JULY.

Our saxon fathers did full rightly callThis month of July “Hay-monath,” when allThe verdure of the full clothed fields we mow,And turn, and rake, and carry off; and soWe build it up, in large and solid mows.If it be good, as every body knows,To “make hay while the sun shines,” we should chooseRight “times for all things,” and no time abuse.*

In July we have full summer. The “Mirror of the Months” presents its various influences on the open face of nature. “The rye is yellow, and almost ripe for the sickle. The wheat and barley are of a dull green, from their swellingears being alone visible, as they bow before every breeze that blows over them. The oats are whitening apace, and quiver, each individual grain on its light stem, as they hang like rain-drops in the air. Looked on separately, and at a distance, these three now wear a somewhat dull and monotonous hue, when growing in great spaces; but these will be intersected, in all directions, by patches of the brilliant emerald which now begins to spring afresh on the late-mown meadows; by the golden yellow of the rye, in some cases cut, and standing in sheaves; by the rich dark green of the turnip-fields; and still more brilliantly by sweeps, here and there, of the bright yellow charlock, the scarlet corn-poppy, and the blue succory, which, like perverse beauties, scatter the stray gifts of their charms in proportion as the soil cannot afford to support the expenses attendant on them.”

On the high downs, “all the little molehills are purple with the flowers of the wild thyme, which exhales its rich aromatic odour as you press it with your feet; and among it the elegant blue heath-bell is nodding its half-dependent head from its almost invisible stem,—its perpetual motion, at the slightest breath of air, giving it the look of a living thing hovering on invisible wings just above the ground. Every here and there, too, we meet with little patches of dark green heaths, hung all over with their clusters of exquisitely wrought filigree flowers, endless in the variety of their forms, but all of the most curiously delicate fabric, and all, in their minute beauty, unparalleled by the proudest occupiers of the parterre. This is the singular family of plants that, when cultivated in pots, and trained to form heads on separate stems, give one the idea of the forest trees of a Lilliputian people.” Here, too, are the “innumerable little thread-like spikes that now rise from out the level turf, with scarcely perceptible seed-heads at top, and keep the otherwise dead flat perpetually alive, by bending and twinkling beneath the sun and breeze.”

In the green lanes “we shall find the ground beneath our feet, the hedges that enclose us on either side, and the dry banks and damp ditches beneath them, clothed in a beautiful variety of flowers that we have not yet had an opportunity of noticing. In the hedge-rows (which are now grown into impervious walls of many-coloured and many-shaped leaves, from the fine filigree-work of the white-thorn, to the large, coarse, round leaves of the hazel) we shall find the most remarkable of these, winding up intricately among the crowded branches, and shooting out their flowers here and there, among other leaves than their own, or hanging themselves into festoons and fringes on the outside, by unseen tendrils. Most conspicuous among the first of these is the great bind-weed, thrusting out its elegantly-formed snow-white flowers, but carefully concealing its leaves and stem in the thick of the shrubs which yield it support. Nearer to the ground, and more exposed, we shall meet with a handsome relative of the above, the common red and white wild convolvolus; while all along the face of the hedge, clinging to it lightly, the various coloured vetches, and the enchanter’s night-shade, hang their flowers into the open air; the first exquisitely fashioned, with wings like the pea, only smaller; and the other elaborate in its construction and even beautiful, with its rich purple petals turned back to expose a centre of deep yellow; but still, with all its beauty, not without a strange and sinister look, which at once points it out as a poison-flower. It is this which afterwards turns to those bunches of scarlet berries which hang so temptingly in autumn, just within the reach of little children, and which it requires all the eloquence of their grandmothers to prevent them from tasting. In the midst of these, and above them all, the woodbine now hangs out its flowers more profusely than ever, and rivals in sweetness all the other field scents of this month.

“On the bank from which the hedgerow rises, and onthisside of the now nearly dry water-channel beneath, fringing the border of the green path on which we are walking, a most rich variety of field-flowers will also now be found. We dare not stay to notice the half of them, because their beauties, though even more exquisite than those hitherto described, are of that unobtrusive nature that you must stoop to pick them up, and must come to an actual commune with them, before they can be even seen distinctly; which is more than our desultory and fugitive gaze will permit,—the plan of our walk only allowing us to pay the passing homage of a word to those objects thatwillnot be overlooked. Many of theexquisite little flowers, now alluded to generally, look, as they lie among their low leaves, only like minute morsels of many-coloured glass scattered upon the green ground—scarlet, and sapphire, and rose, and purple, and white, and azure, and golden. But pick them up, and bring them towards the eye, and you will find them pencilled with a thousand dainty devices, and elaborated into the most exquisite forms and fancies, fit to be strung into necklaces for fairy Titania, or set in broaches and bracelets for the neatest-handed of her nymphs.

“But there are many others that come into bloom this month, some of which we cannot pass unnoticed if we would. Conspicuous among them are the centaury, with its elegant cluster of small, pink, star-like flowers; the ladies’ bedstraw, with its rich yellow tufts; the meadow-sweet—sweetest of all the sweetners of the meadows; the wood betony, lifting up its handsome head of rose-coloured blossoms; and, still in full perfection, and towering up from among the low groundlings that usually surround it, the stately fox-glove.

