SEPTEMBER.

The harvest-men ring Summer outWith thankful song, and joyous shout;And, when September comes, they hailThe Autumn with the flapping flail.*

The harvest-men ring Summer outWith thankful song, and joyous shout;And, when September comes, they hailThe Autumn with the flapping flail.

This besides being named “gerst-monat” by theAnglo-Saxons,[328]they also calledhaligemonath, or the “holy-month,” from an ancient festival held at this season of the year. A Saxon menology, or register of the months, (in Wanley’s addition to Hickes,) mentions it under that denomination, and gives its derivation in words which are thus literally translated “haligemonath—for that ourforefathers, the while they heathens were, on this month celebrated theirdevil-gild.” To inquire concerning an exposition which appears so much at variance with this old name, is less requisite than to take a calm survey of the month itself.

I at my window sit, and seeAutumn his russet fingers layOn every leaf of every tree;I call, but summer will not stay.She flies, the boasting goddess flies,And, pointing where espaliers shoot,Deserve my parting gift, she cries,I take the leaves, but not the fruit.

I at my window sit, and seeAutumn his russet fingers layOn every leaf of every tree;I call, but summer will not stay.

She flies, the boasting goddess flies,And, pointing where espaliers shoot,Deserve my parting gift, she cries,I take the leaves, but not the fruit.

Still, at thisseason—

The rainbow comes and goes,The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;—But yet we know, where’er we go,That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

“I am sorry to mention it,” says the author of theMirror of the Months, “but the truth must be told even in a matter of age. The year then is on the wane. It is ‘declining into the vale’ of months. It has reached ‘a certain age.’—It has reached the summit of the hill, and is not only looking, but descending, into the valley below. But, unlike that into which the life of man declines,thisis not a vale of tears; still less does it, like that, lead to that inevitable bourne, the kingdom of the grave. For though it may be called (I hope without the semblance of profanation) ‘the valley of theshadowof death,’ yet of death itself it knows nothing. No—the year steps onward towards its temporary decay, if not so rejoicingly, even more majestically and gracefully, than it does towards its revivification. And if September is not so bright with promise, and so buoyant with hope, as May, it is even more embued with that spirit of serene repose, in which the only true, because the only continuous enjoyment consists. Spring ‘neveris, but alwaysto beblest;’ but September is the month of consummations—the fulfiller of all promises—the fruition of all hopes—the era of all completeness.

“The sunsets of September in this country are perhaps unrivalled, for their infinite variety, and their indescribable beauty. Those of more southern countries may, perhaps, match or even surpass them, for a certain glowing and unbroken intensity. But for gorgeous variety of form and colour, exquisite delicacy of tint and pencilling, and a certain placid sweetness and tenderness of general effect, which frequently arises out of a union of the two latter, there is nothing to be seen like what we can show in England at this season of the year. If a painter, who was capable of doing it to the utmost perfection, were to dare depict on canvas one out of twenty of the sunsets that we frequently have during this month, he would be laughed at for his pains. And the reason is, that people judge of pictures by pictures. They compare Hobbima with Ruysdael, and Ruysdael with Wynants, and Wynants with Wouvermans, and Wouvermans with Potter, and Potter with Cuyp; and then they think the affair can proceed no farther. And the chances are, that if you were to show one of the sunsets in question to a thorough-paced connoisseur in this department of fine art, he would reply, that it was very beautiful, to be sure, but that he must beg to doubt whether it wasnatural, for he had never seen one like it in any of the old masters!”

In the “Poetical Calendar” there is the following address “to Mr. Hayman,” probably Francis Hayman, the painter of Vauxhall-gardens, who is known to us all, through early editions of several of our good authors, “with copper-plates, designed by Mr. Hayman.”

An Autumnal Ode.Yet once more, glorious God of day,While beams thine orb serene,O let me warbling court thy stayTo gild the fading scene!Thy rays invigorate the spring,Bright summer to perfection bring,The cold inclemency of winter cheer,And make th’ autumnal months the mildest of the year.Ere yet the russet foliage fallI’ll climb the mountain’s brow,My friend, my Hayman, at thy call,To view the scene below:How sweetly pleasing to beholdForests of vegetable gold!How mix’d the many chequer’d shades betweenThe tawny, mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green!How splendid all the sky! how still!How mild the dying gale!How soft the whispers of the rill,That winds along the vale!So tranquil nature’s works appear,It seems the sabbath of the year:As if, the summer’s labour past, she choseThis season’s sober calm for blandishing repose.Such is of well-spent life the time,When busy days are past;Man, verging gradual from his prime,Meets sacred peace at last:His flowery spring of pleasures o’er,And summer’s full-bloom pride no more,He gains pacific autumn, mild and bland,And dauntless braves the stroke of winter’s palsied hand.For yet a while, a little while,Involv’d in wintry gloom,And lo! another spring shall smile,A spring eternal bloom:Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,In the bright mansions of the blest,Where due rewards on virtue are bestow’d,And reap’d the golden fruits of what his autumn sow’d.

An Autumnal Ode.

