July 5.

“Pity the sorrows of the poor old men.”

Respect talent—consider their virtues—patronise that art which “can only be attained when young”—and which the “youngcompany”cannotattain—(does this mean they are stupid?)—and console the “old ringers,” and let them pull on until they are pulled into their graves! Think how they havemovedthe venerable tower of old St. James’s with theirmusic[244]—nay, until the very bricks and stones above, wished to become more intimately acquainted with them! Do not let a stigma be cast upon them—for, should the good town’s-people imagine the “most hideous noise” was caused by the “old ringers,” their characters are gone for ever—they dare not even look at you through a sheet of paper! How “many a time and oft” have they fired theirfeux de joieon the king’s birthday—how many thousand changes pealed for the alderman’s annual feast—how many “tiddle-lol-tols” played on the celebration of your election—parish dinners, &c. &c. Then think of their fine—half-minute—scientific—eloquent “tolls” for the death of the “young—the brave—and the fair!” Oh!—respectable gentlemen in office—“think of these things.”

I can aver, the ringers of St. Mary’s are only to be equalled in thevarietyof their tunes, and unaccountable changes, by “the most hideous noise” of our Waterloo-road bellmen. I suppose theyarea “youngcompany.” I can only say, then, I wish they wereold, if there were any chance of their playing in tune and time.

And now, farewell, my good “old ringers” of St. James’s. I have done all I can for you, and will say there is as much difference between your ringing and the “youngcompany” at St. Mary’s, as there is between the fiddling of the late Billy Waters and Signor Spagnoletti, the leader of the large theatre in the Haymarket!

Farewell! May you have possession of St. Mary’s steeple by the time you see this in theEvery-Day Book; and may the first merry peal be given in honour of your considerate and faithfultownsman—

S. R.

Mean Temperature 60·67

[243]Daily papers.[244]A few years ago it was unsafe to ring the ten bells in St. James’s steeple. It has been repaired—I cannot say its fine Saxon architecture either beautified or improved.

[243]Daily papers.

[244]A few years ago it was unsafe to ring the ten bells in St. James’s steeple. It has been repaired—I cannot say its fine Saxon architecture either beautified or improved.

On the fifth of July, 1685, the duke of Monmouth’s enterprise against James II. was ended by the battle of Sedgemoor, near Bridgwater, in Somersetshire. The duke’s army consisting of native followers attacked the king’s veteran troops, routed them, and would finally have conquered, if error in Monmouth as a leader, and the cowardice of lord Gray, one of his commanders, had not devoted them to defeat.

To several letters of distinguished individuals, first brought to light in these sheets, the editor is enabled to add another. If the character of the writer, and the remarkable event he communicates, be considered in connection with the authority to whom the letter was addressed, it will be regarded as a document of real importance.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

July 1, 1826.

Sir,—I had intended to have sent you this communication in time for insertion under the date of the twenty-sixth of June, which, according to the New Style, corresponds with the fourteenth, on which the letter was written, a copy of which I send:—it is from Oliver Cromwell to the Speaker Lenthall, giving an account of the battle of Naseby.—It was presented to me a great many years ago by a friend in Northamptonshire, and is, I think, an historical curiosity.—I make no comment on its style; it speaks for itself.

I am, &c.E. S. F.

[COPY.]

“To the HonourableW. Lenthall,“Speaker to the Commons House of Parliament.

“Sir,

“Being Commanded by you to this Service, I think myself bound to acquaint you with the good hand of God towards you and us: We marched yesterday after the King, who went before us from Daventry to Haversbrowe, and quartered about Six Miles from him—he drew out to meet us—Both armies engag’d.—We, after three hours fight—very doubtful,—at last routed his army—kill’d and took about 5000—very many officers—but of what quality, we yet know not.—We took also about 200 Carag. all he had—and all his Guns being 12 in number—whereof two were Demi Culverins and I think the rest Fasces—we pursued the Enemy from three miles short of Haversbrowe to nine beyond—Ever to sight of Leicester, whither the King fled.—Sir—this is none other but the hand of God:—and to him alone belongs the Glory—wherein none are to share with him.—The General served you with all faithfulness and honor—and the best recommendation I can give of him is, that I dare say, he attributes all to God and would rather perish than to assume to himself, which is an honest and thriving way—Yet as much for Bravery must be given him in this Action as to a man.—Honest men served you faithfully in this Action.—Sir, they are trusty—I beseech you, in the Name of God, not to discourage them.—I wish this Action may beget thankfulness and Humility in all that are concern’d in it—He that ventures his Life for the good of his Country—I wish he trusts God for the liberty of his Conscience and you for the Liberty he fights for.—In this, he rests who is your most humble Servant

“O. Cromwell.”

