, the local bard was ready with his
threnody and the little black-bordered, thick leaflets were sold at one
penny apiece for the benefit of the survivors. The prince of the poetic
throng in my day was one Alfred Randall whom I used to encounter on
Sunday mornings on his way to chapel dressed in black broadcloth, with
huge, overlapping, rhinocerine folds in it--for, as I have remarked
elsewhere, a Black Country tailor who had supplied the customer with
merely cloth enough to fit him, would have been thought unpardonably
stingy--a very high false collar tied at the back of the neck by a foot
or two of white tape which as often as not trailed out behind, a woollen
comforter dangling almost to his toes whatever might be the season of
year, and the hardest looking and shiniest silk hat to be had for love
or money--these were Mr Randall's Sabbath wear, and it always struck
me as a child that he had very much of the aspect of a cockatoo in
mourning. He was a preternaturally solemn man and when I felt that I
could command my features, I used to like to talk with him about his
Art, and hear in what manner his inspirations occurred to him. "It's no
credit to me," he used to say, with a sort of proud humility, "it's a
gift, that's what it is." Mr Randall's views were not always engaged
on tragic themes, and I have the most delightful recollections of a
pastoral of his entitled:--"Lines on a Walk I once took on a Day in May
into the Country." It began thus:--

"It was upon a day in May,
When through the fields I took my way.
It was delightful for to see
The sheep and lambs they did agree.

And as I walked forth on that day
I met a stile within my way;
That stile which did give rest to me
Again I may not no more see."

I had the pleasure to put this effusion into type with my own hands. My
father was generally his own proof reader, and when I went to him with
the first impression and began to read to him from the manuscript, I was
really very terribly afraid. My father was a man who hid a great deal
of tenderness and humour under a very stern exterior, and I felt that it
was my duty in his presence to go through my share of the proof-reading
with a grave and business-like countenance. I approached one couplet
with terror, for I knew beforehand that it would break me down.

"As on my way I then did trod
The lark did roar his song to God."

I had to laugh, whatever might happen