University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER II. CHILDHOOD.

But here such caution was not known,
Nor was this wise attention known:
Sir William Graceful's little Heir
Receiv'd a diff'rent kind of care.
He was a lively, blooming boy,
The Father's pride, the Mother's joy:
Th'extreme of fondness did impart
Its power to the parental heart:
The eye its highest pleasure knew
As he in strength and beauty grew;
No music was so sweet to hear,
As when his voice address'd the ear;
And ev'ry other sense gave place,
When he return'd the fond embrace.
He form'd the morn's awak'ning care,
And fill'd the Ev'ning's ardent prayer.
Doting upon the cherub grace
That play'd around his rosy face;
No words e'er bore the chiding tone
That might becloud it with a frown;
And each indulgence did appear
To grant the wish or check the tear.
Thus he became a froward child—
Humour'd, and scarce half-taught, and spoil'd.
—He look'd so happy, when his Kite
Sprung in the air and gain'd its height;
So full of harmony the squall
When the Bat drove the flying Ball;
Of graceful motion what a treat
When the Rope pass'd beneath his feet;
What a young Hero did appear
When his Drum deafened ev'ry ear;
And no one dare for silence sue
When he the tuneless whistle blew.
—In short, it was a sin to teaze him,
Or to do aught that might displease him;
Nor could Mamma support the look
When he was ask'd about his book.
—But as 'twas fitting he should know
His Primmer, and the Chris-cross Row,
To an old Dame he was consign'd
As Alma Mater of his mind.
Near sixty years were gone and o'er,
Since, she an Orphan girl and poor,
First pass'd the stately Mansion's door.
In ev'ry duty little Sue
Did all that she was bid to do.
In Kitchen, Laundry, Dairy she
Wore the blithe form of Industry:
Did through her daily work rejoice,
And chirrup with a chearful voice:
She too could spin, and knit, and sew,
And Village Scholarship she knew.
—The Pet of Kitchen, Parlour, Hall,
Thus little Sue was loved by all;
And many a chuck, beneath the chin,
Did the young Maid's affections win:
For she possess'd, devoid of art,
The feelings of a grateful heart.
—Of all the birds she was the guard,
And govern'd the whole poultry yard:
But she would sigh, when call'd, 'tis said,
To pick the chickens she had fed:
For many a tale or false or true,
Brought up a laugh 'gainst little Sue,
—When her young Misses sought the plain
To form a sprightly, sportive train,
She was call'd forth to join the play,
And cheer it with a rustic lay.
—She had a weighty charge, I ween,
To keep my Lady's lap-dog clean;
For none but her dare comb a lock,
Or wash the silky coat of Shock.
—When sorrow, or disease, or pain
Did 'mong the neighb'ring poor complain,
The little Almoner was seen
Tripping, in haste, across the Green;
To learn what might the history be
That ask'd her Lady's charity;
Whose feeling heart ne'er fail'd to grant
What ev'ry kind of woe might want;
And all agreed that little Sue
Wish'd to have nothing else to do.
My Lady's pitying Angel she
Was nam'd by all the peasantry;
For she had been, at Sorrow's call,
A welcome Messenger to all.
—At length a comely woman grown
She was as Mrs. Susan known,
And now became th'attendant maid
Of those with whom she oft had play'd.
Still treated as an humble friend,
She did the Toilette's cares attend.
Susan, in all she had to do,
Was pleasing as in Little Sue.
—She now learn'd those mysterious arts
Which Fashion plies to conquer hearts:
She could arrange, in contrast due,
Each varying colour to the view;
And had attain'd the skill to place
The Ribbon, with superior grace,
To deck the Hat—t'adorn the Bonnet,
And fix the waving Plume upon it:
The Flounce's flow, its depth, its border,
And all the artful, gay disorder
Which studious Milliners possess,
To scatter Taste o'er female dress.
The Gardener, struck with Susan's charms,
Had sometime woo'd her to his arms,
Nor woo'd in vain, for Cupid's dart
Had, also, pierc'd the Maiden's heart;
But still a sense of duty strove
Nor strove in vain to guide her Love
For her dear Lady must command,
Before she gave her willing hand.
Now Mrs. Woodbine, she was seen,
Still with kind look, but graver mien,
In higher post, advanc'd, to bear
Th'important sway of household care.
