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"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out,

But human creatures' lives! stitch—stitch—stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,

A Shroud as well as a Shirt. ••

But why do I talk of Death?

That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear its terrible shape,

It seems so like my own—
It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should Ik- So dear

And flesh and blood so cheap! 4,1

•' Work—work—work!

My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread—and rags.
That shattered roof—this naked flour—

A table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there! < '<

'' Work—work—work!

From weary chime to chime, Work—work—work.

As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam.

Seam, and gusset, and band. Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,

As well as the weary hand. 56

'' Work—work—work,

In the dull December light, And work—work—work,

When the weather is warm and brig'it—
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs

And twit me with the spring. 81

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— With the sky above my head.

And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel. Before I knew the woes of want

And the walk that costs a meal.

"Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,

But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!" *>v

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" 89

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER (1803-187')) The Sonu Of The Western Men*

A good sword and a trusty hand!

A merry heart and true!
King James's men shall understand

What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when?

And shall Trelawny die I
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why! 8

Out spake their captain brave and bold.

A merry wight was he:
"If London Tower were Michael's hold.

We'll set Trelawny free!

"We'll cross the Tamar. land to land.

The Severn is no stay.
With 'one anil all.' and hand in hand.

And who shall bid us nay? 18

"And when we come to London Wall.

A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! come forth, ye cowards all.

Here's men as good as you!

"Trelawny he's in keep and hold.

Trelawny he may die;
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold.

Will know the reason why!" -I

* In 1688, Sir Jonathan Trelawny, :i native of Cornwall, was, with six other bishop*, thrown into the Tower of London for resisting James the Second's Declaration of Indulgence. He was soon released. It was long supposed that this ballad, which was first printed anonymously, dated from that time. The refrain Is ancleut. but the ballad was written by Hawker in 1825. The Tamar and Severn (lines K! and 14) are rivers of southwestern Kngland. Michael (line 111 is the archangel to whom was given the task nf overthrowing Satan mid consigning him to hell.

The Silent Tower Of Bottbiaui

Tintadgol bells ring o'er the tide,

The boy leans on his vessel side;

He hears that sound, and dreams of home

Soothe the wild orphan of the foam.

"Come to thy God in time!"

Thus saith their pealing chime:

Youth, manhood, old age past,

'' Come to thy God at last.'' 8

Mot why are Bottreau's echoes still f

Her tower stands proudly on the hill;

Vet the strange chough that home hath found,

The lamb lies sleeping on the ground.

"Come to thy God in time!"

Should be her answering chime:

"Come to thy God at last!"

Should echo on the blast. 16

The ship rode down with courses free,
The daughter of a distant sea:
Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored,
The merry Bottreau bells on board.

"Come to thy God in time!"

Rung out Tintadgel chime;

Youth, manhood, old age past,

'' Come to thy God at last!" -*

'Hie pilot heard his native bells
Hang on the breeze in fitful swells;
"Thank God," with reverent brow he cried,
"We make the shore with evening V, tide."

"Come to thy God in time!"

It was his marriage chime:

Youth, manhood, old age past,

His bell must ring at last. 32

"Thank God, thou whining knave, on land.
Tint thank, at sea, the steersman's hand."
The captain's voice above the gale:
'1 Thank the good ship and ready sail.''

"Come to thy God in time!"

Sad grew the boding chime:

"Come to thy God at last!"

Boomed heavy on the blast. 40

1"prose that sea! as if it heard

The mighty Master's signal-word:

What thrills the captain's whitening lip?

• "The rugged heights that line the sea-shore In the neighborhood of Tintadgel Castle and Church (on the const of Cornwall] are crested with towers. Among these, that of Bottreau. or, as It Is now written, Itoscastle, is without bells. The silence of this wild and lonely churchyard on festive or solemn occasions Is not a little striking. On enquiry I was told that the hells were once snipped for this church, but that when the vessel was within sight of the tower the blasphemy of her captain was punished In the manner related In the Poem. The bells, they told me. still He In the bay. and announce by strange sounds IJie approach of a storm."—11. S. Hawker.

The death-groans of his sinking ship.
'' Come to thy God in time! ''
Swung deep the funeral chime:
Grace, mercy, kindness past.
'' Come to thy God at last!" 4s

Long did the rescued pilot tell—
When gray hairs o'er his forehead fell,
While those around would hear and weep—
That fearful judgment of the deep.

"Come to thy God in time!"

He read his native chime:

Youth, manhood, old age past,

His bell rung out at last. •'"»

Still when the storm of Bottreau's waves
Is wakening in his weedy caves.
Those bells, that sullen surges hide.
Peal their deep notes beneath the tide:

"Come to thy God in time!"

