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 THE 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND. GENIUS 
 
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 Gear**. SWIe l hU,i f S 
 
 -T^OfQC 
 
 MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT 
 
 €t)t Corn 2Lato ft&pmer, 
 
 W IT 1 1 
 
 CRITICISMS UPON HIS WRITINGS. 
 
 BY JANUARY SEARLE. p *> iv<A 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 WHITTAKER & CO., AVE-MARIA LANE; 
 AND J. BROOK, HUDDERSFIELD. 
 
 1852.
 
 TO 
 
 THE EIGHT HON. THE EAEL OF CAKLISLE, 
 
 IN SINCEBE ADMIEATION OF 
 
 HIS LOEDSHIP'S EMINENT TALENTS, HIS PUBLIC AND PBIVATE VIBTUES, 
 
 AND HIS LAEGE POPULAB SYMPATHIES, 
 
 €jji5 jjnmMp %n\wm is initjj prrmission IPpMrntfu, 
 
 BY HIS LOBDSHIP S 
 
 MOST FAITHFUL AND OBEDIENT SEEYANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOK.
 
 V IX E F ACE. 
 
 On the appearance of the first edition of this work, or 
 that part of it, rather, which is properly mine, 1 was 
 accused by some of Elliott's friends of doing him an 
 injustice in saving- that he never fully appreciated 
 "Wordsworth as a poet. But upon mature consideration, 
 I am inclined to stand by that statement. I know well 
 enough that numerous passages from the letters and 
 prose writings of Elliott might be adduced to show that 
 he held Wordsworth in high estimation, and he is 
 credited to this extent in my analysis of his genius 
 and writings. What he did not appreciate, however, 
 was what Wordsworth most valued in the judgment of 
 his readers, namely, the spirituality with which he 
 endeavoured to invest external nature, and the life of 
 man. And this endeavour, which lies at the root of all 
 Wordsworth's writings, Elliott had little or no sympathy 
 with. In the conclusion of his Autobiography he says : 
 "My mind is the mind of my eyes;" and it could not
 
 Vi PEEFACE. 
 
 have been better characterized. Wordsworth's mind 
 made his eyes ; and here lies the grand distinction 
 between the two poets. 
 
 In conclusion, I have to return thanks to all who have 
 helped me in this volume ; especially to my friend 
 Thomas Lister of Barnsley ; and, if it were possible for 
 my thanks to reach him, to my poor dead correspondent, 
 Paul Rodgers of Sheffield : Bequiescat in pace ! 
 
 HUDDEBSTTELD, 
 
 December 1st, 1851.
 
 LIFE,' CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 EBENEZEll ELLIOT T. 
 
 PAIiT I. 
 
 KEYIEW OF EBENEZEll ELLIOTT'S MIND AND WBITIXGS. 
 
 I have to speak in this paper upon the 
 genius and character of Ebenezer Elliott, 
 whose stormy life is now ended, and whose 
 great musical heart lies still and silent in 
 the grave. And although, if I consulted 
 my own feelings, the love which I bore 
 the departed poet would prompt me to 
 write a threnody over his ashes, rather 
 than a cool analysis of his mind and 
 
 B
 
 2 LIFE, CHARACTER, AJS T D GENIUS 
 
 writings, yet I will endeavour to merge 
 all private sympathies in this discourse, 
 and treat my subject in a catholic spirit, 
 from the historical point of view alone. 
 
 Fortunately, the materials for this work 
 are near at hand ; and the poet has not 
 been long enough dead to have passed into 
 the perplexing regions either of mythology 
 or tradition. Indeed it was but yesterday 
 that I conversed with him in his own house, 
 heard him read his own poems, and joined 
 with his fair daughters in singing the 
 beautiful melodies which, at their request, 
 he wrote and adapted to some of our most 
 popular airs. And when I think of the 
 good and brave old man — Avith his venerable 
 grey hairs — his kind eyes, now beaming with 
 love, and now flashing with indignant fire, 
 as he spoke of human wrong and misery — 
 I can scarcely reconcile myself to the idea 
 that he is gone for ever from the world. 
 The stern truth, however, returns to me 
 with solemn emphasis, in spite of my in- 
 credulity, and I know but too surely, that 
 I shall see him no more. It is, nevertheless, 
 a high consolation to look back upon the 
 noble and manly life which he lived ; for he 
 was an examplar worthy, in many important
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 3 
 
 particulars, to be imitated and reverenced. 
 He was no half-and-half man, wavering with 
 doubtful indecision between two opinions, 
 but an earnest and sincere, if not a complete 
 and many-sided character. It was his way 
 throughout life, first of all to master every 
 subject that interested him, and then heroic- 
 ally, and without calculating the chances of 
 defeat, or caring for the world's sanction or 
 opposition, to throw himself into the arena 
 as its champion. Like the warriors of the 
 old chivalry, wherever he appeared he left 
 the marks of his battle-axe behind him. 
 Indeed, Nature seems to have cast him in 
 such sharp and decisive moulds that she 
 might be sure of her man, and secure herself 
 from all counterfeits of him. It is at all 
 events certain, that while the mannerism of 
 every other considerable poet has been seized 
 upon by verse-wrights, and persons of that 
 ilk, and passed into the general currency of 
 literature, Elliott is the only bard whose 
 genius has not been corrupted by these 
 base coiners. Looking at him through Iris 
 writings, he reminds me of some grim 
 Cyclop, into whose body a divine soul has 
 passed, radiating him with glory, and making 
 even his deformities beautiful. Eor he is not
 
 4i LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 dressed in the ordinary costume of the bards* 
 having his garland and singing robes around 
 him — such as Spencer and Milton, wore — 
 but he appears in the naked buff of a hard- 
 working man — grimed with soot and sweat, 
 and singing of the " accursed Bread Tax," — 
 made manifest to him as such, in the empty 
 trenchers of his famished children ! We 
 must not look, therefore, in his pages for 
 that external polish and courtly bearing 
 which characterise the highest nobility of 
 the poetic order ; for there is nothing which 
 he so little professes. And yet he is not 
 without polish, but, on the contrary, he 
 sometimes surprises us with delicate touches, 
 and even with whole pictures, finished in the 
 best style of art. The secret of this rude 
 demeanour — this bandying of coarse names 
 and crooked epithets, which are so common 
 in his writings, lies primarily in the earnest- 
 ness of his nature, and, in a secondary sense, 
 in that lack of early culture which he sets 
 forth so prominently in his autobiography. 
 It is this rugged, fiery, and impetuous utter- 
 ance, however, which gives the main charm 
 to his poetry, and makes it, like Luther's 
 speech, a continual battle. I, for one, do 
 not wish to see these scars and trenches
 
 OF EBEXEZER ELLIOTT. O 
 
 erased from his writings. They are the 
 birth-pangs of his spirit, as it burst forth, 
 with mighty upheavings, from its dumb 
 sepulchre, and arose triumphant into life 
 and melody. 
 
 In his later writings he evinces more 
 mastery over his imagination and feelings 
 than in most of his earlier productions, but 
 his wild spirit was never entirely tamed ; 
 and the spots and claws of the leopard are 
 everywhere visible in his pages. Few men, 
 however, have proved themselves greater 
 masters than he of the secrets of rhythmical 
 science. Many of his poems are executed 
 with consummate skill; and his descriptive 
 passages are so true, natural, and beautiful, 
 that they can scarcely be surpassed by any 
 similar efforts in the lamma2;e. He excels 
 most in this kind of writing — because he is 
 always at home with Nature — and loves her 
 like a mother, with a gentle, confiding, and 
 most affectionate heart. But no sooner do 
 the dark aspects of humanity — the wrongs, 
 the follies, the pride, and the crimes of men 
 pass over his mind, than he bursts forth 
 into passionate and vehement exclamation, 
 and the calm heavens, and the meek and 
 beautiful earth, are suddenly darkened and 
 
 b 2
 
 6 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 distorted with the fiery ashes of his wrath. 
 We see in all that he does a strong man; 
 a sort of gigantic Titan, who hates his 
 chains ; in whom the Divine impulses are 
 so powerful that he must speak, even 
 if it be in flame; for although he has a 
 wonderful faculty of condensation — both in 
 thought and matter — yet he rarely evinces 
 that subdued power, that central balance 
 and equipoise, which are the highest marks 
 of greatness. He knows nothing of the 
 deep repose, the sorrowful strength, which 
 is manifested in Wordsworth ; nor did he 
 ever fully appreciate the writings of that 
 noble and philosophical bard. He mistook 
 in several instances the artistic simplicity, 
 and the pure Greek beauty, of Wordsworth, 
 for sheer weakness, and thought very meanly 
 of the Ecclesiastical Sonnets. He allowed 
 that there was merit in the " Peter Bell," 
 but gave his praise grudgingly, like one who 
 was half ashamed of his judgment. He had 
 no sympathy with those high speculations 
 which are for ever haunting the mind of 
 Wordsworth, and are so beautifully em- 
 bodied in his poetry. He was a far-seeing, 
 much-enduring, hard-working, practical man; 
 dealing always with practical questions, and
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 7 
 
 rarely attempting to soar into the higher 
 regions of thought. Whatever was tinged 
 with mysticism, and did not represent some 
 tangible matter, which he could grasp and 
 wrestle with, was to him idle and empty 
 dreaming. He was cradled into poetry by 
 human wrong and misery, and was emphat- 
 ically, the Bard of Poverty — singing of the 
 poor man's loves and sorrows, and denounc- 
 ing his oppressors. This he conceived to 
 be his mission; and whilst the Corn Laws 
 existed, and Labour and Famine went hand 
 in hand together, he had no time for the 
 dainty speculations of philosophy, even if 
 he had possessed the capacity for them. His 
 mind, however, was not metaphysical ; but, 
 as I said, practical ; and his want of relish for 
 Wordsworth as a whole, lay in the necessity 
 of his intellect. 
 
 I remember reading to him, after a long 
 conversation upon the relative merits of 
 Wordsworth and Byron, the fine ode of 
 the former poet, called. " Intimations of 
 Immortality, gathered from Recollections 
 of Early Childhood ; " but notwithstanding 
 the profound significance, and deep anthem- 
 melody of the poem, he would not acknow- 
 ledge its merit. — Nay, he confessed that it
 
 8 LIFE, CHAKACTEK, AND GENIUS 
 
 was beyond his depth, although he after- 
 wards quoted one or two fine lines, which 
 had struck him during the reading, and 
 seemed to haunt him in spite of himself. — 
 This poem, which may he called the Apo- 
 theosis of life, and is in every respect a 
 wonderful performance, both in spirit, com- 
 pass, and execution, is the test by which 
 one might measure the depth and culture 
 of all candidates for honours in the Poetical 
 Tripos. And as some one has said — I 
 believe Berkeley — that unless a man have 
 doubted the fact of his own existence, he 
 may be sure he has no aptitude for meta- 
 physics, so it may likewise be said, that he 
 who cannot understand the moral fitness 
 and spiritual aim of the ode in question, 
 has no claim to be admitted into the highest 
 regions of poetical inspiration. The truth 
 of this postulate is borne out, so far as 
 Elliott is concerned, both in his public 
 writings and private discourse. The fine 
 Platonism of the ode alluded to, finds no echo 
 in his heart ; the shadowy recollections, as 
 of a dim and forgotten existence, which flit 
 over the golden brain of childhood, and 
 which to Wordsworth are evidences of an 
 old, dateless, and eternal birth, and which,
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 9 
 
 " be they what they may, 
 
 Are still the common light of all our day; 
 Are still the fountain light of all our seeing ; 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the Eternal Sdence ; "— 
 
 these recollections, I say, suggest no such 
 deep thoughts and high emprises to the 
 mind of Elliott, but have a psychological 
 base, and may be psychologically explained. 
 He looked, in fact, for a literal meaning in 
 the ode, and missed, therefore, the Avhole 
 grandeur and sublimity of its aim. " Eor 
 what purpose," said he, " should the soul 
 return again to earth, after it lias once left 
 it ? Is life, then, and such a life as this 
 famine-life of England, so loveable ? " The 
 question is a key to Elliott's mind, and 
 we can see very well how many, and what 
 kind of chambers in the Spiritual kingdom, 
 it will unlock. I find the same practical 
 and obstinate question occurring in one of 
 his latest poems, the " Plaint," written, as 
 he told me, one night to withdraw his 
 mind from the pain and agony of his bodily 
 suffering. This " Plaint," which is the most 
 mystical of all his poems, is pitched in the 
 same key-note as the "Silent Land," by Salis,
 
 10 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 and is wonderfully beautiful and striking. 
 It is the sorrowful wail of a soul wandering 
 in the dark, on the very margin of the 
 eternal shores ; companioned by millions, and 
 yet going all alone, into the dark, silent, 
 dread, Unknown. I know of nothing so 
 sad and melancholy in literature; and the 
 gloomy, almost heart-breaking effect of the 
 poem is heightened by the dreary melody 
 of the rhythm, and the skill whereby the 
 main idea of one verse is repeated in the 
 next, and merged into some new and still 
 more mournful thought. The question to 
 which I have alluded will be found in the 
 sixth verse of this poem, where the desire 
 for the re-union of the soul, either with 
 the world or with its ex-tenants in the 
 immortal spheres, is regarded as selfish and 
 profane, because God is all. Here is the 
 poem : — 
 
 PLAINT. 
 
 T. 
 
 " Daek, deep, and cold, the current flows, 
 Unto the sea where no wind blows, 
 Seeking the land which no one knows. 
 
 n. 
 O'er its sad gloom stdl comes and goes, 
 The mingled wail of friends and foes, 
 Borne to the laud which no one knows.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. H 
 
 III. 
 
 Why shrieks for help yon wretch who goes, 
 "With millions, from a world of woes, 
 Unto the land which no one knows ? 
 
 IV, 
 
 Though myriads go with him who goes, 
 Alone he goes, where no wind hlows. 
 Unto the land which no one knows. 
 
 For all must go where no wind blows. 
 And none can go for him who goes ; 
 None, none return, whence no one knows. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Tet why should he who shrieking goes 
 With millions, from a world of woes, 
 Re-union seek with it or those ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Alone with God, where no wind blows, 
 And Death, His shadow, doom'd he goes, 
 That God is there the shadow shows. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh ! shoreless Deep ! where no wind blows ! 
 And thou, oh Land, which no one knows ! 
 That God is All, His shadow shows." 
 
 Still, altliougii Elliott could not penetrate 
 the deep allusions of Wordsworth, nor ap- 
 preciate his philosophy, he held the Bard in 
 great reverence, and spoke of the "Excursion"
 
 12 LIFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 as one of the poems destined for immortality. 
 He could quote all its finest descriptive 
 passages; and regarded many of Wordsworth's 
 Minor Effusions, as pieces of pure nature. 
 His love for Southey, "who condescended," 
 as he says, " to teach him the art of poetry," 
 was sincere, natural, and characteristic. For 
 Elliott was a worshipper of power and beauty 
 and delighted in the architectural pomp of 
 poetry, where he could sit as in a vast cathe- 
 dral, and contemplate the gorgeous creations 
 of genius upon its painted domes. Hence he 
 spoke of "Thalaha" as the most wonderful 
 effort of the human imagination, and more 
 than one of his pieces is stained with the 
 fiery colouring of that caballistic poem. His 
 admiration of Byron amounted almost to 
 idolatry ; and he was impatient of all dissent 
 from his judgment in this particular. Neither 
 would he allow you to differ from him, unless 
 you could at once substantiate your opinion 
 by a direct reference to the poet's writings. 
 Nor was it easy to convince him that there 
 was a single flaw in the rhetoric or sentiments 
 of his noble idol. He would not admit that 
 he was irreligious or immoral in his writings; 
 and denounced all such judgment as " cant, 
 twaddle, and hypocrisy." " It has become
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 13 
 
 fashionable," he said, "to abuse Lord Byron, 
 but he will live when the bones of his blas- 
 phemers shall have rotted." And then, after 
 he had exhausted the fierce tornadoes of his 
 wrath against all such blasphemers, he would 
 quote you endless passages from this poet, all 
 of them full of human beauty, and breathing 
 a fine spirit of natural piety. lie had a rich 
 and costly edition of " Childe Harold" — 
 illustrated, if I remember rightly, by Turner 
 — which he cherished with an almost holy 
 love; for he declared this poem to be the 
 finest master-piece of melody which our 
 noble English tongue can boast of. Shelley 
 and Keats were likewise great favourites 
 with him. The former he loved not only for 
 his genius, but for his deep sympathy with 
 his race; and the latter he estimated more 
 highly than any modern poet, with the 
 exception of Byron ; not so much from what 
 he had actually accomplished, as for the 
 promise which his performances manifested. 
 In these likings and estimates of the genius 
 of his contemporaries, we see the objective 
 tendency of his mind, and its delight in 
 sensuous, rather than in spiritual beauty 
 and speculative thought. 
 
 I think, therefore, from these consider- 
 
 c
 
 14 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 ations, and others to be shown hereafter, 
 that Elliott can scarcely be classed amongst 
 the highest order of poetical minds. And yet 
 he belongs to the "true breed of the vermin/' 
 as he himself expressed it in speaking of a 
 much humbler person. Eor in his writings 
 are to be found all the elements of a beauti- 
 ful and aesthetic, as well as of a grand moral 
 poetry. And it is precisely in the aesthetic 
 and moral sphere, as distinguished from the 
 spiritual, that he takes his place as a poet; 
 looking upon all things through the medium 
 of the beautiful, in their relation to the 
 moral laws. There is something Hebraic 
 and sublime in the stern justice which he 
 executes upon falsehood and wrong-doing. 
 He is like the Indian impersonation of 
 Brahm — all eyes, all ears, all feet — keen to 
 see, powerful to perform, swift to overtake. 
 He has one central idea — terrible and awful 
 in its aspect, although beautiful and benefi- 
 cent in its spirit — before which he tries all 
 causes, and men, and things. It is the 
 Eternal Idea of Bight; his synonyme of God. 
 And this idea is perpetually present in his 
 mind, pervades all his thoughts, will not be 
 shuffled nor cheated, but demands a full 
 satisfaction from all violators of it. The
 
 OP EBENEZEK ELLIOTT. 15 
 
 Titled Scoundrel, and the Mitred Priest, 
 the Bread-Tax-Eater, the Pox-Hunter, the 
 Game-Law-Squire, the Hundred Popes of 
 England's Jesuitry, are all summoned before 
 this tribunal, and dealt with — sometimes 
 with an over-severe judgment. One can 
 make allowance, however, for the occasional 
 exaggeration of the sentence, because the 
 doom of his delinquents is always just. 
 Besides, a man whose feelings, as he says, 
 " have been hammered until they have 
 become cold-short, and are apt to snap and 
 fly off in sarcasms," is not likely to be choice 
 in his expressions, when he is dealing with 
 known lies; nor have they any mercy to 
 expect at his hands. Por poetry, with Elliott, 
 was no pastime, nor even a musical unrest, 
 but a stern and inspired demonic labour, 
 deep as life, strong as death ; involving life, 
 or death issues. He had a great contempt for 
 dilettante poetry, and could pardon notlrihg 
 short of genius ; and even then, genius must 
 be married to practical endeavour, or God 
 had thrown away his highest gift upon an 
 indolent dreamer. "We cannot spare one 
 true man from the ranks of thought and 
 progress, in these distracted times," he said ; 
 "and it grieves me to see any man waste
 
 16 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 his talents in constructing cobwebs, when 
 the world has to be built anew/' Eor he 
 looked upon the world as altogether diseased; 
 right and wrong had changed places in it, 
 and the divine was undermost. A hireling 
 church, and a do-nothing, eat-every-thing 
 Aristocracy, were his nightmare of this 
 moral death ; and he devoted all his powers 
 to crush it. The waving com fields, and 
 the sweet-singing birds, piping their rich 
 melodies in the trees and hedge-rows around 
 him, made him sad. "God has given us 
 food to eat, and man, the tyrant and oppres- 
 sor, has taxed it !" he one day exclaimed, as 
 I wandered with him, in the valley below 
 his house, "and these beautiful birds are 
 sino-ina: as if there were no sorrow in the 
 world. Ye break my heart, ye little birds,'* 
 he added, turning with his eyes brimful of 
 tears, to the unconscious musicians. It was 
 a touching sight ; for Elliott was then grey, 
 and bowed down with the weight of years 
 and affliction. He could not find one pure, 
 unmixed pleasure in all the landscapes, 
 woodlands, and cloudlands of Nature; for 
 this divine harmony which he saw every 
 where around him, became, as I said, sad 
 and painful when contrasted, as by the very
 
 OF EEENEZER ELLIOTT. 17 
 
 law of his mind it was sure to be, with 
 the wretchedness and misery of men. For 
 the Poet had looked upon Nature in so 
 many and such various moods, that all 
 her phenomena and forms were transfigured 
 by the power of his feelings and passions, 
 and had become to him the symbols and 
 the representatives of human thought and 
 life. Nature and man's life were fused 
 indeed into one great whole, and in the 
 midst of sunshine, and waters, and singing 
 birds, he heard the wild wail of famine, 
 and the shrieks and moans of bleeding and 
 broken hearts. Nay, he took a strange 
 and unwearied pleasure in drawing pictures 
 of woe and misery, and making them speak 
 in a language that melts all hearts. AVe 
 may thank Crabbe for much of this, and 
 for the gloomy colouring which darkens the 
 genius of our manful and earnest poet. 
 Crabbe was his model in early life, and 
 confirmed the natural bias of his mind 
 towards those dark and doleful subjects. 
 All his heroes are unhappy; the victims 
 of social wrong and Corn Law oppression. 
 He regarded Poverty as the waste and 
 flaming Sahara of Life, where no flowers 
 grew, no rain descended, no stars shone. It 
 
 c 2
 
 18 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 was his extremest, deepest hell ; and he 
 peopled it with horror and despair. On 
 the other hand, outward prosperity and a 
 " Home of Taste," for the working man, 
 were his highest visions of a terrestrial 
 Paradise. These were the two Poles of 
 his ethical and political science. He could 
 not understand that Poverty was no evil; 
 that it might he a great good ; capahle of 
 yielding priceless blessings : he called it an 
 immitigable curse. Por he looked at it with 
 the eyes of a Political Economist, and could 
 not, or would not, entertain it as a question 
 of morals. Prom a very sufficient trial of 
 poverty, however, I can pronounce it good 
 for discipline, consolation, guidance, strength; 
 a very Hercules' cradle ; and not at all, there- 
 fore, a curse, but a blessing ; provided always 
 that a trustful and hopeful heart be at the 
 bottom of it. But Elliott could not see the 
 Angel through this disguise of rags ; and his 
 professed business was to denounce it as a 
 loathsome harlot ; the mother of crime and 
 infamy. As a politician, he was stone-blind 
 to the moral uses of suffering ; and neither 
 the public history of nations, nor the private 
 lives of great men, who had been tried and 
 purified in that fire, could instruct him in
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 10 
 
 the wisdom of the Institution, or induce him 
 to regard it as a divine appointment. Free 
 trade was his religion, and heaven was paved 
 with cheap bread, and rich mosaics of golden 
 untaxed ^rain. From the altar of this en- 
 thusiasm he preached his new gospel of 
 commerce, which was to emancipate the 
 world from tyranny and superstition, and 
 regenerate the lives and ways of men. It 
 is curious and instructive to observe the 
 strong faith which he has in the power 
 and consequences of this material reform; 
 what impossible things he expects from it ! 
 and how earnestly he believes the demon 
 that possesses him, and speaks through his 
 tongue. Had he been born a little earlier, 
 he would have been a leader in the Com- 
 monwealth — perhaps a Puritan preacher, a 
 regicide, and Poet Laureate to the Lord 
 Protector. He would have fought well too, 
 at Marston Moor, if one may judge from 
 the battle-music which rings through his 
 verses. But as a divine guide, and teacher 
 of heavenly things, he has no faculty, and 
 therefore no mission. He is a poet, but 
 not a priest ; and one always feels dark and 
 lonely with him, except when he goes forth 
 to worship on the hill tops. The beautiful
 
 20 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 and sorrowful stars instruct us in a holier 
 lore than that of Corn Law Rhymes, and 
 anti-Corn Law curses ; and the poet himself 
 is never so human, natural, and happy, as 
 when singing the songs which they inspire. 
 His thoughts and wavs are his own, how- 
 ever — the proper and necessary unfolding of 
 his nature, and should be received and 
 accepted as such. 
 
 The philosophy of Adam Smith and Jeremy 
 Bentham was the substratum upon which his 
 mind was built ; and this philosophy, inter- 
 penetrated by his genius, found at last a 
 voice which burst forth in Corn Law Rhymes. 
 It was the first melody that ever came from 
 the dead and monotonous mill-wheels of 
 political economy, and is the best result 
 which I, for one, can hope for from that 
 quarter. The works of the above authors, 
 and those of the good Colonel Thompson, 
 made Elliott a politician; and he no sooner 
 saw the evil effects of the Corn Laws upon 
 the industry of the nation, than he began to 
 denounce them. Unfortunately, his hatred 
 of monopoly made him a monoplist in his 
 hatred, limited his vision, dwarfed his sym- 
 pathies, and converted him into a kind «£ 
 of Polyphemus — a one-eyed King of Song.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 21 
 
 The Corn Laws were at the root of all our 
 evils; social, moral, political, and religious. 
 Destroy these laws, and you will have free 
 trade, and with it a happy, contented, and 
 virtuous population ! Such was the remedy 
 which the Poet proposed for the deep spiritual 
 disease of the nation. 
 
 His insight did not extend beyond the 
 cuticle of the world ; and all its spiritual 
 wants and necessities were as impenetrably 
 hidden from his eyes as if they had been 
 closed by the seven seals spoken of in the 
 Apocalypse. But no man living in his time 
 had a clearer practical vision, or a more 
 readv and seasonable wit. He alwavs struck 
 at the right moment, whilst the iron was 
 hot, and sent the hissing and burning sparks 
 around him, with good effect. And thus, 
 Avhether speaking at public meetings, lec- 
 turing at mechanics' institutes, or writing 
 political lyrics, he was always successful. 
 
 His early poems are remarkable for rude 
 power, and for a wild and somewhat turgid 
 imagination. They remind me of the Voluspa, 
 and the Prose Edda of the Scandinavians, 
 Avhere the Norse genius revels in unrestrained 
 license, and conjures its gigantic creations 
 out of the tempest and the whirlwind, and
 
 •22 MFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 the ghostly regions of eternal ice and snow. 
 We see that the wild Eagle has not yet 
 acquired the mastery over its wings ; although 
 in all its heavenward attempts there is much 
 of glory, if also of defeat. It is extremely 
 interesting to trace the progress of the poet's 
 mind from his first effort, " The Vernal 
 Walk," made in his seventeenth year, up 
 to the publication of the "Uanter" and 
 the "Corn Law Khymes." He gathers 
 fresh strength at every step, and beats up 
 the thunder from the hard highway as he 
 marches along, giving us assurance that an 
 earnest fighting man is on the road, who 
 means, by the grace of God, to become a 
 hero and a conqueror. Unfortunately, he 
 is too often a Quixotic spendthrift of his 
 power : and, although he does not fight 
 windmills, he often grinds in them — like 
 blind Sampson — and that too, with no prac- 
 tical result, but merely to shake off the 
 superabundance of his strength. I have 
 read the "Vernal Walk" with pleasure, as 
 a literary curiosity; and with the same 
 feelings which induce us to look into the 
 early literature of great nations. It is very 
 singular too, the striking resemblance in the 
 development of ideas which exists between
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 23 
 
 the youth of man, and the youth of nations. 
 "Wonder and worship are the elements of 
 human culture, and religion flows naturally 
 out of the loving heart, in the presence of 
 Nature. Hence all great nations have their 
 theogonies and theosophies, whose origin lies 
 in the very morning of their existence; 
 and hence also the earliest efforts of our 
 best poets have a religious source. Elliott's 
 "Vernal Walk," originally published by 
 Mr. Eowler, of Cambridge, is full of this 
 devotional feeling, and is moreover no incon- 
 siderable performance, in the literary sense, 
 if we take into the account his neglected 
 education, and the age at which it was 
 written. I fancy also that I can discover 
 in this poem the seeds of the future man, 
 his love of Nature, his worship of the 
 beautiful, his earnestness, strength, and 
 weakness. The same fusion of human 
 sorrow with natural beauty, which marks 
 all he does in after years, is likewise visible 
 here. It is, however, an imitative and 
 reminiscent, rather than an inspired poem; 
 and he apologises for including it in Ms 
 collected works by saying, that as the idiot 
 of the family is sometimes a favourite, so 
 this poem is endeared to him by the critical
 
 24 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS, 
 
 persecution which it has suffered. I subjoin 
 a few extracts, which will give some idea of 
 this earliest effusion of the poet: — 
 
 " Hark ! 'tis the hymn of Nature ! Love-taught birds 
 Salute, with songs of gratulation sweet, 
 The sweet May morning. How harmoniously 
 Over these meadows of the rising sun 
 The music floats ! O Love ! Love ever young ! 
 On the soft bosom of the Spring reclined ; 
 Nurse of the tender thought, and generous deed ! 
 Thou comest to bless thy children. * * 
 Oft have I passed yon cottage door at eve. 
 Where sat the swain, his daily labour done, 
 Nursing his little children on his knee, 
 And kissing them at times, whilst o'er him bent 
 His happy partner, smiling as she viewed 
 Her lisping babes ; then have I blessed thee, Love ! 
 And fondly called thee Fount of Social Peace ! 
 What art thou, deathless, all-pervading power, 
 That, like a meek, yet universal sun, 
 Through universal Nature gently shinest ? 
 Art thou a ray from light's unclouded source ? 
 An emanation of divinity ? 
 No; thou art God!" 
 
 *,y* au j£. <y. 
 
 "7? -w tp ?;■ 
 
 " Here springs the odorous primrose ; sweetly here 
 The orchard blooms; here bees are full of Spring. 
 The poet courts the violet as he strays ; 
 But Winter cometh, and the flower is gone ; 
 And then saith he, ' 'Tis faded.' Thus, Man !
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 25 
 
 Thou livest, and diest ! Strong is thy youthful frame, 
 But soou the feeble steps of Age approach, 
 Follow'd by Death. Even on thy new-made grave 
 Oblivion sits " 
 
 "Ere there lived one soul 
 
 To worship thee, Oh God of Holiness ! 
 
 Wrapt in incomprehensibility, 
 
 Pleased with self-contemplation, thou didst muse 
 
 In silence on thine own eternal thoughts. 
 
 Through all extent thou piercest ; nothing is 
 
 Where thou art not : even in me thou dwellest, 
 
 Thou movest the strings of mental melody 
 
 Which tune my soul to harmony and love. 
 
 Thou bidd'st my fancy soar to realms of light, 
 
 Bidd'st reason, holy reason, muse ou thee 
 
 And in thy works behold thee, throned o'er heights 
 
 And depths of glory inaccessible. 
 
 I, in the majesty of Nature, see 
 
 The greatness of eternal majesty; 
 
 I, in her smiling scenery, behold 
 
 The bounteous smile of beauty infinite. 
 
 Thy goodness is unbounded, God of Love ! 
 
 Here, or wherever uncreated light 
 
 Flames in the sea of ever-vital beams, 
 
 World peopled — as this vernal air with buds — 
 
 Father and God ! thy sons shall worship thee !" 
 
 But notwithstanding that these early effu- 
 sions are rudely and coarsely constructed, 
 
 D
 
 28 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 there are gleams of real talent in them, 
 and touches of that deep pathos whereof 
 Elliott has since proved himself so great 
 a master. The Rejected's Song in " The 
 Second Nuptials " may be instanced as a 
 specimen of his early skill in this depart- 
 ment of poetry. 
 
 At a very early period of his poetical ca- 
 reer, Elliott was fortunate enough to secure 
 the friendship of the poet Southey; who, 
 on the appearance of his second volume, 
 which originally comprised "Bothwell," — a 
 dramatic poem, "The Exile," and "Second 
 Nuptials," with a Preface from " Peter 
 Eaultless to his brother Simon," — defying 
 his reviewers — wrote him as follows : " There 
 is power in the least of these tales ; but 
 the higher you pitch your tone the better 
 you succeed. Thirty years ago they would 
 have made your reputation ; and thirty 
 years hence, the world will wonder that 
 they did not do so." Elliott's third volume 
 contained a satire, under the title of 
 " Giaour," which, strange enough, was a 
 vehement attack upon Lord Byron. The 
 secret of its history is one of the many 
 curiosities of literature. According to 
 Elliott's own statement, it was written
 
 OF EBENEZEK ELLIOTT. 27 
 
 with a view to goad Lord Byron into 
 a notice of him; and to revenge himself 
 for an affront which he fancied he had 
 received from the noble lord, in the old 
 Bank at Rotherham. Tke party wko re- 
 lates tkis storv, tkinks it skould receive 
 but a qualified credence. There seems, 
 however, to be no reason to doubt its 
 accuracy — since the original statement was 
 made by Elliott himself ; and I have fre- 
 quently remarked, that he was not only 
 candid in the announcement, but severe in 
 the condemnation of his own faikngs. It 
 is, moreover, easy enougk to see now a 
 young and sensitive man — conscious of kis 
 own unacknowledged merits, might be en- 
 trapped by the impetuosity of his feelings, 
 into an ungenerous revenge of a supposed 
 insult. Byron's " English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers " is an example of this head- 
 strong retaliation ; and Elliott could very 
 well plead it as a precedent, if not as a 
 justification. But in neither instance must 
 we draw too hasty conclusions, from these 
 erratic outbursts ; for they are no true 
 indications of the character of either party. 
 In both cases it is wounded pride that 
 speaks, and not a corrupt and revengeful
 
 28 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 heart. I do not seek, however, to apologise 
 for Elliott's conduct in this instance; and 
 will merely add that Lord Byron took no 
 notice of his assailant. 
 
 " Corn Law Rhymes and the Ranter ' 
 appeared next, in one volume, and were 
 noticed in the "Eclectic," and in "Black- 
 wood's Magazine." In 1829, he published 
 the "Village Patriarch," which was praised 
 by the "Westminster," but did not bring 
 Mm the suffrage and applause of the public. 
 He owes the celebrity which he soon after 
 acquired, to an accidental visit which Dr. 
 Bowring paid to T. A. Ward, Esq., of 
 Sheffield. This gentleman placed a copy 
 of the " Corn Law Bhymes, &c," in the 
 hands of the Doctor — who was immediately 
 struck with the great merit of the Poet, 
 and was subsequently introduced to him 
 by Mr. Ward. In returning to London, 
 Dr. Bowring visited William Howitt, at 
 Nottingham, where he met Wordsworth, and 
 made them acquainted with the "wonderful 
 poet of Sheffield, not Montgomery, but a new 
 name." Mr. Howitt claims to have direct- 
 ed Southey's attention to Elliott, through 
 Wordsworth; but this is an error, for Elliott 
 had already been known to Southey for ten
 
 OF EBENEZETt ELLIOTT. 29 
 
 or eleven years. In London, Dr. Bowring 
 showed Elliott's poems to Bulwer, who 
 introduced them to the public in an anony- 
 mous letter in the "New Monthly Magazine." 
 It is dated March 19th, 1831, and is entitled 
 "A Letter to Dr. Southey, &c, Poet- 
 Laureate, respecting a remarkable poem by 
 a Mechanic." Bulwer concludes his letter 
 thus : " And now I think you will admit 
 that I am borne out in the praises with 
 which I have prefaced this poem. I do 
 not know whether the author be young, or 
 old ; if the former, I must unaffectedly add, 
 that to my judgment, he has given such a 
 promise as few men, even in this age — an 
 age wronged and unappreciated — would be 
 capable of performing. " 
 
 This friendly notice may be regarded 
 as the culminating point in Elliott's poet- 
 ical career; for from this time his fame 
 spread over the land, and his merit was 
 generally acknowledged. Miss Jewsbury, in 
 the "Athenaeum," Mrs. Holland, in the 
 "New Monthly," and various other writers, 
 hastened to pay him homage; and Thomas 
 Carlyle wrote a genial criticism upon his 
 writings, in the " Edinburgh Review." In 
 1833, '34, and '35, he collected and published 
 
 jd 2
 
 LIFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 his poems in three successive volumes, and in 
 1840, the previous editions being exhausted, 
 he published the whole of his works in one 
 volume, through Tait, of Edinburgh. His 
 later poems have since been published in two 
 volumes, by Pox, London, under the title 
 of "More Verse and Prose/' by the Corn 
 Law E/hymer. 
 
 I do not propose to enter into a critical 
 analysis of these works, in their separate 
 character; but I may make a few short 
 remarks upon them by way of illustrating 
 the genius and limits of the writer. It is 
 singular enough, as I said awhile ago, that 
 his tales are all sad, and his heroes 
 unhappy. He had studied the physiology 
 and anatomy of human misery, and was 
 its poetical demonstrator. Every painful 
 throb, and every agony of the heart, was 
 familiar to his ear, and he reproduced them 
 in melodies which drop down into the soul 
 like the tears of Music. He loves the 
 cypress and the yew ; and the gloomy 
 aisles of death and the grave. I have 
 before alluded to his powers of pathos; 
 and it is strange how such tenderness, pity, 
 and deep womanly love, should be united 
 to so much rugged manliness, sternness,
 
 OF EBENEZEE, ELLIOTT. 31 
 
 fierceness, and valour, as met together in 
 his nohle and hospitable nature. It was 
 this mixture of opposing elements, however, 
 which gave strength, beauty, and consist- 
 ency, to his character; and although his 
 curses and his hatred were so violent, that 
 he exhausted all the capabilities of language 
 in his utterance of them — yet there was 
 nothing low or vulgar in all this, and 
 looked at from the true point of vision it 
 was even grand and prophetic, — like the 
 half savage, half archangelic denunciations 
 of the old Hebrew seers. For this hate 
 sprang from love; from the inmost depths 
 of a heart that vibrated with sympathies 
 for all that was high and dear to man. 
 Hence an act of oppression done to tho 
 meanest creature, was done to him; and as 
 if he had been God's deputy on earth, he 
 seized his thunderbolts, and hurled them 
 flaming upon the head of the aggressor. 
 He pleads for the poor, because they have 
 no one else to plead for them; and it is 
 most beautiful and touching to see him 
 kneeling before the Maker of all the 
 worlds, and imploring heavenly justice at 
 his hands, for these wronged and suffering 
 children. He is blamed for writing political
 
 32 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 poetry, and his most friendly critics — Carlyle 
 amongst the number — admonished him of the 
 fleeting nature of such effusions. But politics 
 were his element — the motive and the cue 
 for all his actions and literary achievements. 
 His mission, indeed, from the beginning to 
 the end of his life, was that of a reformer — 
 chiefly in the political sphere ; and he clothed 
 his message in the forms of poetry, and 
 the robes of song, that he might render 
 it attractive and successful. In later ages 
 his poetry will mark the history of his 
 time ; for it is the embodiment of the 
 wrongs and sufferings of the people, and 
 of that "bloodless revolution" which has 
 just terminated in commercial freedom. 
 He has reflected, likewise, in his verse all 
 the great political movements of the age; 
 and we see there, in shadowy outline, the 
 mighty pageantry of Europe as it passed 
 in blood and fire before the eyes of men 
 in 1848 and '49. Nothing escapes him con- 
 nected with these external movements ; for 
 he is deeply and personally interested, not 
 only as a poet, but as a man, in all these 
 outward and human concerns. His genius, 
 however, is not universal, but limited. He 
 has but one die in his mint wherewith he
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 33 
 
 stamps all his issues. lie does not, like 
 Shakspcre, give us endless types of cha- 
 racter, hut reproduces himself in his poems, 
 as Byron did hefore him. His sympathies 
 are deep and extensive; hut they are all of 
 one class. His very love is sorrow. He 
 cannot laugh at any time, without weeping. 
 He has wrung from knowledge its deepest 
 lesson, and finds it hitter as hlood. His 
 teaching is all hopeless, save in one direc- 
 tion, and that in the lowest of all directions 
 — namely, the political. He lacked faith 
 and spiritual insight, and could not harmo- 
 nize the distracting elements of the human 
 world ; nor contemplate them aloof from 
 their present and practical hearings. The 
 world disturbed him too much, and he was 
 too much of a man to he a philosopher in 
 it. His poetry was not art — although he 
 was an artist — hut impulse and passion. 
 He did not, like Goethe, study men and 
 things, nor pass through all the grades of 
 animal, intellectual, and spiritual experience, 
 for literary purposes, or for his develop- 
 ment as a complete man; — he had no such 
 ice in his nature ; he was all fervour and 
 fire, and lie loved the world too well to make 
 experiments upon it for artistic purposes.
 
 34 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 There is a moral in his politics, and a 
 moral even in his most trifling effusions; 
 and whilst he spares not the classes above 
 him in social rank, neither does he spare 
 those of his own order. A knave is as 
 infamous to him in a fustian jacket as in 
 an ermine robe, 
 
 I have said that Crabbe was the Poet 
 who first formed his style of writing, and 
 determined the natural tendency of his mind 
 to sorrowful themes. He followed Crabbe, 
 likewise, in the structure of his tales, 
 although he is immeasurably superior to 
 him in imagination, diction, and melody. 
 "The Exile," dedicated to Bulwer, is after 
 this model, but deeper in its feeling than 
 anything to be found in Crabbe, and incom- 
 parably more powerful. So, likewise, the 
 poem called " The Letter, " is of that 
 household character which Crabbe loved 
 to delineate. This is a beautiful, simple, 
 touching, and domestic tragedy; a common 
 tale of common occurrence. It is managed 
 throughout with great skill ; and contains 
 passages of real and marvellous beauty. 
 Both these poems are examples of the 
 power of genius to exalt human passion 
 and human misery, and invest them with
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 35 
 
 enduring interest. His picture of the 
 maiden Anna, prior to her marriage and 
 desertion, is one of the sweetest in poetry ; 
 and he ransacks all the charms of nature 
 wherewith to clothe her virgin heauty. 
 Indeed, whenever he speaks of woman, 
 his words melt into music ; and violets 
 and all sweet flowers spring up and blossom 
 around him, as if by enchantment. The 
 poem which he calls "Love," is almost 
 an Anthem; and would be worthy to be 
 celebrated as such, in some grand cathedral 
 service, if it were perfect in its representa- 
 tions of the divine passion. But in this, 
 as in all other of Elliott's performances, 
 we miss the highest voices, the choral 
 symphonies of the spiritual spheres. He 
 sings of human love in its relation to 
 the sexes, and to social life, with the lyre 
 and emphasis of a master ; but of the 
 divinest love, to which all other love is 
 but the prelude and the initiation, he 
 knows nothing. He sticks to flesh and 
 blood, and dare not trust the heavenly 
 inspirations, lest they should lead him into 
 mysticism. Still, this poem is worthy to 
 have been pronounced at the banquet 
 of Plato ; and old Plutarch would have
 
 36 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 worshipped the author of it. Let the 
 following passages speak for themselves : — 
 
 " Love ! eldest Muse, Time heard thine earliest lay 
 When light through heaven led forth the new-born day. 
 The stars that give no accent to the wind, 
 Are golden odes, and music to the mind; 
 So, Passion's thrill is Nature's minstrelsy ; 
 So, to the young heart love is poetry. 
 God of the soid ! illumination caught 
 From thy bright glance, is energy to thought ; 
 And song bereft of thee is cold and tame. 
 
 But when the heart looks through the eyes of love 
 On Nature's form, things lifeless breathe and move. 
 The dewy forest smiles ; dim Morning shakes 
 The rainbow from his plumage ; music wakes 
 The dimpled ripple of the azure wave ; 
 In fiery floods green hills their tresses lave, 
 And myriad flowers, all brightening from the dews, 
 Day's earth-born stars, their golden beams effuse ; 
 Transported passion bids rocks, floods, and skies, 
 Burst into song, while her delighted eyes 
 To all they see their own rich hues impart ; 
 And the heart's language speaks to every heart." 
 
 A little further on I find the following 
 lines, which, as they have a personal hearing 
 upon the poet and his home, will he read 
 with interest : —
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 37 
 
 " Love, 'twas my heart that named thee — sweetest word, 
 Here, or in highest heaven, pronounced or heard. 
 Whether by seraph near the throne above, 
 Or soul-sick maiden, in the vernal grove, 
 Or matron, with her first-born on her knee, 
 Or sweeter, lisped by rose-lipped infancy ! 
 Yes, love ! my heart did name thee ; not becaua 
 Thy mandate gave the bright-haired comet law* ; 
 Not that thy hand, in good Almightiest showers 
 The ever-blooming, fiery petalled flowers, 
 "Wide o'er the fields of hyacinthine heaven ; 
 But that to me thy richest smile hath given 
 Bliss, tried in pain. So 'mid my rosy boys, 
 In joy and grief, I sing thy griefs and joys." 
 
 He then bursts out in these beautiful 
 strains, picturing his own family group, 
 and domestic happiness : — 
 
 " Blessed is the hearth when daughters gird the fire, 
 And sons that shall be happier than their sire, 
 Who sees them crowd around his evening chair, 
 While love and hope inspire his wordless prayer. 
 O from their home paternal may they go, 
 With little to unlearn, though much to know ! 
 Them, may no poisoned tongue, no evil eye, 
 Curse for the virtues that refuse to die ; 
 The generous heart, the independent mind, 
 Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting behmd ! 
 May Temperance crown their feast, and Friendship share ! 
 May Pity come, Love's sister spirit, there ! 
 May they shun baseness, as they shun the grave ! 
 May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave ! 
 
 E
 
 38 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 Sweet peace be theirs— the moonlight of the breast- 
 Arid occupation, and alternate rest ; 
 And dear to care and thought the rural walk ; 
 Theirs' be no flower that withers on the stalk, 
 But roses cropped, that shall not bloom in vain ; 
 And Hope's blessed sun, that sets to rise again. 
 Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be sweet, 
 Their floor resound the tread of little feet ; 
 Blessed beyond fear and fate, if blessed by thee, 
 And heirs, Love! of thine Eternity." 
 
 Elliott's longest, and best work upon the 
 whole, is "The Village Patriarch." It is 
 professedly a political poem; and in the 
 dedication— which is addressed to Henry 
 Brougham — he calls it the incarnation of 
 a century. Enoch "YVray, the blind old 
 Patriarch of the Village, is finely drawn, 
 and his early recollection of better days 
 is made to tell, with painful effect, upon 
 the miseries which surround him in the 
 desolation of his age. It is, in fact, an 
 Epic of misery; and Elliott, like Dante, had 
 been in hell. It is a book without hope, 
 and his prophecies of England's future are 
 as terrible as anything in Isaiah. It is 
 embued, too, with the Hamlet spirit; or, 
 perhaps I should say, with that of Manfred. 
 But it is set in such a frame-work of poetic 
 jewels, that it would be difficult to find its
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 39 
 
 compeer; and for pathos there is certainly 
 no poem in our language to match it. It 
 reads as if it were written in tears. The 
 pictures of rustic scenery, however, which it 
 contains, are sunny, genial, and glowing with 
 life. Elliott knows most of the wild flowers 
 hy name, and the colour and fashion of 
 their leaves and petals. Enoch appears at 
 his cottage door, attracted by the [ brief 
 sunshine of the winter's day, and the poet 
 makes the red-breast trill his lay in the old 
 man's ears, perched on a blossoming hazel. 
 Rivers flow and murmur through his verses, 
 and flash in the sunshine, through valley 
 and meadow, or fall with trumpet voices 
 over rocks in the dark and lonesome glen. 
 The hum of the bee, and the twitter of 
 the wren, are familiar and musical sounds 
 to him; and he knows the song of all the 
 forest birds. There is nothing too humble 
 for his notice and love. The weed on the 
 wall, the snake in the grass, the poor harm- 
 less fly — as gentle Shakspere calls it — are 
 all God's creatures, and dear to his heart. 
 He says in his Autobiography, that he 
 became acquainted in his walks with a 
 beautiful green snake, about a yard long, 
 which, on the fine Sabbath mornings, about
 
 40 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS, 
 
 ten o'clock, seemed to expect Mm at the top 
 of Primrose Lane, It became so familiar 
 that it ceased to uncurl at his approach. 
 And he has sat on the stile beside it, until 
 it seemed unconscious of his presence. 
 " When I arose to go, " he says, " it 
 would only lift the scales behind its head 
 or the skin beneath them, and they shone 
 in the sun like fire. I know not how 
 often this beautiful and harmless child of 
 God may have sat for his picture in my 
 writings; a dozen at the least." And it 
 was by this close observance of Nature, 
 and through this deep love for her manifold 
 creatures, that he came to represent them 
 so truthfully in his poems. I know of 
 nothing finer than this apostrophe to the 
 Moors, which occurs in the fifth book of 
 the Village Patriarch :— 
 
 " The moors ! all hail ! ye changeless, ye sublime ! 
 That seldom hear a voice save that of Heaven. 
 Scorners of chance, and fate, and death, and time. 
 But not of him whose viewless hand hath riven 
 The chasm, through which the mountain stream is driven. 
 How like a prostrate giant — not in sleep — 
 But listening to his beating heart, ye lie. 
 With winds and clouds dread harmony ye keep ; 
 Ye seem alone beneath the boundless sky ; 
 Ye speak, are mute, and there is no reply."
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 41 
 
 In the centre, however, of all this out- 
 ward array of beauty, which clothes the 
 poem, the worm of decay and death is 
 gnawing; and the poet leads us from the 
 banqueting halls of Nature to a horrid 
 feast of skulls. Misery and famine are 
 everywhere ; and when the curtain falls 
 over the poem, it is as if a dark blanket 
 were dropped down from heaven by sor- 
 rowing angels, over some region of beauty 
 abandoned to despair. 
 
