[372]The Times, October, 1823.[373]In an adjoining bleach-yard, some cloth which had lain out all night was turned almost yellow.—Other pieces also which were spread out the next morning, contracted the same colour, which was not without great difficulty washed out.[374]The wind was westerly, and consequently in its passage swept the Irish sea.
[372]The Times, October, 1823.
[373]In an adjoining bleach-yard, some cloth which had lain out all night was turned almost yellow.—Other pieces also which were spread out the next morning, contracted the same colour, which was not without great difficulty washed out.
[374]The wind was westerly, and consequently in its passage swept the Irish sea.
On the 7 of of October, 1736, a man and his wife, at Rushal, in Norfolk, “having some words,” the man went out and hanged himself. The coroner’s inquest found it “self-murder,” and ordered him to be buried in the cross-ways; but his wife sent for a surgeon, and sold the body for half a guinea. The surgeon feeling about the body, the wife said, “He is fit for your purpose, he is as fat as butter.” The deceased was thereupon put into a sack with his legs hanging out, and being thrown upon a cart, conveyed to thesurgeon’s.[375]
In a journal of1826,[376]we have the following pleasant account of a similar publication ninety years ago.
A curious document, for we may well term it so, has come to our hands—a copy of a London newspaper, dated Thursday, March 24, 1736-7. Its title is, “The Old Whig, or the Consistent Protestant.” It seems to have been a weekly paper, and, at the above date, to have been in existence for about two years. How long it lived after, we have not, at present, any means of ascertaining. The paper is similar in size to the French journals of the present day, and consists of four pages and three columns in each. The show of advertisements is very fair. They fill the whole of the back page, and nearly a column of the third. They are all book advertisements. One of these is a comedy called “The Universal Passion,” by the author of “The Man of Taste,” no doubt, at that time, an amply sufficient description of the ingenious playwright. The “Old Whig” was published by “J. Roberts, at the Oxford Arms, in Warwick-lane,” as likewise by “H. Whitridge, bookseller, the corner of Castle-alley, near the Royal-exchange, in Cornhill, price two-pence!” It has a leading article in its way, in the shape of a discourse on the liberty of the press, which it lustily defends, from what, we believe, it was as little exposed to, in 1786-7, as it is in 1826—a censorship. The editor apologises for omittingthe newsin his last, on account of “Mr. Foster’s reply to Dr. Stebbing!” What would be said of a similar excuse now-a-days?
The following epigram is somewhat hacknied, but there is a pleasure in extracting it from the print, where it probably firstappeared:—
“As we were obliged to omit the News in last week’s paper, by inserting Mr. Foster’s answer to the Rev. Dr. Stebbing, we shall in this give the few articles that are any way material.”
“Cries Celia to a reverend dean,What reason can be given,Since marriage is a holy thing,That there is none in Heaven?”“There are no Women,” he replied;She quick returns the jest;“Women there are, but I’m afraid,They cannot find a priest!”
“Cries Celia to a reverend dean,What reason can be given,Since marriage is a holy thing,That there is none in Heaven?”“There are no Women,” he replied;She quick returns the jest;“Women there are, but I’m afraid,They cannot find a priest!”
“Cries Celia to a reverend dean,What reason can be given,Since marriage is a holy thing,That there is none in Heaven?”
“There are no Women,” he replied;She quick returns the jest;“Women there are, but I’m afraid,They cannot find a priest!”
The miscellaneous part is of nearly the same character as at present, but disposed in rather a less regular form. We have houses on fire, and people burnt in them, exactly aswehad last week; but what is wonderful, as it shows the great improvement in these worthy gentlemen in the course of a century, the “Old Whig” adds to its account—“The watch, it seems, though at a small distance, knew nothing of the matter!”
There is a considerable number of deaths, for people died even in those good old times, and one drowning; whether intentional or not we cannot inform our readers, as the “Old Whig” went to press before the inquest was holden before Mr. Coroner and a most respectable jury.
We still tipple a little after dinner, but our fathers were prudent men; they took time by the forelock, and began their convivialities with theirdejeune. The following is a short notice of the exploits of a few of these true men. It is with a deep feeling of the transitory nature of all sublunary things, that we introduce this notice, by announcing to our readers at a distance, that the merry Boar’s Head is merry no more, and that he who goes thither in the hope of quaffing port, where plump Jack quaffed sack and sugar, will return disappointed. The sign remains, but thehostelis gone.
