FEBRUARY.When, in the zodiac, the Fish wheel round,They loose the floods, and irrigate the ground.Then, husbandmen resume their wonted toil,Yoke their strong steers, and plough the yielding soil:Then prudent gard’ners seize the happy time,To dig and trench, and prune for shoots to climb,Inspect their borders, mark the silent birthOf plants, successive, from the teeming earth,Watch the young nurslings with paternal care,And hope for “growing weather” all the year.Yet February’s suns uncertain shine,For rain and frost alternately combineTo stop the plough, with sudden wintry storms—And, often, fearful violence the month deforms.
FEBRUARY.
When, in the zodiac, the Fish wheel round,They loose the floods, and irrigate the ground.Then, husbandmen resume their wonted toil,Yoke their strong steers, and plough the yielding soil:Then prudent gard’ners seize the happy time,To dig and trench, and prune for shoots to climb,Inspect their borders, mark the silent birthOf plants, successive, from the teeming earth,Watch the young nurslings with paternal care,And hope for “growing weather” all the year.Yet February’s suns uncertain shine,For rain and frost alternately combineTo stop the plough, with sudden wintry storms—And, often, fearful violence the month deforms.
When, in the zodiac, the Fish wheel round,They loose the floods, and irrigate the ground.Then, husbandmen resume their wonted toil,Yoke their strong steers, and plough the yielding soil:Then prudent gard’ners seize the happy time,To dig and trench, and prune for shoots to climb,Inspect their borders, mark the silent birthOf plants, successive, from the teeming earth,Watch the young nurslings with paternal care,And hope for “growing weather” all the year.Yet February’s suns uncertain shine,For rain and frost alternately combineTo stop the plough, with sudden wintry storms—And, often, fearful violence the month deforms.
When, in the zodiac, the Fish wheel round,They loose the floods, and irrigate the ground.Then, husbandmen resume their wonted toil,Yoke their strong steers, and plough the yielding soil:Then prudent gard’ners seize the happy time,To dig and trench, and prune for shoots to climb,Inspect their borders, mark the silent birthOf plants, successive, from the teeming earth,Watch the young nurslings with paternal care,And hope for “growing weather” all the year.Yet February’s suns uncertain shine,For rain and frost alternately combineTo stop the plough, with sudden wintry storms—And, often, fearful violence the month deforms.
A good garden in a sunny day, at the commencement of this month, has many delightful appearances to a lover of nature, and issues promises of further gratification. It is, however, in ball-rooms and theatres that many of the sex, to whose innocence and beauty the lily is likened, resort for amusement, and see or wear the mimic forms of floral loveliness. Yet this approach to nature, though at an awful distance, is to be hailed as an impulse of her own powerful working in the very heart of fashion; and it has this advantage, that it supplies means of existence to industry, and urges ingenuity to further endeavour. Artificial wants are rapidly supplied by the necessity of providing for real ones; and the wealthy accept drafts upon conditions which indigence prescribes, till it becomes lifted above poverty to independence.
The manufacture of artificial flowers is not wholly unknown in England, but our neighbours, the French, eclipse us in the accuracy and variety of their imitations. Watering-places abound with these wonders of their work-people, and in the metropolis there are depôts, from whence dress-makers and milliners are supplied by wholesale.
The annexed literal copy of a French flower-maker’s card, circulated during the summer of 1822 among the London shopkeepers, is a whimsical specimen of self-sufficiency, and may save some learners of French from an overweening confidence in their acquisition of that language, which, were it displayed in Paris, would be as whimsical in that metropolis as this English is in ours.
M. MARLOTEAU et Cie.Manufacturers from Paris,37, MONTMORENCY-STREET,ToLondon14Broadstreet,Oxfordstreet.Acquaint the Trade in general, that they have just established inLondon.A Warhouse for FRENCH FLOWERS, for each Season, feathar from hat ladies of their own Manufacture elegant fans of the NEWEST TASTE.And of Manufactures ofParis, complette sets ornaments for balls, snuff boxes scale gold and silver, boxes toilette, ribbons and embroidered, hat et cap, from Ladies of the newest Taste, China, all sorts, etc.He commit generally the articles from Paris, Manufacturers.And send in all BRITISH CITY.Attandance from Nine o’Clock in the Morning till five in the Afternoon.
M. MARLOTEAU et Cie.Manufacturers from Paris,37, MONTMORENCY-STREET,ToLondon14Broadstreet,Oxfordstreet.Acquaint the Trade in general, that they have just established inLondon.A Warhouse for FRENCH FLOWERS, for each Season, feathar from hat ladies of their own Manufacture elegant fans of the NEWEST TASTE.And of Manufactures ofParis, complette sets ornaments for balls, snuff boxes scale gold and silver, boxes toilette, ribbons and embroidered, hat et cap, from Ladies of the newest Taste, China, all sorts, etc.He commit generally the articles from Paris, Manufacturers.And send in all BRITISH CITY.Attandance from Nine o’Clock in the Morning till five in the Afternoon.
M. MARLOTEAU et Cie.
Manufacturers from Paris,
37, MONTMORENCY-STREET,
ToLondon14Broadstreet,Oxfordstreet.
Acquaint the Trade in general, that they have just established inLondon.
A Warhouse for FRENCH FLOWERS, for each Season, feathar from hat ladies of their own Manufacture elegant fans of the NEWEST TASTE.
And of Manufactures ofParis, complette sets ornaments for balls, snuff boxes scale gold and silver, boxes toilette, ribbons and embroidered, hat et cap, from Ladies of the newest Taste, China, all sorts, etc.
