Then came hot July, boiling like to fire,
    That all his garments he had cast away.
  Upon a lyon raging yet with ire
    He boldly rode, and made him to obey:
  (It was the beast that whilom did forray
    The Nemæan forest, till the Amphitrionide
  Him slew, and with his hide did him array:)
    Behind his backe a sithe, and by his side
Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide.


July is the seventh month of the year. According to ancient reckoning it was the fifth, and called QUINTILIS, until Mark Antony denominated it July, in compliment to Caius Cæsar, the Roman dictator, whose surname was Julius, who improved the calendar, and was born in this month.

July was called by the Saxons hen-monath, which probably expressed the meaning of the German word hain, signifying wood or trees; and hence hen-monath might mean foliage month. They likewise called it heymonath, or hay-month; "because," says Verstegan, "therein they usually mowed and made their hay harvest;" and they also denominated it Lida-aftera, meaning the second "Lida," or second month after the sun's descent.* [Dr. Frank Sayers.]

The beautiful representation preceding Spenser's personification of July, on the preceding page, was designed and engraved by Mr. Samuel Williams, of whom it should in justice be said, that his talents have enriched the Every-Day Book with most of its best illustrations.

Now comes July, and with his fervid noon
Unsinews labour. The swinkt mower sleeps;
The weary maid rakes feebly; the warm swain
Pitches his load reluctant; the faint steer,
Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along
The slow encumbered wain in midday heat.

Mr. Leigh Hunt in his Months, after remarking that "July is so called after Julius Cæsar, who contrived to divide his names between months and dynasties, and among his better deeds of ambition reformed the calendar," proceeds to notice, that—"The heat is greatest in this month on account of its previous duration. The reason why it is less so in August is, that the days are then much shorter, and the influence of the sun has been gradually diminishing. The farmer is still occupied in getting the productions of the earth into his garners; but those who can avoid labour enjoy as much rest and shade as possible. There is a sense of heat and quiet all over nature. The birds are silent. The little brooks are dried up. The earth is chapped with parching. The shadows of the trees are particularly grateful, heavy, and still. The oaks, which are freshest because latest in leaf, form noble clumpy canopies, looking, as you lie under them, of a strong and emulous green against the blue sky. The traveller delights to cut across the country through the fields and the leafy lanes, where nevertheless the flints sparkle with heat. The cattle get into the shade, or stand in the water. The active and air-cutting swallows, now beginning to assemble for migration, seek their prey about the shady places, where the insects, though of differently compounded natures, 'fleshless and bloodless,' seem to get for coolness, as they do at other times for warmth. The sound of insects is also the only audible thing now, increasing rather than lessening the sense of quiet by its gentle contrast. The bee now and then sweeps across the ear with his gravest tone. The gnats

Their murmuring small trumpets sounden wide; Spenser.

and here and there the little musician of the grass touches forth his tricksy note.

The poetry of earth is never dead;
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the grasshopper's.


"Besides some of the flowers of last month, there are now candy-tufts, catch-fly, columbines, egg-plant, French mary-golds, lavateras, London-pride, marvel of Peru, veronicas, tuberoses, which seem born of the white rose and lily; and scarlet-beans, which though we are apt to think little of them because they furnish us with a good vegetable, are quick and beautiful growers, and in a few weeks will hang a walk or trellis with an exuberant tapestry of scarlet and green.

"The additional trees and shrubs in flower are bramble, button-wood, iteas, cistuses, climbers, and broom. Pimpernel, cockle, and fumitory, are now to be found in corn-fields, the blue-bell in wastes or by the road-sides; and the luxuriant hop is flowering.

"The fruits begin to abound and are more noticed, in proportion to the necessity for them occasioned by the summer-heat. The strawberries are in their greatest quantity and perfection; and currants, gooseberries, and raspberries, have a world of juice for us, prepared, as it were, in so many crowds of little bottles, in which the sunshine has turned the dews of April into wine. The strawberry lurks about under a beautiful leaf. Currants are also extremely beautiful. A handsome bunch looks like pearls or rubies, and an imitation of it would make a most graceful ear-ring. We have seen it, when held lightly by fair fingers, present as lovely a drop, and piece of contrast, as any holding hand in a picture of Titian.

"Bulbous rooted flowers, that have almost done with their leaves, should now be taken up, and deposited in shallow wooden boxes. Mignionette should be transplanted into small pots, carnations be well attended to and supported, and auriculas kept clean from dead leaves and weeds, and in dry weather frequently watered.

"It is now the weather for bathing, a refreshment too little taken in this country, either in summer or winter. We say in winter, because with very little care in placing it near a cistern, and having a leathern pipe for it, a bath may be easily filled once or twice a week with warm water; and it is a vulgar error that the warm bath relaxes. An excess, either warm or cold, will relax; and so will any other excess: but the sole effect of the warm bath moderately taken is, that it throws off the bad humours of the body by opening and clearing the pores. As to summer bathing, a father may soon teach his children to swim, and thus perhaps might be the means of saving their lives some day or other, as well as health. Ladies also, though they cannot bathe in the open air as they do in some of the West Indian islands and other countries, by means of natural basins among the rocks, might oftener make a substitute for it at home in tepid baths. The most beautiful aspects under which Venus has been painted or sculptured, have been connected with bathing: and indeed there is perhaps no one thing that so equally contributes to the three graces of health, beauty, and good temper;—to health, in putting the body into its best state; to beauty, in clearing and tinting the skin; and to good temper, in rescuing the spirits from the irritability occasioned by those formidable personages 'the nerves,' which nothing else allays in so quick and entire a manner. See a lovely passage on the subject of bathing in sir Philip Sydney's 'Arcadia,' where 'Philoclea, blushing, and withall smiling, making shamefastnesse pleasant, and pleasure shamefast, tenderly moved her feet, unwonted to feel the naked ground, until the touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of shrugging come over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among the fixed stars.'"

July 1.

St. Rumbold, Bp. A.D. 775. Sts. Julius and Aaron. St. Theobald, or Thibault, 11th Cent. St. Gal I. Bp. 5th Cent. St. Calais, or Carilephus, A.D. 542. St. Leonorus, or Lunaire, Bp. St. Simeon Salus, 6th Cent. St. Thieri, A.D. 533. St. Cybar, A.D. 581.


1690. The battle of the Boyne, fought on this day, decided the fate of James II. and the Stuart tyranny, and established William III. on the throne of the people.


Agrimony. Agrimonia Eupatoria.
Dedicated to St. Aaron.

July 2.

Visitation of the B. Virgin. Sts. Processus and Martinian, 1st Cent. St. Otho, Bp. 12th Cent. St. Monegoude, A.D. 570. St. Oudoceus, Bp. of Landaff, 6th Cent.


white Lily. Lilium candidum.
Dedicated to the Virgin Mary.

A Morning's Walk in July.

But when mild morn, in saffron stole,
First issues from her eastern goal,
Let not my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy summit's brow sublime,
Whence Nature's universal face
Illumined smiles with newborn grace,
The misty streams that wind below
With silver sparkling lustre glow;
The groves and castled cliffs appear
Invested all in radiance clear;
O! every village charm beneath!
The smoke that mounts in azure wreath
O beauteous rural interchange!
The simple spire and elmy grange;
Content, indulging blissful hours,
Whistles o'er the fragrant flowers:
And cattle rous'd to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their sides the dew.* [Ode on the Approach of Summer.]

July 3.

St. Phocas, a Gardner, A.D. 303. St. Guthagon. St. Gunthiern, a Welsh Prince, 6th Cent. St. Bertram, 6th Cent.

The Bleeding Image.

On the 3d of July is annually celebrated, in Paris, in the church of St. Leu and St. Giles, a solemn office, in commemoration of a miracle wrought by the blessed virgin, in la Rue aux Ours, or the street for the bears; the history of which is as follows:— In the year 1518, a soldier coming out of a tavern in this Bear-street, where he had been gambling, and losing his money and clothes, was blaspheming the name of God; and as he passed by the image of the holy virgin, standing very quietly and inoffensively at the corner of the street, he struck it, or her, furiously with a knife he had in his hand; on which God permitted, as the modern and modest tellers of this tale say, the image to bleed abundantly. The ministers of justice were informed, and the wretch was seized, conducted to the spot where he had committed the sacrilege, tied to a post, and scourged, from six o'clock in the morning till night, till his eyes dropped out; his tongue was bored with a hot iron, and his body was cast into the fire. The blessed image was transported to Rome. This was the origin of a ceremony still remembered, and which once was very curious. The zeal of the inhabitants of Bear-street was conspicuous, and their devotion to the blessed virgin not less so. At first they only made the figure of the soldier, as we in England do of Guy Faux, and threw it into the fire; by degrees the feast became more solemn, and the soldier, who had been rudely fashioned out of faggots, was at last a composition of fireworks, which, after being carried in procession through the streets of Paris, took a flight into the air, to the great joy and edification of the Parisians, particularly of Bear-street. At last, however, the magistrates wisely recollected that the streets being narrow, and the buildings numerous in that part of the city, a fire might happen, and it would then be still more miraculous if the holy image should travel from Rome to Paris to extinguish the flames: not to mention that the holy image might not at that precise moment be so plentifully supplied as on a similar occasion our friend Gulliver was. In 1744, therefore, they forbad any future fire-work soldiers, and the poor distressed inhabitants of Bear-street, were once more reduced to their man of wood, whom they continue to burn with great affection every 3d of July, after having walked him about Paris three days. This figure is now made of osier, clothed, and armed with a knife, and of so horrid an appearance, it would undoubtedly frighten women and children who did not know the story of the sacrilegious soldier; as it is, they believe they see him breathe blasphemy. Messieurs, the associated gentlemen of Bear-street, give the money formerly spent in fireworks, to make a procession to the proxy of the blessed image which now stands where the bleeding one did, and to say a solemn mass to the blessed virgin, for the souls of the defunct gentlemen, associates of Bear-street. The mummery existed under Napoleon, as appears by the preceding particulars, dated Paris, July 12, 1807, and may be seen in the Sunday Advertiser, of the 19th of that month.

On the 3d of July, 1810, a small loaf fastened by a string, was suspended from the equestrian statue at Charing-cross, to which was attached a placard, stating, that it was purchased from a baker, and was extremely deficient in weight, and was one of a numerous batch. The notice concluded by simply observing, "Does this not deserve the aid of parliament?" this exhibition attracted a great crowd of people, until the whole of the loaf was nearly washed away by subsequent heavy rain.

The Dog-days.

"The Dog-star rages."

Sirius, or the Dog-star, is represented as in the above engraving, on a garnet gem, in lord Besborough's collection, etched by Worlidge. The late Mr. William Butler, in his Chronological Exercises, says, that on this day "commence, according to the almanacs, the Canicular, or Dog-days, which are a certain number of days preceding and following the heliacal rising of Canicula, or the Dog-star, in the morning. Their beginning is usually fixed in the calendars on the 3d of July, and their termination on the 11th of August; but this is a palpable mistake, since the heliacal rising of this star does not now take place, at least in our latitude, till near the latter end of August; and in five or six thousand years more, Canicula may chance to be charged with bringing frost and snow, as it will then, owing to the precession of the equinoxes, rise in November and December."

Dr. Hutton remarks, that some authors say, from Hippocrates and Pliny, that the day this star first rises in the morning, the sea boils, wine turns sour, dogs begin to grow mad, the bile increases and irritates, and all animals grow languid; also, "the diseases it usually occasions in men are burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies. The Romans sacrificed a brown dog every year to Canicula, at his first rising to appease his rage."

A Cambridge contributor to the Every-Day Book affirms, that, in the year 1824, an edict was issued there for all persons keeping dogs either to muzzle or tie them up, and many a dog was tied up by the neck as a sacrifice; whether to the Mayor or Canicular, this deponent saith not; but the act and deed gave rise to the following


  Good mister Mayor
  All dogs declare
The beam of justice falters!
To miss the puppies‐sure she's blind,
For dogs they are alone consign'd
To muzzles or to halters!

Cambridge.       T. N.

Mr. Brady observes, in his "Clavis Calendaria," "That the weather in July and August is generally more sultry than at any other period of the year, and that some particular diseases are consequently at that time more to be dreaded, both to man and beast, is past dispute. The exaggerated efffects of the rising of Sirius are now, however, known to be groundless; and the superior heat usually felt during the Dog-days has been more philosophically accounted for. The sun, at this period of the year, no only darts his rays almost perpendicularly upon us, and of course with greater power; but has also contined to exert his influence through the spring and summer seasons, whereby the atmosphere and earth have received a warmth, proportioned to the continuity of its action; and moisture, in itself naturally cold, has been dissipated. Even in the course of a day, which has been aptly typified as a short year, the greatest effect of the sun is generally felt at about two o'clock, although it has then passed the meridian, because by having so much longer exerted its powers, its consequent effects are more than commensurate for the diminution of heat in its rays. The cold of winter in like manner augments about the time the days begin to increase, and continues to do so, for a considerable time after, because, at that season, the earth has become wet and chilled, from the effects of the preceding gradual decrease of power in the sun, although, at that time, when the cold is usually most severe, that orb is ascensive, and returning from the winter solstice: and our Saxon ancestors were experimentally so well aware of this latter circumstance, that in the delineation on their calendars, to illustrate the characters of the months they represented February, as a man in the act of striking his arms across his body to warm himself: while there is also yet in common use a very old saying, grounded upon the like conviction, that 'when the days lengthen, the frost is sure to strengthen.'

"The early Egyptians, whose hieroglyphical characters, aptly adapted by them to the peculiarity of their climate and circumstances, were the principal or perhaps sole origin of allthe heathenish superstitions of other nations, were taught by long observation and experience, that as soon as a particular star became visible, the Nile would overflow its banks; and they accordingly upon its very first appearance retreated to their terraces, where they remained until the inundation had subsided. This star, therefore, was called by them Sihor, i.e. the Nile; as [Greek characters] is in Greek, and Sirius in Latin; and from the warning it afforded them, they typified it as a dog, or in most cases as a man with a dog's head; that faithful animal having been, even in those times, distinguished for his peculiar qualities of watching over the affairs of man, and affording warning of approaching danger. The names assigned to this star by the Egyptians was Thaaut, or Tayout, the dog; and in later times Sothis, Thotes, or Thot, each bearing the like signification; but it was left for the subsequent ignorance of those other nations who adopted that character for Sihor, now Sirius, without considering the true origin of its appellation, falsely to assign to it, the increasing heat of the season, and its consequent effects upon animated nature. The idea, however, of any such effects, either as to heat, or to disorders, from the influence of the canicular star, is now wholly exploded, from the reasons already assigned, and because 'that star not only varies in its rising every year, as the latitude varies, but that it rises later and later every year in all latitudes;' so that when it rises in winter, which by the way, cannot be for five or six thousand years, it might, with equal propriety, be charged with increasing the frost: and besides, it is to be observed, that although Sirius is the nearest to the earth of any of the fixed stars, it is computed to be at the enormous distance of 2,200,000,000,000 miles from our globe; a space too prodigious to admit of its rays affording any sensible heat; and which could not be passed by a sanon-ball, flying with its calculated velocity of 480 miles in one hour, in less than 523,211 years! Upon the whole, therefore, it evidently appears, that the origin of the name of this star was not only wholly disregarded, but that common and undigested opinion made its conjunction with the sun, the cause of heat, &c. instead of having regarded it as a sign of the period when such effects might naturally be expected."

Mad Dogs.

There is no cure for the bite of a mad dog; and as at this time dogs go mad, it is proper to observe, that immediate burning out of the bitten part by caustic, or the cutting of it out by the surgeon's knife, is the only remedy. If either burning or cutting be omitted, the bitten person, unless opiumed to death, or smothered between featherbeds, will in a few days or weeks die in unspeakable agony. The latter means are said to have been sometimes resorted to as a merciful method of extinguishing life. It is an appalling fact, that there is no cure for hydrophobia.

Preventive is better than cure, and in this case it is easy. Dogs, however useful in some situations, are wholly useless in towns. Exterminate them.

Against this a cry will go forth from all dog-owners: they will condemn the measure as proceeding from a barbarian; but they are the barbarians who keep animals subject to a disease fatal to human life. Such persons, so far from being entitled to a voice against its execution, merit abhorrence and contempt for daring to propose that every man, woman, and child among their friends and neighbours, should run the risk of a cruel death for the gratification of selfishness. Every honest man in every town who keeps a dog, should destroy it, and use his influence with others to destroy theirs. No means of preventing hydrophobia exists but the destruction of dogs.

Oh! but dogs are useful; they guard our houses at night; they go in carts and guard our goods by day; they catch our rats; and, then, they are such faithful creatures! All this, though very true, does not urge one reason against their destruction as a preventive from their communicating a fatal and wholly incurable disease. Instead of house-dogs at night, get additional watchmen, or secure watchmen more vigilant than those you have, by paying a proper price for the important services required of them, which in most places are not half requited. Instead of cart-dogs, employ boys, of whom there are scores half-starving, who would willingly take charge of carts at little more than the expense of dog-keep. If rats must be caught, cats can catch them, or they may be poisoned. Instead of cultivating the fidelity of dogs, let dog-keepers cultivate a little fidelity in themselves towards their neighbours, and do as they would be done unto, by destroying their dogs.

Oh, but would you deprive the "poor" man of his dog? Yes. The poorer he is, the less occasion he has for a dog, and the less ability he has to maintain a dog. Few poor men in towns keep dogs but for the purpose of sport of some kind; making matches to fight them, drawing badgers with them, baiting bulls with them, or otherwise brutally misemploying them.

An act of parliament, inflicting heavy penalties for keeping dogs in towns, and empowering constables, beadles, street-keepers, and others, with rewards for carrying it into effect on every dog they meet, would put an end to hydrophobia.

It is a common practice to kill dogs at this season in some parts of the continent, and so did our ancestors. Ben Jonson, in his "Bartholomew Fair," speaks of "the dog-killer in this month of August." A dog-destroyer in every parish would be an important public officer. REMEMBER! there is no cure for the bite of a mad dog.

To the Bellflower.

With drooping bells of clearest blue
Thou didst attract my childish view,
    Almost resembling
The azure butterflies that flew
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew
    So lightly trembling.

Where feathery fern and golden broom
Increase the sandrock cavern's gloom
    I've seen thee tangled,
'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom
By vain Arachne's treacherous loom
    With dewdrops spangled.

'Mid ruins tumbling to decay,
Thy flowers their heavenly hues display,
    Still freshly springing,
Where pride and pomp have passed away
On mossy tomb and turret gray,
    Like friendship clinging.

When glowworm lamps illume the scene
And silvery daisies dot the green,
    Thy flowers revealing,
Perchance to soothe the fairy queen,
With faint sweet tones on night serene,
    Soft bells are pealing.

But most I love thine azure braid,
When softer flowers are all decayed,
    And thou appearest
Stealing beneath the hedgerow shade,
Like joys that linger as they fade,
    Whose last are dearest.

Thou art the flower of memory;
The pensive soul recalls in thee
    The year's past pleasures;
And, led by kindred thought, will flee,
Till, back to careless infancy,
    The path she measures.

Beneath autumnal breezes bleak,
So faintly fair, so sadly meek,
    I've seen thee bending.
Pale as the pale blue veins that streak
Consumption's thin, transparent cheek,
    With death hues blending.

Thou shalt be sorrow's love and mine;
The violet and the eglantine
    With Spring are banished.
In Summer pinks and roses shine,
But I of thee my wreath will twine,
    When these are vanished.

May you like it.


Tried Mallow. Malva Sylvestris
Dedicated to St. Phocas.

July 4.

St. Ulric, or Udalric. St. Odo, Abp. of Canterbury, 10th Cent. St. Sisoes, or Sisoy, A.D. 429. St. Bertha, 8th Cent. St. Finbar, of Crimlen. St. Bolean, disciple of St. Patrick.

St. Ulric.

He was son of count Hucbald, one of the first dukes of higher Germany. He became bishop of Augsburg, and rebuilt the celebrated cathedral there, in 962, dedicating it to St. Afra, patroness of that city, and died eighty years old, in 973, on ashes laid in the form of a cross upon a floor. Customs peculiar to this day are related in these verses:—

St. Huldryche.

Wheresoeuer Huldryche hath his place,
    the people there brings in
Both carpes, and pykes, and mullets fat,
    his fauour here to win.
Amid the church there sitteth one,
    and to the aultar nie,
That selleth fish, and so good cheepe,
    that euery man bay buie:
Nor any thing he loseth here,
    bestowing thus his paine,
For when it hath beene offred once,
    'tis brought him all againe.
That twise or thrise he selles the same
    vngodlinesse such gaine
Doth still bring in, and plentiously
    the kitchin doth maintaine.
Whence comes this same religion newe?
    what kind of God is this
Same Huldryche here, that so desires,
    and so delightes in fish?* [Naogeorgus by Googe.]


Copper Day Lily. Hemerocallis fulva.
Dedicated to St. Ulric.

The London Barrow-woman.

The London Barrow-woman.

See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd,
Scatt'ring like blooming maid their glances round
With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside,
And must be bought.


This is cherry season, but it is not to me as cherry seasons were. I like a great deal that is, but I have an affection for what was. By-gone days seem to have been more fair than these; and I cannot help trying to

"catch the manners dying as they fall."

I have lived through the extremity of one age, into the beginning of another, and I believe a better; yet the former has been too much detracted: every thing new is not, therefore, good; nor was every thing old, bad. When I was a boy, I speak of just after the French revolution broke out, my admiration and taste were pure and natural, and one of my favourites at all times, and in cherry-time expecially, was the London barrow-woman. There are no barrow-women now. They are quite "gone out," or, rather, they have been "put down," and by many they are not even missed. Look around; there is not one to be seen.

In those days there were women on the earth; finely grown, every way well-proportioned, handsome, and in stature like Mrs. Siddons. I speak of London women. Let not the ladies of the metropolis conceive offence, if I maintain that some of their mothers, and more among their grandmothers, were taller and more robust than they. That they are otherwise may not be in their eyes a misfortune; should they, however, think it so, "their schools are more in fault than they." Be that as it may, I am merely stating a fact. They have declined in personal elevation, as they have increased in moral elevation.

At that time lived the London barrow-woman:—

Her hair loose curl'd, the rest tuck'd up between
Her neatly frill'd mob-cap, was scarcely seen;
A black chip-hat, peculiarly her own,
With ribbon puff'd around the small flat crown
Pinn'd to her head-dress, gave her blooming face
A jaunty openness and winning grace.


On her legs were "women's blacks," or, in dry sunny weather, as at this season, stockings of white cotton, with black high-heeled shoes, and a pair of bright sparkling buckles; tight lacing distended her hips, which were further enlarged by her flowered cotton or chintz gown being drawn trhough the pocket-holes to balloon out behind, and display a quilted glazed petticoat of black or pink stuff, terminating about four inches above the ancles; she wore on her bosom, which was not so confined as to injure its fullness, a light gauze or muslin kerchief. This was her full dress, as she rolled through the street, and cried—

  "Round and sound,
  Two-pence a pound,
Cherries! rare ripe cherries!"

"Green and ripe gooseberries! amberberries! ripe amber-berries?" "Currants! rare ripe currants!" ending, as she began, with cherries:—

"Cherries a ha'penny a stick!
Come and pick! come and pick
Cherries! big as plums!
Who comes? who comes?"

Each side of her well-laden barrow was dressed nearly halfway along with a row of sticks having cherries tied on them. To assist in retailing her other fruit, there lay before her a "full alehouse measure" of clean pewter, and a pair of shining brass scales, with thick turn-over rims, and leaden weights, for the "real black-hearts" that dyed the shite cloth they lay on with purple stains. If she had an infant, she was sometimes met with it, at a particular spot, for her to suckle. She was then a study for a painter. Her hearty caresses of her child, while she hastily sat down on the arm of her barrow, and bared her bountiful bosom to give it nourishment; the frolic with which she tickled it; the tenderness with which she looked into its young, up-turned eyes, while the bland fluid overflowed its laughing mouth; her smothering kisses upon its crowing lips after its nurture; and her loud affectionate "God bless it!" when it was carried away, were indescribably beautiful.

As the seasons changed, so her wares varied. With the "rolling year," she rolled round to us its successive fruits; but cherry-time was the meridian of her glory. Her clear and confident cry was then listened for, in the distance, with as much anxiety to hear it, as the proclamation of a herald, in the full authority of office, was awaited in ancient times. "What can keep the barrow-woman so long?— Surely she has not gone another way!—Hush! there she is; I hear her!" These were tokens of her importance in the neighbourhood she circled; and good housewives and servant girls came to the doors, with basins and dishes, to await her approach, and make their purchases of fruit for their pies and puddings. As she slowly trundled her barrow along the pavement, what doating looks were cast upon its delicacies by boys with ever-ready appetites! How he who had nothing to lay envied him who a halfpenny entitled to a perplexing choice amidst the tempting variety! If currants were fixed on, the questions was mooted, "Which are best—red or white?" If cherries—"white-hearts, or blacks?" If gooseberries—"red or yellow?" Sometimes the decision as to the comparative merits of colour was negatived by a sudden impulsive preference for "the other sort," or "something else;" and not seldom, after these deliberations, and being "served," arose doubts and regrets, and an application to be allowed to change "these" for "them," and perhaps the last choice was, in the end, the least satisfactory. Indecisiveness is not peculiar to childhood; "men are but children of a larger growth," and ther "conduct of the understanding" is nearly the same.

Mr. George Cruikshank, whose pencil is distinguished by power of decision in every character he sketches, and whose close observation of passing manners is unrivalled by any artist of the day, has sketched the barrow-woman for the Every-Day Book, from his own recollection of her, aided somewhat by my own. It is engraved on wood by Mr. Henry White, and placed at the head of this article.

Before barrow-women quite "went out," the poor things were sadly used. If they stopped to rest, or pitched their seat of custom where customers were likely to pass, street-keepers, authorized by orders unauthorized by law, drove them off, or beadles overthrew their fruit into the road. At last, an act of parliament made it penal to roll a wheel or keep a stand for the sale of any articles upon the pavement; and barrow-women and fruitstalls were "put down."

Fruit Stalls.

These daily purveyors to the refreshment of passengers in hot weather are not wholly extinct; a few, very few, still exist by mere sifferance—no more. Upon recollection of their number, and the grateful abundance heaped upon them, I could almost exclaim, in the words of the old Scoth-woman's epitaph—

"Such desolation in my time has been
I have an end of all perfection seen!"

Ah! what a goodly sight was Holborn-hill in "my time." Then there was a comely row of fruit-stalls, skirting the edge of the pavement from opposite the steps of St. Andrew's church to the corner of Shoe-lane. The fruit stood on tables covered with white cloths, and placed end to end, in one long line. In autumn, it was a lovely sight. The pears and apples were neatly piled in "ha'p'orths," for there were then no pennyworths; "a pen'orth" would have been more than sufficient for moderate eating at one time. First, of the pears, came the "ripe Kat'er'nes;" these were succeeded by "fine Windsors," and "real bergamys." Apples "came in" with "green codlins;" then followed "golden rennets," "golden pippins," and "ripe nonpareils." These were the common street-fruits. Such "goldee pippins" as were then sold, three and four for a halfpenny, are now worth pence a piece, and the true "golden rennet" can only be heard of at great fruiterers. The decrease in the growth of this delightful apple is one of the "signs of the times!"

The finest apples in Covent-garden market come from Kent. Growers in that county, by leaving only a few branches upon the tree, produce the most delicious kinds, of a surprisingly large size. For these they demand and obtain very high prices; but instead of London in general being supplied, as it was formerly, with the best apples, little else is seen except swine-feed, or French, or American apples. The importations of this fruit are very large, and under the almost total disappearance of some of our finest sorts, very thankful we are to get inferior ones of foreign growth. Really good English apples are scarcely within the purchase of persons of moderate means.

"Women's Blacks."

This is the name of the common black worsted stockings, formerly an article of extensive consumption; they are now little made, because little worn. One of the greatest wholesale dealers in "women's blacks," in a manufacturing town, was celebrated for the largeness of his stock; his means enabled him to purchase all that were offered to him for sale, and it was his favourite article. He was an old-fashioned man, and while the servant-maids were leaving them off, he was unconscious of the change, because he could not believe it; he insisted it was impossible that household work could be done in "white cottons." Offers of quantities were made to him at reduced prices, which he bought; his immense capital became locked up in his favourite "women's blacks;" whenever their price in the market lowered, he could not make his mind up to be quite low enough; his warehouses were filled with them; when he determined to sell, the demand had wholly ceased; he could effect no sales; and, become bankrupt, he literally died of a broken heart—from an excassive [sic] and unrequited attachment to "women's blacks."

July 5.

