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BEGINNING OF "FIRES."

In October, fires have fairly gained possession of their places, and even greet us on coming down to breakfast in the morning. Of all the discomforts of that most comfortless period of the London year which is neither winter nor summer, the most unequivocal is that of its being too cold to be without a fire, and not cold enough to have one. A set of polished fire-irons, standing sentry beside a pile of dead coals imprisoned behind a row of glittering bars, instead of mending the matter, makes it worse; inasmuch as it is better to look into an empty coffin, than to see the dead face of a friend in it. At the season in question, especially in the evening, one feels in a perpetual perplexity, whether to go out or stay at home; sit down or walk about; read, write, cast accounts, or call for the candle and go to bed. But let the fire be lighted, and all uncertainty is at an end, and we (or even one) may do any or all of these with equal satisfaction. In short, light but the fire, and you bring the winter in at once; and what are twenty summers, with all their sunshine (when they are gone,) to one winter, with its indoor sunshine of a seacoal fire ?*

Mr Leigh Hunt, who on the affairs of "The Months" is our first authority, pleasantly inquires-" With our fire before us, and our books on each side, what shall we do? Shall we take out a life of somebody, or a Theocritus, or Dante, or Ariosto, or Montaigne, or Marcus Aurelius, or Horace, or Shakspeare who includes them all? Or shall we read an engraving from Poussin or Raphael? Or shall we sit with tilted chairs, planting our wrists upon our knees, and toasting the up-turned palms of our hands, while we discourse of manners and of man's heart and hopes, with at least a sincerity, a good intention, and good nature, that shall warrant what we say with the sincere, the good-intentioned, and the goodnatured?" He then agreeably brings us

Wysor of the Months.

to the mantlepiece.

"Ah-take care.

You see what that old looking saucer is, with a handle to it? It is a venerable piece of earthenware, which may have been worth, to an Athenian, about twopence; but to an author, is worth a great deal more than ever he could-deny for it. And yet he would deny it too. It will fetch his imagination more than ever it fetched potter or penny-maker. Its little shallow circle overflows for him with the milk and honey of a thousand pleasant associations. This is one of the uses of having mantlepieces. see on no very rich mantlepiece a repreYou may often sentative body of all the elements, physical and intellectual,—a shell for the sea, a stuffed bird or some feathers for the air, a curious piece of mineral for the earth, a glass of water with some flowers in it for the visible process of creation,-a cast from sculpture for the mind of man;—and underneath all, is the bright and ing fire, running up through them heavenever-springwards, like hope through materiality.”

NATURALISTS' CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature... 46. 02.

October 30.

YEOMEN OF THE GUARD.

On this day in the year 1485, when king Henry VII. was crowned at Westminster, he instituted the body of royal attendants, called yeomen of the guard, who in later times acquired the appellation of "beef-eaters."

NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. Mean Temperature . . . 47. 17.

October 31

HALLOW EVE.

The superstitious observances of this night, described in the former volume, are fast disappearing. In some places where young people were acustomed to meet for purposes of divination, and frequently frighten each other into fits, as of ancient custom, they have little regard to the old usages. The meetings on Hallow-eve are becoming pleasant merrymakings; the dance prevails till suppertime, when they take a cheerful glass and drink to their next happy meeting.

NATURALISTS' CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature... 47 62.

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NOVEMBER.

And, when November came, there fell
Another limning in, to tell

The month's employment; which we see
Providance was, for time to be.

Now was the last loud squeaking roar
Of many a mighty forest boar,

Whose head, when came the Christmas days,
Was crown'd with rosemary and bays,
And so brought in, with shoutings long,
And minstrelsy, and choral song.
We can now perceive the departure of
"that delightful annual guest, the summer,

under the agreeable alias of autumn, in whose presence we have lately been

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Now as the branches become bare, another sight presents itself, which, trifling as it is, fixes the attention of all who see it. I mean the birds' nests that are seen here and there in the now transparent hedges, bushes, and copses. It is not difficult to conceive why this sight should make the heart of the schoolboy leap with an imaginative joy, as it brings before his eyes visions of five blue eggs lying sweetly beside each other, on a bed of moss and feathers; or as many gaping bills lifting themselves from out what seems one callow body. But we are, unhappily, not all schoolboys; and it is to be hoped not many of us ever have been bird-nesting ones. And yet we all look upon this sight with a momentary interest, that few other so indifferent objects are capable of exciting. The wise may condescend to explain this interest, if they please, or if they can. But if they do, it will be for their own satisfaction, not ours, who are content to be pleased, without insisting on penetrating into the cause of our pleasure.