Yet once more, glorious God of day,While beams thine orb serene,O let me warbling court thy stayTo gild the fading scene!Thy rays invigorate the spring,Bright summer to perfection bring,The cold inclemency of winter cheer,And make th’ autumnal months the mildest of the year.Ere yet the russet foliage fallI’ll climb the mountain’s brow,My friend, my Hayman, at thy call,To view the scene below:How sweetly pleasing to beholdForests of vegetable gold!How mix’d the many chequer’d shades betweenThe tawny, mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green!How splendid all the sky! how still!How mild the dying gale!How soft the whispers of the rill,That winds along the vale!So tranquil nature’s works appear,It seems the sabbath of the year:As if, the summer’s labour past, she choseThis season’s sober calm for blandishing repose.Such is of well-spent life the time,When busy days are past;Man, verging gradual from his prime,Meets sacred peace at last:His flowery spring of pleasures o’er,And summer’s full-bloom pride no more,He gains pacific autumn, mild and bland,And dauntless braves the stroke of winter’s palsied hand.For yet a while, a little while,Involv’d in wintry gloom,And lo! another spring shall smile,A spring eternal bloom:Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,In the bright mansions of the blest,Where due rewards on virtue are bestow’d,And reap’d the golden fruits of what his autumn sow’d.

Ere yet the russet foliage fallI’ll climb the mountain’s brow,My friend, my Hayman, at thy call,To view the scene below:How sweetly pleasing to beholdForests of vegetable gold!How mix’d the many chequer’d shades betweenThe tawny, mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green!

How splendid all the sky! how still!How mild the dying gale!How soft the whispers of the rill,That winds along the vale!So tranquil nature’s works appear,It seems the sabbath of the year:As if, the summer’s labour past, she choseThis season’s sober calm for blandishing repose.

Such is of well-spent life the time,When busy days are past;Man, verging gradual from his prime,Meets sacred peace at last:His flowery spring of pleasures o’er,And summer’s full-bloom pride no more,He gains pacific autumn, mild and bland,And dauntless braves the stroke of winter’s palsied hand.

For yet a while, a little while,Involv’d in wintry gloom,And lo! another spring shall smile,A spring eternal bloom:Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,In the bright mansions of the blest,Where due rewards on virtue are bestow’d,And reap’d the golden fruits of what his autumn sow’d.

It is remarked by the gentleman-usher of the year, that “the fruit garden is one scene of tempting profusion.

“Against the wall, the grapes have put on that transparent look which indicates their complete ripeness, and have dressed their cheeks in that delicate bloom which enables them to bear away the bell of beauty from all their rivals. The peaches and nectarines have become fragrant, and the whole wall where they hang is ‘musical with bees.’ Along the espaliers, the rosy-cheeked apples look out from among their leaves, like laughing children peeping at each other through screens of foliage; and the young standards bend their straggling boughs to the earth with the weight of their produce.

“Let us not forget to add, that there isonepart of London which is never out of season, and is never moreinseason than now. Covent-garden market is still the garden of gardens; and as there is not a month in all the year in which it does not contrive to belie something or other that has been said in the foregoing pages, as to the particular season of certain flowers, fruits, &c., so now it offers the flowers and the fruits of every season united. How it becomes possessed of all these, I shall not pretend to say: but thus much I am bound to add by way of information,—that those ladies and gentlemen who have country-houses in the neighbourhood of Clapham-common or Camberwell-grove, may now have the pleasure of eating the best fruit out of their own gardens—provided they choose to pay the price of it in Covent-gardenmarket.”[329]

The observer of nature, where nature can alone be fully enjoyed, will perceive, that, in this month, “among the birds, we have something like a renewal of the spring melodies. In particular, the thrush and blackbird, who have been silent for several weeks, recommence their songs,—bidding good bye to the summer, in the same subdued tone in which they hailed her approach—wood-owls hoot louder than ever; and the lambs bleat shrilly from the hill-side to their neglectful dams; and the thresher’s flail is heard from the unseen barn; and the plough-boy’s whistle comes through the silent air from the distant upland; and snakes leave their last year’s skins in the brakes—literally creeping out at their own mouths; and acorns drop in showers from the oaks, at every wind that blows; and hazel-nuts ask to be plucked, so invitingly do they look forth from their green dwellings; and, lastly, the evenings close in too quickly upon the walks to which their serene beauty invites us, and the mornings get chilly, misty, and damp.”

Finally, “another singular sight belonging to this period, is the occasional showers of gossamer that fall from the upper regions of the air, and cover every thing like a veil of woven silver. You may see them descending through the sunshine, and glittering and flickering in it, like rays of another kind of light. Or if you are in time to observe them before the sun has dried the dew from off them in the early morning, they look like robes of fairy tissue-work, gemmed with innumerablejewels.”[330]