St. Peter, of Luxemburg, Card. A.D. 1387. St. Modwena, 9th Cent. St. Edana, of Elphim and Tuam.

There is a beautiful mention of flowers, at this season, in some lines from the Italian of Louis Gonzago.

With an Indian Perfume-box to Maria de Mancini, 1648.

Oh! the Florence rose is freshe and faire,
  And rich the young carnations blowe,
Wreathing in beauties' ebonne haire,
  Or sighing on her breaste of snowe,
But onlie violette shall twine
Thy ebonne tresses, ladye mine.

Oh! dazzling shines the noon-daye sunne,
  So kinglye in his golden carre,
But sweeter 'tis when day is done,
  To watche the evening's dewye starre,
In silence lighting fielde and grove,
How like mye heart, how like mye love!

Then, ladye, lowlye at thy feete
  I lay this gift of memorie,
All strange and rude, but treasures sweete
  Within its gloomy bosome lie.
Trifles, Marie! may telle the tale,
When wisdom, witte, and courage faile.



Double Yellow Rose. Rosa Sulphurea.
Dedicated to St. Edana.

July 6.

St. Palladius, A.D. 450. St. Julian, Anchorite, 4th Cent. St. Sexburgh, 7th Cent. St. Goar, A.D. 575. St[.] Moninna, A.D. 518.


Garden Hawks'-eyes. Crepis barbata.
Dedicated to St. Julian.

July 7.

St. Pantœnus, 3d Cent. St. Willibald, Bp. 8th Cent. St. Hedda, A.D. 705. St. Edelburga. St. Felix, Bp. of Nantes, A.D. 584. St. Benedict XI. Pope, A.D. 1304.


1816. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the poet, dramatist, orator, and statesman, died. He was the third son of Mr. Thomas Sheridan, celebrated as an actor, eminent as a lecturer on elocution, and entitled to the gratitude of the public for his judicious and indefatigable exertions to improve the system of education in this country. His father, the rev. Dr. Thomas Sheridan, was a distinguished divine, the ablest school-master of his time, and the intimate friend of the dean of St. Patrick. Mr. Thomas Sheridan died at Margate, on the 14th of August, 1788. Mrs. Frances Sheridan, the mother of Richard Brinsley, was the author of "Sidney Biddulph," a novel, which has the merit of combining the purest morality with the most powerful interest. She also wrote "Nourjahad," an oriental tale, and the comedies of the "Discovery," the "Dupe," and "A Trip to Bath." She died at Blois, in France, the 17th of September, 1766.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan was born in Dorset-street, Dublin, in the month of October, 1751. He was placed, in his seventh year, under the tuition of Mr. Samuel Whyte, of Dublin, the friend of their father. He was placed at Harrow school, after the christmas of 1762. His literary advancement at this seminary appears to have been at first retarded; and it was reserved for the late Dr. Parr, who was at that time one of the sub-preceptors, to discover and call into activity the faculties of young Sheridan's mind. His memory was found to be uncommonly retentive, and his judgment correct; so that when his mind was quickened by competition, his genius gradually expanded. But to be admired seemed his only object, and when that end was attained, he relaxed in his application, and sunk into his former indolence. His last year at Harrow was spent more in reflecting on the acquirements he had made, and the eventful scenes of a busy life, which were opening to his view, than in enlarging the circle of his classical and literary attainments. His father deemed it unnecessary to send him to the university; and he was, a short time after his departure from Harrow, entered as a student of the Middle Temple.

Mr. Sheridan, when about twenty, was peculiarly fond of the society of men of taste and learning, and soon gave proofs that he was inferior to none of his companions in wit and argument. At this age he had recourse to his literary talents for pcuniary supplies, and directed his attention to the drama; but disgusted with some sketches of comic character which he drew, he actually destroyed them, and in a moment of despair renounced every hope of excellence as a dramatic writer. His views with respect to the cultivation and exertion of his genius in literary pursuits, or to the study of the profession to which he had been destined by his father, were all lost in a passion that mastered his reason. He at once say and loved Miss Linley, a lady no less admirable for the elegant accomplishments of her sex and the affecting simplicity of her conversation, than for the charms of her person and the fascinating powers of her voice. She was the principal performer in the oratorios at Drury-lane theatre. The strains which she poured forth were the happiest combinations of nature and art; but nature predominated over art. Her accents were so melodious and captivating, and their passage to the heart so sudden and irresistable, that "list'ning Envy would have dropped her snakes, and stern-ey'd Fury's self have melted" at the sounds.

Her father, Mr. Linley, the late ingenious composer, was not at first propitious to Mr. Sheridan's passion, and he had many rivals to overcome in his attempts to gain the lady's affections. His perseverance, however, increased with the difficulties that presented themselves, and his courage and resolution were displayed in vindicating Miss Linley's reputation from a calumnious report, which had been basely thrown out against it.

Mr. Mathews, a gentleman then well known in the fashionable circles at Bath, had caused a paragraph to be inserted in a public paper at that place, and had set out for London. He was closely pursued by Mr. Sheridan. They met and fought a duel with swords at a tavern in Henrietta-street, Covent-garden, the house at the north-west corner, opposite Bedford-court. Mr. Sheridan's second on the occasion was his brother, Charles Francis, a late secretary at war in Ireland. Great courage and skill were displayed on both sides; but Mr. Sheridan having succeeded in disarming his adversary, compelled him to sign a formal retraction of the paragraph which had been published. The conqueror instantly returned to Bath; and thinking that, as the insult had been publicly given, the apology should have equal notoriety, he caused it to be published in the same paper. Mr. Mathews soon heard of this circumstance, and, irritated at his defeat, as well as the use which is antagonist had made of his apology, repaired to Bath, and called upon Mr. Sheridan for satisfaction. The parties met on Kingsdown. The victory was desperately contested, and, after a discharge of pistols, they fought with swords. They were both wounded, and closing with each other fell on the ground, where the fight was continued until they were separated. They received several cuts and contusions in this arduous struggle for life and honour, and a part of his opponenet's weapon was left in Mr. Sheridan's ear. Miss Linley rewarded Mr. Sheridan for the dangers he had braved in her defence, by accompanying him on a matrimonial excursion to the continent. The ceremony was again performed on their return to England, with the consent of her parents; from the period of her marriage, Mrs. Sheridan never appeared as a public performer.

Mr. Sheridan, when encumbered with the cares of a family, felt the necessity of immediate exertion to provide for the pressing calls inseparable from a domestic establishment, which, if not splendid, was marked with all the appearance of genteel life.

On finishing his play of the "Rivals," he presented it to the manager of Covent-garden theatre, and it was represented on the 17th of January, 1775. In consequence of some slight disapprobation, it was laid aside for a time, after the first night's performance. Mr. Sheridan having made some judicious alterations, both in the progress of the plot and in the language, it was shortly after brought forward again, and received in the most favourable manner. His next production was the farce of "St. Patrick's Day, or The Scheming Lieutenant." This was followed by the comic opera of the "Duenna," a composition in every respect superior to the general class of English operas then in fashion. It surpassed even the "Beggar's Opera" in attraction and popularity, and was performed seventy-five nights during the season, while Gay's singular production ran only sixty-five.

Mr. Garrick having resolved to retire from the management of Drury-lane theatre, his share of the patent was sold to Mr. Sheridan, who, in 1776, paid 30,000l. for it. He immediately brought out the "Trip to Scarborough," altered from Vanburgh's comedy of the "Relapse." It was performed on the 24th of February, 1777. His next production was the comedy of the "School for Scandal," which raised his fame to undisputed preeminence over contemporary dramatic writers, and conferred, in the opinion of foreign literati, a lustre on the British comedy which it did not previously possess. It was first performed on the 8th of May, 1777.

Early in the following season, he produced the musical piece of "The Camp." His "Critic," written upon the model of the duke of Buckingham's "Rehearsal," came out on the 30th of October, 1787.

On the death of Mr. Garrick, in 1779, Mr. Sheridan wrote the monody to the memory of Mr. Garrick, recited at Drury-lane theatre by Mrs. Yates.

Notwithstanding the profits which he derived from his pieces, and the share he had in the theatre, which was very considerable, as he had obtained Mr. Lacy's interest in the patent, a property equally valuable with that of Mr. Garrick, and of course worth, on the lowest calculation, 30,000l., his pecuniary embarrassments had considerably increased. His domestic establishment was not only very expensive, but conducted without any kind of economy. The persuasions of Mr. Fox, whose firendship he had carefully cultivated, operated, with a firm conviction of his own abilities, in determining him to obtain a seat in the house of commons, and a general election taking place in 1780, Mr. Sheridan was returned for Stafford; and though he contented himself at the commencement of the session with giving a silent vote against the minister, he was indefatigable without doors in seconding the views of the whigs under Mr. Fox, against the measures of the ministry. He had a considerable share in the "Englishman," a paper opposed to the administration of lord North; and when the Rockingham party came into power, in 1782, his exertions were rewarded with the appointment of under secretary to Mr. Fox, then secretary of state for the foreign department.

The death of the marquis of Rockingham, and the unexpected elevation of the earl of Shelburne to the important office of first lord of the treasury, completely defeated the views of himself and friends, and the ever-memorable coalition having been formed between Mr. Fox and lord North, Mr. Sheridan was once more called upon the commence literary hostilities against the new administration. The periodical work of the "Jesuit" soon appeared, and several very distinguished members of the party contributed to that production.

At length the coalition having gained a decisive victory over the new administration, formed by the Shelburne party, Mr. Sheridan was once more brought into place, in April, 1783, as secretary of the treasury. Under Mr. Pitt, an entire change took place in men and measures, and on the trial of an ex officio information against the "Jesuit," Mr. Wilkie, who had the courage to conceal the names of the gentlemen by whom he had been employed, was sentenced to an imprisonment of twelve months.

Mr. Sheridan's speech in defence of Mr. Fox's celebrated East-India Bill was so masterly, as to induce th epublic opinion to select him from the second class of parliamentary speakers. He was viewed as a formidable opponent by Mr. Pitt, and looked up to with admiration, as a principal leader of the opposition.

He was rapidly approaching to perfection as an orator, when the impeachment of Mr. Hastings supplied him with an opportunity of displaying powers which were then unrivalled. He was one of the managers of the prosecution, and his speech delivered in the house of commons, in April, 1787, on the eighth article as stated in the order laid down by Mr. Burke, relative to "money corruptly and illegally taken," was allowed to equal the most argumentative and impassioned orations that had ever been addressed to the judgment and feelings of the British parliament. He fixed the uninterrupted attention of the house for upwards of five hours, confirmed the minds of those who wavered, and produced co-operation from a quarter which it was supposed would have been hostile to any further proceeding. In the long examination of Mr. Middleton, he gave decided proofs of a strong and discriminating mind; but when, in June, 1788, he summed up the evidence on the charge, repecting the confinement and imprisonment of the princesses of Oude, and the seizure of their treasures, his superiority over his colleagues was established by universal consent. To form a just opinion of this memorable oration, which occupied the attention of the court and excited the admiration of the public for several hours, it would be necessary to have heard Mr. Sheridan himself. It is difficult to select any part of it as the subject of peculiar encomium. The address with which he arranged his materials; the art and force with which he anticipated objections; the unexampled ingenuity with which he commented on the evidence, and the natural boldness of his imagery, are equally entitled to panegyric. He combined the three kinds of eloquence. He was clear and unadorned—diffuse and pathetic—animated and vehement. There was nothing superfluous—no affected turn—no glittering point—no false sublimity. Compassion and indignation were alternately excited, and the wonderful effects related of the eloquence of Greece and Rome were almost revived.

During the indisposition of his late majesty, Mr. Sheridan took a leading part in the attempts which were made to declare the prince of Wales regent, without such restrictions as parliament should think fit to impose. He contended, that the immediate nomination of the heir-apparent ought to take place, as a matter of constitutional right.

He was ever the zealous supporter of parliamentary reform, and the uniform friend of the liberty of the press and of religious toleration; but he rose superior to the selfish drudgery of a mere partizan, and his conduct, during the crisis of the naval mutiny, received the thanks of the minister.

Mrs. Sheridan died in June, 1792, and he had a son by the lady, Mr. Thomas Sheridan, who inherited much of his father's talents, but fell a victim to indulgence. In 1795, Mr. sheridan married his second wife, Mis Ogle, youngest daughter of the rev. Dr. Newton Ogle, dean of Winchester. This issue of this second marriage was also a son.

His conduct as manager and principal proprietor of the first theatre in the kingdom, and his punctuality in the discharge of the duties contracted by him in that situation, have rarely been the subject of prasie; but in the legal discussion of the claims of the proprietors of Drury-lane theatre, in the court of chancery, so far from any imputation being thrown out against his conduct, it was generall[y] commended; and the chancellor himself (lord Eldon) spoke in the handsomest terms of Mr. Sheridan's integrity, though certainly he thought his prudence was, in some instances, liable to be questioned.

On the formation of the Fox and Grenville administration, after the death of Mr. Pitt, Mr. Sheridan was appointed treasurer of the navy, and returned member for Westminster, after a strong opposition on the part of Mr. Paul. But in the latter years of his life he had not sat in parliament; where, during the period after his last return, he attended irregularly, and spoke seldom. One of the wittiest of his closing efforts in the house, was a speech, in answer to Mr. Yorke, respecting a discussion on the "Nightly Watch," which had arisen out of the murder of the families of Marr and Williamson, at Wapping.

Mr. Sheridan was one of that circle denominated the prince's friends. So long as his mind remained unaffected by the pressure of personal distress and embarrassment, and whilst he could contribute to the hilarity of the table by his wit, as he had formerly contributed to forward the interests of the prince by his earnest and unremitted endeavours, he appears to have been a welcome visitor at Carlton-house—but this was all. Nor the brilliancy of genius, nor the master of talent, nor time, nor intellect employed and exhausted in the service of the prince, obtained for this great man the means of a peaceful existence, on his cession from public life. In June, 1816, his constitution was completely broken up, and his speedy dissolution seemed inevitable.

He died at noon, on Sunday, the 7th of July, 1816. For several weeks prior to his death he lay under arrest, and it was only by the firmness and humanity of the two eminent physicians who attended him, Dr. Baillie and Dr. Bain, that an obdurate attorney was prevented from executing a threat to remove him from his house to a death-bed in gaol. He enjoyed, however, to the last moment, the sweetest consolation that the heart can feel in the affectionate tenderness, sympathy, and attention of his amiable wife and son. Mrs. Sheridan, though herself labouring under severe illness, watched over him with the most anxious solicitude through the whole of that protracted suffering, which has parted them for ever.

To these particulars of this extraordinary individual, which are extracted from a memoir of him that appeared in The Times newspaper, must be added a passage or two from a celebrated "Estimate of his Character and Talents" in the same journal.

"Mr. Sheridan in his happiest days never effected any thing by steady application. He was capable of intense, but not of regular study. when public duty or private difficulty urged him, he endured the burden as if asleep under its pressure. At length, when the pain could be no longer borne, he roused himself with one mighty effort, and burst like a lion through the toils. There are reasons for believing that his constitutional indolence began its operation upon his habits at an early age. His very first dramatic scenes were written by snathces, with considerable intervals between them. Convivial pleasures had lively charms for one whose wit was the soul of the table; and the sparkling glass—the medium of social intercourse—had no small share of his affection. These were joys to be indulged without effort: as such they were too well calculated to absorb the time of Mr. Sheridan, and sooner or later to make large encroachments on his character. His attendance in parliament became every year more languid—the vis inertiæ more incurable—the plunges by which his genius had now and then extricated him in former times less frequent and more feeble. We never witnessed a contrast much more melancholy than between the brilliant and commanding talent displayed by Mr. Sheridan throughout the first regency discussions, and the low scale of nerve, activity, and capacity, to which he seemed reduced when that subject was more recently agitated in parliament. But indolence and intermperance must banish reflection, if not corrected by it; since no man could support the torture of perpetual self-reproach. Aggravated, we fear, by some such causes, the naturally careless temper of Mr. Sheridan became ruinous to all his better hopes and prospects. Without a direct appetite for spending money, he thought not of checking its expenditure. The economy of time was as much disregarded as that of money. All the arrangements, punctualities, and minor obligations of life were forgotten, and the household of Mr. Sheridan was always in a state of nature. His domestic feelings were originally kind, and his manners gentle: but the same bad habits seduced him from the house of commons, and from home; and equally injured him as an agent of the public good, and as a dispenser of private happiness. It is painful, it is mortifying, but it is our sacred duty, to pursue this history to the end. Pecuniary embarrassments often lead men to shifts and expedients—these exhausted, to others of a less doubtful colour. Blunted sensibility—renewed excesses—loss of cast in society—follow each other in melancholy succession, until solitude and darkness close the scene.

"It has been made a reproach by some persons, in lamenting Mr. Sheridan's cruel destiny, that 'his friends' had not done more for him. we freely and conscientiously declare it as our opinion, that had Mr. Sheridan enjoyed ten receiverships of Cornwall instead of one, he would not have died in affluence. He never would have attained to comfort or independence in his fortune. A vain man may become rich, because his vanity may thirst for only a single mode of gratification; an ambitious man, a bon vivant, a sportsman, may severally control their expenses; but a man who is enveterately thoughtless of consequences, and callous to reproof—who knows not when he squanders money, because he feels not those obligations which constitute or direct its uses—such a man it is impossible to rescue from destruction. We go further—we profess not to conjecture to what individuals the above reproach of forgotten friendships has been applied. If against persons of illustrious rank, there never was a more unfounded accusation. Mr. Sheridan, throughout his whole life, stood as high as he ought to have done in the quarters alluded to. He received the most substantial proofs of kind and anxious attachment from these personages; and it is to his credit that he was not insensible to their regard. If the mistaken advocates of Mr. Sheridan were so much his enemies as to wish he had been raised to some elevated office, are they not aware that even one month's active attendance out of twelve he was at times utterly incapable of giving? But what friends are blamed for neglecting Mr. Sheridan? What friendships did he ever form? We more than doubt whether he could fairly claim the rights of friendship with any leader of the whig administration. We know that he has publicly asserted Mr. Fox to be his friend, and that he has dwelt with much eloquence on the sweets and enjoyments of that connection; but it has never been our fortune to find out that Mr. Fox had, on any public or private occasion, bound himself by reciprocal pledges. Evidence against the admission of such ties on his part may be drawn from the well-known anecdotes of what occurred within a few days of that statesman's death. The fact is, that a life of conviviality and intemperance seldom favours the cultivation of those better tastes and affections which are necessary to the existence of intimate friendship. That Mr. Sheridan had as many admirers as acquaintances, there is no room to doubt; but they admired only his astonishing powers; there never was a second opinion or feeling as to the unfortunate use which he made of them.

"Never were such gifts as those which Providence showered upon Mr. Sheridan so abused—never were talents so miserably perverted. The term 'greatness' has been most ridiculously, and, in a moral sense, most perniciously applied to the character of one who, to speak charitably of him, was the weakest of men. Had he employed his matchless endowments with but ordinary judgment, nothing in England, hardly any thing in Europe, could have eclipsed his name, or obstructed his progress."

May they who read, and he who writes, reflect, and profit by reflection, on

The talents lost—the moments run
    To waste—the sins of act, of thought,
Ten thousand deeds of folly done,
    And countless virtues cherish'd not.



Nasturtium. Tropocolum mojus.
Dedicated to St. Felix.

To the Summer Zephyr.

Zephyr, stay thy vagrant flight,
   And tell me where you're going—
Is it to sip off the dew-drop bright
That hangs on the breast of the lily white
   In yonder pasture growing;
Or to revel 'mid roses and mignionette sweet;
Or wing'st thou away some fair lady to meet?—
If so, then, hie thee away, bland boy;
Thou canst not engage in a sweeter employ.

"From kissing the blue of yon bright summer sky,
To the vine-cover'd cottage, delighted, I fly,
   Where Lucy the gay is shining;
To sport in the beams of her lovely eye,
   While her temples with roses she's twining.
Then do not detain me; I sigh to be there,
To fan her young bosom—to play 'mid her hair!"

July 8.

St. Elizabeth, Queen of Portugal, A.D. 1336. St. Procopius, A.D. 303. Sts. Kilian, Colman, and Totnam, A.D. 688. St. Withburge, 10th Cent. B. Theobald, 13th Cent. St. Grimbald, A. D. 903.

New Churches.

Every one must have been struck by the great number of new churches erected within the suburbs of the metropolis, and the novel forms of their steeples; yet few have been aware of the difficulties encountered by architects in their endeavours to accommodate large congregations in edifices for public worship. Sir Christopher Wren experienced the inconvenience when the fifty churches were erected in queen Anne's time. He says, "The Romanists, indeed, may build large churches; it is enough if they hear the murmur of the mass, and see the elevation of the host, but ours are to be fitted for auditories. I can hardly think it practicable to make a single room so capacious with pews and galleries, as to hold above two thousand persons, and both to hear distinctly, and see the preacher. I endeavoured to effect this, in building the parish church of St. James's, Westminster, which I presume is the most apacious, with these qualifications, that hath yet been built; and yet, at a solemn time, when the church was much crowded, I could not discern from a gallery that two thousand were present. A moderate voice may be heard fifty feet distant before the preacher, thirty feet on each side, and twenty behind the pulpit; and not this, unless the pronunciation be distinct and equal, without losing the voice at the last word of the sentence, which is commonly emphatical, and, if obscured, spoils the whole sense. A French is heard further than an English preacher, because he raises his voice, and does not sink his last words. I mention this as an insufferable fault in the pronunciation of some of our otherwise excellent preachers; which schoolmasters might correct in the young, as a vicious pronunciation, and not as the Roman orator spoke; for the principal verb is in Latin usually the last word; and if that be lost, what becomes of the sentence?"


Evening Primrose. Oenothera biennis.
Dedicated to St. Elizabeth.

July 9.

St. Ephrem of Edessa, A.D. 378. The Martyrs of Gorcum, A.D. 1572. St. Everildis.


In hot weather walk slowly, and as much as possible in the shade.

When fatigued recline on a sofa, and avoid all drafts.

Eat sparingly of meat, and indeed of every thing.

Especially shun unripe fruits, and be moderate with cherries.

Strawberries may be safely indulged in; with a little cream and bread they make a delightful supper, an hour or two before retiring to rest.

If the frame be weakened by excessive heat, a table spoonfull of the best brandy, thrown into a tumbler of spring water, becomes a cooling restorative; otherwise spirits should not be touched.

Spring water, with a toast in it, is the best drink.


Marsh Sowthistle. Sonchus palustris.
Dedicated to St. Everildis.

Captain Starkey.

Captain Starkey.

Died, July 9, 1822.

Reader! see the famous Captain
Starkey, in his own coat wrapt in;
Mark his mark'd nose, and mark his eye,
His lengthen'd chin, his forehead high,
His little stick, his humble hat,
The modest tie of his cravat;
Mark how easy sit his hose,
Mark the shoes that hold his toes;
So he look'd when Ranson sketch'd him
While alive—but Death has fetch'd him.


Auto-biography is agreeable in the writing, and sometimes profitable in the publication, to persons whose names would otherwise die and be buried with them. Of this numerous class was captain Starkey, who to his "immortal memory" wrote and published his own "Memoirs."* ["Memoirs of the Life of Benj. Starkey, late of London, but now an inmate of the Freemen's Hospital, in Newcastle. Written by himself. With a portrait of the Author and a Facsimile of his hand writing. Printed and sold by William Hall, Great Market, Newcastle." 1818. 12mo. pp.14.]

The preface to a fine uncut copy of captain Starkey's very rare "Memoirs," penes me, commences thus:—"The writers of biographical accounts have always prepared articles, which at once, when held forth to the public, were highly entertaining, useful and satisfactory." This particular representation, so directly opposed to general experience, is decisively original. Its expression bespeaks an independence of character, rendered further conspicuous by an amiable humility. "I am afraid," says the captain, "I shall fall infinitely short in commanding your attention; none, on this side of time, are perfect, and it is in the nature of things impossible it should be otherwise." He trusts, "if truth has any force," that "patience and candour" will hear him out. Of captain Starkey then—it may be said, that "he knew the truth, and knowing dared maintain it."

The captain declares, he was born of honest and poor parents, natives of Newcastle upon Tyne, at the Lying-in Hospital, Brownlow-street, Long-acre, London, on the 19th of December, 1757. "My infantile years," he observes, "were attended with much indisposition." The nature of his "indisposition" does not appear; but it is reasonable to presume, that as the "infantile years" of all of "living born," at that time, were passed in "much indisposition," the captain suffered no more than fell to him in the common lot. It was then the practice to afflict a child as soon as it breathed the air, by forcing spoonfulls of "unctuousities" down its throat, "oil of sweet almonds and syrup of blue violets." A strong cotton swathe of about six inches in width, and from ten to twenty feet in length, was tightly rolled round the body, beginning under the arm pits and ending at the hips, so as to stiffly encase the entire trunk. After the child was dressed, if its constraint would allow it to suck, it was suckled; but whether suckled or not, the effect of the swathing was soon visible; its eyes rolled in agony, it was pronounced convulsed, and a dose of "Dalby's Carminative" was administered as "the finest thing in the world for convulsions." With "pap" made of bread and water, and milk loaded with brown sugar, it was fed from a "pap-boat," an earthen vessel in the form of a butter-boat. If "these contents" were not quickly "received in full," the infant was declared "not very well," but if by crying, kicking of the legs, stiffening of the back, and eructation from the stomach, it resisted further overloading, then it was affirmed that it was "troubled with wind," and was drenched with "Daffy's Elixir," as "the finest thing in the world for wind." As soon as the "wind" had "a little broken off, poor thing!" it was suckled again, and fed again; being so suckled and fed, and fed and suckled, it was wonderful if it could sleep soundly, and therefore, after it was undressed at night, it had a does of "Godfrey's Cordial," as "the finst thing in the world for composing to rest." If it was not "composed" out of the world before morning, it awoke to undergo the manifold process of being again over-swathed, over-fed, "Dalby'd, Daffy'd and Godfrey'd" for that day; and so, day by day, it was put in bonds, "carminativ'd, elixir'd, and cordial'd," till in a few weeks or months it died, or escaped, as by miracle, to be weaned and made to walk. It was not to be put on its legs "too soon," and therefore, while the work of repletion was going on, it was not to feel that it had legs, but was kept in arms, or rather kept lolling on the arm, till ten or twelve months old. By this means its body, being unduly distended, was too heavy to be sustained by its weak and comparatively diminutive sized limbs; and then a "go-cart" was provided. The go-cart was a sort of circular frame-work, running upon wheels, with a door to open for admission of the child; wherein, being bolted, and the upper part being only so large as to admit its body from below the arms, the child rested by the arm pits, and kicking its legs on the floor, set the machine rolling on its wheels. This being the customary mode of "bringing children up" at the time of captain Starkey's birth, and until about the year 1790, few were without a general disorder and weakness of the frame, called "the rickets." These afflicted ones were sometimes hump-backed, and usually bow-shinned, or knock-kneed, for life, though to remedy the latter defects in some degree, the legs were fastened by straps to jointed irons. From the whole length portrait at the head of this article, which is copied from an etching by Mr. Thomas Ranson, prefixed to captain Starkey's "Memoirs," it is reasonably to be conjectured that the captain in his childhood had been ricketty and had worn irons. Mr. Ranson has draped the figure in a long coat. Had this been done to conceal the inward inclination of the captain's knees, it would have been creditable to Mr. Ranson's delicacy; for there is a sentiment connected with the meeting of the knees, in the owner's mind, which he who knows human nature and has human feelings, knows how to respect; and no one either as a man or an artist is better acquainted with the "humanities" than Mr. Ranson. But that gentleman drew the captain from the life, and the captain's coat is from the coat he actually wore when he stood for his picture. There is a remarkable dereliction of the nose from the eyebrows. It was a practice with the race of nurses who existed when the captain's nose came into the world, to pinch up that feature of our infant ancestors from an hour old, till "the month was up." This was from a persuasion that nature, on that part of the face, required to be assisted. A few only of these ancient females remain, and it does not accord with the experience of one of the most experienced among them, that they ever depressed that sensible feature; she is fully of opinion, that for the protrusion at the end of the captain's, he was indebted to his nurse "during the month;" and she says that, "it's this, that makes him look so sensible."

