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sense used, you cannot plead a pre within, and with the appetite of a cedent. They would fetter the Eng- thresher we went to our luncheon of lish poet as much as they circum- bread and cheese, and capital beer scribe the maker of Latin verses, from the Bell. In the midst of our and yet they complain that our mo- operations, his little girl awoke, dern poets want originality! a fine lively pretty creature, with a

Helpstone consists of two streets, forehead like her father's, of ample intersecting each other at right an- promise. She tottered along the floor, gles. In the middle stand the church and as her father looked after her and a cross, both rather picturesque with the fondest affection, and with objects, but neither of them very an- a careful twitch of his eyebrow when cient. Clare lives in the right hand she seemed in danger, the last verse street. I knew the cottage by the elm of his Address to her came into my trees, which overhang it:

mind : The witchen branches nigh, Lord knows my heart, it loves thee much ; O'er my snug box towering high- And may my feelings, aches, and such,

The pains I'meet in folly's clutch and was glad to hear that they are

Be never thine: not now likely to be cut down.

Child, it's a tender string to touch, On a projecting wall in the inside

That sounds“ thou'rt mine." of the cottage, which is white-wash

(V. i. p. 163.) ed, are hung some well engraved

A few more years, and we shall portraits, in gilt frames, with a neat drawing of Helpstone Church, and a probably see him advanced to that

a sketch of Clare's Head which Hile state of patriarchal felicity, which is ton copied in watercolours, from

so beautifully pourtrayed in his Sunthe large painting, and sent as a pre

day Walks : sent to Clare's father. I think that With love's sweet pledges poddling at his no act of kindness ever touched That oft divert him with their childish glee

heels, him more than this; and I have re

In fruitless chases after bird and bee; marked, on several occasions, that And, eager gathering every flower they pass, the thought, of what would be his fa- Of yellow lambtoe and the totter-grass, ther's feelings on any fortunate cir- Oft whimper round him disappointment's cumstance occurring, has given him sigh more visible satisfaction, than all the At sight of blossom that's in bloom too commendations which have been be- high, stowed on his genius. I believe we

And twitch his sleeve with all their coaxmust go into low life to know how

ing powers very much parents can be beloved To urge his hand to reach the tempting by their children. Perhaps it may Then as he climbs, their eager hopes to

flowers : be that they do more for them, or

crown, that the affection of the child is On gate or stile to pull the blossoms down concentrated on them the more, from Of pale hedge-roses straggling wild and having no other friend on whom it

tall, can fall. I saw Clare's father in the And scrambling woodbines that outgrow garden : it was a fine day, and his them all, rheumatism allowed him jusť to He turns to days when he himself would move about, but with the aid of two sticks, he could scarcely drag his His tender father for such toys as these, feet along : he can neither kneel nor

And smiles with rapture, as he plucks the

flowers, stoop. I thought of Clare's lines:

To meet the feelings of those lovely hours, I'll be thy crutch, my father, lean on me; And blesses Sunday's rest, whose peace at Weakness knits stubborn while it's bearing

will thee :

Retains a portion of those pleasures still. And hard shall fall the shock of fortune's

(V. ii. p. 107, 8.) frown,

Our meal ended, Clare opened an To eke thy sorrows, ere it breaks me down, old oak bookcase, and showed me

(Vol. i. p. 67.) his library. It contains a very good The father, though so infirm, is collection of modern poems, chiefly only fifty-six years of age; the mo- presents made him since the publicather is about seven years older. tion of his first volume. Among the While I was talking to the old man, works of Burns, Cowper, WordsClare had prepared some refreshment worth, Coleridge, Keats, Crabbe,


and about twenty volumes of Cooke's pond, partly overhung with trees; & Poets, I was pleased to see the deep wood backs the field; and in Nithsdale and Galloway Sang of our front is an ancient building, which friend Allan Cunningham, to whom looks like an old manor house, but it Clare expresses a great desire to be is now in ruins : the scene is, perintroduced; he thought, as I did, haps, the most picturesque of any in that only “ Auld Lang Syne” could the neighbourhood. Here let me rehave produced such poems as The fer you at once to the poem of Cross Lord's Marie, Bonnie Lady Anne, Roads, or the Haymaker's Story. It and the Mermaid of Gallowa'. The is so true to nature, so full of minute Lady of the Bishop of Peterborough incidents, all telling the story in the had just made him a present of Miss most dramatic way, that any attempt Aikin's Court of Queen Elizabeth. to glance at it otherwise than in the From Sir W. Scott he received (I words of the original, would be to think) the Lady of the Lake, and destroy some portion of its interest ; Chatterton's Poems of Rowley, in and altogether it is a most affecting lieu of two guineas which were offere narrative. The following lines are ed him; he had requested to have the beautifully characteristic of those value of the gift enhanced by the numberless recollections, which rush autograph of Sir Walter, in one or upon the memory after an irreparaboth the volumes, but his wish was ble deed is done, and seem to have refused. Crabbe's Works were sent been so strikingly prophetic of the him, by Lord Milton, on the day I fact, that our indifference to them called at Helpstone. To see so assumes even a culpable taint, and many books handsomely bound, and we almost feel as if we might have “ flash'd about with golden letters,” prevented the mischief. An old woas he describes it, in so poor a place