 The concluding lines of this fine poem are 
 amongst his happiest and most successful 
 efforts : — 
 
 "And when the woodbine's clustered trumpet blows; 
 And when the pink's melodious hues shall speak, 
 In unison of sweetness with the rose, 
 Joining the song of every bird that knows 
 How sweet it is of wedded love to sing ; 
 And when the fells, fresh bathed in azure air, 
 Wide as the summer day's all golden wing, 
 Shall blush to Heaven, that nature is so fair, 
 And man condemned to labour in despair ; 
 Then the gay gnat, that sports its little hour ; 
 The falcon, wheeling from the ancient wood ; 
 The redbreast, fluttering o'er its fragrant bower ; 
 The yellow-bellied lizard of the flood ; 
 And dewy morn, and evening — in her hood 
 Of crimson, fringed with lucid shadows grand — 
 Shall miss the Patriarch ; at his cottage door 
 
 E 2
 
 42 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 The bee shall seek to settle oil his hand, 
 
 But from the vacant bench haste to the moor, 
 
 Mourning the last of England's high-souled poor, 
 
 And bid the mountains weep for Enoch Wray ! 
 
 And for themselves ! — albeit of things that last 
 
 Unaltered most ; for they shall pass away 
 
 Like Enoch, though their iron roots seem fast 
 
 Bound to the eternal future, as the past ; 
 
 The Patriarch died ! and they shall be no more. 
 
 Yes, and the sailless worlds, which navigate 
 
 The unutterable deep, that hath no shore, 
 
 Will lose their starry splendour soon or late ! 
 
 Like tapers, quenched by him whose will is fate ! 
 
 Tes, and the Angel of Eternity, 
 
 Who numbers worlds, and writes their names in light, 
 
 Ere long, Oh Earth, will look in vain for thee ! 
 
 And start, and stop, in his unerring flight, 
 
 And, with his wings of sorrow and affright, 
 
 Veil his impassioned brow and heavenly tears ! " 
 
 "The Splendid Village" is a poem of the 
 same cast as " The Village Patriarch," and is 
 another chapter of the prophecies of Jeremiah, 
 although written as a satire. He laments the 
 decay of old virtues and customs, and mourns 
 once more over the bloated prosperity of the 
 bad, and the wretchedness and poverty of the 
 people. It contains, like all his poems, pas- 
 sages of great tenderness and beauty. 
 
 " Bothwell" and " Kerhonah" are attempts 
 at dramatic poetry, and failures. For Elliott
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 43 
 
 is no Proteus, and can assume no other form 
 than his own. His individuality is too strong 
 in him to be put off, and he makes all men 
 in his own likeness. 
 
 " The Ranter " and " The Corn Law 
 Rhymes," which first attracted the general 
 notice of the public to the Poet, are amongst 
 his happiest effusions. "The Gospel Tree" 
 sermon is a historic record, and reflects all 
 that the eloquent preacher Stephens, or the 
 Chartist orator Vincent, has thought, felt, 
 and spoken in the late disastrous times. — 
 Whilst, however, I can understand the in- 
 tense earnestness which breathes throughout 
 this poem, I find fault with the poem it sell', 
 as I do with most of Elliott's longer works, 
 because it is too literary. He is always at 
 the height of his strength, and one can feel 
 the strong writer in his sentences, and detect 
 his art. In other words, he aims at powerful 
 writing, and his real strength often passes 
 away in thunder-clouds. It was the fault of 
 his nature, which on one side was all antago- 
 nism, and on the other all love. There is a 
 strange fascination, however, about this short 
 poem, which nothing but genius could pro- 
 duce. The materials are bare and scanty, 
 and there is neither plot nor plan in it ;
 
 4i LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 yet it is wonderfully effective. We have first 
 of all a picture of the cottage where the 
 Ranter lodges — then we see the poor widow 
 rise at daybreak, to prepare breakfast for her 
 little household, for it is the Sabbath morn- 
 ing, and the Ranter's congregation of mecha- 
 nics will soon await him at the Gospel Tree. 
 Presently she goes to awake her son, and we 
 see her trembling with indecision as she gazes 
 upon the face of her " o'er laboured boy" — 
 half inclined to let him sleep on. But she 
 knows it would pain him to miss the morn- 
 ing's discourse, for it may be the last he will 
 ever hear from the poor preacher, whose pale 
 and wasted form is already smitten with the 
 blight and mildew of death. So she rouses 
 him ; and he accompanies the Ranter to the 
 place of meeting, whilst, 
 
 " the mountains one by one 
 
 Ascend in light ; and slow the mists retire 
 
 From vale and plain. The clouds on Stannington 
 
 Behold a rocket — No, 'tis Morthen spire! 
 
 The sun is risen ! cries Stanedge, tipped with fire ; 
 
 On Norwood's flowers the dew-drops shine and shake ; 
 
 Up, sluggards, up ! and drink the morning breeze. 
 
 The birds on cloud-left Osgathorpe awake ; 
 
 And Wincobank is waving all his trees 
 
 O'er subject towns, and farms, and villages, 
 
 And gleaming streams, and woods, and waterfalls.
 
 OF EBEXEZER ELLIOTT. 45 
 
 Up climb the oak crown'd summit ! Hoober Stand, 
 And Keppel's Pillar gaze on "Wentworth's halls, 
 And misty lakes, that brighten and expand, 
 And distant hills, that watch the western strand. 
 Up ! trace God's foot-prints where they paint the mould 
 With heavenly green, and hues that blush and glow 
 Like angels' wings ; while skies of blue and gold 
 Stoop for Miles Gordon on the mountain's brow. " 
 
 And in the midst of this magnificent 
 scenery, under the old oak of Shirecliffe, 
 the Ranter delivers his sermon. After 
 which the congregation disperses, and the 
 poor brave Preacher disappears to die. But 
 the image of the man never leaves you after 
 reading the poem, although Elliott gives no 
 portrait of him. It is the words he speaks 
 which fashion him to our minds, and give 
 him such a distinct individuality. I may 
 add also, that the conclusion of the sermon 
 is the most hopeful prophecy to be found 
 in Elliott's writings, and I will quote it 
 here as a specimen of the sunny side of 
 his mind : — 
 
 " Poor Bread-taxed Slaves ! have ye no hope on earth ? 
 Yes ! God from evil still educes good ; 
 Sublime events are rushing to their birth ; 
 Lo, tyrants by their victims are withstood ! 
 And Freedom's seed still grows, though steeped in blood.
 
 46 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 When by our Pather's voice the skies are riven, 
 
 That, like the winnowed chaff, disease may fly ; 
 
 And seas are shaken by the breath of Heaven, 
 
 Lest hi their depths the living Spirit die ; 
 
 Man views the scene with awed, but grateful eye, 
 
 And trembling feels, could God abuse his power 
 
 Nor man, nor Nature, would endure an hour. 
 
 But there is mercy in his seeming wrath ; 
 
 It smites to save — not tyrant-like to slay : 
 
 And storms have beauty as the lily hath : 
 
 Grand are the clouds, that mirrored on the bay, 
 
 Boll, like the shadows of lost worlds, away, 
 
 When bursts through broken gloom, the startled light ; 
 
 Grand are the waves that, like that broken gloom, 
 
 Are smitten into splendour by his might ; 
 
 And glorious is the storm's tremendous boom, 
 
 Although it waileth o'er a watery tomb, 
 
 And is a dreadful Ode on Oceans drowned. 
 
 Despond not, then, ye plundered sons of trade ! 
 
 Hope's wounded wing shall yet disdain the ground, 
 
 And Commerce, while the powers of evil fade, 
 
 Shout o'er all seas, — ' All Lands for me were made.' 
 
 Her's are the apostles destined to go forth 
 
 Upon the wings of mighty winds, and preach 
 
 Christ crucified! To her the south and north 
 
 Look through their tempests; and her love shall reach 
 
 Their farthest ice, if life there be to teach. 
 
 Yes, world-reforming Commerce, one by one, 
 
 Thou vanquishest earth's tyrants ! and the hour 
 
 Cometh, when all shall fall before thee — gone 
 
 Their splendour, fallen their trophies, lost their power. 
 
 Then o'er the enfranchised nations wilt thou shower, 
 
 Like dew-drops from the pinions of the dove,
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 47 
 
 Plenty and peace ; and never more on thee 
 Shall bondage wait ; hut as the thoughts of love, 
 Free shalt thou fly, unchainable and free ; 
 And men, thenceforth, shall call thee ' liberty ! ' 
 
 The Corn Law PJrymes, notwithstanding 
 their occasional coarseness, are real poetry — 
 effusions from the heart. They are dedicated 
 " to all who revere the memory of Jeremy 
 Bentham, our second Locke, and wish to 
 promote the greatest happiness of the great- 
 est number, for the greatest length of time." 
 Poor Elliott ! How fast a hold the spirit of 
 Political Economy has upon his mind ! and 
 how strangely it distorts and darkens his 
 vision. One could have wished that he 
 had seen a little deeper than good Jeremy 
 Bentham's philosophy; or at least, that he 
 might have outlived it ; flinging it from him 
 as the lumber of a dead world, through 
 which he had victoriously fought his way. 
 But neither in these Rhvmes, nor in his 
 latest writings, is there any evidence of 
 his Spiritual progression. He is painfully 
 bound in chains, like Prometheus to his 
 rock, and in the highest sense, can neither 
 sink nor soar. He always harps on the 
 same string — with a Paganini's hand, it is 
 true — but one wearies even of the most
 
 48 LIFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 beautiful variations, when the melody is 
 always the same. 
 
 His writings divide themselves naturally 
 into three distinct parts ; each of which 
 represents a phase of the mind and genius 
 of the Poet. They consist, firstly, of the 
 Political Poems ; secondly, of the ^Esthetic, 
 or those which relate to the affections, and 
 the cultivation of the Taste; and, thirdly, 
 those of a Moral and Descriptive nature, 
 wherein the poet, by a direct teaching and 
 exhortation, seeks to raise the minds of 
 the people into the regions of truth and 
 duty. It must not be supposed, however, 
 that these divisions follow in consecutive 
 order, or that the Poet designed his writings 
 to fall into this classification. He simply 
 obeyed his genius, and wrote as he was 
 inspired, without reference to psychological 
 manifestation. Whoso, however, will take 
 the trouble to examine his works, will 
 find that they resolve themselves into the 
 divisions above alluded to. In some of 
 his greater poems there will of course be 
 found a fusion of the faculties, which are 
 singly predominant in others ; for in all 
 serious undertakings of this nature, what- 
 ever is in a poet will come out of him;
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 19 
 
 and he is sure to develope the entire wealth 
 and capabilities of his genius. But in his 
 lyrical moments he will obey the mood 
 which possesses him, whether it be Political, 
 ^Esthetic, or Moral. 
 
 I will now quote examples of his art 
 under the three divisions I have named, 
 commencing with the Political ones. 
 
 BATTLE SONG. 
 
 " Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark— 
 What then ? 'Tis day ! 
 We sleep uo more : the crows — hark ! 
 To arms ! away ! 
 
 They come ! they come ! the kuell is ruug 
 
 Of us, or them ; 
 AVide o'er their march the pomp is iluug 
 
 Of gold, aud gem. 
 
 What collared hound of lawless sw aj 
 
 To famine dear — 
 What pensioned slave of Attda, 
 
 Leads in the rear ? 
 
 Come they from Scythian wdds afar, 
 
 Our blood to spill ? 
 Wear they the livery of the Czar ? 
 
 They do his will. 
 
 Nor tassel'd sdk, uor epaulette, 
 Nor plume, nor corse ; 
 
 E
 
 50 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 No splendour gilds, all sternly met, 
 Our foot and horse. 
 
 But dark and still, we inly glow, 
 
 Condensed in ire ! 
 Strike, tawdry slaves ! and ye stall know, 
 
 Our gloom is fire. 
 
 In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, 
 
 Insults the land ; 
 Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours ! 
 
 And God's right hand ! 
 
 Madmen ! they trample into snakes 
 
 The wormy clod ! 
 Like fire beneath their feet awakes 
 
 The sword of God. 
 
 Behind, before, above, below, 
 
 They rouse the brave ; 
 "Where'er they go, they make a foe, 
 
 Or find a grave." 
 
 This is perhaps the finest of his Political 
 Poems, and reminds one, in its spirit, of 
 the wonderful " Sword Song, " by Korner. 
 The opening verse is full of martial music; 
 and we can hear the gathering of mighty 
 hosts, and the trampling of armed feet, 
 throughout the poem. Terrible and defiant 
 stand the two hostile armies; and the 
 pageantry of the " tawdry slaves : of
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 51 
 
 power, is finely contrasted with the dark 
 unbannered " foot and horse " of the op- 
 pressed, all sternly met for battle. It is 
 an ideal celebration of the fight between 
 Right and Wrong, which Elliott, in all 
 probability, imagined would one day be 
 realized in the terrible manner he has 
 described. But this song will give no idea 
 of the Poet, in his coarse and eccentric 
 moods; and as I design to exhibit every 
 phase of his character, it will be necessary 
 to quote the following : — 
 
 SQTJIEE LEECH. 
 
 " Come, Lord Pauper ! pay my bill 
 
 For radish tops and fire ; 
 Ploughman Joe, and "Weaver Will, 
 
 Keep Eobert Leech, Esquire. 
 You say, shares are fairly shared 
 
 Between the high and low ; 
 While we starve, this joke runs hard 
 
 On bread-taxed Will and Joe. 
 
 Leech drinks wine ; sometimes enough ; 
 
 But then he drinks in style : 
 Club-feast ale is sinful stuff; 
 
 And pewter plate is vile. 
 Bobert rides, and Eobert drives, — 
 
 His feeders bare-foot go ; 
 Will is clamming ; bread-tax thrives ; 
 
 And tread-mill's clamming Joe.
 
 52 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 ' Give,' of old, the Horse Leech cried : 
 
 Squire Robert cries, ' Give ! Give 1 * 
 How the leeches are belied I 
 
 They suck, yet cannot live. 
 Little soids grow less and less, 
 
 And ever downward grow : 
 ' Live and let live,' they profess, 
 
 And feed on Will and Joe I 
 
 Bread tax murders trade and hope: 
 
 Lord Pauper cries c Well done I * 
 Bread tax is not yet a rope 
 
 To every rascal's son. 
 Justice is not done, 'tis said, 
 
 To Bobert Leech & Co. ; 
 Gibbet is not tax on bread, — 
 
 But Bread tax gibbets Joe.'" 
 
 Here is another poem belonging to the 
 same class as the last, although it is more 
 serious, and indeed fearfully earnest : — 
 
 CAGED BATS. 
 
 " Ye coop us up, and tax our bread, 
 
 And wonder why we pine ; 
 But ye are fat, and round, and red, 
 
 And filled with tax-bought wine : 
 Thus twelve rats starve while three rats thrive, 
 
 (Like you on mine and me,) 
 When fifteen rats are caged alive, 
 
 With food for nine and three.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 53 
 
 Haste ! Havoc's torch begins to glow — 
 
 The ending is begun ; 
 Make haste ! Destruction thinks ye slow ; 
 
 Make haste to be undone ! 
 Why are ye called ' my Lord,' and ' Squire,' 
 
 While fed by mine and me, 
 And wringing food, and clothes, and fire, 
 
 From bread taxed misery ? 
 
 Make haste, slow rogues ! prohibit trade, 
 
 Prohibit honest gain ; 
 Turn all the good that God hath made 
 
 To fear, and hate, and pain ; 
 Till beggars all, assassins all, 
 
 All cannibals we be, 
 And death shall have no funeral 
 
 From shipless sea to sea." 
 
 I will not dwell longer, however, upon 
 these political effusions, but proceed to give 
 specimens of his aesthetic poems. These 
 cannot be introduced more appropriately than 
 by the following picture of — 
 
 THE HOME OF TASTE. 
 
 " You seek a home of taste, and find 
 The proud mechanic there, 
 Rich as a king, and less a slave, 
 
 Throned in his elbow-chair ! 
 Or on his sofa reading Locke, 
 Beside his open door .' 
 
 F 2
 
 54 LIFE, CHAEACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 "Why start ? — "Why envy worth like his 
 The carpet on his floor ? 
 
 Tou seek the home of sluttery — 
 
 ' Is John at home ? ' yon say, 
 'No, sir ; he's at the " Sportman's Arms ;" 
 
 The dog fight's o'er the way.' 
 Oh, lift the workman's heart and mind 
 
 Above low sensual sin ! 
 Give him a home ! the home of taste ! 
 
 Outbid the house of gin ! 
 
 Oh, give him taste ! it is the link 
 
 "Which binds us to the skies — 
 A bridge of rainbows thrown across 
 
 The gulph of tears and sighs ; 
 Or like a Avidower's little one — 
 
 An angel in a child — 
 That leads him to her mother's chair, 
 
 And shows him how she smiled." 
 
 It was one of Elliott's darling schemes, 
 to raise the homes of the working classes; 
 and he knew that this could only be done 
 by cultivating their taste, feelings, and in- 
 tellectual faculties. Hence, he exhorted 
 them to ceaseless thrift and industry, and 
 to the study of good and ennobling books 
 in their leisure hours. To stimulate them 
 to this course, he described in many of his 
 poems the beauty and dignity of home,
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 55 
 
 when presided over by wise and virtuous 
 people. He showed, likewise, that the 
 limited means of the industrious classes 
 were no bar to elegance and happiness; 
 and there is a direct teaching of this sort 
 in the following household pictures : — 
 
 SATURDAY. 
 
 " To-moeeow will be Sunday, Ann, — 
 Get up nay child with me ; 
 Thy father rose at four o'clock 
 To toil for ine and thee. 
 
 The fine folks use the plate he makes, 
 And praise it when they dine ; 
 
 For John has taste — so we'll be neat, 
 Although we can't be fine. 
 
 Then let us shake the carpet well, 
 
 And wash and scour the floor, 
 And hang the weather-glass he made 
 
 Beside the cupboard-door 
 
 And polish thou the grate, my love ; 
 
 I'll mend the sofa arm ; 
 The autumn winds blow damp and chill ; 
 
 And John lores to be warm. 
 
 And bring the new white curtain out, 
 And string the pink tape on — 
 
 Mechanics should be neat and clean : 
 And I'll take heed for John.
 
 56 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 And brush the little table, child, 
 And fetch the ancient books — 
 
 John loves to read ; and when he reads, 
 How like a king he looks ! 
 
 And fill the music-glasses up 
 
 "With water fresh and clear ; 
 To-morrow, when he sings and plays, 
 
 The street will stop to hear. 
 
 And throw the dead flowers from the vase, 
 
 And rub it till it glows ; 
 For in the leafless garden yet 
 
 He'll find a winter rose. 
 
 And lichen from the wood he'll bring, 
 
 And mosses from the dell : 
 And from the sheltered stubble-field 
 
 The scarlet pimpernel." 
 
 Here is a holiday for the working man 
 most beautifully described : — 
 
 HOLIDAY. 
 
 " Oh blessed ! when some holiday 
 Brings townsmen to the moor, 
 And in the sunbeams brighten up 
 The sad looks of the poor. 
 
 The bee puts on her richest gold, 
 
 As if that worker knew — 
 How hardly (and for little) they 
 
 Their sunless task pursue.
 
 OP EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 57 
 
 P>ut from their souls the sense of wrong 
 
 On dove-like pinion flies ; 
 And, throned o'er all, forgiveness sees 
 
 His image in their eyes. 
 
 Soon tired, the street-born lad lies down 
 
 On marjoram and thyme, 
 And through his grated fingers sees 
 
 The falcon's flight sublime ; 
 
 Then his pale eyes, so bluely dull 
 
 Grow darkly blue with light, 
 And his lips redden like the bloom 
 
 O'er miles of mountain bright. 
 
 The little lovely maiden-hair 
 
 Turns up its happy face, 
 And saith unto the poor man's heart, 
 
 ' Thou'rt welcome to this place.' 
 
 The infant river leapeth free 
 
 Amid the bracken tall, 
 And cries, - for ever there is one 
 
 Who reigneth over all ; 
 
 1 And unto him, as unto me, 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to partake 
 His gift of light, His gift of air, 
 
 O'er mountain, glen, and lake. 
 
 ' Our father loves us, want-worn man ! 
 
 And know thou this from me, 
 The pride that makes thy pain his couch, 
 
 May wake to envy thee.
 
 58 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 ' Hard, hard to bear are want and toil, 
 
 As thy worn features tell ; 
 But Wealth is armed with fortitude, 
 
 And bears thy sufferings well.' ' 
 
 The following is an example of the poet's 
 moral teaching ; and perhaps nothing can 
 better express his constant delight in con- 
 templating the works of Nature, and his deep 
 reverence for Nature's God, than the quota- 
 tion of this solemn and hopeful 
 
 BUNEBAL HYMN. 
 
 " Eathee ! our brother's course is run, 
 And we bring home Thy weary son ; 
 No more he toils, no more he weeps ; 
 And shall we mourn because he sleeps ? 
 
 He thank' d Thee, God of earth and sky, 
 Bor all that creep, and all that fly ; 
 Bor weeds, that silent anthems raise, 
 And thoughts, that make their silence praise. 
 
 Bor every thorn and every flower ! 
 Bor conquering Bight and baffled Bower ; 
 Bor all the meek and all the proud, 
 He thank' d the Lord of sun and cloud. 
 
 Bor soul to feel and sight to see, 
 In all Thy works, but types of Thee ; 
 Bor all Thy works, and for Thy "Word, 
 In life and death, he thank'd Thee, Lord.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 59 
 
 He thank'd Thee, too, for struggles long, 
 For storms that make the feeble strong ; 
 For every pang Thy goodness gave ; 
 For hope deferr'd — and for the grave. 
 
 Oh, welcome in the morn, the road 
 That climbs to Virtue's high abode ! 
 But when descends the evening dew, 
 The inn of rest is welcome, too. 
 
 Thou say'st to man, ' Arise, and run 
 Thy glorious course, like yonder sun ! ' 
 But when Thy children need repose, 
 Their Father's hand the curtain draws. 
 
 "What though with eyes that yet can weep, 
 The sinner trembles into sleep ? 
 Thou know'st he yet shall wake and rise 
 To gaze on Mercy's brightest skies. 
 
 The fearful child, though still caress'd, 
 Will tremble on his mother's breast ; 
 But he, she knows, is safe from ill, 
 Though, watched by love, he trembles still. 
 
 Lord ! when our brother wakes, may they 
 Who watch beneath thy footstool, say, 
 ' Another wanderer is forgiven ! 
 Another child is born in Heaven !' " 
 
 " Forest "Worship " is likewise a beautiful 
 poem, notwithstanding the mixture of poli- 
 tics and religion which it contains : —
 
 60 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 FOREST WOKSHIP. 
 
 " Within tlie sunlit forest, 
 
 Our roof the bright blue sky, 
 "Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow, 
 
 "We lift our hearts on high. 
 Beneath the frown of wicked men 
 
 Our country's strength is bowing ; 
 But, thanks to God ! they can't prevent 
 
 The lone wild flowers from blowing. 
 
 High, high, above the tree-tops, 
 
 The lark is soaring free, 
 Where streams the light through broken clouds 
 
 His speckled breast I see : 
 Beneath the might of wicked men 
 
 The poor man's worth is dying; 
 But, thanked be God ! in spite of them, 
 
 The lark still warbles flying ! 
 
 The preacher prays, ' Lord bless us ! ' 
 
 ' Lord bless us ! ' Echo cries ; 
 ' Amen ! ' the breezes murmur low, 
 
 ' Amen ! ' the rill replies ; 
 The ceaseless toil of wo-worn hearts, 
 
 The proud with pangs are paying ; 
 But here, O God of earth and heaven ! 
 
 The humble heart is praying ! 
 
 How softly in the pauses 
 
 Of song, re-echoed wide, 
 The cushet's coo, the linnet's lay, 
 
 O'er rill and river glide !
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 61 
 
 With evil deeds of evil men 
 
 The affrighted land is ringing, 
 But still, O Lord ! the pious heart 
 
 And soul-toned voice are singing ! 
 
 Hush ! hush ! the Preacher preacheth ! 
 
 ' Wo ! to the oppressor, wo ! 
 But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun 
 
 And saddened flowers below : 
 So frowns the Lord! — hut tyrants, ye 
 
 Deride his indignation, 
 And see not in his gathered brow 
 
 Tour days of tribulation ! ' 
 
 Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher ! 
 
 The tempest bursts above : 
 God whispers in the thunder ; hear 
 
 The terrors of his love ! 
 On useful hands, and honest hearts, 
 
 The base their wrath are wreaking ; 
 But, thank' d be God ! they can't prevent 
 
 The storm of heaven from speaking." 
 
 I will close these extracts with a few more 
 specimens from his miscellaneous poems ; 
 and the reader will then have a fair concep- 
 tion of the range of Elliott's mind. The two 
 which follow are very striking and beautiful, 
 and are in his highest manner : —
 
 G2 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 LEAVES AND MEN. 
 
 " Dkop, drop into the grave, Old Leaf, 
 Drop, drop into the grave ; 
 Thy acorus grown, thy acorns sown, — 
 Drop, drop into the grave. 
 December's tempests rave, Old Leaf, 
 Above thy forest-grave, Old Leaf ; 
 Drop, drop into the grave. 
 
 The birds in Spring, will, sweetly siug, 
 
 That death alone is sad ; 
 
 The grass will grow, the primrose show, 
 
 That death alone is sad ; 
 
 Lament above thy grave, Old Leaf ; 
 
 Eor what has life to do with grief ? 
 
 'Tis death alone that's sad. 
 
 What then ? "We two have both lived through 
 
 The sunshine and the rain ; 
 
 And blessed be He, to me and thee, 
 
 Who sent His sun and rain. 
 
 We've had our sun and rain, Old Leaf, 
 
 And God will send again, Old Leaf, 
 
 The sunshine and the rain. 
 
 Race after race of leaves and men, 
 
 Bloom, wither, and are gone : 
 
 As wiuds and waters rise and fall, 
 
 So life and death roll on ; 
 
 And long as ocean heaves, Old Leaf 
 
 And bud and fade the leaves, Old Leaf, 
 
 AVill life and death roll on.
 
 OF EBENEZEE ELLIOTT. 63 
 
 How like am I to thee, Old Leaf! 
 
 "We'll drop together down ; 
 
 How like art thou to me, Old Leaf ! 
 
 We'll drop together down. 
 
 I'm grey, and thou art brown, Old Leaf! 
 
 We'll drop together down, Old Leaf, 
 
 We'll drop together down. 
 
 Drop, drop into the grave, Old Leaf, 
 Drop, drop into the grave ; 
 Thy acorns grown, thy acorns sown, — 
 Drop, drop into the grave. 
 December's tempests rave, Old Leal'. 
 Above thy forest-grave, Old Leaf; 
 Drop, drop into the grave ! " 
 
 OH, TELL US. 
 
 " Companioned each, by all and none, 
 A mob of souls, yet each alone, 
 We journey to the dread Unknown. 
 
 ii. 
 
 In nothing found, in all tilings shown, 
 
 In all life living, yet alone, 
 
 Where may it be, that dread Unknown ? 
 
 hi. 
 
 Oh, who, or what, so dreadly shown, 
 
 And world-attended, yet alone, 
 
 Is that all-sought, all-known Unknown ? "
 
 64 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 The following lines remind ns of Goethe 
 
 TO EANNY ANN. 
 
 " As the flower bloweth, 
 As the stream floweth, 
 Daughter of beauty, 
 Do thou thy duty. 
 "What, though the morrow 
 May dawn in sorrow ? 
 E'en as light hasteth, 
 Darkness, too, wasteth ; 
 Morn then discloses, 
 Rain-drops on roses ! 
 Daughter of beauty, 
 "What then is duty ? 
 Time says, 'Death knoweth !' 
 Death says, ' Time showeth 1' " 
 
 The poem which I shall now quote was 
 sent me in MS., and appeared originally in 
 " The Truth Seeker " Magazine, edited by 
 my friend, Dr. Lees, of Leeds. It is entitled 
 
 LET ME BEST. 
 
 " He does well who does his best ; 
 Is he weary ? Let him rest : 
 Brothers ! I have done my best ; 
 I am weary — let me rest. 
 After toiling oft in vain, 
 Baffled, yet to struggle fain ;
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 65 
 
 After toiling long to gain 
 Little good, and mickle pain ; 
 Let me rest — but lay me low, 
 Where the hedge-side roses blow ; 
 Where the little daisies grow ; 
 Where the winds a- Maying go ; 
 Where the foot-path rustics plod ; 
 Where the breeze-bowed poplars nod ; 
 Where the old woods worship God ; 
 Where His pencil paints the sod ; 
 Where the wedded throstle sings ; 
 Where the young bird tries his wings, 
 Where the wailing plover swings 
 Near the runlet's rushy springs ! 
 Where at times the tempest's roar, 
 Shaking distant sea and shore, 
 Still will rave old Barnsdale o'er, 
 To be heard by me no more ; 
 There, beneath the breezy west, 
 Tired and thankful, let me rest, 
 Like a child, that sleepeth best 
 On its gentle mother's breast." 
 
 The following poems may be cited, as speci- 
 mens of the pathetic power developed in the 
 Corn Law Rhvmes : — 
 
 " Where the poor cease to pay, 
 Go loved one, and rest, 
 Thou art wearing away 
 To the land of the blest. 
 
 Or _d
 
 06 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 Our father is gone 
 
 Where the wronged are forgiven. 
 And that dearest one, 
 
 Thy husband, in heaven. 
 
 II. 
 
 No toil in despair ; 
 
 No tyrant, no slave ; 
 No Bread-tax is there, 
 
 With a maw like the grave ; 
 But the Poacher, thy pride, 
 
 Whelmed in ocean afar : 
 And his brother who died 
 
 Land-butchered in war ; 
 
 IIT. 
 
 And their mother who sank 
 
 Broken-hearted, to rest ; 
 And the baby that drank 
 
 Till it froze on her breast ; 
 With tears and with smiles, 
 
 Are waiting for thee 
 In the beautiful isles, 
 
 Where the wronged are the free. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Go loved one, and rest ; 
 
 Where the poor cease to pay ! 
 To the land of the blest 
 
 Thou art wearing away ; 
 But the son of thy pride 
 
 Shall yet stay with thee, 
 And poor little Jane, 
 
 Look sadly like thee."
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 67 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Child, is thy father dead ? 
 
 Father is gone ! 
 Why did they tax his bread ? 
 
 God's will be done ! 
 Mother has sold her bed ; 
 Better to die than wed ! 
 Where shall she lay her head ? 
 
 Home we have none ! 
 
 Father clamm'd thrice a week — 
 
 God's will be done ! 
 Long for work did he seek, 
 
 Work he found none. 
 Tears on his hollow cheek 
 Told what no tongue could speak 
 Why did his master break ? 
 
 God's will be done ! 
 
 Doctor said air was best — 
 
 Food we had none ; 
 Father, with panting breast. 
 
 Groaned to be gone : 
 Now he is with the blest — 
 Mother says death is best ! 
 We have no place of rest — 
 
 Tes, ye have one ! "

 
 ast'ograp&p of tbt poet.
 
 PAKT II. 
 
 BIOGEArHT OF THE I>OET. 
 
 And now, having given a general character- 
 ization of the niind and writings of onr 
 Poet, let ns take a glimpse at his early 
 history, and try if we can discover the 
 process hy which his mind and character 
 were developed. His Autobiography, which 
 appeared in No. 1159 of the Athenaeum, 
 and extends to his twenty-third year, will 
 enable ns to accomplish this ; and it is one 
 of the most interesting pieces of personal 
 history upon record. It is written in a 
 style as unvarnished as that of Gibbon, and 
 contains all the prominent features in his 
 early career, both of mind and fortune. It 
 is too long to extract in these pages, but 
 it will well repay the student for a private 
 and careful reading. We will first relate 
 the particulars of his birth and parentage, 
 and then run rapidly over such parts of
 
 72 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS, 
 
 his subsequent history, as may throw light 
 upon our investigation. 
 
 Elliott was born at the New Foundry, 
 Masbrough, in the parish of Rotherham, 
 March 17th, 1781; and was well nigh 
 smothered before he had been in the world 
 a quarter of an hour. His son Francis, 
 who relates the story to me in a private 
 letter, says : "In the hurry and confusion 
 attendant upon his birth, he was laid in an 
 open drawer, which was presently shut by 
 another person, who did not notice its con- 
 tents, and the child was missing for some 
 minutes, and could not be found. Fortu- 
 nately, however, he was rescued from his 
 perilous situation by the same hands that 
 placed him in it, and restored to his mother. 
 Three quarters of a century later, this child 
 repealed the Corn Laws; and it would be 
 interesting to know how many hungry deaths, 
 how many broken fortunes, how many broken 
 hearts, the timely opening of that drawer has 
 saved." His father, who, for his eccentrici- 
 ties, and ultra- calvinistic notions, was called 
 " Devil Elliott," was a dissenter ; and our 
 Poet was baptized by one Tommy Wright, a 
 Barnsley tinker, who belonged to the same 
 school of theology as Elliott's father, and
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 73 
 
 believed that " hell was hung round with 
 little children, a span long;" a belief by no 
 means uncommon in those days, nor even 
 in later times, as I have good reason to 
 remember. He describes the ancestors of 
 his grandfather Elliott, as border thieves, 
 who lived on the cattle they stole, both from 
 English and Scotch, and thinks he has made 
 out a good pedigree so far. Of his own father 
 he speaks in high terms. He was married to 
 an opulent yeoman's daughter near Hudders- 
 field, and settled in business at Masbrough, 
 as an iron -founder, where Ebenezer, and ail 
 his other children were born and bred. " I 
 can remember seeing," says the poet's son 
 Francis, " when very young, the name Elliott 
 in twisted iron, over the door of a little, low, 
 time-dark building, at the top of the High 
 Street, in the town above-named, where my 
 father and his brother Giles, if I mistake not, 
 spent many years of their youth and early 
 manhood in serving customers with iron- 
 mongery. My grandfather was a man of 
 great natural shrewdness and penetration, 
 with a talent for humour and satire, fond 
 of controversy, especially on theology, and 
 possessed of respectable literary powers. 
 " I have seen a ' rhymed Paraphrase of 
 
 H
 
 74 LIFE, CIIAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 Job,' written by him; and I must do my 
 buried ancestor the justice to say that it did 
 not require a Job's patience to read it. If 
 not very poetical in its structure, it is at 
 least as good as many noted pieces in Pope 
 and Dryden. It is sententious, concise, and 
 logical. My grandmother was a very differ- 
 ent person ; all heart, sensitiveness, and 
 meekness. The slightest look, word, or tone 
 of unkindness, cut her to the quick; whilst 
 a whole world of injuries could not arouse 
 within her the shadow of a desire for revenge. 
 She had great personal attractions, a soft and 
 gentle style of beauty, which was sister to her 
 heart. She was a very violet in sweetness 
 and unobtrusiveness, and she had a violet's 
 fate, too. She lived unnoticed, and misfor- 
 tune trod her out of life. My grandfather's 
 bankruptcy broke her heart." 
 
 Mr. P. Hodgers, of Sheffield, has furnished 
 me with the following anecdote of the poet's 
 father. " In those days, when the French 
 were generally considered Atheists, and the 
 divine right of kings was an article of almost 
 universal belief — it is no wonder that the 
 poet's father, who was a Jacobin and ultra- 
 calvinist, should be regarded with dread by 
 some, and suspicion by others. He was not
 
 OF EBENEZEE ELLIOTT. /5 
 
 a man, however, to be trodden upon with im- 
 punity. His son alludes, in the poem called 
 'The Jacobin's Prayer,' to an incident in his 
 father's life which I well remember, and 
 which furnishes a good illustration of his 
 character. The Rotherhani troop of Yeo- 
 manry had had a field-day. It was getting 
 towards evening ; and previous to the dis- 
 missal of the men, they were drawn up in a 
 line, in High Street, with their faces to the 
 Crown Inn, while some one was addressing 
 a loyal speech to them from one of the win- 
 dows. Mr. Elliott's shop being in the nar- 
 rowest part of the street, and, from some 
 cause or other, one or more of the military 
 steeds, which stood with their hinder parts 
 towards his door and windows, beginning to 
 prance, they were not long before their tails 
 and haunches came through the glass. The 
 old man immediately conceived the idea, that 
 the seeming accident was done on purpose, 
 and because he was a Jacobin. Under this 
 impression he flew into a terrible rage, seized, 
 I believe, upon some offensive weapon, which 
 the stock in his own shop supplied, and 
 rushed to the assault. A disturbance en- 
 dued, but no blood was shed; and thus the 
 affair did not end so seriously as it might
 
 76 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 have done, considering what it was to quarrel 
 with the authorities in those days. Probably, 
 Mr. Elliott's real respectability in the eyes of 
 his neighbours, together with his commercial 
 influence in the town, protected him from 
 similar consequences to those which befel the 
 more unfortunate James Montgomery, at a 
 little earlier date, in Sheffield. " 
 
 Such, then, was the parentage of the poet 
 — and his physical and mental characteristics 
 may be traced, in a great measure, to this 
 source. lie had his father's strength of 
 mind and character, and his mother's sensi- 
 tiveness and nervous weakness. He gives us 
 a picture of his father's home, whilst he was 
 a clerk at the foundry, and before he became 
 the proprietor of it, which is interesting in 
 many important respects. "Under the room 
 where I was born," he says, " in a little par- 
 lour like the cabin of a ship, which was yearly 
 painted green, and blessed with a beautiful 
 thoroughfare of light — for there was no 
 window-tax in those days — my father used 
 to preach every fourth Sunday, to persons 
 who came from distances of twelve to four- 
 teen miles, to hear his tremendous doctrines 
 of ultra-calvinism. On other days, pointing 
 to the aqua-tint pictures on the walls, he de-
 
 OP EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 77 
 
 lighted to declaim on the virtues of slandered 
 Cromwell, and of Washington the rebel ; or, 
 shaking his sides "with laughter, explain the 
 glories of the ' glorious victory of his Ma- 
 jesty's forces over the rebels at Bunker's 
 Hill.' " " Here," he adds, " the reader has a 
 key which will unlock all my future politics." 
 And the fact is worth remembering. He re- 
 lates, as proof of his nervous sensibility, that 
 at twelve years of age he fell in love with a 
 young woman, to whom he never spoke a 
 word in his life, and whose voice he never 
 heard. "Yet if I thought she saw me," he 
 adds, "as I passed her father's house, I felt 
 as if weights were tied to my feet." This is 
 the old story, in a new form, illustrative of 
 the power of love over the youthful heart ; 
 and Elliott is not the last person who will 
 feel these weights to his feet, in the presence 
 of the beloved object. The fact, however, 
 made a deep impression upon him throughout 
 life; for it was the first sunbeam that fell 
 upon the dark fallows of his nature, and 
 quickened them into flowers and verdure. 
 Prom this moment he was a new being, and 
 his poetical tendencies began to develop them- 
 selves. In the yard of the foundry, sur- 
 rounded by blast furnaces, and half-naked 
 
 n 2
 
 78 LIFE, CIIAKACTEK, AND GENIUS 
 
 smiths, hammering at innumerable anvils, 
 he contrived a little garden of mugwort and 
 wormwood, and placed a pan of water in the 
 midst of it, where he could see the reflection 
 of the sun and clouds, and of the plants 
 themselves, as from the surface of a natural 
 fountain. And this anecdote, trifling as it 
 may seem, contains the microcosm of the 
 poet's genius ; for Nature has no new me- 
 thods, hut repeats, and re-repeats herself in 
 every one of her processes; and the macro- 
 cosm is hut the microcosm, on a large and 
 complete scale. Combined, however, with 
 this love for the beautiful, Elliott had also a 
 strange taste for the horrible — a passion — a 
 rage, for seeing the faces of the hanged or 
 the drowned. These frightful visages made 
 his life a burden, followed him wherever he 
 went, and haunted him in his dreams. He 
 cannot account for this morbid love of the 
 dark and obscene imagery of death ; and asks 
 whether it was a result of constitutional in- 
 firmity ? and whether it had any connexion 
 with his taste for writing of horrors and 
 crimes? I think there can be no doubt of 
 the answer to either of these questions, and 
 I can trace the effects of this morbid taste in 
 his poems. During childhood he had no
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 79 
 
 associates ; and although the neighbourhood 
 swarmed with children, he was alone. Hence 
 his mind fell back upon itself, and by dwell- 
 ing too much upon its own reflections, and 
 constantly brooding over the mixed imagery 
 of beauty and horror which possessed it, he 
 grew unhealthy and diseased. Still his soli- 
 tude was not painful; and he occasionally 
 occupied himself in constructing boats and 
 ships. He remarks, however, that his imita- 
 tive talents secured him no respect ; and he 
 was altogether unaware that he possessed 
 others of a higher and nobler order, which 
 were one day to awake the admiration and 
 secure the applause of the world. Nature, 
 however, knew what she was about in im- 
 pelling him to these ingenious devices of boats 
 and ships ; for now he must go down to the 
 water's side and launch them; and there, in 
 the midst of sunshine, flowers, and darnels, 
 she taught him many preparatory poetic 
 lessons. 
 
 He speaks with unconscious complaint of 
 his "wondrous brother Giles," — who was 
 beautiful as an angel, — and compared with 
 whom he (the poet) was ugliness itself. " In 
 the presence of his splendid abilities," he 
 says, " I might well look like a fool, and
 
 80 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 believe myself one. As I grew up, my fond- 
 ness for solitude increased; for I could not 
 but observe the homage that was paid to 
 him, and feel the contempt with which I was 
 regarded; although I am not aware that I 
 ever envied or at all disliked him." 
 
 His ninth year was an era in his life, he 
 says, for his father having cast a great pan, 
 weighing several tons, for an uncle who lived 
 in Thurlstone, the young embryo poet re- 
 solved to travel thither with it ; and accord- 
 ingly, at sunset, he stole unperceived, and hid 
 himself inside the pan amongst the hay. As 
 the night advanced, he looked forth from 
 his hiding-place, and gazed long with new, 
 strange, and excited feelings, upon the great 
 blue vault of heaven, with its solemn and 
 lonely stars. " I have not forgotten," he 
 writes, " how much I was excited by the 
 solemnity of the night, and its shooting stars, 
 until I arrived at Thurlstone, about four 
 o'clock in the morning." His uncle, who 
 was of course surprised to see him, made the 
 best of his visit, and sent him to school at 
 Penistone, where he learnt nothing. His 
 heart, too, was with his mother ; and he spent 
 his evenings in looking from the back of his 
 uncle's house to Hoy land Swaine; for he had
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 81 
 
 discovered that Masbrough lay beyond that 
 village ; " and ever when the sun went down, 
 I felt," he says, " as if some great wrong 
 had been done me." 
 
 When he returned from this " land of the 
 great Pan," as he calls it, he was sent to 
 Hollis's School, in Sheffield, but made no 
 proficiency in his studies. All his sums were 
 done for him by the other boys, and his father 
 regarded him as a confirmed dunce. He 
 confesses that he could never learn anything 
 at school — that he got into the Rule of Three 
 without having any knowledge of numera- 
 tion, and stuck in Decimals, like Christian in 
 his bog of Despond. Still he was looked up 
 to, by the other boys at school, and his 
 brother Giles, when in danger, always took 
 Elliott out to defend him. His father, as a last 
 resource, finding that he had made nothing 
 out at Hollis's Hospital, sent him to Dalton 
 School, two miles from Masbrough, where 
 he hoped to have him more under his own 
 eye. "I see," says Elliott, "at this moment, 
 as vividly as if fifty years had not since passed 
 over me, the kingfisher shooting along the 
 Don, as I passed schoolward through the 
 Aldwark Meadows, eating my dinner four 
 hours before dinner-time." And so Nature
 
 82 LIFE, CHAKACTEK, AND GENIUS 
 
 was revenged upon the schoolmaster ; for she 
 taught the boy her great mystic alphabet 
 and deep symbol writing, before he could 
 either read a book, or write a line. She took 
 her own way likewise in doing it, eschewing 
 the methods of the pedant. Elliott made no 
 proficiency at this new school — although his 
 master was a kind and good man — " a sort 
 of sad-looking, half- starved angel without 
 wings," he says, "and I have stood for hours 
 beside his desk, with the tears running down 
 my face, utterly unable to set down one cor- 
 rect figure." His ignorance, and apparent 
 want of common capacity, disgusted him with 
 school duties, and during the summer months 
 he was almost always absent — playing truant 
 amongst the woods of Dalton, Deign, Silver- 
 wood, and Thryberg Park. On one of these 
 occasions he stole duck eggs, mistaking them 
 for the eggs of wild birds, and was brought 
 before the Lady of the Manor for his delin- 
 quency, who dismissed him when she saw 
 what a live goose he was. 
 
 These truantings were soon discovered by 
 tbe poet's father, who resolved at last to 
 make him work in the foundry. " The result 
 of this experiment," says Elliott, " vexed the 
 experimenter ; for it was soon found that I
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 83 
 
 could play my part at the York Keelman, 
 with the best of its customers." He was 
 never fond of the alehouse, however, and his 
 thoughts were always wandering to the canal 
 banks, which were covered all over with the 
 golden " ladies' -bedstraw" and to his little 
 ships. In other respects the trial at the 
 foundry proved successful, for Elliott found 
 he was not less clever than other beginners, 
 and the work he had to do, was done. He 
 mentions that about this time, he had strong 
 religious impressions, and attended the min- 
 istrations of an eccentric Domine Sampson, 
 with regularity and profit. But Nature at 
 this juncture played him another trick, and 
 dissipated his religious moods with her fine 
 nicknackery of flowers. Happening to call 
 one Sunday at his Aunt Robinson's — a widow 
 with three children and £30 a-year, out of 
 which she gave her two sons an education, 
 which made them both gentlemen — he became 
 acquainted with "Sowerby's English Botany." 
 " Never shall I forget," he says, " the im- 
 pression made upon me by the beautiful 
 plates. I actually touched the figure of the 
 primrose, half convinced that the mealiness 
 on the leaves was real." The good aunt 
 seeing the delight he took in these pictures,
 
 84 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 showed him how to draw the figures, by 
 holding them to the light with a thin piece 
 of paper before them. Finding he could 
 draw them correctly, he ivas lifted at once, 
 he says, above the inmates of the alehouse, at 
 least a foot in mental stature. And here we 
 may see the reason why, in his aesthetic 
 poems, he exhorts the working classes to 
 cultivate a " Home of Taste." His aunt 
 then showed him a book of Dry Plants, which, 
 with the Botanical work, belonged to her son 
 Benjamin. And these cheap and simple 
 exhibitions gave an impulse to Elliott's mind 
 which never abandoned him, until it had 
 completed its work, and conducted him to 
 the Elysian fields of poetry. He soon after 
 began to study Botany on his own account 
 — not, however, in a consecutive and scien- 
 tific manner — for to the day of his death he 
 never relished Botany as a science ; the clas- 
 sifications of which seemed to him to be like 
 preparations for sending flowers to prison. 
 The minister, who had begun to entertain 
 hopes of Elliott's conversion, made frequent 
 inquiries at the paternal home why Ebenezer 
 did not come to chapel as usual ; and the 
 poet says that he passed his Sundays in 
 gathering flowers, that he might make pic-
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 85 
 
 tures of them; totally unconscious that he 
 was learning the art of poetry in his wood- 
 land wanderings. Nay, he then hated poetry, 
 especially that of Pope, which " always gave 
 him the headache." His floral and herbal 
 gatherings soon made him a noted person in 
 his neighbourhood, and people stopped him 
 with his plants to inquire what diseases he 
 was going to cure. Even his wondrous bro- 
 ther Giles, condescended to admire his Sortus 
 Siccus ; and he had been so long a stranger 
 to the voice of praise, that it sounded sweetly 
 in his ears, and he welcomed it when it came 
 with joy and triumph. About this time, 
 his brother read to him the first book of 
 Thompson's " Seasons," and when he came 
 to the description of the polyanthus and the 
 auricula — " I waited," says Elliott, " impa- 
 tiently until he had laid down the book ; I 
 then took it into the garden, where I com- 
 pared the description with the living flowers. 
 Here was a new idea ! Botany in verse ! — 
 a prophecy," he continues, " that the days 
 of scribbling were at hand." The account 
 which he gives of his first essay in verse is 
 interesting enough. It was an imitation in 
 rhyme of Thompson's blank verse thunder- 
 storm. " I knew perfectly well," he writes, 
 
 i
 
 86 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 " that sheep could not take flight after being 
 killed, but the rhyme seemed to be of opinion 
 that they should be so described; and as it 
 doggedly abided by this perversity, there was 
 nothing for it but to describe my flock scud- 
 ding away after the lightning had slain 
 them." His cousin Benjamin criticised the 
 poem mercilessly, and Elliott never forgave 
 him. This cousin, it seems, was a scholar, 
 and the poet was never so happy as while 
 listening to his recitations of Homer's Greek 
 — of which, although he did not understand 
 a word — yet after the lapse of nearly half a 
 century, its music had not departed from his 
 soul. He regarded his brother Giles as a 
 prodigy, and became at last painfully alive 
 to his own deficiencies. Giles's accomplish- 
 ments stung him into self-instruction; and 
 the misery of his mind at this crisis may be 
 gathered from the fact that he lost his round 
 healthy proportions, and fell into the disease 
 of all students, namely, that of leanness and 
 pale-faced anxiety. He bought a grammar, 
 and studied it laboriously — but could never 
 retain a single rule in his memory. Then 
 he took to the key, and read it through and 
 through, a hundred times. " I found at 
 last," he says, " that by reflection, and by
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 87 
 
 supplying elisions, &c, I could detect and 
 correct grammatical errors. At this moment 
 I do not know a single rule in grammar, 
 although I natter myself I can write English 
 as well as Samuel Johnson could, and detect 
 errors in a greater author — Samuel Bailey." * 
 His attempt at learning the French language 
 was equally unsuccessful; and his teacher, 
 who seems to have been an incompetent 
 person, got in this instance all the blame. 
 
