1.3.1. Will Wimble.

On the second of July, 1741, died at Dublin, Mr. Thomas Morecroft, ‘a baronet's son, the person mentioned by the 'Spectator' in the character of Will Wimble.’

This notice is from the "Gentleman's Magazine" for 1741, as also is the following: --

On the same day, in the same year, the earl of Halifax married Miss Dunck, with a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds. It appears that, ‘"according to the will of Mr. Dunck, this lady was to marry none but an honest tradesman, who was to take the name of Dunck; for which reason his lordship took the freedom of the sadlers' company, exercised the trade, and added the name to his own."’

1.3.3.

On the second day of July, 1744, is recorded the birth of a son to Mr. Arthur Bulkeley.

The child's baptism is remarkable from these circumstances. The infant's godfathers, by proxy, were Edward Downes, of Worth, in Cheshire, Esq. his great-great-great-great uncle; Dr. Ashton, master of Jesus-college, Cambridge, and his brother, Mr. Joseph Ashton, of Surrey-street, in the Strand, his great-great-great uncles. His godmothers by their proxies were, Mrs. Elizabeth Wood, of Barnsley, Yorkshire, his great-great-great-great aunt; Mrs. Jane Wainwright, of Middlewoodhall, Yorkshire, his great-great grandmother; and Mrs. Dorothy Green, of the same place, his great grandmother. It was observed of Mrs. Wainwright, who was then eighty-nine years of age, that she could properly say, "Rise, daughter, go to thy daughter; for thy daughter's daughter has a son."

Mrs. Wainwright was a sister to Dr. Ashton and his brother mentioned above, whose father and mother were twice married, ‘"first before a justice of peace by Cromwell's law, and afterwards, as it was common, by a parson; they lived sixty-four years together, and during the first fifty years in one house, at Bradway, in Derbyshire, where, though they had twelve children and six servants in family they never buried one."’

1.4.1. Dog days begin."ALL -- FOR A PENNY!"

On the third of July, 1751, William Dellicot was convicted at the quarter-sessions for Salisbury, of petty larceny, for stealing one penny; whereby his effects, consisting of bank-notes to the amount of 180l., and twenty guineas in money, were forfeited to the bishop, as lord of the manor; but his lordship humanely ordered 100l. of the money to be put to interest for the benefit of the wretch's daughter; 20l. to be given to his aged father, and the remainder to be returned to the delinquent himself.* ²

1.4.2. THE REGENT'S PARK.

A correspondent's muse records an accommodation, which may be extended to other resorts, with the certainty of producing much satisfaction in wearied pedestrians.

1.4.3. "BUSBY'S CHAIR."

Talking of this -- a word or two on "Sedes Busbeiana."

The humorous representation of "Dr. Busby's Chair," (on p. 34 of this volume,) [link] personifying the several parts of grammar, as well as some of a schoolmaster's more serious occupation, said to have been from an original by sir Peter Lely, is ascertained by the editor to have been a mere bagatelle performance of a young man some five-and-twenty years ago. It was engraved and published for Messrs. Laurie and Whittle, in Fleet-street, took greatly with the public, and had "a considerable run."

1.5.1. TRANSLATION OF ST. MARTIN.

This day is thus noticed as a festival in the church of England calendar and the almanacs, wherein he is honoured with another festival on the eleventh of November.

The word "translation" signifies, in reference to saints, as most readers already know, that their remains were removed from the graves wherein their bodies were deposited, to shrines or other places for devotional purposes.

1.5.2. FOR THE HONOUR OF HACKNEYMEN.

"Give a dog an ill name and hang him" -- give hackney-coachmen good characters and you'll be laughed at: and yet there are civil coachmen in London, and honest ones too. Prejudice against this most udeful class of persons is strong, and it is only fair to record an instance of integrity which, after all, is as general, perhaps, among hackneymen, as among those who ride in their coaches.

HONESTY REWARDED. -- A circumstance took place on Tuesday, (July 4, 1826,) which cannot be made too generally known among hackney-coachmen, and persons who use those vehicles.

A gentleman took a coach in St. Paul's churchyard, about twenty minutes before twelve, and was set down in Westminster exactly at noon. Having transacted his business there, he was proceeding homeward a little before one, when he suddenly missed a bank note for three hundred pounds, which he had in his pocket on entering the coach. He had not observed either the number or date of the note, or the number of the coach. He therefor returned to the bakers in the city, and ascertained the number and date of the note, then proceeded to the bank of England, found that it had not been paid, and took measures to stop its payment, if presented. After some further inquiry, he applied about half-past three, at the hackney-coach office in Essex-street, in the Strand, and there to his agreeable surprise, he found that the coachman had already brought the note to the commissioners, at whose suggestion the gentleman paid the coachman a reward of fifty pounds. The name of the honest coachman should be known: it is John Newell, the owner and driver of the coach No. 314, and residing in Marylebone-lane.

It should also be know, that persons leaving property in hackney-coaches, may very generally recover it by applying without delay at the office in Essex-street. Since the act of parliament requiring hackney-coachmen to bring such articles to the office came into effect, which is not four years and a half ago, no less than one thousand and fifty-eight articles have been so brought, being of the aggregate value of forty-five thousand pounds, and upwards.* [Note: Daily papers.]

Descend we from the coach, and, leaving the town, take a turn with a respected friend whither he would lead us.

1.5.3. FIELD PATHS.

(For the Every-Day Book.)

