THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2015 
 
 https://archive.org/details/flowersforallseaOOjohn 
 
FLOWERS 
 
 FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN BOLTON ROGERSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF RHYME, ROMANCE^ AND REVEBY," ETC. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PARTRIDGE AND OA KEY, 
 
 MBCCCLIV. 
 
PAGE. 
 
 The Wreath . ... .9 
 
 The Fratricide . . . 13 
 
 The Troubadour . . . .86 
 
 The Early Lost ^ . . . 91 
 
 Books . . . . .93 
 
 Thou art fair as the morning's first beam 96 
 
 Harvest Home . . . . 97 
 
 Shakspere . . . . 106 
 
 Oh ! dost thou remember those moments of 
 
 gladness . . . . 109 
 
 The Gin Palace . . , .111 
 
 The Convent Bells . . 115 
 
 # 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGF. 
 
 To my Wife . . . .128 
 
 The Dying Girl ... 131 
 
 The Golden Day of Youth is gone . .133 
 A Day in the Land of Burns . . 135 
 
 Linlithgow Palace , , . .159 
 
 The Ayrshire Maid . . . 162 
 
 Birds are heard in day's bright hours . 164 
 The Haunted Tree . . . 165 
 
 The Lake of Intemperance . . 173 
 
 A Haunt of Childhood . . 178 
 
 Shakspere's Birth day . . .179 
 
 Zaidee . . . . 197 
 
 The Sleep-Guest .... 199 
 The Shadow of Death . . 202 
 
 On seeing an Autograph Letter of Milton's . 206 
 A Gossip with Wordsworth . . 207 
 
 The Princess and the Poet . . * . 220 
 
 The Meeting and Parting . . 224 
 
 Morning ..... 227 
 A Heart Song .... 228 
 On the Life and Poetry of Milton . . 230 
 
 Early Love . . . . . 252 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 VII 
 
 rxVGB. 
 
 Come, Love, and sing, in thy tones sweet 
 
 and low , . . . 255 
 
 Fire Fancies ^ . , . 257 
 
 On the Anniversary of Burns . . 260 
 
 A Thought on Poetry . " . .261 
 
 Summer Evening Eain . . . 264 
 
 The Voice of the Wind . . .265 
 
 EecoUections of the Isle of Man . 266 
 
 Valedictory Lines . . . ,289 
 
 One Hour of Musing , . . 293 
 
 Two Sonnets . . . , 296 
 
 The Christian's Good Night . . 298 
 
 A Morning Dream . . .301 
 
 The Key of the Heart . , , 302 
 
I 
 
 FLOWEES FOE ALL SEASONS. 
 
 THE WREATH. 
 
 Bright are the blossoms of the scented May^ 
 Cuird when the birds are singing on each thorn^ 
 
 When Spring laughs out^ and Winter, old and grey, 
 Flies from her presence with a look forlorn, 
 
 And earth, with smiles, salutes the sunny hours. 
 
 Robed in her emerald garb begemmed with flowers. 
 
 Glowing and gorgeous with unnumbered dyes. 
 The Summer breathes her perfumes to the air, 
 
 While on each leaf the liquid diamond lies, 
 Glittering like jewels 'mid a young bride's hair, 
 
 B 
 
t 
 
 10 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 And golden bees forsake their busy cells, 
 
 For nectarous draughts in blue and crimson wells. 
 
 But if we twine the Spring-buds in a wreath, 
 Their beauties hasten to a swift decay ; 
 
 The Summer-roses die an odorous death, 
 
 When we have borne them from their homes 
 away ; 
 
 And we would form this simple wreath of ours 
 Of things more lasting than earth's fading flowers. 
 
 For richer blossoms, therefore, have we sought, 
 Foster'd by dews of the immortal mind. 
 
 And we will hope the garland we have wrought 
 Hath fadeless buds amid its leaves enshrined j 
 
 Let beauty sun them with her lustrous eyes, 
 
 And be their gale her incense-breathing sighs. 
 
 What dearer offering could the lover bring 
 
 To her who meets him 'neath the trembling 
 boughs, 
 
 Than flowers which fade not with the transient 
 Spring ? 
 
 Perchance more lasting than his own warm vows. 
 If he his faith by fitting giffc would prove, 
 Our leaves are hallow'd by the spells of love. 
 
 If some dear friend, beloved since childhood's time, 
 
 Seek fame or fortune in a distant land, 
 Here is a wreath that will not change with clime ; 
 
THE WREATH. 
 
 11 
 
 Place then the gift within the loved one^s hand^ 
 And he will find, when he afar doth roam, 
 That which shall tell his wandering heart of home. 
 
 No venom'd snake lies hid amid our leaves, 
 To pour its poison into Virtue's ear ; 
 
 No baleful weed its tangled meshes weaves, 
 But undefiled is all that's gather'd here : 
 
 In fair bowers, guarded by the spotless Muse, 
 
 Have blush'd* and bloom'd these flowers of many 
 
 HUES. 
 
# 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Man who would be, 
 Must rule the empire of himself; in it 
 Must be supreme, establishing his throne 
 On vanquished will. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 I AM now about to write a history of my life 
 — that life which has been such a tissue of wild 
 and guilty acts^ that my details will almost assume 
 the appearance of a mass of incongruities thrown 
 together by a diseased brain. I am aware of this. 
 I know that some scenes and passages in my nar- 
 rative will be censured as improbable. The reader 
 will find it difficult to believe that so depraved a 
 specimen of human nature should ever have had 
 existence save in the brain of the writer. Would 
 it were so ! I have no wish to impute to myself 
 
14 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 virtues or vices to which I have no claim. I would 
 willingly forget the past, but it is beyond my power 
 to do so, and I wTite because I have the hope that 
 my vices may produce virtues, as poison is con- 
 verted into medicine. 
 
 My family was respectable, and my parents pos- 
 sessed a small estate, which had been for some time 
 back inherited by my ancestors. My father was 
 economical, and his annual receipt of rents enabled 
 him, without the aid of commerce, to appear well 
 in the eyes of the world. I was a twin-child, but 
 my brother saw the light a few moments earlier 
 than myself, and thus was recognised by law as the 
 elder. From my birth I was self-willed and vio- 
 lent. My brother's disposition was different. As 
 we grew up our dissimilarity became still more 
 apparent. I was dark as a raven, my brother fair 
 as a girl — I was irritable and revengeful, my bro- 
 ther placid and forgiving. I might have been his 
 senior by many years, for I exercised a control over 
 him, and exacted his obedience to my wishes, as 
 though he were a child, and I had arrived at 
 maturity. His gentle and unrepining spirit bore 
 my tyranny and ill-humour without a murmur. 
 If this perversity of disposition had been properly 
 corrected in my early years, it might perhaps, in a 
 great measure, have been eradicated, or at least I 
 might have been induced to struggle with and par* 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 15 
 
 tially curb it ; but it too often happens that the 
 faults of children are pardoned, and sometimes 
 encouraged, merely because they serve to amuse 
 their ill-judging and weak parents. The authors 
 of my being were quiet and inoffensive people, 
 amiable, but incapable of strong and decisive mea- 
 sures. I might have been a changeling, an alien 
 to their blood, I was so unlike them. I had a sis- 
 ter, an only sister, younger than myself — Eosalie 
 — I write her name, and the hand that writes it 
 withers not — I think of her, and the thought blasts 
 not my brain — a demon dares to record the name 
 of the angel he hath destroyed, and yet is permit- 
 ted to exist ! I said I had a sister, an only sister 
 — well — she was good and beauteous — I will not 
 attempt further description. She was the sole 
 being who attempted to reason with me on the 
 necessity of endeavouring to check my passions. 
 She pointed out to me the fatal results which 
 might proceed from their unlimited indulgence, 
 and I listened with patience— a fiend would have 
 listened— to the calm language of truth, flowing 
 from the purity of a sinless heart. I listened, 
 repented, vowed to struggle with and conquer my 
 passions, and then—sinned again. It seemed as 
 though my heart were a well of foul and baleful 
 poison, from which a thousand serpents might hav© 
 
16 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 drawn their venom. The most trivial thing would 
 rouse me into madness. 
 
 Myself and brother were educated at a school in 
 our own neighbourhood. The scholars were prin- 
 cipally hoarders^ boys from the city^ destined to a 
 commercial life. Amongst these was the son of an 
 old schoolfellow of my father's. Theirs was one of 
 the few town-families with whom we kept up an 
 intimacy. Edmund Young had spent one or two 
 of the vacations at our house, and my sister had 
 paid a visit of two or three months' duration to 
 his parents in the city. He had a sister, between 
 w^honx and my own, during their short acquaint- 
 ance, a girlish friendship had sprung up. They 
 maintained a correspondence, the outpouring of 
 young and innocent souls. I had seen some of 
 the letters of Lilias Young, and they spoke of one 
 w^hom sin had never blighted, of a being whose 
 gaiety had as yet been undimmed by sorrow. 
 There was one thing which I loved beyond all others 
 — -rmusic. I quarrelled with all my schoolfellows, 
 except Edmund Young. In my moments of fury 
 I avoided his presence. He was in possession of 
 an accomplishment which afforded me pleasure. 
 He played exquisitely on the flute. I would sit 
 and listen to his breathings until my very soul 
 seemed to pass away and mingle with the melody. 
 Music he(,d the power of giving to me a new crea- 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 17 
 
 tion. I became "a bodiless existence, born and 
 dying with the blest sounds that made me." I 
 was like some untaught child of the wilderness 
 becoming acquainted with its divine powers for the 
 first time — the sounds appeared to my bewildered 
 imagination as having an actual, tangible existence 
 — I stretched forth my hands as though I would 
 have grasped them — my breath became short and 
 thick — I sobbed convulsively, and then, burying 
 my face in my hands, I wept like an infant. The 
 musician was well acquainted with my malignant 
 and ungovernable temper. He knew how much I 
 was hated by his companions, and he pitied me. 
 He seldom refused to obey my calls for the exer- 
 tion of his skill j others ridiculed and laughed at 
 my absurd devotedness, as they termed it, to the 
 science of sweet sounds — he ridiculed me not — he 
 carefully avoided reasoning with or talking to me 
 on the subject — ^he condemned not my folly, but 
 appeared fearful of giving me the slightest pain. 
 I saw this, but I was not grateful. I regarded him 
 as I did the instrument he played upon, merely as 
 the tool of my pleasure — friendship or gratitude 
 was unknown to me. 
 
 My memory was strong as were my passions. I 
 had no need of laborious application. What I 
 once read, and read with attention, I seldom for- 
 
 ^'ot. Will it be believed that, gifted as I was with 
 2 B 
 
18 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 SO retentive a mind, my advancement in learning 
 was slow, at least in such learning as was taught 
 at the school. My lessons I despised, and cast 
 them aside without deigning to read them. This 
 entailed upon me continual punishments. I cared 
 not for the pain they inflicted, but the ignominy 
 sunk into my soul. Disdaining to utter a single 
 sound that might betray my sufferings, I violently 
 clenched my teeth, and muttered vengeance on the 
 inflictor. The master I deemed a tyrant, whom 
 I should have been justified in slaying. After any 
 of these punishments, the moment I could escape, 
 I fled away to gloom and solitude, howling execra- 
 tions, every vein burning and swelling as though 
 torrents of molten lead were coursing through me. 
 I would rend the branches from the trees— I would 
 fling myself on the grass, and tear it up by the 
 roots, in the impotence of my rage ; then I would 
 plunge into the stream, and buffet the billows with 
 mad and rapid strokes, until, weak and exhausted 
 by my exertions, I was obliged to throw myself on 
 the bank, where I would sit gnawing my flesh in 
 the agony of helplessness. * 
 
 I was in my seventeenth year, and was to leave 
 school next vacation. An incident, however, occur- 
 red which caused me to quit it sooner. Edmund 
 Young had been playing a favourite old and plain- 
 tive ditty, and I had been listening with my wonted 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 19 
 
 emotion. The strain had ceased^ and tears were 
 chasing each other down my cheeks, when sud- 
 denly I was aroused from my dream by the sound 
 of boisterous laughter. I started up, and dashing 
 aside the branches of the arbour in which I was 
 sitting, I saw a boy, who had long been the object 
 of my particular aversion, almost convulsed with 
 laughter at the strange gestures I had made use of 
 during the continuance of the air. This was 
 enough. I rushed out with flashing eyes, and 
 limbs quivering with rage. The offender fled, and 
 I pursued him. He ran with rapidity, but I was 
 active and muscular, and overtook him as he was 
 on the point of dropping with fatigue. I seized 
 him by the throat — he resisted, but his feeble 
 efforts availed him naught against my sinewy 
 grasp. I cast him to the ground, and then spurned 
 him with my foot. I kicked him, stamped upon 
 him, struck his face with my heel until the blood 
 gushed from his mouth and nostrils, and then left 
 him stretched upon the earth in a state of insen- 
 sibility. I was glad to think of the effects of my 
 cruelty, and, flushed with the joy of triumphing 
 over an enemy, I returned home. My victim was 
 found covered with gore. An inquiry took place, 
 and I was discovered to be the author of the out- 
 rage. I did not attempt to deny it— I did not 
 seek an excuse to palliate mj conduct — the deed 
 
20 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 was done — I felt no compunction, and cared not 
 for the consequences. A general expression of 
 indignation followed the discovery. The master 
 did not punish me by corporeal chastisement. No 
 punishment which he could inflict was thought to 
 be commensurate with my crime, and by his sen- 
 tence, and the unanimous verdict of my school- 
 fellows, I was expelled the school. 
 
 I returned to my parents, preceded by a letter 
 explaining the cause of my dismissal. Parents 
 are ever prone to view the conduct of their off- 
 spring on the most favourable side, and, though 
 my offence elicited manifestations of disapproba- 
 tion, the master was believed to have extenuated 
 the provocation and exaggerated the injury. This 
 was the view my poor father and mother took of 
 the matter — my sister's was different. She saw in 
 it but the dawning of my crimes, the first of a 
 long list of guilty acts, some destined to be fa?* 
 more fatal, 
 
THE FRATRICIDE 
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Upon a tone, 
 A touch, of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 And his cheek change tempestuously, 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Ii was shortly after my expulsion from school^ that 
 Lilias Young came on a visit to my sister. If 
 ever a face were created which revealed at once its 
 owner's soul^ it was hers. Not a feature but what 
 teemed with expression : when sad, the moist eye, 
 the trembling lip, and the blanched cheek, spoke 
 her sorrow more eloquently than a thousand 
 words. She smiled, and you saw sadness pass 
 away, like a cloud chased by the brightness of the 
 sun. I loved her — I became for a time an altered 
 being— I would sit gazing on her fine countenance, 
 motionless as a statue, until her eye caught mine, 
 and she turned away with crimsoned cheek from 
 the ardentness of my gaze. I listened to her low 
 
22 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 voice — I watched each movement of her graceful 
 form, as though a deity were speaking and moving 
 in my presence. If she praised a flower, I saw in 
 it a hundred charms undiscovered before — if she 
 but touched an object, however w^orthless, it be- 
 came hallowed in my sight. I was sick with the 
 intensity of my passion. For a time I feared to 
 speak of my love, or entertain the slightest hope 
 that I might gain the affections of Lilias Young. 
 A few days were sufficient to conquer my dread, 
 and I took a favourable opportunity to pour my 
 secret in her ear. I prosecuted my passion with 
 all the ardour of my wilful disposition. My sister 
 seconded my suit, for she augured from it the hajD- 
 piest results, and I was soon gratified by ascertain- 
 ing that I had wooed successfully. 
 
 Jealousy is said to be a proof of love. With 
 some it may be so, but it is often the offspring of 
 selfishness, of a nature envious of all happiness 
 save its own— of capricious and narrow-minded 
 beings who are discontented only because she 
 whom they profess to regard, and whose w^elfare 
 they profess to be anxious to promote, tastes of joy 
 and gives way to innocent mirth at other moments 
 than those brief intervals when they are willing to 
 dispense it by their presence. A smile, a look, a 
 kind word, bestowed on another by Lilias Young, 
 kindled in me a train of stormy emotions. I 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 would leave the room, and endeavour to stifle the 
 feelings which agitated me — I would recall the 
 assurances she had given me of her love, and strive 
 to reason myself into calmness — all was in vain. 
 That another should make glad that heart she had 
 vowed was wholly mine — that another should meet 
 the eloquence of those eyes which ought to gaze 
 on me alone — that another should raise a smile on 
 those lips which I had pressed— the thought stung 
 me to madness. 
 
 The term assigned for the stay of Lilias had 
 long expired. A day for her return had often 
 been fixed, and as often procrastinated. At length 
 urgent letters from her parents obliged her to pre- 
 pare for departure. We parted. I cannot paint 
 the anguish which rent my bosom at our separa- 
 tion, and her ashy lips and faltering utterance told 
 the agony of her soul, as she murmured her last 
 farewell. She was gone, and existence seemed a 
 blank to me. 
 
 I was returning home one night, soon after the 
 departure of Lilias Young. The season was the 
 beginning of summer, and a glorious flood of 
 moonlight overspread every object. Nothing was 
 heard save the low si^'hins: of the wind amid the 
 leafy branches, and so radiant and beautiful did 
 everything appear, that I could have deemed hea- 
 ven was using earth for its mirror. I stood mo- 
 
24 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 tionless, struck by the quiet and holy aspect of 
 the scene. A sensation of melancholy, and a feel- 
 ing of disgust for myself, came upon me, and I 
 felt as though I were the sole dark and unlovely 
 thing that defaced the landscape. I was young in 
 years, but already steeped in sin, and bitter 
 thoughts, such as I have often since felt — ^but, oh, 
 a hundredfold in bitterness — gathered about my 
 heart. It has ever been thus with me, that re- 
 morse was the keenest, that my conscience was the 
 most stinging, when the scene was the brightest. 
 In dark woods — in murky nights — amid howling 
 blasts — on the waves of ocean, when in its stor- 
 miest moods, I have felt no compunctious visitings. 
 Outward nature has seemed then to correspond 
 and be in unison with my inward spirit. When 
 the sun has been pouring down streams of splen- 
 dour — when rivers have been sparkling, birds sing- 
 ing, flowers beautifying the earth and odouring 
 the breeze — when merry voices have rung in my 
 ears, and joy hath been everywhere, then my misery 
 has been the keenest. The sun's rays have seemed 
 streaks of arrowy fire hurled at my defenceless 
 head— the rivers have been transformed into sul- 
 phureous lakes — the flowers have appeared like 
 reproachful eyes, and the songs of birds, and merry ^ 
 voices, have pierced my brain like the screeches of 
 torturing demons. Now I was transfixed to the 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 25 
 
 spot, and gazed around, thinking on the past, and 
 musing on what I might become. The branches 
 were holding forth blossoms — buds were sleeping 
 at my feet, and all spoke of that approaching sea- 
 son when Nature scatters fragrance, loveliness, and 
 plenty over the earth. I contrasted my own 
 spring with that which had just terminated, and 
 reflected that as yet I had germinated little but 
 noisome and poisonous weeds, which would here- 
 after, in all probability, produce nauseous defor- 
 mity and blight. My meditations were interrupted. 
 A stone, thrown by a strong hand, rattled through 
 the branches, and fell harmless at my feet. I took 
 it up — it was a destructive missile, and evidently 
 meant to work mischief upon me. I immediately 
 began to search around quickly and vigilantly, 
 but no one was to be seen. It was a slight cir- 
 cumstance, and I mention it but as the forerunner 
 of a series of annoyances, proceeding from the 
 same source, which have been a bane to my exist- 
 ence, coming upon me at times and in places where 
 I could least calculate upon them. Not being 
 able to eflect a discovery, and the train of thought 
 into which I had fallen being broken, I hastily 
 resumed my journey, and soon reached my father's 
 house. 
 
26 
 
 FL0WE1?S FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine : 
 My temple. Lord ! that Arch of thine; 
 My censer's breath the mountain airs. 
 And silent thoughts my only prayers. 
 
 I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown. 
 All light and silence, like thy throne ! 
 And the pale stars shall be, at night. 
 The only eyes that watch my rite. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 The month was June, and the woods and groves 
 rejoiced in the beauty of their fresh green foliage. 
 The birds were filling the air with melody, and 
 that minstrel, which hath its dwelling in the long 
 grass, sent forth ever and anon its shrill and soli- 
 tary note. The rich odour of the woodbine min- 
 gled with the passing breezes, and innumerable 
 flowers and blossoms exhaled their fragrant sighs, 
 until the atmosphere became almost too luscious 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 27 
 
 with its varied sweetness. I was strolling lazily 
 along an old and crooked lane, keeping as much as 
 possible under the shadow of the trees, for it was 
 the hour of noon, when a clear and manly voice 
 broke upon my ear, carolling joyously the follow- 
 ing words :— 
 
 Oh, give me my home with the canvass roof. 
 
 And the merry ringing laugh, 
 And the shouts of joy, that soar aloof. 
 
 Where my gipsy comrades quaff. 
 
 I would not live in a palace -hall, 
 
 With a host of slaves around ; 
 If my gaze were met by a stone-built wall, 
 
 I should feel as in fetters bound. 
 
 Oh, naught care I for the waving plume, 
 
 Or the jewel's sparkling light : 
 My gipsy maid hath a cheek of bloom, 
 
 And her eye with love is bright. 
 
 Dearer to me is the blissful hour, 
 
 When we roam o'er the green sward free, 
 
 Than to sue and sigh in a lady's bower, 
 And woo upon bended knee. 
 
 I love the notes of the lark to hear, 
 
 Ere the sun hath drunk the dew ; 
 And the night with its lays can sooth and cheer^ 
 
 For the moon hath a minstrel true. 
 
28 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Oh, give me my home with the canvass roof, 
 
 And the merry ringing laugh. 
 And the shouts of joy, that soar aloof. 
 
 Where my gipsy comrades quaff. 
 
 I listened attentively to this ditty, for^ indepen- 
 dent of the words, there was a wild and hearty 
 character about the music, and the style in which 
 it was executed, that fascinated me. No sooner 
 was the melody finished than the singer came 
 bounding over an old gate which divided his path 
 from mine, and stood before me. I was as much 
 struck with his graceful and muscular form as I 
 had been with his song. He was about the mid- 
 dle height, and moved with as much ease and 
 freedom as a young stag. He did not seem to 
 have a pound of superfluous flesh about him, and 
 his features wore a frank, yet determined air, ap- 
 pearing as though it would be impossible for them 
 to assume an expression of cravenness. There 
 was nothing low or vulgar about him. His dress 
 was of no costly material, and was evidently not 
 fashioned by a Bond Street artist, but nature had 
 conferred upon him a patent of nobility, and her 
 gifts cannot be concealed by humble apparel. He 
 wore no vest, but had on a sort of light-coloured 
 surtout, thrown open in front, and exposing a 
 snow-white shirt. His shirt collar was carelessly 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 turned down^ and a black silk kerchief hung loosely 
 about his neck. He wore a straw hat, and his feet 
 were encased in high-lows, which were made for 
 wear, and not for ornament. In one hand he held 
 a jagged stick, and, raising the other to his hat, he 
 saluted me with much grace, and perfect freedom 
 from embarrassment. 
 
 A pleasant country this of yours, and splendid 
 weather for the hay, which is more abundant this 
 year and in these parts than I remember to have 
 observed at any other time, or in any other local- 
 ity. Your streams, too, are more abundantly sup- 
 plied with fish than any which I have angled in of 
 late." 
 
 "If," said I, "your song conveyed your own 
 sentiments, you lead a life which affords you an 
 opportunity of pronouncing a tolerably correct 
 opinion as to which are the most eligible places 
 for an encampment ; and yet I should say that 
 you had not been accustomed to a gipsy's life from 
 your infancy. There is something in your man- 
 ners which tells me you have mixed in society 
 more refined than is to be met with amongst the 
 roving classes with whom it would appear you 
 now associate." 
 
 " You are right," said he. " I once occupied a 
 place in what is called polished society. It was 
 considered a fortunate thing for me that my father 
 
30 
 
 FLOWEES FOll ALL SEASONS. 
 
 was born before me, and for a length of time my 
 waggon rolled on so merrily that I thought there 
 would be no occasion for me either to pray to 
 Hercules, or put my shoulder to the wheel We 
 none of us, however, know what ruts may lie in 
 our path of life, and I met with one which I had 
 not expected. Thank Heaven, I have now nothing 
 to lose, and have accustomed myself to wish only 
 for those things which I see a probability of 
 obtaining." 
 
 " You are a philosopher." 
 Far from it," said he. " I know little of theo» 
 ries of any description, and nothing of philosophy. 
 I have had some small experience, and have endea- 
 voured to profit by it. You will think it strange 
 when I state that I have learned to prefer a can- 
 vass covering to a substantial roof, and the chance 
 of getting a scanty meal to the certainty of a full 
 table. I prefer catching a trout to buying one in 
 the market, and I would rather sleep on the green 
 turf than repose on a couch of down. I love 
 liberty, though I am sometimes obliged to make 
 use of my heels to preserve it, and I prefer wait- 
 ing on myself to keeping a servant as a spy upoa 
 my actions — a man who bends before me with, 
 mock humility, and, when my back is turned, 
 laughs at my follies, and robs me with impunity 
 whenever he has the opportunity of doing so. I 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 31 
 
 find more disinterested affection in a rude tent 
 than a oarpetted drawing-room^ and would rather 
 trust a gipsy maid than a fashionable lady. But 
 come with me — you shall see how I live, and if 
 you wish to learn something of my past history^ 
 your curiosity shall be gratified." 
 
 T had become interested in my new acquaint- 
 ance, and accepted his invitation. We .walked 
 side by side for upwards of a mile, my companion 
 continuing to talk with untiring vivacity, and 
 being evidently more conversant with the way we 
 were travelling than I was myself. We now came 
 to more unfrequented paths, and I had some diffi- 
 culty in keeping up with my fellow-traveller, 
 who seemed to pay no regard to the obstacles 
 which impede the progress of ordinary pedestrians. 
 Hedges, gates, and fences were cleared by him 
 without the slightest difficulty, and I was often 
 left behind, to consider the best mode of following 
 him. At length the gipsy encampment lay before 
 us, and the spot had been chosen by men well 
 accustomed to consider the requisites of a roving 
 life. The turf was level, and the grass luxuriant, 
 whilst, at the distance of fifty yards from the 
 place, a limpid spring of water might be heard 
 gurgling. Two large and clean-looking tents were 
 pitched, and several sunburnt and stalwart men 
 were lazily reclining under the shadow of an um- 
 
32 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 brageous tree. One of the most youthful was 
 playing upon the flute, and evinced a mastery over 
 his instrument which surprised and charmed me. 
 A young girl, about eighteen years of age, ran 
 eagerly from one of the tents, but timidly retreated 
 when she saw that my companion was not alone. 
 He called her to him laughingly, and twining his 
 arm around her slender waist, imprinted a fond 
 kiss on her blushing cheek. She raised her beau- 
 tiful dark eyes, and never had I seen a face more 
 perfectly formed. Every feature was finely and 
 classically cut, and, save that it might have been 
 objected that her skin was too richly bronzed, she 
 was a model of female loveliness. 
 
 What, brown Meg," said my companion, "does 
 the sight of a man affright thee ? Thou art as 
 timid as the traveller who fears a thief in every 
 bush, as Shakspere hath it. Come, girl, arouse 
 thee, and See if thou can'st not find the where- 
 withal to cheer the inward man, for, verily," said 
 he, striking his stomach, "notwithstanding the 
 heat of the weather, there is an objection in this 
 part of the house to the supplies being stopped." 
 
 The girl tripped into one of the tents, and in a 
 moment or two we again beheld her sweet face, 
 and saw her beckon us to approach. 
 
 " Dear Margaret," murmured my companion, as 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 33 
 
 if speaking to himself, "if there be faith in wo- 
 man's heart, there is love in thine for me." 
 
 We entered the tent, in which was placed a 
 small round table, covered with a spotless diaper 
 cloth, and in the centre smoked a "savoury 
 mess" which was no doubt the production of some 
 " neat handed Phillis," belonging to the establish- 
 ment. My host did the honours of the table 
 with as much ease and gentlemanly deportment as 
 if he had been seated in his own parlour, and, in 
 obedience to one of his quiet signals, a bottle of 
 wine and two bell-shaped glasses were placed upon 
 the table. We pledged each other, and I had no 
 cause to find fault with the sherry, which was of a 
 most nutty and palatable flavour. Some capital 
 old cheese was introduced, and, taken as a whole, 
 the repast was one which few hungry men would 
 have refused. 
 
 " Well," said the gipsy, " will you come and live 
 with me under the greenwood tree, as master 
 Shakspere saith, or do you prefer the tame con- 
 ventionalities of more civilised life ? There was a 
 time when I thought differently to what I now do, 
 and when the wild delight of a rover's life and 
 gipsy fare would have been as objectionable to me 
 as to you ; but I half promised you my story as we 
 came along, and, if you wish it, you shall have it 
 now." 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS, 
 
 I signified my desire to hear the narrative, and 
 my host proceeded to relate what will be found in 
 the following chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE GIPSY'S STOBY. 
 
 The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill 
 together : our virtues would be proud, if our faults whip= 
 ped them not ; and our crimes would despair, if they were 
 not cherished by our virtues* 
 
 Shakspere. 
 
 I WAS born in a small village in Northaraptonshird, 
 beautifully situated, and far away from the noise 
 and tumult of towns. I w^as an only child, and 
 consequently grew up in the midst of indulgences 
 such as seldom fall to the lot of those whose pa- 
 rents are favoured with a numerous offspring. 1 
 Was educated at a respectable school in the neigh- 
 bourhood, which flourished under the auspices of 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 35 
 
 a learned and amiable clergyman^ whose living was 
 inadequate to his wants^ though few of these were 
 of a personal nature. I was naturally of an impe- 
 tuous and susceptible disposition, with considerable 
 aptitude for the acquirement of knowledge, though 
 I was deficient in application. One great fault in 
 my character was, that I was too prone to stop 
 short in any project, before I had accomplished its 
 completion, and when the end was not only clearly 
 in view, but easy of attainment. I was also natu- 
 rally careless in points of etiquette, and not unfre- 
 quently lost an advantage, because I neglected the 
 observance of those forms and courtesies which 
 constitute the p^rincipal employment of some mens' 
 existence, whilst by others they are almost totally 
 neglected. I had a contempt for the little elegan- 
 cies of conversation, and frequently gave offence 
 by the utterance of a brusque remark, when I might 
 have conciliated or created a friendship by an 
 opposite course of conduct. I was as backward 
 and diffident at paying a jfriend a compliment, as 
 though I were about to ask him for money. The 
 language of flattery stuck in my throat like Mac- 
 beth's Amen. You will draw an inference from 
 this, that I was not calculated to make a rapid 
 progress in society, by dint of my cultivation of 
 those matters which tend to heighten the conven- 
 tionalities of polished life, I had, however, as 
 
36 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 every man has, more or less, sometime in the 
 course of his career — fallen in love — if that ex- 
 pression can be correctly applied to those who are 
 frequently raised by the passion to a heaven of 
 ecstacies. The lady who was the object of my 
 affection was the daughter of my tutor, and a 
 most lovely creature she was : fair, meek, and very 
 susceptible* We went through the usual routine 
 of a quiet love-affair, where th© parties can meet 
 often, and parents have no objections on the score 
 of discrepancy of position or otherwise. My dis- 
 regard of etiquette sometimes caused a little ex- 
 postulation ; but, on the whole, I found that my 
 wooing was very easy, pleasant, and comfortable. 
 
 " For aught that I could ever read, 
 Could ever hear by tale or history, 
 The course of true love never did run smooth." 
 
 Excuse the hackneyed quotation, for I have read 
 Shakspere so much, that I can't help speaking his 
 language. Well, to be brief; before I was seven- 
 teen, a fine looking youth, about my own age, the 
 son of an officer, became a fellow-student of mine, 
 anil a clever, rattling, vivacious stripling he was — 
 I am free to confess, that he was my superior in 
 
 every respect, but I did not, at the time, accept 
 that as an apology for his being my rival. He 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 37 
 
 studied those things which I despised, and the lit- 
 tle attentions which females naturally look for and 
 require from the opposite sex, were paid by him 
 with pleasure, and without the slightest appearance 
 of affectation. Suffice it to say, that he was not 
 only my rival, but a successful one. I am not 
 now willing to submit to what I consider an in- 
 jury, without resenting it in the best way I can, 
 and I was not a whit better when I was younger, 
 as you may readily believe. I took the first op- 
 portunity I could find in private of telling him he 
 was a scoundrel, and I emphasised the term with 
 a blow. His father's blood was in his veins, and 
 a great portion of it rushed to his face at the mo- 
 ment he received the insult, but the next instant 
 he was deadly pale. He calmly told me he was of 
 a race of men who aaever brooked dishonour, or 
 hesitated to revenge it, and he bade me name an 
 early hour next morning, when we might meet, so 
 that I might give him the only reparation with 
 which he would be satisfied — the chance of wash- 
 ing away with my heart's blood the ignominy I 
 had stained him with. I had scarcely expected 
 such a response to my attack, though I was not 
 the coward to shrink from it. After a little par- 
 ley, we agreed to meet alone, at four in the 
 morning, in a sequestered spot, about a mile dis- 
 2 c 
 
38 
 
 FLOWEBS FOU ALL SEASONS. 
 
 tant from oui^ tutor's residence. We were to pro- 
 vide ourselves with pistols, and keep the matter a 
 profound secret from ever j one. 
 
 It was the first of June that broke brightly and 
 beautifully upon me on that morning, when I sal- 
 lied forth with the intention of either taking a 
 fellow-creature's life, or sacrificing nay own. I 
 could not help stopping, however dreadful my 
 object, to take a view of the surrounding scenery, 
 and admire the loveliness of Nature, which was 
 spread about m if to wopi me to its bosom, and 
 reproach me with its placid looks for the work of 
 violation in which I was about to become an actor. 
 The sun had just risen, and ^very leaf, and flower^ 
 and blossom, seemed to rejoice in a glad and vigo^ 
 rous existence. The landscape was a remarkably 
 fine one, dotted with sheep and cattle ; and birds 
 were singing their morning-hymns, and soaring 
 heaven-ward whilst they sang. The pastures 
 ^bounded with clover, which filled the p.ir with its 
 rich perfume, and the bean-fields also sent forth 
 their delightful incense.. Honeysuckles and wild 
 roses were on the hedges, held together by gar- 
 lands of the great bindrweed, sprinkled with snowy 
 flowers. Excited as I was, I felt that it was a 
 profanation of the gopdness and glory of God, to 
 meditate the destruction of one of his creatures^^ 
 pn a morn like that ; but, alas I for what men call 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. St 
 
 honour, I felt myself bound to proceed with my 
 undertaking, or stand disgraced for ever in the 
 eyes of all who knew me. I pressed my fingers 
 hard over my temples, and hurried on. 
 
 I was first on the spot, but had not to wait 
 many minutes for my opponent. He came bound- 
 ing on with a light and quick step, and calmly 
 and politely apologised for having kept me waiting. 
 How I hated his smooth and insinuating language, 
 and the tones of his soft and musical voice had 
 more effect in rousing my hatred, than if he had 
 spoken in accents the most harsh and menacing. 
 We agreed upon the number of paces which we 
 should measure, and turning round together, our 
 pistols were discharged instantaneously. I was 
 unhurt, but my rival fell, and a red stream gushed 
 copiously from his side. He held out his hand ta 
 me, and assuring me of his forgiveness, conjured 
 me to fly, for he felt his death was rapidly ap- 
 proaching. I grasped his hand, but it lay power- 
 less within mine, and his eyes closed as if for ever. 
 The bloody deed I had committed was now in all 
 its horrors before me, and I repented the more 
 bitterly that my repentance came too late. Life 
 was dear to me, and I fled from the scene, to go I 
 knew not whither. I had fortunately two bank- 
 notes, for five pounds each, in my possession, the 
 yearly allowance which I had just received fi'om a 
 
40 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 maiden aunt. I proceeded on my uncertain pil- 
 grimage^ and did not dare t© call at any house of 
 refreshment, lest I should furnish a clue to my 
 whereabouts — indeed I felt no inclination for food, 
 and travelled on until I met with a brook, when I 
 allayed my thirst, which towards the middle of 
 the day had become burning and intolerable. 
 With few intervals of rest, I journeyed on until 
 midnight, when I was completely exhausted and 
 overcome with sleep. I halted in front of a neat 
 white cottage, the inmates of which had retired to 
 rest, and, as there was a sort of long wooden box, 
 or chest, underneath the window, which was appa- 
 rently used to keep provender in, I threw myself 
 upon it, and in a few minutes was in a profound 
 sleep. It was broad daylight, when I was awa- 
 kened by a rough shake and loud salute, and I 
 beheld a stout, shock-headed fellow, who was evi- 
 dently a farm-servant. In rude and uncouth lan- 
 guage, he asked me what right I had to make my 
 resting-place there, and bade me begone quickly 
 on my way. I was about to inform him that my 
 being there was caused by my incapability to pro- 
 ceed further, when the casement above me opened, 
 and a sweet and rosy face was thrust out to 
 enquire whom the man was talking to. My expla- 
 nation was soon made, and apparently believed, 
 for the girl who owned the face told me to wait 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 41 
 
 a minute, and she would come to me. The man 
 proceeded about his business^ and the girl shortly 
 joined me. She requested me to step inside, and 
 speedily set before me a large bowl of milk, and a 
 loaf of brown bread, to which she invited me to 
 help myself without ceremony. I did not feel 
 many scruples, as my appetite was getting rather 
 ravenous, and fancy I did tolerable justice to my 
 plain, but substantial fare. My hostess, like most 
 of her sex, was disposed to be curious, and I pro- 
 ceeded to satisfy her curiosity, by telling her a 
 series of untruths. I stated that I was a young 
 man who had been clerk in a mercantile house in 
 I^orthampton, and was travelling to London, in 
 search of employment. She enquired anxiously if 
 I had any parents, and when I said they were 
 dead, she was much affected, and, pulling out a 
 small silk purse with a steel clasp, wished to force 
 a shilling upon me. I was greatly touched by her 
 artless generosity, which I assured her I did not 
 need. This poor girl's shilling was, no doubt, as 
 much to her as hundreds of pounds are to those 
 who move in a different sphere, and yet most of 
 them would have refused me the same sum under 
 similar circumstances. I thank God that I have 
 since been able to repay her for the intended gift, 
 with interest. But to go on — she seemed vexed that 
 T would not accept of her proffered gratuity, and, 
 
42 
 
 FLOWEvRS^ FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 when I arose to depart, she took the opportunity 
 of cramming a large piece of bread into my pockety 
 for which I heartily thanked her. I felt exceed- 
 ingly inclined to give her a kiss, but she looked so 
 innocent and unsophisticated, that I dared not do 
 so, for fear of offending her. I shook her warmly 
 and heartily by the hand, and, feeling as if I were 
 losing a friend, bade her a kind, though melancholy 
 farewell, and proceeded on my journey, being now 
 resolved to make the best of my way to London,, 
 the road to which I had taken the precaution to 
 enquire from, my benefactress, who seemed rather 
 surprised, as well she might, that I should be 
 ignorant of a* rout, wlxich I had s^t out with th^ 
 intention of traversing. 
 
 With the remp^inder of the journey I will not 
 trouble you, except by stating that, when within ^ 
 few miles of the suburbs of the metropolis, I fell 
 in with a young man of rather prepossessing man-^ 
 |iers, who informed me that he had lately been 
 discharged from a man of war, and was now going 
 to London to enquire after some relatives who 
 y^ere comfortably established in business there. 
 We agreed to secure lodgings together for the 
 night, arid having fixed upon what we considered 
 one of the least expensive taverns, we entered and 
 enquired if we could be accommodated with a 
 ^upper and a, bed. We were answered in the affirs 
 
I 
 
 teE FRATRICIDE. 43 
 
 mativd^ and partook of an excellent beef-steak, 
 accompanied by a pot or two of half-and-half, a 
 beverage of which I had never before heard. Pre^ 
 vious to retiring to rest, 1 deposited one of my bank^ 
 notes, which I hiid not had otjcasion to change, ill 
 the hands of the landlord, and told him he could 
 take out of it the price of my bed and supper, 
 and give me the difference in the mOrning ; my 
 companion and I sought our couch, and I was 
 soon in a sound and dreamless slunibei'. When t 
 awoke in the morning, I found my companion had 
 got up before me, tod I hastened to dress myself^ 
 for, from the bustle t heard in the hoiise, 1 was 
 convinced it was leather late. Oh enquiring fl^om 
 the landlord where I should find my friend, I wa^ 
 informed that he had gone out at an early hour, 
 leaving word that he should be back by the time 
 I was ready for breakfast. 1 waited for awhile 
 patiently; then my suspicions became aroused, 
 and I instinctively ptit my hand in the pocket 
 where I had deposited my money. To my inex- 
 pressible dismay, I found it empty, and when t 
 made known my loss to the host, aiid told him 
 how I had become acquainted with my companion^ 
 he only shook his head and smiled at my simpli- 
 city in placing confidence in one w^hom I had 
 never seen before. A few weeks' resideiice in 
 London would, he said, effectually mire me of 
 
44 FLOWEKS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 trusting to appearances alone. It was well for me 
 that I had left one of my notes with the landlord 
 the previous evening, or I should have been pen- 
 niless. By the landlord's direction I made known 
 my loss at the police offices, and gave a description 
 of the thief, though with very faint hopes of ever 
 beholding my money again. Not knowing what I 
 should do next, I occupied myself with rambling 
 through the different streets of the city, keeping 
 meanwhile a sharp look-out for my quondam bed- 
 fellow, who, however, was doubtless more experi- 
 enced as a practitioner than to thrust his head 
 into the lion's mouth. I returned to my inn, well 
 tired with my rambles, and, after discussing a 
 hearty supper, retired to bed — this time to sleep 
 alone. 
 
