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The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe

with his letters and journals, and his life, by his son. In eight volumes

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III, IV, V. VOL. III., VOL. IV., VOL. V.


1

THE BOROUGH.

PAULO MAJORA CANAMUS.
Virgil.


13

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, MARQUIS OF GRANBY; RECORDER OF CAMBRIDGE AND SCARBOROUGH; LORD LIEUTENANT AND CUSTOS ROTULORUM OF THE COUNTY OF LEICESTER; K. G. AND LL. D.

15

LETTER I. GENERAL DESCRIPTION.

These did the ruler of the deep ordain,
To build proud navies, and to rule the main.
Pope's Homer's Iliad, b. vi.

Such scenes has Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich.
Pope's Imitation of Spenser.

------ Et cum cœlestibus undis
Æquoreæ miscentur aquæ: caret ignibus æther,
Cæcaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque;
Discutient tamen has, præbentque micantia lumen
Fulmina: fulmineis ardescunt ignibus undæ.
Ovid. Metamorph. lib.


16

The Difficulty of describing Town Scenery—A Comparison with certain Views in the Country—The River and Quay —The Shipping and Business—Ship-Building—Sea-Boys and Port-Views—Village and Town Scenery again compared —Walks from Town—Cottage and adjoining Heath, &c.—House of Sunday Entertainment—The Sea: a Summer and Winter View—A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects on Shore—Evening Amusements in the Borough —An Apology for the imperfect View which can be given of these Subjects.


17

Describe the Borough”—though our idle tribe
May love description, can we so describe,
That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,
And all that gives distinction to a place?
This cannot be; yet, moved by your request,
A part I paint—let Fancy form the rest.
Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,
Require the pencil; they defy the pen:
Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet,
So well have sung of alley, lane, or street?
Can measured lines these various buildings show,
The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?
Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,
And lengthen out my lays from door to door?
Then let thy Fancy aid me—I repair
From this tall mansion of our last-year's Mayor,

18

Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach,
And these half-buried buildings next the beach;
Where hang at open doors the net and cork,
While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work;
Till comes the hour, when fishing through the tide
The weary husband throws his freight aside;
A living mass, which now demands the wife,
Th' alternate labours of their humble life.
Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood,
Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood?
Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look,
As it steals by, upon the bordering brook;
That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow,
Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow;
Where in the midst, upon her throne of green,
Sits the large Lily as the water's queen;
And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,
Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;
Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream,
And our broad river will before thee seem.
With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide,
Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;

19

Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep
It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep;
Here Samphire-banks and Salt-wort bound the flood,
There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud;
And higher up, a ridge of all things base,
Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place.
Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat,
Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat;
While at her stern an angler takes his stand,
And marks the fish he purposes to land;
From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray
Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.
Far other craft our prouder river shows,
Hoys, pinks and sloops; brigs, brigantines and snows:
Nor angler we on our wide stream descry,
But one poor dredger where his oysters lie:
He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide,
Beats his weak arms against his tarry side,
Then drains the remnant of diluted gin,
To aid the warmth that languishes within;
Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat
His tingling fingers into gathering heat.

20

He shall again be seen when evening comes,
And social parties crowd their favourite rooms:
Where on the table pipes and papers lie,
The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by;
'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around,
They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound;
And few themselves the savoury boon deny,
The food that feeds, the living luxury.
Yon is our Quay! those smaller hoys from town,
Its various ware, for country-use, bring down;
Those laden waggons, in return, impart
The country-produce to the city mart;
Hark! to the clamour in that miry road,
Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load;
The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,
Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case:
While the loud seaman and the angry hind,
Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.
Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,
Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:
See! the long keel, which soon the waves must hide;
See! the strong ribs which form the roomy side;
Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,
And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.

21

Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far
Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.
Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd,
Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;
Or in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,
And grow familiar with the watery way:
Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are,
They know what British seamen do and dare;
Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy
The rustic wonder of the village-boy.
Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,
Behold the wealth that lies in public view,
Those far-extended heaps of coal and coke,
Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke.
This shall pass off, and you behold, instead,
The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed;
When from the Light-house brighter beams will rise,
To show the shipman where the shallow lies.
Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene
Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene—
Rich—is that varied view with woods around,
Seen from the seat, within the shrubb'ry bound;
Where shines the distant lake, and where appear
From ruins bolting, unmolested deer;
Lively—the village-green, the inn, the place,
Where the good widow schools her infant-race.
Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw,
And village-pleasures unreproved by law.

22

Then how serene! when in your favourite room,
Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom;
When from your upland paddock you look down,
And just perceive the smoke which hides the town;
When weary peasants at the close of day
Walk to their cots, and part upon the way;
When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook,
And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook.
We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees,
And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease,
On the wide heath, or in the flow'ry vale,
We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale;
Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile,
And sewers from streets, the road-side banks defile;
Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,
Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow;
Fences are form'd of wreck and placed around,
(With tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound;
Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run,
And there in ambush lie the trap and gun;
Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize,
“Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies.”

23

There stands a cottage with an open door,
Its garden undefended blooms before:
Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool,
While the lone Widow seeks the neighb'ring pool:
This gives us hope, all views of town to shun—
No! here are tokens of the Sailor-son;
That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check,
And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck;
Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore,
And furry robe from frozen Labrador.
Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,
Fen, marshes, bog and heath all intervene;
Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,
To some enrich th' uncultivated space:
For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush,
The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush
Whose velvet leaf with radiant beauty dress'd,
Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.
Not distant far, a house commodious made,
(Lonely yet public stands) for Sunday-trade;
Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,
Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous;
There humble couples sit in corner-bowers,
Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours;
Sailors and lasses from the town attend,
The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend;
With all the idle social tribes who seek
And find their humble pleasures once a week.
Turn to the watery world!—but who to thee
(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint—the Sea?

24

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,
When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms,
Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun
Shades after shades upon the surface run;
Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,
In limpid blue, and evanescent green;
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,
Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.
Be it the Summer-noon: a sandy space
The ebbing tide has left upon its place;
Then just the hot and stony beach above,
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move;
(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends)—

25

Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and slow.
Ships in the calm seem anchor'd; for they glide
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide:
Art thou not present, this calm scene before,
Where all beside is pebbly length of shore,
And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more?
Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make
The quiet surface of the ocean shake;
As an awaken'd giant with a frown
Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down.
View now the Winter-storm! above, one cloud,
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud;
Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before
Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore;
And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form,
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.
All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising—all the deep
Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells:
But nearer land you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chase;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;

26

Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force,
And then re-flowing, take their grating course,
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.
Far off the Petrel in the troubled way
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray;
She rises often, often drops again,
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.
High o'er the restless deep, above the reach
Of gunner's hope, vast flights of Wild-ducks stretch;
Far as the eye can glance on either side,
In a broad space and level line they glide;
All in their wedge-like figures from the north,
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.
In-shore their passage tribes of Sea-gulls urge,
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;

27

Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply,
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry;
Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,
And in the restless ocean dip for rest.
Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind
Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind;
But frights not him, whom evening and the spray
In part conceal—yon Prowler on his way:
Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,
As if he fear'd companion in the chase;
He sees his prize, and now he turns again,
Slowly and sorrowing—“Was your search in vain?”
Gruffly he answers, “'T is a sorry sight!
“A seaman's body: there'll be more to-night!”
Hark! to those sounds! they're from distress at sea:
How quick they come! What terrors may there be!
Yes, 't is a driven vessel: I discern
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern;
Others behold them too, and from the town
In various parties seamen hurry down;

28

Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread,
Lest men so dear be into danger led;
Their head the gown has hooded, and their call
In this sad night is piercing like the squall;
They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet,
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or intreat.
See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,
Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm;
“Thou shalt not venture;” and he answers “No!
“I will not”—still she cries, “Thou shalt not go.”
No need of this; not here the stoutest boat
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float,
Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,
Which yield them hope, whom help can never reach
From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws
On the wild waves, and all the danger shows;
But shows them beaming in her shining vest,
Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dress'd!
This for a moment, and then clouds again
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.
But hear we now those sounds? Do lights appear?
I see them not! the storm alone I hear:

29

And lo! the sailors homeward take their way;
Man must endure—let us submit and pray.
Such are our Winter-views: but night comes on—
Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone;
Now parties form, and some their friends assist
To waste the idle hours at sober whist;
The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charm
Unnumber'd moments of their sting disarm;
Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite,
To pass off one dread portion of the night;
And show and song and luxury combined,
Lift off from man this burthen of mankind.
Others advent'rous walk abroad and meet
Returning parties pacing through the street,
When various voices, in the dying day,
Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way;
When tavern-lights flit on from room to room,
And guide the tippling sailor staggering home:
There as we pass, the jingling bells betray
How business rises with the closing day:
Now walking silent, by the river's side,
The ear perceives the rippling of the tide;
Or measured cadence of the lads who tow
Some enter'd hoy, to fix her in her row;
Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bell
To some departed spirit bids farewell!
Thus shall you something of our Borough know,
Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show.
Of Sea or River, of a Quay or Street,
The best description must be incomplete
But when a happier theme succeeds, and when
Men are our subjects and the deeds of men;

30

Then may we find the Muse in happier style,
And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.

31

LETTER II. THE CHURCH.

------ Festinat enim decurrere velox
Flosculus angustæ miseræque brevissima vitæ
Portio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas
Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.
Juv. Sat. ix.

And when at last thy Love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
—Percy.


32

Several Meanings of the Word Church—The Building so called, here intended—Its Antiquity and Grandeur— Columns and Ailes—The Tower: the Stains made by Time compared with the mock Antiquity of the Artist—Progress of Vegetation on such Buildings—Bells—Tombs: one in decay—Mural Monuments, and the Nature of their Inscriptions —An Instance in a departed Burgess—Churchyard Graves—Mourners for the Dead—A Story of a betrothed Pair in humble Life, and Effects of Grief in the Survivor.


33

What is a Church?”—Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, “The faithful, pure, and meek;
“From Christian folds, the one selected race,
“Of all professions, and in every place.”
“What is a Church?”—“A flock,” our Vicar cries,
“Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;
“Wherein are various states and due degrees,
“The Bench for honour, and the Stall for ease;
“That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,
“The pious, peaceful prebendary shares.”
“What is a Church?”—Our honest Sexton tells,
“'T is a tall building, with a tower and bells;
“Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive
“To keep the ardour of their flock alive;
“That, by his periods eloquent and grave;
“This, by responses, and a well-set stave:

34

“These for the living; but when life be fled,
“I toll myself the requiem for the dead.”
'T is to this Church I call thee, and that place
Where slept our fathers when they'd run their race:
We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And, like the builders, will in time decay.
The old Foundation—but it is not clear
When it was laid—you care not for the year;
On this, as parts decayed by time and storms,
Arose these various disproportion'd forms;
Yet Gothic all—the learn'd who visit us
(And our small wonders) have decided thus:—
“Yon noble Gothic arch,” “That Gothic door;”
So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.
Here large plain columns rise in solemn style,
You'd love the gloom they make in either aile;
When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass
(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,
Faintly display the figures on the floor,
Which pleased distinctly in their place before.
But ere you enter, yon bold Tower survey,
Tall and entire, and venerably grey,
For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the stains are all of sober hue;
The living stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone:

35

For ever growing; where the common eye
Can but the bare and rocky bed descry;
There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;
There she perceives them round the surface creep,
And while they meet their due distinction keep;
Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,
And these are Nature's ever-during stains.
And wouldst thou, Artist! with thy tints and brush,
Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?
In three short hours shall thy presuming hand
Th' effect of three slow centuries command?
Thou may'st thy various greens and greys contrive,
They are not Lichens, nor like aught alive;—

36

But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,
Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost;
When all thy work is done away as clean
As if thou never spread'st thy grey and green;
Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done,
How slowly true she lays her colours on;
When her least speck upon the hardest flint
Has mark and form and is a living tint;
And so embodied with the rock, that few
Can the small germ upon the substance view.
Seeds, to our eye invisible, will find
On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind;
There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,
Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,
And spread th' enduring foliage;—then we trace
The freckled flower upon the flinty base;
These all increase, till in unnoticed years
The stony tower as grey with age appears;
With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,
Coat above coat, the living on the dead:
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way
For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay:

37

The long-enduring Ferns in time will all
Die and depose their dust upon the wall;
Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower
Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.
But ours yet stands, and has its Bells renown'd
For size magnificent and solemn sound;
Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell;
Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring
From ten loud coppers when their clappers swing.
Enter'd the Church—we to a tomb proceed,
Whose names and titles few attempt to read;
Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,
Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt;

38

Our sons shall see its more degraded state;
The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;
That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,
With all those ruff'd and painted pairs below;
The noble Lady and the Lord who rest
Supine, as courtly dame and warrior dress'd;
All are departed from their state sublime,
Mangled and wounded in their war with Time
Colleagued with mischief; here a leg is fled,
And lo! the Baron with but half a head;
Midway is cleft the arch; the very base
Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.
Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick decay—
See! men of marble piecemeal melt away;
When whose the image we no longer read,
But monuments themselves memorials need.
With few such stately proofs of grief or pride
By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;
But we have mural tablets, every size,
That woe could wish, or vanity devise.

39

Death levels man,—the wicked and the just,
The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;
And by the honours dealt to every name,
The King of Terrors seems to level fame.
—See! here lamented wives, and every wife
The pride and comfort of her husband's life;
Here, to her spouse, with every virtue graced,
His mournful widow has a trophy placed;
And here 't is doubtful if the duteous son,
Or the good father, be in praise outdone.
This may be Nature: when our friends we lose,
Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;
What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
For that impatience which we then display'd;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;
Virtues neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
'T is well; but let not love nor grief believe
That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)

40

To all that praise which on the tomb is read,
To all that passion dictates for the dead;
But more indignant, we the tomb deride,
Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.
Read of this Burgess—on the stone appear
How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!
What wailing was there when his spirit fled,
How mourn'd his lady for her lord when dead,
And tears abundant through the town were shed;
See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise,
And free from all disgrace and all disguise;
His sterling worth, which words cannot express,
Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.

41

All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name;
He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?—Shame!
What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;
He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;
He ruled the Borough when his year came on,
And some forget, and some are glad he's gone;
For never yet with shilling could he part,
But when it left his hand, it struck his heart.
Yet, here will Love its last attentions pay,
And place memorials on these beds of clay.
Large level stones lie flat upon the grave,
And half a century's sun and tempest brave;
But many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh
Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie;
Of these what numbers rest on every side!
Without one token left by grief or pride;
Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then
Will other hillocks rise o'er other men;
Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust,
And generations follow, “dust to dust.”
Yes! there are real Mourners—I have seen
A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene;

42

Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd:
Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t'expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted Youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,
And sadly sacred held the parting scene;
Where last for sea he took his leave—that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd,—“This once, and then the day:”
Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.
Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;

43

For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message—“Thomas, I must die:
“Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
“My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
“And gazing go!—if not, this trifle take,
“And say, till death I wore it for her sake;
“Yes! I must die—blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
“Give me one look, before my life be gone,
“Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
“One last fond look—and now repeat the prayer.”
He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The Lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint,—
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
“Yes! I must die;” and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head:
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

44

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so—“Perhaps he will not sink:”
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard;—
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people—death has made them dear.
He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, “Thou must go to rest;”
“I go,” he said; but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love,—and all was past!
She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved—an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare
The least assistance—'t was her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;

45

Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet Maid! nor be by fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirits pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead, but to the living live.

47

LETTER III. THE VICAR—THE CURATE, ETC.

And telling me the sov'reign'st thing on earth
Was parmacity for an inward bruise.
Shakspeare.—Henry IV. Part I. Act 1.

So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet.
—Churchill.

Much are the precious hours of youth mispent
In climbing learning's rugged, steep ascent:
When to the top the bold adventurer's got,
He reigns vain monarch of a barren spot;
While in the vale of ignorance below,
Folly and vice to rank luxuriance grow;
Honours and wealth pour in on every side,
And proud preferment rolls her golden tide.
—Churchill.


48

VICAR.

The lately departed Minister of the Borough—His soothing and supplicatory Manners—His cool and timid Affections —No Praise due to such negative Virtue—Address to Characters of this Kind—The Vicar's Employments—His Talents and moderate Ambition—His Dislike of Innovation —His mild but ineffectual Benevolence—A Summary of his Character.

CURATE.

Mode of paying the Borough-Minister—The Curate has no such Resources—His Learning and Poverty—Erroneous Idea of his Parent—His Feelings as a Husband and Father— The dutiful Regard of his numerous Family—His Pleasure as a Writer, how interrupted—No Resource in the Press— Vulgar Insult—His Account of a Literary Society, and a Fund for the Relief of indigent Authors, &c.


49

[THE VICAR.]

Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space,
Sleep the departed Vicars of the place;
Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past—
But take a slight memorial of the last.
To what famed college we our Vicar owe,
To what fair county, let historians show:
Few now remember when the mild young man,
Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began;
Few live to speak of that soft soothing look
He cast around, as he prepared his book;
It was a kind of supplicating smile,
But nothing hopeless of applause the while;
And when he finish'd, his corrected pride
Felt the desert, and yet the praise denied.
Thus he his race began, and to the end
His constant care was, no man to offend;

50

No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind;
Nor urged the Priest to leave the Flock behind;
He was his Master's Soldier, but not one
To lead an army of his Martyrs on:
Fear was his ruling passion; yet was Love,
Of timid kind, once known his heart to move;
It led his patient spirit where it paid
Its languid offerings to a listening Maid:
She, with her widow'd Mother, heard him speak,
And sought awhile to find what he would seek:
Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew,
And paid the same attention to the two;
Meeting and parting without joy or pain,
He seem'd to come that he might go again.
The wondering girl, no prude, but something nice,
At length was chill'd by his unmelting ice;
She found her tortoise held such sluggish pace,
That she must turn and meet him in the chase:
This not approving, she withdrew till one
Came who appear'd with livelier hope to run;
Who sought a readier way the heart to move,
Than by faint dalliance of unfixing love.
Accuse me not that I approving paint
Impatient Hope or Love without restraint;
Or think the Passions, a tumultuous throng,
Strong as they are, ungovernably strong:
But is the laurel to the soldier due,
Who cautious comes not into danger's view?
What worth has Virtue by Desire untried,
When Nature's self enlists on duty's side?
The married dame in vain assail'd the truth
And guarded bosom of the Hebrew youth;

51

But with the daughter of the Priest of On
The love was lawful, and the guard was gone;
But Joseph's fame had lessen'd in our view.
Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too.
Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired,
As once rejecting what his heart desired;
“I am escaped,” he said, when none pursued;
When none attack'd him, “I am unsubdued;”
“Oh pleasing pangs of love!” he sang again,
Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain.
Ev'n in his age would he address the young,
“I too have felt these fires, and they are strong;”
But from the time he left his favourite maid,
To ancient females his devoirs were paid;
And still they miss him after Morning-prayer;
Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair,
Where kindred spirits in his praise agree,
A happy few, as mild and cool as he;
The easy followers in the female train,
Led without love, and captives without chain.
Ye Lilies male! think (as your tea you sip,
While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip;
Intrigues half-gather'd, conversation-scraps,
Kitchen-cabals, and nursery-mishaps,)
If the vast world may not some scene produce,
Some state where your small talents might have use;
Within seraglios you might harmless move,
Mid ranks of beauty, and in haunts of love;
There from too daring man the treasures guard,
An easy duty, and its own reward;

52

Nature's soft subsitutes, you there might save
From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the slave.
But let applause be dealt in all we may,
Our Priest was cheerful, and in season gay;
His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please;
Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease:
To a small garden with delight he came,
And gave successive flowers a summer's fame;
These he presented with a grace his own
To his fair friends, and made their beauties known,
Not without moral compliment; how they
“Like flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay.”
Simple he was, and loved the simple truth,
Yet had some useful cunning from his youth;
A cunning never to dishonour lent,
And rather for defence than conquest meant;
'Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise,
But not enough to make him enemies;
He ever aim'd to please; and to offend
Was ever cautious; for he sought a friend;
Yet for the friendship never much would pay,
Content to bow, be silent, and obey,
And by a soothing suff'rance find his way.
Fiddling and fishing were his arts: at times
He alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes;
And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,
Oft he amused with riddles and charades.
Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse
But gain'd in softness what it lost in force:
Kind his opinions; he would not receive
An ill report, nor evil act believe;

53

“If true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or small
“Have all mankind; yea, sinners are we all.”
If ever fretful thought disturb'd his breast,
If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress'd,
It sprang from innovation; it was then
He spake of mischief made by restless men:
Not by new doctrines: never in his life
Would he attend to controversial strife;
For Sects he cared not; “They are not of us,
“Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss;
“But 'tis the change, the schism at home I feel;
“Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal:
“Not at the altar our young brethren read
“(Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed;
“But at their duty, in their desks they stand,
“With naked surplice, lacking hood and band:
“Churches are now of holy song bereft,
“And half our ancient customs changed or left;
“Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen,
“Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green;
“Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain
“Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain

54

“Comes flying forth from aile to aile about,
“Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out.”
These were to him essentials; all things new
He deem'd superfluous, useless, or untrue;
To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,
Here the fire kindled, and the wo was told.
Habit with him was all the test of truth,
“It must be right: I've done it from my youth.”
Questions he answer'd in as brief a way,
“It must be wrong—it was of yesterday.”
Though mild benevolence our Priest possess'd,
'Twas but by wishes or by words express'd,
Circles in water, as they wider flow,
The less conspicuous in their progress grow,
And when at last they touch upon the shore,
Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more.
His love, like that last circle, all embraced,
But with effect that never could be traced.
Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best,
Proclaim his life t'have been entirely rest;
Free from all evils which disturb his mind,
Whom studies vex and controversies blind.
The rich approved,—of them in awe he stood;
The poor admired,—they all believed him good;

55

The old and serious of his habits spoke;
The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;
Mothers approved a safe contented guest,
And daughters one who back'd each small request:
In him his flock found nothing to condemn;
Him sectaries liked,—he never troubled them.
No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please,
And all his passions sunk in early ease;
Nor one so old has left this world of sin,
More like the being that he enter'd in.

THE CURATE.

Ask you what lands our Pastor tithes?—Alas!
But few our acres, and but short our grass:
In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,
May roll the single cow or favourite steed;
Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen,
His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green;
But these, our hilly heath and common wide
Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide;
No crops luxuriant in our borders stand,
For here we plough the ocean, not the land;
Still reason wills that we our Pastor pay,
And custom does it on a certain day:

56

Much is the duty, small the legal due,
And this with grateful minds we keep in view;
Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led,
Some by the thought, that all men must be fed;
Duty and love, and piety and pride,
Have each their force, and for the Priest provide.
Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe
Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve;
All see him poor, but ev'n the vulgar know
He merits love, and their respect bestow.
A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see,
Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he;—
Not grieved by years alone; though his appear
Dark and more dark; severer on severe:
Not in his need,—and yet we all must grant
How painful 'tis for feeling Age to want:
Nor in his body's sufferings; yet we know
Where Time has plough'd, there Misery loves to sow;
But in the wearied mind, that all in vain
Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain.
His Father saw his powers—“I'll give,” quoth he,
“My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be:”
Unhappy gift! a portion for a son!
But all he had:—he learn'd, and was undone!
Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,
Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,
Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,
And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.

57

He once had hope—Hope, ardent, lively, light;
His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright:
Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,
Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note;
At morn, at evening at his work was he,
And dream'd what his Euripides would be.
Then care began:—he loved, he woo'd, he wed;
Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd his bed—
A curate's bed! then came the woful years;
The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;
A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd
With wants and woes—by daily cares perplex'd;
No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,
But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.
A kind physician, and without a fee,
Gave his opinion—“Send her to the sea.”
“Alas!” the good man answer'd, “can I send
“A friendless woman? Can I find a friend?
“No; I must with her, in her need, repair
“To that new place; the poor lie every where;—
“Some priest will pay me for my pious pains:”—
He said, he came, and here he yet remains.
Behold his dwelling! this poor hut he hires,
Where he from view, though not from want, retires;
Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons,
Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns;
All join their efforts, and in patience learn
To want the comforts they aspire to earn;
For the sick mother something they'd obtain,
To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;
For the sad father something they'd procure
To ease the burden they themselves endure.

