Part 70
“A tear which our Lord shed over Lazarus; it was preserved by an angel, who gave it in a phial to Mary Magdalene;
“Two handkerchiefs, on which are impressions of our Saviour’s face; the one sent by our Lord himself as a present to Agbarus, prince of Edessa; the other given at the time of his crucifixion to a holy woman, named Veronica;
“The rod of Moses, with which he performed his miracles;
“A lock of hair of Mary Magdalene’s;
“A hem of Joseph’s garment;
“A feather of the Holy Ghost;
“A finger of the Holy Ghost;
“A feather of the angel Gabriel;
“A finger of a cherubim;
“The water-pots used at the marriage in Galilee;
“The slippers of the antediluvian Enoch;
“The face of a seraphim, with only part of the nose;
“The ‘_snout_’ of a seraphim, thought to have belonged to the preceding;
“The coal that broiled St. Lawrence;
“The square buckler, lined with ‘red velvet,’ and the short sword of St. Michael;
“A phial of the ‘sweat of St. Michael,’ when he contended with Satan;
“Some of the rays of the star that appeared to the Magi; with innumerable others, not quite consistent with decency to be here described.
“The miracles wrought by these and other such precious remains, have been enlarged upon by writers, whose testimony, aided by the _protecting care_ of the inquisition, no one durst openly dispute who was not of the ‘holy brotherhood;’ although it would appear, by the confessions of some of those respectable persons, that ‘instances have occurred of their failure,’ but that they always ‘recovered their virtue, when,’ as Galbert, a monk of Marchiennes, informs us, ‘they were flogged with rods, &c.!’”[178]
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FLORAL DIRECTORY.
Doubtful Poppy. _Papaver dubium._ Dedicated to _St. Silverius_.
[178] Brady’s Clavis.
~June 21.~
_St. Aloysius_, or _Lewis Gonzaga_, A. D. 1591. _St. Ralph_, Abp. of Bourges, A. D. 866. _St. Meen_, in Latin, _Mevennus_, also _Melanus_, Abbot in Britanny, about A. D. 617. _St. Aaron_, Abbot in Britanny, 6th Cent. _St. Eusebius_, Bp. of Samosata, A. D. 379 or 380. _St. Leufredus_, in French, _Leufroi_, Abbot, A. D. 738.
_Summer Morning and Evening._
The glowing morning, crown’d with youthful roses, Bursts on the world in virgin sweetness smiling, And as she treads, the waking flowers expand, Shaking their dewy tresses. Nature’s choir Of untaught minstrels blend their various powers In one grand anthem, emulous to salute Th’ approaching king of day, and vernal Hope Jocund trips forth to meet the healthful breeze, To mark th’ expanding bud, the kindling sky, And join the general pæan. While, like a matron, who has long since done With the gay scenes of life, whose children all Have sunk before her on the lap of earth-- Upon whose mild expressive face the sun Has left a smile that tells of former joys-- Grey Eve glides on in pensive silence musing. As the mind triumphs o’er the sinking frame, So as her form decays, her starry beams Shed brightening lustre, till on night’s still bosom Serene she sinks, and breathes her peaceful last, While on the rising breeze sad melodies, Sweet as the notes that soothe the dying pillow, When angel-music calls the saint to heaven, Come gently floating: ’tis the requiem Chaunted by Philomel for day departed.
_Ado._
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FLORAL DIRECTORY.
Viper’s Buglos. _Echium vulgare._ Dedicated to _St. Aloysius._
Now cometh welcome Summer with great strength, Joyously smiling in high lustihood, Conferring on us days of longest length, For rest or labour, in town, field, or wood; Offering, to our gathering, richest stores Of varied herbage, corn, cool fruits, and flowers, As forth they rise from Nature’s open pores, To fill our homesteads, and to deck our bowers; Inviting us to renovate our health By recreation; or, by ready hand, And calculating thought, t’ improve our wealth: And so, invigorating all the land, And all the tenantry of earth or flood, Cometh the plenteous Summer--full of good.
*
“How beautiful is summer,” says the elegant author of _Sylvan Sketches_, a volume that may be regarded as a sequel to the _Flora Domestica_, from the hand of the same lady.--“How beautiful is summer! the trees are heavy with fruit and foliage; the sun is bright and cheering in the morning; the shade of broad and leafy boughs is refreshing at noon; and the calm breezes of the evening whisper gently through the leaves, which reflect the liquid light of the moon when she is seen--
“lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light.”
