The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1918-12-26

win age land yet bearing mowers
hopeful of harvest In and out amidst
the long shadows of the western sun
we see the uncouth figure of the poet
haunting the scenes of his childhood,
dwelling longer on the spots endeared
to us by the fondly written words
which shall ever remain a treasure in
the storehouse of literary excellence.
"The busy mill", its wheel has long
ago made "its last turn, the never
failing stream" is still flowing and
gurgling around its ruined founda-
tons. All are gone. We next pause at
the NOISY mansion" where 1.-THE viii
lage master taught his little school,.
OF all the remaining vestiges of
Sweet Auburn" this is the one which
appears practically in its original con-
dition. Old, quaint, matched, and low
rooted, which only the poet could have
described rs "a mansion, it now tot
tiers to it's fall. 1t Is now occupied by
an aged couple stepped in poverty, its
time-stained walls keeping dry the lit
tie hearth and the damp out of their
simple home. The pedagogue of the
poets days was similar to him of our
own times, for even though van
pushed, he could argue still" with
words of "wonderous length, "dic-
tionary words" as they were called,
to astonish and awe the rustic mind.
The village inn, the Three Jolly
Pigeons, was the center of all that
was festive in the village then, here
the poet dallied much, spending many
FOSTERING nights with kindred spirits,
when he might have been better and
more profitably engaged,-so the rec
tor thought, and tried with loving care
to convince the reckless youth of the
error of such dissipation. The scene
in "She Stoops to Conquer" may be
taken as having happened in this inn.
Now, Low lies that house where nut
brown draughts inspired" the rich had
their pleasures in castles, the inn was
for the poor man and the traveller.
Eyes, let the rich deride, the proud
disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly
train,
To me more dear, congenial to my
heart,
One native charm than all the gloss
of art"
The simple pleasures of the lowly
poor called up the poets happiest
thought and homeliest expressions,
the farmers news, the BARRIERS
tales, the woodlands ballad, the
smith with "dusky brow" and pom
derous strength, and the "coy maid
were affectionately remembered by the
poet as he sang the sweet lay of his
country's desolation, in a London
clearinghouse, in later life. "The long
pomp, the midnight masquerade, are
only referred to as "the toiling pleas
ures" of the rich, lacking true happi-
ness and mirth. "The playful children
just let loose from school, we passed
by the wayside, their little hats dec
GRATED with hawthorn blossoms
dressed i'll rustic simplicity, their
faces bright with innocent gaiety
From such groups spring the village
Hampdens", may contain unknown
some mute, inglorious Milton" even
The most sacred relic of all
THE hawthorn bush with seats be
meath the shade,
For talking age and whispering low
ers made,
has gone forever, and only the poets
happy remembrance of it now re-
mains, but younger trees are noticed
at the crossroads and besides the cot
tages, still supplying the old happy
purpose, in the evenings when the
throstle's note is highest.
The villages sports, and loves and
rivalries all are dwelt upon with lin
gerng affection and retrospective
signs, for the poet was far from them
all, save in fancy, and the bitterness
of life was upon him when he wrote
and deplored:
Trades unfeeling train,
Usurp the land and dispossess the
swain,
And rural mirth and manners are nc
more,
Remembrance wakes with all her
busy train,
Swells at my breast and turns the
past to pain"
With fearful tenderness he describes
the migration of the poor, driven by
such laws to ask shelter in foreign
lands, "a melancholy band pass from
the shsore", whose piety, steady 10y
atty and faithful love" their old land
well knew its depth and intensity.
In these days of the advocacy OF
commercial supremacy" it is well to
ponder over such a poem as the DE
serted Village. and to wonder over
the scenes immortaiized therein by
Oliver Goldsmith, and as we read his
glowing descriptions of other days
and view the desolation that meets
our gaze, we may truly use the Royal
phrase, Cursed be the laws that
robbed ne of such subjects"
A new Ireland is evolving out of the
no Of Ito hlinhf and chana hrlph ION ed