The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe :: :: University of Virginia Library

Richard meets an Acquaintance of his Youth—The Kind of Meeting—His School—The Doctor Sidmere and his Family—Belwood, a Pupil—The Doctor's Opinion of him—The Opinion of his Wife—and of his Daughter—Consultation —The Lovers—Flight to Gretna Green—Return no more—The Doctor and his Lady—Belwood and his Wife—the Doctor reflects—Goes to his Son-in-Law— His Reception and Return.

“I met,” said Richard, when return'd to dine,
“In my excursion, with a friend of mine;
“Friend! I mistake,—but yet I knew him well,
“Ours was the village where he came to dwell:
“He was an orphan born to wealth, and then
“Placed in the guardian-care of cautious men;
“When our good parent, who was kindness all,
“Fed and caress'd him when he chose to call;
“And this he loved, for he was always one
“For whom some pleasant service must be done,
“Or he was sullen.—He would come and play
“At his own time, and at his pleasure stay;
“But our kind parent soothed him as a boy
“Without a friend; she loved he should enjoy
“A day of ease, and strove to give his mind employ:
“She had but seldom the desired success,
“And therefore parting troubled her the less;
“Two years he there remain'd, then went his way,
“I think to school, and him I met to-day.

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“I heard his name, or he had pass'd unknown,
“And, without scruple, I divulged my own;
“His words were civil, but not much express'd,
“‘Yes! he had heard I was my Brother's guest;’
“Then would explain what was not plain to me,
“Why he could not a social neighbour be:
“He envied you, he said, your quiet life,
“And me a loving and contented wife;
“You, as unfetter'd by domestic bond,
“Me, as a husband and a father fond:
“I was about to speak, when to the right
“The road then turn'd, and, lo! his house in sight.

“‘Adieu!’ he said, nor gave a word or sign
“Of invitation—‘Yonder house is mine;
“‘Your Brother's I prefer, if I might choose—
“‘But, my dear Sir, you have no time to lose.’

“Say, is he poor? or has he fits of spleen?
“Or is he melancholy, moped, or mean?
“So cold, so distant—I bestow'd some pains
“Upon the fever in my Irish veins.”

“Well, Richard, let your native wrath be tamed
“The man has half the evils you have named
“He is not poor, indeed, nor is he free
“From all the gloom and care of poverty.”

“But is he married?”—“Hush! the bell, my friend;
“That business done, we will to this attend;

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“And, o'er our wine engaged, and at our ease,
“We may discourse of Belwood's miseries;
“Not that his sufferings please me: no, indeed;
“But I from such am happy to be freed.”

Their speech, of course, to this misfortune led,
A weak young man improvidently wed.
“Weak,” answer'd Richard; “but we do him wrong
“To say that his affection was not strong.”

“That we may doubt,” said George; “in men so weak
“You may in vain the strong affections seek;
“They have strong appetites; a fool will eat
“As long as food is to his palate sweet;
“His rule is not what sober nature needs,
“But what the palate covets as he feeds;
“He has the passions, anger, envy, fear,
“As storm is angry, and as frost severe;
“Uncheck'd, he still retains what nature gave,
“And has what creatures of the forest have.

“Weak boys, indulged by parents just as weak,
“Will with much force of their affection speak;
“But let mamma th' accustom'd sweets withhold,
“And the fond boys grow insolent and cold.

“Weak men profess to love, and while untried
“May woo with warmth, and grieve to be denied,
“But this is selfish ardour,—all the zeal
“Of their pursuit is from the wish they feel

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“For self-indulgence.—When do they deny
“Themselves? and when the favourite object fly?
“Or, for that object's sake, with her requests comply?
“Their sickly love is fed with hopes of joy,
“Repulses damp it, and delays destroy;
“Love, that to virtuous acts will some excite,
“In others but provokes an appetite;
“In better minds, when love possession takes
“And meets with peril, he the reason shakes;
“But these weak natures, when they love profess,
“Never regard their small concerns the less.

