How splendid all the sky! how still!
How mild the dying gale!
How soft the whispers of the rill,
That winds along the vale!

So tranquil nature's works appear,
It seems the sabbath of the year:
As if, the summer's labour past, she chose
This season's sober calm for blandishing re-
pose.

Such is of well-spent life the time,

When busy days are past;
Man, verging gradual from his prime,
Meets sacred peace at last :

His flowery spring of pleasures o'er,
And summer's full-bloom pride no more,
He gains pacific autumn, mild and bland,
And dauntless braves the stroke of winter's
palsied hand.

For yet a while, a little while,
Involv'd in wintry gloom,

And lo! another spring shall smile,
A spring eternal bloom:

Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,
In the bright mansions of the blest,
Where due rewards on virtue are bestow'd,
And reap'd the golden fruits of what his au-
tumn sow'd.

It is remarked by the gentleman-usher of the year, that "the fruit garden is one scene of tempting profusion.

"Against the wall, the grapes have put on that transparent look which indicates their complete ripeness, and have dressed their cheeks in that delicate bloom which enables them to bear away the bell of beauty from all their rivals. The peaches and nectarines have become fragrant, and the whole wall where they hang is 'musical with bees.' Along the espaliers, the rosy-cheeked apples look out from among their leaves, like laughing children peeping at each other through screens of foliage; and the young standards bend their straggling boughs to the earth with the weight of their produce.

"Let us not forget to add, that there is one part of London which is never out of season, and is never more in season than now. Covent-garden market is still the garden of gardens; and as there is not a month in all the year in which it does not contrive to belie something or other that has been said in the foregoing pages, as to the particular season of certain flowers, fruits, &c., so now it offers the flowers and the fruits of every season united. How it becomes possessed of all these, I shall not pretend to say: but thus much I am bound to add by way of

information, that those ladies and gentlemen who have country-houses in the neighbourhood of Clapham-common or Camberwell-grove, may now have the pleasure of eating the best fruit out of their own gardens-provided they choose to pay the price of it in Covent-garden market."

The observer of nature, where nature can alone be fully enjoyed, will perceive, that, in this month, "among the birds, we have something like a renewal of the spring melodies. In particular, the thrush and blackbird, who have been silent for several weeks, recommence their songs,bidding good bye to the summer, in the same subdued tone in which they hailed her approach-wood-owls hoot louder than ever; and the lambs bleat shrilly from the hill-side to their neglectful dams; and the thresher's flail is heard from the unseen barn; and the plough-boy's whistle comes through the silent air from the distant upland; and snakes leave their last year's skins in the brakes-literally creeping out at their own mouths; and acorns drop in showers from the oaks, at every wind that blows; and hazel-nuts ask to be plucked, so invitingly do they look forth from their green dwellings; and, lastly, the evenings close in too quickly upon the walks to which their serene beauty invites us, and the mornings get chilly, misty, and damp."

Finally, "another singular sight belonging to this period, is the occasional showers of gossamer that fall from the upper regions of the air, and cover every thing like a veil of woven silver. You may see them descending through the sunshine, and glittering and flickering in it, like rays of another kind of light. Or if you are in time to observe them before the sun has dried the dew from off them in the early morning, they look like robes of fairy tissue-work, gemmed with innumerable jewels."+

And must we bid sweet Philomel adieu ?

She that was wont to charm us in the grove? Mist Natures livery wear a sadder hue,

And a dark canopy be stretch'd above? Yes-for September mounts his ebon throne, And the smooth foliage of the plain is gone. Libra, to weigh the harvest's pearly store, The golden balance poizes now on high, The calm serenity of Zephyr o'er,

Sol's glittering legions to th' equator fly, At the same hour he shows his orient head, And, warn'd by Thetis, sinks in Ocean's bed. Adieu! ye damask roses, which remind

The maiden fair-one, how her charms decay; Ye rising blasts, oh! leave some mark behind, Some small memorial of the sweets of May; Ah! no-the ruthless season will not hear, Nor spare one glory of the ruddy year.

No more the waste of music sung so late

From every bush, green orchestre of love, For now their winds the birds of passage wait, And bid a last farewell to every grove; While those, whom shepherd-swains the sleepers call,

Choose their recess in some sequester'd wall.

Yet still shall sage September boast his pride, Some birds shall chant, some gayer flowers shall blow,

Nor is the season wholly unallied

To purple bloom; the haler fruits shall grow, The stronger plants, such as enjoy the cold, And wear a livelier grace by being old.

NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. Mean Temperature . . . . . 63 · 69.

September 1.

GILES.

This popular patron of the London district, which furnishes the "Mornings at Bow-street" with a large portion of amusement, is spoken of in vol. i. col. 1149.

Until this day partridges are protected by act of parliament from those who are "privileged to kill."

Application for a License. In the shooting season of 1821, a fashionably dressed young man applied to sir Robert Baker for a license to killnot game, but thieves. This curious application was made in the most serious and business-like manner imaginable.

"Can I be permitted to speak a few words to you, sir?" said the applicant. "Certainly, sir," replied sir Robert. "Then I wish to ask you, sir, whether, if I am attacked by thieves in the streets or roads, I should be justified in using fire-arins against them, and putting them to death?" Sir Robert Baker replied, that every man had a right to defend himself from robbers in the best manner he could; but at the same time he would not be justified in using fire-arms, except in cases of the utmost extremity. "Oh! I am very furnished at this office with a license to much obliged to you, sir; and I can be of course, was given in the negative, carry arms for that purpose?" The answer, though not without a good deal of surprise at such a question, and the inquirer bowed and withdrew.

THE FIRST OF SEITEMBER.
Here the rude clamour of the sportsman's
joy,

The gun fast-thundering, and the winded horn,
Would tempt the muse to sing the rural game :
How, in his mid-career, the spaniel struck,
Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose,
Out-stretched, and finely sensible, draws full,
Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey;
As in the sun the circling covey bask
Their varied plumes, and watchful every way
Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye.
Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat
Their idle wings, entangled more and more:
Nor on the surges of the boundless air,
Though borne triumphant, are they safe; the
gun,

Glanc'd just, and sudden, from the fowler's

These are not subjects for the peaceful muse, Nor will she stain with such her spotless song; Then most delighted, when she social sees The whole mix'd animal ereation round Alive, and happy. 'Tis not joy to her, This falsely-cheerful barbarous game of death; This rage of pleasure, which the restless youth Awakes impatient, with the gleaming morn; When beasts of prey retire, that all night long, Urg'd by necessity, had rang'd the dark, Asham'd. Not so the steady tyrant man, As if their conscious ravage shunn'd the light, Who with the thoughtless insolence of power Inflam'd, beyond the most infuriate wrath Of the worst monster that e'er roam'd the waste,

For sport alone pursues the cruel chase, Amid the beamings of the gentle days. Upbraid, ye ravening tribes, our wanton rage, For hunger kindles you, and lawless want; But lavish fed, in nature's bounty roll'd, To joy at anguish, and delight in blood, Is what your horrid bosoms never knew. So sings the muse of "The Seasons" on the one side; on the other, we have "the ay of the last minstrel" in praise of "Fowling," the "rev. John Vincent, B. A. curate of Constantine, Cornwall," whose “passion for rural sports, and the beauties of nature," gave birth to a poem where nature and sport were to be the only features of the picture,” and wherein he thus describes.

Full of th' expected sport my heart beats
high,

And with impatient step I haste to reach
The stubbles, where the scatter'd ears afford
A sweet repast to the yet heedless game.
How my brave dogs o'er the broad furrows
bound,

Quart'ring their ground exactly. Ah! that point

Answers my eager hopes, and fills my breast
With joy unspeakable. How close they lie!
Whilst to the spot with steady pace I tend.
Now from the ground with noisy wing they
burst,

And dart away. My victim singled out,
In his aërial course falls short, nor skims

Th' adjoining hedge o'er which the rest unhurt
Have pass'd. Now let us from that lofty hedge
Survey with heedful eye the country round;
That we may bend our course once more to

meet

The scatter'd covey: for no marker waits Upon my steps, though hill and valley here, With shrubby copse, and far extended brake Of high-grown furze, alternate rise around.

Inviting is the view,-far to the right In rows of dusky green, potatoes stretch, With turnips mingled of a livelier hue. Towards the vale, fenc d by the prickly furze That down the hill irregularly slopes, Upwards they seem'd to fly; nor is their flight Long at this early season. Let us beat, With diligence and speed restrain'd, the

ground,

Making each circuit good.

Near yonder hedge-row where high grass

and ferns

The pen of a country gentleman communicates an account of a remarkable character created by "love of the gun."

THE LOSCOE MISER.

For the Every-Day Book.