“Haversbrowe, June 14, 1645.”

The gentleman who possesses Cromwell’s original letter is known to the editor, who thus publicly expresses his thanks to him, as he has done privately, for having communicated so valuable an historical document to the public, through theEvery-Day Book.

With theparticularsrespecting this foundation in the present volume, it was intended to give the two engravings subjoined. They were ready, and the printer waited for them, and delayed the publication an entire day, while the engraver’s messenger carried them about with him, without the accompaniment of a recollection that they were in his pocket, until after the sheet had appeared without them. This is a disclosure ofoneof the many “secret sorrows” lately endured by the editor, who begs the reader to bear in mind that the cuts belong tocol. 766.

Arms of George Heriot.

This armorial bearing is carved on many parts of the edifice.

signature

The present fac-simile of his signature, is from one engraved from his subscription to an “acompt,” in his “Memoirs”before quoted.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

June 24, 1826.

Sir,—It was about this season of the year, though I am not aware of any precise day being fixed for the excursion, that the chief magistrate of the city, in the stately barge, attended by all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance” of flags, gilding, and music, used, when I was a boy, which is a good thirty years ago, to proceed up the river Thames as far as Staines, and, I believe, pour a glass of wine, or perform some such ceremony, upon a stone, which, standing in a meadow a short distance above Staines-bridge, marks the city’s watery jurisdiction. The custom may, for aught I know to the contrary, be still continued, though I suspect it has become obsolete, and my conjecture is strengthened by not observing in yourEvery-Day Bookany mention of this civic excursion, or “Swan-hopping,” as I believe it was called. My reason for reviving the memory of it now, is to introduce an authentic anecdote. Your invitations to correspondents have been frequent; and should I be fortunate enough to assist you to a column in a way that will be gratifying to you and your numerous readers, I shall rejoice in the opportunity.

I am, Sir, &c.N. G.

The following curious circumstance occurred, several years ago, at a tavern in the vicinity of Putney-bridge. Several members of one of the city companies having accompanied the chief magistrate on an excursion up the river, quitted his lordship, and landed at the house in question. A boat containing a party of six ladies, elegantly dressed, and rowed by two watermen, in scarlet jackets, put in at the same time.

The happy citizens relieved from the controul of their dames, could not resist this opportunity of showing their gallantry and politeness. They stepped forward and offered their aid to assist the ladies in landing; the offer was accepted; and this act of civility was followed by others. They walked, talked, and laughed together, till dinner was announced. The gentlemen went to the larger room; the ladies sat down to a repast laid out for them by their order in a smaller one.

After some time the ladies again returned to the lawn, where the gentlemen occasionally joined them and continued their civilities till the watermen informed them the tide served for their return to town. The gentlemen then assisted the ladies on board, and wished them a safe voyage. Soon after they called for their bill, which was handed to the chairman in due form; but it is impossible to express the surprise which marked his countenance on reading the following items:—“Dinner, desert, wine, tea, &c. for the ladies, 7l.10s.;” together with a charge of twelve shillings for servants’ refreshments. The landlord was sent for and questioned as to this charge, who said the ladies had desired the bill should be delivered to theirspouses, who would settle it. An explanation now took place, when it appeared the parties were strangers to each other; for these sprightly dames, taking advantage of the occasional civilities of the gallant and unsuspectingswan-hoppers, had imposed themselves on honestBoniface, nothing loth perhaps to be imposed on, as the wives of the city company, and, as such, had been served with an elegantdinner, desert, wine, &c. which they had left theirhusbandsto pay for. The discovery at first disconcerted the gentlemen, but the wine they had drank having opened their hearts and inspired them with liberality, they took the trick put upon them in good part, and paid the bill; and the recollection of thewivesof the city company, long afterwards afforded them an ample subject for conversation and laughter.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—The following beautiful lines were written in the summer of the year 1808, at Sheffield, and have not been published; as they are no mean effusion, perhaps they will not disgrace your interesting little work.