September.An Ode.Farewell the pomp of Flora! vivid scene!Welcome sage Autumn, to invert the year—Farewell to summer’s eye-delighted green!Her verdure fades—autumnal blasts are near.The silky wardrobe now is laid aside,With all the rich regalia of her pride.And must we bid sweet Philomel adieu?She that was wont to charm us in the grove?Must Nature’s livery wear a sadder hue,And a dark canopy be stretch’d above?Yes—for September mounts his ebon throne,And the smooth foliage of the plain is gone.Libra, to weigh the harvest’s pearly store,The golden balance poizes now on high,The calm serenity of Zephyr o’er,Sol’s glittering legions to th’ equator fly,At the same hour he shows his orient head,And, warn’d by Thetis, sinks in Ocean’s bed.Adieu! ye damask roses, which remindThe maiden fair-one, how her charms decay;Ye rising blasts, oh! leave some mark behind,Some small memorial of the sweets of May;Ah! no—the ruthless season will not hear,Nor spare one glory of the ruddy year.No more the waste of music sung so lateFrom every bush, green orchestre of love,For now their winds the birds of passage wait,And bid a last farewell to every grove;While those, whom shepherd-swains the sleepers call,Choose their recess in some sequester’d wall.Yet still shall sage September boast his pride,Some birds shall chant, some gayer flowers shall blow,Nor is the season wholly unalliedTo purple bloom; the haler fruits shall grow,The stronger plants, such as enjoy the cold,And wear a livelier grace by being old.

September.An Ode.

Farewell the pomp of Flora! vivid scene!Welcome sage Autumn, to invert the year—Farewell to summer’s eye-delighted green!Her verdure fades—autumnal blasts are near.The silky wardrobe now is laid aside,With all the rich regalia of her pride.And must we bid sweet Philomel adieu?She that was wont to charm us in the grove?Must Nature’s livery wear a sadder hue,And a dark canopy be stretch’d above?Yes—for September mounts his ebon throne,And the smooth foliage of the plain is gone.Libra, to weigh the harvest’s pearly store,The golden balance poizes now on high,The calm serenity of Zephyr o’er,Sol’s glittering legions to th’ equator fly,At the same hour he shows his orient head,And, warn’d by Thetis, sinks in Ocean’s bed.Adieu! ye damask roses, which remindThe maiden fair-one, how her charms decay;Ye rising blasts, oh! leave some mark behind,Some small memorial of the sweets of May;Ah! no—the ruthless season will not hear,Nor spare one glory of the ruddy year.No more the waste of music sung so lateFrom every bush, green orchestre of love,For now their winds the birds of passage wait,And bid a last farewell to every grove;While those, whom shepherd-swains the sleepers call,Choose their recess in some sequester’d wall.Yet still shall sage September boast his pride,Some birds shall chant, some gayer flowers shall blow,Nor is the season wholly unalliedTo purple bloom; the haler fruits shall grow,The stronger plants, such as enjoy the cold,And wear a livelier grace by being old.

And must we bid sweet Philomel adieu?She that was wont to charm us in the grove?Must Nature’s livery wear a sadder hue,And a dark canopy be stretch’d above?Yes—for September mounts his ebon throne,And the smooth foliage of the plain is gone.

Libra, to weigh the harvest’s pearly store,The golden balance poizes now on high,The calm serenity of Zephyr o’er,Sol’s glittering legions to th’ equator fly,At the same hour he shows his orient head,And, warn’d by Thetis, sinks in Ocean’s bed.

Adieu! ye damask roses, which remindThe maiden fair-one, how her charms decay;Ye rising blasts, oh! leave some mark behind,Some small memorial of the sweets of May;Ah! no—the ruthless season will not hear,Nor spare one glory of the ruddy year.

No more the waste of music sung so lateFrom every bush, green orchestre of love,For now their winds the birds of passage wait,And bid a last farewell to every grove;While those, whom shepherd-swains the sleepers call,Choose their recess in some sequester’d wall.

Yet still shall sage September boast his pride,Some birds shall chant, some gayer flowers shall blow,Nor is the season wholly unalliedTo purple bloom; the haler fruits shall grow,The stronger plants, such as enjoy the cold,And wear a livelier grace by being old.

Mean Temperature 63·69.

[328]See vol. i. p. 1147.[329]Mirror of the Months.[330]Ibid.

[328]See vol. i. p. 1147.

[329]Mirror of the Months.

[330]Ibid.

This popular patron of the London district, which furnishes the “Mornings at Bow-street” with a large portion of amusement, is spoken of in vol. i. col. 1149.

Until this day partridges are protected by act of parliament from those who are “privileged to kill.”

In the shooting season of 1821, a fashionably dressed young man applied to sir Robert Baker for a license to kill—notgame, butthieves. This curious application was made in the most serious and business-like manner imaginable. “Can I be permitted to speak a few words to you, sir?” said the applicant. “Certainly, sir,” replied sir Robert. “Then I wish to ask you, sir, whether, if I am attacked by thieves in the streets or roads, I should be justified in using fire-arms against them, and putting them to death?” Sir Robert Baker replied, that every man had a right to defend himself from robbers in the best manner he could; but at the same time he would not be justified in using fire-arms, except in cases of the utmost extremity. “Oh! I am very much obliged to you, sir; and I can be furnished at this office with a license to carry arms for that purpose?” The answer, of course, was given in the negative, though not without a good deal of surprise at such a question, and the inquirer bowed and withdrew.

