September 27.

[351]I speak advisedly. As a town, Sheffield, the place here referred to, is larger and more populous than Leeds. In 1821 it contained with its suburbs, but without including either out-hamlets, or the country part of the parish, at least 58,000 inhabitants;—Leeds no more than 48,000.[352]When the period for which an apprentice is bound (seven years) expires, his “loosing” is held by himself, and shopmates. Then are these steel bells made to jangle all day. At night the loosing is farther celebrated by a supper and booze. The parochial ringers frequently attend festivities with a set of hand-bells, which, in the estimation of their auditors, they make “discourse most eloquent music.”[353]Asidew. The orthography of this word may be wrong. I never, to my knowledge, saw it written. It is used in Sheffield to express a thin, very thin brass leaf, of a high gold colour.[354]In my boyish days, one Ludlam kept it. Was it he to whom belonged the dog which gave occasion to this proverbial saying? “As idle as Ludlam’s dog, that lay down to bark?”[355]Abundant.[356]Mr. Sharp’s Dissertation, p. 29.

[352]When the period for which an apprentice is bound (seven years) expires, his “loosing” is held by himself, and shopmates. Then are these steel bells made to jangle all day. At night the loosing is farther celebrated by a supper and booze. The parochial ringers frequently attend festivities with a set of hand-bells, which, in the estimation of their auditors, they make “discourse most eloquent music.”

[353]Asidew. The orthography of this word may be wrong. I never, to my knowledge, saw it written. It is used in Sheffield to express a thin, very thin brass leaf, of a high gold colour.

[354]In my boyish days, one Ludlam kept it. Was it he to whom belonged the dog which gave occasion to this proverbial saying? “As idle as Ludlam’s dog, that lay down to bark?”

[355]Abundant.

[356]Mr. Sharp’s Dissertation, p. 29.

On the 27th of September, 1772, died at Turnhurst, in Staffordshire, James Brindley, a man celebrated for extraordinary mechanical genius and skilful labours in inland navigation. He was born at Tunsted, in the parish of Wormhill, Derbyshire, in 1716, where he contributed to support his parents’ family till he was nearly seventeen years of age, when he bound himself apprentice to a wheelwright named Bennet, near Macclesfield, in Cheshire. In the early period of his apprenticeship, he performed several parts of the business without instruction, and so satisfied the millers, that he was always consulted in preference to his master, and before the expiration of his servitude, when Mr. Bennet, by his age and infirmities, became unable to work, he carried on the business, and provided a comfortable subsistence for the old man and his family.

About this time Bennet was employed in constructing an engine paper-mill, the first of the kind that had been attempted in these parts; but, as he was likely to fail in the execution of it, Mr. Brindley, without communicating his design, set out on Saturday evening after the business of the day was finished, and having inspected the work, returned home on Monday morning, after a journey of fifty miles, informed his master of its defects, and completed the engine to the entire satisfaction of the proprietors. He afterwards engaged in the mill-wright business on his own account. The fame of his inventions in a little while spread far beyond his own neighbourhood. In 1752, he was employed to erect a curious water-engine at Clifton, in Lancashire, for the purpose of draining coal-mines, which had before been performed at an enormous expense. The water for the use of this engine was conveyed from the river Irwell by a subterraneous channel, nearly six hundred yards long, which passed through a rock; and the wheel was fixed thirty feet below the surface of the ground.

In 1755, he constructed a new silk-mill at Congleton, in Cheshire, according to the plan proposed by the proprietors, after the execution of it by the original undertaker had failed; and in the completion of it he added many new and useful improvements. He introduced one contrivance for winding the silk upon the bobbins equally, and not in wreaths; and another for stopping, in an instant, not only the whole of this extensive system, in all its various movements, but any individual part of it at pleasure. He likewise invented machines for cutting the tooth and pinion wheels of the different engines, in a manner that produced a great saving of time, labour, and expense. He also introduced into the mills, used at the potteries in Staffordshire for grinding flintstones, several valuable additions, which greatly facilitated the operation.

In 1756, he constructed a steam-engine at Newcastle-under-Line, upon a new plan. The boiler was made with brick and stone, instead of iron plates, and the water was heated by fire-places, so constructed as to save the consumption of fuel. He also introduced cylinders of wood instead of those of iron, and substitutedwood for iron in the chains which worked at the end of the beam. But from these and similar contrivances for the improvement of this useful engine, his attention was diverted by the great national object of “inland navigation.” In planning and executing canals his mechanical genius found ample scope for exercise, and formed a sort of distinguishing era in the history of our country.

