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FLORAL DIRECTORY.

JacobÆan Ragweed. Senecio jacobea.
Dedicated to St. Romanus.

The Willow.

According to T. N., a Cambridge correspondent, this tree is, in that county, called the Cambridge oak. Old Fuller calls it “a sad tree, whereof such who have lost their love make their mourning garlands; and we know that exiles hung up their harps upon such doleful supporters. The twigs hereof are physick to drive out the folly of children. This tree delighteth in moist places, and is triumphant in the Isle of Ely, where the roots strengthen their banks, and top affords fuell for their fire. It groweth incredibly fast, it being a by-word in this county, that the profit by willows will buy the owner a horse before that by other trees will pay for his saddle. Let me add, that if green ashe may burne before a queen, withered willows may be allowed to burne before a lady.” The old saying, “She is in her willows” is here illustrated; it implies the mourning of a female for her lost mate.

The Willow (Salix)

In Sylvan Sketches, to an account of the willow, elegant poetical illustrations are attached, from whence are extracted the subjoined agreeable notices.

According to some botanists, there are more than fifty British willows only. The sweet, or bay-leaved willow, salix pentandria, is much used in Yorkshire for making baskets; its leaves afford a yellow dye. Baskets are also made from the osier, which belongs to this genus; but of the willows, the bitter purple willow, salix purpurea, is the best adapted for the finest [1081, 1082] basket-work. The common, or white willow, salix alba, takes its specific name from the white silken surface of the leaves on the under side. The bark is used to tan leather, and to dye yarn of a cinnamon colour. It is one of the trees to which the necessitous Kamtschatdales are often obliged to recur for their daily bread, which they make of the inner bark, ground into flour. The bark of this willow has in some cases been found a good substitute for the Peruvian bark. The grey willow, or sallow, salix cinerea, grows from six to twelve feet high. In many parts of England, children gather the flowering branches of this tree on Palm Sunday, and call them palms. With the bark, the inhabitants of the Highlands and the Hebrides tan leather. The wood, which is soft, white, and flexible, is made into handles for hatchets, spades, &c. It also furnishes shoemakers with their cutting-boards, and whetting-boards to smooth the edges of their knives upon.

The weeping willow, salix Babylonica, a native of the Levant, was not cultivated in this country till 1730. This tree, with its long, slender, pendulous branches, is one of the most elegant ornaments of English scenery. The situation which it affects, also, on the margins of brooks or rivers, increases its beauty; like Narcissus, it often seems to bend over the water for the purpose of admiring the reflection:—

There is a fine weeping willow in a garden near the Paddington end of the New Road, and a most magnificent one, also, in a garden on the banks of the Thames, just before Richmond-bridge, on the Richmond side of the river. Several of the arms of this tree are so large, that one of them would in itself form a fine tree. They are propped by a number of stout poles; and the tree appears in a flourishing condition. If that tree be, as it is said, no more than ninety-five years old, the quickness of its growth is indeed astonishing.

Martyn relates an interesting anecdote, which he gives on the authority of the St. James’s Chronicle, for August, 1801:

“The famous and admired weeping willow planted by Pope, which has lately been felled to the ground, came from Spain, enclosing a present for lady Suffolk. Mr. Pope was in company when the covering was taken off; he observed that the pieces of stick appeared as if they had some vegetation; and added, ‘Perhaps they may produce something we have not in England.’ Under this idea, he planted it in his garden, and it produced the willow-tree that has given birth to so many others.” It is said, that the destruction of this tree was caused by the eager curiosity of the admirers of the poet, who, by their numbers, so disturbed the quiet and fatigued the patience of the possessor, with applications to be permitted to see this precious relic, that to put an end to the trouble at once and for ever, she gave orders that it should be felled to the ground.

The weeping willow, in addition to the pensive, drooping appearance of its branches, weeps little drops of water, which stand like fallen tears upon the leaves. It will grow in any but a dry soil, but most delights, and best thrives, in the immediate neighbourhood of water. The willow, in poetical language, commonly introduces a stream, or a forsaken lover:—

Chatterton describes

Churchill mentions, among other trees

Besides Shakspeare’s beautiful mention of the willow on the death of Ophelia, and notices of it by various other poets, there are several songs in which despairing lovers call upon the willow-tree:—

Chatterton has one, of which the burthen runs—

In the “Two Noble Kinsmen,” said to have been written by Shakspeare and [1083, 1084] Fletcher, a young girl, who loses her wit with hopeless love for Palamon—

Herrick thus addresses the willow-tree:

This poet has some lines addressed to a willow garland also:—

The willow seems, from the oldest times, to have been dedicated to grief; under them the children of Israel lamented their captivity:—“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Zion: we hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.”[239]

The wicker-baskets made by our forefathers are the subject of an epigram by Martial:—