The first of September.Here the rude clamour of the sportsman’s joy,The gun fast-thundering, and the winded horn,Would tempt the muse to sing therural game:How, in his mid-career, the spaniel struck,Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose,Out-stretched, and finely sensible,drawsfull,Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey;As in the sun the circling covey baskTheir varied plumes, and watchful every wayThrough the rough stubble turn the secret eye.Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beatTheir idle wings, entangled more and more:Nor on the surges of the boundless air,Though borne triumphant, are they safe; the gun,Glanc’d just, and sudden, from the fowler’s eye,O’ertakes their sounding pinions; and again,Immediate brings them from the towering wing,Dead to the ground: or drives them wide-dispers’d,Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind.These are not subjects for the peaceful muse,Nor will she stain with such her spotless song;Then most delighted, when she social seesThe whole mix’d animal creation roundAlive, and happy. ’Tis not joy to her,This falsely-cheerful barbarous game of deathThis rage of pleasure, which the restless youthAwakes impatient, with the gleaming morn;When beasts of prey retire, that all night long,Urg’d by necessity, had rang’d the dark,As if their conscious ravage shunn’d the light,Asham’d. Not so the steady tyrant man,Who with the thoughtless insolence of powerInflam’d, beyond the most infuriate wrathOf the worst monster that e’er roam’d the waste,For sport alone pursues the cruel chase,Amid the beamings of the gentle days.Upbraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage,For hunger kindles you, and lawless want;But lavish fed, in nature’s bounty roll’d,To joy at anguish, and delight in blood,Is what your horrid bosoms never knew.

The first of September.

Here the rude clamour of the sportsman’s joy,The gun fast-thundering, and the winded horn,Would tempt the muse to sing therural game:How, in his mid-career, the spaniel struck,Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose,Out-stretched, and finely sensible,drawsfull,Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey;As in the sun the circling covey baskTheir varied plumes, and watchful every wayThrough the rough stubble turn the secret eye.Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beatTheir idle wings, entangled more and more:Nor on the surges of the boundless air,Though borne triumphant, are they safe; the gun,Glanc’d just, and sudden, from the fowler’s eye,O’ertakes their sounding pinions; and again,Immediate brings them from the towering wing,Dead to the ground: or drives them wide-dispers’d,Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind.These are not subjects for the peaceful muse,Nor will she stain with such her spotless song;Then most delighted, when she social seesThe whole mix’d animal creation roundAlive, and happy. ’Tis not joy to her,This falsely-cheerful barbarous game of deathThis rage of pleasure, which the restless youthAwakes impatient, with the gleaming morn;When beasts of prey retire, that all night long,Urg’d by necessity, had rang’d the dark,As if their conscious ravage shunn’d the light,Asham’d. Not so the steady tyrant man,Who with the thoughtless insolence of powerInflam’d, beyond the most infuriate wrathOf the worst monster that e’er roam’d the waste,For sport alone pursues the cruel chase,Amid the beamings of the gentle days.Upbraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage,For hunger kindles you, and lawless want;But lavish fed, in nature’s bounty roll’d,To joy at anguish, and delight in blood,Is what your horrid bosoms never knew.

These are not subjects for the peaceful muse,Nor will she stain with such her spotless song;Then most delighted, when she social seesThe whole mix’d animal creation roundAlive, and happy. ’Tis not joy to her,This falsely-cheerful barbarous game of deathThis rage of pleasure, which the restless youthAwakes impatient, with the gleaming morn;When beasts of prey retire, that all night long,Urg’d by necessity, had rang’d the dark,As if their conscious ravage shunn’d the light,Asham’d. Not so the steady tyrant man,Who with the thoughtless insolence of powerInflam’d, beyond the most infuriate wrathOf the worst monster that e’er roam’d the waste,For sport alone pursues the cruel chase,Amid the beamings of the gentle days.Upbraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage,For hunger kindles you, and lawless want;But lavish fed, in nature’s bounty roll’d,To joy at anguish, and delight in blood,Is what your horrid bosoms never knew.

So sings the muse of “The Seasons” on the one side; on the other, we have “the lay of the last minstrel” in praise of “Fowling,” the “rev. John Vincent, B. A. curate of Constantine, Cornwall,” whose “passion for rural sports, and the beauties of nature,” gave birth to “a poem where nature and sport were to be the only features of the picture,” and wherein he thus describes.