On page 337 of the present work, there is the spring dress of our ancestors in the fourteenth century, from an illumination in a manuscript copied by Strutt. From the same illumination, their summer dress in that age is here represented.
LONGEST DAY.
No day is disadvantageous to an agreeable thought or two upon “Time;” and the present, being the _longest day_, is selected for submitting to perusal a very pleasant little apologue from a miscellany addressed to the young. The object of the writer was evidently to do good, and it is hoped that its insertion here, in furtherance of the purpose, may not be less pleasing to the editor who first introduced it to the public eye, than it will be found by the readers of the _Every-Day Book_. This is the tale.
THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM.
An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer’s kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer’s morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.
Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable,) changed countenance with alarm; the hands made a vain effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke:--
“I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking.” Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it was on the very point of _striking_.
“Lazy wire!” exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.--“Very good,” replied the pendulum: “it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me,--it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards, year after year, and do.”--“As to that,” said the dial, “Is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?”
“For all that,” resumed the pendulum, “it is very dark here: and, although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if you wish, I’ll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened this morning to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of you above there can give me the exact sum.”
The minute hand, being _quick_ at figures, presently replied, “Eighty_-_six thousand four hundred times.”
“Exactly so,” replied the pendulum; “well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I’ll stop.”
The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied:--
“Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden notion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to _think_ of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to _do_. Would you now do me the favour to give about half a dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument?”
The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace.--“Now,” resumed the dial, “may I be allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?”
“Not in the least,” replied the pendulum; “it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of _millions_.”
“Very good,” replied the dial; “but recollect, that though you may _think_ of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to _execute_ but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in.”
“That consideration staggers me, I confess,” said the pendulum. “Then I hope,” resumed the dial-plate, “we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon, if we stand idling thus.”
Upon this the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hand began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter.
When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half-an-hour in the night.
* * * * *
A celebrated modern writer says, “take care of the _minutes_, and the _hours_ will take care of themselves.” This is an admirable remark, and might be very seasonably recollected when we begin to be “weary in well-doing,” from the thought of having much to do. The present moment is all we have to do with in any sense; the past is irrecoverable; the future is uncertain; nor is it fair to burthen one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the _moment_ is the trouble thereof. If we had to walk a hundred miles, we should still have to set but one step at a time, and this process continued would infallibly bring us to our journey’s end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased, by calculating in a minute the exertion of hours.
Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its sufferings, or encounter all its crosses at once. One moment comes laden with its own _little_ burthens, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last; if _one_ could be borne, so can another, and another.
Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the duties, the labours, the trials to temper and patience that may be expected. Now, this is unjustly laying the burthen of many thousand moments upon _one_. Let any one resolve always to do right _now_, leaving _then_ to do as it can; and if he were to live to the age of Methusalem, he would never do wrong. But the common error is to resolve to act right after breakfast, or after dinner, or to-morrow morning, or _next time_; but _now_, _just_ now, _this_ once, we must go on the same as ever.
It is easy, for instance, for the most ill-tempered person to resolve, that the next time he is provoked he will not let his temper overcome him; but the victory would be to subdue temper on the _present_ provocation. If, without taking up the burthen of the future, we would always make the _single_ effort at the _present_ moment, while there would, at any time, be very little to do, yet, by this simple process continued, every thing would at last be done.
It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, merely because we forget, that when to-morrow comes, _then_ will be _now_. Thus life passes with many, in resolutions for the future, which the present never fulfils.
It is not thus with those, who, “by _patient continuance in well-doing_, seek for glory, honour, and immortality:” day by day, minute by minute, they execute the appointed task to which the requisite measure of time and strength is proportioned: and thus, having worked while it was called day, they at length rest from their labours, and their “works follow them.”
Let us then, “whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might, recollecting that _now_ is the proper and accepted time.”[179]
[179] From the _Youth’s Magazine_, for November, 1819.
~June 22.~
_St. Paulinus_, Bp. of Nola, A. D. 431. _St. Alban_, Proto-Martyr of Britain, A. D. 303.
_American Newspapers._
The following singular advertisement, appeared in the “Connecticut Courant,” of June 2, 1784.
