Literary Novelty.

[23]In Craven, the hay is not stacked as in the south, but housed in barns, which from this custom are called hay-mows.

“The Sybil’s Leaves,or a Peep into Futurity, published by Ackermann, Strand, and Lupton Relfe, Cornhill,” consist of sixty lithographic verses on as many cards, in a case bearing an engraved representation of a party in high humour consulting the cards. Thirty of them are designed for ladies, and as many for gentlemen: a lady is to hold the gentleman’s pack, andvice versa. From these packs, each lady or gentleman wishing to have “themost importantpointsinfalliblypredicted” is to draw a card.

The idea of telling fortunes at home is very pleasant; and the variety of “the Sybil’s Leaves” assists to as frequent opportunities of re-consultation as the most inveterate craver can desire. A lady condemned by one of the leaves to “wither on the virgin thorn,” on turning over a new leaf may chance to be assured of a delightful reverse; and by a like easy process, a “disappointed gentleman” become, at last, a “happy man.”

The ancient River Fleet at Clerkenwell.

Lo! hither Fleet-brookcame, in former times call’d the Fleet-river,Which navies once rode on, in present times hidden for ever,Save where water-cresses and sedge mark its oozing and creeping,In yonder old meadows, from whence it lags slowly—as weepingIts present misgivings, and obsolete use, and renown—And bearing its burdens of shame and abuse into town,On meeting the buildings sinks into the earth, nor aspiresTo decent-eyed people, till forced to the Thames at Blackfri’rs.*

In 1825, this was the first open view nearest London of the ancient River Fleet: it was taken during the building of the high-arched walls connected with the House of Correction, Cold-bath-fields, close to which prison the river ran, ashereseen. At that time, the newly-erected walls communicated a peculiarly picturesque effect to the stream flowing within their confines. It arrived thither from Bagnigge-wells, on its way to a covered channel, whereby it passes between Turnmill-street, and again emerging, crosses Chick-lane, now called West-street, near Field-lane, at the back of which it runs on, and continues under Holborn-bridge, Fleet-market, and Bridge-street, till it reaches the Thames, close to the stairs on the west side of Blackfriars-bridge. The bridge, whereby boys cross the stream in the engraving, is a large iron pipe for conveying water from the New River Company’s works, to supply the houses in Grays-inn-lane. A few years ago, the New River water was conducted across this valley through wooden pipes. Since the drawing was made, the Fleet has been diverted from the old bed represented in the print, through a large barrel drain, into the course just mentioned, near Turnmill-street. This notice of the deviation, and especially the last appearance of the river in its immemorial channel, may be of interest, because the Fleet is the only ancient stream runninginto London which is not yet wholly lost to sight.

The River Fleet at its source, in a field on the London side of the Hampstead ponds, is merely a sedgy ditchling, scarcely half a step across, and “winds its sinuosities along,” with little increase of width or depth, to the road from the Mother Red Cap to Kentish Town, beneath which road it passes through the pastures to Camden Town; and in one of these pastures, the canal, running through the Tunnel at Pentonville to the City-road, is conveyed over it by an arch. From this place its width increases, till it reaches towards the west side of the road leading from Pancras Workhouse to Kentish Town. In the rear of the houses on that side of the road, it becomes a brook, washing the edge of the garden in front of the premises late the stereotype-foundery and printing-offices of Mr. Andrew Wilson, which stand back from the road; and, cascading down behind the lower road-side houses, it reaches the Elephant and Castle, in front of which it tunnels to Battle-bridge, and there levels out to the eye, and runs sluggishly to Bagnigge-wells, where it is at its greatest width, which is about twelve feet across; from thence it narrows to the House of Correction, and widens again near Turnmill-street, and goes to the Thames, as above described.

In a parliament held at Carlile, in 35 Edward I., 1307, Henry Lacy earl of Lincoln complained that, in former times, the course of water running under Holborn-bridge and Fleet-bridge into the Thames, had been of such breadth and depth that ten or twelve ships at once, “navies with merchandise,” were wont to come to Fleet-bridge, and some of them to Holborn-bridge; yet that, by filth of the tanners and others, and by raising of wharfs, and especially by a diversion of the water in the first year of king John, 1200, by them of the New Temple, for their mills without Baynard’s Castle, and by other impediments, the course was decayed, and ships could not enter as they were used. On the prayer of the earl, the constable of the Tower, with the mayor and sheriffs of London, were directed to take with them honest and discreet men to inquire into the former state of the river, to leave nothing that might hurt or stop it, and to restore it to its wonted condition. Upon this, the river was cleansed, the mills were removed, and other means taken for the preservation of the course; but it was not brought to its old depth and breadth, and therefore it was no longer termed a river, but a brook, called Turne-mill or Tremill Brook, because mills were erected on it.