He commit generally the articles from Paris, Manufacturers.
And send in all BRITISH CITY.
Attandance from Nine o’Clock in the Morning till five in the Afternoon.
advertisement
advertisement
Mean Temperature 39·70.
This day, the festival of “the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary,” is sometimes calledChrist’s Presentation, theHoliday of St. Simeon, andThe Wives’ Feast. An account of its origin and celebration is in vol. i. p. 199. A beautiful composition in honour of the Virgin is added as a grace to these columns.
Portuguese Hymn.TO THE VIRGIN MARY.By John Leyden.Star of the wide and pathless sea,Who lov’st on mariners to shine,These votive garments wet to thee,We hang within thy holy shrine.When o’er us flushed the surging brine,Amid the warring waters tost,We called no other name but thine,And hoped, when other hope was lost,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the vast and howling main,When dark and lone is all the sky,And mountain-waves o’er ocean’s plainErect their stormy heads on high;When virgins for their true loves sigh,And raise their weeping eyes to thee,The star of Ocean heeds their cry,And saves the foundering bark at sea.Ave Maris Stella!Star of the dark and stormy sea,When wrecking tempests round us rave,Thy gentle virgin form we seeBright rising o’er the hoary wave.The howling storms that seem to craveTheir victims, sink in music sweet,The surging seas recede to paveThe path beneath thy glistening feet,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the desert waters wild,Who pitying hears the seaman’s cry,The God of mercy, as a child,On that chaste bosom loves to lie;While soft the chorus of the skyTheir hymns of tender mercy sing,And angel voices name on highThe mother of the heavenly king,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the deep! at that blest nameThe waves sleep silent round the keel,The tempests wild their fury tameThat made the deep’s foundations reel:The soft celestial accents stealSo soothing through the realms of woe,**********Ave Maris Stella!Star of the mild and placid seas,Whom rainbow rays of mercy crown,Whose name thy faithful PortugueseO’er all that to the depths go down,With hymns of grateful transport own,When gathering clouds obscure their light,And heaven assumes an awful frown,The star of Ocean glitters bright,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the deep! when angel lyresTo hymn thy holy name essay,In vain a mortal harp aspiresTo mingle in the mighty lay!Mother of God! one living rayOf hope our grateful bosoms firesWhen storms and tempests pass away,To join the bright immortal quires.Ave Maris Stella!
Portuguese Hymn.TO THE VIRGIN MARY.By John Leyden.
Star of the wide and pathless sea,Who lov’st on mariners to shine,These votive garments wet to thee,We hang within thy holy shrine.When o’er us flushed the surging brine,Amid the warring waters tost,We called no other name but thine,And hoped, when other hope was lost,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the vast and howling main,When dark and lone is all the sky,And mountain-waves o’er ocean’s plainErect their stormy heads on high;When virgins for their true loves sigh,And raise their weeping eyes to thee,The star of Ocean heeds their cry,And saves the foundering bark at sea.Ave Maris Stella!Star of the dark and stormy sea,When wrecking tempests round us rave,Thy gentle virgin form we seeBright rising o’er the hoary wave.The howling storms that seem to craveTheir victims, sink in music sweet,The surging seas recede to paveThe path beneath thy glistening feet,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the desert waters wild,Who pitying hears the seaman’s cry,The God of mercy, as a child,On that chaste bosom loves to lie;While soft the chorus of the skyTheir hymns of tender mercy sing,And angel voices name on highThe mother of the heavenly king,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the deep! at that blest nameThe waves sleep silent round the keel,The tempests wild their fury tameThat made the deep’s foundations reel:The soft celestial accents stealSo soothing through the realms of woe,**********Ave Maris Stella!Star of the mild and placid seas,Whom rainbow rays of mercy crown,Whose name thy faithful PortugueseO’er all that to the depths go down,With hymns of grateful transport own,When gathering clouds obscure their light,And heaven assumes an awful frown,The star of Ocean glitters bright,Ave Maris Stella!Star of the deep! when angel lyresTo hymn thy holy name essay,In vain a mortal harp aspiresTo mingle in the mighty lay!Mother of God! one living rayOf hope our grateful bosoms firesWhen storms and tempests pass away,To join the bright immortal quires.Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the wide and pathless sea,Who lov’st on mariners to shine,These votive garments wet to thee,We hang within thy holy shrine.When o’er us flushed the surging brine,Amid the warring waters tost,We called no other name but thine,And hoped, when other hope was lost,Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the vast and howling main,When dark and lone is all the sky,And mountain-waves o’er ocean’s plainErect their stormy heads on high;When virgins for their true loves sigh,And raise their weeping eyes to thee,The star of Ocean heeds their cry,And saves the foundering bark at sea.Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the dark and stormy sea,When wrecking tempests round us rave,Thy gentle virgin form we seeBright rising o’er the hoary wave.The howling storms that seem to craveTheir victims, sink in music sweet,The surging seas recede to paveThe path beneath thy glistening feet,Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the desert waters wild,Who pitying hears the seaman’s cry,The God of mercy, as a child,On that chaste bosom loves to lie;While soft the chorus of the skyTheir hymns of tender mercy sing,And angel voices name on highThe mother of the heavenly king,Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the deep! at that blest nameThe waves sleep silent round the keel,The tempests wild their fury tameThat made the deep’s foundations reel:The soft celestial accents stealSo soothing through the realms of woe,
**********
Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the mild and placid seas,Whom rainbow rays of mercy crown,Whose name thy faithful PortugueseO’er all that to the depths go down,With hymns of grateful transport own,When gathering clouds obscure their light,And heaven assumes an awful frown,The star of Ocean glitters bright,Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the deep! when angel lyresTo hymn thy holy name essay,In vain a mortal harp aspiresTo mingle in the mighty lay!Mother of God! one living rayOf hope our grateful bosoms firesWhen storms and tempests pass away,To join the bright immortal quires.Ave Maris Stella!