It is worthy to be recollected, that some of the smallest trees known are willows; nay, the smallest tree known, without any exception. The herbaceous willow, salix herbacea, is seldom higher than three inches, sometimes not more than two; and yet it is in every respect a tree, notwithstanding the name herbaceous, which, as it has been observed, is inappropriate. Dr. Clarke says, in his “Travels in Norway,” “We soon recognised some of our old Lapland acquaintances, such as Betula nana, with its minute leaves, like silver pennies; mountain-birch; and the dwarf alpine species of willow: of which half a dozen trees, with all their branches, leaves, flowers, and roots, might be compressed within two of the pages of a lady’s pocket-book, without coming into contact with each other. After our return to England, specimens of the salix herbacea were given to our friends, which, when framed and glazed, had the appearance of miniature drawings. The author, in collecting them for his herbiary, has frequently compressed twenty of these trees between two of the pages of a duodecimo volume.” Yet in the great northern forests, Dr. Clarke found a species of willow “that would make a splendid ornament in our English shrubberies, owing to its quick growth, and beautiful appearance. It had much more the appearance of an orange than of a willow-tree, its large luxuriant leaves being of the most vivid green colour, splendidly shining. We believed it to be a variety of salix amygdalina, but it may be a distinct species: it principally flourishes in Westro Bothnia, and we never saw it elsewhere.”

So much, and more than is here quoted, respecting the willow, has been gathered by the fair authoress of Sylvan Sketches.

In conclusion, be it observed, that the common willow is in common language sometimes called the sallow, and under that name it is mentioned by Chaucer:—

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August 10.

[1085, 1086]

St. Lawrence.

His name stands in the church of England calendar. He suffered martyrdom at Rome, under Valerian. Mr. Audley relates of St. Lawrence, “that being peculiarly obnoxious, the order for his punishment was, ‘Bring out the grate of iron; and when it is red hot, on with him, roast him, broil him, turn him: upon pain of our high displeasure, do every man his office, O ye tormentors.’ These orders were obeyed, and after Lawrence had been pressed down with fire-forks for a long time, he said to the tyrant, ‘This side is now roasted enough; O tyrant, do you think roasted meat or raw the best?’ Soon after he had said this he expired. The church of St. Lawrence Jewry, in London, is dedicated to him, and has a gridiron on the steeple for a vane, that being generally supposed the instrument of his torture. The ingenious Mr. Robinson, in his ‘Ecclesiastical Researches,’ speaking about this saint, says, ‘Philip II. of Spain, having won a battle on the 10th of August, the festival of St. Lawrence, vowed to consecrate a Palace, a Church, and a Monastery to his honour. He did erect the Escurial, which is the largest Palace in Europe. This immense quarry consists of several courts and quadrangles, all disposed in the shape of a GRIDIRON. The bars form several courts; and the Royal Family occupy the HANDLE.’ ‘Gridirons,’ says one, who examined it, ‘are met with in every part of the building. There are sculptured gridirons, iron gridirons, painted gridirons, marble gridirons, &c. &c. There are gridirons over the doors, gridirons in the yards, gridirons in the windows, gridirons in the galleries. Never was an instrument of martyrdom so multiplied, so honoured, so celebrated: and thus much for gridirons.’”[240]

Chronology.

On the 10th of August, 1575, Peter Bales, one of our earliest and most eminent writing-masters, finished a performance which contained the Lord’s prayer, the creed, the decalogue, with two short prayers in Latin, his own name, motto, the day of the month, year of our Lord, and reign of the queen, (Elizabeth,) to whom he afterwards presented it at Hampton-court, all within the circle of a single penny, enchased in a ring with borders of gold, and covered with a crystal, so accurately wrought, as to be plainly legible, to the great admiration of her majesty, her ministers, and several ambassadors at court.

In 1590, Bales kept a school at the upper end of the Old Bailey, and the same year published his “Writing School-Master.” In 1595, he had a trial of skill in writing with a Mr. Daniel (David) Johnson, for a “golden pen” of £20 value, and won it. Upon this victory, his contemporary and rival in penmanship, John Davies, made a satirical, ill-natured epigram, intimating that penury continually compelled Bales to remove himself and his “golden pen,” to elude the pursuit of his creditors. The particulars of the contest for the pen, supposed to be written by Bales himself, are in the British Museum, dated January 1, 1596.

So much concerning Peter Bales is derived from the late Mr. Butler’s “Chronological Exercises,” an excellent arrangement of biographical, historical, and miscellaneous facts for the daily use of young ladies.

Peter Bales according to Mr. D’Israeli, “astonished the eyes of beholders by showing them what they could not see.” He cites a narrative, among the Harleian MSS., of “a rare piece of work brought to pass by Peter Bales, an Englishman, and a clerk of the chancery.” Mr. D’Israeli presumes this to have been the whole Bible, “in an English walnut no bigger than a hen’s egg. The nut holdeth the book: there are as many leaves in his little book as the great Bible, and he hath written as much in one of his little leaves, as a great leaf of the Bible.” This wonderfully unreadable copy of the Bible was “seen by many thousands.”

Peter Huet, the celebrated bishop of Avranches, long doubted the story of an eminent writing-master having comprised “the Iliad in a nut-shell,” but, after trifling half an hour in examining the matter, he thought it possible. One day, in company at the dauphin’s, with a piece of paper and a common pen, he demonstrated, that a piece of vellum, about ten inches in length, and eight in width, pliant and firm, can be folded up and enclosed in the shell of a large walnut; that in breadth it can contain one line of thirty verses, perfectly written with a crow-quill, and in length two hundred [1087, 1088] and fifty lines; that one side will then contain seven thousand five hundred verses, the other side as much, and that therefore the piece of vellum will hold the whole fifteen thousand verses of the Iliad.