58

Virtues like these at once delight and press
On the fond father with a proud distress;
On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.
Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals,
And by himself an Author's pleasure feels:
Each line detains him; he omits not one,
And all the sorrows of his state are gone.—
Alas! even then, in that delicious hour,
He feels his fortune, and laments its power.
Some Tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,
Some scrawl for payment thrust 'twixt page and page;
Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door,
Some surly message he has heard before,
Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.
An angry Dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,
Thinks of his bill, and, passing, raps aloud;
The elder daughter meekly makes him way—
“I want my money, and I cannot stay:
“My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind;
“Go tell your father he must raise the wind:”

59

Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid
Says, “Sir! my father!—” and then stops afraid:
Ev'n his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears
Her voice with pity; he respects her tears;
His stubborn features half admit a smile,
And his tone softens—“Well! I'll wait awhile.”
Pity! a man so good, so mild, so meek,
At such an age, should have his bread to seek;
And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread,
That are more harrowing than the want of bread;
Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace!
And say that want and insolence shall cease?
“But why not publish?”—those who know too well,
Dealers in Greek, are fearful 't will not sell;
Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,
Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show;
The hope of fame may in his heart have place,
But he has dread and horror of disgrace;
Nor has he that confiding, easy way,
That might his learning and himself display;
But to his work he from the world retreats,
And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets.
But see! the Man himself; and sure I trace
Signs of new joy exulting in that face
O'er care that sleeps—we err, or we discern
Life in thy looks—the reason may we learn?
“Yes,” he replied, “I'm happy, I confess,
“To learn that some are pleased with happiness
“Which others feel—there are who now combine
“The worthiest natures in the best design,
“To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as mine

60

“We who more keenly feel the world's contempt,
“And from its miseries are the least exempt;
“Now Hope shall whisper to the wounded breast,
“And Grief, in soothing expectation, rest.
“Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel,
“Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal;
“Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties make
“The needy curse the benefits they take;
“Not with the idle vanity that knows
“Only a selfish joy when it bestows;
“Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain,
“Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain;
“But these are men who yield such blest relief,
“That with the grievance they destroy the grief;
“Their timely aid the needy sufferers find,
“Their generous manner soothes the suffering mind;
“There is a gracious bounty, form'd to raise
“Him whom it aids; their charity is praise;
“A common bounty may relieve distress,
“But whom the vulgar succour they oppress;
“This though a favour is an honour too,
“Though Mercy's duty, yet 'tis Merit's due;
“When our relief from such resources rise,
“All painful sense of obligation dies;
“And grateful feelings in the bosom wake,
“For 't is their offerings, not their alms, we take.
“Long may these founts of Charity remain,
“And never shrink, but to be fill'd again;
‘True! to the Author they are now confined,
“To him who gave the treasure of his mind,
“His time, his health,—and thankless found mankind:

61

“But there is hope that from these founts may flow
“A side-way stream, and equal good bestow;
“Good that may reach us, whom the day's distress
“Keeps from the fame and perils of the Press;
“Whom Study beckons from the Ills of Life,
“And they from Study; melancholy strife!
“Who then can say, but bounty now so free,
“And so diffused, may find its way to me?
“Yes! I may see my decent table yet
“Cheer'd with the meal that adds not to my debt;
“May talk of those to whom so much we owe,
“And guess their names whom yet we may not know;
“Blest, we shall say, are those who thus can give,
“And next who thus upon the bounty live;
“Then shall I close with thanks my humble meal,
“And feel so well—Oh, God! how shall I feel!”

73

LETTER IV. SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION.

------ But cast your eyes again,
And view those errors which new sects maintain,
Or which of old disturb'd the Church's peaceful reign:
And we can point each period of the time
When they began and who begat the crime;
Can calculate how long th' eclipse endured;
Who interposed; what digits were obscured;
Of all which are already pass'd away,
We knew the rise, the progress, and decay.
Dryden.—Hind and Panther.

Oh, said the Hind, how many sons have you
Who call you mother, whom you never knew!
But most of them who that relation plead
Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead;
They gape at rich revenues which you hold,
And fain would nibble at your grandame gold.
Hind and Panther.


74

Sects and Professions in Religion are numerous and successive —General Effect of false Zeal—Deists—Fanatical Idea of Church Reformers—The Church of Rome—Baptists— Swedenborgians—Universalists—Jews.

Methodists of two Kinds; Calvinistic and Arminian.

The Preaching of a Calvinistic Enthusiast—His Contempt of Learning—Dislike to sound Morality: why—His Idea of Conversion—His Success and Pretensions to Humility.

The Arminian Teacher of the older Flock—Their Notions of the Operations and Power of Satan—Description of his Devices —Their Opinion of regular Ministers—Comparison of these with the Preacher himself—A Rebuke to his Hearers; introduces a Description of the powerful Effects of the Word in the early and awakening Days of Methodism.


75

Sects in Religion?”—Yes, of every race
We nurse some portion in our favour'd place;
Not one warm preacher of one growing sect
Can say our Borough treats him with neglect;
Frequent as fashions, they with us appear,
And you might ask, “how think we for the year?”
They come to us as riders in a trade,
And with much art exhibit and persuade.

76

Minds are for Sects of various kinds decreed,
As diff'rent soils are form'd for diff'rent seed;
Some when converted sigh in sore amaze,
And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze;
Others again will change to each extreme,
They know not why—as hurried in a dream;
Unstable they, like water, take all forms,
Are quick and stagnant; have their calms and storms;
High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow,
Then muddily they move debased and slow;
Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow.
Yet none the cool and prudent Teacher prize,
On him they dote who wakes their ecstasies;
With passions ready primed such guide they meet,
And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;
'T is he who wakes the nameless strong desire,
The melting rapture and the glowing fire;
'T is he who pierces deep the tortured breast,
And stirs the terrors, never more to rest.
Opposed to these we have a prouder kind,
Rash without heat, and without raptures blind;
These our Glad Tidings unconcern'd peruse,
Search without awe, and without fear refuse;
The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,
Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit;
Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain,
The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain;

77

And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view,
Of that which must be tried, and doubtless may be true.
Friends of our Faith we have, whom doubts like these
And keen remarks, and bold objections please;
They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd,
Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest.
“But still,” they cry, “let none their censures spare,
“They but confirm the glorious hopes we share;
“From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies
“With five-fold triumph sacred Truth shall rise.”
Yes! I allow, so Truth shall stand at last,
And gain fresh glory by the conflict past:—
As Solway-Moss (a barren mass and cold,
Death to the seed, and poison to the fold),
The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid,
Choked the green sod, and kill'd the springing blade;
That, changed by culture, may in time be seen,
Enrich'd by golden grain, and pasture green;
And these fair acres rented and enjoy'd
May those excel by Solway-Moss destroy'd.

78

Still must have mourn'd the tenant of the day,
For hopes destroy'd, and harvests swept away;
To him the gain of future years unknown,
The instant grief and suffering were his own:
So must I grieve for many a wounded heart,
Chill'd by those doubts which bolder minds impart:
Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear,
But sad the darkness till those times appear;
Contests for truth, as wars for freedom, yield
Glory and joy to those who gain the field:
But still the Christian must in pity sigh
For all who suffer, and uncertain die.
Here are, who all the Church maintains approve,
But yet the Church herself they will not love;
In angry speech, they blame the carnal tie,
Which pure Religion lost her spirit by;
What time from prisons, flames, and tortures led,
She slumber'd careless in a royal bed;
To make, they add, the Church's glory shine,
Should Diocletian reign, not Constantine.

79

“In pomp,” they cry, “is England's Church array'd,
“Her cool Reformers wrought like men afraid;
“We would have pull'd her gorgeous temples down,
“And spurn'd her mitre, and defiled her gown;
“We would have trodden low both bench and stall,
“Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small.”
Let us be serious—Should such trials come,
Are they themselves prepared for martyrdom?
It seems to us that our reformers knew
Th' important work they undertook to do;
An equal priesthood they were loth to try,
Lest zeal and care should with ambition die;
To them it seem'd that, take the tenth away,
Yet priests must eat, and you must feed or pay:
Would they indeed, who hold such pay in scorn,
Put on the muzzle when they tread the corn?
Would they all, gratis, watch and tend the fold,
Nor take one fleece to keep them from the cold?
Men are not equal, and 't is meet and right
That robes and titles our respect excite;
Order requires it; 'tis by vulgar pride
That such regard is censured and denied;
Or by that false enthusiastic zeal,
That thinks the Spirit will the priest reveal,
And show to all men, by their powerful speech,
Who are appointed and inspired to teach:
Alas! could we the dangerous rule believe,
Whom for their teacher should the crowd receive?
Since all the varying kinds demand respect,
All press you on to join their chosen sect,

80

Although but in this single point agreed,
“Desert your churches and adopt our creed.’
We know full well how much our forms offend
The burthen'd Papist and the simple Friend;
Him, who new robes for every service takes,
And who in drab and beaver sighs and shakes;
He on the priest, whom hood and band adorn,
Looks with the sleepy eye of silent scorn;
But him I would not for my friend and guide,
Who views such things with spleen, or wears with pride.
See next our several Sects,—but first behold
The Church of Rome, who here is poor and old:
Use not triumphant rail'ry, or, at least,
Let not thy mother be a whore and beast;
Great was her pride indeed in ancient times,
Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes?
Exalted high above all earthly things,
She placed her foot upon the neck of kings;
But some have deeply since avenged the crown,
And thrown her glory and her honours down;
Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command,
Nor place a foot upon her own fair land.
Among her sons, with us a quiet few,
Obscure themselves, her ancient state review,
And fond and melancholy glances cast
On power insulted, and on triumph past:
They look, they can but look, with many a sigh,
On sacred buildings doom'd in dust to lie;
“On seats,” they tell, “where priests mid tapers dim
“Breathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight hymn;

81

“Where trembling penitents their guilt confess'd,
“Where want had succour, and contrition rest;
“There weary men from trouble found relief,
“There men in sorrow found repose from grief
“To scenes like these the fainting soul retired;
“Revenge and anger in these cells expired;
“By pity soothed, remorse lost half her fears,
“And soften'd pride dropp'd penitential tears.
“Then convent walls and nunnery spires arose,
“In pleasant spots which monk or abbot chose;
“When counts and barons saints devoted fed,
“And making cheap exchange had pray'r for bread.
“Now all is lost, the earth where abbeys stood
“Is layman's land, the glebe, the stream, the wood;
“His oxen low where monks retired to eat,
“His cows repose upon the prior's seat;
“And wanton doves within the cloisters bill,
“Where the chaste votary warr'd with wanton will.”
Such is the change they mourn, but they restrain
The rage of grief, and passively complain.
We've Baptists old and new; forbear to ask
What the distinction—I decline the task;
This I perceive, that when a sect grows old,
Converts are few, and the converted cold:
First comes the hot-bed heat, and while it glows
The plants spring up, and each with vigour grows;
Then comes the cooler day, and though awhile
The verdure prospers and the blossoms smile,

82

Yet poor the fruit, and form'd by long delay,
Nor will the profits for the culture pay;
The skilful gard'ner then no longer stops,
But turns to other beds for bearing crops.
Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found,
Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground,
Who in our world can other worlds survey,
And speak with spirits though confined in clay:
Of Bible-mysteries they the keys possess,
Assured themselves, where wiser men but guess:
Tis theirs to see around, about, above,—
How spirits mingle thoughts, and angels move;
Those whom our grosser views from us exclude,
To them appear—a heavenly multitude;
While the dark sayings, seal'd to men like us,
Their priests interpret, and their flocks discuss.
But while these gifted men, a favour'd fold,
New powers exhibit and new worlds behold;
Is there not danger lest their minds confound
The pure above them with the gross around?

83

May not these Phaëtons, who thus contrive
'Twixt heaven above and earth beneath to drive,
When from their flaming chariots they descend,
The worlds they visit in their fancies blend?
Alas! too sure on both they bring disgrace,
Their earth is crazy, and their heaven is base.
We have, it seems, who treat, and doubtless well,
Of a chastising not awarding Hell;
Who are assured that an offended God
Will cease to use the thunder and the rod;
A soul on earth, by crime and folly stain'd,
When here corrected has improvement gain'd;
In other state still more improved to grow,
And nobler powers in happier world to know;
New strength to use in each divine employ,
And more enjoying, looking to more joy.
A pleasing vision! could we thus be sure
Polluted souls would be at length so pure.
The view is happy, we may think it just,
It may be true—but who shall add, it must?
To the plain words and sense of Sacred Writ,
With all my heart I reverently submit;
But where it leaves me doubtful, I'm afraid
To call conjecture to my reason's aid;

84

Thy thoughts, thy ways, great God! are not as mine,
And to thy mercy I my soul resign.
Jews are with us, but far unlike to those,
Who, led by David, warr'd with Israel's foes;
Unlike to those whom his imperial son
Taught truths divine—the Preacher Solomon.
Nor war nor wisdom yield our Jews delight;
They will not study, and they dare not fight.
These are, with us, a slavish, knavish crew,
Shame and dishonour to the name of Jew;
The poorest masters of the meanest arts,
With cunning heads, and cold and cautious hearts;
They grope their dirty way to petty gains,
While poorly paid for their nefarious pains.
Amazing race! deprived of land and laws,
A general language, and a public cause;
With a religion none can now obey,
With a reproach that none can take away:
A people still, whose common ties are gone;
Who, mix'd with every race, are lost in none.
What said their Prophet?—“Shouldst thou disobey,
“The Lord shall take thee from thy land away;
“Thou shalt a by-word and a proverb be,
“And all shall wonder at thy woes and thee;
“Daughter and son, shalt thou, while captive, have,
“And see them made the bond-maid and the slave;
“He, whom thou leav'st, the Lord thy God, shall bring
“War to thy country on an eagle-wing.

85

“A people strong and dreadful to behold,
“Stern to the young, remorseless to the old;
‘Masters whose speech thou canst not understand,
“By cruel signs shall give the harsh command:
“Doubtful of life shalt thou by night, by day,
“For grief, and dread, and trouble pine away;
“Thy evening wish,—Would God I saw the sun!
“Thy morning sigh,—Would God the day were done!
“Thus shalt thou suffer, and to distant times
“Regret thy misery, and lament thy crimes.”
A part there are, whom doubtless man might trust,
Worthy as wealthy, pure, religious, just;
They who with patience, yet with rapture, look
On the strong promise of the Sacred Book:
As unfulfill'd th' endearing words they view,
And blind to truth, yet own their prophets true;

86

Well pleased they look for Sion's coming state,
Nor think of Julian's boast and Julian's fate.
More might I add; I might describe the flocks
Made by Seceders from the ancient stocks;
Those who will not to any guide submit,
Nor find one creed to their conceptions fit—
Each sect, they judge, in something goes astray,
And every church has lost the certain way;
Then for themselves they carve out creed and laws,
And weigh their atoms, and divide their straws.
A Sect remains, which, though divided long
In hostile parties, both are fierce and strong,
And into each enlists a warm and zealous throng.

87

Soon as they rose in fame, the strife arose,
The Calvinistic these, th' Arminian those;
With Wesley some remain'd, the remnant Whitfield chose.
Now various leaders both the parties take,
And the divided hosts their new divisions make.
See yonder Preacher! to his people pass,
Borne up and swell'd by tabernacle-gas;
Much he discourses, and of various points,
All unconnected, void of limbs and joints;
He rails, persuades, explains, and moves the will
By fierce bold words, and strong mechanic skill.
“That Gospel, Paul with zeal and love maintain'd,
“To others lost, to you is now explain'd;
“No worldly learning can these points discuss,
“Books teach them not as they are taught to us.
“Illiterate call us!—let their wisest man
“Draw forth his thousands as your Teacher can:

88

“They give their moral precepts: so, they say,
“Did Epictetus once, and Seneca;
“One was a slave, and slaves we all must be,
“Until the Spirit comes and sets us free.
“Yet hear you nothing from such man but works;
“They make the Christian service like the Turks'.
“Hark to the Churchman: day by day he cries,
“‘Children of Men, be virtuous and be wise;
“‘Seek patience, justice, temp'rance, meekness, truth;
“‘In age be courteous, be sedate in youth.’—
“So they advise, and when such things be read,
“How can we wonder that their flocks are dead?
“The Heathens wrote of Virtue; they could dwell
‘On such light points: in them it might be well;
“They might for virtue strive; but I maintain,
“Our strife for virtue would be proud and vain.
“When Samson carried Gaza's gates so far,
“Lack'd he a helping hand to bear the bar?
“Thus the most virtuous must in bondage groan:
“Samson is grace, and carries all alone.
“Hear you not priests their feeble spirits spend,
“In bidding Sinners turn to God, and mend;
“To check their passions and to walk aright,
“To run the Race, and fight the glorious Fight?
“Nay more—to pray, to study, to improve,
“To grow in goodness, to advance in love?

89

“Oh! Babes and Sucklings, dull of heart and slow,
“Can Grace be gradual? Can Conversion grow?
“The work is done by instantaneous call;
“Converts at once are made, or not at all;
“Nothing is left to grow, reform, amend,
“The first emotion is the Movement's end:
“If once forgiven, Debt can be no more;
‘If once adopted, will the heir be poor?
“The man who gains the twenty-thousand prize,
“Does he by little and by little rise?
“There can no fortune for the Soul be made,
“By peddling cares and savings in her trade.
“Why are our sins forgiven?—Priests reply,
“—‘Because by Faith on Mercy we rely;
“‘Because, believing, we repent and pray.’—
“Is this their doctrine?—then they go astray:
“We're pardon'd neither for belief nor deed,
“For faith nor practice, principle nor creed;
“Nor for our sorrow for our former sin,
“Nor for our fears when better thoughts begin;
“Nor prayers nor penance in the cause avail,
“All strong remorse, all soft contrition fail;—
“It is the Call! till that proclaims us free,
“In darkness, doubt, and bondage we must be;
“Till that assures us, we've in vain endured,
“And all is over when we're once assured.

90

“This is Conversion:—First there comes a cry
“Which utters, ‘Sinner, thou'rt condemn'd to die;
“Then the struck soul to every aid repairs,
“To church and altar, ministers and prayers;
“In vain she strives,—involved, ingulf'd in sin,
“She looks for hell, and seems already in:
“When in this travail, the New Birth comes on,
“And in an instant every pang is gone;
“The mighty work is done without our pains,—
“Claim but a part, and not a part remains.
“All this experience tells the Soul, and yet
“These moral men their pence and farthings set
“Against the terrors of the countless Debt:
“But such compounders, when they come to jail,
“Will find that Virtues never serve as bail.
“So much to Duties: now to Learning look,
“And see their priesthood piling book on book;
“Yea, books of infidels, we're told, and plays,
“Put out by heathens in the wink'd-on days;

91

“The very letters are of crooked kind,
“And show the strange perverseness of their mind.
“Have I this Learning? When the Lord would speak,
“Think ye he needs the Latin or the Greek?
“And lo! with all their learning, when they rise
“To preach, in view the ready sermon lies;
“Some low-prized stuff they purchased at the stalls,
“And more like Seneca's than mine or Paul's:
“Children of Bondage, how should they explain
“The Spirit's freedom, while they wear a chain?
“They study words, for meanings grow perplex'd,
“And slowly hunt for truth from text to text,
“Through Greek and Hebrew:—we the meaning seek
“Of that within, who every tongue can speak:
“This all can witness; yet the more I know,
“The more a meek and humble mind I show.
“No; let the Pope, the high and mighty priest,
“Lord to the poor, and servant to the Beast;
“Let bishops, deans, and prebendaries swell
“With pride and fatness till their hearts rebel:
“I'm meek and modest:—if I could be proud,
“This crowded meeting, lo! th' amazing crowd!
“Your mute attention, and your meek respect,
“My spirit's fervour, and my words' effect,
“Might stir th' unguarded soul; and oft to me
“The Tempter speaks, whom I compel to flee;
“He goes in fear, for he my force has tried,—
“Such is my power! but can you call it pride?
“No, Fellow-Pilgrims! of the things I've shown
“I might be proud, were they indeed my own!

92

“But they are lent; and well you know the source
“Of all that's mine, and must confide of course;
“Mine! no, I err; 'tis but consign'd to me,
“And I am nought but steward and trustee.”
Far other Doctrines yon Arminian speaks;
“Seek Grace,” he cries, “for he shall find who seeks.”
This is the ancient stock by Wesley led;
They the pure body, he the reverend head:
All innovation they with dread decline,
Their John the elder, was the John divine.
Hence, still their moving prayer, the melting hymn,
The varied accent, and the active limb;
Hence that implicit faith in Satan's might,
And their own matchless prowess in the fight.
In every act they see that lurking foe,
Let loose awhile, about the world to go;
A dragon flying round the earth, to kill
The heavenly hope, and prompt the carnal will;
Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause,
And force the wounded victim from his paws;

93

Who but for them would man's whole race subdue,
For not a hireling will the foe pursue.
“Show me one Churchman who will rise and pray
“Through half the night, though lab'ring all the day,
“Always abounding—show me him, I say:”—
Thus cries the Preacher, and he adds, “Their sheep
“Satan devours at leisure as they sleep.
“Not so with us; we drive him from the fold,
“For ever barking and for ever bold:
“While they securely slumber, all his schemes
“Take full effect,—the Devil never dreams:
“Watchful and changeful through the world he goes,
“And few can trace this deadliest of their foes;
“But I detect, and at his work surprise
“The subtle Serpent under all disguise.
“Thus to Man's soul the Foe of Souls will speak,
“—‘A Saint elect, you can have nought to seek;
“‘Why all this labour in so plain a case,
“‘Such care to run, when certain of the race?’
“All this he urges to the carnal will,
“He knows you're slothful, and would have you still:
“Be this your answer,—‘Satan, I will keep
“‘Still on the watch till you are laid asleep.’
“Thus too the Christian's progress he'll retard:—
“‘The gates of mercy are for ever barr'd;
“‘And that with bolts so driven and so stout,
“‘Ten thousand workmen cannot wrench them out.
“To this deceit you have but one reply,—
“Give to the Father of all Lies, the lie.
“A Sister's weakness he'll by fits surprise,
“His her wild laughter, his her piteous cries;

94

“And should a pastor at her side attend,
“He'll use her organs to abuse her friend:
“These are possessions—unbelieving wits
“Impute them all to Nature: ‘They're her fits,
“‘Caused by commotions in the nerves and brains;’—
“Vain talk! but they'll be fitted for their pains.
“These are in part the ills the Foe has wrought,
“And these the Churchman thinks not worth his thought;
“They bid the troubled try for peace and rest,
“Compose their minds, and be no more distress'd;
“As well might they command the passive shore
“To keep secure, and be o'erflow'd no more;
“To the wrong subject is their skill applied,—
“To act like workmen, they should stem the tide.
“These are the Church-Physicians: they are paid
“With noble fees for their advice and aid;
“Yet know they not the inward pulse to feel,
“To ease the anguish, or the wound to heal.
“With the sick Sinner, thus their work begins:
“‘Do you repent you of your former sins?
“‘Will you amend if you revive and live?
“‘And, pardon seeking, will you pardon give?
“‘Have you belief in what your Lord has done,
“‘And are you thankful?—all is well, my son.’
“A way far different ours—we thus surprise
“A soul with questions, and demand replies:
“‘How dropp'd you first,’ I ask, ‘the legal Yoke?
“‘What the first word the living Witness spoke?
“‘Perceived you thunders roar and lightnings shine,
“‘And tempests gathering ere the Birth divine?

