To the Gnat.For the Every-Day Book.Native of Ponds! I scarce could deemThee worthy of my praise,Wert thou not joyous in the beamOf summer’s closing days.But who can watch thy happy bandsDance o’er the golden wave,And be not drawn to fancy’s lands,—And not their pleasures crave?Small as thou art to vulgar sight,In beauty thou art born:—Thou waitest on my ears at night,Sounding thine insect horn.The sun returns—his glory spreadsIn heaven’s pure flood of light;Thou makest thine escape from beds,And risest with abite.Where’er thy lancet draws a vein,’Tis always sure to swell;A very molehill raised with painAs many a maid can tell.Yet, for thy brief epitomeOf love, life, tone and thrall;I’d rather have abumpfrom thee,ThanSpurz-heim, or fromGall.J. R. P.
To the Gnat.
For the Every-Day Book.
Native of Ponds! I scarce could deemThee worthy of my praise,Wert thou not joyous in the beamOf summer’s closing days.But who can watch thy happy bandsDance o’er the golden wave,And be not drawn to fancy’s lands,—And not their pleasures crave?Small as thou art to vulgar sight,In beauty thou art born:—Thou waitest on my ears at night,Sounding thine insect horn.The sun returns—his glory spreadsIn heaven’s pure flood of light;Thou makest thine escape from beds,And risest with abite.Where’er thy lancet draws a vein,’Tis always sure to swell;A very molehill raised with painAs many a maid can tell.Yet, for thy brief epitomeOf love, life, tone and thrall;I’d rather have abumpfrom thee,ThanSpurz-heim, or fromGall.
Native of Ponds! I scarce could deemThee worthy of my praise,Wert thou not joyous in the beamOf summer’s closing days.
But who can watch thy happy bandsDance o’er the golden wave,And be not drawn to fancy’s lands,—And not their pleasures crave?
Small as thou art to vulgar sight,In beauty thou art born:—Thou waitest on my ears at night,Sounding thine insect horn.
The sun returns—his glory spreadsIn heaven’s pure flood of light;Thou makest thine escape from beds,And risest with abite.
Where’er thy lancet draws a vein,’Tis always sure to swell;A very molehill raised with painAs many a maid can tell.
Yet, for thy brief epitomeOf love, life, tone and thrall;I’d rather have abumpfrom thee,ThanSpurz-heim, or fromGall.
J. R. P.
It is noted by Dr. Forster, that towards the end of July the fishery of pilchards begins in the west of England. Through August it continues with that of mullets, red surmallets, red gurnards, and several other fish which abound on our south-west coasts. In Cornwall, fish is so cheap and so commonly used as an article of food, that we remember so lately as August, 1804, the then rector of Boconnoc used to have turbot for supper, which he considered as a good foundation for a large bowl of posca, a sort of weak punch drank in that country. Having witnessed on this day in 1822, the grand Alpine view of the lake of Geneva, and the Swiss and Savoyard mountains behind it, from Mount Jura, we are reminded to present the reader with the following excellent lines which we have met with in “Fables, by Thomas Brown, the Younger,” London, 1823.