 I soon discovered that London, full as it is of 
 business, was not exactly the place for an inexpe- 
 rienced youth, without character, to procure a 
 situation in, and, after applying at different regis- 
 ter-offices, which held out tempting inducements^ 
 and replying to countless advertisements, I was 
 compelled to turn my thoughts in some other 
 direction. My money had been economised as 
 much as possible, but a three weeks' stay in Lon- 
 don had left me a sum which did not require a 
 deal of counting. T resolved to visit the maiden 
 aunt, of whose bounty I had been an annual reel- 
 
fllE FilATRICID]^. 
 
 45 
 
 pient, and resided in a village in Kent. I durst 
 not trust myself to write, lest my communication 
 should fall into other hands than her's, though I 
 knew that her affection for me would secure me 
 from being betrayed, if I trusted her alone. With 
 a few shilling's in my pocket, and a stout stick in 
 my hand, on a bright and glorious morning, t 
 turned my back on London. I travelled till noon^ 
 and then refreshed myself at a way-side alehouse. 
 I had not proceeded above five miles from my 
 halting-place, when I beheld a wild party en- 
 camped in a wood, and two or three stragglers 
 from the group were lounging along the road, and 
 casting furtive glances at me as 1 advanced, I 
 had nothing of consequence to lose, and, therefore, 
 felt very little alarm as to the result of any 
 encounter I might have with them. They entered 
 into conversation with me ; and, finding something 
 in my mood that suited them, they invited me to 
 share their meal, which wa^ now preparing. I 
 was far fi^om loath to accept their invitation, and 
 a merry meal it was-^as free from conventionali- 
 ties as even I could have wished it. With very 
 little persuasion, I agreed to become one of theny 
 and thus commenced my career as a gipsy. To 
 those who are fond of excitement, and continual 
 change, there is no life so well adapted as the gip- 
 sy's. We were seldom short of a substantial meai^ 
 
46 
 
 FLOWEES FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 for whilst the men were prowling about, the cle- 
 verest of the women were promising excellent 
 husbands and splendid fortunes to those who were 
 silly enough to believe them ; and the donations 
 they received were often very liberal in amount^ 
 particularly when they had made a lucky hit in 
 describing the person of some favoured lover. We 
 sometimes took up our abode for awhile in towns^ 
 and then our avocations were as varied as the abil- 
 ities of the persons of whom our band was com- 
 posed. It consists not with my present narration 
 to tell you of the many schemes which we put in 
 practice to advance our interests, nor of the arts 
 which we used, and in most instances successfully^ 
 to introduce ourselves into respectable and influ- 
 ential society. We had disguises without number 
 and, in the genteel line, I v/as considered a rather 
 valuable assistant. The most talented, however^ 
 of our band, was a female, the mother of the 
 young girl who was our attendant. She had been 
 brought up in the lap of luxury, and, from a 
 chain of circumstances to which I will not advert, 
 she became a leader of gipsies. She had the art^ 
 not only of introducing herself into first-rate so- 
 ciety, but of insinuating herself into the confidence 
 of those with whom she associated, and the secrets 
 which she thus became possessed of, were most 
 invaluable to us. She was about thirty years of 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 47 
 
 age when I first made her acquaintance, and 
 remarkably handsome and lady-like in her person. 
 One instance only of her cunning and presence of 
 mind I will relate to you, and yet it is not impro- 
 bable that you may have heard of the circum- 
 stance before, as the case got into the newspapers 
 at the time, though not with the real facts. 
 
 A lady of highly respectable connections, and 
 moving in the very first circles of a fashionable 
 city, went into a silk-mercer's shop, with the 
 avowed purpose of purchasing a few trifling arti- 
 cles. Some cards of very rich lace were shewn to 
 her, but she declined to purchase any of them, on 
 the plea that they were too expensive for the pre- 
 sent state of her finances, though she seemed struck 
 with the beauty of the article, and was very 
 lavish in her praises. When she had departed, the 
 shopman who had attended to her, found, to his 
 consternation, that one of the most valuable cards 
 of lace had been abstracted. He lost no time in 
 following the lady, and, with great politeness, 
 requested her to return for a few moments. She 
 did so, with apparent willingness, but, on a search 
 being made, the missing card of lace was found in 
 her muff. She was given into custody, though she 
 strongly protested her innocence, and declared she 
 knew not how the lace had found its v^^ay into her 
 possession. She was taken before a magistrate^ 
 
4:8 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 who considered that the case was one which he 
 could not do otherwise than send to the assizes, 
 and accordingly the lady was committed for trial. 
 Every means were tried to prevail on the shop- 
 keeper not to prosecute, but he resolutely resisted 
 all overtures, and declared that, as he had prose- 
 cuted poor delinquents, he would not shrink from 
 his duty by allowing a rich one to escape, what- 
 ever were the consequences to himself. As the 
 time drew near for the trial, great excitement pre- 
 vailed, not only amongst the lady's friends, but 
 also in the minds of the public, some espousing 
 her cause, and declaring their belief in her inno- 
 cence, whilst others were of a contrary opinion, 
 and highly censured one who was removed from 
 the temptations of poverty. The assizes had al- 
 most arrived when a lady, dressed in the extreme 
 of fashion, and followed by a footman in handsome 
 livery, called at the shop where the theft had been 
 committed, and desired to look at various costly 
 articles. Amongst others things, she requested to 
 be shewn some lace, and purchased a considerable 
 portion. When she had concluded her purchases, 
 and w^as about to retire, amidst the profuse thanks 
 of the shopman, she took up her muff, and no 
 sooner had she introduced her hand than she dis- 
 covered a card of rich lace concealed there. Her 
 anger and indignation were unbounded, and she 
 
THE FIIATEICIDE. 
 
 49 
 
 called on all who were present to witness to the 
 disgraceful fact that some one had placed in her 
 muff the piece of lace. The lace was the shop- 
 keeper's he admitted, and it was not the lace she 
 had bought ; but why or wherefore it had been 
 placed in her muff no one would venture to sav. 
 It was^ however^ there, and the lady herself had 
 discovered it. The poor shopkeeper knew not 
 how to act in the matter — he was completely 
 bewildered. When the trial of the party, who 
 stood committed for a theft at the same shop, 
 came on, and the evidence against her had been 
 gone through, the lady who had found the lace 
 concealed in her muff was brought forward to 
 state the circumstance, and her testimony had a 
 most powerful influence on the jury. The shop- 
 keeper and his assistants could not controvert the 
 fact which the lady stated, and, by a singular coin- 
 cidence, the same shopman who had caused the 
 apprehension of the prisoner at the bar w^as the 
 one who had served the lady who was now pro- 
 duced in evidence. The jury deliberated only for 
 a few minutes, as they were satisfied in their own 
 minds that the lace, which the prisoner was 
 accused of stealing, had been introduced into her 
 muff by similar means, and for similar purposes 
 to those which the lady-w^itness had, in all likeli- 
 hood, so nearly fallen a victim to. The accused 
 
50 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 lady was acquitted amidst the plaudits of the 
 court, and triumphantly escorted away by her 
 friends. She had created sympathy in the minds 
 of every one, for she was a young, elegant, and 
 lovely woman, graced by all the adornments which 
 dress can impart. The injury done to the shop- 
 keeper was great, and the shopman, who was sup- 
 posed to have caused the mischief, was dismissed. 
 By some mysterious process, however, a large sum 
 found its way to the discharged shopman, who 
 had the good sense to leave the place, and com- 
 mence business in a different locality. There was 
 another, too, who reaped a pecuniary advantage 
 from the transaction, and this was the handsome 
 gipsy- — for she had been the lady-witness ! 
 
 I had been with the tribe about three years, 
 when one day, as I was strolling in disguise 
 through the streets of a large town, I was struck 
 by the appearance of an officer and his lady, who 
 passed by me, and seemed, from the great atten- 
 tions which were paid by the gentleman, to be in 
 the honeymoon of their marriage. I tux^ned back, 
 and managed again to meet them, and this time I 
 was satisfied th^re was no mistake — -it was the 
 rival whom I thought I had slain, and his wife 
 was my tutor's daughter. They did not recognise 
 me, for I was disguised too effectually. Here was 
 a rencontre which at once caused a complete revo- 
 
THE FKATRICIDE. 
 
 ol 
 
 lution in my plans and feelings. I was not a 
 murderer, and I offered up an inward prayer to 
 my Creator that I was absolved from that greatest 
 of all crimes. My parents — -what was their state? 
 — and how had my father, whose health when I 
 left home was rapidly declining, borne up against 
 my protracted absence ? These were the thoughts 
 that next possessed me. T had not, of course, 
 told any of our tribe what were the true reasons 
 which made me one of them, and I now invented 
 an excuse for leaving them for a time, and was 
 soon on my way to the place of my birth, a crowd 
 of mingled sensations passing through my brain 
 during my journey. 
 
 It was evening when I reached my parents, 
 dwelling, and, knocking timidly at the door, I 
 stood trembling to see who would answer my sum- 
 mons. An old domestic, who had been my nurse, 
 opened the door, and surveyed me with a curious 
 eye, as I stood mute on the threshold of my fa- 
 ther's house, without daring to enquire respecting 
 those w^hom I had left behind me. Three years of 
 a wandering life, almost constant exposure to the 
 sun, and bushy whiskers, entirely prevented the 
 old servant from recognising me. I asked if my 
 father were within. She gazed at me with asto- 
 nishment, and informed me that he had been more 
 than two years dead. My mother was still alive, 
 
•)2 FLOWER!^^ FOR ALL SEA.'^ON,'^. 
 
 and; waiting to hear no more, I rushed past the 
 old nurse, and was at my niother's feet. She 
 uttered a faint shriek when she beheld me, and 
 became insensible. Oh I no disguise can hide a 
 son from the eye of a mother ! 
 
 That my rival's wound had not proved fatal was 
 sufficiently attested by his existence and marriage, 
 I was for av/hile quite a lion in the neighbourhood, 
 and no party was considered to be complete with- 
 out me. My gipsy adventures were a never-fp-iling 
 topic of conversation, and, like other great men, I 
 enjoyed for a time my popularity. I soon, how- 
 ever, had a surfeit of the society which I was in 
 the habit of naeeting in our primitive locality, and 
 often sighed to rejoin the sun-burnt troop with 
 whom I had spent so m^ny happy hours. In little 
 more than a year my mother died, and, as I had 
 then no tie to bind me to ray native village, I 
 bade farewell to its inhabitants, and set out in 
 search of my former companions, whom I had lit- 
 tle difficulty in discovering. Since then I have 
 remained with the tribe, and, with the blessing of 
 God, intend to die anaongst thern, 
 
THE FllATRICIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER V, 
 
 Thou preachest tliat all sins may be effaced : 
 Is there forgiveness. Christian, in thy creed, 
 For Roderick's crime ? — " For Roderick and for thee^ 
 Count Julian," said the Goth, — and as he spake 
 Trembled through every fibre of his frame, — 
 *'The gate of Heaven is open." Julian threw 
 His wrathful hand aloft, and cried, Away ! 
 Earth could not hold us both, nor can one Heaven 
 Contain my deadliest enemy and me," 
 
 Sou THEY. 
 
 I TOOK leave of my gipsy host, with a promise 
 that I would again occasionally visit the encamp- 
 ment dming the stay of the gipsies in the neigh- 
 bourhood. For some weeks time passed on in a 
 smooth and tranquil current, and the correspond- 
 ence which I maintained with Lilias Young, had 
 the effect of imbuing my nature with something 
 of the kind and gentle spirit which pervaded her's, 
 2 D 
 
54 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 The effect, however, was only temporary, for I saw 
 that I was universally shunned by those of my 
 own age^ and that a feeling of dislike was the only 
 one which my presence inspired amongst the 
 neighbours. The deed which had caused my ex- 
 pulsion from school was well known. I had fre- 
 quently seen my victim conversing with those 
 who had formerly been somewhat intimate with 
 me^ and who now appeared to regard me with con- 
 tempt and loathing. Stephen Gray, such was my 
 victim's name, seemed to delight in tracking my 
 steps, and often when I thought myself remote 
 from observation, he suddenly made his appear- 
 ance before me, grinning hideously at me with his 
 scarred and disfigured features, and holding up his 
 hand menacingly. I several times pursued him, 
 but he always eluded me. 
 
 I had been invited to spend a few daj^s at the 
 house of Mr. Young, and in the autumn I availed 
 myself of the invitation. I was anxious again to 
 behold Lilias, and was also desirous to vary for a 
 short period the monotony of my existence. At 
 home my chief employment was reading, and I 
 had few opportunities of conversing with any per- 
 sons except the members of my own domestic cir- 
 cle. I found Edmund Young surrounded by a 
 numerous body of friends, and beloved by even 
 those who had only a casual intimacy with him. 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 To his parents and sister he was devotedly affec- 
 tionate, their slightest wishes being looked upon 
 by him as a law^ and the efforts which he used to 
 advance their interests, or promote their happiness, 
 seemed to form his greatest "labour of love." His 
 step w^as the harbinger of pleasure, and his voice 
 the announcer of joy. His sister employed her 
 leisure intervals in administering to the necessities 
 of the neighbouring poor, and she was looked 
 upon as the good genius of the locality. Edmund 
 Young was ever ready to lend his aid to any cha- 
 ritable purpose, and was constantly watchful for 
 proper objects of beneficence. Oh, how delightful 
 was the evening group of that happy family ! 
 Though many years of sin and misery have rolled 
 over me since T looked upon it, I behold it vividly 
 before me, like the glimpse of a paradise from 
 which I am shut out for ever. There were the 
 fond parents, with their silvery locks and benig- 
 nant eyes, and the two children, with their loving 
 looks bent upon them, or it might be that one was 
 reading from some interesting volume. Alter- 
 nately reading and conversing on the topics of the 
 day, the hours flew by f3.eetly and tranquilly, and 
 the morning was only a renewal of the peaceful 
 gladness of the preceding day. Such a mode of 
 existence was unsuited to my nature, and I soon 
 became dissatisfied, even though I was in the pre- 
 
56 
 
 FLOWERS FOll ALL SEASONS. 
 
 sence of her whom I believed myself to love. 
 Before many days had elapsed, I was startled by 
 the sight of a hateful apparition, I was standing 
 at the window, gazing listlessly on the passers-by, 
 when my eyes fell on the detested countenance of 
 Stephen Gray. He recognised me instantly, and 
 cast on me one of his usual looks of sneering defi- 
 ance. He held up his hand, as if to warn an(} 
 threaten, and, after pausing for a moment or two^ 
 passed on. The next day I perceived a marked 
 coldness in the manners of Mr, and Mrs. Youngs 
 and Edmund and Lilias appeared as though they 
 had been endeavouring to remonstrate with and 
 explain some circumstance to them, It was evi- 
 dent to me that Gray had been at work, and^ 
 feigning to have received a communication from 
 my father, I took an abrupt farewell of the family. 
 
 I muttered imprecations on my tormentor, as I 
 journeyed home, and inwardly vowed that I would 
 compass his destruction. When the stage-coach 
 was just departing from an inn at which we had 
 stopped on the road, I saw his detested face peer- 
 ing at me from one of the windows, and, lifting 
 up the sash, he again held up his hand to menace 
 me. I was tempted to spring out of the vehicle, 
 but restrained myself, though the wish for venge- 
 ance, during the remainder of my journey, almost 
 inaddened me. 
 
THE FRATRICIDB. 
 
 57 
 
 When I arrived at my father's dwelling, I lost 
 no time in seeking out the encampment of my 
 gipsy friends, who were yet quartered at only a 
 few miles, distance from me. There was in the 
 tribe one stalwart and reckless fellow, who was to 
 all appearance a man w^ho would not hesitate to 
 engage in any dark and desperate deed of villainy. 
 I had made a sort of acquaintance v/ith this fel- 
 low^ for I thought, when we first met, that he 
 might ere long be serviceable to me. I drew him 
 apart from his companions, and saw his eyes glis- 
 ten when I spoke to him of ample remuneration 
 for a service in which I was wishful to employ 
 him. I described Stephen Gray to him, and sig- 
 nified^ in as few words as possible, the gratification 
 which it would give me to hear that some unto- 
 ward event had befallen him. His presence, J 
 said was hateful to me, and even if he could be 
 withdrawn altogether from my locality, I should 
 consider that man who was instrumental in his 
 withdrawal entitled to my gratitude, and that 
 gratitude should not be evinced in mere words. I 
 found the gipsy apt enough in comprehending me^ 
 and ready enough to undertake the fulfilment of 
 my wishes. There was another too to whom I 
 owed a deep debt of hatred — the schoolmaster 
 who had expelled me from his establishment. It 
 was possible that his barn might take fire, without 
 
58 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 any suspicion being entertained of the incendiary, 
 and this was another task which I confided to the 
 charge of my hopeful accomplice. 
 
 I returned home, exulting in the prospect which 
 I had of speedily inflicting vengeance on the two 
 people whom I hated most, and my dreams that 
 night were of flame and violence. My visions 
 represented a horrible distortion of the events 
 which I really wished should take place. My fa- 
 ther's mansion appeared in flames, and my sister's 
 life was in imminent danger. I rushed to her 
 chamber, and was upon the point of effecting her 
 rescue, when I was met by the villain gipsy, who 
 snatched her from me, and dashed me senseless 
 into the burning apartment. And mingled with 
 all this was the form of Gray, mocking and defy- 
 ing me. I awoke, gloomy and unrefreshed. My 
 sister noticed my more than usual suUenness, and 
 anxiously enquired the cause, which I attributed 
 to the unpleasant character of my last night's 
 dreams. She wished me to accompany her on a 
 visit to a friend, at whose house she was about to 
 spend the day ; but I was in no mood for com- 
 pany, and declined, though I promised to call in 
 the evening and escort her home. 
 
 I passed the day in rambling through a wild 
 and rocky labyrinth, where I was almost certain of 
 not meeting with any wanderers, for the path 
 
THE FRATRICIDE, 
 
 59 
 
 which I had to pursue led directly to no travelled 
 highway, or to any congregation of dwellings. 
 There was a dark tale connected with the place, 
 which induced the majority of people to avoid it, 
 but I had thought little of the matter, though 
 there existed an evidence that the tale was founded 
 in truth. About thirty years ago, so ran the 
 story, two boys, brothers, the one nine and the 
 other ten years of age, were roaming about the 
 glen searching for birds' nests, and they had 
 secured several, when a quarrel arose between 
 them as to the division of the spoil. They fought, 
 and so furious was the rage of the, younger, that, 
 during the conflict, he caught up a stone and 
 struck his brother violently on the head. The 
 elder brother fell down senseless, and lay for awhile 
 without motion and with closed eyes. At length 
 he opened his eyes for a moment or two, mur- 
 mured a few words of forgiveness to his brother, 
 and died. The boy fratricide stood over his victim, 
 like another Cain, and was long before he could 
 believe that his brother was for ever lost to him. 
 When the dreadful truth broke fully upon him, he 
 uttered a fearful shriek of horror and despair, and 
 reason deserted him. He sank upon the corpse, 
 and the maniac and the murdered boy, were not 
 found until two days afterwards, search having 
 been made in all kinds of places that v^ere thought 
 
CO 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 likely. When they discovered the lost brothers, 
 the living one set up a scream that thrilled their 
 blood like that of a savage animal, and he sought 
 to tear and destroy those who were in quest of 
 him. For years he had not a lucid interval, but, 
 when a length of time had elapsed, he came to the 
 possession of his reason for a brief period, related 
 the particulars of the dreadful deed, and then 
 relapsed into a state of ferocious madness, which 
 had since been unvisited by a ray of sanity. He 
 still lived, and was confined in an asylum in the 
 neighbourhood. A tablet, placed on the spot 
 where the crime had been perpetrated, recorded 
 the circumstances, as they had been detailed by 
 the maniac. I had come to that part of the glen 
 where a tablet marked the site of the murder, and 
 had just read the inscription, when I heard the 
 sound of rapid feet. I raised my head, and a form 
 confronted me that can never be effaced from mv 
 remembrance. It was that of a man about forty 
 years of age, clad in coarse and dark-coloured gar- 
 ments. His hair was long and grisly, his face 
 unearthly and cadaverous, and his eyes blood-shot 
 and glaring with fierce and unnatural wildness. 
 He stared at me for a minute or more without 
 speaking, and I felt myself incapable of moving 
 from the spot. He then dashed at me wildly and 
 furiously, and a fearful struggle ensued. I felt 
 
THE FIiATPJ.CIDE, 
 
 myself no match for my fiend-like opponent, and 
 expected momentarily to become a sacrifice to his 
 frenzy. Suddenly I made one desperate effort, and 
 threw him from me. He was unprepared for the 
 moyement, and fell backwards. I imm.ediately 
 sought safety in flight, and fear lent me a swiftness 
 of which I thought myself incapable. The mad- 
 man, for such I saw he was, gave chase, and I felt 
 that he would be upon me in another instant. A 
 stone was in my path, I stopped, seized it, and 
 turned upon my pursuer. When he beheld the 
 attitude in which I stood, and saw how I was 
 armed, he yelled forth a demoniacal cry, and fell 
 at my feet. I did not stay for his recovery, but 
 fled again at the top of my speed, I felt that it 
 was the maniac fratricide, who, having by some 
 means eluded the vigilance of his keepers, had 
 ^.ttacked and pursued me, and I continued my 
 flight until I fell exhausted upon the earth, in a 
 stupor. How long I remained so I knew not, 
 but, when I v/as restored to consciousness, the 
 shades of night had darkened round me, and some 
 time elapsed before I became sufficiently restored 
 to learn where I was. 
 
 When T reached home, I ascertained that my • 
 sister had returned from her visit^ and that she 
 had been annoyed by the insolence of some ruffian, 
 who had waylaid her on her return. The villain 
 
62 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 had been scared away by the approach of two 
 young gentlemen, who were now m the drawing- 
 room, and who had been my sister s escort home. 
 I hastened to see her, when, what was my asto- 
 nishment and indignation, on entering the drawing- 
 room, to see Stephen Gray and another young 
 man occupied in detailing to my parents the par- 
 ticulars of the unpleasant rencontre, from the 
 consequences of which they had been the means of 
 rescuing my sister. I was unmanned and feeble 
 with the late affray, but I cast upon Gray a look 
 of hatred, and pointed to the door. My sister 
 looked at me imploringly. I did not appear to 
 notice her. Gray understood me, and departed 
 with his companion, wishing my parents and sister 
 a respectful good night, but passing by me as 
 though I had not been present. I learned that 
 my sister had delayed her return in expectation of 
 my coming, and when she was about a mile from 
 home, a fellow, apparently a gipsy, had sprung 
 from behind a hedge and rudely accosted her, en- 
 deavouring to clasp her in his arms. She screamed 
 in alarm, and, at the moment, Gray and his 
 companion appeared in sight, and rushed to her 
 assistance. I had my suspicions, from my sister's 
 description, of who the villain was, but, for various 
 reasons, I was silent on the subject. 
 
THE FRATIIICIBE, 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Murder most foul, as in the best it is ; 
 But this most foul, strange, and unnatural, 
 
 Shakspere. 
 
 The only physical exercise^ which I followed 
 amusement^ was archery. In this sport my bro- 
 ther felt an equal interest with myself^ and we had 
 raised shooting-butts in my father s grounds^ to 
 which we frequently resorted. T became a com- 
 plete marksman, and could send my arrow into 
 the bull's eye with almost undeviating certainty. 
 When it was that the horrid and monstrous 
 thought, that I am now. about to speak of, first 
 entered my mind, is unknown even to myself. 
 Whether it presented itself to me in some hideous 
 pitchy vision of the night, or whether demons 
 walk by us in the broad daylight, and breathe 
 things in our ear to lead us to destruction, I know 
 
64 
 
 FLOWEIIS FOR ALL SEASONS, 
 
 not/ but the foul idea was constantly with me, 
 and I strove vainly to expel it. 
 
 Often had the knowledge of my brother's supe- 
 rior claim to my father s estate been as wormwood 
 to me, though for a length of time I was content 
 to curse my own evil star that had decreed to me 
 a later birth. Now the unnatural and bloody 
 thought that haunted me was how I could best 
 effect the destruction of my brother's life. His 
 meek manners, and fair and delicate countenance, 
 instead of turning me from my purpose, only con- 
 firmed me in it, and incited me to the perpetration 
 of the deed. I could not brook to think that one 
 so womanish and tame should stand between me 
 and my inheritance. 
 
 One day, when we had been practising in the 
 archery ground, and my brother had turned to 
 run towards me with an arrow which he had just 
 pulled from one of the butts, the thought that I 
 could kill him then flashed like a stream of fire 
 across my brain. An, arrow was at my bow — I 
 sent it hissing forth with my utmost strength — 
 the aim w^as too true, and he fell like a stricken 
 deer, with the shaft quivering in his heart. I 
 turned away, and for a time dared not advance 
 towards him. When I had nerved myself to the 
 desperate task, and came to bend over him and 
 examine his wound. I saw that he was indeed dead. 
 
THE FBATKICIDE. 65 
 
 I 
 
 His eyes were open^ and, save that Ins features 
 wore an expression of surprise, he appeared with 
 the same sweet and placid look which had distin- 
 guished him in life, A sickness came over me, 
 not from compunction, but from a dread of the 
 consequences. Counterfeiting the utmost alarm, I 
 reached home, and stammered out a lying account 
 of the deplorable accident which I stated had oc- 
 curred from my brother suddenly shifting his 
 position whilst I was aiming at the butt. It is 
 needless for me to attempt the pourtrayal of the 
 misery which was caused by my narration of the 
 event. My father and mother could not possibly 
 think me so immeasurably wicked as to disbelieve 
 me, but there was one whom I could not deceive. 
 My sister's eyes were rivetted upon me, and my 
 soul cowered beneath them, for they said too 
 plainly, " I know thee, villain, for a murderer /" 
 
 Of course the circumstances of the case under- 
 went investigation, but my account was a plausi- 
 ble one ; there were no witnesses to contradict my 
 statement, and I was legally absolved of murder. 
 But there were not wanting those who suspected 
 me. nevertheless, and, if I were previously an object 
 of dislike, I could now see that I was looked upon 
 by the majority of our neighbours with abhor- 
 rence. About this time too a dastardly and savage 
 attack w^as made upon Stephen Gray, as he was 
 
66 
 
 F'LOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 indulging in a solitary evening ramble. He strug- 
 gled with the person who assaulted him, and^ 
 though no match for the ruffian, he kept him at 
 bay until the sound of advancing footsteps caused 
 him to retreat. Gray had at once identified the 
 man as the scoundrel who had insulted my sister, 
 and here again suspicion rested upon me as the 
 prime mover in the affair. An attempt had also 
 been made by some incendiary to fire the barn of 
 my former schoolmaster, and though it had failed, 
 and the party was undiscovered, it was added to 
 my score, and I was greeted on all hands with 
 coldness, if not repulsed with execration. 
 
 I could not bear this state of things, and deter- 
 mined again to visit Lilias Young, and, if possible, 
 prevail on her parents to consent that she should 
 unite her fate with mine. My arrival v/as evi- 
 dently unwelcome to all but Lilias, and, if her 
 father did not exactly refuse me the shelter of his 
 house, his hospitality was not such as to induce 
 me to make a prolonged stay with them. Edmund 
 Young was absent for a few days, and I passed my 
 time until his return in wandering about like an 
 unquiet spirit. My opportunities of seeing Lilias 
 were few, and the interviews which I had with her 
 were always brief and interrupted. On her bro- 
 ther's return, I saw contempt and indignation 
 written too legibly on his features for me to mis- 
 
THE FRATEICIDE. 67 
 
 take them. He declined my proffered liand^ and^ 
 without deigning me a nod of recognition^ hastily 
 retreated from the room. He held a brief confer- 
 ence with his parents and sister, and then returned 
 to me. He did not keep me long in suspense, but 
 in a few words signified to me that I was an un- 
 welcome guest, and one with whom he could not 
 in future associate. He had no wish, he said, to 
 make me responsible for crimes of which I might 
 be innocent, or blame me for vices which might 
 have been wrongly attributed to me, but he had 
 too much filial and brotherly regard to allow either 
 his parents or his sister to suffer in public estima- 
 tion by giving countenance to the visits of a man 
 who was universally disliked and shunned by those 
 who had the best means of knowing his character. 
 
 How can I paint the conflicting passions by 
 w^hich I was tormented, as the humiliating, but 
 just determination of Edmund Young was com- 
 municated to me. I solicited for one more inter- 
 view with his sister, but it was denied me, and, 
 with a heart burning with all sorts of evil 
 thoughts, I left the mansion, I had not proceeded 
 many yards when I encountered Stephen Gray^ 
 who was evidently making his way towards the 
 house which I had quitted. He passed me with 
 no other recognition than a smile of mingled tri- 
 umph and disdain. 
 
68 
 
 FLOWEKB FOIt FOR SEASONS. 
 
 I wrote to Lilias Young on my return home, 
 offering her my hand, and raving wildly of my ov/n 
 strong affection, and her faithlessness. I protested 
 tnj innocence of the crimes laid to my charge, and 
 vowed that m.y future conduct should be all she 
 could wish, if she would but consent to be mine. 
 I endeavoured to prevail on my sister to second 
 my appeal, which, however, she mournfully but 
 firmly refused. I broke from her furiously, and 
 despatched my letter. I might have spared myself 
 the trouble, for the post brought it back to me 
 unopened. My rage was as ungovernable as it was 
 impotent, and for some days I preserved a sullen 
 silence, not deigning a reply to any one. 
 
 A few months elapsed, and my father died. I 
 was now master of that estate for which I had 
 incarnadined my soul. Many of those who had 
 spurned and turned from me with loathing were 
 now in my power, and bitterly did I wreak ven- 
 geance upon them. The tenants were harried 
 beyond all parallel, and their sufferings were for a 
 time a source of demoniacal joy to me. My mo- 
 ther remons trated, and my sister wept, but all was 
 of no avail. I ran riot in wickedness— I was 
 glutted with ill deeds— I was a mortal personifi- 
 cation of guilt, and my bad designs were in the 
 main crowned with success. I was a successful 
 villain, but vfas I a happ}^ one 1 The savage joy 
 
THE FEATRICIDE. 
 
 69 
 
 which I at times felt was more the joy of a 
 ravenous animal than the bliss of a being sentient 
 of right and wrong. My cup was too full^ and the 
 venom overflowed. A baleful and contagious fever 
 laid me prostrate,, and for weeks I was insensible 
 to passing sights and sounds. When I opened 
 my weak and miserable eyes^ to look around me 
 in weary feebleness^ and shrink from the blinding 
 light that met me, what a confused mass of things 
 and shapes swept over my memory. Demon eyes 
 that had been peering at me day and night, 
 fiendish screeches that had been ever yelling in 
 my ears, devilish laughter and impish glee for ever 
 mocking me, flames for ever burning, v/ater for 
 ever receding, nowhere comfort, but horror, horror 
 everywhere — I uttered a lovf wail of despair, and 
 was again hot and wuld with fever^ Again I 
 awoke to sanity, but the light was too powerful 
 for me, and my eyelids closed involuntarity. I 
 tried to cry out for drink to appease my scorching 
 thirst. My voice refused its office, my limbs w^ere 
 beyond my control, and I lay like a dead man, 
 save that I had a helpless consciousness of painful 
 debility. Presently I heard steps in my chamber, 
 and people gathered about my bed, as if to ascer-* 
 tain whether or not I were still in existence. 
 he dead T said one. " No, he still breathes," ,sa.i4 
 
 E 
 
70 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 another, " death seems loath to take him. He is too 
 evil for earth, and it would be difficult to find ano- 
 ther world bad enough for him. The good are easily 
 destroyed, but the wicked are too often left us. 
 Father, mother, sister, all gone to God. Satan 
 hath not claimed him." I opened my eyes once 
 more, and the speakers started back as if from a 
 monster, and such I now felt I was. 
 
 My mother had early fallen a victim to the dis- 
 ease, and my sister had watched by me daily and 
 nightly, until she also had been summoned from 
 the side of a murderer to dwell- with kindred 
 saints in heaven. I was alone, with no one to 
 share the wealth which I had so foully purchased ; 
 no one to mate with even in villainy, no one to 
 condole with me on my losses, no friend, no rela- 
 tive, no source of consolation ; and for the first 
 time I asked myself what w^as the advantage of 
 vice over virtue. 
 
 I slowly recovered health and strength, and • 
 then resolved to bid a long farewell to the place of 
 my birth ; to seek for excitement or content in 
 change of scene, with a faint hope that I might 
 somewhere find a quiet retreat in which I could 
 meditate on the past, and perhaps make atone- 
 ment (if that were possible) in the future. A 
 change, a wondrous change had come over me, 
 and 1 at all events determined to look abroad 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 71 
 
 and ascertain for myself what were the relative 
 amounts of happiness and content which even in 
 this world fall to the lot of the followers of good 
 and evih 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 Disguise it as you will, all sin is misery. There is sor- 
 row in every cup that vice presents to her votaries. She 
 may mingle it as she will, to make it sweet to the taste ; 
 death and misery are there, and when drank, it will be 
 wormwood, gall and hittemess in the system. God has 
 bound sin and misery together by a tie that no man can 
 put asunder, and he that practises the one must feel the 
 other. 
 
 Vf ILLIAMSON. 
 
 I DISMISSED from my service the steward whom I 
 had selected as a fit agent to carry out my wicked 
 measures, and in his stead appointed an old inhabi- 
 tant of the village who was universally beloved for 
 his mild and benevolent disposition. To him I en- 
 
72 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEAKO^'S. 
 
 trusted the task of making reparation to such 
 of my tenants as had suffered by my previous 
 tyranny^ and, in fact, gave him absolute power to 
 exercise his discretion in the future management of 
 my estate. This w^as a blessed relief to my tenan- 
 try, and ere I left home I had the satisfaction of 
 knowing that in many a heart happiness and hope 
 had succeeded to misery and despair. Oh, how 
 sweet and soothing came over my spirit the reflec- 
 tion on this the first really good act of my life. 
 It was a new existence. It vras as if body and 
 soul had enjerged from, a burning and racking 
 fever to revel in the delight of a oalm and blissful 
 convalescence. I shuddered to think upon the 
 past — -it lay behind me like a hideous and yawn- 
 ing gulf peopled with monstrous and demoniacal 
 shapes, that stretched out their horrid and claw- 
 like arms to claim me once again. For the 
 first time in my life I knelt down to pray, and 
 earnestly and tearfully did I ask of God to aid 
 and guide me onwards in the paths of love and 
 righteousness. 
 
 I made my way to the metropolis, and was soon 
 lost to all w"ho knew me — I was alone in the vast 
 solitude of humanity. I had v/ith me that uni- 
 versal passport, money, and found no difiiculty in 
 getting admittance to all sorts of society. I formed 
 acquaintanceship with successful villainy in the 
 
THE FRATFJCIDE. 
 
 73 
 
 haunts of wealth and fashion, in lighted halls, 
 splendid hotels, and brilliant gaming-houses. I 
 made myself familiar with vice as it existed in the 
 lowest and most noxious dens of infamy. I found 
 opportunities of seeing men in public and private, 
 masked and unmasked; and in every instance did 
 I see that guilt and happiness were twain. I 
 spoke with ruined gamblers and convicted felons, 
 with men who had participated in all sorts of 
 crime. I questioned them as to their feelings in 
 their hours of triumph, and invariably found that 
 remorse and agony had been the attendant fiends 
 that tracked their destiny. I sought out the 
 homes of the good, those who struggled with sick- 
 ness, poverty, and all other evils which can by 
 possibility afflict our mortal nature. When the 
 first burst of affliction had passed over, I ever 
 witnessed them finding ^^in some part of their 
 souls a drop of comfort." My wealth became a 
 source of pure gTatification, and many blessed the 
 charitable hand which ministered to their wants, 
 though they knew not the donor. 
 
