Chapter L: S., a Warwickshire correspondent, communicates this Easter custom to (15)

Old London-bridge, for which the new one is intended as a more commodious substitute, was the first that connected the Surrey and Middlesex banks. It was built originally of wood, about 800 years ago, and rebuilt of stone in the reign of king John, 1209, just two years after the chief civic officer assumed the name of mayor. Until the middle of the last century, it was crowded with houses, which made it very inconvenient to the passengers. The narrowness and inequality of its arches, have caused it to be compared to “a thick wall, pierced with small uneven holes, through which the water, dammed up by this clumsy fabric, rushes, or rather leaps, with a velocity extremely dangerous to boats and barges.” Of its nineteen arches, none except the centre, which was formed by throwing two into one, is more than twenty feet wide. This is but the width of each of the piers of Waterloo-bridge. It is the most crowded thoroughfare in London, and, in this point, exceeds Charing-cross, which, according to Dr. Johnson, was overflowed by the full tide of human existence. It has been calculated, that there daily pass over London-bridge 90,000 foot passengers; 800 waggons; 300 carts and drays; 1,300 coaches; 500 gigs and tax carts; and 800 saddle horses. The importance of this great point of communication, and the necessity of rendering it adequate to the purposes of its construction, are proved, by the numbers to whom it affords a daily passage at present, and, still more, by the probable increase of the numbers hereafter. The present bridge having been for some years considered destitute of the proper facilities of transition for passengers as well as for vessels, an Act of Parliament, passed in 1823, for building a new one, on a scale and plan equal to the other modern improvements of the metropolis. The first pile of the works was driven on the west side of the present bridge, in March, 1824, and the first coffer-dam having been lately finished, the ceremony of laying the first stone of the new bridge, has been happily and auspiciously completed.[171]

MRS. BARBAULD.

The decease of this literary and excellent lady in the spring of 1825, occasioned a friend to the _Every-Day Book_ to transmit the following fugitive poem for insertion. It is not collected in any of the works published by Mrs. Barbauld during her lifetime; this, and the rectitude of spirit in the production itself, may justify its being recorded within these pages.

_To her honoured Friends_

of the families of

MARTINEAU AND TAYLOR

_These lines are inscribed_

By their affectionate

A. L. BARBAULD

~On the Death~

OF

MRS. MARTINEAU.

Ye who around this venerated bier
In pious anguish pour the tender tear,
Mourn not!--Tis Virtue’s triumph, Nature’s doom,
When honoured Age, slow bending to the tomb,
Earth’s vain enjoyments past, her transient woes,
Tastes the long sabbath of well-earned repose.
No blossom here, in vernal beauty shed,
No lover lies, warm from the nuptial bed;
Here rests _the full of days_,--each task fulfilled,
Each wish accomplished, and each passion stilled.
You raised her languid head, caught her last breath,
And cheered with looks of love the couch of death.

Yet mourn!--for sweet the filial sorrows flow,
When fond affection prompts the gush of woe;
No bitter drop, ’midst Nature’s kind relief,
Sheds gall into the fountain of your grief;
No tears you shed for patient love abused,
And counsel scorned, and kind restraints refused.
Not yours the pang the conscious bosom wrings,
When late remorse inflicts her fruitless stings.
Living you honoured her, you mourn for, dead;
Her God you worship, and her path you tread.

Your sighs shall aid reflection’s serious hour,
And cherished virtues bless the kindly shower:
On the loved theme your lips unblamed shall dwell;
Your lives, more eloquent, her worth shall tell.
--Long may that worth, fair Virtue’s heritage,
From race to race descend, from age to age!
Still purer with transmitted lustre shine
The treasured birthright of the spreading line!

For me, as o’er the frequent grave I bend,
And pensive down the vale of years descend;
Companions, Parents, Kindred called to mourn,
Dropt from my side, or from my bosom torn;
A boding voice, methinks, in Fancy’s ear
Speaks from the tomb, and cries “Thy friends are here!”

