Chapter III: Preface (2)

Under this head it is proposed to place the “Mean temperature of every day in the Year for London and its environs, on an average of Twenty Years,” as deduced by Mr. Howard, from observations commencing with the year 1797, and ending with 1816.

For the first three years, Mr. Howard’s observations were conducted at Plaistow, a village about three miles and a half N. N. E. of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, four miles E. of the edge of London, with the Thames a mile and a half to the S., and an open level country, for the most part well-drained land, around it. The thermometer was attached to a post set in the ground, under a Portugal laurel, and from the lowness of this tree, the whole instrument was within three feet of the turf; it had the house and offices, buildings of ordinary height, to the S. and S. E. distant about twenty yards, but was in other respects freely exposed.

For the next three years, the observations were made partly at Plaistow and partly at Mr. Howard’s laboratory at Stratford, a mile and a half to the N. W., on ground nearly of the same elevation. The thermometer had an open N. W. exposure, at six feet from the ground, close to the river Lea.

The latter observations were made at Tottenham-green, four miles N. of London, which situation, as the country to the N. W. especially is somewhat hilly and more wooded, Mr. Howard considers more sheltered than the former site; the elevation of the ground is a trifle greater, and the thermometer was about ten feet from the general level of the garden before it, with a very good exposure N., but not quite enough detached from the house, having been affixed to the outer door-case, in a frame which gave it a little projection, and admitted the air behind it.

On this day, then, the average of these twenty years’ observations gives

Mean Temperature 36·57.

* * * * *

It is, further, proposed to notice certain astronomical and meteorological phenomena; the migration and singing of birds; the appearance of insects; the leafing and flowering of plants; and other particulars peculiar to animal, vegetable, and celestial existences. These observations will only be given from sources thoroughly authentic, and the authorities will be subjoined. _Communications_ for this department will be gladly received.

[6] Mirror of the Months.

[7] Vita Edw. II.

[8] In Architren. lib. 2.

[9] The name of some horse.

[10] The name of another horse.

[11] The name of a cow.

[12] The author of Waverly, in a note to the _Abbot_, mentions three
Moralities played during the time of the reformation--_The Abbot of
Unreason_, _The Boy Bishop_, and the _Pepe o’ Fools_--may not _pack o’
fools_ be a corruption of this last?

[13] Blount’s Plug. Antiq. by Beckwith.

~January 2.~

_St. Concord._

Is said, by his English biographer Butler, to have been a sub-deacon in a desert, martyred at Spoletto, about the year 178; whereto the same biographer adds, “In the Roman Martyrology his name occurs on the _first_, in some others on the _second_ of January.” The infallible _Roman church_, to end the discord, rejects the authority of the “_Roman Martyrology_” and keeps the festival of Concord on the second of January.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 35·92.

~January 3.~

THE RIDDLE OF THE YEAR,

_By Cleobulus_.

There is a father with twice six sons; these sons have thirty daughters a-piece, party-coloured, having one cheek white and the other black, who never see each other’s face, nor live above twenty-four hours.

* * * * *

Cleobulus, to whom this riddle is attributed, was one of the seven wise men of Greece, who lived about 570 years before the birth of Christ.

Riddles are of the highest antiquity; the oldest on record is in the book of Judges xiv. 14-18. We are told by Plutarch, that the girls of his times worked at netting or sewing, and the most ingenious “made riddles.”

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 35·60.

~January 4.~

_Prepare for Twelfth-day._

The “Mirror of the Months,” a reflector of “The Months” by Mr. Leigh Hunt, enlarged to include other objects, adopts, “Above all other proverbs, that which says, ‘There’s nothing like the time present,’--partly because ‘the time present’ is but a periphrasis for _Now_!” The series of delightful things which Mr. Hunt links together by the word _Now_ in his “Indicator,” is well remembered, and his pleasant disciple tells us, “_Now_, then, the cloudy canopy of sea-coal smoke that hangs over London, and crowns her queen of capitals, floats thick and threefold; for fires and feastings are rife, and every body is either ‘out’ or ‘at home’ every night. _Now_, if a frosty day or two does happen to pay us a flying visit, on its way to the North Pole, how the little boys make slides on the pathways, for lack of ponds, and, it may be, trip up an occasional housekeeper just as he steps out of his own door; who forthwith vows vengeance, in the shape of ashes, on all the slides in his neighbourhood, not, doubtless, out of vexation at his own mishap, and revenge against the petty perpetrators of it, but purely to avert the like from others!--_Now_ the bloom-buds of the fruit-trees, which the late leaves of autumn had concealed from the view, stand confessed, upon the otherwise bare branches, and, dressed in their patent wind-and-waterproof coats, brave the utmost severity of the season,--their hard, unpromising outsides, compared with the forms of beauty which they contain, reminding us of their friends the butterflies, when in the chrysalis state.--_Now_ the labour of the husbandman is, for once in the year, at a stand; and he haunts the alehouse fire, or lolls listlessly over the half-door of the village smithy, and watches the progress of the labour which he unconsciously envies; tasting for once in his life (without knowing it) the bitterness of that _ennui_ which he begrudges to his betters.--_Now_, melancholy-looking men wander ‘by twos and threes’ through market-towns, with their faces as blue as the aprons that are twisted round their waists; their ineffectual rakes resting on their shoulders, and a withered cabbage hoisted upon a pole; and sing out their doleful petition of ‘Pray remember the poor gardeners, who can get no work!’”

