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 THE HUMBLE OFFERTNd OF A PROVINCIAL TO 
 
 18 c r Jfl a j c 5 1 n t h c ("J u c c n , 
 
 IN THIS, THE SIXTY FIRST, B E I N J i THE 
 
 DIAMOND JUBILEE 
 
 V E A R V HER MARVELLOUS RElcX.
 
 Hail to the crown, by Freedom shaped — to gird 
 An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the throne 
 Whereon he sits ! Whose deep foundations lie 
 In veneration and the people's love ; 
 Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law.
 
 ssays and Sketches: 
 
 BEING A FEW SELECTIONS FROM THE PROSE 
 WRITINGS OF TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 RY 
 
 ABRAHAM STANSFIELD 
 
 (Author <>k "Ground-Flowers and Fern-Leaves," •'Xici.,'' &c, 
 
 and Ex-Editor of the "Manchester Monthly," \m> other 
 
 Local Publications.) 
 
 F 1 I! S T THOU s A X /> 
 
 Printed for the Author r.v nil, Manchester ScholasTk Tradino 
 Co., Lti>., Bridge-street, Deansgate, Manchester.
 
 1> R E F A C £ 
 
 The reader who takes delight only in fiction will 
 
 be disappointed with this book, from which it has 
 been the authors aim, so far as in him lay, to 
 keep out anything and everything- partaking of 
 that character. A humble lover of truth himself, 
 and preferring- the poetry of real life, he has little 
 to offer here in the way of ''popular reading" 
 and nothing whatever in the zuay of pictorial 
 illustration, in this age of luxurious photography. 
 
 Op the //latter contained in the present volume 
 it may be explained that one half has not pre- 
 viously appeared in printers type. Should it 
 chance that competent judges find the present 
 " Selections ' sufficiently select, a fezu further 
 '' Selections " may be forthcoming- in a second 
 edition, which despite the books serious draw- 
 backs as above described, and to the Author's 
 real surprise, is already " called for." 
 
 Kersal, Manchester \ 
 Oct, jot//, iSgy. 
 
 1051509
 
 CO X T E X T s . 
 
 I'M. I'. 
 
 .\ Neglected Manchestee Man: Thomas De Quincey 3 
 
 Robert Burns considered as \ Naturalist : A Centenary 
 
 Memorial ' 24 
 
 Three Tributary Sonnets to Robert Burns 34 
 
 Moss-g itherers : A Lancashire Specimen ... ... ... ... 36 
 
 On Some Characteristics of the Time 48 
 
 Folk-speech of the Lancashire \m» Yorkshire Bordeb : 
 
 A\ Obscure Lancashire Authob ... 57 
 
 A Manchester Book-hunter 95 
 
 * 
 
 A Difficult Lancashire Place-name 101 
 
 Books that might be Written 113 
 
 Gilbert White, of Selborne 119 
 
 Robert Fergusson and Robert Burns 123 
 
 Rambles in the Country : 
 
 By Aire and Wharfe 171 
 
 Down in Cheshire 222 
 
 Sweetness and Light fob the Manchesteb Slims: 
 
 Window-gardening in Ancoats... ... ... ... ... 228 
 
 Window-gardening in Hulme ... ... ... ... 233 
 
 Town-Gardening uid Climate 237 
 
 Town Trees, with Special Reference to Manchester ... 242 
 
 Picturesque Planting 251 
 
 Reviews : 
 
 Lancashire Dialect Poets ... ... ... ... ... 255 
 
 Rossendale Forest ... 276 
 
 Lectures : 
 
 The Return to Nature in English Poetrjj 289
 
 ESSAYS, 
 
 CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL

 
 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN 
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY* 
 
 (THE "ENGLISH OPIUM EATER.") 
 
 CHE lettered man, specially read in the English magazine 
 literature of the century, who should enter for the first 
 time the city styling herself the Metropolis of Northern Eng- 
 land, would have awaiting him a great surprise. 
 
 For the piebald appearance of our street frontages and fagades, 
 and the general banal character of our public architecture, he 
 might be prepared in this ungainly "city of gain."t For our 
 thoroughfares ankle-deep in mud, under pouring skies ; for our 
 air, thick with grime and a thousand abominations, under pouring 
 chimneys, he might be prepared in the capital of Cottondom. 
 And he might even be prepared for those direst days of all our 
 dismal experience, when we Manchester men are compelled to 
 grope and feel about, and jostle one another at midday in a more 
 than Egyptian darkness— a darkness that may be felt in the 
 concrete sense— that is bred of fog and tilth, and that blinds and 
 chokes its victims at one and the same time. 
 
 For fumes and brumes, for frequent total eclipse (quite other 
 than astronomical) of sun and moon, and for long-enduiing 
 glooms, our lettered visitor might be prepared. Still, he would 
 
 * A Taper read before the Literal \ Club of Manchester in 1892. 
 
 t It must be admitted that when the "Deansgate"' and other great 
 improvements now in progress arc completed Manchester will present a 
 \ ery different appearance.
 
 4 A NEOLECTED MANCHESTER MAN: 
 
 remember that even from brumous and fumous Manchester there 
 did shoot forth, and that not so long ago — ex fumo lux — a 
 luminous body, a brilliant star, that rose higher and still higher, 
 and that now for ever shines in its appointed place in the literary 
 heaven. And he would naturally look in this nether sphere for 
 some sign or token — an institution, or a street, bearing the name 
 of that luminary, a monument, a statue, a something at least by 
 way of material proof that such a person as Thomas De Quincey 
 had not only been born here but had been more or less honoured 
 in the city of his birth. But he would look and search in vain ; 
 he would not only find in Manchester no monument or memorial 
 to Manchester's greatest literary son, but he would firid among 
 her average citizens no traditions even, nor any but the vaguest 
 knowledge of the man or of his works ; whereat he would 
 wonder exceedingly, and pronounce our boasted "metropolis" a 
 metropolis indeed, but the metropolis of Boeotia, the metropolis 
 of fog and smoke, physically, morally, and intellectually. 
 
 " But," exclaims the outraged citizen of " no mean city," 
 "where in the world will you find the arts of music and paint- 
 ing more patronised, or more in vogue, than in Manchester V 
 If that be so, then Manchester's neglect of those pre-eminent in 
 the sister art — the most diffusive, most enduring, highest and 
 noblest of all — is rendered still more conspicuous. " But," 
 argues the indignant citizen, " with respect to literature, where 
 more than in Manchester does literature, as it relates to politics, 
 trade, industry, applied science, and practical affairs, display 
 higher power, or show greater excellence V Perhaps nowhere, 
 but unfortunately nothing of this touches the proposition before 
 us which concerns pure letters, and that letters are inadequately 
 esteemed in Manchester we take the absence of any memorial to 
 her greatest " man of letters " as the outward and visible sign. 
 "But," it is further argued, "in this neglect of De Quincey, 
 Manchester is not alone," and here we must reluctantly concur. 
 Although in the city of his birth the neglect of De Quincey may 
 be most conspicuous it must be admitted that there are other 
 quarters also where he is little appreciated. And why ?
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 5 
 
 It is true that I >.; Quincey is one of our great English writers 
 who wrote anonymously. It is true that up to forty years back, 
 
 when the first, edition of his collected works was issued in 
 America, De Quincey was comparatively unknown, even to the 
 English public, while to the foreign student of English literature 
 its appearance must have been a revelation. But forty years is 
 a period of time representing more than a generation of men. 
 In these forty years science has been revolutionised. Into forty 
 years — into one year — how much is now compressed ! And if, 
 as some would maintain, literary criticism has made commensurate 
 progress, it is surely time, in this last decade of the century, that 
 we saw in Ids true proportions a writer who has achieved so 
 much, and who is not only an honour to England but an 
 ornament and an honour to all literature. And by the same 
 token, it is time, and more than time, that our own, and his own, 
 Manchester should cease to stultify herself by witholding, as 
 she has so long done, the honour and the homage due to her 
 illustrious sun. 
 
 The wide difference in the opinions held with respect to one 
 who gave, and has left behind him, such undoubted and abund- 
 ant proofs of power as a writer and thinker on an infinite 
 variety of subjects is remarkable. By one critic "damned 
 beneath all depths in hell," by another lauded to the skies, such 
 is the singular fate of De Quincey. In view of this wide 
 divergence, the question arises : Have the men who presume to 
 sit in judgment on one of England's most accomplished writers, 
 and especially those who decry him, read his works — read them 
 carefully and thoroughly .' We beg leave most humbly to doubt 
 this. There is a rule of criticism beyond all rules in criticism as at 
 present enforced : in criticising, first read your author. Indeed 
 the German critics admit that before reviewing a book there h a 
 certain advantage in having read it, implying that the advantage 
 is rarely availed of by the critic employed. 
 
 Truth to speak, it often happens that the critics of a writer 
 are far more numerous than his readers; if the number of the 
 latter were increased the number of the former might be
 
 6 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN: 
 
 diminished. It may appear that we rather " labour " this point, 
 but really when people, speaking ex cathedra, gravely deny to De 
 Quincey the possession of those very qualities for which he is 
 pre-eminently distinguished, and which are conspicuous throughout 
 his writings, we lose patience, and epithets become excusable 
 To conclude that these soi-disant critics have not read De Quincey 
 is, under the circumstances, the purest charity. Says one of 
 these gentlemen, writing from the height of an imaginary wool- 
 sack : " The Opium Eater is devoid of humour, and when he 
 attempts a joke we are alwa} T s reminded of an elephant trying to 
 dance." A pachydermatous pronouncement truby ! We are here 
 reminded of the pregnant lines of the old dramatist : — 
 
 wit is like a ball 
 
 Held up at tennis, which men play the best 
 With the best players. 
 
 De Quincey devoid of humour !* As well may you say that 
 Charles Lamb is devoid of humour. And in fact there are scat- 
 tered through the works of De Quincey hundreds of sparkling pas- 
 sages that might well have fallen from the charmed pen of Elia 
 himself. Lamb and De Quincey had really much in common. Both 
 had the faculty of subtle analysis, if in different degrees ; each 
 
 * For a characteristic example of De Quincey's satirical humour the 
 reader may be referred to the Essayist's paper on " War," in which, 
 speaking of plagiarists, he denounces the Greeks as those who have most 
 largely forestalled us by saying our good things before ourselves, and 
 names Talleyrand "as having been extensively robbed by the Greeks of the 
 second and third centuries, as may be easily ascertained by having the 
 said Greeks searched, when the stolen jewels will be found 'upon them!" 
 " But one," he adds, " and the most famous in the whole jewel case, sorry 
 am 1 to confess, was nearly stolen from the Bishop, not by any Greek, but 
 by an Knglish writer, viz., Goldsmith, who must have been dying about the 
 time that the Right Reverend French Knave had the goodness to be born. 
 That famous mot about language as a gift made to man for the purpose of 
 concealing his thoughts is lurking in Goldsmith's Essays." The fact is that 
 it will be found in "The Bee," in a paper "On the use of Language," 
 which appeared in that publication October 20th, 17")9 ; and here is the 
 sentence in which it occurs :- " Such an account as this may serve to 
 satisfy grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but men who know the 
 world maintain very contrary maxims: they hold, and I think with some 
 show of reason, that lie who host knows how to conceal his necessity and 
 desires, is the most likely person to find redress ; and that the true use of 
 /i< i ch is not .so much, to express our wants as to conceal th< m."
 
 THOMAS DE QUINGEY. 7 
 
 handled t lie English language as only a master can handle it ; 
 
 both failed in the higher region of the imagination whilst 
 possessing a most rich and curious fancy ; humour constantly 
 welled up in both, with a difference in kind ; both were " past 
 masters" in the art of literary persiflage; De Quincey wrote in 
 what he calls " impassioned prose ; " Lamb, too, knew that "prose 
 hath her cadences," and in that fine essay of his, entitled "The 
 Confessions of a Drunkard," which was afterwards a source of so 
 much trouble to him, will be found about as much impassioned 
 prose as in the "Confessions of an English Opium-eater." In one 
 respect there is a great difference between these two writers : 
 Lamb wrote with a rare reserve, and is one of the few authors 
 we could have wished more voluminous, whilst De Quincey too 
 often suffered ivomfiuxe de plume, and has left us too much, i.e., 
 too much in some kinds. But turn to Lamb, almost anywhere, 
 and sel ct from De Quincey, and you will have in your hands a 
 number of papers than which we know not if there be anything 
 more delicately and delightfully humorous, or more perennially 
 charming, in the language. 
 
 Yes ; select from De Quincey, for he is a writer (for reasons 
 not difficult to understand) of varying excellence. Under six- 
 teen volumes of him do our shelves groan ! C'en est trop. "Tis 
 a load to sink a navy." Far too many are sixteen volumes of 
 any author of the second rank, at a time when the writing art 
 has superseded the conversational. When everybody (indocti, 
 dodique) husbands his ideas with an eye to the press, and the 
 Cadmean madness spreads. But let not De Quincey be too 
 much reduced : cut oft' the ten and keep the unit six, for into six 
 stoutish octavos may be compressed the De Quinceyan cream and 
 essence. There are critics who have suggested four volumes as 
 adequate for this purpose. On the other hand, there will always 
 be a scholarly few who, having quite early sniffed in the subtle 
 aroma of the De Quinceyan style (imperceptible to the grosser 
 literary sense), will stick out for "no reduction;" and this 
 brings us back to the subject of the very various opinions held 
 with regard to our author's literary merits.
 
 8 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN: 
 
 Writing something under twenty years ago, one of our leading 
 English critics did not scruple to condemn De Quincey's vaunted 
 style and with emphasis ; Avhile as to his matter, he characterised 
 it as only "up to the level of respectable padding for magazines !" 
 On the other hand, a critic of equal eminence, writing a little 
 later, considers that De Quincey has carried English style to its 
 most perfect development, while with regard to his matter he 
 observes as follows: "We hereby take upon ourselves most 
 positively to declare that De Quincey's magazine papers are, as a 
 Avhole, in power as well as in range, very far above those of any 
 writer of the century." And we have this further testimony 
 from Professor Masson that "the literary remains of De Quincey 
 are to those of Lord Macaulay as a piece of delicately wrought 
 silver is to a lump of copper and gold." 
 
 That we hold the latter of these weighty pronouncements to 
 be the truer we need not say ; but to dwell at any length upon 
 these differences is not within the scope of this paper, the chief 
 purpose of which is to call to the mind of forgetful Manchester 
 one of her most distinguished sons, whilst sketching him in 
 silhouette only, not in large. Not with all his varied qualities 
 and accomplishments certainly, and the versatility of his genius 
 is phenomenal. 
 
 In an appreciative review of De Quincey's life-work which 
 appeared some years after his death he is described as combining, 
 in his single person, the following qualities, viz. : "An admirable 
 writer, a grand talker, a strict logician, a mathematician, a meta- 
 physician, a solver of every sort of intellectual puzzle, a well-built 
 scholar, a sound political economist, an honest and ingenious 
 critic, a philosopher, and finally a humorist ; not that his humour 
 was of the rollicking sort, but a subdued under-current of irony, 
 which runs through all his works " 
 
 To treat of this literary and philosophical Proteus in all the 
 above aspects were a transcendent task ; we shall not attempt it, 
 but will dwell only upon a few of his qualities.
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 9 
 
 Do < A >uincey lias been called, and we venture to think not 
 inaptly, if the phrase lie taken with certain limitations, the 
 " Last of the English Platonists —that is to say, the last of our 
 great English writers belonging t<> the idealistic as opposed to 
 the materialistic school, "He had in him," says one writer, 
 "almost everything that goe^i to make a Platonist in its higher 
 sense — the enthusiasm, the keen dialectic power, ami the rue 
 Platonic humour so prominent that hardly a sentence of his but 
 is tinged with a species of Socratie irony, which is doubtless 
 unpalatable t'> many readers." 
 
 That his philosophy has the poetic, as distinguished from the 
 scientific, east must he evident to every cultured reader of his 
 works. Hut although in these last blazing decades Plato's 
 methods have come to seem antiquated, let it not be thought that 
 De Quincey, were he still with us, would quail, or stand abashed, 
 before even the most august professor of positive science. On 
 the contrary, we doubt not that, bunging to bear his acute 
 logical faculty and subtle intellect on the questions propounded, 
 he would know well how to keep his opponents within their own 
 lines. And most surely would he score whilst pointing out the 
 frequent want of logic in the arguments held by even our hardest 
 heads, in first banning and proscribing Metaphysics, ami after- 
 wards lugging her in, and reinstating the banished. Is the 
 scientist's assumption of finality science or sciolism 1 he would 
 ask. Has a single phenomenon of nature so far been explained ] 
 Then he would proceed to test the soi-dimnt scientists by methods 
 of their own choosing; he would In list them with their own petard; 
 and many a pretentious and bumptious positivist would fall a 
 victim to De Quincey's relentless logic. Even on the dry ground 
 of utilitarianism itself, even on the plain principle of expe liency, 
 one can imagine him arguing, Science, which you would raise 
 into a cultus, has inherent and fatal defects. By it< very nature 
 it is wanting in one essential quality, it is not diffusive. 
 Eliminate all that clusters about the "word " heart," whatever it 
 may be, and you can have no cult its that will serve your turn, 
 even on your own principle-, such is the subtle and mysterious
 
 10 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN: 
 
 nature of what you call the " human machine." Call the heart a 
 figment if you like; still, being a factor in human affairs, no 
 " practical " man will ignore the phenomena thence arising ; to 
 do so is to be non-practical and non-scientitic, whatever you 
 specialists may affirm. 
 
 This is what one imagines De Quincey would say to the 
 •scientists. Indeed, we venture to think that, bred in the school 
 of Plato as he was, yet the tremendous intellectual storm of this 
 wonderful age, which has blown down all the old landmarks of 
 thought, and uprooted whole forests of superstitions, would really 
 •not frighten De Quincey or appal him in the least, assuming he 
 were still with us. Nay, one rather thinks that instead of being 
 dismayed, or taking alarm, he would take a semi-demoniac 
 pleasure in exercising faculties so well sharpened for the conflict ; 
 for to De Quincey polemics were not merely congenial but the 
 very breath of his nostrils. In the " art of abating and dissolving: 
 pompous gentlemen " he had a great reputation, and one can 
 readily picture this master of persiflage arguing, with mock 
 gravity, that old Ennius, so quoted of Cicero, must have been an 
 evolutionist, or he could not have written the famous line : — 
 " Simia quam similis turpissima bestia nobis." 
 
 And such a bright, cheery, versatile, and at the same time 
 skilled and powerful champion of the higher philosophy could not 
 fail to do good, were he here with us, in this whirling world of 
 tottering faiths, broken creeds, and ruined systems, where no 
 ardent, youthful spirit can find hold or stay for hand or foot- 
 where the heart pines unfed, and the soul vainly yearns for a 
 resting-point. To such a spirit — and there are thousands such- 
 young in years, yet sick and old with the welt-schmcrz, how grate- 
 ful would be the counsel of such a physician of the mind. 
 
 We have dwelt upon De Quincey in this aspect because it is a 
 pleasant aspect. In no single one of his numerous and multi- 
 farious writings will be found that note of sadness, of melancholy, 
 almost of despair, which makes so much of the higher writing of 
 to-day such dismal reading. On the contrary, there breathes 
 through all his works a sustained cheerfulness, a high and lofty
 
 THOMAS Hi: QUINCEY. II 
 
 faith which, acting like a moral tonic, restores to its pristine 
 health the world-wearied spirit. 
 
 And if our author has this abounding faith and hope, and 
 infects you with his own cheerfulness, so also has be charity, 
 unless, indeed, when discoursing upon subjects purely political, 
 and here he is himself infected with that partisan rancour of the 
 time which numbered amongst its victims many an illustrious 
 Englishman. But, politics and theology apart, De Quincey was 
 a man of the widest sympathies. His motto was that of the 
 noble Roman. To no man, however low and despised of his 
 fellows, to none that wore the semblance of humanity, to nothing 
 that concerned humanity, was he indifferent. To him "brother 
 man" and "sister woman" were not mere phrases but 
 brother and sister indeed. This kindly feeling, tlii< broad sym- 
 pathy, of De Quincey's with all classes of men and women must 
 strike every reader of his works, and may well add to his other 
 titles to our regard that of a pure and genuine philanthropist. 
 
 It cannot be claimed for De Quincey that his genius was of the 
 highest, i.e., the creative kind. On the other hand, his intellec- 
 tual receptivity was vast ; in this respect he rivalled his great 
 master, the myriad-sided Coleridge. But whilst carrying a bigger 
 load of learning than any Englishman of his time, Coleridge 
 hardly excepted, no man was ever less overlaid by his reading; 
 indeed his robust common sense, practical intellect, shrewd wit, 
 and thorough knowledge of the world are constantly in evidence. 
 He was perpetually analysing and testing his acquired knowledge 
 by the light of a very varied experience, and whilst he could 
 deal, in the dry region of the understanding, with the abstrusest 
 subjects with a rare subtlety, no avenue leading to the heart was 
 closed. A man of vast attainments, few have blended in a much 
 higher degree love of learning with love of their kind. 
 
 It has been stated that De Quincey was a grand talker. Yes, 
 in a time when the conversational art was yet a living art he had 
 probably only one master in that line, the brilliant Samuel 
 Taylor Coleridge, his master in so many other lines, of whom, 
 as regards talking, Hazlitt reports that when he (Samuel Taylor
 
 12 .4 NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN: 
 
 Coleridge) first visited his father's (the elder Hazlitt's) house at 
 Wem, " Coleridge did not cease talking while he stayed ; nor has 
 he since that I know of." An eternal talker Coleridge was, hut 
 not in the sense one might wish. For, alas ! of those " marvel" 
 lous monologues," so splendid yet so involved, so interminably 
 winding, so constantly widening, deepening, and extending, 
 what remains 1 True, the stenographic era had not yet begun ; 
 but how singular, and at the same time how tantalising that, of 
 the hundreds of cultured men who were privileged to listen to 
 this myriad-sided mind, not one should have left us an adequate 
 specimen of his wonderful talk ! But if little or nothing 
 remains to us of the mere word or letter of these tremendous 
 harangues, how much of the spirit remains ? For even as old 
 Nilus covers with his fertilising waters the parched lands, so did 
 the broad and endless stream of talk from this great seminal 
 mind fertilise and feed the minds of his wondering hearers. 
 Brilliant talker, and expounder of philosophies old and new, as 
 he was, then, De Quincey was the second, not the first, philoso- 
 phical talker of his time. But he also possessed qualities usually 
 regarded as opposite : he was a skilful mathematician, and here 
 he beat his master. To Coleridge, pure mathematics were as 
 distasteful as were pure metaphysical studies to Goethe. But 
 metaphysics, equally with mathematics, was among De Quincey's 
 strong points, and he was probably as widely read on the subject 
 as his master aforesaid. 
 
 With regard to Political Economy, although he had a thorough 
 grasp of the principles, and could even write luminously upon 
 that abstruse science — if science it can be called where the 
 conditions are so shifting and the ground is so boggy — he had 
 no views that could be called novel, or as materially adding to 
 what had already been promulgated. All the same, he could 
 project and plan to an extent only equalled by the redoubtable 
 S. T. C, of whom Cottle tells us that when i. i Bristol in the year 
 '96 he (S. T. C ) read over to him (Cottle) a list of eighteen 
 works, several of them in quarto, which he had resolved to write ! 
 So,. too, De Quincey could plan his famous "Prolegomenon to
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 13 
 
 all Future Systems of Political Economy," which he appears to 
 have left in as finished, or unfinished, a state as his other greal 
 work: " De Emendatione Humani [ntellectus." 
 
 But it is not in hi* capacity of political economist,it is not as 
 a mathematician, a logician, a metaphysician, a philosopher, that 
 De Quincey is a great name among Englishmen, and one for 
 ever to he held in special honour by English-speaking people ; it 
 is in another capacity. But doubtless our author's accomplish- 
 ments in the various and varied capacities named were all 
 auxiliary factors in making him what he was and is— one of the 
 clear-shining lights of English literature — "a master of style, one 
 who has carried the rare and difficult ait of expressing his 
 thoughts clearly, accurately, and persuasively in his own mother- 
 speech in one and perhaps the right direction further than it had 
 been carried by any English writer within the last two hundred 
 years " And we say that if De Quincey has done this for a tongue 
 which promises in the future to become the dominant tongue 
 of Christendom, so far from his life being a wasted one, as 
 certain critics maintain, there is really something of grand and 
 imposing in the character of his total service to letters. Of the 
 English magazine writers of his day admittedly facile princeps, 
 among literary critics one of the most polished and incisive that 
 ever wielded pen, of biographers one of the most brilliant, and, 
 added to all this, the enormous service above rcferced to, pray 
 what would our critics have : What are the conditions they 
 would exact as establishing a claim to their respect, not to say 
 admiration and homage 1 
 
 Js it for us to claim from De Quincey, or any other man of 
 "■cuius, so much writing of a prescribed excellence, so much work 
 of a certain quality done and completed? Is it not, in forming 
 any comprehensive estimate, the truer way to judge a writer by 
 what he has actually accomplished and left behind him, not by 
 what he has left undone, or even begun and left unfinished 1 We 
 affirm once again that, notwithstanding the imperfect and frag- 
 mentary character of many of his contributions, the sum total of 
 De Quincey's services to English letters is a large total, and that
 
 14 A NEGLECT ED MANCHESTER MAX: 
 
 to talk of his life as a wasted one is idle. Nay, by one only — by 
 a single one — of these services is De Q.uincey assured of future 
 fame, viz., by his masterly portraits in pen and ink of not a few 
 of the men, poets and philosophers, who were among the greatest 
 of his English contemporaries. How full-faced, vivid, and com- 
 plete are the pictures here drawn ! The men breathe out of 
 the canvas ; they talk, walk, poetise, and philosophise to the life 
 in the pages of De Quincey. 
 
 But where, in the meantime, is the painter of these masterly 
 portraits 1 Where is De Quincey himself, the brilliant talker, 
 the critic, the philosopher, the metaphysician — the rival in so 
 many ways, and the master in some, of even the great, myriad- 
 sided Coleridge 1 How comes it that none of De Quincey's 
 contemporaries has left us, in turn, anything like a full portrait 
 of one whose power and influence, by work and pen, were so 
 great even in his lifetime 1 This is one of many points touching 
 a distinguished figure in English literary .history that invite 
 attention. 
 
 It was a remark of (Swift's, and highly characteristic of the 
 great dean, that when the blockheads are in league against a 
 writer, it is a sure sign that he is a genius. Certainly, if 
 judged by this test, De Quincey's "genius" is sufficiently demon- 
 strated, for it would really seem as if, at one time or another, 
 every " puny whipster " had had a cut at him ! Seeing, however, 
 that there are other authors, not by any means to be classed in 
 the above category, who write depreciatingly of the Opium- 
 eater, it may be said that the question of De Quincey's actual 
 merit as an English writer is one that remains unsettled. 
 
 Among critics worthy of the name who decry our author, 
 you will find not a few asking, in a tone of triumph — "Who 
 quotes De Quincey 1 " and in the next breath answering their 
 oavu question by the statement that " he is not quotable ! " As 
 regards thej extent to which De Quincey is quoted, we have 
 already pointed out that, in order to be quoted, an author must 
 first be read ; and we hold that at least one reason why De 
 Quincey is not much quoted is that he is not much read. And
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 15 
 
 why is our author not much read I There is a great deal to be 
 said in the way of explanation. 
 
 We have seen that until some forty yens ago De Quincey, 
 
 except in purely literary circles, was pretty much of a myth. In 
 1851 a prominent London reviewer stated that it was very 
 unlikely that a collective edition of De Quincey's works would 
 ever appear. Nor probably would the world at anytime have 
 had anything like a collective edition of the Opium-eater's 
 writings but for the warm enthusiasm and dogged persistency of 
 a Boston (U. S. A.) publisher, Mr. Fields (Ticknor and Fields), 
 who never let De Quincey rest until he had engaged, by absolute 
 " undertaking," to assist in the difficult task of collecting his 
 various, unequal, and scattered writings. So much for the 
 alleged " egotism '" and "vanity"' of one of the most polished 
 and scholarly of English writers. 
 
 "It is astonishing,' - wrote De Quincey to a correspondent, in 
 the playful, bantering vein so characteristic of him, " how much 
 more Boston knows of my literary acts and purposes than I do 
 myself. Were it not, indeed, through Boston, and Mr. J. T. 
 Fields, hardly the sixth part of my literary undertakings — 
 hurried or deliberate, sound, rotting, or rotten, would ever have 
 reached posterity : which, be it known to thee, most sarcastic of 
 future censors, already most of them have reached." Let all 
 honour be paid, therefore, to Boston, and to Mr. Fields in especial : 
 and shame to that neglectful and laggard England which De 
 Quincey regarded with a feeling of patriotic fervour hardly 
 equalled among our national writers. " It is worthy of note," 
 says a writer in Allibone, " that the occasional essays of a number 
 of distinguished British authors have first been collected in 
 America. We may instance Macaulay, Wilson, Carlyle, De 
 Quincey, and Talfourd." Since then Charles Lamb and others 
 have received similar attention in the same quarter. 
 
 But for some forty }^ears, no longer anonymous, no longer a 
 myth, De Quincey has been before the ordinary reading public. 
 And how happens it, we ask again, that in the course of these forty 
 years so eminent a writer has made so little headway ? The
 
 16 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN: 
 
 matter is not so inexplicable as it might at first appear, living as 
 ■we are in a time of what Byron would call 
 
 Haste, and waste, and glare, and gloss and glitter. 
 " Hurry " is now written upon everything. The world is 
 spinning round upon its own axis, of course, as of old ; but 
 everybody, now, seems revolving upon himself, insomuch that, 
 should you by any possibility regain your balance and steady 
 yourself, your friends legard you as a proper subject for inquiry 
 by a commission de lunatico I An old divine thought that all the 
 Avorld might go mad without anybody ever knowing the fact. 
 And one has heard the question put whether the prevailing 
 standard of sanity is not purely arbitrary, and therefore a 
 possible mistake. Hurry, hurry, hurry, everywhere ! Science 
 herself — and this is the age of science — is in a hurry, and has 
 little patience with the scholar and silent brooder, forgetting that 
 she distinctly owes her own birth and growth to silence and the 
 strictest closet study. But she has no time to wonder over her 
 own quick-succeeding wonders, and never — as one of our great 
 poets most profoundly and prophetically observes — never 
 magines, i.e., realises to herself, the half of what she knows ! 
 How then should it fare with literature 1 What a vast, bewilder- 
 ing chaos is the world of books ! If Aristophanes could com- 
 plain of the great multiplicity of books in his time, how is it in 
 these days, when the chief distinction for man or woman is, not 
 to have written a book ! 
 
 " In the grade of folly." remarks a humorous yet thoughtful 
 American, " hard upon an explosion, lies modern literature. 
 Nature has disappeared, and the mind withers. No other faculty 
 has been developed in man but that of reader, no other possibility 
 but that of the writer. The memory is made omnicapacious, its 
 burden increases with every generation, and omniscience is 
 becoming at once more impossible and more and more fashionable. 
 
 The order of genius has been abolished bv an 
 
 all-prevailing 'popular opinion.' The elegance and taste of 
 patient culture have been vulgarised by forced contact with the 
 unpresentable facts thrust upon us by the ready writer. Every-
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 17 
 
 body now sighs for the periodical, while nobody has read the 
 literature of any age in any single country. Is this an 
 
 exaggeration .' Hardly. 
 
 Our English Do Quincey and he is intensely English : Eng 
 in his preferences, English in his prejudices, all over English — is 
 largelya moral and intellectual analyst, a subjective, introspective 
 writer of the higher type ; and subjective writers of the higher 
 type are now little read. Eventhegrand old Gascon, Michael de 
 Montaigne, himself, gets dusty, while his English antitype, our 
 very worthy Sir Thomas Browne, with his "Religic .Medici,'' and 
 his " Urn Buriall," either lies buried beneath a load of modern 
 rnbbish, or is relegated to the highesl shelf of the library. And 
 yet, how full are the pages of these writers of fine thoughts and 
 subtle searchings into the secret workings of man's heart and 
 brain ! Paucity of words, and plenitude of ideas, are there in 
 painful contrast to much of the writing of to-day, when if a man 
 has one original notion it must needs fill not a page but an octavo 
 volume. How very limited is the number of what have been 
 called " working ideas ' ; in criticism I And how curious it is to 
 trace and track up some of these ideas to their source, say, from 
 Matthew Arnold to Ruskin, from Etuskin to Carlyle, from Carlyle 
 to Goethe — who, by the way, is a very German Ocean of profound 
 wisdom, and whose " Wilhelm Meister " is a sort of sublimated 
 pons asinorum at which a hundred scholars and thinkers have, in 
 turn, stumbled and come to grief. 
 
 And what if, amongst these, brilliant scholar that he was, we 
 must number De Quincey himself ! And hereby "hangs a tale " 
 — the story of Carlyle and De Quincey — which, as it directly 
 touches the question at issue, viz., the prejudices existing against 
 our author in many minds, it may be permitted to narrate. The 
 point will appear in the sequel. 
 
 Carlyle had translated the " Wilhelm Meister" of Goethe. 
 De Quincey had reviewed the book in the ''London Magazine," 
 falling foul, not of the translator but of the great Goethe himself. 
 Carlyle, remarking sub rosd upon the reviewer, described him in 
 the most opprobrious terms; and afterwards, though openly
 
 18 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAX: 
 
 bearing himself with suavity towards De Quincey, was continually 
 traducing him in secret. De Quincey, as Ave said before, had 
 stumbled, along with so many others, at the sublimated pons 
 aforesaid. But then Carlyle himself had stumbled at the same 
 bridge ! Even whilst engaged in translating the book, he had 
 written to his brother in the following terms : "I am occupied 
 with a translation of the ' Wilhelm Meister ' of Goethe, the 
 greatest genius that Germany has seen for a century past, and 
 the biggest ass she has seen for three centuries." So the translator 
 and reviewer were of the same opinion, after all ! 
 
 " As to written reviews," says De Quincey, in his " Casuistry 
 of Duelling," "so much did I dislike the assumption of judicial 
 functions and authority over the works of my own brother 
 authors and contemporaries, that I have in my own life written 
 only two, and at the time I refer to only one, and that one, 
 though a review of a German book, taking little notice or none of 
 the English translator; for although he is a good German 
 scholar now, he was a very imperfect one at that time, and was 
 therefore every way open to criticism. I had evaded this 
 invidious office applied to a novice in literature, and all that I 
 said of a general nature was a compliment to him. Upon the 
 German author I was indeed severe, but hardly as much as 
 deserved." 
 
 In the last sentence De Quincey undoubtedly writes stultus sum 
 and very large indeed ; but at the same time the excellent heart 
 of the man comes out very clearly, while the subsequent conduct 
 of Carlyle, who no more than himself had been able to fathom 
 the Goethean depths, shows lurid indeed. 
 
 Though De Quincey, from the standpoint of the linguist, would 
 have been quite justified in severely handling Carlyle, he was so 
 gentle to the then " novice in literature," that he hud no hesita- 
 tion, some time afterwards, in making his personal acquaintance, 
 in visiting him at his Scottish home, and introducing him, in the 
 literary sense, to several great German writers then totally un- 
 known to him, notably to that Jean Paul Kichter who afterwards 
 became one of Carlyle's greatest favourites, whom he so admirably
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. L9 
 
 translates in part, and whom he so largely quotes — sometimes 
 consciously, but also sometimes unconsciously. 
 
 By the way, both Coleridge and De Quincey preceded Carlyle 
 by many years in the great fertile German field which the 
 Chelsea sage afterwards so diligently and so successfully ploughed. 
 ( Ian it have been a twinge of that jealousy which so commonly 
 afflicts our weak humanity that inspired Carlyle's contemptuous 
 references whenever he had an opportunity of secret gossip about 
 the men who had won early laurels in the German field — the field 
 he was rather too apt to regard as his own special domain ? If not, 
 then it must have been sheer rancour, without cause and without 
 excuse. So the most picturesque and powerful of recent writers, the 
 brilliant historian and critic, the painter in new and glowing 
 colours of the warlike and crafty Frederick, and the rehabilitator 
 of our English Cromwell, requires, himself, to be rehabilitated ! 
 The great preacher and pretended lover of the " veracities " was 
 not too veracious, himself — the hater of all " shams " could, 
 himself, sham ; and whilst talking, with a monotonous iteration, 
 of the "infinitely little," could act it on occasion only too 
 successfully ! 
 
 But the fact remains, that our scholarly De Quincey did 
 stumble at Goethe, though in brilliant company, to wit, Carlyle's 
 and others. And even yet Goethe is a stumbling-block to 
 scholars, for not long ago we read in the pages of an English 
 author of no mean rank the amazing statement that the greatest 
 of the Germans was " merely a man of many talents," and not a 
 genius after all ! 
 
 The fact, however, that De Quincey failed to apprehend the 
 profoundly allegorical character of some of the Goethean 
 writings has undoubtedly injured his fame as a literary and 
 philosophical critic, and has led many a thoughtful student to 
 neglect reading him. Indeed, the prejudice against our author, 
 founded on this incident, or mistake, has often faced the present 
 writer in preaching the De Quinceyan crusade, 
 
 b2
 
 20 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN 
 
 Another, and perhaps the strongest, common prejudice against 
 De Quincey is founded on his long habit of opium-eating. In 
 regard to this it may be said that moral weakness is not necess- 
 arily synonymous "with moral degradation ; else how few, even 
 among the greatest of the sons of men, but must be obnoxious to 
 censure. Were our literary judgments to be thus coloured, 
 hardly a genius would escape ! 
 
 It would be difficult to formulate a plea justificatory for De 
 Quincey's opium-eating ; and what there is to be said in the way 
 of excuse he has himself urged in his works with an eloquence 
 all his own. That he did not take the potent drug to the extent 
 generally supposed is now made pretty certain. That he un- 
 wound the fatal cord that bound him, "almost to the last link," 
 he himself assures us ; and in the splendour of this moral triumph, 
 and the charm and glamour of his style and manner of defending 
 himself, one forgets the depth to which he fell. 
 
 But to a lower depth fell his great contemporary, Coleridge, of 
 whom, in his absolute helplessness — when the springs of his 
 resolution had gone down, as Charles Lamb used to say, like the 
 springs of a broken clock — even his fellow-sinner in opium-eating 
 could make sport. Here is an anecdote, related with all the gay 
 humour characteristic of one who has given us the best picture 
 of Coleridge in his weaknesses and his strengths that has ever 
 been drawn. The great philosopher had pressed into his service 
 a certain poor but able-bodied man of the labouring class, whose 
 prescribed duty it was to follow his employer about, whitherso- 
 ever his erratic steps were bent, and by sheer physical force 
 keep him out of drug shops ! For this special service he was to 
 receive fifteen shillings per week remuneration. On one occasion 
 (we quote from memory) Coleridge was gravitating towards his 
 accustomed goal, and his bulk and weight were becoming too 
 much for the poor labourer's strength. The philosopher was 
 rapidly forcing a passage, and threatened to "run the blockade" 
 successfully, when the touching appeal was made to him: "Oh, 
 my dear sir, remember your wife — your poor wife ! " " My wife,"
 
 THOMAS />/■: QUINCEY. 21 
 
 exclaimed the philosopher, abstractedly, in 1 1 j < ■ words of Othello, 
 "What wife i I have ao wife!" 
 
 But however weak and pitiable Coleridge may appear in the 
 light of anecdotes of this character, and however abject De 
 Quincey himself may appear in the light of anecdotes and in- 
 cidents almost as damning related of him, we have, in these two 
 wielders of that weapon which is so much mightier than the 
 sword two of the acutest and most versatile minds, two of the 
 keenest and subtlest intellects of later times ; and those who shall 
 strive to make it appear that neither the one nor the other did 
 much for English thought, or English literature -that, in fact, 
 their lives were wasted, will succeed only in demonstrating the 
 shallowness of their leading, and the rashness of their judgment. 
 
 Both Coleridge and I>e Quincey, though in different measure, 
 were minds of the very rare seminal class, and from their sowings 
 we still reap. 
 
 We shall not here go into the casuistry of opium-eating, but it 
 were a fair question to put whether posterity lias the right to 
 ask the conditions and circumstances under which are produced 
 the literary treasures that come to her hands? Pending an 
 answer, let us turn to another cause of prejudice against De 
 Quincey, viz., his voluminousness. 
 
 In reading the " Opium-eater," as we stated previously, selection 
 is necessary ; and it is not to be denied that De Quincey's chance 
 of future fame is appreciably lessened by his carrying too much 
 weight ; the " Hill of Fame" is not to be clomb with so serious 
 an encumbrance. 
 
 But even assuming that I >e Quincey is read, many critics say 
 he is not quotable. 
 
 The style ofjour author is certainly not the epigrammatic; as a 
 rule his sentences are long, and do not lend themselves to 
 quotation. "He made no more attempt to shine in single pas- 
 sages," says a friendly critic, "than a good painter cares to let one 
 square inch of his picture be singled out for admiration. In his 
 essays, long and short, the whole composition hangs together as 
 a fine musical composition hangs together, lie did not care for
 
 22 A NEGLECTED MANCHESTER MAN: 
 
 display of epigram, or for short sententious utterance, but made 
 in every case a deliberate assault on his reader's convictions. 
 His essays are like broadsides fired simultaneously, and no piece 
 of ordnance but does its appointed work." 
 
 De Quincey is often prolix. But here he has the defects of 
 his qualities. One of these cpxalities is perfect lucidity, absolute 
 clearness of meaning ; the accompanying defect is, a tendency to 
 be prolix in the expression of his ideas. But here the question 
 arises, which of the two styles is best, the terse and epigram- 
 matic, with a certain measure of obscurity and ambiguity, or 
 lucidity, accompanied by a certain amount of prolixity 1 Now 
 it appears to us that of the two the latter is the preferable, being 
 accompanied by defects of less importance, for that which 
 is clearly and intelligibly stated is at least capable of being 
 ultimately comprehended, without any exterior aid, while that 
 which is obscure may never be comprehended at all, without, or 
 even with, aid from a superior intelligence. Many of the 
 clearest writers, in almost all languages, have a tendency to be 
 prolix in expression. Nor is rapidity of style by any means an 
 indication of rapidity of composition. For instance, one of the 
 greatest stylists in universal literature, Jean Jacques Rousseau, 
 tells us that he composed slowly and with difficulty ; and he 
 would appear to have followed always the advice of his astute 
 countryman, Boileau — 
 
 Polissez et repolissez, 
 
 AbrOgez quelquefois, et souvent effacez. 
 
 Yet notwithstanding this, so clear, fluent, and facile is Jean 
 Jacques, that one who is equally familiar with the two languages 
 — French and English — will read ;i work like the Nouvelle Ileloise 
 much more quickly in the former than in the latter. 
 
 The style of De Quincey, though prolix, is yet so clear and 
 fluent, the arrangement of his matter is so logical — so sequacious, 
 as Coleridge would say, the terms and the words he uses are so 
 precise, his sentences are so admirably poised and balanced, that 
 almost anyone who has the habit of reading will read his pages 
 with a rapidity astonishing even to himself. Indeed, to peruse
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. •_•:* 
 
 this author continuously for a lengthened period is almost 
 
 good a training for the reasoning faculties as if you had 
 engaged for a similar period in a course of logic. 
 
 In concluding this brief and imperfect estimate of the literary 
 claims of De Quincey, we inns' reiterate the opinion already 
 expressed— the opinion not of one or two only but of many. 
 We say again, deliberately, that it is a reflection upon a city of 
 the vast importance of Manchester, with her world-wide relations 
 in almost every department of human thought and activity, that 
 she should pay such scant homage to the memory of a man whose 
 name will shed a lustre on his native region when all Manchester's 
 engines are rusted and her chimneys smokeless. For while trade 
 and commerce, driven by the necessities of the case, must shift 
 their centres from one place to another, and from one country to 
 another, and even nations be worn out, as the ages roll, the genius 
 of literature is ubiquitous and her triumphs are perennial. Many 
 and various, and powerful, and wonderful are the instruments 
 created and perfected by the ingenuity and skill of our men of 
 the North, and the great workers in iron and brass ; hut there is 
 one instrument yet more powerful than all these — more mighty 
 even than the sword itself — the pen ! "With this instrument did 
 De Quincey work, and through his subtle genius extend and 
 improve the powers of a language destined in the future to voice 
 the thoughts and the feelings of universal man. 
 
 " It is true," said the great Caesar, " that I have widened the 
 boundaries of the Roman empire, but Marcus Tullius Cicero has 
 extended the limits of human knowledge" — a larger service. 
 
 Far distant be the time, yet assuredly will it arrive, when this 
 "tight little island" shall have become too "tight" for its own 
 children — when this brave and strenuous England shall have 
 become eflete, when she shall no longer be a political factor, and 
 when her voice shall have no force or weight in the councils of 
 the nations ; yet then, even then, will remain to her the supreme, 
 the splendid and glorious triumph of having given to humanity 
 at large one common speech and one common tongue !
 
 24 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 CONSIDERED A 8 A NATURALIST 
 
 A CENTENARY MEMORIAL. 
 
 < ijf)URNS'S deathbed prophecy, that his fame would increase, 
 (^7 has been fulfilled in measure far beyond anything the poet 
 can either have expected or imagined. Not only is his poetry 
 now read in all languages of the civilised world, but even in 
 remote and obscure dialects of many of them ; for the lyric has 
 this advantage over the epic and dramatic poet that he is more 
 diffusive, since he strikes more directly, and in fewer and simpler 
 words, at the heart of man. 
 
 And where in human veins the red tide runs reddest there 
 rules Burns supreme — the Master Singer of the world, rivalling, 
 in his song, the sweetness of the nightingale, and awakening the 
 slumbering echoes of man's being in all lands. Nay, thousands 
 are at this moment singing his songs to whom the very names of 
 the great epic and dramatic poets are unknown.* 
 
 In very simple words did Burns reassure his Jean, but in the 
 light of the poet's present wide and ever-widening fame the 
 words are sublime: "Don't be afraid, Jean, I shall be more 
 respected when I have been dead a hundred years than I am at 
 present." 
 
 The poet had an instinctive knowledge of his own value ; he 
 felt that although he had written some things that would perish, 
 and that deserved to perish, he had yet written others that the 
 
 * A recent writer on this subject estimates that the songs of Burns are 
 now read in some twenty European languages ; but if dialects are included 
 that figure will be largely increased.
 
 CONSIDERED AS A NATURALIST 25 
 
 world would not willingly lei die ; and this was bis consolation. 
 It has been the consolation ol master-spirits who have suffered 
 obloquy, penury, persecution in ;dl ages. It was the consolation 
 of the greal Dante, who in making a poem made a language, as 
 Burns himself has immortalised a dialect; it was the consolation 
 of our own great Milton -when neglected, old and blind : it was 
 the consolation of our Wordsworth when, under a pelting storm 
 of Obloquy, he wrote that 
 
 deathless powers to Verse belong, 
 
 And they like demigods are strong 
 On whom the Muses smile. 
 
 Many are the Sweet Singers of Britain, and numerous the 
 choir of German Voices, with the melodious tones of a Goethe, a 
 Heine, or an Uhland, heard above all ; but we venture to reaffirm 
 that neither here, nor there, nor yet among the non-Saxon 
 nations, shall we find one singer whose place in the world's heart 
 is before that of the immortal ploughman ! 
 
 There is nothing so common in these " Tit-bit " days of 
 shallow leading, when every book, to have vogue, must be a 
 picture-book, and ever}- magazine must have more pictures than 
 pages, as to hear the most sweeping judgments passed upon this 
 or that author by people whose acquaintance with the author 
 pronounced upon is really of the slightest. As for Robert Burns, 
 indeed, where is the Englishman of average reading wdio does 
 not assume perfect familiarity with the poet, and full capacity to 
 judge him and all his works ? Yet u<h'<[Uat< hi to know Burns is 
 to be well acquainted with the idiom, or dialect, in which he 
 wrote, in all its obscurities, the circumstances under which he 
 wrote, and the sources whence he drew. This carries one over a 
 wide field ; yet is it a field to be duly and patiently traversed 
 before sitting down in judgment. 
 
 Not only will the average reader assume familiarity with 
 Burns, but, having his eye upon the multitude of books written 
 on the poet, his life and works, he will tell you, with emphasis, 
 that "Burns is threshed out, and threadbare." And, in fact, if 
 books arc to be taken by numbers, and not quality, ;> threshed
 
 26 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 out " he is to the last grain, and " threadbare " all over. But are 
 they ? Scribimus indocti, docfique. ' Our own conviction, and it is 
 a growing one, is, that with respect to Burns, apart from his 
 songs, the average reader knows almost nothing about him, and 
 the average critic very little. This lamentable ignorance in 
 regard to a lyrical poet of the first order is largely, no doubt, to 
 be ascribed to the difficulties presented by that uncouth idiom for 
 writing in which the Scotch poet has been so often blamed. Yet 
 we hold that Burns Avas quite right in listening to the voice of 
 his own genius. 
 
 It is quite true that whenever the poet desired he could use the 
 English language with masterly power, his magnificent poem, 
 "Man was made to mourn," his immortal " Mary in Heaven," 
 his matchless "Verses to Clarinda" (" Ae fond kiss,"&c), and many 
 others, attest this. But his native Doric, after all, has most 
 affinity with the poet's genius, and this he instinctively felt. It 
 is the language of his bitterest satire ; for in Scottish it is that 
 " lash in hand " Burns administers those blood-drawing strokes 
 under which the great families of Bant and Cant must writhe, 
 not in effigy like Laokoon, but in mortal agony for ever. It is the 
 language of his keenest wit, and his richest hunfour ; and if Burns 
 is in the fiont rank of poets he is also, in our opinion, in the 
 front rank of humorists. At the very mention of Burns, indeed, 
 the figure of " Laughter " rises up, holding both his sides. 
 Burns's humour is irresistible, and with the arrow of his ridicule, 
 in keenness rarely surpassed, he slays giants of superstition, 
 bigotry, and prejudice that a world in arms might have striven 
 against in vain. Scottish, too, in the main, is the language of his 
 highest passion and his deepest pathos ; for in the dialect this 
 marvellous writer storms all hearts, exciting the emotions to such 
 a fevered passion of love and tenderness for man, woman, child, 
 and all living things, that Ave come to regard him as very Pity 
 incarnate. For ourselves, Avhen we think of this surpassing 
 tenderness in Burns, combined Avith so much virility, manly 
 dignity, and loft}- independence, avc are often reminded of the 
 great German writer, "Jean Paul the Only," a contemporary of
 
 CONSIDERED AS .1 NATURALIST. 27 
 
 the poet, but of whom limns probably never once heard, who 
 was at that time engaged on the first of those wondrous prose- 
 poems that were at once to astonish the world and thaw the 
 German heart, then freezing under an icy blast from France. 
 This fervid Titan anion-- Teutons, a very " fountain of tears," 
 and phenomenon in German literature, who always found the 
 socict}' of Goethe and Schiller too cold for him, how he would 
 have loved the perfervid Scot! How he would have hugged and 
 pressed him to his deep-pulsing, high-swelling, mighty heart! 
 Indeed, resemblances between Burns and Richter are not 
 wanting; and both were idolised of woman to a degree the 
 world has rarely witnessed. 
 
 Oftener yet do we recall the poet's English contemporary, the 
 grand innovator and poetical heretic, Wordsworth, who so 
 bitterly laments that, while living a comparative neighbour, he 
 should never have met one whom he constantly refers to as his 
 honoured teacher and master. And of British poets it is certain 
 that none more stimulated the great Lakist's genius, or exercised 
 over it a more important influence than Robert Burns. This, 
 with characteristic candour, the English poet acknowledges in 
 language of a noble simplicity : 
 
 I mourned with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for he was »'one 
 Whose light 1 hailed when first it shone, 
 
 Ami showed my youth 
 How Wise may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 To all who have formed the low, vulgar estimate of Burns's 
 character that we must always deprecate, let it be a sufficient 
 answer that the purest-minded of English poets, the loftiest in 
 sentiment since Milton, and the most original since Shakespeare, 
 should have held him in such high honour, and have paid him 
 those frequent tributes — as eloquent in expression as they are 
 sincere in sentiment, and invariably breathing the deepest 
 reverence — to be found in the pages of this poet. For of all 
 "pronouncements," past or present, we may surely trust that of 
 Wordsworth on him who 
 
 walked in -lory and ill joy, 
 
 Following his plough along the mountain-side.
 
 28 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Eeturning to the subject of dialect, we may say that if Burns 
 
 in choosing mainly the Scottish vernacular as literary vehicle did 
 
 but listen to the voice of his own genius, and follow the instincts 
 
 of a true and great poet, then it behoves us, on the other hand, 
 
 to acquaint ourselves with the form of language he adopted under 
 
 this high counsel. In a word,- Ave are bound to learn the Scottish 
 
 idiom even in its obscurities. Absolution there is none for neglect 
 
 of genius ; in quality it is too precious, and in quantity too 
 
 sparsely scattered, for this. 
 
 Wei- die Dichtung; will verstehen, 
 Muss in's Land der Dichter gehen, 
 
 in another sense besides that of Goethe's. For a man who has 
 not fully mastered the idiom of the Scottish lowlands to pretend 
 " familiarity" with Burns is absurd. It is as if one who had but 
 an indifferent acquaintance with the Latin tongue pretended 
 " familiarity" with Horace, and the thousand felicitous phrases to 
 be found in that poet. Not to know the obscurities of the dialect 
 is often to miss the very gems and precious jewels of the Scottish 
 poet. What is the tenderest passage, perhaps, in the whole of 
 Burns to the man who stumbles at "a daimen icker in a thrave !" 
 Indeed, an obscure idiom is not unfrequently the very keynote 
 to a song or poem. 
 
 We seriously reaffirm, then, that, apart from his songs, Burns, 
 instead of being " familiar," is not known to the ordinary English 
 reader, and very insufficiently known to Messieurs the Gentle- 
 men who write with ease. And if we have " shown cause," then 
 the other position in controversy, viz., that Burns is "threshed 
 out, and threadbare," goes by the board. 
 
 In fact, so far from being "threshed out," there are whole 
 aspects in which Burns has hardl}' yet been looked at ; or, if 
 glanced at, has been dealt with most inadequately. His wide 
 knowledge of natural history, for example, and the singular 
 accuracy of that knowledge. Indeed, as regards observations in 
 nature, and whether in the animal or vegetable kingdom, the eye 
 and the ken of this poet are well nigh infallible. He knows 
 intimately a hundred trees and plants, and will describe to you
 
 CONSIDERED AS .1 NATURALIST. 29 
 
 minutely the features of Flora's fair children. Ho is acquainted 
 
 irith the peculiar habits and characteristics of each member of 
 
 the tribe, feathery, tinny, or other, and stamps ;m<l fixes them 
 
 in one or two happy words impossible to be forgotten. Hoc 
 
 arc two stanzas from the remarkable "Elegy on Tarn Samson," by 
 
 way of illustration. 
 
 X<>\v safe tin' stately sawmonl sail, 
 And fcrouta bedropp'd wi' crimson Iia.il, 
 And eels weel kenned for souple tail, 
 And geds for gi eed. 
 
 Since dark in Dim I h's lish-creel we wail 
 Tam Samson dead ! 
 
 Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
 
 Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
 
 Ye mail kins cock your fud fu' braw, 
 
 Witlumtrii dread ; 
 Your mortal foe is now awa' 
 
 Tam .Samson's dead ! 
 
 Note the felicity of the description: "trouts bedropped wi' 
 
 erimson hail." We say nothing of the master-strokes of 
 humour and pathos contained in this famous tour de force, for 
 that opens out quite another aspect of the poet, viz., his infinite 
 tenderness for the inferior animals, and boundless sympathy with 
 all forms of life, even the lowest. In the intensity of this sym- 
 pathy, and in the power of its expression, Burns stands 
 unequalled among poets. 
 
 Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless tiling. 
 That, in the merry months of Spring, 
 Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
 
 What conies o' thee ! 
 Where wilt thou cower thy cluttering wing, 
 
 And close thy ee' ? 
 
 Here is another example of the accuracy of Burns's natural 
 
 history : 
 
 Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; 
 Ye >tatch foxgloves, fair to see ; 
 Ye w Ibines hanging bonnilie, 
 
 1 □ scented bowers ; 
 Ye roses, on your thorny tree, 
 
 The firsl >>" flowers. 
 
 Here we not only see the flowers, we smell the delicious odours 
 of the woodbine and the rose. In fact, no botanist can read
 
 30 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Burns without being struck by the poet's felicity of epithet and 
 minute accuracy of description. Once or twice in the whole of 
 his works he mistakes the colour of a flower ; but in describing 
 the habits and characteristics of trees and plants and the situations 
 in which they are found in nature he invariably looks with the 
 eye and writes with the pen of a true naturalist. Listen to him 
 in " The Humble Petition of Bruar Water : " 
 
 Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 
 
 My lowly banks o'erspread, 
 And view, deep-bending in the pool, 
 
 Their shadows' watery bed ! 
 Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, 
 
 My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
 And, for the little songster's nest, 
 
 The close-embowering thorn. 
 
 Note the pathetic stroke in the two concluding lines ; the tender 
 heart of the poet does not allow him to forget a home for the 
 "little songster,' 1 even in giving a botanical description. 
 
 And, again, in the " Lament of Mary Queen of Scots " (which, 
 by the way, the reader should compare with the exquisite poem 
 on the same subject by Wordsworth), listen to the botanist : 
 
 Now blooms the lily by the bank, 
 
 The primrose down the brae ; 
 The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 
 
 And milk-white is the slae. 
 
 By the "lily," Burns means the "Lent-lily," naturally rare in Scot- 
 land; and note the careful distinction of situation — bank and brae. 
 Observe, also, the accuracy of the poet as to seasons : the black- 
 thorn, or "sloe," is a sheet of milk-white blossom, while the 
 white, or "hawthorn," is as yet only "budding in the glen." 
 
 In his botany, in his geology, in his zoology, and even in his 
 astronomy — where so many fine artists come to ground, instead 
 of being in the skies — Burns, with rare exceptions, is as strictly 
 and absolutely true to Nature as if he looked at her with the eye 
 of the scientist pure and simple. In the department of ornith- 
 ology his knowledge is very wide, and as minute as it is extensive. 
 Here is one example out of hundreds : the poet describes the 
 approach of winter, when the groves are silent — 
 
 Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee, 
 Proud o' the heighl o' some half-lang (Tee.
 
 CONSIDERED AS A NATURALIST. 31 
 
 In these two lines are contained two notable facts in natural 
 history: few birds except the robin are abroad at this season, 
 and he affects low trees and bushes only. And what poet, except 
 Burns, could have squeezed so much accurate ornithology into 
 eight lines as we have in these : 
 
 The partridge loves the fruitful fella ; 
 
 The plover loves the mountains : 
 The woodcock haunts the Lonelj dells, 
 
 The soaring hern the fountains : 
 Thro' lofty groves the cushal roves, 
 
 Tin- pal li of man to slum it ; 
 
 The bazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 
 
 The spreading thorn the linnet. 
 
 Here yon have described for you, in as many lines, the exact 
 
 habits and habitats of seven distinct members of the feathered 
 
 tribe. This in one of his shorter pieces, but in the " Elegy on 
 
 Captain Matthew Henderson," from which we quoted one stanza 
 
 above, you have at once a magnificent poem and a valuable 
 
 treatise of natural history. Here are two more stanzas from the 
 
 grand " Lament," in illustration of our position : 
 
 Mourn, ye woe songsters o' the wood ; 
 Ye grouse, that crap the heather-bud ; 
 
 Ye curlews cuJ/iiKj thrii <i dud : 
 
 \ e whistling plover ; 
 And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ! — 
 
 He's gane for ever ! 
 
 Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, 
 Ye fisher-herons, watching eels : 
 Ye duck and drake. H i' airy wheels, 
 
 Circling the lake ; 
 Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 
 
 Rair for his sake. 
 
 What accuracy of observation is here ! What fidelity to nature f 
 What felicity of epithet ! Science and poetry indissoluble united. 
 In short, we can conceive of no book more fascinating than one 
 that should deal adequately with the poet under this aspect — 
 "Burns as a Naturalist, with illustrative quotations from his 
 works." 
 
 Again, as a painter of natural scenery — of landscapes in little, 
 of vignettes in words, and of the stream— the " toddlin-burn," in 
 particular, in all its meanderings, what poet — British or other — 
 is so minutely graphic, or has a touch so exquisitely delicate 1
 
 32 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Match the following, if you can, in universal poetry : 
 
 Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
 
 As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
 Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 
 
 Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
 Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
 
 Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
 Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 
 
 Below the spreading hazel, 
 
 Unseen that night. 
 
 This photographic accuracy in Burns has not failed to strike 
 even the foreign critics, who, by the way, find it much easier to 
 get at our historical and descriptive than at our reflective and 
 philosophical poets ; with regard to which last, indeed, they are 
 often hopelessly at sea, nor near the shore, our Wordsworth and 
 Shelley suffering the most cruelly of all, for reasons which had 
 space permitted it would have been interesting to enquire. 
 
 Among, recent French writers, in addition to the distinguished 
 Taine, who deal with Burns with much critical acumen, we may 
 adduce M. Andre Theuriet, himself an admirable word-painter, 
 and whose splendid descriptions of many aspects of nature 
 adorned the pages of the Revue des Deux Mondes for a series of 
 years. M. Theuriet dwells especially upon Burns's exactitude in 
 his description of nature and natural objects, and characterises it 
 as " marvellous." And referring to the poet's remarkable 
 closeness and terseness, he says that even in his smallest pictures 
 there is not a stroke lost, every touch tells, f 
 
 And yet, in face of all this, there are people who will ask 
 you " Was Burns a poet of nature 1" Even men of great critical 
 acumen will put the question. " The sentiment of external 
 nature was not strong in Burns," says one sententious writer. 
 "You call Burns one of the poets of nature," says another, "but 
 where, in his works, does he exhibit any strong feeling for the sub- 
 lime mountain scenery which often came under his eyes?" To put 
 the latter question is to pay unconsciously a very high compliment 
 
 t "Burns peint le paysage avec un merveilleux exactitude; dans les 
 petits tableaux il n'y a une touche qui ne soit juste, et n'ait valeur.'
 
 CONSIDERED AS .1 -V I TUBA LIST. 
 
 to Wordsworth. The fact is, we are so accustomed to find the f< 
 ing for mountain scenery in our poets of later times that where 
 it is. not strongly evident we note the circumstance. But in how 
 many English poets preceding Wordsworth do we find frequent 
 
 expression of an over-mastering sentiment as regards mountain 
 uery 1 That Burns had the feeling for mountains is proved by 
 
 occasional strokes so powerful that Wordsworth himself, the 
 peculiar poet of the mountains, was impressed by them. Again, 
 in the pas-inn for wind and storm, and the rage of elements, the 
 two poets were alike, and to the one as to the other it was a 
 frequent source of inspiration. In "The Vision," referring to 
 himself, Burns says : — 
 
 I saw tliee seek the sounding shore, 
 I flighted with the dashing roar ; 
 Or, when the North his lleee\ store 
 
 Drove thro' the sky, 
 I saw grim Nature's visage boar 
 
 Strike thy young eye. 
 
 And again in "Winter, a Dirge:" — 
 
 The sweeping blast, the -ky o'ercast, 
 
 The JOJ leS8 w niter <lay, 
 
 l.i i others fear, to nie more dear 
 Than all the pride of May. 
 
 And in a roaring storm on the wilds of Kennmre it was that 
 Burns composed his famous battle-song. 
 
 So with regard to the varied forms of nature, animate and 
 inanimate, we venture to affirm that very few poets have, in 
 their works, made such numerous, and at the same time such 
 accurate references. To the other titles, then, of Kobert Burns 
 we can fairly add that of a "Poet of Natural History." 
 
 In conclusion, we may be permitted to pay this personal 
 tribute, that although we have read Burns for so lengthened a 
 period that we cannot remember a time when his pages were 
 unfamiliar to us, ; T et cur wonder over so stupendous a phenomenon 
 does but increase with the growing years. For here, for the first 
 time in literary history, was a poet of the first order who, writing 
 mainly in a rustic dialect, and without help of the customary 
 accessories and paraphernalia, without help of any but the smallest
 
 34 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 part of the vast machinery drawn from the Greek, Roman, and 
 other mythologies, conld fling himself naked,, as it were, upon 
 the brown bosom of Nature herself — could thence draw new 
 milk of life, and pour out his entranced soul in deathless song — 
 could prove to us that the title "man," rightly taken, is higher 
 than that of "king,'' and that woman is worthy of being sung 
 in songs so ravishingly sweet that the world is constrained to 
 listen to them for ever ! 
 
 THREE TRIBUTARY SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 Three British Bards, high on the roll of Fame, 
 
 Belong to Scotland : Scott, Buchanan, Burns ; 
 And if you ask which is the greatest name, 
 
 The glorious Triad will be claimed in turns. 
 Some the great George will choose, the stately bard 
 
 Who set the Psalter to the Roman tongue — 
 Tutor of kings, who taught with scant reward, 
 
 But with whose fame all Europe echoed long. 
 Scott is the hero of a numerous band — 
 
 The Avizard Scott, who wrote with wondrous power;. 
 Peopling with Fancy's children the wide land ; 
 
 And these are great ; but both must yield, in turns,. 
 The supreme place to him of heavenly dower, 
 
 The untaught ploughman-poet, Robert Bums. 
 
 II. 
 
 The ancient fame of Scotland had grown dim 
 
 Before the coming of her glorious Barns ; 
 But since the world has grown so full of him, 
 
 To Scotland's self her former fame returns : 
 A land of learning, filled with men of brede — 
 
 E'en in the dawn of letters she stood high ; 
 And lights were burning — " northern lights," indeed, 
 
 More lasting than the aurora in her aky.
 
 CONSIDERED AS A NATURALIST. 
 
 Yc;i, in the dark, and in ;i cloudy clime, 
 The torch of learning burnt with lustre bright, 
 
 Borne by heroic men, whose souls sublime 
 Sustained them in the darkness of the night ; 
 
 Bui all her lettered glories of the past 
 
 Are by the unlettered ploughman's far surpast ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Sweet sang that Horace, in the olden days, 
 
 When the " great world " and Rome were all the same j 
 But though he sang so loud in Caesar's praise, 
 
 His than great Caesar's shines a brighter name. 
 And many a lyrist since, and some before, 
 
 Have sweeter sung, and in a higher key ; 
 But one alone hath rent the very core 
 
 Of man's red heart, and Scotland's Burns is he ! 
 Goethe serene, Heine so musical 
 
 And sadly sweet, must both give place, in turns, 
 To him who, with the music of the niLihtineale, 
 
 Can voice the feeling of a heart that yearns ; 
 
 And Love and Pity, hence, with old and young, 
 Must speak the accents of the Scottish tongue I
 
 36 MOSS GATHEREES. 
 
 MOSS GATHERERS : 
 A LAN CAS HIKE SPECIMEN.* 
 
 2^\ US Y with her giant industries, her wide commerce, and vast 
 <?<* enterprises in so many fields, Lancashire is apt to forget 
 that she is famous for something besides, viz., her Artisan Botanists. 
 And the reason why these men, partially educated, and in- 
 differently equipped in many ways, have given to Lancashire a 
 reputation even beyond the three kingdoms is, that in the 
 economy of scientific labour the function of seeking and finding 
 new species is a no less essential one than the function of 
 dissecting, of classifying, and of describing them. 
 
 Of these working-men botanists — and they were long since 
 numbered by hundreds — perhaps the most distinguished (up to 
 the time of his lamented death, at least) was John No well, who, 
 besides, was a man of so sweet and gentle a disposition that none 
 could lock upon without loving him. 
 
 Nowell was born at Todmorden, which place, as there are 
 thousands of people scattered about the world who have never seen 
 and probably never will see it, but who have heard a great deal 
 about some of its people, we will here attempt to describe. 
 Todmorden, then, is neither a Lancashire nor a Yorkshire town ; 
 and yet it is both, being situated partly in the one county and 
 partly in the other, and watered by the River Calder. It lies, as 
 the historian of Whalley would say, in the very gorge of the 
 English Apennines. It is, in fact, situated on the left flank of 
 that great Pennine chain of hills so interesting to the British 
 geologist. It is a place at once picturesque and unsightly, a 
 
 * A Paper read before the Manchester Literary Club in the year J882.
 
 .! LANCASHIRE SPECIMEN. 37 
 
 combination of romance and vulgarity, a poem with prose inter- 
 lineations. The town is of the dullest, the prosiest of the prosy 
 — a cottony town, the neighbourhood pure poetry ! In the town 
 itself, if the time be summer, amid clash and clatter of looms, 
 whirr of wheels, and whizz of spindless, you are stunned and 
 deafened ; amid its warps and wefts, and china clays, you are 
 stifled, blinded : walk but a few paces, and you find yourself on 
 the first steps of a ladder of green hills conducting, as it 
 should seem, to the clouds. Mounting this ladder, you pass, in 
 places, thigh-deep through fragrant ferns, under waving green- 
 woods, and by plashing waterfalls. Beaching, at length, the 
 lofty and it may be still verdant summit, your cheeks are fanned 
 by the freshest breezes, while above you the weird clouds career 
 in their own wild fashion, and you look down on what has 
 often been described as " one of the most picturesque valleys in 
 the north of England,'' and around upon moors (purple, in their 
 season, with the blooming heather) stretching further, and 
 still further, till lost in the misty horizon. It is a place 
 where the lungs can dilate, the mind expand, the spirit soar ! 
 But besides its attractions to seekers of health, and to lovers of 
 the beautiful and the picturesque, and its interest to the geologist, 
 Todmorden, with its innumerable doughs and mountain-gorges, 
 and thousand dripping, cool recesses, offers the richest booty to 
 the plant-hunter, and to the gatherer of ferns and mosses above 
 all. Moreover, situated as it is on the borders of the two great 
 counties before mentioned, it is a place of peculiar and special 
 interest to the student of dialects ; and were our Waughs and 
 Brierleys a nomadic people, and well-advised, the}' would at once 
 strike their present tents, and make a journey due north, to find 
 "fresh woods and pastures new " in the Todmorden neighbour- 
 hood. These vast ranges of hills, too, constituting the Lanca- 
 shire and Yorkshire border-country, are a rich mine of mother- 
 wit, in the main caustic to a degree, and pitiless, smacking of the 
 hills themselves, and of the rude storms that in winter howl 
 around them. Even in the names given to places there is a dry 
 humour discoverable that is highly noteworthy, such as " Back-o'-
 
 38 MOSS GATHERERS : 
 
 behund," for an out-of-the-way district, and " Xo-dale" for a very 
 hilly quarter ! Sheltering in the far recesses of this mountain- 
 ous region, remote from centres of population and of culture, 
 and gradually reclaiming a stubborn soil from the limits of the 
 marshy valleys upwards to the highest points available for cultiva- 
 tion, these tenacious and sturdy Saxon settlers of the past, with 
 slight Celtic and Scandinavian admixture, have, until now, pretty 
 well held their own, and remained what they were in manners, 
 and in language even to the accent. So much is this the case 
 that hearing the patois on some of these hill-sides, you would 
 think, for the nonce, you were listening to a German-born. And 
 unhappy the man who shall lay himself open to the incisive 
 mother-wit of the wide-awake men of " the tops," as almost 
 every one, in these parts, more suo, calls the hills. At the 
 commencement of this century, and in a modified degree now, 
 a sturdy independence, and a distinct individuality, " each hero 
 following his peculiar bent," were the marked characteristics of 
 these hill-people, each of whom, by the way, failed not to rejoice 
 in some strange nickname ; and no one took greater delight in 
 recalling and describing their odd ways and uncouth manners 
 than the subject of this sketch, in whose memory there hung a 
 whole portrait gallery of " local characters" worthy of the pen 
 of Scott. The Scandinavian admixture would seem to have 
 added daring, the Celtic acuteness of mind, and a keener wit, 
 towards the composition of a character in the main Saxon. 
 How, as regards language, the three elements, Celtic, Saxon, and 
 Scandinavian, have contended for a while, and gradually blended, 
 is shown not only in the patois, but in the names of places 
 throughout the neighbourhood — a study in itself full of interest, 
 but one which we shall leave untouched for the present. 
 
 Here, then, at Todmorden, on one of these wild hills, and 
 amid the surroundings just described, to which he offered, in 
 some respects, so strong a contrast, John Nowell was horn, 
 beginning life almost with the century ; here he lived for some, 
 thing short of the allotted span, viz., sixty-five years ; and here 
 he died, more widely lamented than any other inhabitant of his
 
 A LANCASHIRE SPECIMEN. 39 
 
 native valley, which, with its neighbouring valleys, has produced, 
 or has been the abode of, not a few who have become famous in 
 the world of literature — witness Dr. Whitaker, the learned 
 historian, Dr. Fawcett, who wrote upon "Anger," John Foster, 
 the distinguished essayist, and others. 
 
 Born on a hare hill-side, and in abject poverty, Nowell became 
 early inured to toil, and his schooling was of the scantiest, never 
 reaching beyond the three R's. While yet a mere boy, he was 
 put to hand-loom weaving, whereby, at that time, a full-grown 
 man, working while the sun shone in summer, might earn perhaps 
 eightpence or tenpence a day. A little later, when the mule and 
 the power-loom came into use, Nowell (who, as is the custom, had 
 married young) was employed by Messrs. Fielden Brothers, of 
 Todmorden, at their extensive works, as a twister-in ; and with 
 them, labouring in this very humble capacity, he remained thence- 
 forth and to within a few days of his death. For twenty 
 laborious years, in all weathers, he daily made a journey of 
 several miles from his little hill-side cottage on the rocky heights 
 of Stansfield to Messrs. Fielden's works at Waterside, his family 
 all the while steadily increasing, and making the problem "how 
 to live " more difficult. 
 
 An intimate friend of Nowell's was the late president of the 
 Todmorden Botanical Society, whose character ottered to his own 
 many points of resemblance, and some of contrast ; but both were 
 ardent' lovers of Nature, and had the same strong bent towards 
 the study of Botany. Nowell and his friend had been together 
 from the first — from the period of earliest boyhood : 
 
 They bwa had run about the braes, 
 An' pu'd the gowans tine. 
 
 And they afterwards rambled and botanized together over no 
 inconsiderable portion of England, Wales, and Ireland, but chiefly 
 
 over this and the sister count)' of York, the one paying special 
 attention to the mosses, the other to the ferns, and both adding 
 largely to our knowledge of the native species, and their 
 variations under (littering conditions of growth and situation. 
 While still youths the two had, by combined effort that is, by
 
 40 MO>S GATHERERS: 
 
 putting together their " sair-won penny fees " — contrived to pur- 
 chase a copy of Culpepper's Herbal, and subsequently an Intro : 
 duction to Botany, by one Priscilla Wakefield, at which rather 
 slender fountain not a few of our self-made botanists, thirsting for 
 botanical lore, appear to have drunk betimes. These two books 
 formed the earliest botanical library of our two ardent youths ; 
 and by their aid, and always rambling together, they gradually 
 acquainted themselves with the wild plants of the neighbourhood, 
 extending their explorations as the years went on. 
 