After this, it was cleansed several times; and particularly in 1502, the whole course of Fleet Dike, as it was then called, was scoured down to the Thames, so that boats with fish and fuel were rowed to Fleet-bridge and Holborn-bridge.

In 1589, by authority of the common council of London, a thousand marks were collected to draw several of the springs at Hampstead-heath into one head, for the service of the City with fresh water where wanted, and in order that by such “a follower,” as it was termed, the channel of the brook should be scoured into the Thames. After much money spent, the effect was not obtained, and in Stow’s time, by means of continual encroachments on the banks, and the throwing of soil into the stream, it became worse clogged thanever.[24]

After the Fire of London, the channel was made navigable for barges to come up, by the assistance of the tide from the Thames, as far as Holborn-bridge, where the Fleet, otherwise Turnmill-brook, fell into this, the wider channel; which had sides built of stone and brick, with warehouses on each side, running under the street, and used for the laying in of coals, and other commodities. This channel had five feet water, at the lowest tide, at Holborn-bridge, the wharfs on each side the channel were thirty feet broad, and rails of oak were placed along the sides of the ditch to prevent people from falling into it at night. There were four bridges of Portland stone over it; namely, at Bridewell, Fleet-street, Fleet-lane, and Holborn.

When the citizens proposed to erect a mansion-house for their lord mayor, they fixed on Stocks-market, where the Mansion-house now stands, for its site, and proposed to arch the Fleet-ditch, from Holborn to Fleet-street, and to remove that market to the ground they would gain by that measure. In 1733, therefore, they represented to the House of Commons, that although after the Fire of London the channel of the Fleet had been made navigable from the Thames to Holborn-bridge, yet the profits from the navigation had not answered the charge; that the part from Fleet-bridge to Holborn-bridge, instead of being useful to trade, had become choked with mud, and was therefore a nuisance, and that several persons had lost their livesby falling into it. For these and other causes assigned, an act passed, vesting the fee simple of the site referred to in the corporation for ever, on condition that drains should be made through the channel, and that no buildings on it should exceed fifteen feet in height. The ditch was accordingly arched over from Holborn to Fleet-bridge, where the present obelisk in Bridge-street now stands, and Fleet-market was erected on the arched ground, and opened with the business of Stocks-market, on the 30th of September, 1737.

In 1765, the building of Blackfriars-bridge rendered it requisite to arch over the remainder, from Fleet-bridge to the Thames; yet a small part remained an open dock for a considerable time, owing to the obstinate persistence of a privateproprietor.[25]

Previous to the first arching of the Fleet, Pope, in “The Dunciad,” imagined the votaries of Dulness diving and sporting in Fleet-ditch, which he then called

The king of dykes! than whom no sluice of mudWith deeper sable blots the silver flood.

“I recollect,” says Pennant, “the present noble approach to Blackfriars-bridge, the well-built opening of Chatham-place, a muddy and genuine ditch.” It has of late been rendered a convenient and capacious sewer.

During the digging of Fleet-ditch, in 1676, with a view to its improvement after the Fire of London, between the Fleet-prison and Holborn-bridge, at the depth of fifteen feet, several Roman utensils were discovered; and, a little lower, a great quantity of Roman coins, of silver, copper, brass, and various other metals, but none of gold; and at Holborn-bridge, two brass lares, or household gods, of the Romans, about four inches in length, were dug out; one a Ceres, and the other a Bacchus. The great quantity of coins, induces a presumption that they were thrown into this river by the Roman inhabitants of the city, on the entry of Boadicea, with her army of enraged Britons, who slaughtered their conquerors, without distinction of age or sex. Here also were found arrow-heads, spur-rowels of a hand’s breadth, keys, daggers, scales, seals with the proprietors’ names in Saxon characters, ship counters with Saxon characters, and a considerable number of medals, crosses, and crucifixes, of a more recentage.[26]

Sometime before the year 1714, Mr. John Conyers, an apothecary in Fleet-street, who made it his chief business to collect antiquities, which about that time were daily found in and about London, as he was digging in a field near the Fleet not far from Battle-bridge, discovered the body of an elephant, conjectured to have been killed there, by the Britons, in fight with the Romans; for, not far from the spot, was found an ancient British spear, the head of flint fastened into a shaft of goodlength.[27]From this elephant, the public-house near the spot where it was discovered, called the Elephant and Castle, derives its sign.

