The wood engravings in this book have been executed by the author's invalid son, who is afflicted with curvature of the spine, and consequently works in a recumbent position. This is his second appearance before the public as an engraver. As this seems to be the way which Providence has opened to him to earn his future livelihood, the author is the more desirous to encourage him in thus giving his imperfect pictures a place in these pages, believing that, as he manifestly loves the art, his future productions must gradually improve. This is a pressing reason why he publishes the present volume; and he earnestly commends his self-taught, persevering boy to the generous of his race.

The author's reason for making this volume varied with song and story is, that he is desirous of meeting as far as possible the wishes and tastes of his patrons, as it is so important to sell his books. Many of the Prose Tales in this collection are founded on facts which have been related to the writer at the firesides of the people, subject of course to a change of name and the ordinary filling up. They have nearly all been previously printed in weekly serials, and have consequently had but a very brief existence. It is surely natural that an author should be ambitious enough to desire to collect his scattered compositions together from bye-ways and newspaper files; arrange them in order where they are perhaps more likely to survive; and clothe them in more attractive and enduring habiliments. This must be his apology for their present appearance; and he trusts that at least they may not be wholly unacceptable to the youth of his own country. Several of these sketches point to the desirability of cultivating the waste lands of the United Kingdom, which perhaps will become one of the important Government questions of the future, and would surely do more for the maintenance of England's prosperity than the magnifying of her armies or the enlargement of her arsenals and prisons.

He again thanks his patrons and friends for their cheerful support, as well now as in the past; and trusts that his Tales. and Poems may receive a Christian welcome.

Falmouth, Cornwall,

September 12th, 1877.

HAMET HART'S RETURN TO FOSSFIELD

NARDIP JONES AND HIS GRAND-DAUGHTER

69

75

VALLEY watched by hills where the trees stood

With signs for every season-a clear well Bubbling and bursting where the moss was bright,

Green rushes kissed each other, and fair
maids

Tripped with their noontide pitchers-hawthorn bowers
Where moonlight mantled o'er the lover's cheek,

B

And blossoms bowed their foreheads to the winds
Wooing among the willows-a low seat
Beneath the elder, where the psalm was sung,
And the last shred of gossip gemmed with wings
To fly to farthest homesteads-a quaint stile-
A few thatched dwellings, where the ivy kept
Perpetual whisperings through the summer moons,
Where dog-rose wreaths hung o'er the rectory gate--
And scarce one meadow off, a Gothic church,
With a low tower just reaching o'er its roof,

Whence the bells pealed when Sabbaths shut the forge
And oped the gates of worship-children's songs
And old men's stories by the narrow bridge
Beside the miller's cottage-a small shop,
A barn or two, a school-house on the green—
A narrow footpath leading to the sea:
Sketch these with Fancy's pencil, and you
Our village Malton as in former days.

have

Then came the railway, and the scene was changed :
The mountain was cut down with pick and bar,
And tumbled in the valley. Houses went,
And gardens lay beneath the rubbish-heap,
With unripe fruit still hanging to the boughs,
And arbours where the lovers sat at eve,
O'erwhelmed with waste for ever. Firesides fell,
Where tale and song wore out the listening Eve,
And fruitful plans had birth, whose golden grain
Waved in the sunshine of the coming hours,
And Chat sat on the cricket with sharp eyes
Twinkling on childhood's picture. All lay low,
O'erwhelmed with wreck and rubbish; and the train,
Shrieking its pastime as it rushed to worth,
Smote in unquiet shivers, like the wail
Of the tossed spirit of the outstripped Past.

One cottage was left standing, like an oak,
Where thunderbolts rushed roaring, and the wood
Sent forth its anguish to the blinding glare.
The roof was reed, close-shaven to the top :
Green ivy watched the windows, lined the porch,