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THE POETS OF KEIGHLEY,
BINGLEY, HAWORTH, AND DISTRICT.
WORKS EY
CHAs. F. FORSHAW, LL.D. D.D.S.
-> ---------
Wanderings of Imagery; a Vo/izzyme of Poezrus.
Thoughts in the Gloaming ; a Vo/zzzyze of AE’oezyzs.
Yorkshire Poets, Past and Present. Aſou, Vožzzzzzes.
Original Poems, pp. 320.
The Poetical Works of the Rev. Thomas Garratt, M.A. pp. 320.
A Legend of St. Pees and other Poems, pp. 256.
The Poets of the Spen Valley.
Yorkshire Sonneteers.
The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire.
My Little Romance.
Hannah Dale.
The Teeth and How to Save Them.
How to Manage Children’s Teeth.
Tobacco and its Effect on the Teeth.
Alcohol and its Influence on the Body.
Cocaine for Tooth Extraction.
Stammhering : Its Causes aud Cure.
Special Constableship in Bradford.
Freemasonry: A Centenary Ode.
• Sonnets of Lakeland.
Seaside Sonnets.
Ten Days in Lakeland.
Memories of Manxland.
Lays of Yuletide.
second EDITIow.
THE POETS
O E
TReighley, JSingley, Tibaworth,
- AND DISTRICT.
BEING
BIOGRAPHIES AND POEMs OF VARIOUS AUTHORS
OF THE AHOVE NEIGHT3OTJ REHOOT).
EDITED BY
CHAS. F. FORSHAW,
HONORARY LI. D. TUSCUI.U.M UNIVERSITY, HONORARY D.D.S. B.A.I.TIMORE COLLEGE
OF DENTA I, SU RGERY”. .
LONDON :
w. W. MORGAN, “F.& EEMASO S 'S CHRONI CLE
7 7
OFFICE .
I 8 9 3.

BRADFORD :
PRINTED BY THORNTON AND PEARSON, 56, BARKEREND ROAD.
_G \{ I LLUSTRATIONS.
H. I. Butterfield, Esq. ...
Frederick Ross, F.R.H.S.
Rev. Patrick Bronté, B.A.
Thornton Parsonage
Haworth Vicarage
Charlotte Brontë
Councillor Craven
Cliffe Castle © tº
Rev. Lowther E. Ellis... ‘..
John Dawson Fox
Haworth Old Church
James Hird • * * e - - " ...
Abraham Holroyd
Harmony Cottage, Eldwick
Abraham Holroyd’s Tombstone
Thomas Ince
John Nicholson
Ben Preston
Joseph Robertshaw
J. A. Whitaker
Keighley Old Church ...
William Wright
Beckfoot Bridge, Bingley
page 6

TO
Benrº, #. Batterfield, &sq.
C L I F FE CAST LE
} accents low I heard a poet sing,
Scorn not, oh man the bard of humble worth ;
His is the task to dignify the earth,
And with sweet song soothe sorrow’s sordid sting
With many a lay of wild imagining.
º The land that gave to Saxon Kihel birth, .
Whate’er its faults and flaws, has had no dearth
Of those whose songs have made its valleys ring.
From many pens these gems of verse are brought,
Some rich in language where the glowing mind.
Speaks out in eloquence; some unrefined—
But all at Poesy's blest shrine have wrought.
As tribute to thy native town—and thee—
I tend these children of Mnemosyne.
EDITOR.
THE following have CDIliributed the
Biagraphical Eketches ºf the AuthIII's
IIIlde'ſ Ildiid B —
GEORGE ACKROYD, J.P.
WILLIAM ANDREWS, F.R.H.S.
JULIA BACKHOUSE.
AETHELBERT BINNS.
JAMES BURNLEY.
ROBERT CLARK, L.R.C.P. L.R.C.S.
Councillor CRAVEN.
A. E. ELLISON, M.D.S.
C. A. FEDERER, L.C.P.
CHAS. F. FORSHAW, LL.D.
CLARENCE FOSTER, M.R.C.S.
REv. JAMES GABB, B.A.
JOSEPH GAUNT, B.A.
REv. J. W. KAYE, LL.D.
WALTER J. KAYE, M.A.
SAMUEL JACOB, LL.D.
REV. M. KNOWLSON.
PERCY MILLIGAN, M.R.C.S.
JAMES MUNDY.
WILLIAM NAYLOR, C.C.
JAMES RULE PEAT.
REv. A. H. RIX, LL.D.
FREDERICK ROSS, F.R.H.S.
WILLIAM SCRUTON.
PHILIP SNOW DEN.
R.E.V. ROBERT STANSFIELD.
REv. R. V. TAYLOR, B.A.
J. HORSFALL TURNER.
THOS. WILMOT, IL.R.C.P. LoND. M.R.C.S. ENG.
BTUTLER WOOD.
PREFACE TO THE SEGOND EDITION,
OETIC minds, like all other minds, are of three distinct kinds
—positively good, bad and middling. Of the first, there are
so few examples, either in the past or present, that the task of
admiring them or praising them seldom falls to the lot of the critic.
Of the second, it may be said that they are hardly worth the trouble
of criticising; but the third, which are open to both praise and blame,
are by far the most numerous class, and very often their works impose
a somewhat difficult task upon the reviewer. They are mostly, we
Suppose, the productions of young men (or women) who publish Once
the glowing and youthful fancies of youth, and then, as their thoughts
with their years grow riper, attach themselves to some one or other of
the more prosaic pursuits of common life.
Like most first efforts they are, as a rule, immature. Unmixed
praise might determine, or, at least, it might influence, the writers to
pursue a course of life in which they can never excel. Unqualified
censure may wound young and ardent spirits; and it is not easy to
mete out the proportions of each, which shall be both just and useful.
The poems which are of this mixed character come from persons
of all degrees of life and all grades of education—from promising
scholars of the Universities, from the rough-handed labourers at the
bench, and from pale clerks in the counting house. There is a great
difference perceptible, of course, between the works of the cultivated
and the untaught, but it is not in the essentials of true poetry that the
distinction is perceptible. The lines of the scholar are more polished,
and his classic recollections give a grace to his page, but the creative
genius which makes the true poet seems as likely to come from the
field or factory as from the abodes of learning.
That power which belongs to true poetry—the power of evoking
sympathies, calling up passions and emotions, and with a few bright
glowing words making the heart throb and the brain teem with the
creations of thought and the phantoms of memory—mere cultivation
and learning does not seem able to confer. In respect to that, the
taught and the untaught are about equal. It is an individual power.
In short, “Poets are born, and not made.”
PR.EFACE.
It is, however, very little use their being born, for as blunt, out-
spoken Ben Preston sings in one of his poems (see page 167) “The
Age of Poesy is Gone,” and many a bright, sparkling gem, that would
adorn and beautify the literary annals of our county, is allowed to droop
and die for want of nourishment and support. We can well say with
an esteemed relative,” who half a century ago joined the majority:--
‘‘ Oh I would the world to 77tsfice but incline,
The present age would former ones outshine ;
And many an unborn man, well pleased would know it,
That one of his relations was a poet.”
The aim of the editor of this work has been to bring together
the best poems, with original biographies of poets, who by birth or
residence are connected with the district of Keighley, Bingley, Haworth
and adjacent townships. That there was at least a fair demand for
such a volume as the one now before its readers was amply evidenced
by the large number of subscribers to the first edition, many of whom,
incidentally hearing that the work was in progress, sent in their names,
promiscuously, for copies.
The Editor acknowledges, with a profusion of thanks, the deep
indebtedness he is under to the gentlemen who have so generously
contributed the Biographical Sketches of the different Bards, and he
feels no small degree of pride that he is able to offer to his readers
through the medium of this volume such an array of talent; and he
would here point out that on no previous occasion has any work been
issued to the public that contains such a thorough list of representative
Yorkshire litterateurs as the present volume.
Many of the illustrations have been specially obtained; others
have been lent by different gentlemen. For loans of books and engra-
vings the Editor desires to acknowledge his obligations to—George
Ackroyd, Esq. J.P.; Councillor Craven; Mr. C. A. Federer, L.C.P.;
Dr. Milligan; Mr. Wm. Scruton; Mr. T. C. Sumner, of the “York-
shire Weekly Post; ” and Mr. J. R. Peat.
To that noble patron of the literature of his native town,
H. I. Butterfield, Esq., of Cliffe Castle, Keighley, the Editor tends
his sincere thanks, not only for his kindly reception of him when
approached on the subject of the Dedication, but for subsequent
courtesies during the progress of the first edition. He would also
* The Rev. Thos. Garratt, M.A., Vicar of Audley, Author of “Original
Poems,” 1818.
PREFACE.
emphasise, in conclusion, the fact that the inhabitants of the districts
in which this volume alludes, will ever owe Mr. Butterfield a deep
debt of gratitude, for with princely munificence he has defrayed the
entire cost of this second edition.
Our valued friend, the late Mr. Frederick Ross, F.R.H.S. of
London, was called to the better land on January 14th, 1893. As one
of the most distinguished of our Yorkshire literati we offer no apology
for reproducing his portrait although he had no direct connection with
the locality. -
WINDER HOUSE, BRADFORD,
IITH NOVEMBER, I893.

CONTENTS.
BEATSON, Rev. JoHN
Divine Philanthropy
BINNS, AETHELBERT ... . . .
What was it he loved when he Wed P
Song ... • * - - - -
What a Smile can do
|Home ... • e -
I’ve Loved her all my Life
BINNs, J. ARTHUR
Sic Transit • * *
Conquest through Labour
March ... e - -
Christmas, I888 ..
A Moan in Church
BRONTiš FAMILY, The
On Halley's Comet, in 1835
Remembrance e
Song
Hope ...
The Bluebell • ‘e
The Night Wind ...
Immortality
Domestic Peace
Despondency
Resignation
BRONTiš PATRICK BRANWELL
Caroline’s Prayer ...
On Caroline
JAMES BURNLEY
At my Mother's Grave
The River - - -
The Minstrel e - ºr
Where P & 4 tº
Page
CONTENTS.
BUTTERFIELD, F. W. L., LL.B.
The Loss of the Victoria
Greuze’s “Milkmaid '’
Reighley
CoLLYER, Rev. ROBERT, D.D.
Under the Snow
Saxon Grit
COLLINSON, EDWARD
Bingley Tide e e &
Lines to the River Aire
CONSTANTINE, Rev. ISAAC, M.A.
The Village Lane
To Spring *
CRAVEN, CAREY WILLIAMS
A Christmas Wish
The Brontés
Cliffe Castle tº º ºs
Jubilee Ode * g ºt
On a Gift of Roses
CRYER, SILAS
To a Skylark * * * tº e G
A Voice from the Streamlet
l)1XON, WILLIAM * * * e
Tread not where Kings and Heroes Lie ...
The Banks of Aire e & ºr
In Days when we were Young
ELLIS, Rev. LOWTHER E.
Brown’s Wood
An Invocation
Reminiscences of an Old Man’s Story ...
Tic
EVANs, JoHN
Intemperance
EVANS, WILLIAM
The Airedale Poet
FORSHAW, Dr. © tº $
Dedicatory Sonnet
The River Aire
Haworth Moors *
In Bingley Woods
Haworth—August
Beckfoot Bridge
i
I
;:
:
CONTENTs.
Fox, Jo HN DAwSON ...
Someday
GALLOWAY, L. * * *
In Clayton Churchyard
HARDACRE, JOSEPH
My Native Home ...
|Be Still tº is & © tº
|HILLES, MALCOLM. W., L.R.C.S.I.
A Scene
JAMES HIRD *
Birthday and Autumn
Dejection
Lines on “Chance tº e de
Lord Byron and his Detractors
g is º
5 3
HOLROYD, ABRAHAM...
Flow on, Gentle Aire
The Lord of Saltaire * * *
“Now I see the last O. Earth ''
ILLINGWORTH, JOHN ...
The Lass of Eldwick Hall
June ... * * *
INCE, THOMAS * * *
Poesy and Art
A Kiss
At Last
LISTER, THOMAS
The Poet tº tº º
Hymn e is ſº * * *
MILLIGAN, JOHN, M.R.C.S., L.S.A.
To the Sun
Death
NICHOLSON, JOHN
On Bingley & e &
Lines written on Goit-stock
The Wakening of the Poet's Harp
The Muse * * * * * *
NORMINGTON, THOMAS
A Song in the Night
The Voice of the Flowers
AN OPERATIVE OF KEIGHLEY
PRESTON, BEN
Night Visions
The Poet e e &
The Age of Poesy is Gone
iş3
& I56
Page .
99
& IOO
. 205
. I O2
, IO3
IO5
IO6
IO6
IO8
I IO
... I I I
. I I 2
II 3
I I4
I 23
I 24
I 26
. I 27
I 2 3
I 2 )
I 30
I 32
I 33
33
I 35
I 3
I 36
I37
138
I39
I4 I
I49
I5 I
I 52
I55
I 57
I59
... 160
I64
I65
I67
CONTENTS.
RHYMES FOR THE TIMES
Reform
ROBERTSHAW, JOSEPH
My Native Glens ...
My Native Hills
To my Native Vale
ROOM, Rev. JoHN, M.A.
In Memoriann tº e e
RUSHTON, WILLIAMI CHARLES
To a Poet
Song ... * † e
Married not Mated
Sonnet
SHACKLETON, JANE
Little Annie
SUTHERLAND, JANE GORDON
Watch and Pray
Charity
May
WADDINGTON, JAMES tº g tº
Muse of my Native Land e & e
The Soul of Poesy Lives in all that be
An Invitation to Shipley Glen
Haworth Moor
The Power of Poesy
WHITAKER, JOHN APPLEYARD ...
To our Bards
The Preacher
WILDMAN, ABRAHAM e g tº
The Factory Child's Complain e &
Lines composed on the Banks of the Aire
WILDON, ROBERT CARRICK
To Poesy
A Poet’s Joys
WOOD, JOSEPH
Omnipotence
Water
W RIGHT, WILLIAM * * *
To Isaac Holden, Esq., M.P. ...

Rev. JOHN BEATSON.
By FREDERICK ROSS, F.R.H.S.
AUTHOR OF “ CELEBRITIES OF THE YORKSHIRE WOLDS,” “THE
MINOR POETS OF YORKSHIRE,” HISTORIC YORKSHIRE
FAMILIES,” “YORKSHIRE FAMILY ROMANCE,”
“YORKSHIRE EPITC MISED,” ETC.
ETC. ETC. ETC.
The REv. John BEATSON was a Baptist Minister in Hull, of con-
siderable reputation as a preacher and great usefulness as a pastor, as
well as author of some theological, poetical, and other works which
enjoyed a high measure of popularity in the latter half of last century.
He was born at Cottingley Hall, Bingley, in March 1743, and died
at Hull, on April 24th, 1798. His father was a respectable farmer,
who gave him a good education at the Grammar School, Leeds, and
brought him up strictly in the principles of the Church of England, but
chancing to hear a sermon from the Rev. Mr. Edwards, of the White
Chapel Independent Church, Leeds, he received religious impressions
which induced him to join that body of Dissenters, and was pronounced
by his friends to have brought everlasting disgrace on the family.
At the instance of his Pastor, he preached occasionally in White
Chapel, but with much diffidence; displaying, however, a gift of
speaking, he was invited to take the pastorate of Cleckheaton Congre-
gational Church, which he accepted, and preached there twelve months,
when his views on Baptismal immersion undergoing a change, he re-
signed the office and joined the Baptists, and was baptised in 1767.
The following year he became the pastor of a small church at Sutton-
in-Craven, and was ordained in 1769.
In 1771 he accepted a call from the congregation of Salthouse
Lane Baptist Church, Hull, and laboured there until 1794, when he
was compelled by ill health to relinquish his pulpit duties. Immediately
prior to his arrival in Hull, there had been some dissension in the
church, and a considerable number seceded and built for themselves
a new chapel, so that Salthouse Lane was not half filled, but Mr.
Beatson soon became popular and not only filled up the vacancies, but
necessitated an enlargement of the chapel. -
He was a zealous advocate of civil and religious liberty; of the spread
of Secular and religious education; and of the dissemination of know-
18 REV. JOHN BEATSON.
*–
ledge. He was one of the founders of the Hull Subscription Library
in 1775, and served the office of President 1788-91.
He was twice married, leaving a daughter by his first wife; and
by his second a son, who died at the age of fifteen; and two daughters.
The following is a list of his works:—
“The Dzzine Character of Christ considered and vindicated, in a series of
dza Zogues, on that 272.Éeres????g azad 2772.Éo??azz? Sztóject. Zeeds, 1773.
“ 7%e Ozzyżate Saázsfacázon of Chris? /Jezzotzsázafed, 272 a series of dºza Zogates.
Aleeds, 1774.
“ Dzzyżzze PA 2/azz?/270/3, ... or Zhe Zoze of God. A £oefaca Z essay. Deed's, I777.
£. I O2.
“A Sermoza,” (%r. a-a-zar, 7) on the dzºy and interest of men as members of
Czzyz Z Soczeży. A/zz/Z, 1788. -
- “ 7%e Dzzyzzze Righ # of a Chriszzazz ſo freedom of engzt ºry, and freedome of
Azacázze 272 ze/zgzozºs Zzzaffez’s. A zz ZZ, 1779.
272d edzłżozz, zwith a 67-zef Żzzemzoºr of #/.e. Zife, characáez’, aſzół z07?????gs of Żhe
aztáho?", Öy SA. Z. yozz. Hu/Z, 1799.
‘‘ Cozzeżasszozz, že aſzzá,' &zza: degrzzzy of 772&zz ; azza! cz-zze/Zv, Z/ºe d'Esgrace of /, z's
zzazzzze : a Sezzzzozz ozz Zzz/&e az. 29, occaszozzecz ày #/.az 67azzch of Az-zzz's/.
cozzzzzzerce z0/ºzc/z etáezza's fo áže Azzzzzazz speczes. Aſ zeż2, 1789.
Bioine Philanthropy.
*-
And now with shouts and brutal ſury see
They seize their prey; loud peals of horrid noise,
Like foaming waves deep roaring in a streight,
Astound the ear, re-echoing wide around.
His sacred hands they bind with cruel spite
And bitter insults; madden’d with fell rage
They drag Him as a thief, deride His pain,
And loud exulting triumph in His woe.
WHOM yonder do I see, with pallid looks
Precipitant in flight P Sure not his friends !
His chosen followers l—Ah most sure 'tis they !
In dangers mouth their Master they desert
O Cowardice I thou bane of friendship's bliss
Thou breach of plighted faith ! 'tis thine to' unman
The manly heart, subdue the firm resolve,
And from the warrior's brow the laurel pluck!
Detested be thy name ! At thy approach
May every Christian soldier point his sword
Right at thy heart and lay thee low in dust
REv. JoHN BEATSON. I 9
BEFORE the high priest see he stands arraign'd ;
(The criminals’ lot) but nothing to His charge
Just can be laid: His doctrine's peaceful end
Bold He maintains and to His foes appeals;
Ah yon inhuman wretch by hate impell’d
Th’ Illustrious Sufferer smites ; his callous heart,
Of sympathy devoid, no sufferings can dissolve.
But self-collected see the Saviour stands
Calm as the sea when not a single breeze
Furrows its beauteous face, unaw’d, unmov’d,
His confidence in Heaven through misery smiles.
O Innocence thou balm of woes deep wound !
Thou great Inspirer of heroic deeds !
Majestic even in rags Thee may I clasp
Close to my heart, indissolubly firm,
The sweet Companion of my bitterest hours
To witness to the truth Messiah came,
And now that truth announces: Urg’d to tell
Whether He be the CHRIST P bold He declares
I am ; and tho’ submissive now I stand
Despis'd in lowly form, soon will approach
The awful day, when My tribunal rais'd
High in the air, Myself the Judge confest,
Deep-wailing ye shall see. Tumultuous now
The crowd appears, loud clamours hark they raise,
“Death is His due !” The Hall re-echoes death !
SEE with what brutal fury yonder mob
Like dogs beset Him round : His sacred face
They foul with spitting, strike with cruel hate,
Till all appears one undistinguished wound.
THE horrid night now past, the morn appears
Portentious, big with scenes of high import
To rebel men : And see with savage shouts
Clamorous they drag Him to the Roman bar;
Accuse him falsely, charge Him with foul crimes
Abhorrent to His nature : Lust of blood,
Their passions fires, that they still louder urge
His instant death. Their urgent cries prevail.
Their furious rage to sate, Pilate complies,
His prisoner strait delivers, though convinc'd
No criminal charge was fixt.—Thou servile wretch
2 O.
REV. JOHN BEATSON.
To purchase favour at so dear a rate
As guiltless blood l Be sure so base a crime
Vengeance will soon o’ertake and full repay !
AH ! turn my eyes from yonder ghastly sight
Shocking to nature blood adown his back
Runs to the ground ; His temples pierc’d with thorns,
His features quite deform'd with cruel blows.
INHUMAN wretches | tyger-hearted sure,
Thus to insult the sacred Prince of Peace |
Say, ye bloodthirsty race, What cause for this P
Did He a faction raise, your country waste,
J’oment rebellion, or your ruin seek P
Ah no ; not to Condemn the world He came
Though just its condemnation : His design
From sin, and death, and hell, His foes to save,
Why then abuse Him thus P Why the keen shafts
Of fell reproach, deep in His heart infix P
Why tear His sacred temples, and His face
Foul with envenom'd spitting P Why His back
Rend with in glorious stripes, as though a slave P
THE lust of cruelty, lo, still prevails:
Th’ Illustrious Sufferer now they clamorous drag
To Calvary’s ghastly mount, and proud Contempt
His rude appearance makes in every face.
No pity’s shown : His mangled body see
Sore prest: A massy beam of ponderous weight,
Part of the tree accurst on which He hung,
His shoulder bears—but can no longer bear.
His strength exhausted through the loss of blood,
Down on the ground He falls beneath the load,
While brutal shouts of triumph stun His ears.
AETHELBERT BINNS.
By CHAS. F. FORSHAW, LL.D.
MR. BINNs was born at Wilsden on the 5th of May, 1865. His early
education was obtained at the Wesleyan Schools there. He was after-
wards placed as a pupil-teacher with the Wilsden School Board. A
few years ago, however, he relinquished this occupation, and went into
partnership with his father in the Printing and Stationery business. In
1888, he commenced publishing a local almanack, which met with con-
siderable success. To its pages he contributed many articles, both in
prose and verse, which attracted the attention of the local literati;
some of whom encouraged him in his efforts as an author, with the
result that Mr. BINNs continued the publication yearly, which is now in
its seventh year. He is also the author of a number of tractates, to which
he gave the title of “Wilsden Originals.” These contained many
interesting stories in prose, and a number of dainty ditties in verse, and
it is to be regretted that Mr. BINNs has thought wise to cease their
publication. As a dialect exponent he has reaped a golden harvest,
and his contributions on the extremeness Of some Yorkshire dialect
words to that excellent weekly The J.eeds Mercury Supplement, stamped
him at once as a patient and careful student in historical research. He
has contributed poems to the Yorkshire Weekly Post, Yorkshireman, and
many other prominent weeklies, and his is a familiar name to thousands
of newspaper readers in the West Riding. It is to be hoped that the
time is not far distant when Mr. BINNS will deem it well to issue the
fruits of his pen in volume form, for many of them are deserving of
preservation. I give several examples of his labours in the fields of
poesy.
Úhat was it he loved when he Öed?
*-*.
“WHAT was it he loved when he wed P
“Beauty.” “Ay, and beauty had fled.
And the love that had engender'd
He has long ago Surrendered—
Died when beauty was dead.”
22
AETHELPERT BINNS.
“What was it he loved when he wed P”
“Money.” “Ay, and money has fled,
And so has love it created,
Long has that love been abated,
It went when money fled.”
“What was it he loved when he wed P”
“Rank.” “Ay, and high rank might have fled,
For it has so much disgraced
That love for it has been displaced,
And so his love has fled.”
“What was it he loved when he wed P.”
“Love.” “Ah, love and each one’s love bred
A reciprocal love that gives
Love in return, a love that lives
When one’s loved one is dead.”
§ on g :
I STOOD with many hundreds more
To watch the proud ship leave the shore;
With hundreds more I waved adieu,
Gazed on the ship till lost to view,
Sobbed with the rest, shed bitter tears,
Hoped for the best for coming years.
s3. *A* & As s
*> ** º 33.
Like hundreds more, I read the tale
Of ship that foundered in a gale;
Like hundreds more I was bereaved
Of one to whom my heart had cleaved;
Like ’twas to others, so to me—
My life on earth must single be.
Still, with those many hundreds more,
Who watched the proud ship leave the shore,
I know that I ere long shall reach
A far-off country's tranquil beach,
Whereon will be the shipwrecked crew
To whom on earth we waved adieu.
AETHELPERT BINNS. 23
Üßat a $miſe can do.
A SMILE can cheer a lonesome heart,
Can bid dull care and grief depart :
What might have been a darksome day
Its influence makes bright and gay :
The charm a smile can cast around
Its length and breadth they know no bound.
A smile which I shall ne'er forget,
When I think of it, haunts me yet,
And haunt me I am sure it will
Till beating heart and pulse are still,
By it a link was thrown between
My heart and thine—my Queen, my Queen.
É o on e. .
I LovE to live 'mongst Nature's hills;
To climb their grassy sides,
To see the sun above them rise
As heavenwards it glides.
I love the moors in summer-time
When growing flowers of heath ;
I love them in the winter-time
When snow hides them beneath.
I love the gentle running streams
That course among the vales;
I love the wide, expansive view
That human eye regales.
I love to wander 'mong field paths
When all around is green,
I love them when the hay smells sweet
And harvesters are seen.
I love the bonny, vernal woods
When 'deck'd with leaves and flow’rs,
I love them in the autumn-time
When fall the dead leaf show’rs.
iv., .
24- )
AETHELIBERT BINNS.
I love a certain shady nook
Hemmed in by a high wall
Of massive rocks, o'er which doth flow
The Goit Stock Waterfall. -
I love the song of happy birds
That sing at early day,
That warble through the hotter hours,
At eve chant forth their lay.
I love Spring's dear, if simple, flow’rs—
Daisies, and celandine,
Anemones and buttercups,
They glad these eyes of mine.
In fact I love all Nature's sights,
ILove Nature’s sounds to hear,
And if kind Nature’s sights and sounds
With me are ever near,
Who wonders that though foreign scenes
May tempt me oft to roam,
Yet I prefer to live my days
E’er in my village home.
£’ve £oved her aſſ ong £ife.
*-*
WHEN she was but a little girl,
And I a little boy,
Sweet Everelda was to me
The highest source of joy;
We hand-in-hand did wander out
Among the field highways,
And her sweet presence always made
Too fleet my childhood days.
And when we both had reached our teens,
Though bashfuller I grew,
Yet if her gaze I one day missed
My eyes would cheeks bedev ;
So ever, that I suffered not,
I fondly lingered near
The house where Everelda dwelt,
The spot to me so dear;
AETHELBERT BINNs.
25
So time flew on, and we two grew
To man’s and woman's years,
And time but made love stronger grow,
And that which love endears.
Ere long became my very own,
My better half of life—
Sweet Everelda cheers my home,
For she is now my wife.
We two are old, we’ve long been gray,
Our lives are feeble now,
We both have reached old tottering age,
Have wrinkles on our brow ;
But still my Everelda's dear
As when she first was wife,
And thus from childhood up to now
I’ve loved her all my life.
Öhe River Cire.
(EDITOR.)
*Mid greenest banks in queenly May
With many a splash of fairy spray,
Aire’s river gently flows along
The pebbled, mossy stones among,
Its ripples chant a gladsome lay.
On, on it speeds, careless and gay,
Through time-worn arches old and grey,
Whilst happy joy-birds trill a song
'Mid greenest banks.
Oh! what so fair as early day
When waters sweet catch Sol’s glad ray,
To leave the City’s Surging throng,
To quit the haunts of vice and wrong,
And watch the river wend its way
'Mid greenest banks.
J. ARTHUR BINNS.
By BUTLER WOOD,
CHIEF LIBRARIAN, BRADFORD PUBLIC LIBRARIES.
MR. J. ARTHUR BINNs, the Official Receiver in Bankruptcy for
Bradford, was born at Bingley on the 20th of July, 1826. In this
delightful village, one of the loveliest in the West Riding of Yorkshire,
the period of his childhood and youth was spent, and when we con-
sider the magnificent environment of natural scenery which surrounded
him during this period of susceptibility to impressions of the beautiful
in nature, we can hardly wonder that under such favourable conditions
the divine spark of poetry born in him should be subsequently fanned
into a full poetic fire. He was educated at Mr. Richardson’s well-
known establishment there, and after leaving school sojourned a year
in Manchester during 1844-5. Returning from thence he afterwards
entered the office of the late Mr. J. A. Busſeild, who acted in the
capacity of Treasurer of County Courts, and with whom he was
associated until the death of Mr. Busfeild in 1882. Mr. Binns con-
tinued after this to hold the appointment of Examiner of County
Court Accounts till June, 1883. In the year 1854 he and others
associated with him founded the Third Equitable Permanent Building
Society, an institution which is doing an incalculable amount of good
among the working-classes of the town and neighbourhood, enabling
them, as it does, to become possessors of their own houses by means
of the facilities which this admirable society affords them. So
thoroughly is Mr. Binns versed in matters relating to organisations of
this character that he has been called upon repeatedly, both on the
platform and in the press, to place before the public his views upon the
subject. Five years after the founding of the Third Equitable, the
Counsel of the Social Science Congress invited him to deliver an
address on the subject of Building Societies during the Bradford
Meetings, and a paper on the same subject was also given by him
before the British Association in 1873. From the commencement of
the society Mr. Binns occupied the onerous position of President for
sixteen years, but he relinquished that post when he was appointed
joint secretary along with Mr. Charles Lund and Mr. Wm. Mitchell, in
1871. Under this able triumvirate the society flourished apace, and
spread like a green bay tree. It is now one of the largest, if not the
largest, in the world. In December, 1883, he resigned the secretaryship
of the society in order to undertake the duties of that important post,
J. ARTHUR BINNS. 27
the Official Receivership in Bankruptcy for the Bradford District, offered
to him by the Board of Trade. On his resignation, Mr. Binns was
elected a director of the Society, a position which he still continues to
Occupy.
The period of 1853-4 was a busy one for him in many ways.
Besides establishing the Society above referred to he found time to edit
the “Bradford Examiner,” a monthly periodical to which we shall
allude later on, and to compile a Hymn Book for the use of the Long-
Pledged Teetotal Association—a hymn book which, notwithstanding
its purpose, is based on the broadest lines in religion, and is absolutely
free from sectarianism.
At the time of which we are now writing, much distress existed
among the Bradford woolcombers, who were brought to the verge of
starvation by reason of the great depression in trade which existed in
the country. Mr. Binns warmly espoused their cause and rendered
them considerable help by bringing their unfortunate condition
before the public in his monthly periodical. The distress
evoked a noble poem from his pen, entitled “Conquest through
Labour,” which is inspired throughout with true, generous senti-
ment, and a genuine sympathy with the sufferings of the workers.
Sir Arthur Helps once wrote a book which he entitled “Essays
written during intervals of Business,” but one cannot avoid thinking
that in his case the intervals took up a deal more time than the business.
This has not been so with Mr. Binns. Notwithstanding the incessant
calls upon his time by business engagements, he contrived to get through
an amount of literary work which would do credit to many a proſes-
sional writer. For twelve years he wrote a weekly leader in the
“Huddersfield Examiner” and the “Dewsbury Reporter,” and
frequently contributed political and literary articles to the “Bradford
Observer,” and other newspapers. Nor was he content to confine
himself merely to work with the pen, for he often delivered lectures on
literary subjects before large and appreciative audiences.
It will not be difficult to imagine that a man of wide sympathies
like Mr. Binns should be an ardent politician. Indeed he has been, and
still is a prominent member of the Liberal party in Bradford. Hitherto
his political career has been a most active one, both on the platform as
a speaker and as a Sagacious organiser in the Liberal Camp. So much
confidence has been placed in his abilities in this direction that he has
had entire charge of several elections for the West-riding of Yorkshire
from the year 1873 to the present time. In 1884 he was elected
a member of the Town Council, representing the Manningham Ward,
and he retained his seat until the year 1888, when he was reluctantly
compelled to resign owing to pressure of official business. While in
the council he held the position of Vice-chairman of the Free Libraries
28 J. ARTHUR BINNS.
and Art Museum Committee, one of greatinportance and responsibility
and one in which his wide knowledge of literature was of great service
to the committee and the staff. During this period he gave a large
amount of time and labour to the preparation of the Reference Library
Catalogue, which was eighteen months in going through the press.
The writer was greatly indebted to Mr. Binns, for his labours in this
direction, and he felt grateful for the help thus cheerfully rendered.
Besides being connected with the Free Public Library Mr. Binns took
a lively interest in the Mechanics’ Institute, as indeed he did in all
institutions for bettering the condition of the workers of our town. He
was chairman of the Library Committee for seven years, during which
time he ably guided this important department of the Institute's
operations. The Bradford Library and Literary Society now claims his
services as a member of the Council.
Mr. Binns seems born to be the originator of large and far-reaching
schemes. Not content with ſounding the “Third Equitable,” we find
him amongst those taking the initiative in a concern which bids ſair to
rival, at some time, the first-named Society in the extent of its opera-
tions. The Yorkshire Investment and American Mortgage Company,
Limited, was founded in 1886, and from that time till now he
has been president of the Company. He made a journey to America
in the spring of 1889, along with Mr. Charles Lund, to inspect and
report upon the company’s securities there, and besides the business
information gleaned in the United States, he brought back many
pleasant memories of men and things from our kin across the sea.
Considering the busy life he has led, we cannot help won-
dering how it has been possible for him to cultivate so largely as he has
done that literary faculty which he possesses in such an eminent degree.
We purpose to sketch out somewhat roughly the character and extent
of Mr. Binns's writings, although we feel a difficulty at the outset by
reason of their distribution over so many magazines and newspapers.
The task has again been rendered no easier on account of the long
period of time which has elapsed since he first wielded the pen. To
these drawbacks we must also add Mr. Binns's habit of not preserving
copies of his literary productions. -
In 1854 was published “Hymns of Worship, Life and Nature,”
collected and edited by Joseph Arthur Binns, for the use of the Educa-
tional Institute in connection with the Bradford Long-pledged Teetotal
Association. Bradford: Nelson & Dalby, I 2 mo., 1854. The whole edition
of IOOO copies was sold within a year from date of publication. The col-
lection is made with great care and judgment, and includes many pieces
of rare merit. The volume, however, is mainly interesting because of the
inclusion of two original poems by the editor. One of these, entitled ‘Work
in hope,” is an earnest outburst of feeling for the toilers, whose lot in
those days was miserable to a degree. In lines of great beauty he gives
J. ARTHUR BINNS. 29
*—
expression to the hopes and aspirations of the class of men with which
he has always been in deep sympathy. The other poem already referred
to is called “Conquest through Labour.” We offer no apology for
quoting the whole of this composition, which will be found among the
selected samples of Mr Binns's poetic muse. As in the verses pre-
viously mentioned we find the same fervent feeling and the same “larger
hope” pervading every line of the poem.
In this year of 1854, Mr. Binns edited the “Bradford Examiner,”
a monthly political and literary journal, in which he was the principal
writer. It was successful, but its publishers got into financial difficul-
ties, and what was only intended as a temporary, turned out to be a
permanent stoppage. The first number appeared in April, 1854, and
continued up to the end of that year as a large octavo, but from the
beginning of 1855 to the end of its career in July it appeared in ordinary
octavo form. It included some novel features, among which were lists
of notices of important meetings and events about to take place during
the month, and a record of votes of the West-riding members in the
House of Commons. The most important articles, however, were from
the pen of the editor himself, who contributed the monthly summary
and review, beside short poems and prose articles. The two poems
already quoted appeared in the “Examiner,” as well as in the volume
before alluded to. We cannot take leave of the “Examiner'’ without
referring to an article on Bradford Fair which appeared therein, and
which is to our mind one of the choicest things in the book.
There is in this production a peculiar flavour, so easy to perceive,
yet so difficult to define, and a crisp, elegance of touch which is
characteristic of the writer. The description of the “Chorus Tommy,”
more especially that on the performance of the Babes in the Wood, is
full of genuine pathetic and humorous touches.
Mr. Binns has been a contributor to “Chambers’ Edinburgh
Journal,” and the great Encyclopædia published by this firm contains
many articles from his pen. Among these may be mentioned the
following:—On Chartism, Friendly Societies, Savings Banks, Trades
|Unions, Socialism, York, and Yorkshire. The important chapter on the
Worsted Trade of Bradford in Baines’s “Yorkshire, Past and Present,”
was contributed by him, and will be found in the second volume of that
work. A set of poems called “Stanzas on the Months” was privately
printed in 1862, from which we have selected the one on March as a
characteristic verse. Copies of this production are now very difficult
to obtain. At the request of the Yorkshire Geological and Polytechnic
Society he wrote in 1889 a “Memoir of Dr. Scoresby, Vicar of
Bradford, Whale Fisher, Polar Explorer, and Magnetician,” for publi-
cation in the journal of that Society. +
As previously stated, Mr. Binns's productions have been widely
scattered over a great number of publications, and it has therefore only
3O J. ARTHUR BINNS.
been possible to deal with a very small portion of them. Many of his
poems have been published in the “Spectator” and the local papers
from time to time. It is the sincere desire of his friends that
some of the poems may at no distant date be collected in book form,
and thus be rescued from their present unavailable condition. One
short but pungent piece appeared in the “Spectator” of February,
28th, 1885, called “A Moan in Church.” It attracted considerable
attention at the time, and was quickly reproduced in many of the
newspapers on account of its keen and incisive sarcasm. We
cannot resist making a selection from a set of Christmas Cards
which Mr. Binns has been in the habit of sending to his friends for
many years past. They are tastefully got up and bear upon them each
year an original poem suitable to the Occasion. They all possess the
mark of Mr. Binns's strong individuality, but the one for 1888 seems to
us to be the finest of the series thus far, and we therefore quote it on
that account. This piece displays some of the main characteristics of
his poetry, namely, genuine poetic feeling, easy and natural
flow of felicitous language, and a rare combination of melody and
vigour. There are touches here and there which remind us of
Longfellow, but the strength of the verse stands in favourable contrast
to Longfellow’s somewhat ſeminine numbers. Will Carleton, who is a
personal friend of our author, greatly admired the poem called “Sic
Transit,” which is also included in the collection. It describes, in
dramatic language, the progress of human life.
Summing up the literary qualities of the work we have been
endeavouring to deal with, it seems to us that melody and strength,
terseness and finish, and an unerring poetic instinct form the chief
merits of Mr. Binns's literary efforts. From his subject matter it is
evident that his strong sympathies are with the toiling millions, indeed
some of his finest poems have been inspired by his earnest desire for
their welfare. An intense love of freedom and justice, and an intoler-
ance of wrong in any form animate his compositions both in prose and
poetry.
It only remains to say that as a man Mr. Binns is genial and kind
in his demeanour, a firm friend, and one ever ready to do a good turn
to those around him. As a speaker he is fluent, witty, and happy in
manner, and as an after-dinner orator has few equals. His knowledge
of the literature of his country, especially poetic literature, is extremely
wide and accurate; so much is this the case that he frequently astounds
his friends by the readiness with which he will give the sources of
random quotations.
We sincerely hope that he may be long spared to pour forth among
us those delightful productions of his pen which we have so long been
accustomed to expect from him,
J. ARTHUR BINNS. 3 I
§ - vise o
$ig Gransit.
O wonDROUs life of joy and strength,
While man's young power unspent is,
Through all the ten years' joyous length,
The hot and eager twenties.
Next comes the decade sweet and strong,
Years where no harm or hurt is,
When life pours forth her fullest song,
The proud and passionate thirties.
Life’s summer glows, with flower and fruit
The long day all too short is ;
And well its glorious splendours suit
Our midday world, the forties.
Is this the first approach of Night P
Yes, downward now our drift is,
As on we fare through waning light,
Slow sinking through the fifties.
Still closer folds our narrowing range,
Our fate more sure and fixed is, -
For good or ill, small chance of change
When once we reach the sixties.
Darkens the shadow of the tomb
And either hell or heaven tis
As life, past, present, and to come
Looks on us through the seventies.
Shut out from manhood’s earlier force,
How sad the growing weight is,
We bear along the dreary course
That lingers through the eighties.
Still slowlier drags our weary oar,
But useless to repine 'tis, -
And yet we long to find a shore
Somewhere among the nineties
Come, kindly Death! unfeared, long-sought!
Spare us the torturing one dread
That Heaven has dropped us out of thought,
To leave us o'er the hundred
------. J. ARTHUR BINNS. “ -------- “
Conquest through eabour.
**
WORKERS for men, whoe'er you are,
No matter what your sphere,
Who still for human progress war,
And bow with hearts sincere
Before the heavens' high arching dome
Of Light and Truth, and God the home,
Take courage brief as is our life,
And though our task be great,
Our strength is equal to the strife,
And we shall yet defeat
The foes that stop man's upward road
To holiest freedom’s high abode.
Around us countless millions bend
O'er dull mechanic toil,
Their labour's best and highest end
Grim Poverty to foil, f
That, wolf-like, still pursues their way
With dread persistence, day by day.
Within their minds, chill, bleak and dead,
There dwells no inner sight—
No intellectual sun-rays shed
Their vivifying light;
A polar winter ever keeps
Its empire in those gloomy deeps.
From glorious Shakespere’s words there shines
No orb to light their sky, -
While Milton's brave and god-like lines
Pass unregarded by. -
They never wake to find their souls,
Yet Life to Death unceasing rolls.
What then P Although the night be dark,
And our worn courage droop,
We wait not for the morning lark,
But still, upborne by hope,
And, strong in faith that scorns delay,
We hasten on the coming day.
J. ARTHUR BINNs. 33.
Yon flower, whose sweetness lures the bees,
And sheds its perfume round,
So frail, it quivers in the breeze,
And vibrates with a sound :
Wrought through the earth its sky ward course,
By resolute and constant force.
Green vales and gentle slopes arise,
Upon old Ocean’s breast;
Like brightest stars in clearest skies
- They in their beauty rest;
And strong as beautiful, they form
A Sure protection from the storm.
Those isles beneath the restless waves,
Minutest insects reared—
Myriads of builders filled their graves
Ere the first peaks appeared—
Peaks that the sun might tip with gold,
Firm rock where shifting waters rolled.
Do not these things a lesson teach
Of patience, courage, power P
Though far from land, we're sure to reach
The distant hoped-for shore.
If to our work we prove but true,
There's nothing that we may not do.
Our earth shall yet an aspect wear
Of nobleness and truth,
When all shall human life revere,
Wise age and earnest youth :
And the old Eden less be known
Than that which shall the future crºwn.
Qarch.
AcRoss the stormy vault the wild wind sweeps
In sullen rage : the shrinking forests crash.
Roused to quick fury the enragéd deeps
On trembling coasts vindictive billows dash,
Till from its place some promontory leaps
To the rude sea, whose waves triumphant wash
Where the proud headland stood. But Spring is near;
Storms are but passing ; Heaven will yet shine clear.
34.
J. ARTHUR BINNS.
Christmas, £888.
O sweet and solemn tolls the knell
Of the departing year !
O sweet and solemn notes that swell
Its ringing far and near.
Some breathed with us the summer air
Who now have passed away,
And changed our clouds of grief and care
For heaven's eternal day.
Still shines the sun : the moon and stars
Make lovely still the night;
And we, through earth’s material bars,
See a diviner light.
Out goes my prayer for all my friends,
Not only those I know,
For wheresoe'er the wide sky bends,
To-day I have no foe.
My prayer for all in every land,
That brighter days may be,
From arctic snows to tropic sand,
From east to western sea
Alas! not yet is sheathed the sword,
Men fight as fought their sires—
But still there rings a heavenly word
Through roar of battle fires.
A word that calms the soul’s unrest,
Gives hope a happier view, *
And shows, beyond night's mountain crest,
The morning's promised blue.
J. ARTHUR BINNS. -35
CI ſºloap in GºFargº.
(written DURING SERMON.)
DULL-FEATURED, leaden-eyed, the preacher stands;
And holds the sacred volume in his hands,
No touch of genius lightens up his face;
No kindly accent speeds the word of grace.
He drawls and maunders in unending drone;
O ! for some lightning-flash, some thunder-tone,
Something to show life yet remains on earth,
Sorrow or joy, wild laughter, madness, mirth,
Something for heart and mind to feel and know,
Not these sad phrases, following row on row.
Our souls refuse the weary watch to keep,
And feel “God giveth His beloved sleep.” -
Grant, Lord, some help from heaven, some spirit-touch,
Now that we feel so little, hear so much ;
And as a set-off to our sins' amount
Put this day's suffering down to our account.
Haworth Qoors.
(EDITOR.)
HERE we inhale a breath of heaven-sent air;
Here from the maddening haunts of man we’re free
To taste the bliss of freedom’s purity;
To feel we’ve vanquished vain deceit and care.
There is such grandeur in these moors so bare
That never sense of loneliness have we,
For most can tell it is our God’s decree
That they His joyous bounteousness should share.
To me, oh moors ye're not a barren waste—
Rather I call ye “Garden of Our Lord ; ”
For ye can tune our heartstrings' tenderest chord,
And all our thoughts and in most Souls make chaste.
Ye lead our minds from earthliness away
To realms beyond—where dwells Eternal Day.
*.
36
THE REv. PATRICK BRONTÉ. A.B.


THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
By CHAS. A. FEDERER, L.C.P.
EDITOR, YORKSHIRE CHAP BOOKS, ETC. ETC.
*º
TIME in his flight no lustre takes away
From the great Brontés' wide immortal fame;
They nobly gained an everlasting name,
Winning the laurels that know no decay.
Their 'scutcheon is undimmed—its glorious ray
Has ever shone with bright translucent flame;
So in the future will it shine the same
And be the theme of many a distant day.
The records of the present and the past ,
Reveal no history akin to theirs; .
They bravely ſought against life’s fitful blast,
Still struggling on, amid a myriad cares
IBut ere the world could on their talents rave
The cypress wreath was laid upon their grave.
Editor.
*
To give anything more than a mere outline of the history of this
remarkable family wauld fall outside the scope of the present work.
For exhaustive biographies we refer the reader to Mrs. Gaskell's Life of
Charlotte Bronté, and to Mr. Leyland’s Bronté Family, the latter
of which works corrects many inaccuracies of the former, and in its
generous and manly treatment of the subject forms a pleasing contrast
to the feminine fault-finding which is so disagreeably prominent in Mrs.
Gaskell's work. - -
Patrick Bronté was born at Ahaderg, co. Down, Ireland, 17th
March, 1777. His ancestry is involved in considerable obscurity, but
we know that his father, Hugh Bronté, or Bronty, was a petty farmer,
with a large family, and small means to maintain it with. Patrick must
have made good use of his time at school, for at the age of sixteen he
felt himself qualified to undertake the situation of village schoolmaster
at Drumgooland in his native county. The Rev. Mr. Tighe, incumbent
of this village soon recognised the abilities of his young schoolmaster,
38 THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
sº-
encouraged him to study, and ultimately was instrumental in sending
him to college. Patrick entered St. John’s College, Cambridge, in
July, 18O2.
After a four years’ residence, he was licensed to a curacy in Essex .
(1806), and subsequently to the perpetual curacy of Hartshead, in the
parish of Dewsbury (1811). Shortly after his arrival at Hartshead, he
published his first work, a volume of poems, entitled “Cottage Poems,”
which was printed by Holden, Halifax, and contains, among other
pieces, “The Happy Cottagers,” “Winter Nights’ Meditations,” “The
Spider and the Fly,” &c., which, though not of a high order of poetry,
yet evince considerable ability and genuine sentiment. The subjects
are mostly connected with Irish scenes and incidents. -
A close friendship existed between Mr. Bronté and Mr. William
Morgan, who had come into Yorkshire at the same time as himself, being
appointed to the curacy of Bierley Chapel, Bradford, in 1811. They
ºrs sº sº
* -ºº aris -: ºf ºff
ºffiliºus #F#:ñigºff;#:
- -----ſº
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THE OLD PARSONAGE, THORNTON.
(Zhe Birthp?ace of Charlotte, Enziº, jane, Patrick Branwełż, & Ann Brontë)
both visited at the house of Mr. Fennel, head master of the Wesleyan
School at Woodhouse Grove, Apperley, whose home was brightened
by the presence of a fair daughter and of a niece, a visitor from Corn-









THE BRONTÉ FAMILY. 39
wall, the sequel being shown by the following curious entry in the
eighty-third volume of the Gentlemen's Magazine : 3.
Married, at Guiseley, near Bradford, by the Rev. William Morgan,
- minister of Bierley, Rev. P. Brontë, B.A., minister of Hartshead-
cum-Clifton, to Maria, third daughter of the late T. Branwell, Esq.
of Penzance.
And at the same time and place, by the Rev. P. Brontë, Rev. W. Morgan.
to the only daughter of Mr. John Fennel, headmaster of the Wesleyan
Academy, near Bradford. -
Two children were born during Mr. Brontë's incumbency of Hartshead,
Maria and Elizabeth, who both died in 1825. ; :
r In 1813 appeared Mr. Brontë's second volume of poetry, entitled
The Rural Minstrel, which shows a distinct improvement upon his
former work. Irish reminiscences again form the staple of the subjects
which comprise, amongst others, “The Harper of Erin,” “ Reflections
by Moonlight,” “The Sabbath Bells,” &c. -
In 1814, Mr. Bronté resigned the living of Hartshead, being
appointed, probably through the influence of his friend, Mr. Morgan,
to the incumbency of Thornton, in Bradford parish. It was at the
old parsonage of this village, of which Mrs. Gaskell draws such an
uninviting picture, that the gifted trio of sisters whose literary fame
completely overshadowed that of their sire, first saw the light. Charlotte
was born 21st April, 1816, Emily Jane in 1818, and Anne in 1819, or
the beginning of 1820. The reader will find in Mr. Scruton's charming
monograph The Birthplace of Charlotte Brontë, a striking picture of the
surroundings of the Brontë family at that period, which cannot fail to
interest him. 4.
a zº
ſº-º-º: : u. Cº-º ºr - º -º-º:
sº: ãº:#: tº ºr--->iº
THE VICARAGE, HAWORTH. *
Mr. Bronte's incumbency of Thornton, which lasted six years, also
saw the appearance of two further literary efforts, viz., “ The Maid of
Rillarney: or Albion and Flora,” a prose tale, printed by Inkersley,