There are no memorials of the extent to which the river Fleet was anciently navigable, though, according to tradition, an anchor was found in it as high up as the Elephant and Castle, which is immediately opposite Pancras workhouse, and at the corner of the road leading from thence to Kentish-town. Until within these few years, it gave motion to flour and flatting mills at the back of Field-lane, nearHolborn.[28]

That the Fleet was once a very serviceable stream there can be no doubt, from what Stow relates. The level of the ground is favourable to the presumption, that its current widened and deepened for navigable purposes to a considerable extent in the valley between the Bagnigge-wells-road and Gray’s-inn, and that it might have had accessions to its waters from other sources, besides that in the vicinity of Hampstead. Stow speaks of it under the name of the “River of Wels, in the west part of the citie, andof oldso called of theWels;” and he tells of its running from the moor near the north corner of the wall of Cripplegate postern. This assertion, which relates to the reign of William the Conqueror, is controverted by Maitland, who imagines “great inattention” on the part of the old chronicler. It is rather to be apprehended, that Maitland was less an antiquary than an inconsiderate compiler. The drainage of the city has effaced proofs of many appearances which Stow relates as existing in his own time, but which there is abundant testimony of a different nature to corroborate; and, notwithstanding Maitland’s objection, there is sufficient reason to apprehend that the river of Wells and the Fleet river united and flowed, in the same channel, to the Thames.

[24]Stow’s Survey.[25]Noorthouck.[26]Maitland. Pennant.[27]Letter from Bagford to Hearne.[28]Nelson’s History of Islington.

[24]Stow’s Survey.

[25]Noorthouck.

[26]Maitland. Pennant.

[27]Letter from Bagford to Hearne.

[28]Nelson’s History of Islington.

If you areillat this season, there is no occasion to send for the doctor—onlystop eating. Indeed, upon general principles, it seems to me to be a mistake for people, every time there is any little thing the matter with them, to be running in such haste for the “doctor;” because, if you are going to die, a doctor can’t help you; and if you are not—there is no occasion forhim.[29]

Angling in January.Dark is the ever-flowing stream,And snow falls on the lake;For now the noontide sunny beamScarce pierces bower and brake;And flood, or envious frost, destroysA portion of the angler’s joys.Yet still we’ll talk of sports gone by,Of triumphs we have won,Of waters we again shall try,When sparkling in the sun;Of favourite haunts, by mead or dell.Haunts which the fisher loves so well.Of stately Thames, of gentle Lea,The merry monarch’s seat;Of Ditton’s stream, of Avon’s brae,Or Mitcham’s mild retreat;Of waters by the meer or mill,And all that tries the angler’s skill.Annals of Sporting.

Dark is the ever-flowing stream,And snow falls on the lake;For now the noontide sunny beamScarce pierces bower and brake;And flood, or envious frost, destroysA portion of the angler’s joys.Yet still we’ll talk of sports gone by,Of triumphs we have won,Of waters we again shall try,When sparkling in the sun;Of favourite haunts, by mead or dell.Haunts which the fisher loves so well.Of stately Thames, of gentle Lea,The merry monarch’s seat;Of Ditton’s stream, of Avon’s brae,Or Mitcham’s mild retreat;Of waters by the meer or mill,And all that tries the angler’s skill.

Dark is the ever-flowing stream,And snow falls on the lake;For now the noontide sunny beamScarce pierces bower and brake;And flood, or envious frost, destroysA portion of the angler’s joys.

Yet still we’ll talk of sports gone by,Of triumphs we have won,Of waters we again shall try,When sparkling in the sun;Of favourite haunts, by mead or dell.Haunts which the fisher loves so well.

Of stately Thames, of gentle Lea,The merry monarch’s seat;Of Ditton’s stream, of Avon’s brae,Or Mitcham’s mild retreat;Of waters by the meer or mill,And all that tries the angler’s skill.

Annals of Sporting.

The first Monday after Twelfth-day is so denominated, and it is the ploughman’s holyday.

Of late years at this season, in the islands of Scilly, the young people exercise a sort of gallantry called “goose-dancing.” The maidens are dressed up for young men, and the young men for maidens; and, thus disguised, they visit their neighbours in companies, where they dance, and make jokes upon what has happened in the island; and every one is humorously “told their own,” without offence being taken. By this sort of sport, according to yearly custom and toleration, there is a spirit of wit and drollery kept up among the people. The music and dancing done, they are treated with liquor, and then they go to the next house ofentertainment.[30]

[29]Monthly Magazine, January, 1827.[30]Strutt’s Sports, 307.

[29]Monthly Magazine, January, 1827.

[30]Strutt’s Sports, 307.

For the Table Book.

There is an artificial mount, by the side of the road leading from North Burton to Wold Newton, near Bridlington, in Yorkshire, called “Willy-howe,” much exceeding in size the generality of our “hows,” of which I have often heard the most preposterous stories related. A cavity or division on the summit is pointed out as owing its origin to the followingcircumstance:—

A person having intimation of a large chest of gold being buried therein, dug away the earth until it appeared in sight; he then had a train of horses, extending upwards of a quarter of a mile, attached to it by strong iron traces; by these means he was just on the point of accomplishing his purpose, when heexclaimed—

“Hop Perry, prow Mark,Whether God’s will or not, we’ll have this ark.”

