_To the Editor._
There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o’er all the world beside,
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night.
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutor’d age, and love-exalted youth;
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touch’d by remembrance, trembles to that pole.
For in this land of heaven’s peculiar grace,
The heritage of Nature’s noblest race,
There is a spot of earth, supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest;
Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns--the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
An angel guard of loves, and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that _land_, that _spot of earth_ be found?
Art thou a man? a patriot? look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,
That land _thy_ country, and that spot _thy_ home.
* * * * *
Mr. Editor,--As your _Table Book_ may be considered an extensively
agreeable and entertaining continuation of your _Every-Day Book_, allow
me a column, wherein, without wishing to draw attention too frequently
to one subject, I would recur again to the contributions of your
correspondent, in vol. ii. page 1371, of the _Every-Day Book_, my
observations at page 1584, and his notices at page 1606. Your “Old
Correspondent” is, I presume, a native of this part of the country. He
tells us, page 1608, that his ancestors came from the Priory; in another
place, that he is himself an antiquarian; and, if I am not much mistaken
in the signatures, you have admitted his poetical effusions in some of
your numbers. Assuming these to be facts, he will enter into the feeling
conveyed by the lines quoted at the head of this article, and agree with
me in this observation, that every man who writes of the spot, or the
county so endeared, should be anxious that truth and fiction should not
be so blended together as to mislead us (the inhabitants) who read your
miscellany; and that we shall esteem it the more, as the antiquities,
the productions, and the peculiarities of this part of our county are
noticed in a proper manner.
As your correspondent appears to have been anxious to set himself right
with regard to the inaccuracies I noticed in his account of Clack, &c.,
I will point out that he is still in error in one slight particular.
When he visits this county again, he will find, if he should direct his
footsteps towards Malmsbury and its venerable abbey, (now the church,)
the tradition is, that the boys of a school, kept in a room that once
existed over the antique and curious entrance to the abbey, revolted and
killed their master. Mr. Moffatt, in his history of Malmsbury, (ed.
1805,) has not noticed this tradition.
Excuse my transcribing from that work, the subjoined “Sonnet to the
Avon,” and let me express a hope that your correspondent may also favour
us with some effusions in verse upon that stream, the scene of warlike
contests when the boundary of the Saxon kingdom, or upon other subjects
connected with our local history.
Upon this river, meandering through a fine and fertile tract of country,
Mr. Moffatt, after noticing the earlier abbots of Malmsbury, adds, “The
ideas contained in the following lines were suggested by the perusal of
the history of the foundation of Malmsbury abbey:
“_Sonnet to the Avon._
“Reclined beside the willow shaded stream,
On which the breath of whispering zephyr plays,
Let me, O Avon, in untutor’d lays
Assert thy fairest, purest, right to fame.
What tho’ no myrtle bower thy banks adorn,
Nor sportive Naiads wanton in thy waves;
No glittering sands of gold, or coral caves,
Bedeck the channel by thy waters worn:
Yet thou canst boast of honours passing these,
For when fair science left her eastern seat,
Ere Alfred raised her sons a fair retreat,
Where Isis’ laurels tremble in the breeze;
’Twas there, near where thy curling streamlet flows,
E’en in yon dell, the Muses found repose.”
This interesting period in the history of the venerable abbey, its
supposed connection with Bradenstoke Priory, the admired scenery of the
surrounding country, the events of past ages blended into the exertions
of a fertile imagination, and the many traditions still floating in the
minds of the inhabitants, would form materials deserving the attention
of a writer disposed to wield his pen in that department of literature,
which has been so successfully cultivated in the northern and other
parts of our island.
If by the observation, “that his ancestors came from the Priory,” your
correspondent means Bradenstoke Priory, he will allow me to direct his
attention to the fact of the original register of that establishment
being in the British Museum. I refer him to the “Beauties of England and
Wales.”
As your correspondent probably resides in London, he may be induced to
obtain access to this document, in which I conclude he would have no
difficulty; and if you, Mr. Editor, could favour us in your publication
with an engraving of this Priory, it would be acceptable.
I appreciate the manner in which your correspondent noticed my remarks,
and wish him success in his literary efforts, whether relating to
objects in this vicinity, or to other matters. One remark only I will
add,--that I think he should avoid the naming of respectable
individuals: the mention of names may cause unpleasant feelings in a
neighbourhood like this, however unintentional on his part. I should
have considered it better taste in an antiquarian to have named the
person in possession of the golden image, in preference to the childish
incident stated to have occurred when Bradenstoke Priory was occupied by
a former respectable inhabitant, Mrs. Bridges.
Your correspondent will excuse the freedom of this observation; his
ready pen could perhaps relate to you the detail of a tragical event,
said by tradition to have occurred at Dauntsey, where the mansion of the
late earl of Peterborough now stands, and “other tales of other times.”