poor a place man, who was Jenny's companion, as Clare's cottage, gave it almost a ro- thus narrates the story: mantic air, for, except in cleanliness, it is no whit superior to the habita- Poor thoughtless wench! it seems but tions of the poorest of the peasantry.

Sunday past The hearth has no fire-place on it, Since we went out together for the last, which to one accustomed to coal And plain enough indeed it was to find fires looked comfortless, but Clare She'd something more than common on her found it otherwise ; and I could rea

mind; dily picture him enjoying, as he de- For she was always fond and full of chat, scribes himself in one of his early

In passing harmless jokes 'bout beaus and

that, Sonnets,

But nothing then was scarcely talk'd about, - The happy winter-night,

And what there was, I even forc'd it out. When the storm pelted down with all his A gloomy wanness spoil'd her rosy cheek, might,

And doubts hung there it was not mine to And roar'd and bellow'd in the chimneytop,

She ne'er so much as mention'd things to And patter'd vehement 'gainst the window. light,

But sigh'd o'er pleasures ere she left her And on the threshold fell the quick

home; eaves-drop.

And now-and-then a mournful smile would How blest I've listen'd on my corner stool,

raise Heard the form rage, and hugg'd my At freaks repeated of our younger days, happy spot,

Which I brought up, while passing spots While the fond parent wound her whirring of ground spool,

Where we, when children, “ hurly-burAnd spar'd a sigh for the poor wander- ly'd” round, er's lot.

Or“ blindman-buff'd” some morts of In thee, sweet hut, this happiness was prov'd,

Two games, poor thing, Jane dearly lorid And these endear and make thee doubly to play. lov'd.

(V. ii. p. 152.) She smild at these, but shook her head and Having directed my man to set off whene'er she thought my look was turned

sigh'd in an hour's time, and wait for me at the top of Barnack Hill, I walked Nor turn'd she round, as was her former with Clare to the lower end of the

way, street, to see the place where “ Jen- To praise the thorn, white over then with ny" drowned herself. It is a large

May ;



hours away



ary woods


547 Nor stooped once, tho' thousands round her Flapp'd the broad ash-leaves o'er the pond

To pull a cowslip as she us'd to do:

And o’er the water crink'd the curdled wave,
For Jane in flowers delighted from a child – That Jane was sleeping in her watery grave.
I like the garden, but she lov'd the wild, The neatherd boy that us'd to tend the
And oft on Sundays young men's gifts de- cows,

While getting whip-sticks from the dangPosies from gardens of the sweetest kind, ling boughs And eager scrambled the dog-rose to get,

Of osiers drooping by the water side, And woodbine-flowers at every bush she Her bonnet floating on the top espied ;

He knew it well, and hasten'd fearful down The cowslip blossom, with its ruddy streak, To take the terror of his fears to town, Would tempt her furlongs from the path A melancholy story, far too true ; to seek ;

And soon the village to the pasture flew, And gay long purple, with its tufty spike, Where, from the deepest hole the pond She'd wade d'er shoes to reach it in the

about, dyke;

They dragg'd poor Jenny's lifeless body And oft, while scratching through the bri


And took her home, where scarce an hour For tempting cuckod-flowers and violet buds,

gone by Poor Jane, I've known her crying sneak to

She had been living like to you and I. town,

I went with more, and kiss'd her for the Fearing her mother when she'd torn her last, gown.

