the French in 1203, its recovery by the Greeks 1261, and the expedition of St. Louis to the Holy Land, to make the world believe that the writings of the Greeks and Romans were then first discovered, and brought into the west: whereas they had been compiling them in their cells, and burying them in their libraries, for their successors to draw forth to light. Though he was ably refuted by Le Clerc and other distinguished writers, and recanted his opinions, in consequence of the superiors of his church proscribing his works, yet he repeated these absurd notions in subsequentpublications.[522]

Mean Temperature 40·62.

[522]Gentleman’s Magazine.

In December, 1808, was living William Brockbank, whose daily pedestrian achievements occasioned public notice of him to the following effect. He was the Walking Post from Manchester to Glossop, in Derbyshire, a distance of sixteen miles, which he performed every day, Sundays excepted; returned the same evening, and personally delivered the letters, newspapers, &c. in that populous and commercial country, to all near the road, which made his daily task not less than thirty-five miles, or upwards. What is more extraordinary, he

“This daily coarse of dutywalk’d”

in less than twelve hours a day, and never varied a quarter of an hour from his usual time of arriving at Glossop.

Brockbank was a native of Millom, in Cumberland, and had daily walked the distance between Whitehaven and Ulverstone, frequently under the necessity of wading the river at Muncaster, by which place he constantly went, which is at least three miles round. Including the different calls he had to make at a short distance from the road, his daily task was not less than forty-sevenmiles.[523]

Now is the time when, in some parts of England, a person of great note formerly, in every populous place, was accustomed to make frequent nocturnal rambles, and proclaim all tidings which it seemed fitting to him that people should be awakened out of their sleep to harken to. For the use of this personage, “the Bell-man,” there is a book, now almost obsolete as regards its use, with this title explanatory of its purpose,—“The Bell-man’s Treasury, containing above a Hundred several Verses fitted for all Humours and Fancies, and suited to all times and seasons.” London, 1707, 8vo. From the riches of this “treasury,” whence the predecessors of the present parish Bell-man took so much, a little may be extracted for the reader’s information. First then, if the noisy rogue were thereunto moved by a good and valuable consideration, we find, according to the aforesaid work, and the present season, that we ought to be informed, by sound of bell, and public proclamation,

Upon a Windy Night.Now ships are tost upon the angry main,And Boreas boasts his uncontrolled reign:The strongest winds their breath and vigour prove,And through the air th’ increasing murmurs shove.Think, you that sleep secure between the sheets,What skies yourBell-mantempts, what dangers meets.

Upon a Windy Night.

Now ships are tost upon the angry main,And Boreas boasts his uncontrolled reign:The strongest winds their breath and vigour prove,And through the air th’ increasing murmurs shove.Think, you that sleep secure between the sheets,What skies yourBell-mantempts, what dangers meets.

Then, again, according to the book of forms, he is instructed to agitate us with the following

Upon a Star-light Night.Were I a conjurer, such nights as theseI’d choose to calculate nativities;For every star to that degree prevails,One might e’en count, and then turn up their tails.This night willFlamstead, and theMoorfields’frySuch knowledge gain, they’ll seldom tell a lye.

Upon a Star-light Night.

Were I a conjurer, such nights as theseI’d choose to calculate nativities;For every star to that degree prevails,One might e’en count, and then turn up their tails.This night willFlamstead, and theMoorfields’frySuch knowledge gain, they’ll seldom tell a lye.

As an amplification of the common cry of watchmen, may be produced the ancient Bell-man’s.

Upon a Night of all Weathers.This night, so different is the changingweather,Boisterous or calm, I cannot tell you whether’Tis either fair or foul; but, altogether,Just as to cry a star-light night I study,Immediately the air grows dark and cloudy:In short, the temper of the skies, ifany,Isall, and nature makes amiscellany.

Upon a Night of all Weathers.