_Now_, however, not to conclude mournfully, let us remember that the officers and some of the principal inhabitants of most parishes in London, preceded by their beadle in the full majesty of a full great coat and gold laced hat, with his walking staff of state higher than himself, and headed by a goodly polished silver globe, go forth from the vestry room, and call on every chief parishioner for a voluntary contribution towards a provision for cheering the abode of the needy at this cheerful season:--and _now_ the unfeeling and mercenary urge “false pretences” upon “public grounds,” with the vain hope of concealing their private reasons for refusing “public charity:”--and _now_, the upright and kind-hearted welcome the annual call, and dispense bountifully. Their prosperity is a blessing. Each scattereth and yet increaseth; their pillows are pillows of peace; and at the appointed time, they lie down with their fathers, and sleep the sleep of just men made perfect, in everlasting rest.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 36·42.

~January 5.~

TWELFTH-DAY EVE.

_Agricultural Custom._

In the parish of Pauntley, a village on the borders of the county of Gloucester, next Worcestershire, and in the neighbourhood, “a custom, intended to prevent the smut in wheat, in some respect resembling the Scotch Beltein, prevails.” “On the eve of Twelfth-day all the servants of every farmer assemble together in one of the fields that has been sown with wheat. At the end of twelve lands, they make twelve fires in a row with straw; around one of which, made larger than the rest, they drink a cheerful glass of cyder to their master’s health, and success to the future harvest; then, returning home, they feast on cakes made of caraways, &c. soaked in cyder, which they claim as a reward for their past labours in sowing the grain.”[14]

_Credulity and Incredulity._

In the beginning of the year 1825, the flimsiest bubbles of the most bungling projectors obtained the public confidence; at the close of the year that confidence was refused to firms and establishments of unquestionable security. Just before Christmas, from sudden demands greatly beyond the amounts which were ready for ordinary supply, bankers in London of known respectability stopped payment; the panic became general throughout the kingdom, and numerous country banks failed, the funds fell, Exchequer bills were at a heavy discount, and public securities of every description suffered material depression. This exigency rendered prudence still more circumspect, and materially retarded the operations of legitimate business, to the injury of all persons engaged in trade. In several manufacturing districts, transactions of every kind were suspended, and manufactories wholly ceased from work.

EXCHEQUER BILLS.

_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._

Sir,

As just at this time it may be interesting to many of your readers, to know the origin of Exchequer bills, I send you the following account.

In the years 1696 and 1697, the silver currency of the kingdom being, by clipping, washing, grinding, filing, &c. reduced to about half its nominal value, acts of parliament were passed for its being called in, and re-coined; but whilst the re-coinage was going on exchequer bills were first issued, to supply the demands of trade. The quantity of silver re-coined, according to D’Avenant, from the old hammered money, amounted to 5,725,933_l._ It is worthy of remark, that through the difficulties experienced by the Bank of England (which had been established only three years,) during the re-coinage, they having taken the clipped silver at its nominal value, and guineas at an advanced price, bank notes were in 1697 at a discount of from 15 to 20 per cent. “During the re-coinage,” says D’Avenant, “all great dealings were transacted by tallies, bank-bills, and goldsmiths’ notes. Paper credit did not only supply the place of running cash, but greatly multiplied the kingdom’s stock; for tallies and bank-bills did to many uses serve as well, and to some better than gold and silver; and this artificial wealth which necessity had introduced, did make us less feel the want of that real treasure, which the war and our losses at sea had drawn out of the nation.”

I am, &c.

J. G.

THE CHRISTMAS DAYS.

_A Family Sketch._

Bring me a garland of holly,
Rosemary, ivy, and bays;
Gravity’s nothing but folly,
Till after the Christmas day

Fill out a glass of Bucellas;
Here!--boys put the crown on my head:
Now, boys!--shake hands--be good fellows,
And all be--_good men_--when I’m dead.

Come, girls, come! now for your kisses.
Hearty ones--louder--loud--louder!
How I’m surrounded with blisses!
Proud men may here see a prouder.

Now, you rogues, go kiss your mother:--
Ah! ah!--she won’t let you?--pho! pho!
Gently--there, there now!--don’t smother:--
Old lady! come, _now_ I’ll kiss _you_.

Here take the garland, and wear it;
‘Nay, nay!’ but you must, and you shall;
For, _here’s such a kiss_!--come, don’t fear it;
If you do--turn round to the wall.

A kiss too for Number Eleven,
The Newcome--the young Christmas berry--
My Alice!--who makes my girls seven,
And makes merry Christmas more merry.

Another good glass of Bucellas,
While I’ve the crown on my head;
Laugh on my good girls, and good fellows,
Till it’s off--then off to bed.

Hey!--now, for the Christmas holly,
Rosemary, ivy, and bays;
Gravity’s nothing but folly,
Till after the Christmas days.

_December 30, 1825._

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 37·47.

* * * * *

The _bean_ found out, and _monarch_ crown’d,
He dubs a fool, and sends him round,
To raise the frolic when it’s low--
Himself commands the wine to flow.
Each watches for the king to quaff,
When, all at once, up springs the laugh;
They cry “The king drinks!” and away
They shout a long and loud huzza!
And when it’s ended comes the dance,
And--thus is Twelfth-night spent in France.

*

[14] Rudge’s Gloucester.

~January 6.~

_Epiphany.--Old Christmas-day._

Holiday at the Public-offices.

TWELFTH-DAY.

It is only in certain rural parts of France that the merriments represented above still prevail. The engraving is from an old print, “I. Marriette ex.” inscribed as in the next column.

“L’HIVER.
_Les Divertissements du Roi-boit._

Loin dicy mille soins facheux,
Que porte avec soy la coronne;
Celle quá table Bacchus donne
Ne fit jamais de malheureux.”

This print may be regarded a faithful picture of the almost obsolete usage.