Envy and prejudice raised a variety of obstacles to the accomplishment of his designs and undertakings; and if he had not been liberally and powerfully protected by the duke of Bridgwater, his triumph over the opposition with which he encountered must have been considerably obstructed. The duke possessed an estate at Worsley, about seven miles from Manchester, rich in mines of coal, from which he derived little or no advantage, on account of the expense attending the conveyance by land carriage to a suitable market. A canal from Worsley to Manchester, Mr. Brindley declared to be practicable. His grace obtained an act for that purpose; and Brindley was employed in the conduct and execution of this, the first undertaking of the kind ever attempted in England, with navigable subterraneous tunnels and elevated aqueducts. At the commencement of the business it was determined, that the level of the water should be preserved without the usual obstruction of locks, and to carry the canal over rivers and deep vallies. It was not easy to obtain a sufficient supply of water for completing the navigation, but Brindley, furnished with ample resources, persevered, and conquered all the embarrassments, occasioned by the nature of the undertaking, and by the passions and prejudices of individuals. Having completed the canal as far as Barton, where the river Irwell is navigable for large vessels, he proposed to carry it over that river by an aqueduct thirty-nine feet above the surface of the water. This was considered as a chimerical and extravagant project; and an eminent engineer said, “I have often heard of castles in the air, but never before was shown where any of them were to be erected.” The duke of Bridgwater, confiding in the judgment of Brindley, empowered him to prosecute the work; and in about ten months the aqueduct was completed. This astonishing work commenced in September, 1760, and the first boat sailed over it the 17th of July, 1761. The canal was then extended to Manchester, where Mr. Brindley’s ingenuity in diminishing labour by mechanical contrivances, was exhibited in a machine for landing coals upon the top of a hill.

The duke of Bridgwater extended his views to Liverpool; and obtained, in 1762, an act of parliament for branching his canal to the tide-way in the Mersey. This part is carried over the river Mersey and Bollan, and over many wide and deep vallies. Over the vallies it is conducted without a single lock; and across the valley at Stretford, through which the Mersey runs, a mound of earth, raised for preserving the water, extends for nearly a mile. In the execution of every part of the navigation, Mr. Brindley displayed singular skill and ingenuity; and in order to facilitate his purpose, he produced many valuable machines. His economy and forecast are peculiarly discernible in the stops, or flood-gates, fixed in the canal, where it is above the level of the land. They are so constructed, that if any of the banks should give way and occasion a current, the adjoining gates will rise merely by that motion, and prevent any other part of the water from escaping than that which is near the breach between the two gates.

Encouraged by the success of the duke of Bridgwater’s undertakings, a subscription was entered into by a number of gentlemen and manufacturers in Staffordshire, for constructing a canal through that county. In 1766, this canal, “The Grand Trunk Navigation,” was begun; and it was conducted with spirit and success, under the direction of Brindley, as long as he lived.

After this, Brindley constructed a canal from the Grand Trunk, near Haywood, in Staffordshire, to the river Severn near Bewdley, connecting Bristol with Liverpool and Hull. This canal, about forty-six miles in length, was completed in 1772. His next undertaking was a canal from Birmingham, which should unite with the Staffordshire and Worcestershire canal near Wolverhampton. It is twenty six miles in length, and was finished in about three years. To avoid the inconvenience of locks, and for the more effectual supply of the canal with water, he advised a tunnel at Smethwick; his advice was disregarded; and the managers were afterwards under the necessity of erecting two steam engines. He executed the canal from Droitwich to the Severn,for the conveyance of salt and coals; and planned the Coventry navigation, which was for some time under his direction; but a dispute arising, he resigned his office. Some short time before his death, he began the Oxfordshire canal, which, uniting with the Coventry canal, serves as a continuation of the Grand Trunk navigation to Oxford, and thence by the Thames to London.

Mr. Brindley’s last undertaking was the canal from Chesterfield to the river Trent at Stockwith. He surveyed and planned the whole, and executed some miles of the navigation, which was finished five years after his death by his brother-in-law, Mr. Henshall, in 1777. Such was Mr. Brindley’s established reputation, that few works of this kind were undertaken without his advice. They are too numerous to be particularized, but it may be added that he gave the corporation of Liverpool a plan for clearing their docks of mud, which has been practised with success; and proposed a method, which has also succeeded, of building walls against the sea without mortar. The last of his inventions was an improved machine for drawing water out of mines, by a losing and gaining bucket, which he afterwards employed with advantage in raising coals.

When difficulties occurred in the execution of any of Mr. Brindley’s works, he had no recourse to books, or to the labours of other persons. All his resources were in his own inventive mind. He generally retired to bed, and lay there one, two, or three days, till he had devised the expedients which he needed for the accomplishment of his objects; he then got up, and executed his design without any drawing or model, which he never used, except for the satisfaction of his employers. His memory was so tenacious, that he could remember and execute all the parts of the most complex machine, provided he had time, in his previous survey, to settle, in his mind, the several departments, and their relations to each other. In his calculations of the powers of any machine, he performed the requisite operation by a mental process, in a manner which none knew but himself, and which, perhaps, he was not able to communicate to others. After certain intervals of consideration, he noted down the result in figures; and then proceeded to operate upon that result, until at length the complete solution was obtained, which was generally right. His want of literature, indeed, compelled him to cultivate, in an extraordinary degree, the art of memory; and in order to facilitate the revival, in his mind, of those visible objects and their properties, to which his attention was chiefly directed, he secluded himself from the external impressions of other objects, in the solitude of his bed.

