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July 14.

St. Bonaventure, Card. Bp. A.D. 1274. St. Camillus de Lellis, A.D. 1614. St. []laus, Bp. in Leinster[.]


The heat of the season, unless patiently endured, has a tendency to inflame the mind, and render it irritable. On some infants its effects are visible in their restlessness and peevishness. Parents, and those who have the care of childhood, must now watch themselves as well as their offspring.

A father's voice in threat'ning tone
  The storm of rage revealing,
His flashing eye and angry frown,
  Would rouse a kindred feeling.
But where's the child his sigh can hear,
  When grief his heart is rending?
And who unmov'd can see the tear,
  A parent's cheek descending.

Oh, yes! a child may brave the heat,
  A father's rage confessing,
But, ah! how sweet his smile to meet,
  And, oh! how dear his blessing!
Then let me shun with shrinking fear,
  The thought of not conceding,
I could not bear affection's tear,
  When parent's lips were pleading.

The Cross Bill. (Loxia curvi rostra.)

In July, 1821, at West Felton, in Shropshire, this rare and beautiful bird was seen, in a flight of about eighteen or twenty, alighting on the tops of pine trees and larch; the cone of which it opens with adroit neatness, holding it in one claw, like a parrot, and picking out the seeds. They were of various colours, brown, green, yellow, and crimson, and some entirely of the most lovely rose colour; hanging and climbing in fanciful attitudes, and much resembling a group of small paroquets. Their unusual note, somewhat like the quick chirp of linnets, but much louder, first attracted attention. The observer had repeated opportunities of viewing them to the greatest advantage, by means of a small telescope. They also eat excrescent knobs, or the insects formed therein by the cynips, at the ends of the young spruce branches. These birds are natives of Germany and the Pyrenees, and are very rarely seen in England. It was remarked, that the same mandible of the bill crossed on the right side in some birds, and on the left in others.* [1]


Red Lupin. Lupinus perennis.
Dedicated to St. Bonaventure.

Destruction of the Bastile.

      ———Sir, 'tis the Bastille,
Full of such dark, deep, damp, chill dungeons of horror and silence.
Young men shut therein oft grew gray-haired in a twelvemonth;
Old men lost their sense, forgetting they had not been born there;
Thumb-screws, weapons of torture, were found, most shocking to think of!
Fetters still lock'd on the limbs of unburied skeletons starved there,
Curses engraved with a nail in the stone walls.

Hexameters , in Annual Anthology, vol. ii.

The Bastile of Paris, the great state prison of France, was stormed and destroyed by the populace on the 14th of July, 1789. This extraordinary event took place during the sitting of the national assembly convened by Louis XVI. under great exigency. The French government at that time afforded no security to life of property. Persons offensive to the state were arrested under arbitrary warrants, called Lettres de Cachet, consigned to the dungeons of the Bastile, remained there without trial, often for life, and sometimes perished from neglect, or the cruelties incident to imprisonment in the fortress.

Louis XVI. was surrounded by advisers, who insisted on the maintenance of the royal prerogative, in opposition to the growing and loudly expressed desires of the most intelligent men in France, for an administration of public affairs, and the formation of a government, on principles of acknowledged right and justice. The king refused to yield; and, to crush the popular power, and overawe the national assembly in its deliberations, troops were ordered to approach Paris. At this juncture the assembly addressed the king, praying the removal of the troops; he refused, the troops prepared to enter Paris, the people flew to arms, the Bastile was taken, and fatal ills prevailed in the cabinet, till popular fury arrived at a height uncontrollable by public virtue, and the king himself perished on the scaffold, with several of his family.

In recording the destruction of the Bastile on this day, it is necessary to remark, that on the morning of the day before, (the 13th of July,) the populace marched in a body to the Hotel des Invalides, with intent to seize the arms deposited there. The governor, M. de Sombreuil, sensible that resistance was vain, opened the gates, and suffered them to carry away the arms and the cannon. At the same time, the curate of the parish church of St. Etienne du Mont, having put himself at the head of his parishioners, invited his neighbours to arm themselves in their own defence, and in support of good order.