4.O - THE BRONTiš FAMILY.
Bradford, 1818; and “The Cottage in the Wood,” a prose tale, with
a poem appended, also printed by Inkersley, 1818, and reprinted in
1859 by Nelson, Bradford.
This period must have been a particularly trying one for the
struggling young clergyman. The anxiety and toil entailed by the care
of six young children told upon Mrs. Brontë's health, and the Outlook
into the future was anything but reassuring. It is not surprising there-
fore, that Mr. Brontë gladly seized the opportunity of exchanging the
incumbency of Thornton for that of the moorland village of Haworth,
where a better stipend would establish domestic matters on a more
comfortable footing, and the pure mountain breezes promised better
health to the ailing family. -
. The removal took place 25th February, 1820, but Mrs. Bronté's
ailment (cancer) had taken too deep root for her to gain more than a
temporary benefit from the change of scene and atmosphere. “Very
ill, suffering great pain, but seldom, if ever, complaining” (H. Turner),
she passed away 15th September, 1821. Her elder sister, Miss
Branwell, came some time afterwards to take charge of the bereaved
household, and devoted the rest of her life to the bringing up of her
sister’s children.
As Charlotte was only four years old at the time of the removal to
Haworth, all the conscious life of the three sisters may be said to have
been spent at the latter place. First under their father's fitful tuition,
Charlotte and Emily were placed, in 1824, at a private school for
clergymen’s daughters at Cowan Bridge, near Kirby Lonsdale, where
they remained but for a twelvemonth, suffering both in body and mind.
After several years spent at home, under the able tutorship of the master
of the Haworth Grammar School, the three girls went to stay, one after
another, at Miss Wooler’s school, at Roe Head, near Hartshead, where
they found an affectionate teacher and congenial friends whose attach-
ment lasted for life. - * ,
In 1842 Charlotte, then twenty-six years of age, went with her
sister Emily to Brussels, and stayed there, first as pupil, then as
teacher, for the space of two years. The impressions which con-
tinental scenes and manners left upon the observant mind of Charlotte,
are most vividly portrayed in her first written but last published novel,
“The Professor.” s:
This brings us to the literary activity of the trio of sisters.
Already in their earliest years, as soon as the use of pen and paper
became familiar, they essayed themselves in literary composition, and
we are told that they filled no less than twenty-two MS. volumes with
tales, essays, poems, plays, &c. When it is remembered, too, that
the mental pabulum provided for his family by the Rev. P. Brontë
comprised “The British Essayist,” “The Rambler,” “The Mirror,”
“Blackwood’s Magazine,” “The Lounger,” we need feel little
THE BRONTiš FAMILY.
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42 THE BRONTÉ FAMELY.
surprise at the tersely classical style of writing to which the sisters
attained almost at the very outset. Riper years added the zest of
ambition, and the sisters were anxious to obtain publicity for their
compositions, so that even the dišsuasion and neglect of the publishers
and literary men with whom they entered into correspondence did not
quench their ardour. Unable to get anyone to undertake the risk of
publishing their collected poems, they took the bold step of issuing the
volume at their own charges, and now appeared for the first time
before the public under the noms de plume Currer Bell (Charlotte),
Ellis Bell (Emily), and Acton Bell (Anne).
Though these poems cannot rank with the productions of our
leading poets, of a Tennyson, a Swinburne, a Browning—being too
mechanical throughout and often stilted in form—yet they show genuine
poetical feeling, and are certainly superior to most of the poetry which
passed current in the early part of the present century. Charlotte’s
poems show a greater ease of manipulation, whilst Emily’s verses are
more rugged, and withal more redolent of the wild moor. Anne
writes in a more mystic strain, and her verses have not inaptly been
compared to Cowper's. -
But it is chiefly as novelists that the sisters excelled. Finding
that poetry was unremunerative, and fired by reports of the fabulous
sums paid to Sir Walter Scott for his romances, they determined to
write each a novel, and in consequence completed, Charlotte “The
Professor” (only published much later), Emily “Wuthering Heights,”
and Anne “Agnes Grey.” “The Professor’’ was certainly not equal
to the tales of Charlotte's sisters, being too threadbare and deficient
in striking incidents; but undismayed by her inability to find a pub-
lisher for it, she resolutely set herself to the task of composing another
romance more suited to the popular taste, the result being that won-
derful work, “Jane Eyre,” which took the literary world by storm,
and raised the author to sudden fame. In quick succession followed
“Shirley” and “Villette,” which were no less appreciated by the
public, whilst Anne followed up her previous success with “The
Tenant of Wildfell Hall.” -
The sisters were not destined long to enjoy the gratifying proofs
of public favour. On December 19th, 1848, death claimed Emily for his
own, and the following year May flowers decked the grave of Anne in
the ancient churchyard of St. Mary’s at Scarborough. Six years after-
wards, in June, 1854, Charlotte was prevailed upon to bestow her
hand in marriage on the Rev. A. B. Nicholls, her father’s curate; but
before a year had run its course, the grave closed too over her mortal
remains (31st March, 1855).
The Rev. Patrick Brontë, bereft of all his children, afflicted with
blindness, continued faithfully to discharge his parochial duties, until
he, too, was called to his long home, 7th June, 1861, aged 84 years.
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
43
Øn Éaſſey's Comet, in 4835.
OUR blazing guest, long have you been,
To us, and many more, unseen;
Full seventy years have pass'd away
Since last we saw you, fresh and gay—
Time seems to do you little wrong—
As yet, you sweep the sky along,
A thousand times more glib and fast,
Than railroad speed or sweeping blast—
Not so—the things you left behind—
Not so—the race of human kind.
Vast changes in this world have been,
Since by this world you last were seen :
The child who clapped his hands with joy,
And hailed thee as a shining toy,
Has pass'd, long since, that dusky bourn,
From whence no travellers return ;
Or sinking now in feeble age,
Surveys thee, as a hoary sage;
Sees thee, a mighty globe serene,
Wide hurried o'er the welkin sheen,
In nebulous or solid state,
For ends both wise, and good, and great;
Or, to adjust and balance true
The shining orbs of ether blue,
Lest, erring in the heavenly plane,
All should to chaos rush again ;-
Or if the sun, as Newton says,
Still issues forth substantial rays,
IEmitting from his body bright,
Exhausting sparks of rapid light—
To give him back each spark and ray,
Well gather'd, on the airy way;
Lest he should sink in wrinkled years,
And leave in night the rolling spheres.
Say, dost thou, then, all things that burn,
Give to the Sun in thy return ?
And thus maintain his shining face
In all the pride of youthful grace P
44.
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
If so, thou art less selfish far,
Than many another shining star—
Less selfish, far, than those below,
Who gaze upon thy brilliant glow ;
For, here on earth, both one and all,
We try to rise on others’ fall;
And think our lustre shines the best,
When dusky veils obscure the rest.
But Newton sage and others say,
The Sun doth play you wea and may :
That, at each point of time, his force
Attracts, repels, thy fiery course;
In contradiction—strange to say—
Lest you should wander.from your way,
And that, when he has got thy meed,
He sends you on your way with speed.
Alas! alas ! should this be so P
How many suns are here below,
Save that they want both heat and light,
And never shine, by day or night—
Attract—repel—get all they can—
And part with nought to living man
Some say thou art electric fire,
And hast a tail of plague and ire—
That all along thy airy way
You shed on men a baleful sway;
That on the nations near and far
You sow the seeds of bloody war.
Small need for these thy fatal arts;
For we abound in wrathful hearts,
And Cunning heads, and blighting gales,
And martial hands, and fiery tails—
And swift to ill—for ill combine,
With ready skill, surpassing thine.
Thy course is chang'd, as Sages say,
And thou hast run a novel way,
Just that the wond'ring world might own
Thou hast a will and way thine own.
In this, fair stranger, we're inclined
To follow thee, and have our mind—
What’er sarcastic mortals say,
For we have orbits where to move,
By impulse strong, of hate or love ;
And we have ends to answer here,
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY. 45.
Though in a dark and narrow sphere.
Since last this earth has seen thy face,
Thou hast been wide in many a place—
And many Suns and worlds hast known,
Besides these orbs we call our own ;-
Say, hast thou, in thy leisure hours,
E’er scrutiniz'd a world like ours ?—
L’er seen such thinking worms of clay,
Run wildly mad in such a way P−
So brief in life—so prone to ill—
So much averse to that great Will,
That speaks in truth and boundless might
And gave thee all thy speed, and light,
And very being—and has said -
“Let all things be l’’ and they were made.
But thou art on thy course, I see,
And wilt not converse deign to me;—
Nor man nor angels by their force
Can for one moment stop thy course;—
The Mighty God himself alone
Can reign thy speed, and guide thee On.
Then fare thee well, thou mighty star—
Go—do thy errand, near and far.
Ere thou dost here return again,
Few things that now are shall remain.
Tell distant worlds, on whom you shine,
The hand that made thee is divine,—
Round thy wide orbit shed thy rays,
In token of the loudest praise
To God who made thyself and all
The stars around this earthly ball—
Who shall beam forth, in glory bright,
When all creation sets in night.
A'ez. P. Bronfé, B.A.
Remembrance.
COLD in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by time's all-severing wave P
46 THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the éarth—and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring :
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering !
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world’s tide is bearing me along ;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.
No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me ;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy ;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine ;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine. tº,
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain ;
Once drinking deep Of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again P-C. Bronfé.
$o p g.
The linnet in the rocky dells,
The moor-lark in the air,
The bee among the heather bells
That hide my lady fair;
The wild deer browse above her breast :
The wild birds raise their brood ;
And they, her smiles of love caressed,
Have left her solitude
THE BRONTE FAMILY. 47
I ween, that when the grave's dark wall
Did first her form retain,
They thought their hearts could ne'er recall
The light of joy again.
They thought the tide of grief would flow
Unchecked through future years;
But where is all their anguish now,
And where are all their tears P
Well, let them fight for honour's breath,
Or pleasure’s shade pursue—
The dweller in the land of death
Is changed and careless too.
And, if their eyes should watch and weep
Till sorrow’s source were dry,
She would not, in her tranquil sleep,
Return a single sigh
Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
And murmur, Summer streams—
There is no need of other sound
To soothe my lady’s dreams.-C. Brontë.
F. op e.
HOPE was but a timid friend ;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear ;
Through the bars one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away !
Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace ;
She would sing while I was weeping ;
If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting ;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Bven Sorrow saw, repenting, g
Those sad relics scattered round ;
48
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain, .
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again -
- - - C. Bromfé.
Öhe Bluebelſ.
THE Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air :
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit’s care.
There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath,
But fragrance will not cheer.
The trees are bare, the sun is cold,
And seldom, seldom seen ;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold,
And earth her robe of green.
And ice upon the glancing stream
Has cast its sombre shade ;
And distant hills and valleys seem
In frozen mist arrayed.
The Bluebell cannot charm me now,
The heath has lost its bloom ;
The violets in the glen below,
They yield no sweet perfume.
But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell,
'Tis better far away;
I know how fast my tears would swell
To see it smile to-day.
For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall
Adown that dreary sky,
And gild yon dank and darkened wall
With transient brilliancy;
How do I weep, how do I pine
For the time of flowers to come,
And turn me from that fading shine,
To mourn the fields of home !—E. Bronfé.
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
4-9
öfle Dight (Jind.
IN summer's mellow midnight,
A cloudless moon shone through
Our Open parlour window,
And rose-trees wet with dew.
I sat in silent musing ;
The soft wind waved my hair;
It told me heaven was glorious,
And sleeping earth was fair.
I needed not its breathing
To bring such thoughts to me ;
But still it whispered lowly,
How dark the woods will be
“The thick leaves in my murmur
Are rustling like a dream,
And all their myriad voices
Instinct with spirit seem.”
I said, “Go, gentle singer,
Thy wooing voice is kind :
But do not think its music
Has power to reach my mind.
“Play with the scented flower,
The young tree's supple bough,
And leave my human feelings
• In their own course to flow.”
The wanderer would not heed me ;
Its kiss grew warmer still. -
“O come !” it sighed so sweetly;
“I’ll win thee 'gainst thy will.
“Were we not friends from childhood P
Have I not loved thee long P
As long as thou, the Solemn night,
Whose silence wakes my song.
“And when thy heart is resting
Beneath the church-aisle stone,
I shall have time for mourning,
And thou for being alone.”—E. Bronfé.
&
5o
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
łopomortality.
NO COWARD soul is mine, -
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere :
I see Heaven’s glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity
Life—that in me has rest,
As I–undying Life—have power in Thee
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;
º Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
So Surely anchored on
The stedfast-rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears.
Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void :
Thou—THOU art Being and Breath,
And what THOU art may never be destroyed,
- A'. Bronfé.
£)omestig Peace.
WHY should such gloomy silence reign,
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want, have entered here P
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
We are as many as we were -
That other night, when all were gay
And full of hope, and free from care;
Yet there is something gone away.
The moon without, as pure and calm,
Is shining as that night she shone ;
But now, to us, she brings no balm,
For something from our hearts is gone.
Something whose absence leaves a void—
A cheerless want in every heart;
Each feels the bliss of all destroyed,
And mourns the change—but each apart.
The fire is burning in the grate
As redly as it used to burn ;
But still the hearth is desolate,
Till mirth, and love, and peace return.
'Twas peace that flowed from heart to heart,
With looks and smiles that spoke of heaven,
And gave us language to impart -
The blissful thoughts itself had given.
Domestic peace best joy of earth,
When shall we all thy value learn ?
White angel, to Our sorrowing hearth,
Return—oh, graciously return
A. Bron/é.
Pespondepeg.
-*
I have gone backward in the work;
The labour has not sped ;
Drowsy and dark my spirit lies,
Heavy and dull as lead.
How can I rouse my sinking soul
From such a lethargy P
How can I break these iron chains
And set my spirit free P
52
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY.
There have been times when I have mourned
In anguish O'er the past,
And raised my suppliant hands on high,
While tears fell thick and fast;
And prayed to have my sins forgiven,
With such a fervent zeal,
An earnest grief, a strong desire
As now I cannot feel.
And I have felt so full of love,
So strong in spirit then,
As if my heart would never cool,
Or wander back again.
And yet, alas ! how many times
My feet have gone astray !
How oft have I forgot my God
How greatly fallen away !
My sins increase—my love grows cold,
And hope within me dies:
Even Faith itself is wavering now ;
Oh, how shall I arise P
I cannot weep, but I can pray,
Then let me not despair:
Lord Jesus, save me, lest I die
Christ, hear my humble prayer |
A. Bronfé.
Resignetion.
*-
I HOPED, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.
But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well ;
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.
Thou, God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope away :
Thou bid'st us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.
THE BRONTÉ FAMILY 53
These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,
These nights of darkness, ànguish-tost,
Can I but turn to Thee.
With secret labour to sustain
In humble patience every blow ;
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate'er may be my written fate:
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humbled I should be ;
More wise—more strengthened for the strife;
More apt to lean on Thee.
Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow:
But, Lord ' whatever be my fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now !—A. Bronfé.
in Bingleg (Doods.
(EDITOR.)
In Bingley woods in blest July,
You'll see the merry youngsters hie;
A prattling troop of children gay,
You'll find where'er you take your way;
Children who know not yet a sigh.
Ah! blithe they shout if they should spy
The nest of some wild bird hard by,
And shrill they scream when glad they play,
In Bingley woods.
Amongst each bush they nimbly pry,
And feeling neither coy nor shy,
They spend their infant holiday,
Each happy as a sprightly fay;
Oh I would these days for them ne'er die :
In Bingley woods.
PATRICK BRANwFLL BRONTÉ.
By BUTLER wooD.
SECRETARY AND CHIEF LIBRARIAN, PUBLIC FREE LIBRARIES,
BIRAID FORD.
As it is desirable that Branwell Bronté should have a space in a work
of this character, we give the following short sketch of his life, and two
of his shorter poems.
Patrick Branwell Bronté, the talented but unfortunate brother of
the Bronté sisters, was born at Thornton, near Bradford, on the 23rd
of July, 1817, a year after Charlotte's birth and a year before that of
Tºmily’s. Like all the members of this remarkable and gifted family,
he had great imaginative powers; but, alas, unlike the rest of them,
seems to have totally lacked stability of character, and the common-
place but no less, important qualities of application and self-control.
These fatal flaws in his mental constitution proved ultimately the ruin
of a great intellect, for he not only failed to do any work of an endur-
ing character, but he drifted away into dangerous companionships and
habits which eventually led him to an untimely end.
After many unsuccessful attempts to fight the battle of life, he
induced his father, who was aware of his son’s predilection for art, to
send him to London for the purpose of trying for a Royal Academy
studentship. This was about the year 1844, but he soon returned
home, after failing in his endeavour. Shortly afterwards he was sent
to a Mr. Robinson, of Leeds, who had been the drawing-master of the
Bronté sisters, for the purpose of learning the art of portrait painting,
and while here he formed a strong friendship with J. Hunter Thompson,
a fellow-pupil, who shortly afterwards settled in Bradford. After
studying for some months, Branwell also took up his quarters in Brad-
ford, where he and Thompson worked harmoniously together, the latter
often giving the finishing touches to Branwell’s work. But the inherent
defects of Bronté's character soon asserted themselves, and he gave up
his work in Bradford, where, according to letters quoted by Leyland,
he does not seem to have given general satisfaction. Amongst the
friends whose example he might have profitably followed, were James,
the historian, Leyland, the sculptor, Grundy, the engineer, and many
others, but he drifted further away into loose and dangerous habits,
PATRICK BRAN WELL BRONTië. 55.
and eventually died in September, 1848, at the early age of thirty-one.
He was greatly beloved by his sisters, and their anxiety on his behalf
is touchingly told by Mrs. Gaskell in her life of Charlotte.
His literary work is of a very fragmentary character, and of little
value except as an indication of what he might have done. His claim
to the authorship of “Wuthering Heights” cannot be entertained for
a moment in the face of Charlotte’s emphatic testimony to the con-
trary. He had, according to Mr. Grundy, finished the first volume of
a novel in 1846, but never completed the work. Leyland published a
few of Branwell's poems in his interesting work on the BrontéFamily,
and two of them are given below,
Geroline's Preger.
OR THE CHANGE FROM CHILDHOOD TO WOMANHOOD.
‘My Father, and my childhood’s guide,
If oft I’ve wandered far from Thee;
E’en though Thine only Son has died
To save from death a child like me;
‘O ! still—to Thee when turns my heart
In hours of sadness, frequent now—
Be Thou the God that once Thou Wert,
And calm my breast, and clear my brow.
“I’m now no more a little child
O'ershadowed by Thy mighty wing;
My very dreams seem now more wild
Than those my slumbers used to bring.
“I further see—I deeper feel—
With hope more warm, but heart less mild ;
And former things new shapes reveal ;
All strangely brightened or despoiled.
‘I’m entering on Life's open tide;
So—farewell childhood’s shores divine !
And, Oh, my Father, deign to guide,
Through these wild waters, Caroline !’
56
PATRICK BRAN WELL BRONTE.
@n Gºaroline.
THE light of thy ancestral hall,
Thy Caroline, no longer smiles:
She has changed her palace for a pall,
Her garden walks for minster aisles;
Eternal sleep has stilled her breast
Where peace and pleasure made their shrine;
Her golden head has sunk to rest—
Oh, would that rest made calmer mine !
To thee, while watching o'er the bed
Where, mute and motionless, she lay,
How slow the midnight moments sped
How void of sunlight woke the day !
Nor ope’d her eyes to morning's beam,
Though all around thee woke to her;
Nor broke thy raven-pinioned dream
Of coffin, shroud, and sepulchre.
Why beats thy breast when hers is still P
Why linger'st thou when she is gone P
Hop'st thou to light on good or ill P
To find companionship alone P
Perhaps thou think'st the churchyard stone
Can hide past smiles and bury sighs:
That memory, with her soul, has flown ;
That thou canst leave her where she lies.
No 1 joy itself is but a shade,
So well may its remembrance die;
But cares, life’s conquerors, never fade,
So strong is their reality
Thou may’st forget the day which gave
That child of beauty to thy side,
But not the moment when the grave
Took back again thy borrowed bride.
& Z Nº
|
ºr. º Nº
J AM E S B U R N L E Y.
By WM. ANDREWS, F.R.H.S.
EDITOR, “NORTH COUNTRY POETs,” “MODERN YORKSHIRE POETs,”
ETC., ETC.; SECRETARY, HULL LITERARY CLUB.
AMONGST the leading poets of Yorkshire, the name of James Burnley
Occupies a prominent position, and he has also gained distinction in other
departments of literature. He was born at Shipley in 1842, and his
first volume was issued by Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., in 1869,
under the title of “Idonia, and other Poems.” It was well received,
and showed that its author was a writer full of promise. Since the
appearance of Mr. Burnley’s volume of poems, he has enriched the
pages of many popular periodicals with his poetry, and it is to be
regretted that he has not issued another volume of verse. A new
garland of his song could not fail to prove extremely welcome to his
many admirers.
Mr. Burnley has produced several successful stories, the best known
being a Yorkshire tale entitled “Looking for the Dawn.”
Numerous plays, pantomimes, and dramatic entertainments have
been written by Mr. Burnley. One of his pieces entitled “The
Shadow of the Mill,” met with a considerable share of success, and
his pantomimes have been extremely popular.
Mr Burnley first gained local fame as a contributor to the columns
of the “Bradford Observer” under the nom de plume of Saunterer. His
local sketches and holiday articles written on foreign lands, gave a literary
tone to the paper which few provincial journals possess. As a descrip-
tive writer he ranks high, and some of his papers have been reproduced
in book form, and met with a flattering reception. His “Phases of
Bradford Life,” “Two Sides of the Atlantic,” “West-Riding
Sketches,” and “Yorkshire Stories Re-told,” were reproduced from
newspaper and magazine articles. He has been quite a ‘globe-trotter,’
and wherever he goes he finds something attractive to write about.
He has written much on trade, including a series of articles on the
“Workshops of the West-Riding,” for the “Leeds Mercury,” and a
great deal for Cassell’s publications, including “Great Industries of
Great Britain.” Amongst his best books may be named “The
Romance of Invention,” “Romance of Life Preservation,” “The
Romance of Modern Industry,” and “A History of Wool and Wool-
Combing.” The works have met with a cordial welcome from the
58 JAMES BURNLEY.
press and the public. In the pages of “London Society’’ he wrote
the greater part of the articles on “Fortunes made in Business.” The
chapters have been reproduced in two large volumes, and those from
the pen of Mr. Burnley have been greatly praised.
Mr. Burnley has contributed to several standard works, including
“Encyclopædia Britannica ’’ and the “Dictionary of National
Biography.” His prose and poetry has found a place in all the leading
London Magazines and newspapers.
He founded the “Yorkshireman,” which he edited until quite
recently. Mr. Burnley acted for some years as the literary editor of the
“Bradford Observer.” A popular dialect annual called “Saunterer's
Satchel ” was established and edited by him, and for some time he
conducted the “Yorkshire Magazine.”
- It will be gathered from the foregoing that Mr. Burnley is a
tireless worker. He has resided in London since 1885, and has made
hosts of friends among the leading literati of the metropolis, and still
keeps in close touch with his many old Yorkshire friends, who are proud
of his well merited success. He is a gifted and genial gentleman, and
richly deserves the position he has won. -
(Since this biography was written, Mr. Burnley has issued another
volume of verse, entitled “Desert London, and other Poems.”)—
EDITOR. -
Clt my Qother's Grave.
*
THE twilight mingles with the golden west,
The wooded slopes in heavy shadow lie,
Bird-music sinks into a blissful rest,
The sunlight dies along the silent sky,
And all around is solemn as thy grave.
O mother all the world seems yet to sigh
That thou wert rudely swept beneath Death’s wave.
Ten years full measured with the pangs of life
Have drawled their weary length since thou did'st die I
Ten years of foundering hopes and useless strife
Thy living love did ever keep me high
Above the waves of the all-selfish world ;
But Death’s cold glamour o'er thee fell, and I
Was far into life's heartless tempest hurled.
JAMES: BURNLEY. 59
Yet now I live with thee again a space ; ... • , , , - .
I hear thy voice,—by sadness made more sweet, - .
And look again into thy gentle face, -- ~ *
Pride and Ambition leave me at thy feet;
The mysteries that hang around the soul
Seem clearer; and my tortured heart doth beat
With calmer swell, subdued to thy control.
Though Care’s dark shadow lies across my path,
There still is sunshine in my memory.
How oft in far-off scenes that sunshine hath
Burst forth, and melted passion to a sigh
A passing voice, or distant music tone
Oft hath sufficed to bring thy presence nigh,
And spread thy spirit’s radiance o'er my own.
With spirit-music all the world seems filled,
Our memories feed and grow upon its sound ;
We catch its cadence, and by it are thrilled
Where'er its raptured melody is found.
Yon rook which caws about the belfry there,
Instils more heaven into my soul as round
It flies, than I could reap from many a prayer.
Its caw, though harsh and shrill, re-brings the time
When thou and I together trod this place;
When, listening to the bells' devotional chime,
We entered here full-souled with hope and grace;
And so, yon rook gives music to my heart -
While sweeter sounds pass by and leave no trace,
For of our past no voice do they impart.
I’d weep for thee if there were need to weep, +
Only man's selfishness weeps o'er the dead.
How many would be glad with thee to sleep,
Even could Death but give them this cold bed ;
How many more would gladly join thee here
Could they but win thy holy calm, instead
Of tossing on the waves of endless fear.
Death hath few terrors for the joyless breast;
Life is half death where Sorrow constant stays ;
So, nearer Death and nearer God, some rest
Were gained did not Despair come o'er our days.
O patience I did'st thou but on sorrow wait,
Her ways would holier be than joyous ways,
And Sorrow would be life’s most noble state.
6o JAMES BURNLEY.
O Mother though thou’rt dead, thou sayest more
To me than all surviving voices say.
'Tis thee alone I think of as of yore.
The village haunts where once I used to play,
The village youths whom once I deemed so true,
All seem but rude distortions of a day
When thou wert brightest object of my view.
To-morrow will recall me far away,
But find me purer for my lingering here ;
Amidst these youthful scenes I could not stay,
For all the light is fled which made them dear.
Then, mother rest thee in thy perfect sleep,
The storms which make our earthly life so drear
Can nevermore disturb thy slumber deep.
öße River.
I STAND by a murmurous river
That sings on its way to the sea ;
That sings a passionate story
Of things that are known but to me.
And oft on its banks I wander,
And list to its tuneful voice,
For amidst its wail of sorrow
My soul gains strength to rejoice.
Through fields and gardens it windeth,
It stoppeth nor night nor day,
And the self-same song it singeth
Whenever I pass its way.
It sings of my happy childhood,
Ere Care swooped down on my life;
It renews the pleasant fancies
That once in my heart were rife.
When the world looked like a heaven,
When I placed firm trust in man,
When no voice was a voice of sadness
And life seemed more than a span.
JAMES BURNLEY.
6 I
When sitting here in the sunset
Till the last red streak had died,
I thought I should breathe for ever
In the glow of that youthful pride.
It sings a dirge o'er the sweetness
That fled with those happy days,
And brings to my mind a glory
Which time can never efface.
A glory whose brightness bred sorrow,
Whose light still steadily beams,
And throwing all else into shadow,
Ilike a star in the dark it seems.
Of this is the river singing
As it runs o'er miles untold,
And bears far over the ocean
The tale which can never grow old.
The cuckoo may come, and the linnet
May fill the air with his song ;
The wind may sigh o'er the corn field
As the shadows go floating along ;
Yet the river sings far above them,
For it sings the song of my heart,
And while other music is changing
It ever keeps true to its part.
'Twas here that we walked in the gloaming,
The light of my life and I
'Twas here that the vows were whispered
Which memory can never let die.
But my tongue shall never upbraid her,
Shall ne'er call her false, or untrue ;
'Twas enough to see and to love her,
Too much to be loved by her too.
The radiance left by her presence
Throws a halo over my soul;
And the voice that thrilled with its music.
I still hear in the river's roll.
Thus the river sings of my sorrow,
Thus it sings of my former joy;
And the sorrow becomes so holy
It ceases my soul to annoy.
62
JAMES BURNLEY.
From its nest far under the mountain
Till it sinks on the breast of the sea,
The river keeps up its singing
Through glen, through wood, and through lea.
Through fields and gardens it windeth,
It stoppeth nor night nor day,
And the self-same song it singeth
Whenever I pass its way.
~
öße ſpinstreſ.
TOILING up the hill to Fame,
Foothold daily growing firmer,
Went a youth of humble name,
Buoyed up far above the murmur
Of the flint-eared, heartless world.
Poesy's keen volcanic fire -
Swayed his soul in self-willed fashion.
Goaded thus, he seized the lyre,
Tried to tune it to his passion,
But he only charmed himself.
Still he strummed, and journeyed on ;
Still the world its ear averted ;
Still—interpreted by none—
He and his songs were all deserted,
Cast adrift to die—or fight !
And the youth chose he would fight,
Throat-grip the crowd, make men listen ;
Force the film from off their sight,
Till their eyes should flash and glisten
At the dawn of higher life.
So he fought, and lost; but eer
Sang on with a voice unshaken,
"Till he struck a chord so rare,
That its strangeness made men waken
To his presence on the hill.
JAMES BURNLEY. 63
Chords more sweet he’d formed before,
Chords of higher, deeper teaching,
Chords which Fame had sure passed o'er,
Had not his music tripped, and screeching
Broke the spell and charmed the world.
Then he topped the hill, and there
Fame with laurel wreath did meet him,
Bid him turn from Art, and care
Alone for Noise, and men would greet him
As the mouthpiece of their hearts.
(0 B e, re. ?
BRIGHT Sun I O tell me, is there rest
Beyond the purple mountains P
Fair river ! tell me, is it best
To follow thee into the West,
Or linger by thy fountains P
O moon | find'st thou sweet rest, while o'er
Thy blue expanse soft gliding P
Or do the clouds that upward Soar,
Or wild-voiced winds that madly roar,
Prevent rest from abiding P
Ye birds ! that sing to Summer Skies,
No winter ever knowing—
O tell me where the fair land lies
Where rest abides 1 or have your eyes
Ne'er seen her white robes glowing P
Sweet star ! amidst those distant spheres,
Thy subject worlds, revolving—
O knowest thou where rest adheres 2
Or are thy kingdoms too in tears,
Their sorrows past dissolving F
Nor sun, nor star, nor stream can still
My sorrow by replying : -
Then where—where is their rest ? O will
It never come to me until
It greets my eyes in dying P
F. w. L. BUTTERFIELD, LL.B.
By CHAS. F. FOR SHAW, LL.D.
MR. BUTTERFIELD is the only son of Henry I. Butterfield, Esq, of
Cliffe Castle, Keighley, and was born in 1858. His mother was
a daughter of the Hon. Mr. Burke, and a niece of the late Judge
Roosevelt of the New York Supreme Court. He graduated an LL.B.
at the Columbia College Law School (N.Y.) in 1882, and was subse-
quently admitted to the Bar. He practised law for a time, and in 1888
accepted from President Cleveland the appointment of Consul at
Ghent (Belgium). Resigning for reasons of health in 1890, he has since
resided partly at Keighley and partly in America. Mr. Butterfield was
married in 1888 to Miss J. K. Ridgway of Philadelphia, and has one
daughter.
It may be incidentally added that he studied music at the Leipsic
Conservatoire and has a flattering Diploma from that well-known
School. -
The loss of the Victoria, off the coast of Tripoli, on June 22nd
last, by which Admiral Sir George Tryon and nearly 400 brave officers
and seamen lost their lives, will still be fresh in the minds of our
readers that no details need here be given. All who read the masterly
poem appended will undoubtedly admit that its insertion increases the
value of the volume. It was composed in London on June 26th, 1893,
and its strictly emotional merits sufficiently and sincerely indicate the
author’s feelings at the time of its composition.
öße £oss of the Öictoria.
WEEP, weep, weep
For the brave and the true,
Death suddenly slew
In the pride of their strength on the deep,
Where mirrored, the distant bay upon,
Dark falls the shade of Lebanon.
F. w. L. BUTTERFIELD, LL.B. 65
Weep, weep, weep
For the young and the old ;
The admiral bold -
And his men, one and all : for they sleep
Far from home, while the emerald waters surge
To the cadenced throb of a silent dirge.
Weep, weep, weep
For the wife and the maid
Who fervently prayed
That their loves might be spared, dear to keep
The plighted troth, the promised faith:
But alack for the hopes now swallowed in death.
Weep, ah l weep not in vain
For the brave and the true
The angel thus slew
On the far Tripolitan main ;
Behold ! there lies beyond a sea,
The sore—tried Christians' Galilee.
Greage’s “Qiſſionaid.”
(IN WALTERS’ GALLERY, BALTIMORE.)
WHAT vermeil pen, bedipped though daintily
In prismy dew-drops, could, my milkmaid true,
Retrace thy arch allurements P Sooner endue
Perfection with her own, than question me
To tell, in naked words, all I did see:
Those pensive eyes in truth, the deepening blue
Of Heav'n recall; nor less divine in hue
Those auburn locks, which, longing to be free,
Press the restraining veil, and now do kiss
Thy conchéd tips. The blooming eglantine
Doth pale beside thy cheek; yet seems to blush
Beside thy neck. What infinite charm is thine,
- When praises sink in reverential hush,
To trace the source of momentary bliss P
Rev. ROBERT COLLYER, D.D.
By J. HORSFALL TURNER, -
EDITOR, “YORKSHIRE NOTES AND QUERIES,” “ yoRKSHIRE
COUNTY MAGAZINE,” ETC.
A POET and poet-preacher should have a poet as his biographer, but
what the writer hereof lacks as a poet he probably makes up in ardent
admiration of the man. Robert Collyer was born at Keighley,
December 8th, 1823, and when a month old travelled with his parents
to their previous home at Blubberhouses. At eight years of age he
was employed in the mill there (now removed to make way for
Fewston Reservoirs), but in 1838, at fourteen years of age, he
removed to Ilkley, to learn the blacksmith craft under old Jacky Birch,
who had taught the trade to Samuel Collyer, his father, at Blubber-
houses. Doing some honest work at the old smithy, the gates opposite
Ilkley Church porch, to wit, he spent his leisure moments with a few
kindred souls in exploring the English classics that were then appearing
in cheap form, and frequently he served the Wesleyan pulpits of the
district. In April, 1850, having buried his wife in Ilkley churchyard,
he removed to Shoemakertown, Pennsylvania, where he remained until
Eebruary, 1859, when he quitted the anvil to minister to the Unitarians
at Chicago. The day before he left Old England he married a second
time, and he still deplores the loss, in the Fall of 1890, of the best
of wives, the mother of his children: He continued to preach amongst
the Methodists of Pennsylvania for a few years, but gradually became
alienated, and on the recommendation of the Rev. Dr. Furness, he was
appointed to the Mission Church at Chicago. From the day of his
Settlement the cause prospered, and a magnificent church arose. In
187 I he visited England, and his sermons and addresses commanded
general notice. To show his attachment to his old home, the following
extract is taken from a speech then delivered in London :-
“There has never been a moment in the twenty-one years that I
“ have been absent from this land, when it has not been one of the
“proudest recollections, that I came of this Old England stock; that
“my grandfather fought with Nelson at Trafalgar, and my father was
“an Englishman too, and my mother was an Englishwoman; that so
“far as I can trace my descent back and back—and that is just as far
“as my grandfather—we are all English, every one of us. Well, there
“is not a day when I stand on the lake shore, that I do not see the
REV. ROBERT COLLYER, D.D. 67
^–
“moors that were lifted up about my old habitation, and a little stone
“cottage nestling in among the greenery, and the glancing waters, and
“the lift of the lark up into heaven until you cannot see him, and a
“hundred other things besides, that belong to this blessed place of
“my birth and breeding.”
Of his mother, he always speaks with profound veneration, and we
do not wonder that now and again he has fixed on Yorkshire for a
holiday resort, to see historic Ilkley, the heather-clad moors of
Wharfedale and Washburn, the Old Church at Fewston where he was
“christened,” and gaze on the artificial lakes that cover the Blubber-
house and Fewston valley. A fortnight after his return from England
in 1871, the disastrous fire at Chicago brought his grand church to
ruins, and alas! his fine Yorkshire library had also fed the flames. On
the following Sunday he called together his scattered flock, and on the
ruins of their church read to them the touching words from Isaiah,
“Our holy and our beautiful house is burned up with fire, and all our
pleasant things are laid waste.” With marvellous determination, they
set about the erection of a more magnificent edifice again and their
preacher's house and library, as far as possible were restored. In 1880,
he left Chicago, having accepted the pastorate of the Church of the .
Messiah in New York. In 1883 and 1892 he again visited England, and,
on the former occasion amongst other engagements, presided at the
annual excursion-gathering of the Yorkshire Archaeological Association.
Besides many pamphlets and fugitive pieces (poems and prose—a
prose that is full of poetry), he has published the following volumes,
Some of which have run to a dozen editions in America and England :
“Nature and Life,” “The Liſe that Now Is,” “The Simple Truth,”
“Talks to Young Men,” and “An Idyll of Nantucket. These
volumes are amongst the choicest reading in the English language, and
never were sermons and lectures more fascinating ; whilst their catho-
licity befits them as worthy to be reproduced in any pulpit in the world.
Those who have read them, and especially those who have heard their
author speak from pulpit or platform, will endorse the popular opinion
that Dr. Robert Collyer is rightly styled “the Poet-Preacher of
America.”
Some years ago, Dr. Collyer wrote to me suggesting that I should
compile a History of Ilkley. I agreed to make the researches (in
addition to what he had done), and work conjointly, which resulted in
the publication, in 1885, of “Ilkley, Ancient and Modern,” in two
sizes, 8vo. and 4to. Personal, epistolary, and business associations
confirm every eulogistic statement—spoken or printed–-respecting one
of the worthiest of Yorkshire’s Worthies.
68 REv. ROBERT COLLYER, D.D.
Glpder the $now.
IT was Christmas Eve in the year 'fourteen,
And, as ancient dalesmen used to tell,
The wildest winter they ever had seen,
With the Snow lying deep on moor and fell.
When waggoner John got out his team,_
Smiler and Whitefoot, Duke and Gray—
With the light in his eyes of the young-man’s dream,
As he thought of his wedding on New Year's Day.
To Ruth, the maid of the bonnie brown hair,
And eyes of the deepest blue,
Modest and winsome and wondrous fair ;
And true to her troth, for her heart was true.
. “Thou's surely not going P” shouted mine host;
“Thou’ll be lost in the drift as sure as thou’s born ;
Thy lass winnot want to wed wi' a ghost,-
And that’s what thou’ll be on Christmas Morn.
“It’s eleven long miles from Skipton toon,
To Blueberg hooses and Washburn dale,
Thou had better turn back and sit thee doon,
And comfort thy heart wi' a drop o' good ale.”
Turn the swallows flying south !
Turn the vines against the sun
Herds from rivers in the drouth !
Men must dare or nothing’s done.
So what cares the lover for storm or drift,
Or peril of death on the haggard way;
He sings to himself like a lark in the lift,
And the joy in his heart turns December to May. .
But the wind from the north brings its deadly chill
Creeping into his heart, and the drifts are deep;
Where the thick of the storm strikes Blueberg hill,
He is weary and falls in a pleasant sleep;
REV. ROBERT COLLYER, D.D. 69
And dreams he is walking by Washburn side,-
Walking with Ruth on a summer's day,+
Singing that song to his bonny bride,-
His own wife now for ever and aye.
Now read me this riddle. How Ruth should hear
That song of a heart, in the clutch of doom P
It stole on her ear, distinct and clear,
As if her lover was in the room.
And read me this riddle. How Ruth should know,
. As she bounds to throw open the heavy door,
That her lover is lost in the drifting snow,
Dying, or dead, on the great wild moor.
“Help! Help!” “Lost Lost l”
Rings through the night as she rushes away,
Stumbling, blinded, and tempest-tossed,—
Straight to the drift where her lover lay.
And swift they leap after her into the night,
Into the drifts by Blueberg hill,—
Pullan, Ward, Robinson, each with his light,
To find her there, holding him, white and still.
“He was dead in the drift, then P”
I hear them say,
As I listen in wonder
Forgetting to play, *
Fifty years since come Christmas Day.
“Nay, nay, they were wed, the dalesman cried,
. By Parson Carmalt o' New Year's Day;
Bonnie Ruth were my great-great grandsire's bride,
And Maister Frankland gave her away.”
“But how did she find him under the snow P”
They cried with a laughter touched with tears.
“Nay, lads,” he said softly, “we never can know,
No, not if we live a hundred years.”
“There’s a sight o' things gan’
To the making o' man ;” -
Then I rushed to my play,
With a whoop and away,
Fifty years syne come Christmas Day.
7o REV. ROBERT COLLYER, D.D.
Šaxon Grit.
WoRN with the battle, by Stamford town,
Fighting the Norman, by Hastings Bay,
Harold the Saxon’s sun went down,
While the acorns were falling, one autumn day.
Then the Norman said, “I am lord of the land,
By tenure of conquest here I sit ;
I will rule you now with the iron hand ; ”
But he had not thought of the Saxon grit.
He took the land, and he took the men,
And burnt the homesteads from Humber to Tyne,
Made the freemen serfs by the stroke of his pen,
Eat up the corn, and drank the wine;
And said to the maiden pure and fair,
“Thou shalt be my leman, as is most fit,
Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair; ”
But he had not measured the Saxon grit.
To the merry green-wood went bold Robin Hood,
With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray,
Driving the arrow into the marrow
f all the proud Normans who came in his way:
Scorning the fetter, fearless and free,
Winning by valour or foiling by wit,
Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he
That jolly old rogue with the Saxon grit.
And Kett the tanner whipt out his knife,
And Wat the Tyler his hammer brought down,
For ruth of the maid he loved better than life,
And by breaking a head made a hole in the crown.
From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar,
“Our life shall not be by the King’s permit !
We will fight for the right—we want no more l’”
7%en the Norman found out the Saxon grit.
For slow and sure as the Oaks had grown
From the acorns falling that autumn day,
So this Saxon manhood in thorpe and town
To a nobler stature grew alway.
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Standing by law and the human right,
Many times failing, never Once quailing,
So the new day came out of the night.
REV. ROBERT COLLYER, D.D. 71
Then rising afar in the Western Sea,
A new world stood in the dawn of the day,
Ready to welcome the brave and free
Who could wrench out their heart and march away
From the narrow, contracted, dear old land,
Where the poor were held by a cruel bit,
To ampler spaces for heart and hand—
And here was a chance for the Saxon grit.
Steadily steering, eagerly peering,
Trusting in God your fathers came,
Pilgrims and Strangers, fronting all dangers,
Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame.
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter,
And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ,
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy,
But made a new Moses of Saxon grit.
They whittled and waded through forest and fen,
Fearless as ever of what might befall;
Pouring out life for the nurture of men;
In faith that by manhood the world wins all.
Inventing baked beans, and no end of machines;
Great with the rifle and great with the axe—
Sending their notions over the oceans,
To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs.
Swift to see chances that end in the dollar,
Yet open of hand when the dollar is made,
Maintaining the meeting, exalting the scholar,
But a little too anxious about a good trade ;
This is young Jonathan, Son of Old John,
Positive, peaceable, firm in the right,
Saxon men all of us may we be one,
Steady for freedom and strong in her might.
Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown
From the acorns which fell on that old dim day,
So this Saxon manhood, in city and town,
To a nobler stature will grow alway;
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,'
Slow to contention, but slower to quit,
Now and then failing, never once quailing,
Let us thank God for Our Saxon grit
EDWARD COLLINSON.
By JULIA BACKHOUSE,
LIBRARIAN, REFERENCE DEPARTMENT, FREE LIBRARY, BRADFORD.
THIS author, born at West Witton in 1819, was a lawyer's clerk by
profession, and editor of the “Bradford Times” newspaper. Mr.
Collinson was an excellent prose writer, and his compositions in rhyme
were far above mediocrity. In 1836, he, in conjunction with a friend,
published a volume with the following title: “Poems: by Edward
Collinson and M. A. Farrar. Bradford : E. Keighley, Kirkgate, pp.
218.” Abrm. Holroyd, in his “Garland of Poetry,” mentions the
work, and quotes a poem entitled “The Death of Samson.” In
1844, he published a valuable work on “Education; considered in its
importance and general influence on society.” It was dedicated to
Wm. Busſeild, Esq., M.P., of Bingley. In 1851 when Burton
brought out his Directory of Bradford, Mr. Collinson wrote the his-
torical account of the town ; in fact it was a history of Bradford in
a small compass. He also wrote a history of the Worsted Trade,
which was afterwards amplified, and separately published in 1854.
In 1853, when the works at Saltaire were opened, he wrote a good
account of that event. It is a perfect mine of information about
Saltaire and the trade carried on at that place. On account of his
knowledge of the wool trade, and of manufactures generally, he was
considered an authority of matters relating to these subjects. He has
written much in the same line which has been published in other
towns, particularly in Sheffield, where he resided for many years at
Netheredge. -
Newsam in his “Poets of Yorkshire '’ mentions Edward Collinson
of Chapel House, Grassington, but does not quote any of his poems;
it is also very probable that he lived at or near Bingley for some time.
“Bingley Tide'' is culled from the volume before mentioned by
Collinson and Farrar.
He died at West Witton, December 22nd, 1872, about fifty-three
years of age, leaving a widow, one son, and One daughter, and was
buried in the rural churchyard on Christmas Day. It is not a little
remarkable that the late Mr. John James, the historian of Bradford,
and Mr. Collinson had been fast friends and had resided long together,
. and now in death their bodies are laid side by side in the same
“God’s Acre.” - --
Bingles Öide.
FAR music from the distant vale,
Comes floating on mine ear, -
And sounds of mirth are on the gale,
Whose voice alone is drear;
EDWARD COLLINSON.
73
Can, then, the thousand hearts that beat
With rapture at the brief deceit,
No after anguish fear P
Nor dream the dark relapse of pride
Must wake remorse at Bingley Tide P
Yet haply is the feast of mirth
With bliss as feelings rife,
The hours they deem the best on earth
Then light the gloom of life;
And happier, than in regal hall
Is pride at princely festival,
With symbol, flute and fife,
Are they, though wiser lips deride,
In stirring glee at Bingley Tide.
“The dance, the revel, and the song !
These best fill up the heart l”.
Exclaim the widely festal throng,
“And why should these depart P
The day shall bring us high delight,
Which love shall soothe to bliss at night
When happy, and apart,
The absorbing sense of souls allied
Shall thrill the breast at Bingley Tide.”
For, in that meeting of the glen
Full many a glancing eye
Shall kindle, with its magic then,
Affections pure and high ;
For beauty spoils the feeble soul
Of all its boasted self control,
And stoics learn to sigh,
That woman's glance can turn aside
Their stern resolve, at Bingley Tide.
Blest Eden of the limpid Aire,
From year to peaceful year,
Men's hearts confess thy daughters fair,
And virtue makes them dear !
Bloom on 1 and in that after time
Which waits them in a fairer clime
The Soul shall wander here,
Recalling, with delight and pride,
Remembrance sweet of Bingley Tide.
Rev. ISAAC CONSTANTINE, M.A.
By GEORGE ACKROYD, J.P.
*====
IsAAC CONSTANTINE was born at Bradley Hall, near Colne, Lancs.
on the Ioth of September, 1820. After some years his family removed
to Keighley, and here, when quite a stripling, young Constantine began
to pay court to the immortal Nine. At the early age of eighteen he
issued a volume of poems—many of them really creditable productions.
This volume was printed at Keighley by R. Aked, and published in
London by Richard Groombridge, 1839. It was entitled “Flowers of
my Spring,” contained IQ7 pages, and was issued anonymously. At
the time of the publication of this work our author was engaged as
clerk in one of the Keighley Banks, but left this situation for a more
remunerative one in the Bradford Banking Company, which position
he retained for eight years, leaving to commence business on his own
acCOunt.
In 1847 he went out to Canada, when the terrible ship-fever broke
out, and many of the clergy of the Church of England died of it from
attending sick emigrants at quarantine. In this emergency it was pro-
posed to him that he should take holy orders, to help to fill up the
gaps caused by these deaths. He consented, and entered at Bishop's
College, Lennoxville, at which seat of learning he spent three years.
He was ordained deacon by the Right Rev. Bishop Mountain, D.D.
in the cathedral at Quebec, September 20th, 1850, and priest by the
Right Rev. Bishop Fulford, D.D. at Montreal, March 7th, 1852.
In 1856 the rev. gentleman visited England for the benefit of his
native climate, and for a year acted as locum tenens at St. Mary’s, Isles.
of Scilly. Returning to Canada he resumed work in his former sphere,
a charge which he has held for over forty years.
During that time his poetical work, to a certain extent, underwent
self-effacement, in consequence of the more pressing claims of his
clerical responsibilities.
In the year 1890 Mr. Constantine again visited England, in com-
pany with his daughter, returning to Canada in May, 1891. The poems.
quoted are from the volume issued in 1839.
REV. ISAAC CONSTANTINE, M.A. - 75
Öhe Oiſſage £ane.
SEE where the primrose 'neath the prickly thorn
Heaves its Sweet head soft blushing to the morn,
Too humble to provoke its neighbour's ire,
Who vents on taller weeds its envious fire.
In feathery pride, see where the yellow palm
Hangs its light head and sheds its fragrant balm.
How noble look these elms, whose spreading boughs
O'erhang the lawn whereon the milch cow lows,
And the proud peacock swells its glittering train,
Shedding in Splendour the sun’s beams again.
And farther down the winding path appears
The village church tower, hoary in its years,
With scatter'd graves around, and tree of solemn yew,
Mourning above the earth from which it grew.
Here is no pride of heart, no chilling care,
No swelling pomp that snuffs the vital air;
But each lays quiet in his mossy rest;
Perhaps the humblest turf covers the heart once best.
The deeds of virtue, not of vice, are known,
But by the simple logic of a stone !
Do stones speak truth P 'Tis horrid when men die
To greet their parting spirits with a lie,
Here shoots the woodbine, which at eventide
O'erheard the lover’s vows, when seated side by side,
And all was silent else, save mournful Philomel,
Who to dim night alone her plaintive griefs would tell.
Sadly each night arose upon the gale,
The lovely language of her troubled tale;
For in that sacred hour no clown would dare
From off her bough the bird of eve to scare.
Mourns she her mate, kill’d by the cruel boy
Who from his pastor stole to glut his fiendish joy;
And threw the far-too-sadly fatal sling,
Which ‘reft the wanderer of his airy wing P
Or does she wail above the plunder'd nest,
Where her fair offspring found their youthful rest ?
Pity it is that music such as this -
Should owe its origin to grief, not bliss:
Yet, sooth to say, most lovely earth-born things
Were drawn from sorrow’s overflowing springs.
76 REV. ISAAC CONSTANTINE, M.A.
§o $pring.
*-m-mº
GODDESS of beauty welcome art thou here;
Thrice welcome, messenger of -health and joy;
A thousand hearts now hail the coming year
That gives to nature nature’s own employ.
The sinews that whilom were weak with age,
So early grey grown by the late-liv'd year,
Now leave with gladden’d steps their wintry cage,
And leap across the lawn like bounding deer.
A thousand throats now warble out thy praise
Among the budding boughs which float in air;
For thou hast visited the feathery race,
And rous’d the woodlark from his leafy lair.
No longer froze the wild-duck spreads his wing ;
The heron peoples now the lonely pool;
His shrieks around the airy mountains ring,
Astounding clown and matted village fool.
The timorous maid now ventures on the green,
Forgets the legends which she heard of late,
And dances wildly in the woods unseen,
Unmindful of the fiend which Christmas taught to hate.
At her return, fond eyes regard the fair,
For love has waken'd with the wakening spring,
And Cupid flies amid the sunny air,
Throwing his darts of pleasurable sting.
I have oft wander'd by the woodland shade,
And watch'd each leaf unfold its tender cheek,
Afraid to trust the breezes of the glade,
. Yet longing still the gladdening Sun to seek.
Who would not leave the cares that wring the soul,
And shake such dust from off their eager feet P
Running to nature in enraptur'd mood,
Escaping from the world to some moss-grown retreat.
77
CAREY WILLIAMS CRAVEN.
}
COUNCILLOR CRAVEN.

CAREY wiLLIAMS CRAVEN.
By THE REv. ROBERT STANSFIELD,
VICAR OF S. PETER’s, KEIGHLEY.
CAREY WILLIAMS CRAVEN was born at Keighley, in the West-
Riding of Yorkshire, April 23rd, 1855, where his father, assisted by
his sons, as the reward of much perseverance and industry, has built
up one of the principal bookselling concerns in the town. The future
local poet received his early education at the elementary schools, of
which he has but lately contributed to the “Keighley Herald'’ some
interesting and amusing reminiscences. Indeed, from the time when
he was young in years there have appeared constantly in the local press
poetical and descriptive sketches from his versatile pen, which have been
widely read. He has always evinced the keenest interest in questions
concerning the welfare of his native town, and by his public speeches,
decided attitude, and independent judgment, has established his claim
to influence, and a voice in the settlement of questions effecting local
government. The refinement and sympathetic tenderness of his many
poetical compositions have also been very noticeable, and have made
his name widely known in the valley of Airedale. In 1884 he published
a collection of his poems under the title of a “Wreath of Flowers,”
which still further extended his reputation as an author of attractive
verse. In the same year he wrote the historical introduction to
Craven’s Directory of Keighley, Bingley and Skipton, an undertaking
involving much research and literary labour, and proving Mr. Craven’s
true perception of the public requirements. About this time he came
under the personal notice of H. I. Butterfield, Esq. of Cliffe Castle, who,
ever ready to foster and encourage youthful genius, generously supplied
the means for an extended tour through France, Italy and Switzerland.
Mr. Craven has written an account of his travels entitled “With Mr.
Butterfield on the Continent,” which obtained a ready and popular
sale. His friendship with Mr. Butterfield has always been of the most
kindly nature. Mr. Craven has a keen appreciation of wit and humour,
of which his successful editorship of the “Keighley and Airedale
Tattler’” in the years 1885-6 gives abundant evidence. In 1886 he
commenced business on his own account, all the while pursuing his
literary avocations, as shown by numerous miscellaneous poems, tales,
and sketches. Two of his odes on the Queen’s Jubilee, I887, were
graciously accepted by Her Majesty. In 1889 a volume appeared from
CAREY WILLIAMS CRAVEN. 79
*s-,
the press of Mr. E. Craven, Keighley, containing, under the title of
“Poems,” one hundred and twenty seven pages of Mr. Craven’s best
“pieces. The book met with much commendation, and still further
extended the reputation of its author. Following on this in the same
year came a smaller work bearing the title of “The Eiffel Tower, and
other Poems.” Mr. Craven’s active interest in public affairs led to his
nomination to seats on the Keighley School Board and Keighley Town
Council, both of which positions he won after somewhat severe contests.
His shrewd grasp of multifarious business, and the assiduity with which
he has applied himself to the arduous duties of a popular representative,
have more than justified the confidence reposed in him, notwithstanding
that the independence of his judgment has not always found favour in
partizan strife. While Mr. Craven does not neglect the lighter and
more congenial pleasures of the poetic muse, he has shown that he can
apply himself with painstaking devotion and perseverance to the -
welfare of his fellow townsmen. He is deserving of a successful career
in both spheres of useful life.
CI Christmas (Jish.
To one who’s proved so true a friend
A heartfelt message now I send—
A wish that at this festive time
For him the bells will cheerful chime,
And stir the memories of the past,
To dwell on spots where joy is cast;
And when is rung the doubtful change,
From certain past to future strange,
May every happiness attend
His course unto the distant end ;
And at its close, O ! may there be, .
A Christmas in eternity
§he Brontés.
AMONGST the hills with heather clad ,
These strange and marvellous spirits grew,
Admiring nature in its strength, -
With it they formed a compact true.
8O
CAREY wrDLIAMS CRAVEN.
The fragile forms, as hand in hand
They lovingly the bleak path trod,
Might scarcely think how great a name
Would follow from their trust in God.
Discouraged not by fortune’s frown,
In hope they struggled bravely on,
Nor ceased to labour for the right
Till death proclaimed the victory won.
Save one, and he a genius born,
In wild rebellion sunk to nought;
O ! what a noble soul was here,
Had he his sisters' faith but sought.
The good old father, upright, stern,
In secret of his children proud,
He watched their efforts to be great,
Yet spoke his praises not aloud.
The fearless Ellis, bending not,
Whate'er her pathway might beset,
She fought with death up to the last,
And bravely paid her human debt.
And Acton, gently good to all,
Shrinking from jarring worldly strife.
She lived resigned, and passed away,
Peace crowning her unerring life.
A little longer Currer stayed,
The greatest of the magic three,
But ere she went the world bowed down
And worshipped her ability.
The summer's sun may radiant Smile,
Dark winter’s cold wind howl and blast,
But after these have ceased to be,
The sisters’ fame shall ever last. wº
Enshrined in memory's dearest nook,
Their works immortal have a rest,
Humbly I now this tribute pay
To such as rank among the best.
- “S












82
CAREY WILLIAMS CRAVEN.
QIiffe Qestſe.
º
O NOBLE structure I statelier far
Than many homes of ancient name,
Though history has no claims on thee,
Thou still may’st lend to it some fame.
No armed retainers guard thy walls,
No titled lords within there be,
But thou a grand example art,
Of what is gained by industry.
The clippings of the woolly flocks,
The labour of the skilful hands,
The ceaseless clickings of the loom—
These formed the rock on which thou stands.
The merchant’s quick, far-seeing eye,
Stretched far unto a foreign shore,
Wealth risked upon the stormy sea,
That safely landed would be more.
These enterprises yielded gain
To hands and hearts of sterling worth,
And now the fruits are spread around
The town which gave unto them birth.
Yet all the path has not been decked
With joy unmix’d by grief and woe:
The band of six reduced to one,
Is depth of sorrow borne by few.
But mourning shall not last for aye,
The minstrel song shall joyful sound,
And 'mid the throng of circles gay
The festive cup again pass round.
Where stand the castellated towers,
Stretching so proudly to the sky,
And crystal coverings to the flowers
That with the best of nature vie:
From off the richly verdant hills,
As looking o'er the sluggish Aire,
Across whose placid waters rise
A mass of wood and moorland bare,
-
CAREY WILLIAMS CRAVEN. 83
There lies the stone where Robin Hood
Took shelter when he was pursued,
While near is Rivock's gloomy peak,
With nature's wildest state imbued.
And the old Hall of Riddlesden,
Link'd closely with the long-gone past,
And Howden’s pretty woodland scenes,
Where nature's loveliest moods are cast.
Bank House, where oft the careless youth
Received a taste of Jackson’s rod,
Until the pedant’s flesh and bone
Was reverenced like to a god.
And Willow Bank, the cultured home
Of ornamental trees and flowers,
Together with dear, sweet Gill Grange,
Where memory pictures pleasant hours.
Nearer do lie familiar spots,
Where childhood rambled free from pain,_
Long will it be ere are forgot
The “Friendly Oaks” and old “Dark Lane.”
And as the eye stretches apace,
The spacious cricket sward is viewed,
Where bat and ball are wielded well,
And health and strength again renewed.
Now sorrow lends its gloomy pall,
And points to where the dear ones rest,
Where Keighley's noblest sons are laid,
And peace their wearied frames has blest.
Here on the stilly Sabbath day,
Friends to their loved ones' tombs repair,
And bring before their minds again
The image of what’s buried there.
And ancient Utley’s noisy rooks
In lofty trees incessant Cry;
While Hawkcliffe's grand romantic wood,
Near to the busy road doth lie. '
E’en higher still, unto the heights -
Where Whinburn's gallant knight did dwell,
From rich Cliffe Castle may be seen
More than the tongue Or pen can tell.
84.
CAREY WIT,LIAMS CRAVEN.
Within its roomy corridors,
Sculpture and art have found a place,
With treasures brought from far and wide,
And relics culled from every race.
Cliffe Castle, Keighley now is proud
In thee such wonders to possess;
Long may’st thou stand a monument
To shield, to shelter, and to bless.
Retained by one of Keighley’s Sons,
Who to his native town still clings,
His early days are not forgot,
And wealth its part of honour brings.
May generations still to come,
With native pride gaze On the spot,
And point unto the stranger’s eye
Thy glories, ne’er to be forgot.
jubilee Øde.
THROUGHOUT the world—in every clime
Where British hearts have been—
This year shall witness festive deeds
In honour of Our Queen,
From east to west, from north to south,
Her mighty power is known,
And countless millions in her praise
Shall cheer the British Crown.
For fifty years her light has beamed
Resplendent o'er our land,
And for the good of all mankind
She's nobly worked and planned.
'Neath her our friends have closer grown,
Our enemies have fled ; -
And where was once but barren waste
Rich plenty reigns instead.
CAREY WILLIAMS CRAVEN. 85
Then let each voice, with joyful strain,
A tribute to her pay;
Long may she o'er Our Empire rule,
And wield her loving sway,
With her upon the throne our homes
Shall nothing have to fear,
So for the year of jubilee
Give each a hearty cheer.
And as to-day upon this spot
A monument we raise,
In memory of her happy reign
The tower shall speak her praise;
And Hawkcliffe's wooded heights shall show
Forgot she has not been,
By those who from their hearts esteem
Victoria, England’s Queen
@n a Gift of Roses.
To each fair maid, with snowy hand,
Who such a graceful gift have planned,
My thanks sincere I grateful send,
And with them best of wishes blend.
The Queen of Flowers I dearly prize,
No one who did not could be wise,
And I will keep them till decay
Has made their sweetness pass away;
Yet even then my mind shall dwell
On vows of love that roses tell.