TAKE NOTICE, DEBTORS
_For Newspapers to the Subscriber._
This is the last time of asking in this way; all those who settle their accounts by the 18th of June, instant, will have the thanks of their humble servant; and those that neglect, will find their accounts in the hands of some person, who will collect them in a more fashionable way, but more expensive.
JAMES JOHNSON.
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FLORAL DIRECTORY.
Canterbury Bells. _Campanula Medium._ Dedicated to _St. Paulinus_.
~June 23.~
_St. Etheldreda_, or _Audry_, A. D. 679. _St. Mary_ of Oignies, A. D. 1213.
This engraving represents a rejoicing formerly common to this season; it is from a French print, inscribed “_Le Feu de St. Jean Mariette ex_.”
The _summer solstice_ has been celebrated throughout all ages by the lighting up of fires, and hence on “St. John’s eve,” or the vigil of the festival of St. John the Baptist, there have been popular ceremonials of this kind from the earliest times of the Romish church to the present. Before, however, particularizing any of these celebrations, it may be worth while to notice the following practice, which is still maintained.
_Midsummer Eve, in Ireland._
At Stoole, near Downpatrick, in the north of Ireland, there is a ceremony commencing at twelve o’clock at night on every Midsummer-eve.--Its sacred mount is consecrated to St. Patrick: the plain contains three wells, to which the most extraordinary virtues are attributed. Here and there are heaps of stones, around some of which appear great numbers of people running with as much speed as possible; around others, crowds of worshippers kneel with bare legs and feet as an indispensable part of the penance. The men, without coats, with handkerchiefs on their heads instead of hats, having gone seven times round each heap, kiss the ground, cross themselves, and proceed to the hill; here they ascend on their bare knees, by a path so steep and rugged that it would be difficult to walk up: many hold their hands clasped at the back of their necks, and several carry large stones on their heads. Having repeated this ceremony seven times, they go to what is called St. Patrick’s chair, which are two great flat stones fixed upright in the hill; here they cross and bless themselves as they step in between these stones, and while repeating prayers, an old man, seated for the purpose, turns them round on their feet three times, for which he is paid; the devotee then goes to conclude his penance at a pile of stones named the altar. While this busy scene of superstition is continued by the multitude, the wells, and streams issuing from them, are thronged by crowds of halt, maimed, and blind, pressing to wash away their infirmities with water consecrated by their patron saint; and so powerful is the impression of its efficacy on their minds, that many of those who go to be healed, and who are not totally blind, or altogether crippled, really believe for a time that they are by means of its miraculous virtues perfectly restored. These effects of a heated imagination are received as unquestionable miracles, and are propagated with abundant exaggeration.[180]
The annual resort of the ignorant portion of our Roman Catholic countrymen, was never so numerously attended as it has been during the late anniversary of this festival, in 1825. The extent of the number of strangers from very remote parts of the country was unprecedented. The usual ablutions, penances, and _miraculous_ results, were performed, and attested by the devotees, who experienced some disappointment in not having the accustomed arch-officiater to consummate the observances by thrice revolving the votary in the chair of St. Patrick. This deprivation, it is said, marks the sense of a dignitary of the church respecting this annual ceremony.[181]
_Ancient Custom of_ SETTING THE WATCH IN LONDON _on St. John’s Eve._
The curfew-bell, commanded by William Conquerour to be nightly rung at eight of the clock, as a warning, or command, that all people should then put out their fires and lights, was continued throughout the realm till the time of Henry the First, when Stow says, that it followed, “by reason of warres within the realme, that many men gave themselves to robbery and murders in the night.” Stow then recites from an ancient chronicler, Roger Hoveden, that in the yeare 1175, during the time of a council held at Nottingham, a brother of the earle Ferrers, was “in the night privily slaine at London, and thrown out of his inne into the durty street; when the king understood thereof he sware that he would be revenged on the citizens. It was then a common practice in this city, that a hundred or more in a company, young and old, would make nightly invasions upon houses of the wealthy, to the intent to rob them; and if they found any man stirring in the city within the night, that were not of their crue, they would presently murder him: insomuch, that when night was come, no man durst adventure to walk in the streets. When this had continued long, it fortuned, that a crue of young and wealthy citizens assembling together in the night, assaulted a stone house of a certaine rich man, and breaking through the wall, the good man of that house having prepared himself with other in a corner, when hee perceived one of the theeves, named Andrew Bucquint, to lead the way, with a burning brand in the one hand, and a pot of coles in the other, which hee assaied to kindle with the brand, he flew upon him, and smote off his right hand, and then with a loud voyce cryed ‘theeves.’ At the hearing whereof, the theeves took their flight, all saving he that had lost his hand, whom the good man (in the next morning) delivered to Richard de Lucie, the king’s justice. This theefe, upon warrant of his life, appeached his confederates, of whom many were taken, and many were fled. Among the rest that were apprehended, a certaine citizen of great countenance, credit, and wealth, named John Senex, who for as much he could not acquit himselfe by the water-doome (as that law was then tearmed) hee offered to the king five hundred pounds of silver for his life. But forasmuch as he was condemned by judgement of the water, the king would not take the offer, but commanded him to be hanged on the gallowes, which was done, and then the city became more quiet for a long time after.”
