a^agr-^^^^^^^^g^^ m^^y^^^^^^^^y THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ^ / POEMS AND LITERARY REMAINS. POEMS AND OTHER LITERARY REMAINS OF THE LATE ROWLAND LYTTELTON ARCHER DAVIES, OF TASMANIA. By CHARLES TOMLINSON, F.R.S. LONDON : EDWARD STANFORD, 55, CHARING CROSS, S.W. HOBART, TASMANIA: J. WALSH & SONS. MELBOURNE & SYDNEY : GEORGE ROBERTSON. 1884, n .^ 7 A<^ If loving hands have often scattered o'er Thy grave, dear Rowland, brightest Howers of Spring, Summer and Autumn's blossoms scattering, And verdant fronds from Winter's scantier store ; A worthier tribute of thine own fresh lore, Hidden from sight till now, to light we bring. To show the world how deftly thou could'st sing Of hills, woods, streams, glades, loves, unsung before. If from thy home of homes, thy higher life, Thou still canst bless, thy blessing we would crave On this our pious work of charity : These flowers of thought, with thy soul's fragrance rife. Wife, Mother, Friend now place upon thy grave, And dedicate to thy dear memory. 1662069 CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .. PAGE 3 POEMS. A DIRGE (WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF l6) . .. 63 FOREST RAMBLES.— PARTS I. AND II. .. .. 65 A DAY DREAM .. 74 THE lover's ride .. 78 JOY AND SORROW .. 81 THE VISION .. 83 THOUGHT .. 90 ANNIE . .. 96 THE OLD AND THE NEW YEAR .. 103 BELATED .. 107 THE SUMMONS .. Ill THE RACE. — PARTS I. AND II .. 113 LOVE IN HATE .. 124 SELF IN NATURE — NATURE IN SELF .. 127 MY LOVE .. 132 THE POET SOUL .. 134 PRAYER .. 136 LONGING— YEARNING . .. 138 VIU PAGE THE POET ARTISAN .. .. .. ,. .. ,. I40 THE JOURNEY 147 DIVINATIONS ,. .. ., .. .. ., ., 155 LOVE 157 SONG .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ,. 159 DESPISE NOT .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 160 MAN ,. ., .. .. .. .. .. .. 161 SEEMING ., .. .. ., .. .. .. 164 THE ENGINE-DRIVER .. .. .. .. .. 165 SORROW ,. ,. .. ,. .. .. .. 168 THE WEDDING .. .. .. .. .. .. 169 CLIMBING THE MOUNTAIN .. .. .. .. ..173 THE GAME OF CHESS ,. .. .. .. ,. 178 THE OLD YEAR ,. .. .. .. .. .. 181 THE " PARKI " .. .. .. .. .. .. 183 IN A BOAT 186 SUMMER WINDS .. .. .. .. .. .. 188 A DREAM .. ., .. .. .. .. .. 190 THE RIVALS .. .. .. .. .. .. •• 193 YEARNINGS .. .. .. I96 nature's INFLUENCES .. .. .. .. .. I98 DIRGE .. ,. .. .. .. .. .. .. 200 THE STORM KING 202 DIRGE 204 SONG .. 205 LOST IN THE STORM .. .. .. .. .. 207 CHESS POEMS.— I. II. III. IV. 209 IX CHARADES. PAGE I. MASSACRE 215 II. fools' mate 215 III. WARDEN 216 IV. FRIENDSHIP 217 V. CHECKMATE 217 TO MY DEAR MOTHER 219 UNFINISHED POEMS. NATURE WORSHIP .. 223 TWILIGHT .. 227 rr«/-^ .. 230 lU -' •. •■ .. .. -• MOONLIGHT .. 231 THE COMING OF THE NIGHT .. 234 THE VISION .. ., 236 APPENDIX. LOG OF THE SEAGULL CAMP LIFE IN NEW ZEALAND 239 262 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. B BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. IF ever it should come to pass that the greatness of a nation is to be estimated not by its mihtary and naval strength, its commerce, riches, and other exponents of material prosperity, but by its culture, and the general diffusion thereof among the masses of the people, then the men who have been most dis- tinguished in literature, art, and science, will be regarded as that nation's true heroes. Our own country and many of the nations of Europe have long since sown the seed and reaped the harvests of intellectual life ; but the fruit, unfortunately, is enjoyed by the comparatively few, while the masses still remain for the most part untouched by the refining and elevating influences of culture. The United States of America have become alive to the necessity of securing a native literature ; but our colonies are still in a backward condition as regards culture. The energies of a young colony are neces- sarily devoted to the securing of material comforts, in the direction of agriculture, trade, and commerce. That which at first was a necessity quickly grows into B 2 a habit, and habit soon becomes second nature. The useful arts supersede the fine arts, or, if the want of these should arise among the few, specimens of them are imported from older countries. It is the same with literature, and to a great extent with science. Their products can be imported, and are thus felt to be better than the results of native effort. But should a distant colony really produce a man of literary genius, is it too much to suppose that the colonists would be proud of him, would cherish him, and never tire of admiring his work ? And the more so, if that writer should identify himself with his native colonial life, manners, and scenery, and by his genius direct the attention of the world to a land whose beauties have been portrayed by his pen. In many respects Rowland Lyttelton Archer Davies possessed these quahfications, as I shall endeavour to show in this memoir, and in the various specimens of poetry and prose which make up this volume. It must be remarked at starting that none of the papers here collected were ever intended for publication. Like many men of genius, Rowland threw off his verses in careless haste, as if to gratify some urgent mental instinct, and then became indifferent as to their future destiny. When he was sent to England for the completion of his education, he resided in my house as a pupil for the term of one year. My wife and I soon recognised his genius, and it was by her care that many of the poems were deciphered, copied, and thus preserved. During Rowland's residence in my house, my wife brought out a tale entitled " The Sisters " (published by the Christian Knowledge Society), in which she inserted a poem by Davies in two parts, in the first of which he described a Tasma- nian forest in all its beauty, and in the second part the scene after the forest had been destroyed by fire. Some verses were also published at my request by the late Mortimer Collins, in a periodical that he was editing. With these exceptions, I am not aware that any of the matter contained in the following pages has appeared in print. After Rowland's death, his mother requested me to let her see anything of her son's that I happened to have by me, and accordingly I forwarded to her the collection that had been made by my late wife. Mrs. Davies consulted me how she could best leave some memorial behind her of the genius of her son, and I advised her to print a selection from his letters, prose sketches and poems, in a small volume to which I undertook to contribute a memoir of the author. Such is the history of the work which is now in the reader's hands. Rowland L. A. Davies was born at the parsonage of Longford, in Tasmania, on the 2Sth of March, 1837. His father, the Venerable Rowland Robert Davies, was of a good old family of Mallow, county Cork. He was appointed Colonial Chaplain by the Government of George IV., and after working with good effect in the colony during many years, he was invited in January 1853 by Bishop Nixon to fill the ofhce of Archdeacon in the cathedral of Hobart. He died in 1880, in his 76th year, beloved and esteemed for his zealous and laborious work. Rowland's early education was conducted at home, under the care of that best of all instructors, a good mother. While yet a child, he was passionately fond of music, and there was early developed in him a keen sense of the music of nature. When about four and a half years of age, as he was trotting on before his mother, the murmuring rippling sound of a brook caught his ear, and he stopped, saying: "Hush, mother ! What a beautiful voice ! " He also acquired early a taste for reading, which his father's well-stored library enabled him to gratify. He was especially interested in books of travel, which no doubt contributed to feed the restless wandering spirit which afterwards took possession of him. But the time had now arrived when this desultory method of gaining knowledge had to be exchanged for some- thing like collegiate discipline. On the opening of the grammar school at Longford, by the Rev. D. Boyd, Rowland was entered as a day pupil. He soon became as distinguished as a scholar as he was beloved as a companion. However fond of intellectual Avork, he was ready for all kinds of exercise, games, . 