“On Saturday last, the right hon. the Lord Mayor held a wardmote at St. MaryAbchurch, for the election of a common councilman, in the room of Mr. Deputy Davis. His lordship went sooner than was expected by Mr. Clay’s friends, and arriving at the church, ordered proclamation to be made, when Mr. Edward Yeates was put up by every person present; then the question being asked, whether any other was offered to the ward, and there being no person named, his lordship declared Mr. Yeates duly elected, and ordered him to be sworn in, which was accordingly done; and just at the words ‘So help you God,’ Mr. Clay’s friends (who were numerous, and had been at breakfast at the Boar’s Head Tavern, in Eastcheap) came into the church, but it was too late, for the election was over. This has created a great deal of mirth in the ward, which is likely to continue for some time. The Boar’s Head is said to be the tavern so often mentioned by Shakspeare, in his play ofHenry the Fourth, which occasioned a gentleman, who heard the circumstances of the election, to repeat the following lines from thatplay:—
“‘Falst.Now Hall, what a time of day is it, lad?’
“‘P. Hen.——What a devil has thou to do with the time of the day? unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons,’” &c.
The above account gives a specimen of the sobriety of our fathers; another of their virtues is exemplified in thefollowing:—
“By a letter from Penzance, in Cornwall, we have the following account, viz.:—‘That on the 12th instant at night, was lost near Portlevan (and all the men drowned,as is supposed), the queen Caroline, of Topsham, Thomas Wills, master, from Oporto, there being some pieces of letters found on the sands, directed for Edward Mann, of Exon, one for James La Roche, Esq. of Bristol, and another for Robert Smyth, Esq. and Company, Bristol. Some casks of wine came on shore, which were immediately secured by the country people; but on a composition with the collector, to pay them eight guineas for each pipe they brought on shore, they delivered to him twenty-five pipes; and he paid so many times eight guineas, else they would have staved them, or carried them off.’”
The order maintained in England at that time was nothing compared to the strictness of discipline observed on the continent.
“They write from Rome, that count Trevelii, a Neapolitan, had been beheaded there, for being the author of some satirical writings against the Pope: that Father Jacobini, who was sentenced to be beheaded on the same account, had obtained thefavourof being sent to the gallies, through the intercession of cardinal Guadagni, the pope’s nephew, who was most maltreated by the priest and the count.”
These were times, as Dame Quickly would say, when honourable men were not to be insulted with impunity.
We sometimes hear of a terrible species ofmammalia, called West India Planters, and there is an individual specimen named Hogan, or something like it, whose wonderful fierceness has been sounded in our ears for some ten or twelve years. But what will the abolitionists say to the extract of a letter from Antigua? Compared with these dreadful doings, Mr. Hogan’s delinquencies were mere fleabites.
“Extract of a letter from Antigua, January 15, 1736-7:—‘We are in a great deal of trouble in this island, the burning of negroes, hanging them on gibbets alive, racking them on the wheel, &c. takes up almost all our time; that from the 20th of October to this day, there has been destroyed sixty-five sensible negro men, most of them tradesmen, as carpenters, masons, and coopers. I am almost dead with watching and warding, as are many more. They were going to destroy all the white inhabitants on the island. Court, the king of the negroes, who was to head the insurrection; Tomboy, their general, and Hercules their lieutenant-general, were all racked upon the wheel, and died with amazing obstinacy. Mr. Archibald Hamilton’s Harry, after he was condemned, stuck himself with a knife in eighteen places, four whereof were mortal, which killed him. Colonel Martin’s Jemmy, who was hung up alive from noon to eleven at night, was then taken down to give information. Colonel Morgan’s Ned, who, after he had been hung up seven days and seven nights, that his hands grew too small for his hand-cuffs, he got them out and raised himself up, and fell down from a gibbet fifteen feet high, without any harm; he was revived with cordials and broth, in hopes to bring him to a confession, but he would not confess, and was hung up again, and in a day and night after expired. Mr. Yeoman’s Quashy Coomah jumped out of the fire half burnt, but was thrown in again. And Mr. Lyon’s Tim jumped out of the fire, and promised to declare all, but it took no effect. In short, our island is in a poor, miserable condition, that I wish I could get any sort of employ in England.’”
The following notice is of a more pleasingcharacter:—
“In a few days, a fine monument to the memory of John Gay, Esq., author of theBeggar’s Opera, and several other admired pieces, will be erected in Westminster-abbey,at the expense of his grace the duke of Queensberry and Dover, with an elegant inscription thereon, composed by the deceased’s intimate and affectionate friend, Mr. Alexander Pope.”