SILAS CRYER.
By A. E. ELLISON, M.D.S.
MR. CRYER is a good example of the motto poeta nascitur non fit. He
is gifted with the true spirit of poetry, and though most of his efforts
are simple and common-place, here and there will be found a line
sparkling with promise and full of genius. He was born at
Barnoldswick on August 12th, 1840, but at the age of two years he
removed to Bingley, where he had an uninterrupted residence of over
thirty years. Since then he has resided at Keighley, where he is
engaged as a compositor on the staff of the “Herald.” Whilst at
Bingley he was employed by Mr. Dobson, at whose establishment he
assisted to print the volume of William Dixon's Poems, mentioned on
p. 88. Mr. Cryer is the author of “Leisure Musings,” 72 pp., printed
in 1876, (from which the two poems appended are taken); “Keep to
Right,” “The Better Country,” and many other small works.
$o a $Rºſark.
HAPPY Skylark, soaring in the heav'ns so free ;
Gladly God adoring, blest with liberty.
Thine is surely pleasure which no cares annoy;
Sporting at thy leisure, nought can marthy joy.
Pretty little creature, we might envy thee;
Gladdening now all nature with thy melody:
Cheerfully while mounting on thy merry wing ;
Yet no grief recounting, thou dost welcome Spring.
Thou art never weary in thy lofty flight;
And thy course ne'er dreary, till quite out of sight:
By thy music teaching all may happy be ;
This brief sermon preaching—“Come, rejoice with me !
Thus thy notes so thrilling, cheer the burden’d heart;
Grief’s emotions stilling, peace and joy impart ;
So may we while steering through this world of ill,
Leave some footprints cheering, tending heavenward still.
Thou art e'er contented with thy chosen lot,
As 'tis ne'er lamented, so thou pinest not :
May we, from thee learning to be blithe and gay,
God’s kind care discerning, trust in Him to-day.
SILAS CRYER. 87
Thou art never thinking of thy future lot;
From no sorrows shrinking, so they harm thee not ;
May we, from all sorrow, like thee rise above ;
Leave the coming morrow to a God of love.
Yea, like thee, submitting to our Maker's will,
Trust Him unremitting, for His favour still:
Like thee, never grumble, but to God resign'd,
Bear our lot, though humble, with a thankful mind.
From Him ev’ry blessing comes, but undeserv’d ;
Things, to us distressing, in His love reserved ;
Who, in mercy caring for e'en birds which fly,
Still our wants He's bearing 'neath His watchful eye
C. Goice from the $treamſet.
HARK the gushing streamlet, rippling through the wood,
Tells in language plainly—God is wise and good :
List methinks it whispers—“I was made for man :
Look! I run so freely, all may drink who can.”
“Little warblers gladly sip along my shore,
Giants of the forest hail my gentle roar;
They are led by instinct, reason prompts man’s choice;
They submit and listen, but man shuns its voice.”
“Appetite and passion reason’s laws pervert,
And the noxious bev'rage does him mental hurt;
So, intoxicated, reason prostrate lies,
And all manly feeling sočn within him dies ”
“Thus an abject creature he is made by drink,
And, unconscious, see him dragg’d to ruin’s brink'
Why transform God’s blessing to a deadly curse P
And, by greedy drinking, make the error worse P”
“Why refuse to like me in my crystal state,
And defile my nature with what all must hate P
I am sent to bless you by the God of love;
From the hills I travel, or the clouds above.”
“Nature, clad in beauty, with each flower and tree,
Soon would droop and wither, unsustain’d by me:
Man, receive me wisely, always use me right, 3.
And I then shall yield thee nothing but delight.”
So, real temp'rance learning from the bounding rill,
Let us ever practise and pursue it still ;
Ne'er reject the offer of its kind reproof,
But defend it bravely, and ne'er Stand aloof.
VVILLIAM DIXON.
By CHAS. F. FORSHAW, LL.D.
WILLIAM DIxon was a native of Steeton, born in 1829, died in 1868.
I have not been able to gather much information of his career. Mr.
Grainge, in his “Poets of Yorkshire,” says “He was born of humble
parents, self-educated and brought up to the business of a woolcomber.
He afterwards becaume a watchmaker and working jeweller.” In 1853
John Dobson, of Bingley, printed for him a 192 pp. volume entitled
“The Poetical Works of William Dixon; including Epistles, Pleasures
of Meditation, Melodies, etc., with preface by the Author.” From this
preface I take the following:—“Having never figured in the world as an
“author, by appearing in newspapers, periodicals, journals, and the like,
“I am entirely unknown to the public, which may be my misfortune,
“cause me to be severely reproached by such as, without any information
“from whom this collection has sprung, may expect to find something
“great and admirable. This is my first attempt, the notes to which,
“I have omitted, to avoid expense; and, if in publishing such a paltry
“ production, I have been too bold before the world, I am ready to fall
“upon my knees and sue for pardon. To conclude: no lucrative views
“can have allured me to this transgression, since the number of
“volumes I have printed will little more than pay my publishers, if they
“do greatly; and I anticipate no better reward than that, if this work
“meets with acceptance, I shall feel myself amply remunerated.”
Greed pot (UBiere Kings and Feroes £ie.
TREAD not upon the sifºnt tombs,
Where kings and heroes lie;
But round their everlasting homes,
Stoop, meditate, and sigh
These are the ruins of the brave—
This is heroic clay—
A warrior sleeps in every grave,
Thus glory glides away.
Oft have I heard my sire relate
Their mighty deeds of yore,
And when he spoke, he call'd them great,
As thousands did before.
Their names are on the sands of time,
Inscrib’d and daily read, e
And millions cry in ev'ry clime,
“These are the valiant dead | *
WILLIAM DIX.O.N. 89
Sleep on, ye warriors, sleep and rest,
While flowers upon ye bloom,
And dew drops lightly on your breast
Declare how sad your doom.
Immortal shades, to mem'ry dear,
Though mournful thoughts take birth,
And call forth many a silent tear
To greet your honour’d earth.
öße Beings of Glire.
WHEN the village bell rings,
And the vesper bird sings,
In the Sweet blooming copse of the vale—
When the sun sinks to rest,
'Yond the hills in the west,
And the zephyr breathes through the sweet dale—
When the crystal dews fall
And the partridges call,
As to sleep’s verdant couch they repair—
I'll away to the bower
Where I’ve spent many an hour,
With my love on the green banks of Aire.
There the slender willow grows
O'er the stream as it flows,
And the pale lily waves in the breeze;
Like a beautiful maid,
In Some solitary shade,
Lightly veil’d by the shadow of trees;
And as Hesperus shines
O'er the hill clad with pines,
And delights the sweet soul of my fair;
I’ll embrace her at e'en,
In the bower where we’ve been,
All alone on the green banks of Aire.
Recollection still gleams,
And my fanciful dreams
Bring the scenes of my childhood to view—
How I sported in mirth,
Round the spot of my birth,
When the sweet hours of youth swiftly flew
Those fair walks I have blest,
And my mem'ry shall rest
90
* WILLIAM DIXON.
On the past with a song and prayer;
And in years yet to come,
I may rapturously roam
With my love on the green banks of Aire.
'Twould be folly to be sad,
When all nature is glad ;
And, exempted from anguish and strife,
Let the pulse madly play,
And the aspect be gay,
And the drooping soul leap back to life :
IFre maturity’s woes -
Shall engrave on our brows,
The deep furrows of trouble and care,
Let me snatch some sweet hours,
'Mong the beautiful bowers,
With my love on the green banks of Aire.
in Dags when we were 9oang.
CANST thou forget those blissful hours
Of merriment and glee,
When first I twin’d a wreath of flowers,
And gave it, love, to thee P
Around our feet the waters play’d,
And birds above us sung,
While vernal blossoms perfumes spread,
In days when we were young.
The flowers that bloom'd are wither'd now,
The emblems of our youth,
When first we learn’d with zeal to bow
At Venus’ shrine of truth.
'Twas then, the fields elysian seem’d,
When groves with music rung,
And from each eye affection beam’d,
In days when we were young.
Oft when I think on that delight,
In life’s maturer, years,
The present seems eternal night—
A vale of sighs and tears.
Oh that I had not liv'd to see
My heart so Sorely wrung,
But pass'd away like infancy,
In days when we were young.
Rev. LowTHER E, ELLIS,
BY THOS. WILMOT, L.R.C.P. LOND. M.R.C.S. ENG. L.S.A.
ASSISTANT PHYSICIAN TO THE BRADFORD INFIRMARY ;
VISITING PHYSICIAN TO THE BRADFORD FEVER HOSPITAL.
MR. ELLIS was born at Leeds on December 10th, 1839. When but
a few weeks old he was removed to the picturesque and ancient little
town of Pickering in the North Riding, where, amid scenes of
natural loveliness, and friends of tenderest kindness, which linger yet
in his memory like fragrance on the breeze, he spent his boyhood’s
days. At the age of twenty-two Mr. Ellis entered upon the work of
the Primitive Methodist ministry, and whilst seeking to conscientiously
discharge his duties as a minister of the Gospel of Christ, poets and
poetry have had a charm for him, and the reading of poetry and
Sometimes composing a poem has tended to brighten and sweeten
life's pathway. Mr. Ellis has ministered successfully in many towns,
amongst which we may mention Doncaster, Burnley, Barnsley, Shipley,
Otley, Halifax, Rosedale, Pateley Bridge, Batley, Belper, and
Pocklington. He was twice stationed at Barnsley-–the first time for
three years, and previously to going to Belper for four years. In 1871,
J. Parrott, of Leeds, printed for Mr. Ellis a sweet little volume of
verse, entitled “Flowers in Heaven, or Memorials of the Dead; and
other poems; ” London : G. Lamb; pp. 64. This book, with true
poetic tenderness, the Rev. gentleman dedicated “to a kind mother.”
In reviewing it the “Primitive Methodist’’ of December 7th, 1871,
says, “It is a beautiful little volume of Poems. . . . The Author
is a true poet.” We give three poems culled from “Flowers in
Heaven,” and, one on “Reminisences of an Old Man’s Story.”
*-----—
Brown's (Jood.
*-*
WORTHY a poet's muse, thou grand old wood |
For generations thou hast proudly stood.
A forest once wert thou of kingly pride,
Stretching thy noble borders far and wide.
Within thy sylvan glades the wild boar rang'd ;
On stealthy pinions glided birds of prey:
But, oh, since then how greatly art thou changed I
Now signs of peace prevail from day to day.
In former times I’ve heard the aged tell,
How in thy precints was a famous well,
92
REV.
LOWTHER E.
ELLIS.
�
%
%
-


R.E.V. LOWTHER E. ELLIS. 93
Where from the College students came to drink,
And meditate beside its shady brink.
Now, near thy once lone confines, rushes by
The engine, belching sparks ascending high,
And cloudy smoke which 'mid the Sunbeams play
As merry as the laughing flowers of May.
Enclosed in thy domains is also found
A little plot of sacred, hallowed ground,
Where from the cares of life for ever freed,
Lie buried some who were of Fox’s creed.
Though altered much from what thou long hadst been,
A grandeur yet remaineth to be seen :
Here stand the stately tree and massive stone,
On which for ages past the Sun hath shone ;
The woodbine clinging to the sturdy Oak,
Sheds a rich fragrance o'er each winding walk;
The velvet slopes are decked with smiling flowers,
And birds sing sweetly in their leafy bowers.
*Mid these transporting charms I love to stray,
At dewy eve or early dawning day;
These scenes delightful ruminations bring
Of Nature's God, and Heaven’s Eternal King.
CIn £nuogation.
amm-mm,
THOU great Jehovah in this place,
Unveil the glories of Thy face:
To every mind Thy power reveal ;
Let every heart Thy goodness feel.
Here, in Thine house, for ever dwell,
Defeat the subtile power of hell;
Let Satan fly before thy might,
Into his dark abode of night.
By Christ, whose blood the nations bought,
Let matchless wonders here be wrought:
O Spirit ! Thou eternal power,
On us Thy heavenly blessings shower.
94. R.E.V. LOWTHER E. ELLIS.
Great Three in One ! Immortal Sire
Fan into flame the holy fire
Array Thy saints in robes of grace,
And let Thy glory fill the place
Here let the captive find relief,
Break the strong bars of unbelief:—
And let the Song of Jubilee
Be sung, O'er ransom'd sinners free.
For ever here may peace abound,
And great prosperity be found ;
In union Sweet may each agree,
To consecrate their all to Thee
Reminiscences of an ºld Qan's $torg.
“And thank kind Heaven that old in years,
In heart I’m still a boy.”—W. C. BENNETT, LL.D.
TRANSFIx’D I stood, while spoke an aged sire
Of scenes now past,--with all his soul on fire;
His features finely formed in classic mould,
Ere he had spoken half his tale had told.
Long had he journeyed in this vale of tears;
And had been reckoned old some dozen years;
But he was not devoid of hope or joy;
He seemed exultant now, as when a boy,
With animated voice and touching strain,
He told his life—and lived it o'er again.
He spoke of childhood’s days, and then of youth,
Of pious parents, and the Word of Truth ! *-
He told how he the kindest wife had won,
And how the courting in his day was done l—
How o'er the meadow-paths they loved to roam,
And dreamt of fairer scenes l—their future home !
IREV. LOWTHER E. ELLIS. 95
He said, in tone subdued, my faithful wife
Long years ago, has gained her crown of life
My children four, they died—died all, save one !
And she’s my only prop to lean upon.
In Miriam, the one child left to me,
Her mother's image and her charms I see
She was our first-born too, our pride and joy,
We wished her happiness without alloy;
But, ah, the cruel fate which her befel
Soon broke the cherished visionary spell;
When her young life was verging into bloom,
Her hopes were buried in a lover's tomb
And her’s has been a life-long sacred grief,
Which oft in plaintive music seeks relief
The modest youth, who bore a blameless name,
Breathed for my child a love of purest flame:
Of noble mind was he, yet slender form,
Too frail to bear the blasts of life’s rough storm.
Soon blight appeared upon the tender flower,
And day by day he yielded to its power;
Then to his friends he smilingly would tell
How much he longed in brighter climes to dwell.
A shining halo crowned his dying head,
And fairest visions now before him spread.
That hallowed spot seemed but the gate of heaven,
To him such pure and rapturous joy was given :
My only child was there, his promised bride,
With up-clasped hands, and kneeling by his side :
Her pent-up anguish venting into tears,
While Edwin’s dying words consoled her fears:—
When I am with the white-robed spirits free,
By day, by night, I’ll keep fond watch o'er thee.
The old man said: My Miriam and I
Oft speak of those now passed into the sky;
We love them yet, those chaste-hued gathered flowers —-
They bloom in heaven, and still we call them ours;
Ere long, I know, the summons sent in love
Shall call us hence, to join our friends above
96
REV. T.OWTHER E. E.I.L.I.S.
$ie.
OH. Tic I thou fell insidious bane
Thy victims often writhe with pain;
Old Stoics thou hast made to weep,
While robbing them of balmy sleep.
Would I could scare thee far away,
Into a region void of day,
In gloomy solitude to dwell;
No one would sigh to say, “farewell.”
Or I could like it even better,
To forge for thee an iron fetter,
And chain thee down beneath the ground,
In a tremendous deep profound,-
That, 'mid some wild volcano’s fire,
Thy venom fangs might all expire
Oh I dreadful fate | yet none would weep
To know thee laid a smouldering heap.
Thy funeral sermon I would preach,
And then, in earnest prayer beseech
That when the sudden crack of doom
Shall rouse the sleepers of the tomb,
Thou still shalt lie in awful deep,
Locked in profound eternal sleep,
That none may ever taste thy pain,
Thou cruel, fell, insidious bane !
Éaworth–Clagast.
(EDITOR.)
HAworTH ! thy name makes pleasant mem'ries rise,
And gives a peace to bosom and to brain,
Soothes our disquiet and relieves our pain,
And proves a balm for all our anxious sighs.
Here 'twas the gifted Bronté's caused surprise
To a whole nation by their wondrous sheaf
Of books. Eager the world perused each leaf
And learnt at Haworth they had found a prize.
The knots of charming heather, blooming wild,
Speaking of hope, and joy, and trust, and love;
The yielding ground below, the sky above,
And the calm breeze so gentle and so mild
Fills us with thought and teaches us to be
Mindful and ready for Eternity
JOHN EVANS.
By CHAS. F. FOR SHAW, LL.D.
JoHN EVANs, by trade a woolcomber, was born at Pilton, in Somerset,
in 1818, and died at Keighley on the 25th September, 1873. He was
a resident of Bradford and Keighley nearly 40 years, at which towns
he published several small books of verse, under the titles of “The
IEmigrant,” “Village Scenes,” “The Poacher,” &c. In 1848 he
issued a 12 pp. pamphiet on “The Progress of Intemperance,” in
decasyllabic verse (Bradford: Benjamin Walker, Market Street). From
it I make the following extract. -
£ptemperance.
YON golden orb obscured may faintly smile,
Its brilliant disc be darkened for awhile ;
The lightning sit enthroned upon a cloud,
And bid the gloom depart in thunder loud;—
May lift his hand invisible on high, a-
And mark his anger on the dusky sky,
Its fiery curves the wondering world appal,
Like omens written on Belshazzar's wall;
Heaven’s dread artillery with mighty power,
Cleave the tough oak or shake the steadfast tower,
The panic stricken cloud dissolve in tears,
And sneak away indicative of fears,
Or vainly tarry to arrest its course,
Till flashes pierce it and dispel by force:
Yet these but form an awful simile
Of what frail man intemperate must be ;
His blood exalted might oppress the brain,
Till some opposing pow'rs its force restrain;
Or, by the impulse of contraction, dart,
Distend the veins and paralyze a part
Which, if obstructed, it would soon devour;
But melancholy curbs its lawless power,
As sunny life or gloomy death assails,
Frantic or dull insanity prevails;
If, in life’s path they linger undisturbed,
The power relax which vital motion curbed,
A fit succeeds, and compromising strife
Adjusts the vagrant tendencies of life.
JOHN DAVSON FOX.
By REV. M. KNOWLSON,
MINISTER, PRIMITIVE METHODIST CHAPEL, BINGLEY.
JOHN DAWSON FOX was born on February 25th, 1849, in the
village of Harden, near Bingley, in the West Riding of Yorkshire.
When very young he was committed to the care of grandparents, and
spent with them the first twelve years of his life, and pleasant are the
recollections of these early years. When twelve years of age his
grandparents died, and life lost to him much of its sweetness, but he
had neither time or disposition to yield to a mournful, morbid spirit.
He saw clearly that he must now work and care for himself. A poor
little cripple girl, who had found a home beneath the same roof, also
claimed his sympathy, and with a view of doing something for both, he
removed to Bingley, where he found employment at the Victoria Mill
at a small weekly wage of five shillings. For several years he remained
in the factory, gradually advancing in position and influence. His
ambition was, however, to rise in the world. The position of Secretary
and Librarian at the Bingley Mechanics’ Institute becoming vacant, he
applied for the post, received the appointment, and continued there
thirteen years. In the meantime he married Maria, the youngest
danghter of the late Jones and Martha Coulton, of Harden Beck.
Family cares and responsibilities increasing, he determined on another
change, and with much fear and trembling left the institute for a position
of risk and speculation, becoming the organising agent for a local
insurance company. This did not succeed as he had anticipated,
through circumstances over which he had no control. He is now
engaged in a business of his own making, viz., Wholesale Dealer in
Specialities in Drugs. In this he is likely to remain, as by plodding
persistent effort he has made it a success, notwithstanding the difficulties
which to some men of less tact and perseverance would have been
impossible. Mr. Fox is a gentleman much respected and esteemed by
all who know him, and by those who know him best he is most loved
and revered. This is proved by the positions of honour and responsi-
bility the church of his choice has put upon him. He has been a
Primitive Methodist Local Preacher over twenty years, has represented
his circuit in District Meeting on two occasions, and has. Once sat as
Delegate in the highest assembly of the Connexion—the Conference.
He is Superintendent of the Sunday School and President (for the
sixth time in succession) of the Primitive Methodist Christian Associa-
99
JOHN DAWSON FOX.
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I O O JOHN DAWSON FOX.
tion. He is a persistent temperance advocate. Respecting his literary
productions much might be said. He published a few years ago a little
work entitled “The Preachers’ Register,” which received the favour-
able testimony of Canon Farrar and other distinguished divines, having
had a sale of over 2,000. Recently he published a beautiful Service of
Song entitled “The Struggles of a Village Lad,” which is having a
large sale. In addition to the narrative, three of the hymns are from .
the pen of Mr. Fox. As a poet he most excels as a hymn writer.
We append a specimen of his writings entitled “Some-
day,” which we consider a perfect gem. We may further intimate
that it is the intention of Mr. Fox to publish, ere long, in book form the
whole of his poems. We trust that when published they will find a
ready sale and increase the already extending fame of our subject.
$omedag.
THE word falls softly on Our ears,
What meaning doth that word convey !
Uttered in smiles, expressed with tears,
Hopeful, and cheering word—Sömeday.
'Tis happy childhood’s voice we hear—
Those little boys and girls at play—
How confiderſt, and void of fear
They speak of one grand, Sweet—Someday.
Bright, sunny, happy, golden hours;
A fairy life so good and gay;
A pathway strew’d with fairest flowers,
All yet to come, of course,_Someday.
Youth’s restless, ever-wondering age,
..Whose actions never dormant lay,
Doth often place upon the stage
The pleasing drama, called—Someday.
One scene the memory will retain,
Though other scenes may pass away,
'Tis where the lovers meet, they twain
Breathe forth the whisper’d word—Someday.
JOHN DAWSON FOX. I O I
To love and wait they promise fair,
And for each other oft do pray -
That God will take beneath His care
Those two, and make them one—Someday.
The man of business Šeeks to find
Some refuge on life’s onward way;
Something to give him peace of mind
Amidst the threat’nings of Someday.
Hence faith and hope, with mind and will,
Are called important parts to play;
If now the journey be up hill,
It may be on the plain—Someday.
Though for a while the sun may hide
Behind the clouds his cheering ray,
But clouds disperse ! and in his pride
The sun will shine again—Someday.
Come prosperous gale, thou envied guest,
Waft to yon tranquil, sheltered bay,
That calm retreat, so oft in quest,
All, all desire to gain—Someday.
Spring, Summer, autumn, now are fled,
Arrived, the season of decay;
Who hath not on life’s page oft read,
The dying will be dead—Someday.
'Tis evening now, 'twill soon be night—
What changes since life’s merry May;
Pleasure and pain, through shade and light,
Have been, and will be, till—Someday.
But soon the last great change will come,
. It cannot very long delay:
Ah, no l life’s barque is nearing home,
Sweet thought ! shall anchor there—Someday.
Strength, vigour, fail,-impaired the sight,
Blest promise—never dying stay,
“At evening time it shall be light,”
All light beyond, no night, Someday,
JosFPH HARDACRE.
By PERCY MILLIGAN, M.R.C.S. L.S.A.
JOSEPH HARDACRE, or Hardaker, for he signed his name in both
ways, was born at Lees, a hamlet a mile wide of Haworth, in the year
I790. It is not certain that he was brought up to any trade, but the
probability is that, as his parents were only poor hill-side farmers, they
would have to eke out their living by hand-woolcombing, the almost
universal means of existence in the district at that day, and, un-
doubtedly, young Hardacre would have his share to do towards the
family purse. Physically he was a poorly, delicate man, of broken
constitution; a condition which gave him great and continued mental
distress. His parents were Protestants, and Hardacre followed in the
same belief until in middle age, he became a Roman Catholic, and
died in that faith in the year 1840. He was never married. He was
almost entirely self-educated, a capital debater, a dabbler in several of
the sciences, and a good speaker. He started the first druggist’s shop
in Haworth, and by his attention and abilities soon drew to the place
the best people of the neighbourhood; he supplemented this business
#. # | ; | -
º º ---
fº §§ - ſºft #=
º
THE OLD CHURCH AT HAWORTH IN THE TIME OF HARDACRE
- AND VICARIATE OF MR. BRONTÉ.
by acting, during several years, as clerk to solicitors in Keighley, and
only relinquished this employment on account of failing health, when
he retired to the old home at Haworth to die. His remains lie in the








Jº- . JOSEPH HARDACRE. - Io;
old churchyard. Old Patrick Bronté and his son Branwell, were his
friends; indeed, all the best in position, education and wealth of the
district took pleasure in honouring Joe with, custom and countenance,
more, I fancy, for his native talents and evident intellectual superiority,
than for the "meagre accommodation his shop afforded. He was the
author of three volumes of verse: “Poems: Lyric and Moral,” .
printed by Inkersley of Bradford, in 1822, pp. 151; “The AEropteron,
or Steam Carriage,” printed by Aked of Keighley, in 1830; and “The
Bridal of Tomar,” printed by Charles Crabtree of Keighley, in 1831,
pp. 144. The poems selected are from “The Bridal of Tomar.”
Qg Plative Foome.
*-*-*-*.
I WOULD not leave my native plains,
My king, my country, and their cause,
For all that rich Peru contains,
Nor all the mighty Mogul knows. .
The dear, dear spot, that gave me birth,
And those bright hopes of joys to come,
That prattle round my humble hearth,
Shall tie me to my native home.
*3
Not wilder, stern Heckla when frozen and fiery,
Nor where that fair youth laid, a death-smitten lamb,
Where the wolf had her lair, and the eagle her eyrie,
The cloud-capt Hellvellyn, and Catchedicam ;
Than was the Black Nab, where the wild winds were lashing,
And born on its red-wing, the red lightning flashing ;
As struggled, bewilder'd, thro' icy pits crashing,
The fair child of nature—the cold earth his dam.
Beneath the deep drift as his steed lay extended,
With none but himself and his dog trembling by;
As o'er him in sadness and sorrow he bended,
How sad must his heart have been—heavy his sigh ;
But oh how despairing, when all efforts thwarted,
The last lingering hope of recovery departed ;-
As stretched on the chill bosom’d snow, broken-hearted,
He laid himself down in its cold arms to die.
I O4. JOSEPH HARDACRE.
So dear to his bosom his home was it never,
That beam'd with the last ray of hope on his mind;
How poignant his anguish, when parted for ever
From all whom he loved as endearing and kind;
Yet one better blessing might cheer the expiring,
That boon that is granted by earnest requiring,
When all of this earth is seen dimly retiring,
That boon might the sadly-lorn wanderer find.
How dismal that scene neither homestead nor haven,
Wherein the poor wanderer might peaceably die;
Too wild to be heard the sad shriek of the raven,
Save one faithful friend, his poor dog, nothing nigh;
How bootless the wish of his friends then expressing,
How keen must his anguish have been, and distressing,
The cold icy finger of death on him pressing,
As burst from his sadly swoln heart the last sigh.
Upon the cold sheet of the mountain Snow lying,
The child of misfortune look’d lovely in death ;
While round him the vultures were screaming and flying,
His dog hovered o'er him devoting his breath ;
His dirge was the howl of that one faithful lover;
His requiem, the scream of the grey-winged plover;
The wild rites of nature, these obsequies over,
In peace rest the shade of that victim of scath.
That rudely-piled Cairn o'er the mountain-crest nodding,
As sacred memorial, may silently tell e
The way-wearied hunter, the traveller plodding,
That rest at its foot, how the wanderer fell ; .
The wild winds shall sigh there till nature dissemble,
The green rushes quiver, the heather-bells tremble;
And gray mists shall hover, and dark clouds assemble,
Like mutes at the dirge, and like dole at the knell.
JOSEPH HARDACRE. I O 5
Be $tiſſ.
*-*-*.
BE still ! for our thoughts are unfolded to view,
Let the eye and the ear be all heed,
And calm as a zephyr, and chaste as the dew,
In thought, and in word, and in deed :
And let not the air with our revels be riven,
Be still, for they hear us, and see us in heaven.
Be still ! for, perchance, from the land of the blest,
With ministering shades soaring forth,
The souls of our friends gone before us to rest,
May sometimes have leave to re-visit this earth,
May look on each kindred survivor that’s here ;
Be still then, perchance, they are hovering near.
Be still ! the dark vault of the lowly laid dead,
Where the spectre is said to be seen,
Has nothing about it more fearful or dread,
Than the princely superb, or the gravely serene ;
A spirit is there too, 'tis fluttering about—
It is harkening the whisper, and watching the thought.
Be still ! and the fond, and vain notion suppress,
The thought of ambition and show ;
'Tis the moonshine attire, and the specious address,
Of hypocrisy’s self, 'tis our nature's worst foe;
Its pitiful show and its broken rest,
Is the gloom of the damn'd, to the light of the blest.
Be still ! at the most let us measure our mirth,
Nor fill up that measure too fast :
That the mind in its retrospect view looking forth,
May find an agreeable, beautiful past; -
The day should appear to the evening all bright,
And the morn should look back with a smile on the night.
MALCOLM. W. HILLES, L.R.C.S.I.
By CHAS. F. FOR SHAW, LL.D.
*mº
DR. HILLES resided in Keighley several years, from about 1877 to
I880, where he had obtained the appointment of Medical Officer to the
Local Board of Health. During his stay at Keighley he contributed
poems, almost weekly, to the local press, and also published in 1879,
through E. Craven, bookseller, two dramatic poems, each foolscap 4to :
“The King and the Protector,” and “A Queen’s Love.” I have not
been able to find much matter for a biography of Dr. Hilles. From a
glance at the Medical Directory, I find he studied at Dublin, and took
the qualification of Licentiate of the Royal College of Surgeons,
Ireland, in 1831, after which he was appointed Lecturer on Anatomy
and Physiology to the Westminster Hospital. He was Civil Surgeon
to the forces in the Crimea, and author of the following works:
“British Dissector,” “On Hernia,” “Essentials of Physiology,”
“Regional Anatomy,” “Diseases of London Residents; ” besides
which he contributed articles to the JLancet and Medical Times. For
some years the doctor resided in London, where, in all probability
he died about ten years ago. I give an extract from page 6 of
“A Queen’s Love.”
[A Room in St. James' Palace. CECIL aſ a ſqble covered with
papers.]
CECIL–This new born fondness of Our love-sick queen
For the young Lord of Essex bodes not good ;
Leicester has ceased to charm, and would appoint
A scion of his house to fill his place,
And gain new honours for his next of kin ;
He hath too often crossed me in my path,
And now would place another in my way,
When age and sickness renders him unfit
For place and power. I will not have it so,
This youthful lord already hath obtained
More honours than are just, and would usurp
MALCOLM WILLIAM HILLES. I of
Some higher still. He must be checked in time,
His fiery temper and impatient soul
Are the best means for me to work upon—
His love too, for the Lady Sydney,
Her close attention to him e'en at Court—
Although the Queen, so blinded with her love,
Doth see it not—will serve my purpose well.
Haply the Queen doth favour his intents
To check my power, and would a rival make
Of him to me; I know her weakness, and
Can turn and twist her round my finger ends.
'Tis but to make her jealous of this lord,
And I shall turn the weapon that she meant
To wound me with, against her proper self.
I shall appoint a spy to wait on him,
Who shall report to me his every step :
And if I find him tripping in the least,
Shall catch him as the angler hooks his fish,
And play him, till I land him in my net,
Flat on his back; ’tis but a little now
That takes one’s head from off his shoulder's clean,
And though Her Majesty doth spare the axe,
When that she may with safety to herself—
Let me but rouse her fears, her jealousy,
Turn her new born love to bitter hate,
And my good lord may haply lose his head—
'Tis a most potent remedy, and doth save
A world of trouble in these shifting times.
I wonder that I’ve kept my own so long :
The youthful lord is cousin to the queen,
And e'en from this suspicions may arise
That he may seek to place himself upon
The throne 'pon which Her Majesty now sits.
I will appoint Sir Richard Forster to this work,
He is a subtle knave, will do my bidding well.
And now for Greenwich, where the Court rejoice,
And spend the day in wanton revelry;
My gracious Queen will figure in the dance
As gaily now as when a giddy girl -
She led the dance within St. James' Halls.
J A M E S H I R D.
By JAMES BURNLEY.
AUTHOR OF “PHASES OF BRADFORD LIFE,”
“YORKSHIRE STORIES RE-TOLD,” ETC.
THE late Mr. James Hird, who was born in the parish of Bingley in
1810, and died at Ilkley on the 12th November, 1873, was all his life
in deep sympathy with the poetic thought and aspirations, not only of
his own time, but of the more famous past, and was himself a poet
-of no mean order. Belonging, as he was proud to own, to the self-
-educated class of writers, his achievements cannot but be regarded as
of considerable importance, for although his muse was mainly content
with homely themes and did not soar beyond the limits of a rather
limited experience, it was always sincere, and ſull of heart and
sympathy. In early life he expcrienced much of the evils and hardships
•of that ill-starred period of factory life upon which Richard Oastler let
in the flood of popular indignation, and many of his poems had for
their subjects incidents or reflections connected with those dark days.
His pen was frequently exerted in furtherance ºf the Ten Hours’ Move-
ment, and he never wearied of sing ng the praises of Oastler, Bull,
Wood, and other champions of that well fought crusade. He had
himself, as he relates in a note to one of his poems, been sent by his
widowed mother to work in the factory when only six years old, and
was subjected to the tyrannies and miseries which at that time were
the common lot of factory children. From six o'clock in the morning
until eight or nine at night, with only half an hour's rest at noon—
breakfast and tea being eaten while the machinery was running—did
the poor little slaves toil, and James Hird never forgot in his
subsequent prosperity that he had been one of these suffering creatures,
and never ceased to sorrow ſor the helpless and unfortunate. As Mr.
|Hird advanced to manhood he forced himself into a better career than
the mill had offered him, and by dint of self-culture and perseverance
was able to take up a position that, while being one of responsibility
and value, yielded him greater opportunities than he had previously
-enjoyed for the expansion of his mind and the exercise of his poetic
gifts. For many years he held a managerial appointment in connection
with the Old Brewery at Bradford, and by the time he relinquished
that post he had, by thrift and fortunate building speculations, acquired
a competence; a whole colony of cottages in Hall Lane, Bowling,
being in the course of a few years built by him. It was while enjoying
Io9.
HIRI).
JAMES
JAMES HIRD.


I IO JAMES HIRD.
the leisure which now fell to him that he was elected a member of the
Bradford-Town Council, to which body he belonged for several years.
The speeches he made in the Council Chamber were occasionally of
the poetic order, often winding up with a peroration in verse that
must have sounded odd to the prosaic ears to which it was uttered.
But Mr. Hird was always so thoroughly in earnest, and so well-
meaning, that he commanded a large measure of public esteem. A
short time previous to his death he retired to Ilkley, where he had
erected for himself a handsome house, but he never seemed quite to
enjoy this self-banishment from the scenes of his more active life, and
gradually drooped and died. Mr. Hird’s first volume of poems was
entitled “The Harp on the Willows; or Poetry on Miscellaneous
Grave Subjects,” pp. 113, published in 1834. His second was entitled
“The Prophetic Minstrel and other Poems,” pp. 136: H. Wardman,
Bradford; London, Longman & Co.; his third was a little brochure
which ran into several editions, entitled “The Cypress Wreath,’’ pp. 3
printed by T. Micklethwaite of Bradford, and his fourth and last—on
which his claim to the title of poet must mainly rest—was printed in
I866. It bore the title of “A Voice from the Muses,” and was
printed by J. Ward, Dewsbury, pp. 173: London, Simpkin, Marshall
and Co.; Bradford, T. Brear—dedicated to the working men of
Bradford. Most of the poems are slight in structure, but are instinct
with kindly feeling, and show much grace and fervour of expression.
He was easily moved to poetic exercise; any striking public or private
event, the death of a friend, the recurrence of a birthday, the receipt
of a flower, the passing of a year, or the presentation of a portrait
served to inspire him. Cowper was his favourite poet, and much of the
purity of feeling and Christian humility and hopefulness that charac-
terised the writings of the author of “The Task '’ were reflected in the
verses of Mr. Hird. The first poem is from “The Harp on the
Willows,” the second from “The Prophetic Minstrel,” and the third
from “A Voice from the Muses.”
Birthday and Gatacon.
NOT the song of a bird, nor the scent of a flower,
Not a hum where the bees used to stray;-
But the Sun’s sickly beam, or the rattling shower,
Or the dark torrent foaming away.
JAMES HIRD. - I I I
For the Summer is past, the leaves are all sear,
The ripe fruits are falling around,
Pomona and Ceres have crowned the year,
And the wet morning dew's on the ground.
Night gains on the day, and the tale is begun
Of prowess in actions gone by ; &
In the homes of the joyful there’s music and fun,
While the murky rain rocks in the sky.
As now, when the sickle and scythe no more tire,
** And the van’s left its load for the flail,
Oft have I por'd o'er romance by the fire,
Or gasp'd at Some sad ghostly tale.
No wonder I burn with the bard's sacred fire,
Am seldom transported to mirth,
Or, that I’ve lost all but the legend and lyre,
Since this was the time of my birth.
Bejection.
MELANCHOLY thoughts, begone
Oh, for Once your victim spare,
Let my wearied life alone,
Or I’m plung'd in deep despair.
Soon my funeral knell shall sound,
Soon these rolling eyes shall close,
Soon beneath the silent Ground,
Though my eyes are sunk and dim,
Though my cheeks are deadly pale,
Though in seas of grief I swim,
Tost with many a bitter gale;
JAMES HIRD.
Still I should not wish to die,
Oh, it is a solemn task:
Is there ought below the sky,
Or in all the world, I ask ;
Which possesses so much terror,
As the great destroyer, Death P
From him sinners shrink with horror,
Shrieking with expiring breath.
£ines on “CŞange.”
BEHOLD the vast ethereal dome !
The glittering gems that gild the night !
And tell me, Could the stars become
By chance so beautiful and bright P
Could day and night by chance roll on
Through countless ages still the same P
And the glad Spring, when Winter’s gone,
Her golden chariot reclaim P
Could chance have hollowed out the deep,
Restrained and set the sea its bounds P
Marked out the path the planets sweep,
And fixed their everlasting rounds P
Could chance have stopp'd the mid-day Sun,
Held back the silvery orb of night,
Till Joshua the battle won,
And put his myriad foes to flight P
Did not the dews of Heaven descend .
Obedient to th’ ETERNAL’s will,
Would not our harvests have an end ?
Could chance alone our granaries fill P
Behold the lilies of the field !
Who made them so divinely fair P
To Him that's everywhere revealed,
Ye hopeless votaries of Chance declare.
JAMES HIRD. - I 13
£ord Byron and his petractors.
(HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.)
Let him alone, full forty years have past
Since sorrowing Greece beheld him breathe his last ;
And is it noble, generous, or just,
Now that his flesh is but a heap of dust,
With everlasting infamy and shame
To brand his living and illustrious name P
Let him alone you have enough to do
To steer your own uncertain vessel through
The troubled sea of this tempestuous life,
The restless ocean of unceasing strife.
Let him alonel his sleep will be the same
Howe'er you try his memory to defame;
You cannot break the slumbers of the tomb,
Or change his fix’d, irrevocable doom.
Let him alone ! The maids of Greece reply,
With faltering accents and with streaming eye :
Let him alone ! all Athens cries aloud,
Down to the dust with deepest sorrow bowed.
Let him alone ! upon the scroll of fame
The hand of Destiny has stamped his name;
His genius like somc bright out-flaming star,
Seen by the wandering sons of earth, afar,
Shall shine till Time’s last hour its course hath run,
And endless night hath blotted out the sun.
Sweep on, ye years, and bring the promised day
When all oppressions shall be swept away;
When war no more its ravages shall spread,
Trampling upon the dying and the dead.
Sweep on, ye years of Sordid lust, for gain, -
Sweep on till Mammon ceases on earth to reign ;
Till all Sectarian feuds shall pass away, -
As darkness flies before the light of day;
Till righteousness shall o'er the earth prevail,
Sweep on Th’ Eternal's Word shall never fail.
Sweep on, sweep on, in Time’s triumphal car,
Sweep on, until the bright millenium star
Shall o'er the world in all its splendour rise
And with its glory fill both earth and skies.
II.4.
ABRAHAM Holroy D.