I love our real old English footpaths. I love those rustic and picturesque stiles, opening their pleasant escapes from frequented places, and dusty highways, into the solitudes of nature. It is delightful to catch a glimpse of one on the village green, under the old elder-tree by some ancient cottage, or half hidden by the overhanging boughs of a wood. I love to see the smooth dry track, winding away in easy curves, along some green slope, to the churchyard, to the embosomed cottage, or to the forest grange. It is to me an object of certain inspiration. It seems to invite one from noise and publicity, into the heart of solitude and of rural delights. It beckons the imagination on, through green and whispering corn fields, through the short but verdant pasture; the flowery mowing-grass; the odorous and sunny hayfield; the festivity of harvest; from lovely farm to farm; from village to village; by clear and mossy wells; by tinkling brooks, and deep wood-skirted streams; to crofts, where the daffodil is rejoicing in spring, or meadows, where the large, blue geraneum embellishes the summer wayside; to heaths, with their warm, elastic sward and cromson bells, the chithering of grass-hoppers, the foxglove, and the old gnarled oak; in short, to all the solitary haunts, after which the city-pent lover of nature pants, as "the hart panteth after the water-brooks." What is there so truly English? What is so linked with our rural tastes, our sweetest memories, and our sweetest poetry, as stiles and fieldpaths? Goldsmith, Thomson, and Milton have adorned them with some of their richest wreaths. They have consecrated them to poetry and love. It is along the footpath in secluded fields, -- upon the stile in the embowered lane, -- where the wild-rose and the honey-suckle are lavishing their beauty and their fragrance, that we delight to picture to ourselves rural lovers, breathing in the dewy sweetness of a summer evening vows still sweeter. It is there, that the poet seated, sends back his soul into the freshness of his youth, amongst attachments since withered by neglect, rendered painful by absence, or broken by death; amongst dreams and aspirations which, even now that they pronounce their own fallacy, are lovely. It is there that he gazes upon the gorgeous sunset, -- the evening star following with silvery lamp the fading day, or the moon showering her pale lustre through the balmy night air, with a fancy that kindles and soars into the heavens before him, -- there, that we have all felt the charm of woods and green fields, and solitary boughs waving in the golden sunshine, or darkening in the melancholy beauty of evening shadows. Who has not thought how beautiful was the sight of a village congregation pouring out from their old grey church on a summer day, and streaming off through the quiet meadows, in all directions, to their homes? Or who, that has visited Alpine scenery, has not beheld with a poetic feeling the mountaineers come winding down out of their romantic seclusions on a sabbath morning, pacing the solitary heath-tracks, bounding with elastic step down the fern-clad dells, or along the course of a riotous stream, as cheerful, as picturesque, and yet as solemn as the scenes around them?

Again I say, I love fieldpaths, and stiles of all species, -- ay, even the most inaccessible piece of rustic erection ever set up in defiance of age, laziness, and obesity. How many scenes of frolic and merry confusion have I seen at a clumsy stile! What exclamations, and charming blushes, and fine eventual vaulting on the part of the ladies, and what an opportunity does it afford to beaux of exhibiting a variety of gallange and delicate attentions. I consider a rude stile as any thing but an impediment in the course of a rural courtship.

Those good old turn-stiles too, -- can I ever forget them? the hours I have spun round upon them, when a boy; or those in which I have almost laughed myself to death at the remembrance of my village pedagogue's disaster! Methinks I see him now. The time a sultry day; -- the domine a goodly person of some eighteen or twenty stone; -- the scene a footpath sentinelled with turn-stiles, one of which held him fast, as in utter amazement at his bulk. Never shall I forget his efforts and agonies to extricate himself, nor his lion-like roars, which brought some labourers to his assistance, who, when they had recovered from their convulsions of laughter, knocked off the top, and let him go. It is long since I saw a turnstile, and I suspect the Falstaffs have cried them down. But, without a jest, stiles and fieldpaths are vanishing every where. There is nothing upon which the advance of wealth and population has made so serious an inroad. As land has increased in value, wastes and heaths have been parcelled out and enclosed, but seldom have footpaths been left. The poet and the naturalist, who before had, perhaps, the greatest real property in them, have had no allotment. They have been totally driven out of the promised land. Nor is this all. Goldsmith complained, in his day, that --

