of the citizens, named Wolf, proposed that all the children in the city, from seven to fourteen years of age, should be clad in mourning, and sent as supplicants to the enemy. Procopius Nasus, chief of the Hussites, was so touched with this spectacle, that he received the young supplicants, regaled them with cherries and other fruits, and promised them to spare the city.

The children returned crowned with leaves, holding cherries, and crying "victory!"—and hence, the "feast of cherries" is an annual commemoration of humane feelings.*

TO THE GNAT.

For the Every-Day Book.
Native of Ponds! I scarce could deem
Thee worthy of my praise,
Wert thou not joyous in the beam
Of summer's closing days.

But who can watch thy happy bands
Dance o er the golden wave,
And be not drawn to fancy's lands,-
And not their pleasures crave?
Small as thou art to vulgar sight,

In beauty thou art born :-
Thou waitest on my ears at night,
Sounding thine insect born.

The sun returns-his glory spreads

In heaven's pure flood of light; 'Thou makest thine escape from beds,

And risest with a bite.

article of food, that we remember so lately as August, 1804, the then rector of Boconnoc used to have turbot for supper, which he considered as a good foundation for a large bowl of posca, a sort of weak punch drank in that country. Having witnessed on this day in 1822, the grand Alpine view of the lake of Geneva, and the Swiss and Savoyard mountains behind it, from Mount Jura, we are reminded to present the reader with the following excellent lines which we have met with in "Fables, by Thomas Brown, the Younger," London, 1823.

VIEW OF THE ALPS AND THE LAKE OF
GENEVA FROM THE JURA.

'Twas late, the sun had almost shone
His last and best, when I ran on,
Anxious to reach that splendid view
Before the daybeams quite withdrew;
And feeling as all feel, on first
Approaching scenes, where they are told
Such glories on their eyes shall burst
As youthful bards in dreams behold.
'Twas distant yet, and as I ran,

Full often was my wistful gaze
Turned to the sun, who now began

To call in all his outpost rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.

Oh! how I wished for Joshua's power
To stay the brightness of that hour!
But no, the sun still less became,
Diminished to a speck, as splendid

And small as were those tongues of
flame

That on the apostles' heads descended.

"Twas at this instant, while there glowed
This last intensest gleam of light,
Suddenly through the opening road
The valley burst upon my sight;
That glorious valley with its lake,
And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty and pure, and fit to make

The ramparts of a godhead's dwelling. I stood entranced and mute as they

Of Israel think the assembled world Will stand upon the awful day,

When the ark's light, aloft unfurled Among the opening clouds shall shine, Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty Mont Blanc, thou wert to me That minute, with thy brow in heaven, As sure a sign of Deity As e'er to mortal gaze was given Nor ever, were I destined yet To live my life twice o'er again,

Can I the deepfelt awe forget, The ecstacy that thrilled me then.

'Twas all the unconsciousness of power
And life, beyond this mortal hour;
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of heaven, as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
When near their time for change of skies;
That proud assurance of our claim
To rank among the sons of light,
Mingled with shame! oh, bitter shame!
At having risked that splendid right,
For aught that earth, through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!

"Twas all this, at the instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine o'er my thought;
"Twas all this, kindled to a glow
Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever, man might grow,
Even upon earth, a thing divine,
And be once more the creature made
To walk unstained the Elysian shade.

No, never shall I lose the trace
Of what I've felt in this bright place :
And should my spirit's hope grow weak,
Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,
At the same calm and glowing hour;
And here, at the sublimest shrine
That nature ever reared to thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality.

Friday last. On his entering into the county at Croft-bridge, which separates it from the county of York, he was met by the officers of the see, the mayor and corporation of Stockton, and several of the principal nobility and others of the county. Here a sort of ceremony was performed, which had its origin in the feudal times," &c.

The origin of the ceremony above alluded to is this. About the commencement of the fourteenth century, sir John Conyers slew with his falchion in the fields of Sockburne, a monstrous creature, a dragon, a worm, or flying serpent, that devoured men, women, and children. The then owner of Sockburne, as a reward for his bravery, gave him the manor with its appurtenances to hold for ever, on condition that he met the lord bishop of Durham, with this falchion, on his first entrance into his diocese, after his election to that see. And in confirmation of this tradition, there is painted in a window of Sockburne church, the falchion just now spoken of; and it is also cut in marble, upon the tomb of the great ancestor of the Conyers', together with a dog and the monstrous worm or serpent, lying at his feet. When the bishop first comes into his diocese, he crossses the river Tees, either at the Ford of Nesham, or Croft-bridge, at one of which places the lord of the manor of Sockburne, or his representative, rides into the middle of the river, if the bishop comes by Nesham, with the ancient falchion drawn in his hand, or upon the middle of Croft-bridge; and then presents it to the bishop, addressing him in the ancient form of words. Upon which the bishop takes the falchion into his hands, looks at it, and returns it back again, wishing the lord of the manor his health and the enjoyment of his

estate.

formance of this service these lands are holden."

The drawing of the falchion and tomb in Sockburne church, I have unfortunately lost, otherwise it should have accompanied this communication: perhaps some of your numerous readers will be able to furnish you with it.

I remain,
Dear Sir, &c.

J. F.

lane, but whether on the same day or not I cannot say; how long these customs have existed, or whence they originated I do not know; they were before I, or the oldest man in the town, can remember. A SHOEMAKER.

THE SEASON.

By the "Mirror of the Months," the appearance of natural scenery at this season is brought before us. "The cornfields are all redundant with waving gold

tion in the Every-Day Book, of "the falchion and tomb in Sockburne church." A correct drawing of it shall be accurately engraven, if any gentleman will be pleased to communicate one: such a favour will be respectfully acknowledged.