During the holidays, and especially on Twelfth-night, school-boys dismiss “the cares and the fears” of academic rule; or they are regarded but as a passing cloud, intercepting only for an instant the sunshine of joy wherewith their sports are brightened. Gerund-grinding and parsing are usually prepared for at the last moment, until when “the master’s chair” is only “remembered to be forgotten.” There is entire suspension of the authority of that class, by whom the name of “Busby” is venerated, till “Black Monday” arrives, and chaises and stages convey the young Christmas-keepers to the “seat of government.”

Him! sui generis, alone,
Busby! the great substantive noun!
Whose look was lightning, and whose word
Was thunder to the boys who heard,
Is, as regards his long vocation,
Pictured by this his great location.
Look on it well, boys, and digest
The symbols!--learn--and shun the rest!

The name of Busby!--not the musical doctor, but a late magisterial doctor of Westminster school--celebrated for severe discipline, is a “word of fear” to all living who know his fame! It is perpetuated by an engraved representation of his chair, said to have been designed by sir Peter Lily, and presented by that artist to king Charles II. The arms, and each arm, are appalling; and the import of the other devices are, or ought to be, known by every tyro. Every prudent person lays in stores before they are wanted, and Dr. Busby’s chair may as well be “in the house” on Twelfth-day as on any other; not as a mirth-spoiler, but as a subject which we know to-day that we have “by us,” whereon to inquire and discuss at a more convenient season. Dr. Busby was a severe, but not an ill-natured man. It is related of him and one of his scholars, that during the doctor’s absence from his study, the boy found some plums in it, and being moved by lickerishness, began to eat some; first, however, he waggishly cried out, “I publish the banns of matrimony between my mouth and these plums; if any here present know just cause or impediment why they should not be united, you are to declare it, or hereafter hold your peace;” and then he ate. But the doctor had overheard the proclamation, and said nothing till the next morning, when causing the boy to be “brought up,” and disposed for punishment, he grasped the well-known instrument, and said, “I publish the banns of matrimony between this rod and this boy: if any of you know just cause or impediment why they should not be united, you are to declare it.”--The boy himself called out, “I forbid the banns!” “For what cause?” inquired the doctor. “Because,” said the boy, “the parties are not agreed!” The doctor enjoyed the validity of the objection urged by the boy’s wit, and the ceremony was not performed. This is an instance of Dr. Busby’s admiration of talent: and let us hope, in behalf of its seasonableness here, that it was at Christmas time.

_The King drinks._

We recur once more to this subject, for the sake of remarking that there is an account of a certain curate, “who having taken his preparations over evening, when all men cry (as the manner is) _The king drinketh_, chanting his masse the next morning, fell asleep in his memento; and when he awoke, added, with a loud voice, _The king drinketh_.” This mal-apropos exclamation must have proceeded from a foreign ecclesiastic: we have no account of the ceremony to which it refers having prevailed in merry England.

* * * * *

An excellent pen-and-ink picture of “_Merry England_”[15] represents honest old Froissart, the French chronicler, as saying of some English in his time, that “they amused themselves sadly after the fashion of their country;” whereon the portrayer of _Merry England_ observes, “They have indeed a way of their own. Their mirth is a relaxation from gravity, a challenge to ‘Dull Care’ to ‘be gone;’ and one is not always clear at first, whether the appeal is successful. The cloud may still hang on the brow; the ice may not thaw at once. To help them out in their new character is an act of charity. Any thing short of hanging or drowning is something to begin with. They do not enter into their amusements the less doggedly because they may plague others. They like a thing the better for hitting them a rap on the knuckles, for making their blood tingle. They do not dance or sing, but they make good cheer--‘eat, drink, and are merry.’ No people are fonder of field-sports, Christmas gambols, or practical jests. Blindman’s-buff, hunt-the-slipper, hot-cockles, and snap-dragon, are all approved English games, full of laughable surprises and ‘hair-breadth ’scapes,’ and serve to amuse the winter fireside after the roast beef and plum-pudding, the spiced ale and roasted crab, thrown (hissing-hot) into the foaming tankard. Punch (not the liquor, but the puppet) is not, I fear, of English origin; but there is no place, I take it, where he finds himself more at home or meets a more joyous welcome, where he collects greater crowds at the corners of streets, where he opens the eyes or distends the cheeks wider, or where the bangs and blows, the uncouth gestures, ridiculous anger and screaming voice of the chief performer excite more boundless merriment or louder bursts of laughter among all ranks and sorts of people. An English theatre is the very throne of pantomime; nor do I believe that the gallery and boxes of Drury-lane or Covent-garden filled on the proper occasions with holiday folks (big or little) yield the palm for undisguised, tumultuous, inextinguishable laughter to any spot in Europe. I do not speak of the refinement of the mirth (this is no fastidious speculation) but of its cordiality, on the return of these long-looked-for and licensed periods; and I may add here, by way of illustration, that the English common people are a sort of grown children, spoiled and sulky, perhaps, but full of glee and merriment, when their attention is drawn off by some sudden and striking object.

“The _comfort_, on which the English lay so much stress, arises from the same source as their mirth. Both exist by contrast and a sort of contradiction. The English are certainly the most uncomfortable of all people in themselves, and therefore it is that they stand in need of every kind of comfort and accommodation. The least thing puts them out of their way, and therefore every thing must be in its place. They are mightily offended at disagreeable tastes and smells, and therefore they exact the utmost neatness and nicety. They are sensible of heat and cold, and therefore they cannot exist, unless every thing is snug and warm, or else open and airy, where they are. They must have ‘all appliances and means to boot.’ They are afraid of interruption and intrusion, and therefore they shut themselves up in in-door enjoyments and by their own firesides. It is not that they require luxuries (for that implies a high degree of epicurean indulgence and gratification,) but they cannot do without _their comforts_; that is, whatever tends to supply their physical wants, and ward off physical pain and annoyance. As they have not a fund of animal spirits and enjoyments in themselves, they cling to external objects for support, and derive solid satisfaction from the ideas of order, cleanliness, plenty, property, and domestic quiet, as they seek for diversion from odd accidents and grotesque surprises, and have the highest possible relish not of voluptuous softness, but of hard knocks and dry blows, as one means of ascertaining their personal identity.”