And it is but too true that "the pressure of contiguous pride" has driven farther and farther, from that day to this, the public from the rich man's lands. "They make a solitude and call it peace." Even the quiet and picturesque footpath that led across his lawn, or stole along his wood-side, giving to the poor man, with his burden, a cooler and a nearer cut to the village, is become a nuisance. One would have thought that th rustic labourer with his scythe on his shoulder, or his bill-hook and hedging mittens in his hand, the cottage dame in her black bonnet and scarlet cloak, the bonny village maiden in the sweetness of health and simplicity, or the boy strolling along full of life and curiosity, might have had sufficient interest, in themselves, for a cultivated taste, passing occasionally at a distance across the park or lawn not only to be tolerated, but even to be welcomed as objects agreeably enlivening the stately solitude of the hall. But they have not. And what is more, they are commonly the most jealous of pedestrian trespassers who seldom visit their own estates, but permit the seasons to scatter their charms around their villas and rural possessions without the heart to enjoy, or even the presence to behold them. How often have I myself been arrested in some long-frequented dale, in some spot endeared by its own beauties and the fascinations of memory, by a board, exhibiting, in giant characters, Stopped by an order of Sessions! and denouncing the terms of the law upon trespassers. This is a little too much. I would not be querulous for the poor against the rich. I would not teach them to look with an envious and covetous eye upon their villas, lawns, cattle, and equipage; but when the path of immemorial usage is closed, when the little streak, almost as fine as a mathematical line, along the wealthy man's ample field, is grudginly erased, it is impossible not to feel indignation at the pitiful monopoly. Is there no village champion to be found bold enough to put in his protest against these encroachments, to assert this public right -- for right it is, as authentic as that by which the land itself is held, and as clearly acknowledged by the laws? Is there no local "Hampden with dauntless breast" to "withstand the little tyrant of the fields," and to save our good old fieldpaths? If not, we shall, in a few years, be doomed to the highways and the hedges: to look, like Dives, from a sultry region of turnpikes, into a pleasant one of verdure and foliage which we may not approach. Already the stranger, if he lose his way, is in jeopardy of falling into the horrid fangs of a steel-trap; the botanist enters a wood to gather a flower, and is shot with a spring-gun; death haunts our dells and copses, and the poet complains, in regretful notes, that he --

I am not so much of a poet, and so little of a political economist, as to lament over the progress of population. It is true that I see, with a poetical regret, green fields and beautiful fresh tracts swallowed up in cities; but my joy in the increase of human life and happiness far out-balances that imaginative pain. But it is when I see unnecessary and arbitrary encroachments upon the rural privileges of the public that I grieve. Exactly in the same proportion as our population and commercial habits gain upon us, do we need all possible opportunities to keep alive in us the spirit of nature.

Wordsworth.

We give ourselves up to the artificial habits and objects of ambition, till we endanger the higher and better feelings and capacities of our being; and it is alone to the united influence of religion, literature, and nature, that we must look for the preservation of our moral nobility. Whenever, therefore, I behold one of our old fieldpaths closed, I regard it as another link in the chain which Mammon is winding around us, -- another avenue cut off by which we might fly to the lofty sanctuary of nature for power to withstand him.

H.

1.5.4. BELLS AND BELLL RINGING AT BURY ST. EDMUND'S.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

1.6.1. CHRONOLOGY.

On the fifth of July, 1685, the duke of Monmouth's enterprise against James II. was ended by the battle of Sedgemoor, near Bridgwater, in Somersetshire. The duke's army consisting of native followers attacked the king's veteran troops, routed them, and would finally have conquered, if error in Monmouth as a leader, and the cowardice of lord Gray, one of his commanders, had not devoted them to defeat.

1.6.2. Letter of
Oliver Cromwell
Now first published.

1.6.3. HERIOT'S HOSPITAL,
Edinburgh .

With the particulars respecting this foundation in the present volume , it was intended to give the two engravings subjoined. They were ready, and the printer waited for them, and delayed the publication an entire day, while the engraver's messenger carried them about with him, without the accompaniment of a recollection that they were in his pocket, until after the sheet had appeared without them. This is a disclosure of one of the many "secret sorrows" lately endured by the editor, who begs the reader to bear in mind that the cuts belong to col. 766.

This armorial bearing is carved on many parts of the edifice.

The present fac-simile of his signature, is from one engraved from his subscription to an "acompt," in his "Memoirs" before quoted.

1.6.5. City Swan-hopping.

The following curious circumstance occurred, several years ago, at a tavern in the vicinity of Putney-bridge. Several members of one of the city companies having accompanied the chief magistrate on an excursion up the river, quitted his lordship, and landed at the house in question. A boat containing a party of six ladeis, elegantly dressed, and rowed by two watermen, in scarlet jackets, put in at the same time.

The happy citizens relieved from the controul of their dames, could not resist this opportunity of showing their gallantry and politeness. They stepped forward and offered their aid to assist the ladies in landing; the offer was accepted; and this act of civility was followed by others. They walked, talked, and laughed together, till dinner was announced. The gentlemen went to the larger room; the ladies sat down to a repast laid out for them by their order in a smaller one.

After some time the ladies again returned to the lawn, where the gentlemen occasionally joined them and continued their civilities till the watermen informed them the tide served for their return to town. The gentlemen then assisted the ladies on board, and wished them a safe voyage. Soon after they called for their bill, which was handed to the chairman in due form; but it is impossible to express the surprise which marked his countenance on reading the following items: -- "dinner, desert, wine, tea, &c. for the ladies, 7l. 10s.;" together with a charge of twelve shillings for servants' refreshements. The landlord was sent for and questioned as to this charge, who said the ladies had desired the bill should be delivered to their spouses, who would settle it. An explanation now took place, when it appeared the parties were strangers to each other; for these sprightly dames, taking advantage of the occasional civilities of the gallant and unsuspecting swan-hoppers, had imposed themselves on honest Boniface, nothing loth perhaps to be imposed on, as the wives of the city company, and, as such, had been served with an elegant dinner, desert, wine, &c. which they had left their husbands to pay for. The discovery at first disconcerted the gentlemen, but the wine they had drank having opened their hearts and inspired them with liberality, they took the trick put upon them in good part, and paid the bill; and the recollection of the wives of the city company, long afterwards afforded them an ample subject for conversation and laughter.

1.7.1. OLD MIDSUMMER DAY.

This day is still marked in our almanacs, on account of its being adhered to, in a few places, as a "good old day," of the "good old times."