According to captain Starkey's narrative, when "learning to walk alone," he unfortunately fell, "and so hurt his left arm, that it turned to a white swelling as large as a child's head." The captain says, "my poor parents immediately applied to two gentlemen of the faculty, at the west end of the town, named Bloomfield and Hawkins, physicians and surgeons to his then reigning majesty, king George the Second, of these kingdoms, who declared that they could not do any more than cut it off; unto which my tender parents would not consent." A French surgeon restored to him the use of his arm, and gave him advice "not to employ it in any arduous employment." "I, therefore," says the captain, "as my mother kept a preparatory school, was learned by her to read and spell." At seven years old he was "put to a master to learn to write, cipher, and the classics." After this, desiring to be acquinted with other languages, he was sent to another master, and "improved," to the pleasure of himself and friends, but was "not so successful" as he could wish; for which he says, "I am, as I ought to be, thankful to divine providence." With him he stayed, improving and not succeeding, till he was fourteen, "at which age," says the captain, "I was bound apprentice to Mr. William bird, an eminent writer and teacher of languages and mathematics, in Fetter-lane, Holborn." After his apprenticeship the captain, in the year 1780, went with his father, during an election, to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, his parents' native town. Returning to London, he, in 1784, went electioneering again to Newcastle, having left a small school in London to the care of a substitute, who managed to reduce twenty-five scholars to ten, "although he was paid a weekly allowance." Being "filled with trouble by the loss," he was assisted to a school in Sunderland; "but," the captain remarks, "as the greatest success did not attend me in that, I had the happiness and honour of receiving a better employment in the aforesaid town of Sunderland, from that ever to be remembered gentleman, William Gooch, esq., comptroller of the customs, who died in the year 1791, and did not die unmindful of me: for he left me in his will the sum of 10l., with which, had I been prudent enough, and left his employ immediately after his interment, I might have done well; but foolishly relying on the continuance of my place, continued doing the duties for nine months without receiving any remuneration; and at last was obliged to leave, it not being the pleasure of the then collector, C. Hill, esq., that I should continue any longer in office." Great as the sensation must have been at Sunderland on this important change "in office," the fact is entirely omitted in the journals of the period, and might at this time have been wholly forgotten if the captain had not been his own chronicler. On his forced "retirement" he returned to Newcastle, willing to take "office" there, but there being no opening he resolved once more to try his fortune in London. For that purpose he crossed the Tyne-bridge, with two shillings in his pocket, and arriving at Chester-le-street, obtained a subscription of two guineas, by which "with helps and hopes," and "walking some stages," and getting "casts by coaches," he arrived in the metropolis, where he obtained a recommendation back, to the then mayor of Newcastle. Thither he again repaired, and presented his letter to the mayor, who promised him a place in the Freeman's Hospital, and gave it him on the first vacancy. "In which situation," says captain Starkey, "I have now been twenty-six years enjoying the invaluable blessing of health and good friends." So ends his "Memoir written by himself."

To what end captain Starkey wrote his history, or how he came by his rank, he does not say; but in the "Local Records, or Historical Register of Remarkable Events in Durham, Northumberland, Newcastle, and Berwick," a volume compiled and published by Mr. JOHN SYKES, of Newcastle, there is a notice which throws some light on the matter. "Mr. Starkey, who was uncommonly polite, had a peculiarly smooth method of obtaining the loan of a halfpenny, for which he was always ready to give his promissory note, which his creditors held as curiosities." Halfpenny debentures were tedious instruments for small "loans," and Starkey may have compiled his "Memoirs," without affixing a price, for the purpose of saying, "what you please," and thereby raising "supplies" by sixpence and a shilling at a time. It is to be observed to his credit, that had he made his book more entertaining, it would have had far less claim upon an honest reader. It is the adventureless history of a man who did no harm in the world, and thought he had a right to live, because he was a living being. Mr. Ranson's portrait represents him as he was. His stick, instead of a staff of support, appears symbolical of the assistance he required towards existence. He holds his hat behind, as if to intimate that his head is not entitled to be covered in "a gentleman's presence." He seems to have been a poor powerless creature, sensible of incompetency to do; anxious not to suffer; and with just enough of worldly cunning, to derive to himself a little of the superabundance enjoyed by men, who obstain for greater cunning the name of cleverness.



[From the London Magazine.]

I like you, and your book ingenuous Hone!
  In whose capacious, all-embracing leaves
The very marrow of tradition's shown;
  And all that history—much that fiction—weaves

By every sort of taste your work is graced.
  Vast stores of modern anecdote we find,
With good old story quaintly interlaced—
  The theme as various as the reader's mind.

Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint—
  Yet kindly—that the half-turn'd Catholic
Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint,
  And cannot curse the candid Heretic.

Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page;
  Our father's mummeries we well-pleased behold;
And, proudly conscious of a purer age,
  Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.

Verse-honouring Phœbus, Father of bright Days,
  Must needs bestow on you both good and many,
Who, building trophies to his children's praise,
  Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.

Dan Phœbus loves your book—trust me, friend Hone—
  The title only errs, he bids me say:
For while such are—wit—reading—there are shown,
  He swears, 'tis not a work of every day.




In feeling, like a stricken deer, I've been
  Self-put out from the herd, friend Lamb; for I
Imagined all the sympathies between
  Mankind and me had ceased, till your full cry
Of kindness reach'd and roused me, as I lay
  "Musing—on divers things foreknown:" it bid
Me know, in you, a friend; with a fine gay
   Sincerity, before all men it chid,
Or rather, by not chiding, seem'd to chide
  Me, for long absence from you; re-invited
Me, with a herald's trump, and so defied
  Me to remain immured; and it requited
Me, for others' harsh misdeeming—which I trust is
Now, or will be, known by them, to be injustice.

I am "ingenuous:" it is all I can
  Pretend to; it is all I wish to be;
Yet, through obliquity of sight in man,
  From constant gaze on tortuosity,
Few people understand me: still, I am
  Warmly affection'd to each human being;
Loving the right, for right's sake; and, friend Lamb,
  Trying to see things as they are; hence, seeing
Some "good in ev'ry thing" however bad,
  Evil in many things that look most fair,
And pondering on all: this may be mad-
  ness, but it is my method; and I dare
Deductions from a strange diversity
Of things, not taught within a University.

No schools of science open'd to my youth;
  No learned halls, no academic bowers;
No one had I to point my way to truth,
  Instruct my ign'rance, or direct my powers:
Yet I, though all unlearned, p'rhaps may aid
  The march of knowledge in our "purer age,"
And, without seeming, may perchance persuade
  The young to think—to virtue some engage:
So have I hoped, and with this end in view,
  My little Every-Day Book I design'd;
Praise of the work, and of its author too,
  From you, friend Lamb, is more than good and kind:
To such high meed I did not dare aspire
As public honour, from the hand of ALLWORTHY ELIA.

As to the message from your friend above:—
  Do me the favour to present my best
Respects to old "Dan Phœbus," for the "love["]
  He bears the Every-Day Book: for the rest,
That is, the handsome mode he has selected
  Of making me fine compliments by you, 'tis
So flatt'ring to me, and so much respected
  By me, that, if you please, and it should suit his
Highness, I must rely upon you, for
  Obtaining his command, to introduce me
To him yourself, when quite convenient; or
  I trust, at any rate, you'll not refuse me.
A line, to signify, that I'm the person known
To him, through you, friend Lamb, as

Your Friend,

July 10.

The Seven Brothers, Martyrs, and St. Felicitas, their Mother. 2nd Cent. Sts. Rufina and Secunda, V. A.D. 257.

Spider Barometers.

If the weather is likely to become rainy, windy, or in other respects disagreeable, spiders fix the terminating filaments, on which the whole web is suspended, unusually short. If the terminating filaments are made uncommonly long, the weather will be serene, and continue so, at least for ten or twelve days. If spiders be totally indolent, rain generally succeeds; though their activity during rain is certain proof that it will be only of short duration, and followed by fair and constant weather. Spiders usually make some alterations in their webs every twenty-four hours; if these changes take place between the hours of six and seven in the evening, they indicate a clear and pleasant night.


Speckled Snapdragon. Antirrhinum triphyllum.
Dedicated to Sts. Rufina and Secunda.

July 11.

St. James, Bp. of Nisibis, A.D. 350. St. Hidulphus, Bp. A.D. 707, or 713. St. Pius I., Pope, A.D. 157. St. Drostan, A.D. 809.


Soft o'er the mountain's purple brow,
  Meek twilight draws her shadowy grey;
From tufted woods, and valleys low,
  Light's magic colours steal away.
Yet still, amid the spreading gloom,
  Resplendent glow the western waves
That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves
  A zone of light on evening's dome.

On this lone summit let me rest,
  And view the forms to fancy dear,
'Till on the ocean's darkened breast,
  The stars of evening tremble clear;
Or the moon's pale orb appear,
  Throwing her light of radiance wide,
Far o'er the lightly curling tide.

No sounds o'er silence now prevail,
  Save of the murm'ring brook below,
Or sailor's song borne on the gale,
  Or oar at distance striking slow.

So sweet, so tranquil, may my evening ray,
Set to this world—and rise in future day.


Yellow Lupin. Lupinus flœvus.
Dedicated to St. James.

July 12.

St. John Gualbert, Abbot, A.D. 1073. Sts. Nabor and Felix, Martyrs, A.D. 304.

In the "Poems" of Mr. Gent, there are some lines of tranquillizing tendency.

To Mary.

Oh! is there not in infant smiles
  A witching power, a cheering ray,
A charm that every care beguiles,
  And bids the weary soul be gay?

There surely is—for thou hast been
  Child of my heart, my peaceful dove,
Gladd'ning life's sad and checquered scene,
  An emblem of the peace above.

Now all is calm and dark and still,
  And bright the beam the moonlight throws
On ocean wave, and gentle rill,
  And on thy slumb'ring cheek of rose.

And may no care disturb that breast,
  Nor sorrow dim that brow serene;
And may thy latest years be blest
  As thy sweet infancy has been.


Great Snapdragon. Antirrhinum purpureum.
Dedicated to St. John Gualbert.

July 13.

St. Eugenius, Bp. A.D. 505. St. Anacletus, Pope, A.D. 107. St. Turiaf, Bp. A.D. 749.

How soothing is a calm stroll on a summer's evening after sun-set, while the breeze of health is floating gently over the verdure, the moon ascending, and the evening star glistening like a diamond.

Diana's bright crescent, like a silver bow,
New strung in Heaven, lifts high its beamy horns
Impatient for the night, and seems to push
Her brother down the sky; fair Venus shines
Ev'n in the eye of day; with sweetest beam,
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood
Of softened radiance from her dewy locks.
The shadows spread apace; while meek-ey'd eve,
Her cheeks yet warm with blushes, slow retires
Thro' the Hesperian garden of the west,
And shuts the gates of day.


Blue Lupin. Lupinus cœruleus.
Dedicated to St. Eugenius.

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.* [Shrewsbury Chronicle.]


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

Destruction of the Bastile.

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."* [The Times, March 31, 1824.] 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.

July 15.

St. Henry II., Emperor, A.D. 1024. St. Plechelm, A.D. 714. St. Swithin, Bp. A.D. 862.

Swithin is still retained on this day in our almanacs, and at some public offices is a holiday.

St. Swithin.

He was of noble parentage, and also called Swithun, or in the Saxon language Swithum. He received the tonsure in the church at Winchester, and became a monk in the old monastery there, of which, after being ordained priest, he was made provost or dean. He studied grammar, philosophy, and theology. For his learning and virtue, Egbert, king of England, appointed him his priest, in which character he subscribed a charter to the abbey of Croyland, in 833. Egbert also committed to him the education of his son Ethelwolf, who on succeeding to the throne procured Swithin to be chosen bishop of Winchester in 852.

Tithes were established in England through St. Swithin, who prevailed on Ethelwolf to enact a law, by which he gave the tenth of the land to the church, on condition that the king should have a prayer said for his soul every Wednesday in all the churches for ever. Ethelwolf solemnized the grant by laying the charter on the altar of St. Peter at Rome, in a pilgrimage he made to that city, and by procuring the pope to confirm it.

St. Swithin died on the 2d of July, 862, in the reign of king Ethelbert, and he was buried, according to his own order, in the churchyard. Alban Butler, from whom these particulars are related, affirms the translation of his relics into the church a hundred years afterwards, and refers to the monkish historians for the relation of "such a number of miraculous cures of all kinds wrought by them, as was never known in any other place." His relics were afterwards removed into the cathedral of Winchester, on its being built under William the Conqueror. It was dedicated to the Holy Trinity, under the patronage of St. Peter, afterwards to St. Swithin, in 980, and was called St. Swithin's until Henry VIII. ordered it to be called by the name of the Holy Trinity.

Among the notable miracles alleged to have been worked by St. Swithin is this, that after he had built the bridge at Winchester, a woman came over it with her lap full of eggs, which a rude fellow broke, but the woman showed the eggs to the saint, who was passing at the time, and he lifted up his hand and blessed the eggs, "and they were made hole and sounde." To this may be added another story; that when his body was translated, or removed, two rings of iron, fastened on his grave-stone, came out as soon as they were touched, and left no mark of their place in the stone; but when the stone was taken up, and touched by the rings, they of themselves fastened to it again.* [Golden Legend.]

St. Swithin's Day.

"If it rains on St. Swithin's day, there will be rain the next forty days afterwards." The occasion of this old and well-known saying is obscure. In Mr. Douce's interleaved copy of Brand's "Popular Antiquities," there is a printed statement "seemingly cut out of a newspaper" cited, in the last edition of Mr. Brand's work, thus:—"In the year 865, St. Swithin, bishop of Winchester, to which rank he was raised by king Ethelwolfe, the dane, dying, was canonized by the then pope. He was singular for his desire to be buried in the open churchyard, and not in the chancel of the minster, as was usual with other bishops, which request was complied with; but the monks, on his being canonized, taking it into their heads that it was disgraceful for the saint to lie in the open churchyard, resolved to remove his body into the choir, which was to have been done with solemn procession on the 15th of July. It rained, however, so violently on that day, and for forty days succeeding, as had hardly every been known, which made them set aside their design as heretical and blasphemous: and, instead, they erected a chapel over his grave, at which many miracles are said to have been wrought."

Also in "Poor Robin's Almanac" for 1697, the saying, together with one of the miracles before related, is noticed in these lines:—

"In this month is St. Swithin's day;
On which, if that it rain, they say
Full forty days after it will,
Or more or less, some rain distill.
This Swithin was a saint, I trow,
And Winchester's bishop also.
Who in his time did many a feat,
As popish legends do repeat:
A woman having broke her eggs
By stumbling at another's legs,
For which she made a woful cry,
St. Swithin chanc'd for to come by,
Who made them all as sound, or more
Than ever that they were before.
But whether this were so or no
'Tis more than you or I do know:
Better it is to rise betime,
And to make hay while sun doth shine,
Than to believe in tales and lies
Which idle monks and friars devise."

The satirical Churchill also mentions the superstitious notions concerning rain on this day:—

"July, to whom, the dog-star in her train,
St. James gives oisters, and St. Swithin rain."

The same legend is recorded by Mr. Brand, from a memorandum by Mr. Douce: "I have heard these lines upon St. Swithin's day:—

"St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain,
For forty days it will remain:
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 't will rain na mair.["]

Ben Jonson, in "Every man out of his humour," has a touch at almanac-wisdom, and on St. Swithin's power over the weather:—

"Enter Sordido, Macilente, Hine.

"Sord.—(looking at an almanac)—O rare! good, good, good, good! I thank my stars, I thank my stars for it.

"Maci.—(aside)—Said I not true! 'tis Sordido, the farmer,
A boar, and brother, to that swine was here.

"Sord. Excellent, Excellent, Excellent! as I could wish, as I could wish!—Ha, ha, ha! I will not sow my grounds this year. Let me see what harvest shall we have? June, July, August?

"Maci.—(aside)—What is't, a prognostication raps him so?

"Sord.—(reading)—The xx, xxi, xxii days, Rain and Wind; O good, good! the xxiii and xxiv Rain and some Wind: the xxv, Rain, good still! xxvi, xxvii, xxviii, wind and some rain; would it had been rain and some wind; well, 'tis good (when it can be no better;) xxix inclining to rain; inclining to rain? that's not so good now: xxx and xxxi wind and no rain: no rain? 'Slid stay; this is worse and worse: what says he of Saint Swithin's? turn back, look, Saint Swithin's: no rain?—O, here, Saint Swithin's, the xv day; variable weather, for the most part rain, good; for the most part rain: why, it should rain forty days after, now, more or less, it was a rule held, afore! was able to hold a plough, and yet here are two days no rain; ha! it makes me muse."

Gay, whilst he admonishes against falling into the vulgar superstition, reminds his readers of necessary precautions in a wet season, which make us smile, who forbear from hats to loop and unloop, and do not wear wigs:—

Now, if on Swithin's feast the welkin lours,
And every penthouse streams with hasty showers,
Twice twenty days shall clouds their fleeces drain
And wash the pavements with incessant rain.
Let not such vulgar tales debase thy mind;
Nor Paul nor Swithin rule the clouds and wind[.]
  If you the precepts of the Muse despise,
And slight the faithful warning of the skies,
Others you'll see, when all the town's afloat,
Wrapt in the embraces of a kersey coat,
Or double bottomed frieze: their guarded feet
Defy the muddy dangers of the street;
While you, with hat unlooped, the fury dread
Of spouts high streaming, and with cautious tread
Shun every dashing pool, or idly stop,
To seek the kind protection of a shop.
But business summons; now with hasty scud
You jostle for the wall; the spattered mud
Hides all thy hose behind; in vain you scour
Thy wig, alas! uncurled, admits the shower.
So fierce Electo's snaky tresses fell,
When Orpheus charmed the rigorous powers of hell;
Or thus hung Glaucus' beard, with briny dew
Clotted and straight, when first his amorous view
Surprised the bathing fair; the frighted maid
Now stands a rock, transformed by Circe's aid.

Dr. Forster, in his "Perennial Calendar," cites from Mr. Howard's work on the climate of London the following—

"Examination of the popular Adage of 'Forty Days' Rain after St. Swithin' how far it may be founded in fact."

The opinion of the people on subjects connected with natural history is commonly founded in some degree on fact or experience; though in this case vague and inconsistent conclusions are too frequently drawn from real premises. The notion commonly entertained on this subject, if put strictly to the test of experience at any one station in this part of the island, will be found fallacious. To do justice to popular observation, I may now state, that in a majority of our summers, a showery period, which, with some latitude as to time and local circumstances, may be admitted to constitute daily rain for forty days, does come on about the time indicated by this tradition: not that any long space before is often so dry as to mark distinctly its commencement.

The tradition, it seems, took origin from the following curcumstances. Swithin or Swithum, bishop of Winchester, who died in 868, desired that he might be buried in the open churchyard, and not in the chancel of the minster, as was usual with other bishops, and his request was complied with; but the monks, on his being canonized, considering it desgraceful for the saint to lie in a public cemetery, resolved to remove his body into the choir, which was to have been done with solemn procession, on the 15th of July: it rained, however, so violently for forty days together at this season, that the design was abandoned. Now, without entering into the case of the bishop, who was probably a man of sense, and wished to set the example of a more wholesome, as well as a more humble, mode of resigning the perishable clay to the destructive elements, I may observe, that the fact of the hinderance of the ceremony by the cause related is sufficiently authenticated by tradition; and the tradition is so far valuable, as it proves that the summers in this southern part of our island were subject a thousand years ago to occasional heavy rains, in the same way as at present. Let us see how, in point of fact, the matter now stands.

In 1807, it rained with us on the day in question, and a dry time followed. In 1808, it again rained on this day, though but a few drops: there was much lightning in the west at night, yet it was nearly dry to the close of the lunar period, at the new moon, on the 22d of this month, the whole period having yielded only a quarter of an inch of rain; but the next moon was very wet, and ther fell 5.10 inches of rain.

In 1818 and 1819, it was dry on the 15th, and a very dry time in each case followed. The remainder of the summers occurring betwixt 1807 and 1819, appear to come under the general proposition already advanced: but it must be observed, that in 1816, the wettest year of the series, the solstitial abundance of rain belongs to the lunar period, ending, with the moon's approach to the third quarter, on the 16th of the seventh month; in which period there fell 5.13 inches, while the ensuing period, which falls wholly within the forty days, though it had rain on twenty-five out of thirty days, gave only 2.41 inches.

I have paid no regard to the change effected in the relative position of this so much noted day by the reformation of the calendar, because common observation is now directed to the day as we find it in the almanac; nor would this piece of accuracy, without greater certainty as to a definite commencement of this showery period in former times, have helped us to more conclusive reasoning on the subject.

Solstitial and Equinoctial Rains.—Our year, then, in respect of quantities of rain, exhibits a dry and a wet moiety. The latter again divides itself into two periods distinctly marked. The first period is that which connects itself with the popular opinion we have been discussing[.] It may be said on the whole, to set in with the decline of the diurnal mean temperature, the maximum of which, we may recollect, has been shown to follow the summer solstice at such an interval as to fall between the 12th and 25th of the month called July. Now the 15th of that month, or Swithin's day in the old style, corresponds to the 26th in the new; so that common observation has long since settled the limits of the effect, without being sensible of its real causes. The operation of this cause being continued usually through great part of the eighth month, the rain of this month exceeds the mean by about as much as that of the ninth falls below it.

As regards St. Swithin and his day, it may be observed, that according to bishop Hall when Swithin died, he directed that "his body should not be laid within the church, but where the drops of rain might wet his grave; thinking that no vault was so good to cover his grave as that of heaven." This is scarcely an exposition of the old saying, which, like other old sayings, still has its votaries. It is yet common on this day to say, "Ah! this is St. Swithin; I wonder whether it will rain?" An old lady who so far observed this festival, on one occasion when it was fair and sunshiny till the afternoon, predicted fair weather; but tea-time came, and—

"there follow'd some droppings of rain."

This was quite enough. "Ah!" said she, "now we shall have rain every day for forty days;" nor would she be persuaded of the contrary. Forty days of our humid climate passed, and many, by their having been perfectly dry, falsified her prediction. "Nay, nay," said she, "but there was wet in the night, depend upon it." According to such persons St. Swithin cannot err.

It appears from the parish accounts of Kingston upon Thames, in 1508, that "any householder kepying a brode gate" was to pay to the parish priest's "wages 3d." with a halfpenny "to the paschall:" this was the great wax taper in the church; the halfpenny was towards its purchase and maintaining its light; also he was to give to St. Swithin a halfpenny. A holder of one tenement paid twopence to the priest's wages, a halfpenny to the "paschall;" likewise St. Swithin a halfpenny.

Rain on St. Swithin's day is noticed in some places by this old saying, "St. Swithin is christening the apples.["]


Small Cape Marigold. Calendula pluvialis.
Dedicated to St. Swithin.

July 16.

St. Eustathius, Patriarch of Antioch, A.D. 338. St. Elier or Helier.

French Hoaxing.

July, 1817.—A man of imposing figure, wearing a large sabre and immense mustachios, arrived at one of the principal inns of a provincial city, with a female of agreeable shape and enchanting mein. He alighted at the moment that dinner was serving up at the table d'hote. At his martial appearance all the guests rose with respect; they felt assured that it must be a lieutenant-general, or a major-general at least. A new governor was expected in the province about this time, and every body believed that it was he who had arrived incognito. The officer of gendarmerie gave him the place of honour, the comptroller of the customs and the receiver of taxes sat by the side of Madame, and exerted their wit and gallantry to the utmost. All the tit-bits, all the most exquisite wines, were placed before the fortunate couple. At length the party broke up, and every one ran to report through the city that Monsieur the governor had arrived. But, oh! what was their surprise, when the next day "his excellence," clad in a scarlet coat, and his august companion dressed out in a gown glittering with tinsel, mounted a small open calash, and preceded by some musicians, went about the squares and public ways, selling Swiss tea and balm of Mecca. Imagine the fury of the guests! They complained to the mayor, and demanded that the audacious quack should be compelled to lay aside the characteristic mark of the brave. The predent [sic] magistrate assembled the common council; and those respectable persons, after a long deliberation, considering that nothing in the charter forbad the citizens to let their beard grow on their upper lip, dismissed the complaint altogether. The same evening the supposed governor gave a serenade to the complainants, and the next day took his leave, and continued his journey amidst the acclamations of the populace; who, in small as well as sin great cities, are very apt to become passionately fond of charlatans.* [Journal des Debats.]


Great Garden Convolvulus. Convolvulus purpureus.
Dedicated to St. Eustathius.

July 17.

St. Alexius, 5th Cent. St. Speratus and his Companions. St. Marcellina, A.D. 397. St. Ennodius, Bp. A.D. 521. St. Leo IV., Pope, A.D. 855. St. Turninus, 8th Cent.


The mackerel season is one of great interest on the coast, where these beautiful fish are caught. The going out and coming in of the boats are really "sights." The prices of mackerel vary according to the different degrees of success. In 1807, the first Brighton boat of mackerel, on the 14th of May, sold at Billingsgate, for forty guineas per hundred, seven shillings each, the highest price ever known at that market. The next boat that came in reduced their value to thirteen guineas per hundred. In 1808, these fish were caught so plentifully at Dover, that they sold sixty for a shilling. At Brighton, in June, the same year, the shoal of mackerel was so great, that one of the boats had the meshes of her nets so completely occupied by them, that it was impossible to drag them in. The fish and nets, therefore, in the end sank together; the fisherman thereby sustaining a loss of nearly sixty pounds, exclusive of what his cargo, could he have got it into the boat, would have produced. The success of the fishery in 1821, was beyond all precedent. The value of the catch of sixteen boats from Lowestoff, on the 30th of June, amounted to 5,252l. 15s. 1[1/4]d., being an average of 328l. 5s. 11[1/4]d. per each boat; and it is supposed that there was no less a sum than 14,000l. altogether realized by the owners and men concerned in the fishery of the Suffolk coast.† [Daniel's Rural Sports.]


Sweet Pea. Lathyrus odoratus.
Dedicated to St. Marcellina.

July 18.

Sts. Symphorosa and her seven Sons, Martyrs, A. D. 120. St. Philastrius, Bp. A.D. 384. St. Arnoul, Bp. A.D. 640. St. Arnoul, A.D. 534. St. Frederic, Bp. A.D. 838. St. Odulph. St. Bruno, Bp. of Segni, A.D. 1125.

Summer Morning.

The cocks have now the morn foretold,
  The sun again begins to peep,
The shepherd, whistling to his fold,
  Unpens and frees the captive sheep.
O'er pathless plains at early hours
  The sleepy rustic sloomy goes;
The dews, brushed off from grass and flowers,
  Bemoistening sop his hardened shoes

While every leaf that forms a shade,
  And every floweret's silken top,
And every shivering bent and blade,
  Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop.
But soon shall fly those diamond drops,
  The red round sun advances higher,
And, stretching o'er the mountain tops,
  Is gilding sweet the village-spire.

'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
  Or list the gurgling of the brook;
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees,
  Peruse and pause on Nature's book,
When Nature every sweet prepares
  To entertain our wished delay,—
The images which morning wears,
  The wakening charms of early day!

Now let me tread the meadow paths
  While glittering dew the ground illumes,
As, sprinkled o'er the withering swaths,
  Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes;
And hear the beetle sound his horn:
  And hear the skylark whistling nigh,
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn,
  A hailing minstrel in the sky.



Autumn Marigold. Chrysanthemum coronarium.
Dedicated to St. Bruno.

July 19.

St. Vincent, of Paul, A.D. 1660. St. Arsenius, A.D. 449. St. Symmachus, Pope, A.D. 514. St. Macrina V., A.D. 379.

In July, 1797, as Mr. Wright, of Saint Faith's, in Norwich, was walking in his garden, a flight of bees alighted on his head, and entirely covered his hair, till they made an appearance like a judge's wig. Mr. W. stood upwards of two hours in this situation, while the customary means were used for hiving them, which was completely done without his receiving any injury. Mr. Wright had expressed a strong wish, for some days before, that a flight of bees might come on his premises.


Golden Hawkweed. Hieracium Aurantiacum.
Dedicated to St. Vincent of Paul.

July 20.

St. Joseph Barsabas, the Disciple. St. Margaret, of Antioch. Sts. Justa and Rufina, A. D. 304. St. Ceslas, A.D. 1242. St. Aurelius, Abp., A.D. 423. St. Ulmar, or Wulmar, A. D. 710. St. Jerom Æmiliani, A.D. 1537.

Midnight and the Moon.

Now sleep is busy with the world,
The moon and midnight come; and curl'd
Are the light shadows round the hills;
The many-tongued and babbling rills
Play on the drowsy ear of night,
Gushing at times into the light
From out their beds, and hastening al [sic]
To join the trembling waterfall.

Fair planet! when I watch on high,
Star-heralded along the sky,
That face of light and holiness,
I turn, and all my brethren bless
And it must be—(the hour is gone
When the fair world thou smilest upon,
Lay chained in darkness,) thou wert sent
Ministering in the firmament,
To be—calm, beautiful, above—
The eye of universal love.

'Twere good to die in such an hour,
And rest beneath the almighty power,
(Beside yon ruin still and rude)
Of beauty and of solitude.

Literary Pocket Book.