By the interception of couriers, the grand plan of hostility against the city was universally known and understood. It was ascertained that marshall Broglio had accepted the command of the troops; that he had made dispositions for the blockade of Paris; and that considerable convoys of artillery had arrived for that purpose. These facts occasioned violent agitation, and eager search for arms, wherever they could be found. Every one flew to the post of danger; and, without reflection, commenced perilous attacks, seemingly reserved only for military science and cool reflection, to achieve with success.

On the 14th, there was a sudden exclamation among the people, Let us storm the Bastile! If they had only said, let us attack the Bastile, the immense walls that surrounded the edifice, the broad and deep ditches that prevented approach to its walls, and the batteries of cannon placed on them, would have at least cooled their resolution. But insensible of the danger and hazard of the assault, all at once, and with one voice, a numerous body of men, among whom were many of the national guards, exclaimed, Let us storm the Bastile! and that instant they proceeded towards it, with such arms as they happened to be provided with, and presented themselves before this tremendous fortress, by the great street of St. Anthony. M. de Launay, the governor, perceiving this insurrection, caused a flag of truce to be hung out. Upon this appearance, a detachment of the patriotic guards, with five or six hundred citizens, introduced themselves into the outer court, and the governor, advancing to the draw-bridge, inquired of the people what they wanted. The answered, ammunition and arms. He promised to furnish them, when any persons presented themselves on the part of the Hotel de Ville; meaning by that, from Des Flesselles, Prevot des Marchands. The people, little satisfied with this answer, replied by menaces, threats, and great appearance of violence. De Launay then caused the draw-bridge to be raised, and ordered a discharge of artillery on the persons who by this means he had cut off from the main body, and enclosed within the court. Several soldiers, and a greater number of the citizens, fell, and the cannon fired on the city threw the neighbourhood into the greatest disorder. The besiegers, burning to retaliate the loss of their comrades, applied to the districts for reinforcements, sent for the artillery they had just taken from the invalids, and obtained five pieces of cannon, with six gunners, who offered their services, and brought ammunition for the attack. Two serjeants of the patriotic corps, M. Warguier and Labarthe, at the head of a party of their comrades, supported by a troop of citizens, headed by M. Hulin, whom they had unanimously chosen for their commander, traversed on the side of the Celestins, all the passages near the arsenal, and with three pieces of artillery which they brought into the court des Saltpetres, contiguous to the Bastile, immediately commenced a brisk fire, the besiegers endeavouring to outdo each other in courage and intrepidity. M. Hely, an officer of the regiment of infantry (de la Reine,) cause several waggons loaded with straw to be unloaded and set on fire, and by means of the smoke that issued from them, the besieged were prevented from seeing the operations of the besiegers. The governor, knowing that he could not hold out against an incessant fire on the fortress, and seeing that the chains of the first draw-bridge were carried away by the shot from the besiegers' cannon, again hung out a white flag, as a token of peace. The besiegers, determined to revenge the massacre of their comrades by the perfidy of De Launay, were deaf to all entreaties, and would look at nothing that would lessen their resentment. In vain the governor made a second attempt to pacify the assailants. Through the crevices of the inward draw-bridge, he affixed a writing, which a person went in quest of, at the hazard of his life. The paper was to this purport: "We have twenty thousand weight of gunpowder, and we will blow up the garrison and all its environs, if you do not accept of our capitulation." The besiegers despising the menace, redoubled their firing, and continued their operations with additional vigour. Numberless spectators of all ages, of all conditions, and many English, were present at this wonderful enterprise; and it is recorded, that a British female, unrestrained by the delicacy of her sex, accepted a lighted match on its being offered to her, and fired one of the cannon against the fortress.