1.7.2. LAYING OUT OF LANDS
In the Parish of Puxton, Somerset.

The subjoined letter was duly received according to its date, and is now in due time inserted. The editor has very few omissions of this kind to apologize for: if he has prematurely, and therefore unduly, introduced some communications which arrived too late for ther proper days, he may be excused, perhaps, in consideration of the desire expressed by some correspondents, that their papers should appear in a "reasonable" time or not at all. Unhappily he has experienced the mishap of a "reasonable" difference, with one or two of his contributors. From the plan of this work, certain matters-of-fact could only range, with propriety, under certain days; while it has been conceived of, by some, as a magazine wherein any thing could come, at any time. In this dilemma he has done the best in his power, and introduced, in a few instances, papers of that nature out of place. On two or three occasions, indeed, it seemed a courtesy almost demanded by the value of such articles, that they should not await the rotation of the year. The following curiously descriptive account of a remarkable local custom is from a Somersetshire gentleman, who could be relied on for a patient endurance of nine months, till this, its due season arrived.

1.8.1. THOMAS A BECKET.

Strange to say, the name of this saint, so obnoxious to the early reformers, is still retained in the church of England calendar; the fact is no less strange that the day of his festival is the anniversary of the translation of his relics from the undercroft of the cathedral of Canterbury, in the year 1220, to a sumptuous shrine at the east end of the church, whither they attracted crowds of pilgrims, and, according to the legends of the Romaish church, worked abundant miracles.

This engraving is from a drawing by Mr. Harding, who states that he made it from a very rare engraving. The drawing belongs to Mr. J. J. A. F., who favoured the editor by lending it for the present purpose.

St. Thomas of Canterbury, bishop and martyr, attained the primacy during the reign of Henry II. He advanced the interests of the church against the interests of the kingdom, till a parliament declared his possessions forfeited, and Becket having left the kingdom, Henry seized the revenues of the see.

It appears from an old tract that this churchman was a swordsman. He accompanied Henry in one of his campaigns with a retinue of seven humdred knights and gentlemen, kept twelve hundred horse in his own pay, and bore his dignity with the carriage of the proudest baron. "His bridle was of silver, his saddle of velvet, his stirrups, spurs, and bosses, double gilt. His expenses far surpassing the expenses of an earl. He fed with the fattest, was clad with the softest, and kept company with the pleasantest. And the king made him his chancellor, in which office he passed the pomp and pride of Thomas [Wolsey] Cardinal, as far as the one's shrine passeth the other's tomb in glory and riches. And, after that, he was a man of war, and captain of five or six thousand men in full harness, as bright as St. George, and his spear in his hand; and encountered whosoever came against him, and overthrew the jollyest rutter that was in all the host of France. And out of the field, hot from blood-shedding, was he made bishop of Canterbury, and did put off his helm, and put on his mitre; put off his harness, and on with his robes; and laid down his spear, and took his cross, ere his hands were cold; and so came, with a lusty courage of a man of war, to fight another while against his prince for the pope; when his prince's cause were with the law of God and the pope's clean contrary."

After his disgrace by the king he wore a hair shirt, ate meats of the driest, excommunicated his brother bishops, and "was favoured with a revelation of his martyrdom," at Pontigni. Alban Butler says, ‘"whilst he lay prostrate before the altar in prayers and tears, he heard a voice, saying distinctly, 'Thomas, Thomas, my church shall be glorified in thy blood.' The saint asked, 'Who art thou, Lord?' and the same voice answered, 'I am Jesus Christ, the son of the living God, thy borther.'"’ He then returned to England, excited rebellious commotions, and on Christmas-day, 1170, preached his last sermon to his flock, on the text, "And peace to men of good-will on earth." These are the words wherein Alban Butler expresses the "text," which, it may be as well to observe, is a garbled passage from the New Testament, and was altered perhaps to suit the saint's views and application. Room cannot be afforded in this place for particulars of his preceding conduct, or an exact description of his death, which is well-known to have been accomplished by "four knights," who, from attachment to the king, according to the brutal manners of those days, revenged his quarrel by killing St. Thomas, while at prayers in Canterbury cathedral.

1.8.2. The following interesting paper relates to one of the knights who slew Becket --

SIR WILLIAM DE TRACY.

1.9.1. CHRONOLOGY.

July 8, 1533,Ariosto, the celebrated Italian poet, died at Ferrara: he was born in 1474, at the castle of Reggio in Lombardy.

1.9.2. THE SEASON.

In high summer, persons accustomed to live "well" should diminish the usual quantity of their viands and fluids: wine should be taken very sparingly, and spirituous liquors seldom. Habits of indulgence at this period of the hear fill many graves.

1.9.3.

It may not be amiss it cite

1.9.4. ARRIVALS EXTRAORDINARY.

At the commencement of July, 1826, hedgehogs were seen wandering along the most public streets of Oldham, in Lancashire, during the open day. It is presumed that, as the brooks from which these animals were wont to be supplied with drink had been dried up from the long-continued drought, they were obliged to throw themselves upon the mercy and protection of their ‘"good neighbours in the town."’* ¹³

1.9.5.

In this month we have a host of whizzing insects to prevent our lassitude becoming downright laziness. From the kind of resentment they excite, we may pretty well imagine the temper and disposition of the persons they provoke.

