The peasants of the valley meet To celebrate the "Cushion Dance." A pillow in the room they hide, The bold the bashful damsels chide, Whose heart's-pulse seem to rock: "Escape?"-" Not yet!-no key is found!""Of course, 'tis lost by chance ;" And flutt'ring whispers breathe around "The Cushion Dance!-The Cushion Dance !" The fiddler in a corner stands, He gives, he rules the game; Whose cheek is red with shame : The pillow's carried round and round, ""Tis aunt's turn,-what in tears?-I thought You dearly loved a joke; Kisses are sweeter stol'n than bought, On the right-hand side of the altar of St. Sepulchre's church is a board, with a list of charitable donations and gifts, containing the following item : £. s. d. 1605. Mr. Robert Dowe gave 50 0 0 for ringing the greatest bell in this church on the day the condemned prisoners are executed, and for other services, for ever, concerning such condemned prisoners, for which services the sexton is paid £1. 6s. 8d. Looking over an old volume of the Newgate Calendar, I found some elucidation of this inscription. In a narrative of the case of Stephen Gardner, (who was executed at Tyburn, February 3, 1724,) it is related that a person said to Gardner, when he was set at liberty on a former occasion, "Beware how you come here again, or the bellman will certainly say his verses over you." On this saying there is the following remark : "It has been a very ancient practice, on the night preceding the execution of con 1 demned criminals, for the bellman of the All you that in the condemn'd hold do lie, In the following extract from Stowe's London,* it will be shown that the above verses ought to be repeated by a clergyman, instead of a bellman : "Robert Doue, citizen and merchant taylor, of London, gave to the parish church of St. Sepulchres, the somme of £50. That after the several sessions of London, when the prisoners remain in the gaole, as condemned men to death, expecting execution on the morrow following: the clarke (that is the parson) of the church shoold come in the night time, and likewise early in the morning, to the window of the prison where they lye, and there ringing certain toles with a hand-bell appointed for the purpose, he doth afterwards (in most Christian man=ner) put them in mind of their present condition, and ensuing execution, desiring them to be prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and brought before the wall of the church, there he standeth ready with the same bell, and, after certain toles, rehearseth an appointed praier, desiring all the people there present to pray for them. The beadle also of Merchant Taylors' Hall hath an honest stipend allowed to see that this is duely done." Probably the discontinuance of this practice commenced when malefactors were first executed at Newgate, in lieu of Tyburn. The donation most certainly refers to the 'verses. What the " other services " are which the donor intended to be done, and for which the sexton is paid £1. 6s. 8d., and which are to be "for ever," I do not know, but I presume those services (or some other) are now continued, as the board which contains the donation seems to me to have been newly painted. Carthusian-street, Jan. 1827. EDWIN S-. * Page 25 of the quarto edition, 1618. Who is it that rides thro' the forest so green, Why starts the proud courser ? what vision is there? But, lo! a dark form o'er the pathway hath lean'd; The prophet of Cadenham, the death-boding seer! "Desolation, death, ruin, the mighty shall fall- "Thou liest, vile caitiff, 'tis false, by the rood, "But say what art thou, strange, unsearchable thing,] "In darkness and storm o'er the ocean I sail, O pale grew the monarch, and smote on his breast, Why looks he with dread on the blasted oak tree? He thought of the contract, "Thou'rt safe from the tomb, Till Cadenham's oak in the winter shall bloom;" As he stood near the tree, lo! a swift flying dart Hath struck the proud monarch, and pierc'd thro' his versed and formal, being compared to the heart; In Malwood is silent the light-hearted glee, London. AQUILA. DESCRIBED BY A WRITER IN 1634. I will first take a survey of the long-continued deformity in the shape of your city, which is of your buildings. Sure your ancestors contrived your narrow streets in the days of wheel-barrows, before those greater engines, carts, were invented. Is your climate so hot, that as you walk you need umbrellas of tiles to intercept the sun? or are your shambles so empty, that you are afraid to take in fresh air, lest it should sharpen your stomachs ? Oh, the goodly landscape of Old Fishstreet! which, if it had not the ill luck to be crooked, was narrow enough to have been your founder's perspective; and where the garrets, perhaps not for want of architecture, but through abundance of amity, are so narrow, that opposite neighbours may shake hands without stirring from home. Is unanimity of inhabitants in wide cities better exprest than by their coherence and uniformity of building, where streets begin, continue, and end, in a like stature and shape ?