Three pieces of artillery being brought forward to beat down the draw-bridge, the governor demolished the little bridge of passage on the left hand, at the entrance of the fortress; but three persons, named Hely, Hulin, and Maillard, leaped on the bridge, and demanding that the inmost gate should be instantly opened, the besieged obeyed, and the besiegers pushed forward to make good their entrance. The garrison still persisted in a vain resistance. The people massacred all who came in their way, and the victorious standard was soon hoisted from the highest tower. In the mean time, the principal draw-bridge having been let down, a great crowd rushed in at once, and every one looked out for the governor. Arné, a grenadier, singled him out, seized, and disarmed him, and delivered him up to M. Hulin and Hely. The people tore from his coat the badge of honour; numerous hands were lifted against him; and De Launay threw himself into the arms of M. Templement, and conjured him to protect him from the rage of the populace.

The deputy governor, major, and the captain of the gunners, were now united in one group. The horrid dungeons of the fortress were thrown open, never more to be closed; unhappy victims, with hoary locks and emaciated bodies, were astonished at beholding the light, on their release, and shouts of joy and victory resounded through the remotest cells of the Bastile.

The victors formed a kind of march, and while some uttered acclamations of triumph, others vented their passions in threats of revenge against the vanquished. The city militia mixing with the patriotic guards, crowns of laurel, garlands, and ribands, were offered to them by the spectators. the conquerors, proceeding to the Hotel de Ville, were scarcely arrived at the square before that edifice, La Place de Greve, when the multitude called aloud for sudden vengeance on the objects of their resentment. The governor and the other officers were impetuously torn from the hands of their conquerors, and De Launay, with several other victims, perished beneath the weapons of an infuriated populace.

Thus fell the Bastile, after a siege of only three hours. Tumultuous joy prevailed throughout Paris, and the city was illuminated in the evening. By the most experienced military engineers under Louis XIV., it had been deemed impregnable.

The Bastile consisted of eight strong towers. It was surrounded with a fossé one hundred and twenty yards wide, and on the summit of the towers there was a platform, connected by terraces, whereon prisoners were sometimes permitted to walk, attended by a guard. Thirteen pieces of cannon mounted on this platform were fired on days of public rejoicing. There were five sorts of chambers in the Bastile. The dungeons under these towers exhaled noxious vapours and stench, and were frequented by rats, lizards, toads, and other loathsome reptiles. In the angle of the each dungeon, was a camp-bedstead, of planks resting on bars of iron fixed in the wall. These cells were dark and hideous, without windows or apertures, to admit either fresh air or light. They were secured by double doors of seven inches thick, the interior one covered with iron-plates, and fastened by strong bolts and heavy locks. The most horrible receptacles were the dungeons, wherein the iron cages were fixed. These cages, the disgrace of human nature, were eight feet high, by six feet wide, and formed of strong beams, strengthened further by iron plates. As this building is amply described in several works, further particulars of it may here cease.

Cowper, after an eloquent passage upon the blessings of liberty to man, says, "The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unnecessary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become almost fashionable, to stigmatize such sentiments as no better than empty declamation; but it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times." He then rolls a flood of indignation against the Bastile. The dreadful fortress was at that time standing. His imagination of human endurance under the horrors of confinement in its cells, beautifully illustrates his compassionate feelings. He says,—