“That true and genuine love has Quixote-flights
“May be allow'd—in vision it delights;
“But in its loftiest flight, its wildest dream,
“Has something in it that commands esteem;
“But this poor love to no such region soars,
“But, Sancho-like, its selfish loss deplores;
“Of its own merit and its service speaks,
“And full reward for all its duty seeks.”

—“When a rich boy, with all the pride of youth,
“Weds a poor beauty, will you doubt his truth?
“Such love is tried—it indiscreet may be,
“But must be generous.”—

“That I do not see;
“Just at this time the balance of the mind
“Is this or that way by the weights inclined;
“In this scale beauty, wealth in that abides,
“In dubious balance, till the last subsides;

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“Things are not poised in just the equal state,
“That the ass stands stock-still in the debate;
“Though when deciding he may slowly pass
“And long for both—the nature of the ass;
“'Tis but an impulse that he must obey
“When he resigns one bundle of the hay.”

Take your friend Belwood, whom his guardians sent
To Doctor Sidmere—full of dread he went;
Doctor they call'd him—he was not of us,
And where he was, we need not now discuss:
He kept a school, he had a daughter fair,
He said, as angels,—say, as women are.

Clara, this beauty, had a figure light,
Her face was handsome, and her eyes were bright;
Her voice was music, not by anger raised;
And sweet her dimple, either pleased or praised;
All round the village was her fame allow'd,
She was its pride, and not a little proud.

The ruling thought that sway'd her father's mind
Was this—I am for dignity design'd:
Riches he rather as a mean approved,
Yet sought them early, and in seeking loved;
For this he early made the marriage vow,
But fail'd to gain—I recollect not how;

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For this his lady had his wrath incurr'd,
But that her feelings seldom could be stirr'd;
To his fair daughter, famed as well as fair,
He look'd, and found his consolation there.

The Doctor taught of youth some half a score,
Well-born and wealthy—He would take no more;
His wife, when peevish, told him, “Yes! and glad”—
It might be so—no more were to be had:
Belwood, it seems, for college was design'd,
But for more study he was not inclined:
He thought of labouring there with much dismay,
And motives mix'd here urged the long delay.
He now on manhood verged, at least began
To talk as he supposed became a man.

Whether he chose the college or the school
“Was his own act, and that should no man rule;
‘He had his reasons for the step he took,
“Did they suppose he stay'd to read his book?”

Hopeless, the Doctor said, “This boy is one
“With whom I fear there's nothing to be done.”
His wife replied, who more had guess'd or knew,
“You only mean there's nothing he can do;
“Ev'n there you err, unless you mean indeed
“That the poor lad can neither think nor read.”

—“What credit can I by such dunce obtain?”—
“Credit? I know not—you may something gain;
“'Tis true he has no passion for his books,
“But none can closer study Clara's looks;

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“And who controls him? now his father's gone,
“There's not a creature cares about the son.
“If he be brought to ask your daughter's hand,
“All that he has will be at her command;
“And who is she? and whom does she obey?
“Where is the wrong, and what the danger, pray?
“Becoming guide to one who guidance needs
“Is merit surely.—If the thing succeeds,
“Cannot you always keep him at your side,
“And be his honour'd guardian and his guide?
“And cannot I my pretty Clara rule?
“Is not this better than a noisy school?”

The Doctor thought and mused, he felt and fear'd,
Wish'd it to be—then wish'd he had not heard;
But he was angry—that at least was right,
And gave him credit in his lady's sight;—
Then, milder grown, yet something still severe,
He said, “Consider, Madam, think and fear;”
But, ere they parted, softening to a smile,
“Farewell!” said he—“I'll think myself awhile.’

