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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 exist ence. 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."*

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On the 27th of October, 1736, Mr. Robinson a carpenter, and Mr. Medway a bricklayer, contracted to build Fleetmarket, by the following midsummer, for 39701.†

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A correspondent says, that about, or before this time, it is the custom at Bedford, now abouts, for boys to cry baked pears in the town with the following

stanza

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

Southey's Life of Nelson.

Gentleman's Magazine.

Baked Wardens-all hot! Who knows what I have got?"

NATURALISTS' calendar. Mean Temperature ... 46 · 30.

October 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 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 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 that every thing he has offered to his friends the public,' up to this particular period, has become worse than obsolete. cordingly, 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 it. each of these departments respectively;

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while each of the London publishers is projecting a new periodical,' to appear on the first of January next; that which he started on the first of last January having, of course, died of old age ere this!"

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 inIcludes 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

Mirror of the Mouths.

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 picasant 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."

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, 25 of ancient custom, they have little regard to the old usages. The meetings en 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 under the agreeable alias 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 we 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 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 of 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 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 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 their fast-falling strokes; and the flail itself flying harmless round the labourers' heads, though seeming to threaten danger "barn-door" poultry ply their ceaseless at every turn; while, outside, the flock of 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 flat

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.

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. These 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 hcine 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."

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