“Among the other plants that now become conspicuous, the wild teasal must not be forgotten, if it be only on account of the use that one of the summer’s prettiest denizens sometimes makes of it. The wild teasal (which now puts on as much the appearance of a flower as its rugged nature will let it) is that species of thistle which shoots up a strong serrated stem, straight as an arrow, and beset on all sides by hard sharp-pointed thorns, and bearing on its summit a hollow egg-shaped head, also covered at all points with the same armour of threatening thorns—as hard, as thickly set, and as sharp as a porcupine’s quills. Often within this fortress, impregnable to birds, bees, and even to mischievous boys themselves, that beautiful moth which flutters about so gaily during the first weeks of summer, on snow-white wings spotted all over with black and yellow, takes up its final abode,—retiring thither when weary of its desultory wanderings, and after having prepared for the perpetuation of its ephemeral race, sleeping itself to death, to the rocking lullaby of the breeze.

“Now, too, if we pass near some gently lapsing water, we may chance to meet with the splendid flowers of the great water lily, floating on the surface of the stream like some fairy vessel at anchor, and making visible, as it ripples by it, the elsewhere imperceptible current. Nothing can be more elegant than each of the three different states under which this flower now appears; the first, while it lies unopened among its undulating leaves, like the halcyon’s egg within its floating nest; next, when its snowy petals are but half expanded, and you are almost tempted to wonder what beautiful bird it is that has just taken its flight from such a sweet birth-place; and lastly, when the whole flower floats confessed, and spreading wide upon the water its pointed petals, offers its whole heart to the enamoured sun. There is I know not what of awful in the beauty of this flower. It is, to all other flowers, what Mrs. Siddons is to all otherwomen.”[235]

[235]Mirror of the Months.

July 1, 1826.—Mr. Farren appeared in the part ofOld Cockletop, in O’Keefe’s farce ofModern Antiques, at the Haymarket theatre. This will be recollected as a crack character of Munden’s; and it was one which he had hit so happily, that it became almost impossible for any other actor to play it very successfully after him. There was a sort of elfin antic—a kind of immateriality about the crotchets of Munden inCockletop. His brain seemed to have no more substance in it than the web of a spider; and he looked dried up in body and mind, almost to a transparency; he might have stood in a window and not been in the way—you could see the light through him. Farren is the bitterest old rascal on the stage. He looks, and moves always, as if he had a blister (that wanted fresh dressing) behind each ear; but he does not touch the entirely withered, crazy-brained, semi-bedlamite old rogue, in the way that Munden did. Munden contrived to give all the weakness possible to extreme age inCockletop, without exciting an iota of compassion. All that there was of him was dry bones and wickedness. You could not help seeing that he would be particularly comical under the torture; and you could not feel the slightest compunction in ordering that he should undergo it. There never was any thing like his walking up and downDrury-lane stage in astonishment, and concluding he must be “at next door,” when he returns home from his journey, and finds all his servants in mourning! And the cloak that he wore too! And the appendage that he called his “stormcap!” He looked like a large ape’s skin stuffed with hay, ready to hang up in an apothecary’s shop! You ran over all the old fools that you knew, one after the other, to recollect somebody like him, but could not succeed! Farren playsForesightas well as Munden; and he playsCockletopvery successfully; but it is hardly possible for one eminent actor to follow another intriflingcharacters, where the first has made a hit rather by his own inventions than by any thing which the author has set down for him. Munden’s dancing in the ghost-scene with the servants, and his conclusion—striking an attitude, with the fingers of one hand open like a bunch of radish, as the fiddler, used to keep the audience in convulsions for two minutes. Farren avoided this trick, probably lest he should be charged with imitation; but acknowledged talent like his may use a latitude: he has originality enough to warrant his at least not avoiding the device which has been used by any actor, purely because it has been used by somebody else before him. Some passages that he gave were quite as good as Munden. In the scene where he fancies himself taken ill, the pit was in two minds to get up and cheer. He made a face like a bear troubled suddenly with symptoms of internal commotion! one who had eaten a bee-hive for the sake of the honey, and began to have inward misgivings that there must have been bees mixed up along with it. And Farren possesses the gift too—a most valuable one in playing to an English audience—of exhibiting the suffering without exciting the smallest sympathy! Whenever there is any thing the matter with him, you hope he’ll get worse with all your soul; and, if he were drowning—withthatface!—he must die:—you could not, if you were to die yourself, take one step, for laughing, to savehim.[236]

July.The sun comes on apace, and thro’ the signsTravels unwearied; as he hotter grows,Above, the herbage, and beneath, the mines,Own his warm influence, while his axle glows;The flaming lion meets him on the way,Proud to receive the flaming god of day.In fullest bloom the damask rose is seen,Carnations boast their variegated die,The fields of corn display a vivid green,And cherries with the crimson orient vie,The hop in blossom climbs the lofty pole,Nor dreads the lightning, tho’ the thunders roll.The wealth of Flora like the rainbow shows,Blending her various hues of light and shade,How many tints would emulate the rose,Or imitate the lily’s bright parade!The flowers of topaz and of sapphire vieWith all the richest tinctures of the sky.The vegetable world is all alive,Green grows the gooseberry on its bush of thorn,The infant bees now swarm around the hive,And the sweet bean perfumes the lap of morn,Millions of embryos take the wing to fly,The young inherit, and the old ones die.’Tis summer all—convey me to the bower,The bower of myrtle form’d by Myra’s skill,There let me waste away the noontide hour,Fann’d by the breezes from yon cooling rill,By Myra’s side reclin’d, the burning rayShall be as grateful as the cool of day.

