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and widened since Caesar's time. It was then no sort of embarrassment to the camp, but an admirable convenience for watering, being contained in narrow banks not deep. The breadth and length are made by long tract of time. The ancient road by Copenhagen wanting repair, induced passengers to make this gravelly valley become much larger than in Caesar's time. The old division runs along that road between Finsbury and Holborn division, going in a straight line from Gray's-inn-lane to Highgate: its antiquity is shown in its name—Madanlane. The recovery of this noble antiquity will give pleasure to a British antiquary; especially an inhabitant of London, whereof it is a singular glory. It renders the walk over the beautiful fields to the Brill doubly agreeable, when at half a mile distance we can tread in the very steps of the Roman camp master, and of the greatest of the Roman generals. We need not wonder that the traces of this camp so near the metropolis are so nearly worn out; we may rather wonder that so much is left, when a proper sagacity in these matters may discern them, and be assured that somewhat more than three or four sorry houses are commemorated under the name of the Brill, (now called Brill-place-Terrace ;) nor is it unworthy of remark, as an evident confirmation of our system, that all the ditches and fences now upon the ground, have a manifest respect to the principal members of the original plan of the camp. In this camp Caesar made the two British kings friends—Caswelham and his nephew Mandubrace. judge I have performed my promise in giving an account of this greatest curiosity, so illustrious a monument of the greatest of the Roman generals, which has withstood the waste of time for more than eighteen centuries, and passed unnoticed but half a mile off the metropolis. I shall only add this observation, that when I came to survey this plot of ground to make a map of it by pacing, I found every where even and great numbers, and what I have often formerly observed in Roman works; whence we may safely affirm the Roman camp master laid out his works by pacing.”
With the hope that the preceding ar
ticle may draw attention to the subject, the editor defers remark till he has been favoured with communications from other hands,
The following lines were written by an old and particular friend of the erudite individual who received them :
To Richard Gough, Esq. O tu severi Religio loci I
Hail, genius of this littered study . .
• Dr. Stukeley's Itinerary.
* Dr. Forster's Perennial Calendar.
as long as he lived. St. Amand continued at Bordeaux as a private person; but surviving St. Surin, ". was at his death restored to the station from which he had descended with so much gentleness and resignation. It is among the traditions of the church of St. Surin at Bordeaux, that the cemetery belonging to it was “consecrated by Jesus Christ himself, accompanied by seven bishops, who were afterwards canonized, and were the
founders of the principal churches in Aquitaine.”
On an oval marble in Egham church, Surrey, are the following lines written by David Garrick, to the memory of the Reverend Mr. Thomas Beighton who was vicar of that church forty-five years, and died on the 23d of October, 1771, aged 73.
* Near half an age, with every good man's praise,
The “Mirror of the Months” seems to reflect every object to the reader's eye; but not having read more of that work than by extract, in the Every-Day Book, I think an addendum, par hazard, may not be without truth and interest.
Rise early,–be abroad, and after you have inspired sufficient fog to keep you coughing all day, you will see Jewboys and girls with their fathers and mothers veering forth from the purlieus of Houndsditch with sweetmeats, “ten a penny!” which information is sung, or said, ten thousand times before sunset. Now Irishmen, (except there be a fight in Copenhagen j women, are hurrying to and from mass, and the poorest creatures sit near the chapels, with all their own infants, and those of others, to excite pity, and call down the morning smile of charity.—Now newsboys come along the Strand with damp sheets of intelligence folded under their arms in a greasy, dirty piece of thick (once) brown paper, or a
suitable envelope of leather. Now watercress women, or rather girls, with chubby babies hanging on one arm, and a flat basket suspended from the shoulder by a strap, stand at their station-post, near the pump, at a corner of the street.t. Now mechanics in aprons, with unshorn, unwashed faces, take their birds, dogs, and }. towards the fields, which, with dif. culty, they find. Now the foot and horseguards are preparing for parade in the parks—coaches are being loaded by passengers, dressed for “a few miles out of town"—the doors of liquor-shops are in motion—prayers at St. Paul's and Westminster are responded by choristers, crowds of the lower orders create discord by the interference of the officious streetkeeper—and the “Angel” and “Elephant and Castle” are surrounded by jaun company, arriving and departing . horses reeking before the short and longstage coaches.—Now the pious missionary drops religious tracts in the local stands of hackney coachmen, and paths leading to the metropolis.-Now nuts and walnuts slip-shelled are heaped in a basket with some dozens of the finest cracked, placed at the top, as specimens of the whole — bullace, bilberries, sliced cocoa-nuts, apples, pears, damsons, blackberries, and oranges are glossed and piled for sale so
* Miss Plumptre. + This is the only month in the year in which water-cresses are without spawn.
