BARON'S 
 YULE FEAST 
 
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§ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. % 
 ey Me// *£&.&. 3 & 
 
 $ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 

LoMJOh : 
 
 Printed by A. Spottiswoude, 
 
 New- Street-Square. 
 
THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 
 
 Lady, receive a tributary lay 
 
 From one who cringeth not to titled state 
 
 Conventional, and lacketh will to prate 
 Of comeliness — though thine, to which did pay 
 The haughty Childe his tuneful homage, may 
 
 No min strel deem a harp -theme derogate. 
 
 I reckon thee among the truly great " 
 And fair, because with genius thou dost sway 
 The thought of thousands, while thy noble heart 
 
 With pity glows for Suffering, and with zeal 
 Cordial relief and sol ace to impart. 
 
 Thou didst, while I rehearsed Toil's wrongs, reveal 
 Such yearnings ! Plead ! let England hear thee plead 
 With eloquent tongue, _ that Toil from wrong be freed ! 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Several pieces in the following Rhyme were written 
 many years ago, and will be recognised by my early 
 friends. They were the fruit of impressions derived from 
 the local associations of boyhood, (of which, the reader, 
 if inclined, may learn more in the notes,) and of an 
 admiration created by the exquisite beauty and sim- 
 plicity of Coleridge's ' Christabel, ' — which I had by 
 heart, and used to repeat to Thomas Miller, my playmate 
 and companion from infancy, during many a delightful 
 ' Day in the Woods,' and pleasing ramble on the hills and 
 in the woods above Gainsborough, and along the banks 
 of Trent. 
 
 I offer but one apology for the production of a metrical 
 essay, composed chiefly of imperfect and immature 
 pieces : — the ambition to contribute towards the fund 
 of Christmas entertainment, in which agreeable labour 
 I see many popular names engaged, — and among them, 
 one, the most deservedly popular in the literature of the 
 day. The favour with which an influential portion of the 
 press has received my ' Prison Rhyme ' emboldens me to 
 take this step ; and if the flagellation of criticism be not 
 too keenly dealt upon me for the imperfections in the few 
 pages that follow, I will be content, in this instance, to 
 expect no praise. 
 
 134, Blackfriars Road, 
 Bee. 20. 1845. 
 
BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 GDjmstmas -RIiBmt. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Right beautiful is Torksey's hall, 1 
 Adown by nieadowed Trent ; 
 
 Right beautiful that mouldering wall, 
 
 And remnant of a turret tall, 
 Shorn of its battlement. 
 
 For, while the children of the Spring 
 
 Blush into life, and die ; 
 And Summer's joy-birds take light wing 
 
 When Autumn mists are nigh ; 
 And soon the year — a winterling — 
 
 With its fall'n leaves doth lie ; 
 
 B 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 
 
 That ruin gray — 
 Mirror'd, alway, 
 Deep in the silver stream, 
 Doth summon weird- wrought visions vast, 
 That show the actors of the past 
 Pictured, as in a dream. 
 
 Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes, 
 The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise, 
 
 Till the full pageant bright — 
 A throng of warrior-barons bold, 
 Glittering in burnished steel and gold, 
 
 Bursts on my glowing sight. 
 
 And, mingles with the martial train, 
 Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain, 
 
 On palfrey and jennet — 
 That proudly toss the tasselled rein, 
 And daintily curvet ; 
 
 And war-steeds prance, 
 And rich plumes glance 
 On helm and burgonet ; 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 
 
 And lances crash, 
 And falchions flash 
 Of knights in tourney met. 
 
 Fast fades the joust ! — and fierce forms frown 
 That man the leaguered tower, — 
 
 Nor quail to scan the kingly crown 
 That leads the leaguering power. 
 
 Trumpet and " rescue" ring ! — and, soon, 
 
 He who began the strife 
 Is fain to crave one paltry boon : — 
 
 The thrall-king begs his life ! 
 
 Our fathers and their throbbing toil 
 
 Are hushed in pulseless death ; 
 Hushed is the dire and deadly broil — 
 
 The tempest of their wrath ; — 
 Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil 
 
 Is thine, O sateless Grave ! 
 Songs of their brother-hours shall foil 
 
 Thy triumph o'er the brave ! 
 b 2 
 
THE BARON S TULE FEAST. 
 
 Their bravery take, and darkly hide 
 
 Deep in thy inmost hold ! 
 Take all their mailed pomp and pride 
 
 To deck thy mansions cold ! 
 Plunderer ! thou hast but purified 
 
 Their memories from alloy : 
 Faults of the dead we scorn to chide — 
 
 Their virtues sing with joy. 
 
 Lord of our fathers' ashes ! list 
 
 A carol of their mirth ; 
 Nor shake thy nieve, chill moralist ! 
 
 To check their sons' joy-birth : — 
 
 It is the season when our sires 
 
 Kept jocund holiday ; 
 And, now, around our charier fires, 
 
 Old Yule shall have a lay : — 
 A prison-bard is once more free ; 
 And, ere he yields his voice to thee, 
 His song a merry- song shall be ! 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 5 
 
 Sir Wilfrid de Thorold 2 freely holds 
 What his stout sires held before — 
 Broad lands for plough, and fruitful folds, — 
 
 Though by gold he sets no store ; 
 
 And he saith, from fen and woodland wolds, 
 
 From marish, heath, and moor, — 
 
 To feast in his hall, 
 
 Both free and thrall, 
 
 Shall come as they came of yore. 
 
 " Let the merry bells ring out ! " saith he 
 
 To my lady of the Fosse ; 3 
 "We will keep the birth-eve joyfully 
 
 " Of our Lord who bore the cross ! " 
 
 " Let the merry bells ring loud ! " he saith 
 
 To saint Leonard's shaven prior ; 4 
 " Bid thy losel monks that patter of faith 
 
 " Shew workjj, and never tire." 
 Saith the lord of saint Leonard's : " The brother- 
 hood 
 
 " Will ring and never tire 
 " For a beck or a nod of the Baron good ;" — 
 
 Saith Sir Wilfrid : " They will —for hire !" 
 b 3 
 
THE BARON'S TULE FEAST. 
 
 Then, turning to his daughter fair, 
 Who leaned on her father's carven chair, — 
 He said, — and smiled 
 On his peerless child, — 
 His jewel whose price no clerk could tell, 
 Though the clerk had told 
 Sea sands for gold ; — 
 For her dear mother's sake he loved her well, — 
 But more for the balm her tenderness 
 Had poured on his widowed heart's distress ; — 
 More, still more, for her own heart's grace 
 That so lovelily shone in her lovely face, 
 And drew all eyes its love to trace — 
 Left all tongues languageless ! — 
 
 He said, — and smiled 
 
 On his peerless child, — 
 " Sweet bird ! bid Hugh our seneschal 
 " Send to saint Leonard's, ere even-fall, 
 " A fat fed beeve, and a two-shear sheep, 
 " With a firkin of ale that a monk in his sleep 
 "May hear to hum, when it feels the broach, 
 " And wake up and swig, without reproach ! — 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 7 
 
 " And the nuns of the Fosse — for wassail-bread — 
 " Let them have wheat, both white and red ; 
 " And a runlet of mead, with a jug of the wine 
 "Which the merchant-man vowed he brought 
 
 from the Rhine ; 
 " And bid Hugh say that their bells must ring 
 
 u A peal loud and long, 
 
 " While we chaunt heart-song, 
 " For the birth of our heavenly king ! " 
 
 Now merrily ring the lady -bells 
 
 Of the nunnery by the Fosse : — 
 Say the hinds, " Their silver music swells 
 " Like the blessed angels' syllables, 
 
 " At his birth who bore the cross ! " 
 
 And solemnly swells saint Leonard's chime 
 
 And the great bell loud and deep : — 
 Say the gossips, " Let's talk of the holy time 
 
 " When the shepherds watched their sheep ; 
 " And the Babe was born for all souls' crime 
 
 " In the weakness of flesh to weep." — 
 But, anon, shrills the pipe of the merry mime, 
 
 And their simple hearts upleap. 
 b 4 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 
 
 " God save jour souls, good Christian folk ! 
 
 "God save your souls from sin! — 
 "Blythe Yule is come — let us blythely joke!"- 
 
 Cry the mummers, ere they begin. 
 
 Then, plough-boy Jack, in kirtle gay, — 
 
 Though shod with clouted shoon, — 
 Stands forth the wilful maid to play 
 Who ever saith to her lover " Nay " — 
 When he sues for a lover's boon. 
 
 While Hob the smith with sturdy arm 
 
 Circleth the feigned maid ; 
 And, spite of Jack's assumed alarm, 
 Busseth his lips, like a lover warm, 
 
 And will not " Nay" be said. 
 
 Then loffe the gossips, as if wit 
 
 Were mingled with the joke : — 
 Gentles, — they were with folly smit, — 
 Natheless, their memories acquit 
 
 Of crime — these simple folk ! 
 
 No harmful thoughts their revels blight, — 
 Devoid of bitter hate and spite, 
 
THE BAEON S YULE FEAST. 9 
 
 They hold their merriment ; — 
 And, till the chimes tell noon at night. 
 Their joy shall be unspent! 
 
 " Come haste ye to bold Thorold's hall, 
 
 " And crowd his kitchen wide ; 
 " For there, he saith, both free and thrall 
 
 " Shall sport this good Yule-tide ! 
 
 " Come hasten, gossips ! " the mummers cry, 
 
 Throughout old Torksey town ; 
 " We'll hasten!" they answer, joyfully, 
 
 The gossip and the clown. 
 
 Heigho ! whence cometh that cheery shout ? 
 
 'Tis the Yule-log troop, — a merry rout ! 
 
 The gray old ash that so bravely stood, 
 
 The pride of the Past, in Thorney wood, 5 
 
 They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule ; 
 
 And kirtled Jack is placed astride : 
 
 On the log to the grunsel 6 he shall ride ! 
 
 " Losels, yoke all ! yoke to, and pull ! " 
 Cries Dick the wri^ht, on loner-eared steed ; 
 
10 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 " He shall have thwack 
 
 " On lazy back, 
 " That yoketh him not, in time of need ! " 
 
 A long wain-whip 
 
 Dick doth equip, 
 And with beans in the bladder at end of thong, 
 It seemeth to threaten strokes sturdy and 
 strong; — 
 
 Yet clown and maid 
 
 Give eager aid, — 
 And all, as they rattle the huge block along, 
 
 Seem to court the joke 
 
 Of Dick's wain-whip stroke, — 
 Be it ever so smart, none thinks he hath wrong; — 
 
 Till with mirthsome glee, 
 
 The old ash tree 
 Hath come to the threshold of Torksey hall, — 
 
 Where its brave old heart 
 
 A glow shall impart 
 To the heart of each guest at the festival. 
 
 And through the porch, a jocund crowd, 
 They rush, with heart-born laughter loud ; 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 11 
 
 And still the merry mimesters call, 
 With jest and gibe, " Laugh, losels all!" 
 
 Then in the laden sewers troop, 
 
 With plattered beef and foaming stoup : — 
 
 " Make merry, neighbours!" cries good Hugh, 
 
 The white-haired seneschal : 
 " Ye trow, bold Thorold welcomes you — 
 
 " Make merry, my masters, all !" 
 
 They pile the Yule-log on the hearth, — 
 
 Soak toasted crabs in ale : 
 And while they sip, their homely mirth 
 Is joyous as if all the earth 
 
 For man were void of bale ! 
 
 And why should fears for future years 
 Mix jolly ale with thoughts of tears 
 
 When in the horn 'tis poured ? 
 And why should ghost of sorrow fright 
 The bold heart of an English wight 
 
 When beef is on the board ? 
 
12 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 De Thorold's guests are wiser than 
 
 The men of mopish lore ; 
 For round they push the smiling can, 
 
 And slice the plattered store. 
 
 And round they thrust the ponderous cheese, 
 And the loaves of wheat and rye : 
 
 None stinteth him for lack of ease — 
 
 For each a stintless welcome sees, 
 In the Baron's blythesome eye. 
 
 The Baron joineth the joyous feast — 
 
 But not in pomp or pride ; 
 He smileth on the humblest guest 
 So gladsomely— all feel that rest 
 
 Of heart which doth abide 
 Where deeds of generousness attest 
 The welcome by the tongue professed, 
 
 Is not within belied. 
 
 And the Baron's beauteous child is there, 
 
 In her maiden peerlessness, — 
 Her eyes diffusing heart-light rare, 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 13 
 
 And smiles so sweetly debonair, 
 That all her presence bless. — 
 
 But wherefore paleth, soon, her cheek ? 
 And why, with trembling, doth she seek 
 
 To shun her father's gaze ? 
 And who is he for whom the crowd 
 Make ready room, and " Welcome" loud 
 
 With gleeful voices raise ? 
 
 " Right welcome ! " though the revellers shout, 
 They hail the minstrel " Stranger ! " 
 
 And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt, 
 
 And his daughter's look thrills " danger ! " 
 
 Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold, 
 
 And his speech is firm and free ; 
 He saith he will carol a legend old, 
 Of a Norman lord of Torksey told : 
 
 He learnt it o'er the sea ; 
 And he will not sing for the Baron's gold, 
 
 But for love of minstrelsy. 
 
 " Come, tune thy harp ! " the Baron saith, 
 " And tell thy minstrel tale : 
 
14 THE BARON'S TULE FEA.ST. 
 
 " It is too late to harbour wrath 
 " For the thieves in helm and mail : 
 
 " Our fathers' home again is ours ! — 
 " Though Thorold is Saxon still, 
 
 " To a song of thy foreign troubadours 
 " He can list with right good will ! " 
 
 A shout of glee rings to the roof, 
 And the revellers form a ring ; 
 
 Then silent wait to mark what proof 
 Of skill with voice and string 
 
 The youthful stranger will afford. 
 
 Full soon he tunes each quivering chord, 
 And, with preamble wildly sweet 
 He doth the wondering listeners greet ; — 
 Then strikes into a changeful chaunt 
 That fits his fanciful romaunt. 
 
THE BAEON'S YULE FEAST. 15 
 
 Cfte SuxisUtt of ffetttegmet* 
 
 THE STRANGER MINSTRELS TALE. 
 
 FYTTE THE FYRSTE. 
 
 'Tis midnight, and the broad full moon 
 
 Pours on the earth her silver noon ; 
 
 Sheeted in white, like spectres of fear, 
 
 Their ghostly forms the towers uprear ; 
 And their long dark shadows behind them are cast, 
 Like the frown of the cloud when the lightning 
 hath past. 
 
 The warder sleeps on the battlement, 
 And there is not a breeze to curl the Trent ; 
 The leaf is at rest, and the owl is mute — 
 But list ! awaked is the woodland lute : 
 The nightingale warbles her omen sweet 
 On the hour when the ladye her lover shall meet. 
 
16 THE BAKON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 She waves her hand from the loophole high, 
 And watcheth, with many a struggling sigh. 
 And hearkeneth in doubt, and paleth with fear, — 
 Yet tremblingly trusts her true knight is near ; — 
 And there skims o'er the river — or doth her heart 
 
 doat ? — 
 As with wing of the night-hawk — her lover's brave 
 boat. 
 
 His noble form hath attained the strand, 
 
 And she waves again her small white hand ; 
 
 And breathing to heaven, in haste, a prayer, 
 
 Softly glides down the lonely stair ; 
 And there stands by the portal, all watchful and 
 
 still, 
 Her own faithful damsel awaiting her will. 
 
 The midnight lamp gleams dull and pale, — 
 The maidens twain are weak and frail, — 
 But Love doth aid his votaries true, 
 While they the massive bolts undo, — 
 And a moment hath flown, and the warrior knight 
 Embraceth his love in the meek moonlight. 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 17 
 
 The knight his love-prayer, tenderly, 
 Thus breathed in his fair one's ear 
 
 " Oh! wilt thou not, my Agnes, flee ? — 
 " And, quelling thy maiden fear, 
 
 " Away in the fleeting skiff with me, 
 " And, for aye, this lone heart cheer ? " 
 
 " let not bold Romara 7 seek" — 
 Soft answered his ladye-love, — 
 " A father's doating heart to break, 
 " For should I disdainful prove 
 " Of his high behests, his darling child 
 " Will thenceforth be counted a thing defiled ; 
 " And the kindling eye of my martial sire 
 " Be robbed of its pride, and be quenched its fire : 
 " Nor long would true Romara deem 
 " The heart of his Agnes beat for him, 
 " And for him alone — if that heart, he knew, 
 " To its holiest law could be thus untrue." 
 
 His plume-crowned helm the warrior bows 
 
 Low o'er her shoulder fair, 
 And bursting sighs the grief disclose 
 
 His lips can not declare ; 
 c 
 
18 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 And swiftly glide the tears of love 
 Adown the ladye's cheek ; — 
 
 Their deep commingling sorrows prove 
 The love they cannot speak ! 
 
 The moon shines on them, as on things 
 
 She loves to robe with gladness, — 
 But all her light no radiance brings 
 Unto their hearts' dark sadness : 
 Forlornly, 'neath her cheerless ray, — 
 
 Eosom to bosom beating, — 
 In speechless agony they stay, 
 With burning kisses greeting; — 
 Nor reck they with what speed doth haste 
 The present hour to join the past. 
 
 " Ho! lady Agnes, lady dear!" 
 
 Her fearful damsel cries ; 
 " You reckon not, I deeply fear, 
 
 " How swift the moontide flies ! 
 " The surly warder will awake, 
 
 " The morning dawn, anon, — 
 " My heart beginneth sore to quake, — 
 
 " I fear we are undone ! " 
 
THE BAEON'S YULE FEAST. 19 
 
 But Love is mightier than Fear : 
 
 The ladye hasteth not : 
 The magnet of her heart is near, 
 
 And peril is forgot ! 
 
 She clingeth to her knight's brave breast 
 
 Like a lorn turtle-dove, 
 And 'mid the peril feeleth rest, — 
 
 The full, rapt rest of Love ! 
 
 " I charge thee, hie thee hence, sir knight ! " 
 
 The damsel shrilly cries ; 
 " If this should meet her father's sight, 
 
 " By Heaven ! my lady dies." 
 