 Nowell's fame as a cryptogamic botanist rapidly spread, and 
 in the course of a few years he came to have direct intercourse 
 with quite a number of working-men and other botanists as 
 devoted to the study of the lower cryptogams as himself ; while 
 at the same time he engaged in a correspondence with distant 
 botanists which continued every year to increase, his correspon- 
 dents being men in every station and condition of life, from the 
 peer to the peasant, though the major part doubtless were people 
 seeking botanical favours. And at no time did the good man 
 appear so truly happy as when labouring for others : 
 Sic vos, non vobis, mellificatis apes. 
 
 Nowell's knowledge of British mosses, the department he made 
 more especially his study, was as accurate as it was extensive. 
 'Unlike many self-made botanists, too, he was always most care- 
 ful about the correct orthography of the Latin name of any plant 
 unfamiliar to him : and although this will be regarded by many 
 as a trifling circumstance, we hold that it is important, as showing 
 the fine moral fibre of the man, and his delicate conscientiousness 
 and scrupulosity. The self-educated man who is conscientious 
 about his spelling is generally found to be conscientious in other 
 and higher matters. With regard to the above trait in Nowell's 
 character, we have heard one familial- with him from his cradle 
 aver that he was never once known to tell a falsehood, or to be 
 out of temper. In a time of sophistication, it is pleasant to 
 think of a man like this, who to the character of savan and 
 .student of Nature added excellencies so rare. Quietly and 
 steadily working, through fifty years of sunshine and cloud —
 
 .1 LANCASHIRE SPECIMEN. 11 
 
 ever, ever working .it the mosses, &c, if fame reached Nowell at 
 all it came wholly unsought, not to say un courted : 
 
 He lived not with ambitious aim : 
 
 But hath not died wit limit his fame. 
 
 Enough for this gentle, quiet man the pleasure of seeking and 
 finding those tiny hits of vegetation to whose investigation he 
 devoted a long, laborious, and beautiful life. Here, in the 
 pleasure of seeking, was reward enough for him ; let others bruit 
 and noise abroad his diseoveries as they might. 
 
 Among these was the important addition, in 1S40, to the 
 Yorkshire flora of the rare and beautiful shining cavern moss 
 (Schistostcga pemiata),* one of the most interesting mosses native 
 to this country. In the same year, Nowell rendered valuable 
 assistance to the late Mr. Henry Baines, of York (a botanist of 
 the old school, and well known to the writer), in the compilation 
 of his then much-looked-tor Flora of Yorkshire, in the introduc- 
 tion to which work Baines acknowledges the great services 
 rendered him by Nowell, whom he describes as "a most accurate 
 and indefatigable cryptogamic botanist.'' And when, in 1854 (in 
 conjunction with Mr. J. G. Baker, of Thirsk, now of the Royal 
 Gardens, Kew), Baines republished his Yorkshire Flora, Nowell 
 edited one portion of the work— "The Mosses of the County." 
 
 With the late Richard Buxton, of Manchester, himself one of 
 the most remarkable of Lancashire working-men botanists, and a 
 man of the mildest and most retiring manners, Nowell was long- 
 intimate ; the two were in every respect kindred spirits ; and in 
 the preface to the first edition of his Botanical Guide to the 
 Flowering Plant*, &c, of Manchester (1849), Buxton speaks of 
 Nowell as being, so far as he knew, " the first among working 
 men as a muscologist." Indeed, this opinion was held on all 
 hands, and not seldom given expression to, even in high quarters ; 
 and if praise, it pmierea nihil, could make the mare to go, Nowell 
 would not have had to travel very long upon his feet. And if 
 praise (sometimes indiscriminate enough) could have taken him 
 
 * Schistostega otmundacta of authors.
 
 42 MOSS (iATHERERS: 
 
 •off his feet, in another sense, that also would have been clone. 
 But by this man, noble by nature, and not to be spoilt : — 
 
 Honour, that with such an alluring sound 
 Proud mortals charms, and does appear so fair, 
 An echo, dream, — shade of a dream, — was found 
 Disperst abroad by every breath of air. 
 
 The marvel of all Avas that, working as he did in these very 
 
 minute investigations with only a small, common magnifying- 
 
 glass, he should contrive to be so accurate ; for it was long, 
 
 indeed, before he could indulge in the expensive luxury of a 
 
 microscope. No doubt, if the praise of which he was on every 
 
 side the subject had taken the form of a bill to be cashed at a 
 
 date fixed, he might soon have equipped himself to the fullest 
 
 extent— But Dis aliter visum est ! 
 
 His fame for accuracy, in the investigation of British mosses, 
 &c, spread, nevertheless, and very soon reached Sir William 
 Hooker, at Kew, than Avhom none more eminent in botany ever 
 directed those royal gardens of world-wide fame. To say that 
 Nowell's claims to notice came before Sir W. Hooker is to say 
 that a position was offered the rising botanist at botanical head- 
 quarters ; this, in fact, was the case. But the shy, retiring man 
 chose to remain in poverty, in his own little Lancashire nook, 
 where, as toil remitted, he could botanize in freedom his native 
 hills. And perhaps the good man was wise, since by this choice 
 he escaped the thousand petty envyings and jealousies by which 
 real talent is almost always pursued, however innocent and un- 
 assuming, and apparent!}/ calculated to disarm such jealousies, 
 the subject may be. Among Nowell's more distinguished foreign 
 .correspondents may be mentioned the late Professor Schimper, 
 of Strasburg (author, in conjunction with Bruch and Gumbel, of 
 that magnificent work the Bryologia Europcea). And when, some 
 thirty years ago, this famous moss-gatherer paid a visit to these 
 islands, Nowell had the honour of showing the great professor 
 over several of his old hunting-grounds in the north country. 
 Srhimper subsequently passed into Scotland. 
 
 Nowell himself, ardent botanist as he was, and familiar as he 
 was with the British flora, never once set foot " ayont the Tweed f
 
 A LANCASHIRE SPECIMEN. 13 
 
 although (aa a devout Mohammedan yearns after Mecca) he was 
 always cherishing the hope of sometime visiting the Perthshire 
 islands, botanically so renowned. Hut ere that hope could lie 
 realised he was called away, to botanize — we know not where ; 
 but surely someiohere ! lie died, after several weeks' severe 
 suffering, of heart disease, in the autumn of L 867, at Todmorden, 
 and was buried in the shadow of a little church (Cross stone) 
 which is perched on those rocky Stansfield heights so familiar to 
 his feet, overlooking the Todmorden valley, and which serves as 
 a landmark for miles around. Nor did any Itetter human mould 
 ever mingle with its parent mould in that little hill-side church- 
 yard. And in the "old" church-yard, in the valley of 
 Todmorden, stands a monument to him (a handsome; granite 
 obelisk) erected shortly after his death by a wide circle of his 
 admirers. And thousands of busy feet pass daily by that church- 
 yard wall where his for forty years had passed before, in the 
 dreary and seldom remitting toil of a cotton operative's life. 
 
 Novell's passion for moss-hunting was strong to the end. We 
 spent with him his last night on earth, and all through that 
 night, to the last moment, and to the last breath, his talk, in his 
 delirium, was of mosses. And his knowledge in this peculiar 
 branch of botanical science was undoubtedly vast; and if, in 
 combination with it, he had possessed the ready faculty which 
 some have of applying and spreading their knowledge, the mark 
 he would have left would, we believe, have been both broad and 
 deep. As it is, he has not died without a name— an honourable 
 name— in the botanical literature of this country. As already 
 stated, he is the author, in conjunction with the late Henry 
 Baines, of York, and the distinguished J. G. Baker, of Kew, of a 
 Flora of Yorkshire, published in 1854. To many other Floras, 
 and to many botanical journals, he contributed much valuable 
 matter, thus earning the gratitude not of one or two only, but of 
 the world :it large; for we take it that whoever contributes to the 
 world's stock of permanent knowledge is, in so far, its general 
 benefactor. Finally, up to the time of his last illness, he had 
 been engaged, in conjunction with his oldest friend before referred
 
 44 MOSS GATHERERS : 
 
 to, upon a flora of his native district, the MS. of which remains 
 in the hands of the present writer. 
 
 But Nowell will live in the world of science by another and 
 stronger title, for the celebrated Mitten (author of several works 
 on the mosses and lower cryptogams) has deemed him worthy of 
 the very highest honour, by giving his name to a lovely genus of 
 liverwort (Noivellia curvifolia), of which examples were found in 
 North Britain, in 1876, by Dr. Carrington, himself one of the 
 most distinguished of Lancashire moss-gatherers. Professor 
 Schimper, also, before his lamented death, some years ago, named 
 after Nowell a very beautiful species of moss ( Zygodon Nowellii). 
 Whilst Moore, the eminent pteridologist, has connected the name 
 of "Nowell" with the higher cryptogams by giving it to a very 
 curious and distinct form of the fragrant mountain fern (Lastrwa 
 montana Nowelliana), found by our friend in North Wales. So- 
 long, therefore, as any one of these plants retains its present 
 characteristics, Nowell's name, in the world of science, is destined 
 to remain as green and fresh as his OAvn loved mosses. 
 
 As an illustration of the zest with which Nowell searched for 
 his tiny favourites, it may be mentioned that in one of his latest 
 excursions — we believe his very latest — to North Wales, whilst 
 botanizing on the banks of a river of some depth, he had the 
 ill-luck to fall souse overhead into the water, whence emerging, 
 drenched to the skin, he immediately stripped himself, spread 
 out his clothes to the sun, and walked on, in puris naturalibus ! 
 '•What to [do?" will be asked. To botanize, of course ; and 
 walking thus, in the garment of our first parent, Nowell made 
 the only real " find " yielded by that journey. His devotion to 
 the science reminds one of the renowned Mellor, of Koyton, the 
 so-called father of Lancashire working-men botanists ; and of the 
 still more renowned Don, the Scotch botanist, who added the 
 rare Ranunculus alpestris to the British flora. Mellor's enthusiasm 
 for plants, especially mountain plants, knew no bounds, and in 
 searching after his alpine darlings, in the course of his long life 
 of eighty-two years, he must have tramped over the hills and 
 dales of England and Scotland more than any other Lancashire
 
 I LANCASHIRE SPECIMEN. i"> 
 
 mean of his time. < >l I > t • r * it is related that "such was his en- 
 thusiastic love of alpine plants thai he spent whole months at a 
 time collecting them among the gloomy solitudes of the Gram- 
 pians, his only food a little meal, or a bit of crust moistened in 
 the mountain burn." 
 
 Of the excellent and estimable Lancashire working-men 
 botanists contemporary with Nowell, in addition to those already 
 mentioned, and who botanize no longer (under mundane con- 
 ditions, though we would fain hope they still gather Mowers in 
 fields elysian !) were the two Hobsons, Edward and William, 
 Horsfield the elder, Percival the elder, ( Jrowther, Crozier, Tinker, 
 Martin, Bentley, Shaw, and others ; though these were often 
 engaged in the same field of research widely apart, and, for a 
 time, totally unknown to each other. What the late Edward 
 Hobson did for British botany the large herbarium he left behind 
 him, and which is now accessible to the public of Manchester, 
 sufficiently shows. As regards his cousin William, who in his 
 latter years was personally known to the writer, he emigrated 
 rather early to America ; but his botanical enthusiasm suffered 
 thereby no diminution, and in addition to personal intercourse, 
 we had much interesting correspondence with him in regard to 
 several rare species of North American ferns. Besides his 
 extreme fondness for botany, William was an ardent ento- 
 mologist, and when anything like a butterfly, or even a moth, 
 was on the wing, flew into ecstasies, more suo. He died, at a 
 ripe age ; at Philadelphia, some twenty years ago.* 
 
 How delightful it would be to continue to discourse of these 
 old botanists — men of a type that is fast disappearing, that must 
 disappear, and that cannot ever, in the altered condition of men 
 and things, reappear. What a pleasant gallery of portraits they 
 would make ! What striking similarities and what striking 
 contrasts ! Jolly Jethro Tinker in this chair ; shy, retiring 
 Buxton in that ! But our present concern is with one of them 
 only — -John Nowell — who, without the demonstrative hilarity 
 
 1 The present -ketch of Xowcll was written in 1881.
 
 46 MOSS GATHERERS: 
 
 and ebulliency of men of the Tinker type, bad all their genial, 
 cordial nature, and without the extreme sensitiveness of the 
 gentle Buxton, had all his natural delicacy and modesty. 
 
 He was retired as noontide dew, 
 Or fountain in a noonday grove. 
 
 His very memory brings healing, and faith, and hope. For as it 
 required, according to the old story, ten just men to save from 
 destruction the doomed Cities of the Plain, so it requires some- 
 times, amid the din and strife of the world, the memory at least 
 of ten just and upright men to save one's sinking faith in humanity, 
 and, with us, Nowell is one of the ten ! 
 
 " His extensive and accurate knowledge," writes Buxton (in 
 1849), referring to Nowell, "joined to an excellent disposition, 
 has always made his company a source of pleasure to me." A 
 source of pleasure to anyone was Nowell's " company," as all thus 
 privileged will testify. To the writer of this sketch, who enjoyed 
 that privilege for thirty years, he always appeared (we say it 
 without the least exaggeration) as if encircled by a radiant halo 
 of goodness — there seemed perpetually to exhale from the man 
 an atmosphere of love and of peace. His mere presence was 
 soothing and serlative ; one breathed about him the very spirit of 
 tranquillity — a gracious influence, potent to exorcise evil genii ! 
 Coming into the mild presence of Nowell, the wrathful man for- 
 got his wrath, and took up the olive branch of peace ; the 
 rancorous man forgot his rancour, and passed out rilled with 
 kindliness and goodwill to men. Nor was Pope's noble line ever 
 more truly illustrated than in this case. 
 
 An honest man's the noblest work of God. 
 
 And although Nowell has done much, as regards scientific 
 work, in that branch of natural history which he made his 
 speciality— although in his character of student of nature he has 
 shown us what can be done by faithfully following the sublime 
 Goethean maxim, Ohne Hast, ohne Bast, yet he has done still more 
 in offering the example of a life, certainly not short, of the most 
 singular modesty, of the most losing honesty, of the most
 
 .1 LANCASHIRE SPECIMEN". IT 
 
 uncompromising veracity — ;i life, in fact, of its kind all but 
 unique. 
 
 It is often charged against onr "self-made botanists," that, 
 
 generally speaking, they are botanists only— that, unless it be a 
 plant, they are indifferent to almost everything. This has been 
 charged against Nowell ; but we happen to know that he was 
 indifferent to nothing, and that, so far from having read very 
 little out of his particular walk of science, he had read — and not 
 only read but thought — a great deal, though always in his own 
 quiet, inobtrusive way. Careless people very often mistake fuss 
 for force — the absence of fuss for emptiness. In these hurrying 
 days (and some hurry is doubtless inevitable) it is thought if there 
 is but little in the "shop window" there is next to nothing in the 
 shop. Nowell was of all men the least fussy, the least showy ; 
 he had always a full shop, but had next to nothing in the window ; 
 so the hasty judged, as they judge always, hastily, and in this 
 case quite erroneously. 
 
 ^pr
 
 48 OX SOME CHARACTERISTICS OE THE TIME. 
 
 ON SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE 
 
 TIME. 
 
 AN ESSAY WRITTEN IN THE STYLE OF CHARLES 
 LAMB— WITH A DIFFERENCE ! 
 
 JUG of cold water, Jennie, fresh drawn.— Thanks." 
 Nunc poculum alterum imple! Reader, we wish to 
 thee and thine health and long life in a moderate potation, 
 believing in. limited draughts even of that beverage which old 
 Pindar tells us is the best. We drink cold water, but— 
 moderately — est modus in rebus — but we drink it, which is more 
 than can be said of some of our acquaintance, to whom a glass 
 of cold water, pure and undiluted, would infallibly give the 
 nausea. We drink it, reader, and with something'of the original 
 relish of far-off days, when, at the mossy fountain, the innocent 
 draught purling over the parched tongue would fall cool and 
 grateful upon our youthful palate. Yea, something of that first 
 smack and virgin gusto (even in this our twelfth lustrum !) still 
 remains to us, for which, as for all other mercies, heaven be 
 praised. 
 
 Lamb — the frolic and the gentle Charles — who desired to be 
 taken for no " washy fellow," was nevertheless wont to say that 
 the man who had permanently lost his relish] for the pure 
 element was in no very healthy condition, in which opinion we 
 concur. 
 
 And — O gentle and docile reader, if we mud be didactic — as is 
 the physical so is the mental palate. Just as the former, under 
 healthy conditions, retains its relish for the natural, simple, and 
 elementary means of refreshment, so one's intellectual palate, 
 under conditions similarly healthy, requires oidy the truthful 
 and actual in nature and life, in contrast to those others that 
 constantly crave for the sensational and high-seasoned. In order
 
 ON SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIME. 49 
 
 to be pleasantly and agreeably excited, the healthy mind do< 
 not require to be strongly and grossly .stimulated ; and we hold 
 that the prevalent craving for delirious excitement, and for 
 strong-flavoured and high-seasoned literature, is as much to he 
 deplored as the craving for strong physical stimulants. Ind< ed, 
 we live in a time of high-seasoning all round; our foods and 
 drinks are high seasoned, whereby our palates are depraved and 
 our whole physical organisation damaged ; and our literary 
 palates, by similarly high flavoured literature, are becoming 
 equally depraved, whilst the digestive and assimilative processes 
 are seriously deranged. An author, nowadays, in order to be 
 popular, cannot be truthful ; he must needs dash in the condi 
 raents, and deal in hyperbole to all limits. Where there is not 
 absolute untruth there must be exaggeration; the truthful and 
 natural are at a discount, and when they are both totally absent 
 the writer is often described as readable and racy. 
 
 Mill palates grown callous, almost, to disease, 
 Who peppers the highest is surest to please ! 
 
 To some of us the comic papers of to-day, with their laboured 
 jokes, forced witticisms, and premeditated impromptus, seem 
 very dreary reading indeed. The humorous Elia — Charles Lamb 
 aforesaid — tells us that while he was free to crack his jokes at 
 leisure, and as occasion called, they were of the most brilliant 
 character, and never failed to "bring down the house," but that 
 when he undertook, by distinct engagement, to supply so many 
 jokes per week to a certain periodical, the manufactured article 
 somehow missed fire, and he found his joke-contract beyond a 
 joke. And it is just this stamp of "manufacture" apparent in the 
 so-called comic writing daily turned out in such enormous 
 quantities from our literary factories that gives the dreariness 
 aforesaid. Hut did not the hired author find his readers his pen 
 would stop ; clearly the drivel is in demand, the depraved palates 
 nv pandered to, and truth is scattered to the winds. 
 
 Again, the present popular taste runs all in the direction of the 
 iioisy pleasures. Nobody, now, seems to enjoy himself, or herself^ 
 unless there is an immense racket and tumult ; the rage for
 
 50 OX SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIME. 
 
 racket is universal, like the rage for athletics ; and truly between 
 the two the world in which we live is pretty much of a pande- 
 monium : noisy pleasures within, violent athletics without, and 
 quiet nowhere, such is the order of the day — and of the night 
 also, for the home-readings aloud, and the conversations at 
 friendly parties, with the mutual exchange of ideas, are now 
 alas, things of the past : 
 
 Oh, this world is a truly crazy land ; 
 A worrying, hurrying, mazy land ; 
 
 We cannot stay ; 
 
 We must all away. — 
 
 The fine saying of one of our poets that " the serious may be 
 happier than the gay " has startled many ; yet only reflection is 
 needed to see that it is one of those profound utterances that de- 
 clare the true votes. The serious not only may be, but often are 
 happier than the gay ; and perhaps, on the whole, the serious 
 life is the one most to be desired. It is certainly the truest, for 
 the rushing life of to-day is, in strictness, no life at all, but a 
 mere fevered and tumultuous existence. " Life," Maine de 
 Biran says, "is to think; living is thinking." Your ordinary 
 man, healthy and unreflecting, is really not conscious of the pro- 
 cesses of life, and in order to rouse him to this consciousness 
 either ill-health or some shock of fate — some startling and over- 
 whelming crisis — must happen to him. We sail down the stream 
 of time in common, but only one in ten thousand notices that the 
 banks on either hand recede. 
 
 The true and real life be assured, reader, is the reflective, and 
 perhaps the happiest. For instance, "Wordsworth, the author of 
 the pregnant phrase we have taken for our text, led perhaps the 
 happiest life of modern days ; and this notwithstanding that in 
 the whole of his too voluminous works you shall find scarce a 
 gleam of humour. Here was a serious life, indeed ! Sustained 
 as regards his inner life, and lifted high above the blind and 
 battling multitude, by his own serene philosophy, and above the 
 storms of criticism by a full consciousness of his own great 
 powers, he was sustained in his outer life by a series of miracles, 
 being literally "fed by the ravens." For when his fortunes were
 
 ON SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIME. :,\ 
 
 «*itel)l>, what was it buta "raven," in the person of Etaisle} Calvert, 
 that, flying down from the sky, dropped into the poet's pocket 
 
 just the sum he wanted- -that noble Culvert who was moved by 
 so wonderful a prescience of Wordsworth's latent powers ! Then 
 followed the miraculous restitution by Lord Lonsdale ; and there- 
 after, just as the poet's necessities required it, one stamp-dis- 
 tributorship after another. In fact, if Wordsworth was ever in 
 need, as his tormentor, J)e Quincey, facetiously puts it, BOmebody 
 who held a fat sinecure was sure to receive notice from the 
 Higher Powers either at once to fall sick unto death or to resign 
 his post in favour of the poet! Thus miraculously provided for 
 from without, and from within by his own high thinking, 
 the great advocate of the quiet pleasures and the mild athletics 
 (for Wordsworth himself was an athlete) must have led at once 
 the most serious and the happiest of lives. But, alas, it is not 
 reserved to many men, even of large powers, to be thus fed by 
 the birds of heaven ! 
 
 That the serious may be happier than the gay is a sentiment 
 that the people to whom we have referred will hardly realise. 
 To them a tranquil pleasure appears to be no pleasure at all, and 
 to walk in quiet ways is impossible. Yet to lead back into these 
 quiet ways, and to the enjoyment of the tranquil pleasures, a 
 sensation-hunting, excitement-craving, whirling, rushing world 
 were a ta>k worthy of the ablest pen. 
 
 We have spoken of the rage for athletics—by some described 
 
 as a "craze." Hut let not the reader suppose that we would 
 
 declaim against, or decry athletics, perse. On the contrary, 
 
 being essential to health, we hold them to be among the prime 
 
 necessities and altogether indispensable ; nor has the fair goddess 
 
 Hygeia a more devout worshipper than we. I In t that athletics 
 
 are the all in all, the alpha and omega, the Hist ami last, the 
 
 beginning, middle, and end of this our life below the moon, we do 
 
 not think ; and that they shoidd occupy, as they do at present, 
 
 the thoughts of young and old to the total exclusion of every 
 
 other subject — that they should lill half our newspaper-, a ml half 
 
 our book-, and be the one all-absorbing and universal topic of 
 
 d2
 
 52 OX SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIME. 
 
 conversation, and theme of gossip, in cottage and hall, in kitchen 
 and parlour, in street and mart, in the hotel, on 'Change, at 
 church, and everywhere else, is absurd. C'en est trop ! And we 
 say further, that to see our most ancient, grey-headed grand- 
 mother (for it has really come to this\ mounting astride her bike, 
 amid a jeering multitude, and flying through the astonished land 
 like a winged dragon, is a spectacle to move the laughter of the 
 the gods. That athletics should " hold the field " is indeed 
 fitting and right, but not the whole field. Est modus in rebus. 
 
 The bike is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Biking and triking, we lose all our powers. 
 
 That is to say, our powers of natural locomotion, and acquire, 
 on the other hand, very often, distorted limbs and curved backs. 
 And no wonder, for your "scorcher" at full speed resembles 
 nothing in this world so much as a monkey up a stick ! 
 
 Is it not Lucretius who tells us that the noblest distinction 
 between man and the lower animals is that the latter look 
 downwards towards the earth, while the former holds his head 
 " erect to heaven T So we note that the " scorcher's" gaze is not 
 skyward, but, like that of the inferior animals, decidedly down- 
 wards ; his eyes are fixed upon the ground, and for a good reason. 
 Then why should we feel surprise that among cyclomaniacs per- 
 manent curvature of the spine should be on the increase. Could 
 it, indeed, be otherwise, when so many of our youths with half- 
 developed physique are among the most determined " scorchers 1" 
 
 These are some aspects of the universal cyclomania from the 
 subjective side ; but what of the objective 1 Leader, did we 
 tell thee the perils that we and certain of our non-cycling 
 friends have passed through, the narrow escapes of which we and 
 they have been the subjects at the hands of cyclomaniacs, 
 "scorchers," "record-breakers," and limb-breakers, 'twould read 
 like a romance of horror. Enough that we survive — and 'tis 
 much that we survive — to tell, on some later day, the tale of the 
 dangers we have passed, and the ninety-and-nine deaths we have 
 escaped by the breadth of a hair. Note here only one week's 
 unvarnished record from an authentic diary : —
 
 ON SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIME 53 
 
 Monday — Close-pressed, to-day, by ;i young lady cyclist, while 
 
 in town. 
 Wednesday In crossing the street, grazed on the left leg by a 
 
 fast young man, driving along, nes. an vent, on a large 
 
 bike. 
 Thursday — Ridden down by a damsel of doubtful age, whilst 
 
 walking home. 
 Saturday — -Narrow escape, to-night, from a " scorcher" without 
 
 lamp or bell, but who did not stop to apologise though 
 
 finable. 
 Mind thee, reader, this is but one week's unvarnished record. 
 Remember that there are fifty two weeks in a year, and then 
 wonder, if wonder thou canst, at this bitter cry and prayer against 
 riolent athletics: Of course, to be "close pressed," or even 
 " ridden down," by a lady may sound very pleasant, but, although 
 not wanting in devotion to the sex, and even prepared to shed a 
 considerable amount of blood — of other people's —in their sweet 
 behalf, we found the actual experience decidedly unpleasant. 
 
 " Blind, perhaps ]" interjects one reader. " Deaf, probably ?" 
 queries a second. •' Lame, I conclude,'' observes a third, whose 
 "conclusion" is lame and impotent indeed. No, gentlemen; 
 we are neither blind, deaf, lame, nor halt, thank you ; nor, as to 
 the crown of the head, are we in the unfortunate condition — a 
 condition shared by many of our modern athletes -of the great 
 Ca-sar, who is said to have esteemed the privilege of wearing the 
 laurel crown voted him by the Roman senate more highly than 
 any other reward accorded him for his world-wide victories. 
 And why ! because the leaves of the laurel effectually hid the 
 shining pate of the western conqueror from a people accustomed 
 to scoff at balddieaded gentlemen of any age. Furthermore, if to 
 be able, in your twelfth lustrum, to travel on foot, over the 
 roughest ground and in the roughest weather, at the rate of 
 thirty miles a day — if to be able, even when winds blow chill, to 
 laugh at the idea of flannels and drawers, and linings to outer 
 garments — if this be to be athletic, then are we, also, who pen 
 these lines, to be enrolled in the "noble army" of British
 
 54 OX SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIM I:. 
 
 athletes, and the voice that is here lifted against violent athletics 
 is "A Voice from Within." 
 
 But with all the e advantages, on the one hand, we are con- 
 strained to confess, on the other, to our deep chagrin and 
 humiliation, that we belong not to the flourishing and fat kine but 
 to the lean and ill-favoured ; and it may be that it was for this 
 reason that on a very black " Thursday " we were ridden down 
 by the brazen amazon aforesaid, in whose icy bosom, certainly, 
 there stirred no pity or relenting ruth whatever ! 
 
 Mistake us not, ye cycling fair, nor deem that we condemn 
 cycling in young ladies ; or even in ladies of the age that we 
 would softly whisper in the softest Italian : nel mezzo del cammin 
 di nostra vita. We draw the line only at our most ancient 
 grandmother, whom (having regard to the perils of cycling 
 itself) we desire not as yet to take wing, but to remain a while 
 in these lower airs ; and whom we would piously address, as 
 some "ancient Roman" might have addressed his ancient grand- 
 mother, in similar circumstances : Sew, non cito, in ruin redeas ! 
 
 For the others, far be it from us to say, with Shakespeare (who 
 evidently foresaw what cycling would come to) : 
 
 Cyke no more, ladies, cyke no more ! 
 
 Tis not the use but the abuse of the thing that we complain of. 
 As stated previously with reference to our male athletes, 'tis 
 not against athletics per se, but against violent athletics — 
 athleticism run mad, that we here declaim. Cycle, by all 
 means, ye Maids of England, and at your own sweet will ; but 
 take your exercise in rational measure. Est modus in rebus. Do 
 your cycling gently, as femininely as may be, and so, at least, 
 as not to outrage — les convenances. Above all, do not "scorch," 
 or strive to break " records," or bones- — of your own, or other 
 people's. Scorch our poor, tender, susceptible hearts, if you 
 like, and at your sovereign pleasure, while seated on your throne 
 of beauty ; but while seated on your bike scorch not at
 
 O.V SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIME. 
 
 all. Be assured that your lovely limbs were never made that 
 you should " tear away" at that rate !* 
 
 A- for the "scorcher " masculine— the male "scorcher," the 
 champion record and limb-breaker, the monster who talks of his 
 victims— the people he has "run down "—as a sportsman talks 
 of the "game" he has "bagged" -the callous wretch to whose 
 murderous hike — as to the car of Juggernaut — there have fallen 
 hecatombs of victims of all ages, him we would relegate to regions 
 beyond the pale of civilised society — him we would expel, as a 
 rebel and an outlaw, from the world of men ! 
 
 In the meantime the rage for violent athletics does not diminish, 
 but grows and spreads daily ; and to crown all, has now infected 
 those spirits, erstwhile so calm, dwelling in the high regions of 
 science and philosophy ; and not a few serious students, sober 
 savans, and profound professors — men so versed in matters occult, 
 so learned in things recondite, that they bade fair to master the 
 whole cycle of the sciences, are now wholly occupied in mastering 
 the science of cycles and cycling : — 
 
 Quo, quo, scelestis ruitis ' 
 In which connection, and in sober conclusion, this much of our 
 own intimate and personal knowledge we can affirm and assert, 
 viz., that in many natural history societies (quorum parva pars 
 fuimus), possessing vast collections of valuable specimens that 
 were formerly the delight of a crowd of eager students, those 
 vast and valuable collections are at this moment left over to 
 the dust and the worm; and this directly through the causes 
 already stated. 
 
 That athletics should be divorced from the Study of natural 
 philosophy one can barely imagine ; but that it should be found 
 impossible to combine them with the study of natural history, 
 the active pursuit of any one branch of which involves so large 
 
 Note. Even in walking, it behoves our fair readers to remember 
 that a hurrii d gait invariably detracts from the charm they were bom to 
 
 iise upon the heart ol our sex. Nor, when the inhabitants of high 
 Olympus trod the earth, was it difficult, according to Virgil, to detect 
 the true goddess bj her measured step: Vera ince-stit paiuii ilea.
 
 56 OX SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TIME. 
 
 an amount of the desired exercise, we find it difficult to under 
 stand. Surely the divorce between these two is one of the most 
 signal and striking proofs of the deep and wide-spread character 
 of the athletic craze. 
 
 Even the "hard words" of the late Matthew Arnold, in this 
 matter, seem not too hard here, viz., that through its over-devotion 
 to athletics the present generation of young men is, for all intel 
 lectual jmrposes, practically lost to us. 
 
 For ourselves, in the department of botany, when on far-off 
 mountain-summits we bent in silent rapture over the lonely 
 wild-flower, opening its blue eyes to the blue heaven, did we 
 count the cost — the long leagues of mountain and morass traversed 
 in search of the prize ? No ! and be assured, O reader, that 
 health and strength in fullest measure, and perfect sanity, attend 
 upon all faithful followers of fair Flora, with whom the blooming, 
 health-goddess, and patron of athletes, fair Hygeia, goes hand 
 in hand ! 
 
 :ag^$fe 

 
 FOLK SPEECH—LANCASHIRE a YORKSHIRE BORDER. 57 
 
 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER 
 
 !! 
 
 AN OBSCURE LANCASHIRE AUTHOR. 
 
 jjjT has lately been attempted, and not unsuccessfully, to shew 
 i*J that Lancashire is essentially a musical county. We shall not 
 here undertake to show with equal conclusiveness that she is 
 essentially a literary count)', since that might require not only 
 treble the space at present available, but treble the evidence we 
 should be able to adduce in support of the proposition : though 
 doubtless, as regards certain departments, literature is pursued 
 here with as much zeal and success as at the very centre of 
 illumination — the great metropolis, itself. Hut whatever may be 
 the actual claims of Lancashire to the title "literary," in the 
 literature of dialects, at any rate, she stands pre-eminent. 
 Dialect-literature, so called, is spread and read so widely over 
 Lancashire that some have even been led to suppose it the 
 peculiar and special product of the county ! The use of dialects 
 for literary purposes, however, as is well known, is confined 
 neither to Lancashire nor to England, though it has probably 
 nowhere so extensively prevailed as in our county. 
 
 I live the dialects been used too extensively? With respect 
 to South Lancashire, that is possible; but as regards the 
 picturesque district of the Lancashire and Yorkshire border, 
 there are many curious dialects there prevailing which 
 remain" to this day almost untouched by the crowd, now 
 a somewhat motley one, who dig and mine in these quarries. 
 These dialects make a most curious philological study, as 
 the people who speak them, themselves, form a subject of 
 unusual interest to the ethnologist. A mixed race at the best
 
 53 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 no doubt we are, but these border people, shut up as they have 
 been for long, long centuries in remote mountain valleys, without 
 communication Avith the rest of the world, have retained their 
 primitive character to a striking extent, while some of their 
 superstitions have remained almost as firmlv planted as at first. 
 Among these perhaps none is so fast fixed as the belief in " the 
 Evil Eye," and Virgil, instead of writing some two thousand 
 years back, might have been writing to-day, and directly of these 
 people, when in the third eclogue of his charming Bucolics he 
 makes Menalcas say : 
 
 Nescio quis, teneros oculos mihi fascinat agnos. 
 
 With respect to the prevailing dialects the variety is very 
 great ; even at the distance of less than a couple of miles, as the 
 crow flies, you have almost another speech — the difference is 
 enormous. Within this distance, for instance, for the verb "to 
 ask," we meet with as many as four different forms, viz. : as, ax, 
 spier, and spurr. In illustration of curious minor dialectal 
 differences which in respect to locality are marked by very sharp 
 lines of demarcation, one may observe that the expression, " See, 
 yonder man ! " becomes at Todmorden (just on the county 
 border) " Sithee at yond' felley ! " while only two or three miles 
 away it changes to " Sithee at yon' felley ! " the d in the adverb 
 being as desperately and tenaciously retained at the one point as 
 it is persistently cast away at the other. And whilst in the 
 Burnley valley the final d in any word has almost invariably the 
 full, prolonged sound of d, only a short distance away it is just 
 as regularly pronounced t. On the other hand, and again only 
 a mile or two away, viz., in the Rossendale valley, the 
 final t becomes d, and for the phrase, " I will not do that," you 
 hear the outrageous expression, "I'll nod do thad." 
 
 Whilst the main body of the folk-speech is clearly Anglo-Saxon, 
 there is quite an appreciable element of the Scandinavian ; and 
 this is often found where it would least be expected, for instance, 
 in the expression, than which none is more common in Lancashire 
 generally, "He's gooan reaund abeaut fur th' gainst," " th' 
 gainst " here dearly comes from the Icelandic " gegnsta." As for
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 58 
 
 the Scandinavian "addle," to get or earn, which one so often 
 finds referred to as " peculiar to Lincolnshire," il not only 
 prevails over all Yorkshire, bu1 on the Lancashire border is one 
 of the commonest of words, ;is "Heaw mitchdoesta addle, lad ?" 
 
 Aw addle five shillin' a week." If traces of the Norseman are 
 frequent, there are also some tracer of the Norman, as for instance, 
 in such quaint words as " squab," from the French escabeau, a 
 cushioned seat or sofa. " Wheer muii aw lig, mother I" " Lig 
 tin" deawn o 1 th' squab." With respect to the aspirate, it is never 
 heard at all in these parts, either in or out of place, a circum- 
 stance which recalls Thackeray's old lady, who had "led a very 
 painless life through never having been troubled with ditches/'' 
 But if the aspirate never troubles these people, its entire absence 
 troubles the "inquiring stranger"' very often, and not the 
 " stranger " only. " Aw'm ne'er 'eedin " was the favourite phrase 
 of one of the " happy-go-lucky " type — a phrase sufficiently 
 mysterious to the writer himself until translated into "Come 
 what may, I am never heeding." 
 
 As regards the dialect spoken in the Burnley valley, the 
 locality with which at present we have to deal, a writer on the 
 subject goes the length of stating that " it probably contains the 
 greatest number of purely dialectic words or idioms of any folk- 
 speech in England." Certainly in respect of its force, directness, 
 expressiveness, terseness, and humour, we know none to surpass 
 it. A sovereign, here, is not merely a sovereign, but a " gold 
 sovereign."' " Si yo", chaps ! aw've gi'en him a gowld sovverin." 
 An hour is not merely an hour, but a "clock hour," a not unim- 
 portant distinction, as some people's hours are seldom measured 
 by the clock. " Wau, bless yo' ! aw waited on him a full clock- 
 heawr," the "on " here taking the place of "for," and illustrating 
 the indefinite character of the preposition. Among the rarities 
 of the folk-speech is " ayla," bashful, or shy. " Heaw wer't at 
 teaw didn't come to thi teea yusthurday .' " "A'a, Mess thee, 
 lass ! aw'm so fearful ayla."' The abounding humour of the folk- 
 speech is remarkable, but rugged force is its chief characteristic. 
 Nor is this force of the idiom anything but the direct reflection
 
 60 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 of the character of those who speak it. It is a character full of 
 energy — a quality, it is true, which too often shows itself in forms 
 not to be commended. Even as far back as two hundred years 
 ago the people of these parts had a sinister reputation all over 
 the adjoining districts for their bullying and fighting propensities, 
 frequent challenges being sent not only from hill to hill but from 
 these hills to those of neighbouring counties. As a proof of the 
 desperate character of these encounters, we are told that even the 
 victor generally returned from them with an eye gouged out, or 
 minus an ear, a nose, &c, bitten off by his antagonist in the 
 brutal combat — details sufficiently revolting, no doubt, but which 
 we give here in illustration of the fierce spirit, and fiery energy, 
 at that time dwelling in our border-highlanders, in whose 
 descendants there yet burns, in a modified degree, and happily 
 exhibiting itself in forms less savage, the same fiery force, 
 accompanied by a physique the most robust. Their mental 
 idiosyncrasy, on the other hand, is full of individuality, and a 
 more incisive mother-wit, or a slyer or more " pawkie " humour' 
 we have never met with in a population so largely Saxon. 
 
 In the border-down of Todmorden, before-mentioned, which 
 sits astride the eastern, or Yorkshire, Calder, there were some 
 years since a whole gallery of " originals,'' but few were more 
 
 noticeable than A. S. , yeoman, sometime manufacturer, 
 
 and constable of his township, better known as " Th' Old Buck ;" 
 indeed, so generally known by this sobriquet that if you hud asked 
 for him by any other name, very few would have known how, or 
 where, to direct you. As " Th' Old Buck " he passed everywhere, 
 and " Old Buck " he was invariably called, when spoken of, and 
 very often, also, when spoken to. A tall, gaunt fellow he was, 
 dark-grisly, and with thick, shaggy brows beetling over eyes that 
 winked incessantly. A snuffling of the nose accompanied the 
 winking, and a general sympathetic movement of all the facial 
 nerves and muscles gave him tin; appearance of always making 
 grimaces, insomuch that the children could never look upon him 
 but with a sort of terror. Another peculiarity of the man was 
 that he stammered frightfully ; and perhaps he was better known
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 61 
 
 by this failing than by any we have mentioned, for his failing 
 passed into a proverb: when anyone stammered in his speech 
 woiM' than common, the remark it called forth was, "thou stut> 
 (stammers) war ner th' Old Buck!" Over his tall, lean, more 
 than six-feet figure, winter and summer alike (for we do not 
 remember ever to have seen him without it) was thrown a brown 
 woollen cloak of antique pattern, with lamb's-wool lined collar, 
 and fastened by some peculiar brass chain arrangement. This 
 cloak fell short over so tall a figure, and generally discovered, 
 dangling in the old gourmand's hands (for he was the very King 
 of Beef-eaters) a leg of lamb, a couple of ducks, a fat goose, or a 
 good lump of a hare, according to the season, carefully selected for 
 his next day's dinner. Seldom, indeed, would you meet "Th ; 
 Old Buck" but he was going about seeking what he might 
 devour, and just as seldom would you find him sober. Under 
 these circumstances it was that we last saw him. In one hand a 
 fat goose, in the other a stout walking-stick, ami with the never- 
 failing cloak over his shoulders, he was zigzagging his way home, 
 in reaching which the difficulty before him was evidently not so 
 much the length of the road as the h'eadth of the same ; and un- 
 doubtedly, in the course of his journey, he must have cut (in 
 Yankee phrase) a very considerable number of "snakes." 
 
 Nor, as one who '-dearly liked his bally," as the phrase goes, 
 was " Th' Old Buck " alone ; for, during the sixty years we have 
 been acquainted with the above neighbourhood it was never 
 wanting in a strong contingent of that class of warriors who are 
 bravest at making war on the dumplings ! The "some new thing" 
 which the Athenians were always seeking, the <iliijiti</ novi <>f the 
 Romans, means here "a new taste i' th' heyting line ! " lint the 
 stomachic capacity of "Th' Old Buck" was enormous and amaz- 
 ing. On one occasion, having had placed before him a very large 
 leg of mutton, and bets being taken whether or uot he could 
 "clear the deck," " Th' Old Buck " polished off everything (except 
 the bones) to the astonishment of the company. His potation- 
 were in proportion, nor was he always quite content with the con- 
 tents of his own glass but would too often help himself to his
 
 62 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 neighbour's. In this connection, the following story is told of our 
 hero, and is authentic. As a manufacturer, " Th' Old Buck " was 
 under the necessity of making every week, at least, along with 
 others, a journey to Manchester ; and of course, before the open- 
 ing of the Manchester and Leeds Railway, coaches were the only 
 " fast " mode of communication and conveyance between Tod- 
 morden and Cottonopolis. These started from the "Golden 
 Lion," in the former place ; and whilst stopping at various points 
 on the way it was the custom of the passengers to refresh them- 
 selves at the wayside inns. On these occasions it was that " Th' 
 Old Buck's " habit of refreshing himself at the expense of other 
 folks was noticed more particularly ; and his fellow passengers 
 formed the resolution to " pay him out," or, in other words, to 
 "jalap him!" With this object, on the very next journey, 
 "coachee" was bribed at the proper juncture to turn a deaf ear, 
 and drive on. The coach had stopped, as usual, the horses been 
 baited, the passengers refreshed, and " Th' Old Buck " jalaped. 
 The coach again started, but had not gone far when a voice was 
 heard from the top, crying, with a very thick utterance : " St-st- 
 st-st-stop, d-d-river !" but as the driver, being in the conspiracy, 
 did not stop, in a few minutes the piteous appeal was changed to 
 " Dr-r-ive on, now, d-r-ive on ! " spoken in the imperative mood. 
 
 We have said that the mother-wit of these border-people is 
 caustic to a degree. A thousand instances might be given. 
 
 "Aw dooant speyk ta pooar fooak"! said one man, discharging 
 a Parthian shot at an opponent who had beaten him in fair 
 argument. " Wan, then, theaw doesn't say mitch at worn (home)" 
 was the crushing reply. 
 
 1 'arson Atkinson, of T finding one of his parishioners, who 
 
 was also a tenant of the glebe, busy at work in his garden on a 
 Sunday when he ought to have been on his way t<> church, 
 thought of rebuking him by the remark : " Well, Dawson, you're 
 worshipping your God, I see ! " when Dawson suddenly turned 
 the tables by retorting : "E'yah, an' aw've thine i'th' cnbbord ; 
 aw'll bring t thee i'th' mornin' ! " alluding to the parson's eager- 
 ness for his glebe rents. Indeed, if all the shrewd sayings of these
 
 AXD YORKSHIRE BORDER. 63 
 
 pcoj)lo were collected together they would make Buch a treasury 
 of wit and wisdom as would certainly astonish anyone not 
 acquainted with the district. But what would also surprise the 
 stranger would be to find, along with this natural wit and shrewd- 
 nesSj an all but child like simplicity and naivete, with instances of 
 mental obfuscation more than Hibernian. 
 
 Anecdotes connected with the attempts at cookery made by 
 untried youthful housewives would of themselves form a long 
 and most diverting chapter. A certain young damsel, newly- 
 married and totally ignorant of the culinary arts, was presented 
 with a goose, and being told, in the instructions how to cook it, 
 that she must stuff it with some kind of "green stuff," astonished 
 her adviser by applying apiece of green baize cloth to that pur- 
 pose. Another youthful dame, equally innocent of cookery 
 knowledge, was boiling a couple of eggs for her husband's break- 
 fast when her spouse lost patience, exclaiming: "Are tbooa 
 eggs nooan ready yet ?" "Now, they are not," she answered, 
 "for si' thee, aw've booiled 'em aboon an heawr, and they're na 
 softer yet ! 
 
 Edwin Waugh, in his first-published "Lancashire Sketches," 
 supplements this anecdote with another, equally diverting, about 
 a certain " Owd Bun," of Small Bridge, who never having tasted 
 a cucumber his whole life long, at length, out of curiosity, 
 bought one, "curved like a Moslem scimitar," and being at a loss 
 how to cook it, cut it into thick slabs lengthwise, and fried it in 
 bacon-fat, exclaiming, as he ate up the last slab: " By th'mon ! 
 fine fooak '11 heyt ought ; aw'd sooiner had a pottato ! " 
 
 The reader may be familiar with the well-authenticated story 
 of the Lancashire man who, having built a new cart in his ".-hop" 
 without measuring the capacity of doors and windows, was com- 
 pelled to pull down the " shop" in order to get out the cart ; but 
 he may not have heard of the "yonderly" couple who had never 
 possessed an umbrella, but who, being overtaken by a storm of 
 rain near the town of Bury, were compelled to borrow a "gamp" 
 from an acquaintance. On reaching home at night-fall the poor 
 creatures could neither " put down" the umbrella, which was of
 
 .64 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 the expansive kind, nor get it into the house ; in consequence of 
 which they felt themselves bound to "sit up" with "Mrs. Gamp' 
 in turns till morning, when an early passer-by kindly showed 
 them for the first time in their lives how to put an umbrella down. 
 But these stories are all " capped " by the true story of the Lan- 
 cashire man who, having lost his wife, was observed to start out 
 each day with an empty wheelbarrow, which he diligently 
 wheeled about the village with no apparent object. On being 
 asked by an acquaintance the reason of this singular proceeding, 
 he answered : " Theaw sees aw've lost th' owd woman, an' aw 
 thought aw'd wheel th' barrow about for a bit o' company !" 
 
 So that in these, as in other matters yet to be dwelt on, there 
 is really immense booty awaiting the zealous hunter and explorer 
 into these regions — regions which, though formerly remote and 
 sequestered to a degree, are now accessible enough, and in fact, 
 through railway facilities, may be said to lie almost at our doors, 
 albeit to reach nooks and corners more specially referred to in 
 this article considerable mountain climbing will have to be done 
 betimes, and many rugged paths trodden. 
 
 With regard to the ethnological puzzle, this, at least, may be 
 affirmed without dogmatism, viz., that the Celtic element is here 
 a somewhat more considerable one than writers on this subject 
 usually allow. For the rest, inhabiting, as we have said, for so 
 long a period these high hills and sequestered mountain valleys 
 (whose wild and remote character is expressed by their very 
 names, such as "Wyndy Harbour," "Back o' Behund," &c), 
 much exposed to the weather, and living frugally, the people of 
 this region are a hardy and long-lived race, insomuch that at a 
 recent gathering of some four hundred of them, inhabiting a 
 portion of the district certainly comprised within no large area, 
 the average age was found to be between seventy and eighty 
 years ! Healthy and hardy themselves, the admiration of the 
 hill-folk is mainly excited by the same qualities in others, mere 
 mental graces with them counting for little. Indeed the posses- 
 sion of such would be likely to prove rather a drawback than 
 Otherwise with anyone seeking to ingratiate himself with these
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 65 
 
 rturdy people, who, more than all perhaps, distrust the man w 
 has got what is called, " Th' gift o'th'gab." " That'll gether 
 e'now"(e'en now), ("That man will send the collecting-box round 
 by : and by,") was the terse and characteristic remark of a stalwart 
 hillsider, with reference to a sleek, plausible fellow who with glib 
 tongue was "improving" a certain wayside incident in the moral 
 sense. In these, as in some other parts, the common expression, 
 " clivver fclley," or "clivver ohap," is by no means intended to 
 nvey the idea of an acute-minded, or menially accomplished, 
 but merely that of a physically robust and well built man. 
 
 Our surroundings no douht largely make and mould ns. The 
 
 my character of this border-region reproduces itself in the 
 
 character of its inhabitants. Educated for the most part by 
 
 Nature herself, and in no gentle mood, they take her impress: 
 hence the hillside mother-wit is of the keenest and sharpest type. 
 Few are the amenities that root in so thin a soil, and in a 
 quarter so familiar to the winds, but those that strike they sprout 
 and blossom indeed ; as when, on the mountains, we meet with 
 the hardy rowan which, though scantily nourished in the rocky 
 crevice where the chance breeze has cast it, yet blooms aloft in 
 beauty and fragrance, and with its .clustering scarlet berries is 
 the pride and glory of the hills. It is here that you meet with 
 the sturdiest type of men and of women. It is here that you 
 meet with the very warmest of welcomes. And also, it must be 
 confessed, now and again with the coldest. Indeed, furtive as 
 they are, and distrustful at all times of new comers, to the 
 stranger these moorland folk must appear at once sly and shy, 
 cunning and reserved; yet let him go amongst them duly 
 accredited, or show that he is of their own "mack" (make or 
 class), and, as a rule, the coldness soon changes to cordiality 
 sometimes even to effusion, and the "fatted calf" is killed 
 metaphorically if not actually. Within the writer's recollection 
 it was the custom when a poor man killed his pig — his solitary 
 pig, for if he had two he was scarcely deemed poor — to invite his 
 irer neighbours to ions repast, accompanied by moderate
 
 66 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LAXOASHIRE 
 
 potations of "home-brewed," in celebration of the "event," a 
 right pleasant and kindly custom but one long since disused. 
 
 "We have said that these moorland folk are distrustful of 
 new-comers ; they are equally distrustful of novelties and in- 
 novations of any kind, whether moral or material. In no part of 
 these kingdoms were the regulations of the "New Poor Law" 
 enforced with more difficulty. Nowhere, until within the last 
 few years, have those numerous stalwart fellows who rejoice in 
 the common name of " Peeler " had so bad a time of it. And in 
 no part are many ancient and obsolete customs destined to die so 
 hard a death. In short, it is a people not so much devoted to 
 what has been, as determined to be what it is ! It is a people 
 that brooks but little let or hindrance from any person whom- 
 soever. It is a people with a neck not supple, but, on the 
 contrary, mosD plaguily stiff — that will not, according to a local 
 tradition, even do a thing when it is made ! On the other hand 
 it is a people by no means wanting in good moral qualities' 
 Like the millstone-rock of its own hills, it abounds in grit 
 Sturdily independent, it has a healthy horror of being " thrown 
 upon the parish." It is a people that will pass through the hard- 
 est times with a cheerfulness and a self-abnegation worthy of the 
 best traditions of the Stoics. It is a people that, even when 
 at the last extremity, will grin and abide rather than whine and 
 groan. And when the sun shines out again, and there is where- 
 withal, it is a people that bakes its own bread, and brews its own 
 beer, and does not dislike the taste of it, or even the taste of its 
 neighbours'!* If it is a people with a stiffish neck, it is also a 
 people with "backbone," and certainly no ricketty fellow is ever 
 likely to fare particularly well at its hands, or to get the better of 
 it. It is a people that one might love as rare Charles Kingsley 
 loved Eurus ! It is a people for bracing, strengthening, and 
 kicking clean out of you all the " mewling and puking" business. 
 
 * Until within a few years the practice of " home-brewing" was here 
 universal ; and the practice of " home-bakinjr" still prevails. Nor is any 
 more delicious wheaten bread to be tasted anywhere than the " home- 
 baked" of your housewife of the Lancashire border.
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 67 
 
 We have known it drive men from the country by simply labelling 
 them— by affixing to them, with its keen, caustic mother-wit, 
 
 some nickname, based perhaps on some pestilent bit of coxcombry 
 on their part, no doubt deserved, and which lias clung to them, 
 and clung to them, like a cloak of Nessus, till they could bear it 
 no longer. 
 
 We remarked upon the admirable patience of this people in 
 circumstances of hardship. Let us illustrate. In one of those 
 severe commercial crises through which this district, with its 
 valley populations mainly employed in the cotton trade, has 
 passed of late years, and which have brought hundreds of respect- 
 able families to the verge of starvation, a certain Tommy 
 
 was observed to carry a tablespoon about with him wherever he 
 went. On being questioned why he always carried a " spooin " 
 in his pocket, Tommy laughingly explained, " Theaw sees it's this 
 way : wheniver eawr owld woman calls out 'Porridge !' if aw've 
 a spooin to seek, aw'm done !" Surely this cheerful spirit, surely 
 this abounding good humour, in face of the possibility of missing 
 one's sole bite for the day (for in these times people fasted even 
 longer) is worthy of Epictetus himself. 
 
 With an appreciable touch of the Celtic, and a more consider- 
 able element of the Scandinavian (Danish), the type on these 
 hills, as previousby hinted, is in the main Saxon (Anglian), and in 
 the character of the people, as also previously hinted, there is 
 much of the Saxon shrewdness, though curiously blended with a 
 large measure of simplicity and childish superstition. Xow, 
 however— in these later days — the schoolmaster is abroad in 
 earnest. Surely, if slowly, the march of intellect proceeds, and 
 must proceed, and the hill-tops themselves have got to be scaled 
 in the end, no doubt ; but in the meantime, did one read in the 
 blazing light of our scientific halls a full and particular account 
 of the superstitions still lingering in certain nooks of our border-, 
 he would be heard with incredulity. 
 
 In the pages to follow we give the history, taken from the 
 works of a late Lancashire author, of a highly-characteristic local 
 craze — a true melodrama, several of the actors in which are still 
 
 e2
 
 68 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 living; and we give it with the object of illustrating at once the 
 superstitions and the dialect of the border-region. Though the 
 superstition, in this case, is of the milder kind, yet when the 
 record comes to be read fifty years hence, it will doubtless appear 
 in the luminous atmosphere of that day a wholly incredible and 
 impossible state of things. 
 
 We give the extracts, too, with the further object of engaging 
 the reader's interest in the author in question, who died at a 
 comparatively early age some years since ; and who, even during 
 his lifetime, was little known beyond the narrow valley, with its 
 encompassing hills, which forms the picturesque scene of his 
 sketches — sketches which, for their grotesque humour, for the 
 breathing, life-like character of the portraits they contain, for 
 fidelity, dramatic force, and graphic power, have seldom been 
 equalled by our best writers in the dialect. In fact, crude as 
 these pen-and-ink sketches are in some respects, yet so completely 
 do they hold the mirror up to nature, that their author was more 
 than once, as he told me, the subject of attack at the hands of 
 people whose sayings and doings he had so vividly pictured that 
 they were convinced he had seen and heard everything, and " told 
 tales " accordingly. 
 
 With a view to the clearer understanding, on the reader's part, 
 of the history to be presented, it may be permitted to enlarge 
 yet a little more on the character of the people concerned. In 
 this, as previously stated, there is much of the Saxon shrewdness 
 and long-headedness. These hill-folk, indeed, are a cannie and a 
 prudent people, who have known how to thrive on oatmeal, and 
 to fill what is called an " old stocking," where the improvident 
 would starve. Accustomed for centuries to a soil and climate 
 giving but small returns for the labour expended, frugality with 
 them has become so much of a habit that one can hardly call it a 
 virtue. And having stood thus long at the " hunger fountain," 
 as Kichter would say, and drawn thence, their grip on the 
 "brass" (money), when they do finger it, is a tight one. The 
 sad malady called "cromp i' th' hand," from which most of us 
 suffer on occasion, and sometimes acutely enough, with these
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 69 
 
 hardy sons of the mountain too often assumes the chronic form ' 
 
 When our moorland folk descend from the "tops" to "th' 
 
 dale," as of late years they have dun,' in large numbers, now and 
 
 again the contents of the "family stocking" are embarked in the 
 
 staple trade of the district, and our mountaineer becomes what is 
 
 called a "little cotton meystur." The cruel fluctuations in this 
 
 trade, however, during the past few decades, have thrown most 
 
 of these "little cotton meysturs " on their hacks; and hundreds 
 
 of "old stocking-, clean emptied of their "gowld sovverins," 
 
 are now floating among the waifs and strays of the great ocean 
 
 of commerce. But the major part of the hill-folk, with charac 
 
 teristic prudence, have declined such ri>ks. 'I hose are great 
 
 patrons of the "Co-ops."' (Co-operatic' Societies), in which they 
 
 invest, the "old stocking" fructifies, and all their talk is of 
 
 "divvy" (dividends). A precocious instance of this kind of 
 
 thrift was a girl — a very little girl— who gravely suggested to 
 
 her mother that their "next baby" should be bought at the 
 
 "Co-op.," becausr then they would get the "divvy '. " 
 
 Mm. woman, and child, it is a "cannie,"a calculating, and a 
 
 thrifty people, thoroughly believing, with the Lancashire poet, 
 
 Bealey, that 
 
 A pocket at's lined \\i' a l>it o' good brass 
 '11 make a mon feel what a men is, 
 And keep him from being an ass ! 
 
 It was a saying of Montesquieu's, the distinguished author of 
 
 the Spirit of the Laws, that if he had lived in England he should 
 
 have been an unsuccessful man. On being questioned in the 
 
 matter, the great Frenchman explained that what he meant by 
 
 "unsuccessful " was that he should inevitably have been seized 
 
 with the English passion for "getting on in the world;" and 
 
 that consequently, instead of attaining to distinction, he should 
 
 -imply have died rich and nameless -an obscure millionaire ! It 
 
 is needless to say that Montesquieu's idea of a "successful " man 
 
 would, in these part-, be very hard to understand. "Success,' 
 
 here, means the accumulation of "brass;" nor, unless there i< 
 
 "plenty o' brass," can the idea of "success" be entertained. 
 
 But perhaps this all-absorbing worship of Plutus is too often
 
 70 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 found elsewhere as well ! Here, at anyrate, the " brass " must 
 be gotten, and to this end the people strive with all their native 
 shrewdness. Unfortunately there is the proneness to superstition 
 before mentioned ; and between this, on the one hand, and the 
 strong disposition to " gether the siller,'"' on the other, our hill- 
 sider falls a victim at last, though only to him who has duly 
 studied the above strange blending of qualities. A diligent 
 student in this field Avas he who figures in the following pages 
 under the grotesque sobriquet of " Old Langsettle." This man 
 was an adventurer, and came from a distance, but he soon found 
 that for him the barren hillsides might be made to flow with 
 "milk and honey," not indeed through the waving of a magic 
 wand, but by means of a "magic glass" in his possession, looking 
 into which he was able to see and learn all that was so ardently 
 desired by a number of hillside folk who believed themselves 
 heirs to vast properties in the neighbourhood, out of which they 
 had been " wrangously kept " for two or three generations. And 
 here we may draw upon the author in question : 
 
 Owd Threedbare asked him if he thought they were heirs to 
 Wycollar Hall. "Most certainly yo' are," said Langsettle, 
 " though aw hav'nt looked i'th' glass perticularly for yo', aw find 
 'at aw've seen yo' theer scoores o' times. What, aw've had two 
 or three families after th' Wycollar Hall an' th' Heptonstall 
 estates, but aw could niver see ony on 'em 'at favvored th' 
 families 'at th' glass showed as reytful heirs to 'em, so aw never 
 gav'" 'em ony encouragement to go further into th' matter, for aw 
 could see no chonce o' success, an' yo' known aw wouldn't be 
 known to lead folk wrang. Yo' see it's this way — wheniver 
 aw've looked abeawt th' owners o' yo're estates thers corned a lot 
 ©' folk i'th' seet 'at aw didn't know, but neaw when aw meet wi ! 
 yo' aw con sec at once yo're th' varry same chaps." At this, Owd 
 Threedbare nudged Sorrow-i'th'-Dyke, and said, " Mon, what 
 ha'nt aw olcz tcll'd thi 'at if we'd es reyts we'st be th' gentry o' 
 this neighbourhood. What, we ought just neaw to ha' been 
 huntin' i' Tiawden forest, an' we will be afoor long, too. Hey-
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 71 
 
 hough, tally ho ! mi brave heawnds, Tinker, Towler, Bowler." 
 Then he would have got upon a chair, and sung Tommy-o'-th' 
 Etaddler's song on Trawden Hunt and Wycollar Hall, but they 
 stopped him, and all stared around one at another in wild 
 astonishment. Finepins wished they had just been at Hilly-Toys- 
 at-th '-Height-Top ; " he'd ha' stood an ox try quart o' knock- 'em 
 deawn swuddle for Old Lani'settle." But Langsettle said — " \-> 
 dooant need to bother abeawt anght o'th' kind, fur aw've so mony 
 other cases i' hand 'at aw hav'nt a single minute to spare ; aw've 
 just neaw several important Chancery cases similar to yor's. 
 One case is for £250,000, 'at nobbut wants drawin' ; aw've the 
 deeds i' my pocket, signed an' sealed ready for th' brass." When 
 they saw that Langsettle's time was so very precious they 
 stopped their joyous uproar, and made arrangements when and 
 where the next meeting should be held, he saying that, in the 
 meantime, he would seek out all particulars, and give them a 
 thorough account next time he came, and that they must have 
 family meeting during the time, and see who were intending to 
 claim their shares of the estates. He then returned home, 
 laughing in his sleeve at the simple credulity of those he was 
 deceiving. 
 
 After Langsettle had departed, the claimants resolved to 
 have family meetings, to be held every Sunday forenoon at the 
 chief claimant's house, where they would decide what steps to 
 take. The meeting then dispersed, with every one at the 
 highest pitch of joy and expectation. On their way home, 
 Old Threedbare and Jacky-at th'-Moor-top called at a public- 
 house, and ordered a crown bowl, saying, " We'st sup no moor 
 cowd blow — that's nobbut for poor fooak — gret landlords nivver 
 should drink aught under sixpence a glass ; an' for th' futur we'll 
 ha' nought no less nor champagne, port wine, old torn, an' 
 short stuff — noa moor fourpenny swill-swall and waist-coil 
 pocket drink." 
 
 When the landlord heard tins he was quite "capped," and said 
 — "Heaw's that, 'at yo're gettin' soa ju'itic'lir ? What is th. 
 op 'at naught no less uor sixpence a glass 11 fit yu' — two o'th'
 
 72 THE FOLK -SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 leeast teydious chaps 'at usen comin' to this heawse 1 Yo' usen 
 bein' ready for aught, thro' barrel-bothams deawn to weyshin-op 
 waytur. An' as for thee, Threedbare, theaw'd drink a gallon o 
 galker ony time, an' work it i' thi inside ; an' theaw artn't a pin 
 better, Jacky, soa nivver name creawn-bowls here agean, for it'll 
 be no use unless aw con see th' edge o' reythur moor brass nor 
 aw fancy yo' con show to-dey." " What ! " said Old Threedbare* 
 " an' han we to ha' naught — two landowners — heirs to Wycollar 
 Hall 1 What, we'n a fortun' o' theawsands o' peaunds comin' to 
 us, an' theaw'll rue if theaw doesn't tak' th' chonce o' chalkin' us 
 a tothery shillin' op." "Rue or not rue," said the landlord, 
 "awst find yo' no strap. If yo' con reyse th' price of a quart o' 
 fourpenny aw'll find yo' that." By begging from persons in the 
 place they managed to raised fourpence, and had to content 
 themselves by turning again to "cold-blow." 
 
 When the Sunday morning of the first family meeting came, 
 it was an amusing sight to see the number of new walking-sticks 
 Avith silver hoops that the Wycollar and Heptonstall claimants 
 sported, the new dickeys and watchguards they wore, the airs 
 they put on, and the figures they cut. Jim-o'-th'-Owd-Mon's said 
 he didn't mean to be outdone by anybody that went down 
 Burnley Valley that day, for in addition to having donned his 
 best suit and spent two hours in rubbing his brass watchguard 
 bright, he had bought a fancy dickey and two twopenny-half- 
 penny cigars, and he meant to try for the first time in his life 
 what smoking and acting the gentleman were like, for it would 
 very likely be all he would have to do before very long. But 
 there was one thing he rather doubted— about his dickey— that 
 was, he didn't think it would be aught like as warm as a shirt 
 He was afraid lie should catch cold by the change, still he "mud 
 be like to chonce it," so he put it on, and oil' he went smoking 
 a cigar for the first time. But before he got to the chief 
 claimant's house he fell ill, and had to be led into a house on the 
 w.iy, where he fainted. 
 
 They gave him a glass of water, and unbuttoned his waistcoat 
 to let him breathe more freely, when Hungry Bob's wife called
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 7S 
 
 out — " A 'a', Jim, theaw mey wecl be sick ; what, theaw't beawt 
 shirt- Aw con see what it is 'at's dm. in thee, it's that dickey rip 
 it off, nion, an' aw'll leean thi one o' eawr Bob's shirts j what, 
 theaw'U lie starved to th' deeath i' that thing — oil' wi' it, mon." 
 
 "Ney, ney," said Jim, "it's nooen o' th' dickey, it's fchie 
 smookin 'at's dooih me ; aw've nooen been used to 't, nor aw 
 sholn't be yet awhile if this be th' way. An' aw know naught 
 abeawt actin' th' gentleman, but if this be all th' pleeasur ther is 
 in't, aw'll leeav my walkin-stiek an' dickey at worn for th' futur 
 — be hanged if aw dooent." 
 
 By the time Jim had recovered from his smoking, Old Threed- 
 bare came swinging down the road. He had been running about 
 all the morning trying to borrow a Saturday night suit, for he 
 had nothing but his week-day suit to put on, and he had been 
 sadly bothered for a fit ; however, he had managed at length to 
 borrow Long Lawrence's every-day shoes, which were two inches 
 too long, and Gret Sarah' lad had lent him his militia trousers, 
 and well they looked too, oidy they were a foot too short. He 
 arrived at his journey's end without any mishap, save that he 
 forgot that his shoe-bands were loose until he legged-up on them ; 
 and he would have fallen into a dirty place but for his new walk- 
 ing-stick, which he broke by saving himself. 
 
 When they arrived at the chief claimant's house the proceed- 
 ings had been commenced. The chief claimant had taken the 
 chair, and was making his opening speech, saying, "Aw guess yo' 
 known what we're coined here for this morn in ; it's to see if we 
 con reyse brass enough to pey Langsettle to get us some gret 
 estates 'at's been wrangously kept thro' us for two or three 
 generations. What, we ought just neaw to ha' been livin i' fine 
 halls, an' had a pack o' heawnds a-piece." " Ilea, hea ! an' 
 we will have, an' quickly too," shouted Threedbare and his brother 
 Yollow-stockings. "Yi, hea!" resumed the chief claimant, 
 "ther's rioa deawt o' that if we con reyse brass to get it, an' we'll 
 try feyr for 't." " Nought else," they all then cried, "But we 
 mun have all th' names ta'en deawn o' thoor 'at's claimin' ther 
 shares, afoor we gooan ony further," said the chairman, "an'awm
 
 74 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 just thinkin' we mun sattle -whoa are heirs, an' whoa aren't. 
 Ther's two o' Ailse-i'-th'Choamer lads 'at's send word they connot 
 attend to-day, but they're intendin' gooin shares i' th' estates. 
 For mi own part, aw dunnot think they're aught at all akin to th' 
 Mosscrop-hill family, for aw've known th' lot on 'em for fifty yer, 
 .an' ther's nivver one on 'em owned to bein' akin to eawr family 
 afoor." " Oh, make short wark on 'em, cut 'em off beawt a 
 shillin," said Finepins, "all th' country 11 want to be akin to us 
 neaw." 
 
 It was then decided that Ailse-i'-th'Choamer lads should be 
 objected to as relations of the Mosscrop-hill family ; then, after 
 paying a half-crown each towards getting their estates, they set 
 to reckoning up what each one would have when his fortune 
 came. 
 
 The next meeting was held at the Queen Hotel, at Todmorden. 
 At this meeting Old Langsettle gave an account of his glass- 
 looking since he last saw them. He said — " What, aw've seen 
 gradely into th' matter this last fortnit : aw've seen th' old Squire 
 of all 'at laft yo' th' property, an' he were huntin op o' th' Raw 
 powl. He used to ride a black horse called 'Jewel,' 'at could 
 clear th' heyest fence for miles areawnd, an' he had th' best pack 
 o' fox-heawnds 'at ivver hunted Tormden dale, an' he were known 
 all through England as a gret hunter. Aw thought one dey aw'ld 
 look what gentry he hunted wi', an' behowd aw made eawt Scpiires 
 Teawnley, Cunliffe, Greenwood, Sutcliffe, Hodgson, an' a lot o' 
 gentry fro' London wey, one on 'em akin to th' king." 
 
 "Theerneaw! that's it," cried YolloAv-stockings, "aw've olez 
 seel we were off a noble breed ; aw could tell that bi mi likin 
 huntin soa weel, and wark so ill. Neaw for heawnd dogs, knee- 
 breeches, an' huntin. Tally ho, my brave heawnds ! Tinker, 
 Towler, Bowler, Plunder, Ballymon !" Then there were as 
 many glasses of drinking-stuff called for, to treat Langsettle 
 with, as if he'd been a little shark, and had as much stomach- 
 power as two or three like Threedbare. However, Langsettle 
 had no idea of turning his inside into a cask, and proceeded with 
 his narrative about what he had seen in the glass. Jone-o'-th'
 
 AND YORRSHIRE BORDER. 75 
 
 Lumbers asked him " If he'd seen aught of his feyther's uncle, 
 Aby ; he were a long, lenock}- chap, wi' a hand like a bakin- 
 spittle, a shough like a backstooan , ov a Sunday lie wore a 
 reawnd jacket, an' knee-breeches, an' generally had a drop on his 
 
 nooas eml }" "To be sure aw have,'' said Langsettle, "he were 
 a regular softy ov a felly ; if he'd ha' look'd after his reyts yo'd 
 ha' been gentry just neaw ; but he'd a heart like a chicken, an' 
 were as good to persuade to be quiet abeawt his property as yo' 
 arc to go an' get it, an' he could ha' cried as readily as ony young 
 woman, an' laughed agean wi' th' tears ov his cheeks. What, 
 aw've seen all th' family on yo'." "Then yo' con tell whether 
 yond' long-chinned winter-legs of a Chelpy wife, thro' Worsthorne, 
 be one o' eawr family?" said one: " Hoo coom ower, th' last 
 week, pretendin 'at hoo're one o' th' better mack o' th' Mosscrop- 
 hill family, an' 'at hoo were beawn shares i' eawr estates ; but aw 
 (jitickly tell'd her hoo're tawkin tawk 'at'ld do untawked, for hoo 
 noather wur nor nivver would be. An' afoor we'd let her ley 
 claim to a single penny, we'd ware all th' estates i' law. What, 
 an' hoo went whenly malancholy ; hei meawth twitched as if hoo'd 
 fits, and went ail shaps— reawnd, square, an' like a coil-box ; an' 
 hoo winked, and stamped, an' spit as thick as a witch, an' wished 
 for peawr to wither all my limbs, an' said hoo'd a peyr o' good 
 legs, an' hoo'd ware 'em to th' knees wi 'tramping after th'estate afoor 
 hoo'd be done eawt on't, for hoo were as sure one o' the better 
 mack o' eawr family as ivver Owd Nan-i'-Hurstwood rooad through 
 Teawnley Holmes on a besom stail. ' What. moii,'hoo said, " aw 
 con tell wheer th' lily grew i' th' hall-garden, an' heaw niony acre 
 o' land ther' were in' all th' estate ; an' aw'll tak good care yo' 
 dooant get a single farthin' if aw mooant go shares.' ' 
 
 When Langsettle heard this he said, "Aw'll look i' th' glass 
 abeawt this matter, an' tell yo' all abeawt it when aw come agean, 
 but aw hardly think hoo's one o' th' family, for aw dooent 
 remember seein ony body o' her favvor i" th' glass."' " Xough, 
 nor yo' willn't do," sheawted Finepins, "for hoo's nought at all 
 o' th' breed on us ; an' if hoo be o' eawr name al all hoo's changed 
 her nunc to heir th' estate, an' that's what scoores '11 do if we'll
 
 76 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 let m; but see yo' look i' th' glass, Langsettle." " Aw will, aw 
 will," said he, and then he went on to say he had seen the wills,, 
 and for a ten pound note a piece he could get them by the next 
 meeting ; and in the meantime he would advise one of the claim- 
 ants should be sent to Heptonstall Church to read up all their 
 pedigrees. The chief claimant was then appointed to this office, 
 and also to act as messenger to carrjr news of the proceedings to 
 the different members of the family who could not attend the 
 meetings, and collect their subscriptions, for which he should 
 receive half-a-crown a day. In describing his researches for the 
 Wycollar estate, Langsettle said he had seen the old Squire, in all 
 his earthly glory, going for a day's sport down to Burnley, taking 
 with him five cocks in "pooaks," dubbed, clipped, and steeled for 
 a main, three bull-dogs to fight, and a bull to bait. 
 
 When they heard this, several voices cried out " Yer him, yer 
 him !" and Dick-i'-th'-Smithy jumped to his feet, and said he'ld 
 " be his marro afoor two month end, for dog fey tin' an' cock 
 setting were what he gloried in aboon aught else." Then he 
 struck his neyve against the ceiling of the room and said, " hooa 
 wants to feyt, for this makes me feel as if aw wanted to jingle 
 my clogs agean som'dy's shins, and jowl mi yed agean theirs ;'' 
 and his neck went as red as a turkey's. Langsettle then fixed a 
 time for his next meeting, when he would bring " wills " for all 
 their estates, and left the hotel in a hurry to attend another 
 family for whom he was claiming an estate. 
 