This night, so different is the changingweather,Boisterous or calm, I cannot tell you whether’Tis either fair or foul; but, altogether,Just as to cry a star-light night I study,Immediately the air grows dark and cloudy:In short, the temper of the skies, ifany,Isall, and nature makes amiscellany.

A few years ago, professor Gruithausen, of Munich, wrote an essay to show that there are many plain indications of inhabitants in the moon. In answer to certain questions, the “Munich Gazette” communicates some remarkable results, derived from a great number ofobservations—

1. In what latitude in the moon are there indications of vegetation?

2. How far are there indications of animated beings?

3. Where are the greatest and plainest traces of art on the surface of the moon?

With respect to the first question, it appears from the observations of Schroter and Gruithausen, that the vegetation on the moon’s surface extends to fifty-five south latitude, and sixty-five north latitude. Many hundred observations show, in the different colours and monthly changes, three kinds of phenomena which cannot possibly be explained, except by the process of vegetation.

To the second question it is answered, that the indications from which the existence of living beings is inferred, are found from fifty north latitude, to thirty-seven, and perhaps forty-seven, south latitude.

The answer to the third question, points out the places on the moon’s surface in which are appearances of artificial causes altering the surface. The author examines the appearances that induce him to infer that there are artificial roads in various directions; and he describes a colossal edifice, resembling our cities, on the most fertile part near the moon’s equator, standing accurately according to the four cardinal points. The main cities are in angles of forty-five degrees and ninety degrees. A building resembling what is called a star-redoubt, the professor presumes to be dedicated to religious purposes, and as they can see no stars in the daytime (their atmosphere being so pure) he thinks that they worship the stars, and consider the earth as a natural clock. His essay is accompanied by plates.

The sombre sadness of the evening shadesSteal slowly o’er the wild sequester’d glen,And seem to make its loneliness more lonely—In ages past, nature was here convuls’d,And, with a sudden and terrific crash,Asunder rent the adamantine hills—Now, as exhausted with the pond’rous work,She lies extended in a deathful trance—The mountains form her couch magnificent;Heaven’s glittering arch her canopy;The snows made paler by the rising moon,Her gorgeous winding sheet; and the dark rocksThat cast deep shadows on the expanse below,The sable ’scutcheon of the mighty dead—The roar of waters, and the north wind’s moanGive music meet for her funereal dirge.Yon giant crag, the offspring of her throes,Has rear’d his towering bulk a thousand years,Grown hoary in the war of elements,And still defies the thunder, and the stormBut in his summer pride, his stately formIs mantled o’er with purple, green, and gold,And his huge head is garlanded with flowers.

Yon giant crag, the offspring of her throes,Has rear’d his towering bulk a thousand years,Grown hoary in the war of elements,And still defies the thunder, and the stormBut in his summer pride, his stately formIs mantled o’er with purple, green, and gold,And his huge head is garlanded with flowers.

About this time, when gardens look in a dormant state, there are frequently Penny Lotteries in the north of England; and very often a whole garden is purchased for one penny. There are sometimes twenty tickets or more, as the case may be, all written on them “blank,” save “the prize.” These are put into a hat, and a boy stands on a form or chair holding the hat on his head, while those who have bought a ticket ascend the form alternately, “one by one,” and, shutting their eyes, take a ticket, which is opened by a boy who is at the bottom for that purpose. The tickets are only a penny each, and sometimes a garden (worth a few shillings) or whatever the sale may be, is bought for so trifling a sum.

W. H. H.

For the Every-Day Book.SONNET TO WINTER.Winter!though all thy hours are drear and chill,Yet hast thou one that welcome is to meAh! ’tis when daylight fades, and noise ’gins still,And we afar can faintly darknesssee;[524]When, as it seems too soon to shut out dayAnd thought, with the intrusive taper’s ray,We trim the fire, the half-read book resign,And in our easy chairs at ease recline,Gaze on the deepening sky, in thoughtful fitClinging to light, as loath to part with itThen, half asleep, life seems to us a dream,—And magic, all the antic shapes, that gleamUpon the walls, by the fire’s flickerings made;And, oft we start, surpris’d but not dismay’d.Ah! when life fades, and death’s dark hour draws near,May we as timely muse, and be as void of fear!W. T. M.