* * * * *

_Summer Evening’s Adventure in Wales._

Mr. Proger of Werndee, riding in the evening from Monmouth, with a friend who was on a visit to him, heavy rain came on, and they turned their horses a little out of the road towards Perthyer. “My cousin Powell,” said Mr. Proger, “will, I am sure, be ready to give us a night’s lodging.” At Perthyer all was still; the family were abed. Mr. Proger shouted aloud under his cousin Powell’s chamber-window. Mr. Powell soon heard him; and putting his head out, inquired, “In the name of wonder what means all this noise? Who is there?” “It is only your cousin Proger of Werndee, who is come to your hospitable door for shelter from the inclemency of the weather; and hopes you will be so kind as to give him, and a friend of his, a night’s lodging.” “What is it you, cousin Proger? You, and your friend shall be instantly admitted; but upon one condition, namely, that you will admit now, and never hereafter dispute, that I am the head of your family.” “What was that you said?” replied Mr. Proger. “Why, I say, that if you expect to pass the night in my house, you must admit that I am the head of your family.” “No, sir, I never will admit that--were it to rain swords and daggers, I would ride through them this night to Werndee, sooner than let down the consequence of my family by submitting to such an ignominious condition. Come up, Bald! come up!” “Stop a moment, cousin Proger; have you not often admitted, that the first earl of Pembroke (of the name of Herbert) was a younger son of Perthyer; and will you set yourself up above the earls of Pembroke?” “True it is I must give place to the earl of Pembroke, because he is a peer of the realm; but still, though a peer, he is of the youngest branch of my family, being descended from the fourth son of Werndee, who was your ancestor, and settled at Perthyer, whereas I am descended from the eldest son. Indeed, my cousin Jones of Lanarth is of a branch of the family elder than you are; and yet he never disputes my being the head of the family.” “Well, cousin Proger, I have nothing more to say: good night to you.”--“Stop a moment, Mr. Powell,” cried the stranger, “you see how it pours; do let _me_ in at least; _I_ will not dispute with you about our families.” “Pray, sir, what is your name, and where do you come from?” “My name is so and so; and I come from such a county.” “A Saxon of course; it would indeed be very curious, sir, were I to dispute with a Saxon about family. No, sir, you must suffer for the obstinacy of your friend, so good night to you both.”[172]

[168] Stow’s Survey, 1633, page 886.

[169] The Times.

[170] British Press.

[171] New Times.

[172] Williams’s Monmouth. App. 168.

~June 16.~

_Sts. Quirius_, or _Cyr_ and _Julitta_, Martyrs, A. D. 304. _St. John
Francis Regis_, A. D. 1640. _Sts. Ferreolus_, or _Fargeau_, and
_Ferrutius_, A. D. 211 or 212. _St. Aurelian_, Abp. A. D. 552.

CHRONOLOGY.

1722. John Churchill, the great duke of Marlborough, died at Windsor-lodge, in a state of idiocy. He was son of sir Winston Churchill, an English historian, and born at Ashe, in Devonshire, 1650. At twelve years of age he became page to the duke of York, afterwards James II.; at sixteen he entered the guards, and distinguished himself under Turenne. He was called the handsome Englishman, married Miss Jennings, (the celebrated duchess of Marlborough,) obtained distinguished rank and offices, suppressed the duke of Monmouth’s rebellion, and served king James with apparent fidelity in the wane of his fortune, while he faithlessly made court to the prince of Orange. His great military achievements, under king William and queen Anne, were rewarded by munificent public grants, and a public funeral in Westminster-abbey.

* * * * *

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Moss Privince Rose. _Rosa muscosa._
Dedicated to _St. Julitta_.

CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._

Dear Sir,

A great deal has been lately attempted, by men of feeling minds, to prevent wanton cruelty towards animals; which (unhappily even in this enlightened age,) is but too prevalent.

The lower class of persons, to whom the care of the horse is intrusted, frequently possess less sense than those noble animals, which groan under their tyranny; we constantly find ignorant farriers, who think that a cure can only be effected, by most violent and painful remedies. It is to these brutal men, that the lameness of so many horses may be attributed; for, not understanding the beautiful and singular construction of the interior of a horse’s foot, by cutting away the hoof they contract the foot, and gradually prevent the elasticity so necessary: thus by repeated shoeing, the foot is cramped, as much so, as a man’s who would attempt to walk in a shoe considerably too tight for him. Lameness ensues, and these farriers pronounce the seat of lameness any where but where it actually exists; then comes firing and blistering, and every possible torture, and the poor animal lamed for life, long before his time, is consigned to the lowest drudgery, and subsequently to the dogs.

The inhuman rate at which horses are driven in stage coaches, conduces greatly to mortality; this consumption of animal life is, in some instances, one in three annually.