And thought with tears on pleasures that Ah, these were days her conscience view'd were past; with pain,

And, the last kindness left me then to do, Which all are loth to lose, as well as Jane. I went, at milking, where the blossoms And, what I took more odd than all the rest,

grew, Was, that same night she ne'er a wish ex

And handfuls got of rose and lambtoe prest

sweet, To see the gipsies, so belov'd before, And put them with her in her windingThat lay a stone's-throw from us on the


A wilful murder, jury made the crime ; I hinted it; she just reply'd again-,

Nor parson 'low'd to pray, nor bell to chime; She once believ'd them, but had doubts On the cross roads, far from her friends and since then.

kin, And when we sought our cows, I callid, The usual law for their ungodly sin “ Come mull!”

Who violent hands upon themselves have But she stood silent, for her heart was full. laid, She lov'd dumb things, and ere she had Poor Jane's last bed un-christian-like was begun

made ; To milk, caressid them more than e'er And there, like all whose last thoughts she'd done ;

turn to heaven, But though her tears stood watering in her She sleeps, and doubtless hop'd to be foreye,


(v. ü. p. 92.) I little took it as her last good-bye ;

The tale is a true one, and in a For she was tender, and I've often known little village it would doubtless make Her mourn when beetles have been tram

a deep impression at the time ; but pled on :

Clare received it from tradition, for So I ne'er dream'd from this, what soon the circumstance happened long ago: befel,

he would learn therefore the mere Till the next morning rang her passing-bell. fact, that such a girl was drowned

(V. ii.

in such a pond, and all those parAnd how wonderfully natural on ticulars which constitute the poetry these reflections !

of the story, would remain be That very morning, it affects me still, created by the activity of his own Ye know the foot-path sidles down the hill, imagination. The true poet alone Ign'rant as babe unborn I pass'd the pond could so faithfully realize to himself, To milk as usual in our close beyond, and few of that class would dare to And cows were drinking at the water's edge, dwell so intensely upon, the agonizing And horses brows'd among the flags and

considerations which pass in the sedge, And gnats and midges danc'd the water o'er,

mind of a person intent on self-deJust as I've mark'd them scores of times struction: the subsequent reflections before,

of the narrator on her own indifferAnd birds sat singing as in mornings gone,

ence in passing the pond where While I as unconcern'd went soodling on, Jenny lay drowned, and on the unBut little dreaming, as the wakening wind concern of the cattle and the insects,

p. 88.)

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may be, perhaps, more easily con- Vow to be true; and to be truly ta’en, ceived, but are no less faithfully and Repeat their loves, and vow it o'er again ; eloquently uttered.

And pause at loss of language to proclaim In our way to Barnack, we skirted Those purest pleasures, yet without a name: the “Milking pasture," which, as it And while, in highest ecstacy of bliss brought to my mind one of the most

The shepherd holds her yielding hand in

his, delicious descriptions I ever saw of He turns to heaven to witness what he feels, the progress of love, shall be my And silent shows what want of words conapology, if any is necessary, for the

ceals ; following quotation.

Then ere the parting moments hustle nigh, Now from the pasture milking-maidens Till next day's evening glads the anxious

And night in deeper dye his curtain dips, come,

eye, With each a swain to bear the burden home, Who often coax them on their pleasant way

He swears his truth, and seals it on her lips.

(V.ü. p. 78.) To soodle longer out in love's delay; While on a mole-hill, or a resting stile, At the end of that same pasThe simple rustics try their arts the while

toral, “ Rural Evening,” how perWith glegging smiles, and hopes and fears fect in form, character, and colour, is

between, Snatching a kiss to open what they mean :

the following sketch of an aged woAnd all the utmost that their tongues can

man in the almshouse. do, The honey'd words which nature learns to

Now at the parish cottage wall’d with dirt,

Where all the cumber-grounds of life resort, WOO, The wild-flower sweets of language, “love"

From the low door that bows two props beand " dear,”

tween, With warmest utterings meet each maiden's Some feeble tottering dame surveys the

ear ; Who as by magic smit,

she knows not why, By them reminded of the long-lost day From the warm look that waits a wish'd

When she herself was young, and went to reply

play ; Droops fearful down in love's delightful The' mournful changes she has met since

And, turning to the painful scenes again, Swoon, As slinks the blossom from the suns of noon; Her aching heart, the contrast moves so

then, While sighs half-smother'd from the throb

keen, bing breast, And broken words sweet trembling o'er the E'en sighs a wish that life had never been.