1.10.1. WOLVERHAMPTON FAIR.

Every year on the ninth of July, the eve of the great fair of Wolverhampton, there was formerly a procession men in antique armour, preceded by musicians playing the fair tune, and followed by the steward of the deanry manor, the peace officers, and many of the principal inhabitants. Tradition says, the ceremony originated when Wolverhampton was a great emporium of wool, and resorted to by merchants of the staple from all parts of England. The necessity of an armed force to keep peace and order during the fair, (which is said to have lasted fourteen days, but the charter says only eight,) is not improbable. This custom of walking the fair, as it was called, with the armed procession, &c. was first omitted about the year 1789.* ¹⁴

1.11.1. CHRONOLOGY.

On the tenth of July, 1740, died sir Charles Crispe, bart. of Oxfordshire. He was great-gradnson of sir Nicholas Crispe, bart. who spent 100,000l. in the service of king Charles I. and II. he took out a commission of array for the city of London, for which the parliament offered 1000l. reward to bring him alive or dead. The city of London sent him commissioner to Breda, to invite over king Charles II. who took him in his arms, and kissed him, and said, ‘Surely the city has a mind highly to oblige me, by sending over my father's old friend to invite me.’ He was the first who settled a trade to the coast of Africa.* ¹⁵

1.12.1. CHRONOLOGY

On the eleventh of July, 1804, a general Hamilton of New-York was killed in a duel by colonel Burr, the vice-president of the United States.

1.12.2. MEMORANDUM.
To Men of Honour.

WHEREAS certain persons who contemn the obligations of religion, are nevertheless mindful of the law of the land: And whereas it is supposed by some of such persons, that parties contemplating to fight a duel and bound over before a magistrate to keep the peace, may, notwithstanding, fight such duel in foreign parts: BE IT KNOWN, that the law which extends protection to all its subjects, can also punish them for breach of duty, and that, therefore, offences by duelling beyond sea, are indictable and punishable in manner and form, the same as if such duels were fought within the United kingdom.

1.12.4. CHEAP TOMMY.
For the Every-Day Book.

In my native village of Heanor, in Derbyshire, some sixteen or seventeen years ago, there appeared a singular character, whose arrival excited a sensation, and became an epoch in its history. Some boys who had been strolling to a distance brought an account that a little man, with a barrow as large as a house, was coming along the lane, at "a snail's gallop." Forth sallied a troop of gazers, who found a small, thick-set, round-faced man, in an old, red, soldier's jacket, and cocked hat, sitting on the handle of his barrow, which was built and roofed after the manner of a caravan; and was a storehouse of some kind of merchandise, what they yet knew not. He sat very quietly as they came round him, and returned their greetings in a way short and dry, and which became markedly testy and impatient, as they crowded more closely, and began to ask questions. ‘Not too fast, my masters; not too fast! my first answer can't overtake your twentieth question.’ At length he rose, and, by the aid of a strong strap passed over his shoulders, heaved up the handles of his barrow, and placing his head against it, like a tortoise under a stone, proceeded at a toilsome rate of some few hundred yards per hour. This specimen of patient endurance amazed the villagers. A brawny labourer would have thought it a severe toil to wheel it a mile; yet this singular being, outdoing the phlegmatic perseverance of an ass, casting Job himself in the background for patience, from league to league, from county to county, and from year to year, urged on his ponderous vehicle with almost imperceptible progression.

It was soon found that he was not more singular in appearance, than eccentric in mind. A villager, thinking to do him a kindness, offered to wheel his barrow, but what was the surprise of the gazers to see him present the man payment when he had moved it a considerable way, and on its being refused, to behold him quietly raise the barrow, turn it round, and wheel it back to the identical spot whence the villager set out.

On reaching the hamlet, he took up his quarters in a stable, and opened his one-wheeled caravan, displaying a good assortment of cutlery ware. It was there I first saw him, and was struck with his grave an uncomplying air, more like that of a beadle stationed to keep off intruders, than of a solicitous vender of wares. He was standing with a pair of pliers, twisting wire into scissor-chains; keeping, at the same time, a shrewd eye upon the goods. The prices were so wonderfully low that it was whispered the articles could not be good, or they were stolen: yet I did not perceive that either idea was suffiient to dissuade the people from buying, or from attempting to get them still lower. Then it was that his character and temper showed themselves. He laid aside the goods attempted to be chaffered for, saying, -- ‘You shall not have them at all, I tell no lies about them nor shall you.’ In fact his goods were goods. So much so, that many of them are in use in the village to this day: he desired only such a profit as would supply the necessities of one who never slept in a bed, never approached a fire for the sake of its warmth, nor ever indulged in any luxury. His greatest trial appeared to be to bear with the sordid spirit of the world. When this did not cross him he became smiling, communicative, and, strange as it may seem, exceedingly intelligent. I well recollect my boyish astonishment when he quoted to me maxims of Plato and Seneca, and when I heard him pouring out abundance of anecdote from the best sources. He had a real spirit of kindliness in him, though the most immediately striking features of his mind were shrewdness and rigid notions of truth; which, as he practised it himself, he seemed to expect from the whole world. He had a tame hedgehog which partook his fare, slept in a better next than himself, and was evidently a source of affectionate enjoyment. He was fond of children; but he had a stern spirit of independence which made him refuse gifts and favours, unless permitted to make some return. My mother frequently sent him warm messes in the wintry weather, and he brought her a scissor-chain and a candlestick of brass-wire. He was a writer of anagrams, acrostics, and so forth; and one epitaph written for one of his bystanders was, --

He always slept with his barrow chained to his leg; and on Sundays kept himself totally shut up, except during service time, standing the day through, reading his bible.