Thus saith the oc^an chime:

Storm, billow, whirlwind past,

"Come to thy God at last!" m

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832)


Chapter 1. Preliminary

"Most readers," says the Manuscript of Mr. Pattieson, "must have witnessed with delight the joyous burst which attends the dismissing of a village-school on a fine summer evening. The buoyant spirit of childhood, repressed with so much difficulty during the tedious hours of discipline, may then be seen to explode, as it were, in shout, and song, and frolic, as the little urchins join in groups on their playground, and arrange their matches of sport for the evening. But there is one individual who partakes of the relief afforded by the moment of dismission, whose feelings are not so obvious to the eye of the spectator, or so apt to receive his sympathy. I mean the teacher himself, who. stunned with the hum. and suffocated with the closeness of his school-room, has spent the whole day (himself against a host) in controlling petulance, exciting indifference to action, striv ing to enlighten stupidity, and labouring to soften obstinacy; and whose very powers of

• Old Mortality is a story of the rising of th* Scotch Covenanters about 167T-H against the Knglish church and throne. Scott had once met. In the churchyard of Dunnottar, one Uobert I'aterson, familiarly known as "Old Mortality," and he chooses to make him responsible for the substance of the tale. It Is one of the "Tales of My Landlord": and the Landlord of Wallace Inn. Mr. Clelshbottnm the schoolmaster, and the manuscript of his assistant, the frail Mr. Pattieson. arc all a part of the fictitious background.

intellect have been confounded by hearing the same dull lesson repeated a hundred times by rote, and only varied by the various blunders (if the reciters. Even the flowers of classic genius, with which his solitary fancy is most gratified, have been rendered degraded, in his imagination, by their connexion with tears, with errors, and with punishment; so that the Eclogues of Virgil and Odes of Horace arc each inseparably allied in association with the sullen figure and monotonous recitation of some blubbering school-boy. If to these mental distresses arc added a delicate frame of body, and a mind ambitious of some higher distinction than that of being the tyrant of childhood, the reader may have some slight conception of the relief which a solitary walk, in the cool of a fine summer evening, affords to the head which has ached, and the nerves which have been shattered, for so many hours, in plying the irksome task of public instruction.

"To me these evening strolls have been the happiest hours of an unhappy life; and if any gentle reader shall hereafter find pleasure in perusing these lucubrations, I am not unwilling he should know, that the plan of them has been usually traced in those moments, when relief from toil and clamour, combined with the quiet scenery around me, has disposed my mind to the task of composition.

"My chief haunt, in these hours of golden leisure, is the banks of the small stream, which, winding through a 'lone vale of green bracken,' passes in front of the village school-house of ("■andercleugh. For the first quarter of a mile, perhaps, I may be disturbed from my meditations, in order to return the scrape, or doffed bonnet, of such stragglers among my pupils as fish for trouts or minnows in the little brook, or seek rushes and wild-flowers by its margin. But. beyond the space I have mentioned, the juvenile anglers do not, after sunset, voluntarily extend their excursions. The cause is, that farther up the narrow valley, and in a recess which seems scooped out of the side of the steep heathy bank, there is a deserted burial-ground, which the little cowards are fearful of approaching in the twilight. To me, however, the place has an inexpressible charm. It has been long the favourite termination of my walks, and, if my kind patron forgets not his promise, will (and probably at no very distant day) be my final resting-place after my mortal pilgrimage.

"It is a spot which possesses all the solemnity of feeling attached to a burial-ground, without exciting those of a more nnpleasing description. Having been very little used for

many years, the few hillocks which rise above the level plain are covered with the same short velvet turf. The monuments, of which there are not above seven or eight, are half sunk in the ground, and overgrown with moss. No newly-erected tomb disturbs the sober serenity of our reflections by reminding us of recent calamity, and no rank-springing grass forces upon our imagination the recollection, that it owes its dark luxuriance to the foul and festering remnants of mortality which ferment beneath. The daisy which sprinkles the sod, and the harebell which hangs over it, derive their pure nourishment from the dew of heaven, and their growth impresses us with no degrading or disgusting .recollections. Death has indeed been here, and its traces are before us; but they are softened and deprived of their horror by our distance from the period when they have been first impressed. Those who sleep beneath are only connected with us by the reflection, that they have once been what we now are, and that, as their relics are now identified with their mother earth, ours shall, at some future period, undergo the same transformation.