Full of th’ expected sport my heart beats high,And with impatient step I haste to reachThe stubbles, where the scatter’d ears affordA sweet repast to the yet heedless game.How my brave dogs o’er the broad furrows bound,Quart’ring their ground exactly. Ah! that pointAnswers my eager hopes, and fills my breastWith joy unspeakable. How close they lie!Whilst to the spot with steady pace I tend.Now from the ground with noisy wing they burst,And dart away. My victim singled out,In his aërial course falls short, nor skimsTh’ adjoining hedge o’er which the rest unhurtHave pass’d. Now let us from that lofty hedgeSurvey with heedful eye the country round;That we may bend our course once more to meetThe scatter’d covey: for no marker waitsUpon my steps, though hill and valley here,With shrubby copse, and far extended brakeOf high-grown furze, alternate rise around.Inviting is the view,—far to the rightIn rows of dusky green, potatoes stretch,With turnips mingled of a livelier hue.Towards the vale, fenc’d by the prickly furzeThat down the hill irregularly slopes,Upwards they seem’d to fly; nor is their flightLong at this early season. Let us beat,With diligence and speed restrain’d, the ground,Making each circuit good.Near yonder hedge-row where high grass and fernsThe secret hollow shade, my pointers stand.How beautiful they look! with outstretch’d tails,With heads immovable and eyes fast fix’d,One fore-leg rais’d and bent, the other firm,Advancing forward, presses on the ground!Convolv’d and flutt’ring on the blood stain’d earth,The partridge lies:—thus one by one they fall,Save what with happier fate escape untouch’d,And o’er the open fields with rapid speedTo the close shelt’ring covert wing their way.When to the hedge-rows thus the birds repair,Most certain is our sport; but oft in brakesSo deep they lie, that far above our headThe waving branches close, and vex’d we hearThe startled covey one by one make off.Now may we visit some remoter ground;My eager wishes are insatiate yet,And end but with the sun.Yet happy he,Who ere the noontide beams inflame the skies,Has bagg’d the spoil; with lighter step he treads,Nor faints so fast beneath the scorching ray.The morning hours well spent, should mighty toilRequire some respite, he content can seekTh’ o’er-arching shade, or to the friendly farmBetake him, where with hospitable handHis simple host brings forth the grateful draughtOf honest home-brew’d beer, or cider cool.Such friendly treatment may each fowler findWho never violates the farmer’s rights,Nor with injurious violence, invadesHis fields of standing corn. Let us forbearSuch cruel wrong, though on the very vergeOf the high waving field our days should point.

Inviting is the view,—far to the rightIn rows of dusky green, potatoes stretch,With turnips mingled of a livelier hue.Towards the vale, fenc’d by the prickly furzeThat down the hill irregularly slopes,Upwards they seem’d to fly; nor is their flightLong at this early season. Let us beat,With diligence and speed restrain’d, the ground,Making each circuit good.

Near yonder hedge-row where high grass and fernsThe secret hollow shade, my pointers stand.How beautiful they look! with outstretch’d tails,With heads immovable and eyes fast fix’d,One fore-leg rais’d and bent, the other firm,Advancing forward, presses on the ground!Convolv’d and flutt’ring on the blood stain’d earth,The partridge lies:—thus one by one they fall,Save what with happier fate escape untouch’d,And o’er the open fields with rapid speedTo the close shelt’ring covert wing their way.

When to the hedge-rows thus the birds repair,Most certain is our sport; but oft in brakesSo deep they lie, that far above our headThe waving branches close, and vex’d we hearThe startled covey one by one make off.Now may we visit some remoter ground;My eager wishes are insatiate yet,And end but with the sun.Yet happy he,Who ere the noontide beams inflame the skies,Has bagg’d the spoil; with lighter step he treads,Nor faints so fast beneath the scorching ray.The morning hours well spent, should mighty toilRequire some respite, he content can seekTh’ o’er-arching shade, or to the friendly farmBetake him, where with hospitable handHis simple host brings forth the grateful draughtOf honest home-brew’d beer, or cider cool.Such friendly treatment may each fowler findWho never violates the farmer’s rights,Nor with injurious violence, invadesHis fields of standing corn. Let us forbearSuch cruel wrong, though on the very vergeOf the high waving field our days should point.

The pen of a country gentleman communicates an account of a remarkable character created by “love of thegun.”

For the Every-Day Book.

About sixty years ago, at Loscoe, a small village in Derbyshire, lived James Woolley, notorious for three things, the very good clocks he made, his eccentric system of farming, and the very great care he took of his money. He was, like Elwes and Dancer, an old bachelor, and for the same reason, it was a favourite maxim with him, and ever upon his lips, that “fine wives and fine gardens are mighty expensive things:” he consequently kept at a very respectful distance from both. He had, indeed, an unconquerable dread of any thing “fine,” or that approached in any way that awful and ghost-like term “expensive.”

It would seem that Woolley’s avaricious bias, was not, as is generally the case, his first ruling passion, though a phrenologist, might entertain a different opinion. “When young,” says Blackner in his History of Nottinghamshire, “he was partial to shooting; but being detected at his sport upon the estate of the depravedWilliam Andrew Horne, Esq. of Butterly (who was executed on the 11th of December, 1759, at Nottingham, for the murder of a child) and compelled by him to pay the penalty, he made a vow never to cease from labour, except when nature compelled him, till he had obtained sufficient property to justify him in following his favourite sport, without dreading the frowns of his haughty neighbour. He accordingly fell to work, and continued at it till he was weary, when he rested, and “to it again,”—a plan which he pursued without any regard to night or day. He denied himself the use of an ordinary bed, and of every other comfort, as well as necessary, except of the meanest kind. But when he had acquired property to qualify him to carry a gun, he had lost all relish for the sport; and he continued to labour at clock-making, except when he found an opportunity of trafficking in land, till he had amassed a considerable fortune, which he bequeathed to one of his relations. I believe he died about 1770.”