* * * * *

_Twelfth-day_, in the times of chivalry, was observed at the court of England by grand entertainments and tournaments. The justings were continued till a period little favourable to such sports.

In the reign of James I., when his son prince Henry was in the 16th year of his age, and therefore arrived to the period for claiming the principality of Wales and the duchy of Cornwall, it was granted to him by the king and the high court of parliament, and the 4th of June following appointed for his investiture: “the _Christmas_ before which,” sir Charles Cornwallis says, “his highnesse, not onely for his owne recreation, but also that the world might know what a brave prince they were likely to enjoy, under the name of Meliades, lord of the isles, (an ancient title due to the first-borne of Scotland,) did, in his name, by some appointed for the same purpose, strangely attired, accompanied with drummes and trumpets, in the presence, before the king and queene, and in the presence of the whole court, deliver a challenge to all knights of Great Britaine.” The challenge was to this effect, “That Meliades, their noble master, burning with an earnest desire to trie the valour of his young yeares in foraigne countryes, and to know where vertue triumphed most, had sent them abroad to espy the same, who, after their long travailes in all countreyes, and returne,” had nowhere discovered it, “save in the fortunate isle of Great Britaine: which ministring matter of exceeding joy to their young Meliades, who (as they said) could lineally derive his pedegree from the famous knights of this isle, was the cause that he had now sent to present the first fruits of his chivalrie at his majesties’ feete; then after returning with a short speech to her majestie, next to the earles, lords, and knights, excusing their lord in this their so sudden and short warning, and lastly, to the ladies; they, after humble delivery of their chartle concerning time, place, conditions, number of weapons and assailants, tooke their leave, departing solemnly as they entered.”

Then preparations began to be made for this great fight, and each was happy who found himself admitted for a defendant, much more an assailant. “At last to encounter his highness, six assailants, and fifty-eight defendants, consisting of earles, barons, knights, and esquires, were appointed and chosen; eight defendants to one assailant, every assailant being to fight by turnes eight severall times fighting, two every time with push and pike of sword, twelve strokes at a time; after which, the barre for separation was to be let downe until a fresh onset.” The summons ran in these words:

“To our verie loving good ffreind sir Gilbert Houghton, knight, geave
theis with speed:

“After our hartie commendacions unto you. The prince, his highnes, hath comanded us to signifie to you that whereas he doth intend to make a challenge in his owne person at the Barriers, with sixe other assistants, to bee performed some tyme this Christmas; and that he hath made choice of you for one of the defendants (whereof wee have comandement to give you knowledge), that theruppon you may so repaire hither to prepare yourselfe, as you may bee fitt to attend him. Hereunto expecting your speedie answer wee rest, from Whitehall this 25th of December, 1609. Your very loving freindes,

Notingham. | T. Suffolke. | E. Worcester.”

On New-year’s Day, 1610, or the day after, the prince’s challenge was proclaimed at court, and “his highnesse, in his own lodging, in the Christmas, did feast the earles, barons, and knights, assailants and defendants, untill the great Twelfth appointed night, on which this great fight was to be performed.”

On the 6th of January, in the evening, “the barriers” were held at the palace of Whitehall, in the presence of the king and queen, the ambassadors of Spain and Venice, and the peers and ladies of the land, with a multitude of others assembled in the banqueting-house: at the upper end whereof was the king’s chair of state, and on the right hand a sumptuous pavilion for the prince and his associates, from whence, “with great bravery and ingenious devices, they descended into the middell of the roome, and there the prince performed his first feats of armes, that is to say, at _Barriers_, against all commers, being assisted onlie with six others, viz. the duke of Lenox, the earle of Arundell, the earle of Southampton, the lord Hay, sir Thomas Somerset, and sir Richard Preston, who was shortly after created lord Dingwell.”

To answer these challengers came fifty-six earles, barons, knights, and esquiers. They were at the lower end of the roome, where was erected “a very delicat and pleasant place, where in privat manner they and their traine remained, which was so very great that no man imagined that the place could have concealed halfe so many.” From thence they issued, in comely order, to the middell of the roome, where sate the king and the queene, and the court, “to behold the barriers, with the several showes and devices of each combatant.” Every challenger fought with eight several defendants two several combats at two several weapons, viz. at push of pike, and with single sword. “The prince performed this challenge with wonderous skill and courage, to the great joy and admiration of the beholders,” he “not being full sixteene yeeres of age untill the 19th of February.” These feats, and other “triumphant shewes,” began before ten o’clock at night, and continued until three o’clock the next morning, “being Sonday.” The speeches at “the barriers” were written by Ben Jonson. The next day (Sunday) the prince rode in great pomp to convoy the king to St James’, whither he had invited him and all the court to supper, whereof the queen alone was absent; and then the prince bestowed prizes to the three combatants best deserving; namely, the earl of Montgomery, sir Thomas Darey (son to lord Darey), and sir Robert Gourdon.[16] In this way the court spent Twelfth-night in 1610.