Though with due thought and watchful eye
She did her various duties ply,
The Household Mistress ne'er forgot
What once had been her humble lot;
And oft her mem'ry did review
The time when she was Little Sue;
Happy that then she was approv'd:
But now respected, and belov'd.
—Thus Time mov'd on, nor did she know
The sense of pain, or throb of woe,
But when Death, by his stern decree,
Bore off some branch of that old tree,
Beneath whose shade, through every stage,
Her years roll'd on from youth to age.
Or when the Hatchment's dismal form
Shone in the Sun, or bore the storm;
As o'er the Mansion's high-wrought door
It told some valued Life was o'er.
—So long had she an inmate been,
'Twas the third race that she had seen:
Grown old, and now a widow too,
She was indulg'd, and left to do
Whatever might her humour please,
And pass her time in aged ease.
—To her instruction was consign'd
The little Pupil's op'ning mind;
And, seated in her elbow chair,
She did that op'ning mind prepare
For some grave Tutor's future care.
But no harsh words were ever spoke,
No threat, but blended with a joke:
For Mamma's fondness had forbid
That Darling Harry should be chid.
So Cakes and Sweetmeats were prepar'd
His humour'd progress to reward.
—Still, though with this indulgence rear'd
Granny he, somehow lov'd and fear'd;
For by that fond, familiar name,
The Child had always call'd the Dame.
'Tis a hard task, the Matron said,
And then she shook her hoary head;
But I'll the very way pursue,
Which I was taught when Little Sue,
By the old Dame, Heav'n rest her soul,
The Mistress of the Village School.
For forty years, on yonder Green,
Her straw-roof'd, decent Cot was seen;
The little Grove, and hawthorn Bower,
Her Garden gay with fruit and flower,
The scene of Spring and Summer hour;
And when the wintry season came,
The hearth was bright with cheering flame.
There wisdom sat, in smiles array'd,
For terror ne'er her power display'd:
A chair, that once e'en wealth might own,
Was chang'd to humble Learning's throne:
A widow's placid form she wore,
No marks of age as yet she bore,
But still a kind of solemn grace
Spread its grave mantle o'er her face:
The relict she of holy man
Who soon his earthly circuit ran:
He had no more than Parish Cure,
And poor himself, he left her poor.
With more than village learning fraught,
The Widow now the children taught
Of those, who every Sabbath heard
From the good man the eternal word,
Which to his flock he did dispense
With Apostolic eloquence.
Nor did she dwell on sounds alone—
More than mere letter'd words were shown;
And while their structure was explain'd
She taught the doctrines they contain'd;
And many a faithful hist'ry told
From Holy Book, or volumes old,
The fond instruction to unfold.
The cushion, on the table plac'd,
Which whilom had a pulpit grac'd,
Was by the sacred volume press'd,
In which the weary look for rest;
Where, for all ills our minds endure,
The page holds forth the promis'd cure;
And tells, in all that mortals share,
The good are Heaven's peculiar care;
While it unveils to mental eye
The joys of Immortality.
Whether the Peasant urchin sought
Whate'er the cottage learning taught,
Or the young Sempstress dar'd to try
The path of future Industry,
And point the needle doom'd to lead,
In its due course, th'obedient thread;
Or when the flax the swift wheel wound,
With hurrying haste and whirring sound,
The attentive Dame, with cheering smile
And kind words, would the toil beguile.
Nay, if some blunder should be seen,
Or here or there to intervene,
No angry chidings would appear,
In the young heart, to cause a fear.
No rod was shewn, no lifted hand
Gave terror to a stern command:
But the remonstrance of a friend,
With better caution to attend;
To mark the error, and prepare
The mind for an improving care.
In all she said, in all she did,
What was ordain'd or what forbid,
The little List'ners understood
The only happy were the good:
That whatsoe'er the Mistress taught
Was with their future welfare fraught.
The sole degree of her regard
Was more or less of the reward
From Learning's trees—for such the name
Which had been given, by the Dame,
To those that in her garden grew:
The cherry red, the plumb so blue,
The various apple and the pear
Were duly seen to flourish there;
And branchy bushes did expand
Their fruitage ready to the hand:
From every loaded, bending bough
Fair Knowledge might be said to flow.