The writing match between Peter Bales and David Johnson, mentioned by Mr. Butler, “was only traditionally known, till, with my own eyes,” says Mr. D’Israeli, “I pondered on this whole trial of skill in the precious manuscript of the champion himself; who, like CÆsar, not only knew how to win victories, but also to record them.” Johnson for a whole year gave a public challenge, “To any one who should take exceptions to this my writing and teaching.” Bales was magnanimously silent, till he discovered that since this challenge was proclaimed, he “was doing much less in writing and teaching.” Bales then sent forth a challenge, “To all Englishmen and strangers,” to write for a gold pen of twenty pounds value, in all kinds of hands, “best, straightest, and fastest,” and most kind of ways; “a full, a mean, a small, with line and without line; in a slow-set hand, a mean facile hand, and a fast running hand;” and further, “to write truest and speediest, most secretary and clerk-like, from a man’s mouth, reading or pronouncing, either English or Latin.” Within an hour, Johnson, though a young friend of Bales, accepted the challenge, and accused the veteran of arrogance. “Such an absolute challenge,” says he, “was never witnessed by man, without exception of any in the world!” Johnson, a few days after, met Bales, and showed him a piece of “secretary’s hand,” which he had written on fine parchment, and said, “Mr. Bales, give me one shilling out of your purse, and, if within six months you better or equal this piece of writing, I will give you forty pounds for it.” Bales accepted the shilling, and the parties were thereby bound over to the trial of skill. The day before it took place, a printed paper posted through the city taunted Bales’s “proud poverty,” and his pecuniary motives as “ungentle, base, and mercenary, not answerable to the dignity of the golden pen!” Johnson declared that he would maintain his challenge for a thousand pounds more, but that Bales was unable to make good a thousand groats. Bales retorted by affirming the paper a sign of his rival’s weakness, “yet who so bold,” says Bales, “as blind Bayard, that hath not a word of Latin to cast at a dog, or say ‘Bo!’ to a goose!” The goose was mentioned perhaps, in allusion to Michaelmas-day 1595, when the trial commenced before five judges; an “ancient gentleman” was intrusted with “the golden pen.” The first trial was for the manner of teaching scholars; this terminated in favour of Bales. The second, for secretary and clerk-like writing, dictated in English and in Latin, was also awarded to Bales; Johnson confessing that he wanted the Latin tongue, and was no clerk. On the third and last trial, for fair writing in sundry kinds of hands, Johnson prevailed in beauty and most “authentic proportion,” and for superior variety of the Roman hand; but in court-hand, and set-text, Bales exceeded, and in bastard secretary was somewhat perfecter than Johnson. For a finishing blow, Bales drew forth his “master-piece,” and, offering to forego his previous advantages if Johnson could better this specimen, his antagonist was struck dumb. In compassion to the youth of Johnson, some of the judges urged the others not to give judgment in public. Bales remonstrated against a private decision in vain, but he obtained the verdict and secured the prize. Johnson, however, reported that he had won the golden pen, and issued an “Appeal to all impartial Penmen,” wherein he affirmed, that the judges, though his own friends, and honest gentlemen, were unskilled in judging of most hands, and again offered forty pounds to be allowed six months to equal Bales’s “master-piece.” Finally, he alleged, that the judges did not deny that Bales possessed himself of the golden pen by a trick: he relates, that Bales having pretended that his wife was in extreme sickness, he desired that she might have a sight of the golden pen, to comfort her, that the “ancient gentleman,” relying upon the kind husband’s word, allowed the golden pen to be carried to her, and that thereupon Bales immediately pawned it, and afterwards, to make sure work, sold it at a great loss, so that the judges, ashamed of their own conduct, were compelled to give such a verdict as suited the occasion. Bales rejoined, by publishing to the universe the day and hour when the judges brought the golden pen to his house, and painted it with a hand over his door for a sign.[241] This is shortly the history of a [1089, 1090] long contest, which, if it has not been paralleled in our own time, we have been reminded of by the open challenges of living calligraphers.

John Flamsteed.

On the 10th of August, 1675, the foundation stone of the Royal Observatory, for watching and noting the motions of the celestial bodies, was laid on the hill where it now stands, in Greenwich Park. The edifice was erected by order of king Charles II., at the instance of sir Jonas Moor, under the direction of sir Christopher Wren; and it is worthy of record here, that the celebrated Flamsteed, constructed a “Scheme of the Heavens,” at the very minute when the foundation stone was laid. It has never appeared in any work, and as the public are wholly unacquainted with its existence, it is subjoined exactly as Flamsteed drew it with his own hand.

The dog-days end on this day. This period in the year 1825, was remarkable for longer absence of rain and greater heat than usual. It was further remarkable for numerous conflagrations, especially in the metropolis and its environs.

THE SEASON.

