# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Birmingham and Sheffield

BIRMINGHAM AND SHEFFIELD.
'T is something to be called
The "toyshop of a continent," by one
Whose voice was fame. And yet a name like this
Hath not been lightly earned. Hard hammerings
And fierce ore-meltings, mid a heat that threats
To vitrify the stones, have wrought it out,
On the world's anvil.
 Ponderous enginery,
And sparkling smithies, and a pallid throng,
Who toil, and drink, and die, do service here,
And countless are the forms, their force creates,
From the dire weapon sworn to deeds of blood,
That sweeps with sharp report man's life away,
To the slight box, from whence the spinster takes
Her creature-comfort, or the slighter orb
Of treble-gilt, which the pleased school-boy finds
On his new suit, counting the shining rows
With latent vanity.
 Well pleased I marked
This strange creativeness, because I knew
That Birmingham had stretched an iron hand
Across the Atlantic wave, and grappled close
My country in that league of amity,
Which commerce loves. And whatsoe'er shall bind
Those lands in unity, is dear to me,
Whether the links be metal, or the threads
Of silky filament by genius thrown
From clime to clime, or those which science knits
In firmer mesh, as erst the sorceress wove
The strong man's locks.
 Here too were fabrics rich
That taste might covet, cabinet and screen,
Table and tray, with pearly shell inlaid,
And bright with tints of landscape or of flower.
Here glass in chrystal elegance essays
To emulate the diamond, and we saw
The flaming fount from whence its glories came,
And how the glowing cylinder expands
Into those broad and polished plates, that deck
The abodes of princes.
 Many a curious thing
Was shown us too at Sheffield, ornaments,
And thousand-bladed knives, and fairy tools
For ladies fingers, when the thread they lead
Through finest lawn; and silver richly chased,
To make the festal board so beautiful,
That unawares the tempted matron's hand
Invades her husband's purse.
 But as for me,
Though the whole art was patiently explained,
From the first piling of the earthy ore,
In its dark ovens, to its pouring forth
With brilliant scintillations, in the form
Of liquid steel; or its last lustrous face,
And finest net-work; yet I'm fain to say
The manufacturing interest would find
In me a poor interpreter. I doubt
My own capacity to comprehend
Such transmutations, and confess with shame
Their processes do strike my simple mind
Like necromancy. And I felt no joy
Among the crucibles and cutlery,
Compared to that, which on the breezy heights
Met me at every change, or mid the walks
Of the botanic garden, freshly sprang
From every flower.
 There was a quiet lodge
From whence peered forth, as guardian of the place,
A mighty dog of true St. Bernard's breed,
With such a forehead as phrenologists
Delight to analyze, and in his port
The lamb and lion mixed; yet all unlike
That classic Cerberus, who gnashed and growled
At the Hesperides, and pleased to change
His slippery footing mid the Alpine rocks,
And midnight conflicts with the avalanche,
To doze among the birds who nestle here,
All prodigal of song.
 But Sheffield, sure,
Hath more to boast, than plants whose greenness fades,
Or riches of the mine. She pointed out,
With ready hand and graceful warmth of heart,
The sweet Moravian poet, he who saw
Through Fancy's glass the "World before the Flood,"
And told its doings to our grosser ear.
He oft hath given Devotion's lip the words
She sought but could not find; and sure, high praise
Is due to him, who steadily devotes
His heaven-given talents to their highest end,
And ne'er disjoins them from the Maker's praise.
Such meed is thine, Montgomery, meek in heart,
And full of Christian love.
 We said farewell
Reluctantly to those, who like tried friends,
Though newly seen, had marked each fleeting hour
With deeds of kindness, and as through the scenes
Of glorious beauty, hill and dale and tower,
Swept on our light post-chaise, of them we spake
Such words as glowing gratitude inspires.
There stood a cottage, near a spreading moor,
Just where its heathery blackness melted down
Into a mellower hue. Fast by its side
Nestled the wheat-stock, firmly bound and shaped
Even like another roof-tree, witnessing
Fair harvest and good husbandry. Some sheep
Roamed eastwards o'er the common, nibbling close
The scanty blade, while toward the setting sun
A hillock stretched o'ershadowed by a growth
Of newly-planted trees. 'T would seem the abode
Of rural plenty and content. Yet here
A desolate sorrow dwelt, such as doth wring
Plain honest hearts, when what had long been twined
With every fibre is dissected out.
Beneath the shelter of those lowly eaves
An only daughter made the parents glad
With her unfolding beauties. Day by day
She gathered sweetness on her lonely stem,
The lily of the moorlands. They, with thoughts
Upon their humble tasks, how best to save
Their little gains, or make that little more,
Scarce knew that she was beautiful; yet felt
Strange thrall upon their spirits when she spoke
So musical, or from some storied page
Beguiled their evening hour.