Now, the felling of wood for the winter store commences; and, in a mild still day, the measured strokes cf the woodman's axe, heard far away in the thick forest, bring with their sound an associ ated feeling, similar to that produced by a wreath of smoke rising from out the same scene: they tell us a tale of

"Uncertain dwellers in the pathless wood."

THE WOODMAN.

Far removed from noise and smoke,
Hark! I hear the woodman's stroke,
Who dreams not as he fells the oak,
What mischief dire he brews;

How art may shape his falling trees,
In aid of luxury and ease :-
He weighs not matters such as these,
But sings, and hacks, and hews.

Perhaps, now fell'd by this bold man,
That tree may form the spruce sedan;
Or wheelbarrow, where oyster Nan

Oft runs her vulgar rig;

The stage, where boxers crowd in flocks; Or else a quack's; perhaps, the stocks; Or posts for signs; or barber's blocks, Where smiles the parson's wig.

Thou mak'st, bold peasant, oh what grief!
The gibbet on which, hangs the thief,
The seat where sits the grave lord chief,
The throne, the cobler's stall.

Thou pamper'st life in ev'ry stage,
Mak'st folly's whims, pride's equipage;
For children, toys; crutches, for age;
And coffins for us all. C. Dibdin

full employment, fills the air about the The "busy flail," too, which is now in homestead with a pleasant sound, and invites the passer-by to look in at the wheatstack reaching to the roof on either great open doors of the barn, and see the hand; the little pyramid of bright grain behind the threshers; the scattered ears between them, leaping and rustling beneath their fast-falling strokes; and the flail itself flying harmless round the labourers' heads, though seeming to threaten danger at every tuin; while, outside, the flock of "barn-door" poultry ply their ceaseless search for food, among the knee-deep straw; and the cattle, all their summer frolics forgotten, stand ruminating beside inquiring faces over the gate that looks the half-empty hay-rack, or lean with down into the village, or away towards the distant pastures.

Of the birds that have hitherto made merry even at the approach of winter, now all are silent; all, save that one who now earns his title of "the household

bird," by haunting the thresholds and window-cills, and casting sidelong glances in-doors, as if to reconnoitre the positions of all within, before the pinching frosts force him to lay aside his fears, and flit

in and out, silently, like a winged spirit. All are now silent except him; but he, as he sits on the pointed palings beside the door-way, or on the topmost twig of the little black thorn that has been left growing in the otherwise closely-clipt hedge, pipes plaintive ditties with a low inward voice-like that of a love-tainted maiden, as she sits apart from her companions, and sings soft melodies to herself, almost without knowing it.

These

Some of the other small birds that winter with us, but have hitherto kept aloof from our dwellings, now approach them, and mope about among the house-sparrows, on the bare branches, wondering what has become of all the leaves, and not knowing one tree from another. Of these the chief are, the hedge-sparrow, the blue titmouse, and the linnet. also, together with the goldfinch, thrush, blackbird, &c. may still be seen rifling the hip and haw grown hedges of their scanty fruit. Almost all, however, even of those singing-birds that do not migrate, except the redbreast, wren, hedge-sparrow, and titmouse, disappear shortly after the commencement of this month, and go no one knows whither. But the pert house-sparrow keeps possession of the garden and courtyard all the winter; and the different species of wagtails may be seen busily haunting the clear cold spring-heads, and wading into the unfrozen water in search of their delicate food, consisting of insects in the aurelia

state.

Now, the farmer finishes all his out-ofdoor work before the frosts set in, and lays by his implements till the awakening of spring calls him to his hand-labour again.

Now, the sheep, all their other more natural food failing, begin to be penned on patches of the turnip-field, where they first devour the green tops joyfully, and then gradually hollow out the juicy root, holding it firm with their feet, till nothing is left but the dry brown husk.

Now, the herds stand all day long hanging their disconsolate heads beside the leafless hedges, and waiting as anxiously, but as patiently too, to be called home to the hay-fed stall, as they do in summer to be driven afield.

