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 hould make the heart of the schoolboy eap 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 associ ated 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.

Fat 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.

The "busy flail," too, which is now in full employment, fills the air about the homestead with a pleasant sound, and invites the passer-by to look in at the great open doors of the barn, and see the wheatstack reaching to the roof on either hand; the little pyramid of bright grain behind the threshers; the scattered ears between them, leaping and rustling beneath their fast-falling strokes; and the flail itself tying harmless round the labourers' heads, though seeming to threaten danger at every tuin; while, outside, the flock of "barn-door" poultry ply their ceaseless search for food, among the knee-deep straw; and the cattle, all their summer frolics forgotten, stand ruminating beside the half-empty hay-rack, or lean with inquiring faces over the gate that looks down into the village, or away towards the distant pastures.

Of the birds that have hitherto made merry even at the approach of winter, now all are silent; all, save that one who now earns his title of "the household bird," by haunting the thresholds and window-cills, and casting sidelong glances in-doors, as if to reconnoitre the positions of all within, before the pinching frosts force him to lay aside his fears, and flit

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 red breast, 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 nome 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 hine 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"

ith "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."

ODE TO WINter.

By a Gentleman of Cambridge. From mountains of eternal snow,

And Zembla's dreary plains; Where the bleak winds for ever blow And frost for ever reigns,

Lo! Winter comes, in fogs array'd,

With ice, and spangled dews;
To dews, and fogs, and storms be paid

The tribute of the Muse.

Each flowery carpet Nature spread
Is vanish'd from the eye;
Where'er unhappy lovers tread,
No Philomel is nigh.

(For well I ween her plaintive note,
Can soothing ease impart ;
The little warblings of her throat
Relieve the wounded heart.)

No blushing rose unfolds its bloom,
No tender lilies blow,
To scent the air with rich perfume,
Or grace Lucinda's brow.

Th' indulgent Father who protects
The wretched and the poor;
With the same gracious care directs
The sparrow to our door.

Dark, scowling tempests rend the skies,
And clouds obscure the day;
His genial warmth the sun denies,
And sheds a fainter ray.

Yet blame we not the troubled air,
Or seek defects to find;
For Power Omnipotent is there,
And 'walks upon the wind."
Hail! every pair whom love unites
In wedlock's pleasing ties;
That endless source of pure delights,
That blessing to the wise!

Though yon pale orb no warmth bestows,
And storms united meet.
The flame of love and friendship glows
With unextinguish'd heat.

November 1

All Saints.

INSCRIPTIONS IN CHURCHES.

A remarkable colloquy between queen Elizabeth and dean Nowell at St. Paul's cathedral on the 1st of November, 1561, is said to have originated the usage of inscribing texts of scripture in English on

Ser vol. 1. col. 141.

the inner side of the church-walls as we still see them in many parishes.

Her majesty having attended worship "went straight to the vestry, and applying herself to the dean, thus she spoke to him."

Q. Mr. Dean, how came it to pass that a new service-book was placed on my cushion?

To which the dean answered:

D. May it please your majesty, I caused it to be placed there. Then said the queen :

Q. Wherefore did you so?

D. To present your majesty with a new-year's gift.

Q. You could never present me with

a worse.

D. Why so, madam?

Q. You know I have an aversion to idolatry and pictures of this kind.

D. Wherein is the idolatry, may it please your majesty ?

Q. In the cuts resembling angels and saints; nay, grosser absurdities, pictures resembling the blessed Trinity.

D. I meant no harm: nor did I think it would offend your majesty when I intended it for a new-year's gift.

Q. You must needs be ignorant then. Have you forgot our proclamation against images, pictures, and Romish relics in churches? Was it not read in your deanery?

D. It was read. But be your majesty assured, I meant no harm, when I caused the cuts to be bound with the service-book.

Q. You must needs be very ignorant, to do this after our prohibition of them.

D. It being my ignorance, your majesty may the better pardon me.

Q. I am sorry for it: yet glad to hear it was your ignorance, rather than your opinion.

D. Be your majesty assured it was my ignorance.

Q. If so, Mr. Dean, God grant you his Spirit, and more wisdom for the fu

ture.

Mr. Nichols, after inserting the preceding dialogue, in "Queen Elizabeth's Progresses," remarks—

"This matter occasioned all the clergy in and about London, and the churchwardens of each parish, to search their churches and chapels: and caused them to wash out of the walls all paintings that seemed to be Romish and idolatrous; and in lieu thereof suitable texts, taken out of the holy scriptures, to be written."

Similar inscriptions had been previously adopted: the effect of the queen's disapprobation of pictured representations was to increase the number of painted texts.

Mr. J. T. Smith observes, that of these sacred sentences there were several within memory in the old church of Paddington, now pulled down; and also in the little old one of Clapham.

In an inside view of Ambleside church, painted by George Arnald, Esq. A. R. A., he has recorded several, which are particularly appropriate to their stations; for instance, that over the door admonishes the comers in; that above the pulpit exhorts the preacher to spare not his congregation; and another within sight of the singers, encourages them to offer praises to the Lord on high. These inscriptions have sometimes one line written in black, and the next in red; in other instances the first letter of each line is of a bright blue, green, or red. They are frequently surrounded by painted imitations of frames or scrolls, held up by boys painted in ruddle. It was the custom in earlier times to write them in French, with the first letter of the line considerably larger than the rest, and likewise of a bright colour curiously ornamented. Several of these were discovered in 1801, on the ceiling of a closet on the south side of the Painted Chamber, Westminster, now blocked up.

Others of a subsequent date, of the reign of Edward III. in Latin, were visible during the recent alterations of the house of commons, beautifully written in the finest jet black, with the first letters also of bright and different colours.

Hogarth, in his print of the sleeping

Naogeorgus in his satire, the "Popish Kingdome," has a "description which Dr. Forster says "is grossly exaggerated, like many other accounts of catholics written by protestants." If the remark be fair, it is fair also to observe that many accounts of Protestants written by catholics are equally gross in their exaggerations. It would be wiser, because it would be honest, were each to relate truth of the other, and become mutually charitable, and live like christians. How far Naogeorgus misrepresented the usages of the Romish churchmen in his time, it would not be easy to prove ; nor ought his lines which follow in English, by Barnaby Googe, to be regarded here, otherwise than as homely memorials of past days. All Soulne Day.

For souls departed from this life,

The shauen sort in numbers great, they also carefull bee;

thou shalt assembled see, Where as their seruice with such speede

they mumble out of hande, That none, though well they marke, a worde thereof can vnderstande.

But soberly they sing, while as the people offring bee,

For to releaue their parents soules

that lie in miseree. For they beleeue the shauen sort, with dolefull harmonie, To draw the damned soules from hell, and bring them to the skie; Where they but onely here regarde, their belly and their gaine, And neuer troubled are with care of any soule in paine.

* Mr. J. T. Smith's Ancient Topography of London, 4to. p. 11. ↑ See vol. i. col. 1423.