Believe me, Sir, &c.C. T.

July 9, 1826.

The Oak and the Willow.When the sun’s dazzling brightness oppresses the day,How delightful to ramble the forests among!And thro’ the arched boughs hung with woodbine so gay,To view the rich landscape, to hear the sweet song!And lo! where the charms of the wild woodland vale,Expanding in beauty, enrapture the sight;Here the woods in dark majesty wave in the gale,There the lawns and the hills are all blazing in light.From yonder high rocks, down the foaming stream rushes,Then gleams thro’ the valley o’ershadowed with trees,While the songsters of spring, warbling wild from the bushes,With exquisite melody charm the faint breeze.The peasant boy now with his cattle descends,Winding slow to the brook down the mountain’s steep tide;Where the larch o’er the precipice mournfully bends,And the mountain-ash waves in luxuriance beside.And mark yonder oak—’tis the cliff’s nodding crest,That spreads its wide branches and towers sublime;The morning’s first glances alight on its breast,And evening there spends the last glimpse of her time.But hark! the storm bursts, and the raging winds sweep—See the lightning’s swift flash strikes its branches all bare!E’en the leaves, where the sunbeams delighted to sleep,Are scorched in the blaze, and are whirled thro’ the air.Yet the shrubs in the vale closely sheltered from harm,Untouched by the tempest, scarce whisper a sound;While the mountains reecho the thunder’s alarm,The winds are restrained by the rock’s massy bound.Thus the rich and the great who engross fortune’s smiles,Feel the rankling of care often torture their rest,While peace all the toils of the peasant beguiles,Or hope’s higher raptures awake in his breast.Then mine be the lot of the willow that weeps,Unseen in the glen o’er the smooth flowing rill,’Mongst whose pensile branches the flow’ret creeps,And the strains of the night-bird the ear sweetly thrill.Some nook in the valley of life shall be mine,Where time imperceptibly swiftly glides by,True friendship and love round my heart shall entwine,And sympathy start the warm tear in my eye.Then haply my wild harp will make such sweet notes,That the traveller climbing the rock’s craggy brow,May stop and may list, as the music still floats,And think of the bard in the valley below.

The Oak and the Willow.

When the sun’s dazzling brightness oppresses the day,How delightful to ramble the forests among!And thro’ the arched boughs hung with woodbine so gay,To view the rich landscape, to hear the sweet song!And lo! where the charms of the wild woodland vale,Expanding in beauty, enrapture the sight;Here the woods in dark majesty wave in the gale,There the lawns and the hills are all blazing in light.From yonder high rocks, down the foaming stream rushes,Then gleams thro’ the valley o’ershadowed with trees,While the songsters of spring, warbling wild from the bushes,With exquisite melody charm the faint breeze.The peasant boy now with his cattle descends,Winding slow to the brook down the mountain’s steep tide;Where the larch o’er the precipice mournfully bends,And the mountain-ash waves in luxuriance beside.And mark yonder oak—’tis the cliff’s nodding crest,That spreads its wide branches and towers sublime;The morning’s first glances alight on its breast,And evening there spends the last glimpse of her time.But hark! the storm bursts, and the raging winds sweep—See the lightning’s swift flash strikes its branches all bare!E’en the leaves, where the sunbeams delighted to sleep,Are scorched in the blaze, and are whirled thro’ the air.Yet the shrubs in the vale closely sheltered from harm,Untouched by the tempest, scarce whisper a sound;While the mountains reecho the thunder’s alarm,The winds are restrained by the rock’s massy bound.Thus the rich and the great who engross fortune’s smiles,Feel the rankling of care often torture their rest,While peace all the toils of the peasant beguiles,Or hope’s higher raptures awake in his breast.Then mine be the lot of the willow that weeps,Unseen in the glen o’er the smooth flowing rill,’Mongst whose pensile branches the flow’ret creeps,And the strains of the night-bird the ear sweetly thrill.Some nook in the valley of life shall be mine,Where time imperceptibly swiftly glides by,True friendship and love round my heart shall entwine,And sympathy start the warm tear in my eye.Then haply my wild harp will make such sweet notes,That the traveller climbing the rock’s craggy brow,May stop and may list, as the music still floats,And think of the bard in the valley below.