July.

The sun comes on apace, and thro’ the signsTravels unwearied; as he hotter grows,Above, the herbage, and beneath, the mines,Own his warm influence, while his axle glows;The flaming lion meets him on the way,Proud to receive the flaming god of day.In fullest bloom the damask rose is seen,Carnations boast their variegated die,The fields of corn display a vivid green,And cherries with the crimson orient vie,The hop in blossom climbs the lofty pole,Nor dreads the lightning, tho’ the thunders roll.The wealth of Flora like the rainbow shows,Blending her various hues of light and shade,How many tints would emulate the rose,Or imitate the lily’s bright parade!The flowers of topaz and of sapphire vieWith all the richest tinctures of the sky.The vegetable world is all alive,Green grows the gooseberry on its bush of thorn,The infant bees now swarm around the hive,And the sweet bean perfumes the lap of morn,Millions of embryos take the wing to fly,The young inherit, and the old ones die.’Tis summer all—convey me to the bower,The bower of myrtle form’d by Myra’s skill,There let me waste away the noontide hour,Fann’d by the breezes from yon cooling rill,By Myra’s side reclin’d, the burning rayShall be as grateful as the cool of day.

In fullest bloom the damask rose is seen,Carnations boast their variegated die,The fields of corn display a vivid green,And cherries with the crimson orient vie,The hop in blossom climbs the lofty pole,Nor dreads the lightning, tho’ the thunders roll.

The wealth of Flora like the rainbow shows,Blending her various hues of light and shade,How many tints would emulate the rose,Or imitate the lily’s bright parade!The flowers of topaz and of sapphire vieWith all the richest tinctures of the sky.

The vegetable world is all alive,Green grows the gooseberry on its bush of thorn,The infant bees now swarm around the hive,And the sweet bean perfumes the lap of morn,Millions of embryos take the wing to fly,The young inherit, and the old ones die.

’Tis summer all—convey me to the bower,The bower of myrtle form’d by Myra’s skill,There let me waste away the noontide hour,Fann’d by the breezes from yon cooling rill,By Myra’s side reclin’d, the burning rayShall be as grateful as the cool of day.

Mean Temperature 61·07.

[236]The Times, July 3, 1826.

On the second of July, 1741, died at Dublin, Mr. Thomas Morecroft, “a baronet’s younger son, the person mentioned by the ‘Spectator’ in the character ofWill Wimble.”

This notice is from the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for 1741, as also is thefollowing:—

On the same day, in the same year, the earl of Halifax married Miss Dunck, with a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds. It appears that, “according to the will of Mr. Dunck, this lady was to marry none but an honest tradesman, who was to take the name of Dunck; for which reason his lordship took the freedom of the sadlers’ company, exercised the trade, and added the name to his own.”

(For the Every-Day Book.)

A SHORTE AND SWEETE SONNETTON THE SUBTILTIE OF LOVEBy Cornelius May.From “the Seven Starres of Witte.”You cannot barre love outeFather, mother and you alle,For marke mee he’s a crafty boy,And his limbes are very smalle;He’s lighter than the thistle downe,He’s fleeter than the dove,His voice is like the nightingale;And oh! beware of love!For love can masqueradeWhen the wisest doe not see;He has gone to many a blessed sainteLike a virgin devotee;He has stolen thro’ the convent grate,A painted butterfly,And I’ve seene in many a mantle’s foldHis twinkling roguish eye.He’ll come doe what you will;The Pope cannot keepe him oute;And of late he’s learnt such evill waiesYou must hold his oathe in doute:From the lawyers he has learnedLike Judas to betraye;From the monkes to live like martyred saintesYet cast their soules awaye.He has beene at courte soe longThat he weares the courtier’s smile;For every maid he has a lure,For every man a wile;Philosophers and alchymistesYour idle toile give o’er,Young love is wiser than ye alleAnd teaches ten times more.Strong barres and boltes are vaineTo keepe the urchin in,For while the goaler turned the keyeHe would trapp him in his gin.You neede not hope by maile of proofeTo shun his cruell darte,For he’ll change himselfe to a shirt of maileAnd lye nexte to your hearte.More scathfull than an evill eye,Than ghost or grammerie,Not seventy times seven holy priestesCould laye him in the sea.Then father mother cease to chideI’ll doe the best I maye,And when I see young love comingI’ll up and run awaye.

A SHORTE AND SWEETE SONNETTON THE SUBTILTIE OF LOVE

By Cornelius May.

From “the Seven Starres of Witte.”