 The warrior rouseth all his pride, 
 
 And looseth his love's caress, — 
 Yet slowness of heart doth his strength betide 
 
 As he looks on her loveliness : — 
 But again the damsel their love-dream breaks, — 
 
 And, self-reproachingly, 
 The knight his resolve of its fetters shakes, 
 
 And his spirit now standeth free. 
 c 2 
 
20 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 Then, came the last, absorbing kiss, 
 
 True Love can ne'er forego, — 
 That dreamy plenitude of bliss 
 Or antepast of woe, — 
 That seeming child of Heaven, which at its birth 
 Briefly expires, and proves itself of earth. 
 
 The ladye hieth to her couch ; — 
 
 And when the morn appears, 
 The changes of her cheek avouch, 
 
 Full virginly her fears ; — 
 But her doating father can nought discern 
 
 In the hues of the rose and the lily that chase 
 
 Each other across her lovely face, — 
 Save a sweetness that softens his visage stern. 
 
 FYTTE THE SECONDE. 
 
 Honiara's skiff is on the Trent, 
 
 And the stream is in its strength, — 
 
 For a surge, from its ocean-fountain sent, 
 Pervades its giant length : 8 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 21 
 
 Roars the hoarse heygre 9 in its course, 
 Lashing the banks with its wrathful force ; 
 And dolefully echoes the wild-fowl's scream, 
 As the sallows are swept by the whelming stream ; 
 And her callow young are hurled for a meal, 
 To the gorge of the barbel, the pike, and the eel : 
 The porpoise 10 heaves 'mid the rolling tide, 
 And, snorting in mirth, doth merrily ride, — 
 For he hath forsaken his bed in the sea, 
 To sup on the salmon, right daintily ! 
 
 In Romara's breast a tempest raves : 
 
 He heeds not the rage of the furrowy waves : 
 
 Supremely his hopes and fears are set 
 
 On the image of Agnes Plantagenet : u 
 
 And though from his vision fade G-ainsburgh's 
 
 towers, 
 And the moon is beclouded, and darkness lours, 
 Yet the eye of his passion oft pierceth the gloom, 
 And beholds his Beloved in her virgin bloom — 
 Kneeling before the holy Rood, — 
 
 All clasped her hands, — 
 Beseeching the saints and angels good 
 c 3 
 
22 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 That their watchful bands 
 Her knight may preserve from a watery tomb ! 
 
 What deathful scream rends Romara's heart ? — 
 Is it the bittern that, napping the air, 
 
 Doth shriek in madness, and downward dart, 
 As if from the bosom of Death she would tear 
 
 Her perished brood, — or a shroud would have 
 
 By their side, in the depths of their river-grave ? 
 
 Hark ! hark ! again ! — 'tis a human cry, 
 Like the shriek of a man about to die ! 
 And its desolateness doth fearfully pierce 
 The billowy boom of the torrent fierce ; 
 
 And, swift as a thought 
 
 Glides the warrior's boat 
 Through the foaming surge to the river's bank, 
 Where, lo ! — by a branch of the osiers dank, 
 
 Clingeth one in agony 
 
 Uttering that doleful cry ! 
 
 His silvery head of age upborne 
 
 Appeared above the wave ; 
 So nearly was his strength outworn, 
 
 That all too late to save 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 23 
 
 Had been the knight, if another billow 
 
 Its force on his fainting frame, had bent, — 
 
 Nay, his feeble grasp by the drooping willow 
 The beat of a pulse might have fatally spent. 
 
 With eager pounce did Romara take 
 
 From the yawning wave its prey, — 
 But nought to his deliverer spake 
 
 The man with the head of gray : 
 And the warrior stripped, with needful haste, 
 The helpless one of his drenched vest, 
 And wrapt his own warm mantle round 
 The chill one in his deathly swound. 
 
 The sea-born strength of the stream is spent, 
 And Honiara's boat outstrips its speed, — 
 
 For his stalwart arm to the oar is bent, 
 And swiftly the ebbing waves recede. 
 
 Divinely streaketh the morning-star 
 With a wavy light the rippliDg waters ; 
 
 And the moon looks on from the west, afar, 
 And palely smiles, with her waning daughters, 
 c 4 
 
24 THE baron's yule feast. 
 
 The thin-strown stars, which their vigil keep 
 Till the orient sun shall awake from sleep. 
 
 The sun hath awoke ; and in garments of gold 
 
 The turrets of Torksey are livingly rolled ; 
 
 Afar, on Trent's margin, the flowery lea 
 
 Exhales her dewy fragrancy ; 
 
 And gaily carols the matin lark, 
 
 As the warrior hastes to moor his bark. 
 
 Two menials hastened to the beach, 
 
 For signal none need they ; 
 On the towers they kept a heedful watch 
 
 As the skiff glode on its way : 
 
 With silent step and breathless care 
 The rescued one they softly bear, 
 And bring him, at their lord's behest, 
 To a couch of silken pillowed rest. 
 
 The serfs could scarce avert their eye 
 From his manly form and mien, 
 
 As, with closed lids, all reverendly, 
 He lay in peace, serene. 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 25 
 
 And Romara thought, as he gazing leant 
 
 O'er the slumberer's form, that so pure a trace 
 
 Of the spirit of Heaven with the earthly blent 
 Dwelt only there, and in Agnes' face. 
 
 The leech comes forth at the hour of noon, 
 
 And saith, that the sick from his deathly swoon 
 
 Will awake anon ; and Romara's eye, 
 
 Uplit, betokens his heartfelt joy ; 
 
 And again o'er the slumberer's couch he bows 
 
 Till, slowly, those peaceful lids unclose, — 
 
 When, long, with heavenward-fixed gaze, 
 
 With lowly prayer and grateful praise, 
 
 The aged man, from death reprieved, 
 
 His bosom of its joy relieved. — 
 
 Then did Romara thus address 
 His gray guest, in his reverendness : 
 
 " Now, man of prayer come tell to me 
 
 " Some spell of thy holy mystery ! 
 
 " Some vision hast had of the Virgin bright, — 
 
 " Or message, conveyed from the world of light, 
 
26 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 " By the angels of love who in purity stand 
 
 " ' Fore the throne of our Lord in the heavenly land? 
 
 " I hope, when I die, to see them there : 
 
 " For I love the angels so holy and fair : 
 
 " And often, I trust, my prayer they greet 
 
 " With smiles, when I kneel and kiss their feet 
 
 " In the missal, my mother her weeping child gave, 
 
 " But a day or two ere she was laid in the grave. 
 
 " Sage man of prayer, come tell to me 
 
 " What holy shapes in sleep they see 
 
 " Who love the blest saints and serve them well ! 
 
 " I pray thee, sage man, to Honiara tell, 
 
 " For a guerdon, thy dreams, — sith, to me thou 
 
 hast said 
 " No thanks that I rescued thy soul from the dead/' 
 
 But, when the aged man arose 
 
 And met Romara's wistful eye, — 
 
 What accents shall the change disclose 
 That marked his visage, fearfully ? — 
 
 From joy to grief and deepest dole, 
 From radiant hope to dark presage 
 
THE BAUON'S YULE FEAST. 27 
 
 Of future ills beyond control — 
 Hath passed, the visage of the sage. 
 
 " Son of an honoured line, I grieve," 
 
 Outspake the reverend seer, 
 " That I no guerdon thee can give 
 
 " But words of woe and fear ! — 
 " Thy sun is setting ! — and thy race, 
 
 " In thee, their goodly heir, 
 " Shall perish, nor a feeble trace 
 
 " Their fated name declare ! — 
 " Thy love is fatal : fatal, too, 
 
 " This act of rescue brave — 
 " For, him who from destruction drew 
 
 " My life, no arm can save ! " 
 
 He said, — and took his lonely way 
 
 Far from Honiara's towers. — 
 His fateful end from that sad day 
 
 O'er Torksey's chieftain lowers : — 
 Yet, vainly, in his heart a shrine 
 
 Hope builds for love, — with faith ; — 
 Alas ! for him with frown malign 
 
 Waiteth the grim king Death ! 
 
28 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 FYTTE THE THYRDE. 
 
 Plantagenet hath dungeons deep 
 
 Beneath his castled halls ; — 
 Plantagenet awakes from sleep 
 
 To count his dungeoned thralls. 
 
 Alone, with the torch of blood-red flame, 
 
 The man of blood descends ; 
 And the fettered captives curse his name, 
 
 As through, the vaults he wends. — 
 
 His caverns are visited, all, save one, 
 The deepest, and direst in gloom, — 
 
 Where his father, doomed by a demon son, 
 Abode in a living tomb. — 
 
 " I bring thee bread and water, sire ! 
 
 " Brave usury for thy gold ! 
 " I fear my filial zeal will tire 
 
 " To visit, soon, thy hold!" 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 29 
 
 Thus spake the fiendish-hearted lord, 
 
 And wildly laughed, in scorn : 
 Like thunder round the cell each word 
 
 By echoing fiends is borne, — 
 But not a human heart is there 
 The baron's scorn or hate to fear ! 
 
 And the captives tell, as he passeth again, — 
 
 That tyrant, in his rage, — 
 How an angel hath led the aged man 
 
 To his heavenly heritage ! 
 
 The wrathful baron little recked 
 That angel was his darling child ; 
 
 Or knew his dark ambition checked 
 By her who oft his rage beguiled, — 
 By her on whom he ever smiled : — 
 
 This had he known, from that dread hour, 
 
 His darling's smile had lost its power, — 
 
 And his own hand, without remorse, 
 
 Had laid her at his feet a corse ! — 
 
 Plantagenet's banners in pride are borne 
 To the sound of pipe and drum ! 
 
30 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 And his mailed bands, with the dawn of morn, 
 
 To Romara's walls are come. 
 " We come not as foes," the herald saith, — 
 " But we bring Plantagenet's shriven faith 
 " That thou, Honiara, in thine arms 
 " Shall soon enfold thy true love's charms : 
 " Let no delay thy joy betide ! — 
 " Thy Agnes soon shall be thy bride !" 
 
 The raven croaks as Torksey's lord 
 
 Attends that bannered host ; 
 But the lover is deaf to the omen-bird — 
 
 The fatal moat is crossed ! 
 
 " Ride, ride;" saith the baron, — " thy ladye fain 
 " And the priest — by the altar wait !" — 
 
 And the spearmen seize his bridle-rein, 
 And hurry him to his fate. 
 
 " A marriage by torchlight!" the baron said; 
 
 " This stair to the altar leads ! 
 " We patter our prayers, 'mong the mouldering 
 dead, — 
 
 " And there we tell our beads ! " 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 31 
 
 Along the caverned dungeon's gloom 
 
 The tyrant strides in haste ; 
 And, powerless, to his dreadful doom 
 
 The victim followeth fast. 
 The dazed captives quake and stare 
 At the sullen torch's blood-red glare, 
 
 And the lover starts aghast 
 At the deathlike forms they wear ! 
 
 Too late, the truth upon him breaks ! — 
 
 Romara's heart is faint ! — 
 " Behold thy bride !" the baron shrieks — 
 
 " Wilt hear the wedding chaunt ? 
 " This chain once bound my father here, 
 
 " Who would have found his grave — 
 
 " The cursed dotard ! — 'neath the wave, — 
 " Had not thy hateful hand been near. — 
 " Be this the bride thou now shalt wed ! 
 " This dungeon dank thy bridal bed ! — 
 " And when thy youthful blood shall freeze 
 " In death, — may fiends thy spirit seize ! " — 
 
 Plantagenet hath minions fell 
 
 Who do their master's bidding well : — 
 
32 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Few days Honiara pines in dread : — 
 His soul is with the sainted dead ! — 
 
 Plantagenet hath reached his bourne ! 
 What terrors meet his soul forlorn 
 And full of stain, — I may not say : — 
 Reveal them shall the Judgment Day ! - 
 
 Her orisons at matin hour, 
 
 At noon, and eve, and midnight toll, 
 For him, doth tearful Agnes pour ! — 
 
 Jesu Maria ! sain his soul ! 
 
BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 A 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Symphonious notes of dulcet plaint 
 Followed the stranger minstrel's chaunt ; 
 And, when his sounding harp was dumb, 
 The crowd, with loud applausive hum, 
 Gave hearty guerdon for his strain ; 
 While some with sighs expressed what pain 
 Had pierced their simple bosoms thorow 
 To hear his song of death and sorrow. 
 
 " Come bear the mead-cup to our guest," 
 
 Said Thorold to his daughter ; 
 " We thought to hear, at our Yule feast, 
 
 " A lay of mirth and laughter ; 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 
 
 i But, to thy harp, thou well hast sung 
 
 " A song that may impart, 
 ' For future hours, to old and young, 
 
 " Deep lessons to the heart. 
 ' Yet, should not life be all a sigh ! 
 ' Good Snell, do thou a burthen try 
 ' Shall change our sadness into joy : 
 £ Such as thou trollest in blythe mood, 
 ' On days of sunshine in the wood. 
 ' Tell out thy heart withouten fear — 
 ' For none shall stifle free thoughts here ! 
 ' But, bear the mead-cup, Edith sweet ! 
 ' We crave our stranger guest will greet 
 ' All hearts, again, with minstrelsy, 
 ' When Snell hath trolled his mirth-notes free ! 
 
 Fairer than fairest flower that blows, — 
 Sweeter than breath of sweetest rose, — 
 Still on her cheek, in lustre left, 
 The tear the minstrel's tale had reft 
 From its pearl-treasure in the brain — 
 The limbec where, by mystic vein, 
 From the heart's fountains are distilled 
 Those crystals, when 'tis overfilled, — 
 
THE BARONS YULE FEAST. 35 
 
 With downcast eye, and trembling hands, 
 Edith before the stranger stands — 
 
 Stranger to all but her ! 
 Though well the baron notes his brow, 
 While the young minstrel kneeleth low — 
 
 Love's grateful worshipper ! — 
 And doth with lips devout impress 
 The hand of his fair ministress ! 
 
 Yet, was the deed so meekly done, — 
 His guerdon seemed so fairly won, — 
 The tribute he to beauty paid 
 
 So deeply all believed deserved, — 
 That nought of blame Sir Wilfrid said, 
 
 Though much his thoughts from meekness 
 swerved. 
 
 Impatience, soon, their faces tell 
 To hear the song of woodman Snell, 
 
 Among the festive crew ; 
 And, soon, their old and honest frere, 
 Elated by the good Yule cheer, 
 In untaught notes, but full and clear, 
 
 Thus told his heart-thoughts true : — 
 d 2 
 
36 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 I would not be a crowned king, 
 
 For all his gaudy gear ; 
 I would not be that pampered thing, 
 
 His gew-gaw gold to wear : 
 
 But I would be where I can sing 
 
 Right merrily, all the year ; 
 
 Where forest treen, 
 
 All gay and green, 
 
 Full blythely do me cheer. 
 
 I would not be a gentleman, 
 
 For all his hawks and hounds, — 
 For fear the hungry poor should ban 
 
 My halls and wide-parked grounds : 
 But I would be a merry man, 
 
 Among the wild wood sounds, — 
 Where free birds sing, 
 And echoes ring 
 While my axe from the oak rebounds. 
 
THE BAKON's YULE FEAST. 37 
 
 I would not be a shaven priest, 
 For all his sloth- won tythe : 
 But while to me this breath is leased, 
 
 And these old limbs are lithe, — 
 
 Ere Death hath marked me for his feast, 
 
 And felled me with his scythe, — 
 
 I'll troll my song, 
 
 The leaves among, 
 
 All in the forest blythe. 
 
 " Well done, well done ! " bold Thorold cried, 
 
 When the woodman ceased to sing ; 
 " By'r Lady ! it warms the Saxon tide 
 
 " In our veins to hear thee bring 
 " These English thoughts so freely out ! 
 " Thy health, good Snell ! " — and a merry shout 
 For honest boldness, truth, and worth, 
 The baron's grateful guests sent forth. 
 
 Silence like grave-yard air, again, 
 
 Pervades the festive space : 
 All list for another minstrel strain ; 
 
 And the youth, with merrier face, 
 d 3 
 
38 THE BAROX'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 But tender notes, thus half-divulged 
 The passion which his heart indulged : — 
 
 O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye, 
 That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy ; 
 
 Who weepeth for pity, 
 
 To hear a love ditty, 
 And marketh the end with a sigh. 
 
 If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look, 
 Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook, 
 Each day for the morrow 
 Will nurture more sorrow, — 
 Each sun paint thy shadow a-crook. 
 
 The maid that is gentle will make a kind wife ; 
 The magpie that prateth will stir thee to strife : 
 
 'Twere better to tarry, 
 
 Unless thou canst marry 
 To sweeten the bitters of life ! 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 39 
 
 What fires the youthful minstrel's lay 
 
 Lit in De Thorold's eyes, 
 It needs not, now, I soothly say : 
 Sweet Edith had softly stolen away, — 
 
 And 'mid his own surprise, 
 Blent with the boisterous applause 
 That, instant, to the rafters rose, 
 The baron his jealous thought forgot. 
 Quickly, sithence a jocund note 
 Was fairly struck in every mind, 
 And jolly ale its power combined 
 To fill all hearts with deeper glee, — 
 All wished for gleeful minstrelsy ; 
 And every eye was shrewdly bent 
 On one whose caustic merriment 
 At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin 
 d 4 
 
40 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 Compelling cause of mirthful grin 
 To ancient Torksey's rustic folk. 
 
 Full soon this sturdy summons broke 
 
 From sire and son, and maid and mother : — 
 
 " Ho, ho ! saint Leonard's fat lay brother ! 
 
 " Why dost thou in the corner peep, 
 
 " And sipple as if half asleep 
 
 " Thou wert with this good nappy ale ? 
 
 " Come, rouse thee ! for thy sly old tale 
 
 " Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil, 
 
 " We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel ! 
 
 " Thy folded cloak come cast aside ! — 
 
 " Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide — 
 
 " It is thy old trick — we know it well — 
 
 " Pledge all ! and thy ditty begin to tell ! " 
 
 " Pledge all, pledge all ! " the baron cried ; 
 
 " Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide !" 
 
 Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew, 
 
 And athwart the triple string 
 The bow in gamesome mood he threw, — 
 
 His joke-song preluding ; — 
 Soon, with sly look, the burly man, 
 In burly tones his tale began. 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 41 
 
 THE LAY BROTHER OF SAINT LEONARD'S TALE. 
 
 the Prior of Roche 
 
 Was without reproach 
 While with saintly monks he chanted ; 
 
 But when from the mass 
 
 He had turned his face, 
 The prior his saintship scanted. 
 
 the Miller of Roche, — 
 
 1 swear and avouch, — 
 Had a wife of nut-brown beauty ; 
 
 And to shrive her, — they say, — 
 The prior, each day, 
 Came with zeal to his ghostly duty. 
 
 But the neighbouring wives, 
 
 Who ne'er shrove in their lives, — 
 Such wickedness Sathanas whispers! — 
 
 Said the black-cloaked prior 
 
 By the miller's log fire, 
 Oft tarried too late for vespers ! 
 
42 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 O the thunder was loud, 
 
 And the sky wore a shroud, 
 And the lightning blue was gleaming ; 
 
 And the foaming flood, 
 
 Where the good mill stood, 
 Pell-mell o'er the dam was teeming. 
 
 the Miller, that night, 
 
 Toiled on in a fright, — 
 Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded ! 
 
 Yet, although he'd stayed long, 
 
 The storm was so strong 
 That full loath to depart was he minded. 
 
 Lo! at midnight a jolt, 
 As loud as the bolt 
 Of the thunder on high that still rumbled, 
 Assailed the mill-doors, 
 And burst them, perforce, — 
 
 Saint Luke and saint John 
 Save the ground we stand on " — 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 43 
 
 Cried the Miller, — " but ye come in a hurry ; " 
 
 While the lad, turning pale, 
 
 ' Gan to weep and to wail, 
 And to patter this pitiful story : 
 
 " Goodman Miller, I pray, 
 
 " Believe what I say, — 
 " For, as surely as thou art a sinner, — 
 
 " Since the break of the morn 
 
 " I have wandered forlorn, 
 " And have neither had breakfast nor dinner!" 
 
 the Miller looked sad, 
 
 And cried, " Good lack, my lad ! 
 " But ye tell me a dolorous ditty ! — ■ 
 
 " And ye seem in sad plight 
 
 " To travel to-night : — 
 " The sight o' ye stirs up one's pity ! 
 
 " Go straight to my cot, 
 
 " And beg something that's hot, ■ — 
 " For ye look very haggard and hollow : — 
 
 " The storm's nearly o'er ; 
 
 " I will not grind much more, — 
 " And when I have done, I will follow. 
 
44 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 " Keep by the brook-side ! 
 
 " The path is not wide — 
 " But ye cannot soon stray, if ye mind it ; — 
 
 " At the foot of the hill, 
 
 " Half a mile from the mill, 
 " Stands my cottage : — ye can't fail to find it.' 
 
 Then out the lad set, 
 
 All dripping with wet, — 
 But the skies around him seemed brighter ; 
 
 And he went gaily on, — 
 
 For his burthen was gone, — 
 And his heart in his bosom danced lighter. 
 
 Adown by the brook 
 
 His travel he took, 
 And soon raught the Miller's snug dwelling ; — 
 
 But, what he saw ere 
 
 He was admitted there — 
 By Saint Bridget ! — I must not be telling ! 
 
 Thus much I may say — 
 That the cot was of clay, 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 45 
 
 And the light was through wind -cracks ejected ; 
 
 And he placed close his eye, 
 
 And peeped in, so sly, — 
 And saw — what he never expected ! 
 
 the lad 'gan to fear 
 
 That the Miller would appear, — 
 And, to him, this strange sight would be vexing ; 
 
 So he, first, sharply coughed, 
 
 And, then, knocked very soft, — 
 Lest his summons should be too perplexing. 
 
 But, I scorn to think harm ! — 
 
 So pass by all alarm, 
 And trembling, and bustle, and terror, 
 
 Occasioned within : 
 
 The first stone at sin 
 Let him cast who, himself, hath no error ! 
 
 In inquisitive mood, 
 
 The eaves-dropper stood, 
 By the wind-cracks still keeping his station ; 
 
 Till, half-choked with fear, 
 
 A voice cried, " Who's there?" — 
 Cried the beggar, " Mary grant ye salvation ! — 
 
46 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 " I'm a poor beggar-lad, 
 
 " Very hungry and sad, 
 " Who have travelled in rain and in thunder ; 
 
 " I am soaked, through and through" — 
 
 Cried the voice, " Perhaps 'tis true — 
 " But who's likely to help thee, I wonder ? 
 
 " Here's a strange time of night 
 
 " To put folk in a fright, 
 " By waking them up from their bolsters ! — 
 
 " Honest folk, by Saint Paul ! 
 
 " Abroad never crawl, 
 " At the gloom-hour of night — when the owl stirs !" 
 
 But the Miller now came, 
 
 And, hearing his dame 
 So sharply the beggar-lad scolding, 
 
 Said, " Open, sweet Joan ! 
 
 " And I'll tell thee, anon, — 
 " When thy brown cheek, once more, I'm beholding, 
 
 " Why this poor lad is found 
 " So late on our ground — . 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 47 
 
 " Haste, niy pigeon ! — for here there's hard bed- 
 ding ! " — 
 
 So the door was unbarred ; — 
 
 But the wife she frowned hard, 
 As the lad, by the door, thrust his head in. 
 
 And she looked very cold 
 
 While her lord the tale told ; 
 And then she made oath, by our Lady, — 
 
 Such wandering elves 
 
 Might provide for themselves — 
 For she would get no supper ready ! 
 
 the Miller waxed wroth, 
 
 And vowed, by his troth, — 
 While the beggar slunk into a corner, — 
 
 If his termagant wife 
 
 Did not end her ill strife, 
 He would change words for blows, he'd forewarn 
 her! 
 
 O the lad he looked sly, 
 And with mischievous eye, 
 
48 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Cried, " Bridle your wrath, Goodman Grinder ! - 
 
 " Don't be in a pet, — 
 
 " For I don't care a fret ! — 
 " Your wife, in a trice, will be kinder ! 
 
 " In the stars I have skill, 
 
 " And their powers, at my will, 
 " I can summon, with food to provide us : 
 
 " Say, — what d'ye choose ? 
 
 " 1 pray, don't refuse : — 
 " Neither hunger nor thirst shall betide us ! " 
 
 O the Miller he frowned, 
 
 And rolled his eyes round, 
 And seemed not the joke to be liking ; 
 
 But the lad did not heed : 
 
 He was at his strange deed, 
 And the table was chalking and striking ! 
 
 With scrawls straight and crookt, 
 
 And with signs square and hookt, 
 With the lord of each house, or the lady, 
 
 The table he filled, 
 
 Like a clerk 'ith' stars skilled, — 
 And, striking, cried " Presto ! be ready ! — 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 49 
 
 " A jug of spiced wine 
 
 " 'S in the box, — I divine ! 
 " Ask thy wife for the key, and unlock it ! — 
 
 " Nay, stop ! " the lad said ; 
 
 " We shall want meat and bread ; " 
 And the chalk took again from his pocket. 
 
 O the lad he looked wise, 
 
 And, in scholarly guise, 
 Completed his horary question : — 
 
 "A brace of roast ducks 
 
 " Thou wilt find in the box, 
 " With the wine — sure as I am a Christian ! — 
 
 "And a white wheaten loaf; — 
 
 " Quick! proceed to the proof ! " — 
 Cried the beggar, — while Grist stood stark 
 staring ; — 
 
 Though the lad's weasel eyes 
 
 Shone so wondrously wise, 
 That to doubt him seemed sin over- daring ! 
 
 O the Miller's wife, Joan, 
 Turning pale, 'gan to groan ; 
 
 E 
 
50 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 But the Miller, arousing his spirits, 
 
 Said, " Hand me the key, 
 
 u And our luck we will see — 
 " A faint heart no fortune inherits." 
 
 But, — Graniercy ! — his looks — 
 
 When he opened the box, 
 And at what he saw in it stood wondering ! 
 
 How his sturdy arm shook, 
 
 While the wine-jug he took, 
 And feared he would break it with blundering ! 
 
 Faith and troth ! at the last, 
 
 On the table Grist placed 
 The wine and the ducks — hot and smoking ! 
 
 Yet he felt grievous shy 
 
 His stomach to try 
 With cates of a wizard's own cooking ! 
 
 But, with hunger grown fell, 
 
 The lad sped so well, 
 That Grist was soon tempted to join in ; 
 
 While Joan sat apart, 
 
 And looked sad at heart, 
 And seme fearful mishap seemed divining ! 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 51 
 
 O the lad chopped away, 
 
 And smiling so gay, 
 Told stories to make his host merry : — 
 
 How the Moon kittened stars, — 
 
 And how Venus loved Mars, 
 And often went to see him in a wherry 1 
 
 O the Miller he laughed, 
 
 And the liquor he quaffed ; 
 But the beggar new marvels was hatching : — - 
 
 Quoth he " I'm a clerk, 
 
 " And I swear, by saint Mark, 
 " That the Devil from hell I'll be fetching ! " — 
 
 O the wife she looked scared, 
 
 And wildly Grist stared, 
 And cried, "Nay, my lad, nay, — thou'rt not 
 able!" — 
 
 But the lad plied his chalk, 
 
 And muttered strange talk — 
 Till Grist drew his stool from the table 3 
 
 Then the lad quenched the rush, 
 And cried, " Bring a gorse-bush, 
 e 2 
 
52 THE BAEOX'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 " And under the caldron now kindle ! " — 
 
 But the Miller cried, " Nay ! 
 
 " Give over, I pray ! " — 
 For his courage began fast to dwindle. 
 
 Quoth the lad, " I must on 
 
 " Till my conjuring's clone ; 
 " To break off just now would be ruin : 
 
 " So fetch me the thorns, — 
 
 " And a devil without horns, 
 :i In the copper I soon will be brewing ! " — 
 
 the Miller he shook 
 
 For fear his strange cook 
 Should, indeed and in truth, prove successful ; 
 
 But feeling ashamed 
 
 That his pluck should be blamed, 
 Strove to smother his heart-quake distressful. 
 
 So the fuel he brought, 
 
 And said he feared nought 
 Of the Devil being brewed in his copper : 
 
 He'd as quickly believe 
 
 Nick would sit in his sieve, 
 Or dance 'mong the wheat in his hopper : — 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 53 
 
 And yet, lest strange ill, 
 
 From such conjuring skill, 
 Should arise, and their souls be in danger, — 
 
 He would have his crab-stick, 
 
 And would show my lord Nick 
 Some tricks to which he was a stranger ! 
 
 the lad 'gan to raise 
 
 'Neath the caldron a blaze, — 
 While the Miller, his crab-cuclgel grasping, 
 
 Stood on watch, for his^life ! — 
 
 But his terrified wife 
 Her hands — in devotion — was clasping ! 
 
 When the copper grew warm, 
 
 Quoth the lad, " Lest some harm 
 " From the visit of Nick be betiding, — 
 
 " Set open the door, 
 
 " And not long on the floor 
 " Will the Goblin of Hell be abiding ! " 
 
 Quickly so did the host, 
 And returned to his post, — 
 e 3 
 
54 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Uplifting his cudgel with trembling : — 
 His strength was soon proved, — 
 For the copper-lid moved ! — 
 
 When Grist's fears grew too big for dissembling. 
 
 Turning white as the wall, 
 
 His staff he let fall,— 
 While the Devil from the caldron ascended, — 
 
 And, all on a heap, — 
 
 With a flying leap, 
 On the fear-stricken Miller descended ! 
 
 In dread lest his soul, 
 
 In the Devil's foul goal, 
 Should be burnt to a spiritual cinder, — 
 
 Grist grabbed the Fiend's throat, 
 
 And his grisly eyes smote, — 
 Till Nick's face seemed a platter of tinder ! 
 
 Yea, with many a thwack, 
 
 Grist battered Nick's back, — 
 Nor spared Satan's portly abdomen! — 
 
 Hot Nick had lain cold 
 
 By this time — but his hold 
 Grist lost, through the screams of his woman ! 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 55 
 
 While up from the floor, 
 
 And out, at the door, 
 Went the Fiend, with the skip of a dancer ! 
 
 He seemed panic-struck, — 
 
 Or, doubted his luck, — 
 For he neither staid question nor answer ! 
 
 " Grist ! " the beggar-lad cried, 
 
 " Lay your trembling aside, 
 " And tell me, my man, how ye like him. 
 
 " 'Twas well ye were cool : 
 
 " He'd have proved ye a fool, — 
 " Had ye dar'd with the cudgel to strike him ! " 
 
 "By saint Martin !" Grist said, 
 
 And, scratching his head, 
 Seemed pondering between good and evil, — 
 
 " I could swear and avouch 
 
 " 'Twas the Prior of Roche, — 
 " If thou hadst not said 'twas the Devil !" 
 
 And, in deed and in sooth, — 
 Though a marvellous truth, — 
 e 4 
 
56 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Yet such was the Fiend's revelation ! — 
 But think it not strange 
 He should choose such a change : — 
 
 'Tis much after his old occupation: — 
 
 An angel of light, 
 
 '"Tis his darling delight 
 To be reckoned — 'tis very well tested : — 
 
 I argue, therefore, 
 
 'Twas not sinning much more, 
 In the garb of a Prior to be vested. 
 
 Though, with wink, nod, and smile — 
 
 O the world's very vile ! — 
 Grist's neighbours told tales unbelieving, — 
 
 How the beggar, so shrewd, 
 
 Monk and supper had viewed, 
 And produced 'em ! — the Miller deceiving ! 
 
 But I do not belong 
 
 To that heretic throng 
 "Who measure their faith with their eyesight : 
 
 Thus much I may say — 
 
 Grist's cottage of clay 
 Never, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit: — 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 57 
 
 But, the sly beggar-lad, 
 
 Be he hungry or sad, 
 A remedy finds for each evil 
 
 In the Miller's good cheer, 
 
 Any day of the year ; — 
 And though Joan looketh shy — she is civil! 
 
 The tale was rude, but pleased rude men ; 
 And clamorous many a clown grew, when 
 
 The rebeck ceased to thrill : 
 Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain, 
 Gosherd and swineherd, — all were fain 
 
 To prove their tuneful skill. 
 
 But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand, 
 And gently stilled the jarring band : 
 " What ho !" he cried, " what ails your throats ? 
 ' Be these your most melodious notes ? 
 " Forget ye that to-morrow morn 
 " Old Yule-day and its sports return, — 
 (i And that your freres, from scrogg and carr, 13 
 " From heath and wold, and fen, afar, 
 
58 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 " Will come to join ye in your glee ? 
 " Husband your mirth and minstrelsy, 
 " And let some goodly portion be 
 " Kept for their entertainment meet. 
 " Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet, 
 
 " And warm your winter blood ! 
 u Good night to all ! — For His dear sake 
 " Who bore our sin, if well we wake, 
 " We'll join to banish care and sorrow 
 " With mirth and sport again to-morrow ! " 
 
 And forth the Baron good 
 Passed from his chair, midst looks of love 
 That showed how truly was enwove 
 Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude 
 For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude. 
 
 The broad hall-doors were open cast, 
 And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed. 
 Yet, was the crowning hour unflown — 
 
 Enjoyment's crowning hour! — 
 A signal note the pipe hath blown, 
 
 And a maiden at the door 
 Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush, 
 To bring the sacred missel-bush. 
 
THE BARON'S TTJLE FEAST. 59 
 
 Gaily a younker leads the fair, 
 
 Proud of his dimpled, blushing care : 
 
 All clap their hands, both old and young, 
 
 And soon the misseltoe is hung 
 
 In the mid-rafters, overhead ; 
 
 And, while the agile dance they thread, 
 
 Such honey do the plough-lads seize 
 
 From lips of lasses as the bees 
 
 Ne'er sip from sweetest flowers of May. 
 
 All in the rapture of their play, — 
 While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe, 
 And merrily their light feet trip, — 
 Leave we the simple happy throng 
 Their mirth and rapture to prolong, 
 
BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 (CJmstmas £tf)gmc. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller ! 
 Of late, thy dungeon -harpings were 
 
 Of discontent and wrong ; 
 And we, the Privileged, were banned 
 For cumber-grounds of fatherland, 
 
 In thy drear prison -song. 
 
 What fellowship hast thou with times 
 
 When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes 
 
 At feast, in feudal hall, — 
 And peasant churls, a saucy crew, 
 Fantastic o'er their wassail grew, 
 
 Forgetful of their thrall ? — 
 
THE BARON'S YULE EEAST. 61 
 
 Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear, — 
 And with the homely Past compare 
 
 Your tinselled show and state ! 
 Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold 
 On human hearts so firm a hold 
 
 For ye, and yours, create 
 As they possessed, whose breasts though rude 
 Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood 
 For all who toiled, through youth and age, 
 T' enrich their force-won heritage ! 
 
 Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride 
 
 Secure, ere ye begin to chide ! 
 
 Then, lordlings, though ye may discard 
 
 The measures I rehearse, 
 Slight not the lessons of the bard — 
 
 The moral of his verse. — 
 
 But we will dare thy verse to chide ! 
 Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide, 
 
 And taunt our wretchedness 
 With visioned feast, and song, and dance, — 
 While, daily, our grim heritance 
 
 Is famine and distress ? 
 
62 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern, 
 Never from Suffering's cause to turn, 
 
 But — to the end of life — 
 Against Oppression's ruthless band 
 Still unsubduable to stand, 
 
 A champion in the strife ? 
 
 Think'st thou we suffer less, or feel 
 To-day's soul-piercing wounds do heal 
 
 The wounds of months and years ? 
 Or that our eyes so long have been 
 Familiar with the hunger keen 
 Our babes endure, we gaze serene — 
 
 Strangers to scalding tears ? — 
 
 Ah no ! my brothers, not from me 
 Hath faded solemn memory 
 
 Of all your bitter grief : 
 This heart its pledges doth renew — 
 To its last pulse it will be true 
 
 To beat for your relief. 
 
 My rhymes are trivial, but my aim 
 
 Deem ye not purposeless : 
 I would the homely truth proclaim — 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 63 
 
 That times which knaves full loudly blame 
 
 For feudal haughtiness 
 "Would put the grinding crew to shame 
 
 Who prey on your distress. 
 
 that my simple lay might tend 
 
 To kindle some remorse 
 In your oppressors' souls, and bend 
 Their wills a cheerful help to lend 
 
 And lisrhten Labour's curse ! 
 