Incessant attention to important and interesting objects, precluded Mr. Brindley from any of the ordinary amusements of life, and indeed, prevented his deriving from them any pleasure. He was once prevailed upon by his friends in London to see a play, but he found his ideas so much disturbed, and his mind rendered so unfit for business, as to induce him to declare, that he would not on any account go to another. It is not improbable, however, that by indulging an occasional relaxation, remitting his application, and varying his pursuits, his life might have been prolonged. The multiplicity of his engagements, and the constant attention which he bestowed on them, brought on a hectic fever, which continued, with little or no intermission, for some years, and at last terminated his useful and honourable career, in the 56th year of age. He was buried at New Chapel, in the same county.

Such was the enthusiasm with which this extraordinary man engaged in all schemes of inland navigation, that he seemed to regard all rivers with contempt, when compared with canals. It is said, that in an examination before the house of commons, when he was asked for what purpose he apprehended rivers were created, he replied, after some deliberation, “to feed navigable canals.” Those who knew him well, highly respected him “for the uniform and unshaken integrity of his conduct; for his steady attachment to the interest of the community; for the vast compass of his understanding, which seemed to have a natural affinity with all grand objects; and, likewise, for many noble and beneficial designs, constantly generating in his mind, and which the multiplicity of his engagements, and the shortness of his life, prevented him from bringing tomaturity.”[357]

Mean Temperature 55·50.

[357]Rees’s Cyclopædia. Biog. Brit.

On the 28th of September, 1736, when the “Gin Act,” which was passed to prevent the retailing of spirituous liquors in small quantities was about to be enforced, it was deemed necessary to send a detachment of sixty soldiers from Kensington to protect the house of sir Joseph Jekyl, the master of the rolls in Chancery-lane, from the violence threatened by the populace against that eminent lawyer for his endeavours in procuring the obnoxious statute.

The keepers of the gin-shops testified their feelings by a parade of mock ceremonies for “Madame Geneva lying-in-state,” which created a mob about their shops, and the justices thought proper to commit some of the chief mourners to prison. On this occasion, the signs of the punch-houses were put in mourning; and lest others should express the bitterness of their hearts by committing violences, the horse and foot-guards and trained bands were ordered to be properly stationed. Many of the distillers, instead of spending their time in empty lamentations, betook themselves to other branches of industry. Some to the brewing trade, which raised the price of barley and hops; some took taverns in the universities, which nobody could do before the “Gin Act,” without leave of the vice-chancellor; others set up apothecaries’ shops. The only persons who took out fifty pound licenses were one Gordon, Mr. Ashley of the London punch-house, and one more. Gordon, a punch-seller in the Strand, devised a new punch made of strong Madeira wine, and calledSangre.[358]

It may be hoped that our readers who live in the apple districts will communicate the usages of their neighbourhoods to theEvery-Day Book. For the present we must thank “an old correspondent.”

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Dear Sir,—The more I read of yourEvery-Day Book, the stronger my recollection returns to my boyhood days. There is not a season wherein I felt greater delight than during the gathering in of the orchards’ produce. The cider barrels cleaned and aired from the cellar—the cider-mill ready—the baskets and press, the vats, the horse-hair cloths, and the loft, fitted for the process and completion of making cider—the busy people according to Philips,seek—

The pippin, burnish’d o’er with gold,Of sweetest honey’d taste, the fair permain,Temper’d like comeliest nymph, with white and red.*****Let every tree in every garden own,The redstreak as supreme, whose pulpous fruit,With gold irradiate, and vermillion shines.Hail Herefordian plant! that dost disdainAll other fields.

The pippin, burnish’d o’er with gold,Of sweetest honey’d taste, the fair permain,Temper’d like comeliest nymph, with white and red.

*****

Let every tree in every garden own,The redstreak as supreme, whose pulpous fruit,With gold irradiate, and vermillion shines.Hail Herefordian plant! that dost disdainAll other fields.

The Herefordshire cider is so exquisite, that when the earl of Manchester was ambassador in France, he is said frequently to have passed this beverage on their nobility for a delicious wine.

Leasing in the corn-fields after the sheaves are borne to the garner, is performed by villagers of all ages, that are justly entitled to glean, like ants, the little store against a rainy day. But after the orchard is cleared, (and how delightful a shower—the shaking the Newton instructing apples down,) the village (not chimney-sweepers) climbing boys collect in a possé, and with poles and bags, go into the orchard and commencegriggling.

