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On the second day of July, 1744, is recorded the birth of a son to Mr. Arthur Bulkeley.

The child's baptism is remarkable from these circumstances. The infant's godfathers, by proxy, were Edward Downes, of Worth, in Cheshire, Esq. his greatgreat-great-great uncle; Dr. Ashton, master of Jesus-college, Cambridge, and his brother, Mr. Joseph Ashton, of Surreystreet, in the Strand, his great-great-great uncles. His godmothers by their proxies were, Mrs. Elizabeth Wood, of Barnsley, Yorkshire, his great-great-great-great aunt; Mrs. Jane Wainwright, of Middlewoodhall, Yorkshire, his great-great grandmother; and Mrs. Dorothy Green, of the same place, his great grandmother. It was observed of Mrs. Wainwright, who was then eighty-nine years of age, that she could properly say, “Rise, daughter, go to thy daughter; for thy daughter's daughter has a son.”

Mrs. Wainwright was sister to Dr. Ashton and his brother mentioned above, whose father and mother were twice married, “first before a justice of peace by Cromwell's law, and afterwards, as it was common, by a parson; they lived sixtyfour years together, and during the first fifty years in one house, at Bradway, in Derbyshire, where, though they had twelve children and six servants in family, they never buried one.”

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Dellicot was convicted at the quartersessions for Salisbury, of petty larceny, for stealing one penny; whereby his effects, consisting of bank-notes to the amount of 180l., and twenty guineas in money, were forfeited to the bishop, as lord of the manor; but his lordship humanely ordered 100l. of the money to be put to interest for the benefit of the wretch's daughter; 20l. to be given to his aged father, and the remainder to be returned to the delinquent himself.”

The REGENT's PARK.

A correspondent's muse records an accommodation, which may be extended to other resorts, with the certainty of producing much satisfaction in wearied pedestrians.

CONGRATULATORY VERSES to THE NEW sEATS IN THE REGENT's-PARK, 1826, terstos CHAIRS.

I covet not the funeral chair
Th’ Orlean maid was burnt in, when

Enthusiasts' voices rent the air
To clasp their Joan of Arc again.

I, learned Busby's chair, chuse not,t
Nor of a boat in stormy seas,

Nor on a bridge—the stony lot
Of travellers not afraid to freeze.

I covet not the chair of state,
Nor that St. Peter's papal race

Exalted for Pope Joan the great,
But seek .."find an easier place.

To halls and *. knights repaired,
And barons to their chairs retired;

The goblet, glove, and shield, were reared,
As war and love their cause inspired.

* Gentleman's Magazine.

* Gentleman's Magazine.
T Vide Every-Day Book, No. 54, vol. ii.

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* Sedan chairs were first introduced into England in 1634. The first was used by the duke of Buckingham, to the indignation of the people, who exclaimed, that he was employing his fellow creatures to do the service of beasts.

f Query, a pun on Charing-cross. Printer's devil.

t Bloomfield, poor fellow, declared to the writer, that one of his shop pleasures was that of the shoemaker's country custom of waxing his customers to the seat of St. 8. in, preparatory to the serving out the pennyworth of the oil of strap.

NATURALISTS' cALEN DAR. Mean Temperature ... 60 - 30.

3ulp 4, TRANslation of ST, MARTIN.

This day is thus noticed as a festival in the church of England calendar and the almanacs, wherein he is honoured with another festival on the eleventh of November.

The word “translation” signifies, in reference to saints, as most readers alread know, that their remains were remove from the graves wherein their bodies were deposited, to shrines or other places for devotional purposes.

For the Honour of HAckNEYMEN.

“Give a dog an ill name and hang him”—give hackney-coachmen good characters and you'll be laughed at: and yet there are civil coachmen in London, and honest ones too. Prejudice against this most useful class of persons is strong, and it is only fair to record an instance of integrity which, after all, is as general, perhaps, among hackneymen, as among those who ride in their coaches.

