July 5.
Chronology.
On the fifth of July, 1685, the duke of Monmouth’s enterprise against James II. was ended by the battle of Sedgemoor, near Bridgwater, in Somersetshire. The duke’s army consisting of native followers attacked the king’s veteran troops, routed them, and would finally have conquered, if error in Monmouth as a leader, and the cowardice of lord Gray, one of his commanders, had not devoted them to defeat.
Letter of
Oliver Cromwell
Now first published.
To several letters of distinguished individuals, first brought to light in these sheets, the editor is enabled to add another. If the character of the writer, and the remarkable event he communicates, be considered in connection with the authority to whom the letter was addressed, it will be regarded as a document of real importance.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
July 1, 1826.
Sir,—I had intended to have sent you this communication in time for insertion under the date of the twenty-sixth of June, which, according to the New Style, corresponds with the fourteenth, on which the letter was written, a copy of which I send:—it is from Oliver Cromwell to the Speaker Lenthall, giving an account of the battle of Naseby.—It was presented to me a great many years ago by a friend in Northamptonshire, and is, I think, an historical curiosity.—I make no comment on its style; it speaks for itself.
I am, &c.
E. S. F.
[COPY.]
“To the Honourable W. Lenthall,
“Speaker to the Commons House of Parliament.
“Sir,
“Being Commanded by you to this Service, I think myself bound to acquaint you with the good hand of God towards you and us: We marched yesterday after the King, who went before us from Daventry to Haversbrowe, and quartered about Six Miles from him—he drew out to meet us—Both armies engag’d.—We, after three hours fight—very doubtful,—at last routed his army—kill’d and took about 5000—very many officers—but of what quality, we yet know not.—We took also about 200 Carag. all he had—and all his Guns being 12 in number—whereof two were Demi Culverins and I think the rest Fasces—we pursued the Enemy from three miles short of Haversbrowe to nine beyond—Ever to sight of Leicester, whither the King fled.—Sir—this is none other but the hand of God:—and to him alone belongs the Glory—wherein none are to share with him.—The General served you with all faithfulness and honor—and the best recommendation I can give of him is, that I dare say, he attributes all to God and would rather perish than to assume to himself, which is an honest and thriving way—Yet as much for Bravery must be given him in this Action as to a man.—Honest men served you faithfully in this Action.—Sir, they are trusty—I beseech you, in the Name of God, not to discourage them.—I wish this Action may beget thankfulness and Humility in all that are concern’d in it—He that ventures his Life for the good of his Country—I wish he trusts God for the liberty of his Conscience and you for the Liberty he fights for.—In this, he rests who is your most humble Servant
“O. Cromwell.”
“Haversbrowe, June 14, 1645.”
The gentleman who possesses Cromwell’s original letter is known to the editor, who thus publicly expresses his thanks to him, as he has done privately, for having communicated so valuable an historical document to the public, through the Every-Day Book.
Heriot’s Hospital,
Edinburgh.
With the [particulars] respecting this foundation in the present volume, it was intended to give the two engravings subjoined. They were ready, and the printer waited for them, and delayed the publication an entire day, while the engraver’s messenger carried them about with him, without the accompaniment of a recollection that they were in his pocket, until after the sheet had appeared without them. This is a disclosure of one of the many “secret sorrows” lately endured by the editor, who begs the reader to bear in mind that the cuts belong to [col. 766].
Arms of George Heriot.
This armorial bearing is carved on many parts of the edifice.
The present fac-simile of his signature, is from one engraved from his subscription to an “acompt,” in his “Memoirs” [before quoted].
Swan-hopping Season.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
June 24, 1826.
Sir,—It was about this season of the year, though I am not aware of any precise day being fixed for the excursion, that the chief magistrate of the city, in the stately barge, attended by all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance” of flags, gilding, and music, used, when I was a boy, which is a good thirty years ago, to proceed up the river Thames as far as Staines, and, I believe, pour a glass of wine, or perform some such ceremony, upon a stone, which, standing in a meadow a short distance above Staines-bridge, marks the city’s watery jurisdiction. The custom may, for aught I know to the contrary, be still continued, though I suspect it has become obsolete, and my conjecture is strengthened by not observing in your Every-Day Book any mention of this civic excursion, or “Swan-hopping,” as I believe it was called. My reason for reviving the memory of it now, is to introduce an authentic anecdote. Your invitations to correspondents have been frequent; and should I be fortunate enough to assist you to a column in a way that will be gratifying to you and your numerous readers, I shall rejoice in the opportunity.