 An accident assisted him much at this 
 period, by placing a number of books at his 
 disposal; and as Elliott confesses that his 
 writings owe something to the list which he 
 furnishes in the text of his Autobiography, 
 section 5th, I shall be pardoned for naming 
 them. Thev are " Barrow's Sermons," 
 " Bay's Wisdom of God," " Derham's Phy- 
 sico Theology," " Young's Night Thoughts," 
 "Hervey's Meditations," " Herepin's Travels," 
 and three volumes of the "Boyal Magazine," 
 embellished with engravings. " I was never 
 weary," he says, " of Barrow, and Young 
 taught me to condense." Shenstone was 
 afterwards a favourite with him, and he 
 thinks that he is now undervalued. The 
 
 * S. Bailey, Esq., of Sheffield : Author of " Essays 
 on the Formation and Publication of Opinions,"
 
 88 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 following passage contains a good word to 
 all students. " I never could read a feeble 
 book through ; and it follows that I read 
 masterpieces only — the best thoughts of the 
 highest minds; after Milton, Shakspere, then 
 Ossian, then Junius, with my father's Jacob- 
 inism, for a commentary. Paine's Common 
 Sense, Swift's Tale of a Tub, Joan of Arc, 
 Schiller's Hobbers, Burger's Leonora, Gib- 
 bon's Decline and Fall, and long afterwards 
 Tasso, Dante, De Stael, Schlegel, Hazlitt, 
 and the Westminster Review." A strange 
 medley, but valuable as revealing something 
 of the sources of Elliott's peculiarities of 
 writing and thinking. 
 
 He complains that his memory sometimes 
 fails him altogether ; and yet he almost knew 
 the Bible by heart at twelve years of age, 
 and could repeat, at sixteen, loithout missing 
 a word, the first, second, and sixth books of 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 He is conscious, to a considerable extent, 
 of his own powers, although he does not do 
 full justice to his good angel, and speaks dis- 
 paragingly of his acknowledged merits and 
 genius. " Time," he says, " has developed 
 in me, not genius, but powers which exist in 
 all men, and lie dormant in most. I cannot,
 
 OP EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 89 
 
 like Byron and Montgomery, pour poetry 
 from my heart as from an unfailing fountain ; 
 and of my inability to identify myself, like 
 Shakspere and Scott, with the character of 
 other men, my abortive ' Kerhoneh' and 
 ' Taurepdes,' and similar rejected failures, are 
 melancholy instances. My thoughts are all 
 exterior ; my mind is the mind of my eyes. 
 A primrose is to me a primrose, and nothing 
 more. I love it because it is nothing more. 
 There is not in my writings one good idea 
 that has not been suggested to me by some 
 real occurrence, or by some object actually 
 before my eyes, or by some remembered 
 object or occurrence, or by the thoughts of 
 other men heard or read." At the close of 
 his Autobiography he says : — " Newspaper- 
 taught as I am, and having no ideas of my 
 own, I can only seize those of others as they 
 occur, earnestly applying them to current 
 occasions. If I have been mistaken in my 
 objects, I am sorry for it ; but I have never 
 advocated any cause without first trying to 
 know the principle on which it was based. 
 On looking back on my public conduct, 
 thanks to the science which poor Cobbett, 
 ever floundering, but great and brave, called 
 in scorn, ' Poleetical Economy,' I find I have 
 
 i 2
 
 90 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 had little to unlearn. And when I shall go 
 to my account, and the Great Questioner, 
 whose judgments err not, shall say to me, 
 ' What didst thou with the lent talent ? ' I 
 can truly answer, ' Lord, it is here, and with 
 it all that I could add to it, doing my best to 
 make little, mticli? " 
 
 Such, in a condensed form, is the account 
 which Elliott gives of his early years. I am 
 warned, however, by his son Francis not to 
 place implicit reliance upon the statements 
 it contains. " I doubt not," he says, "that 
 it is as correct as my father could make it ; 
 but he was the unfittest man in the world to 
 write or speak of himself. His estimate of 
 his merits was far below the true one ; and 
 he was neither the dunce and simpleton at 
 school, nor the lesser light, paled by the 
 brilliant brother Giles, which he described 
 and believed himself. Giles was a first-rate 
 business man, but he was nothing more ; and 
 my father was that, and something more. 
 I am not surprised, however, that his more 
 solid and sterling qualities were but a poor 
 foil to the mortal thrusts, which, in the eyes 
 of his father's household, Giles's brilliance 
 dealt him. All of them homaged and flat- 
 tered Giles, and my father hid his despised
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 91 
 
 head in the brightness of his brother's glory. 
 I have always thought that the disparage- 
 ment which he received from all about him, 
 had much influence in producing that melan- 
 choly and love of gloom which through the 
 rest of his life so strongly characterized his 
 mind. At school he fared no better than at 
 home ; and unless he was consoled by his 
 almost constant truantings in the woods and 
 fields, his youth must have been one of 
 unrelieved repining and despondency. I am 
 inclined to think, however, that the ambitious 
 lad was happier in so making himself a poet, 
 than he would have been in outshining his 
 schoolfellows in studies distasteful to him." 
 
 This statement is further confirmed by 
 Mr. John Fowler, and Mr. Paul Rodgers, of 
 Sheffield, who were both friends of the poet. 
 The latter says : * " Mr. Elliott, in the ac- 
 count of himself recently published in the 
 Athenaeum, talks about his own remarkable 
 dulness when a boy. I do not think he is 
 right ; in fact, he was no judge at all in the 
 matter. It was rather that his brother's 
 taste and his differed, than that Ebenezer 
 was essentially inferior in any way. I have 
 
 * MSS. memoranda of the poet, which will be found 
 in the Appendix.
 
 92 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS . 
 
 no doubt lie showed as much genius among 
 the modellers and mechanists in the manu- 
 factory, as the other did in the shop or the 
 counting-house. Mr. Mark Gregory, then a 
 youth about his own age, and long a workman 
 of Elliott's father's — a man whom Ebenezer 
 always highly esteemed — says he never knew 
 that his young master was dull at anything, 
 but always regarded him as very much the 
 contrary." 
 
 Mr. Hodgers likewise gives the following 
 description of the " wondrous brother Giles," 
 who later on in life fell, I regret to add, into 
 intemperate habits, and blighted his own 
 prospects and the hopes which his family 
 had entertained of him : — " He was rather a 
 handsome-faced youth, but lame, went with 
 a limp, and wore a high-heeled shoe. He 
 had very quick parts, and was Ebenezer's 
 acknowledged favourite." 
 
 Erom his sixteenth to his twenty-third 
 year Elliott worked for his father — as labo- 
 riously as any servant he had — and without 
 wages, except a shilling or two for pocket 
 money. 
 
 His first trial at business, which proved so 
 melancholy in its results, is thus spoken of 
 by his son, from whose letter I have previ-
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 93 
 
 ously quoted: — " The fortune he received 
 with my mother was invested in a business 
 already bankrupt beyond redemption, and 
 my father went in as a partner with the old 
 firm, consisting of many partners, amongst 
 whom was my grandfather. Here he passed 
 several years in hopeless efforts, and hopeless 
 hopes and yearnings, to retrieve the des- 
 perate affair. He lost the last penny he had 
 in it ; and found an asvlum under the roof of 
 my mother's maiden sisters, with whom he 
 spent many months, in a state of wretched- 
 ness, which was relieved, however, by the 
 tenderest solicitude for his happiness, on the 
 part of his friends. He endeavoured to beat 
 down despair by writing poems, and painting 
 landscapes in oil, from views in the neigh- 
 bourhood. But his state of mind will be 
 readily conceived when it is remembered 
 that he was an honest man, a proud man, 
 and possessed of all the sensitiveness which 
 characterizes the poet." 
 
 In 1821, when he was forty years of age, 
 he was enabled, chiefly by the affectionate 
 generosity of his wife's sisters, to make 
 another venture in business. He began 
 with a capital of £150, and managed at 
 last to accumulate a fortune ; making £20
 
 94 LIFE, CHARACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 a day sometimes, without stirring from his 
 counting-house, or ever seeing the goods he 
 disposed of, which exchanged hands as they 
 were landed at the wharf.* His warehouse is 
 described as a small, dingy place, piled all 
 round with bars of iron, having a bust of 
 Shakspere in the centre of it ; and his 
 counting-house contained casts of Achilles, 
 Ajax, and Napoleon. The following anecdote, 
 (the circumstances of which occurred in this 
 warehouse,) illustrative of his attachment to 
 his poorer guests, and of his impatience at 
 insolent behaviour, has been forwarded to 
 me from Sheffield, f " All readers of Elliott," 
 the writer commences, " will be prepared to 
 learn that a man of such strong passions 
 did not always conduct himself with perfect 
 smoothness, under circumstances of real 
 provocation. No one ever saw him guilty 
 of anything like a deliberate, or even 
 thoughtless insult ; but in reply to insolence 
 he was always indignant. A friend of mine, 
 in humble life, happening to call at his 
 warehouse in Gibraltar Street, found himself 
 in company there, with a third party, — a 
 
 * These, however, were very rare occasions. See 
 Mr. Thomas Lister's paper upon Elliott, in the Appendix, 
 t By Mr. Paul Kodgers.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 95 
 
 semi-clerical gentleman. Whether this gen- 
 tleman had a previous pique against my 
 friend, or whether something arose during 
 the conversation which caused a misunder- 
 standing between them, I cannot tell; but 
 from some cause or other, the said gentle- 
 man deliberately insulted him. Whereupon, 
 losing all control over himself, Elliott started 
 up, and shouting ' Away with you ! Do my 
 friends come here to be insulted by you ? ' 
 seized a broom-stick which was within reach, 
 and dealt his blows on the offender without 
 mercy, not ceasing until he had pursued 
 him into the middle of the street." This is 
 certainly the most striking anecdote which 
 I have been able to gather from the poet's 
 history ; and like that of the old woman who 
 flung the stool at the head of the bishop — in 
 the Scotch kirk — in Charles the First's time, 
 it sticks very fast to the memory. 
 
 Up to the time of Elliott's second trial of 
 business, in 1821, " he had written," says 
 his son, " nothing of importance ; nothing 
 which gave prophecy of Ebenezer Elliott. 
 But shortly after this event, works of greater 
 pretension to poetic power appeared; and 
 the world had an opportunity — and used 
 it — of disregarding some of the finest poetry
 
 96 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 he ever penned, and which it now lauds as 
 such, under other titles, in the poems of 
 1 Love ' and ' Night.' Of the ' Giaour,' and 
 ' Scotch Nationality,' * poems of ahout the 
 same period, I am not able to speak so 
 highly. The one contained first-rate satire, 
 which is never even the worst poetry; and 
 the other an attempt at humour, which was 
 of course a failure — for humour was a faculty 
 which he did not possess." 
 
 Many of his poems were written at the 
 request of his friends; and the following 
 deeply interesting letter explains the origin 
 of "The Sinless Cain" — which celebrates 
 the life tragedy of genius : — 
 
 " Upperthorpe, 15th Oct. 1835. 
 
 " Young Ladt, — Your father requested me to write 
 you a poem, and I did so, and called it ' The Sinless 
 Cam.' But you are come into a world filled with 
 dangers, and instead of sending you the poem, I think 
 it better, on the whole, to refer you to it, when it shall 
 appear in some one or other of the Magazines. You 
 will remember that you are the occasion of its having 
 been written. It describes a wretched being who has 
 wandered over the earth, playing various parts, almost 
 all of them sad ones, during more than six thousand 
 
 * Vide Appendix.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 97 
 
 years. If in after days you chance to meet with him, do 
 not believe that the rags which may clothe him, are the 
 garment of God's indignation. Should he ask you for a 
 pittance, borrow a penny for him, if you have not one. 
 Should he silently implore your pity only, turn not away ; 
 for he has a heart that will thank you for a tear, with its 
 last throb. But should he solicit your love, tell him that 
 you once heard of a maiden, who dreaming that she saw 
 and heard a celestial spirit (that had eyes bright as pas- 
 sion, and a voice like that of the woods in spring), loved 
 it with excessive love, but embracing it, found it a corpse! 
 — -sweet, indeed, and sadly beautiful, with tears in its 
 eyelids, like a white rose gathered in the dew — but still 
 a corpse ! "Which, had it never known the touch of 
 mortal passion, might have continued to walk even on 
 the earth, a spirit of life and joy. There is a meaning in 
 all this, which, if you cannot understand, come and learn 
 it from 
 
 " Ebenezer Elliott. 
 " To Miss Eodgers." 
 
 I have already related how the poet 
 became acquainted with Southey, and was 
 cheered on by him ; and how, likewise, 
 he was suddenly raised into fame by the 
 publication of the Corn Law Hhymcs. It 
 will be interesting to get a personal glimpse 
 of liim at this period of his life ; and I 
 will, therefore, quote from Mr. Stanton, an 
 American writer, who visited him about 
 this time, and presents us with the follow- 
 ing picture both of the poet and his home : — 
 
 K
 
 98 LIFE, CHAEACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 " I inquired," says he, "of a young man 
 dressed in a frock besmeared with iron and 
 coal, for the head of the establishment. 
 ' My father,' said he, ' is just gone : you'll 
 find him at his house yonder.' I repaired 
 thither. The Corn Law Rhymer stood on 
 the threshold, in his stocking feet, holding 
 a pair of coarse shoes in his hand. His 
 frank ' walk in ' assured me I was welcome. 
 I had just left the residence of Montgomery. 
 The transition could hardly have been greater 
 — from James Montgomery to Ebenezer 
 Elliott. The former was polished in his 
 manners, exquisitely neat in his personal 
 appearance, and his bland conversation 
 never rose above a calm level, except once, 
 when he spoke with an indignation which 
 years had not abated, of his repeated impri- 
 sonment in York Castle, for the publication 
 — first in verse and then in prose — of liberal 
 and humane sentiments, which offended the 
 government. And now I was confronted 
 with a burly ironmonger, rapid in speech, 
 glowing with enthusiasm, putting and an- 
 swering a dozen questions in a breath ; 
 eulogising American republicanism, and 
 denouncing British aristocracy ; throwing 
 sarcasms at the Duke of Wellington, and
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 99 
 
 anointing General Jackson with the oil of 
 flattery; pouring out a flood of racy talk 
 about church establishments, poetry, politics, 
 the price of iron, and the price of corn ; 
 while ever and anon he thurst his clamp 
 feet in the embers, and hung his shoes on 
 the grate to dry." As his prosperity in- 
 creased, he took a handsome house in the 
 suburbs of Sheffield, where he could look 
 down upon the smoky chimneys of the town, 
 full of prophetic thoughts, like Teufelsdrock 
 in the " Sartor Resartus." A path at the 
 back of the house led to the hills, and the 
 vale of the Pivelin, about which he loved 
 to sing. Here he entertained all comers 
 right hospitably, attracting around him 
 troops of friends, who listened to his songs 
 and speech as to an oracle. 
 
 During the whole of his residence in 
 Sheffield, and indeed throughout life, he 
 identified himself with its interests, took 
 part in all the public concerns of the town, 
 was an active member of the Committee 
 of the Mechanics' Institution, and delivered 
 a course of lectures there, " On Poets and 
 Poetry," some of which were published in 
 Tait's Magazine, and are admirable literary 
 performances.
 
 100 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 Mr. Robert Leader, jun., in an article 
 which appeared in The Sheffield and Mother- 
 ham Independent, December 8th, 1849, gives 
 the following summary of Elliott's political 
 career : — 
 
 " In politics, the great object of Mr. 
 Elliott was the abolition of the food mon- 
 opoly. Some were ready to say that he 
 was a monomaniac on this subject. But 
 he saw that this question lay at the root of 
 all others in regard to politics and national 
 prosperity ; that a nation confined to a 
 limited supply of food could never be 
 permanently happy and prosperous ; and 
 that a commercial system based on restric- 
 tion could not be sound. The great cause 
 of Mr. Elliott's rejoicing in the triumph of 
 Reform was the conviction that it must 
 speedily ensure the repeal of the Corn Laws. 
 He soon after formed a local society for 
 promoting this object. But the restoration 
 of transitory prosperity diverted the public 
 mind from the subject, and the Anti-Corn 
 Law agitation failed. Mr. Elliott continued 
 to raise his warning voice, but it was not 
 until 1838 that people could be induced 
 again to move. Then commenced the 
 agitation of the Anti-Corn Law League,
 
 OF EEESTEZER ELLIOTT. 101 
 
 and also that for the Charter. Mr. Elliott 
 had been so much disheartened by the 
 previous apathy shown towards his great 
 subject, that he seemed to lack faith in 
 the sincerity and power of the movement 
 in Manchester. The cotton lords had so 
 long been apathetic that he could not all 
 at once give them credit for having honestly 
 and heartily taken up the cause. He seems 
 to have had more hope in the movement 
 for the Charter, which commenced about 
 the same time, and in which, at first, some 
 influential Birmingham Reformers took part. 
 In September, 1838, Mr. Elliott attended 
 a conference in London, and in the same 
 month he presided at a meeting in Hoscoe 
 Eields, when the Charter was first publicly 
 brought forward in Sheffield. But when, 
 in the succeeding January, the Chartists 
 put themselves in opposition at an Anti- 
 Corn Law meeting, Mr. Elliott was found 
 supporting the effort which they opposed. 
 He did not completely separate himself 
 from them, however, till further proof 
 had been given of the desperate nature 
 of the counsels which prevailed among 
 them. When Peter Foden was arrested 
 for sedition in August, 1839, Mr. Elliott, 
 
 k 2
 
 102 LIFE, CHAKACTEK, AND GENIUS 
 
 who seems not to have watched Eoden's 
 course, gave bail for him, at the same 
 time reprobating the men who counselled 
 violence. His want of caution was pun- 
 ished, as might fairly have been expected, 
 by the absconding of Eoden ; and Mr. 
 Elliott's recognizance was estreated. The 
 more complete demonstration of the prin- 
 ciples then dominant among the Chartists, 
 which the events of the winter of 1839-40 
 afforded, seems to have satisfied Mr. Elliott 
 completely, that the Chartist cause was in 
 wrong hands. He continued to aid by his 
 writings the Anti-Corn Law movement, 
 but he felt that with him the time for 
 active personal effort was passed. He 
 retired from business, and from active in- 
 terference in politics, and left Sheffield in 
 1841, to spend his last years at Great 
 Houghton, near Barnsley, where he built 
 a house upon a small estate of his own. 
 Many persons have wondered that he took 
 so little part in the operations of the Anti- 
 Corn Law League. We believe the primary 
 cause to have been a conviction that his 
 work was done, and this was not unmingled 
 with a doubt whether it was yet possible 
 to save the country from the anarchy into
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 103 
 
 which he foresaw that the continuance of 
 monopoly must inevitably plunge it. Be- 
 coming interested, too, in rural engagements, 
 being separated from the friends with whom 
 he had been used to converse on public 
 affairs, and left behindhand, as it were, in 
 the current news of the day, he lacked 
 the stimulus to play his accustomed part. 
 During great part of his residence at Great 
 Houghton, he wrote and published little. 
 To various invitations to take part in 
 public affairs, he pleaded the old man's 
 excuse, and gradually withdrew himself." 
 
 The following letter, upon the Corn Laws, 
 addressed to Mr. Rodgers, of Sheffield, 
 and dated Houghton Common, May 7th, 
 1842, is almost a prophecy ; and shows 
 the political sagacity and foresight of the 
 poet : — 
 
 " Eat each other, said we ? Yes ! but bare bones are 
 poor picking. I have still the remains of a forlorn hope 
 in the Tories. Peel, I have long thought, understands 
 our position, and will do his best to prevent the coming 
 catastrophe ; but he wants moral courage. Wellington 
 does not understand our position ; when he does, if 
 ever, he will act boldly on his convictions — perhaps too 
 late. 
 
 " But the ' fifty pound tenant-at-will-clause Whigs ; — 
 the ballot-refusing Whigs ; — the reform-defecting Whigs ;
 
 104 LIFE, CHARACTER AND GENIUS 
 
 — the monopoly-defending "Whigs ; — the Bank Charter- 
 renewing "Whigs ; — the Coercion-bill "Whigs : the twenty- 
 milhon- slave -holder -rewarding "Whigs; — the half-faced, 
 double-faced "Whigs ; who could once have saved the 
 State, and would not — can do no good, if willing. Their 
 
 time is past. 
 
 " Ebenezeb Elliott." 
 
 The active part which he took at political 
 meetings in Sheffield, and elsewhere, and the 
 fierce poems and epigrams which he scattered 
 over the land, made him many enemies ; and 
 to such an extent did the virulence of party 
 feeling prevail against him, that when, in 
 1839, he sought admission to the Sheffield 
 Literary and Philosophical Society, the gen- 
 tlemen members blackballed him ! Elliott, 
 who was fearful lest this transaction, so 
 disgraceful to the parties concerned in it, 
 should damage in its results the Mechanics' 
 Institution — of which he was a member — 
 wrote the following letter to Messrs. Paul 
 Rodgers and John Powler, members of the 
 Committee, offering to withdraw himself 
 from all active part in its counsels and 
 proceedings. He was the more readily in- 
 duced to this course, because certain weak 
 minded persons had already taken offence 
 at his remarks upon a late occasion, whilst 
 introducing the Reverend B. Stannus, an
 
 OF EBENEZEE, ELLIOTT. 105 
 
 eloquent Unitarian minister of Sheffield, and 
 for many years editor of the Sheffield Iris — 
 a paper originally started by James Mont- 
 gomery, the poet — to the audience, prepara- 
 tory to the delivery, by that gentleman, of a 
 lecture " On Burns." The letter runs thus : 
 
 " Sheffield, 11th March, 1839. 
 
 " To Messrs. Paul Eodgers and John Fowler. 
 
 " In my old age, I have got the heart-ache. The few 
 words with which I introduced Mr. Stannus, I am told 
 offended influential friends, or foes, of the institution. 
 Certainly, when I said he would show that ' tow hack- 
 lers have souls,' I forgot that not one in fifty of my 
 hearers knew that poor Burns had been a tow hackler. 
 You at least will not suspect me of trying to injure the 
 Institution. Besides, you know, if tow kacklers have 
 soids, cutters and grinders have ! This may be a scandal, 
 but the conclusion seems inevitable. Tou are aware how 
 unwilling I am to come forward on any public occasion, 
 and that I never do so but from a wish to be useful. All 
 the misfortunes of the Institution, it is said, are owing 
 to two or three infidels, of whom I am the worst. It 
 tortures me to hear it said that no institution can stand, 
 if I am known to support it. They err, however, who 
 think that I am an irreligious man. I know more of the 
 Book than some persons who five by it. Having studied 
 the evidence on both sides of the question, I am a 
 Christian from conviction, and because I cannot help it. 
 But would it not be better, not to elect me to any 
 office in the Institution? I could then mingle with
 
 106 LIFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 the audience, and should not offend by my seeming 
 presumption. There would then be no drawback on 
 my efforts to serve the Institution ; and no loss could 
 be sustained, as I am useless on committees, and worse 
 than useless in the chair. 
 
 "Might I suggest to Mr. Fowler, that in moving a 
 vote of thanks to Mr. Stannus, it would be well to say 
 something to the following purport. In Mr. Stannus's. 
 first lecture, he told us that we have to thank John 
 Knox for the schools and the educational systems of 
 Scotland. How much, then, does the world owe to John 
 Knox ? He sowed the fire-seeds which, growing into 
 a flame, enabled the English Puritans, not long after- 
 wards, to kindle another flame, that seems destined to 
 enlighten the whole earth. But for him, and the schools 
 of Scotland, perhaps, there would not have been in the 
 world, at this day, a shadow or a dream of public liberty. 
 The mention of a fact so honourable to John Knox, 
 connected as it is with a similar fact in the history of 
 Burns, who established the first Scotch book-club, shows 
 what a mighty educational engine public lecturing may 
 become ; and so long as one person can be found to give 
 lectures, splendid as those which have been heard from 
 the reverend gentleman, I for one, will not despair of 
 the Sheffield Mechanics' Institution. It stands yet ; and 
 if the edifice of society is to stand, such institutions 
 must not fall. If this country is to escape ruin, it will 
 not be by monopolizing ignorance. 
 
 * «M. Jf. At. J*. 
 
 ■TV" "A* "JT TP 
 
 Now don't suppose that I should not have written this 
 letter if the phflosophers had not blackballed me. I 
 should not care a straw for a hogshead full of their black 
 balls, unless they were black peas, and I had permission 
 to feed a pig with them. "
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 107 
 
 Elliott was at this time amongst the highest 
 subscribers to the funds of the Institution ; 
 and he manifested his attachment to the cause 
 of Popular Education by his own labours 
 therein, and by the counsel which he gave 
 to others respecting it. Altogether, he was 
 not only a good poet, but a good citizen, 
 and a true patriot. Prom the beginning 
 to the end of his life, there was not a blot 
 or flaw upon his character. His attention 
 to his business was almost proverbial; and 
 although many of his poems were written 
 in his counting-house, he never allowed 
 his genius to interfere with his bread. He 
 was deeply loved by the higher class of 
 artizans in Sheffield, who read and appre- 
 ciated his poems ; whilst the middle classes, 
 as a whole, never understood him, and can 
 scarcely be said, even now, to be acquainted 
 with his works. The lower orders of the town 
 knew him only as a politician, and public 
 speaker; and it frequently happened, whilst 
 upon the platform or hustings, that he was 
 carried away by the force of his own 
 thoughts into a complete forgetfulness of 
 the conventional uses of language. On 
 more than one occasion he has shocked 
 the propriety of his hearers, and of the
 
 108 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 town at large, by the utterance of for- 
 bidden words, whilst speaking upon the 
 ultimate consequences of the Corn Laws, 
 of which he was at the time totally uncon- 
 scious. He was so absorbed in his subject 
 that he forgot to dress it in decent costume ; 
 and from these and similar causes sprang 
 the prejudice which ordinary people con- 
 ceived against him. 
 
 Nevertheless, he was a brave, high-minded, 
 and noble person ; one of the few men who 
 come to us across the centuries, and restore 
 our faith in man and manful action. His 
 whole life was a poem, an epic that closed 
 with the demolition of the Corn Laws. 
 
 His prosperity at Sheffield was interrupted 
 by the panic of 1837 ; and the subsequent 
 commercial revolution, caused by the oper- 
 ation of the Corn Laws — against which 
 he was still fighting — swept away a great 
 part of his earnings. " I lost fully one- 
 third of my savings," he says, "and after 
 enabling my six boys to quit the nest, 
 got out of the fracas with about £6000, 
 which I will try to keep." He now left 
 his villa, near Sheffield, and retired to 
 Hargate Hill, near Great Houghton, where 
 he built a good substantial house, suitable
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 109 
 
 to his family and resources. In an interest- 
 ing letter which he wrote to Mr. Tait, of 
 Edinburgh, after he was quietly domiciled 
 in his new abode, he relates all the par- 
 ticulars of the purchase, and gives an 
 account of the fortunes and prospects of 
 his children, which I will here extract : — 
 
 "My eldest son, Ebenezer, whom you 
 saw at Sheffield, is a clergyman of the 
 establishment, being at Lothedale, near 
 Skipton, on a salary of about £140 per 
 annum, and a house better fur than mine, 
 rent free. He has married a lady of great 
 merit, who has a fortune of a hundred a 
 year, made safe to herself, and which is in 
 Chancery. Perhaps a more simple-man- 
 nered, unassuming man never lived. lie 
 is no poet, and yet there is a touch of the 
 poetic in all he does or suffers. If he 
 opens his snuff-box to a stranger, he spills 
 the snuff of course ; and he gets on best 
 when he stumbles. His mother thinks he 
 has some resemblance to me. 
 
 " My son Benjamin, unwarned by his 
 father's losses, is carrying on a steel trade 
 at Sheffield, in my old premises, where 
 (as he thinks, poor fellow ! for he is a 
 great hoper,) he has some prospect ; in 
 
 L
 
 110 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 any other country he would already have 
 made an independency. He endures pri- 
 vations such as no man of his pretensions 
 ought to endure anywhere, and such as no 
 man will here endure if free trade he 
 obtained before all is lost. He is a fine 
 young man, upwards of six feet high, of 
 superior abilities, and the highest moral 
 worth ; but, alas ! not unindebted to his 
 grandmother ! 
 
 " My sons Henry and Francis (as I wish 
 them to do) are living as bachelors on 
 the interest of money earned and saved by 
 themselves, and increased by gifts from me. 
 Henry is tall, handsome, and mechanical; 
 he ought to have been apprenticed to en- 
 gineering. Francis is tall and good-looking, 
 but he has the misfortune to be a born 
 poet ; for my mother has transmitted to 
 him, through me, her nervous constitution 
 and body-consuming sensibilities. Is poetic 
 genius, then, a disease ? My seventh son, 
 Edwin, is a clergyman of the established 
 church, for which he may be almost said to 
 have educated himself, and into which he 
 has won his way by his own efforts. Less 
 assisted by me than any of my other sons, 
 he is now a rector in the West Indies, where
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. Ill 
 
 he has, I am told, a better income than I 
 have been able to secure after all my toils. 
 He is a Lytton-Bulwer-looking person, not 
 unlike a well-grown young clergy-justice, 
 with forehead enough for three. At school 
 he was remarkable for laughing hostility 
 into kindness — a favourite wherever he went. 
 We always called him the gentleman of the 
 family. Having observed, when quite a 
 youth, that fine folks ride, he broke open 
 his thrift-box, and with the contents (after 
 drawing tears and kisses from his mother) 
 bought an ass of a Tory's son (all his asso- 
 ciates were Tories,) who sold it because it was 
 starving. Edwin knew that he had nothing 
 for it to eat; but the ass, accustomed to hope 
 in despair, had expectations. It commenced 
 business at my place in Burgus Street, by 
 thrusting its lean neck through the kitchen 
 window and eating a pound of butter. The 
 servant lass, suspecting it to be a thief, kick- 
 ed it into the street. From the street it got 
 into the fields, and thence into the pin-fold. 
 To prevent the lad's heart from breaking, I 
 paid seven shillings and sixpence for trespass, 
 and released the famished creature. What 
 then was to be done? Mark the difference 
 between the Tories and the toried ! At last,
 
 112 LIFE, CHARACTER, ATVD GENIUS 
 
 after various efforts in stock-feeding, I made 
 a present of it to a small manufacturing free- 
 holder, who always voted blue. He fattened 
 it by night in his neighbour's field, and then 
 sold it to him for two guineas. 
 
 " My poor son John, the weakling — kind- 
 hearted, intelligent, five feet four inches 
 high, and almost blind — is druggisting at 
 Sheffield, in a sort of chimney called a 
 shop, for which he pays £40 a year. He is 
 engaged, almost without a moment's pause, 
 from seven in the morning until ten at 
 night, in dealing out halfpenny-worths of 
 drugs ; yet I, who have been accustomed to 
 sell goods by tons, think that he is as likely 
 to thrive as most of his neighbours, and 
 believe that there are thousands of persons 
 in Sheffield who would gladly change places 
 with him. But what can our constitution 
 be worth, if it should turn out at last that 
 my sons Henry and Francis, living poorly 
 on the interest of their earnings, are wiser 
 in their generation than the trade-troubled? 
 The worst I wish the Dukes of Richmond 
 and Buckingham is, that they may be forced, 
 in my time, to earn their living as my sons 
 Benjamin and John earn theirs. Old as I 
 am, I would engage to hop a mile without
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 113 
 
 changing leg, or die rather than not, to see 
 them at it ; for to their unholy legislation, 
 I impute it, that of my six sons, the only 
 two who could afford to marry may be said 
 to be maintained by the labour of others. 
 
 " Of my thirteen children, five are gone 
 — William, Thomas, Charles, and the two 
 unchristened ones. They left behind them 
 no memorial, and the old inscription has 
 departed from the grave of Charles. But 
 they are safe in the bosom of mercy, and 
 not yet quite forgotten even here." 
 
 We have now before us the leading 
 features in the external life of the poet. 
 As a boy, he was dull, idle, and incapable 
 of learning the simplest rudiments of educa- 
 tion. Up to his thirteenth year he does 
 not manifest a single faculty from which 
 his future greatness might be augured. 
 His affection for his mother is the only 
 redeeming quality which he seems to have 
 possessed. Por although, he says, he can- 
 not remember when he was not fond of 
 ruralities, one can scarcely call his endless 
 truantings a manifestation of his love for 
 Nature. It was vagabondism, induced by 
 shame, not unmixed with sorrow, at his 
 
 l 2
 
 114 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND QENIUS 
 
 own wilful ignorance. Still, the forms of 
 Nature impressed themselves upon his soul 
 in these wild, woodland ramblings, and 
 remained there in dumb pictury, until he 
 was able to reproduce them in song. I 
 notice, likewise, that he never forgets a 
 single vision of Nature; and that all her 
 phenomena and beautiful creatures range 
 themselves round his mind as if he was 
 the sole centre of the universe. The king- 
 fisher flying over the waters of the Don 
 is remembered through the darkness of fifty 
 years; and the lonely and solemn night, 
 with its flaming stars and meteors, is the 
 unforgotten canopy of his Hejira into the 
 land of the great Pan. The nightingales 
 in Bassingthorpe Wood; the snake which 
 waited for him on the sunny Sabbath 
 mornings at the top of Primrose Lane, 
 are all related to him, and flow towards 
 hirn by the law of polarity. They are 
 waiting to be sung ; although he is un- 
 conscious of that deep underlying faculty 
 which they are gradually and silently 
 awakening within him. The botanical 
 book, and the specimens of dry plants, 
 which he saw at his aunt's, gave the first 
 quickening impulse to his mind and genius.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 115 
 
 Up to this time he had been a frequent 
 visitor at the York Keelman ; was drunk, 
 even, a few days before this memorable 
 visit to his aunt's cottage ; but now, when 
 he found he had talents, could admire, 
 and, by mechanical process, draw the 
 flowers, in the botanical book, he was 
 lifted three feet all at once above his ale- 
 house companions ; and for the first time 
 in his life the good demon opened the 
 windows of his soul, and gave him a 
 glimpse of the wonders and beauties of the 
 universe. Then followed the impressions 
 made upon him on hearing his brother 
 Giles read that first book of Thomson's 
 Seasons — his comparison of the poetical 
 description of the flowers with the flowers 
 themselves; and the new idea which burst 
 upon him of Botany in Verse ! Afterwards, 
 we find him rambling for a purpose, mys- 
 teriously collecting plants, for the cure of 
 diseases the people thought, and thought 
 truly, although the diseases were not such 
 as they imagined. Then Homer's Greek 
 turns all his thoughts into melody; and 
 at last he attempts his rhymed thunder- 
 storm, where the sheep are represented 
 running away after they were killed by
 
 116 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 lightning, because the rhyme would have 
 it so; and thus, by slow and imperceptible 
 degrees, was the mind of the poet developed; 
 and thus he sought to break the chains 
 of his spirit, and uplift the awful veil of 
 Nature. He served, however, a long ap- 
 prenticeship to his art before he produced 
 anything worthy of a place in the Pantheon 
 of literature. Twenty years elapsed between 
 the publication of " The Vernal Walk," and 
 that of " The Corn Law Rhymes ; " and 
 although these are by no means his best 
 performances, yet they won for him a name, 
 which led to an appreciation by the public 
 of those higher books which he had written 
 in the interim alluded to. Prom the first 
 his muse was wedded to politics and to 
 social wrong. These, indeed, were the 
 materials from which his inspiration was 
 drawn, and he found in them the region of 
 his work and power. Hence, he never 
 loses sight of his mission, but with the 
 jealous eye and vehement soul of a Prophet 
 and Reformer, labours without ceasing for 
 its accomplishment. He is of all other 
 men, the Man of his age. Such scars are 
 upon the face of this old warrior — such 
 lightnings in Ins eyes — such thunder and
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 117 
 
 terror upon his brow — yet, withal such 
 pity and womanly tenderness — such musical 
 pathos in his heart, and all so strangely 
 and inextricably woven in his nature and 
 radiating his person, that were I to meet 
 him a thousand years hence, in the most 
 out-of-the-wav corner of Heaven, I should 
 recognize him in spite of his celestial 
 raiment, and rejoice with him that life 
 was at last swallowed up in victory. 
 
 I must not omit, before proceeding to the 
 final division of my subject, to quote in this 
 place, a short and characteristic note, written 
 to the editor of The Sheffield Independent, 
 by James Montgomery, the sole remaining 
 poet now, in the town of fire and steel, upon 
 the subject of this paper : — 
 
 " I do not remember having ever been for 
 an hour in Mr. Elliott's company. Our 
 occasional meetings were few, and short, and 
 far between, though he was known and ad- 
 mired by me as a poet, before the world 
 would either know or honour him as such. 
 He published several small volumes, at inter- 
 vals, the manuscripts of which (mostly) he 
 had confidentially submitted to me; and they 
 had my best encouragement, on the ground 
 of their merit; but not one of these could
 
 118 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 command public attention, till he broke out 
 in ' The Corn Law Rhymes,' as Waller said 
 of Denham, ' like the Irish Rehellion, forty 
 thousand strong, when nobody thought of such 
 a thing' Then, indeed, he compelled both 
 astonishment and commendation from all 
 manner of critics : Whig, Tory, and Radical 
 reviewers vieing with each other who should 
 magnanimously extol the talents which they 
 had either not discovered, or had superci- 
 liously overlooked, till, for their own credit, 
 they could no longer hold their peace, 
 or affect to despise what they had not 
 had heart to acknowledge, when their 
 countenance would have done service to 
 the struggling author. A few of his mas- 
 terpieces did find their way into the Iris, but 
 I believe these were all republished by himself 
 in his successive miscarrying volumes. I, 
 however, am quite willing to hazard any cri- 
 tical credit by avowing my persuasion, that 
 in originality, power, and even heauty, when 
 he chose to be beautiful,—- he might have 
 measured heads beside Byron in tremendous 
 energy, Crabbe in graphic description, and 
 Coleridge in effusions of domestic tenderness ; 
 while in intense sympathy with the poor, in 
 whatever he deemed their wrongs or their
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 119 
 
 sufferings, he excelled them all, — and per- 
 haps everybody else among- contemporaries, in 
 prose or verse. He was, in a transcendental 
 sense, the Poet of the Poor, whom, if not 
 always 'wisely,* I at least dare not say, he 
 loved ' too well.'' His personal character, his 
 fortunes, and his genius, would require, and 
 they deserve a full investigation, as fur- 
 nishing an extraordinary study of human 
 nature." 
 
 The allusions made by Montgomery, in 
 the above letter, to Elliott's " Effusions of 
 Domestic Tenderness," and to his " intense " 
 sympathy with the people, cannot be better 
 illustrated than by the following poems : — 
 
 THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 
 
 " Before thy leaves thou comest once more, 
 
 "White blossom of the sloe ! 
 Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
 But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, 
 
 Will then lie low. 
 
 A month at least before thy time 
 
 Thou comest, pale flower, to me ; 
 For well thou know'st the frosty rime 
 Will blast me, ere my vernal prime, 
 Xo more to be.
 
 120 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 Why here in winter ? No storm lowers 
 
 O'er Nature's silent shroud ! 
 But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, 
 High o'er the doomed untimely flowers 
 
 In beauty bowed. 
 
 Sweet violets, in the budding grove, 
 Peep where the glad waves run ; 
 The wren below, the thrush above, 
 Of bright to-morrow's joys and love 
 Sing to the sun. 
 
 And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 
 Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
 The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, 
 Smfles on the well, in summer cold, 
 And daisied sod. 
 
 But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
 
 And flowers in winter blow, 
 To tell me that the worm makes room 
 Bor me, her brother, in the tomb, 
 
 And thinks me slow. 
 
 Bor as the rainbow of the dawn 
 
 Boretells an eve of tears, 
 A sunbeam on the saddened lawn, 
 I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 
 
 In early years. 
 
 Thy leaves will come ; but songful spring 
 
 Will see no leaf of mine ; 
 Her bells will ring, bride' s-maids sing, 
 "When my young leaves are withering 
 
 Where no suns shine.
 
 OF EBENEZEK ELLIOTT. 121 
 
 might I breathe morn's dewy breath, 
 When June's sweet Sabbaths chime ! 
 
 But thine before my time, O death ! 
 
 1 go where no flower blossometh, 
 Before my time. 
 
 Even as the blushes of the morn 
 
 Vanish, and long ere noon, 
 The dewdrop dieth on the thorn, 
 So fair I bloomed ; and was I born 
 To die as soon ? 
 
 To love my mother and to die - 
 
 To perish in my bloom ; 
 Is this my sad brief history ; 
 A tear dropped from a mother's eye 
 
 Into the tomb. 
 
 He lived and loved — will sorrow say- 
 By early sorrow tried : 
 
 He smiled, he sighed, he past away ; 
 
 His life was but an April day — 
 He loved and died ! 
 
 My mother smiles, then turns away, 
 
 But turns away to weep : 
 They whisper round me — what they say 
 I need not hear, for in the clay 
 
 I soon must sleep.
 
 122 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 Oh, love is sorrow ! sad it is 
 To be both tried and true ; 
 
 I ever trembled in my bliss ; 
 
 Now there are farewells in a kiss — 
 They sigh adieu, 
 
 But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade, 
 
 "Where Don reflects the skies ; 
 And many a youth in Shirecliff's shade 
 Will ramble where my boyhood played, 
 Though Alfred dies. 
 
 Then panting woods the breeze will feel, 
 
 And bowers, as heretofore, 
 Beneath their load of roses reel ; 
 But I through woodbined lanes shall steal 
 
 No more, no more. 
 
 Well, lay me by my brother's side. 
 
 Where late we stood and wept ; 
 For I was stricken when he died— 
 I felt the arrow as he sighed 
 
 His last, and slept." 
 
 The above poem needs no comment; and 
 the following, entitled "The People's An- 
 them," will show what Montgomery means 
 by Elliott's love for the people.
 
 OF E13ENEZER ELLIOTT. 123 
 
 " WiiEtf wilt thou save the people ':' 
 Oh, God of Mercy ! when ? 
 Not kings and lords, hut nations ! 
 Not thrones and crowns, hut men ! 
 Flowers of thy heart, oh God, are they, 
 Let them not pass like weeds away ! 
 Their heritage a sunless d:iv ! 
 
 God save the people ! 
 
 Shall crime "bring crime for ever, — 
 Strength aiding still the strong ? 
 Is it thy will, oh Father, 
 That men shall toil for wrong ? 
 « No ! ' say thy mountains ; ' No ! ' thy skies ; 
 ' Man's clouded sun shall brightly rise 
 And songs be heard instead of sighs.' 
 God save the people ! 
 
 When wilt thou save the people ? 
 Oh, God of Mercy ! when ? 
 The people, Lord ! the people ! 
 Not thrones and crowns, but men ! 
 God save the people ! thine they are, 
 Thy children, as thy angels fair : 
 Save them from bondage, and despair ? 
 God ! save the people.' '
 
 afttminfarenrc* of tl)e $oet.
 
 PART III. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OE THE POET IN HIS RETIREMENT AT HARGATE 
 
 HILL. 
 
 It only now remains for me to speak of the 
 poet in his retirement at Hargate Hill, and 
 present a picture of his private life. And as 
 I design to give personal reminiscences of 
 him, I hope I shall not incur the charge 
 of egotism, if, in the execution of my pur- 
 pose, I shall find it necessary to take a more 
 prominent part than I could otherwise wish 
 or consent to. At all events, egotism is very 
 far from my intention. I have thought the 
 matter well over, however, and do not see 
 how I could better render justice to my 
 subject, than by adopting the plan I have 
 chosen ; and with this explanation will ad- 
 dress myself forthwith to the work before 
 me. 
 
 Hargate Hill is about eight miles from 
 Barnsley, and three from Darfield Station, 
 on the North Midland Railway. " I chose
 
 128 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 this place," says the poet,* " for its beauty, 
 which, as is usual in affairs of the heart, is 
 invisible to all but the enamoured. Rising 
 early one morning, I took a beautiful walk 
 of eighteen miles, through parks, wild lanes, 
 and footpaths ; reached the place ; liked it ; 
 and returning the same day, resolved to buy 
 it. Supposing the cottage, which stood upon 
 it, to be worth £60, I gave £180 for the 
 land, say £18 per acre. It was a wild land, 
 having being a wood, and fox cover ; called 
 on the maps Argilt Hill, or wood. I have 
 laid out upon it, land and all, about a 
 thousand guineas. My establishment," he 
 continues, " is illustrious for a St. Bernard's 
 dog, and a Welsh pony, ' the observed of 
 all observers,' which in its green old age of 
 twenty years, draws a small gig; both un- 
 taxed. Gig, harness, and mare, cost alto- 
 gether £8. 10s. My family here consists of 
 Mrs. Elliott, my two daughters, or rather 
 one daughter, for they keep house for one 
 of my sons at Sheffield in turn, — a servant 
 maid, and a man who works for me occasion- 
 ally. Rid the Corn Laws, and I shall not 
 be without dim visions of a flunkey." 
 
 It is a lovely walk from Darfield Station 
 * In a letter previously quoted, addressed to Mr. Tait.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 129 
 
 up to the poet's house, and the surrounding 
 country is of an undulating, quiet, and 
 pastoral character. The road runs through 
 thick hedges and tall trees ; with wide, green 
 pastures on either side of it, where sheep 
 and oxen graze in undisturbed tranquillity. 
 I have many beautiful recollections of this 
 old green road, with its musical birds and 
 flowers ; its cool brooks, and shadowy outline 
 of trees, falling in sunny mosaics upon the 
 pathway. I remember, too, the wild roses 
 and the honeysuckles which grew upon the 
 hedges ; especially the latter, whose " clus- 
 tered trumpets," as Elliott calls them, seemed 
 to be blowing anthems of incense upon the 
 morning air, to the praise of the Great Crea- 
 tor. For it always happened in my summer 
 visits to Elliott that the days were fine and 
 sunny ; so that I look back upon them as 
 Sabbaths consecrated to the genius of friend- 
 ship and poetry. 
 