95

“‘Did fire, and storm, and earthquake all appear
“‘Before that still small voice, What dost thou here?
“‘Hast thou by day and night, and soon and late,
“‘Waited and watch'd before Admission-gate;
“‘And so a pilgrim and a soldier pass'd
“‘To Sion's hill through battle and through blast?
“‘Then in thy way didst thou thy foe attack,
“‘And mad'st thou proud Apollyon turn his back?’
“Heart-searching things are these, and shake the mind,
“Yea, like the rustling of a mighty wind.
“Thus would I ask:—‘Nay, let me question now,
“‘How sink my sayings in your bosoms? how?
“‘Feel you a quickening? drops the subject deep?
“‘Stupid and stony, no! you're all asleep;
“‘Listless and lazy, waiting for a close,
“‘As if at church;—do I allow repose?
“‘Am I a legal minister? do I
“‘With form or rubrick, rule or rite comply?
“‘Then whence this quiet, tell me, I beseech?
“‘One might believe you heard your Rector preach,
“‘Or his assistant dreamer:—Oh! return,
“‘Ye times of burning, when the heart would burn;
“‘Now hearts are ice, and you, my freezing fold,
“‘Have spirits sunk and sad, and bosoms stony-cold.’
“Oh! now again for those prevailing powers,
“Which once began this mighty work of ours;
“When the wide field, God's Temple, was the place,
“And birds flew by to catch a breath of grace;
“When 'mid his timid friends and threat'ning foes,
“Our zealous chief as Paul at Athens rose:

96

“When with infernal spite and knotty clubs
“The Ill-One arm'd his scoundrels and his scrubs;
“And there were flying all around the spot
“Brands at the Preacher, but they touch'd him not;
“Stakes brought to smite him, threaten'd in his cause,
“And tongues, attuned to curses, roar'd applause;
“Louder and louder grew his awful tones,
“Sobbing and sighs were heard, and rueful groans;
“Soft women fainted, prouder man express'd
“Wonder and wo, and butchers smote the breast;
“Eyes wept, ears tingled; stiff'ning on each head,
“The hair drew back, and Satan howl'd and fled.
“In that soft season when the gentle breeze
“Rises all round, and swells by slow degrees;
“Till tempests gather, when through all the sky
“The thunders rattle, and the lightnings fly;

97

“When rain in torrents wood and vale deform,
“And all is horror, hurricane, and storm:
“So, when the Preacher in that glorious time,
“Than clouds more melting, more than storm sublime,
“Dropp'd the new Word, there came a charm around;
“Tremors and terrors rose upon the sound;
“The stubborn spirits by his force he broke,
“As the fork'd lightning rives the knotted oak:
“Fear, hope, dismay, all signs of shame or grace,
“Chain'd every foot, or featured every face;
“Then took his sacred trump a louder swell,
“And now they groan'd, they sicken'd, and they fell;
“Again he sounded, and we heard the cry
“Of the Word-wounded, as about to die;
“Further and further spread the conquering word,
“As loud he cried—‘the Battle of the Lord.’
“Ev'n those apart who were the sound denied,
“Fell down instinctive, and in spirit died.
“Nor stay'd he yet—his eye, his frown, his speech,
“His very gesture had a power to teach;
“With outstretch'd arms, strong voice, and piercing call,
“He won the field, and made the Dagons fall;
“And thus in triumph took his glorious way,
“Through scenes of horror, terror, and dismay.”

99

LETTER V. ELECTIONS.

Say then which class to greater folly stoop,
The great in promise, or the poor in hope?

Be brave, for your leader is brave, and vows reformation; there shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; and the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops. I will make it felony to drink small beer; all shall eat and drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers; and they shall all worship me as their lord. —Shakspeare's Henry VI.


100

The Evils of the Contest, and how in part to be avoided— The Miseries endured by a Friend of the Candidate—The various Liberties taken with him, who has no personal Interest in the Success—The unreasonable Expectations of Voters—The Censures of the opposing Party—The Vices as well as Follies shown in such Time of Contest—Plans and Cunning of Electors—Evils which remain after the Decision, opposed in vain by the Efforts of the Friendly, and of the Successful; among whom is the Mayor—Story of his Advancement till he was raised to the Government of the Borough—These Evils not to be placed in Balance with the Liberty of the People, but are yet Subjects of just Complaint.


101

Yes, our Election's past, and we've been free,
Somewhat as madmen without keepers be;
And such desire of Freedom has been shown,
That both the parties wish'd her all their own:
All our free smiths and cobblers in the town
Were loth to lay such pleasant freedom down;
To put the bludgeon and cockade aside,
And let us pass unhurt and undefied.
True! you might then your party's sign produce,
And so escape with only half th' abuse;
With half the danger as you walk'd along,
With rage and threat'ning but from half the throng
This you might do, and not your fortune mend,
For where you lost a foe, you gain'd a friend;
And to distress you, vex you, and expose,
Election-friends are worse than any foes;
The party-curse is with the canvass past,
But party-friendship, for your grief, will last.

102

Friends of all kinds; the civil and the rude,
Who humbly wish, or boldly dare t'intrude;
These beg or take a liberty to come
(Friends should be free), and make your house their home;
They know that warmly you their cause espouse,
And come to make their boastings and their bows:
You scorn their manners, you their words mistrust,
But you must hear them, and they know you must.
One plainly sees a friendship firm and true,
Between the noble candidate and you;
So humbly begs (and states at large the case),
“You'll think of Bobby and the little place.”
Stifling his shame by drink, a wretch will come,
And prate your wife and daughter from the room:
In pain you hear him, and at heart despise,
Yet with heroic mind your pangs disguise;
And still in patience to the sot attend,
To show what man can bear to serve a friend.
One enters hungry—not to be denied,
And takes his place and jokes—“We're of a side.”
Yet worse, the proser who, upon the strength
Of his one vote, has tales of three hours' length;
This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise
Start at his oaths, and sicken at his lies.
Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way
What the opponents in their anger say;
All that through life has vex'd you, all abuse,
Will this kind friend in pure regard produce;
And having through your own offences run,
Adds (as appendage) what your friends have done.

103

Has any female cousin made a trip
To Gretna Green, or more vexatious slip?
Has your wife's brother, or your uncle's son,
Done aught amiss, or is he thought t'have done?
Is there of all your kindred some who lack
Vision direct, or have a gibbous back?
From your unlucky name may quips and puns
Be made by these upbraiding Goths and Huns?
To some great public character have you
Assign'd the fame to worth and talents due,
Proud of your praise?—In this, in any case,
Where the brute-spirit may affix disgrace,
These friends will smiling bring it, and the while
You silent sit, and practise for a smile.
Vain of their power, and of their value sure,
They nearly guess the tortures you endure;
Nor spare one pang—for they perceive your heart
Goes with the cause; you'd die before you'd start;
Do what they may, they're sure you'll not offend
Men who have pledged their honours to your friend.
Those friends indeed, who start as in a race,
May love the sport, and laugh at this disgrace;
They have in view the glory and the prize,
Nor heed the dirty steps by which they rise:
But we their poor associates lose the fame,
Though more than partners in the toil and shame.
Were this the whole; and did the time produce
But shame and toil, but riot and abuse;
We might be then from serious griefs exempt,
And view the whole with pity and contempt.
Alas! but here the vilest passions rule;
It is Seduction's, is Temptation's school;

104

Where vices mingle in the oddest ways,
The grossest slander and the dirtiest praise;
Flattery enough to make the vainest sick,
And clumsy stratagem, and scoundrel trick:
Nay more, your anger and contempt to cause,
These, while they fish for profit, claim applause;
Bribed, bought, and bound, they banish shame and fear;
Tell you they're staunch, and have a soul sincere;
Then talk of honour, and, if doubt's express'd,
Show where it lies, and smite upon the breast.
Among these worthies, some at first declare
For whom they vote: he then has most to spare;
Others hang off—when coming to the post
Is spurring time, and then he'll spare the most:
While some demurring, wait, and find at last
The bidding languish, and the market past;
These will affect all bribery to condemn,
And be it Satan laughs, he laughs at them.
Some too are pious—One desired the Lord
To teach him where “to drop his little word;
“To lend his vote, where it will profit best;
“Promotion came not from the east or west;
“But as their freedom had promoted some,
“He should be glad to know which way 't would come.
“It was a naughty world, and where to sell
“His precious charge, was more than he could tell.”
“But you succeeded?”—True, at mighty cost,
And our good friend, I fear, will think he's lost:
Inns, horses, chaises, dinners, balls, and notes;
What fill'd their purses, and what drench'd their throats;

105

The private pension, and indulgent lease,—
Have all been granted to these friends who fleece;
Friends who will hang like burs upon his coat,
And boundless judge the value of a vote.
And though the terrors of the time be pass'd,
There still remain the scatterings of the blast;
The boughs are parted that entwined before,
And ancient harmony exists no more;
The gusts of wrath our peaceful seats deform,
And sadly flows the sighing of the storm:
Those who have gain'd are sorry for the gloom,
But they who lost, unwilling peace should come;
There open envy, here suppress'd delight,
Yet live till time shall better thoughts excite,
And so prepare us, by a six-years' truce,
Again for riot, insult, and abuse.
Our worthy Mayor, on the victorious part,
Cries out for peace, and cries with all his heart;
He, civil creature! ever does his best,
To banish wrath from every voter's breast;
“For where,” says he, with reason strong and plain,
“Where is the profit? what will anger gain?”
His short stout person he is wont to brace
In good brown broad-cloth, edged with two-inch lace,
When in his seat; and still the coat seems new,
Preserved by common use of seaman's blue.
He was a Fisher from his earliest day,
And placed his nets within the Borough's bay;
Where, by his skates, his herrings, and his soles,
He lived, nor dream'd of Corporation-Doles;

106

But toiling saved, and saving, never ceased
Till he had box'd up twelvescore pounds at least
He knew not money's power, but judged it best
Safe in his trunk to let his treasure rest;
Yet to a friend complain'd: “Sad charge, to keep
“So many pounds, and then I cannot sleep:”
“Then put it out,” replied the friend:—“What, give
“My money up? why then I could not live:”
“Nay, but for interest place it in his hands,
“Who'll give you mortgage on his house or lands.’
“Oh but,” said Daniel, “that's a dangerous plan,
“He may be robb'd like any other man:”
“Still he is bound, and you may be at rest,
“More safe the money than within your chest;
“And you'll receive, from all deductions clear,
“Five pounds for every hundred, every year.”
“What good in that?” quoth Daniel, “for 'tis plain,
“If part I take, there can but part remain:”
“What! you, my friend, so skill'd in gainful things,
“Have you to learn what Interest money brings?”
“Not so,” said Daniel, “perfectly I know,
“He's the most interest who has most to show.”
“True! and he'll show the more, the more he lends;
“Thus he his weight and consequence extends;
“For they who borrow must restore each sum,
“And pay for use. What, Daniel, art thou dumb?”

107

For much amazed was that good man.—“Indeed!
Said he with glad'ning eye, “will money breed?
“How have I lived? I grieve, with all my heart,
“For my late knowledge in this precious art:—
“Five pounds for every hundred will he give?
“And then the hundred?—I begin to live.”—
So he began, and other means he found,
As he went on, to multiply a pound:
Though blind so long to Interest, all allow
That no man better understands it now:
Him in our Body-Corporate we chose,
And once among us, he above us rose;
Stepping from post to post, he reach'd the Chair,
And there he now reposes—that's the Mayor.
But 't is not he, 't is not the kinder few,
The mild, the good, who can our peace renew;
A peevish humour swells in every eye,
The warm are angry, and the cool are shy;
There is no more the social board at whist,
The good old partners are with scorn dismiss'd;

108

No more with dog and lantern comes the maid,
To guide the mistress when the rubber's play'd;
Sad shifts are made lest ribands blue and green
Should at one table, at one time, be seen:
On care and merit none will now rely,
'T is Party sells, what party-friends must buy;
The warmest burgess wears a bodger's coat,
And fashion gains less int'rest than a vote;
Uncheck'd the vintner still his poison vends,
For he too votes, and can command his friends.
But this admitted; be it still agreed,
These ill effects from noble cause proceed;
Though like some vile excrescences they be,
The tree they spring from is a sacred tree,
And its true produce, Strength and Liberty.
Yet if we could th' attendant ills suppress,
If we could make the sum of mischief less;
If we could warm and angry men persuade
No more man's common comforts to invade;
And that old ease and harmony re-seat
In all our meetings, so in joy to meet;
Much would of glory to the Muse ensue,
And our good Vicar would have less to do.

109

LETTER VI. PROFESSIONS—LAW.

Quid leges sine moribus
Vanæ proficiunt?
—Horace.

Væ! misero mihi, mea nunc facinora
Aperiuntur, clam quæ speravi fore.
—Manilius.


110

Trades and Professions of every Kind to be found in the Borough—Its Seamen and Soldiers—Law, the Danger of the Subject—Coddrington's Offence—Attorneys increased; their splendid Appearance, how supported—Some worthy Exceptions—Spirit of Litigation, how stirred up—A Boy articled as a Clerk; his Ideas—How this Profession perverts the Judgment—Actions appear through this Medium in a false Light—Success from honest Application—Archer, a worthy Character—Swallow, a Character of different Kind —His Origin, Progress, Success, &c.


111

Trades and Professions”—these are themes the Muse,
Left to her freedom, would forbear to choose;
But to our Borough they in truth belong,
And we, perforce, must take them in our song.
Be it then known that we can boast of these
In all denominations, ranks, degrees;
All who our numerous wants through life supply,
Who soothe us sick, attend us when we die,
Or for the dead their various talents try.
Then have we those who live by secret arts,
By hunting fortunes, and by stealing hearts;
Or who by nobler means themselves advance,
Or who subsist by charity and chance.
Say, of our native heroes shall I boast,
Born in our streets, to thunder on our coast,
Our Borough-seamen? Could the timid Muse
More patriot-ardour in their breasts infuse;

112

Or could she paint their merit or their skill,
She wants not love, alacrity, or will:
But needless all; that ardour is their own,
And for their deeds, themselves have made them known.
Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil!
Who from destruction save us; who from spoil
Protect the sons of peace, who traffic, or who toil;
Would I could duly praise you; that each deed
Your foes might honour, and your friends might read:
This too is needless; you've imprinted well
Your powers, and told what I should feebly tell:
Beside, a Muse like mine, to satire prone,
Would fail in themes where there is praise alone.
—Law shall I sing, or what to Law belongs?
Alas! there may be danger in such songs;
A foolish rhyme, 'tis said, a trifling thing,
The law found treason, for it touch'd the King.
But kings have mercy, in these happy times,
Or surely One had suffer'd for his rhymes;
Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold,
So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold;
But he escaped,—nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I,
Who love my king, for such offence to die.
But I am taught the danger would be much,
If these poor lines should one attorney touch—

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(One of those Limbs of Law who're always here;
The Heads come down to guide them twice a year).
I might not swing, indeed, but he in sport
Would whip a rhymer on from court to court;
Stop him in each, and make him pay for all
The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall:—
Then let my numbers flow discreetly on,
Warn'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington,
Lest some attorney (pardon me the name)
Should wound a poor solicitor for fame.
One Man of Law in George the Second's reign
Was all our frugal fathers would maintain;

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He too was kept for forms; a man of peace,
To frame a contract, or to draw a lease:
He had a clerk, with whom he used to write
All the day long, with whom he drank at night;
Spare was his visage, moderate his bill,
And he so kind, men doubted of his skill.
Who thinks of this, with some amazement sees,
For one so poor, three flourishing at ease;
Nay, one in splendour!—see that mansion tall,
That lofty door, the far-resounding hall;
Well-furnish'd rooms, plate shining on the board,
Gay liveried lads, and cellar proudly stored:
Then say how comes it that such fortunes crown
These sons of strife, these terrors of the town?
Lo! that small Office! there th' incautious guest
Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest;
There in his web, th' observant spider lies,
And peers about for fat intruding flies;
Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum,
And feels them flutt'ring as they nearer come;
They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread
On the strong bird-lime of the utmost thread;
But when they're once entangled by the gin,
With what an eager clasp he draws them in;
Nor shall they 'scape, till after long delay,
And all that sweetens life is drawn away.
“Nay, this,” you cry, “is common-place, the tale
“Of petty tradesmen o'er their evening ale;

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“There are who, living by the legal pen,
“Are held in honour,—‘honourable men.’”
Doubtless—there are who hold manorial courts,
Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports;
Or who, by labouring through a length of time,
Have pick'd their way, unsullied by a crime.
These are the few—In this, in every place,
Fix the litigious rupture-stirring race;
Who to contention as to trade are led,
To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread.
There is a doubtful Pauper, and we think
'Tis not with us to give him meat and drink;
There is a Child; and 'tis not mighty clear
Whether the mother lived with us a year:
A Road's indicted, and our seniors doubt
If in our proper boundary or without:
But what says our Attorney? He, our friend,
Tells us 'tis just and manly to contend.
“What! to a neighbouring parish yield your cause,
“While you have money, and the nation laws?
“What! lose without a trial, that which, tried,
“May—nay it must—be given on our side?
“All men of spirit would contend; such men
“Than lose a pound would rather hazard ten.
“What! be imposed on? No! a British soul
“Despises imposition, hates control;

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“The law is open; let them, if they dare,
“Support their cause; the Borough need not spare
“All I advise is vigour and good-will:
“Is it agreed then?—Shall I file a bill?”
The trader, grazier, merchant, priest, and all,
Whose sons aspiring, to Professions call,
Choose from their lads some bold and subtle boy,
And judge him fitted for this grave employ:
Him a keen old practitioner admits,
To write five years and exercise his wits:
The youth has heard—it is in fact his creed—
Mankind dispute, that Lawyers may be fee'd:
Jails, bailiffs, writs, all terms and threats of law,
Grow now familiar as once top and taw;
Rage, hatred, fear, the mind's severer ills,
All bring employment, all augment his bills:
As feels the surgeon for the mangled limb,
The mangled mind is but a job for him;
Thus taught to think, these legal reasoners draw
Morals and maxims from their views of Law;
They cease to judge by precepts taught in schools,
By man's plain sense, or by religious rules;
No! nor by law itself, in truth discern'd,
But as its statutes may be warp'd and turn'd:
How they should judge of man; his word and deed,
They in their books and not their bosoms read:
Of some good act you speak with just applause,
“No, no!” says he, “'twould be a losing cause.”
Blame you some tyrant's deed?—he answers, “Nay,
“He'll get a verdict; heed you what you say.”
Thus to conclusions from examples led,
The heart resigns all judgment to the head;

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Law, law alone for ever kept in view,
His measures guides, and rules his conscience too;
Of ten commandments, he confesses three
Are yet in force, and tells you which they be,
As Law instructs him, thus: “Your neighbour's wife
“You must not take, his chattels, nor his life;
“Break these decrees, for damage you must pay;
“These you must reverence, and the rest—you may.”
Law was design'd to keep a state in peace;
To punish robbery, that wrong might cease;

118

To be impregnable; a constant fort,
To which the weak and injured might resort
But these perverted minds its force employ,
Not to protect mankind, but to annoy;
And long as ammunition can be found,
Its lightning flashes and its thunders sound.
Or law with lawyers is an ample still,
Wrought by the passions' heat with chymic skill;
While the fire burns, the gains are quickly made,
And freely flow the profits of the trade;
Nay, when the fierceness fails, these artists blow
The dying fire, and make the embers glow,
As long as they can make the smaller profits flow;
At length the process of itself will stop,
When they perceive they've drawn out every drop.
Yet, I repeat, there are, who nobly strive
To keep the sense of moral worth alive;
Men who would starve, ere meanly deign to live
On what deception and chican'ry give;
And these at length succeed; they have their strife,
Their apprehensions, stops, and rubs in life;
But honour, application, care, and skill,
Shall bend opposing fortune to their will.

119

Of such is Archer, he who keeps in awe
Contending parties by his threats of law:
He, roughly honest, has been long a guide
In Borough-business, on the conquering side;
And seen so much of both sides, and so long,
He thinks the bias of man's mind goes wrong:
Thus, though he's friendly, he is still severe,
Surly though kind, suspiciously sincere:
So much he's seen of baseness in the mind,
That, while a friend to man, he scorns mankind;
He knows the human heart, and sees with dread,
By slight temptation, how the strong are led;
He knows how interest can asunder rend
The bond of parent, master, guardian, friend,
To form a new and a degrading tie
'Twixt needy vice and tempting villany.
Sound in himself, yet when such flaws appear,
He doubts of all, and learns that self to fear:
For where so dark the moral view is grown,
A timid conscience trembles for her own;
The pitchy-taint of general vice is such
As daubs the fancy, and you dread the touch.
Far unlike him was one in former times,
Famed for the spoil he gather'd by his crimes;
Who, while his brethren nibbling held their prey,
He like an eagle seized and bore the whole away.
Swallow, a poor Attorney, brought his boy
Up at his desk, and gave him his employ;
He would have bound him to an honest trade,
Could preparations have been duly made.
The clerkship ended, both the sire and son
Together did what business could be done;

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Sometimes they'd luck to stir up small disputes
Among their friends, and raise them into suits:
Though close and hard, the father was content
With this resource, now old and indolent:
But his young Swallow, gaping and alive
To fiercer feelings, was resolved to thrive:—
“Father,” he said, “but little can they win,
“Who hunt in couples where the game is thin;
“Let's part in peace, and each pursue his gain,
“Where it may start—our love may yet remain.
The parent growl'd, he couldn't think that love
Made the young cockatrice his den remove;
But, taught by habit, he the truth suppress'd,
Forced a frank look, and said he “thought it best.”
Not long they'd parted ere dispute arose;
The game they hunted quickly made them foes:
Some house, the father by his art had won,
Seem'd a fit cause of contest to the son,
Who raised a claimant, and then found a way
By a staunch witness to secure his prey.
The people cursed him, but in times of need
Trusted in one so certain to succeed:
By Law's dark by-ways he had stored his mind
With wicked knowledge, how to cheat mankind.
Few are the freeholds in our ancient town;
A copy-right from heir to heir came down,
From whence some heat arose, when there was doubt
In point of heirship; but the fire went out,
Till our Attorney had the art to raise
The dying spark, and blow it to a blaze:
For this he now began his friends to treat;
His way to starve them was to make them eat,

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And drink oblivious draughts—to his applause,
It must be said, he never starved a cause;
He'd roast and boil'd upon his board; the boast
Of half his victims was his boil'd and roast;
And these at every hour:—he seldom took
Aside his client, till he'd praised his cook;
Nor to an office led him, there in pain
To give his story and go out again;
But first, the brandy and the chine were seen,
And then the business came by starts between.
“Well, if 't is so, the house to you belongs;
“But have you money to redress these wrongs?
“Nay, look not sad, my friend; if you're correct,
“You'll find the friendship that you'd not expect.”
If right the man, the house was Swallow's own;
If wrong, his kindness and good will were shown:
“Rogue!” “Villain!” “Scoundrel!” cried the losers all:
He let them cry, for what would that recall?
At length he left us, took a village seat,
And like a vulture look'd abroad for meat;
The Borough-booty, give it all its praise,
Had only served the appetite to raise;
But if from simple heirs he drew their land,
He might a noble feast at will command;
Still he proceeded by his former rules,
His bait, their pleasures, when he fish'd for fools—
Flagons and haunches on his board were placed,
And subtle avarice look'd like thoughtless waste:
Most of his friends, though youth from him had fled,
Were young, were minors, of their sires in dread;
Or those whom widow'd mothers kept in bounds,
And check'd their generous rage for steeds and hounds;