He, however, had no sooner pronounced this awful blasphemy, than all the traces broke, and the chest sunk still deeper in the hill, where it yet remains, all his future efforts to obtain it being in vain.

The inhabitants of the neighbourhood also speak of the place being peopled with fairies, and tell of the many extraordinary feats which this diminutive race has performed. A fairy once told a man, to whom it appears she was particularly attached, if he went to the top of “Willy-howe” every morning, he would find a guinea; this information, however, was given under the injunction that he should not make the circumstance known to any other person. For some time he continued his visit, and always successfully; but at length, like our first parents, he broke the great commandment, and, by taking with him another person, not merely suffered the loss of the usual guinea, but met with a severe punishment from the fairies for his presumption. Many more are the tales which abound here, and which almost seem to have made this a consecrated spot; but how they could at first originate, is somewhat singular.

That “Hows,” “Carnedds,” and “Barrows,” are sepulchral, we can scarcely entertain a doubt, since in all that have been examined, human bones, rings, and other remains have been discovered. From the coins and urns found in some of them, they have been supposed the burial-places of Roman generals. “But as hydrotaphia, or urn-burial, was the custom among the Romans, and interment the practice of theBritons, it is reasonable to conjecture, where such insignia are discovered, the tumuli are the sepulchres of some British chieftains, who fell in the Roman service.” The size of each tumulus was in proportion to the rank and respect of the deceased; and the labour requisite to its formation was considerably lessened by the number employed, each inferior soldier being obliged to contribute a certain quantum to the general heap. That the one of which we are speaking is the resting-place of a great personage may be easily inferred, from its magnitude; its name also indicates the same thing, “Willy-howe,” beingthe hill of many, orthe hill made by many; for in Gibson’s Camden we find “WillyandViliamong the English Saxons, asVieleat this day among the Germans, signifiedmany. SoWillielmus, the defender of many.Wilfred, peace to many.” Supposing then a distinguished British chieftain, who fell in the imperial service, to have been here interred, we may readily imagine that the Romans and Britons would endeavour to stimulate their own party by making his merits appear as conspicuous as possible; and to impress an awe and a dread on the feelings of their enemies, they would not hesitate to practise what we may call a pardonable fraud, in a pretension that the fairies were his friends, and continued to work miracles at his tomb. At the first glance, this idea may seem to require a stretch of fancy, but we can more readily reconcile it when we consider how firm was the belief that was placed in miracles; how prevalent the love that existed, in those dark ages of ignorance and superstition, to whatever bore that character; and how ready the Romans, with their superior sagacity, would be to avail themselves of it. The Saxons, when they became possessed of the country, would hear many strange tales, which a species of bigoted or unaccountable attachment to the marvellous would cause to be handed down from generation to generation, each magnifying the first wonder, until they reached the climax, whence they are now so fast descending. Thus may probably have arisen the principal feature in the history of their origin.

This mode of sepulture appears to be very ancient, and that it was very general is sufficiently demonstrated by the hills yet remaining in distant parts of the world. Dr. Clarke, who noticed their existence in Siberia and Russian-Tartary, thinks the practice is alluded to in the Old Testament in these passages: “They raised a great heap of stones on Achan;” “and raised a great heap of stones on the king of Ai;” “they laid a heap of stones on Absalom.” In the interior of South Africa, the Rev. J. Campbell “found a large heap of small stones, which had been raised by each passenger adding a stone to the heap; it was intended as a monument of respect to the memory of a king, from a remote nation, who was killed in the vicinity, and whose head and hands were interred in that spot.”

The number of these mounds in our own country is very considerable; and I trust they will remain the everlasting monuments of their own existence. Their greatest enemy is an idle curiosity, that cannot be satisfied with what antiquaries relate concerning such as have been examined, but, with a vain arrogance, assumes the power of digging though them at pleasure. For my own part, I must confess, I should like to be a witness of what they contain, yet I would hold them sacred, so far as not to have them touched with the rude hand of Ignorance. Whenever I approach these venerable relics, my mind is carried back to the time when they were young; since then, I consider what years have rolled over years, what generations have followed generations, and feel an interest peculiarly and delicately solemn, in the fate of those whose dust is here mingled with its kindred dust.

T. C.

Bridlington.

For the Table Book.