Soame Jenyns, whose works are well known, and who was himself a man of the finest feelings, in a paper _On Cruelty to Animals_, adverts to the disciples of Pythagoras, who held that the souls of men, and all other animals, existed in a state of perpetual transmigration, and that when by death they were dislodged from one corporeal habitation, they were immediately reinstated in another, happier or more miserable, according to their behaviour in the former. Soame Jenyns favours this doctrine of transmigration, “first, from its justice; secondly, from its utility; and lastly, from the difficulty we lie under to account for the sufferings of many innocent creatures without it.” He says, “If we look around us, we cannot but observe a great and wretched variety of this kind; numberless animals subjected by their own natures to many miseries, and by our cruelties to many more, _incapable of crimes_, and _consequently incapable of deserving them_, called into being, as far as we can discover, only to be miserable for the service or diversion of others less meritorious than themselves, without any possibility of preventing, deserving, or receiving recompense for their unhappy lot, if their whole existence is comprehended in the narrow and wretched circle of their present life.” He then proceeds to observe, that “the theory here inculcated, removes all these difficulties, and reconciles all these seemingly unjust dispensations, with the strictest justice. It informs us, that their sufferings may by no means be understood, but as the just punishments of their former behaviour, in a state, where by means of their vices, they may have escaped them. It teaches us, that the pursued and persecuted fox, was once probably some crafty and rapacious minister, who had purchased by his ill acquired wealth, that safety, which he cannot now procure by his flight; that the bull, baited with all the cruelties that human ingenuity, or human malevolence can invent, was once some relentless tyrant, who had inflicted all the tortures which he endures; that the poor bird, blinded, imprisoned, and at last starved to death in a cage, may have been some unforgiving creditor; and the widowed turtle, pining away life for the loss of her mate, some fashionable wife, rejoicing at the death of her husband, which her own ill-usage had occasioned. Never can the delicious repast of roasted lobsters excite my appetite, whilst the ideas of the tortures in which those innocent creatures have expired present themselves to my imagination. But when I consider that they must have once probably been Spaniards at Mexico, or Dutchmen at Amboyna, I fall to, with a good stomach and a good conscience. Never can I repose myself with satisfaction in a post chaise, whilst I look upon the starved, foundered, accelerated, and excoriated animals which draw it, as mere horses, condemned to such unmerited torments for my convenience, but I reflect, they must have undoubtedly existed in the fathers of the holy inquisition. I very well know that these sentiments will be treated as ludicrous by many of my readers, but they are in themselves just and serious, and carry with them the strongest probability of their truth. So strong is it, that I cannot but hope it will have some good effect on the conduct of those polite people, who are too sagacious, learned, and courageous to be kept in awe by the threats of hell and damnation; and I exhort every fine lady to consider, how wretched will be her condition, if after twenty or thirty years spent at cards, in elegant rooms, kept warm by good fires and soft carpets, she should at last be obliged to change places with one of her coach horses; and every fine gentleman to reflect, how much more wretched would be his, if after wasting his estate, his health, and his life in extravagance, indolence, and luxury, he should again revive in the situation of one of his creditors.”

Besides Jenyns’s suppositions, allow me to notice the crimping of fish, the skinning of eels alive, the whipping of pigs to death, to make them tender, the boiling of live crabs, having first put them in cold water to make them lively; together with the preference given to hunted hares, on account of their delicacy of muscles, softened by worry and exertion. These are but too common instances of a barbarous taste.

At this season of enjoyment and leisure, when we derive pleasure from contemplating the beautiful forms and appearances of nature, and are grateful for annual abundance, let us reflect on the criminal heedlessness wherewith we allow our appetites and pleasures to be indulged, by needless sufferings in the animals we subdue to our wants and whims. While we endeavour to inculcate kindness in our children towards one another, let us teach them kindness to the meanest of created beings. I know that the _Every-Day Book_ widely circulates in families; the humane sentiments that pervade it, must therefore have considerable influence, and for this reason I select it as a channel for conveying a humane suggestion.

I am, dear Sir,

Yours sincerely,

J. B.

THE SEASON.

_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._

Sir,

The perusal of your remarks on the season and the winds, in the _Every-Day Book_, page 707, reminded me of some lines I wrote at Ramsgate. If you know Wellington-crescent, where they were composed, you know a very pretty place, for either summer or winter residence.

I am, Sir, &c.

_June_ 6, 1825.

J. S.

THE EAST WIND.

A summer sun in brightness glows,
But, ah! the blighting east wind blows,
And weighs the spirit down!
All smiling is th’ enlivening ray,
That tips with silvery tinge the spray,
O’er ocean’s bosom thrown!

Yet, all inviting though it seems,
And tempts one forth to court its beams
I tremblingly retire:
For I am one who hate and dread
That eastern blast, and oft have fled
Its pestilences dire!

But the young shoots that round me rise
And make me old,--(though still unwise)
Feel no such fear as I
Brimful of joy they venture forth
Wind blowing west, south, east, or north,
If cloudless be the sky!

They tripping lightly o’er the path,
To them yet free from grief or scath,
Press on--and onward still,
With brow unwrinkled yet by care,
With spirit buoyant as the air--
They breathe at freedom’s will.

Where shipwreck’d seamen oft deplore
The loss of all their scanty store,
They rove at ebb of tide
In quest of shells, or various weed,
That, from the bed of ocean freed,
Their anxious search abide.

Proud and elated with their prize,
(All eagerness with sparkling eyes,)
The treasures home are brought
To me, who plunged in gloom the while.
At home have watch’d the sea bird’s guile:--
Or, in a sea of thought,

Have sent _my spirit_ forth to find
Fit food for an immortal mind,
Else of itself the prey!
And in th’ abstraction of that mood.
Full oft I’ve realized the good,
We boast not every day.

Sometimes tho’, with a courage bold,
As ever faced the arctic’s cold,
I pace the Colonnade;[173]
And then am soon compelled to beat,
And seek a cowardly retreat,
Within the parlour’s shade!

Sometimes the place,[174] warm shelter’d close,
Where Sharwood’s decorated house,
From roof to step all flowers,
Shines forth as Flora’s temple, where
Dominion falls to sea and air;--
_Napoleonic powers_!