Still vainly sinning, while she strives to rest, And cheeks, in blushes burning, turn’d Half-smother'd discontent pursues its way

pray, aside, Betray the plainer what she strives to hide. In whispering Providence, how blest she'd The amorous swain sees through the feign’d If life's last troubles she'd escap'd unseen ;

been, disguise, Discerns the fondness she at first denies,

If, ere want sneak'd for grudg'd support

from pride, And with all passions love and truth can

She had but shar'd of childhood's joys, and

died. Urges more strong the simpering maid to

And as to talk some passing neighbours More freely using toying ways to win

stand, Tokens that echo from the soul within

And shove their box within her tottering Her soft hand nipping, that with ardour She turns from echoes of her younger years,

hand, burns, And, timid, gentlier presses its returns ;

And nips the portion of her snuff with tears.

(V, ii. p. 82.) Then stealing pins with innocent deceit, To loose the 'kerchief from its envied seat;

But you are tired, or at least I Then unawares her bonnet he'll untie, Her dark-brown ringlets wiping gently

, by, then, suppose that I parted with my

am, with this long letter. Briefly To steal a kiss in seemly feign'd disguise, As love yields kinder taken by surprise :

interesting companion, on the top of While, nearly conquer'd, she less disap- Barnack Hill, a place which he has proves,

celebrated in his poems; that he And owns at last, ʼmid tears and sighs, she pursued his way to Casterton; and loves.

that after dinner I tried to put these With sweetest feelings that this world be my imperfect recollections of the day



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Some thousand gentlemen and which agreeable procedure he con ladies will find our article this month trives to win the heart, hand, and vastly unsatisfactory; for the Captain mouth of a gay lady, with white of our cruiser “ The Critic” being flounces and dark ringlets. His name confined to his hammock, and the was Nicodemus.--The Ghost was the vessel being still on the peace or orbit of his course; in which farcę summer establishment, the command we were grieved to see and hear our has alighted on the gunner's-mate; a old favourite “ little Knight" fly diworthy man who will fire his thirty- rectly in the face of Hamlet, and six-pounders with great alacrity till for the temporary purpose of pleasing the signal is hoisted to cease; but the un-play-going pit and gallery of who cannot readily come into the mo- Drury, exaggerate rustic character dern innovation of using locks and (of which we have seen a little) into taking exact aim. He calls outroughly a caricature of Mr. What d'yé call in the old style, “Mind the heave of him, the Droll of the Cobourg. It the sea! Blaze away, my lads !” and would not be desirable to search for never heeds whether his shot tells : a more apposite illustration of the in this way two-thirds are wasted; danger arising from a bad neighbourbut whenever a ball does take effect, hood, than in Mr. K.'s degradation to the cracking timbers show how hard his present style of mocking, not imiit was rammed home.

tating humanity :-his case, howTaking No. XXI, as a pattern, it ever, adınits an easy remedy; he seems the custom to open the period- must recollect his former self, or see ical batteries on Covent Garden-but Emery at least once a week. For as Drury will occupy a very little the rest, “ The Coronation, as usual, time, let us despatch it, and toss it till further notice,” and the actor einover our left shoulder as lightly as peror himself, or themself, (to speak the intolerably tolerable Mr. Cooper regally) as usual-modestly swaggers (under the alias Geraldi Duval) has past those ever-arms-presenting distossed that very fine young woman, temper guards, with a “ New MANMiss Smithson, every evening, “Sun- TLE!” more purple than port, and a days excepted,” since our last. Our pompously condescending face more good-natured Commander has called purple than the mantle. There has Mr. Cooper “ an inoffensive actor, also been a farce as usual-Monsieur with no great points about him:” the Tonson hight; the plot is well known. latter limb of the sentence is undeni. Good-bye, Drury ! able, seeing that the gentleman al- At Mr. Smirke's house they have luded to is as plump as a partridge; begun rather strong, treating the nobut for the former, we must be mu- bodies * in town with their principal tinous or dissentient. Once indeed, he dish on the very first night, instead nearly reached that much desired con- of trying third-rate debutants in summation by doing little or nothing first-rate parts, on an easy audience. for two hours but walk in and out This gives rise to two doubts-one, through the doors, and through the whether any live novelties are forthflys, dressed in black, with a shovel- coming besides horses ; the other, is hat, pressing the head of his cane Mr. Young to be considered the acagainst his mouth, and uttering knowledged king, as of yore, two groans : occasionally broaching sen- years back? Green-room report antiments indicative of a gusto for swers the first in the negative; and graves, an amore for exequiæ, a con- as far as concerns the male division, noissance in coffins-assuming to be the public have no reason to lament; a human treatise on urn-burial ; by but for the female, or 0. P. side, for

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There is nobody in town,' said Topham Beauclerc, á besides myself and about a million of vulgar!' Vol. IV.

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