7 and athletic sports with his schoolfellows. He also became a good and fearless rider. He had a spirited pony, on whose neck he would throw the rein, and gallop across the plain to school. He was also fond of wandering about the country, and on his half- holidays he would go about exploring, collecting fossils and plants. A lady, in a letter to his mother, recalls him to mind thus : " In the early days of our colonial life, when your beloved Rowley was a young, bright, handsome lad, full of enthusiasm for all that was noble and beautiful, never shall I forget his face in a drive from Launceston to Longford, whither you had kindly invited us, when he pointed out the Ben Lomond range and described to us the native flowers of Tasmania ; and I am sure that the fasci- nation of his pleasant sunny smile, and genial kindly manner, must have been with him to the last, for such things have their root in a certain nobility of the soul, and can never pass away." When the family left Longford, Rowland was entered at Christ's College, Bishopsbourne, where he so far distinguished himself as to gain the medal for Greek, and the prize for mathematics. He also continued to cultivate music ; he already played with the taste and feeling peculiarly his own, on the piano, and he now took lessons on the violin from one of the college tutors. His migratory life prevented hmi from keeping up his practice, and he afterwards 8 became reluctant to play before an audience ; but whenever he could be induced to take his place at the piano or the organ, his performances fell on the ear with an effect quite different to that of an ordinary- touch. When alone of an evening, he said he never felt dull in the company of his books and his music, and after everyone had retired to rest except himself and his mother, he would often say to her, " Do you mind my going to the piano ? I should like to strike a few soothing chords before I sleep." And he would go on extemporizing in the most charming manner in the dark room. The love of books and of music, and frequent rambles among beautiful scenery, so far developed Rowland's character, that people who met him in the social circle of his father's house at St. David's or elsewhere, found him so well read, that they took him for a man of twenty-three or twenty-four, instead of a youth of seventeen. While at college, Rowland wrote for the student's paper, The Collegian, the following y>z^ (V esprit : " To the Editor of the Collegia^i. Dear Sir, — In your paper of last Thursday week A letter appeared, of which I must speak. Its writer did in it mistakenly state, That the mind of a man may be known by his gait. The examples he gives may be true and correct. But if for a while. Sir, the writer reflect, He'll find many more which he never has named, And which, if he had, he could ne'er have explained. The way which I walk in, I now will relate ; My character then, if he can, let him state. My head I'm accustomed to raise very high, And often my eyes are upturned to the sky ; I\Iy countenance always demure and sedate. The length of my back like a poker is straight ; My arms swing about in a wonderful way. They add to my beauty, my speed they delay. I bear in my right hand a sasafras stick, Which helps me on much when I want to go quick. When I first 'gin to move, my legs give a jerk, As if they would like all exertion to shirk ; But once I can get my whole body in play. My arms and my legs and my feet under weigh, It would be a hard matter for me. Sir, to tell How quickly I walk, or how far, and how well. But here I must say that my legs are knock-kneed. And that, of course, hinders a little my speed. But still I ne'er walk e'en a little too slow, And never walk fast excepting for show. Thus always I go at a good steady pace. Not limping with gout nor as running a race. If my mind from all this he is able to tell. His opinions henceforth I ne'er will repel. I beg to subscribe myself, very dear Sir, Your very obedient, Oliver Purr." While at college, he also wrote to his mother the following remarks : " I am reading a book by Mrs. Meredith, entitled ' My Home in Tasmania.' Considering that she is an English- woman, she certainly speaks pretty favourably of this lO country. She holds the same opinion as I do about the birds of Tasmania, and thinks that, far from being voice- less, they for the most part sing very beautifully. She likes however, the choir of magpies the best, which does not always suit the taste of strangers. For my part, I think that the wildest and most beautiful music I ever heard was the song of a chorus of magpies. Whenever I hear their voices they seem to send such a thrill through me. I have sometimes heard their singing in the stillness of the night, when I have been perhaps melancholy or sad, and their wild strains have seemed to harmonise with my thoughts ; whilst at other times, when I have felt in a particularly joyous mood, their song has seemed to me merry and glad as my thoughts, as though they sym- pathised with my feelings and rejoiced because I rejoiced. But perhaps, after all, the singing of the magpie may not be really beautiful, but the reason for my being so fond thereof may be somewhat similar to the reason the Scotch are so fond of the harshest of all instruments — I mean, of course, the bagpipes." The Archdeacon had a pretty retired house at Ferndene, on which he had bestowed much care in improving it, and surrounding it with trees and shrubs. It is situate at the foot of a hill, near to the mountain valleys and steep ridges, the former overlooking the city, the Derwent, with occasional peeps at the Channel, Storm Bay, and the ocean. The time had now arrived when Rowland had to make choice of a profession. His mother naturally wished him to become a clergyman, but he said : " I could not be a clergyman, mother dear ; I do not feel particularly called to the work, and everyone ought II to be so, before taking those solemn vows ; besides, there are so many requisites to make a really good and useful clergyman : talent, a good voice, earnest- ness, self-denial, devotion, and a winning manner. Oh ! I could not be a clergyman ! " In fact, Rowland had to encounter those doubts and difficulties which more or less assail every earnest mind at some time or other, and often end in making their victim a nobler character than him who has never doubted at all ; or, as Thirlwall said of Arnold when at college, "Arnold's doubts are better than many