imposingly, that no eye can escape them. —Now fruiterers' and druggists’ windows, like six days' mourning, are half shuttered.—Now the basket and bell pass your house with muffins and crumpets.”— Placards are hung from newsvenders', at whose taking appearances, gossips stand to learn the fate of empires, during the lapse of hebdomadal warfare.-Now beggars carry the broom, and the great thoroughfares are in motion, and geese and game are sent to the rich, and the poor cheapen at the daring butcher's shop, for a scrag of mutton to keep company in the pot with the carrots and turnips.-Now the Israelites' little sheds are clothed with apparel, near which “a Jew's eye” is watching to catch the wants of the necessitous that purchase at second-hand.— Now eels are sold in sand at the bridges, and steam-boats loiter about wharfs and stairs to take up stray people for Richmond and the É. ouse.—The
destrian advocate now unbags his sticks and spreads them in array against a quiet, but public wall.—Chesnuts are just coming in, and biscuits and’ cordials are handed amongst the coldstreams relieving guard at Old Palace Yard, where the bands play favourite pieces enclosed by ranks and files of military men, and crowds of all classes and orders.-Now the bells are chiming for church,-dissenters and methodists are hastening to worship—baker's counters are being covered with laden dishes and platters— quakers are silently seated in their meetings, and a few sailors are surveying the stupendous dome of St. Paul's, under which the cathedral service is performing on the inside of closed iron gates.—Now the beadle searches public-houses with the blinds let down.—Now winter patterns, great coats, tippets, muffs, cloaks and pelisses are worn, and many a thinlyclad carmelite shivers along the streets. With many variations, the “Sunday Morning” passes away; and then artizans are returning from their rustication, and servants are waiting with cloths on their arms for the treasures of the oven—people are
• In Bath, before is: Lunns were so fashionable, (their origin I shall shortly acquaint you with) muffins were oried with a song, beginning“Don’t you know the muffin man r Don’t you know his name * And don't you know the muffin-man That lives in Bridewell-lane &c.” I reply, yes, I did know him, and a facetious little short fellow he was, with a face as pocked as his crumpets; but his civility gained him friends and competence, --virtue's just reward.
Shoes AND Buckles.
The business of a shoemaker is of great antiquity. The instrument for cleaning hides, the shoemaker’s bristle added to the yarn, and his knife, were as early as the twelfth century. He was accustomed to hawk his goods, and it is conjectured that there was a separate trade for annexing the soles.f #. Romans in classical times, wore cork soles in their shoes to secure the feet from water, especially in winter; and as high heels were nor then introduced, the Roman ladies who wished to appear taller than they had been formed by nature, put plenty of cork under them. The streets of Rome in the time of Domitian were blocked up by cobblers’ stalls, which he therefore caused to be removed. In the middle ages shoes were cleaned by washing with a sponge; and oil, soap, and grease, were the substitutes for blacking. Buckles were worn in shoes in the fourteenth century. In an Irish abbey a human skeleton was found with marks of buckles on the shoes. In England they became fashionable many years before the reign of queen Mary; the labouring people wore them of copper; other persons had them of silver, or copper-gilt not long after shoe-roses came in.' Buckles revived before the revolution of 1689, remained fashionable
* See vol. i. col. 1395. t Fosbroke's Ency. of Antiquities. + Beckmann.
till after the French revolution in 1789; and finally.became extinct before the close of the eighteenth century.
In Robert Hegg’s “Legend of St. Cuthbert,” reprinted at the end of Mr. Dixon's “Historical and Descriptive View of the city of Durham and its Environs,” we are told of St. Goodrick, that “in his
ounger age he was a pedlar, and carried }. moveable shop from fair to fair upon his back,” and used to visit Lindisfarne, “much delighting to heare the monkes tell wonders of St. Cuthbert; which soe enflamed his devotion, that he undertooke a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre; and by the advice of St. Cuthbert in a dreame, repayred againe to the holy land, and washing his feete in Jordan, there left his shoes, with a vow to goe barefoot all his life after.”