When his character was known, he grew to be a general favourite. His stable became a sort of school, where he taught, to a constant audience, more useful knowledge than has emanated from many a philosopher, modern or antique. The good-will he excited evidently pleased the old man; he came again and again, till at length years rolled away without his reappearance, and he was considered as dead. But not so. For ten or eleven years he was still going on his pilgrimage, a wanderer and an outcast; probably doing voluntary penance for some sin or unhappiness of youth; for he carefully kept aloof of his native country, Scotland, and though he spoke of one living sister with tearful eyes, he had not seen her for many, many years. In 1820 he had found his way to Midsomer Norton, near Bristol, where he was hooted into the town by a troop of boys, a poor, worn-down object, of the most apparent misery. This I accidentally learnt, short time ago, from a little book, the memorial of his last days, written by the worthy clergyman of that place, and published by Simpkin and Marshall, London.

What a tale would the history of those years have displayed. What scenes of solitary travel, exhaustion, suffering, insults, and occasional sympathy and kindness, breaking, like cheering sunbeams, through the ordinary gloom. His barrow was gone! Poverty had wrung from him or weakness had compelled him to abandon, that old companion of his travels. I have often thought what must have been his feelings at that parting. Poor old man, it was his house, his friend, his dog, his everything. What energies had he not expended in propelling it from place to place. It could not have been left without a melancholy pang, -- without seeming to begin a more isolated and cheerless existence. But I cannot dwell upon the subject. It is sufficient to say that he found in the rev. William Read, who wrote the little book just mentioned, and excellent friend in the time of final need. That he retained the same character to the last; displaying, in a concluding scene of such bodily wretchedness and sufferings as has seldom been paralleled, the same astonishing endurance, nay ebullient thankfulness of heart; and that his piety seems to have worn off much of his asperity of manner.

A didactic poem called "The Flower Knot," or, "The Guide Post," was found after his death, a composition of no ordinary merit, from which we will quote two passages, and bid a final adieu to our old friend under every name of Thomas Hogg, Tam Hogg, or Cheap Tommy.

H.

1.12.5.

In consequence of this interesting narrative concerning Thomas Hogg, the "little book -- the memorial of his last days" by the rev. Mr. Read, was procured by the editor. It is entitled "The Scottish Wanderer," and as our kind correspondent "H." has only related his own observations, probably from apprehension that his narrative might be deemed of sufficient length, a few particulars are extracted from Mr. Read's tract respecting the latter days of the "singular character."

Mr. Read commences his "Memoir of Thomas Hogg," by saying -- ‘On Sunday the ninth of January 1820, as I was proceeding in the services of the day, my attention was attracted by a wretched object seated in the nave of the church. There was an air of devout seriousness about him, under all the disadvantages of tattered garments and squalid appearance, which afforded a favourable presentiment to my mind. When the service was over the stranger disappeared.’

Mr. Read conceived that he was some poor passing beggar, who had been allured by the fire in the stove, but to his surprise on the following Sunday the same object presented himself, and took his station, as before, near the stove. He seemed to be a man decrepit with age: his head resting upon his bosom, which was partly exposed, betokened considerable infirmity. Under a coarse and dirty sackcloth frock was to be seen a soldier's coat patched in various places, which was strangely contrasted with the cleanliness of his shirt. His whole appearance was that of the lowest degree of poverty. His devout attention induced Mr. Read when the service was concluded to inquire who this old man was. "Sir," replied his informant, "he is a person who works at the blacksmith's shop; he is a remarkable man, and carries about with him a bible, which he constantly reads."

In the course of the week Mr. Read paid him a visit. He found him standing by the side of the forge, putting some links of iron-wire together, to form a chain to suspend scissors. The impressions of wretchedness excited by his first appearance were greatly heightened by the soot, which, from the nature of his occupation, had necessarily gathered round his person; and after a few general observations Mr. Read went to Mr. H. S., the master of the shop, who informed him that on Tuesday the fourth of January, in the severely cold weather which then prevailed, this destitute object came to his shop, almost exhausted with cold and fatigue. In his passage through the neighbouring village of P--------, he had been inhumanly pelted with snow-balls by a party of boys, and might probably have perished, but for the humanity of some respectable inhabitants of the place, who rescued him from their hands. Having reached Mr. S.'s shop, he requested permission to erect, in a shed which adjoined the shop, his little apparatus, consisting of slight table, with a box containing his tools. the benevoletn master of the premises kindly stationed him near the forge, where he might pursue his work with advantage. In the evening, when the workmen were about to retire, Mr. S. asked him where he intended to lodge that night. The old man inquired if there were any ox-stall or stable near at hand, which he might be permitted to occupy. His benefactor offered his stable, and the poor creature, with his box and table upon his back, accompanied Mr. S. home, where as comfortable a bed as fresh straw, and shelter from the inclemency of the weather, could afford, was made up. One of Mr. S.'s children afterwards carried him some warm cider, which he accepted with reluctance, expressing his fears lest he should be depriving some part of the family of it.

The weather was very cold: the thermometer, during the past night, had been as low as six or seven degrees of Fahrenheit. In the morning he resumed his post by the side of the forge. Mr. S. allowed him to retain his station as long as he needed it; and contracted so great a regard for him, as to declare, that he never learned so complete a lesson of humility, contentment, and gratitude, as from the conduct of this man.