And lo! where the charms of the wild woodland vale,Expanding in beauty, enrapture the sight;Here the woods in dark majesty wave in the gale,There the lawns and the hills are all blazing in light.

From yonder high rocks, down the foaming stream rushes,Then gleams thro’ the valley o’ershadowed with trees,While the songsters of spring, warbling wild from the bushes,With exquisite melody charm the faint breeze.

The peasant boy now with his cattle descends,Winding slow to the brook down the mountain’s steep tide;Where the larch o’er the precipice mournfully bends,And the mountain-ash waves in luxuriance beside.

And mark yonder oak—’tis the cliff’s nodding crest,That spreads its wide branches and towers sublime;The morning’s first glances alight on its breast,And evening there spends the last glimpse of her time.

But hark! the storm bursts, and the raging winds sweep—See the lightning’s swift flash strikes its branches all bare!E’en the leaves, where the sunbeams delighted to sleep,Are scorched in the blaze, and are whirled thro’ the air.

Yet the shrubs in the vale closely sheltered from harm,Untouched by the tempest, scarce whisper a sound;While the mountains reecho the thunder’s alarm,The winds are restrained by the rock’s massy bound.

Thus the rich and the great who engross fortune’s smiles,Feel the rankling of care often torture their rest,While peace all the toils of the peasant beguiles,Or hope’s higher raptures awake in his breast.

Then mine be the lot of the willow that weeps,Unseen in the glen o’er the smooth flowing rill,’Mongst whose pensile branches the flow’ret creeps,And the strains of the night-bird the ear sweetly thrill.

Some nook in the valley of life shall be mine,Where time imperceptibly swiftly glides by,True friendship and love round my heart shall entwine,And sympathy start the warm tear in my eye.

Then haply my wild harp will make such sweet notes,That the traveller climbing the rock’s craggy brow,May stop and may list, as the music still floats,And think of the bard in the valley below.

Mean Temperature 61·32.

This day is still marked in our almanacs, on account of its being adhered to, in a few places, as a “good old day,” of the “good old times.”

The subjoined letter was duly received according to its date, and is now in due time inserted. The editor has very few omissions of this kind to apologize for: if he has prematurely, and therefore unduly, introduced some communications which arrived too late for their proper days, he may be excused, perhaps, in consideration of the desire expressed by some correspondents, that their papers should appear in a “reasonable” time or not at all. Unhappily he has experienced the mishap of a “reasonable” difference, with one or two of his contributors. From the plan of this work, certain matters-of-fact could only range, with propriety, under certain days; while it has been conceived of, by some, as a magazine wherein any thing could come, at any time. In this dilemma he has done the best in his power, and introduced, in a few instances, papers of that nature out of place. On two or three occasions, indeed, it seemed a courtesy almost demanded by the value of such articles, that they should not await the rotation of the year. The following curiously descriptive account of a remarkable local custom is from a Somersetshire gentleman, who could be relied on for a patient endurance of nine months, till this, its due season arrived.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Bristol, October 19, 1825.

Sir,—Having observed in yourEvery-Day Book, p. 837, vol i. mention of an ancient custom of dividing lands, which formerly took place on the Saturday before old midsummer-day, in the parish of Puxton, in Somersetshire, (taken from Mr. Collinson’s history of that county,) I now send you a more explicit and enlarged account, with the marks as they were cut in each person’s allotment.