He Creditors of King Charles, K.
James, and K. William, having found out and discovered sufficient Funds for securing a perpetual Interest for 4 Millions, without burdening the people, clogging the Trade or impairing the Revenue; and all their debts not amounting to near that Sum; the more to strengthen their interest, and to find the greater favour with the Parliament, have agreed that the Army and Transports Debentures and other Parliament Debts may if they please, joyn with them, and it is not expected that any great Debts shall pay any Charge for carrying on this Act, until it be happily accomplished, and no more will be expected afterwards than what shall be readily agreed to before hand, neither shall any be hindered from taking any other measures, if there should be but a suspicion of miscarriage, which is impossible if they Unite their Interest. They continue to meet by the Parliament Stairs in Old Palace-yard, there is a Note on the Door, where daily attendance is given
from 10 in the Morning till 7 at Night; if any are not apprehensive of the cer– tainty of the Success, they may come and have full satisfaction, that they may have their Money if they will.
NELson The notice of the battle wherein this il
illustrious admiral received his death
wound, (on the 21st,) might have been properly accompanied by the followin quotation from a work which should be put into the chest of every boy on his going to sea. It is so delightfully written, as to rivet the attention of every reader whether mariner or landsman. “The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public calamity: men started at the intelligence,
and turned pale, as if they had heard of
the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us; and it seemed as if we had never, till then, known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero— the greatest of our own, and of all former times—was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end : the fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but destroyed: new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our shores could again be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him : the general sorrow was of a higher character. The people of England grieved that funeral ceremonies, o: monuments, and posthumous rewards, were all which they could now bestow upon him, whom the king, the legislature, and the nation, would alike have delighted to honour; whom every tongue would have blessed; whose presence in every village through which he might have passed would have awakened the church bells, have given schoolboys a holiday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him, and ‘old men from the chimney corner’ to look upon Nelson, ere they died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy; for such already was the glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most signal vietory that ever was achieved upon the seas: and the destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to our security or strength; for while Nelson was living, to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence.—There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening the body, that, in the course of nature, he might have attained, like his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose work was done; nor ought he to be lamented, who died so full of honours, and at the height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most splendid, that of the hero in the hour of victory: and if the chariot and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory.”
* Southey's Life of Nelson. t Gentleman's Magazine.
Ottober 29, . - cToBER IN LoNDoN.
On looking into the “Mirror of the Months,” we find “a lively portraiture” of the season.—“October is to London what April is to the country; it is the Spring of the London summer, when the Hopes of the shopkeeper begin to bud forth, and he lays aside the insupportable kabour of having nothing to do, for the delightful leisure of preparing to be in a perpetual bustle. During the last month. or two he has been strenuously endeayouring to persuade himself that the Steyne at Brighton is as healthy as Bondstreet; the pavé of Pall Mall no more picturesque than the Pantiles of Tunbridge Wells; and winning a prize at one-cardloo at Margate, as piquant a process as serving a customer to the same amount of profit. But now that the time is returned when ‘business' must again be attended to, he discards with contempt all such mischievous heresies, and reembraces the only orthodox faith of a London shop
keeper—that London and his shop are:
the true “beauteous and sublime' of human life. In fact, “now is the winter of his discontent (that is to say, what other people call summer) “made glorious summer' by the near approach of winter; and all the wit he is master of is put in requisition, to devise the means of proving that every thing he has offered to * his friends' the public,’ up to this particular period, has become worse than obsolete. Accordingly, now are those poets of the shopkeepers, the inventors of patterns, “perplexed in the extreme; since, unless they can produce a something which shall necessarily supersede all their previous' productions, their occupation's gone.—It is the same with all other caterers for the
blic taste; even the literary ones. Mr.
|liston, for his fortunate successor, if one there : * ever anxious to contribute to the amusement of his liberal patrons, the public,’ is already busied in sowing the seeds of a new tragedy, two operatic romances, three grand romantic melo-dramas, and half a dozen farces, in the fertile soil of those poets whom he employs its each of these departments respectively;