men's beliefs." Rowland himself, in one of his letters, remarks, — " Most earnest men are tormented by doubts. Nay, as shadows show the sun, so doubts oftentimes give evidence of faith." Rowland chose the profession of civil engineer, which I cannot help thinking was a mistake. His fitting vocation should have been literature. But so it was, that in 1854, on leaving college, he was placed in the office of Colonel Hamilton, R.E. Mr. Dawson, an architect, was the second in command, and had the chief superintendence of the new Government House then building. This was a great source of interest to Rowland, and gave him a taste for archi- tecture. He remarked that it had given quite a new tone of thought and sight to him, for he looked at every building with a critical eye to its beauties or defects. After spending a year in this office, the 12 Archdeacon determined to send him to England in order to pursue his studies. Before leaving his native land, Rowland's first pro- fessional work was to measure a space in the cathedral for a new organ, which had been ordered from England from the well-known maker, Bishop. When the instru- ment arrived, and its huge pipes were laid on the floor of the aisles, the organist was in great fear lest some portion should be too large for the building ; but his fears were groundless, for all the parts fitted exactly. Before sailing, Rowland longed once more to visit the scenes he had so often explored amongst the hills, as had been his custom after office hours, returning home just at dark or by moonlight, laden with flowers, ferns, or fossils. On this occasion, intending to go further than usual, he chose a leisure afternoon, and his mother begged him to take with him a hatchet, for the purpose of marking the trees, so as to secure a safe retreat towards home ; since many persons had been lost in the thicket, during the mist or fog that sometimes comes on suddenly. A heavy thunder- storm overtook him as he was returning ; and feeling that there might be danger from the lightning, he threw away the hatchet. He sailed for England shortly after in the Wellington, when pacing the deck one day, some weeks after, he stopped abruptly at the sight of an object at his feet, and exclaimed, " That's my hatchet ! " " Your hatchet ? " said some 13 one, " How can that be yours ? " " That's my hatchet ! " he repeated. " I threw it away on Mount Wellington." On hearing this, the first mate came up, and said, " Very likely, Mr. Davies ; I went up the mount a few days before we sailed, and I picked up that hatchet." At the time when Rowland entered my house, I had a number of other pupils, who had attained some distinction as prizemen at King's College. Rowland's modest bearing, good temper, and undoubted ability, soon secured for him that respect which the others were not at first disposed to yield to colonial training. The young men were full of life and activity, and were interested in most of the topics of the day ; talked much of authors, new books, pictures, music, &c., as well of the studies in which they were engaged, and were not slow in criticising their professors and fellow-pupils at college. When thus engaged, Rowland's merry twinkling eye would often lead the disputants to appeal to him, and his judgment, marked as it was with a keen appreciation of character and extensive knowledge of books, English and classic, soon came to be received with respect. On one occasion we had been discussing the merits of English hexameters, as exemplified by Longfellow and others, when one evening one of my pupils, Avhom we' will name Little, had on this and other occasions shown a disposition to be bumptious, and to apply the word " stupid " to what he called the "young gentlemen at college." One of those present, taking it personally, gave the speaker a rap on the head, and on my going into the study to resume work, having heard of the circumstance, I admonished the victim in a hexameter line : " Never, Little, again, wilt thou call the young gentle- man stupid." to the great amusement of them all. Rowland was very fond of goodnatured banter, which admirably served the purpose of the moment, but cannot be easily illustrated by example. I re- member, however, on one occasion, a lady asked him somewhat solemnly, " How did you employ your time during your long voyage to England ? " " Oh," said Rowland, "I lay on my back on the deck, looked up into the sky, and smoked." " That is not the way," said the lady severely, " in which an intelligent young man should spend his time I " " But I am not an intelligent young man," responded Rowland. The fact really was that he was the life of the ship, and published a manuscript journal twice a week, giving the real or supposed life of that little floating world. Rowland was omnivorous in his reading. Some one lent him the early volumes of ' Blackwood,' and he gloated over the savage criticisms which were then in fashion. Most of the literature in my library that he was not already acquainted with, occupied much of 15 his lime. Indeed, his taste was so decidedly literary, that I could not refrain from secretly lamenting the choice he had made of a profession. His heart was not in his work ; he pursued it in a desultory kind of manner, and although he afterwards laboured at it with more effect, it was rather for conscience' sake than for love. During our many pleasant walks and talks, literature was the subject of our discussions, and poetry above all was his favourite theme. My wife, as already noticed, encouraged this taste, and got him to open up his stores of literary compositions, which he held in careless confusion, and were all but unintelli- gible — so bad was the A\Titing — and persuaded him to write more. It is to be lamented, that what Pope says of Dryden — " E'en copious Drj'den wanted, or forgot. That last and greatest art, the art to blot," applied in full force to Rowland. He could not be brought to revise his work ; to polish it so as to give clearness, method, and point to it. As it was pro- duced, so it was left : the inspiration of the moment was all-sufficient for him, and the labor limce was intolerable. Hence the poems that are collected in this little volume, full of beauties as they are, have defects in the way of form, and the thought is some- times obscure and badly worked out ; but I have not deemed it right to work much at them in order to i6 make them more perfect, feeling that they represent the author's mind better in their present form, than if pohshed by another hand, unguided by the author's inspiration. Still, I have done something ; for in many cases the lines were too rough and unfinished to be presentable. I have removed some discords in the rhythm of the verse, and have supplied many blanks which were left by the copyists of the later poems (the MS. of which still remains in Tasmania), from sheer inability to make out the writing, or from portions being torn, or from the MS. being worn almost to shreds in the author's pocket. Many of the poems had no titles to them, and these I have supplied. Hence, the labour of revision has been con- siderable, and I have devoted a good deal of time to it from love to the memory of the author, as well as to that of my dear wife, who prized Rowland's friend- ship and genius so highly. But it is time now to let Rowland give his own