James and his Clara had, with many a pause
And many a doubt, infringed the Doctor's laws,
At first with terror, and with eyes turn'd round
On every side for fear they should be found:
In the long passage, and without the gate,
They met, and talk'd of love and his estate;
Sweet little notes, and full of hope, were laid
Where they were found by the attentive maid;
And these she answer'd kindly as she could,
But still ‘I dare not’ waited on ‘I would;’

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Her fears and wishes she in part confess'd,
Her thoughts and views she carefully suppress'd;
Her Jemmy said at length, “He did not heed
“His guardian's anger—What was he, indeed?
“A tradesman once, and had his fortune gain'd
“In that low way,—such anger he disdain'd—
“He loved her pretty looks, her eyes of blue,
“Her auburn-braid, and lips that shone like dew;
“And did she think her Jemmy stay'd at school
“To study Greek?—What! take him for a fool?
“Not he, by Jove! for what he had to seek
“He would in English ask her, not in Greek;
“Will you be be mine? are all your scruples gone?
“Then let's be off—I've that will take us on.”
'T was true; the clerk of an attorney there
Had found a Jew,—the Jew supplied the heir.

Yet had he fears—“My guardians may condemn
“The choice I make—but what is that to them?
“The more they strive my pleasure to restrain,
“The less they'll find they're likely to obtain;
“For when they work one to a proper cue,
“What they forbid one takes delight to do.”

Clara exulted—now the day would come
Belwood must take her in her carriage home;
“Then I shall hear what Envy will remark
“When I shall sport the ponies in the Park;
“When my friend Jane will meet me at the ball,
“And see me taken out the first of all;
“I see her looks when she beholds the men
“All crowd about me—she will simper then,

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“And cry with her affected air and voice,
“‘O! my sweet Clara, how do I rejoice
“‘At your good fortune!’—‘Thank you, dear,’ say I;
“‘But some there are that could for envy die.’”

Mamma look'd on with thoughts to these allied,
She felt the pleasure of reflected pride;
She should respect in Clara's honour find—
But she to Clara's secret thoughts was blind;
O! when we thus design we do but spread
Nets for our feet, and to our toils are led:
Those whom we think we rule their views attain,
And we partake the guilt without the gain.

The Doctor long had thought, till he became
A victim both to avarice and shame;
From his importance, every eye was placed
On his designs—How dreadful if disgraced!
“O! that unknown to him the pair had flown
“To that same Green, the project all their own!
“And should they now be guilty of the act,
“Am not I free from knowledge of the fact?
“Will they not, if they will?”—'T is thus we meet
The check of conscience, and our guide defeat.

This friend, this spy, this counsellor at rest,
More pleasing views were to the mind address'd.
The mischief done, he would be much displeased,
For weeks, nay, months, and slowly be appeased;—
Yet of this anger if they felt the dread,
Perhaps they dare not steal away to wed;

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And if on hints of mercy they should go,
He stood committed—it must not be so.

In this dilemma either horn was hard,—
Best to seem careless, then, and off one's guard;
And, lest their terror should their flight prevent.
His wife might argue—fathers will relent
On such occasions—and that she should share
The guilt and censure was her proper care.

“Suppose them wed,” said he, “and at my feet,
“I must exclaim that instant—Vile deceit!
“Then will my daughter, weeping, while they kneel,
“For its own Clara beg my heart may feel:
“At last, but slowly, I may all forgive,
“And their adviser and director live.”

When wishes only weak the heart surprise,
Heaven, in its mercy, the fond prayer denies;
But when our wishes are both base and weak,
Heaven, in its justice, gives us what we seek;
All pass'd that was expected, all prepared
To share the comfort—What the comfort shared?

The married pair, on their return, agreed
That they from school were now completely freed,
Were man and wife, and to their mansion now
Should boldly drive, and their intents avow:
The acting guardian in the mansion reign'd,
And, thither driving, they their will explain'd:
The man awhile discoursed in language high,
The ward was sullen, and made brief reply;

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Till, when he saw th' opposing strength decline,
He bravely utter'd—“Sir, the house is mine!”
And, like a lion, lash'd by self-rebuke,
His own defence he bravely undertook.