 I left the busy haunts of men, and fixed myself 
 in a quiet and thinly-populated village. A small 
 cottage situated in the deep recesses of embov/er- 
 ing trees was to be disposed of, and I became the 
 
 purchaser. An old housekeeper and a male ser- 
 2 E ' 
 
74 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 vant were my only domestics, and to them I was 
 known by a fictitious name. The villagers were 
 kind and simple-hearted people, and the village to 
 them was the world. Generations and generations 
 had been born and buried without ever going more 
 than a few miles from the place of their nativity. 
 They had heard of murder and other great crimes, 
 but they were themselves unacquainted with deeds 
 of dark enormity, and the small vices of exist- 
 ence made up the sum of their wickedness. 
 There was a gothic church overgrown with ivy^ 
 and a grave-yard luxuriant with grass interspersed 
 with flowers. The grave-stones stood on end, and 
 many of them were crumbling with age. I loved 
 to linger in the old church-yard, and " chew the 
 cud of sweet and bitter fancies." The dark sha- 
 dows of my pa^t life would throw their gloom 
 over me, and rest with a heavy and oppressive 
 weight upoh my soul ; and at times I became 
 overwhelmed with the bitterness of miserable des- 
 pair, like a condemned wretch immured in a stony 
 dungeon, with only light sufficient to show that 
 the cold and massive walls aSbrd no hope of escape 
 or outlet, except to death. I became a frequenter 
 of the church, and listened attentively to the dis- 
 course of the meek and silvery-haired preacher. 
 His words fell upon my mind like manna on the 
 iDarren wilderness, as he expatiated on the virtues 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 75 
 
 of Christianity, and the benefits attendant on a 
 true repentance. He had no faith in that repent- 
 ance which left a man as bad as it found him, or 
 which affected him only on the sabbath or in the 
 church. If a man had been unjust, and had 
 learned to hate injustice, and had turned from its 
 practice to follovv^ justice, in his intercourse with 
 his fellow-men ; that man had repented. To 
 repent was to turn from vice, and continue the 
 practice of righteousness. It was to "break off 
 our sins by righteousness, and our iniquities by 
 turning to the Lord." I listened like a criminal 
 anxious to catch the slightest words of hope fall- 
 ing from the lips of the judge, and yet I could 
 not, dared not believe that so black a sinner as 
 myself should escape the punishment of the 
 damned. I felt that it would almost be impious 
 to wish it. Even in this world guilt does indeed 
 carry with it its own retribution, and places in the 
 hand of the crime-stained wretch a scourge for his 
 own laceration. Kever shall I forget the following 
 portion of the pastor's discourse :— 
 
 " Behold the righteous shall be recompensed in 
 the earth; much more the wicked and the sinner. 
 If you examine your own individual experience, 
 you will find it recorded, in language too 
 plain to be misunderstood, that the nearer you 
 have come in your feelings and practice to the 
 
76 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEiVSOXS. 
 
 great law of love, tlie greater have been your en- 
 joyments on the one hand ; and on the other, yon 
 have suffered for each and every departure from 
 that law. I ask you, when you were the happiest? 
 And I answer for you ; it was when you felt most 
 of the spirit of love to God and man, and when 
 your powers were employed in acts of kindness to 
 your fellow-creatures. These are the gTeen spots 
 upon the desert of life, around which fond memory 
 lingers with delight, and calls forth the wish that 
 all else was like this. I ask again, when were you 
 most miserable 1 And again I answer for you ; it 
 was when consuming fires of hatred, revenge, or 
 cruelty, were waked up in your bosom, and your 
 hands were employed in injuring your brethren. 
 When you were angry you were miserable even in 
 childhood, but when you felt the warm spirit of 
 love for parents or brethren, or companions, at 
 work in your heart, then you were happy. This 
 was not the effect of a revelation of God's law, 
 but it was the effect of the original law itself 
 stamped upon the nature of the soul, by the form- 
 ing hand of the Creator. But the law does not 
 end here. The positive enjoyment or suffering 
 which we experience, at the time we harbour love 
 or hate, is not all that should be taken into 
 account. Conscience erects in the mind of those 
 to whom the law is revealed, her tribunal, and 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 77 
 
 memoiy opens fountains of joy, or brings up vi- 
 sions of grief from the oblivion of the past. I 
 ask, which of you has ever loved a brother or 
 done him a kindness, the recollection of which 
 does not to this moment cause sensations of the 
 purest joy to steal over the soul 1 I^ot one. Who 
 among you can say, that he has ever hated a bro- 
 ther or done him anjnjury, the remembrance of 
 which does not give him a pang of regret ? You 
 may carry this principle back to the earliest dawn 
 of your existence, and till you come where the 
 oblivious tide of utter forgetfulness conceals every 
 trace of the past, you will find no exceptions. I 
 know not indeed how others may feel, but "as 
 face answereth to face in a gkss, so the heart of 
 man to man," and, judging from my own experi- 
 ence and the operations of my own mind, I con- 
 clude that it is even so with vou all. I look back 
 to the days of my early childhood and youth, I 
 remember how I was angry with a brother, or 
 sought revenge of my companions, and, God for- 
 give me, I wish it were otherwise. These are the 
 only clouds that obscure the brightness of my 
 youthful morning, and I would to heaven that 
 they were moved away. In like manner, I remem- 
 ber my affection and love for my brethren and 
 companions, and the little offices of kindness I 
 have done them ; the recollection is a cordial to 
 
78 FLOWERS FOR ALL S^^ASOXrS. 
 
 my spirits^ and most devoutly do I wish, that this 
 heart had never harboured an angry feehng, or 
 these hands had never performed an evil act. 
 These are developements of the laws of man's 
 moral nature, obedience to which is joy, and every 
 infraction of which is sure to meet with a just 
 recompense of reward. They are as clearly mani- 
 fested as any laws of our physical constitution, 
 and their operations are sure and certain. I might 
 take a much wider field of observation, and should 
 arrive at the same conclusion at last. If you were 
 to search for a happy man, where would you go 'I 
 Would you go to the haunts of vice, and select 
 among its votaries the man in whose bosom the 
 fires of hatred, and wrath, and revenge, and cru- 
 elty, are wasting and consuming ? Nay ; for in 
 him you would expect to find a man impotently 
 poor, and miserable, and blind, and naked. But 
 go to the good man, whoso heart is warm with the 
 pure spirit of benevolence and love, and whose 
 hands are engaged in works of kindness, and there 
 you will find happiness in its greatest earthly per- 
 fection. Do yon wish for proof of this"? Go then 
 and examine the ways of the transgressor ; and if 
 you do not find the clearest evidence that his is 
 indeed a " hard way," then must you be blind to 
 every appearance of evil, and insensible to the 
 absence of all good. Take the liar, who in the 
 
THE FRATRICIDE, 
 
 79 
 
 spirit of hatred or revenge, uttered his mahcious 
 forgeries to blast the reputation of a fellow. Mark 
 him when retired from the world, and its noise 
 and bustle, he sits down in the moments of cool 
 contemplation, and reflects upon himself and his 
 ways. Busy memory is at work, and he feels the 
 gnawings of the restless worm. He feels how vile he 
 is, and the pains of hell get hold upon him. Take 
 the thief, who has laid his hands unlav/fully upon 
 his neighbour's goods. Behold him arraigned at 
 the bar of justice^ and led to prison, and you can 
 here see that the way of the transgressor is hard. 
 Or if he escape the retribution of the laws of his 
 country, he cannot escape the consuming fires that 
 his crime has kindled in his own bosom. He 
 starts at the rustling leaf, and fears that the offi- 
 cer of justice is upon him. The remembrance of 
 his crime keeps him in perpetual alarm. Take the 
 murderer whose ruthless hands have been imbrued 
 in the blood of a brother. In ordinary cases he 
 is detected and suffers the penalty of the laws of 
 his country. This, however, he sometimes may 
 escape. But there is a faithful monitor within, 
 whose vigilance he cannot elude, and a tribunal 
 there, before v/hich he must stand and hear his 
 condemnation. He may lock his crime in the 
 deep recesses of his own soul where the eye of 
 man cannot penetrate; he may flee from the sword 
 
so 
 
 FLOWEBS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 of human justice ; but he must carry along with 
 him the damning consciousness of his own guilt. 
 Go where he w411, cruel memory will haunt him 
 with the image of his murdered brother, and the 
 voice of blood crying from the ground for venge- 
 ance, will sound in his ears, the requiem of de- 
 parted joy. He may fly to the ends of the earth; 
 that voice will still pursue him. He may dig to 
 its very centre, and bury his crime there, but con- 
 science will sound the trump of its resurrection, 
 and from the silence and darkness of the grave it 
 will come up, in its freshness, to disturb his mid- 
 night slumbers — -to scare him with dreams and 
 terrify him through visions. "'^^ 
 
 The preacher was here startled by a deep and 
 heavy groan, and I fell senseless on the floor of the 
 church. When I awoke to consciousness I found 
 that I had been conveyed to the clergyman's 
 house, where every attention had been paid to me. 
 The benevolent old man spoke to me kindly and 
 soothingly on my recovery, but I fancied there 
 was 9 constraint in his manners as though he sus- 
 pected, that somethins: of a dreadful nature had 
 been the cause of my sudden indisposition. I was 
 almost on the point of confessing to him the crime 
 of which I had been guilty, but the love of life 
 
 * Williamson. 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 81 
 
 was too powerful within me^^ and the secret 
 remained untold. I said that a previous illness 
 had rendered me subject to swoons, and the heat 
 of the church had overpowered me, I took my 
 departure, and for several days did not venture 
 abroad. I had, during' mv residence in the vil- 
 lage, performed many small acts of charity, and 
 was looked upon by the inhabitants as a good and 
 t)eneficent individual. How little should we trust 
 to outward appearances 1 Kow suspicion arose in 
 the minds of the people. My behaviour in church 
 was soon known throughout the village, and small 
 things are great events in limited communities. 
 Men whispered together when I approached, and 
 shrunk within their cottage doors to avoid con- 
 versing with me. I felt as though the word fra- 
 tricide" were branded on my brow, and slunk 
 along the most unfrequented paths and lanes, as if 
 afraid to encounter the officers of justice. I sel- 
 dom stirred from my dwelling during the day, but 
 waited until the dusk of evening, before I took my 
 wretched and solitary rambles. But I was seldom 
 alone — there was one form which did not often 
 quit my side — there was one shape which was 
 with me, though it was as thin and noiseless as a 
 shadow. Its eyes encountered mine, turn as I 
 would, and I knew that the shape swa my bro« 
 ther's ! 
 
 F 
 
82 
 
 FLOWEKS FOR ALL «FASONS. 
 
 One evening a carnage drove into the village, 
 and as some trifling accident had rendered the 
 vehicle unsafe^ the travellers pnt up for the night 
 at the only inn of which the place could boast. 
 My servant told me of the circumstance, for it was 
 a somewhat unusual one, as the village lay out of 
 the track of the generality of travellers. It was 
 said that the occupiers of the carriage were a new- 
 ly-married couple, and the bride was described as 
 exceedingly lovely. I was absorbed with other 
 thoughts, and remained silent ; the man, mistak- 
 ing my silence for attention, gave indulgence to 
 his loquacious propensities, and imagined he was 
 gratifying me. He told me he had assisted to bear 
 the luggage of the travellers into the inn, and one 
 of the portmanteaus was inscribed with the name 
 of " Mr. Stephen Gray." I sprang up with a con- 
 vulsive shudder. Should he ascertain that I was 
 residing in the village, my character would be at 
 once known, and I must seek another scene in 
 which to drag out the remainder of existence. It 
 ■was not likely he would discover me if I kept 
 within doors during his brief stay, but an irresist- 
 ible influence came over me, like a spell from 
 which there v^as no escaping, and I was impelled 
 to lurk about the inn and endeavour to look upon 
 him whom I had once regarded with such fierce 
 and deadly enmity. My old feelings towards him 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 83 
 
 were gone, and remorse and shame for my former 
 conduct had taken their place j yet I felt an nn- 
 controllable desire to look upon him once more, 
 and to gaze upon the being whom he had chosen 
 for a wife. Enveloped in a cloak, and with my 
 hat pulled over my forehead, I sought the neigh- 
 bourhood of the inn. I lingered about the door 
 in the expectation that I might obtain a passing 
 glimpse of Gray. It was a fine autumnal evening, 
 and it was not unlikely that he might be induced 
 to breathe the delicious atmosphere, and gaze on 
 the beautiful scenery for which the locality was 
 celebrated. The moon was in the heavens, clear, 
 bright, and round, as a shield of shining pearl held 
 in the hand of some glorious angel. The earth 
 looked as though it had been steeped in pale and 
 liquid splendour, and the leaves quivered and 
 danced in the gentle breeze like things instinct 
 with delight. I cast my eyes upwards to the blue 
 and starry arch — -all was pure above and around 
 me, and I the one accursed thing that rested like 
 a blight on the fair scene. The agony of remorse, 
 the horror of despair, and a crushing, withering 
 sense of my stained and degraded condition made 
 a hell within me that no after punishment can by 
 possibility exceed. A lady and gentleman, engaged 
 in sweet and murmuring converse, such as falls 
 only from the lips of lovers, now slowly ap- 
 
 1 
 
84 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 preached me. They were the bride and bride- 
 gToom returning from a quiet and blissful walk. 
 One glance at them was sufficient — the wife of 
 Stephen Gray had once been Lilias Young ! A 
 shriek of anguish burst from my lips^ and I fled 
 past them. Kapid as was the action, I saw they 
 beheld and recognised me. 
 
 I was seen no more in the village. The fratri- 
 cide would be proclaimed, and I must seek for 
 obscurity, if not for peace, in other localities. My 
 course was directed to a populous town, where for 
 a short time I took up my residence, but the 
 worm that dies not was gnawing at my heart, and 
 misery was ever with me. Since then I have been 
 a wanderer over many lands- — I have mingled 
 with men of every grade — with gilded vice and 
 lowly virtue, and I have undeviatingly found, that 
 whatever may be their station, the good alone are 
 the happiest of mankind. My hair is thin and 
 white, my form is bent, and my steps are slow and 
 feeble, but, like the doomed of old, I feel as though 
 I could not rest or die. My course is onwards, 
 onwards, and my lot on earth, whatever it may be 
 hereafter, is one of agony unspeakable. Once in 
 each year, on the anniversary of my brother's 
 murder, do I visit his grave, and, whilst my 
 remorseful and penitential tears bedew his resting 
 place, with my face bowed to the stone that covers 
 
THE FRATRICIDE. 
 
 85 
 
 his mouldering corse, I supplicate God to pardon 
 my foul crime. The onlj temporary solace which 
 I experience is in the performance of acts of cha- 
 rity, and in ministering to those who suffer. Oh, 
 how vainly do our legislators seek to abolish crime 
 by the death of the malefactor ! To live, and not 
 to die, is the only adequate punishment that can 
 be inflicted upon the murderer, and well may the 
 preacher exclaim, that, " disguise it as you will, 
 all sin is misery.''^ 
 
86 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 Visions are floating past mine eyes 
 
 Of sunny days and moonlit skies, 
 
 Of abbeys dark and cloisters dim, 
 
 Of monks and vestal-chaunted hymn. 
 
 Of burnish'd mail of gallant knight, 
 
 And waving scarf of lady bright ; 
 
 But, oh, 'midst every dream I see, 
 
 Thy form is present still to me. 
 
 Never did village maid more fair, 
 
 With blushing cheek and flower-wreathed hair. 
 
 Walk forth bedeck'd with ribbons gay, 
 
 Upon the merry first of May ; 
 
 Never was dame more beauteous wooed 
 Beneath Italians starry skies. 
 
 When noble youth, in love-sick mood, 
 Pour'd in her ear impassion'd sighs ; 
 Never, for fairer lady's sake. 
 Did music's gentle tones awake 
 Upon the moon-besilver'd lake, 
 
THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 87 
 
 Where bark of gallant cavalier 
 Was row'd by trusty gondolier. 
 
 Oh, had I been a shaven monk, 
 And thou a meek and holy nun, 
 
 If once mine ear thy voice had drunk, 
 My thoughts of heaven had all been gone ; 
 And I had breathed not hymn or prayer, 
 Whilst musing on thy features fair ; 
 As the light down on breezes flies. 
 My thoughts would all have past in sighs, 
 Drawn from me by thy lips and eyes. 
 Oh, had I been a knight of old, 
 I would have barter' d grounds for gold, 
 And leagued me with some valiant band. 
 And praised thy charms in every land ; 
 And in the tournay's daring strife, 
 Have risk'd for thee my fame and life. 
 If thou wilt listen for awhile, 
 And pay me, dear one, with a smile, ' 
 I'll tell a simple tale to thee 
 Of the days of song and chivalry. 
 
 'Twas at the time when mail'd men 
 Went forth to the holy fight. 
 
 When, streaming out from every glen, 
 Flash'd arms and armour bright. 
 That there dwelt, amid England's courtly flower, 
 An honour'd and gentle Troubadour, 
 
88 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASOXa 
 
 And Rudel was his name ; 
 And many a lady, prond and bright, 
 Upon him bent her eyes of light, 
 
 Yet he turn'd from each fair dame, 
 For his heart was over the broad blue sea, 
 With the lovely Countess of Tripoli ; 
 But though he had heard of her charity, 
 And her beauty and grace continually. 
 He never had chanced the lady to see. 
 
 Her praise was sung in full many a strain, 
 By minstrel, and knight, and page, 
 
 Who had wander d o'er Asia's burning plain 
 In their sacred pilgrimage. 
 
 They told how when wounded and nigh to fail, 
 In their hour of dark despair. 
 
 When their lips were parch'd, and their cheeks 
 were pale^ 
 They had gazed on an angel fair, 
 Who had hover'd about their couch of pain, 
 And whose fostering care, like the blessed rain, 
 When it waters the earth with cooling showers^ 
 Reviving the drooping herbs and flowers, 
 Restored them to health and strength again ; 
 And how this angel so lovely to see. 
 Was the beauteous Countess of Tripoli, 
 And blessings they breathed on her treasured name^ 
 And spread through Christendom her fame. 
 
THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 89 
 
 Now Rnclel, the gentle Troubadour, 
 For his unknown love he sighs, 
 
 And vows he will leave fair England's shore. 
 To dwell beneath sunnier skies ; 
 For he seem'd as though bound by a mystic spell 
 To the lady he knew not, but loved so well. 
 
 So he sail'd o'er the booming and bounding main, 
 With a sick and a pining soul ; 
 
 But he felt that the hope of his heart was vain^ . 
 That he ne'er should reach the goal — 
 That he went like a wounded bird to its nest, 
 With an arrow transfix'd in its bleeding breast. 
 
 As the fabled swan, which in singing dies, 
 He warbled with faltering tone, 
 
 Of his love and his soul's deep ecstacies, 
 Till his song grew a dying moan. 
 
 The Countess was told the piteous tale 
 That a minstrel had cross'd the wave, 
 
 That the breeze which had fill'd his vessel's sail 
 
 Had but wafted him on to a grave ; 
 
 That he had come from the English isle. 
 
 To bask in her beauty and win her smile ; 
 
 And it caused her inmost soul to stir. 
 
 When they told that he died for the love of her. 
 
 She hasted away to that dying man, 
 
 And she gazed on his wasted features wan ; 
 
 Then she knelt by the poet's side to pray, 
 
 And press'd his lips that were cold as clay, 
 2 F 
 
90 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 And his hands she clasp'd, and bid him wake 
 To life^ and live but for her sake. 
 Scarce could the dying bard express 
 His gratitude, and love's excess, 
 But she heard, 'mid the racking pangs of death, 
 That he spoke of her with his latest breath. 
 One last long look on those fatal charms. 
 And he died in that weeping lady's arms. 
 Bitter and many the tears she shed 
 O'er the noble form that there lay dead ; 
 No voice to her spirit could comfort give, 
 And a life of penance she vow'd to live. 
 
 Transcribed in letters of shining gold. 
 Was Rudel's latest lay, 
 
 And the scroll to her heart did the lady fold 
 Unto her dying day. 
 Inclosed was his body in porphyry, 
 Inscribed with his soul's idolatry. 
 And the fame he had won in minstrelsy. 
 
 Thou smilest not, my love, on me. 
 Quick throbs thy heart with sympathy. 
 And in thine eyes, so dark and clear. 
 Stands, trembling, tender Pity's tear : 
 Weep not, for many years have fled 
 Since those two forms were with the dead ; 
 But had it been thy fate to be 
 The Countess fair of Tripoli, 
 
THE EARLY LOST. 
 
 Metliinks I would have cross'd the sea, 
 And deem'd it bliss to die for thee. 
 
 THE EARLY LOST. 
 
 Why for the buried should we weep. 
 
 The cherisli d ones who early died, 
 Departing to their dreamless sleep, 
 
 Ere aught had chill'd the heart's warm tide ? 
 They left us when no cares of life 
 
 Had blanch'd the cheek and dimm'd the eye 
 Ere years of sorrow, pain, and strife 
 
 Had hush'd the laugh and brought the sigh. 
 
 When wandering in the crowded street^ 
 
 How vainly do we seek to trace, 
 In forms that oft our glances meet. 
 
 Some token of their wonted grace ; 
 The locks, that danced in ringlets bright, 
 
 Are changed to tresses thin and gray, 
 And steps, that bounded with delight, 
 
 Can scarcely track their feeble way. 
 
92 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS 
 
 Voice have lost their buoyant tone, 
 
 All seems of joy and beauty reft ; 
 The leaves and flowers of life are gone, 
 
 And wither'd boughs alone are left. 
 Then why should sorrow fill the soul 
 
 For those who died in youthful bloom ? 
 They parted from this earthly goal, 
 
 To shrine bright memories in the tomb. 
 
BOOKS, 
 
 What would the world be were it not for books ? 
 What treasures of the past to us were lost^ 
 What stores of knowledge would be unexplored, 
 What countless hoards of truth from us were hidden, 
 Like gems that lie down in the ocean's depths, 
 Had not the student brought them into light ? 
 Now knowledge with its temples throngs the shores, 
 Of England, and its sons may enter there. 
 To drink in large and intellectual draughts : 
 Wealthy and pooi* alike may quaff the streams 
 Whose waters nourish noble thoughts and deeds— 
 The fountains of the mind gush freely forth. 
 All barriers rent asunder by the Press. 
 Now we can hold at once within our grasp 
 The chronicles of all the climes of earth. 
 And, seated by our quiet hearths at eve. 
 We see great empires in their pride of power. 
 We mark them flourish, and behold them fall. 
 
94 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 The grave ingulphs the gifted dead in vain, 
 
 They speak to us eternally in books, 
 
 They converse with us in our lonely hours, 
 
 And greet us with the aspect of a friend ; 
 
 They tell us all they felt, and all they thought — 
 
 The treasured wisdom of their lives of toil 
 
 Is freely pour'd into our wondering minds. 
 
 The poet speaks to us in words of fire, 
 
 And layeth bare his soul unto our gaze : 
 
 Blind Homer singeth unto us again, 
 
 Virgil descanteth on the " country green," 
 
 Horace delighteth with his classic odes, 
 
 And Ovid tells us love's delicious art. 
 
 Our own dear Shakspere lives with us again, 
 
 Unveiling all the secrets of the heart. 
 
 Talking of Nature as a well-known friend. 
 
 Whose every secret unto him is known ; 
 
 Milton discourseth of angelic deeds, 
 
 As one who all his days had dwelt with God, 
 
 And stray'd unquestion'd over heavenly paths. 
 
 The grave historian shows to us his page. 
 
 And serried armies pass before our eyes ; 
 
 We see again the mighty ones of old. 
 
 We look on Mede and Macedonian, 
 
 We see the Grecian and the Eoman hosts, 
 
 And myriad Persians pass in proud array ; 
 
 We hear again the clangor of their arms, 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 95 
 
 Again we listen to their battle shouts, 
 And notes of martial music swelling round. 
 To him whose intellect is richly stored, 
 Whose mind is chasten'd by the lore of books, 
 How beautiful Creation's works appear ! 
 How do they lift him upwards to his God, 
 That gracious God, who is the source of all ! 
 He readeth wisdom in the burning stars, 
 And in the leaf that trembles on the bough. 
 In lowly shrub and perfume-breathing flower. 
 Beauty appears in the still Summer-noon, 
 And in the lightning of the lurid sky ; 
 At morn, or eve, or noon, or blackest night, 
 His spirit worshippeth the God of all ; 
 Or should the scene be desolate and wild, 
 He walks companion'd by his own glad thoughts, 
 Which, as a cheering light, shine bright within, 
 And chase away the shadows of his lot. 
 Oh, unto God our thankful prayers should rise 
 That darkness hath departed from the land. 
 That books no more are pent in cloisters dim, 
 Or bound, like slaves, in iron manacles. 
 
9G 
 
 THOU ART FAIR AS THE MORNING'S 
 
 FIRST BEAM. 
 
 Thou art fair as the morning's first beam, love, 
 
 Thou art pure as the bright silver moon, 
 Free from sin as a young infant's dream, love, 
 
 Far more sweet than the breezes of June. 
 Oh ! I love thee, I dote on thy charms, love, 
 
 And with joy should I hail my last rest. 
 If I thought death but led to thy arms, love, 
 
 That my heaven might be thy fair breast. 
 
 The stars in their beauty may gleam, love, 
 
 From the brow of the calm Summer sky, 
 But lovelier the light do I deem, love. 
 
 That shines in thy witching blue eye. 
 Oh ! I love thee, I dote on thy charms, love, 
 
 And with joy should I hail my last rest, 
 If I thought death but let to thy arms, love, 
 
 That my heaven might be thy fair breast. 
 
•37 
 
 HARVEST HOME. 
 
 Your bay it is mowed, and your corn it is reaped ; 
 Your barns will be full, and your hovels heaped • 
 
 Come, my boys, come, * 
 
 Come, my boys, come, 
 And merrily roar out harvest home. 
 
 Dryden, 
 
 Harvest home 1 What a pleasant vision do the 
 words conjure up ! What thoughts of hopes ful- 
 filledj of expectations reahsed — of full barns^ and 
 well- stocked granaries — of joyous rustics, and 
 happy farmers ! Let us wander forth while the 
 fresh breezes of morning are abroad, and saunter 
 through the meadow-paths, and the unfrequented 
 lanes. The hedges show tokens of the season, 
 which the loaded waggons have left tangled toge- 
 ther in their thorny embraces, and the ground is 
 sprinkled with similar testimonies. Swarms of 
 insects are buzzing about, and now, like a winged 
 flower, a butterfly comes, fluttering by, pursued 
 
98 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 by a truant school-boy. His hat is in his hand, and 
 his features are flushed with heat and excitement 
 — ^the prize is within his reach, and he rushes for- 
 ward to secure it — he utters a loud cry of exulta- 
 tion — it is within his grasp, but, even in the very 
 act of seizing it, his treasure is destroyed, and he 
 holds in his hand a crushed and lifeless mass ; 
 reminding me that a similar termination awaits 
 the pursuits of a maturer age. What melody is 
 that which now greets my ear ? It is the song of 
 a bird — a solitary warbler. I look around and 
 above me, but the musician is beyond my ken — 
 the song is soft, a gentle, almost a melancholy one, 
 yet it harmonizes well with the season of the year. 
 Far up in the calm air is the little songster cir- 
 cling, though its notes are clear and distinctly 
 heard — it is the woodlark. In the freshness of 
 spring its song is scarcely audible amid the louder 
 tones of its fellow minstrels, but now it is alone, 
 and its sweet and plaintive melody is heard and 
 appreciated. Now another sound salutes me — it 
 can scarcely be called a song — it is the voice of the 
 yellow-hammer, a beautiful little bird, not much 
 larger than the sparrow, which loves to nestle in 
 low bushes near the corn-fields. The young rus- 
 tics call it a bread-and-cheese bird, for its notes 
 they say express the words, " a very little bit of 
 bread, and no cheese." The open fields burst upon 
 
HARVEST HOME. 
 
 99 
 
 my view, and disclose the nut-brown harvesters 
 busy at their employment. The waving grain falls 
 as they advance — -joy lights up their features, and 
 the merry song and jocund laugh beguile their 
 toils, which are fast drawing to a close. The 
 labours of the harvest field are thus depicted by 
 Thomson : — 
 
 " Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand, 
 In fair array ; each by the lass he loves, 
 To bear the rougher part, and mitigate 
 By nameless gentle offices her toil. 
 At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves ; 
 While through their cheerful band the rural talk, 
 The rural scandal, and the rural jest, 
 Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time. 
 And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. 
 Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks ; 
 And, conscious, glancing off on every side 
 His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy. 
 The gleaners spread around, and here and there, 
 Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick." 
 
 Now the last waggon is loaded, and departs 
 amidst the shouts of the reapers, whilst the poor 
 gleaners follow in its track, to collect its scatter- 
 ings. The labourer wipes the sweat from his brow, 
 and surveys with a gratified eye, and a swelling 
 heart, the fields in which his powers have been 
 displayed ; and he boasts to his comrades of the 
 
100 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS, 
 
 exertions which he has made, and of the thousands 
 that have fallen beneath the strokes of his blood- 
 less blade. He thinks of the jolly harvest-supper, 
 and the quips and cranks which are its attendants, 
 and he hastens away to join in the festivities 
 which he knows are awaiting him. The shades of 
 evening gather around me. The hedges are now 
 peopled with glow-worms, whose ineffectual fires" 
 are streaming out from the green glooms, thick as 
 the starry clusters above them. The moon has a 
 full and bright light, and the youthful peasant 
 and the rosy-cheeked maiden are winding their 
 way up the -lone and tortuous lanes. The timid 
 swain lounges along, now near, and now a yard or 
 two distant from his partner, entirely at a loss 
 what to say, or how to deport himself, and whit- 
 tling a stick by way of employing his hands. The 
 bolder and more accomplished wooer — the village 
 Lothario — steals his arm round his fair one's 
 waist, whispers insinuating words into her ears, 
 which are met by professions of incredulity and 
 an occasional titter, the whole terminating with 
 that peculiar a,nd unmistakeable sound which is 
 caused by the contact of those portions of the 
 human countenance usually called into request on 
 such occasions. But what noise is that which 
 swells upon the air, and makes the lovers scamper 
 off in its direction, like soldiers hurrying away at 
 
HARVEST HOME, 
 
 101 
 
 the call of the arousing drum ? It is the cry of 
 " largess !" and away go the rustics, to partake of 
 the sports and feasts of which that cry is the har- 
 binger. 
 
 The time of the harvest varies in different dis- 
 tricts, according to the situation of the corn lands. 
 It is two or three weeks later in the mountainous 
 parts of Derbyshire than in Cheshire ; but late 
 and early sowing, and good and bad farming, will, 
 of course, make a great difference. The chief 
 time for its commencement is the beginning of 
 August, but in the midland and southern parts of 
 England it is often commenced in July, while in 
 the north nothing material can be done until the 
 first or second weeks in September. The method 
 of getting in the corn varies as much as the times 
 for commencing the harvest. Some reap it with a 
 sickle, and bind it into sheaves ; others cut it in a 
 peculiar way with the scythe, and either leave it 
 without binding up, or make it into bundles. In 
 most parts of the kingdom rye and wheat crops 
 are cut with the sickle or reaping-hook, an instru- 
 ment which appears to have been used for the 
 purpose from the earliest period of the art of hus- 
 bandry. In some cases a sickle is used, toothed 
 like a saw, whilst by others one with a keen cut- 
 ting edge is employed. With respect to height 
 and other circumstances, reaping is performed dif- 
 
102 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 ferently, according to the custom of the district. 
 In the midland counties, and many of those on 
 the south-east coast, it is usual to cut the wheat 
 at the height of twelve or fifteen and sometimes 
 eighteen inches from the earth, whilst in other 
 counties it is reaped close to the ground. 
 
 When the moon is at full, she rises, during the 
 season of harvest, sooner after sunset than she 
 does at any other time of the year. This is called 
 the Harvest Moon, and its light is of the greatest 
 benefit to those engaged in getting in the harvest. 
 Kirk White thus apostrophizes it : — 
 
 *'^Moon of Harvest, I do love 
 O'er the upland now to rove ; 
 "While thy modest ray serene 
 . Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 
 And to watch thee riding high 
 On the blue vault of the sky 
 Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, 
 ^ But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way." 
 
 Many curious ceremonies were formerly ob- 
 served, in different parts of England, during the 
 time of harvest, and at its conclusion. Some of 
 the customs are still in existence. From time 
 immemorial it has been customary for the parish 
 clerk of Driffield to ring what is termed the 
 harvest-bell." This is done by giving the prin- 
 
HARVEST HOME. 
 
 103 
 
 tiipal bell of the church a merry swing for several 
 minutes, at five o'clock in the morning, and at 
 seven in the evening, to give notice to the har- 
 vesters when to begin and end their labours. 
 This would be very serviceable before clocks and 
 watches came to be generally used. The reward 
 of the clerk, for the performance of this duty, was 
 a small portion of corn from each crop, but now 
 he receives an equivalent in money. Images made 
 of straw or stubble used to be carried from the 
 harvest fields followed by a piper, or a drummer, 
 and the men and women danced and sung around 
 them. The figures were called Kern-hahies. In'the 
 western Island of Scotland the reapers unite in 
 chanting a harvest-song, by which the strokes of 
 their sickles are regulated. Thus their labours are 
 lightened, and their occupations converted into 
 hours of joy and festivity. Lammas Day, or the 
 first of August, was anciently the nominal day for 
 commencing the harvest in England.''^ Lammas 
 
 By an act, called the Statute of Labourers, 25th 
 Edward III., in 1351, it is provided, ''that no carter, 
 ploughman, day or other servants, shall take in the tinie 
 of searching, or hay-making, but a penny the day ; and 
 mowers of meadows for the acre fivepence, or by the day 
 fivepence, and reapers of corn in the first week of August, 
 twopence, and the second threepence, and so on till the 
 end of August ; and less in the country, where less was 
 
104 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Day is most probably derived from an old Saxon 
 term, signifying Loaf- Mass ; as it was the custom 
 of the Saxons to offer an oblation of loaves made 
 of new wheat, on this day, as the first-fruits of 
 their new corn. Paul Hentzner thus describes the 
 manner of celebrating harvest-home in Queen Eli- 
 zabeth's time : — " As we were returning to our inn, 
 we happened to meet some country-people cele- 
 brating harvest-home : their last load of corn they 
 crowned with flowers, having besides an image 
 richly dressed, by which, perhaps, they would sig- 
 nify Ceres; this they keep moving about, while 
 men- and women, men and maid-servants, riding 
 through the streets in the cart, shout as loud as 
 they can till they arrive at the barn." 
 
 In Northumberland, when their labours were 
 
 wont to be given, without meat or drink or other cour- 
 tesy ; and that all workmen bring openly in their hands 
 to the market-towns their instruments, and these shall be 
 hired in a common place, and not privy. And that no 
 servant go out of the town where he dwelleth in the win- 
 ter to serve in the summer, if he can get service in the 
 same town, taking as before is said ; saving that the peo- 
 ple of the counties of Stafford, Lancaster, and Derby, and 
 people of Craven, and of the marshes of Wales and Scot- 
 land, and other places, may come in time of August, and 
 labour in other counties, and safely return, as they were 
 wont to do before this time." 
 
HARVEST HOME. 
 
 105 
 
 finished, the reapers used to raise a great shout^ 
 and cry out — 
 
 Corn is all shorn ! 
 Blessed be the day Jesus Christ was born ! 
 Kern ! a Kern ! a hoo !" 
 
 In Suffolk, the man who goes foremost through 
 the harvest is dignified with the cry of " Lord/' 
 and at the horkey, or harvest-home feasts, collects 
 what he can, for himself and fellow-labourers, 
 from the farmers and their guests, to make a frolic 
 afterwards, called the "largess spending." After 
 the collection they leave the house, and loudly cry 
 out "largess," shouting according to the number 
 of sums that have been given, and so as to be 
 heard by the inhabitants of the neighbouring farm- 
 houses. They then proceed to make merry, and 
 spend the night in mirth and feasting. 
 
 In Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, similar customs 
 are in existence, and the following lines are used 
 to celebrate the harvest-home in the latter coun- 
 try 
 
 The last load is pitched, decked with many a bough, 
 And we lead it away to the homestead and mow ; 
 Haiuhey, Havikey, we cry, every man, woman, boy. 
 And join heart and voice in the full harvest joy \ 
 Hawkey J Hawlcey, we cry, and glad voices raise ; 
 To the giver of all be all thanks and all praise 1" 
 
 a 
 
lOG 
 
 SHAKSPERE. 
 
 How shall we speak of him whose cherish'd name 
 Is link'd to glorious and undying fame j 
 Poet of every clime, and class, and age, 
 The worshipp'd wonder of the world's wide stage 1 
 What pen can write, what tongue can speak of him 
 In terms that seems not lustreless and dim ] 
 Yet turn we ever wondering to the past. 
 To pierce the shroud round Shakspere's greatness 
 cast. 
 
 How look'd he in his mortal life, how spoke 
 Those lips that passions numberless have woke ? 
 How fashion d was the temple that enshrined 
 The rare and matchless jewel of his mind ? 
 What was the seeming of his human form, 
 Ere it became a dweller of the worm ? ' 
 What were the sources from whose founts he drew 
 His draughts of knowledge, ever fresh and true ? 
 What volumes came before his studious sight, 
 Whose leaves for him bore fruits of wise delight % 
 
SHAKSPERE.. 
 
 107 
 
 Who were the co-mates of that wondrous man, 
 Who knew alike both prince and artizan 1 
 With equal skill he painted mirth and woe — 
 What joys were his, what sorrows did he know? 
 Alike he knew the smallest, greatest things, 
 The schemes of pedlars, and the plots of kings. 
 The buoyant hopes of youth, the cares of age, 
 The quips of jester, and the saws of sage. 
 With fairy elves he fill'd the mystic green, 
 Or cast his spells o'er some enchanted scene ; 
 For him the past gave up its mighty dead, 
 And heroes paced again with mailed tread ; 
 He waved at will his ever potent wand, 
 And forms appear'd from known and unknown land : 
 His genius and his life must ever be 
 At once a miracle and mystery 1 
 
 Great Shakspere ! — at the name each bosom thrills. 
 And every heart with fond emotion fills — 
 Glory of nations 1 'tis our boast and pride 
 To say on England's shore he lived and died 1 
 In his own birth-place did his eye-lids close. 
 In native earth his " honour'd bones" repose. 
 No high ancestral lineage did he trace, 
 He was the best and greatest of his race, 
 Noblest of nobles, king of sovereign men, 
 Who sway the soul, whose sceptre is the pen. 
 
108 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASON'S. 
 
 Wherever mind curbs might, or thought is free^ 
 
 The people own his heart-throned majesty. 
 
 We have the dwelling where his childish eyes 
 
 First learn'd to look upon the blessed skies, 
 
 Where once he clung around the parent knee, 
 
 And lisp'd the words of guileless infancy. 
 
 There pass'd the morning of his life, whose prime 
 
 Pour'd quenchless splendour o'er his land and time ; 
 
 And near that home came on his eve and night — 
 
 To him the heralds of immortal light. 
 
 And shall we suffer then to pass away 
 
 Our Shakspere's home like things of common clay ; 
 
 Shall ruin desecrate his loved retreat. 
 
 The hallow'd shrine of thousand pilgrim feet ? 
 
 It must not be 1 — those lowly walls shall stand. 
 
 Guarded with reverent care, to grace the land ; 
 
 And countless suns shall yet a radiance shed 
 
 O'er that dear roof which shelter'd Shakspere's head ! 
 
109 
 
 OH ! DOST THOU REMEMBER THOSE 
 MOMENTS OF GLADNESS. 
 
 Oh ! dost thou remember those moments of glad- 
 ness, 
 
 That faded away like a dream of delight, 
 And left us to pine o'er their absence in sadness, 
 As we muse o'er bright visions in darkness of 
 night j 
 
 That joy was a blossom my pathway adorning, 
 
 Too rich in its odour and beauty to last, 
 As the flower which has birth with the light of 
 the morning, 
 And dies when the day and the sunbeams have 
 past. 
 
 Loved voices cheer'd us, and laughter was ringing. 
 
 More merry than bells in the gay bridal-hour ; 
 
 Time o'er our heads was as rapidly winging. 
 
 As ever it flew o'er a love-haunted bower ; 
 2 G 
 
110 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Thine eyes were twin-orbs^ that were beaming with 
 splendour, 
 
 More bright than the stars when the clouds they 
 peep through ; 
 But, oh 1 their pure light was so witching and tender, 
 That to me they seem'd violets sprinkled with dew. 
 
 Enchanting the tones in mine ear thou wert breath- 
 ing, 
 
 Mine was a bliss that my tongue could not speak. 
 For the tresses of beauty, thy fair face enwreathing. 
 
 The wandering breezes swept over my cheek ; 
 Blest moments at times from our cares we may 
 borrow, 
 
 That years of our life we would give to recall ; 
 But, oh ! in my course through this valley of sorrow. 
 Those moments with thee were the sweetest of all ! 
 
Ill 
 
 THE GIN PALACE. 
 
 I STAND within a wide and lofty room, 
 Whose roof is fretted o'er with rare device, 
 Rich with the painter's and the gilder's art ; 
 The walls are cover'd with full many a scene 
 Of love, romance, and war, on land and sea ; 
 Mirrors of price reflect the gazer's form. 
 And pillars bright, and burnish'd chandeliers. 
 And moon-like lights shed brilliance over alL 
 The place might be some temple of delight. 
 Formed to give joy to proud and wealthy man ; 
 But 'tis accursed — and I could almost deem 
 The lamps were demon-heads that calFd to sin, 
 Or lights that lead to darkness and despair — ■ 
 The pictured walls seem dabbled o'er with blood, 
 Drain'd from the fountains of the human heart. 
 Look on the inmates of that splendid place ! 
 With sunken eyes, and cheeks emaciate. 
 And forms enveloped in foul rags, not clad, 
 
112 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 They crowd around, and ask the drink of death — 
 
 The drink of poverty, disgrace, and shame. 
 
 The glittering, gorgeous casks are ranged around, 
 
 Mark'd with the name of various deadly draughts ; 
 
 Some sweet to taste, in operation slow ; 
 
 Others strong, burning, maddening, swift — all sure. 
 
 Behold yon female, young, but worn and wan, 
 
 With swimming eyes and inarticulate speech, 
 
 The widow of a drunkard — she did seek 
 
 Comfort from that which all her hope destroyed — 
 
 To drown her sorrows in the liquid fire 
 
 That flames and sparkles in the crystal glass — 
 
 That scorching lava of the human soul, 
 
 Which bears more ruin, in its burning tide, 
 
 Than e'er was vomited from out the jaws 
 
 Of those terrific mountains which have whelm'd 
 
 The pride of cities with their horrid spawn. 
 
 Look on yon figure, grimed and seared with toil — 
 
 Gone is the self-esteem which once was his, 
 
 Based on his strength of limb and skilful hand ; 
 
 No more with swelling heart he thinks of home. 
 
 And of his household treasures boasting speaks ; 
 
 'No more with joy he views his children's forms. 
 
 And hears their prattle with a fond delight ; 
 
 No more they come when sounds his welcome voice, 
 
 And cling around him with hilarious shouts ; 
 
 No more they list, with anxious ear the clock 
 
THE GIN-PALACE. 
 
 113 
 
 To tell the hour which brought their parent home^ 
 Whilst at the sound their mother s beaming eyes^ 
 And pleasant smiles, illumed her quiet face, 
 As quick aside her work she threw, and rose^ 
 With busy action, to prepare the meal. 
 The simple meal, which cheer'd the son of toil. 
 That home for him hath lost its wonted charm ; 
 Of household treasures he no more can boast — 
 His children's forms are clothed in ragged garb, 
 Their youthful cheeks have lost their roseate hue^ 
 And at his voice in tears they trembling fly ; 
 Instead of fond caress descends a blow. 
 And reckless curses stop their cries for food. 
 With haggard cheek, his suffering, trembling wife^ 
 The cheerful evening meal no more prepares — 
 An empty cupboard mocks and grieves her heart ; 
 And even if the means were hers to spread 
 The fare of old before her husband now, 
 Too well she knows the drunkard's taste would 
 spurn 
 
 The simple beverage with an oath of scorn. 
 Away with thought ! — fill high the glass again I 
 The demon-palace hath a blaze of light, 
 And crowds of victims quaff the drink of death ; 
 Some grasp each other's hands in maudlin mood^ 
 And vow eternal friendship, which endures, 
 The draining of another glass, and then 
 
114 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 The friends are turn'd to fierce and bitter foes, 
 And blows are interchanged, and words of hate. 
 Some in the ears of heedless strangers breathe 
 The secrets they had treasured up for years ; 
 Some scatter round, with hands profuse, the coin 
 Which is not theirs to spend — ^they dream not then 
 Of stony prison-walls and gloomy cell. 
 Ere long to be their portion, or perchance 
 A dreary exile to a convict's home, 
 Where they must live in chains a life of toil. 
 Away with thought 1— it is a glorious scene, 
 At which the fiends might clap their hands for joy, 
 And hold in hell a feast to celebrate 
 The happy tidings that a host of guests 
 Were paving for themselves a broad highway. 
 O'er which, with headlong and infuriate speed. 
 They might rush madly, in uncheck'd career, 
 To the eternal regions of the damn d. 
 There beauty without virtue stalks about, 
 The painted herald of her own disgrace, 
 Making strange mockery at her fallen state. 
 Her lips polluted with foul words of crime. 
 And changed the very nature of her sex. 
 There is the mother with her shrivell'd babe. 
 Pouring the poison in its crying mouth ; 
 There is the beldame, with a trembling hand. 
 Lifting the poison to her blacken'd lips ; 
 There is the beggar spending doled-out alms 
 
TPIE CONVENT BELLS. 115 
 
 With a free spirit and a liberal hand ; 
 There is the lurking thief^ with wandering look, 
 Strengthening his courage for the nightly prowl — 
 Away with thought ! — it is a glorious scene ! 
 