There, snugly shelter’d from the blast,
My eyes right pensively I cast
Where famed sir Williams’s bark
Lies moor’d, awaiting the time when
That Noah of citizens again
Shall venture on such ark!

But, ah! still round the corner creeps,
That treach’rous wind! and still it sweeps
Too clean the path I tread:
Arm’d as with numerous needle points,
Its painful searchings pierce my joints,
And then capsize my head!

So home again full trot I speed,
As, after wound, the warrior’s steed;
And sit me down, and sigh
O’er the hard-hearted fate of those
Who feel like me these east-wind woes
That brain and marrow try!

Again upon the sea I look,
Of nature that exhaustless book
With endless wonder fraught:--
How oft upon that sea I’ve gazed,
Whose world of waters has amazed
Man--social or untaught.

And, spite of all that some may say,
_It is_ the place from day to day,
Whereon the soul can dwell!
_My_ soul enkindles at the sight
Of such accumulated might;
And loves such grandeur well!

J. S.

[173] Wellington-crescent.

[174] Albion-place.

~June 17.~

_Sts. Nicandeo_ and _Marcian_, about A. D. 303. _St. Botulph_, Abbot,
A. D. 655. _St. Avitus_, or _Avy_, A. D. 530. _St. Molingus_, or
_Dairchilla_, Bp. A. D. 697. _St. Prior_, Hermit, 4th Cent.

_St. Alban._

This saint, the proto-martyr of Britain, is in the church of England calendar and almanacs on this day, but he stands in the Romish calendar, on the 22d of the month.

St. Alban was born at Verulam, in Hertfordshire, in the third century, and went to Rome, where he served seven years as a soldier under Dioclesian. He afterwards returned to England, became a Christian, and suffered martyrdom in 303, during the dreadful persecution raised by Dioclesian. Several miracles are said by Bede to have been wrought at his martyrdom.[175]

The fame of Alban, recorded as it was by Bede, made a deep impression on the minds of the superstitious. “The Ecclesiastical History” of that author, was published in 731; and in the year 795, Offa, king of the Mercians, built a monastery to the honour of Alban, on the place where he had suffered, then called by the Anglo-Saxons, Holmhurst, but since, in honour of the martyr, named St. Alban’s. The town built near the abbey still retains the latter appellation; and the abbey-church is even yet in existence, having, at the suppression of the monasteries by Henry the Eighth, been purchased by a rich clothier of the name of Stump, for 400_l._, and converted by him into a parochial church, for the use of the inhabitants. In the year 1257, some workmen repairing this ancient church, found the remains of some sheets of lead, containing relics, with a thick plate of lead over them, upon which was cut the following inscription:--

“In hoc Mausoleo inventum est
Venerabile corpus SANCTI ALBANI, _Proto_
_Martyris Anglorum_.”[176]

* * * * *

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Monkey Flower. _Mimulus luteus._
Dedicated to _St. Nicandeo_.

[175] Audley.

[176] Brady’s Clavis.

~June 18.~

_Sts. Marcus_ and _Marcellianus_, A. D. 286. _St. Marina_, 8th. Cent.
_St. Elizabeth_ of Sconage, Abbess, A. D. 1165. _St. Amand_, Bp. of
Bourdeaux.

CHRONOLOGY.

1815. The battle of Waterloo, which terminated the personal power of Napoleon, was fought on this day.

BATTLE OF WATERLOO

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; ’twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying fleet--
But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, nearer, deadlier than before.
Arm! arm! it is!--it is--the cannon’s opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne’er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused by the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips--“The foe! they come! they come!”

And wild, and high, the “Cameron’s gathering rose!”
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! but with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day
Battle’s magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,--friend,--foe,--in one red burial blent!

_Byron._

On the 18th of June, 1817, the Strand-bridge, a noble structure, erected at the expense of private individuals, was opened for the public accommodation, under the denomination of Waterloo-bridge, with military and other ceremonies.

These poor “Buy-a-Broom” girls exactly dress now,
As Hollar etch’d such girls two cent’ries ago;
All formal and stiff, with legs, only, at ease--
Yet, pray, judge for yourself; and don’t, if you please,
Like Matthews’s “Chyle,” in his Monolo-Play,
Cry “_The Ev’ry-Day Book_ is quite _right_, I dare say;”
But ask for the print, at old print shops, (they’ll show it,)
And look at it, “with your own eyes,” and you’ll “_know_ it.”

*

These girls are Flemings. They come to England from the Netherlands in the spring, and take their departure with the summer. They have only one low, shrill, twittering note, “Buy a broom?” sometimes varying into the singular plural, “Buy a broom_s_?” It is a domestic cry; two or three go together, and utter it in company with each other; not in concert, nor to a neighbourhood, and scarcely louder than will attract the notice of an inmate seen at a parlour window, or an open street-door, or a lady or two passing in the street. Their hair is tightened up in front, and at the sides, and behind, and the ends brought together, and so secured, or skewered, at the top of the head, as if it were constricted by a tourniquet: the little close cap, not larger than an infant’s, seems to be put on and tied down by strings fastened beneath the chin, merely as a concealment of the machinery. Without a single inflexion of the body, and for any thing that appears to the contrary, it may be incased in tin. From the waist, the form abruptly and boldly bows out like a large beehive, or an arch of carpentry, built downward from above the hips, for the purpose of opening and distending the enormous petticoat into numerous plaits and folds, and thereby allowing the legs to walk without incumbrance. Their figures are exactly miniatured in an unpainted penny doll of turnery ware, made all round, before and behind, and sold in the toyshops for the amusement of infancy.

