considerations of the husband, and the endearments of the parent. In the long winter evenings, when business could afford to lay aside its duties, the hours were winged in their flight by music and singing, the bass viol and violin being played by two members of the family. The sickness of the poet, and the settlement of the elder sons in life, interfered with these amusements of late years.

The exquisite touches of the immortal Scottish bard, descriptive of the domestic scenes which closed the toils of the day beneath his humble roof, had here more than a faint likeness. Far removed from affluence, the family had its social and intellectual enjoyments.

How much happiness, unknown and unsuspected by the crowd bustling after wealth, is often found in the lowly cottages of the poor, and in those one degree higher in pretension and comforts. The luxuries which riches purchase seldom trouble the waking and nightly visions of their inmates. They feel not the want of that which they have not known; and they find so much in the little sphere in which they move to interest, to awaken their passions and gratify their tastes, that time speeds rapidly on, carrying in its flight as much of real pleasure, which has to live in the future and become the green spots of memory, as exist in any of the favoured classes of society. How beautiful was the remark of Burns, when walking out one fine summer morning with Dugald Stewart, “the philosopher and friend," noticing the curling smoke issuing from cottages in the distance, he observed, "That the sight gave a pleasure to his mind which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth they contained."

The home of Richard Furness was of this kind. Apart from the busy world, its excitement, its struggles for preeminence and distinction, the inmates performed their necessary duties, cheerful and content, without embittering

the future with the anxieties of the passing day. Biography which makes known these truths, and the conditions, mental and social out of which they arise, will not be altogether uninteresting to others in the same position of life.

The poet, in the year in which he died, writing to his brother, Mr. Peter Furness, Stoney Middleton, then on a visit in London, expressing a wish that the change might restore Mrs. P. Furness to perfect health, exclaims"Health! that one word is a jewel, and will be most highly "esteemed by those who have lost it. How true is the old "Latin adage :

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'Bonum magis carendo quam fruendo cernitur.'

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Truly we perceive the blessing more by the want of it "than by its enjoyment. I know this experimentally, and as the blossoms of death' begin to put out over my fore"head, and the palsied fingers of time to thin my flowing "hair,' I can only calculate that my transit must be a short one; still I have many blessings for which I ought to "be extremely thankful:

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'For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.''

In the same letter, the poet mentions symptoms which indicated a breaking up of the constitution at no distant period. There were just grounds for his own prediction, and he was too well informed on matters of this kind not to be fully sensible of them. The lines he quotes from Gray express sentiments not only natural to him, who had, in virtue of his mental endowments, largely enjoyed life, but to the lettered and unlettered of the human race.

In the Rev. J. T. F. Aldred, the present incumbent of the church at Dore, Richard Furness had a valued friend, who not less appreciated the worth of the man than the genius

of the poet. He was a frequent visitor at the humble cottage, and took a warm interest in the well-being of its inmates. His kindness was not fitful-operating at long intervals-it was indeed constant. To this gentleman the family willingly record their deep obligations, not of a pecuniary character, but of a higher and purer nature. When the last days of the sufferer came, and they were unexpected, this friend was unremitting in his attentions, and soothed the pillow of death. The poet and philosopher, for he was both, contemplated his end with calmness and dignified composure. Without a murmur he resigned himself to the will of his God. He died December 13th, 1857, and was interred at Eyam church. Such was the esteem in which he was held, that the hearse was followed a considerable distance along the road by numbers of the parishioners; and on approaching Eyam, his birth-place, was met by a large proportion of the population, anxious to testify their feelings of respect towards one whose name will long be associated with this Athens of the Peak.

This Reverend gentleman, who had officiated at the second marriage of the poet, performed the last sad rites to departed worth and genius. He was interred in the churchyard at Eyam, close to some fine elms, the branches of which shade his grave. These trees, which in childhood had been objects of interest to him, he alludes to at the conclusion of "The Rag Bag":

Near those tall elms, in that sequestered spot,
There all these rags in quietness shall rot,
With their poor bard, who never sung for fame,

(Since rags, and shrouds, and mortals, are the same.)

I have thus briefly brought to a close the biography of Richard Furness. If it contains no lessons of practical wisdom, no examples of industry and of untiring efforts in the acquisition of knowledge, calculated to stimulate others to follow in his steps, the fault is in the writer, and not the

subject. It has not been written simply to record the achievements of the poet, but of the man. The poet, as expressed in measured numbers, was only a part of him, and a small part in the history of a career, in which a poor man, inspired by noble aspirations, gathers along his path, from boyhood upwards, knowledge which few in happier circumstances possess. The example is worthy of imitation, and to the young it has a special application. They have constantly been present to my mind in this slight literary labour. Let them not despair in their efforts to conquer difficulties, nor be depressed by temporary disappointments. Both are the invariable accompaniments not only of genius, lowly born, but of every human being battling with the world for larger space in which to display his powers. Let them remember that the additional ground they gain is at the expense of others, and has to be won by superior talent, energy, or perseverance. Failure of success lies less with others than ourselves. To complain of the want of leisure to improve their minds, is generally evidence of the want of will to undertake manfully the task. Richard Furness made time out of the silent hours of night—the same exists for them, and time which was not vacant on his hands at their age, to be profitably employed according to the stirring impulses of his nature.

In this biography, the multifarious occupations of the poet have frequently been mentioned, and he has himself described them in the verses given in a preceding page. It may probably be imagined by some that his income, from these numerous sources, was much larger than the tone of my remarks would imply. I should be sorry to give rise to any false impressions on this subject. In the height of his worldly prosperity, holding several public offices, and exercising his talents in a variety of ways, which added something to his pecuniary resources, his income never exceeded £80 per annum.

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When it is taken into account that, as schoolmaster, parish clerk, and registrar, he had to maintain a respect-. able position in society, which exacted expense in regard to dress and other matters, not only in reference to himself, but a wife and six children, it is clear that his circumstances would not be exempt from struggles and difficulties, which at times would be acutely felt. This was the case when he lost the appointment of schoolmaster by which his income was greatly reduced.

With the diminution of this, he ran not into debt. He lessened his expenditure, and, not less erect in his mental stature, asserted his independence and manfully and bravely upheld it. His moral courage was a species of genius.

I shall venture to offer a few remarks on the poems that are here presented, in the hope that the reader may be induced to study them with attention. The greater part contain passages of considerable poetical excellence, and will bear a comparison with the productions of writers of higher name. In satire, dramatic power, and description, few in the same sphere of life, shut out from the busy world, its awakening and stimulating influences, have surpassed Richard Furness. His poetry is healthy and vigorous. It has the characteristics of a by-gone, rather than of the present day. It is free from all sickly affectation,or attempts to be great on slender means. What he felt he expressed without any anxious effort as to the effect.

"The Rag Bag," no very attractive title for a poem, was published in 1882. It was read in manuscript by James Montgomery, and it was he who suggested that appellation, in place of "The Battle of Rags," which the poet had adopted. The whole of the impression was quickly sold, and a much greater number of copies might have been disposed of. The author was often solicited to print a second edition, but, from reasons unexplained, declined. It is not improbable that among these were the benefical results