On Candlemas-day, 1734, there was a grand entertainment for the judges, sergeants, &c. in the Temple-hall. The lord chancellor, the earl of Macclesfield, the bishop of Bangor, together with other distinguished persons, were present, and the prince of Wales attendedincog.At night the comedy of “Love for Love” was acted by the company of his Majesty’s revels from the Haymarket theatre, who received a present of 50l.from the societies of the Temple. The judges, according to an ancient custom, danced “round the coal fire,” singing an old Frenchsong.[51]
THE COAL AND THE DIAMONDA Fable for Cold Weather.A coal was hid beneath the grate,(’Tis often modest merit’s fate,)’Twas small, and so, perhaps, forgotten;Whilst in the room, and near in size,In a fine casket lined with cotton,In pomp and state, a diamond lies.“So, little gentleman in black,”The brilliant spark in anger cried,“I hear, in philosophic clack,Our families are close allied;But know, the splendour of my hue,Excell’d by nothing in existence,Should teach such little folks as youTo keep a more respectful distance.”At these reflections on his name,The coal soon redden’d to a flame;Of his own real use aware,He only answer’d with a sneer—“I scorn your taunts, good bishopBlaze,And envy not your charms divine;For know, I boast a double praise,As I canwarmas well as shine.”
THE COAL AND THE DIAMONDA Fable for Cold Weather.
A coal was hid beneath the grate,(’Tis often modest merit’s fate,)’Twas small, and so, perhaps, forgotten;Whilst in the room, and near in size,In a fine casket lined with cotton,In pomp and state, a diamond lies.“So, little gentleman in black,”The brilliant spark in anger cried,“I hear, in philosophic clack,Our families are close allied;But know, the splendour of my hue,Excell’d by nothing in existence,Should teach such little folks as youTo keep a more respectful distance.”At these reflections on his name,The coal soon redden’d to a flame;Of his own real use aware,He only answer’d with a sneer—“I scorn your taunts, good bishopBlaze,And envy not your charms divine;For know, I boast a double praise,As I canwarmas well as shine.”
A coal was hid beneath the grate,(’Tis often modest merit’s fate,)’Twas small, and so, perhaps, forgotten;Whilst in the room, and near in size,In a fine casket lined with cotton,In pomp and state, a diamond lies.“So, little gentleman in black,”The brilliant spark in anger cried,“I hear, in philosophic clack,Our families are close allied;But know, the splendour of my hue,Excell’d by nothing in existence,Should teach such little folks as youTo keep a more respectful distance.”
At these reflections on his name,The coal soon redden’d to a flame;Of his own real use aware,He only answer’d with a sneer—“I scorn your taunts, good bishopBlaze,And envy not your charms divine;For know, I boast a double praise,As I canwarmas well as shine.”
Elizabeth Woodcock.She was in prison, as you see,All in a cave of snow;And she could not relieved be,Though she was frozen so.Ah, well a-day!For she was all froze in with frost,Eight days and nights, poor soul!But when they gave her up for lost,They found her down the hole.Ah, well-a-day!MS. Ballad.
Elizabeth Woodcock.
She was in prison, as you see,All in a cave of snow;And she could not relieved be,Though she was frozen so.Ah, well a-day!For she was all froze in with frost,Eight days and nights, poor soul!But when they gave her up for lost,They found her down the hole.Ah, well-a-day!MS. Ballad.
She was in prison, as you see,All in a cave of snow;And she could not relieved be,Though she was frozen so.Ah, well a-day!For she was all froze in with frost,Eight days and nights, poor soul!But when they gave her up for lost,They found her down the hole.Ah, well-a-day!
She was in prison, as you see,All in a cave of snow;And she could not relieved be,Though she was frozen so.Ah, well a-day!
For she was all froze in with frost,Eight days and nights, poor soul!But when they gave her up for lost,They found her down the hole.Ah, well-a-day!
MS. Ballad.