These Flemish girls are of low stature, with features as formal and old fashioned as their dress. Their gait and manner answer to both. They carry their brooms, not under the left arm, but upon it, as they would children, upright between the arm and the side, with the heads in front of the shoulder. One, and one only, of the brooms is invariably held in the right hand, and this is elevated with the sharp cry “Buy a broom?” or “Buy a brooms?” to any one likely to become a purchaser, till it is either bought or wholly declined. The sale of their brooms is the sole purpose for which they cross the seas to us; and they suffer nothing to divert them from their avocation. A broom girl’s countenance, so wearisomely indicates unwearied attention to the “main chance,” and is so inflexibly solemn, that you doubt whether she ever did or can smile; yet when she does, you are astonished that she does not always: her face does not relax by degrees, but breaks suddenly into an arch laugh. This appearance may be extorted by a joke, while driving a bargain, but not afterwards: she assumes it, perhaps, as a sort of “turn” to hasten the “business transaction;” for when that is concluded, the intercourse ends immediately. Neither lingering nor loitering, they keep constantly walking on, and looking out for customers. They seldom speak to each other; nor when their brooms are disposed of, do they stop and rejoice upon it as an end to their labours; but go homewards reflectively, with the hand every now and then dipping into the pocket of the huge petticoat, and remaining there for a while, as if counting the receipts of the day while they walk, and reckoning what the before accumulated riches will total to, with the new addition. They seem influenced by this admonition, “get all you can, and keep all you get.”

Rather late in an autumn afternoon, in Battersea-fields, I saw one of these girls by herself; she was seated, with her brooms on her lap, in a bit of scenery, which, from Weirotter’s etchings and other prints, I have always fancied resembled a view in the Low Countries: it is an old windmill, near the “Red-house,” with some low buildings among willows, on the bank of the Thames, thrown up to keep the river from overflowing a marshy flat. To my imagination, she was fixed to that spot in a reverie on her “vader-land.[177]” She gazed on the strait line of stunted trees, as if it were the line of beauty; and from the motion of her lips, and the enthusiasm of her look, I deemed she was reciting a passage from a poet of her native country. Elevation of feeling, in one of these poor girls, was hardly to be looked for; and yet I know not why I should have excluded it, as not appertaining to their character, except from their seeming intentness on thrift alone. They are cleanly, frugal, and no wasters of time; and that they are capable of sentiment, I state on the authority of my imagining concerning this poor girl; whereon, too, I pledge myself not to have been mistaken, for the language of the heart is universal--and hers discoursed to mine; though from the situation wherein I stood, she saw me not. I was not, nor could I be, in love with _her_--I was in love with human nature.

The “brooms” are one entire piece of wood; the sweeping part being slivered from the handle, and the shavings neatly turned over and bound round into the form of a besom. They are bought to dust curtains and hangings with; but good housewives have another use for them; one of them dipt in fair water, sprinkles the dried clothes in the laundry, for the process of ironing, infinitely better than the hand; it distributes the water more equally and more quickly.

“_Buy a Broom?!!_”

There is a print with this inscription. It is a caricature representation of Mr. Brougham, with his barrister’s wig, in the dress of a broom girl, and for its likeness of that gentleman, and the play on his name, it is amazingly popular; especially since he contended for a man’s right to his own personal appearance, in the case of _Abernethy_ v. _The Lancet_, before the chancellor. Mr. Brougham’s good-humoured allusion to his own countenance, was taken by the auditors in court, to relate particularly to his portrait in this print, called “_Buy a Broom?_” It is certainly as good as “The _Great Bell_ of Lincoln’s-inn,” and two or three other prints of gentlemen eminent at the chancery-bar, sketched and etched, apparently, by the same happy hand at a thorough likeness.

* * * * *

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Horned Poppy. _Chelidonium glaucum._
Dedicated to _St. Marina_.

[177] _Vader-land_, a word signifying country, but infinitely more
expressive; it was first adopted by Lord Byron into our language; he
englishes it “Fatherland.”

~June 19.~

_Sts. Gervasius_ and _Protasius_. _St. Boniface_, Abp., Apostle of
Russia, A. D. 1009. _St. Juliana Falconieri_, A. D. 1340. _St. Die_,
or _Deodatus_, Bp. A. D. 679 or 680.

CHRONOLOGY.