“Well! be it right or wrong, the thing is past;
“You cannot hinder what is tight and fast:
“The church has tied us; we are hither come
“To our own place, and you must make us room.”

The man reflected—“You deserve, I know,
“Foolish young man! what fortune will bestow:
“No punishment from me your actions need,
“Whose pains will shortly to your fault succeed.”

James was quite angry, wondering what was meant
By such expressions—Why should he repent?

New trial came.—The wife conceived it right
To see her parents;—“So,” he said, “she might,
“If she had any fancy for a jail,
“But upon him no creature should prevail;
“No! he would never be again the fool
“To go and starve, or study at a school!”

“O! but to see her parents!”—“Well! the sight
“Might give her pleasure—very like it might,
“And she might go; but to his house restored,
“He would not now be catechised and bored.”

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It was her duty;—“Well!” said he again,
“There you may go—and there you may remain!”

Already this?—Even so: he heard it said
How rash and heedless was the part he play'd;
For love of money in his spirit dwelt,
And there repentance was intensely felt:
His guardian told him he had bought a toy
At tenfold price, and bargain'd like a boy:
Angry at truth, and wrought to fierce disdain,
He swore his loss should be no woman's gain;
His table she might share, his name she must,
But if aught more—she gets it upon trust.

For a few weeks his pride her face display'd—
He then began to thwart her, and upbraid;
He grew imperious, insolent, and loud—
His blinded weakness made his folly proud;
He would be master,—she had no pretence
To counsel him, as if he wanted sense;
He must inform her, she already cost
More than her worth, and more should not be lost;
But still concluding, “If your will be so,
“That you must see the old ones, do it—go!”

Some weeks the Doctor waited, and the while
His lady preach'd in no consoling style:
At last she fear'd that rustic had convey'd
Their child to prison—yes, she was afraid,—
There to remain in that old hall alone
With the vile heads of stags, and floors of stone.

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“Why did you, sir, who know such things so well,
And teach us good, permit them to rebel?
Had you o'erawed and check'd them when in sight,
“They would not then have ventured upon flight—
“Had you ------”—“Out, serpent! did not you begin?
“What! introduce, and then upbraid the sin?
“For sin it is, as I too well perceive:
“But leave me, woman, to reflection leave;
“Then to your closet fly, and on your knees
“Beg for forgiveness for such sins as these.”

“A moody morning!” with a careless air
Replied the wife.—“Why counsel me to prayer?
“I think the lord and teacher of a school
“Should pray himself, and keep his temper cool.”

Calm grew the husband when the wife was gone—
“The game,” said he, “is never lost till won:
“'T is true, the rebels fly their proper home,
“They come not nigh, because they fear to come;
“And for my purpose fear will doubtless prove
“Of more importance and effect than love;—
“Suppose me there—suppose the carriage stops,
“Down on her knees my trembling daughter drops;
“Slowly I raise her, in my arms to fall,
“And call for mercy as she used to call;
“And shall that boy, who dreaded to appear
“Before me, cast away at once his fear?
“'T is not in nature! He who once would cower
“Beneath my frown, and sob for half an hour;

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“He who would kneel with motion prompt and quick
“If I but look'd—as dogs that do a trick;
“He still his knee-joints flexible must feel,
“And have a slavish promptitude to kneel;—
“Soon as he sees me he will drop his lip,
“And bend like one made ready for the whip:
“O! come, I trifle, let me haste away—
“What! throw it up, when I have cards to play?”

The Doctor went, a self-invited guest;
He met his pupil, and his frown repress'd,
For in those lowering looks he could discern
Resistance sullen and defiance stern;
Yet was it painful to put off his style
Of awful distance, and assume a smile:
So between these, the gracious and the grand,
Succeeded nothing that the Doctor plann'd.