"Yet, although the moss has been collected on the most modern of these humble tombs during four generations of mankind, the memory of some of those who sleep beneath them is still held in reverent remembrance. It is true, that, upon the largest, and, to an antiquary, the most interesting monument of the group, which bears the effigies of a doughty knight in his hood of mail, with his shield hanging on his breast, the armorial bearings are defaced by time, and a few worn-out letters may be read, at the pleasure of the decipherer, Dns. Johan - - - de Ha met, - - or Johan - de Lamel - - -. And it is also true, that of another tomb, richly sculptured with an ornamental cross, mitre, and pastoral staff, tradition can only aver, that a certain nameless bishop lies interred there. But upon other two stones which lie beside, may still be read in rude prose, and ruder rhyme, the history of those who sleep beneath them. They belong, we are assured by the epitaph, to the class of persecuted Presbyterians who afforded a melancholy subject for history in the times of Charles II. and his successor. In returning from the battle of Pentland Hills, a party of the insurgents had been attacked in this glen by a small detachment of the King's troops, and three or four either killed in the skirmish, or shot after being made prisoners, as rebels taken with arms in their hands. The peasantry continued to attach to the tombs of those victims of prelacy an honour which they do not render to more splendid mausoleums; and. when

they point them out to their sous, anil narrate the fate of the sufferers, usually conclude, by exhorting them to be ready, should times call for it, to resist to the death in the cause of civil and religious liberty, like their brave forefathers.

"Although I am far from venerating the peculiar tenets asserted by those who call themselves the followers of those men, and whose intolerance and narrow-minded bigotry are at least as conspicuous as their devotional zeal, yet it is without depreciating the memory of those sufferers, many of whom united the independent sentiments of a Hampden1 with the suffering zeal of a Hooper or Latimer.2 On the other hand, it would be unjust to forget, that many even of those who had been most active in crushing what they conceived the rebellious and seditious spirit of those unhappy wanderers, displayed themselves, when called upon to suffer for their political and religious opinions, the same daring and devoted zeal, tinctured, in their case, with chivalrous loyalty, as in the former with republican enthusiasm. It has often been remarked of the Scottish character, that the stubbornness with which it is moulded shows most to advantage in adversity, when it seems akin to the native sycamore of their hills, which scorns to be biased in its mode of growth, even by the influence of the prevailing wind, but, shooting its branches with equal boldness in every direction, shows no weather-side to the storm, and may be broken, but can never be bended. It must be understood that I speak of my countrymen as they fall under my own observation. When in foreign countries, I have been informed that they are more docile. But it is time to return from this digression.

"One summer evening, as in a stroll, such as I have described, I approached this deserted mansion of the dead, I was somewhat surprised to hear sounds distinct from those which usually soothe its solitude, the gentle chiding, namely, of the brook, and the sighing of the wind in the boughs of three gigantic ash-trees, which mark the cemetery. The clink of a hammer was, on this occasion, distinctly heard; and T entertained some alarm that a march-dike, long meditated by the two proprietors whose estates were divided by my favourite brook, was about to be drawn up the glen, in order to substitute its rectilinear deformity for the graceful winding of the natural boundary. As I approached, I was agreeably undeceived. An old man was

1 John Hampden, who ajohn Hooper and refused to pay Bishop Lati

tnxes levied by mer were both

Charles I. burned for heresy j

In 1555.

I seated upon the monument of the slaughtered
j presbyterians, and busily employed in deepening,
with his chisel, the letters of the inscription,
which, announcing, in scriptural language, the
promised blessings of futurity to be the lot of
the slain, anathematised the murderers with
corresponding violence. A blue bonnet of un-
usual dimensions covered the grey hairs of the
pious workman. His dress was a large old-
fashioned coat of the coarse cloth called hoddin-
!)rey, usually worn by the elder peasants, with
waistcoat and breeches of the same; and tbe
whole suit, though still in decent repair, had
obviously seen a train of long service. Strong
clouted shoes, studded with hobnails, and gra-
moches or leggins, made of thick black cloth,
completed his equipment. Beside him, fed
among the graves a pony, the companion of his
journey, whose extreme whiteness, as well as
its projecting bones and hollow eyes, indicated
its antiquity. It was harnessed in the most
simple manner, with a pair of branks." a hair
tether, or halter, and a stink, or cushion of
straw, instead of bridle and saddle. A canvas
pouch hung around the neck of the animal, for
the purpose, probably, of containing the rider's
tools, and any thing else he might have occasion
to carry with him. Although I had never seen
the old man before, yet from the singularity of
his employment, and the style of his equipage.
I had no difficulty in recognising a religious
itinerant whom I had often heard talked of,
and who was known in various parts of Scotland
by the title of Old Mortality.

"Where this man was born, or what was his real name, I have never been able to learn; nor are the motives which made him desert his home, and adopt the erratic mode of life which he pursued, known to me except very generally. According to the belief of most people, he was a native of either the county of Dumfries or Galloway, and lineally descended from some of those champions of the Covenant, whose deeds and sufferings were his favourite theme. He is said to have held, at one period of his life, a small moorland farm; but, whether from pecuniary losses, or domestic misfortune, he had long renounced that and every other gainful calling. In the language of Scripture, he left his house, his home, and his kindred, and wandered about until the day of his death, a period of nearly thirty years.