The two large pieces of common land called Dolemoors, which lie in the parishes of Congresbury, Week St. Lawrence and Puxton, were allotted in the following manner. On the Saturday preceding midsummer-day O. S. the several proprietors (of the estates having any right in those moors) or their tenants, were summoned at a certain hour in the morning, by the ringing of one of the bells at Puxton, to repair to the church, in order to see the chain (kept for the purpose of laying out Dolemoors) measured. The proper length of such chain was ascertained by placing one end thereof at the foot of the arch, dividing the chancel from the body of the church, and extending it through the middle aisle, to the foot of the arch of the west door under the tower, at each of which places marks were cut in the stones for that purpose. The chain used for this purpose was only eighteen yards in length, consequently four yards shorter than the regular land-measuring chain. After the chain had been properly measured, the parties repaired to the commons. Twenty-four apples were previously prepared, bearing the following marks, viz. Five marks called “Pole-axes,” four ditto “Crosses,” two ditto “Dung-forks, or Dung-pikes,” one mark called “Four Oxen and a Mare,” one ditto “Two Pits,” one ditto “Three Pits,” one ditto “Four Pits,” one ditto “Five Pits,” one ditto “Seven Pits,” one “Horn,” one “Hare’s-tail,” one “Duck’s-nest,” one “Oven,” one “Shell,” one “Evil,” and one “Hand-reel.”

It is necessary to observe that each of these moors was divided into severalportions called furlongs, which were marked out by strong oak posts, placed at regular distances from each other; which posts were constantly kept up. After the apples were properly prepared, they were put into a hat or bag, and certain persons fixed on for the purpose, began to measure with the chain before-mentioned, and proceeded till they had measured off one acre of ground; at the end of which, the boy who carried the hat or bag containing the marks took out one of the apples, and the mark which such apple bore, was immediately cut in the turf with a large knife kept for that purpose: this knife was somewhat in the shape of a scimetar with its edge reversed. In this manner they proceeded till the whole of the commons were laid out, and each proprietor knowing the mark and furlong which belonged to his estate, he took possession of his allotment or allotments accordingly, for the ensuing year. An adjournment then took place to the house of one of the overseers, where a certain number of acres reserved for the purpose of paying expenses, and called the “out-let or out-drift,” were let by inch of candle.

During the time of letting, the whole party were to keep silence, (except the person who bid,) under the penalty of one shilling. When any one wished to bid, he named the price he would give, and immediately deposited a shilling on the table where the candle stood; the next who bid, also named his price and deposited his shilling in like manner, and the person who first bid was then to take up his shilling. The business of letting thus proceeded till the candle was burnt out, and the last bidder, prior to that event, was declared the tenant of the out-let, or out-drift, for the ensuing year.

Two overseers were annually elected from the proprietors or their tenants. A quantity of strong ale or brown-stout was allowed for the feast, or “revel,” as it was called; also bread, butter and cheese, together with pipes and tobacco, of which any reputable person, whose curiosity or casual business led him to Puxton on that day, was at liberty to partake, but he was expected to deposit at his departure one shilling with the overseer, by way of forfeit for his intrusion. The day was generally spent in sociality and mirth, frequently of a boisterous nature, from the exhilarating effects of the brown-stout before alluded to; for it rarely happened but that some of the junior part of the company were desirous of making a trial of their skill in thesublimeart of pugilism, when hard knocks, thumps, bangs, and kicks, and consequently black eyes, bloody noses, and sore bones, were distributed with the greatest liberality amongst the combatants.

“And now the field ofDeath, the listsAre enter’d by antagonists.”

In this stage of the business, some venerable yeoman usually stepped forward and harangued the contending parties, in some such speech as the following, which I am sorry to say was most commonly thrown away upon these pot-valiantchampions:—

“What rage, O friends! what furyDoth you to these dire actions hurry?What towns, what garrisons might you,With hazard of this blood subdue,Which now y’are bent to throw awayIn vain untriumphable fray?”

Yet after thesecivilbroils, the parties seldom bore each other any grudge or ill-will, and generally at the conclusion of the contest,

“Tho’ sorely bruis’d, their limbs all o’erWith ruthless bangs still stiff and sore,”

they shook hands, became good friends again, and departed with the greatest sang-froid to apply

“Fit med’cines to each glorious bruiseThey got in fight, reds, blacks, and blues;To mollify th’ uneasy pangOf ev’ry honourable bang.”