Shame to manhood, and opprobrious more
To France than all her losses and defeats,
Old or of later date, by sea or land,
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old
Which God aveng'd on Pharaoh—the Bastile.
Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts;
Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair,
That monarchs have supplied from age to age
With music, such as suits their sov'reign ears,
The sighs and groans of miserable men!
There's not an English heart, that would not leap,
To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know
That ev'n our enemies, so oft employ'd
In forging chains for us, themselves were free.
For he, who values liberty, confines
His zeal for her predominance within
No narrow bounds; her cause engages him
Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.
There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,
Immur'd though unaccus'd, condemn'd untried,
Cruelly spar'd, and hopless of escape.
There, like the visionary emblem seen
By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,
And, filleted about with hoops of brass,
Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone.
To count the hour-bell, and expect no change;
And ever, as the sullen sound is heard,
Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note
To him, whose moments all have one dull pace,
Ten thousand rovers in the world at large
Account it music; that it summons some
To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball:
The wearied hireling finds it a release
From labour; and the lover, who has chid
Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke
Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight—
To fly for refuge from distracting thought
To such amusements, as ingenious woe
Contrives, hard-fighting, and without her tools—
To read engraven on the mouldy walls,
In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale
A sad memorial, and subjoin his own—
To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest
Is made familiar, watches his approach,
Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend—
To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro
The studs, that thick emboss his iron door;
Then downward and then upward, then aslant
And then alternate; with a sickly hope
By dint of change to give his tasteless task
Some relish; till the sum, exactly found
In all directions, he begins again—
Oh, comfortless existence! hemm'd around
With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel
And beg for exile, or the pangs of death.
That man should thus encroach on fellow man,
Abridge him of his just and native rights,
Eradicate him, tear him from his hold
Upon th' endearments of domestic life
And social, nip his fruitfulness and use,
And doom him for perhaps a heedless word
To barrenness, and solitude, and tears,
Moves indignation, makes the name of king
(Of king whom such prerogative can please)
As dreadful as the Manichean god,
Ador'd through fear, strong only to destroy.


In July, 1825, a man was "swam for a wizard," at Wickham-Skeith, in Suffolk, in the presence of some hundreds of people! In that parish lives Isaac Stebbings, a little spare man about sixty-seven years old, who obtains a livelihood as a huckster; and hard by his cottage lives a thatcher, whose wife is afflicted in mind. In the same parish there happens to be a farmer whose mind is occasionally disturbed. Some one or other put forth the surmise, that these two afflicted persons were bewitched, and Stebbings was spoken of as the "worker of the mischief." Story grew on story; accumulated hearsays were accepted, as "proof undeniable." Among other things it was said, that the friends of the afflicted woman had recourse to some means recorded in the annals of witchcraft for detecting the devil's agent; and that whilst the operation was going on at night, Stebbings came dancing up to the door. In his denial of this circumstance, Stebbings admitted that he did once call at his neighbour's with mackarel for sale at four o'clock in the morning, before the family were up, and this admission was taken to be as much as he was likely to make. Besides this, the village shoemaker persisted that one morning, as Stebbings passed two or three times before his house, he could not "make" his wax—the ingredients would neither melt nor mix. Dubbed a wizard beyond all doubt, poor Stebbings, ignorant as his neighbours, and teased beyond bearing, proposed at length of himself, the good old-fashioned ordeal of "sink or swim." The proposal was readily caught at, and on the following Saturday, at two o'clock, in a large pond, called the Grimmer, on Wickham-green, four men walked into the water with him, and the constable of the parish engaged to attend and keep the peace! The sides of the pond were crowded with spectators—men, women, and children. Stebbings had on his breeches and shirt; and when the men had walked with him into the water breast-high, they lifted him up and laid him flat upon his back on the water. Stebbings moved neither hand nor foot, and continued in that position for ten minutes. This was the first trial, and the spectators called out "give him another." Another trial was accordingly given, for the same length of time, and with the same result. "Try him again, and dip him under the water," was then the cry. They did so: one of the four men pressed his chest, and down went his head, whilst up came his heels; in a word, he was like a piece of cork in the water. These trials kept the poor old fellow three-quarters of an hour in the pond, and he came out "more dead than alive." Still, some were not satisfied. Another man, they said, of his age and size, ought to be swam with him. Stebbings agreed even to this, for he was determined to get rid of the imputation, or die. The following Saturday was appointed for the purpose, and a man called Tom Wilden, of Bacton parish, hard by, was named for his companion. The story now got more wind, and hundreds of people from all the neighbouring parishes attended to witness the second ordeal. But, in the interval, the clergyman of the parish, and the two church wardens, had interfered, and the swimmers were kept away, to the no small vexation and disappointment of the deluded multitude. It is gravely told, that at the very time Stebbings was swam, the afflicted farmer alluded to above was unusually perturbed; he cried out, "I can see the imps all about me; I must frighten them away with my voice;" and his delusion and his noise, as Stebbings did not sink, are put down to his account. To complete the affair, a respectable farmer in a neighbouring parish went, it is said, to some "cunning man," and learnt to a certainty that Stebbings was a wizard. The sum of 3l. was paid for this intelligence, and for the assurance that Stebbings should be "killed by inches."