There, at the close of Summer day,
Learning receiv'd its constant pay;
While Winter shew'd to eager eyes
The hoarded pippin for a prize,
And the slic'd pudding was decreed
For well-done toil the sugar'd meed.
Thus in the School-Dame's humble hall
Justice dispens'd their claims to all.
—When Joy danc'd through the vacant hours,
And carroll'd gay bedeck'd with flowers,
She would attend their sports to see,
And guide the harmless revelry;
While she unbent in wishes kind
The warm affections of her mind:—
“O may you, when I'm turn'd to clay,
“Be happy as you are to day!
“I sigh,—but still, Heaven grant you may!”
She did her daily task prepare
With pious words and solemn prayer;
And caus'd each little sprite to join
Its hands to ask the power divine,
In simple terms, well understood,
For blessings that await the good;—
And all those virtues to bestow
Which make men good, and keep them so.
—Thus she with anxious care impress'd
Those feelings in each infant breast
Which though, amid the various strife,
The Cares and Fooleries of Life,
They may, for certain time, give way,
When madd'ning error leads astray,
Will still a secret influence hold,
And bring the lost sheep to the fold.
I've ne'er forgot, from Youth to Age,
The Lessons of the Matron Sage;
Her deep-sown truths, I still avow;
I felt them then—I feel them now.
I felt them when but Little Sue,—
And now, grown old, I find them true.
—I know that old John Ravelin says,
When in the midst of wicked ways,
He oft was check'd, if he but thought
Of what his good, old Mistress taught:—
If sick with wounds gain'd in the wars,
Of which he now can show the scars,
He real comfort felt, whene'er
He whisper'd forth the Cottage prayer.
Brave John, now pension'd and retir'd,
When, with his former valour fir'd,
He tells of England's fame and glory,
Oaths oft are heard to deck the story;
But if, by chance, the spot he sees
Where the Cot stood among the trees,
The blasphemy's no more preferr'd
But sinks into some pious word:
He seems to see, as if in air,
The Cot, and his old Mistress there.
He has far distant regions sought,
And many a bloody battle fought;
Has sail'd the stormy Ocean o'er,
And travers'd India's sultry shore;
Yet still he owns, in Life's last stage,
Th'instructions of his Boyish Age,
When tutor'd by the Matron sage.
But the good Dame has long been dead,
And all that sacred scene is fled:
Gone is the Hawthorn bower and wood,
And Corn grows where the Cottage stood.
But her example shall survive
While Granny Woodbine's doom'd to live;
Yes, her example shall inspire
My teaching of the Little 'Squire;
And, 'spite of all his humour'd tricks,
I trust, in Heaven, that I shall fix
In his young mind th'unerring rules,
Not always taught in higher schools,
That certain sense of right and wrong,
Which kneaded in a mind so young,
With all the Hopes Religion gives,
And Fears which thence the heart receives:
Hopes that enchant the early view,
But while they please, exalt it too;
And Fears call'd forth, whene'er we err,
Not to affright but to deter,—
Such hopes, such fears when once combin'd
With the first feelings of the mind;
Though by the gales of passion tost,
Though, for a time, o'erwhelm'd and lost;
Or laid asleep amid the strife,
And opiate Joys of sensual Life;
When Reason doth regain its throne,
And the mind dares its follies own;
Or when Misfortune's wak'ning power
Compels the sad, reflective hour,
Unless, by desp'rate vices chang'd,
The mind from Virtue's quite estrang'd,
Again returns the Love of Truth
Which gave a grace to early Youth;
Again is cherish'd every thought
Which the first fond Instructress taught.
Thus did old Granny sit and trace
The scenes, long past in time and place,
And fram'd with recollective power
Th'instruction for the present hour.
'Twas now the important task began,
The embryo of the future man.
Kind Nature had, with fond regard,
And bounteous hand the work prepar'd;
The soil was rich and promis'd fair
A plenteous crop of Fruit to bear.
But 'twas of such luxuriant power
That the weed sprung beside the flower.
The quick conception was at hand
Th'expounded word to understand,
And the prompt question would apply,
With playful act and quicken'd eye,
While Granny would, in tones of Joy,
Exclaim—“Heaven bless the clever Boy.”