 A night of snow the earth hath clad 
 
 With virgin mantle chill ; 
 But in the sky the sun looks glad, — 
 
 And blythely o'er the hill, 
 From fen and wold, troops many a guest 
 To sing and smile at Thorold's feast. 
 
 And oft they bless the bounteous sun 
 That smileth on the snow ; 
 
 And oft they bless the generous one 
 Their homes that bids them fro 
 
64 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 To glad their hearts with merry cheer, 
 When Yule returns, in winter drear. 
 
 How joyously the lady bells 
 
 Shout — though the bluff north-breeze 
 Loudly his boisterous bugle swells ! 
 
 And though the brooklets freeze, 
 How fair the leafless hawthorn-tree 
 Waves with its hoar-frost tracery ! 
 While sun-smiles throw o'er stalks and stems 
 Sparkles so far transcending gems — 
 The bard would gloze who said their sheen 
 
 Did not out-diamond 
 All brightest gauds that man hath seen 
 Worn by earth's proudest king or queen, 
 
 In pomp and grandeur throned ! 
 
 Saint Leonard's monks have chaunted mass, 
 And clown's and gossip's laughing face 
 
 Is turned unto the porch, — 
 For now comes mime and motley fool, 
 Guarding the dizened Lord Misrule 
 
 With mimic pomp and march ; 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 65 
 
 And the burly Abbot of Unreason 
 Forgets not that the blythe Yule season 
 Demands his paunch at church ; 
 And he useth his staff 
 While the rustics laugh, — 
 And, still, as he layeth his crosier about, 
 Laugheth aloud each clownish lowt, — 
 And the lowt, as he laugheth, from corbels grim, 
 Sees carven apes ever laughing at him ! 
 
 Louder and wilder the merriment grows, 
 For the hobby-horse comes, and his rider he 
 throws ! 
 
 And the dragon's roar, 
 As he paweth the floor, 
 And belcheth fire 
 In his demon ire, 
 When the Abbot the monster takes by the nose, 
 Stirreth a tempest of uproar and din — 
 Yet none surmiseth the joke is a sin — 
 For the saints, from the windows, in purple and 
 
 gold, 
 With smiles, say the gossips, Yule games behold ; 
 p 
 
66 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 And, at Christmas, the Virgin all divine 
 Smileth on sport, from her silver shrine ! 
 " Come forth, come forth ! it is high noon, 
 
 Cries Hugh the seneschal ; 
 " My masters, will ye ne'er have done ? 
 
 " Come forth unto the hall ! " — 
 
 'Tis high Yule-tide in Torksey hall : 
 Full many a trophy bedecks the wall 
 
 Of prowess in field and wood ; 
 Blent with the buckler and grouped with the spear 
 Hang tusks of the boar, and horns of the deer — 
 But De Thorold's guests beheld nought there 
 
 That scented of human blood. 
 The mighty wassail horn suspended 
 From the tough yew-bow, at Hastings bended, 
 With wreaths of bright holly and ivy bound, 
 Were perches for falcons that shrilly screamed, 
 While their look with the lightning of anger 
 
 gleamed, 
 As they chided the fawning of mastiff and hound, 
 That crouched at the feet of each peasant guest, 
 And asked, with their eyes, to share the feast. 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 6 1 
 
 Sir Wilfrid's carven chair of state 
 
 'Neath the dais is gently elevate, — 
 
 But his smile bespeaks no lordly pride : 
 
 Sweet Edith sits by her loved sire's side, 
 
 And five hundred guests, some free, some thrall, 
 
 Sit by the tables along the wide hall, 
 
 Each with his platter, and stout clrink-horn, — 
 
 They count on good cheer this Christmas morn ! 
 
 Not long they wait, not long they wish — 
 The trumpet peals, — and the kingly dish, — 
 
 The head of the brawny boar, 
 Decked with rosemary and laurels gay, — 
 Upstarting, they welcome, with loud huzza, 
 
 As their fathers did, of yore ! 
 And they point to the costard he bears in his 
 mouth, 
 
 And vow the huge pig, 
 So luscious a fig, 
 Would not gather to grunch in the daintiful South! 
 
 Strike up, strike up, a louder chime, 
 
 Ye minstrels in the loft ! 
 Strike up ! it is no fitting time 
 
 For drowsy strains and soft, — 
 f 2 
 
68 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 "When sewers threescore 
 
 Have passed the hall door, 
 And the tables are laden with roast and boiled, 
 And carvers are hasting, lest all should be spoiled ; 
 
 And gossips' tongues clatter 
 
 More loudly than platter, 
 And tell of their marvel to reckon the sorts : — 
 
 Ham by fat capon, and beef by green worts ; 
 Ven'son from forest, and mutton from fold ; 
 Brawn from the oak-wood, and hare from the 
 
 wold ; 
 Wild-goose from fen, and tame from the lea ; 
 And plumed dish from the heronry — 
 With choicest apples 'twas featly rimmed, 
 And stood next the flagons with malmsey 
 
 brimmed, — 
 Near the knightly swan, begirt with quinces, 
 Which the gossips said was a dish for princes, — 
 Though his place was never to stand before 
 The garnished head of the royal boar ! 
 
 Puddings of plumbs and mince-pies, placed 
 In plenty along the board, met taste 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 69 
 
 Of gossip and maiden, — nor did they fail 
 To sip, now and then, of the double brown ale — 
 That ploughman and shepherd vowed and sware 
 Was each drop so racy, and sparkling, and 
 
 rare — 
 No outlandish Rhenish could with it compare ! 
 
 Trow ye they stayed till the meal was done 
 To pledge a health ? Degenerate son 
 Of friendly sires ! a health thrice-told 
 Each guest had pledged to fellowships old, — 
 Untarrying eager mouth to wipe, 
 And across the board with hearty gripe 
 Joining rough hands, — ere the meal was o'er : — 
 Hearts and hands went with " healths " in the days 
 of yore ! 
 
 The meal is o'er, — though the time of mirth, 
 Each brother feels, is but yet in its birth : — 
 " Wassail, wassail ! " the seneschal cries ; 
 And the spicy bowl rejoiceth all eyes, 
 When before the baron beloved 'tis set, 
 And he dippeth horn, and thus doth greet 
 The honest hearts around him met : — 
 f 3 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 
 
 " Health to ye all, my brothers good ! 
 
 " All health and happiness ! 
 " Health to the absent of our blood ! 
 
 " May Heaven the suffering bless, — 
 " And cheer their hearts who lie at home 
 " In pain, now merry Yule hath come ! 
 
 " My jolly freres, all health ! " 
 
 The shout is loud and long, — but tears 
 Glide quickly from some eyes, while ears 
 
 List whispering sounds of stealth 
 That tell how the noble Thorold hath sent, 
 To palsied widow and age-stricken hind, 
 Clothing and food, and brother-words kind, - 
 Cheering their aching languishment ! 
 
 " Wassail, wassail ! " Sir Wilfrid saith, — 
 " Push round the brimming bowl ! — 
 " Art thou there, minstrel? — By my faith, 
 
 " All list to hear thee troll, 
 " Again, some goodly love-lorn verse ! — 
 " Begin thy ditty to rehearse, — 
 " And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe — 
 " 'Less thou wilt take red £old therewith ! " 
 
THE BARON S YULE FEAST. 
 
 Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth, — 
 
 But, now the merry Yule returneth, 
 
 For love of Him whom angels sung, 
 
 And love of one his burning tongue 
 
 Is fain to name, but may not tell, — 
 
 Once more, unto the harp's sweet swell, 
 
 A knightly chanson he will sing, — 
 
 And, straight, he struck the throbbing string. 
 
 ^tr 2£apmmrtf ani tfje jfatee $almn\ 
 
 THE STRANGER MINSTRELS SECOND TAEE. 
 
 Sir Raymond de Clifford, a gallant band 
 
 Hath gathered to fight in the Holy Land ; 
 
 And his lady's heart is sinking in sorrow, — 
 
 For the knight and his lances depart on the morrow ! 
 
 " Oh, wherefore, noble Raymond, tell, " — 
 
 His lovely ladye weeping said, — 
 " With lonely sorrow must I dwell, 
 
 " When but three bridal moons have fled ? " 
 
 f 4 
 
72 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Sir Raymond kissed her pale, pale cheek, 
 
 And strove, with a warrior's pride, 
 While an answer of love he essayed to speak, 
 
 His flooding tears to hide. 
 
 But an image rose in his heated brain, 
 That shook his heart with vengeful pain, 
 And anger flashed in his rolling eye, 
 While his ladye looked on him tremblingly. 
 
 Yet, he answered not in wrathful haste, — 
 But clasped his bride to his manly breast ; 
 And with words of tender yet stately dress, 
 Thus strove to banish her heart's distress : — 
 
 "De Burgh hath enrolled him with Philip of 
 
 France, — 
 " Baron Hubert, — who challenged De Clifford's 
 
 lance, 
 " And made him the scoff of the burgher swine, 
 " When he paid his vows at the Virgin's shrine. 
 
 " Oh, ask me not, love, to tarry in shame, — 
 " Lest ' craven' be added to Raymond's name ! 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 73 
 
 "To Palestine hastens my mortal foe, — 
 " And I with our Lion's Heart will go ! 
 
 " Nay, Gertrude, repeat not thy sorrowing tale ! 
 " Behold in my casque the scallop-shell, — 
 " And see on my shoulder the Holy Rood ■ — 
 " The pledge of my emprize — bedyed in blood ! 
 
 " Thou wouldst not, love, I should be forsworn, 
 " Nor the stain on my honour be tamely borne : 
 " Do thou to the saints, each passing day, 
 " For Raymond and royal Richard pray, — 
 
 " While they rush to the rescue, for God's dear Son ; 
 " And soon, for thy Raymond, the conqu'ror's 
 
 meed, — 
 " By the skill of this arm, and the strength of 
 my steed, — 
 " From the Paynim swart shall be nobly won. 
 
 " Thou shalt not long for De Clifford mourn, 
 " Ere he to thy bosom of love return ; 
 " When blind to the lure of the red-cross bright, 
 " He will bask, for life, in thy beauty's light ! " 
 
74 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 The morn in the radiant east arose : — 
 
 The Red-cross Knight hath spurred his steed 
 That courseth as swift as a falcon's speed : — 
 
 To the salt-sea shore Sir Raymond goes. 
 
 Soon, the sea he hath crossed, to Palestine ; 
 And there his heart doth chafe and pine, — 
 For Hubert de Burgh is not in that land : 
 He loitereth in France, with Philip's band. 
 
 But De Clifford will never a recreant turn, 
 While the knightly badge on his arm is borne ; 
 And long, beneath the Syrian sun, 
 He fasted and fought, and glory won. 
 
 His Gertrude, alas ! like a widow pines ; 
 And though on her castle the bright sun shines, 
 She sees not its beams, — but in loneliness prays, 
 Through the live-long hours of her weeping 
 days. — 
 
 Twelve moons have waned, and the morn is come 
 When, a year before, from his meed-won home 
 Sir Raymond went : — At the castle gate 
 A reverend Palmer now doth wait. 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 75 
 
 He saith he hath words for the ladye's ear ; 
 And he telleth, in accents dread and drear, 
 Of De Clifford's death in the Holy Land, 
 At Richard's side, by a Saracen's hand. 
 
 And he gave to the ladye, when thus he had 
 
 spoken, — 
 Of Sir Raymond's fall a deathly token : 
 'Twas a lock of his hair all stained with blood, 
 Entwined on a splinter of Holy Rood. — 
 
 Then the Palmer in haste from the castle sped ; 
 And from gloomy morn to weary night, 
 Lorn Gertrude, in her widowed plight, 
 
 Weepeth and waileth the knightly dead. — 
 
 Three moons have waned, and the Palmer, again, 
 By Gertrude stands, and smileth fain ; 
 Nor of haste, nor of death, speaks the Palmer, now ; 
 Nor doth sadness or sorrow bedim his brow. 
 
 He softly sits by the ladye's side, 
 And vaunteth his deeds of chivalrous pride ; 
 Then lisps, in her secret ear, of things 
 Which deeply endanger the thrones of kings : 
 
76 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 From Philip of France, he saith, he came, 
 
 To treat with Prince John, whom she must not 
 
 name ; 
 And he, in fair France, hath goodly lands, — 
 And a thousand vassals there wait his com- 
 mands. — 
 
 The ladye liked her gallant guest, — 
 For he kenned the themes that pleased her best ; 
 And his tongue, in silken measures skilled, 
 With goodly ditties her memory filled. 
 
 Thus the Palmer the ladye's ear beguiles, — 
 Till Gertrude her sorrow exchangeth for smiles ; 
 And when from the castle the Palmer went, 
 She watched his return, from the battlement. — 
 
 Another moon doth swell and wane : - 
 But how slowly it waneth ! 
 How her heart now paineth 
 
 For sight of the Palmer again ! 
 
 
THE BARONS YULE FEAST. tl 
 
 But the Palmer comes, and her healed heart 
 
 Derideth pain and sorrow : 
 She pledgeth the Palmer, and smirketh smart, 
 
 And saith, " we '11 wed to-morrow ! " — 
 
 The morrow is come, and at break of day, 
 'Fore the altar, the abbot, in holy array, 
 Is joining the Palmer's and Gertrude's hands, — 
 But, in sudden amazement the holy man stands ! 
 
 For, before the castle, a trumpet's blast 
 Rings so loud that the Palmer starts aghast ; 
 And, at Gertrude's side, he sinks dismayed, — 
 Is't with dread of the living, or fear of the dead ? 
 
 The doors of the chapel were open thrown, 
 
 And the beams through the pictured windows 
 
 shone 
 On the face of De Clifford, with fury flushed, — 
 And forth on the Palmer he wildly rushed ! — 
 
 "False Hubert! " he cried; and his knightly sword 
 Was sheathed in the heart of the fiend-sold lord ! — 
 
78 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 With a scream of terror, Gertrude fell — 
 For she knew the pride of Sir Raymond well ! 
 
 He flew to raise her — but 'twas in vain : 
 
 Her spirit its flight in fear had ta'en ! — 
 
 And Sir Raymond kneels that his soul be shriven, 
 
 And the stain of this deed be by grace forgiven : — 
 
 But ere the Abbot his grace can dole, 
 
 De Clifford's truthful heart is breaking, — 
 And his soul, also, its flight is taking ! — 
 Christ, speed it to a heavenly goal ! — 
 Oh, pray for the peace of Sir Raymond's soul ! 
 
BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 <£imstmas Hf)£me. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 What power can stay the burst of song 
 When throats with ale are mellow ? 
 
 What wight with nieve so stout and strong 
 
 Dares lift it, jolly freres among, 
 
 And cry, " Knaves, cease to bellow ?" 
 
 " 'Twas doleful drear," — the gossips vowed, - 
 To hear the minstrel's piteous tale ! 
 But, when the swineherd tuned his crowd, 14 
 And the gosherd began to grumble loud, 
 The gossips smiled, and sipped their ale ! 
 
80 THE BARON^S YULE EEAST. 
 
 " A boon, bold Thorold!" boldly cried 
 The gosherd from Croyland fen ; 
 
 " I crave to sing of the fen so wide, 
 " And of geese and goosish men ! " 
 
 Loud loffe they all ; and the baron, with glee, 
 Cried " begin, good Swithin ! for men may see 
 " Thou look'st so like a knowing fowl, 
 " Of geese thou art skilled right well to troll !" 
 
 Stout Swithin sware the baron spake well, — 
 And his halting ditty began to tell : 
 The rhyme was lame, and dull the joke, — 
 But it tickled the ears of clownish folk. 
 
 'Tis a tale of merry Lincolnshire' 
 I've heard my grannam tell ; 
 
 And I'll tell it to you, my masters, here, 
 An' it likes you all, full well. 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 81 
 
 A Gosherd on Croyland fen, one day, 
 
 Awoke, in haste, from slumber ; 
 And on counting his geese, to his sad dismay, 
 
 He found there lacked one of the number. 
 
 the Gosherd looked west, and he looked east, 
 And he looked before and behind him ; 
 
 And his eye from north to south he cast 
 For the gander — but couldn't find him ! 
 
 So the Gosherd he drave his geese to the cote, 
 
 And began, forthwith, to wander 
 Over the marshy wild remote, 
 
 In search of the old stray gander. 
 
 the Gosherd he wandered till twilight gray 
 Was throwing its mists around him ; 
 
 But the gander seemed farther and farther astray — 
 For the Gosherd had not yet found him. 
 
 So the Gosherd, foredeeming his search in vain, 
 
 Resolved no farther to wander ; 
 But to Croyland he turned him, in dudgeon, again, 
 
 Sore fretting at heart for the gander. 
 G 
 
82 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Thus he footed the fens so dreary and dern, 
 While his brain, like the sky, was dark'ning ; 
 
 And with dread to the scream o' the startled hern 
 And the bittern's boom he was heark'ning. 
 
 But when the Gosherd the church-yard reached, — 
 Forefearing the dead would be waking, — 
 
 Like a craven upon the sward he stretched, 
 And could travel no farther for quaking ! 
 
 And there the Gosherd lay through the night, 
 
 Not daring to rise and go further : 
 For, in sooth, the Gosherd beheld a sight 
 
 That frighted him more than murther ! 
 
 From the old church clock the midnight hour 
 
 In hollow tones was pealing, 
 When a slim white ghost to the church porch door 
 
 Seemed up the footpath stealing ! 
 
 Stark staring upon the sward lay the clown, 
 And his heart went " pitter patter," — 
 
 Till the ghost in the clay-cold grave sunk down, — 
 When he felt in a twitter-twatter ! 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 83 
 
 Soon — stretching aloft its long white arms — 
 From the grave the ghost was peeping ! — 
 
 Cried the Gosherd, " Our Lady defend me from 
 harms, 
 " And Saint Guthlacke 15 have me in his keeping! " 
 
 The white ghost hissed ! — the Gosherd swooned ! 
 
 In the morn, — on the truth 'tis no slander, — 
 Near the church porch door a new grave he found, 
 
 And, therein, the white ghost — his stray gander ! 
 
