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And must we bid sweet Philomel adieu ?
She that was wont to charm us in the grove P
Must Natures livery wear a sadder hue,
And a dark canopy be stretch'd above 2
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 sleep-
ers 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.

NATURA Lists' cALEN DAR. Mean Temperature . . . . . 63- 69.

#rptember 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.”

as
Application for a License.

In the shooting season of 1821, a fashionably dressed young man applied to sir Robert Baker for a license to kill— not 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-arms 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 much obliged to you, sir; and I can be furnished at this office with a license to carry arms for that purpose?” The answer, of course, was given in the negative, though not without a good deal of surrise at such a question, and the inquirer wed and withdrew.

THE FIRST of SEPTEMBER. Here the rude clamour of the sportsman's

so x The gun foundefing. 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

In, Gueso, and sudden, from the fowler's eye, o'eno their sounding pinions; and again, Immediate brings them from the towering wing, Dead to the ground : or drives them widedispers'd, Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind. 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 creation 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, As if their conscious ravage shunn'd the light, Asham'd. Not so the steady tyrant man, 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 lay 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 worstent 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 aerial 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. o Near yonder hedge-row where high grass and ferns The secret hollow shade, my pointers stand. How o they look! with outstretch'd tails, With heads immovable and eyes fast fix’d, One fore-leg rais'd and bent, the other firm, Advancing forward, presses on the ground ! Convolv'd and flutt'ring on the blood-stain'd earth, The partridge lies:—thus one by one they fall, Save what with happier fate escape untouch'd,

And o'er the open fields with rapid speed
To the close shelt'ring covert wing their way.
When to the hedge-rows thus the birds
repair,
Most certain is our sport; but oft in brakes
So deep they lie, that far above our head
The waving branches close, and vex'd we hear
The startled covey one by one make off.
Now may we visit some remoter ground;
My eager wishes are insatiate yet,
And end but with the sun.
Yet happy he,
Who ere the nooontide beams inflame the skies,
Has bagg'd the spoil; with iighter step he
treads,
Nor faints so fast beneath the scorching ray.
The morning hours well spent, should mighty
toil
Require some respite, he content can seek
Th' o'er-arching shade, or to the friendly farm
Betake him, where with hospitable hand
His simple host brings É. the grateful
draught
Of honest home-brew’d beer, or cider cool.
Such friendly treatment may each fowler find
Who never violates the farmer's rights,
Nor with injurious violence, invades
His fields of standing corn. Let us forbear
Such cruel wrong, though on the very verge
Of the high waving field our days should point.

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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 F. to justify him in following his avourite 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 o 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 o 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 o: this with a halfF. worth of small beer from the vilage 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 calefully 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 #. 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

placed, and having to his heart's content

ratified his whim, he returned to the old-fashioned custom of ploughing with horses, until in his brains' fertility he could discover something better and less “expensive "

NATURALISTS' cALEN DAR. Mean Temperature . . . 60 - 40.

$tptember 2.

LoN Don BURNT, 1666. This notice in our almanacs was descriptively illustrated in vol. i. col. 1150, 165.

BARTHolomew FAIR, 1826.

Another year arrives, and spite of corporation “resolutions,” and references to “the committee,” and “reports,” and “recommendations,” to abolish the fair, it is held again. “Now,” says an agreeable observer, “Now arrives that Saturmalia of nondescript noise and nonconformity, “Bartlemy fair;"—when that prince of peace-officers, the lord mayor, changes his sword of state into a sixpenny trumpet, and becomes the lord of misrule and the patron of pickpockets; and lady Holland's name leads an unlettered mob instead of a lettered one; when Mr. Richardson maintains, during three whole days and a half, a managerial supremacy that must be not a little enviable even in the eyes of Mr. Elliston himself; and Mr. Gyngell holds, during the same period, a scarcely less distinguished station as the Apollo of servant-maids; when “the incomparable (not to say eternal) young Master Saunders' rides on horseback to the admiration of all beholders, in the person of his eldest son; and when all the giants in the land, and the dwarfs too, make a general muster, and each proves to be, according to the most correct measurement, at least a foot taller or shorter than any other in the fair, and in fact, the only one worth seeing, “all the rest being impostors " In short, when every booth in the fair combines in itself the attractions of all the rest, and so perplexes with its irresistible merit the rapt imagination of the half-holyday schoolboys who have got but sixpence to spend upon the whole, that they eye the outsides of each in a state of pleasing despair, till their leave of absence is expired twice over, and then return home filied with visions of giants and gingerbread

nuts, and dream all night long of what they have not seen.”