Dr. Forster in his Perennial Calendar, observes, that the gentle refreshing breezes by day, and the delicious calms by night, at this time of year, draw a vast concourse of persons of leisure to the shores of Great Britain and France in the months of August and September. There is perhaps no period of the year when the seaside is more agreeable. Bathing, sailing, and other marine recreations, are at no time better suited to beguile the hours of the warm summer day than at present; and the peculiar stillness of a seaside evening scene, by moonlight, is now to be enjoyed in perfection, as Cynthia begins to ascend higher in her car after the termination of the nightless summer solstice, and when the unremitted heat of the dog-days at length gives place to the more refreshing dews of a longer period of nocturnal coolness. The peculiar beauties of a sea-scene by night are thus described by a cotemporary poet:—

But the imagery of a calm sea is more poetically described by Milton, perhaps, than by any other author when he tells us:—

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The swift, hirundo apus, is missed, says Dr. Forster, in its usual haunts about this time. The great body of these birds migrate at once, so that we are struck with their absence about the old steeples of churches and other edifices which they usually inhabit, and from whence they sally forth on rapid wings each morning and evening in search of food, wheeling round and round, and uttering a very loud piercing and peculiar cry, wherefore they are called squeakers. For the last month past, these birds may have been seen flying in lofty gyrations in the air, and seemingly exercising their wings and preparing for their aËrial voyage. It is not precisely ascertained to what countries they go when they leave Europe.

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[1099, 1100]

Insects, says Dr. Forster, still continue to swarm and to sport in the sun from flower to flower. It is very amusing to observe, in the bright sun of an August morning, the animation and delight of some of the lepidopterous insects. That beautiful little blue butterfly, papilio argus, is then all life and activity, flitting from flower to flower in the grass with remarkable vivacity: there seems to be a constant rivalship and contention between this beauty, and the not less elegant little beau, papilio phloeas. Frequenting the same station, attached to the same head of clover, or of harebell, whenever they approach, mutual animosity seems to possess them; and darting on each other with courageous rapidity, they buffet and contend until one is driven from the field, or to a considerable distance from his station, perhaps many hundred yards, when the victor returns to his post in triumph; and this contention is renewed, as long as the brilliancy of the sun animates their courage. When the beautiful evening of this season arrives, we again see the bat:—

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FLORAL DIRECTORY.

China Aster. Aster Chinensis.
Dedicated to St. Susanna.

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August 12.

Chronology.

King George IV. was born on the 12th of August, 1762; but the anniversary is kept on St. George’s-day, the 23d of April.

Twelfth of August.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF AN UNFORTUNATE DAY.

Sir,

I am a poor wronged Day. I appeal to you as the general patron of the family of the Days. The candour with which you attended to the expostulations of a poor relative of ours—a sort of cousin thrice removed[250]—encourages me to hope that you will listen to the complaint of a Day of rather more consequence. I am the Day, Sir, upon which it pleased the course of nature that your gracious Sovereign should be born. As such, before his Accession, I was always observed and honoured. But since that happy event, in which naturally none had a greater interest than myself, a flaw has been discovered in my title. My lustre has been eclipsed, and—to use the words of one of your own poets,—

It seems, that about that time, an Impostor crept into Court, who has the effrontery to usurp my honours, and to style herself the King’s-birth-Day, upon some shallow pretence that, being St. George’s-Day, she must needs be King-George’s-Day also. All-Saints-Day we have heard of, and All-Souls-Day we are willing to admit; but does it follow that this foolish Twenty-third of April must be All-George’s-Day, and enjoy a monopoly of the whole name from George of Cappadocia to George of Leyden, and from George-a-Green down to George Dyer?

It looks a little oddly that I was discarded not long after the dismission of a set of men and measures, with whom I have nothing in common. I hope no whisperer has insinuated into the ears of Royalty, as if I were any thing Whiggishly inclined, when, in my heart, I abhor all these kind of Revolutions, by which I am sure to be the greatest sufferer.

I wonder my shameless Rival can have the face to let the Tower and Park Guns proclaim so many big thundering fibs as they do, upon her Anniversary—making your Sovereign too to be older than he is, by an hundred and odd days, which is no great compliment one would think. Consider if this precedent for ante-dating of Births should become general, what confusion it must make in Parish Registers; what crowds of young heirs we should have coming of age before they are one-and-twenty, with numberless similar grievances. If these chops and changes are suffered, we shall have Lord-Mayor’s-Day eating her custard unauthentically in [1101, 1102] May, and Guy Faux preposterously blazing twice over in the Dog-days.

I humbly submit, that it is not within the prerogatives of Royalty itself, to be born twice over. We have read of the supposititious births of Princes, but where are the evidences of this first Birth? why are not the nurses in attendance, the midwife, &c. produced?—the silly story has not so much as a Warming Pan to support it.

My legal advisers, to comfort me, tell me that I have the right on my side; that I am the true Birth-Day, and the other Day is only kept. But what consolation is this to me, as long as this naughty-kept creature keeps me out of my dues and privileges?

Pray take my unfortunate case into your consideration, and see that I am restored to my lawful Rejoicings, Firings, Bon-Firings, Illuminations, &c.

And your Petitioner shall ever pray,

Twelfth Day of August

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The Editor’s Answer.

