the same for dinner: little enough, it must be confessed; but quite as much as the unremitting labour of a life of idleness can afford! Between the abovenamed hours, on the three first Sundays of this month, and the two last of the preceding, you may (weather willing) gladden your gaze with such a galaxy of beauty and fashion (I beg to be par doned for the repetition, for fashion is beauty) as no other period or place, Almack's itself not excepted, can boast: for there is no denying that the fair rulers over this last-named rendezvous of the regular troops of bon ton are somewhat too recherchée in their requirements. The truth is, that though the said rulers will not for a moment hesitate to patronise the above proposition under its simple form, they entirely object to that subtle interpretation of it which their sons and nephews would introduce, and on which interpretation the sole essential difference between the two assemblies depends. In fact, at Almack's fashion is beauty; but at Kensington Gardens beauty and fashion are one. At any rate, those who have not been present at the latter place during the period above referred to, have not seen the finest sight (with one exception) that England has to offer. Vauxhall Gardens, which open the first week in this month, are somewhat different from the above, it must be confessed. But they are unique in their way nevertheless. Seen in the darkness of noonday, as one passes by them on the top of the Portsmouth coach, they cut a sorry figure enough. But beneath the full meridian of midnight, what is like them, except some parts of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments? Now, after the first few nights, they begin to be in their glory, and are, on every successive gala, illuminated with "ten thousand additional lamps," and include all the particular attractions of every preceding gala since the beginning of time! Now, on fine evenings, the sunshine finds (or rather loses) its way into the galleries of Summer theatres at whole price, and wonders where it has got to. Now, boarding-school boys, in the purlieus of Paddington and Mile End, employ the whole of the first week in writing home to their distant friends in London a letter of not less than eight lines, announcing that the " ensuing vacation will commence on the ——— instant;" and occupy the remaining fortnight in trying to find out the unknown numerals with which the blank has been filled up. Finally, now, during the first few days, you cannot walk the streets without waiting, at every crossing, for the passage of whole regiments of little boys in leather breeches, and little girls in white aprons, going to church to practise their annual anthem-singing, preparatory to that particular Thursday in this month, which is known all over the world of charity-schools by the name of "walking day;" when their little voices, ten thousand strong, are to utter forth sounds that shall dwell for ever in the hearts of their hearers. Those who have seen this sight, of all the charity children within the bills of mortality assembled beneath the dome of Saint Paul's, and heard the sounds of thanksgiving and adoration which they utter there, have seen and heard what is perhaps better calculated than anything human ever was, to convey to the imagination a faint notion of what we expect to witness hereafter, when the hosts of heaven shall utter with one voice, hymns of adoration before the footstool of the Most High*. nospital granted the use of its hall and kitchen" for a young couple when they were married to make their wedding dinner in, and receive the offerings and gifts of their friends, for at that time houses were not large." Mr. Sykes, in his interesting volume of "Local Records," remarks, that "this appears an ancient custom for the encouragement of matrimony." NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. Mean Temperature ... 59 37. June 11. BLESSINGS OF INSTRUCTION. Plains with green hills adorning them, These gardens, vales, and plains, and hills, NATURALISTS CALENDAR. Mean Temperature ... 58 75. June 12. THE SEASON, IN THE COUNTRY. Sheep-Shearing. Sheep-shearing, one of the great rural labours of this delightful month, if not so full of variety as the hay-harvest, and so creative of matter for those “in search of the picturesque" (though it is scarcely less so), is still more lively, animated, and spirit-stirring; and it besides retains something of the character of a rural holiday, which rural matters need, In this age and in this country, more than ever they did, since it became a civilized and happy one. The sheep shearings are the only stated periods of the year at which we hear of festivities, and gatherings together of the lovers and practisers of English husbandry; for even the harvest-home itself is fast sink ing into disuse, as a scene of mirth and revelry, from the want of being duly encouraged and partaken in by the great ones of the earth; without whose countenance and example it is questionable whether eating, drinking, and sleeping, would not soon become vulgar practices, and be discontinued accordingly! In a state of things like this, the Holkham and Woburn sheep-shearings do more honour to their promoters than all their wealth can purchase and all their titles convey. But we are getting beyond our soundings: honours, titles, and "states of things," are what we do not pretend to meddle with, especially when the pretty sights and sounds preparatory to and attendant on sheep-shearing, as a mere rural employment, are waiting to be noticed. Now, then, on the first really summer's day, the whole flock being collected on the higher bank of the pool formed at the abrupt winding of the nameless mill-stream, at the point, perhaps, where the little wooden bridge ruus slantwise across it, and the attend. ants being stationed waist-deep in the midwater, the sheep are, after a silent but obstinate struggle or two, plunged headlong, one by one, from the preci pitous bank; when, after a moment of confused splashing, their heavy fleeces float them along, and their feet, moving by an instinctive art which every creature but man possesses, guide them towards the opposite shallows, that steam and glitter in the sunshine. Midway, however, they are fain to submit to the rude grasp of the relentless washer, which they undergo with as ill a grace as preparatory schoolboys de the same operation. Then, gaining the opposite shore heavily, they stand for a moment till the weight of water leaves them, and, shaking their streaming sides, go bleating away towards their fellows on the adjacent green, wondering within themselves what has happened. The shearing is no less lively and picturesque, and no less attended by all the idlers of the village as spectators. The shearers, seated in rows beside the crowded pens, with the seemingly inanimate load of fleece in their laps, and bending intently over their work; the occasional whetting and clapping of the shears; the neatly-attired housewives, waiting to receive the fleeces; the smoke from the tar-kettle, ascending through the clear air; the shorn sheep escaping, one by one, from their temporary bondage, and trotting away towards their distant brethren, bleating all the while for their lambs, that do not know them; all this, with its ground of universal green, and finished every-where by its leafy distances, except where the village spire intervenes, forms together a living picture, pleasanter to look upon than words can speak, but still pleasanter to think of, when that is the nearest approach you can make to it.