There are two more observations which we have to make; 1st. “the Old Whig,” as was meet, was a strong Orangeman; and 2d. the parliament was sitting when the number before us was published, and yet it does not contain one line of debate!
Mean Temperature 53·77.
[375]Gentleman’s Magazine.[376]New Times, September 7.
[375]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[376]New Times, September 7.
Elias Ashmole, the antiquary, enters thus in the diary of his life:—“1657, October 8. The cause between me and my wife was heard, when Mr. Serjeant Maynard observed to the court, that there were 800 sheets of depositions on my wife’s part, and not one word proved against me of using her ill, nor ever giving her a bad or provoking word.” The decision was against the lady; the court, refusing her alimony, delivered her to her husband; “whereupon,” says Ashmole, “I carried her to Mr. Lilly’s, and there took lodgings for us both.” He and Lilly dabbled in astrology; and he tells no more of his spouse till he enters “1668, April 1. 2 Hor.ante merid.the lady Mainwaring my wifedied.” Subsequently he writes—“November 3. I married Mrs. Elizabeth Dugdale, daughter to William Dugdale, Esq. Norroy, king of arms at Lincoln’s-inn chapel. Dr. William Floyd married us, and her father gave her. The wedding was finished at 10hor. post merid.”
Ashmole’s diary minutely records particulars of all sorts:—“September 5, I took pills; 6, I took a sweat; 7, I took leeches; all wrought very well.—December 19, Dr. Chamberlain proposed to me to bring Dr. Lister to my wife, that he might undertake her. 22. They both came to my house, and Dr. Listerdidundertake her.” Though Dr. Lister was her undertaker on that occasion, yet Ashmole records—“1687, April 16, my wife took Mr. Bigg’s vomit, which wrought very well.—19. She tookpulvis sanctis; in the afternoon she took cold.” Death took Ashmole in 1695. He was superstitious and punctilious, and was perhaps a better antiquary than a friend; he seems to have possessed himself of Tradescant’s museum at South Lambeth in a manner which rather showed his love of antiquities than poor old Tradescant.
It is to be regretted that Ashmole’s life, “drawn up by himself by way of diary,” was not printed with the Life of Lilly in the “Autobiography.” Lilly’s Life is published in that pleasant work by itself. “Tom Davies” deemed them fit companions.
Mean Temperature 53·80.
This name in the church of England calendar is properly noticed in vol. i. col. 1370.
On the celebration of this saint’s festival in catholic countries he is represented walking with his head in his hands, as we are assured he did, after his martyrdom. A late traveller in France relates, that on the 9th of October, the day of St. Denis, the patron saint of France, a procession was made to the village of St. Denis, about a league from Lyons. This was commonly a very disorderly and tumultuous assembly, and was the occasion some years ago of a scene of terrible confusion and slaughter. The porter who kept the gate of the city which leads to this village, in order to exact a contribution from the people as they returned, shut the gate at an earlier hour than usual. The people, incensed at the extortion, assembled in a crowd round the gate to force it, and in the conflict numbers were stifled, squeezed to death, or thrown into the Rhone, on the side of which the gate stood. Two hundred persons were computed to have lost their lives on this occasion. The porter paid his avarice with his life: he was condemned and executed as the author of the tumult, and of the consequences by which it wasattended.[377]
Mean Temperature 52·62.
[377]Miss Plumptre.
[377]Miss Plumptre.
1826. Oxford and Cambridge Terms begin.
On Sunday, October 10, 1742, during the time of worship, the roof of the church of Fearn, in Ross-shire, Scotland, fell suddenly in, and sixty people were killed, besides the wounded. The gentry whose seats were in the niches, and the preacher by falling under the sounding-board werepreserved.[378]
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sherborne, September, 1826.
Sir,—Having promised to furnish an account of our fair, I now take the liberty of handing it to you for insertion in your very entertaining work.
This fair is annually held on the first Monday after the 10th of October, and is a mart for the sale of horses, cows, fat and lean oxen, sheep, lambs, and pigs; cloth, earthenware, onions, wall and hazle nuts, apples, fruit trees, and the usual nick nacks for children, toys, gingerbread, sweetmeats, sugar plums, &c. &c. with drapery, hats, bonnets, caps, ribands, &c. for the country belles, of whom, when the weather is favourable, a great number is drawn together from the neighbouring villages.