In the year 1779, an attempt was made to procure an act of parliament for allotting these moors in perpetuity; but an opposition having been made by a majority of the proprietors, the plan was relinquished. I have now by me a printed copy of the bill drawn up on that occasion. The land, however, was actually enclosed and allotted in the year 1811, and the ancient mode of dividing it, and consequently the drunken festival, orrevel, from that time discontinued.

The followingmarksare correct delineations of those used, being taken from the originals in the book appropriated for the purpose of keeping the accounts of this very singular and ancient usage.

The Marks for Allotting Dolmoors.No.ofeach.Pole-axe5Cross4Dung-fork,or pike2Four Oxen& a Mare1Two Pits1Three Pits1Four Pits1Five Pits1Seven Pits1Horn1Hare’s-tail1Duck’s-nest1Oven1Shell1Evil1Hand-reel1A—dB——ttDelt.

I have from my youth lived within a few miles of the place mentioned, and have often heard of the “humours of Dolmoor revel,” and on one occasion attended personally the whole day for the purpose of observing them, and ascertaining the customs of this rude, rural festival. As the customs before-mentioned are now become obsolete, it would be pleasing to many of your readers, to see them recorded in your very interesting and popular work. These customs originated in all probability with our Saxon ancestors, and it would be unpardonable to consign them to total oblivion.

I am, Sir,Yours respectfully,G. B.

After this description of the method of “laying out of lands,” at a period of the year when steam boats are conveying visiters to the “watering places on the Thames,” it seems prudent and seasonable to notice anothercustom—

And, first, as to this “grave” custom on the London side of the Thames, we have the epistolary testimony of a writer in the year 1773,viz.—

Sir,—Nothing but that unaccountable variety of life, which my stars have imposed upon me, could have apologised for my taking a journey to the fens of Essex. Few strangers go into those scenes of desolation, and fewer still (I find) return from thence—as you shall hear.

When I was walking one morning between two of the banks which restrain the waters in their proper bounds, I met one of the inhabitants, a tall and emaciated figure, with whom I entered into conversation. We talked concerning the manners and peculiarities of the place, and I condoled with him very pathetically on his forlorn and meagre appearance. He gave me to understand, however, that his case was far from being so desperate as I seemed to apprehend it, for that he had never looked better since he buried the first of his last nine wives.

“Nine wives!” rejoined I, eager and astonished, “have you buried nine wives?”

“Yes,” replied the fen-man, “and I hope to bury nine more.”

“Bravissimo!”—This was so far from allaying my astonishment, that it increased it. I then begged him to explain the miraculous matter, which he did in the followingwords:—

“Lord! master,” said he, “we people in the fens here be such strange creatures, that there be no creatures like us; we be like fish, or water-fowl, or others, for we be able to live where other folks would die sure enough.”

He then informed me, that to reside in the fens was a certain and quick death to people who had not been bred among them; that therefore when any of the fen-men wanted a wife, they went into the upland country for one, and that, after they carried her down among the fens, she never survived long: that after her death they went to the uplands for another, who also died; then “another, and another, and another,” for they all followed each other as regular as the change of the moon; that by these means some “poor fellows” had picked up a good living, and collected together from the whole a little snug fortune; that he himself had made more money this way than he ever could do by his labour, for that he was now at his tenth wife, and she could not possibly stand it out above three weeks longer; that these proceedings were very equitable, for such girls as were born among themselves they sent into the uplands to get husbands, and that, in exchange, they took their young women as wives; that he never knew a better custom in his life, and that the only comfort he ever found against the ill-nature and caprice of women was the fens. This woman-killer then concluded with desiring me, if I had a wife with whom I was not over head and ears in love, to bring her to his house, and it would kill her as effectually as any doctor in Christendom could do. This offer I waved; for you know, sir, that (thank God) I am not married.

This strange conversation of my friend, the fen-man, I could not pass over without many reflections; and I thought it my duty to give notice to my countrymen concerning a place which may be converted in so peculiar a manner to theiradvantage.[245]

So far is from the narrative of a traveller intoEssex, who, be it observed, “speaks for himself,” and whose account is given “without note or comment;” it being certain that every rightly affected reader will form a correct opinion of such a narrator, and of the “fearful estate” of “upland women” who marry “lowland men.”