But if impatience should prevail,
She had the pleasant, soothing tale:
The Bat, the Ball, the Kite were shewn,
But then the Lesson must be done.
“Soon as the well-said task is o'er
“The long-tail'd Poney at the door
“Shall then appear, with John to guide
“My Henry in his pleasant ride;
“And when the words are put together
“His Hat shall have the yellow Feather.
“If in your morning's work you shine,
“You shall with your old Granny dine:
“When you will find her courteous board
“With many a Tart and Custard stor'd;
“While Plumb and Peach, and Nect'rine sweet
“Will furnish out the tempting treat.”
Thus Learning went on, hand in hand,
With fair rewards and mild command;
And the Instructress had the skill
When the Boy was dispos'd to ill,
To turn and twist him to her will.
When he was in a fractious mood,
She conquer'd—for his heart was good.
If she but said, “Pray, Sir, do right—
“Or Granny will not sleep to-night:—
“My head aches—I can scarce endure it:
“But if you read your Book, you'll cure it.”
His temper then would cease to riot,
And Learning would go on in quiet.
—She seldom put on solemn look
But when she op'd the sacred book,
Whose holy hist'ries she would tell,
And on his mind impress them well.
Their pictures she would oft unfold
That to his view their story told:
Thus he was tutor'd to explain
Whate'er their subjects might contain;
And his pleas'd Fancy, through the eye,
Subserv'd to early piety:—
For, taught in Reason's simple School,
She felt the known Horatian rule
That stronger influence will appear
From what we see, than what we hear .
From Paradise, and Adam's fall,
To the converting hour of Paul,
He quickly learn'd to tell them all.
And Joseph's Hist'ry 'twas a treat,
To hear his tuneful tongue repeat:
While, with a kind of Critic power,
The print his fingers would explore,
And from the graven forms unfold
The Story which the volume told.
He then would mark the wretched fate
That did upon the wicked wait;
And joy would string his eager tongue,
When right prevail'd o'er treach'rous wrong:
But tears his rosy cheeks bedew'd
If foul mishap befell the good,
Though smiles return'd when, sorrow past,
He found that they were blest at last:
While the Dame never fail'd to tell
The Happiness of acting well.
—Such was the task to her assign'd,
And thus she taught his Infant mind.
Now full two years were past and gone,
And Granny thought her work was done.
Exhausted was her village Lore:—
'Twas time He should know something more,
She oft would say—for such a mind
So form'd, to Learning so inclin'd,
Howe'er instructed and improv'd,
From female care should be remov'd;
Should that Instruction now receive
Which learned men alone can give.
She did her wish no sooner name,
Than Doctor Gravely, known to fame,
As an Instructor, skill'd and sage,
Came daily from his Vicarage,
And undertook the important care
To rear this well-born, wealthy Heir.
Learned he was in all the knowledge
Acquir'd in early years at College:
That was his boast, nor aught beside,
Did he e'er feel as food for pride.
“I'm a poor Vicar, and no more,”
He would exclaim; “but still a store
“Of Classic Knowledge, gain'd by toil
“That oft consum'd the midnight oil
“Is treasur'd up within my brain
“Which seldom mitred men obtain:
“With the most learned I would try
“My strength, nor fear the victory.
“Each Classic page, I read with ease,
“Homer and Aristophanes:
“I am as much,” he'd say, “at home,
“With every Sage of Greece or Rome,
“As in the Psalms, or said or sung,
“Translated in my native tongue.
“Hence, I protest, I envy not
“The purse-proud Loon, the wealthy Sot:
“Conscious that to me is given
“The true Nobility of Heaven.
“Kings may make Lords, but well I scan
“They cannot make a learned man.
“By Trade, the humblest means, we know,
“Do oft into profusion grow.
“Now I am, what nor Kings, nor Trade
“Have e'er by power or fortune made.
“I scarce can tell how I detest
“The man who is with Genius blest:
“To whom, O happy lot, is given
“The first and noblest boon of Heaven
“When he is seen to condescend,
“For sordid views, his mind to bend,
“To flatter fools, for golden shower,
“Or cringe to stately rogues in power.
“—Genius, that in every state
“Can make the man who has it great;
“If it be great to take the lead
“In just and honourable deed:
“'Midst all its various cares and strife,
“Genius that can enliven Life;
“That, in fair Fortune's bounteous feast,
“Gives Joy a more delicious taste;
“That, join'd with goodness, may defy
“The world's most stern calamity,
“And duly mix'd with that pure ore,
“Makes mortal virtue something more.
