“Every day when the boy from the public house came for the pewter-pots, and to hear what porter was wanted, he always brought the yesterday’s newspaper. The reading of the paper we had been used to take by turns; but after Robert came, he mostly read for us, because his time was of least value. He frequently met with words that he was unacquainted with; of this he often complained. I bought a small dictionary for him. By the help of this, he in a little time could read and comprehend the long and beautiful speeches of Burke, Fox, and North.” When about sixteen years of age, Robert had an opportunity to read Thomson’s “Seasons”--which was a favorite book with him--Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” and a few novels. Soon afterward, he left the employment of his brother, and spent a few months in his native county, with the farmer with whom he had formerly lived; and here free from the smoke and noise of London, he imbibed that love of rural simplicity and innocence, which he afterward displayed in his poems. Returning to his trade of shoemaker in London, he was bound to Mr. John Dudbridge, and after he was of age, worked as journeyman for Davies, ladies’ shoemaker. In a garret, while at work with six or seven others, he composed his beautiful rural poem, “The Farmer’s Boy.” A great part of this poem was composed by him, without committing one line to paper. When it was thus prepared, he said, “I had nothing to do but to write it down.” By this mode of composition, he studied and completed his “Farmer’s Boy,” in a garret, among his fellow-workmen, without their ever suspecting or knowing anything of the matter. That the reader may judge of the merits of this poem, we quote the invocation:-- “O come, blest spirit! whatsoe’er thou art, Thou kindling warmth that hoverest round my heart, Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy, That poverty itself can not destroy, Be thou my muse; and faithful still to me, Retrace the paths of wild obscurity. No deeds of arms, my humble lines rehearse. No _Alpine_ wonders thunder through my verse. The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill. Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still; Nature’s sublimer scenes ne’er charmed mine eyes, Nor science led me through the boundless skies, From meaner objects far, my raptures flow, O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow! And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise. For all the blessings of my infant days. Bear me through regions where gay fancy dwells, But mould to Truth’s fair form, what memory tells.”