* But yours, as if they' were raised in a general resurrection, where every man hath a several design, differ in all things that can make a distinction. Here stands one that aims to be a palace, and next it, one that professes to be a hovel; here a giant, there a dwarf; here slender, there broad; and all most admirably different in faces, as well as in their height and bulk. I was about to defy any Londoner, who dares to pretend there is so much ingenious. correspondence in this city, as that he can show me one house like *If a disagreement of neighbours were to be inferred from such a circumstance, what but an unfavourable inference would be drawn from our modern style of architecture, as exemplified in Regent-street, where the houses are, as the leopard's spots are described to be, "no two alike, and every one different." another; yet your houses seem to be refantastical looks of the moderns, which have more ovals, niches, and angles, than in your custards, and are enclosed with pasteboard walls, like those of malicious Turks, who, because themselves are not immortal, and cannot dwell for ever where they build, therefore wish not to be at charge to provide such lastingness as may entertain their children out of the rain; so slight and prettily gaudy, that if they could move, they would pass for pageants. It is your custom, where men vary often the mode of their habits, to term the nation fantastical; but where streets continually change fashion, you should make haste to chain up your city, for it is certainly mad. You would think me a malicious tra veller, if I should still gaze on your misbeauty of your river, therefore I will pass shapen streets, and take no notice of the the importunate noise of your watermen, (who snatch at fares, as if they were to catch prisoners, plying the gentry so uncivilly, as if they had never rowed any other passengers than bear-wards,) and now step into one of your peascod-boats, whose tilts are not so sumptuous as the roofs of gondolas; nor, when you are within, are you at the ease of a chaise-à-bras. The commodity and trade of your river belong to yourselves; but give a stranger leave to share in the pleasure of it, which will hardly be in the prospect and freedom of air; unless prospect, consisting of variety, be made up with here a palace, there a wood-yard; here a garden, there a brewhouse; here dwells a lord, there a dyer; and between both, duomo commune. If freedom of air be inferred in the liberty of the subject, where every private man hath authority, for his own profit, to smoke up a magistrate, then the air of your Thames is open enough, because it is equally free, I will forbear to visit your courtly neighbours at Wapping, not that it will make me giddy to shoot your bridge, but that I am loath to describe the civil silence at Billingsgate, which is so great, as if the mariners were always landing to sake, I will put to shore again, though I storm the harbour; therefore, for brevity's should be so constrained, even without my galoshes, to land at Puddle-dock. I am now returned to visit your houses, where the roofs are so low, that I presumed your ancestors were very mannerly, and stood bare to their wives; for I cannot discern how they could wear their highcrowned hats yet I will enter, and therein oblige you much, when you know my aversion to a certain weed that governs amongst your coarser acquaintance, as much as lavender among your coarser linen; to which, in my apprehension, your sea-coal smoke seems a very Portugal perfume. I should here hasten to a period, for fear of suffocation, if I thought you so ungracious as to use it in public assemblies; and yet I see it grow so much in fashion, that methinks your children begin to play with broken pipes instead of corals, to make way for their teeth. You will find my visit short; I cannot stay to eat with you, because your bread is too heavy, and you distrain the light substance of herbs. Your drink is too thick, and yet you are seldom over curious in washing your glasses. Nor will I lodge with you, because your beds seem no bigger than coffins; and your curtains so short, as they will hardly serve to enclose your carriers in summer, and may be held, if