These particulars in The Times newspaper of July 19, 1825, extracted from the Suffolk Chronicle, prove the deplorable ignorance of certain human beings in England. It is to be hoped, that such persons are not allowed to bring up their offspring in the same darkness. Little can be done towards civilizing adults of this description, but their infants may be reared as intelligent members of society.

Dog Days.

"Now Sirius rages."

To the Editor of the Every-day Book.

I am one of those unfortunate creatures, who, at this season of the year, are exposed to the effects of an illiberal prejudice. Warrants are issued out in form, and whole scores of us are taken up and executed annually, under an obsolete statute, on what is called suspicion of lunacy. It is very hard that a sober, sensible dog, cannot go quietly through a village about his business, without having his motions watched, or some impertinent fellow observing that there is an "odd look about his eyes." My pulse, for instance, at this present writing, is as temperate as yours, Mr. Editor, and my head as little rambling, but I hardly dare to show my face out of doors for fear of these scrutinizers. If I look up in a stranger's face, he thinks I am going to bite him. If I go with my eyes fixed upon the ground, they say I have got the mopes, which is but a short stage from the disorder. If I wag my tail, I am too lively; if I do not wag it, I am sulky—either of which appearances passes alike for a prognostic. If I pass a dirty puddle without drinking, sentence is infallibly pronounced upon me. I am perfectly swilled with the quantity of ditch-water I am forced to swallow in a day, to clear me from imputations—a worse cruelty than the water ordeal of your old Saxon ancestors. If I snap at a bone, I am furious; if I refuse it, I have got the sullens, and that is a bad symptom. I dare not bark outright, for fear of being adjudged to rave. It was but yesterday, that I indulged in a little innocent yelp only, on occasion of a cart-wheel going over my leg, and the populace was up in arms, as if I had betrayed some marks of flightiness in my conversation.

Really our case is one which calls for the interference of the chancellor. He should see, as in cases of other lunatics, that commissions are only issued out against proper objects; and not a whole race be proscribed, because some dreaming Chaldean, two thouseand years ago, fancied a canine resemblance in some star or other, that was supposed to predominate over addle brains, with as little justice as Mercury was held to be influential over rogues and swindlers; no compliment I am sure to either star or planet. Pray attend to my complaint, Mr. Editor, and speak a good word for us this hot weather.

Your faithful, though sad dog,        


This "sad dog" is a "sensible dog," and must know, that England is by no means favourable to him or his fellow-creatures. Dogs here are mostly the property of persons who by "training," and "working," and "fighting" them, drive many of them mad, and render every dog at this season an object of fear. They have, at present, the right to do wrong to dogs, and the liberty of making them as brutal as themselves. If a few of these dog-masters were tied up, as an example to others, dogs might have rights and liberties. The condition of the lower animals will improve with the subjugation of the passions in the master-animal, man.


For the Every-Day Book.

Taking into consideration the competition excited amongst architects by the public advertizing for designs for the new churches, it might reasonably have been expected that greater specimens of genius would have been elicited, and more variety displayed in the elevations than we at present see. From whatever cause it arises, whether from the interference of individual partiality, or the predominating influence of a bad taste, it is certain that a tameness of design is too generally apparent in these buildings.

Mr. Grey Bennett, speaking of the church in Langham-place, in the house of commons said, "that it was deplorable, a horrible object, and never had he seen so shameful a disgrace to the metropolis. It was like a flat candlestick with an extinguisher on it. He saw a great number of churches building, of all of which it might be said, that one was worse than the other; it seemed as if an adventurous spirit of architecture prevailed, and that its professors had resolved to follow nothing that had ever appeared before, and to invent nothing new that was not purely absurd. No man who knew what architecture was, would have put up the edifices he alluded to, and which disgusted every body, while it made every body wonder who could be the asses that planned, and the fools that built them."* [2] These remarks are upon the whole, perhaps, too severe and sweeping. The greatest fault in the new churches is the want of variety; the eye is tired with the repetition of the same design, and looks with eagerness for something to relieve the general monotony. We have before us so many examples of good church-building, that the spectator is more fastidious in his judgment upon any new specimen, and is led to judge of its merits by comparison with some favourite design, rather than by an examination of its intrinsic beauties or defects: in this view the new churches have not been fairly treated.