On Saturday, the 2d of February, 1799, Elizabeth Woodcock, aged forty-two years, went on horseback from Impington to Cambridge; on her return, between six and seven o’clock in the evening, being about half a mile from her own home, her horse started at a sudden light, probably from a meteor, which, at this season of the year, frequently happens. She exclaimed, “Good God! what can this be?” It was a very inclement, stormy night; a bleak wind blew boisterously from the N. E.; the ground was covered by great quantities of snow that had fallen during the day. Many of the deepest ditches were filled up, whilst in the open fields there was but a thin covering; but in roads and lanes, and in narrow and enclosed parts, it had so accumulated as to retard the traveller. The horse ran backwards to the brink of a ditch, and fearing lest the animal should plunge into it, she dismounted, intending to lead the animal home; but he started again, and broke from her. She attempted to regain the bridle; but the horse turned suddenly out of the road, over a common field, and she followed him. Having lost one of her shoes in the snow, and wearied by the exertion she had made, and by a heavy basket on her arm, her pursuit of the horse was greatly impeded; she however persisted, and having overtaken him about a quarter of a mile from whence she alighted, she gained the bridle, and made another attempt to lead him home. But on retracing her steps to a thicket contiguous to the road, she became so much fatigued, and her left foot, which was without a shoe, was so much benumbed, that she was unable to proceed farther. Sitting down upon the ground in this state, and letting go the bridle, “Tinker,” she said, calling the horse by his name, “I am too much tired to go any farther; you must go home without me:” and exclaimed, “Lord have mercy upon me! what will become of me?” The ground on which she sat was upon a level with the common field, close under the thicket on the south-west. She well knew its situation, and its distance from her own house. There was then only a small quantity of snow drifted near her; but it accumulated so rapidly, that when Chesterton bell rang at eight o’clock, she was completely hemmed in by it. The depth of the snow in which she was enveloped was about six feet in a perpendicular direction, and over her head between two and three. She was incapable of any effectual attempt to extricate herself, and, in addition to her fatigue and cold, her clothes were stiffened by the frost; and therefore, resigning herself to the necessity of her situation, she sat awaiting the dawn of the following day. To the best of her recollection, she slept very little during the night. In the morning, observing before her a circular hole in the snow, about two feet in length, and half a foot in diameter, running obliquely upwards, she broke off a branch of a bush which was close to her, and with it thrust her handkerchief through the hole, and hung it, as a signal of distress, upon one of the uppermost twigs that remained uncovered. She bethought herself that the change of the moon was near, and having an almanac in her pocket, took it out, though with great difficulty, and found that there would be a new moon the next day, February the 4th. Her difficulty in getting the almanac from her pocket arose, in a great measure, from the stiffness of her frozen clothes; the trouble, however, was compensated by the consolation which the prospect of so near a change in her favour afforded. Here, however, she remained day after day, and night after night, perfectly distinguishing the alterations of day and night, hearing the bells of her own and the neighbouring villages, particularly that of Chesterton, which was about two miles distant from the spot, and rung in winter time at eight in the evening and four in the morning, Sundays excepted; she was sensible to the sound of carriages upon the road, the bleating of sheep and lambs, and the barking of dogs. One day she overheard a conversation between two gipsies, relative to an ass they had lost. She recollected having pulled out her snuff-box, and taken two pinches of snuff, but felt so little gratification from it, that she never repeated it. Possibly, the cold might have so far blunted her powers of sensation, that the snuff no longer retained its stimulus. Finding herleft hand beginning to swell, in consequence of her reclining on that arm, she took two rings, the tokens of her nuptial vows twice pledged, from her finger, and put them, together with a little money from her pocket, into a small box, judging that, should she not be found alive, the rings and money, being thus deposited, were less likely to be overlooked by the discoverers of her breathless corpse. She frequently shouted, in hopes that her vociferations might reach any that chanced to pass, but the snow prevented the transmission of her voice. The gipsies, who approached her nearer than any other persons, were not sensible of any sound, though she particularly endeavoured to attract their attention. A thaw took place on the Friday after the commencement of her misfortunes; she felt uncommonly faint and languid; her clothes were wetted quite through by the melted snow; the aperture before mentioned became considerably enlarged, and she attempted to make an effort to release herself; but her strength was too much impaired; her feet and legs were no longer obedient to her will, and her clothes were become much heavier by the water which they had imbibed. She now, for the first time, began to despair of being discovered alive; and declared, that, all things considered, she could not have survived twenty-four hours longer. This was the morning of her emancipation. The apartment or cave of snow formed around her was sufficiently large to afford her space to move herself about three or four inches in any direction, but not to stand upright, it being only about three feet and a half in height, and about two in the broadest part. Her sufferings had now increased; she sat with one of her hands spread over her face, and fetched very deep sighs; her breath was short and difficult, and symptoms of approaching dissolution became hourly more apparent. On that day, Sunday, the 10th of February, Joseph Muncey, a young farmer, in his way home from Cambridge, about half-past twelve o’clock, passed very near the spot where the woman was. Her handkerchief, hanging upon the twigs, where she had suspended it, caught his eye; he walked up to the place, and saw the opening in the snow, and heard a sound issue from it similar to that of a person breathing hard and with difficulty. He looked in, and saw the woman who had been so long missing. He did not speak to her, but, seeing another young farmer and a shepherd at a little distance, communicated to them the discovery he had made; upon which, though they scarcely credited his report, they went to the spot. The shepherd called out, “Are you there, Elizabeth Woodcock?” She replied, in a faint and feeble accent, “Dear John Stittle, I know your voice; for God’s sake, help me out of this place!” Stittle immediately made his way through the snow till he was able to reach her; she eagerly grasped his hand, and implored him not to leave her. “I have been here a long time,” she observed. “Yes,” answered the man, “ever since Saturday.”—“Ay, Saturday week,” she replied; “I have heard the bells go two Sundays for church.” Her husband was immediately acquainted with the discovery, and proper means were taken for conveying her home. Her husband and some neighbours brought a horse and chaise-cart, with blankets to wrap her in. The snow being somewhat cleared away, she asked for a piece of biscuit and a small quantity of brandy, from taking which she found herself greatly recruited. As a person took her up to put her into the chaise, the stocking of the left leg, adhering to the ground, came off, and she fainted. Nature was greatly exhausted, and the motion, added to the sight of her husband and neighbours, was too much for her strength and spirits. When she recovered, she was laid gently in the carriage, covered well over with the blankets, and conveyed without delay to her own house.
It appears that when the horse came home, her husband and another person set out on the road with a lantern, and went quite to Cambridge, where they only learnt that she left the inn at six that evening. They explored the road afresh that night, and for four succeeding days, and searched the huts of the gipsies, whom they suspected might have robbed and murdered her, till she was unexpectedly discovered in the manner already mentioned.