The small apples are calledgriggles. These, the farmers leave pretty abundantly on the trees, with an understanding that the urchins will have mercy on the boughs, which, if left entirely bare, would suffer. Suspended like monkeys, the best climbers are the ring-leaders; and less boys pick up and point out where an apple still remains. After the trees are cleared, a loud huzza crowns the exertion; and though a little bickering as to the quality and quantity ensues, they separate with their portion, praising or blaming the owner, proportionate to their success. If he requests it, which is often the case before they depart, the head boy stands before the house, and uncovered, he recites the well-known fable in the “Universal Spelling Book”—“A rude boystealingapples.”—Then the hostess, or her daughter, brings a large jug of cider and a slice of bread and cheese, or twopence, to the great pleasure of the laughing recipients of such generous bounty.

Down to the present month the custom ofgrigglingis continued with variation in the western hamlets, though innovation, which is the abuse of privilege, hasprevented many orchard-owners allowing the boys theirgrigglingperambulations.

With much respect, I am, &c.

P.——T.——*, *, P.

September 20, 1826.

Mean Temperature 53·37.

[358]Gentleman’s Magazine.

In the former volume, there are particulars of St. Michael, at col. 500, 629, and 1325. To the latter article, there is a print of this archangel, with six others of his order: on thepresent pagehe appears with other characteristics.

St Michael.

Thisprintfrom a large engraving on copper, by one of the Caracci family in 1582, after a picture by Lorenzo Sabbatini of Bologna, represents the holy family, and St. John, and St. Michael standing on the devil, and presenting souls to the infant Jesus from a pair of scales. The artist has adopted this mode to convey a notion of the archangel, in quality of his office, as chief of the guardian angels, and judge of the claims of departed spirits. In vol. i. p. 630, there are notices relative to St. Michael in this capacity.

The church of Notre Dame, at Paris, rebuilt by “devout king Robert,” was conspicuously honoured by a statue of the chief of the angelic hierarchy,with hisscales. “On the top, and pinnacle before the said church,” says Favine, “is yet to be seene the image of the arch-angellSt. Michael, the tutelaric angell, and guardian of the most christian monarchie of France, ensculptured after the antique forme, holding aballancein the one hand, and a crosse in the other; on his head, and toppe of his wings, are fixed and cramponned strong pikes of iron to keepe the birds from pearching thereon.”

Favine proceeds to mention a popular error concerning these “pikes of iron,” to defend the statue from the birds. “The ignorant vulgar conceived that this was a crowne of eares of corne, and thought it to be the idole of the goddesseCeres.” He says this is “a matter wherein they are much deceived; for Isis and Ceres being but one and the same, her temple was at S. Ceour and S. Germain desPrez.”[359]

Louis XI. instituted an order in honour of St. Michael, the arch-angel, on occasion of an alleged apparition of the saint on the bridge at Orleans, when that city was besieged by the English in 1428.

It has been intimated in vol. i., col. 500, that there are grounds to imagine “that St. George and the dragon are neither more nor less than St. Michael contending with the devil.” The reader who desires further light on this head, will derive it from a dissertation by Dr. Pettingall, expressly on the point. It may here, perhaps, be opportune to introduce the usual representation of St. George and the dragon, by an impression from an original wood-block, obligingly presented to this work by Mr. Horace Rodd.

St. George and the Dragon.

To-morrow morning we shall have you look,For all your great words, like St. George at Kingston,Running a footback from the furious dragon,That with her angrie tail belabours himFor being lazie.Woman’s Prize.

To-morrow morning we shall have you look,For all your great words, like St. George at Kingston,Running a footback from the furious dragon,That with her angrie tail belabours himFor being lazie.

Woman’s Prize.

So say Beaumont and Fletcher, from whence we learn that the prowess of “St. George for England,” was ludicrously travestied.

Mean Temperature 55·27.

[359]Theater of Honour, Lond. 1623, fol.

It is noted under the present day in the “Perennial Calendar,” that at this time the heat of the middle of the days is still sufficient to warm the earth, and cause a large ascent of vapour: that thechilling frosty nights, which are also generally very calm, condense into mists; differing from clouds only in remaining on the surface of the ground.