impressions of England, as expressed in extracts from the letters that he sent home. It should be remarked that, in his own country, the trees retain their foliage all the year round, and during his first year's residence in England, he was particularly struck with the fall of the leaf, the autumnal tints, and the bare skeletons of the trees in winter. Most of the following extracts are from letters addressed to his mother, and are sufficiently intelligible to be given without further 17 comment, except to remark on the absence of dates in the extracts, for they are for the most part absent in the original letters : " You cannot think how fortunate and happy I am in being in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Tomhnson. I like them much, and I think they like me tolerably. Here I have slipt into the society of professors of science, and of eminent poets and literary men : an immense advantage to me. You tell me always to give you the dark as well as the bright side of the picture. I have, thank heaven, no dark side to give you just now." " The six or seven Tasmanians that are studying here are, I think, getting on well. They will be for the most part strong, earnest men, with perfect straightforwardness and rectitude. And now I, amongst the number, try my best to do my duty, with many shortcomings, though less fre- quent perhaps than formerly, but still with many. I am gaining, I think, the victory over self, with whom my greatest battling has been ; and now I strive to have better and higher aims than formerly, more without the circle of self, remembering that all true heroism is unselfishness. and that self-sacrifice is the very keystone of Christianity. The very young man is by force an egotist ; he has so much to do with the struggles within himself, half smothered, perhaps, at the very commencement of his pilgrimage in the slough of despair, that he has no time to look around and see how many others about him are all striving with the self-same hopes and doubt. A man must set himself aside before he can be truly happy ; he must learn his true place in the world, and that is not easy. It is long before he can say with St. Paul, ' I would gladly be accursed for Christ's sake, if by that means I might save some.' However, perhaps after all I am but the bond- slave of self" i8 *• All life then is an actual prayer, And most unregarded things, So they be of faith and love, Bear us, as on angel's wings, To the throne of God above ; For a life of love is God's own prayer." " 1S56. " You think I should be disappointed in Tasmania on seeing it again. I think not. However, it is not only a remembrance of its beauty makes me desire to return to it ; for I have now come to consider that beauty dwells not alone in any particular place, but everywhere, had we only the eyes to see it. Beauty is from within, not from with- out. But, as I was saying, it is not the beauty alone which makes me look forward to Tasmania, but a sort of idea that I was not born there for no purpose, but that whatever my mission is, good or bad, small or great, it lies there. Not without meaning are those impulses mi- planted in us which lead us ever on to our birth-place as a tinal resting place. Is it not an unconscious recognition of the fact, that we have there a something to perform ? But after all this may be a mere brain idea, one of those thought-bubbles that float now and then through the brain, shortly to vanish in ' thin air.' " " There is a great deal of beauty in English scenery, in its green lanes and hedgerows, and old ivy-covered churches, and its leafless trees have a peculiar but infinite beauty ; they are exquisite against a clear sky, though in dull weather I cannot find much to say of them." '^Spring, 1856. " The dreary winter, with its thick fogs, its soaking, drizzling rains, and its cold east winds, is almost over, and the blessed spring is waking the whole country into new life and beauty. Even London (a pleasant place withal) 19 has lost its smoke-dried appearance, for the trees and hedges in the parks and squares are fringed with the dehcate green of the first bursting leaves. From many of the dusky windows kindly-faced primroses and gera- niums peep out at one with their pleasant, country-like glances. Women carry about in the streets large baskets of homely, sweet-smelling wallflowers, while the donkey- carts, with piles of rhubarb and cauliflowers, have great bunches of dafibdils and other beautiful flowers, such as we should despise, perhaps, but such as are precious here. With the spring of all the bright leaves and flowers old fancies seem to spring anew, old thoughts to break again into blossom, and I have strange longings too, half plea- sant and half sad : longings to see the dear old country, with its mighty trees, its blue mountains and gushing rivers ; still stronger longings for the ' tender grace ' of dear familiar faces ; and, strongest of all, the most pleasant, the most joyous, and yet most sad, are the longings I feel to be with you, to hear you, to see you, and to talk with you. I often do all this in imagination. Just as the candles are lighted I pop in, rush downstairs to ask if we can have an early tea, come up four steps at a time, have a game of romps with the children, then into the dining- room, where I sit down and begin a quiet chat with you." " Manchester, 6V/^. 15, 1S57. " Mv Dearest Mother, " Here begins my threatened journal. This is a strange, whirling, bustling life, that people lead here, and my business for this time is whirling enough too, whizzing away on the engine from place to place ; but in the even- ing, when work is over, and I have had tea, I sit myself down at the open window, put the lamp out, and spend hours in watching the stars, or the town, with its glimmer- ing lamps, andthe occasional scenes in the streets. I feel so calm and quiet after those hours, and I think of all sorts of calm, and quiet, and pleasant things. I think C 2 20 much of you and home, and of getting back again, and of how I should hke to drop in * unbeknown,' and see if you would know me. I think you would, notwithstanding all the alterations, real or supposed. Now that I am in Manchester, I must tell you something about it. It is an enormous city, even after London. You may wander on for miles in every direction, and still no country ; nothing but whirling mills, warehouses, factories, and dingy streets without end ; or if by chance you do smell a green field or two, a little further on you are again in another apparently endless town ; for in fact a great many towns, such as Oldham, Stockport, Ashton, &c., are in reality merely suburbs of Manchester. At present the place is filled with visitors at the principal hotels, on account of the Exhibition of Art Treasures. . . . When one gets a little way out of Manchester, and looks down on the town, the scene is indeed a strange one, but with a beauty of its own. It seems one gigantic smoke-monster — a dream of smoke, as it were, with spires, and chimneys tall and tapering, appearing confusedly through the mist. There is a mystery about the whole which strikes one very much. The knowledge, too, of the energy and force concealed under all that dense mass of vapour, adds somewhat to the effect of the scene. A grand city has somehow to me something of the power, and calls up some such