* * * * *

On _Twelfth-night_, 1753, George II. played at hazard for the benefit of the groom porter. All the royal family who played were winners, particularly the duke of York, who won 3000_l._ The most considerable losers were the duke of Grafton, the marquis of Hartington, the earl of Holderness, earl of Ashburnham, and the earl of Hertford. The prince of Wales (father of George III.) with prince Edward and a select company, danced in the little drawing room till eleven o’clock, and then withdrew.[17]

_Old Christmas-day._

According to the alteration of the style, OLD Christmas-day falls on Twelfth-day, and in distant parts is even kept in our time as the festival of the nativity. In 1753, Old Christmas-day was observed in the neighbourhood of Worcester by the _Anti-Gregorians_, full as sociably, if not so religiously, as formerly. In several villages, the parishioners so strongly insisted upon having an _Old-style_ nativity sermon, as they term it, that their ministers could not well avoid preaching to them: and, at some towns, where the markets are held on _Friday_, not a butter basket, nor even a _Goose_, was to be seen in the market-place the whole day.[18]

To heighten the festivities of Christmas, 1825, the good folks of “London and its environs” were invited to Sadler’s Wells, by the following whimsical notice, printed and distributed as a handbill:

“SOVEREIGNS WILL BE TAKEN, during the Christmas holidays, and as long as any body will bring them to SADLER’S WELLS; nay so little fastidious are the Proprietors of that delectable fascinating snuggery, that, however incredible it may appear, they, in some cases, have actually had the liberality to prefer Gold to Paper. Without attempting to investigate their motives for such extraordinary conduct, we shall do them the justice to say, they certainly give an amazing quantum of amusement, _All in One Night_, at the HOUSE ON THE HEATH, where, besides the THREE CRUMPIES, AND THE BARON AND HIS BROTHERS, an immense number of fashionables are expected on MERLIN’S MOUNT, and some of the first Cambrian families will countenance HARLEQUIN CYMRAEG, in hopes to partake of the _Living Leek_, which being served up the last thing before supper, will constitute a most excellent Christmas carminative, preventing the effects of night air on the crowds who will adorn this darling little edifice. In addition to a most effective LIGHT COMPANY engaged here, a very respectably sized _Moon_ will be in attendance to light home a greater number of Patrons than ever this popular petted Palace of Pantomime is likely to produce. We say nothing of warmth and comfort, acquired by recent improvements, because these matters will soon be subjects of common conversation, and omit noticing the happiness of Half-price, and the cheering qualities of the Wine-room, fearful of wounding in the bosom of the Manager that innate modesty which is ever the concomitant of merit; we shall therefore conclude, by way of invitation to the dubious, in the language of an elegant writer, by asserting that the _Proof of the Pudding is in_--VERBUM SAT.”

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 37·12.

[15] In the New Monthly Magazine, Dec. 1825

[16] Mr. Nichols’s Progresses of James I.

[17] Gentleman’s Magazine.

[18] Ibid.

~January 7.~

1826. _Distaff’s Day._[19]

* * * * *

STANZAS ON THE NEW YEAR.

I stood between the meeting years,
The coming and the past,
And I ask’d of the future one,
Wilt thou be like the last?

The same in many a sleepless night,
In many an anxious day?
Thank Heaven! I have no prophet’s eye
To look upon thy way!

For Sorrow like a phantom sits
Upon the last Year’s close.
How much of grief, how much of ill,
In its dark breast repose!

Shadows of faded Hopes flit by,
And ghosts of Pleasures fled:
How have they chang’d from what they were!
Cold, colourless, and dead.

I think on many a wasted hour,
And sicken o’er the void;
And many darker are behind,
On worse than nought employ’d.

Oh Vanity! alas, my heart!
How widely hast thou stray’d
And misused every golden gift
For better purpose made!

I think on many a once-loved friend
As nothing to me now;
And what can mark the lapse of time
As does an alter’d brow?

Perhaps ’twas but a careless word
That sever’d Friendship’s chain;
And angry Pride stands by each gap,
Lest they unite again.

Less sad, albeit more terrible,
To think upon the dead,
Who quiet in the lonely grave
Lay down their weary head.

For faith and hope, and peace, and trust,
Are with their happier lot:
Though broken is their bond of love,
At least _we_ broke it not.--

Thus thinking of the meeting years,
The coming and the past,
I needs must ask the future one,
Wilt thou be like the last?

There came a sound, but not of speech,
That to my thought replied,
“Misery is the marriage-gift
That waits a mortal bride:

“But lift thine hopes from this base earth,
This waste of worldly care,
And wed thy faith to yon bright sky,
For Happiness dwells there!”

L. E. L.[20]

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 35·85.

[19] See vol. i. p. 61.

[20] New Monthly Magazine, January, 1826.

~January 8.~

1826. _First Sunday after Epiphany._

CHRONOLOGY.

On the 8th of January, 1753, died sir Thomas Burnet, one of the judges of the court of Common Pleas, of the gout in his stomach, at his house in Lincoln’s-inn fields. He was the eldest son of the celebrated Dr. Gilbert Burnet, bishop of Salisbury; was several years consul at Lisbon; and in November, 1741, made one of the judges of the Common Pleas, in room of judge Fortescue, who was appointed master of the rolls. On November 23, 1745, when the lord chancellor, judges, and association of the gentlemen of the law, waited on his majesty with their address, on occasion of the rebellion, he was knighted. He was an able and upright judge, and a great benefactor to the poor.[21]

THE NEW YEAR NEW MOON

_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._

Sir,

Encouraged by your various expressions of willingness to receive notices of customs not already “imprinted” in your first volume, I take the liberty of presenting the first of several which I have not yet seen in print.

I am, sir,

Your constant reader,

J. O. W.

_Chelsea._

MONEY AND THE MOON.

