vol II date / index
Sts. Quirius, or Cyr and Julitta, Martyrs, A.D. 304. St. John Francis Regis, A.D. 1640. Sts. Ferreolus, or Fargeau, and Ferrutius, A.D. 211 or 212. St. Aurelian, Abp. A.D. 552.
1722. John Churchill, the great duke of Marlborough, died at Windsor-lodge, in a state of idiocy. He was son of sir Winston Churchill, an English historian, and born at Ashe, in Devonshire, 1650. At twelve years of age he became page to the duke of York, afterwards James II.; at sixteen he entered the guards, and distinguished himself under Turenne. He was called the handsome Englishman, married Miss Jennings, (the celebrated duchess of Marlborough,) obtained distinguished rank and offices, suppressed the duke of Monmouth's rebellion, and served king James with apparent fidelity in the wane of his fortune, while he faithlessly made court to the prince of Orange. His great military achievements, under king William and queen Anne, were rewarded by munificent public grants, and a public funeral in Westminster-abbey.
Moss Privince Rose. Rosa muscosa.
Dedicated to St. Julitta.
CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
A great deal has been lately attempted, by men of feeling minds, to prevent wanton cruelty towards animals; which (unhappily even in this enlightened age,) is but too prevalent.
The lower class of persons, to whom the care of the horse is intrusted, frequently possess less sense than those noble animals, which groan under their tyranny; we constantly find ignorant farriers, who think that a cure can only be effected, by most violent and painful remedies. It is to these brutal men, that the lameness of so many horses may be attributed; for, not understanding the beautiful and singular construction of the interior of a horse's foot, by cutting away the hoof they contract the foot, and gradually prevent the elasticity so necessary: thus by repeated shoeing, the foot is cramped, as much so, as a man's who would attempt to walk in a shoe considerably too tight for him. Lameness ensues, and these farriers pronounce the seat of lameness any where but where it actually exists; then comes firing and blistering, and every possible torture, and the poor animal lamed for life, long before his time, is consigned to the lowest drudgery, and subsequently to the dogs.
The inhuman rate at which horses are driven in stage coaches, conduces greatly to mortality; this consumption of animal life is, in some instances, one in three annually.
Soame Jenyns, whose works are well known, and who was himself a man of the finest feelings, in a paper On Cruelty to Animals, adverts to the disciples of Pythagoras, who held that the souls of men, and all other animals, existed in a state of perpetual transmigration, and that when by death they were dislodged from one corporeal habitation, they were immediately reinstated in another, happier or more miserable, according to their behaviour in the former. Soame Jenyns favours this doctrine of transmigration, "first, from its justice; secondly, from its utility; and lastly, from the difficulty we lie under to account for the sufferings of many innocent creatures without it." He says, "If we look around us, we cannot but observe a great and wretched variety of this kind; numberless animals subjected by their own natures to many miseries, and by our cruelties to many more, incapable of crimes, and consequently incapable of deserving them, called into being, as far as we can discover, only to be miserable for the service or diversion of others less meritorious than themselves, without any possibility of preventing, deserving, or receiving recompense for their unhappy lot, if their whole existence is comprehended in the narrow and wretched circles of their present life." He then proceeds to observe, that "the theory here inculcated, removes all these difficulties, and reconciles all these seemingly unjust dispensations, with the strictest justice. It informs us, that their sufferings may by no means be understood, but as the just punishments of their former behaviour, in a state, where by means of their vices, they may have escaped them. It teaches us, that the pursued and persecuted fox, was once probably some crafty and rapacious minister, who had purchased by his ill acquired wealth, that safety, which he cannot now procure by his flight; that the bull, baited with all the cruelties that human ingenuity, or human malevolence can invent, was once some relentless tyrant, who had inflicted all the tortures which he endures; that the poor bird, blinded, imprisoned, and at last starved to death in a cage, may have been some unforgiving creditor; and the widowed turtle, pining away life for the loss of her mate, some fashionable wife, rejoicing at the death of her husband, which her own ill-usage had occasioned. Never can the delicious repast of roasted lobsters excite my appetite, whilst the ideas of the tortures in which those innocent creatures have expired, present themselves to my imagination. But when I consider that they must have once probably been Spaniards at Mexico, or Dutchmen at Amoyna, I fall too, with a good stomach and a good conscience. Never can I repose myself with satisfaction in a post chaise, whilst I look upon the starved, foundered, accelerated, and excoriated animals which draw it, as mere horses, condemned to such unmerited torments for my convenience, but I reflect, they must have undoubtedly existed in the fathers of the holy inquisition. I very well know that these sentiments will be treated as ludicrous by many of my readers, but they are in themselves just and serious, and carry with them the strongest probability of their truth. So strong is it, that I cannot but hope it will have some good effect on the conduct of those polite people, who are too sagacious, learned, and courageous to be kept in awe by the threats of hell and damnation; and I exhort every fine lady to consider, how wretched will be her condition, if after twenty or thirty years spent at cards, in elegant rooms, kept warm by good fires and soft carpets, she should at last be obliged to change places with one of her coach horses; and every fine gentleman to reflect, how much more wretched would be his, if after wasting his estate, his health, and his life in extravagance, indolence, and luxury, he should again revive in the situation of one of his creditors."
