Every-Day Book
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February 22.

The Chair of St. Peter at Antioch. St. Margaret, of Cortona, A.D. 1297. Sts. Thalasius and Limneus. St. Baradat.

St. Margaret.

She was a penitent, asked public pardon for her sins with a rope about her neck, punished her flesh, and worked miracles accordingly.* [1]

Sts. Thalasius and Limneus.

St. Thalasius dwelt in a cavern, "and was endowed with extraordinary gifts of the Holy Ghost; but was a treasure unknown to the world." St. Limneus was his disciple, and "famous for miraculous cures of the sick," while his master "bore patiently the sharpest cholics, and other distempers, without any human succour."* [2]

St. Baradat.

This saint lived in a trellis-hut, exposed to the severities of the weather, and clothed in the skins of beasts. [3]


Herb Margaret. Bellis perennis.
Dedicated to St. Margaret, of Cortona.


A valued correspondent obliges the Every-Day Book with an original sketch, hasty and spirited as its hero, when the sports of the field allured him from the pursuits of literature at college, and the domestic comforts of wife and home.

To the Editor.

To disemburthen oneself of ennui, and to find rational amusement for every season of the year, is a grand desideratum in life. Luckily I have hit on't, and beg leave, as being the properest place, to give my recipe in the Everlasting Calendar you are compiling. I contrive then to give myself employment for every time of year. Neither lively Spring, glowing Summer, sober Autumn, nor dreary Winter, come amiss to me; for I have contrived to make myself an Universal Sportsman, and am become so devoted a page of Diana, that I am dangling at her heels all the year round without being tired of it. In bleak and frozen January, besides sliding, skating in figures, and making men of snow to frighten children with, by means of a lantern placed in a skull at the top of them, I now and then get a day's cock shooting when the frost breaks, or kill a few small birds in the snow. In lack of other game, a neighbour's duck, or goose, or a chicken, shot and pocketed as I sally out to the club dinner, are killed more easily than my dairymaid does it, poor things!

In February, the weather being rainy or mild, renders it worth my while to send my stud into Leicestershire for hunting again; and so my white horse Skyscraper, my old everlasting chestnut Silvertail, the only good black in the hunt Sultan, and the brown mare Rosinante, together with Alfana the king of the Cocktails, a hack or two, and a poney for errands, are "pyked off" pack and baggage for Melton; and then from the first purple dawn of daylight, when I set off to cover, to the termination of the day with cards, I have plenty of rational amusement. Next month, forbearing March hares, I shoot a few snipes before they are all gone, and at night prepare my fishing tackle for April, when the verdant meadows again draw me to the riverside to angle.

My wife has now rational employment for the rest of the Summer in catching and impaling the various flies of the season against my trout mania comes, which is usual early in May, when all her maids assist in this flyfowling sport. I have generally been successful in sport, but I shall never forget my disappointment when on throwing in a flyline which was not baited by myself, I found that Sally, mistaking her new employment, had baited my hook with an earwig. In June I neglected my Grass for the same sport, and often let it stand till the Hay is spoiled by Swithin, who wipes his watery eyes with what ought to be my Winter's fodder. This gives me rational, though troublesome, employment in buying Hay or passing off the old at market. July, however, affords plenty of bobfishing, as I call it, for roach, dace, perch, and bleak. I also gudgeon some of my neighbours, and cast a line of an evening into their carp and tench ponds. I have not, thank my stars, either stupidity of patience enough for barbel. But in August, that is before the 12th, I get my trolling tackle in order, and am reminded of my old vermin college days, when shutting my room door, as if I was "sported in" and cramming Euclid, I used to creep down to the banks of the Cam, and clapping my hands on my old rod, with his long line to him, exclaimed, in true Horatian measure, the only Latin line I ever cited in my life,

Progenic longa gaudes captare Johannes.