1215. Magna Charta was signed, on compulsion, by king John, at Runnymead, near Windsor.

1820. Sir Joseph Banks, president of the royal society, died, aged 77.

_The Summer Midnight._

The breeze of night has sunk to rest,
Upon the river’s tranquil breast,
And every bird has sought her nest,
Where silent is her minstrelsy;
The queen of heaven is sailing high,
A pale bark on the azure sky,
Where not a breath is heard to sigh--
So deep the soft tranquillity.

Forgotten now the heat of day
That on the burning waters lay,
The noon of night her mantle gray,
Spreads, from the sun’s high blazonry;
But glittering in that gentle night
There gleams a line of silvery light,
As tremulous on the shores of white
It hovers sweet and playfully.

At peace the distant shallop rides;
Not as when dashing o’er her sides
The roaring bay’s unruly tides
Were beating round her gloriously;
But every sail is furl’d and still,
Silent the seaman’s whistle shrill,
While dreamy slumbers seem to thrill
With parted hours of ecstacy.

Stars of the many spangled heaven!
Faintly this night your beams are given,
Tho’ proudly where your hosts are driven
Ye rear your dazzling galaxy;
Since far and wide a softer hue
Is spread across the plains of blue,
Where in bright chorus ever true
For ever swells your harmony.

O! for some sadly dying note
Upon this silent hour to float,
Where from the bustling world remote,
The lyre might wake its melody;
One feeble strain is all can swell
From mine almost deserted shell,
In mournful accents yet to tell
That slumbers not its minstrelsy.

_There is an hour_ of deep repose
That yet upon my heart shall close,
When all that nature dreads and knows
Shall burst upon me wond’rously;
O may, I then awake for ever
My harp to rapture’s high endeavour,
And as from earth’s vain scene I sever,
Be lost in Immortality!

* * * * *

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

La Julienne de Nuit. _Hesperis tristis._
Dedicated to _St. Juliana_.

~June 20.~

_St. Silverius_, Pope, A. D. 538. _St. Gobian_, Priest and Martyr,
about 656. _St. Idaburga_, or _Edburge_. _St. Bain_, Bp. of Terouanne
(now St. Omer,) and Abbot, about A. D. 711.

_Translation of Edward._

This day is so distinguished in the church of England calendar. Edward was the king of the West Saxons, murdered by order of Elfrida. He had not only an anniversary on the 18th of March, in commemoration of his sufferings, or rather of the silly and absurd miracles alleged to have been wrought at his tomb; but he was even honoured by our weak forefathers with another festival on the 20th of June, in each year, in remembrance of the removal, or _translation_, as it is termed, of his relics at Wareham, where they were inhumed, to the minster at Salisbury, three years after his decease.

It is observed by Mr. Brady, on the _translation_ of St. Edward, as follows:--

“At the period this solemn act of absurd pomp took place, all Europe was plunged in a state of profound ignorance and mental darkness; no marvel, therefore, that great importance should have been attached to such superstitious usage; but for what reason our reformers chose to keep up a recollection of that folly, cannot readily be ascertained.

“Of the origin of translations of this kind, much has been written; and if we are to credit the assertions of those monkish writers, whose works are yet found in catholic countries, though they have themselves long passed to the silent tomb, we must believe not only that they had their source from a principle of devotion, but that peculiar advantages accrued to those who encouraged their increase. In the year 359, the emperor Constantius, out of a presumed and, perhaps, not inconsistent respect, caused the remains of St. Andrew and St. Luke to be removed from their ancient place of interment to the temple of the twelve apostles, at Constantinople; and from that example, the practice of searching for the bodies of saints and martyrs increased so rapidly, that in the year 386, we find almost the whole of the devotees engaged in that pursuit. Relics, of course, speedily became of considerable value; and as they were all alleged to possess peculiar virtues, no expense or labour were spared to provide such treasures for every public religious foundation. Hence translations innumerable took place of the decayed members of persons reputed saints; and where the entire bodies could not be collected, the pious contented themselves with possessing such parts alone as ‘Providence chose to bless them with.’ Without these sacred relics, no establishments could expect to thrive; and so provident had the persons been who laboured in their collection, that not a single religious house but could produce one or more of those invaluable remains; though, unless we are to believe that most relics, like the holy cross itself, possessed the power of self-augmentation, we must either admit, that some of our circumspect forefathers were imposed upon, or that St. John the Baptist had more heads than that of which he was so cruelly deprived, as well as several of their favourite saints having each kindly afforded them two or three skeletons of their precious bodies; circumstances that frequently occurred, ‘because,’ says Father John Ferand, of Anecy, ‘God was pleased so to multiply and re-produce them, for the devotion of the faithful!’