ABRAHAM Holroy D.
By will AM scruTON,
AUTHOR OF “THE BIRTHPLACE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ ; ” “PEN
AND PENCIL PICTURES OF OLD BRADFORD ; ” ETC.
*-*
Stern death, which comes at last to all, came on Sunday
January 1st, 1888, to a ‘worthy’ whose name will be bound up in the
history of Bradford as long as that history endures. But the ‘dread
angel” had no terrors for Abraham Holroyd. His religion (for he was
profoundly religious) was of a practical kind that gave him much
happiness in life, and brought him consolation arid courage when face
to face with death. And now ‘After life’s fitful ſever he sleeps well.’
It has been my pleasure, and privilege too, to be intimately
acquainted with Mr. Holroyd for more than a quarter of a century.
In my own antiquarian pursuits I have often been indebted to him for
guidance and help, which were ever given freely and unstintedly, for
he was indeed generous to a fault. As the years rolled on, the
acquaintanceship gave place to a close and enduring friendship, and as
a friend I found him firm and true. - .
Mr. Holroyd’s career had been an eventful and interesting one,
and while in conversation with him he sometimes let fall snatches of it,
enough to satisfy me that it was one well worthy of being ‘placed on
record.” When I first ventured to hint this to him he did not seem to
fall in with it very cordially, but after a while he broached the subject
himself, and, to my delight, said that, as soon as he could find time, he
would sit down and write out, to the best of his ability, and the powers
of his memory, the story of his life. The making of a promise was
with Mr. Holroyd as good as its fulfilment, for he was ever a ‘man of
his word.’ And so it came to pass that, after a little patient waiting, I
had put into my hands one day a well-written manuscript in Mr.
Holroyd's handwriting, of which the following is a copy.
“I was born at the village of Clayton, near Bradford, on the 2nd
of April, 1815. My father’s name was Isaac Holroyd, and he was
born and brought up at a place called Storres, near Thornton Heights.
My mother was descended from the Barkers of Clayton on the father’s
side, and on that of the mother from the Northorps of Bradford-dale.
They were both handloom weavers, and as soon as my legs were long
I 16 . ABRAHAM HOLROYD.
enough to reach the treadles they set me, to work at the same
employinent. I received no education at school except one summer my
grandfather Holroyd paid threepence a week for me, when I learnt to
read. This was at the old Village School, Clayton. My parents were
too poor to do anything, as they had four little ones all younger than
myself, yet though we were so poor, our family was very much respected,
and I never knew of anyone saying a bad word of any of us. I picked
up my skill in writing at home, practising from slips or copies set for
me by a cousin. When I was seventeen years of age I began to pen
short poems and rhymes, and these being very much admired, Mr.
Wardman, of Bradford, printed a few of them in 1834. In the mean-
time my father died, and I, still working as a weaver, was employed
first by Mr. J. Ackroyd, of Halifax, and then by Mr. Richard Fawcett,
of Bradford. Wages, however, in 1836, had become so low that I
determined to enter the army and give up weaving. I had been pulled
off sixpence a time in six weeks, and so on the 5th of November of
that year I enlisted at Leeds into the 32nd Regiment of Foot, then
stationed at Montreal, in Canada. On the next day I was sworn
before a magistrate at Leeds, and in a day or two I was sent off with
others by way of steam packet at Hull to London. Afterwards I was
sent by packet to Plymouth to join the depôt of my regiment. Here
in the George's Square Barracks I learnt my drill, and in June, 1837,
started in the barque Rajah for Quebec, Capt. Birtwhistle—a Skipton
man—in command of about a hundred of us recruits.
“When at home in Clayton I had only been able to buy about
four books, and these were small volumes for the pocket with one
exception. The books were ‘Ossian’s Poems,’ ‘Burns' Poems,”
* Franklin's Works,’ and ‘The Pilgrim's Progress.’ The large book
was “Pope’s Works,’ with Homer’s Iliad and Odyssy. I found some
of the recruits on board the ship great Scholars. One of them had
been educated at Queen’s College, Dublin, and he was a man of
prodigious memory. On the long and dreary voyage he taught me
much for which I am truly thankful. But he was, alas ! though the
best of friends, a slave to drink.
“At the end of July we reached the St. Lawrence, and passing
Quebec were sent on by steamboat to Montreal. I was placed in the
4th Company, and had scarcely got settled ere the news of the death
of William the Fourth arrived and the accession of Queen. Victoria
announced. Troubles were brewing in the Legislature of the Colony
and open rebellion was threatened. In January I was sent, along with
thirteen others, to secure a bridge over the St. John’s River, north of
Montreal. Here we stayed two weeks, then met with some rebels at
St. Eustache, and a force having come up, an attack was made, and the
wooden church and nearly the whole town was burnt to the ground, as
ABRAHAM HOLROYD. I 17
well as Grand Brule, another large village. We then returned with
almost a hundred prisoners to Montreal, where many of them were
executed. My comrade and bed-fellow during the cold weather was
shot in the forehead and killed. At the beginning of this action I was
told off to the ammunition guard. As soon as we got to Montreal my
company was ordered off to Upper Canada, and we travelled in sleighs,
with horses, post haste on the ice to Lake Ontario, where we took a
steamer for Kingston, but only stayed there long enough to give a man
a hundred lashes with the cat o' nine tails for smashing his musket
when drunk in a sleigh. Taking steamer again, we were Soon at
Toronto. From thence we sailed to Hamilton. Thence in sleighs to
Ancaster and Brantford. Here arrests were daily made of rebels, the
whole being lodged in the jail of that town—I doing duty every
second day and night. After the trials were over thirteen men were
hanged one morning on one scaffold—a sickening sight. A few days
after my company marched to St. Thomas, and the rebellion being
ended we were quiet for a time. A lady whom I had befriended by
getting her an interview with her husband—a prisoner—met me in the
street and with great kindness introduced me to the best people in the
place. Her husband had been acquitted as innocent. A gentleman,
a friend of hers, offered to advance me £20 to buy my discharge from
the army. I to attend a sick Son of his for a year and drive him about
in their carriage. I therefore bought my discharge, but before the end
of the year the young man died, and my master sold all his property
and emigrated to Illinois, I going with him and his wife to drive and
help in anything that might be needed. On passing through Michigan
I took the ague from the swampy state of the land at that time, and
in a while, when the summer came on, I became very ill. I was
advised to go south to get quit of the ague, and my master, having
been appointed Probate Judge of the County, I was sorry to leave
Rockford, the place where he had “settled.” Sick and salivated with
quinine I started on foot to Chicago—then a town of only one street.
Striking south I tramped towards the Mississippi river, and after
many days of travelling through that lonely state, I arrived at Peoria,
and found a small steamer ready to sail down to St. Louis. Going on
board I got to that city after much delay, caused by the low state of
the water. Taking steamer at St. Louis I got to New Orleans in
eight days, with two dollars in my pocket, which, however, were stolen
that night from my clothes (though under my pillow) at the house
where I had put up to lodge. There I was then, in a strange city, sick,
and with no money. The landlord of the lodging-house advised me
to go to the Charity Hospital until I got well. I went and was
admitted. In eight days I was discharged cured, and left to seek a
living—I knew not where. For three days I had nothing to eat except
some bits of apples which had been thrown out from a steamer as
I I 8 ABRAHAM HOLROYD.
damaged. At night I hid myself away in new buildings in the course
of erection. On the fourth day a gentleman gave me a job to help in
removing his furniture, and I pleased him so that he offered me money:
as much as I might need until I could get some settled employment. -
I took an empty room, furnished it, and in about two months obtained
regular employment with a respectable firm of merchants. There was
always plenty for me to do, for at least the winter half of the year.
IMy leisure hours I spent in studies, reading the best books I could
borrow, and watching the manners of the people amongst whom my
lot seemed to be cast.
“In the previous years I had gained much knowledge of mankind,
and the earth-mounds of the west had interested me much, and
created in me a love of the ancient in everything I saw or read Of-
hence my love for antiquarian pursuits during the after part of my
life. The company I kept was always the best I could find everywhere,
and I found in the American people—both North and South—warm
hands and loving hearts, without one exception, amongst those whom I
became acquainted with, and I shall ever remember both the people
and the country with feelings of sincere affection.
“In 1846 I married Miss Amelia Jenkyn, of St. Stephen’s-in-
Branwell, Cornwall. She had lately come with a relation to the city.
The clergyman who married us was the Rev. Chas. Goodrich, Rector
of St. Paul's, New Orleans. He was a brother of the famous Peter
Parley, the author of books for young people. When I had been
eight years in my situation my health gave way with the heat of the
climate, and I was obliged to resign it. My English doctor told me
that I must return to my native country if I would save my life. I
and Mrs. Holroyd, therefore, took passage home in May, 1851,
and arrived at Liverpool on the Ioth July. After a visit to the
great exhibition, London, we proceeded to Cornwall, where Mrs.
Holroyd remained with her parents for a time, while I went forward
to Bradford to establish myself in some business. For some time after
my arrival in this town my cousin, John Tyas, gave me a home with
him, He resided at the top of Westgate, and I soon got a
shop--some four yards square—opposite the old Zoar Chapel. Here
I started business in real good earnest. Mr. William Cook, of Vicar
Lane, supplied me with most of what I needed in the way of stationery,
periodicals, &c., and the newspapers I got from the publishers. This
was in October, 1851. In 1853-54 I published by subscription a large
view of Saltaire, but when the engraving was ready, after six months’
delay, many of the subscribers were dead or gone away, and I was
Some 4 I5 short of paying the 463 due for the engraving and printing
of it. In my dilemma I wrote to Sir (then Mr.) Titus Salt, and he
sent for me, and after I had told him of my luck, he gave me a cheque
ABRAHAM HOLROYD. II 9
for the engraver and printer, and I handed over to him all the money
I had received. This was my first introduction to Mr. Salt, and ever
after he stood by me in whatever I took up. He was to me ever a
staunch and true friend. With the shop I had terrible hard struggling
to keep my head above water, and my little family increasing, it was at
the time fearful hard uphill work, as we say in Yorkshire. In 1854, I
determined to strike out in a new direction in the way of publishing. I
printed “Eldwick Glen,” a crude poem of my own, and soon sold
them all. This made me better known, and helped my custom with
the new acquaintance.
“The few literary men then in Bradford called on me, such as
John James, Ben Preston, Edward Sloane, Stephen Fawcett, Edward
Collinson, and a host of others, whose names would fill a column.
Here, about the year 1858, I compiled a little book with the quaint
title of “Spice Islands passed in the Sea of Reading.” This took
well also ; and thus encouraged, I took heart, and began to push in
the newspapers every good work going on in Bradford, praising
the literary efforts of my townsmen, and when opportunity
occurred I drew attention to the antiquities of my beloved town
of Bradford, and the surrounding district. Almost everything I wrote
had my full name at the end. I also tried to give the chapter and verse
for all that I sent, for my chief ambition was to be understood by the
common people.
“I now began as publisher and editor in earnest. The following is
a pretty full list of my projects:—‘The Cottage in the Wood,” by the
Rev. Patrick Brontë, 1859. “T” Spicy Man,’ ‘Tº Creakin' Gate,’
“Natterin’ Nan,’ ‘T.’ Maister o’ tº Haase,” these all in 1859, and by
my friend Ben Preston. The ‘The Philosophy of Lord Bacon,” by
John James, F.S.A. “The Life of Joseph Lister, of Bradford, and
The Rider of the White Horse,’ 1860. In this year I began the
‘Bradford Historical Almanack,' which I continued for six years. I
also in 1860 (October) started ‘The Bradfordian,” (a repository of local
talent,) which came out for 27 months, when I was forced to stop, as
its publication was bringing me to poverty and heaping difficulties on
me pecuniarily. This work gave me the most pleasure of anything I ever
did in my life. It brought me into contact with the best men and
women of the time then in Bradford and the vicinity. In 1863 I pub-
lished ‘The Physical Geography of Bradford,’ &c., by Louis Miall.
Also in 1864 the “Poems and Songs of Ben Preston.’ These sold off
at once, and made me acquainted with the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, and
he asked me to assist him in collecting for his book, the ‘Yorkshire
Oddities,” which I did. I also had much to write to and for the late
Thomas Wright, F.S.A.. I then proposed the publishing of my
• Collectanea,’ and my good friend the late Sir Titus Salt promised to
I.2. O ABRAHAM HOLROYD.
*—
stand by me until I chose to stop. This he did. For what occurred
after this had gone on for some time see my introduction to the said
‘Collectanea,’ which I was not able to complete in book form until
1873. After removing to Saltaire I wrote the little work “Saltaire
and its Founder’ of which there have been sold four editions of, in all,
3,500 copies. Nearly all my others were 1,000 editions, named pre-
viously. I wish to add that the people of Bradford, in 1868, presented
me with 463 on leaving for Saltaire. .
“In 1873 I edited and published at Saltaire also ‘A Garland of
Poetry by Yorkshire Authors’ (collected specimens of nearly a
hundred writers of my native country), a work which has been greatly
admired. I dedicated it to my dear friend Mr. George Ackroyd.
“In 1874, old age creeping on, I retired from business to Eldwick
on a small income, where I hope to spend the few remaining days of
my life in peace, and in preparation for the entry into another and a
better life. •
Little remains to be added to this simple story of a well-spent
life. During his brief residence at Eldwick in the small but comfortable
house which he had built there (which by the way, he thought of
galling the ‘Hermitage,’ but finally gave it the more appropriate name
* Harmony Cottage') he employed himself in cultivating his bit of
_^
.*
HARMONY COTTAGE, ELDWICK.
garden; corresponding with literary friends, and in contributing to local
and other journals choice articles from his rich archaeological treasure-
house. The old love of country was strong within him, and here he
found pure nature in her various aspects.