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Or such as travell'd 'cross the land to view
A Christian's conflict with a boxing Jew:
Some too had run upon Newmarket heath
With so much speed that they were out of breath;
Others had tasted claret, till they now
To humbler port would turn, and knew not how.
All these for favours would to Swallow run,
Who never sought their thanks for all he'd done
He kindly took them by the hand, then bow'd
Politely low, and thus his love avow'd—
(For he'd a way that many judged polite,
A cunning dog—he'd fawn before he'd bite)—
“Observe, my friends, the frailty of our race
“When age unmans us—let me state a case:
“There's our friend Rupert—we shall soon redress
“His present evil—drink to our success—
“I flatter not; but did you ever see
“Limbs better turn'd? a prettier boy than he?
“His senses all acute, his passions such
“As nature gave—she never does too much;
“His the bold wish the cup of joy to drain,
“And strength to bear it without qualm or pain.
“Now view his father as he dozing lies,
“Whose senses wake not when he opes his eyes;
“Who slips and shuffles when he means to walk,
“And lisps and gabbles if he tries to talk;
“Feeling he's none—he could as soon destroy
“The earth itself, as aught it holds enjoy;
“A nurse attends him to lay straight his limbs,
“Present his gruel, and respect his whims:

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“Now shall this dotard from our hero hold
“His lands and lordships? Shall he hide his gold?
“That which he cannot use, and dare not show,
“And will not give—why longer should he owe?
“Yet, 'twould be murder should we snap the locks,
“And take the thing he worships from the box;
“So let him dote and dream: but, till he die,
“Shall not our generous heir receive supply?
“For ever sitting on the river's brink,
“And ever thirsty, shall he fear to drink?
“The means are simple, let him only wish,
“Then say he's willing, and I'll fill his dish.”
They all applauded, and not least the boy,
Who now replied, “It fill'd his heart with joy
“To find he needed not deliv'rance crave
“Of death, or wish the Justice in the grave;
“Who, while he spent, would every art retain,
“Of luring home the scatter'd gold again;
“Just as a fountain gaily spirts and plays
“With what returns in still and secret ways.”
Short was the dream of bliss; he quickly found,
His father's acres all were Swallow's ground.
Yet to those arts would other heroes lend
A willing ear, and Swallow was their friend;
Ever successful, some began to think
That Satan help'd him to his pen and ink;
And shrewd suspicions ran about the place,
“There was a compact”—I must leave the case.
But of the parties, had the fiend been one,
The business could not have been speedier done:
Still when a man has angled day and night,
The silliest gudgeons will refuse to bite:

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So Swallow tried no more; but if they came
To seek his friendship, that remain'd the same:
Thus he retired in peace, and some would say
He'd balk'd his partner, and had learn'd to pray.
To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought
How Swallow felt, then said “a change is wrought.”
'Twas true there wanted all the signs of grace,
But there were strong professions in their place;
Then, too, the less that men from him expect,
The more the praise to the converting sect;
He had not yet subscribed to all their creed,
Nor own'd a Call, but he confess'd the need:
His acquiescent speech, his gracious look,
That pure attention, when the brethren spoke,
Was all contrition,—he had felt the wound,
And with confession would again be sound.
True, Swallow's board had still the sumptuous treat;
But could they blame? the warmest zealots eat:
He drank—'twas needful his poor nerves to brace;
He swore—'twas habit; he was grieved—'twas grace:
What could they do a new-born zeal to nurse?
“His wealth's undoubted—let him hold our purse;
“He'll add his bounty, and the house we'll raise
“Hard by the church, and gather all her strays:
“We'll watch her sinners as they home retire,
“And pluck the brands from the devouring fire.”
Alas! such speech was but an empty boast;
The good men reckon'd, but without their host;
Swallow, delighted, took the trusted store,
And own'd the sum: they did not ask for more,

125

Till more was needed; when they call'd for aid—
And had it?—No, their agent was afraid:
“Could he but know to whom he should refund,
“He would most gladly—nay, he'd go beyond;
“But when such numbers claim'd, when some were gone,
“And others going—he must hold it on;
“The Lord would help them”—Loud their anger grew,
And while they threat'ning from his door withdrew,
He bow'd politely low, and bade them all adieu.
But lives the man by whom such deeds are done?
Yes, many such—but Swallow's race is run;
His name is lost,—for though his sons have name,
It is not his, they all escape the shame;
Nor is there vestige now of all he had,
His means are wasted, for his heir was mad:
Still we of Swallow as a monster speak,
A hard bad man, who prey'd upon the weak.

127

LETTER VII. PROFESSIONS—PHYSIC.

Finirent multi letho mala; credula vitam
Spes alit, et melius cras fore semper ait.
—Tibullus.

He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat. . . .
For as those fowls that live in water
Are never wet, he did but smatter;
Whate'er he labour'd to appear,
His understanding still was clear.
A paltry wretch he had, half-starved,
That him in place of zany served.
Butler's Hudibras.


128

The Worth and Excellence of the true Physician—Merit, not the sole Cause of Success—Modes of advancing Reputation —Motives of medical Men for publishing their Works— The great Evil of Quackery—Present State of advertising Quacks—Their Hazard—Some fail, and why—Causes of Success—How Men of understanding are prevailed upon to have Recourse to Empirics, and to permit their Names to be advertised—Evils of Quackery: to nervous Females: to Youth: to Infants—History of an advertising Empiric, &c.


129

Next, to a graver tribe we turn our view,
And yield the praise to worth and science due;
But this with serious words and sober style,
For these are friends with whom we seldom smile:
Helpers of Men they're call'd, and we confess
Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess;
We own that numbers join with care and skill,
A temperate judgment, a devoted will;
Men who suppress their feelings, but who feel
The painful symptoms they delight to heal;

130

Patient in all their trials, they sustain
The starts of passion, the reproach of pain;
With hearts affected, but with looks serene,
Intent they wait through all the solemn scene;
Glad if a hope should rise from nature's strife,
To aid their skill and save the lingering life;
But this must virtue's generous effort be,
And spring from nobler motives than a fee:
To the Physician of the Soul, and these,
Turn the distress'd for safety, hope, and ease.
But as physicians of that nobler kind
Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind;
So among these for knowledge most renown'd,
Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found:

131

Some, too, admitted to this honour'd name,
Have, without learning, found a way to fame;
And some by learning—young physicians write,
To set their merit in the fairest light;
With them a treatise is a bait that draws
Approving voices—'tis to gain applause,
And to exalt them in the public view,
More than a life of worthy toil could do.
When 'tis proposed to make the man renown'd,
In every age, convenient doubts abound;
Convenient themes in every period start,
Which he may treat with all the pomp of art;
Curious conjectures he may always make,
And either side of dubious questions take:
He may a system broach, or, if he please,
Start new opinions of an old disease;
Or may some simple in the woodland trace,
And be its patron, till it runs its race;
As rustic damsels from their woods are won,
And live in splendour till their race be run;
It weighs not much on what their powers be shown,
When all his purpose is to make them known.
To show the world what long experience gains,
Requires not courage, though it calls for pains;
But at life's outset to inform mankind,
Is a bold effort of a valiant mind.

132

The great good man, for noblest cause displays
What many labours taught, and many days;
These sound instruction from experience give,
The others show us how they mean to live.
That they have genius, and they hope mankind
Will to its efforts be no longer blind.
There are, beside, whom powerful friends advance,
Whom fashion favours, person, patrons, chance:
And merit sighs to see a fortune made
By daring rashness or by dull parade.
But these are trifling evils; there is one
Which walks uncheck'd, and triumphs in the sun:
There was a time, when we beheld the Quack,
On public stage, the licensed trade attack;
He made his labour'd speech with poor parade;
And then a laughing zany lent him aid:
Smiling we pass'd him, but we felt the while
Pity so much, that soon we ceased to smile;
Assured that fluent speech and flow'ry vest
Disguised the troubles of a man distress'd:—
But now our Quacks are gamesters, and they play
With craft and skill to ruin and betray;
With monstrous promise they delude the mind,
And thrive on all that tortures human-kind.
Void of all honour, avaricious, rash,
The daring tribe compound their boasted trash—

133

Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill;
All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill;
And twenty names of cobblers turn'd to squires,
Aid the bold language of these blushless liars.
There are among them those who cannot read,
And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed;
Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid,
For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid?
With cruel avarice still they recommend
More draughts, more syrup to the journey's end:
“I feel it not;”—“Then take it every hour:”
“It makes me worse;”—“Why then it shows its power:”
“I fear to die;”—“Let not your spirits sink,
“You're always safe, while you believe and drink.”
How strange to add, in this nefarious trade,
That men of parts are dupes by dunces made:

134

That creatures, nature meant should clean our streets,
Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and seats;
Wretches with conscience so obtuse, they leave
Their untaught sons their parents to deceive;
And when they're laid upon their dying-bed,
No thought of murder comes into their head;
Nor one revengeful ghost to them appears,
To fill the soul with penitential fears.
Yet not the whole of this imposing train
Their gardens, seats, and carriages obtain;
Chiefly, indeed, they to the robbers fall,
Who are most fitted to disgrace them all:
But there is hazard—patents must be bought,
Venders and puffers for the poison sought;

135

And then in many a paper through the year,
Must cures and cases, oaths and proofs appear;
Men snatch'd from graves, as they were dropping in,
Their lungs cough'd up, their bones pierced through their skin;
Their liver all one scirrhus, and the frame
Poison'd with evils which they dare not name;
Men who spent all upon physicians' fees,
Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease,
Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as bees.
If the sick gudgeons to the bait attend,
And come in shoals, the angler gains his end;
But should the advertising cash be spent,
Ere yet the town has due attention lent,
Then bursts the bubble, and the hungry cheat
Pines for the bread he ill deserves to eat;
It is a lottery, and he shares perhaps
The rich man's feast, or begs the pauper's scraps.
From powerful causes spring th' empiric's gains,
Man's love of life, his weakness, and his pains;
These first induce him the vile trash to try,
Then lend his name, that other men may buy:
This love of life, which in our nature rules,
To vile imposture makes us dupes and tools;

136

Then pain compels th' impatient soul to seize
On promised hopes of instantaneous ease;
And weakness too with every wish complies,
Worn out and won by importunities.
Troubled with something in your bile or blood,
You think your doctor does you little good;
And grown impatient, you require in haste
The nervous cordial, nor dislike the taste;
It comforts, heals, and strengthens; nay, you think
It makes you better every time you drink;
“Then lend your name”—you're loth, but yet confess
Its powers are great, and so you acquiesce:
Yet think a moment, ere your name you lend,
With whose 'tis placed, and what you recommend;
Who tipples brandy will some comfort feel,
But will he to the med'cine set his seal?
Wait, and you'll find the cordial you admire
Has added fuel to your fever's fire:
Say, should a robber chance your purse to spare,
Would you the honour of the man declare?
Would you assist his purpose? swell his crime?
Besides, he might not spare a second time.
Compassion sometimes sets the fatal sign,
The man was poor, and humbly begg'd a line;

137

Else how should noble names and titles back
The spreading praise of some advent'rous quack?
But he the moment watches, and entreats
Your honour's name,—your honour joins the cheats;
You judged the med'cine harmless, and you lent
What help you could, and with the best intent;
But can it please you, thus to league with all
Whom he can beg or bribe to swell the scrawl?
Would you these wrappers with your name adorn,
Which hold the poison for the yet unborn?
No class escapes them—from the poor man's pay,
The nostrum takes no trifling part away;
See! those square patent bottles from the shop,
Now decoration to the cupboard's top;
And there a favourite hoard you'll find within,
Companions meet! the julep and the gin.
Time too with cash is wasted; 'tis the fate
Of real helpers to be call'd too late;
This find the sick, when (time and patience gone)
Death with a tenfold terror hurries on.
Suppose the case surpasses human skill,
There comes a quack to flatter weakness still;
What greater evil can a flatterer do,
Than from himself to take the sufferer's view?
To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers,
And rob a sinner of his dying hours?
Yet this they dare, and craving to the last,
In hope's strong bondage hold their victim fast:
For soul or body no concern have they,
All their enquiry, “Can the patient pay?
“And will he swallow draughts until his dying day?”

138

Observe what ills to nervous females flow,
When the heart flutters, and the pulse is low;
If once induced these cordial sips to try,
All feel the ease, and few the danger fly;
For, while obtain'd, of drams they've all the force.
And when denied, then drams are the resource.
Nor these the only evils—there are those
Who for the troubled mind prepare repose;
They write: the young are tenderly address'd,
Much danger hinted, much concern express'd;
They dwell on freedoms lads are prone to take,
Which makes the doctor tremble for their sake;
Still if the youthful patient will but trust
In one so kind, so pitiful, and just;
If he will take the tonic all the time,
And hold but moderate intercourse with crime;
The sage will gravely give his honest word,
That strength and spirits shall be both restored;
In plainer English—if you mean to sin,
Fly to the drops, and instantly begin.
Who would not lend a sympathising sigh,
To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry?
That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note,
Which came with vigour from the op'ning throat;
When air and light first rush'd on lungs and eyes,
And there was life and spirit in the cries;
Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep,
Is all we hear; sensation is asleep:
The boy was healthy, and at first express'd
His feelings loudly when he fail'd to rest;
When cramm'd with food, and tighten'd every limb.
To cry aloud, was what pertain'd to him;

139

Then the good nurse, (who, had she borne a brain,
Had sought the cause that made her babe complain,)
Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied
To set the cry, and not the cause, aside;
She gave her powerful sweet without remorse,
The sleeping cordial—she had tried its force,
Repeating oft: the infant, freed from pain,
Rejected food, but took the dose again,
Sinking to sleep; while she her joy express'd,
That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest:
Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt
Remains, but quickly he will rest without.
This moves our grief and pity, and we sigh
To think what numbers from these causes die;
But what contempt and anger should we show,
Did we the lives of these impostors know!
Ere for the world's I left the cares of school,
One I remember who assumed the fool;
A part well suited—when the idler boys
Would shout around him, and he loved the noise;
They called him Neddy;—Neddy had the art
To play with skill his ignominious part;
When he his trifles would for sale display,
And act the mimic for a school boy's pay.
For many years he plied his humble trade,
And used his tricks and talents to persuade;
The fellow barely read, but chanced to look
Among the fragments of a tatter'd book;
Where, after many efforts made to spell
One puzzling word, he found it oxymel;
A potent thing, 'twas said to cure the ills
Of ailing lungs—the oxymel of squills;

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Squills he procured, but found the bitter strong
And most unpleasant; none would take it long;
But the pure acid and the sweet would make
A med'cine numbers would for pleasure take.
There was a fellow near, an artful knave,
Who knew the plan, and much assistance gave;
He wrote the puffs, and every talent plied
To make it sell: it sold, and then he died.
Now all the profit fell to Ned's control,
And Pride and Avarice quarrell'd for his soul;
When mighty profits by the trash were made,
Pride built a palace, Avarice groan'd and paid;
Pride placed the signs of grandeur all about,
And Avarice barr'd his friends and children out
Now see him Doctor! yes, the idle fool,
The butt, the robber of the lads at school;
Who then knew nothing, nothing since acquired,
Became a doctor, honour'd and admired;
His dress, his frown, his dignity were such,
Some who had known him thought his knowledge much,
Nay, men of skill, of apprehension quick,
Spite of their knowledge, trusted him when sick
Though he could neither reason, write, nor spell,
They yet had hope his trash would make them well;
And while they scorn'd his parts, they took his oxymel.
Oh! when his nerves had once received a shock,
Sir Isaac Newton might have gone to Rock:
Hence impositions of the grossest kind,
Hence thought is feeble, understanding blind

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Hence sums enormous by those cheats are made,
And deaths unnumber'd by their dreadful trade.
Alas! in vain is my contempt express'd,
To stronger passions are their words address'd;
To pain, to fear, to terror their appeal,
To those who, weakly reasoning, strongly feel.
What then our hopes?—perhaps there may by law
Be method found, these pests to curb and awe;
Yet in this land of freedom, law is slack
With any being to commence attack;
Then let us trust to science—there are those
Who can their falsehoods and their frauds disclose,
All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks expose:
Perhaps their numbers may in time confound
Their arts—as scorpions give themselves the wound:
For when these curers dwell in every place,
While of the cured we not a man can trace,
Strong truth may then the public mind persuade,
And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade.

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LETTER VIII. TRADES.

Non possidentem multa vocaveris
Recte beatum: rectius occupat
Nomen Beati, qui Deorum
Muneribus sapienter uti,
Duramque callet pauperiem pati.
Hor. lib. iv. Ode 9.

Non propter vitam faciunt patrimonia quidam,
Sed vitio cæci propter patrimonia vivunt.
Juvenal, Sat. 12.


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No extensive manufactories in the Borough: yet considerable Fortunes made there—Ill Judgment of Parents in disposing of their Sons—The best educated not the most likely to succeed—Instance—Want of Success compensated by the lenient Power of some Avocations—The Naturalist—The Weaver an Entomologist, &c.—A Prize-Flower—Story of Walter and William.


145

Of manufactures, trade, inventions rare,
Steam-towers and looms, you'd know our Borough's share—
'Tis small: we boast not these rich subjects here,
Who hazard thrice ten thousand pounds a year;
We've no huge buildings, where incessant noise
Is made by springs and spindles, girls and boys;
Where, 'mid such thundering sounds, the maiden's song
Is “Harmony in Uproar” all day long.
Still common minds with us in common trade,
Have gain'd more wealth than ever student made;
And yet a merchant, when he gives his son
His college-learning, thinks his duty done;
A way to wealth he leaves his boy to find,
Just when he's made for the discovery blind.

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Jones and his wife perceived their elder boy
Took to his learning, and it gave them joy;
This they encouraged, and were bless'd to see
Their son a fellow with a high degree;
A living fell, he married, and his sire
Declared 'twas all a father could require;
Children then bless'd them, and when letters came,
The parents proudly told each grandchild's name.
Meantime the sons at home in trade were placed,
Money their object—just the father's taste;
Saving he lived and long, and when he died,
He gave them all his fortune to divide:
“Martin,” said he, “at vast expense was taught;
“He gain'd his wish, and has the ease he sought.”
Thus the good priest (the Christian scholar!) finds
What estimate is made by vulgar minds;
He sees his brothers, who had every gift
Of thriving, now assisted in their thrift;
While he whom learning, habits, all prevent,
Is largely mulct for each impediment.
Yet let us own that Trade has much of chance,
Not all the careful by their care advance;
With the same parts and prospects, one a seat
Builds for himself; one finds it in the Fleet.
Then to the wealthy you will see denied,
Comforts and joys that with the poor abide:
There are who labour through the year, and yet
No more have gain'd than—not to be in debt;
Who still maintain the same laborious course,
Yet pleasure hails them from some favourite source;

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And health, amusements, children, wife, or friend,
With life's dull views their consolations blend.
Nor these alone possess the lenient power
Of soothing life in the desponding hour;
Some favourite studies, some delightful care,
The mind, with trouble and distresses, share;
And by a coin, a flower, a verse, a boat,
The stagnant spirits have been set afloat;
They pleased at first, and then the habit grew,
Till the fond heart no higher pleasure knew;
Till, from all cares and other comforts freed,
Th' important nothing took in life the lead.
With all his phlegm, it broke a Dutchman's heart,
At a vast price, with one loved root to part;
And toys like these fill many a British mind,
Although their hearts are found of firmer kind.
Oft have I smiled the happy pride to see
Of humble tradesmen, in their evening glee;
When of some pleasing, fancied good possess'd,
Each grew alert, was busy, and was bless'd;
Whether the call-bird yield the hour's delight,
Or, magnified in microscope, the mite;

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Or whether tumblers, croppers, carriers seize
The gentle mind, they rule it and they please.
There is my friend the Weaver; strong desires
Reign in his breast; 'tis beauty he admires:
See! to the shady grove he wings his way,
And feels in hope the raptures of the day—
Eager he looks; and soon, to glad his eyes,
From the sweet bower, by nature form'd, arise
Bright troops of virgin moths and fresh-born butterflies;
Who broke that morning from their half-year's sleep,
To fly o'er flowers where they were wont to creep.
Above the sovereign oak, a sovereign skims,
The purple Emp'ror, strong in wing and limbs:
There fair Camilla takes her flight serene,
Adonis blue, and Paphia silver-queen;
With every filmy fly from mead or bower,
And hungry Sphinx who threads the honey'd flower;
She o'er the Larkspur's bed, where sweets abound,
Views ev'ry bell, and hums th' approving sound;
Poised on her busy plumes, with feeling nice
She draws from every flower, nor tries a floret twice.
He fears no bailiff's wrath, no baron's blame,
His is untax'd and undisputed game;
Nor less the place of curious plant he knows;
He both his Flora and his Fauna shows;

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For him is blooming in its rich array
The glorious flower which bore the palm away;
In vain a rival tried his utmost art,
His was the prize, and joy o'erflow'd his heart.
“This, this! is beauty; cast, I pray, your eyes
“On this my glory! see the grace! the size!
“Was ever stem so tall, so stout, so strong,
“Exact in breadth, in just proportion, long!
“These brilliant hues are all distinct and clean,
“No kindred tint, no blending streaks between;
“This is no shaded, run-off, pin-eyed thing,
“A king of flowers, a flower for England's king:
“I own my pride, and thank the favouring star,
“Which shed such beauty on my fair Bizarre.”
Thus may the poor the cheap indulgence seize,
While the most wealthy pine and pray for ease;
Content not always waits upon success,
And more may he enjoy who profits less.
Walter and William took (their father dead)
Jointly the trade to which they both were bred;
When fix'd, they married, and they quickly found
With due success their honest labours crown'd:

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Few were their losses, but although a few,
Walter was vex'd, and somewhat peevish grew:
“You put your trust in every pleading fool,”
Said he to William, and grew strange and cool.
“Brother, forbear,” he answer'd; “take your due,
“Nor let my lack of caution injure you:”
Half friends they parted,—better so to close,
Than longer wait to part entirely foes.
Walter had knowledge, prudence, jealous care;
He let no idle views his bosom share;
He never thought nor felt for other men—
“Let one mind one, and all are minded then.”
Friends he respected, and believed them just,
But they were men, and he would no man trust;
He tried and watch'd his people day and night,—
The good it harm'd not; for the bad 'twas right:
He could their humours bear, nay disrespect,
But he could yield no pardon to neglect;
That all about him were of him afraid,
“Was right,” he said—“so should we be obey'd.”
These merchant-maxims, much good fortune too,
And ever keeping one grand point in view,
To vast amount his once small portion drew.
William was kind and easy; he complied
With all requests, or grieved when he denied;
To please his wife he made a costly trip,
To please his child he let a bargain slip;
Prone to compassion, mild with the distress'd,
He bore with all who poverty profess'd,
And some would he assist, nor one would he arrest.
He had some loss at sea, bad debts at land,
His clerk absconded with some bills in hand,
And plans so often fail'd that he no longer plann'd.