As regards the “custom of Kent,” in this matter, we have the account of a “Steam-boat Companion,” who, turning “to the Kentish shore,” saysthus:—

Divides the isle of Grean from All-hallows, on the main land, and from the cliff marshes.

Who would believe while beholding these scenes of pleasure before us, that for six months in the year the shores of this hundred (Hoo) were only to be explored by the amphibious; that the sun is seldomseen for the fog, and that every creature in love with life, flies the swamps of Hoo, preferring any station to its ague dealing vapours, its fenny filth, and muddy flats; a station, that during the winter season is destitute of every comfort, but fine eels, luscious flounders, smuggled brandy, Holland’s gin, and sea-coal fire. We will here relate a whimsical circumstance that once took place in this neighbourhood while we were of the party.

It was at that time of the year when nature seems to sicken at her own infirmities, we think it was in the month of November, we were bound to Sheerness, but the fog coming on so gloomily that no man could discover his hand a yard before him, our waterman, whether by design or accident we cannot pretend to say, mistook the Thames, and rowed up the Yenlet creek. After a long, cold, and stubborn pull, protesting at the time he had never (man or boy) seen any thing so dismal, he landed us near Saint Mary’s, that church yonder, with the very lofty and white spire, and then led us to an alehouse, the sign of whichhecalled theRed Cock and Cucumber, and the aleman he hailed by the merry name of

John Piper,

And a very pleasant fellow John turned out to be; if he was a little hyperbolical, his manner sufficiently atoned for the transgression. The gloom of the day was soon forgotten, and the stench arising from filthy swamps less regarded. At our entrance we complained heavily of the insupportable cloud with which we had been enveloped.

“Ha! ha! ha!” sang out the landlord, “to be sure it is too thick to be eaten with a spoon, and too thin to be cut with a knife, but it is not so intolerable as a scolding wife, or a hungry lawyer.”

“Curse the fog,” cried our waterman,

“Bless the fog,” answered our landlord, “for it has made a man of me for life.”

“How do you make that appear?” we requested to know.

“Set you down, sir, by a good sea-coal fire, for we pay no pool duties here, take your grog merrily, and I’ll tell you all about it presently,” rejoined the tapster, when drawing a wooden stool towards us, while his wife was preparing the bowl, John Piper thusbegan:—

“You must know, sir, I was born in this fog, and so was my mother and her relatives for many past generations; therefore you will see, sir, a fog is as natural to me as a duck-pool to a dab-chick. When poor dame Piper died, I found myself exceedingly melancholy to live alone on these marshes, so determined to change my condition by taking a wife. It was very fortunate for me, sir, I knew a rich old farmer in theuplands, and he had three blooming daughters, and that which made the thing more desirable, he had determined to give each a portion of his honourably acquired property. The farmer had for many years been acquainted with my good father, gone to rest, and this gave me courage to lay my case before him. The elder girl was the bird for me, the farmer gave his consent, and we were married. Directly after, I quitted the uplands for the fog, with a pretty wife and five hundred golden guineas in my pocket, as good as ever bribed a lawyer to sell his client, or a parliament-man to betray his country. This was a good beginning, sir, but alas! there is no comfort without a cross; my wife had been used from her infancy to a fine keen open air, and ourlowland vapours so deranged her constitution, that within nine months, Margaret left me and went to heaven.

“Being so suddenly deprived of the society of one good woman, where could I apply for another, better than to the sack from whence I drew the first sample? The death of my dear wife reflected no disgrace on me, and the old man’s second daughter having no objection to a good husband, we presently entered into the bonds of holy matrimony, and after a few days of merriment, I came home with Susan, from the sweet hills to the fogs of thelowlands, and with four hundred as good guineas in my purse as ever gave new springs to the life of poverty. Similar causes, sir, they say produce similar effects; and this is certainly true, for in somewhere about nine months more, Susan slept with her sister.