Tradition relates that this fair originated at the termination of the building of the church, when the people who had been employed about it packed up their tools, and held a fair or wake, in the churchyard, blowing cows’ horns in their rejoicing, which at that time was perhaps the most common music inuse.[379]The date at which the church was built is uncertain, but it may be conjectured in the sixth century, for in the year 704, king John fixed an episcopal see at, and Aldhelm was consecrated the first bishop of, Sherborne, in 705, and enjoyed the bishopric four years. Aldhelm died in 709, is said to be the first who introduced poetry into England, to have obtained a proficiency in music, and the first Englishman who ever wrote in Latin.
To the present time Pack Monday fair, is annually announced three or four weeks previous by all the little urchins who can procure and blow a cow’s horn, parading the streets in the evenings, and sending forth the different tones of their horny bugles, sometimes beating an old saucepan for a drum, to render the sweet sound more delicious, and not unfrequently a whistle-pipe or a fife is added to the band. The clock’s striking twelve on the Sunday night previous, is the summons for ushering in the fair, when the boys assemble with their horns, and parade the town with a noisy shout, and prepare to forage for fuel to light a bonfire, generally of straw, obtained from some of the neighbouring farmyards, which are sure to be plundered, without respect to the owners, if they have not been fortunate enough to secure the material in some safe part of their premises. In this way the youths enjoy themselves in boisterous triumph, to the annoyance of the sleeping part of the inhabitants, many of whom deplore, whilst others, who entertain respect for old customs, delight in the deafening mirth. At four o’clock the great bell is rang for a quarter of an hour. From this time, the bustle commences by the preparations for the coming scene: stalls erecting, windows cleaning and decorating, shepherds and drovers going forth for their flocks and herds, which are depastured for the night in the neighbouring fields, and every individual seems on the alert. The business in the sheep and cattle fairs (which are held in different fields, nearly in the centre of the town, and well attended by the gentlemen farmers, of Dorset, Somerset, and Devon) takes precedence, and is generally concluded by twelve o’clock, when what is called the in-fair begins to wear the appearance of business-like activity, and from this time till three or four o’clock more business is transacted in the shop, counting-house, parlour, hall, and kitchen,than at any other time of the day, it being a custom of the tradespeople to have their yearly accounts settled about this time, and scarcely a draper, grocer, hatter, ironmonger, bookseller, or other respectable tradesman, but is provided with an ample store of beef and home-brewed October, for the welcome of their numerous customers, few of whom depart without takingquantum suff.of the old English fare placed before them.
Now, (according to an old saying,) is thetown alive. John takes Joan to see the shows,—there he finds the giant—here the learned pig—the giantess and dwarf—the menagerie of wild beasts—the conjuror—and Mr. Merry Andrew cracking his jokes with hisquondammaster. Here it is—“Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, we are now going to begin, be in time, the price is only twopence.” Here is Mr. Warr’s merry round-about, with “a horse or a coach for a halfpenny.”—Here is RebeccaSwain[380]with her black and red cock, and lucky-bag, who bawls out, “Come, my little lucky rogues, and try your fortune for a halfpenny, all prizes and no blanks, a faint heart never wins a fair lady.”—Here is pricking in the garter.—Raffling for gingerbread, with the cry of “one in; who makes two, the more the merrier.”—Here is the Sheffield hardwareman, sporting a worn-out wig and huge pair of spectacles, offering, in lots, a box of razors, knives, scissors, &c., each lot of which he modestly says, “is worth seven shillings, but he’ll not be too hard on the gaping crowd, he’ll not take seven, nor six, nor five, nor four, nor three, nor two, but one shilling for the lot,—going at one shilling—sold again and the money paid.”—Here are two earthenware-men bawling their shilling’s worth one against the other, and quaffing beer to each other’s luck from that necessary and convenient chamber utensil that has modestly usurped the name of the great riverPo. Here ispoor Will, with a basket of gingerbread, crying “toss or buy.” There is a smirking little lad pinning two girls together by their gowns, whilst his companion cracks a Waterloo bang-up in their faces. Here stands John with his mouth wide open, and Joan with her sloe-black ogles stretched to their extremity at a fine painted shawl, whichCheap Johnis offering for next to nothing; and here is a hundred other contrivances to draw the “browns” from the pockets of the unwary, and tickle the fancies of the curious; and sometimes the rogue of a pickpocket extracting farmer Anybody’s watch or money from his pockets.
This is Pack Monday fair, till evening throws on her dark veil, when the visiters in taking their farewell, stroll through the rows of gingerbread stalls, where the spruce Mrs. or Miss Sugarplum pops the cover of her nut-cannister forth, with “buy some nice nuts, do taste, sir, (or ma’me,) and treat your companion with a paper of nuts.” By this time the country folks are for jogging home, and vehicles and horses of every description on the move, and the bustle nearly over, with the exception of what is to be met with at the inns, where the lads and lasses so disposed, on the light fantastic toe, assisted by the merry scraping of the fiddler, finish the fun, frolic, and pastime of Pack Monday Fair.