Virginian Dragon's Head. Dracocephalus Virginianum.
Dedicated to St. Margaret.

July 21.

St. Praxedes. St. Zodicus, Bp., A.D. 204. St. Barhadbesciabas, A.D. 354. St. Victor, of Marseilles. St. Arbogastus, Bp. A.D. 678.


A sensitive plant in a garden grew
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fanlike leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

And the spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the spirit of love felt every where;
And each flower and shrub on earth's dark breast,
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss,
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want,
As the companionless sensitive plant.

The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent,
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.

Then the pied windflowers, and the tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness.

And the naiadlike lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen,
Through their pavilions of tender green.

And the hyacinth purple, white, and blue,
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense,
It was felt like an odour within the sense.

And the rose, like a nymph to the bath addrest,
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast,
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare.

And the wandlike lilly, which lifted up,
As a Moenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.

And the jessamine faint, and sweet tuberose,
The sweetest flower, for scent, that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime,
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.



To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

   Dear Sir,
I read your account of this unfortunate Being, and his forlorn piece of self-history, with that smile of half-interest which the Annals of Insignificance excite, till I came to where he says "I was bound apprentice to Mr. William Bird, an eminent writer and Teacher of languages and Mathematics," &c.—when I started as one does on the recognition of an old acquaintance in a supposed stranger. This then was that Starkey of whom I have heard my Sister relate so many pleasant anecdotes; and whom, never having seen, I yet seem almost to remember. For nearly fifty years she had lost all sight of him—and behold the gentle Usher of her youth, grown into an aged Beggar, dubbed with an opprobrious title, to which he had no pretensions; an object, and a May game! To what base purposes may we not return! What may not have been the meek creature's sufferings— what his wanderings—before he finally settled down in the comparative comfort of an old Hospitaller of the Almonry of Newcastle? And is poor Starkey dead?—

I was a scholar of that "eminent writer" that he speaks of; but Starkey had quitted the school about a year before I came to it. Still the odour of his merits had left a fragrancy upon the recollection of the elder pupils. The school-room stands where it did, looking into a discoloured dingy garden in the passage leading from Fetter Lane into Bartlett's Buildings. It is still a School, though the main prop, alas! has fallen so ingloriously; and bears a Latin inscription over the entrance in the Lane, which was unknown in our humbler times. Heaven knows what "languages" were taught in it then; I am sure that neither my Sister nor myself brought any out of it, but a little of our native English. By "mathematics," reader, must be understood "cyphering." It was in fact a humble day-school, at which reading and writing were taught to us boys in the morning, and the same slender erudition was communicated to the girls, our sisters, &c. in the evening. Now Starkey presided, under Bird, over both establishments. In my time, Mr. Cook, now or lately a respectable Singer and Performer at Drury-lane Theatre, and Nephew to Mr. Bird, had succeeded to him. I well remember Bird. He was a squat, corpulent, middle-sized man, with something of the gentleman about him, and that peculiar mild tone—especially while he was inflicting punishment—which is so much more terrible to children, than the angriest looks and gestures. Whippings were not frequent; but when they took place, the correction was performed in a private room adjoining, whence we could only hear the plaints, but saw nothing. This heightened the decorum and the solemnity. But the ordinary public chastisement was the bastinado, a stroke or two on the palm with that almost absolete weapon now—the ferule. A ferule was a sort of flat ruler, widened at the inflicting end into a shape resembling a pear,—but nothing like so sweet—with a delectable hole in the middle, to raise blisters, like a cupping-glass. I have an intense recollection of that disused instrument of torture—and the malignancy, in proportion to the apparent mildness, with which its strokes were applied. The idea of a rod is accompanied with something ludicrous; but by no process can I look back upon this blister-raiser with any thing but unmingled horror.—To make him look more formidable—if a pedagogue had need of these heightenings—Bird wore one of those flowered Indian gowns, formerly in use with schoolmasters; the strange figures upon which we used to interpret into hieroglyphics of pain and suffering. But boyish fears apart— Bird I believe was in the main a humane and judicious master.

O, how I remember our legs wedged in to those uncomfortable sloping desks, where we sat elbowing each other—and the injunctions to attain a free hand, unattainable in that position; the first copy I wrote after, with its moral lesson "Art improves Nature;" the still earlier pothooks and the hangers some traces of which I fear may yet be apparent in this manuscript; the truant looks side-long to the garden, which seemed a mockery of our imprisonment; the prize for best spelling, which had almost turned my head, and which to this day I cannot reflect upon without a vanity, which I ought to be ashamed of—our little leaden inkstands, not separately subsisting, but sunk into the desks; the bright, punctually-washed morning fingers, darkening gradually with another and another inkspot: what a world of little associated circumstances, pains and pleasures mingling their quotas of pleasure, arise at the reading of those few simple words—"Mr. William Bird, an eminent Writer and Teacher of languages and mathematics in Fetter Lane, Holborn!"

Poor Starkey, when young, had that peculiar stamp of old-fashionedness in his face, which makes it impossible for a beholder to predicate any particular age in the object. You can scarce make a guess between seventeen and seven and thirty. This antique cast always seems to promise ill-luck and penury. Yet it seems, he was not always the abject thing he came to. My Sister, who well remembers him, can hardly forgive Mr. Thomas Ranson for making an etching so unlike her idea of him, when he was a youthful teacher at Mr. Bird's school. Old age and poverty—a life-long poverty she thinks, could at no time have so effaced the marks of native gentility, which were once so visible in a face, otherwise strikingly ugly, thin, and care-worn. From her recollections of him she thinks that he would have wanted bread, before he would have begged or borrowed a halfpenny. If any of the girls (she says) who were my school-fellows should be reading, through their aged spectacles, tidings from the dead of their youthful friend Starkey, they will feel a pang, as I do, at ever having teased his gentle spirit. They were big girls, it seems, too old to attend his instructions with the silence necessary; and however old age, and a long state of beggary, seem to have reduced his writing faculties to a state of imbecility, in those days, his language occassionally rose to the bold and figurative, for when he was in despair to stop their chattering, his ordinary phrase was, "Ladies, if you will not hold your peace, not all the powers in heaven can make you." Once he was missing for a day or two; he had run away. A little old unhappy-looking man brought him back—it was his father—and he did no business in the school that day, but sate moping in a corner, with his hands before his face; and the girls, his tormentors, in pity for his case, for the rest of that day forbore to annoy him. I had been there but a few months (adds she) when Starkey, who was the chief instructor of us girls, communicated to us as a profound secret, that the tragedy of "Cato" was shortly to be acted by the elder boys, and that we were to be invited to the representation. That Starkey lent a helping hand in fashioning the actors, she remembers; and but for his unfortunate person, he might have had some distinguished part in the scene to enact; as it was, he had the arduous task of prompter assigned to him, and his feeble voice was heard clear and distinct, repeating the text during the whole performance. She describes her recollection of the cast of characters even now with a relish. Martia, by the handsome Edgar Hickman, who afterwards went to Africa, and of whom she never afterwards heard tidings,—Lucia, by Master Walker, whose sister was her particular friend; Cato, by John Hunter, a masterly declaimer, but a plain boy, and shorter by the head than his two sons in the scene, &c. In conclusion, Starkey appears to have been one of those mild spirits, which, not originally deficient in understanding, are crushed by penury into dejection and feebleness. He might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to Society, if Fortune had taken him into a very little fostering, but wanting that, he became a Captain—a by-word—and lived, and died, a broken bulrush.

C. L.

Peerless Pool.

Peerless Pool.

———The sprightly youth
Speeds to the well-known Pool. Awhile he stands
Gazing th'inverted landscape, half afraid
To meditate the blue profound below;
Then plunges headlong down the circling flood.
His ebon tresses, and his rosy cheek,
Instant emerge; and thro' th' obedient wave,
At each short breathing by his lip repell'd,
With arms and legs according well, he makes,
As humour leads, an easy winding path;
While, from his polish'd sides, a dewy light
Effuses on the pleas'd spectators round.


Coming from the city, on the left-hand side of the City-road, just beyond Old-street, and immediately at the back of St. Luke's hospital, Peerless Pool

———flows unseen,
And wastes its waters in the silver Thames.

It is a pleasure-bath in the open air, a hundred and seventy feet long, and upwards of a hundred feet wide, nearly surrounded by trees, with an arcade divided off into boxes for privately dressing and undressing; and is therefore, both in magnitude and convenience, the greatest bathing-place in the metropolis. Here the lover of cleanliness, or of a "cool dip" in a hot day, may at all times, for a shilling, enjoy the refreshment he desires, without the offensive publicity, and without the risk of life, attendant on river-bathing; while there is "ample room and verge enough" for all the sports and delights which "swimmers only know." It is no where so deep as five feet, and on one side only three; the experienced and the inexperienced are alike safe. There is likewise a capacious cold-bath in an adjacent building, for the use of those who prefer a termperature below that of the atmosphere.

Peerless Pool is distinguished for having been one of the ancient springs that supplied the metropolis with water, when our ancestors drew that essential element from public conduits; that is to say, before the "old" water-works at London-bridge "commenced to be," or the "New River" had been brought to London by sir Hugh Myddelton. The streams of this "pool" at that time were conveyed, for the convenience of the inhabitants near Lothbury, through pipes terminating "close to the south-west corner of the church."* [Maitland.] Stow speaks of it as a "cleere water, called Perilous Pond, because," says our chronicler, "divers youths, by swimming therein, have been drowned."† [Stow's Survey, edit. 1633, p. 11.] "Upon Saterday the 19 of January, 1633, sixe pretty young lads, going to sport themselves upon the frozen Ducking-pond, neere to Clearkenwell, the ice too weake to support them, fell into the water, concluding their pastime with the lamentable losse of their lives: to the great griefe of many that saw them dying, many more that afterward saw them dead, with the in-expressible griefe of their parents." [double-dagger] [Ibid. p. 782.] In consequence of such accidents, and the worthy inhabitants of Lothbury having obtained their water from other sources, Perilous Pond was entirely filled up, and rendered useless, till Mr. William Kemp, "an eminent jeweller and citizen of London," "after ten years' experience of the temperature" of this water, and "the happy success of getting clear of a violent pain of the head by bathing in it, to which he had for many years been subject, was generously led for public benefit" to open the spring in the year 1743, and "to form the completest swimming-bath in the whole world;" and "in reference to the improvements he had made on the ruins of that once Perilous Pond, and by a very natural transition, he changed that disagreeable appellation of Perilous, "that is," says Maitland, "dangerous, or hazardous, to the more agreeable name of Peerless Pool, that is Matchless Bath, a name which carries its own reason with it."

Maitland says, that Kemp "spared no expense nor contrivance to render it quite private and retired from public inspection, decent in its regulation, and as genteel in its furniture as such a place could be made." He added a cold-bath, "generally allowed," says Maitland, "to be the largest in England, being forty feet long, and twenty feet broad; this bath is supplied by a remarkably cold spring, with a convenient room for dressing." The present cold-bath, faced with marble and paved with stone, was executed by sir William Staines, when he was a journeyman mason. He was afterwards lord mayor of London, and often boasted of this, while he smoked his pipe at the Jacob's-well in Barbican, as amongst his "best work."

Kemp's improvements provided an entrance to it across a bowling-green on the south side, through a neat marble pavilion or saloon, thirty feet long, with a large gilt sconce over a marble table. Contiguous to this saloon were the dressing apartments, some of which were open, others were private with doors. There was also a green bower on each side of the bath, divided into other apartments for dressing. At the upper end was a circus-bench, capable of accommodating forty persons, under the cover of a wall twelve feet high, surmounted on one side by a lofty bank with shrubs, and encircled by a terrace-walk planted with lime-trees at the top. The descent to the bath was by four pair of marble stairs, as it still is, to a fine gravel-bottom, through which the springs gently bubbled and supplied, as they do at this time, the entire basin with the crystal fluid. Hither many a "lover and preserver" of health and long life, and many an admirer of calm retreat, resorted "ever and anon:"—

And in hyghe sommer eueriche daye I wene,
  Scapyng the hot son's euer bemyng face,
  He dyd hym wend unto a pleasaunt place,
Where auncient trees shut owht escorchyng shene;
And in a solempne lyghte, through braunches grene
  In quyet, sytting on a lytel stole,
For hys delection he woulde ther' unlace,
  Wythin an arbre, where bryddes onlie bene
And goe, and bayn hym in the waters cool
That alway wellyd there, and made a peerless pool.


The most remarkable feature of Peerless Pool, to the public eye, was a noble fish-pond, constructed by Kemp, due east and west. It was three hundred and twenty feet long, ninety-three feet broad, and eleven feet deep, stocked with carp, tench, and great variety of the finny tribe, wherein subscribers and frequenters of either the pleasure or the cold-bath were privileged to angle. On each side was a high slope or bank, with thousands of variegated shrubs, terminated at the top by a gravelled walk between stately lime-trees:—

These beautiful plantations shadow'd all;
And flung their beauteous greens so deep and full,
Into the surface of the quiet lake,
That the cool water seem'd an open mirror
Reflecting patterns of all liveries
The gentle seasons give the constant earth
Wherein to wait on man; or rather seem'd
An open portal to the great abyss
Inviting entrance.


At the head of the fish-pond, westward, stood the house that Kemp built for his own residence, with a garden and orchard of pears and apple-trees, and walled round. It was a handsome old-country-'squire-like building, very similar to the present parsonage-house of St. Luke's in Helmet-row; the back-front looked upon the water, and had an arch in the embankment on that side, beneath which two boats, kept for the accommodation of gentlemen of the rod and line, were drawn in at night.

Mr. Kemp expired before his lease; but he left property to his family, and his son in possession of the "Pool," and of his lease. He was not so successful as his father; and after him the premises were held by a person named Taylor, and subsequently by one Crewe. At the expiration of his lease, a new lease upon building terms was obtained of St. Bartholomew's hospital, at a rental of 600l. per annum, by Mr. Joseph Watts, the present occupier and proprietor of the baths, who, to remunerate himself, set about "improving," by draining the fish-pond, pulling down Kemp's house, and felling the trees. He built Baldwyn-street on the site of the fish-pond; Bath-buildings on the ground of Kemp's orchard; and erected other adjoining streets; preserving the baths as he found them, and in many respects improving them. The pleasure-bath is still a pleasant spot, and both that and the cold-bath retain their ancient capabilities. Indeed, the attractions to the pleasure-bath are undiminished. Its size is the same as in Kemp's time, and trees enough remain to shade the visitor from the heat of the sun while on the brink, irresolute whether to plunge gloriously in, or ignobly walk down the steps. On a summer evening it is amusing to survey the conduct of the bathers: some boldly dive; others "timorous stand," and then descend step by step, "unwillingly and slow." Choice swimmers attract attention by divings and somersets, and the whole sheet of water sometimes rings with merriment. Every fine Thursday and Saturday afternoon in the summer, columns of blue-coat boys, more than three score in each, headed by their respective beadles, arrive, and some half-strip themselves ere they reach their destination; the rapid plunges they make into the pool, and their hilarity in the bath, testify their enjoyment of the tepid fluid.

Mr. John Cleghorn, of Chapman-street, Islington, the architectural draftsman and engraver, was resident near Peerless Pool many years. There being no representation of the fish-pond and house, as they remained within the recollection of himself and the editor of the Every-Day Book, this gentleman, whose taste and knowledge of perspective have by the pencil and the graver exquisitely and accurately illustrated Mr. Rutter's "Description of Fonthill," has supplied the drawing from whence the subjoined engraving has been made. Mr. Cleghorn also made the drawing of the pleasure-bath, as it now is, for the engraving at the commencement of this article.

The old Fish-pond at Peerless Pool.

The old Fish-pond at Peerless Pool.

To the Shepherd and Shepherdess then they go
  To tea with their wives, for a constant rule;
And next cross the road to the Fountain also,
  And there they all sit, so pleasant and cool,
      And see, in and out,
      The folks walk about,
  And gentlemen angling in Peerless Pool.

The great earthquake, on the first of November, 1755, which destroyed seventy thousand human beings at Lisbon, and swallowed up the greatest part of the city, affected Peerless Pool. Dr. Birch, then secretary to the Royal Society, authenticated the fact, and records it in the "Philosophical Transactions." It appears, that on reports that the agitation of the waters observed in many parts of England, Ireland, Scotland, Holland, &c. on that day, had likewise been noticed in Peerless Pool, Dr. Birch, being desirous of as accurate and circumstancial an account as possible of a fact which he had not heard to have been remarked in any other part of London or its suburbs, himself went thither, on Saturday, December the 6th, 1755, and there took down the particulars from the mouth of one of the two waiters, who were eyewitnesses of it. This waiter said, that having been engaged, between ten and eleven in the morning, with his fellow-waiter, near the wall which enclosed the ground of the fish-pond, he accidentally cast his eye on the water, and was surprised to see it greatly moved without the least apparent cause, as the air was quite calm. He called to his companion to take notice of it, who at first neglected, but being urged to attend to so extraordinary an appearance, he was equally struck with the sight of it. Large waves rolled slowly to and from the bank near them for some time, and at last left the bed of the pond dry for several feet, and in their reflux overflowed the bank ten or twelve feet, as they did the opposite one, which was evident from the wetness of the ground about it. This motion having continued for five or six minutes, the two waiters stepped to the cold-bath near the fish-pond, to see what passed there; but no motion was observed in it by them, or by a gentleman who had been in it, and was then dressing himself, and who, on being told of the agitation in the fish-pond, went directly thither with the waiters, and was a third witness of it. On the ceasing of it, they all three went to the pleasure-bath, between which and the fish-pond the cold-bath was situated; they found the pleasure-bath then motionless, but to have been agitated in the same manner with the fish-pond, the water having left plain marks of its having overflown the banks, and risen to the bushes on their sides. The motion in the fish-pond had also been observed by some persons in Mr. Kemp's house.


Philadelphian Lily. Lilium Philadelphicum.
Dedicated to St. Praxedes.

July 22.

St. Mary Magdalen. St. Vandrille, or Wandregisilus, A.D. 666. St. Joseph, of Palestine, called Count Joseph, about A.D. 356. St. Meneve, Abbot, A.D. 720. St. Dabius or Davius.


African Lily. Agapanthus umbrellatus.
Dedicated to St. Mary Magdalen.

July 23.

St. Apollinaris, Bp. of Ravenna. St. Liborius, Bp. A.D. 397.


Muskflower. Scabiosa atropurpurea.
Dedicated to St. Apollinaris.

July 24.

St. Lupus, Bp. A.D. 478. St. Francis Solano, A.D. 1610. Sts. Romanus and David, Patrons of Muscovy. St. Christina. Sts. Wulfhad and Ruffin, A.D. 670. St. Lewine. St. Declan, Bp. St. Kinga, or Cunegundes, A.D. 1292.


Tree Lupin. Lupinus arboreus
Dedicated to St. Lupus.

July 25.

St. James the Great, Apostle, A.D. 43. St. Christopher. Sts. Thea, and Valentina, and Paul, A.D. 308. St. Cucufas, A.D. 304. St. Nissen, Abbot.

St. James's Day.

On this day oysters come in; by act of parliament they are prohibited until its arrival. It is a vulgar superstition, that whoever eats oysters on St. James's day will never want money. The indifference to industry which such notions engender in many minds, can be testified by some of themselves, who falsify the frivolous legend by their present abodes in workhouses.

Apples were blessed on this day by the priest. There is a special form for blessing them in the manual of the church of Sarum. A greater blessing is conferred at Cliff, in Kent, by the rector there: by an old custom he distributes "at his parsonage-house on St. James's day, annually, a mutton pye and a loaf to as many as choose to demand it, the expense of which amounts to about 15l. per annum."* [Brand, from Hasted's Kent.]


Herb Christopher. Actæa Spicata.
Dedicated to St. Christopher.

July 26.

St. Anne, Mother of the Virgin. St. Germanus, Bp. A.D. 448.


Field Chamomile. Matricaria Chamomilla.
Dedicated to St. Anne.


On Tuesday, the 26th of July, 1825, there was a "fight," if so it might be called, between a lion and dogs, which is thus reported in the public journals:—

This extremely gratuitous, as well as disgusting, exhibition of brutality, took place, at a late hour on Tuesday evening, at Warwick; and, except that it was even still more offensive and cruel than was anticipated, the result was purely that which had been predicted in The Times newspaper.

The show was got up in an extensive enclosure, called the "Old Factory-yard," just in the suburbs of Warwick, on the road towards Northampton; and the cage in which the fight took place stood in the centre of a hollow square, formed on two sides by ranges of empty workshops, the windows of which were fitted up with planks on barrels as seats for the spectators; and, in the remaining two, by the whole of Mr. Wombwell's wild "collection," as they have been on show for some days past, arranged in their respective dens and travelling carriages.

In the course of the morning, the dogs were shown, for the fee of a shilling, at a public-house in Warwick, called the "Green Dragon." Eight had been brought over originally; but, by a mistake of locking them up together on the preceding night, they had fallen out among themselves, and one had been killed entirely; a second escaping only with the loss of an ear, and a portion of one cheek. The guardian of the beasts being rebuked for this accident, declared he could not have supposed they would have fought each other—being "all on the same side:" six, however, still remained in condition, as Mrs. Heidelberg expresses it, for the "runcounter."

The price of admission demanded in the first instance for the fight seemed to have been founded on very gross miscalculation. Three guineas were asked for seats at the windows in the first, second, and third floors of the unoccupied manufactory; two guineas for seats on the fourth floor of this building; one guinea for places at a still more distant point; and half-a guinea for standing room in the square. The appearance of the cage when erected was rather fragile, considering the furious struggle which was to take place within it. It measured fifteen feet square, and ten feet high, the floor of it standing about six feet from the ground. The top, as well as the sides, was composed merely of iron bars, apparently slight, and placed at such a distance from each other that the dogs might enter or escape between, but too close for the lion to follow. Some doubts were expressed about the sufficiency of this last precaution—merely because a number of "ladies," it was understood, would be present; but the ladies in general escaped that disgrace, for not a single female came; and, at all events, the attendant bear-wards swore in the most solemn way—that is to say, using a hundred imprecations instead of one—that the security of the whole was past a doubt. Towards afternoon the determination as to "prices" seemed a little to abate; and it was suspected that, in the end, the speculator would take whatever prices he could get. The fact became pretty clear, too, that no real match, nor any thing approaching to one, was pending; because the parties themselves, in their printed notices, did not settle any circumstances satisfactorily, under which the contest could be considered as concluded. Wheeler, Mr. Martin's agent, who had come down on Monday, applied to the local authorities to stop the exhibition; but the mayor, and afterwards, as we understood, a magistrate of the name of Wade, declined interfering, on the ground that, under Mr. Martin's present act, no steps could be taken before the act constituting "cruelty" had been committed. A gentleman, a quaker, who resides near Warwick, also went down to the menagerie, in person, to remonstrate with Mr. Wombwell; but, against the hope of letting seats at "three guineas" a-head, of course his mediation could have very little chance of success.

In the mean time, the unfortunate lion lay in a caravan by himself all day, in front of the cage in which he was to be baited, surveying the preparations for his own annoyance with great simplicity and apparent good humour; and not at all discomfited by the notice of the numerous persons who came to look at him. In the course of the day, the dogs who were to fight were brought into the menagerie in slips, it being not the least singular feature of this combat that it was to take place immediately under the eyes of an immense host of wild beasts of all descriptions (not including the human spectators); three other lions; a she wolf, with cubs; a hyæna; a white bear; a lioness; two female leopards, with cubs; two zebras, male and female; a large assortment of monkeys; and two wild asses; with a variety of other interesting foreigners, being arranged within a few yards of the grand stand.

These animals, generally, looked clean and in good condition; and were (as is the custom with such creatures when confined) perpetually in motion; but the dogs disappointed expectation—they were very little excited by the introduction. They were strong, however, and lively; crossed, apparantly the majority of them, between the bull and the mastiff breed; one or two showed a touch of the lurcher, a point in the descent of fighting dogs which is held to give an increased capacity of mouth. The average weight of those which fought was from about five and thirty to five and forty pounds each; one had been brought over that weighed more than sixty, but he was on some account or other excluded from the contest.

The cub leopards were "fine darling little creatures," as an old lady observed in the morning, fully marked and coloured, and about the size of a two months' old kitten. The young wolves had a haggard, cur-like look; but were so completely like sheep-dog puppies, that a mother of that race might have suckled them for her own. A story was told of the lion "Nero" having already had a trial in the way of "give and take," with a bull bitch, who had attacked him, but, at the first onset, been bitten through the throat. The bitch was said to have been got off by throwing meat to the lion; and if the account were true, the result was only such as with a single dog, against such odds, might reasonably have been expected. Up to a late hour of the day, the arrival of strangers was far less considerable than had been anticipated; and doubts were entertained, whether, in the end, the owner of the lion would not declare off.

At a quarter past seven, however, in the evening, from about four to five hundred persons of different descriptions being assembled, preparations were made for commencing[.]

The Combat.

The dens which contained the animals on show were covered in with shutters; the lion's travelling caravan was drawn close to the fighting cage, so that a door could be opened from one into the other; and the keeper, Wombwell, then going into the travelling caravan, in which another man had already been staying with the lion for some time, the animal followed him into the cage as tamely as a Newfoundland dog. The whole demeanour of the beast, indeed, was so quiet and generous, that, at his first appearance, it became very much doubted whether he would attempt to fight at all. While the multitude shouted, and the dogs were yelling in the ground below, he walked up and down his cage, Wombwell still remaining in it, with the most perfect composure, not at all angered, or even excited; but looking with apparently great curiostiy at his new dwelling and the objects generally about him; and there can hardly be a question, that, during the whole contest, such as it turned out, any one of the keepers might have remained close to him with entire safety.

Wombwell, however, having quitted the cage, the first relay of dogs was laid on. These were a fallow-coloured dog, a brown with white legs, and a third brown altogether—averaging about forty pounds in weight a-piece, and described in the printed papers which were distributed, by the names of Captain, Tiger, and Turk. As the dogs were held for a minute in slips, upon the inclined plane which ran from the ground to the stage, the lion crouched on his belly to receive them; but with so perfect an absence of anything like ferocity, that many persons were of opinion he was rather disposed to play: at all events, the next moment showed clearly that the idea of fighting, or doing mischief to any living creature, never had occurred to him.

At the first rush of the dogs—which the lion evidently had not expected, and did not at all know how to meet—they all fixed themselves upon him, but caught only by the dewlap and the mane. With a single effort, he shook them off, without attempting to return the attack. He then flew from side to side of the cage, endeavouring to get away; but in the next moment the assailants were upon him again, and the brown dog, Turk, seized him by the nose, while the two others fastened at the same time on the fleshy part of his lips and underjaw. The lion then roared dreadfully, but evidently only from the pain he suffered—not at all from anger. As the dogs hung to his throat and head, he pawed them off by sheer strength; and in doing this, and in rolling upon them, did them considerable mischief; but it amounts to a most curious fact, that he never once bit, or attempted to bite, during the whole contest, or seemed to have any desire to retaliate any of the punishment which was inflicted upon him. When he was first "pinned," for instance, (to use the phraseology of the bear-garden,) the dogs hung to him for more than a minute, and were drawn, holding to his nose and lips, several times round the ring. After a short time, roaring tremendously, he tore them off with his claws, mauling two a good deal in the operation, but still not attempting afterwards to act on the offensive. After about five minutes' fighting, the fallow-coloured dog was taken away, lame, and apparently much distressed, and the remaining two continued the combat alone, the lion still working only with his paws, as though seeking to rid himself of a torture, the nature of which he did not well understand. In two or three minutes more, the second dog, Tiger, being dreadfully maimed, crawled out of the gcae [cage]; and the brown dog, Turk, which was the lightest of the three, but of admirable courage, went on fighting by himself. A most extraordinary scene then ensued: the dog, left entirely alone with an animal of twenty times its weight, continued the battle with unabated fury, and, though bleeding all over from the effect of the lion's claws, seized and pinned him by the nose at least half a dozen times; when at length, releasing himself with a desperate effort, the lion flung his whole weight upon the dog, and held him lying between his fore paws for more than a minute, during which he could have bitten his head off a hundred times over, but did not make the slightest effort to hurt him. Poor Turk was then taken away by the dog-keepers, greivously mangled but still alive, and seized the lion, for at least the twentieth time, the very same moment that he was released from under him.