 The Gosherd, scarce, his mirthful meed 
 
 Had won, ere Tibbald of Stow, — 
 With look as pert as the pouncing glede 
 When he eyeth the chick below, — 
 Scraped his crowd, 
 And clear and loud, 
 As the merle-cock shrill, 
 Or the bell from the hill, 
 Thus tuned his throat to his rough sire's praise — 
 His sire the swineherd of olden days : — 
 G 2 
 
84 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Win $toine&ttt*'0 ^mtg* 
 
 I sing of a swineherd, in Lindsey, so bold, 
 Who tendeth his flock in the wide forest-fold : 
 He sheareth no wool from his snouted sheep : 
 He soweth no corn, and none he doth reap : 
 Yet the swineherd no lack of good living doth know : 
 
 Come jollity trowl 
 
 The brown round bowl, 
 Like the jovial swineherd of Stow ! 
 
 He hedgeth no meadows to fatten his swine : 
 
 He renteth no joist for his snorting kine : 
 
 They rove through the forest, and browse on the 
 
 mast, — 
 Yet, he lifteth his horn, and bloweth a blast, 
 And they come at his call, blow he high, blow he 
 
 low ! — 
 
 Come, jollily trowl 
 The brown round bowl, 
 And drink to the swineherd of Stow ! 
 
 He shunneth the heat 'mong the fern-stalks green, — 
 Or dreameth of elves 'neath the forest treen : 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 85 
 
 He wrappeth him up when the oak leaves sere 
 And the ripe acorns fall, at the wane o' the year ; 
 And he tippleth at Yule, by the log's cheery glow. — 
 
 Come, jollily trowl 
 
 The brown round bowl, 
 And pledge the bold swineherd of Stow ! 
 
 The bishop he passeth the swineherd in scorn, — 
 Yet, to mass wends the swineherd at Candlemas 
 
 morn ; 
 And he ofFereth his horn, at our Lady's hymn, 
 With bright silver pennies filled up to the brim : — 
 Saith the bishop, " A very good fellow, I trow !" — 
 
 Come, jollily trowl 
 
 The brown round bowl, 
 And honour the swineherd of Stow ! 
 
 And now the brave swineherd, in stone, ye may 
 
 spy, 
 
 Holding his horn, on the Minster so high ! — 
 
 But the swineherd he laugheth, and cracketh his 
 
 joke, 
 With his pig-boys that vittle beneath the old oak, — 
 g 3 
 
86 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Saying, " Had I no pennies, they'd make me no 
 show ! " — 
 
 Come, jollily trowl 
 The brown round bowl, 
 And laugh with the swineherd of Stow ! 1G 
 
 So merrily the chorus rose, — 
 
 For every guest chimed in, — 
 That, had the dead been there to doze, 
 
 They had surely waked with the din ! — 
 So the rustics said while their brains were mellow ; 
 And all called the swineherd " a jolly good fellow!" 
 
 " Come, hearty Snell !" said the Baron good ; 
 
 " What sayest thou more of the merry greenwood?" 
 
 " I remember no lay of the forest, now," — 
 Said Snell, with a glance at three maids in a row ; 
 " Belike, I could whimper a love-lorn ditty, — 
 " If Tib, Doll, and Bell, would listen with pity!" 
 
 " Then chaunt us thy love-song ! " cried Baron and 
 
 guests ; 
 And Snell, looking shrewd, obeyed their behests. 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 87 
 
 Along the meads a simple maid 
 One summer's day a musing strayed, 
 And, as the cowslips sweet she pressed, 
 This burthen to the breeze confessed — 
 I fear that I'm in love ! 
 
 For, ever since so playfully 
 Young Robin trod this path with me, 
 I always feel more happy here 
 Than ever I have felt elsewhere : — 
 I fear that I'm in love ! 
 
 And, ever since young Robin talked 
 So sweetly, while alone we walked, 
 Of truth, and faith, and constancy, 
 I've wished he always walked with me : — 
 I fear that I'm in love ! 
 
 And, ever since that pleasing night 
 When, 'neath the lady moon's fair light, 
 He asked my hand, but asked in vain, 
 I've wished he'd walk, and ask again : — 
 I fear that I'm in love ! 
 G 4 
 
THE BARONS YULE FEAST. 
 
 And yet, I greatly fear, alas ! 
 
 That wish will ne'er be brought to pass ! ■ 
 
 What else to fear I cannot tell : — 
 
 I hope that all will yet be well — 
 
 But, surely, I'm in love ! 
 
 Coy was their look, but true their pleasure, 
 While the maidens listed the woodman's measure ; 
 Nor shrunk they at laughter of herdsman or hind, 
 But mixed with the mirth, and still looked kind. 
 
 One maid there was who faintly smiled, 
 But never joined their laughter : 
 
 And why, by Yule-mirth unbeguiled, 
 Sits the Baron's beauteous daughter ? 
 
 Why looks she downcast, yet so sweet, 
 
 And seeketh no eyes with mirth to greet ? 
 
 u My darling Edith, — hast no song ?" 
 
 Saith Thorold, tenderly ; 
 " Our guests have tarried to hear thee, long, 
 'And looked with wistful eye!" 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 89 
 
 Soft words the peerless damosel 
 
 Breathes of imperfect skill : 
 " Sweet birds," smiles the Baron, " all know — 
 right well, 
 
 " Can sweetly sing an' they will." 
 
 And the stranger minstrel, on his knee, 
 Offers his harp, with courtesy 
 So rare and gentle, that the hall 
 Rings with applause which one and all 
 Render who share the festival. 
 
 De Thorold smiled ; and the maiden took 
 The harp, with grace in act and look, — 
 But waked its echoes tremulously, — 
 Singing no noisy jubilee, — 
 But a chanson of sweetly stifled pain — 
 So sweet — when ended all were fain 
 To hear her chaunt it o'er again. 
 
90 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 I own the gay lark is the blythest bird 
 That welcomes the purple dawn ; 
 
 But a sweeter chorister far is heard 
 When the veil of eve is drawn : 
 
 When the last lone traveller homeward wends 
 
 O'er the moorland, drowsily ; 
 And the pale bright moon her crescent bends, 
 
 And silvers the soft gray sky ; 
 
 And in silence the wakeful starry crowd 
 
 Their vigil begin to keep ; 
 And the hovering mists the flowerets shroud, 
 
 And their buds in dew-drops weep ; 
 
 Oh, then the nightingale's warbling wild, 
 
 In the depth of the forest dark, 
 Is sweeter, by far, to Sorrow's child, 
 
 Than the song of the cheerful lark ! 
 
THE BAKON'S TTJLE FEAST. 91 
 
 " 'Twas sweet, but somewhat sad," said some ; 
 
 And the Baron sought his daughter's eye, — 
 But, now, there fell a shade of gloom 
 
 On the cheek of Edith ; — and tearfully, 
 He thought she turned to shun his look. 
 
 He would have asked his darling's woe, — 
 But the harp, again, the minstrel took ; 
 And with such prelude as awoke 
 
 Regretful thoughts of an ancient foe 
 In Thorold's soul, — the minstrel stranger — 
 In spite of fear, in spite of danger, — 
 In measures sweet and soft, but quaint, — 
 Responded thus to Edith's plaint : — 
 
92 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Cbe fflin#tvtV$ a&esponse* 
 
 What meant that glancing of thine eye, 
 That softly hushed, yet struggling sigh? 
 Hast thou a thought of woe or weal, 
 Which, breathed, my bosom would not feel ? 
 Why should'st thou, then, that thought conceal, 
 Or hide it from my mind, Love ? 
 
 Did'st thou e'er breathe a sigh to me, 
 
 And I not breathe as deep to thee ? 
 Or hast thou whispered in mine ear 
 A word of sorrow or of fear, — 
 Or have I seen thee shed a tear, — 
 
 And looked a thought unkind, Love ? 
 
 Did e'er a gleam of Love's sweet ray 
 Across thy beaming countenance play, — 
 Or joy its seriousness beguile, 
 And o'er it cast a radiant smile, — 
 And mine with kindred joy, the while, 
 Not glow as bright as thine, Love ? 
 
THE BAJRON'S YULE FEAST. 93 
 
 Why would'st thou, then, that something seek 
 To hide within thy breast, — nor speak, 
 Its load of doubt, of grief, or fear, 
 Of joy, or sorrow, to mine ear, — 
 Assured this heart would gladly bear 
 A burthen borne by thine, Love ? 
 
 Sir "Wilfrid sat in thoughtful mood, 
 
 When the youthful minstrel's song was ended ; 
 While Edith by her loved sire stood, 
 
 And o'er his chair in sadness bended. 
 The guests were silent ; — for the chaunt, 
 Where all, of late, were jubilant, 
 Had kindled quick imagining 
 Who he might be that thus dared sing — 
 Breathing of deep and fervent feeling — 
 His tender passion half-revealing. 
 
 Soon, sportive sounds the silence broke : 
 
 Saint Leonard's lay-brother, 
 
 Who seldom could smother 
 Conception of mischief, or thought of a joke, 
 Drew forth his old rebeck from under his cloak, - 
 
94 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 And touching the chords 
 
 To brain-sick words, — 
 While he mimicked a lover's phantasy, 
 Upward rolling his lustrous eye, — 
 
 With warblings wild 
 
 He flourished and trilled, — 
 Till mother and maiden aloud 'gan to laugh, 
 And clown challenged clown more good liquor to 
 quaff. 
 
 These freakish rhymes, in freakish measure, 
 He chaunted, for his wayward pleasure. 
 
 The lilies are fair, down by the green grove, 
 Where the brooklet glides through the dell ; 
 
 But I view not a lily so fair, while I rove, 
 As the maid whose name I could tell. 
 
 The roses are sweet that blush in the vale, 
 Where the thorn-bush grows by the well ; 
 
 But they breathe not a perfume so sweet on the gale 
 As the maid whose name I could tell. 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 95 
 
 The lark singeth sweetly up in the sky, — 
 
 Over song-birds bearing the bell ; 
 But one bird may for music the skylark defy, — 
 
 "lis the maid whose name I could tell. 
 
 The angels all brightly glitter and glow, 
 In the regions high where they dwell ; 
 
 But they beam not so bright as one angel below, — 
 'Tis the maid whose name I could tell. 
 
 Sport may, a while, defy heart-cares, 
 And woo faint smiles from pain ; 
 
 Jesting, a while, may keep down tears — 
 But they will rise, again ! 
 
 And saddening thoughts of others' care, 
 Unwelcome, though they be, to share, — 
 And though self-love would coldly say 
 " Let me laugh on, while others bear 
 " Their own grief-fardels as they may!" — 
 Yet, while in sadness droops a brother, 
 No brother-heart can sadness smother : 
 
96 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 The tear of fellowship will start — 
 The tongue seek comfort to impart. 
 
 And English hearts, of old, were dull 
 To quell their yearnings pitiful : — 
 The guests forgot the jester's strain, 
 To think upon the harp again, 
 And of the youth who, to its swell, 
 So late, his sighs did syllable. 
 
 Natheless, no guest was skilled to find, 
 At once, fit words that might proclaim,— 
 For one who seemed without a name, — 
 Their sympathy ; — and so, with kind 
 Intent, they urged some roundelay 
 The stranger minstrel would essay. 
 
 He struck the harp, forthwith, but sung 
 Of passion still, — and still it clung 
 To Love — his full, melodious tongue ! 
 
THE BAHON'S YULE FEAST. 97 
 
 €\)t iHmsitrePsf 2footeaL 
 
 O yes ! I hold thee in my heart ; 
 Nor shall thy cherished form depart 
 From its loved home : though sad I be, — 
 My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee ! 
 
 My dawn of life is dimmed and dark ; 
 Hope's flame is dwindled to a spark ; 
 But, though I live thus dyingly, — 
 My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee ! 
 
 Though short my summer's day hath been, 
 And now the winter's eve is keen, — 
 Yet, while the storm descends on me, — 
 My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee ! 
 
 No look of love upon me beams, — 
 
 No tear of pity for me streams : — 
 
 A thing forlorn — despairingly — 
 
 My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee ! 
 
 H 
 
98 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 Thine eye would pity wert thou free 
 To soothe my woe ; and though I be 
 Condemned to helpless misery, 
 My heart, my Love, still cleaves to thee ! 
 
 The maidens wept — the clowns looked glum- 
 
 Each rustic reveller was dumb : 
 
 Sir Wilfrid struggled hard to hide 
 
 Revengeful throes and ireful pride, 
 
 That, now, his wounded bosom swelled, — 
 
 For in that youth he had beheld 
 
 An image which had overcast 
 
 His life with sorrow in the Past : — 
 
 He struggled, — and besought the youth 
 
 To leave his strains of woe and ruth 
 
 For some light lay, or merry rhyme, 
 
 More fitting Yule's rejoicing time. — 
 
 And, though it cost him dear, the while, 
 
 He eyed the minstrel with a smile. 
 
 The stranger waited not to note 
 
 The Baron's speech : like one distraught 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 99 
 
 He struck the harp — a wild farewell 
 Thus breathing to its deepest swell : — 
 
 €\}t Min$tvtV$ jfaretoelL 
 
 Oh ! smile not upon me — my heart is not smiling : 
 Too long it hath mourned, 'neath reproach and 
 
 reviling : 
 Thy smile is a false one : it never can bless me : 
 It doth not relieve, — but more deeply distress me ! 
 
 I care not for beauty ; I care not for riches : 
 I am not the slave whom their tinsel bewitches : 
 A bosom I seek 
 
 That is true, like mine own, — 
 Though pale be the cheek, 
 And its roses all flown, — 
 And the wearer be desolate, wretched, forlorn, — 
 And alike from each soul-soothing solace be torn. 
 
 That heart I would choose, which is stricken and 
 
 slighted ; 
 Whose joys are all fled, and whose hopes are all 
 
 blighted ; 
 
 h 2 
 
100 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 For that heart alone 
 
 "Would in sympathy thrill 
 "With one like my own 
 That sorrow doth fill ; — 
 "With a heart whose fond breathings have ever been 
 
 spurned, — 
 And hath long their rejection in solitude mourned. 
 
 The harp of my heart is unstrung ; and to gladness 
 
 Respond not its chords — but to sorrow and sad- 
 ness: — 
 
 Then speak not of mirth which my soul hath for- 
 saken ! 
 
 "Why would ye my heart-breaking sorrows awaken ? 
 
 It is the shriek of deathful danger ! 
 None heed the heart-plaint of the stranger ! 
 All start aghast, with deadly fear, 
 "While they, again, that wild shriek hear ! 
 
 " He drowns — Sir "Wilfrid ! " cries a hind : 
 " The ferryman is weak : 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 101 
 
 " He cannot stem the stream and wind : 
 " Help, help ! for Jesu's sake ! " 
 
 " Help one, — help all ! " the Baron cries ; 
 
 " Whatever boon he craves, 
 " I swear, by Christ, that man shall win, 
 
 " My ferryman who saves ! " — 
 
 Out rush the guests : but one was forth 
 
 Who heard no word of boon : 
 His manly heart to deeds of worth 
 
 Needed no clarion. 
 
 He dashed into the surging Trent — 
 
 Nor feared the hurricane ; 
 And, ere the breath of life was spent, 
 
 He seized the drowning man. — 
 
 " What is thy boon ? " said Torksey's lord, — 
 
 But his cheek was deadly pale ; 
 " Tell forth thy heart, — and to keep his word 
 
 " De Thorold will not fail. 5 ' — 
 h 3 
 
102 THE BARON'S YULE FEA.ST. 
 
 " I rushed to save my brother-man, 
 
 " And not to win thy boon : 
 " My just desert had been Heaven's ban — 
 
 " If thus I had not done ! " — 
 
 Thus spake the minstrel, when the hall 
 The Baron's guests had gained : 
 
 And, now, De Thorold's noble soul 
 Spoke out, all unrestrained. 
 
 " Then for thy own heart's nobleness 
 " Tell forth thy boon," he said ; 
 
 " Before thou tell'st thy thought, I guess 
 " What wish doth it pervade." — 
 
 " Sweet Edith, his true, plighted love, 
 
 " Romara asks of thee ! 
 " What though my kindred with thee strove, 
 
 " And wrought thee misery ? 
 
 " Our Lord, for whom we keep this day, 
 
 " When nailed upon the tree ; 
 " Did he foredoom his foes, or pray 
 
 " That they might pardoned be?" — 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 103 
 
 " Son of my ancient foe ! " replied 
 
 The Baron to the youth, — 
 " I glad me that my ireful pride 
 
 " Already bows to truth : 
 
 " Deep zeal to save our brother-man — 
 
 " Generous self-sacrifice 
 " For other's weal — is nobler than 
 
 " All blood-stained victories ! 
 
 " Take thy fair boon ! — for thou hast spoiled 
 " Death, — greedy Death — of prey — 
 
 " This poor man who for me hath toiled 
 " Full many a stormy day ! 
 
 " I feel — to quell the heart's bad flame, 
 
 " And bless an enemy, 
 " Is richer than all earthly fame — 
 
 " Though the world should be its fee ! 
 
 " My sire was by thy kinsman slain ; — 
 
 " Yet, as thy tale hath told, 
 " Thy kinsman's usurping act was vain — 
 
 " He died in the dungeon cold. 
 h 4 
 
104 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 " Perish the memory of feud, 
 " And deeds of savage strife ! 
 
 " Blood still hath led to deeds of blood, 
 " And life hath paid for life ! 
 
 " My darling Edith shall be thine — 
 " My blood with thine shall blend — 
 
 " The Saxon with the Norman line — 
 " In love our feuds shall end. 
 
 " In age I'll watch ye bless the poor, 
 " And smile upon your love ; 
 
 " And, when my pilgrimage is o'er, 
 " I hope to meet above 
 
 " Him who on earth a Babe was born 
 " In lowliness, as on this morn, — 
 " And tabernacled here below, 
 " Lessons of brotherhood to show !" 
 
THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 105 
 
 High was the feast, and rich the song, 
 For many a day, that did prolong 
 The wedding-revelry : 
 
 But more it needeth not to sing 
 Of our fathers' festive revelling : — 
 
 How will the dream agree 
 "With waking hours of famished throngs, 
 Brooding on daily deepening wrongs — 
 
 A stern reality ! — 
 
 With pictures, that exist in life, 
 Of thousands waging direful strife 
 With gaunt Starvation, in the holds 
 Where Mammon vauntingly unfolds 
 His boasted banner of success ? 
 