* CHRONOLOGY. On this day, in the year 1734, the duke of Berwick, while visiting the trenches at the siege of Philipsburgh, near Spire, in Germany, was killed, standing between his two sons by a cannon ball. He was the illegitimate son of the duke of York, afterwards James II., whom he accompanied in his flight from England, in 1688. His mother was Arabella Churchill, maid of honour to the duchess of York, and sister to the renowned Marlborough. The duke of Berwick on quitting the country, entered into the service of France, and was engaged in several battles against the English or their allies in Ireland, the Netheriands, Portugal, and Spain. At his death he was in the sixty-fourth year of his age. No general of his time excelled him in the art of war except his uncle, the duke of Marlborough.† standing in Chapel-street, near St. Nicholas church in this town, but which is now taken down to make room for a costly pile of warehouses since erected on the site. The sign represented (elegantly, of course) a man standing in a cart laden with fish, and holding in his right hand what the artist intended to represent a salmon. The lines are to be supposed to be spoken by the driver: This salmon has got a tail It's catch'd and put in Dugdale's cart. This truly classic production of the muse of Mersey continued for several years to adorn the host's door, until a change in the occupant of the house induced a corresponding change of the sign, and the following lines graced the sign of "The Fishing Smack :❞— The cart and salmon has stray'd away, Whilst I am upon the subject of "signs," I cannot omit mentioning a punning one in the adjoining county (Chester) on the opposite side of the Mersey, by the highway-side, leading from Liscard to Wallasea. The house is kept by a son of Crispin, and he, zealous of his trade, exhibits the representation of a last, and under it this couplet : All day long I have sought good beer, And at the last I have found it here. I do not know, sir, whether the preceding nonsense may be deemed worthy of a niche in your miscellany; but I have sent it at a venture, knowing that originals, however trifling, are sometimes valuable to a pains-taking (and, perhaps, wearied) collector. I am, Sir, your obliged, LECTOR. By publishing the letter of my obliging correspondent "LECTOR," who transmits his real name, I am enabling England to say-he has done his duty. Really if each of my readers would do like him I should be very grateful. While printing his belief that I am a "pains-taking" collector, I would inter pose by observing that I am far, very far, from a "wearied" one: and I would fain direct the attention of every one who peruses these sheets to their collections, whether great or small, and express an earnest desire to be favoured with something from their stores; in truth, the best evidence of their receiving my sheets favourably will be their contributions towards them. While I am getting together and arranging materials for articles that will interest the public quite as much as any I have laid before them, I hope for the friendly aid of wellwishers to the work, and urgently solicit their communications. 1826. Trinity Term ends. CHEAP TRAVELLING. To the Editor of the Every-Day Book. Newark, May 17, 1826. Sir,-The following singular circumstance may be relied on as a fact. The individual it relates to was well known upon the turf. I recollect him myself, and once saw the present venerable Earl of Fitzwilliam, on Stamford racecourse, humorously inquire of him how he got his conveyance, in allusion to the undermentioned circumstance, and present him with a guinea.-I am, &c. BENJ. JOHNSON. John Kilburn, a person well known on the turf as a list seller, &c., was at a town in Bedfordshire, and, as the turf phrase is, "quite broke down." It was during harvest, and the week before Richmond races (Yorkshire), whither he was travelling, and near which place he was born: to arrive there in time he hit on the following expedient. He applied to an acquaintance of his, a blacksmith, to stamp on a padlock the words Richmond Gaol, with which, and a chain fixed to one of his legs, he composedly went into a corn-field to sleep. As he expected, he was soon apprehended and taken before a magistrate, who, after some deliberation, ordered two constables to guard him in a carriage to Richmond. No time was to be lost, for Kilburn said he had not been tried, and hoped they would not let him lay till another assize. The constables, on their arrival at the gaol, accosted the keeper with "Sir, do you know this man?" "Yes, very well, it is Kilburn; I have known him many years." We suppose he has broken out of your gaol, as he has a chain and padlock on with your mark. Is not he a prisoner ?" "I never heard any harm of him in my life." "Nor," says Kilburn, "have these gentlemen: Sir, they have been so good as to bring me out of Bedfordshire, and I will not put them to further inconve nience. I have got the key of the padlock, and I will not trouble them to unlock it. I am obliged to them for their kind behaviour." He travelled in this way about one hundred and seventy miles. This anecdote has been seen before, perhaps, but it is now given on authority. NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. Mean Temperature . . . 59 67. June 15. SUMMER MERRIMENT. To the Editor of the Every-day Book Sir,-You have inserted in vol. i. p. 559, an interesting account of the Morris Dance in the "olden times,' and I was rather disappointed on a perusal of your extensive Index, by not finding a "few more words" respecting the Morris Dancers of our day and generation. I think this custom is of Moorish origin, and might have been introduced into this country in the middle ages. Bailey says, "the Morris Dance is an antic dance performed by five men and a boy, dressed in girl's clothes." The girlish part of it is, however, more honoured in "the breach than the observance." In June, 1826, I observed a company of these "bold peasantry, the country pride," in Rosoman-street, Clerkenwell They consisted of eight young men, si of whom were dancers; the seventh played the pipe and tabor; and the eighth, the head of them, collected the pence in his hat, and put the precious metal into the slit of a tin painted box, under lock and key, suspended before him. The tune the little rural-noted pipe played to the gentle pulsations of the tabor, is called "Moll in the wad and I feli out, וי |