The poet, as was only to be expected, had his little grievance with the printer, who, in spite of all his remonstrances and corrections in proof,—­the printer was a little wrong-headed Scotchman,—­had insisted at the last moment in heading his Tyrtean “Proem,” a fine aerial trumpet-blast somewhat Shelleyan in style, with the word that was evidently intended, namely, “Poem.”  However, he was somewhat consoled by reading his caustic column of notes headed “The World outside Coalchester,” the very heading of which was a revelation.  Then, too, he very much enjoyed his article on “Bad Lighting in Coalchester,” with its evident allegoric insinuation that Coalchester needed lighting in more ways than one, and that “The Dawn” was prepared to undertake, free of charge, the top-lighting of which it was most in need.

James Whalley contributed a review of “Mr. Swinburne’s new Poems,” through which article Mr. Moggridge’s illustrated hams plainly showed from the other side.

New truth is too often printed in very worn-out type, but the promoters of “The Dawn” had wisely remembered how hard truth is to read, and had given it good clear type, and generally made it a very comely and attractive little paper.  It bore a motto that sounded almost like a threat, “We come to stay,”—­a boast which it manfully kept for several years.  As I lift my eyes from this paper, they rest on no less than ten great half-yearly volumes, which flash “The Dawn”—­“The Dawn”—­along a darksome folio shelf, as they have flashed it week after week across darkest Coalchester; and “The Dawn” ceased, at length, not from lack of power and encouragement to continue, but because the world had grown sadder by then, and it had lost the will to go on living.

In spite of this hardy existence, I suppose “The Dawn” will win no record of itself in the histories of the press, though merely as spirited journalism it deserves to do so; while in the history of the human spirit at Coalchester it demands a grateful celebration such as it will, again, most surely not receive from the literary and philosophical historian of the town.  At all events, honoured or forgotten as it may be, should you ever come across its strange young pages, I know you will agree with me that it was a wonderful little paper.  It was not, you may suspect, conservative, being, as it was, very alive and very young.  In fact, its radiant radicalism brings tears to one’s eyes to-day, when so many of the noble ideals it championed, to the length and strength of its little angry arm, are lying smashed beneath the iron blows of the capitalism that has outlived even the noble eloquence of Theophilus Londonderry.

Like all young people, it was all for the young, the new; and I think you will be astonished, if you do ever turn over its pages, at the remarkable instinct for the crescent life possessed by these young men; and, were it worth while, I could easily prove that several of the more exquisite continental writers, now the fashion this many a year, first found a humble welcome in that quaint little organ of New Zion.