 THE CONVENT BELLS. 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
 How many a tale their music tells. 
 Of youth and home and that sweet time, 
 When last I heard their soothing chime ! 
 
 Those joyous hours are past away ! 
 And many a heart that then was gay, 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
 And hears no more those evening bells 1 
 
 And so 'twill be when I am gone ; 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
 While other bards shall walk these dells, 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells ! 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Thebe are few hearts that will not respond to the 
 sentiment embodied in the above beautiful lines^ and 
 
116 FLO^?EES FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 feel how truthfully the poet has struck one of the 
 chords of human nature. There is ever to me a 
 something melancholy blended with the sound of 
 bells, whether they ring on the occasion of a wed- 
 ding or a burial, or to celebrate the anniversary of 
 a great victory. The merry peal seems to speak 
 of the thoughtless joy ousness with which youth is 
 too apt to enter into one of the most serious and 
 important engagements in existence, and which 
 may terminate in weal or woe, according to cir- 
 cumstances, or the prudence and economy exer- 
 cised by the contracting parties. At all events a 
 great change has taken place — the interest of two 
 human beings must henceforth become one — gaiety 
 and frivolous pursuits must be thrown aside — each 
 party must put in practice the virtue of forbear- 
 ance, and a certain amount of what was previously 
 thought enjoyment must be given up — old friend- 
 ships give place to a cool intimacy, and some faults 
 are speedily discovered on what appeared to be a 
 mirror of perfection. New responsibilities are 
 incurred — a young generation will cry out for pro- 
 tection and support, and the business of life has, 
 in fact, commenced. Then there is that solemn 
 solitary knell, which falls upon the ear like a voice 
 from the spirit-land, and speaks of hopes over- 
 thrown, of wailing widows and desolate orphans, of 
 greedy expectants, and dissolute heirs awaiting 
 
» 
 
 THE CONVENT BELLS. 117 
 
 possession of life hoarded-gains, in order that they 
 may squander them in reckless riot and extrava- 
 gance. A parent may have been bereft of some 
 dear household-bird, which had been the music of 
 his dwelling — a husband may be sorrowing by his 
 lonely hearth for one whom he won in the fresh 
 morning of her loveliness, or death may have sev- 
 ered the silken band of affection which unites 
 children who are parentless. Then again, when the 
 clattering peal of triumph bursts forth, my ima- 
 gination wanders away to the bloody scene which 
 was the origin of the loud and swelling harmony ; 
 and pictures of the dying and dead, and those who 
 survive to mourn, rise up before me, telling strange 
 tales of those things which make up great events, 
 and bringing with them an awful moral to be ap- 
 pended to our national rejoicings. Many times 
 have I sat full of 'Hhick coming fancies," as the 
 peal was heard which announced the death of one 
 year and the coming of its successor, and the 
 sound has struck me as being an apt emblem of 
 the world, which is as ready to shout for the living 
 monarch as the one just departed. 
 
 As bells may be truly termed " music for the 
 million," a few particulars respecting their early 
 history may not be without interest. It is stated 
 that Croyland Abbey had the first ring of bells in 
 England ; they were six in number, and put up in 
 
 H 
 
 i. 
 
« 
 
 118 FL0WEK8 I^^OK ALL !SLA80NS. 
 
 Edgars reign. The exact date wlveii bells were 
 invented cannot be ascertained. The ancients it 
 appears from Martial, Jnvenal, Suetonius, and 
 others, had an article named tintinnabula (usually 
 translated bell), by which the Ptomans were sum- 
 monel to the baths and public places. The de- 
 scription of bells now used in churches were, in 
 all probability, invented about the year 400 ; and, 
 before the commencement of the seventh century 
 they were generally adopted. The Jews used 
 trumpets to call the people to worship ; and 
 sounding brass, and basins were used, previous to 
 the invention of bells. Sounding boards, or iron 
 plates full of holes, are made use of at the present 
 time by the monks of Egypt, and also in Greece, . 
 where they strike upon them with a mallet, to 
 summon the hearers to divine service. In England 
 it was formerly the custom in monasteries to visit 
 every person's cell early in the morning, and knock 
 at the door with an instrument termed a wakening 
 mallet, which would be anything but a welcome 
 intrusion on the slumbers of the monks. When 
 bells were properly established it was supposed 
 that devils were affrighted at their sounds ; it was, 
 therefore, requisite that they should be baptized, 
 anointed, and exorcised, after which they were 
 imagined to have the power of calming storms, 
 causing fair weather, recreating the dead, and 
 
THE (MJNVENT BELLS. 
 
 driving the devils out of the air. A record of this 
 practice exists in the great bells of Lincoln and 
 Oxford, which were baptized by the name of Tho- 
 mas, in honour of Thomas-a-Becket, Archbishop 
 of Canterbury. Bells thus being made the object 
 of superstitious veneration in the minds of the 
 common people, they were soon used at rejoicings, 
 and high festivals in the church (for the purpose 
 of driving away any evil spirit which might be in 
 the neighbourhood), as well as on the arrival of 
 any great personage. It is said that the custom 
 of tolling a bell on the occasion of a person's death 
 was originally practised in a very different manner 
 from what it is at present. It was denominated 
 the soul bell, (as it signified the departing of a 
 soul), and also the passing bell. The object was 
 to obtain the prayers of all who heard it for the 
 repose of the soul of the departing ; and it was, 
 therefore tolled hefoi^e death, and not after as at the 
 present day. We must not omit to mention ano- 
 ther remarkable event connected with bells ; this 
 was the tolling of the Curfew, which was a custom 
 put in practice by the Norman Conqueror, com- 
 manding the English to extinguish all lights and 
 fires at a certain time in the evening. This custom 
 has been alluded to by Wordsworth in the follow- 
 ing lines : 
 
120 FLOWEKS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the Curfew's knell ! — the stars may shine, 
 But of the lights that cherish household cares 
 And festive gladness, burns not one that dares 
 To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine. 
 Emblem and instrument from Thames to Tyne, 
 Of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares." 
 
 Having concluded our discursive introductory 
 remarks, we now proceed with, our narrative^ the 
 main incident of which we believe to be true. 
 
 It was a beautiful sumaier's evening in one of 
 Italy's most beautiful villages, and the sky wore 
 that transparent hue^ of which Englishmen can 
 form little idea, except what is gathered from the 
 productions of the artist. It was a festival — for 
 there are many in that gay clime — and the youth 
 of both sexes were mingling in the dance, whilst 
 the old people were lazily reclining on the green 
 sward, watching the sports which they could no 
 longer take an active part in, but which vividly 
 recalled the days of their own spring-time to their 
 remembrance ; apart from the rest, and leaning 
 against a tree, which almost concealed him with its 
 umbrageous shade, was a youth who had not yet 
 looked upon his twentieth summer, but who, from 
 his pensive attitude, might have been of far more 
 mature years. His eyes were downcast, save ever 
 and anon when he threw a brief and hurried glance to- 
 wards the festive scene, which however, caused him 
 
THE CONVENT BELLS. 121 
 
 to sigh heavily, He was well-formed and graceful, 
 and his countenance beamed with an intelligence 
 not to be found in the features of his more vivaci- 
 ous neighbours. He at all times studiously shun- 
 ned the society of most of those of his own sex and 
 age, and was in return looked upon by them as a 
 wild and visionary enthusiast. 
 
 There is usually some one of more importance 
 than another in all communities, and it happened, 
 in this peaceful little spot, that fortune had smiled 
 more upon one individual than the rest. Whether 
 his wealth was owing to chance may be doubted^ 
 when it is stated that he was uniformly attentive 
 to his own interest, and was universally known as 
 a shrewd and calculating man. It had pleased 
 providence to bless him with one child, " a daugh- 
 ter passing fair," who, as a natuml consequence, 
 was the object of much jealousy and envious re- 
 marks from her own sex, and of rivalry and admir- 
 ation amongst the other. It was this fair specimen 
 of feminine creation that was - the means of occa- 
 sionally causing the visionary to cast a wistful 
 glance towards the dancers, and to feel the flush of 
 .indignation suffuse his cheek as she honoured any 
 of the young men with her notice. Slie was frank 
 and light-hearted, but her impulses were all on the 
 side of virtue and kindness, and her sweet and 
 smiling countenance gave little index of the lasting 
 
122 
 
 FLOWERS FOR AFJ. SEASONS. 
 
 and intense affection which she cherished in her in- 
 most soul towards him who now bent on her his 
 anxious and fearful glances. It was in vain that 
 he had frequently importuned her to allow him to 
 make his sentiments known to her father ; she 
 knew too well that his fiat would be one which 
 would be unfavourable to their hopes, and perhaps 
 irrevocable, when the only qualifications possessed 
 by her lover were an enthusiastic and ardent dis- 
 position, and a passionate appreciation of music, in 
 which divine art he had attained to an eminence 
 which placed him above all competitors of his own 
 class of life. He would at times ramble away, and 
 be unheard of for weeks together, the places he had 
 visited, and the object of his journey being alike 
 unknown. It was in vain that he was questioned 
 by those most intimate with him ; he preserved a 
 most resolute silence on the cause of his frequent 
 absences from home. To his beloved alone did he 
 impart the darling scheme which he contemplated 
 achieving. The first sounds that had become en- 
 deared to him in his childhood were the tones of 
 the neighbouring convent bells, and hours were 
 passed by him in still and solitary places whilst 
 listening to their harmony. Their deep music ex- 
 ercised an uncontrollable spell over him, and when- 
 ever their tones broke upon his ear, he would rush 
 away from all society, and be seen not again until 
 
THE CONVENT BELLS. 
 
 the music had ceased. He had conceived a burning 
 desire to be himself the maker of a peal of bells 
 which should eclipse those of his native village^ 
 and it was for the purpose of listening to such 
 bells as he had heard famed for their sweetness and 
 power that he had so often rambled many miles 
 from home. Love and ambition, when they be- 
 come united, form strong incentives to a man's con- 
 duct, and he had now arrived at a crisis which was 
 to exercise a decided influence over his future des- 
 tiny. He determined to make the maiden's father 
 acquainted with his love, and know at once what 
 must be the fortune of him who should be ac- 
 cepted as a favoured suitor. Having sought the 
 old man, he briefly poured out the secret of his 
 soul, which was listened to with much coolness and 
 complacency. The father informed him that want 
 of money was the only impediment in the way, and 
 that until it was removed he must never hope for 
 his consent to the union. With the business-like 
 air of a merchant who fixes the price of some costly 
 piece of merchandize, he was told what sum would 
 be expected, and bidden to think of the means to obtain 
 it. For a few moments the youth stood in silence, 
 and then addressed the old man thus :— " Farewell ! 
 the die is cast ! I will fulfil the contract. I swear 
 to thee thou shalt see me not again unless I come 
 with plenteous store of gold. The sum thou 
 
124 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 namest shall be thine. Maiden," said he as the 
 daughter approached, " remember thou hast pledg- 
 ed to me thy troth. Be faithful, or be whose thou 
 wilt. The love that cannot stand the test of years 
 of absence is not worth the having." She would 
 have spoken, but he was gone. 
 
 Weeks, months, years passed away, and the 
 youth returned not to his native village. During 
 this time he devoted himself with unremitting 
 assiduity to the task for which he had left his home. 
 He placed himself under the tuition of one well- 
 skilled in the amalgamation of metals, and anxious 
 days and sleepless nights were consumed in toil 
 and study. With a perseverance and determina- 
 tion, which enthusiasm alone could have sustained, 
 he continued to prosecute his experiments, until 
 at last a glorious peal was completed, possessing all 
 the harmonious requisites he had so long laboured 
 to produce. 0 how he doated on their sweet and 
 mellow voices — how he dwelt upon each sound 
 they emitted, with as much delight and fondness 
 as a father would listen to the silvery accents of 
 his first-born babe. By turns he heard them ming- 
 ling in his dreams, or fancied that some dire acci- 
 dent had entirely destroyed them, and started up 
 in agony to satisfy himself, by minutely inspecting 
 each, that they were unharmed. He became so 
 attached to these productions of his skill, that he 
 
 % 
 
THE CONVENT BELLS. 
 
 125 
 
 could scarcely endure the thought of parting with 
 them, and, like another Prometheus, became ena- 
 moured of his own creations. The price he fixed 
 upon them was large, and such as he could not reason- 
 ably think would be obtained for them. Many 
 liberal offers were made him and rejected, until in 
 the end the prior of a neighbouring convent paid 
 the sum he demanded, and became the possessor 
 of the bells. He saw them properly fixed in their 
 respective places, and, when he heard for the first 
 time their full flood of sound, it seemed as if his 
 soul would have mingled with their rich swell and 
 passed away in the delicious music that was wafted 
 along by the breeze. 
 
 At length he returned to his birth-place, and 
 having found the beloved one of his early life still 
 faithful, and now parentless, he bore her away as 
 his bride to the neighbourhood of his cherished 
 bells, and purchased a small estate, where he might 
 sit in the stillness of the twilight, and listen to the 
 music that floated from the convent cliff. Children 
 were born to him, and he would wander hand in 
 hand with them through green and quiet places? 
 alternately hearkening to their prattle, or drinking 
 in the music of his own bells. Blest with a true 
 and affectionate partner, his happiness was uninter- 
 rupted, and he became a grey and contented old 
 2 H 
 
126 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASON'S. 
 
 man. So peaceful was the retired vale in which 
 he resided that it seemed to him as if the music 
 of his bells were endow^ed wdth a charm that dis- 
 pelled all things discordant from its vicinity ; and, 
 when he heard of intestine feuds, he laughed in 
 fancied security, and ridiculed the idea of his 
 dwelling ever being desolated by the ravages of 
 warfare. But his happiness, like most earthly 
 bliss, was not destined to be unbroken, and the 
 storm of destruction and death which had so long 
 been averted now broke over his hitherto blest 
 abode. The blood-hounds of war were let loose, 
 and penetrated into the most holy as well as into 
 the most humble places. The old man s dwelling 
 became the prey of devouring flames, and his wife 
 and children were savagely butchered by a plun- 
 dering horde of ruffians. Wounded almost to death 
 and left amongst the slain, he yet escaped with 
 life, but he was houseless, wifeless, childless, and 
 a beggar. He cast his streaming eyes towards the 
 convent cliff from which for so many years his ears 
 had feasted on such deliciou music. He enquired 
 for his bells, and found that they too were lost to 
 him, the spoilers having desecrated the sanctity of 
 the convent and pillaged it of all things valuable. 
 The bells had been carried away no one knew whi- 
 tlier. Desolate and homeless as he now was, he 
 resolved to brave every peril and distress, and tra- 
 
THE CONVENT BELLS. 127 
 
 • 
 
 vel over strange lands in the hope of hearing the 
 sounds of his own music ere he sunk into the 
 grave. Long did he wander, and many — many- 
 fruitless journies did he undertake, yet still the 
 old man perseA^ered. It v/as a sweet and balmy 
 evening, and the vessel in which he sailed was 
 fast nearing the port ; the blue waters danced in 
 sparkling foam around the prow, and though the 
 wanderer was in a far-off clime, the thoughts of his 
 own land came strongly upon him, and he seemed 
 to breathe the air of his native Italy. What 
 sound is that which strikes upon his ear — can it 
 be possible — does he dream — that merry peal — 
 those sweet and never-to-be-forgotten tones, does 
 he hear them once more 1 He reclines back in a 
 delirium of ecstatic joy — his wife and children 
 seem to live again — his happy dwelling rises before 
 his eyes — his heart swells as though he w^ould drink 
 in the clear and liquid notes of his ancient and 
 joyous companions. One by one the voyagers 
 spring on shore, but the entranced and aged wan- 
 derer moves not — they seek to rouse him from his 
 apparent stupor — the sturdy mariners call to him 
 and point to the long wished for land ; but, alas ! 
 they call in vain — ^liis last breath has mingled with 
 the tones of his own bells, and the spirit and the 
 clay are disunited ! 
 
TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with many cares, 
 
 Thy brow is overcast, 
 And thy fair face a shadow wears, 
 
 That tells of sorrows past ; 
 But music hath thy tongue for me — 
 How dark soe'er my lot may be, 
 I turn for comfort, love, to thee. 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
 Thy gentle eyes are not so bright 
 
 As when I woo'd thee first. 
 Yet still they have the same sweet light, 
 
 Which long my heart hath nurst ; 
 They have the same enchanting beam. 
 Which charm'd me in love's early dream, 
 And still with joy on me they stream, 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
TO MY WIFE. 
 
 129 
 
 When all without looks dark and cold, 
 
 And voices change their tone, 
 Nor greet me as they did of old, 
 
 I feel I am not lone ; 
 For thou, my love, art aye the same, 
 And looks and deeds thy faith proclaim- 
 Though all should scorn, thou would'st not blame, 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
 A shadow comes across my heart. 
 
 And overclouds my fate. 
 Whene'er I think thou may'st depart, 
 
 And leave me desolate ; 
 For as the wretch who treads alone 
 Some gloomy path in wilds unknown. 
 Such should I be if thou wert gone, 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
 If thou wert dead, the flowers might spring, 
 
 But I should heed them not ; 
 The merry birds might soar and sing, 
 
 They could not cheer my lot. 
 Before me dark Despair would rise, 
 And spread a pall o'er earth and skies. 
 If shone no more thy loving eyes. 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 And those dear eves have shone throuLrli tears, 
 
 But never look'd unkind, 
 For shatter'd hopes, and troubled years, 
 
 Still closer seem'd to bind 
 Thy pure and trusting heart to mine. 
 Not for thyself did'st thou repine, 
 But all thy husband's grief was thine, 
 
 My beautifulj my wife ! 
 
 When at the eventide I see 
 
 My children throng around, 
 And know the love of them and thee, 
 
 My spirit still is bound 
 To earth, despite of every care : 
 I feel my soul can do and dare, 
 So long as thou my lot dost share, 
 
 My beautiful, my wife ! 
 
131 
 
 THE DYING GIRL. 
 
 i\ND thou art dying, beautiful and young, 
 
 When smiles of joy should on thy lips be playing, 
 And thou shouldst bound with sportive glee along, 
 
 Where merry maids are in the meadows maying. 
 The spring sun shineth through thy window-pane. 
 
 The pleasant breeze with balmy breath is sighing, 
 And thou canst hear the feather'd minstrels' strain. 
 
 In that still room where thou art pale and dying, 
 
 Why is thy spirit summon'd to the skies. 
 
 Untried by years, unvisited by sorrow 1 
 Why art thou call'd, ere yet thy gentle eyes 
 
 Have fear'd to look upon the coming morrow 1 
 Thy cheek hath never paled with anxious care, 
 
 Thy heart hath never throbb'd with guilty sa dness ; 
 Even as thyself, thy course was pure and fair, 
 
 Hallow'd by love, and cheer'd with looks of glad- 
 ness. 
 
132 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Why didst thou leave thine own immortal heaven, 
 For earthly guests to cherish and caress thee ? 
 
 Why unto us wert thon, sweet spirit, given, 
 And caird away when we had learn'd to bless thee] 
 
 Why wert thou fashion'd lovely to the sight ] 
 Why were thine eyes with tender radiance stream- 
 ing ? 
 
 Why didst thou come, young being of delight, 
 To fade like mirage on the pilgrim gleaming 1 
 
 Selfish and weak ! — why should we wish thee here 1 
 Pass to thy home, unspotted, happy spirit; 
 
 Hasten on blissful wing to that glad sphere, 
 Where thou wilt glory evermore inherit. 
 
 Mingle and dwell among the angel-band. 
 
 But, oh ! while stars beneath thy path are burn- 
 ing, 
 
 Think thou at times upon our sinful land. 
 
 And plead for those whose gaze is upw^ards turn- 
 ing. 
 
133 
 
 THE GOLDEN DAY OF YOUTH IS GONE. 
 
 The golden day of youth is gone, 
 
 And shades of night have gather'd round ; 
 I stand to muse and gaze alone — ■ 
 
 My morning mates no more are found ; 
 Some pass'd away at dawn's pure time, 
 
 Some left me with the noontide's ray, 
 But, long ere rang the evening chime, 
 
 The whole were scatter'd far away. 
 
 Some roam'd to bright and distant bowers, 
 
 And gather'd many a fragant gem, 
 Choosing, like bees, the sweetest flowers, 
 
 Which ever seem'd to bloom for them ; 
 As insect pass'd on fluttering wing. 
 
 In thoughtless chase come hurried on. 
 And caught the fair and fragile thing, 
 
 But found its life and beauty gone. 
 
134 
 
 FLOWERS von ALL SIEASONS. 
 
 Some sought the forest's tangled shade, 
 
 Where wild and thick the branches gre\y, 
 Until, so far their feet had stray'd, 
 
 No homeward path the wanderers knew : 
 Yet still, though day's glad hours have fiown^ 
 
 And over earth a shadow lies, 
 Unto the heavens my gaze is thrown, 
 
 And stars are shininof in the skies ! 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon in May, when I first ga- 
 zed upon the rivfer Ayr, spanned by the " Twa 
 Brigs." My first thought, after alighting from the 
 Eailway carriage and looking around me, was of 
 the wonderful power which is possessed by genius 
 of imparting an indescribable charm to a spot 
 which has before been insignificant and uninviting. 
 The place of an author's birth, or the locality as- 
 signed by him to the beings whose existence has 
 only been in his own imagination, is invested with 
 a sort of magnetic power that draws towards it 
 pilgrims from far-off lands, w^hen he 
 
 Who only asked for bread, 
 
 Hath gotten a marble tomb instead/' 
 
 An obscure town or village becomes the abiding- 
 place of some lowly individual, whom wealthy men 
 scarce honour with a passing glance — he becomef^ 
 known as a writer of verses — he is considered a 
 
136 ' FLOWERS FOR ALL SSASOXS. 
 
 clever eccentric sort of fellow by those of his own 
 class — a few chosen spirits only appreciate the 
 splendid genius that is existing amongst them — he 
 dies in poverty and neglect — some brief years 
 elapse, and the world rings wdth the humble poet's 
 name and fame — the land in which he lived, and 
 the scenes which he had peopled with his fancy, 
 are thenceforth hallowed ground. Such was the 
 case with Burns ; and similar things have happen- 
 ed, and will happen, to others who have lived to 
 delight mankind with " thick-coming fancies," and 
 struggle with the evils of an untoward destiny. 
 As I passed over the New Bridge, the poem which 
 immortalized the two structures , came fresh upon 
 my memory, and I recalled 
 
 " That season, when a simple bard, 
 Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
 Ae night, within the ancient burgh of Ayr, 
 By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care," 
 
 left his bed and took his wayward route to where 
 he beheld and listened to the spirits of the " Twa 
 Brigs." 
 
 After I and the friend who accompanied me had 
 secured beds for the night, we sallied forth and 
 took a hasty glance at the town. Ayr has under- 
 gone much improvement of late, and has many 
 handsome buildings. The erection which engrossed 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 1 37 
 
 the greatest share of our attention was Wallace 
 Tower, which stands in High Street. A Statue of 
 Wallace, the workmanship of Thorn, the self-taught 
 sculptor, occupies a niche in the front of the build- 
 ing. Another statue of Wallace, of clumsy and 
 stunted proportions, is placed at the gable-end of a 
 corner house at the east end of ISTewmarket street. 
 According to some accounts this house stands on 
 the site of one which was formerly the court-house, 
 and Wallace was imprisoned in a dungeon there ; 
 whilst other accounts state that Wallace sheltered 
 from his enemies under that roof. Leaving the 
 town we proceeded on our way towards Burns's 
 Monument, which is situated between two and three 
 miles from Ayr. Close to the road on the left, on 
 passing through the toll-bar, is Parkhouse, once 
 the residence of Major Logan, of Camlarg, to 
 whom Burns addressed his amusing epistle, com- 
 mencing "Hail, thairm inspiring, rattling Willie !" 
 Major Logan s " Sentimental sister Susie" also re- 
 ceived, whilst residing at Parkhouse, those beauti- 
 ful verses addressed to " Miss Logan, with Beattie s 
 Poems as a New Year's Gift/' commencing 
 
 Again the silent wheels of time, 
 
 Their annual round have driven, 
 And you, though scarce in maiden prime, 
 
 Are so much nearer Heaven." 
 
138 FLOWERS V\)R FOU SEASONS. 
 
 Descending tlie road we arrived at Slaphouse 
 Bridge, abont 150 yards from which, following 
 the current of the stream, is the ^^ ford" which 
 Burns mentions as a point in the route of Tarn 
 o'Slianter homewards, " Whar in the snaw the chan- 
 mansmoor'd." About one hundred yards from the 
 " ford" and about twenty from the road, near the 
 edge, is another point in Tarn's journey — ■ 
 
 * '^he Meikle Stane, 
 Whar drunken Charlie brak's n<^ck bane." 
 
 When we had passed the second mile-stone and ram- 
 bled about a quarter of a mile further, we discover- 
 ed, at the turn of the road, the cottage in which 
 the ploughman-poet drew his first breath. A 
 large sign-board is placed on the front, stating that 
 Burns was born within those walls, on the 25th 
 of January, 1759. We did not now go into the 
 interior of the cottage, but continued our route to- 
 wards the Monument. On the right of the road, 
 in a field on the farm of Greenfield, marked by a 
 solitary tree, is 
 
 the Cairn 
 
 Whar hunters fan' the murder' d bairn." 
 
 The position of the " Cairn," and also the ford," 
 at a distance from the highway, is accounted for 
 bv the fact that the old road from Ayr, by 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 139 
 
 which Tarn o'Shanter is supposed to have ap- 
 proached Alloway Kirk, was west of the present 
 line. 
 
 The next object which attracted our attention 
 was a small roofless ruin, and we had some diffi- 
 culty in persuading ourselves that we beheld Kirk 
 Alio wa}^, the building was so much more diminuti ve 
 than we had pictured it. Such, however, was the fact, 
 and w^e entered the churchyard. Near the gate, on 
 the left hand, is the grave of Burns's father, marked 
 by a tombstone bearing this inscription, Sacred 
 to the Memorv of William Burness, Farmer in 
 Loclilie, who died on the 13tli of February, 1784, 
 in the 63rd year of his age, and of Agnes Brown, 
 his spouse, who died on the 14th of January, 1820, 
 in the 88th year of her age. She was interred in 
 Bolton churchyard. East Lothian.^' The following 
 epitaph is also engraved upon the tombstone, from 
 the pen of the Poet : — 
 
 Oh ye, whose cheek the tear of pity s'aiiis, 
 
 Draw near with pious reverence and attend ; 
 Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 
 
 The tender father and the generous friend, 
 The pitying heart that felt for human woe, 
 
 The dauntless heart that feared no human pride, 
 The friend of man — to vice alone foe ; 
 
 For e'en his failings leant to virtue's side !" 
 
140 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Were it not for the superstitious interest which 
 Burns has thrown around Kirk Alloway, it would 
 receive but a small share of the traveller's notice. 
 As it is you peep within the old walls, and again 
 conjure up 
 
 " Warlocks and Witches in a dance," 
 
 and fancy you behold, seated on the " winnock- 
 bunker in the east/' that black and grim musician 
 "auld Nick, in shape o' beast." The "winnock 
 bunker" was a small window divided by a thick 
 mullion, and was still preserved, as was also the 
 bell, though several attempts had been made to 
 remove the latter. The old oaken rafters of the 
 Kirk were mostly entire until within the last few 
 years, but they are now quite gone, having been 
 taken away to form into snuff-boxes and other me- 
 morials. The inner part of the Kirk is now di- 
 vided by a partition wall, and the late Lord Allo- 
 way is interred in one of the portions. When the 
 father of Burns died at Lochlie, his family, know- 
 ing his attachment to the place when living, con- 
 veyed his remains a distance of nine miles to Kirk 
 AUoway. It was Burns's wish that he should be 
 interred beside his father, and at his death, two 
 residents of Ayr went to Dumfries for the purpose 
 of carrying his desire into effect, but they were in- 
 
A DAY IN THE LxVND OF BURNS. 
 
 141 
 
 formed by the poet's brother that preparations had 
 been made for interrim^ him in St. Michael's 
 churchyard^ and that it would be imprudent to 
 disappoint the inhabitants^ for the sake of the in- 
 terests of the surviving family. The design was, 
 therefore^ abandoned. The churchyard contains 
 several old and very humble monuments, and it 
 has also many modern ones, erected to the me- 
 mory of various parties whose remains have been 
 brought from a distance. It is said that the grave 
 levels all distinctions, but here it is not so : those 
 who would have scorned or cared not for a living 
 poet, thought it an honour that their bones should 
 rest in a place which a dead bard had consecrated. 
 
 At a little distance from Kirk Alloway stands 
 Burns's Monument^ a beautiful structure of the 
 Composite order, blending the finest models of 
 Grecian and Eoman architecture. It was designed 
 by Mr. Hamilton, and it is stated that it was meant 
 by him to be in some measure a revival of the cele- 
 brated monument of Lysicrates at Athens ; and it 
 also bears some resemblance to the church of San 
 Pietro, in Mantoris at Home. The edifice consists 
 of a triangular basement (representative of the three 
 divisions of Ayrshire, Carrick, Kyle, and Cunning- 
 ham) upon which rises a circular peristyle, sup- 
 porting a cupola. The peristyle consists of nine 
 I 
 
142 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 pillars^ representative of the number of the Muses, 
 thirty feet in height, and of the Corinthian order. 
 They were designed from the three remaining 
 columns of the Comitium in the Forum at Rome. 
 Above the cupola rises a gilt tripod, supported by 
 three inverted dolphins, — fishes sacred to Apollo, 
 and hence selected as ornaments proper to the 
 monument of a poet. The whole building, the 
 cost of which was about <£2,000, is sixty feet in 
 height from the platform within the peristyle. 
 Th€ foundation stone was laid on the 25th Janu- 
 ary, 1820, by the late Sir Alexander Boswell(thenMr. 
 Boswell,) and his address upon the occasion was 
 beautifully appropriate. 
 
 I have said that it was a lovely afternoon in May 
 w^hen I visited the Land of Burns, and the Monu- 
 ment appeared to be fixed in the very heart of one 
 of the most verdantly luxuriant scenes it ever was 
 my lot to look upon. The prospect was no longer 
 bleak as when the first stone of the Monument was 
 laid ; the wood, the hawthorn, and the " birken 
 shaw" were prodigal of leaves, and the air was ring- 
 ing with the songs of birds. The place looked as 
 if God himself had designed it for the birth-place 
 of a poet — earth appeared to grow poetry, and the 
 warbling of the feathered minstrels seemed im- 
 bued with a spirit of melody which I never re- 
 member to have heard elsewhere. Whether it was 
 
I 
 
 A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 143 
 
 the associations that were connected with the place, 
 or whether it was the surpassing beauty of the 
 scenery, or both combined, I know not, but cer- 
 tainly I felt as though it were impossible for the most 
 unimaginative to look on the scene without having 
 his heart filled with the essence of song, though it 
 might not find vent in words. 
 
 We approached the gate which leads to the 
 grounds surrounding the Monument, and enquired 
 of an elderly gentleman, who was examining some 
 timber, how we should gain admittance. He said 
 he believed the gardener was engaged on the 
 grounds, and if we would ring the bell, would con- 
 duct us to the Monument. This gentleman, we af- 
 terwards ascertained, was Mr. Auld, chief patron of 
 Thom the sculptor, and one to whom the admirers 
 of Burns are on many accounts greatly indebted. 
 We did as he directed us, and the gardener then 
 made his appearance. The first place to which he 
 called our notice was a circular apartment of the 
 Monument on the ground floor, lighted by a cu- 
 pola of stained glass, 1 6 feet in height, and 1 8 feet 
 in diameter. A table stands in the centre, on 
 which are placed various relics, and several edi- 
 tions of Burns's works. The Bible given by the 
 poet to Highland Mary is amongst the relics. It 
 is bound in two volumes, which are enclosed in a 
 neat oaken box, with a glass lid. On the fly-leaf 
 
144 
 
 FLOWEHS FOR ALL SEASOXS. 
 
 of the first volume is the followins: text in tlie 
 handwriting of the Bard. "And ye shall not 
 swear by my name falsely : I am the Lord. Levit. 
 xix. 12." In the second, "Thou shalt not forswear 
 thyself, but shall perform unto the Lord thine 
 oaths. Matt. v. 33." And in both volumes is 
 written " Robert Bums, Mossgiel/' with his Mason's 
 mark appended, partly obliterated ; in one of 
 them is preserved a lock of Highland Mary's hair.^^* 
 There are also several other articles appropriate to 
 the place — a copy by Stevens of Nai smith's por- 
 trait of Burns — a snuff-box made from the wood- 
 work of Kirk Alloway — eight chairs manufactued 
 from the beam which supported the bell in the old 
 steeple of Ayr — the bell of " The Dungeon Clock" 
 — and several sketches, illustrating the poetry of 
 Burns, are painted on the panelling of the doors. 
 
 When we left the interior of the Monument we 
 ascended a flight of stairs, to reach the base of the 
 columns. It is here that a view which is most 
 magnificent and indescribable bursts upon the 
 sight. Far abler pens than mine have failed in 
 pour tray ing it, and I shall not be so presumptuous 
 as to attempt a description. The original statues 
 of Tarn o'Shanter and Souter Johnnie by Thom, are 
 in a small cottage at the south side of the enclosed 
 
 * I was informed that the sexton wbo dug Mary Camp- 
 bell's grave was still living at Greenock, aged 104. 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 145 
 
 ground, and place the sculptor in an almost equal 
 rank with the poet. They are most exquisitely 
 graphic and life-like. A remark of the gardener 
 who acted as our cicerone appeared to me exceed- 
 ingly quaint. I observed that I had found Kirk 
 Alloway much smaller than I expected, and he 
 replied that "the Kirk certainly was small, but 
 there were not so many people in the world when 
 it was built as now." 
 
 From the Monument we bent our steps to the 
 " Auld Brig" of Doon. In Burns's day this Bridge 
 was, and long had been, the principal communica- 
 tion between the districts of Kyle and Carrick. It 
 is conjectured that it is of great antiquity. Since 
 the erection of a new bridge the old one has fallen 
 into disuse, but it is still kept in repair on account 
 of its poetical associations. It is an old fashioned 
 looking bridge with one arch, and commands a pic- 
 turesque view of the thickly wooded banks and 
 winding river. For the visitor it has more attrac- 
 tive charms, and there are few but will seek the 
 " key-stane," as we did, and call to mind these lines 
 from Tam o'Shanter : — 
 
 Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg, 
 And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they dare na cross, 
 
 2 I 
 
14 G FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Bufc, ere the key-stane she could make 
 The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
 For Nannie, far before the rest, 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
 And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
 But left behind her ain gray tail." 
 
 Near to the end of the New Bridge is the 
 " Burns' Arms Inn/' which is neatly fitted up, and 
 commands from each window of its principal apart- 
 ment a most delightful prospect. It was in this 
 room that, full of the pleasure and gratification 
 we had experienced, my companion arose and pro- 
 posed the Immortal Memory of Eobert Burns 
 and, with uncovered heads, we reverently drank the 
 toast in the Bard's own favourite liquor, whiskey- 
 punch. 
 
 On our return we paid a visit to the cottage of 
 the poet's birth. For many years it was in the 
 occupation of Mr. and Mrs. Goudie, as an ale- 
 house or inn, and at the time of our visit it was 
 tenanted by their son-in-law and daughter, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Hastings. We were informed by the 
 hostess that their lease v/ould be out at Martinmas, 
 and though they now paid a rent of it was 
 to be let to another tenant for c£62 per annum. 
 The tenement was built by Burns's father, and was 
 
A DAY IN THE T^AXD OF BURNS. 
 
 147 
 
 originally a " Clay Bigging/' consisting of kitchen 
 and spence, or sitting-room. It was in the kitchen, 
 or inferior apartment of the clay cottage, that 
 Kobert Burns saw the light, and we were shown a 
 recess in this room which formerly contained the 
 bed in which the poet was born. The wooden bed- 
 stead was of the fashion still used in Scottish cot- 
 tages, and when the furniture of the inn was on 
 one occasion sold by roup, it was purchased for a 
 trifle by the stable-boy, who was afterwards fortu- 
 nate enough to dispose of it for twenty guineas. 
 It is now at Brownliill Inn, near Thornhill, Dum- 
 fries-shire. It is related that, when the mother of 
 the poet felt her time approaching, the father took 
 horse, and set out, through the darkness of a 
 stormy January night, for Ayr, in order to bring 
 the necessary female attendant. When he ap- 
 proached a rivulet which crosses the road, and 
 which was not then provided with a bridge, he 
 found it so deep in flood, that a wayfaring female 
 sat on the other side, unable to make her way 
 across on foot. Notwithstanding his haste, he lis- 
 tened to the prayer of this poor woman, and con- 
 veyed her through the stream on his horse. When 
 he returned with the woman of skill from Ayr, he 
 found that the gipsy, as she proved to be, had 
 made good her quarters by his cottage fireside, 
 where she was waiting anxiously for the happy 
 
148 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 hour of Agnes Brown. It is said that, on the 
 child being placed in her lap, she inspected his 
 palm, after the manner of her profession, and made 
 the predictions which the poet himself has embo- 
 died in a whimsical song, not printed in most 
 collections of his works : — 
 
 " The gossip keekit in his loof, 
 Quo scho, wha Hves will see the proof. 
 This waly boy will be nae coof ; 
 I think we'll ca' him Robin. 
 
 He'll hae misfortunes great and sma; 
 But aye a heart aboon them a' ; 
 He'll be a credit till us a' — 
 We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 
 
 But sure as three times three mak nine, 
 I see by ilka score and line 
 This chap will dearly like our kine, , 
 So leeze me on thee, Robin." 
 
 Dr. Currie had heard a report that the poet was 
 born in the midst of a storm, which blew down a 
 part of the house, and, hinting at this rumour in 
 a letter to Gilbert Burns, he received an answer, of 
 which the following is a part : — " When my father 
 built his ^clay biggen' he put in two stone-jambs, 
 as they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a 
 chimney in his clay gable. The consequence was. 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 149 
 
 that as the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining 
 firm, threw it off its centre ; and one very stormy 
 morning, .when my brother was nine or ten days 
 old, a little before day -light, a part of the gable 
 fell out, and the rest appeared so shattered, that 
 my mother with the young poet, had to be carried 
 through the storm to a neighbour's house, where 
 they remained a week till their own dwelling was 
 adjusted."* At the time I visited the cottage the 
 furniture was covered with the initials of visitors, 
 and to gratify those who wished to leave some trace 
 behind them, books had been kept, in which were 
 incribed the names of some thousands of indivi- 
 duals of all ranks. When the lease expired, the 
 furniture was sold by auction, and purchased by a 
 gentleman who intended to apply it for the pur- 
 pose of forming a Burns's room. It is to be re- 
 gretted that arrangements were not made to allow 
 the goods to remain in the cottage, and the incom- 
 ing tenant will most likely find that the building 
 has lost some of its attraction. The universal 
 opinion is that this cottage was the scene of The 
 Cottar's Saturday Night," and the following verses 
 doubtless pourtray the poet's father : — 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 
 ^ Land of Burns. 
 
150 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin stacher thro* 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin, noise an' glee. 
 
 His wee bit ingle Blinkin' bonnily. 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile. 
 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee 
 
 Does a' his weary_, carking cares beguile, 
 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toiL 
 ****** 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace. 
 
 The big ha' -Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And, '^^Let us worship God 1" he says, " with solemn air/' 
 
 Having partaken of some refreshment, chatted 
 with the hostess, inscribed our names in the visi- 
 ter's book, and purchased a few views, and a small 
 Guide Book,* we proceeded to call upon Mrs. 
 Begg, the sister of Burns, who, we were informed, 
 resided in a cottage at the distance of about a mile 
 from the place of her brother's birth. After a 
 pleasant ramble through green lanes, we came to a 
 neat looking cottage which was pointed out to us 
 as the abode we were seeking. It was enclosed 
 
 * We are indebted to this little work for several parti- 
 culars mentioned in the present sketch. 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 151 
 
 from the road by wooden palisadings, and trees 
 and flowers clustered about the front of the dwell- 
 ing. We knocked at the door, which was speedily 
 opened by a young lady, who had previously 
 observed us through the chamber window. We 
 apologized for intruding upon her privacy without 
 an introduction, but we were soon set at our ease 
 in that respect. Strangers were evidently frequent 
 visitors. She asked us into a well-furnished par- 
 lour, informed us that her mother would be v/ith 
 us presently, and in the meantime entered into 
 conversation with us in an exceedingly frank 
 and agreeable style. Mrs. Begg now made her. 
 appearance, and gave us a cordial reception. She 
 was, we should say, between sixty and seventy 
 years of age, of dark complexion ; and we fancied 
 that there was a resemblance in her features to* 
 those of the poet ; but the twilight was creeping 
 on, and imagination helps us wonderfully to 
 likenesses. She appeared to possess considerable 
 shrewdness and common sense, and conversed 
 freely, both in regard to her brother and on general 
 topics. She informed us that they had been quite 
 overwhelmed with visitors during the festival, 
 which had been held the previous year in honour 
 of her brother, and so many authors and celebrated 
 people had called upon them that they had been 
 quite confused. Nothing could be more free from 
 
152 FLOWERS FOK ALL SEASONS. 
 
 affectation than the manners of both mother and 
 daughter. Mrs. Begg had two daughters, and 
 Isabella, the one that we saw, was the younger of 
 the two. She was good-looking, cheerful, intelli- 
 gent, and perhaps about four or five and tw^enty 
 years of age. Our only wonder was that she re- 
 mained unmarried, as we should have thought she 
 would have had no lack of suitors anxious to form 
 an alliance wdth one possessed of such personal 
 recommendations, and so nearly related to the 
 poet. Not wishing to protract our visit unrea- 
 sonably, we bade them a hearty farewell before the 
 shades of night came upon us, and departed, much 
 gratified wdth our interview. Thanks to the exer- 
 tions of Messrs. Chambers and others, we believe 
 Mrs. Begg and her daughters are now in the enjoy- 
 ment of a moderate competence. 
 