HoNESTY REwARDED.—A circumstance took place on Tuesday, (July 4, 1826,) which cannot be made toogenerally known among hackney-coachmen, and persons who use those vehicles.

A gentleman took a coach in St. Paul's churchyard, about twenty minutes before twelve, and was set down in Westminster exactly at noon. Having transacted his business there, he was proceeding homeward a little before one, when he suddenly missed a bank note for three hundred pounds, which he had in his pocket on entering the coach. He had not observed either the number or date of the note, or the number of the coach. He therefore returned to the bankers in the city, and ascertained the number and date of the note, then proceeded to the bank of England, ...} that it had not been paid, and took measures to stop its o: if presented. After some further inquiry, he applied about half-past three, at the hackney-coach office, in Essex-street, in the Strand, and there to his agreeable surprise, he found that the coachman had already brought the note to the commissioners, at whose suggestion the gentleman paid the coachman a reward of fifty pounds. The

name of the honest coachman should be known: it is John Newell, the owner and driver of the coach No. 314, and residing in Marylebone-lane.

It should also be known, that persons leaving o in hackney-coaches, may very generally recover it by applying without delay at the office in Essex-street. Since the act of parliament requiring hackney-coachmen to bring such articles to the office came into effect, which is not four years and a half ago, no less than one thousand and fifty-eight articles have been so brought, being of the aggregate value of forty-five thousand pounds, and upwards.”

Descend we from the coach, and, leaving the town, take a turn with a respected friend whither he would lead us.

FIELD PATHS. (For the Every-Day Book.)

, I love our real old English footpaths. I love those rustic and picturesque stiles, opening their pleasant escapes from freuented places, and dusty highways, into §. solitudes of nature. It is delightful to catch a glimpse of one on the village green, under the old elder-tree by some ancient cottage, or half hidden by the overhanging boughs of a wood. I love to see the smooth dry track, winding away in easy curves, along some green slope, to the churchyard, to the embosomed cottage, or to the forest grange. It is to me an object of certain inspiration. It seems to invite one from noise and publicity, into the heart of solitude and of rural delights. It beckons the imagination on, through green and whispering corn fields, through the short but verdant pasture; the flowery mowing-grass; the odorous and sunny hayfield; the festivity of harvest; from lovely farm to farm ; from village to village; by clear and mossy wells; , by tinkling brooks, and deep wood-skirted streams; to crofts, where the daffodil is rejoicing in spring, or meadows, where the large, blue geraneum embellishes the summer wayside; to heaths, with their warm, elastic sward and crimson bells, the chithering of grasso the foxglove, and the old gnarled oak ; in short, to all the solitary haunts, after which the city-pent lover of nature pants, as “the hart panteth after the water-brooks.” What is there so truly

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English : What is so linked with our rural tastes, our sweetest memories, and our sweetest poetry, as stiles and fieldpaths? Goldsmith, Thomson, and Milton have adorned them with some of their richest wreaths. They have consecrated them to poetry and love. It is along the footpath in secluded fields,-upon the stile in the embowered lane,—where the wild-rose and the honey-suckle are lavishing their beauty and their fragrance, that we delight to picture to ourselves rural lovers, breathing in the dewy sweetness of a summer evening vows still sweeter. It is there, that the poet seated, sends back his soul into the freshness of his i. amongst attachments since withered

y neglect, rendered painful by absence, or broken by death; amongst dreams and aspirations which, even, now that they Fo their own fallacy, are lovely.

t is there that he gazes upon the gorgeous sunset,_the evening star following with silvery lamp the fading day, or the moon showering her pale lustre through the balmy night air, with a fancy that kindles and soars into the heavens before him, —there, that we have all felt the charm of woods and green fields, and solitary boughs waving in the golden sunshine, or darkening in the melancholy beauty of evening shadows. Who has not thought how beautiful was the sight of a village congregation pouring out from their old grey church on a summer day, and streaming off through the quiet meadows, in all di. rections, to their homes : Or who, that has visited Alpine scenery, has not beheld with a poetic feeling, the mountaineers come winding down out of their romantic seclusions on a sabbath morning, pacing the solitary heath-tracks, bounding with elastic step down the fern-clad dells, or along the course of a riotous stream, as cheerful, as picturesque, and yet as solemn as the scenes around them