I am, &c.R. T.
Sonnet.For the Every-Day Book.Me, men’s gay haunts delight not, nor the glowOf lights that glitter in the crowded room;But nature’s paths where silver waters flow,Making sweet music as along they go,And shadowy groves where birds their light wings plume,Or the brown heath where waves the yellow broom,Or by the stream where bending willows grow,And silence reigns, congenial with my gloom.For there no hollow hearts, no envious eyes,No flatt’ring tongues, no treacherous hands are found,No jealous feuds, no gold-born enmities,Nor cold deceits with which men’s walks abound,But quietness and health, which are more meet,Than glaring halls where riot holds her seat.S. R. J.
Sonnet.For the Every-Day Book.
Me, men’s gay haunts delight not, nor the glowOf lights that glitter in the crowded room;But nature’s paths where silver waters flow,Making sweet music as along they go,And shadowy groves where birds their light wings plume,Or the brown heath where waves the yellow broom,Or by the stream where bending willows grow,And silence reigns, congenial with my gloom.For there no hollow hearts, no envious eyes,No flatt’ring tongues, no treacherous hands are found,No jealous feuds, no gold-born enmities,Nor cold deceits with which men’s walks abound,But quietness and health, which are more meet,Than glaring halls where riot holds her seat.
Me, men’s gay haunts delight not, nor the glowOf lights that glitter in the crowded room;But nature’s paths where silver waters flow,Making sweet music as along they go,And shadowy groves where birds their light wings plume,Or the brown heath where waves the yellow broom,Or by the stream where bending willows grow,And silence reigns, congenial with my gloom.
For there no hollow hearts, no envious eyes,No flatt’ring tongues, no treacherous hands are found,No jealous feuds, no gold-born enmities,Nor cold deceits with which men’s walks abound,But quietness and health, which are more meet,Than glaring halls where riot holds her seat.
S. R. J.
The New River at Hornsey.
The New River at Hornsey.
————The stream is pure in solitude,But passing on amid the haunts of menIt finds pollution there, and rolls from thenceA tainted tide.Southey.
————The stream is pure in solitude,But passing on amid the haunts of menIt finds pollution there, and rolls from thenceA tainted tide.
————The stream is pure in solitude,But passing on amid the haunts of menIt finds pollution there, and rolls from thenceA tainted tide.
Southey.
My memory does not help me to a dozen passages from the whole range of authors, in verse and prose, put together; it only assists me to ideas of what I have read, and to recollect where they are expressed, but not to their words. As the “Minor Poems” are not at hand, I can only hope I have quoted the precedinglines accurately. Their import impressed me in my boyhood, and one fine summer’s afternoon, a year or two ago, I involuntarily repeated them while musing beside that part of the “New River” represented in theengraving. I had strolled to “the Compasses,” when “the garden,” as the landlord calls it, was free from the nuisance of “company;” and thither I afterwards deluded an artist, who continues to “use the house,” and supplies me with the drawing of this sequestered nook.
This “gentle river” meanders through countless spots of surprising beauty and variety within ten miles of town. When I was a boy I thought “Sadler’s Well’s arch,” opposite the “Sir Hugh Myddelton,” (a house immortalized by Hogarth,) the prime part of the river; for there, by the aid of a penny line, and a ha’porth of gentles and blood-worms, “mixed,” bought of old Turpin, who kept the little fishing-tackle shop, the last house by the river’s side, at the end next St. John’s-street-road, I essayed to gudgeon gudgeons. But the “prime” gudgeon-fishing, then, was at “the Coffin,” through which the stream flows after burying itself at the Thatched-house, under Islington road, to Colebrooke-row, within half a stone’s throw of a cottage, endeared to me, in later years, by its being the abode of “as much virtue as canlive.” Past the Thatched-house, towards Canonbury, there was the “Horse-shoe,” now no more, and the enchanting rear—since despoiled—of the gardens to the retreats of Canonbury-place; and all along the river to the pleasant village of Hornsey, there were delightful retirements on its banks, so “far from the busy haunts of men,” that only a few solitary wanderers seemed to know them. Since then, I have gone “over the hills and far away,” to see it sweetly flowing at Enfield Chase, near many a “cottage of content,” as I have conceived the lowly dwellings to be, which there skirt it, with their little gardens, not too trim, whence the inmates cross the neat iron bridges of the “New River Company,” which, thinking of “auld lang syne,” I could almost wish were of wood. Further on, the river gracefully recedes into the pleasant grounds of the late Mr. Gough the antiquary, who, if he chiefly wrote on the manners and remains of old times, had an especial love and kind feeling for the amiable and picturesque of our own. Pursuing the river thence to Theobalds, it presents to the “contemplative man’s recreation,” temptations that old Walton himself might have coveted to fall in his way: and why may we not “suppose that the vicinity of the New River, to the place of his habitation, might sometimes tempt him out, whose loss he so pathetically mentions, to spend an afternoon there.” He tells “the honest angler,” that the writing of his book was the “recreation of a recreation,” and familiarly says, “the whole discourse is, or rather was, a picture of my own disposition, especially in such days and times as I have laid aside business, and gone a fishing with honest Nat. and R. Roe; but they are gone, and with them most of my pleasant hours,—even as a shadow that passeth away and returns not.”