For the Every-Day Book.SONNET TO WINTER.

Winter!though all thy hours are drear and chill,Yet hast thou one that welcome is to meAh! ’tis when daylight fades, and noise ’gins still,And we afar can faintly darknesssee;[524]When, as it seems too soon to shut out dayAnd thought, with the intrusive taper’s ray,We trim the fire, the half-read book resign,And in our easy chairs at ease recline,Gaze on the deepening sky, in thoughtful fitClinging to light, as loath to part with itThen, half asleep, life seems to us a dream,—And magic, all the antic shapes, that gleamUpon the walls, by the fire’s flickerings made;And, oft we start, surpris’d but not dismay’d.Ah! when life fades, and death’s dark hour draws near,May we as timely muse, and be as void of fear!

W. T. M.

Mean Temperature 39·90.

[523]Sporting Magazine.[524]Darkness visible.—Milton.

[523]Sporting Magazine.

[524]Darkness visible.—Milton.

The versifier of ancient customs, Naogeorgus, relates through the English of his translator, Barnaby Googe, a curious practice on the vigil of thisfestival:—

Saint Nicholas money usde to give to maydens secretlie,Who, that he still may use his woonted liberalitie,The mothers all their children on the Eeve doe cause to fast,And when they every one at night in senselesse sleepe are cast,Both Apples, Nuttes, and Peares they bring, and other things beside,As caps, and shooes, and petticotes, which secretly they hide,And in the morning found, they say, that this saint Nicholas brought:Thus tender mindes to worship saints and wicked things are taught.

A festival or ceremony called Zopata, from a Spanish word signifying a shoe, prevails in Italy in the courts of certain princes on St. Nicholas’ day. Persons hide presents in the shoes and slippers of those they do honour to, in such manner as may surprise them on the morrow when they come to dress. This is said to be done in imitation of the practice of St. Nicholas, who used in the night time to throw purses in at the windows of poor maids, for their marriageportions.[525]

Mr. Brady says, that “St. Nicholas was likewise venerated as the protector of virgins; and that there are, or were until lately, numerous fantastical customs observed in Italy and various parts of France, in reference to that peculiar tutelary patronage. In several convents it was customary, on the eve of St. Nicholas, for theboarderto place each a silk stocking at the door of the apartment of the abbess, with a piece of paper enclosed, recommending themselves to ‘great St. Nicholas of her chamber:’ and the next day they were called together to witness the saint’s attention, who never failed to fill the stockings with sweetmeats, and other trifles of that kind, with which these credulous virgins made a generalfeast.”[526]

A correspondent remarks, that it is now customary for boys to take their pigs by the hedgeways in the country to feed upon the ‘haws,’ which in the west are calledpegalls, orpigalls. The boys go foremost with long poles, and beat the hedges, while the swine, after hearing where they fall, work most industriously for their provender till dusk, when they are driven home till daylight.

Mean Temperature 40·70.

[525]Brand.[526]Brady’s Clavis Calendaria.

[525]Brand.

[526]Brady’s Clavis Calendaria.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—In your fiftieth number, p. 1566, under the head

“St. Nicholas in Russia,”

you give a very correct account of the festivities which usually enliven the 5th December inHolland, but not a word ofRussia. It appears you have mistaken the situation of Leeuwarden, which is not a Russian, but a Dutch town. Friesland was one of the Seven United Provinces. Perhaps you may think it worth while to correct this error.

N. N.

December 18, 1825.

