Peter of Barnet

Peter of Barnet — knowest thou such a man ?
'Tis meet thou shouldest, for he's a manual
Which one may ever read, — I love old Peter
Not for his genius or stupendous science,
For he has neither ; while his outward man,
Mien, word, and manner, has no other gloss
Than what the stubborn hand of Nature framed
By mallet and by chisel, — but he is
A character distinct, — I ever love
A man that is so, — many have I known,
And many studied with poetic eye.

Peter is one — the slave of keen sensation.
So obviously affected is his heart
By what he hears and sees, that passion there
Holds everlasting coil, — farther than these,
Peter makes no research, — they are enough
For any heart to brook. I oft have weened,
If Peter neither saw or heard, he would
Be happier than he is. — What boy is that
At whom you scold so much, said I, good Peter?

Rascal ! said he, — he is as great a knave
As wags beneath the sun, — a saucy knave,
Whom I have reared and nourished as my own.
His mother was a vagrant — no good dame,
I ween, was she — She came unto my house
One rainy summer eve, followed by him,
That naughty rogue — a little urchin then,
Not five years old — Brown with the sun he was,
And ragged as a colt ! — his head was bare,
And weather-beaten like the tufted moss.

Far, far behind he lagged, for he was lame,
And sore bedraggled, — by his foot still kept
A little dog, his fellow traveller
And bosom friend. — I felt I wot not how
For the young imp, for he came wading on
Through mud and mire, halting most wofully.
The guttered road his sole might not imprint,
For it was wounded, but with dexterous skill
He placed his foot on edge, and ambled thus. —
Then Peter walked across the field and back
With awkward limp, to show me how the boy
Walked out the way ; — the fancy pleased him much,
For ever and anon he laughed at it,
And yet the tear was pacing down his cheek.
'Twas just this way he walked, poor soul, said Peter ;
And then, with turned-up foot, and gait oblique,
Again he halted lamely o'er the ridge,
Laughing with shrilly voice, and all the while
Wiping his eyes. — I thought I saw, said Peter
An independence in the child's blue eye,
A soul that seemed determined to outbrave
Reproach and sufferance, and to work his way
Throughout the world, though scarce a ray of hope
Lay onward to allure or beckon him.

His supper with his faithful dog he shared ;
To that alone he talked, nor heeded once
The tattle of the menials who assailed him.
Soon he was sound asleep ; his dumb companion,
With head laid on his little master's breast,
Fell sound as he. O it was such a picture
Of generous friendship as I ne'er again
Shall look upon ! — Then Peter sobbed full hard,
And told it o'er again, — and then he laid
His head upon his shoulder, — stopped his breath
To shortened pant, and with an open mouth,
And face ludicrously demure, he showed me
The way the poor boy slept, and how the dog !
I could not chuse but laugh, and so did Peter ;
For he assured me there was never aught
On earth seen like it, — then a second time
He sniffed in mimic sleep, while from his breast
Issued a feeble dreaming sound of plaint.

That was the very way they slept, said Peter ;
I thought my heart would burst — Yet she his mother
Ne'er looked at them — not she — she heeded not.

I could not sleep a wink that night, said Peter,
Nor could I think of aught but the poor boy,
The little ragged pilgrim of the world !
Poor devil ! said I, an hundred times, I ween,
And more, — and then I turned ! and turned ! and turned !

I sighed a prayer for the unfortunate,
And tried to think of others in distress ;
I thought that many a fair and comely mother
Shed the salt tear o'er an unfathered boy,
Who, all unconscious, lay upon her breast
His only shelter, while, alas ! that breast
And beauteous head no shelter had at all !
I tried such things to ponder, — 'twas in vain !
My thoughts were on the boy, — I saw him still !
The little, sun-burnt, naked ragamuffin !
His round red lip and independent eye !
The tiny conscript on the field of life,
The veteran of eternity ! — I wept —
And turned ! and turned ! — Good God ! said I, what's this?

