"Up, sluggards, up! the mountains, one by one,
Ascend in light, and slow the mists retire
From vale and plain. The cloud on Stannington
Beholds a rocket--no! 'tis Morthen spire!
The sun is risen! cries Stanedge, tipped with fire:
On Norwood's flowers the dew-drops shine and shake;
Up, sluggards, up! and drink the morning breeze.
The buds on cloud-left Osgathorpe awake;
And Wincobank is waving all his trees
O'er subject towns, and farms, and villages.
And gleaming streams, and woods, and water-falls.
Up! climb the oak-crowned summit! Hoober Stand
And Keppel's Pillar gaze on Wentworth's halls,
And misty lakes, that brighten and expand.
And distant hills that watch the western strand.
Up! trace God's footprints where they paint the mold
With heavenly green, and hues that blush and glow
Like angel's wings; while skies of blue and gold
Stoop to Miles Gordon on the mountain's brow.
Behold the Great Unpaid! the prophet lo!
Sublime he stands beneath the Gospel-tree,
And Edmund stands on Shirecliffe at his side."
This striking scene is on the ridge of the hill, about the highest
point, and the Gospel-tree is an ash-tree standing there. From this
point, the view all round the country is most extensive. The poet has
finely described it:--
"Behind him sinks, and swells, and spreads a sea
Of hills, and vales, and groves: before him glide
Don, Rivelin, Loxley, wandering in their pride,
From heights that mix their azure with the cloud;
Beneath his spire and grove are glittering;
And round him press his flock, a woe-worn crowd.
To other words, while forest echoes ring--
'Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,' they sing;
And far below, the drover, with a start
Awakening, listens to the well-known strain
Which brings Shihallian's shadow to his heart,
And Scotia's loneliest vales; then sleeps again,
And dreams on Lockley's banks of Dunsinane.
The hymn they sing is to their preacher dear:
It breathes of hopes and glories grand and vast:
While on his face they look with grief and fear;
Full well they know his sands are ebbing fast:
But hark! he speaks, and feels he speaks his last!"
Such was the view to the eye of the poet; to that of the stranger,
there are features in it that give it a peculiar picturesqueness.
Below you, the town of Sheffield on one hand, partly stretching along
the valley of the Don, partly stretching upward toward the Mount; its
various churches, and its multitude of tall engine-chimneys, rearing
themselves above the mass of houses, as poplars ascend above the rest
of the wood; and from these chimneys, and from innumerable shops and
forges, volumes of smoke and steam poured forth in clouds over the
whole wilderness of brick, and with the distant sound of forge
hammers, and roar of the forge-bellows and fires, give you a lively
feeling of the stir of industry. In the other direction, you look into
far-off plains, over many a distant ridge, and upon fine and broad
masses of wood dotting the bold hills. Wincobank and Keppel's column
in the more remote woods of Wentworth, and church spires at vast
distances, attest the truth of the poet's lines; and in a third
direction, you look down into the converging valleys of the Don, the
Loxley, and the Rivelin, running between high, wide-lying, and round
hills, on which the whole country is mapped out as in many parts of
Lancashire or the Peak. With their very green fields, scattered,
thinly scattered with clumps of copse, or a long range of black fir
wood here and there; their gray, flag-roofed houses, and good portion
of stone walls, the similarity is striking. From the valleys, full of
woods, shine out winding waters, and peep forth tall chimneys, and
roll up volumes of smoke, betraying the busy life of industry where
all looks, from the distance, wooded silence; while some
manufacturer's great stone house stands amid its flourishing woods,
and fronting open lawns, in stately solemnity of cutler-aristocracy.
On the topmost center of this unique scene, has Elliott fixed his
Ranter on the Sunday morning; and on the piece of table-land fenced in
with woods, over whose heads you still for the most part look, has
congregated his flock, gathered from the cottages of the neighboring
hamlets, and the smoky wilderness of the great city of knives and
hammers below. The tree stands now in the line of a stone wall, and
upon a little precipice of sandstone, four or five feet high, so that
it would really be as it no doubt has been, for Elliott, as he tells
us, draws from the life a capital position for a preacher. Into the
tree Elliott has driven a nail, about four feet from the ground, so
that any of his friends who visit the spot can at once identify it. He
advises you to climb to the top of the tree, on account of the
splendid, uninterrupted view, an exploit not likely to be very often
performed, and which yet _has_ been done more than once, and was
done by poor Charles Pemberton, the Miles Gordon of social
improvement.
Close by, on the hill, two or three men were working in a stone
_quarrel_, as they called it, where huge blocks of freestone
seemed to have been dug for many and many a year. I asked them why
people visited this tree. They said they could not conceive, except
"it was for th' view." I asked them if they never heard that _Thomas
à Becket_ preached under it in _Henry VIII.'s time_; at which
they set up a perfect shriek of delight at the joke. A Sheffield
_quarrel_ man is not to be mystified like a Jerry Chopstick.