 At their next meeting Jacky-at-th'-Moor-top was appointed to 
 the chair. Then Langsettle began to explain what trouble he had 
 had in getting the will ; he'd had to get a number of coffins taken 
 up to get at some old writings, which he had managed, after a 
 deal of trouble, to secure; and he had found, as they had told him, 
 that the estates were entailed upon heirs. " What, what," said 
 Jacky, " sey that agean ; teyled up o' hairs 1 Oh, but we'll dock 
 it," "Dock it? Yer yo," cried three or four; "that's it, Jacky, 
 dock it, dock it !" Langsettle then showed a bundle of papers 
 and said they were the wills for the Heptonstall and Wycollar 
 estates, and he did not doubt but by the next time he came he
 
 AND YoHKsinin-; /!(>/:/>/■;/:. 77 
 
 uld have all ready for the estates being claimed. The chief 
 claimant was then called on to state what he was doing al 
 Ileptonstall Church. He said he had looked oxer .">00 names of 
 their family, and so far as he had got there was every sign of 
 cess. Just at this point a disturbance arose in one corner of 
 the room. It was Bill-o'-George's making a row about Jacky 
 being put in for the chairman ; he said, " Yo're putting Jacky a 
 hale to soin ; aw should ha' th' first chonce, for aw'm th' nearest 
 akin to th' heir but two." "What! what ar' to 5 Bill," cried 
 Jacky, " th' nearest but two ? Theaw 'rt mi gronfeyther, artn't 
 ta 1 See thi, Bill, theaw may tine op ony time, for theaw't 
 ooather second, third, nor th' twenty-third heir th' long an' 
 short on 't is, when theaw't reckoned op, theaw's noather lot Jior 
 part i' th' matter; theaw con heir nought, so bundil eawt." 
 "That's reyt, Jacky, that's reyt!" cried Threedbare. "Cross 
 him eawt — cross him eawt." " Vhi, do !" sheawted three or four 
 more, " cross him eawt, ther'll he soa mich moor a-piece for us." 
 Then they bundled Bill-o'-Geoi iwt, which Langsettle said 
 
 they were quite right in doing, for he'd long seen he was not 
 entitled to a single farthing. Then he said, " ther's Ailse-i'-th' 
 Choamcr lads; aw'vc looked in' th' glass for them, an' aw find 
 they'll noather lot nor part i' th' matter; they're of another family 
 of yo'r name." " Hea ! they're o' th' war mack," shouted Fine- 
 pins, " soa cut 'em off ; cut 'em off." After the meeting closed, 
 each of the claimants indulged his wild imagination in picturing 
 the glories of a gentleman's life. Jim-o-th-Owd-Mon's said, 
 "We'll ride this dale wi' a carriage an' two greys. Ther's eawr 
 Boh yonder, he weant do a penny teaward gettin' th' estate : he'll 
 wish he had done then, but it'll he to noa use, for mi feythur has 
 made his will an 5 laft him beawt a penny, an' sarved him reyt, 
 too; an' neaw he'll ha' to hag an' work who! we ride abeawt." 
 The claimants went to the next meeting with very anxious minds, 
 and for fear thai something might happen Langsettle in some of 
 the railway tunnels, they took" a cab to meet the train al ion 
 
 seven miles away, where he was taken out and conveyed, for 
 greater safety, as they worded it. " eawt o' th' top < ' t h' greawnd."
 
 78 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 When they arrived at the hotel they were soon delighted at see- 
 ing Langsettle take out of his pocket what he had told them at 
 the last meeting were the wills, and each one had a large red seal 
 at every corner, and four or five down each side ; these he said 
 were the Chancellor's seals, and had cost a sovereign a-piece. He 
 had got every thing now ready for the estates being claimed, 
 except that he wanted six seals more, which the Chancellor would 
 not let him have till he got the number of the estates in the 
 Chancery book, and one of the claimants had best go to London 
 and get these numbers. Then they would have nothing to do 
 but take possession by cutting up a sod, and they might then at 
 once draw the rents, get their hound-dogs and hunt to their 
 hearts' delight. While Langsettle thus dilated, the claimants sat 
 with their eyes, ears, and mouths open to the back, and the men- 
 tion of hound-dogs had such a power on their noble blood, 
 that Finepins, Yollow-stockins, Threedbare and Jacky all thought 
 they could see a pack, and began to shout, " Nudger, Tinker, 
 Towler, Bowler, Plunder ; come in yet, Mountaineer, Merry man; 
 ha, hey, ha, hough, ha, hoop, mi brave dogs ! " and made such a 
 noise that the other inmates of the house turned pale with fear. 
 Then they seized Langsettle on his chair, and carried him round 
 the room shoulder-high. After they had settled down, Lang- 
 settle went on to say he had made investigations respecting 
 Chelpy wife, of Worsthorne, and had found she was very, very 
 little related to their family, and she would have to prove it 
 before she could claim aught. But he had discovered a large inn 
 in London which was left to a woman of their name. "That's 
 eawr Betty ; that's me, that's mi wife," stuttered John-o'Dickey's, 
 and the tears started to his eyes for joy, "hea, that's eawr Betty," 
 he said. " Then yo'n nought to do but go to London an' claim 
 it," said Langsettle, " for it's yo'r's." " Aa ! meystur, yo' dunnot 
 tell true, dun yo ' '? " said John, " whativer will yo' sey 1 " " Yhi, 
 it's true enough," said Langsettle, "an' yo' mini go claim it at 
 once." " Aa, well," said John, " aw nivver thought aw mud ha' 
 gooan soa far thro' whom, for aw've nivver been further nor 
 Stooidley Pike sin aw wur wick, an' aw nivver vrar a dey eawt
 
 AXD YORKSHIRE BORDER. 79* 
 
 o' th' sect o' tli' Bill Nipe i' ;ill mi life ; an' aeaw yo'sen aw muii 
 goa all th' wry to Loudon. Whativer will eawr Betty an' th' 
 childer Bey?" Then he drew his sleeve across his mouth, and 
 wiped a tear from nil' his check with his coat cape, and said, "aw 
 nivver thought o' aught like this — whativer will eawr Betty an' 
 th' childer sey .' " " Well," said Langsettle, " if yo' dooant want 
 to goa aw'll give yo' a theawsand peawnd for't, and yo'st sign it 
 owcr to me. ' When Finepins heard this he called out : " John, 
 John, keep thi hand thro' papper ; sign thee nought off ; what- 
 iver tha does beside, keep thi hand thro' papper, an' stick to what 
 tha has — tiler's noa tellin heaw weel off west be yet. What 
 we'n yerd a wind o' th' Mosscrop-hill — that's eawrs, and moor 
 beside it; so keep thi hand thro' papper." Lmgsettlc having, 
 thus gained his point, went on to state that " he was well 
 acquainted with th' Queen, an' hoo'd gien him lief to claim th' 
 estates ony time ; an he'st ha' had 'em just then but for th' 
 Chancellor wantin ther numbers ; heawiver, one o' th' claimants 
 mud at once be sent oft' to get 'em, an' goa to th' Chancellor 
 abeawt it." So they pitched upon Finepins as the ripest of them, 
 and collected a handsome sum to send him off to London. 
 
 When this meeting was over, the chief claimant hurried oft' 
 home as quickly as possible, and as soon as he got into the house 
 shouted to their Billy, who was weaving by hand, " Billy, Billy, 
 throw dcawn this minute ; not another pick shol ta wey ve ; an' if 
 ivver thoor 'at belangs that warp have 't they'll booath fotch it 
 and weyve it, for we'st nivver carry it." Then he threw his arms 
 into the air, and shouted, " we dunnot need to work another 
 strooak ; we'n brass enough ; we'll let 'em see hooas th' meystur 
 neaw. Come on, Billy." Then they went into the wood close 
 by, and began to cut down the boughs of the trees, and to stake 
 out portions of land, when the gamekeeper came across them, 
 and asked what they were up to. " Op to 1 " said the claimant, 
 " if theaw stops theer two minutes aw'll show thi, for aw'll 
 tak thi o' th' top o' yed wi' this axe. Aw'll let yo' know 
 this land es eawrs." The keeper said he didn't know that, and 
 walked off, for fear the claimant might be off his mind, when the
 
 SO THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 claimant cried out, " wobbut aw'll let thi know, an' aw'll doff them 
 leggins for thi afoor two month to-dey, an' theaw may tell thi 
 meyster aw'll shift him at the same time, an' his hall, too ; aw 
 willn't be bothered wi' th' reek off it ; think o' that neaw, an' 
 ■dunnut let me catch thee o' my greawnd again." 
 
 The first thing Threedbare did when he left the meeting was to 
 order a pack of flour, two baskets of red herrings, and a barrel 
 of treacle, at which the shopkeeper was quite " capped," and 
 said, "What, is your brass corned 1" "Nay, but it's as good as 
 corned," said Threedbare, "we're as sure on 't as if we had it." 
 "Wobbut," said the shopkeeper, "aw'm nooen as sure o' my 
 treycle, an' yerrin, an' aw think aw sholl be afoor aw part wi' 
 'em. Aw'll see yo' wi' them heawnd dogs yo'n talked so mitch 
 abeawt, an' that white horse, afoor aw trust yo' soa mitch stuff." 
 " Wan, that weant be long afoor," said Threedbare. " Xoa moor 
 parish pey thro' Billy Beaw. Noa moor going to bed beawt 
 supper, and getting up agean to chell porridge, made off th' 
 shakins o' th' fleawer pooak. Noa moor wearin owd thank yo', 
 sir, clooas, and cammed shooin at's belanged to knock-a-kneed 
 gentry. We'st be gentry uzsels directly, an' if yo' we'ant find me 
 aught neaw yo' shoant do then," and away old Threedbare went. 
 
 When Finepins had made arrangements about going to London, 
 he went and bought four-and-twenty dickeys, a gold watchguard, 
 and a gold key to wind up his watch with ; and the day 
 following got off his work to have a day's practice at 
 acting the gentleman. When he set off to London his " Uncle 
 Ab " stood on the door-stones, to watch him off to the 
 train, and said to the old shoemaker, " What, aw 
 guess eawr Sally lad es goin after this brass ?" " Yhi, aw guess 
 soa," said he. "Well," said Ab, "they're sendin a reyt un, for 
 he's a ripe un is eawr Sail}'- lad, and he'll make yond' Chancellor 
 turn op th' brass, an' teych 'em better nor keepin what they 
 dooent belang." And Jincly he did, too, for he came back as 
 wise as he went, only that lie had nearly seen the Queen one 
 day, and sat in her chair the day after. Jle said, "Aw've sought 
 dey after dey for th' Chancellor, an' aw couldn't yer o' sitch a
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. -1 
 
 spot ; aw dooent believe ther is one, beside. Aw've axed a scoor 
 o' pleecemen abeaut that inn that belangs to John-o'-Dickey , s J but 
 
 nil aw could get eawt on 'cm were, they axed rae if aw wanted h 
 ticket for the 'syluni." This was rather a blank for the claimants . 
 but when they told Langsettle at their next meeting, he said he 
 could make all right by getting the numbers himself, which he 
 would do by the next month. He was then preparing to leave 
 again, when Slippyfeet called him back, and said he'd catched a 
 back-tin full o' treawts, an' he had 'em wick an' whol as they 
 coom eawt o' th' poand, an' he'd make him a present on 'em ; he 
 could bring the tin back the next time he coom. Then the 
 Boldcrer lad stepped up, and took a great pot out of his pocket, 
 and gave it to Langsettle, saying, " It's a jar o' rhuburb presarves 
 'at mi mother's send yo' ; they're boiled i' th' best trcyele — hoo 
 said aw were to tell yo'." Thus one and another made presents 
 to Langsettle as many as he could well carry, among other things 
 several rabbits and hares, and saw him off to Hollinwood, in full 
 hopes that he would bring everything settled for claiming the 
 ites next time he came. And so confident were several of 
 them about this that they visited their reputed estates, and 
 pretended to take possession by cutting up a sod, which they 
 brought home Avith them. 
 
 On the day of the next meeting the claimants were so anxious 
 to see if Langsettle had started off from home that they engaged 
 another glass-reader to look if he had left Hollinwood for Tod- 
 morden. This glass-reader said he had : he could see him setting 
 off with the wills and all else ready for the estates being claimed. 
 At this news they were so delighted, and so confident it was 
 true, that they threw down their tools and left their work, bidding 
 good-bye to their fellow-workmen, and inviting them to look in 
 on them now and then when they got into their new halls, and 
 they should have plenty to go on with. Then they hastened off 
 to meet Langsettle at Todmorden, but all in vain ; he never- 
 appeared that day, and the chief claimant was also missing. This 
 caused many wild speculations ; some felt convinced they had 
 absconded with the deeds, and were intending roguing the 
 
 F
 
 82 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 claimants out of it. They had then to return home with their 
 hearts nearer the lowest buttons of their waistcoats than when 
 they came, to be laughed and jeered at by their fellow-men for 
 their sanguine hopes and ridiculous conduct. However, Lang- 
 settle and the claimant turned up again in about a week, and 
 explained that they had been called away about another very 
 important case. This explanation satisfied all the claimants 
 with the exception of one, who began to see a possibility 
 that they were being gulled, and he questioned Langsettle 
 very closely on some particular point. At this he became quite 
 vexed, and declared he would have this claimant turned out of the 
 room before he proceeded any further, so they tumed him out. 
 Langsettle then said : "Aw couldn't get all sattled off to-day, thro' 
 th' Queen havin had a christenin', an' they're varry neglectful at 
 London this week ; but aw'm sure to have all ready next time aw 
 come." "Hear, hear," cried Threedbare, "aw've getten a basket 
 o ; heawnd-whelps on th' speck on 't, an' aw've ordered Jack-o'th'- 
 Naze to get his leggins an' his gamekeepin clooas agean th' time 
 aw want him." They then separated as usual, and talked about 
 having two drawings in one fortnight, and which of the farms 
 they Avould occupy on their new estates. 
 
 The appointed clay arrived when Langsettle should straighten 
 all off, but when he had got about two miles up Burnley valley 
 on his way to the Roebuck Inn, Portsmuth, a railway collision 
 occurred. As soon as the claimants heard this they hastened off 
 to see if Langsettle was amongst the rubbish. They found him 
 all right, except he had received a slight shaking ; so they seized 
 him by the arms and escorted him to his destination, where he 
 explained to them that the Chancellor had gone into the north of 
 England to survey an estate similar to theirs, containing a vast 
 amount of minerals which had just been claimed, therefore he 
 had not been able to get all settled off yet. Just then one of the 
 claimants rushed into the room shouting, " Has he brought it, has 
 he brought it?" "Ney, not to-day," one said. The matter was 
 then explained to him, when he proceeded to say that a number 
 of the claimants' wives had just requested him to ask Langsettle
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 83 
 
 to go to Burnley that day and have his likeness taken, and 
 they would pay for it, and have one a-piece ; for, said one, "we 
 con nivver forgive ussels if aught should happen him, and we 
 hannot a likeness on him, an' ther's sure sommat to hefal him, 
 Boiner or later, he's sitch an angel ov a felly — he's too good for 
 here." So Langsettle got a number of photographs taken, to be 
 looked at by the Wycollar Hall and Heptonstall estates' claim 
 ants, some of which remain to this day. By this time it had 
 become quite evident to the turned-out claimant, and many 
 others, that Langsettle was a wretched knave. They had found 
 that the seals were those of the Hollinwood United Order of 
 Oddfellows ; that the pretended wills were false ; and that the 
 whole affair was a piece of the rankest deception ever practised 
 on a parcel of ignorant country people ; and very shortly after, 
 Langsettle was taken into custody, tried, and sentenced to 
 imprisonment in Manchester New Bailey, in which prison he 
 ended his days, at the age of seventy-two years. 
 
 Thus the wild dreamings of the claimants passed as a vision of 
 the night : and after having paid a half-crown per week each for 
 more than two years, they were left with their eyes opened to the 
 stern fact that thev must work to live ; that their bunting dogs 
 and horses were but fancies of the mind, and that they had been 
 the foolish dupes of one of the blackest liars between the two 
 worlds. 
 
 The author of the remarkable sketch of local character we 
 have just given, as of some other similar sketches hardly less 
 graphic, was a young man named James Standing, a native of the 
 Burnley valley before-mentioned. The name " Standing " would 
 appear to be a corruption of the older Anglo-Saxon name 
 Standen, or Standene, signifying a " stony valley." Standing was 
 born at Todmorden, close to the Cliviger border, in June, 1S-48, 
 his father being employed at the time in a coal-pit. 
 
 The township of Cliviger (Clivachcr, rocky district) forms part 
 of the romantic Burnley vale, which itself marks for a consider- 
 able distance the division between Lancashire and Yorkshire. It 
 is remarkable for three different rivers which all take their rise 
 
 f2
 
 84 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 here, viz., the East and West Calders, and the Irwell. It is as 
 picturesque a region as is to be found within thirty miles of Man- 
 chester, and its natural charms have been much enhanced by the 
 extensive plantings made during his lifetime by the late Dr. 
 Whitaker, the learned historian of Whalley, whose patrimonial 
 estate of "Holme" forms part of the district, and who long 
 resided here. 
 
 We learn, with regard to Standing, that in his early youth he 
 was distinguished for that restless activity which, when not 
 directed to a proper end, frequently leads the subject into serious 
 mischief; and that in consequence of this, and the res angusta 
 domi, he was hooked into harness pretty early. Before attaining 
 his eighth year he was set to work at a bobbin manufactory ; 
 some time later he worked in a cotton factory ; and subsequently, 
 his father having become a partner in a brickmaking business, 
 young Standing went to assist in the brickyard. When in his 
 teens studious habits developed themselves, and his natural parts 
 being good, Standing's progress in certain branches of knowledge 
 was rapid. His chief studies were linguistic and philological, 
 though he made fair progress in several other branches ; and he 
 not only attained to considerable proficiency in the French and 
 German languages, but made a more than respectable acquaint 
 ance with the two literatures. And by the way, in looking over 
 his papers, we find that Standing, with the practical and calculat- 
 ing turn of the people among whom he lived, was in the habit of 
 summing up the money value (according to his own estimate) of 
 his new intellectual acquirements ! — a trait intensely charac- 
 teristic, and one which confirms all that we have previously stated 
 in this regard. 
 
 Very early, Standing began to write pieces in the local dialect, 
 both prose and verse, these first literary efforts of his generally 
 finding a place in the columns of the Todmorden Advertiser, the 
 oldest paper of the district, and to which he contributed up to 
 within a few months of his death. But his object being to make 
 his literary attainments and abilities " pay" at the earliest possible 
 moment, and in the most feasible fashion, he shortly hit upon the
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 85 
 
 idea of ;t kind of literary almanack, ;md at the end of 1*73 
 issued his first Lancashire and Yorkshire Comic, Historic, and Poetic 
 Almanack — a sufficiently sounding and comprehensive title, the 
 last issue appearing in 1877, the year preceding his death. The 
 literary matter filling this almanack is mainly written in the 
 vernacular, and includes some of Standing's best efforts, though 
 these are sadly mixed with others very inferior. The Muses do 
 not willingly serve Plutus, and very often when hooked into the 
 household wagon the " fiery" Pegasus will not stir a foot ! Nor, 
 unless in posthumous fame, has much of the world's best work 
 ever been paid for. But present pence, rather than posthumous, 
 or even present fame (which, after all, makes not the pot to boil) 
 was wanted here ; and Standing, putting his literary wares into 
 marketable shape, his almanack, with its sounding title, came to 
 have a wide circulation, not only in the Burnley valley, but 
 throughout the district. It is from one of these almanacks, viz.» 
 that issued for 1874, that we have drawn the foregoing history 
 of " Old Langsettle and his Dupes." Previously to the issue of 
 this publication Standing had appeared before the Lancashire 
 public as the author of a small collection of verse and prose 
 pieces, in the local dialect, under the title of Echoes from a 
 Lancashire Vale (publisher, John Heywood, Manchester). This 
 little brochure, which reached a second thousand, contains cue or 
 two things so very characteristic that we shall take the oppor- 
 tunity of extracting them. Here is one, a true picture of a 
 Burnley - valley interior, entitled " Wimmen's Wark es Niver 
 Done," which Waugh confessed to us he had never surpassed : — 
 
 WIMMEN'S WARK ES NIVEE DONE. 
 
 Aw dunnot reckon aw con preytch, 
 
 Aw ne'er were treyn'd to do t. 
 Yet may lie aw cud make a speech 
 
 If aw were reyt put to 't ; 
 At leost aw've lang'd sometimes to try, 
 
 An' neaw aw've like begun, 
 An' this es th' text aw've taen i' hand — 
 
 " Wimmen's wark es niver done." 
 O'th' Monday morn aw yet up tired — 
 
 A child tug, tug at th' breast ; 
 Aw think sometimes aw'd lig whol eight, 
 
 But really ther's no rest.
 
 86 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 Bi th' workers get off to ther wark 
 
 Another lot begin 
 To romp abeawt, an' feight, an' heyt, 
 
 An' make a weary din. 
 One's sheawtin — " Mother do get up, 
 
 An' come an' lick eawr John, 
 He's makin' sugar-butter-cakes, 
 
 An' leyin' treycle on ; 
 Eawr Billy's been i'th' cobbenl top, 
 
 An' brokken th' fancy plate 
 Ut yo tell'd us we mudn't touch — 
 
 Yo'd put it eawt o'th' gate." 
 An' then eawr Betty's rooitin' up 
 
 I'th' box ut should be fast ; 
 Eawr Tommy's runn'd eawt in his shirt, 
 
 An's makin' cakes wi nast. 
 
 This way they carry on their pranks, 
 
 An' make ther rows i'th' heawse, 
 Whol aw'm plump foarc'd to get op too, 
 
 For talkin's ov no use. 
 Aw've then to buckle to mi wark, 
 
 For aw've so micli to do ; 
 Whol 't ligs i' yeps o' ivery side, 
 
 An' plenty on't for two. 
 Wi' th' young un skrikin' i' mi arms, 
 
 Aw do th' jobs as aw con : 
 Aw've the breykfast first of all to make, 
 
 An' tli' childer's clooas to don ; 
 Then two or three mun off to th' schooil, 
 
 An' that i' time an' all ; 
 Or else they'll say they dar not go, 
 
 An' sit ther deawn an' bawl. 
 Th' clock then strikes nine afoore aw've th' chonce 
 
 To get a bite o' meyt : 
 A mother's no chonce fur hersel 
 
 Whol th' childer's eawt o'th' gate. 
 It's reyk mi this, an' fotch mi t' tother, 
 
 Gie mi that, an' bring another, 
 This button stitch, that gallus sew, 
 
 This shirt sleeve mend — it's all i' tew ; 
 An' mony a scoor o' little jobs 
 
 'At aw con hardly mention, 
 That all tak op a mother's time, 
 
 Her patience an' attention. 
 
 Bi th' time aw get mi child asleep, 
 
 Aw've then to start an' shap 
 To make a dinner o' some kind, 
 
 Whol tli' babby gets a nap ; 
 When in come two or three fro' th' schooil, 
 
 An' start o' roatin' eawt — 
 " Han yo' etten all t' parkin up ? 
 
 Aw'll bet yo'n laft me beawt." 
 Aw've then to grin, an' stamp, an' feight, 
 
 An' jowl ther yeds together ; 
 An' spite ov all they wakken th' child 
 
 An' cause mi endless bother :
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. s7 
 
 So thai aw count 1 1 .■ i ' th' dinner made 
 
 Bi th' tother lol come in ; 
 Aw've then their freawnin' looks to tak', 
 
 Beside tlieir plaguey din. 
 They niver seem to think it aught 
 
 Heawiver aw \ e i" run, 
 An" niver seem to gie 't a thought 
 
 L't my walk's niver done. 
 Aw think sometimes aw should be made 
 
 To do beawt rest or bed, 
 Wi' double hands at oather side, 
 
 An' een all round mi yed : 
 Aw eudn't then mind ivery point, 
 
 An' keep all corners reyt — 
 Wheer ther's a rook o 1 childer kept 
 
 Yo' connot keep things strej t. 
 
 I'th' afternoiii aw'm thranged wi' wark, 
 
 Aw've ne'er no time to levk ; 
 Ther's weyshin' deys, an' cleanin' days, 
 
 An' deys to rook and bake, 
 An' mony a hundred bits o' jobs 
 
 'At mothers ban' to do : 
 Ther's weyshin' up, an' niendin' stuff, 
 
 An' th' bit o' nursin', too ; 
 But th creawnin' point ov all, aw think, 
 
 Is after six at neet : 
 A'a ! what a pantomime ther is ! 
 
 It'ld cap yo' ail to see 't : 
 One sits i'th' nook, its face awry, 
 
 An' makin' sich a din — 
 It's yerd a hurdy-gurdy chap, 
 
 An' neaw it's praetisin". 
 Another's seen some huntin' dogs, 
 
 An's looin' like a lieaund, 
 Or sheawtin' like th' owld huntin' chap — 
 
 It seems to fancy th' seawnd. 
 Then one or two 'at's deawn o'tlv floor 
 
 Are usin' all ther brains 
 To puff an' blow, an' yell an' crow, 
 
 Like whistlin' railway trains. 
 Another batch o'th' bigger end 
 
 Are jackin' o'er ther wark, 
 Or playin' bits o' crafty tricks, 
 
 To have a merry lark. 
 
 At th' end of all they disagree, 
 
 An" then, folks, a'a, what bother ! 
 One turns to bein' ineysterful. 
 
 An' starts o" cleawtin' t'other. 
 Aw've then to start an' f eight, mysel', 
 
 For tawkin's eawt o' date ; 
 They've getten lioofed wi' 't, like th' owd chap, 
 
 An' laugh to yer mi prate. 
 An' as for him, he takes no part 
 
 I' keepin' th' corners square ; 
 Heawiver heedless th' childer be, 
 
 He niver seems to care ;
 
 88 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 An' 'steead o' leyin' on a hand, 
 
 An' helpin' what he con, 
 He leovs all th' bits o' jobs to me, 
 
 Whol mi wark's niver done. 
 At last ov all they get to bed ; 
 
 Aw'm some an' feyn to see 't, 
 For it's a comfort to be quiet 
 
 An heawr or two at neet. 
 Aw wish sometimes aw had been born 
 
 Below a lucky star, 
 Wi' all mi looaves an' muffins baked, 
 
 Like th' gentle folks's are. 
 But then ageon, aw think, for sure, 
 
 All persons have ther ills ; 
 We'd just as weel be killed wi' wark 
 
 As dee wi' takkin' pills. 
 
 Then when aw look at th' childer's cheeks, 
 
 It brings joy to my heart ; 
 Aw tak' a noble pride to think 
 
 Aw act a woman's part. 
 An' though aw ha' no halls nor lands 
 
 'At aw mi own con call, 
 Aw'm blest wi' childer fresh an' fair, 
 
 An' that eawtweighs 'em all. 
 
 In 1876 Standing published what he calls his " Continental Run ; 
 comprising a glance at the chief Cities of Europe," a stiffish 
 brochure of some fifty pages, which attained a considerable local 
 circulation. 
 
 About the time that Standing began authorship he emerged from 
 the brickyard and established a school at " Vale," in the Burnley 
 valley, which he conducted for several years with marked 
 success. But having married, and becoming seized with a fierce 
 desire — " fierce " is the word — to " get on in the world," he gave 
 up school-teaching, and started the business of a boot, shoe, and 
 leather dealer, in the neighbouring town of Todmorden, in con- 
 junction with his father. To this he shortly after added the 
 trade of a tobacconist, which he carried on at Burnley eight 
 miles distant. And, as if this were not enough, he engaged at 
 the same time, in the profession of auctioneer and general 
 appraiser in the two last-named towns ! In one of his poems in 
 the dialect alreadv quoted, in one of those occasional strokes 
 which prove his latent powers, and show what he might, with due 
 patience and painstaking, have done and become, Standing- 
 says : —
 
 AXJ> YORKSHIRE BORDER, 
 
 But then ageon, aw think, for sure, 
 
 All persons have bher ills ; 
 We'djusl as weel b< killed > r >' warlt 
 
 . I . ,1, , ,i-i' takkin' jiM* ! 
 
 The sparkling wit and appositcness of this passage are worthy 
 of Burns, the prince of dialect-writers, and iinding these occasional 
 " miiruets " one is constrained to exclaim : si sic omnia ! 
 
 We'd just as weel be killed wi' walk 
 As dee wi' takkin' pills. 
 
 Yes ! but only the healthy man can snap his fingers at the 
 doctors ; and about this time poor Standing's health began to 
 fail him to such an extent that he was fain to resort to what, in 
 his provincial way, he always called " doctor's physic." All the 
 above trades, businesses, callings, and occupations, with the 
 accompanying turmoil and anxieties, were too much for even a 
 strong man. The "pills " had to be "takk'n " at last ! 
 
 To add to his difficulties and sorrows, his poor wife, whose 
 health had never been robust, now suddenly fell sick and died ; 
 his only surviving child soon followed : the bitter cup was 
 charged to the brim. Worn out with grief and anxiety, as well 
 as with sickness, Standing succumbed ; and within the brief 
 period of eight months father, mother, and child were gathered 
 in one common grave under the green-sward of the little Baptist 
 Chapel at Vale — a sudden and tragical ending, indeed, to a 
 career at one time not wanting in promise. 
 
 It was some months before his death, which occurred in February, 
 1878, that we last saAV Standing, at Hurstwood, on the borders 
 of romantic Cliviger — Hurstwood, for ever renowned as the 
 sometime home of the poet Spenser — a quaint little village, near 
 which the sparkling and wood-fringed Brun, whose source is in the 
 wild moorlands above, comes tumbling with foam over mossy 
 rocks, or glides silently in deep pools darkened by overhanging 
 foliage. On the banks of this stream, so charming at this point, 
 Standing, who was in poor health at the time, lingered in the 
 twilight of a still, autumn day to rest awhile, for, along with a 
 party of friends, we had had what he called a " heavy run " over 
 the crags and fells of Cliviger. In the twilight he lingered
 
 <K) THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 long, muttering, if we rightly remember, those beautiful lines of 
 Schiller's : — 
 
 In des Herzens heilig stille Riiume 
 Musst du rliehen aus des Lebens Drang ! 
 
 and in the twilight we bade him good-bye — as it happened a last 
 good-bye. And reflecting, now, upon the sad changes that so 
 speedily followed, it seems twilight still, but a twilight deepening 
 into darkness and night. 
 
 Personally we were attached to Standing, for despite a some- 
 what uncouth exterior, and manners that might be called 
 " provincial," he was a person of the tenderest sensibility and the 
 most delicate heart, who had read the poets carefully and thought- 
 fully, and with one of the greatest of the moderns had heard 
 The still, sad music of humanity ! 
 
 In him the kernel of the nut was as sweet as the husk was 
 rough. With Nature who, as Maine de Biran says, "ever whis- 
 pers consoling secrets to attentive ears," Standing walked, as 
 with a mistress whom he loved. To all her changing aspects his 
 eyes were open ; and often in journeying, a solitary traveller, 
 over the dusky moors that stretch for miles and miles around his 
 home he had felt 
 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills ! 
 
 As is often the case, though Standing's acquaintances were many, 
 his friends were few ; but to those few he Avas singularly devoted, 
 and one of them tells, with much emotion even yet, how when 
 he had suddenly fallen a victim to an infectious disease of a most 
 virulent character, and lay sick unto death, none daring to 
 approach him, Standing loyally came to his bedside, at the risk of 
 his own life, and nursed him into health again — a noble instance 
 of that kind of moral grandeur and heroism which the poets have 
 not too much dwelt on. 
 
 Among Standing's friends above referred to were Dr. Spencer 
 T. Hall, the late Mr. Wilkinson, of Burnley, Mr. Henry Nutter, 
 of the same town, and others. Among his numerous acquaint- 
 ances were not a few gentlemen connected with the Manchester
 
 AND YORKSHIRE BORDER. 91 
 
 Literary Clul», of which he w;is for several years a useful 
 member. And when Messrs. Nodal and Milner began the com- 
 pilation of their Glossary of Lancashire Words, Standing rendered 
 them an assistance which was deemed worthy of public 
 acknowledgment. 
 
 With regard to Standing's writings, they have been thought by 
 some to be more or less open to the charge of coarseness, but to 
 this charge their author was wont to reply that he did but paint 
 men and women as he found them — from the life, and as Crom- 
 well desired to be painted — with the wart on his nose. To the 
 writer of this memoir his translations from the French and 
 German, and his compositions in the dialect, were sent up from 
 the beginning. Nor was it long before we detected in the latter 
 some traces of original power, some departures, welcome however 
 slight, from the deep-worn ruts and grooves of the hackneyed, 
 some variety from the eternal rfohauffement, and everlasting 
 hash-up of things, though accompanied by every fault of execu- 
 tion. And we enjoined him to follow Boileau's oft-quoted advice 
 in similar circumstances. 
 
 Had Standing survived, and found himself able to adopt the 
 above friendly counsel, we believe that, with his undoubted 
 originality, his keen insight into character, and his overflowing 
 humour, he might have made a name in literature. As it is, and 
 brief as must, from the very nature of the case, be the fame of 
 writers in any dialect whatsoever (save in rare instances of 
 supreme genius), we venture to think that one or two, at least, 
 of these sketches of Standing's will live yet for some years, and 
 this by the vivid and " fast " colours in which he has painted a 
 condition of things phenomenal amid so much general enlighten- 
 ment, but which is surely passing, and will in the course of 
 another generation or two have totally passed, away. 
 
 In the preceding pages we have given examples of Standing's 
 dialectal powers, both in prose and verse, we conclude this article 
 with a final specimen of his mastery over the latter form of 
 expression : —
 
 92 THE FOLK-SPEECH OF THE LANCASHIRE 
 
 THE HENPECKED HUSBAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 Let unwed chaps a warning tak', 
 
 Thro' what aw here relate, 
 Of numerous drawbacks that pertain 
 
 To th' henpecked marriage state. 
 By five at morn aw'm forced to jump, 
 
 Or else my wife begins 
 To make it war to lig i' bed 
 
 Nor if aw wur o' pins ; 
 Her elbows leet sock i' my ribs — 
 
 " Does ta yer ? — weant ta stir ? — 
 No matter heaw awm teaw'd wi' th' child, 
 
 Theaw sleeps as though nought were. 
 This varry neet theaw's snored asleep 
 Whol aw've been teaw'd like aught, 
 An' couldn't get a wink mysel ; 
 
 But then theaw thinks that's nought. 
 If theaw con get thi rest all reyt, 
 
 Theaw niver seems to care. 
 Aw'll bet theawld ha' moor thought for me, 
 
 If theaw mud ha' thi share 
 O' th' mooil an' th' toil, both day an' neet, 
 
 At aw've to keep goin through ; 
 But, then, it's here, theaw little knows, 
 
 What thi' poor wife's to do. 
 Just neaw aw feel as tired an done 
 
 As when aw coom to bed. 
 Poor lasses ought to stop an' think, 
 
 Afooar they goa get wed. 
 Go leet that fire, an' warm some milk, 
 
 For th' child has supped it up ; 
 An' make a sup o' good whot tay, 
 
 An' let me have a cup. 
 Then fill that tub wi' waytur, too, 
 An' put thoor clooas to steep — 
 Oh dear ! aw do feel feynt and ill, 
 
 An' want to fall asleep. 
 But then, aw say, theaw'm fotch some coils ; 
 
 An' see theaw do'ant forget 
 To wakken me at breakfast time, 
 
 An' leave mi breakfast set." 
 Aw've thought sometimes, if hoo'd a mind, 
 
 Hoo'st don mi breeches reyt ; 
 But then, aw durstn't tell her that — 
 
 Aw h:mnot pluck to say 't. 
 At dinner time, when aw get worn, 
 
 Tilings lig upset o'tlf floor ; 
 A dam o' weyshin' suds and slop 
 
 Is sprad fro' th' fire to th' door. 
 When theer hoo meets me—" Tak this child ! 
 
 Aw'm nearly off' mi wits ! 
 Sin' breakfast-time it's skriked so hard, 
 
 Aw thought it wur i' tits. 
 Aw've had no time to cook thi' nought— 
 
 Oppen thi een, theaw'll see — 
 So o'er thi meyt theaw needn't speyk— 
 Theaw'rt just as sooin as me.
 
 AXD YORKSHIRE BORDER. 93 
 
 Theaw'm howd tliat child another )>it; 
 
 An in wiring tlieer stockins through, 
 Or else aw connot use mi .•suds, 
 
 An' that "11 niver do." 
 
 At last ov all mi dinner - made, 
 
 Hut long befool- aw \c done 
 Th' mill-whistle gooas, an' aw go too — 
 
 An 5 thai beside at run. 
 
 Then, when aw darken th' dore at neet, 
 
 Her clapper starts " tin-, tang;" 
 Aw think sometimea hoo isn't reyt, 
 
 But darnut say hoo s w rang, 
 " ( (ime John," hoo'll say. "an buckle too, 
 
 A wve long been wantra thee, 
 For though theaw's work'd hard all this day, 
 
 Theaw'rt no.in as tired as me. 
 • hi-t wring thooar bits 0' hipping through, 
 
 An' fotch that pail fro' th' tap; 
 Aw'll get this little powse asleep, 
 
 An' giv't a drop o' pap. 
 Neaw theaw'd besl sel that kettle on, 
 
 An' make a sup o' tay. 
 For oh ! aw do feel fearful feynt ; 
 
 Aw'm in a curious way. 
 Look ! dry thooar weet spots u r that eleawt, 
 
 Then lay it hack to th' sink. 
 Theaw'd better fotch sonic breead up now, 
 
 An' toast a bit, aw think. 
 An' when theaw's weyshed thysel, theaw's! try 
 
 If theaw can nurse this chap, 
 For 't doesn't seem 'at it's inclined 
 
 Just neaw to have a nap." 
 
 This way aw 111 used day after day — 
 
 Awve all her snubs to tak', 
 To blacklead th' bars, skeawer knives an' forks, 
 
 An' th' booits an' shoes to black. 
 Hoo sends me eawt as ragged as Troll, 
 
 Mi treawsers so near done. 
 There's rive or six ways in at th' top, 
 
 Wheer ther' should be but one. 
 Aw've ne'er a penny for mysel', 
 
 Aw'm poor as 0113- meaw se : 
 Hoo says wed folk should spend their brass 
 
 O' things they want i'tli' heawse. 
 Aw darn't tak' a stroll at neet 
 
 For fear hoo'll make a brawl, 
 For when hoo munnot have her way 
 
 Hoo'll sit her down an' yawl, 
 An' say — "Theaw promised me tine things 
 
 If aw would be thi wife, 
 But neaw theaw seems to care for nought 
 
 But wearin' eawt mi life. 
 But go on, lad, theaw 11 sooin ha' done, 
 
 Aw'st -hurt 1\ pass away : 
 Theaw'll happen then forthink for this 
 
 When aw get laid i'th' clay."
 
 94 FOLK-SPEEC H -LANCASHIRE db YORKSHIRE BORDER, 
 
 Then, folks, aw connot stan' her talk, 
 
 It goas deawn to mi heart ; 
 Aw tell her then aw'll stop at worn, 
 
 An' try to do my part. 
 
 But still, aw think, if aw're unwed, 
 Aw'll mind for th' time to come, 
 
 An' be content wi' doin' weel, 
 An' single, stop at worn.
 
 A MANCHESTER BOOKHUNTER. 95 
 
 A MANCHESTER BOOKHUNTER, 
 
 A man of middle size and middle age, 
 (From out the "middle ages" come, to see 
 What this much boasted age of ours may be !) 
 
 With flowing heard, and glittering eye, whose rage 
 
 Is still to turn o'er some t plaint lettered paj^e : 
 Deep in the ancients, you shall see him pore — 
 A pensive statue 'mid the city's roar — 
 
 Whilst you proceed upon your pilgrimage ! 
 
 A man of learning, cold, impassive? No ; 
 By nature gentle : tender si ill, his heart 
 
 Hath pleasant places, where the sweet herbs grow 
 
 Of Love, and Friendship, and all herbs of grace— 
 A poet lie, without the |n»'t's art, 
 
 Whom all must love that look upon his face ! 
 
 5ri\ the above sonnet, penned in the lifetime of its subject, the 
 (Vj writer offered in silhouette what he now seeks to present in 
 
 full face, viz., the portrait of Francis S , whom the wicked 
 
 ceased from troubling less than two years ago, and who now 
 sleeps soundly and well, and tolerably safe from risk of further 
 trouble or disturbance of any kind, in a quiet nook of a subur- 
 ban churchyard. 
 
 Whilst Francis breathed this vital air, indeed, his life appeared 
 to be one of almost continual trouble; he seemed born to trouble 
 as the sparks fly upward ; misfortunes came to him not single file 
 but in batallions. 
 
 To be sure, there were those that knew him well who would 
 hint, and sometimes openly assert, that many of our friend's 
 troubles were largely of his own creating, through an inveterate 
 habit he had of procrastinating and putting oft* the inevitable, 
 and through a want of decision on those occasions when prompt 
 decision is imperative. 
 
 To tell the truth — and in this sketch we intend to tell nothing 
 
 but the truth — Francis S was the most hesitating, vacillating, 
 
 and irresolute of men ; his indecision was chronic, he was afflicted
 
 96 A MANCHESTER BOOKHUNTER. 
 
 with a most feeble will — " Francis Feeble" we might term him — 
 and could never really make up his mind about anything, not 
 •even as to which side of the road he should take when travelling 
 along the Queen's highway. Nor was he ever seen, or ever known 
 to have been, in a hurry. As his speech, though copious enough, 
 heaven knows ! was slow and hesitating, so was his gait slow" and 
 ambling. Once, indeed, he was caught jumping, but that was 
 only at a " conclusion." If, in some moment of impatience, the 
 words " make haste " escaped you, in speaking to him, you 
 addressed yourself to deaf ears. In the Franciscan philosophy 
 the word " haste " was relegated to the " Vocabulaiy of Fools.'' 
 Only fire or flood would have hurried Francis, and in the case of 
 flood he would inevitably have drifted with the current — such 
 was his idiosyncrasy ! 
 
 Yet these were but the defects of qualities which made him, at 
 the same time, one of the gentlest, genialest, and kindliest of men, 
 a nature at once transparent and guileless, a most sweet soul, and 
 the delightfullest of companions on those occasions when the 
 clouds lifted from the " House of Trouble," and allowed a little 
 warm sunshine to stream in there. 
 
 Though intended, as he himself often confessed, by his tastes 
 and habits, and by numerous eccentricities of character all 
 militating against conjugal happiness, to lead a celibate life, our 
 friend early drifted into marriage, not once but twice, and in each 
 case after brief courtship. He "drifted," through that paralysis 
 of the will which was the bane of his life ; and almost as a 
 matter of course both marriages proved unhappy, though the 
 second union brought him some brightness in the shape of eight 
 comely daughters, all of whom survive their father, and most 
 tenderly cherish his memory, recalling, as they do, hoAv troubled 
 a life he led whilst on this earth. 
 
 But as an old Lancashire housewife was wont to say : " There's 
 nothing but trouble and comfort in this world !" and so, if 
 Francis had many troubles, he had some comforts. His chief 
 consolations, in addition to the compassionate love of his 
 daughters aforesaid, were a profound feeling for Nature, in all
 
 A MANCHESTER BOOKHUNTER. 07 
 
 her varied moods and in all her aspects, and a passion for books, 
 especially for hunting up and ransacking old, or little-known, 
 
 authors. 
 
 Though in his early years the lifo of our friend had been one 
 <>f hard and bitter toil, he had, by the time we made his 
 acquaintance, raised himself to an important position in a local 
 commercial hou>e. 
 
 Nor were the duties of Ids position — latterly at least — other 
 than light, so that he had abundant opportunity of pursuing his 
 bent for bookdiuntin^ at least. And a great deal of very genuin^ 
 pleasure he must have experienced in the course of his forty 
 years' collecting of all sorts of works, old and rare, in half-a- 
 dozen languages. He had all the passion for old English authors 
 of the beloved Elia, as he was a devoted admirer of the genius 
 and character of that unique writer. But whereas Laud), with 
 characteristic humour, laments to his " Cousin Bridget " that he 
 doesn't enjoy his book-purchasings half so much now that ho 
 hasn't to "save up" for them, friend Francis had no such cause 
 of lamentation ! Throughout life his was the exquisite pleasure 
 of prelibation. To covet a book did not mean, with him, 
 immediate possession of the treasure, it meant "saving up.'' 
 Reader, hast thou ever glanced at Elia's description of his own 
 feelings of joy and triumph — the very memory of which "brings 
 the saliva to our lips" — when lugging home some "ragged 
 veteran " of a volume for whose possession he had long yearned ! 
 Then wilt thou realize that Francis, the man of many sorrows, 
 was also a man of many joys. A hundred times have we found 
 our friend quaffing the very topmost, foaming height of the joy- 
 cup Lamb describes. 
 
 A hundred times, again, yea, a thousand, have we seen him 
 standing mute and motionless, tome in band, at our city book- 
 stalls—a weird figure, with heavy beard, coming from out the 
 middle ages as it were — and to all appearance totally unconscious 
 of the tide of busy life surging around him. 
 
 On the other hand, how often, when we have been rushins 
 through the city, "on business bent," has our friend mildly
 
 98 A MANCHESTER BOOKHUNTER. 
 
 "button-holed" us in mid-career, and in the thick of the throng, 
 or from lamp-post to lamp-post held us with his glittering eye — 
 we could not choose but hear — whilst he discoursed on one of 
 his many fads — political, theological, social, spiritualistic, hy- 
 gienic — till the pair of us ran great danger of incarceration for 
 obstructing the public footpath. But to stop the stream of 
 Francis's talk was to stop the deluge ; and even to indulge the 
 expectation was to play the innocent part of Horace's rustic, who 
 stood on the river-bank expecting the stream would soon run 
 itself dry. 
 
 Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis ; at ille 
 Labitur et labetur in orane volubilis sevum. 
 
 Francis had an old womanish garrulity, and would still talk, 
 inter ambulandum. As parliamentary reporters often break off 
 their reports with the words : "left speaking," so with regard to 
 these Franciscan monologues the report always ended : — " left 
 Francis talking ! " But this was only with intimates. Our 
 friend's dealings with the stranger were ever characterised by a 
 sweet modesty and reserve — nay, with a maidenly shyness that 
 was very beautiful ; indeed, his nature was essentially bashful, 
 nor could his lips shape themselves to the utterance of an in- 
 delicate word. 
 
 Often, again, have we seen him at his own home, in a hilly,, 
 northern suburb, gloating over his book-treasures like a miser 
 over his hoard. And indeed a miser he was with regard to his 
 books, though in other respects generous enough. His library 
 was his sanctum. You might open his main artery, but not his 
 books ; and did you so much as handle one, his eyes would 
 follow the motion of your hands with a jealousy that made you 
 smile. Our friend was a fellow of infinite humour, too, and did 
 he happen on some rare occasion to allow himself to be persuaded 
 to part with one of his precious duplicates — some tiny, ragged 
 wretch of a copy — he was always careful to remind you of 
 previous obligations of a similar kind by writing inside the 
 volume : "Another book given to ."
 
 A MANCHESTER BOOKHUNTER, 98 
 
 And what an "olio of oddities" was his library — what ;i 
 medley and a chaos! It was as if the Lord of Misrule had 
 stretched his rod over parlour, bedroom, and attic. Out of 
 thousands of books, to have found four consecutive volumes 
 would have taken four consecutive hours ! While as to variety, 
 ve have seen many miscellaneous collections of books, English 
 and foreign, we have ransacked the bookstalls of London and 
 Paris ; but a more promiscuous lot, or a lot to which one could 
 more aptly apply the phrases omnium gatherum, and de omnibus 
 rebus, et quibusdam aliis, than the Franciscan collection we have 
 never seen. And all spread about in the most glorious confusion 
 from cellar to attic, without bookcase, or shelf, or arrangement 
 of any description ; so that each fresh reference to an author 
 necessitated a fresh hunt through the whole library. But it is 
 with our friend, not his library, that we have to deal. 
 
 Unconsciously to himself, Francis came to be, with us, quit e 
 early, a subject of profound study, as he himself was a profound 
 student of human nature and human life — far more profound 
 than many even of his intimates suspected, and to a degree 
 which in a " book-worm " was astonishing. As "Wordsworth 
 truly says, " strongest minds are often those of whom the noisy 
 world hears least." Our friend had not only bought books, 
 he had read, marked, learned, and inwardly digested them ; he 
 had made practical application of his reading. The human 
 wheel, with all its spokes and felloes, was well known to Francis. 
 No anatomist ever dissected more closely this " mortal frame ; " 
 no valetudinarian ever went deeper into hygiene, with himself 
 for a subject. But Francis went further, he sought into the 
 deeper mystery of the soul, he analysed the processes of thought 
 with the skill and zest of a metaphysician ; and although the 
 " works " he has left behind him, in addition to some " Books of 
 Extracts " in French and shorthand, are entirely of the kind 
 Charles Lamb describes as written in his own clerkly hand and 
 adorning the shelves of the India House, Francis has left a 
 " memory " which, despite his hundred fads and foibles, and his 
 
 o2
 
 100 A MANCHESTER BOOKHUNTER. 
 
 invincible fluxe de boicche, commands the respect and theTaffection 
 of all who really and truly knew him. 
 
 Through a fearful accident which befel him finder his own 
 roof-tree, our friend walked in the shadow of death for years 
 before he died. And he walked in that awful shadow without 
 fear. And now, after many troubles,, he sleeps soundly and well, 
 and tolerably free from risk of future troubles, in a quiet corner 
 of B churchyard. 

 
 .1 himcri.T i.axcaxiiiiie pi. AGE-NAME. 101 
 
 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 
 
 .•ill the various kinds of words, undoubtedly the most 
 alluring, as subjects of study, are proper names — the 
 names of persons and of places. But in proportion as the 
 subject is seductive, so is the temptation to extravagant supposi- 
 tion and speculation large, and the danger of error extreme ; in 
 fact, no department of philology offers to the sanguine tyro such 
 abundant opportunity of self-stultification. 
 
 Though for many years a student, more or less diligent, of 
 languages and dialects, we can by no means boast the full equip- 
 ment for the scientific investigation of any chance English place- 
 name of some whom we could mention ; yet with regard to the 
 particular name to be brought under notice, we may at least claim 
 to speak with whatever special authority is derived from a long 
 and close acquaintance with the place itself and its people, as well 
 as with the physical conditions and ethnical relations of the 
 neighbouring districts. 
 
 Nou jingo hypotheses was the motto of a great physicist of the 
 past. (It is not the motto of our physicists of to-day !) We wish 
 it were possible to adopt this wise maxim on the present occasion, 
 but that is not permitted. Into the region of hypothesis we 
 must perforce enter ; and out of the region of hypothesis, into 
 clear daylight, it may be that we shall never emerge, with regard 
 to the difficult place-name forming the subject of this inquiry. 
 In the meantime, and as is often the case, what is offered is a 
 balance of probabilities ; but this " balance " we submit with as 
 much confidence as the circumstances warrant ; we tread the 
 ground with as firm a foot as the very boggy and treacherous 
 nature of the soil will allow.
 
 102 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 
 
 The discovery — a discovery whose importance is not to be 
 exaggerated — made by philologists, now many years back, that 
 the Celtic is but an older offshoot from the common Eastern 
 parent, the venerable Sanscrit, besides clearing up much that was 
 obscure in European ethnology, has undoubtedly given us far 
 more comprehensive notions with regard to the origin of 
 European place-names ; though the elements of possible confusion 
 introduced by a vast synonymy is a circumstance that calls for the 
 extremest caution in attempting to fix the actual etymology of a 
 particular name. By this important consideration, in order as 
 far as possible to avoid error, the writer has endeavoured to 
 guide himself in the present investigation. 
 
 The difficult name in question is that of a Lancashire town, 
 peculiarly situated on the banks of the Calder, known as the 
 "Yorkshire Calder," on the south-eastern border of the county, 
 adjoining Yorkshire, that is to say — Todmorden. It is a name 
 whose etymology has been much discussed, much debated, and 
 much written upon, by scores and even hundreds of people, by 
 the learned and unlearned, and which, despite much dogmatism, 
 still remains obscure. 
 
 The theory now offered in explanation has at least the 
 merit of novelty, though did it possess only this negative 
 merit its author might well have spared his ink. First, 
 then, as regards the orthography of the name. The different 
 spellings are numerous. The latest writer on the subject, whose 
 voice may be taken as in any sense authoritative, gives the 
 " oldest spelling" as Todmaredene. But a very old orthography 
 is Todmordene. In a deed bearing date as far back as the 30th 
 Edward III., that is to say 1365, is to found the following: — 
 "John del Croslegh of Todmordene," &c. And in another deed, 
 bearing no date, but apparently of the same reign, viz., Edward 
 III., we meet with "Adam del Croslegh, de Todmordene, in Yill 
 de Honerresfeld," &c. Another old spelling is given as Todmare- 
 deane, and yet another as Tormorden, which last, while expressing 
 the pronunciation of the word at the present day by the oldest 
 inhabitants, recalls the several place-names, Tormore.
 
 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLAi E-NAME. 103 
 
 In the year 1G40, as appears by an existing map of the district, 
 the spelling was Todmeredene, and in l'ii>7 the adopted ortho- 
 graphy of the name was that of to-day, Todmorden, which, by 
 adding an e only to the final syllable, is exactly that of 1365, 
 while the present pronunciation is still the ancient "Torniorden," 
 shortened to "Tormden." 
 
 With regard to pronunciation somebody has wittily remarked 
 that " sound etymology has nothing to do with sound.''' But 
 although the pun is a good one, and the position right in the 
 main, it occasionally happens that sound dues help in etymology. 
 In the present case, however, it will not be relied upon but will 
 simply be regarded as an added and quite subordinate factor 
 working in behalf of the theory propounded.* 
 
 If the spellings of the name in question are many, the different 
 suggested etymologies are more numerous still. Into a detailed 
 account of these one need not here enter. One theory only shall 
 be given, for the purpose of criticism, out of the multitude of 
 suggested solutions of the problem. But this shall be one of the 
 oldest, and at the same time one of the likeliest {prima facie), 
 most tenable, and most generally accepted of the current theories : 
 "Todmorden — ancient spellings, Todmaredene and T odi nor dene : 
 The Valley of the Fox-mere or lake." 
 
 The most authoritative of recent writers on the subject, in 
 giving the above etymology, not only states that the meaning of 
 the first syllable Tod is "a Fox," but that the root is Teuton, and 
 not only Teuton but Anglo-Saxon. The medial syllable mare or 
 ///"/, a mere or lake, and the last syllable, den or dene, a valley? 
 according to him, are also Anglo-Saxon, the whole name signify- 
 ing as above given, "The Valley of the Fox-mere or lake." 
 
 Though our etymologist fails to give his " proofs " as to the 
 f Anglo Saxon" origin of the word " Tod, a fox," it is well known 
 
 * The tendency, in folk-speech, to revert to old pronunciations, and 
 original sounds, is undoubted. For instance, the local name, Dearden, 
 instead of being pronounced as spelt, is by the old inhabitants of this neigh- 
 bourhood pronounced as if spelt Dut ?dt n, thus recalling, and giving almost 
 the exact sound of, the original Celtic word forming the first syllable of 
 the name.
 
 104 A DIFFIC UL T LA XCA SHI BE PL A GE-NA ME. 
 
 that this dialect is a still living dialect in Scotland. And also in 
 the north of England, though Jamieson doubts whether it was 
 ever used there, and calls Ben Jonson into court under the name 
 of " Ben Johnson !" (see his Scotch Dictionary). Not only has the 
 dialect " Tod, a fox," however, been used immemorially in the 
 north of England, but, as just now stated, it still survives there. 
 The southern limit, in fact, of the present vitality of this obscure 
 dialect, in Britain, would appear to be the counties of Cumber- 
 land and Westmoreland, and a part of north-west Yorkshire. It 
 was because Tod occurs so frequently in place-names within limits 
 that mark equally the vitality of the dialect Tod, " a fox," that 
 the writer was in the outset, along with many others, led to a 
 conclusion favourable to that interpretation of the first syllable 
 in "Todmorden." 
 
 The contention in the present paper, shortly put, is this : That 
 the first and medial syllables of the name Todmorden, that is to 
 say Tod and mor, derive from the Gaelic dialect of the Celtic, 
 while the last syllable, den or dene, may or may not have been 
 given to the valley by those Anglo-Saxon, or more strictly 
 speaking Anglian, settlers whose practice probably was to settle 
 themselves here or there when they could do so without fighting.* 
 But to the first syllable, Tod, the writer has ventured, after a 
 pretty close examination of the matter, to attach a quite different 
 meaning from any hitherto suggested. For this different meaning 
 it now remains to argue. 
 
 That the Celtic clement in the older place-names of Britain is 
 a strong element will be allowed without argument. That the 
 same element is still stronger in the names of our rivers, and higher 
 mountains, and of the various great natural features of th e 
 country, will also be admitted. But the actual or approximate 
 extent of the Celtic element in different localities is a matter of 
 
 * It has often been complained that in our references to the Angles and 
 Saxons we usually do less justice to the former, since we speak of them for 
 the most part as " Saxons ' only. But surely it is forgotten by those who 
 make this complaint that the Angles are compensated for all such slights 
 and more by the fact that, after all, the greater honour has been reserved 
 to them of giving a name to the whole country.
 
 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 10.> 
 
 special inquiry, and for thirty years past it has been the endeavour 
 
 of the writer, in the district under consideration, to fix and ap- 
 praise this element. We have found it a study of peculiar interest. 
 There is even an element of pathos and poetry in the matter, for 
 in considering it thoughtfully the spectacle of an interesting and 
 ancient race struggling for a last foothold on the verge of lands 
 they once widely peopled cannot but rise vividly before the im- 
 ag i nation, and so rising, can hardly fail to touch the chord of 
 pity. 
 
 The fact that these Celts continued to hold their own in certain 
 parts of England proper long after the occurrence of the various 
 Anglo-Saxon irruptions is now pretty well established ; and the 
 result of all the attention we have been able to give to the subject 
 is a firm conviction that in some of the more inaccessible portions 
 of the north here, and notably in the district in question, the 
 mountainous region of the Lancashire and Yorkshire border, the 
 Celtic element is a much more appreciable element than it is 
 usually taken to be, both ethnically and as regards language. 
 
 In relation to language, the sort of test we have applied (inter 
 alia) has been the following : we have taken the interesting word 
 mill, the name of a machine of very old invention, and a word 
 common in forms but slightly varying from the above to the 
 Aryan peoples both before and since their migration westward. 
 In a district strongly Teuton the tendency will be to pronounce 
 the word as spelt above, from the form of the Teuton root. On 
 the other hand, in districts where there is a strong Celtic element, 
 there will be a tendency to pronounce the word as if spelt uiiln, 
 from the form of the Celtic root. In the district under notice we 
 have observed the above tendency in a marked degree. Another 
 test is the prevalence of Celtic surnames (that is to say surnames 
 derived from Celtic roots), the names of true " sons of the soil," 
 people immemorially settled in certain nooks. This test, also, in 
 the present case has been applied with success. And for these 
 and other reasons yet to be stated we conclude that it was the 
 Celts, and not the Angles or the Danes, who gave to this mountain- 
 valley the peculiar name it bears to-day.
 
 106 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 
 
 We believe, indeed, that the Angles pretty early, and even before 
 them some of the German mercenaries disbanded or deserting 
 from the Eoman armies, managed, without very much fighting, 
 to possess themselves of the lower slopes of the mountains, and 
 that they made clearings in the thick camwoods there (certainly 
 oak-woods), and named and cultivated them. And when, after- 
 wards, those bold marauders, the Scandinavians, descended upon 
 our shores, we believe that at any rate the Danes, advancing west- 
 ward from the Yorkshire and Lincolnshire coasts, pushed pretty 
 well into these mountain tracts. In fact, as regards the district 
 under immediate notice, they probably contrived to fix them- 
 selves somewhat strongly there. In confirmation of this it may 
 be stated that in a certain valley, far up among the hills, but 
 debouching on the valley of the Calder, there is to be found a 
 population so strikingly Danish in character that one thinks in 
 the past it must have been purely Danish ; and in place-names 
 and folk-speech there is certainly an appreciable element of the 
 Scandinavian. Nor, in considering the present problem, has the 
 writer failed duly to appraise and weigh Scandinavian possibili- 
 ties as regards etymology. 
 
 We believe that the two last-named branches of the Teuton 
 family — the Angles and the Danes — had fights hereabouts, but 
 that they were able for the most part to make up their differ- 
 ences, and that in view of their near racial affinity they readily 
 intermarried. But we believe that long before the arrival of either 
 of these branches of the great Teuton family in the district we 
 are considering, and even long before the arrival of the Romans, 
 both the valley of Todmorden and the narrow river flowing 
 through it, called the " Calder," had received their respective 
 expressive names from the Celts, though to go here fully into 
 the origin of the word " Calder " would take up too much time 
 and space. 
 
 The second syllable of the name of this river, however — the 
 " Calder " — unpromising as it may appear, is bound to furnish 
 us with the material for constructing the first syllable of 
 " Todmorden," though in the original not in the present form of
 
 .1 DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 107 
 
 that first syllable — viz., in tlic last of these three forms : 
 dur, dobhar, dothar (the second and third forms being pronounced 
 do-ar). These are the Gaelic, as distinguished from the closely- 
 allied Cymric root, divr, water or stream. That a Gaelic rather 
 than a Cymric dialect should dominate in a high, mountainous, 
 and inaccessible region is not singular when we remember that, 
 according to the best writers, the Gaels were the first to people 
 these islands, the later-coming Cymry having to light their way, 
 and probably not succeeding in this in some of the more difficult 
 parts of the country. 
 
 "As dobhar," writes an authority on the Gaelic, "changes in 
 compounds and combinations into dob, so dothar changes to dot 
 and dod, both commutable villi tod." And the contention in this 
 paper will be that Tod in " Todmorden " is a form, by the com- 
 mutation of d and t (which, indeed, many philologists regard as 
 the same letter) of the dot in dothar. By way of evidence* 
 numerous dods and tods, with a watery connection (the latter 
 sometimes softened to toads), in English place-names, will be 
 brought from near and far. 
 
 The Celtic root dur (water) in various Gaelic and Cymric forms, 
 as is well known, is one of the commonest elements in the names 
 of European rivers ; in fact, the forms it takes are past enumer- 
 ating. Here are a few of them : dur, der, tur, ter, dor, tor, 
 &c, &c. In this country it is an exceedingly common element in 
 river-names; and among a crowd of other forms m;ij be men- 
 tioned the following: dur, duir, thur, dour, der, dor, dore, dar' 
 dare, dair, dear, and I venture to think also deer — Avitness several 
 "deer-plays" near river sources. In the particular district under 
 notice it is relatively the most common of all, since we find it 
 occurring, in this form or that, half a dozen times in almost as 
 many miles. There is even a DER-play, and this, too, quite near 
 the source of one of the Lancashire Calders. 
 
 So much for the material out of which we have now to con- 
 struct the name Todmorden, pronounced by old inhabitants 
 
 "Torniorden," and shortened to " Tormden."
 
 108 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 
 
 A word or two at this point as to the natural configuration of 
 the district and the geological evidence. These in themselves 
 are such as strongly to support the theory that the Celts were the 
 real sponsors of the Todmorden valley. The situation must 
 have been a striking one from the first : A narrow gorge ex- 
 tending for some distance and then suddenly widening into a 
 considerable valley ; high hills on either hand, often with 
 picturesque contours, the most striking still bearing a Celtic 
 name ;* the waters of the Calder, confined for a while, at length 
 free to spread themselves in a mire or mere ; at flood-times an 
 immense water-gathering space in the vast moors surrounding 
 the gorge before mentioned ; in the gorge itself a limited water- 
 carrying space, the inevitable result being a wide, marshy tract, 
 interspersecbwith fallen trees and fragments of rock, the debris of 
 frequent floods. That this condition of things must have pre- 
 vailed in the not very remote past the geological evidence would 
 seem to prove, and the voice of tradition is corroborative. 
 
 The situation was far too peculiar and too striking not to have 
 arrested the attention of the Celts who first peopled these parts, 
 and they could not fail to give a name to so remarkable a valley 
 —as we believe, the name it bears to-day, with perhaps some slight 
 change of form. 
 
 As for the Roman, making his imperial way through Britain, 
 it is highly probable that he regarded these wild tangled valleys 
 and impassable morasses with horror, since he so well contrived 
 that his military roads should wind over the high hills com- 
 manding them. And there can be little doubt that he looked 
 upon the country as being quite as dangerous by the physical or 
 natural obstacles it opposed to his progress as by the hostility of 
 its inhabitants. On the other hand, wc believe, as before men- 
 tioned, that not a few of the German mercenaries following the 
 Roman eagles through Britain deserted, or were disbanded, and 
 fixed themselves as cultivators of the soil in these savage parts. 
 
 '' The hill called the Orehan, signifying boundary or limit. Doubtless 
 so named because this hill seems to bound the valley to the north-west.
 
 A DIFFH ULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 109 
 
 In support of this opinion, ii may be mentioned that several 
 treasures of Soman coin have been met with in excavating in 
 comparatively low-lying parts of the district. 
 
 We repeat, then, our strong conviction that the same ancienl 
 race who gave a name .so happily expressive as " Calder" un- 
 doubtedly is to the numerous narrow rivers in Scotland and the 
 northern parts of England, also gave its name, jusl a- expressive 
 and compounded in part, as we believe, of the same elements, to 
 Todmorden, where at the frequent flood times the river bed, with 
 all improvements, is still so wretchedly inadequate to cany away 
 the fast-accumulating wateis that the place presents all the 
 appearance of a scene at Venice ! And what Byron said of that 
 famous city the unfortunate Todmordian has often been able, 
 with even more truth, to say of his native town — 
 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise, 
 A- by the stroke of an enchanter's wand ! 
 
 But if the situation is occasionally comical it is more often quite 
 
 too serious and even tragical, the ever-recurring floods sometimes 
 
 costing the inhabitants their lives. In fact, the recent history of 
 
 the place is largely a record of disasters resulting from the 
 
 attempt to bind and limit what nature intended to be free.* 
 
 We have already mentioned the Gaelic words dob/mr and dothar, 
 
 which, equally with the Gaelic dur, signify water or stream, and 
 
 have also stated that dobhar in compounds becomes dob, whilst dothar 
 
 becomes dot and clod, both c< immutable with tod. And we find, in 
 
 fact, quite close to the source of the Yorkshire (alder, another 
 
 smaller stream with the name dod affixed to it (wdiich compare 
 
 with the river Duddon, in North Lancashire, and with the 
 
 numerous watery " dods " in other counties) ; and a little further 
 
 down the Todmorden-valley is a place, near the river-course, 
 
 named Toad-car, which compare with the name of the Lancashire 
 
 river Taud, and with the place-name JJodcar occurring in another 
 
 county. The above two place-names are evidently identical in 
 
 *lt should here be observed that there have lately been ,/VwA. r improve- 
 ments etl'ected (by deepening the narrow river-bed, &c), which tend much 
 to ameliorate the conditions above described.
 
 110 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 
 
 meaning, and thus clearly prove the com mutability of the letters 
 d and t. There is also another clod further down the same valley, 
 and a dob, where a stream rushes down the hill-side. Indeed, if 
 writers on Celtic matters are correct, one is led to think that not 
 a few of the Dods and Tods in English place-names might be 
 reclaimed from the Teutons. 
 
 In the counties of Northampton and "Worcester we have such 
 place-names as Dodford, which not only distinctly connects dod 
 with water, but points to a name of great antiquity, seeing that 
 the word ford is derived, not from the Saxon, but from a dialect 
 of the Celtic. In the first of these counties (Northampton), and 
 probably in other counties as well, we have the notable provincial- 
 ism dod, a bog, marsh, or watery place, with its adjectival form, 
 doddy, marshy or boggy. Compare with the above Dodfords the 
 numerous Ashfords, Dodbrooks, &c , in the Celtic shire of Devon 
 and in other shires, and the name Dodwell. 
 
 In the north of England and in Scotland, again, we find such 
 place-names as Todbum and Dodbum, affording further evidence, 
 if that were needed, of the perfect commutability (etymologically 
 speaking) of d and t, besides proving the fallacy of the Tod "a 
 fox" theory, as held in regard to "Todburn." These evident 
 tautologies naturally class themselves with similar tautologies in 
 English place-names, such as Ashbourne, Easeburn, corrupted into 
 Eastbourne. Westbourne, a score or two of JVinterbournes and 
 Winterbums, and hundreds if not thousands of other place-names, 
 whose meaning is practically that of the Celto-Gothic Todbum, if 
 authors on Celtic matters are correct. According to some of 
 these last, the original meaning of Westmoreland is "water-source 
 land;" and there are certainly other Westmores, signifying 
 " water-source," in England, to support this theory. 
 
 In Gloucestershire we have two or three forms of dothar, com- 
 mencing with d and t, including Tormarton, in the first two 
 syllables of which we find our present Todmare, or Todmore, 
 changed phonetically as we have seen it changed.
 
 .1 DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. Ill 
 
 Finally, \\o have in Celtic Derbyshire the place-name 7'<W- 
 moor, which, in fact, would appear to be no < fcher than the verit- 
 able Todmor, in Todmorden, corrupted as we have already found 
 it corrupted in the very neighbourhood of the Calder water- 
 source itself. 
 
 Why should Todmorden have been "The Valley of the Fox- 
 lake ?" So far as is known to the present writer, the theory tir.-t 
 originatedjin a chance guess only, with a "perhaps'" attached, of 
 a certain well-known author now deceased. Would foxes, then so 
 common, be at all likely to strike the attention of the primitive 
 people who first named this marshy valley ? Would a marshy 
 valley be likely to be the favourite resort of such an animal 1 
 Not in the least. But even if it were so, would the prevalence of 
 the above animal, in any number whatever, be a hundredth part 
 as striking as the peculiar situation and hydrography of the 
 place 1 
 
 With respect to the numerous different spellings of the second 
 syllable in the name "Todmorden," that is a consideration of 
 little importance ; for whether Celtic or Teuton, whether Gaelic 
 or Anglo-Saxon, the syllable might be spelt the one way or the 
 other, the Gaelic mathair (pronounced ma-er), being equal to the 
 Teuton mare, and mothair (pronounced mo-er) equal to mor, more, 
 or moor ; for instance, among Anglo-Saxon place-names, we have 
 " Moreton-in-the-Marsh " and " Marton-on-the-Moor." 
 
 As is well known to philologists, moor, more, mor, mar, mare, 
 meer, and mere are but so many different forms of the same old 
 and interesting Aryan root, signifying " the gathering place of 
 waters," "the source and mother of streams." So in the Celtic 
 shire of Devon, Exmoor signifies simply the source of the water 
 or stream, the Celtic word Exe, water, having at first been a 
 common, though now it is a proper, name. Thus Exmoor, Ash- 
 more, Todmore, Tormar, and the several Tormores are the 
 same. And similarly Dartmoor, in Devon, means the source of 
 the stream, the Celtic root, in this case, being the very one from 
 which we have been trying to educe the first syllable of the name 
 "Todmorden," which root we also find in scores of river-names in
 
 112 A DIFFICULT LANCASHIRE PLACE-NAME. 
 
 this and other English counties, as the Dore in Hereford, the 
 Darcnt in Kent, the Darwin in Lancashire, the numerous Derwents, 
 &c, &c. 
 
 So then, to conclude, if the Gaelic root dothar, water or stream 
 takes, as we have seen it does, the forms tod, toad, tor, and der, 
 among a crowd of others, then Todmor, Todmpre, Todmare, or 
 Todmcre, in Todmorden, in Celtic Lancashire, Toad-moor, in Celtic 
 Derbyshire, Tormar, in Tormarton in Gloucestershire, and the 
 various Tormores, may be the same as dermere in 'Windermere, 
 on the borders of this county, and otter similar names of water- 
 sources. And this would seem to be the most reasonable theory, 
 especially in view of the notable circumstance (itself an important 
 factor in the present problem), that the names of places, all the 
 world over, are so often determined by tbe hydrography, that is 
 to say, by the hydrographical relations of those places. In fact, 
 the proportion of such names is enormous. 
 
 The interpretation, therefore, which is here humbly submitted 
 of the peculiar place-name, Todmorden, is "The wooded valley of 
 the water-source." 
 
 Note. — We observed, some time ago, that a learned writer on 
 these matters in the Edinburgh Review, in giving a list of English 
 place-names, went the length of classing "Todmorden" with the 
 place-name Todjield. But the two names really fall under two 
 quite distinct categories. If in the study of place-names there 
 is one rule more important than the rest, it is that the different 
 syllables of a name shall be considered not only individually but 
 in their relations to one another. Now, the watery connection of 
 the second syllable in " Todmorden" has been denied by none 
 who have closely examined the matter. When, therefore, it is 
 shown by evidence that might be multiplied twentyfold that the 
 first syllable has the same connection, the conjunction of the two at 
 once suggests the hundreds of similar place-names scattered over 
 the three kingdoms.
 
 BOOKS THAT MIGHT BE WRITTEN. 113 
 
 BOOKS THAT MIGHT BE WRITTEN. 
 
 YKKY interesting book might be written, b\ r one who had 
 tlir requisite learning and leisure, on those hundreds of 
 proverbial sayings, wise saws, and choice sentiments, whose real 
 authorship, though known to the learned, is merely guessed at by 
 the multitude, including no inconsiderable proportion of the vast 
 army of gentlemen who write with ease. When we say "real 
 authorship," we speak, of course, relatively to the limits of 
 literary history. Doubtless, if the whole mass of ancient wit and 
 wisdom had hern preserved to us in literary archives, the claims 
 of originality put forward on behalf of many extant authors 
 would have to be considerably reduced. Even to such students 
 as have been permitted merely to glance over the wider literary 
 field, the frequent mis-ascription to recent authors of sentiments 
 and ideas which have been in literary currency for hundreds — 
 often thousands — of years, must be a source of unending amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 Another, and not less interesting, book might be written upon 
 those fine ideas and sentiments — those diamonds of thought 
 which, having been first cut and set by a master-hand in so 
 cunning and perfect a manner as to defy improvement, are 
 regarded as the stock-jewels of the intellectual cabinet, and are 
 found from time to time shining in the works of authors the most 
 original. Amongst these we may instance the well-worn passage 
 in the Fifth Canto of the " Inferno " of Dante, where, in the 
 incident of Francesca of Rimini, Francesca is made sorrowfully to 
 
 exclaim : — 
 
 nessnn maggior dolore 
 
 ('lie ricordiirsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria. 
 
 H
 
 114 BOOKS THAT MIGHT BE WRITTEN. 
 
 which Tennyson, whilst borrowing, sufficiently acknowledges, in 
 the lines of Locksley Hall : 
 
 -this is truth the poet sings, 
 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 
 
 Apropos to this, we remember a London critic, some years ago, 
 whilst reviewing the then published works of the late Laureate, 
 pointing in triumph to the passage : " This is truth," &c, as 
 stolen from Dante without acknowledgement, whereas in the 
 above passage Tennyson clearly means by " the poet,*' not him " 
 self, but the great Florentine who penned the original lines ' 
 We might with more reason take Robert Browning to task, 
 where that very original writer appropriates, in one of his later 
 poems, the well-known passage in the "Prometheus" of ^-Eschylus 
 " the multitudinous laughter of the waves." This Browning uses 
 in his poem, in the words : — 
 
 O laughters manifold 
 
 Of Ocean's ripple, &c. 
 
 A third book, of high and startling interest, might be written 
 on literary parallels. Not such parallels as that between 
 Mignon's song in the " Wilhelm Meister " of Goethe : 
 Kennst du das land wo die citronen bluh'n, &c. 
 
 and the commencement of Byron's "Bride of Abydos," for here 
 our Byron distinctly imitates Goethe, but upon those particular 
 passages of this or that eminent author which have been con- 
 sidered as peculiarly his own, as the distinct outcome and product 
 of his idiosyncrasy, as the very touchstone by which his 
 originality is proven and yet which have their parallels in 
 earlier authors. Very often, for instance, have we found the 
 finest critics quoting this line of the exquisite " Bugle Song," or 
 "Echo," in the "Princess :" 
 
 O kark, hear ! so thin and clear, &c. 
 as "peculiarly Tennysonian," and asserting that it could not 
 possibly have proceeded from any other poet, whereas the same 
 form of expression is to be found in a poem of Emma Yon 
 Nindorf's, a German poetess who was not unknown in English 
 lettered circles fifty years ago.
 