The sullen youth, with some reviving dread
Bow'd and then hang'd disconsolate his head;
And, muttering welcome in a muffled tone,
Stalk'd cross the park to meditate alone,
Saying, or rather seeming to have said,
“Go! seek your daughter, and be there obey'd.”

He went.—The daughter her distresses told,
But found her father to her interests cold;
He kindness and complacency advised;
She answer'd, “These were sure to be despised;
“That of the love her husband once possess'd
“Not the least spark was living in his breast;

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“The boy repented, and grew savage soon;
“There never shone for her a honey-moon.
“Soon as he came, his cares all fix'd on one,
“Himself, and all his passion was a gun;
“And though he shot as he did all beside,
“It still remain'd his only joy and pride;
“He left her there,—she knew not where he went,—
“But knew full well he should the slight repent;
“She was not one his daily taunts to bear,
“He made the house a hell that he should share;
“For, till he gave her power herself to please,
“Never for him should be a moment's ease.”

“He loves you, child!” the softening father cried:
—“He loves himself, and not a soul beside;
“Loves me!—why, yes, and so he did the pears
“You caught him stealing—would he had the fears!
“Would you could make him tremble for his life,
“And then to you return the stolen wife,
“Richly endow'd—but, O! the idiot knows
“The worth of every penny he bestows.

“Were he but fool alone, I'd find a way
“To govern him, at least to have my day;
“Or were he only brute, I'd watch the hour,
“And make the brute-affection yield me power;
“But silly both and savage—O! my heart!
“It is too great a trial!—we must part.”
“Oblige the savage by some act!”—“The debt,
“You find, the fool will instantly forget;
“Oblige the fool with kindness or with praise,
“And you the passions of the savage raise.”

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“Time will do much.”—“Can time my name restore?”—
“Have patience, child.”—“I am a child no more,
“Nor more dependent; but, at woman's age,
“I feel that wrongs provoke me and enrage:
“Sir, could you bring me comfort, I were cool;
“But keep your counsel for your boys at school.”

The Doctor then departed.—Why remain
To hear complaints, who could himself complain,
Who felt his actions wrong, and knew his efforts vain?

The sullen youth, contending with his fate,
Began the darling of his heart to hate;
Her pretty looks, her auburn braid, her face,
All now remain'd the proofs of his disgrace;
While, more than hateful in his vixen's eyes,
He saw her comforts from his griefs arise;
Who felt a joy she strove not to conceal,
When their expenses made her miser feel.
War was perpetual: on a first attack
She gain'd advantage, he would turn his back;
And when her small shot whistled in his ears,
He felt a portion of his early fears;
But if he turn'd him in the battle's heat,
And fought in earnest, hers was then defeat;
His strength of oath and curse brought little harm,
But there was no resisting strength of arm.

Yet wearied both with war, and vex'd at heart,
The slaves of passion judged it best to part:
Long they debated, nor could fix a rate
For a man's peace with his contending mate;

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But mutual hatred, scorn, and fear, assign'd
That price—that peace it was not theirs to find.

The watchful husband lived in constant hope
To hear the wife had ventured to elope;
But though not virtuous, nor in much discreet,
He found her coldness would such views defeat;
And thus, by self-reproof and avarice scourged,
He wore the galling chains his folly forged.

The wife her pleasures, few and humble, sought,
And with anticipated stipend bought;
Without a home, at fashion's call she fled
To a hired lodging and a widow'd bed:
Husband and parents banish'd from her mind,
She seeks for pleasures that she cannot find;
And grieves that so much treachery was employ'd
To gain a man who has her peace destroy'd.

Yet more the grieving father feels distress,
His error greater, and his motives less;
He finds too late, by stooping to deceit,
It is ourselves, and not the world we cheat;
For, though we blind it, yet we can but feel
That we have something evil to conceal;
Nor can we by our utmost care be sure
That we can hide the sufferings we endure.