Much has been written on the style of architecture most proper for churches. The balance of argument is in favour of the gothic. Architects would decide for the Grecian, but their judgments are so biassed by education, that very few who look at the subject professionally, are likely to form an opinion upon it of any value. If the beauty of a building consists in its appropriateness to the objects for which it is intended, then the gothic style will ever bear away the palm when put into competition with the Greek or Roman architecture for ecclesiastical edifices.

By gothic architecture it should here be understood, that the fashionable mode of building, correctly styled "modern gothic," is not referred to. So widely different is it from the correct and beautiful architecture which it professes to imitate, that it may with great justness be called a new order. The late Mr. Carter, than whom, no man ever entered into the spirit of gothic architecture with more attention, or ever understood its propterties and beauties more soundly, very justly called this splendid invention of modern genius, the "fantastic order;" the correctness of the cognomen is now so far acknowledged, that even architects are giving up this their favourite child, and endeavouring to assume a greater justness of detail, and form a closer imitation of the genuine style. From the reports of the commissioners for building new churches, it appears that the gothic style is adopted in the majority of those churches built in the country; in the environs of the metropolis but in very few instances. This is to be lamented; it would have been more desirable had the gothic churches been allowed to have borne a proportion to the others, at least of one in three. It has been often urged, that the rejection of this style arises from the expensiveness of its details.—To show at once how little weight there is in this objection, let any one contrast the splendid gothic church lately erected and Chelsea, rich in crockets and mullions, with its stone roofe, and pinnacled tower, against the rigid ionic temple built for the parish of St. Pancras. The estimate of the first is, perhaps, little more than a third the cost of the latter building; the dimensions are at least equal; and which of these buildings displays the most ornament? In the one much money is consumed in delicate mouldings and rich friezes; delicate, minute, and scarcely seen embellishments, which the smoke and damp of a London atmosphere will soon fill with dirt, while it will corrode the composition in which they are worked. In the other, though the gothic detail is marked with a want of coldness, yet what ornament is introduced shows to advantage, and is more calculated to endure than the other. The gothic style in detail is bold and conspicuous, and a little money laid out in embellishment with judgment goes a long way—witness the beautiful chapel at Mile-end, which proves beyond all dispute, that even an ornamented gothic building can be erected at a very limited expense. The architect was the late Mr. Walters, and had he built nothing more than this chapel, he would be entitled to have ranked high in his profession. Another edifice in the gothic style may be worth notice as affording a striking contrast to that last mentioned, this is a church now building in Somers-town. Its only characteristics are meanness and poverty; the style resembles that of a Chinese summer-house, without its lightness; it is clumsy where solidity is required, and possesses not one redeeming quality to atone for the many absurdities it contains.

