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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 younger age he was a pedlar, and carried his 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 thoca, with a vow to goe barefoot all his life after."

from 10 in the Morning till 7 at Night; if any aie not apprehensive of the certainty of the Success, they may come and have full satisfaction, that they may have their Money if they will.

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®rtrjforr 26.

Royal Debts.

On this subject a curious notice is extracted from " the Postman, October 2628, 1708"—viz.

Adtrtisement.

THe 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 an) 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

Nelson

The notice of the battle wherein this itillustrious admiral received his dealbwound, (on the 21st,) might have been properly accompanied by the following 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 beard ot 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, public 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 ht might have passed would have awakened the church Dells, 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 th<

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glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most signal victory 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 deDarted in a brighter blaze of glory."*

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Naturalist's Calendar. Mean Temperature 48 • 25.

^rtofcer 27.

Fleet Market.

On the 27th of October, 1736, Mr. Robinson a carpenter, and Mr. Medway a bricklayer, contracted to build Fleetmarket, by the following midsummer, for 3970/.t

NATURALISTS Calendar. Mean Temperature ... 47 • 50.

(^rtobtr 28.

(St. Simon and St. Jude.)

« Wardens!" A correspondent says, that about, or before this time, it is the custom at Bedford, now abouts, for boys to cry baked (wars in the town with the following •tanza—

"Who knows what I have got!
In a pot hot?

• iinuthfyU Life of Nelson. y Gentleman's Magazine.

(Bttobtt 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 labour 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 endeavouring to persuade himself that the Steyne at Brighton is as healthy as Bondstreet; the pav4 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 shopkeeper—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 thai 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 public taste; even the literary ones. Mr. Elliston, [or his fortunate successor, if one there be,] ' 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 ii: each of these departments respectively; while each of the London publishers is projecting a new ' periodical,' to appear on the first of January next; that which lie started on the first of last January having, of course, died of old age ere this!"

Beginning or " 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 ?*

to the mantlcpiece "All—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. You may often see on no very rich mantlepiece a representative 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 ever-springing fire, running up through them heavenwards, 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."

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

Naturalists Calendar. Mean Temperature ... 47 . 17.

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©ctoter 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, aud 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'9 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 under the agreeable aliat of autumn, in "that delightful annual guest,the summer, whose presence we have lately beea

luxuriating. We might, perhaps, by a little gentle violence, prevail upon her to stay with us for a brief space longer; or might at least prevail upon ourselves to believe that she is not quite gone. But W<j shall do better by speeding her on her way to other climes, and welcoming 'the coming guest,' gray-haired winter:"— nor can we do better at this moment than take " note of preparation," for a grateful adieu to the year and welcome to the comer.

On ushering in the winter we recur to the "Mirror of the Months," from whence we have derived so many delightful reflections, and take a few "looks" in it, for, perhaps, the last time. At this season last year it presented to us the evergreens, and now, with a " now," we select other appearances.

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 birdt 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 rf the woodman's axe, heard far away in the thick forest, bring with their sound an associated feeling, similar to that produced by a wreath of smoke rising from out the same scene: they tell us a talc of

"Uncertain dwellers in the pathless wood."

THE WOODMAN.

Par removed from noise and sroaoke...

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,
Tn 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 sedaa;
Or wheelbarrow, where oyster .Nazi
Oft runs her vulgar rig j

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

Thou rnak'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 stalk

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

The " busy flail" too, which is now m full employment, fills the air about the homestead with a pleasant sound, and invites the passer-by to look in at the great open doors of the barn, and see the wheatstack reaching to the roof on either hand; the little pyramid of bright grain behind the threshers; the scattered ears between them, leaping and rustling beneath I heir fast-calling strokes; and the flail itself flying harmless round the labourers' heads, though seeming to threaten danger at every turn; 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 the half-empty hay-rack, or lean with inquiring faces over the gate that looks 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

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