Mr. Okes, a surgeon, first saw her in the cart, as she was removing home. She spoke to him with a voice tolerably strong, but rather hoarse; her hands and arms were sodden, but not very cold though her legs and feet were. She was put to bed, and weak broth given her occasionally. From the time of her being lost she had eaten only snow, and believedshe had not slept till Friday the 8th. The hurry of spirits, occasioned by too many visitors, rendered her feverish; and her feet were found to be completely mortified. The cold had extended its violent effects from the end of the toes to the middle of the instep, including more than an inch above the heels, and all the bottom of the feet, insomuch, that she lost all her toes with the integuments from the bottom of one foot. Her life was saved, but the mutilated state in which she was left, without even a chance of ever being able to attend to the duties of her family, was almost worse than death itself. She lingered until the 13th of July, 1799, when she expired, after a lapse of five months from the period of her discovery.
Mean Temperature 40·37.
[51]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[51]Gentleman’s Magazine.
These two Romish festivals are still retained in the church of England calendar.
Of St. Blaise’s festival there is an account in vol. i. p. 207.
The necessity for instruction is powerfully exemplified by the following narrative. Some who reflect upon it, and discover that there are other and worse consequences to be apprehended from ignorance than those related below, will consult their own safety, by providing education for the children of labouring people, and influencing their attendance where they may gain the means of distinguishing right from wrong.
In February, 1808, at Great Paxton, in Huntingdonshire, Alice Brown, crossing the ice on the river Ouse, fell into the water, and narrowly escaped drowning, in the sight of her friend, Fanny Amey, a poor epileptic girl, who, in great terror, witnessed the accident. Alice arrived at her father’s house shivering with cold, and, probably from sympathetic affection, was herself seized with epilepsy. The fits returning frequently, she became emaciated, and incapable of labour. In April following, the rev. Isaac Nicholson, curate of the parish, inquiring after her health, was astonished by her brother informing him that her fits and debility were the effect of witchcraft. “She is under an evil tongue,” said the youth. “As sure as you are alive, sir,” continued a stander-by, “she is bewitched, and so are two other young girls that live near her.” The boor related, that at the town he came from in Bedfordshire, a man had been exactly in the same way; but, by acharm, he discovered the witch to be an old woman in the same parish, and that her reign would soon be over; which happened accordingly, for she died in a few days, and the man recovered. “Thomas Brown tried this charm last night for his daughter, but it did not succeed according to our wishes; so they have not at present found out who it is that does all the mischief.”
Mr. Nicholson was greatly shocked at the general opinion of the people that Alice Brown, Fanny Amey, and Mary Fox were certainly bewitched by some person who had bought a familiar or an evil spirit of the devil at the expense of the buyer’s soul, and that various charms had been tried to discover who the buyer was. It was utterly out of his power to remove or diminish the impressions of his parishioners as to the enchantment; and on the following Sunday, a few minutes before he went to church, Ann Izzard, a poor woman about sixty years old, little, but not ill-looking, the mother of eight children, five of whom were living, requested leave to speak to him. In tears and greatly agitated, she told him her neighbours pretended, that, by means of certain charms, they had discovered thatshewas the witch. She said they abused her children, and by their violent threats frightened her so much that she frequently dropped down to the ground in fainting-fits. She concluded by asserting her innocence in these words: “I am not a witch, and am willing to prove it by being weighed against the church bible.” After the sermon, he addressed his flock on the folly of their opinions, and fatal consequences of brooding over them. It appears, however, that his arguments, explanations, and remonstrances were in vain. On Thursday, the 5th of May, Ann Izzard was at St. Neot’s market, and her son, about sixteen years old, was sent there by his master for a load of corn: his mother and another woman, a shopkeeper in the parish, accompanied him home; but, contrary to the mother’s advice, the woman put a basket of grocery on the sacks of cornOne of the horses, in going down hill, became restive, and overturned the cart; and by this accident the grocery was much damaged. Because Ann Izzard had advised her neighbour against putting it in the cart, she charged her with upsetting it by the black art, on purpose to spoil the goods. In an hour, the whole village was in an uproar. “She has just overturned a loaded cart with as much ease as if it had been a spinning-wheel: this is positive proof; it speaks for itself; she is the person that does all the mischief; and if something is not done to put a stop to her baseness, there will be no living in the place.” As it grew dark, on the following Sunday, these brutal creatures assembled together, and at ten o’clock, taking with them the young women supposed to be bewitched, they proceeded to Wright Izzard’s cottage, which stood in a solitary spot at some distance from the body of the village; they broke into the poor man’s house, dragged his wife naked from her bed into the yard, dashed her head against the large stones of the causeway, tore her arms with pins, and beat her on the face, breast, and stomach with the wooden bar of the door. When the mob had dispersed, the abused and helpless woman crawled into her dwelling, put her clothes on, and went to the constable, who said he could not protect her for he had not been sworn in. One Alice Russell, a compassionate widow, unlocked her door to her at the first call, comforted her, bound up her wounds, and put her to bed.
In the evening of the next day she was again dragged forth and her arms torn till they streamed afresh with blood. Alive the following morning, and apparently likely to survive this attack also, her enemies resolved to duck her as soon as the labour of the day was over. On hearing this she fled to Little Paxton, and hastily took refuge in the house of Mr. Nicholson, who effectually secured her from the cruelty of his ignorant flock, and had the mortification to learn that his own neighbours condemned him for “harbouring such a wretch.”