ABRAHAM HOLROYD. I 2 I
His books were rivers, woods and skies,
The meadow and the moor.
The summit of Gilstead Moor was, however, too cold and
exposed for Mrs. Holroyd, who was a native of Cornwall, and
Harmony Cottage had to be abandoned as a place of residence. Of
late years Mr. and Mrs. Holroyd resided with a married daughter—
Mrs. Thornton—at Shipley, and here it was that the venerable author
and antiquary closed his career, happily surrounded with every comfort.
His spirit passed away to the ‘Better Land ’ as peacefully and as
quietly
“As the dawn glides into day.”
Much of the good work done by Mr. Holroyd in literature and
archaeology is not alluded to in the narrative that he has left us of his
career. He was too modest a man to say much of himself, and
moreover he laboured more to exalt others than himself. Many other
of his literary ventures might be mentioned if space allowed. But
perhaps this were needless, for are they not already chronicled in the
annals of Yorkshire literature ? As a publisher he was most
industrious, but as a writer hardly less so. .
From the stores of a ripe intellect and with a well informed.
mind, he contributed many interesting papers to local journals.
If from his restricted means he was unable to take great projects
in hand, he was untiring in his efforts to do everything that fairly came
within his grasp, hence there is scarcely a chapter of local history with
which the name of Abraham Holroyd is not associated.
Mr. Holroyd possessed a keen and intelligent appreciation
of good poetry. An ardent admirer of our English ballads, he
collected during a long course of years, nearly three hundred choice
ballads and songs belonging to Yorkshire alone. [Last year mainly
owing to the munificence of Mr. George Ackroyd, J.P. these was
published by Messrs. George Bell and Sons of London, the editor of
this work acting as editor].
Mr. Holroyd was a genuine antiquary, but not of the type that
sees no merit in a book beyond its antiquity or scarcity. He was too
liberal-minded to believe that a book is valueless because it might not
happen to be one of a first edition, or that its real worth is depreciated
by its abundance or its free and unrestricted circulation among the
book-reading public. For the good work that he has done in
popularising, by means of cheap reprints, works of a scarce and costly
character, he is deserving of public gratitude.”
The remains were interred on Wednesday in the burial ground
of St. John’s Church, Clayton. The funeral, which was of a semi-
private character, was only attended by the deceased’s most intimate
I 2.2 ABRAHAM HOLROY 1).
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ABRAHAM HOLROYD. I 23.
friends. A short service was conducted at the residence, prior to:
leaving for Clayton, by Mr. Mitchell, a member of the New Church
(Swedenborgian), Saltaire, of which Mr. Holroyd was one of the
founders. Shortly before one o’clock the cortege left for Clayton, and
was attended by the Rev. Mr. Rendell (Bradford), and Messrs. Dyson,
Armitage, and Stephenson, representing the New Church at Saltaire;
and a few local antiquarians, including Mr. W. Scruton, Mr. Wm.
Cudworth, and Mr. J. H. Turner. The coffin was made of polished
pitch pine, and was borne by a hearse, followed by mourning coaches.
containing the relatives of the deceased. Mr. T. T. Empsall, the
president of the Bradford Historical and Antiquarian Society, and a
number of Clayton friends, joined in the procession at that place. The
burial service was performed at the church and at the grave side by the
Rev. J. E. Gerrard. A beautiful floral cross was placed on the coffin.
by Mr. George Ackroyd, one of the deceased’s oldest friends.”
[On Thursday, May 25th, 1893, a most graceful tribute was paid
the memory of Mr. Holroyd. This was the unveiling of a Memorial
Stone in Clayton churchyard by Mr. George Ackroyd, J.P. subscribed
for by literary Yorkshiremen and women. A large gathering of friends
of the deceased were present, and many others who having had no
personal acquaintance with him still loved him for his works sake. In
addition to Mr. Ackroyd was Mr. and Mrs. F. C. Galloway, the latter
of whom recently gave to the world a charming literary morceau in
the shape of a little brochure entitled “The Holroyd Memorial,”
which contained a full account of the proceedings and several illus-
trations, two of which, Harmony Cottage and the view of the Memorial
Stone are by Mrs. Galloway’s kindness reproduced in this volume
along with a sonnet from her facile pen) Mr. J. Horsfall Turner, Mr.
W. Scruton, the Rev. Dr. Strauss, Mr. J. D. Fox, Mr. J. R. Peat,
editor of the “Bradford Daily Argus,” and myself. —EDITOR.]
#Tou, op, Gentle Glire.
FLOW on, gentle Aire, in thy course to the Sea,
Thy murmurs are music, delightful to me;
In the spring-time of youth I haunted thy stream,
And now in my manhood I’ll make thee my theme.
I 24. ABRAHAM HOLROYD.
JBy lofty hills bounded, and furze covered moors,
Green woods and rich meadows encircle thy shores;
The beautiful birch tree o’ershadows thy wave,
And willows low-bent in thy bright waters lave.
The lark on thy bank pours his song to the morn,
The blackbird at eve cheers his mate in the thorn ;
The snowdrop and primrose first bloom on thy strand,
When spring in her gladness re-visits the land.
Here light-footed summer dwells long with her flowers
Bedecking the glades and adorning the bowers;
Here frolicking zephyrs to Flora make love,
Then, kissing thy bosom, speed on through the grove.
Here golden-crown’d autumn, dispensing her sheaves,
Delighteth to linger among the brown leaves;
And cold, hoary winter is mild by thy side,
Refraining to stem with his frost thy clear tide.
When wild storms arise o'er the heather-clad hills,
And the floods seek thy bed in white foamy rills,
Now rushing, now dancing, the grey rocks among,
Still calmly thou glidest in beauty along.
, Scream on, ye wild birds, in your dark eyrie den,
Awaking the echoes asleep in the glen ;
Roar on, ye rough storms, from each summit to shore,
Ye serve to endear my lov’d valley the more.
Flow on, gentle Aire, in thy course to the sea,
By the hall and the cot, and the woodland and lea;
And long, long may thy banks, that know not a slave,
Be the home of the free, the fair, and the brave.
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ROLL on, gentle Aire, in thy beauty,
Renowned in story and song :
The subject of many a ditty
From Nicholson's musical tongue;
ABRAHAM HOLROYD. I 25.
But a greater than he hath arisen,
Who has linked thy name with his own,
He will render thee famous for ages,
And thou wilt to millions be known.
Then let us all join in the chorus,
And sing of the qualities rare,
Of one who by nature is noble—
And hail him the Lord of Saltaire.
He’s rear'd up a Palace to Labour,
Will equal the Caesar's of old,—
The Church, and the School, and the Cottage—
And lavished his thousands of gold;
Where the workman may live and be happy,
Enjoying the fruit of his hand;
In contentment, in comfort, and plenty,
Secure as the peer of the land.
Then let us all join in the chorus,
And sing of the qualities rare,
Of one who by nature is noble,
And hail him the Lord of Saltaire.
From Peru he has brought the alpaca–
From Asia’s plains the mohair—
With skill has wrought both into beauty,
Priz’d much by the wealthy and fair;
He has velvets, and camlets, and lustres,
With them there is none can compare;
Then off, off with your hats and your bonnets,
Hurrah for the Lord of Saltaire. -
Hip, hip, and all join in the chorus,
And sing of the qualities rare,
Of one who by nature is noble,
And hail him the Lord of Saltaire.
I 26 ABRAHAM HOLROYD.
“ now ł see the ſeast of &artfi.”
The last words spoken by John Quincy Adams, formerly President
of the United States of America.
LET in the light, let in the sun,
That I may see the dawning day;
For long before the day is done
I shall be gone from earth away;
My soul unto my Maker fled,
My body numbered with the dead.
These weary feet for threescore years,
Have sought the paths where good men tread ;
And in my doubts, and hopes, and fears,
My Saviour Christ hath ever led ;
And when temptations drew astray,
Taught me to choose the better way.
With food and raiment, all my life,
His bounteous Hand supplied my need ;
And, in the midst of worldly strife,
Preserved my heart from anxious greed ;
Bid me on Him to cast my care,
In stedfast faith and fervent prayer.
And “Now I see the last of earth.”
And my last hour is drawing nigh;
I soon shall have another birth,
For I shall soon ascend on high :
To dwell for ever near the throne,
Where sin and sorrow are unknown.
John ILLINGWORTH.
By AETHELBERT BINNS,
SECRETARY, YORKSHIRE IDIALECT SOCIETY, ETC.
ALLERTON-CUM-WILSDEN has for generations formed one manór and
one ecclesiastical parish, and in the former part of this district, on the
18th of February, 1846—at a farm called Moorhouse—was born
John Illingworth, the youngest child of a family of three brothers and
four sisters. His father was a hard-working farmer, and could not,
when the time arrived for John to go to school, give him much school
education, but such as he received was from the Schoolmaster in charge
of the British School at Allerton. After a few years’ schooling, John
began to help his father in farm work, and he remained a ſarmer to his
life’s end. On July 1st, 1867, he married Elizabeth Lucy Bentham, of
School Green, Thornton, who still survives him with a family of
children.
John probably began the cultivation of his rhyming powers early
in life, as some of his poems show an illiterateness not found in his
later attempts. He was ever excessively fond of nature in all its
varied moods and forms, and many, perhaps the greater part, of his
poems on nature were written out-of-doors, as he sat on some grassy
iyank, or in some cosy nook.
In 1870, he issued an 8pp. 8vo. (crown) pamphlet, published by
F. J. Hammond, Westgate, Bradford, entitled “Echoes of the Harp
of Ebor.” It contained but four poems, and this was his only
publication, with the exception of a few single-page leaflets. He,
however, had several of his poems printed in various papers and
almanacs, such as “T” Nidderdale Comic Casket, Comic Annual, and
Almanac; ” “Readings and Recitations for Summer Days and
Winter Nights; ” several temperance poems in one of the temperance
papers, and also miscellaneous poems in a Bingley paper published by
T. Harrison ; and “T’owd man’s address to tº wife '’ in Abraham
Holroyd’s “A Garland of Poetry.” -
The temperance cause owes its poems by John Illingworth to
Mr. Francis Butterfield, of Wilsden, for this gentleman, having seen
one of John’s poems entitled “A drop o' rum an’ tea ‘’ in a Craven
almanac (about 1875), at once sought out the then (to Mr. Butterfield)
unknown author of it, and entreated him never to write again a poem
{
I 28 JOHN ILLINGWORTH.
in praise of intoxicating drinks. John promised he would not, and
during the remainder of his life kept that promise, and gained thereby
the close friendship of Mr. Butterfield, who has ever been the friend
of all local rhymers.
In looking over his numerous published and unpublished poems
one undoubtedly comes across many that are worthy of preservation.
Anyone having carefully perused them would certainly come to the
conclusion that here, indeed, was a man who was not a mere rhymer,
but a real poet. As he himself says
“Inspired by Nature and by Love
The birds with songs rejoice;
Inspired by Nature and by Love
I also raise my voice.
He sang because he must; he had an ear for “the music of
words,” and wrote his poetry from the same cause that makes the bird
to sing, and the child to prattle. His best poems are humorous ones,
and are written in his native vernacular.
On March 24th, 1884, Yorkshire lost one more of her many native
poets, for on that day John Illingworth died at the early age of thirty-
eight, and was interred at St. James Church, Thornton.
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ON wood and field the rising sun
A rosy radiance threw,
And every opening flower wore
A diadem of dew ;
And joyous was the linnet's song,
And soft the cuckoo's call, *
And sweet the woodland echoes rang
Around old Eldwick Hall.
Admiring the delightful scene
Along the glen I strayed,
And there, before I was aware,
I met a lovely maid ;
JOHN ILLINGWORTH. I 29
Her golden hair, in glossy curls,
Did round her shoulders fall,
She'd rosy cheeks, and ruby lips—
Sweet lass of Eldwick Hall.
There's many boast of peerless maids,
The rosy and the fair,
But she’s the flower of the flock,
The bud beyond compare:
God grant her spotless chastity
May never know a fall;
May heaven shield from ev’ry ill
The lass Of Eldwick Hall.
Were I a king, and sat in state
Upon the royal throne,
Could I but win her virgin love
I'd make this maid my own ;
Or, if she would not be a queen,
I’d gladly part with all,
Yea, all resign to make her mine—
Sweet lass of Eldwick Hall.
j (a pe. .
FROM the purple heather bells,
From the green clad flowery vales,
Hark; what gushing music swells;
List ! the ever-changing tune :
Sweetly woodland echoes ring,
Sweetly hawthorns fragrance fling,
Sweetly larks their carols sing,
Each proclaim the joy of June.
Widely scattered o'er the lea,
Flowers bloom in beauty free,
Nature in her pride we see,
All her works do beauty yield;
Now the mowers cut the grass;
Now the ev’nings sweetly pass;
Now each lover woos his lass
'Neath the wood, or in the field.
THOMAS INCE,
By SAMUEL JACOB, LL.D.
THE subject of this slight sketch was born at Bingley on November
IIth, 1850. His parentage was respectable, but his family circum-
stances were at this time in so lowly a condition that through misfortune
and adversity he and a brother and sister were for some little time
inmates of the poor-house at Wigan. Mr. Ince was connected on his
father’s side with many respectable families in Lancashire and Yorkshire.
His maternal grandfather, Mr. Edward Briggs, was well known to
many of the older residents of Bingley. Mr. Thomas Ince was early
apprenticed and worked for some time in the coal pits belonging to the
JEarl of Balcarres, but the life was not much to his taste, and before he
settled again in Bingley, he had many vicissitudes, in fact many of the
incidents recorded by Dickens in his account of Oliver Twist’s career,
might have been taken from the life of Mr. Ince, such as his running
away from his master, his recapture and return to Mr. “Union,” and
his re-apprenticeship. His circumstances were somewhat changed by
the return of his father from the wars, and Mr. Ince then settled in
Bingley. -
Like many others whose poetic genius has to be perfected by the
fire of adversity, the subject of our sketch was ever of roving, restless
habits; the instinct within him was too strong to allow of his settling
in one place for long together, and in the course of his wanderings,
generally undertaken without the slightest premeditation, he suffered
all the pangs that ill-health, poverty and friendlessness can entail.
The first home that Mr. Ince obtained for himself was early
broken up by the sad death of his young wife, who was drowned six
weeks after their marriage. Mr. Ince had by this time gained a good
deal of notoriety as a writer of Songs and poems; he had twice walked
from Bingley to Saltaire and back with his MSS. to lay before the late
Abraham Holroyd, but was not a little crest-fallen when advised by
the sage to lay by his pen for three years, devote himself to the study
of classics, and then try again.
In 1877 Mr. Ince married for the second time, and shortly after
he made the acquaintance of the editor of the “Yorkshireman,” but
being under the necessity of leaving the district, Mr. Ince was so un-
fortunate as to entirely lose sight of a large quantity of MSS. which
had been submitted to that gentleman, and which, in spite of some of
them being accepted, he never saw again. After this Mr. Ince took
I 3 I
THOMAS IN CE.
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I 32 - THOMAS INCE.
up the study of medical botany, which profession he has now fol-
lowed for many years, being well known through north-east Lancashire
as a herbalist. He is also the author of a “Herbal Guide and Com-
pendium,” which is considered a very useful and complete work.
Mr. Ince was for a short time publisher of a paper “Ince's
Observer and Referee,” but this was not financially a success. He
has published a volume of prose and verse, by subscription at four
shillings each, entitled “Beggar Manuscripts,” this was well received
by the press. It may also be said that he was on one occasion the
recipient of royal favour.
Mr. Ince is now busy preparing another volume, which we trust
will be a success. We would also hope that there is enough in this
brief record to show how perseverance and courage may help a man
to fight against circumstances, and how, though poor, to all outward
appearances, a man may yet be rich in intellect and in the enjoyment
of all that really makes life worth living.
JPoesy end Cirt.
ONE morning, as over the world’s barren waste,
Two Sisters went slowly along, -
The one exercised her harmonious Taste—
The other burst forth into Song; t
Both the high and the low were enchanted full soon
And under their influence fell,
Till none but the lost ones could fail to attune
With charms beyond man to excel.
Oh, hard is the heart unresponsive and cold,
Denying the beauty and grace
Of either the Sisters, whose worth is untold,
In giving true riches a place;
For the acme of grandeur, refinement, and worth
Alone by their aid is pourtrayed,
And all the routine and the foibles of earth,
In comparison, sink in the shade.
So let us endeavour these Sisters to woo,
In charity, honour, and truth, -
Regardless of what any scoffer may do,
Or fashion may threaten, forsooth ;
We are proud of the past, and will welcome the day
When man, recognising his part,
With dual devotion can feelingly say:
“All hail, unto Poesy and Art I’”
THOMAS INCE. I 33
Gł Kiss.
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WHAT rapture in a lover's kiss,
What concentrated store of bliss,
What happiness, what passion keen,
What love, what joy, a kiss can mean,
A soul to Soul, a heart to heart,
What fullness doth a kiss impart;
A signature of homely birth,
A bond of truest friendship's worth ;
A taste of nature’s native bliss,
And purest ransom—is a kiss.
A seal of love, a compact sign,
An emblem of a troth divine,
An union meet, an issue won,
A token sweet and dual boon,
The kiss of innocence and faith
A world of restful comfort hath ;
The kiss of fond possession means
A harbinger of blissful scenes;
A kiss at worst expresses most
Achievement better won or lost.
A kiss can grant a lease of life,
A kiss presents a truce to strife,
A kiss can bind a wayward soul,
A kiss can travel pole to pole;
A kiss of love or kiss of joy,
A kiss of pride without alloy, -
A kiss of welcome well bestowed,
A kiss of God speed on our road,
A kiss of pleasure, howe'er given,
Yields a spicy balm of Heaven.
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*TIS o'er at last—the galling yoke—
The bondage now is past,
The chain is loose—the fetters broke,
And I am free at last. .
I 34-
THOMAS IN CE.
'Tis sad to picture all the years
Of bitterness and care,
To think of all the sighs and tears
Evolved from deep despair.
I cannot own one little pang,
Because my task is done ;
I’m heedless now of every clang,
For now—the battle’s won.
Farewell, to all ye books and pens;
Farewell, ye ledgers too;
Farewell to everything that lends
Remorse unto my view.
Farewell to all ye hateful scenes—
A jubilant farewell;
A service with you only means
A servitude in hell.
Avaunt, ye spectres of the past !
Away, from out my view
For time has vanquished you at last,
And life is leased anew.
Never again do I wish to see
Ye symbols of disgrace;
Not any charm remains for me
About the wretched place.
I leave you all in Sweet Content,
Without one small regret,
Beyond the wish that luck was sent
Ere you and I had met.
So, once again, a last adieu
My patience is run O'er:
A life mis-spent begins anew ;
Farewell, for evermore.
T H O M A S L I S T E R .
By JAMES MUNDY,
SECRETARY OF THE YORKSHIRE LITERARY SOCIETY.
THE subject of our present sketch was born on the 15th of June, 1808,
at Tong Park, in the township of Baildon, Yorkshire, and descended
from a family notorious for their exemplary piety. At school, we are
told, he made such rapid progress, and applied himself so closely to
his studies, that his master, to prevent molestation by the other
scholars, put him on a desk by himself, and the master said “he learned
more in one year than the generality would learn in seven.” When
about fifteen years of age he was put to learn the malting business,
and in twenty-five weeks he knew sufficient to undertake the entire
management of another kiln a few miles distant from where he learned
the business. After a few years at this, he turned schoolmaster, and
began to teach the rising generation in the Baildon Methodist School.
It was during this season of instruction that he was seriously impressed
that his real mission was that of a preacher of the gospel, and in this
capacity he delighted his hearers in many circuits, and gained for him-
self the name of the “Wandering Gentile.” Not satisfied with
labouring in the vineyard of his mother-country, he started on the 7th
day of August, 1848, for America, where he preached the gospel free
and unshackled by the tenets of any particular denomination. Of his
versification very little can be said in its favour. Whatever claims he
may have had as an exhorter of the scriptures, he possessed but little
of the divine afflatus. He published a small volume of poems on
various subjects—also a number of devotional and original hymns—
yet, while we commend the sentiment which he breathes throughout
his attempts, we find but little to give him rank as a poet. The
precocity of youth, his position as a schoolmaster, and his popularity
as a preacher, are the three distinct features of his life; but we cannot,
after the most careful study of the copyright edition before us, come to
any other conclusion than that he has tried to do his best, but in the
doing of it he has left behind no traces of that genius for which so
many Yorkshire poets have been famous in the past.
Whilst in America, Lister was elected a Justice of the Peace.
He died at Wilsden on Wednesday, March 29th, 1876, and on the
following Saturday he was buried in Baildon Churchyard. On his
tombstone is the following inscription :-
§n 3 ffection aft #emembrance of
THOMAS LISTER, THE PoET,
WHO DIED MARCH 29th, 1876,
AGED 67 YEARs.
Here lies the man who travelled far,
To warn our dying race;
Yet he himself was nothing more
But sinner saved by grace.
THOMAS LISTER.
öße Poet.
THE Poet's brain my God hath made, .
The Muses resting on his head; ,
Inducing him his words to time,
To feet, to verse, poetic chime.
Nor has my God made ought in vain,
Not hand, or foot, nor tongue, or brain ;
For all these gifts for good are given,
That I thereby may honour heaven.
The Muses have a mighty spell,
To move the world to good or ill;
For in their hand they hold the key,
To move its lasting destiny.
They charm the mind, the passions move,
And draw the soul to heaven above;
Or if on evil subjects dwell,
May sink the soul to lowest hell.
Then let my muse directed be,
Thou great eternal God, by Thee,
That which I write in blank or rhyme
I may be led by truth divine.
And my poetic talents use,
To spread abroad the glorious news
Of God’s eternal love to man,—
And how he may his heaven gain.
Egoon.
THOU bid'st me, Lord, go work for Thee,
In every place, where’er I be ;
And tell to sinners the right way,
That leads to everlasting day.
Help me to go at Thy command,
And spread Thy truth in all the land;
Then give up all I have to Thee,
And drop into eternity.
JOHN MILLIGAN, M.R.C.S. L.S.A.
By ROBERT CLARK, L.R.C.P. L.R.C.S.
JOHN MILLIGAN was born at Cross Hills, 18th January, 1812, his
father (Mr. John Milligan), and uncle (Mr. Robert Milligan, the first
“M.P. for Bradford), having come from Dumfries and settled in this
district. In early life he was apprenticed to a surgeon in Bradford, but
a little incident soon brought this connection to a close. He was
required to make up the books on a Sunday. He refused, and left the
place. Subsequently, he was bound apprentice to Dr. Mitchell, of
Keighley. At this time the movement for the establishment of the
Mechanics’ Institute had been started, and by the force of his own
proclivities was drawn into the early work of the institute, in which he
took an active interest. On the completion of his pupilage, he went
through the usual course of medical study in London, graduating
L.S.A. in 1834 and M.R.C.S. in 1856, and subsequently commenced
practice in Bingley, where he resided one year only. On leaving
Bingley he settled in Keighley. In 1838 he was appointed as the first
medical officer of the Keighley Union. Whilst engaged in a large
practice he became forcibly aware of the low sanitary condition of the
homes and workshops of the poor, and devoted a great deal of atten-
tion to this subject, which in after life became one of almost all-
absorbing interest to hini. In 1847 he called public attention to the
sanitary condition of the town, in a lecture given in the Mechanics’
Institute. This lecture, which dealt with Poverty as a source of disease,
and Factory-labour and Wool Combing considered in relation to Health
and Mortality, was so good an exposition Öf the subject that a strong
request was made for its publication, to which Mr. Milligan acceded.
On this subject of sanitation he had collected a vast amount of valuable
information. In 1849 he became a competitor for the Fothergillian
medal, and created some surprise among the medical savants of the
metropolis by carrying it off with an essay “On the influence of
Civilisation upon Health and Disease.” The gold medal of that year
was presented to Mr. Milligan at a public banquet of the Medical
Society of London, and judging from the report of the speech which
he made on the occasion, this event must have been considered one of
the proudest in his life. In his own words, “it was a position to him
no less novel than difficult.” “Living in the obscurity of a distant
provincial town,” he said, “I had scarcely dared to hope that success
would crown any literary attempt of mine. In fact, when I thought
on the matter, rather than being the subject of exhilarating prospects,
1 38 JOHN MILLIGAN.
I felt abashed at my own temerity, and would willingly have sacrificed
something that my papers could have been withdrawn from the
impending contest.” Subsequently, he was the writer of another essay
on “Drunkenness,” for a prize of one hundred guineas. The award was
not announced, and Mr. Milligan never succeeded in obtaining re-
possession of his manuscript. In addition to a considerable amount
of literary work connected with his profession, he found time to cul-
tivate the Muses, and in 1861 published a volume of Poems—“Baal,
or Sketches of Social Evils; a Poem in ten flights, with other Minor
Poems”—pp. 300; London: William Freeman. He was very fond
of good books in all departments of literature, and few men have
succeeding in amassing such a varied and valuable library. He was a
considerable student in natural history and a never-weary collector of
rare and curious specimens. But his favourite study was Geology. His
love of nature was intense, and his attachment was perhaps strongest
to the wild moorland scenery which abounds in these parts. He sings:
I love the lanes so old and lone,
With tangled blossoms overhead,
And find a joy in every stone,
A gem where'er my footsteps tread.
I would not change, had I the power,
For dazzling gifts of golden mine,
The hills, the birds, and forest flower,
That round my soul their lights entwine.
If, when away on foreign shores,
A thought of home bedims my eye,
It is to be upon her moors,
To hear the piping wild-birds cry,
The city’s joys all end in pain,
I’ll bid them hence a long adieu,
And hie me to the hills again
Where Nature’s face is ever new.
In 1876 Mr. Milligan had an attack of internal gout, to which he
succumbed after a short illness On March 6th.
Öo the §ap.
GREAT Patriarch of all the fires that climb the sky,
Well might primeval man thy glories deify ;
In transport on thee gaze through all revolving time,
And to thee bow in rapt idolatry Sublime!
Most glorious idol of the ancient world,
|For thee its altars blazed, its incense curled,
For thee its priests and acolytes of royal rank - - +
Their vestal fires watched, and trimmed their sacred lamp.
JOHN MILLIGAN. I 39
Thou king with diadem of ancient days,
Adorned in panoply of burnished rays,
Thy garments of the lightning’s flash are wove,
And lightning is thy crown forged from the bolts of Jove.
The stars with all the beauties of the night
Thy advent tell, and pale their glories bright,
Nor leave on heaven’s broad shield one silver gem,
But quickly fade before thy peerless diadem.
The time shall come when thou, great god of day,
A driveller slow shalt stagger on thy way,
Thy power and effort gone, thy vigour chill,
Obstructed all thy founts or frozen still.
The earth a dotard grown, the reeling spheres
In zigzag Orbs shall mark the hoary years,
The laggard moon shall droop, the seasons fail in rank,
And heaven’s face wax dull with many a starless blank.
The keystone sprung, the fabric tottering on the brink,
The big dome cracked with many a crazy chink,
And then Inexorable Power by hand unknown,
Shall strike earth’s props and smite creation’s Scaffold
down.
£)eeth.
THOU Bony King, in shroud arrayed and iron crown,
Who worlds hast reaped to store within the grave,
Mankind in every form thou mowest down,
And gather'st in alike from shore and wave,
To fill the trophied garners of the awful tomb,
And swell the triumphs of thy harvest home.
No tournament is death of fictious strife,
But overthrow that makes the strong man quail ;
It boasts no blazonries that garnish life,
No song of triumph save the funeral wail;
The shroud the victim’s robe, the grave his temple low
• The slimy trail of worm the garland on his brow.
H4O JOHN MILLIGAN.
'Tis pride that prompts our faculties to roam
On Subjects bearing death’s mysterious seal;
No spell hath man to win the secrets of the tomb,
No mystic shibboleth by which he can reveal
The masonry that binds the brotherhood of the grave,
Or break the vows that dumbly all the dead enslave.
A few among earth’s multitudes are found
Whose frames are built like rocky granite firm,
From them the arrowy shafts of death rebound
As from the iron hide of pachyderm ;
And though each lengthened life a pyramid uprears,
'Tis based upon the griefs and cares of fourscore years.
And some there are of more ethereal mould
That flit like visions bright o'er life’s dull stage;
To hectic suns their beauties they unfold,
Nor feel they manhood's bloom, nor chill of age ;
They are not of that iron race of men,
Who weave the weary coil of threescore years and ten.
But children of the skies in earthly vestures clad,
Or fragile fabrics of a subtler essence framed ;
The beings fair who realize the maxim sad,
“The loved of heaven by heaven are early claimed:”
Flowers of other climes, whose blossoms dimly pale,
With all their garnered sweets to heaven exhale.
And men of lying lips and perjured breath,
By honour hated and by truth denied,
Have furnished thousands to the lists of death,
And thousands more their tongues have crucified ;
If not with nails their unoffending palms have nailed
On burning calumnies their living souls impaled.
The harridan who with the dawn begins,
And loudly chants throughout the livelong day,
The calendar of all her neighbours' sins,
Her thousands slays; not as assassins slay,
But deeper strikes, by cruel hint and sneering jibe,
Or kills by crushing weight of some foul diatribe.
*
JOHN NICHOLSON.
By CHA.S. A. FEDERER, L.C.P.,
EDITOR, YORKSHIRE CHAP BOOKS, ETC., ETC.
No feeble intellect was thine— thy strains
In wildest grandeur were indeed complete;
Succoured and nourished by Elysian rains, -
What wonder then their tunes were ever sweet P
And, when apostrophising thy dear dales, -
Thy words rang out with eloquence divine,
Filling the moorlands and the woods and vales
With minstrelsy which pen can scarce define.
Nigh half a century has passed away
Since thou wert called to thine eternal rest;
|But thou art not forgotten, and I pay
To thee this tribute which thy songs suggest ;
Eor on thy county’s glory-roll of fame,
Amongst the bards, thine is a foremost name.—EDITOR.
THE subject of this short biographical sketch was the first denizen
of the Bingley and Bradford district who successfully wooed the poetic
muse, and ventured to proclaim to the world the subject of his silent
communing with nature and with the spirits of the past. A genuine.
Bingley man he was, though by the accident of birth he first saw the
light at the hamlet of Weardley, near Harewood, on the 29th Novem-
ber, 1790; for he was but a few weeks old when his parents removed
to Eldwick, that picturesque nook on the southern outskirts of Rom-
bald’s Moor, where his mother had sprung from.
Nicholson received his earliest instruction from a man named
Briggs, who must have been a “technical” educator of the first water,
for he combined the practical handicraft of besom making with the
theoretical exposition of the three r's. The heather branches needed
for the former part of his calling proved, however, to be far more
abundant on the wild moors at the edge of which his “college” was
established, than the olive branches entrusted to his educational care.
John appears to have so far profited by Briggs’ tuition, that he
acquired an ardent taste for reading, which led him to peruse every
book, no matter on what subject, which chance threw in his way. But
together with this taste for literature, he unfortunately acquired that
desultoriness which not unfrequently mars the career of individuals of
promising intellectual capacities. At the age of twelve, John became
I 4-2
JOHN NICHOLSON.
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JOHN NICHOLSON. I 4-3
a pupil at the Bingley Grammar School, at that time under the able
mastership of Dr. Hartley, and he appears to have made remarkable
progress in English Composition, towards which his habit of reading
and the bent of his mind naturally led him. His poetical instincts
were besides fostered by the influences of his ordinary home life; for
his father, Thomas Nicholson, was a man of considerable culture,
acquainted with the literature of the day, and fond of reading extracts
from Shakespere, Milton, Pope, etc., for the delectation of his family,
accompanying them with intelligent comments and pointing out their
beauties to his hearers.
A twelvemonth at the Grammar School was thought amply suffi-
cient to complete John’s education, and at the age of thirteen the
lad was put to woolsorting, with a view to his succeeding eventually
to the business of his father, who was a woollen manufacturer on a
small scale. His mind, unfortunately, was above his work, and regular
occupation was so irksome to him that he embraced every opportunity
of shirking his task and playing truant. His father's absence from
home was usually the signal for John’s throwing his work on one side
and rambling off on the moors, with a book and his hautboy for his
Sole companions. -
The lad’s love for music, and his skill in playing the hautboy, led
him gradually into surroundings less Solitary and less elevating than the
breezy moors, and he became fond of displaying his musical abilities
before admiring circles at parties and in public house bars. It was at
such a party he first met a vivacious and winsome girl, Mary Driver by
name, who led his youthful fancy captive, and whom he wooed and won
in the course of a short number of weeks, the happy bridegroom being
of the mature age of nineteen, his blushing bride nearly two years his
junior. Several of Nicholson’s poems, published in later years, date
from this period, being addressed to his beloved Mary in the first
fervour of his youthful enthusiasm.
John's dream of connubial bliss proved but short; before a year
had run its course, and before he himself had reached the twentith year
of his age, his loving wife died in child-birth. This severe stroke of
adversity had a sobering effect upon the hitherto thoughtless youth :
he forsook his gay companions, mourned for his past folly, and turned
for comfort and succour to the God of his fathers. His parents were
pious and consistent members of the Methodist body, and they
naturally rejoiced at seeing their wayward son return to cast in his lot
with them, and to seek that intimate communion of souls which is the
truest bond of family life. John’s Serious impressions were genuine,
and promised fair to be permanent; he became an active worker in the
cause of Methodism, and by and by his name appeared on the circuit
plan as an accepted local preacher, preparatory to his undergoing the
I 4-4- JOHN NICHOLSON.
needful training for the regular ministry. Sad to say, the instability
which proved the curse of his after life, led him to marry again after a
probation of little more than a year, thus debarring him from entering
upon the ministerial career for which he appeared to be so well adapted.
This second marriage took place in 1813, when he was but twenty-two
years old, and led to his gradual estrangement from his old religious
associations, the last ties which connected him with Methodism being
severed two years after. Martha Wild, his second wife, proved a true
and patient helpmate to him during the whole of his chequered life,
and was spared to survive him several years.
For several years before and after his second marriage, John was
in the employment of his father as a warehouseman; but in 1818 he
left Eldwick to work at Shipley Fields Mill, where an advantageous
situation was offered to him, and he took up his abode at Red Beck, in
the immediate vicinity, where he remained for five years. The close
neighbourhood to Bradford brought him into more immediate contact
with the intellectual life of that “quick” town, and made him
personally acquainted with many of the men of light and leading
among the cultured classes. His own home became gradually a rendez-
vous of literature and art, whither a number of congenial minds
constantly flocked from all the neighbourhood, and he often declared
in after times that the years spent at Red Beck were the happiest
period of his life. Here, too, Nicholson’s literary career really com-
menced; his manuscript effusions were circulated from hand to hand
among his friends and reached gradually widening circles; satires on
public men, sometimes, it must be acknowledged, bordering on the
libellous, rendered his name a household word, and caused the epithet
“Yorkshire Poet’’ to be bestowed upon him. Mr. Thompson, then
manager of the old Duke Street Theatre, persuaded him to write a
drama in three acts, entitled “The Robber of the Alps,” which was
acted with considerable success; and he followed this up with the
historical drama, “The Siege of Bradford,” the first of his works that
was published.
For reasons which are not very clear, Nicholson gave up or lost his
situation at Shipley Fields in 1822, when he removed to Harden, and
not long afterwards to Hewenden, near Wilsden, where he again met
with remunerative employment. Whilst at Harden, he had the good
fortune of securing the patronage of J. G. Horsfall, Esq., an influential
gentleman, who was instrumental in making him known amongst the
neighbouring gentry and thus greatly promoting the sale of his works.
The approaching appearance of a more ambitious effort of Nicholson’s
muse had been well advertised beforehand and talked about in literary
circles, so that when “Airedale in Ancient Times,” as he entitled the
work, issued from the press in 1825, it met with an extraordinarily
JOHN NICHOLSON. I 4-5
rapid sale, three editions of it being issued in the course of the year,
and sheets purchased at the printing office as they were struck off from
the press without waiting for them to be bound. The Bradford of
I825, with its 25,000 inhabitants, was evidently gifted with more
appreciation for poetical literature, than the Bradford of our day with
ten times that number of inhabitants.
This unprecedented and unhoped for success proved a fatal turning
point in Nicholson’s life. The intoxication of success gave a false
colouring to everything that surrounded him ; extravagant visions of
fame and wealth floated before his mind’s eye, and caused him to
abandon his regular employment in order to devote himself exclusively
to literature. The sale of any book, in a town so inconsiderable as
Bradford then still was, being necessarily restricted, he began to travel
about the country and to offer his works for sale at the residences of
the gentry and clergy. This course was certainly the most profitable,
considering that at that period the provincial book trade was in its
infancy; but Nicholson’s character was not one that could easily
withstand the temptations which beset such a wandering life, and it is
hardly surprising that the love of strong drink began to take an
increasingly firm hold of him. This period, however, saw the appear-
ance of several new products of his fertile brain, chief among which
stands “The Lyre of Ebor,” a volume which undoubtedly contains the
best efforts of his poetic muse, and which by itself would suffice to
Stamp him as a genuine poet and not a mere rhymester.
In 1828 Nicholson visited London; his adventures in the metropolis,
and the reception he met with from the Yorkshire colony there, being
related with charming naïveté in his pamphlet, “The Yorkshire Poet’s
Journey to London,” of which two editions were published in the
same year. Even according to his own showing, he was, to say the
least of it, very incautious with respect to the places he visited and the
company he got into ; which want of a Yorkshireman’s proverbial
caution led to a compulsory interview with a London police magis-
trate, and to very unflattering remarks in the Yorkshire newspapers.
Notwithstanding this, Nicholson repeated his visit to the metropolis
the following year, but this time in the company and under the safe-
guard of his wife, who took care that he should not get into any
more Scrapes.
At this period the Factory Acts agitation was at its height;
the West Riding Short Time Committee were quite alive to the im-
portance of indoctrinating the public mind by means of pamphlets
and fly sheets, and popular writers wereºight out to aid the cause by
their pen. Richard Oastler's attention was drawn to our poet, whose
productions were known to circulate amongst all classes, and who
would, therefore, be a very suitable instrument for the purposes of the
I 46 - JOHN NICHOLSON.
agitation. An interview between the two took place at Fixby, and
Nicholson was commissioned to write an epic poem of a certain length,
which appeared in 1831 under the title of “The Factory Child,” and
was printed at Leeds at Mr. Oastler’s expense. He was also probably
the author of some shorter poems on kindred subjects, such as “The
Little Piecener’s Complaint,” and others; but as the copyright passed,
after the stipulated payment, into the hands of the Short Time Com-
mittee, none of them appeared in any edition of his collected poems,
and it is now difficult to identify them. But it is not easy to under-
stand why “The Factory Child’” should not have been included in
the editions published of late years. -
Nicholson’s connection with Oastler did not last long; the latter
was a methodical, laborious, and intensely earnest man; Nicholson
the very contrary. The vice of procrastination, to which literary
men are specially prone, possessed the latter in an intensified degree,
and the habit of writing “against time,” soon led to the inevitable inca-
pacity of writing at all unless “the fit was upon him,” which happened
more and more rarely. At last he confined himself to the mere re-
publication of his old works. It is a painful task for the biographer to
have to lay bare the folly and vice of a man of splendid intellect and
mental powers; but he must mournfully acknowledge that the sole
cause of Nicholson’s rapid decline and loss of brain power is to be
sought in the intemperate habits which had grown upon him to a
fearful extent since he adopted a wandering life. He made one more
effort to free himself from the trammels of his besetting vice, and on
the I4th February, 1835, he signed the pledge at the Wilsden Inde-
pendent Chapel, a facsimile of his signature on that memorable
occasion being appended to his portrait in this volume. He stated to
the meeting that “he had been one of the most dreadful characters,
and that perhaps he had drunk more liquor than any person present.”
But alas ! the beautiful lines oa “Genius and Intemperance,” written
nine years previously, were prophetic of his own fate, and after a very
short time the demon drink again asserted-its crushing power over
its helpless victim.
Nicholson was fortunate in having secured a large circle of influen-
tial friends, by whose efforts his family was kept from want. Monetary
gifts and valuable presents were bestowed upon him by Miss Tempest
of Tong Hall, the Earl of Harewood, Lord Ribblesdale, George Lane
Fox, Esq., of Bramham, and many others, and grants were obtained
for him from the Royal Literary Fund. George Lane Fox, Esq.,
bestowed altogether no less this 42OO upon Nicholson’s family before
and after the poet’s death. -
Nicholson had gone to live in Bradford in 1833, to resume his
former occupation of woolsorter, in the employment of Mr. Titus
JOHN NICHOLSON. I 47
Salt, whose warehouse was then in Union Street and who resided at
No. 45, North Parade. His generous employer chose to overlook the
fitfulness and irregularity of his work, and treated him with marked
kindness and forbearance to the end of his life. Every Sunday and
holiday, when the weather was favourable, found Nicholson on his
beloved moors, “to clear his throat of Bradford smoke,” as he was
wont to say ; and he would not unfrequently start off the evening
before his holiday, so as to nuake the most of the time at his disposal.
With such intent he left his Bradford home on the evening before
Good Friday, 13th April, 1843, to visit his aunt at Eldwick, and
unfortunately called at several places on his way. It was near midnight
when he made for the stepping stones which at that time afforded a
passage over the river Aire near Dixon's Mill. He must have missed
his footing in the darkness, fallen into the river, and been carried some
distance by the current, but appears to have eventually succeeded in
reaching the opposite bank, where he lay, exhausted and benumbed
with cold, till the break of day, when he was discovered by a passing
labourer. But the vital spark had then already fled, and all efforts to
reanimate the still warm body proved useless. An inquest was held,
and on the 18th April, 1843, the remains of the unfortunate poet were
committed to the grave in Bingley churchyard, in the presence of more
than a thousand spectators.
A Complete Bibliography of the Works of John Nicholson.
Born at Weardley, near Harewood, 29th November, 1790;
Lost his life in crossing the river Aire, near Bingley, 14th April, 1843.
I.-7%e Szege of Bradford, 272 1643, a dramatic Zoem, IV.7% AVožes, and oz/her
Azeces. By jo/.7, AWichożson, Zaſe of A'zemzóZes Moor. (Woodcut). Aradford.
Arizzéed for the azºo”, by 7. A/ºchożson. 1821. [4to., viii & 45 pp.; preface
dated “May 14th, 1821 °; dedication “to the merchants, manufacturers and
inhabitants in general of Bradford.”
2.—Airedade in Ancient Zºnes, a £oem. By 70%m Nicholsom. Bradford .
Arizzfed for f/he azºº/or by 7. & E. Avichożsort. 1825. (8vo., ii & 42 pp., the
last 8 pp, being notes.)
3.—A lºeda Ze 27, Azzczezzá Zºzzes, EZwood and EZzzaza, Z'he Aoacher, and of hey-
Aoems. By johze AWic/o/son. Zondon : Sold by Seeley and Son, 169, A-Zeez
Street; W. Jones, 5, Zove/Z's Court, Paternoster Rozo and 9. Offor, 44,
Avezwgate Sáreef. 1825. (8vo., xii & 200 pp.; preface dated “Hewnden, April
9th, 1825”; engraving by Bradley, representing the Druid's Altar, near
Bingley, as frontispiece; engraved second titlepage, with view of Goit-Stock
waterfall, also by Bradley; inner colophon: ” Printed by G. & E. Nicholson,
Bradford”; price 6s, boards. The first 34 pp. are worked off from the type
set up for 2. -
148 JOHN NICHOLSON.
4.—Airedale in Ancienz Zimes, EZwood and EZvina, Z'he Poacher and other
Aoems. Æy john Avicholson. Second Edition. Zondon : Sold by Seeley
and Son, 169, Fleet Street; W. §ones, 5, Lovel/'s Court, Paternoster Row;
and 9. Offor, 44, AVezugate Streef. 1825. (Unaltered reprint of 3; an addi-
tional paragraph is inserted in the preface, which is dated “Hewnden,
Novembér 5th, 1825.” -
5.—/.27tes on the Grand Musical Resłzza! at York, Sežembez", 1825. By jo/, 72
Avicholson. Third AEdition. Aradford: Printed for the author & y G.
and E. Avicholson. 1826. (Small 4to., iv. & 20 pp.; advertisement dated
“Hewnden, February 23rd, 1826?’; price 6d.)
6.—Beszt/forty 7% oughts on the Rezſzza2 of Commerce. 1826. Price 6d.
7.—Züries on the Present Stafe of £he Country. July, 1826. Third Edition.
Price 6d.
8.—ZThe Yorkshi're Poet’s Wa/AE through Kna, esörough and zºs Vicinity. 1826.
9.—Z'he Poacher. A faże from rea/ Zife. By 9 of 72 AVicho/son, author of
“A 27èda/e,” &c., &c. 7% zza! A aſzłzozz. “Z'he A’ecezzer 2's as bad as #/.e
7%ieſ.”—OZd frozerb. Bradford: ; £rinted for the author, by G. and E .
AVzcho/son. 1827. (12mo., 20 pp.; tailpiece; price 6d.
Io.—7%e Zyze of Æðoy’; ZThe Pal/ of Æe/shazzar; Gerazzas and /7, femperazz ce;
azza! of her £oems, by 9 oſtrz Muchożsozz, aztá/tor of Azºreda/e an Azzczerzf
Tºmtes, 7%e Poachez", &c. Alojzaozz : Sola. Öy See/ey awed: Sozz, 169, ZºZee:
Słreef; and G. and E. Micho/son, Bradford. 1827. (8vo., viii. and 218 pp.;
preface dated “Bingley, July 28th, 1827; ” inner colophon “G. and E.
Nicholson, printers, Kirkgate, Bradford.”)
II.-7%e Yorkshire Poet's Şourney to Zozzdom. Æeeds : Žrinted by Robinson and
AHerſzazzazz, and so/ā āy a ZZ bookse/Zers. 1828. (Crown 8vo., 47 pp.)
12. –7%e Porks/kºre Poez’s 7 ozerſzey fo Zozzdoyz. By 7 of 22 AVic/ho/son. Secozza!
Ba.7%ion. Zondon : Ž777tfed for Hurst, Chance, azed Co., St. Pazz/’s
Church-yard, London ; and Robinson and Hernazman, Zeeds. 1828.
(Crown 8vo., 47 pp.; label on cover—“The Yorkshire Poet’s Journey to
London. Price Is.”)
13.−Ezzg/azzd’s /lament for the Loss of her Corzstitution : a £oem. By jo/izz
- Micholson. Deeds : Žrizzfed for the azethor, by Z’. Wray, Wha?e Czoss
Yard, of £osife Greaves’s Hotel, Briggaze. 1829. (4to., 18pp.; dedicated
“to the Venerable John, earl of Eldon.”) -
14.—Cozy Moor /ron- Works ; a £oem, by §o/, /2 AWicho/sozz, au//hor of Azºreda/a,
2 &c. Azad'ſord! : Z. Azz/*e, s/ey & Co., A 27 Ågaze. I 829. (I2mo., II pp.)
I5.—7%e Poacher. A fa/e from zea/ Zzfe. By 3 ohn Wicho/son, author of
“A treda/e,” &c., &c. Aſozerſh Edizzozz. “The Receive” as as bad as #he
Thief.”—OZağ Prozerā. A radford: ; ºrzºzfed for the azºthor, by G. and Æ.
AVºchożsozz. 1830. I2mo., 20 pp.; tailpiece ; price 6d.)
16.-The Važe of ZZA/ey, 1831.
17.-The Factory Chº?a, a Żoemz. Londoza . Whizza/*er, Treache, and Azza ožá,
and so/a & V a.22 bookse/Zezºs, 1831. (12mo., 54 pp., & I p. errata; terminal
colophon “Leeds: Printed by T. Inchbold.”; Title on cover “The Factory
Child, A Poem. Price One Shilling.” )
I8.—The Szege of Bradford. Second Edition, 1831. (The alterations in the text
are considerable; etching by Geller as frontispiece.)
19.-Poems by 70%m AVicholson, the Airedaze Poet, with a sketch of his Zafe azzd
zuzzºzzags, by jo/*/z jazzzes, azuſhor of “The Azstory of Bradford,” Zozzdozz:
Zongman, Brown, Green, and Zongmeans; and Charles Startsfie/d/, /37-ad-
foºd. MDCCCXLIV. (8vo., xlvi. and 204 pp., and 16 pp., subscribers’ names;
JOHN NICHOLSON. - 149
--- -- - ... ++- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
false title with advert. of James’ History of Bradford; engraved portrait by
W. O. Geller, from the original painting now in the Bradford Art Museum;
inner colophon “C. Stanfield, printer, Bradford.”) ' -
20.-England’s Lamzemż for the Loss of he? Cons????! #zozz a Żoezrº AztóZished 27.
1829, on the Žassing of the Royuan Catholic Ae/zef B2/Z. By johzz AV2'cholson,
azzáhor of A 27 edia/e, and other £oems. Æe-AztóZzshed as Öez//g ze?:3 aféZzo-
able to the Aresent #imes. Aradford : Printed by H. O. Mazwson, Azrā-
gate, 1850. (12mo., 18 pp.; printed cover.)
21.—/low Moor Ironzworks: A Poem, first published 27, 1829. Ayjohn Avºcholson,
azethor of Azzeda/e, and other Zoe/2s. Bzzzg/ey: Przzzzed by J. Dobson,
Marke? AZace. 1856. (12mo., I2 pp.) - -
22.-Poems &y John Nichożson, the A iſ edale Poet. (AEdized by W. Dean den,
aztáhor of the “Star See?,” &c.) With a sketch of / 2's Zºſe awa& zuzzºzzags,
by §ohn jazzzes, A.S.A., . awā'Aoz of “The A/1story of /37 adford,” “The
Aſistory of £he Worsted AZazzºfacture,” efc. Fozzyż/, /ödition. Zondon :
W. H. Yozºng, Bishopgafe, and ‘7. Harrison & Souz, York A/ace, Aºng/ey.
MDcccLIx. (8vo., lii & 268 pp., engraved portrait by W. O. Geller, from the
same plate as 17; second engraved title page with view of Nicholson’s birth-
place, by G. Burton; inner colophon “J. Harrison and Son, printers,
Bingley.” A few copies were struck off on large paper, 4to.)
23.-Lines spoken at the Anniversary Meeting at Leeds, to celeby ate #he Özrthday
of Azaz'zzs. I826. Reprinted for the Burns’ Centenary in 1859. (12mo hand-
bill.) - -
24.—7%e Poetica/ Works of Şohn Wic/ho/son, the Azreda Ze Zoef. Fifth Edition.
1863.
25.-7%e Poetica Z Works of jo/, /z AVzcholsozz (the Azreda Ze Poet) ; ca, efie/Zy
edited frozzz #he ozºzgzzza Z edzºzowes, zuzºſ, addzºzozza Z notes, and a sketch
of his Zºſe azza: Zwartzzzzgs. A y lºſ’. ‘7. A 27&, az Zhoz of “Scruffazze AWazzes
and the 17 Aºelation to Azzczczzá Aſistory,” efc. Zondon. Sºme?/ ???, Mazz-
sha/Z & Co. Azadford: ; 7% ozyzas 87-ear. I876. (8vo., lxxii & 431 pp.; por–
trait of Nicholson from the retouched plate of 20; six photographic illustra-
tions; inner colophon “Edinburgh : Printed by McFarlane and Erskine,
St. James’ Square.” .
26.-Poems by John AWicho/son, the Azºreda Ze Poeſ. Wiż/, a sketch of his Zife
and zwritings, by john jaznes, A.S.A., aztáhor of “The History of Brad-
..ford,” “ The Hzsáozy of #/he Worsted Mazzufacture,” &c., &c. Ae-
£rinted from the originals £1,62ished in Žhe £oet’s Zifetime. Azngley :
ZThomas Haz-z-zson, Queen Streeſ, and a ZZ Aookse/Zers. 1876. (F’cap 8vo.;
vi & 261 pp.; thirteen Woodcuts; address to the reader signed “Abraham
Holroyd, Saltaire, August, 1876 ''; printed cover; price 3s. 6d.)
@p Bingley.
THY beauties, Bingley ! never have been sung
By Stranger-bard, or native poet’s tongue:
Then may my humble muse with thee prevail
To pardon my presumption, if I fail
In this attempt thy beauties to rehearse
In rustic strains of my untutor'd verse,
I.50 JOHN NICHOLSON.
Of all the learned youths whom thou hast sent
To distant seas, or some far continent,
Though these on thee have thought in other climes,
All have forgot to praise thee in their rhymes.
When on thy lovely vale I stand to gaze,
I feel thou need'st from me no meed of praise:
Thy hanging woods, thy fountains, and thy bowers,
Thy dashing floods, thy landscapes, and thy flowers,
Thy bold grey, rocks, thy healthy purple fells,
Where silent solitude with beauty dwells;
Thy homes where honest worth still finds a seat,
And love and virtue a serene retreat— -
Such scenes as these should plume the poet’s wing,
And swell his heart while he attempts to sing.
O may Religion, life's best hope and stay,
The maids of Bingley teach the better way !
Their minds instruct, their innocence protect,
Their manners soften and their paths direct ;
May they be like the turtles of the wood,
That dip their bills in Aire's meandering flood;
Then, at the last, faith’s sunshine on each breast,
Soar to the mansions of eternal rest
Innate their principle of truth and love,
Pure as the plumage of the turtle dove,
Sweet as the flowers, when bending to the Sun,
Are Bingley’s daughters when they love but one.
We have the mountain breeze, the cold pure spring ;
The woods where every British bird doth sing;
Wild plants and flowers, wild birds, and scenes as wild,
Or soft as any on which nature smil’d,
Blooming and lovely, as the moon is fair,
And pure as ether are the nymphs of Aire.
The weeping birch, the great majestic Oak,
Where dark green ivy forms a winter's cloak;
The purple heath, where dappled moorcocks crow;
The sylvan vales, with limping hares below,
The brooding pheasant, beauty of the wood,
And spotted trout that cleave the amber flood.
For finer walks, for more sequester'd bowers,
For cooler grottos, and for richer flowers,
For streams that wind more beautiful along,
For birds with louder chorus to their song,
For all that gen’rous Nature can bestow,
All Yorkshire scenes to Bingley-vale must bow.
JOHN NICHOLSON. I5 I
cines written eat Goit-stock.
HAIL! thou sequester'd rural seat,
Which ever beauteous dost appear,
Where the sweet songsters oft repeat
Their varied concerts, wild and clear !
Upon thy crystal-bosom’d lake
Th’ inverted rocks and trees are seen,
Adorn’d with many a snowy flake,
Or in their leafy robes of green.
O could a rural rhymer sing
The lovely scenes so richly dress'd,
Where piety may plume her wing,
And sweet seclusion form her nest
Here may the contemplative mind
Trace Nature and her beauties o'er,
And meditation rest reclin'd,
Lull'd by the neighbouring cataract’s roar,
Here, wearied with gay scenes of life,
The sire may see his children play,
While heav'n has bless'd him with a wife,
Who Smiles his happy hours away.
If ever fairies tripp'd along,
Or danc'd around in airy mirth,
They surely to this place did throng,
Or else they never danc'd on earth.
The Loves and Graces here might stay;
Th’ enamour’d pair, with bosoms true,
Unseen appoint the nuptial day,
Among these scenes for ever new ;
The poet tune his rustic lyre,
If genius trembled on the strings,
And merit modestly aspire,
If friendship deign'd to plume his wings.
I 52 JOHN NICHOLSON.
O that I could meet tribute pay,
As 'tis upon my heart impress'd
My Song of friendship here would stay,
When waves the grass above my breast.
§he Üakening of the Poet's Earp.
*-*-ºs-smº,
WITH harmony of numbers that smoothly floats along,
Like the softest harp of nature with the winds its strings
among ; -
Then stronger in his measure and bolder in his rhyme,
Unfolding all his treasure like the evening's swelling chime.
He wakens then the echo as in grander verse he sings,
And louder and still louder he strikes the quivering strings;
His rhyme is growing bolder, as he cheerily strikes the
lyre;
His muse he cannot hold her, she mounts on wings of fire.
She leaves all earthly grandeur and o'er the hills she soars,
What cares he then for slander when every star adores :
Here singing strains unborrowed the poet's verse can claim,
A wreath that’s everlasting, of never-dying fame.
In his own path of glory he sweetly chants along,
And every son of genius can comprehend his song ;
Beyond the reach of slander he sings in loftier strains,
His verse has greater grandeur as higher heights he gains.
Till lost in the creation—surrounded by its gems—
He sees the heaven of heavens bedeck'd with diadems;
And though sometimes in sorrow, despised and turned to
shame, .
He wins his wreath of glory, composed of endless fame.
JOHN NICHOLSON. I 53
WHAT means it though the poet's cot
Be placed in some sequester’d spot,
Where oaks, and elms, and beeches grow,
Or on the heath where rushes bow ;
In vales, where peaceful graze the flocks,
Or near the mossy-vestur'd rocks P
Romantic scenes, however bright,
Can ne'er true verses make him write.
'Tis genius must his breast inspire,
And light the true poetic fire.
Without it he may read and pore
Ancient and modern classics o'er ;
May walk in ruins late or soon,
While through rent arches gleams the moon ;
In places where sleeps monk, or friar;
But if he has not Nature's lyre,
Nor mould'ring ruins, nor dark woods,
Nor rippling rills, nor foaming floods,
Embattled fields, nor ancient hall,
Romantic scenes, nor cataract’s fall,
Nor works of other authors’ pens,
Nor Cumbria's lakes, nor Highland glens,
Nor all the scenes that ever grac'd -
The paintings of a man of taste,
Nor all the arts the scribblers use,
Can make a bard without the Muse.
£ines to the River Glire.
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF JOHN NICHOLSON,
- RY EDWARD COLLINSON.
COLD were the winds that swept along
Thy far-fam'd waters, Aire
When on thy banks thy bard repos'd
Till death releas'd him there.
I 54.
JOHN NICHOLSON.
Oft had the music of thy wave—
The gushing of thy streams—
Infus’d a music in his hearſ
And mingled with his dreams.
In childhood's young and laughing hours,
Ere sorrow touch’d his brow,
He lov’d to sport where he could hear
Thy murmurs, deep and low :
In youthhood’s more ambitious time
When stirr'd with hope of fame,
He lov’d thy haunts by wood and glen,
And proudly spoke thy name.
When vex'd with care, or scorn’s dark frown,
He loved to wander where
He could forget the world’s neglect,
Upon thy banks, sweet Aire
And when his tuneful harp he strung
To strains most bold or mild,
It was to link thy name to song,
And all thy legends wild.
And when the hour of death drew nigh,
In midnight’s solemn gloom,
He sought, he batſ/ed—stemm'd thy wave—
As if it were his doom,
To have from thee, as from Zheir source,
Alike, his fame and death ;
Thou didst inspire his soul with song,
To thee he gave his breath.
öße Giredaſe Poet.
WILLIAM EVANS,
OH, Nicholson l immortal bard of fame
Now slumbering in the solitary tomb,
Posterity shall hail thy hallowed name,
Till yon bright sun no more this world illume.
To be forgot shall never be thy doom
Till man be extinct or fancy fade away,
Thy genius is not seen in all its bloom,
'Tis but th’ resemblance of the twilight ray,
The glorious harbinger of an unclouded day !
THOMAS NORMINGTON.
By CLARENCE FOSTER, M.R.C.S.
AUTHOR OF “A DREAM OF THE ADRIATIC,” “MEMORIAL SONNETS
OF ITALY,” “My TOUR ON THE CONTINENT,” ETC., ETC.
THE poetic aphorism, “whom the Gods love die young,” was never
perhaps more truly exemplified than in the fate of the youthful versifier
who forms the subject of this notice, and whose aspiring genius and
celestial fire were too soon, alas ! extinguished.
Well might we exclaim while bending over his early grave:—
“There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
And mine were nothing, had I such to give.”
But futile and vain as all human regrets may be, we cannot but lament
that a life, whose first-fruits gave promise of such abundant harvest,
should thus have been so hastily and relentlessly snatched away.
Thomas Normington first saw the light at Stockbridge, Keighley, on
August Ist, I843, and was of that sickly, ailing nature, which not
only prevented his following any very active employment, but which
finally resolved itself into hopeless pulmonary disease.
At fifteen he became a pupil-teacher at the Keighley Wesleyan
School, and five years later, having meritoriously acquired a Queen’s
Scholarship, was admitted a student of the Westminster Training
College. At this institution he signally distinguished himself, and was
the fortunate recipient of several academic honours; but his fragile
physique utterly gave way under the continued mental strain, and
beating a hurried retreat, he sought once more the parental hearth,
not, as he vainly trusted, for restoration, but to droop and to die.
His compositions first appeared in the “Keighley Visitor,” shortly
before his decease, which melancholy event took place on the 28th of
April, 1865, in the twenty-second year of his age.
Like the illustrious Mantuan, who sang of flocks and fields, this
young disciple of the Muse was never so happy as when carelessly
wandering amid the verdant woods and pleasant pastures of his native
vale, and the delight he felt on such occasions finds adequate expres-
sion in his “Voice of the Flowers,” which, together with his other
poems, display at once a rare delicacy of fancy and tender appreciation.
I 56
THOMAS NORMINGTON.
C. §ong in the Flight.
I AM sitting in the firelight,
While around a shadowy train
Flits, as dreamy thoughts are flitting
Through the chambers of my brain:
Sitting lonely by the embers,
As my heart sits in my breast,
Talking with the ghostly shadows
And the grief that will not rest.
Sitting in the dreamy firelight,
While the roseate embers glow,
Flashing lightly as my hopes did,
In the golden long ago.—
Flashing lightly, sinking sadly,
Waning, dying one by one ;
And my heart sits by the embers,
While the mortal night wears on.
I am sitting in the firelight,
Dreaming of the after-time:
Dreaming dreams I may not utter
In the feeble words of rhyme;
Thinking of the coming dawning,
When the night hath passed away;
And my ghostly train of shadows
Shall have vanished, and for aye.
Sitting in the dreamy firelight,
Tasting of a dreamy joy,
Building castles in the embers
As I did when still a boy
Flashing lightly, sinking sadly,
Fading, crumbling, one by one,
I shall rise from out the ashes
At the rising of the sun.
THOMAS NORMINGTON. I 57
Sitting in the fading firelight,
Thus I pass the night away,
Waiting through the weary watches
For the dawning of the day;
Waiting for the hopes that die not,
And the joys that shall not flee ;
Mingling dreams of that which hath been
Still with that which is to be.
Sitting in the dying firelight,
Still the shadows come and go :
Still the ghostly train is dancing—
Dancing, flitting, to and fro;
And the mystic spell unbroken,
Holds my willing heart in thrall,
While my thoughts are weirdly flitting,
Like the shadows on the wall.
öhe Úoice of the Flowers.
SEEK ye the beautiful—seek ye the free,
Seek ye the pure and the true ;
Then come to the woodlands, away with me,
And the flowers shall answer you.
Is your heart aweary with toil and strife P
Is the hope within you dead P
O come to the fields where the verdant life
Of the wealthy year is shed.
The voice of the flowers is soft and low,
And shall soothe the heart’s unrest,
While around you the radiant colours glow,
Like the joys within the breast.
In beauteous characters—pure and bright,
Our Father His love hath told,
In the glistening hue of silvery white,
And the sheen of Sparkling gold.
I 58
THOMAS NORMINGTON.
The rose is for love—so the poets say—
Young love in his burning prime; -
Then taste of his honeyed breath, ye that may, ,
Ere cometh his fading time.
O rose of the summer, O emblem sweet,
Of the sweetest draught of bliss,
That the weary spirits of mortals meet
In a world of woe like this
And the lily—the lady of the vale,
The queen of the flowers is she ;
With her graceful form and her cheek so pale,
Like the spirit of purity.
O I would not pluck thee, mystical flower.
So tender, and pure, and sweet;
For thy beauty would lose its spell of power,
Away from this wild retreat.
But the flower I love—that most I love,
Is a flower of hardy mien ;
It lights up the shade of the woodland grove,
And thrives in the cottage green :
O the peerless blue of its laughing eye,
With never a cloud or blot :
'Tis the flower for which the absent sigh—
The cherished “Forget-me-not.”
Then weave ye a garland, but put not in
The leaves of the adonis;
But the amaranth and the eglantine,
And the honey flower of bliss ;-
And blend ye the ivy and hawthorn still,
The mint and the laurel, too—
And throw in your king-cups, too, if ye will,
While I add a sprig of Pew /
AN OF ERATIVE OF KEIGHLEY
Published in 1834, “The Weaver's Complaint; or, a bundle
of plain facts, a novel poem.” Keighley : R. Aked ; London :
H. Hetherington, pp. 50. As a sample of the versification we give
the following extract :—
CIn Øperative of Keighſey.
THE weaver then further continued and said,
I have thus the chief part of these sermons displayed,
And therefore shall leave you to judge as you may
Of the wisdom those learn who for such lessons pay.
And yet, strange to tell, there are thousands of poor,
Who these same venal sycophants so much adore,
That they’ll run far and near, though expiring thro’ want,
To pay their last pennies in hearing their cant.
By reason of which, as you now may behold,
They have sunk from a nation free, cheerful, and bold,
To slaves, on whom tyrants at pleasure can prey,
And whose souls are by priestcraft quite frittered away.
Who, instead of exerting the pow'r they possess,
In relieving their own and their neighbour's distress,
Are wasting the vigour of body and mind,
In a form of religion that’s nothing but wind.
And coward-like striving, by clamour and din,
By huge prayers and long puffs against Satan and sin,
To slip into heaven without going through
Even one single duty designed them to do.
But as hunger, I feel has exhausted my strength,
And your patience with such must be worn to the length,
I shall spend the last breath that I yet have to spare,
In presenting to heaven this short, earnest prayer—
Which is that dark bigotry’s bundle of creeds
May be changed for religion in actions and deeds,
And each hypocrite find that his loved faith, alone,
For his evil transactions can never atone.
I6 o
HEN
PRESTON
_`