 Oh, that bruised hearts, in their distress, 
 May meet with hearts whose bounteousness 
 Helps them to keep their courage up, — 
 " Bating no jot of heart or hope ! " 17 
 
106 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 My suffering brothers ! still your hope 
 Hold fast, though hunger make ye droop ! 
 Right — glorious Right — shall yet be done ! 
 The Toilers' boon shall yet be won ! 
 Wrong from its fastness shall be hurled — 
 The World shall be a happy world ! — 
 It shall be filled with brother-men, — 
 And merry Yule oft come again ! 
 
N T E S. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 i. 
 
 Torksey's Hall. 
 
 The remains of this ancient erection (of which a represent- 
 ation is given in the accompanying vignette) form an interest- 
 ing antiquarian object beside the Trent, twelve miles from 
 Lincoln, and seven from Gainsborough. The entire absence 
 of any authentic record, as to the date of the foundation, or 
 its former possessors, leaves the imagination at full liberty to 
 clothe it with poetic legend. Visits made to it, in my child- 
 hood, and the hearing of wild narratives respecting the trea- 
 sures buried beneath its ruins, and the power of its lords in 
 the times of chivalry, fixed it, very early, in my mind, as the 
 fit site for a tale of romance. In addition to the beautiful 
 fragment of a front on the Trent bank, massive and extensive 
 foundations in the back-ground show that it must have been 
 an important building in by-gone times. 
 
 Torksey was, undoubtedly, one of the first towns in Lin- 
 colnshire, in the Saxon period. Only three of the towns in the 
 county are classed in Domesday Book, and it is one of them : 
 "Lincoln mans. 982; Stamford 317 : Terchesey 102. " (Tur- 
 ner's Hist, of the Anglo-Saxons, 1836, vol. iii. page 251.) 
 Writers of parts of the county history, — (for a complete 
 
110 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 history of Lincolnshire has not yet been written,) — affirm 
 that Torksey is the Tiovulfingacester of Venerable Bede ; but 
 Smith, the learned editor of the Cambridge edition of Bede, 
 inclines to the opinion that Southwell is the town indicated 
 by the pious and industrious monastic. The passage in Bede 
 leaves every thing to conjecture : he simply relates that a 
 truth-speaking presbyter and abbot of Pearteneu, (most 
 likely, Partney, near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire,) named 
 Deda, said that an old man had told him, that he, with a 
 great multitude, was baptized by Paulinus, in the presence 
 of King Edwin, " in fluvio Treenta juxta civitatem quae lingua 
 Anglorum Tiovulfingacaestir vocatur " — in the river Trent, 
 near the city which in the language of the Angles is called 
 Tiovulfingacaestir (Smith's Bede: Cambr. 1722, page 97.) — 
 This passage occurs immediately after the relation of the 
 Christian mission of Paulinus into Lindsey, and his conversion 
 of Blecca, governor of Lincoln, and his family, while the good 
 King Edwin reigned over East Anglia, to which petty king- 
 dom Lincolnshire seems sometimes to have belonged, though 
 it was generally comprehended in the kingdom of Mercia, 
 during the period of the Heptarchy. 
 
 If Stukeley be correct in bis supposition that the " Foss- 
 dyke," or canal which connects the Trent here with the Witham 
 at Lincoln, be the work of the Romans, — and I know no 
 reason for doubting it, — Torksey, standing at the junction of 
 the artificial river with the Trent, must have been an import- 
 ant station even before the Saxon times. These are Stukeley's 
 words relative to the commercial use of the Foss-Dyke: " By this 
 means the corn of Cambridgeshire, Bedfordshire, Hunting- 
 donshire, Northamptonshire, Rutland, and Lincolnshire, came 
 in ; — from the Trent, that of Nottinghamshire ; all easily 
 
Ill 
 
 conveyed northward to the utmost limits of the Roman power 
 there, by the river Ouse, which is navigable to the imperial 
 city of York. This city (York) was built and placed there, 
 in that spot, on the very account of the corn-boats coming 
 thither, and the emperors there resided, on that account ; and 
 the great morass on the river Foss was the haven, or bason, 
 where these corn-boats unladed. The very name of the Foss 
 at York, and Foss-dyke between Lincoln and the Trent, are 
 memorials of its being an artificial work, even as the great 
 Foss road, equally the work of the spade, though in a dif- 
 ferent manner." (Stukeley's Palaaographia Britannica : Stam- 
 ford, 1746 : No. 2. page 39.) 
 
 In the superb edition of Dugdale's Monasticon Anglicanum, 
 edited by Sir Henry Ellis and others (1 825), occurs the follow- 
 ing note, also evidencing the extent of ancient Torksey : — 
 " Mr. T. Sympson, who collected for a history of Lincoln, in 
 a letter preserved in one of Cole's manuscript volumes in the 
 British Museum, dated January 20, 1741, says, ' Yesterday, in 
 Atwater's Memorandums, I met with a composition between 
 the prior of St. Leonard's in Torksey and the nuns of the 
 Fosse, by which it appears there were then three parishes in 
 Torksey : viz. All Saints, St. Mary's, and St Peter's." (Vol. 
 iv. page 292.) 
 
 At what date this " composition" took place between the 
 prior and nuns, we are not told : of course, it must have been 
 before the dissolution of the religious houses. Leland's ac- 
 count of Torksey, which is as follows, applies to a period 
 immediately succeeding that event. 
 
 " The olde buildinges of Torkesey wer on the south of the 
 new toune, [that is, at thu junction of the Trent with the 
 Fosse] but ther now islitle seene of olde buildinges, more than 
 
112 THE BAKON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 a chapelle, wher men say was the paroch chirch of olde Torke- 
 sey; and on Trent side the Yerth so balkith up that it shewith 
 that there be likelihod hath beene sum waulle, and by it is a 
 hill of yerth cast up : they caulle it the Wynde Mille Hille, 
 but I thinke the dungeon of sum olde castelle was there. By 
 olde Torkesey standith southely the ruines of Fosse Nunnery, 
 hard by the stone-bridge over Fosse Dik ; and there Fosse 
 Dike hath his entering ynto Trente. There be 2 smaul 
 paroche chirches in new Torkesey and the Priory of S. Leo- 
 nard standith on theste [the East] side of it. The ripe [bank] 
 that Torkesey standith on is sumwhat higher ground than is 
 by the west ripe of Trent. Trent there devidith, and a good 
 deale upward, Lincolnshire from Nottinghamshire." (Itine- 
 rary : Oxon, 1745 : vol. i. page 33.) 
 
 II. 
 
 Thorold. 
 
 The high character for generousness and hospitality assigned 
 to this most ancient of Lincolnshire families, by history and 
 tradition, was my only reason for giving its name to an ima- 
 ginary lord of Torksey. Ingulphus, the Croyland chronicler, 
 in a passage full of grateful eloquence, — (commencing, 
 " Tunc inter familiares nostri monasterii, et benevolos amicos, 
 erat prascipuus consiliarius quidam. Vicecomes Lincolniae, 
 dictus Thoroldus," — but. too long to quote entire,) — relates, 
 that in a dreadful famine, which occurred in the reign of Ed- 
 ward the Confessor, Thorold, sheriff of Lincolnshire, gave his 
 manor of Bokenhale to the abbey of Croyland, and afterwards 
 
113 
 
 bestowed upon it his manor of Spalding, with all its rents and 
 profits. (Gale's Rer. Ang. Script. Vet. Tom. i. page 65. Oxon, 
 1684.) 
 
 Tanner thus briefly notices the latter circumstance : 
 " Spalding. Thorold de Bukenale, brother to the chari- 
 table countess Godiva, gave a place here, a. d. 1052, for the 
 habitation, and lands for the maintenance of a prior and 
 five monks from Croiland." (Notitia, page 251. fol. 1744.) 
 The generosity of the female Thorold, Godiva, is matter of 
 notoriety in the traditionary history of Coventry ; and her 
 name, and that of her husband, are found in connection with 
 the history of the very ancient town of Stow, in Lincolnshire, 
 as benefactors to its church. " Leofricus, comes Mercia?, et 
 Godiva ejus uxor ecclesiam de S. Marie Stow, quam Eadnotus, 
 episcopus Lincolniae, construxit, pluribus ornamentis ditavit " 
 — Leofric, earl of Mercia, and Godiva his wife, enriched 
 with many adornments the church of St. Mary at Stow, 
 which Eadnoth, bishop of Lincoln, built. (Leland's Collec- 
 tanea, vol. i. page 158. London, 1770.) 
 
 In Kimber and Johnson's Baronetage (vol. i. page 470.) 
 the Thorold of the reign of Edward the Confessor is said to 
 be descended from Thorold, sheriff of Lincolnshire in the 
 reign of Kenelph, king of Mercia. Betham, in his " Baronet- 
 age of England" (Ipswich, 1801, vol. i. page 476) says the 
 pedigree of the Thorolds is a " very fine" one, and enume- 
 rates its several branches of Marston, Blankney, Harmston, 
 Morton, and Clay thorp, and of the "High Hall and Low Hall, 
 in Hough, all within the said county of Lincoln." Betham, 
 and other writers of his class, enumerate Thorolds, sheriffs of 
 Lincolnshire, in the reigns of Philip and Mary, Elizabeth, 
 James I. and Charles I.; and Sir George Thorold of Harm- 
 
114 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 ston was sheriff of London and Middlesex, in 1710, — and 
 afterwards Lord Mayor. 
 
 Sir John Thorold of Syston is now the chief representative 
 of this Saxon family ; but report says that he delights to live 
 abroad — rather than in the midst of his tenantry and depend- 
 ants, to gladden the hearts of the poor, and receive happiness 
 from diffusing it among others, after the good example of his 
 ancestors. 
 
 Fosse Nunnery - . 
 
 " The Nunnery of the Fosse was begun by the inhabitants 
 of Torksey upon some demesne lands belonging to the Crown, 
 pretty early in King John's time ; but King Henry III. 
 confirming it, is said to have been the founder. The circum- 
 stance of the foundation by the men of Torksey is mentioned 
 in King Henry's charter. The Inspeximus of the 5th 
 Edw. II., which contains it, also contains a charter of King 
 John, granting to the nuns two marks of silver which they 
 had been used to pay annually into the Exchequer for the 
 land at Torksey. In this charter King John calls them the 
 Nuns of Torkesey." — DugdaWs Monasticon, vol. iv. p. 292. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Saint Leonard's. 
 
 Bishop Tanner, following Speed and Leland, says, " Torke- 
 sey. On the east side of the new town stood a priory of 
 Black Canons, built by K. John to the honour of St. Leonard." 
 
NOTES. 
 
 115 
 
 — Notitia, p. 278. This priory was 
 
 granted to Sir Philip 
 
 Hobby, after the Dissolution: the Fosse Nunnery to Edward 
 
 Lord Clinton. 
 
 
 V. 
 
 
 Thor.net Wood. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of Torksey, 
 
 and, traditionally, part 
 
 of an extensive forest, in past times. 
 
 A branch of the Nevils, 
 
 claiming descent from the great earls 
 
 of "Warwick and Mon- 
 
 tagu, reside at Thorney. 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 
 Grunsel. 
 
 This old word for threshold is still common in Lincolnshire ; 
 and with Milton's meaning so plainly before his understand- 
 ing (Paradise Lost, book i. line 460.), it is strange that 
 Dr. Johnson should have given "the lower part of the build- 
 ing " as an explanation for grunsel. Lemon, in his " Etymo- 
 logy," spells the word " ground-sill," and then derives the last 
 syllable from " soil. 1 ' Nothing can be more stupid. Door- 
 sill is as common as grunsel, for threshold, in Staffordshire, as 
 well as Lincolnshire; and, in both counties, " window-sill" is 
 frequent. I remember, too, in my boyhood, having heard the 
 part of the plough to which the share is fitted — the frame 
 of the harrows — and the frame of a grindstone, each called 
 " sill " by the farmers of Lindsey. 
 
 i 2 
 
116 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 ROMARA. 
 
 In this instance I have also used a name associated with the 
 ancient history of Lincolnshire as an imaginary Norman lord 
 of Torksey. " William de Romara, lord of Bolingbroke, in 
 Lincolnshire, was the first earl of that county after the Con- 
 quest. He was the son of Roger, son of Gerold de Romara ; 
 which Roger married Lucia, daughter of Algar T earl of 
 Chester, and sister and heir to Morcar, the Saxon earl of 
 Northumberland and Lincoln. In 1142 he founded the 
 Abbey of Revesby, in com. Line, bearing then the title of Earl 
 of Lincoln." — Bankes' Extinct and Dormant Peerage. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Trent. 
 
 " Or Trent, who like some earth-born giant spreads 
 His thirty arms along the indented meads." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Heygre. 
 
 The tide, at the equinoxes especially, presents a magnificent 
 spectacle on the Trent. It comes up even to Gainsborough, 
 which is seventy miles from the sea, in one overwhelming 
 wave, spreading across the wide river-channel, and frequently 
 putting the sailors into some alarm for the safety of their 
 vessels, which are dashed to and fro, while " all hands " are 
 
117 
 
 engaged in holding the cables and slackening them, so as to 
 relieve the ships. 
 
 To be in a boat, under the guardianship of a sailor, and to 
 hear the shouts on every hand of " 'Ware Heygre !" — as the 
 grand wave is beheld coming on, — and then to be tossed up 
 and down in the boat, as the wave is met, — form no slight 
 excitements for a boy living by the side of Trent. 
 
 I find no key to the derivation of the word Heygre in the 
 Etymologists. The Keltic verb, Eigh, signifying, to cry 
 shout, sound, proclaim ; or the noun Eigin, signifying dif- 
 ficulty, distress, force, violence — may, perhaps, be the root 
 from whence came this name for the tide — so dissimilar to 
 any other English word of kindred meaning. It is scarcely 
 probable that the word by which the earliest inhabitants of 
 Britain would express their surprise at this striking phe- 
 nomenon should ever be lost, or changed for another. 
 
 The Porpoise. 
 
 The appearance of a porpoise, at the season when his 
 favourite prey, the salmon, comes up the river to spawn, is 
 another high excitement to dwellers on the Trent. I re- 
 member well the almost appalling interest with which, in 
 childhood, I beheld some huge specimen of this marine visitor, 
 drawn up by crane on a wharf, after an enthusiastic contest 
 for his capture by the eager sailors. 
 
 i3 
 
118 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 XL 
 
 Agnes Plantagenet. 
 
 The very interesting relic of the Old Hall at Gainsborough 
 is associated, in the mind of one who spent more than half 
 his existence in the old town, with much that is chivalrous. 
 Mowbrays, Percys, De Burghs, and other high names of the 
 feudal era are in the list of its possessors, as lords of the 
 manor. None, however, of its former tenants calls up such 
 stirring associations as ' Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured 
 Lancaster,' who, with his earldom of Lincoln, held this castle 
 and enlarged and beautified it. Tradition confidently affirms 
 that his daughter was starved to death by him, in one of the 
 rooms of the old tower, — in consequence of her perverse 
 attachment to her father's foe, — the knight of Torksey. 
 Often have I heard the recital, from some aged gossip, by the 
 fireside on a winter's night ; and the rehearsal was invariably 
 delivered with so much of solemn and serious averment — 
 that the lady was still seen, — that she would point out 
 treasure, to any one who had the courage to speak to her, — 
 and that some families had been enriched by her ghostly 
 means, though they had kept the secret, — as to awaken 
 within me no little dread of leaving the fireside for bed in 
 the dark ! 
 
 "With indescribable feeling 1 wandered along the carven 
 galleries and ruined rooms, or crept up the antique massive 
 staircases, of this crumbling mansion of departed state, in my 
 boyhood, — deriving from these stolen visits to its interior, 
 mingled with my admiring gaze at its battlemented turret, 
 and rich octagonal window, (which tradition said had lighted 
 the chapel erected by John of Gaunt,) a passion for chivalry 
 
119 
 
 and romance, that not even my Chartism can quench. Once, 
 and once only, I remember creeping, under the guidance of 
 an elder boy, up to the ' dark room ' in the turret ; but the 
 fear that we should really see the ghostly Lady caused us to 
 run down the staircase, with beating hearts, as soon asVwe had 
 reached the door and had had one momentary peep ! 
 
 Other traditions of high interest are connected with this 
 ancient mansion. One, says that Sweyn the Danish invader, 
 (the remains of whose camp exist at the distance of a mile 
 from the town,) was killed at a banquet, by his drunken 
 nobles, in the field adjoining its precincts. Another, avers 
 that in the Saxon building believed to have stood on the same 
 spot, as the residence of the earls of Mercia, the glorious 
 Alfred's wedding-feast was held. Speed gives some little aid 
 to the imagination in its credent regard for the story : 
 " Elswith, the wife of king iElfred, was the daughter of 
 Ethelfred, surnamed Muchel, that is, the Great, an Earle of 
 the Mercians, who inhabited about Gainesborough, in Lin- 
 colnshire : her mother was Edburg, a lady borne of the 
 Bloud roiall of Mercia." (Historie of Great Britaine, 1632 : 
 page 333.) 
 
 XII. 
 
 Roche. 
 
 A visit to the beautiful ruins of Roche Abbey, near ancient 
 Tickhill, and to the scenery amidst which they lie, created a 
 youthful desire to depict them in verse. This doggrel ditty 
 (I forestall the critics !) of the Miller of Roche is all, how- 
 ever, that I preserved of the imperfect piece. The dittv is 
 a homely versification of a homely tale which was often told 
 
 i 4 
 
120 THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. 
 
 by the fireside in Lincolnshire. I never saw anything re- 
 sembling it in print, until Mr. Dickens (whose kind attention 
 I cannot help acknowledging) pointed out to me a similar 
 story in the Decameron. 
 
 Roche Abbey, according to the " Monasticon Anglicanum," 
 was founded by Richard de Builli and Richard Fitz-Turgis, 
 in 1147. " The architecture bespeaks the time of Edward II. 
 or III." (Edit. 1825 : vol. v. p. 502.) 
 
 XIII. 
 
 SCROGG AND CaRR. 
 