Gentle reader,

If thou art not over-much prejudiced by the advances of modernization, (I like a long new-coined word,) so that, even in these “latter days,” thou dost not hesitate to place explicit reliance on ancient, yet infallible “sayings and doings,” (ancient enough, since they have been handed down to us by our grandmothers--and who would doubt the weight and authority of _so many_ years?--and infallible enough, since they themselves absolutely believed in their “quite-correctness,”) I will tell thee a secret well worth knowing, if _that_ can be called a secret which arises out of a well-known and almost universal custom, at least, in “days of yore.” It is neither more nor less than the possession throughout “the rolling year” of a pocket never without money. Is not this indeed a secret well worth knowing? Yet the means of its accomplishment are exceedingly simple (as all difficult things are when once known.) On the first day of the first new moon of the new year, or so soon afterwards as you observe it, all that you have to do is this:--on the first glance you take at “pale Luna’s silvery crest” in the western sky, put your hand in your pocket, shut your eyes, and turn the smallest piece of _silver_ coin you possess upside down in your said pocket. This will ensure you (if you will but _trust_ its infallibility!) throughout the whole year that “summum bonum” of earthly wishes, a pocket never empty. If, however, you neglect, on the first appearance of the moon, your case is hopeless; nevertheless and notwithstanding, at a future new moon you may pursue the same course, and it will _be sure_ to hold good during the then current month, but not a “whit” longer.

This mention of the new moon and its crest brings to mind a few verses I wrote some time ago, and having searched my scrap-book, (undoubtedly _not such_ a one as _Geoffery Crayon’s_,) I copied them from thence, and they are here under. Although written in the “merry merry month of May,” they may be read in the “dreary dark December,” for every new moon presents the same beautiful phenomenon.

_A Simile._

Hast thou ne’er marked, when first the crescent moon
Shines faintly in the western horizon,
O’er her whole orb a slight soft blush o’erspread,
As though she were abashed to be thus seen
From the sun’s couch with silver steps retreating?
Hast thou ne’er marked, that when by slow degrees,
Night after night, her crescent shape is lost,
And steadily she gains her stores of light,
Till half her form resplendently proclaims
An envious rival to the stars around--
Then mark’st thou not, that nought of her sweet blush
Remains to please the gazer’s wistful sight,
And that she shines increasingly in strength,
Till she is full-orb’d, mistress of the sky?--
So is it with the mind, when silently
Into the young heart’s void steals timorous love.
Then enter with it fancy’s fairy dreams,
Visions of glory, reveries of bliss;
And then they come and go, till comes, alas!
Knowledge, forced on us, of the “world without!”
How soon these scenes of beauty disappear!
How soon fond thought sinks into nothingness!
How soon the mind discovers that true bliss
Reposes not on sublunary things,
But is alone when passion’s blaze is o’er
In that high happy sphere, where love’s supreme.

Here it may not be out of place to endeavour to describe, as familiarly as possible, the cause of the lunar appearance. Hold a piece of looking-glass in a ray of sunshine, and then move a small ball through the _reflected_ ray: it is easy to conceive that both sides will be illumined; that side towards the sun by the _direct sunbeam_, and the side towards the mirror, though less powerfully, by the _reflected sunbeam_. In a somewhat similar manner, the earth supplies the place of the mirror, and as at every new moon, and for several days after the moon is in that part of her orbit between the earth and the sun, the rays of the sun are reflected from the earth to the dark side of the moon, and consequently to the inhabitants of that part of the moon, (if any such there be, and query why should there not be such?) the earth must present the curious appearance of a _full_ moon of many times the diameter which ours presents.

J. O. W.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 36·05.

[21] Gentleman’s Magazine.

~January 9.~

1826. _Plough Monday._

The first Monday after Twelfth day.[22]

CHRONOLOGY.

On the 9th of January, 1752, William Stroud was tried before the bench of justices at Westminster-hall, for personating various characters and names, and defrauding numbers of people, in order to support his extravagance. It appeared by the evidence, that he had cheated a tailor of a suit of velvet clothes, trimmed with gold; a jeweller of upwards of 100_l._ in rings and watches, which he pawned; a coachmaker of a chaise; a carver and cabinet-maker of household goods; a hosier, hatter, and shoemaker, and, in short, some of almost every other business, to the amount of a large sum. He sometimes appeared like a gentleman attended with livery servants; sometimes as a nobleman’s steward; and, in the summer time, he travelled the west of England, in the character of Doctor Rock; and, at the same time, wrote to London for goods, in the names of the Rev. Laroche, and the Rev. Thomas Strickland. The evidence was full against him; notwithstanding which, he made a long speech in his own defence. He was sentenced to six months’ hard labour in Bridewell, and, within that time, to be six times publicly whipped.

Such offences are familiar to tradesmen of the present times, through many perpetrators of the like stamp; but all of them are not of the same audacity as Stroud, who, in the month following his conviction, wrote and published his life, wherein he gives a very extraordinary account of his adventures, but passes slightly over, or palliates his blackest crimes. He was bred a haberdasher of small wares in Fleet-street, married his mistress’s sister before his apprenticeship determined, set up in the Poultry, became a bankrupt, in three months got his certificate signed, and again set up in Holborn, where he lived but a little while before he was thrown into the King’s Bench for debt, and there got acquainted with one Playstowe, who gradually led him into scenes of fraud, which he afterwards imitated. Playstowe being a handsome man, usually passed for a gentleman, and Stroud for his steward; at last the former, after many adventures, married a girl with 4000_l._, flew to France, and left Stroud in the lurch, who then retired to Yorkshire, and lived some time with his aunt, pretending his wife was dead, and he was just on the brink of marrying advantageously, when his real character was traced. He then went to Ireland, passed for a man of fashion, hired an equipage, made the most of that country, and escaped to London. His next grand expedition was to the west of England, where he still personated the man of fortune, got acquainted with a young lady, and pursued her to London, where justice overtook him; and, instead of wedlock, bound him in the fetters of Bridewell.

On the 24th of June, 1752, Stroud received “his last and severest whipping, from the White Bear to St. James’s church Piccadilly.”[23]

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 36·12.

[22] See vol. i. p. 71.