 HOOKS THAT MIGHT BE WRITTEN. 115 
 
 Again, and touching here on the sentiment more than on the 
 peculiar manner, if ten men of wide reading were asked what 
 passage of our poet Moore was the most characteristic of hi^ 
 genius, and the most peculiarly " Mooreish," nine of them would 
 probably give the oft-quoted lines : 
 
 You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, 
 Hut the scent of the roses will hang round it still ! 
 
 Vet the very same idea occurs in the Ad Lcetam of St. Jerome, 
 the saint himself deriving it from Horace, who has it in his 2nd 
 Epistle, 1st Book, lines G9 and 70. Indeed, substituting " wine- 
 jar " for " flower- vase," one may, by a slight periphrasis, trans, 
 late Horace in the very words of Moore. 
 
 Another book, certainly not of inferior interest, might be 
 written on remarkable literary errors. 
 
 "Speaking of errors," said Lessing, to an author not distin- 
 guished for his accuracy, and who had come to consult the great 
 German in regard to a " Table of Errors " to be appended to a 
 work of his, " suppose you were to put the whole of your book 
 in the ' Table of Errors.' ' Going upon this principle, the list of 
 literary errors, committed even within the historic period, woidd 
 no doubt be a very heavy one ! But with literary errors of this 
 kind we are not at present concerned. Nor by " remarkable 
 literary errors " do we mean those which blur and mar occasional 
 passages in the very greatest authors, such, for instance, as that 
 passage in the Odyssey where Homer makes all the four winds of 
 heaven to be blowing at once — an absurdity in which he is 
 followed by Virgil in a familiar passage of the yEneid ; or the 
 few well-known errors in our Shakespeare, Avhich we need not 
 indicate. Still less, by "remarkable errors," do we mean mere 
 tropes and figures untrue to nature, as where Byron (who is more 
 often at fault in this respect than many would think) describes 
 Father Ocean as rejoicing in an "azure brow," &c. No; we 
 mean, on the contrary, those much more important errors which, 
 being closely connected, and interlaced as it were, with the lead- 
 ing idea, are carried over many pages of the finest poetry, and 
 
 h2
 
 116 BOOKS THAT MIGHT BE WRITTEN. 
 
 vitiate the whole, no unravelling or disentanglement being 
 possible. ' 
 
 Here, to give but a single instance, is one which we have never 
 yet seen referred to in the pages of contemporary criticism, to be 
 found in Keats — the Keats of golden promise, in whom certainly, 
 if in any one, were gathered the elements of a poet of the very 
 first order, and whose untimely death all men of finer mould 
 must for ever mourn. We allude to that magnificent invocation 
 to Pan, occurring in Endymion — a poem in which Keats piles up 
 such mountains of nectared sweets as surely never poet piled up 
 before. Here is the invocation, which it will be necessary to 
 quote with some fulness in order to show distinctly the point at 
 issue, which is that through adopting a certain popular notion, 
 founded in error, with regard to the attributes of the god Pan, 
 as fabled by the Greeks, Keats has seriously marred a magnificent 
 piece of writing. 
 
 "O thou, whose mighty pakace-roof doth hang 
 From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
 Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
 Of unseen fl iwers in heavy peacefulness ; 
 Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
 Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 
 And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken 
 The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
 In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 
 The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth ; 
 Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
 Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thon now, 
 By thy love's milky brow ! 
 By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
 Hear us, great Pan ! 
 
 " thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
 Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles. 
 What time thou wanderest at eventide 
 Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 
 Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to whom 
 Broad-leaved fig trees even now foredoom 
 Their ripened fruitage; yellow-girted bees 
 Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 
 Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn ! 
 The chuckling linnet its live young unborn, 
 To sing for thee ; low creeping strawberries 
 Their summer coolness ; pent-up butterflies 
 Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh budding year 
 All its completions — be quickly near, 
 By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
 O forester divine !
 
 hooks THAT MIGHT BE WRITTEN. 117 
 
 " Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies 
 For willing service ; whether bo surprise 
 Tin- squatted hare while in half-Bleeping lit ; 
 Oi- upward ragged precipices flit 
 To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
 Or by mysterious enticement draw 
 Bewildered shepherds to their path again : 
 Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
 And gather up all fancifullesf shells 
 Fnv thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, 
 And, being hidden, laugh at their outpeeping ; 
 Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, 
 The while they pelt each other on the crown 
 With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown — 
 H\ all the echoes that about thee ring, 
 Hear us, O satyr king ! 
 
 "O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, 
 While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
 A ram goes bleating ; Winder of the horn, 
 When snouted wild boars, routing tender corn, 
 Anger our huntsman : Breather round our farms, 
 To keep off mildews, and all weather harms : 
 Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds. 
 That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
 And wither drearily on barren moors ; 
 Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
 Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
 Great son of Dryope, 
 
 The many that are come to pay their vows, 
 With leaves about their brows ! 
 
 " Be still the unimaginable lodge 
 For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
 Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 
 Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven, 
 That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, 
 ( rives it a touch ethereal— a new birth ; 
 Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
 A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
 An element filling the space between ; 
 An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen 
 With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 
 And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, 
 Conjure thee to receive our humble p;ean, 
 Upon thy Mount Lycean !"' 
 
 It will be seen that one of the leading ideas in this splendid 
 invocation, which one never tires of reading, is that Pan of the 
 Greek mythology — who, by the way, has no cxac - , parallel in the 
 Roman mythology, the Faun being his nearest analogue — besides 
 being the tutelary deity of shepherds, the god of rustics, and the 
 country — besides possessing those lesser attributes so exquisitely
 
 118 BOOKS THAT MIGHT BE WRITTEN. 
 
 described by the poet — had other more important and further- 
 reaching functions, that he was the 
 
 that he was 
 
 Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
 Leading to universal knowledge, 
 
 A symbol of immensity ; 
 
 A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
 
 An element filling the space between, &c. 
 
 Now the idea of these larger powers attributed to Pan is 
 founded on a notion which, though general, is a mistaken one. 
 Pan, as fabled by the Greeks, was invested with no such lofty 
 attributes. He was a lesser deity, an inferior god, whose special 
 care it was to watch over the simple shepherds of Arcady and 
 their sheepfolds. Thence, naturally enough, he came to have a 
 sphere somewhat more extended. By Keats and others his 
 domain and his functions have been extended, indeed ; and we 
 repeat that this unfortunate extension has, pro tanto, spoiled one 
 of the finest pieces of writing in our language. 
 
 The popular but mistaken notion referred to finds its explana- 
 tion in the confusion of Pan, deriving from paon, a shepherd, or 
 o Pdon, the shepherd, with pan, similarly spelt, which signifies 
 "the whole of things," the universe.* 
 
 A word in conclusion. It is not a little noteworthy, as some 
 one has remarked, that Keats, who has reproduced — shall we say 
 realized — in English literature the Greek spirit, who has allowed 
 us to breathe the very atmosphere in which the earlier Greek 
 poets wrote as no one has done before him, should at the same 
 time have so completely adopted modern modes of working. In 
 the " Endymion," as has often been pointed out, the landscape 
 fills the whole framework of the picture, man being but a tiny 
 figure in the background ; the Greeks stood at the opposite 
 pole. A combination such as Keats presents is phenomenal in 
 literature. 
 
 * Vide " Les Dieux de la Grece Antique," par M. Albert Reville 
 
 Revue Germxni'/ui , 1SC1.
 
 GILBERT WHIT/:, OF SELBORNE. 119 
 
 GILBERT WHITE OF SELBORNE 
 (Born 1720, Died 1793.) 
 
 "/T^HE Natural History of Selborne, by the Rev. Gilbert 
 vi^ White, Master of Arts," but Bachelor by condition. There 
 is a fascination in the very title! Amid the crowd of bachelors 
 of science and lettered bachelors that have contributed to the 
 world's pleasure and instruction, what bachelor is dearer to the 
 English heart than Gilbert White, of Selborne 1 Not Charles 
 Lamb, among the lettered, not Sir Joshua, among painters, not 
 honest John Dal ton, or amiable Sir Isaac, among the scientists, 
 comes so near to us. And, by the way, what a lot of work — 
 good, permanent, lasting work — the bachelors, as a body, have 
 done for the world — and involuntary bachelors, for the most part, 
 take our word for it, for men of sterling metal do not " wear 
 their hearts upon their sleeves for daws to peck at !" When dear, 
 •old Doctor Dalton, who was so long fixed in Manchester here 
 that we may fairly claim him as a ; ' Manchester Man," and whom 
 indeed \vc have already honoured by giving his name to one of 
 our streets, was asked why he had never married, the old wound 
 bled afresh, and he could only evade the question by quietly 
 replying that he " had had no time." Of course he had had 
 time, for the doctor had a great admiration for the sex, as we 
 know by looking through a side-door ; but he could not wear the 
 blood-red flower openly in his button-hole — certainly not ! This 
 by the way. 
 
 " The Natural History of Selborne !" Was there ever a more 
 delightful book on natural history written in the English or any 
 other language 1 We know of none. Its charm, which is
 
 120 GILBERT WHITE, OF SEL BORNE. 
 
 perennial, is also a peculiar one ; and the secret of this charm is 
 what ? Some say it is that the book brings us at once out into 
 the open air — that we live, through this author, the free, glad 
 life of the birds, and the life of all the animal world that run 
 wild about us, and that we are stirred and refreshed thereby. 
 Some say it is the author's absolute truthfulness and candour, 
 and his infectious enthusiasm in the pursuit of natural science in 
 its various branches. 
 
 But in all this White is surpassed by the American Thoreau, 
 than whom a more enthusiastic lover of wild nature, or more 
 devout worshipper of Pan, never lived ! Thoreau was the very 
 child of Nature, and to get nearer the great heart of her, to count 
 her pulses, to get at the very kernel of things ; and to get, at the 
 same time, at what are the absolute essentials, as apart from the 
 accidents and accessaries of human life, he lived for a while in 
 the American woods alone. Of this writer, who, be it known, 
 was no mere disciple of Emerson, it is said that he has put on 
 record more observations — more accurate observations — of 
 natural objects, and natural phenomena, than any writer since 
 Aristotle. 
 
 But Thoreau was not merely a naturalist, he aimed at 
 philosophy. He was fond of considering man in his relation to 
 nature, and of condemning existing systems of society, without 
 pointing out any adequate remedies for the diseases he rather 
 savagely diagnosed. There was something of harsh and uncom- 
 promising in his judgments ; and through much of his writing 
 there runs a vein of irony Avdiich makes it unpleasant reading. 
 The unrestjul spirit is too evident. 
 
 Gilbert White, on the other hand, addresses himself directly 
 to Nature herself, and to the facts before him, without philo- 
 sophising; and through his clear, transparent style there escapes 
 nothing acrid or harsh, but all is bathed in the sweet sunshine of 
 a thoroughly genial and kindly nature. Above all there is calm. 
 We come out of the hurly-burly, and whirl of things, to learn 
 some more particulars about the old family Tortoise ! The 
 author writes in absolute tranquillity, and to read him is to rest ;
 
 GILBERT WHITE, OF SELBORNE. )21 
 
 he perplexes and vexes us not by recurring to the ever-insoluble 
 problem, and we feel not "the burthen of the mystery!' On 
 
 the contrary, we are calmed and cheered ; and in this complexion 
 of mind it is that we look out upon nature and upon man. All 
 Europe may be labouring in the throes of a dire convulsion, hut 
 no echo of this — not the faintest — reaches our ears. Emperors 
 and kings may quake upon their thrones, and the rising peoples 
 may topple them down, but Nature herself remains steadfast, 
 calm, eternal — Nature's calm is on and in this book ! 
 
 His beautiful style, amiable temper, and direct way of looking 
 at and dealing with the facts of nature — these are at least a large 
 element in the peculiar charm exercised by Gilbert White upon 
 his readers ; and these are largely the element that will make a 
 plain natural history book, written more than a century ago, to 
 be read after much of the "science" it contains is old and out of 
 date ; for, as a great German has wisely remarked : Science is nol 
 like a house that is built and completed, but rather like a tree 
 that continues to grow and develop. 
 
 White's book, in fact, is one of our permanent Britigh classics 
 — read wherever the Jhiglish language is read ; and an English 
 library from which it was missing would be regarded as in- 
 complete indeed. Even in this time of plenitude of books, the 
 " Natural History of Selborne " is indispensable, for the reason 
 that although there are many books, there is no super-abundance 
 of good books ; and this is to pay a handsome tribute to the 
 genius of Gilbert White. 
 
 Of the new impulse the book gave to the study of natural 
 history in this country, and how powerful an agent it has been 
 in the spreading of those quiet, gentle tastes that are so much 
 better than the noisy and violent pleasures, with their dregs of 
 bitterness — often shame, we have not spoken ; nor of its large 
 influence in leading men of similar tastes to publish the result of 
 their observations made within the limits of their several localities, 
 in the form of local floras and faunas. But in all this beneficent 
 work, it will be admitted on all hands, that the " Natural History 
 of Selborne " has been an enormous factor.
 
 122 
 
 GILBERT WHITE, OF SEL BORNE. 
 
 And thus the dear old Bachelor Parson, writing privately to 
 his friends from an obscure Hampshire parish with a population 
 of a few hundreds, in increasing the world's knowledge of the 
 facts of nature, and widening the avenues to rational pleasure, is 
 distinctly to be numbered amongst those benefactors of the race 
 whose names are worthy of all honour. Nay, the parish of 
 Selborne is already — every foot of it — -classic ground, and the 
 annual goal of hundreds of devout pilgrims. And of the name 
 and fame of good old Gilbert White we would say, from the 
 bottom of our heart : Esto perjpetua !
 
 ROBERT FEROUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 123 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 TWO PAPERS KEAD BEFORE THE LITERARY CLUB 
 
 OF MANCHESTER.* 
 
 First Paper. 
 
 "V/N a previous article on the subject of Burns,! we stated that 
 (Vj there was scarcely a single Englishman of average reading 
 who, if appealed to, would not claim full acquaintance both with 
 the "Life" and "Works" of Robert Burns. In the present 
 papers, having regard to their inevitable length, it will be highly 
 convenient to admit the above claim, and to assume familiarity 
 on the reader's part with the " Works," at least, of Scotland's and 
 Britain's greatest lyrical poet; for by pursuing this course we 
 shall escape the necessity of quotation, reference alone being 
 needed to those poems which we shall have occasion from time to 
 time to bring under review. But as regards the Edinburgh poet, 
 the once " famous Fergusson," the " writer-chiel, o' deathless 
 name," we shall proceed on the contrary assumption, viz., that be 
 is very little read, and that those who are familiar with his 
 "Works" are few indeed. 
 
 With regard to the subject of Burns's precursors, it is one that 
 has been, [as yet, very insufficiently dealt with, and one that 
 might, as we think, very worthily have occupied a pen of more 
 acknowledged weight and power. But however inadequately the 
 subject of one only of these precursors may here be treated, 
 
 * J 885. 
 t " Robert Burns considered as a Naturalist,"' page 24.
 
 124 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 we cannot think that at a time of so much second-hand criticism) 
 
 any contribution will be found unacceptable that shall throw even 
 
 the smallest additional light upon so astounding a phenomenon. 
 
 We say " astounding phenomenon," for that one so lowly born 
 
 as was Robert Burns, so little helped of his fellows, or of fortune, 
 
 writing for the most part in an obscure dialect, should within SO' 
 
 brief a space have stormed the hearts not only of his own 
 
 countrymen, not alone of all Saxon-speaking peoples, but of the 
 
 world at large, is a matter that may well excite our special 
 
 wonder, and lead us to 
 
 Ask of Nature, from what cause 
 And by what rules 
 She trained her Burns to win applause 
 
 That .shames the Schools ! 
 
 Do we exaggerate ? No. To have revived a moribund 
 dialect, — an uncouth dialect, and one, moreover, little suited, in- 
 ordinary hands, to express the higher efforts of the imagina- 
 tion ; to have firmly planted this dialect in literature ; to have 
 imposed it on the world, and rendered it classical henceforth, 
 insomuch that one could almost as readily dispense with his 
 " Shakespeare " as his " Burns :" this is a stupendous achieve- 
 ment, it is the labour of a Titan, but it is the work of the 
 Ayrshire ploughman ; and to so great a poet, genius, and Master, 
 we would here, before venturing upon any criticism of him, or of 
 his works, pay our most ready, sincere, and grateful homage : 
 
 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
 Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays. 
 
 If, as will be admitted, the Common Heart of Man be the poet's 
 
 peculiar domain, then he who most strongly and powerfully 
 
 storms that heart is Lord indeed. And where, in what language 
 
 written or spoken of men, shall we find a more passionate and 
 
 penetrating voice, a more stormy appeal to the great Heart of 
 
 Humanity, than in the poems and songs of Burns ? Well might 
 
 he be apostrophised as the " Spirit fierce and bold " by his great 
 
 successor, Wordsworth, in those impressive lines written at the 
 
 poet's grave seven years after his death :
 
 ROBERT FERQUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 125 
 
 I shiver, Spirit fierce and hold, 
 At though) of what I uow behold : 
 As vapours breathed from dungeons cold 
 Si tike pleasure dead, 
 
 So sadness conies fnnn out the mould 
 Where Burns is laid. 
 
 A "Spirit tierce," indeed, our poet was — fierce in his loves, fierce 
 
 in his hates, fierce in his joys, fierce in his griefs — always aflame, 
 
 always glowing at white heat, and possessed of — say rather by — 
 
 a lyrical passion ] v intense than ever yet burned in human 
 
 breast. This perfervid feeling, this intensity of passion, this 
 
 tremendous fire of the soul, it is that enables Burns to carry us 
 
 all — cold and ardent alike — literally by storm and assault. "We 
 
 are uplifted in spite of ourselves, we are wrapt as in a whirlwind, 
 
 and borne away by and with the poet whithersoever he listeth 
 
 Be it pathos, be it humour, the stroke of Burns declares him 
 
 Master ; it falls direct as the bolt of heaven, and glows with the 
 
 flame of his matchless genius. Hence it is that, "although he 
 
 has left us," as Carlyle very justly observes, " with scarcely any 
 
 exception, mere occasional effusions, poured forth with little 
 
 premeditation, expressing by such means as offered the passion, 
 
 opinion or humour of the hour " ; we say although Burns has left 
 
 us but these, yet is he, by virtue of the great qualities above 
 
 described, to be numbered — and the tribute is an enormous one— 
 
 among the most powerful, not of British poets oidy, but of all 
 
 poets. 
 
 Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 
 Are felt the Hashes of his pen ; 
 
 He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 
 
 I let- till their hives ; 
 Deep in the general heart of men 
 
 His power survh es. 
 
 His power survives; and the secret of this power, as we have 
 seen, consists in the poet's directness of stroke, and in the 
 tremendous and all-consuming fire of his own tierce spirit. Bui 
 it consists in more than this, for this is not the whole secret; it 
 consists in an understanding of marvellous strength and clearness 
 that recalls the great objective poets, and in an infallible shrewd 
 sense, reminding one of Emerson's observation touching Shake- 
 speare, that it would have taken a very sharp business man indeed
 
 126 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 to have got the better of him in any bargain whatsoever ; or in 
 other words, that the Bard of Avon would have been hard to 
 cheat. So with poet Burns. The fact is that imagination — a 
 disciplined imagination — so far from being a hindrance in the 
 conduct of affairs, is an important auxiliary ; nay, in many 
 departments of business a large measure of the imaginative 
 faculty is just as valuable as so much capital or stock in trade ; 
 and we are convinced that more men fail in their undertakings 
 through a deficiency than through an excess of this too much 
 decried faculty. As somebody has acutely remarked, if Robert 
 Burns had but given his mind to farming, success could not have 
 failed him, bad seasons apart; for Burns, though as true a poet as 
 ever struck lyre, was essentially a practical, hard-headed and long- 
 headed man, taking full and intimate cognizance of all that was 
 happening around him, and passing upon men and things a 
 judgment, as we said just now, well nigh infallible. Above all 
 poets, he is near to us, not remote ; he is mundane, he walks the 
 earth, not the clouds ; he is intimate, familiar, fraternal, brimming 
 over with love of his kind; the fervid flood of sympathy welling 
 up from his mighty heart, as the very sweetest milk of human 
 kindness, laps us and heals us ; we cannot speak of him but 
 caressingly, he is "Robin," "Rob," " Rab," " Rabbie." Not a 
 social gathering of Anglo-Saxons, the wide-world over, but he is 
 an element in that gathering. He is a distinct power, binding 
 and cementing nations ; he is a declared factor in the solidarity 
 of peoples. The measure of the world's indebtedness to him, who 
 shall estimate or assess ? How, by his matchless songs of love 
 and friendship, to which the whole world's heart vibrates, 
 in every land and clime, he has made life — our common, 
 human life — sweeter and richer — infinitely sweeter and infinitely 
 richer; and how he has ennobled the lives'of the countless toilers 
 of the world ! As the genial, jolly, Flaccus, the delight of the 
 Rome of his time and of every age since, is to the Latin poets, 
 so is Burns to our modern poets. The wisdom of the one, as of 
 the other, is a mellow wisdom; and the extremely human weakness 
 of both, self-acknowledged and confessed in broad day, bring
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 127 
 
 them nearer to us — often very near indeed. About Burns we 
 have how strong a savour of the earth ! and the wonder is that, 
 with so strong a savour, he should carry so much of heaven in his 
 heart. Never, surely, since Shakespeare, has Nature compounded 
 in these islands so happy a mixture of strong sense and fine 
 sentiment as is found in this poet, to whom, as regards his in- 
 tellectual side, one might aptly apply the expression of James 
 Russell Lowell touching a great writer of the west, whose head 
 was as a well-balanced sphere, with 
 
 One pole on Olympus and t'other on 'Change. 
 
 Hence it is that Burns's power is felt nob only amid the solitudes 
 of nature, where his mighty muse is thoroughly at home, but in 
 the crowded places of the earth — in the streets and alleys of our 
 towns and cities, teeming with busy life. 
 
 Having thus paid worthy homage to this Prince of Song- 
 writers and King of Men, one may be permitted to turn here 
 and look at the spots on the sun ; but only for a moment, for to 
 consider our poet at any length from the moral standpoint is 
 beyond the scope of these papers ; one or two points only shall we 
 refer to. 
 
 That Burns, the fearless and the bold, whose complete sincerity, 
 thorough independence, and generally clean moral health, breathe 
 like a rich essence from his pages— that Burns who, with his 
 scathing satire, so shattered and shivered the Shams and the 
 Shoddies of his time, as of all time ; who so snubbed the Snobs, 
 and hustled the Humbugs, and punished the Pinchbecks, and 
 ousted and routed the great families of Rant and Cant, should, 
 himself, have preached false doctrine, is to be regretted. But 
 the fact is as indubitable as it is regrettable ; we allude to that 
 brilliant, and only too memorable, lapse in the "Vision ": 
 
 I saw thy pulse's maddening play 
 Wdd send thee pleasure's devious way, 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, 
 
 By passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from heaven !
 
 128 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 No doubt the sophism is splendid — splendid in its expression, 
 splendid in its very audacity, insomuch that the ordinary reader 
 is blinded by the splendour, and but half perceives the fallacy it 
 gilds and covers. Yet is the doctrine here enunciated pregnant 
 with mischief, and most pernicious ; and well is it that another 
 great poet* should so nobly have controverted and demolished the 
 brilliant sophism — a sophism but too obviously intended as a 
 cover for the poet's own excesses in the convivial circle. And 
 this brings us to a matter which has been much and hotly dis- 
 cussed, viz., Burns's intemperance, upon which a "last word" here, 
 Ave hope not an intemperate one. 
 
 A propos to this subject it may be remarked that no intelligent 
 Frenchman could possibly read our Scottish dialect poets with- 
 out being reminded of his great countryman, Rabelais, and above 
 all of the humorist's giant-hero, Gargantua, who, following 
 veracious records, came into this world shouting : ii boire / a boire ! 
 In fact, a great part of the Scottish anthology what is it but a 
 splendid apotheosis of John Barleycorn ! " The fuddlin' bardies, 
 nowadays " says Fergusson, who unfortunately was one of them, 
 though he did write a poem on "Cold Water"! — a once famous 
 poem, and still unique as the most considerable tribute ever paid 
 by Scotchman to the pure element ! 
 
 The fuddlin' bardies, nowadays, 
 
 Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus's praise ; 
 
 And limp and stoiter thro' their lays 
 
 Anacreontic, 
 While each his sea of wine displays 
 
 As big's the pontic. 
 
 But, as we remarked, of these " fuddlin' bardies " unhappily 
 Fergusson was one, and the learned Dr. Geddes, whilst writing 
 handsomely of him in other respects, in dialect, gives prominence 
 to this fact. As contemporary references to the poet are not too 
 numerous, and by way of illustration, we may quote Geddes's 
 words, which indeed are so characteristically quaint that they 
 recommend themselves : 
 
 * Wordsworth. + " Cauler Water."
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBKHT BURNS. \-29 
 
 W'hare noo, the nyinpli< that weent to feed 
 Their Hocks upon the lt;uik.s of Tweed ; 
 And sang sae moiiy a winsome ail- 
 About the bus abooq Traquair? 
 Wae's me ! sin Ramsay disappeared, 
 Their tunefu' voice is na mail hear'd : 
 Nor hae their charms sinsyne been shown 
 Except to FeiLMis-on alone. 
 W-wierded wight ! wha would prefeer 
 A learning bicker o' Bell's beer 
 To a' the nectar that (list il> 
 Frae Phoebus 1 munt in sucar't rills ; 
 And loe"d Auld Reekie's boussom lasses 
 Mair than the Maidens o' Parnassus. 
 Yet lie had ilka art to please, 
 And \\ in t lie dint iest even of these : 
 His was the reed sae sweet and shrill 
 That sang the " Lass o' l'atie's Mill'' ; 
 To him belang't the weel-strung lyre 
 That tempered Hammie's native me; 
 And Forbes' fife, >ae feat an' trim, 
 Was left but onv doubt to him. 
 But nouther reed, nor lyre, nor fife 
 Regarded he, but drank thro' life, 
 And leugh, until the cauld o' death 
 < 'hilt his heart -blude, an' stapt his breath. 
 He died, puir soul ! and wi' him died 
 The relict Muse o' mither-lied ! 
 
 How far our "fuddlin' bardies" may have contributed to swell 
 the vast sum total of national drunkenness by the added charm 
 of the Muse to what was already sufficiently alluring, and by 
 their terrible anathemas breathed against non-drinkers, such as 
 
 May gravels round his blather wrench, 
 And gouts torment him inch by inch, 
 Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 
 
 O' sour disdain 
 Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 
 
 Wi' honest men ! 
 
 is a question we shall not here stop to discuss. But to deny 
 Burns's intemperance, at one unfortunate period of his life, is as 
 impossible as it is to justify it, and to attempt to excuse it would 
 be folly ; for if brilliant social and intellectual qualities are to 
 be pleaded in excuse in Burns's case, so in others : once grant 
 the principle and it becomes a question of degree only. Yet the 
 feeling of pity will, and must, creep in ; and if pity be to be 
 invoked, what voice more eloquent than the poet's own ! Listen 
 to him, conscious of his backslidings, pleading in his self-elected 
 capacity as " counsel for poor mortals " at the bar of Eternal
 
 130 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Justice. Surely it is the voice of that other sweet singer, the 
 " Sweet Singer of Israel," a man described as " after God's own: 
 heart," and who was yet "a man not without blemish"! But 
 no ; the tones we hear, though worthy of the Royal Psalmist 
 himself, in a moment of highest exaltation, are none other than 
 those of the unlettered ploughman, Robert Burns : 
 
 Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 
 
 Decided!}- can try us; 
 He knows each chord — its various tone, 
 
 Each string — its various bias ; 
 Then at the balance let's be mute, 
 
 We never can adjust it : 
 What's done we partly may compute, 
 But know not what's resisted. 
 
 But enough from the moral standpoint, and enough of pre- 
 amble ; proceed we now to the more immediate subject of this 
 paper : Burns's literary obligations to Robert Fergusson. We 
 said at the outset that the theme had almost the character of 
 novelty; and so far as concerns the majority of readers such we 
 hold to be the case, though no doubt to the occasional thorough 
 student of English literature these obligations have long been 
 known, whilst by the few critics who have dealt with the matter 
 they have been variously and unequally assessed — under- 
 estimated we venture to think, for the most part, but also now 
 and again placed at too high a figure. On the European con- 
 tinent, on the other hand, not only the general readers of Burns 
 — and Burns's readers there are now very numerous — but literary 
 students and critics are, as a rule, either ignorant of, or they 
 ignore, this certainly very appreciable element in the building up 
 of Burns's splendid genius. It becomes important, therefore, to 
 present Fergusson's claims, so far as may be, in their true and 
 just proportions. 
 
 Even on this side the channel very few have taken the trouble 
 to carefully compare for themselves the work of the two authors. 
 How rarely in the libraries even of literary Scotchmen is a copy 
 of Fergusson to be met with. Does anybody read him at all 1 
 One is almost tempted to put the further question: Has anybody 
 ever read him, except a few special students 1 Is the poet Fergus-
 
 ROiiEitr n:i:<;rssox and i;oi;i:i:t r.rnxs. i;ji 
 
 son "The writer-chiel o' deathless name," of whom Burns wrote so 
 eulogistically, and of whom Gcddes could sing in the above 
 handsome strain, already forgotten "J Impossible! Whilst the 
 fame of Burns survives so long must that of Fergusson. 
 
 Nor is Fcrgusson's importance to British literature a mere 
 relative importance ; indeed, it may be said, conversely, that the 
 smallness of his stature, considered as a Scottish poet, is but a 
 relative smallness: for had there not arisen immediately after 
 him a giant called " Burns" the elder poet's stature would have 
 been so considerable that he must inevitably have been placed in 
 the front rank of Scottish poets, or at any rate in the front rank 
 of those writing in dialect. And this is surely the fairest and 
 fittest way of estimating this amiable, if erring, genius, that is to 
 say, without any reference to the Titan who succeeded him. In 
 what relation would Fergusson have stood to the other poets of 
 the Scottish dialect had there been no Burns 1 And what would 
 have been Burns's development had Fergusson not preceded him % 
 These are the questions at issue, and this the light, undoubtedly, 
 in which they should be considered and studied. 
 
 And first a word on the important subject of dialects — im- 
 portant always, but of paramount importance in relation to the 
 present article. "A man speaking in his native dialect," says 
 Goethe, "speaks out his very soul." "Whatever may be the 
 language of a man's thought " says L)e Quincey, " the language of 
 his heart, of his emotions, will be his mother-tongue." In this 
 expression of the German Master, and this sentence from an 
 English writer of vast critical acumen, lies a great truth of which, 
 if one seeks an illustration, none will be found more conspicuous 
 than Robert Fergusson, whose p >ems in English, as compared 
 with his poems in the Scottish dialect are, to use Tennyson's 
 phrase : — 
 
 As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine. 
 
 In fact, with a few notable exceptions, Fergusson's poems in 
 English are very uninspired productions indeed ; and were it not 
 that they serve purposes of comparison, and that they happen to 
 be the writings of a poet whose fevered career ended at the early 
 
 12
 
 132 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 age of twenty-four, they would hardly repay perusal. His 
 poems in the lowland Scotch, on the other hand, apart from their 
 relative interest as having to a considerable extent served Burns's 
 turn, are all readable, many of them delightful, while some are 
 altogether admirable. The same contrast, though much less 
 marked, is observable in the works of the Ayrshire poet. How 
 this contrast comes about let us further seek to enquire by the 
 light of Goethe's Aveighty position above quoted. 
 
 It is a noteworthy fact that Burns was often urged by his 
 friendly correspondents and critics to abandon his favourite 
 literary vehicle, the lowland Scotch, and take to pure English. 
 One is heartily glad that he declined to be guided — or rather 
 misguided — -by any such mistaken if well-meaning people. The 
 cases of Burns and Fergusson, both of whom so largely adopted 
 the Scottish idiom as a literary vehicle, proves the unerring 
 character of their several instincts in choosing the mode of 
 expression having, so to speak, most affinity with the genius of 
 each. Had Fergusson written in pure English only, it is 
 questionable if his fame as a poet would have survived his own 
 generation. Had Burns not written in the Scottish idiom, with 
 his vaster powers of imagination and humour, as of expression 
 and adaptation, he might, indeed, have made a name in poetry, 
 but most certainly Ave should have missed a full half of that 
 Avhich to-day makes the Avhole world's delight. His happiest sallies 
 of wit Ave should have missed ; his keenest strokes of satire Ave 
 should have missed ; his finest touches of pathos Ave should have 
 missed ; and Ave will even venture to add that Ave should have 
 missed some of his noblest Mights into that high region of the 
 imagination to which usually the Doric is considered an insuper- 
 able bar. And an insuperable bar it usually is ; but Avhat bar is 
 known to genius 1 Have Ave not often found genius to overleap 
 seemingly impossible barriers? Nay, is it not the high privilege 
 of genius to achieve that Avhich to ordinary people must always 
 seem impossible ? 
 
 Having thus launched upon the stormy sea of theoretical and 
 tentative criticism, let us dare the high Avaves of controversy a
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 133 
 
 little further by hazarding the opinion that in regard to the 
 above mutters the commanding voice of a great poet's genius 
 
 must always direct him the way he should go. Whatever 
 language, or dialect, therefore, a genius shall choose in which to 
 speak and appeal to our hearts and minds, we who are thus 
 spoken and appealed to are not absolved from the task of ac- 
 quainting and familiarising ourselves with that language or that 
 dialect. Indeed, were the principle of objecting to idioms, per se, 
 to be established, what would become of the great masters of the 
 past, each of whom writes in idiom. Does familiarity with Ovid, 
 for instance, assume, or imply, familiarity with Horace, or with 
 Virgil, though all three were contemporary and wrote in one 
 common language 1 And similarly with the great moderns, each 
 of whom writes in his own idiom, that is to say, in his own 
 peculiar manner and phrase, requiring more or less of time, 
 patience, and skill in the reading ; often a very large measure of 
 all these, as witness the involved and difficult sentences of the 
 eccentric Jean Paul ; not to name our English Carlyle, whose 
 much-reading of eccentric German writers ended in making his 
 own style and phrase almost equally eccentric. These and others 
 of the world's widest-famed authors may really be said to write 
 in dialect; but in such dialects that the world, were it not to 
 learn and get them by heart betimes, would be how much the 
 poorer ! What picturesque and powerful writing ! How the 
 heart of humanity has thrilled to the stroke of the Ivichters, the 
 Efcuskins, and others. To forbid the use of idiom, then, is to stifle 
 individuality ; to forbid the use of dialects is to kill genius. It 
 remains for us — nous autres — to take without demur " the good 
 the gods provide us;" for the gods, or some occult power, it 
 assuredly is that guides true genius in all these matters 
 
 We have hitherto spoken of the Scottish tongue — the mode of 
 expression chiefly affected by Burns and Fergusson, and which 
 had such close affinity with the genius of each— as a dialect ; but 
 is it a dialect, or is it a language'? " Most decidedly a language,' 
 says a recent writer on the subject, "and not a dialect, as many 
 English people believe." "Scotch," says this writer, "is no
 
 134 ROBERT FERGUS SON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 more a corruption of English than the Dutch or Flemish is of 
 the Danish, or vice versd ; but a true language, differing not 
 merely from modern English in pronunciation, but in the 
 possession of many beautiful words which have ceased to be 
 English, and in the use of inflections unknown to literary and 
 spoken English since the days of Piers Ploughman, and Chaucer."' 
 But into a discussion of this matter we must not at present enter. 
 In the meantime, for purposes of expediency, and of this article, 
 we shall continue to speak of the Scottish as a dialect. 
 
 Of this dialect, then, we have already remarked that it is one 
 little suited, as a rule, to express the higher efforts of the im- 
 agination. But in the case of Burns this imperfect instrument 
 was not in ordinary hands ; on the contrary it was handled by a 
 genius capable of bending to the purpose of his muse all forms 
 and modes of expression. All language within Burns's ken is 
 plastic and pliant to his hand, taking the shape and form that he 
 wills, save and except the dramatic. Mark, how, in his Address 
 to the Deil, in a poem distinctly humorous, he starts the imagina- 
 tion careering away through boundless regions by a single 
 pen-stroke ! 
 
 Great is thy power, and great thy fame ; 
 Far ken'd and noted is thy name ; 
 And tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 
 
 Thou travels far ; 
 And, faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 
 
 Nor blate, nor scaur. 
 
 Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, 
 For prey a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
 Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin', 
 
 TirhV the kirks ; 
 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 
 
 Unseen thou lurks. 
 
 I've heard my reverend granny say, 
 In lonely glens ye like to stray ; 
 Or where auld ruin'd castles, grey, 
 Nod to the moon, 
 Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way 
 Wi' eldritch croon. 
 
 "What splendid power do we see here over the Scottish idiom in 
 a department where it might well be the despair of the poet. 
 We know not three verses in the world's literature in which,
 
 ROBERT FERGCSSOX AXD ROIiERT BURNS. 135 
 
 while the sense is distinctly humorous, there is given to the 
 imagination an impulse so grand, so powerful. Note the force 
 and sublimity dwelling in the three simple words, "Tirlin the 
 kirks," in the middle stanza, and in "Nod to the moon" in the 
 third. 
 
 Into these high regions Fergusson rarely, or never, pene- 
 trates ; his muse has not the stiength of wing to mount so high j 
 nor, indeed, has he, at any time, anywhere near so large a 
 measure of the peculiar vivida vis of the poet as his great 
 successor, Burns. Still, in the lower regions of the imagination, 
 •or, if we must nicely discriminate the faculties, in the region of 
 the fancy, he is much at home, as we hope a little later to show. 
 And in the department of humour, in the " slee, pawkie art," he 
 excels above all ; here he has power, here he is a master, at 
 times not inferior to Burns himself. In this respect, how 
 ever, for the present, we must not consider him ; for this occasion 
 it will suffice that we occupy the reader's attention whilst 
 exhibiting him as a descriptive poet and writer of pastorals. 
 Not that we are about to speak of Fergusson's pastorals written 
 in English. Oh, no ! With these we have little concern ; and 
 really it is a pleasure to pass them b}^ ! For the present we are 
 concerned only with those written in the Scottish dialect — a 
 ■dialect which, by its vast vocabulary, its extreme flexibility, 
 pliability, and facility of elision, is particularly suited to descrip- 
 tive poetry, as it is, also, to the pathetic and the humorous. 
 
 Of Fergusson's Scottish pastorals, undoubtedly his best known, 
 though now little-read work, is the Farmer's In</Ic, which besides 
 1)eing in its conception one of the most original is, in our opinion 
 at least, one of the most delightful of pastorals ; and more per- 
 fect, we venture to say, considered strictly as a Scottish pastoral, 
 than even Burns's Cottar's Saturday Night, though this pronounce- 
 ment may sound to certain ears very like heresy. And why is 
 the Farmer's Ingle a more perfect Scottish pastoral than Burns's 
 magnificent idyll 1 Because it is written wholly and entirely in 
 ,the Scottish dialect, while in Burns's famous pastoral both the
 
 136 ROBERT FERGUSSUN AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 dialect and pure English are used, and not only used but 
 unfortunately somewhat mixed. 
 
 It will be remembered that in the Cottar's Saturday Night the- 
 author distinctly states to Aitken, in the proemial part, that he is. 
 about to simr 
 
 The lowly train in life's sequestered scene, 
 in simple Scottish lay, the distinction between English and Scottish' 
 "lays "having been previously duly marked. But does he do 
 this i On the contrary, out of the twenty-four stanzas contained' 
 in the pastoral only nine partake of the dialect, the remainder 
 being written in English ; though in such English, it is true, that 
 we hardly regret it is not Scottish. Yet, as before hinted, to the 
 poem, considered strictly as a pastoral, and distinctly purporting to 
 be written in the Scottish idiom, this mixing of the two — the 
 English and the dialect— must be regarded, critically speaking, as 
 a drawback. That Burns could have avoided this, and made the 
 poem a homogeneous one — that he could have adopted the idiom 
 to the didactic, as well as the descriptive parts of the poem goes 
 without saying, for, in sooth, what could he not have done ! 
 
 To the above criticism it will, no doubt, be objected, in the 
 first place, that to judge by the strict rules of art the composi- 
 tions of one placed in the circumstances of Burns is unfair and 
 unwarranted. 
 
 But to this we would reply that neither here, nor subsequently 
 in the course of these papers, is it intended to set up any standard 
 of criticism save the poet's own, as exhibited in the majority of 
 his dialect poems, in which defects of the kind referred to are 
 not met with. Nor will anything be pointed out as an incon- 
 gruity that is not so clearly and obviously such as to force us to 
 the conclusion that its occurrence must have resulted solely from 
 want of care, and not from want of skill, on the part of a writer 
 of Burns's enormous powers. And in regard even to this 
 particular composition of the Cottar* Saturday Night, there are 
 doubtless those who will be disposed to urge that if in it Burns 
 did mix the English with the Scottish idiom, he did it with a 
 purpose, using the idiom in the descriptive part, and falling back
 
 ROBERT FERQUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 137 
 
 upon the English only in the didactic and declamatory portions. 
 But no j at least five out of the fourteen descriptive stanzas are 
 
 DOt written in the dialect at all but in pur.- English. One is 
 warranted, therefore, in saying that, considered strictly as a 
 Scot/i.</i pastoral, the Farmer's Ingle of Robert Fergusson is a more 
 perfect production than Burns's world-famed idyll. To tin- 
 former also is due the splendid merit of originality and first con- 
 ception. The creative faculty how precious, how rare ! The 
 imitative, how common ! After Robert Fergusson, with his 
 Farmer's Ingle, came Dr. Charles Keith, with his Farmer's Ha\ a 
 long, exceedingly readable, and in many respects, very meritorious 
 poem. After both came Robert Burns, with his Cottar's Saturchnj 
 Night, a composition which had it ten times the drawbacks above 
 indicated would still remain and be a magnificent poem and a 
 glory to the nation which has produced it. Need it be here 
 (pioted from to verify the defects alleged 1 We prefer to assume 
 perfect familiarity on the reader's part with so renowned a 
 masterpiece ; let us rather quote at length the poem with which 
 we have assumed him to be unfamiliar — the Farmer's Ingle of 
 Fergusson, — upon the plan of which Burns notoriously and 
 admittedly based his famous pastoral : — 
 
 THE FARMER'S INGLE. 
 
 Et multo imprimis hilarans convivia Baccho, 
 Ante focum, si frigus erit. — Virg. Bur. 
 
 When gloamin' grey out-owre the welkin keeks ; 
 
 When Batie caws his owsen to the byre ; 
 When Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks, 
 
 And lusty lasses at the dightin' tire : 
 What hangs fu" leal the e'ening's coming cauld, 
 
 And gars snaw-tappit winter freeze in vain ; 
 Gars dowie mortals look baith blytbe and bauld, 
 
 Nor rley'd \vi' a' the poortith o' the plain, 
 
 Begin, my muse ! and chaunt in hainely strain. 
 
 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, 
 
 Wi' divots theekit frae the weet and drift ; 
 Sods, peats, and heathery trutl's the chimney till, 
 
 And gar their thickening smeek salute the lift. 
 The guidman, new come haine, is hlythe to find, 
 
 When he out-owre the hallan flings his een, 
 That ilka turn is handled to his mind ; 
 
 That a' his housie looks sae cosh and clean ; 
 
 For eleanlv house lo'es he though e'er so mean.
 
 J38 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Weel kens the guidwife that the pleughs require 
 A heartsome meltith, and refreshing synd 
 
 O' nappy liquor, owre a bleeezin' fire, 
 
 Sair wark and poortith downa weel be ioin'd. 
 
 Wi ] butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks ; 
 I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams ; 
 
 The readied kail stands by the chindey cheeks, 
 And bauds the riggin het wi' welcome streams, 
 Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer seems. 
 
 Frae this let gentler gabs a lesson lear : 
 
 Wad they to labouring lend an eident hand, 
 
 They'd rax fell Strang upon the simplest fare, 
 Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. 
 
 Fu' hale and healthy wad they pass the day ; 
 At night in calmest slumbers doze fu' sound ; 
 
 Nor doctor need their weary life to spae, 
 
 Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, 
 
 Till death slip sleely on, and gie the hindmost wound. 
 
 On sicken food has mony a doughty deed 
 
 By Caledonia's ancestors been done : 
 By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed 
 
 In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun. 
 'Twas this that braced the gairdies stiff and Strang, 
 
 That bent the deadly yew in ancient days ; 
 Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang ; 
 
 Gar'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays, 
 
 For near our coast their heads they doughtna raise. 
 
 The couthy cracks begin when supper's owre ; 
 
 The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash 
 O' simmer's showery blinks, and winter's sour, 
 
 Whose floods did erst their mailin's produce hash. 
 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on ; 
 
 How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; 
 And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
 
 Upon the cutty stool was forced to ride, 
 
 The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide. 
 
 The feint a cheep's amang the bairnies now, 
 
 For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane : 
 Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, 
 
 Grumble and greet, and mak' an unco mane. 
 In rangles round, before the ingle's lowe, 
 
 Frae guidame s mouth auld warld tales they hear, 
 •0' warlocks loupin' round the wirrikow ; 
 
 0' ghaists, that win in glen and kirk-yard drear ; 
 
 Whilk touzles a' their tap, and gars them shake wi' fear ! 
 
 For weel she trows, that fiends and fairies be 
 
 Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ill ; 
 The kye hae tint their milk wi' evil e'e, 
 
 Ami coin been scowder'd on the glowin' kill. 
 Oh mock na this, my friends, but rather mourn, 
 
 Ye in life's brawest spring, wi' reason clear ; 
 Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, 
 
 And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 
 
 The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near.
 
 SOBER T FL RQ USSOX A ND HO HER T li URNS. 1 39 
 
 Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, 
 Though age her sair dow'd front wi 1 runkles wave ; 
 
 Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays, 
 
 Her e'ening' stent reels slit; as weel's the lave. 
 
 On some feast day, t he wee things busket braw, 
 Shall heeze her heart up wi' a silent joy, 
 
 Fu' eadgie that her heail was up and saw 
 Her ain s]nin eleedin' on a darling oye :* 
 Careless though death should niak the feast her foy. 
 
 In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains, 
 
 Where the guidman aft streeks him at his ease ; 
 A warm and canny lean for weary banes 
 
 0' labourers dyolt upon the weary leas. 
 Round him will baudrons and the collie come, 
 
 To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' e'e 
 To him wha kindly throws them mony a erum 
 
 0' kebbuck whang'd, and dainty fadge to pree ; 
 
 Tli is a' the boon they crave, and a' the fee. 
 
 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak — 
 
 What stacks he wants to thrash, what rigs to till ; 
 How big a birn maun lie on Bassie's back, 
 
 For meal and mu'ter to the thirlin mill. 
 Neist, the guidwife her hirelin' damsels bids 
 
 Glow'r through the byre, and see the hawkies bound ; 
 Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids, 
 
 And ca" the laiglen's treasure on the ground ; 
 
 Whilk spills a kebbuck nice or yellow pound. 
 
 Then a' the house for sleep begin to grien, 
 
 Their joints to slack frae industry a while ; 
 The leaden god fa's heavy on their een, 
 
 And haHlins steeks them frae their daily toil : 
 The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer, 
 
 The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow ; 
 Tacksman and cotter eke to bed maun steer, 
 
 Upon the cod to clear their drumly pow, 
 
 Till waken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow. 
 
 Peace to the husbandman, and a' his tribe, 
 
 W hase care fells a' our wants frae year to year ! 
 
 Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the glebe, 
 And banks o' corn bend down wi' laden ear ! 
 
 May Scotia's simmers aye look gay and green ; 
 Her yellow hairsts frae scowry blasts decreed ; 
 
 May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien, 
 
 Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freed — 
 And a lang lasting train o' peaeefu' hours succeed ! 
 
 Here we have a composition enormously inferior to Burns's 
 pastoral, as a whole, it is true, but fulfilling on the other hand 
 all the conditions and requirements of a genuine Scottish pastoral, 
 and in which the didactic and declamatory elements arc not too 
 
 * (irandchild.
 
 HO ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 prominent. Here we have a picture breathing the very air of 
 the country — redolent of the farm and of all things rural, written 
 in the very language of the farmer himself. The picture of the 
 tottering and superstitious uld grandmother, in the middle 
 stanzas, is not only one of the most vivid pictures, but also one 
 of the most pathetic strokes, in literature. 
 
 In this well-balanced poem, too, we find a new stanza bent to 
 the purposes of the pastoral muse of Scotland, and manipulated 
 with a skill not to be surpassed. Here Fergusson distinctly 
 leads and teaches Burns. 
 
 It has often been complained of Ferguson that he has left us 
 no poem of any length — that, however much he planned, he 
 achieved and finished no work clc tongue haleine. Neither did 
 Burns. But who calls, nowadays, for long poems, or reads them 
 if produced, or even reads the great masterpieces of the past T 
 And can it be doubted that one who could apply the lowland 
 Scottish to the purposes of the rustic muse with a skill so con- 
 summate, could, had he been so minded, have given us longer 
 strokes of equal beauty and power ? And as for urging, as some 
 have done, that the secular character of the poem is a defect 
 and a deficiency, the thing is too absurd to need the expenditure 
 of any ink in its condemnation. One is led to think of Miltonr 
 with his grand organ-tones hushed in silence through drawbacks 
 of an opposite character ! 
 
 Having given the above charming idyll of Fergusson in its 
 
 entirety whilst assuming on the reader's part perfect familiarity 
 
 with the far grander idyll of Burns, to enter into a comparison 
 
 of the two poems would be supererogatory. But it may be 
 
 pointed out that, in writing his Cottar's Saturday Night, Burns 
 
 had other poems of Fergusson's besides the Farmer's Ingle, both 
 
 in his mind and at his hand, from which on occasion he failed 
 
 not to draw. The splendid first line of the second stanza, for 
 
 instance : 
 
 November chill blows loud \vi' aagry sough, 
 
 is distinctly adapted from a line in a poem of Fergusson's of con- 
 siderable power entitled The Ghaists : A Churchyard Eclogue, where,
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 141 
 
 in a feigned " douff discourse" between two great public institu- 
 tions, Heriot's and Watson's, the latter opens the dialogue with 
 
 the words : 
 
 Cauld blaws the nippin' North wi' angry sough. 
 
 Again in the fine seventeenth stanza of his pastoral, in dwell- 
 ing upon the religion of the cottage, Burns says : 
 
 Compared wi' this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 
 In all the pomp of method and of art, 
 Where men display to congregations wide 
 
 / ), votion's i very grac( except tin In art. 
 
 Wc have always regarded the last line of the above passage as 
 
 one of the happiest in the whole poem, but we have also 
 
 remembered that Fergusson expresses the same idea in his poem 
 
 entitled Auld Reekie, though in a manner much more diffuse; and, 
 
 in fact, as regards conciseness and terseness of expression, 
 
 Fergusson is vastly inferior to Burns almost always, as well as in 
 
 fire and intensity of feeling. In a passage of the last named poem, 
 
 sufficiently caustic, in which Buckle's famous attack upon the 
 
 gloomy Scotch Calvinist, with his rigid righteousness and relaxed 
 
 morals, is anticipated by a century, will be found the foils et origo 
 
 of this happy thought : 
 
 On Sunday, here, an altered scene 
 O' men and manners meets our een : 
 Ane wad maist trow some people chose 
 To change their faces wi' their clo'es, 
 And fain wad gar ilk neibour think. 
 They thirst for goodness as for drink ; 
 But tJiere's an mien' dearth o' grac< 
 That has nat mansion hut flu fw< , 
 A ml in ri r en a nli/niii n pari 
 1 11 hi ii 1110*1 i-oriu i- 11' I In heart ! 
 
 AVith these pungent words, in which the reader has a foretaste of 
 the Edinburgh poet's satirical humour, we conclude our first paper 
 on Burns and Fergusson.
 
 142 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Second Papek. 
 
 /j] HE opinion has often been expressed that, although it may 
 ^■^ be interesting to trace the elements out of which great 
 poems have been built, yet there is a danger of thereby depre 
 ciating genius. But surely if the genesis of a great work of 
 genius is an unworthy subject for the critic, a very large pro- 
 portion of the world's best literary skill has been thrown away ! 
 We hold, on the contrary, that it is not only interesting, but that 
 it is most important, and in every sense desirable, that the genesis 
 of any considerable work of genius whatsoever should receive as 
 thorough and searching an investigation as it is possible to apply 
 to it ; and on these lines we intend to proceed in these papers. 
 
 The main proposition submitted in our first paper was this : 
 Does genius— poetical genius — in seeking expression, choose 
 intuitively, and by its own instinct, the verbal vehicle having the 
 closest affinity with itself 1 We hold that it does. If that is so,, 
 then the poet, be he scholar or otherwise, who chooses to write 
 in any dialect whatsoever knows perfectly well what he is about, 
 and is not to be censured on that score. 
 
 Now, as we said before, we know not in the whole wide range 
 of poetry, a more conspicuous illustration of the above argument 
 than Robert Fergusson, the poet of all others, writing in the 
 Scottish dialect, whom Burns delights to honour, and his obliga- 
 tions to whom he not only acknowledges but loudly proclaims 
 telling us repeatedly that it was at Fergusson's flame that his own 
 genius first kindled.
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 143 
 
 Fergusson was, bo to speak, college-bred, an educated and a 
 cultured man, a scholar, a learned man in so far a.s that epithel 
 can 1m- applied to a young person, but was, at the same time, in 
 constant relations with the Scottish peasantry, and conversed 
 familiarly with them in their own language. He had easy- 
 command, for purposes of literary expression, of both English 
 and the dialect ; and he was emphatically a genius. But that he 
 was such, did you confine yourself to his purely English poems, 
 you would, as we have before hinted, hardly discover. To the 
 critic who looks below surfaces, indeed, it might appear that 
 there was something of original about the poet's mode of treating 
 his subjects, and even about the choice of titles for them. And 
 this, undoubtedly there is. Witness such poems as " The Bugs" 
 and " The Sow of Fading," the first of which, in its humbleness 
 may have suggested much to Burns, whilst the second must, one 
 thinks, have been read by that delightfullest of English humorists*- 
 Charles Lamb, between whom and Fergusson, so far as regards 
 temperament and general complexion of mind, there is some 
 resemblance. 
 
 Moreover, throughout Fergusson's English, as throughout his 
 Scotch poems, there breathes a noble feeling of candour and 
 independence, of boldness without presumption, that must 
 impress the most casual reader. <; No fleechin', rletherin' 
 dedication " — no sycophancy, no truckling, or pandering what 
 soever — less even than in Burns. The lines To Sir John Fielding 
 on his attempt to suppress " The Beggars' Opera," of Gay, has 
 all the incisiveness, with much of the freedom and vigour of 
 Pope; and the Epilogue, spoken at the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, 
 is a happy effort. But planted in the English garden, the flowers 
 of Fergusson's wit put forth their blossoms sparsely ; albeit of 
 such a respectable handful might be gathered. Here, in My last 
 Will, is an important consideration and consolation for the 
 " ragged followers of the nine." 
 
 Thanks to the gods who made me poor ! 
 No lukewarm friends molest my door, 
 Who always show a busy can' 
 
 For hein^' legatee, or heir : 
 
 Of this stamp none will ever follow 
 
 The youth that's favoured by Apollo !
 
 144 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 And how near to the humour and the touch of Lamb do we 
 come in the following lines : 
 
 To Jamie Rae who oft jocosus 
 
 With me partook of cheering doses, 
 
 I leave my snuff-box to regale 
 
 His senses after drowsy meal, 
 
 And wake remembrance of a friend 
 
 Who loved him to his latter end ; 
 
 But if this pledge should make him sorry 
 
 And argue like memento mori, 
 
 He may bequeath 't 'mong stubborn fellows, 
 
 To all the finer feelings callous, 
 
 Who think that parting breath's a sneeze 
 
 To set sensations all at ease. 
 
 The idea of the pinch of snuff " waking remembrance " of the 
 defunct owner of the box is Charles Lamb all over. 
 
 In his poems in the Scottish dialect it is that we find the real 
 Fergusson. Here his genius shines out so clear and bright in 
 the poetic heaven that not even the effulgence of that near, and 
 greater star, Burns, can w holly eclipse its brilliancy. But as in 
 the physical heavens no star, save one of surpassing splendour, 
 catches the vulgar eye, so Fergusson shines on unnoticed among 
 the minora sidera of Scottish poetry. This as regards the present ; 
 in the past it was otherwise. Indeed, as concerns the Scottish 
 people, in whose language the genius of Fergusson found its own 
 language, no sooner had he written than they saw and felt his 
 power. Fergusson's Scotch poems obtained, as they deserved to 
 obtain, immediate popularity ; they were in all mouths within a 
 circle restricted only by the want of means of communication ; 
 and until Burns wrote and published— let this be especially 
 noted — were the best of their kind in the Scottish dialect ; and 
 what is more, had Burns not arisen, would have been the best of 
 their kind to this day ! It is therefore of the last importance 
 that, when we come to consider Fergusson, we should consider 
 him strictly on his merits, and for the nonce keep entirely out of 
 view, and out of mind, the great poet who immediately followed 
 and in part obliterated him. 
 
 In what department, then, was it that Fergusson's genius made 
 itself thus powerfully felt with the Scottish people in the Scottish 
 dialect ? Undoubtedly as a descriptive poet, and above all as a
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS, 145 
 
 poetical humorist and satirist Fergusson possesses a vein of 
 satirical humour which is none the less incisive for being what 
 the Scotch call " ' pawkie." If his satire lacks the force and 
 vigour of Burns's, it is hardly less powerful through the absence 
 
 of any soupcon of rancour or bitterness ; though certainly when 
 he avoids personalities Burns takes no unkindly view of human 
 nature, but on the contrary an eminently sympathetic one. But 
 unfortunately Burns avoids personalities too seldom, and indeed 
 it is impossible to deny — let us not be blinded by the splendour 
 of his genius — it is impossible to deny that his nature was a 
 vindictive one. A thousand suppressions of personal allusions 
 are sufficiently conclusive as to the existence of this serious 
 defect in the character of the Ayrshire poet. And further, it is 
 impossible to deny that his poetry very often discovers a 
 querulous spirit wholly unworthy of a great writer, and which is 
 rendered the more conspicuous by the admirable lessons he in- 
 culcates, in some of his very earliest poems, of the many and 
 various compensations attending the poor man's lot. 
 
 It should seem, in fact, that despite his splendid preachings to 
 others, Burns himself never really attained to that philosophic state 
 of mind which enables a man to see how very much that human 
 medley we call " society " is the result of mere accident, merit 
 being quite as often at the bottom of the ladder as at the top. 
 As Coleridge puts it : — 
 
 How seldom, Friend ! a good, great man inherits 
 Honour or wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 
 It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, 
 If any man obtain that which he merits, 
 Or any merit that which he obtains. 
 
 Yet the philosophic eye sees, even amid the confused and 
 whirling medley, a kind of moral order ; hence that beneficent 
 doctrine of compensation which Burns, of all poets, preaches the 
 most powerfully and splendidly to mankind. Vet it should seem 
 unconsciously preaches, since the poet himself, who most needs it, 
 fails to take the benefit of his own preachings ! 
 
 "What matters it to the philosophic mind whether a man be 
 worth a mite or a million, whether his coat be threadbare or 
 
 j
 
 146 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 gilded, whether he wear a cap or a coronet, whether he live 
 in a hut or a palace : 
 
 The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
 The man's the go\rd for a' that. 
 
 The philosophic mind knows and knows to allow for this, that 
 Fortune herself has placed the million or the mite in this or 
 that man's hand ; and it knows, further, that Fortune is not so 
 blind after all, seeing that nine times out of ten the man with 
 the mite is the happier of the two, and poor as he is can afford 
 to laugh at his millionaire brother. 
 
 Undoubtedly this great poet, and idol of the world, is less great 
 by the fact that in his character and conduct he is so often false 
 to his own principles and preachings. That Burns had much to 
 complain of must be admitted ; but while, as a poet, he was much 
 better treated, as a man he was certainly not worse used than 
 Fergusson, from whose poetry the querulous spirit is almost 
 entirely absent. Not that the ultimate fate of either could have 
 been averted, considering Burns's enormous pride, and the prone- 
 ness of both to yield to the allurements of conviviality. 
 
 To Fergusson Hope told tales as flattering as they proved to be 
 fallacious. On leaving the University of St. Andrew's, where, 
 largely by his own efforts, he had been able to pass a three years 
 course, he Avas tantalised for some time by prospects of advance- 
 ment. The advancement never came ; on the contrary, from the 
 the very quarter whence it was expected came insult and positive 
 injury. 
 
 Moreover, his poems in the Scottish dialect, though from the 
 first highly popular, brought him no appreciable emolument. 
 The publication of Burns's second edition, on the other hand, 
 placed the Ayrshire poet for the nonce in a position of compara- 
 tive independence ; and had he but been true, as we said before, 
 to those principles whom none have taught and inculcated with 
 more power or impressiveness than himself, he might have led a 
 long, happy, and honoured life. But with his eyes wide open — 
 far wider open than those of ordinary mortals — he obstinately 
 passed, to use his own admirable phrase, "douce Wisdom's door 

 
 ROBERT FERQUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 147 
 
 for glaiket Folly's portals," and rushed upon his fate. Fergusson 
 was similarly self-deluded, and fell the victim of his own folly. 
 One uses the language of censure perforce, though far less in 
 anger than in sorrow — perforce, because not to censure is to 
 excuse the inexcusable ; for that which is vice is vice, even 
 though gilded and approved by the Master-singers of the world. 
 Away with the sophism, so unworthy of a great teacher and 
 Master, that " the light which leads astray" is, or can be, at any 
 time or under any circumstances, " light from heaven." 
 
 Between Burns and Fergusson there are some parallels and 
 some contrasts. Of the parallels, perhaps this is the most note, 
 worthy that both were conversationalists of extraordinary 
 brilliancy. Indeed, all who heard Burns's conversation during 
 his first sojourn in the Scottish metropolis agree that if he was a 
 living wonder in poetry he was a still greater marvel in the 
 convivial circle and in conversation. And some who had the 
 rare privilege of knowing both poets incline to think that the 
 conversational powers and convivial charms of Fergusson sur- 
 passed even those of Burns ? " There was such a richness of 
 conversation," says one of these last, referring to the Edinburgh 
 poet, "such a plenitude of fancy, and attraction in him, that when 
 I call the happy period of our intercourse to my memory I feel 
 myself in a state of delirium. I was then younger than Fer- 
 gusson by eight or ten years, but his manner was so felicitous 
 that he enraptured every person around him, and infused into 
 the heads of the young and the old the spirit and animation 
 which operated on his own mind. That Mr. Robert Burns has 
 refined in the art of poetry must readily be admitted, but 1 am 
 yet to learn that he inherits Fergusson's convivial powers." 
 
 Again, both Burns and Fergusson — but Fergusson first, be it 
 always remembered, conceived the design, a most noble and 
 patriotic one, of writing a pastoral poem — a poem descriptive of 
 Scottish country life, which should be at once thoroughly racy 
 of the soil and a true national idyll, and both succeeded admir- 
 mirably, each executing his design in his own fashion, Fergusson 
 showing the true artistic instinct, by employing throughout his- 
 
 j2
 
 148 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 charming idyll the Scottish idiom exclusively. We say the true 
 " artistic instinct," for the genuine pastoral is assuredly not the 
 mixed kind, but that which well describes the country and 
 country manners and things in the actual language of country 
 folk. Burns using both mediums, i.e., both English and the 
 Scottish dialect, and indeed somewhat inartistically mixing the 
 two, but yet using both with such splendid total effect as almost 
 to disarm criticism, and leave us filled only with wonder and 
 admiration at the genius which could accomplish so much. " Of 
 the manifest beauties of The Farmer's Ingle, says Dr. Irving, 
 Burns seems to have been fully aware ; it undoubtedly suggested 
 to him the subject of his Cottar's Saturday Night. Each of these 
 poems claims our decided approbation. The merit of an original 
 design rests with Fergusson ; but the praise of exciting the 
 highest degree of interest is due to Burns." 
 
 Again, both Burns and Fergusson were struck with the 
 poverty of Scottish literature in the department of dramatic 
 poetry, and both conceived the patriotic design of supplying the 
 deficiency by the composition of a tragedy based on some great 
 event in Scottish history. And both chose the same hero for 
 their tragedy — Sir William Wallace ; and both failed in the 
 execution of their design, though both made an effort in the 
 direction of its accomplishment. Two acts of his tragedy 
 Fergusson is said to have completed when he abandoned his pro- 
 ject, while the only traces of Burns's effort are to be found in 
 sundry speeches of his hero written on sundry " blank leaves," 
 
 Again, both Fergusson and Burns had command, for purposes 
 of poetical expression, over pure English as well as over the 
 Scottish dialect, and each felt — we have ventured to say instinc- 
 tively — that his strength lay in the use of the latter. 
 
 Again, both Fergusson and Burns discovered quite early a strong 
 proclivity for mathematics, and became pretty proficient in certain 
 tranches ; and hence, as we think, that robustness of intellect, 
 that vigour of understanding, and that soundness of judgment, 
 which is largely the secret of Burns's extraordinary power over
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 149 
 
 the cannie Scot, and the shrewd, calculating Teuton, wherever 
 he may be. 
 
 Of the contrasts between the two poets, from the moral stand- 
 point, the most notable is the one already referred to, viz., that 
 whilst Burns's satire is very often bitter, scathing, relentless, 
 that of Fergusson is of the mildest, whilst also of the slyest 
 and pawkiest kind. Though essentially a satirical genius, the 
 Edinburgh poet, as previously hinted, has all the smviter in modo 
 of the genial Flaccus, whose mellow wisdom he was even better 
 qualified to have conveyed into the Scottish dialect than Allan 
 Ramsay, happy as are some of Ramsay's efforts in that 
 direction. 
 
 And there are contrasts between Burns and Fergusson as 
 strong on the intellectual side as on the moral side. In the 
 former, we see a poet who knew his powers, and weighed them 
 well from the beginning ; himself was his own severe critic from 
 his youth upward, and how splendid the result ! Here is a 
 lesson, if they would but learn it, for all aspirants in the held of 
 poetry — a field in which the very gods, according to Horace, 
 abhor mediocrity. 
 
 In the latter, we see a man of undoubted genius within a 
 certain range — a genius within that range of far greater power 
 than had previously appeared in the literature of the Scottish 
 dialect — but as an artist indolent, and devoting little attention 
 to the polishing and finishing of his productions, at least with 
 one or two exceptions, which is the more to be regretted that he 
 was a man of the very quickest conception. 
 
 Fergusson was as quick in his conceptions as he was original in 
 his inventions. In the latter respect very insufficient justice 
 has been done to him ; and we believe that had this most 
 amiable, if erratic, genius lived to mature his powers, he would 
 have made very large and valuable contributions to Scottish 
 poetry. Not that his imagination would ever have acquired 
 the strength of wing of Burns's ; not that, as a lyrist pure and 
 simple, he would ever have approached Burns ; nor that the pro-
 
 150 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ductions of his muse would ever have discovered that fiery 
 energy, and overwhelming force of stroke — the stroke of Jove 
 himself — which renders Burns unique among the world's poets. 
 Still we repeat our belief that had Fergusson's life been pro- 
 longed, and his powers of genial satire become matured, quick 
 and original as was his genius, and possessing as he did so com- 
 plete a mastery over the two stanzas peculiar to the Scotch, the 
 Christ's Kirk of the Green, or King James stanza, and the Piper of 
 Kilbarchan, or Semple stanza, he would have ranked at this 
 moment as the co-equal of Robert Burns as a Scottish poetical 
 humorist. 
 
 In dealing with the poems of Robert Fergusson there is the 
 difficulty before mentioned, that one cannot, as in the case of 
 Burns, assume his readers to be familiar with them, the Edin- 
 burgh poet now being seldom read even by Scotchmen. We 
 propose therefore to quote with tolerable fulness each poem of 
 Fergusson's as it is here passed in review. And our attention 
 shall first be devoted to those humorous pieces of the poet which 
 are written in the peculiar stanza first used, so far as one is able 
 to ascertain, by Robert Sempil (or Semple), about the middle of 
 the seventeenth century in his once so popular "Piper of Kilbar- 
 chan," and thence called the " Kilbarchan Stanza." Of this 
 stanza Fergusson was a thorough master. Xo Scotchman up to 
 this time had employed it with equal success, not even Allan 
 Ramsay. And had the Edinburgh poet dealt by his productions 
 as Burns was accustomed to deal by his, that is to say, had his 
 subsequent corrections been as painstaking as his conceptions 
 were rapid, the results would have been very different. But 
 Fergusson was wanting in the true artist's patience, nor can we 
 imagine him as painfully correcting anything that proceeded from 
 his rapid but fitful muse. One poem, however, he did finish in 
 the spirit of a true artist, and the result is the delightful Scottish 
 pastoral already referred to. In a mildly satirical humour it is 
 that Fergusson excels, and here is one of his earlier efforts in a 
 department where the Scottish dialect-literature is singularly 
 rich.
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 151 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ME. DAVID GREGORY 
 
 (Late Professor of Mathematics in the University of St. Andrew's). 
 
 Now mourn, ye college masters a' ! 
 And frae your een a tear let fa'; 
 Famed Gregory death lias taen awa, 
 
 Without remeiil. 
 The tkaitli ye've met wi's nae that sma,' 
 
 Sin Gregory's dead. 
 
 The students, loo, will miss him sair ; 
 To school them weel his eident care ; 
 Now they may mourn for ever mair ; 
 
 They hae great need : 
 They'll hip the maist feck o 1 their lear, 
 
 Sin Gregory's dead. 
 
 He could, by Euclid, prove lang syne, 
 A gangin' point composed a line. 
 By numbers, too, he could divine, 
 
 When he did read, 
 That three times three just made up nine: 
 
 But now he*s dead. 
 
 In algebra weel skill'd he was, 
 
 And ikent fu' weel proportion's laws : 
 
 He could make clear baith B's and A's 
 
 Wi' his lang head ; 
 Rin owre surd roots, but cracks or flaws : 
 
 But now he's dead. 
 
 Weel versed was he in architecture, 
 And kent the nature o' the sector ; 
 Upon baith globes he weel could lecture, 
 
 And gar's tak heed ; 
 0' geometry he was the Hector : 
 
 But now he's dead. 
 
 Sae weel's he'd fley the students a', 
 When they were skelpin' at the ba', 
 They took leg-bail, and ran awa' 
 
 Wi' pith and speed : 
 We winna get a sport sae Draw, 
 
 Sin Gregory '.s dead. 
 
 Great 'casion hae we a' to weep, 
 
 And deed our skins in mournin' deep, 
 
 For Gregory's death will fairly keep, 
 
 To take his nap • 
 He'll till the resurrection sleep, 
 
 As sound's a tap. 
 
 The reading of the above poem will al once call to mind 
 Burns's "Elegy on Poor Maillie," and his still more famous " Tarn 
 S imson's Dead." As examples of Fergusson's maturer powers in 
 this direction may be named his Daft Days, Tin King's Birthday
 
 152 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 in Edinburgh, Braid Claith, Elegy on the Death of Scots Music, 
 Carder Water, and The Tron Kirk Bell, each of which contains 
 stanzas worthy of Burns at his best, while others are worthy only 
 of Pennycuik. Indeed the unequal character of Fergusson'a 
 productions must strike the most cursory reader. This inequality 
 is itself a proof that our poet rarely took pains to polish and 
 improve*: his verses ; though, on the other hand, it behoves us 
 always to remember that the poet died whilst his powers were 
 really but developing. 
 
 In the poem bearing the humorous title of Daft Days we get an 
 excellent idea of the kind of winter-comforts and solacements- 
 held in store for her sons by " Auld Reekie," whom the poet 
 thus apostrophises : 
 
 Auld Reekie ! thou'rt the canty hole, 
 A beild for moiiy a cauldrife soul, 
 Wha snugly at thine ingle loll, 
 
 Baith warm and couth ; 
 While round they gar the bicker roll, 
 
 To weet their mouth. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Ye browster wives ! now busk ye braw, 
 And fling your sorrows far awa ; 
 Then, come and gie's the tither blaw 
 
 0' reaming ale, 
 Mair precious than the Well o' Spa, 
 
 Our hearts to heal. 
 
 Then, though at odds wi' a' the war!'; 
 Amang oursels we'll never quarrel ; 
 Though discord gie a canker'd snarl 
 
 To spoil our glee, 
 As lang's there's pith into the barrel, 
 
 We'll drink an' gree ! 
 
 In the last two lines of the above quotation the reader will see 
 
 from whence Burns drew that happy idea, happily phrased, and a 
 
 thousand times quoted : 
 
 It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 
 To taste the ban el ! 
 
 The whole poem is very animated and well sustained, and con- 
 tains many admirable passages. The contrast, at the beginning, 
 of bleak winter with the comforts ollercd by city-life is well 1 
 drawn :
 
 ROBERT FERGU880N AND ROBERT BURNS, 153 
 
 Frae naked grove nae binlie Binge : 
 To shepherds pipe nae hillock rings; 
 The breeze nae odorous Savour brings 
 
 Frae Borean cave, 
 And dwynin' Nature droops her wings, 
 
 \\Y visage grave. 
 
 Mankind but scanty pleasure glean 
 Frae snawy lull or barren plain, 
 When Winter, 'midst his nippin' train, 
 
 Wi' frozen spear, 
 Sends drift owre a' Ids bleak domain, 
 
 And guides the weir. 
 
 The King's Birthday in Edinburgh, as its title implies, offers a 
 
 picture of "Auld Reekie" in holiday time — one of those pictures 
 
 which Fcrgusson is so fond of drawing, and in which he so 
 
 excels : 
 
 O Muse be kind, and dinna fash us 
 To flee awa' beyond Parnassus, 
 Nor seek for Helicon to wash us, 
 
 That heath'nish spring ; 
 Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses, 
 
 An' gar us sing. 
 
 Begin then, dame ! ye've drunk your fill ; 
 You wouldna hae the tit her gill ! 
 You'll trust me, mair would do you ill, 
 
 And ding ye doitet : 
 'Troth, 'twould be sair against my will 
 
 To hae the wyte o't. 
 
 Cauler Oysters gives us a further picture of Edinburgh life, the 
 subject being one that affords free play to Fergusson's peculiar 
 humour. We give the poem in its entirety, in order that the 
 reader may form his own judgment as to the powers of genial 
 satire we have ascribed to the Edinburgh poet. 
 
 CAULER OYSTERS. 
 
 ()' a' the waters that can hobble 
 A fishing yole or sa'mon coble, 
 And can reward the fisher's trouble, 
 
 Or south or north. 
 There's nane sae spacious and sae noble, 
 
 As Frith o' Forth. 
 