The kindness and affection of the widow Russel were the means of shortening her days. The infatuated populace cried, “The protectors of a witch are just as bad as the witch, and deserve the same treatment.” She neither ate nor slept again from anxiety and fear; but died a martyr to her humanity in twelve days after her home became the asylum, for a few hours, of the unhappy Alice Izzard.
At the Huntingdon assizes in the August following, true bills of indictment were found by the grand jury against nine of these ignorant, infuriated wretches, for assaults on Wright Izzard and Ann Izzard, which were traversed to the followingassizes.[52]It does not appear how they were disposed of.
Captain Burt, an officer of engineers, who, about the year 1730, was sent into the north of Scotland on government service, relates the following particulars of an interview between himself and a minister, whom he met at the house of a nobleman.
After the minister had said a good deal concerning the wickedness of such a diabolical practice as sorcery; and that I, in my turn, had declared my opinion of it, which you knew many years ago; he undertook to convince me of the reality of it by an example, which is asfollows:—
A certain Highland laird had found himself at several times deprived of some part of his wine, and having as often examined his servants about it, and none of them confessing, but all denying it with asseverations, he was induced to conclude they were innocent.
The next thing to consider was, how this could happen. Rats there were none to father the theft. Those, you know, according to your philosophical next-door neighbour, might have drawn out the corks with their teeth, and then put in their tails, which, being long and spongeous, would imbibe a good quantity of liquor. This they might suck out again, and so on, till they had emptied as many bottles as were sufficient for their numbers and the strength of their heads. But to be more serious:—I say there was no suspicion of rats, and it was concluded it could be done by none but witches.
Here the new inquisition was set on foot, and who they were was the question; but how should that be discovered? To go the shortest way to work, the laird made choice of one night, and an hour when he thought it might be watering-time with the hags; and went to his cellarwithout a light, the better to surprise them. Then, with his naked broadsword in his hand, he suddenly opened the door, and shut it after him, and fell to cutting and slashing all round about him, till, at last, by an opposition to the edge of his sword, he concluded he had at least wounded one of them. But I should have told you, that although the place was very dark, yet he made no doubt, by the glare and flashes of their eyes, that they were cats; but, upon the appearance of a candle, they were all vanished, and only some blood left upon the floor. I cannot forbear to hint in this place at Don Quixote’s battle with theborachiosof wine.
There was an old woman, that lived about two miles from the laird’s habitation, reputed to be a witch: her he greatly suspected to be one of the confederacy, and immediately he hasted away to her hut; and, entering, he found her lying upon her bed, and bleeding excessively.
This alone was some confirmation of the justness of his suspicion; but casting his eye under the bed, there lay her leg in its natural form.
I must confess I was amazed at the conclusion of this narration; but ten times more, when, with the most serious air, he assured me that he had seen a certificate of the truth of it, signed by four ministers of that part of the country, and could procure me a sight of it in a few days, if I had the curiosity to see it.
When he had finished his story, I used all the arguments I was master of, to show him the absurdity of supposing that a woman could be transformed into the shape and diminutive substance of a cat; to vanish like a flash of fire; carry her leg home with her, &c.: and I told him, that if a certificate of the truth of it had been signed by every member of the general assembly, it would be impossible for me (however strong my inclinations were to believe) to bring my mind to assent to it.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,
As a small matter of use and curiosity, I beg to acquaint the readers of theEvery-Day Bookwith the means of determining the gradual increase of a plant.
Take a straight piece of wood, of a convenient height; the upright piece, marked A B in thefigure, may be divided into as many parts as you think fit; in the manner of a carpenter’s rule: lay across the top of this another piece of wood, marked G with a small wheel, or pulley, at each end thereof, marked C D; they should be so fixed that a fine thread of silk may easily run through each of them: at the end of this thread, E, tie a small weight, or poise, and tie the other end of the thread, F, to the tip-top of the plant, as represented in thefigure.
plant growth meter
To find the daily increase of this plant, observe to what degree the knot F rises every day, at a particular hour, or to what degree the ball E descends every day.
This little machine may serve several good purposes. By this you will be able to judge how much nourishment a plant receives in the course of each day, and a tolerably just notion may be formed of its quality; for moist plants grow quicker than dry ones, and the hot and moist quicker than the cold and dry.
I am, sir,Your constant reader,S. Thomas.
January24th, 1826.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,
Perhaps the following parody of Moore’s beautiful melody, “Those Evening Bells,” onp. 143, may be acceptable to your readers, at a time like the present, when a laugh helps out the spirits against matter-of-fact evils.
I do not think it necessary to avow myself as an “authority” for my littlecommunication; many of your readers will, no doubt, be able to furnishfeelingevidence of the truth of the lines. Hoping you, sir, may read them without participating in thelively sensibilitythat the author felt, I remain,
Your admiring reader,and regular customer,A small Bookseller!
City, Jan. 1826.
“These Christmas Bills!”A COMMERCIAL MELODY, 1826.These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills,How many a thought their number killsOf notes and cash, and that sweet timeWhen oft’ I heard my sovereigns chime.Those golden days are past away,And many a bill I used to paySticks on the file, and empty tillsContain no cash for Christmas bills.And so ’twill be—though these are paid,More Christmas bills will still be made,And other men will fear these ills,And curse the name of Christmas bills!
“These Christmas Bills!”
A COMMERCIAL MELODY, 1826.
These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills,How many a thought their number killsOf notes and cash, and that sweet timeWhen oft’ I heard my sovereigns chime.Those golden days are past away,And many a bill I used to paySticks on the file, and empty tillsContain no cash for Christmas bills.And so ’twill be—though these are paid,More Christmas bills will still be made,And other men will fear these ills,And curse the name of Christmas bills!