Our next visit was to the valley of the Rivelin, so often named in
Elliott's poetry. The Rivelin is one of the five rivers that run from
the moorland hills and join near Sheffield; and the scenery is very
peculiar, from the singular features which art and trade have added to
those of nature. The river is one of those streams that show their
mountain origin by their rapid flow over their rugged beds, scattered
with masses of stone. It has a tinge of the peat-moss, and is overhung
by woods and alternate steep banks of sandstone rock, clothed with the
bilberry-plant. But what gives to a stranger the most striking
character, are the forges and grinding-wheels, as they call them,
scattered along them. Formerly these stood chiefly out among the
neighboring hills, being turned by the streams that descend from them,
and you still find them in all the neighboring valleys, the rivulets
and rivers which run along them being dammed up into a chain of ponds,
which give a peculiar character to the scene. These ponds look
dark-brown, as from the rust of iron, which is ground off with the
water, and are generally flanked by dark alders, or are overhung by
the woods which clothe the side of the valleys: and you now come to a
forge where the blast roars, and the flame glances out from the sooty
chimney-tops, and the hammers resound and tinkle in various cadences
from within; and now to low, mill-like buildings, with huge wheels
revolving between two of them, or beside one of them; and these are
the grinding-mills, or wheels, as they are termed. Formerly, they were
all turned by those streams, which are conveyed in channels cut for
them, and spouts, and let fall on those great wheels; but now, steam
is applied, as to every thing else; and large grinding-wheels, as they
are still called, that is, mills, meet you along all the lower parts
of the town, as they still require a good supply of water for their
engines and for their wet-grinding, that is, to keep their grindstones
wet for some particular articles. Owing to this introduction of steam,
as you advance farther up among the moorland hills and streamlets, you
find the old and picturesque grinding-wheels falling to decay. Such is
the scenery of Rivelin. Far up, solitude and falling wheels give a
pleasing melancholy to the scene; but as you return nearer to
Sheffield, you see the huge hammers of forges put in motion by stream
or steam, thumping away at the heated bars of iron, while water is
kept trickling upon their great handles to keep them cool.
The external appearance of the great steam grinding-wheels in the town
is very singular. Amid the other swarthy buildings these look tawny
with sand, which has flown out through the numerous windows, and
coated the whole of the walls, and even roof; and the windows, which
are often, I believe, of paper, are broken in, just as if the mills
had been stormed by a mob.
No person who has read Elliott's description of the reckless race of
grinders, or the account of them in the Report of the Commissioners to
inquire, in 1841, into the condition of the people in mines and
factories, can see these places without a lively interest. At this
deadly trade, the workmen sit at work astride of rounded blocks of
wood, which they call grinding-horses, in front of their grindstones,
which are fixed on axles or spindles turned by the steam or water; and
fixing the knife, or other steel article, in a sort of case which
covers the upper side of it, and enables them to grind it more
regularly, as it can not give way unequally,--they make the most
brilliant posies of sparks stream from them at every pressure on the
stone. Others polish the articles ground, by holding them to the edges
of small wooden wheels covered with leather.
Grinders never live long; but the _dry_-grinders perish soonest,
because the particles of sandstone are driven in whole clouds from the
grindstones, and fill the whole air and the grinder's lungs. Five
minutes in a dry-grinding room is quite sufficient to satisfy you of
its nature and effects. We have seen Ebenezer Elliott's character of
the grinder:--
"There draws the grinder his laborious breath,
There coughing, at his deadly trade he bends;
Born to die young, he fears nor man nor death;
Scorning the future, what he earns he spends;
Debauch and riot are his bosom friends."
The Commissioners state, on the authority of Dr. Knight of Sheffield,
that a dozen years ago the number of grinders was two thousand five
hundred; the life of a wet-grinder seldom reached forty-five years;
that of a dry-grinder not more than thirty-five. The number is now
larger, and the average of life, according to other evidence, is
shorter. Table-knife grinders work on wet stones, and are the longer
lived; the fork-grinders work on dry stones, and are the short-lived
ones. Children are put to this fatal trade at fourteen years old
usually, but to some lighter branches as early as eight or nine years
of age. They who have good constitutions seldom experience much
inconvenience till they are about twenty years old, when the symptoms
of their peculiar complaint begin to show themselves. They are
affected with a terrible species of asthma, followed by a train of
physical sufferings, which drag them piecemeal to the grave. Flues to
carry off the dust have been introduced into the wheels, but the men
refuse to use them, and often kick them down and tread upon them. They
get high wages, and think that if the trade were made innoxious, there
would be more to enter it, and prices would fall. They are for a short
life and a merry one. Those who drink most are often the longest
lived, owing to their more frequent absence from their work. The
doctors often say to those who come to consult them, "Now, if you go
back to this trade you go back to die;" but this never had the effect
of deterring them from going back, nor from apprenticing their
children to the same fatal trade.