EEN FRESTON.
Dy THE REv. J. W. KAYE, M.A. LL.D. F.R.S.L.
RECTOR OF DERRYBRUSK, ENNISKILLEN.
AUTHOR OF “THE LIVES OF THE WIVES OF THE POETs,” ETC.
PoETRY is the music of life, and the minstrelsy of literature; breathing
forth the sweetest strains of tenderness or swelling to the grandeur of
a full choral diapason.
If it be true that poets are born, not made, that fact would
account for the not infrequent development of the poetic faculty
apparently amid the most unfavourable environments, and under the
most unpropitious circumstances.
One would be apt to think that the monotonous routine and
grinding toil of a Yorkshire factory life, would be most unlikely and
unsuitable for evolving the qualities and characteristics of a poet. Yet
Nature sometimes indulges in the strangest freaks, and poets are
“born ?” in the most unexpected places.
Ben Preston was born on the IOth of August, 1819, in a
humble cottage in Bradford. His father received very little school
education, and was a hand-loom weaver at the time Ben was born ;
but he was a man who had a thirst for knowledge, and gave as much
time to reading as his daily work and family wants would allow. Being
left an Orphan at an early age, he had known something both of the
trials and the penury of the poor, and had no desire that his children
should grow up either in ignorance or in want.
Ben was but a few months old when his father removed from
Bradford to a place called Waterside, about a mile and a half from the
‘town ; still following his occupation of hand-loom weaver. Here Ben
became enamoured of Nature’s loveliness; his ears opened to the
songs of the birds, and the sighing of the winds; his eyes beheld with
delight the green hillsides, the spreading trees, and the ripples of the
rivulet. Only for a few years of his youthful life was he permitted to
revel in these delights.
His father removed back with his family to Bradford, having
obtained work in the warehouse of Mr. Richard Fawcett, in whose
employ he remained for the next seventeen years. Ben was now sent
to school, as his father was anxious that his son should obtain some of
the rudiments of education before he was put to constant daily work.
I 62 BBN PRESTON. 3*.
His brother John, who afterwards became famous in his native
county as the Artist-Preacher, and who was born in their two-roomed
house at Waterside, was more fortunate in the matter of education.
Ben being older was put to work sooner, to help the family income. A
few years at an elementary school was all that fell to his lot, before he
was bound an apprentice to his father's employers, to learn the trade
of wool-sorting. It was now the weary monotony of his life began, it
was now that the cherished memories of his early youth haunted him
with their dreamy music and their visions fair, – .
. “The landscape gliding swift,
Athwart imagination's vivid eye.”
It was now, in these apprenticeship days, that Ben began to read
with a purpose, and study both nature and human-nature, in such hours
as he could filch from sleep and daily toil.
At this age Burns was following the plough on his father's farm
at Alloway; Bloomfield was following the craft of a shoemaker with
his brothers in a garret in London; and Chatterton was studying
antiquated English in old parchment manuscripts from the Church of 2
St. Mary, Redcliffe, Bristol.
It was in these toilsome days Ben Preston felt the “Divinity stir
within him,” and he became conscious of the Muse’s presence, when
he could— -
“At intervals descry,
Gleams of the glory, streaks of flowing light,
Openings of heaven.”
In measured lines and rhyming couplets he began to tell the joys
and sorrows of the common people among whom he lived and
laboured. The first poem he ventured to make public, appeared in the
Bradford Observer. Other compositions followed, and discerning men
began to see that there was true poetry in the soul of Ben Preston.
Ben’s parents were strict Calvinistic Baptists; but neither Ben nor
his brother John could find soul-rest in the teachings of that estimable
religious body. -
- The Preston family lived in a small house in the yard of Holme
Mill, Thornton Road, and father and mother were most regular in their
attendance at public worship, when family cares did not prevent.
They endeavoured to set a good example to their children; and of
his mother Ben says she was “as pious and as blameless a woman as
ever lived.” Soon after attaining the age of manhood, Ben got
married, still following the occupation of wool-sorting, which was then
On the decline. . -
BEN PRESTON. I 63
He had many opportunities of witnessing the exercise of that
arbitrary power by which the “factory-hands” were held down in
pinching poverty by the “Factory Lords.” His soul rebelled against
all such acts of tyranny; and in scathing sarcasm he wrote “T” Short
Timer,” “Aw nivver can call hur mi wife,” and other like pieces.
Among the poorer classes he found traits the most loveable,
depths of human nature that appealed to his poet-soul, quivering with
truest and purest love and sympathy, and so incomparably depicted in
“Come to thi Gronny, Doy.” He found hearts bravely bearing up
with the noblest endurance under sickness, sorrow and poverty, and
souls yearning with unspoken aspirations for all that is good and
beautiful and true, so touchingly told to us in “T” Weyvver's Deeath.”
But to know these things as living truths, to be thrilled with the
pathos of humble life, to be inspired with the greatness and grandeur
of the self-sacrifice of the common people, you must live among them
and share their trials. For twenty years after his marriage this was
Ben Preston’s experience, toiling on, Sorrowing, singing and saving,
when in May, 1865, he removed with his family to a house at Gilstead.
When the common lands of Bingley were enclosed, allotments were
awarded to numerous claimants, and Our poet purchased an allotment
from Mr. Alfred Harris, junr., and built a house away from the noise
and smoke of town life. His brother John previously bought two
allotments on Gilstead Moor, and built a residence there in 1862.
tº -
For some reason or other Ben Preston sold his property at
Gilstead, and retired to a house near Eldwick Glen, which commands
a grand view of the wild moorland, adjoining the far-famed Shipley
Glen.
In the August of 1889, the writer of this sketch, accompanied by
his friend J. S. Jowett, Esq., of Brighouse, had the pleasure of visiting
Ben Preston at his home at Eldwick. He was then 70 years old,
hale and buoyant; his memory still strong and active, and stored with
richest treasures of poetry and prose. The recitation of the choicest
selections from Shakespere, Burns, Wordsworth, Tennyson and others,
was his delight. 3.
His conversational powers were excellent, and the matter of his
discourse was both edifying and amusing. His manners were homely
and unreserved; and yet in all his words and actions there were mani-
fest marks of natural refinement. -
The rare and peculiar genius of Ben Preston as a poet is displayed
in his dialect poems; they are to Yorkshire what the dialect poems of
Edwin Waugh are to Lancashire. In some of his other poems he has
attained a high degree of excellence, especially in “The Poet,” “The
I64. - BEN PRESTON.
Oak and the Ivy,” “The Mariner's Church,” “Adelphos,” and
others.
His poetry is the apt expression, in appropriate words, metrical
and musical, of the beautiful symbolism of nature, the love of liberty
and truth, and of the noble, tender, and passionate struggling of the
soul in the humbler walks in life. . --
He greatly reminds us of the remarkable poet-artist, William Blake.
His language, like Blake's, is highly imaginative, deeply pathetic, and
strongly self-assertive; and like Blake, too, he is a self-educated man.
He has contributed many articles on social questions to the public
press. A complete edition of his poems was published in 1881 by
Thos. Brear, of Kirkgate, Bradford; and in 1889 a short sketch of
his life by J. E. Preston, appeared in Andrew’s North Country Poets,
from which we have gleaned some particulars. The poems of Ben
Preston deserves a prominent position in every Yorkshire Library.
Flight Öisions.
Sweet are the long hours of the solemn night,
That bring the peace that hovers o'er the dead,
For scenes, illumined by no earthly light,
Rise in the chaos round the pillowed head :
The Eden world my sinless childhood knew
Springs from the grave of time to bless my view.
The soft warm wind is scented with the breath
Of flowers that perished in my babyhood,
The melody of voices hushed in death
Re-echoes merrily thro’ vale and wood :
My home, my first home, seen thro' gushing tears,
Shines in the sun of long-departed years.
Beside our cottage stands the ancient Oak,
O'er which we mourned as for a father slain,
And all uninjured by the woodman's stroke
Spreads its paternal arms and lives again;
And there beneath its boughs sits many a form
Long since consigned to darkness and the worm.
BEN PRESTON. . I 65
But where is she, the glory of my youth,
Whose absence made the crowd a solitude P
Life had no ills when she was near to soothe—
The innocent the beautiful! the good
O, joy, joy, joy lºshe comes once more to bless;
Let silence, poor dumb harp, my bliss express.
Cherubic lore with haloes girds her brow,
But all the seraph fills her pitying eyes,
And warnings, given in whispers sweet and low,
Fall on my ears like music from the skies;
Her tears I see, her trembling hand I feel—
Angel of light! I know thou lov'st me still.
'Tis gone ! but ere the vision passed away
F. Her finger pointed to her home above;
And looks, than words more melting, seemed to say
That sin alone can sever those who love.
And that our hearts but tasted here below -
The heaven that goodness may for ever know.
Old home, old scenes, I seek—I haunt ye yet,
Tho' there sad changes me and mine befell,
Tho' strangers there in me a stranger met,
There is no place on earth I love so well.
Forget not, oh my soul, in dreams of pride
Or vain pursuits, who there have lived and died.
Öhe Poet.
THE poet stands in solemn mood
Amid the whisp'ring solitude;
The stars that gird the far-off pole
Speak to his list’ning earnest Soul;
The night-wind and the ocean’s roar
Utter their deep and solemn lore;
To him, all forms in mystic speech
Lessons of priceless wisdom teach,
He only can their whispers hear,
He, Nature's own interpreter.
I 66
BEN PRESTON.
Tho' oft unheard, or heard amiss,
Still, still for him creation is
Heaven's language, God’s unchanging word,
By night, by day, for ever heard— -
Heard as when first the measured chime
Of moving worlds gave birth.to time—
Voices which, heeded or unheard,
Shall yet speak out till time shall be
Gone, like a night-toll, that but stirred
The stillness of eternity.
Alas! that poet ever strove
To wake the throb of guilty love ;
Alas ! that e'er the sacred lyre
Was touched to rouse the warrior’s ire,
That sounds so heavenly e'er should be
Blended with bacchant revelry.
Not so, sings God and Nature’s bard,
Heaven and not fame is his reward ;
His are the songs whose numbers roll
Their gusts of feeling o'er the soul,
Stirring its deeps as breezes wake
To life and health the stagnant lake ;
His are the strains that soothe to rest
The furies of the human breast,
Flood the dark soul with light, and dart
Like Sunbeams through the frozen heart;
His spoken music, even when wild
As is the wildest minstrelsy .
Of rushing wind or roaring sea,
With trumpet notes of truth is filled—
A music bringing peace, and hopes
Of power to calm remorse and fear.
Yet, sweet and holy as the tear,
The first tear a fond mother drops
O'er the still babe that slumbers near,
His words, with fire celestial fraught,
Quicken the buried seeds of thought ;
God planted seeds that, as they shoot
Upward into the daylight, grace
With beauty, verdure, flowers, and fruit
The dreary mental wilderness.
BEN PRESTON. - 167
Comes to his ear the word divine,
From all below, around, above,
He sees without, he feels within,
The eternal Life, and Light, and Love;
And God's own language, whispered long,
Bursts from his lips in fervid song—
Song that shall sound in human ears
His changeless truth thro’ changing years.
öße Clge of Poesy is Gone.
NAME, gold, and power alone can bless,
So mortals look not heavenward now,
But guideless, godless, fatherless,
Bend to the base earth heart and brow.
This world is but a timepiece, formed
To wear away its springs and stop,
SO hearts grow cold and dead, unwarned,
Unvivified by Faith and Hope.
Tho' the Creator's living laws
All things in heaven and earth control,
God, or God’s work, no longer draws
Awe, love, or wonder from the soul.
Hearts, yearning for a father's love,
Shed Orphans' tears and feel alone,
Mammon hath quenched the lights above—
The Age of Poesy is gone.
And is it so P. Speak, sons of thought,
Who looking ever to the skies, -
Have, in the soul's deep stillness, caught
Heaven’s loftiest, holiest harmonies.
Man cannot live unsoothed by song,
Sick of this world's low cares and pain,
The fainting soul will turn, ere long,
To hear the minstrel's harp again.
RHYMES FOR THE TIMES
By a Bingley Tallow Chandler. This was the title of a shilling
booklet issued at Bingley in 1849. Pp. 46. Keighley: Robert Aked.
We give his poem on
R e. f or on .
I AM a little lonely word,
Which men do often use,
But when at home I would be heard,
I meet with their abuse.
At meetings held in open air,
Where many men did come;
I often have been used there
But none would take me home.
In dwellings large they use me too,
Where men drink and carouse ;
But none e'er say, “kind sir, will you
Go with me to our house.”
The tailor used me yesterday,
In asking for his vote;
Yet from my face he turn’d away,
Whilst he cut out a coat.
The broker pledg’d my friend to be,
He would oppose all sin;
But he forgets his pledge to me
When he takes pledges in.
And when I plead with good intent,
With men on every side,
They say “You go to Parliament,
There evermore abide.”
And with a man I’ve journey'd there,
Whose eyes roll’d clear and bright;
But he ne'er had a bed to spare
That I might stay all night.
Then take me to your fireside,
My duty I’ll perform ;
And you’ll be known both far and wide
As kindly to reform.
JOSEPH ROBERTSHAVV.
By R.E.V. R. V. TAYLOR, B.A. F.R.H.S.
VICAR OF MELBECKs, RICHMOND; AUTHOR OF “YORKSHIRE
ANECDOTES,” “LEEDS WORTHIES,” ETC., ETC.
Mr. Joseph ROBERTSHAw, of Halifax, is the author of two or three
volumes of verse, and has also made many pleasing contributions to
the “Poets’ Corner’’ of local newspapers. He is a native of Halifax,
and was born on the 3rd of December, 1822, and is therefore now
nearly 72 years of age. In 1836 he went to reside in Luddenden
Valley, near Halifax, to learn the worsted business with his brother-in-
law, Mr. John Ambler, of Peel House Mills. It was during his resi-
dence in the lovely and secluded valley of Luddenden that Southey’s
“Remains of Henry Kirke White” came under his notice, and opened
to him the beautiful land of poesy. He still cherishes a love for the
memory of the young and gifted Nottinghamshire poet. In 1853, Mr.
Robertshaw removed to Keighley, and was manager for Samuel
Cunliffe Lister, Esq., in his wool-combing establishment, until the
business was given up in 1868; he then became manager for a Limited
Liability Company. It was during his residence at Keighley that two
of his books were issued from the press; the title of one being “York-
shire Tales and Legends,” comprising “A Ramble to Bolton Abbey,”
“Tom Lee, a Tale of Wharfedale,” and “The One Pound Note, a
tale of Hebden Bridge.” His other work is called “Meditative Hours,
and other Poems,” pp. 240, Keighley, 1856; with “Sketches and
Traditions of the Yorkshire Moorlands,” etc. His “Meditative
Hours” were dedicated by permission to the late Sir Francis Crossley,
Bart., then M.P. for Halifax. This volume contains some fine poems,
which evince a strong love of Nature, combined with choice language
and easy versification. In August 1855, when he became Editor of the
Xeighley Visitor, he contributed a large number of tales and sketches
to the pages of that journal. Besides the above, there appeared by
him, “Protestantism, the Safeguard of Christian Principles; ” the
“Importance of Youth and the necessity of its Improvement; ” and
“A few Thoughts on Societies for the Diffusion of Knowledge.” He
also inserted in the Keighley Visitor, “A Ramble to Bolton Abbey,”
“Tom Lee,” “The One Pound Note,” and these have passed through
several editions. In 1886, Mr. Robertshaw had a paralytic seizure,
which disabled him from attending to business, and he removed to
Halifax in 1888, his native place, where he still resides. Many of his
poems are well worth reading and committing to memory, for recita-
tions at public meetings, etc. To us it appears grand and elevating
when a man immersed in the cares of business can thus devote his little
leisure and take delight in the “Charms of Sweet Poesy,” when the
toils and labours of the day are done.
JOSEPH ROBERTSH
A W.

JOSEPH ROBERTSHAW. 171
Qg flative Glens.
LONE wandering in my native glens remote
From men, in nature’s wilds how sweet to stray,
While the lone blackbird’s soft mellifluous note
Is heard in plaintive strains at close of day:—
When twilight gently deepens all around,
And veils in mellow shades the prospect fair,
'Tis Eden, for in every sight and sound
The Everlasting One in majesty walks there.
The spirit, hampered by the ills of life,
Here finds a season brief of calm repose;
Rest from the world’s conflicting scenes of strife;
A respite from humanity’s deep woes.
The balmy breath of forest flowers sports round,
In playfulness, the aching, grief-scarred brow ;
The wearied mind, in reverie profound, *
Is lull'd to tranquil rest by the calm streamlet's flow.
Come, pensive Melancholy, come ! meet form
To grace a solitary scene like this ;
Come to my heart; no frost now nibs—no storm
Comes with rude breath to mar our mutual bliss.
Pastoral beauty decks the landscape dim :—
Secluded wood—paths under star-lit skies
Invite our steps; and hidden songsters hymn,
In sweetest harmony, their forest melodies.
Oh I beauteous goddess, now I feel thy power,
I catch the glances of thy melting eye,
The soft sensations which my soul come o'er,
With holy impulse, tell me thou art nigh,
Thou fair illuminator of the soul;
Thou gushing spring of intellectual fire;
Thy humble wooer owns thy kind control,
And pours, for thee, the music of his humble lyre.
Thou! gentle one, has often hushed to peace
The stormy passions that invade the mind.
Of the lone bard, who, glad of his release
From worldly cares—in happy ease reclined,
Has sweetly dreamed of childhood's flowery home.
Of treasures deep enshrined within the heart;
While dear and long-departed ones have come
With radiant smiles their soothing influence to impart.
172 JOSEPH ROBERTSHAw.
Or, led by thee, through fancy's boundless world,
Above the starry-fretted vault of heaven,
What holy visions hast thou oft unrolled
To my tranced gaze—what raptures have they given
How pleasant thus in mossy dell to lie,
And snatch from bygone days life's dearest flow’rs;
Or view, while fast the happy moments fly,
Our future home, with hopes to gain its blissful bowers.
Oh! yes, I love these glens; thou evening star
Bear witness to my passion deep and strong;
For thou hast wandered with me near and far,
Their silent shades and green retreats among.
Here, joining nature in her tuneful strain &
Of vocal praise to her Creator's name,
'Tis sweet to worship in this glorious fane,
While woodland voices fan devotion's holy flame.
*—
Qg Plative Filſs.
I SING the everlasting hills, that rear
Their giant forms around my moorland home—
A lowly home, ’tis true, but far more dear
Than place and wealth beneath Victoria's dome.
O, mighty mountains, noble, high and hoar!
Proudly and firm ye stand, as ever, now ;.
Nor lightning's flash can scathe, nor thunder's roar,
Nor time, can bend your everlasting brow.
Proud guardians of my native vale, I raise
My humble, glowing numbers in your praise.
Cradled amid the storms that whirl around
Your dauntless breasts, my youthful footsteps roved
Among your fastnesses. There was I bound
By nature’s charms—by nature’s charms beloved.
Surrounded by your torrents music wild !
Sequestered in your fairy solitude,
She reared the mind of your admiring child,
And led him to the Great, the Wise, the Good
Brought forth and reared beneath your silent shade,
There, too, may my lone corse be lowly laid.
JOSEPH ROBERTSHAW. 173
Oh I how I love to climb your purple peaks,
When golden sunbeams flood your noble crests;
And thence to view the western sky, with streaks
Of richest tints adorned ; while calmly rests
The landscape, stretching far, in deep repose.
'Tis then—when feelings holy and serene
Steal o'er the mind—when every breeze that blows
Is fraught with bliss—we think what would have been
This gloomy, wretched, and apostate earth,
Had Sin, the horrid monster, ne’er had birth.
Or, when dread Winter holds his iron sway,
And battling elements around you roar,
Alone, among your haunts, I love to stray,
And listen to the storm-spirte's shriek, as o'er
Your reeling heads he sails; while deaf’ning, deep,
Reverberating thunder rolls along
Your rugged sides, or down some awful steep
Darts till it spends itself the glens among.—
Oh then, with palpitating heart, how grand
To view the flashing, swift-descending brand
Ye fill the mind with images sublime,
Which aspirations after what is great
And good beget,_which, nor the hand of time,
Nor death itself can e'er obliterate.
Yes, ye are agents, like the simple flower,
Of God, that stamp in characters of flame
His nature’s impress with resistless power
Upon the glowing soul ; and loud proclaim
His wisdom and His glorious majesty,
Who is for ever wrapt within his own eternity.
§o my Plative Oaſe.
Sweet vale ! I love thee dearly,
Shrined in thy holy calm,
I listen late and early
To the inspiring psalm
That from thy bosom rises ligh,
A daily anthem to the sky.
17+
JOSEPH ROBERTSHAW.
I gaze upon thy beauty,
Thy music never palls,
But nerves me for the duty
To which life ever calls :
Thou givest to my heart a joy
Which all life's cares can ne'er destroy.
The glens, the heath-clad mountains,
The aged hawthorn tree,
The rills, the mossy fountains—
All have their charms for me ;
In calm or storm, by night or day,
I love in their lone haunts to stray.
How bright the sunset glory
Upon thy woodland stream
What feelings now come o'er me,
While, lost in the bright dream
Of early days, I walk once more
Along its green romantic shore.
I prize those youthful feelings—
Those aspirations grand ;
To me they were revealings
Of the future spirit-land ;
Their influence sheds around my way
The glory of immortal day.
When, as the daybeam fadeth,
The moon walks forth serene,
O what a power pervadeth
The fair, enchanting scene !
How is the spirit caught on high,
And pants to know life's mystery !
I wish not wealth nor splendour,
Nor pomp of earthly power;
To me ’tis wealth to wander,
At morn or evening hour,
Beneath the sky, upon the SOd,
Where first my thoughts were led to God.
Long as I live, dear valley,
Where'er my lot be cast,
While recollections rally
Round the standard of the past :
Thee will my heart still fondly prize,
Earth’s first and only paradise.
Rev. JoHN ROOM, M.A.
By WILLIAM NAYLOR, C.C.
THE Rev. John Room, B.A., Vicar of Eastwood, Keighley, was born
on the 20th of February, 1820, at Dewsbury, in the West Riding of
Yorkshire. He acquired the rudiments of learning in the Elementary
Schools of his native town and early showed great fondness for books.
The happy possessor of a very retentive memory, which even at his
present advanced age shows remarkable vigour, he made rapid progress
—not infrequently annoying his teacher by asking the meaning of what
he read in his lessons. When only seven years old he had mastered
most of the leading facts of Scripture story, and had committed many
of its most striking chapters to memory. His favourite secular books
were Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and “Robinson Crusoe,” and he
regarded the former not as an allegory, but as a veritable record of
facts. As he grew up he developed an intense craving for knowledge.
Often when his companions were at play, our author might be found in
some secluded corner poring over the pages of a favourite book. The
subjects most congenial to his mind were history and poetry. For
fiction he had but little taste, except as it illustrated history—even
Sir Walter Scott had but few attractions for him. Rollin, Plutarch,
Goldsmith’s “Greece and Rome,” Hume, and Smollett, he read with
avidity, as opportunity gave him access to them. In poetry Homer,
Virgil, Shakespere, Milton, Young, and Byron were his pet authors;
and by the time he had arrived at manhood he was fairly conversant
with their choicest writings.
The poetical bent of his mind manifested itself very early. When
only fourteen years of age several of his productions in verse had found
their way into the public prints, and often received warm commenda-
tion. At fifteen he wrote some verses on the death of the Rev. J.
Duckworth, M.A., Vicar of Dewsbury. In response to a very widely
expressed wish, these were published in a separate form and enjoyed a
very large circulation. Dewsbury : Printed by E. Willan, Market-
place, 1836, 20 pp. Some years later he wrote two temperance
poems, “Who is a Slave P” and “Who are the Free ?” both of
which appeared in the Family Herald, and the Editor of that journal
spoke of them in very eulogistic terms, no small compliment.
At twenty years of age he married; and soon after entered the
Scholastic Profession, which he prosecuted with Success for some seven
or eight years. During this period he wrote the “Church Bells” and
several minor pieces having reference to current events. In 1848 he
176 REv. JoHN ROOM, B.A.
was entered at St. John’s College, Cambridge, and graduated B.A.
in January, 1852. During his undergraduateship he wrote “The
Christian Hero,” and other pieces. In 1852 he was ordained deacon
by Dr. Longley, Bishop of Ripon, and priest about the same time of
the year following. . The curacy to which he was ordained was
Keighley, at that time under the Incumbency of the Rev. W. Busfeild,
M.A., Rector. After fifteen months’ service as curate, he was ap-
pointed by the Bishop to the living of Eastwood, Keighley, at which
place he still remains. During this long period of thirty-seven years
in which Mr. Room has held the living of Eastwood, his poetic pen
has by no means been suffered to lie idle. In 1854 he published
a small volume entitled “Random Rhymes; ” printed by T.
D. Hudson, High Street, Keighley. Since then he has con-
tributed to the press scores of pieces, of various lengths, on various
subjects. Some are grave and solemn ; others light and humorous.
A large number of his compositions have not as yet seen the light, but
it is expected that the whole will be shortly collected and published.
They will fill a volume of four or five hundred pages, and will afford
very interesting reading. It would be very difficult to assign to Mr.
Room a distinct place in poetry, or to say in which of its many classes
he most excels. In description he deserves a high place, and he has the
happy power of conveying deep and grave thoughts pleasantly, while
as a satirist he is remarkably caustic, as Some have good reason to
remember.
On the 20th February, 1890, Mr. Room gave an At Home, at his
newly erected residence, Thornleigh, Keighley, in celebration of the
double-event of his Golden Wedding and his seventieth birthday.
The occasion was taken advantage of by his congregation and a few of
his old friends to present him with a suitable address and a handsome
escriţovre, and a fund was also raised with the object of recognising his
long, able and devoted ministration, by the erection of an appropriate
stained-glass window in the church where he has so long and faithfully
laboured. November, 1890, saw this work fully accomplished. Mr.
Room graduated M.A. in 1892. -
£p Qemorieion.
IN manhood's young prime, I took me to wife,
A maiden as virtuous, as fair ;
To help in my labours, to solace my life,
My home and my fortunes to share.
From a host of admirers she chose me alone,
And lov’d with a passionate glow ;
To see me, sit by me, and have me her Own
Was her joy and her heaven below.
REV. JOHN ROOM, M.A. 177
She lov’d me as only true woman can love,
With all her rich fulness of heart;
To serve me, care FOR me, her plighted faith prove,
Was her chosen, and well sustain’d part. ..
And for fifty-two years, five months, and five days,
We travell'd life's journey together; . . .
O'er mountain and plain, on rough and smooth ways,
In cloudy, and bright sunny weather. -
How light was her step ! how lustrous her eye
Till age and infirmity came,
And nature exhausted, no strength could supply
To her wasted and delicate frame.
Then Our Father in Heaven, in kindness and love,
Sent His Angel to say “Come up high’r.”
And her sad, wearied spirit ascended above,
To join the Celestial Choir.
And there in white robes, with her harp and her crown,
She is singing, and waiting for me;
Till the summons shall come to call me up home,
When our union FOR EVER shall be.
I murmur not, Lord, at my desolate case :
Thy Providence cannot do wrong;
But rather would praise Thy great goodness and grace,
We were spar'd to each other so long.
In her death-State she lay as an Angel at rest;
No marks of old age or decay;
More like a fair maid in her bridal robes drest,
Than an image of cold, lifeless clay.
No more shall I gaze on her sweet, placid face;
No more her rich, mellow voice hear; -
Till my labours all done, mine earthly race run,
We meet in her happier sphere.
In my Parish, and Schools, and pastoral cares,
She prov’d a true helpmate to me;
While the sick and the poor, in her alms and her prayers,
An Angel of Mercy could see. - •
Light and soft lie the mould, dear Wife, on thy head,
In the grave where thine earthly part lies;
Full soon shall I sleep in the same lowly bed,
With thee to awake and arise. -
WILLIAM CHARLES RUSHTON.
By WALTER J. KAYE, M.A. -
EDITOR OF “THE LEADING POETS OF SCOTLAND,” PRINCIPAL OF
PEMBROKE HOUSE COLLEGIATE SCHOOL, HARROGATE. -
BORN September 4th, 1860, at Windhill, near Shipley, Mr. W. C.
Rushton was, by the death of his father at the close of 1861, deprived
of the strong hand and help on which youth wisely leans, and thus
early had to taste earth’s bitterest sorrows. Hard was the struggle for
the teaching a village school could afford, and this was early cut short
by his being sent to work in the factory, at the tender age of nine. In
two years more he was put on to work “ full time.” Ambition soon
dawned, and the powers of the embryo poet, developed in rough and
rugged paths, soon emerged in wide fancy flights. These youthful
efforts have long been forgotten or destroyed. Possibly the discipline
of disappointment, uncanny to most, unsettled young Rushton’s mind,
for now we find his fancy was all for theatrical shows and stage-
players . This life proved very attractive for a time, and our hero made
some mark with his company, as we find him “starring ” the country
through for some two years or more as an actor. Valuable lessons he
learnt during this careless period of his life, self-reliance, patience,
perseverance, and submission to the powers that be. . He now could
estimate more truly the worth of the quiet and settlement of home
life. At the age of nineteen we find him steadily at work as a
woolsorter.
In 1883 Rushton’s first volume, “Rosanus, and other Poems,
including Odes, Songs and Sonnets,” appeared. Here the Poet's
independence of character shows itself, for running through the little
book we find him freely shelter behind the poet’s license, and if con-
venient, he lays aside all rule with greatest ease. But the true spirit of
the poet’s genius at times breaks forth in telling thoughts. We doubt
not this volume has found a valued place on many a cottage shelf.
Having mingled much with the working-men of his own and other.
counties, Mr. Rushton’s sympathies find ready and appropriate ex-
pression, embodying in poetic garb the varied phases of country life
and feeling. But ambition seldom knows its bounds. Mr. Rushton
has devoted his steady plodding energies to a more remunerative art of
late years. He now paints, in living colours as well as in glowing
words, pictures of our lovely Yorkshire dales. These pictures may
now be seen in most of the popular public exhibitions of the North ºf
England.
True merit is content to begin at the lowest rung of the ladder.
And we desire for the subject of this short sketch the hearty apprecia-
tion of his native Riding and that a wide fame may lay hands upon
him before many years have run. -
W I LLIAMI CHARLES RUSHTON. I 79
Öo a Poet.
HAIL! exultation’s fervid simpleton,
Thou frail and trepid framer of a lay, -
Speak, sirrah quick, retort | what would'st thou say?
Terpsichore, that romping wench is won,
Thalia lisps with lightsome laughing tongue,
Whom youth adores, to make thy spirit gay.
Drink'st thou of Heliconian’s pure springs,
Or wert thou fanned by love’s amorous wings,
In myrtle groves that deck old man-shaped Greece P
Or did'st thou in light Eros’ bower dwell,
Vexed by that wanton god who ne'er would cease,
Till stolen by some naaiad to her cell P -
Thou found'st in her such duplicating joys,
As e'en turn hoary men to boasting boys
OH bring me back those golden hours,
In love and friendship still the same,
And strew their mazy path with flow’rs
That I with hopes may sing again.
In this wide world of mortal woe,
Naught lasting is ; e'en hope is pain,
And pale despair would not be so,
Were it not offspring to the same.
We yield to death what most endears,
And sigh for that which may not be,
While rosy mirth distils our tears,
To be the salts of misery.
The one whose veinal heart with pride
Hath throbb’d 'neath exultation’s thrill, .
Shall learn by Ocean time and tide, . ."
That good is but the fruit of ill.
I 8o WILLIAM CHARLES RUSHTON .
Qarried not
*-
flated. .
YOU know that love is always young, and we
Who live in this frail, unromantic age,
Have seen what few might seldom fail to see,
Did they but half their looking eyes engage.
An old and hoary man of near four-score,
Puffs out love's furnace to a maiden’s eyes,
And bids the sweetness of his lips implore
That she, oh she, might be his darling prize.
'Tis confiscated, all his earthly bliss,
The grave but scarce receives his lustful bones,
His thousand pounds per annum are not his,
But tends to furnish more delightful drones.
And all the world forgetful of his life,
Makes bitter sport by pointing at his wife.
5 or n e t.
You’RE like such thing when summer gilds the joys
Of some impatient sapling, for the tree
That teems with heavy crops too oft destroys
The mellow tints of choicest luxury;
Then give me record whence I may recall
Time’s hollow echo if perchance to trace
Which as I hope may ne'er to me befall,
Your lack of meekness in my warm embrace.
'Tis citadel'd in you what may not part
From forth my better being thus confined,
I yield my soul, and so perforce my heart
Must drag its fleshy tribute on behind.
Then frame your lips with language to admit
That youth is vain yet sweetly passionate.