I dare not say that I am, and yet I cannot say that I never was, an angler; for I well remember where, though I cannot tell when, within a year, I was enticed to “go a fishing,” as the saying is, which I have sometimes imagined was derived from Walton’s motto on the title of his book:—“Simon Peter said, Igo a fishing: and they said, we also will go with thee.—Johnxxi. 3.” This passage is not in all the editions of the “Complete Angler,” but it was engraven on the title-page of the first edition, printed in 1653. Allow me to refer to one of “captain Wharton’s almanacs,” as old Lilly calls them in his “Life and Times,” and point out what was, perhaps, the earliestadvertisementof Walton’s work: it is on the back of the dedication leaf to “Hemeroscopeion: Anni Æræ Christianæ 1654.” The almanac was published of course in the preceding year, which was the year wherein Walton’s work was printed.
Advertisement of Walton’s Angler, 1653.“There is published a Booke of Eighteen-pence price, calledThe Compleat Angler, Or,The Contemplative man’s Recreation: being a Discourse of Fish and Fishing. Not unworthy the perusall. Sold byRichard Marriotin S.Dunstan’s Church-yardFleetstreet.”
Advertisement of Walton’s Angler, 1653.
“There is published a Booke of Eighteen-pence price, calledThe Compleat Angler, Or,The Contemplative man’s Recreation: being a Discourse of Fish and Fishing. Not unworthy the perusall. Sold byRichard Marriotin S.Dunstan’s Church-yardFleetstreet.”
This advertisement I deem a bibliomaniacal curiosity. Only think of the first edition of Walton as a “booke of eighteen-pence price!” and imagine the good old man on the day of publication, walking from his house “on the north side of Fleet-street, two doors west of the end of Chancery-lane,” to his publisher and neighbour just by, “Richard Marriot, in S. Dunstan’s Churchyard,” for the purpose of inquiring “how” the book “went off.” There is, or lately was, a large fish in effigy, at a fishing-tackle-maker’s in Fleet-street, near Bell-yard, which, whenever I saw it, after I first read Walton’s work, many years ago, reminded me of him, and his pleasant book, and its delightful ditties, and brought him before me, sitting on “a primrose bank” turning his “present thoughts into verse”
The Angler’s Wish.I in these flowery meads would be:These crystal streams should solace me;To whose harmonious bubbling noiseI with my angle would rejoice:Sit here, and see the turtle-doveCourt his chaste mate to acts of love:Or, on that bank, feel the west windBreathe health and plenty: please my mind,To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,And then washed off by April showers;Here, hear myKennasing a song;There, see a blackbird feed her young,Or a leverock build her nest:Here, give my weary spirits rest,And raise my low-pitch’d thoughts aboveEarth, or what poor mortals love:Thus, free from law-suits and the noiseOf princes’ courts, I would rejoice:Or, with my Bryan, and a book,Loiter long days near Shawford-brook;There sit by him, and eat my meat,There see the sun both rise and set;There bid good morning to next day;There meditate my time away;And angle on; and beg to haveA quiet passage to a welcome grave.
The Angler’s Wish.
I in these flowery meads would be:These crystal streams should solace me;To whose harmonious bubbling noiseI with my angle would rejoice:Sit here, and see the turtle-doveCourt his chaste mate to acts of love:Or, on that bank, feel the west windBreathe health and plenty: please my mind,To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,And then washed off by April showers;Here, hear myKennasing a song;There, see a blackbird feed her young,Or a leverock build her nest:Here, give my weary spirits rest,And raise my low-pitch’d thoughts aboveEarth, or what poor mortals love:Thus, free from law-suits and the noiseOf princes’ courts, I would rejoice:Or, with my Bryan, and a book,Loiter long days near Shawford-brook;There sit by him, and eat my meat,There see the sun both rise and set;There bid good morning to next day;There meditate my time away;And angle on; and beg to haveA quiet passage to a welcome grave.
