You are here
قراءة كتاب The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 14, No. 393, October 10, 1829
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 14, No. 393, October 10, 1829
id="page232" class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="[pg 232]"/>
SAXON NAMES OF THE MONTHS.
(For the Mirror.)
December, which stood first, was styled "Mid-winter monath." January was "Aefter-yule," or after Christmas. February "Sol-monath," from the returning sun. March "Rhede, or Rhede monath," rough, or rugged month. April "Easter monath," from a favourite Saxon goddess, whose name we still preserve. May was "Trimilchi," from the cows being then milked thrice in the day. June "Sere monath," dry month. July "Maed monath," the meads being then in their bloom. August was "Weod monath," from the luxuriance of weeds. September "Haerfest monath." October they called "Winter fylleth," from winter approaching with the full moon of that month. And lastly, November was styled "Blot monath," from the blood of the cattle slain that month, and stored for winter provision. Verstegan names the months somewhat differently.
P.T.W.
CURIOUS BEQUEST.
(For the Mirror.)
John Wardell, by will, dated August 29, 1656, gave to the Grocers' Company, a tenement known by the name of the White Bear, in Walbrook, to the intent that they should yearly, within thirty days after Michaelmas, pay to the churchwardens of St. Botolph, Billingsgate, £4. to provide a good and sufficient iron and glass lantern, with a candle, for the direction of passengers, to go with more security to and from the water side, all night long, to be placed at the north-east corner of the parish church of St. Botolph, from the Feast Day of St. Bartholomew to Lady Day; out of which sum £1. is to be paid to the sexton for taking care of the said lantern.
H.B.A.
SLEEPERS IN CHURCH.
(For the Mirror.)
Richard Davey, in 1659, founded a free-school at Claverley, Salop, and directed to be paid yearly the sum of eight shillings to a poor man of the said parish, who should undertake to awaken sleepers, and to whip out dogs from the church of Claverley, during divine service.
H.B.A.
THE SELECTOR;
AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.
THE EPPING HUNT.
By Thomas Hood, Esq.
We remember the appearance of Mr. Hood's first work—Odes and Addresses to Great People; and many a reviewer and printer rejoiced in the light columns which it furnished them by way of extract. They made up very prettily beside a theological critique, a somewhat lumbering book on political economy, or a volume of deep speculations on geology. Hood's little book, a mere thin pocket size, soon grew into notice and favour; the edition ran off, and one or two more impressions have followed. A host of imitators soon sprung up, but we are bound to acknowledge that from the above to the present time, Mr. Hood has kept the field—the Pampa of pun—to himself, and right sincerely are we obliged for the many quips and quiddities with which he has enabled us to garnish our pages. We say garnish, for what upon earth can better resemble the garnishings of a table than Mr. Hood's little volumes: how they enliven and embellish the feast, like birds and flowers cut from carrots, turnips, and beet-root; parsley fried crisp; cascades spun in sugar, or mouldings in almond paste, at a pic-nic supper party.
We love a good motto, and one like Mr. Hood's speaks volumes:
"HUNTS ROASTED"—
Next comes an advertisement of the author's endeavour to record a yearly revel (the Epping Hunt,) already fast hastening to decay. Mr. Hood is serious, as the following epistle will show:—
"It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing."
"Sir,—About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there was nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be sad to be in the last Stag of a Decline.
"I am, Sir,
"With respects from
"Your humble Servant,
"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."
Then begins the tale.
John Huggins was as bold a man
As trade did ever know,
A warehouse good he had, that stood
Hard by the church of Bow.
There people bought Dutch cheeses round,
And single Glos'ter flat,—
And English butter in a lump,
And Irish—in a pat.
Six days a week beheld him stand,
His business next his heart,
At counter with his apron tied
About his counter-part.
The seventh in a sluice-house box,
He took his pipe and pot;
On Sundays for eel-piety,
A very noted spot.
Huggins gets "Epping in his head," and resolves to go to "the Hunt."
Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap
To go and hunt the deer!
No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;
Not chicken-hearted he, altho'
'Twas whisper'd of his eggs.'
Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. Ridout's fee,
And Surgeon Hunter's bill.
To say the horse was Huggins' own,
Would only be a brag;
His neighbour Fig and he went halves,
Like Centaurs, in a nag.
And he that day had got the gray,
Unknown to brother cit;
The horse he knew would never tell,
Altho' it was a tit.
A well bred horse he was I wis,
As he began to show,
By quickly "rearing up within
The way he ought to go."
And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross,
An ancient town well known,
Where Edward wept for Eleanor
In mortar and in stone
A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss;
Wherever she set down her orts,
Thereby he put a cross.
Now Huggins had a crony here,
That lived beside the way;
One that had promised sure to be
His comrade for the day.
His friend had gone to Enfield Chase:
Then Huggins turned his horse's head,
And crossed the bridge of Lea.
Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone,
Past many a Quaker's box,—
No friends to hunters after deer,
Tho' followers of a Fox.
And many a score behind—before—
The self-same route inclin'd,
And minded all to march one way,
Made one great march of mind.
Gentle and simple, he and she,
And swell, and blood, and prig;
And some had carts, and some a chaise,
According to their gig.
Some long-ear'd jacks, some knacker's hacks,
(However odd it sounds,)
Let out that day to hunt,