scales. "On the top, and pinnacle before the said church," says Favine," is yet to be seene the image of the arch-angell St. Michael, the tutelaric angell, and guardian of the most christian monarchie of France, ensculptured after the antique forme, holding a ballance in the one hand, and a crosse in the other; on his head, and toppe of his wings, are fixed and cramponned strong pikes of iron to keepe the birds from pearching thereon." Favine proceeds to mention a popular error concerning these "pikes of iron," to defend the statue from the birds. "The ignorant vulgar conceived that this was a crowne of eares of corne, and thought it to be the idole of the goddesse Ceres." He says this is "a matter wherein they are much deceived; for Isis and Ceres being but one and the same, her temple was at S. Ceour and S. Germain des Prez."* Theater of Honour, Lond. 1623, fol. Louis XI. instituted an order in honour of St. Michael, the arch-angel, on occasion of an alleged apparition of the saint on the bridge at Orleans, when that city was besieged by the English in 1428. ST. GEORGE. It has been intimated in vol. i., col. 500, that there are grounds to imagine "that St. George and the dragon are neither more nor less than St. Michael contending with the devil." The reader who desires further light on this head, will derive it from a dissertation by Dr. Pettingall, expressly on the point. It may here, perhaps, be opportune to introduce the usual representation of St. George and the dragon, by an impression from an original wood-block, obligingly presented to this work by Mr. Horace Rodd, St. George and the Dragon. To-morrow morning we shall have you look, So say Beaumont and Fletcher, from whence we learn that the prowess of "St. George for England," was ludicrously travestied. NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. Woman's Prize. September 30. THE SEASON It is noted under the present day in the "Perennial Calendar," that at this time the heat of the middle of the days is stil! sufficient to warm the earth, and cause a large ascent of vapour: that the Cryer. chilling frosty nights, which are also ge- On the Death of OLD BENNET, the News nerally very calm, condense into mists; differing from clouds only in remaining on the surface of the ground. Now by the cool declining year condensed, The huge dusk gradual swallows up the plain "EXTRAORDINARY NEWS!" To the Editor of the Every-Day Book. Sir, The character and manners of a people may be often correctly ascertained by an attentive examination of their familiar customs and sayings. The investigation of these peculiarities, as they tend to enlarge the knowledge of human nature, and illustrate national history, as well as to mark the fluctuation of language, and to explain the usages of antiquity, is, therefore, deserving of high commendation; and, though occasionally, in the course of those inquiries, some whimsical stories are related, and some very homely phrases and authorities cited, they are the occurrences of every day, and no way seem to disqualify the position in which several amusing and popular customs are brought forward to general view. Under this impression, it will not be derogatory to the Every-Day Book, to observe that by such communications, it will become an assemblage of anecdotes, fragments, remarks, and vestiges, collected and recollected :— -Various,-that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleas'd with novelty, may be indulged. Cowper. Should the following extract, from a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, edited by Elijah Fenton, and printed by Bernard Lintot, without date, but anterior to 1720, in octavo, be deemed by you, from the foregoing observations, deserving of notice, it is at your service. Old Bennet was an eccentric person, at the early part of the last century, who appears to have excited much noise in London. "One evening, when the sun was just gone down, As I was walking thro' the noisy town, A sudden silence through each street was spread, As if the soul of London had been fled. Much I inquired the cause, but could not' hear, Till fame, so frightened, that she did not dare came, town. None like him has there been for ages past, Till our stentorian Bennet came at last. Homer and Bennet were in this agreed, Homer was blind, and Bennet could not read." "Bloody News!" "Great Victory!" or more frequently "Extraordinary Gazette!" were, till recently, the usual loud bellowings of fellows, with stentorian lungs, accompanied by a loud blast of a long tin-horn, which announced to the delighted populace of London, the martial achievements of the modern Marlborough. These itinerants, for the most part, were the link-men at the entrances to the theatres; and costermongers, or porters, assisting in various menial offices during the day. A copy of the "Gazette," or newspaper they were crying, was generally affixed under the hatband, in front, and their demand for a newspaper generally one shilling. Those newscriers are spoken off in the past sense, as the further use of the horn is prohibited by the magistracy, subject to a penalty of ten shillings for a first offence, and twenty shillings on the conviction of repeating so heinous a crime. "Oh, dear !" as Crockery says, I think in these times of "modern improvement," every thing is changing, and in many instances, much for the worse. I suspect that you, Mr. Editor, possess a fellow-feeling on the subject, and shall no further trespass on your time, or on the reader's patience, than by expressing a wish that many alterations were actuated by manly and humane intentions, and that less of over-legislation and selfishness were evinced in these pretended endeavours to promote the good of society. I am, &c. J. H. B. The present month