It must have been a singular spectacle to any one except Woolley’s neighbours, who were the daily observers of his habits, to have seen a man worth upwards of 20,000l.up at five in the morning brushing away with his bare feet the dew as he fetched up his cows from the pasture, his shoes and stockings carefully held under his arm to prevent them from being injured by the wet; though, by the by, a glance at them would have satisfied any one they had but little to fear from the dew or any thing else. A penny loaf boiled in a small piece of linen, made him an excellent pudding; this with a halfpenny worth of small beer from the village alehouse was his more than ordinary dinner, and rarely sported unless on holydays, or when he had a friend or tenant to share the luxury.

Once in his life Woolley was convicted of liberality. He had at great labour and expense of time made, what he considered, a clock of considerable value, and, as it was probably too large for common purposes, he presented it to the corporation of Nottingham, for the exchange. In return he was made a freeman of the town. They could not have conferred on him a greater favour: the honour mattered not—but election-dinners were things which powerfully appealed through his stomach to his heart. The first he attended was productive of a ludicrous incident. His shabby and vagrant appearance nearly excluded him from the scene of good-eating, and even when the burgesses sat down to table, no one seemed disposed to accommodate the miserly old gentleman with a seat. The chairs were quickly filled: having no time to lose, he crept under the table and thrusting up his head forced himself violently into one, but not before he had received some heavy blows on the bare skull.

The most prominent incident in his history, was a ploughing scheme of his own invention. He had long lamented that he kept horses at a great expense for the purposes of husbandry. To have kept a saddle-horse would have been extravagant—and at last fancying he could do without them, they were sold, and the money carefully laid by. This was a triumph—a noble saving! The winter passed away, and his hay and corn-stacks stood undiminished; ploughing time however arrived, and his new plan must be carried into effect. The plough was drawn from its inglorious resting-place, and a score men were summoned from the village to supply the place of horses. At the breakfast-table he was not without fears of a famine—he could starve himself, but a score of brawny villagers, hungry, and anticipating a hard day’s work, would eat, and drink too, and must be satisfied. They soon proceeded to the field, where a long continued drought had made the ground almost impenetrable; the day became excessively hot, and the men tugged and puffed to little purpose; they again ate heartily, and drank more good ale than the old man had patience to think of; and difficult as it was, to force the share through the unyielding sward, it was still more difficult to refrain from laughing out at the grotesque figure their group presented. They made many wry faces, and more wry furrows, and spoiled with their feet what they had not ploughed amiss. But this was not all. Had a balloon been sent up from the field it could scarcely have drawn together more intruders; he tried, but in vain, to keep them off; they thronged upon him from all quarters; his gates were all set open or thrown off the hooks; and the fences broken down in every direction. Woolley perceived his error; the men, the rope traces, and the plough were sent home in a hurry, and with some blustering, and many oaths, the trespassers were got rid of. The fences were mended, and the gates replaced,and having to his heart’s content gratified his whim, he returned to the old-fashioned custom of ploughing with horses, until in his brains’ fertility he could discover something better and less “expensive!”

Mean Temperature 60·40.

This notice in our almanacs was descriptively illustrated in vol. i. col. 1150-1165.

Another year arrives, and spite of corporation “resolutions,” and references to “the committee,” and “reports,” and “recommendations,” to abolish the fair, it is held again. “Now,” says an agreeable observer, “Now arrives that Saturnalia of nondescript noise and nonconformity, ‘Bartlemy fair;’—when that prince of peace-officers, the lord mayor, changes his sword of state into a sixpenny trumpet, and becomes the lord of misrule and the patron of pickpockets; and lady Holland’s name leads an unlettered mob instead of a lettered one; when Mr. Richardson maintains, during three whole days and a half, a managerial supremacy that must be not a little enviable even in the eyes of Mr. Elliston himself; and Mr. Gyngell holds, during the same period, a scarcely less distinguished station as the Apollo of servant-maids; when ‘the incomparable (not to sayeternal)youngMaster Saunders’ rides on horseback to the admiration of all beholders, in the person of his eldest son; and when all the giants in the land, and the dwarfs too, make a general muster, and each proves to be, according to the most correct measurement, at least a foot taller or shorter than any other in the fair, and in fact, the only one worth seeing,—‘all the rest being impostors!’ In short, when every booth in the fair combines in itself the attractions of all the rest, and so perplexes with its irresistible merit the rapt imagination of the half-holyday schoolboys who have got but sixpence to spend upon the whole, that they eye the outsides of each in a state of pleasing despair, till their leave of absence is expired twice over, and then return home filled with visions of giants and gingerbread-nuts, and dream all night long of what they have notseen.”[331]

The almanac day for Bartholomew fair, is on the third of the month, which this year fell on a Sunday, and it being prescribed that the fair shall be proclaimed “on or before the third,” proclamation was accordingly made, and the fair commenced on Saturday the second of September, 1826. Its appearance on that and subsequent days, proves that it is going out like the lottery, by force of public opinion; for the people no longer buy lottery tickets even in “thelastlottery,” nor pay as they used to do at “Bartlemy fair.” There were this year only three shows at sixpence, and one at twopence; all the rest were “only a penny.”

Thesixpennyshows were, Clarke, with riders and tumblers; Richardson, with his tragi-comical company, enacting “Paul Pry;” and wicked Wombwell, with his fellow brutes.