The almanac day for Bartholomew fair, is on the third of the month, which this year fell on a Sunday, and it being prescribed that the fair shall be proclaimed “on or before the third,” proclamation was accordingly made, and the fair commenced on Saturday the second of September, 1826. Its appearance on that and subsequent days, proves that it is going out like the lottery, by force of public opinion; for the people no longer buy lottery tickets even in “the last lottery,” or pay as they used to do at “Bartlemy fair.” There were this year only three shows at sixpence, and one at twopence; all the rest were “only a penny.” The sixpenny shows were, Clarke, with riders and tumblers; Richardson, with his tragi-comical company, enacting “ Paul Pry;” and wicked Wombwell, with his fellow brutes. In the twopenny show were four lively little crocodiles about twelve inches long, . hatched from the eggs at Peckham, by steam; two larger crocodiles; four cages of fierce rattle snakes; and a dwarf lady. In the penny shows were a glass-blower, sitting at work in a glass wig, with rows of curls all over, making pretty little teacups at threepence each, and miniature tobacco pipes for a penny; he was assisted by a wretched looking female, who was a sword-swallower at the last figure, and figured in this by placing her feet on hot iron, and licking a poker nearly red hot with her tongue. In “Brown's grand company from Paris,” there were juggling, tight-rope dancing, a learned horse, and playing on the salt-box with a rolling-pin, to a tune which is said to be peculiar to the pastime. The other penny shows were nearly as last year, and silver-haired ladies and dwarfs, more plentiful and less in demand than learned pigs, who, on that account, drew “good houses.” In this year's fair there was not one “up-and-down,” or “round-about.” The west side of Giltspur-street was an attractive mart to certain “men of letters;” for the ground was covered with “relics of literature.” In the language of my informant, for I did not visit the fair myself, there was a “ o of genius” from St. Sepulchre's church to Cock-lane. He mentions that a person, apparently an

* Mirror of the Months.

agent of a religious society, was anxiously busy in the fair distributing a bill entitled—“Are you prepared to die?”

Roman REMAINS AT PENTonville, and THE WHITE CoNDUIt.

I am not learned in the history or the science of phrenology, but, unless I am mistaken, surely in the days of “craniology,” the organ of inhabitiveness” was called the organ of “travelling.” Within the last minute I have felt my head in search of the development. I imagine it must be very palpable to the scientific, for I not only incline to wander but to locate. However that may be, I cannot find it myself—for want, I suppose, of a topographical view of the cranium, and I have not a copy of Mr. Cruikshank’s “Illustrations of Phromology” to refer to. At home, I always rit in the same place, if I can make my way to it without disturbing the children; all of whom, by the by, (I speak of the younger ones,) are great sticklers for rights of sitting, and urge their claims on each other with a persistence which takes all my authority to abate. I have a habit, too, at a friend's house of always preferring the seat I dropped into on my first visit; and the same elsewhere. The first time I went to the Chapter Coffee-house, some five-andtwenty years ago, I accidentally found , myself alone with old Dr. Buchan, in the same box; it was by the fireplace on the left from Paternoster-row door: poor Robert Heron presently afterwards entered, and then a troop of the doctor's familiars dropped in, one by one; and I sat in the corner, a stranger to all of them, and therefore a silent auditor of their pleasant disputations. At my next appearance I forbore from occupying the same seat, because it would have been an obtrusion on the literary community; but I got into the adjoining box, and that always, for the period of my then frequenting the house, was my coveted box. After an absence of twenty years, I returned to the “Chapter,” and involuntarily stepped to the old spot; it was pre-occupied; and in the doctor's box were other faces, and talkers of other things. I strode away to a distant part of the room to an inviting vacancy, which, from that accident, and my propensity, became my desirable sitting place at every future visit. My strolls abroad are of the same character. I pre

fer walking where I walked when novelty was charming; where I can have the }. of recollecting that I formerly elt pleasure—of rising to the enjoyment of a spirit hovering over the remains it had animated. One of my oldest, and therefore one of my still-admired walks is by the way of Islington. I am partial to it, because, when I was eleven years old, I went every evening from my father's, near Red Lionsquare, to a lodging in that village “for a consumption," and returned the following morning. I thus became acquainted with Canonbury, and the Pied Bull, and Barnesbury-park, and White Conduithouse; and the intimacy has been kept up until presumptuous takings in, and enclosures, and new buildings, have nearly destroyed it. The old site seems like an old friend who has formed fashionable acquaintanceships, and lost his old heartwarming smiles in the constraint of a new face. In my last Islington walk, I took a survey of the only remains of the Roman encampment, near Barnesbury-park. This is a quadrangle of about one hundred and thirty feet, surrounded by a fosse or ditch, about five-and-twenty feet wide, and twelve feet deep. It is close to the west side of the present end of the New Road, in a line with Penton-street; immediately opposite to it, on the east side of the road, is built a row of houses, at present uninhabited, called MinervaF. This quadrangle is supposed to ave been the praetorium or head quarters of Suetonius, when he engaged the British queen, Boadicea, about the year 60. The conflict was in the eastward valley below, at the back of Pentonville. Here Boadicea, with her two daughters before her in the same war-chariot, traversed the plain, haranguing her troops; telling them, as Tacitus records, “that it was usual to the Britons to war under the conduct of women,” and inciting them to “ven#.". for the oppression of public liberty, or the stripes inflicted on her person, for the defilement of her virgin daughters;” declaring “that in that battle they must

remain utterly victorious or utterly perish:

such was the firm purpose of her who was a woman; the men, if they pleased, might still enjoy life and bondage.” The slaughter was terrible, eighty thousand of the i. were left dead on the field; it terminated victoriously for the Romans, near Gray's-inn-lane, at the place called “Battle Bridge,” in commemoration of the event.

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