In reply to the inquiry by Ignotus, in theEvery-Day Book, vol. ii. p. 1650, respecting the origin of affixing horns to a church in Essex, I find much ambiguity on the subject, and beg leave to refer to that excellent work, “Newcourt’s Repertorium,” vol. ii. p. 336, who observes, on the authority of Weaver, “The inhabitants here say, by tradition, that this church, dedicated to St. Andrew, was built by a female convert, to expiate for her former sins, and that it was called Hore-church at first, till by a certain king, but by whom they are uncertain, who rode that way, it was called Horned-church, who caused those horns to be put out at the east end of it.”

The vane, on the top of the spire, is also in the form of an ox’s head, with the horns. “The hospital had neither college nor common seal.”

For the Table Book.

Mr. Editor,—In reading your account of the “Boar’s Head Carol,” in yourEvery-Day Book, vol. i. p. 1619, I find theoldcarol, but not the words of the carol as sungat presentin Queen’s College, Oxford, on Christmas-day. As I think it possible you may never have seen them, I now send you a copy as they were sung, or, more properly, chanted, in the hall of Queen’s, on Christmas-day, 1810, at which time I was a member of the college, and assisted at the chant.

A boar’s head in hand bear I,Bedeck’d with bays and rosemary;And I pray you, my masters, be merry,Quot estis in convivio.—Caput apri defero,Reddens laudes Domino.The boar’s head, as I understand,Is the rarest dish in all this land;And when bedeck’d with a gay garlandLet us servire cantico.—Caput apri, &c.Our steward hath provided this,In honour of the King of bliss:Which on this day to be served isIn reginensi atrio.—Caput apri, &c.

A boar’s head in hand bear I,Bedeck’d with bays and rosemary;And I pray you, my masters, be merry,Quot estis in convivio.—Caput apri defero,Reddens laudes Domino.

The boar’s head, as I understand,Is the rarest dish in all this land;And when bedeck’d with a gay garlandLet us servire cantico.—Caput apri, &c.

Our steward hath provided this,In honour of the King of bliss:Which on this day to be served isIn reginensi atrio.—Caput apri, &c.

I am, &c.A Quondam Queensman.

For the Table Book.

There is a custom of “beating the lapstone,” the day after Christmas, at Nettleton, near Burton. The shoemakers beat the lapstone at the houses of all water-drinkers, in consequence of a neighbour, Thomas Stickler, who had not tasted malt liquor for twenty years, having been made tipsy by drinking only ahalf pint of aleat his shoemaker’s, at Christmas. When he got home, he tottered into his house, and his good dame said, “John, where have you been?—why, you are in liquor?”—“No, I am not,” hiccuped John, “I’ve onlyfell over the lapstone, and that hasbeaten my leg, so as I can’t walk quite right.” Hence the annual practical joke—“beating the lapstone.”

From “The London Mercury” of January 13, 1721-2.

There are, it seems, in the parish of Covent-garden, twenty-two such houses, some of which clear sometimes 100l., and seldom less than 40l.a night. They have their proper officers, both civil and military, with salaries proportionable to their respective degrees, and the importance they are of in the service, viz.

A commissioner, or commis, who is always a proprietor of the gaming-house: he looks in once a night, and the week’s account is audited by him and two others of the proprietors.

A director, who superintends the room.

The operator, the dealer at faro.

Croupeestwo, who watch the card, and gather the money for the bank.

A puff, one who has money given him to play, in order to decoy others.

A clerk, who is a check upon the puff, to see that he sinks none of that money.—Asquibis a puff of a lower rank, and has half the salary of a puff.

A flasher, one who sits by to swear how often he has seen the bank stript.

A dunner, waiters.

An attorney, or solicitor.

A captain, one who is to fight any man that is peevish or out of humour at the loss of his money.

An usher, who takes care that the porter, or grenadier at the door, suffers none to come in but those he knows.

A porter, who, at most of the gaming-houses, is a soldier hired for that purpose.

A runner, to get intelligence of all the meetings of the justices of the peace, and when the constables go upon the search.

Any link-boy, coachman, chairman, drawer, or other person, who gives notice of the constables being upon the search, has half a guinea.

Taste is the discriminating talisman, enabling its owner to see at once the real merits of persons and things, to ascertain at a glance the true from the false, and to decide rightly on the value of individuals.

Nothing escapes him who walks the world with his eyes touched by this ointment; they are open to all around him—to admire,or to condemn—to gaze with rapture, or to turn away with disgust, where another shall pass and see nothing to excite the slightest emotion. The fair creation of nature, and the works of man affordhima wide field of continual gratification. The brook, brawling over its bed of rocks or pebbles, half concealed by the overhanging bushes that fringe its banks—or the great river flowing, in unperturbed majesty, through a wide vale of peace and plenty, or forcing its passage through a lofty range of opposing hills—the gentle knoll, and the towering mountain—the rocky dell, and the awful precipice—the young plantation, and the venerable forest, are alike to him objects of interest and of admiration.