feelings as the perfect grandeur and solitude of a mountain. I always, when I get back to London, feel that strange wild joy that I used to feel on Mount Wel- lington. I am lonely at Manchester, having no one to speak to. I have had no books either, so have had to amuse myself with the night scenes around me and my own thoughts. The former is a fruitful source of amuse- ment, as it is indeed anywhere and everywhere. I could not desire a more admirable diversion for an hour, than standing against a lamp-post in some of the principal thoroughfares of London, and watching all that goes on, and everybody that passes by : there is study enough for 21 the physiognomist, the moraliser, or the satirist. I think a thoughtful man ought never to be tired of London, except, of course, when a memory of green fields comes over him, and he wants a little country air, and so on. Besides, a total change of that sort is needed now and then. Most London, or sedentary London at all events, finds its way into a green field, or wanders between two hedges, on a Sunday. It is dehghtful to see people enjoy- ing themselves on the Sabbath excursions, which are so arranged by the railway company in the summer months, as to be within the reach of most of the most beautiful and interesting places in England. They come back tired, hungry, sleepy, and delighted, better, body and soul, for their pleasure, and ready for all the toils of the week. The fresh clear air, the beautiful earth, with God's blue sky bending over everything, does these smoke-smothered dwellers in the town more good than any sermons or service whatever. Truly, the ' Sabbath was made for man.' The strict Sabbatarian doctrine is, or would be, vev)' injurious in a place like London, morally, physically, and intellectually ; that is, the idea of worshipping God more on one day than another — being more rehgious on Sunday. To the religious man all times and seasons are alike fitted for the worship of God. Nay, the truly religious man never ceases to worship God ; but, as St. Paul says, ' whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, do all to the glory of God.' The Christian and the philosopher, and any practical thinker, knows that eternity is dedicated to God, so that the worship of the Eternal Being must be eternal, constant ; not spasmodic, as Sun- day worship often is. To the great majority of Londoners Sunday is the only day for healthy exercise, country air, and good, wholesome out-of-door amusements ; thus, de- barring them from any of these things is injurious. "There is a very good library in IManchester ; it is about the only perfectly free library I know, of any value, except the S. Genevieve at Paris. The British Museum 2'> Library is free to you, if you get recommended by persons of known respectability; but here a perfect stranger in the poorest rags may walk in and be supplied with any books the library contains. I was reading there to-day ; it is a beautiful and lofty room, every convenience, arm-chairs, matting on the floor to prevent disturbing noises, pens, ink ; and I was reading Mrs. Gaskell's life of Charlotte Bronte, an admirable biography of a most rare and extra- ordinary woman, by also a most rare woman, Mrs. Gaskell herself being the author of some of the best novels of the day. Charlotte Bronte, you know, was the celebrated ' Currer Bell,' who wrote that wonderful book, ' Jane Eyre.' I would advise you to read her life. " My journal has come to an untimely end, for I had about ten days ago to run up to London, and have only just got back, owing to various things, and find the mail goes to-night." "Manchester, November. "Dearest Mother, " Again my journal is once more about to begin: my work here is of such a sort that, though for the most part I have little to do, still I am obliged to be about, for fear of there being something to attend to. This is very unpleasant. During the spare time I might have walked about Lancashire and Yorkshire with great ease, and much pleasure and profit. As it is I have only managed to snatch one or two single days, enough to please and tantalise, but that is all. On Wednesday I had a delight- ful walk. I started from a little town called Colne, in Lancashire, where I had stayed before ; there are some quaint old houses there, and an interesting old church, with a sun-dial over the porch, placed very strangely, some- thing like a pepper-box : my rude sketch from memory is something like the position, the square thing at the top bemg the dial. Well, when I left Colne, the road was almost all up-hill till I came to a little toll gate ; here the 23 roads divided, and I was in great doubt which to take, so walked back again till I met a man who told me. The weather, which had been fine at starting, began to grow over-cast, cloud after cloud came drifting over the moors, and I was soon in a thick, soaking Scotch mist. I was very sorry for this, for I was walking along the ridge of the hills, and the ground falling at either side of me, I should have had magnificent views up the various valleys. Now and then the mist would rise a little, and I could see trees, fields, houses, &c., dim and shadowy in the green valleys below me. The moors were or seemed extremely lonely, not a sound but the patter of my own feet, and the occasional barking cry of the grouse ; there seemed to be nothing moving, not a breath of air, nothing but the white crawling mist wrapping up the hills slowly and silently. After a time it became very pleasant, the mist clearing off and the scener>' being most beautiful. Besides I saw 'Bolton Abbey' in "Yorkshire, one of the most beautiful places in its way I ever beheld. The woods too, which are there very fine, were in all the glory of autumnal tints, every shade of red and yellow spangling the green, I came back to Colne in the evening, where I had a long argument with an old magistrate about phrenology and Greek, and learnt that I had missed seeing some of the places about Bolton best worth seeing ; as one always finds, for what one does not see is sure to be better than all else. It was not a very adventurous walk, though I have since had some that really were. I have been hurried about the last week or two, and have just returned from Manchester to London. " I was delighted to get back to London ; it seems such a jolly, kind-hearted, over-grown polypus of a place. When I got out at King's Cross and about there, I felt quite happy. I knew all the long streets, all the drivers and 'bus men, and it seemed, everybody. London is the only place in England that I really like. " At Easter I had a few days' holiday, and went down 24 to , and spent a day with a wise old man, who lives like a hermit there in an old ruined house. He says Dr. (a celebrated physician in London) and myself are the only two people out of his own village who know his address. I thought of writing- an account of my visit and adventures for your edification, and calling it the 'Ruins of Palmyra,' the name he gives his house. If you have ever read the Hyperion of Longfellow, the Berkeley in the story is the same man — many years younger, of course. He is the only man I ever knew who said he was perfectly happy, and I thoroughly believe that he is." " Yesterday I heard the most beautiful sermon I ever heard in my life from Kingsley. I felt as if I could have gone