It would be tiresome to go at length into the detail of the "second fight," as it was called, which followed this; the undertaking being to the assembly—for the notion of "match" now began to be too obvious a humbug to be talked about—that there should be two onsets, at twenty minutes' interval, by three dogs at each time. When the last dog of the first set, Turk, was removed, poor Nero's temper was just as good as before the affair began. The keeper, Wombwell, went into the cage instantly, and alone, carrying a pan of water, with which he first sluiced the animal, and then offered him some to drink. After a few minutes the lion laid down, rubbing the parts of his head which had been torn (as a cat would do) with his paw; and presently a pan of fresh water being brought, he lapped out of it for some moments, while a second keeper patted and caressed him through the iron grate. The second combat presented only a repetition of the barbarities committed in the first, except that it completely settled the doubt—if any existed—as to a sum of money being depending. In throwing water upon the lion, a good deal had been thrown upon the stage. This made the floor of course extremely slippery; and so far it was a very absurd blunder to commit. But the second set of dogs let in being heavier than the first, and the lion more exhausted, he was unable to keep his footing on the wet boards, and fell in endeavouring to shake them off, bleeding freely from the nose and head, and evidently in a fair way to be seriously injured. The dogs, all three, seized him on going in, and he endeavoured to get rid of them in the same way as before, using his paws, and not thinking of fighting, but not with the same success. He fell now, and showed symptoms of weakness, upon which the dogs were taken away. This termination, however, did not please the crowd, who cried out loudly that the dogs were not beaten. Some confusion then followed; after which the dogs were again put in, and again seized the lion, who by this time as well as bleeding freely from the head, appeared to have got a hurt in one of his fore feet. At length the danger of mischief becoming pressing, and the two divisions of the second combat having lasted about five minutes, Mr. Wombwell announced that he gave up on the part of the lion; and the exhibition was declared to be at an end.

The first struggle between the lion and his assailants lasted about eleven minutes, and the last something less than five; but the affair altogether wanted even the savage interest which generally belongs to a common bull or bear bait. For, from the beginning of the matter to the end, the lion was merely a sufferer—he never struck a blow. The only picturesque point which could present itself in such a contest would have been, the seeing an animal like the lion in a high state of fury and excitation; but before the battle began, we felt assured that no such event would take place; because the animal in question, had not merely been bred up in such a manner as would go far to extinguish all natural disposition to ferocity, but the greatest pains had been taken to render him tame, and gentle, and submissive. Wombwell, the keeper, walked about in the cage with the lion at least as much at his ease as he could have done with any one of the dogs who were to be matched against him. At the end of the first combat, the very moment the dogs were removed, he goes into the cage and gives him water. At the end of the last battle, while he is wounded and bleeding, he goes to him again without the least hesitation. Wombwell must have known, to

Tame Lion Bait.

Tame Lion Bait.

"The dogs would not give him a moment's respite, and all three set on him again, while the poor animal howling with pain, threw his great paws awkwardly upon them as they came." — Morning Herald.

certainty, that the animal's temper was not capable of being roused into ferocity. It might admit, perhaps, of some question, whether the supposed untameable nature of many wild animals is not something overrated: and whether it would not be the irresistible strength of a domestic lion (in case he should become excited,) that could render him a dangerous inmate, rather than any probability that he would easily become furious; but, as regards the particular animal in question, and the battle which he had to fight, he evidently had no understanding of it, no notion that the dog was his enemy. A very large dog, the property of a gentleman in Warwick, was led up to his caravan on the day before the fight; this dog's appearance did not produce the slightest impression upon him. So, with the other wild beasts of Wombwell's collection, who were shown to the fighting dogs, as we observed above, on the morning of Tuesday, not one of them appeared to be roused by the meeting in the smallest degree. A common house cat would have been upon the qui vive, and aux mains too probably, in a moment. All the contest that did take place arose out of the fact, that the dogs were of a breed too small and light to destroy an animal of the lion's weight and strength, even if he did not defend himself. It was quite clear, from the moment when the combat began, that he had no more thought or knowledge of fighting, than a sheep would have had under the same circumstances. His absolute refusal to bite is a curious fact; he had evidently no idea of using his mouth or teeth as a means for his defence. The dogs, most of them, showed considerable game; the brown dog Turk, perhaps as much as ever was exhibited, and none of them seemed to feel any of that instinctive dread or horror which some writers have attributed to dogs in the presence of a lion.

It would be a joke to say any thing about the feelings of any man, who, for the sake of pecuniary advantage, could make up his mind to expose a noble animal which he had bred, and which had become attached to him, to a horrible and lingering death. About as little reliance we should be disposed to place upon any appeal to the humanity of those persons who make animal suffering—in the shape of dog-fighting, bear-baiting, &c., a sort of daily sport—an indemnification, perhaps, for the not being permitted to torture their fellow-creatures. But as, probably, a number of persons were present at this detesable exhibition, which we have been describing, who were attracted merely by its novelty, and would be as much disgusted as we ourselves were with its details, we recommend their attention to the following letter, which a gentleman, a member of the Society of Friends, who applied personally to Mr. Wombwell to omit the performance, delivered to him as expressive of his own opinions upon the question, and those of his friends. Of course, addressed to such a quarter, it produced no effect; but it does infinite credit both to the head and heart of the writer, and contains almost every thing that, to honourable and feeling men, need be said upon such a subject::—

"Friend,—I have heard with a great degree of horror, of an intended fight between a lion that has long been exhibited by thee, consequently has long been under thy protection, and six bull-dogs. I seem impelled to write to thee on the subject, and to entreat thee, I believe in christian love, that, whatever may be thy hope of gain by this very cruel and very disgraceful exhibition, thou wilt not proceed. Recollect that they are God's creatures, and we are informed by the holy scriptures, that not even a sparrow falls to the ground without his notice; and as this very shocking scene must be to gratify a spirit of cruelty, as well as a spirit of gambling,—for it is asserted that large sums of money are wagered on the event of the contest,—it must be marked with divine displeasure. Depend upon it that the Almighty will avenge the sufferings of his tormented creatures on their tormentors; for, though he is a God of love, he is also a God of justice; and I believe that no deed of cruelty has ever passed unpunished. Allow me to ask thee how thou wilt endure to see the noble animal thou hast so long protected, and which has been in part the means of supplying thee with the means of life, mangled and bleeding before thee? It is unmanly, it is mean and cowardly, to torment any thing that cannot defend itself,—that cannot speak to tell its pains and sufferings,—that cannot ask for mercy. Oh, spare thy poor lion the pangs of such a death as may perhaps be his,—save him from being torn to pieces—have pity on the dogs that may be torn by him. Spare the horrid spectacle—spare thyself the sufferings that I fear will yet reach thee if thou persist—show a noble example of humanity. Whoever have persuaded thee to expose thy lion to the chance of being torn to pieces, or of tearing other animals, are far beneath the brutes they torment, are unworthy the name of men, or rational creatures. Whatever thou mayest gain by this disgraceful exhibition will, I fear, prove like a canker-worm among the rest of thy substance. The writer of this most earnestly entreats thee to refrain from the intended evil, and to protect the animals in thy possession from all unnecessary suffering. The practice of benevolence will afford thee more true comfort than the possession of thousands. Remember, that He who gave life did not give it to be the sport of cruel man; and the He will assuredly call man to account for his conduct towards his dumb creatures. Remember, also, that cowards are always cruel, but the brave love mercy, and delight to save. With sincere desire for the preservation of thy honour, as a man of humanity, and for thy happiness and welfare, I am, thy friend,


Mr. Hoare's excellent letter, with the particulars of this brutal transaction, thus far, are from The Times newspaper which observes in its leading article thus:

"With great sincerity we offered a few days ago our earnest remonstrance against the barbarous spectacle then preparing, and since, in spite of every better feeling, indulged—we mean the torture of a noble lion, with the full consent, and for the profit, of a mercenary being, who had gained large sums of money by hawking the poor animal about the world and exhibiting him. It is vain, however, to make any appeal to humanity where none exists, or to expatiate on mercy, justice, and retribution hereafter, when those whom we strive to influence have never learned that language in which alone we can address them.

"Little more can be said upon this painful and degrading subject, beyond a relation of the occurrence itself, which it was more our wish than our hope to have prevented. Nothing, at least, could be so well said by any other person, as it has by a humane and eloquent member of the Society of Friends, in his excellent though unavailing letter to Wombwell. What must have been the texture of that mind, on which such sentiments could make no impression?"

The question may be illustrated by Wombwell's subsequent conduct.

To the preceding account, extracted from The Times, additional circumstances are subjoined, in order to preserve a full record of this disgraceful act.

The Morning Herald says—For several months the country has been amused with notices that a fight between a lion and dogs was intended, and time and place were for than once appointed. This had the desired effect—making the lion an object of great attraction in the provincial towns, and a golden harvest was secured by showing him at two shillings a head. The next move was to get up such a fight as would draw all the world from London, as well as from the villages, to fill places marked at one and two guineas each to see it; and lastly, to find dogs of such weight and inferior quality as to stand no chance before an enraged lion—thus securing the lion from injury, and making him still a greater lion than before, or that the world ever saw to be exhibited as the wonderful animal that beat six British bred mastiffs. The repeated disappointments as to time and place led people to conclude that the affair was altogether a hoax, and the magnitude of the stake of 5,000l. said to be at issue, was so far out of any reasonable calculation, that the whole was looked upon as a fabrication, and the majority became incredulous on the subject. Nay, the very persons who saw the lion and the dogs, and the stage, disbelieved even to the last moment that the fight was in reality intended. But the proprietor of the concern was too good a judge to let the flats altogether escape him, though his draught was diminished from having troubled the waters too much. Wombwell, the proprietor, as the leader of a collection of wild beasts, may be excused for his proficiency in trickery, which is the essence and spirit of his calling, but we think him accountable, as a man, for his excessive cruelty in exposing a poor animal that he has reared himself, and made so attached that it plays with him, and fondles him like a spaniel—that has never been taught to know its own powers, or the force of its savage nature, to the attacks of dogs trained to blood, and bred for fighting. The lion now five years old, was whelped in Edinburgh, and has been brought up with so much softness, that it appears as inoffensive as a kitten, and suffers the attendants of the menagerie to ride upon its back or to sleep in its cage. Its nature seems to be gentleness itself, and its education has rendered it perfectly domestic, and deprived it of all savage instinct. In the only experiment made upon its disposition, he turned from a dog which had been run at him, and on which he had fastened, to a piece of meat which was thrown into the cage. Nero is said to be one of the largest lions ever exhibited, and certainly a finer or more noble looking animal cannot be imagined.

Wombwell announced in his posting-bills at Birmingham, Coventry, Manchester, and all the neighbouring towns, that the battle was to be for 5,000l., but communicated, by way of secret, that, in reality, it was but 300l. a side, which he asserted was made good with the owner of the dogs on Monday night, at the Bear, in Warwick; but who the owner of the dogs was, or the maker of the match, it was impossible to ascertain; and though well aware of the impropriety of doubting the authority of the keeper of the menagerie, we must admit that our impression is, that no match was made, that no wagers were laid, and that the affair was got up for the laudable purpose hinted at in the commencement of this notice. The dogs to be sure, were open to the inspection of the curious on Monday, and a rough-coated, game-keeping, butcher-like, honest, ruffianly person from the north, announced himself as ther ostensible friend on the occasion; but by whom employed he was unwilling to declare. His orders were to bring the dogs to "the scratch," and very busy we saw him preparing them for slaughter, and anointing the wounds of one little bitter animal that got its head laid open in the course of the night, while laudably engaged in mangling the throat and forcing out the windpipe of one of its companions, near whom it had been unfortunately chained. The other dogs were good-looking savage vermin, averaging about 40lbs. weight; one of them being less than 30lbs., and the largest not over 60lbs. Four were described as real bull dogs, and the other bull and mastiff crossed. The keeper said they were quite equal to the work; but, to one not given to the fancy dog line, they appeared quite unequal to attack and master a lion, many times as large as all the curs put together. Wedgbury, a person well known in London for his breed of dogs, brought down one over 70lbs., of most ferocious and villanous aspect, with the intention of entering him for a run, but it was set aside by Wombwell; thus affording another proof that Wombwell had the whole concern in his hands, and selected dogs unable, from their weight or size, to do a mortal injury to his lion.

Wombwell appointed seven in the evening as the hour of combat. Accommodations were prepared for about a thousand people, but owing to the frequent disappointments and to the exorbitant prices demanded, not more than two hundred and fifty persons appeared willing or able to pay for the best places, and about as many more admitted on the ground. The charge to the former was reduced to two guineas and one guinea, and to the latter from half a guinea to 7s. 6d. About 400l. was collected, from which, deducting 100l. for expenses, 300l. was cleared by the exhibition, a sum barely the value of the lion if he should lose his life in the contest. The cages in which the other beasts were confined, were all closed up. It was well understood that no match had really been made, and consequently no betting of consequence took place, but among a few countrymen, who, contrasting the size of the lion with the dogs, backed him at 2 to 1.

Wombwell, having no longer the fear of the law before him, proceeded to complete his engagements, and distributed the following bills:—


"The following are the conditions under which the combat between Nero and the dogs will be decided:—

"1st. Three dogs are at once to be slipped at him.

"2d. If one or any of them turn tail, he or they are to be considered as beaten, and no one of the other remaining three shall be allowed to attack him until twenty minutes shall be expired, in order to give Nero rest; for he must be allowed to beat the first three, one by one, or as he may choose before the remaining three shall be started.

"After the expiration of the stipulated time, the remaining three dogs are to start according to the foregoing rules, and be regulated as the umpires shall adjudge.

"The dogs to be handled by Mr. Edwards, John Jones, and William Davis, assisted by Samuel Wedgbury.

"1. Turk, a brown coloured dog.—2. Captain, a fallow and white dog, with skewbald face.—[3.] Tiger, a brown dog, with white legs.—4. Nettle, a little brindled bitch, with black head.—5. Rose, a skewbald bitch.—6. Nelson, a white dog, with brindled spots."

The place chosen for the exhibition was, as we have siad, the yard of a large factory, in the centre of which an iron cage, about fifteen feet square, elevated five feet from the ground, was fixed as the place of combat. This was secured at top by strong open iron work, and at the sides by wrought iron bars, with spaces sufficient between to admit the dogs, and an ascending platform for them to run up. Temporary stations were fixed at the windows of the factory, and all round the yard, and the price for these accomodations named at the outrageous charge of three guineas for the best places, two guineas for the second, one for the third, and half a guinea for standing on the ground. Though the place was tolerably well fitted up, it fell far short of what the mind conceived should be the arena for for [sic] such a combat; but Mr. Wombwell cared not a jot for the pleasures of the imagination, and counted only the golden sovereign to which every deal board would be turned in the course of the day, while his whole collection of wild beasts, lions, tigresses, and wolves, with their whelps and cubs, apes and monkeys, made up a goodly show, and roared and grinned in concert, delighted with the bustle about them, as if in anticipation of the coming fun.

The Morning Chronicle says,---The place chosen for the combat, was the factory yard in which the first stage was erected for the fight between Ward and Cannon. This spot, which was, in fact, extremely well calculated for the exhibition, was now completely enclosed. We formerly stated that two sides of the yard were formed by high buildings, the windows of which looked upon the area; the vacant spaces were now filled up by Mr. Wombwell's collection of wild beasts, which were openly exposed, in their respective cages, on the one side, and by paintings and canvass on the other, so that, in fact, a compact square was formed, which was securely hidden from external observation. There was but one door of admission, and that was next the town. Upon the tops of the cages seats were erected, in amphitheatrical order; and for accommodation here, one guinea was charged. The higher prices were taken for the windows in the factories, and the standing places were 10s. each. The centre of the square was occupied by the den, a large iron cage, the bars of which were usfficiently far asunder to permit the dogs to pass in and out, while the caravan in which Nero was usually confined, was drawn up close to it. The den itself was elevated upon a platform, fixed on wheels about four feet from the ground, and an inclined plane formed of thick planks was placed against it, so as to enable the dogs to rush to the attack. It was into this den that Nero was enticed to be baited. Wombwell's trumpeters then went forth, mounted on horses, and in gaudy array, to announce the fight, which was fixed to take place between five and seven in the evening. They travelled to Leamington, and the adjacent villages; but to have done good they should have gone still farther, for all who ventured from a distance on speculation, announced that those they left behind fully believed that their labour would be in vain.

The dogs attracted a good deal of curiosity. They took up their quarters at the Green Dragon, where they held a levee, and a great number of persons paid sixpence each to have an opportunity of judging of their qualities, and certainly as far as appearance went, they seemed capable of doing much mischief.

On Tuesday morning several persons were admitted to the factory to see the preparations, and at about ten o'clock the dogs were brought in, They seemed perfectly ready to quarrel with each other, but did not evince any very hostile disposition either towards Nero, who, from his private apartment, eyed them with great complacency, or towards the other lion and lionesses by whom they were surrounded, and who, as it were, taunted them by repeated howlings, in which Nero joined chorus with his deep and sonorous voice. The cruelty of unnecessarily exposing such an animal to torture, naturally produced severe comments; and among other persons, a quaker, being in the town of Warwick, waited upon Mr. Wombwell, on Tuesday morning, with Mr. Hoare's letter, which he said he had received twenty miles from the town. However well meant this letter was, and that it arose in the purest notives of christian charity no man could doubt: with Mr. Wombwell it had no effect. He looked at his preparations, he looked at his lion, and he cast a glance forward to his profits, and then shook his head.

The pain of the lion was to be Wombwell's profit; and between agony to the animal, and lucre to himself, the showman did not hesitate.

From the Morning Herald report of this lion bait, several marked circumstances are selected, and subjoined under a denomination suitable to their character—viz:—


First Combat.

1. The dogs, as if in concert, flew at the lion's nose and endeavoured to pin him, but Nero still kept up his head, striking with his fore-paws, and seemingly endeavouring more to get rid of the annoyance than to injure them.

2. They unceasingly kept goading, biting, and darting at his nose, sometimes hanging from his mouth, or one endeavouring to pin a paw, while the others mangled the head.

3. Turk, made a most desperate spring at the nose, and absolutely held there for a moment, while Captain and Tiger each seized a paw; the force of all three brought the lion from his feet, and he was pinned to the floor for the instant.

4. His great strength enabled him to shake off the dogs, and then, as if quite terrified at their fury, he turned round and endeavoured to fly; and if the bars of the cage had not confined him, would certainly have made away. Beaten to the end of the cage, he lay extended in one corner, his great tail hanging out through the bars.

5. Nero appeared quite exhausted, and turned a forlorn and despairing look on every side for assistance. The dogs became faint, and panting with their tongues out, stood beside him for a few seconds, until cheered and excited by their keepers' voices they again commenced the attack, and roused Nero to exertion. The poor beast's heart seemed to fail him altogether at this fresh assault, and he lay against the side of the stage totally defenceless, while his foes endeavoured to make an impression on his carcase.

6. Turk turned to the head once more, and goaded the lion, almost to madness, by the severity of his punishment on the jaws and nose.

7. The attack had continued about six minutes, and both lion and dogs were brought to a stand still; but Turk got his wind in a moment, and flew at his old mark of the jaw, which he laid hold of, and hung from it, while Nero roared with anguish.

8. The lion attempted to break away, and flung himself with desperation against the bars of the stage—the dogs giving chase, darting at his flank, and worrying his head, until all three being almost spent, another pause took place, and the dogs spared their victim for an instant.

9. Turk got under his chest, and endeavoured to fix himself on his throat, while Tiger imitating his fierceness, flew at the head. This joint attack worked the spirit of the poor lion a little, he struck Tiger from him with a severe blow of his paw, and fell upon Turk with all the weight of the fore part of his body, and then grasping his paws upon him, held him as in a vice.

10. Here the innocent nature of poor Nero was conspicuous, and the brutality of the person who fought him made more evident, for the fine animal having its totally defenceless enemy within the power of his paw, did not put it upon him and crush his head to mince meat, but lay with his mouth open, panting for breath, nor could all the exertions of Wombwell from outside the bars direct his fury at the dog who was between his feet.

11. It now became a question what was to be done, as Tiger crawled away and was taken to his kennel, and there appeared no chance of the lion moving from his position and relieving the other dog. However, after about a minute's pause, the lion opened his hold, released the dog and got upon his legs, as if he became at ease when freed from the punishment of his assailants.

12. Turk finding himself at liberty, faced the lion, flew at his nose, and there fastened himself like a leech, while poor Nero roared again with anguish. The lion contrived, by a violent exertion, to shake him off. Thus terminated the first round in eleven minutes.

Second Combat.

1. The three dogs were brought to their station, and pointed and excited at the lion; but the inoffensive, innocent creature walked about the stage, evidently unprepared for a second attack.

2. Word being given, the three dogs were slipped at once, and all darted at the flank of the lion, amid the horrid din of the cries of their handlers, and the clapping and applause of the mob. The lion finding himself again assailed, did not turn against his foes, but broke away with a roar, and went several times round the cage seeking to escape from their fury.

3. The dogs pursued him, and all heading him as if by the same impulse, flew at his nose together, brought him down, and pinned him to the floor. Their united strength being now evidently superior to his, he was held fast for several seconds, while the mob shouted with renewed delight.

4. Nero, by a desperate exertion, cleared himself at length from their fury, and broke away; but the dogs agains gave chase and headed him once more, sprung at his nose, and pinned him all three together. The poor beast, lacerated and torn, groaned with pain and heart-rending anguish, and a few people, with something of a human feeling about them, called out to Wombwell to give in for the lion; but he was callous to their entreaties, and Nero was left to his fate.

5. Poor Nero lay panting on the stage, his mouth, nose, and chaps full of blood, while a contest took place between Wombwell and the keepers of the dogs, the one refusing, and the other claiming the victory. At length brutality prevailed, and the dogs were slipped again for the purpose of finishing.

6. Nero was unable to rise and meet them, and suffered himself to be torn and pulled about as they pleased; while the dogs, exulting over their prey, mumbled his carcase, as he lay quite powerless and exhausted. Wombwell then seeing that all chance of the lion coming round was hopeless, and dreading that the death of the poor animal must be the consequence of further punishment, gave in at last, and the handlers of the dogs laid hold of them by the legs, and pulled them by main force away, on which another shout of brutal exultation was set up, and the savage sport of the day concluded.

Nero's Tameness.

Had he exerted a tithe of his strength, struck with his paws, or used his fangs, he must have killed all the dogs, but the poor beast never bit his foes, or attempted any thing further than defending himself from an annoyance. On the whole, the exhibition was the most brutal we have ever witnessed, and appears to be indefensible in every point of view.

In reprobating the baiting of this tame lion by trained and savage dogs, the periodical press has been unanimous. The New Times says, "we rejoice to observe the strong feeling of aversion with which the public in general have heard of this cruel exhibition. As a question of natural history, it may be deemed curious to ascertain the comparative ferocity of the lion and the bull-dog; but even in this respect the Warwick fight cannot be deemed satisfactory; for though the lion was a large and majestic animal, yet, as he had been born and brought up in a domestic state, he had evidentlylittle [sic] or nothing of the fury which a wild animal of the same species evinces in combat. Burron observes, that 'the lion is very susceptible of the impressions given to him, and has always docility enough to be rendered tame to a certain degree.' He adds, that 'the lion, if taken young, and brought up among domestic animals, easily accustoms himself to live with them, and even to play without doing them injury; that he is mild to his keeper, and even caressing, especially in the early part of his life; and that if his natural fierceness now and then breaks out, it is seldom turned against those who have treated him with kindness.' These remarks of the great naturalist are very fully confirmed by the conduct of poor Nero; for both before and after the combat, he suffered his keeper, Wombwell, with impunity to enter his den, give him water to drink, and throw the remainder over his head. — We begin now to feel that a man has no right to torment inferior animals for his amusement; but it must be confessed that this sentiment is rather of recent predominance. The gladiatorial shows of Rome, the quail-fights of India, the bull-fights of Spain, may, in some measure, keep our barbarous ancestors in countenance; but the fact is, that bear-baiting, badger-baiting, bull-baiting, cock-fighting, and such elegant modes of setting on poor animals to worry and torment each other, were, little more than a century ago, the fashionable amusement of persons in all ranks of life. They have gradually descended to the lowest of the vulgar; and though there always will be found persons who adopt the follies and vices of their inferiors, yet these form a very small and inconsiderable minority of the respectable classes; and in another generation it will probably be deemed disgraceful in a gentleman to associate, on any occasion, with prize-fighters and pickpockets." By right education, and the diffusion of humane principles, we may teach youth to shun the inhuman example of their forefathers.


Determined not to forego a shilling which could be obtained by the exposure of an animal to torture, Wombwell in the same week submitted another of his lions to be baited.

The Times, in giving an account of this renewed brutality, after a forcible expression of its "disgust and indignation at the cruelty of the spectacle, and the supineness of the magistracy," proceeds thus: "Wombwell has, notwithstanding the public indignation which accompanied the exposure of the lion Nero to the six dogs, kept his word with the lovers of cruel sports by a second exhibition. He matched his 'Wallace,' a fine lion, cubbed in Scotland, against six of the best dogs that could be found. Wallace's temper is the very opposite of that of the gentle Nero. It is but seldom that he lets even his feeders approach him, and he soon shows that he cannot reconcile himself to familiarity from any creature not of his own species. Towards eight o'clock the factory-yard was well attended, at 5s. each person, and soon after the battle commenced. The lion was turned from his den to the same stage on which Nero fought. The match was—1st. Three couples of dogs to be slipped at him, two at a time—2d. Twenty minutes or more, as the umpires should think fit, to be allowed between each attack—3d. The dogs to be handed to the cage once only. Tinker, Ball, Billy, Sweep, Turpin, Tiger."


"In the first round, Tinker and Ball were let loose, and both made a gallant attack; the lion having waited for them as if aware of the approach of his foes. He showed himself a forest lion, and fought like one. He clapped his paw upon poor Ball, took Tinker in his teeth, and deliberately walked round the stage with him as a cat would with a mouse. Ball, released from the paw, worked all he could, but Wallace treated his slight punishment by a kick now and then. He at length dropped Tinker, and that poor animal crawled off the stage as well as he could. The lion then seized Ball by the mouth, and played precisely the same game with him as if he had actually been trained to it. Ball would have been almost devoured, but his second got hold of him through the bars, and hauled him away. Turpin, a London, and Sweep, a Liverpool dog, made an excellent attack, but it was three or four minutes before the ingenuity of their seconds could get them on. Wallace squatted on his haunches, and placed himself erect at the slope where the dogs mounted the stage, as if he thought they dared not approach. The dogs, when on, fought gallantly; but both were vanquished in less than a minute after their attack. The London dog bolted as soon as he could extricate himself from the lion's grasp, but Sweep would have been killed on the spot, but he was released. Wedgbury untied Billy and Tiger, casting a most piteous look upon the wounded dogs around him. Both went to work. Wallace seized Billy by the loins, and when shaking him, Tiger having run away, Wedgbury cried out, 'There, you see how you've gammoned me to have the best dog in England killed.' Billy, however, escaped with his life; he was dragged through the railing, after having received a mark in the loins, which (if he recovers at all) will probably render him unfit for any future contest[.] The victory of course was declared in favour of the lion.—Several well-dressed women viewed the contest from the uppr apartment of the factory."—Women!

Lion Fights in England.

It is more than two hundred years since an attempt has been made in this country to fight a lion against dogs. In the time of James I., the exhibition took place for the amusement of the court. Those who are curious on the subject, will find in "Seymour's Survey," a description of an experiment of that nature, in 1610. Two lions and a bear were first put into a pit together, but they agreed perfectly well, and disappointed the royal spectators in not assaulting each other. A high-spirited horse was then put in with them, but neither the bear nor the lions attacked him. Six mastiffs were next let loose, but they directed all their fury against the horse, flew upon it, and would have torn it in pieces, but for the interference of the bear-wards, who went into the pit, and drew the dogs away, the lions and bear remaining unconcerned. Your profound antiquarian will vouch for the truth of this narration, but it goes a very little way to establish the fact of an actual fight between a lion and dogs. Perhaps an extract from Stow's Annals may be more satisfactory. It is an account of a contest stated to have taken place in the presence of James I., and his son, prince Henry. "One of the dogs being put into the den, was soon disabled by the lion, who took him by the head and neck, and dragged him about. Another dog was then let loose, and served in the same manner; but the third being put in, immediately seized the lion by the lip, and held him for a considerable time; till being severely torn by his claws, the dog was obliged to quit his hold; and the lion, greatly exhausted by the conflict, refused to renew the engagement; but, taking a sudden leap over the dogs, fled into the interior of his den. Two of the dogs soon died of their wounds; the third survived, and was taken great care of by the prince, who said, 'he that had fought with the king of beasts should never after fight with an inferior creature.'"* [Morning Herald.]

Lion fight at Vienna.

There was a lion fight at the amphitheatre of Vienna, in the summer of 1790, which was almost the last permitted in that capital.