You cannot barre love outeFather, mother and you alle,For marke mee he’s a crafty boy,And his limbes are very smalle;He’s lighter than the thistle downe,He’s fleeter than the dove,His voice is like the nightingale;And oh! beware of love!For love can masqueradeWhen the wisest doe not see;He has gone to many a blessed sainteLike a virgin devotee;He has stolen thro’ the convent grate,A painted butterfly,And I’ve seene in many a mantle’s foldHis twinkling roguish eye.He’ll come doe what you will;The Pope cannot keepe him oute;And of late he’s learnt such evill waiesYou must hold his oathe in doute:From the lawyers he has learnedLike Judas to betraye;From the monkes to live like martyred saintesYet cast their soules awaye.He has beene at courte soe longThat he weares the courtier’s smile;For every maid he has a lure,For every man a wile;Philosophers and alchymistesYour idle toile give o’er,Young love is wiser than ye alleAnd teaches ten times more.Strong barres and boltes are vaineTo keepe the urchin in,For while the goaler turned the keyeHe would trapp him in his gin.You neede not hope by maile of proofeTo shun his cruell darte,For he’ll change himselfe to a shirt of maileAnd lye nexte to your hearte.More scathfull than an evill eye,Than ghost or grammerie,Not seventy times seven holy priestesCould laye him in the sea.Then father mother cease to chideI’ll doe the best I maye,And when I see young love comingI’ll up and run awaye.

For love can masqueradeWhen the wisest doe not see;He has gone to many a blessed sainteLike a virgin devotee;He has stolen thro’ the convent grate,A painted butterfly,And I’ve seene in many a mantle’s foldHis twinkling roguish eye.

He’ll come doe what you will;The Pope cannot keepe him oute;And of late he’s learnt such evill waiesYou must hold his oathe in doute:From the lawyers he has learnedLike Judas to betraye;From the monkes to live like martyred saintesYet cast their soules awaye.

He has beene at courte soe longThat he weares the courtier’s smile;For every maid he has a lure,For every man a wile;Philosophers and alchymistesYour idle toile give o’er,Young love is wiser than ye alleAnd teaches ten times more.

Strong barres and boltes are vaineTo keepe the urchin in,For while the goaler turned the keyeHe would trapp him in his gin.You neede not hope by maile of proofeTo shun his cruell darte,For he’ll change himselfe to a shirt of maileAnd lye nexte to your hearte.

More scathfull than an evill eye,Than ghost or grammerie,Not seventy times seven holy priestesCould laye him in the sea.Then father mother cease to chideI’ll doe the best I maye,And when I see young love comingI’ll up and run awaye.

On the second day of July, 1744, is recorded the birth of a son to Mr. Arthur Bulkeley.

The child’s baptism is remarkable from these circumstances. The infant’s godfathers, by proxy, were Edward Downes, of Worth, in Cheshire, Esq. his great-great-great-great uncle; Dr. Ashton, master of Jesus-college, Cambridge, and his brother, Mr. Joseph Ashton, of Surrey-street, in the Strand, his great-great-great uncles. His godmothers by their proxies were, Mrs. Elizabeth Wood, of Barnsley, Yorkshire, his great-great-great-great aunt; Mrs. Jane Wainwright, of Middlewood-hall, Yorkshire, his great-great grandmother; and Mrs. Dorothy Green, of the same place, his great grandmother. It was observed of Mrs. Wainwright, who was then eighty-nine years of age, that she could properly say, “Rise, daughter, go to thy daughter; for thy daughter’s daughter has a son.”

Mrs. Wainwright was sister to Dr. Ashton and his brother mentioned above, whose father and mother were twice married, “first before a justice of peace by Cromwell’s law, and afterwards, as it was common, by a parson; they lived sixty-four years together, and during the first fifty years in one house, at Bradway, in Derbyshire, where, though they had twelve children and six servants in family, they never buriedone.”[237]

Mean Temperature 62·12.

[237]Gentleman’s Magazine.

Dog days begin.

On the third of July, 1751, William Dellicot was convicted at the quarter-sessions for Salisbury, of petty larceny, for stealing one penny; whereby his effects, consisting of bank-notes to the amount of 180l., and twenty guineas in money, were forfeited to the bishop, as lord of the manor; but his lordship humanely ordered 100l.of the money to be put to interest for the benefit of the wretch’s daughter; 20l.to be given to his aged father, and the remainder to be returned to the delinquenthimself.[238]

A correspondent’s muse records an accommodation, which may be extended to other resorts, with the certainty of producing much satisfaction in wearied pedestrians.