In thetwopennyshow were four lively little crocodiles about twelve inches long, hatched from the eggs at Peckham, by steam; two larger crocodiles; four cages of fierce rattle snakes; and a dwarf lady.

In thepennyshows were a glass-blower, sitting at work in a glass wig, with rows of curls all over, making pretty little teacups at threepence each, and miniature tobacco pipes for a penny; he was assisted by a wretched looking female, who was a sword-swallower at the last figure, and figured in this by placing her feet on hot iron, and licking a poker nearly red hot with her tongue. In “Brown’s grand company from Paris,” there were juggling, tight-rope dancing, a learned horse, and playing on the salt-box with a rolling-pin, to a tune which is said to be peculiar to the pastime. The other penny shows were nearly as last year, and silver-haired ladies and dwarfs, more plentiful and less in demand than learned pigs, who, on that account, drew “good houses.”

In this year’s fair there was not one “up-and-down,” or “round-about.”

The west side of Giltspur-street was an attractive mart to certain “men of letters;” for the ground was covered with “relics of literature.” In the language of my informant, for I did not visit the fair myself, there was a “path of genius” from St. Sepulchre’s church to Cock-lane. He mentions that a person, apparently anagent of a religious society, was anxiously busy in the fair distributing a bill entitled—“Are you prepared to die?”

I am not learned in the history or the science of phrenology, but, unless I am mistaken, surely in the days of “craniology,” the organ of “inhabitiveness” was called the organ of “travelling.” Within the last minute I have felt my head in search of the development. I imagine it must be very palpable to the scientific, for I not only incline to wander but to locate. However that may be, I cannot find it myself—for want, I suppose, of a topographical view of the cranium, and I have not a copy of Mr. Cruikshank’s “Illustrations of Phrenology” to refer to.

At home, I always sit in the same place if I can make my way to it without disturbing the children; all of whom, by the by, (I speak of the younger ones,) are great sticklers for rights of sitting, and urge their claims on each other with a persistence which takes all my authority to abate. I have a habit, too, at a friend’s house of always preferring the seat I dropped into on my first visit; and the same elsewhere. The first time I went to the Chapter Coffee-house, some five-and-twenty years ago, I accidentally found myself alone with old Dr. Buchan, in the same box; it was by the fireplace on the left from Paternoster-row door: poor Robert Heron presently afterwards entered, and then a troop of the doctor’s familiars dropped in, one by one; and I sat in the corner, a stranger to all of them, and therefore a silent auditor of their pleasant disputations. At my next appearance I forbore from occupying the same seat, because it would have been an obtrusion on the literary community; but I got into the adjoining box, and that always, for the period of my then frequenting the house, was my coveted box. After an absence of twenty years, I returned to the “Chapter,” and involuntarily stepped to the old spot; it was pre-occupied; and in the doctor’s box were other faces, and talkers of other things. I strode away to a distant part of the room to an inviting vacancy, which, from that accident, and my propensity, became my desirable sitting place at every future visit. My strolls abroad are of the same character. I prefer walking where I walked when novelty was charming; where I can have the pleasure of recollecting that I formerly felt pleasure—of rising to the enjoyment of a spirit hovering over the remains it had animated.

One of my oldest, and therefore one of my still-admired walks is by the way of Islington. I am partial to it, because, when I was eleven years old, I went every evening from my father’s, near Red Lion-square, to a lodging in that village “for a consumption,” and returned the following morning. I thus became acquainted with Canonbury, and the Pied Bull, and Barnesbury-park, and White Conduit-house; and the intimacy has been kept up until presumptuous takings in, and enclosures, and new buildings, have nearly destroyed it. The old site seems like an old friend who has formed fashionable acquaintanceships, and lost his old heartwarming smiles in the constraint of a new face.

In my last Islington walk, I took a survey of the only remains of the Roman encampment, near Barnesbury-park. This is a quadrangle of about one hundred and thirty feet, surrounded by a fosse or ditch, about five-and-twenty feet wide, and twelve feet deep. It is close to the west side of the present end of the New Road, in a line with Penton-street; immediately opposite to it, on the east side of the road, is built a row of houses, at present uninhabited, called Minerva-place. This quadrangle is supposed to have been the prætorium or head quarters of Suetonius, when he engaged the British queen, Boadicea, about the year 60. The conflict was in the eastward valley below, at the back of Pentonville. Here Boadicea, with her two daughters before her in the same war-chariot, traversed the plain, haranguing her troops; telling them, as Tacitus records, “that it was usual to the Britons to war under the conduct of women,” and inciting them to “vengeance for the oppression of public liberty, for the stripes inflicted on her person, for the defilement of her virgin daughters;” declaring “that in that battle they must remain utterly victorious or utterly perish: such was the firm purpose of her who was a woman; the men, if they pleased, might still enjoy life and bondage.” The slaughter was terrible, eighty thousand of the Britons were left dead on the field; it terminated victoriously for the Romans, near Gray’s-inn-lane, at the place called “Battle Bridge,” in commemoration of the event.

Pretorium of the Roman Camp near Pentonville.