The poor fellow's days continued to be passed much in the manner above described; but he had exchanged the stable, at night, for the shop, which was warmer, as soon as his benevolent host was satisfied respecting his principles; and with exemplary diligence he pursued his humble employment of making chains and skewers. He usually dined on hot potatoes, or bread and cheese, with occasionally half a pint of beer. If solicited to take additional refreshment, he would decline it, saying, ‘I am thankful for the kindness, -- but it would be intemperate.’

At an early hour in the afternoon of the first Saturday which he spent in this village, he put by his work, and began to hum a hymn tune. Mr. S. asked him if he could sing. ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘I thought,’ added Mr. S., ‘I heard you singing.’ ‘I was only composing my thoughts a little,’ said the poor man, ‘for the sabbath.’

On Mr. Read being informed of these particulars, he was induced to return to the stranger with a view to converse with him. He says ‘There was a peculiar bluntness in his manner of expressing himself, but it was very far removed from any thing of churlishness or incivility. All his answers were pertinent, and were sometimes given in such measured terms as quite astonished me. The following was a part of our conversation. -- 'Well, my friend, what are you about?' 'Making scisor-chains, sir.' 'And how long does it take you to make one?' With peculiar archness he looked up in my face, (for his head always rested upon his bosom, so that the back part of it was depressed nearly to the same orizontal plane with his shoulders,) and with a complacent smile, said, 'Ah! and you will next ask me how many I make in a day; and then what the wire costs me; and afterwards what I sell them for.' From the indirectness of his reply, I was induced to conclude that he was in the habit of making something considerable from his employment, and wished to conceal the amount of his gains.’ It appeared, however, that he was unable, even with success in disposing of his wares, to earn more than sixpence or sevenpence a day, and that his apparent reluctance to make known his poverty proceeded from habitual contentment.

Mr. Read asked him why he followed a vagrant life, in preference to a stationary one, in which he would be better known, and more respected? ‘The nature of my business,’ he replied, ‘requires that I should move about from place to place, that, having exhausted my custom in one spot, I may obtain employment in another. Besides,’ added, he, ‘my mode of life has at least this advantage, that if I leave my friends behind me, I leave also my enemies.’

When asked his age, he replied, with a strong and firm voice, ‘That is a question which I am frequently asked, as if persons supposed me to be a great age; why, I am a mere boy.’

‘A mere boy!’ repeated Mr. Read; ‘and pray what do you mean by that expression?’ -- ‘I am sixty-five years of age, sir; and with a light heel and a cheerful heart, hope to hold out a considerable time longer.’ In the course of the conversation, he said, ‘It is not often that I am honoured with the visits of clergymen. Two gentlemen, however, of your profession once came to me when I was at -- -- , in -- -- , and expressed a hope that I should derive some advantage from their conversation. 'We are come,' said they, 'with the same expectation to you, for we understand that you know many things.' I told them that I feared they would be greatly disappointed.’ He then stated that the old scholastic question was proposed to him, ‘Why has God given us two ears and one mouth?’ ‘I replied,’ said he, ‘that we may hear twice as much as we speak;’ adding, with his accustomed modesty, ‘I should not have been able to have given an answer to this question if I had not heard it before.’

Before they parted, Mr. Read lamented the differences that existed between persons of various religious persuasions. The old man rejoined in a sprightly tone, ‘No matter; there are two sides to the river.’ His readiness in reply was remarkable. Whatever he said implied contentment, cheerfulness, and genuine piety. Before Mr. Read took leave of him, he inquired how long he intended to remain in the village. He answered, ‘I do not know; but as I have house-room and fire without any tax, I am quite satisfied with my situation, and only regret the trouble I am occasioning to my kind host.’

Until the twentieth of the month Mr. Read saw but little of him. On the morning of that day he met him creeping along under a vast burden, for on the pre ceding Monday he had set out on a journey to Bristol, to procure a fresh stock of wire, and with half a hundred weight of wire upon his back, and three half-pence in his pocket, the sole remains of his scanty fund, he was now returning on foot, after having passed two days on the road, and the intervening night before a coalpit fire in a neighbouring village. The snow was deep upon the ground, and the scene indescribably desolate. Mr. Read was glad to see him, and inquired if he were not very tired. ‘A little, a little,’ he replied, and taking off his hat, he asked if he could execute any thing for me. An order for some trifling articles, brought him to Mr. Read on the following Wednesday, who entered into conversation with him, and says, ‘he repeated many admirable adages, with which his memory appeared to be well stored, and incidentally touched on the word cleanliness. Immediately I added, 'cleanliness is next to godliness;' and seized the opportunity which I had long wanted, but from fear of wounding his mind hesitated to embrace, to tell him of the absence of that quality in himself. He with much good nature replied, 'I believe I am substantially clean. I have a clean shirt every week: my business, however, necessarily makes me dirty in my person.' 'But why do you not dress more tidily, and take more care of yourself? You know that God hath given us the comforts of life that we may enjoy them. Cannot you afford yourself these comforts?' 'That question,' said he emphatically, but by no means rudely, 'you should have set out with. No, sir, I cannot afford myself these comforts.'’

Mr. Read perceiving his instep to be inflamed, and that he had a miserable pair of shoes, pressed a pair of his own upon him.