 Johnson says, " Scrog. A stunted shrub, bush, or branch ; 
 yet used in some parts of the north." In Lincolnshire, how- 
 ever, the word is used to designate wild ground on which 
 " stunted shrub, bush, or branch" grows, and not as a synonyme 
 with shrub or bush. 
 
 Carr I have looked for in vain among the etymologists. 
 Johnson merely quotes Gibson's Camden to show that, in 
 the names of places. Car " seems to have relation to the 
 British caer, a city ; " and Junius, Skinner, Lemon, Home 
 Tooke, Jamieson, &c. are silent about it. The word is ap- 
 plied, in Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire, to the low lands, 
 or wide marsh pastures that border the Trent ; and I feel 
 little doubt that, like the word heygre, and many others that 
 might be collected, it has been in use ever since it was given 
 to these localities, by the primeval tribes, the Kelts, when 
 they first saw these beautiful tracts, so much subject to in- 
 undation, like the flat borders of their own rivers in the East. 
 "13 (car) a pasture, is found in Isaiah, xxx. 23. Psalm lxv. 
 
121 
 
 14, &c, and although "133 (kicar) is simply translated "plain" 
 in the established version, and Gesenius would, still more 
 vaguely, render it " circuit, surrounding country," (from "113, 
 in Arabic, to be round,') yet I suspect the words come from the 
 same root, and have'the same meaning. Thus, Genesis xiii. 10. 
 
 bnvp jngn s mrp-|p nn^-nsi didtin mn» nn^s^p 
 
 flSfX n3H3 might literally be rendered " And Lot raised his 
 eyes, and saw all the carr of the Jordan, that it was well watered 
 everywhere, before Jehovah destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah . 
 like the garden of Jehovah ; like the land of Mitzraim, as 
 thou approachest Zoar." How natural, that the Keltic or 
 Kymric tribes should behold, in the Trent pastures, the 
 resemblance of the plains on the banks of the Jordan, the 
 Nile, the Tigris, and Euphrates — (for the term nii"P~j4 
 garden of Jehovah most probably denotes Mesopotamia, in 
 the very ancient fragments collected by Moses to form the 
 book of Genesis) — and should denote them by the same name ! 
 .'»>., khawar, also signifies " low or sloping ground," in 
 Richardson's Arabic and Persian Dictionary ; and " Carr, a 
 bog, a fen, or morass," occurs in Armstrong's Gaelic Dic- 
 tionary. The word I conceive is thus clearly traced to its 
 Keltic or Eastern origin. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Crowd. 
 
 Sir John Hawkins, in his highly curious " History of 
 Music " (vol. ii. page 274) says " The Cruth or Crowth " was 
 
122 the baron's yule feast. 
 
 an instrument " formerly in common use in the principality of 
 Wales," and is the "prototype of the whole fidicinal species of 
 musical instruments." " It has six strings, supported by a 
 bridge, and is played on by a bow." " The word Cruth is 
 pronounced in English Crowth, and corruptly Crowd.'''' "ErpufJ 
 is the Saxon appellation given by Leland, for the instrument 
 (Collectanea: vol. v. ) " "A player on the cruth was called 
 a Crowther or Crowder, and so also is a common fiddler to this 
 day ; and hence, undoubtedly, Crowther, or Crowder, a com- 
 mon surname. Butler, with his usual humour, has cha- 
 racterised a common fiddler, and given him the name of 
 Crowdero." 
 
 " I'th' head of all this warlike rabble 
 " Crowdero marched, expert and able." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Rebeck. 
 
 Rebeck is a word well known from Milton's exquisite 
 " L' Allegro." Sir John Hawkins (vol. ii. page 86) traces it to 
 the Moorish Rebeb ; and believes he finds this old three- 
 stringed fiddle in the hands of Chaucer's Absolon, the pa- 
 rish-clerk, who could "plaie songs on a smale ribible." 
 
 XV. 
 
 St. Guthlacke. 
 The patron saint of the ancient Abbey of Croyland. 
 
123 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The Swineherd of Stow. 
 
 St. Remigius, the Norman bishop, is placed on the pinnacle 
 of one buttress that terminates the splendid fa£ade, or west front 
 of Lincoln Cathedral, and the Swineherd of Stow, with his 
 horn in his hand, on the other. The tradition is in the mouth 
 of every Lincolner, that this effigied honour was conferred on 
 the generous rudester because he gave his horn filled with 
 silver pennies towards the rebuilding or beautifying of the 
 Minster. 
 
 ' Nor bate a jot of heart or hope." 
 
 Milton's Sonnet on his blindness. 
 
By the same Author, 
 THE 
 
 PURGATORY OF SUICIDES: 
 
 & prison Hfjgme. 
 
 IN TEN BOOKS. 
 
 One Volume, foolscap 8vo. price 7s. 6d. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS, 
 
 " Thomas Cooper is one of those great poets stamped by Nature's own 
 hand — not fashioned by schools, not taught by labour to string rhymes 
 together, but pouring forth from the fulness of his own mind and heart a 
 torrent of burning and impetuous eloquence. We may greatly disapprove 
 of his conceptions, but we are compelled by the law of our being that 
 constrains admiration to do homage to the richness and fertility of his 
 imagination, and to that amazing command of language and supreme 
 faculty of expression that makes his verse, while full, various, and emi- 
 nently poetic, the perfect expositor of his thought. The impression 
 forced on the mind by his verse is, that it is the work of inspiration rather 
 than of labour. It never stops or falters in its magnificent flight. It has 
 no feeble passages, no week rhymes, no compromise of strength to rhythm. 
 It is a genuine and ardenc outpouring of a great spirit, irritated by envy 
 or fancied wrong, depressed and pained by calamity, dark with imperfect 
 knowledge, distorted by feelings of hate, fired by illusory ideas of man's 
 equality, but still retaining, even in its greatest faults, unquestionable 
 power of intellect of the very rarest and highest kind. Our judgment 
 may be disputed — the world may disregard this mighty and daring effort 
 of an irregular genius, though we do not think it will, — yet still we shall 
 hold to cur opinion that this Prison Ehyme is the most wonderful effort 
 of intellectual power produced within the last century ; 
 
" There is nothing mean, low, vicious, or lascivious in the verse of this 
 Chartist. He has the finest feeling for the beauty of the New Testament, 
 for the sublimity of the Old ; but the doubts of neglected youth cling to 
 him, and shake his soul with the agony of unbelief 
 
 " The poem is written in the Spenserian stanza. Grander and more 
 nervous than ' Childe Harold,' which in its reflective passages it somewhat 
 resembles — evidencing much deeper reading, much profounder thought, 
 much greater power of the forcible and the terrible in expression, though 
 with less beauty of poetic imagery — this Prison Rhyme comes nearer 
 than any other poem in our language to the grand work of Milton. The 
 spirit of that mighty master, which hitherto has looked so coldly and con- 
 temptuously on all its worshippers, has found out this imprisoned Chartist, 
 and breathed upon him in his cell. Wonder of wonders, this self-taught 
 shoemaker is hardly less versed in curious and mystic lore than the 
 sightless bard, to whose mental vision all antiquity, and its fables, its 
 heroes, and its creeds, seemed revealed 
 
 " With wonderful pomp and luxuriance of language does the author 
 recall the great names of antiquity, and invest the form of each with 
 peculiar and distinctive characteristics. The stanza, so difficult of manage- 
 ment in an inferior hand, is by him wrought, even in the most elaborate 
 and difficult descriptions, with as much ease as a skilled hand weaves osier 
 rods into basket-work. He is master of his verse, and uses it as a master, 
 not a servant. He makes it subservient to his thought ; with a boldness 
 more to be admired than condemned, he employs rhymes and words 
 unauthorised by authority rather than suffer his muse to be fettered by 
 commonplace rules 
 
 " The second book opens with an address to the Lyre, and the poet 
 recalls those great names of his fatherland whose verses form the brightness 
 blazonry of her glory. His address to Milton, his poetic master, is rich in 
 the passionate language of admiration. Such a strain has not been sung in 
 England for two hundred years. Knowing that this verse has been 
 written in a prison cell, that the author has been self-taught, that he was 
 a poor Chartist shoemaker, we read in all the wonderment of an inexpli- 
 cable dream 
 
 " Through the whole ten books are the spirits of renowned suicides 
 brought together — their forms, their attributes, their instincts, feelings, 
 passions, described in glowing verse — and made to argue and dispute 
 with each other on those great themes of life which from the beginning 
 until this day have engaged the attention of the world — the life, the 
 government, the destiny, and the hereafter of man. No extract of detached 
 passages, no general description of the scope and aim of the poem, can 
 give an adequate idea of its general character, or of the amazing poetic 
 energy it exhibits. It concludes with a glorious vision. All heaven 
 seems as a portal to a world stretched beyond it, where mankind regene- 
 rated dwell in blissful freedom." — Britannia, Aug. 30. 1845. 
 
 " The Prison-Rhyme is no mean gift It reveals the presence 
 
 of an active, well-instructed head — a resolute will — an imagination lofty 
 and daring — and hopes that brave all things in a good cause ; it discovers 
 also the promise of future and much higher excellence, greater mastery in 
 
3 
 
 art, a more subtile and profound appreciation of the beautiful, truer know- 
 ledge of truth, a higher, wider, more healthful sympathy with man, 
 including the multifarious and progressive life of the past, with this our 
 little, evanishing world of to-day, and that great and sublime future which 
 all the truer and more fervent spirits of the time delight to herald and to 
 hasten. But, if we compare Mr. Cooper's poem with the ordinary offspring 
 of the modern muse, — the verses, not of millennium-singers and world- 
 betterers, but of gentlemen rhymesters, writers of love-lorn ditties and 
 May-fair fancies, — if, even, we compare it with nine-tenths of the fancy 
 verse dedicated to Nature, wherein her everlasting hills and skies, fairy- 
 haunted dells, and love-murmuring brooks make an eternal jingle, we shall 
 find that we are on higher ground, and breathe a purer air. We shall 
 find ourselves transported, by the wand of no mean magician, from the 
 realms of hackneyed sentiment to the wonder-land of mighty spirits, sages, 
 and heroes, giant shadows, voices of the past, whose awful tones swell up, 
 through the roar of congregated ages, melancholy oracles, sublime warnings, 
 preaching the undying majesty of Truth and Reason, and the ever-glorious 
 virtues of Justice, Knowledge, and Freedom. Such a singer as this is at 
 least worth listening to, if it were only to make us forget for a while that 
 we live in the golden age of mediocrity and money-worship. Listened to 
 not the less, nor the more, because the singer is a Chartist, and a working, 
 self-educated man. Listened to, not simply because, having been tried 
 for conspiracy, and having suffered imprisonment for it, the writer comes 
 out from his dungeon with this book in his hand, saying, ' Thus much, and 
 something more, I have done even in a prison.' These are not the grounds 
 upon which we recommend a perusal of this poem ; though, undoubtedly, 
 such considerations do add much interest, of a personal kind, to its publica- 
 tion. We recommend it, because it embraces a lofty subject, because its 
 execution evidences considerable knowledge, and great daring and sustained 
 power of thought ; because it seems to us a natural prelude to something 
 else from the same source, still more elevated in purpose and conception j 
 and much more complete in artistic execution. Tn fact, judging from this 
 as a first effort of his muse, we are inclined to hail the writer as a new 
 power in the world of poetry, the ruler of a new domain, as yet but little 
 known ; but, which the public cannot fail to recognise, when its kings of 
 thought shall put on their singing robes, and, with fresh voice and soul, 
 speak its praises to the world."— Sentinel, Oct. 12. 1845. 
 
 " The book possesses mind — mind which makes itself felt and under- 
 stood, and which therefore demands respect. . . . The author's case claims 
 for his poem the recognition of an historical monument, which, if its merits 
 were but a tithe part of what they are, we should feel ourselves precluded 
 from dismissing with a brief notice," — Anthenceum, Sept. 6. 1845. 
 
 "Noteworthy, — independently of all outward circumstances; for the 
 the poem is well-conceived, wrought out with no ordinary amount of 
 power, clearly and concisely expressed, and not altogether wanting in 
 imagination." — Illuminated Magazine, Oct. 1. 1845. 
 
 " We have now before us one of the most extraordinary literary pro- 
 ductions of the present day — we may say of the present age — a work 
 which, if we do not greatly err, will gain for its author a reputation as 
 
lasting, if not as great, as that of Byron, Spenser, and Milton, a mingling 
 of whose finest characteristics is to be found in these 963 Spenserian 
 stanzas. In estimating truly the greatness of this poem, we must consider 
 the circumstances under which it was written. The author is a self- 
 educatad man, one of the humbler classes, who has had to struggle and 
 toil, for his daily bread, and at times very hardly too, as we have good 
 reason to know ; his own indomitable energy and overmastering genius 
 has alone sufficed to conquer every obstacle which impeded his progress 
 in intellectual 'growth ; the serpents which twined and wreathed their 
 voluminous folds around his truly herculean mind, he has destroyed, and 
 now stands forth in this, the manifestation of his inner man, like the 
 Sampson of his wondrous dreams. ***** 
 
 A form majestic, yet terrible, is that in which the spirit of this lately 
 imprisoned Chartist now exhibits itself to the public gaze : truly a star 
 has arisen in the poetical horizon, and if the light which it now sheds be 
 somewhat baleful, let us consider that the fogs of neglect and persecution, 
 and the noisome dungeon vapours, yet hang about it, and obscure its 
 brightness. ******** 
 
 We have been by turns delighted and amazed at the vision, or series of 
 visions, here presented to us ; at the richness, the originality, the grandeur, 
 and, at times, the loveliness of the conceptions, expressed in language the 
 most nervous and energetic, flowing on and on in such a full tide of 
 majestic rhythm ; the extensive acquaintance with ancient and modern 
 history, with the laws which regulate mind and matter, with the facts and 
 terms and hypotheses of science ; in short, the knowledge so universal as 
 to seem intuitive and not acquired, reminding us most strongly of Dante 
 and Milton, the former of whom we are assured our author has never read, 
 although a recent reviewer of this poem founded his observations through- 
 out on the supposition that it is a direct imitation of the Inferno, and the 
 latter of whom is Cooper's acknowledged master of the lyre. How the 
 sightless bard would rejoice in a pupil who could apostrophise him thus : 
 
 We will venture to say that more noble stanzas than these were never 
 addressed to one enthroned amid the deathless sons of song by a human 
 worshipper. More passionate thoughts, and enthusiastic aspirations after 
 liberty, were never breathed." — Kentish Independent, Oct. 11. 1845. 
 
 " This is a poem of no ordinary character ; the production of a man 
 
 terribly in earnest, who speaks out his thoughts without reserve or fear, 
 
 and who appears to possess one of those vigorous, untameable spirits, 
 
 whose influence, for evil or for good, is in every age so commanding. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The natural poetry which lived in this man's soul appears to have made 
 him a democrat in principle: indeed, in the true sense of the term, the 
 poet is ever a democrat, for he deals with the universal, the eternal, and 
 not with the conventional, local, or transient: you could not, try ever so 
 hard, or long, make the true poet a decent and devout conformist to the 
 things which are ; the poet and the prophet are, in most instances, very 
 nearly related to each other, and hence the man who sings the praises of 
 the lovely and the true, is well-nigh certain to wage war with the repulsive 
 and the false. * * * * 
 
He tells us, in the preface to his poem, that he hent over the last, and 
 wielded the awl, till three-and-twenty, that amid want and bodily weakness 
 he searched for truth, and that his education has been the work of him- 
 self during hours of leisure. Well, all this proves the vigour of his 
 aspiration after intellectual culture, and the native power of the faculties 
 which he sought to cultivate, whilst it serves to account for the force and 
 beauty which mark to so large an extent the poem before us. It is not 
 necessary to read many stanzas to discover that the spirit, with whose 
 thoughts and feelings you are becoming familiar, is of no commonplace 
 stamp, and is destined to fulfil a mission such as is not allotted to men in 
 general. He is no mental pigmy who studies languages whilst pining for 
 food, or tortured by disease, and who produces, during his two years and 
 eleven weeks' imprisonment, a poem in ten books — part of an historical 
 romance — a series of tales, and an Hebrew guide. In all this a mental 
 power speaks out, which demands notice and appreciation ; and however 
 little many persons may sympathise with the man's aims and opinions, yet 
 surely all must commend his diligence, admire his vigour, and confess 
 that though wrong on some points, he is still a genius, whom to pass by 
 with contempt is impossible, for he wields a power which must be felt, 
 and will be responded to by masses, to whom this same Thomas Cooper 
 will appear as a kind of prophet, calling them to thought, to energy, and 
 hope. ********* 
 
 It must not be imagined, however, that the spirit of mere antagonism is 
 the only spirit which pervades this poem— the true poet's love of nature 
 and of man is visible — touches of a tenderness most exquisite are scat- 
 tered through the whole : this stern, hard man, who dares to call things 
 by their right names — who looks tyranny in the face, and denounces it as 
 a curse, be the consequences what they may, yes, this man of fire, is loving 
 as a little child, when he treads the sacred grounds of domestic feelings 
 and relationships. If his invective be bitter, his blessings are deep — 
 
 " The hate of hate — the scorn of scorn — the love of love," 
 
 may be truly stated as his dower: his every feeling is in an extreme, — 
 intensity, passion, is his great characteristic ; and this will constitute the 
 main source of his influence, and, unless we are much mistaken, will 
 render " The Purgatory of Suicides " as popular in the political, as 
 " Pollok's Course of Time " in the religious world. We regard this 
 poem as a pledge of higher and more matured efforts in the future. 
 Cooper's entire man is not developed yet — his mind is but half expanded: 
 many a crude idea will yet grow into definiteness and proportion, many a 
 one-sided estimate will be adjusted by advanced wisdom, and the poet 
 himself rise to a yet more commanding elevation. There are defects 
 in the construction of this poem — as to language, versification, and 
 imagery — which, as critics, we should point out, were our space less limited: 
 there are also passages of power and beauty, which we would fain quote, 
 but we recommend our readers to procure it, and give it a calm and candid 
 perusal. In the most friendly spirit do we throw out these thoughts. 
 We have no desire to be captious and hypercritical. We hail the pub- 
 K 
 
lication of this poem as another proof of the intellectual improvement 
 of the working classes. We join with the author in longing for the day 
 when enlightment, virtue, peace, joy and freedom shall reign supreme; 
 and, meantime, we wish him 'God speed.' — Nottingham Review. 
 Oct. 17, 1845. 
 