to him like a little child, that he might put his hand upon me and bless me." " Manchester is a strange and wonderful place, but I ani very tired of it now. One day I got a walk in the country on the Lancashire and Yorkshire moors. Amongst other places I saw ' Haworth,' now rather famous as the resi- dence of the three Miss Bronte's, who wrote under the names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Currer (Charlotte Bronte), the authoress of * Jane Eyre,' ' Shirley,' ' Vilette,' &c., is the most celebrated. Her life, which was published a short time ago, is already in a third edition. Haworth has become quite a shrine for literary pilgiims. You should read the life and some of her works to act as a commentary. Haworth is a little town, situated in a wild country. I enjoyed my walk over the moors very much. I passed a very pretty little hamlet called ' Whycolor,' or some such name — I spell from sound, never having seen the word written. There was a ruined hall there, of which a Yorkshire woman told me a strange story of a squire of the name of , who lived there, and was greatly addicted to cock-fighting. When he was on his death- 25 bed, and too ill to see them, he had a mirror opposite to him, so contrived that while they were fighting on the lawn he could see them reflected in the glass without stirring. He died, they say, while watching them. A strange fancy, was it not ? People say the old hall, or one particular room in it, is haunted." " I was at Lichfield Cathedral yesterday. It certainly is very beautiful ; there is a certain glory about these old buildings that everybody must feel, partly from their own intrinsic grandeur, and partly also from the numberless associations connected with every stone. They have an indefinable strong power over me, filling me with memories of a strange past, till those times seem to come again. The present passes away from my thoughts, till all things are wrapt in a mist of past thoughts and past emotions, till I myself seem to belong to the olden ages. I went also to St. Chad's, which is a curious picturesque old place. Gresley is rector there. You recollect his ' Siege of Lichfield,' a pleasant book, but making, as I think, the worse appear the better cause. He is a very kind, good old man, I believe, and the church is a pretty old place. I like the old churches and places in England, and I love the past which they recall, though I hold the present to be the better, and the future better still. As Tennyson says — ' For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the progress of the suns.' " I am now in the iron counties, near what is called the Black Country. I am staying with Mr. Bolton for a fort- night. They are very kind to me, as indeed every one is, and people I know always seem glad to see me ; indeed, I don't see well how people could be much kinder or more hospitable than they are in England, though some of 26 them hedge and ditch themselves round with ceremony ; but once get within the Hnes and they are very different, for ' All things are less dreadful than they seem.' " I am combining pleasure and profit : one day going over ironworks, and on another, over old places and churches, though the pleasant part, by the way, helps me on with my architecture. "In your last letter you talk much of coming to England for good, but very kindly say that wherever I am to live you also will live. Of course it must be the other way: wheresoever you and my dear father choose, I will choose ; but I would venture to advise you well to consider it. It is a great thing to have a place that has been a home for years and years : to have the scene of one's labours, the scene of one's joys and sorrows, of pleasures and trials — I say trials and sorrows, for to me they hallow places almost more than our pleasures. They are bitter, truly, in the tasting, but oftentimes passing sweet in the remembrance. It will be a sad thing too, I take it, to leave all old places we have loved for mere beauty. It will be sad, I say, to leave them even though there were nothing beyond their beauty, but there is much. Think what it would be to leave for ever all those blue mountains we love so well ! Will you not long for them here in England, as you look from your window and see a ' beautiful home view ' as they call it, with a green field and a hedge, or a ' fine wild extensive view,' just a common, or a heathery moor or down .'' You forget the climate, too." " 1857. — I have left Mr. Simpson's works, and now am learning surveying in the offices of Saunders and Mitchell. I am to be with them six months, and expect at the end of that time, if all goes well, to be initiated into the mysteries of field work. I heard one of the street bands this evening singing that pretty melody, * Old Folks at Home.' You can't think how it made me long to be with you again. I .27 would give anything, too, for a glimpse of those great blue mountains, and a plunge into one of those delicious basins in our beautiful mountain streams. There is nothing in England south of the Lakes to be compared with them. The rivers are few, sluggish, and of a nasty brown mud colour, but the skies and the sun are the chief want here ; the remembrance makes the dulness of the English atmosphere more obtrusive. From November to May the skies seem to have a perpetual headache, whether from weeping so much, or what, I cannot say." "Broughton in Furness, Lancashire. " Mr. Saunders has brought me up here surveying (under another besides himself), on a proposed Hne of rail from the above place to Coniston Head. You have heard of the lake, and can guess in what a beautiful country I am situated. I can scarcely beheve I am in England, for at every turn I find some resemblance or fancied resem- blance to scenes in Tasmania. I have made rather an advance in the world, as all my expenses are paid as long as I am at this place surveying. '• Yesterday we had not much to do, and so I took a long walk over the moors and mountains with the assistant surveyor, under whom I have been working the last few days. He was regularly beaten before he got home, and had to lean on my shoulder. We saw a beautiful water- fall, or rather series of waterfalls, a ' tarn ' or two, and some very picturesciue mountain ranges. We came to a strange little country inn after our long walk, and not before we were very hungry and somewhat wet, as we had to cross the ' Esk ' in a very primitive bush-like fashion. After having something to eat at the inn, I left my com- panion by the fire, and climbed up a hill to see a number of Druid stones arranged in strange figures, chiefly of a circular or elliptical form. When I came back to the inn, I found ' the other young man ' had gone on more than half an hour before, and as it was getting dark and the 28 way somewhat uncertain, I set out at a pretty good pace, and succeeded, in about six miles or so, in overtaking my friend, who was rather astonished, as he walked at what he called a furious rate. Coming over the moor and along the hill side by moonlight, was very enjoyable. It was a wild, gusty, changeable night, the moon coming out every now and then by fits and starts, and lighting up the path, glittering as it was with showers, and seemed far ahead, winding like a great snake in amongst the dark heathery moor. " Broughton, where we are at present