 After walking about two miles through 
 this fine country, you come to Great 
 Houghton, a long and straggling village, 
 chiefly remarkable for an old dilapidated 
 hall, from which Wentworth, Lord Strafford, 
 married his third wife, and where he lived 
 for some time afterwards. It is a fine old
 
 130 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 ruin; and I remember with what interest 
 I regarded it, on my first visit in that 
 direction, to the poet. It was very early 
 one summer's morning, and long before I 
 arrived at the village, I saw the grey massy 
 building looming through the sunny mists, 
 and presently, beheld its grotesque gables, 
 and projecting windows. There was such 
 an antique look about the place, that I 
 could have imagined myself, for the mo- 
 ment, drawn suddenly back into the middle 
 ages. A nearer approach, however, dissi- 
 pated the illusion; for it was soon evident 
 that the old glory had departed from its 
 walls, and with it the ancient spirit of its 
 chivalrous owners. At the end of the field 
 enclosing it on the west, which it was 
 evident enough, from the scattered elms 
 and chesnut trees, had once been a park, 
 hung a wooden gate upon two stone pillars, 
 formerly a chief entrance to the mansion. 
 A stone wall ran from this gate to the 
 mansion itself; and upon an inspection of 
 the front, I found it was converted into 
 an inn, where provender was furnished to 
 man and beast for money. I opened the 
 great door and entered the house ; for 
 Elliott had frequently desired me to in-
 
 OF EBENEZEK ELLIOTT. 131 
 
 spect the old mansion, and named it with 
 pride, as the most interesting historic ruin 
 in his neighbourhood. A large fire was blaz- 
 ing up the huge chimney, and the landlady 
 was washing her chubby-faced children in 
 an earthen pancheon, before it. A servant 
 girl brought me a cup of milk, and asked 
 if I would not like a drop of rum in it. 
 The landlord, who was dressed in a velveteen 
 shooting jacket, and corduroy breeches, was 
 quietly devouring his hot toast and tea ; 
 whilst a braw fellow, who had brought a 
 team of horses from Sheffield, was regaling 
 himself on the oak settle, with a pint of 
 beer. I enquired how the house came to 
 be in such a dilapidated condition, and the 
 landlord told me that the steward of the 
 property had frequently promised to patch 
 up the old rooms, and make them habitable 
 for him and his family — but always forgot 
 to keep his word. The roof was quite 
 rotten, he said, from neglect ; and he could 
 not afford to repair it himself, out of the 
 profits of the little farm he rented. And to 
 this complexion, thought I, has the pride of 
 Wentworth come at last ! The lofty rooms, 
 and tracery on the oaken beams and wain- 
 scots, seemed to mock the vulgarity and
 
 132 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND OENIUS 
 
 poverty of their present occupiers; and I 
 could not help thinking that so fine a 
 building — with its rich historic memories — 
 might have been devoted to a better purpose 
 than that of an alehouse. Having obtained 
 permission, I wandered over the hall, up 
 massy stone staircases ; into large rooms 
 lighted by magnificent Avindows ; along 
 twilight galleries, where old family pic- 
 tures, instinct with life, were wont to stare 
 from the walls upon observing visitors, in 
 the dim times that are gone. Here were 
 dark antechambers; the floors all rotten, 
 and breaking into dust beneath the foot ; 
 and there were others well lighted, and 
 looking out upon a fair and beautiful 
 country, over which the sun shone as 
 brightly as in Strafford's proudest and 
 happiest days. But Strafford himself, and 
 his third wife, and all their retainers, 
 where were they ? The eastern part of 
 the building is a mere ruin. The walls 
 are dismantled, and have fallen in in some 
 places, leaving nothing to be seen but 
 broken staircases and mouldering stones, 
 where the ivy clings, and the bat and the 
 owl inhabit. Elliott, in speaking of this 
 old hall to a friend, who reports his last
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 133 
 
 visit to him. in an interesting paper which 
 appeared in a late number of " Eliza Cook's 
 Journal," says: "after Wentworth's time 
 it became the property of Sir William 
 Rhodes, a stout Presbyterian and Parlia- 
 mentarian. When the Civil War broke 
 out, Rhodes took the field with his tenantry, 
 on the side of the Parliament, and the first 
 encounter between the two parties is said 
 to have taken place only a few miles to 
 the north of Old Houghton. While Rhodes 
 was at Tadcaster, with Sir Thomas Fairfax, 
 Captain Grey, (an ancestor of the present 
 Earl Grev,) at the head of a bodv of about 
 three hundred royalist horse, attacked the 
 old hall, and there being only some thirty 
 servants left to defend it, took the place 
 and set fire to it, destroying all that would 
 burn. But Cromwell rode down the Cav- 
 aliers with his ploughmen at Marston Moor, 
 not very far from here either, and then 
 Rhodes built the little chapel that you will 
 see still standing at the west end of the 
 hall, and established a godly Presbyterian 
 divine to minister there; forming a road 
 from thence to Driffield, about three miles 
 off, to enable the inhabitants of that place 
 to reach it by a short and convenient route.
 
 134 LIFE, CIIAKACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 I forget how it happened, (continued the 
 poet,) I believe it was by marriage — but 
 so it was — that the estate fell into the 
 possession in these latter days, of Monckton 
 Milnes, the poet's father, to whom it 
 belongs." 
 
 Resting myself awhile after I had explored 
 the dusty chambers and ruins of the hall, I 
 resumed my walk through Great Houghton 
 village, about half a mile from which, at the 
 top of a hill, stands the poet's house. And 
 as I ascended from the valley, I heard afar 
 off the well-known bark of the great St. 
 Bernard's dog already alluded to, as one of 
 the notable appendages to Elliott's establish- 
 ment. The red marly road led me under 
 beautiful shady trees, up to Houghton Com- 
 mon, which spread out with its blossoming 
 gorse bushes, like a sea of gold and emeralds. 
 On the right hand there was a farm-house, 
 with great stacks piled up on one side of it, 
 and a little cluster of trees in the back- 
 ground ; and on the left, fenced in from the 
 common by a good and substantial stone 
 wall, stood Elliott's villa. Here I turned off 
 upon the gravel road leading to the large 
 blue gates, and entered the poet's grounds, 
 where I was saluted by the great shaggy dog
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 135 
 
 whose bark I had heard below. He came at 
 me with a bound, wagging his huge tail, and 
 jumping with his paws upon my shoulder 
 he thrust his friendly snout into my face. I 
 entered the garden, and soon stood within 
 the porch of the door. It was about nine 
 o'clock, and I remained awhile to listen, for 
 I heard the sound of musical voices within, 
 accompanied by the piano-forte. It Avas soon 
 evident that the whole family were engaged 
 in singing those beautiful matins ; and I 
 heard the poet's voice mingling its plaintive 
 wailings with the general harmony. I walked 
 into the hall, took off my hat and coat, and 
 suddenly presented myself in the sitting-room. 
 There was a general exclamation of surprise, 
 joy, and welcome. The poet advanced first 
 to shake me by the hand, flinging his specta- 
 cles over his shaggy brows, whilst his blue 
 eyes were lighted up as with the sunshine of 
 all the worlds. It was something to feel the 
 warm grip of that manly hand, and to hear 
 the kind, hearty, and hospitable words that 
 accompanied it. Nor was it less pleasant to 
 be greeted by the good wife and fair daughter, 
 who constituted at that time the little house- 
 hold at Hargate. I shall never forget that 
 morning. The warm sunshine streamed into
 
 136 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 the room from the open casement, as we sat 
 at breakfast, and the sweet roses looked 
 through the window-panes, smiling upon the 
 happy group within. An open canary cage 
 stood upon a table under the window, and 
 the pretty yellow warbler sang its richest 
 song all breakfast time, flying across the 
 room at intervals, and settling with loving 
 wings upon the head of the venerable poet. 
 Then we had a pleasant conversation about 
 the beautiful country that lay around us, 
 with its dark woods, valleys, dells, and moor- 
 lands ; and the poet related to me all the 
 local traditions and histories, which he had 
 gathered from the " Deanery of Doncaster," 
 and other sources. He spoke of two great 
 oaks about a mile from his house, where the 
 Wapentake assembled in ancient times, and 
 where, in the hollow of one of them, Nevison, 
 the celebrated highwayman, used to secrete 
 himself when in danger. He likewise related 
 the history of Nevison, who was born at 
 Wortley in Charles the Second's time, and 
 knew the site of the public-house where he 
 was at last captured: "A heart-breaking 
 story, I have no doubt," said Elliott, in speak- 
 ing of it, " for the daughter of the innkeeper 
 was Nevison' s sweetheart." The site of this
 
 OF EBENE2ER ELLIOTT. 137 
 
 house is at Ringstone Hill, otherwise cele- 
 brated as the place where Sir Godfrey Rhodes 
 assembled the first troop in the parliamen- 
 tary war. He spoke likewise of South Kirby 
 — a little village abont two and a half miles 
 off — as interesting to him from the fact that 
 there the Rev. George Beanmont lived as 
 vicar, who was tried and executed February 
 18th, 1648, for holding correspondence with 
 Colonel Morris, who had surprised Pontefract 
 Castle for the King. Pope's mother was 
 born also in his neighbourhood, he said, viz., 
 at Marrow Thorn, although it was nearer 
 Barnsley than Hargate. Her maiden name 
 was Edith Turner, and the registry of her 
 birth is dated the 18th of June, 1049. These 
 historical facts were deeply interesting to 
 him, and he loved to relate them to his 
 friends and visitors. I shall not soon forget 
 the indignation with which he spoke of one 
 Thomas Gargrave, who, at the age of thirty- 
 four, was hanged, for burning a poor servant 
 boy of his in an oven at Great Houghton. 
 
 When breakfast was over, the poet related 
 to me many incidents in his early life, and 
 spoke of his ramblings around Sheffield, as 
 the most beautiful of all his memories. The 
 hill above the old Park Wood, where the 
 
 n 2
 
 138 LIFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 scene of the Ranter's last sermon is placed, 
 was a favourite haunt of his ; and he heard 
 the sound of the many voiced rivers — the 
 Don, the Loxley, Ewden, Rivelin, Sheaf, 
 and Porter — like the songs of innumerable 
 Syrens, singing to him for ever, and cheer- 
 ing him in his Hargate solitude. His love 
 for these beautiful streams had grown into 
 a passion, which was increased by his long 
 absence from them; and whilst alluding 
 to them on the morning in question, he 
 repeated the following "Farewell to Riv- 
 elin" — which he had written previous to 
 his leaving Sheffield : — 
 
 " Beautiful Biver ! Goldenly shining 
 Where, with the cistus, Woodbines are twining, 
 (Birklands around thee, Mountains above thee,) 
 Bivelin wildest ! Do I not love thee ? 
 
 Why do I love thee, Heart-breaking Biver ? 
 Love thee, and leave thee ? Leave thee for ever ! 
 Never to see thee, Where the storms greet thee ! 
 Never to hear thee, Bushing to meet me ! 
 
 Never to hail thee, Joyfully chiming 
 Beauty in music, Sister of Wyming ! 
 Blayfully mingling Laughter and sadness, 
 Eibbledin's sister! Sad in thy gladness.
 
 OP EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 139 
 
 Oh, when thy poet, "Weary reposes, 
 Coffin'd in slander, Far from thy roses, 
 Tell slave and tyrant (Heart-breaking Eiver !) 
 Tell them I loved thee, Love thee for ever!" 
 
 He was, however, well satisfied with his pre- 
 sent position. " People," he said, " laughed 
 at me for buying this little estate, and 
 thought I should soon die of ennui, so far 
 removed as I am from friends, companions, 
 and the conveniences of civilization. But 
 they were all mistaken. I am happy with 
 my family and books ; and spend my time in 
 laying out my garden, planting trees, walk- 
 ing, driving, reading, writing. I envy no 
 man, nor have I any right to do so. This is 
 not an unlovely neighbourhood (he added) for 
 a poet in his old age, as I will prove to you 
 before you return. And in the meanwhile, 
 look out of the window, and tell me what 
 you think of the view from it." I did so, 
 and found that the poet had made artificial 
 openings in the trees which bounded the 
 croft beyond the garden, through which the 
 best pictures of the landscape were visible. 
 Here were the hall and village of Great 
 Houghton, and the dim landscape beyond it ; 
 and a little to the right, far off, through 
 another opening of foliage, lay the manufac-
 
 140 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 turing villages of Swinton and Wath ; * and 
 nearer in the valley, the beautiful church 
 of Darfield looked over the quiet scenery 
 towards the poet's house, backed by the 
 woods of Wentworth, through which the 
 monuments of Hoober Stand, Needles' Eye, 
 and Smoothing Iron, shot gleaming in the 
 sunshine, whilst a line of dark hills bounded 
 the horizon. " Confess now," said the poet, 
 "that I have not made a foolish choice, in 
 coming up here to live." Shortly after- 
 wards, at my request, he read to me some of 
 his unpublished poems. These were written 
 in a large folio book, which he kept in a 
 wooden box, on one side the piano. He 
 repeated, likewise, several melodies which he 
 had adapted to some of our national airs, 
 and I afterwards had the pleasure of joining 
 his daughter in singing them. In this way 
 we beguiled several hours, and then took a 
 short ramble over the moor, and through the 
 fields and woods, conversing by the way, of 
 the aspects and tendencies of the age, and of 
 the truly great men now living amongst us. 
 In the political sphere, Cobden was his idol. 
 He called him the Hero of the Bloodless 
 Revolution ; — the golden - mouthed orator, 
 
 * Earthenware is the staple manufacture of these villages.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 141 
 
 whose plainest words rang with music, and 
 whose eloquence, at once simple, powerful, 
 earnest, argumentative, and convincing, was 
 the most wonderful which ancient or modern 
 times could boast of. "I look to Cobden," 
 he said, " as the leader of the Advance Body 
 Guard of Man ! Great as the Corn Law 
 Battle was, and incalculably great as it will 
 be in its results, Cobden will yet effect 
 another revolution as great as that. He will 
 destroy monopoly in all its forms ; and by 
 reducing our taxation, he will rid the country 
 of its titled paupers, and enable the working 
 man not only to eat cheap bread, but to 
 possess a comfortable home — to educate his 
 children — to live as a man ! ' He named 
 Bright, too, as a fiery and energetic speaker 
 and actor, but intellect ually considered, as 
 a Melancthon leaning upon the bosom of 
 Luther. Of Lord John Russell and the 
 "Whigs he had no hope, and spoke of them 
 in contemptuous and not very polite lan- 
 guage. But he respected Sir Robert Peel, 
 and regretted that he had " retired from 
 business." I have previously shown, in an 
 extract from one of his letters, that he had 
 all but prophesied, ten years before the event 
 took place, that Sir Robert would repeal
 
 142 LIFE, CHAKACTEK, AND GENIUS 
 
 the Corn Laws, as soon as he understood the 
 true commercial position of England ; " and 
 now," he said, " we want Sir Robert to exe- 
 cute his own measures ; for we have not got 
 Free Trade yet, and when we do get it, we 
 shall have hard work to keep it." Speaking 
 of Colonel Thompson — the brave Reformer 
 and accomplished scholar — he called him the 
 Prince of Politicians ; and said that every 
 letter of the Corn Law Catechism ought to 
 be printed in gold, and read once a day on 
 Sundays from every pulpit in the land. Por 
 this book was Elliott's gospel ; and I am not 
 quite sure that he did not go to heaven with 
 it in his hand. He will read it there to 
 Bentham, as he advised Tennyson, when he 
 died, to read Longfellows' "Evangeline" to 
 Homer. 
 
 I ventured to allude to the neglect with 
 which he had been treated by his own party, 
 as a sort of probe which I thought might 
 reach him; but he had no bitterness in his 
 heart against his quondam associates, and 
 fellow- workers. " I am no longer wanted," 
 he said; "I have done my work, and can 
 die, when God calls me ; thankful that the 
 battle is over, and the ' good time coming.' " 
 We were now in the midst of a wood,
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 143 
 
 wandering knee-deep in blue bells, whilst 
 the birds were singing merrily around us. 
 "These," he said, pointing to the flowers, 
 and trees, and birds, " are my companions ; 
 from them I derive consolation and hope, for 
 Nature is all harmony and beauty, and man 
 will one day be like her, and the war of 
 castes and the war for bread will be no more." 
 And then he stooped down, and gathering a 
 flower, placed it affectionately in my hand, 
 and bade me keep it in remembrance of that 
 day's ramble. " For," he added, with the 
 most touching emphasis of voice, " when 
 these old woods are brown with their autum- 
 nal attire, I shall, in all probability, be at 
 rest in the grave." 
 
 The afternoon of that day was spent in 
 walking up and down the grass-plot before 
 the house, where we continued our morn- 
 ing's conversation, interrupted occasionally 
 by the St. Bernard's dog, who seemed to 
 be jealous of my monopoly of the poet, 
 and came to ask for his wonted caresses. 
 We were sometimes joined likewise by Mrs. 
 Elliott and her daughter, who, when they 
 had heard enough of our politics, retired 
 amongst the flowers, and left us alone in 
 the full glory of debate. It is well known
 
 144 LIFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 that Elliott was a redoubted champion of 
 competition, and that he looked upon com- 
 munism as fatal to the best interests of man; 
 as a system where Do-nothing was to have 
 all, with George Sand for a king.* It is 
 related of him that walking once in company 
 with a leading Socialist of Sheffield, discuss- 
 ing this subject, they came to a sudden turn 
 of the road, which revealed a number of 
 willow trees in a meadow, all recently cut 
 into one uniform shape. At this strange 
 and unexpected sight Elliott extended his 
 
 * Elliott's Epigram, which lie called " Bully Idle's 
 Prayer," will convey a good idea of his hatred of com- 
 munism, and of his unfairness also in dealing with the 
 great problem which communism has opened up to 
 modern enquiry. Here it is : — 
 
 " Lord, send us weeks of Sundays ; 
 A Saint's day, every day ; 
 Shirts gratis, ditto breeches, 
 No work, and double pay ; 
 Tell Short and Long they're both short now ; 
 To Slow and East one meed allow ; 
 Let Louis Blanc take Ashley's cow, 
 And Richmond give her hay." 
 
 A letter by Isaac Ironside, of Sheffield, respecting this 
 epigram will be found in the Appendix, and will be 
 read, I think, with interest.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 145 
 
 arms, and cried aloud, " Behold a society of 
 ready-made Socialists ! " He was apt enough 
 at this work, and never let slip a good oppor- 
 tunity of illustrating his arguments by such 
 casual examples as fell in his way. His 
 hatred of communism, however, blinded him, 
 as usual, to the whole merits of the subject, 
 which he had never studied, and which he 
 said was not worth studying. George Sand 
 was his Mother of Harlots in the new regime; 
 and he called Louis Blanc the fit legislator 
 of an infernal Noodledom. He regarded the 
 communistic tendencies of the age as the 
 most death-like sign, which, if not arrested 
 would plunge the nation into anarchy, 
 confusion, and ruin. No argument drawn 
 from the anomalies of our social state, could 
 convince him that Capital had not a right to 
 rule the world, according to the law of 
 supply and demand ; and no horrible Irish 
 famine ; no criminal statistics ; no facts of 
 daily starvation ; no revelation of fever cel- 
 lars — of starving needlewomen making shirts 
 at 4d. a day, and that they might not die, 
 compelled to the most pitiable, sorrowful 
 degradation— (such as one cannot think of 
 without tears and agony) — I say none of 
 these things could move Elliott one inch 
 
 o
 
 146 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 from his political doctrine, or make him 
 doubt for a moment that competition was 
 the great social law of God, destined to 
 rule the world to the end of time. Nei- 
 ther would he admit the validity of the 
 higher argument drawn from the Christian 
 precepts, in favour of co-operation. Eree 
 trade, he said, would give us all we wanted 
 of material wealth ; and education would 
 gradually introduce a better feeling, and a 
 kinder understanding between masters and 
 men. Not that Elliott was impassible to 
 the sufferings of the classes we have al- 
 luded to ; for it is notorious, that he was 
 keenly alive to them. It was as a poet, 
 however, not as a political economist. In 
 the former capacity he would have died to 
 save them ; in the latter, he could have seen 
 the earth filled with graves, rather than have 
 abandoned it to poor Dudevant, " Ashley's 
 Cow," and Louis Blanc. 
 
 Returning once more to the Corn Law 
 Agitation he said, " You spoke this morning 
 about the neglect which you imagined me to 
 have received at the hands of the old League; 
 and you are not perhaps aware that the 
 League itself originated in Sheffield ; and 
 that the Anti-Corn Law Association com-
 
 OF E13ENEZER ELLIOTT. 1^7 
 
 mencecl the crusade against monopoly, and 
 engaged Paulton as their lecturer." He 
 likewise claimed for himself the honour of 
 having given the first decided impulse to the 
 movement, and by his songs, epigrams, and 
 satires, prepared the way for the reception 
 of the Anti-Corn Law doctrines. He spoke, 
 too, with great and pardonable pride upon 
 his position with respect to the Corn Law 
 Agitation. " I have won my name as the 
 1 Rhymer of the Revolution,' " he said, "and 
 am prouder of that distinction than I should 
 be if I were made Poet Laureate of England." 
 He did not seem to be aware that his fame 
 as a poet could not last upon that foundation 
 alone; or that there was anything in his 
 poetry of which he might be more justly 
 proud than of these political effusions. He 
 was delighted when his correspondents styled 
 him Ebenezer Elliott, C. L. R. (Corn Law 
 Rhymer), and he had a seal with these 
 initials surmounting his own name, which 
 he was in the habit of using upon his letters. 
 In conversation he was sometimes slow and 
 deliberate ; condensing his thoughts in as few 
 words as possible, and giving the net result 
 — as with a "whip of fire," without letting 
 one see the "cold process" of his thinking.
 
 148 LIFE, CHAEACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 Hence he was often sudden and startling in 
 liis annunciations ; but he was no dogmatist 
 — in the rigid meaning of that word — and 
 if his premises were disputed, would take 
 infinite pains to establish them, conducting 
 afterwards the entire argument with logical 
 accuracy. But when the subject was a sacred 
 one to him, and he grew warm over it, there 
 was no bound to his rhetoric. He would 
 utter the finest things, one after another, 
 with the throat of Etna, scattering them 
 about in blasts of fire and thunder. He was 
 a sort of walking earthquake, clad in flowers 
 and rainbows, one of the most beautiful and 
 terrible of men. 
 
 I need not say that he was a thorough 
 democrat in principle, for all his poems bear 
 witness to the fact ; but he had no patience 
 with Mobocracy, and despised the dema- 
 gogues who made it their business to mislead 
 the people, coolly pocketing the wages of 
 their iniquity. At one period of his life, 
 when William Lovett guided the popular 
 movement for reform, Elliott did all in his 
 power to promote the enfranchisement of 
 the people, both by speaking and writ- 
 ing ; but when O'Connor and the physical 
 force Chartists appeared, he withdrew from
 
 OP EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 149 
 
 the movement, and warned the working 
 men of the inevitable issue of that busi- 
 ness. 
 
 And whilst we were walking this afternoon 
 in the garden at Hargate, he fought his 
 old Reform Battles over again ; and told 
 me how he trembled when he had to face 
 a public meeting; how he prepared all his 
 speeches, and committed them to memory, 
 singing them in public, to the same tune 
 wherein he had learned them in private. 
 And when we were tired of talking, he con- 
 ducted me round the house and garden, and 
 over his little farm of corn fields, grass, 
 and clover. The garden, which was laid out 
 by the poet himself, was very tastefully 
 arranged, having many winding paths in it, 
 running between rich borders of shrubs and 
 flowers. A mound, artificially elevated, on 
 one side of the garden, commanded a beautiful 
 and extensive prospect of hills, woods, dales, 
 and streams. On the west lay a sunny dell, 
 and just beyond it, on the side of the hill, 
 stood a farm-house and buildings — whilst 
 several cows were grouped under the branches 
 of a large beech tree in the farm croft. 
 Lady Wood, West Wood, Spring Wood, and 
 Lunn Wood, stretched away at our feet, 
 
 o 2
 
 150 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 covering many hundred acres, and forming 
 a fine foreground to the wide and distant 
 scenery, lying between them and the Hud- 
 dersfield Hill, which bounded the horizon. 
 " We can see West Nab and Home Moss 
 distinctly from this mound," said the poet, 
 " and in damp weather they look as if they 
 would come into my parlour windows." We 
 proceeded from this mound down the hill 
 side, which the poet had planted with trees 
 and shrubs, to the little dell below, where a 
 trout stream went babbling along over its 
 shallow and stony bed. When we arrived 
 opposite the corn-fields, just as they slope 
 down to the lowlands — we being still in the 
 dell — the poet led me to a tree, which spread 
 its friendly branches over the beautiful 
 waving grass at our feet. " Under this 
 tree," he said, with a plaintive and serious 
 voice, — " I mean to be buried. I shall sleep 
 well enough here, out of the consecrated 
 churchyard ; and who knows but I may feel 
 the daisies growing over my grave, and hear 
 the birds sing to me in my winding-sheet ! " 
 He once desired to be buried at Shirecliffe, 
 under the Gospel Tree, which he has cele- 
 brated in his poem of the "Ranter;" and 
 had even driven a large nail in it, and com-
 
 OP EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 151 
 
 municated the fact to two beloved friends in 
 Sheffield, that they might know it, and see 
 his wishes enforced in case of his sudden 
 death. But his sepulture on his own estate 
 at Hargate was a more pleasing and touch- 
 ing desire, full of pastoral simplicity and 
 patriarchal beauty. That it was his earnest 
 desire to be thus buried, and that he had 
 long contemplated the event, there can be 
 no doubt. Writing to a friend, (Isaac Iron- 
 side, of Sheffield,) in September, 1848, he 
 says : "I suffer great pain, and after losing 
 more than twenty-eight pounds in weight, I 
 continue to lose at the rate of one pound 
 weekly. You cannot fatten calves in that 
 way ! If I am not removed suddenly, I 
 shall last till April next." He then con- 
 tinues, " I wish to be buried in mv skin at 
 the foot of Lord Galway's ash tree here. 
 My folks are all for holy ground and costs, 
 so I suppose I must submit; and Rotherhani 
 Church being full of corruption, and one of 
 our neighbouring clergymen happening to be 
 here, I have been trying to bargain with him 
 for a grave at Darfield. Could you think it ! 
 Sinking the offal, it will cost 40s. for the use 
 of the ground alone." In this way he grimly 
 played with the subject, but it had a deep
 
 152 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 hold of him, nevertheless, as the little poem 
 entitled "Let me rest: — " 
 
 " "Where the wayside daisies grow, 
 Where the winds a- Maying go," 
 
 will sufficiently testify. Neither did he look 
 on death as trifling and unimportant, but as 
 a serious event, upon which were suspended 
 the awful reprisals of a future judgment and 
 an eternal doom. He confessed, however, 
 that he knew nothing of this great Hereafter, 
 whose starry curtain all mortals are forbidden 
 to undraw. But he clung with an infinite 
 faith to the idea of immortality, and knew 
 that he must soon unriddle the problem 
 which it presents to us. 
 
 As we returned to the front of the house, 
 he pointed to the wooded hills in the east, 
 where Hickleton Hall, the seat of Sir Charles 
 Wood (present Chancellor of the Exchequer) 
 was situated ; with Conisbro' Castle in the 
 distance, all of them visible in clear weather. 
 We then crossed the garden, and went to the 
 back of the house, where we had a fine view 
 of Houghton Common — with its gorse and 
 bracken — whilst lines of dark trees fenced it 
 on the right, and thick towering woods on 
 the left. Descending the hill side, which
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 153 
 
 was well planted with trees, we again entered 
 the dell ; and the poet led me to a fish pond 
 which he had laid down himself, and stocked 
 with trout from the neighbouring streams. 
 It was a cool and beautiful spot, like some 
 quiet nook in the mythic vale of Tempe. 
 The birds sang there all day ; and the pond 
 itself was supplied by water which gushed 
 in living streams out of the hill side. Elliott 
 promised himself many happy hours in fish- 
 ing and musing upon its banks. He had 
 been a fisher in early life, and the statement 
 of this fact, led naturally to Izaak Walton 
 and his beautiful book on Angling, which 
 contains, perhaps, the very best pastoral 
 description in our language. I found that 
 Elliott knew Walton by heart, and loved the 
 fine old commonswealth-man, too, notwith- 
 standing his loyalty to the king. All books, 
 indeed, which were true reflexes of nature, 
 were his delight. Hence the Howitts were 
 his especial favourites, two of Nature's most 
 beautiful children, whose lives were all sun- 
 shine and poetry. He spoke of their mutual 
 wanderings, and visits to remarkable places, 
 as a rare and pleasant feature in the married 
 life of literary people; and so inseparable 
 were they, he said, in his mind, that he
 
 154 LIFE, CHAKACTEK, AND GENIUS 
 
 always associated with their names the old 
 William and Mary shillings.* 
 
 When we returned to the house, we found 
 Mrs. Elliott and her daughter waiting for us 
 at the tea table. The little yellow canary 
 was still singing, perched outside its cage; 
 and the distant lowland landscape was be- 
 ginning to darken in the blue twilight of 
 evening, as we gazed upon it through the 
 open casement. The room in which we were 
 assembled was large and convenient, having 
 the true household look about it, with none 
 of the modern finery which marks the sitting 
 rooms of the wealthy. There was the poet's 
 library against the wall opposite the window, 
 
 * It is but right to add here, that Elliott's opinion of 
 the Howitts underwent considerable modification, after 
 the unhappy dispute between "William Howitt, himself, 
 and John Sanders, in the matter of the " People's 
 Journal;" and he frequently expressed himself in no 
 measured terms against what he called the " unfair 
 statements " made by "W. H. respecting the easy manner 
 in which he (Elliott) had made his fortune. (See the 
 " Visit to Elliott " hi Howitt's " Homes and Haunts 
 of the British Poets.") All that I can say here, from a 
 personal knowledge of W. Howitt, is, that he is utterly 
 incapable of falsehood or wilful misrepresentation, and 
 must have misunderstood Elliott in the particular matter 
 alluded to.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 155 
 
 which, with his easy chair, and the wooden 
 box wherein he kept his MSS., are now the 
 most interesting of these household relics. 
 The piano he did not look upon as a luxury, 
 but as a necessary article, which ought to 
 appertain to every home, even the poorest, 
 and a deal box, instead of a mahogany case, 
 to put the instrument in, would bring it, he 
 said, within reach of the humblest means. 
 Music was a great source of consolation to 
 him, and often charmed him into forgetful- 
 ness of his bodily pain. For music has a 
 language of her own, and speaks to us of 
 things which, as Jean Paul says, " in all our 
 endless life we have not found, and shall not 
 find." The best parlour was opposite to 
 the one we were sitting in, and contained 
 portraits of the poet, his wife, and children. 
 That of Elliott himself is the best I have yet 
 seen, although it is far from being a true 
 representation of the man. It is singular, 
 that all the attempts made by various art- 
 ists to paint him upon canvass, have been 
 unsuccessful. "William Howitt compliments 
 Margaret Gillies upon the sketch she made 
 of him, which appeared in the " People's 
 Journal" during its palmy days, but it is a 
 most comical failure, and reminds me of the
 
 156 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 following criticism which the poet passed 
 upon four portraits of him in oil, which 
 appeared in the first exhibition on behalf of 
 the Sheffield Mechanics' Institute. "Taking 
 them altogether, I could imagine them to 
 represent four important scenes in the life of 
 a Tailor : first, the tailor turned . gentleman ; 
 second, the tailor going a picturesqueing ; 
 third, the tailor seeking cabbage ; fourth, 
 the tailor selecting his own grave." As I 
 said, however, the portrait possessed by his 
 family is the best I have seen. 
 
 After tea we fell gradually into an earnest 
 conversation upon the literature of the day. 
 I have already spoken of his admiration of 
 Byron, Keats, and other poets ; and in allud- 
 ing to the Life of Keats, by R. Monckton 
 Mimes* — which he thought a fine piece of 
 biography on the whole, although rather too 
 hasty in its finish — he said the death of 
 Keats, as described by his friend Severne, 
 was the most painful and deeply- affecting 
 scene upon record. And, indeed, the world 
 is deeply indebted to this true and beautiful 
 brother, who, with the love of St. John in 
 
 * Elliott thought very highly of E. M. Milnes, but 
 said he was a lazy poet, aud too rich to do justice to his 
 faculties.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 157 
 
 his great and devoted heart, watched the 
 poor dying poet — day after day — week after 
 week, and never left him until the stern 
 work of death was over. " Had Keats 
 lived," said Elliott, " there is nothing which 
 he might not have achieved in the way of 
 poetry." It was remarked that the poem 
 called " St. Agnes Eve," had no rival in our 
 language as a picture of media3\ r al life ; that 
 its feudal and religious architecture was per- 
 fect, and that all the characters were as truly 
 and faithfully drawn as those in the Romeo 
 and Juliet of Shakspere, of which, indeed, it 
 was a kind of episode. " But the Hyperion, 
 sir," said Elliott, " what do you think of 
 that ? " That it is a beautiful ruin, created 
 and deserted by the gods. "Aye," he an- 
 swered, " and what a ruin ! " He then read 
 the following lines upon Keats, which are 
 published in the first volume of his " More 
 Prose and Verse, etc." 
 
 " He lived, and loved ! He was a power 
 
 That left its thought more felt than spoken : 
 
 ' A fading flower, a falling shower, 
 
 A breaking wave '• — which now is broken. 
 
 Can greatness die and be unborn ? 
 It cannot thou in scorn repliest ;
 
 158 LIFE, CIIAEACTEK, AND GENIUS 
 
 He perished in his scorn of scorn, 
 
 And lowest deemed, of all was highest. 
 
 A vapour quenched his visions grand ; 
 
 Ah ! hope destroyed is worth's undoing ! 
 He left the deathless deed he planned, 
 
 A deed undone ! — And what a Euin ! " 
 
 We then spoke of Scott and Tennyson, of 
 Leigh Hunt, Charles Lamb, Philip Bailey, 
 and Charles Reece Pemberton. Scott was his 
 greatest favourite, and he quoted long pas- 
 sages from " Marmion " and the " Lady of 
 the Lake." " I envy Scott his narrative 
 power in poetry," he said, " more than any 
 other faculty he possesses. Nothing is more 
 difficult than to tell a tale well in rhyme; 
 and Scott has succeeded better than any one 
 else. I have begun," he continued, " a nar- 
 rative epic in twelve books, four of which are 
 finished ; and each book is complete in itself. 
 I will read it to you before you go, and you 
 will then see, in my own failure, why I envy 
 Scott." * I afterwards heard the poem in 
 
 * Elliott was fond of depreciating his own powers, and 
 I believe there was a good deal of egotism in the practice. 
 He knew very well what he could do, and what his poetry 
 was worth. He was, when he chose to be so, an excellent 
 and judicious critic, both of his o'vn performances and 
 those of others.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 150 
 
 question, which is printed in his new vol- 
 umes ; and I cannot understand why it has 
 dropped silently from the press ; for it is a 
 poem of great power and beauty, and con- 
 tains passages superior to anything which 
 Elliott had previously written. There is a 
 little incongruity and indistinctness perhaps 
 in some of the characters, but this is amply 
 atoned for by the general skill of the narra- 
 tive, and the harmony of its plan and details. 
 There are one or two blots in it, however, 
 of which he was duly warned by friendly 
 critics ; and these consist in that love of the 
 horrible, which, he says in his autobiography, 
 haunted him so in his young days. I allude 
 more particularly to the picture of the 
 drowned woman who fell a victim to Lord 
 Konig's lust — which occurs in the sixteenth 
 section of the second book of this poem* — and 
 which, in spite of the moral and poetical 
 drapery thrown over it by the poet, is a 
 loathsome and not a " beauteous horror.'" 
 This was pointed out to him when he read 
 it, and it was endeavoured to be shown that 
 things horrible and repulsive in themselves 
 were not fit subjects for poetry, and could 
 
 * " Etheline," an epic in four books, each book complete 
 in itself; printed in " More Prose and Verse, etc."
 
 160 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 not be elevated, even by tlie highest genius, 
 into the region of human sympathy. He 
 acknowledged the justice of this criticism, 
 and promised to alter the passage, and I 
 have no doubt would have done so, if death 
 had not summoned him away so soon after 
 this conversation. 
 
 Elliott loved Tennyson for his pathos, and 
 the courtly finish of his marvellous verse. 
 He has caught a few echoes of the Marianne 
 in a soliloquy which occurs in the opening 
 of " Etheline ;" but Tennyson was too dreamy 
 a poet to make much impression on the Corn 
 Law- Rhymer, although he spoke of him with 
 affection and reverence. Bailey's " Eestus ' : 
 had a stronger hold of him; but he knew 
 very well how to discriminate between a 
 panorama of pictures and a poetic work of 
 art. His admiration of " Pestus " was, 
 therefore, limited to its glorious passages 
 and wild flights of imagination, and to the 
 lyrics scattered through its pages. He se- 
 verely condemned the theological soliloquies 
 which darken the last edition of this poem, 
 and so painfully burden its action. "The 
 book," he said, " wanted cutting down before 
 in the first edition, and now it sprawls its 
 unwieldy length to such an appalling extent,
 
 OF EBENEZEK ELLIOTT. 161 
 
 that its many and manifest beauties will 
 hardly save it from perishing." 
 
 He spoke with great enthusiasm of Carlyle, 
 and had a copy of "The French Revolution, 
 a History," in his library. He was a long 
 while before he knew what to make of that 
 book ; but when he had grown familiar with 
 its strange terminology, and could steer his 
 way amid the endless pageants that swept 
 in glaring colours past him upon that wild 
 revolutionary ocean of blood and fire, he 
 found it the most vivid and splendid of 
 histories. He called it poetry in prose, and 
 named Carlyle the Homer of his age. And 
 then as he warmed in his eulogies, he rose 
 from his seat, and advancing to the bookcase 
 took down the first volume — the Bastille — ■ 
 and said, " Now, sir, I will give you a scene 
 from this book that would wring tears from 
 marble." He then read, with a voice full of 
 pathos, the following letter, signed Queret 
 Demery, which was found in one of the cells 
 of the Bastille, after its demolition by the 
 populace : — 
 
 " If, for my consolation, Monseigneur 
 would grant me, for the sake of God, and 
 the most Blessed Trinity, that I could have 
 news of my dear wife, were it only her name 
 
 p 2
 
 162 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 on a card, to show that she is alive ! it 
 were the greatest consolation I could receive, 
 and I should for ever bless the greatness of 
 Monseigneur." 
 
 " There, sir," he said, wiping away the 
 tears which streamed down his furrowed 
 cheeks, " that is the most painful and 
 agonizing passage in the language. You see 
 it has made a woman of me; and I should 
 be a brute if I could not weep over such 
 great, sad sufferings, such calm resignation 
 in the midst of I know not how many years 
 of despair, which only breaks silence at last 
 in a touching, heart-breaking appeal to this 
 
 d d Monseigneur, that it would please 
 
 him to send the poor captive tidings of his 
 dear wife, were it onlv ' her name on a card.' 
 O God," he continued, " how dreadfully the 
 wail of that poor, unknown, broken heart 
 sounds in the ears of men for ever. Bless 
 the greatness of Monseigneur ! " he added, 
 walking fiercely up and down the room, 
 " yes ! and pray, too, that hell might be hot 
 enough for him ! God forgive these scoun- 
 drels, sir, it is not in me !" 
 
 Later in the evening he asked me if I had 
 seen Emerson during his visit to this country, 
 and when I replied that I had the honour to
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 1G3 
 
 entertain him during the greater part of his 
 stay in Huddersfield, he requested me to 
 describe the man, and his hearing in social 
 life. My great reverence for Emerson made 
 me draw, perhaps, too partial a picture of 
 him ; for the poet remarked, that such a high 
 and impassable nature, with such simple and 
 winning manners, rarely met together in so 
 illustrious a person, and that he approached 
 the ideal he had formed of the great Plato, 
 lie had not read Emerson, however, and was 
 only acquainted with him through extracts 
 from his printed works, which he had seen 
 in the periodicals of the day, and through 
 the public reports of his lectures. If he had 
 known more of him, he would have liked 
 him less ; for the so called Transcendental 
 Philosophy was to him a stumbling-block. 
 He was too strongly tied with his natal-cord 
 to the objective world to appreciate the 
 speculations and inner revealings of the 
 Massachusetts Philosopher ; although his 
 mind was broad enough in its aesthetic and 
 intellectual relations, and could grasp all the 
 beauty of the universe, and resolve — in some 
 fashion at least — not a few of the moral pro- 
 blems which affect the destiny of the race. 
 But beauty was not symbolical to him ; or at
 
 164 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 least, not in the same sense as it was to 
 Shakspere, Plotinus, or Swedenborg. It 
 was God's silent gospel, revealing God as tlie 
 Beautiful ; and beauty was his divinest Idea. 
 He did not see that beauty was fleeting and 
 evanescent, the mere garment of the Invisible, 
 behind which HE sat enthroned, whose are 
 all the worlds. And because he could not 
 pierce through the painted robes of thePhe- 
 nominal, he never read the Divine Secrets, 
 and could form, therefore, no conception of 
 the " Ubi," or " Whereness," of Emerson. 
 Still there was enough of the practical and 
 homely in this author to recommend itself 
 to the poet; and as the newspapers, which 
 always cater for the mass, instinctively assi- 
 milated such passages, as they were thrown 
 off by the reviewers, Elliott's estimate of 
 Emerson was formed almost exclusively upon 
 them. He much regretted that neither 
 Carlyle nor Emerson had visited him, espe- 
 cially since they had both been in his 
 neighbourhood. He was informed that Car- 
 lyle had once set off with Monckton Milnes 
 to visit him, but was detained on the way 
 by some occurrence which had slipped the 
 memory of the speaker ; and moreover, that 
 Carlyle had asked many questions about him
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 165 
 
 upon one or two occasions which were spe- 
 cified ; and Elliott in his turn now asked for 
 particulars respecting Carlyle. The conver- 
 sation terminated by the poet expressing his 
 deep regret that the opportunity alluded to 
 was gone by for ever. For now, he said, we 
 shall never meet, unless in heaven. 
 
 I have previously given the general cha- 
 racteristics of Elliott's conversational speech, 
 but I find it impossible to do him justice in 
 this respect. The poor fragments which I 
 have rendered in these pages will give no 
 idea of him, except to those who knew him 
 personally (for they can vivify these broken 
 sentences, by putting the fire of the mam 
 into them) ; to all others they must be com- 
 paratively lifeless. And this seems to be the 
 fittest place to describe Elliott's personal 
 appearance, not as he was when a young 
 man, but at the time I am now speaking of. 
 Most of his readers imagine him to have 
 been a man of large proportions, a true son 
 of the forge — broad-set, strong, and muscular 
 as a Cyclop. But he was the reverse of all 
 this. In stature he was not more than five 
 feet six inches, of a slender make, and a 
 bilious-nervous temperament. His hair was 
 quite grey ; and his eyes, which were of
 
 1G6 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 a greyish blue, were surmounted by thick 
 bushy brows, which looked like the thunder 
 clouds of Jove. His forehead was not broad, 
 but rather narrow ; and his head was small. 
 There was great pugnacity in the mouth, 
 especially when he was excited, but in repose 
 it seemed to smile, more in consciousness of 
 strength, however, than in sunny unconscious 
 beauty. His nostrils were full of scorn; and 
 his eyes — which were the true indices of his 
 soul — literally smote you with fire, or beamed 
 with kindness and affection, according to the 
 mood he was in. In earnest debate, his 
 whole face was lighted up, and became terri- 
 ble and tragic. At such times he paced up 
 and down the room with a firm foot, full of 
 trampling scorn, and his words were whirl- 
 winds. In gayer moments he would attempt 
 comedy, and I have heard him recite passages 
 from Molliere — who was a great favourite 
 with him — until I scarcely knew whether to 
 laugh or weep. For he had no comic faculty, 
 and all his attempts that way were mere 
 travestied tragedy. His voice was as musical 
 as a lute, and capable of the deepest pathos. 
 He was very fond of that fine old song by 
 Burns, "Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon," 
 and during the evening I am now speaking
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 1G7 
 
 of, he recited and sang it with great effect, 
 notwithstanding his weakness. Fancy the 
 grey old man, standing, during this perform- 
 ance, behind his easy chair, dressed in a hlue 
 frock-coat, a blue waistcoat, which came down 
 to the hips, and a pair of blue trousers, for 
 this was his ordinary attire, and he walked 
 about his garden with a blue cap on. These 
 facts are, to me at least, very interesting; 
 and I think they are not without general 
 interest. 
 
 He had a great love for the Latin and 
 Greek classics, which he read through Eng- 
 lish translations. Homer, Hesiod, Sophocles, 
 and Tacitus, were his chief favourites. He 
 was well acquainted with " iEschylus," was 
 keenly alive to its beauties, and was fond of 
 comparing the different translations of this 
 tragedy ; never failing to adopt the best 
 renderings of particular lines. In a book 
 called a "Monopoly graph," by Samuel Gower, 
 a scholar and poet of Holmfirth, near Hud- 
 dersfield, he found the following beautiful 
 translation of one of the most difficult lines 
 in this tragedy, which he was never weary 
 of repeating. I will quote the passage ; 
 and it is the last line to which I now 
 allude : — ;
 
 1G8 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 PROMETHEUS (solus.) 
 
 " Oh, thou divine and boundless atmosphere ! 
 And you, ye swift-winged winds of heaven ; and thou 
 Oh countless laughter of the salt-sea waves! " 
 
 There can be no question that this is a great 
 improvement npon the old translations — and 
 that it is rendered in the true spirit of the 
 original. 
 
 I said that Elliott's prejudices were very 
 strong, and will now relate an anecdote to 
 illustrate this fact, although, indeed, such 
 illustration is scarcely necessary. We had 
 been speaking about mesmerism : and Mrs. 
 Elliott, who had seen many experiments 
 performed by Dr. Holland* of Sheffield, con- 
 fessed her entire belief in this mysterious 
 and occult science. The poet, however, was 
 loud in his denunciations of it, and insisted 
 that it was mere collusion and quackery. 
 As this was a charge brought against many 
 men whom I knew to have practised mes- 
 merism, and whose characters were unim- 
 peachable, I ventured to remonstrate with 
 him, intimating at the same time that I had 
 
 * O. C. Holland, Esq., M.D., of Sheffield, was an old 
 and intimate friend of Elliott's — a poet, a scholar, and a 
 man of considerable eminence in his profession.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 109 
 
 proved the truth of mesmerism myself, in 
 various cases, and at various times. " If 
 that be the case," said Elliott, " you can 
 mesmerize me. Come, sir, try your power ; 
 and if you succeed I will believe in this 
 infernal art." I was unwilling, however, 
 to make the attempt, because I do not like 
 playing at such a serious game ; but I told 
 him I had no doubt I should succeed, in case 
 I tried. He called this a subterfuge, and 
 laughed at me with the merriest mockery ; 
 literally crowing with exultation, and repeat - 
 ing his challenge, as he paced up and down 
 the room. At the request of his daughter 
 and Mrs. Elliott, who were very anxious that 
 he should be convinced, I at last accepted the 
 challenge. Accordingly, the poet sat down 
 in his chair, and the moment my hand came 
 in contact with his head, he shrunk as if 
 struck by a Voltaic Pile, uttered a deep sigh, 
 fell back upon his chair, and all conscious- 
 ness fled from him. I shall never forget my 
 sensations at that moment, as I contemplated 
 the pale and lifeless form of the poet — thus 
 suddenly silenced — all the fire of his spirit 
 quenched, and put out as if by the hand of 
 Death. His daughter, however, became 
 alarmed, and to relieve her I began to 
 
 Q
 
 170 LIFE, CHABACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 clemesmerize him. He gradually roused 
 himself, and when consciousness returned, 
 he rubbed his eyes, started from his chair, 
 and exclaimed, "What, have I been asleep ?" 
 " Yes," was the triumphant reply of his 
 daughter ; and Mrs. Elliott clapped her 
 hands in chorus. The poet, however, was 
 still dubious ; and would have it that he 
 had fallen asleep from exhaustion. 
 
 In religious matters it is difficult to say 
 what he believed, and what he disbelieved. 
 Like the great mass of literary men, he had 
 no creed, properly so called, and no faith in 
 sects or parties. Still he loved Christianity 
 for the human beauty which pervades it, and 
 the divine revelations which it unfolds to 
 man. In one of his letters to a friend, 
 already quoted, he says, " I am a Christian 
 from conviction, and because I cannot help 
 it." The same friend to whom this letter 
 was written confesses himself much indebted 
 to Elliott for removing his religious doubts, 
 although the method adopted by the poet 
 was strange, and quite alien to orthodox 
 teaching. " Eor instance," says the party 
 alluded to, " on my expressing a conjecture, 
 or a hope, or a belief, of which he saw the 
 absurdity, he would, by a single striking
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 171 
 
 sentence, send a flash of conviction to my 
 mind, which suddenly demolished my airy 
 castles. He well knew that wholesale doubt 
 led to enquiry, and enquiry to consistent and 
 lasting faith. He seldom meddled with theo- 
 logical views, and thought religion more a 
 passion than a belief. The character, real 
 works and doctrine of Christ, he maintained 
 were only to be accounted for on the grounds 
 of God's presence and power in Christ. 
 Lastly, he had a strong faith in the immor- 
 tality of the soul." Such is the account 
 furnished me by this Sheffield friend; but 
 it must be remembered that this is a remi- 
 niscence of years long since passed away; 
 and I have no means of knowing what were 
 Elliott's latest convictions on these import- 
 ant subjects. I will quote, however, a 
 passage from one of his letters to me, dated 
 September 11th, 1848, in which, speaking 
 upon the availableness of prayer, he says : 
 " Long, long ago, perhaps fifteen years, 
 when food -taxing and much - mortgaged 
 Chandos — who grieved to see anything eat- 
 able escape his maw — had been accusing his 
 victims of luxurious living, and want of 
 forethought, I prayed aloud, in the presence 
 of eight or ten thousand Sheffielders, in
 
 172 LIFE, CHATCACTEE, AND GENIUS 
 
 Paradise Square assembled, ' that be might 
 live to know what it is to be poor.' Though 
 a murmured, yet sublime, 'Amen ! ' respond- 
 ed to me, persons present, and afterwards 
 persons not present, called me ' monster? 
 with the saving clause, ' if not madman.'' 
 But God heard my prayer. I then ought 
 not to say that supplications addressed im- 
 mediately to Him are useless. The following*, 
 however, is my creed : The only true, because 
 the only useful prayer, is that which human 
 beings (after vainly doing their best for 
 themselves) address to their fellow-creatures 
 for assistance. And it justifies begging ! 
 Unless desperate people are to be forced to 
 that awful and sole remaining alternative, 
 which they have just the same right to use 
 that a drowning man has to catch at a 
 straw." 
 