CONGRATULATORY VERSES TO THE NEW SEATS IN THE REGENT’S-PARK, 1826versusCHAIRS.I covet not the funeral chairTh’ Orlean maid was burnt in, whenEnthusiasts’ voices rent the airTo clasp their Joan of Arc again.I, learned Busby’s chair, chusenot,[239]Nor of a boat in stormy seas,Nor on a bridge—the stony lotOf travellers not afraid to freeze.I covet not the chair of state,Nor that St. Peter’s papal raceExalted for Pope Joan the great,But seek and find an easier place.To halls and abbeys knights repaired,And barons to their chairs retired;The goblet, glove, and shield, were reared,As war and love their cause inspired.Saint Edward’s chair the minster keeps,An antique chair the dutchessbears;[240]The invalid—he hardly sleeps,Though poled through Bath in easychairs.[241]The chairs St. James’s-park contains,The chairs at Kew and Kensington,Have rested weary hearts and brainsThat charmed the town, now still and gone.I covet not the chair of guiltMacbeth upbraided for its ghost;Nor Gay’s, on which much ink was spilt,When he wrote fables for his host.What of Dan Lambert’s?—Oberon’s chair?Bunyan’s at Bedford?—Johnson’s seat?Chaucer’s at Woodstock?—Bloomfield’s bare?Waxed, lasting, ended, andcomplete.[242]Though without back, and sides, and arms,Thou,Regent’s Seat! art doubly dear!Nature appears in youthful charmsFor all that muse and travel here.Canal, church, spire, and Primrose hill,With fowl and beast and chary sound,Invite the thought to peace, for stillThou, like a friend, art faithful found.A seat, then, patience seems to teach,Untired the weary limbs it bears;To all that can its comforts reach,It succours through the round of years.Whatever hand, or name, is writIn pencil on thy painted face;Let not one word of ribald witProduce a blush, or man disgrace.

CONGRATULATORY VERSES TO THE NEW SEATS IN THE REGENT’S-PARK, 1826versusCHAIRS.

I covet not the funeral chairTh’ Orlean maid was burnt in, whenEnthusiasts’ voices rent the airTo clasp their Joan of Arc again.I, learned Busby’s chair, chusenot,[239]Nor of a boat in stormy seas,Nor on a bridge—the stony lotOf travellers not afraid to freeze.I covet not the chair of state,Nor that St. Peter’s papal raceExalted for Pope Joan the great,But seek and find an easier place.To halls and abbeys knights repaired,And barons to their chairs retired;The goblet, glove, and shield, were reared,As war and love their cause inspired.Saint Edward’s chair the minster keeps,An antique chair the dutchessbears;[240]The invalid—he hardly sleeps,Though poled through Bath in easychairs.[241]The chairs St. James’s-park contains,The chairs at Kew and Kensington,Have rested weary hearts and brainsThat charmed the town, now still and gone.I covet not the chair of guiltMacbeth upbraided for its ghost;Nor Gay’s, on which much ink was spilt,When he wrote fables for his host.What of Dan Lambert’s?—Oberon’s chair?Bunyan’s at Bedford?—Johnson’s seat?Chaucer’s at Woodstock?—Bloomfield’s bare?Waxed, lasting, ended, andcomplete.[242]Though without back, and sides, and arms,Thou,Regent’s Seat! art doubly dear!Nature appears in youthful charmsFor all that muse and travel here.Canal, church, spire, and Primrose hill,With fowl and beast and chary sound,Invite the thought to peace, for stillThou, like a friend, art faithful found.A seat, then, patience seems to teach,Untired the weary limbs it bears;To all that can its comforts reach,It succours through the round of years.Whatever hand, or name, is writIn pencil on thy painted face;Let not one word of ribald witProduce a blush, or man disgrace.

I covet not the funeral chairTh’ Orlean maid was burnt in, whenEnthusiasts’ voices rent the airTo clasp their Joan of Arc again.

I, learned Busby’s chair, chusenot,[239]Nor of a boat in stormy seas,Nor on a bridge—the stony lotOf travellers not afraid to freeze.

I covet not the chair of state,Nor that St. Peter’s papal raceExalted for Pope Joan the great,But seek and find an easier place.

To halls and abbeys knights repaired,And barons to their chairs retired;The goblet, glove, and shield, were reared,As war and love their cause inspired.

Saint Edward’s chair the minster keeps,An antique chair the dutchessbears;[240]The invalid—he hardly sleeps,Though poled through Bath in easychairs.[241]

The chairs St. James’s-park contains,The chairs at Kew and Kensington,Have rested weary hearts and brainsThat charmed the town, now still and gone.

I covet not the chair of guiltMacbeth upbraided for its ghost;Nor Gay’s, on which much ink was spilt,When he wrote fables for his host.

What of Dan Lambert’s?—Oberon’s chair?Bunyan’s at Bedford?—Johnson’s seat?Chaucer’s at Woodstock?—Bloomfield’s bare?Waxed, lasting, ended, andcomplete.[242]

Though without back, and sides, and arms,Thou,Regent’s Seat! art doubly dear!Nature appears in youthful charmsFor all that muse and travel here.

Canal, church, spire, and Primrose hill,With fowl and beast and chary sound,Invite the thought to peace, for stillThou, like a friend, art faithful found.

A seat, then, patience seems to teach,Untired the weary limbs it bears;To all that can its comforts reach,It succours through the round of years.

Whatever hand, or name, is writIn pencil on thy painted face;Let not one word of ribald witProduce a blush, or man disgrace.

Talking of this—a word or two on “Sedes Busbeiana.”

The humorous representation of “Dr. Busby’s chair,” (onp. 34of this volume,) personifying the several parts of grammar, as well as some of a schoolmaster’smore seriousoccupation, said to have been from an original by sir Peter Lely, is ascertained by the editor to have been a merebagatelleperformance of a young man some five-and-twenty years ago. It was engraved and published for Messrs. Laurie and Whittle, in Fleet-street, took greatly with the public, and had “a considerable run.”