His tale was never ended, nor would mine,
Should I go on, and deftly follow him
Through every maze of feeling, — but the boy
Lives with old Peter, — they have never parted,
Nor ever will till death shall sunder them.

And on ray troth, when my old head is laid
Low in the dust, said Peter, I do think
There is not one alive will miss me more,
Or think of me so much as that young knave.

Nor shall he then be destitute, or forced
To prowl in desperate guise throughout the world.

He's a dear boy ! a noble generous boy !

But I have spoiled him — all my folk are spoiled.

This is most true, — I walked with Peter forth
Across the winter field, where his one hind
Drew the long furrow, who with lengthened vo
And hie vociferous urged on his steeds,
And gave harsh tones unto the chilly gale.

It chanced that on the cold wet field we found
A mountain daisy blooming all alone.
I paused, and spoke of Burns, the Scottish bard :
Peter had heard the name, — I then conned o'er
The lines unto the Daisy in a tone
Most tender and affecting. — Peter looked
As he would look me through, — he could not ween
Of feeling for a flower, and yet he felt
A kind of sympathy, that overpowered
All his philosophy. — He took a stone,
And placed it tall on end. — Herbert, said he,
When thou ploughest down this ridge, spare me this flower.

I charge thee note it well, — and for thy life
Do it no injury. — Pugh ! said the clown,
Such stuff ! — I shall not mind it — He went on
Whistling his tune. — Oh, Peter was most wroth !

He ran in hasty guise around, and looked
For a convenient stone, that he might throw
And smite the ploughman's head. — No one would suit
Then, turning round to me, he gave full vent
To's rage against the hind, and all was o'er.

In his first heat, he cursed the menial race ;
I told you they- were all alike, said he,
A most provoking and ungracious set ;
(Peter had never told me such a thing.)
Now did you ever see a wretch like that ?

He's a good workman, and he knows it well,
But not one thing that I desire of him
Will he perform — I'm an old fool, 'tis true,
But yet methinks the man that eats my bread
Might somewhat humour me — I thought so too.

But ah ! said Peter, when I think of this,
The freedom of the will, by man so valued,
Is not his own ! — and that how proud he is
Sometimes to show it, then I give it him ;
And when I do I have not cause to rue.

What a discerning learned man is Peter ?

He's nature's genuine, plain philosopher.

That night, at board, Peter sat silent long,
Thoughtful he was. — I think I've heard, said he,
That Burns, of whom you spake, was a bad man,
A man of a most vicious, tainted mind,
Fit to corrupt an age — Was it not so ?

Alas ! said I, never was man abused
So much as he ! — he was a good man, Peter ;
A man of noble independent mind,
So high, that wealth's low minions envied it ;
Exerting all their malice to assail
His only part that was assailable.

Keen were his feelings, and his passions strong,
Such as your own — The vantage ground was gained.

The foes of genius came, in social guise,
Luring to gusts of blindfold levity
The bard that sore relented. — These were blabbed
With tenfold zest, until the injured heart
Of genius was wrung — It broke ! — and then
The foes of humble and inherent worth,
O how they triumphed o'er the Poet's dust !

D — n them ! said Peter, — he thrust back his chair,
Dashed one knee o'er the other furiously,
Took snuff a double portion, — swallowed down
His glass at once, — looked all around the room
With wrathful eye — and then took snuff again.

I love old Peter ! I would rather see
Nature's strong workings in the human breast,
Than list the endless dogmas which define
Their operations and existing springs.
Peter's a living representative,
A glossary to many terms, that stand
In fair-cast characters upon the page
Of the philosopher, — in other form
To him unknown. — But these are fading all ;
Impressed themselves, they no impression leave ;
Peter's a stereotype, — that for an age
Will momently throw bold impressions off,
Ever demonstrative, and ever new.
When next I visit him, I'll copy forth
One other page from nature's manual.