The amphitheatre at Vienna embraced an area of from eighty to a hundred feet in diameter. The lower part of the structure comprised the dens of the different animals. Above those dens, and about ten feet from the ground, were the first and principal seats, over which were galleries. In the course of the entertainment, a den was opened, out of which stalked, in free and ample range, a most majestic lion; and, soon after, a fallow deer was let into the circus from another den. The deer instantly fled, and bounded round the circular space, pursued by the lion; but the quick and sudden turnings of the former continually baulked the effort of its pursuer. After this ineffectual chase had continued for several minutes, a door was opened, through which the deer escaped; and presently five or six of the large and fierce Hungarian mastiffs were sent in. The lion, at the moment of their entrance, was leisurely returning to his den, the door of which stood open. The dogs, which entered behind him, flew towards him in a body, with the utmost fury, making the amphitheatre ring with their barkings. When they reached the lion, the noble animal stopped, and deliberately turned towards them. The dogs instantly retreated a few steps, increasing their vociferations, and the lion slowly resumed his progress towards his den. The dogs again approached; the lion turned his head; his adversaries halted; and this continued until, on his nearing his den, the dogs separated, and approached him on different sides. The lion then turned quickly round, like one whose dignified patience could brook the harrassment of insolence no longer. The dogs fled far, as if instinctively sensible of the power of wrath they had at length provoked. One unfortunate dog, however, which had approached too near to effect his escape, was suddenly seized by the paw of the lion; and the piercing yells which he sent forth quickly caused his comrades to recede to the door of entrance at the opposite site of the area, where the stood in a row, barking and yelling in concert with their miserable associate.

After arresting the struggling and yelling prisoner for a short time, the lion couched upon him with his forepaws and mouth. The struggles of the sufferer grew feebler and feebler, until at length he became perfectly motionless. We all concluded him to be dead. In this composed posture of executive justice, the lion remained for at least ten minutes, when he majestically rose, and with a slow step entered his den, and disappeared. The apparent corpse continued to lie motionless for a few minutes; presently the dog, to his amazement, and that of the whole amphitheatre, found himself alive, and rose with his nose pointed to the ground, his tail between his hind legs pressing his belly, and, as soon as he was certified of his existence, he made off for the door in a long trot, through which he escped with his more fortunate companions.* [The Times.]

Another Lion Fight at Vienna.

Of late years the truth of the accounts which have been so long current, respecting the generous disposition of the lion, have been called in question. Several travellers, in their accounts of Asia and Africa, describe him as of a more rapacious and sanguinary disposition than had formerly been supposed, although few of them have had the opportunity to make him a particular object of their attention.

A circumstance that occurred not long since in Vienna seems, however, to confirm the more ancient accounts. In the year 1791, at which period the custom of baiting wild beasts still existed in that city, a combat was to be exhibited between a lion and a number of large dogs. As soon as the noble animal made his appearance, four large bull-dogs were turned loose upon him, three of which, however, as soon as they came near him, took fright, and ran away. One only had courage to remain, and make the attack. The lion, however, without rising from the ground upon which he was lying, showed him, by a single stroke with his paw, how greatly his superior he was in strength; for the dog was instantly stretched motionless on the ground. The lion drew him towards him, and laid his fore-paws upon him in such a manner that only a small part of his body could be seen. Every one imagined that the dog was dead, and that the lion would soon rise and devour him. But they were mistaken. The dog began to move, and struggled to get loose, which the lion permitted him to do. He seemed merely to have warned him not to meddle with him any more; but when the dog attempted to run away, and had already got half over the enclosure, the lion's indignation seemed to be excited. He sprang from the ground, and in two leaps reached the fugitive, who had just got as far as the paling, and was whining to have it opened for him to escape. The flying animal had called the instinctive propensity of the monarch of the forest into action: the defenceless enemy now excited his pity; for the generous lion stepped a few paces backward, and looked quietly on, while a small door was opened to let the dog out of the enclosure.

This unequivocal trait of generosity moved every spectator. A shout of applause resounded throughout the assembly, who had enjoyed a satisfaction of a description far superior to what they had expected.

It is possible that the African lion, when, under the impulse of hunger, he goes out to seek his prey, may not so often exhibit this magnanimous disposition; for in that case he is compelled by imperious necessity to satisfy the cravings of nature; but when his appetite is satiated, he never seeks for prey, nor does he ever destroy to gratify a blood-thirsty disposition.* [Zoological Anecdotes.]

A Man killed by a Lion.

Under the reign of Augustus, king of Poland and elector of Saxony, a lion was kept in the menagerie at Dresden, between whom and his attendant such a good understanding subsisted, that the latter used not to lay the food which he brought to him before the grate, but carried it into his cage. Generally the man wore a green jacket; and a considerable time had elapsed, during which the lion had always appeared very friendly and grateful whenever he received a visit from him.

Once the keeper, having been to church to receive the sacrament, had put on a black coat, as is usual in that country upon such occasions, and he still wore it when he gave the lion his dinner. The unusual appearance of the black coat excited the lion's rage; he leapt at his keeper, and struck his claws into his shoulder. The man spoke to him gently, when the well-known tone of his voice brought the lion in some degree to recollection. Doubt appeared expressed in his terrific features; however, he did not quit his hold. An alarm was raised: the wife and children ran to the place with shrieks of terror. Soon some grenadiers of the guard arrived, and offered to shoot the animal, as there seemed, in this critical moment, to be no other means of extricating the man from him; but the keeper, who was attached to the lion, begged them not to do it, as he hoped he should be able to extricate himself at a less expense. For nearly a quarter of an hour, he capitualted with his enraged friend, who still would not let go his hold, but shook his mane, lashed his sides with his tail, and rolled his fiery eyes. At length the man felt himself unable to sustain the weight of the lion, and yet any serious effort to extricate himself would have been at the immediate hazard of his life. He therefore desired the grenadiers to fire, which they did through the grate, and killed the lion on the spot; but in the same moment, perhaps only by a convulsive dying grasp, he squeezed the keeper between his powerful claws with such force, that he broke his arms, ribs, and spine; and they both fell down dead together.* [Zoological Anecdotes.]

A Woman killed by a Lion.

In the beginning of the last century, there was in the menagerie at Cassel, a lion that showed an astonishing degree of tameness towards the woman that had the care of him. This went so far, that the woman, in order to amuse the company that came to see the animal, would often rashly place not only her hand, but even her head, between his tremendous jaws. She had frequently performed this experiment without suffering any injury; but having once introduced her head into the lion's mouth, the animal made a sudden snap, and killed her on the spot. Undoubtedly, this catastrophe was unintentional on the part of the lion; for probably at the fatal moment the air of the woman's head irritated the lion's throat, and compelled him to sneeze or cough; at least, this supposition seems to be confirmed by what followed: for as soon as the lion perceived that he had killed his attendant, the good-tempered, grateful animal exhibited signs of the deepest melancholy, laid himself down by the side of the dead body, which he would not suffer to be taken from him, refused to take any food, and in a few days pined himself to death.† [Ibid.]

The Lions in the Tower.

Lions, with other beasts of prey and curious animals presented to the king of England, are committed to the Tower on their arrival, there to remain in the custody of a keeper especially appointed to that office by letters patent; he has apartments for himself, with an allowance of sixpence a day, and further sixpence a day for every lion and leopard. Maitland says the office was usually filled by some person of distinction and quality, and he instances the appointment of Robert Marsfield, Esq., in the reign of king Henry VI.* [Maitland's London, edt. 1772. i. 171.] It appears from the patent rolls, that in 1382, Richard II. appointed John Evesham, one of his valets, keeper of the lions, and one of the valets-at-arms in the Tower of London, during pleasure. His predecessor was Robert Bowyer.† [Gent. Mag.] Maitland supposes lions and leopards to have been the only beasts kept there for many ages, except a white bear and an elephant in the reign of Henry III. That monarch, on the 26th of February, 1256, honoured the sheriff of London with the following precept:—"The King to the Sheriffs of London, greeting: We command you, that of the farm of our city ye cause, without delay, to be built at our Tower of London one house of forty feet long, and twenty feet deep, for our Elephant." Next year, on the 11th of October, the king in like manner commanded the sheriffs "to find for the said Elephant and his keeper such necessaries as should be reasonable needful." He had previously ordered them to allow fourpence a day for keeping the white bear and his keeper; and the sheriffs were royally favoured with an injunction to provide a muzzle and an iron chain to hold the bear out of the water, and also a long and strong cord to hold him while he washed himself in the Thames.

Stow relates, that James I., on a visit to the lion and lioness in the Tower, caused a live lamb to be put into them; but they refused to harm it, although the lamb in its innocence went close to them. An anecdote equally striking was related to the editor of the Every-Day Book by an individual whose friend, a few years ago, saw a young calf thrust into the den of a lion abroad. The calf walked to the lion, and rubbed itself against him as he lay; the lion looked, but did not move; the calf, by thrusting its nose under the side of the lion, indicated a desire to suck, and the lion then slowly rose and walked away, from mere disinclination to be interfered with, but without the least expression of resentment, although the calf continued to follow him.

On the 13th of August, 1731, a litter of young lions was whelped in the Tower, from a lioness and lion whelped there six years before. In the Gentleman's Magazine for February, 1739, there is an engraving of Marco, a lion then in the Tower.

On the 6th of April, 1775, a lion was landed at the Tower, as a present to his late majesty from Senegal. He was taken in the woods, out of a snare, by a private soldier, who, being attacked by two natives that had laid it, killed them both, and brought away the lion. The king ordered his discharge for this act, and further rewarded him by a pension of fifty pounds a year for life. On this fact, related in the Gentleman's Magazine for that year, a correspondent inquires of Mr. Urban whether "a lion's whelp is an equivalent for the lives of two human creatures." To this question, reiterated by another, it is answered in the same volume, with rectitude of principle and feeling, that "if the fact be true, the person who recommended the soldier to his majesty's notice, must have considered the action in a military light only, and must totally have overlooked the criminality of it in a moral sense. The killing two innocent fellow-creatures, unprovoked, only to rob them of the fruits of their ingenuity, can never surely be accounted meritorious in one who calls himself a christian. If it is not meritorious, but contrary, the murderer was a very improper object to be recommended as worthy to be rewarded by a humane and christian king." This settled the question, and the subject was not revived.


Because the inundation of the Nile happened during the progress of the sun in Leo, the ancients caused the water of their fountains to issue from the mouth of a lion's head, sculptured in stone. The circumstance is pleasant to notice at this season; a few remarks will be made on fountains by-and-bye.

The Lion's Head, at Button's coffee-house, is well remembered in litrary annals. It was a carving with an orifice at the mouth, through which communications for the "Guardian" were thrown. Button had been a servant in the countess of Warwick's family, and by the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south side of Russell-street, about two doors from Covent-garden, where the wits of that day used to assemble. Addison studied all the morning, dined at a tavern, and afterwards went to Button's. "The Lion's Head" was inscribed with two lines from Martial:—

Cervantur magnis isti Cervicibus ungues:
Non nisi delecta pascitur ille fera.

This has been translated in the Gentleman's Magazine thus:—

Bring here nice morceaus; be it understood
The lion vindicates his choicest food.

Button's "Lion's Head" was afterwards preserved at the Shakspeare Tavern, where it was sold by auction on the 8th of November, 1804, to Mr. Richardson of the Grand Hotel, the indefatigable collector and possessor of an immense mass of materials for the history of St. Paul, Covent-garden, the parish wherein he resides. The late duke of Norfolk was his ineffectual competitor at the sale: the noble peer suffered the spirited commoner to gain the prize for 17l. 10s. Subsequently the duke frequently dined at Mr. Richardson's, whom he courted in vain to relinquish the gem. Mr. R. had the head with its inscription handsomely engraved for his "great seal," from which he has caused delicate impressions to be presented in oak-boxes, to a few whom it has pleased him so to gratify; and among them the editor of the Every-Day Book, who thus acknowledges the acceptable civility.

In the London Magazine the "Lion's Head," fronts each number, greeting its correspondents, and others who expect announcements, with "short affable roars," and inviting "communications" from all "who may have committed a particularly good action, or a particularly bad one—or said or written any thing very clever, or very stupid, during the month." By too literal a construction of this comprehensive invitation, some got into the "head," who, not having reach enough for the "body" of the magazine, were happy to get out with a slight scratch, and others remain without daring to say "their souls are their own"—to the re-reformation of themselves, and as examples to others contemplating like offences. The "Lion" of the "London" is of delicate scent, and shows high masterhood in the great forest of literature.

St. Anne.

Her name, which in Hebrew signifies gracious, is in the church of England calendar and almanacs on this day, which is kept as a great holiday by the Romish church.

The history of St. Anne is an old fiction. It pretends that she and her husband Joachim were Jews of substance, and lived twenty years without issue, when the high priest, on Joachim making his offerings in the temple, at the feast of the dedication, asked him why he, who had no children, presumed to appear among those who had; adding, that his offerings were not acceptable to God, who had judged him unworthy to have children, nor, until he had, would his offerings be accepted. Joachim retired, and bewailed his reproach among his shepherds in the pastures without returning home, lest his neighbours also should reproach him. The story relates that, in this state, an angel appeared to him and consoled him, by assuring him that he should have a daughter, who should be called Mary, and for a sign he declared that Joachim on arriving at the Golden Gate of Jerusalem should there meet his wife Anne, who being very much troubled that he had not returned sooner, should rejoice to see him. Afterwards the angel appeared to Anne, who was equally disconsolate, and comforted her by a promise to the same effect, and assured her by a like token, namely, that at the Golden Gate she should meet her husband for whose safety she had been so much concerned. Accordingly both of them left the places where they were, and met each other at the Golden Gate, and rejoiced at each others' vision, and returned thanks, and lived in cheerful expectation that the promise would be fulfilled.

The meeting between St. Anne and St. Joachim at the Golden Gate was a favourite subject among catholic painters, and there are many prints of it. From one of them in the "Salisbury Missal," (1534 fo. xix) the annexed engraving is copied. The curious reader will find notices of others in a volume on the "Ancient Mysteries," by the editor of the Every-Day Book. The wood engraving in the "Missal" is improperly placed there to illustrate the meeting between the Virgin Mary and Elizabeth.

Meeting of St. Anne and St. Joachim


It is further pretended, that the result of the angel's communication to Joachim and Anne was the miraculous birth of the Virgin Mary, and that she was afterwards dedicated by Anne to the service of the temple, where she remained till the time of her espousal by Joseph.

In the Romish breviary of Sarum there are forms of prayer to St. Anne, which show how extraordinarily highly these stories placed her. One of them is thus translated by bishop Patrick:* [Patrick's Devot. of Rom. Church.]

"O vessel of celestial grace,
  Blest mother to the virgins' queen,
By thee we beg, in the first place,
  Remission of all former sin.

"Great mother, always keep in mind
  The power thou hast, by thy sweet daughter,
And, by thy wonted prayer, let's find
  God's grace procur'd to us hereafter."

Another, after high commendations to St. Anne, concludes thus:—

"Therefore, still asking, we remain,
  And thy unwearied suitors are,
That, what thou canst, thou wouldst obtain,
  And give us heaven by thy prayer.
Do thou appease the daughter, thou didst bear,
She her own son, and thou thy grandson dear."

The nuns of St. Anne at Rome show a rude silver ring as the wedding-ring of Anne and Joachim; both ring and story are ingenious fabrications. There are of course plenty of her relics and miracles from the same sources. They are further noticed in the work on the "Mysteries" referred to before.


A young, and not unknown correspondent of the Every-Day Book, has had a holiday—his first holiday since he came to London, and settled down into an every-day occupation of every hour of his time. He seems until now not to have known that the environs of London abound in natural as well as artifical beauties. What he has seen will be productive of this advantage; it will induce residents in London, who never saw Dulwich, to pay it a visit, and see all that he saw. Messrs. Colnaghi and Son, of Pall-mall East, Mr. Clay of Ludgate-hill, or any other respectable printseller, will supply an applicant with a ticket of admission for a party, to see the noble gallery of pictures there. These tickets are gratuitous, and a summer holiday may be delightfully spent by viewing the paintings, and walking in the pleasant places adjacent: the pictures will be agreeable topics for conversation during the stroll.


To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

      My dear Sir,
The kind and benevolent feelings which you are so wont to discover, and the sparkling good-humour and sympathy which characterize your Every-Day Book, encourage me to describe to you "My holiday!" I approach you with familiarity, being well known as your constant reader. You also know me to be a provincial cockney—a transplant. Oh! why then do you so often paint nature in her enchanting loveliness? What cruelty! You know my destiny is foreign to my desires: I cannot now seek the shade of a retired grove, carelessly throw myself on the bank of a "babbling brook," there muse and angle, as I was wont to do, and, as my old friend Izaak Walton bade me,—

      "watch the sun to rise and set,
There meditate my time away,
And beg to have a quiet passage to a welcome grave."

But, I have had a holiday! The desk was forsaken for eight-and-forty hours! Think of that! I have experienced what Leigh Hunt desires every christian to experience—that there is a green and gay world, as well as a brick and mortar one. Months previous was the spot fixed upon which was to receive my choice, happy spirit. Dulwich was the place. It was an easy distance from town; moreover, it was a "rustic" spot; moreover, it had a picture-gallery; in a word, it was just the sort of place for me. The happy morning dawned, I could say with Horace, with the like feelings of enraptured delight—

"Insanire juvat. Sparge rosas."

Such was the disposition of my mind.

We met (for I was accompanied) at that general rendezvous for carts, stages, waggons, and sociables, the Elephant and Castle. There were the honest, valiant, laughter-loving J—; the pensive, kindly-hearted G—; and the sanguine, romantic, speculative M—. A conveyance was soon sought. It was a square, covered vehicle, set on two wheels, drawn by one horse, which was a noble creature, creditable to its humane master, who has my best wishes, as I presume he will never have cause to answer under Mr. Martin's Act. Thus equipaged and curtained in, we merrily trotted by the Montpelier Gardens, and soon overtook the "Fox-under-the-Hill." To this "Fox" I was an entire stranger, having never hunted in the part of the country before. The beautiful hill which brought us to the heights of Camberwell being gained, we sharply turned to the left, which gave us the view of Dulwich and its adjoining domains in the distance. Oh, ecstacy of thought! Gentle hills, dark valleys, far-spreading groves, luxuriant corn-fields, magnificent prospects, then sparkled before me. The rich carpet of nature decked with Flora's choicest flowers, and wafting perfumes of odoriferous herbs floating on the breezes, expanded and made my heart replete with joy. What kind-heartedness then beamed in our countenances! We talked, and joked, and prattled; and so fast did our transports impulse, that to expect an answer to one of my eager inquiries as to "who lives here or there?" was out of the question. Our hearts were redolent of joy. It was our holiday!

By the side of the neat, grassy, picturesque burying-ground we alighted, in front of Dulwich-college. Now for the picture-gallery. Some demur took place as to the safety of the "ticket." After a few moments' intense anxiety, it appeared. How important was that square bit of card!—it was the key to our hopes—"Admit Mr. R— and friends to view the Bourgeois Gallery." We entered by the gate which conducts into the clean, neat, and well-paved courtyard contiguous to the gallery. In the lodge, which is situate at the end of this paved footpath, you see a comely, urbane personage. With a polite bend of the head, and a gentle smile of good-nature on his countenance on the production of the "ticket," he bids you welcome. The small folding doors on your right hand are then opened, and this magnificent gallery is before you. This collection is extremely rich in the works of the old masters, particularly Poussin, Teniers, Vandyke, Claude, Rubens, Cuype, Murillo, Velasquez, Annibal Caracci, Vandervelt, Vanderwerf, and Vanhuysem. Here I luxuriated. With my catalogue in hand, and the eye steadily fixed upon the subject, I gazed, and although neither connoisseur nor student, felt that calmness, devotion, and serenity of soul, which the admiration of either the works of a poet, or the "sweet harmony" of sound, or form, alone work upon my heart. I love nature, and here she was imitated in her simplest and truest colourings. The gallery, or rather the five elegant rooms, are well designed, and the pictures admirably arranged. We entered by a door about midway in the gallery, on the left. and were particularly pleased with the mausoleum. The design is clever and ingenious, and highly creditable to the talents of Mr. Soane. Here lie sir Francis Bourgeois, and Mr. and Mrs. Desefans, surrounded by these exquisite pictures. The masterly painting of the Death of Cardinal Beaufort is observed nearly over this entrance-door. But, time hastens—and after noticing yonder picture which hangs at the farther extremity of the gallery, I will retire. It is the Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, by Annibal Caracci. Upon this sublime painting I could meditate away an age. It is full of power, of real feeling and poetry. Mark that countenance—the uplifted eye "with holy fervour bright!"—the resignation, calmness, and holy serenity, which speak of truth and magnanimity, contrasted with the physical sufferings and agonies of a horrid death. I was lost—my mind was slumbering on this ocean of sublimity!

The lover of rural sights will return from Dulwich-college by the retired footpath that strikes off to the right by the "cage" and "stocks" opposite the burying-ground. On ascending the verdant hill which leads to Camberwell Grove, the rising objects that gradually open to the view are most beautifully picturesque and enchanting. We reached the summit of the Five Fields:—

"Heav'ns! what a goodly prospect spread around
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams."

This is a fairy region. The ravished eye glances from villa to grove, turret, pleasure-ground, hill, dale; and "figured streams in waves of silver" roll. Here are seen Norwood, Shooter's-hill, Seven Droog Castle, Peckham, Walworth, Greenwich, Deptford, and bounding the horizon, the vast gloom of Epping Forest. What a holiday! What a feast for the mind, the eye, and the heart! A few paces from us we suddenly discerned a humble, aged wintry object, sitting as if in mockery of the golden sunbeam which played across his furrowed cheek. The philanthropy of the good and gentle Elia inspired our hearts on viewing this "dim speck," this monument of days gone by. Love is charity, and it was charitable thus to love. The good old patriarch asked not, but received alms with humility and gratitude. His poverty was honourable: his character was noble and elevated in lowliness. He gracelessly doffed his many-coloured cap in thanks (for hat he had none), and the snowy locks floating on the breeze rendered him an object as interesting as he was venerable. Could we have made all sad hearts gay, we should but have realized the essayings of our souls. Our imaginings were of gladness and of joy. It was our holiday!

Now, my holiday is past! Hope, like a glimmering star, appears to me through the dark waves of time, and is ominous of future days like these. We are now "at home," homely in use as occupation. I am hugging the desk, and calculating. I can now only request others who have leisure and opportunity to take a "holiday," and make it a "holiday" similar to this. Health will be improved, the heart delighted, and the mind strengthened. The grovelling sensualist, who sees pleasure only in confusion, never can know pleasures comparable with these. There is a moral to every circumstance of life. One may be traced in the events of "My holiday!"

I am, dear Sir,
Yours very truly,
S. R.


To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

The subjoined table for foretelling weather, appears strictly within the plan of the Every-Day Book, for who that purposes out-door recreation, would not seize the probability of fixing on a fine day for the purpose; or what agriculturist would decline information that I venture to affirm may be relied on? It is copied from the Rev. Dr. Adam Clarke. (See the "Wesleyan Methodist Magazine," New Series, vol. iii., p. 457, 458.) Believing that it will be gratifying and useful to your readers,

I am, &c.,
O. F. S.

Doctors Commons.


Through all the Lunations of each Year for ever.

This table and the accompanying remarks are the result of many years' actual observation; the whole being constructed on a due consideration of the attraction of the sun and moon in their several positions respecting the earth; and will, by simple inspection, show the observer what kind of weather will most probably follow the entrance of the moon into any of her quarters, and that so near the truth is to be seldom found to fail.

Weather Prognosticator chart


1. The nearer the time of the moon's change, first quarter, full, and last quarter, is to midnight, the fairer will the weather be during the seven days following.

2. The space for this calculation occupies from ten at night till two next morning.

3. The nearer to mid-day or noon these phases of the moon happen, the more foul or wet the weather may be expected during the next seven days.

4. The space for this calculation occupies from ten in the forenoon to two in the afternoon. These observations refer principally to summer, though they affect spring and autumn nearly in the same ratio.

5. The moon's change—first quarter—full—and last quarter, happening during six of the afternoon hours, i. e. from four to ten, may be followed by fair weather: but this is mostly dependent on the wind, as it is noted in the table.

6. Though the weather, from a variety of irregular causes, is more uncertain in the latter part of autumn, the whole of winter, and the beginning of spring; yet, in the main, the above observations will apply to those periods also.

The Editor's Visits to Claude Ambroise Seurat.

The Editor's Visits to Claude Ambroise Seurat,



Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee.


I have visited CLAUDE AMBROISE SEURAT. Some would call him unhappy or a miserable creature; he is neither unhappy nor miserable. "God tempers the wind to the shorn limb."

How little do they see what is, who frame
Their hasty judgment upon that which seems.


If Seurat had not seen men of firmer make, he would not know that the infirmity peculiar to himself is unnatural. Were he dressed like other persons, there is nothing in his countenance or speech to denote him different from themselves; and yet the difference is so great, that it is wonderful that he should "live, and move, and have his being."

The "Interesting Account and Anatomical Description" of this extraordinary individual, sold at the Chinese Saloon, where he is exhibited, is to the following effect:—

Claude Abroise Seurat was born at Troyes, in the department of Champaigne, on the 10th of April, 1797, and is now therefore twenty-eight years of age. His parents were respectable, but poor, and neither of them presented any deformity, or uncommon appearance; on the contrary, they are stated to have enjoyed robust health. The child on coming into the world, presented the customary baby form, but in proportion as the infant grew, the frame gradually wasted away, and so continued to decrease until the attainment of its full stature, which occurred at the usual term of life, at which period Claude had attained his present height, while his frame had dwindled to the skeleton form which it now so decidedly presents.

In France, where he ate very little of any animal food, a penny French roll was enough for a day's sustenance; but as he now partakes of a small quantity of animal diet, his bread is reduced accordingly.

As regards his feeding, those dishes which afford most nourishment satisfy him the quickest; and two or three ounces a day are quite sufficient.

In France he was accustomed to drink the wine of his country; but in England he partakes of wines greatly diluted with water, finding the liquors here so much stronger, as the Champaigne he usually drank was what is denominated vin de pays, or small wine, of which there is none in this country. In eating, he masticates his victuals very much, taking small pieces, as the passage to the stomach would not admit of any great repletion, and in drinking the same precaution is required, otherwise suffocation would ensue. His digestion is extremely good, and the consequent functions of nature are regularly performed.

It is a singular fact, that such is the extreme sensitiveness of this almost nondescript, or sport of nature, that when touched on the left side with the finger, the surface of the body, to a certain extent, is observed to manifest its sympathy, by an involuntary chill, which contracts the pores, and produces that roughness of the surface vulgarly known by the denomination of goose's skin. In raising either of his feet from the floor, the limb appears to be distended uselessly from the knee, and we cannot better illustrate the idea than by that sensation we commonly experience upon allowing a limb to remain too long in one position, thereby causing a temporary strangualtion of the vessels, known by the common term of the foot being asleep.

Previous to the arrival of Seurat in England, the French physicians who had inspected him, gave it as their opinion, that his lungs were placed in a different position to that usually occupied in the human frame.

Since his arrival, sir Astley Cooper, by whom he has been visited, finds that his heart is placed so much out of the common region allotted to it, that it is precisely its own length lower than if properly placed.

Many attempts were made to have Claude Ambroise Seurat presented to the French king; but the father conceiving that he might be consigned to some wretched asylum, there to subsist upon a miserable pension, uniformly objected to it. From the statements made by the father, it appears that the French gentlemen of the faculty, who visited his son, handling him roughly, and pinching him every direction, the son refused to see them at all afterwards, and thus imbibed such a distaste for his professional countrymen, that he determined not to show himself to them any more. In consequence, the Parisian Ecole de Medicine has never been made acquainted with his existence.

Many proposals made to the father for the purchase of the body of his son, Claude Ambroise Seurat, in the event of his demise, were uniformly rejected. A medical gentleman particularly, in Burgundy, offered a carte blanche, which the parent, with feelings highly honourable to himself, refused, stating his determination, that in the event of his son's demise, he should be peaceably consigned to the cemetery of his native city. While at Rouen, no less than one thousand five hundred persons flocked in one day to see Seurat on his road to England.

The health of this singular being has been very good. His respiration is somewhat confined, being the necessary result of a contraction of the lungs; yet, upon the whole, he does not appear to be much inconvenienced on that account, in consequence of the little exercise he takes, and the quiescent state of the animal system.

The texture of the skin is of a dry, parchment-like appearance, which, covering any other human form, would not answer the purpsoes of its functions, but seems calculated alone to cover the slender, juiceless body of the being arrayed with it.

The ribs are not only capable of being distinguished, but may be clearly separated and counted one by one, and handled like so many pieces of cane; and, together with the skin which covers them, resemble more the hoops and outer covering of s small balloon, than any thing in the ordinary course of nature.