“Of the number of these relics that have been preserved, it is useless to attempt a description, nor, indeed, could they be detailed in many volumes; yet it may gratify curiosity to afford some brief account of such as, in addition to the heads of St. John the Baptist, were held in the greatest repute, were it for no other reason than to show how the ignorance and credulity of the commonalty have, in former ages, been imposed upon, viz.:--

“A finger of St. Andrew;

“A finger of St. John the Baptist;

“The thumb of St. Thomas;

“A tooth of our Lord;

“A rib of our Lord, or, as it is profanely styled, of the _Verbum caro factum_, the word made flesh;

“The hem of our Lord’s garment, which cured the diseased woman;

“The seamless coat of our Lord;

“A tear which our Lord shed over Lazarus; it was preserved by an angel, who gave it in a phial to Mary Magdalene;

“Two handkerchiefs, on which are impressions of our Saviour’s face; the one sent by our Lord himself as a present to Agbarus, prince of Edessa; the other given at the time of his crucifixion to a holy woman, named Veronica;

“The rod of Moses, with which he performed his miracles;

“A lock of hair of Mary Magdalene’s;

“A hem of Joseph’s garment;

“A feather of the Holy Ghost;

“A finger of the Holy Ghost;

“A feather of the angel Gabriel;

“A finger of a cherubim;

“The water-pots used at the marriage in Galilee;

“The slippers of the antediluvian Enoch;

“The face of a seraphim, with only part of the nose;

“The ‘_snout_’ of a seraphim, thought to have belonged to the preceding;

“The coal that broiled St. Lawrence;

“The square buckler, lined with ‘red velvet,’ and the short sword of St. Michael;

“A phial of the ‘sweat of St. Michael,’ when he contended with Satan;

“Some of the rays of the star that appeared to the Magi; with innumerable others, not quite consistent with decency to be here described.

“The miracles wrought by these and other such precious remains, have been enlarged upon by writers, whose testimony, aided by the _protecting care_ of the inquisition, no one durst openly dispute who was not of the ‘holy brotherhood;’ although it would appear, by the confessions of some of those respectable persons, that ‘instances have occurred of their failure,’ but that they always ‘recovered their virtue, when,’ as Galbert, a monk of Marchiennes, informs us, ‘they were flogged with rods, &c.!’”[178]

* * * * *

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Doubtful Poppy. _Papaver dubium._
Dedicated to _St. Silverius_.

[178] Brady’s Clavis.

~June 21.~

_St. Aloysius_, or _Lewis Gonzaga_, A. D. 1591. _St. Ralph_, Abp. of
Bourges, A. D. 866. _St. Meen_, in Latin, _Mevennus_, also _Melanus_,
Abbot in Britanny, about A. D. 617. _St. Aaron_, Abbot in Britanny,
6th Cent. _St. Eusebius_, Bp. of Samosata, A. D. 379 or 380. _St.
Leufredus_, in French, _Leufroi_, Abbot, A. D. 738.

_Summer Morning and Evening._

The glowing morning, crown’d with youthful roses,
Bursts on the world in virgin sweetness smiling,
And as she treads, the waking flowers expand,
Shaking their dewy tresses. Nature’s choir
Of untaught minstrels blend their various powers
In one grand anthem, emulous to salute
Th’ approaching king of day, and vernal Hope
Jocund trips forth to meet the healthful breeze,
To mark th’ expanding bud, the kindling sky,
And join the general pæan.
While, like a matron, who has long since done
With the gay scenes of life, whose children all
Have sunk before her on the lap of earth--
Upon whose mild expressive face the sun
Has left a smile that tells of former joys--
Grey Eve glides on in pensive silence musing.
As the mind triumphs o’er the sinking frame,
So as her form decays, her starry beams
Shed brightening lustre, till on night’s still bosom
Serene she sinks, and breathes her peaceful last,
While on the rising breeze sad melodies,
Sweet as the notes that soothe the dying pillow,
When angel-music calls the saint to heaven,
Come gently floating: ’tis the requiem
Chaunted by Philomel for day departed.

_Ado._

* * * * *

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Viper’s Buglos. _Echium vulgare._
Dedicated to _St. Aloysius._

Now cometh welcome Summer with great strength,
Joyously smiling in high lustihood,
Conferring on us days of longest length,
For rest or labour, in town, field, or wood;
Offering, to our gathering, richest stores
Of varied herbage, corn, cool fruits, and flowers,
As forth they rise from Nature’s open pores,
To fill our homesteads, and to deck our bowers;
Inviting us to renovate our health
By recreation; or, by ready hand,
And calculating thought, t’ improve our wealth:
And so, invigorating all the land,
And all the tenantry of earth or flood,
Cometh the plenteous Summer--full of good.

*

“How beautiful is summer,” says the elegant author of _Sylvan Sketches_, a volume that may be regarded as a sequel to the _Flora Domestica_, from the hand of the same lady.--“How beautiful is summer! the trees are heavy with fruit and foliage; the sun is bright and cheering in the morning; the shade of broad and leafy boughs is refreshing at noon; and the calm breezes of the evening whisper gently through the leaves, which reflect the liquid light of the moon when she is seen--

---------“lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.”

On page 337 of the present work, there is the spring dress of our ancestors in the fourteenth century, from an illumination in a manuscript copied by Strutt. From the same illumination, their summer dress in that age is here represented.

LONGEST DAY.