I in these flowery meads would be:These crystal streams should solace me;To whose harmonious bubbling noiseI with my angle would rejoice:Sit here, and see the turtle-doveCourt his chaste mate to acts of love:
Or, on that bank, feel the west windBreathe health and plenty: please my mind,To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,And then washed off by April showers;Here, hear myKennasing a song;There, see a blackbird feed her young,Or a leverock build her nest:Here, give my weary spirits rest,And raise my low-pitch’d thoughts aboveEarth, or what poor mortals love:Thus, free from law-suits and the noiseOf princes’ courts, I would rejoice:
Or, with my Bryan, and a book,Loiter long days near Shawford-brook;There sit by him, and eat my meat,There see the sun both rise and set;There bid good morning to next day;There meditate my time away;And angle on; and beg to haveA quiet passage to a welcome grave.
Mean Temperature 52·05.
[378]Gentleman’s Magazine.[379]Hutchins, in his “History of Dorset,” says, this “Fair is held in thechurchyard,[381]on the first Monday after the feast of St. Michael, (O. S.) and is a great holyday for the inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood. It is ushered in by the ringing of the great bell, at a very early hour in the morning, and by the boys and young men perambulating the street with cows’ horns, to the no small annoyance of their less wakeful neighbours. It has been an immemorial custom in Sherborne, for the boys to blow horns in the evenings in the streets, for some weeks before the fair.”[380]A tall and portly dame, six feet full, with a particular screw of the mouth, and whom the writer recollects when he was a mere child, thirty years ago; none who have seen and heard her once, but will recollect her as long as they live.[381]The fair has been removed from the churchyard about six or seven years, and is now held on a spacious parade, in a street not far from the church.
[378]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[379]Hutchins, in his “History of Dorset,” says, this “Fair is held in thechurchyard,[381]on the first Monday after the feast of St. Michael, (O. S.) and is a great holyday for the inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood. It is ushered in by the ringing of the great bell, at a very early hour in the morning, and by the boys and young men perambulating the street with cows’ horns, to the no small annoyance of their less wakeful neighbours. It has been an immemorial custom in Sherborne, for the boys to blow horns in the evenings in the streets, for some weeks before the fair.”
[380]A tall and portly dame, six feet full, with a particular screw of the mouth, and whom the writer recollects when he was a mere child, thirty years ago; none who have seen and heard her once, but will recollect her as long as they live.
[381]The fair has been removed from the churchyard about six or seven years, and is now held on a spacious parade, in a street not far from the church.
This is “Old Michaelmas Day.”
On the 11th of October, 1797, admiral Duncan obtained a splendid victory over the Dutch fleet off Camperdown, near the isle of Texel, on the coast of Holland. For this memorable achievement he was created a viscount, with a pension of two thousand pounds per annum. His lordship died on the 4th of August, 1804; he was born at Dundee, in Scotland, on the 1st of July, 1731. After the battle of Camperdown was decided, he called his crew together in the presence of the captured Dutch admiral, who was greatly affected by the scene, and Duncan kneeling on the deck, with every man under his command, “solemnly and pathetically offered up praise and thanksgiving to the God of battles;—strongly proving the truth of the assertion, that piety and courage should be inseparably allied, and that the latter without the former loses its principalvirtue.”[382]
Mean Temperature 51·82.
[382]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.
[382]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.
On the 12th of October, 1748, was born at St. John’s near Worcester, Mr. William Butler, the author of “Chronological, Biographical, Historical, and Miscellaneous Exercises,” an excellent work, for young persons especially, a useful compendium in every library, and one to which the editor of theEvery-Day Bookhas been indebted as a ready guide to many interesting and important events.
In the seventh edition of Mr. Butler’s work just mentioned, we are informed by his son, Mr. John Olding Butler, that his father was educated in the city of Worcester. Having acquired considerable knowledge, and especially an excellent style of penmanship, he in 1765 repaired to the metropolis, and commenced his career as a teacher of writing and geography. In these branches of education he attained the highest repute on account of the improvements which were introduced by him in his mode of instruction. His copies were derived from the sources of geography, history, and biographical memoirs. A yet more extensive and permanent benefit was conferred upon young persons by the many useful and ingeniousworks which he published, alistof which is subjoined. They contain a mass of information, both instructive and entertaining, rarely collected in one form, and are admirably adapted to promote the great design of their author—the moral, intellectual, and religious improvement of the rising generation; to this he consecrated all his faculties, the stores of his memory, and the treasures of his knowledge.