JANE SHACKLETON.
By COUNCILLOR. C. W. CRAVEN,
AUTHOR OF “A WREATH OF RHYME,” “THE EIFFEL TOWER, AND
OTHER POEMS,” ETC.
THE maiden name of this lady, who wrote under the nom de plume of
“Jenny Wren,” was Jane Atkinson, daughter of Mr. T. Atkinson,
farmer, of Spring Close, Cullingworth, and she was born in 1836.
Shortly after her birth, her parents removed to Harden Beck, near
Bingley, the beautiful district where Nicholson, the Airedale Poet,
resided during one of the happiest periods of his life. Here she spent
most of her childhood, and on reaching years of maturity com-
menced keeping a school, and afterwards completed her educational
course at Homerton Congregational College. From here she accepted
an appointment as a teacher of a school at Farsley, where she supple-
mented her ordinary scholastic duties by writing numerous pieces in
prose and verse. In 1863, she was married to Mr. Abraham Shackleton,
Printer and Stationer, of Keighley, and the year following a collection
of her writings was published by her husband, under the title of
“Facts and Fancies.” In her preface to this most interesting volume,
which has gone through several editions, she thus explains what caused
her to “write a book.” “My husband is a printer, and I persuaded
him, in the days of my early bridehood, while yet persuasion was an
easy matter, to gather my stray scribblings together, and reprint them
in the form of a book, which would be my very own production, and
would be the realisation of the dreams and hopes of my girlhood,” and
concludes by saying “I will publish no more, unless my sweet twin-
daughters, newly born, should prove an irresistible inspiration.” Al-
though not writing as frequently as before -her marriage, new pieces
from her pen occasionally appeared in the local press, and were also
welcomed by the public. The short stories she wrote were particularly
popular. After an illness extending over several months she died at
Braithwaite, near Keighley, on June 8th, 1876. In July, 1879, at the
request of many anxious to obtain copies, a new edition of “Facts and
Fancies,” with additional pieces, was published in a neat form by Mr.
Shackleton. “Jenny Wren,” during the time she appeared before the
public as a writer was a great favourite with writers generally, and
throughout the district of Airedale her nom de plume was familiar as
a household word. Although attempting no great work, her writings
showed unmistakable promise, and if compelled to write for her liveli-
hood, she would undoubtedly have made a lasting mark upon the
literature of her country. Her language and thoughts betray none of
the maudlin sentimentality so frequently prevalent amongst female
votaries of the muse, but are always healthy in tone and bright and
crisp in method and expression.
I 82
JANE SHACKLETON.
£ittle Cinnie.
SHE lingered but a moment
To glad us with her smile,
Sweet, bright-eyed Little Annie
Sent sad thoughts to beguile;
Then like a flitting sunbeam,
She left our sea-girt isle.
We loved dear Little Annie ;
Her voice was soft and sweet
As the gushing liquid music
That murmured at our feet;
And we grieve that now her prattle
No more our ears may greet.
O'er the wild, wide-sounding ocean,
Where the dashing billows foam,
They took dear Little Annie
*Mid other scenes to roam ;
They bore sweet Little Annie
To a distant foreign home.
And we miss the fairy footfall
That danced so lightly by,
And the sunlight ever beaming
In her bright, dark baby eye,
And the laughter, gushing sweetly,
Like angel music sigh.
May life for Little Annie,
Be scattered o'er with flowers,
Gathered by guardian angels,
From bright arcadian bowers ;
Till heaven receives Sweet Annie,
To fairer worlds than ours.
JANE GORDON SUTHERLAND.
By J. GAUNT, B.A. B.Sc.
.., VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE YORKSHIRE LITERARY SOCIETY:
AUTHOR OF “EvenTIDE,” “MARAH,” ETC., ETC.
FOR seven or eight years previous to 1882, Miss Sutherland was well-
known in Keighley, both as one of the mistresses of the Girls' Grammar
School and as an untiring worker for the development of the University
Extension Scheme. She was a classical scholar of high attainments,
and a thorough educationist. Removing to London in 1882, she
received an appointment in the General Post Office, but subsequently
undertook a more important engagement at the British Museum. As
a writer she made a reputation in Keighley which will long remain to
her memory. Her productions were both in prose and verse, and
embraced, amongst others, “Lays of the Luri,” pp. 36, printed by
E. Craven, Keighley, 1885; “Gipsy Jim,” which dealt with the itinerant
life and habits of the “wandering tribe,” and “A Daughter of Erin.”
She also contributed to numerous journals and newspapers. After her
advent into London, Miss Sutherland soon began to be known, and
was welcomed into the literary circles of the metropolis. She might
have built up a great literary reputation, as a consequence of her
ability and perseverance, but after a very short illness, she succumbed
on Sunday, February 15th, 1891. Miss Sutherland was of Scotch
extraction, and was born about forty-three years ago. Her poems give
evidence of culture and refinement, and speak of a disposition at once
gentle and amiable. Mr. J. Horsfall Turner—no mean judge of poetry
—in his “Yorkshire Bibliographer,” vol. I, pays a high compliment
to her “Lays of the Luri.” Whilst in Keighley, Miss Sutherland
was a member of the Devonshire Street Congregational Church. She
also for some time conducted a private academy.
(Jatch and JPreg
WATCH in the early morning,
Watch through the heat of day
Pray while the eve is closing,
In the darkness watch and pray.
Watch for temptations ever
Round feeble mortals stray,
But mercy faileth never,
For those who watch and pray.
JANE GORIDON SUTHERLAND.
Pray for help and guidance
Through life's troubled way,
Pray for grace and prudence,
In meakness, watch and pray.
Watch through the night of sighing
For the morning’s cheering ray,
Pray with the sick and dying,
At all times, watch and pray.
*—
Charity.
SWEET nymph, advancing with a beaming air,
Of the three sisters fairest of the fair ;
Tenderest, truest, gentlest grace,
Iknown by the love-light in thy face,
Still-voiced, soft-robed, ever tending
Helpless misery, and blending
Smiles and tears in spirit healing ;
With faults and follies gently dealing,
Nothing doubting, nought of harm,
Clouding thy bright nature’s charm ;
Humble still, and not elated,
Prone to soothe the evil-fated,
Oh beauteous, bright, benignant Charity,
Thrice art thou blessed to souls in extremity.
—t—
ſº a 9.
MONTH of fairest, freshest flowers,
Month of sunshine and of showers,
Month of budding, verdant bowers—
Merry Month of May !
Days of longer light and grace,
Hours of glowing life's embrace,
While nature’s throbbing steps we trace—
r Lovely Month of May !
Fair daughter of a genial clime,
Gay tripping in thy glorious prime,
Soon vanisheth the Winter rime
- Before thy smile, O May !
JAMEs w A DD IN G T ON.
By THE REv. A. H. Rix, LL.D. F.G.s.
CURATE OF ST. MARY’s, HARROGATE ; VICE-PRESIDENT
YORKSHIRE LITERARY SOCIETY.
GENTLE in word and deed thy life has been,
By Nature taught without and Grace within ;
A scholar meet and apt, thou learn’dst in time,
While yet a youth, to live the life sublime;
And now the Poet and the Christian soar
In worlds of light, while we thy loss deplore.
George Ackroyd, J. P.
\
THE poems of James Waddington have both an intrinsic and a
relative value. To that class of readers who, recognising the limited
educational resources at the author’s command, are willing to ap-
preciate so noble an endeavour to cultivate a literary taste, and to
clothe elevating thoughts in chaste and appropriate language, their
relative value cannot fail to be apparent. - -
Born at Horton, near Bradford, in 1829, the childhood and youth
of James Waddington were passed through at a time when mental
culture was not easily acquired by those in the humblerstations of life.
To his modest disposition and retiring habits, and his devotion to an
aged parent for whose support he laboured as an artisan, the secret of
his mental progress may be largely attributed. In those quiet hours
spent at home, in the village of Saltaire, he developed a taste for reading
—the writings of Coleridge, Lamb, Christopher North, and notably
Wordsworth, being amongst his favourite authors. In communion
with these genial and refined spirits, he longed for a better acquaint-
ance with letters, and the vigorous attempt he made to improve his
education was followed with a very fair measure of success.
At a comparatively early age he was elected a first-class member
of the Phonetic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, and for many
years conducted two phonographic magazines known as the “Pioneer’
and the “Excelsior,” to which he freely contributed essays, tales and
short poems. . - - ... •
I 86 JAMES WADDINGTON.
As a contributor to the “Bradfordian,” and other newspapers, he
wrote under the nom de plume of “Ralph Goodwin.” Although the
literary forms employed by this writer are clearly the result of careful
study—and even then, are not absolutely free from mistakes—the fire
of a poetic imagination is not wanting. Chambers of imagery are
boldly entered, and full many a sparkling gem is made to adorn the
lyric and stanza, the sonnet and the ode. .
In the autumn of I86 I, on his return from a visit to Cumberland,
he was stricken with a fever, and on October 12th in the same year,
after a short illness, and at the early age of 32, the gentle spirit of
James Waddington passed away. .
In July, 1862, a posthumous volume of poems was issued under
the title of “Flowers from the Glen ; the poetical remains of James
Waddington, of Saltaire; edited by Eliza Craven Green.” I76 pp.,
post 8vo. This volume was subscribed to by his former friends who
were employed, like himself, at the works of Mr. (afterwards Sir)
Titus Salt. * -
Qase of mg Plative £and.
*
MUSE of my native land what joys have I
When winter day and all its cares are past,
To banquet at thy Sumptuous repast,
'Mong kingly spirits that can never diel
Visions of matchless beauty pass me by,
That erst the raptured dreams of Spenser blest,
Or light on Milton’s gloomy pathway cast,
Waking his seraph soul to ecstacy.
Earth has to me no solitary spot: -
Whether my path be o'er the trackless moor,
Or if I muse in some umbrageous grot,
Forms of the world of mind come evermore ;
And, earth's frail joys and sorrows all forgot,
I breathe the balmy air of a diviner shore.
JAMES WADDINGTON. 187.
öße $ouſ of Poesy £ives in aſſ theat be.
THE soul of Poesy lives in all that be—
The million stars that look with holy eyes
To earth ; the beauteous moon that walks the skies;
The music of the ever-sounding sea ;
The hills that stand in silent majesty
With white and reverent heads, above the noise
And tumult vain of earth, and all its toys;
The winding vales in whose deep bosoms lie
The sky-reflecting rivers; flowers that look
With grateful eyes to heaven till day be sped—
Are all but glorious letters in the Book
Of Nature God has given for man to read:
And He has given to bards the power which can
Unfold their hidden meanings unto man,
Cln inviteſtion to $hipſey @ſen.
WHEN spirit-worn and chafed with anxious fears,
And seeking solace for a heart Oppress'd,
Come, and our deep, lone glen shall yield thee rest;
Its hills (one deeply wooded, skyward rears,
The other piled with rocks, hoary with years, -
Crowned here and there with birch-trees, sunny-tress'd,
Toss'd in the wind) shall form thee a green nest
Where no rude sound shall jar upon thy ears.
The brook shall sing its lullaby to care,
The flowers that bloom in sweet seclusion there
Shall innocently look into thine eyes,
Rindling dead memories of boyhood life.
Refresh’d in spirit shalt thou thence arise,
Strengthened to meet the world and cope with strife
I 88 JAMES WADDINGTON.
Éaújortſ. Qoor.
sm-º-º:
O WIDE, brown heath, bare hills, and lonesome dells,
But ye are lovely in this amber light, *
Your shadows grim all mellowed in the bright.
Warm sunshine, and the flush of your fair bells
All round this moorland path the ground upswells,
With some stray sheep amid the heather blooms;
And with its dark, broad bulk, before us looms
The mighty Boulsworth. Where this streamlet wells
Through moss and fern, a sister band would roam,
With fire of genius in their large bright eyes,
Peopling their free and boundless desert home
With life which they alone beheld and heard,
Their sole companions the bee and bird,
Within the round of these o'er-arching skies
öße, Power of Poesy.
DIVINEST Poesy, hail! When bruised and bent
|By rudest buffetings of adverse fate
Thou comest to bless us and to elevate |
Bright Queen of Song, from heaven art thou not sent ;
Bringing with thee Hope, Love, and sweet Content,
Thy angel train, to enter my low dome,
Filling my cup of joyance when they come,
And binding up the wounds that strife has rent P
Without thee, what were this dull life of care,
Battling with trials fierce and toils and sin P
Light of life's rugged path, thou show'st us where
Its roses blow ; what goal we ought to win,
And op'st with prophet-wand to mortal eyes
The amaranthine bowers of Paradise.
189
JOHN APPLEYARD WHITAKER.

JOHN APPLEYARD WHITAKER.
By PHILIP SNOWIDEN,
J. A. WHITAKER was born at Haworth, on March 2nd, 1862. He
is the only son of highly respectable parents, his grandfather being the
late John Appleyard, of Haworth, a name well-known and revered in
the annals of Worth Valley Methodism. His parents removed to
Cowling when their son was about three years old, and it was in this
isolated village that the years of his boyhood were spent. He served an
apprenticeship to a draper in Leeds, afterwards obtaining a situation
as assistant at Cleckheaton, where he remained for eight years, marry-
ing in the meantime. In 1890 he commenced business on his own
account at Great Horton.
As a child he displayed a remarkable aptitude for poetry, and his
recitations were always a welcome feature at the village entertain-
ments. Considering his religious training, it seems but natural that
his first essay at original poetry should be a sacred theme. He very
early wrote a paraphrase on the first Psalm. His first published poem
was upon Haworth Church, written during the heated controversy re-
garding the rebuilding. Since then he has been an occasional con-
tributor to the Poets’ Corner of the local press, and has frequently
taken part in varied controversies through the same medium.
His father, William Whitaker, died at Cowling when his son was
only 13 years of age, so that his career in life has been almost entirely
marked out by himself. His mother, daughter of the late John
Appleyard before mentioned, resides at Oakworth, and the qualities of
her mind, heart, and life, have in a great measure entered into and
influenced the life of her son. -
Öo our Bards. . . .
*-*
GOD sends to man the poet
To act and play his part ;
He chisels on the hard, cold piece
Of man’s repulsive heart.
Visions of thought in darkest night,
God speaks threugh him to men,
And when the spirit bids him write
We hear his voice again.
JOHN APPLEYARD WHITAKER. I 9 I
And down the corridors of time,
'Mid life’s ancestral halls,
Pictures in words that are sublime
Their vision oft recalls.
But they are passing from our sight
The bards of God’s own choice ;
And who will take their pen to write
And echo on God’s voice P. -
O, come ye Bards of future times,
Our Bards are growing old,
And tune your instruments and rhymes
To measures brave and bold.
Tell of a glorious coming day
Where all is pure and bright;
Shine thro’ the darkness now we pray
And “Let there now be light.”
God calls the poet for the times
To sing his various parts;
And with his little songs, and rhymes
He plays on nation’s hearts.
öße Preacher. -
I SEE him moving up the stairs;
His hair is white, his hands are thin ;
And at the close of evening prayers,
He loves to line an evening hymn.
With bended form and feeble voice,
A face lit up with heavenly light,
A stretched out arm, he softly reads
“Glory to Thee, my God, this night.”
The hymn is sung, he bows his head,
And clasps his feeble hands, and then
In silence bent, a thousand hearts
Repeat the closing words—Amen.
A B R A H A M W I L D M A. N.
BY THE Rev. JAMES GABB, B.A.
RECTOR OF BULMER-W-WELBURN, YORKS.; AUTHOR OF “STEPS TO
THE THRONE,” “HYMNS AND SONGS OF PILGRIM
LIFE,” ETC.
ABRAHAM WILDMAN was born at Keighley, on the 13th of
August, 1803, and was the son of Quaker parents, from whom he in-
herited the integrity and independence, which he shewed in several
circumstances of his life. He early wrote verses, and was, for a while,
the first relieving officer elected by the Board of Guardians for Keighley,
then recently constituted a Union under the New Poor Law Act.
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KEIGHLEY CHURCH PRIOR To 1846.
Political and other differences presently arose, and he retired from
that position. Mr. Wildman then threw himself into the Short Hours'
Factory Agitation, and, as secretary for the promotion of this move-
ment, corresponded with important political personages, from one of
the highest of whom—the Duke of Wellington—he received an auto-









... ----...... . . . . . . . ABRAHAM WILDMAN.- : *-* - - -I 93
graph letter. He also drew up petitions to both Houses of Parliament,
and defended the factory workers before the Court of Quarter Sessions
at Keighley; a report of which may be found in the “Leeds
Intelligencer,” of November 4th, 1833.
Mr. Wildman had already brought out a Volume of Poems in
1829. He had also sent poems to the papers, some of which were pre-
served by the late Mr. Abraham Holroyd, from whose memoir of Mr.
Wildman, published in the locality, the subjoined poem, together with
the incidents of his career which are here given, have been gathered.
Mr. Wildman afterwards engaged in business in Keighley, but
was unsuccessful; removing from thence to Bingley, and then to
Bradford, where, for some time afterwards, he resided. He entered
the service of Messrs. Gurney & Brothers, wool-staplers, and sub-
sequently was a wool-sorter with Messrs. Wood & Walker. At length
old age overtook him, and he was unable to work. Misfortunes in his
family, as well as in business, weighed upon him. One of his daughters
was crippled, by injury to her spine, in a mill accident. His only son
went to Australia, and was never heard of again. Then his wife died.
In order to obtain some pecuniary help, he published by subscription
his “Lays of Hungary,” from which he derived some benefit. It
seemed that he must ultimately, and before long, come to the work-
house.
However, in 1868, the writer of the memoir before alluded to,
hearing that Mr. Wildman was in want, interested himself in his wel-
fare. Friends in Bradford were, at the same time, collecting funds to
relieve his pressing necessities and ease his anxious care for the future.
Through the kind intervention of the former friend, Sir Titus Salt was
moved to render him immediate assistance, and Soon after, to allot him
one of the Alms-houses at Saltaire, coupled with means of subsistence
for the remainder of his life; to which place, with his invalid daughter,
he at once removed. But even here his bereaved condition was such a
lasting grief to him that his improved circumstances could not entirely
allay it. Soon, at the beginning of March 1870, he was seized with
paralysis, and on the 19th passed away from a world in which others
beside him have found the ethereal mood of the poet no match for the
hard realities of life, or the turbid atmosphere and competitive struggles
of a busy, though not unfeeling age.
I 94. ABRAHAM WILDMAN.
“xy.
§he Factors Child's eemplaint
MERCY wake the slumbering breast,
Wake 1 to fan the holy fire;
Plead the cause of the oppressed,
Plead for those who now expire.
In a land where freedom smiles,
We are worse than negro slaves;
Envy of surrounding isles,
Rouse thy patriots from their graves.
Nation blessèd from above,
Must thy children wear the chain P
Land of Bibles—Christian love,
Justice pleads for us in vain.
Short our slumbers, brief our rest,
Long the labour that we bear;
Grief, corroding in our breast,
Sinks our spirits to despair.
Ere the lark salutes the skies,
Or the sun on us doth Smile,
From Our wretched beds we rise,
Weary with the last day’s toil.
There confined till his bright rays
All have fled the western sky,
Blush, ye Christians of these days—
Blush at this foul tyranny
Summoned by yon hateful bell,
Morn and noon we’re doomed to hear,
Yes, it sounds like death’s duhl knell,
We its victims of despair.
Give support to Sadler's measure,
Lend, oh lend, a helping hand;
Charity—that heavenly treasure—
Should adorn a Christian land.
***
ABRAHAM WILDMAN. I 95
Wake, then, Mercy fan the flame;
Plead for them who dare not speak;
Wipe the guilt from Britain's name,
And the chains of slavery break.
£ines composed on the Banks of the Glire.
WHAT a scene of fall’n beauty engages my sight;
The fields, late so cheerful and gay,
Have changed their colours to autumn's dead white,
Or pass'd with the Season away. -
Not a voice in the air, nor a song from the trees,
In harmony breaks on mine ear:
But chilling and cold is the northern breeze,_
The herald that winter is near.
No sound, save the hum of the sweet village bells,
Which rolls down the river so clear,
Awakening the echoes that sleep in the dells—
The voice of a plaintive despair.
Sweet Aire, as thou flow'st, the leaves as they fall
Remind me of beauty and fame;
And the scenes now around in eloquence call,
That beauty’s a delicate name.
While fame too is fickle—she borrows the wings
Of fancy, oft changing and blind :
Her subjects are borne like the leaf on the springs,
Or hurried away with the wind.
Here my muse is grown shy—no longer I write—
She dwells not with me in the bourn,
But loves in confining me up late at night,
Then leaves me to sigh and to mourn.
ROBERT CARRICK wildon.
By GEORGE ACKROYD, Esq., J.P.
ROBERT CARRICK WILDON was born of humble parentage at North
Bierley, in the year 1817. He died in the Bradford Infirmary on the
22nd January, 1857, and his remains lie in Bingley Churchyard, a few
yards away from those of John Nicholson. Prior to his death, Wildon
had for some years resided at Dowley Gap, a hamlet situated between
Bingley and Saltaire. The story of his life, as told by the late Abraham
Holroyd in his “Bards of Yorkshire,” is most pathetic. A job tailor
by trade, and marrying young, it is no wonder that his after-life should
be one continual struggle with poverty and sickness. He contrived to
educate himself in a way one can hardly realize, when we consider his
scant means and opportunities; for education was not brought to every
child’s door then, as it is now.
His poems show that he possessed a fine poetic instinct and a love
of nature which must have cheered and almost compensated him for
his material wants.
My acquaintance with him was only slight—almost confined to a
single interview, when I recollect he recited to me some mock heroic
lines in Burns' well-known measure, on the stir and scare of, I think, five
tailors, when a poor hungry mouse made its appearance at their busy,
but hardly festive board. He wished me to suggest a subject for
versification to him, and I, fresh from an ambitious effort of my own
at a small essay and discussion theme, suggested The Deluge. “The
force of contrast could no further go.” However in the course of a few
weeks, he brought me a neatly written and mounted copy of his lines on
“The Deluge,” and I, perhaps unconsciously jealous that he had made
more of his subject than I had, for his copy was more than twice as
long as mine, hastily paid him an acknowledgement and a gratuity
below the value of the lines no doubt, but as much as I could then
afford to give. I fear both efforts are now in the land where all things
are forgotten. His poetic faculty must have greatly improved by exer-
cise since then, for I find in his published poems some really fine
passages-of descriptive power, such as I had not thought him capable
of producing. His “Tong on a Summer's Day,” and “Calderdale,”
are high above commonplace, and his sonnet to Poesy, quite equal to
most of Kirk White’s. -
*
ROBERT CARRICIK WILIDO.N. I 97
Poor Wildon let us hope that his spirit is at rest in the Paradise
of the Poets, and enjoying the communion of, if not Virgil
and Dantè, at least that of James Waddington and Abraham
Holroyd, both gifted souls of this locality, the latter of whom
entertained for him such high esteem. Wildon was the author
of two published Volumes of Poems, and, had not his death taken
place, he would have issued a lengthy and elaborate poem entitled
“The House of Israel.” His two volumes were entitled : “Tong, on
a Summer’s Day; The Forbidden Union, and other Poems;” and
“The Poacher’s Child.” -
Öo Poesy.
Sweet POESY, soft soother of my dullest hours,
My soul’s fair cheerer on life's thorny way ! .
I hear thee in each little warbler's lay;
I see thee in the mighty rock that towers
Above the woods so gloomily and grey;
I feel thy presence in the scented bowers:
I meet thee in the gentle passing breeze,
Behold thee in the waving of the trees,
And thou dost smile in all the dewy flowers.
I find thee in the stream, the genial showers,
And in the twinkling of each gentle star
That glitters sweetly in its orb afar ;
And even in the heavy cloud that lowers
To hide the moon’s pale beams, and blot her silvery car.
*——
C. Poet's jogs.
THEY may say that the poet's existence is drear,
That his doom is a painful and sorry one here:
They may say that he spendeth a wearisome life,
In the coldness of penury, terror and strife :—
1 98 ROBERT CARRICK WILDON.
Go, tell them they err, and they never can know
What rapture at times in his bosom may glow ;
Go, tell them the poet is happier far
Than greatest of statesmen, or chieftains of war.
Give him but the violet, with sweet laughing eyes,
The bloom of the branches, the warmth of the skies,
The linnet's soft carol, the throstle's loud song,
Huge rocks in their majesty, founts, gushing strong,
The waving of woodlands, the music of rills,
The flocks in the valleys, the heather-clad hills;
With these the lone poet is happier far
Than greatest of statesmen, or chieftains of war.
He is ne'er at a loss how his mind to amuse;
He has pictures to gaze on, and works to peruse;
Kind nature supplies him with greatest of books,
In plenty he finds them wherever he looks;
In the simplest of buds, in the slenderest spray,
In the darkness of night, in the splendour of day;
O ! such yield him joy that no mortal can mar;
Unknown to the statesman or chieftain of war.
He has pictures in landscapes, and books in the trees,
Finds joy in the sunbeams, and love in the breeze:
The Stout spreading oak can a pleasure impart,
A pleasure the purest to gladden his heart;
In its groan there is worship, and prayer in its nod,
As it bendeth its head to the glory of God :
O | Such make the poet, aye, happier far
Than greatest of statesmen, or chieftains of war.
He has joy in the stars as they glisten on high ;
He has bliss in the glance of his child’s laughing eye ;
He has joy in the love and the smile of his wife,
Whose kindness can soften the path of his life;
He has friends who are staunch, he has foes—but no
matter :
The former he loveth, nor heedeth the latter:
Then say not he's wretched, but happier far
Than greatest of statesmen, or chieftains of war.
JOSEPH WOOD.
By CHAs. F. FORSHAw, LL.D.
MR. WooD is a native of Allerton—born on February 16th, 1824.
He has written several “In Memoriam” Odes, which have been much
admired. In 1886 M. Field, of Bradford, published for him a 35 pp.
pamphlet entitled “Thoughts on the Lord’s Prayer,” which met with
great success. This is the only work he has issued in book form. At
present Mr. Wood is living in Bradford, in which town he has spent
the greater portion of his life.
@mnipotence.
“OUR FATHER P’ who can comprehend
Thy wisdom, power, and might P
Creation’s bounds Thy sceptre owns
In glorious realms of light.
Thy splendour fills all space with rays
Most glorious and divine;
Sole origin of light and life,
In beauteous order shine.
“Our Father ſ” we behold Thy works,
In Nature's vast domain ;
Produced by Thy Almighty word,
Their order must remain.
• In its research, philosophy
Finds Nature’s themes sublime ;
Declaring Thy Omnipotence,
And wisdom through all time.
Tell us, ye sages, who have grasped
Each science in its turn ;
Whose giant minds can comprehend
Whose inmost soul doth burn
To gain all knowledge, lift the folds
Of the mysterious vail -
Which hides true wisdom from our eyes,
But truth must yet prevail.
We hail thee, Science thou art great,
For noble is the truth ; -
And bid thee welcome as a friend,
Though yet a Sprightly youth.
2 OO
JOSEPH wooD.
Roll on, bright harbinger of lore,
Creation's laws unfold,
Till every nation on the globe
Thy glorious truths are told.
Ü a ter.
WATER I thou great essential boon;
Creation’s works embrace ;
Thy bounteous laws of pilgrimage
No human mind can trace.
Unmeasured fountains pour their wealth
On all the earth around ;
Unchanging emblem thou of truth,
In plenteous stores abound.
Thy streams of grandeur ever flow
In rich prolific stores,
From lakes which in concealment lie
Deep in the hills and moors:—
Fed by eternal crystal ſonts,
From springs which never dry;
Which come in rain, and snow and hail,
And change, but cannot die.
Oh, waters, ye are beautiful,
Whatever form ye take;
In the graceful winding river,
Or in the crystal lake;
In the rolling yeasty billow,
Or in the gushing Spring ;
In the placid, bright blue Ocean,
Or where ripples sweetly sing.
Ye serve the rich man in his hall,
The poor man in his cot;
The cattle on a thousand hills
Will never be forgot.
Ye aid the birth of fruits and flowers,
The herbage path ye trace;
Ye give to nature's lovely form
Its beauty and its grace.
WILLIAMI WRIGHT. 2 O I
WILLIAMI WRIGHT.

w I L L I A M w R I G H T.
By JAMES RULE PEAT,
EDITOR “ BRADFORD DAILY ARGUS.”
YORKSHIRE as a county is noted ſor its human oddities above all the
rest of England. It is a distinction of which to be proud, for to be
odd and unconventional indicates that a man has strength of character
and strength of mind sufficient to stand alone. It indicates self re-
liance, and even if it insinuates self sufficiency as well, that is not an
altogether uncommendable trait, for self reliance and self sufficiency
are, like oddity, ordinary concomitants of genius. In no part of York-
shire is self reliance, independence, and the speculised development of
character which we denote “ oddity” more noticeable than in the
little triangle of county of which Keighley, Bingley and Haworth
figure as the respective apices, and even in this special district the sub-
ject of this sketch, William Wright, or “Bill o' th' Hoylus End” to
give him the cognomen by which he is more generally known, stands
out preeminent. Restless and reckless, he has been everything by
turns, but nothing long—except a poet. That he has been through all
his varied experiences as warp-dresser, “busker,” nigger minstrel,
acrobat, and soldier, and that he still is. His accommodating muse
being always ready to indite a song either in the Queen’s English or
racy vernacular on any topic which may present itself for treatment.
In the celebrating of public events in Keighley, which town he
has long made his home, or in the lampooning of Keighley's public
men, he is specially at home. No public matter there would be re-
garded as duly celebrated unless enshrined in the local laureate’s
rhyme, no ceremony complete without his burly presence or his facile
pen. He is the poet historian of the borough. Keighley however
cannot claim him as a native. He was born in March, I836, at a
village between Keighley and Haworth known as Hermit Hole, in one
of a group of houses known as Hoylus End. It was from residence
here that he obtained the name which has since overshadowed his real
appelation so completely that it has been almost lost sight of altogether.
Leaving the National School at Keighley when fourteen, “Bill ” went
to. learn warp-dressing. Shortly he was attracted by the life of a
company of strolling players and followed their fortunes for a couple
of years, then he enlisted into the West York Rifles and was stationed
for three years north of the Tweed at Ayr, Edinburgh, and Glasgow.
Being on guard as sergeant in Holyrood Palace during the stay there
WILLIAM WRIGHT. º 2O3
of the Empress Eugenie, who honoured him with a personal interview.
After leaving the army he returned to Keighley to resume his for-
Saken trade of warp-dressing, marrying in 1859. His prolific pen let
few local events pass without due celebration. Pamphleteering and
the production of a comic. annual, which was issued for ten years,
engaging his attentions as well as the muse. He also wrote a drama
“The Wreck of the Bella’’ which after a brief but not unprosperous
career in various large towns of the kingdom came under the ban of
the Lord Chamberlain for its supposed bearing on the Tichborne case
then under trial. His first volume of poems was issued in 1876 under
the title “Random Rhymes and Rambles,” (Keighley: A. Apple-
yard, pp. 164) and Mr. Overend, printer of Keighley, has recently
issued a second volume giving his complete works. Wright’s literary
and poetical ability may be said to be inherited. His father was a
musician and composer of some local note and published many pieces
of religious music, whilst his mother was a near relative of John
Nicholson, the Airedale Poet.
Öo #saac Bolden, esa, Q.P.
COME, hand me down that rustic harp,
From off that rugged wall,
For I must sing another song
To suit the Muse's call,
For she is bent to sing a poean,
On this eventful, year,
In praise of the philanthropist
Whom all his friends hold dear—
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
Beyond his eightieth year ! -
No flattery my honest Muse,
Nor yet be thou servile ;
But tinkle up that harp again,
A moment to beguile.
Altho’ the bard be rude and rough,
Yet he is ever proud
To do the mite that he can do,
And thus proclaim aloud—
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
Of whom we all are proud
2O4.
WILLIAM W RIGHT.
For base indeed were any Bard
That ever sang on earth,
Did he not wish his neighbour well,
Nor praise his sterling worth.
Leave state affairs and office
To those of younger blood,
But I am with the patriot,
The noble, wise, and good—
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
The wise, the great, the good.
This worthy, old philanthropist,
Whom all his neighbours greet;
Who has a smile for everyone,
Who he may chance to meet—
GO to yon pleasant village
On the margin of the moor,
And you will hear his praises sung
By all the aged poor—
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
A friend unto the poor
The juvenile upon him smile,
The factory girl and boy,
For when they meet the Grand Old Man
Each heart is filled with joy.
With them remembered he will be :
His fame will ever stand—
The worthy old philanthropist,
And patriot of our land l . - ?
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
The patriot of our land -
Long may he live 1 and happy be,
The patriot and the sire ;
And may some other harp give praise,
Whose notes will sound much higher.
His thirst for knowledge, worth and lore—
His heart was ever there—
This worthy old philanthropist,
Beyond his eightieth year !—
The Grand Old Man of Oakworth,
Beyond his eightieth year !
TRIBUTARY POEMS.
—º-º-
Keig 5 I e g .
WITHIN the bound of Staincliffe's ancient right,
Beside the pregnant Aire; blue hills among,
Where diamond tarns, 'midst nodding heather strung,
Superbly deck far Rombalds’ mystic height,
There lies a town that glads my weary sight.
How oft in thought my soul expectant hung
On beauties such as thine ; and yet my tongue
Now fails, and nerveless fingers slow indite
Why thus, alas ! my drowsy sense opprest
By rustic scenes that instant cares dispel P.
Sweet sings the thrush, in yonder copse recessed,
Bright glows the mountain ash in fairy dell;
Light falls your shade, ancestral towers blest
But where, oh where is she I loved so well ?
F. W. L. BUTTERFIELD.
in easion enurehgard.
AT THE UNVEILING OF THE HOLROYD MEMORIAL.
A PRETTY church with avenue of trees,
The sky above mingled with white and blue ;
Murmuring voices borne upon the breeze,
A simple stone, with cover hid from view.
But why this little gathering, to-day P
Around the stone both old and young are seen I
It is a tribute of respect they pay -
To one who years ago their friend had been.
Befitting words are spoken now by one,
Holroyd’s Memorial Stone uncovered stands,
(A fitting monument of him that’s gone,)
Unveil’d by his dear friend, with loving hands,
And who by him will ne'er forgotten be ;
United may they be eternally.
L. GALLOWAY.
2O6
BECK FOOT BRIDGE, BINGLEY.
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Beckfoot Bridge, Bingleg.
. By CHAS, F, FORSHAW, LL.D.
*===s
SUMMER.
HERE let me rest awhile, and watch the stream
Merrily flowing 'neath the summer's sun;
How bright and joyous doth it blithely run,
A subject meet for poet’s fairest theme.
Pregnant with life—it seems with mirth to teem :
Its bubblings speak of happiness and fun ;
Its sparkling, sportive ways are never done,
Bounding along with many a flashing gleam.
How gay the pebbles in its shallow bed .
How soft and cool the moss upon its shore
How quick the fish that dart its waters o'er
How green the branches waving overhead
And oh the many-shaded flowers how sweet
That snugly nestle 'neath the noontide heat. '
{} WINTER,
But lo! the scene hath changed. King Winter's hand
Hath stripped the foliage from the once gay trees,
And 'stead of lightsome wind or zephyr breeze,
Fierce gusts blow harshly over all the land.
How wild the scene ! but yet how wildly grand
The flowers are gone and barren are the leas,
And yet we love Queen Nature's mysteries,
And feel that they are well and wisely planned.
Though ice-bound now—the stream will flow again;
The flowers will bloom—the leaves once more appear;
The Summer's sun again will shine out clear,
And shed his glory over wood and plain.
We love the Summer more when we have known
To list with dread rude Winter’s dismal moan.
By the same Author. Will shortly be published.
- *R y ano ~ t -
Ol’H3i)il'C jº:3O1111C13.
280 pp. Crown 8vo. Bound in Croth, Blocked in Gold.
- DEDICATED By SPECIAL PERMISSION TO
His Grace, The Most . Noble the DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, K.G., F.R.S.
Kºpjec 3/6 Nøtt. -
The volume will contain two hundred and fifty sonnets, mainly des-
criptive of scenes in Yorkshire, Lakeland, Grange, and the Isle of Man.
Many of them will doubtless be familiar to readers of this announcement as
they have appeared in upwards of a thousand volumes, magazines or news-
papers, during the past ten years.
OPINIONs.
Very sincere thanks for the touching sonnet.
H.R.H. The PRINCE OF WALEs, 2.2.92.
Her Serene Highness, Princess Victoria Mary of Teck, conveys to Dr.
Forshaw her very best thanks for his sonnet so full of feeling and sympathy.
Her Serene Highness is deeply touched and is very grateful. S.2.92.
Many thanks for your charming Lakeland tour, it recalls pleasant memories
and is set with as pretty Sonnets as the Lakeland hills are set with their bright
gems of water. The Most Hon. the MARQUIS OF LORNE K.T.
His sonnets are, a splendid memorial of his genius.--Bradford Daily Argus.
Dr. Forshaw is to be congratulated that his poems are thought worthy of a
place in the same volume as Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, Rosetti, G. R.
Sims, Prof. Blackie, Alfred Austin, Dr. Mackay, Newsam, and all the first
poets of the present day.—Bradford Telegraph. -
The excellence of his poems has been specially emphasised by his having
had conferred on him the honorary degree of LL.D.—Bradford Citizen. -
Soul inspired sonnets.-Bradford Mercury. . &
Dr. Forshaw is well known as the author of a wealth of poetic sonnets.-
Whitehaveſ, News. - -
He is an author and poet of considerable distinction. His poems have
appeared in our columns and have met with a good deal of well deserved praise.
Wherever his works are published he wins popularity, for he is a charming
singer in the poetical firmament, who must make headway in Society, where
true poetry is best admired.—Midland Weekly News. - - *-
His sonnets are full of music and have a soft and pleasing sound.—
Staffordshire Knot. ... - . - -
As an author and poet he has many admirers.-Popillar Poets of the Period.
His verses breathe of home and happiness, they speak of affection, of
sympathy and love, and they lead to an appreciation of all that is good and
beautiful and holy.—North Country Poets. - - - - -
Entitles him to an advanced place among our leading Yorkshire Poets.-
Leeds Mercury. , - - . -
Everywhere is seen his cultivated mind, his clear intellect and the divinely
born afflatus for which thousands in our land have sighed and sighed in vain.—
Leeds Times. - •
Orders may be sent direct to
Dr. CHAS, FORSHAW. Winder House, Bradford,
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