It appears that the city of London was subject to these disorders till 1253, when Henry III. commanded watches to be kept in the cities, and borough towns, for the preservation of the peace; and this king further ordained “that if any man chanced to be robbed, or by any means damnified, by any theefe or robber, he to whom the charge of keeping that county, city, or borough, chiefly appertained, where the robbery was done, should competently restore the losse.”
This origin of the present nightly watch in London was preceded by other popular customs, or they rather, it may be said, assisted in its formation. “In the months of June and July, on the vigils of festivall dayes, and on the same festivall dayes in the evenings, after the sun-setting, there were usually made bone-fires in the streets, every man bestowing wood or labour towards them. The wealthier sort also before their doores, neere to the said bone-fires, would set out tables on the vigils, furnished with sweete bread, and good drinke, and on the festivall dayes with meats and drinkes plentifully, whereunto they would invite their neighbours and passengers also to sit, and be merry with them in great familiarity, praysing God for his benefits bestowed on them. These were called _bone-fires_, as well of amity amongst neighbours, that being before at controversie, were there by the labour of others reconciled, and made of bitter enemies, loving friends; as also for the vertue that a great fire hath, to purge the infection of the ayre.
“On the vigil of St. John Baptist, and on Sts. Peter and Paul the apostles, every man’s doore being shaddowed with greene birch, long fennel, St. John’s wort, orpin, white lilies, and such like, garnished upon with garlands of beautifull flowers, had also lamps of glasse, with oyle burning in them all the night; some hung out branches of iron curiously wrought, containing hundreds of lamps lighted at once, which made a goodly shew, namely in new Fish-street, Thames-street, &c.
“Then had ye, besides the _standing_ watches, all in bright harnesse, in every ward and street of this city and suburbs, a _marching_ watch, that passed through the principall streets thereof, to wit, from the little conduit by Paul’s gate, through West Cheape, by the Stocks, through Cornehill, by Leadenhall to Aldgate, then backe down Fen-church-street, by Grasse-church, about Grasse-church conduit, and up Grasse-church-street into Cornhill, and through it into West Cheape again, and so broke up.
“The whole way ordered for this marching watch, extended to three thousand two hundred taylors’ yards of assize; for the furniture whereof with lights, there were appointed seven hundred cressets, five hundred of them being found by the companies, the other two hundred by the chamber of London. Besides the which lights, every constable in London, in number more than two hundred and forty, had his _cresset_: the charge of every cresset was in light two shillings foure pence, and every cresset had two men, one to beare or hold it, another to beare a bag with light, and to serve it: so that the poore men pertaining to the cressets, taking wages, (besides that every one had a strawen hat, with a badge painted, and his breakfast in the morning,) amounted in number to almost two thousand.
“The marching watch contained in number two thousand men, part of them being old souldiers, of skill to bee captaines, lieutenants, serjeants, corporals, &c. wifflers, drummers, and fifes, standard and ensigne-bearers, sword-players, trumpeters on horsebacke, demilaunces on great horses, gunners with hand-guns, or halfe hakes, archers in cotes of white fustian, signed on the breste and backe with the armes of the city, their bowes bent in their hands, with sheafes of arrowes by their sides, pike-men in bright corslets, burganets, &c., holbards, the like billmen in almaine rivets, and aperns of mayle in great number.