“I ran to theuplands again, to condole with my poor old Nestor, and some how or other so managed the matter, that his youngest daughter, Rosetta, conceived a tender affection for Piper. I shall never forget it, sir, while I have existence; I had been there but a few days, when the good farmer, with tears in his eyes, thus addressed me: ‘Piper, you have received about nine hundred pounds of my money, and I have about the same sum left; now, son, as you know how to make a good use of it, I think it is a pity it should goout of the family; therefore, if you have a fancy for Rosetta, I will give you three hundred pounds more, and the remnant at my departure.’

“Sir, I had always an aversion to standshilly shally, ‘make haste and leave nothing to waste,’ says the old proverb. The kind girl was consenting, and we finished the contract over a mug of her father’s best October. From the hills we ran to thefogland, and in less than two years more, poor Rosetta was carried up the churchway path, where the three sisters, as they used to do in their infancy, lie by the side of each other; and the old man dying of grief for the loss of his favourite, I placed him at their head, and became master of a pretty property.

“A short time after, a wealthy widow from Barham, (of the same family,) came in the summer time to our place. I saw her at church, and she set her cap at Piper; I soon married her for herEldorado metal, but alas! she turned out a shrew. ‘Nil desperandum’ said I, Piper, to myself, thewinteris coming in good time; the winter came, and stood my friend; for thefogand the ague took her by the hand and led her to Abraham’s bosom.

“An innkeeper’s relict was the next I ventured on, she had possessions at Sittingbourne, and they were hardly mine before my good friend, the fog, laid Arabella ‘atall-fours’ under the turf, in St. Mary’s churchyard; and now, sir, her sister, the cast-off of a rich Jew, fell into my trap, and I led her smiling, like a vestal, to the temple of Hymen; but although the most lively and patient creature on earth, she could not resist the powers of thefog, and I for the sixth time became a widower, with an income of three hundred a year, and half the cottages in this blessed hundred. To be brief, sir, I was now in want of nothing but a contented mind; thus, sir, through thefogyou treated with such malignity, I became qualified for a country member. But alas! sir, there is always something unpleasant to mingle with the best of human affairs, envy is ever skulking behind us, to squeeze her gall-bag into the cup of our comforts, and when we think ourselves in safety, and may sing the song of ‘O! be joyful,’ our merriment ends with a ‘miseracordia.’”

After a short pause, “Look, sir,” said Piper, in a loud whisper, “at that woman in the bar, now making the grog, she is my seventh wife; with her I had a fortune also, but of a different nature from all the rest. I married her without proper consideration—the wisest are sometimes overtaken; Solomon had his disappointments; would you think it, sir? she wasfogbornlike myself, and withal, is so tough in her constitution, that I fear she will hold me a tight tug to the end of my existence, and become my survivor.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” interjected Mrs. Piper, (who had heard all the long tale of the tapster,) “there is no fear about that, John, and bury as manyuplandhusbands, when you lie under the turf, as you, with the fog, have smotheredwives.”

Our Yorick now became chop-fallen, and a brisk wind springing up from the north-west, the fog abated, and we took to ourboat.[246]

If there be truth in these narratives, the “lowland lasses” of the creeks, have good reason for their peculiar liking to “highland laddies;” and “upland” girls had better “wither on the virgin thorn,” than marry “lowland” suitorsand—

“Fall as the leaves doAnd die in October.”

Far be it from the editor, to bring the worthy “neither fish nor flesh” swains, of the Kent and Essex fens and fogs, into contempt; he knows nothing about them. What he has set down he found in “the books,” and, having given his authorities, he wishes them every good they desire—save wives from theuplands.

Mean Temperature 61·75.

[245]Universal Magazine.[246]The Steam-boat Companion, by Thomas Nichols, 1823, p. 150.

[245]Universal Magazine.

[246]The Steam-boat Companion, by Thomas Nichols, 1823, p. 150.

Strange to say, the name of this saint, so obnoxious to the early reformers, is still retained in the church of England calendar; the fact is no less strange that the day of his festival is the anniversary of the translation of his relics from the undercroft of the cathedral of Canterbury, in the year 1220, to a sumptuous shrine at the east end of the church, whither they attracted crowds of pilgrims, and, according to the legends of the Romish church, worked abundant miracles.

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