 In her the skate and oodlin sail : 
 The eel, fu' souple, wags her tail ; 
 "\\" i* herrin', fleuk, and inackaiel, 
 
 And whitens dainty ; 
 Their spindle-shanks the (abaters trail, 
 
 Wi' partans plenty.
 
 154 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Auld Reekie's sons blythe faces wear ; 
 September's merry month is near, 
 That brings the Neptune's cauler cheer, 
 
 New oysters fresh ; 
 The halesomest and nicest gear 
 
 0' fish or flesh. 
 
 Oh ! then, we needna gie a plack 
 For dand'rin mountebank or quack, 
 Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack, 
 
 And spread sic notions, 
 As gar their feckless patients tak 
 
 Their stinkin' potions. 
 
 Come, prie, frail man ! for if thou art sick, 
 The oyster is a rare cathartic, 
 As ever doctor patient gart lick 
 
 To cure his ails ; 
 Whether you hae the head or heart ache, 
 
 It never fails ; 
 
 Ye tipplers ! open a your poses ; 
 Ye wha are fash'd wi' plukie noses, 
 Fling owre your craig sufficient doses ; 
 
 You'll thole a huncler, 
 To fleg awa your simmer roses, 
 
 And naething under. 
 
 When big as burns the gutters rin, 
 If ye hae catch'd a droukit skin, 
 To Luckie Middlemist's loup in, 
 
 And sit fu' snug 
 Owre oysters and a dram o' gin, 
 
 Or haddock lug. 
 
 When auld Saunt (Tiles, at aught o'clock, 
 Oars merchant lowns their shopies lock, 
 There we adjourn wi' hearty fouk 
 
 To birle our bodies, 
 And get wherewi' to crack our joke, 
 
 And clear our noddles. 
 
 When Phoebus did his winnocks steek, 
 How aften at that ingle cheek 
 Did I my frosty fingers beek, 
 
 And prie guid fare ! 
 I trow, there was nae hame to seek, 
 
 When stechin there. 
 
 While glaikit fools, owre rife o' cash. 
 Pamper their wames wi' fousoni trash, 
 I think a chiel may gaily pass, 
 
 He's nae ill bodden, 
 That gusts his gab wi' oyster sauce, 
 
 And hen weel sodden. 
 
 At Musselbrough, anil eke Newhaven, 
 The fisherwivcs wi 11 get top livin', 
 When huls gang out on Sundays' even 
 
 To treat their joes, 
 And take o' fat Pandores a ptieven, 
 
 Or mussel brose.
 
 110 B /:/: T FERO I SSON A X/> ROBER T B UBNS. I 56 
 
 Then, sometimes, ere they Hit their doup, 
 They'll aiblins a' their Biller coup 
 For liquor clear frae cutty stoup, 
 
 To weet t heir wizen, 
 Ami Bwallow.owre a dainty soup, 
 
 For fear they gizzen. 
 
 A' ye wha canna Btaun sae sicker, 
 
 When twice you've toom'd the big-niou'd bicker, 
 
 Mix cauler oysters wi' your lienor, 
 
 And I*ni your debtor, 
 If greedy priest or dronthy vicar 
 
 Will thole it better. 
 
 In Braid Claith the poet attacks a branch of the great Snob 
 family — the Snobs of low degree— with as much humour and 
 incisiveness as ever Thackeray attacked the Snobs of high de- 
 gree. The poem is too characteristic of Fergusson to be withheld 
 from the reader ; we therefore i^ive it entire. That the Edin- 
 burgh poet coidd write tersely when he took the pains is proved 
 by the caustic penultimate stanza, in which the whole Snob 
 family are impaled in six close and powerful lines. 
 
 BRAID CLAITH. 
 
 Ye wha are fain to line your name 
 Wrote i' the bonnie book o' fame, 
 Let merit nae pretension claim 
 
 To laurel I'd wreath, 
 But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 He that some ells o' this may fa', 
 And slae black hat on pow like snaw, 
 Bids bauld to bear the gree awa, 
 
 Wi' a' this graith, 
 When beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw 
 
 0' guid braid claith. 
 
 Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't ! 
 For he's a gowk they're sure to geek at ; 
 A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit 
 
 While he draws breath, 
 Till his four quarters are bedeckit 
 
 Wi' guid braid claith. 
 
 On Sabbath-days the barber spark, 
 When he has done wi' scrapin' Mark, 
 Wi' Biller broachie in his sark, 
 
 ( rangs trigly, faith ! 
 Or to the meadows,* or the park,+ 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 * A promenade to the south of Edinburgh. 
 t The King's Park — another promenade.
 
 156 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Weel might ye trow, to see them there, 
 That they to shave your hatfits bare, 
 Or curl and sleek a pickle hair, 
 
 Would be right laith, 
 When pacin' wi' a gawsy air 
 
 In guid braid claith. 
 
 If ony mettled stirrah green 
 For favour frae a lady's een, 
 He maunna care for bein' seen 
 
 Before he sheath 
 His body in a scabbard clean 
 
 0' guid braid claith. 
 
 For, gin he come wi' coat thread bare, 
 A feg for him she winna care, 
 But crook her bonny mou fou sair, 
 
 And scauld him baith : 
 Wooers should aye their travel spare, 
 
 Without braid claith. 
 
 Braid claith lends fouk an unco heeze ; 
 Makes mony kail-worms butterflees ; 
 Gies mony a doctor his degrees, 
 
 For little skaith : 
 In short, you may be what you please, 
 Wi' guid braid claith. 
 
 For tho' ye had as wise a snout on, 
 As Shakspeare or Sir Isaac Newton, 
 Your judgment fouk would hae a doubt on, 
 
 I'll tak my aith, 
 Till they could see ye wi' a suit on 
 
 0' guid braid claith. 
 
 The two poems, entitled The Sitting oj the Session and The 
 
 Rising of the Session, give us an insight into the lawyer-world of 
 
 " Auld Keekie," and contain many excellent stanzas, such as 
 
 the following : — 
 
 But law's a draw-well unco deep, 
 Withouten rim fouk out to keep ; 
 A donnart chiel, when drunk, may dreep 
 
 Fu' sleely in, 
 But finds the gate baith stey and steep, 
 
 Ere out he win. 
 
 Blythe they may be wha wanton play 
 In fortune's bonny blinkin' ray : 
 Fu' weel can they ding dool away 
 
 Wi' comrades couthy, 
 And never dree a hungert day, 
 
 Or e'enin' drouthy.
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 157 
 
 Ohon the day ! for him that's laid 
 In dowie poortith's cauldrife Bhade ; 
 Aiblins owre hones! for his trade, 
 
 He rack- hi- \\ it 8 
 How lie may gel his buik weel clad, 
 
 And till his guts. 
 
 Caulcr Water is u poem that is not to be classed with the 
 " Bruar Water " of Burns, which last refers purely to the scenery 
 of the river Bruar ; the theme, here, is " Fresh Water," and the 
 poem, besides being peculiarly Fergussonian, is, as we said 
 before, about the most considerable tribute ever paid by Scotch- 
 man to the pure element. The second line of the first stanza 
 will bring to mind one of the later stanzas in Burns's "Address 
 to the Deil," "Langsyne in Eden's bonnie yard," &c. We give 
 the first five stanzas : — 
 
 When father Adie first pat spade in 
 The bonnie yard <>' ancient Eden, 
 His anny had nae liquor laid in 
 
 To fire his mmi ; 
 Nor did he thole his wife"s upbraidin', 
 
 For beintf' fou. 
 
 A cauler burn o' siller sheen 
 
 Ran cannily out-owre the green ; 
 
 And when our gutcher's dn.uth had l>een 
 
 To bide righl -air, 
 He loutit down and drank bedeen 
 
 A dainty skair. 
 
 His bairns had a', liefore the flood, 
 A langer tack o' flesh and Mood, 
 And on more pithy shanks they stood 
 
 Than Noah's line, 
 Wha still liae been a feckless brood, 
 
 W'i' drinkin' wine. 
 
 The fuddlin 1 hardies, now-a-days, 
 Kin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise; 
 And limp and stoiter through their lays 
 
 Anacreontic, 
 While each his sea of wine displays 
 
 As big's the Pontic. 
 
 My Muse will no gang far frae hame 
 Or scour a' airths to hound for fame ; 
 In troth, the jillet ye might blame 
 
 For thinkin' on't, 
 When eithly she can find the theme 
 
 O' aquafont. 
 
 The address To the Tron-Klrk Bell is sometimes quoted as 
 Fergusson's masterpiece in the way of humorous writing. It is
 
 158 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 certainly characterised by a spiritedness and a vigour not too 
 often found in the works of the Edinburgh poet. The reference 
 to a probable improvement in the wool trade, a propos to ear- 
 stopping, is especially " pawkie." But almost always, in reading 
 Fergusson, one has the sense that the poet, if he had wished, 
 could have done better. 
 
 TO THE TRON-KIEK BELL. 
 
 Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing, 
 As e'er was fram'd to jow or ring ! 
 What gar'd them sic in steeple hing, 
 
 They ken themsel ; 
 But weel wat I, they couldna bring 
 
 Waur sounds frae hell. 
 
 What deil are ye ? that I should ban ; 
 You're neither kin to pat nor pan ; 
 Nor ulzie pig, nor maister-can, 
 
 But weel may gie 
 Mair pleasure to the ear o' man 
 
 Than stroke o' thee. 
 
 Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow, 
 Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now 
 Maun staup their lugs wi' teats o' woo, 
 
 Thy sound to bang, 
 And keep it frae gaun through and through, 
 
 Wi' jarrin' twang. 
 
 Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't ; 
 Like scauldin' wife's, there is nae guidin't ; 
 When I'm 'bout ony business eident, 
 
 It's sair to thole ; 
 To deave me, then, ye tak' a pride in't, 
 
 Wi' senseless knoll. 
 
 Oh ! were I provost o' the toun, 
 I swear by a' the powers aboon, 
 I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down ; 
 
 Nor should you think 
 (Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown,) 
 
 Again to clink. 
 
 For, when I've toom'd the meikle cap, 
 And fain would fa' owre in a nap, 
 Troth, I could doze as sound's a tap, 
 
 Were't no for thee, 
 That gies the tither weary chap 
 
 To wauken me. 
 
 I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick : 
 Quo' he—" This bell o' mine's a trick, 
 A wily piece o' politic, 
 
 A cunnin' snare, 
 To trap fouk in a cloven stick, 
 
 Ere they're aware."
 
 RORKRT FERQUSSON AND ROBERT BCRXS. 159 
 
 '• As lang's my dautit bell hinge there, 
 A' body ;it the kirk will sk.iir : 
 Quo' they, it be that preaches there 
 
 Like it can wound, 
 We downa rare a single hair 
 
 For joyfu' sound." 
 
 If magistrates wi' me would 'gree, 
 For aye tongue-tackit should you be ; 
 Nor Heg wi' anti-melody 
 
 Sic honest funk, 
 Whase lugs were never made to dree 
 
 Thy dolefu' shock. 
 
 But far frae thee the bailies dwell, 
 Or they would scunner at your knell ; 
 Gie the foul thief his riven bell, 
 
 And then I trow. 
 The byword hands, "The deil himsel 
 
 Has got his due." 
 
 Fergusson's Elegy on the Death of Scots Music is a strong pro- 
 test against the neglect in his time of native Scotch airs, and the 
 preference given tu Italian airs, which he stigmatises as a 
 " bastard breed." In this poem are several stanzas conceived and 
 executed in the poet's very best manner. Three may be selected 
 which undoubtedly supplied Burns with a keynote, and some- 
 thing more, for his "Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson," — a 
 magnificent composition, which can perish only with the 
 language, and upon which we may be permitted for a moment to 
 dwell. 
 
 The first thought on reading this sublime lamentation is that 
 before Burns wrote sorrow had never found adequate voice — that 
 the extreme agony of human grief had remained unexpressed. 
 How artificial and glittering, in comparison, are many of the 
 world's "masterpieces' in this kind ! Not to this or that my- 
 thological figment does the poet make his appeal, but directly to 
 Nature herself, "pity being exiled from man ;" and in language 
 how grand and impressive! To the cloud-capped hills of his 
 native Scotland he speaks ; and who that reads the sublime 
 invocation contained in this one stanza can doubt — as some have 
 doubted — the feeling of Burns for "Nature's sturdiest bairns," 
 the mountains ? Why, the six lines to follow contain imagination 
 enough to "start in business " half-a-dozen poets of a sort.
 
 160 ROBERT FERGUS SON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Ye hills ! near neibours o' the starns, 
 That proudly cock your crested cairns ; 
 Ye cliffs, the haunts o' sailing yearns, 
 
 Where Echo slumbers ! 
 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
 
 My wailing numbers ! 
 
 And we can quite understand that some writers should be inclined 
 to place the " Lament over Henderson " in serious competition 
 with the world's masterpieces in this kind, such as Horace's 
 "Lament over Quinctilius," Tennyson's " In Memoriam," Shelley's 
 "Adonais," and even Milton's " Lycidas." Horace's "Lament" 
 is absolutely not to be translated, and as a terse expression of pro- 
 found sorrow has never been, and never will be, surpassed ; but 
 Quinctilius was known, and known as a person of distinction, 
 while " Matthew was a poor man," in fact, so poor and obscure 
 that he was only with difficulty identified ; and this, as in the 
 case of Gray's nameless hero, immensely adds to the pathos of 
 the situation. Milton's exquisite " Lycidas " is one of the most 
 beautiful poems not only in English but in universal poetry ; but 
 by its allusive character, and the constant use of the mythological 
 machinery, the pathos is lessened ; while the subject of " Adonais," 
 John Keats, has reclaimed for himself his immortal heritage, and 
 now sits high enthroned among the "Sons of Light." 
 
 And here, in the pages of poor, neglected, and almost forgotten 
 Fergusson, is the pitchnote, and more, of this supreme effort of 
 the Muse to express man's grief for man — man without his tinsel 
 — so far surpassing man's grief for woman. Listen to the Edin. 
 burgh poet, in the "Elegy on the Death of Scots Music." 
 
 Mourn, ilka nymph, and ilka swain, 
 
 Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen ; 
 
 Let weepin' streams and naiads drain 
 
 Their fountain-head ; 
 Let Echo swell the dolefu' strain 
 
 Sin' Music's dead. 
 
 Is it Burns, or is it Fergusson, that sings 1 Ninety-nine out of 
 ;i hundred would say, at a venture, that it was the former ; but 
 no, it is Fergusson, and here is the echo in Burns's immortal 
 Elegy :
 
 ROBERT FERQUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. Kil 
 
 Mourn, ilka grove the oushal kens | 
 Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens : 
 Vr burnies, wimplin down your glens, 
 
 Wi' toddlitf din, 
 Or foaming strung, wi' hasty stuns, 
 
 Frae lin to lin. 
 
 " Let Echo swell the dolefu' strain," says Fcrgusson. 
 
 Ye cliffs, the haunts <>' Bailing yearns 
 
 Where Echo slumbers ! 
 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
 
 My wailing numbers .' 
 
 says Burns more powerfully ; but when does Burns not give when 
 he takes'? Seldom indeed. 
 
 Here is another prett}- stanza from Fergusson's " Elegy " — 
 
 When the saft vernal breezes ca' 
 The -icy-haired Winter's fogs awa', 
 Naebody then is heard to blaw, 
 
 Near hill or mead, 
 On chaunter, or on aiten straw, 
 
 Sin' Music's dead. 
 
 And lastly here is the very lovely penultimate stanza of the 
 poem : 
 
 Could lav'rocks, at the dawning day, 
 Could linties, chinning* frae the spray, 
 Or toddlin' burns, that smoothly play 
 
 O'er gowden bed, 
 Compare v>V " Birks o' Invermay? " 
 
 But now they're dead. 
 
 We have hitherto chiefly concerned ourselves with those poems 
 of Fergusson's written in the Kilbarchan stanza, and considered 
 the poet in the light of a humorist and satirist — therefore as a 
 poet of Man ; but he was also, as we said before, a poet of 
 Nature, and could paint her, on occasion, with uncommon power. 
 We shall give some samples of this power ; and here the 
 Kilbarchan stanza will be found to have been exchanged for the 
 octosyllabic measure. 
 
 * In the word "chinning" one recognises the old English word to 
 "charm," or " chirm,'' found in the pages of no English poet, so far us we 
 know, since Milton, who uses it in the 4th Book of his "Paradise Lost," 
 Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds, 
 a passage which has puzzled a thousand readers, and not a few critics. 
 
 K
 
 162 ROBERT FERGUSSON AXD ROBERT BURNS] 
 
 ODE TO THE BEE. 
 
 Herds ! blythesome tune your canty reeds, 
 And welcome to the gowany meads 
 The pride o' a' the insect thrang, 
 A stranger to the green sae lang. 
 Unfauld ilk buss, and ilka brier, 
 The bounties o' the gleesome year, 
 To him whose voice delights the spring ; 
 Whose soughs the saftest slumbers bring. 
 
 The trees in simmer oleedin' drest, 
 The hillocks in their greenest vest, 
 The brawest flowers rejoiced v.e see 
 Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee, 
 Blythely to skim on wanton wing 
 Through a' the fairy haunts o' spring. 
 
 When fields hae got their dewy gift, 
 And dawnin' breaks upon the lift, 
 Then gang your ways through night and how.. 
 Seek cauler haugh or sunny knowe, 
 Or ivy craig, or burn-bank brae, 
 Where industry shall bid you gae, 
 For hiney, or for waxen store, 
 To ding sad poortith frae the door. 
 
 Could feckless creature, man, be wise, 
 The simmer o' his life to prize. 
 In winter he might fend fu' bauld, 
 His eild unkenn'd to nippin' cauld ; 
 Yet they, alas ! are antrin fouk 
 That lade their scape we' winter stock. 
 Auld age maist feckly glowers right dour 
 Upon the ailings o' the poor, 
 Wha hope for nae comforting, save 
 That dowie, dismal house, the grave. 
 Then, feeble man ! be Mise ; tak tent 
 How industry can fetch content : 
 Behold the bees where'er they wing, 
 Or through the bonnie bowers o' spring, 
 Where violets or where roses blaw, 
 And siller devvdraps nightly fa', 
 Or when on open bent they're seen, 
 On heather hill or thristle green ; 
 The hiney's still as sweet that flows 
 Frae thristle cauld, or kendlin rose. 
 
 Frae this the human race may learn 
 Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn, 
 Whether they tramp life's thorny way,. 
 Or through the sunny vineyard stray. 
 
 Instructive bee ! attend me still ; 
 Owre a' my labours sey your skill : 
 For thee shall hineysuckles rise 
 W'i' ladin' to your busy thighs, 
 And ilka shrub surround my cell, 
 Whereon ye like to hum and dwell : 
 My trees in bourachs owre my ground 
 Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o' wind; 
 Nor e'er shall herd, wi' ruthless spike, 
 Delve out the treasures frae your bike,
 
 ROBERT FERQUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 1G;{ 
 
 But in my fence be safe, and free, 
 To live, an>l work, and sing, like me. 
 
 Like thee, by fancy wing'd, the .Muse 
 Scuds ear' and heartsome owre tlie dews, 
 Fu' vogie and fu' blythe to crap 
 The winsome flowers frae Nature's lap, 
 Twinin' her livin' garlands there, 
 That lyart time can ne'er impair. 
 
 Here, as in almost all the compositions of Fergusson, the mild 
 satire which characterises his muse makes itself apparent. How- 
 pretty is the passage : 
 
 The hiney's still as sweet that flows 
 Frae thristle cauld, or kendlin' rose. 
 
 ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET. 
 
 Daft gowk ! in macaroni dress, 
 
 Are ye come here to shaw your face, 
 
 Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss, 
 
 To cast a dash at Reekie's cross, 
 
 And glower at mony a twadegged creature, 
 
 flees lira w l»y art, though worms by nature? 
 
 Like country laird in city cleedin', 
 Ye're come to town, to lear guid breedin' ; 
 To bring ilk darlin' toast and fashion 
 In vogue amang the flee creation, 
 That they, like buskit belles and beaux, 
 May crook their mou fu' sour at those 
 Whose weird is still to creep, alas ! 
 Unnoticed, 'mang the humble grass ; 
 While you, wi' wings new buskit trim, 
 Can far frae yird and reptiles skim ; 
 Newfangle grown, wi' new-got form, 
 You soar aboon your mither worm. 
 
 Kind Nature lent, but for a day, 
 Her wings to make ye sprush and gay ; 
 In her habiliments a while 
 Ye may your former sel' beguile, 
 And ding awa' the vexin' thought 
 O' hourly dwynin' into nought, 
 By beengin to your foppish brithers, 
 Black corbies dress'd in peacocks' feathers. 
 Like thee, they dander here and there, 
 When simmer's blinks are warm and fair, 
 And loe to snuff the healthy balm 
 When e'enin' spreads her wings sae calm ; 
 Bui when she girns and glowers sac dour 
 Frae Korean houffin angry shower, , 
 
 Like thee, they scour frae street or field, 
 And hap them in a lyther bield ; 
 For they were never made to dree 
 The adverse gloom o' fortune's e'e ; 
 Nor ever pried life's pinin' woes ; 
 Nor pud the prickles wi 1 the rose. 
 
 k2
 
 M34 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Poor Butterfly ! thy case I mourn ; 
 
 To green kail-yard and fruits return, 
 
 How could you troke the mavis' note 
 
 For ' ' Penny pies, all piping hot ?" 
 
 Can linties' music be compar'd 
 
 Wi' gruntles frae the city guard? 
 
 Or can our flowers, at ten hours' bell, 
 
 The gowan or the spink excel ? 
 
 Now should our sclates wi' hailstanes ring, 
 
 What cabbage fauld wad screen your wing? 
 
 Say, flutterin' fairy, were t thy hap 
 
 To light beneath braw Nanny's cap, 
 Wad she, proud butterfly of May ! 
 In pity, let you skaithless gae ? 
 The furies glancin' frae her een 
 Wad rug your wings o' siller sheen, 
 That, wae for thee ! far, far outvie 
 Her Paris artist's finest dye ; 
 Then a' your bonnie spraings wad fall, 
 And you a worm be left to crawl. 
 To sic mischanter rins the laird 
 Who quats his ha'-house and kailyard ; 
 Grows politician ; scours to court, ** 
 
 Where he's the laughin'-stock and sport 
 0' ministers, wha jeer and jibe, 
 And heese his hopes wi' thought o' bribe ; 
 Till, in the end, they flae him bare, 
 Leave him to poortith and to care. 
 Their fleetchin' words owre late lie sees, 
 He trudges hame — repines — and dies. 
 Sic' be their fa' wha dirk there-ben 
 In blackest business no their ain, 
 And may they scaud ther lips fu' leal, 
 That dip their spoons in ither's kail. 
 
 Note the above passage. 
 
 Say flutterin' fairy, were 't thy hap 
 To light beneath braw Nanny's cap, 
 Wad she, proud butterfly of May ! 
 In pity, let you skaithless gae ? 
 The furies glancin' frae her een 
 Wad rug your wings o' siller sheen, 
 That, wae for thee ! far, far outvie 
 Her Paris artist's finest dye. 
 
 These lines, and the poem entitled, " The Bugs," previously- 
 referred to, taken together, may well have suggested to Burns 
 the idea of his immortal satire, "To a Louse," the concluding 
 stanza of which is more universally quoted than any passage in 
 British poetry.* 
 
 * In the light of this suggestion — if a suggestion — we would request 
 the reader who is curious in the matter to read through Fergusson's 
 little-known poem of " The Bugs," above referred to.
 
 ROBERT FEROUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 168 
 
 Like the Prince of Adapters, Shakespeare, Burns had 
 enormous powers of intellectual digestion, as of assimilation 
 and absorption, and metaphorically speaking, could eat up 
 a full half-dozen ordinary authors at a meal! His stomach 
 was that of an intellectual Gargantua. Bricks would he make 
 from seemingly impossible straw, and raise you therefrom a 
 structure " beautiful exceedingly." As from the English play of 
 King John, existing before Shakespeare's time, that marvellous 
 alchemist) could evoke the "King John" we so much admire, so out 
 of Burns's wondrous alembic all that goes in dross seems to come 
 out gold. Witness the new life — the immortal life — he has 
 infused into the " auld sangs " of his native Scotland. 
 
 Returning to Fergusson, here is another example of his powers 
 of natural description, and one which contains many beautiful 
 passages : — 
 
 ODE TO THE GOWDSPiNK. 
 
 Frae fields where spring her sweets has blawn 
 \\Y caule verdure owie the lawn, 
 The gowdspink comes in new attire, 
 The brawest 'inang the whistling choir, 
 That e'er the sua can clear his een, 
 Wi' glib notes sain the simmer's green. 
 
 Sure nature herried mony a tree, 
 For spraings and bonnie spats to thee : 
 Nae mair the rainbow can impart 
 Sic glowin' ferlies o' her art, 
 Whose pencil wrought its freaks at will 
 On thee, the sey-piece o' her skill. 
 Nae mair, through straiths in simmer (light , 
 We seek the rose to bless our sight ; 
 Or bid the bonny wa'-llowers sprout 
 On yonder ruin's lofty snout. 
 Thy shinin garments far outstrip 
 The cherries upon Hebe's lip, 
 And fool the tints that nature chose 
 To busk and paint the crimson rose. 
 'Mang men, wae's heart ! we aften find 
 The brawest dressed, want peace o' mind ; 
 While he that gangs wi' ragged coat 
 Is weel content it wi' his lot. 
 When wand, with glewy birdlime set, 
 To steal far oil your dautil mite, 
 Blythe wad you change your cleedin' gay 
 In lieu of lav 'rock's solar grej , 
 In vain through woods you sair may ban 
 The envious treachery o' man. 
 That, wi' your gowden glister ta'en,
 
 166 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Still hunts you on the simmer's plain, 
 And traps you 'mang the sudden fa's 
 O' winter's dreary, dreepin' snaws. 
 Now steekit frae the gowany field, 
 Frae ilka fav'rite houff and bield ; 
 But, mergh, alas ! to disengage 
 Your bonnie buik frae fetterin' cage, 
 Your freeborn bosom beats in vain 
 For darlin' liberty again. 
 In window hung, how aft we see 
 They keek around at warblers lree, 
 That carol saft. and sweetly sing 
 Wi' a' the blytheness o' the spring ! 
 Like Tantalus they hing you here, 
 To spy the glories o' the year ; 
 And though you're at the burnie's brink, 
 They downa suffer you to drink. 
 
 Ah, Liberty ! thou bonny dame, 
 How wildly wanton is thy stream. 
 Round whilk the birdies a' rejoice, 
 And hail you wi' a gratefu' voice ! 
 The gowdspink chatters joyous here, 
 And courts wi' gleesome sangs his peer ; 
 The mavis frae the new bloom'd thorn, 
 Begins his lauds at ear-est morn ; 
 And herd louns, loupin' owre the grass, 
 Need far less fleetchin' to their lass, 
 Than paughty damsels bred at courts, 
 Wha thraw their mous, and tak the dorts : 
 But, reft of thee, fient flee we care 
 For a' that life ahint can spare. 
 The gowdspink, that sae lang has kenn'd 
 The happy sweets (his wonted friend), 
 Her sad confinement ill can brook 
 In some dark chamber's dowie nook. 
 Though Mary's hand his neb supplies, 
 Unkenn'd to hunger's painfu' cries, 
 Even beauty canna cheer the heart 
 Frae life, frae liberty apart : 
 For now we tyne its wonted lay, 
 Sae lightsome sweet, sae blithely gay. 
 
 Thus, Fortune aft a curse can gie, 
 To wile us far frae liberty ; 
 Then tent her syren smiles wha list, 
 I'll ne'er envy your girnel's grist : 
 For when fair freedom smiles nae mair, 
 Care I for life ? Shame fa' the hair ! 
 A field o'ergrown wi' rankest stubble, 
 The essence of a paltry bubble ! 
 
 As we have before stated, the highly original character of 
 Fergusson's genius is not only shown in the choice of his subjects, 
 but often, also, in the very titles he affixes to his poems. What 
 a world of humour, for instance, lurks in the simple words 
 "Daft Days," "Braid Claith," "To my Auld Breeks," &c.
 
 ROBERT FERQUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 167 
 
 And who but Fergusson would have chosen the theme and title 
 of " Cauler Water ¥' — all of which things could not, and did not 
 escape the attention of his great follower and imitator, Burns. 
 
 Yes, " follower and imitator," for the great Ayrshire poet's 
 obligations to the Edinburgh poet are more serious than some 
 critics would be prepared to admit, notwithstanding Burns's 
 own acknoAvledgment. How serious they are, he only can fully 
 assess who happens to possess an intimate acquaintance with the 
 state of Scottish dialect poetry at the time Fergusson took up 
 the pen. 
 
 In the preceding pages, indeed, with one notable exception, 
 we have left on one side those poems of Burns's which most 
 indicate this indebtedness, and for the simple reason that they 
 are the most known. Nobody, for example, who reads Burns's 
 " Holy Fair," written in the King's James's stanza, with its fine 
 commencement, but is aware that it has its antitype in Fergus- 
 son's spirited poem of Leith Races. We quote here the initial 
 stanzas of each of the two poems, placing them in conjunction 
 by way of reminder only, and first Fergusson : 
 
 In Jul} - month, ae bonny morn, 
 
 AY hen Nature's rokelay green 
 Was spread o'er ilka rig o' corn 
 
 To charm our roving e'en ; 
 Glowrin' about I saw a queen, 
 
 The fairest 'neath the lift ; 
 Her een were o' the siller sheen, 
 
 Her skin like snawy drift, 
 
 Sae white that day. 
 
 The " fair queen " puts in her word, when the poet retorts : 
 
 " And wha are ye, my winsome dear, 
 That tak the gate sae early ? 
 Where do ye win, if ane may speir ; 
 
 For I right meikle ferly 
 That sic braw buskit laugh in' lass 
 
 Thir bonny blinks should gie, 
 And loup, like Hebe, owre the grass, 
 As wanton, and as free 
 
 Frae dool this day ':"' 
 
 The "braw-buskit, laughin 3 lass " turns out to be " Mirth " 
 .herself, and to the races she and the poet proceed in company.
 
 168 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Now listen to Burns in the commencing stanzas of Holy- 
 Fair : — 
 
 Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 
 When Nature's face is fair, 
 I walked forth to view the corn 
 
 An' snuff the cauler air. 
 The rising sun owre Galston muirs 
 Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
 The hares were hirplin' down the furs,* 
 The lav'rocks they were chantin' 
 Fu' sweet that day. 
 
 As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 
 
 To see a scene sae gay, 
 Three hizzies, early at the road, 
 
 Cam skelpin' up the way ; 
 Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 
 
 But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
 The third, that gaed a wee adjack, 
 
 Was in the fashion shining, 
 Fu gay that day. 
 
 An equally spirited production, and one tolerably well known' 
 is Hallow/air, written also in the King James stanza. Nor had 
 Burns conned this lively and suggestive poem without taking up 
 impressions which afterwards served him in good stead. More- 
 over, few will read " The Brigs' of Ayr " without recognising 
 that very original poem of Fergusson's which served the Ayr- 
 shire poet as model : Mutual Complaint of Plainstanes and Cawsey. 
 And similarly with regard to other poems of the Edinburgh 
 poet ; in fact, in Burns the Fergussonian echo is recurrent. 
 
 But if Burns was a borrower, he was a self-acknowledged 
 borrower; he was also one of those rich and bounteous borrowers 
 who insist on paying tenfold interest — whose cheques, drawn upon 
 the Bank of Immortality, are duly honoured ; and fortunate 
 indeed the author that can lend to so supreme a genius ! 
 
 Robert Fergusson, who is so lauded by more than one of his 
 contemporaries for his brilliant convivial and conversational 
 powers — who was an " acquisition " to every circle he chose to 
 
 * "Furs" signifies "furrows." This is one of those masterly word- 
 pictures in a single line that characterise the great Scottish poet. It is 
 impossible for anyone imperfectly acquainted with the dialect to under- 
 stand the singular felicity of tie word " hirpling," as here used.
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 169 
 
 enter, and the idol and magnus Apollo of many — must have been 
 ;i very striking personality, with his slim figure, large dark eyesj 
 and white hair. No authentic portrait, however, so far as is 
 
 known to the present writer, remains of the poet, and the evi- 
 dence is consequently hearsay. His address is described as 
 having been "genteel, and free from all affectation." Bred at a 
 famous university, he was led, quite early, by a well-to-do uncle, 
 to entertain sanguine hopes of advancement in the world. These 
 sanguine hopes having been utterly shattered, he was compelled, 
 in order to keep the pot boiling, to undergo the miserable 
 drudgery attached to the position of a "writer's Avriter," or 
 copying-clerk, than which no situation could have been more 
 irksome, or intolerable, to so free-born and jocund a spirit as all 
 agree in describing the Edinburgh poet to have been. 
 
 Though not without a relish for the country, Eergusson was as- 
 fond of his native Edinburgh — the " Auld Reekie" of his poems 
 — as was ever Charles Lamb of old London and the inns of 
 court ; and is never so happy as when describing the various- 
 quaint nooks of the quaint "auld toun" and the matters therein 
 transacting, more especially at holiday times ; insomuch that in 
 his pages we are able to get a very fair idea of Edinburgh life in 
 the third quarter of the eighteenth century — that is to say, among 
 people of the middle and lower grades. Often — as often as 
 possible — we can imagine our lively poet and humorist furtively 
 stealing from the scene of his dreary labours— some dingy 
 writer's-den of "Auld Reekie " — to an adjacent and con- 
 venient tavern, brightened by the presence of congenial and 
 applauding spirits. We can picture the youthful poet seated 
 there— the presiding genius and " bright particular star ' 
 of the company — discussing with his companions a dish 
 of those " cauler oysters" whose praises he has sung so 
 loudly, and washing down the same with copious potations — not 
 of that "cauler water" in whose praise he has been equally loud, 
 but of the renowned "Bell's beer," or haply a " reaming bicker " 
 of the porter, or "stout," then so much in vogue. We cm hear 
 yet the echo of the laughter evoked by some sparkling sally from
 
 170 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON AND ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 the lips of the 3 7 oung genius whom so many could applaud with 
 the tongue but so few could help with the purse ! 
 
 Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 
 111 suited law's dry, musty arts. 
 My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 
 
 Ye E'nbrugh gentry ! 
 The tithe of what ye waste at cartes 
 
 Wad stow'd his pantry. 
 
 Then rises up the reverse picture — a sad one indeed. The 
 precocious genius — he died before attaining his twenty-fourth 
 year — whom all admire and love, is borne to the grim mansion, 
 the "Public Asylum," and on his straw pallet there perishes 
 miserably — a raving maniac ! 
 
 And how many a genius, born to be the world's delight and 
 
 joy, has perished in circumstances equally miserable ! Truly, as 
 
 Wordsworth says : 
 
 We poets, in our youth, begin in gladness ; 
 
 But thereof cometh, in the end, despondency and madness.
 
 EAMBLES 
 
 IN TOWN AND COUNTRY, 
 
 ETC.
 
 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY. 173 
 
 i:V AIRE AND WIIAKFi:. 
 
 The works of human artifice soon tire 
 The curious eye, the fountain's sparkling rill, 
 And gardens, when adorned by human skill, 
 
 Reproach the feeble hand, 1 1 1 * " vain desire. 
 I ;m oh ! t lie free and wild magnificence 
 Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal, 
 In admiration silent and intense, 
 The soul of him who hath a soul to feel ! 
 
 Tlie river moving on its ceaseless way, 
 The verdant reach of meadows fair and green, 
 And the blue hills that bound the sylvan scene, 
 
 These speak of grandeur that defies decay — 
 Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high, 
 Who stamps on all his works his own eternity ! 
 
 -fllROM grimy Manchester to the green dales of Yorkshire, 
 (^ from a forest of tall chimneys to the glorious woods of 
 Bolton, from muddy Medlock and inky Irwell to pellucid Aire 
 and the clear-flowing Wharfe, from prosy Cottonopolis, with its 
 noisy traffic, its striving and driving, its hustle and bustle, to a 
 region of tranquil beauty, hallowed and glorified by the genius 
 of the poet — such was the change, such the delightful transition, 
 offered us by the invitation of some very hearty Yorkshire friends 
 
 of ours to spend a few days with them at S , in the West 
 
 Riding. 
 
 Native ourselves of the broad-acred shire, and familiar enough 
 with not a few of the romantic hills and dales on its western 
 borders, we had never yet visited that lovely region forming the 
 scene of "Wordsworth's immortal poem. Who has not read " The 
 White Doe of Rylstone ?" The most ethereal of its author's 
 creations, it is also a poem unique of its kind in the 
 language. Fifty times had we read the poem, and just as often 
 had we been seized with a great longing to visit the beautiful
 
 174 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 country which it celebrates and consecrates. But still by us it 
 
 remained unvisited. And wherefore 1 
 
 We had a vision of our own ; 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 
 " Alas ! " we thought, " when we are there " — 
 
 . although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 On the present occasion, however, our Yorkshire friends having 
 
 sketched out a programme including the "White Doe" country, we 
 
 accepted the invitation ; and now, having been and seen what 
 
 until lately we had seen only in dreams and visions, we can truly 
 
 say: 
 
 But thou that didst appear so fair 
 To fond imagination, 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 Her delicate creation. 
 
 But besides those of poetry and sentiment, we had other 
 motives to visit the West Riding. As loyal knight of the spud 
 and vasculum, that we have carried, not always to much purpose 
 it is true, over many a long league of Irish bog and Scotch 
 mountain, we were desirous of seeing, once more, the, flora of a 
 district where the scar-limestone and the millstone-grit exhibit 
 each their characteristic plants side by side. 
 
 Accordingly, on a certain dry day in the wet June of the past 
 year,* having shaken off the Manchester dust, and ensconced 
 ourselves in a smoking-carriage of the Lancashire and Yorkshire 
 Railway (inured to smoke though non-smoking, as what Man- 
 cunian is not !), we were soon speeding through the picturesque 
 country which forms the border-land of the two sister counties. 
 
 Well do we love our native shire of York, with her hundred 
 dales so deliciously green, and her wide-spreading wolds, here 
 dotted with browsing herds, there waving with the ripening corn ; 
 and sincere is our attachment to her sister of Lancaster; but 
 above all do we love the rocky region — rocky yet verdant — of 
 the borders ; and as we looked out, in passing, upon the infinite 
 
 * This was written in 1882.
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 17& 
 
 diversity of hill and dale, meadow and moor, wood and stream, 
 we contrasted them; in our minds with the dreary Hats and 
 "dead levels" of more southern counties, and for the moment 
 could not repress a glow of enthusiasm for the cold north with all 
 its drawbacks. Commend us to a land of hills ! In fair weather 
 or in foul, our face was ever turned toward the mountains : 
 
 They beckon us — the giants from afar, 
 They wing our footsteps on ! 
 
 And well may we love the mountains, for in their far recesses 
 and silent fastnesses, where the silence is broken only by the 
 rush of torrents, or the wild wind's voice, have been spent our 
 goidenest moments : 
 
 We know their deep glens, where the eagles cry, 
 
 We know the freshness of the mountain breeze, 
 Their brooklets gurgling downward ceaselessly, 
 
 The singing of the birds among the trees, 
 
 Mingling, confused, a thousand melodies ! 
 We know the lone rest of their birchen bowers, 
 
 Where the soft murmur of the working bees 
 i toes droning past, with scent of heather flowers, 
 Ami lulls the heart to dream even in its waking hours. 
 We know the grey stones in the rocky glen, 
 
 Where the wild red-deer gather, one by one, 
 And listen, startled, to the tread of men, 
 
 Which the betraying breeze hath backward blown. 
 
 And high above the sea-level tower many of these hills of the 
 Lancashire and Yorkshire bolder, that appear, when the clouds 
 hang low, as if storming the sky, like Titans of eld. While not 
 seldom on their summits, blackened with age and abraded by 
 the storm, or by the elements working more silently, are found 
 hu^e blocks of the millstone-grit, the characteristic stone of this 
 range, which being thus weatherworn into an infinite variety of 
 grotesque shapes and figures are tumbled about in confusion, as 
 though Hung from the hands of the Titans aforesaid. Especially 
 is this the case in the parish of Halifax-, by which, coming from 
 South Lancashire, the traveller generally enters the West Riding, 
 and which archaeologists tell us formed in the main the western 
 portion of the Roman Brigantia proper. Several of the higher- 
 lying townships of this interesting parish present such a succes- 
 sion of these grotesquely-tumbled and weather-worn masses as,
 
 176 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 we believe, is hardly elsewhere to be found ; as in the township 
 of Stansfield, for instance, which doubtless from this circumstance 
 derives its Saxon name. Here one meets with group after group 
 of huge blackened masses, exhibiting the most fantastic forms it 
 is possible to conceive ; nor is it surprising that tradition should 
 have been busy, amid so much that is strange and weird, casting 
 its glamour over a rocky wonderland. Standing on these heath- 
 clad heights on a clear summer day, many a scene of enchanting 
 loveliness unfolds itself to the eyes of the adventurous climber, 
 Avho thenceforth loses all sense of fatigue in the ravishment of 
 the sight. Indeed, we know of no part of England, the Lake 
 District hardly excepted, where within an equal area there is to 
 be found the same variety of wild mountain, picturesque crag, 
 and sweet pastoral landscape, with richly-wooded gorge, foaming 
 torrent, or winding stream. Moist and murky as is our northern 
 climate, and rough and unpolished as are many of our popula- 
 tions, there want not compensations in the varied physical 
 •character of the country, in our ever-changing skies, and in the 
 greater individuality, and increased force and energy of the 
 people. To what extent the physical character of this or that 
 district, apart from ethnical and other influences, reacts upon 
 its inhabitants, were a not uninteresting question to pursue. 
 But here, after a three hours' ride, is Bradford, the great worsted 
 •centre of that vast " clothing trade " whose seat is the West 
 Biding, and where certainly, if anywhere, are to be found 
 illustrations of that increased force and energy lo w T hich we have 
 alluded. 
 
 Bradford was en fete for the Prince of Wales, and a distinct 
 odour of royalty filled the air. But His Boyal Highness having 
 given us a mauvais quart d'heure, by keeping our train waiting on 
 the road, our loyalty to the throne was considerably shaken, 
 while C. actually threatened to turn republican on the spot 
 (Tantcme animis, dec.) ; and we verily believe would have carried 
 this terrible threat into execution, thereby endangering the 
 peace of the three kingdoms, but for the soothing power of a 
 ■certain weed, or dried specimen, at which he assiduously sucked,
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 177 
 
 and one of the other remarkable properties of which [a that when 
 0. makes it his theme his speech rises into eloquence, reminding 
 one of the famed ginseng of the Chinese, that potent herb ! But 
 if the delay was a cause of railing against royalty, and the 
 Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Company, it was at least 
 favourable to botanical inquiry ; and we, had been much pleased 
 to observe, as the train crept along (one of the creeping things 
 that creep upon the earth D. called it !), immense quantities of 
 the yellow toad-flax (Linaria vulgaris) as also of another plant, 
 the rosebay willow-herb (Epilobiiun angustifolium), described by 
 Sir W. Hooker as "rare in England." But this beautiful 
 species, which with its lofty stature rising sometimes to six 
 feet forms a strange contrast to its lowly congener, the alpine 
 willow-herb (often gathered by us on the Scotch mountains 
 at elevations of 3,000 feet and upwards) though somewhat locally 
 distributed, is hardly to be called "rare." We meet with 
 it in Yorkshire not unfrequently ; and in many a sweet 
 Lancashire " clough," and on many a "moss" is it found, 
 also; while at least one mountain-valley, otherwise wild enough, 
 and gloomy even under the shadow of impending cliffs, is, or 
 was until lately, <piite lit up with the purple glories of this 
 splendid willow-herb. The valley in question is a tremendous 
 u-onrein the Lancashire hills, between Todmorden and Iiossendale, 
 bearing the ominous name of "Devils-gate," or Dules-gate — a 
 ravage quarter indeed, and one not unfamiliar to the steps of our 
 Lancashire Waugh. This habitat of a not very common and yet 
 very beautiful plant we have here given half unwittingly ; but 
 in future we shall avoid mentioning exact localities, having before 
 us the sad fact of the ever-diminishing number of our rarer- 
 species through the nefarious agency of that band of botanical 
 free-booters, pirates, and robbers who spread themselves over our 
 beautiful country, and worse than the Goths and Vandals of old, 
 invade the remotest nooks, robbing sweet Nature's self of her 
 choicest treasuers. No mountain so wild and lone, no bower so 
 M'ljuestered, no sylvan recess so sweetly hidden, but these pseudo- 
 botanists will penetrate there, and " with crash and merciless
 
 ITS RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 ravage " steal the very fairest gems from Flora's casket ! Their 
 footsteps have we often tracked by the spoils scattered by the 
 way, in the shape of plants cruelly uprooted and withered, over 
 which the outraged nymphs and dryads wept ! In how many a 
 sweet nook of "West Yorkshire have we gathered, in other years,. 
 the lovely wood-vetch and the vivid wintergreen where now we- 
 might search in vain for either. 
 
 Do not mistake us, reader; we are travelling by the Lancashire 
 and Yorkshire Railway, and doubtless the length of our remarks 
 " by the way " will indicate and explain, much better than any 
 direct statement of the fact, that this polite " company " are 
 always careful to give their confiding passengers time for deliberate 
 observation of the districts (often beautiful and Avorthy of 
 observation) through which their lines pass ; which lines are the 
 safest to travel by in the three kingdoms, if we may stop by the 
 way to say so ! 
 
 However that may be, one must hope that the rosebay willow- 
 herb will long escape the raids of the above-named pirates, for 
 few will deny that it is one of the very handsomest of British 
 wild plants, rich as is the flora of these islands ; and how rick 
 our flora is few of us, in our hurry, ever stop to think. But 
 where is the other European country presenting, within the samJ3 
 limits, so great a variety of beautiful forms and colours 1 In the 
 Alps and Pyrenees, and in the Scandinavian lowlands indeed, 
 where it must be remembered essentially the same climatic 
 conditions prevail as in the high Alps, there are splendid sheets 
 of bloom, here and there, while the great Hungarian plains 
 present, during their brief season, some gorgeous floral spectacles; 
 but most of these regions are little accessible. England, on the 
 other hand, opens before us — almost at our doors — one vast wild 
 garden. And what of Wales, of Scotland, and Ireland 1 They 
 are each a garden and fern-paradise in one. Let us step into the 
 garden and into the paradise. But in order to do this we must 
 first step out of the railway carriage ; and we are still at Brad 
 ford, and still waiting for His I^jyal Highness to "move on. ; ' 
 Before he did so, and our train slowly crept into the station, C.'s
 
 /. > AIRE AND WHARFE 179 
 
 republican tendencies broke oul afresh, the very last remnanl of 
 his available stock of the magic weed having run out. But if 
 C.'a loyalty failed to reach beyond the length of his last cigar, 
 
 it was otherwise with the Yorkshiremeii, whose banners Boated 
 high, and whose bunting was everywhere. 
 
 Since the occasion of our first visit, thirty years ago, the great 
 worsted centre has greatly "changed face." Changed indeed is 
 it since that fine old Yorkshire worthy, Dr. Richard Richardson, 
 F.R.S., botanist and antiquary, went " a-simpling " hereabouts, 
 and prescribing gratuitously for the ailments of his friends, but 
 especially for the ailments of such as could offer him any 
 botanical or antiquarian notions. 
 
 Though of late Bradford has fallen on evil days, through the 
 many rivalries and fluctuations of trade, yet during the past 
 thirty years the town itself has developed amazingly ; and the 
 magnificent new town hall, and lofty palace-like warehouses, 
 built of clean Yorkshire stone, convey an idea of solidity that is 
 most impressive, and even imposing, and which certainly 
 redounds to the honour and tame of the West Riding. 
 
 To us, however, on this occasion, Bradford was a mere calling 
 point and place of passage, and taking train north, we soon left 
 her behind us, and in less than a couple of hours more had 
 
 reached the pleasant village of S , "the wished for port to 
 
 which (for the present) our course was bound," having passed 
 Shipley and Bingley en route. In botanical annals, the latter 
 place will long be renowned as the sometime habitat, or alleged 
 habitat, of the bristle-fern, a plant no longer found wild in 
 Britain, and rare in Ireland, but which, we are told, was "once" 
 found by the above Dr. Richardson in this neighbourhood. And 
 surely it is pleasant to think that the good man's name will live 
 in human memory by this innocent title. 
 
 The village of S is situated in one of the numerous 
 
 forks of the beautiful valley of the Aire, which is formed, as 
 
 are also the valleys of the Swale, Ure, Wharfe, Calder, and Don, 
 
 by the many branches, stretching eastward, of that vast chain of 
 
 hills known to the Romans as the Pennine Alps of Britain, and 
 
 l2
 
 180 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 which we still call the Pennine range, or, more familiarly, " the 
 
 Backbone of England." At S the houses, as in the case of 
 
 all Yorkshire hillside villages, are entirely built of stone, the 
 material which is everywhere at hand ; and the place is not 
 wanting in some features of interest, while the neighbourhood is 
 altogether charming. On every side softly-swelling hills, sloping 
 woods, green meadows, and pleasant streams — 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Though geologically well within the millstone grit, S is 
 
 so near the scar-limestone that the lime-loving plants are 
 
 occasionally met with ; on a fence-wall, for instance, almost in 
 
 the heart of the village, we found the brittle bladder-fern 
 
 ( Cystopteris fragilis) in quantity. Poorer in phamogamus plants 
 
 than the lime, the millstone-grit is rich in ferns and mosses and 
 
 the lower forms of cryptogamic life, the abundant moisture 
 
 which characterizes it affording to these last the element they so 
 
 delight in. Everywhere around S you happen on some 
 
 sparkling rill, or foaming beck — every where a rush of water, and 
 
 the pleasant sound of waters, flowing or falling over rock and 
 
 through ghyll on their way to the Aire which, already swollen by 
 
 a hundred such tributaries, becomes at S— — ■ a considerable 
 
 stream. Crystal clear, too, is Aire as yet, though later, like so 
 
 many of his northern peers, to be pressed into the service of 
 
 Commerce, and made to put his shoulder to the wheel — crystal 
 
 clear, reminding us in many a lovely reach of his sinuous course 
 
 of his poetic namesake who — 
 
 . gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
 O'erhung with wildwoods, thickening green. 
 
 How different from our inky-faced, hard-worked Lancashire 
 li'well, lifting his hand, almost at his fountain, to a thousand 
 lathes, putting his shoulder to and driving ten thousand wheels, 
 and condemned (Heaven knows for what fault of his own !) to 
 "hard labour" all his days ! Nor was it enough that he should 
 be compelled to assist in making the world's clothing ; now,
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE 181 
 
 forsooth, lie is to l>e made to curry it, also, far out into the wide 
 sea ; and very shortly, they say, Commerce will place on his 
 back, already so patient, her countless bales. Alas, poor Irwell ! 
 
 With regard to the botany of S , perhaps the most 
 
 striking feature is the exceeding abundance of the meadow 
 cranes-bill (Geranium pratense) and the giant bell-flower (Cam- 
 panula latifolia ), with both of which plants several lanes in the 
 neighbourhood were literally choked. Never before had we seen 
 the giant bell-flower in such abundance as to require cutting 
 down with the scythe — not even in Scotland where it occurs 
 most commonly ; in the south of England it is comparatively 
 rare. " The beauty of its flowers," says one author, " frequently 
 procures it a place in our gardens." And no wonder, for of all 
 our native bell-flowers it is by far the stateliest, often attaining a 
 height of four feet, or nearly. Hooker gives a maximum of 
 three feet. With its noble port and huge blue corollas, it makes 
 a tine spectacle, either in the cultivated garden within or in the 
 wild garden without. The white variety, mentioned by our 
 Manchester Buxton as occurring in our neighbourhood near 
 Tyldesley Banks, is here met with not unfrequently. Among 
 
 water-loving phcenogams, you find at S that handsome 
 
 and very interesting aquatic, the arrow-head (Sagittaria sagitti- 
 jolia), which is gathered in the Aire, and more abundantly the 
 flowering-rush (Butomus umbtllatus). But the botanical glory of 
 
 S is its cryptogamic vegetation, whose luxuriance is 
 
 explained by the geological circumstances we have described. 
 Here, amid the characteristic " ghylls " and " becks " of the 
 millstone grit and Yoredale series, where the sandstones and 
 shales easily abraded form a thick detritus, and where there isj 
 abundant shelter and constant humidity, the ferns and mosses 
 hold high festival, while streams that never fail, being fed per- 
 ennially from a hundred sources in the wild moorlands above, 
 " discourse sweet music " all the summer long. In fact, no nook 
 of Yorkshire is more ferny than this, where within narrow 
 compass, and almost at your hand, you find growing a full half 
 of our British species.
 
 182 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 We had reached S , which is some little distance from a 
 
 railway station, almost at midnight ; but if we came unseason- 
 ably late, our welcome was none the less hearty. Our host, Mr. 
 B., was a hale Yorksbireman of sixty, stalwart, yet of gentle 
 bearing, full of quiet humour, and withal shrewd — the very best 
 type of Yorkshire yeoman ; a genuine lover of nature, too, 
 prepared with or without notice to ramble with you " from morn 
 
 till dewy eve " — 
 
 Over hill, over dale, 
 Over park, over pale — 
 
 in quest of anything ivild, plant or animal ; a delightful com- 
 panion, in short, and a real "heart of gold." Of his handsome 
 but invalid wife and amiable family we may not here speak; but 
 " Cousin Mary," who lives apart in rooms of her own, is 
 altogether too remarkable a personage not to be introduced here 
 to the reader. " Cousin Mary '' is a grey-haired, but otherwise 
 well-preserved, and indeed handsome and jolly-looking spinster, 
 about fifty you would say, though she is really over seventy, 
 thick-set, stoutish (Procul, procul este, profani !), and her sitting- 
 room might pass for a museum, or rather a menagerie, containing 
 as it does quite a zoological collection, with animals feline, canine, 
 canaries in cages, parrots in ditto, et hoc genus omne. But chief of 
 her pets is " Snap," a thorough-bred English terrier, who, to tell 
 the truth, is the apple of our cousin's eye, under which he per- 
 formed for our diversion some of the oddest tricks in the world. 
 
 Balzac, in Les Cclibataircs, writing with that caustic pen of his 
 says : " Quand il y a une vielle fdle dans une maison, les chiens de 
 garde sont inutils !" Wicked Balzac ! " Cousin Mary," however, 
 is no prying or over-inquisitive, still less a cantankerous or spite- 
 ful, old maid ; but on the contrary, a thoroughly healthy, hearty 
 little woman, bright and cheery, with merry-twinkling eyes — one 
 of those pleasant figures that we carry in the memory entirely 
 dissociated from the faintest notion of sickliness or decay. Nor, 
 as before hinted, although our cousin hath entered on her eighth 
 decade, would you ever suspect so stupendous a fact ; everlastingly 
 young she seems, eternally juvenile, as though washed in the
 
 BY AIRE AXD WHARFE. 183 
 
 1 Fountain of Youth." On her brow Time writctli' no wrinkle. 
 (This is literally so, for at seventy-two she presents a forehead 
 without a furrow!) Age and Disease pass her by: and pallida 
 Mors, who is reported to knock at every door, whether of palace 
 or cottage, appears entirely to have forgotten " Cousin JMary !" 
 And idle is she never, as the walls of her sitting-room bear 
 ■witness, tapestried as they are with innumerable " samplers," 
 ancient and modern, the work of her own diligent, deft, and ever- 
 active fingers. Be it known to thee, reader, that the needle 
 hath its triumphs no less than the sword or the pen ; and 
 to these triumphs of her needle ''Cousin Mary" is wont to 
 point with much pride. 
 
 Long-lived are the people in these Yorkshire dales, and on the 
 breezy hillsides. In another part of the Riding we came upon a 
 yet more remarkable lady, who at the advanced age of ninety- 
 four (mirabile dictu !) was still active, washing and baking with 
 her own hands for herself and two of her offspring, about the 
 "rearing" of one of whom — a juvenile of sixty-four — she 
 expressed an anxiety that was most touching ! 
 
 The day following that of our arrival at S was,as regards 
 
 weather, "perfect.'' It was one of those days that in the north 
 here we count by units rather than by tens in the course of a 
 season, every hour of which, so full of sweet change in the 
 aspects of earth and sky, is worthy of golden record. During 
 the night rain had fallen, and over the whole landscape there 
 breathed a delicious freshness — the freshness born of copious 
 showers followed by sunshine — that soft, mellow, all-pervading 
 sunshine, which bathes and floods the landscape as it were, so 
 characteristic of our English climate, at its best. 
 
 The time and the scene were alike calculated to refresh the 
 spirits, and renew the jaded frame of one "long pent in populous 
 city ;" and C, whose cruel fate immures him for fifty-one out of 
 the fifty-two weeks in a year in a dingy quarter of one of our 
 busiest hives, finding himself under the gracious influences we
 
 1S4 UAMBLES IN TOWN AXD COUNTRY: 
 
 have described, and in his native air and old haunts, seemed 
 suddenly to have become young again : 
 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years 
 And ^Eson stood a youth, 'mid youthful peers ! 
 
 Under the friendly guidance of B. and C. rejuvenized, we pro- 
 ceeded to explore the neighbourhood. Our goal was the 
 " Bracken Hill," at the very mention of which the lips of one of 
 our party visibly overflowed with the saliva of longing. It was 
 I)., to whom at all times the odour of even a dried fern is as a 
 gale from Arabia Felix, while for green ones he will risk any- 
 thing, scaling the most impossible cliffs, and braving dangers the 
 most incredible, in ways the most absurd. "Fern on the brain ,r 
 is his disease, and it is feared the complaint is incurable. But 
 had a commission de lunatico been issued, Ave suspect there would 
 have been other "subjects " for examination, besides poor D., on 
 " Bracken Hill " that bright summer's morning ! 
 
 Our way led through green lanes winding over green hills, with 
 hedgerows flanked by dry ditches on either hand — those delightful 
 hedgerows where Nature, with a wild freedom and abandon, 
 scatters a thousand delights to poet, painter, botanist, and shall 
 Ave say geologist 1 But where, in this moist land, is the bit of 
 rock or stone that is not shrouded in botanical drapery, that is 
 not painted Avith lichen or liverwort, and fringed Avith moss or 
 fern— that is not clothed in a garment of perennial beauty ? 
 Nothing of bare, or naked, is here ; nor is any scar or Avound, 
 but Nature comes softly, Avith "a hand of healing," and touches 
 it Avith a Parnielia, a Lecidea ■! And Avith Avhat exquisite grace 
 she flings over the hedges her lovely garlands of brier and 
 bramble ! Never Avere Avild roses and campions so roseate, never 
 forget-me-nots so blue ! So, too, thought the village children 
 Avho, Avith laughter and jubilant shout, came trooping through 
 the lanes, from their morning foray into Flora's domain, each 
 Avith his little hands filled Avith the red, Avhite, and blue of Lychnis, 
 Stellaria, and Myosotis. What child is not, in some sense, a 
 botanist ? Are Ave not, Avhen children, all botanists 1
 
 /;>' AWE AND WHARFS. 185 
 
 Dear, quaint, old Izaak Walton, of whom, as of our friend 
 •' IVter Boncour,"' it might be said that — 
 
 Mischief to nothing but fish lie designed, 
 
 speaking of his favourite pastime, says : "God never did mako a 
 
 more calm, quiet, and innocent recreation than angling." Yea, 
 
 verily, Master Izaak, for he that goeth a-simpling worketh woe 
 
 to none ; nor designeth mischief to any living thing — not even 
 
 the finny. Moreover, your true botanist, he that searcheth the 
 
 wilds for pure love of plants, looks upon nature not alone with 
 
 the comprehensive or poetic eye, as an angler might; he not 
 
 only sees — 
 
 The fountain's fall, 
 
 The river's flow, 
 
 The woody valleys, &c, 
 
 but looking with the eye of the scientist as well, he sees, at every 
 step, a thousand wonders, insomuch that to him a mere hand- 
 breadth of ground opens out into a vast field, almost without 
 bound or limit. But not to lecture, let us climb " Bracken Hill " 
 ere the sun climb to the zenith. 
 
 "Bracken Hill" itself is a part of the high ridge of rock, 
 several miles in width, lying between the picturesque valley of 
 the "Wharfe and the wider valley of the Aire, which ridge, rising 
 at its centre as high as 1,300 feet above the sea-level, presents an 
 unbroken sweep towards the dales of undulating moorland, 
 glorious in the late summer with the rich purple of the ling ; 
 and offering, also, the fine and cross leaved heaths, the bilberry 
 and crowberry, sometimes the cowberry and cranberry, and other 
 plants of the heatherland type. In swamp)- places the cotton- 
 grass abounds, and occasionally l he curious sundew, and the 
 pretty Lancashire asphodel. 
 
 Up the hill we go : and at every step of the ascent, as we turn 
 our faces, the prospect widens, till at length one-half of the great 
 valley of the Aire opens before us, apparelled in the fidl beauty 
 of the spring. But nearer at hand lies our happiness. Oh, the 
 glorious tufts of plumy lady-fern, of male-fern, and buckler-fern ! 
 And what is here? the black maiden-hair spleenwort, with its-
 
 186 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 glossy fronds (well might Gray name it the "shining spleenwort"); 
 sparingly though, not as in wild and ferny Wales, where you have 
 miles of it ; as between Dolgelley and Barmouth — Barmouth the 
 beautiful, where exactly twenty years ago we gathered the 
 largest example of the lanceolate spleenwort ever collected in 
 Britain, and where we found thisrarespeciesgrowingin the greatest 
 abundance and luxuriance — a sight never again to be witnessed 
 in these islands. 
 
 Before reaching the crest of the hill, we descend its side into 
 
 S beck, which flows from it through one of the ferniest ravines 
 
 we ever explored, even in ferny Yorkshire, a county which has 
 given us more varieties of our native species than any other, save 
 and except that fern-paradise, Devon. Nor among the four or five 
 hundred named forms of Athyrium Filix-fcemina is there any 
 more beautiful variety, all things considered, than the one named 
 plumosum, and found by a botanical companion of ours at 
 Skipwith in Yorkshire. Think of it, reader, four or five 
 hundred varieties of one British species alone ! 
 
 Assuredly " Bracken Hill " is no misnomer, for in the course of 
 our morning ramble we observed no less than eighteen species of 
 ferns, all within the limits of one narrow gorge, including (inter 
 alia) first of all, and next to the moorland brakes, the sand- 
 loving hard-fern, with its vivid green and elegant habit, in 
 abundance ; next the fragrant mountain-fern, the male-fern, and 
 its variety with huge scaly fronds, the beautiful soft, prickly, and 
 lobed shield-ferns, the wide-spreading buckler-fern, and where 
 the humus lay thick the beech-fern, and glorious golden patches 
 of the oak-fern, making sunshine in the shady place ; and the 
 damp-loving lady-fern everywhere. And lower down, where in 
 spring the gorge is lit up with the soft, tender light of a thousand 
 primroses, even the hart's-tongue. What a ferny gorge ! Seldom 
 that the lime-loving hart's-tongue and the lime-hating blechnum 
 are found in such close proximity. 
 
 And other pleasant rambles did we have whilst at S . One 
 
 lovely afternoon, in especial, shines out in the memory, and, 
 indeed, in our journal is recorded in red letters, on which we
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 187 
 
 spent three golden Bummer hours in tracing the windings of 
 
 H Beck, where innumerable peaty rills on the I moors 
 
 converging form a stream that dashes, in a hundred cascades, 
 through the wood-fringed gorge, one of the most romantic in the 
 West Hiding— a lovely scene of lock, wood, and water, in all 
 those magical combinations by which nature steals away the soul 
 in ravishment beyond the power of weak words to express ! 
 Well might a great English painter choose his landscape-subjects 
 from a region so abounding in the Beautiful and Picturesque. 
 One feature of a scene that remains for ever photographed on 
 the memory we must here describe. It was a wide stretch of 
 upland pasture which, rising sheer from the woody anil ferny 
 ravine through which we were passing in a steep acclivity, and 
 sheltered on all other sides by belts of wood, was purpled 
 throughout its whole extent with foxgloves, in the full pomp of 
 their summer beauty. There they stood, stately, in thousands 
 upon thousands countless, till, under a slanting sun, the whole 
 hillside blushed again — a sight unparalleled in our experience. 
 It was the flower-goddess, according to D., who was calling over 
 her foxglove-roll, and every Yorkshire foxglove had mustered at 
 the summons ! However that might be, it was a gorgeous floral 
 spectacle, unique of its kind, and never to be forgotten : 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 Our memory — feel that she hath eyes ! 
 
 Through receiving letters from home, written in the imperativt 
 mood, our further pilgrimage into the " White Doe" country was 
 for the present postponed. But a little later we found ourselves 
 
 again at S , and in the same pleasant company. It was full, 
 
 ripe summer, and the landscape offered another flora. On the 
 upland pastures where, a month or two before, the stately fox- 
 gloves had mustered in their countless thousands, purpling the 
 hills, now, in early August, we brushed through " golden groves 
 of yellow ragwort," while all the vast moorlands around were 
 ablaze with the blooming heather. 
 
 On this occasion it was the village-wakes, or " feast " as it is 
 called at S , and crowds of farmer and grazier folk from far-
 
 188 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 off Yorkshire dales were paying their annual visit to friends and 
 kinsfolk, as also their annual tribute to Bacchus at the village- 
 inns, where every room was filled to overflowing Avith people of 
 the bucolic class, drab as to vesture, wearing pot-hats, and with 
 round, rubicund faces, who — 
 
 Drank to the saints and martyrs 
 
 Of the dismal days of yore ; 
 And as soon as the horn was empty, 
 
 They drank to one siint more ! 
 
 Jolly fellows these Yorkshire graziers ; and with reason, since 
 their lands, as a rule, are low-rented. Moreover, the risks of 
 your beef and mutton-feeding are as nothing compared with those 
 of your corn-growing farmer ; and three-fourths, or nearly, of 
 the West Riding is pasture only. 
 
 Clearlv we had come to the "feast" too; there could be no 
 
 other motive in the opinion of the good folks of S ! But 
 
 no ; we had come, as the reader knows, to resume on the morrow 
 our pilgrimage into the "White Doe Country." 
 
 In the meantime, the weather was of the loveliest, inviting 
 the more familiar members of our party to revisit their old 
 haunts, whom, nothing loath, we accompanied, botanizing by 
 the way. 
 
 In the evening, striding over dewy pastures and through 
 
 pleasant by-paths, in the warm summer air, to H , near 
 
 S , we paid a visit to our host's trusty and well-beloved' 
 
 friend, Mr. Thomas B., the farmer. And a fine specimen of the 
 stalwart Yorkshire yeoman we found him, dwarfing in stature as 
 he did even the tallest of our tall party ; and with manners as 
 mild and gentle as the man himself was hale and strong in appear- 
 ance ; with that soft "couthie," caressing accent in his Saxon 
 speech we have often observed in " north country " people, and 
 in those of the Scottish lowlands. Mr. Thomas we found to be 
 one of those " nature's gentlemen " with whom the cultured and 
 the uncultured are equally at home and at once ; and a man of 
 unbounded energy withal, not merely " looking after " his men, 
 but lifting a hand here, putting a shoulder there, and, generally' 
 
 bearing with them the heat and burthen of the day. For
 
 /;>' AIRE AND WHARFS. 189 
 
 centuries have his family held wide lands from the same 
 immemorial owner; nor want they now, themselves, in broad 
 acres held in fee— the reward of long and patient industry. 
 
 But if Mr. Thomas is of a thrifty family, and himself one of the 
 thriftiest of men, he has one extravagance. We do not mean 
 that he has taken a wife, for, although somewhat beyond middle 
 age, Mr. Thomas still holds with that very ancient adage which 
 
 Yll'tliuu he yonge, then marie not yett, 
 
 YlF then be old, thou ha I i <■ wytl : 
 
 For yonge menne'e wyves will not be taught, 
 And old nienne's wyves are good for naught. 
 
 At any rate, if unmarried, Mr. Thomas is not desolate, for over 
 his household there presides a gentle spirit, a right comely house- 
 keeper — Miss L. — most helpful of women, with a freshness 
 about her, and a sweetness, as of the fields themselves, who dis- 
 penses Mr, B.'s hospitality with a natural grace and goodness 
 • of heart woin^ far bevond mere refinement. 
 
 Mr. Thomas's one extravagance, if such it can be called, is a 
 fondness for carved furniture — richly, elegantly, artistically 
 carved furniture — of which he possesses some specimens that 
 would delight the heart of our friend Mr. Hamerton. Indeed, 
 we doubt if royalty, anywhere, sleeps on bed more richly adorned 
 with the carver's art than the couch of this modest Yorkshire 
 3^eoman, living in a plain farm-house, in a Yorkshire dale. 
 
 Of Mr. Thomas's penchant we had heard before, but it was not 
 to see his famous furniture that we had on this occasion called 
 upon him, nor yet to taste his famous home-fed beef; but to 
 solicit the pleasure of his company on our drive into the " White 
 Doe " country on the morrow. Once on the spot, however, his 
 furniture we must see, and his beef we must taste — and we did. 
 Of the furniture we have already spoken ; let us now speak, so 
 jar as we may venture on the unspeakable, of the beef. It was 
 a Craven heifer, and being a heifer, it follows that its years were 
 tender; but that its flesh was marvellously tender also, we call 
 upon the epicurean C. to make affidavit, who, having eaten his 
 till thereof, on the above memorable occasion, deponeth as 
 follows, viz, : —
 
 190 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 First. That lie verily believes said heifer was descended, in a 
 direct line, from the " Golden Calf " worshipped of old, and a 
 cultus as modern as it is ancient ! 
 
 Second. That he believes said heifer had pastured in the 
 elysian fields themselves, and been fattened there. 
 
 Third. That he believes the ancient worship of the " Sacred 
 Cow," in Egypt, India, and some other countries, not forgetting 
 Ireland, is a subject worthy of more thorough investigation than 
 it has yet received, &c, <vc. — the rest of the affidavit being too 
 long to quote. 
 
 Pending the inquiry our friend thinks so eminently desirable 
 and whilst awaiting " the coming of that glorious time " when 
 Beef shall receive its full apotheosis in England — a time not 
 remote if we may judge by John Bull's intense admiration of his 
 own portrait as drawn by Punch — we may say that, if our heads 
 overniidit were filled with dreams somewhat mixed — with 
 
 O 
 
 carvings of furniture and beef — with shadows of aesthetic 
 emotions and material cravings, and mysterious adumbrations of 
 gigantic Craven heifers, they were at least clear on the morrow 
 when we started, under favouring skies, for the " White Doe 
 Country," taking with us our host of the previous evening, and 
 where also, if he wishes, we will take the amiable reader. 
 
 It was on a lovely mid-August morning, and in the midst of 
 
 the stirrings occasioned by the annual "feast" at S , that 
 
 we started forth from that village on a drive through the classic 
 — and hitherto by us unvisited — region indicated by the title of
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. I'.U 
 
 the -'White Doe Country." To use Wordsworth's phrase, it was 
 
 the morning of 
 
 & i daj 
 
 Willi Bilver clouds, and sunshine on the grass, 
 Ami in t he sheltered, and the sheltering grove, 
 A perfect stillness. 
 
 Nor in the grove, as vet, wasvany sign of autumn, though 
 
 already in smoke-begrimed towns of our work-a-day north the 
 
 pines and planes had yellowed. Pleasant thus to catch up, as it 
 
 were, a season that is passing : decay in the town, life and fresh. 
 
 ness, still, in the country: So, at least, thought C, who had 
 
 but lately 
 
 escaped 
 From the vast city, where lie long had pined 
 A discontented sojourner. 
 
 But indeed, who would not, if he could, spend his days where 
 summer reigns longest — where the trees retain their rich garni- 
 ture till far into the autumn, casting broad shadows over the 
 land, nor dream of decay till the setting of October suns : 
 Ferreus est, eheu .' quisquis in urbt maud* 
 
 In towns such as the above, where almost constantly the air is 
 laden with those sulphurous and other acids so much more fata] 
 than mere smoke-clouds to vegetable life, what have we of 
 summer 1 A few short weeks only, certainly not months — a 
 greening in dune, a yellowing in July, a browning in August,, 
 and at the beginning of September — the end of the leafy reign, 
 and of the summer — the bare anatomies, and mere twiggy out- 
 lines of trees whose congeners in the country still revel on in the 
 plenitude of their vigour, and the fulness of their foliage. Up 
 the pleasant valley of the Aire lay our w;iy, and after a journey 
 sufficiently long to take us sheer out of the millstone grit into 
 the heart of the limestone, we entered the quaint old market- 
 town of Skipton — the "Town of Sheep," as etymologists have 
 jt, "the chief town of the wild and mountainous district of 
 Craven," "the metropolis of Craven," as a local writer euphemis- 
 tically terms it, with its ancient church, and its castle famous in 
 Yorkshire story and in national history. 
 
 * Tibullus.
 
 192 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 A " mountainous district " truly ; and many a bloody battle, 
 here among their native hills, must the brave Brigantes have 
 sustained, ere they fell before the " all-conquering " Roman. 
 Indeed, in describing the progress through their country of the 
 Roman Commander, Petilius Cerialis, Tacitus admits this. 
 (Agricola, cap. xvii.) Multa prcelia, et aliquando non incruenta, 
 the words of the historian in this connection, are words that 
 may well be taken as signifying even more than they express. 
 And to-day, the indomitable pluck and energy of your West 
 Yorkshireman, the " Nobbut " and " Never heed !" spirit which 
 he carries into affairs, attests how much yet survives in him of 
 the fiery spirit of those sturdy Celts once peopling this elevated 
 region, and who, it is probable, were never really subdued by the 
 Roman cohorts, however numerous or skilfully handled. 
 
 The last circumstance is more than probable, for whoever has 
 penetrated into the wilder and less accessible nooks of West 
 Yorkshire and the Pennine range generally, will have found, ever 
 and again, a people, or, at least, people, if not unmixedly Celtic, 
 at any rate with all the Celtic characteristics, and with that fierce 
 independence of spirit betokening a race never wholly conquered. 
 
 But this Skipton, which so often in the past must 
 have resounded with the shock of arms, and witnessed many a 
 bloody fray between Briton and Roman, and Briton and Saxon, 
 and in the later centuries, even between contending English 
 factions, sits here, now, peaceful enough, the important centre of 
 a wide pastoral region — a pleasant bucolic country, abounding in 
 fat oxen, in , sheep, and in horses. And little changed, in sooth, 
 in comparison with its pushing peers of the West Riding. We 
 say "peers," but no peer has Skipton in the estimation of its 
 people ; and a right hearty people they are, and a hospitable : 
 
 nodes, ccenceque 
 
 How many libations have we not poured out, on Yorkshire soil ! 
 How many suppers have we not left untasted, from shere reple- 
 tion (vino ciboque gravatus), at the groaning tables of those jovia 
 West Riding farmers !
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 193 
 
 A quicker humour has your West than your East, or North 
 Riding man, for the reason that into his composition (of course, 
 in the main Teuton) there enters more of the Celtic element, no 
 doubt derived from sources already hinted. Mbeit not so quick 
 a humour as is met with in your average Lancashire man, in 
 whom the Celtic factor works yet more strongly ; and indeed 
 constitutes largely, in our humble opinion, the fons et w^oofthat 
 rich stream of humour which turns the wheels of Messrs. Waugh, 
 Brierley, and Co., the well known*' 1 Lancashire Dialect" firm, and 
 spinners "of long yarns. Of North Riding humour, perhaps the 
 most characteristic sample is the song, popular in Yorkshire some 
 half century ago, recording the adventures of a runaway lad 
 from Wensleydale, which, as it happens to be the "putative 
 father "of some other north country songs of a similar character, 
 it may perhaps be allowed here to transcribe 
 
 When 1 were at home, with my fay t her ami mother, I never had no fun. 
 They kept me going from morn nil night, so I thowt fra them I'd run. 
 Leeds Fair were coming on, and I thowt I'd havea spree; 
 So I put on in) Sunday cooat, and went right merrily. 
 