Again I say, I love fieldpaths, and

stiles of all species, ay, even the most inaccessible piece of rustic erection ever set up in defiance of age, laziness, and obesity. How many scenes of frolic and merry confusion have I seen at a clumsy ...} What exclamations, and charming blushes, and fine eventual vaulting on the §. of the ladies, and what an opportunity

oes it afford to beaux of exhibiting a variety of gallant and delicate attentions. I consider a rude stile as any thing but an impediment in the course of a rural courtship.

* Daily papers.

!

Those good old turn-stiles too, can I ever forget them? the hours I have spun round upon them, when a boy; or those in which I have almost laughed myself to death at the remembrance of my village F. disaster l Methinks I see im now. The time a sultry day;—the domine a goodly person of some eighteen or twenty stone;—the scene a footpath sentinelled with turn-stiles, one of which held him fast, as in utter amazement at his bulk. Never shall I forget his efforts and agonies to extricate himself, nor his lion-like roars, which brought some labourers to his assistance, who, when they had recovered from their convulsions of laughter, knocked off the top, and let him go. It is long since I saw a turnstile, and I suspect the Falstaffs have cried them down. But, without a jest, stiles and fieldpaths are vanishing every where. There is nothing upon which the advance of wealth and population, has made so serious an so As land has increased in value, wastes and heaths have been arcelled out and enclosed, but seldom ave footpaths been left. The poet and the naturalist, who before had, perhaps, the greatest real property in them, have had no allotment. They have been totally driven out of the promised land. Nor is this all. Goldsmith complained, in his day, that— “The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; #. robe, that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green.”

And it is but too true that “the pressure of contiguous pride” has driven farther and farther, from that day to this, the public from the rich man's lands. “They make a solitude and call it peace.” Even the quiet and picturesque footpath that led across his lawn, or stole along his wood-side, giving to the poor man, with his burden, a cooler and a nearer cut to the village, is become a nuisance. One would have thought that the rustic labourer with his scythe on his shoulder, or his bill-hook and hedging mittens in his hand, the cottage dame in her black bonnet and scarlet cloak, the bonny village maiden in the sweetness of health and simplicity, or the boy strolling along full of life and curiosity, might have had sufficient interest, in themselves, for a culti

vated taste, passing occasionally at a distance across the park or lawn not only to be tolerated, but even to be welcomed as objects agreeably enlivening the stately solitude of the hall. But they have not. And what is more, they are commonly the most jealous of pedestrian trespassers who seldom visit their own estates, but permit the seasons to scatter their charms around their villas and rural possessions without the heart to enjoy, or even the F. to behold them. How often ave I myself been arrested in some longfrequented dale, in some spot endeared by its own beauties and the fascinations of memory, by a board, exhibiting, in giant characters, Stopped by an order of Sessions ! and denouncing the terms of the law upon trespassers. This is a little too much. I would not be querulous for the poor against the rich. I would not teach them to look with an envious and covetous eye upon their villas, lawns, cattle, and equipage; but when the path of immemorial usage is closed, when the little streak, almost as fine as a mathematical line, along the wealthy man’s ample field, is grudgingly erased, it is impossible not to feel indignation at the pitiful monopoly. Is there no village champion to be found bold enough to put in his protest against these encroachments, to assert this public right—for a right it is, as authentic as that by which the land itself is held, and as clearly acknowledged by the laws? Is there no local “Hampden with dauntless breast” to “withstand the little tyrant of the fields,” and to save our good old fieldpaths? If not, we shall, in a few years, be doomed to the highways and the hedges: to look, like Dives, from a sultry region of turnpikes, into a pleasant one of verdure and foliage which we may not approach. Already the stranger, if he lose his way, is in jeopardy of falling into the horrid fangs of a steel-trap; the botanist enters a wood to gather a flower, and is shot with a springgun; death haunts our dells and copses, and the poet complains, in regretful motes, that he— “Wanders away to field and glen Far as he may i. the gentlemen.” I am not so much of a poet, and so little of a political economist, as to lament over the progress of population. It is true that I see, with a poetical regret, green fields and beautiful fresh tracts swallowed up in cities; but my joy in the increase of human life and happiness far outbalances that imaginative pain. But it is Bells AND BELL RINGING AT BURY St. EDMUND's.