 " We had thought that the spirit of high poetry was dead. We were in 
 error — we rejoice that we were in error. The poem lying before us, is 
 one of the noblest creations of modern times, deeply impregnated with 
 power and beauty, and glowing in every page with the illuminings of 
 searching and passionate thought. The exordium reminds us somewhat 
 of the opening of the second book of Paradise Lost ; and, extravagant 
 though the assertion may be deemed, it is scarcely inferior to that fine 
 portion of Milton's deathless epic. The conception of the groundwork is 
 original and vast ; and its machinery, though in some points heteroge- 
 neous, is indicative of a profound and daringly original mind. Where has 
 the author been hidden until now ? He wields an intellect of mighty 
 power, and an imagination of massive and beautiful proportions, — com- 
 bining in the range of both much of the sublimity of Milton, the spiritual 
 metaphysics and golden imagery of Shelley, the wayward magnificence of 
 Byron, with the solemn and deeply-toned power of our own Elliot. We 
 shall halt not at asserting that in the catalogue of England's greatest bards 
 must hereafter be inscribed the name of Thomas Cooper." — Sheffield 
 Iris, Nov. 6, 1845. 
 
 " One of those rare works which appear at but distant intervals of time. 
 It proclaims the author to be gifted with the spirit of poetry in the high- 
 est degree. Whatever may be thought of, or however much we may be 
 called upon to condemn some of his sentiments, it must be conceded that 
 grandeur of imagination, depth of feeling, and majesty of expression are 
 his predominant characteristics. Though confined in a dungeon, so well 
 was the poet's head stored with intellectual treasure, that his mental 
 resources appear boundless. The lore of ancient and modern (sacred 
 and profane) history, the subtleties of the casuist, the polemics of the 
 theologian, the deductions of the philosopher, and the dogmas of the poli- 
 tician, are all summoned at will by the author, and made the obedient 
 ministers to his purpose. This remarkable concentration of knowledge, 
 combined with the greatest daring of thought, and the most copious powers 
 of lang age, are no less calculated to astonish, than the beauty and feel- 
 ing of the verses are to enwrap and charm every reader who is capable of 
 appreciating genuine poetry. It is impossible to read a work like this and 
 fail to observe that the author has one of those gifted giant minds, capa- 
 ble of exercising much good or evil to his fellow-men, according to the 
 direction it takes." — Leicestershire Mercury, December 13. 1845. 
 
Also just published, by the same Author, 
 
 WISE SAWS AND MODERN INSTANCES. 
 
 Two vols, price 15s. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " Mr. Thomas Cooper needs now no further introduction to the reader : 
 his ' Purgatory of Suicides ' has already told his history and exemplified 
 his merits. He has in him the soul of a poet and the heart of a man : 
 though, doubtless, his capacity has been warped and narrowed by its par- 
 tisan employment and political exclusiveness. His has not been the calm 
 serene mind which has rejoiced in the quiet of the summer sky — it has 
 rather loved the winter storm, and triumphed in the tumult. A mist — a 
 haze — a tempestuous shadow accordingly dimmed its vision in its great 
 epic endeavour, and induced an unsatisfactory hesitation as to the scope 
 and treatment of the poem. The work before us is of humbler preten- 
 sion, consisting of a series of Crabbelike sketches, not however in verse, 
 but in prose. 
 
 " The scene of most of these stories is laid in Lincolnshire, and some of 
 them relate to local events and characters. The Barber of Caistor, who, 
 though a disciple of equality, felt his prejudices shocked because a gentle- 
 man was talking to a gipsy, — the Poacher of Lindsey, who at length 
 learns that, however iniquitous the game-laws may be, it is folly to poach 
 ' in a country where the rich all hang together on their own side of the 
 wheatsack,' — the Tailor of Horncastle, who falls into difficulties because 
 suspected of sedition, — the reforming Carrier of Ludforth, who ' brings 
 his ninepence to nought,' through unseemly haste in improving his social 
 condition, — the blind Fiddler of Torksey, the crony and Mentor of an old 
 fisherman of the Trent, one sadly given to extravagant anticipations when 
 a little excited with rum, and whom his bosom friend constantly reproves 
 with the warning, ' Don't say so till you're sure ! ' 
 
 " They are manifest portraits, and admonish us of the author's skill in 
 
 taking the literal likeness, which in his poem had no place. There, all 
 
 was indistinct as the Hades it depicted, more so than the Ossianic misty 
 
 land of ghosts ; but here, in these tales and sketches, there are a simplicity 
 
 K 2 
 
and decision of handling which make all plain and clear and lifelike. We 
 are glad thus to meet the author in daylight, and to be able to state that he 
 will bear looking at, needs no interpreter, and speaks genuine English. 
 Mr. Cooper is not without humour in his delineations, and we would refer 
 in proof to the tale of ' Master Zerubbabel, the Antiquary ;' nor without 
 pathos : witness his ' Beggared Gentleman's Address to his Crooked Stick,' 
 and his ' History of Cockle Tom,' the hero- sailor, both good in their way. 
 
 " It is a mark-worthy fact, and one which has frequently struck us from 
 the earliest breaking out of Chartism, namely, the respectability of its litera- 
 ture ; and let the more sober-minded among the Chartists learn, that such 
 social reforms as are desirable will be better served by such works as this 
 before us, than by democratic harangues and insurrectionary outbreaks. 
 The poetic genius which has been consecrated to this cause is of singular 
 power ; it is curious also that it should have been of the epic, not the 
 lyrical kind." — Atkenceum, Nov. 15, 1845. 
 
 " The contents of the book consist of a series of homely scenes and 
 sketches of life, 
 
 ' The short and simple annals of the poor,' 
 
 with but few exceptions ; and they are certainly not altogether devoid of 
 either entertainment or instruction. The author openly avows himself a 
 Chartist ; but, whatever his chartism may be as a political panacea, here, 
 as a prevailing purpose in his ' Instances,' it has a merit that must 
 recommend it to both the philanthropist and the patriot. There is 
 nothing of the dogmatist in their author, whatever there may be of the 
 democrat, as he here presents himself; but he is as diffident of his powers 
 as he is devoted in his principles 
 
 " They were written, we further learn, with one or two exceptions, 
 during the author's confinement for 'conspiracy' in Stafford gaol, 
 merely as a relief from the intense thought exercised in the composition 
 of his 'Prison Rhyme.' But, notwithstanding their origin, they have 
 no taint of the atmosphere of a gaol about them, but rather savour of 
 sentiment and feeling, which we certainly should look for anywhere but 
 within the walls of a prison. 
 
 " We have read some of these stories with deep interest, and few, we are 
 persuaded, will rise from their perusal but with feelings all the warmer 
 for what they have read ; for, certainly, many of their details are emi- 
 nently calculated 
 
 ' The conscious heart of charity to warm. 
 And its wide wish, benevolence, dilate.' 
 
 " They can scarcely fail to be popular with ' the masses ; ' and, upon the 
 whole, we think they deserve to be so." — Atlas, Nov. 22, 1845. 
 
 " We are glad to meet with this writer again so soon. He is one of 
 those men of strong mind and earnest heart, who are always worth 
 listening to. It is easy to see that he is always sincere — that he belongs, 
 body and soul, to the horn-handed sons of labour — that he despises 
 theories which bear no practical fruit — and that (it is this which makes 
 
us think so well of him; he is ardently desirous of softening and amelio- 
 rating the condition of the hard-working operatives of England. Right 
 or wrong, this man has the quick feelings and sympathies of that sus- 
 ceptible and generous temperament which belongs alone to the higher order 
 of natures. His warmth sometimes hurries him into passion, and makes 
 him connect oppression with every case of suffering. But his errors are 
 those of an enthusiast, the result of mistaken zeal, not of vicious disposition. 
 He has nothing of the cold and sneering mood of the sceptic. On the 
 contrary, he is a believer in whatever is most pure, disinterested, and vir- 
 tuous in humanity. 
 
 " Some surprise has been expressed that we should have given such pro- 
 minent notice of his poem, the ' Purgatory of Suicides.' It is a mistake 
 to suppose that we spoke of it in terms of unreserved commendation, 
 either as regarded its moral sentiment or poetic ability. We regarded it 
 as a great, but imperfect and unequal work, — as a mighty fragment, 
 roughly hewn from the quarry, and squared and shaped by the rugged 
 hand of an energetic but unpractised master, bearing in its colossal pro- 
 portions and decided traits, unquestionable marks of power, though 
 wanting in those graceful and finished touches which throw round the 
 creations of genius a sense of beauty and delight. Our remarks did not 
 stand alone. They were accompanied by extracts to justify or refute 
 them. Surely the quotations we gave might afford a better guide to the 
 judgment of the candid reader, than the slight opinions of other journals. 
 If the reading world has, from long disuse, lost its perception of what is 
 striking and grand in composition, that is nothing to us. There are 
 people who prefer Donizetti to Handel. They have a right to indulge 
 their taste, but let them not insist on bringing all music to the Donizetti 
 standard. We never thought of recommending the work indiscriminately. 
 We were more anxious, indeed, to determine its true character, than to 
 recommend it at all. We saw much to deplore in it ; evidence of a state 
 of mind that, notwithstanding grand bursts of talent, justifies the epithet 
 of ' heathen ' when applied to the religious belief, or, rather, non-belief 
 of our manufacturing districts. But it is only weak people who close their 
 eyes to shut out darkness. The poem, both in its merits and demerits, 
 was far too remarkable a work — too significant of the times in which we 
 live — to be passed by in silence, or with a brief notice. Opinions might 
 differ as to the ability it displayed, though we cannot imagine that any 
 head, with the slightest garniture of brain, could fail to recognise its 
 splendid outbursts of poetic power, as worthy of the land that has pro- 
 duced Spenser and Milton ; but there should have been no more than one 
 opinion that the state of mind it revealed among the labouring classes of 
 the community required the earnest consideration of a Christian people. 
 The work we expressly indicated was a dangerous one, but dangerous 
 more from the temper it indicated than any result it was likely to produce. 
 Persons do not learn radicalism and infidelity from epics. They present 
 nothing attractive to an idle cr dissolute nature, and have nothing in 
 common with the brutal and scurrilous organs of sedition. It is the 
 attribute of poetry to exalt whatever it touches. We trace its heavenly 
 origin in the hues with which it brightens mortal things. The frenzy of 
 
10 
 
 a revolutionist, under its inspiration, swells into the heroic rapture of a 
 Corneille, and the doubts of a sceptic into lofty speculations on high and 
 solemn themes. 
 
 " These ' Wise Saws and Modern Instances,' though clever, are not 
 exactly the kind of papers we should have looked for from the author. 
 They are remarkable chiefly for the plain sense of their matter and the 
 homeliness of their style. They resemble, in these respects, the tracts of 
 Cobbett or the ' Village Dialogues ' of Rowland Hill. They are mostly 
 illustrations of humble life, intended to convey a useful moral, or correct 
 a dangerous error, or exhibit an amusing peculiarity of character or 
 manners. They evince a great deal of shrewd observation, and are 
 touched with that broad humour which we seldom find apart from 
 original talent in England, in whatever department of literature it is 
 exercised. In these sketches there is the freedom and vigour, and some- 
 thing too of the coarseness, of one of the people thinking and speaking 
 boldly. They are destitute of all the common ornaments of composition. 
 But occasionally the feeling of the writer, working its way into his 
 narrative, gives it life and animation, and, in spite of its extreme 
 plainness of style, raises it almost into poetry, such poetry as we find in 
 those tales of Crabbe that illustrate 
 
 ' The short and simple annals of the poor.' 
 
 " It will readily be gathered, that, whatever may be the author's Chartist 
 opinions, there is nothing in the slightest degree objectionable in the 
 papers we have named. But there are others of another class, in which 
 are exhibited to us literal transcripts of the mind of the operative popu- 
 lation in the manufacturing districts. Of this kind is the paper of ' Merrie 
 England,' where a recruiting serjeant walks through the streets of a 
 starving town, and a lad is rescued from him by the wretched population, 
 who, reduced as they are, view his service with detestation, and are re- 
 strained from insurrection only by the consciousness of their weakness. 
 ****** 
 
 " The author excuses the sternness of his pictures by alleging their 
 truth. The justification is all-sufficient. Chartist as these sketches are, 
 .they are healthier, in tone and sentiment, than the tawdry fictions 
 vamped up for the reading public by some popular writers that profess to 
 exhibit the life of the labouring classes. Here, at all events, we have 
 reality. If the scenes are distressing, they are instructive ; it cannot be 
 alleged against them that they are tricked out with all the embellishments 
 of fancy for the gratification of pharisaical pride in the writer, for the 
 sake of raising hatred between rich and poor, or for the purpose, by 
 being more highly spiced, of obtaining greater favour with those readers 
 who relish literature as a gourmand does game, in proportion as it is 
 strongly flavoured." — Britannia, Nov. 8, 1845. 
 
 " But a few weeks have elapsed since we had to speak of Thomas Cooper, 
 as a poet of a very high order, in fact one of those to whom the term poet 
 in its deepest and fullest significance is rightly applied: we have now to 
 
11 
 
 view him, and to exhibit him to our readers in a very different light. If 
 his former work was characterised by profundity of thought, richness of 
 imagination, and a power and majesty of rhythmical expression rarely 
 equalled — the one before us is no less so for homeliness of language and 
 simplicity of style, and the plain common-sense matters which form the 
 subjects of the several tales comprising these ' Wise Saws and Modern 
 Instances.' The versatility of true genius is happily illustrated in the 
 contrast between these two works, and we think that no unprejudiced 
 reader can deny that they exhibit different phases of a mind and intellect 
 of extraordinary energy and power. There is a freedom and vigour in all 
 the utterances of Thomas Cooper, which is quite refreshing to one wearied 
 of the trivialities of artificial life ; even his humour has a breadth which 
 sometimes borders on coarseness ; but we can forgive this for the sake of 
 truth and honesty, and would have our readers do the like, remembering 
 that Shakespeare and Burns were both open to this reproach, if reproach 
 it may be called, and that no man can exhibit faithful pictures of life, and 
 enter truly into the spirit of what is daily passing in this work-day world 
 without coming in contact with, and rudely offending, some of those false 
 notions of delicacy and refinement, which, if they give a certain polish to 
 the manners of modern society, do not certainly tend to improve its morals. 
 Our readers are not to imagine by this that there is anything disgustingly 
 coarse or offensive to real delicacy in the tales before us ; it is true they 
 are most of them scenes in humble life, they are in truth ' the short and 
 simple annals of the poor, ' written with that simplicity and fidelity 
 which can alone render them valuable to him who thinks with Pope 
 that 
 
 ' The proper study of mankind is man.' 
 
 " The portraits here given are real portraits, sketched by a close and 
 shrewd observer, and the incidents related are such as might, and no doubt 
 have, occurred within the sphere of the writer's observation and experi- 
 ence. They are no pictures for a lady's album — no tales for a book of 
 the boudoir ; but bold and free sketches, some of them rude and unlovely, 
 but for that very reason the truer to nature, of toiling, struggling, suffer- 
 ing humanity. Of a truth, this Chartist agitation has thrown to the surface 
 no more remarkable man than Thomas Cooper, and we much question if 
 there be any one so fitted to represent the manufacturing masses, to 
 describe their wants, and expound their wishes as he ; gifted with great 
 natural talent ; possessing great acquirements, obtained by much bodily 
 labour and mental discipline ; ardent, energetic, and, we believe, incor- 
 ruptible ; with a feeling heart, and a will to do and a spirit to suffer 
 whatsoever may seem best or necessary for the well-being of his brother 
 men, he appears to us the very beau ideal of a people's champion." — 
 Kentish Independent, Dec. 13. 1845. 
 
 " These volumes contain a number of sketches of character, and de- 
 lineations of scene, drawn chiefly from humble life. They are well 
 written and interesting. The extreme notions and some of the unsound 
 views of the writer are occasionally introduced into them, but seldom, i f 
 ever, in an offensive manner. The stories contain some true and painful 
 
12 
 
 pictures of the miserable condition of many of the poorest operatives ; 
 while others of them are of a humorous description. They cannot fail to 
 be popular with the thinking and reading portion of the working-classes." 
 — Leicester Chronicle, Dec. 6, 1845. 
 
 " These light and pleasing sketches of English provincial life and 
 manners were composed by Mr. Cooper, as he informs us in the preface, 
 whilst under confinement in Stafford jail, for political offences. We cannot 
 but wonder that a person, obviously possessed of considerable powers, 
 strong common sense, and knowledge of the world, should have com- 
 mitted himself to the miserable and injurious follies of physical-force 
 Chartism ; but that he is now a wiser, if a sadder man, we would venture 
 to assert, from a perusal of these volumes. They are by no means 
 imbued with political asperity, or seasoned with ultra-political doctrines, 
 but exhibit on the contrary, a robust and manly, if not a very refined or 
 cultivated mind, whilst the peculiar principles and opinions of the writer 
 peep out occasionally, but subdued into a sound common-sense observation, 
 and at times a laughing sneer at all political excess of opinion. The 
 object of the writer is to give to some ' wise saw,' or ' modern instance,' 
 a sort of visible embodiment and lively illustration in the action of a 
 sketchy and truth-like story of real life. These are mostly drawn from 
 humble life in the country towns and villages of England, and apparently 
 not a few of them relate to ' Old Lincolnshire,' as the author fondly 
 terms it, and which he seems to regret will soon disappear before ' New 
 Lincolnshire,' with its ' railway civilization,' and modern aspects and 
 ways. The stories are, as might be expected, of unequal merit, but many 
 of them exhibit considerable vigour of pencil, shrewd sense, and clear- 
 sighted observation, accompanied with a kindly, genial feeling and 
 toleration, we were not prepared for from so determined a politician. 
 There is also a strong dash of the vulgar in them, accompanied with a 
 living truth of character, and strong dramatic effect, which give to them a 
 reality and force which indicate them to be the fruits of a close ob- 
 servation and prying insight into the inward as well as the outward 
 shows of motley human life and character." — Glasgow CUizen,Nav. 15,1845. 
 
I