taffata, to have lined your grandsire's skirts. I have now left your houses, and am passing through your streets, but not in a coach, for they are uneasily hung, and so narrow, that I took them for sedans upon wheels. Nor is it safe for a stranger to use them till the quarrel be decided, whether six of your nobles, sitting together, shall stop and give way to as many barrels of A FATHER'S HOME. For the Table Book. When oppress'd by the world, or fatigu'd with its charms, My weary steps homeward I tread- Hark! the rap at the door is known as their dad's, Wide open it flies, while the lasses and lads Bid me welcome as chief of the flock. While with outstretched arms and looks of amaze Then Harry, the next, climbs the knee to engage But Bob, springing forward almost in a rage, Oh, ye vot'ries of pleasure and folly's sad crew, Look here for true joys, ever blooming and new, Right merrily playing their parts. And Bill (the sly rogue) takes a lump, when he's able, And, archly observing, hides under the table beer. Your city is the only metropolis While George, the big boy, talks of terrible" sums” in Europe, where there is wonderful dignity belonging to carts. I would now make a safe retreat, but that methinks I am stopped by one of your heroic games called foot-ball; which I conceive (under your favour) not very conve niently civil in the streets, especially in such irregular and narrow roads as Crookedlane. Yet it argues your courage, much like your military pastime of throwing at cocks; but your metal would be much magnified (since you have long allowed those two valiant exercises in the streets) were you to draw your archers from Finsbury, and, during high market, let them shoot at butts in Cheapside. I have now no more to say, but what refers to a few private notes, which I shall give you in a whisper, when we meet in Moorfields, from whence (because the place was meant for public pleasure, and to show the munificence of your city) I shall desire you to banish your laundresses and bleachers, whose acres of old linen make a show like the fields of Carthagena, when the five months' shifts of the whole fleet are washed and spread." Sir W. Davenant. He perform'd so correctly at school; Bill leeringly tells, with his chin on his thumbs, This raises a strife, till in choleric mood Each ventures a threat to his brother, There Nan, the sweet girl, she that fags for the whole, Her sister's fine sampler and border. Kitty sings to me gaily, then chatting apace Helps her mother to darn or to stitch, Reminding me most of that gay laughing face Which once did my fond heart bewitch. Till, tired of all, in the silence of night, They dream the glad moments away. my lot! Ye children, be virtuous and true! When my vigour is gone, and to manhood's estate father's fate, R. Our new toll-houses are deservedly the subject of frequent remark, on account of their beauty. The preceding engraving is intended to convey an idea of Stanmoregate, which is one of the handsomest near London. The top is formed into a large lantern; when illuminated, it is an important mark to drivers in dark nights. It may be necessary to add, that the present representation was not destined to appear in this place; but the indisposition of a gentleman engaged to assist in illustrating this work, has occasioned a sudden disappointment, "STATUTES" AND "MOPS." To the Editor. Sir,-Although your unique and curious work, the Every-Day Book, abounds with very interesting accounts of festivals, fairs, wassails, wakes, and other particulars concerning our country manners, and will be prized by future generations as a rare and valuable collection of the pastimes and customs of their forefathers, still much of the same nature remains to be related; and as I am anxious that the Country of the country people generally,) should be Statute, or Mop, (according to the version snatched from oblivion, I send you a description of this custom, which, I hope, will be deemed worthy a place in the Table Book. I had waited to see if some one more competent to a better account than myself would achieve the task, when that short but significant word FINIS, attached to the Every-Day Book, arouses me from further delay, and I delineate, as well as I am able, scenes which, but for that work, I possibly should have never noticed. Some months ago I solicited the assistresiding at Wootton, in Warwickshire, who ance of a friend, a respectable farmer, not only very readily promised to give me every information he possessed on the subject, but proposed that I should pass a week at his farm at the time these Statutes were holding. So valuable an opportunity |