“O Genius, all these powers are thine,
“And well I know that thou art mine!
“—Respect should seek the good and wise
“Where'er their varying fortune lies;
“Whate'er their riches or degree,
“How proud soe'er their pedigree,
“Or though they should be poor as me.”
—Thus to himself he oft would talk
'Neath hedge-row elms, in evening walk;
Or when his neighbours did convene
At social Club or Bowling-Green;—
Nor was a doubting thought preferr'd
To what had been so often heard.
Long it had been his fate to rule
In Market-town a Grammar School,
And many a scholar he had rear'd
Who in the world with fame appear'd:
An humble Vicarage at last
Repaid him for his labours past.
His manners had but little grace:
On his hard-featur'd, wrinkled face,
A smile was seldom seen to play,
Nor soften'd look that did betray
The milder feelings of the heart;
No kind advance that would impart
Of warm regard the fond return,
But frowning look, and visage stern;
For all about him did imply
The form and soul of Pedantry:
But still with Learning he combin'd
The power that could command the mind;
Could, with such skill instruction give
That Dullness' self would e'en receive
The clear, elucidated thought
By his resistless science taught.
He differed much from Granny's rule
Which she had learn'd in Village School.
When he sat in dogmatic chair,
No Bribes his Justice did prepare,
But the alarming rod was seen
The token of his discipline.
The conscious sense of what they knew,
The high attainments that they drew
From the pure founts of ancient Lore,
The anxious ardour to explore
The fields of Knowledge, and to show
The flowers that on Parnassus grow;—
This was the pride his Scholars shar'd,
And such alone was their reward;
With the fond hope of well-earn'd praise,
To brighten Life in future days.
Poor Granny was struck dumb with awe,
When first the Tutor grim she saw,
And heard his clear and nervous sense,
Display'd in solemn eloquence,
When, in firm tone, He told his plan,
To turn her Boy into a Man;—
While frighten'd Harry strove to squeeze
His trembling form 'twixt Granny's knees.
—She was alarm'd, for well she knew
This surly teaching would not do:
But the grave Doctor would not yield;
And seem'd resolv'd to keep the field.
Doctor.
“You've had your way, and I'll have mine;
“Your cakes I'll turn to discipline;
“For, be assur'd, the Boy I'll make
“Learning pursue, for Learning's sake.
“Oh, let him sing, and dance, and play;
“Indulge him,—but when I'm away;
“For if I give the task to-day,
“I shall expect it done to-morrow,
“Or he and I shall meet in sorrow.”

Granny.
“Don't make him cry—or Lady Grace
“Will put on such a rueful face:
“'Twere better she with smiles should meet you,
“And not with solemn chidings greet you;
“For, my good Doctor, much I fear
“Things will go wrong, if you're severe.
“Begin, at least, with accents mild;
“At first, you may indulge the child:
“It were as well, that's if you please,
“To practice rigour by degrees.”

Doctor.
“I mind not Mother's whims, not I,
“Though Mother and the Boy should cry:
“He's six years old, and ought to know
“That all his happiness or woe
“Depend, as he will one day find,
“Upon the structure of his mind.
“I'll not relax—no supple tool
“To please Mamma, and play the fool;
“And if my well-weigh'd mode don't suit her,
“E'en let her find another Tutor.
“—I am well paid—a generous heart
“Beyond my hopes has done its part;
“But, if I never did deny
“The Teacher's toilsome Industry,
“When meagre Charity alone
“Repaid me for my Labour done;
“My present duty has a claim
“To my endeavour's highest aim,
“When this dear, darling child and heir
“Of Wealth and Title, is my care.
“—If I have ever strove to wrest
“Its evils from the poor Boy's breast;
“If I by force have planted good,
“In characters of humble brood;
“If I have never spar'd the rod
“For him whose Father till'd the sod;
“If I have made his sloth to feel
“Whose Mother turn'd the spinning-wheel;
“I must betray sage Learning's trust,
“And cease to think of what is just,
“If I a sense of Duty smother,
“And spoil a child to please its mother;
“Or let him share the Dunce's fate,
“Because he's born to proud estate.