Now by the cool declining year condensed,Descend the copious exhalations, check’dAs up the middle sky unseen they stole,And roll the doubling fogs around the hill.. . . . . . Thence expanding far,The huge dusk gradual swallows up the plainVanish the woods; the dimseen river seemsSullen and slow to roll the misty wave.Even in the height of noon oppressed, the sunSheds weak and blunt his wide refracted ray;Whence glaring oft, with many a broadened orb,He frights the nations. Indistinct on earth,Seen through the turbid air, beyond the lifeObjects appear, and wildered o’er the waste,The shepherd stalks gigantic.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—The character and manners of a people may be often correctly ascertained by an attentive examination of their familiar customs and sayings. The investigation of these peculiarities, as they tend to enlarge the knowledge of human nature, and illustrate national history, as well as to mark the fluctuation of language, and to explain the usages of antiquity, is, therefore, deserving of high commendation; and, though occasionally, in the course of those inquiries, some whimsical stories are related, and some very homely phrases and authorities cited, they are the occurrences of every day, and no way seem to disqualify the position in which several amusing and popular customs are brought forward to general view. Under this impression, it will not be derogatory to theEvery-Day Book, to observe that by such communications, it will become an assemblage of anecdotes, fragments, remarks, and vestiges, collected andrecollected:—

—————Various,—that the mindOf desultory man, studious of change,And pleas’d with novelty, may be indulged.Cowper.

—————Various,—that the mindOf desultory man, studious of change,And pleas’d with novelty, may be indulged.

Cowper.

Should the following extract, from a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, edited by Elijah Fenton, and printed by Bernard Lintot, without date, but anterior to 1720, in octavo, be deemed by you, from the foregoing observations, deserving of notice, it is at your service.

Old Bennet was an eccentric person, at the early part of the last century, who appears to have excited much noise in London.

On the Death ofOld Bennet,the News Cryer.“One evening, when the sun was just gone down,As I was walking thro’ the noisy town,A sudden silence through each street was spread,As if the soul of London had been fled.Much I inquired the cause, but could not hear,Till fame, so frightened, that she did not dareTo raise her voice, thus whisper’d in my ear:}Bennet, the prince of hawkers, is no more,Bennet, my Herald on the British shore;Bennet, by whom, I own myself outdone,Tho’ I a hundred mouths, he had but one.He, when the list’ning town he would amuse,Made echo tremble with his ‘bloody news.’No more shall Echo, now his voice return,Echo for ever must in silence mourn.—Lament, ye heroes, who frequent the wars,The great proclaimer of your dreadful scars.Thus wept the conqueror, who the world o’ercame,Homer was wanting to enlarge his fameHomer, the first of hawkers that is known,Great news from Troy, cried up and down the town.None like him has there been for ages past,Till our stentorian Bennet came at last.Homer and Bennet were in this agreed,Homer was blind, and Bennet could not read.”

On the Death ofOld Bennet,the News Cryer.

“One evening, when the sun was just gone down,As I was walking thro’ the noisy town,A sudden silence through each street was spread,As if the soul of London had been fled.Much I inquired the cause, but could not hear,Till fame, so frightened, that she did not dareTo raise her voice, thus whisper’d in my ear:}Bennet, the prince of hawkers, is no more,Bennet, my Herald on the British shore;Bennet, by whom, I own myself outdone,Tho’ I a hundred mouths, he had but one.He, when the list’ning town he would amuse,Made echo tremble with his ‘bloody news.’No more shall Echo, now his voice return,Echo for ever must in silence mourn.—Lament, ye heroes, who frequent the wars,The great proclaimer of your dreadful scars.Thus wept the conqueror, who the world o’ercame,Homer was wanting to enlarge his fameHomer, the first of hawkers that is known,Great news from Troy, cried up and down the town.None like him has there been for ages past,Till our stentorian Bennet came at last.Homer and Bennet were in this agreed,Homer was blind, and Bennet could not read.”

Much I inquired the cause, but could not hear,Till fame, so frightened, that she did not dareTo raise her voice, thus whisper’d in my ear:}

Much I inquired the cause, but could not hear,Till fame, so frightened, that she did not dareTo raise her voice, thus whisper’d in my ear:

}

“Bloody News!” “Great Victory!” or more frequently “Extraordinary Gazette!” were, till recently, the usual loud bellowings of fellows, with stentorian lungs, accompanied by a loud blast of a long tin-horn, which announced to the delighted populace of London, the martial achievements of the modern Marlborough. These itinerants, for the most part, were the link-men at the entrances to the theatres; and costermongers, or porters, assisting in various menial offices during the day. A copy of the “Gazette,” or newspaper they were crying, was generally affixed under the hatband, in front, and their demand for a newspaper generally one shilling.

Those newscriers are spoken of in the past sense, as the further use of the horn is prohibited by the magistracy, subject to a penalty of ten shillings for a first offence, and twenty shillings on the conviction of repeating so heinous a crime. “Oh, dear!” as Crockery says, I think in these times of “modern improvement,” every thing is changing, and in many instances, much for the worse.

I suspect that you, Mr. Editor, possess a fellow-feeling on the subject, and shallno further trespass on your time, or on the reader’s patience, than by expressing a wish that many alterations were actuated by manly and humane intentions, and that less of over-legislation and selfishness were evinced in these pretended endeavours to promote the good of society.