 On our way home we called at a tavern, near 
 the Wallace Tower, which is said to be the place 
 where Tam o' Shanter was in the habit of meeting 
 Souter J ohnnie : the sign over the door exhibits the 
 two figures to passers-by, and conveys the infor- 
 mation that the originals met at that house. I 
 cannot vouch, of course, for the accuracy of this 
 statement, but it seems a very likely tenement for 
 such meetings to have taken place in. The farm 
 of Shanter was situated on the Carrick coast, be- 
 t\veen Turnberry and Colzean, in the parish of 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS. 153 
 
 Kirkoswald, and was tenanted by Douglas Graham^ 
 a stout, hearty, fellow, addicted to smuggling, fond 
 of a social glass^ and apt to return late from Ayr 
 on market nights. Graham's identity as the ori- 
 ginal of Tam o' Shanter has been established on 
 the authority of Burns himself. At Glenfit, near 
 Shanter, dwelt John Davidson, a shoemaker and 
 tanner in a small way, whose wife, Ann Gillespie, 
 had acted as nurse to the mother of Burns, on 
 which account there was always a friendship be- 
 tween the two families. Graham's wife was subject 
 in an unusual degree to superstitious beliefs and 
 fears, and used to regard her husband's late return 
 on market nights, as not only a violation of worldly 
 propriety, but a tempting of the evil powers of a 
 supernatural kind, which she supposed to influence 
 the affairs of mortals. Burns and some youthful 
 companions had once taken shelter in Shanter's 
 farm-house, when they found the good man was ab- 
 sent at Ayr market. Kate received them frankly, 
 and in the course of conversation launched forth into 
 a lament about the habits of her husband, his top- 
 ing with the miller smith, and souter, and his late 
 hame- comings from market, prophecying that 
 
 Late or soon, 
 He wad be found deep drowned in Doon." 
 
 K 
 
154 
 
 PLOWEKS FOK ALL «EA!SONS. 
 
 Amongst other tilings she spoke of Alio way 
 Kirk, which she said he dreaded to pass at nighty 
 and yet he never on that account took care to 
 come an hour earlier. The poet and his friends 
 staid with her till twelve o'clock, and then left her 
 still waiting, a waefu' woman, for the return of her 
 husband. The visits of Graham to Ayr were more 
 frequent than those of his neighbours, in conse- 
 quence of his supplying malt to a great number of 
 public houses in that burgh, and on the road to 
 it ; it being then the custom for every person who 
 sold ale, to make the liquor at home. It was the 
 business of the gudeman of Shanter to go there once 
 a-week, not " on Monday," like the mautman of old 
 Scottish song, but on Friday, the market-day of the 
 burgh. His friend Davidson, dabbling a little, as has 
 been stated, in the business of a tanner, had wares 
 to dispose of and money to gather on the same day 
 and in the same place ; so the two would proceed 
 to town together. As Graham had to call for 
 liquor at every customer's house, by way of show- 
 ing respect and gratitude, he had much more of 
 that commodity at his disposal than he chose to 
 make use of himself ; and he was accordingly very 
 glad when the S outer or any other friend went in 
 with him to partake of it. There was a particular 
 taverner in Ayr, one Benjie Graham, a Carrick man, 
 and possibly tracing some Scotch kindred to the 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OJ' BURNS. l lO 
 
 gtideman of Shanter, who was always very hospi- 
 table to the paifj usually pressing them to dine at 
 his own table. Animated by a due sense of Ben- 
 jie's kindness, Douglas Graham and John Davidson 
 resolved to give him a treat in return, and it was 
 on a New Year's night that it came off. Graham 
 on this occasion went beyond all former excesses, 
 and, riding home at a late, or perhaps, rather an 
 early hour, in the midst of a storm of wind and 
 rain, his bonnet, with the bank-notes he had that 
 day drawn in the market laid into the flap of it, 
 was blown off, as he was riding over Brown Car- 
 rick Hill, and carried he knew not where. With 
 just sufficient sense to observe the place where this 
 incident had occurred, he rode home, where he had 
 had of course to stand a strict investigation before 
 his wife. To excuse a late return was usually no 
 easy matter ; but on the present occasion, he had 
 to apologize for the absence of his bonnet and its 
 precious contents. The only expedient he could 
 devise was to forge something that might be 
 expected to pass with his wife, whom he knew to 
 be credulous in at least one direction. He there- 
 fore trumped up a story of his having seen a dance 
 of witches and warlocks in Alloway Kirk, of hav- 
 ing been pursued by them to the Bridge of Doon, 
 and of having there escaped from them only with 
 the loss of his bonnet. There was little peace 
 
156 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 between the good couple for that night. Early in the 
 morning, after awaking from a brief sleep, Graham 
 was visited with a painful recollection of his loss, 
 and rising from his bed, immediately set out on 
 his good mare, to reconnoitre the road before many 
 people should be stirring. On returning to the 
 spot, and searching well in all directions, he found 
 the bonnet lying in a plantation by the wayside, with 
 the money undiminished within it. At the next 
 quarterly meeting for settlement of smuggling 
 accounts, the story of the bonnet and alleged vision 
 of witches at A lloway Kirk were brought up against 
 Graham, and made the subject of endless merri- 
 ment. Burns, whose mind was prepared for the 
 humour by his recollection of the complaints of 
 the gudewife of Shanter, was present on this occa- 
 sion, and must doubtless have greatly enjoyed the 
 joke. One other circumstance of an actual nature 
 has been remembered by tradition as likely to have 
 been in the mind of Burns while eomposing his 
 poetical tale ; Graham had, it seems, a good grey 
 mare, which was very much identified with his 
 own appearance. One day, being in Ayr, he tied 
 the animal to a ring at the door of a public house, 
 W'here contrary to his original intentions, he tar- 
 ried so long, that the boys, in the meantime, had 
 plucked away the whole of the animal's tail, for 
 the purpose of making fishing lines. It was not 
 
A DAY IN THE LAND OF BURNS, 
 
 157 
 
 till next morning, when he awoke from a protracted 
 bouse, that the circumstance was discovered by 
 his son, who came in crying that the mare had lost 
 her tail. Graham, when he comprehended the 
 amount of the disaster, was, it seems, so much 
 bewildered as to its cause, that he could only attri- 
 bute it after a round oath, to the agency of 
 witches. This anecdote might also be drawn up 
 against Graham at the quarterly meeting before- 
 mentioned, and was probably what suggested the 
 catastrophe of the affair of Alio way Kirk.* The 
 Tavern I allude to as having called at is an old- 
 fashioned house, with a spacious kitchen, and the 
 tenants being small farmers, the landlady was 
 attending to a cauldron placed over the fire, and 
 containing some prepared food for the cattle. The 
 house was then principally frequented by carriers. 
 It required no great stretch of imagination to be- 
 lieve it the one alluded to in the former anecdote, 
 and when we got planted 
 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 
 Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely," 
 
 we summoned before us Tam and his "drouthy 
 crony," and once again it seemed as though 
 
 * Land of Burns. 
 
158 
 
 P'LOWEKS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
 Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; 
 The Souter tauld his queerest stories, 
 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus." 
 
 We now repaired to our Inn, and after spending 
 an hour or two with some intelligent inhabitants 
 of Ayr, we retired to a good night's repose. In 
 the morning we had another ramble in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Ayr, and were much delighted with 
 the beauty of the scenery. We also went in quest 
 of an old man who, it was stated, had been inti- 
 mate with the poet, but he informed us that he 
 had only once walked with him a part of the way 
 to Kilmarnock. It was, howeyer, something to 
 hold converse with one who had been in the com- 
 pany of Burns. About noon we departed by rail- 
 way for Ardrossan, and sailed from thence by 
 steamer to England, carrying with us a remem- 
 brance of the " Land of Burns" that will not be 
 easily eradicated. 
 
159 
 
 LINLITHGOW PALACE* 
 
 Oh, fair Linlithgow ! there thy palace stands, 
 
 Proud in its ruins, noble in decay, 
 And, as in vision, I behold thosa bands 
 
 Who trod thy halls in times long past away : 
 Princes, and lovely dame, and gallant knight. 
 Again come thronging to my mental sight. 
 
 * The Palace of Linlithgow was the birth-place of Mary, 
 Queen of Scots, and combines that fine taste and true 
 magnificence which distinguish all the Scottish Palaces, 
 erected by the House of Stuart. It was an observation of 
 Mary of Lorraine, Queen of James V., that the King of 
 France had not a palace comparable with that of Linlith- 
 gow. It stands upon the margin of a beautiful lake, 
 which on the east, washes the base of a gently slo|)iDg hill. 
 The author beheld the Palace on a delightful summer 
 afternoon, when the grey ruins, contrasted with the golden 
 radiance of the lake, and the bright green verdure sur- 
 rounding it, made the scene one of a most romantic and 
 enchanting character. 
 
60 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Well might the royal lady of Lorraine 
 
 Look on thy walls with an admiring glance, 
 
 And truly say that eye might seek in vain 
 For aught so kingly in the realms of France : 
 
 Even as thou art^ thou rear'st tliy lofty head, 
 
 And state and glory seem around thee spread. 
 
 Thy beauteous lake is placid as of old, 
 
 The lapse of years hath wrought no changes 
 there ; 
 
 It sleeps before me, with its waters cold 
 
 Gilt by the sun, unstirr'd by passing air, 
 Like something pure, by holy Spirit blest, 
 Where not one trace of human change could rest. 
 
 Oh, human change ! — oh, worldly strife and hate 1 
 At those dread words my memory recalls 
 
 One who was doom'd to an untimely fate, 
 
 Who first saw light within those palace walls ; 
 
 One who was form'd in hall and bower to shine, 
 
 The hapless daughter of a princely line. 
 
 Thou ill-starr'd monarch ! Scotland's fairest flower ! 
 
 Nor wit, nor grace, nor beauty thee could save ; 
 The blood of kings, nature's most lavish dower — 
 
 Nought could preserve thee from a bloody grave. 
 On England's maiden queen a stain doth lie, 
 That thou by her decree did"st headless die. 
 
LINLITHGOW PALACE. 
 
 IGl 
 
 Palace, farewell 1 thou should'st be as thou art, 
 A stately, desolate, and mournful pile ; 
 
 A thing to raise sad memories in the heart, 
 And cause mankind in bitterness to smile, 
 
 To think how vain are pride and power below, 
 
 To save from pain, and strife, and death, and woe. 
 
1G2 
 
 THE AYRSHIRE MAID. 
 
 Can I forget that golden day, 
 
 When first I saw thy form of grace, 
 And gazed upon the smiling ray, 
 
 That dwelt, like sunshine, on thy face ? 
 Oh^ no 1 thy memory with me dwells, 
 
 As light that gilds the clouds of care. 
 And many a fond ifemembrance tells 
 
 Of thee and muse-enchanted Ayr. 
 
 The trees were clad in brightest green. 
 
 The sunny waters danced along ; 
 No shadow frown'd upon the scene, 
 
 But all was clear, and glad, and young. 
 It was the hopeful month of May, 
 
 And every branch held blossoms fai« ; 
 Spring-loveliness around us lay, 
 
 But nought more sweet than thee had Ayr. 
 
THE AYRSHIRE MAID. 
 
 163 
 
 Music's most silvery tones were heard, 
 
 When thou didst breathe the poet's line, 
 And honied o'er seem'd every word 
 
 That pass'd those virgin lips of thine ; 
 A magic mingled with the rhyme, 
 
 Which gain'd from thee a beauty rare, 
 For as some spirit of the clime 
 
 Wert thou to me in beauteous Avr. 
 
 Farewell ! we ne'er may meet again, 
 
 Young dweller in a far-off land ; 
 Yet, when thou roam'st thy native plain, 
 
 Think thou of him who press' d thy hand, 
 And, as he met thy dewy eyes. 
 
 Breathed for thy future bliss a prayer : — 
 Oh ! oft within my heart will rise 
 
 Fond thoughts of thee and beauteous Ayr. 
 
164 
 
 BIEDS ARE HEARD IN DAY'S BRIGHT 
 
 HOURS. 
 
 Birds are heard in day's bright hours^ 
 
 But are silent in the gloom ; 
 Bees caress the fragrant flowers, 
 
 But they shun their faded bloom. 
 
 From the bough the leaf it flieth, 
 
 When the summer's past away ; 
 And the insect homeward hieth, 
 
 When hath fled the sunny ray. 
 
 When my lot was all of gladness, 
 Friends were ever nigh to cheer ; 
 
 When arrived the day of sadness, 
 Friends were far, but foes were near. 
 
THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 165 
 
 Nought could ever thee estrange, love, 
 Thou wert mine in darkest hour ; 
 
 I have heart which knows not change, love 
 It is now thine only dower. 
 
 THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 A SHORT time ago, in consequence of repeated 
 invitations, I paid a visit to a country friend. It 
 was harvest time, and the blythe songs of cherry- 
 cheeked maidens' which saluted my ear at the first 
 break of day ; the gay carol of the birds, and the 
 rustic mirth of the peasants, as they laid low the 
 yellow corn, were to me a source of unequalled 
 delight. I spent a good portion of my time 
 amongst the reapers, for their rude attempts at 
 wit, and the heartiness of their laughter, had to 
 me charms of a novel nature ; and I am certain 
 that I eat of the bread and cheese, and drank of 
 the home-brewed malt liquor, that was occasionally 
 
166 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 served round, with a greater zest than I ever par- 
 took of the most costly viands. When we returned 
 home, in the evening, we had to pass a large and 
 widely-spreading oak, under which was placed a 
 rural seat : I had often felt an inclination to rest 
 myself there, but as I observed my companions 
 seemed to shun it, I determined to ask my friend, 
 the first opportunity, the reason of their conduct. 
 Accordingly one night as my host w^as smoking his 
 pipe over a foaming tankard, I asked him why all 
 seemed anxious to avoid the oak tree. After puff- 
 ing for a minute with great vigour, and then 
 knocking the ashes from his pipe on the table, he 
 thus answered my question. 
 
 You must know that, a dozen years ago there 
 lived in our village an old widow with an only son 
 of the name of Eobert ; (then about twenty years 
 of age,) he courted Ruth Mayfield, who dwelt with 
 her parents in the white cottage that fronts our 
 orchard-gate. It was pleasing to see the young 
 lovers straying, arm in arm, through yonder grove 
 of elms, or seated beneath the aged oak, the youth 
 with his arms twined around the maiden's form 
 while his finely-formed head reclined on her shoul- 
 der. They were generally allowed to be the love- 
 liest couple in the village — Euth had blue eyes 
 and flaxen hair — Robert was of a dark complexion, 
 with a profusion of thickly- curled jet locks, and his 
 
THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 167 
 
 eyes were bright and piercings though in the pre- 
 sence of his beloved, they lost their usual animated 
 expression and assumed a voluptuous tenderness. 
 Many a time have I stole slily and quietly along 
 the hedge, to look at them, and chuckled to myself 
 as I observed the blushing confusion of the maid, 
 and the celerity with which the youth withdrew 
 his arm from her taper waist, the moment my 
 approach was perceived ; however, I always ap- 
 peared not to notice them, and passed on without 
 giving further interruption. 
 
 In an evil hour, Robert, in company with seve- 
 ral other young fellows, went to a neighbouring 
 town, in which a fair was held, and, together with 
 another or two of his companions, when heated 
 and thrown off their guard" by drinking too plen- 
 tifully, enlisted in a regiment which had then a 
 recruiting party in the place. Being all tall and 
 good-looking youths, every offer to procure their 
 release was refused, though I did all in my power 
 to effect it. 
 
 I do not believe there was a light heart in the 
 village when Robert took his farewell ; his poor 
 mother was nigh broken-hearted ; Ruth Mayfield's 
 grief was beyond description, and it was said she 
 and Robert exchanged vows of eternal fidelity. 
 For many days after his departure, Ruth never 
 left her home, and when she did stir abroad, she 
 
 « 
 
168 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 was SO changed, her cheeks were so faded, and her 
 eyes so dim and sunken, that you would have 
 scarcely known her. The old widow was soon 
 pronounced to be dangerously ill, and though 
 Euth attended and endeavoured to comfort her 
 with all the affection of a daughter, it was impos- 
 sible to recover her, and she speedily found a rest- 
 ing place in the grave. 
 
 Six years elapsed when a report was circulated, 
 that, Eobert had died abroad ; and as a wealthier 
 suiter was now suing for the hand of Euth, her 
 parents used every persuasion to induce her to ac- 
 cept him. They told her that as it was impossible 
 for her to become the wife of Eobert, she could 
 not do better than accept of one who possessed 
 the means of making her affluent ; but though all 
 else believed her former lover dead, she had not 
 yet given up her hopes of his existence, and what 
 w^as affluence to her? She felt she could never 
 love another, and, if he was indeed dead, she cared 
 not how soon she slumbered with him. Her father 
 was a stern and avaricious man, and he forced, 
 aye, absolutely forced her to marry the husband 
 he had chosen for her. Poor girl ! I saw her at 
 the altar, with a face as pale as marble, looking as 
 though she would better have become a shroud 
 than her bridal habiliments. I really thought she 
 would have died before she could pronounce the 
 
 IT 
 
THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 169 
 
 fatal yes but with a voice scarcely audible, 
 she managed to utter the indissoluble word, and, 
 fainting in the arms of the attendants, was borne 
 from the church in a state of insensibility. Im- ' 
 mediately after the wedding, her husband conveyed 
 her to his own mansion, which is situated at the 
 distance of twenty miles from this place, and since 
 that time I have only seen her twice. The last 
 time I saw her was about three months ago : there 
 was not a vestige of her former bloom remaining, 
 she was almost dwindled to a skeleton, but there 
 was a calm resignation about her features, that 
 told she looked forward to another world in the 
 hope of enjoying the happiness denied to her in 
 this. 
 
 I now come to that part of my story which 
 tends to elucidate the mystery enveloping the tree. 
 Rather more than four years had passed away 
 since Euth Mayfield's marriage, when one evening 
 a person genteelly dressed, with a countenance 
 much sunburnt, hastily entered the dwelling that 
 had formerly been occupied by Robert's mother — - 
 it was Robert himself. He had not expected to 
 find his aged parent living — he enquired for Ruth, 
 and was informed of her marriage ! It was as if 
 a curse had been pronounced upon him annihilating 
 all present happiness, and all hope of the future, 
 and he fell senseless to the ground. The inhabit- 
 
170 FLOWERS Foil ALL SEASONS. 
 
 ants of tlie cottage conveyed him to a bed ; Ik? 
 was seized with a burning fever, and in his ravings 
 continually called on Euth Mayfield. In a few 
 weeks he slowly recovered, and was able to walk 
 out. Day after day he might be seen seated be- 
 neath the old oak-tree — sometimes appearing to be 
 buried in deep contemplation^ and at others, occu- 
 pied in writing what seemed to be letters, which 
 he had no sooner folded than he tore to pieces. 
 One night, the usual hour of his return had long 
 passed, and a boy belonging to the family with 
 whom he had taken up his residence, went forth 
 to seek him ; in a few minutes the lad came run- 
 ning back, and with a tongue almost palsied with 
 terror, stated that he had seen him suspended from 
 one of the branches of the old oak-tree. It was some 
 time before any of the rest could muster courage 
 enough to proceed to the place ; at last a whole 
 posse of neighbours sallied forth. They found the 
 lad's statement to be but too true : had they arri- 
 ved at the spot a little earlier, they might perhaps 
 have saved him, but now life was quite extinct. 
 A letter was found on the seat, directed to Euth 
 Mayfield — what it contained I know not. 
 
 Several days after this melancholy event I was 
 taking a solitary ramble, when some labourers 
 came running up to me almost breathless ; and, 
 with trembling limbs, and looks of the greatest 
 
THE HAUNTED TREE, 
 
 171 
 
 alarm, declared that as they were returning from 
 the fields, they had seen something sitting under 
 the oak, which, they were certain, was the ghost of 
 Robert Adams. It was habited in black ; and 
 they were positive as to its identity, from the pale- 
 ness of the countenance, the large black whiskers, 
 and its being employed in writing letters. I never 
 professed a belief in apparitions, and therefore 
 resolved to have ocular demonstration of the fact. 
 It was in vain that I endeavoured to persuade my 
 informants to accompany me — they all declared 
 they would not again meet the withering glance of 
 the ghost for worlds ; in consequence of which I 
 went alone. Judge of my surprise when I actu- 
 ally saw the figure they described, occupied, as I 
 thought, in writing. I returned with something 
 of fear, and, charging the labourers not to mention 
 what they had seen to a single being, I retired to 
 my own home, for the purpose of meditating on 
 the subject. My cautions to the men were given 
 in vain ; the tale spread through the village like 
 wild-fire, and from that time none of the peasantry 
 ever pass the tree without a feeling of dread. For 
 •my own part, I must confess, the event of that 
 night has greatly contributed to shake my scepti- 
 cism as to the appearance of apparitions. 
 
 vVhen my friend had finished his narrative, not- 
 withstanding I sympathized in the fate of tlie 
 
172 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 unfortunate lovers, I could not help bursting into 
 a fit of laughter, to his great astonishment and 
 indignation. T soothed him, however, by informing 
 him of the following circumstance. An acquaint- 
 ance of mine, who is an artist of some celebrity, I 
 now remembered had related to me an anec- 
 dote that perfectly coincided wdth my host's tale 
 of the apparition, and which left me no doubt as 
 to who the personator of the ghost was. Taking 
 a stroll through the village of M ; he was par- 
 ticularly struck with the landscape that extended 
 itself before the old oak tree ; and being provided 
 with paper and pencil, he sat himself down on the 
 rural seat, to sketch the scenery. Being deter- 
 mined to finish what he had begun, he prolonged 
 his stay until the shades of twilight gathered 
 round him, and when near completing his task, 
 was much astonished to see a group of rustics 
 start at sight of him, and take to their heels as 
 though they had seen something unearthly. He 
 continued his work, and in a short time beheld a 
 grave gentleman, his " spectacles on nose," survey 
 him, with evident signs of fear, from head to foot ; 
 and after he had done so, betake himself to flight 
 with nearly as much swiftness as the peasants. 
 Just at that moment, having finished his sketch, 
 he packed up his materials, and departed. — Thus 
 it is wdth the belief in apparitions — it springs from 
 
THE LxVIvE OF INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 173 
 
 causes^ ninety-nine out of an hundred of which, if 
 narrowly examined, prove to be as simple as the 
 one narrated. Nothing could remove the super- 
 stitious credulity of the peasants of M ; and 
 
 to this day, the old-oak is known by the name of 
 the Haunted Tree. 
 
 THE LAKE OF INTEMPERANCE, 
 
 f HAD a vision— it was not of nighty 
 But came unto me in the day's full noon. 
 Methought I gazed upon a horrid lake^ 
 Whose banks no shrub nor herbage green e'er 
 deck'd ; 
 
 No tall tree lifted up its branching arms, 
 But all was naked, barren, black, and bare ; 
 The birds that hover'd o'er its surface fell, 
 And powerless sunk within its noisome wave ; 
 Wild beasts of prey, with ravenous rage athirst, 
 That came and of its baleful contents drank, 
 
174 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 With jaws of foam and red and glaring eyes, 
 Howl'd forth a yell of agony and pain, 
 And madly fled into the woods again. 
 Inscribed with characters that each might read, 
 Huge gloomy banners floated all around, 
 Bearing the words " Whoever drinks must die 
 Yet still did crowds press onwards to the banks. 
 Still onwards roll'd a dark and living flood : 
 Beauty and ugliness, and youth, and age : 
 The sinewy ruffian, with a form erect, 
 And hoary villainy, wdth shoulders bent. 
 And trembling limbs supported by a staff ; 
 Those who had scarcely pass'd the teens of life, 
 And yet display'd a wrinkled hollow cheek 3 
 The mother with the infant in her arms, 
 A babe that ne'er had borne a father's name ; 
 The shapeless cripple 'tween his crutches slung ; 
 The soldier, who had toil'd 'mid smoke and blood, 
 The ill-paid victor of full many a field ; 
 The limb-shorn sailor, who, in many a fight 
 Had help'd to feed the monsters of the deep ; 
 The wretch whose conscience mock'd him like a 
 fiend ; 
 
 The man who had endured the w^orld's hard gripe, 
 And he who had oppressed the suffering poor ; 
 The labourer, reckless because freely paid, 
 And he whose toil scarce furnish'd him with food-— 
 
 f 
 
 1 
 
THE LAKE OF INTEMPERANCE. 175 
 
 A motley and a miserable band^ 
 The throng press' d forward to the deadly lake. 
 Some on the dreadful words a moment gazed^ 
 And with a shudder, would have turned again, 
 But those behind impeil'd them fiercety on, 
 And they bent down, and pale and trembling drank. 
 Moderate at first, and then a deeper draught. 
 Some dofF'd the greasy coverings from their heads, 
 And "iiird them with the element of death ; 
 Some bared their feet, and thus were goblets found ; 
 Some scoop' d the liquor with their bony hands, 
 And some, with visage red and eyes inflamed, 
 Greedily plunged their heads into the stream, 
 Taking a beastlike attitude to make 
 Themselves more loathsome than the loathliest 
 brute. 
 
 Then came a scene unpaintable by pen, 
 
 A horrid revelry and discord wild ; 
 
 Laughter which with a shriek was strangely blent, 
 
 And loud unmeaning shouts, half rage, half joy ; 
 
 Dances uncouth, and impish leaps in air ; 
 
 Freaks most fantastic, rude and apish tricks j 
 
 Features distorted into hideous forms. 
 
 Some twisted by the agony of pain, 
 
 The dread forerunner of an awful death, 
 
 And others in a frightful mockery shaped. 
 
 To scorn and ridicule e'en life's last throes. 
 
 Ungovernable discord reign' d, and feuds 
 
176 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Savage and furious toss'd about the throng, 
 Till it became a storm of human hearts, 
 A dark tempestuous sea of fleshy waves. 
 The son upraised his hand against his sire, 
 And struck the giver of his life to earth ; 
 The daughter with the mother warfare waged, 
 And sisters wreak' d upon each other blows, 
 And, like twin-Cains, brother with brother strove ; 
 Old friends encounter'd, and, with wolfish looks, 
 Seem'd as they now would rend each other's hearts ; 
 Some threw their arms aloft in stupid glee, 
 And others reel'd along with bat-like eyes ; 
 Some sought, to look profoundly grave and wise. 
 Then broke into a laugh they knew not why ; 
 Some strove, and vainly strove, to utter speech. 
 Their lolling tongues swell'd to a wordless mass ; 
 Some crept along with weak and childlike tread. 
 And sunk, down-trodden, crush' d by myriad feet. 
 Death walk'd amid the ranks, and numbers fell, 
 In black, unsightly heaps, when waved his arm. 
 Some died with hands uplifted high to strike. 
 And some with curse half utter'd on their lips. 
 And howls and groans and imprecations deep, 
 In place of prayers, their parting breaths gave forth. 
 Still did the work of death go swiftly on — 
 In heaps they perish'd — oh, more blind than flies 
 That taste and die around the poison'd cup ; 
 
THE LAKE OF INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 177 
 
 And still they onwards came, and still they drank, 
 
 And downwards fell and miserably died. 
 
 My heart grew sick — I could not longer gaze : 
 
 Just then a voice made whisper in mine ear — - 
 
 " It is no baseless vision thou hast seen, 
 
 Take warning from the lesson, and depart ; 
 
 If thou woulds't learn the name of yon dark lake, 
 
 I breathe it now — it is Intempeeancb 1" 
 
 I turn'd amazed — nought living could I see— 
 
 I look'd again, but lake and all were gone ! 
 
178 
 
 A HAUNT OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 There was a meadow wh^re, in days of old, 
 I loved to gather wild and simple flowers— 
 
 The snow-white daisies and the cups of gold 
 Were then to me the richest of all dowers ; 
 
 There did I pass full many a summer's day, 
 Chasing at times some insect fluttering by, 
 
 Until, aweary with my ceaseless play, 
 I threw me down amid the grass to lie, 
 And upwards gazed upon the azure sky. 
 
 Wishing that I to the white clouds could sail, 
 Swift as the birds that thither seem'd to fly, 
 
 And whose light wings I thought could never fail : 
 Oft have I craved, in after hours of pain, 
 For childhood's bliss and that green haunt again. 
 
179 
 
 SHAKSPERE'S BIRTH-DAY.^- 
 
 We are assembled this evening in honour of the 
 memory of the greatest poet that the world ever 
 produced, and though any feeble tribute of ours 
 will be only like casting a grain of sand upon a 
 mighty mountain, yet are we bound, in the sin- 
 cerity of our humble admiration, to show that 
 this day lives in our memory and our love. 
 
 On the 23rd of April, 1564, William Shakspere 
 was born — on this day 
 
 To him the mighty mother did unveil 
 Her awful face : the dauntless child 
 Stretch' d forth his little arms, and smiled. 
 This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear 
 Richly pa^nt the vernal year : 
 
 * This paper was read by the author, at a meeting held 
 in honour of the anniversary of Shakspere' s birth. 
 
180 FLOWERS FOR ALL SExiSONS. 
 
 Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy ! 
 
 This can unlock the gates of joy; 
 
 Of horror that, and thrilling fears. 
 
 Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears/' 
 
 On the 23rd of April, 1616, William Shakspere 
 died, being his 52nd birth-day. This then is a 
 day which is doubly illustrious, and should be 
 richly emblazoned in every calendar. There is a 
 strange, a mysterious coincidence in the birth and 
 death of this extraordinary man happening on the 
 same day of the year j and it would almost seem 
 that the Giver of all good deemed no day so wor- 
 thy of calling to himself this bright ray of divine 
 intelligence as that on which he had sent him forth 
 to illuminate this nether world with the glory of 
 his inspirations. 
 
 Whilst touching upon the remarkableness of 
 this day, it may not be considered greatly out of 
 place if I observe, that another celebrated genius 
 also departed this life on the 23rd of April, 1616 
 — I allude to Michael Cervantes, the immortal 
 author of "Don Quixote." Thus at, I may say, 
 the same instant of time, was the world deprived 
 of two of its most shining lights. There is much 
 food for reflection in such a circumstance, but it is 
 not for me now to occupy your attention with the 
 ideas that suggest themselves, 
 
shakspere's birth-day. 181 
 
 There is no doubt that, at this very moment, 
 thousands are leagued with us in the sacred task 
 of hallowing the memory of Shakspere ; and that, 
 in various parts of the globe, thousands of miles 
 away from this dear land of his nativity, groups 
 are gathered together to do him reverence. But, 
 if the name and fame of Shakspere be cherished 
 by numbers who never even looked upon the land 
 of his birth, how much more strongly must he be 
 wedded to those who are his countrymen, who 
 breathe the same air that he breathed, and who ex- 
 press themselves in the same language in which he 
 gave utterance to his undying and sublime philoso- 
 phy. We feel that he is identified with the soil of 
 England, and that he has shed a lustre upon 
 
 That pale, that white-faced shore, 
 Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides, 
 And coops from other lands her islanders." 
 This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, 
 This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
 This other Eden, de mi-paradise ; 
 This fortress built by nature for herself, 
 Against infection, and the hand of war ; 
 This happy breed of men, this little world ; 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea, 
 Which serves it in the office of a wall. 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
 Against the envy of less happier lands," 
 2 L 
 
182 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 We feel that he has glorified our annals by his 
 brilliant and life-like delineations of men and 
 deeds^ and that his noble and impassioned passages 
 have fired our bosoms with manly daring and chi- 
 valrous enthusiasm. Not to speak it profanely, 
 there is only one book which exercises so decided 
 a bearing upon us as the works of Shakspere, and, 
 next to that inspired volume, we seek for advice, 
 consolation, and precept in his pages. It may, 
 without exaggeration, be said, that he has infused 
 into the hearts of his countrymen a feeling of 
 vigorous independence which prompts them to 
 maintain their privileges inviolate, and to resist 
 tyranny and oppression. 
 
 We must be free, or die, who speak the tongue 
 That Shakspere spake." 
 
 By some it has been doubted that such a man 
 as Shakspere ever had an existence, or that, even 
 if he did exist, he was the author of the wonderful 
 productions which have been issued under the 
 sanction of his name. So various have been the 
 moods of mind which he has illustrated, so subtle 
 and searching have been his developments of hu- 
 man passion, that it has been considered no one 
 being could have comprised in himself such amaz- 
 ing knowledge, profundity, and truth. Accord- 
 
shakspere's birth-day. 
 
 183 
 
 ingly a work some time ago issued from the press^ 
 attempting to prove that his productions were to 
 be attributable to certain monks. This work is one 
 of those absurdities which tend more to display the 
 author's ingenuity than advance the cause of truth, 
 — Others, again^ have called into question his learn- 
 ing j but, if he were shewn to be destitute of clas- 
 sical attainments, it would only prove that his 
 genius could support itself without such aids. The 
 position in life of his parents has been depreciated, 
 and it would appear to have been the aim of some 
 to invest his early years with vulgarity and mean- 
 ness. But young Shakspeare was no ignoble boy. 
 He was doubtless well and delicately nurtured, 
 possessing that greatest of all earthly blessings^ a 
 kind, gentle, intelligent mother, T^ho must have 
 imbued his mind with the feelings which in after 
 years gave birth to those exquisite delineations of 
 womanhood which it was his delight to pourtray. 
 We have it on record, too, that a grant or confir- 
 mation of arms was made to John Shakspere, the 
 poet's father, in 1569, when William was about 
 five vears old. The arms are ^-o-old, on a bend 
 sable, and a spear of the fi^rst, the point steeled^ 
 proper ; and his crest, or cognizance, a falcon, his 
 wings displayed, argent, standing on a wreath of 
 his collars supporting a spear, gold steel as afore- 
 said, set upon a helmet with mantles and tassels." 
 
184 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 The preamble to the grant is as follows : — " Being 
 solicited, and by credible report informed, that 
 John Shakspere, now of Stratford-upon-Avon, in 
 the county of Warwick, gent,, whose parent and 
 great-grandfather, late antecessor, for his faithful 
 and approved service to the late most prudent 
 prince, King Henry VII., of famous memory, was 
 advanced and rewarded with lands and tenements, 
 given to him in those parts of Warwickshire, where 
 they have continued by some descents in good 
 reputation and credit ; and for that the said J ohn 
 Shakspere, having married the daughter and one 
 of the heirs of Kobert Arden, of Wellingcote, in 
 the said county, and also produced this his ancient 
 coat of arms, heretofore assigned to him whilst he 
 was her majesty's officer, and bailiff of that town : 
 in consideration of the premises," &c. This at 
 once establishes the fact of the respectability and 
 standing of Shakspere's family. Thus says Charles 
 Knight, one of the best of Shaksperian critics : — 
 " It is not difficult to imagine the youthful Shaks- 
 pere sitting at his mother's feet to listen to the 
 tale of his antecessor's" prowess, or to picture the 
 boy led by his father over the field of Bosworth ; 
 to be shown the great morass which lay between 
 both armies, and Eadmoor Plain, where the battle 
 began ; and Dickon s Nook, where the tyrant ha- 
 rangued his army ; and the village of Dadlington, 
 
shakgpere's birth-day. 
 
 185 
 
 where tlie graves of the slain still indented the 
 ground. Here was the scene of his antecessor's 
 " faithful and approved service." In the humble 
 house of Shakspere's boyhood there "was in all pro- 
 bability, to be found a thick squat folio volume, 
 then some thirty years printed, in which might be 
 read " w^hat misery, what murder, and what exe- 
 crable plagues this famous reign hath suffered by 
 the division and dissention of the renowned houses 
 of Lancaster and York." This, to the generation 
 of Shakspere's boyhood, was not a tale buried in 
 the dust of ages ; it was one whose traditions were 
 familiar to the humblest of the land, whilst the 
 memory of its bitter hatreds still ruffled the spirits 
 of the highest. "For what nobleman liveth at 
 this day, or what gentleman of any ancient stock 
 or progeny is clear, whose lineage hath not been 
 infested and plagued with this unnatural division V 
 In that old volume from which we quote, "the 
 names of the histories contained" are thus set 
 forth: — I. "The Unquiet Time of King Henry 
 the Fourth." II. "The Victorious Acts of King 
 Henry the Fifth." III. " The Troublous Season of 
 King Henry therSixth." lY. "The Prosperous, 
 Reign of King Edward the Fourth." V. "The 
 Pitiful Life of King Edward the Fifth." VI. 
 " The Tragical Doings of King Richard the Third.' 
 VII "The Politic Governance of Kinof Henrv the 
 
f 
 
 186 FLOWPJRS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Seventh." VIIL ^'The Triumphant Reign of 
 King Henr}^ the Eighth." This book was " Hall's 
 Chronicle." How diligently the young man Shaks- 
 pere has studied the book^ and how carefully he 
 has followed it in four of his chronicle histories, 
 there are abundant examples. 
 
 Shakspere had a knowledge of Latin, if he had 
 no Greek, and recent investigations have shown 
 that all the best authorities available in his day 
 had been consulted by him, either in the original 
 or translated form. He possessed, too, what sur- 
 passed all book-learning, a keen and accurate per- 
 ception and discrimination of men and manners, 
 and a power of graphically delineating all he saw 
 and heard, which made his page a just and faithful 
 mirror of the time in which he flourished. If 
 Shakspere had possessed the faculty of ubiquity, 
 or of multiplying himself so as to be at one and 
 the same period of time an observer of the various 
 grades of society of which mankind is composed, 
 he could not, by possibility, have penetrated into 
 their modes of existence, their customary phrases 
 of expression, their ordinary habits and veins of 
 thought, and painted them more minutely and 
 faithfully than he has. Not only has he depicted 
 accurately the manners and customs of the men 
 and women who had an actual tangible existence, 
 but he has created new orders of beings, and as- 
 
shakspere's birth-day. 
 
 187 
 
 signed to each of his creations their proper course, 
 and the gestures and words which appear the natu- 
 ral property of each. The most wonderful of all is 
 the brief space of time over which his authorship 
 extended^ and the limited leisure which he had for 
 reading and for studying the living manners as 
 they rose. His poem of " Venus and Adonis" was 
 published in 1593, and this, according to his own 
 statement, was the first heir of his invention, so 
 that it would appear that he was twenty-nine years 
 of age before he came legitimately before the public 
 as an author. He was doubtless employed previ- 
 ously to this date in the adaptation and alteration 
 of dramas for the stage, for we find him sneered at 
 by his contemporary, Robert Greene, in 1592, in 
 the following terms :— " There is an upstart crow, 
 beautified with our feathers, that with his tiger's 
 heart wrapped in a player's hide, supposes he is as 
 well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best 
 of you ; and, being an absolute J ohannes Factotum, 
 is, in his own conceit, the only shake-scene in a 
 country." In 1593 then appeared, in all likeli- 
 liood, the first composition which was wholly his. 
 He .died in 1616, and, therefore, in twenty-three 
 years were produced the whole of those splendid 
 compositions which are equally the delight of the 
 informed and the illiterate. 
 
 There is no doubt that in his own time he was 
 
188 
 
 FLOWEES FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 well appreciated^ and honoured with the friendship 
 and high esteem of many who were exalted by 
 rank and talent. The Earl of Southampton was 
 his warm friend and admirer ; Queen Elizabeth 
 awarded him her especial approbation, and com- 
 manded him to produce a play for her own parti- 
 cular gratification. So much was she amused with 
 the inimitable Falstaff, that she could not be satis- 
 fied until Shakspere had exhibited the fat hu- 
 mourist in love. James I. wrote to him with his 
 own hand, and other marks of distinguished favour 
 were conferred upon him. The unprosperous mar- 
 riage of the Princess Elizabeth, called the " Queen 
 of Hearts/' with Count Ferdinand, Elector Pala- 
 tine of the Rhine, was solemnized with appropriate 
 magnificence on the 14th day of February, 1613. 
 The principal poets, excepting Ben Jonson, who 
 seems to have been upon the Continent, were in 
 requisition on this very interesting occasion. — 
 Beaumont and Chapman supplied masques, and 
 Donne the epithalamium. Sir Henry Wotton then 
 (perhaps) composed his celebrated canzo to " The 
 Lady Elizabeth and it is more than probable 
 that Shakspere, who was certainly in town on 
 the 10th of March, revived the Winter's Tale, 
 with some courteous changes in the persons and 
 diction of the piece, if indeed it were not com- 
 posed expressly for the occasion, and as a trial of 
 
shakspeee's birth-day. 
 