“At the Est ende of the Chirche of Bethlem ys a cave in the grounde wher sumtyme stod a Chirche of Seynt Nicholas. In the same cave entred ower blyssid lady with hyr Sone, and hyd hyr for ffer of Kyng Herrod. The gronde ys good for Norces that lake mylk for therChildern.”[527]

On the 6th of December 1826The Timesnewspaper contained the subjoinedarticle:—

M. BOCHSA.

The following is an extract from theFrench Moniteurof Thursday, February 19,1818:—

COURT of ASSIZE at PARIS.Sitting of Feb. 17.Case of the composer Bochsa.

The Court condemned, in contumacy, Nicholas Bochsa, composer of music and harp-player, whose disappearance about a year ago, it will be recollected, made so scandalous a noise. He wasaccused—

1. Of having, on the 26th of last September, committed the crime of private forgery, by counterfeiting, or causing to be counterfeited, a bond for four thousand francs, and by signing it with the forged signatures, Berton, Mehul, Nicolo, and Boyeldieu.

2. Of having, on the 13th of October, 1816, committed a private forgery, by counterfeiting a resolution and receipt of the committee of the shareholders of the theatre Feydeau, and by signing them with the forged signature Rezicourt.

3. Of having, on the 20th of January, 1817, committed a private forgery, by counterfeiting a resolution of the shareholders of the theatre Feydeau, with the same forged signature.

4. Of having, on the 1st of March, 1817, committed a commercial forgery, by fabricating a bill of exchange for 16,500 francs, and signing it with the forged signatures, Despermont, Perregaux, Lafitte and Company, and Berton.

5. Of having, on the 9th of March, 1817, committed a private forgery, by counterfeiting an invoice of musical instruments, and a bond for 14,000 francs, and signing them with the forged signature of Pozzo di Borgo.

6. Of having, on the 11th of March, 1817, committed the crime of private forgery, by fabricating three bonds for different sums, and signing them with the forged signatures, Count Chabrol, and Finquerlin.

7. Of having, on the 11th of March, 1817, committed a private forgery, by fabricating two bonds, one for 10,000 francs, the other for 5,000 francs, upon the funds of the English legation, and by signing them with the forged signatures, Stuart, Amaury, and Wells.

8. Of having knowingly made use of all these forged documents.

Besides these forgeries, Bochsa appears to have fabricated many others, particularly bonds bearing the forged signatures of M. le Comte De Cazes, and of Lord Wellington.

The Court pronounced him guilty of all these private and commercial forgeries, and condemned him to twelve years of forced labour, to be branded with the letters T. F., to be fined 4,000 francs, &c.

Mean Temperature 41·10.

In addition to the particulars respecting the institution of a child to “the office and work of a bishop,” in the Romish church, on St. Nicholas’s day, the following is extracted from the English annals.—“The Boy bishop, or St. Nicholas, was commonly one of the choristers, and therefore in the old offices was calledEpiscopus Choristarum, Bishop of the Choristers, and was chosen by the rest to this honour. But afterward there were many St. Nicholases: and every parish, almost, had its St. Nicholas. And from this St. Nicolas’s day to Innocents’ day at night, this boy bore the name of a bishop, and the state and habit too, wearing the mitre and the pastoral staff, and the rest of the pontifical attire; nay, and reading the holy offices. While he went his procession, he was much feasted and treated by the people, as it seems, much valuing his blessing; which made the people so fond of keeping thisholyday.”[528]

It appears from the register of the capitulary acts of York cathedral, that the Boy Bishop there was to be handsome and elegantlyshaped.[529]

Henry Jenkins—Older than Old Parr.

He lived longer than men who were stronger,And was too old to live any longer.

On the 6th of December, 1670, died Henry Jenkins, aged one hundred and sixty-nine years.