"During this long pilgrimage, the pious enthusiast regulated his circuit so as annually to visit the graves of the unfortunate Covenanters, who suffered by the sword, or by the exeeuj tioner, during the reigns of the two hist monI 3 curbs, or bridle

archs of the Stewart line. These are most numerous in the western districts of Ayr. Galloway, and Dumfries; but they are also to be found in other parts of Scotland, wherever the fugitives had fought, or fallen, or suffered by military or civil execution. Their tombs are often apart from all human habitation, in the remote moors and wilds to which the wanderers had fled for concealment. But wherever they existed, Old Mortality was sure to visit them when his annual round brought them within his reach. In the most lonely recesses of the mountains, the moor-fowl shooter has been often surprised to find him busied in cleaning the moss from the grey stones, renewing with his chisel the half-defaced inscriptions, and repairing the emblems of death with which these simple monuments are usually adorned. Motives of the most sincere, though fanciful devotion, induced the old man to dedicate so many years of existence to perform this tribute to the memory of the deceased warriors of the church. He considered himself as fulfilling a sacred duty, while renewing to the eyes of posterity the decaying emblems of the zeal and sufferings of their forefathers, and thereby trimming, as it were, the beacon-light, which was to warn future generations to defend their religion even unto blood.

"In all his wanderings, the old pilgrim never seemed to need, or was known to accept, pecuniary assistance. Tt is true, his wants were very few; for wherever he wont, he found ready quarters in the house of some Camerouian* of his own sect, or of some other religious person. The hospitality which was reverentially paid to him he always acknowledged, by repairing the gravestones (if there existed any) belonging to the family or ancestors of his host. As the wanderer was usually to be seen bent on this pious task within the precincts of some country churchyard, or reclined on the solitary tombstone among the heath, disturbing the plover and the black-cock with the clink of his chisel and mallet, with his old white pony grazing by his side, he acquired from his converse among the dead, the popular appellation of Old Mortality.

"The character of such a man could have in it little connexion even with innocent gaiety. Yet, among those of his own religious persuasion, he is reported to have been cheerful. The descendants of persecutors, or those whom he supposed guilty of entertaining similar tenets, and the scoffers at religion by whom he was sometimes assailed, ho usually termed the generation of vipers."' Conversing with others, ho

4 An austere sect of Presbyterians. 5 Uatthetr iii. 7. I

was grave and sententious, not without a cast of severity. But he is said never to have been observed to give way to violent passion, excepting upon one occasion, when a mischievous truant-boy defaced with a stone the nose of a cherub's face, which the old man was engaged in retouching. I am in general a sparer of the rod, notwithstanding the maxim of Solomon, for which school-boys have little reason to thank his memory; but on this occasion 1 deemed it proper to show that I did not hate the child.—But I must return to the circumstances attending my first interview with this interesting enthusiast.

"In accosting Old Mortality, I did not fail to pay respect to his years and his principles, beginning my address by a respectful apology for interrupting his labours. The old man intermitted the operation of the chisel, took off his spectacles and wiped them, then, replacing them on his nose, acknowledged my courtesy by a suitable return. Encouraged by his affability, I intruded upon him some questions concerning the sufferers on whose monument he was nowemployed. To talk of the exploits of the Covenanters was the delight, as to repair their monuments was the business, of his life. He was profuse in the communication of all the minute information which he had collected concerning them, their wars, and their wanderings. One would almost have supposed he must have been their contemporary, and have actually beheld the passages which he related, so much had he identified his feelings and opinions with theirs, and so much had his narratives the circumstantiality of an eye-witness.

"'We.' he said, in a tone of exultation,— 'we are the only true whigs. Carnal men have assumed that triumphant appellation, following him whose kingdom is of this world. Which of them would sit six hours on a wet hill-side to hear a godly sermon? I trow an hour o't wad staw* them. They are ne'er a hair better than them that shamena to take upon themsells the persecuting name of bludethirsty tories. Selfseekers all of them, strivers after wealth, power, and worldly ambition, and forget tors alike of what has been dree'd* and done by the mighty men who stood in the gap in the groat day of wrath. Nae wonder they dread the accomplishment of what was spoken by the mouth of the worthy Mr. Peden> (that precious servant of the Lord, none of whoso words fell to the ground), that the French monzies» sail vise as fast in the

o disgust J suffered

x Alexander Pedeu. an eloquent minister who was

supposed to have prophetic gifts, o monsleurs < referring to a possible invasion from


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