As to the Grecian architecture of the present day, it is much a matter of question, whether the style of many of the new churches is not as much removed from the original as the gothic I have complained of. It would, however, occupy too much time to inquire into the classical authorities to warrant many of these edifices, and it is very questionable whether many of their architects have done so. It has already been remarked that, a great sameness appears in the new churches. This is in a great measure to be attributed to the designs of the steeples being cramped by the style, which admits of little more than a square tower supporting a circular or polygonal story. It is, however, rather an error of choice than the effect of necessity; the architect does not appear to have been guided by what he can or cannot do; but a want of energy seems the principal cause; he forms a design and fears to deviate from it. This may be exemplified in the three churches erected from Mr. Smirke's designs, at Wandsworth, Bryanstone-square, and West Hackney. In all, the same design is seen; the same round tower, the same cupola, differing only in height and situation. The bodies of the churches too are so strikingly similar, that the spectator cannot help feeling disappointment from the plainness of the designs and their want of variety; it is not what he has been led to expect from an architect of the eminence to which Mr. Smirke has been raised. The same observations apply even more forcibly to four churches in Surrey: viz. Camberwell, Norwood, Trinity church, Newington, and St. John's in the Waterloo-road. The steeples of the three latter, as originally designed, would have been exact copies of each other. The first differs but little. The last named church has the good fortune to have had a spire added, as far superior to the others, as it is to the generality of the modern designs. The bodies of all these churches are so closely copied that it would be a difficult matter to point out in what respect they differ. It will be almost needless to add, that the whole four are the work of one architect, Mr. Bedford, of Camberwell. It is not only the sameness of design, but the sameness of style, which I complain of. Though Grecian edifices may be tolerated amidst modern houses, as assimilating with their architecture, they are out of all character in the country. Lambeth parish for instance has built four churches. The grecian style prevails in the whole, and though the buildings are creditable to their architects, yet, in the case of Brixton, which is certainly a very chaste and pretty doric church, and does honour to the genius of Mr. Porden, and the Norwood, where in every point of view at the least distance, and particularly the latter place, the steeples are seen in connection with trees and country scenery, the pepper-box towers remind the spectator more of pigeon-houses than church steeples; and he, to whom the sight of a village-spire brings almost enthusiastic feelings, and an earnest desire of arriving at it, would scarce bestow any notice on these modern and unappropriate objects. Let the town and the city retain the portico and the dome, the country claims the gothic spire, the mullioned window, and the buttressed wall; but things are now reversed and changed from their natural order. The slender pointed spire is now made to terminate a splendid street of modern houses, where it appears as awkward as the cupola does amidst fields and hedges. Mr. Nash is to build a gothic church at Haggerstone, and let us hope he will atone for his fault at the west, by bestowing a more orthodox steeple upon the eastern erection. Mr. Soane is the architect of Walworth church, which is the first specimen of his ecclesiastical structures; it differs from the generality of new churches, in having a range of arches rising from the parts of the galleries, dividing the structure longitudinally into three aisles, in the style of the older churches. It formed one of the groupes of churches exhibited by this gentleman at Somerset-house in the present year. One recommandation it has, and that by no means a trifling one; the voice of the clergyman may be distinctly heard in every part of the building without the least echo or indistinctness, a fault very common in large buildings.

It would occupy too much space to notice, even briefly, every new church. In regard to steeples, that of the new church building at Hoxton (architect Edwards) is one of the prettiest designs of the modern school of cupolas; and the spire of St. Paul's, Shadwell, of which Mr. Walters, before spoken of, was the architect, forms a brilliant exception; it is closely formed on the model of Bow steeple, but there are some variations so pleasing, that the design may justly be said to be the architect's own property—he has followed sir Christopher Wren without copying him. The spire at Poplar is a fine object, but decidedly inferior to the last, inasmuch as it diminishes more abruptly. The steeple attached to St. John's church, in the Waterloo-road, is a very finely proportioned erection, and shows exceedingly well from the Strand and the Temple-gardens; those who have seen an engraving of this church with the tower originally designed for it, will see what has been gained by the exchange.

There are more new churches still to be built; let us hope then, that the architects who may be selected to erect them, having seen the faults and defects of their predecessors, will produce something better; or, at least, that their designs will differ from the generality of those already built, if only for the sake of variety.

In conclusion, the writer has only to add, that much more might be said both on old nad new churches; it is a subject which has more than once employed his pen; he feels, however, that he has already occupied a larger space than he is entitled to do, if he has trespassed on your readers patience he has to beg their pardon; his excuse is, that the subject is a favourite one.

E. I. C.

July, 1825.


For Captain Lion, Brighton.