when I see unnecessary and arbitrary encroachments upon the rural privileges of the public that I grieve. Exactly in the same proportion as our population and commercial habits gain upon us, do we need all possible opportunities to keep alive in us the spirit of nature.

“The world is too much with us, late and soon
Getting and spending; we lay waste our
powers,
Little there is in nature that is ours." -
Wordsworth.

We give ourselves up to the artificial habits and objects of ambition, till we endanger the higher and better feelings and capacities of our being; and it is alone to the united influence of religion, literature, and nature, that we must look for the preservation of our moral nobility. Whenever, therefore, I behold one of our old fieldpaths closed, Iregard it as another link in the chain which Mammon is winding around us, -another avenue cut off by which we might fly to the lofty sanctuary of nature for power to withstand him, H. F

*To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Lambeth, July 13, 1826.

My dear Sir-To your late interesting notices of “Bells” and “Bell-ringing,” the following singular letter, which apro in a Suffolk paper, may be added.

happen to know something of this “jangling;” and when I resided in the town of Bury St. Edmund's some years back, was compelled to listen to “the most hideous noise” of St. James's lofty opponents. But, “who, shall decide when doctors disagree ?”—Why, Mr. Editor, we will. It is a hardship, a cruelty, a usurpation, a “tale of woe.” Listen to St. James's statement, and then let us raise our bells, and ring a “righte sounde and merie" peal, such as will almost “split the ears of the groundlings."—

“To the Editor of the Bury Post.

“Sir, Since we have been repeatedly asked why St. James's ringers lost the privilege of ringing in St. Mary's steeple, as far as it lies in our power we will answer it. Ever since the year 1714, up

to the period of 1813, the ringing in this town was conducted by one company only, who had the liberty of ringing at both steeples; and in St. Mary's steeple there are recorded two P. rung by the Bury company, one of which was rung in 1779, and the other in 1799. In 1813, the bells of St. Mary's wanting some repairs, the ringers applied to the churchwardens, and they having declined doing any thing to them, the ringers ceased from ringing altogether until the bells were repaired. At length an offer was made to the churchwardens to raise a young company, which offer was accepted by them, and the bells were partially repaired. In consequence of which a company was raised, and a part of it consisted of old men who were incapable of learning to ring; youth being the only time when such an art can be acquired. It was agreed that when this company could ring one course of eight (or 112 changes), that each one should receive one pound, which they have never asked for, well knowing they were never entitled to it; at the same time, it appears evident that the parish consented they should learn to ring. In 1817, only two years and a half after the company was raised, three bells were obliged to be rehung, at nearly twenty pounds’ expense. Taking an account of the annual repairs of the bells, and the repairs in 1814, the three years of sixteen-change ringers cost the parish nearly thirty pounds, which would have rehung the whole peal, being a deal more than what the old ringers would have caused them to be repaired for in 1814. We, the present company of St. James's ringers, are well aware that St. Mary's company had the offer to learn to ring in September, 1814, which we made no opposition to ; and if St. Mary's had learnt, we would have gladly taken them by the hand as brother ringers; but after twelve years' arduous struggle in endeavouring to learn to ring, they are no forwarder than the first week they began. They could only then ring (no more than they can now) sixteen changes, and that very imperfectly, being but a very small part of the whole revolution of changes on eight bells, which consist of 40,320. We, St. James's ringers, or ‘old ringers,' as we have been commonly called, often get blamed for the most hideous noise made in St. Mary's steeple; and after the jangling of the bells, miscalled ringing, which -they afforded the other

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