 The best summary, however, of his reli- 
 gious convictions is contained in the following 
 poem : — 
 
 EELIGIOK 
 
 " ~Wn at is religion ? speak the truth in love, 
 Reject no good : mend, if thou canst, tby lot. 
 Doubting, enquire,— nor dictate till thou prove. 
 Enjoy thy own — exceed not, trespass not.
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 173 
 
 Pity the scorners of life's meanest thing. 
 
 If wronged, forgive — that hate may lose his sting. 
 
 Think, speak, work, get ; bestow, or wisely keep. 
 
 So live, that thou may'st smile and no one weep. 
 
 Be blessed — like birds that sing because they love. 
 
 And bless — like rivers singing to the sun, 
 
 Giving and taking blessings, as they run ; 
 
 Or soft voiced showers, that cool the answering grove 
 
 When cloudy wings are seen in heaven displayed, 
 
 And blessings brighten o'er the freshened sod 
 
 Till earth is like the countenance of God. 
 
 This is Kelijnon ! saith the Bard of Trade." 
 
 ■a 
 
 Ill the year 1818, I proposed to deliver a 
 lecture upon his writings, and he furnished 
 me with the following particulars, which, 
 added to the sketch I have already drawn 
 of his person and manners, will complete 
 the picture. 
 
 " You may say," he begins, " that there 
 is nothing remarkable in Elliott's personal 
 appearance, except, perhaps, his gentle man- 
 ners. He has neither a shoulder like a leg 
 of mutton, nor a hinder-end broader than a 
 blacksmith's bellows. He is five feet seven 
 inches high, and slimly rather than strongly 
 made. His eyes are dim and pale; mostly 
 kind in their expression, but sometimes wild. 
 His features are harsh, but expressive, and 
 not unpleasing. On the whole, he is just 
 
 Q 2
 
 174 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 the man who, if unknown, would pass unno- 
 ticed anywhere." 
 
 This letter was written October 5th, 1848. 
 and on the 7th of the same month, I received 
 the following : — 
 
 " What you have to say of me will not be 
 complete without this addition, which you 
 can use, or not : He is a politician and a 
 poet. With his politics, you know, I have 
 here nothing to do. Poets, you also know, 
 are usually people who, having expressed in 
 verse, thoughts not fit or not good enough 
 for prose, get pensioned or die in the work- 
 house. It is a real distinction to the Corn 
 Law Rhymer, that in his grey hairs, and in 
 the land of palaces and workhouses, he is 
 not yet either a pauper or a pensioner. 
 Tired, and comparatively poor, but self-sus- 
 tained, like one who, after hard labour, 
 reaches his home and rests, he sits on his 
 own hill top." 
 
 The first notice of serious illness we find 
 in his letters is dated May, 1838. " I have 
 been lately troubled," says he, writing to 
 Mr. Tait, " with a disease which the doctors 
 tell me is not dangerous, although it may 
 become so, unless I remove some of the 
 causes of it. It is a spasmodic affection of
 
 OF EBENEZEK ELLIOTT. 175 
 
 the nerves, caused or exasperated by over- 
 excitement of any kind, and particularly 
 public speaking. Even lecturing, I am 
 told, is injurious. I must, then, lecture 
 no more." * 
 
 " 21st December, 1839. — I am warned 
 that I cannot speak at public meetings 
 without great danger of sudden death. 
 You are not aware, perhaps, that I have 
 been for two years or more liable, after 
 excitement of any kind, to dreadful breath- 
 lcssness — a sensation of being hanged with- 
 out a rope — resulting, I suppose, from a 
 change at head-quarters. I have been 
 better, however, since the great Chartist 
 meeting here. When the hustings fell, 
 something gave way in my left side, or 
 rather towards it, as if two fingers had 
 been thrust down it inside." 
 
 * When Mr. Elliott became well known, lie lectured 
 occasionally on poetry and other subjects. The following 
 is his frank estimate of his own powers as a lecturer : — 
 " Tou ask if I am eloquent ? Yes, when I have got the 
 steam up. But I cannot manage details well, and 
 consequently am not fit to lecture on the corn laws. I 
 have more thoughts than words ; but I can condense 
 long arguments into short phrases, and give, like a blow 
 from a whip of fire, the result of thinking without the 
 cold process."
 
 170 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Barnsley. — If you 
 print this article, I will accept nothing for it. 
 It is quite unworthy of the subject, and yet 
 I have done my best. My mind is gone." 
 
 This continued to torment him at intervals 
 for six years, when a more serious complaint 
 took its place. 
 
 " Argilt Hill, near Barnsley, 9th May, 
 1849. — Four years ago I had got rid of the 
 breathlessness which often frightened me 
 at Sheffield, and I thought I never was 
 stronger; but I have since been two and a 
 half years ill of a bowel complaint, suffering 
 intense pain by day and night, except when 
 dozed with laudanum. About a month ago 
 the disease was discovered to be that of 
 which Talma died — stricture of the great 
 gut, threatening enclosure. For some days 
 I have been rather better ; and if I recover, 
 I shall certainly bestow my tediousness upon 
 you in an Highland tour." 
 
 " 19th September. — I have been for some 
 months very, very ill." 
 
 Here these letters stop suddenly ; and in 
 little more than two months — that is, on the 
 1st of December, 1849, the struggles of their 
 writer, first with ignorance, then with for- 
 tune, then with bread-tax, then with disease,
 
 OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 177 
 
 touched and elevated throughout by gleams 
 of poetry, and of pure, gentle, and beautiful 
 feeling, terminated in death.* 
 
 In conclusion, I will quote what the poet's 
 son writes me respecting his father's last ill- 
 ness : " He was troubled with acute internal 
 pain of a fixed character. It was cancer of 
 the rectum. By means of the strongest 
 stimulants and opiates, his life was prolonged 
 until the close of 18-19. Then his sufferings 
 rapidly increased. The last month of his life 
 Avas one of great torture, and equal fortitude ; 
 and he died in the presence of his family 
 early on the morning of the first of Decem- 
 ber, and was buried, in great privacy, as he 
 wished to be, in the churchyard of the beau- 
 tiful little village of Darfield. The tower of 
 the church can be seen from the windows of 
 his house, and forms a distinguishing feature 
 in a landscape that was dear to his eyes. 
 
 " What can I say more ? Shall I tell you 
 how beautifully, how poetically he watched 
 the approach of death ? ' Francis,' he often 
 said to me, ' I am to die ; and if I am to live 
 in pain, I do not ask to live. I could have 
 
 * The above passage, including the extracts from 
 Elliott's letters, is quoted from a tract ou the poet, 
 published by the Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh.
 
 178 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 wished to finish Eth-Kon-Tel (this was the 
 name he had intended to give to a narrative 
 poem, consisting of three narrative poems, 
 each a part of the same story, and yet a 
 complete story in itself, 'Etheline' heing the 
 first of them) ; I die with my work undone 
 — with my faculties undeveloped. I cannot 
 help mourning over Eth-Kon-Tel.' He 
 hastened the contemplated marriage of his 
 daughter Eanny — his beloved daughter — 
 whose name was her mother's, and desired 
 to be buried in the church where she was 
 married. On the wedding day he was sup- 
 ported from the bed to the window, to see 
 the return of the party from church. The 
 fatigue was almost more than he was capable 
 of bearing. ' My child,' he said to Eanny, 
 * I feel so weak that an infant could fell me 
 with a primrose.' He heard a robin singing 
 one morning in the garden beneath his 
 chamber window, and composed the lines I 
 send you below, dictating them to me as 
 lie lay upon his pillow. They are his last 
 notes : — 
 
 " ' Thy notes, sweet Robin, soft as dew, 
 Heard soon or late, are dear to me ; 
 To music I could bid adieu, 
 
 But not to thee.
 
 OF EBENEZEE ELLIOTT. 179 
 
 When from my eyes this lifeful throng 
 Has passed away, no more to be ; 
 Then Autumn's primrose, Kobin's song, 
 Return to me.' " 
 
 And thus in strains of gentle music did 
 the spirit of our brave poet pass away for 
 ever from the earth. Those who knew him 
 best, loved him most ; and will feel for some 
 time yet to come as if, in his death, " some 
 great wrong " had been done to them. Time, 
 however, will bring with it its own wisdom, 
 and convert this private and apparent wrong 
 into universal justice, which all shall see and 
 acknowledge. In the meanwhile, let us be 
 thankful for the rich legacy which the poet 
 has left us in his songs, and for the example 
 which he has set us of a life lived for a 
 purpose.
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS 
 
 OF 
 
 EJ3ENEZER ELLIOTT.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Lister, the Barnslcy Poet, 
 has sent me the letter and extracts which I 
 print below ; and I am glad of an opportun- 
 ity so favourable as the present to say a word 
 or two respecting this excellent man, whom 
 Elliott delighted to call his friend, and for 
 whom I also have great respect and esteem. 
 Mr. Lister was on terms of intimacy with 
 the Corn Law Rhymer for upwards of 
 fifteen years. During the last eight or 
 nine years Mr. Lister was a frequent guest 
 at Elliott's house ; for Barnsley and Hargate 
 Hill are not more than seven or eight miles 
 apart. It was my good fortune to visit 
 Elliott — when I was first introduced to 
 him — with Mr. Lister, and I recollect with
 
 184 APPENDIX. 
 
 pleasure the beautiful drive we had through 
 that richly-wooded country, and the many 
 objects of interest which Lister pointed out 
 to me on the way. When we arrived at 
 Hargate Hill I was surprised to find Elliott 
 a man of short stature, instead of the bulky 
 Titan I had pictured him in imagination. 
 The sound of our gig wheels in the court- 
 yard brought him to the door. He was 
 dressed in a complete suit of blue, and wore 
 a blue cap, as I have described him in the 
 third part of this memoir. He welcomed us 
 with real hospitality, and as his serving-man 
 was away from the house, lie fell to, with 
 great dexterity, and began to unbuckle our 
 harness himself. His wife and daughter 
 received us in the hall, and ushered us into 
 the sitting-room, where we spent a happy 
 and memorable evening. I had been invited 
 to spend a few days with the poet, and after 
 Mr. Lister was gone, Elliott and I made a 
 night of it. 
 
 And now let me give a short sketch of 
 Lister's life, in the words of a friendlv and 
 competent critic : — 
 
 " Our rustic Bard was lured by the charms 
 of Nature, which luxuriate in his native 
 valley, and by the trains of contemplation
 
 APPENDIX. 185 
 
 to which existing events prompted him, to 
 indulge in the sweet seducemcnts of Poesy, 
 before he had acquired almost any acquaint- 
 ance with the proudest and least perishable 
 of her songs. Possessing but a slight know- 
 ledge of the rules of composition, and still 
 less of the laws which regulate the standard 
 of taste — he has composed, chiefly whilst 
 pursuing his daily toils in the open air, many 
 productions which have found favour amongst 
 those who know him, and have excited a 
 warm interest throughout the country. 
 
 " Some time after his ' warblmgs wild' had 
 attracted the notice of his townsmen, and 
 particularly of James Porter, Esq., of Park 
 House, his warmest advocate and weightiest 
 supporter, a vacancy occurred in the office of 
 post-master, at Barnsley, his native town. 
 The appointment of a successor rested with 
 Lord Morpeth. His lordship, remembering 
 the Yorkshire bard who had been introduced 
 to him during the election for Yorkshire, 
 generously nominated him to the office, and 
 was seconded in his choice by the principal 
 inhabitants of the town. But an insuperable 
 obstacle prevented the fulfilment of his wishes 
 — an oath was then, by law, required, previ- 
 ous to an instalment in a government office. 
 
 r 2
 
 18G APPENDIX. 
 
 Though the contrast between the manage- 
 ment of a horse and cart (which was then 
 Lister's occupation) and that of a profitable 
 situation, was greatly in favour of the latter, 
 yet Lister could only fill this post by sacri- 
 ficing his principle. He had been trained up 
 under the eye of honest and revered parents 
 in the principles of the Society of Friends, 
 and hence his objection to taking an oath." 
 
 I may add, that a very interesting corre- 
 spondence took place between the young poet 
 and Lord Morpeth upon this subject of the 
 oath, which ended in mutual regrets on the 
 part of the writers ; for as Lister could not 
 violate his conscience by taking the required 
 oath, neither could the noble and generous 
 lord suspend the existing law in the objector's 
 favour. Lister, therefore, lost the situation 
 and kept his conscience, like a brave and 
 truthful man. 
 
 A subsequent alteration in the law enabled 
 him, however, when the office became again 
 vacant, to accept the appointment, which he 
 still retains. The "warblings wild" alluded 
 to in the previous extracts, were published 
 in a volume called " The Puistic Wreath," 
 and had a sale of upwards of 3,000 copies. 
 Some of the poems are beautiful; and they
 
 APPENDIX. 187 
 
 are all far above mediocrity. In character 
 they are simple and descriptive, sometimes 
 pathetic and humorous. The " Yorkshire 
 Hirings " is full of fun, and hits off the 
 provincial dialect in admirable style. Since 
 his duties commenced as post-master, Mr. L. 
 has written no more poems. He has devoted 
 himself, however, to science and scientific 
 pursuits, and is a good botanist, ornithologist, 
 and geologist. If he would write a descrip- 
 tion of his own neighbourhood, after the 
 manner of " White's Natural History of Sel- 
 bourne," (for which he is well qualified,) he 
 would produce a book that would add consi- 
 derably to his reputation, and give pleasure 
 and instruction to all. 
 
 THOMAS LISTER TO JANUARY SEARLE. 
 
 " Post Office, Barnsley, i/h mo. 21st, 1850. 
 
 "Dear Friend, 
 
 " I was at Leeds yesterday, and was 
 reminded (from certain matters which then transpired) 
 of thy request to furnish a few particulars of the literary 
 life of our lamented friend, Ehenczer Elliott. Although,
 
 188 APPENDIX. 
 
 at the time, I had no intention of undertaking this duty, 
 to any extent, partly from a cause which operates in hoth 
 of us, though diversely — that is, a dread of taking up the 
 pen for lengthy communications — and partly, hecause 
 the experiences I had known of Elliott's literary life 
 were too much connected with myself to be generally 
 interesting, or even desuable to be made public ; yet, 
 notwithstanding these objections, I had previously formed 
 a resolve to collect, from my manifold reminiscences of 
 the last fifteen years, a few choice souvenirs of my wan- 
 derings, conversations, and correspondence with Elliott. 
 That task has proceeded no farther than the opening 
 step ; and I cannot answer for my morbid indolence — 
 so far as writing is concerned — when I shall be able to 
 bring it to a conclusion. I have seen nothing yet to 
 satisfy me, either in delineations of the Life and character, 
 or criticisms on the writings, recently ushered into the 
 world, of this extraordinary man ; nor is it in my power 
 to supply the desideratum. His 'More Prose and Verse ' 
 was reviewed by The Examiner ; many of the poetic 
 excellencies contained therein were ably pointed out ; 
 but I differ greatly with them in their under estimate 
 of his capability for prose composition ; witness the 
 beauty and strength combined in his Lectures on the 
 English Poets, three of which now appear in the second 
 volume, just issued. This volume, The Spectator of 
 yesterday reviews. I think the editor's discriminating 
 notice of the merits and demerits of the poetry therein 
 is just — even the severer portions thereof, which condemn 
 the unreflecting manner in which everything, good, bad, 
 or indifferent, that has proceeded from Elliott's pen 
 for the last few years, — gleanings from ' Tait,' the 
 Sheffield Papers, and innumerable periodicals — have been 
 issued in these posthumous volumes. The critic supposes
 
 APPENDIX. 189 
 
 the blame to rest with the over anxiety of survivors ; 
 it was not so. Elliott's own deliberate will lias resolved, 
 and his own uncontrolled act has accomplished, their 
 publication ; every line was sent to the publisher before 
 his death ; and it was only the last few proofs that his 
 energy — scarce vanquished by the gripe of Death — failed 
 to overlook. Even that coarseness, and virulence towards 
 the landed gentry, manifested in his style, when those 
 vexatious questions were touched, was adopted by him 
 on principle. When I have contended the point with 
 him, as to marring the beauty of a fine passage, or a 
 whole poem, by some violent or unpoetic expression, he 
 always had a reason to offer for such violation of the 
 poetic proprieties. Take the following as an example 
 of what I mean ; the passage occurs at the close of ' The 
 Splendid Village : ' — 
 
 " ' Path of the quiet fields, which oft, of yore, 
 Led me at morn o'er Shenstone's page to pore ; 
 
 Sweet, dewy, sunny, flowery footpath, thou 
 Art gone for ever like the poor man's cow. 
 No more the pious youth, with book in hand, 
 Spelling the words he fain would understand, 
 Shall bless thy mazes, while the evening bell 
 Sounds o'er the valley, softened, up the dell. 
 But, from the window of the loyal inn, 
 The great unpaid, who cannot err or sin, 
 Well pleased, shall see the pomp of Lawyer Eidge, 
 And poor Squire Grub's stctrv'd maids and dandy bridge,' 
 etc., etc. 
 
 " Again, in that noble delineation of mountain grand- 
 eur and desolate sterilitv — the scenery of which is
 
 190 APPENDIX. 
 
 embodied in that picture of liiin which hangs in the 
 parlour at Hargate Hill : — 
 
 " ' I thank ye, billows of a granite sea, 
 
 That the bribed plougb, defeated, halts below ; 
 
 And thanks, majestic barrenness ! to thee, 
 
 For one grim region, in a land of woe, 
 
 Wliere tax-soivn wlieat, and paupers will not grow.' 
 
 " To my objections as to having so rich a draught 
 of pleasure so rudely dashed from my lips, he would 
 reply, 'I always endeavour to use words which express 
 my meaning. I wish to stir up indignation against 
 Lawyer Eidge and Squire Grub.' Again, in the other 
 passage, I name the ' bribed plough,' because it is so in 
 effect ; and ' tax-sown wlieat ' because the land is ' sown 
 in taxes.' 
 
 " To this I should acquiesce in silence ; I could not 
 gainsay the logic, whatever I might advance as to the 
 poetry. But I by no means admit the supposition of 
 The Spectator, that the cause of this coarse violence 
 has been the narrowness of his education ; not intended 
 by The Spectator to be considered as such, perhaps, 
 as to book-learning, but with respect to a certain low 
 provincial range of association and acquaintance, and a 
 desire — manifest enough, The Spectator thinks, in his 
 writings — to become the head of the company. To speak 
 from what I know, I have almost always had the pleasure 
 to meet him, when in company with minds of a superior 
 stamp to the ordinary run of society. For instance — I 
 met him first with Pemberton ; after one of the spirited 
 delineations of Shakspere, given by the latter, in a 
 manner that I have never seen excelled ; (and Pemberton 
 was able to give two hours' talk after that effort) on which
 
 APPENDIX. 191 
 
 occasion Elliott as well as myself" were the interested 
 listeners of the company. On another occasion I have 
 met him, with the same party and others, at the house 
 of Thomas Asline Ward, Esq., of Sheffield — to whom, 
 as The Man of the People, one of Elliott's poems is 
 dedicated. I have met him also often with Mr. Stannus, 
 an eloquent minister of the Unitarian persuasion ; with 
 John Eowler, Hon. Secretary of the Sheffield Institute 
 and editor of the 'Remains of C. R. Pemberton;' 
 with Spencer T. Hall ; etc., etc. 
 
 " Then there are the interviews and communications 
 of our humble selves, with this inestimable bard; and, 
 spite of The Spectator, we will not class ourselves either 
 with the narrow or vulgar. In addition to all these, 
 there are numerous distinguished men that Elliott, al 
 home and abroad, has met and communicated with ; 
 amongst others, Southey, to whom he gives the credit 
 of having 'taught him the art of Poetry;' and Dr. 
 Bowring, both of whom had a main hand in making his 
 talents more widely known. Also Colonel Thompson 
 and O'Connell, at great meetings, both in Manchester 
 and London. Adams, (Junius Rendivivus,) who often 
 visited him at Sheffield and Hargate Hill ; Montgomery 
 and Gr. C. Holland, fellow-townsmen and co-labourers 
 in the wide, pleasant fields of poesy : enough, amply 
 so, to prove the superior class of his companionship. 
 Then as to his ' seeking to be the head of the company,' 1 
 the contrary was the case. Though he was civd and 
 amiable to all, gentle and simple, that came across him, 
 or with whom he came in contact, he rather shunned 
 than sought company or public notice. To any conver- 
 sation of interest he was always a willing listener, and 
 never assumed to be the Oracle of the circle. On Corn 
 
 Law and monied subjects we grant he was allowed to
 
 192 APPENDIX. 
 
 discourse, ad libitum. In all my intercourse with him, I 
 never observed in him an ungenerous action, nor heard — 
 except of factions — an unkind word. My first interview, 
 detailed in an accompanying extract, was followed by 
 many others before he left Sheffield. I accompanied him 
 to one or two sites in that neighbourhood, but he did not 
 fix on one eligible as a residence. About ten years ago 
 he bought, at great advantage, a plot of ten acres at 
 Hargate Hill, on Houghton Common. He has since told 
 me that more than the purchase money was soou made of 
 the bark and a portion of the wood. I walked over with 
 him to view the spot, through the vale of the Dearne, 
 whose sylvan pastoral scenes delighted him greatly. 
 There was nothing on the estate but a small cottage, 
 which now forms the kitchen of the poet's house. At a 
 second visit with him, J. Fowler, and other Sheffield 
 friends, something in the way of planning the building 
 and grounds was accomplished. The neighbouring 
 farmers laughed at the idea of a comfortable spot and 
 productive grounds being made on a mere 'fox cover,' 
 and prophesied him a succession of plentiful crops of 
 whins and brackens. Even his Sheffield friends augured 
 great discomfort, almost approaching to starvation, in the 
 probability that he would have everything to fetch from 
 Barnsley ; and Fowler humorously remarked that he had 
 better affix a board at the end of his house, inscribed, 
 1 Ebenezer Elliott, Poet and Common Carrier.' What the 
 result of his patient toils and well-executed plans prove, 
 I need not say — it is a most delightful home for a retired 
 poet,* and up to the last few weeks before his death, he 
 
 * Siuee Elliott's death the estate lias been sold, and I am glad 
 to say re-purchased, though at some disadvantage. I hope it will 
 never go again out of the family. J. S-
 
 APPENDIX. 193 
 
 busied himself with projects to make the grounds still 
 more pleasant and picturesque. 
 
 " I have made it a point to visit him at least once every 
 season ; and many and delightful are the rambles we have 
 taken in that richly-diversified locality, to which Ilowitt, 
 with all his descriptive powers, has done nothing like 
 justice in his unsatisfactory account of a visit to Elliott's 
 abode. 
 
 " New Park Spring conjoined to Lady Cross Wood ; 
 the bold stretch of billowy woodland which his residence! 
 commands ; with the Dearne Valley and wooded slopes 
 beyond, on the Barnsley side, were frequently explored 
 by us. The Lady Cross was pointed out by him amid 
 these woods separating two domains. Then, in the 
 opposite direction, was the delightful walk over the 
 common, blossoming with gorse and broom, to Howell 
 "Wood- — a walk thou wilt remember well, being taken on 
 our memorable first visit. 
 
 " At another time we should diverge by Howell Spring, 
 a small fountained glen, abounding with the freshest and 
 purest water, by Clayton-in-the-Clay — through Hooton 
 Pagnell Park to AVatchley Crags, returning by Frickley 
 Hall. Another rich and commanding scene was found 
 in prolonging the route, over Houghton Common to 
 Kirby Common, examining the sole remaining oak of the 
 colossal couple, ' Adam and Eve,' one of which sheltered 
 Nevison during his sojourn at Eingstone Hill. Then 
 descending the elevated slopes, by Brierley Manor, we 
 took the field path to Grimethorpe, and returned through 
 Lady Cross Wood. In these rambles, Elliott's intense 
 love for all natural objects was continually manifested, 
 and his marvellous power of depicting them vividly. 
 Though presuming on no scientific skill, he had consider- 
 able knowledge of trees, flowers, and birds, by their
 
 194 APPENDIX. 
 
 common names, and was always glad to increase liis stock 
 of information from those who had gone more minutely 
 into the various walks of natural history and science. 
 To me the most interesting journey we took was in his 
 small pony-gig through Thurnscoe, Bolton-on-Dearne, to 
 Conishorough Castle. The spacious valley of the Don, 
 (a rich alluvial bed lying between the magnesian lime- 
 stone beds on the one hand, stretching in a bold 
 continuous ridge from Hickleton Park to Sprot borough, 
 and the first swell of the coal measures on the side of 
 Conisborough and Dennaby) — the neat village of Conis- 
 borough, where we dined, the frowning keep of the old 
 Saxon Castle towering above town and river — and above 
 all, the locality itself, stamped with the ineffaceable 
 triumphs of Scott's genius, in his incomparable ' Ivanhoe,' 
 made a permanent impression on Elliott's mind, though 
 his years did not permit him to mount the keep with me, 
 and enjoy the commanding scene from that elevation. 
 Our return by the flourishing village of Wath-upon- 
 Dearne, and Darfielcl, was an agreeable variation of our 
 route. In one of the treasured scraps received from 
 him, he says : — ' If I live till summer, I could like to 
 revisit Conisborough with you. A result of our visit is 
 a long poem, which I think my best. Edliugton Wood, 
 I am told, is worth a visit.' The poem alluded to is 
 ' Etheline.' A loose remark of mine about the Don 
 Valley appearing like the bed of an ancient lake, he told 
 me, originated the conception of the poem. None of the 
 newspaper critics, not even the local ones, admit any 
 merit in this poem. I know none, with the fatal facility 
 of the octosyllabic measux*e, of more sustained strength 
 and beauty. On my last visit he spoke of his probable 
 Biography, for which he has collected much matter. He 
 had heard of the life of poor Keats, by E. M. Milnes —
 
 APPENDIX. 195 
 
 fortunately, I had secured the work, and sent it — and the 
 mode of allowing Keats's correspondence and writings to 
 tell the tale of his life, met his approbation. 
 
 " T. Lister." 
 
 I subjoin the following extract froni Mr. 
 Lister's note-book, for the year 1836 : — 
 
 " I was first introduced to Elliott by Charles Pemberton, 
 the graceful elocutionist, the fiery-souled patriot. Since 
 that time, months elapsed without my seeing Elliott 
 again. However, I took the privilege of kindred feeling, 
 though low in its stamp, and made bold to visit him in 
 his own abode. Our presuppositions of a person's cha- 
 racter, from his works, are often fallacious ; one would 
 hardly expect, from the bold and fiery spirit stamped on 
 his writings, to meet a man of mild speech and urbane 
 manners. But when his heart glows with his subject, 
 especially in recitation, whether of his own impassioned 
 lines, or the strains of some of those worthies whom he 
 worships as stars of song, his features kindle into energy, 
 his eyes, otherwise somewhat sunken and grey, glisten 
 with rapture, and his voice assumes a rich and tuneful 
 accent, characterizing expressly the subject on which his 
 powers are awakened. One of his themes was ' Kibble- 
 den,' or 'The Christening;' — Ribbleden being a small 
 mountain stream, near Sheffield, tumbling down a darkly- 
 shaded ravine, and falling into the Bivilin, after a short 
 but beautiful and romantic course ; and he read the poem 
 with great effect. I have seen Ribbleden, and other 
 scenes celebrated in his poems, with the poet himself, and 
 shall never forget it. His conversation on these occasions 
 was fully equal to his best compositions. It was, in fact, 
 a second edition of his poetry. His language does not
 
 196 APPENDIX. 
 
 flow either in swift or copious streams, but always with 
 precision and force, conveying solid enlightened senti- 
 ments, strongly condensed, yet full and well defined, so 
 that at this distance of time I can give a slight delineation 
 of them. 
 
 " Walking up Shirecliffe "Wood, where in a few 
 moments, from the full glare of the town, we found 
 ourselves as much shut out from the world as in the 
 heart of the New Forest, these remarks fell from him ■ — 
 ' No one could have dreamed of a seclusion like this 
 within bow-shot of the town. What a treat to the inha- 
 bitants, did they but know it ! This scene is worth 
 thousands of pounds to Sheffield. Money can be no 
 equivalent for pure pleasures like these. Tou surely 
 would not part with your present tastes and feelings foF 
 a mine of wealth. I shall never forget the last time I 
 came here with Charles R. Pemberton — that tree which 
 overlooks the summit he climbed with as much agility as 
 if the act were as familiar to him as walking is to us. 
 He clasped the stem with his sinewy limbs, set his toil- 
 strung muscles in motion, and went up like a man of 
 wire. How the view delighted him ! I, too, have my 
 predilections for the spot. It is the scene of my 
 " Ranter." From that tree I made my observations of 
 the bold striking scene around. I am attached to the 
 place from the associated idea. I know not that the 
 "Ranter" is my best poem, but it is the first that 
 brought me into notice, and I am grateful to it on that 
 account.' At another time the conversation turned on 
 books most worthy to be read. ' Have you seen aught 
 of Joanna Baillie's?' (No! I had no notion of her 
 merits as a writer.) ' Oh ! sir, you should read " De 
 Montford ; " it only wants a little to equal Shakspere, 
 and that is almost as much as to say we have seen
 
 APPENDIX. 197 
 
 another god. It wants originality though ; the leading 
 idea, the plot of the story, is Southey's. Have you read 
 any German work ? ' (No.) ' Well, you have a new 
 country to open upon you. Read Schiller's " Wallen- 
 stein," translated by Coleridge. Such an original, and 
 such a translation ! Have you read any of Hazlitt ? ' 
 (Only the choice specimens of him in 'Tait.') 'Not 
 read Hazlitt, nor De Stiiel, nor Godwin, nor Schiller ! 
 I wonder how you got your taste to the standard it now 
 reaches, and that it is not narrow and grovelling. The 
 reading of Hazlitt was an epoch to me.' 
 
 The " Giaour" and " Scotch Nationality" 
 I have not been able to procure a sight of, 
 and am indebted to my friend Mr. John 
 Fowler, of Sheffield, for the following ex- 
 tract from the "Scotch Nationality," — a 
 poem, I am told, which virulently attacked 
 the Scotch character, and of which Mr. 
 Elliott was so heartily ashamed in later times, 
 that he bought up and destroyed all the copies 
 that fell in his way. 
 
 A DAT DREAM. 
 
 " While keenly blew the biting North, 
 
 He dream'd his spirit wander'd forth. 
 
 # *- # # 
 
 He seem'd to trudge beneath the pall 
 
 Of darkness supernatural. 
 
 The wind, that hurried sullenly, 
 
 Not o'er, but through a starless ocean, 
 (Like swift Time in Eternity,) 
 
 s 2
 
 198 APPENDIX. 
 
 Whisper' d aloue of life or motion ; 
 And soon that wind, like one grown old, 
 Expired — and all was gloom and cold. 
 Long then he roam'd the realms of night, 
 
 his only light, 
 Which, glimmering pale on shadows, show'd 
 That death had paved with ice the road ; 
 And o'er a gulph of darkness lay- 
 That narrow, strange, and dismal way. 
 He seem'd to move, with hollow tread, 
 O'er countless fragments of the dead, 
 Tet could not trace 
 Of limb or face ; 
 No hone, no frozen winding-sheet, 
 
 Crackled beneath his feet ; 
 No sound was there, no flutter' d wing, 
 No leaf, no form, no living thing, — 
 No beating heart but his, — no air ; 
 But cold that pierced the soul was there ; 
 And horror which no tongue can tell, 
 And silence insupportable. 
 'Twas depth unplumed, 'twas gloom untrod, 
 'Twas shuddering thought alone with God ! 
 And on he went alone, — alone — 
 And felt like life frozen into stone ; 
 Or life, in earth and gloom laid low, 
 With pangs untold, with speechless woe, 
 With buried soul ; that living death, 
 That direst life, which heaves no breath, 
 Which would, but cannot, move or moan, 
 Tet feels and bears, too weak to groan, 
 (While the worm pauses, as in awe,) 
 What life, unburied, hath not known, 
 And e'en abhors, in thought, to bear.
 
 APPENDIX. 199 
 
 His tears were frozen in his heart : 
 He knew he was, but knew not where ; 
 
 He felt he was a thing apart 
 From all companionship, — a bird 
 That wings th' eternal calm unheard ; 
 On death's wide waste the conscious one ; 
 A flag above the waves, with none 
 To tell that ship and crew are gone ; 
 
 A sad memorial, never read ; 
 A meteor in the eyeless gloom ; 
 
 A blind, endanger' d wretch, unled, 
 Who would bave flown on the lightning's wing 
 To clasp earth's foulest living thing. 
 
 He fear'd no worse, but cursed his doom, 
 And mutter'd, in his dreary mood, 
 ' There is no hell but solitude ! * ' " 
 
 As a specimen of Elliott's prose composi- 
 tion I subjoin the following passage from his 
 printed lectures, upon — 
 
 COWPER AND BURNS. 
 
 " I must now conclude, with a few observations on the 
 lives and characters of the two great founders of the 
 Modern School of Poetry. Perhaps no falsehood has 
 been more frequently repeated than that men of genius 
 are less fortunate and less virtuous than other men ; but 
 the obvious truth that they who attempt little are less 
 liable to failure than they who attempt much, will account 
 for the proverbial good luck of fools. In our estimate of 
 the sorrows and failings of literary men, we forget that 
 sorrow is the common lot ; we forget, too, that the mis- 
 
 * Several of the ideas, and some of the couplets of this fragment 
 are woven into his last poem, " Etheline."
 
 200 APPENDIX. 
 
 fortunes and the errors of men of genius are recorded ; 
 and that, although their virtues may be utterly forgotten, 
 their minutest faults will be sure to find zealous histo- 
 rians. And this is as it should be. Let the dead instruct 
 us. But slanderers blame, in individuals, what belongs 
 to the species. ' We women,' says Clytemnestra, iu 
 'JEschylus,' when meditating the murder of her hus- 
 band, and in reply to an attendant who was praising the 
 gentleness of the sex, ' We women are — what we are.' 
 So is it with us all. Then, let every fault of men of 
 genius be known ; but let not hypocrisy come with a 
 sponge, and wipe away their virtues. 
 
 " Of the misfortunes of Cowper we have all heard, and 
 certainly he was unfortunate, for he was liable to fits of 
 insanity. But it might be said of him that he was tended 
 through life by weeping angels. Warm-hearted friends 
 watched and guarded him with intense and unwearied 
 solicitude ; the kindest-hearted of the softer sex, the best 
 of the best, seem to have been born only to anticipate 
 his wants. A glance at the world will show us that his 
 fate, though sad, was not saddest ; for how many madmen 
 are there, and how many men still more unfortunate than 
 madmen, who have no living creature to aid, or soothe, or 
 pity them ! Think of Mdton — ' blind among enemies ! ' 
 
 " But the saddest incident in the life of Cowper 
 remains to be told. In his latter days he was pensioned 
 by the crown — a misfortune which I can forgive to him, 
 but not to destiny. It is consoling to think that he was 
 not long conscious of his degradation after the cruel 
 kindness was inflicted on him. But why did not his 
 friends — if weary of sustaining their kinsman stricken 
 by the arrows of the Almighty, suffer him to perish in a 
 beggar 's madhouse ? Would he had died in a ditch rather 
 than this shadow had darkened over his grave ! Burns
 
 APPENDIX. 201 
 
 was more fortunate in his death than Cowper ; he lived 
 self-supported to the end. Glorious -hearted Burns! 
 Noble but unfortunate Cowper ! 
 
 " Burns was one of the few poets fit to he seen. It 
 has been asserted that genius is a disease — the malady of 
 physical inferiority. It is certain that we have heard of 
 Pope, the hunchback ; of Scott and Byron, the cripples ; 
 of the epileptic Julius Ca?sar, who, it is said, never 
 planned a great battle without going into fits ; and of 
 Napoleon, whom a few years of trouble killed : whilst 
 Cobbett (a man of talent, not of genius) would have 
 melted St. Helena, rather than have given up the ghost 
 with a full belly. If Pope could have leaped over five- 
 barred gates, he probably would not have written his 
 inimitable sofa-and-lap-dog poetry ; but it does not follow 
 that he would not have written the ' Essay on Man:' and 
 they who assert that genius is a physical disease, should 
 remember, that as true critics are more rare than true 
 poets (we have only one in our language, "William Hazlitt,) 
 so very tall and complete men are as rare as genius itself, 
 a fact well known to persons who have the appointment 
 of constables. And if it be undeniable that God wastes 
 nothing, and that we, therefore, perhaps seldom find a 
 gigantic body combined with a soul of iEolian tones ; it 
 is equally undeniable that Burns was an exception to the 
 rule — a man of genius, tall, strong, and handsome, as 
 any man that could be picked out of a thousand at a 
 country fair. 
 
 " But he was unfortunate we are told. Unfortunate ! 
 He was a tow-hackler who cleared six hundred pounds by 
 the sale of his poems, of which sum he left two hundred 
 pounds behind him, in the hands of his brother Gilbert ; 
 two facts which prove that he could neither be so unfor- 
 tunate, nor so imprudent, as we are told he was."
 
 202 APPENDIX. 
 
 The following is a fair specimen of Elliott's 
 power and style as a speaker, and shows how 
 thoroughly practical he was, and what a keen 
 eye he had in business transactions : — 
 
 " Mb. Chairman and Gentlemen. — Here is another 
 Dead Stock to sell, for the benefit of the vendors ! But 
 if a majority of you are not canal proprietors, in the 
 name of all creeping things, why are we to buy these 
 dead ditches ? And if we are to deal in dead things, 
 why are we to deal in dead canals only ? Why not buy 
 dead road-coach-and-cart interests ? Plenty of them can 
 be had dog cheap, and worth nothing ; capital bargains, 
 as railway bargains go. I know a carrier whose interest 
 might be bought for ten pounds, and he has a better 
 claim on our charity than these canal gentlemen. If you 
 commit one great stock error, you will never divide a 
 shilling out of profits. Be cautious, then, for this motion 
 is a trap — not, I hope, set by your directors, but for 
 them ; it is a trap, laid by a broken-down whale to catch 
 railway gudgeons. It is founded on the assumption, that 
 River Dun shares, which cost originally one hundred 
 pounds per share, are worth one hundred and twenty 
 pounds per annum per share for ever. For ever, mind ! 
 Now £120 is the interest of £3000 at 4 per cent. Then 
 it is clear as figures can show it, that we are to give 
 £3000 per share for Eiver Dun shares, which is £500 
 per share more than they were ever worth, and I believe 
 thirty times as much as they would sell for if offered to 
 the market in mass, as they are offered to you — supposing 
 that they would sell at all in that way, which I don't • 
 believe. Well, out of what are you to pay this £120 
 per share per annum ? Not out of one penny per ton
 
 APPENDIX. 203 
 
 per mile, freight and dues, for that will barely pay canal 
 expenses, and railways can carry profitably at a halfpenny. 
 Then you are to pay it out of the profits of your main 
 line, and literally throw £100,000 away. But how do 
 you know that you will have any profits ? Your direc- 
 tors cannot be very sanguine on that point, if they are 
 putting off the evil day, by paying dividends out of 
 capital. But even if we were idiotic enough to enter 
 into this partnership with the dead-alive on any terms, 
 why are we to run all risks, and they none ? Beware 
 how jou place yourselves in the position of parties, who 
 out of their ultimate 3 or 4 per cent, will have to pay 
 the deficits of their amalgamations, guaranteed at 6, 8, 
 10, and 12| per cent., and yet by no means so prepos- 
 terously guaranteed as your directors now propose that 
 you shall guarantee the Biver Dun Co. If the Railway 
 King himself, who will bite anything like bait, will take 
 this bare hook, he ought to be called Gudgeon the Great. 
 Don't buy a horse-laugh too dear. We are laughed at 
 in all directions ; in every train persons are shaking their 
 sides at this expected hooking of railway gudgeons. A 
 great fat fellow from near Bolton was laughing at us 
 through his very guts this morning — and he shook mine ! 
 for mine are not so well lined as he intends his to be, if 
 you pass this motion : he is a Biver Dun shareholder. 
 You may laugh ; some people laugh at funerals — the 
 winners, I mean ; but don't you give a splendid funeral 
 to a dead interest, if the residt is to be beggary and a 
 parish coffin for your own. The proposal is monstrous ; 
 monstrously characteristic of the brazen modesty of the 
 parties making it ; and until it was made, I did not know 
 that even their brass could bear so black a polish. Whom 
 are we to enrich with our hard-earned savings ? Men 
 who are supporting the cause of the destruction of their
 
 204 APPENDIX. 
 
 own property — and thus rush into railway speculation a 
 hundred years before the time, by leaving nothing else to 
 rush into ? Look at their prospectus. Why, with one 
 noble exception, there is hardly a man on the list who is 
 not either a landowner and monopolist through bone and 
 marrow, or a River Dun shareholder. Is it for such 
 people that we have been toiling all our lives ? I thought 
 I had been toiling to keep the oppressor's foot from my 
 neck, his greedy mouth from my children's trenchers. 
 And what is this Dun and Coal Railway to pay, if made ? 
 Nothing to the good faith of shareholders ; three thousand 
 per cent, to the setters of the trap ! Why, they are 
 getting out, as shareholders, though they believe you to 
 be stark mad. To be sure, the guarantee of madmen 
 cannot be worth much. And mad indeed you are, if you 
 are prepared to pass this motion. If it pass, you wdl 
 see your shares at £50.* If it pass, I can have no faith 
 in public bodies; for I must conclude that they can be 
 led wrong at any time, by any party who will take the 
 trouble.f " 
 
 Allusion is made more than once in these 
 memoirs to the ballad called " Devil Byron," 
 and to the tradition upon which it is 
 founded. I transcribe it here, therefore, for 
 the benefit of the reader, who, if I mistake 
 not, will agree with me in thinking it one 
 of the most extraordinary poems in our 
 language. 
 
 * They were then at £117. They are now (September, 1819,) 
 at £25. 
 
 f He got seven votes, out of about three hundred.
 
 APPEND1A. 205 
 
 DEVIL BYKON. 
 
 A BALLAD.* 
 
 * " A strange man own'd } r on Abbey once, 
 
 Men call'd him Devil Byron ; 
 Yet he a sister had who loved 
 
 Well that man of iron. 
 
 And well he loved that sister — Love 
 Is strong in rugged bosoms ; 
 
 * " I had the facts on which this ballad is founded from 
 Luke Adams, an old forgeman, who had worked many years, when 
 young, in a small Charcoal Bloomery near Newstead Abbey ; but I 
 have not adhered strictly to his narrative. The words uttered by 
 the lady were ' Speak to me, my lord ! ' uttering which words, she 
 was often seen on horseback, accompanying her brother in his 
 drives. The character which Luke Adams gave me of the old lord 
 of Newstead differs from the received and accredited one. Ho 
 seems to have been rather a kind man. His rich neighbours 
 sneered at him because he was poor, and hated him because the 
 poor loved him. Never was it said of Devil Byron that he prose- 
 cuted any one for killing God's hares ; but Chaworth was a strict 
 game-preserver. The duel, however, was not caused by disputes 
 about game alone. Chaworth was in the habit of calling Byron 
 'A poor little lord! ' his lordship being not only poor, but of low 
 stature. My informant was himself a character. It is still told of 
 him, that when he became too old to work, and retired to a quiet 
 place, there to live on his club-money, (which he received from two 
 or three clubs,) he could not sleep out of the sound of the Hasbro' 
 forge-hammer ! He lost his sight, at last, but still found his way 
 to my house on the Saturdays, when he knew my boys were not at 
 school, bringing gingerbread for them ; and was never satisfied till 
 they took it out of his pocket — a smile passing over his rough face, 
 as he felt the touch of their hands." 
 
 T
 
 206 APPENDIX. 
 
 E'en as the barren-seeming bough 
 
 Off hoards richest blossoms. 
 
 Yet from his heart, when she espoused 
 
 A peasant, he dismiss'd her ; 
 And thenceforth Devil Byron spoke 
 Never, to his sister. 
 
 Therefore, whene'er he drove abroad, 
 
 She chased the Man of iron, 
 Rode by his wheels, and riding cried, 
 
 ' Speak to me, Lord Byron ! ' 
 
 Thus, at his chariot's side, she pray'd; 
 
 For was he not her brother ? 
 ' Do speak to me, my lord ! ' she said ; 
 "Was he not her brother ? 
 
 Her quiv'ring hand, her voice, her looks, 
 
 Might wring soft speech from iron ; 
 But he speaks not ! — her heart will break : 
 He is Devil Byron. 
 
 Yet down his cheeks tears shoot, like had ; 
 
 Then, speak, thou Angel's brother! 
 "Why struggle, in thy burning soul 
 
 "Wordless fire to smother ? 
 
 Oh, Power is cruel ! — "Wilful Man ! 
 
 Why kill thy helpless sister ? 
 Belent ! repent ! already, lo, 
 
 Beauteous blight hath kiss'd her!
 
 APPENDIX. 207 
 
 Men say, a spectre with thee walks, 
 
 And will not from thee sever ; 
 A shadow — not, alas ! thy own ! 
 
 Pointing at thee ever. 
 
 Oh think of Chaworth rashly slain, 
 
 And wrath, too late repenting ! 
 Think of the kiss men give the dead ! 
 Vainly, then, relenting. 
 
 Think of thy sister's mother's grave; 
 Think of your days of childhood — 
 The little hands in fondness join'd, 
 
 Wandering through the wild-wood. 
 
 The hedgerose, then, was not so fair 
 
 As she, in gladness ranging ; 
 Now, sorrowful as beautiful ; 
 
 Changed, and sadly changing! 
 
 The wither' d hand, the failing voice, 
 
 Moved they the Man of iron ? 
 The live rose took the dead one's hue : 
 God, forgive thee, Byron ! 
 
 As rainbow fades, she perish'd. Then, 
 
 How fared the stubborn-hearted ? 
 With her, the wrong'd and lost, he lived — 
 Never to be parted. 
 
 The Abbot's garden well he liked, 
 But there a shape was sighing ; 
 There in each pale, reproaehful flower, 
 Sinless love seem'd dying.
 
 208 APPENDIX. 
 
 The bird that on the belfry wail'd, 
 
 It all her tones did borrow ; 
 The shadows in his banquet-hall 
 
 "Wore her brow of sorrow. 
 
 Where'er he went, she with him went — 
 
 Alas, thou stubborn-hearted ! 
 The grey old Abbey's gloom did groan, 
 ' Life and Death be parted ! ' 
 
 He wish'd, but did not pray, for death — 
 
 Pray, pray, thou Heart of iron ! 
 Dying he heard her heart's last pray'r, 
 ' Speak to me, Lord Byron.' 
 
 Dying, he saw her dying face ; 
 And as with poison' d lashes, 
 Its look'd forgiveness, its slow smile, 
 Smote him — He is ashes. 
 
 Well sleep the dead ; in holy ground 
 
 Well sleeps the Heart of irou ; 
 The worm that pares his sister's cheek, 
 What cares it for Byron ? 
 
 Yet when her night of death comes round, 
 
 They ride and drive together, 
 And ever when they drive and ride, 
 Wilful is the weather. 
 
 On mighty winds, in spectre-coach, 
 
 Fast speeds the Heart of iron ; 
 On spectre-steed, the spectre-dame — 
 Side by side with Byron.
 
 APPENDIX. 209 
 
 Tlie winds they blow rain, sleet, and snow, 
 
 To welcome Devil Byron ; 
 Through sleet and snow the hail doth go, 
 Ripped — like shot of iron. 
 
 A star ? Tis gone. The moon ? How fast 
 
 She hurries through wild weather! 
 The coach and steed chase moon and star, 
 Lost and seen together. 
 
 '6' 
 
 * Halloo !' — The slain hath left his grave ! 
 