Mean Temperature 60·30.

[238]Gentleman’s Magazine.[239]VideEvery-Day Book,No. 54, vol. ii.[240]Sedan chairs were first introduced into England in 1634. The first was used by the duke of Buckingham, to the indignation of the people, who exclaimed,that he was employing his fellow creatures to do the service of beasts.[241]Query,—a pun on Charing-cross.Printer’s devil.[242]Bloomfield, poor fellow, declared to the writer, that one of his shop pleasures was that of the shoemaker’s country custom ofwaxinghis customers to the seat of St. Crispin, preparatory to the serving out the pennyworth of theoil of strap.

[238]Gentleman’s Magazine.

[239]VideEvery-Day Book,No. 54, vol. ii.

[240]Sedan chairs were first introduced into England in 1634. The first was used by the duke of Buckingham, to the indignation of the people, who exclaimed,that he was employing his fellow creatures to do the service of beasts.

[241]Query,—a pun on Charing-cross.Printer’s devil.

[242]Bloomfield, poor fellow, declared to the writer, that one of his shop pleasures was that of the shoemaker’s country custom ofwaxinghis customers to the seat of St. Crispin, preparatory to the serving out the pennyworth of theoil of strap.

This day is thus noticed as a festival in the church of England calendar and the almanacs, wherein he is honoured with another festival on the eleventh of November.

The word “translation” signifies, in reference to saints, as most readers already know, that their remains were removed from the graves wherein their bodies were deposited, to shrines or other places for devotional purposes.

“Give a dog an ill name and hang him”—give hackney-coachmen good characters and you’ll be laughed at: and yet there are civil coachmen in London, and honest ones too. Prejudice against this most useful class of persons is strong, and it is only fair to record an instance of integrity which, after all, is as general, perhaps, among hackneymen, as among those who ride in their coaches.

Honesty Rewarded.—A circumstance took place on Tuesday, (July 4, 1826,) which cannot be made too generally known among hackney-coachmen, and persons who use those vehicles.

A gentleman took a coach in St. Paul’s churchyard, about twenty minutes before twelve, and was set down in Westminster exactly at noon. Having transacted his business there, he was proceeding homeward a little before one, when he suddenly missed a bank note for three hundred pounds, which he had in his pocket on entering the coach. He had not observed either the number or date of the note, or the number of the coach. He therefore returned to the bankers in the city, and ascertained the number and date of the note, then proceeded to the bank of England, found that it had not been paid, and took measures to stop its payment, if presented. After some further inquiry, he applied about half-past three, at the hackney-coach office, in Essex-street, in the Strand, and there to his agreeable surprise, he found that the coachman had already brought the note to the commissioners, at whose suggestion the gentleman paid the coachman a reward of fifty pounds. Thename of the honest coachman should be known: it is John Newell, the owner and driver of the coach No. 314, and residing in Marylebone-lane.

It should also be known, that persons leaving property in hackney-coaches, may very generally recover it by applying without delay at the office in Essex-street. Since the act of parliament requiring hackney-coachmen to bring such articles to the office came into effect, which is not four years and a half ago, no less than one thousand and fifty-eight articles have been so brought, being of the aggregate value of forty-five thousand pounds, andupwards.[243]

Descend we from the coach, and, leaving the town, take a turn with a respected friend whither he would lead us.

(For the Every-Day Book.)

I love our real old English footpaths. I love those rustic and picturesque stiles, opening their pleasant escapes from frequented places, and dusty highways, into the solitudes of nature. It is delightful to catch a glimpse of one on the village green, under the old elder-tree by some ancient cottage, or half hidden by the overhanging boughs of a wood. I love to see the smooth dry track, winding away in easy curves, along some green slope, to the churchyard, to the embosomed cottage, or to the forest grange. It is to me an object of certain inspiration. It seems to invite one from noise and publicity, into the heart of solitude and of rural delights. It beckons the imagination on, through green and whispering corn fields, through the short but verdant pasture; the flowery mowing-grass; the odorous and sunny hayfield; the festivity of harvest; from lovely farm to farm; from village to village; by clear and mossy wells; by tinkling brooks, and deep wood-skirted streams; to crofts, where the daffodil is rejoicing in spring, or meadows, where the large, blue geraneum embellishes the summer wayside; to heaths, with their warm, elastic sward and crimson bells, the chithering of grasshoppers, the foxglove, and the old gnarled oak; in short, to all the solitary haunts, after which the city-pent lover of nature pants, as “the hart panteth after the water-brooks.” What is there so truly English? What is so linked with our rural tastes, our sweetest memories, and our sweetest poetry, as stiles and fieldpaths? Goldsmith, Thomson, and Milton have adorned them with some of their richest wreaths. They have consecrated them to poetry and love. It is along the footpath in secluded fields,—upon the stile in the embowered lane,—where the wild-rose and the honey-suckle are lavishing their beauty and their fragrance, that we delight to picture to ourselves rural lovers, breathing in the dewy sweetness of a summer evening vows still sweeter. It is there, that the poet seated, sends back his soul into the freshness of his youth, amongst attachments since withered by neglect, rendered painful by absence, or broken by death; amongst dreams and aspirations which, even now that they pronounce their own fallacy, are lovely. It is there that he gazes upon the gorgeous sunset,—the evening star following with silvery lamp the fading day, or the moon showering her pale lustre through the balmy night air, with a fancy that kindles and soars into the heavens before him,—there, that we have all felt the charm of woods and green fields, and solitary boughs waving in the golden sunshine, or darkening in the melancholy beauty of evening shadows. Who has not thought how beautiful was the sight of a village congregation pouring out from their old grey church on a summer day, and streaming off through the quiet meadows, in all directions, to their homes? Or who, that has visited Alpine scenery, has not beheld with a poetic feeling, the mountaineers come winding down out of their romantic seclusions on a sabbath morning, pacing the solitary heath-tracks, bounding with elastic step down the fern-clad dells, or along the course of a riotous stream, as cheerful, as picturesque, and yet as solemn as the scenes around them?