 And when the sire
Descanted long, as farmers sometimes will,
Upon the promise of his crops, and how
The neighbors envied that his corn should be
Higher than theirs, and how the man, who hoped
Surely to thrive, must leave his bed betimes,
Or of her golden cheese the mother told,
She with a filial and serene regard
Would seem to listen, her young heart away
Mid other things.
 For in her lonely room,
She had companions that they knew not of,
Books that reveal the sources of the soul,
Deep meditations, high imaginings,
And ofttimes, when the cottage lamp was out,
She sat communing with them, while the moon
Looked through her narrow casement fitfully.
Hence grew her brow so spiritual, and her cheek
Pale with the purity of thought, that gleamed
Around her from above.
 The buxom youth,
Nursed at the ploughshare, wondering eyed her charms,
Or of her aspen gracefulness of form
Spoke slightingly. Yet when they saw the fields
Her father tilled well clad with ripening grain,
And knew he had no other heir beside,
They, with unwonted wealth of Sunday clothes,
And huge, red nosegays flaunting in their hands,
Were fain to woo her. And they marvelled much
How the sweet fairy, with such quiet air
Of mild indifference, and with truthful words
Kind, yet determinate, withdrew herself
To chosen solitude, intent to keep
A maiden's freedom.
 But in lonely walks,
What time the early violets richly blent
Their trembling colors with the vernal green,
A student boy, who dwelt among the hills, Taught her of love. There rose an ancient tree,
The glory of their rustic garden's bound,
Around whose rough circumference of trunk
A garden seat was wreathed; and there they sat,
Watching gray-vested twilight, as she bore
Such gifts of tender, and half-uttered thought
As lovers prize. When the thin-blossomed furze
Gave out its autumn sweetness, and the walls
Of that low cot with the red-berried ash
Kindled in pride, they parted; he to toil
Amid his college tasks, and she to weep. —The precious scrolls, that with his ardent heart
So faithfully were tinged, unceasing sought
Her hand, and o'er their varied lines to pore
Amid his absence, was her chief delight.
—At length they came not. She with sleepless eye, And lip that every morn more bloodless grew,
Demanded them in vain. And then the tongue
Of a hoarse gossip told her, he was dead;
Drowned in the deep, and dead.
 Her young heart died
Away at those dread sounds. Her upraised eye
Grew large, and wild, and never closed again.
"Hark, hark! he calleth, I must hence away,"
She murmured oft, but faint and fainter still,
Nor other word she spake.
 And so she died.
And now that lonely cottage on the moor
Hath no sweet visitant of earthly hope,
To cheer its toiling inmates. Habit-led,
They sow, and reap, and spread the daily board,
And steep their bread in tears.
 God grant them grace
To take this chastisement, like those who win
A more enduring mansion, from the blast
That leaveth house and home so desolate.
Tuesday, Oct. 6, 1840.
Among the manufactories of Birmingham, which our limited time allowed us to examine, we were much pleased with an extensive one of plate glass, in the possession of the Messieurs Chance. There we had politely explained to us, by the proprietors, the process of blowing that beautiful material, first into a cylindrical form, and afterwards giving it with emory the last exquisite polish. We visited the manufactures of bronze and silver, and the repository for that of papier-maché, and could scarcely believe that those delicate ornamental articles, trays, tables, cabinets, etc., inlaid with pearl, and radiant with the richest hues of the pencil, sprang from a rude fabric of coarse, brown pasteboard.
We were pleased to see the spacious town-hall, one of the lions of Birmingham, brilliantly lighted, and filled with an immense audience, assembled to advance the cause of missions, and listening to eloquent addresses from its advocates, and from some who ​had been sent forth, as laborers among the benighted heathen in distant zones.
In Sheffield, we were taken by the Messieurs Sanderson, to their celebrated establishment for making and refining steel, and saw it poured in its liquid state, from flame-hot crucibles, with the most brilliant scintillations. Through their attention we were also shown the various processes of silver-plating; and also the fair botanic garden and conservatory, which afforded sensible relief from the heat and mystery of metallic exhibitions. Afterwards we visited the show-rooms of Rogers and Sons, and among their almost endless variety of cutlery, silver, and ivory, saw under a glass-case the knife with 1838 blades, so often marvelled at by travellers. The prospects from the heights around Sheffield are variegated and beautiful. Yet more interesting than any combination of hill and dale, inasmuch as mind must ever hold superiority over matter, was an interview with the poet Montgomery, who came to call on us at our hotel. He is small of stature, with an amiable countenance, and agreeable, gentlemanly manners. His conversation is unassuming, though occasionally enlivened by a vein of pleasantry. Some of the company happening to remark, that they were not aware of his having been born in Scotland, he replied that he had left it in his early years, adding with naiveté, "You know Dr. Johnson has said, there is hope of a Scotchman if you catch him young."
​ We left Birmingham and Sheffield with warm feelings of gratitude for the kind attentions which had marked our stay in both places, and which will always mingle with our recollections of their scenery.