As a practical teacher Mr. Butler had few superiors, and his success in life was commensurate with his merit: he was the most popular instructor in his line.
A strict probity, an inviolable regard to truth, an honourable independence of mind, and a diffusive benevolence, adorned his moral character; and to these eminent virtues must be added, that of a rigid economy and improvement of time, for which he was most remarkable. How much he endeavoured to inculcate that which he deemed the foundation of every virtue, the principle of religion, may be seen in his “Chronological, &c., Exercises:” to impress this principle on the youthful heart and mind was considered by him as the highest duty. Mr. Butler’s professional labours were commenced at the early age of seventeen, and were continued with indefatigable ardour to the last year of his life, a period of fifty-seven years. In estimating the value of such a man, we should combine his moral principle with his literary employments; these were formed by him into duties, which he most conscientiously discharged: and he will be long remembered as one who communicated to a large and respectable circle of pupils solid information, examples of virtue, and the means of happiness; and who, in an age fruitful of knowledge, by his writings instructed, and will long continue to instruct the rising generation, and benefit mankind. His virtues will live and have a force beyond the grave.
Mr. Butler died at Hackney, August 1, 1822, after a painful illness, borne with exemplary patience and resignation. He was one of the oldest inhabitants of that parish, and was interred there, by his own desire, in the burying-ground attached to the meeting-house of his friend, the late Rev. Samuel Palmer.
A list of Mr. Butler’s books for the use of young persons.
1.Chronological Exercises, already mentioned. Price 6s.bound.
2. An engravedIntroductiontoArithmetic, designed to facilitate young beginners, and to diminish the labour of the tutor. 4s.6d.bound.
3.Arithmetical Questions, on a new plan; intended to answer the double purpose of arithmetical instruction and miscellaneous information. 6s.bound.
4.GeographicalandBiographical Exercises, on a new plan. 4s.
5.Exerciseson theGlobes, interspersed with historical, biographical, chronological, mythological, and miscellaneous information, on a new plan. The ninth edition. 6s.bound.
6. A numerous collection ofArithmetical Tables. 8d.
7.Geographical Exercises in the New Testament; with maps, and a brief account of the principal religious sects. 5s.6d.bound.
8.Miscellaneous Questions, relating principally to English history and biography. Second edition, enlarged. 4s.
Mr.Bourn, son-in-law of Mr. Butler, and his associate in his profession upwards of thirty years, purchased the copyright of the greater part of Mr. Butler’s works. They have passed through a number of editions, and if theEvery-Day Bookextend a knowledge of their value, it will be to the certain benefit of those for whose use they were designed. The envious and suspicious may deny that there is such a quality as “disinterestedness in human actions,” yet the editor has neither friendship nor intimacy with any one whom this notice may appear to favour. He only knows Mr. Butler’s books, and therefore recommends them as excellent aids to parents and teachers.
Mean Temperature 50·10.
This notice of the day in the church of England calendar and almanacs, denotes it as the festival of the translation of king Edward theConfessor.[383]
Edward the Confessor died on the 5th of January, 1066, and was buried in theabbey church of St. Peter, Westminster. “His queen, Edgitha, survived the saint many years;” she was buried beside him, and her coffin was covered with plates of silver and gold. According to his biographers, in 1102, the body of St. Edward was found entire, the limbs flexible, and the clothes fresh. The bishop of Rochester “out of a devout affection, endeavoured to pluck onely one hayre from his head, but it stuck so firmly that he was defeated of his desire.” This was at the saint’s first translation. Upon miracles “duly proved, the saint was canonized by Alexander III., in 1161.” It appears that “there are commemorated severall translations of his sacred body.” In 1163, “it was again translated by S. Thomas à Becket, archbishop of Canterbury, in the presence of king Henry II. This translation seems to have been made on the 13th of October; for on that day “he is commemorated in our martyrologe, whereas in the Roman he is celebrated on the 5th of January.” It further appears that, “about a hundred years after, in the presence of king Henry III., it was again translated, and reposed in a golden shrine, prepared for it by the sameking.[384]
The see of Rome is indebted to Edward the Confessor for a grant to the pope of what was then called Rome-scot, but is now better known by the name of “Peterpenny.” The recollection of this tribute is maintained by the common saying “no penny, no paternoster;” of which there is mention in the following poem from the“Hesperides:”—