Madam,

You mistake my situation: I am not the “patron,” but a poor servant of the Days—engaged to attend their goings out and comings in, and to teach people to pay proper respect to them. Mine is no trifling post, Madam; for without disrespect to you, many of your ancient family were spoiled long ago, by silly persons having taken undue notice of them; and in virtue of my office, I am a sort of judge in their court of claims, without authority to enforce obedience to my opinions. However, I shall continue to do my duty to the Days, and to their friends, many of whom are mere hangers-on, and, in spite of their pretended regard, grossly abuse them:—but this only verifies the old saying, “Too much familiarity breeds contempt:” such liberties must not be allowed, nor must the antiquity of the Days be too much insisted on. It is said, “there’s reason in every thing,” but there’s very little in some of the Old Days—excuse me, Madam, you are a young one; and I have something to excuse in you, which I readily do, on account of your inexperience, and of your bringing up.

That you are “the King’s-birth-Day” is undisputed: you are stated so to be in the almanac; as witness this line in August, 1825:—

“12. F. K. Geo. IV. b.”

Can any thing be plainer than the b. or more certain than that it stands for born? So much then for your rank in the Day family, and at Court, where you are acknowledged, and received as the birth-Day once a year, and “kept” as well as His Majesty can keep you. A king represents the majesty of the public welfare, and maintains the dignity of the throne whereon he is placed by promoting the interests of the people. His present Majesty regards your, and their, and his own, interest by remembering you, when you are not entitled to especial recollection with another day in the almanac, and this remembrance stands in April 1825, thus—

23. S. St. Geo. K. b. d. k.

St. George’s-Day does not supersede you; it is not called the King’s-birth-Day; the almanac by K. b. d. k. denotes that you, the King’s-birth-Day, are kept with all the honours due to your August quality on St. George’s-Day. If it had not “pleased the course of nature,” you would only have been distinguished as the first Day after the Day whereon the almanac says “Dog-Days end”—a fine distinction!

“It looks a little oddly” you say that you should have been “discarded not long after the dismission of a set of men and measures with whom you have nothing in common;” and you “hope,” that “no whisperer has insinuated” that you are “whiggishly inclined.” Allow me to tell you, Madam, that if the family of the Days had not been “whiggishly inclined” in the year 1688, you might still have been a “common Day.” I know not how you incline now, and it is of very little consequence; for all “parties” are busy in promoting the happiness of the commonwealth, and I hope, in my lifetime at least, that no Day will be dishonoured by dissensions about trifles at home, or war upon any pretence abroad. And now, Madam, after this indispensable notice of your little flaunt, let me add, that the prorogation of parliament during that season when “in the course of nature” you arrive, and the king’s attention to the manufacturing and trading of the country, are obvious reasons for keeping the King’s-birth-Day, in customary splendour on the 23d Day of April, instead of the 12th Day of August. You are honoured [1103, 1104] again in your own season at the palace; and your complaint amounts to no more than this, that having received your honours in the presence of a full court circle before you are entitled to them, they are not all repeated to a semicircle:—how childish! Then, you talk about the “ante-dating of births” and “Parish Registers” as if you were the daughter of a parish clerk—remember yourself, Madam.

St. George’s-Day has far more cause for vexation than you. The little respect usually paid to her celebration is eclipsed by the uproar of yours. “The Tower and Park guns proclaim so many big thundering fibs upon her anniversary” for you; and you call her, your elder sister, a “naughty kept creature;” poor thing! How eloquent is her silence compared with your loquacity! how dignified! yet she has antiquity to boast of—the antiquity of many generations, while you at the utmost, are only of sixty-three years standing; indeed, as the King’s-birth-Day, you are not halfway to your teens. A quarrel among the Days would be odious; this would be detestable. Happily the Day-family is saved from this disgrace by the prudence of your more experienced sister, who will no doubt decline provocation even under your spiteful collocation of George of Leyden with George of Cappadocia—she understands the taunt well enough; and can see through the whimsical association of George-a-Green with George Dyer. The dead George-a-Green no one can harm, and the living George Dyer is as harmless. This is pitiful work, and if you were not the King’s-birth-Day you would be made to suffer for it. “However,” as my friend Dyer would say, “let that pass:” he is a good creature, and maintains his innocence spite of his union—with George-a-Green.

On the presentation of your petition I had some doubt whether I ought to entertain such a petition for a moment; but on reconsideration I doubted whether the justice of the case would not be better answered by dealing with it in another way; and I give you the benefit of that doubt: the petition is dismissed.

The Editor.

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FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Great Sowthistle. Sonchus palustris.
Dedicated to St. Clare.

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August 13.

Cats.

Once upon a time—on or about the 13th of August, 1819; it might have been a few or many days before or after that day, or a month or so before or after that month—the day or month is of less consequence to the reader, than to the editor, who desires to “bring in” an interesting anecdote or two on the 13th day of August. Once upon a time, a cat—it is a fact—for it is in The Scotsman newspaper of the 23d of October, 1819—once upon a time, a cat, belonging to a shipmaster, was left on shore, by accident, when his vessel sailed from the harbour of Aberdour, Fifeshire, which lies about half a mile from the village. The vessel was absent about a month, and, on her return, to the astonishment of the shipmaster, puss came on board with a fine stout kitten in her mouth, apparently about three weeks old, and went directly down to the cabin. Two others of her young were afterwards caught, quite wild, in a neighbouring wood, where she must have remained with them till the return of the vessel. The shipmaster did not allow her again to go on shore, otherwise it is probable she would have brought the whole litter on board. What is more remarkable, vessels were daily entering and leaving the harbour, none of which she ever thought of visiting till the one she had left returned.[251] This extraordinary instance of feline sagacity, on the day before mentioned or imagined, is paralleled by another:—