These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills,How many a thought their number killsOf notes and cash, and that sweet timeWhen oft’ I heard my sovereigns chime.
Those golden days are past away,And many a bill I used to paySticks on the file, and empty tillsContain no cash for Christmas bills.
And so ’twill be—though these are paid,More Christmas bills will still be made,And other men will fear these ills,And curse the name of Christmas bills!
The cheerfulness and readiness with which you have always served me, has made me interested in your welfare, and determined me to give you a few words of advice before we part. Read this attentively, and keep it; it may, perhaps, be useful.
Your honesty and principles are, I firmly trust, unshaken. Consider them as the greatest treasure a human being can possess. While this treasure is in your possession you can never be hurt, let what will happen. You will indeed often feel pain and grief, for no human being ever was without his share of them; but you can never be long and completely miserable but by your own fault.
If, therefore, you are ever tempted to do evil, check thefirstwickedthoughtthat rises in your mind, or else you are ruined. For you may look upon this as a most certain and infallible truth, that if evil thoughts are for a moment encouraged, evil deeds follow: and you need not be told, that whoever has lost his good conscience is miserable, however he may hide it from the world, and whatever wealth and pleasures he may enjoy.
And you may also rely upon this, that the most miserable among the virtuous is infinitely happier than the happiest of the wicked.
The consequence I wish you to draw from all this is, never to do any thing except what you certainly know to be right; for if you doubt about the lawfulness of any thing, it is a sign that it ought not to be done.
Mean Temperature 40·32.
[52]Sermon against Witchcraft, preached at Great Paxton, July 17, 1808, by the Rev. I. Nicholson, 8vo.
[52]Sermon against Witchcraft, preached at Great Paxton, July 17, 1808, by the Rev. I. Nicholson, 8vo.
On the 4th of February, 1800, the rev. William Tasker, remarkable for his learning and eccentricity, died, aged 60, at Iddesleigh, in Devonshire, of which church he was rector near thirty years, though he had not enjoyed the income of the living till within five years before his death, in consequence of merciless and severe persecutions and litigations. “An Ode to the Warlike Genius of Britain, 1778,” 4to., was the first effusion of his poetical talent. His translations of “Select Odes of Pindar and Horace” add to his reputation with the muses, whose smiles he courted by many miscellaneous efforts. He wrote “Arviragus,” a tragedy, and employed the last years of his checkered life on a “History of Physiognomy from Aristotle to Lavater,” wherein he illustrated the Greek philosopher’s knowledge of the subject in a manner similar to that which he pursued in “An Attempt to examine the several Wounds and Deaths of the Heroes in the Iliad and Æneid, trying them by the Test of Anatomy and Physiology.” These erudite dissertations contributed to his credit with the learned, but added nothing to his means of existence. He usually wore a ragged coat, the shirt peeping at the elbows, and shoes of a brownish black, sometimes tied with packthread. Having heard that his spirited “Ode to the Warlike Genius of Britain” had been read by the late king, George III., he presented himself, in his customary habit, on the esplanade at Weymouth, where it excited curiosity; and his majesty asking an attendant who that person was? Mr. Tasker approached, avowed his name, and obtained a gratifying reception. His productions evince critical skill, and a large portion of poetic furor. But he was afflictedand unsuccessful; frequently struggling with penury, and sometimes with oppression. His irritability subjected him to numerous mortifications, and inflicted on him many pangs unknown to minds of less feeling or less delicacy.
Mr. Nichols, in his “Literary Anecdotes,” gives a letter he received from Mr. Tasker, dated from Iddesleigh, in December, 1798, wherein he says, “I continue in very ill health, and confined in my dreary situation atStarvation Hall, forty miles below Exeter, out of the verge of literature, and where even your extensive magazine [‘The Gentleman’s’] has never yet reached.” The works he put forth from his solitude procured him no advancement in the church, and, in the agony of an excruciating complaint, he departed from a world insensible to his merits:—his widow essayed the publication of his works by subscription without effect. Such was the fate of an erudite and deserving parish priest, whose right estimation of honourable independence barred him from stooping to the meanness of flattery; he preserved his self-respect, and died without preferment, and in poverty.