Now, cold rains come deluging down, till the drenched ground, the dripping trees, the pouring eaves, and the torn ragged-skirted clouds, seemingly dragged downward slantwise by the threads of dusky rain that descend from them, are all mingled together in one blind confusion; while the few cattle that are left in the open pastures, forgetful of their till now interminable business of feeding, turn their backs upon the besieging storm, and hanging down their heads till their noses almost touch the ground, stand out in the middle of the fields motionless, like dead images.

Now, too, a single rain-storm, like the above, breaks up all the paths and ways at once, and makes hone no longer "home" to those who are not obliged to leave it; while, en revance, it becomes doubly endeared to those who are.

London is so perfect an antithesis to the country in all things, that whatever is good for the one is bad for the other. Accordingly, as the country half forgets itself this month, so London just begins to know itself again.-Its streets revive from their late suspended animation, and are alive with anxious faces and musical with the mingled sounds of many wheels.

Now, the shops begin to shine out with their new winter wares; though as yet the chief profits of their owners depend on disposing of the "summer stock," at fifty per cent. under prime cost.

Now, the theatres, admonished by their no longer empty benches, try which shall be the first to break through that hollow truce on the strength of which they have hitherto been acting only on alternate nights.

Now, during the first week, the citizens see visions and dream dreams, the burthens of which are barons of beef; and the first eight days are passed in a state of pleasing perplexity, touching their chance of a ticket for the lord mayor's dinner on the ninth.

Now, all the little boys give thanks in their secret hearts to Guy Faux, for having attempted to burn "the parliament" with "gunpowder, treason, and plot," since the said attempt gives them occasion to burn every thing they can lay their hands on,-their own fingers included: a bonfire being, in the eyes of an English schoolboy, the true "beauteous and sublime of human life."

ODE TO WINTER.

By a Gentleman of Cambridge.

From mountains of eternal snow,

And Zembla's dreary plains; Where the bleak winds for ever blow And frost for ever reigns,

Lo! Winter comes, in fogs array'd,

With ice, and spangled dews;
To dews, and fogs, and storms be paid

The tribute of the Muse.

Each flowery carpet Nature spread
Is vanish'd from the eye;
Where'er unhappy lovers tread,
No Philomel is nigh.

(For well I ween her plaintive note,
Can soothing ease impart ;
The little warblings of her throat
Relieve the wounded heart.)

No blushing rose unfolds its bloom,
No tender lilies blow,
To scent the air with rich perfume,
Or grace Lucinda's brow.

Th' indulgent Father who protects
The wretched and the poor;
With the same gracious care directs
The sparrow to our door.

Dark, scowling tempests rend the skies,
And clouds obscure the day;
His genial warmth the sun denies,
And sheds a fainter ray.

Yet blame we not the troubled air,
Or seek defects to find;
For Power Omnipotent is there,
And walks upon the wind.'

Hail! every pair whom love unites
In wedlock's pleasing ties;
That endless source of pure delights,
That blessing to the wise!

Though yon pale orb no warmth bestows,
And storms united meet.
The flame of love and friendship glows
With unextinguish'd heat.

November 1.

All Saints.

INSCRIPTIONS IN CHURCHES.

A remarkable colloquy between queen Elizabeth and dean Nowell at St. Paul's cathedral on the 1st of November, 1561, Is said to have originated the usage of incribing texts of scripture in English on

See vol. 1. col. 1421.

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D. Why so, madam?

Q. You know I have an aversion to idolatry and pictures of this kind.

D. Wherein is the idolatry, may it please your majesty ?

Q. In the cuts resembling angels and saints; nay, grosser absurdities, pictures resembling the blessed Trinity.

D. I meant no harm: nor did I think it would offend your majesty when I intended it for a new-year's gift.

Q. You must needs be ignorant then. Have you forgot our proclamation against images, pictures, and Romish relics in churches? Was it not read in your deanery?

D. It was read. But be your majesty assured, I meant no harm, when I caused the cuts to be bound with the service-book.

Q. You must needs be very ignorant, to do this after our prohibition of them. D. It being my ignorance, your majesty may the better pardon me.

Q. I am sorry for it: yet glad to hear it was your ignorance, rather than your opinion.

D. Be your majesty assured it was my ignorance.

Q. If so, Mr. Dean, God grant you his Spirit, and more wisdom for the fu

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