A lady lately living at Potsdam, when a child of six years, ran a splinter into her foot, sat down upon the floor, and cried most violently. At first her cries were not regarded, as they were considered to be more the effect of a pettish and obstinate temper, than of any great pain which the accident could have occasioned her. At length the elder sister of the child, who had been lying asleep in bed, was roused by her cries, and as she was just about to get out of bed, in order to quiet her sister, she observed a cat, who was a favourite playmate of the children, and otherwise of a very gentle disposition, leave her seat under the stove, go to the [1105, 1106] crying girl, and having given her with one of her paws so smart a blow upon the cheek as to draw blood, walk back again with the utmost gravity to her place under the stove. As this cat was by no means of a malicious disposition, for she had grown up together with the younger children of the family, and never designedly scratched any of them, it seems that her intention upon this occasion was to chastise the pettish girl, and put an end to her troublesome cries, in order that she might herself be able to finish her morning nap without further interruption.[252]

In the “Orleans Collection” of pictures there was a fine painting of a “Concert of Cats,” by F. Breughel, from whence there is a print, among the engravings of that gallery, sufficiently meritorious and whimsical to deserve a place here; and therefore it is represented in the sketch on the present page. In justice, to the justice done to it, Mr. Samuel Williams must be mentioned as the artist who both drew and engraved it. The fixed attention of the feline performers is exceedingly amusing, and by no means unnatural; for it appears by the notes that mice is their theme, and they seem engaged in a catch.

So sings Mr. Huddesford, in a “Monody on the Death of Dick, an Academical Cat,” with this motto,—

He brings his cat Dick from the Flood, and consequently through Rutterkin, a cat who was “cater-cousin to the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother of Grimalkin, and first cat in the caterie of an old woman, who was tried for bewitching a daughter of the countess of Rutland in the beginning of the sixteenth century.” The monodist connects him with cats of great renown in the annals of witchcraft; a science whereto they have been allied as closely as poor old women, one of whom, it appears, on the authority of an old pamphlet entitled “Newes from Scotland,” &c. printed [1107, 1108] in the year 1591, “confessed that she took a cat and christened it, &c. and that in the night following, the said cat was conveyed into the middest of the sea by all these witches sayling in their Riddles, or Cives, and so left the said cat right before the towne of Leith in Scotland. This done, there did arise such a tempest at sea as a greater hath not been seen, &c. Againe it is confessed, that the said christened cat was the cause of the kinges majestie’s shippe, at his coming forthe of Denmarke, had a contrarie winde to the rest of the shippes then being in his companie, which thing was most straunge and true, as the kinges majestie acknowledgeth, for when the rest of the shippes had a fair and good winde, then was the winde contrarie, and altogether against his majestie,” &c.

All sorts of cats, according to Huddesford, lamented the death of his favourite, whom he calls “premier cat upon the catalogue,” and who, preferring sprats to all other fish,—

Cats neither like to be put out of their way, nor to be kept out of their food:—

In cloisters, wherein people are immured in Roman catholic countries, to keep or make them of that religion, it is customary to announce the hours of meals by ringing a bell. In a cloister in France, a cat that was kept there was used never to receive any victuals till the bell rung, and she therefore never failed to be within hearing of it. One day, however, she happened to be shut up in a solitary apartment, and the bell rang in vain, as far as regarded her. Being some hours after liberated from her confinement, she ran, half famished, to the place where a plate of victuals used generally to be set for her, but found none this time. In the afternoon the bell was heard ringing at an unusual hour, and when the people of the cloister came to see what was the cause of it, they found the cat hanging upon the bell-rope, and setting it in motion as well as she was able, in order that she might have her dinner served up to her.[253]

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There is a surprising instance of the sensibility of cats to approaching danger:—

In the year 1783, two cats, belonging to a merchant at Messina, in Sicily, announced to him the approach of an earthquake. Before the first shock was felt, these two animals seemed anxiously to endeavour to work their way through the floor of the room in which they were. Their master observing their fruitless efforts, opened the door for them. At a second and third door, which they likewise found shut, they repeated their efforts, and on being set completely at liberty, they ran straight through the street, and out of the gate of the town. The merchant, whose curiosity was excited by this strange conduct of the cats, followed them into the fields, where he again saw them scratching and burrowing in the earth. Soon after there was a violent shock of an earthquake, and many of the houses in the city fell down, of which the merchant’s was one, so that he was indebted for his life to the singular forebodings of his cats.[254]

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Few who possess the faculty of hearing, and have heard the music of cats, would desire the continuance of their “sweet voices,” yet a concert was exhibited at Paris, wherein cats were the performers. They were placed in rows, and a monkey beat time to them. According as he beat the time, so the cats mewed; and the historian of the fact relates, that the diversity of the tones which they emitted produced a very ludicrous effect. This exhibition was announced to the Parisian public by the title of Concert Miaulant.[255]

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Cats were highly esteemed by the Egyptians, who under the form of a cat symbolized the moon, or Isis, and placed it upon their systrum, an instrument of religious worship and divination. Count Caylus engraved a cat with two kittens, which, while he supposes one of the kittens to be black and the other white, he presumes to have represented the phases of the moon.