I am, Sir, &c.
N. G.
City Swan-hopping.
The following curious circumstance occurred, several years ago, at a tavern in the vicinity of Putney-bridge. Several members of one of the city companies having accompanied the chief magistrate on an excursion up the river, quitted his lordship, and landed at the house in question. A boat containing a party of six ladies, elegantly dressed, and rowed by two watermen, in scarlet jackets, put in at the same time.
The happy citizens relieved from the controul of their dames, could not resist this opportunity of showing their gallantry and politeness. They stepped forward and offered their aid to assist the ladies in landing; the offer was accepted; and this act of civility was followed by others. They walked, talked, and laughed together, till dinner was announced. The gentlemen went to the larger room; the ladies sat down to a repast laid out for them by their order in a smaller one.
After some time the ladies again returned to the lawn, where the gentlemen occasionally joined them and continued their civilities till the watermen informed them the tide served for their return to town. The gentlemen then assisted the ladies on board, and wished them a safe voyage. Soon after they called for their bill, which was handed to the chairman in due form; but it is impossible to express the surprise which marked his countenance on reading the following items:—“Dinner, desert, wine, tea, &c. for the ladies, 7l. 10s.;” together with a charge of twelve shillings for servants’ refreshments. The landlord was sent for and questioned as to this charge, who said the ladies had desired the bill should be delivered to their spouses, who would settle it. An explanation now took place, when it appeared the parties were strangers to each other; for these sprightly dames, taking advantage of the occasional civilities of the gallant and unsuspecting swan-hoppers, had imposed themselves on honest Boniface, nothing loth perhaps to be imposed on, as the wives of the city company, and, as such, had been served with an elegant dinner, desert, wine, &c. which they had left their husbands to pay for. The discovery at first disconcerted the gentlemen, but the wine they had drank having opened their hearts and inspired them with liberality, they took the trick put upon them in good part, and paid the bill; and the recollection of the wives of the city company, long afterwards afforded them an ample subject for conversation and laughter.
Original Poetry.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—The following beautiful lines were written in the summer of the year 1808, at Sheffield, and have not been published; as they are no mean effusion, perhaps they will not disgrace your interesting little work.
Believe me, Sir, &c.
C. T.
July 9, 1826.
The Oak and the Willow.
When the sun’s dazzling brightness oppresses the day,
How delightful to ramble the forests among!
And thro’ the arched boughs hung with woodbine so gay,
To view the rich landscape, to hear the sweet song!
And lo! where the charms of the wild woodland vale,
Expanding in beauty, enrapture the sight;
Here the woods in dark majesty wave in the gale,
There the lawns and the hills are all blazing in light.
From yonder high rocks, down the foaming stream rushes,
Then gleams thro’ the valley o’ershadowed with trees,
While the songsters of spring, warbling wild from the bushes,
With exquisite melody charm the faint breeze.
The peasant boy now with his cattle descends,
Winding slow to the brook down the mountain’s steep tide;
Where the larch o’er the precipice mournfully bends,
And the mountain-ash waves in luxuriance beside.
And mark yonder oak—’tis the cliff’s nodding crest,
That spreads its wide branches and towers sublime;
The morning’s first glances alight on its breast,
And evening there spends the last glimpse of her time.
But hark! the storm bursts, and the raging winds sweep—
See the lightning’s swift flash strikes its branches all bare!
E’en the leaves, where the sunbeams delighted to sleep,
Are scorched in the blaze, and are whirled thro’ the air.
Yet the shrubs in the vale closely sheltered from harm,
Untouched by the tempest, scarce whisper a sound;
While the mountains reecho the thunder’s alarm,
The winds are restrained by the rock’s massy bound.
Thus the rich and the great who engross fortune’s smiles,
Feel the rankling of care often torture their rest,
While peace all the toils of the peasant beguiles,
Or hope’s higher raptures awake in his breast.
Then mine be the lot of the willow that weeps,
Unseen in the glen o’er the smooth flowing rill,
’Mongst whose pensile branches the flow’ret creeps,
And the strains of the night-bird the ear sweetly thrill.
Some nook in the valley of life shall be mine,
Where time imperceptibly swiftly glides by,
True friendship and love round my heart shall entwine,
And sympathy start the warm tear in my eye.
Then haply my wild harp will make such sweet notes,
That the traveller climbing the rock’s craggy brow,
May stop and may list, as the music still floats,
And think of the bard in the valley below.