But, oh! the 12th day of August, that mountain holiday, ushered in by the ringing of the sheep bell—'tis then that, jacketed in fustian, with a gun on my shoulder, and a powder horn belted to my side, I ramble the rough highland hills in quest of blackcocks and red game, get now and then a chance shot at a ptarmagan, and once winged a Capercaille on a pine tree at Invercauld. In hurrying home for the First of September, I usually pass through the fens of Lincolnshire, and there generally kill a wild duck or two. You must know I have, besides my pointers, setters, and spaniels, water dogs of every sort. Indeed my dog establishment would astonish Acteon. There are my harriers, Rockwood, Ringwood, Lasher, Jowler, Rallywood, and twenty more; my pointers, Ponto and Carlo; my spaniels, Dash and Old Grizzle; Hedgehog and Pompey, my water dogs. No one, I bet a crown, has better greyhounds than Fly and Dart are, nor a surer lurcher than Groveller. I say nothing of those inferior "Lares," my terriers—ratcatching Busy, Snap, and Nimbletoes, with whom, in the absence of other game, I go sometimes for a frolic to a farmhouse, disguised as a ratcatcher, and take a shilling for ferret work.

But now I come to thy shrine, O lovely Septembria, thou fairest nymyh [sic] in Diana's train, with rolling blue eyes as sharp and as true as those of a signal lieutenant; I come to court thee again, and may thy path be even paved with the skulls of partridges. Again I come to dine with thee on the leveret's back or pheasant's wings. We've wildboars' bladders for wine bottles, ramshorns for corkscrews, bugles for funnels, gunpowder for snuff, smoke for tobacco, woodcock's bills for toothpicks, and shot for sugar plums! I dare not proceed to tell you how many brace of birds Ponto and I bag the first day of shooting, as the long bow, instead of the fowling piece, might be called my weapon. But enough rodomontading.

I now come to October. Pheasants by all that's volatile! And then, after them, I go to my tailor and order two suits—scarlet for master Reynard, and a bottlegreen jacket for the harriers, top-boots, white corderoy inexpressibles, and a velvet cap. Then when the covers ring again with the hallowed music of harriers, I begin skylarking the gates and setting into wind to follow the foxhounds in November. When

The dusky night rides down the sky,
     And ushers in the morn,
The Hounds all make a jovial cry,
     And the Huntsman winds his horn.

With three days in the week chace, and pretty little interludes of hunting with beagles, or of snipe shooting, I manage to get through December to the year's end. My snug Winter evenings are spent in getting ready my guns, smacking new hunting whips, or trying on new boots, while my old hall furnishes ample store of trophies, stags' horns hunted by my great grandfather, cross bows, guns, brushes won on rivals of Pegasus, and all sorts of odd oldfashioned whips, horns, and accoutrements, hanging up all round, which remind me of those days of yore when I remember the old squire and his sporting chaplain casting home on spent horses all bespattered from the chase, before I had ridden any thing but my rocking horse. There then have I rational amusement all the year round. And much and sincerely do I praise thee, O Diana! greatest Diana of the Ephesians! at thy feet will I repose my old and weatherbeaten carcass at last, and invoke thy tutelary protection for my old age, thou who art Hunting, Shooting, and Fishing personified, the true DIVA TRIFORMIS of Antiquity.

Imminens Villæ tua Pinus esto,
Quam per exactos ego lætus annos,
Verris obliquum meditantis ictum,
Sanguine donem.

I have the honour to remain,
               Yours ever,



To a "proper new" tune.


No!—I have nothing new to say,
     Why must ye wait to hear my story?
Go, get thee on thy trackless way,
     There's many a weary mile before ye—
Get thee to bed, lest some poor poet,
     Enraptur'd with thy phiz, should dip
A pen in ink to let thee know it,
     And (mindful not to let thee slip
His fingers) bid thy moonship stay
And list, what he might have to say

Yet I do love thee!—and if aught
     The muse can serve thee, will petition
Her grace t' attend thine airy court,
     And play the part of first musician—
But "ode," and "lines," "address," and "sonnet,"
     "To Luna dedicate," are now
So plentiful, that (fie upon it!)
     She'll add no glory to thy brow,
But tell thee, in such strains as follow,
That thy mild sheen beats Phosphor hollow!

That thou are "fairest of the fair,"
     Tho' Phœbus more that's grand possesses,
That tree and tower reflect thy glare,
     And the glad stream thy ray confesses,
That, when thy silvery beams illumine
     The landscape, nature seems bedight
With loveliness so rare, that few men
     Have e'er been blessed with such a sight!
And all such moonshine:—but enough
Of this tame "milk and water" stuff.    Δ


Notes [All notes are Hone's unless otherwise indicated]:

1. Butler's Saints. [return]

2. Butler's Saints. [return]

3. Butler's Saints. [return]