On the following day he visited him, and found him working upon his chains while sitting, -- a posture in which he did not often indulge. Mr. Read looked at his foot, and found the whole leg prodigiously swollen and discoloured. It had inflamed and mortified from fatigue of walking and inclemency of the weather during the journey to Bristol. Mr. Read insisted on his having medical assistance. ‘The doctor is expected in the village to-day, and you must see him: I will give orders for him to call in upon you.’ ‘That is kind, very kind,’ he replied. At this moment an ignorant talker in the shop exclaimed in a vexatious and offensive manner, that he would not have such a leg (taking off his hat) ‘for that, full of guineas.’ The old man looked up somewhat sharply at him, and said, ‘nor I, if I could help it.’ The other, however, proceeded with his ranting. The afflicted man added, ‘You only torture me by your observations.’ This was the only instance approaching to impatience he manifested.

It appears that of late he had slept in one corner of the workshop, upon the bare earth, without his clothes, and with the only blanket he had, wrapped round his shoulders. It was designed to procure him a bed in a better abode; but he preferred remaining where he was, and only requested some clean straw. He seemed fixed to his purpose; every thing was arranged, as well as could be, for his accommodation.

Early the next morning Mr. Read found the swelling and blackness extending themselves rapidly towards the vital parts. The poor fellow was at times delirious, and convulsed; but he dozed during the greater part of the day. It was perceived from an involuntary gesture of the medical gentleman on his entrance, that he had not before witnessed many such objects. He delcared there was but little hope of life. Warm fomentations, and large doses of bark and port wine were administered. A bed was provided in a neighbouring house, and Mr. Read infomed the patient of his wish to remove him to it, and his anxiety that he should take the medicines prescribed. He submitted to every thing proposed, and added, ‘One night more, and I shall be beyond the clouds.’

On the Saturday his speed was almost unintelligible, the delirium became more frequent, and his hands were often apparently employed in the task to which they had been so long habituated, making links for chains; his respiration became more and more hurried; and Mr. Read ordered that he should be allowed to remain quite quiet upon his bed. At certain intervals his mind seemed collected, and Mr. R. soothed him by kind attentions. He said, ‘There are your spectacles; but I do not think they have brought your bible? I dare say you would like to read it?’ ‘By-and-by,’ he replied: ‘I am pretty well acquainted with its contents.’ He articulated indistinctly, appeared exhausted, and on Sunday morning his death-knell was rung from the steeple. He died about two o'clock in the morning without a sigh. His last word was, in answer to the question, how are you? -- ‘Happy.’

A letter from a gentleman of Jedburgh, to the publishers of Mr. Read's tract, contains the following further particulars respecting this humble individual.

At school he seldom associated with those of his own age, and rarely took part in those games which are so attractive to the generality of youth, and which cannot be condemned in their own place. His declining the society of his schoolfellows did not seem to arise from a sour and unsocial temper, nor from a quarrelsome disposition on his part, but from a love of solitude, and from his finding more satisfaction in the resources of his own mind, than in all the noise and tumult of the most fascinating amusements.

He was, from his youth, noted for making shrewd and sometimes witty remarks, which indicated no ordinary cast of mind; and in many instances showed a sagacity and discrimination which could not be expected from his years. He was, according to the expressive language of his contemporaries, an ‘auld farrend’ boy. He began at an early period to make scissor-chains, more for amusement than for profit, and without ever dreaming that to this humble occupation he was to be indebted for sugsistence in the end of his days. When no more than nine or ten years of age, he betook himself to the selling of toys and some cheap articles of hardware; and gave reason to hope, from his shrewd, cautious, and economical character, that he would gradually increase his stock of goods, and rise to affluence in the world. His early acquaintances, considering these things, cannot account for the extreme poverty in which he was found at the time of his death. He appears to have been always inattentive to his external dress, which, at times, was ragged enough; but was remarkable for attention to his linen -- his shirts, however coarse, were always clean. This was his general character in the days of his youth. On his last visit to Jedburgh, twnety-nine years before his death, he came with his clothes in a most wretched condition. His sisters, two very excellent women, feeling for their brother, and concerned for their own credit, got a suit of clothes made without delay. Dressed in this manner, he continued in the place for some time, visiting old acquaintances, and enjoying the society of his friends. He left Jedburgh soon after; and, from that time, his sisters heard no more of their brother.

Hogg's father was not a native of Jedburgh. Those with whom I have conversed seem to think that he came from the neighbourhood of Selkirk, and was closely connected with the progenitor of the Ettrick Shepherd. He, properly speaking, had no trade; at least did not practise any: he used to travel through the country with a pack containing some hardware goods, and at one time kept a small shop in Jedburgh. All accounts agree that the father had, if not a talent for poetry, at least a talent for rhyming.

He appears to have had amost excellent mother, whom he regularly accompanied (sic)to their usual place of public worship, and to whom he was indebted for many pious and profitable instructions, which seem to have been of signal service to her son when she herself was numbered with the dead and mouldering in the dust.

During the time of his continuance in Jedburgh and its vicinity, he evinced a becoming regard to the external duties of religion; but nothing of that sublime devotion which cheered the evening of his days, and which caused such astonishing contentment in the midst of manifold privations. My own belief is, from all the circumstances of the case, that the pious efforts of his worthy mother did not succeed in the first instance, but were blessed for his benefit at an advanced period of life. The extreme poverty to which he was reduced and the corporal ailments under which he had laboured for a long time, were like breaking up the fallow ground, and causing the seed which had been sown to vegetate.