If any thing can exceed the unearthly appearance displayed by this wonderful phenomenon, it is that taken by profile; which, from the projection of the shoulder, pursuing the same down through the extreme hollow of the back, and then following the line to the front of the hip, nearly forms a figure of 3. In the front appears the unnatural projection of the chest, from the falling in of the abdomen; the prominence of the left side of the body, in consequence of the position of the heart; and the sudden protrusion of the posteriors.

The action produced by the effort of the lungs does not proceed from the chest, as in ordinary cases, but from the lower extremity of the abdomen, as though the organs of respiration, from excessive laxity, had absolutely descended from their propoer sphere, and that by a tenacious effort of nature, unwilling to yield possession of her functions, they had accommodated themselves, by time, to such an unnatural and incredible a position.

Seurat is presented to view in a state of nudity, save a mere covering of several inches deep round the loins, through which are cut large holes to admit the hip bones to pass through, for the purpose of keeping it in its place. His general appearance is that of a person almost entirely devoid of muscular substance, and conveys to the mind the idea of a being composed of bones, cellular substance and skin only on. It is true, the appearances of the face, neck, fore-arm, and calves of the legs, may, in some measure, form exceptions to this general assertion, since in these situations there is something like flesh.

His height is about five feet seven inches and a half. The length of his extremities proportionate to the height of his body. His head is small rather than otherwise. The cranium, (or skull,) at the back part, over the occipital protuberance above the neck, is much flattened; the cervical organs in this situation being very sparely developed. In other respects the skull is tolerably well formed. Seurat's countenance is by no means displeasing; for though the cheek-bones are prominent, the cheeks themselves sunk, and the other features of the face plain, still there is a placid and contemplative expression, which indicates the presence of a serene and thoughtful mind, claiming for itself from the spectators, feelings of pity and regret.

The neck, on being examined from before, appears short, flat, and broad. The shortness is principally owing to his inability to hold the face properly elevated, in consequence of which the chin drops down, and conceals the upper part of the neck. The flatness depends on the little muscular and cellular substance present, and on the great breadth of the neck, which takes from its natural rotundity. This great breadth is caused by the peculiar form and situation of the scapulæ, (or shoulder-blade,) the upper angles of which, instead of laying on the posterior portions of the uppermost ribs, are turned over the shoulder, and pass so far forward as nearly to reach the middle of the clavicles, (the collar-bones,) where their situation may be easily seen from before. Of course, the muscles called levatores scapulæ, which arise from the upper vertebræ of the neck, and usually pass downwards, and a very little outwards, in this case, pass very much outwards, in a direction towards the shoulder-joint, and extend the neck considerably in a lateral direction. These muscles, from their size and turgidity, have the appearance of bones in Seurat.

The larynx, as far as can be judged of from an external examination, is well formed, and that protuberance of the thysoir cartilage called pomum adami, or the apple of the thorat, is prominent.

The formation of the upper extremities and chest, is one of the most remarkable features of this man. The left scapula is higher than the right; both are remarkably prominent; so much so, that, when viewed sideways, there appears to be a large tumour underneath the skin, over the lower angle: this arises from the great projection of the lower angle itself from the ribs. It has been already stated, that the upper angle is placed unusually forwards, and at the bottom of the neck, from this point, the scapula proceeds backwards, and, to permit its closer application to the upper and back part of the chest, its concave surface is remarkably curved, but still not sufficiently so to prevent the lower angle from projecting in an unseemly manner. This arrangement of the component parts of the scapula and its muscles, interferes very much with the freedom of its movements, particularly the rotatory ones, which in other subjects are so varied.

Seurat can raise his hands and arms from his side, in a lateral direction, to a position nearly horizontal. He cannot, however, pass them far forwards, when thus elevated. He can throw the scapula backwards, so as to make them almost meet at their lower ends; nevertheless, he is unable to lift his hands to his mouth, so as to feed himself in the ordinary way. When eating, he places his elbow on the table before him, then, by raising his hand, thus supported, and passing his head downwards, so as to meet it half way as it were, he is able to put his food into his mouth.

The humerus, or bone of the arm, from the elbow to the shoulder, appears quite destitute of muscle, and as if it consisted of bone, skin, vessels, and cellular membrane only. It may be remarked, however, that at that part where the biceps muscle is generally, there is a trifling fulness, probably caused by a few fibres of that muscle.

The piner, the bone of the arm from the elbow to the wrist, seems at the elbow joint considerably enlarged, but, in fact, it is only of its natural dimensions. The muscles of the fore-arm, though small, may, nevertheless, be distinctly traced. The hands are perfect in appearance. Seurat, however, cannot straighten his fingers, but keeps them in a semi-bent position; with this exception, he can use them freely.

The trunk is singularly shaped. Viewed from the front, the chest is not particularly narrow; it measures, from one shoulder to the other, across the sternum, or breast-bone, sixteen inches. The sternum is much flattened, as though it had been driven inwards, towards the dorsal vertebra, or back-bone. In well-formed people, the sternum is a little convex, externally, and concave, internally, permitting all possible room for the thoraic viscera. In Seurat, however, this order of things is changed, the outer surface of the breast-bone being concave, and the internal convex. It is pushed so far inwards, as scarcely to leave more than one and a half inches, or two inches between itself and the opposite vertebræ.

This position of the sternum, and of the ribs, may probably afford an explanation of the causes which produce a slight impediment to his swallowing with despatch, of such morsels as are not cut very small; and of the unnatural situation of the heart, which, instead of being placed behind the 3d, 4th, and 5th ribs, is observed pulsating very low down behind the 7th, 8th, and 9th, rigs, in the situation of the left hypochondrium. The five or six lower ribs, called false or floating ribs, are rounder, and approach nearer to nature in their form, thereby affording sufficient space for the heart, stomach, and liver, and some other of the abdominal viscera. It is conceived, that without this freer sweep of the lower ribs, life could not have been maintained, so much would the functions of the heart, and chylopretic viscera have been interrupted. The false ribs descend very low down, on each side, there being scarcely one and a half inch between them and the crist of the ileum. The pelvis is capacious, and on its front aspect presents nothing very extraordinary.

There is an appearance of the abdomen, which must not be passed over. When looking at it, one might almost suppose that it consisted of two cavities, an upper and a lower one, so much is this poor fellow contracted round the loins. The following admeasurement may afford some idea of this circumstance:—

Circumference of the chest, directly under the armpits . 2 ft. 6 3/4 in.
Circumference lower down, opposite the second false rib . 2 ft. 2 in.
Circumference round the loins . 1 ft. 9 in.
Circumference round the pelvis . 2 ft. 3 1/2 in.

The muscles of the sides of the pelvis, partake of the general wasting, in consequence of which the trochantes stand out from the glenon cavities in the same gaunt manner that they do in the true skeleton, being covered by integuments alone. The thighs are imperfect in bulk, and the knees, like the elbows, appear enlarged. The calves of the legs seem to have more firm good muscle, than any other part of the body, particularly that of the right leg, which is much more fleshy than the left. The feet are well formed; a trifling overlapping of the toes is probably accidental.

The examination of the back part of Seurat's body corresponds with the front, as far as the general leanness goes. The occiput is flat, the neck broad; the scapula projecting, the spine crooked; some of the lower cervical vertebræ are curved backwards, and there is a curve towards the right side, formed by some of the lower dorsal vertebra. All the bony points of the back part of the body are so prominent that every individual bone may be distinctly traced by the eye, even at a considerable distance.

On first beholding Seurat, a person might almost imagine that he saw before him, one returned from "that bourne whence no traveller returns:" the first impressions over, he begins to wonder how so frail a being exists, and is surprised, that all those functions, necessary for the continuance of his own life, are regularly and effectively performed. He eats, drinks, and sleeps—the progress of digestion, as carried on throughout the alimentary canal, is regularly executed. The secretions of the liver, kidnies, and skin are separated from the blood, in such quantities as may be deemed necessary for the economy of his frame. His heart performs its office regularly, and sends the blood to the various parts of the body, in due proportions. He can bear the effects of heat and cold, like other people, accustomed to lead a sedentary life, and does not need unusual clothes. His mind is better constituted, perhaps, than that of many a man, better formed in body. He comprehends quickly, and his memory is good. He has learnt to read and write his own language, and is now anxious to become acquainted with ours.

Such is Claude Ambroise Seurat, who may mustly be considered as a most extraordinary lusus naturæ,—an object calculated to throw much a useful light on many interesting questions of the highest importance, towards the advancement of anatomical study.

So far from having any disinclination to being exhibited in this country, Claude Ambroise Seurat has repeatedly urged his wish to gratify the strong desire of the public, to view him without loss of time; and hearing that one of the journals had expressed some harshness concerning his exhibition, he indited and signed the following letter

To the Editor.

Having learned that in an article in your journal, the motives and conduct of the persons who brought me to England are severely alluded to, it is my duty, both to them and to the public, to declare, that so far from experiencing any thing disagreeable, either in having been conducted hither or at being exposed, I feel great satisfaction not only in the change of my situation, but also at the bounties with which I have been loaded by the individuals who protect me. Far from having "been brought from the tranquillity of my native village," I was wandering about in France, and making but little by the exposure of my person, when I so fortunately met my present protectors, whose liberality will shortly render me sufficiently independent to unable [sic] me to return and live at my ease in my native country. In only beg leave to add, that my present situation is more happy than I ever yet enjoyed during my whole life, and is entirely conformable to my desires.

I have the honour to be, Sir, your most humble servant,


Aug. 4, 1825.

This, with what follows, will give a tolerably adequate idea of this singular being, both as to his form and mind.

I have paid two visits to Seurat. His public exhibition takes place in a room in Pall-mall called the "Chinese Saloon;" its sides are decorated with Chinese paper; Chinese lanterns are hung from lines crossing from wall to wall. In front of a large recess, on one side, is a circular gauze canopy over a platform covered with crimson cloth, raised about eighteen inches from the floor, and enclosed by a light brass railing; the recess is enclosed by a light curtain depending from the cornice to the floor of the platform, and opening in the middle. A slight motion within intimates that the object of attraction is about to appear; the curtain opens a little on each side, and Seurat comes forth, as he is represented in the first engraving, with no other covering than a small piece of fringed purple silk, supported round the middle by a red band, with a slit like pocket holes, to allow the hip-bones to pass through on each side. On the finger of the left hand, next to the middle one, he wears a plain gold ring. An artist who accompanied me at each visit, for the purpose of making the drawings here engraved, has well represented him. The portraits, both front and profile, are better resemblances than any that exist, and the anatomy of his figure more correct.

It is justly remarked, that "the title of 'Living Skeleton' does not seem exactly to be well applied to this strange production of nature, and may, perhaps, create some disappointment; because the curiosity, as it really exists, lies far less in the degree of attenuation which Seurat's frame exhibits, than in the fact that, with a frame so reduced, a human being should be still in possession of most of his functions, and enjoying a reasonable quantity of health. As regards the exhibition of bone, for instance, there is not so much as may frequently be found (in the dead subject) in cases where persons have died of lingering consumption. The parchment-like aspect attributed to the skin too seems to have been a little overstated; and, in fact, most medical men who served in the late war, will recollect instances enough, where men of five feet eight inches high, dying from dysentery, or intermittent fever, have weighed considerably less than 78lbs., which is the weight of Seurat. The real novelty, therefore, should be looked for, not in the degree to which this man's body is wasted and exhausted, but in the fact that such a degree of decay should be compatible and the possession of some degree of strength and spirits. This decay does not seem to have operated equally upon all parts of the figure: it shows most strikingly in the appearance of the neck and trunk; the upper arms, from the shoulder to the elbow, and the thigh. The upper part of the arm is not quite destitute of flesh; but so small, that it may be spanned with ease by a very moderate fore-finger and thumb. The thighs are wasted very much—little remains upon them beyond the skin. The cap of the knee, which is large, and protrudes considerably, is of a reddish colour, unlike the aspect of the flesh or skin in general. The trunk, from the shoulder to the hip, has the appearance, more than any thing else, of a large bellows, a mere bag of hoops covered with leather, through which the pulsation of the heart is distinctly visible. On the thicker part of the fore-arm there is flesh, white in appearance, though of a soft and unhealthy character; and the division of the two bones, the ulna and the radius, may be detected by feeling. Upon the calves of the legs, again, there is some show of substance, and one is larger than the other. But the most curious circumstance, perhaps, in the man's condition is, that while his whole body exhibits these extraordinary appearances of decay, his face (which is decidedly French, and not unpleasant,) displays no signs of attentuation whatever, and scarcely any sympton of disease or weakness." [Times.]

It was on the first day of Seurat's exhibition that I first visited him; this was on Tuesday, the 9th of August, 1825; a day the present sheet of the Every-Day Book has not yet reached; I have been anxious to be before the day and the public, as regards Seurat, and it is therefore, as to him, anticipated. I was at the "Chinese Saloon" before the doors were opened, and was the first of the public admitted, followed by my friend, the artist. Seurat was not quite ready to appear; in the mean time, another visitor or two arrived, and after examining the canopy, and other arrangements, my attention was directed to the Chinese papering of the room, while Seurat had silently opened the curtains that concealed him, and stood motionless towards the front of the platform, as he is represented in the engraving. On turning round, I was instantly rivetted by his amazing emaciation; he seemed another "Lazarus, come forth" without his grave-clothes, and for a moment I was too consternated to observe more than his general appearance. My eye, then, first caught the arm as the most remarkable limb; from the shoulder to the elbow it is like an ivory German flute somewhat deepened in colour by age; it is not larger, and the skin is of that hue, and, not having a trace of muscle, it is as perfect a cylinder as a writing rule. Amazed by the wasted limbs, I was still more amazed by the extraordinary depression of the chest. Its indentation is similar to that which an over-careful mother makes in the pillowed surface of an infant's bed for its repose. Nature has here inverted her own order, and turned the convex inwards, while the nobler organs, obedient to her will, maintain life by the gentle exercise of their wonted functions in a lower region. Below the ribs, which are well described in the accounts already given, the trunk so immediately curves in, that the red band of the silk-covering, though it is only loosely placed, seems a trouniquet to constrict the bowels within their prison house, and the hip-bones, being of their natural size, the waist is like a wasp's. By this part of the frame we are reminded of some descriptions of the abstemious arid Bedouin Arab of the desert, in whom it is said the abdomen seems to cling to the vertebra. If the integument of the bowels can be called flesh, it is the only flesh on the body: for it seems to have wholly shrunk from the limbs; and where the muscles that have not wholly disappeared remain, they are also shrunk. He wears shoes to keep cold from his feet, which are not otherwise shaped than those of people who have been accustomed to wear tight shoes; his instep is good, and by no means so flat as in the generality of tavern waiters. His legs are not more ill-shaped than in extremely thin or much wasted persons; the right leg, which is somewhat larger than the left, is not less than were the legs of the late Mr. Suett, the comedian. On this point, without a private knowledge of Mr. Liston, I would publicly appeal to that gentleman, whom, on my second visit in the afternoon, I saw there, accompanied by Mr. Jones. Mr. Liston doubtless remembers Suett, and I think he will never forget Seurat, at whom he looked, "unutterable things," as if he had been about to say—"Prodigious!"

Seurat's head and body convey a sentiment of antithesis. When the sight is fixed on his face alone, there is nothing there to denote that he varies from other men. I examined him closely and frequently, felt him on different parts of the body, and, not speaking his language, put questions to him through others, which he readily answered. His head has been shaved, yet a little hair left on the upper part of the neck, shows it to be black, and he wears a wig of that colour. His strong black beard is perceptible, although clean shaved. His complexion is swarthy, and his features are good, without the emaciation of which his body partakes; the cheek-bones are high, and the eyes are dark brown, approaching to black. They are represented as heavy and dull, and to denote little mental capacity; but, perhaps, a watchful observer, who made pertinent inquiries of him in a proper manner, would remark otherwise. He usually inclines the head forward towards his breast, and therefore, and because he is elevated above the spectators, his eyes frequently assume a position wherein he might see, and "descant on his own deformity." His features are flexible, and therefore capable of great animation, and his forehead indicates capacity. Depression of the eyelid is by no means to be taken as a mark of dulness or inefficient intellect. One of our poets, I think Churchill, no incompetent judge of human nature, has a line concerning Genius "lowering on the penthouse of the eye." Seurat, on any other than a common-place question, elevates his head to an ordinary position, answers immediately and with precision, and discourses rationally and sensibly; more sensibly than some in the room, who put childish questions about him to the attendants, and express silly opinions as to his physical and mental structure and abilities, and call him "a shocking creature." There is nothing shocking either in his mind or his face. His countenance has an air of melancholy, but he expresses no feeling of the kind; it is not, however, so mournful as the engraving at the head of this article shows. The artist was timid, and in form and habit the reverse of Seurat; and as "like will to like," so through dislike to the life of the subject before him, he imagined more dolour in Seurat's face than it has; this could not be remedied by the engraver without hazarding the likeness, which is really good. Seurat's voice is pleasing, deep-toned, and gentle. Except for the privations to which his conformation constrains him, he is not an object of pity, and perhaps very little on that account. We meet many perfectly-formed beings in daily society whose abject indulgences or abject circumstances in life render them far more pitiable, and in a moral point of view, some of them are far more shocking. There is nothing in Seurat to disgust, as far as I could judge from what I saw or heard of him.

    Thou who despisest so debased a fate
    As in the pride of wisdom thou may'st call
    The much submissive Seurat's low estate,
    Look round the world, and see where over all
    Injurious passions hold mankind in thrall!—
    Behold the fraudful arts, the covert strife,
    The jarring interests that engross mankind;
    The low pursuits, the selfish aims of life;
    Studies that weary and contract the mind,
    That bring no joy, and leave no peace behind;—
And Death approaching to dissolve the spell!

Southey's Tale of Paraguay

Death is not contemplated by Seurat as near to him, and it is even probable that his "last event" is far off. The vital organs have wonderfully conformed themselves to his malformation, and where they are seated, perform their office uninterruptedly. The quantity of solid nutriment for the support of his feeble frame never exceeds four ounces a day. The pulsations of his heart are regular, and it has never palpitated; at the wrist, they are slow and equally regular. He has never been ill, nor taken medicine, except once, and then only a small quantity of manna. His skin is not more dry than the skin of many other living persons who abstain, as he does, from strong vinous or fermented liquors, and drink sparingly; it is not branny, but perfectly smooth; nor is it of a colour unnatural to a being who cannot sustain much exercise, who exists in health with very little, and therefore does not require more. The complexion of his body is that of a light Creole, or perhaps more similar to that of fine old ivory; it must be remembered, that his natural complexion is swarthy. What has been asserted elsewhere is perfectly true, that when dressed in padded clothes, he would not in any position be more remarkable than any other person, except that, among Englishmen, he would be taken for a foreigner. On the day before his public exhibition, he walked from the Gothic-hall in the Haymarket, to the Chinese Saloon in Pall-mall, arm-in-arm with the gentleman who brought him from France, and was wholly unrecognized and unnoticed.

Until ten years of age, Seurat was as healthy as other children, except that his chest was depressed, and he was much weaker; until that year he used to run about and play, and tumble down from feebleness. From that age his feebleness increased, and he grew rapidly until he was fourteen, when he attained his present stature, with further increase of weakness: he is not weaker now than he was then. His recreation is reading, and he is passionately fond of listening to music. He cannot stoop, but he can lift a weight of twelve pounds from a chair: of course, he displays no feats of any kind, and unless great care is taken, he may be injured by cold, and the fatigue of the exhibition. Of this, however, himself and his father, who is with him and who is a shrewd, sensible man, seem aware. He remains about ten minutes standing and walking before the company, and then withdraws between the curtains to seat himself, from observation in a blanketed arm-chair, till another company arrives. His limbs are well-proportioned; he is not at all knock-kneed, nor are his legs any way deformed.

Seurat is "shocking" to those who have never reflected on mortality, and think him nearer to the grave than themselves. Perhaps he is only so in apperance. The orderly operation of the vital principle within him for the last thirteen or fourteen years, may continue to the ordinary duration of human life. Every one of his spectators is "encompassed in a ghostly frame," and exemplifies as much as Seurat, the scriptural remark, that "in the midst of life we are in death:" it is not further from us for not thinking on it, nor is it nearer to us because it is under our eyes[.]

Seurat's Positions when exhibiting himself.

Seurat's Positions when exhibiting himself.

Seurat's existence is peculiar to himself; he is unlike any being every heard of, and no other like him may ever live. But if he is alone in the world, and to himself useless, he may not be without his use to others. His condition, and the privations whereby he holds his tenure of existence, are eloquent to a mind reflecting on the few real wants of mankind, and the advantages derivable from abstinent and temperate habits. Had he been born a little higher in society, his mental improvement might have advanced with his corporeal incapacity, and instead of being shown as a phenomenon, he might have flourished as a sage. No man has been great who has not subdued his passions; real greatness has insisted on this as essential to happiness, and artificial greatness shrunk from it. When Paul "reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come, Felix trembled." Seurat's appearance seems an admonition from the grave to "think on these things."

July 27.

St. Pantaleon, A.D. 303. Sts. Maximian, Malchus, Martinian, Dionysius, John, Serapion, and Constantine, the Seven Sleepers, A.D. 250. St. Congail. St. Lucia[.]


These saints, according to Alban Butler, were Ephesians, who for their faith, under Decius, in 250, were walled up together in a cove, wherein they had hid themselves, till they were found, in 479; and hence, he says, "some moderns have imagined that they only lay asleep till they were found." He designates them in his title, however, as having been "commonly called the seven sleepers;" and we shall see presently who his "moderns" are. He adds, that "the cave wherein their bodies were found, became famous for devout pilgrimages, and is still shown to travellers, as James Spon testifies."

The miraculous story of the seven sleepers relates, that they remained in the cave till the heresy that "denyed the resurreccyon of deed bodyes" under Theodotian, when a "burges" of Ephesus causing a stable to be made in the mountain, the masons opened the cave, "and then these holy sayntes that were within awoke and were reysed," and they saluted each other, and they "supposed veryley that they had slepte but one nyght onely," instead of two hundred and twenty-nine years. Being hungry, Malchus, one of themselves, was deputed to go to Ephesus and buy bread for the rest; "and then Malchus toke V shillynges, and yssued out of the cave." He marvelled when he saw the mason's work outside, and when he came to one of the gates of Ephesus he was "all doubtous," for he saw the sign of the cross on the gate; then he went to another gate, and found another cross; and he found crosses on all the gates; and he supposed himself in a dream; but he comforted himself, and at last he entered the city, and found the city also was "garnysshed" with the cross. Then he went to the "sellers of breed," and when he showed his money, they were surprised, and said one to another, that "this yonge man" had found some old treasure; and when Malchus saw them talk together, he was afraid lest they should take him before the emperor, and prayed them to let him go, and keep both the money and the bread; but they asked who he was for they were sure he had found a treasure of the "olde emperours," and they told him if he would inform them they would divide it, "and kepe it secret." But Malchus was so terrified he could not speak; then they tied a cord round his neck, and drove him through the middle of the city; and it was told that he had found an ancient treasure, and "all the cite assembled aboute hym;" and he denied the charge, and when he beheld the people he knew no man there; and he supposed they were carrying him before the emperor Decius, but they carried him to the church before St. Martin and Antipater, the consul; and the bishop looked at the money, and marvelled at it, and demanded where he had found the hidden treasure; and he answered, that he had not found it, that it was his own, and that he had it of his kinsmen. Then the judge said his kinsmen must come and answer for him; and he named them, but none knew them; and they deemed that he had told them untruly, and the judge said, how can we believe that thou hadst this money of thy friends, when we read "that it is more than CC.lxxii. yere syth it was made," in the time of Decius, the emperor, how can it have come to thee, who art so young, from kinsmen so long ago; thou wouldst deceive the wise men of Ephesus: I demand therefore, that thou confess whence thou hadst this money. Then Malchus kneeled down, and demanded where was Decius, the emperor; and they told him there was no such emperor then in the world; whereat Malchus said he was greatly confused that no man believed he spoke the truth, yet true it was that he and his fellows saw him yesterday in that city of Ephesus. Then the bishop told the judge that this young man was in a heavenly vision, and commanded Malchus to follow him, and to show him his companions. And they went forth, and a great multitude of the city with them towards the cave; and Malchus entered first into the cave, and the bishop next, "and there founde they amonge the stones the lettres sealed with two seales of syluer," and then the bishop read them before all the people; and they all marvelled, "and they sawe the sayntes syttynge in the caue, and theyr visages lyke unto roses flouryng." And the bishop sent for the emperor to come and see the marvels. And the emperor came from Constantinople to Ephesus, and ascended the mountain; and as soon as the saints saw the emperor come, "their vysages shone like to the sonne," and the emperor embraced them. And they demanded of the emperor that he would believe the resurrection of the body, for to that end had they been raised; and then they gave up the ghost, and the emperor arose and fell on them weeping, "and embraced them, and kyssed them debonayrly." And he commanded precious sepulchres of gold and silver to bury their bodies therein. But the same night they appeared to the emperor, and demanded of him to let their bodies lie on the earth, as they had lain before, till the general resurrection; and the emperor obeyed, and caused the place to be adorned with precious stones. And all the bishops that believed in the resurrection were absolved.* [Golden Legend.]

In the breviary of the church of Salisbury, there is a prayer for the 27th of July, beseeching the benefit of the resurrection through the prayers of the seven sleepers, who proclaimed the eternal resurrection. Bishop Patrick,† [In his "Reflections on the Devotions of the Romish Church."] who gives us the prayer, says, "To show the reader in what great care the heads of the Romish church had in those days of men's souls, how well they instructed them, and by what fine stories their devotions were then conducted, I cannot but translate the history of these seven sleepers, as I find it in the Salisbury breviary; which, if it had been designed to entertain youth as the history of the Seven Champions, might have deserved a less severe censure; but this was read in the church to the people, as chapters are out of the bible, and divided into so many lessons." He then gives the story of the seven sleepers as it stands in the breviary, and adds, that there was no heresy about the resurrection in the days of Theodotian, and that if any had a mind to see the ground of their prayer in the breviary, and the "stuff" of the legend of the seven sleepers, they might consult "Baronius's notes upon the Roman Martyrology, July 27."

It appears then, that the ecclesiastics of the church of Salisbury were among the "moderns" of Alban Butler, "who imagined" of the seven sleepers as related in the legend, and so imagining, taught the "stuff," as bishop Patrick calls it, to their flocks. Yet Alban Butler weeps over the Reformation, which swept the "imaginations" of his "moderns" away, and he would fain bring us back to the religion of the imaginers.


Purple Loosestrife. Lythrum Salicaria.
Dedicated to St. Pantaleon.

July 28.

Sts. Nazarius and Celsus, A.D. 68. St. Victor, Pope, A.D. 201. St. Innocent I. Pope, A.D. 417. St. Sampson, A.D. 564.

Musical Prodigies.

There is at present in Berlin, a boy, between four and five years old, who has manifested an extraordinary precocity of musical talent. Carl Anton Florian Eckert, the son of a sergeant in the second regiment of Fencible Guards, was born on the 7th of December, 1820. While in the cradle, the predilection of this remarkable child for music was striking, and passages in a minor key affected him so much as to make tears come in his eyes. When about a year and a quarter old, he listened to his father playing the air "Schone Minka" with one hand, on an old harpsichord: he immediately played it with both hands, employing the knuckles in aid of his short and feeble fingers. He continued afterwards to play every thing by the ear. He retains whatever he hears in the memory, and can tell at once whether an instrument is too high or too low for concert pitch. It was soon observed that his ear was sufficiently delicate to enable him to name any note or chord which might be struck without his seeing it. He also transposes with the greatest facility into any key he pleases, and executes pieces of fancy extempore. A subscription has been opened to buy him a pianoforte, as he has got tired of the old harpsichord, and two able musicians have undertaken to instruct him.* [The Parthenon, a new musical work typolithographied, notices this precocious musician on the authority of the German papers.]

Eckert was pre-rivalled in England by the late Mr. Charles Wesley, the son of the rev. Charles Wesley, and nephew to the late rev. John Wesley, the founder of the religious body denominated methodists. The musical genius of Charles Wesley was observed when he was not quite three years old; he then surprised his father by playing a tune on the harpsichord readily, and in just time. Soon afterwards he played several others. Whatever his mother sang, or whatever he heard in the streets, he could, without difficulty, make out upon this instrument. Almost from his birth his mother used to quiet and amuse him with the harpsichord. On these occasions, he would not suffer her to play only with one hand, but, even before he could speak, would seize hold of the other, and put it upon the keys. When he played by himself, she used to tie him by his back-string to the chair, in order to prevent his falling. Even at this age, he always put a true bass to every tune he played. From the beginning he played without study or hesitation. Whenever, as was frequently the case, he was asked to play before a stranger, he would invariably inquire in a phrase of his own, "Is he a musiker?" and if he was answered in the affirmative, he always did with the greatest readiness. His style on all occasions was con spirito; and there was something in his manner so much beyond what could be expected from a child, that his hearers, learned or unlearned, were invariably astonished and delighted.