Again I say, I love fieldpaths, and stiles of all species,—ay, even the most inaccessible piece of rustic erection ever set up in defiance of age, laziness, and obesity. How many scenes of frolic and merry confusion have I seen at a clumsy stile! What exclamations, and charming blushes, and fine eventual vaulting on the part of the ladies, and what an opportunity does it afford to beaux of exhibiting a variety of gallant and delicate attentions. I consider a rude stile as any thing but an impediment in the course of a rural courtship.

Those good oldturn-stilestoo,—can I ever forget them? the hours I have spun round upon them, when a boy; or those in which I have almost laughed myself to death at the remembrance of my village pedagogue’s disaster! Methinks I see him now. The time a sultry day;—the domine a goodly person of some eighteen or twenty stone;—the scene a footpath sentinelled with turn-stiles, one of which held him fast, as in utter amazement at his bulk. Never shall I forget his efforts and agonies to extricate himself, nor his lion-like roars, which brought some labourers to his assistance, who, when they had recovered from their convulsions of laughter, knocked off the top, and let him go. It is long since I saw a turnstile, and I suspect the Falstaffs have cried them down. But, without a jest, stiles and fieldpaths are vanishing every where. There is nothing upon which the advance of wealth and population has made so serious an inroad. As land has increased in value, wastes and heaths have been parcelled out and enclosed, but seldom have footpaths been left. The poet and the naturalist, who before had, perhaps, the greatestrealproperty in them, have had no allotment. They have been totally driven out of the promised land. Nor is this all. Goldsmith complained, in his day,that—

“The man of wealth and prideTakes up a space that many poor supplied;Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds,Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;The robe, that wraps his limbs in silken sloth,Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;His seat, where solitary sports are seen,Indignant spurns the cottage from the green.”

And it is but too true that “the pressure of contiguous pride” has driven farther and farther, from that day to this, the public from the rich man’s lands. “They make a solitude and call it peace.” Even the quiet and picturesque footpath that led across his lawn, or stole along his wood-side, giving to the poor man, with his burden, a cooler and a nearer cut to the village, is become a nuisance. One would have thought that the rustic labourer with his scythe on his shoulder, or his bill-hook and hedging mittens in his hand, the cottage dame in her black bonnet and scarlet cloak, the bonny village maiden in the sweetness of health and simplicity, or the boy strolling along full of life and curiosity, might have had sufficient interest, in themselves, for a cultivated taste, passing occasionally at a distance across the park or lawn not only to be tolerated, but even to be welcomed as objects agreeably enlivening the stately solitude of the hall. But they have not. And what is more,theyare commonly the most jealous of pedestrian trespassers who seldom visit their own estates, but permit the seasons to scatter their charms around their villas and rural possessions without the heart to enjoy, or even the presence to behold them. How often have I myself been arrested in some long-frequented dale, in some spot endeared by its own beauties and the fascinations of memory, by a board, exhibiting, in giant characters,Stopped by an order of Sessions!and denouncing the terms of the law upon trespassers. This is a little too much. I would not be querulous for the poor against the rich. I would not teach them to look with an envious and covetous eye upon their villas, lawns, cattle, and equipage; but when the path of immemorial usage is closed, when the little streak, almost as fine as a mathematical line, along the wealthy man’s ample field, is grudgingly erased, it is impossible not to feel indignation at the pitiful monopoly. Is there no village champion to be found bold enough to put in his protest against these encroachments, to assert this public right—for a right it is, as authentic as that by which the land itself is held, and as clearly acknowledged by the laws? Is there no local “Hampden with dauntless breast” to “withstand the little tyrant of the fields,” and to save our good old fieldpaths? If not, we shall, in a few years, be doomed to the highways and the hedges: to look, like Dives, from a sultry region of turnpikes, into a pleasant one of verdure and foliage which we may not approach. Already the stranger, if he lose his way, is in jeopardy of falling into the horrid fangs of a steel-trap; the botanist enters a wood to gather a flower, and is shot with a spring-gun; death haunts our dells and copses, and the poet complains, in regretful notes, thathe—

“Wanders away to field and glenFar as he may for the gentlemen.”