 189 
 
 skill v/ith Fletcher. Notwithstanding the high 
 repute which Shakspere enjoyed, and the noble 
 friendships which he had formed, we find him, on 
 all hands, designated as a man of singularly modest 
 and retiring habits. In this respect he widely 
 differed from some of his contemporaries, and was 
 a perfect contrast to his friend Ben Jonson, of 
 whom Howell writes thus to Sir Thomas Hawke, 
 Westminster, 1636 : — "I was invited yesternight 
 to a solemn supper, by B. J. There was good 
 company, excellent cheer, choice wines, and jovial 
 welcome. One thing intervened, which almost 
 spoiled the relish of the rest — that Ben began to 
 engross all the discourse, to vapour extremely of 
 himself, and by vilifying others, to magnify his 
 own m.use. T. C. buzzed me in the ear, that 
 though Ben had barrelled up a great deal of know- 
 ledge, yet it seems he had not read the ethics, which 
 forbid self-commendation. For my part, I am 
 content to dispense with this Roman infirmity, 
 now that time hath snowed upon his pericranium." 
 This occurred in the year preceding Ben Jonson's 
 death. But Ben had always a high opinion of his 
 own powers, and in the Henslowe manuscripts is 
 the following entry : — ^^Lent unto feenjemy John- 
 sone, at the appoyntment of E. Alley n and William 
 Birde, the 22 of June, 1602, in earnest of a boocke 
 
 M 
 
190 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 [play] called Eicliard Crookback/' and for new 
 adycions for " Jeroninio," the sum of Xlb." Shaks- 
 pere had printed his "Richard III." five years 
 before, and the presumption is that J on son thought 
 he could either improve upon it, or eclipse it 
 altogether ; but^ if his tragedy were ever written 
 or acted, it was soon consigned to oblivion. In no 
 one instance do we hear of Shakspere indulging in 
 expressions of envy, jealousy, or egotistical brag- 
 gadocio. He did not endeavour to put himself in 
 the front rank of those with whom he associated ; 
 and, in the various patents and other documents 
 connected with the theatre, we never see the name 
 of Shakspere figuring at the head of the list. 
 
 Shakspere was author, manager, and actor, but 
 he yet found leisure to enjoy himself in the com- 
 pany of his friends, and he delighted in social and 
 convivial conversation. Aubrey tells us that " he 
 was a handsome, well-shaped man, very good com- 
 pany, and of a very ready, pleasant, and smooth 
 wit/' " Ben Jonson and he did gather humours of 
 men daily wherever they came." " He was wont 
 to go to his native country once a year. I think 
 I have been told that he left two or three hundred 
 pounds per annum there and thereabout to a sis- 
 ter. I have heard Sir William Davenant and Mr. 
 Thomas Shadwell (who is counted the best come- 
 dian we have now) say that he had a most prodi- 
 
shakspere's birth-day. 
 
 191 
 
 gious witj and did admire his natural parts beyond 
 all other dramatic writers. He was wont to say 
 that he never blotted out a line in his life ; said 
 Ben Jonson^ ^ I wish he had blotted out a thou- 
 sand.' " 
 
 It was not until seven years after Shakspere's 
 death that a complete edition of his works was 
 published. There is no doubt that he had a full 
 consciousness of his own mighty powers, and yet, 
 so careless was he of minor matters, that he fore- 
 bore to notice the many typographical and other 
 errors which crept into such of his plays as were 
 published in his lifetime. No doubt he was greatly 
 occupied by many and arduous duties ; his plays 
 were disposed of to the theatre, and the property 
 in them was no longer individually his ; yet it 
 seems strange that he should have allowed so many 
 liberties to be taken with his name and works 
 without adopting the necessary means to check and 
 correct them. Had he done so, what a world of 
 trouble would his commentators have been spared, 
 and what a number of unreadable bool^s would 
 have been unwritten. 
 
 A curious record of Shakspere's later years has 
 been discovered in the library of the Medical So- 
 ciety of London, contained in the " Diary of the 
 Eev. John Ward, vicar of Stratford-upon-Avon." 
 
192 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 The diary extends from 1648 to 1679; aud in it 
 is the following entry : — ' 
 
 " I have heard that Mr. Shakspere was a natural 
 wit, without any art at all ; he frequented the 
 plays all his younger time, but in his elder days 
 lived at Stratford^ and supplied the stage with two 
 plays every year : and for it had an allowance so 
 large that he spent at the rate of ^£1,000 a year 
 as I have heard. Shakspere, Drayton, and Ben 
 Johnson had a merry meeting ; and it seems drank 
 too hard, for Shakspere died of a fever there con- 
 tracted." 
 
 The remains of Shakspere were interred under 
 the north side of the Collegiate Church of Strat- 
 ford, where a monument is placed on the wall, in 
 which is represented his bust, a cushion spread be- 
 fore him, with a pen in his right hand, and his left 
 resting on a scroll of paper. The bust was origi- 
 nally coloured to resemble life : the eyes being of 
 a light hazle, and the hair and beard of an auburn 
 colour ; the dress consisted of a scarlet doublet, 
 over which was a loose black gown without sleeves ; 
 the lower part of the cushion was of a crimson 
 colour, and the upper part green, w^ith gilt tassels. 
 The face, which is of a cheerful cast, resembles that 
 of the earliest print of the poet, which Ben Jonson 
 asserted, in his verses under it^ to be a great like- 
 ness, Charles Lamb says, in his quaint wa.y, that 
 
shaksperfAs birth-day. 
 
 193 
 
 the " wretched Mai one bribed the sexton of Strat- 
 ford church to let him whitewash the painted effigy 
 of old Shakspere^ which stood there in rude but 
 lively fashion depicted, to the very colour of the 
 cheek, the eye, the eyebrow, hair, the very dress 
 he used to wear ; the only authentic testimony we 
 had, however imperfect, of these curious parts and 
 parcels of him. They covered him over with a 
 coat of white paint. If I had been a justice of 
 peace for Warwickshire, I would have clapped both 
 commentator and sexton fast in the stocks, for a 
 pair of meddling sacrilegious varlets." 
 
 I remember an anecdote of a number of gentle- 
 men of literary tastes, who had met together, and, 
 for amusement, agreed each to write a few lines on 
 some subject which Shakspere had touched upon. 
 They did so, and, when all had finished, the com- 
 positions were read. Afterwards Shakspere's 
 passage on the same subject was read, and each 
 individual became so dissatisfied with the result of 
 his own labours, when brought into comparison 
 with those of Shakspere, that the whole of the 
 compositions were with universal consent immedi- 
 ately given to the flames. Viewing his merits in 
 another light, Dryden says : — If Shakspere were 
 stripped of all the bombast in his passions, and 
 dressed in the most vulgar words, we should find 
 the beauties of his thoughts remaining ; if hin, 
 
194 FLOWERS mil ALL SEASONS. 
 
 embroideries were burnt down, there would still 
 be silver at the bottom of the melting-pot ; but I 
 fear that we, who ape his sounding words, have 
 nothing of his thought, but are all outside ; there 
 is not so much as a dwarf within our giant's 
 clothes." 
 
 Independent of the graces and glories of Shaks- 
 pere's poetry, he is not only the greatest writer, 
 but the wisest philosopher that England, or per- 
 haps the world, ever produced. On all subjects, 
 and in all countries, he is equally at home ; and 
 there is scarcely any passion or phase in life which 
 is not illustrated by him. What were his oppor- 
 tunities then ; how came he to be the proprietor 
 of that immense store-house of practical wisdom 
 which was so preeminently his? This is one of 
 those sphinxian interrogatories which we find it 
 impossible to answer. There is no ordinary rule 
 which can be applied to him. He was one of those 
 phenomena which appear only to puzzle the wisest 
 and most profound, whilst they gratify the most 
 shallow and uninformed. He has been appropri- 
 atlely styed " the genius of the British isles." The 
 poets who wrote and flourished in his day live not 
 now with us. We receive them amongst us as 
 strange and occasional visitors, but they are not 
 our household companions — they are not the 
 everyday friends of our existence. We may ad- 
 
shakspere'^ birth- day. 195 
 
 mire a choice style of expression, a brilliant flash 
 of wit, or a noble thought, but they have not our 
 sympathies ; they are not those whom we should 
 consult in an emergency — whom we should seek 
 for participation in our joy, or consolation in our 
 sorrow. With Shakspere it is otherwise : he is the 
 dear friend whom we commune with in our adver- 
 sity, laugh with in our happiness, and weep with 
 in our grief. But for him how many of us would 
 have looked with cold indifference on the bygone 
 ages, which he has filled with living creatures, and 
 crowded with events of thrilling interest ! But 
 for him how many of the great deeds of Greece, 
 and Italy, and France, and even our own England, 
 would either have been unknown to or unregarded 
 by us ! He has rescued from the musty chronicles 
 of the past, a host of fresh, and bright, and glo- 
 rious actions, that but to read and think of stir us 
 as doth the blast of a trumpet. He is the pour- 
 trayer of manners and customs which would else 
 have faded away for ever. He has peopled remote, 
 obscure, and unknown places with creations of his 
 imagination that we have become familiar with, 
 and discourse of as though they were creatures of 
 flesh and blood, and he has animated them with 
 that true Promethean fire which will prolong their 
 existence through all immortality. I must hasten 
 
196 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 this brief essay to an unsatisfactory close^ for I 
 feel how feeble, bald, and common-place are all 
 epithets of praise and admiration, when applied to 
 him who was the sweetest poet, the noblest dra- 
 matist, the subtlest metaphysician, and the most 
 searching and correct analyser of humanity that 
 " ever lived in the tide of times." 
 
197 
 
 ZAIDEE. 
 
 Timid and most gentle Zaidee, 
 
 I have watch'd thee 'mid the throngs 
 Graced by many a lovely lady — 
 
 Ladies beautiful and young : 
 They were deck'd in robes of splendour^ 
 
 Thou wert clad in simple garb ; 
 But thine eyes, with beamings tender, 
 
 Pierced my heart liked winged barb. 
 
 Still the arrow there is lying, 
 
 And I cannot turn away, 
 But must say, though nigh to dying, 
 
 Wound me with another ray ; 
 Kill me with thine eyes of beauty, 
 
 I will hail so sweet a death. 
 And will bless thee, as a duty, 
 
 Zaidee, with my latest breath. 
 2 M 
 
198 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 To thy face the blush advances — 
 
 Flowers, though mute, of love can speak — 
 And my wild, impassion'd glances 
 
 Have sown roses on thy cheek. 
 Shall I dare to pluck them, dearest, 
 
 And their hues in kisses steep ^ 
 Tell me, Zaidee, why thou fearest 1 
 
 He who plants may surely reap. 
 
199 
 
 THE SLEEP-GUEST. 
 
 0 BRIGHT and wondrous world of dreams, 
 What mysteries dost thou shrine ! 
 
 They say the future on thee gleams — 
 I know the past is thine ; 
 
 1 know the graves give up their dead, 
 O'er thy enchanted paths to tread. 
 
 Strange shapes, no unclosed eye hath seen, 
 
 In thy dominions dwell, 
 And some, the memory of whose mien 
 
 Clings round us as a spell. 
 And haunts us through the day's clear time, 
 Like something of a purer clime. 
 
 Not long ago methought I s^aw, 
 
 In vision of the night, 
 My wife and gleesome children draw 
 
 Around the fire's red light ; 
 
200 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 And cheerful tale, and legend old^ 
 Unto the listening band, I told. 
 
 Their eyes reflected back the flame, 
 
 Or gazed intent on me^ 
 When in an aged man there came, 
 
 Who smiled most pleasantly ; 
 And quick we brought an easy chair, 
 And placed the gray-hair' d comer there. 
 
 The children hail'd him as a friend. 
 
 And gather'd round his knee ; 
 New joy to all he seem'd to lend, 
 
 In that young company ; 
 From realms remote the guest had come, 
 And yet our hearth was as his home. 
 
 None knew from what far clime he came. 
 
 Nor why to us he stray'd ; 
 None ask'd his kindred or his name. 
 
 Though with each child he play'd, 
 And took the youngest on his knee. 
 And said, "Thou dear one come with me !" 
 
 The babe smiled sweetly in his face, 
 Then slumber'd on his breast ; 
 
 With silent steps he left the place — ■ 
 His parting none represt ; 
 
SLEEP-GUEST. 
 
 The mother let her loved one go, 
 Without a thought or word of woe. 
 
 A something told each yearning soul 
 
 Our guest was not of clay^ 
 But an immortal from the goal 
 
 Where blest ones wing their way : 
 My children's eyes with tears grew dim — 
 " 0 father, let us follow him 1" 
 
 And oft before my waking eyes 
 
 That mystic shape I see, 
 And then, 0 God, my spirit sighs 
 
 That I may pass to Thee, 
 As sought the babe that wanderer's breast, 
 Sinking with smiles into its rest. 
 
202 
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 An awful shadow seems about me flying, 
 Unseen, impalpable, with noiseless wings ; 
 
 It seems to whisper of the dead and dying, 
 And o'er my spirit saddening influence flings. 
 
 It haunts me when my laugh sounds of the lightest, 
 And all around imagine me most gay ; 
 
 It clouds my feelings when the scene is brightest. 
 And beaming eyes are lit with merry ray. 
 
 I think of those who knew me in life's morning, 
 When every nerve to rapture's pitch was strung. 
 
 When joy and hope were all my thoughts adorning, 
 And nature, like my life, look'd fresh and young. 
 
 What dreams we had of days that were a-coming. 
 What sunshine rested on our future hours ; 
 
 We roam'd like bees, for ever gaily humming. 
 And gathering sweetness from all kinds of flowers. 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 203 
 
 Where are those co-mates, glad and buoyant- 
 hearted 1 
 
 I look around me, and I find not one ; 
 Some in the dawning of their days departed, 
 Some lived to manhood's noon, but all are gone ! 
 
 And even in their lives how were they scatter'd 1 
 Distance or fate had made them kin no more ; 
 
 Some lived to see their hopes all dead and shatter'd, 
 Whilst some through life a charm'd existence 
 bore. 
 
 At times I marvel why God here hath left me, 
 When worthier far have hasten'd to decay, 
 
 Whilst I, though time of many hath bereft me. 
 Have blessings still to cheer me on my way. 
 
 Like a deep bell, in solemn silence knolling. 
 
 Come ever and anon upon mine ear 
 Tidings of death, and frequent, 'mid the tolling, 
 
 A small voice whispers Thou abid'st not here 1" 
 
 I hear them speak of numbers who have perish'd. 
 When the sought shore hath burst upon their 
 sight. 
 
 And all the hopes, which long their hearts had 
 cherish'd. 
 
 Were whelm'd at once beneath the waves of night. 
 
204 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 I hear them tell full many a painful story 
 Of sad disasters, scaring all the land, 
 
 Of shiver'd limbs, and bodies crush'd and gory — - 
 Yet never doubt the wisdom of Thy hand, ' 
 
 I hear of children and of parents dying, 
 
 Of mourners weeping round the couch of pain ; 
 
 But Thou I know canst soothe all human sighing, 
 And never issuest Thy decrees in vain. 
 
 Some pass from earth like lights that shoot from 
 heaven, 
 
 One moment seen, then vanish'd is their ray ; 
 To some long, lingering hours of pangs are given, 
 Ere fades their light into Thy perfect day. 
 
 But what is that which we call "time?" Great 
 Father, 
 
 A speck of dust compared with all of Thine ; 
 No tiny mortal mind may hope to gather 
 
 One glimmering glimpse of that which is divine. 
 
 We only know Thee in Thy works of glory. 
 In all we see, and think, and feel, and hear ; 
 
 And in Thy Book, where we may read the story 
 Of deeds that make us glorify and fear. 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 205 
 
 Awav then, awful shadow !— I will banish 
 All that is sad and fearful from my soul ; 
 
 I feel the terrors of thy presence vanish, 
 
 At thoughts of Him who made and rules the 
 whole. 
 
 The eye of Him who marks " the sparrow's falling/' 
 Dwelleth for ever on each form of dust : 
 
 So let me then prepare to hear His calling, 
 
 Thankful to live, but meeting death with trust. 
 
20G 
 
 4 
 
 ON SEEING AN AUTOGRAPH LETTER 
 
 OF MILTON'S. 
 
 Can this be glorious Milton's writing ! these the 
 lines 
 
 Traced by the great and worshipp'd bard who 
 sang 
 
 Of Eden lost ! Methinks upon the hallow'd scroll 
 
 there shines 
 A light divine, as if from thence it sprang, 
 Like circling halo o'er the heads of saints. Has thy 
 
 hand, 
 
 Saint of the poet's calendar, been laid 
 Upon the paper that I gently touch ? 
 
 Yes, here thy fingers moved, or ere the shade 
 Of darkness fell for ever o'er the land. 
 
 For thou did'st look on heav'n, whose light was 
 such 
 
 As blinded thee to earth and mortal sight : 
 Thou did'st behold and all below was night ; 
 But from thy night of worldly blindness came 
 The quenchless sun of thine immortal fame. 
 
207 
 
 A GOSSIP WITH WORDSWORTH. 
 
 It was the latter end of August, 1847, when, in 
 company with a friend, I visited the Lake district. 
 Independent of the desire which I had to view 
 the wondrous sights of water, mountain, and fell, 
 which abound in Westmoreland and Cumberland, 
 I cherished a strong wish and determined intention 
 to see, if possible, the great poet whose writings 
 had contributed so much to the celebrity of the 
 locality in which he resided. After several days 
 spent in gazing at lofty crags, sailing on lakes, 
 inspecting piles ancient and modern, and climbing 
 mountains, we concluded our ascents by scaling 
 the "mighty Helvellyn." The day previous we 
 had rowed over the lake of Ulleswater, a distance 
 of nine miles, to Patterdale, and, though the inn 
 there is very extensive, the sleeping accommoda- 
 tions w^ere all preoccupied, and we had no alterna- 
 tive but to avail ourselves of a return-chaise which, 
 at a late hour in the evening, was leaving Patter- 
 
208 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 dale for Keswick. We, however, were fortunate 
 enough to secure a bed at Matterdale, a village 
 some six or seven miles on the road. 
 
 The following morning was dingy in appearance, 
 and a considerable quantity of rain had fallen dur- 
 ing the early part of it. Our host advised us, as 
 we had no guide, to defer our ascent until a more 
 favourable opportunity, but we had made up 
 our minds to the undertaking, and were not to be 
 deterred by his advice or untoward prognostica- 
 'tions as to the weather. We commenced our jour- 
 ney without taking with us any refreshment except 
 a small flask of brandy, and had not proceeded 
 very far before our appetites apprised us that we 
 had committed a fatal mistake in not providing 
 ourselves with something of a substantial nature. 
 The fatigue superinduced by want of food was very 
 great, but the splendour and gloomy magnificence 
 around us rewarded us for our exertions. Innume- 
 rable lakes might be seen in the distance, hemmed 
 in by lofty crags, and the mist rose up from them 
 like the steam from demon cauldrons. We paused 
 occasionally to wonder and admire, and then again 
 toiled and floundered along. Several hours elapsed 
 before we gained the mountain's summit, and 
 looked around us, involuntarily repeating the first 
 verse of Scott's well-known poem : — = 
 
It 
 
 A GOSSIP WITH WORDSWonTH. 209 
 
 I ciitiib'd the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
 
 Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide ; 
 All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, 
 
 And starting around me the echoes replied. 
 On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, 
 And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, 
 One huge nameless rock in the front was descending, 
 
 When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had 
 died." 
 
 The descent was almost as toilsome as our up- 
 ward journey ; but the good cheer which awaited 
 us at the little inn at Wythburn soon made up for 
 our long abstinence, and the reminiscences of our 
 toil made amends for its endurance, as w^e plea- 
 santly discussed in our snug retreat the mutual 
 disasters we had encountered. 
 
 The next morning we devoted to our visit to 
 Wordsworth, and, after a ramble through Grasmere^ 
 and an inspection of Ilydal Waterfalls, we pro- 
 ceeded to pay our respects to the poet. I had 
 brought wdth me copies of three of my published 
 poetical volumes, in order that they might stand 
 me in lieu of an introduction. Having passed 
 through the gate, we found ourselves in front of 
 Wordsw^orth's house, a fit dwelling for its inmate. 
 The walls were profusely ornamented with luxuri- 
 ant plaints, and altogether its appearance was such 
 as would lead a stranger to set down its owner for 
 
210 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 a person of taste and fancy. A neat and rosy 
 maid-servant responded to our summons. We 
 consigned to her charge the books which I had 
 brought with me, together with our address-cards, 
 and awaited the result. Her message was that 
 Mr. Wordsworth was at dinner, but that he desired 
 us to walk in and rest for a few minutes, when he 
 would be with us. The room into which we were 
 ushered was a well-furnished drawing-room, with a 
 few books scattered about, and on the w^alls were a 
 portrait of Burns, and other pictures, the subjects 
 of which I do not remember. In the course of a 
 very brief interval Wordsworth made his appear- 
 ance, and apologised for keeping us w^aiting, re- 
 marking that he dined at a very "unfashionable 
 hour : it was then half past one o'clock. He 
 shook hands heartily, and thanked me for the 
 books which I had presented to him. The expres- 
 sion of his countenance was exceedingly mild and 
 benevolent, and seemed to be the index to a mind 
 which had been little ruffled by the adversities of 
 existence. He was then, however, sorrowing for 
 the loss of his daughter, to whom he had been 
 greatly attached, and who had then, I think, only 
 been dead six weeks. He was about the middle 
 stature ; his almost white hair hung somewhat 
 loosely about his temples, and his appearance 
 struck me as quite patriarchal. His voice was 
 
A GOSSIP WITH WORDSWORTH. 
 
 211 
 
 pleasant and agreeable, and he spoke in exceedingly 
 quiet and subdued tones, putting his right hand to 
 his ear occasionally, as though he were anxious not 
 to lose a syllable of what was spoken. The detail 
 of the conversation which passed between us will 
 derive its value, of course, as being the almost lite- 
 ral transcript of words falling from such a man, 
 and, though not elucidating any great facts or re- 
 markable opinions, it cannot be devoid of interest 
 to those who may not have had the opportunity 
 of seeing and hearing the late laureate in his own 
 home, and reclining in his easy chair indulging in 
 an unaffected colloquy. We apologised for intrud- 
 ing, but he begged us not to look upon it as an 
 intrusion, for he did not consider it as such. Ob- 
 serving that my friend's card stated his residence 
 to be at Broughton, he wished to know what 
 Broughton it was, as there was a Broughton in 
 Cumberland, and also one in Furiiess. I informed 
 him it was Broughton near Manchester. He said 
 there were several places bearing that name, and 
 suggested that its derivation was Brough, Burgh, 
 or Borough. He asked us if we had seen much 
 of the lake district, and we mentioned to him a 
 few of the objects which had attracted our atten- 
 tion. We told him we had ascended Helvellyn on 
 the previous day, and he seemed pleased that we had 
 done so. We mentioned to him that we had gone 
 
212 
 
 FLOWEKS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 over the fells from Matterdale, and had been eleven 
 hours amon2:st the mountains. He observed that 
 strangers who went without a guide generally expe- 
 rienced considerable difficulties^ and frequently met 
 with accidents. He said that many had fractured 
 their limbs. One lady, a friend of his, had broken 
 her leg in the ascent ; another friend of his, a gen- 
 tleman, had splintered his knee, and many had 
 sprained their ankles, or otherwise injured them- 
 selves. He remarked that there was much diffi- 
 cuty in securing a favourable time. Mists fre- 
 quently came on, and bewildered people. He said he 
 had ascended twice in one day ; in the first instance 
 a mist had fallen upon the mountain, and he waited 
 a quarter of an hour, but, as it did not disperse, 
 he came down, and afterwards reascended. On 
 another occasion he had made the ascent in com- 
 pany with those two remarkable men. Sir Walter 
 Scott and Sir Humphrey Davy. He said the last 
 time he had ascended was in company with his 
 daughter and her husband. He evinced consider- 
 able emotion, and spoke of her as his poor, dear 
 child. He said she had ascended on the back of a 
 pony. We observed that considerable skill must 
 have been required to ride a pony up the ascent. 
 He said such was the case, as most people were 
 afraid of falling backwards. His daughter was a 
 native of Westmoreland, accustomed to the man- 
 
A GOSSIP WITH WORDSWORTH. 21*3 
 
 ners of the people^ and was an excellent horse- 
 woman. He observed, "Poor, dear creature, she 
 was quite familiar with the mountain, and did not 
 know what fear was." He said they had com- 
 meneed their ascent from Dunmail Raise, near the 
 division of the counties of Westmoreland and 
 Cumberland. He lingered for some time on the 
 •subject of his daughter, and spoke of her in min- 
 gled terms of pride and deep regret. He enquired 
 particularly respecting the route we had followed^ 
 and said he w^as so familiar with the road to aad 
 from Helvollyn that he believed he could descend 
 it in little more than half an hour. He asked us 
 if we had seen a well on the brow of the mountain, 
 which he described as containing some of the coldest 
 water he had ever met with. He said he had 
 climbed a hill in Glamorganshire, where he had 
 found some water almost as cold at its source, but 
 in the course of a hundred yards it had become 
 quite warm. We said we had refreshed ourselves 
 with the water he spoke of, in descending Helvel- 
 Ijn, and he observed that it would lose its coolness 
 as it came down, from passing over the stones and 
 the heat of the sun. He strongly advised us to 
 visit Keswick, as we should see some of the most 
 beautiful objects of the lake scenery by doing so. 
 I had w^ith me an oaken sapling, once belonging 
 
214 
 
 VLOWERS mU ALL SEASONPj. 
 
 to Eobert Burns, and which had originally been 
 presented to a friend of mine by one of Burns's 
 sons, at Dumfries. Wordsworth's attention was 
 called to it, and he took it in his hands, and exa- 
 mined it with much interest, remarking that it 
 looked very like an exciseman's stick. Behind the 
 chair on which I sat was a sofa, the end of which 
 came directly under the portrait of Burns. Whilst 
 W^ordsworth held the stick in his hand he pointed 
 with it to the portrait, which he said had been 
 given to him by two of Burns's sons, who had 
 some time ago waited upon him, and expressed 
 their appreciation of the respect which he had 
 paid to their father's genius in different passages 
 of his poems. He said that Burns's sons did not 
 in appearance bear much resemblance to their fa- 
 ther, according to the idea which he had formed of 
 him. Burns was a tall and somewhat stalwart 
 man, but his sons were of low stature. I asked 
 him if he thought Burns's sons possessed much 
 intellectual capabilities. He replied that he had 
 scarcely had an opportunity of judging, as their visit 
 to him was only of about an hour's duration, and 
 their conversation was of a casual nature. I ob- 
 served that it seldom happened that a father's genius 
 was inherited bv his children. To this he assented, 
 but said he had often noticed that clever men were 
 micceeded by sons posses;sing the greatest genius. 
 
A GOBiSIP WITH WORDSWORTH. 
 
 215 
 
 He instanced Lord Bacon, and said that Cecil, fa- 
 ther of Lord Burleigh, was a very clever man. I 
 said, perhaps it was as w^ell that genius should not 
 be hereditary^ or confined to particular families. 
 He said it was doubtless wisely ordained that the 
 gifts of the mind should be wddely distributed^ and 
 not limited to descent. 
 
 The conversation now branched off to the faci- 
 lities which were possessed for acquiring knowledge 
 by the middle and lower classes of the present 
 day^ as compared with those of former times. 
 Wordsworth observed that the noblesse, or nobles, 
 of the olden times were so jealous of preserving 
 their advantage over their vassals, that they did 
 not allow them to become perfect even in the same 
 physical qualifications as themselves. The knights 
 and barons conserved to themselves the sword and 
 lance, and left to their vassals the use of the bow, 
 and other implements of strife. I observed tliat 
 the vassals were certainly not encouraged to be- 
 come proficients in the games of skill in which the 
 knights wished to distinguish themselves. This, 
 he said, was what he intended to convey ] but the 
 case was now widely different. The middle classes 
 were, in many respects, superior to the aristocracy ; 
 and this he ascribed to the greater degree of care 
 and attention which the mothers in a middle sta- 
 tion of life w^ere enabled to bestow upon their 
 
21G 
 
 i^LOWEBS ¥0U ALL SEASONS. 
 
 offspring. He said that the mothers of the aris- 
 tocracy were so much occupied in paying and 
 receiving visits, and with other matters incidental 
 to fashionable life, that they could necessarily only 
 devote a short time to the nursery. This had the 
 effect of causing their children to be wayward and 
 uncontrollable, whilst the ample means which were 
 at their command led them to indulge in sensual 
 luxuries, rather than intellectual enjoyments. — 
 After all," said he^ the middle station of life is 
 the best and the happiest." 
 
 On Wordsworth being asked if he considered 
 that the Windermere railway had been of much 
 advantage to the district, he replied that he could 
 not say it had caused much difference ; at least so 
 far as his own observations were concerned. He 
 said, he was afraid railway travelling would have 
 the effect of making the rising generations less 
 acquainted with the peculiarities and resources of 
 their own country than their predecessors were. 
 Those who journeyed by railway appeared only 
 anxious to arrive at the terminus, and cared little 
 about the country through which they vfere pass- 
 ing ; in fact, they were not allowed sufficient time 
 to make observations. He remembered that, when 
 he was at College, himself and fellow-students 
 mostly found time and opportunities to call at the 
 various places worth seeing on their journey to and 
 
A GOSSIP WITH WORDSWORTIL 217 
 
 from home. He spoke particularly of being in the 
 habit of calling at Lichfield and Coventry in his 
 progress. He remembered that, on the jonrney 
 from Brampton to Kendal the stage-ooach used to 
 draw up under an oak-tree, to wait until a shower 
 was over^ and, on one occasion, he recollected their 
 stopping to see a puppet-show which was exhibit- 
 ing on the road. 
 
 We intimated that we would not longer trespass 
 upon his time and attention, but he requested us 
 not to hurry away, as his time could not now be 
 considered very valuable, on account of his years. 
 " I am an old man," he said. " I am now in my 
 78th year, and if I live until April, shall be in my 
 79th. I was born in April, 1770. Besides, I 
 only receive visits from strangers during three or 
 four months of the year. For eight months I am 
 scarcely called upon by any one, and only see my 
 own personal friends and relatives," In the course 
 of conversation we said we had been at Penrith, 
 and he remarked that he had not been there lately, 
 but his mother was a native of that town, and he 
 had spent a portion of his early life there with his 
 grandfather. 
 
 When we rose to depart Wordsworth again 
 thanked me for the copies of the books which I 
 had presented to him, and shook hands cordially 
 2 N 
 
218 PLOWEES r^OR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 with my friend and myself. As we were making 
 our way through the lobby, he called us back, and 
 said he would show us something which might 
 interest us. He then conducted us into another 
 room, and showed us the modelled figure of a 
 child the size of life, which he said had been sent 
 to him that morning. It was intended to illus- 
 «• trate a passage in one of his poems describing 
 a child listening to a sea-shell. The figure 
 was beautifully executed, holding the shell in its 
 left hand, and appearing absorbed in wonder at 
 the sound proceeding from it. A net was spread 
 over the child's left knee, and a fish and shell were 
 laid at its feet. Wordsworth also showed us a 
 small recumbent figure of Grace Darling, with an 
 oar resting by her side. He said it was a copy of ^ 
 the effigy which was placed over her grave in the 
 Fern Islands. I alluded to his poem on the sub- 
 ject, and observed it was doubtless much appreci- 
 ated by parties visiting the locality in which she 
 had lived, and he said he had been given to under- 
 stand that it was. The room in which we now 
 were, like the drawing-room, was tastefully and 
 handsomely furnished, and contained many excel- 
 lent paintings. My friend noticed one of Sir 
 George Beaumont^s, and Wordsworth pointed out 
 some others by the same artist. He also directed 
 our attention to some paintings of Italian scenery 
 
A GOSSIP WITH WORDSWORTH. 
 
 219 
 
 and other pictures^ with which the walls were or- 
 namented. He again bade us good-bye, and accom- 
 panied us to the door, observing that we should 
 have a good prospect of the surrounding country 
 from the mount. Kydal Mount, (which gives the 
 name to the house and grounds, and was, we believe, 
 constructed under the direction of Wordsworth) 
 is a green knoll situated in the garden, in front of 
 the poet's dvfelling, and commands a beautiful and 
 extensive view of Rydal Water, as well as of the 
 romantic scenery of the neighbourhood, including 
 many of the most celebrated mountains. We need 
 not say that we were highly gratified with our 
 visit, and the exceedingly kind and unaffected 
 manner in which we were received. 
 
 Wordsworth now sleeps in peace, near the placid 
 lake of his own beloved Windermere, and, as my 
 pen traces the slight memorials of the only time 
 that I saw and listened to the aged bard, his vene- 
 rable figure again rises before me, and a host of 
 melancholy musings crowd into my mind. His 
 body may have perished, but the emanations of 
 his soul are deathless. 
 
220 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE POET.* 
 
 'TwAS in a proud and lofty palace-hall, 
 Long the abiding-place of queens and kings, 
 That a famed minstrel sat in drowsy thrall, 
 With senses closed against all outward things, 
 
 * The earliest French writer of any consequence in the 
 fifteenth century, was Alain Chartier, who did much to 
 purify his native language. He was secretary of the house- 
 hold to Charles VI. and Charles VII. He wrote some 
 historical works, but his natural tendencies were towards 
 poetry and imaginative writing, and he was celebrated for 
 a chaste and elegant style of discourse. Margaret of Scot- 
 land, first wife to the Eleventh Louis, seeing Alain asleep 
 on a chair one day, as she traversed the halls of the pa- 
 lace, went up and kissed him, before all her attendants. 
 When surprise was expressed by them that she should 
 thus salute a man remarkable for the plainness of his 
 looks, "I do not kiss the man," replied she, *'but the 
 mouth which has given utterance to so many charming 
 things." 
 
THE PRINCESS AXD THE POET. 
 
 221 
 
 His thoughts were wandering in dreamy play, 
 Gathering the beauteous shapes that slumber 
 brings, 
 
 Which pass'd before his mind in bright array, 
 Swift as the fleecy clouds by wild breeze swept away. 
 
 He gazed no more upon a kingly pile, 
 No more he thought of splendour and of state. 
 No more he sought to solve each courtly wile, 
 The royal beck no longer did he wait, 
 Chill'd with a frown, or with a smile elate ; 
 He mix'd with page and carpet-knight no more, 
 Changed was his dress, and alter'd was his fate, 
 And in his hand a shepherd's crook he bore — 
 Green were the fertile plains — 'twas an Arcadian 
 shore. 
 
 A river glided by, each silvery wave 
 Murmuring as though, with sweet and syren 
 tongue, 
 
 It call'd upon him in the depths to lave, 
 Whilst roam'd his flocks the emerald banks along, 
 And ever and anon a maiden's song- 
 Was borne upon the pure and scented air. 
 Full of the joy which floweth from the young. 
 Ere their glad hearts have felt the touch of care. 
 Or they have borne the grief which riper years must 
 bear. 
 
222 
 
 FL0V7ERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 He breathed into his pipe with simple skill, 
 And music's notes awoke beneath his sway ; 
 He paused, and all was for a moment still, 
 And then his strain was answer'd by a lay, 
 So sweet, so dear, his soul dissolved away 
 In an enchanted trance of deep delight, 
 And, blushing like the dawn of budding May, 
 A gentle creature charm'd his ravish'd sight, 
 Pure as a cloudless sky, and as an angel briglit. 
 
 ISTow let us leave the poet's vision'd land, 
 And turn again unto that palace fair. 
 Where still he sleeps, cheek pillow'd on his hand, 
 Spell-bound, reclining in an antique chair : 
 With stately tread and jewel-sprinkled hair, 
 And eyes whose rays the owner's gems eclipse, 
 A lady comes, whose lovely features wear 
 A sunny smile, as onward now she trips, 
 Showing the pearls that hide within her ruby lips. 
 
 Like stars that cluster round the queen of night, 
 Maidens high-born her graceful steps attend. 
 And as she gazes on the dreaming wight. 
 Their wondering eyes they all upon her bend ; 
 They see her proud and royal head descend. 
 They mark her kiss that homely thought-worn 
 face, 
 
 And with each other whispering words they l)lend, 
 
THE PRINCESS AND THP] POET. 
 
 223 
 
 While she rebukes them with a mien of grace, 
 A ud thus their curious wonderment seeks to efface : 
 
 Hold me not lightly, gentle dames of France, 
 That yon imconscious lips I've deign'd to press, 
 Nor bend on me your fix'd and wondering glance— 
 The poet, not the man, did I caress ; 
 Think not his features I revere the less 
 Because no beauty in their shape you see ; 
 Those lips have utter'd words that burn and 
 bless — 
 
 The mind is ever beautiful to me, 
 And they whose thoughts are pure can ne'er un- 
 lovely be." 
 
 Meantime the poet, in his happy dream, 
 Discoursed of love by the lone river's brink. 
 And joy'd to bask in the bewitching beam 
 Of the dear eyes whose light 'twas heaven to 
 drink ; 
 
 They talk'd till stars above began to wink. 
 And day sank down in ebon night's abyss — - 
 Oh, human joy, how soon is snapp'd thy link ! 
 One last embrace, one tender parting kiss — 
 The minstrel woke and mused — it was a dream of 
 bliss ! 
 
224: 
 
 THE MEETING AND PARTING. 
 
 We met but once, and parted then for ever, 
 As ships encountering on a sunny sea, 
 
 One dooni d, perchance, to reach its haven never, 
 The other aye to glide on tranquilly : 
 
 Thou wilt be as the glad and prosperous bark — 
 
 My destined course is clouded o'er and dark. 
 
 We met and parted — in the bright hall ringing. 
 Thy laugh still sounds amid the young and gay^ 
 
 Eternal blossoms in thy pathway springing. 
 
 For me — few flowers have decked my thorny way : 
 
 Of vanished joys my heart has been the shrine — 
 
 Of words and looks — and, most of all, of thine. 
 
 I saw thee with the light of beauty shining 
 On cheek and lip, and flashing ft'om thine eyes ; 
 
 Around thy forehead silken curls were twining, 
 And thy breast heaved, but not with passion's 
 sighs j 
 
THE MEETING AND PARTING. 
 
 225 
 
 The buoyant gladness of thy spirit shone 
 In every glance, and spoke in every tone. 
 
 I felt the music of thy sweet voice stealing 
 Across my soul — I press'd thy lily hand ; 
 
 Within my breast there sprung a joyous feeling, 
 And hopes, like shadows from the dreamer's land ; 
 
 Blissful aspirings crowded to my brain. 
 
 And my heart throbb'd with wishes wild and vain. 
 
 A few short hours of gladness, and we parted, 
 Thou to be worshipp'd and with joy elate, 
 
 And I to muse on thee all lonely-hearted. 
 And sigh for one who reck'd not of my fate j 
 
 Thou to an honour'd and a happy lot, 
 
 I for content to seek, yet find it not. 
 
 I pour d no vows unto thy youthful beauty, 
 I told not how my soul was wrapt in thee. 
 
 Nor sought to win thy pure heart from its duty— 
 I knew that thou wert not a mate for me ; 
 
 I knew our different destinies must lie 
 
 As far apart as are the sea and sky. 
 
 We met and parted whilst the rose was glowing, 
 In bloom and loveliness, upon thy face, 
 
 o 
 
226 
 
 FLOWEIilS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Whilst light and joy from thy dark eyes were flow- 
 ing, 
 
 And thou wert girt with every witching grace — 
 Ere youth's bright glories had been quench'd in 
 night, 
 
 Or one dear charm had faded 'neath Time's blight. 
 
 Had T thine image through long years have 
 cherish' d, 
 
 And mark'd thy beauties vanish one by one, 
 Till bloom, and grace, and every charm had perish'd^ 
 
 Could I have look'd on thee when all were gone ? 
 No, no ! I shrined thee rich in maiden spell. 
 And breathed at once my first and last farewelL 
 
MORNING. 
 
 The dawn is breaking ; night's dark hours are past, 
 The murky clouds are spreading far and wide, 
 
 The twinkling stars are all departing fast, 
 For sunshine cometh in a golden tide 
 
 Of orient splendour, gilding with its beams 
 
 Hill, hall, and cottage, valley, plain, and streams. 
 
 The mist hath yanish'd, like a sinner's dreams. 
 And rose-hued cars o'er heaven's blue highway 
 glide. 
 
 Flowers ope their chalices, and lift their eyes, 
 Dew-diamoned and odorous, to the skies ; 
 There is no sound, save music, on the air. 
 There is no sight, but beauty, everywhere : 
 Parent of goodness ! let thy children pray 
 That thou may'st guard and guide them tln^ough 
 the dav. 
 
228 
 
 A HEART SONG. 
 
 When first I saw thee, young in years, 
 
 Attired in maiden grace, 
 Within my bosom hopes to fears 
 
 Alternately ga?e place ; 
 There was about thee such a train 
 
 Of love's enchantments thrown, 
 I deem'd the wish was wild and vain 
 
 That thou would'st be mine own. 
 
 I gazed upon thy gentle eyes, 
 
 With beauty bright and clear, 
 And felt within my heart arise 
 
 All thoughts that made thee dear : 
 'Twas not the charms alone that broke. 
 
 Like morning, o'er thy youth — 
 From out thy face the spirit spoke 
 
 Of purity and truth. 
 