 First I saw were't factory ; I never saw one before : 
 
 There were threads and tapes, and tapes and silks to sell by monya score ; 
 
 There were a strap turned iveiy wheel, and ivery wheel a strap ; 
 
 " llegor," says I to t' maister mon, " owd Harry's a rare strong chap !" 
 
 Next I went to Leeds auhl church : I were niver i' one i' my days ; 
 And I were maistly ashamed o' myself, for I didn't know their ways; 
 There were thirty or forty fooak in toobs and boxes sat ; 
 When up comes it .saucy old fellow, says he : " Noo, lad, tak' off thy hat !" 
 
 Then in there comes a great Lord mayor, and over his shoulders a cloob, 
 And he got into a white sack-poke, ami got into t' topmost toob ; 
 And then there came anither chap, 1 thinks they called him Ned : 
 And he got int' bottomest toob, and moch d all /' otht r chap said ! 
 
 So tiny began to preach and pray— they prayed for (ieorge, our king ; 
 When up jumps t' chap in t' bottomest toob, says he : "Good fooaks let's 
 
 sing." 
 I thowt some sang varra well, while others did grunt and groan ; 
 K\ cry mon sang what he could, but I sang Darby and Juan! 
 
 When t'preaching and praying were ower, and fooaks were ganging away, 
 1 went to t'chap in t' toppermost toob, says I : " Lad what's to pay." 
 " \\ hy now t " says he, " my lad." Begor, 1 were right fain ; 
 So I clickt baud o' my great cloob-stick, and went whistling oot again. 
 
 As regards Skipton, we hardly need stop to describe what has 
 
 been so often described already, but wo may say that we found 
 
 the town, in its older part, with its streets of motley but alwa 
 
 M
 
 194 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 stone-built houses, disposed in the form of the letter Y (the 
 ancient church and castle being conspicuous), its quaint market- 
 place, and numerous inns and hostelries, famed for centuries for 
 their "good entertainment" of "man and horse,*' the very ideal 
 of a bucolic town, and a most refreshing contrast to the grimy- 
 towns we had left behind us. Very abundant are some of the 
 above hostelries in long, dark passages, the ambages of which you 
 might hesitate to explore were it not that you invariably 
 perceive, in the distance, a sort of Pharos, or beacon-light, to 
 guide the benighted traveller, in the shape of bright fire, gleam- 
 ing crockery, or better still, ruddy-faced Yorkshire matron, or 
 maiden, " on hospitable thoughts intent." 
 
 One word as to the town-botany of Skipton. The phrase 
 " town-botany" may be a little startling, but in remote quiet- 
 going towns and villages, built on, and out of, the limestone, the 
 urban, apart from the garden flora, is often considerable ; and 
 where disintegration is in full progress, as in the case of buildings 
 in ruins, the botanist will sometimes enter upon a veritable Bus 
 in urbe. Occasionally, quite in the middle of a town, and where 
 was no apparent dilapidation, we have found the beautiful ivy- 
 leaved toad-flax, and the wall-pellitory, among flowering plants, 
 and the wall-rue and maidenhair spleenworts, among ferns, staring 
 out from corners and crannies in a manner that would have been 
 perfectly disgraceful if it had not been so perfectly and super- 
 latively graceful. But seldom have we seen the "rambling 
 sailor," as the above toad-flax is often termed, so entirely at 
 home as he appeared to be on the walls of Skipton castle, though 
 rambling "aloft," as is the custom of sailors. And if the before- 
 mentioned pretty little spleenworts peered out upon us from 
 sundry niches very coquettishly, and rather impudently, could 
 we snub them, or grub them up 1 By no means. Apropos to 
 spleenworts, was it not — it was — on the walls of Skipton that 
 Samuel Gibson, the West Riding man, once found, or stated he 
 had found, that very rare British species, the fountain spleenwort ! 
 And it was our Lancashire Nowell (" Clarus Nowellius," of the 
 German botanists) who gathered on the same walls, somo thirty
 
 BY Aim: AND WHABFE. 195 
 
 years ago, fruiting examples of that interesting "extinguisher- 
 moss," Encalypta streptocarpa. And here is the moss-gatherer of 
 our own party, with his lynx eyes, and superhuman agility, 
 searching for another illustration of the same rare phenomenon 
 — a fruitless search. 
 
 And now we have started north : Skipton is behind us, the 
 mountains are before us, and the pages of Wordsworth fly open 
 of their own accord. We tend to Rylstone, and are on the track 
 of the "White Doe." 
 
 At the distance of two miles north from Skipton, on the edge 
 of the fells, stands a solitary inn, 
 
 where hangs aloft 
 That ancient sign, 
 
 "The Craven Heifer" — an inn widely known through Craven for 
 its hospitable cheer, and which has sheltered from the howling 
 blast many a belated and many an early traveller. Ot the latter 
 were we, on the present occasion, though not too early to find 
 the broad hearth warm, and " neat-handed Phillis " at ready 
 call. 
 
 The "Craven Heifer" of blessed memory! but blessed unto us 
 by a double token, for here, on a subsequent day — a tranquil 
 sabbath, in the decline of summer — 
 
 One of those heavenly days that cannot die ! 
 it was our privilege to witness surely the most magnificent 
 " sky-pageant " that ever met the gaze of astonished mortal — 
 
 (Jlory beyond all glory ever seen 
 
 By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul ! 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west, amid golden and amber 
 splendours; but on the orient it was that the Master Painter 
 had lavished the wealth of his palette. Standing on the hillside, 
 with our faces to the east, the immense panorama of cloud land 
 opened before us, lit up with all the colours of the spectrum, in 
 every conceivable and inconceivable combination, gold, ora-i^e, 
 bronze and ultramarine predominating, the whole scene taking 
 the character of a vast archipelago: sea in ultramarine, islands 
 
 m2
 
 196 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 in gold, orange, and bronze — 
 
 many a tempting isle, 
 With groves that never were imagined, lay 
 'Mid seas how stedfast ! 
 
 While at the extreme eastern horizon rose lip tall cliffs of dun r 
 
 or silvery grey, bounding, as it seemed, a vast continent that 
 
 stretched beyond. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 
 
 Clearly denned and steadfast for a while, the splendid picture 
 
 slowly dissolved before our eyes. AYordsworth, who, on a 
 
 certain notable occasion, witnessed from the Yorkshire hills one 
 
 of these pageants, says of them : 
 
 they are of the sky, 
 And from our earthly memory fade away ! 
 
 But surely never from our memory, or from the memories of 
 those who with us witnessed the unparalleled spectacle, can 
 those marvellous combinations of all gorgeous colours fade ! 
 
 From Skipton to Rylstone, journeying north, through the 
 hills, is some seven miles ; and after passing the " Craven 
 Heifer," which is not only an important local land-mark but is 
 shown on most maps, you at once find yourself in the midst of 
 the Yorkshire highlands, or " fells " as they are here called, the 
 prevalence in the west of which word "fell," itself deriving from 
 the Gaelic British " fels," is one of the many Celtic traces to be 
 found in this riding, as are also the words "scar" and "crag" 
 which occur so much more frecpiently than in other parts of 
 Yorkshire, in place-names. 
 
 On our right, as we proceed, rise hills of considerable elevation 
 and of rugged outline, affording in their lower reaches wide 
 pasturage for cattle and sheep, and already, in their higher 
 slopes, flaming with the purple heather. At intervals, the 
 wayside was brightened with the red Bartsia (Bartsia Odontites), 
 and at much shorter intervals with a species of ragwort (Senecio 
 eruccef alius), with flowers of the most vivid yellow. A white 
 harebell was occasionally met with, varying the blue ; and here 
 and there, at sheltered points, a belated foxglove, not towering
 
 BY AIRE ASK WHARFE. 107 
 
 up in a single stem, or stalk, but branching oul in numerous 
 sidespikeSj and ultimately forming a real floral cathedral, with 
 centra] spire, whereat any rate the bees, if still abroad, might 
 profitably enter were no sermon preached. The beautiful family 
 
 of the glasses— a family far too much neglected by British 
 botanists -was abundantly represented ; nor, on the present 
 occasion, did we find any of its representatives more charming 
 than the sweet floating-grass (G i fluitans), whose stums were 
 
 to be seen floating in many a wayside pool, while the slender 
 and graceful panicles rose fully two feet above the water. Very 
 abundant also, if limited in variety, were the mosses, whose 
 lovely tapestry covered every wall : here bright bits of Didy- 
 modon rubellvs, there great masses of the beautiful cypress-moss, 
 varied by hoary tufts of Ghimmia, and long, shining patches of 
 the silky Leskea, while the beard-moss, in three or four species, 
 was everywhere. 
 
 We were entering upon Iiylstone Fell : and, marvellous to 
 relate, immediately we did SO one of our party saw a "milk- 
 white doe :" " Where .' " the reader asks. In his "mind's eye," 
 most courteous reader. It was 1)., the Wbrdsworthian, into whose 
 moral and intellectual texture the great Lakist — great despite 
 serious limitations — has been slowly soaking for forty years ; 
 and who, thus soaked and saturated, intus et in cute, drops 
 " Wordsworth " 
 
 as fast a* the Arabian trees 
 Their medicinal gum 1 
 
 But I), did certainly hear of a "White Doe" shortly after, for 
 
 we had no sooner come in sight of "Norton Tower," which as 
 
 every reader of Word-worth knows is standing (in ruins) 
 
 Higli on a point of rugged ground 
 
 A ng the wastes of Rylstone Fell, 
 
 Above the loftiest ri<l_'e or mound 
 Where foresters and Bnepherds dwell — 
 
 than we had a very pleasant encounter, that is to say, we met 
 with a stalwart man of the fells, who volunteered as cicerone, and 
 gave us much interesting information the most important item 
 
 of which was that "the late Duke" — an expression, in these
 
 198 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 parts, which always means His late Grace of Devonshire — had 
 assiduously sought, but vainly, to naturalise on his Bolton estate 
 another White Doe ! How many attempts were made, how 
 many White Does, after varying fortunes, found their way to 
 Bolton, we forget, but the result was uniform : utter failure to 
 naturalise so rare an animal ! 
 
 The above history, which some may think has been purposely 
 and of malice aforethought concocted, as a travesty of the age, 
 is as authentic as it is interesting. We say a " travesty " of the 
 age, for in these hurrying, unmeditative days, how few would 
 linger by " St. Mary's shrine " till penetrated by the deep pathos 
 of Wordsworth's story — in our sense, with all its faults, one of 
 the most ethereal, subtile and spiritual creations in the language 
 — subtile and subjective, and therefore directly opposed to the 
 dispositions, tastes, and tendencies of the time. But this some- 
 what too boastful, if brilliant age, with its weltering chaos of 
 opposing elements, what is it but an age of transition ? In the 
 meantime, whatever difficulties His late Grace of Devonshire 
 may have encountered, in his interesting attempts to naturalise 
 a White Doe at Bolton, one " White Doe " is there already 
 naturalised, yet is it 
 
 not a Child of Time 
 But Daughter of the Eternal Prime ! 
 
 Under the kindly guidance of our voluntary cicerone, we 
 explored the neighbourhood, but did not on this occasion climb 
 to the " Tower," leaving that for a later day, that is to say, 
 almost the last in the month of August, 1883, when we returned 
 to Rylstone to find Nature still flaunting her summer robes, and 
 the sheltering dimples and depressions of the hills gorgeous with 
 the fruiting rowan (Pyrus Aucuparia), the clustering scarlet 
 berries of which so abounded that the trees were bending with 
 the weight — a feast for the eyes, and a real banquet for the birds. 
 What lovelier sight in English landscapes, in later summer, than 
 this most graceful tree, with its richly indented, plumy, fern-like 
 leaves, and scarlet berries in hanging clusters ! Let English 
 poets, and English painters, render to the rowan, so graceful in
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFS. 199 
 
 outline, so lovely in leaf and blossom, so rich in scent, so glorious 
 in fruit, and Autumn-queen of English woods, the honour due. 
 
 After climbing, on the occasion referred to, knee-deep in 
 odorous brake-fern, Wordsworth's "point of rugged ground," 
 for all the land about here is his, by poetic right, at least, 
 
 And they like Demigods are strong 
 On whom the Muses smile ! 
 
 we attained the height, so 
 
 bleak and bare, and seldom free, 
 As Pendle-hill, or Pennyghent, 
 From wind, or frost, or vapours wet, 
 
 to find, indeed, the four corners of "Norton Tower" standing, 
 
 but little more. The " pleasure-house," where 
 
 the youthful Nortons met 
 To practice games, and archery, 
 
 is "dust" or nearly so. Despite the "vapours Avet " so seldom 
 absent, as the poet says, from this high point, and which on this 
 occasion were decidedly present, we obtained a splendid vieAV 
 from the " Tower " which 
 
 fronts all quarters, and looks round 
 O'er path and road, and plain and dell, 
 Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream, 
 Upon a prospect without bound. 
 
 It is an admirable point of observation, admirably chosen for the 
 purposes of a " watch tower," commanding as it does, or at least 
 must have done when standing, not only the surrounding fells, 
 but considerable portions of Airedale and Wharfedale ; and in 
 the perfect silence and stillness that prevailed the scene was 
 impres-ive : a "land of hills," hill beyond hill— niente die 
 montagnc, as the Venetian said of the Morea. The foreground, 
 however, was brightened with the mountain-ash, or rowan before 
 referred to, which was gleaming out like a veritable "burning 
 bush " from many a dell and dingle. Below us, at some distance 
 away, stood Rylstone church, to which we descended with a pre- 
 cipitancy that possibly had some connection with the " vapours 
 wet " now in process of condensation. 
 
 Rylstone church, though of no architectural pretensions, is one 
 of those interesting old structures with which Craven is dotted,
 
 200 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY : 
 
 and which make this quiet nook of old England so inviting to 
 poet and antiquary. Indeed, moss-and-lichen-covered, and grey 
 and hoary with age as they are, each one is a poem in stone. 
 " Could words come forth from those time-honoured walls," how 
 quaint a language would they speak ! We love these ancient 
 churches, and delight to wander, in the brief intervals permitted, 
 within their quiet precincts, so favourable to meditation. They 
 are dear to our heart, as they were dear to the heart of the genial 
 Irving, most English of American writers, and dearer still to 
 that of the shy, retiring Hawthorne, whose quaint fancy revelled 
 amid their ivied walls, and mossy niches, and crumbling stones. 
 How Nature, in this humid clime, delights to trace her rich scroll- 
 work in living forms on all that is bare ! And what grace of 
 outline, what delicacy of structure, what glory of colour, in the 
 minute vegetable organisms with which she paints ! But Rylstone 
 church has an interest, a charm, and a poetry beyond this, carry- 
 ing us back, as it does, in imagination, to the time when 
 
 The bells of Rylstone seemed to say, 
 While she sate listening in the shade, 
 With vocal music : God us ayde ! 
 
 Nor in the surroundings is there anything to jar with the feel- 
 ings thus prompted, or to disturb the train of one's musings. 
 The situation itself is poetic, the churchyard looking out upon 
 the hills, with nothing between but green pastures, and here and 
 there a solitary bush or tree. From the hills we entered : 
 
 ( treen was the churchyard, beautiful and green, 
 Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, 
 A heaving surface . 
 
 How often, in our experience, does the grotesque, and even 
 
 ludicrous, element obtrude itself, and mingle with the grave and 
 
 solemn ! And so it happened here ; for C, who is so thoroughly 
 
 " Yorkshire " that almost every face he saw was but his own 
 
 reflected, whom every casual passenger in the road greeted as 
 
 "brother" or "cousin," and the bones of whose ancestors (as D. 
 
 avers to have been proved by exact analysis) form an essential 
 
 element of the soil of every Yorkshire burying-ground, had no 
 
 sooner set foot in the sequestered graveyard, than, to his own
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFS. 201 
 
 astonishment, he trod upon family mould/ Of this he was 
 informed by the first head-stone over which he stumbled. The 
 thing was inevitable ; and Hie et ubique .' \v,ls the remark, equally 
 inevitable, of the desperate D. 
 
 In the churchyard so romantically situated and poetically 
 associated we did not linger j for why! like all the world we 
 were pursued by the <lemou "Hurry" — "the 'Black Death' of 
 these modern days !" — and hurried and hurrying, we sought 
 " the hall " — " Rylstone's old sequestered hall" a vain search, 
 the only trace of its former existence being now a few stones 
 that serve for wall in a farmhouse hard by : 
 
 Thai mansion, .•mil those pleasant bowers, 
 Walks, p'xils, and harbours, homeMrail, hall 
 
 the blast to which the poet refers (so, at least, one is constrained 
 to think) has 
 
 swept them all away, 
 One desolation, one decay. 
 
 "Rylstone Hall" is now only to be found in the pages of 
 Wordsworth, but " Emily " — 
 
 exalted Emily, 
 Maid of the blasted family, 
 
 and "Francis," her devoted brother, are still living — in every 
 gentle heart. 
 
 Lingering for a while — a little while -where "once the garden 
 smiled," did we ? — we could not — fail once more to recall, in 
 detail, that pathetic story of the Nortons, as told by Words- 
 worth, or to picture the sorrowing Lady, and above all the 
 bright ethereal Presence that 
 
 did a very gladness yield 
 At morning to the dewy field, 
 
 and brought at length divine soothing to 
 
 .\ Soul, by force of sorrows high, 
 Uplifted to t he purest sky 
 Of undisturbed humanity ! 
 
 Meanwhile (1., who flourishes amid "ruin," and wherever are 
 mossy walls, or mossy wells (muscosi fontes as Virgil puts it), had 
 been improving hi- opportunities; and had even— must we con-
 
 202 B AMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNT BY : 
 
 fess it ? — regarded with unhallowed eyes certain " mossy stones " 
 
 within hallowed precincts ! He had now gathered — what had he 
 
 gathered ? — " exceedingly fine specimens of Leucodon sciuroides 
 
 (Schwdgrichen) Neckera sciuroides (C. Midler) /" Fearful words, 
 
 poor B. thought, to proceed from so mild a mouth, but with 
 
 whose meaning we shall not insult the reader by assuming him 
 
 unacquainted. The mossy trunk of a gnarled ash, standing by 
 
 Rylstone church, was the El Dorado whence G. had dug his 
 
 precious " specimen." May that ash survive, is B.'s prayer, not 
 
 so much the hard blows of G. as his hard words. 
 
 Green and pastoral is the neighbourhood of Kylstone, though 
 
 on one hand rise up hills of considerable height, on the bald 
 
 summits of which are to be seen masses of rock, single or in 
 
 groups, and of every uncouth shape and outline, resembling 
 
 many others in West Yorkshire, and reminding one of Words 
 
 worth's simile : 
 
 As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
 By what means it could thither come and whence, 
 So that it seems a thing endued with sense : 
 Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
 Of rock, or sand, reposeth, there to sun itself. 
 
 Though the geologist will hardly wonder " how they thither 
 came and whence," yet are these groups of stones most striking, 
 nd weird even when seen in the gloaming, or when magnified 
 by the mists that so often hang about these hills. As regards 
 the botany of the district, among the characteristic flowering 
 plants are the meadow and shining crane's bills (the latter on 
 walls), and the giant bell-flower, with its lavender and also its 
 white variety, the last-named in greater quantity than we have 
 ever elsewhere seen it. The hemlock (Conium viaculatum) is also 
 to be met with ; while, besides the commoner ferns,' the wallrue 
 spleenwort, so characteristic of the lime, is abundant. As 
 touching shells, Conchologicus reported most of the Helices 
 ordinarily found in these districts. B. was " under the impres- 
 sion they were snails." sancta simplicitas ! 
 
 Hard by Rylstone, in the direction of the Wharfe, is the
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 203 
 
 pretty village of Cracoe, where we had arrived the evening 
 before ; thither, now, we return. 
 
 At Cracoe are two respectable inns: the "Bull's Head" and 
 the "Devonshire Arms." At the former is Miss B. (Nel mezzo 
 del cammin di nostra vita .'), and at the latter may be found Mrs. 
 T., a widow lady, diligent in business, polite in her attentions, 
 and worthy of honourable mention. 
 
 On our first visit to Rylstone and Cracoe, we had been so well 
 entertained at the "Bull's Head," at the Skipton entrance to the 
 village, that on this, our second visit, the reflection naturally 
 occurred to us we might go further and fare worse. But 
 unfortunately arriving late, and after darkness had set in, that 
 is to say, at a quarter to ten of the clock, we found that Miss B. 
 and her whole household had retired to rest. Nor could the 
 united efforts of our party, though abundantly calculated to have 
 roused the famous "seven," rouse one sleeper at the "Bull's 
 Head!" In this emergency, I)., who it seems is a "man of 
 resource," humbly suggested that as the fortress was not likely 
 , to capitulate, " till daylight did appear," the besieging party 
 should " camp out " m the neighbourhood ; and in the meantime, 
 threatened to favour Miss B. with the " Sabine Farmer's 
 serenade," in the original Latin! (Vide Father Prout, of facetious 
 memory.) D.'s " humble suggestion " not being approved by 
 officers of commissariat, the order w r as given to "move on to the 
 other end of the village," where at the " Devonshire Arms " all 
 our troubles suddenly ended, thanks to the open doors, open 
 heart, and kind attentions of the Widow T. 
 
 Calling, now, at the " Bull's Head," on our return from 
 Kylstone, we were effusively met by "mine hostess," whose 
 explanations of, and apologies for, the contretemps of the night 
 before were as profuse as her regrets were poignant. 
 
 It appears that outside Cracoe the true principles of acoustics 
 and dynamics are very imperfectly understood. It was on this 
 occasion, and from Miss B. we learnt, for the first time, that it is 
 possible for a whole "storming party," armed with the most 
 forcible battering rams and other engines of great mechanic power,
 
 204 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY : 
 
 according to the ordinary estimate, to appear at the door of a 
 house whose inmates are asleep, and to pound and hammer away 
 at said door for an indefinite period without being heard inside ! 
 Our mistake of the evening before had clearly resulted from our 
 having based our calculations on scientific principles. Let science 
 couch somewhat her lofty head, after this most conclusive proof 
 of her fallibility. 
 
 But a great trouble had fallen on the neighbourhood, in 
 contrast with which our own chagrins of the previous evening 
 seemed small indeed. A sad tragedy had been enacted a few 
 miles away, in Wharfedale, and of this our hostess of the " Bull's 
 Head " was full. Mr. I)., a Yorkshire gentleman residing at 
 Linton, universally respected, and who had been for some time 
 " missing," had been found, a day or two before, drowned in the 
 Wharfe under most distressing circumstances A fortnight 
 previous, the Wharfe, whose name, signif\ 7 ing "rough" in Gaelic 
 British, is certainly no misnomer, had been, as is too often the 
 case, swollen by long rains to four or five times the usual volume 
 — a circumstance which had alarmed the neighbourhood. Going 
 out at night, from his residence close by the river, in the rain and 
 darkness Mr. L>. had accidentally slipped into the water, and 
 been instantly swept away by the raging torrent ; nor, as before 
 stated, had the body been recovered till near a fortnight after, 
 when it was found miles away down the stream. Such, put in 
 few words, was the story put in many by Miss B. of the " Bull's 
 Head." And there was no exaggeration, as in proceeding from 
 Cracoe into Wharfedale by way of Linton we had abundant 
 opportunity of proving. The dales were full of the painful 
 tragedy; and the lamentations were all the louder that the 
 drowned gentleman had been one of those benefactors to the poor 
 whose right hand does not always know what their left hand 
 does. 
 
 An hour later we were passing through a green and open 
 country, characteristically pastoral, and after a journey of some 
 three or four miles we entered the quaint little village of Linton 
 — quaint and old-fashioned, despite its one factory now disused.
 
 BY AIRE AND II EARFE. 205 
 
 Here we struck the Wharfe whose romantic course we were to 
 follow, by Burnsall and Bard en, on to Bolton, with its glorious 
 woods. Here the moss-gatherer made his 6rs1 acquaintance with 
 this beautiful, if capricious and often fatal, stream. Here, too, 
 or rather in the neighbourhood, he made his first importanl 
 "find," viz., the beautiful hepatic, Mttia Taylori, in full fruit, a 
 phenomenon witnessed only once previously in this country. 
 Here at Linton is the famous, or at least locally famous, "Tin 
 Bridge," over the Wharfe, which boiling and chafing below has 
 carved its bed in lines the must grotesque, each great mass of 
 limestone above water being clothed with the dark, trailing stems 
 of the water screw-moss (Cinclidotus jontin I, the whole 
 
 forming a very striking and unique picture, well worthy of an 
 artist's pencil. 
 
 Strange to say, the day and the hour appointed for the funeral 
 of the drowned gentleman, at Linton, was the day and the hour 
 of our visit to the village ; and we were touched by the general 
 mourning, for not only were the blinds drawn in every cottage, 
 but all the villagers, man, woman, and child, appeared to have 
 Mocked to the funeral — the place was deserted. Mr. I), was 
 buried at Linton church, an ancient structure of peculiar archi- 
 tecture, situated scarce a hundred yards from his late residence, 
 the soil of its graveyard washed b}^ that Wharfe whose angry 
 waters had to him proved so fatal. 
 
 The coincidences w r ere as striking as the circumstances were 
 touching ; and the surroundings were in harmony. All untimed 
 and uninvited as we were, and neither hurrying nor delaying, 
 the carriage conveying us " fell in " with the others forming the 
 funeral-train of the drowned man, even to the very gate of the 
 churchyard, where, by a common impulse, we one and all 
 descended, entered churchyard and church, joined in the funeral 
 service, saw the coffin with its sad freight, wreath-covered, 
 followed it to the grave, heard the "Dust to dust and ashes to 
 ashes! " and remained till the last man of the funeral train and 
 the attendant crowd had departed. 
 
 Quiet were the hills and woods around ; quiet, now, was
 
 206 BAUBLES IN TOWN AND COUNT BY : 
 
 Wharfe or softly murmuring, in relenting murmurs, as he flowed 
 by the silent graves. We thought of another of his victims — 
 " the Boy of Egremond " — and of Wordsworth's noble lines : 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale, 
 
 And 1 >ng unspeaking sorrow ; 
 W harfe shall be to pitying hearts 
 
 A name more sad than Yarrow ! 
 
 We thought of another funeral, occurring under similar 
 circumstances, in another churchyard — that of Grasmere, and of 
 the above poet's sublime tribute, on that occasion, to the victims 
 of another storm — among the wild, Westmoreland hills : 
 
 Now, do those cold, unpeopled hills 
 
 Look gently on this grave ; 
 And silent now are the depths of air 
 
 As the sea without a wave ! 
 
 The next stage of our itinerary was Linton to Burnsall ; and 
 as one of the objects of our journey was to botanise and 
 naturalise, we took the line of the Wharfe. One of the charms 
 of this river is its picturesqueness, its banks, in the upper part of 
 its course especially, being well wooded ; and to us who pen 
 these lines trees are as necessary an element of landscape beauty 
 as the colour of green itself. Awaking to consciousness the first 
 time in this world within the shadow of the woods, we have ever 
 since regarded trees as in some sense " relations " of ours ; and 
 (parvis componere magna) like that Persian monarch avIio was so 
 seduced by the beauty of an eastern plane-tree that he delayed 
 the march of his army to the point of losing the battle, so have 
 we spent furtively many a summer hour in admiration of some 
 giant of the woods, to our personal loss ; and assuredly if the 
 ban against those who "worship in the groves" were presently 
 in force, we should be "doubly cursed !" " All the original wild 
 nature of a man awakens," says a French writer,* "when he 
 snuffs in the odour of the forest." And what more delightful 
 than to botanise, on a glorious summer's day, along the wooded 
 banks of a swift-flowing stream ! One drawback only there was 
 on this occasion, but a serious one to the senior member of our 
 
 * On redevient sauvage ;L l'odeur des forets. Sully Prudhomme.
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 207 
 
 party. Over the Wharf c the bridges are not too numerous, and 
 as the necessity of crossing was recurrent, we had to fall back 
 upon the only available alternative- -stepping stones ; but of this 
 anon. 
 
 We were no sooner underway for Burnsall than our whole 
 party were arrested and taken into friendly custody by one of the 
 
 rural police — Sergeant , who proved a very interesting and 
 
 instructive companion — at once guide, guardian, philosopher, and 
 friend, and "guardian" most especially to our ancient friend C, 
 whose ardour in pursuit of " the things of nature" happens to be 
 out of all proportion to his agility and strength of limb. 
 
 Sergeant turned out to be a naturalist, and displayed an 
 
 acquaintance with certain branches of natural history that would 
 have astonished us had we not often met with people in humble 
 positions equally advanced in this or that department of natural 
 science, or philosophy. Doubtless there were mute, inglorious 
 Rousseaus before Rousseau's time, and we have known fully a 
 dozen Gilbert Whites who were certainly not able to pen 
 delightful letters on natural history subjects to their friends. In 
 fact, it would appear that the "leisured classes," so-called, are the 
 classes who have no leisure, or at least no leisure for the epiiet 
 studies, but rather that this is the privilege of the poor toilers 
 of factory and field. 
 
 Some men to business, some to pleasure take, 
 But every woman is at heart a rake. 
 
 Says Pope, ceternum scrvans sub pectore ruin us — the vulnus 
 intlicted by that inflexible and cruel "Lady Mary." But 
 noAvadays, whether men take to business or whether they 
 take to pleasure, their lives seem equally rushing and strenuous, 
 and your idle man is as full of what he chooses to call " engage- 
 ments " as your " man in business." It remains then, for the 
 most part, for the humble labourer who is able to count the hours 
 that are his own, and who lives perforce outside the " vortex " and 
 whirl of pleasure, to pursue at leisure the " paths of peace " and 
 the quiet study of outward nature ; hence the number of working- 
 men botanists and naturalists, whose acquired and acknowledged
 
 208 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 fame is all the more merited that it has been unasked for and 
 unsought. 
 
 This homily is a propos to our policeman-guide, whose pleasant 
 and instructive conversation touching wild birds and their habits, 
 and other natural history matters, beguiled us until we arrived 
 at the second series of stepping-stones on our riverside journey. 
 Three of the party had safely passed over, including the desperate 
 D. who, as his manner is, must needs quote Virgil, in the well- 
 known words cf the always " pious " hero of the ./Eneid : 
 
 socii,- 
 
 O passi graviora, dabit Deus his quoque finem. 
 But the words, though encouraging enough to some of us, were 
 lost upon C, who at that moment had attained the middle of the 
 roaring Wharfe. At this critical point our ancient friend struck 
 upon " the stones," and would inevitably have fallen in — another 
 victim to the cruel genii of the stream — -but for the Avatchful eye 
 and strong, protecting arm of our policeman-friend. 
 
 The " genii " of this rough and rapid but picturesque river, 
 which swollen by torrents from the hills often bears and tears 
 down, in its impetuous course, tall giants of the woods, and some- 
 times even bridges, have much to answer for, both before and 
 since that " day of dim antiquity," the fatal day 
 
 When Lady Aiiliza mourned 
 Her son, and felt in her despair 
 The pang of unavailing prayer ; 
 Her son in Wharfe's abysses drowned, 
 The noble boy of Egremound. 
 
 An ancient tradition which Wordsworth, with that subtile pen 
 of his, works up so powerfully in his poem entitled " The Found- 
 ing of Bolton Priory " that henceforth and for ever 
 
 Wharfe shall be to pitying hearts 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 After a pleasant walk of several miles by wood and stream, ever 
 to be remembered, on the loveliest of summer afternoons, we 
 arrived at Burnsall. Here the impetuous Wharfe is spanned by 
 a goodly bridge of solid stone, but which nevertheless has often, 
 when old Wharfe has been in a temper, felt the impact of his
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. •JO-.) 
 
 watery power ; the bridge, in fact, through this cause, was in 
 
 process of rebuilding at the time of our visit. 
 
 The "Beauties of Bumsall " have been said, or sun-, so 
 frequently by local writers who took a pride in their theme 
 that to dwell upon them here would be superfluous. Nor is it 
 our intention to enter upon the topography or history of the 
 place, or of any part of the district, our purpose on this occasion 
 being to write only in the character of poetical pilgrim, glancing 
 lightly by the way at the characteristic flora of the country-side. 
 But we may say, if we do not insult our readers by telling them 
 what they already know, that there are few places more delight- 
 ful in Upper Wharfedale than this ancient village, with its 
 antique church, and its beautiful surroundings. 
 
 At the best inn of the place, whither we betook ourselves for 
 needful refreshment after a lengthened ramble, we had the 
 opportunity of making acquaintance with sundry disciples of 
 "Old Isaak," Bumsall being a favourite resort of gentlemen- 
 anglers fishing in the Wharfe. And that there should still be a 
 number of well-to-do people who can find their diversion in the 
 quiet pleasure of angling is a consoling reflection, to say the 
 least, in these days of feverish excitement. 
 
 As the time after dinner did not allow of our making the next 
 stage (Bolton) while the light endured, we " took our ease in 
 our inn" for the night at Burnsall : and the following morning 
 were up betimes and climbing the hills towards Barden, with 
 the Wharfe on our left. And if the botany of the neighbourhood 
 offered us nothing beyond the ordinary mountain-plants, at 
 least the aesthetic sense was gratified by many an enchanting 
 group of floral wildings having for base the lovely purple of the 
 heather-bloom (Cattuna, or Erica* vulgaris), and the heavenly 
 blue of the hare-bell — the " blue-bell " of Scotland — (CamiMnula 
 rotundifolia) than which what British wild-flower is more graceful ! 
 
 1 For full}' forty years we have heen trying to teach gardeners and 
 others the true pronunciation of this botanical name, which, in view of 
 its (ireek radical, must be sounded with the i long; but all in vain: 
 an error once deeply rooted in the popular mind is difficult to eradicate.
 
 210 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 On the other hand, the valley of the Wharf e, which lay far 
 below us on our left, with its woods and meadows and numberless 
 quiet farmsteads bathed in the all-pervading sunlight of the 
 morning, presented one of those sweet pictures of luxuriant 
 verdure which are the peculiar pride and boast of our rainy 
 north, contrasting as they do with the often parched and 
 burnt-up landscapes of southern counties. 
 
 And now, leaving the moors to our right, we arrive at Barden 
 — "Barden Tower," charged with a thousand romantic memories? 
 and on approaching which the Wordsworthian D. became visibly 
 excited. But Barden is now only an old grey ruin : 
 
 Time, Time his withering touch hath laid 
 
 On battlement and tower ; 
 And where the banner was displayed 
 
 Now only waves a flower. 
 
 Yes, a thousand high and stirring memories cluster around 
 Barden ; but in view of our resolve not to be either historical or 
 topographical, or to go on the guide-book line (having no present 
 engagement of that character !) we shall not here recall those 
 memories. But the "Shepherd Lord" — the "Good Lord Clifford,' 
 we can not forget ; nor the noble and enduring tribute paid him 
 by Wordsworth : 
 
 Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie ; 
 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills : 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Clad were the vales, and every cottage hearth, 
 
 The Shepherd Lord was honoured more and more ; 
 And ages after he was laid in earth, 
 " The good Lord Clifford " was the name he bore. 
 
 Nor can we pass without at least one word of grateful homage to 
 that Lady Anne Clifford, "whose pious actions and benevolent 
 endowments," to use the language of one of her historians, " have 
 given a sanctity and an odour to her name which will last through 
 all generations." 
 
 Besides repairing we know not how many castles belonging to 
 her house, we are informed that this gracious lady repaired no 
 less than seven churches, and that she founded two hospitals-
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFS. 211 
 
 Of the strong family seats restored by Lady Anne, this Rarden 
 
 Tower was one, the restoration taking place in 1658, which fad 
 
 is recorded upon h tablet fixed to the southern wall of the build. 
 
 ing in the following terms : 
 
 "This Barden Tower was repayrd by the Ladie Anne 
 Clifford, Countesse Dowager of Pembroke, Dorsett, and 
 Montgomery, Baroness Clifford, Westmorland and Vescie, 
 Ladj of the Eonor of Skipton in Craven, and Sigh Sheriffessi 
 by inheritance of the Countie of Westnierhind, intheyeres 
 1658 and 1659, after it had layne ruinous ever since about 
 1589, when her mother then lay in itl and was greal with 
 child with her till aowe that it was repayrd by the said Lady. 
 Is., chapt. 58, v. 12. 
 
 ' < rod's Name he Praised.' " 
 
 From Barden to Bolton the distance is short; and very soon we 
 stood once more on the banks of the rushing Wharfe, winding 
 through woods in which the towering, leafy pyramids of the 
 sycamore, or false plane (Acer Pseudo-platanus) were still verdant ; 
 while the lofty ash, the most beautiful tree of the forest accord- 
 ing to Virgil (Fraxinus in silvis pulcherrima), was in the full pomp 
 of its summer garniture. 
 
 How to describe the charms of Bolton, enhanced as thev are — 
 and in what subtle fashion ! — by the lofty imaginings of the poet, 
 whose magical pen has for ever consecrated these scenes and all 
 this lovely valley. 
 
 Wordsworth was wont to complain, though never with any 
 bitterness, that his contemporaries did him less than justice with 
 regard to one peculiar faculty which he certainly possessed above 
 most poets, viz., that of spiritualising and etherealising the sceiM- 
 of his poems. And with reason ; nor, in our opinion, has 
 adeipiate justice been done him even yet in this particular. 
 
 Then, dearest maiden, move along these shades 
 In U'cntlciit'ss of heart ; with gentle hand 
 Touch — for there is a spirit in the wood-. 
 
 ^ es ; but that " spirit " is the poet's own ! Wherever our errant 
 steps are bent, on the banks of the Upper Wharfe, Wordsworth 
 is with us, we breathe the Wordsworthian atmosphere; and with 
 Rylstone, and Barden, and Bolton, the name of the great Cumber- 
 land poet is for ever joined. 
 
 n2
 
 212 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND [COUNTRY: 
 
 Arriving at the famous Strid, " where lordly Wharfe is pent in 
 with rocks on either side," we were reminded once more of the 
 old tradition so nobly and so touchingly worked up by the poet ; 
 and we could not prevent ourselves from repeating the verses 
 which in their tone of deep solemnity always sound to us like the 
 pealing of an organ in some dim cathedral. Listen to a few of 
 the later stanzas, reader ; and believe, Avhile Wordsworth tells the 
 story of the sorrowing lady, that you hear an anthem pealing 
 under a lofty dome : 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale, 
 
 And long, unspeaking sorrow : 
 Wharfe shall be to pitying hearts 
 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If for a lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 From death, and from the passion of death ; 
 
 Old Wharfe might heal her sorrow. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
 
 And her's is a mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a tree that stood alone, 
 
 And proudly did its branches wave ; 
 And the root of this delightful tree 
 
 Was in her husband's grave ! 
 
 & i 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
 
 And her first words were, " Let there be 
 
 In Bolton, on the field of Wharfe, 
 A stately Priory !" 
 
 The stately Priory was reared ; 
 
 And Wharfe, as he moved along, 
 To matins joined a mournful voice, 
 
 Nor failed at even-song. 
 
 And the Lad}- prayed in heaviness 
 
 That looked not for relief ! 
 But slowly did her succour come, 
 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of hearts 
 
 That shall lack a timely end, 
 If but to Ood we turn, and ask 
 
 Of Him to be our friend ! 
 
 But Wordsworth apart, the natural charms of the Bolton 
 Woods may well draw to this lovely nook of West Yorkshire the 
 crowds that are to be found there whenever the weather favours.
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 213 
 
 What a picture in himself is rushing, roaring Wharfe who, at more 
 than one point of his impetuous course, might well echo the 
 words of his roaring not them brother, the Bruar : 
 
 Here, foaming down the shelvy n»-ks, 
 
 In twist Lng strength I rin ; 
 There, 1 1 i j_rl 1 my boiling torrent smokes, 
 
 Wild roaring o'er a linn. 
 
 And how they riot and revel in the moist atmosphere these 
 sturdy giants of the woods : oak, ash, sycamore ! What charm- 
 ing vistas! And how ferny the woods: lady-fern, male-fern, 
 buckler fern, and polypodies on every hand '. Well may the 
 plant-lovers scatter themselves when every step is a revelation of 
 beauty. 
 
 But His Grace of Devonshire, who has done so much to 
 convenience the public by placing seats for necessary rest, and to 
 command the numerous •' views," is quite warranted in firmly 
 interdicting any trespass by plant-grubbers (and grabbers/) 
 especially in view of the fact, lamentable enough, that many 
 notable species which were formerly abundant in the "Woods'' 
 are now totally eradicated.* This, of course, implies a reflection 
 not on the "simpler" proper, who is usually "simple" and 
 harmless enough, but on the rapacious " collector " who has no 
 botanical interest in plants whatsoever but merely looks at them 
 with a mercenary eye. 
 
 Emerging, a little later, from the " Woods," we arrived at a 
 point where the valley widens, and lo ! before us, sleeping in 
 tranquil beauty, lay the once stately and still famous "Bolton 
 Priory." 
 
 The "Beauties of Bolton," as of many other places on the 
 banks of Wharfe, have been so often and so well said, so sweetly 
 
 * Among a croivd of other species formerly met with hereabouts may 
 be named the rare Eerh True-love (Paris quadrifolia), the Wood Crane's- 
 bill (Qeranium sylvaticum), the Globe-flower (Trollius Europeans), the 
 Little Bock Bramble (Rvbus saxatUis), Lily of the Valley (ConrxUlaria 
 majalis), the Mossj Saxifrage {Saxi/raga hypnoides) near the Strid, and, 
 among ferns, the Hart's-tongue (Scolopendrium vulgare) in abundance. 
 The most notable " find " made by our moss-gatherer on the above occa- 
 sion was Fitsidens rufuliis, a very rare mo", and one comparatively new 
 to British bryology.
 
 214 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 sung and so vividly painted by so many master-hands (besides a 
 crowd of dii minor es in literature and art) that for us to attempt 
 here another description would be to play the fatuous part of 
 trying to "gild refined gold."* It remains only for the present 
 writer to record, in all humility, his own individual impressions. 
 And that there are such things as " individual impressions " — that 
 two men may be differently affected by one and the same thing — 
 even the most bumptious positivist will admit ; and hence, we 
 suppose, the raison d'etre of so much writing on the same subjects. 
 Sir Walter Scott said of the Abbey of Melrose, 
 
 If thou would 'st view fair Melrose aright, 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight. 
 
 But poetry that requires "moonlight" is often very near to 
 " moonshine " of another sort, and we are not surprised to learn 
 that Sir Walter afterwards confessed he had " never seen Melrose 
 in the moonlight at all " when he penned the oft-quoted lines ! 
 
 But whether seen under the light of sun or moon, the ruined 
 Abbev of St. Marv, at Bolton on the Wharfe, offers a scene of most 
 •enchanting loveliness. The whole Vale of Bolton is charming, 
 and for natural picturesqueness will compare with any valley in 
 England, east or west, north or south ; but at the point where 
 stands the ruined Priory the scenery is ravishingly beautiful, and 
 most truly could we repeat the words of the poet already quoted 
 at the beginning of this article : 
 
 But thou that did'st appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 Dost rival, in the light of day, 
 
 Her delicate creation. 
 
 'Of course the reader will remember the tradition connected with 
 the founding of Bolton Priory. He will recall that young 
 Komilly — the "Boy of Egremond," to Avhom we have previously 
 
 * Among those who have written familiarly and fondly of this most 
 picturesque corner of the broad-acred shire, may be mentioned the Rev. 
 B. J. Harker, who is himself a native of pleasanl Grassington. Mr. 
 Marker's little book, entitled " Rambles in Upper Wharfedale, with the 
 Historical and Traditional Lore of the District," is the work of a loving 
 hand ; and in regard to its contents compares favourably with some more 
 pretentious "hand-books" of the district.
 
 /;> AIRE AND WHARFE. 215 
 
 referred, in attempting bo leap the storm swollen Wharfe at the 
 fatal "Strid," while on a hunting expedition, was pulled back 
 into the seething abyss by a hound which he held in leash, and 
 drowned in the roaring waters. Ami he will further recall how 
 the bereaved parents, sorrowing over the death of the sole hope 
 and pride of their house, gave to the monks of Embsay, for the 
 purposes of a Priory, and by way of memorial to the departed, 
 '•that beautiful situation at Bolton (we have fallen into the jaws 
 of an open guide-book, after all— /aci/w est descensus Avcrno .') 
 around which the river (Wharfe) sweeps in graceful curve, and 
 the rocky Scar rises above, crowned with wood and falling 
 waters." " And no doubt," archly observes this writer of guide- 
 books, " the monks would rejoice at the removal from the bleak 
 mcors of Embsay to this earthly Paradise."* 
 
 The stately Priory was reared, 
 
 And Wharfe, us he moved along, 
 To matins* joined a mournful voice, 
 
 Nor failed at evensong. 
 
 We arc told that the translation from Embsay Priory to Bolton 
 took place in 1151, and we ipiite agree with the above writer of 
 guide-books that it must have been at once a translation and an 
 agreeable transition from the former to the latter place, where 
 indeed the jolly friars would find, in the near-flowing Wharfe, fish 
 rising to their hands in a way that would have rejoiced St. Peter 
 himself. 
 
 Before the reader visits Bolton, if in these days of excursions 
 and quick travelling he has not already done so, we would advise 
 him to turn over once more the pages of his Wordsworth. Not 
 all of them, indeed, for they are rather numerous, ehea ! but those 
 
 * We have quoted from the above guide-book, which indeed is a tinely- 
 illustrated and very handsome one. not without malice we must confess, 
 though purely of the French sorb; for the author, who is clearly a 
 gentleman of talent, makes the rather amusing mistake of using the 
 word "vespers" under the idea that it means "matins," his quotation 
 from Wordsworth's well-known poem running as Follows ; 
 The stately Priory was reared, 
 
 And Wharfe, a> he moved along, 
 To Vi V r- joined a mournful voi 
 Nor failed at evensong;.
 
 216 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 in which the great (but too wordy) poet gives us in poetic form and 
 in most touching phrase that tradition of the " White Doe " which 
 must for ever connect itself with the Abbey of Bolton. The 
 " Doe " is a creation at once spiritual and unique, and the whole 
 poem one of the most pathetic in the language. A picture of 
 more utter desolation and hopelessness than that which the poet 
 offers us in " Emily," the last remaining scion of the once power- 
 ful family of the Nortons — 
 
 Maid of the blasted family ! 
 
 it is impossible to conceive. Listen to Wordsworth, where the 
 loyal Francis addresses his devoted sister, soon to enter on that 
 period of martyrdom which ended only in her death ; and during 
 which her chief companion and comforter was the gentle "Doe," 
 but whom the poet subtly clothes with more than mortal attri- 
 butes, and fills with a more than human s\ r mpathy for the 
 stricken maid : 
 
 For thee, for thee is left the sense 
 Of trial past without offence 
 To Ood or man ; such innocence, 
 Such consolation, and the excess 
 Of an unmerited distress ; 
 In that thy very strength must lie. 
 
 Sister, I could prophesy ! 
 
 The time is come that rings the knell 
 
 Of all we loved, and loved so well : 
 
 Hope nothing, if I thus may speak 
 
 To thee, a woman, and thence weak : 
 
 Hope nothing, I repeat ; for we 
 
 Are doomed to perish utterly : 
 
 'Tis meet that thou with me divide 
 
 The thought while I am by thy side, 
 
 Acknowledging a grace in this, 
 
 A comfort in the dark abyss. 
 
 But look not for me when I am gone, 
 
 And be no further wrought upon : 
 
 Farewell all wishes, all debate, 
 
 All prayers for this cause, or for that ! 
 
 Weep, if that aid thee ; but depend 
 
 Upon no help of outward friend : 
 
 Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave 
 
 To fortitude without reprieve. 
 
 For wo must fall, both we and ours — 
 
 This Mansion and these pleasant bowers. 
 
 Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall- • 
 
 Our fate is theirs, will reach them all ; J 
 
 The young horse must forsake his manger,
 
 /;>' AIRE AND WHARFE. 217 
 
 And Learn to glorj in a stranger; 
 
 The hawk forgel his perch ; the hound 
 
 Be parted from bis ancient ground : 
 
 The blasl h ill Bweep as all away 
 
 One desolation, one decay ! 
 
 And even this Creature ! which words saying, 
 
 Hi- pointed to a lovely I >or, 
 A feu steps distant, feeding, straying ; 
 Fair creature and more white than -now ! 
 Even she will to her peaceful woods 
 Return, and to her murmuring Hoods, 
 And be in heart ami soul the same 
 She was before she hither came ; 
 Ere she had learned to love us all, 
 Herself beloved in I !y 1st one-hall. 
 
 But no ; the gentle Doe will not ret urn, save for a brief space, to 
 her "peaceful woods" or to her "murmuring floods ; M she will 
 not forsake her sainted mistress. The " radiant creature " that 
 as a milk-white fawn was the constant companion and playmate 
 of Emily's happy childhood will remain faithful and become her 
 constant companion and comforter in her last sad years ! Nol 
 only so, but even after the death of the sainted Emily she will 
 grieve with a more than human sorrow for her departed mist' 
 She " partakes," the poet tells us in language of serene beauty, 
 
 ■in her decree, Heaven's grace; 
 
 And bears a memory and a mind 
 
 Raised far above the law of kind : 
 
 Haunting the spots with lonely cheer 
 
 Which her dear Mistress once held dear : 
 
 Loves most what Emily loved most— 
 
 The enclosure of thi> churchyard ground ; 
 
 Here wanders like a gliding ghost, 
 
 And every Sabbath here is found ; 
 
 Comes with the people when the bells 
 
 Are heard among the moorland dells, 
 
 Finds entrance, through yon arch, when- wa\ 
 
 Lies open on the Sabbath-day ; 
 
 Here walks amid the mournful waste 
 
 Of prostrate altars, Bhrines defaced, 
 
 And floors encumbered w ith rich show 
 
 Of fret work imagery laid low : 
 
 Paces softly, or makes halt, 
 
 By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault ; 
 
 By plate of monumental brass 
 
 Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass, 
 
 And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave: 
 
 Hut chietly by that single grave, 
 
 That one >eijuestered hillock green, 
 
 The pensive visitant is seen. 
 
 There doth the gentle creatiye lie 
 
 With I hose adversit ies unino\ ed :
 
 218 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 Calm spectacle, by earth and sky 
 In their benignity approved ! 
 And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile 
 Subdued by outrage and decay, 
 Looks down upon her with a smile, 
 A gracious smile, that seems to say — 
 " Thou, thou art not a Child of Time, 
 But Daughter of the Eternal Prime !" 
 
 We say deliberately, in the face of those who are so accustomed 
 to scoff at Wordsworth, that there is nothing more spiritual, 
 ethereal, or subtile in the language than the concluding cantos of 
 this poem. 
 
 After the above description — a description which "will serve in 
 the main for to-day — couched in language of the purest poetry, 
 .any further description of the ruined abbey of St. Mary is need- 
 less, even if we were disposed to venture upon lengthy descrip- 
 tions of famous places, which we are not. And for the reason that 
 Ave are apprehensive of being "found guilty," however innocent, 
 of purloining from some one of the hundred guide-books that 
 always lie so "temptingly " open. Into the open jaws of one of 
 these guide-books, as the reader will remember, we have already 
 tumbled, and only to be "misguided !" Topography and history 
 we have forsworn ; nor have we in this record referred to either, 
 unless by way of " reminder," certain as we were of being fore- 
 stalled here, also, by some omniscient writer of handbooks who 
 takes "vespers" to be the latin for " morning service." To 
 botany, indeed, we have had an eye ; but remembering, as a 
 devout Wordsworthian, the poet's mild ridicule of dry-as-dust 
 scientists — how they will even go the length of " peeping about 
 and botanising upon their mother's grave," we move about 
 apprehensively within the sacred precincts and enjoin upon our 
 companions to do the same. One plant, however, obtrudes itself 
 too prominently to be passed unnoticed — the beautiful wallflower* 
 (CheirantKus Cheiri) which has still a settlement on the ruined 
 shell of Bolton — and a safe settlement, being too high up on the 
 
 * On no British ruin probably has the wallflower a sturdier hold than 
 on the Abbey of Sawley, in Easl Lancashire. Here it holds absolute 
 possession of the walls, the place being literally smothered with its 
 delicious flowers each recurring season.
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 219 
 
 walls for human interference. The Cheiranthus is one of the 
 
 sweetest <f liritish wild flowers, as it is a plant with the most 
 melancholy associations, being now only found mi the crumbling 
 walls and rootless towers of ruined castles and church 
 
 As I stood by yon rootle-- bower, 
 
 Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air, 
 
 Where the how let mourns in her ivy bower, 
 And tells the midnight moon her care ; 
 
 says Burns, compressing into one masterly verse all the sweetness 
 and melancholy associated with the flower. The wallflower, 
 from its situation, has become the symbol of decay ; but to us it 
 is infinitely precious, and if its preservation as a British wild 
 flower were dependent absolutely on the existence of crumbling 
 walls, we should almost, feel inclined to play Cromwell's part — a 
 part somewhat exaggerated in the popular mind — and lay another 
 score or two of castles in ruins ! 
 
 Another interesting wall-plant — and the mural plants are quite 
 a large section — is the Parietaria officinalis, common pellitory-of- 
 the-wall so called, but "common" it is not, being now rarely 
 met with, like the wallflower, except on the crumbling walls of 
 ruined, or ruinous, castle, church, or mansion. This we also found 
 at Bolton, along with the wall-rue spleenwort (Asplenium Ruta- 
 muraria), and the brittle bladder-fern (Cystopteris fragilis). 
 
 An interesting study would be the pecular habits and prefer- 
 ences of different plants, and how one affects this situation, that 
 another. Pursuing this study to its length, indeed, one might 
 be driven to the conclusion of certain sarans that the vegetable 
 world is only in a less degree sentient than the animal. How- 
 ever this may be, it is certain that many plant-subjects are 
 amenable to no set treatment of man's, but only to their own 
 " sweet wills !" And with this not very profound observation 
 we will bid the reader who has had the patience to follow us 
 through the preceding pages a grateful good-bye !
 
 220 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 Many times since have we visited Bolton, and with an ever- 
 increasing admiration of its tranquil beauty and unique charms, 
 the last occasion being but a few years ago, at full summer-tide, 
 when we were accompanied by a numerous party. But when, in 
 exploring the famous "Woods," some of our companions decided to 
 employ carriages and guides, what wonder if Old Wharfe laughed 
 hoarsely from his rocky bed ! More familiar with these scenes, 
 ourselves, we preferred to wander — like Wordsworth's river. 
 And right pleasant was it to retrace the old paths winding amid 
 tumbled rocks, green and moss-grown, by the rushing stream. 
 Rushing, but not raging, for Wharfe was in his normal mood, 
 which is not tranquil; and a sky of sun and shifting cloud made 
 a magical chiaro oscuro over banks that, under any light, are to 
 us unspeakably lovely. Glorious were the woods of Bolton in 
 their full summer robes ; and beautiful on this occasion, beyond 
 all the trees of the forest, were the fruited sycamores, offering to 
 the soft light a thousand pendulous racemes of orange and gold ? 
 in perfect harmony with the mellow foliage — a picture of grace- 
 and elegance to which as yet no artist has done adequate justice. 
 Nor were there wanting to the occasion incidents and accidents 
 worthy of humorous comment ; as for example, when the mighty 
 P., one of a race of Titans, and whose smiling face, like that of 
 Sterling's, is "an open love-letter to all mankind," while fording 
 the Wharfe stumbled and tumbled into the rushing stream. 
 Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless Wharfe chose 
 for another victim our smiling friend 1 Negligent hussies ! But 
 
 P. survives, 
 
 And when he next doth ford the Wharfe, 
 May we be there to see. 
 
 And not only to see, but to guide and guard him, with friendly 
 hand, in his passage of that perilous stream ! 
 
 Returning, on the above occasion, to the well-appointed 
 "Devonshire Arms" Hotel, in the village of Bolton, for 
 necessary refection and refreshment, we found our way into the 
 inn-garden, moved by "botanical views," and here we were 
 pleased to recognise the faces of several old plant-friends, among
 
 BY AIRE AND WHARFE. 221 
 
 which the Spiraea Arwncus was 1 dooming gloriously. Our host, 
 too, was evidently a fernist, for in a snug corner we discovered 
 quite a collection of British filices, including not a few of the 
 choicest varieties. 
 
 It was delightful, afterwards, to explore botanically tin- 
 farm-house and cottage-gardens of the neighburhood. A notable 
 feature of these was the abundance of climbing plants on the 
 walls, including the " Gloire de Dijon" and " Crimson Boursault" 
 roses, the Cotoneaster and the Honeysuckle, with which last 
 several cottage - fronts were literally smothered, while the 
 delicious fragrance of their creamy blossoms loaded the air. 
 The brilliant red of the Centranthus (C. ruber) and the glorious 
 yellow of the Welsh Top])}' (Mccanopxi* Cambrica) were also 
 there, lighting up many a quiet nook. 

 
 222 RAMBLES IX TOWiV AND COUNTRY: 
 
 DOWN IN CHESHIRE. 
 
 April comes, 
 And lightly o'er the living scene, 
 Scatters her freshest, tenderest green. 
 
 /t%V"^ ^ ac ^ a ^ wa y s thought that Elia's oft-expressed dislike of 
 V1\^V the country — like so many others of his expressed likes 
 and dislikes— was in part affected and humorous; but when we 
 saw with what unction he could speak of those " pretty pastoral 
 walks *' about Mackery End, and of " the green lanes of pleasant 
 Hertfordshire," we felt that his expressed dislike of the country 
 was all "sham." And indeed his friend Wordsworth was of 
 the same opinion when he could write — 
 
 Thou wert a scorner of the fields, 1113' Friend, 
 But more in show than truth ; 
 
 No ! the London-loving Lamb was no more a hater of things 
 rural than was the Rome-loving Horace, who amid the fumum 
 strepitumque of the mighty city could heave so profound a sigh 
 for the country : 
 
 O rus, quando ego te aspiciam ? 
 
 No, no ; swear off from the maternal breast as we will, the 
 fond mother still lures us to her ample bosom — still pours into 
 our depleted veins fresh blood, new milk of life — still, amid our 
 sorrows and troubles, whispers to us consoling secrets, which in 
 the poetic ear are more than " whispers !" 
 
 As Horace, from that famous Lome which he has so vividly 
 pictured, sighed for the delicious quiet and rusticity of his Sabine 
 farm, or the lucus Tiburni ; as Lamb, writing from the depths of 
 Cockneydom, sometimes longed for " the green lanes of pleasant 
 Hertfordshire," so we, amid the fumum strepitumque of prosy 
 Manchester, have often longed for a ramble through the °reen
 
 how X TN CHESHIRE. 223 
 
 lanes, and pretty, rural walks of pleasant Cheshire And at rare 
 intervals — far too rare for ourselves — we have indulged thai 
 longing, but never in the early season. Once, indeed, we dis- 
 tinctly caught Flora at her toilet ; but our most cherished desire 
 
 was to see the fair goddess open her lovely eyes, whilst awaken- 
 ing from her winter sleep. Not but that her list winter's 
 slumbers were light enough — so light, in fact, that sometimes we 
 thought we saw her slying peeping from beneath eye-lids half 
 open. What else were those whitening buds of the daisy and 
 mayflower, amid the dry grass of low-lying meadows, in 
 February ! 
 
 " Pleasant Cheshire." "Well might we use the phrase '"pleasant," 
 for a right pleasant shire is Cheshire, and in the main a 
 picturesque one. Originally in great part forest land, the county 
 is still fairly well wooded, while another picturesque feature 
 water, is represented not only by numerous rivers and brooks, 
 but by many tiny lakes, or meres, as they are called, dotted here 
 and there; and these list have often a very picturesque effect 
 indeed. Without being a hilly county, like neighbouring Derby- 
 shire, Cheshire comprises several tracts not a little elevated, while 
 there are many undulations even in the lowdands. Altogether, 
 Cheshire may fairly lay claim to the title we have assigned her. 
 Cheshire, too — the county famous for good cheese — is a "homely" 
 county, and above all a gardening county. 
 
 As Surrey, in the main, is to the gardendoving Cockney, so is 
 Cheshire to the gardendoving Mancunian. When you talk to 
 this latter about big vegetables, large fruit, or brilliant flowers, 
 he tells you that be has seen " quite as good before, or even 
 better ;" and when you ask where, the answer comes quick ; 
 "Down in Cheshire." Everything that is horticulturally, or 
 floricultu rally super-excellent, and of surpassing merit, is to be 
 found "down in Cheshire" — the biggest fruit, the best vegetables, 
 and the finest bloom ! Cheshire, indeed, is the county of la petite 
 culture, and so far as the North of England is concerned, is 
 seriously and par excellence the gardening county. 
 
 But our object on the present occasion, as previously hinted,
 
 224 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY 
 
 was not to visit the gardens of Cheshire ; nor, indeed, was our 
 goal any part of the famous "Cheshire plain." We desired an 
 hour or two's run — or rather walk — through the so-called " high- 
 lands." We would see if Flora was awake on the mountains. 
 Accordingly, on a day when this present month of April was very 
 young, we started with a congenial companion for the Cheshire 
 border. Noon had merged into afternoon before we were under- 
 way, and as we attained the banks of the Govt at Marple, five 
 .had struck by the bell ; and we walked through that picturesque 
 village beneath a sky that boded rain, a cloud-prophesy that 
 
 • quickly arrived at fulfilment. But what day of the "opening" 
 .mouth (Aperilis !) was ever certain as to weather ! Besides, the 
 ■ rain was a boon long wished for, and was greedily licked up by 
 
 the thirsty land, while to ourselves and companion, long used to 
 storms, the shower came only as a grateful cooler, whilst refresh- 
 ing the air and all nature around. As the shower ceased, how 
 Nature smiled upon us in true April fashion ! And as we 
 ascended the wide-famed Werneth Low, and looked back upon 
 'Compstall, Marple, and the valley below, how delightful it was 
 to note the blossoming fruit-trees — chiefly pear and cherry — - 
 
 • clustering in snow-white masses about the old farm-houses built of 
 the hillside stone. Did ever fruit-trees so blossom before ! At 
 every step, as we ascend, how the panorama widens — hill beyond 
 hill, with sloping, verdant pastures, and fruitful vales below. 
 But why are we staring so widely about us when our object is to 
 explore the mountain-flora at our feet, the day being far spent, 
 too, and the dusk upon us ! 
 
 As we toil up the steep, winding road, from the Derbyshire 
 side, some hundreds of feet above the sea level, we note that the 
 fence on either side consists of dense bushes of the holly-tree, 
 and on many parts of the "Low" the holly offers its pleasant 
 green to refresh the climber's eye. On either side of the road, 
 too, flames out in full flower the gloriously hardy, as gloriously 
 beautiful gorse, or whin, which might well inspire the poets to 
 speak its praise.
 
 DOWN IN CHESHIRE. 225 
 
 Let Burns and old Chaucer unite 
 
 In praise of the Daisy to sin:.' : 
 Lot Wordsworth of Celandine write, 
 And crown her the queen of the Spring ; 
 
 Tin- 1 1 \ acini h'a classical tame, 
 
 Let Milton embalm in his verse ; 
 Be mine th.- glad task to proclaim 
 
 The charms of the untrumpeted Furze. 
 
 sang Horace Smith ; but Horace was mistaken in the notion that 
 the charms of the Furze had been "untrumpeted" before his time ; 
 and it would have been strange indeed had this " British l>cauty " 
 been overlooked, flowering as it does (with its dwarfer variety) 
 from earliest spring till far into the first month of winter. 
 Besides the well-known tribute of Cowper, and Thomson's pretty 
 reference, have Ave not the flower loving Hurdis : 
 
 And what more noble than the vernal furze, 
 With golden baskets hung ? Approach it not, 
 For every blossom has a troop of swords 
 Drawn to defend it. Tis the treasury 
 Of fays and fairies. Here they nightly meet, 
 Each with a burnished king-cup in his hand, 
 And quaff the subtile ether. 
 
 No wonder that the great German botanist, Dillenius, when he 
 first visited this country, should have fallen into an ecstacy of 
 admiration when he saw "whole commons covered with the gay 
 flowers of the furze-bush." 
 
 And here, behind a sheltering wall, is the bracken, or brakes, 
 in the first stage of vernation — just beginning to unfold its wide- 
 spreading fronds — hardiest and sturdiest of the mountain-loving 
 ferns, and generic-ally represented, in this form or that, all over 
 the world. But we are not yet half up the hill. 
 
 Up, up, we go. " Excelsior !" is the word ; and we have 
 mounted high. And now — ah, yonder is a dimple in the hills, a 
 depression in the mountain-side, where surely Flora must shelter, 
 if anywhere ? And there, sure enough, we found her, and wide 
 awake ! 
 
 And first, the Spring-herald, the pilewort, or lesser celandine — 
 Ficaria verm — literally covering the ground with its shining 
 Jeayes and golden flowers, that still glisten as if fresh from the
 
 ±26 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY- 
 
 bunds of the great Painter — beautiful flower, and Wordsworth's 
 favorite — so he tells us — 
 
 There's a flower that shall be mine, 
 "lis the little Celandine. 
 
 And yonder — ah yes, indeed— the frail wind-flower of the 
 groves, Anemone nemorosa, with leaves so delicately divided, and 
 lovely white flowers, swaying in the breeze. We hasten forward, 
 and stoop to gather this darling of the spring, and the flower 
 blushes — really and truly. Modest flower ! Would it might 
 stay longer with us to grace our English wilds ! And here is the 
 perennial mercury, Mercurialis perennis, with blossoms as yet half 
 developed only. But most surprising and most grateful sight of 
 all, behold the wild hyacinth, blooming in full beauty, and in 
 colour not azure but the very deepest blue. In the pure air of 
 the mountains what an intensity of colouring is taken on by the 
 pale children of the lowlands ! — 
 
 Tracking sonie^channel on its journey wild, 
 Where dripping bluebells on its border weep : 
 O what a lovely scene to Nature's child ! 
 
 And all these beautiful flowers in one moist little dingle on 
 Werneth Low ! Our object had been attained : at this early 
 period we had found Flora wide awake, not in the valleys only 
 but on the mountains ! "The time is phenomenal. Daft Nature 
 is confounding the seasons, and Spring and Summer are one !" 
 This to our companion, whilst turning from the dingle to 
 continue the ascent of the hill. 
 
 Of the lower forms of vegetation — the beauty of which makes 
 the botanist wonder how we should ever consider any season a 
 '• dreary " season — we have not spoken ; but the lichens, cover- 
 ing the hard stones with a garment of beauty, and the mosses, 
 with their varied [and soft-hued verdure, were well worthy of 
 
 study. 
 
 As we attained the summit of the hill we turned round to 
 view the extended prospect. It was dusk, the infant moon was 
 already up, and much in the form of a sea-tossed skiff was 
 riding through a clouded sky. The line of the horizon was
 
 DOWN IN CHESHIRE. 
 
 227 
 
 vague, Kinder Seoul being barely discernible; but clear and 
 distinct on our right stood out Marple church, and on our left 
 the old church of Mottram — both notable Landmarks, and 
 
 endeared by many a token to the people of these hills and vales. 
 In the dusk we rounded the "Low," descending almost in dark- 
 ness : but very striking were tin- lights of the towns and villages 
 below us, piercing the gloom of night and storm. 
 
 o2
 
 228 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 SWEETNESS AND LIGHT FOR THE 
 MANCHESTER SLUMS. 
 
 WINDOW-GARDENING IN ANCOATS. 
 
 ^WEETNESS and Light. This phrase, which has so often 
 <y^ been ascribed to the late Matthew Arnold — -for the reason, 
 we suppose, that he was so fond of using it — is from the pen of 
 Swift, the great ornament of Queen Anne's reign, though 
 personally in little favour with that monarch. 
 
 Swift, though safe amongst the immortals, is so little read at 
 the present time that literary or other folk may purloin his "big 
 phrases " with impunity. But Swift was not a man of mere 
 " phrases " ; he generally looked for a thing behind a word, and 
 subordinated literary grace to the sense of what he wrote. 
 
 And so here ; it is not words that we seek, but the things 
 those words express : Sweetness and light. 
 
 But how to brighten the dingy dwellings of the toiling masses? 
 How to bring sweetness and light, in the concrete sense, into the 
 slums 1 
 
 An ancient friend of ours, who has passed by several years the 
 allotted span, and the nature and exigencies of whose business 
 •compel his residence in the very centre of the grimy region, has 
 practically solved the problem which has puzzled so many. 
 
 We are told by a delightful old Scotch poet that Bessie Bell 
 
 and Mary Grey were " twa bonnie lasses," and that 
 
 They biggit a bower on yon green brae, 
 And covered it ower wi' rashes. 
 
 But our ancient friend has " biggit a bower " literally in the 
 heart of the Manchester slums, and rilled it with all lovely 
 things gathered from wood and wild. Oh, such a bower ! We
 
 WINDOW-GARDENING IN ANCOATS. 229 
 
 saw it on a sweltering day in August last, when it was said to 
 lie " not at its best," through the effects of an unfortunate stone 
 
 thrown by one of those juvenile marauders who have got to be 
 "reckoned with" everywhere. But was ever a pound of sweet 
 in this world without an ounce of sour? Was there ever a pol 
 of ointment without a fly in it ? And who grudges the 
 discount .' 
 
 With regard to the alleged marauder, on reflection we prefer 
 to think that the above deed was done by some puny Pariah 
 rather through obliquity of vision than any moral obliquity! Or 
 was the culprit of the feline " persuasion " 1 — or the canine ? 
 However it may have been, our friend's glass icas broken, and 
 when we called, his " bower " was " not at its best " in 
 consequence. 
 
 What its "best " may have been we know not, but this we 
 know, that our eves have seldom been gladdened by a more 
 beautiful picture of healthy plant-life — flower and foliage. It 
 was like a miniature forest — woodland and flowery dell, under 
 glass — a veritable Rus in wbe. Never oasis in desert offered to 
 eyes of tired traveller a more grateful refreshment than was ours 
 when peeping into our friend's bower in grimy Ancoats on that 
 sweltering August day ! And yet he inhabits but an ordinary 
 cottage — two small rooms below, and two above, with a back- 
 yard going barely a yard back. In fact, so narrow is the avail- 
 able space that when he built his "bower," which is now some 
 3 r ears since, he was compelled to build it literally over the coal- 
 hole — a green paradise over a coal-hole ! 
 
 And what are the dimensions, you ask, of this little paradise, 
 for "little" it must be 1 
 
 It is an ordinary kitchen-window of two frames, "let out," as 
 the phrase goes, just over the coal-place, whose roof forms its 
 base. But the arrangement is so far different from the ordinary 
 that the front is, so to say, the back, i.e., the part which usually 
 consists of glass is in this case a four-and-a-half inch brick wall, 
 raised to the height of three feet, with a glass-roof sloping to
 
 230 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 catch the sun. Height of front, so called, four feet six inches. 
 Aspect, south-west. 
 
 What is usually the back is here, as we said before, the front, 
 and either, or both, the two frames of the window can be opened, 
 letting, or " giving " as the French have it, on the kitchen itself ; 
 and the one or the other frame is generally so opened, during the 
 day, but is carefully closed when the gas, of .which our friend 
 burns a good deal, is lit at night. Against the back-wall, three 
 feet high, are fixed, by means of cement, the empty shells of 
 that largish mollusc called the whelk in quantity, and in 
 picturesque arrangement where surface is exposed. Then between 
 this and another row, or pillar, of whelk-shells occurs a deep 
 layer of loam and leaf-mould, the whole rising to some height 
 and forming a tinv terrace. Then a second and similar'' terrace 
 at a lower elevation and filled in with similar material. On the 
 base-line a layer of loam and leaf-mould, with shells of the whelk, 
 and small fragments of sand and limestone, picturesquely dis- 
 persed and distributed, the whole arrangement giving one the 
 idea of a rocky hill-side in the country, overgrown with graceful 
 ferns ; for with ferns chiefly has our ancient friend peopled his 
 little paradise. 
 
 Here 3^011 may see, though in tiny examples for the most part 
 it is true, nearly all the ferns that are to be found growing within 
 a dozen miles of Manchester. 
 
 The robust, and "persistent" Male-fern (Lastrea Filix-mas) ; 
 
 the moisture-loving and graceful Lady-fern (Atlnjrium Filix- 
 
 fcemina), the fern enamoured of the dew, of which Sir Walter 
 
 eings : 
 
 Where the grass is growing gi'eenest, 
 Where the sunlight glistens sheenest, 
 Where the mountain dew lies longest, 
 There the Lady-fern grows strongest. 
 
 The broad-leaved, verdant Hart's-tongue (Scolopeudrium vulgare) 
 amorous of the chalk; the fragrant Mountain-fern (Lastrea 
 montana), gathered in some Lancashire clough, ash and rowan- 
 fringed, where a mountain-torrent comes tumbling down over 
 rocky boulders, making a wild music heard only by the nymphs
 
 WINDOW-QARDENINO IN IXGOATS. 231 
 
 and dryads; the Broad Buckler-fern (L lata) with its 
 
 wide-spreading fronds of intensest green, recalling the damp 
 woods it inhabits, rich in humus formed by the decayed and 
 decaying leaves of fifty seasons ; the Osmund Royal (Osmunda 
 regalis) nobles! of all our ferns, and which, as seen by Words 
 worth, on the shores of his beloved Grasmere, reminded him of 
 
 Naiad by I he side 
 
 Of Grecian brook, or Ladj of the Mere, 
 Sole-sitting by the shores of oM romance.* 
 
 The little lime-loving Spleenworts, too, are heir, and even 
 Hard-fern, which dislikes the lime. And running over the upper 
 .terraces may be seen that pretty pet, the Cornish Moneywort 
 (Sibthorpia Europcea) with its countless tiny leaves of a yellowish 
 green. And near to this — yes, really and truly ! — the Mos 
 Stone-break (Saxifraiji hi/pno/'hs) [ And between, and amongst, 
 and creeping everywhere, that " rare old plant, the Ivy green," 
 but the small-leaved English Ivy (Hedera Helix) not the largi 
 leaved Irish kind. And in front of all, depending gracefully 
 from above, in character of window-drapery, elegant festoons of 
 the favourite and ever beautiful Virginian Creeper (A mpelopsis 
 .hederacea). 
 
 Nor have we exhausted the list — oh, no ! — we had quite for- 
 gotten — but how could we forget 1 — the tender green of the lovely 
 Wood-sorrel (Oralis Acttosella), often called the " English Sham 
 rock," which shines out here and there like a precious emerald. 
 