I am not so much of a poet, and so little of a political economist, as to lament over the progress of population. It is true that I see, with apoeticalregret, green fields and beautiful fresh tracts swallowed up in cities; but my joy in the increase of human life and happiness far outbalances that imaginative pain. But it iswhen I seeunnecessary and arbitraryencroachments upon theruralprivileges of the public that I grieve. Exactly in the same proportion as our population and commercial habits gain upon us, do we need all possible opportunities to keep alive in us the spirit of nature.

“The world is too much with us, late and soonGetting and spending; we lay waste our powers,Little there is in nature that is ours.”Wordsworth.

“The world is too much with us, late and soonGetting and spending; we lay waste our powers,Little there is in nature that is ours.”

Wordsworth.

We give ourselves up to the artificial habits and objects of ambition, till we endanger the higher and better feelings and capacities of our being; and it is alone to the united influence of religion, literature, and nature, that we must look for the preservation of our moral nobility. Whenever, therefore, I behold one of our old fieldpaths closed, I regard it as another link in the chain which Mammon is winding around us,—another avenue cut off by which we might fly to the lofty sanctuary of nature for power to withstand him.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Lambeth, July 13, 1826.

My dear Sir,—To your late interestingnoticesof “Bells” and “Bell-ringing,” the following singular letter, which appears in a Suffolk paper, may be added. I happen to know something of this “jangling;” and when I resided in the town of Bury St. Edmund’s some years back, was compelled to listen to “the most hideous noise” of St. James’s lofty opponents. But “who shall decide when doctors disagree?”—Why, Mr. Editor,—wewill. It is a hardship, a cruelty, a usurpation, a “tale of woe.” Listen to St. James’s statement, and then let us raise our bells, and ring a “righte sounde and merie” peal, such as will almost “split the ears of thegroundlings.”—

“To the Editor of the Bury Post.

“Sir,—Since we have been repeatedly asked why St. James’s ringers lost the privilege of ringing in St. Mary’s steeple, as far as it lies in our power we will answer it. Ever since the year 1714, up to the period of 1813, the ringing in this town was conducted by one company only, who had the liberty of ringing at both steeples; and in St. Mary’s steeple there are recorded two peals rung by the Bury company, one of which was rung in 1779, and the other in 1799. In 1813, the bells of St. Mary’s wanting some repairs, the ringers applied to the churchwardens, and they having declined doing any thing to them, the ringers ceased from ringing altogether until the bells were repaired. At length an offer was made to the churchwardens to raise ayoungcompany, which offer was accepted by them, and the bells were partially repaired. In consequence of which a company was raised, and a part of it consisted of old men who were incapable of learning to ring; youth being the only time when such an art can be acquired. It was agreed that when this company could ring one course of eight (or 112 changes), that each one should receive one pound, which they have never asked for, well knowing they were never entitled to it; at the same time, it appears evident that the parish consented they should learn to ring. In 1817, only two years and a half after the company was raised, three bells were obliged to be rehung, at nearly twenty pounds’ expense. Taking an account of the annual repairs of the bells, and the repairs in 1814, the three years of sixteen-change ringers cost the parish nearly thirty pounds, which would have rehung the whole peal, being a deal more than what the old ringers would have caused them to be repaired for in 1814. We, the present company of St. James’s ringers, are well aware that St. Mary’s company had the offer to learn to ring in September, 1814, which we made no opposition to; and if St. Mary’s had learnt, we would have gladly taken them by the hand as brother ringers; but after twelve years’ arduous struggle in endeavouring to learn to ring, they are no forwarder than the first week they began. They could only then ring (no more than they can now) sixteen changes, and that very imperfectly, being but a very small part of the whole revolution of changes on eight bells, which consist of 40,320. We, St. James’s ringers, or ‘old ringers,’ as we have been commonly called, often get blamed for themost hideous noisemade in St. Mary’s steeple; and after the jangling of the bells, miscalled ringing, which they afforded the otherevening, we indulge in the hope that our future use of the steeple will be generally allowed.

“We are, Sir, most gratefully,“Your humble servants,“St. James’s Ringers.”

Ah! much respected “St. James’s company,” do “indulge the hope” of making St. Mary’s bells speak eloquently again. If my pen can avail, you shall soon pull “Old Tom’s” tail in that steeple; and all his sons, daughters, and kindred around him, shall lift up their voices in well-tuned chorus, and sing “hallelujahs” of returning joy. “Those evening bells, those evening bells,” which used to frighten all the dogs and old women in the parish, and which used to make me wish were suspended round the ringers’ necks, shall utter sweet music and respond delightedly to lovers’ vows and tales whispered in shady lanes and groves, in the vicinity of your beautiful town. You, worthy old bellmen, who have discoursed so rapidly on the marriages of my father, and uncle, and cousin, and friend, and acquaintance, who would have (for a guinea!) paid the same compliment to myself, (although I was wedded in a distant land, and like a hero of romance and true knight-errant, claimed my fair bride, without consulting “father or mother, sister or brother,”) and made yourselves as merryat my expense, as my pleasantest friends or bitterest enemies could have wished, had I hinted such a thing!

Oh! respectable churchwardens—discharge the “youngcompany,” who chant unfeelingly and unprofitably. Remember the “old ringers!”

Back to Index Next