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word, with "hands open as day to melting charity." They will talk to you of the period, when, after rambling for many days they sat down together, and looked from the hill side upon the wide valley beneath, and the distant smoke of the busy town towards which their destiny called them-weary and worn, unfriended and lonely, but with energies strong for good. At this day, that silent valley has become a populous village; the little stream a giant power; and, where then no voice was heard but the singing-bird or croaking raven, a thousand hearts are now lifted up towards God in a beautiful temple reared to his worship by the united industry of these two men. They will point to the tower they have erected on that never to be forgotten hill side, in remembrance of that weary night, and in gratitude to Him whose unseen hand, led them, like those of old, through the wilderness. These are the brothers Cheeryble of the immortal Dickens, and William and Daniel Grant, of Manchester, from whose threshold the indigent, the helpless, and the sorrowful, turn away with smiles; and whose hands men of all parties grasp with cordial brotherhood. They are a noble example-a shining light to those who hesitate to advance in the cause of suffering humanity; long may they live to benefit their fellow men.* But who comes here, trudging along from the little village of Middleton, with his oaken cudgel, like a young branch from his own knotted trunk, the old fashioned spotted purple silk cravat tied loosely round his neck-garments of the humblest, but with a firm and independent carriage, that tells you he "cares little for the world, or the world's ways"? It is honest Samuel Bamford, the Burns of Lancashire the humble weaver, but the poet by nature, as those who have read his "Tim Bobbin's Grave," and "The Pass of Death," will duly admit.
-"Death stood in the path of Time,
And slew them as they came,
And not a soul escaped his hand,
So certain was his aim.
The beggar fell across his staff,
The soldier on his sword,
The king sunk down beneath his crown,
He commenced the struggle of active life in times when freedom had to grapple with iron hands, as his graphic volume, "Passages in the Life of a Radical," will tell you; and he has lived to see the onward march of intelligence trampling in the dust, spies, prisons, and fetters. How we look back at the day of his trials with a smile that such a man should be dreaded, except by tyranny-the man who would daily cultivate flowers round his child's grave, and voluntarily walk two hundred miles to receive sentence of imprisonment for a political offence!
Is not this a beautiful structure-Saint Luke's Church? Mr. Atkinson, the architect, was originally a labouring stone-mason; with all his talent he has been unfortunate in Manchester, from what cause we cannot say, and has sought a home in London, where genius like his ought to find a welcome. May he reap a rich reward for the talent he exhibits in his honourable calling. The original design of this struc
* Since the above was written, we regret to say that the elder of the brothers has passed to another, and a better, world. He has left no one behind him more houest or kind hearted.
ture was of rare beauty; but he had those to deal with, whose souls, however they may be expanding towards a love of art, have not yet arrived at it. "The drawing is very beautiful, but its erection will cost a deal of money," says one of our patrons of science, with his carriage waiting at the office door, and a princely fortune in the funds: "Could you not lower the spire?" "I shall lower my reputation if I do,” replies the anxious artist. "But you will lower the cost," says the golden gentleman, as he moved to the door by way of hastening the decision: so the spire was lowered, with no more consideration than the carriage steps, and the beautiful structure shorn of its fair proportions. Still it is a fair specimen of the present English school, and a fine ornament to the neighbourhood; but, in this as in other instances I shall have to enumerate, we perceive the ruling spirit of our wealthy men, (though noble exceptions may be given,) and, until this half-educated feeling is rooted out, art may be fairly said to be struggling in Manchester with a climate far from congenial.
What a pleasant lane to walk in! what fine tall trees, what rich verdure, what snug well-built houses planted here and there! In one of them resides an artist highly esteemed amongst us, who has won many friends. If he were at home, we should have a hearty welcome; but he is off to the Welsh mountains to study nature in her own undisguised beauty, and will bring back sketches to fill the portfolios and adorn the walls of those among his friends, who love art, but are too poor to purchase pictures.-God speed him!