I am, &c.J. H. B.

The present month can scarcely be better closed than with some exquisite stanzas from the delightful introduction to the “Forest Minstreland other Poems, by William and Mary Howitt.” Mr. Howitt speaks of his “lightly caroll’d lays,”as—

——— never, surely, otherwise esteem’dThan a bird’s song, that, fill’d with sweet amazeAt the bright opening of the young, green spring,Pours out its simple joy in instant warbling.For never yet was mine the proud intentTo give the olden harp a thrilling sound,Like those great spirits who of late have sentTheir wizard tones abroad, and all aroundThis wond’rous world have wander’d; and have spent,In court and camp, on bann’d and holy ground,Their gleaning glances; and, in hall and bower,Have learn’d of mortal life the passions and the power:Eyeing the masters of this busy earth,In all the changes of ambition’s toil,From the first struggles of their glory’s birth,Till robed in power—till wearied with the spoilOf slaughter’d realms, and dealing woe and dearthTo miserable men—and then the foilTo this great scene, the vengeance, and the frownWith which some mightier hand has pull’d those troublers down:Eyeing the passages of gentler life,And different persons, of far different scenes;The boy, the beau—the damsel, and the wife—Life’s lowly loves—the loves of kings and queens;Each thing that binds us, and each thing that weansUs from this state, with pains and pleasures rife;The wooings, winnings, weddings, and disdainingsOf changeful men, their fondness and their feignings:And then have brought us home strange sights and soundsFrom distant lands, of dark and awful deeds;And fair and dreadful spirits; and gay roundsOf mirth and music; and then mourning weeds;And tale of hapless love that sweetly woundsThe gentle heart, and its deep fondness feeds;Lapping it up in dreams of sad delightFrom its own weary thoughts, in visions wild and bright:—Oh! never yet to me the power or willTo match these mighty sorcerers of the soulWas given; but on the bosom, lone and still,Of nature cast, I early wont to strollThrough wood and wild, o’er forest, rock, and hill,Companionless; without a wish or goal,Save to discover every shape and voiceOf living thing that there did fearlessly rejoice.And every day that boyish fancy grew;And every day those lonely scenes becameDearer and dearer, and with objects new,All sweet and peaceful, fed the young spirit’s flameThen rose each silent woodland to the view,A glorious theatre of joy! then cameEach sound a burst of music on the air,That sank into the soul to live for ever there!Oh, days of glory! when the young soul drankDelicious wonderment through every sense!And every tone and tint of beauty sankInto a heart that ask’d not how, or whenceCame the dear influence; from the dreary blankOf nothingness sprang forth to an existenceThrilling and wond’rous; to enjoy—enjoyThe new and glorious blessing—was its sole employ.To roam abroad amidst the mists, and dews,And brightness of the early morning sky,When rose and hawthorn leaves wore tenderest hues:To watch the mother linnet’s stedfast eye,Seated upon her nest; or wondering museOn her eggs’s spots, and bright and delicate dye;To peep into the magpie’s thorny hall,Or wren’s green cone in some hoar mossy wall;To hear of pealing bells the distant charm,As slow I wended down some lonely dale,Past many a bleating flock, and many a farmAnd solitary hall; and in the valeTo meet of eager hinds a hurrying swarm,With staves and terriers hastening to assailPolecat, or badger, in their secret dens,Or otter lurking in the deep and reedy fensTo pass through villages, and catch the humForth bursting from some antiquated school,Endow’d long since by some old knight, whose tombStood in the church just by; to mark the doolOf light-hair’d lads that inly rued their doom,Prison’d in that old place, that with the tool,Stick-knife or nail, of many a sly offender,Was carved and figured over, wall, and desk, and window;To meet in green lanes happy infant bands,Full of health’s luxury, sauntering and singing,A childish, wordless melody; with handsCowslips, and wind-flowers, and green brook-lime bringing;Or weaving caps of rushes; or with wandsGuiding their mimic teams; or gaily swingingOn some low sweeping bough, and clinging allOne to the other fast, till, laughing, down they fall;To sit down by some solitary man,Hoary with years, and with a sage’s look,In some wild dell where purest waters ran,And see him draw forth his black-letter book,Wond’ring, and wond’ring more, as he began,On it, and then on many an herb to look,That he had wander’d wearily and wide,To pluck from jutting rocks, and woods, and mountain side;And then, as he would wash his healing rootsIn the clear stream, that ever went singing on,Through banks o’erhung with herbs and flowery shoots,Leaning as if they loved its gentle tune,To hear him tell of many a plant that suitsFresh wound, or fever’d frame; and of the moonShedding o’er weed and wort her healing power,For gifted wights to cull in her ascendant hour;To lie abroad on nature’s lonely breast,Amidst the music of a summer’s sky,Where tall, dark pines the northern bank investOf a still lake; and see the long pikes lieBasking upon the shallows; with dark crest,And threat’ning pomp, the swan go sailing by;And many a wild fowl on its breast that shone,Flickering like liquid silver, in the joyous sun:The duck, deep poring with his downward head,Like a buoy floating on the ocean wave;The Spanish goose, like drops of crystal, shedThe water o’er him, his rich plumes to lave;The beautiful widgeon, springing upward, spreadHis clapping wings; the heron, stalking grave,Into the stream; the coot and water-henVanish into the flood, then, far off, rise again;And when warm summer’s holiday was o’er,And the bright acorns patter’d from the treesWhen fires were made, and closed was every door,And winds were loud, or else a chilling breezeCame comfortless, driving cold fogs before:On dismal, shivering evenings, such as these,To pass by cottage windows, and to see,Round a bright hearth, sweet faces shining happily;These were the days of boyhood! Oh! such daysShall never, never more return again—When the fresh heart, all witless of the ways,The sickening, sordid, selfish ways of men,Danced in creation’s pure and placid blaze,Making an Eden of the loneliest glen!Darkness has follow’d fast, and few have beenThe rays of sunlight cast upon life’s dreary scene.For years of lonely thought, in morning-tideOf life, will make a spirit all unfitTo brook of men the waywardness and pride;Too proud itself to woo, or to submit;Scorning, as vile, what all adore beside,And deeming only glorious the soul litWith the pure flame of knowledge, and the eyeFilled with the gentle love of the bright earth and sky.Fancy’s spoil’d child will ever surely beA thing of nothing in the worldly throng:Wrapp’d up in dreams that they can never see;Listening to fairy harp, or spirit’s song,Where all to them is stillest vacancy:For ever seeking, as he glides along,Some kindred heart, that feels as he has felt,And can read each thought that with him long has dwelt.But place him midst creation!—let him standWhere wave and mountain revel in his sight,Then shall his soul triumphantly expand,With gathering power, and majesty, and light!The world beneath him is the temple plann’dFor him to worship in; and, pure and bright,Heaven’s vault above, the proud eternal domeOf his Almighty Sire, and his own future home!With such inspiring fancies, mortal prideShrinks into nothing; and all mortal thingsHe casts, as weeds cast by the ocean tide,From its embraces; the world’s scorn he flingsBack on itself, disdaining to divide,With its low cares, that sensitive spirit that bringsHome to his breast all nature’s light and glee,Holding with sunshine, clouds, and gales, unearthly revelry.