“My good, old Lady, it is true,
“The plan that I now have in view,
“And which I shall, in truth, pursue,
“May not at first so pleasing be
“As one mixt up with Flattery,
“With sugar'd promises to please,
“Or fretful temper to appease.
“I shall not teach the humour'd Boy
“To play with Learning as a toy:
“With me his Book he soon must find
“A pastime only for the mind;
“And strict obedience must declare
“That he is worthy of my care.
“Beyond his strength I shall not try,
“Nor tempt his half-fledg'd wings to fly:
“I first shall study him—and he
“Shall then be taught to study me.
“Whene'er he trifles, I shall blame,
“And strive to wake a sense of shame;—
“Though, when he's good, with praise I'll cheer,
“Such as he is not us'd to hear.
“But if, when I hold tight the rein,
“The wayward Urchin should complain;
“If to Mamma with plaintive cry
“He sobs forth my severity;
“And Mamma should begin to preach—
“Should tell me how I ought to teach,
“All future trouble I shall spare,
“And leave him to some other care.”

Granny, who thought that much good sense
Prevail'd in his rough eloquence;
And conscious it would be in vain
To reason with him, or complain;
Most wisely finish'd the debate,
And left the bus'ness to its fate.
—For right or wrong, it was agreed,
And honour had confirm'd the deed;
My Lady and Sir William, both
Had form'd the purpose, nothing loth,
That she alone the reins should hold,
Till Harry was full ten years old;
And then this hopeful Child and Heir
Was to become the Father's care.
—Thus Granny had to play a game
Between the Doctor and the Dame.
She let the Tutor have his way;
She brib'd the Pupil to obey;
And did a cunning scheme pursue,
By which she brib'd the Doctor too:
For she found out, with keen discerning,
That next to his high pride of Learning;
Next to the feeding of his brain,
He did more secretly maintain
'Twas good his appetite to treat
With what was nice to drink and eat;
And though no gormandising sinner,
He would leave Horace for a dinner.
Thus, sitting in her elbow chair,
She watch'd, with penetrating care
The daily task, and thus deferr'd
The angry look, and threat'ning word:
For when the Doctor 'gan to frown,
And marks of discontent were shown,
She instantly would ring the bell
And bid th'attending maid, to tell
The Footman to bring in the tray,
As it was Luncheon time of Day.
By ready order of the Dame
The Soup and the cold Chicken came;
White wine and red and foaming ale
Combin'd to furnish the regale;
And thus good-humour was restor'd,
As he enjoy'd the welcome board.
But while he play'd with knife and fork
He did not cease th'instructive work;
For as he drank, and as he eat,
He taught, as if a Classic treat,
The Latin names for every dish,
For Fowl, for Pastry, and for Fish;
Sparta's black Messes he defin'd,
And how the Greeks and Romans din'd.
The Doctor, who perceiv'd the drift
Of this Contrivance, gave a lift
To a design that did invite
Th'indulgence of his appetite;
For soon as e'er he felt it crave
At first he look'd a little grave;
But growing hungry, he grew sour,
Which soon advanc'd the Luncheon hour.
—Nor was it seldom he was sought
To take a Dinner where he taught;
And at Sir William's splendid board,
He eat and drank like any Lord;
Where he was rather prone to flatter
In classic terms, and pompous chatter.
Thus entertain'd his words grew mild;
Nay, He would often praise the child;
While Harry, finding calmer days,
Strove wisely to deserve the praise;—
And Granny loll'd in easy chair,
Without a fear, without a care.
At length th'expected time was told,
When the young Heir was ten years old;
And now, as it had been agreed,
A Father's rightful claims succeed,
And, freed from his domestic rule
The Boy was sent to Public School.
—The Doctor, though with cause to grieve,
Approv'd the plan and took his leave;
But while 'twas plain he inward sigh'd,
He wore the air of Classic pride.
Thus did he close his last address,
And thus he did his Pupil bless.
“Heaven guide you, and may Learning's ray
“Direct you in your destin'd way!
“By my Instruction you're prepar'd
“For Classic Honour's best reward.
“Whatever, dignity or Fame
“Adorn your future Master's name,
“Fear not, whate'er that name may be,
“To tell him—You've been taught by me.”