Cats are supposed to have been brought into England from the island of Cyprus, by some foreign merchants who came hither for tin. In the old Welsh laws, a kitten from its birth till it could see was valued at a penny; when it began to mouse at twopence; and after it had killed mice at fourpence, which was the price of a calf. Wild cats were kept by our ancient kings for hunting. The officers who had the charge of these cats seem to have had appointments of equal consequence with the masters of the king’s hounds; they were called catatores.

Gray’s elegy on a cat drowned in a globe of water with gold fishes is well-known. Dr. Jortin wrote a Latin epitaph on a favourite cat.

[1111, 1112]

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FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Marsh Grounsel. Senecio paludotus.
Dedicated to St. Radigundes.

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August 14.

It is stated in The Times, on the authority of an “Evening Paper,” that two beautiful old trees in Nottingham park during the hot weather (of July and August, 1825,) shed all their leaves, and were as completely stripped as they are usually in November. Their appearance afterwards was more surprising. Wet weather came, they put forth new leaves and were as fully clothed in August as they were before the long season of the dry hot weather.

[1113, 1114]

About the middle of August, the viper brings forth her young. She produces from twelve to twenty-five eggs, from which, when hatched, her offspring come forth nearly of the size of earthworms.[257]

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FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Elegant Zinnia. Zinnia elegans.
Dedicated to St. Eusebius.

Fantoccini.

Mr. George Cruikshank’s pencil has been put in requisition for a fantoccini, and his drawing, engraved by Mr. Henry White, appears above.

This exhibition took place in a street at Pentonville, during the present month, 1825. Its coming was announced by a man playing the Pan-pipes, or “mouth-organ,” [1115, 1116] which he accompanied by beating the long drum; after him followed the theatre, consisting of a square frame-work about ten feet high, boarded in front, and painted as represented in the print, carried by a man within the frame; the theatrical properties were in a box strapped on the inside towards the bottom. The musician was preceded by a foreign-looking personage—the manager. As soon as he had fixed on a station he deemed eligible, the trio stopped, the theatre was on its legs in a minute, and some green baize furled towards the top of each side, and at the back, was let down by the manager himself, who got within the frame and thus concealed himself. The band of two instruments was set in motion by its performer, who took his station on one side, and the carrier of the theatre assuming the important office of money collector. “Come ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we can’t begin without you encourage us—some money if you please—please to remember what you are going to see!” Boys came running in from the fields, women with children got “good places,” windows were thrown up and well filled, the drummer beat and blew away lustily, the audience increased every minute, a collection was made, and the green curtain at length drew up, and discovered a stage also lined with green cloth at the top, bottom, and sides. In about a minute the tune altered, and the show began.

Scene 1. A jolly-looking puppet performed the tricks of a tumbler and posture master with a hoop.

Scene 2. The money taker called out, “This is the representation of a skeleton.” The music played solemnly, and the puppet skeleton came slowly through a trap door in the floor of the stage; its under jaw chattered against the upper, it threw its arms up mournfully, till it was fairly above ground, and then commenced a “grave” dance. On a sudden its head dropped off, the limbs separated from the trunk in a moment, and the head moved about the floor, chattering, till it resumed its place together with the limbs, and in an instant danced as before; its efforts appeared gradually to decline, and at last it sank into a sitting posture, and remained still. Then it held down its skull, elevated its arms, let them fall on the ground several times dolorously; fell to pieces again; again the head moved about the stage and chattered; again it resumed its place, the limbs reunited, and the figure danced till the head fell off with a gasp; the limbs flew still further apart; all was quiet; the head made one move only towards the body, fell sideways, and the whole re-descended to a dirge-like tune. Thus ended the second scene.

Scene 3. This scene was delayed for the collector again to come round with his hat:—“You can’t expect us to show you all for what you’ve given. Money if you please; money; we want your money!” As soon as he had extracted the last extractable halfpenny, the curtain drew up, and—enter a clown without a head, who danced till his head came from between his shoulders to the wonder of the children, and, almost to their alarm, was elevated on a neck the full length of his body, which it thrust out ever and anon; after presenting greater contortions than the human figure could possibly represent, the curtain fell the third time.

Scene 4. Another delay of the curtain for another collection, “We have four and twenty scenes,” said the collector, “and if you are not liberal we can’t show ’em all—we must go.” This extorted something more, and one person at a window, who had sent three-pence from a house where other money had been given, now sent out a shilling, with a request that “all” might be exhibited. The showman promised, the curtain drew up, and another puppet-tumbler appeared with a pole which, being placed laterally on the back of two baby-house chairs, he balanced himself on it, stood heels upwards upon it, took the chairs up by it, balanced them on each end of it, and down fell the curtain.

Scene 5. A puppet sailor danced a hornpipe.

Scene 6. A puppet Indian juggler threw balls.

Scene 7. Before the curtain drew up the collector said, “This is the representation of Billy Waters, Esq.” and a puppet, Billy Waters, appeared with a wooden leg, and danced to the sound of his fiddle for a minute or two when the curtain dropped, and the manager and performers went off with their theatre, leaving the remaining seventeen scenes, if they had them, unrepresented. On the show was painted, “Candler’s Fantoccini, patronised by the Royal Family.” Our old acquaintance, “Punch,” will survive all this.