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To a small house (his brother's) he withdrew,
At easy rent—the man was not a Jew;
And there his losses and his cares he bore,
Nor found that want of wealth could make him poor.
No, he in fact was rich; nor could he move,
But he was follow'd by the looks of love;
All he had suffer'd, every former grief,
Made those around more studious in relief;
He saw a cheerful smile in every face,
And lost all thoughts of error and disgrace.
Pleasant it was to see them in their walk
Round their small garden, and to hear them talk;
Free are their children, but their love refrains
From all offence—none murmurs, none complains;
Whether a book amused them, speech or play,
Their looks were lively, and their hearts were gay
There no forced efforts for delight were made,
Joy came with prudence, and without parade;
Their common comforts they had all in view,
Light were their troubles, and their wishes few:
Thrift made them easy for the coming day,
Religion took the dread of death away;
A cheerful spirit still ensured content,
And love smiled round them wheresoe'er they went.
Walter, meantime, with all his wealth's increase,
Gain'd many points, but could not purchase peace
When he withdrew from business for an hour,
Some fled his presence, all confess'd his power;
He sought affection, but received instead
Fear undisguised, and love-repelling dread;

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He look'd around him—“Harriet, dost thou love?”
“I do my duty,” said the timid dove;
“Good Heav'n, your duty! prithee, tell me now—
“To love and honour—was not that your vow?
“Come, my good Harriet, I would gladly seek
“Your inmost thought—Why can't the woman speak?
“Have you not all things?”—“Sir, do I complain?”—
“No, that's my part, which I perform in vain;
“I want a simple answer, and direct—
“But you evade; yes! 'tis as I suspect.
“Come then, my children! Watt! upon your knees
“Vow that you love me.”—“Yes, sir, if you please.”—
“Again! By Heav'n, it mads me; I require
“Love, and they'll do whatever I desire:
“Thus too my people shun me; I would spend
“A thousand pounds to get a single friend;
“I would be happy—I have means to pay
“For love and friendship, and you run away;
“Ungrateful creatures! why, you seem to dread
“My very looks; I know you wish me dead.
“Come hither, Nancy! you must hold me dear;
“Hither, I say; why! what have you to fear?
“You see I'm gentle—Come, you trifler, come;
“My God! she trembles!—Idiot, leave the room!
“Madam! your children hate me; I suppose
“They know their cue: you make them all my foes;
“I've not a friend in all the world—not one:
“I'd be a bankrupt sooner; nay, 'tis done;

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“In every better hope of life I fail,
“You're all tormentors, and my house a jail;
“Out of my sight! I'll sit and make my will—
“What, glad to go? stay, devils, and be still;
“'Tis to your Uncle's cot you wish to run,
“To learn to live at ease and be undone;
“Him you can love, who lost his whole estate,
“And I, who gain you fortunes, have your hate;
“'Tis in my absence, you yourselves enjoy:
“Tom! are you glad to lose me? tell me, boy:
“Yes! does he answer?—Yes! upon my soul;
“No awe, no fear, no duty, no control!
“Away! away! ten thousand devils seize
“All I possess, and plunder where they please!
“What's wealth to me?—yes, yes! it gives me sway,
“And you shall feel it—Go! begone, I say.”

155

LETTER IX. AMUSEMENTS.

Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis,
Ut possis animo quemvis sufferre laborem.
Catull. lib. 3.

------ Nostra fatiscat
Laxaturque chelys, vires instigat alitque
Tempestiva quies, major post otia virtus.
Statius, Sylv. lib. 4.

Jamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant;
Omnia pontus erant: deerant quoque littora ponto.
Ovid. Metamorph. lib. 1.


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Common Amusements of a Bathing-place—Morning Rides, Walks, &c.—Company resorting to the Town—Different Choice of Lodgings—Cheap Indulgences—Sea-side Walks —Wealthy Invalid—Summer-Evening on the Sands—Sea Productions—“Water parted from the Sea”—Winter Views serene—In what cases to be avoided—Sailing upon the River—A small Islet of Sand off the Coast—Visited by Company—Covered by the Flowing of the Tide— —Adventure in that Place.


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Of our Amusements ask you?—We amuse
Ourselves and friends with seaside walks and views,
Or take a morning ride, a novel, or the news;
Or, seeking nothing, glide about the street,
And so engaged, with various parties meet;
Awhile we stop, discourse of wind and tide,
Bathing and books, the raffle, and the ride:
Thus, with the aid which shops and sailing give,
Life passes on; 't is labour, but we live.
When evening comes, our invalids awake,
Nerves cease to tremble, heads forbear to ache;
Then cheerful meals the sunken spirits raise,
Cards or the dance, wine, visiting, or plays.
Soon as the Season comes, and crowds arrive,
To their superior rooms the wealthy drive;
Others look round for lodging snug and small,
Such is their taste—they've hatred to a hall;
Hence one his fav'rite habitation gets,
The brick-floor'd parlour which the butcher lets;

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Where, through his single light, he may regard
The various business of a common yard,
Bounded by backs of buildings form'd of clay,
By stable, sties, and coops, et cætera.
The needy-vain, themselves awhile to shun,
For dissipation to these dog-holes run;
Where each (assuming petty pomp) appears,
And quite forgets the shopboard and the shears.
For them are cheap amusements: they may slip
Beyond the town and take a private dip;
When they may urge that, to be safe they mean,
They've heard there's danger in a light machine;
They too can gratis move the quays about,
And gather kind replies to every doubt;
There they a pacing, lounging tribe may view,
The stranger's guides, who've little else to do;
The Borough's placemen, where no more they gain
Than keeps them idle, civil, poor, and vain.
Then may the poorest with the wealthy look
On ocean, glorious page of Nature's book!
May see its varying views in every hour,
All softness now, then rising with all power,
As sleeping to invite, or threat'ning to devour:
'T is this which gives us all our choicest views;
Its waters heal us, and its shores amuse.
See! those fair nymphs upon that rising strand,
Yon long salt lake has parted from the land;
Well pleased to press that path, so clean, so pure,
To seem in danger, yet to feel secure;

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Trifling with terror, while they strive to shun
The curling billows; laughing as they run;
They know the neck that joins the shore and sea,
Or, ah! how changed that fearless laugh would be.
Observe how various Parties take their way,
By seaside walks, or make the sand-hills gay;
There group'd are laughing maids and sighing swains,
And some apart who feel unpitied pains;
Pains from diseases, pains which those who feel,
To the physician, not the fair, reveal:
For nymphs (propitious to the lover's sigh)
Leave these poor patients to complain and die.
Lo! where on that huge anchor sadly leans
That sick tall figure, lost in other scenes;
He late from India's clime impatient sail'd,
There, as his fortune grew, his spirits fail'd;
For each delight, in search of wealth he went,
For ease alone, the wealth acquired is spent—
And spent in vain; enrich'd, aggrieved, he sees
The envied poor possess'd of joy and ease:
And now he flies from place to place, to gain
Strength for enjoyment, and still flies in vain:
Mark! with what sadness, of that pleasant crew,
Boist'rous in mirth, he takes a transient view;
And fixing then his eye upon the sea,
Thinks what has been and what must shortly be:
Is it not strange that man should health destroy,
For joys that come when he is dead to joy?
Now is it pleasant in the Summer-eve,
When a broad shore retiring waters leave,
Awhile to wait upon the firm fair sand,
When all is calm at sea, all still at land;

160

And there the ocean's produce to explore,
As floating by, or rolling on the shore;
Those living jellies which the flesh inflame,
Fierce as a nettle, and from that its name;
Some in huge masses, some that you may bring
In the small compass of a lady's ring;
Figured by hand divine—there's not a gem
Wrought by man's art to be compared to them;
Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow,
And make the moonbeam brighter where they flow.
Involved in sea-wrack, here you find a race,
Which science doubting, knows not where to place;
On shell or stone is dropp'd the embryo-seed,
And quickly vegetates a vital breed.
While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect
Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject,
See as they float along th' entangled weeds
Slowly approach, upborne on bladdery beads;

161

Wait till they land, and you shall then behold
The fiery sparks those tangled fronds infold,
Myriads of living points; th' unaided eye
Can but the fire and not the form descry.
And now your view upon the ocean turn,
And there the splendour of the waves discern;
Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar,
And you shall flames within the deep explore;
Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand,
And the cold flames shall flash along your hand;
When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze
On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze.

162

The ocean too has Winter-views serene,
When all you see through densest fog is seen;
When you can hear the fishers near at hand
Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand;
Or sometimes them and not their boat discern
Or half-conceal'd some figure at the stern;
The view's all bounded, and from side to side
Your utmost prospect but a few ells wide;
Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast,
Will hear it strike against the viewless mast;
While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain,
At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain.
'T is pleasant then to view the nets float past,
Net after net till you have seen the last;
And as you wait till all beyond you slip,
A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship,
Breaking the silence with the dipping oar,
And their own tones, as labouring for the shore,
Those measured tones which with the scene agree,
And give a sadness to serenity.
All scenes like these the tender Maid should shun,
Nor to a misty beach in autumn run;
Much should she guard against the evening cold,
And her slight shape with fleecy warmth infold;
This she admits, but not with so much ease
Gives up the night-walk when th' attendants please:
Her have I seen, pale, vapour'd through the day,
With crowded parties at the midnight play;

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Faint in the morn, no powers could she exert;
At night with Pam delighted and alert;
In a small shop she's raffled with a crowd,
Breath'd the thick air, and cough'd and laugh'd aloud;
She who will tremble if her eye explore
“The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor;”
Whom the kind doctor charged with shaking head,
At early hour to quit the beaux for bed:
She has, contemning fear, gone down the dance,
Till she perceived the rosy morn advance;
Then has she wonder'd, fainting o'er her tea,
Her drops and julep should so useless be:
Ah! sure her joys must ravish every sense,
Who buys a portion at such vast expense.
Among those joys, 't is one at eve to sail
On the broad River with a favourite gale;
When no rough waves upon the bosom ride,
But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide;
Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands,
Where playful children trail their idle hands:
Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float
On either side of the impeded boat;
What time the moon arising shows the mud,
A shining border to the silver flood:
When, by her dubious light, the meanest views,
Chalk, stones, and stakes, obtain the richest hues;
And when the cattle, as they gazing stand,
Seem nobler objects than when view'd from land;
Then anchor'd vessels in the way appear,
And sea-boys greet them as they pass—“What cheer?”

164

The sleeping shell-ducks at the sound arise,
And utter loud their unharmonious cries;
Fluttering they move their weedy beds among,
Or instant diving, hide their plumeless young.
Along the Wall, returning from the town,
The weary rustic homeward wanders down;
Who stops and gazes at such joyous crew,
And feels his envy rising at the view;
He the light speech and laugh indignant hears,
And feels more press'd by want, more vex'd by fears.
Ah! go in peace, good fellow, to thine home,
Nor fancy these escape the general doom;
Gay as they seem, be sure with them are hearts
With sorrow tried; there's sadness in their parts:
If thou couldst see them when they think alone,
Mirth, music, friends, and these amusements gone;
Couldst thou discover every secret ill
That pains their spirit, or resists their will;
Couldst thou behold forsaken Love's distress,
Or Envy's pang at glory and success,
Or Beauty, conscious of the spoils of Time,
Or Guilt alarm'd when Memory shows the crime;
All that gives sorrow, terror, grief, and gloom;
Content would cheer thee trudging to thine home.
There are, 't is true, who lay their cares aside,
And bid some hours in calm enjoyment glide;
Perchance some fair-one to the sober night
Adds (by the sweetness of her song) delight;

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And as the music on the water floats,
Some bolder shore returns the soften'd notes;
Then, youth, beware, for all around conspire
To banish caution and to wake desire;
The day's amusement, feasting, beauty, wine,
These accents sweet and this soft hour combine,
When most unguarded, then to win that heart of thine:
But see, they land! the fond enchantment flies,
And in its place life's common views arise.
Sometimes a Party, row'd from town, will land
On a small islet form'd of shelly sand,
Left by the water when the tides are low,
But which the floods in their return o'erflow:
There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view
The watery waste, a prospect wild and new;
The now receding billows give them space,
On either side the growing shores to pace;
And then returning, they contract the scene,
Till small and smaller grows the walk between;
As sea to sea approaches, shore to shores,
Till the next ebb the sandy isle restores.
Then what alarm! what danger and dismay,
If all their trust, their boat should drift away;
And once it happen'd—Gay the friends advanced,
They walk'd, they ran, they play'd, they sang, they danced;
The urns were boiling, and the cups went round,
And not a grave or thoughtful face was found;
On the bright sand they trod with nimble feet,
Dry shelly sand that made the summer-seat;

166

The wondering mews flew fluttering o'er the head,
And waves ran softly up their shining bed.
Some form'd a party from the rest to stray,
Pleased to collect the trifles in their way;
These to behold they call their friends around,
No friends can hear, or hear another sound;
Alarm'd, they hasten, yet perceive not why,
But catch the fear that quickens as they fly.
For lo! a lady sage, who paced the sand
With her fair children, one in either hand,
Intent on home, had turn'd, and saw the boat
Slipp'd from her moorings, and now far afloat;
She gazed, she trembled, and though faint her call,
It seem'd, like thunder, to confound them all.
Their sailor-guides, the boatman and his mate,
Had drank, and slept regardless of their state;
“Awake,” they cried aloud! “Alarm the shore!
“Shout all, or never shall we reach it more!”
Alas! no shout the distant land can reach,
Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach:
Again they join in one loud powerful cry,
Then cease, and eager listen for reply;
None came—the rising wind blew sadly by:
They shout once more, and then they turn aside,
To see how quickly flow'd the coming tide;
Between each cry they find the waters steal
On their strange prison, and new horrors feel;
Foot after foot on the contracted ground
The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound;
Less and yet less the sinking isle became,
And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame.

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Had one been there, with spirit strong and high,
Who could observe, as he prepared to die,
He might have seen of hearts the varying kind,
And traced the movement of each different mind:
He might have seen, that not the gentle maid
Was more than stern and haughty man afraid;
Such, calmly grieving, will their fears suppress,
And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address;
While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud,
Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd:
The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried,
“Why would you urge me? I at first denied.”
Fiercely they answer'd, “Why will you complain,
“Who saw no danger, or was warn'd in vain?”
A few essay'd the troubled soul to calm,
But dread prevail'd, and anguish and alarm.
Now rose the water through the lessening sand,
And they seem'd sinking while they yet could stand.
The sun went down, they look'd from side to side,
Nor aught except the gathering sea descried;
Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew
And the most lively bade to hope adieu;
Children, by love then lifted from the seas,
Felt not the waters at the parents' knees,
But wept aloud; the wind increased the sound,
And the cold billows as they broke around.
“Once more, yet once again, with all our strength,
“Cry to the land—we may be heard at length.”
Vain hope if yet unseen! but hark! an oar,
That sound of bliss! comes dashing to their shore;

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Still, still the water rises, “Haste!” they cry,
“Oh! hurry, seamen; in delay we die:”
(Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived
The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.)
And now the keel just cuts the cover'd sand,
Now to the gunwale stretches every hand:
With trembling pleasure all confused embark,
And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark;
While the most giddy, as they reach the shore,
Think of their danger, and their God adore.

169

LETTER X. CLUBS AND SOCIAL MEETINGS.

------ Non iter lances mensasque nitentes,
Cum stupet insanis acies fulgoribus, et cum
Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat;
Verum hîc impransi mecum disquirite.
Hor. Sat. ii. lib. 2.

------ O prodiga rerum
Luxuries, nunquam parvo contenta paratu,
Et quæsitorum terrâ pelagoque ciborum
Ambitiosa fames, et lautæ gloria mensæ.
Lucan. lib. 4.


170

Desire of Country Gentlemen for Town Associations—Book-clubs —Too much of literary Character expected from them —Literary Conversation prevented: by Feasting: by Cards —Good, notwithstanding, results—Card-club with Eagerness resorted to—Players—Umpires at the Whist Table —Petulances of Temper there discovered—Free-and-easy Club: not perfectly easy or free—Freedom, how interrupted —The superior Member—Termination of the Evening— Drinking and Smoking Clubs—The Midnight Conversation of the delaying Members—Society of the poorer Inhabitants: its Use: gives Pride and Consequence to the humble Character —Pleasant Habitations of the frugal Poor—Sailor returning to his Family—Freemasons' Club—The Mystery —What its Origin—Its professed Advantages—Griggs and Gregorians—A Kind of Masons—Reflections on these various Societies.


171

You say you envy in your calm retreat
Our social Meetings;—'tis with joy we meet.
In these our parties you are pleased to find
Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind;
Composed of men, who read, reflect, and write,
Who, when they meet, must yield and share delight:
To you our Book-club has peculiar charm,
For which you sicken in your quiet farm;
Here you suppose us at our leisure placed,
Enjoying freedom, and displaying taste;
With wisdom cheerful, temperately gay,
Pleased to enjoy, and willing to display.
If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom,
Give wings to fancy, and among us come.
We're now assembled; you may soon attend—
I'll introduce you—“Gentlemen, my friend.”
“Now are you happy? you have pass'd a night
“In gay discourse, and rational delight.”

172

“Alas! not so: for how can mortals think,
“Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and drink?
“No! I confess, when we had fairly dined,
“That was no time for intercourse of mind;
“There was each dish prepared with skill t'invite,
“And to detain the struggling appetite;
“On such occasions minds with one consent
“Are to the comforts of the body lent;
“There was no pause—the wine went quickly round,
“Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound;
“Wine is to wit as water thrown on fire,
“By duly sprinkling both are raised the higher;
“Thus largely dealt, the vivid blaze they choke,
“And all the genial flame goes off in smoke.”
“But when no more your boards these loads contain,
“When wine no more o'erwhelms the labouring brain,
“But serves, a gentle stimulus; we know
“How wit must sparkle, and how fancy flow.”
It might be so, but no such club-days come;
We always find these dampers in the room:
If to converse were all that brought us here,
A few odd members would in turn appear;
Who dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out,
O'erlook the list, and toss the books about;
Or yawning read them, walking up and down,
Just as the loungers in the shops in town;
Till fancying nothing would their minds amuse,
They'd push them by, and go in search of news.

173

But our attractions are a stronger sort,
The earliest dainties and the oldest port;
All enter then with glee in every look,
And not a member thinks about a book.
Still, let me own, there are some vacant hours,
When minds might work, and men exert their powers:
Ere wine to folly spurs the giddy guest,
But gives to wit its vigour and its zest;
Then might we reason, might in turn display
Our several talents, and be wisely gay;
We might—but who a tame discourse regards,
When Whist is named, and we behold the Cards?
We from that time are neither grave nor gay;
Our thought, our care, our business is to play:
Fix'd on these spots and figures, each attends
Much to his partners, nothing to his friends.
Our public cares, the long, the warm debate,
That kept our patriots from their beds so late;
War, peace, invasion, all we hope or dread,
Vanish like dreams when men forsake their bed;
And groaning nations and contending kings
Are all forgotten for these painted things:
Paper and paste, vile figures and poor spots,
Level all minds, philosophers and sots;
And give an equal spirit, pause, and force,
Join'd with peculiar diction, to discourse:
“Who deals?—you led—we're three by cards—had you
“Honour in hand?”—“Upon my honour, two.”
Hour after hour, men thus contending sit,
Grave without sense, and pointed without wit.

174

Thus it appears these envied Clubs possess
No certain means of social happiness;
Yet there's a good that flows from scenes like these—
Man meets with man at leisure and at ease;
We to our neighbours and our equals come,
And rub off pride that man contracts at home;
For there, admitted master, he is prone
To claim attention and to talk alone:
But here he meets with neither son nor spouse;
No humble cousin to his bidding bows;
To his raised voice his neighbours' voices rise,
To his high look as lofty look replies;
When much he speaks, he finds that ears are closed,
And certain signs inform him when he's prosed;
Here all the value of a listener know,
And claim, in turn, the favour they bestow.
No pleasure gives the speech, when all would speak,
And all in vain a civil hearer seek.
To chance alone we owe the free discourse,
In vain you purpose what you cannot force;
'Tis when the favourite themes unbidden spring,
That fancy soars with such unwearied wing;
Then may you call in aid the moderate glass,
But let it slowly and unprompted pass;
So shall there all things for the end unite,
And give that hour of rational delight.
Men to their Clubs repair, themselves to please,
To care for nothing, and to take their ease;
In fact, for play, for wine, for news they come:
Discourse is shared with friends or found at home.

175

But Cards with Books are incidental things;
We've nights devoted to these queens and kings:
Then if we choose the social game, we may;
Now 'tis a duty, and we're bound to play;
Nor ever meeting of the social kind
Was more engaging, yet had less of mind.
Our eager parties, when the lunar light
Throws its full radiance on the festive night,
Of either sex, with punctual hurry come,
And fill, with one accord, an ample room;
Pleased, the fresh packs on cloth of green they see,
And seizing, handle with preluding glee;
They draw, they sit, they shuffle, cut and deal;
Like friends assembled, but like foes to feel:
But yet not all,—a happier few have joys
Of mere amusement, and their cards are toys;
No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they,
But while their friends are gaming, laugh and play.
Others there are, the veterans of the game,
Who owe their pleasure to their envied fame;
Through many a year, with hard-contested strife,
Have they attain'd this glory of their life:
Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain
Would gout and fever on his couch detain;
And that large lady, who resolves to come,
Though a first fit has warn'd her of her doom!
These are as oracles: in every cause
They settle doubts, and their decrees are laws;
But all are troubled, when, with dubious look,
Diana questions what Apollo spoke.
Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain,
Rules in each heart, and works in every brain,

176

Alike the veteran-dames and virgins feel,
Nor care what grey beards or what striplings deal;
Sex, age, and station, vanish from their view,
And gold, their sov'reign good, the mingled crowd pursue.
Hence they are jealous, and as rivals, keep
A watchful eye on the beloved heap;
Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still,
And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will;
Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,
They make their grief, by their suspicions, known.
“Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,
“He'd rave to see you throw your cards away;
“Not that I care a button—not a pin
“For what I lose; but we had cards to win:
“A saint in heaven would grieve to see such hand
“Cut up by one who will not understand.”
“Complain of me! and so you might indeed,
“If I had ventured on that foolish lead,
“That fatal heart—but I forgot your play—
“Some folk have ever thrown their hearts away.”
“Yes, and their diamonds; I have heard of one
“Who made a beggar of an only son.”
“Better a beggar, than to see him tied
“To art and spite, to insolence and pride.”
“Sir, were I you, I'd strive to be polite,
“Against my nature, for a single night.”
“So did you strive, and, madam! with success;
“I knew no being we could censure less!”

177

Is this too much? alas! my peaceful muse
Cannot with half their virulence abuse.
And hark! at other tables discord reigns,
With feign'd contempt for losses and for gains;
Passions awhile are bridled; then they rage,
In waspish youth, and in resentful age;
With scraps of insult—“Sir, when next you play,
“Reflect whose money 'tis you throw away.
“No one on earth can less such things regard,
“But when one's partner doesn't know a card—
“I scorn suspicion, ma'am, but while you stand
“Behind that lady, pray keep down your hand.”
“Good heav'n, revoke! remember, if the set
“Be lost, in honour you should pay the debt.”
“There, there's your money; but, while I have life,
“I'll never more sit down with man and wife;

178

“They snap and snarl indeed, but in the heat
“Of all their spleen, their understandings meet;
“They are Freemasons, and have many a sign,
“That we, poor devils! never can divine:
“May it be told, do ye divide th' amount,
“Or goes it all to family account?”
Next is the Club, where to their friends in town
Our country neighbours once a month come down;
We term it Free-and-Easy, and yet we
Find it no easy matter to be free:
Ev'n in our small assembly, friends among,
Are minds perverse, there's something will be wrong
Men are not equal; some will claim a right
To be the kings and heroes of the night;
Will their own favourite themes and notions start,
And you must hear, offend them, or depart.
There comes Sir Thomas from his village-seat,
Happy, he tells us, all his friends to meet;
He brings the ruin'd brother of his wife,
Whom he supports, and makes him sick of life;
A ready witness whom he can produce
Of all his deeds—a butt for his abuse;
Soon as he enters, has the guests espied,
Drawn to the fire, and to the glass applied—

179

“Well, what's the subject?—what are you about?
“The news, I take it—come, I'll help you out;”—
And then, without one answer he bestows
Freely upon us all he hears and knows;
Gives us opinions, tells us how he votes,
Recites the speeches, adds to them his notes,
And gives old ill-told tales for new-born anecdotes:
Yet cares he nothing what we judge or think,
Our only duty's to attend and drink:
At length, admonish'd by his gout he ends
The various speech, and leaves at peace his friends;
But now, alas! we've lost the pleasant hour,
And wisdom flies from wine's superior power.
Wine, like the rising sun, possession gains,
And drives the mist of dulness from the brains;
The gloomy vapour from the spirit flies,
And views of gaiety and gladness rise:
Still it proceeds; till from the glowing heat,
The prudent calmly to their shades retreat:—
Then is the mind o'ercast—in wordy rage
And loud contention angry men engage;
Then spleen and pique, like fireworks thrown in spite,
To mischief turn the pleasures of the night;
Anger abuses, Malice loudly rails,
Revenge awakes, and Anarchy prevails:
Till wine, that raised the tempest, makes it cease,
And maudlin Love insists on instant peace;
He, noisy mirth and roaring song commands,
Gives idle toasts, and joins unfriendly hands:
Till fuddled Friendship vows esteem and weeps,
And jovial Folly drinks and sings and sleeps.