[23] Gentleman’s Magazine.

~January 10.~

_Winter in London._

On the 10th of January, 1812, it is observed, that London was this day involved, for several hours, in palpable darkness. The shops, offices, &c., were necessarily lighted up; but, the streets not being lighted as at night, it required no small care in the passenger to find his way, and avoid accidents. The sky where any light pervaded it, showed the aspect of bronze. Such is, occasionally, the effect of the accumulation of smoke between two opposite gentle currents, or by means of a misty calm. The fuliginous cloud was visible, in this instance, from a distance of forty miles. Were it not for the extreme mobility of our atmosphere, this volcano of a hundred thousand mouths would, in winter, be scarcely habitable![24]

_Winter in the Country._

All out door work
Now stands; the waggoner, with wisp-wound feet,
And wheelspokes almost filled, his destined stage
Scarcely can gain. O’er hill, and vale, and wood,
Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils
In white array, disguising to the view
Objects well known, now faintly recognised.
One colour clothes the mountain and the plain,
Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall
Upon the deep blue stream, or scowling lake,
Or where some beetling rock o’erjutting hangs
Above the vaulty precipice’s cove.
Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o’ertops
The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,
Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.
With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks
Onward still urged by man and dog, escape
The smothering drift; while, skulking at a side,
Is seen the fox, with close downfolded tail,
Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;
Or from some lofty crag he ominous howls,
And makes approaching night more dismal fall.

_Grahame._

“Just popp’d in, you know!”]

LETTER

_from_

_=PAUL PRY=_.

_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._

Sir,

I hope I don’t intrude--I have called at Ludgate-hill a great many times to see you, and made many kind inquiries, but I am always informed you are “not at home;” and what’s worse, I never can learn when you’ll be “at home;” I’m constantly told, “it’s very uncertain.” This looks very _odd_; I don’t think it _correct_. Then again, on asking your people what the _Every-Day Book_ is all about? they say it’s about _every_ thing; but that you know is no answer--is it? I want something more than that. When I tell ’em so, and that I’m so much engaged I haven’t time to read, they say the book is as useful to people engaged in business as to people out of business--as if _I_ was in business! I wish to acquaint every body, that I am not in business, and never was in business, though I’ve a deal of business to do; but then it’s for my own amusement, and that’s nobody’s business, you know--as I also told ’em. They say it’s impossible to describe the contents of the book, but that all the particulars are in the Index; that’s just what I wanted; but behold! it is “not _out_”--that is, it is not _in_--I mean not in the book--you _take_. Excuse my humorsomeness: I only wish to know when I can get it? They say in a few days, but, bless you, I don’t believe ’em; for though I let ’em know I’ve a world of things to communicate to you, when you’ve time to see me, and let me ask you a few questions, they won’t credit _me_, and why should I credit _them_--I was not born yesterday, I assure you. I’m of a very ancient stock, and I’ve some notion you and I are kinsmen--don’t you think we are? I dare say there’s a likeness, for I’m sure we are of the same disposition; if you aren’t, how can you find out so much “about _every_ thing.” If I can make out that you are one of the _Pry_ family, it will be mutually agreeable--won’t it? How people will stare--won’t they?

I suppose you’ve heard how I’ve been used by Mr. Liston--my private character exposed on the public stage, and the whole town roaring at the whole of the _Pry_ family. But we are neither to be cried down nor laughed down, and so I’d have let the play-goers know, if the managers had allowed me to sing a song on New-year’s night, in imitation of Mr. Liston when he’s a playing _me_. Will you believe it--they burst out a laughing, and would not let me go on the boards--they said the audience would suppose me to be the actor himself; what harm would that have done the theatre?--can you tell? They said, it would hurt Mr. Liston’s feelings--never considering _my_ feelings! If ever I try to serve them or their theatre again, I’ll be--_Liston_! They shall be matched, however, if you’ll help me. I’ve copied out my song, and if you’ll print it in the _Every-Day Book_, it will drive ’em mad. I wish, of all things, that Mr. Cruikshank could see me in the character of Liston--he could _hit_ me I know--don’t you think he could?--just as I am--“quite correct”--like he did “Guy Faux” last 5th of November. I never laughed so much in all my life as when I saw _that_. Bless you, I can mimic Liston all to nothing. Do get your friend George to your house some day--any day he likes--it’s all one to me, for I call _every_ day; and as I’m an “every-day” _man_, you know, why you might pop me at the head of the song in your _Every-Day Book_--_that’s_ a joke you know--I can’t help laughing--so droll! I’ve enclosed the song, you see.

[The wish of this correspondent is complied with, and the manner
wherein, it is presumed, he would have sung the song, is hinted at
parenthetically.]

=MR. PAUL PRY’S SONG,=

_Intended to have been sung by him at the Theatre_,

=In the Character of MR. LISTON,=

ON NEW YEAR’S EVE.

TUNE----_Mr. Liston’s_.

(_Pryingly._) I hope I don’t intrude!--
(_Fearfully._) I thought I heard a _cough_--
(_Apologetically._) I hope I am not rude--
(_Confidentially._) I _say_--the Year’s going _off_!

(_Inquisitively._) Where _can_ he be going _to_?
(_Ruminatively._) It’s very odd!--it’s _serious_!--
(_Self-satisfactively._) I’m rather _knowing_ too!--
(_Insinuatively._) But isn’t it _mysterious_?

(_Comfortably._) ’Twas better than the other--
(_Informingly._) The one that went before;--
(_Consolingly._) But then there’ll be _another_--
(_Delightedly._) And that’s one comfort more!

(_Alarmedly._) I’m half afraid he’s _gone_!
(_Kindlily._) Must _part_ with the old fellow!
(_Hastily._) Excuse me--I must run--(_Exit._)
(_Returns._) Forgot my umbrella.