staying, is close to the river Duddon ; on and about here Wordsworth wrote a volume of sonnets, so the ground is to some extent classical. " Furness Abbey is not very far from here, and I saw it for a few minutes as the train stopped close to it, and there was a slight delay. It was wonderfully beautiful, the only ruin I have yet seen beautiful for its own sake alone. I will not attempt to describe it ; suffice it, for your imagination, to conjure up a secluded ' gully,' fringed with moss-begrown trees ; at the green bottom of the said gully, tall arches perfect and imperfect ; shattered door- ways and broken pillars, a plentiful sprinkling of ivy and divers creeping plants, hundreds of rooks cawing amid the arches, and no end of associations ; with these materials your fancy can easily (aided by remembrance), form a picture not very unlike the reality. The church here is not very striking ; however there is, where you would probably expect anything but it, a curious old Norman door ; it is likely the present church was built on the site of some ruined Norman building, and the door of the old church, being firm, was built into the old superstructure. It is not the only instance I know of the door being 'old Norman,' whereas the rest of the church was compara- tively modern. The people here are very primitive and proportionably stupid, very different to Londoners. I quite look forward to going back to London, to speaking 29 to anybody and everybody, and finding they can all under- stand you. jNIy companion, who is like myself a kind of adopted cockney, amused me by comparing the roar of a cataract to the rumble of a brewer's cart." " The Temple, Westminster Abbey, and St. Stephen's, Walbrook, are my favourite churches. Dr. Croly preaches at the latter ; he is well worth hearing and seeing, though I think I like the Bishop of Oxford's sermons better than any I have ever heard. Were you ever at the Temple Church ? It is, I think, the most beautiful in London. The oldest church is St. Bartholomew's, Smithfield. It is old Norman work, begun in Henry I.'s reign, by an old monk of the name of * Rahere.' As Smithfield was at that time a mere morass, the building of the church was looked upon as a miracle. Some of the work would be very beautiful, only it has been * beautified and restored ' by some idiot, whitewashed and made hideous, all the defects and gaps in the cannings worn by the hand of time appearing, in consequence of the whitewash, like bad new work. " I enjoy a ramble in old_ London very much ; not a corner but is stuck full of associations and recollections. New London is dull in the extreme." " I wonder how you all are now. I quite pant to be with you all again, and to see that intense blue sky of ours, for there is nothing like it here. For the most part the sky is dull and leaden, and when it is blue you can only just look at it as a blue surface, as it were. But we look into ours higher and higher, and higher still, yet never seem to reach the end of it. It is an incalculable blessing to have such a sky continually over one's head — to have such a climate so buoyant and exhilarating. I would give anything to be in it for a day or two ; to live once again, to feel the full bliss of existence. Here, though I am very well, I am not conscious of life — never experience the grand pleasure, the joy of mere living. I may be in an unquiet sleep, for all I know to the contrary ; but in Tasmania I knew that I lived, I felt life in every breath : here I may be in a dream — it may be all a dream, this England, at least my being here. This may be a dream letter ; I may after all be asleep in the attic in St. David's Parsonage, and may wake just in time to hear the clock strike eight, and find myself too late for church. There is a great deal though in this England which is wonderfully pleasant and instructive, in London especially. There are the thousands and thousands of people coming and going in the streets — this is the grandest sight of all. Then there are the picture galleries, the facilities for hearing, seeing, doing, and learning : things which we cannot have in Tasmania. Then in the country there is an endless beauty of garden and greenland, with their hedgerows and close avenues of trees ; then there are the quiet villages, with their old-fashioned taverns and ivied churches, filled as they are with strange remembrances and old romances. There is an infinite beauty in the old mouldering, time-worn buildings, and their associations and strange stories ; but one look at one of our mountains and at our bright blue skies and clear buoyant sunshine is worth a world of this mouldering, decrepit old age. And so, with a sigh for Tasmania and all of you, I will conclude this letter, whose happy fate of soon seeing you all, and tasting that blessed air, you may be sure I envy." , " I have made acquaintances now in almost every class of society. I should think I know some hundreds of people of one sort and another ; and I think there is some good to be found in all, if you will but look. I have scarcely ever met a person in my life from whom I could not learn something. I have had good lessons taught me by an old beggar woman ; and about these poor old beggars, many good people, when they visit them, go as if doing a 31 kindness, when in all probability they do themselves a far greater kindness and more good than they can possibly do the old women. I think that the poorest and most unregarded people, if they strive to do their duty, should be seen to and visited by the greatest, humbly and reverently, as unto sons and daughters of God— which Christ teaches us they are. I am inclined to think that God takes more especial care of those whom men despise —the poor in intellect and so forth — ^just as the mother takes often more loving care of a deformed child." "My Dearest Mother, " I have been in a great hurry-skurry lately, else I should have written a longer letter than this is going to be. I have been changing my habitation, and am now ensconced in new quarters. I only entered them this evening. I have changed my work also, and am now in a locomotive engine shop at Bow, one of the eastern suburbs of London. The work is admirably fitted to correct my bad habits, since I have to be at work at 6 A.M., only five minutes" grace being allowed ; so I have to be up early, punctuality being absolutely necessary. In the evening I have plenty of time to myself. I quite rejoice in returning to manual labour again, after so long an interval. It does indeed make me enjoy the evenings. A day spent in bodily labour makes a musty old tome in the evening a perfect paradise. Body and soul thereby are kept as it were in perfect tune : they no longer clog each other, but are as one. Labour of the body alone, or of the mind alone, is alike injurious. Here we have in England the\ heavy sheepish faces of the country boor on the one hand, and the white unmanly face and form of the London clerk, or the profound book-worker. The old Greeks knew this well; they knew that strength of thought could not be obtained unless the body was kept in a perfect system of exercise. So the students of Plato, whose minds were of the strongest, obtained that strength in a great measure by the severity o^ of their corporal discipline. I daresay, too, you may have remarked the effect of labour on the