180

A Club there is of Smokers—Dare you come
To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room?
When, midnight past, the very candles seem
Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam;
When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise,
And prosing topers rub their winking eyes;
When the long tale, renew'd when last they met,
Is spliced anew, and is unfinish'd yet;
When but a few are left the house to tire,
And they half-sleeping by the sleepy fire;
Ev'n the poor ventilating vane that flew
Of late so fast, is now grown drowsy too;
When sweet, cold, clammy punch its aid bestows,
Then thus the midnight conversation flows:—
“Then, as I said, and—mind me—as I say,
“At our last meeting—you remember”—“Ay?”
“Well, very well—then freely as I drink
“I spoke my thought—you take me—what I think:
“And, sir, said I, if I a freeman be,
“It is my bounden duty to be free.”
“Ay, there you posed him: I respect the Chair,
“But man is man, although the man's a mayor;
“If Muggins live—no, no!—if Muggins die,
“He'll quit his office—neighbour, shall I try?”
“I'll speak my mind, for here are none but friends:
“They're all contending for their private ends;
“No public spirit—once a vote would bring,
“I say a vote—was then a pretty thing;
“It made a man to serve his country and his king:

181

“But for that place, that Muggins must resign,
“You've my advice—'tis no affair of mine.”
The Poor Man has his Club; he comes and spends
His hoarded pittance with his chosen friends;
Nor this alone,—a monthly dole he pays,
To be assisted when his health decays;
Some part his prudence, from the day's supply,
For cares and troubles in his age, lays by;
The printed rules he guards with painted frame,
And shows his children where to read his name:
Those simple words his honest nature move,
That bond of union tied by laws of love;
This is his pride, it gives to his employ
New value, to his home another joy;
While a religious hope its balm applies
For all his fate inflicts, and all his state denies.
Much would it please you, sometimes to explore
The peaceful dwellings of our Borough poor;
To view a sailor just return'd from sea,
His wife beside; a child on either knee,
And others crowding near, that none may lose
The smallest portion of the welcome news;
What dangers pass'd, “when seas ran mountains high,
“When tempests raved, and horrors veil'd the sky;

182

“When prudence fail'd, when courage grew dismay'd,
“When the strong fainted, and the wicked pray'd,—
“Then in the yawning gulf far down we drove,
“And gazed upon the billowy mount above;
“Till up that mountain, swinging with the gale,
“We view'd the horrors of the watery vale.”
The trembling children look with steadfast eyes,
And, panting, sob involuntary sighs:
Soft sleep awhile his torpid touch delays,
And all is joy and piety and praise.
Masons are ours, Freemasons—but, alas!
To their own bards I leave the mystic class;
In vain shall one, and not a gifted man,
Attempt to sing of this enlighten'd clan:
I know no Word, boast no directing Sign,
And not one Token of the race is mine;
Whether with Hiram, that wise widow's son,
They came from Tyre to royal Solomon,
Two pillars raising by their skill profound,
Boaz and Jachin through the East renown'd:
Whether the sacred Books their rise express,
Or books profane, 'tis vain for me to guess:
It may be, lost in date remote and high,
They know not what their own antiquity:
It may be, too, derived from cause so low,
They have no wish their origin to show:
If, as Crusaders, they combined to wrest
From heathen lords the land they long possess'd;

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Or were at first some harmless club, who made
Their idle meetings solemn by parade;
Is but conjecture—for the task unfit,
Awe-struck and mute, the puzzling theme I quit:
Yet, if such blessings from their Order flow,
We should be glad their moral code to know;
Trowels of silver are but simple things,
And Aprons worthless as their apron-strings;
But if indeed you have the skill to teach
A social spirit, now beyond our reach;
If man's warm passions you can guide and bind,
And plant the virtues in the wayward mind;
If you can wake to Christian love the heart,—
In mercy, something of your powers impart.
But, as it seems, we Masons must become
To know the Secret, and must then be dumb;
And as we venture for uncertain gains,
Perhaps the profit is not worth the pains.
When Bruce, that dauntless traveller, thought he stood
On Nile's first rise, the fountain of the flood,
And drank exulting in the sacred spring,
The critics told him it was no such thing;
That springs unnumber'd round the country ran,
But none could show him where the first began:
So might we feel, should we our time bestow,
To gain these Secrets and these Signs to know;
Might question still if all the truth we found,
And firmly stood upon the certain ground;
We might our title to the Mystery dread,
And fear we drank not at the river-head.

184

Griggs and Gregorians here their meeting hold,
Convivial Sects, and Bucks alert and bold;
A kind of Masons, but without their sign;
The bonds of union—pleasure, song, and wine.
Man, a gregarious creature, loves to fly
Where he the trackings of the herd can spy;
Still to be one with many he desires,
Although it leads him through the thorns and briers.
A few! but few there are, who in the mind
Perpetual source of consolation find;
The weaker many to the world will come,
For comforts seldom to be found from home.
When the faint hands no more a brimmer hold,
When flannel-wreaths the useless limbs infold,
The breath impeded, and the bosom cold;
When half the pillow'd man the palsy chains,
And the blood falters in the bloated veins,—
Then, as our friends no further aid supply
Than hope's cold phrase and courtesy's soft sigh,
We should that comfort for ourselves ensure,
Which friends could not, if we could friends, procure
Early in life, when we can laugh aloud,
There's something pleasant in a social crowd,
Who laugh with us—but will such joy remain,
When we lie struggling on the bed of pain?
When our physician tells us with a sigh,
No more on hope and science to rely,
Life's staff is useless then; with labouring breath
We pray for Hope divine—the staff of Death;—
This is a scene which few companions grace,
And where the heart's first favourites yield their place.

185

Here all the aid of man to man must end,
Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend;
The tenderest love must here its tie resign,
And give th' aspiring heart to love divine.
Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run,
Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun;
But though to this our weakness may be prone,
Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone.

187

LETTER XI. INNS.

A difficult Subject for Poetry—Invocation of the Muse— Description of the principal Inn and those of the first Class —The large deserted Tavern—Those of a second Order— Their Company—One of particular Description—A lower Kind of Public-Houses: yet distinguished among themselves —Houses on the Quays for Sailors—The Green-Man: its Landlord, and the Adventure of his Marriage, &c.


188

All the comforts of life in a Tavern are known,
'Tis his home who possesses not one of his own;
And to him who has rather too much of that one,
'Tis the house of a friend where he's welcome to run:
The instant you enter my door you're my Lord,
With whose taste and whose pleasure I'm proud to accord,
And the louder you call, and the longer you stay,
The more I am happy to serve and obey.
To the house of a friend if you're pleased to retire,
You must all things admit, you must all things admire;
You must pay with observance the price of your treat,
You must eat what is praised, and must praise what you eat:
But here you may come, and no tax we require,
You may loudly condemn what you greatly admire;
You may growl at our wishes and pains to excel,
And may snarl at the rascals who please you so well.
At your wish we attend, and confess that your speech
On the nation's affairs might the minister teach;
His views you may blame, and his measures oppose,
There's no Tavern-treason—you're under the Rose:
Should rebellions arise in your own little state,
With me you may safely their consequence wait;
To recruit your lost spirits 'tis prudent to come,
And to fly to a friend when the devil's at home.
That I've faults is confess'd; but it won't be denied,
'Tis my interest the faults of my neighbours to hide;
If I've sometimes lent Scandal occasion to prate,
I've often conceal'd what she'd love to relate;
If to Justice's bar some have wander'd from mine,
'Twas because the dull rogues wouldn't stay by their wine;
And for brawls at my house, well the poet explains,
That men drink shallow draughts, and so madden their brains.

189

Much do I need, and therefore will I ask,
A Muse to aid me in my present task;
For then with special cause we beg for aid,
When of our subject we are most afraid:
Inns are this subject—'tis an ill-drawn lot,
So, thou who gravely triflest, fail me not;
Fail not, but haste, and to my memory bring
Scenes yet unsung, which few would choose to sing:
Thou mad'st a Shilling splendid; thou hast thrown
On humble themes the graces all thine own;
By thee the Mistress of a Village-school
Became a queen enthroned upon her stool;

190

And far beyond the rest thou gav'st to shine
Belinda's Lock—that deathless work was thine.
Come, lend thy cheerful light, and give to please,
These seats of revelry, these scenes of ease;
Who sings of Inns much danger has to dread,
And needs assistance from the fountain-head.
High in the street, o'erlooking all the place,
The rampant Lion shows his kingly face;
His ample jaws extend from side to side,
His eyes are glaring, and his nostrils wide;
In silver shag the sovereign form is dress'd,
A mane horrific sweeps his ample chest;
Elate with pride, he seems t'assert his reign,
And stands the glory of his wide domain.
Yet nothing dreadful to his friends the sight,
But sign and pledge of welcome and delight
To him the noblest guest the town detains
Flies for repast, and in his court remains;
Him too the crowd with longing looks admire,
Sigh for his joys, and modestly retire;
Here not a comfort shall to them be lost
Who never ask or never feel the cost.
The ample yards on either side contain
Buildings where order and distinction reign;—
The splendid carriage of the wealthier guest,
The ready chaise and driver smartly dress'd;
Whiskeys and gigs and curricles are there,
And high-fed prancers many a raw-boned pair.

191

On all without a lordly host sustains
The care of empire, and observant reigns;
The parting guest beholds him at his side,
With pomp obsequious, bending in his pride;
Round all the place his eyes all objects meet,
Attentive, silent, civil, and discreet.
O'er all within the lady-hostess rules,
Her bar she governs, and her kitchen schools;
To every guest th' appropriate speech is made,
And every duty with distinction paid;
Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite—
“Your honour's servant”—“Mister Smith, good night.”
Next, but not near, yet honour'd through the town,
There swing, incongruous pair! the Bear and Crown
That Crown suspended gems and ribands deck,
A golden chain hangs o'er that furry neck:
Unlike the nobler beast, the Bear is bound,
And with the Crown so near him, scowls uncrown'd;
Less his dominion, but alert are all
Without, within, and ready for the call;
Smart lads and light run nimbly here and there,
Nor for neglected duties mourns the Bear.
To his retreats, on the Election-day,
The losing party found their silent way;
There they partook of each consoling good,
Like him uncrown'd, like him in sullen mood—

192

Threat'ning, but bound.—Here meet a social kind,
Our various clubs for various cause combined;
Nor has he pride, but thankful takes as gain
The dew-drops shaken from the Lion's mane:
A thriving couple here their skill display,
And share the profits of no vulgar sway.
Third in our Borough's list appears the sign
Of a fair queen—the gracious Caroline;
But in decay—each feature in the face
Has stain of Time, and token of disgrace.
The storm of winter, and the summer-sun,
Have on that form their equal mischief done;
The features now are all disfigured seen,
And not one charm adorns th' insulted queen:
To this poor face was never paint applied,
Th' unseemly work of cruel Time to hide;
Here we may rightly such neglect upbraid,
Paint on such faces is by prudence laid.
Large the domain, but all within combine
To correspond with the dishonour'd sign;
And all around dilapidates; you call—
But none replies—they're inattentive all:
At length a ruin'd stable holds your steed,
While you through large and dirty rooms proceed,
Spacious and cold; a proof they once had been
In honour,—now magnificently mean;
Till in some small half-furnish'd room you rest,
Whose dying fire denotes it had a guest

193

In those you pass'd where former splendour reign'd,
You saw the carpets torn, the paper stain'd;
Squares of discordant glass in windows fix'd,
And paper oil'd in many a space betwixt;
A soil'd and broken sconce, a mirror crack'd
With table underprop'd, and chairs new back'd;
A marble side-slab with ten thousand stains,
And all an ancient Tavern's poor remains.
With much entreaty, they your food prepare,
And acid wine afford, with meagre fare;
Heartless you sup; and when a dozen times
You've read the fractured window's senseless rhymes;
Have been assured that Phœbe Green was fair
And Peter Jackson took his supper there;
You reach a chilling chamber, where you dread
Damps, hot or cold, from a tremendous bed;
Late comes your sleep, and you are waken'd soon
By rustling tatters of the old festoon.
O'er this large building, thus by time defaced,
A servile couple has its owner placed,
Who not unmindful that its style is large,
To lost magnificence adapt their charge:
Thus an old beauty, who has long declined,
Keeps former dues and dignity in mind;
And wills that all attention should be paid
For graces vanish'd and for charms decay'd.
Few years have pass'd, since brightly 'cross the way,
Lights from each window shot the lengthen'd ray,
And busy looks in every face were seen,
Through the warm precincts of the reigning Queen
There fires inviting blazed, and all around
Was heard the tinkling bells' seducing sound;

194

The nimble waiters to that sound from far
Sprang to the call, then hasten'd to the bar;
Where a glad priestess of the temple sway'd,
The most obedient, and the most obey'd;
Rosy and round, adorn'd in crimson vest,
And flaming ribands at her ample breast:
She, skill'd like Circe, tried her guests to move,
With looks of welcome and with words of love;
And such her potent charms, that men unwise
Were soon transform'd and fitted for the sties.
Her port in bottles stood, a well-stain'd row,
Drawn for the evening from the pipe below;
Three powerful spirits fill'd a parted case,
Some cordial bottles stood in secret place;
Fair acid-fruits in nets above were seen,
Her plate was splendid, and her glasses clean;
Basins and bowls were ready on the stand,
And measures clatter'd in her powerful hand.
Inferior Houses now our notice claim,
But who shall deal them their appropriate fame?
Who shall the nice, yet known distinction, tell,
Between the peal complete and single Bell?
Determine ye, who on your shining nags
Wear oil-skin beavers, and bear seal-skin bags
Or ye, grave topers, who with coy delight
Snugly enjoy the sweetness of the night;
Ye Travellers all, superior Inns denied
By moderate purse, the low by decent pride;
Come and determine,—will ye take your place
At the full Orb, or half the lunar Face?
With the Black-Boy or Angel will ye dine?
Will ye approve the Fountain or the Vine?

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Horses the white or black will ye prefer?
The Silver-Swan or Swan opposed to her—
Rare bird! whose form the raven-plumage decks
And graceful curve her three alluring necks?
All these a decent entertainment give,
And by their comforts comfortably live.
Shall I pass by the Boar?—there are who cry,
“Beware the Boar,” and pass determined by:
Those dreadful tusks, those little peering eyes
And churning chaps, are tokens to the wise.
There dwells a kind old Aunt, and there you see
Some kind young Nieces in her company;
Poor village nieces, whom the tender dame
Invites to town, and gives their beauty Fame;
The grateful sisters feel th' important aid,
And the good Aunt is flatter'd and repaid.
What, though it may some cool observers strike,
That such fair sisters should be so unlike;
That still another and another comes,
And at the matron's tables smiles and blooms;
That all appear as if they meant to stay
Time undefined, nor name a parting day;
And yet, though all are valued, all are dear,
Causeless, they go, and seldom more appear.
Yet let Suspicion hide her odious head,
And Scandal vengeance from a burgess dread:
A pious friend, who with the ancient dame
At sober cribbage takes an evening game;
His cup beside him, through their play he quaffs,
And oft renews, and innocently laughs;

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Or, growing serious, to the text resorts,
And from the Sunday-sermon makes reports;
While all, with grateful glee, his wish attend,
A grave protector and a powerful friend:
But Slander says, who indistinctly sees,
Once he was caught with Sylvia on his knees;—
A cautious burgess with a careful wife
To be so caught!—'tis false upon my life.
Next are a lower kind, yet not so low
But they, among them, their distinctions know;
And when a thriving landlord aims so high,
As to exchange the Chequer for the Pye,
Or from Duke William to the Dog repairs,
He takes a finer coat and fiercer airs.
Pleased with his power, the poor man loves to say
What favourite Inn shall share his evening's pay;
Where he shall sit the social hour, and lose
His past day's labours and his next day's views.
Our Seamen too have choice: one takes a trip
In the warm cabin of his favourite Ship;
And on the morrow in the humbler Boat
He rows till fancy feels herself afloat;
Can he the sign—Three Jolly Sailors—pass,
Who hears a fiddle and who sees a lass?
The Anchor too affords the seaman joys,
In small smoked room, all clamour, crowd, and noise;
Where a curved settle half surrounds the fire,
Where fifty voices purl and punch require;
They come for pleasure in their leisure hour,
And they enjoy it to their utmost power;
Standing they drink, they swearing smoke, while all
Call or make ready for a second call:

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There is no time for trifling—“Do ye see?
“We drink and drub the French extempore.”
See! round the room, on every beam and balk,
Are mingled scrolls of hieroglyphic chalk;
Yet nothing heeded—would one stroke suffice
To blot out all, here honour is too nice,—
“Let knavish landsmen think such dirty things,
“We're British tars, and British tars are kings.”
But the Green-Man shall I pass by unsung,
Which mine own James upon his sign-post hung?
His sign, his image,—for he was once seen
A squire's attendant, clad in keeper's green;
Ere yet with wages more, and honour less,
He stood behind me in a graver dress.
James in an evil hour went forth to woo
Young Juliet Hart, and was her Romeo:
They'd seen the play, and thought it vastly sweet
For two young lovers by the moon to meet;
The nymph was gentle, of her favours free,
Ev'n at a word—no Rosalind was she;
Nor, like that other Juliet, tried his truth
With—“Be thy purpose marriage, gentle youth?”
But him received, and heard his tender tale
When sang the lark, and when the nightingale:
So in few months the generous lass was seen
I' the way that all the Capulets had been.
Then first repentance seized the amorous man,
And—shame on love!—he reason'd and he ran;
The thoughtful Romeo trembled for his purse,
And the sad sounds, “for better and for worse.”
Yet could the Lover not so far withdraw,
But he was haunted both by Love and Law;

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Now Law dismay'd him as he view'd its fangs,
Now Pity seized him for his Juliet's pangs;
Then thoughts of justice and some dread of jail,
Where all would blame him, and where none might bail;
These drew him back, till Juliet's hut appear'd,
Where love had drawn him when he should have fear'd.
There sat the father in his wicker throne,
Uttering his curses in tremendous tone;
With foulest names his daughter he reviled,
And look'd a very Herod at the child:
Nor was she patient, but with equal scorn,
Bade him remember when his Joe was born:
Then rose the mother, eager to begin
Her plea for frailty, when the swain came in.
To him she turn'd, and other theme began,
Show'd him his boy, and bade him be a man;
“An honest man, who, when he breaks the laws,
“Will make a woman honest if there's cause.”
With lengthen'd speech she proved what came to pass
Was no reflection on a loving lass:
“If she your love as wife and mother claim,
“What can it matter which was first the name?
“But 'tis most base, 'tis perjury and theft,
“When a lost girl is like a widow left;
“The rogue who ruins—” here the father found
His spouse was treading on forbidden ground.
“That's not the point,” quoth he,—“I don't suppose
“My good friend Fletcher to be one of those;

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“What's done amiss he'll mend in proper time—
“I hate to hear of villany and crime:
“'Twas my misfortune, in the days of youth,
“To find two lasses pleading for my truth;
“The case was hard, I would with all my soul
“Have wedded both, but law is our control;
“So one I took, and when we gain'd a home,
“Her friend agreed—what could she more?—to come;
“And when she found that I'd a widow'd bed,
“Me she desired—what could I less?—to wed.
“An easier case is yours: you've not the smart
“That two fond pleaders cause in one man's heart;
“You've not to wait from year to year distress'd,
“Before your conscience can be laid at rest;
“There smiles your bride, there sprawls your newborn son,
“—A ring, a licence, and the thing is done.”
“My loving James,”—the Lass began her plea,
“I'll make thy reason take a part with me:
“Had I been froward, skittish, or unkind,
“Or to thy person or thy passion blind;
“Had I refused, when 'twas thy part to pray,
“Or put thee off with promise and delay;
“Thou might'st in justice and in conscience fly.
“Denying her who taught thee to deny;
“But, James, with me thou hadst an easier task,
“Bonds and conditions I forbore to ask;
“I laid no traps for thee, no plots or plans,
“Nor marriage named by licence or by banns;
“Nor would I now the parson's aid employ,
“But for this cause,”—and up she held her boy.

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Motives like these could heart of flesh resist?
James took the infant and in triumph kiss'd;
Then to his mother's arms the child restored,
Made his proud speech and pledged his worthy word.
“Three times at church our banns shall publish'd be,
“Thy health be drunk in bumpers three times three;
“And thou shalt grace (bedeck'd in garments gay)
“The christening-dinner on the wedding day.”
James at my door then made his parting bow,
Took the Green-Man, and is a master now.

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LETTER XII. PLAYERS.

They arrive in the Borough—Welcomed by their former Friends—Are better fitted for Comic than Tragic Scenes: yet better approved in the latter by one Part of their Audience —Their general Character and Pleasantry—Particular Distresses and Labours—Their Fortitude and Patience—A private Rehearsal—The Vanity of the aged Actress—A Heroine from the Milliner's Shop—A deluded Tradesman —Of what Persons the Company is composed—Character and Adventures of Frederic Thompson.

These are monarchs none respect,
Heroes, yet an humbled crew,
Nobles, whom the crowd correct,
Wealthy men, whom duns pursue;
Beauties, shrinking from the view
Of the day's detecting eye;
Lovers, who with much ado
Long-forsaken damsels woo,
And heave the ill-feign'd sigh.
These are misers, craving means
Of existence through the day,
Famous scholars, conning scenes
Of a dull bewildering play;
Ragged beaux and misses grey
Whom the rabble praise and blame:
Proud and mean, and sad and gay,
Toiling after ease, are they,
Infamous, and boasting fame.

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Drawn by the annual call, we now behold
Our Troop Dramatic, heroes known of old,
And those, since last they march'd, enlisted and enroll'd:
Mounted on hacks or borne in waggons some,
The rest on soot (the humbler brethren) come.
Three favour'd places, an unequal time,
Join to support this company sublime:
Ours for the longer period—see how light

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Yon parties move, their former friends in sight,
Whose claims are all allow'd, and friendship glads the night.
Now public rooms shall sound with words divine,
And private lodgings hear how heroes shine;
No talk of pay shall yet on pleasure steal,
But kindest welcome bless the friendly meal;
While o'er the social jug and decent cheer,
Shall be described the fortunes of the year.
Peruse these bills, and see what each can do,—
Behold! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew;
Change but the garment, and they'll all engage
To take each part, and act in every age:
Cull'd from all houses, what a house are they!
Swept from all barns, our Borough-critics say;
But with some portion of a critic's ire,
We all endure them; there are some admire:
They might have praise, confined to farce alone;
Full well they grin, they should not try to groan
But then our servants' and our seamen's wives
Love all that rant and rapture as their lives;
He who 'Squire Richard's part could well sustain,
Finds as King Richard he must roar amain—
“My horse! my horse!”—Lo! now to their abodes,
Come lords and lovers, empresses and gods.