Besides Jenyn's suppositions, allow me to notice the crimping of fish, the skinning of eels alive, the whipping of pigs to death, to make them tender, the boiling of live crabs, having first put them in cold water to make them lively; together with the preference given to hunted hares, on account of their delicacy of muscles, softened by worry and exertion. These are but too common instances of a barbarous taste.
At this season of enjoyment and leisure, when we derive pleasure from contemplating the beautiful forms and appearances of nature, and are grateful for annual abundance, let us reflect on the criminal heedlessness wherewith we allow our appetites and pleasures to be indulged, by needless sufferings in the animals we subdue to our wants and whims. While we endeavour to inculcate kindness in our children towards one another, let us teach them kindness to the meanest of created beings. I know that the Every-Day Book widely circulates in families; the humane sentiments that pervade it, must therefore have considerable influence, and for this reason I select it as a channel for conveying a humane suggestion.
I am, dear Sir,
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
The perusal of your remarks on the season and the winds, in the Every-Day Book, page 707, reminded me of some lines I wrote at Ramsgate. If you know Wellington-crescent, where they were compsed, you know a very pretty place, for either summer or winter residence.
I am, Sir, &c.
June 6, 1825.
THE EAST WIND.
A summer sun in brightness glows;
But, ah! the blighting east wind blows,
And weighs the spirit down!
All smiling is th' enlivening ray,
That tips with silvery tinge the spray,
O'er ocean's bosom thrown!
Yet, all inviting though it seems,
And tempts one forth to court its beams,
I tremblingly retire:
For I am one who hate and dread
That eastern blast, and oft have fled
Its pestilences dire!
But the young shoots that round me rise
And make me old—(though still unwise)
Feel no such fear as I
Brimful of joy they venture forth
Wind blowing west, south, east, or north
If cloudless be the sky!
They tripping lightly o'er the path,
To them yet free from grief or scath,
Press on— and onward still,
With brow unwrinkled yet by care,
With spirit buoyant as the air—
They breathe at freedom's will.
Where shipwrick'd seamen oft deplore
The loss of all their scanty store,
They rove at ebb of tide
In quest of shells, or various weed,
That, from the bed of ocean freed,
Their anxious search abide.
Proud and elated with their prize,
(All eagerness with sparkling eyes,[)]
The treasures home are brought
To me, who plunged in gloom the while,
At home have watch'd the sea bird's guile:—
Or, in a sea of thought,
Have sent my spirit forth to find
Fit food for an immortal mind,
Else of itself the prey!
And in th' abstraction of that mood,
Full oft I've realized the good,
We boast not every day.
Sometimes tho', with a courage bold,
As ever faced the arctic's cold,
I pace the Colonnade;* 
And then am soon compelled to beat,
And seek a cowardly retreat,
Within the parlour's shade!
Sometimes the place,†  warm shelter'd close,
Where Sharwood's decorated house,
From roof to step all flowers,
Shines forth as Flora's temple, where
Dominion falls to sea and air;—
There, snugly shelter'd from the blast,
My eyes right pensively I cast
Where famed sir Williams's bark
Lies moor'd, awaiting the time when
That Noah of citizens again
Shall venture on such ark:
But, ah! still round the corner creeps,
That treach'rous wind! and still it sweeps
Too clean the path I tread:
Arm'd as with numerous needle points,
Its painful searchings pierce my joints,
And then capsize my head!
So home again full trot I speed,
As, after wound, the warrior's steed;
And sit me down, and sigh
O'er the hard-hearted fate of those
Who feel like me these east-wind woes
That brain and marrow try!
Again upon the sea I look,
Of nature that exhaustless book
With endless wonder fraught:—
How oft upon that sea I've gazed,
Whose world of waters has amazed
Man—social or untaught.
And, spite of all that some may say,
It is the place from day to day,
Whereon the soul can dwell!
My soul enkindles at the sight
Of such accumulated might;
And loves such gradeur well!
Notes [all notes are Hone's unless otherwise indicated]:
1. Wellington-crescent. [return]
2. Albion-place. [return]