(_Determinedly._) I’ll watch the _new_ one though,
(_Circumspectly._) And _see_ what _he’ll_ be at--(_Exit._)
(_Returns._) Beg pardon--didn’t bow--(_Bows and exit._)
(_Returns._) Bid pardon--left my hat.

(_Lingeringly._) It’s always the wish of Paul,
(_Seriously._) To be _quite correct_ and right--
(_Respectfully._) Ladies and gentlemen--all--
(_Retreatingly._) I wish you very good night!

(_Recollectively._) And--ladies and gentlemen--all!
(_Interjectively._) You laugh so much, I declare--
(_Vexedly._) I’m not Mr. Liston!--I’m _Paul_!--
(_Lastly._) I wish you a happy New Year!--(_Exit finally._)

If you print this in the _Every-Day Book_ it will send Liston into fits--it will kill him--won’t it? But you know that’s all right--if he takes me off I’ve a right to take him off--haven’t I? I say, that’s _another_ joke--isn’t it? Bless you, I co’d do as good as that for ever. But I want to see you, and ask you how you go on? and I’ve lots of intelligence for you--_such_ things as never were known in this world--all true, and on the very best authority, you may take my word for it. Several of my relations have sent you budgets. Though they know you won’t publish their names unless they like it, they don’t choose to sign ’em to their letters for private reasons,--why don’t you print ’em? They cann’t give up their authors you know, (that’s impossible,) but what does that signify? And then you give ’em so much trouble to call and make inquiries--not that they care about that, but it looks so. However, I’m in a great hurry and so you’ll excuse me.--Mind though I shall pop in every day till I catch you. I hope you’ll print the song--it’s all my own writing, it will do for Liston, depend on it. What a joke--isn’t it a good one?

_Pryory Place,_

_January 6, 1826._

Yours eternally,

PAUL PRY.

P. S. Don’t forget the Index--I want to learn all the particulars--_multum in parvo_--all quite correct.

P. S. I’m told you’ve _eleven_ children--is it true? What day shall you have another?--to-day?--_Twelfth_-day? that _would_ be a _joke_--wouldn’t it? I hope I don’t intrude. I don’t wish to seem curious.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 36·07.

[24] Howard on Climate.

~January 11.~

_Feast Week._

This is a term in many parts of England for an annual festivity celebrated on the occasion described in the subjoined communication.

_For the Every-Day Book._

THE FEAST WEEK.

This festival, so called, is supposed to be nearly coeval with the establishment of Christianity in this island. Every new church that was founded was dedicated to some peculiar saint, and was naturally followed by a public religious celebration, generally on the day of that saint, or on the Sunday immediately following. Whatever might be the origin, the festival part is still observed in most of the villages of several of the midland and other counties. It is a season much to be remembered, and is anticipated with no little pleasure by the expecting villagers. The joyful note of preparation is given during the preceding week; and the clash, and splash, and bustle of cleansing, and whitewashing, and dusting, is to be seen and heard in almost every cottage. Nor is the still more important object of laying in a good solid supply for a hungry host of visitors forgotten. Happy those who can command _a ham_ for the occasion. This is a great favourite, as it is a _cut-and-come-again_ dish, ready at hand at all times. But this is mostly with the tip-topping part. Few but can boast of a substantial plum-pudding!--And now the important day is arrived. The merry bells from the steeple announce the event; and groups of friends and relations, not forgetting distant cousins and children, are seen making their way, long before the hour of dinner, to the appointed spot. This is Sunday; and in the afternoon a portion of these strangers, clean and neatly dressed, are seen flocking to the village church, where the elevated band in the gallery, in great force both in noise and number, contribute lustily to their edification, and the clergyman endeavours to improve the solemnity of the occasion by an appropriate address. During the early part of the ensuing week, the feast is kept up with much spirit: the village presents a holiday appearance, and openhousekeeping, as far as may be, is the order of the day; the bells at intervals send forth an enlivening peal; all work is nearly suspended; gay stalls of gingerbread and fruit, according to the season of the year, together with swings and roundabouts, spread out their allurements to the children; bowls, quoits, and nine-pins, for the men; and the merry dance in the evening, for the lasses. Fresh visitors keep dropping in; and almost all who can make any excuse of acquaintance are acknowledged, and are hospitably entertained, according to the means of their village friends. As the week advances, these means gradually diminish; and as an empty house has few attractions, by the end of the week the bustle ceases, and all is still and silent, as if it had never been.

Man naturally requires excitement and relaxation; but it is essentially necessary that they should be adapted to his situation and circumstances. The _feast week_, however alluring it may appear in description, is in reality productive of greater evil than good. The excitement lasts too long, and the enjoyment, whatever it may be, is purchased at the sacrifice of too great expense. It is a well-known fact, that many of the poor who have exerted every effort to make this profuse, but short-lived display, have scarcely bread to eat for weeks after. But there is no alternative, if they expect to be received with the same spirit of hospitality by their friends. The alehouses, in the interim, are too often scenes of drunkenness and disorder; and the labouring man who has been idle and dissipated for a week, is little disposed for toil and temperance the next. Here, then, the illusion of rural simplicity ends! These things are managed much better where one _fair day_, as it is called, is set apart in each year, as is the case in many counties; the excitement, which is intense for ten or twelve hours, is fully sufficient for the purpose; all is noise and merriment, and one general and simultaneous burst and explosion, if it may be so expressed, takes place. You see groups of happy faces. Every one is willing “to laugh he knows not why, and cares not wherefore;” and _one day’s_ gratification serves him for _every day’s_ pleasing topic of reference for weeks to come.

S. P.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature 35·62.

~January 12.~

_Leeches unhurt by Frost._