View of the Alps and the Lake ofGeneva from the Jura.’Twas late, the sun had almost shoneHis last and best, when I ran on,Anxious to reach that splendid viewBefore the daybeams quite withdrew;And feeling as all feel, on firstApproaching scenes, where they are toldSuch glories on their eyes shall burstAs youthful bards in dreams behold.’Twas distant yet, and as I ran,Full often was my wistful gazeTurned to the sun, who now beganTo call in all his outpost rays,And form a denser march of light,Such as beseems a hero’s flight.Oh! how I wished for Joshua’s powerTo slay the brightness of that hour!But no, the sun still less became,Diminished to a speck, as splendidAnd small as were those tongues of flameThat on the apostles’ heads descended.’Twas at this instant, while there glowedThis last intensest gleam of light,Suddenly through the opening roadThe valley burst upon my sight;That glorious valley with its lake,And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,Mighty and pure, and fit to makeThe ramparts of a godhead’s dwelling.I stood entranced and mute as theyOf Israel think the assembled worldWill stand upon the awful day,When the ark’s light, aloft unfurledAmong the opening clouds shall shine,Divinity’s own radiant sign!Mighty Mont Blanc, thou wert to meThat minute, with thy brow in heaven,As sure a sign of DeityAs e’er to mortal gaze was givenNor ever, were I destined yetTo live my life twice o’er again,Can I the deepfelt awe forget,The ecstacy that thrilled me then.’Twas all the unconsciousness of powerAnd life, beyond this mortal hour;Those mountings of the soul withinAt thoughts of heaven, as birds beginBy instinct in the cage to rise,When near their time for change of skies;That proud assurance of our claimTo rank among the sons of light,Mingled with shame! oh, bitter shame!At having risked that splendid right,For aught that earth, through all its rangeOf glories, offers in exchange!’Twas all this, at the instant brought,Like breaking sunshine o’er my thought;’Twas all this, kindled to a glowOf sacred zeal, which, could it shineThus purely ever, man might grow,Even upon earth, a thing divine,And be once more the creature madeTo walk unstained the Elysian shade.No, never shall I lose the traceOf what I’ve felt in this bright place:And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,Should I, oh God! e’er doubt thy power,This mighty scene again I’ll seek,At the same calm and glowing hour;And here, at the sublimest shrineThat nature ever reared to thee,Rekindle all that hope divine,And feel my immortality.
View of the Alps and the Lake ofGeneva from the Jura.
’Twas late, the sun had almost shoneHis last and best, when I ran on,Anxious to reach that splendid viewBefore the daybeams quite withdrew;And feeling as all feel, on firstApproaching scenes, where they are toldSuch glories on their eyes shall burstAs youthful bards in dreams behold.’Twas distant yet, and as I ran,Full often was my wistful gazeTurned to the sun, who now beganTo call in all his outpost rays,And form a denser march of light,Such as beseems a hero’s flight.Oh! how I wished for Joshua’s powerTo slay the brightness of that hour!But no, the sun still less became,Diminished to a speck, as splendidAnd small as were those tongues of flameThat on the apostles’ heads descended.’Twas at this instant, while there glowedThis last intensest gleam of light,Suddenly through the opening roadThe valley burst upon my sight;That glorious valley with its lake,And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,Mighty and pure, and fit to makeThe ramparts of a godhead’s dwelling.I stood entranced and mute as theyOf Israel think the assembled worldWill stand upon the awful day,When the ark’s light, aloft unfurledAmong the opening clouds shall shine,Divinity’s own radiant sign!Mighty Mont Blanc, thou wert to meThat minute, with thy brow in heaven,As sure a sign of DeityAs e’er to mortal gaze was givenNor ever, were I destined yetTo live my life twice o’er again,Can I the deepfelt awe forget,The ecstacy that thrilled me then.’Twas all the unconsciousness of powerAnd life, beyond this mortal hour;Those mountings of the soul withinAt thoughts of heaven, as birds beginBy instinct in the cage to rise,When near their time for change of skies;That proud assurance of our claimTo rank among the sons of light,Mingled with shame! oh, bitter shame!At having risked that splendid right,For aught that earth, through all its rangeOf glories, offers in exchange!’Twas all this, at the instant brought,Like breaking sunshine o’er my thought;’Twas all this, kindled to a glowOf sacred zeal, which, could it shineThus purely ever, man might grow,Even upon earth, a thing divine,And be once more the creature madeTo walk unstained the Elysian shade.No, never shall I lose the traceOf what I’ve felt in this bright place:And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,Should I, oh God! e’er doubt thy power,This mighty scene again I’ll seek,At the same calm and glowing hour;And here, at the sublimest shrineThat nature ever reared to thee,Rekindle all that hope divine,And feel my immortality.