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The master-mover of these scenes has made
No trifling gain in this adventurous trade;
Trade we may term it, for he duly buys
Arms out of use and undirected eyes:
These he instructs, and guides them as he can,
And vends each night the manufactured man:
Long as our custom lasts they gladly stay,
Then strike their tents, like Tartars! and away!
The place grows bare where they too long remain,
But grass will rise ere they return again.
Children of Thespis, welcome! knights and queens!
Counts! barons! beauties! when before your scenes,
And mighty monarchs thund'ring from your throne;
Then step behind, and all your glory's gone:
Of crown and palace, throne and guards bereft,
The pomp is vanish'd, and the care is left.
Yet strong and lively is the joy they feel,
When the full house secures the plenteous meal;
Flatt'ring and flatter'd, each attempts to raise
A brother's merits for a brother's praise:
For never hero shows a prouder heart,
Than he who proudly acts a hero's part;

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Nor without cause; the boards, we know, can yield
Place for fierce contest, like the tented field.
Graceful to tread the stage, to be in turn
The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn;
Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd,
The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud:
These are their parts,—and he who these sustains,
Deserves some praise and profit for his pains.
Heroes at least of gentler kind are they,
Against whose swords no weeping widows pray,
No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their way.
Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depress'd,
Your days all pass'd in jeopardy and jest;
Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain,
Not warn'd by misery, not enrich'd by gain;
Whom Justice, pitying, chides from place to place,
A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race,
Whose cheerful looks assume, and play the parts
Of happy rovers with repining hearts;
Then cast off care, and in the mimic pain,
Of tragic wo, feel spirits light and vain,
Distress and hope—the mind's, the body's wear,
The man's affliction, and the actor's tear:
Alternate times of fasting and excess
Are yours, ye smiling children of distress.
Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom seems,
And with your varying views and restless schemes,
Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams.

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Yet keen those griefs—ah! what avail thy charms,
Fair Juliet! what that infant in thine arms;
What those heroic lines thy patience learns,
What all the aid thy present Romeo earns,
Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain,
With all thy plaintive sisters to complain?
Nor is there lack of labour—To rehearse,
Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse;
To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite;
To hide in rant the heart-ache of the night;
To dress in gaudy patchwork, and to force
The mind to think on the appointed course;—
This is laborious, and may be defined
The bootless labour of the thriftless mind.
There is a veteran Dame: I see her stand
Intent and pensive with her book in hand;
Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part,
Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart;
Across the room she paces, gets her tone,
And fits her features for the Danish throne;
To-night a queen—I mark her motion slow,
I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother know.
Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try
For strength of arms and energy of eye;
With vigour lost, and spirits worn away,
Her pomp and pride she labours to display;
And when awhile she's tried her part to act,
To find her thoughts arrested by some fact;
When struggles more and more severe are seen,
In the plain actress than the Danish queen,—
At length she feels her part, she finds delight,
And fancies all the plaudits of the night:

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Old as she is, she smiles at every speech,
And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach;
But as the mist of vanity again
Is blown away, by press of present pain,
Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies
For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies;
Then to her task she sighing turns again—
“Oh! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!”
And who that poor, consumptive, wither'd thing,
Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing?
Panting for breath, and forced her voice to drop,
And far unlike the inmate of the shop,
Where she, in youth and health, alert and gay,
Laugh'd off at night the labours of the day;
With novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers,
And sister-converse pass'd the evening-hours,
But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong,
Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong
The morning-call and counter were her dread,
And her contempt the needle and the thread:
But when she read a gentle damsel's part,
Her wo, her wish!—she had them all by heart.
At length the hero of the boards drew nigh,
Who spake of love till sigh re-echo'd sigh;
He told in honey'd words his deathless flame,
And she his own by tender vows became;
Nor ring nor licence needed souls so fond,
Alfonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond:

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And thus the simple girl, to shame betray'd,
Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay'd;
Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope,
See her! the grief and scandal of the troop:
A wretched martyr to a childish pride,
Her wo insulted, and her praise denied:
Her humble talents, though derided, used,
Her prospects lost, her confidence abused;
All that remains—for she not long can brave
Increase of evils—is an early grave.
Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed
What dreams ye cherish, and what books ye read!
A decent sum had Peter Nottage made,
By joining bricks—to him a thriving trade:
Of his employment master and his wife,
This humble tradesman led a lordly life;
The house of kings and heroes lack'd repairs,
And Peter, though reluctant, served the Players:
Connected thus, he heard in way polite,—
“Come, Master Nottage, see us play to-night.”
At first 'twas folly, nonsense, idle stuff,
But seen for nothing it grew well enough;
And better now—now best, and every night,
In this fool's paradise he drank delight;
And as he felt the bliss, he wish'd to know
Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow;
For if the seeing could such pleasure bring,
What must the feeling?—feeling like a king?
In vain his wife, his uncle, and his friend,
Cried—“Peter! Peter! let such follies end;
“'T is well enough these vagabonds to see,
“But would you partner with a showman be?”

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“Showman!” said Peter, “did not Quin and Clive,
“And Roscius-Garrick, by the science thrive?
“Showman!—'tis scandal; I'm by genius led
“To join a class who've Shakspeare at their head.”
Poor Peter thus by easy steps became
A dreaming candidate for scenic fame,
And, after years consumed, infirm and poor,
He sits and takes the tickets at the door.
Of various men these marching troops are made,—
Pen-spurning clerks, and lads contemning trade;
Waiters and servants by confinement teased,
And youths of wealth by dissipation eased;
With feeling nymphs, who, such resource at hand,
Scorn to obey the rigour of command;
Some, who from higher views by vice are won,
And some of either sex by love undone;
The greater part lamenting as their fall,
What some an honour and advancement call.
There are who names in shame or fear assume,
And hence our Bevilles and our Savilles come;

211

It honours him, from tailor's board kick'd down,
As Mister Dormer to amuse the town;
Falling, he rises: but a kind there are
Who dwell on former prospects, and despair;
Justly but vainly they their fate deplore,
And mourn their fall who fell to rise no more.
Our merchant Thompson, with his sons around,
Most mind and talent in his Frederick found:
He was so lively, that his mother knew,
If he were taught, that honour must ensue;
The father's views were in a different line,—
But if at college he were sure to shine,
Then should he go—to prosper who could doubt?—
When schoolboy stigmas would be all wash'd out,
For there were marks upon his youthful face,
'Twixt vice and error—a neglected case—
These would submit to skill; a little time,
And none could trace the error or the crime;
Then let him go, and once at college, he
Might choose his station—what would Frederick be?
'Twas soon determined—He could not descend
To pedant-laws and lectures without end;
And then the chapel—night and morn to pray,
Or mulct and threaten'd if he kept away;
No! not to be a bishop—so he swore,
And at his college he was seen no more.
His debts all paid, the father, with a sigh,
Placed him in office—“Do, my Frederick, try:
“Confine thyself a few short months, and then—”
He tried a fortnight, and threw down the pen.

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Again demands were hush'd: “My son, you're free,
“But you're unsettled; take your chance at sea:”
So in few days the midshipman, equipp'd,
Received the mother's blessing, and was shipp'd.
Hard was her fortune! soon compell'd to meet
The wretched stripling staggering through the street;
For, rash, impetuous, insolent and vain,
The captain sent him to his friends again.
About the Borough roved th' unhappy boy,
And ate the bread of every chance-employ!
Of friends he borrow'd, and the parents yet
In secret fondness authorised the debt;
The younger sister, still a child, was taught
To give with feign'd affright the pittance sought;
For now the father cried—“It is too late
“For trial more—I leave him to his fate,”—
Yet left him not; and with a kind of joy,
The mother heard of her desponding boy;
At length he sicken'd, and he found, when sick,
All aid was ready, all attendance quick;
A fever seized him, and at once was lost
The thought of trespass, error, crime and cost:
Th' indulgent parents knelt beside the youth,
They heard his promise and believed his truth;
And when the danger lessen'd on their view,
They cast off doubt, and hope assurance grew;—
Nursed by his sisters, cherish'd by his sire,
Begg'd to be glad, encouraged to aspire,
His life, they said, would now all care repay,
And he might date his prospects from that day;

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A son, a brother to his home received,
They hoped for all things, and in all believed.
And now will pardon, comfort, kindness draw
The youth from vice? will honour, duty, law?
Alas! not all: the more the trials lent,
The less he seem'd to ponder and repent;
Headstrong, determined in his own career,
He thought reproof unjust and truth severe;
The soul's disease was to its crisis come,
He first abused and then abjured his home;
And when he chose a vagabond to be,
He made his shame his glory—“I'll be free.”
Friends, parents, relatives, hope, reason, love,
With anxious ardour for that empire strove;
In vain their strife, in vain the means applied,
They had no comfort, but that all were tried;
One strong vain trial made, the mind to move,
Was the last effort of parental love.
Ev'n then he watch'd his father from his home,
And to his mother would for pity come,
Where, as he made her tender terrors rise,
He talk'd of death, and threaten'd for supplies.
Against a youth so vicious and undone,
All hearts were closed, and every door but one:
The Players received him; they with open heart
Gave him his portion and assign'd his part;

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And ere three days were added to his life,
He found a home, a duty, and a wife.
His present friends, though they were nothing nice,
Nor ask'd how vicious he, or what his vice,
Still they expected he should now attend
To the joint duty as a useful friend;
The leader too declared, with frown severe,
That none should pawn a robe that kings might wear,
And much it moved him, when he Hamlet play'd
To see his Father's Ghost so drunken made:
Then too the temper, the unbending pride
Of this ally, would no reproof abide:—
So leaving these, he march'd away and join'd
Another troop, and other goods purloin'd;
And other characters, both gay and sage,
Sober and sad, made stagger on the stage;
Then to rebuke with arrogant disdain,
He gave abuse and sought a home again.
Thus changing scenes, but with unchanging vice,
Engaged by many, but with no one twice:
Of this, a last and poor resource, bereft,
He to himself, unhappy guide! was left—
And who shall say where guided? to what seats
Of starving villany? of thieves and cheats?
In that sad time of many a dismal scene
Had he a witness, not inactive, been;
Had leagued with petty pilferers, and had crept
Where of each sex degraded numbers slept:
With such associates he was long allied,
Where his capacity for ill was tried,
And that once lost, the wretch was cast aside

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For now, though willing with the worst to act,
He wanted powers for an important fact;
And while he felt as lawless spirits feel,
His hand was palsied, and he couldn't steal.
By these rejected, is their lot so strange,
So low! that he could suffer by the change?
Yes! the new station as a fall we judge,—
He now became the harlots' humble drudge,
Their drudge in common: they combined to save
Awhile from starving their submissive slave;
For now his spirit left him, and his pride,
His scorn, his rancour, and resentment died;
Few were his feelings—but the keenest these,
The rage of hunger, and the sigh for ease;
He who abused indulgence, now became
By want subservient, and by misery tame;
A slave, he begg'd forbearance; bent with pain,
He shunn'd the blow,—“Ah! strike me not again.”
Thus was he found: the master of a hoy
Saw the sad wretch whom he had known a boy;
At first in doubt, but Frederick laid aside
All shame, and humbly for his aid applied:
He, tamed and smitten with the storms gone by,
Look'd for compassion through one living eye,
And stretch'd th' unpalsied hand: the seaman felt
His honest heart with gentle pity melt,
And his small boon with cheerful frankness dealt;
Then made enquiries of th' unhappy youth,
Who told, nor shame forbade him, all the truth.
“Young Frederick Thompson, to a chandler's shop
“By harlots order'd and afraid to stop!—

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“What! our good merchants favourite to be seen
“In state so loathsome and in dress so mean?”—
So thought the seaman as he bade adieu,
And, when in port, related all he knew.
But time was lost, enquiry came too late,
Those whom he served knew nothing of his fate;
No! they had seized on what the sailor gave,
Nor bore resistance from their abject slave
The spoil obtain'd, they cast him from the door,
Robb'd, beaten, hungry, pain'd, diseased, and poor
Then nature, pointing to the only spot
Which still had comfort for so dire a lot,
Although so feeble, led him on the way,
And hope look'd forward to a happier day:
He thought, poor prodigal! a father yet
His woes would pity and his crimes forget;
Nor had he brother who with speech severe
Would check the pity or refrain the tear:
A lighter spirit in his bosom rose,
As near the road he sought an hour's repose.
And there he found it: he had left the town,
But buildings yet were scatter'd up and down;
To one of these, half-ruin'd and half-built,
Was traced this child of wretchedness and guilt;
There, on the remnant of a beggar's vest,
Thrown by in scorn, the sufferer sought for rest;
There was this scene of vice and wo to close,
And there the wretched body found repose.

219

LETTER XIII. THE ALMS-HOUSE AND TRUSTEES.

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
—Pope.

There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pool,
And do a wilful stillness entertain:
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion,
As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle,
“And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.”
Merchant of Venice.

Sum felix; quis enim neget? felixque manebo;
Hoc quoque quis dubitet? Tutum me copia fecit.


220

The frugal Merchant—Rivalship in Modes of Frugality— Private Exceptions to the general Manners—Alms-house built—Its Description—Founder dies—Six Trustees— Sir Denys Brand, a Principal—His Eulogium in the Chronicles of the Day—Truth reckoned invidious on these Occasions—An Explanation of the Magnanimity and Wisdom of Sir Denys—His Kinds of Moderation and Humility—Laughton, his Successor, a planning, ambitious, wealthy Man—Advancement in Life his perpetual Object, and all Things made the Means of it—His Idea of Falsehood —His Resentment dangerous: how removed—Success produces Love of Flattery; his daily Gratification—His Merits and Acts of Kindness—His proper Choice of Almsmen —In this Respect meritorious—His Predecessor not so cautious.


221

Leave now our streets, and in yon plain behold
Those pleasant Seats for the reduced and old;
A merchant's gift, whose wife and children died,
When he to saving all his powers applied;
He wore his coat till bare was every thread,
And with the meanest fare his body fed.
He had a female cousin, who with care
Walk'd in his steps, and learn'd of him to spare;
With emulation and success they strove,
Improving still, still seeking to improve,
As if that useful knowledge they would gain—
How little food would human life sustain:
No pauper came their table's crums to crave;
Scraping they lived, but not a scrap they gave:
When beggars saw the frugal Merchant pass,
It moved their pity, and they said, “Alas!
“Hard is thy fate, my brother,” and they felt
A beggar's pride as they that pity dealt.

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The dogs, who learn of man to scorn the poor,
Bark'd him away from every decent door;
While they who saw him bare, but thought him rich,
To show respect or scorn, they knew not which.
But while our Merchant seem'd so base and mean,
He had his wanderings, sometimes, “not unseen;”
To give in secret was a favourite act,
Yet more than once they took him in the fact:
To scenes of various wo he nightly went,
And serious sums in healing misery spent;
Oft has he cheer'd the wretched, at a rate
For which he daily might have dined on plate;
He has been seen—his hair all silver-white,
Shaking and shining—as he stole by night,
To feed unenvied on his still delight.
A twofold taste he had; to give and spare,
Both were his duties, and had equal care;
It was his joy, to sit alone and fast,
Then send a widow and her boys repast:
Tears in his eyes would, spite of him, appear,
But he from other eyes has kept the tear:
All in a wint'ry night from far he came,
To soothe the sorrows of a suffering dame;
Whose husband robb'd him, and to whom he meant
A ling'ring, but reforming punishment:
Home then he walk'd, and found his anger rise,
When fire and rushlight met his troubled eyes;
But these extinguish'd, and his prayer address'd
To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to rest.
His seventieth year was pass'd, and then was seen
A building rising on the northern green;

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There was no blinding all his neighbours' eyes,
Or surely no one would have seen it rise:
Twelve rooms contiguous stood, and six were near,
There men were placed, and sober matrons here;
There were behind small useful gardens made,
Benches before, and trees to give them shade;
In the first room were seen, above, below,
Some marks of taste, a few attempts at show;
The founder's picture and his arms were there
(Not till he left us), and an elbow'd chair;
There, 'mid these signs of his superior place,
Sat the mild ruler of this humble race.
Within the row are men who strove in vain,
Through years of trouble, wealth and ease to gain;
Less must they have than an appointed sum,
And freemen been, or hither must not come;
They should be decent, and command respect
(Though needing fortune), whom these doors protect,
And should for thirty dismal years have tried
For peace unfelt and competence denied.
Strange! that o'er men thus train'd in sorrow's school,
Power must be held, and they must live by rule;
Infirm, corrected by misfortunes, old,
Their habits settled and their passions cold;
Of health, wealth, power, and worldly cares bereft,
Still must they not at liberty be left;
There must be one to rule them, to restrain
And guide the movements of his erring train.
If then control imperious, check severe,
Be needed where such reverend men appear;

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To what would youth, without such checks, aspire,
Free the wild wish, uncurb'd the strong desire?
And where (in college or in camp) they found
The heart ungovern'd and the hand unbound?
His house endow'd, the generous man resign'd
All power to rule, nay power of choice declined;
He and the female saint survived to view
Their work complete, and bade the world adieu!
Six are the Guardians of this happy seat,
And one presides when they on business meet;
As each expires, the five a brother choose;
Nor would Sir Denys Brand the charge refuse;
True, 'twas beneath him, “but to do men good
“Was motive never by his heart withstood:”
He too is gone, and they again must strive
To find a man in whom his gifts survive.
Now, in the various records of the dead,
Thy worth, Sir Denys, shall be weigh'd and read;
There we the glory of thy house shall trace,
With each alliance of thy noble race.
Yes! here we have him!—“Came in William's reign,
“The Norman Brand; the blood without a stain;
“From the fierce Dane and ruder Saxon clear,
“Pict, Irish, Scot, or Cambrian mountaineer;
“But the pure Norman was the sacred spring,
“And he, Sir Denys, was in heart a king:
“Erect in person and so firm in soul,
“Fortune he seem'd to govern and control;
“Generous as he who gives his all away,
“Prudent as one who toils for weekly pay;
“In him all merits were decreed to meet,
“Sincere though cautious, frank and yet discreet,

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“Just all his dealings, faithful every word,
‘His passions' master, and his temper's lord.”
Yet more, kind dealers in decaying fame?
His magnanimity you next proclaim;
You give him learning, join'd with sound good sense,
And match his wealth with his benevolence;
What hides the multitude of sins, you add,
Yet seem to doubt if sins he ever had.
Poor honest Truth! thou writ'st of living men,
And art a railer and detractor then;
They die, again to be described, and now
A foe to merit and mankind art thou!
Why banish Truth? It injures not the dead,
It aids not them with flattery to be fed;
And when mankind such perfect pictures view,
They copy less, the more they think them true.
Let us a mortal as he was behold,
And see the dross adhering to the gold;
When we the errors of the virtuous state,
Then erring men their worth may emulate.
View then this picture of a noble mind,
Let him be wise, magnanimous, and kind;
What was the wisdom? Was it not the frown
That keeps all question, all enquiry down?
His words were powerful and decisive all,
But his slow reasons came for no man's call.
“'Tis thus,” he cried, no doubt with kind intent,
To give results and spare all argument:—
“Let it be spared—all men at least agree
“Sir Denys Brand had magnanimity:
“His were no vulgar charities; none saw
“Him like the Merchant to the hut withdraw;

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“He left to meaner minds the simple deed,
“By which the houseless rest, the hungry feed;
“His was a public bounty vast and grand,
“'Twas not in him to work with viewless hand;
“He raised the Room that towers above the street,
“A public room where grateful parties meet;
“He first the Life-boat plann'd; to him the place
“Is deep in debt—'twas he revived the Race;
“To every public act this hearty friend
“Would give with freedom or with frankness lend;
“His money built the Jail, nor prisoner yet
“Sits at his ease, but he must feel the debt;
“To these let candour add his vast display;
“Around his mansion all is grand and gay,
“And this is bounty with the name of pay.”
I grant the whole, nor from one deed retract,
But wish recorded too the private act:
All these were great, but still our hearts approve
Those simpler tokens of the Christian love;
'Twould give me joy some gracious deed to meet,
That has not call'd for glory through the street.
Who felt for many, could not always shun,
In some soft moment, to be kind to one;
And yet they tell us, when Sir Denys died,
That not a widow in the Borough sigh'd;
Great were his gifts, his mighty heart I own,
But why describe what all the world has known?
The rest is petty pride, the useless art
Of a vain mind to hide a swelling heart:
Small was his private room: men found him there
By a plain table, on a paltry chair;

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A wretched floor-cloth, and some prints around,
The easy purchase of a single pound:
These humble trifles and that study small
Make a strong contrast with the servants' hall;
There barely comfort, here a proud excess,
The pompous seat of pamper'd idleness,
Where the sleek rogues with one consent declare,
They would not live upon his honour's fare;
He daily took but one half-hour to dine,
On one poor dish and some three sips of wine;
Then he'd abuse them for their sumptuous feasts,
And say, “My friends! you make yourselves like beasts;
“One dish suffices any man to dine,
“But you are greedy as a herd of swine;
“Learn to be temperate.”—Had they dared t'obey,
He would have praised and turn'd them all away.
Friends met Sir Denys riding in his ground,
And there the meekness of his spirit found:
For that grey coat, not new for many a year,
Hides all that would like decent dress appear;
An old brown pony 'twas his will to ride,
Who shuffled onward, and from side to side;
A five-pound purchase, but so fat and sleek,
His very plenty made the creature weak.
“Sir Denys Brand! and on so poor a steed!”
“Poor! it may be—such things I never heed:”
And who that youth behind, of pleasant mien,
Equipp'd as one who wishes to be seen,

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Upon a horse, twice victor for a plate,
A noble hunter, bought at dearest rate?—
Him the lad fearing yet resolved to guide,
He curbs his spirit while he strokes his pride.
“A handsome youth, Sir Denys; and a horse
“Of finer figure never trod the course,—
“Yours, without question?”—“Yes! I think a groom
“Bought me the beast; I cannot say the sum:
“I ride him not; it is a foolish pride
“Men have in cattle—but my people ride;
“The boy is—hark ye, sirrah! what's your name?
“Ay, Jacob, yes! I recollect—the same;
“As I bethink me now, a tenant's son—
“I think a tenant,—is your father one?”
There was an idle boy who ran about,
And found his master's humble spirit out;
He would at awful distance snatch a look,
Then run away and hide him in some nook;
“For oh!” quoth he, “I dare not fix my sight
“On him, his grandeur puts me in a fright;
“Oh! Mister Jacob, when you wait on him,
“Do you not quake and tremble every limb?”
The Steward soon had orders—“Summers, see
“That Sam be clothed, and let him wait on me.”

