I always lov'd thee, and thy yellow garb, Can rival Derwent's-where proud Chatsworth's tow'rs Of gold-tipp'd mountains crown her lawns and bowers. Save where the murmuring of Derwent's wave, While shadowy forms seem gliding through the gloom To visit those again they lov'd this side the grave. October 4. St. Francis of Assisium, A. D. 1226. Sts. SALE OF HYDE-PARK-CORNER TOLL-GATE. Before the close of the sessions of parliament in 1825 an act passed for the removal of the toll-gate at Hyde-park-corner, with a view to the free passage of horsemen and carriages between London and Pimlico. So great an accommodation to the inhabitants of that suburb, manifests a disposition to relieve other growng neighbourhoods of the metropolis from these vexatious imposts. On the present occasion a gentleman, evidently an artist, presented the Editor with a drawing of Hyde-park-corner gate on the day when it was sold; it is engraved opposite. This liberal communication was accompanied by the subjoined letter: To the Editor of the Every-Day Book. Sir, I have taken the liberty of enclosing you a representation of a scene which took place at Hyde-park-corner last Tuesday, October 4th, being no less than the Rickman public sale of the toll-house, and all the materials enumerated in the accompanying catalogue. If you were not present, the drawing I have sent may interest you as a view of the old toll-house and the last scene of its eventful history. You are at liberty to make what use of it you please. The sale commenced at one o'clock, the auctioneer stood under the arch before the door of the house on the north side of Piccadilly. Several carriage folks and equestrians, unconscious of the removal of the toll, stopped to pay, whilst the drivers of others passed through knowingly, with a look of satisfaction at their liberation from the accustomed restriction at that place. The poor dismantled house without a turnpike man, seemed "almost afraid to know itself?""Othello's occupation was gone." By this time, if the conditions of the auction have been attended to, not a vestige is left on the spot. I have thought this event would interest a mind like yours, which permits not any change in the bistory of improvement, or of places full of old associations, to take place without I remain, sir, record. Yours, &c. A CONSTANT READER Sale of Hyde-Park-Corner Toll-gate. October 5. St. Galla, 6th Cent. THE ASS. The sale by auction of the "toll-houses" on the north and south side of the road, with the "weighing machine," and lamp- St. Placidus, &c. A. D. 546. posts at Hyde-park-corner, was effected by Mr. Abbott, the estate agent and ap praiser, by order of the trustees of the roads. They were sold for building materials; the north toll-house was in five lots, the south in five other lots; the gates, rails, posts, and inscription boards were in five more lots; and the enginehouse was also in five lots. At the same time, the weighing machine and tollhouses at Jenny's Whim bridge were sold in seven lots; and the toll-house near the bun-house at Chelsea, with lamp posts on the road, were likewise sold in seven lots. The whole are entirely cleared away, to the relief of thousands of persons resident in these neighbourhoods. It is too much to expect every thing vexatious to disappear at once; this is a very good beginning, and if there be truth in the old saying, we may expect "a good ending." The cantering of TIM TIMS startles him who told of his "youthful days," at the school wherein poor Starkey" cyphered part of his little life. C. L. "getting well, but weak" from painful and severe indisposition, is "off and away" for a short discursion. Better health to him, and good be to him all his life. Here he is. FLORAL DIRECTORY. Southernwood. Artemesia Aproxanum. THE ASS (For Hone's Every-Day Book.) Mr.Collier, in his "Poetical Decameron" (Third Conversation) notices a Tract, printed in 1595, with the author's initials only, A. B., entitled "The Noblenesse of the Asse: a work rare, learned, and excellent." He has selected the follow ing pretty passage from it. "He (the Ass) refuseth no burthen, he goes whither Ante, p. 1308. he is sent without any contradiction. He lifts not his foote against any one; he bytes; not he is no fugitive, nor malicious affected. He doth all things in good sort, and to his liking that hath cause to employ him. If strokes be given him, he cares not for them; and, as our modern poet singeth, " 'Thou wouldst (perhaps) he should become thy foe, And to that end dost beat him many times; He cares not for himselfe, much lesse thy blow."* Certainly Nature, foreseeing the cruel usage which this useful servant to man should receive at man's hand, did prudently in furnishing him with a tegument impervious to ordinary stripes. The malice of a child, or a weak hand, can make feeble impressions on him. His back offers no mark to a puny foeman. To a common whip or switch his hide presents an absolute insensibility. You might as well pretend to scourge a school-boy with a tough pair of leather breeches on. His jerkin is well fortified. And therefore the Costermongers "between the years 1790 and 1800" did more politicly than piously in lifting up a part of his upper garment. I well remember that beastly and bloody custom. I have often longed to see one of those refiners in dis. cipline himself at the cart's tail, with just such a convenient spot laid bare to the tender mercies of the whipster. But since Nature has resumed her rights, it is to be hoped, that this patient creature does not suffer to extremities; and that to the savages who still belabour his poor carcase with their blows (considering the sort of anvil they are laid upon) he might in some sort, if he could speak, exclaim with the philosopher, "Lay on beat but upon the case of Anaxarchus." you Contemplating this natural safeguard, this fortified exterior, it is with pain I view the sleek, foppish, combed and curried, person of this animal, as he is transmuted and disnaturalized, at Watering Places, &c. where they affect to make a palfrey of him. Fie on all such sophistications! It will never do, Master Groom. Something of his honest shaggy exterior will still peep up in spite of you -his good, rough, native, pine-apple coating. You cannot "refine a scorpion Who this modern poet was, says Mr. C., is a secret worth discovering.