Jenkins was born at Bolton-upon-Swale in 1500, and followed the employment of fishing for one hundred and forty years. When about eleven or twelve years old, he was sent to Northallerton, with a horse-load of arrows for the battle of Flodden-field, with which a bigger boy (all the men being employed at harvest) went forward to the army under the earl of Surrey; king Henry VIII. being at Tournay. When he was more than a hundred years old, he used to swim across the river with the greatest ease, and without catching cold. Being summoned to a tithe cause at York, in 1667, between the vicar of Catterick and William and Peter Mawbank, he deposed, that the tithes ofwool, lamb, &c. were the vicar’s, and had been paid, to his knowledge, one hundred and twenty years and more. And in another cause, between Mr. Hawes and Mr. Wastel of Ellerton, he gave evidence to one hundred and twenty years. Being born before parish registers were kept, which did not come into use till the thirtieth of Henry VIII., one of the judges asked him what memorable battle or event had happened in his memory; to which he answered, “that when the battle of Flodden-field was fought, where the Scots were beat, with the death of their king, he was turned of twelve years of age.” Being asked how he lived, he said, “by thatching and salmon fishing;” that when he was served with a subpœna, he was thatching a house, and would dub a hook with any man in Yorkshire; that he had been butler to lord Conyers, of Hornby-castle, and that Marmaduke Brodelay, lord abbot of Fountains, did frequently visit his lord, and drink a hearty glass with him; that his lord often sent him to inquire how the abbot did, who always sent for him to his lodgings, and, after ceremonies, as he called it, passed, ordered him, besides wassel, a quarter of a yard of roast-beef for his dinner, (for that monasteries did deliver their guests meat by measure,) and a great black jack of strong drink. Being further asked, if he remembered the dissolution of religious houses, he said, “Very well; and that he was between thirty and forty years of age when the order came to dissolve those in Yorkshire; that great lamentation was made, and the country all in a tumult, when the monks were turned out.”

In the same parish with Jenkins, there were four or five persons reputed a century old, who all said he was an elderly man ever since they knew him. Jenkins had sworn in Chancery and other courts to above a hundred and forty years’ memory. In the king’s remembrancer’s office, in the exchequer, is a record of a deposition taken, 1665, at Kettering, in Yorkshire, in a cause “Clark and Smirkson,” wherein Henry Jenkins, of Ellerton-upon-Swale, labourer, aged 157 years, was produced and sworn as a witness. His diet was coarse and sour; towards the latter end of his days he begged up and down.

Born when the Roman catholic religion was established, Jenkins saw the supremacy of the pope overturned; the dissolution of monasteries, popery re-established, and at last the protestant religion securely fixed on a rock of adamant. In his time the invincible armada was destroyed; the republic of Holland was formed; three queens were beheaded, Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, and Mary queen of Scots; a king of Spain was seated upon the throne of England; a king of Scotland was crowned king of England at Westminster, and his son and successor was beheaded before his own palace; lastly, the great fire in London happened in 1666, at the latter end of his wonderfully long life.

Jenkins could neither read nor write. He died at Ellerton-upon-Swale, and was buried in Bolton church-yard, near Catterick and Richmond, in Yorkshire, where a small pillar was erected to his memory, and this epitaph, composed by Dr. Thomas Chapman, master of Magdalen-college, Cambridge, from 1746 to 1760, engraven upon a monument in Bolton church.

Inscription.Blush not,Marble!To rescue from oblivionThe Memory ofHENRY JENKINS;A person obscure in birth,But of a life truly memorable:For,He was enrichedWith the goods of NatureIf not of Fortune;And happyIn the duration,If not variety,Of his enjoyments:And, tho’ the partial worldDespised and disregardedHis low and humble state,The equal eye of ProvidenceBeheld and blessed it,With a patriarch’s health, and length ofdays:To teach mistaken man,These blessingsWere intail’d on temperance,A life of labour, and a mind at ease.He liv’d to the amazing age of169,Was interr’d hereDecember6th,1670;And had this justice done to his memory1743.[530]

There is a large half sheet portrait of Henry Jenkins, etched by Worlidge, (after an original painting by Walker,) from whence the presentengravingis copied, and there is a mezzotinto of him after the same etching.

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