minds of the first founders of Christianity. There is no need for St. Paul to tell us he worked with his own hands : we see it in every sentence, we feel it in every word. More and more I see the necessity of bodily labour. More and more I am struck with the complicated evils, moral and physical, that result from its absence." "Dear Mrs. " I promised to go to on Saturday, that is to say to-day, and I have promised to go to ' Stoke Pogis ' on Sunday week; so you must let me make a Sabbath of some week-day when I can leave my work tolerably early, and you will preach a better sermon to me than any gentle curate can do, and sing besides some of your sweet Sabbath songs that do so strangely haunt me. I should like to learn the secret of that pecuhar power your voice possesses, it is something very much deeper than mere sound. I have heard, or rather felt the same mystery when, after a storm, the sea swells on a level shore ; once or twice I have felt it in forests ; but never in the song of birds, nor yet in the cadences of voices. I listen and wonder. I should have answered your very kind note or notelet (what is the diminutive of note ?) before this, only I intended to have walked down to Harrow this morning before breakfast ; for I get up now at daybreak, or thereabouts, because I consider such early rising to be one step, though a very small one, towards the pure and right life which I do one day hope to live. In working out our salvation, body must have a voice; soul must not have it all her own way. I look upon body as a sacred trust, and he who has learnt a true reverence therefor is not ' far from the kingdom of God.' Your friendship has been a great blessing to me. I am always better after being with you, much more humble, trustful, and childlike. You don't believe in my being childlike ; but I really am much more so 33 now than I ever was before. I never had any child- hood ; as a compensation, I hope to have the child heart now. Tell that I have read ver>' attentively the later numbers of the Normandy Chrotticle. In them I find much pleasant wit and genial writing, but much also of the most feminine bad grammar — relative, without anything to relate to. It is allowing to the natural secre- tiveness of women's nature ; for women are essen- tially hiding or concealing animals. You love secrets and mysteries intensely, and that is why you can't keep them." Rowland arrived in his native land on April 2nd, 1859. He appeared to his friends bright and content, yet thoughtful, for beneath his cheerfulness was an anxiety to procure employment. He had hoped to be engaged on the waterworks that were about to be constructed ; but some of the elder members of the town council feared that he might be too young for such an appointment, and consequently procured an engineer from Melbourne. He was the more disappointed, as his duties would frequently have taken him to his favourite mountain, the streams of which were to be concentrated for the city supply. Accordingly he proceeded to Victoria, where he succeeded in gaining an appointment on a railway, which he held for a short time, and then returned to take charge of a mine at Clunes which turned out to be a more important and lucrative post. While manager there, he was injured in a railway accident at Richmond, which threw a shadow over the remainder of his hfe. D 34 It appears that the Hne was unfinished, although it was occasionally used. The stone ballasting was lying in heaps between the rails, ready for spreading. Rowland had been absent for a few days for his Christmas holidays, during which he paid a visit to Melbourne, to see a fellow passenger from England, who was living at Richmond. They sat up till a late hour, talking about books and poetry, and although it was a stormy night, blowing and raining hard, Rowland would not stay till the morning, but deter- mined to return to the city by rail, knowing that he would be in time to catch the last train ; so he ran down the bank or cutting of the new line to Cremorne, which had lately been opened, when he heard, amidst the din of the storm, the noise of the train proceeding, as he supposed, up to Richmond. But unfortunately it was coming up behind him, and struck him down. The train was passing round a sharp curve from Cremorne, approaching a terminus, so that the speed was slackened, and the lamps enabled the engine driver to see an object on the line. He was found on one side of the rail between two heaps of ballast, in a pool of blood, from some terrible wounds in the head. He was conveyed to his uncle's house at Geelong, where he was attended by Dr. Day. Rowland's first anxiety was that no account of the accident should be published in the Melbourne papers, and he sent a friend to the different offices, 35 begging them to omit all mention of the accident, lest his parents should be alarmed at reading the account. He then got some one to hold a book before him while he wrote home with his own hand, requesting his mother to come to him. His parents started by the first steamer, and in answer to their anxious inquiries the doctor told them that two great dangers were to be feared : one was that erysipelas might set in, which the great heat was likely to favour (the Christmas in those parts being the height of summer) ; the second danger was that inflammation of the mem- branes covering the brain might come on. But the healthy life that Rowland had led made him escape both these dangers, so that at the end of three weeks, his parents accompanied him to Clunes, where he re- sumed his duties, the doctor thinking it better for him to go to his post, than to fret at a distance. After remaining a day or two with him, his parents left Rowland, his head still bound up, in the charge of kind friends who had long known and appreciated him, and under their care he gradually recovered some measure of health and strength. Soon after resuming his duties, the directors re- solved to discontinue working the mine for some time, and Rowland had again to seek employment. His love of adventure tempted him to join a Government exploring party in Victoria. He seems to have reco- vered his health and spirits in a remarkable degree, D 2 36 for in a letter to his mother, dated from near Navarre, he says : " I cannot easily help being well, with the sort of life we lead here. Up at six, a plunge into the water-hole, break- fast, fresh air, and work till tea again, and bed about ten. I have not had a cold for I don't know how long — not, I think, since I first went to Gundoit, and have been leading the life you feared so much. I am glad you like the ' Summer Winds.' You may take it as a rule in my effusions, that when I am the first person singular, the thoughts and utterances are not supposed to be mine, but some imaginary character, good or bad, as the case may be." The following extracts will also show the kind of life led by him about this time : " I enclose a few verses on a bit of dirty paper, I meant to have copied and corrected them, but have not time just now. Of course they have nothing to do with me now ; they might have been true to a certain extent some six years ago, when I used to lead a dreamy life. I mean them to be thoughts of a dreamy, speculative, studious, unpractical sort of man, who begins to find out there is something in the world besides mere know- led