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As though slie were abashed to be thus seen

From the sun's couch with silver steps retreating'

Hast thou ne'er marked, that when by slow degiees.

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 limes the diameter which ours presents.

J. O. W.

NATURALISTS CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature ... 36 • 05.

Sanuarp 9.

1826. Plough Monday.
The first Monday after Twelfth day.*

Chronology.
On the 9th of January, 1752, William
Stroud was tried before the bench o

« Set vol. I. p. 7 .

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/. 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 summei 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/., 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 ohurcti Piccadilly."*

Naturalists' Calendar. Mean Temperature . . . 36* 12.

Sannarp 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 nc 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 !f

* Gentleman's Magazin*.
t Howard on Climate.

Winter in the Country.

All out door work
Now stands; the waggoner, with wisp-wound feet,
And wheelspoltes 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 Hocus
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 j
Or from some lofty crag he ominous howla.
And makes approaching night more dismal tall.

Grahame.

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LETTER

from

PA UX. PRY.

To the Editor of the Evcry-Day Book.

Sir, I hope I don't intrude — I have called at Ludgatc-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;" Cm 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 1 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 / was in business! I wish to acquaint every body, that I am not in business, and never was in business, though I've a dea of business to do; but then it's for my own amusement, and that's nobod/'r 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 humorsomeDess : 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 t 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! 1 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-goersknow,if the managers had allowed me to sing a song on Newyear'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! II ever 1 try to serve them or their theatre

again, I'll be—Luton I 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 charactei of Liston—he could Ait me I know—don't you think he could f—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 jou, 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 "cvery-day" man, you know, why you might pop me at the head of the song in your Every-Day Bookthat't a joke you know—I can't help laughing—so droll I I've enclosed the song, you see.

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

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(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

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If you print this in the Every-Day Book it will send Liston into fits—it will kilt 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 —ruch 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 tioubleto 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, Yours eternally, January 6, 1826. 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-fay? that vouU be aj'oAe—wouldn't it? 1 hope I don't intrude. I don't wish to seem curious.

NATURALISTS CALENDAR.

Mean Temperature ... 36 • 07.

Sanuarp 11.

Featt Week.

This is a term in many parts of Engand (or 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 commanc 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 plumpudding !—And now the important day is arrived. The merry bells from the steeple announce the event; and groups of friends and rela ions, 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

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