MAYOR OF BARTLEMASS.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book. July 4, 1826.

Sir, The following is a brief notice of the annual mock election of the "mayor of Bartlemass," at Newbury, in Berkshire.

The day on which it takes place, is the first Monday after St. Anne's; therefore, this year if not discontinued, and I believe it is not, it will be held on the thirty-first day of July. The election is held at the Bull and Dog public-house, where a dinner is provided; the principal dishes being bacon and beans, have obtained for it the name of the "bacon and bean feast." In the course of the day a procession takes place. A cabbage is stuck on a pole and carried instead of a mace, accompanied by similar substitutes for the other emblems of civic dignity, and there is, of course, plenty of "rough music." "justice" is chosen at the same time, some other offices are filled up, and the day ends by all concerned getting completely"how came ye so."

A

In the same town, a mock mayor and justice are likewise chosen for Norcutt

of the oats, (those which still remain uncut,) to the deep sunburnt glow of the red wheat. But the wide rich sweeps of these fields are now broken in upon, here and there, by patches of the parched and withered looking bean crops; by occasional bits of newly ploughed land, where the rye lately stood; by the now darkening turnips-dark, except where they are being fed off by sheep flocks; and lastly by the still bright-green meadows, now studded every where with grazing cattle, the second crops of grass being already gathered in.

"The woods, as well as the single timber trees that occasionally start up with such fine effect from out of the hedge-rows, or in the midst of meadows and cornfields, we shall now find sprinkled with what at first looks like gleams of scattered sunshine lying among the leaves, but what, on examination, we shall find to be the new foliage that has been put forth since midsummer, and which yet retains all the brilliant green of the spring. The effect of this new green, lying in sweeps and patches upon the old, though little observed in general, is one of the most beautiful and characteristic appearances of this season. In many cases, when the sight of it is caught near at hand, on the sides of thick plantations, the effect of it is perfectly deceptive, and you wonder for a moment how it is, that while the sun is shining so brightly every where, it should shine so much more brightly on those particular spots."

NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. Mean Temperature... 63 60.

enough to make themselves felt; and consequently when we have nothing to do but look around us, and be happy." For it is in this month that the year "like a man at forty, has turned the corner of its existence; but, like him, it may still fancy itself young, because it does not begin to feel itself getting old. And perhaps there is no period like this, for encouraging and bringing to perfection that habit of tranquil enjoyment, in which all true happiness must mainly consist: with pleasure it has, indeed, little to do; but with happiness it is every thing."

The author of the volume pursues his estimate by observing, that " August is that debateable ground of the year, which is situated exactly upon the confines of summer and autumn; and it is difficult to say which has the better claim to it. It is dressed in half the flowers of the one, and half the fruits of the other; and it has a sky and a temperature all its own, and which vie in beauty with those of the spring. May itself can offer nothing so sweet to the senses, so enchanting to the imagination, and so soothing to the heart, as that genial influence which arises from the sights, the sounds, and the associations, connected with an August evening in the country, when the occupations and pleasures of the day are done, and when all, even the busiest, are fain to give way to that wise passiveness,' one hour of which is rife with more real enjoyment than a whole season of revelry. Those who will be wise (or foolish) enough to make comparisons between the various kinds of pleasure of which the mind of man is capable, will find that there is none (or but one) equal to that felt by a true lover of nature, when he looks forth upon her open face silently, at a season like the present, and drinks in that still beauty which seems to emanate from every thing he sees, till his whole senses are steeped in a sweet forgetfulness, and he becomes unconscious of all but that instinct of good which is ever present with us, but which can so seldom make itself felt amid that throng of thoughts which are ever busying and besieging us, in our intercourse with the living world. The only other feeling which equals this, in its intense quietude, and its satisfying fulness, is one which is almost identical with it, where the accepted lover is gazing unobserved, and almost unconsciously, on the face of his mistress, and tracing their sweet evidences of that mys

terious union which already exists between them.

"The whole face of nature has undergone, since last month, an obvious change; obvious to those who delight to observe all her changes and operations, but not sufficiently striking to insist on being seen generally by those who can read no characters but such as are written in a text hand. If the general colours of all the various departments of natural scenery are not changed, their hues are; and if there is not yet observable the infinite variety of autumn, there is as little the extreme monotony of summer. In one department, however, there is a general change, that cannot well remain unobserved. The rich and unvarying green of the corn-fields has entirely and almost suddenly changed to a still richer and inore conspicuous gold colour; more conspicuous on account of the contrast it now offers to the lines, patches, and masses of green with which it every where lies in contact, in the form of intersecting hedge-rows, intervening meadows, and bounding masses of forest. These latter are changed too; but in hue alone, not in colour. They are all of them still green; but it is not the fresh and tender green of the spring, nor the full and satisfying, though somewhat dull, green of the summer; but many greens, that blend all those belonging to the seasons just named, with others at once more grave and more bright; and the charming variety and interchange of which are peculiar to this delightful month, and are more beautiful in their general effect than those of either of the preceding periods: just as a truly beautiful woman is perhaps more beautiful at the period immediately before that at which her charms begin to wane, than she ever was before. Here, however, the comparison must end; for with the year its incipient decay is the signal for it to put on more and more beauties daily, till, when it reaches the period at which it is on the point of sinking into the temporary death of winter, it is more beautiful in general appearance than ever."

August 1.

LAMMAS DAY.

Though the origin of this denomination is related in vol. i. col. 1063, yet it seems proper to add that Lammas or Lambmas day obtained its name from a mass ordained to St. Peter, supplicating his bene