THE BOOK OF DAYS. Sidrophel in Hudibras has been supposed to re- above the Horizon. Printed for the Company of Poor Robin has four lines of verse at the head Now blustering Boreas sends out of his quiver In 1664, John Evelyn published his Kalen The next almanac-maker to whom the attention of the public was particularly directed was John yet I will mention it to shew how ignorant those THE CALENDAR-PRINTED ALMANACS. sider of it, and settle his affairs in time.' 'THE EPITAPH. Here, five foot deep, lies on his back As he himself could when above.' and other eminent men."-Notes and Queries, The Ladies' Diary, one of the most respectable Partridge, having studied physic as well as astro-editor undertook to introduce the fair sex to the The Vox Stellarum of Francis Moore was the 66 Francis Moore, in his Almanac for 1711, dates 'from follows an advertisement in which he undertakes to cure study of mathematics as a source of entertain- In 1775, the legal monopoly of the Stationers' THE BOOK OF DAYS. however, still kept possession of the trade, by bribing their competitors, and by their influence over the book-market. In 1828, The British Almanac of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge was published, and in the course of a few years the astrological portions disappeared from the other almanacs. Several new ones, containing valuable information, have since been presented to the public. But the measure which led to the improvement and great increase of almanacs, was the entire repeal of the stampduties thereon, by 3 and 4 Will. IV. c. 37, 13th August 1834. Hitherto, the stamp-duty upon each Moore's Almanac was 15d. In a letter from Robert Heath, of Upnor Castle, date about 1753, the sheet almanac of the Stationers' Company is stated to sell 175,000, and they give three guineas for the copy; Moore's sells 75,000, and they give five guineas for the copy; the Lady sells above 30,000, and they give ten guineas, the most copy-money of any other. The Gentleman's copy is three guineas, sells 7000. Here are a fine company to write for.' In 1751, he describes White, who computes an ephemeris for the Stationers' Company, as living at Grantham, in Lincolnshire. and a vigilant improvement of those hours which, in the midst of the most restless activity, will remain unengaged, to write more than another in the same condition could have hoped to read. Compelled by want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in common life that he has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such application to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank of literary heroes. Now, this proficiency he sufficiently discovers by informing us that the Praise of Folly, one of his most celebrated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy, lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback should be tattled away, without regard to literature.-Johnson. Among those who have contributed to the advancement of learning, many have risen to eminence in opposition to all the obstacles which external circumstances could place in their way, amidst the tumults of business, the distresses of The Stationers' Company present annually to poverty, or the dissipation of a wandering and the Archbishop of Canterbury copies of their unsettled state. A great part of the life of almanacs, which custom originated as follows: Erasmus was one continued peregrination: ill When Tenison was archbishop, a near relation supplied with the gifts of fortune, and led from of his, who was master of the Stationers' Com- city to city, and from kingdom to kingdom, by pany, thought it a compliment to call at Lambeth the hopes of patrons and preferment-hopes Palace in the Company's stately barge, on the which always flattered and always deceived him morning of Lord Mayor's Day, when the arch--he yet found means, by unshaken constancy bishop sent out a pint of wine for each liveryman, with bread and cheese and hot-spiced ale for the watermen and attendants; and this grew into a settled custom; the Stationers' Company acknowledging the hospitality by presenting to the archbishop a copy of the several almanacs which they publish. The wine was served in small twohandled wooden bowls, or small cups, which were provided yearly by the Company. But since the abolition of the procession by water on Lord Mayor's Day, this custom has been discontinued. Southey, in the Doctor, relates the following legal anecdote, to exemplify how necessary it is upon any important occasion to scrutinise the accuracy of a statement before it is taken on trust. A fellow was tried at the Old Bailey for highway robbery, and the prosecutor swore positively to him, saying he had seen his face distinctly, for it was a bright moonlight night. The counsel for the prisoner cross-questioned the man so as to make him repeat that assertion, and insist upon it. He then affirmed that this was a most important circumstance, and a most fortunate one for the prisoner at the bar: because the night on which the alleged robbery was said to have been committed was one in which there had been no moon: it was then during the dark quarter! In proof of this he handed an almanac to the bench, and the prisoner was acquitted accordingly. The prosecutor, however, had stated everything truly; and it was known afterwards that the almanac with which the counsel came provided, had been prepared and printed for the occasion. The Chancellor D'Aguesseau, finding that his wife always kept him waiting a quarter of an hour after the dinner-bell had rung, resolved to devote the time to writing a book on jurisprudence, and, putting the project in execution, in course of time produced a work in four quarto volumes. Many persons thoughtlessly waste their own time simultaneously with that of others. Lord Sandwich, when he presided at the Board of Admiralty, paid no attention to any memorial that extended beyond a single page. If any man,' he said, 'will draw up his case, and will put his name to the bottom of the first page, I will give him an immediate reply; where he compels me to turn over the page, he must wait my pleasure.' came old January, wrapped well (DESCRIPTIVE.) ANUARY is the open gate of the year, shut until the shortest day passed, but now open to let in the lengthening daylight, which will soon fall upon dim patches of pale green, that shew where spring is still sleeping. Sometimes between the hoary pillars-when the winter is mild-a few wan snowdrops will peep out and catch the faint sunlight which SPENSER. streams in coldly through the opening gateway, like timid messengers sent to see if spring has yet stirred from her long sleep. But it is yet too early for the hardy crocus to throw its banded gold along the pathway; and as for the rathe primrose,' it sits huddled up in its little cloak of green, or is seen peeping