No day is disadvantageous to an agreeable thought or two upon “Time;” and the present, being the _longest day_, is selected for submitting to perusal a very pleasant little apologue from a miscellany addressed to the young. The object of the writer was evidently to do good, and it is hoped that its insertion here, in furtherance of the purpose, may not be less pleasing to the editor who first introduced it to the public eye, than it will be found by the readers of the _Every-Day Book_. This is the tale.

THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM.

An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer’s kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer’s morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.

Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable,) changed countenance with alarm; the hands made a vain effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke:--

“I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking.” Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it was on the very point of _striking_.

“Lazy wire!” exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.--“Very good,” replied the pendulum: “it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me,--it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards, year after year, and do.”--“As to that,” said the dial, “Is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?”

“For all that,” resumed the pendulum, “it is very dark here: and, although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if you wish, I’ll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened this morning to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of you above there can give me the exact sum.”

The minute hand, being _quick_ at figures, presently replied, “Eighty_-_six thousand four hundred times.”

“Exactly so,” replied the pendulum; “well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I’ll stop.”

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied:--

“Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden notion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to _think_ of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to _do_. Would you now do me the favour to give about half a dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument?”

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace.--“Now,” resumed the dial, “may I be allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?”

“Not in the least,” replied the pendulum; “it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of _millions_.”

“Very good,” replied the dial; “but recollect, that though you may _think_ of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to _execute_ but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in.”

“That consideration staggers me, I confess,” said the pendulum. “Then I hope,” resumed the dial-plate, “we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon, if we stand idling thus.”

Upon this the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hand began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter.

When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the night.

* * * * *

A celebrated modern writer says, “take care of the _minutes_, and the _hours_ will take care of themselves.” This is an admirable remark, and might be very seasonably recollected when we begin to be “weary in well-doing,” from the thought of having much to do. The present moment is all we have to do with in any sense; the past is irrecoverable; the future is uncertain; nor is it fair to burthen one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the _moment_ is the trouble thereof. If we had to walk a hundred miles, we should still have to set but one step at a time, and this process continued would infallibly bring us to our journey’s end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased, by calculating in a minute the exertion of hours.

Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its sufferings, or encounter all its crosses at once. One moment comes laden with its own _little_ burthens, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last; if _one_ could be borne, so can another, and another.

Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the duties, the labours, the trials to temper and patience that may be expected. Now, this is unjustly laying the burthen of many thousand moments upon _one_. Let any one resolve always to do right _now_, leaving _then_ to do as it can; and if he were to live to the age of Methusalem, he would never do wrong. But the common error is to resolve to act right after breakfast, or after dinner, or to-morrow morning, or _next time_; but _now_, _just_ now, _this_ once, we must go on the same as ever.

It is easy, for instance, for the most ill-tempered person to resolve, that the next time he is provoked he will not let his temper overcome him; but the victory would be to subdue temper on the _present_ provocation. If, without taking up the burthen of the future, we would always make the _single_ effort at the _present_ moment, while there would, at any time, be very little to do, yet, by this simple process continued, every thing would at last be done.

It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, merely because we forget, that when to-morrow comes, _then_ will be _now_. Thus life passes with many, in resolutions for the future, which the present never fulfils.

It is not thus with those, who, “by _patient continuance in well-doing_, seek for glory, honour, and immortality:” day by day, minute by minute, they execute the appointed task to which the requisite measure of time and strength is proportioned: and thus, having worked while it was called day, they at length rest from their labours, and their “works follow them.”

Let us then, “whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might, recollecting that _now_ is the proper and accepted time.”[179]

[179] From the _Youth’s Magazine_, for November, 1819.

~June 22.~

_St. Paulinus_, Bp. of Nola, A. D. 431. _St. Alban_, Proto-Martyr of
Britain, A. D. 303.

_American Newspapers._

The following singular advertisement, appeared in the “Connecticut Courant,” of June 2, 1784.

TAKE NOTICE, DEBTORS

_For Newspapers to the Subscriber._

This is the last time of asking in this way; all those who settle their accounts by the 18th of June, instant, will have the thanks of their humble servant; and those that neglect, will find their accounts in the hands of some person, who will collect them in a more fashionable way, but more expensive.

JAMES JOHNSON.

* * * * *

FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Canterbury Bells. _Campanula Medium._
Dedicated to _St. Paulinus_.

~June 23.~

_St. Etheldreda_, or _Audry_, A. D. 679. _St. Mary_ of Oignies, A. D.
1213.

This engraving represents a rejoicing formerly common to this season; it is from a French print, inscribed “_Le Feu de St. Jean Mariette ex_.”

The _summer solstice_ has been celebrated throughout all ages by the lighting up of fires, and hence on “St. John’s eve,” or the vigil of the festival of St. John the Baptist, there have been popular ceremonials of this kind from the earliest times of the Romish church to the present. Before, however, particularizing any of these celebrations, it may be worth while to notice the following practice, which is still maintained.

_Midsummer Eve, in Ireland._