If the Old Lady is a widow and lives alone, the manners of her condition and time of life are so much the more apparent. She generally dresses in plain silks that make a gentle rustling as she moves about the silence of her room; and she wears a nice cap with a lace border that comes under the chin. In a placket at her side is an old enamelled watch, unless it is locked up in a drawer of her toilet for fear of accidents. Her waist is rather tight and trim than otherwise, as she had a fine one when young; and she is not sorry if you see a pair of her stockings on a table, that you may be aware of the neatness of her leg and foot. Contented with these and other evident indications of a good shape, and letting her young friends understand that she can afford to obscure it a little, she wears pockets, and uses them well too. In the one is her handkerchief, and any heavier matter that is not likely to come out with it, such as the change of a sixpence;—in the other is a miscellaneous assortment, consisting of a pocket-book, a bunch of keys, a needle-case, a spectacle-case, crumbs of biscuit, a nutmeg and grater, a smelling-bottle, and according to the season, an orange or apple, which, after many days, she draws out, warm and glossy, to give to some little child that has well behaved itself. She generally occupies two rooms, in the neatest condition possible. In the chamber is a bed with a white coverlet, built up high and round to look well, and with curtains of a pastoral pattern, consisting alternately of large plants, and shepherds and shepherdesses. On the mantle-piece also are more shepherds and shepherdesses, with dot-eyed sheep at their feet, all in coloured ware, the man perhaps in a pink jacket and knots of ribbons at his knees and shoes, holding his crook lightly in one hand, and with the other at his breast turning his toes out and looking tenderly at the shepherdess:—the woman, holding a crook also, and modestly returning his look, with a gipsy-hat jerked up behind, a very slender waist, with petticoat and hips to counteract, and the petticoat pulled up through the pocket-holes in order to show the trimness of her ancles. But these patterns, of course, are various. The toilet is ancient, carved at the edges, and tied about with a snow-white drapery of muslin. Beside it are various boxes, mostly japan: and the set of drawers are exquisite things for a little girl to rummage, if ever little girl be so bold,—containing ribbons and laces of various kinds,—linen smelling of lavender, of the flowers of which there is always dust in the corners,—a heap of pocket-books for a series of years,—and pieces of dress long gone by, such as head-fronts, stomachers, and flowered satin shoes with enormous heels. The stock of letters are always under especial lock and key. So much for the bed-room. In the sitting-room, is rather a spare assortment of shining old mahogany furniture, or carved arm-chairs equally old, with chintz draperies down to the ground,—a folding or other screen with Chinese figures, their round, little-eyed, meek faces perking side-wise;—a stuffed bird perhaps in a glass case (a living one is too much for her;)—a portrait of her husband over the mantle-piece, in a coat with frog-buttons, and a delicate frilled hand lightly inserted in the waistcoat:—and opposite him, on the wall, is a piece of embroidered literature, framed and glazed, containing some moral distich or maxim worked in angular capital letters, with two trees or parrots below in their proper colours, the whole concludingwith an A B C and numerals, and the name of the fair industrious, expressing it to be “her work, Jan. 14, 1762.” The rest of the furniture consists of a looking-glass with carved edges, perhaps a settee, a hassock for the feet, a mat for the little dog, and a small set of shelves, in which are the Spectator and Guardian, the Turkish Spy, a Bible and Prayer-book, Young’s Night-Thoughts, with a piece of lace in it to flatten, Mrs. Rowe’s Devout Exercises of the Heart, Mrs. Glasse’s Cookery, and perhaps Sir Charles Grandison, and Clarissa. John Buncle is in the closet among the pickles and preserves. The clock is on the landing-place between the two room-doors, where it ticks audibly but quietly; and the landing-place, as well as the stairs, is carpeted to a nicety. The house is most in character, and properly coeval, if it is in a retired suburb, and strongly built, with wainscot rather than paper inside, and lockers in the windows. Before the windows also should be some quivering poplars. Here the Old Lady receives a few quiet visitors to tea and perhaps an early game at cards; or you may sometimes see her going out on the same kind of visit herself, with a light umbrella turning up into a stick and crooked ivory handle, and her little dog equally famous for his love to her and captious antipathy to strangers. Her grandchildren dislike him on holidays; and the boldest sometimes ventures to give him a sly kick under the table. When she returns at night, she appears, if the weather happens to be doubtful, in a calash; and her servant, in pattens, follows half behind and half at her side, with a lantern.
Her opinions are not many, nor new. She thinks the clergyman a nice man. The duke of Wellington, in her opinion, is a very great man; but she has a secret preference for the marquis of Granby. She thinks the young women of the present day too forward, and the men not respectful enough: but hopes her grand-children will be better; though she differs with her daughter in several points respecting their management. She sets little value on the new accomplishments: is a great though delicate connoisseur in butcher’s meat and all sorts of house-wifery: and if you mention waltzes, expatiates on the grace and fine breeding of the minuet. She longs to have seen one danced by sir Charles Grandison, whom she almost considers as a real person. She likes a walk of a summer’s evening, but avoids the new streets, canals, &c. and sometimes goes through the church-yard where her other children and her husband lie buried, serious, but not melancholy. She has had three great æras in her life,—her marriage,—her having been at court to see the king, queen, and royal family,—and a compliment on her figure she once received in passing from Mr. Wilkes, whom she describes as a sad loose man, but engaging. His plainness she thinks much exaggerated. If any thing takes her at a distance from home, it is still the court; but she seldom stirs even for that. The last time but one that she went was to see the duke of Wirtemberg: and she has lately been, most probably for the last time of all, to see the princess Charlotte and prince Leopold. From this beatific vision, she returned with the same admiration as ever for the fine comely appearance of the duke of York and the rest of the family, and great delight at having had a near view of the princess, whom she speaks of with smiling pomp and lifted mittens, clasping them as passionately as she can together, and calling her, in a sort of transport of mixed loyalty and self-love, a fine royal young creature, and daughter of England.—Indicator.
Sudden storms of short duration, the last blusters of expiring winter, frequently occur during the early part of the present month. These gales and gusts are mostly noticed by mariners, who expect them, and therefore keep a good “look out for squalls.” The observations of seamen upon the clouds, and of husbandmen on the natural appearances of the weather generally, would form an exceedingly curious and useful compendium of meteorological facts.
Dr. Franklin suggests the pouring of oil on the sea to still the waves in a storm, but, before he lived, Martin wrote an “Account of the Western Islands of Scotland,” wherein he says, “The steward ofKilda, who lives inPabbay, is accustomed in time of a storm to tie a bundle of puddings, made of the fat of sea-fowl, to the end of his cable, and lets it fall into the sea behind the rudder; this, he says, hinders the waves from breaking, and calms the sea; but the scent of the grease attracts the whales, which put the vessel in danger.”
Mean Temperature 38·34.