Winding along this cheerful lane we come upon bright green meadows dappled with daisies and butter-cups, the thick foliage of Broughton Park forming a rich, mellow back ground. Now don't be alarmed it you meet with a stray tiger or two, springing from behind these tall hedge-rows, or find an elephant taking you off in his trunk; for these Swiss-looking, or rather queer-looking, buildings to our left, belong to the Zoological gardens, lately established by a joint-stock company, and highly creditable to the taste of the directors; I wish I could say as much for their judgment. This beautiful and interesting promenade is entirely lost to the great mass of the people, from the circumstance of its being closed on the Sunday. Oh, blind and foolish policy! Shall we never get beyond the absurdity of opening our taverns, and closing all rational places of resort on that day of happy rest and relaxation? We are told that we shall empty the places of worship. Indeed!-Visit the churches and chapels of this great town; look around the various congregations, richly and gaily dressed, comfortably seated in easy-cushioned pews, and say how many of the real, hornyhanded workmen will be found among the group, although the proportion of that class to the rest of our population is so great. And why is this? because he is left in "the slough of despond," deep in the mire of ignorance and brutality, without mental instruction, without human sympathy; and we then call upon him, on the day anxiously looked for through the week as the time of rest for wearied limb and anxious mind, to sit on hard oak forms apart from his fellow-men, though in the presence of his God, and listen to a long discourse in a language too often perfectly beyond his comprehension. Then until we have led him to the hallowed precincts of our temples, until he has
begun to feel the influence of "that peace which passeth all understanding," may we not at least do all we can by the smiles of art and nature, the beauty of form and colour, the voice of sweet-souled music, to raise him from the grovelling pursuit of habits and enjoyments tending to disease and ruin? If we cannot make him an angel, may we not strive to make him a man? We are told it is not right "to do evil that good may come,"—but I deny the premises. Is it "to do evil" to raise man a step higher in the scale of humanity,-from a state of ignorant brutality and barbarism, to a better knowledge of "the things which are God's?" Must we leave him in utter destitution, because denied the power of surrounding him with luxuries, or bid him ramble naked through the world, because we cannot clothe him "in purple and fine linen?"-Man, we are told, has within him a spark of the eternal spirit, a flame which never dies, though dimmed by the misty prejudices with which time and habit have encircled him. To dispel this noxious vapour requires no little energy and moral courage, let however but a small band once emancipate themselves, seek the people in their own homes, mingle with them as fellow-creatures, brethren of one parent, assist to lift them from that grovelling feeling of degradation in which they are now so deeply sunk, "raise the hope which is within them," for this world as well as for hereafter, throw around them associations of beauty in their vacant hours (alas, how few!), refine the intellect and amend the heart, and we shall find more crowded churches, more deserted taverns. * * And so whilst in the warmth of our discourse we have passed this garden, behold us arrived at the brow of a steep declivity, from which look out, and feel your heart glow within you. Is it not a lovely valley? what a wide-spread carpet of green sward with the silvery river twisting and turning like a beautiful serpent upon its emerald surface. How the variegated woods steal up the side of those little Alpine cliffs, following the course of the clear and rapid stream. But even in the midst of this bright scene of beauty a tall chimney shoots up in the distance, reminding us that man was made "to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow," and all our poetic thoughts are scattered as the smoke and vapour which stream into the fair blue sky above our heads. But hark! we are again brought back to the woods and nature by the cawing of the rooks-how I love to listen to that strange voice of theirs,-what an assurance of the country! the tall elms come into the mind's eye, and the old baronial mansion, and the broken stile leading into the orchard, and the mantled pool with a thousand other pleasant scenes trooping back with the memory of boyhood. How has this thronging, struggling, gold-seeking city shivered to atoms the mirror of those happy days!
And now turn we once more to yon gloomy hive of busy men. heavy and black it looks from this hill of sunshine! There is a picturesque lane which runs to the right called " the lower road," at every turn placing before the eye a living landscape of beauty; but our time is short, so we will take the high and direct road over which our Roman conquerors lead their legions some 1800 years ago,―passing the snug abode of one of our Manchester poets, Charles Swain. If it was an hour later, and he had left his little den of a counting-house (for he is chained to the oar like the rest of us, and obliged to pull