 He knows thee, Heart of iron ! 
 And with a laugh that dafts hellfire, 
 Hails thy sister, Byron i 
 
 "Which is most sad of saddest things ? 
 
 The laughter ? or the weeping ? 
 Laughs Chaworth, while her Feast of Sighs 
 Love-in-Death is keeping ? 
 
 Thou ghastly thing ! thou mockery 
 
 Of life, and human doings ! 
 "With flame-like eyes, on shadows fix'd! 
 Shadows which are ruins ! 
 
 Thou see'st but sadness in her smile, 
 
 And pity in her sadness, 
 And in her slander' d innocence 
 
 Pain, that once was gladness. 
 
 And canst thou — while Night groans — do less 
 
 Than weep for injured woman ? 
 Man ! is thy manhood manliness ? 
 Is she not a woman ?
 
 210 APPENDIX. 
 
 Oh, Night doth love her ! oh, the clouds 
 
 They do her form environ ! 
 The lightning weeps — it hears her sob, 
 
 ' Speak to me, Lord Byron ! ' 
 
 On winds, on clouds, they ride, they drive- 
 
 Oh, hark, thou Heart of iron ! 
 The thunder whispers moiirnfully, 
 
 ' Speak to her, Lord Byron ! ' 
 
 • 
 My God ! thy judgments dreadful are 
 
 When thought its vengeance wreaketh, 
 And mute reproach is agony : 
 
 Now, thy thunder speaketh ! 
 
 He doth not speak ! he cannot speak ; 
 
 Then, break, thou Heart of iron ! 
 It cannot break ! it cannot break ! 
 I can weep for Byron. 
 
 The uttered word is oft a sin, 
 
 Its stain oft' everlasting ; 
 But, oh, that saddest unsaid word ; 
 
 Its dumb guilt is blasting ! 
 
 Eternity, the ever young 
 
 Hath, with fixed hand, recorded 
 The speechless deed unspeakable ; 
 Ne'er to be unworded ! 
 
 Oh, write it, then, ' in weeping blood,' 
 
 Te purified and thwarted ! 
 Oh, House of Brokenheartedness ! 
 
 Spare the broken-hearted.
 
 APPENDIX. 211 
 
 TeJl not the fallen that he fell, 
 
 The foil'cl that there are winners, 
 If He, whose name is Purity, 
 
 Died, to ransom sinners. 
 
 No, spare the wronger and the wrong' d, 
 
 Oh, ye, who wrongs inherit ! 
 ' A wounded spirit who can bear ? ' 
 Soothe the erring spirit ! 
 
 He, earning least, and taking most, 
 May love the wrong in blindness, 
 Not needing less, but all the more, 
 
 Pity, help, and kindness."
 
 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTTS POETRY, 
 
 A XT. 
 
 Jlemorantm of t\)t $oet*
 
 EEMAEKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETEY, 
 
 AND 
 
 MEMORANDA OE THE POET 
 
 BY THOMAS LISTER. 
 
 The heads of this discourse may be thus 
 stated: The descriptive beauty and earnest- 
 ness of Elliott's poetic genius, combining 
 poetry with painting — with music — descrip- 
 tion with sentiment : The poet and philan- 
 thropist — the poet and seer. 
 
 " By the term ' poetry with painting ' we do not 
 necessarily understand that Elliott was a man who drew 
 pictures by the aid of pencils and colours, but that the 
 arts of design, the grouping and colouring of objects, 
 were matters of earnest study to him ; and that clear 
 and vivid representation of all objects in nature coming 
 within the reach of his vision, in a series of word paint- 
 ings, were the residt. My first walk with him on the 
 banks of the Don, under Shirecliffe Wood, illustrated
 
 216 REMAKES UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 the close attention he paid to such matters : ' Observe,' 
 said he, ' the effect of the light on the water, as we stand 
 on a level with it — it is like the gleaming of heated steel ; 
 I have not seen that effect in any painting.' Having 
 crossed the river, and ascended the opposite hill, he said, 
 ' Now look at the water.' I observed it was a beautiful 
 blue. 'Do you perceive the cause of the change?' I 
 not answering, he pointed upwards: 'It is the blue of 
 the sky imaged down on the water — that is reflection; 
 you have the light from above. Before, when on the 
 same level, it was refraction.' 
 
 " "When I accompanied him the first time to view the 
 plot of ground on which he fixed his residence, we walked 
 down the Yale of Dearne, by Storr Mill to Houghton 
 Common, and he enlivened the way by producing a series 
 of mental pictures. The substance of his conversation is 
 permanently impressed on my mind, so that in default of 
 any written memoranda I may hope faintly to recal it, 
 though I cannot give the rich and varied tones of the 
 voice, nor the soul that animated it. In the meadow 
 path over Grange Bridge, looking at the ruins of Monk 
 Bretton Priory and Lunn Wood beyond, he remarked, 
 • What a lovely subject for a sketch. Let us make our 
 own landscape, and be our own artists. Lf you want to 
 make a picture, place your arms thus ; ' extending his 
 arms, and bringing the hands in contact before his head, 
 ' here is my picture-frame and the picture in it. That 
 further bank of the stream, with its shady trees, its 
 variously coloured herbs and flowers, with the group of 
 cattle in the meadow above it, shall be my foreground- 
 that venerable ivy-clad ruin, and the old farm buildings, 
 form the middle ground — and yon bold leafy wood, with 
 those rich pastoral eminences, make as fine a background 
 as could be wished.' Nor was he less happy in designing
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF TIIE POET. 217 
 
 pictures on a smaller scale. A little further, in one of 
 those beautiful windings of the stream, he thus attracted 
 my attention : — ' Observe that group of calves and young 
 heifers, with their heads over a rail stretching across the 
 bed of the stream, how picturesque they look, and how 
 tranquilly they enjoy their retreat under the shade of 
 those old trees. Many a painter would give his ears for 
 such a subject.' The trunk of an old tree, mottled finely 
 with lichens and mosses, having a wreck of shattered 
 boughs above adorned with ivy, was pointed out as another 
 delightful subject. This trunk, which was in the bed of 
 the stream at the lower end of Sunny Bank Wood, has 
 since been swept away by some of the floods frequently 
 occurring in the Dearne. ' Here is a striking illustration 
 of the laws of light and shade,' said he, directing my atten- 
 tion to a bank by Oscar Wood, which was principally in 
 the shade ; ' observe that thistle, with a bee feeding on the 
 topmost flower, how richly they stand out in the light, 
 every object around them in the shade. How the minute 
 and the vast, the near and the remote, are here blended ; 
 and what is the connecting link ? that straggling sunbeam 
 escaping from the interstices of those cloud masses brings 
 light from yon glorious orb millions of miles, to gild the 
 humble flower and the feeding bee. That illustrates 
 what I have sometimes told you of the faculty of ima- 
 gination as distinct from fancy — its uniting, expanding 
 power, and its tendency to the infinite. I like this valley 
 of yours ; it is a perfect sylvan retirement ; it has not 
 the grand features of our Don Valley under the Old Park 
 Wood, but it has a sweeter character of its own — of 
 beauty in repose.' 
 
 " There is ground for the application of the term 
 ' painter,' in its literal sense, to Elliott. After his mind 
 had been awakened to the study of flowers— a taste by 
 
 U
 
 218 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY : 
 
 which lie said he was lifted above the inmates of the 
 alehouse a foot in mental stature, — he practised a little 
 the art of painting landscapes in oil. One of the greatest 
 treasures to me, in his library, was the noble work of 
 Sowerby, giving, to the very life, coloured representations 
 of all our British plants. c I am proud of that work,' he 
 said, ' it made a poet of me — my aunt showed me how to 
 draw the figures exactly by holding the plates, with a 
 piece of thin paper before them, to the pane — it acted 
 like a charm, and lead me to the fields and woods to 
 search out these floral treasures. It was the turning 
 point of my life, which decided whether I was to be a 
 man or a malt swill ! ' It is abundantly manifest that 
 he not only possessed the faculty, but that he frequently 
 introduced the very terms of the painter. The first 
 example I give, to exemplify this, is extracted from a 
 poem called ' The Tear of Seeds,' which appeared in his 
 last publication : * — 
 
 " ' Art thou a colourist ? Mark how yon reel 
 Poppy, and that bright patch of yellow bloom, 
 Cliff-borne above green depths and purply gloom, 
 Like spark and blaze on smiling darkness shed, 
 Give and take beauty ! Mark, too, over head, 
 How the rich verdure of this ancient tree, 
 And the deep purple of the bank agree 
 To thrive in partnership ! And while the bed 
 Of the clear stream, through tints of every hue, 
 Lifts its bathed pebbles, lo ! to brighten all, 
 The little harebell brings its bit of blue, 
 And is a gainer ; happy to behold 
 Red blessing green, and purple gilding gold, — 
 Of light and shade a marriage festival ! ' 
 
 " Again, what exquisite colouring, what knowledge of 
 * " More Prose and Verse," by the Corn Law Rhymer.
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 210 
 
 light and shade, of the effect of trees and flowers growing 
 over a stream, viewed in their natural position, and in 
 their reflected aspect in the water, are manifest in these 
 portions of his tribute to Burns : — 
 
 " ' Be proud man-childed Scotland ! 
 
 Of earth's unpolish'd gem, 
 And bonny Doon, and Heaven aboon, 
 
 For Burns has hallow' d them. 
 Be proud, though sin dishonour'd 
 
 And grief baptized thy child, 
 As rivers run, in shade and sun, 
 
 He ran his courses wild. 
 Grieve not though savage forests 
 
 Look'd grimly on the wave, 
 Where dim-eyed flowers, and shaded bowers, 
 
 Seemed living in the grave,' etc. 
 
 " The principles of the art of painting are not only 
 developed in those parts of his writings which a fanciful 
 judgment might arrange under this head — they pervade 
 his whole poetry, in a greater degree in some poems than 
 in others ; and here I will endeavour, by an easy transi- 
 tion, to pass to my next division, and to connect paint- 
 ing by ' links of sweetness ' with the sister art of 
 music. With this view I will quote ' Lines written after 
 seeing at Mr. J. Heppenstall's, of Upperthorpe, near 
 Sheffield, the plates of Audubon's birds of America.' 
 
 " c Painting is sdent music, so said one 
 Whose prose was sweetest painting,' etc. 
 
 " Poetry with Music. The expression may seem unne- 
 cessary because obvious, as all true poetry should have 
 music as one of its constituents ; but how different in the 
 notes themselves and their variations ! I do not apply 
 this phrase to Elliott solely on account of the melody or 
 rhythm of his verses, for in this, as in the admirable
 
 220 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETKY, 
 
 adaptation of the words to the thoughts, Coleridge, 
 Tennyson, and many others in then lyrical writings, 
 might well vie with him. But with Coleridge and 
 Tennyson there is more of the melody of the inner soul, 
 than that conquest of the elements of harmonious ex- 
 pression in external nature which Elliott has effected. 
 From the gentle to the terrible all sounds in nature 
 are made in unison with his spirit — from the gushing 
 spring to the bursting torrent ; from the whispering of 
 the summer woods and the carols of their feathered 
 inmates, to the struggle of the elements in their wrath; 
 amid the groaning forest or lightning-shattered peak, he 
 feels ever at home. I need but evidence one instance of 
 the gentle and one of the stormy character, calling to 
 your attention, as in the case of painting, how the very 
 language of the art, as well as the spirit of music, mingle 
 in his vivid descriptions : — 
 
 RIBBLEDIN; OR, THE CHRISTENING* 
 
 " ' No name hast thou, lone streamlet, 
 
 That marriest Rivelin ; 
 Here, if a bard may christen thee, 
 
 I call thee Ribbledin. 
 Here, where first murmuring from thine urn, 
 
 Thy voice deep joy expresses, 
 And down the rocks like music flows 
 
 The wildness of thy tresses. 
 
 * Mr. Wm. Howitt, in his beautiful book upon the "Homes 
 and Haunts of the British Poets," bas the following passage upon 
 the valley of the Rivelin : — " Our next visit was to the valley of 
 the Rivelin, so often named in Elliott's poetry. The Rivelin is one 
 of the five rivers that run from tbe moorland hills and join near 
 Sheffield ; and the scenery is very peculiar, from the singular fea- 
 tures which art and trade have added to those of nature. The
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 221 
 
 Dim world of weeping mosses ! 
 
 A hundred years ago, 
 Yon hoary-headed holly tree 
 
 Beheld thy streamlet flow ; 
 See how he bends him down to hear 
 
 The tune that ceases never ! 
 Old as the rocks, wild stream, he seems, 
 
 While thou art young for ever. 
 
 river is one of those streams which show their mountain origin by 
 their rapid flow over their rugged beds, scattered with masses of 
 stone. It has a tinge of the peat moss, and is overhung by woods 
 and alternate steep banks of saudstone rock, clothed with the 
 bilberry plant. But what gives it, to a stranger, the most striking 
 character, are the forges and grinding-wheels, as they call them, 
 scattered along them. Formerly these stood chiefly out amongst 
 the neighbouring hills, being turned by the streams that descend 
 from them, and you still find them in all the neighbouring valleys, 
 the rivulets and rivers which run along them being damned up into 
 a chain of ponds, which give a peculiar character to the scene. 
 These ponds look dark brown, as from the rust of iron, which is 
 ground oft' with the water, and are generally flanked by dark alders, 
 or are overhung by the woods which clothe the sides of the valleys ; 
 and you now come to a forge where the blast roars, and the flame 
 glances out from the sooty chimney-tops, and the hammers resound 
 and tinkle in various cadences from within ; and now to low mill- 
 like buildings, with huge wheels revolving between two of them, or 
 beside one of them : and these are the grinding-mills, or wheels, as 
 they are termed. Formerly they were all turned by these streams, 
 which are conveyed in channels, cut for them, and spouts, and let 
 fall on those great wheels ; but now steam is applied, as to every- 
 thing else, and large grinding-wheels as they are still called, that is, 
 mills, meet you along all the lower parts of the town, as they still 
 require a good supply of water for their engines, and for their wet 
 grinding, that is, to keep their grinding- stones wet for some par- 
 ticular articles. Owing to this introduction of steam, as you 
 advance further up amongst the moorland hills and streamlets, you 
 find the old and picturesque grinding-wheels falling to decay. 
 
 u 2
 
 222 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 Would that I were a river, 
 
 To wander all alone 
 Through some sweet Eden of the wild, 
 
 In music of my own ; 
 
 Such is the scenery of Rivelin. Far up, solitude and falling wheels 
 give a pleasing melancholy to the scene ; but as you return nearer 
 to Sheffield, you see the huge hammers of forges put in motion by 
 stream or steam, thumping away at the heated bars of iron, while 
 water is kept trickling upon their great handles to keep them cool." 
 Elliott gives the following description of these five rivers, 
 alluded to by Howitt, in his " Village Patriarch." 
 
 " Five rivers, like the fingers of a hand, 
 Flung from black mountains, mingle, and are one 
 Where sweetest valleys quit the wdd and grand, 
 And eldest forests, o'er the sylvan Don, 
 Bid their immortal brother journey on, 
 A stately Pilgrim, watched by all the hills. 
 Say, shall we wander where, through warriors' graves, 
 The infant Yewden, mountain cradled, trills 
 Her Doric notes ? or where the Loxley raves 
 Of broil and battle, and the rocks and caves 
 Dream yet of ancient days ? or where the sky 
 Darkens o'er Rivelin, the clear and cold, 
 That throws his blue length, like a snake, from high ? 
 Or where deep azure brightens into gold 
 O'er Sheaf, that mourns in Eden ? or where rolled, 
 On tawny sands, through regions passion wild 
 And groves of love, in jealous beauty dark, 
 Complains the Porter, nature's thwarted chdd, 
 Born in the waste, like headlong Wiming ? Hark, 
 The poised hawk calls thee Village Patriarch ? 
 He calls thee to his mountains ! Up, away ! 
 Up, up, to Standedge ! higher still ascend, 
 Tdl kindred rivers from the summit grey 
 To distant seas their course in beauty bend ; 
 And, like the lives of human millions blend, 
 Disparted waves in one immensity !"
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 223 
 
 And bathed in bliss, and fed with dew, 
 
 Distilled o'er mountains hoary, 
 Return unto my home in heaven 
 
 On wings of joy and glory ! 
 
 Or that I were a skylark, 
 
 To soar and sing above, 
 Filling all hearts with joyful sounds, 
 
 And my own soul with love ! 
 Then o'er the mourner and the dead, 
 
 And o'er the good man dying 
 My song should come like buds and flowers 
 
 When music warbles flying,' etc. 
 
 " The ascent of "Win Hill, and the storm witnessed on 
 its summit, will supply one of the nohlest amongst many 
 instances throughout his writings, of the mastery this 
 poet exercises over the mightier elements of the min- 
 strel's art : — 
 
 " ' Blow, blow, thou breeze of mountain freshness, blow ! 
 
 Stronger and fresher still as we ascend, 
 Strengthen' d and freshen'd till the land below 
 
 Lies like a map ! On ! on ! those clouds portend 
 
 Hail, rain, and fire ! Hark ! how the rivers send 
 Their skyward voices hither, and their words 
 
 Of liquid music ! See how bluely blend 
 The east moors with the sky ! The lowing herds 
 To us are silent now, and hush'd the songful birds. 
 
 # * # # 
 
 High on the topmost jewel of thy crown, 
 
 Win Hill ! I sit bare-headed, ancle deep 
 In tufts of rose-cupp'd bilberries ; and look down 
 
 On towns that smoke below, and homes that creep 
 
 Into the silvery clouds, which far off keep 
 Their sultry state ! and many a mountain stream, 
 
 And many a mountain, 'vale, and ridgy' steep ; 
 The Peak and all his mountains, where they gleam 
 Or frown, remote or near, more distant than they seem !
 
 224 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 There flows the Ashop, yonder bounds the Wye, 
 
 And Derwent here towards princely Chatsworth tends ; 
 But, while the Nough steals purple from the sky, 
 
 Lo ! northward far, what giant shadow bends ? 
 
 A voice of torrents, hark ! its wailing sends : 
 Who drives yon tortured cloud through stone-still air ? 
 
 A rush ! a roar ! a wing ! a whirlwind rends 
 The stooping larch ! The moorlands cry prepare ! 
 It comes ! ye gore-gorged foes of want and toil beware ! 
 It comes ! behold ! black Blakelow hoists on high 
 His signals to the blast from GHedhilTs brow. 
 
 Now expectation listens, mute and pale, 
 
 While ridged with sudden foam the Derwent brawls ; 
 Arrow-like comes the rain, like fire the hail ; 
 
 And hark ! Mam-Tor on shuddering Standedge calls ; 
 
 See, what a frown o'er castled Winnat falls ! 
 Down drops the death-black sky ! and Kinderscout, 
 
 Conscious of glory, laughs at intervals ; 
 Then lifts his helmet, throws the thunder out, 
 Bathes all the hills in flame, and hails their stormy shout.' 
 
 The poem from which the above extract is taken is one 
 of many noble productions, in which graphic descriptions 
 of the poet's native scenery abound. The whole basin 
 of the Don and its tributaries, exhibiting every kind of 
 scene, from the picturesque well-wooded valleys and 
 fertile plains of south Yorkshire — the green fountained 
 dales on the moor edges to the innermost recesses and 
 bleakest heights of the western range of hills, known by 
 the appellation of ' the back-bone of Eugland ' — may be 
 justly said to have gained a deeper interest from the 
 illustrations of his powerful pen. The upper part of 
 this region, extending to the well-heads of the Don, 
 Dearne, Derwent, and Mersey, whence the infant feeders
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 225 
 
 of these rivers diverge to different seas, lie may fairly 
 claim as his own— being new poetic ground : — and to 
 him we are indebted for the embodiment of some of our 
 fairest and grandest scenes in deathless verse. From 
 "Win Hill, southward, 'King of the Peak,' and Lord's 
 Seat, overlooking his own sweet valley of Eivelin, to 
 Blakelow Scar, commanding the "VVoodhead valley, north- 
 ward, he has sung of their diversified aspects and old 
 recollections, both in his longer poems, as ' The Letter,' 
 and ' The Village Patriarch ; ' in his shorter lyrics, as 
 his touching ' Farewell to Bivelin ; ' and in his sonnets, 
 which also embrace a wider range, yielding pleasing 
 recollections of more renowned Yorkshire scenes, as 
 Bolton, and Fountain's Abbey, and the massive crags of 
 Brimham. The latter species of verse, as well as hex- 
 ameters, were tried as experiments ; showing, as his 
 various correspondence proves, how much the mere form 
 of metrical composition had been an object of his 
 culture. On one occasion he wrote me as follows : — 
 ' I now send a legitimate sonnet for your Doncaster 
 friend, (the editor of the Gazette;') I will send you 
 three more, with an explanatory note — one of them 
 in the legitimate form, and the other two in measures 
 which I think more harmonious and more agreeable 
 with the genius of our language. But it does not 
 follow that my practice is right. I will write them 
 on purpose. ' In the communication which accompanied 
 these sonnets, he gave his reason for preferring the form 
 alluded to — which is simply an extension of Spenser's 
 melodious Stanza, of nine lines to fourteen, the limit of 
 the sonnet. ' The Spenserian Stanza, ' he remarked, 
 'preceded by five lines linked to it in melody, and 
 concluding occasionally with an Alexandrine, is the best 
 which an English sonneteer can employ. ' Space forbids
 
 226 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 ine to give more than the conclusion of this Spenserian 
 sonnet, and portions of the Petrarchan or legitimate 
 forms. Though marked by that sententious brevity, 
 which is a distinguishing feature of Elliott, in prose or 
 poetry, and containing the same elements of pictorial de- 
 lineation and musical expression already pointed out, and 
 here manifesting themselves in the changeful hues of 
 earth and sky, and the hymning of the forest trees to 
 that Being ' who makes the clouds his harp strings,' yet 
 with all these merits it is doubtful whether even Elliott 
 can make the sonnet popular to the English mind, or 
 appreciated with more than passing interest, except by 
 the student. 
 
 " He admonishes the young writer, whose hopes are 
 high for the advancement of the dawning age to earnest- 
 ness in the task, which, without a sense of his true 
 mission, should not be undertaken : — 
 
 * * * " ' As the rose, 
 
 Growing beside the streamlet of the field, 
 Sends sweetness forth on every breeze that blows ; 
 Bloom like the woodbine where the linnets build; 
 Be to the mourner as the clouds, that shield, 
 With wings of meeken'd flame, the summer flower ; 
 Still in thy season, beautifully yield 
 The seeds of beauty ; sow eternal power, 
 And wed eternal Truth ! though suffering be her dower. 
 Don whispers audibly ; but Whamcliffe's dread, 
 In speechless adoration, hymns the Lord ; 
 While, smiting his broad lyre with thunder stored, 
 He makes the clouds his harp-strings. Gloom is spread 
 O'er Midhope, gloom o'er Tankersley, with red 
 Streak'd ; and noon's midnight silence doth afford 
 Deep meanings, like the preaching of the Word 
 To dying men. Then let thy heart be fed 
 With honest thoughts. * * *
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 227 
 
 Yes, minstrel ! bear to him who toils and sighs, 
 The primrose and the daisy, in thy rhyme ; 
 Bring to his workshop odorous mint and thyme ; 
 Shine like the stars on graves, and say, arise, 
 Seed sown in sorrow ! that our Father's eyes 
 May see the bright consummate flower of mind ; 
 And the great heart of ransom'd human kind, 
 Sing in all homes the anthem of the wise, 
 " Freedom is Peace ! Knowledge is Liberty ! 
 Truth is Religion ! " ' 
 
 " To connect this portion of my theme with the next, 
 viz : description blending with sentiment, I quote from one 
 of his hest poems, 'Ethcline,' which, for musical flow 
 and sustained beauty, is not exceeded by any of his 
 choicest productions. I select the striking description 
 of Wharncliffe. The poem of ' Etheline,' dedicated to 
 Miss E. Eendall, which at first was slighted by the 
 press, has a peculiar value to me, not only as effecting 
 a conquest over the difficulty experienced by most poets, 
 in what Byron calls ' the fatal facility of the octosyllabic 
 measure,' but from the interesting circumstances in 
 which it stands to myself. The first intimation I had 
 of its existence was in the following letter : — 
 
 " ' Hargate Hilt, Jan. 3, 1849. 
 
 " ' Deae Sie, — Thank you for securing The Spectator for 
 me. If I live till summer, I could like to re-visit Conisbro' with 
 you. A result of our visit is a long poem, which I think my best. 
 Edlington Wood, I am told, is worth a visit. 
 
 " ' With our best wishes to you both, I am yours very truly, 
 
 " ' EBENEZER ELLIOTT.' 
 
 " On my next visit I asked to see the piece written 
 respecting our trip to Conisbro' Castle. ' It is a loug 
 poem,' he said, ' of many hundred lines ; you can't read
 
 228 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 it now, we have other matters to engage us this even- 
 ing ; stay all night, and you shall have it at full length 
 in the morning. I took the idea of the poem from your 
 remark, " that the Don Valley looked like the bed of an 
 ancient lake." I have transformed it into a lake, girt 
 with its vast primeval woods.' Not beiug able to accept 
 his invitation for the night, I never saw the manuscript ; 
 and on a subsequent visit, full of pleasant and painful 
 reminiscences, I took my leave of him, and of his kind- 
 hearted family, without having had my longing to see the 
 poem gratified. When I saw his posthumous publication 
 it was with mingled pleasure and regret. Its beautiful 
 construction surpassed my warmest hopes, and proved 
 that his hand had not forgotten its mastery of the lyre 
 to the last — but many inquiries which I fain would have 
 made of the author were rendered hopeless by the stern 
 finisher — Death. 
 
 " ' O'er Wharncliffe of the Demons thou, 
 Dear Ellen, hast a wanderer been ; 
 Thy second letter places now 
 Before my soul the beauteous scene. 
 But thou hast named a name that brings 
 Back the deplored and hopeless past, 
 And o'er remember'd Wharncliffe flings 
 An angel's shadow flitting fast : 
 Why didst thou name that mournful name ? 
 Beautiful in its worth and woe, 
 Over my sadden' d heart it came 
 Like funeral music wailing low ; 
 Or like a deep cathedral toll 
 At midnight swung o'er Witham's wave, 
 Proclaiming that a weary soul 
 Had cast his staff into the grave. 
 Oh, never more will Lycid see 
 That relic of the forest old,
 
 AND MEMOEANDA OF THE POET. 229 
 
 Which spread like an eternity 
 
 Its green night over plain and wold ! 
 
 Grey Wharnclitfe, and the oaks that stand 
 
 Like spectres of their sires sublime ; 
 
 Yet how unlike, though old and grand, 
 
 Those giants of the olden time ! 
 
 Symbols of age-long funerals, 
 
 They frown'd o'er fear's suspended breath, 
 
 And pillar'd in their living halls 
 
 The deathless might of mental death. 
 
 Oh, Superstition ! cruel, blind, 
 
 False, restless, fair as ocean's foam, 
 
 How shall I paint ? where shall I find, 
 
 Save in man's darkness, thy dark home? ' 
 
 " The expression ' Wharncliffe of the Demons ' alludes 
 to a wild supernatural poem written by him at an early 
 period. The present poem ' Etheline,' the execution of 
 which is better than the plan or the strange groundwork, 
 of the tale, embodies a powerful censure against the 
 superstitions of all times, while delineating those of our 
 pagan forefathers, whose cruel altars he places on the 
 giant crags, amid the deepest forest recesses of old 
 "Wharncliffe. The allusion to a departed friend in the 
 plaintive spirit of Milton's Lycidas, adds that sombre 
 tinge of gloom which in one form or another is seldom 
 absent from his finest compositions. His city-bred 
 reviewers and transcendental critics may slight ' Etheline,' 
 and pronounce it, as some of them have been pleased to 
 do, a failure ; it may be, to those who have communed 
 little with their own hearts amid the quiet shades of 
 retirement, nor taught themselves to feel the beauty 
 which exists, apart from the polished circle, in objects 
 overlooked or rarely glanced upon, nor stilled the cravings 
 for excitement in the majestic temple of creation. To 
 bring it to the test of performances rather than words, 
 
 X
 
 230 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 let one of these transcendentalists attempt what he whom 
 they call a realist has here achieved. In this further 
 selection, for example, are portions of a richer delineation 
 of forest scenery than the above. Let those who have 
 been fascinated with the opening page of ' Ivanhoe ' — 
 calling up before the mind, and peopling with beings in 
 accordance with the scene the vast tracts of forest land 
 extending from Wharncliffe (haunt of the fabled Dragon 
 of Wantley) to Wentworth, and the sloping heights that 
 overlook the confluence of the Bother and the Don — let 
 such who have glowed over this picture (and what York- 
 shire reader has not) of our own native region, as it 
 existed in the time of the Crusades, throw their imagina- 
 tions back a thousand years previous to that era, to 
 realize Elliott's embodiment of the same scenes in the 
 times of the Druids, when the vast primeval forest 
 
 ' Spread like an eternity 
 Its green night over plain and wold,' 
 
 ere the Roman had hacked his way through its tangled 
 depths, or the Saxon had planted his homestead amid its 
 glades. 
 
 " ' They traversed realms of verdant night, 
 And many a treeless isle of light, 
 "Whose peaceful bliss the eyes of love 
 Watch'd fondly through the blue above ; 
 A wilderness of shaded flowers, 
 A wilderness of virgin bowers, 
 Of beauty calm not passionless, 
 And lonely song, a wilderness ; 
 Ear on, on, far and long they went, 
 Through paths of green bewilderment, 
 Where oft the Ouzle, perch'd on high, 
 Beneath his clouds, above his woods, 
 Poui''d his full notes in gushing floods, 
 Flattering the wood-rill tunefully,
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 231 
 
 Then listened to its still reply, 
 In all a bard's regality. 
 
 They reach' d at last the mount where stood 
 The father of the boundless wood, 
 An oak, before whose vastness man, 
 Dwarf'd to a gnat's dimensions, shrunk. 
 Twelve full-sized men had failed to span 
 With outstretch'd arms his giant trunk : 
 One mighty limb, extended forth, 
 Might have a war-ship's frame supplied; 
 One shoulder, twisted to the north, 
 A thousand winters had defied. 
 
 The tree was call'd the " Wizard's Chair," 
 And in his hollow trunk the gloom 
 Reveal' d an uncouth banquet room ; 
 Perchance, in after ages, dined 
 In such a tree stout Robin Hood, 
 Amid the depths of Barnsdale wood, 
 Feasting his men on hart and hind.' 
 
 " Under the bead of Poetry, where description blends 
 with sentiment, I might class a large proportion of the 
 poems of Elliott ; indeed, the secret of beauty and power 
 combined in his strains, lies in the vehemence and fervour 
 with which he throws the whole feelings of his soid into 
 his subject. Tbis is also the reason of the distaste with 
 which, in some circles, he is regarded ; he being a fearless, 
 out-spoken man, not caring whether his words of terrible 
 earnestuess accord with the canonical rules of poetic 
 taste, or conventional propriety, so that they only convey 
 the meaning he intends. His mental vision, in a direct 
 line, was clearer than that of most men. ' My mind, ' 
 he said, 'is the mind of my eyes. All my ideas are from 
 my own observations, or what I have made my own by 
 reflection on the thoughts of other men. Some of my
 
 232 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 finest thoughts come from the minds of others, but so 
 adapted to my own that the theft is not traced. I am 
 enriched, and I leave them no poorer ; for instance, 
 Homer, in Cowper's translation — the best our language 
 boasts — says, of the meeting of two armies: "The earth 
 beneath them trembled, and the heavens sang them 
 together with a trumpet's voice." I thus transfer the 
 thought : — 
 
 " O light that, cheer'st all life from sky to sky, 
 As with a hymn to which the stars reply." 
 
 The trumpet I transform to a hymn, and the change is 
 complete and undetected. ' 
 
 " To describe and narrate well, are excellent qualities 
 in a poet j but to invest the object with sentiment, to 
 pour soid and feeling therein, is a much higher advance 
 in the art. I will exemplify this by a selection from 
 ' The Splendid Village, ' where the twice exded victim 
 of usurping power breathes a sad farewell to England, 
 which he thus passionately apostrophizes : — 
 
 " ' Yet in my heart thy verdant Eden smiles ; 
 
 Land where my Hannah died and hath no tomb, 
 Still in my soul thy dewy roses bloom. 
 E'en mid Niagara's roar remembrance still 
 Shall hear thy throstle by the lucid rill, 
 At lucid eve — the bee at stillest noon ; 
 And when clouds chase the heart-awaking moon, 
 The mocking bird, where Erie's waters swell, 
 Shall sing of fountain' d vales and Philomel ; 
 To my sick soul bring, over worlds of waves, 
 Dew-glistening Albion's rocks, and dripping caves, 
 But with her, redbreast, linnet, lark, and wren, 
 Her blasted homes and much-enduring men.' 
 
 " That perfect little poem, ' The Dying Boy to the
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 233 
 
 Sloe-Blossom,' is an exquisite illustration of the principle 
 here enunciated; and equally sweet and perfect are 
 < Come and Gone ;' ' To the Bramble Flower ;' and ' The 
 Wonders of the Lane. ' Many choice pieces also adorn 
 his last publication, such as 'Lyrics for my Daughters;' 
 the pleasure of reading which is only exceeded by that 
 of hearing them sung and played — the heart mingling 
 with the strain— in the household circle for which they 
 were composed; ' God Save the People ;' and ' The Sun's 
 Bird,' breathing the same spirit as the Ettrick Shepherd's 
 ' Skylark,' but less sustained in its exultant cheerfulness. 
 These fully prove that the poetic gift was as potent, 
 when he willed it, in his declining years, as in his manly 
 prime. Tet in these posthumous volumes, it must be 
 mournfully confessed, there are many blemishing verses, 
 which it could have been hoped his riper judgment had 
 either not composed, or rejected from an after collection 
 — it being quite possible, as he himself has sometimes 
 proved, to utter strong truths without offensive language. 
 " A judicious selector might extract a cabinet of gems 
 from his works. Such, one would think," might find 
 favour in the eyes of those who have been repelled by 
 what they consider the violence, approaching to coarse- 
 ness, of his political opinions. They who have said that 
 the Corn Law Rhymer's fame will die, when the exciting' 
 questions of partizan strife that brought him into notice, 
 have subsided, may be partially right in their opinion ; 
 that the lower aspect of politics, the harping on party 
 measures, is inimical to poetry ; but, they are deplorably 
 wrong, when they pronounce him who has made politics 
 so important a staple of his productions, to be no poet. 
 The pieces named above, and many more from [which 
 there is a strong temptation to quote, are equal to any 
 of their class. They may stand by the master-pieces 
 
 x 2
 
 234 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 of Coleridge, Keats, and Tennyson. And how is it that 
 Elliott may compare, without loss, in the same kind of 
 poetry — natural description blending with natural sen- 
 timent—with men more richly endowed with the poet's 
 best gift, imagination, than he admitted himself to be ? 
 The response is simply this : because his heart was homed 
 with nature ; he had familiarized himself more with her 
 varied aspects, and listened more attentively to her 
 teachings than any of the ideal poets, "Wordsworth alone 
 excepted. This venerable bard, sojourning nearly all his 
 long existence among his native hills, open to all the in- 
 fluences of nature, revealing to other hearts her secret 
 whisperings to his own, after toiling through an age of 
 contumely, lived to be hailed, by general consent, as her 
 ministering priest. In one important element, passion, 
 that which gives life to all composition, Elliott possessed 
 an advantage over the last hallowed bard, as over all 
 modern poets, unless Byron be deemed his equal, who 
 excels him in splendour of diction, but yields to him 
 in reverential love and knowledge of the surrounding 
 creation. Elliott's remarkable definition, ' Poetry is 
 impassioned Truth, ' paradox though it seem, is ably 
 borne out in his masterly lectures, first published in 
 ' Tait, ' and now the choicest of them in ' More Prose 
 and Verse.' 
 
 " These lectures, while they are true exponents of Ins 
 poetical views, are written in a style, beautiful as it is 
 brief, equal to that of his verse, and would be a profitable 
 study to some of his judges, who disallow this claim. 
 The condensed fulness of such prose would make many of 
 these scribes rich indeed. Referring once to these lec- 
 tures, he remarked, ' Tou ask how I attained my peculiar 
 prose style ? There is a secret lies in that : I have 
 served a long apprenticeship to it. I allow no word
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF TIIE POET. 235 
 
 to pass in composition that docs not answer my purpose. 
 I can afford to wait, and the world also, until the right 
 word be found. I never wrote an idle line in my life, 
 nor used a word for effect, or for rhyme, unless it gave 
 my full meaning. Would our numerous writers and 
 young poets look to this, they would not rush into 
 authorship without feeling assured they had a call to 
 the work. ' 
 
 " Again, to cause my divisions of the subject to flow 
 easily into each other, I connect this head with the 
 succeeding one, by an epistle to his friend Francis 
 Fisher, who was then living in Sheffield, in which rare 
 powers of description, and wondrously varied sentiment, 
 combine with an ardent, active philanthropy; exhibiting 
 also, the quaintly humourous side of the poet's mind, 
 mingled with touching pathos. This was an experiment 
 in ' Metrical Epistolary Composition,' written to drive 
 away painful thoughts, as he states in a subsequent letter 
 to F. Fisher, apologizing for sending it to ' Tait,' ' though 
 there is nothing in it which could hurt his feelings, or 
 injure or prejudice him.' That amiable youth, now de- 
 ceased, whose loss is, no doubt, the one introduced in the 
 "Wharnclifte reminiscence, would excuse everything there- 
 in, knowing the source from which it sprung ; but there 
 are some passages, which, to the hard-judging conventional 
 world, had better have been erased ; and such omission 
 would have made this one of the finest specimens of 
 the Rhymed Epistle — -worthy to rank with those of his 
 cherished favourites, Cowper and Burns : — 
 
 " ' This sixteenth morn of new-styled May 
 Brings me your letter. Ah, you say, 
 You cannot come to Hargate Hill ; 
 I'm sorry, but my bees are come. 
 There's gold, there's fire, on Hargate Hill ;
 
 236 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 The forests kindle into green ; 
 Sun-bright the landscape burns between, 
 And bees hum o'er my apple bloom. 
 You will not come, but they are come, 
 The bees, my punctual bees, are come. 
 Oh, when arrives my hour of doom, 
 Bury me where the orchards bloom, 
 That to my grave the bees may come ; 
 And while the wren his dinner gets, 
 Murmur a song of violets. 
 I've pass'd with bees some happiest hours, 
 For well they know, I dwell with flowers : 
 They love me, dou't they, little wags ! 
 Ay, just as heirs do miser bags : 
 My flowers they seek, my flowers, not me. 
 Good taste is thine, my bonny bee. 
 As skylarks love the clouded sky, 
 Where bees and flowers are, there am I. 
 Who loves not flowers ? I know not who : 
 But this I know most good folk do. 
 No foe of flowers could I forgive, 
 They are my life, in them I live ; 
 But oh ! there's frailty in their beauty, 
 How mutely making sadness duty. 
 
 # # # # 
 
 My steps to health are slow and sure, 
 My choking fits are few and fewer. 
 Thanks to the air of Hargate Hill, 
 And breeze, and bee, and flower, and rill ; 
 And rides, and drives, in carriage low, 
 To Nostell, Watchley, jjilla'd Mar, 
 Tower'd Bilham, Castle- Conisbro', 
 Or palaced Wentworth, famous far ; — 
 And pathless walks o'er sweetest thyme, 
 By fountain'd Howell's dewy chime, 
 Or Waltheof s moat, or hall of Grime ; 
 Through woods that wave in golden rhyme, 
 To roofless mill — half crushed by time— 
 And grey historic oak sublime.'
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF TIIE TOET. 237 
 
 To complete this aspect of his character, and to evince 
 his intense desire for the social and moral elevation of 
 the working community, I give another extract from his 
 last published work, the closing prayer of his Temperance 
 ballad, mingled as that effusion is with harsh uncouth 
 expressions and startling views : — 
 
 " ' Lord, grant to poor o'er-labour'd man 
 
 More leisure, and less prayer, 
 More church, less priest — and homes for inns, 
 More libraries and fewer sins ; 
 
 More music and less care. 
 
 And when the tardy Sabbath dawns, 
 
 Bid townsmen leave behind 
 The goldfinch, smother'd on his perch, 
 Gin-shop and chapel, jail and church, 
 
 And drink the mountain wind. 
 
 Or teach the artizan to seek 
 
 Some village house of prayer, 
 And kneel an apparition meek, 
 Amid the rustics red and hale, 
 
 And humbly worship there. 
 
 Or bid him (in the temple, built 
 
 By skill Divine for all,) 
 Expound to pallid listeners near, 
 While rose-cheek'd pilgrims stop to hear 
 
 The words of Christ or Paul. 
 
 There in lone shelter' d dales, amid 
 
 Their patriarchal trees, 
 Beneath the skylark's quivering wing, 
 Let parents, sons, and daughters, sing 
 
 Great Handel's harmonies.
 
 238 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY, 
 
 Then to the dome of boundless blue, 
 
 O'er-rooiing sea and land, 
 Triumphant hope and faith will rise, 
 And with the anthems of the skies 
 
 Mingle their anthem grand. 
 
 And sinners saved shall weep again 
 
 For sins repented long, 
 And broken-hearted, though forgiven, 
 Repeat in music-hallow' d Heav'n 
 
 Earth's spirit- warbled song.' 
 
 " In a note to this passage, which it must be borne in 
 mind is made to proceed from the lips of a poor reformed 
 sot, Elliott says : ' Yes, more music. Do I then mean 
 that churches and chapels in towns should be deserted ? 
 No, let the rich attend them, for they can breathe fresh 
 air when they please, which the poor can only breathe on 
 the "poor man's day."' He suggests the building of 
 churches and chapels at the railway stations. By the 
 phrase 'less prayei*,' which may appear irreverent, I would 
 understand shorter prayers, and more to the purpose. 
 The contest bears out this view. To ' prayer, the soul's 
 sincere desire,' he cannot object. He frequently exhorts 
 
 ' Him who toils six days in seven 
 To climb the hills amid their flowers to pray,' 
 
 on the only day when he can refresh his toil-worn frame 
 in the free country air. Doubtless Elliott had been 
 struck with the contrast between a long drawn-out 
 supplication, and the simple heart-utterance of the Lord's 
 Prayer that concludes it, as though the speaker pro- 
 nounced unconsciously in the fulness of these few closing 
 words, an expressive condemnation of his past lengthened 
 effort. The noblest models of the effective Teacher he
 
 AND MEMOEANDA OF THE POET. 239 
 
 held out in the characters of Christ and Paul, as enforced 
 in this piece, and embodied in ' The Ranter/ where 
 ' preaching ought to be its own reward' — a task of love. 
 The religion he advocated was one of the spirit rather 
 than of form ; of deeds rather than of words. One of 
 the evils of this age, which he never failed to enter his 
 strong protest against, was that of many words in the 
 expression of few or feeble thoughts. A frequent excla- 
 mation of his, when sick of the interminable disquisitions 
 of this much-writing, long-talking age was, ' O that men 
 would see the beauty of brevity.' In a very characteristic 
 letter, he binds the lecturer with almost too close a tether 
 — long enough if a dull affair, but where interest is 
 manifested, one hour might be allowed, with a few 
 minutes' grace to wind up. ' No lecture should exceed 
 three quarters of an hour in the delivery. Always send 
 your audience away full yet hungry, rather than tired 
 and wanting. Speak slowly and clearly, standing bolt 
 upright ; if you cannot speak like one having authority, 
 what right have you to speak at all ? Use very few 
 long sentences. Interpose round shot (short ones) for 
 emphasis, also for safety ; you may want time to breathe. 
 If you extemporise, you may as a Quaker use the Quaker's 
 privilege (as Emerson does) in the occasional dignity of 
 silence ! ' 
 
 " The public lecturer he looked upon as a mighty 
 instrument in the work of social progression, and 
 in the above he has well prescribed the rules of his 
 calling. Linked with this, as co-operating to the same 
 end, were educational and literary institutions. He 
 was an advocate for popular education long before 
 that class of objections to any enlarged national 
 scheme of it which have wearied the world of late 
 had even an existence in thought. He at one time
 
 2i0 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETEY, 
 
 contemplated, ' under a solemn sense of a"* duty to be 
 performed,' to write ' Educational Rhymes.' It is to be 
 regretted that he consigned such a noble task to any one 
 else, either"too indolent or incompetent to carry out his 
 enlightened instructions. The text laid down by him, 
 being for the good of mankind, may be introduced here ; 
 the objection to exhibiting private correspondence is less- 
 ened by considering this part of the communication as 
 more of the nature of public property than such as is 
 but individual ' in its character. From an interesting 
 letter, dated 1839, written in the indulgent spirit he was 
 wont to manifest towards his young correspondents, he 
 thus touches on the question referred to : ' What a 
 name you may win, and what good you may do, by 
 writing short pieces, after the manner of your Tem- 
 perance Rhymes, to be called Education Rhymes. 
 What a world of pathos, beauty, hope, humour, and 
 merciful sarcasm, is within your reach ! Be this your 
 text, to be expounded in a thousand ways, with a thou- 
 sand sad and beautiful elucidations — " From national 
 ignorance result not drunkenness only, but all other 
 public evils ! " When you conquered the rare power of 
 expressing every-day and common-life thoughts in rhyme, 
 you bent the bow of TJlysses. This power, and your love 
 of the beautiful, with your knowledge of the people, and 
 your graphic power to paint them, all point you out as 
 the man who is to be the Education Rhymer. What 
 felicitous opportunities you will have of introducing 
 your fine pictures of rural scenery, and what might be 
 and ought to be happiness ! AVhat a universe of sorrowful 
 thoughts, and sweet contrasts, and heavenly anticipations. 
 But do not go out of your way to seek poetry. I find some 
 of your very best in your ' Temperance Rhymes,' and it 
 is found in them because it came unsought. For instance:
 
 AND MEMORANDA OF THE POET. 241 
 
 ' Such joys are but the meteor's flash 
 That through the darkness gleams ; 
 Their memories knotted cords that lash 
 The thoughtless from their dreams. ' 
 
 " And here is a capital bit of education poetry :— 
 
 ' Drunkard— I cannot read a single line, 
 Nor spell a single word. ' 
 
 Remove the great cause of evil, and not intemperance 
 only, but all its other bad consequences will cease,' etc. 
 The best plea for this extract is the importance of 
 EDiott's testimony to the great question which has 
 enlisted already the proud names of Chalmers, Vaughan, 
 Earl Carlisle, Cobden, Dawson, and a host of worthies, 
 who have pleaded for national enlightenment in their 
 respective spheres, upon such comprehensive principles 
 as reason and conscience dictated to them was best. 
 To wait until all sects have made up their minds as to 
 the plan upon which a National Education shall be 
 founded, were as hopeless as the aim of Charles V. to 
 subdue the world to one faith. Not alone in expressive 
 prose, terse, full, and musical, but in more varied verse, 
 Elliott has proved himself an effective pleader in this 
 cause ; witness, among other meritorious poems, ' The 
 Press ; ' ' The Home of Taste ; ' and the lines on the 
 'Sheffield Mechanics' Exhibition.' The last closes with 
 an impressive appeal to the classes who have power to 
 do something effectual in giving the first right impulse 
 to the faculties and habits of the rising race. These 
 prove that Elliott is no malignant agitator, but an 
 earnest tranquillizer of those conflicting elements of 
 society which threaten to spread, like a wasting torrent, 
 when unwisely influenced or left to their own unregulated 
 course : —
 
 2i2 REMARKS UPON ELLIOTT'S POETRY. 
 
 ' Truth, Mercy, Knowledge, Justice, 
 Are powers that ever stand ; 
 They build their temples in the soul, 
 They work with God's right hand. 
 
 Then trader, lord, or yeoman, 
 
 If thou a patriot art ; 
 If thou wouldst weep to see the light, 
 
 Erom England's name depart, 
 Her streets blood-flooded, and her plains 
 
 In boundless conflagration, 
 Instruct her poor benighted sons, 
 
 And save a sinking nation. 
 Shall we not lift the lowly, 
 
 Whom law and custom ban ? 
 O help us to exalt and praise 
 
 Grod in the mind of man, ' etc. 
 
 This, in its aspirations, is closely linked with his 
 prophetic language in that sublime hymn, where he 
 looks forward to the time — 
 
 ' When man, by painful ages taught, 
 Shall build at last on truthful thought, 
 And wisdom won from sorrow.' 
 