’Twas late, the sun had almost shoneHis last and best, when I ran on,Anxious to reach that splendid viewBefore the daybeams quite withdrew;And feeling as all feel, on firstApproaching scenes, where they are toldSuch glories on their eyes shall burstAs youthful bards in dreams behold.
’Twas distant yet, and as I ran,Full often was my wistful gazeTurned to the sun, who now beganTo call in all his outpost rays,And form a denser march of light,Such as beseems a hero’s flight.
Oh! how I wished for Joshua’s powerTo slay the brightness of that hour!But no, the sun still less became,Diminished to a speck, as splendidAnd small as were those tongues of flameThat on the apostles’ heads descended.
’Twas at this instant, while there glowedThis last intensest gleam of light,Suddenly through the opening roadThe valley burst upon my sight;That glorious valley with its lake,And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,Mighty and pure, and fit to makeThe ramparts of a godhead’s dwelling.
I stood entranced and mute as theyOf Israel think the assembled worldWill stand upon the awful day,When the ark’s light, aloft unfurledAmong the opening clouds shall shine,Divinity’s own radiant sign!Mighty Mont Blanc, thou wert to meThat minute, with thy brow in heaven,As sure a sign of DeityAs e’er to mortal gaze was givenNor ever, were I destined yetTo live my life twice o’er again,Can I the deepfelt awe forget,The ecstacy that thrilled me then.
’Twas all the unconsciousness of powerAnd life, beyond this mortal hour;Those mountings of the soul withinAt thoughts of heaven, as birds beginBy instinct in the cage to rise,When near their time for change of skies;That proud assurance of our claimTo rank among the sons of light,Mingled with shame! oh, bitter shame!At having risked that splendid right,For aught that earth, through all its rangeOf glories, offers in exchange!
’Twas all this, at the instant brought,Like breaking sunshine o’er my thought;’Twas all this, kindled to a glowOf sacred zeal, which, could it shineThus purely ever, man might grow,Even upon earth, a thing divine,And be once more the creature madeTo walk unstained the Elysian shade.
No, never shall I lose the traceOf what I’ve felt in this bright place:And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,Should I, oh God! e’er doubt thy power,This mighty scene again I’ll seek,At the same calm and glowing hour;And here, at the sublimest shrineThat nature ever reared to thee,Rekindle all that hope divine,And feel my immortality.
Mean Temperature 63·80.
[275]Miss Plumptre’s Travels in France.[276]Phillips’s Account of Fruits.
[275]Miss Plumptre’s Travels in France.
[276]Phillips’s Account of Fruits.
On the 30th of July, 1760, the materials of the three following city gates were sold before the committee of city lands to Mr. Blagden, a carpenter in Coleman-street,viz.—
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
July 30, 1826.
Dear Sir,—In the “Times,” of the twenty-second instant, there is the following paragraph, copied from the Newcastle paper. “The bishop of Durham arrived at his castle at Bishop Auckland, on Friday last. On his entering into the county at Croft-bridge, which separates it from the county of York, he was met by the officers of the see, the mayor and corporation of Stockton, and several of the principal nobility and others of the county. Here a sort of ceremony was performed, which had its origin in the feudal times,” &c.
The origin of the ceremony above alluded to is this. About the commencement of the fourteenth century, sir John Conyers slew with hisfalchionin the fields of Sockburne, a monstrous creature, a dragon, a worm, or flying serpent, that devoured men, women, and children. The then owner of Sockburne, as a reward for his bravery, gave him the manor with its appurtenances to hold for ever, on condition that he met the lord bishop of Durham, with this falchion, on his first entrance into his diocese, after his election to that see. And in confirmation of this tradition, there is painted in a window of Sockburne church, thefalchionjust now spoken of; and it is also cut in marble, upon the tomb of the great ancestor of the Conyers’, together with a dog and the monstrous worm or serpent, lying at his feet. When the bishop first comes into his diocese, he crosses the river Tees, either at the Ford of Nesham, or Croft-bridge, at one of which places the lord of the manor of Sockburne, or his representative, rides into the middle of the river, if the bishop comes by Nesham, with the ancientfalchiondrawn in his hand, or upon the middle of Croft-bridge; and then presents it to the bishop, addressing him in the ancient form of words. Upon which the bishop takes thefalchioninto his hands, looks at it, and returns it back again, wishing the lord of the manor his health and the enjoyment of his estate.