A HEART ^ONG. 
 
 229 
 
 Time pass'd, and, as in some glad dream, 
 
 I woo'd thee for my bride, 
 And on thy cheek saw blushes beam. 
 
 By love's sweet warmth supplied ; 
 And in thy soul faith built its throne, 
 
 And vows — ^not empty breath — 
 Have made thee mine, and mine alone, 
 
 Through changeful life to death. 
 
 Night follows day, and day the night. 
 
 And weeks and months are gone, 
 And years have o'er us wing'd their flight 
 
 Since thou and I were one : 
 Though time hath lightly dealt with thee, 
 
 I woo'd not cheek and brow — 
 Thou wert but woman once to me, 
 
 Thou art an angel now ! 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 
 
 Theke is no record of the life of any other poet 
 who passed through the same fiery political ordeal 
 as Milton. His political and poetical existence 
 must be looked upon as two distinct and separate 
 phases. His prose works typify the former, and 
 his Paradise Lost the latter. His prose is the 
 spirit of the convulsed, and terrible time in which 
 he lived and moved, but his poetry is a sublimated 
 essence untouched or tainted by earthly feuds 
 and passions. Dr. Johnson, the great bear of cri- 
 ticism, and who was himself, at least, as blind a 
 worshipper of monarchy as Milton was of repub- 
 licanism, loses no opportunity of making brutal 
 attacks upon Milton's character and motives, but 
 time, the purifier and tester of all men's actions, 
 has lessened the value of Johnson's criticisms, 
 whilst it has increased and continues to increase 
 the greatness and glory of Milton. It is not on 
 his prose writings that I purpose to dwell, or the 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 231 
 
 circumstances wliich gave rise to them, but it will 
 be necessary for me to glance over the leading 
 events of his life, in order that it may be seen from 
 what tumultuous elements may spring the clear 
 and golden light of poesy. 
 
 Milton was born in London, December 9th, 
 1608, and was descended from an ancient family 
 settled at Milton, in Oxfordshire. The early genius 
 of the poet was fostered with every care by his 
 father, who perceived his dawning greatness, and 
 evinced the proper pride of a parent respecting 
 him. When seventeen years of age, after prepa- 
 ratory tuition, he was sent to Christ's College, 
 Cambridge, and made great progress there in all 
 the bra^nches of academical learning, though from 
 his earliest years poetry was his chief delight. He 
 obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts when he 
 was twenty years of age. He was intended for the 
 church, but, fortunately for the world, his attach- 
 ment to the muses was so ardent that he would 
 not engage in any other pursuit. He took the 
 degree of Master of Arts in 1632, and left college. 
 His parents, who then dwelt at Horton, in Buck- 
 inghamshire, received him with unabated affection, 
 and indulged him in his love of retirement. Here 
 his mind became stored with the choicest speci- 
 mens of Grecian and Roman literature ; and tlie 
 
232 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 poems of Comus, L' Allegro, II Penseroso^ and Ly- 
 cidas were all written at this time. Having spent 
 five years in this manner, he obtained his father's 
 consent to travel for further improvement. Pre- 
 vious to his continental excursion, in 1638, Sir 
 Henry Wotton thus writes to him from Eton Col- 
 lege : — " It was a special favour when you lately . 
 bestowed upon me here the first taste of your 
 acquaintance, though no longer than to make me 
 know, that I wanted more time to value it, and to 
 enjoy it rightly. Since your going you have 
 charged me with new obligations, both for a very 
 kind letter from you, dated the sixth of this 
 month, and for a dainty piece of entertainment 
 that came therewith ; wherein I should much com- 
 mend the tragical part, if the lyrical did not ransh 
 with a certain Doric delicacy in your songs and 
 odes, wherein I must plainly confess to have seen 
 j^et nothing parallel in our language." The 
 dainty piece of entertainment" here referred to 
 was no doubt Comus. one of the most delio-htful 
 poetic compositions in our language, though essen- 
 tially deficient in dramatic interest, and unfit for 
 theatrical representation. Milton is said to have 
 imitated the style of Shakspere in Comus, though 
 I must confess that I cannot discern the resem- 
 blance. Several passages in Beaumont and Flet- 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 233 
 
 cher's play of The Faithful Shepherdess are closely 
 imitated. Comus, was brought out in the first 
 instance, under distinguished patronage. It was 
 presented at Ludlow Castle, in 1645, before the 
 Earl of Bridgewater, then President of Wales, 
 and the chief persons who played in it were Lord 
 Brackley, Mr. Thomas Egerton, his brother, and 
 Lady Alice Egerton. The notes for ^ Comus' were 
 composed by Henry Lawes, originally a choir-boy 
 of Salisbury Church, who first introduced the 
 Italian style of music in England. Comus was 
 performed at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1750, for the 
 benefit of Elizabeth Foster, granddaughter of the 
 poet, and his last descendant. The profits were 
 one hundred and thirty pounds, being the largest 
 sum which the descendants of Milton ever received. 
 Johnson wrote a prologue for the occasion, which 
 was delivered by Garrick. The granddaughter 
 was in mean circumstances, and kept a petty gro- 
 cer's or chandler's shop. She had little knowledge 
 of her grandfather, and was so unaccustomed to 
 diversion or gaiety, that she did not know what 
 was meant when a benefit was offered to her. 
 
 Of the poem of ' Lycidas' Dr. Johnson thus 
 speaks :— " In this poem there is no nature, for 
 there is no truth ; there is no art, for there is no- 
 thing new. Its form is that of a pastoral ; easy^ 
 2 o 
 
234 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 vulgar, and therefore disgusting ; whatever images 
 it can supply are long ago exhausted ^ and its 
 inherent improbability always forces distraction on 
 the mind. When Cowley tells of Hervey that 
 they studied together, it is easy to suppose how 
 much he must miss the companion of his labours 
 and the partner of his discoveries j but what image 
 of tenderness can be excited by these lines : — 
 
 ^ We drove a-field, and both together heard 
 What time the grey fly winds her sultry horn, 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night.' 
 
 We know that they never drove a-field, and that 
 they had no flocks to batten ; and though it be 
 allowed that the representation may be allegorical, 
 the true meaning is so uncertain and remote, that 
 it is never sought, because it cannot be known 
 when it is found." This may be good criticism, 
 but it is very bad logic. When a meaning is 
 never sought, and consequently never found, how 
 can any one have the assurance to say that it 
 would not be known if it were found 1 As " there 
 are none so deaf as those who will not hear," so 
 there are no parties more difiieult to be convinced 
 than those who wilfully close their understandings 
 to all things that militate against a foregone con- 
 clusion. The poem of ' Lycidas' was written upon 
 the death of Edward King, son of Sir John King^ 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 23-3 
 
 Secretary for Ireland, a fellow-collegian and inti- 
 mate friend of Milton, who was drowned whilst 
 going to visit his relatives in Ireland, in the twenty- 
 fifth year of his age. The poem is with very great 
 propriety constructed of a pastoral form, both 
 King and Milton being intended for holy orders 
 and the pastoral care. The following beautiful 
 passages will sufficiently illustrate the nature of 
 this admirable poem, and refute the ill-natured 
 critic's remarks. What can be finer than this 
 passage ? — 
 
 * Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, 
 (That last iofirmity of noble minds) 
 To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, 
 And slits the thin- spun life. But not the praise, 
 Phcebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears ; 
 Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
 Nor in the glist'ring foil. 
 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, 
 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, 
 
 And perfect witness of all-judging Jove, 
 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
 
 Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy mead !' 
 
 How delightfully fresh and descriptive is the 
 followino; invocation !- — 
 
236 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 * Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 
 That shrunk thy streams ; return Sicilian Muse, 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
 On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, 
 Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes. 
 That on the green turf suck the honied showers, 
 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
 The white pink, and the panzy freak'd with jet, 
 The glowing violet, 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. 
 And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
 Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
 And daffodillies fill their cups with tears. 
 To strew the Laureate herse where Lycid lies.* 
 
 Whilst Milton was on his continental tour he 
 was much caressed by men of the most eminent 
 rank and learning, and amongst others, he formed 
 an acquaintance with Galileo, who was then in his 
 old age and a prisoner in the dungeons of the 
 Inquisition, for holding different ideas of astronomy 
 to those of the Dominican and Franciscan monks. 
 When Milton returned to England, he settled in 
 the metropolis, and undertook the education of a 
 limited number of pupils. In 1 641 he published foiu' 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 237 
 
 treatises on church government, attacking episco- 
 pacy, and supporting the cause of the Puritans. In 
 1643 he married Mary, daughter of Eichard Powell, 
 a zealous royalist. They had not lived long together 
 when a difference arose between them, and his wife 
 left him and returned to the house of her father. 
 Milton was so indignant at this that he resolved 
 to repudiate her, and wrote several tracts defending 
 the doctrine of divorce. He paid his addresses to 
 another lady, with the intention of marrying her. 
 This step, w as prevented, it is said, by an unlocked 
 for reconciliation with the wife who had deserted 
 him. He was one day paying a visit to a friend, 
 when his wife burst suddenly upon him from an 
 adjoining room, and fell on her knees before him 
 suing for pardon. The generous nature of Milton 
 gave way, and a sincere and permanent reconcili- 
 ation was effected. It is said that this interview 
 influenced the imagination of Milton when he 
 wrote the beautiful and pathetic scene in Paradise 
 Lost, in which Eve sues to Adam for pardon and 
 peace. I give the passage, which must be acknow- 
 ledged to be singularly applicable : — 
 
 ' He added not, and from her turn'd ; but Eve, 
 Not so repulsed, with tears that ceased not flowing, 
 And tresses all disorder' d, at his feet, 
 Fell humble ; and embracing them besought 
 
238 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 His peace, aud tbus proceeded in her plaiiit, 
 
 Forsake me not, thus^ Adam ! witness heav'a 
 What love sincere, and reverence in my heart, 
 I bear thee, and unweeting have offended. 
 Unhappily deceived ! thy suppliant 
 I beg and clasp thy knees ; bereave me not 
 (Whereon I live !) thy gentle looks, thy aid, 
 Thy counsel, in this uttermost distress. 
 My only strength and stay ! Forlorn of thee, 
 Whither shall I betake me — where subsist ? 
 While yet we live, (scarce one short hour perhaps) 
 Between us two let there be peace.' 
 
 His Tract upon Education was written in 1644, 
 and he soon after protested fearlessly against the 
 restrictions on the liberty of the press. In 1645 ^ 
 he published his juvenile poems. He quietly pur- 
 sued his studies till the death of Charles I. ; w^lien 
 he published, in justification of the deed, his 
 Tenure of Kings and Magistrates. He was now 
 taken into the service of the Commonwealth, and 
 was made Latin secretary to the council of state. 
 No sooner was he in office than he was employed in 
 answering the celebrated royalist pamphlet, named 
 ' Icon Basilike,' or the portrait of his sacred ma- 
 jesty in his solitudes and suiferings. Milton called 
 his works ^ Iconoclastes,' or Image-breaker. This 
 work is regarded as one of the most perfect and 
 powerful of Milton's controversial compositions. 
 In 1651 he published his celebrated piece, entitled 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETHY OF MILTON. 231) 
 
 ' Pro Populo Angiicano Defensio A Defence of 
 the People of England^ in answer to Salmashis's 
 Defence of the King. This book completely ful- 
 filled the ends for which it was intended^ and 
 spread his fame over Europe. Everywhere on the 
 Continent it was received with astonishment and 
 applause. The ambassadors of the different go- 
 vernments of Europe, at that time resident in 
 London, paid complimentary visits to the author. 
 In June 16-51 it was burnt at Toulouse, by an 
 arrest of the Parliament, and twelve days later it 
 was burnt by the common executioner, at Paris, 
 under a judicial sentence. Having been perused 
 by Christiana, Queen of Sweden, she was so struck 
 with the eloquence of the composition, the strength 
 of the reasoning, and the vigour with which its 
 author exposed the futility, the sophistry, and con- 
 tradictions of his antagonist, that she spoke on all 
 occasions warmly in its praise, and from that hour 
 withdrew her favour from Salmasius. This re- 
 doubted champion, sank under his defeat, withdrew 
 into obscurity, and soon after died in Holland. 
 
 In 1652 Milton's wife died, and it was about 
 this time also that he lost his eye-sight, by a gutta 
 serena, which had been coming on him for many 
 years. The reins of government were taken by 
 Cromwell into his own hands, in 1653, but Milton 
 still continued to hold his office. He did not long 
 
240 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 continue a widower, but his second wife died about 
 a year after her marriage. When Richard Crom- 
 well was deposed, and the long parliament returned, 
 Milton still remained Secretary, and again appeared 
 in print, pleading for a further reformation of the 
 laws relating to religion, and he drew up several 
 plans, in the midst of scenes of anarchy, for re-es- 
 tablishing the Commonwealth, and preventing the 
 return of Charles II. When the restoration took 
 place, Milton was obliged to consult his safety by 
 retreating into retirement. Though a prosecution 
 against him was projected, his genius had created 
 him so many friends, even amongst the party to 
 w^hom he had been opposed, that he was included 
 in the general amnesty. After the storm had sub- 
 sided, Milton retired into a private dwelling, and 
 married his third wife, Elizabeth, who survived 
 him. 
 
 Milton's political conduct has been severely ani- 
 madverted upon by some writers, but it is by no 
 means unlikely that his course might have been 
 justified if he himself had freely stated to the 
 world the motives by which he was actuated. As 
 he did not choose to do so, we are left in doubt on 
 many points, which, however, it is not my object 
 at present to enquire into. He was engaged in 
 1653, in continuing the History of England, which 
 he had commenced some years before. It appeared 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 
 
 241 
 
 in 1670, the licenser having struck out some of the 
 finest passages. He published a manuscript of 
 Sir Walter Raleigh's in the same year, consisting 
 of aphorisms on the art of government. 
 
 ^Paradise Lost/ was published in the year 1667. 
 When almost ready for the press, it was very nigh 
 being suppressed through the malice or ignorance 
 of the licenser, who fancied he perceived treason in 
 the following splendid simile : — - 
 
 ' As when the sun new risen, 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
 Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon, 
 In dim echpse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs.' 
 
 It is stated that Milton did not begin to compose 
 ^Paradise Lost' until he was forty-seven years of 
 age, but it is probable that he had thought and 
 meditated upon the subject for many years pre- 
 viously. In 1637, when he was in his thirtieth 
 year, he thus writes to Charles Deodati :— ^ What- 
 ever God may have determined concerning me in 
 other respects, he has certainly implanted in me, if 
 in any one, a vehement love of the to Icalon : nor 
 is Ceres herself represented in fable to have sought 
 her daughter Proserpine with so much zeal, as I 
 daily and nightly pursue and trace the steps of 
 
242 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 this fair idea, this enchanting image through every 
 form and face of things — ' for various are the 
 shapes which people heaven.' Your curiosity will 
 now, I know, expect some satisfaction. Among 
 other subjects of anxious enquiry, you ask me, 
 upon what I am thinking. Hear me, my Heaven- 
 bestowed friend, but in a whisper, to spare my 
 blushes ; and permit me for a moment to utter 
 great things. Do you ask me, ^ Upon what I am 
 thinking? So help me Heaven, upon immor- 
 tality. But what am I doing I am fledging 
 myself, and meditate a flight !' Now^ Milton had 
 never attempted to describe the 'various shapes 
 that people heaven,' until he wrote ' Paradise Lost, 
 and consequently it cannot be pronounced impro- 
 bable to conjecture that the idea of a great poem 
 on that subject had early possesssion of his mind. 
 Johnson observes that ' being now forty-seven 
 years old, and seeing himself disencumbered from 
 external interruptions, he seems to have recollected 
 his former purposes, and to have resumed three 
 great works which he had planned for his future 
 employment ; an epic poem, the history of his 
 country, and a dictionary of the Latin tongue. 
 To collect a dictionary, seems a work of all others 
 least practicable in a state of blindness, because it 
 depends upon perpetual and minute inspection 
 and collation. Nor would Milton probably have 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETflY OF MILTON. 243 
 
 begun it, after he had lost his eyes ; but having had 
 it always before him, he continued it,' says Philips, 
 ' almost to his dying day ; but the papers were so 
 discomposed and deficient, that they could not be 
 fitted for the press. The compilers of the Latin 
 dictionary printed at Cambridge, had the use of 
 those collections in three folios ; but what was 
 their fate afterwards is not known. To complete 
 a history from various authors, when they can 
 only be consulted by other eyes, is not easy, nor 
 possible, but with more skilful and attentive help 
 than can be commonly obtained ; and it was pro- 
 bably the difficulty of consulting and comparing 
 that stopped Milton's narrative at the Conquest ; 
 a period at which affairs were not yet very intri- 
 cate ; nor authors very numerous. For the sub- 
 ject of his epic poem, after much deliberation, long 
 choosing, and beginning late, he fixed upon Para- 
 dise Lost ; a design so comprehensive, that it could 
 be justified only by success.' Some accounts state 
 that he was in the habit of dictating to his daugh- 
 ters, but this is disproved by the ascertained fact 
 that his daughters were unable to write. He 
 must, therefore, have been dependant upon his 
 friends. 
 
 By what degrees Paradise Lost rose to that repu- 
 tation in the literary world, from which it is destined 
 at no future period to decline, it is scarcely now 
 
244 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 possible minutely to ascertain. There is no reason, 
 however, to suppose that it ever passed through 
 an ordeal of obscurity, though it is quite certain 
 • that by some eminent men it w^as greatly under- 
 valued. Even the celebrated Waller thus spoke 
 of it : — ' The old blind schoolmaster, John Milton, 
 hath published a tedious poem on the fall of man ; 
 if its length be not considered a merit, it has no 
 other r Thirteen hundred copies of the work 
 were sold in two years from the date of the con- 
 tract, by which Milton disposed of the copy-right 
 to the bookseller. The second edition, which was 
 brought out under the superintendence and cor- 
 rection of the author, in 1674, is ushered in by 
 two copies of verses ; the first in English, by An- 
 drew Marvel ; and the second in Latin by Samuel 
 Barrow, physician to the army under General 
 Monk, and who had been actively concerned in 
 bringing about the restoration ; in the latter of 
 which the poem is expressly placed ^ above all 
 Greek, above all Roman fame.' Dry den, the poet- 
 laureate, and the most popular writer of verses at 
 that period, had, with the author's permission, 
 turned Milton's story into an Opera, entitled the 
 State of Innocence, which was also published in 
 1674. In the preface to this performance. Dry- 
 den observes : — ' What I have here borrow^ed will 
 be so easily discerned from my mean productions, 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 245 
 
 that I shall not need to point the reader to the 
 places, the original being undoubtedly one of the 
 greatest, most noble, and sublime poems, which 
 either this age or nation has produced.' 
 
 'Paradise Lost' was printed in small quarto, 
 divided into ten books, and was sold at 3s. per 
 copy. Milton disposed of the copyright to Samuel 
 Simmons, a printer and stationer in London, for 
 the present sum of five pounds, and five pounds 
 more when thirteen hundred copies of the first 
 impression should be sold in retail, and the like 
 sum at the end of the second and third editions, 
 ' to be accounted as aforesaid ; and that (each of ) 
 the said three first impressions shall not exceed 
 fifteen hundred books, or volumes of the said ma- 
 nuscript.' The second payment was made to the 
 author, April 26th. 1669, and on the 21st. of 
 December, 1680, his widow, Elizabeth Milton, dis- 
 posed of her entire interest in the poem for eight 
 pounds ; so that the sublimest poetical work in the 
 world produced only the sum of Eighteen pounds ! 
 Simmons afterwards sold the copyright for twen- 
 ty-five pounds. Dr. Bentley, the first editor of 
 ' Paradise Lost,' got one hundred guineas for his 
 edition. Dr. Newton, the next editor, got six hun- 
 dred and thirty pounds for ' Paradise Lost,' and 
 one hundred guineas for ' Paradise Eegained.' 
 
 With respect to the sale of ^ Paradise Lost,' Dr. 
 
216 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Johusou remarks that Hhe sale^ if it be considered, 
 will justify the public. Those who have no power to 
 judge of past times but by their own, should always 
 doubt their conclusions. The call for books was not 
 in Milton's age what it is in the present. To read 
 w^as not then a general amusement, neither traders, 
 nor often gentlemen, thought themselves disgraced 
 by ignorance. The women had not then aspired 
 to literature, nor was every house supplied with a 
 closet of knowledge. Those, indeed, who professed 
 learning, were not less learned than at any other 
 time ; but of that middle race of students who 
 read for pleasure or accomplishment, and who buy 
 the numerous products of modern typography, 
 the number was then comparatively small. To 
 prove the paucity of readers, it may be sufficient 
 to remark, that the nation had been satisfied from 
 1623 to 1664, that is, forty-one years, with only 
 two editions of the works of Shakspere, which pro- 
 bably did not together make one thousand copies. 
 The sale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, 
 in opposition to so much recent enmity, and to a 
 style of versification new to all and disgusting to 
 many, was an uncommon example of the preva- 
 lence of genius. The demand did not immediately 
 increase ; for many more readers than were sup- 
 plied at first the nation did not afford. Only 
 three thousand were were sold in eleven years ; for 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON, 247 
 
 it forced its way without assistance ; its admirers 
 did not dare to publish their opinion ; and the 
 opportunities now given of attracting notice by 
 advertisements were then very few j the means of 
 proclaiming the publication of new books have 
 been produced by that general literature which 
 now pervades the nation through all its ranks 
 But the reputation and price of the copy still 
 advanced^ till the Kevolution put an end to the 
 secresy of love^ and ' Paradise Lost' broke into 
 open view with a sufficient security of kind recep- 
 tion.' 
 
 Regarding the prose of Milton^ whatever excel- 
 lencies it may possess, we may safely take his own 
 opinions, and he confesses that he was not natu- 
 rally disposed to '^this manner of writing/ Svhere- 
 in/ says he, 'knowing myself inferior to myself, 
 led by the genial power of nature to another task, 
 I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left 
 hand.' It is, therefore, when he writes poetically, 
 and with his right hand, that I love to look upon 
 him. His poetry has nothing of ephemeral or 
 party spirit mingled with it ; it is the pure ema- 
 nation of a divine and god-like mind, freed from 
 all alloy of what is base and earthy. 
 
 His ' Paradise Regained' and ' Samson Agonistes' 
 made their appearance in 1671 ; and a new edition 
 of his minor poems, with nine new sonnets and 
 
248 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 other additions were published in 1673. He died 
 November 8th., 1674^ when within about a 
 month of completing his sixty-sixth year. His 
 funeral was numerously attended by the learned^ 
 and no inconsiderable concourse of what are called 
 the vulgar assembled on the occasion. 
 
 A modern critic has the following remarks : — 
 *He had not the "myriad-minded" nature of Shaks- 
 pere — the all penetrating sympathy by which the 
 greatest of dramatists could transform himself for 
 the time into any one of the other existences around 
 him, no matter how high, no matter how low : 
 conceive the haughty genius of Milton employed 
 in the task of developing such a character as Jus- 
 tice Shallow, or Bottom the weaver, or a score of 
 others to be found in the long, various, brilliant 
 procession headed by Falstaff and ending with 
 Dogberry ! Nothing of this kind could he have 
 performed much better than the most ordinarily 
 gifted of the sons of men ; he had no more the wit 
 or humour requisite for it than he had the power 
 of intense and universal sympathy. But his pro- 
 per region w^as still a vast one ; and there, his 
 vision, though always tinged with the colour of his 
 own passions and opinions, was, notwithstanding, 
 both as far-reaching, and as searching as any poet's 
 ever was.' 
 
 On Milton s ^ Paradise Lost' it would be almost 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILTON. 249 
 
 presumptuous to offer an opinion. It stands alone, 
 universally acknowledged to be the most sublime 
 and exalted epic poem that the world ever saw. 
 His ^Paradise Regained/ though the author's fa- 
 vourite poem, is much inferior to its predecessor. 
 It, however, contains passages which would have 
 been sufficient to have immortalized any other 
 writer. His ^Samson Agonistes,' is also a poem 
 full of power and majesty. Of his Sonnets John- 
 son says that Hhey deserve not any particular 
 criticism ; for of the best it can only be said, that 
 they are not bad.' This is a libel, for in grandeur 
 of thought and nobility of expression they stand 
 at the head of their class. One specimen will be 
 sufficient. It is entitled On the late Massacre in 
 Piedmont," and the following note will suffice to 
 explain it : — " This persecution of the protestants 
 in Piedmont broke out in 1665. In May, that 
 year, Cromwell wrote several letters to the Duke 
 of Savoy, and other potentates and states, com- 
 plaining of that persecution. Echard tells us, that 
 he proclaimed a fast, and caused large contributions 
 to be gathered for them in England ; that he sent 
 his agents to the Duke of Savoy, a prince, with 
 whom he had no correspondence or commerce, and, 
 the next year, so engaged Cardinal Mazarine, and 
 €ven terrified the pope himself, without so much 
 
250 
 
 FLOWEKiS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 as doing any favour to the English Eoman Catho- 
 lics, that the Duke thought it necessary to restore 
 all that he had taken from them, and renewed all 
 those privileges they had formerly enjoyed, ' So 
 great' adds Echard, ^was the terror of his name ; 
 nothing being more ususal than his saying, that 
 his ships in the Mediterranean should visit Civita, 
 Yecchia, and the sound of his cannon should be 
 heard in Rome." ' 
 
 * Avenge, 0 Lord, tliy slaughter' d saints, whose bones 
 Lie scatter' d on the Alpine mountains cold ! 
 Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
 When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones, 
 Forget not : in Thy book record their groans 
 Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 To Heaven. Their martyr d blood and ashes sow 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow 
 A hundred fold, who having learn'd Thy way, 
 lEarly may fly the Babylonian woe.' 
 
 This essay, I am inclined to believe, cannot be 
 more appropriately closed than with the following 
 noble sonnet by Wordsworth : — 
 
 ^ Milton! thou should st be living at this hour : 
 E?igland hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 
ON THE LIFE AND POETRY OF MILT©N. 251 
 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower 
 
 jBave forfeited their ancient English dower 
 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 
 Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : 
 
 Thou had'st a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 
 Pure as the naked heaven, majestic, free, 
 
 So did'st thou travel on life's common way, 
 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay/ 
 
252 
 
 EARLY LOVE. 
 
 'Tis many years, sweet Margaret^ 
 Since thou and I did part ; 
 
 'Tis many years since first we met^ 
 And plighted heart for heart ; 
 
 Yet oft, in sorrowing solitude, 
 
 Upon thy image do I brood. 
 
 'Tis long, oh, once beloved one, 
 
 Since that delicious hour. 
 When first I spoke in love's low tone, 
 
 And o'er thy heart had power ; 
 Since first I saw, upon thy cheek. 
 Affection's morn in blushes break. 
 
 Pale was thy cheek, dear Margaret^ 
 And shy thine eye of blue ; 
 
 But lovelier flower was never wet 
 With heaven's untainted dew^ 
 
EARLY LOVE. 
 
 2 
 
 Than thou, when first upon me shone 
 The charms which made me all thine own. 
 
 I do remember well the day 
 
 We parted for awhile : 
 Thy brow was moist and cold as clay — 
 
 1 strove in vain to smile ; 
 
 For tears came streaming from mine eyes, 
 And thou wert choked with bitter sighs. 
 
 Oft did I read to thee at night 
 From some heart-waking book, 
 
 And mark thee drink, with deep delight, 
 My every word and look ; 
 
 I felt thy breathing stir my hair, 
 
 And on my cheek thy ringlets fair. 
 
 Oft, too, when nights were dark and cold, 
 
 And snow was on the earth. 
 Thou would'st thine arms around me fold, 
 
 And shrink to send me forth ; 
 I laugh'd away thy timid fear, 
 And yet it made thee still more dear. 
 
 The brimming goblet soon is spilt. 
 
 Where joy s bright bubbles gleam ; 
 Our love is as a palace built 
 
 2 p 
 
FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Upon a frozen stream ; 
 The snn which, shines with dazzling ray^ 
 Dissolves our hopes and trust away. 
 
 Coldness and doubts, fair Margaret, 
 Between our young hearts came : 
 
 The paper with thy tears was wet, 
 That bore thy words of blame ; 
 
 But dark and shadow'd was our fate. 
 
 And we did part, but not in hate. 
 
 And many, many years have past 
 Since last I look'd on thee ; 
 
 I know not where thy lot is cast, 
 Yet still thy memory 
 
 At times comes rushing on my brain, 
 
 And fills my heart with thee again. 
 
 Oh, if another should have woo'd, 
 And won thee for his bride. 
 
 May peace and gladness o'er you brood, 
 As through this world you glide ; 
 
 And, when thy soul from earth is riven, 
 
 Be thou a blessed saint of heaven. 
 
255 
 
 COME, LOVE, AND SING, IN THY TONES 
 
 SWEET AND LOW. 
 
 Come, love^ and sing, in thy tones sweet and low, 
 The song which I heard from thy lips long ago. 
 When thine eyes were as bright, and thy cheeks 
 
 were as fair - 
 As the hues which the skies and the summer- 
 flowers wear, 
 And vainly I strove with my kisses to chase 
 The pure stream of blushes that rush'd o'er thy face. 
 
 Come, sing me that song, love, 'twill bring back the 
 day, 
 
 When my heart was lit up by affection's first ray. 
 When thy name to mine ears was a sound of delight, 
 And I gazed on thine image in dreams of the night, 
 And arose, when the sky wore the morning's bright 
 beam, 
 
 But to muse on the eyes that had shone in my dream. 
 
256 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Then siug me that song, love ; for, oh ! with each tone 
 There will come back the thoughts of the hours that 
 are gone — 
 
 Of the love that had birth amid blushes and fears, 
 Yet hath lived through the tempest of trouble and 
 tears ; 
 
 Oh ! that time will come back of deep rapture and 
 pride, 
 
 When I woo'd thee and won thee, my beautiful 
 bride ! 
 
FIRE FANCIES. 
 
 Musing I sit by my quiet hearth, 
 
 And the wild wind sighs without, 
 And the leaves are toss'd by the fitful breeze, 
 And I hear the creak of the bending trees, 
 As they quail in the stormy rout. 
 
 My household is hush'd in a calm repose, 
 
 For my children slumbering lie, 
 And my wife is engaged most silently, 
 In some labour of fragile mystery, 
 With an earnest and downcast eye. 
 
 Strange things appear in the changeful fire. 
 
 The ofispring of heat and flame, 
 Dark frowning towers of the days of old, 
 And shapes such as waker hath ne'er beheld, 
 And creatures without a name. 
 
25S FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Before me rises a beetling crag, 
 
 And a cavern dark and dim ; 
 And by the mouth of that yawning cave 
 There lieth a deep ensanguined wave, 
 
 And beside it a monster grim. 
 
 Now the fall of a fiery avalanche 
 
 Hath scatter'd the gloomy scene, 
 And I gaze on a bright and glowing land, 
 Where it seems as some glorious spirit band 
 Might dwell in the brilliant sheen. 
 
 Brighter and brighter the landscape glows, 
 
 Like the breaking of heavenly day, 
 And scarlet and gold are the splendid flowers 
 That dazzle and gleam in the crimson boweis, 
 ' Neath the still increasing ray. 
 
 I think of the time of mv faded vouth, 
 
 Of my childhood's fabled days. 
 Of the visions wild, and fancies vast, 
 And the lovely spells that were round me cast 
 
 By imagination's maze. 
 
 They have vanish' d, as falls before me now 
 
 The blacken'd and sinking fire ; 
 The halo of fancy hath from them fled^ 
 
FIRE FANCIES. 
 
 25 
 
 They have fallen aground me as cold and dead 
 As the embers which now expire. 
 
 Yet not like them, for a hope now springs, 
 
 From the depths of my panting soul, 
 That a light from the ashes of death shall rise, 
 And cleave its way, through the arching skies, 
 To a bright and lasting goal. 
 
* 
 
 2f>0 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS. 
 
 My fancy wanders through the mist of years, 
 
 And by a cotter's ingie-nook I see 
 A bright- eyed boy^ beset with ghostly fears, 
 
 Listening to tales of witch and giamoury. 
 Again I see that strange and high-soul'd boy, 
 
 Toiling afield beneath inclement skies ; 
 And now he breathes impassion'd words of joy 
 
 To one who lists with blush and downcast eyes. 
 I look once more — that youth is Scotland's pride, 
 
 And thrills the world with his immortal song ; 
 Yet is the bard his earthly meed denied, 
 
 And left to battle with contempt and wrong : 
 His voice is silent — all his praises spread, 
 
 And pay their tribute, for the bard is dead ! 
 
THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 
 
 Spirit, that speakest in the moaning wind, 
 Art thou the shadow of the happy past, 
 The ghost of joy, that ridest on the blast, 
 Telling of desolation to the mind ] 
 
 I listen to thee till my very heart 
 Is almost pulseless with the agony 
 
 Of old remembrances. Around me start 
 Glad sounds of laughter, hush'd for evermore 
 Hopes that were broken, aspirations high, 
 Faces of beauty, forms that buried lie, 
 Kindred and friends departed to that shore 
 Where only happiness can never die. 
 Teach me, 0 God, comfort and hope to find, 
 Even in the moaning of the sad- voiced wind. 
 
2GG 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 It was a bright and beautiful morning in June 
 when I left Manchester by the railway train for 
 Fleetwood, intending to take my passage from 
 thence to the Isle of Man. The carriages con- 
 tained many of the Members of the Independent 
 Order of Odd Fellows, who were bound for the 
 same destination as myself. Their object was to 
 be present at the Annual Moveable Committee, 
 which was this year to be held in the Isle of Man. 
 To the uninitiated it may be as well to state that 
 Committees are held every year in different locali- 
 ties, for the purpose of taking into consideration 
 any proposition for the alteration of the laws by 
 which the Order is governed, and also to discuss 
 and settle other matters connected therewith. 
 These committees are composed of delegates from 
 the various districts connected with the Order, and 
 form in reality their House of Representatives. 
 Many of the delegates were prevented by their 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 2G7 
 
 avocations from leaving until the following day 
 (Sunday), and a vessel had been engaged for the 
 occasion. 
 
 We darted merrily along, at a speed which 
 would have caused our plodding and superstitious 
 ancestors to have crossed themselves. On arriving 
 at the Preston station, our hilarity was somewhat 
 damped by the circumstance of one of our party 
 having missed his carpet-bag. Railway carriages 
 wait for no man, and sympathise with nobody, so 
 that, after many enquiries, our friend was obliged 
 to take his seat and depart minus his luggage. It 
 was, however, forwarded to him at the Isle of Man 
 in the course of a few days. In a short space of 
 time we arrived at Fleetwood, passing over the 
 viaduct which is formed across the river Wyre, and 
 is constructed of timber fixed in the sands. The 
 tide being low, we were rowed in boats to the Vale 
 of Clwyd steamer, and after experiencing consider- 
 able difficulty in getting clear of the sands, we 
 commenced our voyage. The weather was delight- 
 fully clear and calm, the water being scarcely ruf- 
 fled by a breeze, so that there was little inducement 
 to sea-sickness. The sky was brilliantly blue, and 
 the sea was almost as brilliant and as still. Whilst 
 some amused themselves with a rubber of whist 
 upon deck, others sat reading, or gazing upon the 
 glassy waves, enlivening the passing moments bj 
 
268 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 * 
 
 good-humoured conversation. In a while a portion 
 of the fresh water sailors^ who had previously been 
 pluming themselves on their cleverness, began to 
 be troubled with qualmish doubts of their powers 
 of endurance, and a few of them became in an 
 exceedingly awkward predicament. The shades of 
 night gathered around, but the moon soon smiled 
 above us, and the waves were tinged with a silvery 
 radiance. How delightful is it in such nights and 
 amid such a scene to lean over the stern of the 
 vessel and mark the glorious trail which she leaves 
 behind her, and whilst in such a position what a 
 train of musing passes through the mind. Many 
 things which are forgotten in the crowded city — 
 many forms which have long been engulphed in 
 the waves of time, and whose remembrance has 
 been effaced by the myriads daily thronging around 
 us, again fill our memories and our hearts when 
 we glide along amid the solitude of waters. I 
 stood for a long time leaning over the steamer, 
 gazing with feelings of awe and rapture on the 
 view spread out before me, and I could have re- 
 mained in that position for hours had not the 
 merry laughter and joyous shouts of my compa- 
 nions induced me to join them. 
 
 Though the night was as fair a one as it was 
 ever my fortune to witness, the breeze became 
 chill, and several of our party were glad to avail 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 269 
 
 themselves of tlie warmth of the cabin. For my 
 own part I could not for a long space of time ab- 
 sent myself from deck. I was strongly reminded 
 of Professor Wilson's description of the sea by 
 moonlight : — 
 
 The beauteous sea 
 Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, 
 
 While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 
 Far down within the watery sky reposes, 
 
 As if the ocean's heart was stirr'd 
 
 With inward life, a sound is heard. 
 Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep ; 
 
 ' Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, 
 
 That lies like a garment floating fair 
 
 Above the happy deep." 
 
 The subduing influence of the scene seemed to be 
 felt by each of those who remained to look upon 
 it, and an almost universal silence prevailed. The 
 few observations that were made were in accord- 
 ance with the delightful prospect that everywhere 
 met our view^ and that pure religious feeling which 
 is engendered by gazing on the works of Nature, 
 had evidently penetrated the hearts of all. The 
 steamer still ploughed its way through the billowy 
 furrows, scattering the liquid element in its pro- 
 gress like fragments of shattered silver. 
 2 Q 
 
270 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 After a fine sail we at length saY/ tlie beacon- 
 light of the Island shining like a star in the dis- 
 tance ; and between ten and eleven o'clock at night 
 we arrived at Douglas. Though the hour was 
 late, we found numerous friends who had preceded 
 us on the previous day, waiting to welcome us and 
 conduct us to our lodgings. According to arrange- 
 ment, I and several others of our party took up 
 our abode at Eedfern's Hotel, in James's Street, 
 where I must say that we found our host extremely 
 accommodating, and the fare and attendance dur- 
 ing the whole of our stay unexceptionable. 
 
 I rose early the next morning, and strolled with 
 some of my friends to Douglas Head. The mist 
 lay in volumes on the sea, and the town was in a 
 great measure veiled from our view. We found, 
 however, the benefit of our early walk, for the air 
 was cool and bracing, and the scene about us was 
 rudely magnificent. One of our party availed 
 himself of the opportunity of indulging in a bathe, 
 having discovered a fine natural bath down amongst 
 the rocks. He suddenly disappeared from us, and 
 though we called to him and heard his voice in 
 answer, our efforts to find the place of his retreat 
 w^ere fruitless, and we were under the necessity of 
 returning without him. 
 
 I took frequent occasions to visit this wild and 
 romantic spot, and cannot express adequately in 
 
EECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 271 
 
 language the gratification which I experienced 
 there. I remember in particular one bright and 
 glorious day when the sun was in its meridian, 
 though not oppressive, myself and a few others 
 rambled over the heathy labyrinths of the pictur- 
 esque headland. My companions wandered from 
 me in different directions; one portion quietly gaz- 
 ing on the wilderness of waters, and the other 
 straying amongst the rugged seclusions of the 
 rocks, feasting themselves with the objects which 
 Nature presented to them. I sought out a lone 
 and favoured position, and was entranced by the 
 scene. In the words of an eloquent writer : — " I 
 was at once transported to the mighty and sub- 
 lime ; the wild abyss of ocean foaming around the 
 rude and broken precipices ; the voice of the wa- 
 ters coming from their darkness, like the mighty 
 rejoicing of the spirit of the storm over the beauty 
 and the riches that have gone to the ocean-grave : 
 and then that fearful and hollow voice seemed to 
 pass away with the rushing tide, and amid the 
 pause, came the sweet sighing wind of summer, 
 over heath and rock-flower, and a low and wailing 
 cadence from the caverns of the deep." Not a 
 human sound came upon my ear, not a human 
 form obstructed my view ; the sun shone gorge- 
 ously upon the sea, which flashed and rolled 
 beneath the splendour of his beams like a boiling 
 
272 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 cauldron of gold. The sea-birds were wheeling 
 over its surface, and vessels were seen like specks 
 in the distance, only serving to show the insignifi- 
 cance of the productions of man when compared 
 to the stupendous works of God. The mountains 
 of Wales and Cumberland were looming afar off, 
 and altogether the scene was one of surpassing 
 grandeur. Long could I have remained in those 
 recesses, drinking in the glory and beauty which 
 lay around me as a girdle of enchantment ; but I 
 knew that my companions would be anxious to 
 return, and left the works of Nature to look on 
 those of man. Directing your gaze towards Doug- 
 las, you behold from this eminence all its principal 
 structures. 
 