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[1117, 1118]

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August 15.

Assumption, B. V. M.

So stands this high festival of the Romish church in the church of England calendar. No reason can be imagined for its remaining there; for the assumption of the virgin is the pretended miraculous ascent of her body into heaven. Butler calls it “the greatest of all the festivals the Romish church celebrates in her honour.” In his account of this day, he especially enjoins her to be invoked as a mediator. The breviaries and offices of her worship embrace it as an opportunity for edifying the devotees with stories to her honour; one of these may suffice.

There was a monk very jolly and light of life, who on a night went forth to do his accustomed folly; but when he passed before the altar of our lady, he saluted the virgin, and then went out of the church; and as he was about to pass a river he fell in the water, and the devils took his soul. Then angels came to rescue it, but the devils maintained that it was their proper prey. And anon came the blessed virgin, and rebuked the devils, and said the soul belonged to her; and they answered, that they had found the monk finishing his life in evil ways; and she replied, that which ye say is false, for I know well, that when he went into any place, he saluted me first, and that when he came out again he did the same, and if ye say that I do you wrong, let us have the judgment of the sovereign king thereon. Then they contended before our Lord on this matter; and it pleased him that the soul should return again to the body, and that the monk should repent him of his sins. In the while, the monks had missed their brother, for he came not to matins, and they sought the sexton and went to the river, and found him there drowned; and when they had drawn the body out of the water, they knew not what to think, and marvelled what he had done. Then suddenly he came to life, and told them what had happened to him, and finished his life in good works.[258]

Durandus, the great Romish ritualist, anxious for devotion to be maintained to the virgin, observes, that though her office is not to be read on the Sundays between Easter and Whitsuntide, as on every other Sunday, yet there is not any danger to be apprehended for introducing it on the Sundays not appointed. A priest once did actually intrude the virgin’s office on one of these non-appointed Sundays, for which the bishop suspended him; “but he was soon forced to take off the suspension, in consequence of the virgin appearing to him, and scolding him for his unjust severity.”

It is stated by Mr. Brady, that the festival of the assumption of the Virgin Mary was first regularly instituted in 813; and, that the assumption commemorated actually took place, is what none within the power of the late Inquisition would dare to disbelieve; and, that since its first introduction, further, there has been a zeal displayed on this holiday, which must be considered truly commendable, in all those who believe in the fact, and are amiably desirous of convincing others. The pageantry used in celebrating this festival has often been the subject of remark by travellers, but that at Messina seems for its grandeur and ingenuity to claim the preference: Mr. Howel, in his descriptive travels through Sicily, gives a very particular account of the magnificent manner in which this festival is kept by the Sicilians under the title of Bara; which, although expressive of the machine he describes, is also, it appears, generally applied as a name of the feast itself. An immense machine of about fifty feet high is constructed, designing to represent heaven; and in the midst is placed a young female personating the virgin, with an image of Jesus on her right hand; round the virgin twelve little children turn vertically, representing so many seraphim, and below them twelve more children turn horizontally, as cherubim; lower down in the machine a sun turns vertically, with a child at the extremity of each of the four principal radii of his circle, who ascend and descend with his rotation, yet always in an erect posture; and still lower, reaching within about seven feet of the ground, are placed twelve boys, who turn horizontally without intermission around the principal figure, designing thereby to exhibit the twelve apostles, who were collected from all corners of the earth, to be present at [1119, 1120] the decease of the virgin, and witness her miraculous assumption. This huge machine is drawn about the principal streets by sturdy monks, and it is regarded as a particular favour to any family to admit their children in this divine exhibition, although the poor infants themselves do not seem long to enjoy the honours they receive as seraphim, cherubim, and apostles; the constant twirling they receive in the air making some of them fall asleep, many of them sick, and others more grievously ill.[259]

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It is stated of a poor Frenchwoman a century ago, when invention was not so quick as it is in the present generation, that finding herself really incapable, from extreme poverty, of nourishing her infant, she proceeded with it near the church of Notre-Dame at Paris, during the procession in honour of the virgin, on the 15th of August; and holding up her meagre infant, whilst the priest was giving his solemn benediction to the populace, besought him so earnestly to “bless the child,” that the crowd instinctively made a passage for her approach. The good priest took the infant in his arms, and, whilst all eyes were fixed on his motions, in the act of complying with the parent’s request, she escaped back through the crowd, and was nowhere to be found; so that the infant became appendixed to its rich mother—the church.

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In a very rare print of the Death of the Virgin, by Wenceslaus of Olmutz, she is drawn surrounded by her family and others; St. John places a holy candle in her right hand, St. Peter with a brush sprinkles holy water upon her before the Romish church existed, and therefore before that devise was contrived; and another apostle with an ink-horn hanging from his side, looks through a pair of spectacles, to assist his sight, before spectacles were invented, in reading a book which another person holds. This subject has also been represented by Martin Schoen, Israel van Mechelen, and other artists.

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FLORAL DIRECTORY.

Virgin’s Bower. Clematis Vitalba.
Dedicated to the Assumption, B. V. M.

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[258] Golden Legend.[259] Clavis Calendaria.