-The wood-cut on the title of the Pamphlet is-an Ass with a wreath of laurel round his neck. And truly when one thinks on the suit of impenetrable armour with which Na ture (like Vulcan to another Achilles) has provided him, these subtle enemies to our repose, would have shown some dexterity in getting into his quarters. As the bogs of Ireland by tradition expel toads and reptiles, he may well defy these small deer in his fastnesses. It seems the latter had not arrived at the exquisite policy adopted by the human vermin "between 1790 and 1800." But the most singular and delightful gift of the Ass, according to the writer of this pamphlet, is his voice; the “ goodly, sweet, and continual brayings" of which. "whereof they forme a melodious and proportionable kinde of musicke," seem to have affected him with no ordinary pleasure. "Nor thinke I," he adds, “that any of our immoderne musitians can deny, but that their song is full of exceeding pleasure to be heard; because therein is to be discerned both concord, discord, singing in the meane, the beginning to sing in large compasse, then following on to rise and fall, the halfe note, whole note, musicke of five voices, firme singing by four voices, three together or one voice and a halfe. Then their variable contrarieties amongst them, when one delivers forth a long tenor, or a short, the pausing for time, breathing in measure, breaking the minim or very least moment of time. Last of all to heare the musicke of five or six voices chaunged to so many of Asses, is amongst them to heare a song of world without end." There is no accounting for ears; or for that laudable enthusiasm with which an Author is tempted to invest a favourite subject with the most incompatible perfections. I should otherwise, for my own Milton: from memory. taste, have been inclined rather to have given a place to these extraordinary musicians at that banquet of nothing-lessthan-sweet sounds, imagined by old Jeremy Collier (Essays, 1698; Part. 2. On Music.) where, after describing the inspirating effects of martial music in a battle, he hazards an ingenious conjecture, whether a sort of Anti-music might not be invented, which should have quite the contrary effect of "sinking the spirits, shaking the nerves, curdling the blood, and inspiring despair, and cowardice and consternation." "Tis probable" he says, "the roaring of lions, the warbling of cats and screech-owls, together with a mixture of the howling of dogs, judiciously imitated and compounded, might go a great way in this invention." The dose, we confess, is pretty potent, and skilfully enough prepared. But what shall we say to the Ass of Silenus (quoted by TIMS), who, if we may trust to classic lore, by his own proper sounds, without thanks to cat or screech-owl, dismaid and put to rout a whole army of giants? Here was Anti-music with a vengeance; a whole Pan-Dis-Harmonicon in a single lungs of leather! But I keep you trifling too long on this Asinine subject. I have already past the Pons Asinorum, and will desist, remembering the old pedantic pun of Jem Boyer, my schoolmaster: Ass in præsenti seldom makes a WISE MAN in futuro. C. L. FLORAL DIRECTORY. Starlike Camomile. Boltonia Asteroides. Dedicated to St. Placidus. October 6. St. Bruno, Founder of the Carthusian Faith. This name in the church of England calendar and almanacs belongs to a saint of the Romish church. According to Butler, St. Faith was a female of Aquitain, put to death under Dacian. He says she was titular saint of several churches in France, particularly that of Longueville in Normandy, which was enriched by Walter Giffard, earl of Buckingham. He also says she was patroness of the priory of Horsam, in the county of Norfolk;" that "the subterraneous chapel of St. Faith, built under St. Paul's, in London, was also very famous;" and that "an arm of the saint was formerly kept at Glastenbury." Nevertheless, Mr. Audley thinks, that as the ancient Romans deified Faith according to the heathen mythology, and as christian Rome celebrates on August 1st the passion of the holy virgins, Faith, Hope, and Charity, it is highly probable these virtues have been mistaken for persons; and, admitting this, Dr. M. Geddes smartly says, "they may be truly said to have suffered, and still to suffer martyrdom at Rome." Mr. Audley adds. "There is indeed the church of St. Faith at London; but as our calendar is mostly copied from the Romish one, that will account for the introduction of the good virgin amongst us." BISHOP BRUNO. "Bruno, the bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river of Danubius, with Henry the Third, then emperour, being not far from a place which the Germanes call Ben Strudel, or the devouring gulfe, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamouring aloud, Ho! ho! bishop Bruno, whither art thou travelling? but dispose of thyself how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoile.' At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and the bishop with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue was, that within a short time after, the bishop feasting with the emperor in a castle belonging to the countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof of the chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the table." Heywood's Hierarchie of the blessed Angels, Comp. to Almanac. Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain And Death was the porter that opened the door. He started up at the fearful dream, And he heard at his window the screech owl scream! Bishop Bruno slept no more that night; Oh! glad was he when he saw the day light! Now he goes forth in proud array, Before and behind his soldiers ride, They bow'd the head, and the knee they bent, So he went on stately and proud, When he heard a voice that cried aloud, Ho! ho! bishop Bruno! you travel with glee— Behind, and before, and on either side, And the bishop at that grew cold with fear, And when he rung the palace bell, But soon the bishop recover'd his glee, And now the bishop had blest the meat, The bishop then grew pale with affright, All the wine and dainty cheer Could not comfort his heart so sick with fear. But by little and little recovered he |