About sixty years ago, at Loscoe, a small village in Derbyshire, lived James Woolley, notorious for three things, the very good clocks he made, his eccentric system of farming, and the very great care he took of his money. He was, like Elwes and Dancer, an old bachelor, and for the same reason, it was a favourite maxim with him, and ever upon his lips, that "fine wives and fine gardens are mighty expensive things:" he consequently kept at a very respectful distance from both. He had, indeed, an unconquerable dread of any thing "fine," or that approached in any way that awful and ghost-like term "expensive."

It would seem that Woolley's avaricious bias, was not, as is generally the case, his first ruling passion, though a phrenologist, might entertain a different opinion. "When young," says Blackner in his History of Nottinghamshire, "he was partial to shooting; but being detected at his sport upon the estate of the depraved

William Andrew Horne, Esq. of Butterly (who was executed on the 11th of December, 1759, at Nottingham, for the murder of a child) and compelled by him to pay the penalty, he made a vow never to cease from labour, except when nature compelled him, till he had obtained sufficient property to justify him in following his favourite sport, without dreading the frowns of his haughty neighbour. He accordingly fell to work, and continued at it till he was weary, when he rested, and "to it again," a plan which he pursued without any regard to night or day. He denied himself the use of an ordinary bed, and of every other comfort, as well as necessary, except of the meanest kind, But when he had acquired property to qualify him to carry a gun, he had lost all relish for the sport; and he continued to labour at clock-making, except when he found an opportunity of trafficking in land, till he had amassed a considerable fortune, which he bequeathed to one of his relations. I believe he died about 1770."

It must have been a singular spectacle to any one except Woolley's neighbours, who were the daily observers of his habits, to have seen a man worth upwards of 20,000l. up at five in the morning brushing away with his bare feet the dew as he fetched up his cows from the pasture, his shoes and stockings carefully held under his arm to prevent them from being injured by the wet; though, by the by, a glance at them would have satisfied any one they had but little to fear from the dew or any thing else. A penny loaf boiled in a small piece of linen, made him an excellent pudding; this with a halfpenny worth of small beer from the village alehouse was his more than ordinary dinner, and rarely sported unless on holydays, or when he had a friend or tenant to share the luxury.

Once in his life Woolley was convicted of liberality. He had at great labour and expense of time made, what he considered, a clock of considerable value, and, as it was probably too large for common purposes, he presented it to the corporation of Nottingham, for the exchange. In return he was made a freeman of the town. They could not have conferred on him a greater favour the honour mattered not -but election-dinners were things which powerfully appealed through his stomach to his heart. The first he attended was productive of a ludicrous incident. His

shabby and vagrant appearance nearly excluded him from the scene of good-eating, and even when the burgesses sat down to table, no one seemed disposed to accommodate the miserly old gentleman with a seat. The chairs were quickly filled having no time to lose, he crept under the table and thrusting up his head forced himself violently into one, but not before he had received some heavy blows on the bare skull.

The most prominent incident in his history, was a ploughing scheme of his own invention. He had long lamented that he kept horses at a great expense for the purposes of husbandry. To have kept a saddle-horse would have been extravagant-and at last fancying he could do without them, they were sold, and the money carefully laid by. This was a triumph-a noble saving! The winter passed away, and his hay and corn-stacks stood undiminished; ploughing time however arrived, and his new plan must be carried into effect. The plough was drawn from its inglorious resting-place, and a score men were summoned from the village to supply the place of horses. At the breakfast-table he was not without fears of a famine-he could starve himself, but a score of brawny villagers, hungry, and anticipating a hard day's work, would eat, and drink too, and must be satisfied. They soon proceeded to the field, where a long continued drought had made the ground almost impenetrable; the day became excessively hot, and the men tugged and puffed to little purpose; they again ate heartily, and drank more good ale than the old man had patience to think of; and difficult as it was, to force the share through the unyielding sward, it was still more difficult to refrain from laughing out at the grotesque figure their group presented. They made many wry faces, and more wry furrows, and spoiled with their feet what they had not ploughed amiss. But this was not all. Had a balloon been sent up from the field it could scarcely have drawn together more intruders; he tried, but in vain, to keep them off; they thronged upon him from all quarters; his gates were all set open or thrown off the hooks; and the fences broken down in every direction. Woolley perceived his error; the men, the rope traces, and the plough were sent home in a hurry, and with some blustering, and many oaths, the trespassers were got rid of. The fences were mended, and the gates_re