 * The whole passage runs as follows : — 
 
 Many such there are, 
 
 Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern 
 So stately, of the queen Osmunda named ; 
 Plant lovelier in its own retired abode 
 On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side 
 Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the .Nlere, 
 Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. 
 
 This De Quincey pronounced to be the most beautiful passage in 
 whole wide range of English poetry. Buckle, on the other hand — 
 "Civilisation" Buckle — thought the finest passage was to be found in 
 Shakespeare's "Merchant of Venice :" 
 
 Look ! how the floor of heaven 
 
 Is thick inlaid w ith patines of bright gold, &c. : 
 
 while other literary oracles prefer the splendid conclusion of oui 
 •dramatist's " Tempest."
 
 232 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 Who has not, when rambling in the woods in May, stooped to 
 pick up this gem and admire the tender veining of its delicate 
 blossoms ! 
 
 As for the foreign ferns, we have left them out altogether, 
 because we are " so English ! " And yet the graceful Ribbon- 
 ferns are worthy of a tribute, and these make a notable feature of 
 the Ancoats fernery. On the zonal Geraniums and Golden 
 Pyrethrums, introduced for colour-effect, we will not dwell. 
 
 All this contained within the limits of an ordinary kitchen- 
 window, five feet by three feet, "let out" over a coal-hole, in 
 Ancoats ! 
 
 And at what cost, in money, has our ancient friend built this 
 paradise, which might be repeated in almost every detail in 
 every dingy dwelling of every slum of every great manufacturing 
 town and city in the kingdom, and so bring "sweetness and light'' 
 where before was only grime and gloom 'I 
 
 Thirty shillings, all told, and all things being included, save the 
 labour, which in the case of our friend was "a labour of love." 
 Would that every dweller in the " Slum* " could be induced to- 
 follow his bright example ! How immense would be the change 
 there, physically, morally, and intellectually !
 
 WINDOWQARDEXIXO IX WI.Mi:. 
 
 WINDOW GARDENING IX II II, ME. 
 
 CHOSE who live in rural, or semi-rural quarters, amid 
 rustling greenery, and within .sound of murmuring 
 streams, warbling birds, and lowing kine, wonder that people 
 pent up in the populous city shotdd find life at all tolerable. On 
 the other hand, your city born man, immured from birth, will 
 often be heard expressing pity for such as are condemned to live 
 what he calls "the dull life of the country " — "so far removed," 
 as he thinks, " from all sources of amusement." 
 
 But hard is the lot of those- -and they are many — who, born 
 in the country, and with a passionate love of all things rural, are 
 yet fated to spend their whole lives in the dry, hard world of 
 brick and mortar — in a murky atmosphere, and between grimy 
 walls that " stare upon each other.'' 
 
 This reflection occurred to us the other week — it was in early 
 April — whilst walking through the wilderness of Ilulme — an 
 immense residential quarter of our great cotton city, inhabited 
 largely by artisans, warehousemen, and clerks, and where lite 
 would appear to be as flat and dreary as the ground is low and 
 the atmosphere stagnant — street beyond street in endless succes- 
 sion, and of unvarying uniformity. 
 
 We had just returned from ( Iheshire, where the whole beautiful 
 Spring was bursting and unfolding with a fullness and a splendour 
 most unwonted for so early a period of the season, and the con- 
 trast between town and country was at once striking and pitiful. 
 
 But there are compensations even for the Hulmeans. 
 
 As we paced the endless streets, we glanced in passing at each 
 window. " What !" says the reader, "staring in at the window .'" 
 But how could we do Otherwise, when we found in the front-
 
 234 11 AMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY: 
 
 window of almost every other dwelling the imperative notice : 
 " Look here !" The notice, though of uniform purport, was 
 in a hundred forms. It was sometimes a window plant — an 
 Aspidistra, with its large, broad, green, or variegated, drooping 
 leaves, a gracefully spreading palm, or a shining leaved Aralia 
 (commonly, hut erroneously, called the "Castor Oil Plant"), some- 
 times a simple pot of musk, sometimes a small fernery in the 
 form of a hanging basket, or even a solitary fern, sometimes a 
 tiny aquarium, or a globe containing gold-fish, sometimes a mere 
 handful of flowers- — a bunch of violets, or wallflowers, or white 
 Arabis, or — most touching of all — the common daisy of the 
 fields. Very often it was a spray — a single sprig — of white or 
 purple lilac. And where the natural failed came in the artificial. 
 But in each and every case the invitation : " Look here, and 
 .admire !" was plain and unmistakeable. Nay, if that was not so, 
 why were these things always placed in the front, why not in the 
 back, window? Why not in the window of the "living-room," 
 where their beauty and fragrance could be enjoyed 1 
 
 Besides a most amiable vanity, what did we see in all this ? 
 We saw — most clearly declared — a great love and longing for 
 the country and things rural, and a desire to satisfy that longing. 
 But with what meagie material ! How pathetic ! how we pitied 
 these denizens of dreary Hulme, and wished for the means to 
 empower every milkman to deliver, each morning, at every door, 
 along with the fresh milk of the country, the fresh flowers of the 
 country, to brighten the lives of the weary toilers. 
 
 Accompanying us was a friend familiar with the district and 
 its people, and by him we were introduced to a most remarkable 
 couple, long resident in one of these bald streets, and whose 
 •dwelling we entered. It was a most ancient tailor, and his 
 loving spouse, to whom our friend had brought us, the husband 
 a small man, still diligently working, though bearing on his heid 
 the snows of eighty winters, his wife some dozen years his 
 junior, below the middle size and stout and comfortable-looking. 
 Most leonine was the man's aspect, the, head being large — not 
 bald, but covered with thick, shaggy locks of iron-grey, while the
 
 WINDOW-GARDEMNQ 'X HULME. 
 
 face as pallid aa it was full of expression, and intellectual- 
 looking — was surrounded with whiskers still more shaggy. Truly 
 ;i most striking figure, and one not to be described by any other 
 word than "leonine." "Cheshire-born," lie said he was, and a 
 "freeman of Chester city," and proud of the title, though now 
 compelled to labour for his daily bread as a common tailor, in a 
 dingy back-room in the dreary Hats of Hulme. 
 
 But the direct object of our visit to the cottage of this ancienl 
 tailor was to see his loving spouse, and the special subjects of 
 her care— her window plants. These were what she called the 
 "French Water Elder," and of them she had a plenitude! 
 "Window-plants" did we say? Planted in flower-pot-, and 
 ranged on tables, they almost filled the front room of the 
 cottage ! No flowers — only greenery pure and simple, and of 
 one kind ; but this appeared as if drinking tip and absorbing 
 the whole available light We wondered that the small measure 
 of sunshine heaven vouchsafed to this dingy dwelling was not 
 reserved for the poor toiling tailor. Why not place his board in 
 the sun 1 But the good woman, although a devoted spouse, was 
 a still more devoted plant-lover, and the "French Water Elders," 
 forsooth, must have it all. On another occasion, very early in 
 the season, the same devout "body" was "raising" the loveliest 
 greenery imaginable, by placing and keeping in water ordinary 
 carrots until they sprouted and threw off at different points of 
 the root tiny plantlets, with foliage of the most exquisite 
 delicacy. Wonderful the devices, marvellous the ingenuity, of 
 Flora's devotees when battling on her behalf in the din-v regions 
 of our crowded cities ! Poor old body ! with her " Water 
 Elders " and her carrots, she had, in her own idea, changed their 
 gloomy abode into a veritable bower ! In her sense it was both 
 a struggle and a triumph. 
 
 One plant — always beautiful, very easy to procure, very easy 
 to cultivate, and particularly patient of the smoke and dust of 
 towns — we saw but seldom in the windows we peeped into while 
 wandering in the " wilderness " aforesaid. We mean the Irish 
 Ivy (Eedera Canariensis), not the English Ivy (Redera Hdix) t
 
 236 RAMBLES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 which is at once smaller in leaf, weaker in constitution, and less 
 patient of the dry, and often heated atmosphere of rooms, than 
 the Irish kind. 
 
 Had we. at this moment, twenty sovereigns available for 
 philanthropic purposes, we should proceed incontinently to- 
 purchase one thousand Irish Ivy plants, ready established in pots 
 of convenient window size, and distribute them through the 
 "slums" of the city. For by this means, and at this small cost, 
 we should be able to brighten and enliven one thousand dingy * 
 rooms, and cheer and sweeten the lives of five thousand poor 
 people. One condition only should we impose on the recipients 
 of our bounty, viz., that the plants should be placed not for show 
 but for effect, that is, in the living-room of each cottage. For the 
 Irish Ivy is so patient a subject that it will grow almost any- 
 where, and under conditions seemingly the most hostile. We 
 have known it to flourish in gas-lighted rcoms, in the dingiest 
 dens of the city, for a dozen years running ! And at what^ 
 original cost to the cottager 1 — the price of one quart of common 
 ale at the " corner pub." 
 
 Another window-plant, equally cheap, and equally patient of 
 hostile conditions, is the Virginian Creeper before mentioned, 
 which, though deciduous, endures from early spring till late 
 autumn, producing a mass of the most elegant pendent foliage,, 
 which changes from a lovely green in spring to a beautiful 
 crimson, or scarlet, in autumn. Why is it not used by the 
 thousand ?
 
 TOWN GARDENING AND CLIMATE. J.i7 
 
 TOWN GARDENING AND CLIMATE. 
 
 % 
 
 OWN-GARDENING is a relative thing. Town-gardening 
 here is not town-gardening there, and town gardening there 
 
 is not town-gardening yonder. Town-gardening in London, or 
 Edinburgh, is not town-gardening in Manchester, or Salford. 
 Town-gardening on the banks of the classic Isis is not town- 
 gardening on the banks of the inky [rwell. And yet, judging 
 by the opinions that have been expressed, even by people of 
 intelligence, what has been done in every one of these places 
 might have been done in the others ! 
 
 Town-gardening is largely a question of climate, and climate 
 igain is a relative thing. A climate, as we use the word, may be 
 natural or artificial. 
 
 Climate is not, as some think, a question of latitude ; it does 
 not merely depend on the amount of sunlight, or heat, received 
 by the earth at any given point, and the prevalence of this wind 
 or that. That is no criterion. The myrtle and the camellia, 
 which are grown out of-doors in the South of England, where 
 broadly speaking, the vine does not ripen its fruit, not only survive 
 the winter, but sometimes bloom there, while in the middle of 
 Germany they perish, although in the same quarter the vine 
 ripens its fruit to perfection. 
 
 Now the question of climate is so highly important, and goes 
 so near to the root of town-gardening dilKculties, that no apology 
 need be offered here for pursuing the matter in some detail. 
 
 It is the so-called chemical rays of the solar-spectrum that 
 affect plant life, and it is in the presence, or absence, of these 
 particular rays, in this or that degree, that the secret of success in 
 town, as well as all other, gardening lies ; ami there is, as we have 
 seen, an artificial as well as a natural climate.
 
 238 TOWN GARDENING AXD CLIMATE. 
 
 As regards natural climate, the development of plant-life is 
 facilitated, or retarded, in proportion as the humidity of the 
 atmosphere is less or greater, because this humidity has the 
 quality of absorbing, or extinguishing, the important rays referred 
 to ; but so far as regards artificial climates, such as the climate of 
 Manchester, in addition to the effect of this humidity there are a 
 thousand impurities in the atmosphere, all obstructing the solar 
 rays, not to name the direct contact of so much that is injurious 
 to plant-life, as sulphurous and other acids. 
 
 As regards the effects of humidity on what may be called 
 chemical climate, under natural, not artificial conditions, we ma} T 
 quote a French writer of some note on the subject. "Two stations," 
 says M. Radau. " with the same mean annual temperature, or the 
 same mean summer-temperature, may nevertheless present a very 
 great inequality in the development of plant-life. Thus the 
 annual temperature of Thorshavn, a station in the Faroe Islands, 
 62 degrees, north latitude, is very little lower than that of Carlisle 
 in England. Notwithstanding this, the amount of light received 
 at these two points during the year is very different, and a 
 similar difference is manifested in their respective climates. The 
 damp and foggy atmosphere of the Faroe and Shetland Islands 
 absorbs a large proportion of the sun's chemical rays, and so plant- 
 life has a struggle for it. At Carlisle, on the other hand, under a 
 clearer sky, we find a luxuriant vegetation." 
 
 " Similarly, if we compare the mean summer-temperatures of 
 London, Edinburgh, and Reykiavik in Iceland, we shall be quite 
 unprepared for the differences presented by the vegetation at 
 these three stations. From London to Edinburgh the difference 
 is scarcely observable, notwithstanding the lower temperature;, 
 at Reykiavik, where the mean summer temperature is only two 
 degrees lower than at Edinburgh, the country is practically tree- 
 less. It is that the northern position of Iceland offers a chemical 
 climate much less favourable to vegetable life than that of the 
 British Isles." 
 
 So there is what is called a chemical climate. Where you have 
 a dry atmosphere, there the chemical rays — those rays of the solar
 
 TOWN GARDENING AND CLIMATE. 239 
 
 spectrum which excite the vegetative organs and tend to build up 
 plant life — can strike direct, and straightway fulfil their function > 
 but where you have a humid atmosphere, these chemical rays are 
 largely absorbed, or extinguished, and vegetation proceeds under 
 difficulties. 
 
 WC1I, here in Manchester we have not only an unusual amount 
 of humidity in the atmosphere, resulting from our proximity to 
 a hilly country, against which the rain clouds, driving from the 
 south-west, are broken and condensed, hut we have, in addition, 
 the densest smoke-clouds, and a thousand other impurities in the 
 atmosphere, all obscuring that blessed light which is the fountain 
 of all life in the world, animal and vegetable. Then there is the 
 direct contact of noxious matters, and the choking up of the fine 
 mouths, or pores, in numbeis beyond computation, of each leaf 
 upon each tree. This it is that makes horticulture, and especially 
 floriculture, such uphill work in the neighbourhood of our great 
 manufacturing cities. Unable to obtain the due allowance of 
 yearly warmth and light, and due sustenance, the plant, or tree, 
 is prevented fiom fulfilling its annual life-cycle, and so gradually 
 perishes. The problem, when clearly put, is simple enough,. 
 and ought to be thoroughly understood. 
 
 But it is not understood, and hence we constantly hear sugges- 
 tions of the most impracticable and Utopian character ; and trees 
 and shrubs arc recommended to be planted in and about Man- 
 chester, and other great manufacturing centres, which can succeed 
 only when the electric, hydraulic, and pneumatic forces have 
 superseded steam as motive powers, if even then. 
 
 Again and again the plant-doctors, and sometimes the quacks, 
 have been called in, to prescribe for the sick and moribund ; and 
 if the doctors have sometimes been wrong, the recommendations 
 of the quacks have almost invariably led to complete and 
 ignominious failure. 
 
 Many of our readers will call to mind the heroic and desperate 
 attempt made some years ago by a benevolent Mancunian to 
 change tin' dreary aspect of the Cathedral graveyard, by plant- 
 ing some promiscuous twigs, with a minimum of root, in the
 
 210 TOWN GARDENING AND CLIMATE. 
 
 interstices between the grave-stones. From these twigs was to 
 .arise a miniature grove, and within its protecting shade, treading 
 lightly over the dust of his ancestors, the tired and jaded citizen 
 was to find refreshment and soothing. It will be remembered 
 how suddenly those twigs disappeared. In this instance, the 
 underground conditions were as unfavourable as the conditions 
 overhead. In order to make headway, a tree must first make 
 rootway. But in our Manchester atmosphere it too often happens 
 that whatever rootw&y a tree may make, its head, which by 
 natural habit is tapering, pyramidal, or conical, becomes square, 
 or horizontally branching, like a stag's-head. This at once shows 
 not only that the tree is striving against the impurities in the 
 circumanbient air, but that it is being beaten in the struggle. 
 The prevalence of " stag-headed " trees in our midst is conclusive 
 .proof of the cruel nature of the battle that is being waged. 
 
 The fact is, as we said at the outset, the climatic conditions of 
 .every large town differ more or less from those of every other ; 
 and the man who ignores this important fact is pretty sure to 
 stultify himself. Height above the sea-level, aspect as regards 
 the prevailing winds, amount of humidity in the atmosphere, 
 and the nature and extent of the impurities making the artificial 
 climate of the place, all these are elements in the complex 
 problem. 
 
 "Well, then," remarks the intelligent reader, "is the climate 
 of Manchester, on the whole, improving, or is it not ?" 
 
 Speaking for ourselves, who have been pretty close observers of 
 the Manchester climate for some forty years past, and have had 
 abundant opportunity of witnessing its effects on vegetation, also 
 of paying somewhat dearly for experiments in connection with it, 
 we are constrained to say, with deep regret, that so far as 
 regards the artificial atmosphere, there is no improvement on the 
 north and north-western sides of the city, but a continued and 
 continuous deterioration, despite the commendable efforts on the 
 part of sundry to put down noxious vapours. 
 
 Near to our place of residence — a couple of miles, as the crow 
 flies, from the Manchester Exchange — there happens to be a
 
 TOWN GARDENING AND CLIMATE. 241 
 
 ■considerable wood, containing some thousands of full-grown 
 trees, largely beech, and the beech is an excellent subject 
 for testing purposes. Quite close to us, again, there is an 
 old plantation, consisting of elm, ash, beech, and sycamore, 
 exposed to all the "noxious vapours" of Sal ford and Manchester, 
 brought by the prevailing winds. 
 
 Now, in the wood above-mentioned* the trees are every year 
 dying in great numbers, while in the plantation they are positively 
 <md literally being decimated — one-tenth part die annually. The 
 beech go first, then the elms and sycamores. The ash strives and 
 fights against the enemy most bravely, and though coming late 
 into leaf, bears aloft its crowns of elegant foliage comparatively 
 fresh into October ; but even the ash-tree suffers. So then, 
 in this vitiated and ever-deteriorating climate of Manchester, it 
 is a question not of what trees and shrubs are desirable to be 
 grown — not of what we should like to be, but of what can be 
 done: it is a question of what, under the difficult circumstances 
 of the case, is practicable and feasible. 
 
 We shall not be able, however skilful may be our local gardeners, 
 to reproduce in Manchester and Salford the bowery and flowery 
 pictures presented by many of the London suburbs. But by a 
 judicious selection, and a freer use of the more patient and long- 
 suffering subjects, we may at least effect a considerable change in 
 the dingy aspect of things, and some " Sweetness and Light " may 
 be imported even into the " Slums." 
 
 * In order to prove to a demonstration the position above assumed, we 
 may say that it lately devolved upon the present writer to mark and 
 condemn to the axe the decaying trees in the wood above-named, when as 
 many as 12(11) giants of the forest had to fall — trees once beautiful and 
 still sturdv limbed enough, but surely and steadily sinking into a condi- 
 tion in which they would have been utterly worthless. 
 
 Y
 
 242 
 
 TOWN TEEES: 
 
 WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO MANCHESTER AND OTHER 
 SMOKY TOWNS OF THE NORTH. 
 
 ^TT'HE lover of trees who wanders through the wide labyrinth 
 *£U of dingy streets we call " Cottonopolis," and sees ever and 
 again such rural names as "Grove Terrace," "Woodland. 
 Terrace," " Woodland Avenue," &c, without a trace of any 
 " wood," or even tree, near or far, must be touched with a tender 
 pity. These names, alas ! indicate only where woods and groves 
 
 have been. 
 
 Scenes rural once ! ye still retain sweet names 
 That speak of blossoms, and the wandering bee. 
 
 Then again, but here the case differs, to see " Lime Streets," 
 without a single lime-tree, "Beech Streets," without a beech, 
 " Sycamore Streets," without a sycamore, "Elm Streets," without 
 an elm, is sad indeed. One large and populous suburb we know 
 — a residential suburb — where you have all the trees of the- 
 f ores t — but in the names of its streets only, no single forest-tree, 
 except a few newly-planted saplings, being to be found in the 
 whole wide district ! 
 
 Yes, one ! One solitary ash-tree, rising as it were out of the 
 stones of the stony path-way, lifts up to the light its shining 
 crown of graceful foliage — offering, in the leafy season, a picture 
 at once delightful to the eye and soothing to the mind, a veritable 
 oasis, though but a single tree, amid the stony wilderness. 
 
 And as years go by, unless there be an amelioration of our 
 climatic conditions, the ash is destined, in many a suburb, to be 
 the sole and single survivor of the older-planted trees. On the 
 north and north-western sides of Manchester city, it is the ash, 
 and the ash alone, that stands out green and fresh, amid a crowd 
 of trees all within a measurable distance of the last stage of 
 decadence.
 
 TOWX TREES, 243 
 
 The Common Ash is thus proved to be the most patient and 
 long-suffering of all the taller-growing trees, in the vitiated 
 atmosphere of our manufacturing towns. 
 
 But in saying this we do not mean that the ash will actually 
 flourish in the very heart of a manufacturing city such as ours ; 
 and he who plants it in that- huge expectation will find himself 
 egregiously deceived. Yet for planting in the murky atmosphere 
 of our Manchester suburbs, we say that, of all the long-aged 
 trees, it is the best, for the ash, as is well known, lives many 
 hundred years. The common elm endures, as a rule, between 
 three hundred and four hundred years, the common maple lives 
 five hundred years, the common lime over a thousand years, and 
 the common oak fifteen hundred years, broadly speaking. 
 
 On a fine day, during a recent autumn, we took a walk of 
 many miles through a murky but well-planted suburb of Man- 
 chester ; and while the limes, beeches, horse-chestnuts, sycamores* 
 and elms were one part leafless, and the other part brown and 
 sere, the common ash stood out everywhere apparently as fresh 
 and green as ever. To be sure, the ash is late in putting in an 
 appearance at the court of Flora — later even than the oak nine 
 years out of ten ; but for this she makes ample amends by 
 carrying her leafy honours untarnished till far into the autumn. 
 Besides, the question is not as to how long a tree flourishes 
 during the season, but as to the comparative healthiness of 
 different subjects, and we declare again that under existing con- 
 ditions the ash is the healthiest of all. And what single spec- 
 tacle in Nature's -wide domain can greatly exceed in beauty an 
 ash-tree of say fifty years' growth, with its wealth of graceful, 
 almost fern-like foliage, of a green sometimes as fresh as that of 
 the acacia ! In autumn, when hung with its bunches of keys — 
 " kitty keys" as they are called in Yorkshire — the tree is positively 
 fascinating ; and we say deliberately that artists have never yet,. 
 in the true sense of the word, painted an English ash-tree. 
 Neither have they yet painted a sycamore. 
 
 But our native ash has won our affections above all by the per- 
 sistence of its foliage — by sticking to its colours ; and by the 
 
 i>2
 
 244 TOWN TREES. 
 
 brave straggle it wages against a constantly deteriorating climate. 
 Thus it is that we are impelled to pay this beautiful tree a special 
 tribute. In August — we are speaking of Manchester — amid the 
 limes, beeches, chestnuts, sycamores, and elms, before-mentioned, 
 with their leaves of yellow, and red, and brown, showing the 
 touch of decay's effacing finger even while the summer is with 
 us, it is not only consoling but positively inspiriting to look upon 
 the still unfaded green of the ash ; the picture actually breeds in 
 us new faith and hope, and Ave go on our way rejoicing. 
 
 The ash-tree, too, is as useful in commerce as it is ornamental 
 in the landscape. Its timber, when felled, is readily converted 
 into a hundred useful articles, and from the county of North- 
 ampton, where the ash-tree mostly abounds, a very large quantity 
 is yearly exported. 
 
 There is sometimes, in the minds of people, confusion between 
 the Common Ash and the so-called Mountain Ash, sometimes 
 even to the extent of supposing the two identical, and very often 
 to the extent of regarding them as congeners ; but the two trees 
 are not only not congenerous they belong to two wholly different 
 families of plants, the common ash belonging to the olive family, 
 while the mountain ash, on the other hand, is relegated to the 
 ever-charming rose family ; it is really one of the pears. 
 
 It may be thought that we have dwelt somewhat too long on 
 one single tree, and that if we dwell in equal detail on all trees 
 it will be a lengthy business ; but we shall dwell in detail only on 
 such trees as can be recommended for the decoration of our 
 dingy suburbs, and this we fear will be only too short a business ! 
 But in speaking of the Common Ash of these islands, we speak of 
 the type of a class — we speak of other Ashes from other countries 
 which share largely the characteristics of our native species, and 
 which so far as we have proved them are equally suited for 
 fighting against the impure atmosphere of large towns. Above 
 all, the North American species, such as the Lentisk-leavcd Ash, 
 which, with its light and graceful frondage — recalling the elegant 
 foliage of the American Weeping Willow — is really a picture of 
 beauty, though one upon which we cannot at present dwell.
 
 TOWN TREES. 245 
 
 THE PLANE (Platanus). — Those of our readers who, like 
 ourselves, have a forty bo fifty years acquaintance with London 
 will recall the wretched and ragged appearance of Old Father 
 
 Thames, and our great mother city, forty years ago ; and will 
 admit how immensely the Thames Embankment has changed the 
 whole aspect of the metropolis and practically made a new city, 
 as Been from the river. 
 
 The Embankment, on its completion, was planted with the 
 Plane-tree, the true Plane, not the " Plane-tree " so called here- 
 abouts, which is of a wholly different family, viz., the Acers, or 
 Maples. 
 
 The Embankment was planted with the Plane in emulation of 
 the Parisians with their boulevards so planted ; and marvellously 
 those plants have succeeded, and a splendid sylvan promenade is- 
 thus offered to the Londoners of these latter days undreamt of 
 by the Londoners of fifty years ago. 
 
 Now, it has been thought that this very pleasant picture can 
 be reproduced on the banks of the Irwell, and under this idea 
 there has been much writing to the local papers. 
 
 But such a thing is totally impossible ; and we believe it 
 would be impossible even if Manchester were not a manu- 
 facturing city — even if she had not one single tall chimney. We 
 believe that the natural, not to name the artificial, climate of 
 Manchester would prevent the Plane ever making a large growth. 
 The humidity is too extreme. In the meantime, on some sides of 
 the city, in the less smoky directions, it is possible the plant may 
 here and there make considerable growths; but in the end the 
 experiment of planting it will be found to be essential!}'- an 
 experiment. Neither the eastern (P. orientalis) nor the western 
 plane (P. occidentalis) is capable of contending successfully 
 against the atmospheric conditions — natural and artificial — 
 prevailing in this district. 
 
 Most curious and most instructive has it been to the present 
 writer to watch the Plane — a splendid tree, the glory and the 
 pride of many countries — in the course of its struggle with our 
 humid and vitiated atmosphere.
 
 246 TOWN TREES. 
 
 Twenty years ago we planted a healthy young subject, four to 
 five feet high, simultaneously with a Tulip-tree (Liriodendron 
 tulipiferum) of the same height ; and at the present time the 
 Tulip-tree is about as tall as the Plane, for whilst the often very 
 considerable growths of the latter have again and again been 
 destroyed through the tree's inability to ripen its wood before 
 the autumn frosts, the tiny growths of the Liriodendron have 
 been spared. 
 
 It is quite evident therefore that in our humid, smoke-laden 
 and sulphurous atmosphere, the Plane cannot get that direct 
 light and heat from the sun which would enable it to battle 
 successfully in its own and in our behalf. And to recommend 
 it for planting in the very heart of Manchester, as has been done 
 by certain dilettanti, is in the highest degree absurd. 
 
 THE LIME (Tilia Europcea). — Let us now consider the Lime 
 — the glorious Linden-tree, around which cluster so many pleasant 
 associations. We have heard the Lime — both the red and the 
 yellow-twigged species — recommended for planting in Manchester. 
 And so beautiful is the tree, such a delight is it, in the vernal 
 season, to every eye, and such a special refreshment — with its 
 vivid, yellowish-green foliage — to people pent in the populous 
 city, that no wonder it should be recommended to be tried and 
 experimented upon in the less smoky directions ; but for planting 
 in the near neighbourhood of the city it is quite unsuitable. 
 
 No ; the beautiful Linden-tree, we are grieved to say, can no 
 longer be recommended by the conscientious planter for city 
 planting. But for the reasons above stated it will no doubt be 
 planted in some of our suburbs all the same. Moreover town 
 dwellers, as a rule, are more migratory than country ones ; and 
 your townsman will often direct such trees to be planted as he 
 likes best, in the notion that at any rate they will last his time 
 out. Perhaps they may ; and the incoming tenant, on the other 
 hand, will find that he has moved into the fashionable quarter of 
 " liotten Row," for a row of rotten trees it was that gave its 
 somewhat malodorous name to London's famous promenade.
 
 TOWN TREES. 247 
 
 HOKSK-CHESTNUT (.Esculus Hippocastanum.)—We have 
 even heard the Horse-chestnut recommended for town planting ; 
 but for smoky cities like Manchester it is certainly not fit. In 
 the meantime let us enjoy to the fullest extent the delightful 
 picture presented in the early season by the chestnuts planted in 
 years past on several of the great roads leading out of the city. 
 We shall he wise to do this, for unless there he some amelioration 
 of the atmospheric conditions it is a picture that is hound in the 
 not remote future to be lost to us. 
 
 The Horse-chestnut must not be confounded with the Spanish, 
 or Eatable Chestnut (Castanea vesca), which is not only a large 
 •element in the landscapes of many countries of Southern Europe 
 but whose fruit is largely availed of for food purposes by the 
 populations of those countries. 
 
 BIRCH (Betula alba). — The Birch, too, has been named by 
 sundry arboriculturists as eligible for city planting. As regards 
 the Common Birch the idea is not to be entertained ; but the 
 Silver Birch is somewhat more patient. The extreme elegance 
 of the latter species — than which few things in the way of a tree 
 are more lovely — will lead to its being tried yet for some years ; 
 but no single member of the Birch family has any " future " in 
 the climate of Manchester. 
 
 BEECH (Fagus syhatica). — With respect to this beautiful and 
 favourite tree and its many handsome varieties, all our city 
 planters, we think, are now agreed that it is unsuited to the 
 atmosphere of towns, and especially to that of a great manu- 
 facturing city such as ours. 
 
 THE ELM.- — Of the Elms it may be said that none of them 
 will allow of being planted so near our smoky centres as the 
 Poplar, or the Ash, though the choice of subjects within the 
 outer circles is considerable, including the beautiful Broad-leaved, 
 or Wych Elm (Ulmus montana) and its varieties. 
 
 MOUNTAIN ASH (Pyrus A ucuparia).— One is loth to put 
 the beautiful Rowan, or Wicken tree, also in the Index
 
 248 TOWN TREES. 
 
 Expurgatorim, but sad necessity constrains. Not but this, and 
 also the White Beam (Pynis Aria), often, though quite 
 erroneously, spoken of as the " Service tree," will endure for years 
 in suburban quarters ; but they have, neither of them, any 
 " future " if the present atmospheric conditions prevail. 
 
 LOCUST TREE (Acacia).— The lovely light-green-foliaged 
 Locust tree has been much vaunted as a town tree ; but for damp 
 and cloudy Manchester it is emphatically not suited ; yet in the 
 less smoky suburbs one is still tempted to try so beautiful and 
 elegant a tree. 
 
 Of the tall-growing trees the most persistent in the smoke are 
 the Ash and the Black Italian Poplar, and we are confident that 
 these will be largely used in the future for town-planting. There 
 is, as we said previously, a great future for the Ash family, 
 which itself is so numerous that it would take many columns 
 to do it justice. 
 
 MAPLE FAMILY (Acer).— As before stated, fortunately 
 there are several members of the beautiful Maple family which 
 may still be planted in smoky regions, including the favourite 
 Sycamore, or false-plane. But we warn here all whom it may 
 concern that even this cannot with impunity be planted so near 
 the smok}^ centres as the Ash and the Poplar. Still, as there is 
 said to be an exception to every rule, we may say that we 
 have found the Norway Maple (A. platanoides) in large examples,, 
 and after a lengthy sojourn, to all appearance healthy at a little 
 over a mile only from the Manchester Exchange. 
 
 POPLAR FAMILY.— One of the most patient trees for 
 town-planting is the Poplar, of which the rapid-growing and 
 vigorous North American kinds are the most manageable. 
 Planted even in the heart of the most smoke-stricken town, 
 these will make headway for a time ; but people who use them 
 must be prepared to replant at intervals of some years ; which 
 of course it is quite worth their while to do, in view of the
 
 TOWN TREES. 249 
 
 abundant mass of refreshing verdure they afford to the eye in 
 summer. The Al teles old and new (Populus alba), may be used 
 also; and for a mass of persistent foliage, delightful to look 
 ni)on in the late summer, the Black Italian Poplar, before 
 mentioned, is indispensable for smoky cities. As for the upright, 
 or Lombardy Poplar, it is out of the question, and very few 
 now make the mistake of using it in these situations. 
 
 THE THOKN FAMILY.— For the smoky parts of Man 
 chestcr, the vigorous-growing, large, and smooth leaved North 
 American species of Thorn will he found to supply the greatest 
 number of eligible subjects ; and several of these, including the 
 cockspur and plum-leaved thorns, have already been extensively, 
 but not too extensively, planted about the city. And while the 
 rich reds and purples of the very persistent leaves of these make 
 a fine spectacle in the autumn, what more glorious, in the early 
 season, than the picture, in our smoky suburbs, offered by the 
 blossoming pink and scarlet thorns in the single and double 
 varieties ! For town planting, the numerous Thorn family has a 
 future, although the Common Hawthorn of our hedges, which in 
 spring makes of this little England of ours a blossoming paradise, 
 must unfortunately be left out of the list ; and the prudent town- 
 planter is now substituting for it, as a hedge plant, the more- 
 patient and long-suffering Privet. 
 
 THE LABURNUM (Cytisus Laburnum).— As regards the 
 Laburnum — the " Golden-rain," or " Shower of Gold " of the 
 Germans — we think our readers will agree that there is no more 
 charming feature of suburban Manchester, in the spring and 
 early summer, than the abundance of this beautiful member of 
 the Broom-family, which flings its wealth of golden tassels with 
 an incomparable grace over every wall and paling. But we 
 seldom see the Scotch Laburnum hereabouts ; and still more 
 rarely the purple and sulphur kinds, both of which (grafted on 
 the common laburnum) are capital town-subjects, while more 
 lovely objects in the plant-way are not to be met with in any 
 nobleman's garden. A twenty years-old Sulphur Broom in the
 
 250 
 
 TOWN TREES. 
 
 smoke-stricken grounds of the present writer is, when blossoming, 
 the admiration of all who see it. The fact is, there are about 
 our small suburban residences too many unsuitable forest-trees, 
 and too few of the better-suited ornamental kinds. For town- 
 planting there is a great future for the Broom family ; and a 
 more beautiful picture, in the early season, than a combination of 
 Scarlet Thorns and Laburnums it would be difficult to imagine. 
 
 Of the Double-blossoming Cherry, the Pear, the Mespilus, and 
 other deciduous town trees, and of evergreen subjects, we shall 
 speak in another article* 
 
 * In a later edition of this Book. 

 
 PICTURESQUE PLANTING. 201 
 
 PICTURESQUE PLANTING: 
 A GLANCE AT ITS HISTORY. 
 
 |OW old is the idea of the Picturesque ? and, Who was the 
 first Landscape Gardener 1 
 
 These questions are sufficiently difficult to puzzle not only the 
 cleverest gardeners but the most learned archaeologists. 
 
 " It is not a little curious," says the versatile De Quincey, who 
 was never so happy as when enquiring into these and similar 
 matters, " to find that the ancients — whether Greeks or Romans — 
 had no eye for the picturesque (strictly so called) ; nay, that it 
 was a sense utterly unawakened amongst them ; and that the 
 very conception of the picturesque, as of a thing distinct in itself, 
 is not even alluded to through the whole course of ancient 
 literature, nor would it have been intelligible to any ancient 
 critic." 
 
 On the other hand, we quite agree with a more recent writer, 
 who very justly observes that to suppose that sites could be so 
 exquisitely chosen as were those of the Roman villas, except by 
 men who had a strong perception of beauty, is impossible. 
 Cicero's villas, as is well known, commanded charming views. 
 
 But the sense of the picturesque, as of a thing distinct from 
 the beautiful, if felt, was left unexpressed. The question, as has 
 been said, is a very curious one, and well worth enquiring into 
 by those who have the interest and the leisure to pursue the 
 matter. We would refer these last to a work, published some 
 years back, by a learned Frenchman, M. Eugene Secretan, who 
 deals with the subject, so far as concerns the Romans, very 
 instructively. The book is entitled " 1 »u Sentiment de la Nature 
 dans l'antiquitc romaine." 
 
 With regard to the second question, the fust Landscape 
 Gardener, according to some, was the Roman Emperor, Nero.
 
 252 PICTURESQUE PLANTING. 
 
 Tacitus informs us that the ruins of Rome, after the fire, let in 
 views of the distant country, and supplied bold masses of fore- 
 ground, which pleased Nero's cultivated eye. To enjoy this new 
 pleasure, he built a house, and surrounded it with what has since 
 been called a " Landscape." 
 
 Again, we are told that the Emperor Hadrian, in the grounds 
 attached to his gigantic villa at Tivoli, endeavoured to reproduce 
 all that he had admired in the course of his ceaseless journeyings, 
 and that he even contrived an imitation of the Yale of Tempe. 
 Next to Heiodotus, the Father of History, this emperor has the 
 reputation of having been the greatest tourist of ancient times. 
 
 But — alas, for our British pretensions — is it not likely that the 
 first landscape gardener will have to be sought for in times still 
 more remote 1 Not to name Assyrian gardeners, what about the 
 Chinese 1 How many years — how many thousands of years — 
 have the Chinese been landscape gardening % Is it possible to 
 tell to a thousand ! Two hundred years back, Sir William 
 Temple, in his pleasant " Essay on Gardening," referring to the 
 management of pleasure grounds, says : " There may be other 
 forms, wholly irregular, that may, for aught I know, have more 
 
 beauty than any of the others Something of this I 
 
 have seen in some places, but heard more of it from others who 
 have lived much among the Chinese, who scorn our way of plant- 
 ing, and say a boy that can tell a hundred may plant walks of 
 trees in straight lines, and over against one another, and to what 
 length and extent he pleases. But their greatest reach of 
 imagination is employed in contriving figures where the beauty 
 shall be great, and strike the eye, but without any order or dis- 
 position of parts that shall be easily observed. And though we 
 in England have hardly any notion of this sort of beauty, yet 
 they hare a particular word to express it ; and where they find it 
 hit their eye at first sight, they say the Sharawadgi is fine, or it 
 is admirable." — E. on G., p. 1S6.) So much for John Chinaman; 
 to whom it would seem that we owe a good deal besides 
 The cups that cheer but not inebriate.
 
 PICTURESQUE PLANTING. 25.S 
 
 Truth to speak, wo English are not quite the universal pioneers 
 and first discoverers we sometimes think ourselves. For instance, 
 the Dutch were before us in Australia, which gardeners in par- 
 ticular call New Holland to this day. The Dutch were before 
 us, too, in South Africa, where the Briton is comparatively a new 
 corner ; and it was only by the fortune of war that Cape Colony 
 passed under our domination. The French, again, were before 
 us in Canada, where, in many parts, a bastard French is still 
 spoken. Through our triumphs by land and sea, and by 
 diplomacy, rather than by colonising, have we acquired not a little 
 of that vast empire upon which the sun never sets. But we are 
 excellent people to follow, and improve upon, others. So in 
 horticultural matters ; if, for instance, Ave were much later than 
 our continental neighbours in forming public botanic gardens, we 
 very soon overtook them, and have now, in Kew, the finest and 
 richest public Botanic Garden in the world. And as regards the 
 special matter of Landscape Gardening, as somebody has remarked, 
 just as we see Chinese landscapes within the narrow compass of 
 a tea-cup bottom, so is the Chinaman's system of landscape 
 gardening cramped and narrow, in comparison with the breadth 
 and amplitude of our English system. 
 
 It is now some three hundred years since the subject of plant- 
 png, that is to say, picturesque planting, was first treated of in 
 English books. We are told that one of the earliest authors on 
 the subject was a Mr. Robert Church who, writing in 1612, 
 expatiates on the delight to be had from a judicious arrangement 
 of plants, with their variety of greens, and their pleasant colours, 
 in parks and gardens. 
 
 With regard to the pleasure of planting, it is one in which 
 royalty and nobility — here in England, especially — have often 
 indulged; and a very interesting, and also instinctive, book 
 might be written on the great, or distinguished, planters of 
 present and past times. We are told by the amiable John Evelyn, 
 the author of " Sylva," and himself a great planter, that with 
 our second Charles of England, the " Metric Monarch," planting 
 was a very favourite diversion indeed : and not the least notable
 
 254 PICTURESQUE PLANTING. 
 
 of last century planters was the poet Shenstone, who is said to 
 have made his demesne of "Leasowes," in Shropshire, the envy 
 of the great and the admiration of the skilful ; but, unfortunately, 
 we are also told that he spent his estate in adorning it ! 
 
 With respect to the great professional landscape gardeners who 
 have made England famous in this department the wide world 
 over, many interesting chapters might be written on them; and the 
 history of their lives would almost be the history of English garden- 
 ing. Most of them were men of unusually strong character and 
 of marked individuality. We refer to Brown, Eepton, Loudon, 
 and others. With regard to the two last-named, n ot only were 
 they landscape gardeners, in the practical sense of the word, but 
 copious and admirable writers on the subject, Loudon in especial, 
 whose industry was perfectly phenomenal. And although he was 
 hardly a botanist, strictly speaking, his Labours in the field of 
 botany as it relates to horticulture were such as to make him the 
 benefactor of the English gardening fraternity to an extent 
 equalled by no other writer on the allied subjects. As respects 
 Lancelot Brown, who was much earlier in the field than Repton 
 and Loudon, his career was a most remarkable one. Beginning 
 life as a simple kitchen-gardener, we are told that he raised him- 
 self to the position of the most eminent landscape gardener of 
 his time ; and that after acquiring a large fortune, and serving as 
 high sheriff for an English county, he died in 1773. 
 
 We remarked that the men of whom we are writing were people 
 of great individuality of character. Brown's eccentricities alone 
 would make a most entertaining chapter. Whenever he was 
 " called in " for professional consultation by the noblemen and 
 gentlemen of England who desired to have their grounds trans- 
 formed by the gardener's magic art, Brown's invariable remark- 
 appropriate or inappropriate, in season and out of season — was : 
 " My lord, the place has great capabilities ! " And as " Capa- 
 bility " Brown he was universally known and spoken of in his 
 own time, and as " Capability " Brown he is spoken of to this day. 
 
 Very congenial would it be to ourselves to continue this sort 
 of gossip, but for the present we must conclude.
 
 EEVIEfS.
 
 257 
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALECT POETS.* 
 
 TiTiT' hold, an d have always held, that every writer of great 
 ^I^V and original power who seeks a verbal vehicle, so to 
 -peak, for what he has to give to the world will, if he listens to 
 the voice of his -ruins, be instinctively led to choose exactly that 
 vehicle which has most affinity with that genius. 
 
 If this proposition lie correct, the dialect writer has his raisou 
 d'rtre at once ; and compels us, always assuming that he possesses 
 genius, to acquaint ourselves with whatever dialect he chooses to 
 write in. 
 
 When Robert Burns (called, like Cincinnatus, from the plough) 
 was seeking the opinion of his chief literary friends, they advised 
 him to forsake the " barbarous " idiom of the south of Scotland 
 for good, honest English, though what is "honest" English 
 it might be difficult to say. The poet Cowper, too, who was 
 Burns's contemporary, and was much interested in the poetic 
 star which had suddenly appeared on the northern horizon, 
 thought the Ayrshire poet's light was contained in a "dark 
 lantern," referring to the obscurity of the dialect. But the high 
 voice of the great poet's genius spoke in other terms and gave a 
 
 * " Spring Blossoms and Autumn Leaves." By Ben Brieiley, author of 
 " Tales and Sketches of Lancashire Life." Manchester: J. Andrew & Co., 
 1893. 
 
 "Warblin's fro' an Owd Songster." By Samuel Laycock. Oldham: 
 \V. E. Clegg, 1893.
 
 2s8 REVIEWS: 
 
 different counsel ; and hence it is that a poor ploughman's pen is- 
 at this moment, and probably will for ever be, more potent over 
 smiles and tears than any ever dipped in ink. We laugh, or 
 weep, as the poet wills, and wonder over the secret of his power. 
 The secret, in part, is that Burns combined a masterly knowledge 
 of English with a perfect command of the Scottish idiom ; for 
 dialects afford innumerable shades and delicacies of expression 
 that might vainly be sought in dictionaries, and thus enable him 
 who has mastered them, and who possesses at the same time the 
 requisite genius, to reach the very inmost recesses of the human 
 heart. Thus it is, in our opinion, that Burns, besides being the 
 acknowledged prince of song-writers, and therefore a master of 
 pathos, ranks amongst the world's greatest humorists. 
 
 The reason we have given above explains also the sudden and 
 wide popularity of the genial Fritz Renter, who made his first 
 appearance as a dialect-writer, now many years ago, in North 
 Germany. The innovations of Reuter, who was a Mecklen- 
 burger with a very romantic history, raised a great storm in the 
 German literary woiid, but his writings increased in vogue all 
 the more and were read by millions of even cultured people. 
 
 With regard to writers in the Lancashire dialect, although we 
 have had a plentiful crop of these during the last forty years, 
 there are who think that not many of them, so far as prose is- 
 concerned, have greatly surpassed, in point of genuine broad 
 humour racy of the soil, the first man who obtained a name in 
 this department, viz., the Lancashire-born John Collier, better 
 known by his nom de plume of " Tim Bobbin," author of 
 " Tummus and Meary." Those who are familiar with this 
 admirable master of local humour will recall the singular adven- 
 tures of " Tummus " in the neighbourhood of Littleborough, on 
 the Lancashire and Yorkshire border. We have read these 
 " adventures " to people who on hearing them have rolled on the 
 floor in helpless convulsions of laughter. Nor if read with any 
 dramatic force, maugre the obscurity of the dialect, can they be 
 otherwise than " irresistible " to a man with any sense of humour 
 — and what Lancashire man is devoid of this quality 1
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALECT POETS -27? 
 
 It is charged against Collier that his dialect is considerably 
 mixed with Yorkshire, and in a less measure with Cheshire and 
 Derbyshire idioms, and the charge holds good ; but nevertheless) 
 
 up to the appearance of Edwin Waugh, it will be admitted that 
 "Tim Bobbin " was facilr princeps as a Lancashire dialect-writer. 
 And how deep-rooted were his language and quaint humour 
 among the sturdy mountaineers of the Lancashire and Yorkshire 
 borderland fifty years ago we are personally able to attest. It 
 must be admitted that much of Collier's humour is not of the 
 refined or delicate kind ; it must be allowed that his main- 
 characters are boorish, if not clownish ; but had the portraits 
 been " varnished " they would have been distinctly false to the 
 people and the time. 
 
 Returning for a moment to the proposition with which we 
 started, we may give an illustration of its truth coming from 
 nearer hand. 
 
 When Edwin Waugh, whom many of us knew from his earliest 
 literary beginnings, published his first volume of verse, it will be 
 remembered how remarkably unequal was that collection. The 
 poems written in dialect at once showed us that the Lancashire 
 idiom had found its greatest master, while the non-dialect pieces 
 of the same collection were, in the main, about as wretched 
 attempts at poetical expression as were ever made by the 
 veriest tyro. 
 
 Waugh 's genius had found its natural voice. Touching his 
 native soil, Antaeus-like, the poet derived thence strength and 
 power, and has given to Lancashire a collection of dialect poems 
 and songs which are justly treasured, and a portion of which are 
 not likely to perish even when the dialect has ceased to be a 
 spoken language. Of these songs we cannot here deny our- 
 selves the pleasure of quoting one sample — in Waugh's own 
 opinion one of his very best performances in the dialect : 
 " Enoch o' Dan's." It is a powerful picture, full alike of the 
 richest humour and of the deepest pathos, but unfortunately the 
 song has been set to a tune wholly out of keeping with the 
 
 character of the subject : 
 
 Q2
 
 260 REVIEWS: 
 
 ENOCH 0' DAN'S. 
 
 (Tune, " Dkbry down.") 
 
 Owd Enoch o' Dan's laid his pipe deawn o' th' hob, 
 
 An' his thin fingers pla}'ed i'th' white thatch of his nob, 
 
 " I'm getten done up," to their Betty he said, 
 
 " Dost thou think thae could doff me an' dad me to bed !" 
 
 Deny down, &c. 
 
 Then who ge.^t him to bed, an' hoo happed him up weel, 
 An' hoo said to him, " Eaoch, lad, heaw doesto feel ?" 
 "These limbs o' mine, Betty — they're cranky an' sore, — 
 It's time to shut up when one's getten fourscore." 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 As hoo potter't abeawt his poor winterly pate, 
 Th' owd fellow looked dreawsily up at his mate, — 
 " There's nought on me left, lass — do o' at thou con, — 
 But th' cratchinly frame o' what once wur a mon." 
 
 Deny down. 
 
 Then he turn'b hissel o'er, like a chylt tir't wi' play, 
 
 An' Betty crept reawnd, while he're dozin away. 
 
 As his e'e-lids sank deawn, th' owd lad niutter't : " Well done ! 
 
 I think there's a bit o' seawnd sleep comin' on." 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 Then hoo thought hoo'd sit by till he'd had his nap o'er, 
 If hoo'd sit theer till then, hoo'd ha' risen no more ; 
 For he doze't eawt o' th' world, an' his een lost their leet, 
 Like a cinder i' th' firegrate, i' th' deod time o' th' neet. 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 As Betty sit rockin' bi' th' side of his bed, 
 Hoo looked neaw an' then at Enoch's white yed, 
 An' hoo thought to hersel that hoo'd not lung to stay, 
 If ever th' owd prop of her life should give way. 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 Then, woncVrin' to see him so seawnd an' so still, 
 Hoo touched Enoch's hond, an' hoo fund it wur chill : 
 
 Says Betty, " He's cowd I'll put summat moor on !" 
 
 But o' wur no use, for Owd Enoch wur gone. 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 An' when they put Enoch to bed deawn i' th' greawnd, 
 A rook o' poor neighbours stoode bare-yedded reawnd ; 
 They dropt sprigs o' rosemary, an' this wur their text : 
 " Tii' owd crayter's laid by, — we may haply be th' next." 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 So Betty wur laft to toar on bi' her«el ; 
 An' heaw hoo pood through it no mortal can tell ; 
 But th' doctor dropt in to look at her one day, 
 When hoo 're rockin* bi' th' side of an odd cup o' tay. 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 " Well, Betty," said th' doctor, " heaw dun yo get on ? 
 I'm sorry to yer at yo'n lost yer owd mon. 
 What complaint had he, Betty?" Says hoo, " I caun't tell, 
 We ne'er had no doctor,— he deed of hissel." 
 
 Derry down.
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALEOT POETS. 2ftl 
 
 «< All, Betl j ," aid th' doctor, " there's "in- thing quite sure : 
 ( >wd age is a thing I hat no physic c in cure, 
 Fate will have her way, lass ; 'In <.' that we con, 
 When th" time's up we's ha" to Bign o'< r an' begone." 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 " Both winter an' summer t h' owd mower's al wark, 
 
 Si.liu' folk eaM t o 1 th 1 seet, both by dayleel an' dark ; 
 He's sluvin' aw i\ while we're Bnoring i' bed. 
 An' he'd slash at a king, if it coom in his yed, 
 
 Derry down. 
 
 These soldiers, an' parsons, an' maisters o' lond, 
 
 He lays 'em i' th' greawnd \\i' their meawths full o' sond : 
 
 I: kga <>r riches, an' owd greasy cap or a creawn, — 
 
 He sarves o' alike, for he switches 'em deawn. 
 
 Deny down. 
 
 "The inou that's larn't up, an' th' mon that's a foo, — 
 
 I' makes little odds, for the3''n both ha' to goo, — 
 
 When they come'n within th' swing <>' his scythe they mun fo' ; 
 
 If yo'n root amung th' swathe, yo'n find doctors an' o' !" 
 
 Deny down. 
 
 Nor are Waugh's prose-writings, as regards local portraiture, and 
 
 whether of people or places, less than masterly. It is true 
 that his plots ate about as poor and as thin as it is possible 
 to find — a mere series of episodes, in fact, very loosely con 
 nected ; but in individual pictures of local scenes and local 
 character Waugh leaves all his Lancashire rivals far behind : and 
 in descriptions of hillside people and moorland scenery leaves 
 all England behind. In this department, we do not hesitate to 
 affirm that our Lancashire Waugh is absolutely unsurpassed. So 
 perfect, indeed, are some of his pictures of local character that 
 we who pen these lines can turn to them for the fiftieth time and 
 read the pieces with undiminished relish ; and for this reason, 
 that every stroke of the writer — even the most grotesque — is 
 " true to the life.'' 
 
 What a Dorsetshire parson has done for the dialects of that 
 county is pretty well known. 
 
 And with regard to what can be accomplished in dialect in the 
 wider held, have we not had, " ayont the Tweed," even " Hot; 
 in Homespun !" Nor is this the first time the lively Roman 
 lyrist has appeared in Scottish trappings, as scholars are aware. 
 Could anything, for instance, be happier, or more in the lloratian
 
 262 REVIEWS: 
 
 vein, than dear old Allan Ramsay's imitation of Horace's 
 9th Ode, 1st Book, commencing : 
 
 Vides, ut alt a stet nice candidum 
 Soracte : 
 
 Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 
 
 Of ilka joy wiien ye are young, 
 Before auld age your vitals nip, 
 
 And lay ye twafauld o'er a rung. 
 
 Sweet youth's a blyth and heartsoine time, 
 Then, lads and lasses, while its May 
 
 Gae pou' the gowan in its prime, 
 Before it wither and decay. 
 
 The capacities of a dialect in the hands of a master and a 
 genius are great indeed. But our immediate concern is with 
 Lancashire Dialect Poets. 
 
 Among these the most important name, after Waugh's, is 
 undoubtedly that of Ben Brierley — " Lancashire's Ben," as one 
 of his encomiasts describes him — the founder, and for some time 
 editor, of " Ben Brierley's Journal," and the author of innumer- 
 able tales and local sketches, written chiefly in the vernacular. 
 
 Under the quaint sobriquet of " Ab o'th Yate," Mr. Brierley 
 has amused and diverted the homely, hardworking folk of the 
 great cotton county for fully a quarter of a century ; and if it be 
 true that every Lancashire lane has echoed to the songs of 
 AVaugh, it is no less true that thousands of Lancashire firesides 
 have been cheered and brightened through the merriment evoked 
 by " Owd Ab's " quaint humour and genial satire, as expressed in 
 prose. And not Lancashire firesides alone, for the wide circula- 
 tion of his "Journal " has made Ben Brierley's name a household 
 word over a great part of Yorkshire, Cheshire, and Derbyshire, 
 as well. 
 
 Our first acquaintance with Mr. Brierley's writings in the 
 vernacular was made in the year 1866, through reading his 
 " Marlocks of Merriton " which appeared in the late Charles 
 Hardwick's too short-lived " Country AYords " (published in the 
 November of that year). Since then he has written so volumin- 
 ously in prose that his works at this moment number some 
 fourteen or fifteen volumes.
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALECT P0ET8. 363 
 
 But besides writing in prose, Mr. Brierley has occasionally. 
 Luring the above period, had visi tings of the "divine afflatus," 
 .and like a "layrock" has burst into song. These occasional 
 poems and songs have appeared either in his own " Tales," or 
 "Stories," or in various local journals ; and he has now collected 
 tlicni together in a slim but handsome little volume of some 150 
 pages, of which we doubt not his very numerous admirers will 
 hasten to possess themselves. 
 
 We have said that Mr. Brierley has "occasionally" written 
 poems, but we quite agree with one of his friendly critics that 
 ■"Ben has an undeniable poetic temperament," and that much of 
 his so-called " prose " is pure poetry. As is wisely, and at the 
 same time humorously, remarked by Sir Philip Sidney, " Verse 
 is but an ornament and no cause to poetry; since there have 
 been many most excellent poets that have never versified, and 
 now swarm many versifiers that need never answer to the name 
 of poets." 
 
 Mr. Brierley, in his degree, is a poet; and we are delighted to 
 peruse once more those of his poems and songs which have 
 always pleased us. Among these are his " May," after " L'Allegro ' 
 •of Milton, which it is high praise to say is a piece not unworthy 
 of its distinguished model, " The Waverlow Bell?," the fine " In 
 Memoriam to Charles Swain," and the touching lines entitled 
 " At my Daughter's Grave ; " and in the dialect : " Owd Pigeon," 
 ■"Fotchin th'Keaws up,*' "Jone o' Greenfilt*s Ghost," and the 
 incomparable " Wayvor o' Wellbrook." 
 
 " Owd Pigeon " is easily recognised as the type of a very large 
 " squad," and we are not surprised that the piece should be a 
 popular favourite. 
 
 OWD PIGEON. 
 
 "Till: RULING r\vs|,,\ STRONG IN DEATH." 
 
 Owd Pigeon wur as dry a brid 
 
 A- e\ er sw iped Ids drink ; 
 He liked to see a frothy pint 
 
 Smile at his nose, an' wink. 
 
 At morn or neet, "twur alus reet, 
 
 A quart, or pint, or gill 
 Win- th' same to him ; if tlf pot wur full 
 
 Ih never had hi- till.
 
 264 REVIEWS: 
 
 If e'er he geet his breeches' knees 
 
 Beneath a taproom table, 
 He'd sit, an' drink, an' smook, an' wink 
 
 As long as he wur able. 
 
 He'd grown so firm to th' alehouse nook, 
 
 An' swiped so mony mixtures, 
 That when it coom to changin' honds 
 
 He're reckoned among th' fixtures. 
 
 Whene'er their Betty brewed a " peck," 
 
 If he could find a jug, 
 He wouldno' wait till th' ale wur " tunned," 
 
 He'd lade it eawt o'th' mug. 
 
 One neet Owd Pigeon flew to'ard whoam, 
 
 Wi' a very wobblin' flutter ; 
 Sometimes he'd tumble into th' hedge, 
 
 An' sometimes into th' gutter. 
 
 He knew he're late, an' didno' want 
 
 Their Betty t' see a leet ; 
 So crept upstairs to bed i'th' dark, 
 
 An' in his stockin' feet. 
 
 He groped abeawt i'th' sleepin' cote, 
 
 An' felt for th' drawers an' th' bed ; 
 But nowt he touched till th' bedpost flew, 
 
 An' banged again his yead. 
 
 " Theigher," sa id Pigeon, " that's a goo : 
 There's someb'dy bin working charms ; 
 
 For it's th' fust time e'er I knew my nose 
 Wur longer than my arms." 
 
 But poor Owd Pigeon's time had come, 
 
 An' when his will he'd signt, 
 He said he ailed nowt nobbut " drooth," 
 
 An' begged for another pint. 
 
 His " rulin passion" stuck till death, 
 
 An' as th' Slayer raised his dart, 
 He licked his lips, an' faintly said, 
 
 " Just mak' it int' a quart. 
 
 I wouldno' care a pin for th' grave, 
 Though I'm totterin' upo' th' brink, 
 
 If T could come back wi' th' buiyin' folk, 
 And ha' my share o'th' drink." 
 
 "One neet Owd Pigeon flew to'ard whoam wi' a very wobblin' 
 flutter," is a very graphic .stroke indeed, and seldom has the 
 ruling passion in death been so powerfully, and at the same time 
 so humorously, depicted as in the last verse. In fact, Mr. 
 Briorley is so good in verse now and again that we wish he had 
 written more. 
 
 Although the tragic ending of poor "Owd Tigeon's " damp
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALECT POETS. 265 
 
 career inculcates a strong moral lesson, and makes the readei 
 
 resolve to 
 
 clasp his teeth, and ne'er undo 'em 
 
 To suffer wet damnation to run through 'em! 
 
 converting him, for the nonce, to downright teetotalism, he is 
 soon converted buck again by such humorous and genially-moisl 
 poems as " Whoam-brew.ed," and the author is evidently of the 
 
 same opinion as a greater dialect-poet that in case of a quarrel 
 
 It's aye the cheapesl lawyer's fee 
 To taste the barrel ! 
 when he says 
 
 Bui ii needs no hard feightin' to keep eaut a foe 
 When I truce wi' a mug o' whoam-brewed ! 
 
 And again 
 
 Care once coome a-neighbourin', an' pottert at th' dur ; 
 
 An' his nose into th 1 keyhole he screwed, 
 But he soon scampered hack to his feyther, the dale, 
 
 When he smelt I'd a mu^ o' whoam-brewed ! 
 
 Another popular favourite is " Fotchin' th' Keaws up;" and 
 no wonder, for it is as bright and sweet a little idyl as one could 
 meet with — fragrant as a spring-blossom, sly,Vpawkie," and so 
 brimming with healthy fun that we cannot help giving it in it- 
 entirety. Here it is — 
 
 FOTCHIN' TH' KEAWS UP. 
 
 One summer e'enin 
 
 When the screenin 
 Cleauds drew o'er the settin sun, 
 
 Madiie went trippin' 
 
 Eaut, o'th' shipp'n, 
 Fotchin th 1 keaws, as of! hood done. 
 
 In th' owd lane 
 
 Hoo met a swain 
 Pluckin blossoms from the spray. 
 
 •• Madge," said he, 
 
 " It's si range to see 
 Thee fotchin' th' keaws so late i'th ] day. 
 
 Madge said now I , 
 Yet 1 1 iily t howt 
 Ther summat wicked in hi- e'e : 
 
 I'.ul w hen her waist 
 He tightly pressed 
 Heaw could hoo Longer silent he? 
 
 Hoo said " Jim I >aw -on, 
 Eh, t heau taw se un, 
 
 What do'st think my mam'll say, 
 
 It hoo sees thee 
 < >ffer t ' squeeze me 
 
 Fotehin th' keaws up late i'lh day !
 
 266 REVIEWS 
 
 "■ Let me goo, Jim ; 
 
 Neaw then, do, Jim — 
 Aw've no time for stoppin here." 
 
 But the youth. 
 
 To tell the truth, 
 Wi' cobweb could ha' held her theere : 
 
 Then the gate 
 
 Was not too strait 
 For two to pass, an' goo ther way : 
 
 But who could pass 
 
 A bonny lass, 
 When fotchin' th' keaws up late i'th' day ? 
 
 "Madge," said Jim — 
 
 Whilst hoo to him 
 As closely clung as he to her — 
 
 " It's strange if time 
 
 I' th' summer's prime 
 An heaur to lovers conno spare. 
 
 If th' owd sun's gone, 
 
 Ther's th' young moon yon, 
 Stringin' silver beads on th' hay ; 
 
 An' thoos bits o' 
 
 Leet that flit so, 
 Are keaws hoo's fotchin' late i'th' day. 
 
 " Two cleauds meetin', 
 
 Neaw are greetin' ; 
 See 'em kissin' as they pass ! " 
 
 Madge, not thinkin' 
 
 111, said, shrinkin', 
 " Which is th' lad, an' which is th' lass ? " 
 
 " That," said Jim, 
 
 " Ut's breet an' slim, 
 Must be the lass, neaw on her way, 
 
 Spreadin' charms 
 
 O'er heaven's farms, 
 Whilst fotchin' th' keaws up late i'th' day." 
 
 'T had been a wonder, 
 
 An' a blunder, 
 Had the skies their lessons lost ; 
 
 If two cleauds, meetin', 
 
 Did o'th' greetin', 
 Why did Jim the maid accost ? 
 
 But oh ! the kisses, 
 
 And the blisses, 
 That took Madge's heart away ! 
 
 Neaw hoo's fain 
 
 Hoo met a swain 
 When fotchin' th' keaws up late i'th' day. 
 
 And here is a companion-picture, which we make no apology 
 for " annexing " in full.
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALECT POETS. 267 
 
 THOU'RT LONELY, MY JAMMIE. 
 
 Thou it lonely, my Jammie, art ill, or i' love? 
 
 Thou goes mopsin, an' sighin' aboul : 
 \n' thy clooae don'l lit thee as weel as tliey did — 
 
 Thou'rt like ii poor leet goin' out. 
 II. hi they vexed thee, or what make thy lip hang so low? 
 
 Or bast' lost o' thy marbles again ? 
 But they sigh noane o'er marbles nor fret when they're lost- 
 
 Thou'rt i' lovt : that to me is quite plain. 
 
 Thou'rt (piiek goin' out, but thou'rt slow eomin' in, 
 
 An' thy clogs seem too big for thy feet; 
 They're too heavy to trail when thou'rt gooin' t' thy wark, 
 
 But leetsome an' limber at neet. 
 An' thy nose aulus points to'ard Owd Johnny Brooke's farm, 
 
 As if pigeons wur flyin' o'er th' roof ; 
 But I think Johnny's lass has moore likins to thee, 
 
 At neet, when hoo's trippin' deawn th' cloof. 
 
 Thou'rt noane like thy feyther when he coome to me ; 
 
 He did no' stood starin' at nowt, 
 He'd ha' stood at th' heause-end, an' ha' whistled an' sung, 
 
 Till thy gronfeyther'd ha' punced him deawn th' fowt. 
 Then ha' shown up th' neet after as brazen t as brass, 
 
 An' into eaur heause chuckt his hat. 
 \i.iw , Jammie, if t' wants to get th' heart of a lass, 
 
 Show some pluek, an' hoo'll like thee for that. 
 
 Neaw go thy ways off, lad, an' come noane again, 
 
 Till wi' Jennie theau's made it o reet. 
 I know ut th' lass likes thee, but connot for shame 
 
 To ax thee t' walk eaut of a neet. 
 Owd Johnnie '11 no' like it when he gets to know ; 
 
 He thinks daisies an' mayfleawers o' .lane. 
 He'll grumble an' swear, but he'll hardly say "No," 
 
 When he comes to his senses again. 
 
 Jammie's off like a greyhound ut's just seen a hare, 
 
 An' what time he 11 come back nob'dy know-. 
 It Im's gone i' good yearnest 1 dunno' mich care, 
 
 Lesl owd Johnnie an' he come to blows. 
 Eh, this coortin's rough wark, hut I'd rayther twur so 
 
 Than this makkiif th' heause nice for him t' come: 
 There's honester sweethearts stood whistlin' at th' (\u\\ 
 
 Than are welcomed as if they in awhoam. 
 
 It s reet ! There's eaur Jammie. I know by his foot ; 
 
 < latch a mother not know in' by th' seaund. 
 An' he's managed his job ; suimnat towd me he'd do't, 
 
 An' we're gladsome an' happy o' reaund. 
 
 Come, Jammie, an' lutss thy owd mother i'th' nook, 
 
 There's nowt like a good, hone-t face; 
 1 knew if tlieau gan th' lass a fair lovin' look, 
 
 In her heart, lad, hoo'd lind thee a ]ilace.
 
 268 BE VIEW S.- 
 
 Mr. Brier! ey's "Go tak' th' Ragged Childer an' Flit," the 
 reverse side of the picture to Edwin Waugh's "Come Whoam to 
 thi Childer an' Me," is certainly amusing, and a clever parody. 
 
 In turning over his volume we notice that Mr. Brierley is- 
 rather fond of parody. Parody is always tempting, because it is 
 so easy ; but, like punning, it should be indulged in moderately. 
 We like better the pathetic pieces, in some of which the author 
 strikes a very deep chord, as in " The Fall of Sebastopol," " We 
 are on our journey home," and especially in " The Waverlow 
 Bells," illustrated by a very pretty vignette ; and with this we 
 must conclude our notice, congratulating Mr. Brierley, and 
 regretting only the typographical errors iri his pretty volume. 
 These, however, he will be able to correct in the next edition, 
 which we feel confident will very soon be called for 
 
 THE WAVERLOW BELLS. 
 
 Old Jammie and Ailse went a-down the brookside, 
 Arm-in-arm, as when young, before Ailse was a bride ; 
 And what made them pause near the Hollybank wells'.' 
 'Tvvas to list to the chimes of the Waverlow bells. 
 
 "How sweet," said old Jammie, " How sweet on the ear 
 Comes the ding-donging sound of yon curfew, my dear ! " 
 But old Ailse ne'er replies — for her bosom now swells — 
 Oh, she loved in her childhood those Waverlow bells ! 
 
 '• Thou remember'st," said Jammie, " the night we first met, 
 Near the Abbey Field gate — the old gate is there yet — 
 When we roamed in the moonlight, o'er fields and through dells,. 
 And our hearts beat along with the Waverlow bells. 
 
 " And then that wakes morning, so early at church, 
 When I led thee, a bride, through the old ivy [torch, 
 And our new home we made where the curate now dwells, 
 And we danced to the music of Waverlow bulls. 
 
 " And when that wakes morning came round the next year, 
 How we bore a sweet child to the christening font there ; 
 But our joy-peals soon changed to the saddesl of knells, 
 And we mourned at the sound of the Waverlow bells." 
 
 Then in silence, a moment, the old couple stood, 
 Their hearts in the churchyard, their eyes on the Hood ; 
 And the tear, as it starts, a sad memory tells — 
 Oh ! they heard a loved voice in those Waverlow bells." 
 
 "Our Ann," said old Ailse, " was the fairest of girls ; 
 She had heaven in her face, and the sun in her curls ; 
 Now she sleeps in a bed where the worm makes its cells, 
 And her lullaby's sung by the Waverlow bells."
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALECT POETS. 289 
 
 " Bui her soul," Jammie -aid, " she'd a soul in her eyes, 
 And their brightness is gone to it- home in the skies ; 
 We may meet her there yet, where the good Spirit dwells, 
 When we'll hear them do more those old Waverlow bells. 
 
 Once again— only once— this old couple were seen 
 >,, pping "in in the gloaming across the old green, 
 And to wander adown l>.\ the Hollybank welis, 
 Jusl to list to the chimes of the Waverlow bells. 
 
 Now the good folk> are sleeping beneath the cold sod, 
 But their souls are in bliss witfi their daughter and <iod, 
 And each maid in the village now mournfully tells 
 
 How old Jammie and Ailse loved the \Va\eilnw hells. 
 
 About the time that Ben Brierley began to sing there began to 
 sing another Lancashire "layrock," in the person of Samuel 
 Laycock, whose " warblin's " have continued up to the present; 
 and it is not a little remarkable that the two friendly rivals for 
 the Lancashire laureateship, equal in age as they are, should 
 have published their "warblings " simultaneously. 
 
 As just now hinted, the less intermittent of the two 
 " Songsters " has been Mr. Laycock, whose "Warblin's fro' an' 
 owd Songster " make a bulky, well-printed, and " taking "volume 
 ■of something under four hundred pages. The book is also 
 illustrated, though we fail to discern in the pictorial part any 
 striking merit. The best illustration is undoubtedly Mr. George 
 Perkins's "Bonny Brid," and here the " Brid " appears to us of 
 phenomenal size for a " new arrival ! " The poet must have 
 misled the painter, for there is an incongruous element in Mr. 
 Laycock's " Bonny Brid "that we shall have the less hesitation 
 in pointing out to him that we have an extreme admiration for 
 this poem in most other respects. Indeed, we are inclined to 
 think that there is no short poem in the dialect which has gone 
 so straight to the heart of work-a-day Lancashire; and certainly 
 there is not, in Mr. Laycock's very thick volume, a poem in which 
 we find his peculiar excellencies so conspicuous. These 
 excellencies are : transparent simplicity as regards expression, 
 directness of stroke, and humour of the slyest ; but here is the 
 poem :
 
 270 REVIEWS: 
 
 WELCOME, BONNY BRID ! 
 
 TV art welcome, little bonny brid, 
 
 But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did ; 
 
 Toimes .are bad. 
 We're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe, 
 But that, of course, tha didn't know, 
 
 Did ta, lad ? 
 
 Aw've often yeard mi feyther tell, 
 At when aw coom i' th' world misel' 
 
 Trade were slack ; 
 An' neaw it's hard wark pooin throo — 
 But I munno fear thee, if aw do 
 
 Tha'll go back. 
 
 Cheer up ! these toimes '11 awter soon ; 
 Aw'm beawn to heigh another spoon — 
 
 One for thee ; 
 An', as tha's sich a pratty face 
 Aw'll let thee have eawr Charley's place 
 , On mi knee. 
 
 Cod bless thee, love, aw'm fain tha'rt come, 
 Just try an' mak' thisel awhoam : 
 
 Here's thi nest ; 
 Tha'rt loike thi mother to a tee, 
 But tha's thi fayther's nose, aw see, 
 
 Well, aw'm blest ! 
 
 Come, come, tha needn't look so shy, 
 Aw am no blamin' thee, not I ; 
 
 Settle deawn, 
 An tak' this haupney for thisel, 
 There's lots o' sugar-sticks to sell 
 
 Deawn i' th' teawn. 
 
 Aw know when furstaw coom to th' leet 
 Aw're fond o' owt at tasted sweet ; 
 
 Tha'll be th' same. 
 But come, tha's never towd thi dad 
 What he's to co' thee yet, mi lad — 
 What's thi' name ? 
 
 Hush ! hush ! tha musn't cry this way, 
 But get this sope o' cinder tay 
 
 While it's warm ; 
 Mi mother used to give it me, 
 When aw wur sich a lad as thee 
 
 In her arm. 
 
 Hush-a-babby, hush-a-l>ee, — 
 Oh, what temper ! dear-a-me 
 
 Heaw tha skrikes! 
 Here's a bit o' sugar, sithee ; 
 Howd thi noise, and then aw'll gie thee 
 
 ( >wt tha likes.
 
 LANCASHIRE DIALECT POETS. 271 
 
 We've nobbut jjetten coarsish fare, 
 
 But euwt o' this tli.i'll get tlii share, 
 Never fear. 
 
 Aw hope tha'll never want a meal, 
 Butallis till thi bally weel 
 
 While tha'rt In re. 
 
 Thi feyther's noun heen wed so long, 
 And vet tha sees he's middlin 1 throng 
 
 \\\ yo o. 
 Besides thi little brother Ted, 
 We've one upsteers, asleep i' bed 
 
 Wi' eawr Joe. 
 
 I Jut tho' we've childer two or three, 
 We'll mak' a bit o' reawm for thee, 
 
 Bless thee, lad ! 
 Tha'rt prattiest brid we have i' th' nest, 
 So hutch up closer to mi breast ; 
 
 Aw'in thi dad. 
 
 Iii the fifth stanza of the above poem it will be seen that Mr. 
 Laycock addresses his newly-arrived baby as if the infant were 
 capable of understanding the value of money and what it will 
 buy ; in this consists the incongruous element referred to, and 
 we very sincerely regret this blur upon a poem in which humour 
 and pathos are so delicately and beautifully blended. Even as it 
 is, the author so powerfully awakens our interest in his " Bonny 
 Brid " that we mentally follow the " lad's "career, and are anxious 
 about his welfare. But we find in the sequel that the " lad " 
 who arrived in the world so untimely has developed into a hand- 
 some young woman, and become the worthy spouse' of a worthy 
 husband. (Sec " The Bonny Brid's Wedding Day.") But these 
 are only " spots on the sun ;" and this reminds us of Mr. 
 Laycock's fine tribute in the dialect to that glorious orb. We 
 refer to his " Ode to th' Sun," which is so widely and justly 
 admired. 
 