        My dear sir,
I anticipated a sojournment in your "neat little country cottage" during your absence, with more pleasure than I expressed, when you made me the offer of it. I imagined how much more comfortable I should be there, than in my own out-of-town single-room. I was mistaken. I have been comfortable nowhere. The malignity of an evil star is against me; I mean the dog-star. Your recollect the heat I fell into during our Hornsey walk. I have been hot ever since, "hissing hot, —think of that Master Brook;" I would that thou wert really a brook, I would cleave thy bosom, and, unless thou wert cool to me, I would not acknowledge thee for a friend.

After returning from the coach wherein you and your lady-cousin departed, I "larded the lean earth" to my house in town. That evening I got into a hackney coach to enjoy your "cool" residence; but it was hot; and there was no "cool of the evening;" I went to bed hot, and slept hot all night, and got up hot to a hot tea-breakfast, looking all the while on the hot print opposite, Hogarth's "Evening," with the fat hot citizen's wife sweltering between her husband and the New River, the hot little dog looking wistfully into the reachless warm water, her crying hot boy on her husband's stick, the scolding hot sister, and all the other heats of that ever-to-be-warmly-admired engraving. The coldest picture in the room, to my heated eye, was the fruit-piece worked in worsted—worsted in the dog-days!

How I got through that hot day I cannot remember. At night, when, according to Addison, "evening shades prevail," the heat prevailed; there were no "cool" shades, and I got no rest; and therefore I got up restless, and walked out and saw the morning star, which I suppose was the dog-star, for I sought coolness and found it not; but the sun arose, and methought there was no atmosphere but burning beams; and the metropolis poured out its heated thousands towards the New River, at Newington; and it was filled with men, and boys, and dogs; and all looked as "comfortable" as live eels in a stew pan.

I am too hot to proceed. What a summer! The very pumps refuse "spring" water; and, I suppose, we shall have no more till next spring.

My heart melts within me, and I am not so inhuman as to request the servant to broil with this letter to the post-office, but I have ordered her to give it to the newsman, and ask him to slip it into the first letter-box he passes, and to tell him, if he forgets, it is of no consequence, and in no hurry; he may take it on to Ludgate-hill, and Mr. Hone, if he please, may print it in his Every-Day Book. I dare say he is too hot to write, and this may help to fill up; so that you'll get it, at any rate. I don't care if all the world reads it, for the hot weather is no secret. As Mr. Freeling cannot say that printing a letter is privately conveying it, I shall not get into hot water at the post-office.

I am, my dear sir,
        Your warmest friend, till winter,

Coleman Cottage,
        Sun Day.

I. Fry.

P. S. I am told the sight of the postmen in their scarlet coats is not bearable in London; they look red-hot.


Duncomb, for many years the principal vender of Dunstable larks, resided at the village of Haughton-Regis, near Dunstable. He was an eccentric character, and, according to Dunno's "Originals," (himself an "original") he was "remarkable for his humorous and droll method of rhyming." The following lines are shrewd and pleasant:—

Duncomb's Answer in Hay-time relating to the Weather.

Well, Duncomb, how will be the weather?
Sir, it looks cloudy altogether.
And coming 'cross our Houghton Green,
I stopp'd and talk'd with old Frank Beane.
While we stood there, sir, old Jan Swain,
Went by and said, he know'd 'twood rain.
The next that came was Master Hunt,
And he declar'd, he knew it wont.
And then I met with farmer Blow,
He told me plainly he di'nt know:
So, sir, when doctors disagree
Who's to decide it, you or me?

Dunstable Larks.

The larks which are caught at Dunstable are unequalled for their size and richness of flavour. Their superiority is said to be owing in a great measure to the chalky soil. On their first arrival they are very lean and weak, but they recover in a short time, and are braced and fattened by picking considerable quantities of the finest particles of chalk with their food. They are usually taken in great quantities, with trammelling nets, on evenings and mornings, from Michaelmas to February. When dressed and served up at some of the inns in the town, "in great perfection, by a peculiar and secret method in the process of cooking them," they are admired as a luxury by travellers during the time they are in season; and by an ingenious contrivance in their package, they are sent ready dressed to all parts of England.


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

1. Shrewsbury Chronicle. [return]

2. The Times, March 31, 1824. [return]