So in the works of man, a foot-bridge, thrown across a torrent, may be in it as gratifying to the man of taste as the finest arch, or most wonderful chain-bridge in the world; and a cottage of the humblest order may be so beautifully situated, so neatly kept, and so tastefully adorned with woodbine and jessamine, as to call forth his admiration equally with the princely residence of the British landholder, in all its pride of position, and splendour of architecture.

In short, this faculty is applicable to every object; and he who finds any thing too lofty or too humble for his admiration, does not possess it. It is exercised in the every-day affairs of life as much as in the higher arts and sciences.—Monthly Magazine.

On the quay at Nimeguen, in the United Provinces,two ravensare kept at the public expense; they live in a roomy apartment, with a large wooden cage before it, which serves them for abalcony. These birds are feasted every day with the choicest fowls, with as much exactness as if they were for a gentleman’s table. The privileges of the city were granted originally upon the observance of this strange custom, which is continued to this day.

In a MS. of the late Rev. Mr. Gough, of Shrewsbury, it is related, that one Thomas Elkes, of Middle, in Shropshire, being guardian to his eldest brother’s child, who was young, and stood in his way to a considerable estate, hired a poor boy to entice him into a corn field to gather flowers, and meeting them, sent the poor boy home, took his nephew in his arms, and carried him to a pond at the other end of the field, into which he put the child, and there left him. The child being missed, and inquiry made after him, Elkes fled, and took the road to London; the neighbours sent two horsemen in pursuit of him, who passing along the road near South Mims, in Hertfordshire, saw two ravens sitting on a cock of hay making an unusual noise, and pulling the hay about with their beaks, on which they went to the place, and found Elkes asleep under the hay. He said, that thesetwo ravenshad followed him from the time he did the fact. He was brought to Shrewsbury, tried, condemned, and hung in chains on Knockinheath.

The last Tree of the Forest.Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree,One, where a thousand stood!Well might proud tales be told by thee,Last of the solemn wood!Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,With leaves yet darkly green?Stillness is round, and noontide glows—Tell us what thou hast seen!“I have seen the forest-shadows lieWhere now men reap the corn;I have seen the kingly chase rush by,Through the deep glades at morn.“With the glance of many a gallant spearAnd the wave of many a plume,And the bounding of a hundred deerIt hath lit the woodland’s gloom.“I have seen the knight and his train ride past,With his banner borne on high;O’er all my leaves there was brightness castFrom his gleamy panoply.“The pilgrim at my feet hath laidHis palm-branch ’midst the flowers,And told his beads, and meekly pray’d,Kneeling at vesper-hours.“And the merry men of wild and glen,In the green array they wore,Have feasted here with the red wine’s cheer,And the hunter-songs of yore.“And the minstrel, resting in my shade,Hath made the forest ringWith the lordly tales of the high crusade,Once loved by chief and king.“But now the noble forms are gone,That walk’d the earth of old;The soft wind hath a mournful tone,The sunny light looks cold.“There is no glory left us nowlike the glory with the dead:—I would that where they slumber low,My latest leaves were shed.”Oh! thou dark tree, thou lonely tree,That mournest for the past!A peasant’s home in thy shade I see,Embower’d from every blast.A lovely and a mirthful soundOf laughter meets mine ear;For the poor man’s children sport aroundOn the turf, with nought to fear.And roses lend that cabin’s wallA happy summer-glow,And the open door stands free to all,For it recks not of a foe.And the village-bells are on the breezeThat stirs thy leaf, dark tree!——How can I mourn, amidst things like these,For the stormy past with thee?F. H.New Monthly Magazine.

Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree,One, where a thousand stood!Well might proud tales be told by thee,Last of the solemn wood!Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,With leaves yet darkly green?Stillness is round, and noontide glows—Tell us what thou hast seen!“I have seen the forest-shadows lieWhere now men reap the corn;I have seen the kingly chase rush by,Through the deep glades at morn.“With the glance of many a gallant spearAnd the wave of many a plume,And the bounding of a hundred deerIt hath lit the woodland’s gloom.“I have seen the knight and his train ride past,With his banner borne on high;O’er all my leaves there was brightness castFrom his gleamy panoply.“The pilgrim at my feet hath laidHis palm-branch ’midst the flowers,And told his beads, and meekly pray’d,Kneeling at vesper-hours.“And the merry men of wild and glen,In the green array they wore,Have feasted here with the red wine’s cheer,And the hunter-songs of yore.“And the minstrel, resting in my shade,Hath made the forest ringWith the lordly tales of the high crusade,Once loved by chief and king.“But now the noble forms are gone,That walk’d the earth of old;The soft wind hath a mournful tone,The sunny light looks cold.“There is no glory left us nowlike the glory with the dead:—I would that where they slumber low,My latest leaves were shed.”Oh! thou dark tree, thou lonely tree,That mournest for the past!A peasant’s home in thy shade I see,Embower’d from every blast.A lovely and a mirthful soundOf laughter meets mine ear;For the poor man’s children sport aroundOn the turf, with nought to fear.And roses lend that cabin’s wallA happy summer-glow,And the open door stands free to all,For it recks not of a foe.And the village-bells are on the breezeThat stirs thy leaf, dark tree!——How can I mourn, amidst things like these,For the stormy past with thee?

Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree,One, where a thousand stood!Well might proud tales be told by thee,Last of the solemn wood!

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,With leaves yet darkly green?Stillness is round, and noontide glows—Tell us what thou hast seen!

“I have seen the forest-shadows lieWhere now men reap the corn;I have seen the kingly chase rush by,Through the deep glades at morn.

“With the glance of many a gallant spearAnd the wave of many a plume,And the bounding of a hundred deerIt hath lit the woodland’s gloom.

“I have seen the knight and his train ride past,With his banner borne on high;O’er all my leaves there was brightness castFrom his gleamy panoply.

“The pilgrim at my feet hath laidHis palm-branch ’midst the flowers,And told his beads, and meekly pray’d,Kneeling at vesper-hours.

“And the merry men of wild and glen,In the green array they wore,Have feasted here with the red wine’s cheer,And the hunter-songs of yore.

“And the minstrel, resting in my shade,Hath made the forest ringWith the lordly tales of the high crusade,Once loved by chief and king.

“But now the noble forms are gone,That walk’d the earth of old;The soft wind hath a mournful tone,The sunny light looks cold.

“There is no glory left us nowlike the glory with the dead:—I would that where they slumber low,My latest leaves were shed.”

Oh! thou dark tree, thou lonely tree,That mournest for the past!A peasant’s home in thy shade I see,Embower’d from every blast.

A lovely and a mirthful soundOf laughter meets mine ear;For the poor man’s children sport aroundOn the turf, with nought to fear.

And roses lend that cabin’s wallA happy summer-glow,And the open door stands free to all,For it recks not of a foe.

And the village-bells are on the breezeThat stirs thy leaf, dark tree!——How can I mourn, amidst things like these,For the stormy past with thee?

F. H.New Monthly Magazine.

Towards the end of 1777, the abbé Raynal calling on Dr. Franklin found, in company with the doctor, their common friend, Silas Deane. “Ah! monsieur l’abbé,” said Deane, “we were just talking of you and your works. Do you know that you have been very ill served by some of those people who have undertaken to give you information on American affairs?” The abbé resisted this attack with some warmth; and Deane supported it by citing a variety of passages from Raynal’s works, which he alleged to be incorrect. At last they came to the anecdote of “Polly Baker,” on which the abbé had displayed a great deal of pathos and sentiment. “Now here,” says Deane, “is a tale in which there is not one word of truth.” Raynal fired at this, and asserted that he had taken it from an authentic memoir received from America. Franklin, who had amused himself hitherto with listening to the dispute of his friends, at length interposed, “My dear abbé,” said he, “shall I tell you the truth? When I was a young man, and rather more thoughtless than is becoming at our present time of life, I was employed in writing for a newspaper; and, as it sometimes happened that I wanted genuine materials to fill up my page, I occasionally drew on the stores of my imagination for a tale which might pass current as a reality—now this very anecdote of Polly Baker was one of my inventions.”

The new conundrum of “bread pats,” as the ladies call the epigrammatic impressors that their work-boxes are always full of now, pleases me mightily. Nothing could be more stupid than the old style ofaffiche—an initial—carefully engraved in a hand always perfectly unintelligible; or a crest—necessarily out of its place, nine times in ten, in female correspondence—because nothing could be more un-“germane” than a “bloody dagger” alarming every body it met, on the outside of an order for minikin pins! or a “fiery dragon,” threatening a French mantua-maker for some undue degree of tightness in the fitting of the sleeve! and then the same emblem, recurring through the whole letter-writing of a life, became tedious. But now every lady has a selection of axioms (in flower and water) always by her, suited to different occasions. As, “Though lost tosight, to memory dear!”—when she writes to a friend who has lately had his eye poked out. “Though absent, unforgotten!”—to a female correspondent, whom she has not written to for perhaps the three last (twopenny) posts; or, “Vous le meritez!” with the figure of a “rose”—emblematic of every thing beautiful—when she writes to a lover. It was receiving a note with this last seal to it that put the subject of seals into my mind; and I have some notion of getting one engraved with the same motto, “Vous le meritez,” only with the personification of ahorsewhipunder it, instead of a “rose”—for peculiar occasions. And perhaps a second would not do amiss, with the same emblem, only with the motto, “Tu l’auras!” as a sort of corollary upon the first, in cases of emergency! At all events, I patronise the system of a variety of “posies;” because where the inside of a letter is likely to be stupid, it gives you the chance of a joke upon the out.—Monthly Magazine