 Mr. Trevor, in his appreciative and sympathetic preface to the 
 " Warblin's," states that the Lancashire dialect does not readily 
 lend itself to descriptions of the grand in nature. That may be 
 so, but who knows what a genius of the first order might do in 
 that direction, even with the homely folk-speech of Lancashire. 
 See how Burns, in his "Address to the Deil," overcomes the 
 apparently insuperable difficulties presented by the homely
 
 272 REVIEWS: 
 
 Saxon idiom of the south of Scotland. Was ever a more sub- 
 lime picture drawn, in so few words, than in the fourth and fifth 
 stanzas of that extraordinary poem 1 
 
 But the difficulty of combining the humorous with the sublime 
 is a serious one, and in attempting the task all but the greatest 
 poets are constantly treading on the verge of anticlimax. Mr. 
 Laycock, in the " Ode " referred to, effects a very happy com- 
 promise, and has given us, in the Lancashire dialect, a poem 
 which does him great honour. We quote it in full. 
 
 ODE TO TH' SUN. 
 
 Hail, owd friend ! awm fain to see thee ; 
 
 Wheer has t' been so monny days ? 
 Lots o' toimes aw've looked up for thee, 
 
 Wishin' aw could see thi face. 
 Th' little childer reawn abeawt here, 
 
 Say they wonder wheer tha'rt gone ; 
 An' they wanten me to ax thee 
 
 T" show tinsel' as oft as t' con. 
 
 Come an' see us every mornin' ; 
 
 Come, these droopin' spirits cheer : 
 Peep thro' every cottage window ; 
 
 Tha'll be welcome every wheer. 
 Show tinsel' i' o' thi splendour ; 
 
 Throw that gloomy veil aside ; 
 What dost creep to th' back o' th' cleawds for ? 
 
 Tha's no fau'ts nor nowt to hide. 
 
 Flashy clooas an' bits of finery 
 
 Help to mend sich loike as me : 
 Veils improve some women's faces, 
 
 But, owd friend, they'll noan mend thee. 
 Things deawn here 'at we co'n pratty 
 
 Soon begin to spoil an* fade ; 
 But tha still keeps up thi polish, 
 
 Tha'rt as breet as when new made. 
 
 Tha wur theer when th' hosts o' heaven 
 
 Sweetly sang their mornin' song ; 
 But tha looks as young as ever, 
 
 Tho' tha's bin up theer so long, 
 An' for ages tha's bin shinin' — 
 
 Smilin o' thi* world o' eawrs ; 
 Blessin' everythin' tha looks on, 
 
 Makin' th' fruit grow— oppenin' th' fieawers. 
 
 It wur thee at' Adam looked on, 
 When i'th' garden hi' hissel' ; 
 
 An' tha smoiled upon his labour- 
 Happen helped him— who can tell 
 
 •>
 
 /. [NCASHIRE DIALECT POETS. 273 
 
 It wur thee 'al Joshua -poke to 
 
 On hi- way to th' promised laud ; 
 When, as 1 1 1 " good owd Bible tells as, 
 
 Tlu-iiw obeyed his strange command. 
 
 I'lia'll ha' seen some curious antics 
 Played deawn here hi' th' human race ; 
 
 Si itne tha couldn't hear to look on, 
 For tha shawmed an 1 hid thi' face. 
 
 Mon\ a toinie I see thee Muslim' 
 
 When tha'it Leavin' usatneet: 
 An' no wonder, for tha's noticed 
 
 Things we'n done 'at's noan been reet. 
 
 After o' tha comes to own us, 
 
 Tho' we do so mich 'at's wrong ; 
 Even aeaw tha'rt shinin 1 breetly — 
 
 I Llpin' me to write this song. 
 Heaw refreshin' ! heaw revivin' ! 
 
 Stay as long as ever t' con ; 
 We shall noan fee] haw ve as happy, 
 
 llawveas leetsome, when tha'rt gone. 
 
 Oh ! for th' sake o' foak 'at's poorly, 
 
 Come, an' cheer us wi' thi' rays ; 
 We forgetten 'at we ail owt 
 
 When we see thy dear owd face. 
 Every mornin' when its glooim 
 
 Lotso' foak are seen aheawt ; 
 Some at th' door-steep>, some at th' windows, 
 
 Watchin' for thee peepin' eawt. 
 
 There are others of Mr. Laycock's poems we should like to 
 -consider, such as " Bowton's Yard," — a popular favourite, and 
 " Thee and Me," but we must leave them for the present. 
 
 In glancing at the titles of many of the pieces one is painfully 
 reminded of that time of dire distress in the cotton districts 
 caused by the civil war in America — a time burnt into the 
 memory of thousands still living, but the trials of which served 
 only to prove, and place in clear light, the sterling metal of 
 which our Lancashire people are made. 
 
 Some finical and fastidious critics are apt to despise "dialect - 
 of all kinds, and also all writers who clothe their ideas in what 
 these eclectics pronounce to be " vulgar language." There are 
 among them, indeed, those who carry their fastidiousness to the 
 point of censuring all writers who deal with so-called "low life" 
 in any form. Nay, we have even heard this complaint urged 
 against authors of the highest rank, and of European fame. 
 
 R
 
 274 REVIEWS: 
 
 And as it is in the present, so it was in the past. When Jean 
 Paul the Only was giving forth to the astonished Germans those 
 singular compositions of his which, for want of a better word to- 
 describe them, we are in the habit of calling " novels," it was 
 objected by his critics that the author had this great fault among 
 a crowd of others, viz., that he drew his characters almost exclu- 
 sively from the lowest ranks of society, and that his works were 
 consequently little more than the "annals of the poor." The 
 same objection has often been taken by English critics to the 
 novels of Dickens. But surely in neither case can this objec- 
 tion be upheld, for seeing that the " annals of the poor " must 
 always be the history of the great mass of the human family, so 
 must they be of account and importance in proportion. More- 
 over, the function of the novelist, in these days above all when 
 the novel is the popular literary vehicle, is, or ought to be, not 
 merely to amuse but to teach, instruct and elevate mankind. 
 As a great poet says : 
 
 He serves the Muses erringly and ill 
 Whose aim is pleasure, light and fugitive. 
 
 And as the lowest ranks of society are usually assumed to be 
 those who stand in most need of teaching, it follows that the 
 writer who chooses his themes and draws his characters from 
 among the common people thereby shows his superior judgment 
 and special aptitude. 
 
 This being assumed, it becomes of the first importance to get 
 as near as may be to the hearth and heart of these common 
 people (the phrase, of course, being used here in no invidious 
 sense). To this end undoubtedly contributes the use of dialects 
 so-called, that is to say, the very mother-speech of the people 
 themselves. 
 
 Messrs. Brierley and Laycock have mainly written in the 
 humble language of the cottage of the humble joys of the 
 cottager ; but it is the cottagers that make a nation. Therefore 
 
 Let not the rich deride, the proud' disdain, 
 These humble blessings of the lowly, train. 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
 One native charm than all the gloss of art.
 
 LAX' AS ////:/■; DIALECT POETS. 273- 
 
 Mr. Brierley is a Lancashire man, ;m<l is claimed by Fails 
 
 worth, near Manchester. Mr. Laycock, though claimed by 
 Lancashire, is a Yorkshireman by birth, having first seen the 
 light in the hilly and romantic district of Marsden ; and indeed 
 his writings breathe all the sturdy independence and self-reliance 
 
 of the men of the Yorkshire highland-. We heartily congratu- 
 late both the " Owd Songsters," and Lancashire upon having two 
 such singers. 
 
 5% 
 
 r2
 
 276 REVIEWS : 
 
 ROSSENDALE FOREST.* 
 
 ^TfHLS is a book of a sort we want more of, written by a 
 vl^ gentleman of a class we could wish more numerous — the 
 class, namely, who show to the world that it is possible to 
 combine — an impossible combination in the view of those of 
 narrow comprehension — a large capacity for affairs and the 
 practical business of the world with literary tastes ; and not only 
 literary tastes but literary accomplishments. And well it is for 
 Manchester that she should have such men in her midst, in face 
 of the charge so often levelled against her, that she is wholly 
 o-iven over to the sordid and the grovelling. Even one of the 
 more distinguished of her own sons — Mr. Hepworth Dixon — 
 could say, thirty years ago : " In no other place is a man so 
 estimated by the mere amount of money he happens fco possess 
 as in Cottonopolis." All honour, then, to those who help in so 
 large a degree to clear Manchester from the aspersions of her own 
 children. And why should we neglect the cultivation of faculties 
 which, under due discipline, do not militate against, but are con- 
 tributive rather, to success in affairs, in so practical a city as that 
 in which we are now writing 1 This by the way. 
 
 Singular it is that so large a proportion of our local histories 
 should be written by people not native to the districts they take 
 .such pains, and apparently such loving pains, to describe and 
 make known to the world. Should you happen to be travelling 
 through the country and mks your way, of a surety the first 
 man you meet and ask to set you right will tell you that he is 
 
 * " History of the Forest of Rossendale," by Thomas Newbiggiug, 2nd 
 Edition, Illustrated, J. •). Riley, Ravvtenstall, 1S93.
 
 ROSSENDALE FOREST. 277 
 
 "a stranger in that p;u-t," and can give you "no directions!'" 
 
 This indeed happens with ludicrous, and even provoking, 
 frequency. But on paper, and in books, it is different : seek for 
 information as to the geography, topography, or history of thi- 
 ne that locality, and the chances are the information you seek, 
 and a good deal more, will be supplied you either by somebody 
 who is an entire stranger, or by some mere temporary resident in 
 that particular district. Witness, for a near example, the 
 Histories of Prestwich and Blackley, by the Rev. Mr. Hooker. 
 
 And now we have the second edition, got up in most luxurious 
 style as to paper, type, and illustration, of the " History of the 
 Forest of Rossendale," by Mr. Thomas Newbigging, who is him- 
 self no "Forester," but who, through the accident — fortunate 
 for us — of a temporary residence in Rossendale, has been enabled 
 to give us a fairly complete, and certainly interesting history, 
 past and present, of the "Forest," and of its past and present 
 inhabitants. We say " fairly complete," for of course to give a 
 complete history would be impossible. Hardly could Mr. New- 
 bigging have taken greater pains in dealing with Rossendale 
 history— place and people — had he been native to the soil. 
 
 This at first seems strange, as we remarked in the outset, but 
 on reflection the wonder lessens ; for the peculiar and special 
 characteristics of any given district, whether as to soil or people,, 
 are more likely to strike a new comer than one who has been 
 familiar with place and people from his birth. Xor is the 
 advantage small to us of thus being made to see ourselves as 
 folk see us from the outside. 
 
 Mr. Newbigging, however, though not a "Rossendale Forester," 
 is scarcely to be classed as an " outsider," for a residence of 
 something like twenty years in the "Forest" has given him 
 opportunities of studying at considerable leisure both place and 
 people ; and the result is, as we said before, a very interesting 
 history of a very remarkable district. 
 
 Remarkable indeed, for on the verge of this region of rugged 
 rock and brown heather — trees being conspicuous by their
 
 278 REVIEWS: 
 
 absence — bubbles forth the infant Invell — a spring at first, a 
 torrent, a stream, a wide river, and then the sea — feeding and 
 serving, in his winding course, the mightiest industry in the 
 world. Interesting indeed is Mr. Newbigging's history, but 
 interesting above all to those of us who have been familiar with 
 the region he describes, as likewise its people, for half a 
 century — who have trod the treeless " Forest " under every light of 
 sun, and moon, and stars, and under all the changing conditions 
 of storm and shine — who remember in the flesh the Holts, 
 the Heyworths, the Hardmans, and the Hoyles (including 
 "old Joshua,") the Munns and the Madens, a legion of Lords j 
 and more than one notable character that we miss even 
 from Mr. Newbigging's pages. But as we read these pages, 
 what a crowd of " old, familiar faces " of Bacup and the 
 Rossendale Valley rise up before us ! Stalwart of build, sturdy 
 of limb, round and ruddy of visage, simple in habit and in 
 speech, largely hospitable at home, but steady, shrewd, and 
 sagacious at business, were those old Rossendale folk as we 
 knew them fifty years ago ; and to wish that their descendants 
 should resemble them in the possession of the above sterling 
 qualities were the best wish for them as for ourselves. 
 
 As above hinted, Mi. Newbigging has sketched Avith hand 
 well-skilled, and an imagination well reined-in, the Rossendale 
 of the past — when the whole district from Rawtenstall to 
 Sharneyford was marsh, or wood, or both ; and later, when the 
 "Forest" was the resort of mighty hunters of the wild boar and 
 the deer. But one of the chapters likely to be of special interest 
 to Manchester readers is that on the River Irwell and its 
 mountain-source ; and from this chapter we purpose to draw at 
 some length. 
 
 The honour of giving birth to this famous stream, though 
 claimed by Rossendale, remains with Cliviger, from which rocky 
 region flow also the East and West Calders : and Tim Bobbin's 
 " Rosscnda' man " must have referred to this when, being asked 
 where he wunned (lived), replied : " I wun at th : Riggin' o' th' 
 Woarld— at th' Riggin' o' th' Woarld— for th' weter o' th' tone
 
 R0S8ENDALE FOREST. 278 
 
 Xeosing Eawa into th' Veeost, on th' tother into th' Wesl Seo." 
 
 "The River [rwell," saya Mr. Newbigging, 
 
 bakes its rise in Cliviger (<t) in a large tract of moorland, to the righl 
 of, ami including Derplay Hill, the whole of which originally constituted 
 a part of tlif Forest. Owing, however, to the carelessness or indifl 
 of tin' proprietors residing in Bacup Booth, which at one time embraced 
 what is now a port ion of ChA iger, «>r probably to thr superior cunning or 
 unscrupulousness of those of the latter, this extensive tracl was lost to 
 Rossendale and became a partoi Cliviger. 
 
 It would appear thai in the earlier years of the reign of Edward IV., 
 tin- meres marking the boundaries between Cliviger and the Forest bad 
 been wrongfully extended into Bacup Booth : and although the pro- 
 prietors of the latter during the reign of Elizabeth instituted a suit for 
 the recovery of this part of the common, a prescriptive righl was 
 established against them. 
 
 The original boundary between divider and the Forest of Rossendale 
 (states Dr. Whittaker) was uii<|iiestiunal>ly the old dyke which traverses 
 the ridge of the hill nearly from east to west, by Pikelaw. The free- 
 holders of Cliviger, however, are now possessed of a large tracl of moor- 
 ground on the other side; a poor compensation for the loss of their 
 freehold rights in all their ancient commons, which the acquirement of 
 this occasioned. 
 
 In the earlier part of the reign of < ( >ueen Elizabeth, a suit was instituted 
 by the proprietors of the vaccary of Horelaw Head, otherwise Bacop 
 Booth, against those of Cliviger, to recover this parcel of common, on 
 the following grounds : — 
 
 In the suit referred to— 
 
 It appeared from the evidence of several ancient persons, who 
 remembered the boundaries before the disforesting of Rossendale, thai 
 the meres (/>) lay from Tower Hill (near Bearnshaw Tower) to Hag-gate, 
 or the old road along the Ilaia Dominicalis, still called old Dyke, thence 
 to Routandclough Head, thence to Pike Law, and thence to Derplay 
 Hill. And this division nature as well as tradition pointed out. 
 
 But on the other hand, it was proved on the behalf of Cliviger that, 
 about sixty years before, certain marked stones then remaining, and 
 including the disputed ground, had been laid as Meres by Sir John 
 Towneley, knight, in the presence of Sir Peter Legh, steward of the 
 llomn of Clitheroe, and Sir John Booth, receiver. 
 
 Secondly, it appeared from court-rolls, that two acres of land, parcel ot 
 the tw o hundred and forty acres in dispute, had been granted to Kolicri 
 Whitaker, of Holme, as part of the common of Cliviger within Dirpley 
 Graining, Anno 17 Edward IV., and two acres more to Thomas, his son, 
 Anno . . . Henry VII. 
 
 To all these things the people of the vaccary replied, that they were 
 done without their knowledge or privity. 
 
 On the whole, there can lie no doubt that the Old Dyke had been the 
 original boundary of the forest, bul that the meres of Cliviger had been 
 wrongfully extended at some indefinite period before the 17th of Edward 
 [V., in consequence of which a prescription was established against the 
 
 Foresters. 
 
 " Formerly Clivacher (Anglo-Saxon) rocky field. 
 (I>) Mere- or Meers : lakes or other waters: but the term i- often 
 applied to dykes or stones set up to mark the bounds of property.
 
 280 REVIEWS: 
 
 Under this impression, therefore, they abandoned the suit, and con- 
 sented to enclose along the meres which Sir John Townley had laid : and 
 the outfence then built forms the present boundary, (c) 
 
 The quaint reference to the Irwell, by Harrison, in his- 
 
 Description of England, quoted by Mr. Newbigging, is worth 
 
 reproducing here : 
 
 Harrison, in his Description of England, remarks: — "The Irwell is a 
 notable water which riseth above Bacop, and goeth thence to Rossendale, 
 and in the way to Aytentielde it taketh in a water from Haselden. After 
 this confluence, it goeth to Newhall, Brandlesham, Bury, and above 
 Ratcliffe joineth with the Rache water, a fair stream. Being therefore 
 past these two, our Irwell goeth on to Clifton, Holland, Edgecroft,. 
 Strangways, and to Manchester, where it uniteth with the Yrke, that 
 runneth thereinto, by Royton, Middleton, Heaton Hill, and Blakeley. 
 Beneath Manchester also it meeteth with the Medlocke, that cometh 
 thither from the N.E. side of Oldham, and between Clayton and Garrett 
 Halls, and so between two parks falling into it about Holm. Thence our 
 Irwell goeth forward to Woodsall, Whicleswijc, Eccles, Barton, and 
 Denelham, it falleth near unto Flixton in to the waters of the Mersey. 
 
 Yrke, Irwell. Medlock, and Tame, 
 
 When thej' meet with the Mersey, do lose their name !" 
 
 In giving the speculations of a number of writers, living and 
 dead, as to the origin of the names "Irwell," and "Rossendale," 
 Mr. Newbigging has refrained from pinning his faith to any one 
 of them. And in doing so he has acted wisely. The etymology 
 of place-names is indeed an alluring study ; but like the ignis 
 fatnus, it lures the student, as a rule, only to his own destruction 
 — into a quaking bog in which, nine cases out of ten, he is bound 
 to sink beyond all help or hope. 
 
 The double source of the famous river — famous at least by its- 
 associations— -is thus referred to : — 
 
 The Irwell, it should be not3d, has really two sources or springs, 
 separated by a few hundred yards, on Derpley Moor, down which the 
 rivulets flow, uniting near to the present boundary of Bacup Booth. Its 
 five principal tributaries within the confines of Rossendale are (1) Tong 
 Brook, which rises in the moors of Tooter Hill and Sharneyford, flows 
 down Greave Clough, and joins the Irwell at Bacup Fold. (2) Coupe 
 Brook, rising in the Brandwood Moors and falling into the main stream 
 at Waterfoot. (3) The river Whitewell, having its source on the hill 
 slope overlooking the dinger Valley, and not far distant from the spring 
 of the Irwell. It flows down the Lumb and Whitewell Valleys, and falls 
 into the Irwell also at Waterfoot. (4) The Limy Water, which rises in 
 the moors above Dunnockshaw, and, traversing the Crawshaw-booth 
 valley, joins the Irwell at Rawtenstall. (5) Balladen Brook, which forme 
 the boundary of Rossendale to the south-west ; this, coming down from 
 the adjacent heights, falls into the Irwell near to Townsend Fold. 
 
 {<■) Hist. Whalley, pp. 365, 366.
 
 ROSSES DALE FOREST, 231: 
 
 Wc spoke of the "associations" of the [rwelL Inspired by 
 
 these, Mr. Newbigging writes eloquently : — 
 
 Fitting emblem of true greatness, the river springs from its parent bed 
 on tlie bleak hillside : no enchanting scenery di-t inguishes the place of its 
 rise; it is tlie sole fruitful offspring of a »terile and uninviting tract of 
 country. Neither throughout its whole course does it meander through 
 delicious wildernesses of rural beauty, fringed by overhanging foliage, 01 
 embroidered with wide-reaching acres of velvet lawn. Far other scenes 
 the bounteous river affects : the abodes of men, the forests of piled -ton. -. 
 where Labour lives and thrives, and where the incense of Vulcan's fires 
 continually ascends > where the busy hammer is heard to reverberate ; 
 where the endless whirr of the spindle, and the unceasing tumult of the 
 loom, with all their generous produce, bring gladness to the pale mechanic's 
 hearth, and light up with cheerful glow the humble fireside of the thrifty 
 operative. Having more of the useful than the ornamental in its com- 
 position, the Irwell is a coble work-a-day river, with smutty face, winning 
 the children's bread. 
 
 But there are occasional landscapes still to be found of great 
 beauty by Irwell's banks, even near the giant city ; as, for 
 example, between Clifton and Agecroft, where for some distance 
 the " sable stream " runs all but parallel with the Drinkwater 
 woods, and forward to Kersal Cell: and again where it flows 
 in its sinuous course through the green meadows of lower 
 Kersal and under the red sandstone of Broughton Cliff*, making 
 a salient figure in a landscape of surpassing beauty, and one 
 not to be dreamt of b} r a stranger to north-west Manchester. 
 
 In the meantime, as to omissions in this History, we must 
 regret that both the chapter on the geology of the district and 
 that on the botany, appearing in the first edition, shotdd have 
 been left out of the present one. Mr. John Aitken's sketch of 
 the geological features of Kossendale is of permanent value ; but 
 as to the chapter on the botany of the district, it could only have 
 had a relative value at best, for the floras of the different areas 
 in our manufacturing districts are changing, in the sense of dim- 
 inishing, to an extent that may well make the heart of the local 
 botanist sink within him. Not oidy are the once sturdy trees of 
 the forest disappearing but even the lowest and tiniest forms of 
 vegetable life ; and the diminution proceeds among the marsh 
 plants of the high moorlands as well as among those of the hill- 
 slopes and valleys. Incredible, indeed, to those unfamiliar with 
 
 The geological formation of Broughton Cliff is the New Red Sandstone.
 
 282 REVIEWS: 
 
 these regions, and the climatic influences operating, is the 
 destruction of species that has taken place within the past half 
 century. Hundreds of rare species have been entirely ex- 
 tinguished, while numbers that were once common have become 
 rare. To plant the larch now where five-and-forty years ago it 
 flourished would be madness ; and the curious sun-dew of the 
 
 v 
 
 high moors is getting ever rarer and rarer. 
 
 To the botanist who is curiously disposed and has the requisite 
 leisure, Ave commend this as an interesting subject of study, viz., 
 the effect upon our local floras, in their different areas, within 
 given dates, of the smoke, sulphurous acids, and other impurities 
 in the atmosphere, resulting from our wide-spread manufactures. 
 The result of such enquiry could not fail to be most instructive- 
 
 In turning over the pages of this " History " (with its noble- 
 list of nearly a thousand subscribers) a second time, the thought 
 recurs to us : " Why have we not more histories of a similar 
 character? Are the many other teeming ' dales ' that surround 
 Rossendale, on the Lancashire and Yorkshire border, absolutely 
 void of historical interest ? Are the sayings and doings of their 
 past and present inhabitants wholly unworthy of record 1 Are 
 the people, generally speaking, less energetic, less enterprising, 
 less ingenious 1 " 
 
 e>> 
 
 Whilst denying, on their behalf, the charge last hinted, we are 
 yet afraid that the final explanation would be little flattering to 
 the inhabitants of these valleys. The inevitable conclusion is 
 that there is no amor patrice, no public spirit, no strong local 
 attachment prevailing among them ■ but on the contrary a quite 
 mercenary spirit, and a cold and culpable indifference as to what 
 their country may at any time have been, or what their fore- 
 fathers may have done. The more honour to those, like the 
 good folk of the " Rossendale Valley " (to use a common pleonasm) 
 who, though inhabiting a region the physical aspect of which is 
 bare and bald, and "stony " to a degree, being as the Rev. John 
 Wesley described it in his day, " little more than a chain of
 
 ROSSENDALE FOREST. 283 
 
 mountains,"* and with a raw and damp climate, 1 * have yet the 
 public spirit, and the worthiness, to help in the production of a 
 "History" of their native "dale," and its pasl and present 
 inhabitants, though it proceed from the pen of one who is himself 
 not native to the soil of the " Forest." 
 
 We intended, at the outset, to give an imaginary outline-sketch 
 of "Rossendale Forest" in those earlier ages when 
 stalked the huge deer*** to hi* shaggy lair, 
 
 Through paths and alleys roofed « iili somb a ; 
 
 Thousands of years before the silent air 
 Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen ! 
 
 but not only do exigencies of space forbid this, but Ave are afraid 
 our imagination might run away with us; besides, for a sketch 
 of the primaeval " Forest," the leader need only turn to Mr. 
 N < ■ wl n'ggi ng's pages. 
 
 To resume our notice, it is well-known that Rossendale has 
 long been a seat of woollen manufacture. Mr. Newbigging 
 informs us that this manufacture was introduced there in the 
 latter years of the reign of Henry the Eighth; and we are told 
 that in lieu of oil, which was difficult and expensive to procure, 
 the wool was greased with butter raised from the farms. There 
 was also some silk-weaving done in the dale in the early part of 
 this century, and gingham-weaving. As to the cotton manu 
 
 The hills in the neighbourhood ot Rossendale, according to Mr. 
 Newbigging, have the following elevations above the sea-luvel : — Pendle 
 Hill, 1831 : Top of Leach, 1550 ; Whittle Pike, 1534 ; Higher Hill, 1500 ; 
 Trough Edge End, near Hogshead Law, 1475 ; Thievely Like, 1474; 
 Ih.U'shead Law, 1460 ; Coupe Law, 1438 ; Derplay Hill, 1429 ; Tooter Hill, 
 1420; Heald Moor, 1417: Flower Scar Hill,' 1380; IV Edge, 1350; 
 Holcombe Hill, 1162 ; and Musbury Tor, 1115— Tow qs a- Follows : Bacup 
 (St. John"s Church), 849; New Church, 794: Haslingden (Commercial 
 Inn), 794; Kawtenstall (Church), 557; Ramsbottom, 433; Todmorden, 
 409 ; Burnley (Church), 388. 
 
 Mr. Newbigging has some interesting references to the heavy 
 rainfall in Rossendale. He sums up his obsen at ions as follows : " Taking 
 the rainfall, as stated, at 40 inches, no less a quantity than 2,592,844 tons 
 of water is thus deposited annually on every square mile of surface in 
 Rossendale ; or for its entire area, the enormous total of 79,003,956 tons ! 
 
 *** Wordsworth here refers to the " lei t li, " a gigantic species of deer 
 long extinct.
 
 2S4 REVIEWS : 
 
 facture, our historian thinks there is good reason for conjecturing 
 that no cotton goods were manufactured in Rossendale prior to 
 the year 1770. How enormously that trade has since developed, 
 and especially since the introduction of railways, the presence 
 of a forest of chimneys where was once a forest of trees bears 
 witness. 
 
 But whatever material prosperity may have accrued to the 
 " Foresters " through the introduction of the so-called "mighty 
 engine of progress," there are, along with ourselves, those who 
 delight to recall the preceding period, when Rossendale— a 
 sequestered valley among the mountains of the Lancashire border 
 — presented a picture of almost complete isolation, while its 
 inhabitants offered a rare gallery of " character studies." Blowsed 
 and ruddy of visage, they rise up before us in long succession. 
 Eccentric they were not, for their characteristics were the direct 
 and natural outgrowth of their surroundings ; and as that deli- 
 cate flower, the heather-bell, offers a strong contrast to the brown 
 moorlands it adorns, so was the rudeness of these primitive 
 people often relieved by traits so soft and tender that one loves 
 to dwell upon them in memory. Speaking even of a later time 
 than that to which we refer, Mr. Newbigging can say : "To me, 
 when I first knew them, the old people of Rossendale always 
 seemed to differ in many respects from the people of other dis- 
 tricts. . . . The older representatives of whom I speak are- 
 fast dying out, and the younger generation has lost, or is losing, 
 the distinguishing characteristics of the race." 
 
 For the reason above stated, old Saxon customs that had long 
 been obsolete elsewhere survived in Rossendale till quite lately ; 
 and Mr. Newbigging describes as " the last of the Ale-tasters " 
 one Richard Taylor, or " Spindle Dick," as he was usually termed,, 
 from the nature of his calling, spindle making. 
 
 " In Dick's hands there was nothing incongruous or far-fetched 
 in the office of ale-taster. Its duties, incrusted with the antiquity 
 of centuries, came as naturally to him as though he had been 
 living in the time of the Heptarchy, and was 'to the manner
 
 ROSSENDALE FOREST. 285 
 
 born. 5 The incongruity was when he forsook, as lie occasionally 
 did, his ale tasting labours, and applied himself to his business of 
 spindle-making. 
 
 "At one time in his career Dick kept a beer-house, the sign 
 oyit thr door being a representation of the globe, with the head 
 and shoulders of a man protruding through it, and underneath it 
 the legend, ' Help me through this world ! ' By way of counter- 
 acting any bad moral effects that arose from his vending of beer 
 on week-days, he taught a Bible class in a room over the beer- 
 shop on Sundays. He christened one of his sons 'Gentleman' 
 — Gentleman Taylor— being determined, as he said, to have one 
 gentleman in the family, whatever else." 
 
 Another Rossendale character was " Ab' o' th Yate" — not our 
 lively " Lancashire Ben," but quite another person. In connection 
 with "Old Ab'," it is related that when he was being baptised, 
 by immersion in the waters of the river Irwell (at Lumb-head), an 
 irreverent wag placed a prickly thorn at the bottom of the pool ; 
 and when "Ab"' complained of the injuries he had sustained in 
 the process of immersion he was consoled with the assurance that 
 it must have been his sins that were pricking him ! 
 
 Speaking of baptism, we are reminded that the Baptist body 
 were settled very early in Rossendale, viz., in 1672 ; indeed, prior 
 to the establishment of the Baptist Denomination there, so far as 
 can be gleaned, no place of worship of any kind existed in Bacup. 
 
 Methodism — the " Xew Sort of Preachers," as they were then 
 
 termed, for the name "Methodist" had not yet been applied to 
 
 them— was introduced about the middle of the next century. In 
 
 the year 1774, we are told that a certain leader of the "New 
 
 Sort," Mr. William 1 >ai ney, " preached for the first time in that 
 
 part of the country at Heap Barn, situated in the fields, a little 
 
 to the northwest of Sharneyford, on the Todmorden road." In 
 
 1761, John Wesley opened the first Methodist Chapel in the 
 
 "Forest." as witness the entry in his "Journal '': — 
 
 "Tuesday, July, 1761. — About noon. I preached at Bacup, a village in 
 Rossendale. The new preaching-bouse is large, hut not large enough feo 
 contain the congregation. "
 
 286 REVIEWS: 
 
 Another extract from the same Journal refers to a previous 
 visit : — 
 
 " Thursday, May 7th, 1747. — We left the mountains (around Todmor- 
 den), and came down the fruitful valley of Rossendale. Here I preached 
 to a large congregation of wild men ; but it pleased God to hold them in 
 chains. So that even when I had done, none offered any rudeness, but 
 all went quietly away." 
 
 And again, at a much later period : — 
 
 " Wednesday, August 30th, 1766. — I rode (from Padiham) to Rossen- 
 dale, which, notwithstanding its name, is little else than a chain of 
 mountains. The rain in the evening obliged me to preach in the new 
 house near a village called New Church. As many as could crowded in, 
 and many more stood at the door ; but many were constrained to go away.'' 
 
 It will be noticed that Wesley, in one of the entries above 
 given, describes Rossendale as a " fruitful valley," and in another, 
 as "little else than a chain of mountains." 
 
 Here is Mr. Newbigging's description of its present aspect : — 
 
 Notwithstanding the presence of the numerous tall chimneys there 
 are some charming bits of scenery in Rossendale. Amongst these may 
 be mentioned the view of the Waterfoot and Hareholme Valley, and the 
 village of New Church, obtained from the opposite hill-sides below Coupe 
 Law ; of the Dean Valley from Seat Naze, or from the ridge above 
 Broadclough ; and the Sunnyside and Crawshawbooth Valley from the 
 slopes of Chapel Hill. But, indeed, the panorama that extends on every 
 side, as viewed from any of the hill summits in the district, is of an 
 agreeable and imposing character. 
 
 " It is somewhat of a reflection," he continues, " on many people living 
 in the district, that they do not realise what Rossendale really is. They 
 burrow and grub in the valleys, cribbed, cabined, and confined, all un- 
 conscious of the glory of the hills, and the wide, breezy moorlands by 
 which they are environed. 
 
 The breezy hill-tops, indeed, are a veritable sanatorium, as well 
 in the mental as the physical sense, and far too little availed of 
 by the toilers in the valleys. It was otherwise in other days, and 
 the long age attained by dwellers in the " pot-ball country," as 
 Rossendale is called in East Lancashire and "West Yorkshire, 
 attests the healthiness of the locality. One inhabitant, Mary 
 Harrison, who died in 1818, lived to the remarkable age of 108 
 years. Here is a reference to her in the diary of Dr. Raffles of 
 Liverpool :— " July 22nd, 1814.— Rode with Mr. Mather to Tod- 
 morden, in the centre of the beautiful valley of that name. On 
 our way, called on Mr. Maden near Bacup, where I saw and con- 
 versed with Mary Harrison, aged 104. She has been in the
 
 EOSSENDALE FOREST. 287 
 
 family ever since she was twelve years old, and is in possession oi 
 
 every faculty, except that of bearing." 
 
 We have mentioned that Rossendale is known all over E 
 Lancashire and parts of West Yorkshire as the " Pot-ball 
 
 Country." A " pol Kail," we believe, is a sort of round suet 
 dumpling, of the kind that the "Krah-winkel Guardsmen" were 
 
 bo partial to when "marching to the war "; but why this kind "t' 
 dumpling, which is nut peculiar to liossendale, should have given 
 a name to the " Forest " we have never been able to ascertain. 
 
 "Bull-baiting," says Mr. Newbigging, "was formerly a 
 common sport in liossendale. The baiting ground at Bacup was 
 on 'Hammerton Green' as it was called — the site of the present 
 corn-mill yard, and near to a low building known as the 
 ' Witching hoile.'" 
 
 The mention of "Witching hoile" recalls to us the fact that 
 the darker superstitions have scarcely even yet been eradicated 
 from the "Forest," and Mr. Newbigging's account, following 
 that given by the people, of the strange pranks of sundry local 
 warlocks and witches, makes an amusing chapter of his history. 
 
 A strong characteristic of the Rossendale folk, as we first 
 knew them, Avas the prevalence among them of lengthy patrony- 
 mics. Of these many diverting instances might be given. That 
 the following was in actual use in the "Forest" not long ago the 
 reader will doubt, but the doubt is unfounded, viz. : — "Henry 
 o' Ann's o' Harry's o' Millot's o' Iiuchot's o' John's o' Dick's 
 thro' th' ginnel, and up th' steps, and o'er Joseph's o* John's 
 o' Steen> ." 
 
 In bringing to a conclusion this rather desultory notice of an 
 admirable local "History," let us take a final glance at place and 
 people. The sturdy and robust character, generally speaking, of 
 the latter (deriving from a stock coming, as Mr. Newbigging 
 thinks, from Pendle way) strikes us as equalled only by their 
 skill and ingenuity in regard to industrial appliances ; and the 
 general air of comfort and well-to-do-ism prevailing through the 
 valley is equally striking. This Mr. Newbigging accounts for 
 by the fact that absenteeism is little known in Rossendale. The
 
 288 BE VIEWS. 
 
 men who, by their ingenuity, industry, or special capacity for 
 business, have amassed wealth, instead of turning their backs 
 upon the scene of their labours, and scouring the world from 
 China to Peru, are for the most part content to dwell quietly 
 at home, and spend the autumn of their days among their own 
 people. And may they long dwell there, " none daring to make 
 them afraid ! " Doubtless if this home-staying and home-loving 
 spirit were more prevalent we should have more local "Histories" 
 of the character of the one which it has given us so much 
 pleasure to peruse. 
 
 The production of such a book is equally honourable to its 
 author, to the people who have encouraged him in his task, and 
 "to the press from which the book issues. The luxurious paper, 
 the clear typography, the admirable illustrations, and the elegant 
 •"' get up " of the work are a " revelation " of liossendale taste 
 and skill, as the "History" itself is a proof at once of Kossendale 
 home-love and liossendale enterprise.
 
 LECTUEE8
 
 THE mrrrns to satchi: is i:s<;i.isii poetry, km 
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IN ENGLISH 
 
 POETRY.* 
 
 /( HE poetry of ;i people, says a recent French critic, with that 
 
 ^-^disposition to generalise so characteristic of his nation, tends 
 with the lapse of years to become more and more personal — to 
 turn its gaze upon and to deal with man, rather than with out- 
 ward nature. And there is a kernel of truth in the proposition ; 
 hut it is for genius to stem streams of tendency, and to create 
 epochs, whether in this department or that. 
 
 The personal tendency referred to is certainly apparent in- 
 English poetry in the seventeenth, and up to the middle of the 
 eighteenth, century. Pope, whose fame alone casts a splendour 
 over the literature of the first half of the last century, gave to 
 English poetry its highest polish, whilst leading men further and 
 further from nature. But very early in the century the painted 
 windows, if we may use the figure, which had distorted and 
 shown things in false colours, swung open, and men looked out 
 and saw once more the very face of Nature herself, felt the 
 genuine warmth of the sun, and the freshness of the breeze. 
 
 The Return to Nature becomes very perceptible in the second 
 and third decades, between 1710 and 1730; and the impulse 
 .seems in large measure to have proceeded from Scotland, and 
 from Scotchmen. During this period there came upon the scene 
 at least four writers all more or less disposed to look Nature in 
 the face. These were the English .John (lay. the Scottish Allan 
 Ramsay, the Scotch-English Mallet, and the Scotch English 
 Thomson, the last named being the largest figure of the group. 
 
 A Dieest of four Lectures delivered in Manchester on the al>ove Millet. 
 
 a2
 
 292 LECTURES: 
 
 But Gay shows up as no inconsiderable figure. It was he who 
 first opened the painted windows aforesaid in his " Rural Sports " 
 and "Shepherd's Week," published in 1713 and 1714, the latter 
 consisting of six English pastorals in which the images are drawn 
 from real life, such as it appears among the rustics in parts of 
 England remote from London. We are told that these pastorals 
 at once became popular, and that they were everywhere read 
 with delight. In 1727 was acted for the first time Gay's cele- 
 brated play, The Beggar's Opera, written in ridicule of the musical 
 Italian drama, and which Pope himself tells us was received with 
 greater applause than was ever known, not only in London but 
 all over the country. The play had been offered to Gibber at 
 Drury Lane, who had rejected it. Rich accepted it, and it was 
 so successful that it was said to have made Rich gay, and Gay 
 rich ! 
 
 Gay was a friend of the Scottish Allan Ramsay, whom he used 
 to visit in Edinburgh, taking " wrinkles " in character from him ; 
 and there can be little doubt that these two writers reacted 
 upon each other favourably for British poetry. Indeed Ramsay, 
 the well-known author of the "Gentle Shepherd," put himself in 
 relations with his English poetical contemporaries quite early ; 
 and the probability is that before the Gentle Shepherd appeared 
 in its complete form, his Patie and Roger, and Jenny and Meggy, 
 were already familiar characters to readers of poetry as well 
 south as north. 
 
 Allan Ramsay is a second-rate poet, but a genuine one within 
 his limits. Relatively considered, he is a very important figure. 
 Himself drawing more or less from old Scottish sources, there 
 can be no doubt that his influence upon contemporary and 
 succeeding verse-writers was very considerable ; but above all 
 he was a distinct and important factor in the building up of his 
 great successor, Burns, a poet of supreme genius, and one with 
 fifty times the force and fire of Ramsay. In our youth, which 
 was spent on the Lancashire and Yorkshire border, we remember 
 that a number of Ramsay's songs were on everybody's lips, which 
 shows how successful he was in reaching the popular heart.
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IN ENGLISH POETRY. <L93 
 
 The Gentle Shepherd, in its complete form, was published in 
 1725 j lmt Ramsay had written much and published several 
 notable things before thai time. He collected and published 
 quite a multitude of old Scotch songs, lmt was unfortunately too 
 much addicted to taking liberties with their authors. 
 
 Ramsay is said to have been the first who established a circu 
 lating library in Scotland. He began life as a wig-maker, was 
 afterwards a book seller, and is one of the few poets who have 
 been equally successful in poetry and trade. Though a mere 
 mannikin in person (o feet 1 inches) he was a great favourite with 
 the ladies, as he does not fail to tell U3 : and ijiiite early — while 
 wig-making, in fact-carried off as a wife a young Edinburgh 
 belle of some position, in face of a whole crowd of more likely 
 candidates for the lady's hand and heart. 
 
 We now come to the two poets whom we have termed Scotch - 
 Englishmen ; David Mallet and .lames Thomson. Both were 
 born Scotchmen, both came to England, and both tried so 
 strenuously to denationalise themselves that they succeeded: 
 but Mallet was so anxious about his success in the matter that he 
 earned the reprobation of his countrymen. 1 hinging with him 
 from Scotland the name of Malloch, he changed it for .Mallet, as 
 being more agreeable to English ears ; nor was this the first 
 change his name had undergone. 
 
 Mallet's first production was the well-known ballad of William 
 and Margaret. He also wrote, later, the once popular ballad of 
 Edwin and Emma, the delight of our youl h. In 1 728 he published 
 the Excursion, a somewhat shorter poem than that of Words- 
 worth V under the same title. Referring to this work, one of 
 Mallet's biographers says: "II is uot devoid of poetical spirit. 
 Many of the images are striking, and many of the paragraphs are 
 elegant. The cast of diction seems copied from Thomson, whose 
 Seasons were then in their full blossom of reputation. Mallet 
 wrote many other things, including plays, with which we are not 
 now concerned. We mention him as exhibiting something of the 
 natural, and as acted upon, and to some extent reacting upon 
 the writers of his time. He is held in no very high estimation by
 
 294 LECTURES : 
 
 literary critics, but his writings have both exercised some influence 
 and given some pleasure. Nor, although Mallet has been charged 
 with moral delinquencies as well as literary faults, must we for- 
 get the kind service he rendered, when that service was sorely 
 needed, to him who now stalks before us as a large and full 
 figure. But no ; he does not " stalk," he enters lounging ; his 
 gait is more than easy and unconstrained, it is slouching ; and 
 who is he 1 The "Bard of the Seasons," the "Bard of Indolence," 
 the " fine fat fellow, more fat than bard beseems." 
 
 Who void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, 
 On Virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes 
 Poured forth his unpremeditated strain : 
 The world forsaking with a calm disdain, 
 Here laughed he careless in his easy seat ; 
 Here quaffed, encircled with the joyous train ; 
 Oft-moralising ^age ! his ditty sweet 
 He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat : 
 
 and with him comes 
 
 A little round, fat, oily man of God, 
 Who has a roguish twinkle in his eye, 
 That shines all glittering with ungodly dew, 
 If a light damsel chance to trippen by. 
 
 The Keverend Patrick Murdoch, the close friend of Thomson's 
 youth and manhood, and his biographer after death. 
 
 And whither wend they, this notable pair 1 To the " Castle of 
 Indolence " aforesaid. Hear Thomson's description : 
 
 In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
 With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, 
 A most enchanting wizard did abide 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
 And there a season atween June and May, 
 llalf-prankt with spring, witli summer half imbrowned, 
 A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
 No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 
 
 Was nought around but images of rest : 
 Sleep-soothing groves, ami quiet lawns between ; 
 And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, 
 From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green, 
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played, 
 And hurled everywhere their waters' sheen ; 
 That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, 
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IN ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 .Joined to the prattle of the purling rille 
 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
 And Hocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
 And vacant Bhepherds piping in the <lale ; 
 And, now and then, .sweet Philomel would wail, 
 Or stock doves plain amid the fofesl deep, 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale : 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
 Yet all these sounds yhlent, inclined all to sleep. 
 
 A pleasant land of drowsy-hed it was. 
 Of dreams that wave hefore the half-shut eye; 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pa--, 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky : 
 There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
 And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh ; 
 But whate'er smacked of noyance, or unrest, 
 Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. 
 
 In the above, and the verses that follow, we have a picture of 
 luxurious ease unique in the language. One writer calls it the 
 sweetest piece of poetic seduction in the world. But Thomson 
 Eails not to point the moral, and an impressive one it is. Some 
 critics have held that the "Castle of Indolence" is the poet's 
 masterpiece. We do not so regard it ; but it is certainly his 
 most equal and most finished work, though now but little read. 
 Still odd, detached lines of it are constantly falling from our 
 lips, or dropping from the pen, without our knowing or remem- 
 bering the authorship, and one glorious stanza (the third stanza 
 ■ of the 2nd canto.) will be familiar to every one :— 
 
 I care not, Fortune, what you me den}- : 
 N mi cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
 Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; 
 You cannot liar my constant feet to trace 
 The woods and law ns, by living stream, at eve : 
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
 And I their toys to the e-rcat children leave : 
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. 
 
 But our more immediate concern is with the Seasons, Thom- 
 son's real masterpiece, despite some serious faults. The date of 
 the appearance of this work — a prelibation of what was to 
 follow from other fountains late in the century- — is a red-letter 
 day in the annals of English literature. It came out in instal-
 
 296 LECTURES : 
 
 merits, " Winter," which is said at first to have had a reception 
 as frigid as the name could suggest, appearing first, i.e., in March, 
 1726. "Summer" came out in 1727, "Spring" in 1728, and 
 " Autumn " in 1730, in which year appeared the complete edition 
 of the Seasons. 
 
 Novelties as a rule are hated, although the last new thing is 
 what we are all asking for. But in our humble opinion that 
 precious quality or thing called originality is never valued at its 
 full price ; though originality in the absolute sense is, of course, 
 as Emerson says, only possible to absolute ignorance. Well, here 
 was a novelty with a vengeance — a long poem written in blank 
 verse, and in any style but the popular one ; dealing only with 
 the simple, common facts of outward nature — smelling not of 
 the dusty study, or the musty chamber, but redolent of the sun- 
 shine and the breeze, of the newly-turned furrow and the 
 quickening woods. 
 
 The delight and admiration which the seasons gave rise to with 
 the appreciative of Thomson's day we may well imagine. Though 
 we find that in style Thomson had not wholly emancipated him- 
 self from the faults of that era, yet so ardent is his enthusiasm 
 for external nature that, in reading his descriptions, Ave are en- 
 thralled by a double spell — the charm of wood and field and the 
 wide landscape, and the infectious joy of the poet himself. In 
 the pages of few English writers is natural history taught more 
 delightfully than in those of Thomson, and that for the reason 
 already given, that is to say, on account of the fervid enthusiasm 
 of the teacher. Turn only to the influence of spring upon the 
 feathered world, and the poet's description of the way in which 
 they build their nests. 
 
 Thomson's Seasons " took," they became very popular ; and 
 we have been informed by a man who travelled much over Eng- 
 l.uid sixty years ago, that even so lately as that period, if there 
 happened to be three or four books lying in the window of a 
 country cottage, wherever he went, one of those four books 
 was certain to be Thomson's Seasons ! So the great, good- 
 natured, amiable Scotchman of whom Lord Lyttleton says that
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IN ENGLISH POETRY. 297 
 
 be never wrote a line that, dying, he could wish bo blot, obtained 
 bis desire : be became ;i popular English poet. 
 
 We say " English " poet, tor it i> noteworthy thai nobody can 
 ever think of the author of the Seasons as a Scot ! Was evei 
 poet so denationalized .' 
 
 ( >t' the other works «.f Thomson, the Hymn following upon 
 the Seasons is the most praised and perhaps the most read of all. 
 Ilui thr Miltonic echoes are too recurrent for us to join fullv 
 in the praise bestowed upon it. Not only is the key obviously 
 Struck from Milton's Morning Hymn in Paradise, but even the 
 hitter's pli rases are borrowed. 
 
 As regards the drama, few now ever connect Thomson with 
 dramatic literature. Who, indeed, would ever think that he had 
 written "Sophonisba," "Agamemnon," ''Edward and Eleanora, 
 "Tancred and Sigismunda," Coriolanus," &c. As it originally 
 appeared, his " Sophonisba " contained one unfortunate line upon 
 which the wits of the period at once fastened, and their parody 
 of it will be found repeated by every biographer of Thomson, 
 viz., 
 
 O Sophonisba, Sophonisba <> ! 
 which was facetiously turned into 
 
 O Jemmy Thorns 11, Jemmy Thomson ! 
 
 But to return to the "Seasons." 
 
 In almost every considerable poet following Thomson, up to 
 and including Wordsworth, one distinctly finds the breezy 
 influence of the •• Seasons." And not the influence merely: it 
 were a labour of love, did time permit, to point out how even the 
 phraseology of Thomson has stuck in the memory of some of 
 our most original poet-, and been unconsciously reproduced in 
 those parts of their works which are most quoted. 
 
 The question has often been put to us: " How did Thomson 
 stand in the moral aspect?" We have also been frequently 
 asked : " Was not Wordsworth a great egotist :" which is also a 
 question Of morality. And these questions will be asked again 
 and again. Do what we will, the moral element musl enter into 
 our judgments of all men, and especially of men greatly
 
 298 LECTURES : 
 
 intellectual, who play upon this human heart of ours as the 
 skilled musician fetches music from his instrument. We must, 
 .and we do, speak of Charles Lamb — the frolicsome Lamb — with 
 the deepest affection ; we cannot help ourselves. And it is 
 because we know that his heart beat tenderly for humanity, that 
 he excelled in human qualities. We know that he was kind, 
 gentle, loving, and deeply self-sacrificing. We know that he 
 devoted his whole life to his lonely and unfortunate sister. We 
 know that he often squeezed out of his own hard earnings to 
 help his helpless friend, the intellectual giant, Coleridge — -a giant 
 struggling in the grip of poverty, who could never repay him. 
 
 On the other hand, Ave must speak doubtingly of Laurence 
 Sterne, of " Tnstram Shandy "and " Sentimental Journey" fame. 
 And yet Sterne is one of the great writers not only of England 
 but of the world. He was a favourite in France and Germany 
 more than a century ago. And more than all, he has created one 
 of the kindest, gentlest, purest, and loveablest male characters in 
 English literature — "mine Uncle Toby." 
 
 These are very mixed questions indeed, and their unravelment 
 would take long. But Avith regard to the author of the ever- 
 popular " Rule Britannia," James Thomson, Ave may be assured 
 that his heart beat right. He had no doubt some failings that 
 did not " lean to A'irtue's side ;" but he Avas not only a great 
 patriot and a man of independent character, he Avas an affection- 
 ate son, a devoted brother, a staunch friend, and a delightful 
 companion, beloved in a Avide circle, and respected by all the 
 eminent men of his time. In private life he Avas, as Ave said 
 before, a great, good-natured fellow, void of rancour as of guile, 
 .and one that, in the same situation, would have acted to the poor 
 fly as did " mine Uncle Toby :" "Get thee gone, poor fly ! there's 
 room enough in the Avorld for thee and me." 
 
 As the scope of these lectures demands that we should be 
 .eclectic, and select only those Avriters who have most strongly 
 contributed to the " Return to Nature" movement, Ave must here 
 pass by a number of charming poets, each of whom in his 
 degree, and sometimes in an important degree, was also contri-
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IN ENGLISH POETRY. 299 
 
 butory to the same movement. Nor can we dwell upon the " Old 
 English Ballads," collected by Dr. Percy, and the republication 
 
 of which there c;ui be no doubt had a large influence in the 
 sanic direction. 
 
 Come we now to a more important figure than any yet men- 
 tioned — the "Bard of Olney," the gentle, delicate-minded, meek 
 yet bold Cowper — a thoroughly English poet, a thoroughly 
 original and a very delightful one ; but whose latter years were 
 unfortunately clouded by distressing intervals of insanity. 
 
 With Cowper we come fairly into the daylight. The painted 
 windows, already part-opened, are thrown clean back, and we 
 step forth into the light of things, with Nature herself for our 
 teacher. At length we have a poet who is wholly untrammelled 
 by the conventional ideas that have so long held in bondage 
 many a mighty " Sou of Song." 
 
 As Nature is so Cowper describes her, though with occasional 
 lapses. His images are at once truthful and natural, though he 
 does not quite arrive at the unerring accuracy of his great 
 successor, Wordsworth. But Cowper's style and diction are a 
 marvellous advance on those prevailing in his time. He is lurid 
 too transparently clear, and so distinctly individual that when- 
 ever quoted he is certain to be recognised by at least the 
 man of reading. And there is always some important fact of 
 nature or " vital kernel of philosophy" behind his words. Hear 
 him as a word-painter, and something more, on the old " Yardley 
 Oak " — monarch of the forest, fallen into decay : 
 
 Time made thee what thou wast— king of the woods, 
 And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
 For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 
 ( Cerhung the champaign, and the numerous flocks 
 
 That grazed it st I beneath that ample cope 
 
 [Jncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm. 
 No (lock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived 
 Tin popularity , ;i ml art become 
 (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
 Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. 
 
 Though one is constrained to place Cowper in the second rank 
 of English poets yet he has done first-rate service to English 
 poetry. He freed himself, as we have said, from the fetters of
 
 300 LECTURES 
 
 literary tradition, he cast away the trammels of conventionality 
 and custom, and as a word-painter betook himself, with his 
 pencil, to wo ;d, and field, and brook, where he could see with his 
 own eyes the trees and flowers, and hear for himself the delightful 
 murmur of the waters. He came and took Nature not at second 
 but at first-hand, like a true poet. He came as a mild yet pro- 
 nounced revolutionist of poetic methods, and as a mild yet fear- 
 less — meek yet bold — satirist of social manners. 
 
 Cowper is as true a poet of the " hearth " as he is of " nature ;" 
 for example, was ever the idea of home-comfort " brought home " 
 to us more faithfully or vividly, at One graphic stroke, than in 
 the following delightful picture : 
 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round ; 
 And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
 Which cheer but not inebriate wait on each, 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
 
 It is this faithfulness and '"homeliness," above all, that makes 
 Cowper so dear to the English heart, and so delightful to read, 
 to all save those whose taste has been vitiated, and their palates 
 rendered callous, by the high-seasoned literature of the day. 
 In Cowper there is nothing of meretricious; and far distant be 
 the time when Englishmen shall cease to read with relish the 
 faithful delineations of men, as of nature, to be found in the 
 pure pages of the most English of English poets. 
 
 The complaint i.s sometimes made that Cowper is wanting in 
 humour, and that he has written " but one fun-provoking thing " 
 —"John Gilpin." But it is a mistake to suppose that Cowper is 
 wanting in humour. On the contrary there is a delicate humour 
 running through and finely flavouring no small portion of his 
 verse, while in his prose it declares itself at once. His sense of 
 contrast was of the keenest ; and it is likely that, but for his 
 unfortunate predisposition to hypochondria of a particular 
 character — a predisposition diligently fostered by one of his own 
 intimate friends -the so-called "melancholy Cowper" would 
 have given us some of the most delightfully humorous sketches 
 in our language. His humour, in fact, was kept under cork and
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IN ENGLISH POETRY. 301 
 
 seal, ami "John Gilpin" (with 01 r two lesser things) was but 
 
 an accidental effervescence ol the rich liquor remaining 
 undecanted. And many are the poets whose benl is thus burnt 1. 
 ^Ye can only hope that what Literature has losl in one form she 
 has gained in another. Would that Cowper's succes 
 Wordsworth, had possessed a tithe of the humour of the 
 " melancholy bard." Had he done so, many a fine poem had 
 been saved from damnation. Happily the Woidsworthian stores 
 are ample, and after flinging out of window a heap of ''spoiled 
 pieces " we shall still have a larger Stock of "good things" on 
 hand than is supplied by any other one of the great Georgian 
 poets. 
 
 Cowper has been described as " the poet of the middle classes," 
 and with some reason. And those poets who are mainly the 
 mouthpiece of a "class" are, for obvious reasons, lessened in 
 their usefulness and service to mankind. The same " crust 
 of respectability " has been said to attach to Wordsworth ; 
 and it must be admitted that this is one of his limitations 
 though less pronounced than in Cowper's case. Perhaps it 
 could not have been otherwise. With Cowper, at least, it is 
 hard to see how it could have been helped, bred as he was, 
 surrounded as he was, and invalid and hypochondriac as he was, 
 so that Ave must even take the " good " provided by the gods. 
 That the "crust of respectability " is of considerable thickness 
 with Cowper will be seen by every careful reader. It declares 
 itself sometimes in a single word, or phrase, as when referring to 
 the supervision necessary in the case of his "factotum " he speaks 
 of " lubbard labour :" 
 
 if the garden with its many cares, 
 
 All well repaid, demand him, he attends 
 The welcome call, conscious how the band 
 Of Ivbbard labour needs his watchful eye. 
 Hence summer has her riches, autumn hence, 
 And hence e*en winter tills his withered hand 
 With blushing fruits and plenty not his own. 
 
 So one can hardly think that a full sense of the real dignity 
 and honourableness of labour was felt by William Cowper, 
 amiable and respectable — highly respectable — man as he was,
 
 302 LECTURES 
 
 and beautiful and delightful poet as he is, in the numerous rank 
 of poets. 
 
 About the time when the " very respectable " Cowper was 
 writing of " lubbard labour," a Scotch " labourer," who was any- 
 thing but a " lubber," was engaged in ploughing two fields at 
 once — his father's field, which yielded but a scanty harvest, and 
 another which yielded such a harvest that not the most illustrious 
 king or emperor but might well envy the poor ploughman. We 
 mean, of course, the poet Burns, before whom the names we have 
 previously given from the poetic roll wax pale — Eobert Burns, a 
 literary phenomenon that even yet puzzles and shames the very' 
 Schools themselves. 
 
 A phenomenon and a mystery is Burns the solution of which 
 has baffled many of our acutest intellects. But his great poetic 
 successor, Wordsworth, could, and did, take in the full stature 
 and intellectual bulk of him whom he so finely describes as- 
 walking 
 
 J & 
 
 -in glory and in joy, 
 
 Following his plough upon the mountain-side, 
 and it is Wordsworth — the so-called egotist — that, of all our 
 poets, has paid to Burns the most enduring tribute of admira- 
 tion and love. Yes, very sure we may be that of all men living 
 at the time of the poet's death, Wordsworth could best appraise 
 the weight of that stupendous loss to literature and the Avorld at 
 large. Hear him once again, as with reverent and awe-struck 
 mien he stands by the grave of the Scottish poet : 
 
 1 mourned with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for he was gone 
 Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 
 
 And showed my youth, 
 How Verse may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 • Did the poet whilst penning this solemn tribute ever hope, or 
 expect, that he himself should live to build a throne hardly less 
 princely on the same humble but lasting foundation 1 If not,, 
 where was that stupendous egotism with which he is so often
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IN ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 charged ? "A princely throne on humble truth," there is the 
 text. Here was a man, a common soldier we may say, who 
 stepped straighl out of the ranks, and Btormed and took, single- 
 handed, the doultle-towered Castle of Prejudice and Bigotry — 
 who, single-handed, routed the vast armies of Kant and Cant in 
 such a manner that they have never since been able fully to rally 
 their scattered forces. Nay, one single verse from the pen of 
 this lmmlile ploughman even now falls like a bond) when cut 
 into the allied camps of Sham and Shoddy, spreading around 
 devastation and ruin ! 
 
 And why 1 Because although, like Heine, he had a thousand 
 nightingales singing in his heart, Burns, the poet of Man and 
 of Nature, had the unfailing instinct of the horn satirist, and 
 could snufi'and scent a hypocrite as infallibly as the bloodhound 
 tracks his quarry. Upon whomsoever it falls, his stroke is 
 mortal; and notwithstanding that he strikes only at the guilty 
 yet in reading him, as in reading of the individual combats in 
 old Homer and Virgil, our sympathies are not seldom on the side 
 of the quivering victim. For instance, who that has read Virgil 
 has not pitied Tnrnus, fated to perish under the god-directed 
 stroke of .Eneas, when he exclaims : 
 
 Non me tua fervida terrent 
 
 Dicta fcrox ; di me terrent, et Jupiter hostis. 
 Nor is it to be denied that in his retributive and murderous 
 onslaught upon the Pinchbecks and the Knaves, Burns, with hi> 
 strong, passionate and fierce nature, sometimes goes too far — the 
 punishment exceeds the offence. To the candid and ingenuous 
 soul, indeed, whose study of humanity has been but limited, it 
 will be a matter of wonder that such strange extremes should ever 
 have existed in one and the same person — that such fierce and 
 passionate hatred should ever have been combined with such 
 intense love, and such melting and all but divine tenderness, nol 
 alone for man, woman, and child, but for the least living thing 
 that moves upon the earth. But the philosophic mind knows 
 that extremes meet, that man at his highest is but a bundle of 
 inconsistencies. And if Pope could say that 
 
 Woman, at best, is but a contradiction still,
 
 394 LECTURES 
 
 it must be confessed, on behalf of woman, that man is "a 
 •contradiction " also. In Burns, the intensity of his hates was in 
 proportion to the fierce intensity of his loves ; but he hated only 
 the hateful as he loved the loveable ; and if 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 All things both great and small, 
 
 none ever prayed more eloquently or acceptably at the Throne 
 of Grace than Robert Burns. 
 
 Of all the world's love-poets Burns is perhaps the greatest, at 
 least of those whose writings remain to us (for as Montaigne 
 wisely speculates, perhaps the best pieces in every department 
 are now non-extant) from " burning " Sappho to Catullus, and from 
 Catullus to " Tommy " Moore. And this not alone from the 
 ravishing harmony of his numbers, but from the high moral 
 pedestal upon which he places woman, as woman, and the absence 
 of all meretricious accessories drawn from the mythologies. In 
 English poetry up to Cowper's and Burns's time, except in the 
 writers we have previously dwelt on, and a few others, 
 the baggage and impedimenta of the poet were something 
 tremendous. If a man " opened shop " in the poetic line, he was 
 bound to have in stock a large and choice assortment of " set 
 phrases," and a thousand mythological figures. But Burns 
 " started business " with a bare table, and the mythologies of 
 Greece and Rome were not scattered to the winds but only for 
 the reason that to him they were an " unknown quantity." And 
 we are heartily thankful that such was the case, since for the 
 first time a lyrical poet of the first order was thus compelled to 
 work without the eternal grinding of the mythological machinery, 
 of which, to tell the truth, every free-born spirit was getting 
 a little sick. 
 
 It was a saying of Wordsworth's that Burns had "put Poetry 
 in its proper place." It may also be said of him that he put 
 Woman in her proper place — and a high one it is — for the first 
 time in the history of our race. And this he did by so subtly 
 associating her charms with the charms of external nature, in a 
 thousand beautiful images and in words that cannot die, that her
 
 fill; RETURN T<> NATURE tN ENGlISM POETRY. 
 
 power over man's heart Is henceforth and for ever increased how- 
 many foM ! 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair ; 
 1 hear her in the tunefu bii 
 
 I hear her charm the air : 
 There's not a bonnie flower that spring 
 
 By fountain, shaW, or green, 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 And this large and permanent increase to the world's happiness 
 
 is but a part of the stupendous debt owing by humanity to the 
 
 immortal ploughman : 
 
 For deathless powers to Verse belong, 
 And they like demigods are strong 
 
 On whom the Muses smile. 
 
 Up to now we have made, within the time, very considerable 
 progress. Putting on the " seven-league boots " we have stridden 
 over the greater part of a century, meeting on the way some 
 very notable people. It will be remembered that we traced the 
 Return to Nature movement much further back than is usual 
 with those who discourse upon these subjects, showing that the 
 recoil began rather with the beginning of the last century than 
 the end of it. It has been seen that even before Thomson there 
 were British poets who wrote in defiance of the literary con- 
 ventionalities of the period, and who became, relatively speaking, 
 very popular. 
 
 Thomson, himself, we found fairly lifting up the windows, and 
 
 letting the sun and the breeze into rooms that had lung been 
 
 stuffy and fusty to all w 7 ho were longing for the natural and the 
 
 free. We saw Thomson not only looking upon the face of 
 
 Nature but delineating her features with a tolerably free hand — 
 
 a hand, that is to say, comparatively free from the trammels and 
 
 clogs imposed by the literary canons of the time. We found him 
 
 divine in blank verse, and in a diction of his own, fine, broad 
 
 pictures of English landscape, so fresh and vivid that we can 
 
 relish and enjoy them even at the present time. We found 
 
 x
 
 306 LECTURES : 
 
 Thomson's successor, Cowper, in still more open revolt against 
 the conventional, casting away all trammels, and bringing 
 us at once into the free, open country, with a charm of style that 
 still makes him the favourite poet of not a few cultured readers. 
 While as to the glorious ploughman-poet, Burns, we found him 
 " starting business " in the poetical line without any stock-in- 
 trade whatever of the conventional kind, and putting to the 
 blush the very " Schools " themselves. 
 
 Now all these we must regard as precursors of, and leading up 
 to Wordsworth, in one sense, though in another sense Wordsworth 
 had no precursors, but was a whole epoch-maker in himself. 
 But of the poets named he was influenced by none so powerfully 
 as by Burns, who had just then so splendidly proved to him and 
 to the world at large how a great genius can build 
 
 -a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 Of all modern English poets that one could write upon, with 
 perhaps one exception, Wordsworth is the most difficult to convey 
 an adequate idea of to those who themselves have not read him. 
 
 And who now reads Wordsworth, the grave and solemn poet 
 who is wholly devoid of humour 1 Who, in the present rushing, 
 impatient, and impetuous age, will dive through oceans of bathos 
 to fish up occasional pearls, even though those pearls are beyond 
 all price and the glory of our English literature. Who, if we 
 may change the figure, will be inclined to enter upon a vast desert, 
 dry and arid, in which the nearest oasis,' 1 or even common 
 well-spring, is ever so distant ? " Talk not to me of Wordsworth," 
 remarked a witty contemporary of the poet, " call him ' Words ! 
 Words !' ' And even the greatest admirer of the Cumberland 
 bard must to-day admit that if Wordsworth, when at his best, 
 can give us as much precious thought and wisdom in as few 
 words as the best of English writers, yet no poet, living or dead' 
 of his rank, ever yet possessed the capacity for giving so little 
 meaning in so many words ! And yet he is one of the truest and 
 greatest of English poets — "since Milton, the very greatest," in 
 the opinion of one of England's most eminent critics.
 
 77//: nirrrux to nature in ENGLISH poetry. 307 
 
 "Appreciation of Wordsworth we take to be the very touch- 
 stone and test of a man's capacity for knowing and feeling what 
 true poetry is," we remarked the other day, in words a little 
 sententious we must confess, to the brilliant editor of a London 
 daily, who in his utterances has always a strong bias towards 
 antithesis. "And I, on the other hand," he replied, in tones not 
 less oracular, "am entirely of the opposite opinion!" "But 
 have you read the poet V we enquired. " That would be a large 
 order, indeed," was the retort, " I have looked at him." "At, 
 but not into" we rejoined, " prepositions are sometimes of 
 importance, in English at least, and alter the proposition itself 
 even." 
 
 Yes, in order to be known at all, Wordsworth is a poet 
 who must be looked info above most poets ; and not only looked 
 into but diligently and patiently read — oh, how diligently ! oh, 
 how patiently ! And as we before hinted, in this hasty and 
 unreflecting age he is not read. Happily he has been read by not 
 a few of our leaders of thought aforetime, and has thus — like 
 Shakespeare — become largely absorbed not only into the language 
 but into the intellectual life of the nation. Though dead he yet 
 speaketh, and is every day, and almost every hour, unconsciously 
 spoken, even by those who scoff at the mention of his name. 
 
 In certain departments of reflective poetry Wordsworth made 
 an epoch, but from this point of view we shall not at present 
 consider him. Despite his inequalities, and he is the most 
 unequal of poets, he is yet a vast draw-well of the purest poetry 
 into the jM'ofound depths of which many even of the greatest 
 and most original poets, his contemporaries and successors, have 
 not scrupled at times to let down their buckets. He came in the 
 character of a law-giver to the poets of his time ; but the 
 pcetical laws which he somewhat arbitrarily laid down he did not 
 himself always follow — the theories he propounded he failed 
 largely to carry into his own practice. And fortunate it is that 
 he so failed. Had not the truer poetic instincts asserted them- 
 selves in Wordswoith one shudders in contemplating what the 
 
 consequences — in Idiot Boys indefinitely multiplied — might have 
 
 t2
 
 308 LECTURES : 
 
 been to a long-suffering world ! Wordsworth asserted, and 
 endeavoured to impose upon his brethren the opinion, that the 
 language of true poetry differs in no essential particular from 
 the language of ordinary life ; and riding this theory to death, 
 was led to push upon the world an amount of drivel under the 
 name of poetry which surprises every reader at first, and often 
 turns away many in permanent disgust. 
 
 But as we said just now, happily Wordsworth's theory and 
 Wordsworth's practice were often two wholly different things ; 
 and from this poet we have, in consequence, a body of poetry 
 which, taken altogether, makes perhaps the most important con- 
 tribution to English poetical literature, not since the " glorious 
 John " Dryden but since the still more " glorious John " Milton. 
 
 Unequal as Wordsworth is, and inconsistent as he is, in 
 practice, with his own poetic dicta, no poet is more amenable to 
 critical dissection and censure ; nor has any poet of his high rank 
 ever been the subject of so much obloquy at the hands of 
 shallow and incompetent men. 
 
 But if Wordsworth has suffered almost more than any other 
 
 English poet from the pronouncements of soi-disant critics, he 
 
 was himself, on the whole, an admirable critic of others ; and he 
 
 points out, as indeed our great poet, Milton, had done before 
 
 him, one important drawback to the use of mere rhyme 
 
 which is too often overlooked. He reminds us that a skilful 
 
 jingling is very frequently made to cover a paucity of ideas, and 
 
 baldness and triviality of thought, as with the man who 
 
 Faggotted his notions as they fell, 
 
 And if they rhymed and rattled all was well. 
 
 But on the other hand, Wordsworth, who at his best has given 
 us the most exquisite gems that were ever contributed to any 
 literature, and who, when he wished to take the pains, could 
 handle blank verse as it has not been handled since Milton, olten 
 forgot, at any rate in his practice, one very serious drawback 
 attaching to the use of the form of poetry which he most affects, 
 viz., this, that it readily lends itself and tends to prolixity, the 
 intervals between the closes being optional. Thus not the most
 
 TI1K RETURN TO NATURE IX ENGLISH POETRY. 309 
 
 ardent admirer of the great poetical law-giver but must admit 
 that in blank verse he is often not only prolix but downright 
 prosy. His writings, in great part, remind one, as we said 
 before, of a dry, sandy dest it. with here and there a green oasis 
 to refresh the weary traveller. It is this obvious and staring 
 fault that makes one of our greatest — because one of our most 
 creative and original — poets so amenable to the criticism of even 
 the most cursory and careless reader, who will open the book for 
 a few minutes and shut it again ; ami thereby shut himself out 
 of a whole blooming paradise of the most exquisite poetry. At 
 the same time, it is this inequality in Wordsworth that makes it 
 so difficult to appraise and estimate his work as a whole, without 
 reading him, as few people now-a-days read any author, i.e., 
 patiently, studiously, and thoroughly. 
 
 We conclude these lectures by quoting the opinion of one much 
 more competent than ourselves upon the subject of Wordsworth's 
 poetical theories, and upon his pretensions to be considered a 
 really true and great poet. It is the pronouncement of Algernon 
 ( harles Swinburne : 
 
 " It is with poetry — though few seem practically inclined to 
 admit tins— as it is with any other art : the fewest possible 
 touches, the slightest possible shades of colour or of sound, 
 suffice to show, what all the explanation and demonstration in 
 the world will fail to demonstrate or explain, the rank and 
 character of the genius which inspired them. If there were no 
 more left us of Wordsworth than is left us of Sappho, but if 
 these relics were fragmentary examples of the poet at hi* best, it 
 would be A\aste of breath to argue, when none who knew any 
 thing of poetry could choose but see, that there had been a poel 
 in time past, the latchet of whose shoes a Byron or one greater 
 than Byron would not have been worthy to unloose 
 
 " Witness the first casual instance that may be chosen from 
 the wide high range of Wordsworth — 
 
 Will no one tell me what >.\\r Mugs ': 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappj , tar oil things, 
 And battles long ago.
 
 310 LECTURES : 
 
 " If not another word were left of the poem in which these 
 four lines occur, those four lines would suffice to show the hand of 
 a poet differing not in degree but in kind from the tribe of Byron 
 or of Southey. In the whole expanse of poetry there can hardly 
 be four lines of more perfect and profound and exalted beauty. 
 But if anybody does not happen to see this, no critic of all that 
 ever criticised, from the days of Longinus to the days of Arnold, 
 from the days of Zoilus to the days of Zola, could succeed in 
 making visible the certainty of this truth to the mind's eye of 
 that person. And this, if the phrase may for once be used with- 
 out conveying a taint of affectation — this is the mystery of 
 Wordsworth : that none of all great poets was ever so persuaded 
 of his capacity to understand and his ability to explain how his 
 best work was done, his highest effect attained, his deepest 
 impression conveyed ; and yet there never was a poet whose 
 power, whose success, whose unquestionable triumph was more 
 independent of all his theories, more inexplicable by any of his 
 
 rules There is hardly in any literature a 
 
 poem of more perfect power, more awful and triumphant beauty 
 
 than The Affliction of Margaret and in the 
 
 quality at which Wordsworth forbade his disciples to aim, as he 
 abjured for himself all pretention to aim at it — in sublimity of 
 poetic diction and expression he is here so far above Tennyson, 
 in Bizpoh, as to recall and indeed to rival the very loftiest 
 magnificence of Milton or of Shakespeare." 
 
 Wordsworth, as before stated, has been charged with egotism, 
 and with jealousy of more popular poets, his contemporaries. And 
 considering his own vast superiority to some of the most admired 
 of them, that would have been a very excusable circumstance. 
 But many of the most damning of the anecdotes related of the 
 poet in this connection are to be taken cum grano salis. And at 
 any rate his writings, unlike those of so many others, are not 
 stained by personal abuse of his rivals. Moreover, in the pages 
 of no other great English poet of the time are there to be found 
 so many tributes of admiration to contemporary writers and men 
 of eminence as in the pages of the "jealous" Wordsworth!
 
 THE RETURN TO NATURE IX ENGLISH POtfTRt. 3ll 
 
 Nor can universal literature produce a finer, or more loftily. 
 expressed, homage by one poel to another than the noble sonnet 
 addressed by the Cumberland poet to Sir Walter Scott, on his 
 leaving his native shores for Italy, in search <>f that health which 
 unhappily the great Wizard never found. Listen, once more, to 
 Wordsworth, and tell us if any unworthy envy or jealousy 
 inspire the strain : 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, 
 
 FROM ABBOTSFOKI), FOl! NAPLES. ■ 
 
 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 
 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
 
 Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon'a triple hight: 
 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
 
 For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 
 
 Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
 
 Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
 
 Blessings, and prayers in nobler retinue 
 
 Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror knows, 
 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenopc !
 
 312 
 
 Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been- 
 a sound which makes us linger, yet— farewell !
 
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