can scarcely be better closed than with some exquisite stanzas from the delightful introduction to the "Forest Minstrel and other Poems, by William and Mary Howitt." Mr. Howitt speaks of his "lightly caroll'd lays," as never, surely, otherwise esteem'd Than a bird s song, that, fill'd with sweet amaze At the bright opening of the young, green spring, Pours out its simple joy in instant warbling. For never yet was mine the proud intent To give the olden harp a thrilling sound, Like those great spirits who of late have sent Their wizard tones abroad, and all around This wond'rous world have wander'd; and have spent, In court and camp, on bann'd and holy Their gleaning glances ; and, in hall and bower, the power: And then have brought us home strange sights and sounds From distant lands, of dark and awful deeds; And fair and dreadful spirits; and gay rounds Of mirth and music; and then mourning weeds; And tale of hapless love that sweetly wounds Lapping it up in dreams of sad delight Oh! never yet to me the power or will Companionless; without a wish or goal, And every day that boyish fancy grew; And every day those lonely scenes became Dearer and dearer, and with objects new, All sweet and peaceful, fed the young Then rose each silent woodland to the view, Oh, days of glory! when the young soul drank Into a heart that ask'd not how, or whence Came the dear influence; from the dreary blank Of nothingness sprang forth to an existence To roam abroad amidst the mists, and dews, hues: To pass through villages, and catch the hum Forth bursting from some antiquated school, Endow'd long since by some old knight, whose tomb Stood in the church just by; to mark the dool Of light-hair'd lads that inly rued their doom, Prison'd in that old place, that with the tool, Stick-knife or nail, of many a sly offender, Was carved and figured over, wall, and desk, and window; To meet in green lanes happy infant bands, Full of health's luxury, sauntering and singing, A childish, wordless melody; with hands Cowslips, and wind-flowers, and green brook-lime bringing ; Or weaving caps of rushes; or with wands Guiding their minic teams; or gaily swinging On some low sweeping bough, and clinging all One to the other fast, till, laughing, down 'hey fail ; To sit down by some solitary man, Hoary with years, and with a sage's look, In some wild dell where purest waters ran, And see him draw forth his black-letter book, Wond'ring, and wond'ring more, as he began, On it, and then on many an herb to look, That he had wander'd wearily and wide, To pluck from jutting rocks, and woods, and mountain side; And then, as he would wash his healing roots In the clear stream, that ever went singing on, Through banks o'erhung with herbs and flowery shoots, Leaning as if they loved its gentle tune, To hear him tell of many a plant that suits Fresh wound, or fever'd frame; and of the moon Shedding o'er weed and wort her healing power, For gifted wights to cull in her ascendant hour; To lie abroad on nature's lonely breast, Amidst the music of a summer's sky, Where tall, dark pines the northern bank invest Of a still lake; and see the long pikes lie Basking upon the shallows; with dark crest, And threat'ning pomp, the swan go sailing by; And many a wild fowl on its breast that shone, Flickering like liquid silver, in the joyous sun: The duck, deep poring with his downward head, Like a buoy floating on the ocean wave; The Spanish goose, like drops of crystal, shed The water o'er him, his rich plumes to lave; The beautiful widgeon, springing upward, spread His clapping wings; the heron, stalking grave, Into the stream; the coot and water-hen Vanish into the flood, then, far off, rise again; And when warm summer's holiday was o'er, And the bright acorns patter'd from the trees, When fires were made, and closed was every door, And winds were loud, or else a chilling breeze Came comfortless, driving cold fogs before: On disinal, shivering evenings, such as these, To pass by cottage windows, and to see, Round a bright hearth, sweet faces shining happily; These were the days of boyhood! Oh! such days Shall never, never more return againWhen the fresh heart, all witless of the ways, The sickening, sordid, selfish ways of men, Danced in creation's pure and placid blaze, Making an Eden of the loneliest glen! Darkness has follow'd fast, and few have been The rays of sunlight cast upon life's dreary scene. For years of lonely thought, in morning-tide And deeming only glorious the soul lit With the pure flame of knowledge, and the eye Filled with the gentle love of the bright earth and sky. Fancy's spoil'd child will ever surely be A thing of nothing in the worldly throng: Wrapp'd up in dreams that they can never see; Listening to fairy harp, or spirit's song, Where all to them is stillest vacancy: For ever seeking, as he glides along, Some kindred heart, that feels as he has felt, And can read each thought that with him long has dwelt. But place him midst creation!-let him stand Where wave and mountain revel in his sight, Then shall his soul triumphantly expand, With gathering power, and majesty, and The world beneath him is the temple plann'd light! For him to worship in ; and, pure and bright, Heaven's vault above, the proud eternal dome Of his Almighty Sire, and his own future home! With such inspiring fancies, mortal pride Shrinks into nothing; and all mortal things He casts, as weeds cast by the ocean tide, From its embraces; the world's scorn he flings Back on itself, disdaining to divide, With its low cares, that sensitive spirit that brings Home to his breast all nature's light and glee, Holding with sunshine, clouds, and gales, unearthly revelry. NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. Mean Temperature . . . 54 · 17. |