It is related of a Lord Radnor in Chesterfield’s time, that, with many good qualities, and no inconsiderable share of learning, he had a strong desire of being thought skilful in physic, and was very expert in bleeding. Lord Chesterfield knew his foible, and on a particular occasion, wanting his vote, came to him, and, after having conversed upon indifferent matters, complained of the headach, and desired his lordship to feel his pulse. Lord Radnor immediately advisedhim to lose blood. Chesterfield complimented his lordship on his chirurgical skill, and begged him to try his lancet upon him. “A propos,” said lord Chesterfield, after the operation, “do you go to the house today?” Lord Radnor answered, “I did not intend to go, not being sufficiently informed of the question which is to be debated; but you, that have considered it, which side will you be of?”—The wily earl easily directed his judgment, carried him to the house, and got him to vote as he pleased. Lord Chesterfield used to say, that none of his friends had been as patriotic as himself, for he had “lost his blood for the good of his country.”

For the Table Book.

“Almack’s” may be charming,—an assembly at the “Crown and Anchor,” and a hop of country quality at the annual “Race Ball,” or a more popular “set to” at a fashionable watering-place, may delight—but a lady of city or town cannot conceive the emotions enjoyed by a party collected in the village to see the “old year” out and the “new year” in. At this time, the “country dance” is of the first importance to the young and old, yet not till the week has been occupied by abundant provisions of meat, fruit tarts, and mince pies, which, with made wines, ales, and spirits, are, like the blocks for fuel, piled in store for all partakers, gentle and simple. Extra best beds, stabling, and hay, are made ready,—fine celery dug,—the china service and pewter plates examined,—in short, want and wish are anticipated, nothing is omitted, but every effort used to give proofs of genuine hospitality. This year, if there is to be war in Portugal, many widowed hearts and orphan spirits may be diverted from, not to, a scene which is witnessed in places where peace and plenty abound. However, I will not be at war by conjecture, but suppose much of the milk of human kindness to be shared with those who look at the sunny side of things.

After tea, at which the civilities of the most gallant of the young assist to lighten the task of the hostess, the fiddler is announced, the “country dance” begins, and the lasses are all alive; their eyes seem lustrous and their animal spirits rise to the zero of harmonious and beautiful attraction. The choosing of partners and tunes with favourite figures is highly considered. Old folks who have a leg left and are desirous of repeating the step (though not so light) of fifty years back, join the dance; and the floor, whether of stone or wood, is swept to notes till feet are tired. This is pursued till suppertime at ten o’clock. Meantime, the “band” (called “waits” in London) is playing before the doors of the great neighbours, and regaled with beer, and chine, and pies; the village “college youths” are tuning the handbells, and the admirers of the “steeple chase” loiter about the church-yard to hear the clock strike twelve, and startle the air by high mettle sounds. Methodist and Moravian dissenters assemble at their places of worship to watch out the old year, and continue to “watch” till four or five in the new year’s morning. Villagers, otherwise disposed, follow the church plan, and commemorate the vigils in the old unreformed way. After a sumptuous supper,—at which some maiden’s heart is endangered by the roguish eye, or the salute and squeeze by stealth, dancing is resumed, and, according to custom, a change of partners takes place, often to the joy and disappointment of love and lovers. At every rest—the fiddler makes a squeaking of the strings—this is calledkiss ’em!a practice well understood by thetulipfanciers. The pipes, tobacco, and substantials are on thequi vive, by the elders in another part of the house, and the pint goes often to the cellar.

As the clock strikes a quarter to twelve, a bumper is given to the “old friend,” standing, with three farewells! and while the church bells strike out the departure of his existence, another bumper is pledged to the “new infant,” with three standing hip, hip, hip—huzzas! It is further customary for the dance to continue all this time, that the union of the years should be cemented by friendly intercourse. Feasting and merriment are carried on until four or five o’clock, when, as the works of the kitchen have not been relaxed, a pile of sugar toast is prepared, and every guest must partake of its sweetness, and praise it too, before separation. Headaches, lassitude, and paleness, are thought little of, pleasure suppresses the sigh, and the spirit of joy keeps the undulations of care in proper subjection—Happy times these!—Joyful opportunities borrowed out of youth to be repaid by ripened memory!—snatched, as it were, from the wings of Time to be written on his brow with wrinkles hereafter.

R. P.

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