 " To this I add, in 'conclusion, the magnificent close of 
 'The Ranter, ' foretelling the certain triumph of com- 
 mercial freedom, of which he lived to see the fulfilment. 
 He thus anticipates the ultimate achievements of ' world- 
 reforming commerce,' of which he was at once the 
 prophet and dauntless pioneer : — 
 
 ' When o'er the enfranchised nations thou wilt shower, 
 Like dew-drops from the pinions of the dove, 
 Plenty and Peace ; and never more on thee 
 Shall bondage wait; but as the thoughts of love, 
 Eree shalf thou fly, unchainable and free, 
 And men henceforth shall call thee liberty.' '
 
 lUrnllrctiono nf (Plictmer (Elliott, 
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS.
 
 THE LATK MR, PAUL ROBGERS. 
 
 Since the following MSS. came to my band, the 
 author has been gathered to his long home. It was 
 not my good fortune to know much of him, but 
 what little I knew, and more that I heard, impressed 
 me very much in his favour. He was an intelligent, 
 affable, and most kind-hearted man, and was esteemed 
 as such in his town and neighbourhood. He was lir>l 
 introduced to me as a friend of Elliott's, and it is in this 
 light that he now appears before the reader in the notes 
 and reminiscences which follow. As a brief aecoun! 
 of his life and struggles may not, however, be uninterest- 
 ing, I will subjoin the following memoir, extracted from 
 The Sheffield Independent, of September 27th, 1851 :- 
 
 The late Mr. Paul Eodoers was a man so well known and 
 so much respected that his departure from amongst us must be 
 widely regretted. Although his life was unmarked by any striking 
 events, his characteristics was strong and well defined. Born at 
 Greasbrough, near Rotherham, in the year 1788, he was at an 
 early age bound apprentice to a shoemaker. Being of a serious 
 turn of mind, he joined the Methodists, and in the course of time 
 became one of their local preachers. He married, and settled at 
 Greasbrough, working at his trade and using his best exertions to 
 support a large family of children. Though possessed of little 
 school learning, he was a reader and a thinker. To amuse himself 
 he tried his hand at literary composition, and his productions won 
 not merely the approbation of his village companions, but also the 
 praise of individuals of superior judgment. He gained the intimate 
 friendship of several of the then popular Methodist preachers of the
 
 248 THE LATE MR. PAUL RODGERS. 
 
 Rotherham Circuit, and especially of the Rev. Francis Hall, the 
 late incumbent of Greasbrough. His opinions on certain religious 
 doctrines changed, and he ceased to be a member of the Wesleyan 
 Connexion. Speaking of this in after years, he said, " To the 
 Methodists, amongst whom I was brought up, and with whom I 
 was pleasantly connected for many years, I retain a constant and 
 deep feeling of respect : and certain I am, could the same belief 
 have been preserved by any legitimate efforts of my own under- 
 standing, the pleasant and prolonged intercourse with the friends 
 of my youth, would not be broken by any choice of mine." He 
 contributed to a magazine, which was published in the neighbour- 
 ing village of Wath, and his writings attracted considerable 
 attention. Our townsman, G. C. Holland, M.D., was not slow to 
 recognise the abilities of the rustic author ; and through his influ- 
 ence, in the beginning of 1833, Mr. Rodgers was induced to leave 
 his native village, and to take up his abode in ShefBeld. For 
 several years Mr. Rodgers was engaged as secretary to the Sheffield 
 Mechanics' Institution. In that capacity he became acquainted with 
 men of eminence from most parts of the kingdom. He laboured long 
 and zealously for the Mechanics' Institution, and his efforts in its 
 behalf were in many emergencies extremely successful. His own 
 views were enlarged by a more extended knowledge of the world. 
 He secured the friendship of Ebenezer Elliott, and of many gentle- 
 men of the highest standing in the town. When he resigned his 
 official connexion with the Mechanics' Institution, he was appointed 
 canvasser, and subsequently collector, to the Sheffield New Gas 
 Company. On the amalgamation of the two Gas Companies, his 
 services as collector were fotmd acceptable to the directors of the 
 United Company ; and he retained that situation to the day of his 
 death. His literary works, written entirely in the leisure hours of 
 a busy life, consist of a volume of poems, the " Memoirs of Matthias 
 D' Amour," several tales, and miscellaneous essays. During the whole 
 of his residence in Sheffield, he was an occasional correspondent of 
 The Independent, and ever took a warm interest in its prosperity. 
 He was skilled in versification, and some of his best effusions in 
 rhyme richly deserve the name of poetry. The bent of his mind, 
 however, was decidedly metaphysical. This is shown in his verse 
 and in his prose ; and those who enjoyed the pleasure of his conver- 
 sation had often reason to remark his readiness to suggest topics
 
 THE LATE MR. PAUL RODGERS. 249 
 
 for discussion of an abstruse nature. With better training lie might 
 have been distinguished in sorr.u of t .lie higher branches of philosophy. 
 As a politician, Mr. Rodgers was favourable to all rational plans of 
 progress. On some points his sentiments bordered on the extremity 
 of Radicalism ; but he was always tolerant of the opinions of others. 
 To do good was his constant aim. His fadings sprung from his 
 virtues. He delighted to soothe the afflicted, and to succour the dis- 
 tressed. In all domestic relations he was most kind aud affectionate. 
 His means were small, but his spirit was bountiful ; and many were 
 the designs of benevolence that he originated. One of the latest of 
 his labours of love was the attempt, and not without success, to raise 
 funds for the erection of a monument to the memory of his friend 
 Ebenezer Elliott. He lived not for himself but for others. His 
 cordial manner and familiar face will long be missed by the many 
 persons with whom he was necessarily associated ; and his death will 
 be regarded as a public loss. After a severe illness of about twelve 
 days, and with a full knowledge that his end was at hand, Mr. 
 Rodgers peacefully expired last Monday morning, 22nd of Septem- 
 ber, 1851, in the presence of the principal members of his family. 
 His remains were interred in Grcasbrough churchyard on Thursday 
 afternoon.
 
 E E C O L LECTIO N S 
 
 OF 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT, HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS: 
 
 BY PAUL RODGERS. 
 
 I knew the family of Mr. Ebenezer Elliott from about 
 the second year of the present century. His father, 
 who was also called Ebenezer, kept an ironmonger's shop, 
 then the only mil in the town of Eotherham. It was 
 situated at the top of High Street, opposite to the shop 
 now occupied by Mr. Wigfield. As I was a shoemaker's 
 apprentice at Greasbrough I had frequently to visit -Mr. 
 Elliott's shop for the purchase of various articles in out- 
 line of work. 
 
 I recollect old Mr. Elliott very well, for he was a most 
 marked character. In person he was low and squat, with 
 a broad face, as the poet has described him. I know not 
 how it was that he coidd be so constantly in attendance 
 upon the shop, having the important concerns of the 
 foundry on hand at the same time. Ebenezer, the poet, 
 was then about twenty years of age ; and notwithstanding 
 what he says about his oven juvenile dulness, I suspect 
 that at that age he was a better man than his father. It 
 is a tact, however, that the old gentleman was the prin- 
 cipal shopkeeper. I always liked to have business at his
 
 252 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZEE, ELLIOTT, 
 
 counter, for I was foud of hearing his quaint remarks, 
 and his pithy Jacobin epigrams and speeches. I was the 
 more pleased, however, when an older person, and one of 
 more consequence, had taken the precedence of me ; for 
 I had then to stand and wait, and was certain to hear 
 more of his pithy speeches, and witness more of his 
 strange gesticulations, than I should otherwise have 
 done. 
 
 This was during the period when Mr. Pitt was in 
 office, and when the active and daring spirit of Bona- 
 parte was keeping the world in such a state of bustle 
 and excitement. The popularity of the first French 
 Revolution had entirely died away in England, and, in 
 fact, the excesses which the French had run into, first 
 by murdering each other at home, and then by their lust 
 of conquest abroad, had completely turned the English 
 people into the opposite extreme of loyalty. Yeomanry 
 Cavalry, and Volunteers of Infantry were the great 
 engrossing subjects of the time. In those days a hearty 
 old Jacobin was something rare. I only knew two such 
 of any consequence. One was a Joseph Oxley, of Elscar, 
 who got the nick-name of Boney, which he has always 
 since retained, for he is still living in extreme old age, 
 and the other was this same Mr. Elliott. 
 
 I have thought since, that old Ebenezer must have 
 been rather fonder of talking, and less prone to conden- 
 sation, than his son was, or he would never have endured 
 some of the loquacious characters, who, I know, were in 
 the habit of holding conversations with him. One of 
 them, namely, old Godfrey Thompson of Grreasbrough, was 
 a particularly long-winded fellow. He would have talked 
 till doomsday. I have frequently seen him in Elliott's 
 shop, and as I recollect, he had not all the talk to him- 
 self. As an incident, illustrative of Thompson's talking
 
 %.?> 
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 25 
 
 propensity, I may mention that he once started to walk 
 from G-reasbrough to Wath, a distance of four miles, in 
 company with a neighbour, about some business in which 
 they were jointly interested. They had not proceeded more 
 tban two hundred yards from the village, ere they were 
 met by a third party, who engaged Godfrey in his beloved 
 art of talking. The friend proceeded without him, slowly 
 at first, but ultimately with a more average speed. Vain- 
 ly he continued to look behind him for his companion. 
 Mile after mile passed, till he arrived at Wath. After 
 waiting there sometime, in vain, he proceeded to transact 
 the business himself; which, in time, he did. He then 
 set out on his return, wending his way leisurely along 
 till, having walked eight miles, lie arrived at the same 
 field where he left the disputants, and there he still 
 found them in the heat of debate. 
 
 One reason why I so well recollect Godfrey Thompson 
 in connexion with the elder Mr. Elliott is, that I was 
 once in the latter gentleman's shop, and saw him give or 
 lend Godfrey a publication of his own, being a poetic, or 
 at least rhymed " Paraphrase of the Book of Job." At 
 that time I was wonderfully struck with the idea of being 
 in the presence of a man who had printed a book. As 
 such, the incident made a lasting impression on me. 
 
 As I have spoken of one original character in connexion 
 with the elder Mr. Elliott, I will allude to another, who 
 has been specially distinguished by the poet, in the 
 magazine preface which he published to his poem called 
 " Hevd Byron." The character I mean was Luke Adams. 
 Old Luke, whom Mr. Elliott calls "one of God's own," 
 was a forgeman. In figure he was short and thick-set, 
 with an uncommonly swarthy face. His appearance, 
 altogether, gave a mixed idea of fun and importance. 
 Among his own associates he was a very important man, 
 
 Z
 
 254 EEC0LLECT10NS OF EBENEZEE ELLIOTT, 
 
 and being a small literary genius was often appealed to, 
 as a learned authority, by his mates. 
 
 I believe all through life, Luke had a lively sense of 
 religion, though he sometimes took singular methods of 
 manifesting it. He was much attached to the Method- 
 ists. His call to preach was so powerful, that he needed 
 neither the laying on of hands, nor even a place on the 
 Local Preacher's Plan. He had many acquaintances and 
 associates in the villages round about, and to one of these 
 villages he would go, call on some original in his own line 
 whose house he could occupy for his purpose ; seud, or go 
 round the neighbourhood to invite the people together, 
 and then hold forth in a most voluble style, making use 
 of words, which neither he nor they understood, to 
 the great wonder of the simple people, and to his own 
 entire satisfaction. At Greasbrough, Luke always held 
 these primitive kinds of preaching at old Polly Sharpe's. 
 
 I must not omit to mention that on one occasion Luke 
 was preaching at Brightside, where several of his old 
 pot-companions lived, for he was unfortunately addicted 
 to drinking. One of these, called Oilman, happened to 
 be drinking at a public-house hard by. The toper, know- 
 ing Luke's propensity, and feeling for what he considered 
 his unenviable position, took his own tankard of ale in 
 his hand, and with his pipe in his mouth, deliberately 
 walked into the assembly. As the attention of the 
 auditors was turned towards him, the fellow held out the 
 pot, saying, " Luke, lad, take hold and drink, thou must 
 be very dry." Taking the invitation as it was meant, 
 kindly, Luke drank off the ale, and then resumed the 
 discourse. 
 
 Mr. Mark Gregory, an old workman of Elliott's, gave 
 me another edition of the story, namely, that Luke did 
 not actually drink, but merely suspended his discourse a
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 255 
 
 moment, waived his hand to his friend, and said in an under 
 tone, "take your time, Gilman, I'll be with thee soon." 
 
 Luke's fondness for drink was very strong, and very 
 unfortunate. His great house of call in Eotherham was 
 the Red Bear, in Bridge Gate. It is related of him, 
 that in one of his remorseful moods, having resolved to 
 be heroically virtuous, he actuallv got quite past the Red 
 Bear without calling. He had not proceeded more chu_i 
 fifty yards, however, chuckling in self-esteem over his 
 victory, when his usual strong desire attacked him again, 
 and he audibly resolved that he would give so deserving a 
 resolution a special treat, and he actually turned back for 
 the purpose. 
 
 But Luke was also a literary genius. To give an 
 instance of his readiness at literary criticism : One of 
 his fellow-workmen, namely, John Martin, was a religious 
 man. I knew John ; he was a reader iu a certain line. 
 Having met, one day, witli the word oblivion, and not 
 understanding its meaning, he solicited the necessary 
 information from Luke Adams as follows : " Luke," 
 says he, "what does ob-li-vi-on mean?" Luke con- 
 founding, I believe, the word as pronounced, with the 
 word Apollyon, in the Book of Revelation, but, never 
 wishing to be thought wanting in a difficulty, though 
 generally as much in the dark as his querists, promptly 
 answered, (not without a tone of scorn at the man's 
 confessed ignorance,) " what does ob-li-vi-on mean ? the 
 Devil, to be sure." Notwithstanding, Luke Adams was 
 a character; and it was to Mr. Elliott's honour that he 
 knew and appreciated what was good in him. 
 
 John Woffenden, the Greasbrough boat-builder,* whom 
 
 * Mr. Rodgers alludes here to the fact that Elliott, when a boy, 
 having built and. rigged a sort of model ship, presented it to 
 Woffenden, who, in his turn, presented it to Lord Fitzwilliam, as
 
 256 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 Mr. Elliott names in connexion with Earl Fitzwilliam, 
 affords another illustration of the same sort. I knew 
 him very well. He brought a large family from Thome 
 to Greasbrough, about 1796, and commenced a boat- 
 building establishment by the canal side. He was a 
 mere working man ; how he raised the means to com- 
 mence business I cannot tell. He was a remarkable 
 instance of honest persevering industry, combined with 
 many humorous and jovial characteristics. Though the 
 sound of the boat-builder's hammer has loug since ceased, 
 and though the canal itself has disappeared, John's son, 
 John, still lives in the same house, highly respected. 
 Elliott found out old John Woffenden in some of his 
 fishing rambles, which he was fond of taking up the 
 Greasbrough canal. If I mistake not, my own personal 
 knowledge of the poet originated while pursuing the 
 same art, in the same locality. I should then be about 
 ten or twelve years old. He would be eighteen or 
 nineteen. 
 
 Mr. Elliott had a younger brother, named Edward, 
 who attended a school at Greasbrough, during part of 
 the time that I was serving my apprenticeship there. 
 As our shop was near the school, and as we occasionally 
 worked for the family, this Edward used frequently to 
 spend his hour of noon with me in the shop. To 
 show how Ebenezer was regarded at home, I may name, 
 that this boy always spoke of him in more affectionate 
 terms than he did of the rest. If he had to mention 
 anything which had occurred at home, of a pleasing 
 character, Ebby was sure to have been the hero of the 
 
 a sample of what lie (Woffcnden) could do in the boat-building 
 line ! His lordship was so pleased with it, that he made Woffenden 
 his boat-builder ; and Elliott relates this very questionable circum- 
 stance, with a little dash of triumph, in his autobiography.
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FEIENDS. 257 
 
 circumstance. This trifling evidence does not justify 
 Ebenezer's idea of his own dulness. 
 
 My next recollections of Ebenezer Elliott are those 
 of frequently meeting him when newly married, with 
 his young wife by his side, on the Sunday morning, on 
 the Greasbrough road, as I went to Masbrough chapel. 
 Sometimes he would be alone, and either musing aloud, 
 or occupied in evident but silent contemplation. Those 
 who have only known him during his later years, cau 
 have no conception of the perfectly erect gait, and stylish 
 dress and air which he then manifested. 
 
 Mr. Elliott, like his father, always knew the value 
 of money, and the difficulty of getting and keeping it. 
 Notwithstanding, he failed in business. While Ebenezer 
 and Giles were yet young men, Ebenezer, by arrange- 
 ment, took to the entire business of the foundry. The 
 father had the shop to himself; and GUes commenced a 
 similar ironmongery concern at Doncaster. Poor Giles, 
 who had early contracted intemperate habits, soon blighted 
 his own prospects. This unfortunate propensity, with 
 its consequences, was a source of great grief to the 
 family, and, perhaps, most of all to the fond and sensitive 
 heart of his brother, the poet. Meantime, Ebenezer 
 found that a large payment which he had agreed to 
 make to his father and brother on their separation from 
 him, was more than he shoidd ever have undertaken, 
 and its consequences more than he could long contend 
 against. He gradually sunk, and became, I believe, a 
 perfect specimen of an honest bankrupt. Poor Ebenezer ! 
 His heart was long and sorely rent ; nor had he then the 
 consolation of knowing how Providence was preparing 
 him to be the consoler of thousands who should be fixed 
 in similar circumstances. 
 
 The first indication which I received of Mr. Elliott's 
 
 z 2
 
 258 KECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZEE ELLIOTT, 
 
 poetic character, was from The Iris newspaper. I have 
 little notion of the date of the circumstance, but it is a 
 great many years ago. Mr. Montgomery was then 
 editor of The Iris. Some poetry appeared in the corner 
 of the paper usually appropriated to it, headed "Night," 
 and introduced by the editor in words like these: — 
 ' The following lines are from a beautiful, but unpublished 
 poem, called < Wharncliffe, ' by Mr. Ebenezer Elliott, of 
 Eotherham." The lines were the concluding paragraph of 
 the above-named poem; and they now stand on the seven- 
 teenth page of Tait's edition of Elliott's Poetical Works. 
 
 "Without any knowledge of particulars, but rather 
 judging from incidental remarks and allusions which I 
 have frequently heard him make, I believe that after his 
 unfortunate fadure, Mr. Elliott had to struggle hard for 
 a considerable time under its consequences. At last 
 he received essential help in an extraordinary way. His 
 name, as a writer, was becoming known, if not to the 
 world, at least, among a circle of literary men ; and the 
 late truly-generous Earl Fitzwilliam being aware of his 
 difficulties and his merits, voluntarily remitted to him 
 a considerable present. This, I have heard the poet say, 
 saved him from final ruin. 
 
 It was after Mr. Elliott had been several years in 
 Sheffield, that my attention was called to one of his 
 earliest published volumes, containing, among other 
 poems, " The Village Patriarch." The man who showed 
 it to me was Mr. Samuel Crooks, Bookseller, then of 
 Eotherham, now of Chester ; and. because he knew I 
 could not afford to buy it, he kindly (after pointing out 
 some of its beauties) lent it me out of his shop, that I 
 migbt have an opportunity of reading it. 
 
 Soon after the date of the last-named circumstance, 
 Mr. Elliott's name had become far better known. A
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FKIENDS. 259 
 
 small local publication called "The Wath Magazine," 
 to which I had contributed, introduced me to Mr. Larett 
 Langley, of Brampton, who was its principal editor ; of 
 him I borrowed a thin volume, consisting chiefly of 
 Elliott's short and striking poems, called " Corn Law 
 .Rhymes." Mr. Langley was an excellent critic of lan- 
 guage, as well as a judge of general literature ; and he gave 
 me a deep impression of Elliott's composition, independ- 
 ently of his political views and feelings. This, together 
 with my previous knowledge, both of the man and his 
 works, caused me to take the volume home from 
 Brampton, with the expectation of receiving a rich treat, 
 and I was not disappointed. I read the poems over, 
 one after another, first to myself, and then to my wife 
 and children. As the subjects were chiefly suffering 
 poverty, of which we had been, and still were, large 
 partakers, they suited us amazingly. We sympathized 
 with the poet, even tearfully, because he sympathized 
 with us. An honest-hearted old collier, worn out with 
 a life of hard work, and who was then a pauper, and 
 frequented my little shop as a place for pastime, wept 
 again and again, as I read the passages to him. In fact, 
 though some of Ebenezer's strong expressions at first 
 rather shocked my religious prejudices, I was not long 
 before I venerated his character, as I should have ven- 
 erated an old inspired Hebrew prophet. 
 
 I am not aware that I had hitherto been personally 
 known to Mr. Elliott. Soon after I removed to Sheffield, 
 which was in January, 1833, I saw him for the first time 
 after many years. He was walking up Barker Pool, towards 
 his own house, and I was walking behind him. Instead 
 of the straight and upright figure which I had still 
 retained in the eye of my memory, I was amazed to see 
 a bent and time-worn man. I wished much to speak
 
 260 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 and make myself known to kim, but could not find a 
 pretext to do it at tkat time. Subsequently, I kaving 
 publisked some lines in The Sheffield Iris, wkick kad 
 tke good luck to be slightly admired, and kaving kad a 
 few copies of tkem struck off for private circulation, my 
 friend, Dr. Gr. C. Holland, persuaded me to call on 
 Elliott, and present one to kim, togetker witk kis (Dr. 
 Holland's) compliments. I did so, and was received 
 witk extreme courtesy. As to my verses, I know not 
 wkat extravagant tkings ke said about tkem. I recollect 
 ke ended by telling me, that I kad tkrown botk 
 Montgomery and kimself into tke skade ! * Of course 
 I was not so foolisk as to swallow tkis nonsense, literally ; 
 yet, I confess, I was not only muck pleased witk kis 
 kind reception, but a good deal intoxicated witk tke 
 praise. Wkat poor scribbler could kave been otkerwise ? 
 I soon learned to value Mr. Elliott's off-kand flattery 
 more at its real value. Tet tkis injudicious way of 
 buoying people up, I always tkougkt one of tke irrecon- 
 cilable tkings in my friend's conduct. It is true, after 
 one knew kim better, tkere was a way of getting at kis 
 
 * This was a grave fault of Elliott's. He praised young authors 
 so indiscriminately, that he did immense mischief; and often 
 encouraged talents which would have been more profitably em- 
 ployed in blacking shoes than in soiling paper with bad rhymes. 
 I once remonstrated with him for persisting in this injurious 
 habit, and his answer was : " I do not like to give pain. Writing 
 will do these poor devils no harm, but good, and 3ave them from 
 worse things." My reply was : "But your criticisms are not just, 
 if they were, they would be serviceable." "But," he said, " these 
 scribblers don't want justice, but praise ; and if my praise can do 
 them any good, they are welcome to it." This was bad enough, 
 and I think unpardonable. Yet Elliott was a true critic when 
 he pleased to be so, " but not to fools," as he emphatically said. 
 
 J. S.
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 261 
 
 real opinions ; but the enquirer must be himself capa- 
 ble of reasoning, and of putting this and that together. 
 It is but justice to say, that I had afterwards many 
 proofs of honest criticism from him, which, by -the -by, 
 were not so pleasant, if more useful. 
 
 From that clay — I say it with gratitude, as well as 
 pride — Mr. Elliott waa my friend. One thing which 
 helped to keep up and increase our intercourse, was the 
 circumstance, that while I was the assistant-secretary 
 of the Mechanics' Institution, he was, at the same time, 
 a member of its committee. I had not been very long 
 known to him, before I gave him to understand that I 
 had formed some excellent acquaintances among the 
 members and managers of the Institution, one of whom, 
 particularly, I should much like him to know. "When 
 I mentioned the name, I was glad and surprised to 
 learn that he already knew and appreciated him. Those 
 who know anything of me and my associates will scarcely 
 need informing that the individual meant was my still 
 highly-esteemed friend, Mr. John Fowler. Mr. Elliott 
 immediately gave a hearty invitation to his house for any 
 or all of us. This was the origin and commencement of 
 many pleasant meetings and excursions, and of at least 
 sixteen years of varied but always satisfactory intercourse 
 between the poet, myself, and four or five others. 
 
 With regard to myself, I will diverge from my subject 
 so much as to say, that I had now, as far as interesting 
 associates went, satisfied a craving which I had long 
 experienced. For many previous years I had vainly 
 sighed for congenial society. As for literary genius, I 
 had once been greatly pleased to walk sixteen nnles to 
 look upon and listen to James Montgomery. Now, I 
 was an honoured member of a voluntary and select band, 
 any of which were capable of literary appreciation, and
 
 262 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 exercise too, and numbering one of almost world-wide 
 fame. I can look back to the time to which I am allud- 
 ing, and see how crude many of my own notions were, 
 and how vaguely my principles were jumbled together. 
 Having led more than twenty years of my previous life 
 as a conventionally religious man, but having recently 
 had my orthodoxy shaken by reading and study, I was 
 just then a curious medley of doubt, conjecture, and 
 speculation. My naturally strong religious feelings had 
 given way, and I was bewildered, something like a certain 
 personage in his celebrated journey through chaos ; first, 
 I was lifted up by some ideal "nitrous cloud" into the 
 third heaven of speculation ; and, anon, dropping into a 
 "boggy syrtis" of despair. In this condition, I am not 
 aware that I could have met with a more efficient help 
 than Mr. Elliott proved to be. "Whatever the world may 
 say to the contrary, he was a deeply religious man ; and 
 when deep feeling comes to be appreciated as a better 
 test than mere profession of belief, religion like his will 
 not then be questioned. 
 
 In one of the letters which I had the pleasure of 
 receiving from him, Mr. Elliott states, that nearly all 
 his poems originated in real circumstances. I had 
 conjectured that such was the case, before he told me. 
 "The Jacobin's Prayer," I think, is no doubt made 
 up of curses and singularly-expressed wishes which he 
 had heard over and over from his own father. The 
 
 backing of 
 
 " His war-horse through the panes 
 Of quiet people who had brains," 
 
 was an incident in the old man's history ; and the 
 cursings, after the fashion of David, King of Israel, 
 are no less genuine remembrancers, to all who knew 
 anything of old Ebenezer, the Ironmonger.
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 263 
 
 Those who did not personally know Mr. Elliott, will, 
 of course, have learned from his writings how much the 
 iniquity of the corn and provision-restricting laws were 
 hated and condemned hy him. But such persons cannot 
 be fully aware of the extent of his feeling, and the 
 occasional frenzy of his excited powers, when the subject 
 was introduced in conversation. One of the individuals 
 whom I alluded to as belonging to our literary and social 
 circle, was the late lamented Mr. Francis Fisher. This 
 amiable young gentleman, though not then in the regular 
 ministry, was in the habit of preaching at Stannington, 
 and various places, in connexion with the Unitarians. Of 
 all benevolent, truth-loving individuals, I never knew his 
 superior. Mr. Elliott thought equally highly of him. 
 Though extremely modest, Mr. E. was fond of preaching, 
 and of talking about his sermons, and Mr. Elliott had 
 invited him to read one of them to a few of us, at his 
 house, at Upperthorpe, one Sunday afternoon. After the 
 sermon, which was a real good one, and whde the party 
 were engaged in conversation, it happened that Mr. 
 Eisher, who did not think exactly with Mr. EUiott on 
 the subject, by some allusion or other, introduced his 
 view of the Corn Laws. I shall never forget the scene 
 which followed. It was tremendous. He had evidently 
 allowed his mind to get over-balanced by strong and long 
 continued excitement. Half an hour, however, set all 
 right again ; the poet was as gentle as a lamb. 
 
 In conversation, Mr. EUiott was what a reader of his 
 works would have expected him to be. No one who 
 has studied his poems would imagine that he was a 
 loquacious person. He thought too well, and selected 
 his language with too much care, to be always talking. 
 Perhaps, in the art of condensation, he never had his 
 equal. It is certain, that in this power he even sur-
 
 264 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 passed Burns. It will be easy to conceive, that to such 
 a thinker, and to such a master of language, mere talk 
 would be very annoying. 
 
 Perhaps it was owing to his systematic mode of think- 
 ing and speaking, that one often got a glimpse of what 
 he was contemplating in his study, even before he 
 formally announced it. "While the thoughts which were 
 intended to live were becoming clothed in language 
 whose beauty would stereotype it, he not unfrequently 
 allowed the newly-coined ideas and phrases to emanate 
 beforehand. I have frequently been struck while reading 
 his last published piece, to find one or other of its most 
 striking passages already tingling, as it were, in the ear 
 of my memory, from their repetition in recent conver- 
 sations. If I am right on this subject, and I think I 
 am, it not only shows how rich he was in material for 
 thought, but how carefully he husbanded that material, 
 and how economical even genius sometimes is. 
 
 The first appearance of the late Charles B-eece Pember- 
 ton in Sheffield, was an event which influenced Elliott both 
 immediately and in its consequences. Pemberton had 
 previously written the Pel Verguice Papers, and other 
 things which had raised his name high in the esteem of 
 an influential class of literary men. One of his first 
 enquiries, on reaching the town, by the hills of Norton, 
 was for the Mechanics' Institution. His next was for 
 Ebenezer Elliott. I believe their first meeting was at 
 Mr. Elliott's warehouse. Such persons needed no intro- 
 duction. They . had been acquainted before they met ; 
 and, if a personal recognition, increased their mutual 
 attachment, it no more altered its nature than it origin- 
 ated the feeling. Mr. Elliott hailed with increased 
 delight every subsequent visit of the distinguished 
 di'amatist. During Pemberton' s long and painful illness
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 205 
 
 Elliott cheerfully joined Sergeant Talfourd, W. J. Fox, 
 Dr. Holland, and many other sympathising friends in 
 their efforts to promote his relief and recovery. 
 
 How Pemberton's death affected Mr. Elliott all his 
 friends know who have read his touching and beautiful 
 lines, entitled " Poor Charles." I have often thought 
 how highly and appropriately honoured the memory of 
 Pemberton was, in Finsbury Square Chapel, on that 
 Sunday morning when those lines were sung to music, 
 composed for the occasion by the sweetly-gifted, now 
 deceased, Miss Flower. I will here quote the verses : — 
 
 POOE CHARLES. 
 
 " Shunn'd by the rich, the vain, the dull, 
 
 Truth's all-forgiving son, 
 The gentlest of the beautiful, 
 
 His painful course hath run ; 
 Content to live, to die resign'd ; 
 In meekness, proud of wishes kind, 
 
 And duties nobly done. 
 
 A godlike child hath left the earth ; 
 
 In heaven a child is born : 
 Cold world! thou could' st not know his worth, 
 
 And well he earned thy scorn ; 
 For he believed that all may be 
 What martyrs are, in spite of thee. 
 
 Nor wear thy crown of thorn. 
 
 Smiling, he wreathed it round his brain, 
 
 And dared what martyrs dare ; 
 For God, who wastes not joy nor pain, 
 
 Had armed his soul to bear : 
 But vain his hope to find below 
 That peace which heaven alone can know; 
 
 He died, to seek it there." 
 
 A A
 
 2GG RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 Poor Charles, indeed ! Elliott long mourned his distress- 
 ing illness and his painful wanderings. If, however, his 
 spirit could feel a sense of recompense in heaven, for his 
 earthly sufferings, it must have been in looking down and 
 witnessing such a trio of geniuses as Elliott, Fox, and 
 Elower, surrounded, perhaps, by the most intellectual 
 Christian congregation in the world, all conspiring to 
 honour his memory. 
 
 At the time when the "Working-men's Associations" 
 were first formed, for the improvement and subsequent 
 enfranchisement of the working classes, Mr. Elliott, like 
 the rest of us, joined in the project, heart and soul. He 
 wrote for us, spoke at public meetings, joined our sub- 
 scriptions, and laid himself out in every possible way to 
 advance the cause of the people. "While such men as 
 William Lovett guided the movement, nothing was 
 wanting on Elliott's part. As soon, however, as the 
 demagogues got the upper hand, and physical -force 
 became the order of the day, Elliott knew better than to 
 allow his name to remain attached to such a debased 
 and ruined cause. He withdrew, like many more, in 
 utter disgust. 
 
 It is a fact that will perhaps astonish some people, 
 to know that Elliott, as a writer, is very little known, 
 and poorly appreciated, in Sheffield. Had he not been 
 a politician, and sometimes a public speaker, thousands 
 of his townsmen would never have known him at all. 
 One apology may be made for this apparent apathy, 
 namely, the prodigious condensation, and consequent 
 frequent incomprehensibility of his style. This is 
 peculiarly applicable to many of his political epigrams, 
 and such short pieces as often appeared in the news- 
 papers. I need not say to such as have read him 
 thoroughly, that lie sometimes wrote as effectively to
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 2G7 
 
 the plainest understanding, and as touchingly to the 
 most rustic heart of nature's true child, as either Scott, 
 Burns, or Shakspere. But this was far from being 
 always the case. From experience, I can say that the 
 common understanding frequently failed to comprehend 
 him at the first sight. Many were the occasions on 
 which I laid down the newspaper or magazine, resolving 
 that, at last, Ebenezer had written something which 
 I could not understand, and of course, could not like. 
 I scarcely need add, that in every instance, I found the 
 fault was in my own dulness, and that the persevering 
 intellect was always rewarded. Many of his readers, 
 however, wanted the interest which I felt ; they merely 
 wondered what he aimed at, and laid aside the paper. 
 Though every one acknowledged his merit, it is with 
 him as it has often been with others — popular opinion 
 follows that of acknowledged literary authority. Popular 
 opinion would raise a monument to Elliott ; but more 
 because his name is in every newspaper, than because 
 the populace have read, understood, and appreciated 
 him. It is true, it was very different, if the lines coming 
 under observation were such as " Hannah Badcliffe," 
 "The Home of Taste," "The Dying Boy to the Sloe 
 Blossom," and other pieces of a similar popular character. 
 The above was one reason why Elliott was not univers- 
 ally appreciated; but there were others. A man who 
 does not support conventional interests, but rather takes 
 every opportunity of opposing selfish and oppressive 
 authority, is sure to make himself many enemies. And 
 the greater the power he brings to bear against the evils, 
 the more he will be slandered and persecuted. It will 
 be easily seen, that his energetic zeal manifested against 
 the Corn Laws, would cause his name to be hated by a 
 larsfe and influential class. But neither was this the last
 
 268 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 reason. Ebenezer Elliott was not religiously orthodox. 
 It would not have signified much had he been a mere 
 practical atheist ; that is, if he had forgotten that there 
 is a God in heaven ; if he had overlooked the oppressed 
 and the oppressors on earth. He might have done all 
 this, and have been one of the boon associates of these 
 professedly orthodox Christians ; but he could not let 
 tyranny and hypocrisy alone. Like an inspired bard, 
 as he was, he told the tyrants the truth, and they hated 
 him, and called him an injidel ! Shame on the calum- 
 niators ! If ever a Christian heart beat in a human 
 bosom, it was in that of the Corn Law Ilhymer. It will 
 never be forgotten, that when Ebenezer Elliott, in the 
 year 1839, simply sought admission to the Sheffield 
 Literary and Philosophical Society, the members of that 
 society black-balled him ! 
 
 As a member of the Mechanics' Institution Committee, 
 Mr. Elliott constantly exerted himself, energetically and 
 effectively, for its welfare. His course of Lectures on 
 " Poets and Poetry," part of which were published in 
 " Tait's Magazine," were written for and delivered to the 
 Mechanics' Institution at our request. Eor a consider- 
 able period he devoted much of his time in waiting on 
 manufacturers and neighbouring gentlemen, on behalf of 
 the fund for the erection of the building in Surrey Street. 
 Nor did he withhold his money. Besides his name being 
 in the highest list of annual subscribers, he gave several 
 special donations. 
 
 The circumstances which led to Mr. Elliott's removal, 
 with his family, from Sheffield to the neighbourhood of 
 Grreat Houghton, as they were related by himself, deserve 
 recording. I think it was in the ante-room of the Com- 
 mercial News-room, High Street, that he gave me the 
 following account. "Many years ago," he said, "while
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 2G9 
 
 he was waiting to transact some business at an office in 
 East Parade, Sheffield, being seated with his eye towards 
 tbe churchyard, he observed a dog gnawing a human bone 
 which had been flung from a new-made grave. Being 
 nervously sensitive on such subjcts, he turned away with 
 the greatest disgust, and was for some time agitated dis- 
 tressingly. He immediately determined that if ever he 
 became able, he would purchase at least as much land as 
 would afford himself a quiet grave." 
 
 He next went on to tell me, " that a few days ago he 
 had gone down to Eotherham, for the purpose of transact- 
 ing some business with Mr. Benjamin Badger, auctioneer. 
 AVhen he got to Eotherham, jM r. Badger happened to be 
 in his auction-room, attempting to sell a few acres of land, 
 which he described as lying on the edge of Houghton 
 Common. For a short time he (Mr Elliott) walked 
 about outside tbe room ; presently some one spoke to 
 him of what was going on within, and of what an excel- 
 lent bargain a person might make avIio had the means and 
 the inclination. His old determination to become a free- 
 holder came into his mind. He stepped in, and, if I 
 mistake not, Mr. Badger personally addressed him on the 
 unmistakable chance of a cheap pennyworth. The land 
 was described as to situation, extent, what part was 
 arable, what was covered with a small wood, etc. Mr. 
 Elliott concluded to make a bid. He did so, and suddenly 
 became possessed of a laud estate." At the time he 
 related these circumstances, he had been over to look at 
 the property, and was still evidently pleased with his 
 bargain ; talked of making a good deal of the purchase- 
 money, by clearing the land of wood, and of the probability 
 of his building himself a house, and going to live upon it; 
 all which, time and his own energies brought to pass. 
 
 To show that his idea of a rural and private grave was 
 
 A A 2
 
 270 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 a serious desire of his mind, I may mention that he once 
 wrote a most feeling letter to Mr. Fowler and myself, 
 wherein he manifested an earnest wish that if it was 
 possible his remains might be buried under a certain tree 
 on the top' of Shirecliffe. For our guidance, he had 
 marked the tree by driving a nail into it. Under this 
 tree, he told us, and around it, was the ideal scene of the 
 Sunday morning preaching of Miles Gordon, the Eanter. 
 And a glorious scene it is truly; the most interesting, 
 perhaps, of any around Sheffield. Nearly every hill, and 
 wood, and spire, and monument, which he enumerates in 
 the poem so beautifully, are not only to be seen, but, with 
 their picturesque associations, fully justify his glorious 
 description. 
 
 I have often thought, while reading this poem or think- 
 ing about it, that had Ebenezer Elliott been somewhat 
 differently educated, he might himself have made the very 
 prototype of Miles Gordon. Had his strong religious 
 feeling only been guided in a more orthodox channel, that 
 same feeling, combined with his great benevolence and 
 firmness of character, would have fitted him for any work 
 of love and self-denial. Respecting his wish to be buried 
 beneath the Gospel Tree, who can blame him, after con- 
 sidering how interestingly dear his musings must have 
 made the scene to his own heart ? How such a project 
 was ever to be accomplished, without the concurrence of 
 the members of his own family, was another thing ; we 
 never enquired, however ; concluding that not to oppose 
 him peremptorily, but to let the matter die away out of 
 his mind, by means of time and other circumstances, 
 would be the best policy. 
 
 I recollect that a little while before he left Sheffield I 
 made a kind of casual and slight request to Mr. Elliott, 
 that he would sometime give the particular list of friends
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 271 
 
 amongst whom I ranked myself, and whom he had so 
 long distinguished by a degree of attachment, the further 
 honour of being knit together by means of a few verses 
 of his valued rhymes. It is unnecessary to acknowledge, 
 on my part, a degree of vanity in this request. I hope, 
 however, it will be deemed pardonable. My veneration 
 for a real poet has been profound, ever since I became 
 acquainted with the writings of Cowper, Goldsmith, 
 Young, and Montgomery, in my youthful days. "Whether 
 Mr. Elliott again thought of my request, or whether it 
 went out of his mind, and the idea originated some other 
 way, I know not ; but after he had resided awhile at 
 Houghton, having occasion to write to one of our party, 
 namely, Mr. Michael Beale, watchmaker, about a new 
 watch which he was thinking of purchasing, he took 
 occasion to accompany his letter on business by the 
 following copy of singular verses.* The piece has never 
 been published : — 
 
 THE WORLD'S BEST. 
 
 " Said the world's best of men (to the knowing, known well 
 As a fish that could swim with the stream) 
 Let us sing to the glory and praise of oursel' 
 My ninety-ninth hymn on that theme. 
 
 * I hope the reader will pardon me for inserting these question- 
 able verses. They are however so highly characteristic of Elliott, 
 in his free moods, and possess such real merit, and, what is singular, 
 humour, also, that I felt I could not omit them without manifest 
 injustice. Effusions of a similar nature will be found amongst the 
 poems of Burns, and I must plead this precedent in my own justifi- 
 cation in the present matter. 
 
 J. S.
 
 272 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 I cannot conceive how a wise man, (can you ?) 
 
 Could differ from me and do well ; 
 Eor my god, Prudence bight, is a god well to do, 
 
 Alias, Marry Tak' Care o' Mysel. 
 
 The best of all maxims is " Keep what you've got " 
 
 Says Marry Tak' Care o' Mysel ; 
 So I keep to myself what I know, and know not, 
 
 Or they who know nothing, would tell. 
 
 While my tongue is as close as my fist, taking care 
 That I seem to know more than is known, 
 
 Who suspects that my treasures, pick'd up here and there, 
 Are bits of fios silk and staiu'd bone ? 
 
 God curse that John Fowler, and cobbling old Paul ! 
 
 They would teach beggar's boys to know more 
 Than your deep gifted men, who know nothing at all 
 
 About Freedom, and such beggar's lore. 
 
 My servant mate, Kit, turns her nose up at me ! 
 
 The tinner's blear' d lad as I pass 
 Cries, "Who'll buy a bag of sloe-leaves for bohea? 
 
 Here's the elephant goose, in an ass ! " 
 
 The Devil take Fisher and Lowe, with their zeal 
 
 For the love of the lovely and true ! 
 And burn in his pit, Spencer Hall, and Mic' Beale ! 
 
 What have I with their rambles to do ? 
 
 Yet I'm blamed by Hell-thunder the parson, who sees 
 
 That e'en Kitty comes seldom to pray : 
 I'd have her devout, as my mare's broken knees, 
 
 Why is she not, d — n her ? I say. 
 
 I ask'd her last night, "Why in duty so slack ? " 
 
 " He calls us base scum ! " she replied ; 
 But we're good as his master, and not quite so black, 
 
 And we don't curse the chaise, if we ride.
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 273 
 
 Now, God in his mercy, confound squinting Sam, 
 
 For lending her " Nature Revealed ! " * 
 But they'd both be religious, as I myself am, 
 
 Were I king while two backs could be peeled. 
 
 For they're both gone astray from the fold to the den ; 
 
 From the saints and salvation they're flown ; 
 From Wesley and Heaven, to the chapel of men, 
 
 AVhere the Devil is preached by his own." 
 
 Although Elliott was deficient of the humour necessary 
 to create a " Sir John Falstaff, " or even a " Tain 
 o'Shanter," he was by no means without humour, as 
 the above, as well as several of his publications prove. 
 It never was matter of surprise to me that he thought 
 he possessed more of it than he really did; for I have 
 known many instances of self-deception on this very 
 point. That he thought he had humour, the following 
 extract from one of his letters will show. After finding 
 fault with one of my rhymed epistles, for want of humour, 
 he says : — 
 
 " I intend to ' shame the fools' who say I have no 
 humour, by transcribing the ' Gipsy,' and sending it to 
 John Fowler for his opinion. t But once again, and once 
 for all, I disclaim all personal allusion in that poem. J 
 Like most of my poems, it is a result of observation, and 
 not more personal than the least personal of them 
 all." 
 
 * " Nature, a Revelation." 
 
 t He had a high and just opinion of Mr. Fowler's judgment. 
 But though he sent the poem as proposed, and promptly received a 
 full acknowledgment of many of its peculiar beauties, he was not, I 
 believe, gratified with an unqualified confirmation of his own 
 opinion. 
 
 X I had previously intimated that the poem contained personal 
 allusions.
 
 274 RECOLLECTIONS OF ENENEZER ELLIOTT, 
 
 On the subject of humour I shall be excused in tran- 
 scribing part of another letter, as no mean proof that he 
 was not entirely without it. I had sent him a printed 
 copy of an account of a pleasure excursion among the 
 hills and dales of Derbyshire. The passage may not suit 
 every one, but we shall never all think alike ; and Elliott, 
 I am sure, would have been the last to make light of what 
 he conscientiously deemed sacred subjects. Here is 
 Elliott's letter:— 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Barnsley, \M7t Oct., 1846. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Rodgees, 
 
 " I wronged all the souls in my carcase, (if any are left,) 
 when I thought I was forgotten even of Paul. 
 " Thanks for your ' Days in the Dales,' and — 
 
 " When next you mount your one-horse chay, 
 May I ride with you all the way. 
 
 * * # # 
 
 " Railway trips to the moors not heing yet the fashion, and 
 
 economy being, of course, an object with all poets, I suggest an 
 
 improvement on the one-horse chaise. As Sheffield poets (unless 
 
 they are altered) sometimes travel on the Sabbath, I think we might 
 
 prevail on a certain personage, who shall be nameless, to constitute 
 
 his back our locomotive, when next we go a picturesquing. We 
 
 might hold on by his tail; taking care to grease it first, that we 
 
 might slip him at his hall door,* if he took it into his head to carry 
 
 us further than we bargained for. Ask Fowler what he thinks of 
 
 this plan ? 
 
 " Ebenezee, C.L.R." 
 
 As a writer and public speaker Mr. Elliott was truly 
 no respecter of persons. Although their well-known 
 champion and defender on most occasions, when he saw 
 the people in the wrong, as he frequently did, he no more 
 flattered them than the rest. It is well recollected in 
 
 * The Peak Cavern, at Castleton, called by the vulgar "The 
 Devil's Hole," " The Devil's House of the Peak," etc.
 
 HIS FAMILY, AND FRIENDS. 275 
 
 Sheffield how indignantly he hurled his ue against the 
 physical-force Chartists. The Socialists, too, had little 
 mercy at his hands. Two or three of the latter sect were 
 well known to him. On a subject, however, of such vital 
 importance to the interests of society, no associations of 
 friendship, or worldly consideration, blinded him to the 
 truth, or prevented him from uttering its dictates. 
 
 Mr. Elliott's judgment on public matters and questions 
 of business I always thought varied a good deal. I know 
 not whether it was that he did not, in every case, bring 
 the whole of his powers to bear on the subject before 
 him, or how it was, but while his perception and decision 
 seemed now and then faulty, generally and most especially 
 on points of importance, his judgment was clear and his 
 mind foreseeing. Perhaps he was sometimes warped by 
 prejudice. I think it is clear that he was so on subjects 
 connected with the conduct of the aristocracy. He had 
 contemplated their occasional baseness, till he suspected 
 them in everything. On the subject which he studied 
 well he almost always decided right. Being very attentive 
 to his business, I believe he seldom committed business 
 errors. 
 
 With regard to Mr. Elliott's frame and figure, he has 
 been sorely handled by the painters and engravers. 
 Those who never knew him ought to be told, that the 
 published portraits convey scarcely any idea at all of the 
 man. The one in Tait's copy is a mere scare-crow. 
 On the first publication of the volume, he kindly sent 
 several copies as presentations among his friends. I 
 recollect he told me in a note accompanying mine, that 
 he "had touched the portrait up a little." And so he 
 had, with a strong hand, for he had made the eye-brows 
 and hair stand staring out like the prickles on a hedge- 
 hog. I should not now, however, be soon induced to
 
 276 RECOLLECTIONS OF EBEKEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 part with the valued relic. The portrait of him by- 
 Margaret Gillies, in "Howitt's Journal," may be a better 
 picture, but is still less like him. It is amusing to read 
 Mr. Howitt's congratulatory remarks upon it. He says : 
 " Here he sits, in his own proper likeness, as he sat on 
 that pleasant Sunday morning in January last." Mr. 
 Howitt thought so, or he would not have said it ; but 
 " God forbid," say Elliott's friends, "that such a common 
 looking thing should be taken for anything resembling 
 Ebenezer Elliott." Among the engraved portraits, the 
 one which conveys the best impression of him, is that 
 in the first volume of his works, published in 1833. 
 Mr. Elliott's head was not large; and he often said, 
 that supposing it true that he had something in it, its 
 want of size belied phrenology. His frame was energetic 
 and wiryj more remarkable for nerve than sinew. In 
 youth, as I have said before, he was singularly upright, 
 like a little man who did not wish to lose a hair's-breadth 
 of height. As age came on, he became a little bent, a 
 good deal bleached, and wrinkled ; and altogether carry- 
 ing the appearance of a weather-beaten, care-worn man. 
 Tbe last time I had the pleasure of seeing him, was the 
 day on which he planted a tree, by request, in our 
 Botanical Gardens.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 The following characteristic letters were addressed 
 
 to Mr. George Tweddell, editor of " The Yorkshire 
 
 Miscellany." 
 