 After breakfasting we agreed to pay a visit to 
 Peel Castle, and as Peel is eleven miles from Doug- 
 las, we lost no time in securing two vehicles for 
 our conveyance, knowing that all kinds of carriages 
 would be in request. Full of anticipations of the 
 treat we should have in inspecting the fine old 
 ruins, we commenced our journey. Though the 
 scenery is not remarkably striking, it is of a pleas- 
 ing character. On our way we passed by Tynwald 
 Mount, which it is conjectured was once a Danish 
 barrow. It is in the form of a pyramid of three 
 circles, each advancing three feet above the other. 
 There were formerly walls around it, and it had 
 
EECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 273 
 
 two gates for admission. It derives its name from 
 the Danish word " Ting," a court of justice ; and 
 " wald/' fenced. All laws must be promulgated in 
 Manx and English at Tynwald Moimt, before they 
 can become statutes of the land. A contest for 
 the Island took place in this neighbourhood^ at the 
 commencement of the thirteenth century, between 
 two brothers, Olave and Reginald, and the battle 
 is said to have been decided in favour of Olave by 
 the wives of his soldiers. They made their ap- 
 pearance in large numbers, on the highlands, armed 
 with various sorts of weapons, and caused much 
 confusion amongst the enemy. 
 
 Peel was once an important station, but since , 
 the decline of the smuggling trade, it has only 
 been used as a fishing port. It possesses a pier, 
 400 yards long, at the end of which is a light- 
 house. Our object of attraction was the castle, 
 and we did not stay to make any enquiries respect- 
 ing anything else, except that we took the precau- 
 tion of ordering a good dinner to be prepared for 
 us at Peel Castle Hotel by the time of our return 
 from the ruins. The castle stands upon a large 
 rock, and when the water is sufficiently high, the 
 channel which divides the rock from the town is 
 crossed by boats ; but on this occasion the tide 
 was out, and we had to mount upon the backs of 
 men, who for a small gratuity waded over with us. 
 
274 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 As we had only two conveyances, no better amuse- 
 ment was afforded to those waiting for their turn, or 
 who had already been carried over, than in watching 
 those who were on their passage. One wanted to 
 sit his human charger in an exceedingly dignified 
 style, when a slight stumble made him forget his 
 dignity, and clasp his supporter most affectionately 
 round the neck ; another, who was himself of her- 
 culean proportions, got perched on the back of the 
 least of the men, and the contrast betwixt them 
 could not fail to produce laughter. We effected a 
 safe passage, and then had to wait for an old bom- 
 bardier, who acted as a guide to the visitors, and 
 pointed out all the chief features of the ruins. In 
 a short time he arrived, having been conveyed 
 over the channel in a similar manner to ourselves. 
 Having gained admittance to the interior, we pro- 
 ceeded to investigate the magnificent old pile. 
 The ground within the walls of the cathedral is 
 used as a place of interment for Roman Catholics 
 and also for any unknown person who may have 
 perished on the coast. There are also the ruins of 
 two small churches dedicated to St. Patrick. A 
 low damp dungeon underneath the easternmost 
 portion of the cathedral, was once used as the 
 ecclesiastical prison. We descended into this dis- 
 mal place by eighteen steps, and were struck with 
 horror and indignation at the sight which presented 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 27-'! 
 
 itself. We could scarcely believe it credible that 
 auy human beings could ever have existed so cruel 
 and callous to their fellow-creatures as to doom 
 them to imprisonment in such a black and fright- 
 ful den. The roof is vaulted by thirteen ribs, 
 forming pointed arches, and supported by the 
 same number of short pilasters, not more than 
 twenty-one inches above ground. No light or air 
 gains admittance into the dungeon, except through 
 a small window, and in one corner is a well or 
 spring, which must have materially contributed to 
 the danipness and misery of the place. Other 
 cells were under the church of a still more dreary 
 and revolting character, not allowing the wretches 
 immured within them either to lie or sit down. 
 Thank God ! such a system of punishment no 
 longer exists. When we look back to those dark 
 and rude ages in which such things were treated 
 as a matter of course, creating no extraordinary 
 sensation at the monstrous and inhuman cruelty 
 of such practices ; when we reflect on the enormi- 
 ties which were committed unnoticed, not only by 
 the powerful barons, but also by ecclesiastics, we 
 ought to feel grateful we live in times like the 
 present, when the spirit of intelligence has dawned 
 upon the minds of men, and the blessed influence of 
 education has pervaded and humanized to a great 
 extent all classes of society. The castle was used 
 
/ 
 
 276 . FLOWERS FOR ALL REASONS. 
 
 as the Island prison, and many of noble blood and 
 ancient lineage have pined and withered away, 
 within its strong and gloomy walls. Elinor Cob- 
 ham^ Duchess of Gloucester, was confined in it for 
 witchcraft^ in 1440, and died there, after an impri- 
 sonment of fourteen years duration. The Earl of 
 Warwick was also in the custody of the garrison for 
 several years. The guard room is pointed out as 
 the scene of the legend of the black dog, "the 
 spectre-hound of Man," which destroyed a drunken 
 soldier, who was foolhardy enough to engage it in 
 single combat j and you are shown the grave of an 
 enormous giant, which our guide informed us was 
 a short time ago opened by two young men from 
 a "place called Manchester ; but they found nothing 
 in it. There are many curious and marvellous 
 accounts related by the guide, which I shall not 
 detail here^ as the authority might be considered 
 somewhat questionable. Having gratified our 
 curiosity, and compensated our conductor, we 
 emerged from the ruins^ and reached Peel again 
 by similar means to those by which we had been 
 transported to the castle. The outward appear- 
 ance of this ancient pile, is stern and frowning, 
 and carries the mind through many troubled years 
 to other and more barbarous times^ when fortresses 
 like the present were the too common abodes of 
 the proud and pitiless nobles, who ruled over their 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 277 
 
 vassals with fierce and hauglity sway, often bid- 
 ding defiance even to kings themselves. 
 
 When we returned to the inn we found our ter- 
 ritories had been invaded by a troop of friends 
 from Manchester, including several ladies. This 
 accession to our company of course disarranged 
 the dinner preparations, an additional supply hav- 
 ing to be served. Whilst the necessary operations 
 were going on, we were beguiling the time with 
 conversation and reflections on what we had just 
 witnessed, when the door of the apartment in 
 which we were sitting was suddenly thrown open, 
 and in stalked a man clad in a long shabby sur- 
 tout, and other habiliments to correspond. He 
 was about the middle size, of a slender form, and 
 his wild and wandering eyes betokened the state 
 of his intellects. Bowing deferentially to the com- 
 pany, he placed his hat upon a chair, and pulling 
 out a paper from his pocket, proceeded to read, 
 with much emphasis and gesticulation, an incohe- 
 rent poem which he had composed in honour of 
 our visit to Peel. When he had finished his task, 
 he threw down the paper, snatched his hat, and 
 abruptly rushed from the room. The manuscript 
 was transcribed in a bold and legible hand, the 
 style being an admixture of writing and print, 
 intermingled with a plentiful supply of capitals. 
 The following portion of his address, printed ver~ 
 
278 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 hatim et literatim, will suffice as a specimen of liis 
 powers : — 
 
 To the King of the Odd Fellows this Sunday sur 
 please for a Royal Badge profound on 
 entering into Odd Peel Town. 
 
 Health and cheer Honoured Sir, from the spring under 
 ground. 
 
 From the fountain long closed, but just lately Sir found 
 Like the Peel Giants Grave, that has burst open too 
 Dries the Dippers wet wave ! What odd king say you. 
 
 Welcome Welcome to Peel, in a coach or a gig 
 Just as welcome to preach, with a gown ! as a wig ! 
 To Peel waters of Life, that like Waterloo song 
 Dries the waters of strife, Makes all old Maids grow 
 young. 
 
 Though to Douglas you first, to break unleaven bread, 
 Come to break truths pie crust, Dont eat dust near 
 Clay head, 
 
 But get hungry for bread, and aspire o'er the Sod 
 And in Peel youl be fed Evn your king Doctor Odd. 
 
 We were informed that the author of the above 
 lines which are part of a poem in eight verses, 
 written in a similar style — kept a school in the 
 town, and that though insane on the subject of 
 poetry, he was perfectly harmless, and managed to 
 get through his humble duties tolerably well. We 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OY THE ISLE OF MAN. 279 
 
 had just got comfortably seated at a sumptuous 
 and over abundant dinner, when this strange crea- 
 ture again presented himself before us, armed with 
 another of his productions^ which he delivered, 
 and then made his exit in like manner as before. 
 When we were preparing to depart from Peel, and 
 had got into the street, he once more approached 
 us, and bowing politely, a third time addressed us 
 in rhyme. He was about again to retreat from 
 us, when I requested him to stay a few moments. 
 On entering into conversation T found him to be 
 modest and unassuming in his manners, though he 
 had evidently no mean opinion of his powers as a 
 poet. Finding that his circumstances were any- 
 thing but affluent, we presented him with a few 
 shillings, and left the poor crazy bard overwhelmed 
 with gratitude. Our vehicles dashed rapidly 
 through the quiet streets of Peel, and without 
 farther adventure we arrived safely at Douglas. 
 
 In the evening of Sunday, upwards of three 
 hundred members and deputies of the Order 
 landed in Douglas, from the Earl of Lonsdale 
 steamer ; a considerable number having been left 
 on the pier at Liverpool, for want of room in the 
 vessel. About seventy members had arrived on 
 the previous night ; and forty had made their pas- 
 sage on Friday ; so that altogether there wore 
 between four and five hundred from England. 
 
280 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 The Island was in a complete bustle from an 
 early hour on Monday morning, and vehicles of 
 every description were in requisition. The depu- 
 ties appointed to represent their various Lodges 
 and Districts in the Annual Committee were at 
 their posts by nine o'clock in the Odd Fellows' 
 Hall. This large and handsome building is erected 
 in a conspicuous part of Douglas, and forms one 
 of its chief ornaments. Though it was far from 
 being completed, a spacious room had been fitted 
 up for the accommodation of the deputies, the 
 walls being decorated with mottos illustrative of 
 the principles of the order. Altogether the utmost 
 regard had been paid to the convenience and com- 
 fort of those assembled ; and from the size of the 
 room, and the freeness of its ventilation, not the 
 slightest unpleasantness was experienced in it dur- 
 ing the week, though between three and four 
 hundred persons were congregated there. A pro- 
 cession of the members of the Lodges in the Island 
 had been arranged to take place this day, and 
 about noon numbers of Odd Fellow^s were seen 
 passing along the Quay towards the place of meet- 
 ing on the Castle Mona Lawn. The magnificent 
 regalia, showy flags and banners, together with 
 other paraphernalia, and some excellent bands of 
 music, gave to the procession a very imposing 
 effect. When formed, the body proceeded to St. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 281 
 
 George's Church, where an impressive and appro- 
 priate sermon was preached by the Rev. J. Cannel ; 
 after which the procession again formed^ and the 
 members passed through the principal streets, ac- 
 companied by the clergyman, until they came 
 opposite to the Odd Fellows' Hall, where they 
 halted. The music continued playing whilst a 
 deputation waited upon the Grand Master of the 
 Order, requesting him to dissolve the Committee 
 for that day, so as to give the deputies an oppor- 
 tunity of participating in the festivities that were 
 going on in Douglas and the neighbourhood. After 
 some hesitation the request was acceded to ; and 
 the Grand Master, and afterwards the correspond- 
 ing secretary of the Manchester District were 
 induced to address the assembled multitude from 
 the balcony of the hall. The people then cheered 
 loudly, and returned to the place from which they 
 had started. The poor poet of Peel again made 
 his appearance on the scene, with a plentiful sup- 
 ply of compositions in his own hand-writing. 
 These he gratified his love of fame by distributing 
 among those in the procession. 
 
 About seven o'clock the Officers of the Order 
 and a number of deputies and visiters, together 
 with the members of the Mona Lodge, partook of 
 a capital dinner which was provided at the Castle 
 Mona Hotel. This Hotel is at about the distance of 
 
2H2 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL «KA«ON;S. 
 
 half a mile from Douglas^ and is the largest in the 
 Island. It is in every respect a magnificent mansion, 
 and has around it very extensive and well-laid out 
 grounds. The Grand Master of the District, Mr. 
 Thomas Redfern, officiated as Chairman at the din- 
 ner ; and S. S. Rogers, Esq., Secretary to the 
 Mona Lodge, was the Vice-Chairman. Some ex- 
 cellent speeches were made in the course of the 
 evening, and everything passed off in that pleasant 
 and harmonious manner which during my stay I 
 always found to animate the proceedings of Manx- 
 men. Other festivities were taking place in other 
 parts, and, in fact, the whole of Douglas and its 
 environs seemed to be given up to enjoyment. 
 
 During the week I indulged in some delightful 
 sails, and made one or two fishing excursions. In 
 these I never was at a loss for companions, so 
 many having come to the Isle of Man merely for 
 pleasure, and to avail themselves of the society of 
 their friends who were deputies. One gentleman, 
 who is no dwarf, and to w^hom I have had occasion 
 before to allude, was, I believe, familiar to all the 
 boatmen belonging to the Island ; and from his 
 natural vivacity, good-humour, and agreeable blunt- 
 ness, he had made himself a general favourite. 
 With such a pilot I always felt happy, as there 
 was never any lack of hilarit}^, and he always took 
 care that sea-store also should not be wanting. 
 
RE0OLLF.0T1ONS (3F THE ISLE OF MAN. '2SS 
 
 There are few things which afford me equal delight 
 to that of being out on the broad sea in a small 
 boat, when the wind is blowing somewhat fresh, 
 and we ride like a swan over the rocking and 
 crested billows. To some such scenes are anything 
 but delightful ; and in one of our excursions we 
 happened to have a friend with us who was affected 
 bv the least swell of the ocean. We had rowed a 
 few miles out, for the purpose of crab-fishing 
 among the rocks. Our friend was really in a piti- 
 able state, in spite of our endeavours to cheer him 
 with occasional doses of brandy. The spirit was 
 willing, but the flesh was weak, and being an 
 enthusiastic admirer of poetry, he tried rather a 
 novel remedy for sea-sickness. He began to repeat 
 aloud in the intervals of his qualmishness, variouis 
 passages from our best authors ; but all would not 
 do, and he at length begged earnestly that we 
 would place him on a small rock encircled by the 
 waves, and there leave him until our return. This 
 of course we would not consent to, and he was 
 compelled to suffer and sail on. 
 
 The streets of Douglas are generally narrow, 
 irregular, and intricate, and there are many of 
 them without any signs to indicate their names. 
 A stranger is very liable to lose his way in them, 
 and I found it much more difficult to thread their 
 passages than those of large towns. My usual 
 
FLOWERS FOK ALL SP:aSONS. 
 
 plan waSj when I got entangled in a labyrinth, to 
 endeavour as soon as possible to find the Quay, 
 and then I made a fresh start for my lodgings. 
 This mode of proceeding generally answered my 
 purpose. One of the party who had taken up his 
 abode at the same inn as mj^self, managed to find 
 his way home on a dingy night, and having been 
 detained by some friends until eleven o'clock, and 
 the inmates of the house in which we were staying 
 being of early habits, he thought that he would 
 creep quietly in if possible w^ithout annoying the 
 familv. He placed his hand on what he considered 
 to be the handle of the door, and congratulated 
 himself on the snug entry he should make. He 
 closed the door carefully behind him, and pro- 
 ceeded to grope his way, for the place was in com- 
 plete darkness. His progress was shortly aiTested 
 by two outspread arms, and he w^as at first inclined 
 to laugh and treat the party interrupting him as 
 one inclined to have a joke at his expense. His 
 mirth was speedily changed for other feelings when 
 he found he had come in contact with a cold, un- 
 clothed carcase — for anything he knew to the con- 
 trary, a visitant fi'om another region. He roared 
 out manfully for help, and when his cries had 
 called his friends to his aid, it was discovered that 
 he was struggling most valiantly with a dead 
 sheep. The simple truth was that he had effected 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 285 
 
 an entrance into the building adjoining his own 
 quarters, and this building was used as a slaugh- 
 ter-house, the innocent cause of his fright having 
 been hung up ready for the next day's market. A 
 little hot brandy and water carefully applied soon 
 restored the affrighted individual to full possession 
 of his faculties, and he was enabled to join the 
 laugh which had been raised at his own expense. 
 
 I could not leave the Isle of Man without pay- 
 ing a visit to the beautiful and secluded church- 
 yard of Kirk Braddan. It is situated at a few 
 miles distance from Douglas, and will well repay 
 the visiter for a ramble there ; indeed, the road to 
 it is in itself beautiful. The day was calmly clear, 
 and the rich sunlight streamed brightly over the 
 still landsape, when I bent my steps to this peace- 
 ful spot. Many trees were around it, and the 
 birds were merrily singing on the branches ; waters 
 were murmuring near, and all gave signs of life 
 and animation save that lone burial-place : 
 
 The winds came o'er the dwellings of the dead. 
 The high grass waved up to their passing sigh 
 
 but those below lay dull and motionless, never 
 more to be roused by zephyr's sigh, or tempest's 
 blast. The church IS a modest and unobtrusive 
 
286 J LOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 building, displaying none of the pride of architec- 
 ture. It accords well, however, with the scene, 
 and lies among the surrounding tombs like a mo- 
 ther guarding her sleeping children. In such a 
 spot would I take up my own resting-place, and 
 not in the crow^ded, oft-trodden fields of death 
 which are in the hearts of populous cities. Whilst 
 I and the friends who accompanied me were gazing 
 on the curious records which were profusely scat- 
 tered around, the pastor of the church passed by 
 us. We accosted him and requested permission to 
 look within the sacred edifice. He appeared meek 
 and lowly in his manners, and at once complied 
 with our wish. The church contains four hundred 
 sittings, and every third Sunday morning service 
 is performed in it in the Manx language, but the 
 service is exclusively English in the afternoons. 
 There are some monuments and tombstones of a 
 very ancient, as well as curious character, in the 
 churchyard ; and there is a splendid one raised to 
 the memory of Lord Henry Murray, brother to 
 the late Duke of Athol. 
 
 My stay in the Isle of Man was brief, and my 
 opportunities of observation were not very nume- 
 rous ; I cannot, therefore, attempt anything in the 
 shape of a history of the country, its laws and 
 government, or the manners and customs of the 
 
BECOLLECTIONS OF THE ISLE OF MAN. 2<S7 
 
 people. The climate is mild and salubrious ; the 
 scenery in many places beautiful, and there are 
 several picturesque and lofty mountains. The town 
 of Douglas, though of an irregular construction, 
 possesses some good streets, and numerous hand- 
 some shops and commodious hotels. It contains 
 about eight thousand inhabitants, and is the chief 
 town in the Island both in regard to population 
 and coinmerce. The pier is a handsome one, and 
 at one end of it there is a light-house of elegant 
 construction. There is also another light-house 
 on the projection of Douglas Head. The tower 
 of Refuge forms a great ornament to the bay, and 
 is also eminently useful to the seamen. It was 
 projected by the scientific and philanthropic Sir 
 William Hillary, Bart., who was also the principal 
 contributor towards its erection. Vessels having 
 licensed goods are obliged by act of parliament to 
 deliver their cargoes exclusively at this port. The 
 Custom-house is well situated for business, and the 
 spacious Quay is admirably calculated for trading 
 purposes. The inhabitants are obliging, warm- 
 hearted, and hospitable. The men are frank and 
 generous, and the women beautiful, and modest in 
 their deportment, exhibiting much neatness and 
 taste in their attire. There are in the outskirts 
 of the town many large and well-built mansions, 
 
288 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 several of them tenanted bv Enrfislimen. Provi- 
 sions and liquors are cheap ; and a person of mo- 
 derate desires and quiet disposition need wish for 
 no more favoured spot than the Isle of Man in* 
 which to spend his existence. 
 
289 
 
 VALEDICTORY LINES, 
 
 Addressed to Jenny Lind on her departure 
 FROM England to America. 
 
 Young heritrdss of love and song, 
 
 Go forth upon thy way, 
 Where myriads will around thee throng, 
 
 And hail thy coming day ; 
 Go, like the morning, pure and bright, 
 
 In joy and sunshine go. 
 And flowers of beauty and delight 
 
 About thy path will grow, 
 And prayers shall follow in thy track, 
 And shield thy bark from waves and rack, 
 And guide thee on to that far land. 
 Where thou wilt every heart command. 
 
 Fair herald from a land divine. 
 
 We know thv mission here ; 
 2 R 
 
290 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 I 
 
 We know the hallow'd task is thine 
 
 To dry affliction's tear, 
 To cheer the homes of grief and pain, 
 To bid the hopeless hope again, 
 . To bid the hungry eat and live, 
 
 To give where none before would give, 
 To spread abroad, o'er every land. 
 The bounties of thy liberal hand ; 
 And, therefore, do we bid thee go 
 Wherever dwelleth human woe. 
 
 Not for thy place of mortal birth 
 Did Heaven thy presence send ; 
 Thou wert a denizen of earth, 
 O'er many climes to wend ; 
 Thou wert like light, and dew, and air, 
 A thing to gladden everywhere ; 
 And temple gay, and sacred fane, 
 Alike have heard thy angel strain 
 Come clear and ringing to the heart. 
 And bidding thoughts unblest depart. 
 
 'Tis not to domes of princely state 
 God sends his ministers of fate ; 
 The Saviour of the world was laid 
 Beneath a manger's lowly shade, 
 And often have the lists of fame 
 Been brighten'd by a peasant's name ; 
 
VALEDICTORY LINES 
 
 291 
 
 Fate laughs at pomp and high degree, 
 
 And genius needs not ancestry : 
 
 So wert thou destined thus to shine, 
 
 The grace and glory of thy line, 
 
 And from thy home, like leaf-fraught dove, 
 
 Take wing with charity and love. 
 
 And see the world's wide tribute paid 
 
 To thee, a simple Swedish maid. 
 
 Go forth, then, gentle pilgrim, go. 
 
 Thy brow with wreaths of triumph twined, 
 And make the hearts of millions glow 
 
 Like those where thou art now enshrined ; 
 Pour on the rapt and ravish'd ear 
 
 Thy soul's rich tide of matchless song. 
 And joy, though many an after year. 
 
 Shall to the listening hosts belong ; 
 And thou shalt be, as thou hast been, 
 The meek-eyed spirit of the scene, 
 A wandering visitant of love. 
 Vouchsafed to cheer us from above, 
 An angel, that hath deign'd to stray 
 From regions of unfading day, 
 To scatter melody, and bless 
 The darken'd homes of wretchedness. 
 
 Depart, then, noble heart and true. 
 And, as thou journeyest onward, bear 
 
292 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS, 
 
 A nation's warm and fond adieu, 
 
 A. nation's gratitude and prayer, 
 The thankful orisons that rise 
 From swelling hearts to tearful eyes, 
 Devoted love, that, more than fame. 
 Will link dear memories with thy name, 
 And, as thou goest on thy way, 
 Invest thee as with sacred ray. 
 And ever guard and hem thee round, 
 As one on heavenly message bound. 
 Until accomplish'd is thy stay, 
 And angel- voices call away ; 
 And these their tidings then may be — 
 The choir of seraphs waits for thee 1 
 
233 
 
 ONE HOUR OF MUSING. 
 
 One hour of musing, when the twilight falleth, 
 Like nature's pall, upon departed day, 
 
 And memory back, in plaintive mood, recalleth 
 The hopes and sorrows long since pass'd away. 
 
 « 
 
 One hour of musing, when the world's ambition 
 Fades, like the morning mist, before our eyes. 
 
 And the calm spirit feels it hath a mission 
 Not all of earth, but destined for the skies. 
 
 One hour of musing, when the hollow seeming 
 
 That gilds the world hath from the picture flown. 
 And lips and eyes, that look'd with friendship 
 beaming, 
 
 Leave us, like meteors^ darken'd, lost, and lone. 
 
 One hour of musing, when the transient pleasures 
 That mock'd and madden'd us in early youth, 
 
294 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 Have vanish'd from us^ like to stolen treasures, 
 Dazzling our sight, but leaving us in ruth. 
 
 One hour of musing, when we see around us 
 The friends and playmates of the times of yore, 
 
 And know that links so sweet as those that bound us 
 About the heart can intertwine no more. 
 
 One hour of musing, when no glare enhances 
 The deeds self-love hath lauded in the past, 
 
 And with the coming blends no cheating fancies, 
 Whilst reason's gaze is o'er the vista cast. 
 
 One hour of musing, when we think how madly 
 Life's rarest gifts we careless flung away, 
 
 And o'er the ever-lost we ponder sadly, 
 
 And ask, in bitter grief, " Oh ! where are they ?" 
 
 One hour of musing, when we see before us 
 The sparkling wine-cup, and the revel hours. 
 
 When for the song each merry voice had chorus — 
 All have departed, like the scent of flowers. 
 
 One hour of musing, when we hear the greeting, 
 And vows of friendship, breathed in that wild 
 time : 
 
 Alas ! we know that they were found as fleeting 
 As the bright lightning of some sultry clime. 
 
i 
 
 ONE HOUR OF MUSING. 295 
 
 One hour of musing — let us then be learning 
 To bear up boldly^ free from faltering fears ; 
 
 No vain regrets must check our spirit's yearning 
 To gather wisdom in the coming years. 
 
296 
 
 TWO SONNETS : 
 
 WRITTEN ON MEETING A FRIEND, AFTER AN INTERVAL 
 
 OF TWELVE YEARS. 
 
 Twelve chequer'd years have pass'd since last we 
 met ; 
 
 The gulph of death hath closed o'er hopes and 
 fears 
 
 Of myriad hearts — the sun of life hath set 
 
 On many eyes, which I remember yet 
 
 As joy-beams in my path — ^reproachful tears 
 
 Are well-nigh blotting out this idle rhyme^ 
 
 When I look back upon the morning time 
 Of my existence. Oh, how vainly spent 
 
 Where life's young energies ! In manhood's prime- 
 Falsely so-called — the veil is rent ; 
 But 'tis too late — my dreams have vanish'd now. 
 
 And thou, though we so long have dwelt apart, 
 Can'st well define why, with a sadden'd brow, 
 
 I tell to thee the feelings of my heart. 
 
TWO SONNETB. 
 
 297 
 
 This is strange greeting ; but I know thy Hfe, 
 Even as mine own^ hath not been lined with 
 flowers : 
 
 To journey on^ with thorns and briers at strife^ 
 Have been^ too oft^ alike our mutual dowers. 
 We both at times have sought the muse's bowers^ 
 
 And found brief respite from our daily cares, 
 In dalliance sweet with darling poesy, 
 Steeping in silver song the winged hours. 
 But duties stern have warn'd us that our powers 
 Were given to cope with harsher destiny. 
 
 Have we obey'd the warning— have not tares 
 Too often grown where golden fruit should be 1 
 
 We know the answer — let us journey on— ^ 
 
 By strength of will great deeds may yet b6 don^. 
 
298 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 Good night ! Good night ! — it is my last ! 
 
 These mortal lips will speak no more ; 
 My pilgTimage on earth is past, 
 
 I journey to another shore^ 
 A land of joy, and love, and light, 
 Where Christians need not say good night. 
 
 Good night ! I go not, as of old, 
 
 To troubled dreams and restless sleep ; 
 
 Calm shall I slumber 'neath the mould. 
 
 Whilst you, perchance, may muse and weep : 
 
 Oh ! why ! should sorrow fill your breast 
 
 For those who slumber with the blest ? 
 
 Good night 1 the suffering and the pain, 
 Which are of earth, I leave with you ; 
 
 Gladly I quit the false and vain, 
 To seek the glorious and the true : 
 
THE christian's GOOD NIGHT. 299 
 
 I only grieve that you will be 
 Still struggling with your destiny. 
 
 Good night ! the words I never spoke 
 To those in whom my heart had trust, 
 
 But what I fear'd, ere morning broke, 
 They might be with the silent dust, 
 
 And o'er my yearning spirit cast 
 
 ^Another memory of the past. 
 
 Good night ! oh ! what a shining band 
 
 Of angels seem to float around, 
 And beckon me to that sweet land 
 
 Where beauty evermore is found, 
 And every form, and every face 
 Are radiant with immortal grace. 
 
 Good night ! amid the thronging host 
 That now around my couch are come. 
 
 Again I see the loved and lost, 
 
 That once made earth their transient home : 
 
 Meek, beautiful, and purified, 
 
 They bear no taint of worldly pride. 
 
 Good night ! I can no longer stay 1 
 My sight is powerless now and dim ; 
 
300 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SExVSONS. 
 
 That vision cannot look on clay, 
 
 Which hath beheld the seraphim ; 
 Dark is the earthy but Heaven is bright 
 Good night ! a fond; a last good night \ 
 
301 
 
 A MORNING DEEAM: 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MY YOUNGEST CHILD. 
 
 I HAD a dream, dear child, that thou wert dead ; 
 
 I saw thee lying in thy snow-white shroud ; 
 
 I could not speak, thy mother sobb'd aloud ; 
 I thought that I no more should hear thy tread 
 
 Pattering within my room at early morn ; 
 Thy artless prattle all was hush'd and fled, 
 
 And I felt desolate and quite forlorn. 
 My memory smote my heart until it bled, 
 
 And every trifling word or look unkind, 
 Which I had ever said or shown to thee. 
 
 Came like a haunting spectre to my mind, 
 For thou wert now a faultless babe to me. 
 I woke, and through my window pour'd a tide 
 Of sunlight — thou wert laughing by my side ! 
 
302 
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEART. 
 
 It was a wild and stormy winter afternoon, and 
 the thickly falling snow was whirled by in frequent 
 and fantastic gusts. The streets were noiseless, 
 for the footsteps of the passengers were unheard, 
 and few cared to unbury their mouths from the 
 folds that enveloped them, to give utterance to 
 words. The fleecy element had worked a fringe 
 of silver on doors and windows, and on every pro- 
 jecting part of the dwelling-houses, and the earth 
 seemed converted into a white pedestal, where the 
 buildings stood like the toys of a young giant. 
 What a snug and cozy feeling comes over those 
 who are seated in warm and comfortable rooms on 
 such a day as the one described — ^how they gather 
 around the cheerful hearth and alternately watch 
 the bright blaze go frolicking up the chimney, or 
 gaze upon the snow-wreaths that are silently and 
 gracefully descending without. To the benevolent 
 
THE KEY OF THE HEART. 
 
 heart, feelings of a more subdued and sympathetic 
 nature are also brought, and a thought goes forth 
 tp those less fortunate fellow-creatures, whose 
 heads are unsheltered, and whose hearts are un- 
 gladdened by the smiling comforts of a happy 
 home. In a spacious room in a handsome house, 
 situated in the city of Bristol, sat a young mer- 
 chant, together with his wife, listening to the 
 prattle of two fair children, who, in all the inno- 
 cence and freshness attendant upon the dawn of 
 existence, were giving utterance to each thought 
 and emotion that animated them. There is no 
 disguise in childhood ; it is only in after-years 
 that we see the necessity of thinking of the results 
 before we give breath to our sentiments. Ever 
 and anon the children would run to the window, 
 and look with wonder and admiration on the cold 
 and icy feathers that were fluttering about and 
 clinging to the garments of the passing wayfarers. 
 Then they would ask their father many questions 
 which he was at times vastly puzzled to answer, 
 but he told them tales of snow-drifts wherein had 
 perished not only cattle but human beings, and of 
 the good monks of St. Bernard with their saga- 
 cious dogs, and of the fearful avalanche, and of 
 those cheerless climes from which the snow was 
 never absent. And when he told them of weary 
 travellers who had sunk down to die amid the 
 
304 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 snow, and of young children who had rambled 
 away to bleak and desolate places, and wept them- 
 selves to sleep from which they never awoke on 
 earth, and of the grief of their unhappy parents, 
 the hearts of the youthful listeners grew sad, and 
 their eyes became dimmed with tears. The sound 
 of voices called them to the window, and, as if in 
 illustration of the tales they had been hearing, 
 they saw a crowd gathered around a haggard and 
 wretchedly-clad female, who bore in her arms a 
 sickly infant, and who had sunk exhausted from 
 want and cold on the chilly ground. The mer- 
 chant looked in the eyes of his wife and children, 
 and he hesitated not to order the poor creatures 
 to be conveyed into his dwelling, and furnished 
 with the necessary aids to their recovery. The 
 woman lingered for some days. But nature had 
 been vanquished by want and misery, and human 
 help was no longer available to prolong her earthly 
 existence. She died, and as she had represented 
 herself to be a friendless widow on her way to 
 claim the relief of her parish, the merchant saw 
 her decently interred, and his benevolent heart 
 would not permit him to consign the orphan child 
 to the workhouse. He kept it in his household, 
 and it grew up to a rosy and healthy girlhood. 
 Mary Brooks (so was it called) became at length a 
 favoured and confidential domestic, holding an 
 
THE KEY OF THE HEART. 305 
 
 intermediate rank in the family between a daughter 
 and a servant. 
 
 As the merchant's years increased, so did his 
 wealth. His children also increased, and his home 
 was the abode of happiness and peace. His was 
 no severe and harsh mode of government ] he 
 songht not to rule by commands, but by requests 
 — not to make his servants and his family quail at 
 his presence, but to regard his approach as the 
 harbinger of good. He had one maxim which he 
 at all times acted upon, that "kindness was the 
 key of the human heart," and the spirit of this 
 maxim was felt in every branch of his establish- 
 ment. The master's mild and placid looks were 
 reflected by those about him, and from the meanest 
 porter to the chief clerk there were evidences of 
 content and pleasant servitude. Looks of regret 
 followed his departure from the warehouse, and 
 his children hailed his appearance with cries of 
 delight. His heart was never closed even against 
 the passing beggar, and though he might at times 
 be subject to an imposition, he consoled himself 
 with the reflection that he had not denied assist- 
 ance to the really deserving. In the midst of his 
 tranquil prosperity — circumstances occurred which 
 were the occasion of considerable annoyance to 
 him. His family complained that at different 
 periods trinkets of small value had unaccountably 
 
 a. 
 
306 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 disappeared, and in spite of their careful and most 
 minute searches no trace could be found of them. 
 For some time these trifling losses made no im- 
 pression upon the merchant's mind, but, when they 
 still kept occurring at brief intervals, he began to 
 be seriously disturbed and perplexed. It was not 
 the loss of the articles which had weight with him, 
 but he became impressed with the idea that some 
 of his domestics were dishonest. The loss of a 
 piece of jewellery of more value than any which 
 had previously been missed increased his alarm 
 and uneasiness, and showed him the necessity of 
 keeping a strict watch over the members of his 
 household. Without giving vent to his suspicions 
 he narrowly observed the actions and demeanour 
 of his domestics, and what was his anguish of soul 
 when the belief slowly and painfully took posses- 
 sion of his mind that the delinquent was no other 
 than the orphan w^hom he had rescued from po- 
 verty and death, and whom he had ever fostered 
 with parental kindness and affection. He had 
 found that she latterly avoided meeting his steady 
 gaze, and that she became restless and anxious to 
 quit the apartment when he spoke to her in his 
 usual tones of calm benevolence. From these and 
 various other trifling evidences, he received the 
 conviction that she was the guilty one. He passed 
 many anxious days and feverish nights when this 
 
THE KEY OF THE HEART. 
 
 307 
 
 blow to his favourite maxim fell upon him, but he 
 preserved a strict silence on the subject to his wife 
 and other members of his family. He contented 
 himself with requesting them to leave the matter 
 entirely in his hands, and he would shortly take 
 such steps as would enable him to find a clue to 
 the losses, and prevent their recurrence in future. 
 Placing implicit confidence in his judgment, his 
 family willingly consented to take no steps in the 
 matter, but to leave it to be solely investigated by 
 himself. He took occasion to dispatch Mary 
 Brooks on a message of some importance, which 
 would cause her to be absent for an hour or two. 
 When she had left the house he proceeded to her 
 chamber, and carefully surveyed the different arti- 
 cles in the room. In one corner stood a dark 
 coloured chest of a strong make, and furnished 
 with a lock of more than ordinary size and firm- 
 ness. This at once rivetted his attention as a 
 likely place in which the stolen property might be 
 deposited, and he resolved to be satisfied. Having 
 procured the requisite implements, the lock soon 
 yielded to his efforts, and he lifted up the lid. His 
 investigations w^ere of brief duration. The first 
 object which met his sight was the last missing 
 jewel, and, as he prosecuted his search, one by one of 
 the many articles which had been missed presented 
 
308 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 themselves to his ejes. When he found his worst- 
 suspicion confirmed he became overwhelmed with 
 distrust and deep sorrow. The black ingratitude 
 of the girl, and the base return she had made for 
 his long and unvarying care and solicitude, stung 
 him like a serpent, and burying his face in his 
 hands, the hot tears gushed plentifully through 
 his fingers. He stood for a few moments as though 
 stupified and irresolute how to act, but his deter- 
 mination was soon formed. He closed the lid of 
 the chest, and shutting the chamber door, de- 
 scended the stairs. At the expected time the girl 
 returned and stated the result of her errand. In 
 his usual quiet and collected tone, and, with an 
 unmoved countenance, he left the apartment in 
 which he was seated, and desired her to follow 
 him. With a trembling step, and a dark presen- 
 timent flitting through her mind, she complied, 
 and saw him enter her own chamber. Advancing 
 with a slow step to the fatal chest, he flung back 
 the lid with one hand, and w4th the other pointed 
 to the heap of glittering plunder that lay within. 
 Not a word escaped his lips, but there he stood, 
 regarding her wdth a fixed look, which had far 
 more of grief than indignation in its expression. 
 For an instant a flush of anger and defiance shot 
 across the girl's features, but when she beheld her 
 
THE KEY OP THE HEART. 
 
 309 
 
 master's anguished look bent on her's, and saw the 
 bitter sorrow under which he was suffering, the 
 full sense of her unworthiness burst upon her, 
 and she hung down her head, as cold and as pale as 
 the snow on which her dead mother had sunk 
 when she fell before the injured merchant's door. 
 The silence was soon broken by her master. 
 
 ^^Mary," he said, "have I deserved this from 
 you ^ Tell me what act, what word of mine has 
 driven you to the committal of this crime ? When 
 I reflect upon the past, when I call to mind the 
 time when first you met my view, a poor and 
 helpless child, and trace your progress from your 
 mother's death till now, I cannot charge myself 
 with an unkind thought or deed towards you. I 
 have loved you as a child, and by the children of 
 my blood I have ever seen you treated more as a 
 dear companion, than as a menial. In early life 
 you were their playmate, in more mature years 
 you have become their friend. Your wants have 
 been provided for, your health has been carefully 
 tended, and a pecuniary allowance has been made 
 to you, which I thought would be amply sufficient. 
 On the other hand you have been attentive and 
 diligent, your duties have been well performed, 
 and, on more than one occasion, when sickness has 
 fallen upon my offspring, your hand has borne the 
 
310 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 water to their lips, and your gentle and patient 
 nursing has contributed to their convalescence. 
 For this, and many other services, I feel deeply 
 grateful to you ; I would rather that some great 
 and dire calamity had fallen upon myself, than I 
 should behold you in your present degraded posi- 
 tion. You have abused my confidence, you have 
 taken advantage of the trust I reposed in you, and 
 you have become what I will not trust myself to 
 name. What course, think you, shall I pursue 1 
 You will naturally believe that I shall not suffer 
 you to go unpunished — you will see the justice of 
 my allowing the law to take its course with you, 
 when banishment to a foreign land, or imprison- 
 ment, and an ignominious and blighted name for 
 ever must be your portion. Should I see fit to 
 forego this dreadful alternative, and content my- 
 self with calling about me those whom you have 
 deceived and wronged, in order that they may be 
 witnesses of your ingratitude and shame, before I 
 thrust you from my doors and cast you on the 
 world branded with guilt and infamy, you cannot 
 but acknowledge that I should deal leniently with 
 you. Neither of these courses will I pursue. I 
 cannot doom you to punishment and an after life 
 to which, perhaps, death were bliss — I cannot 
 destroy the being I fondly thought I had preserved 
 
THE KEY OF THE HEART. 311 
 
 for years of virtue and happiness. What, theu^ 
 am I to do ? Mary, I forgive you ! The past 
 shall be forgotten — attend to your duties — still 
 regard me as your master and your friend — ^be 
 faithful, and sin no more . For these vile baubles, 
 for which you have bartered your peace of mind, 
 and corrupted the innocence of your soul, take 
 them— they are yours. If your wants have been 
 insufficiently provided for, if the allowance I have 
 made for you has been too niggardly, tell me so, 
 and your wishes shall be complied with. Neither 
 my wife nor my children suspect you ; your guilt 
 is known to no one but myself. In my custody it 
 is safe." 
 
 Long ere the merchant had concluded, the girl 
 had sunk in an agony of tears upon the chamber 
 floor, and gradually crawling towards her master's 
 feet she embraced his knees, and remained sobbing 
 and speechless. 
 
 ^ ^ 'X- 45- * 
 
 Twenty years had elapsed after the events above 
 narrated, when the merchant and his family at- 
 tended the funeral of Mary Brooks, over whose 
 grave appeared a few lines deploring the loss of a 
 tried and devoted servant. It was not until some 
 time after, that the merchant, who had now become 
 grey-haired and venerable with age, related the 
 
312 
 
 FLOWERS FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 anecdote to his family and a few friends, as an 
 illustration of His maxim, that though it may 
 sometimes fail, yet in the end it will be found that 
 —Kindness is the key of the Human Heart. 
 
 W. F. Pratt, Printer, Stokesley, Yorkshire. 
 
This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below. 
 
 SEP 
 
 10M-1 1-50 (2^5) 470 
 
 REMIMBTON RAND INC. 20 
 
University of California, Los Angeles 
 
 L 007 315 961 8 
 
 PR 
 5236 
 
 R113f