When he was four years old, Mr. Wesley took him to London; and Beard, who was the first musical man who heard him there, was so much pleased with his abilities, that he kindly offered his interest with Dr. Boyce to get him admitted among the king's boys. This, however, his father declined, as he then had no thoughts of bringing him up to the profession of music. He was also introduced among others to Stanley and Worgan. The latter in particular, was extremely kind to him, and would frequently entertain him by playing on the harpsichord. The child was greatly struck by his bold and full manner of playing, and seemed even then to catch a spark of his fire. Mr. Wesley soon afterwards returned with him to Bristol; and when he was about six years old, he was put under the tuition of Rooke, a very good-natured man, but of no great eminence, who allowed him to run on ad libitum, whilst he sat by apparently more to observe than to control him. Rogers, at that time the oldest organist in Bristol, was one of his first friends. He would often sit him on his knee, and make the boy play to him, declaring, that he was more delighted in hearing him then himself. For some years his study and practice were almost entirely confined to the works of Corelli, Scarlatti, and Handel; and so rapid was his progress, that, at the age of twelve or thirteen, it was thought that no person was able to excel him in performing the compositions of these masters. He was instructed on the harpsichord by Kelway, and in the rules of composition by Dr. Boyce. His first work, "A Set of Six Concertos for the Organ or Harpsichord," published under the immediate inspection of that master, as a first attempt, was a wonderful production; it contained fugues which would have done credit to a professor of the greatest experience and the first eminence. His performance on the organ, and particularly his extempore playing on that sublime instrument, was the admiration and delight of all his auditors.

The present Mr. Samuel Wesley, brother of the preceding, and born in 1766, also gave a very early indication of musical genius. When only three years of age, he could play on the organ; and, when eight years old, attempted to compose an oratorio. Some of the airs which he wrote for the organ were shown to Dr. Boyce, and occasioned the doctor to say, "This boy unites, by nature, as true a bass as I can do by rule and study." Mr. Wesley's compositions are in the highest degree masterly and grand; and his extempore performance of fugues on the organ astonishing. He produces from that solemn instrument all the grand and serious graces of which it is capable. His melodies, though struck out on the instant, are sweet and varied, and never common-place; his harmony is appropriate, and follows them with all the exactness and discrimination of the most studious master; his execution, which is very great, is always sacrficed to the superior charms of expression.* [These anecdotes of the present Mr. Samuel Wesley and his deceased brother, Charles, are from the "Biographical Dictionary of Musicians," a work before quoted, and praised as a most pleasant book.]

To this be it added, that the intellectual endowments of Mr. Samuel Wesley equal his musical talents, and that the amiable and benevolent qualities of his nature add lustre to his acquirements. He is a man of genius without pretension, and a good man without guile.


Mountain Groundsel. Senecio montanus.
Dedicated to St. Innocent.

July 29.

St. Martha V. Sts. Simplicius and Faustinus, brothers, and Beatrice, their sister, A.D. 303. St. William, Bp. A.D. 1234. St. Olaus, or Olave, king of Norway, A.D. 1030. St. Olaus, kind of Sweden.

Water in Warm Weather.


Fountains and Pumps.

By the process of boring, springs may be reached more expeditiously and economically than by the old method of well digging. The expense of boring from one to two hundred feet deep is little more than one-fourth of digging, seventy feet is less than a fourth, thirty feet is less than a fifth, and from ten to twenty feet is is not so much as a sixth. In 1821, the water for the fountain at Tottenham High Cross, represented in the engraving, was obtained by boring to a depth of one hundred and five feet, at the expense of the parish, for public accommodation. The water rises six feet above the surface, and flowing over a vase at the top of the column into a basin, as represented in the engraving, it pours from beneath. The boring for this spring and the fountain were suggested by Mr. Mathew, who first obtained water in Tottenham, by that method, and introduced the practice there. The pillar was designed by Messrs. Mathew and Chaplin, and executed by Mr. Turner of Dorset-street, Fleet-street, the well known manufacturer of the cast iron pumps; and not to withhold from him any of "his blushing honours," be it noted that he was till lately a common-councilman of the ward of Farringdon Without, where he still maintains his reputation as a "cunning workman in iron," and his good name as a good pump-maker, and as a worthy and repectable man. Public spirit should rise to the height of giving him, and others of the worshipful company of pump-makers, more orders. Many places are sadly deficient of pumps for raising spring-water where it is most wanted. Every body cries out for it in hot weather, but in cool weather they all forget their former want; and hot weather comes again and they call out for it again in vain, and again forget to put up a public pump. At Pentonville, a place abounding in springs, and formerly abounding in conduits, all the conduits are destroyed, and the pumps there, in the midst of that healthy and largely growing suburb, during the hot days of July, 1825, were not equal to supply a tenth of the demand for water; they were mostly dry and chained up during the half of each day without notice, and persons who came perhaps a mile, went back with empty vessels. So it was in other neighbourhoods. Well may we acount for ill. Mischievous liquors sold, in large quantities, at some places, for soda water and ginger beer were drank to the great comfort of the unprincipled manufacturers, the great discomfort of the consumers' bowels, and the great gain of the apothecary.

Were the doings in the New River during the summer, or one half of the wholesale nuisances permitted in the Thames described, the inhabitants of London would give up their tea-kettles. Health requires that these practices should be abated, and, above all, a good supply of spring-water. The water from pumps and fountains would not only adorn our public streets and squares, but cool the heated atmosphere, by the surplus water being diverted into the gutters and open channels. Besides, if we are to have dogs, and a beast-market in the heart of the metropolis, the poor overheated animals might by such means slake their thirst from pure and refreshing streams. The condition wherein sheep and cattle are driven for many miles before they reach the metropolis, is a disgrace to the appellation assumed by men who see the cruelty, and have power to remedy it; "a merciful man is merciful to his beast," and he is not a really merciful man who is not merciful to his neighbours' beasts.

May these wants be quickly supplied. Give us spring water in summer; and no more let

"Maids with bottles cry aloud for pumps."

London has but one fountain; it is in the Temple: you pass it on the way from Essex-street, or "the Grecian" to Garden-court. It is in the space at the bottom of the first flight of stone steps, within the railings enclosing a small, and sometimes "smooth shaven green," the middle whereof it adorns, surrounded, not too thickly, by goodly trees and pleasant shrubs. The jet proceeds from a copper pipe in the middle of a stone-edged basin, and rises to its full hieght of at least nine feet, if water from the cock by the hall with which it communicates is not drawing; when that process is going on the jet droops, and seems dying away till the drawing ceases, and then the "Temple Fountain" goes up again "famously."

There was a fountain in the great square of Lincolns Inn, but it had ceased to play "in my time." I only remember the column itself standing there

"For ornament, not use,"

with its four boys blowing through shells.

In the Kent-road, on the left hand from the Elephant and Castle towards the Bricklayers Arms, there is a fountain in a piece of water opposite a recently built terrace. A kneeling figure, the size of life, blows water through a shell; it is well conceived, and would be a good ornament were it kept clean and relieved by trees.

A "professional" gentleman who to the "delightful task" of improving country residences by laying out grounds in beautiful forms, has added the less "cheerful labour" of embodying others' theories and practice in an "Encyclopædia of Gardening," views a fountain as an essential decoration where the "ancient" style of landscape is introduced in any degree of perfection.* [Mr. Loudon's "Encyclopædia of Gardening," a book of practical and curious facts, with hundreds of interesting engravings, is a most useful volume to any one who has a garden, or wishes to form one.] As the first requisite, he directs attention to the obtaining a sufficiently elevated source or reservoir of supply for the jets, or projected spouts, or threads of water. Some are contrived to throw the water in the form of sheaves, fans, and showers, or to support balls; others to throw it horizontally or in curved lines, but the most usual form is a simple opening to throw the jet or spout upright. Mr. L. judiciously rejects a jet from a naked tube falling from the middle of a basin or canal on a smooth surface as unnatural, without being artificially grand. Grandeur was the aim of the "ancient" gardener, and hence he made a garden "after nature," look as a garden of nature never did look. Mr. L. suggests that "the grandest jet of any is a prependicular column, issuing from a rocky base on which the water falling produces a double effect both of sound and visual display.

In the "Century of Inventions of the Marquis of Worcester," explained and illustrated by Mr. Partington, there is mention by the marquis of "an artificial fountain, to be turned like an hour glass by a child, in the twinkling of an eye, it yet holding great quantities of water, and of force sufficient to make snow, ice, and thunder, with the chirping and singing of birds, and showing of several shapes and effects usual to fountains of pleasure." Mr. Partington observes on this, that "how a fountain of water can produce snow, ice, thunder, and the singing of birds, is not easy to comprehend."

Sir Henry Wotton discoursing on architecture remarks thus:—"Fountains are figured, or only plain watered works; of either of which I will describe a matchless pattern. The first, done by the famous hand of Michael Angelo da Buonaroti, is the figure of a sturdy woman, washing and winding linen clothes; in which act she wrings out the water that made the fountain; which was a graceful and natural conceit in the artificer, implying this rule, that all designs of this kind should be proper.* [Any one possessing a figure of this fountain designed by Michael Angelo, and probably seen by Wotton during his travels in Italy, will much oblige the editor by lending it to him for the purpose of being copied and inserted in the Every-Day Book.] The other doth merit some larger expression: there went a long, straight, mossie walk of competent breadth, green and soft under foot, listed on both sides with an aqueduct of white stone, breast-high, which had a hollow channel on the top, where ran a pretty trickling stream; on the edge whereof were couched very thick, all along, certain small pipes of lead, in little holes; so neatly, that they could not be well perceived, till by the turning of a cock, they did sprout over interchangeably, from side to side, above man's height, in forms of arches, without any intersection or meeting aloft, because the pipes were not exactly opposite; so as the beholder, besides that which was fluent in the aqueduct on both hands in his view, did walk as it were under a continual bower and hemisphere of water, without any drop falling on him; an invention for refreshment, surely far excelling all the Alexandrian delicacies, and pnuematicks of Hero."* [Reliq. Wotton.] An invention of greater solace could not have been desired in the canicular days, by those who sought shelter from the heat; nor more coveted by any than by him, who is constrained to supply the "every-day" demand of "warm" friends for this little work—no "cool" task!


Red Chironia. Chironia Centaureum.
Dedicated to St. Martha.

July 30.

Sts. Abden and Sennen, A.D. 250. St. Julitta, A.D. 303.


On Tuesday, the 30th of July, 1751, Thomas Colley, William Humbles, and Charles Young, otherwise Lee, otherwise Red Beard, were tried at Hertford for the murder of Ruth Osborne, by drowning her in a pond at Marlston-green, in the parish of Tring. The trial is exceedingly curious. It appeared that William Dell, the town crier of Hamel-Hempstead, on the 18th of April preceding, was desired by one Nichols, who gave him a piece of paper and fourpence, to cry the words at the market-place that were wrote thereon, which he accordingly did. The paper was as follows:—"This is to give notice, that on Monday next, a man and woman are to be publicly ducked at Tring, in the county, for their wicked crimes."

Matthew Baron, the overseer of Tring, on hearing that this had been cried at Winslow, Leighton-Buzzard, and Hamel-Hempstead, in order to prevent the outrage, and believing them to be very honest people, sent them into the workhouse. On the Monday, a large mob of 5,000 people and more, assembled at Tring; but Jonathan Tomkins, master of the workhouse, in the middle of the night, had removed them into the vestry-room adjoining the church. The mob rushed in and ransacked the workhouse, and all the closets, boxes, and trunks; they pulled down a wall, and also pulled out the windows and window-frames. Some of the mob perceiving straw near at hand said, let us get the straw, and set fire to the house, and burn it down. Some cried out and swore, that they would not only burn the workhouse down, but the whole town of Tring to ashes. Tomkins being apprehensive that they would do so told them where the two unhappy people were, they immediately went to the vestry-room, broke it open, and took the two people away in great triumph.

John Holmes deposed, that the man and woman were separately tied up in a cloth or sheet; that a rope was tied under the arm-pits of the deceased, and two men dragged her into the pond; that the men were one on one side of the pond, and the other on the other; and they dragged her sheer through the pond several times; and that Colley, having a stick in his hand, went into the pond, and turned the deceased up and down several times.

John Humphries deposed, that Colley turned her over and over several times with the stick; that after the mob had ducked her several times, they brought her to the shore, and set her by the pond side, and then dragged the old man in and ducked him; that after they had brought him to shore, and set him by the pond side, they dragged the deceased in a second time; and that Colley went again into the pond, and turned and pushed the deceased about with his stick as before; that then she being brought to shore again, the man was also a second time dragged in, and underwent the same discipline as he had before; and being brought to shore, the deceased was a third time dragged into the pond; that Colley went into the pond again, and took hold of the cloth or sheet in which she was wrapt, and pulled her up and down the pond till the same came from off her, and then she appeared naked; that then Colley pushed her on the breast with his stick, which she endeavoured with her left hand to catch hold of, but he pulled it away, and that was the last time life was in her. He also deposed, that after Colley came out of the pond, he went round among the people who were the spectators of this tragedy, and collected money of them as a reward for the great pains he had taken in showing them sport in ducking the old witch, as he then called the deceased.

The jury found the prisoner Colley—guilty.

The reporter of the trial states, from the mouth of John Osborne, the following particulars not deposed to in court, namely: that as soon as the mob entered the vestry-room, they seized him and his wife, and Red Beard carried her across his shoulders, like a calf, upwards of two miles, to a place called Gubblecut; where not finding a pond they thought convenient, they then carried them to Marlston-green, and put them into separate rooms in a house there; that they there stripped him naked, and crossed his legs and arms, and bent his body so, that his right thumb came down to his right great toe, and his left thumb to his left great toe, and then tied each thumb and great toe together; that after they had so done, they got a cloth, or an old sheet, and wrapped round him, and then carried him to the Mere on the green, where he underwent the discipline as has been related in the course of the trial. What they did with his wife he could not say, but he supposed they had stripped her, and tied her in the same manner as himself, as she appeared naked in the pond when the sheet was drawn from off her, and her thumbs and toes tied as his were. After the mob found the woman was dead, they carried him to a house, and put him into a bed, and laid his dead wife by his side; all which he said he was insensible of, having been so ill-used in the pond, as not to have any sense of the world for some time; but that he was well assured it was soon, a number of people since informing him of it who were present. His wife, if she had lived till Michaelmas, would have been seventy years of age; he himself was but fifty-six.

The infatuation of the people in those parts of Hertfordshire was so great, in thinking that these people were a witch and a vizard, that when any cattle died, it was always said that Osborne and his deceased wife had bewitched them. And even after the trial, a great number of people in that part of the country thought the man a vizard, and that he could cast up pins as fast as he pleased. Though a stout able man of his age, and ready and willing to work, yet none of the farmers thereabouts would employ him, ridiculously believing him to be a vizard, so that the parish of Tring were obliged to support him in their workhouse after his wife's death.

So far is reported by the editor of the trial.

On the 24th of August, 1751, Colley was hung at Gubblecut-cross, and afterwards in chains. Multitudes would not be spectators of his death; yet "many thousands stood at a distance to see him die, muttering that it was a hard case to hang a man for destroying an old wicked that had done so much mischief by her withcraft." [sic] Yet Colley himself had signed a public declaration the day before, wherein he affirmed his conviction as a dying man, that there was no such a thing as a witch, and prayed that the "good people" might refrain from thinking that they had any right to persecute a fellow-creature, as he had done, through a vain imagination, and under the influence of liquor: he acknowledged his cruelty, and the justice of his sentence.* [Gent. Mag. xxi. 378.]

The pond wherein this poor creature lost her life was in mud and water together not quite two feet and a half in depth, and yet her not sinking was deemed "confirmation strong as proof of holy writ" that she was a witch. Ignorance is mental blindness.


White Mullen. Verbuscum Lychnitis.
Dedicated to St. Julitta.

July 31.

St. Ignatius, of Loyola, A.D. 1556. St. John Columbini, A.D. 1367. St. Helen, of Sweden, A.D. 1160.

St. Ignatius Loyola—founder of the Jesuits.

St. Ignatius Loyola—founder of the Jesuits.

Ignatius was born in 1495, in the castle of Loyola in Guipuscoa, a part of Biscay adjoining the Pyrenees. In his childhood he was pregnant of wit, discreet above his years, affable and obliging, with a choleric disposition, and an ardent passion for glory. Bred in the court of Ferdinand V., under the duke of Najara, his kinsman and patron, as page to the king, he was introduced into the army, wherein he signalized himself by dexterous talent, personal courage, addiction to licentious vices and pleasures, and a taste for poetry; he at that time composed a poem in praise of St. Peter. In 1521, he served in the garrison of Pampeluna, against the French who besieged it: in resisting an attack, he mounted the breach sword-in-hand; a piece of stone struck off by a cannon ball from the ramparts bruised his left leg, while the ball in its rebound broke his right.* [Butler's Saints.]

Dr. Southey in a note to his recently published "Tale of Paraguay," cites the Jesuit Ribadeneira's account of this accident to Ignatius from his life of him in the "Actæ Sanctorum," where it is somewhat more at length than in the English edition of Ribadeneira's "Lives of the Saints," which states that St. Peter appeared to Ignatius on the eve of his feast, with a sweet and gracious aspect, and said that he was come to cure him. "With this visitation of the holy apostle," says Ribadeneira, "Ignatius grew much better, and not long after recovered his perfect health: but, as he was a spruce young gallant, desirous to appear in the most neat and comely fashion, he caused the end of a bone which stuck out under his knee, and did somewhat disfigure his leg, to be cut off, that so his boot might sit more handsomely, as he himself told me, thinking it to be against his honour that such a deformity should be in his leg: nor would he be bound while the bone was sawed off." Father Bonhours, also a Jesuit, and another biograher of Ignatius, says, that one of his thighs having shrunk from the wound, lest lameness should appear in his gait, he put himself for many days together upon a kind of rack, and with an engine of iron violently stretched and drew out his leg, yet he could never extend it, and ever after his right leg remained shorter than his left.

———When long care
Restored his shattered leg and set him free,
He would not brook a slight deformity,
As one who being gay and debonair,
In courts conspicuous, as in camps must be:
So he forsooth a shapely boot must wear;
And the vain man, with peril to his life,
Laid the recovered limb again beneath the knife.

Long time upon the bed of pain he lay
Whiling with books the weary hours away.
And from that circumstance, and this vain man,
A train of long events their course began,
Whose term it is not given us yet to see.
Who hath not heard Loyola's sainted name,
Before whom kings and nations bow'd the knee?

Tale of Paraguay.

Ribadeneira says, that one night while Ignatius kept his bed and was praying, a great noise shook all the chamber and broke the windows, and the Virgin Mary appeared to him "when he was awake, with her precious Son in her arms;" in consequence of this vision he resolved to embrace a life wherein he might afflict his body. For this purpose, he determined to go a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and bought a cassock of coarse canvass for a coat, a pair of country buskins, a bottle, and a pilgrim's staff; he gave his horse to the monastery of our blessed lady at Montserrat; hung up his sword and dagger at our lady's altar; and having spent the night of Lady-day, 1522, at the said altar, departed to institute the Society of Jesus, in his canvass coat, girded with his cord, walking with his pilgrim's staff bare-headed: he would have gone bare-footed but he was forced to wear one shoe on the foot of the broken leg. Thus he went,

"One shoe off,
And t'other shoe on

till he came to the hospital of St. Lucy at Manresa, where he lived by begging among the poor, and exhausting his body, not paring his nails, letting the hair of his head and beard both grow, and never using a comb; sleeping on a board or the bare ground; passing the greater part of the night in watching, praying, and weeping; scourging himself three times a day, and spending seven hours upon his knees. Ribadeneira says, "he was so set upon curbing, and taming, and mortifying his flesh, that he allowed it no manner of ease or content, but was continually persecuting it, so that in a very short time from a strong lusty man, he became weak and infirm." In 1523, he was so feeble and weak that he could hardly set one leg before the other; where the night overtook him, whether in the fields or high-road, there he lay; till at last, as well as he could, often falling and rising again, he made a shift to reach Rome, on Palm Sunday, where he "made the holy stations," and visited the churches, and after remaining there fifteen days, begged his way from door to door to Venice, afterwards went to Cyprus, and arrived at Jerusalem on the 4th of September. He returned from thence in the depth of winter, through frost and snow, with scarcely clothes to cover him, and arriving at Cyprus, wanted to ship himself on board a Venetian man of war, but the captain disliking his appearance said, if he was a saint, as he said he was, he might securely walk upon the water not fear to be drowned. Ignatius, however, did not take the hint and set sail upon his coat or a millstone, as other saints are said to have done, but embarked in "a little paltry vessel, quite rotten and worm-eaten," which carried him to Venice in January, 1524. On his way from thence to Genoa, he was taken by the Spaniards who thought him a spy, and afterwards thought him a fool; when he got to Spain, at thirty-three years of age, he began to learn grammar, fasted as he did before, cut off the soles of his shoes that he might walk barefoot, and cut down a man that had hanged himself, who, through his prayers "returned to life." At Paris, in 1528, he thought fit to perfect himself in the Latin tongue, and "humanity;" then, also, he studied philosophy and divinity, and made journies into Flanders and England to beg alms of the spanish merchants, wherewith he got together a fraternity under the name of the Fathers of the Society of Jesus, whom he persuaded John III. of Portugal to send to the East Indies as missionaries. He afterwards increased the number, and retired with two of his order for forty days into a ruined and desolate hermitage without doors or windows, open on all sides to wind and rain, where they slept on the ground on a little straw, and lived by begging hard mouldy crusts, which they were obliged to steep in water before they could eat: they then went to Rome on foot, begging all the way. Before entereing that city, Ignatius going into an old church alone, had, according to Ribadeneira's account, a celestial interview of a nature that cannot be here described without violence to the feelings of the reader. After the removal of certain difficulties, the pope confirmed the order of the Jesuits, and Ignatius was unanimously elected its general. He entered upon his dignity by taking upon himself the office of cook, and doing other menial services about the house, "which he executed," says Ribadeneira, "with that readiness and desire of contempt, that he seemed a novice employed therein for his profit and mortification: all this I myself can testify, who at that time being a youth, was a scholar and brother in the society, and every day repeated St. Ignatius's catechism. Our blessed father St. Ignatius general of the society fifteen years, three months, and nine days, from the 22d of April in the year 1541, until the last of July, 1556, when he departed this world."

Ribadeneira largely diffuses on the austerities of Ignatius, in going almost naked, suffering hunger and cold, self-inflictions with a whip, hair-cloth, "and all manner of mortifications that he could invent to afflict and subdue his body." He accounts among his virtues, that Ignatius lived in hospitals like a poor man, amongst the meanest sort of people, being despised and contemned, and desirous to be so: his desire was to be mocked and laughed at by all, and if he would have permitted himself to be carried on by the fervour of his mind, he would have gone up and down the streets almost naked, and like a fool, that the boys of the town might have made sport with him, and thrown dirt upon him. He had a singular gift of tears which he shed most abundantly at his prayers, to the great comfort of his spirit and no less damage to his body, but at length, because the doctors told him so continual an effusion did impair his health, he prayed for command over his tears, and afterweards he could shed or repress his tears as he pleased.

It is especially insisted on by Ribadeneira, that "Ignatius had a strange dominion and command over the devils, who abhorred and persecuted him as their greatest enemy. Whilst he was in his rigorous course of penance at Manresa, Satan often appeared to him in a shining and glistening form, but he discovered the enemy's fraud and deceit. Several other times, the devil appeared to him in some ugly and foul shape, which he was so little terrified with, that he would comtemptibly drive him away with his staff, like a cat, or some troublesome cur. He laboured all he could one day to terrify him, whilst he lived at Alcala, in the hospital, but he lost his labour. At Rome, he would have choked him in his sleep, and he was so hoarse, and his throat so sore, with the violence the devil offered him, that he could hardly speak for a fortnight after. another time whilst he was in his bed, two devils fell upon him, and whipped him most cruelly, and brother John Paul Castelan, who lay nigh him, and afterwards told it me, heard the blows, and rose up twice that night to help him." In the year 1545, the college of the society (of Jesuits) which we have at our blessed Lady's of Loretto, was first begun, and the devils presently began to make war against our fathers in that college, and to molest and disquiet them both by day and by night, making amost terrible clatter and noise, and appearing in sundry shapes and forms, sometimes of a blackamoor, then of a cat and bear, and other beasts, and neither by saying holy mass, praying, sprinkling holy water, using exorcisms, applying relics of saints and the like, could they rid themselves of that molestation, wherefore St. Ignatius, by letters, recommended a firm and strong confidence, and that he on his part would not be wanting to recommend it in his prayers; and from that very hour, (a very remarkable thing,) all those troubles ceased, nor were there seen any more spirits. This happened whilst St. Ignatius was living." To this, Ribadeneira adds story upon story, of women and maids being tormented by devils, who were discomfited by the mere sight of Ignatius's picture, "which kept off all the blows and assaults of the ghostly enemy, yet so great was his malice and desire of doing mischief, that he fell furiously upon the chamber walls, and cupboards, chests, coffers, and whatsoever else was in the room, beating upon them with horible strokes, though he never touched any box wherein was kept a picture of the saint." He affirms, that the like happened in the year 1599, to a schoolmaster of Ancona:—"These damned spirits," says Ribadeneira, "opened the doors of his house when they were locked, and shut them when they were left open, swept the chambers, made the beds, lighted the lamps, and then on a sudden put all into disorder and confusion, and removed things from one room into another; but when the good man had hung up a picture of our blessed father in his house, all was quiet within doors, yet a most terrible tumult there was without, for they flung to and fro the doors and windows, and beat as it were, the drum round about his house till he put more pictures of the saint upon the doors, and several parts of the house, when the molestation wholly ceased." Of the numerous devilries raised and abolished by the saint's holiness, these specimens may suffice.

To so distinguished and efficient a member of the Romish Church, as Ignatius, the gift of prophecy is, of course, awarded, and the power of working miracles, of necessity, follows; accordingly we find instances of the, "too numerous to mention in this particular." It is to be expected that his relics were equally miraculous, and hence Ribadeneira's account is seasoned sufficiently high, for the most discriminating palate of the most miracle-loving epicure. Water wherein a bit of a bone of Ignatius's body had been dipped, cured the sick at the hospital at Burgos. The letters he wrote were preserved as relics for miraculous purposes; and a later saint carried the autograph of Ignatius about him as a relic. If one of Ignatius's autographs be coveted in England, it may probably be discovered in the reliquary of Mr. Upcott at the London Institution.

Enough has certainly been said of St. Ignatius Loyola; yet less space could hardly have been devoted to the founder of the celebrated order of the Jesuits, a body which perforates and vermiculates through every part of the civilized world wherein the Romish religion predominates, or has ever prevailed. Concerning the present state of an order, composed of men of talent under a vow of poverty; devoted to the papacy, and possessing more wealth than any other catholic fraternity; wearing or not wearing a habit to distinguish them from ordinary citizens in catholic and protestant countries, as may suit their private purposes; prowling unknown, and secretly operating; there can be little gathered, and therefore little to communicate. The coexistence of a free government and a free press is a sure and safe defence from all their machinations.

One circumstance, however, related by all the biographers of Ignatius, must not be forgotten. It stands in Ribadeneira's life of him thus: "As he was sitting one day upon the steps of St. Dominick's church, and reading our blessed lady's office with much devotion, our Lord on a sudden illustrated his understanding, and represented to him a figure of the most blessed trinity, which exteriourly expressed to him what interiourly God gave him to understand. This caused in him so great comfort and spiritual joy, that he could not restrain his sobs and tears, nor speak of any thing but this holy mystery, delivering the high conceit he had of it with so many similitues and examples, that all who heard him were amazed and astonished, and from that time forward, this ineffable mystery was so imprinted in his soul, that he writ a book of this profound matter which contained fourscore leaves, though at that time he had never studied, and could but only read and write; and he always retained so clear and distinct a knowledge of the trinity of persons, of the divine essence, and of the distinction and propriety of the persons, that he noted in a treatise which was found after his death, written in his own hand, that he could not have learnt so much with many years' study." This pretended revelation with figments equally edifying has employed the pencil of the painter. Rubens has left a well-known picture representing Ignatius in his rapture. From a fine print of it, by Bolswert, the engraving at the head of this article has been taken; the picture is in the collection at Warwick Castle.


Great Mullen. Verbuscum Virgatum.
Dedicated to St. Ignatius.