——— never, surely, otherwise esteem’dThan a bird’s song, that, fill’d with sweet amazeAt the bright opening of the young, green spring,Pours out its simple joy in instant warbling.

For never yet was mine the proud intentTo give the olden harp a thrilling sound,Like those great spirits who of late have sentTheir wizard tones abroad, and all aroundThis wond’rous world have wander’d; and have spent,In court and camp, on bann’d and holy ground,Their gleaning glances; and, in hall and bower,Have learn’d of mortal life the passions and the power:

Eyeing the masters of this busy earth,In all the changes of ambition’s toil,From the first struggles of their glory’s birth,Till robed in power—till wearied with the spoilOf slaughter’d realms, and dealing woe and dearthTo miserable men—and then the foilTo this great scene, the vengeance, and the frownWith which some mightier hand has pull’d those troublers down:

Eyeing the passages of gentler life,And different persons, of far different scenes;The boy, the beau—the damsel, and the wife—Life’s lowly loves—the loves of kings and queens;Each thing that binds us, and each thing that weansUs from this state, with pains and pleasures rife;The wooings, winnings, weddings, and disdainingsOf changeful men, their fondness and their feignings:

And then have brought us home strange sights and soundsFrom distant lands, of dark and awful deeds;And fair and dreadful spirits; and gay roundsOf mirth and music; and then mourning weeds;And tale of hapless love that sweetly woundsThe gentle heart, and its deep fondness feeds;Lapping it up in dreams of sad delightFrom its own weary thoughts, in visions wild and bright:—

Oh! never yet to me the power or willTo match these mighty sorcerers of the soulWas given; but on the bosom, lone and still,Of nature cast, I early wont to strollThrough wood and wild, o’er forest, rock, and hill,Companionless; without a wish or goal,Save to discover every shape and voiceOf living thing that there did fearlessly rejoice.

And every day that boyish fancy grew;And every day those lonely scenes becameDearer and dearer, and with objects new,All sweet and peaceful, fed the young spirit’s flameThen rose each silent woodland to the view,A glorious theatre of joy! then cameEach sound a burst of music on the air,That sank into the soul to live for ever there!

Oh, days of glory! when the young soul drankDelicious wonderment through every sense!And every tone and tint of beauty sankInto a heart that ask’d not how, or whenceCame the dear influence; from the dreary blankOf nothingness sprang forth to an existenceThrilling and wond’rous; to enjoy—enjoyThe new and glorious blessing—was its sole employ.

