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stories of witch-transformations, and charms, and spells, of 
haunted houses, of Malkin ‘lower, the witch rendezvous, of 
‘«‘ Towneley boggart,” and many other boggarts of less aristocratic 
pedigree. Witch stories and poetry go well together. They are 
eggs of the same nest. They come from the same ‘ shaping 
spirit of imagination.” What wonder then that my first effort 
in poetic construction should be suggested by one of these old 
world traditions, and should take Malkin Tower for its theme. 
But the dreams of ancient superstitions were already passing 
away. That old ensign hung out in Cliviger Street meant more 
than political reform. It was the beginning of the end of 
political thraldom, but it was the beginning of much more. 
It was the emblem of the Revolution that was already taking 
effect in the expansion, or, if you will, the emancipation of the 
human mind. My father used to repeat a poem of which I only 
remember the first lines, which were these— 
‘* O’er the vine covered hills and gay regions of France, 
See the day-star of Liberty rise, 
Through clouds of detraction unwearied advance 
Its welcomed approach to the skies.”’ 
That star was then only glimmering in the horizon, but somehow 
there was less talk of the Pendle Forest witches after its uprising. 
Instead of “ sitting round the fire on winter's tedious nights, 
with good old folks to hear them tell the tales” of ghosts and 
witches, we sat reading “ Pickwick” and ‘‘ The Old Curiosity 
Shop.” Instead of dreams of diablery, we had dreams of universal 
brotherhood. There were no more futile attempts to raise the 
devil. Instead thereof, there were surreptitious readings of 
Byron and Shelley. Then came the music of Coleridge, 
Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, and Tennyson. 
‘© Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going, 
Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland, faintly blowing !” 
The witch-fires vanished from Pendle, and in their place came 
“the light that never was on sea or land.” The prince of the 
powers of the air took wing and fled, as he fled from Paradise at 
the uplifted spear of Ithuriel. ‘The Lars and Lemures moan’d 
with midnight plaint.”’ ‘‘ We sat in the aurora of a sunrise 
that was to put out all the stars.” Wordsworth, Coleridge, and 
Shelley had discovered that nature was divine. The fairies had 
gone from the greenwood and the hill side, but there was 
‘a presence that disturbed us with the joy of elevated thoughts.” 
This also, you may say, was a dream; but are not ‘ thieving 
ambition and paltring gain,” also dreams. This dream seemed 
to me better worth the dreaming than some that held the world 
in awe. Perhaps it is not a matter of choice what our dreams 
~ aml 
