"My ancestors," he said, "were Dorset people, and I love the book; it brings back the familiar words of the loved ones that are gone, and I love you-for the godlike goodness, kindness and affection of your kind and loving heart peeps out at every verse. I have tried for years to see you and hear you read, and I hope I shall yet; but if not, I hope I shall see you when earthly distinctions are passed; but may you long live to write, and may you long live to read, and may the earth be always blessed with such lights, and may they always be loved and honoured, and when earthly praise shall cease, may the music of a thousand voices bid you welcome and say 'Well done.' Trusting you will forgive me for taking the liberty of expressing my feelings.

"I remain, &c."

Who shall say, after these spontaneous outbursts, that the Dorset poems would be a sealed book to the poor? They would, on the contrary, offer the clearest proof of the refining effect it would have on the minds. of the masses, were the poems given them in a form not beyond the reach of the poor man's pence. For these are only two out of many letters from would-be readers, whose poverty pleads for a cheaper edition.

CHAPTER XIII

THE DO'SET MILITIA.

HURRAH, my lads, vor Do'set men
A-muster'd here in red agean;
An' welcome to your files to tread
The steady march wi' toe to heel;
Welcome to marches slow or quick.
Welcome to gath'rens thin or thick;
God speed the Colonel on the hill,
An' Mrs. Bingham, off o' drill.

When you've handled well your lock
An' flung about your rifle stock
Vrom han' to shoulder up an' down;
When you've lwoaded an' a-vired
Till you do come back into town,
Wi' all your loppen limbs a-tired;
An' you be dry an' burnen hot,
Why, here's your tea an' coffee pot
At Mister Greenèn's penny till

Wi' Mrs. Bingham off o' drill.

Last year John Hinley's mother cried,
"Why, my bwoy John is quite my pride,
Vor he've a-been so good to-year,
An' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles,
An' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer,
An' han't a-been in any hobbles.
I never thought he'd turn out bad
He always were so good a lad;
But now I'm sure he's better still,
Drough Mrs. Bingham, off o' drill.”

Jeäne Hart, that's Joe Duntley's chaïce
Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaïce
Vor he's so straït 's a hollyhock
(Vew hollyhocks be up so tall)
An' he do come so true's the clock
To Mrs. Bingham's coffee stall;
An' Jeäne do write an brag o' Joe,
An' teäke the young recruits in tow,
An' try, vor all their good, to bring 'em
A' come from drill to Mrs. Bingham.

God speed the Colonel, toppèn high,
An' officers wi' sworded thigh,
An all the sargeants that do bawl
All day enough to split their throats
An' all the corporals, and all
The band a-playèn up ther notes,
An' all the men vrom vur and near
We'll gi'e 'em all a hearty cheer,
An' then another cheerèn still
Vor Mrs. Bingham, off o' drill.

217

LITERARY FRIENDSHIPS.

1862 TO 1865.

THE year 1862 brought William Barnes into connection with his brother poet, Coventry Patmore. The acquaintance began by Patmore sending a copy of Macmillan on June 5th, 1862, in which was an appreciative article on Barnes, the Dorset Poet, by his hand. His next letter runs:—

MY DEAR SIR,

BRITISH MUSEUM,

June 10th, 1862.

As the notices in the North British Review and in Macmillan's Magazine pleased you, I cannot resist the temptation to tell you that I wrote them myself. They but poorly express all the admiration and gratitude I feel. I am rejoiced at the hope of seeing you in London. Thank you much for your kind invitation to Dorchester; but I fear that there is little prospect of my being able to venture from the bedside of my sick wife. I am glad to hear from Professor Masson that there is a prospect of a new edition of your poems. Etc., etc.

Mr. Patmore was soon called to pass through the fiery trial which even then loomed before him. His wife,