There are likewise some lands at Bishop’s Auckland, calledPollard’slands, held by a similar service, viz. showing to the bishop onefawchon, at his first coming to Auckland after his consecration. The form of words made use of is, I believe, asfollows:—
“My Lord,—On behalf of myself as well as of the several other tenants ofPollard’slands, I do humbly present your lordship with thisfawchon, at your first coming here, wherewith as the tradition goeth,Pollardslew of old, a great and venomous serpent, which did much harm to man and beast, and by the performanceof this service these lands are holden.”
The drawing of thefalchionand tomb in Sockburne church, I have unfortunately lost, otherwise it should have accompanied this communication: perhaps some of your numerous readers will be able to furnish you with it.
I remain,Dear Sir, &c.J. F.
The editor joins in his respected correspondent’s desire to see a representation in theEvery-Day Book, of “the falchion and tomb in Sockburne church.” Acorrectdrawing of it shall be accurately engraven, if any gentleman will be pleased to communicate one: such a favour will be respectfully acknowledged.
Mean Temperature 63·57.
[277]British Chronologist.
[277]British Chronologist.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
July 4, 1826.
Sir,—The following is a brief notice of the annual mock election of the “mayor of Bartlemass,” at Newbury, in Berkshire.
The day on which it takes place, is the first Monday after St. Anne’s; therefore, this year if not discontinued, and I believe it is not, it will be held on the thirty-first day of July. The election is held at the Bull and Dog public-house, where a dinner is provided; the principal dishes being bacon and beans, have obtained for it the name of the “bacon and bean feast.” In the course of the day a procession takes place. A cabbage is stuck on a pole and carried instead of a mace, accompanied by similar substitutes for the other emblems of civic dignity, and there is, of course, plenty of “rough music.” A “justice” is chosen at the same time, some other offices are filled up, and the day ends by all concerned getting completely “how came ye so.”
In the same town, a mock mayor and justice are likewise chosen for Norcutt-lane, but whether on the same day or not I cannot say; how long these customs have existed, or whence they originated I do not know; they were before I, or the oldest man in the town, can remember.
A Shoemaker.
By the “Mirror of the Months,” the appearance of natural scenery at this season is brought before us. “The corn-fields are all redundant with waving gold—gold of all hues—from the light yellow of the oats, (those which still remain uncut,) to the deep sunburnt glow of the red wheat. But the wide rich sweeps of these fields are now broken in upon, here and there, by patches of the parched and withered looking bean crops; by occasional bits of newly ploughed land, where the rye lately stood; by the now darkening turnips—dark, except where they are being fed off by sheep flocks; and lastly by the still bright-green meadows, now studded every where with grazing cattle, the second crops of grass being already gathered in.
“The woods, as well as the single timber trees that occasionally start up with such fine effect from out of the hedge-rows, or in the midst of meadows and corn-fields, we shall now find sprinkled with what at first looks like gleams of scattered sunshine lying among the leaves, but what, on examination, we shall find to be the new foliage that has been put forth since midsummer, and which yet retains all the brilliant green of the spring. The effect of this new green, lying in sweeps and patches upon the old, though little observed in general, is one of the most beautiful and characteristic appearances of this season. In many cases, when the sight of it is caught near at hand, on the sides of thick plantations, the effect of it is perfectly deceptive, and you wonder for a moment how it is, that while the sun is shining so brightlyevery where, it should shine so muchmorebrightly on those particular spots.”
Mean Temperature 63·60.