 " Great Houghton Common, near Barnsley, 
 
 \Zth Avgust, 1844. 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " I feci honoured by the receipt of a letter fom such a man 
 
 as George Tweddell. But it grieves me to say that I have no 
 
 unpublished non-political poem, except one which is 300 lines too 
 
 long for any magazine, and having been written as an experiment to 
 
 combine the humorous and the beautiful, by a writer destitute of 
 
 humour, is, of course, a failure. I will send you something soon, 
 
 if I can bring my drape of a muse to her milk again. But what 
 
 can you expect from an old bitch past bearing ? I set her to work 
 
 for you last night, and she conceived and brought forth certain 
 
 glimmerings of moonshine, but of such a red, ferrety, anti-corn-law 
 
 hue, that I put them into the fire, without at all weakening the 
 
 flame. She is like the painter who could paint nothing but red 
 
 lions ; if she tries to paint angels, it is plain at a glance that they 
 
 come of red lions, let the lady say what she will. Perhaps the 
 
 truth is, that I am humbled by the excellence of the poetry in your 
 
 magazine. Who is Sylvan? I have long suspected that I am 
 
 nobody in such company. The author of ' The Island of Demons,' 
 
 gone to the Capulets, was assuredly somebody. 
 
 ' Why should futurity give nie or thee hopes, 
 WTien not a pinch of dust is left of Cheopes ? ' 
 
 Oould we persuade some other great folks to suspect that they are 
 not gods, but mortals of the useless species, our bread-taxers would 
 be much wiser and happier devils than they are. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 " Ebenezer Elliott. 
 B B 2
 
 282 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 " I am uiiwilliug to depress you, yet I must in honesty say, that 
 you cannot succeed without a miracle, and miracles are no longer 
 wrought, except for the strong. No town out of London, 
 (Edinburgh excepted) has been able to support a magazine; not 
 Manchester, nor Liverpool ; it is whispered, not Dublin, though, 
 like Edinburgh, a metropolis. 
 
 "E. E." 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Barnsley, 8th Jan., 1845. 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " If I have not sent you a contribution, it is because I have 
 not been able to write one likely to be of service to you. The only 
 things I have sent to the press during the last three years are 
 failures, extreme in their politics. Indeed, I did not leave Sheffield 
 before my energies had left me. I need no bookseller, and have 
 none, for the only book I buy is a weekly newspaper at second hand. 
 But that I have read a few articles in the Westminster Review, I 
 might say that I am newspaper taught, and after passing a very 
 active life, I cannot read without being ill. I am sorry you blame the 
 people for not helping you : famine is helping hundreds of thousands 
 of them into the grave, and the survivors will be more to be pitied 
 than the dead. * * I have tried in vain to obtain a subscriber 
 or two for you. I live surrounded by several hundred acres of 
 wood, nine miles from the nearest market town, with three neigh- 
 bours in the circuit of a mile, reading no book but Old Moore. 
 With Roseberry — with the whole district of Hambleton, Helmsley, 
 Guisbrough, Rosedale, Eskdale, — I am much better acquainted than 
 I dare try to be with these police-haunted woods, and farmsteads 
 tenanted by unliveried dependents of palaced paupers. Alter or 
 omit the lines in your poem which refer to your detracters. Why 
 stand on your defence without occasion ? Live them down, or die 
 
 them down. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours truly, 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 " Great Houghton, 25th Feb., 1845. 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " I thank you for your favour of the 20th instant, and 
 
 gladly subscribe for your friend's ' Songs of the Heart,' heartily
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 283 
 
 wishing him success, though the days of verse are numbered. My 
 Sonnet on the Dearne is utterly worthless. In ' Tait' there are 
 one or two good ones of mine, addressed to our friend Thomas 
 Lister. You will find him in many respects remarkable — a 
 courageous, energetic, gristle-bodied man, with a bump of * I'll 
 have my own way,' bigger than a hen's egg, on his summit-ridge ; 
 his face is handsome, except the eyes, or rather their position, 
 which is cavernous ; the eyes themselves are keen and characteristic ; 
 his lips are beautiful. If there is truth in phrenology, his observant 
 faculties should be strong and active, as his writings seem to prove. 
 If I had known such a man forty years earlier, I could have climbed 
 Ben Lomond with him , for, with the assistance of my hands, I 
 could then have sprung over such a man. But well-a-day! 
 
 ' My hair is grey, my blood is cold, 
 The minstrel is infiriu and old.' 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 " Ebenezer Elliott. 
 " I shall be glad to see you in my den, but home-brewed I have 
 none. When I married ' Ar Mester,' she agreed that she would 
 have two bairns, a lad and a lass, and the best home-brewed ale in 
 England. She more than kept her promise as to the bairns, for 
 they came so fast that they stopped the brewing." 
 
 The six subsequent letters, addressed to Mr. Isaac 
 Ironside, the leading Socialist of Sheffield, and for a 
 long time Elliott's friend and business agent, will show 
 how determined was the hatred with which Elliott 
 regarded the communistic ideas and communism. I 
 will insert them according to their dates. 
 
 " Sheffield, 10th March, 1834. 
 " Sir, 
 
 " My son Ben advises me to have nothing to do with your 
 
 meeting. Why, he asks, should it be called ? If your object is 
 
 to prove me wrong and Owen right, why did you not do so long 
 
 since, before all England ? Instead of doing so, what have you 
 
 done ? You have used the worst fallacies, and the worst language,
 
 284 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 of your worst enemies, the Tories, for the purpose of bullying a 
 man whom you cannot refute, and whom you would not attempt to 
 bully, if you were not dupes. And who are now your allies ? The 
 Patrons of Blackwood — the bread-tax-eaters themselves ! ' Why,' 
 my son asks, ' should Ebenezer Elliott encourage a set of hulking 
 idlers to come here with the money of the Charles Street Gang 
 under their tongues, and an endless farrago of abuse and common- 
 place plausibilities at the end of them, all got by rote ? ' Is it 
 worth a public meeting to give certain geese an opportunity of 
 crowing like cocks, if a man, who so far from being a public 
 speaker, despises both the babble and the babblers, should not be 
 able, or willing, to outgabble half a dozen deluded fools, and 
 perhaps half a dozen vile hirelings beside ? Hirelings? Yes. You 
 say your parent society has now plenty of money. Whence comes 
 it ? If you are sold, who bought you ? Where are the accounts ? 
 I don't like mystery. My conduct in your society has been 
 straightforward and undisguised, and you have suffered it to be 
 misrepresented. But my opinions are before the public. And 
 your barrister — the greatest goose of Manchester and Salford — has 
 taken good care not to re-publish them. As to your plan of what 
 you call Regeneration, the more impracticable it is the better, 
 provided you act upon it, instead of talking about it. In all the 
 circumstances — a late motion in the Commons on the Corn Laws 
 included — perhaps you cannot do better for all England than follow 
 the advice of Owen and Fielding, Do so, in sufficient numbers, 
 and the bread-tax-eaters, whose dupes you are, will awake with a 
 start ! There will be no occasion then to ask either you or them to 
 rid the Corn Laws ; they will then be got rid of with a vengeance." 
 
 The following letter, from Mr. Ironside of Sheffield, 
 has been alluded to in the ' Memoir,' and will be read 
 here with interest, as an explanation of the above 
 letter : — 
 
 " Sheffield, June 23rd, 1850. 
 " My deae January, 
 
 " I was on intimate terms with Elliott when he wrote me 
 the letter in 1834. Its roughness was caused in the following
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 285 
 
 manner. Owen had been here lecturing in favour of the National 
 Regeneration Society : Elliott heard him. A committee was 
 formed, which met at my house. At one meeting, Elliott produced 
 a memorial to Owen, a beautifully done thing, w^ith far more love 
 in it than he could afford to objects of which he disapproved. He 
 moved its adoption ; tried hard ; but, on a division, was floored. 
 He and the minority signed it and published it in The Iris for 
 February, 1834. I have recently read it, and trust it w r ill be 
 exhumed when his life is written. He told me, with some dis- 
 pleasure, that he should have carried it in the committee but for 
 me. On its publication, the central committee wrote me, and old 
 Pitkethly, of Huddersfield, came, and we agreed to send Elliott a 
 challenge to meet Condy, a Manchester barrister, in public discus- 
 sion on the subject. I did so, and in my letter told him that he 
 would run no risk of expenses, as we (meaning the Sheffield com- 
 mittee) would guarantee him as we had plenty of money. It had 
 
 been subscribed by ourselves, not given. He was so fairly and 
 fully met, mat nis ire was roused, and he wrote me as you see, 
 making a dishonest use of what I had said. What you knew of 
 him would teach you that he was an unscrupulous opponent 
 where free trade was concerned : we soon got round again, 
 however. I cannot concentrate my mind to read much, but I 
 read your book. Perhaps my love of the man was one reason. 
 On the whole, I think you have given a fair description of him. 
 The personal sketches are very graphic and life-like. I was with 
 you throughout your described visit. The dog, and the canary 
 which hopped from my head to his and back, the mound, the com- 
 mon, woods, etc., all were as familiar as possible. I saw him vividly 
 when ridiculing mesmerism. He was not truthful where his pre- 
 judices or free trade were concerned. He never would admit that 
 you had any power over him, although his wife and daughters 
 assured me it was so ; but they did not like to irritate him. You 
 have hit the striking inconsistency in his character. As a man, he 
 wept for the miseries of the poor, and would have done anything 
 for them ; as a political economist, he left them to its mercy. To- 
 wards his later years, he began to see that free trade was not the 
 only gospel. He would admit this inferentially in conversation, 
 while, at the same time, he would be wTitiug as furiously as ever in 
 its favour, and mauling anything not in strict accordance with his
 
 286 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 notion of it. In my reply to his letter criticising ' England the 
 Civilizer,' I told him that the principle of trade therein embodied 
 was far superior to his e Fair exchange of positive surplus, value 
 for value.' This, I told him, was fair trade, and was preferable to 
 free trade. 
 
 " He saw communism arising inevitably, and was enraged that he 
 could not stop it. He told me not to be surprised if I heard of 
 him burning the Bible, because its principles were essentially com- 
 munistic* His wife has frequently begged of me not to discuss 
 with him, as it excited him, and he could not bear it. I used to 
 retreat under shelter of a headache, which he regarded as a proof 
 that he had silenced me, although my obstinacy would not allow 
 me to be convinced. 
 
 " On the appearance of ' Bully Idle's Prayer,' Goodwyn Barmby 
 wrote an answer in the same style, commencing thus : — 
 
 ' Lord send Elliott his reason.' 
 T>-..-„l,_ ^.:„1, „j „,„ i, _,i. u .\,„„„4-„;i ;„ Win TnJenpnrle'nt wTiaw flip 
 
 'Prayer' had first appeared. Leader declined. So did The Times. 
 I went to Houghton, intending to have it out there. On reading 
 it to the wife and daughters they earnestly begged that I would not 
 read it to him. I did not like to give it up, but could not with- 
 stand their entreaties. I eventually gave it to Dr. Watts to get it 
 in The Manchester Examiner. They however, declined, and it has 
 not yet been published." 
 
 " Yours right truly, 
 "January Searle." "ISAAC IRONSIDE." 
 
 " Great Houghton, 29th September, 1847. 
 " Dbab Sir, 
 
 " Your favour of the 21st instant, with your correspondent's 
 article on ' Railways and Bullionism,' reached me in a parcel from 
 Sheffield on the 28th instant, and my house being fidl of visitors, 
 I cannot give it at present the consideration which the vast import- 
 ance of the subject demands. But I have attentively read the 
 paper, and find that the writer is wrong from beginning to end. An 
 issue of the stuff, which he is pleased to call money, might increase 
 
 * This was one of Elliott's extravagances. He would not hare burnt George 
 Sand's ' Cousuelo,' much less the Bible.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 287 
 
 Railway speculation, and would enable some speculators to get out 
 of their dirt-holes ; hut it is capital — not what is called money — 
 that is wanted to complete railways. A few years ago, railways 
 offered the only feasible investment for surplus capital in food-taxed 
 Britain ; but so slowly was that surplus produced, that even the 
 Midland was executed with difficulty. Yet now, when the compar- 
 ative safety with which accommodation bills, endorsed by Joint- 
 Stock Banks, can be re-discounted, has facilitated undue speculation, 
 he would increase the evil! He talks, too, of one pound notes 
 circulating with sovereigns ! Can you tell me where the sovereigns 
 would be found, and at what price purchasable in six months after 
 the appearance of the notes ? I can tell you who would take good 
 care of them, and sell them at a profit (30 per cent, perhaps), 
 especially if Tony Lumpkins' cousins wanted (what they always 
 want) a foreign war. Thank God, the notes would not do much 
 throat-cutting out of Britain ! It is painful to think that the only 
 use he makes of his free trade argument is to sustain a sham. Now 
 free trade means ' Something for Something,' but accommodation 
 bills, if receivable by the tax-gatherer (which is all that your 
 friend's security implies), means an increase of taxation ! and finally, 
 ' Nothing for Something,' as poor Louis the Sixteenth's red necklace 
 dismally proved. But the fact suggests a very important question." 
 
 " Great Houghton, 20th September, 1848. 
 " Dear Sie, 
 
 " I shall never be able to repay your kindness. You have 
 
 behaved like a father to me, and whenever I speak of you in future 
 
 my speech shidl be in this wise, ' Our father Ironside ! ' 
 
 " I have delayed answering your favour of the 10th August, in 
 the hope that I should have good news to tell you, and give my 
 opinion of 'England the Civilizer,' the brave, wise, and most 
 tolerant authoress of which extraordinary book deserves and shall 
 have a re-perusal before I presume to pronounce on its merits. (! !) 
 
 " If you can spare the bath please place it at my debit, as it will 
 be useful to my family. I ceased to use it on Saturday la3t. It 
 has driven the blood, accumulated by the straining, from the seat 
 to the back, whence I hope the constitution will be able to distri- 
 bute it through the system. I shall recover I am told. The truth 
 is, I improve desperately. I suffer great pain, and after losing more
 
 288 COEEESrONDENCE. 
 
 than twenty-eight pounds in weight, I continue to lose weight at 
 the rate of about one pound weekly. You cannot fatten calves in 
 that way. If I am not removed suddenly, I shall last till April next. 
 
 "I wish to be buried in my skin at the foot of Lord Galway's 
 ash tree here ; my folks are all for holy ground and costs. Bother- 
 ham churchyard being full of corruption, and one of our clergymen 
 happening to be here, I have been trying to bargain with him for a 
 grave at Darfield. Could you think it ? Sinking the offal, it will 
 cost ten shillings for the use of the ground alone. 
 
 " If you know any poor devil who meditates rusticide (or death 
 by living in the country), kill him with his granted wish ; sell him 
 the estate you have bought. Though as a country residence near 
 Sheffield, it must be dog-cheap at the price you are to pay for it, 
 you will not like it. The approach to it is a thoroughfare crossing 
 your threshold ! If you have bought the rising ground beyond the 
 wall, in front of the cottage, you may enclose a portion for lawn, 
 etc., and so remove the road a few yards from you, and be able, 
 right and left, to see approaching rascalry, which will be a great 
 satisfaction ! Help-seeking friends, also, will visit you, under pre- 
 tence of seeing Wiming, and desolation beyond it ; but you will not 
 be able to say, with the earnestness of the smoke-dried rhymer : — 
 
 " ' I thank ye, billows of a granite sea, 
 
 That the bribed plough, defeated, halts below ! 
 
 And thanks, majestic Barrenness, to thee, 
 
 For one grim region in a world of woe, 
 
 Where tax-grown wheat, and paupers will not grow.' 
 
 "I have before me a wood-cut of great George (the man!) 
 Stephenson. The expression of the countenance is more than 
 beautiful — almost divine, godlike in its calm and thoughtful sim- 
 plicity. If Phidias had left us such a head and face of Jupiter, 
 the world would never have tired of praising it. 
 
 " Eemember us to your excellent wife ; and if you see sweet 
 sister Kate, tell her she will hear from me in a few days." 
 
 " Great Houghton, 20th November, 1848. 
 "Deae Sir, 
 
 " I return you three books, and show my gratitude by 
 
 advising you to lend no more. At Sheffield I made it a rule to
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 289 
 
 lend the book that instructed me. When I came hither, intending 
 to use my books, I found that I had lent and lost the very books 
 which I most wanted. 
 
 " I have been much pleased with the ' Irish Lyrics,' and am a 
 thought richer for reading them, having contrived to steal a thought 
 from one of them without robbing the author. 
 
 " I hardly know whether Henry Sutton's book* or Fanny Wright's 
 is the more extraordinary. May they ever continue to be singular 
 exhibitions of talent, labouring to be absurd! He, I am happy to 
 believe, will not be able to make man in the image of his conceit, 
 nor she in that of her bigotry. 
 
 "Puzzled by 'England the Civilizer,' I gave it, I am sorry to 
 say, a second and very careful reading. Two-thirds of it, at least, 
 consist of wearisome repetitions ; explanations which do not explain ; 
 and pompous truisms not worth asserting. She exchanges one word 
 for another, and thinks she has done something. Instead of govern- 
 ment, she says, we are to have administration — government using 
 things, and administration men ; what the latter are to use, except 
 things, I cannot see. The only point that she proves is, that (not 
 England but) Italy, has been the civilizer ; and she repudiates the 
 only power that ever did, or can improve the condition of mankind; 
 that power, whose last invented tool — the rail — has done more in 
 ten years for the emancipation of the human race, than unaided 
 agriculture (which means linger-grubbiug for pig-nuts) could in ten 
 thousand." 
 
 " Great Houghton, 2nd January, 1849. 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " A plague on all your houses ! Your Hall of Science, your 
 Chapel of Jabez, your Church of Peter, your House that Jack built, 
 and the House that Martin stole. The result of Neddy's general- 
 ship will be a 6s. duty. For this end, (affirming the deadly prin- 
 ciple of protection,) the monopolists have retained the Is. duty. 
 That duty — though as a revenue duty it will only produce £400,000 
 a year, even if our yearly imports are 8,000,000 of quarters — wdl 
 be a class-tax of £2,500,000 a year, and consequently a 6s. duty 
 
 * It is but right to add here, that Elliott afterwards acknowledged he had 
 been unjust to Sutton. 
 
 C C
 
 290 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 will be a similar tax of £15,000,000. Lord, have mercy on us, or, 
 ere long, England will be (for years to come) from sea to sea, a sea 
 of blood and fire. Why fight a battle, useless if won — and if lost, 
 fatal ? " 
 
 " Margate Hill, Barnsley, 5th Oct., 1849- 
 " Dear Sib, 
 
 " I thank you for your favour of the 2nd, covering the 
 
 balance of account to 30th Sept, last, £20 2s. 6d. 
 
 " Though I despise the nonsense of Communism, think not that 
 I despair of man's federation. No, brother ! read, as I have done, 
 (for I have had the honour of reading the proof sheets,) in, I 
 believe, the forthcoming number of the ' Westminster Review,' an 
 article on ' Human Progress,' one of the most eloquent and encou- 
 raging productions ever w-ritten. The author is, perhaps, our 
 greatest living mechanician, (and certainly one of our greatest 
 living benefactors of his kind) a Communist, worthy of any good 
 cause. 
 
 " In his choice of an habitation he has proved the adaptability of 
 communal principles to individual taste. Living in the kernel of 
 London, he breathes a pure atmosphere, commanding from his 
 windows perhaps the grandest and loveliest prospect in the world ; 
 and with all the advantages of the highest civilization, within a few 
 yards around him, enjoys (for to him it is enjoyment) the absolute 
 solitude of an anchorite ! He fives on the eighth and highest 
 landing of a huge pile of buildings, a portion of the roof of which 
 is his yard : the infinite blue kisses his noble forehead ; and beneath 
 him flows the Thames, with its universe of life and motion. 
 
 " If you will contrive to quote the above at a public meeting, 
 you will advertise the book, and give the good cause a shove ; for 
 all your 'shorts' are reported — I grieve to find you spinning long 
 yarns. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebekezeb Elliott." 
 
 The four next letters were addressed to Mr. Paid 
 Rodgers of Sheffield.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 291 
 
 " Hargale Hill, near Barnsleg, 2'drd Jan. 1M9. 
 
 "Dear Paul Rodger?, 
 
 " You know Mark Gregory, then ? You cannot know a 
 
 I or man. And so the son i* gone before the sire. Well, it lifts 
 me up to learn that he left love and means sufficient to bring his 
 poor remains home for interment. Then God speed your ' Word 
 for the Poor.' But why the poor ? Nay, they are the rich ! the 
 richest ! 
 
 " Your song i3 very pleasing, and if it will sing, you ought to 
 crow ! I cannot write anything that will sing, because, I am told, 
 I will not suffer each succeeding stanza to be like the preceding in 
 rhythm. But the truth is, head-work is not heart-work. 
 
 " I think I have written some poems here which excel all un- 
 published doings. The last and best is a long narrative, or rather 
 only a part of one, yet in itself complete. I have a capital knack 
 of writing poems in three parts, and leaving two of them unbegun; 
 the day of epics having gone by, and an abortive epic being the 
 very thing I will not do. The scene is at Conisbrough, many cen- 
 turies before the Christian era. I have taken the liberty to suppose 
 that the Vale of Don and Dar, from Wath to Cadeby, was then a 
 lake, with a little Niagara at the east end. 
 
 " Give my respects to Mrs. R. and to all your family, and to 
 John Fowler, our son ' by better ties than blood.' I suppose he is 
 by this time John Fowler, Esq. Never mind. I shall touch my 
 hat to him, as I did to Jemmy Teapot, who nodded not again. To 
 be sure, I had told him that he would go the carriage-road to God. 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezer Eleiott." 
 
 " Kargate Rill, near Barnsley, 2Uh Aug. 18-i9. 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 "My master-critic says, 'your narrative has no characters, 
 unless your Derbyshire emigrant is a character; and if he is, his 
 dialect is his character. The story, however, is not, she thinks, 
 less true to nature on that account ; for, in her opinion, sacks 
 stuffed with straw, if they could talk, and were numbered 1, 2, 3, 
 or 3, 2, 1, might pass for men, as well as nineteen-twentieths of the 
 human beings we meet with. If so, Carlyle is right, and we must
 
 292 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 wait not for circumstances, but the man, who is to make and be 
 them." You've nae sic cricket i' your town. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Barnsley, \f>th July, 1848. 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " It is a comfort to see again this hand-writing. To meet 
 the writer, and the friends named, in Wentworth Park, would be 
 a greater blessing still ; but it is not to be. Not that it might not 
 easily be. I should only have to take a teaspoonful or two of 
 laudanum ; but I should suffer great pain afterwards — to say 
 nothing of the horrid ' black-drop muddle.' 
 
 " My present disease (the only serious one I ever had) is imputed 
 to the influenza, which again and again attacked me some months 
 ago. I believe it commenced before I left Sheffield. The feeling 
 of suffocation which generally followed my speechifying there, was 
 premonitory of it, and of the slow breaking up of my constitution. 
 It will end either in apoplexy or consumption. 
 
 " You say nothing how you and Fowler are, and what you are 
 doing or meditating. No evil, I am sure. Has he left the Insti- 
 tution ? 
 
 " My ' People's Anthem,' it seems, is printed. I wrote it at the 
 request of one of Mr. Willowby Wood's brothers, who said he 
 would set it to music. Perhaps ' People's Doings ' have changed 
 his mind. He suggested alterations essential to the tune ; and I 
 send you a corrected copy in the hope that Mr. Leader will print 
 it for the note's sake. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 " Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 "29t7iJuly, 184,8. 
 "Kind Apostle, 
 
 " Do not suppose that you always go without me on your 
 
 excursions : ' I inherit your wanderings, and am still.' Might I 
 
 recommend to you, for a iveek-day out, a visit, by rail, to the 
 
 Etherow Viaduct ? On to Dunwell, that you may know what 
 
 barrenness is, and be thankful !
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 293 
 
 "Thank Mr. Fowler for me; but T did not fear that he or you 
 would forget me. 
 
 " The wording of my ' Home of Taste ' might justify The Daily 
 News in their interpretation. They have, however, misunderstood 
 me. I did not mean to give the workman a Home of Taste, but 
 to let him earn one ; permission to do so being really all that is 
 wanted. And this brings me back to the note appended to my 
 ' People's Anthem,' in Tlie Independent : it does not say all that 
 I ought to have said. Add as follows, after me, whenever you 
 have an opportunity; never mind whose thoughts they are — 1 
 would fain atone for original sin before I die : — 
 
 " ' The right to vote for members of parliament is founded on 
 property and knowledge, that property and knowledge which every 
 self-sustained person possesses in the labour and skill which enable 
 him or her to live ; and taxation and represeutation ousrht to be 
 co-extensive, because taxes are paid by self- sustained persons alone. 
 The pauper, be he palaced or hovelled, pays no taxes ; the murder- 
 ous protectionist, be he voter or legislator, none. Little knows the 
 latter, if he is rich, for whom and what he has been an impoverisher ; 
 and woe be to hiui and his appropriations, if his folly and wickedness 
 are to be much longer misruling forces.' 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezee Elliott." 
 
 The following letters, addressed to tlie Author of this 
 volume, will explain themselves, although nothing but an 
 anxious desire to place Elliott truly and faithfully before 
 the public could have induced him to publish them. 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Barnsley, 29th July, 1848. 
 " Deab Sir, 
 
 " In the land of palaces and jails, where poverty is a crime, 
 I would not say to everybody what I am about to tell you. If I 
 could well make ends meet, you would not need to ask me to sub- 
 scribe for your book.* I should have done so already, for you have 
 
 * The book alluded to is called " Essays, Poems, Allegories, Fables; with an 
 Elucidation and Analysis of the ' Bhagavat Geeta.' " John Chapman, Strand, 
 London. 
 
 2 c c
 
 291 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 been heard of, even in this wilderness ; but I ought not to afford 
 it, and the book itself would bear witness against ine. I could 
 driuk a glass of rum in the city of cornstacks, and fear no informer ; 
 but your book would remain with me, and say as plainly as words 
 could, ' This fellow, who is indebted to his butcher for two months' 
 meat, has expended 10s. in silent conversation with the best thoughts 
 of January Searle, thirty miles hence.' It would enlarge this ' cloud 
 of witnesses,' this assembly of souls, (blessed companions, who 
 never quarrel with me, and never mean to betray me, though they 
 betray,) this library — which must have cost my poor family at 
 least twenty pounds. 
 
 "Should we ever 'grip fists,' (which is not likely,) the 'knuckle 
 sparks' will hardly be mine, for my hand is all but that of a corpse. 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezeb Elliott." 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Bamsley, 6th Aug. 1848. 
 "Dear Sib, 
 
 " Do not despond : think nothing impossible if your hand- 
 writ iug can be read: what a d d inconceivable, unfathomable 
 
 autogulph it is ! 
 
 " The railway speculation will absorb every spare penny for some 
 time to come ; and the publishiug trade is always the last to mend ; 
 but it will mend. I have written a volume of far better verse than 
 auy I have printed ; and though I am notorious, if Dot famous, 
 I doubt whether I could at present find a publisher who would risk 
 it, and divide profits But verse has now absolutely no reading 
 public. You are wise in mixing prose with your verse. I would 
 have done so, and it woidd have been of some use, if I could have 
 prevailed upon Tait to be of my opinion. I know nothing of his 
 successors. I lately sent them some verses of the politico- 
 economical species, (which you know will not keep;) whether 
 they printed them or not, I don't know. 
 
 " I have always eggs, bacon, and a spare bed, and should be glad 
 to see you, if you could come and stop a day or two, though I 
 should be poor company. Dou't come if you mean to hurry away 
 again in a few hours. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 " Ebenezer Elliott."
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 29.*> 
 
 " Great Houghton Common, near Bamsley, 
 
 23rd August, 1848. 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " Every work of art ought to tell its own story. If it need 
 explaining, the artist has to that extent failed. And as you par- 
 ticularly allude in your Eclogue* to one lady only, the words ' her' 
 and 'she' must, in strict construction, apply to that lady. There- 
 fore when it receives your final corrections, you should inform the 
 reader that not the matron but a maiden sat for the portrait which 
 ■ you have so beautifully painted. 
 
 "I have read 'The Gala' with great delight, and if I ever come 
 your way, I will endeavour to see Kirklees. What is the name of 
 the nearest station ? 
 
 " I know not whether I like best your prose or your verse. In 
 both you are often remarkably felicitous! 
 
 " In the second sentence of your preface I find a slight inaccuracy, 
 two other errors in page 17, and a fourth in page 27. I mention 
 these trifles, because 'the country's eyes is on us.' 
 
 " Instead of stating what was not true, you should have apos- 
 trophized your absent friend, and said, ' How happy he would have 
 been to be with you, and you to see him.' 
 
 " Your comparison of the Institute with the old monasteries is 
 grand as the sleep of the latter. 
 
 " I have heard of one ' Pan,' and I think I see a pair of ' young 
 rogue's eyes' asking if he was a fiddler? Your mention of him 
 reminds me of an incident in the life of a mayor of Doncastcr, who 
 had received a letter from the then prime minister, Lord Shelburne. 
 ' Shelburne ! Shelburne ! I don't know him. Shelburne ! Shel- 
 burne ! He buys no bread at my shop.' 
 
 "Verse ought to be equal, as language, to the best prose. 
 
 ' Unfather'd, save by him and God in heav'n,' 
 though bad, woiild be better than 
 
 ' All fatherless, save God in heav'n and him.' 
 
 " Can false natural history be true poetry ? Flowers burn, and 
 
 * This poem is called "The Eectory in the Yale of Trent," and is included, as 
 all the other pieces are to which Elliott alludes in these letters, with the exception 
 of the " Gala," in the " Essays " published by Chapman.
 
 296 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 are cool. I am not aware that I ever saw the hyacinth, violet, 
 kingcup, primrose, and harebell, blooming together. You may 
 think I like to find fault. Never with fools. I think you are 
 capable of doing the true, and I therefore exercise on you the 
 pedant's privilege. But your philosophy is as mischievous as your 
 natural history is incorrect. He ' who pays wages for work,' has 
 not, on that account, any right to ride his fellow-men. The paid 
 and the payer are quits. By one act good is done to two parties, 
 and evil to nobody. You a hater of tyranny ! and teaching the doc- 
 trines of a slave ! If your wish is to instruct the rising race, I can 
 — but that I fear to offend you — name a book that might teach you 
 the A B C of your business, the Corn Law Catechism ; a book that 
 contains more thought than any other book of this century. Still, 
 and for ever (with such books unread) shall the people's teachers 
 continue to be, like Cobbett and Howitt, all fingers and no wrist ? 
 
 " There is power in your lines which associate the localities of 
 Bobin Hood's life with his grave : they exemplify the fusing power 
 of genius, and I have seldom read sweeter poetry than your reflec- 
 tions on the graveyard of the convent ; but — and I hardly know 
 why — I don't like the word 'promiscuous.' Nor can I bid you 
 good bye, without blackballing ' iEolus.' The devil take him, and 
 all the breed of him, including his relations ' Nimp' and ' Dryhead.'* 
 If they were otters or badgers I could understand them. And the 
 devil take all comparisons that do not dlustrate, or (better stall,) 
 demonstrate something, like Colonel Thompson's. Bead him, you 
 b — ch, if you would be Amazonian. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 " Ebenezee Elliott." 
 
 * "I beg pardon of these folks. ' Nymph ' and ' Dryad ' is the proper spelling." 
 
 " Great Houghton Common, 26th Aug. 1848. 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " In criticising any poem, really such, I coidd find in my 
 heart to be hypercritical ; because, while fearing that poetry bas 
 seen her best days, I am unwilling to conclude that her days are 
 numbered, and that the ' old melody ' will soon be heard no more 
 for ever. Living in an age of poetical unbelief — and which boasts
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 297 
 
 that it has outlived the 'artifice of verse ' — we ought to have faith 
 in a precept of old Isaac Walton's, which applies equally to verse- 
 making and angling. ' When you use your worm,' said he, 'put 
 him on the hook as if you loved him.' So he who, in these days, 
 professes to write poetry, should write it as if he were writing for 
 his life. Yet I could point out in your poem, lines which are not 
 verse of any kind. You, I doubt not, wrote them with a purpose. 
 But I have no faith in what are called imitative verse : consonantal 
 English is harsh in itself: to write musically is our bow of Ulysses. 
 Do not, however, misunderstand me. Your versification usually 
 sings your thoughts well. 
 
 " The paid and the payer, you admit, are quits ; and yet you talk 
 of the payer's 'mastership;' a heresy too widely believed to need 
 inculcating, and which must be abjured if either of the parties is to 
 be a man. If neither of them is to be a man, I can understand why 
 one of them is to luxuriate, or wallow in the insolence of condescen- 
 tion, at the expense of the others. 
 
 " I requested my daughter, at Sheffield, to look at your piano, 
 and she writes me, in reply, that her brother has given £20 for a 
 new one, on which she is practising. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 " Qreat Houghton, near Barnsley, 2nd Sep, 18-48. 
 
 " Dear Sib, 
 
 " Late events seem to be verifying your prediction ' that 
 Germany has an important mission to fulfil in the world.' The 
 authoress of 'England the Civilizer' has also risked some predic- 
 tions which have already received startling confirmation. 
 
 " I don't like your ' Bridge of Death.' When you sat down to 
 write it, you were in search of a great victim for execution. So, 
 you said mentally, ' Dilly, dilly, duckling, come and be killed!' It 
 came, alas ! and frightful work you made of it. I know nothing 
 like it but Frank Alsop's sermon, when he preached before the 
 blazing tar-barrel. ' Terrible work ! Woe to the wicked ! None 
 of your works ! None of your works ! Damn your works ! Free 
 grace is all.'
 
 298 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 " You never, I am sorry to say, write lines of ten syllables pro- 
 nounced in the time of nine. The effect of such lines is always 
 bad, and no precedents can make it otherwise. Lines of eleven 
 syllables pronounced in the time of ten, have often a good effect, 
 as the following line from Gray, and your general practice prove : — 
 
 ' Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.' 
 Here the words ' many a' form a dactyl — three syllables pronounced 
 in the time of two. Of all arts and mysteries there is scarcely one 
 that requires so long an apprenticeship as this beggarly trade of 
 poetry ; and you are an envious villain for having learned it so well. 
 " But, Lord be thanked, you are not faultless. I defy you to 
 make verse of any kind, by any seaming, of any one of these lines 
 from 'The Gala :'— 
 
 ' With the great glad blessedness of knowledge.' 
 
 'Honest John, plain-spoken as a bell.' 
 
 * Lies stained with coloured Are in the sun.' 
 
 This last is a line of nine syllables, pronounced in the time of ten. 
 The effect is that of offering a fourpenny-bit for sixpence. 
 " I am, dear Sir, your much gratified faidtfinder, 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Barnsley, 11th Sept. 1848. 
 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " I have seldom read better prose than your essay on 
 ' Prayer and Other Things.' It is more poetical than any of your 
 mounted poetry that I have yet seen. And in my cabbage book, 
 (I am naturally a tailor,) ' formality is selfishness on stilts,' stands 
 at your credit. Lord, if that book were fairly posted, what a tale 
 it would tell about the originalities of — you know who ! 
 
 '"Long, long ago,' (perhaps fifteen years,) when food-taxing 
 and much-mortgaged Chandos, (grieved to see anything eatable 
 escape his maw,) had been accusing his victims of luxurious living 
 and want of forethought, I prayed aloud in the presence of eight 
 or ten thousand Sheffielders, in Paradise Square assembled, ' That 
 he might live to know what it is to be poor.' Though a murmured, 
 yet sublime ' Amen ' responded to me, persons present, (and 
 afterwards persons not present,) called me 'monster!' with the
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 299 
 
 Bftving clause of, 'if not madmau.' But God heard my prayer. 
 I then ought not to say that supplications, addressed immediately 
 to him, are useless. The following, however, is my creed, and it 
 probably differs little from your own : ' The only true, because the 
 ouly useful prayer, is that which human beings, (after vainly doing 
 their best for themselves,) address to their fellow creatures for 
 assistance. And it justifies begging ! unless desperate people are 
 to be forced on that awful, and sole remaining alternative, which 
 they have full the same right to use, that a drowning man has to 
 catch at a straw.' 
 
 " Your constant teazer, 
 
 "Ebenezeb, C.L.R," 
 
 " Hargate Hill, near Barnsley, oth Oct. 1848. 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " As an ultimate corrective of blunders, I have written an 
 
 account of my boyhood and youth — say a history of the education 
 
 of my mind — and made a present of it. Of course I could not 
 
 comply with your request, without destroying the value of the gift. 
 
 But if you like you may speak of me thus : ' Ebenezer Elliott, 
 
 the Corn Law Rhymer, a poet of the people if ever they had one, 
 
 was born at Masbrough, in March, 1781. He is the second son of 
 
 a commercial clerk, who had eleven children, and a salary of £70 a 
 
 year. The bard, when a boy, was so dull, or so inattentive, that at 
 
 last he was thought incapable of learning anything at school. 
 
 After being sent to two schools, with little or uo result, he was 
 
 allowed to have pretty much his own way. To this circumstance 
 
 he attributes any merit he may have displayed. Thrown on himself, 
 
 he learned to think for himself; and in God's good time saw the 
 
 necessity of educating himself. His merit, such as it is, is his own, 
 
 for, says he, I earned it ; and T have heard his wife say that he has 
 
 to thank himself only for all that he knows. His laziness never 
 
 could learn grammar ; but he can correct inaccurate language by 
 
 reflection ; and he thinks he writes better English than some people 
 
 who teach Latin. There is nothing remarkable in his personal 
 
 appearance, except, perhaps, his gentle manners. He has neither a 
 
 shoulder like a leg of mutton, nor a hinder-end broader than a 
 
 blacksmith's bellows. He is five feet seven inches high, and slimly 
 
 rather than strongly made. His eyes, dim aud pale, kindle wildly
 
 300 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 sometimes. His features are harsh, but expressive and not unpleas- 
 ing. On the whole, he is just the man, who if unknown, would 
 pass unnoticed anywhere.' 
 
 " Say for my book what you can, and for or of me the less the 
 better. People are dog sick of the topic. 
 
 " I still suffer great pain, and lose a pound in weight weekly. If 
 not removed suddenly by this dizziness, or by this fluttering, I shall 
 last till April. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 " Great Houghton, near Barnsley, 7t7i Oct. 1848. 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " "What you have to say of me will not be complete without 
 this addition, which you can use or not : — 'He is a politician and a 
 poet. With his politics, you know, I have here nothing to do. 
 Poets, you also know, are iisually people who having expressed in 
 verse thoughts not fit or not good enough for prose, get pensioned, 
 or die in the workhouse. It is a real distinction to the Corn Law 
 Rhymer, that in his grey hairs, and in the land of palaces and 
 workhouses, he is not either a pauper or a pensioner. Tired and 
 comparatively poor, but self-sustained, like one who after hard 
 labour reaches his home and rests, he sits on his own hill-top.' 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " Ebenezee Elliott." 
 
 " Hargate Hill, near Barnsley, \Zth Nov. 1848. 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " Though I am becoming great in the peg line, having lost 
 two front teeth since last Wednesday, I think I could yet make 
 your 'Discourse on Plutarch' tell in a Mechanics' Hall. Oh, that I 
 were conditioned to recite it, Roary O' Thunder, before a thousand 
 radicals! I have read it to Mrs. E. and my younger daughter, 
 who both say they know not when they had such a treat before. 
 It is indeed a noble oration. I greatly like your style. None of 
 your sentences are too long ; and your short ones give time to 
 breathe. Some of your passages are perfect music. Verse to the 
 devil, then! you can write prose. But can you afford such com- 
 positions ?
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 301 
 
 "I have, so far, kept my carcass out of the cask filled with 
 the black droning stingers, that eat the honey of all workers, and 
 poison what they do not devour. 
 
 "I have quoted from the letter of a lady-friend a passage very 
 like one of yours, in my preface to a poem, or rather trilogy, in 
 twelve books, of which the first part in four books is finished and 
 complete in itself. Whether I proceed or not with the remaining 
 two parts, I shall want defenders; for the action is placed in 
 eldest time, and yet the characters, etc., I am told, are rather 
 modern; but I think with you, 'that he who speaks truly to one 
 age, speaks truly to all ages.' Shall I do this into verse ? 
 
 ' He truly to all ages speaks, 
 Who truly speaks to one.' 
 
 "I have lost five pounds since I weighed last, and am now just 
 ten pounds heavier than cuckold's weight. 
 
 "I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 " Hargate Rill, 20lh March, 1849. 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 "I said in my heart, 'Where is he? Surely the city 
 of counties, the swallower of giants, hath gobbled him up, 
 and evermore to be forgotten by him is the lone hill and its 
 grasshopper.' 
 
 "Come when you may, you will be welcome here, and I hope 
 I need not say how glad I shall be to see you if, when you come, 
 I am in the land of the living. 
 
 "I rejoice to hear that you are progressing. Who is Troup? 
 Tait's editor ? As I see neither Tait's nor Blackwood's Magazine, 
 let me know when anything of yours appears in either, and I 
 will buy the number. 
 
 " We have not seen the second part of the Banquet of Plutarch ; 
 but we have been contrasting your prose style with that of a writer 
 in ' The North British Review,' who seems determined to burst his 
 readers with his long-winded sentences, and interminable wordiness. 
 
 " Of an epic in three parts, each complete in itself, to be called 
 respectively 'Etheline,' 'Konig,' and 'Telmerine,' I have finished 
 the first part in four books. I mean it to form portion of a volume 
 of prose and verse which I am preparing for the press ; but, alas! 
 
 D D
 
 302 COEBESPONDENCE. 
 
 in such discredit is political honesty, that I doubt whether I shall 
 be able to find a publisher, even on the principle of sharing profits. 
 " One of my daughters-in-law, going to the West Indies, said to 
 me, ' Write me a song.' So I said I would, and I did do. You 
 live in the land of ' Great Sings.' If it will sing tell me. You say 
 nothing of your lecture on the Greatest Goose. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 " Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 MAEY. 
 
 Tune — Limy ago. 
 
 " Sing her a song of the white-headed one, 
 
 Gone, gone before ! Gone, gone before ! 
 Sing to her tears of the Sire who is gone ! 
 When to come more ? Never more ! 
 Heart-breaking sea, when she weepeth alone, 
 Tell his sad child that the white-headed one 
 Went to the grave blessing her who was gone, 
 Wide, wide waves o'er ! wide waves o'er ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Now sighs the widow unto the lone sea, 
 
 ' Bring her again ! Bring her again ! 
 Sea, let the sad find a true friend in thee ! 
 
 Bring her again ! Soon again ! ' 
 Wild was the parting, but may there not be 
 Tears which are blissful ? when sings the old sea, 
 ' Mother and child, thank the good God for me : 
 Meet, meet again ! Meet again.' " 
 
 " Margate Hill, Barnsley, 30th March, 1849. 
 
 " Dear Sib, 
 
 "Easter Sunday at latest—and dinna forget. 
 
 " Your ' Ballad History of the Norman Conquest ' gives me a 
 higher conception of your poetical likelihood than anything else 
 of yours that I have seen. It proves you to be a poet. But our
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 303 
 
 noble fourteen syllable line, which young bards chirp instinctively 
 (though there is 'thunder on its tongue" capable of earthquake 
 impression, yet,) having but two notes (B and C) would be intol- 
 erably tiresome in a long poem. The first part of my three-in-one 
 poem is written in a ballad measure, or rather in ballad measures ; 
 the longest lines containing nine syllables. But I purpose to write 
 the second part in our heroic Iambic, rhyming irregularly, (and 
 not at too long intervals,) running the hues into each other, as 
 the most eloquent of poets does in the fourth canto of his ' Childe.' 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours truly, 
 
 " Ebenezeb Elliott." 
 
 " Hargate Rill, near Barnsley, 12th April, 1849. 
 " Dear Sib, 
 
 " I have tried all I know at Rotherham and Sheffield to get 
 'The Christian Teacher,' from which Mr. Howitt, in his 'People's 
 Journal,' picked the pretty. It cannot be had at either of those 
 places. But it was edited at Manchester by an Unitarian minister, 
 and I think a letter to some Unitarian minister there or there- 
 abouts, would procure you such numbers of it as relate to me. My 
 best cricket (the angel of my hearth) having objected to the song 
 I gave you, I enclose it, corrected by her. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezeb Elliott." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 " DoNOtTGHT would have everything ; 
 Eat the lark, and use its wings ; 
 Sip the sweet, and be the sting : 
 Donought is the only king. 
 
 II. 
 
 Donought is an alchemist ;* 
 Hencock is a communist ; 
 
 * Alchemist, or thief, he must be : or how does he live ?
 
 301 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Idlehead is heavy-fist ; 
 
 Will's a right-line — with a twist. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hark ! the throstle ! what sings he ? 
 ' Worm, my beauty, come to me ! ' 
 Yet all lovely things are free ; 
 Chain'd and happy ! can it be ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 See the daisies, how they grow ! 
 When they list, the breezes blow : 
 Why can't weary man do so ? 
 All enjoy, and nothing owe ? 
 
 ' Mouth, keep open ! Eyes, be shut ! : 
 Take no care for back or gut : 
 Best of women is the slut ! 
 Hey for cattle, cook'd and cut ! " 
 
 " Hargate Hill, near Barnsley, 22nd June, 1849. 
 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 " It is quite true that I have been so ill as to be scarcely 
 able to say I was alive, and also true that laudanum must be making 
 havoc of my intellectuals, if I did not answer your letters. Men- 
 tally, I am quite sure, I answered them, thanking you sincerely for 
 them, and all your kindness ; but I can find no copy of my answer. 
 How kind it is in you to think of a poor broken-down man like 
 me ! You are close upon some of the finest scenery in England ; 
 scenery which I have long purposed to see, and which I will see, if 
 I live another year. 
 
 " Southey thought Gordale Scar finer than anything of the kind 
 in Britain. Ingleborough ! MalhamTarn! MalhamCove! Kilnsey 
 Pike ! all in a ring of twelve miles ! But the fall at Malham, 300 
 feet high, is worth seeing only after a heavy rain. Is Dr. Carlyle's 
 residence in Huddersfield ? What is the price of his translation of 
 Dante? I will strain a point to buy it, if it is not very high.
 
 COKKESPONDENCE. 305 
 
 Two and a half years ago, when I first sought medical aid, my 
 disease was curable. I have discovered the cause of it — constriction 
 of the great gut, threatening closure, and a death of torture. Talmer 
 died of it, eight inches of the rectum having closed ! It is now, 
 perhaps, incurable, but mitigation is still possible, and such com- 
 parative relieve from pain as will allow mo to prepare another 
 volume for the press. You see what I am made of: I talk of 
 myself. You think of me, and how you can serve me. God 
 bless you. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours truly, 
 
 "Ebenezer Elliott." 
 
 " Hargate Hill, 3rd July, 1849. 
 " Dear Sib, 
 
 " Alas, then, the water-cure does not cure you ! ! ! Cold 
 
 immersion would not cure me. Could you describe the process of 
 
 water-cure ? I have cold water here ; better, none anywhere. But 
 
 if I could get 'dacent 1 I would try Scarborough. 
 
 " Both Tait and Bulwer have asked me to perform the task you 
 set me. I never could set about it ; and at the risk of being 
 thought ungrateful, I must say that I much doubt the possibility 
 of my writing a page of such composition, though I delight to read 
 such. Nor, if able, could I wisely undertake any new tasks. 
 There are three things which I ought to do, not one of which shall 
 I be allowed to do — so I fear. I woidd fain write the two remain- 
 ing parts of my epic, ' Eth-Kon-Tel,' of which I read you the first 
 part in four books. I would fain arrange my letters, papers, etc., 
 for publication, if wanted, when I am gone. And I would fain 
 prepare a new volume for the press. This last I am trying to do, 
 but if I use the pen half an hour I suffer torments which I hope 
 the damned do not suffer. 
 
 " They whose corn laws blessed the ' agricultural hills and 
 valleys of ILkley' with weavers working sixteen hours for fivepence, 
 did not create those hills and valleys ; but they talk to us as if they 
 did, and you believe them. Heaven help us ! 
 
 " My son Erank is here, reading aloud your Sketches of Hudders- 
 field scenery. But the scene itself is present with me. 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 "Ebenezeb Elliott."
 
 306 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 " Great Houglrfon, near Barnsley, 5th Sept. 1849. 
 "Deab Sib, 
 
 " I should fear I had offended you if you came so near 
 as Wentworth without calling on me. Seriously, I mean not to 
 be complimentary when I say it, for it is true, we see so few 
 humans here, that the devil would be welcome if he came, as I 
 hope he will some day soon. Wentworth Castle is another most 
 interesting place. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, yours very truly 
 
 "Ebenezeb Elliott." 
 
 J. BROOK, PRINTER, WESTGATE, UUDDEHSFIELD.
 
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