The pencil of the artist has been employed to give a correct and picturesquerepresentationas it now appears, in September, 1826, of the last vestige of the Roman power in this suburb. The view is taken from the north-east angle of the prætorium. Until within a few years the ground about it was unbroken; and, even now, the quadrangle itself is surprisingly complete, considering that nearly eighteen centuries have elapsed since it was formed by the Roman soldiery. In a short time the spirit of improvement will entirely efface it, and houses and gardens occupy its site. In the fosse of this station, which is overrun with sedge and brake, there is so pretty a “bit,” to use an artist’s word, that I have caused it to besketched.

The Old Well in the Fosse.

This may be more pleasantly regarded when the ancient works themselves have vanished. Within a few yards of the western side of the fosse, and parallel with it, there is raised a mound or rampart of earth. It is in its original state and covered with verdure. In fine mornings a stray valitudinarian or two may be seen pacing its summit. Its western slope has long been the Sunday resort of Irishmen for the game of foot-ball.

Getting back into the New Road, its street which stands on fields I rambled in when a boy, leads to “White Conduit-house,” which derives its name from a building still preserved, I was going to say, but I prefer to say, still standing.

The White Conduit.

Mr. Joseph Fussell who resides within sight of this little edifice, and whose pencil took the Roman general’s station, and the well, also drew this Conduit; and his neighbour, Mr. Henry White, engraved the three, as they now present themselves to the reader’s eye.

Theviewof the “White Conduit” is from the north, or back part, looking towards Pentonville, with Pancras new church and other buildings in the distance. It was erected over a head of water that formerly supplied the Charter-house, and bore a stone in front inscribed “T. S.” the initials of Sutton, the founder, with his arms, and the date“1641.”[332]

About 1810, the late celebrated Wm. Huntington, S.S., of Providence chapel, who lived in a handsome house within sight, was at the expense of clearing the spring for the use of the inhabitants; but, because his pulpit opinions were obnoxious, some of the neighbouring vulgar threw loads of soil upon it in the night, which rendered the water impure, and obstructed its channel, and finally ceasing to flow, the public was deprived of the kindness he proposed. The building itself was in a very perfect state at that time, and ought to have been boarded up after the field it stood in was thrown open. As the new buildings proceeded it was injured and defaced by idle labourers and boys, from mere wantonness and reduced to a mere ruin. There was a kind of upper floor or hayloft in it, which was frequently a shelter to the houseless wanderer. A few years ago some poorcreatures made it a comfortable hostel for the night, with a little hay. Early in the morning a passing workman perceived smoke issuing from the crevices, and as he approached heard loud cries from within. Some mischievous miscreants had set fire to the fodder beneath the sleepers, and afterwards fastened the door on the outside: the inmates were scorched by the fire, and probably they would all have been suffocated in a few minutes, if the place had not been broken open.

The “White Conduit” at this time merely stands to shame those who had the power, and neglected to preserve it. To the buildings grown up around, it might have been rendered a neat ornament, by planting a few trees and enclosing the whole with an iron railing, and have stood as a monument of departed worth. This vicinity was anciently full of springs and stone conduits; the erections have long since gone to decay, and from their many waters, only one has been preserved, which is notoriously deficient as a supply to the populous neighbourhood. During the heats of summer the inhabitants want this common element in the midst of plenty. The spring in a neighbouring street is frequently exhausted by three or four o’clock in the afternoon, the handle of the pump is then padlocked till the next morning, and the grateful and necessary refreshment of spring-water is not to be obtained without going miles in search of another pump. It would seem as if the parochial powers in this quarter were leagued with publicans and sinners, to compel the thirsty to buy deleterious beer and bowel-disturbing “pop,” or to swallow the New River water fresh with impurities from the thousands of people who daily cleanse their foul bodies in the stream, as it lags along for the use of our kitchens and tea-tables.

“White Conduit-house,” has ceased to be a recreation in the good sense of the word. Its present denomination is the “Minor Vauxhall,” and its chief attraction during the passing summer has been Mrs. Bland. She has still powers, and if their exercise here has been a stay and support to this sweet melodist, so far the establishment may be deemed respectable. It is a ground for balloon-flying and skittle-playing, and just maintains itself above the very lowest, so as to be one of the most doubtful places of public resort. Recollections of it some years ago are more in its favour. Its tea-gardens then in summer afternoons, were well accustomed by tradesmen and their families; they are now comparatively deserted, and instead, there is, at night, a starveling show of odd company and coloured lamps, a mock orchestra with mock singing, dancing in a room which decent persons would prefer to withdraw their young folks from if they entered, and fire-works “as usual,” which, to say the truth, are usually very good.

Such is the present state of a vicinage which, “in my time,” was the pleasantest near spot to the north of London. The meadow of the “White Conduit” commanded an extensive prospect of the Hampstead and Highgate hills, over beautiful pastures and hedge-rows which are now built on, or converted into brick clamps, for thematerialof irruption on the remaining glades. The pleasant views are wholly obstructed. In a few short years, London will distend its enormous bulk to the heights that overlook its proud city; and, like the locusts of old, devour every green field, and nothing will be left to me to admire, of all that I admired.

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