Inquiring in Sheffield where Ebenezer Elliott now resided, I was told,
by five different persons, five different places. One said it was near
Rotherham, another near Barnsley, another near Tickhill, another near
Wakefield, and another near Pontefract. It turned out to be near
Darfield, on the railroad between Rotherham and Wakefield. Getting out
at the Darfield station, I found that I had a pleasant walk of three
miles to his house, at some distance beyond the village of Great
Houghton. The country is very different to that about Sheffield, in
which Elliott seems to have taken such great delight. It is a fine
farming country. The lanes have all a foot causeway of one row of
stones, like those of Derbyshire; and, like it, the fields are rich
with grass, and corn, and hedge-row trees. The village of Houghton,
the only one that I saw, is a regular old farming village, with one
large, old stone hall standing, about a hundred yards from the road,
and falling evidently to decay, while the great stone wall which
separates its grounds from the road, massy as it is, is equally
dilapidated. Elliott's house, which he has built, is a good stone
house in the style of the country, with a flag roof, and is fit for
gentleman or farmer. It occupies the top of a hill on the edge of a
common. It has a good garden lying round it; the views from it are
fine and very extensive, including distant towns and villages, and
here and there a great mass of wood. There is a fine airiness about
the situation; but the prospect of suitable society is not so easy to
be perceived. One naturally connects the idea of Ebenezer Elliott and
the brisk movements of a populous town; but he complains that the
constant political excitements of a town had wearied him, and gave too
much interruption to his literary enjoyments. Here certainly he has
withdrawn to complete leisure for books and the country; and yet, if
he need the intercourse with towns, the various railroads put
half-a-dozen within the speediest access. He says that time, instead
of hanging heavily, never went so fast with him.
I found Ebenezer Elliott standing at his porch, with his huge
Newfoundland dog beside him. I merely introduced myself as an admirer
of his poetry, who had a desire in passing to pay my respects to him.
He gave me a very cordial welcome. We entered his room, and were soon
deep in conversation. And we were soon, too, high in conversation; for
our talk, among other things, turning on a certain class of society, I
happened to say that, "spite of all their faults as a class, many of
them, as individuals, were very amiable people." This was a little too
much for him. The latent fire of the Corn-Law Rhymer blazed up; he
started from his chair, and pacing to and fro with his hands at his
back, exclaimed, "Amiable men! amiable robbers! thieves! and
murderers! Sir! I do not like to hear thieves, robbers, and murderers,
called amiable men! Amiable men indeed! Who are they that have ruined
trade, made bread dear, made murder wholesale, put poverty into
prison, and made crimes of ignorance and misery? Sir! I do not like to
hear such terms used for such men!"
I laughed, and said, "Well, Mr. Elliott, you and I shall certainly not
quarrel about any such people; and I ought not to sit talking thus as
a perfect stranger--it creates a false position and false
conclusions." I then mentioned my name. He sprung across the room,
caught hold of my offered hand with both his, gave it a great shake,
and then hastened out to call Mrs. Elliott. Very soon Mrs. Elliott and
a daughter appeared, and we were speedily afloat on an ocean of talk.
When people of the same tastes meet for the first time, and especially
on a rainy day in the country, what a multitude of themes present
themselves! Books, people, poetry, mesmerism, and heaven knows what,
leave not room for silence to show his little finger in. Mrs. Elliott,
a tall, good-looking woman, I soon found as lady-like, sensible, and
well informed as any poet could desire for his companion. Miss
Elliott, a fine-grown and comely, but very modest young lady, was the
only one who did not act the part rather of talker than listener. For
six hours, the time I stayed, it was one long, uninterrupted talk. The
hearty host declared that I should not leave for a week; but England,
Scotland, and Ireland lay before me, and only a limited time to
traverse a good deal of them in. Yet what greater pleasure, could one
command it, than a week with such a man--far from the tone and spirit
of coteries, in the heart of fresh and pure nature, with books, and
woods, and flowery fields fanned by the purest breezes, to wander
through, and compare the impressions of men and things, of great
thoughts, great deeds, and great projects for the good of society, as
they come before you unbiased and uncolored by the world as it shows
its protean shapes in cities--in the refined sneer, the jealous
thought, the weary indifference of overstimulated tastes? Were I at
liberty to pen down the dialogue of that one afternoon, in all its
freedom of remark, it would make the brightest but most startling
chapter of these volumes. But that can not be, and I must add nothing
more to this article than simply to say, that in a strange place I
should never have recognized Ebenezer Elliott by his portrait. There
is no good one of him. He is somewhat above the middle height. He is
sixty-five, but not old-looking for his years. His hair is white, and
his manner and tone, except when excited by those topics that rouse
his indignation against cruelty and oppression, mild, soft, and full
of feeling. Perhaps no man's spirit and presence are so entirely the
spirit and presence of his poetry. Unlike many who could be named,
who, drilled from youth into the spirit and tone of the gay circles
that they frequent, present that spirit and tone there, and reserve
the spirit and tone of the poet for the closet--men of two worlds, in
the world of the world, in the closet of the world of mind--Ebenezer
Elliott has conversed too much with nature, and with men in their
rough, unsophisticated nature, to have merged one jot of his
earnestness into conventionalism of tone or manner. In society or out
of it he is one and the same--the poet and the man.