through its half-closed yellow eye, as if watching the snowflakes as they fall. Only the red-breasted robin his heart filled with hope-sings his cheerful song on the naked hawthorn spray, through which the tiny buds are striving to break forth, like a 15 THE BOOK OF DAYS. herald proclaiming glad tidings, and making known, far and wide, that erelong the winter will be over and gone,' and the moonlight-coloured May-blossoms once again appear. All around, as yet, the landscape is barren and dreary. In the early morning, the withered sedge by the water-courses is silvered over with hoary ríme; and if you handle the frosted flag-rushes, they seem to cut like swords. Huddled up like balls of feathers, the fieldfares sit in the leafless hedges, as if they had no heart to breakfast off the few hard, black, withered berries which still dangle in the wintry wind. Amid the cold frozen turnips, the hungry sheep look up and bleat pitifully; and if the cry of an early lamb falls on your ear, it makes the heart sorrowful only to listen to it. You pass the village churchyard, and almost shiver to think that the very dead who lie there must be pierced by the cold, for there is not even a crimson hip or haw to give a look of warmth to the stark hedges, through which the bleak wind whistles. Around the frozen pond the cattle assemble, lowing every now and then, as if impatient, and looking backward for the coming of the herdsman to break the ice. Even the nose of cherry-cheeked Patty looks blue, as she issues from the snow-covered cowshed with the smoking milk-pail on her head. There is no sound of the voices of village children in the winding lanes-nothing but the creaking of the old carrier's cart along the frost-bound road, and you pity the old wife who sits peeping out between the opening of the tilt, on her way to the neighbouring market-town. The very dog walks under the cart in silence, as if to avail himself of the little shelter it affords, instead of frisking and barking beside his master, as he does when the leaves are green and long.' There is a dull, leaden look about the sky, and you have no wish to climb the hill-top on which those gray clouds hang gloomily. You feel sorry for the poor donkey that stands hanging his head under the guide post, and wish there were flies about to make him whisk his ears, and not leave him altogether motionless. The Jolly Farmer' swings on his creaking sign before the road-side alehouse, like the bones of a murderer in his gibbet-irons; and instead of entering the house, you hurry past the closed door, resolved to warm yourself by walking quicker, for you think a glass of ale must be but cold drink on such a morning. The old ostler seems bent double through cold, as he stands with his hands in his pockets, and his pitchfork thrust into the smoking manure-heap that litters the stable-yard. A walk in the country on a fine frosty morning in January gives the blood a healthy circulation, and sets a man wondering why so many sit 'croodleing' over the fire at such a season. The trees, covered with hoar-frost, are beautiful to look upon, and the grass bending beneath its weight seems laden with crystal; while in the distance the hedges seem sheeted with May blossoms, so thickly, that you might fancy there was not room enough for a green leaf to peep out between the bloom. Sometimes a freezing shower comes down, and that is not quite so pleasant to be out in, for in a few moments everything around is covered with ice-the boughs seem as if cased in glass, the plumage of birds is stiffened by it, and they have to give their wings a brisk shaking before they are able to fly; as for a bunch of red holly-berries, could they but retain their icy covering, they would make the prettiest ornaments that could be placed on a mantel-piece. This is the time of year to see the beautiful ramification of the trees, for the branches are no longer hidden by leaves, and all the interlacings and crossings of exquisite network are visible-those pencilling of the sprays which too few of our artists study. Looking nearer at the hedges, we already see the tiny buds forming, mere specks on the stem, that do but little more than raise the bark; yet by the aid of a glass we can uncoil the future leaves which summer weaves in her loom into broad green curtains. The snails are asleep; they have glued up the doorways of their moveable habitations; and you may see a dozen of their houses fastened together if you probe among the dead leaves under the hedges with your walking-stick; while the worms have delved deep down into the earth, beyond the reach of the frost, and thither the mole has followed them, for he has not much choice of food in severe frosty weather. The woodman looks cold, though he wears his thick hedging gloves, for at this season he clears the thick underwood, and weaves into hurdles the smooth hazel-wands, or any long limber twigs that form the low thicket beneath the trees. He knows where the primroses are peeping out, and can tell of little bowery and sheltered hollows, where the wood-violets will erelong appear. The ditcher looks as thoughtful as a man digging his own grave, and takes no heed of the pretty robin that is piping its winter song on the withered gorse bushes with which he has just stopped up a gap in the hedge. Poor fellow, it is hard work for him, for the ground rings like iron when he strikes it with his spade, yet you would rather be the ditcher than the old man you passed a while ago, sitting on a pad of straw and breaking stones by the wayside, looking as if his legs were frozen. That was the golden-crested wren which darted across the road, and though the very smallest of our British birds, it never leaves us, no matter how severe the winter may be, but may be seen among the fir-trees, or pecking about where the holly and ivy are still green. If there is a springhead or water-course unfrozen, there you are pretty sure to meet with the wag-tail-the smallest of all our walking birds, for he marches along like a soldier, instead of jumping, as if tied up in a sack, as most of our birds do when on the ground. Now the blue titmouse may be seen hanging by his claws, with his back downward, hunting for insects in some decaying bough, or peeping about the thatched eaves of the cottages and outhouses, where it will pull out the straw to stir up the insects that lie snug within the thatch. In the hollows of trees, caverns, old buildings, and dark out-of-the-way places, the bats hibernate, holding on by their claws, while asleep, head downwards, one over another, dozens together, there to await the coming of spring, along with the insects which will then come out of their hiding-places. But unsightly as the bat appears to some eyes, there is no cleaner animal living, in spite of all our poets have written against it; for it makes |