To roam abroad amidst the mists, and dews,And brightness of the early morning sky,When rose and hawthorn leaves wore tenderest hues:To watch the mother linnet’s stedfast eye,Seated upon her nest; or wondering museOn her eggs’s spots, and bright and delicate dye;To peep into the magpie’s thorny hall,Or wren’s green cone in some hoar mossy wall;

To hear of pealing bells the distant charm,As slow I wended down some lonely dale,Past many a bleating flock, and many a farmAnd solitary hall; and in the valeTo meet of eager hinds a hurrying swarm,With staves and terriers hastening to assailPolecat, or badger, in their secret dens,Or otter lurking in the deep and reedy fens

To pass through villages, and catch the humForth bursting from some antiquated school,Endow’d long since by some old knight, whose tombStood in the church just by; to mark the doolOf light-hair’d lads that inly rued their doom,Prison’d in that old place, that with the tool,Stick-knife or nail, of many a sly offender,Was carved and figured over, wall, and desk, and window;

To meet in green lanes happy infant bands,Full of health’s luxury, sauntering and singing,A childish, wordless melody; with handsCowslips, and wind-flowers, and green brook-lime bringing;Or weaving caps of rushes; or with wandsGuiding their mimic teams; or gaily swingingOn some low sweeping bough, and clinging allOne to the other fast, till, laughing, down they fall;

To sit down by some solitary man,Hoary with years, and with a sage’s look,In some wild dell where purest waters ran,And see him draw forth his black-letter book,Wond’ring, and wond’ring more, as he began,On it, and then on many an herb to look,That he had wander’d wearily and wide,To pluck from jutting rocks, and woods, and mountain side;

And then, as he would wash his healing rootsIn the clear stream, that ever went singing on,Through banks o’erhung with herbs and flowery shoots,Leaning as if they loved its gentle tune,To hear him tell of many a plant that suitsFresh wound, or fever’d frame; and of the moonShedding o’er weed and wort her healing power,For gifted wights to cull in her ascendant hour;

To lie abroad on nature’s lonely breast,Amidst the music of a summer’s sky,Where tall, dark pines the northern bank investOf a still lake; and see the long pikes lieBasking upon the shallows; with dark crest,And threat’ning pomp, the swan go sailing by;And many a wild fowl on its breast that shone,Flickering like liquid silver, in the joyous sun:

The duck, deep poring with his downward head,Like a buoy floating on the ocean wave;The Spanish goose, like drops of crystal, shedThe water o’er him, his rich plumes to lave;The beautiful widgeon, springing upward, spreadHis clapping wings; the heron, stalking grave,Into the stream; the coot and water-henVanish into the flood, then, far off, rise again;

And when warm summer’s holiday was o’er,And the bright acorns patter’d from the treesWhen fires were made, and closed was every door,And winds were loud, or else a chilling breezeCame comfortless, driving cold fogs before:On dismal, shivering evenings, such as these,To pass by cottage windows, and to see,Round a bright hearth, sweet faces shining happily;

These were the days of boyhood! Oh! such daysShall never, never more return again—When the fresh heart, all witless of the ways,The sickening, sordid, selfish ways of men,Danced in creation’s pure and placid blaze,Making an Eden of the loneliest glen!Darkness has follow’d fast, and few have beenThe rays of sunlight cast upon life’s dreary scene.

For years of lonely thought, in morning-tideOf life, will make a spirit all unfitTo brook of men the waywardness and pride;Too proud itself to woo, or to submit;Scorning, as vile, what all adore beside,And deeming only glorious the soul litWith the pure flame of knowledge, and the eyeFilled with the gentle love of the bright earth and sky.

Fancy’s spoil’d child will ever surely beA thing of nothing in the worldly throng:Wrapp’d up in dreams that they can never see;Listening to fairy harp, or spirit’s song,Where all to them is stillest vacancy:For ever seeking, as he glides along,Some kindred heart, that feels as he has felt,And can read each thought that with him long has dwelt.

But place him midst creation!—let him standWhere wave and mountain revel in his sight,Then shall his soul triumphantly expand,With gathering power, and majesty, and light!The world beneath him is the temple plann’dFor him to worship in; and, pure and bright,Heaven’s vault above, the proud eternal domeOf his Almighty Sire, and his own future home!

With such inspiring fancies, mortal prideShrinks into nothing; and all mortal thingsHe casts, as weeds cast by the ocean tide,From its embraces; the world’s scorn he flingsBack on itself, disdaining to divide,With its low cares, that sensitive spirit that bringsHome to his breast all nature’s light and glee,Holding with sunshine, clouds, and gales, unearthly revelry.

Mean Temperature 54·17.

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