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Sir Denys died, bequeathing all affairs
In trust to Laughton's long-experienced cares;
Before a Guardian, and Sir Denys dead,
All rule and power devolved upon his head,
Numbers are call'd to govern, but in fact
Only the powerful and assuming act.
Laughton, too wise to be a dupe to fame,
Cared not a whit of what descent he came,
Till he was rich; he then conceived the thought
To fish for pedigree, but never caught:
All his desire, when he was young and poor,
Was to advance; he never cared for more:
“Let me buy, sell, be factor, take a wife,
“Take any road, to get along in life.”
Was he a miser then? a robber? foe
To those who trusted? a deceiver?—No!
He was ambitious; all his powers of mind
Were to one end controll'd, improved, combined;
Wit, learning, judgment, were, by his account,
Steps for the ladder he design'd to mount:
Such step was money: wealth was but his slave,
For power he gain'd it, and for power he gave:
Full well the Borough knows that he'd the art
Of bringing money to the surest mart;
Friends too were aids,—they led to certain ends,
Increase of power and claim on other friends.
A favourite step was marriage: then he gain'd
Seat in our Hall, and o'er his party reign'd;
Houses and lands he bought, and long'd to buy,
But never drew the springs of purchase dry,
And thus at last they answer'd every call,
The failing found him ready for their fall:

230

He walks along the street, the mart, the quay,
And looks and mutters, “This belongs to me.”
His passions all partook the general bent;
Interest inform'd him when he should resent,
How long resist, and on what terms relent:
In points where he determined to succeed,
In vain might reason or compassion plead;
But gain'd his point, he was the best of men,
'Twas loss of time to be vexatious then:
Hence he was mild to all men whom he led,
Of all who dared resist, the scourge and dread.
Falsehood in him was not the useless lie
Of boasting pride or laughing vanity;
It was the gainful, the persuading art,
That made its way and won the doubting heart,
Which argued, soften'd, humbled, and prevail'd,
Nor was it tried till ev'ry truth had fail'd;
No sage on earth could more than he despise
Degrading, poor, unprofitable lies.
Though fond of gain, and grieved by wanton waste,
To social parties he had no distaste;
With one presiding purpose in his view,
He sometimes could descend to trifle too!
Yet, in these moments, he had still the art
To ope the looks and close the guarded heart;
And, like the public host, has sometimes made
A grand repast, for which the guests have paid.
At length, with power endued and wealthy grown,
Frailties and passions, long suppress'd, were shown:
Then to provoke him was a dangerous thing,
His pride would punish, and his temper sting;

231

His powerful hatred sought th' avenging hour,
And his proud vengeance struck with all his power,
Save when th' offender took a prudent way
The rising storm of fury to allay:
This might he do, and so in safety sleep,
By largely casting to the angry deep;
Or, better yet (its swelling force t' assuage),
By pouring oil of flattery on its rage.
And now, of all the heart approved, possess'd,
Fear'd, favour'd, follow'd, dreaded and caress'd,
He gently yields to one mellifluous joy,
The only sweet that is not found to cloy,
Bland adulation!—other pleasures pall
On the sick taste, and transient are they all;
But this one sweet has such enchanting power,
The more we take, the faster we devour:
Nauseous to those who must the dose apply,
And most disgusting to the standers-by;
Yet in all companies will Laughton feed,
Nor care how grossly men perform the deed.
As gapes the nursling, or, what comes more near,
Some Friendly-Island chief, for hourly cheer;
When wives and slaves, attending round his seat,
Prepare by turns the masticated meat:
So for this master, husband, parent, friend,
His ready slaves their various efforts blend,
And, to their lord still eagerly inclined,
Pour the crude trash of a dependent mind.
But let the Muse assign the man his due,
Worth he possess'd, nor were his virtues few:—
He sometimes help'd the injured in their cause;
His power and purse have back'd the failing laws;

232

He for religion has a due respect,
And all his serious notions are correct;
Although he pray'd and languish'd for a son,
He grew resign'd when Heaven denied him one;
He never to this quiet mansion sends
Subject unfit, in compliment to friends;
Not so Sir Denys, who would yet protest
He always chose the worthiest and the best:
Not men in trade by various loss brought down,
But those whose glory once amazed the town,
Who their last guinea in their pleasures spent,
Yet never fell so low as to repent:
To these his pity he could largely deal,
Wealth they had known, and therefore want could feel.
Three seats were vacant while Sir Denys reign'd,
And three such favourites their admission gain'd;
These let us view, still more to understand
The moral feelings of Sir Denys Brand.

233

LETTER XIV. INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE. BLANEY.

Sed quia cæcus inest vitiis amor, omne futurum
Despicitur; suadent brevem præsentia fructum,
Et ruit in vetitum damni secura libido.
Claud. in Eutrop.

------ Nunquam parvo contenta paratu,
Et quæsitorum terrâ pelagoque ciborum
Ambitiosa fames, et lautæ gloria mensæ.
—Lucan.

Et Luxus, populator Opum, tibi semper adhærens,
Infelix humili gressu comitatur Egestas.
Claud. in Ruf.

Behold what blessing wealth to life can lend!
—Pope.


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Blaney, a wealthy Heir, dissipated, and reduced to Poverty— His Fortune restored by Marriage: again consumed—His Manner of living in the West Indies—Recalled to a larger Inheritance—His more refined and expensive Luxuries— His Method of quieting Conscience—Death of his Wife— Again become poor—His Method of supporting Existence —His Ideas of Religion—His Habits and Connections when old—Admitted into the Alms-house.


235

Observe that tall pale Veteran! what a look
Of shame and guilt!—who cannot read that book?
Misery and mirth are blended in his face,
Much innate vileness and some outward grace;
There wishes strong and stronger griefs are seen
Looks ever changed, and never one serene:
Show not that manner, and these features all,
The serpent's cunning and the sinner's fall?
Hark to that laughter!—'tis the way he takes
To force applause for each vile jest he makes;
Such is yon man, by partial favour sent
To these calm seats to ponder and repent.
Blaney, a wealthy heir at twenty-one,
At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone,

236

These years with grievous crimes we need not load,
He found his ruin in the common road!—
Gamed without skill, without inquiry bought,
Lent without love, and borrow'd without thought.
But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower
Of a kind wealthy widow in his power:
Then he aspired to loftier flights of vice,
To singing harlots of enormous price:
He took a jockey in his gig to buy
A horse, so valued, that a duke was shy:
To gain the plaudits of the knowing few,
Gamblers and grooms, what would not Blaney do?
His dearest friend, at that improving age,
Was Hounslow Dick, who drove the western stage.
Cruel he was not—If he left his wife,
He left her to her own pursuits in life;
Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind,
Profuse, not just, and careless, but not kind.
Yet, thus assisted, ten long winters pass'd
In wasting guineas ere he saw his last;
Then he began to reason, and to feel
He could not dig, nor had he learn'd to steal;
And should he beg as long as he might live,
He justly fear'd that nobody would give:
But he could charge a pistol, and at will,
All that was mortal, by a bullet kill:
And he was taught, by those whom he would call
Man's surest guides—that he was mortal all.
While thus he thought, still waiting for the day,
When he should dare to blow his brains away,

237

A place for him a kind relation found,
Where England's monarch ruled, but far from English ground:
He gave employ that might for bread suffice,
Correct his habits and restrain his vice.
Here Blaney tried (what such man's miseries teach)
To find what pleasures were within his reach;
These he enjoy'd, though not in just the style
He once possess'd them in his native isle;
Congenial souls he found in every place,
Vice in all soils, and charms in every race:
His lady took the same amusing way,
And laugh'd at Time till he had turn'd them grey:
At length for England once again they steer'd,
By ancient views and new designs endear'd;
His kindred died, and Blaney now became
An heir to one who never heard his name.
What could he now?—The man had tried before
The joys of youth, and they were joys no more;
To vicious pleasure he was still inclined,
But vice must now be season'd and refined;
Then as a swine he would on pleasure seize,
Now common pleasures had no power to please:
Beauty alone has for the vulgar charms,
He wanted beauty trembling with alarms:
His was no more a youthful dream of joy,
The wretch desired to ruin and destroy;

238

He bought indulgence with a boundless price,
Most pleased when decency bow'd down to vice,
When a fair dame her husband's honour sold,
And a frail countess play'd for Blaney's gold.
“But did not conscience in her anger rise?’
Yes! and he learn'd her terrors to despise;
When stung by thought, to soothing books he fled
And grew composed and harden'd as he read;
Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight,
Pleased him, and shone with their phosphoric light;
Which, though it rose from objects vile and base,
Where'er it came threw splendour on the place,
And was that light which the deluded youth,
And this grey sinner, deem'd the light of truth.
He different works for different cause admired,
Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired;
To cheer the mind and raise a dormant flame,
He had the books, decreed to lasting shame,
Which those who read are careful not to name:
These won to vicious act the yielding heart,
And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart.
He heard of Blount, and Mandeville, and Chubb,
How they the doctors of their day would drub;

239

How Hume had dwelt on Miracles so well,
That none would now believe a miracle;
And though he cared not works so grave to read,
He caught their faith, and sign'd the sinner's creed.
Thus was he pleased to join the laughing side,
Nor ceased the laughter when his lady died;
Yet was he kind and careful of her fame,
And on her tomb inscribed a virtuous name;
“A tender wife, respected, and so forth,”—
The marble still bears witness to the worth.
He has some children, but he knows not where;
Something they cost, but neither love nor care;
A father's feelings he has never known,
His joys, his sorrows, have been all his own.
He now would build—and lofty seat he built,
And sought, in various ways, relief from guilt.
Restless, for ever anxious to obtain
Ease for the heart by ramblings of the brain,
He would have pictures, and of course a Taste,
And found a thousand means his wealth to waste.
Newmarket steeds he bought at mighty cost;
They sometimes won, but Blaney always lost.
Quick came his ruin, came when he had still
For life a relish, and in pleasure skill:
By his own idle reckoning he supposed
His wealth would last him till his life was closed;
But no! he found this final hoard was spent,
While he had years to suffer and repent.
Yet, at the last, his noble mind to show,
And in his misery how he bore the blow,

240

He view'd his only guinea, then suppress'd,
For a short time, the tumults in his breast,
And, moved by pride, by habit and despair,
Gave it an opera-bird to hum an air.
Come, ye! who live for Pleasure, come, behold
A man of pleasure when he's poor and old;
When he looks back through life, and cannot find
A single action to relieve his mind;
When he looks forward, striving still to keep
A steady prospect of eternal sleep;
When not one friend is left, of all the train
Whom 'twas his pride and boast to entertain,—
Friends now employ'd from house to house to run,
And say, “Alas! poor Blaney is undone!”—
Those whom he shook with ardour by the hand,
By whom he stood as long as he could stand,
Who seem'd to him from all deception clear,
And who, more strange! might think themselves sincere.
Lo! now the hero shuffling through the town,
To hunt a dinner and to beg a crown;
To tell an idle tale, that boys may smile;
To bear a strumpet's billet-doux a mile;
To cull a wanton for a youth of wealth
(With reverend view to both his taste and health);
To be a useful, needy thing between
Fear and desire—the pander and the screen;
To flatter pictures, houses, horses, dress,
The wildest fashion, or the worst excess,
To be the grey seducer, and entice
Unbearded folly into acts of vice;

241

And then, to level every fence which law
And virtue fix to keep the mind in awe,
He first inveigles youth to walk astray,
Next prompts and soothes them in their fatal way,
Then vindicates the deed, and makes the mind his prey.
Unhappy man! what pains he takes to state—
(Proof of his fear!) that all below is fate;
That all proceed in one appointed track,
Where none can stop, or take their journey back:
Then what is vice or virtue?—Yet he'll rail
At priests till memory and quotation fail;
He reads, to learn the various ills they've done,
And calls them vipers, every mother's son.
He is the harlot's aid, who wheedling tries
To move her friend for vanity's supplies;
To weak indulgence he allures the mind,
Loth to be duped, but willing to be kind;
And if successful—what the labour pays?
He gets the friend's contempt and Chloe's praise,
Who, in her triumph, condescends to say,
“What a good creature Blaney was to-day!”
Hear the poor demon when the young attend,
And willing ear to vile experience lend;
When he relates (with laughing, leering eye)
The tale licentious, mix'd with blasphemy:
No genuine gladness his narrations cause,
The frailest heart denies sincere applause;
And many a youth has turn'd him half aside,
And laugh'd aloud, the sign of shame to hide.
Blaney, no aid in his vile cause to lose,
Buys pictures, prints, and a licentious muse;

242

He borrows every help from every art,
To stir the passions and mislead the heart:
But from the subject let us soon escape,
Nor give this feature all its ugly shape;
Some to their crimes escape from satire owe;
Who shall describe what Blaney dares to show?
While thus the man, to vice and passion slave,
Was, with his follies, moving to the grave,
The ancient ruler of this mansion died,
And Blaney boldly for the seat applied:
Sir Denys Brand, then guardian, join'd his suit;
“'Tis true,” said he, “the fellow's quite a brute—
“A very beast; but yet, with all his sin,
“He has a manner—let the devil in.”
They half complied, they gave the wish'd retreat,
But raised a worthier to the vacant seat.
Thus forced on ways unlike each former way,
Thus led to prayer without a heart to pray,
He quits the gay and rich, the young and free,
Among the badge-men with a badge to be:
He sees an humble tradesman raised to rule
The grey-beard pupils of this moral school;
Where he himself, an old licentious boy,
Will nothing learn, and nothing can enjoy;
In temp'rate measures he must eat and drink,
And, pain of pains! must live alone and think.
In vain, by fortune's smiles, thrice affluent made
Still has he debts of ancient date unpaid;
Thrice into penury by error thrown,
Not one right maxim has he made his own;
The old men shun him,—some his vices hate,
And all abhor his principles and prate;

243

Nor love nor care for him will mortal show,
Save a frail sister in the female row.

245

LETTER XV. INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE. CLELIA.

She early found herself mistress of herself. All she did was right: all she said was admired. Early, very early, did she dismiss blushes from her cheek: she could not blush because she could not doubt: and silence, whatever was her subject, was as much a stranger to her as diffidence. —Richardson.

Quo fugit Venus? heu! Quove color? decens
Quo motus? Quid habes illius, illius,
Quæ spirabat amores,
Quæ me surpuerat mihi?
Horat. lib. iv. od. 13.


246

Her lively and pleasant Manners—Her Reading and Decision —Her Intercourse with different Classes of Society—Her Kind of Character—The favoured Lover—Her Management of him: his of her—After one Period, Clelia with an Attorney: her Manner and Situation there—Another such Period, when her Fortune still declines—Mistress of an Inn —A Widow—Another such Interval: she becomes poor and infirm, but still vain and frivolous—The fallen Vanity —Admitted into the House: meets Blaney.


247

We had a sprightly nymph—in every town
Are some such sprights, who wander up and down;
She had her useful arts, and could contrive,
In Time's despite, to stay at twenty-five;—
“Here will I rest; move on, thou lying year,
“This is mine age, and I will rest me here.”
Arch was her look, and she had pleasant ways
Your good opinion of her heart to raise;
Her speech was lively, and with ease express'd,
And well she judged the tempers she address'd:
If some soft stripling had her keenness felt,
She knew the way to make his anger melt;
Wit was allow'd her, though but few could bring
Direct example of a witty thing;

248

Twas that gay, pleasant, smart, engaging speech,
Her beaux admired, and just within their reach;
Not indiscreet, perhaps, but yet more free
Than prudish nymphs allow their wit to be.
Novels and plays, with poems old and new,
Were all the books our nymph attended to;
Yet from the press no treatise issued forth,
But she would speak precisely of its worth.
She with the London stage familiar grew,
And every actor's name and merit knew;
She told how this or that their part mistook,
And of the rival Romeos gave the look;
Of either house 'twas hers the strength to see,
Then judge with candour—“Drury Lane for me.”
What made this knowledge, what this skill complete?
A fortnight's visit in Whitechapel Street.
Her place in life was rich and poor between,
With those a favourite, and with these a queen;
She could her parts assume, and condescend
To friends more humble while an humble friend;
And thus a welcome, lively guest could pass,
Threading her pleasant way from class to class.
“Her reputation?”—That was like her wit,
And seem'd her manner and her state to fit;
Something there was, what, none presumed to say,
Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day,—
Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear,
And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear.
But of each sex a friendly number press'd
To joyous banquets this alluring guest:
There, if indulging mirth, and freed from awe,
If pleasing all, and pleased with all she saw,

249

Her speech were free, and such as freely dwelt
On the same feelings all around her felt;
Or if some fond presuming favourite tried
To come so near as once to be denied;
Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice,
But that he ventured on denial twice:—
If these have been, and so has Scandal taught,
Yet Malice never found the proof she sought.
But then came one, the Lovelace of his day,
Rich, proud, and crafty, handsome, brave, and gay;
Yet loved he not those labour'd plans and arts,
But left the business to the ladies' hearts,
And when he found them in a proper train,
He thought all else superfluous and vain:
But in that training he was deeply taught,
And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought;
He knew how far directly on to go,
How to recede and dally to and fro;
How to make all the passions his allies,
And, when he saw them in contention rise,
To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by surprise.
Our heroine fear'd him not; it was her part,
To make sure conquest of such gentle heart—
Of one so mild and humble; for she saw
In Henry's eye a love chastised by awe.
Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime,
Nor virtuous all her thoughts; 'twas now her time
To bait each hook, in every way to please,
And the rich prize with dext'rous hand to seize.
She had no virgin-terrors; she could stray
In all love's maze, nor fear to lose her way;

250

Nay, could go near the precipice, nor dread
A failing caution or a giddy head;
She'd fix her eyes upon the roaring flood,
And dance upon the brink where danger stood.
'Twas nature all, she judged, in one so young,
To drop the eye and falter in the tongue;
To be about to take, and then command
His daring wish, and only view the hand:
Yes! all was nature; it became a maid
Of gentle soul t'encourage love afraid;—
He, so unlike the confident and bold,
Would fly in mute despair to find her cold:
The young and tender germ requires the sun
To make it spread; it must be smiled upon.
Thus the kind virgin gentle means devised,
To gain a heart so fond, a hand so prized;
More gentle still she grew, to change her way,
Would cause confusion, danger, and delay:
Thus (an increase of gentleness her mode),
She took a plain, unvaried, certain road,
And every hour believed success was near,
Till there was nothing left to hope or fear.
It must be own'd that, in this strife of hearts,
Man has advantage—has superior arts:
The lover's aim is to the nymph unknown
Nor is she always certain of her own;
Or has her fears, nor these can so disguise,
But he who searches, reads them in her eyes,
In the avenging frown, in the regretting sighs:
These are his signals, and he learns to steer
The straighter course whenever they appear.

251

“Pass we ten years, and what was Clelia's fate?”
At an attorney's board alert she sate,
Not legal mistress: he with other men
Once sought her hand, but other views were then;
And when he knew he might the bliss command,
He other blessing sought, without the hand;
For still he felt alive the lambent flame,
And offer'd her a home,—and home she came.
There, though her higher friendships lived no more,
She loved to speak of what she shared before—
“Of the dear Lucy, heiress of the hall,—
“Of good Sir Peter,—of their annual ball,
“And the fair countess!—Oh! she loved them all!”
The humbler clients of her friend would stare,
The knowing smile,—but neither caused her care;
She brought her spirits to her humble state,
And soothed with idle dreams her frowning fate.
“Ten summers pass'd, and how was Clelia then?”—
Alas! she suffer'd in this trying ten;
The pair had parted: who to him attend,
Must judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend;
But who on her would equal faith bestow,
Would think him rash,—and surely she must know.
Then as a matron Clelia taught a school,
But nature gave not talents fit for rule:
Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen,
Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen;
Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay,
And lively speech and elegant array.

252

The Griffin's landlord these allured so far,
He made her mistress of his heart and bar;
He had no idle retrospective whim,
Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him:
So far was well,—but Clelia thought not fit.
(In all the Griffin needed) to submit:
Gaily to dress and in the bar preside,
Soothed the poor spirit of degraded pride;
But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crew
Of noisy guests, were arts she never knew:
Hence daily wars, with temporary truce,
His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse;
And as their spirits wasted in the strife,
Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life;
But she with greater prudence—Harry tried
More powerful aid, and in the trial died;
Yet drew down vengeance: in no distant time,
Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wings sublime;—
Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen,
And show'd to frowning fate a look serene;
Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired,
Kind without love, and vain if not admired.
Another term is past; ten other years
In various trials, troubles, views, and fears:
Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade;
Houses she kept for widowers lately made;
For now she said, “They'll miss th' endearing friend,
“And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend:”

253

And true a part was done as Clelia plann'd—
The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand.
She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said
The dedication was the best he read;
But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'd
The public ear, that all her pains were lost.
To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last,
There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past.
Now friendless, sick, and old, and wanting bread,
The first-born tears of fallen pride were shed—
True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride,
Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd.
Though now her tales were to her audience fit;
Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown he wit,
Though now her dress—(but let me not explain
The piteous patchwork of the needy-vain,
The flirtish form to coarse materials lent,
And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent);
Though all within was sad, without was mean,—
Still 'twas her wish, her comfort, to be seen:
She would to plays on lowest terms resort,
Where once her box was to the beaux a court;
And, strange delight! to that same house where she
Join'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee,
Now with the menials crowding to the wall,
She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball,
And with degraded vanity unfold,
How she too triumph'd in the years of old.
To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tell,
On what a height she stood before she fell;

254

At church she points to one tall seat, and “There
“We sat,” she cries, “when my papa was mayor.”
Not quite correct in what she now relates,
She alters persons, and she forges dates;
And, finding memory's weaker help decay'd,
She boldly calls invention to her aid.
Touch'd by the pity he had felt before,
For her Sir Denys oped the Alms-house door:
“With all her faults,” he said, “the woman knew
“How to distinguish—had a manner too;
“And, as they say she is allied to some
“In decent station—let the creature come.”
Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view
Of all the pleasures they would still pursue:
Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide
Of vices past; their follies are their pride;
What to the sober and the cool are crimes,
They boast—exulting in those happy times;
The darkest deeds no indignation raise,
The purest virtue never wins their praise;
But still they on their ancient joys dilate,
Still with regret departed glories state,
And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate.

257

LETTER XVI. INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE. BENBOW.

Ebrietas tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atris
Circa te semper volitans Infamia pennis.
—Silvius Italicus.


258

Benbow, an improper companion for the Badgemen of the Alms-house—He resembles Bardolph—Left in Trade by his Father—Contracts useless Friendships—His Friends drink with him, and employ others—Called worthy and honest! Why—Effect of Wine on the Mind of Man— Benbow's common Subject—The Praise of departed Friends and Patrons—'Squire Asgill, at the Grange: his Manners, Servants, Friends—True to his Church: ought therefore to be spared—His Son's different Conduct—Vexation of the Father's Spirit if admitted to see the Alteration—Captain Dowling, a boon Companion, ready to drink at all Times, and with any Company: famous in his Club-room—His easy Departure—Dolly Murray, a Maiden advanced in Years: abides by Ratafia and Cards—Her free Manners —Her Skill in the Game—Her Preparation and Death— Benbow, how interrupted: his Submission.


259

See! yonder badgeman, with that glowing face,
A meteor shining in this sober place;
Vast sums were paid, and many years were past,
Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast!
Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore,
Guiding his master to the tavern door;
There first that meteor rose, and there alone,
In its due place, the rich effulgence shone:
But this strange fire the seat of peace invades,
And shines portentous in these solemn shades.
Benbow, a boon companion, long approved
By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved,
Was judged as one to joy and friendship prone,
And deem'd injurious to himself alone;

260

Gen'rous and free, he paid but small regard
To trade, and fail'd; and some declared “'twas hard:”
These were his friends—his foes conceived the case
Of common kind; he sought and found disgrace:
The reasoning few, who neither scorn'd nor loved,
His feelings pitied and his faults reproved,
Benbow, the father, left possessions fair,
A worthy name and business to his heir;
Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold,
And lost his credit, while he spent the gold:
He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'd
The night with him; his day was unemploy'd;
So when his credit and his cash were spent,
Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent;
Of late he came, with passions unsubdued,
And shared and cursed the hated solitude,
Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous cares intrude.
Known but in drink,—he found an easy friend,
Well pleased his worth and honour to commend;
And thus inform'd, the guardian of the trust
Heard the applause and said the claim was just.
A worthy soul! unfitted for the strife,
Care, and contention of a busy life;—
Worthy, and why?—that o'er the midnight bowl
He made his friend the partner of his soul,
And any man his friend:—then thus in glee,
“I speak my mind, I love the truth,” quoth he;
Till 'twas his fate that useful truth to find,
'Tis sometimes prudent not to speak the mind.
With wine inflated, man is all upblown,
And feels a power which he believes his own:

261

With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks
His all the virtues all the while he drinks;
But when the gas from the balloon is gone,
When sober thoughts and serious cares come on,
Where then the worth that in himself he found?—
Vanish'd—and he sank grov'ling on the ground.
Still some conceit will Benbow's mind inflate,
Poor as he is,—'tis pleasant to relate
The joys he once possess'd—it soothes his present state.
Seated with some grey beadsman, he regrets
His former feasting, though it swell'd his debts;
Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days,
Well he describes, and thinks description praise:
Each hero's worth with much delight he paints;
Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints
“Alas! alas!” Old England now may say,
“My glory withers; it has had its day:
“We're fallen on evil times; men read and think;
“Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink.
“Then lived the good 'Squire Asgill—what a change
“Has death and fashion shown us at the Grange!
“He bravely thought it best became his rank,
“That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank;
“He was delighted from his favourite room
“To see them 'cross the park go daily home
“Praising aloud the liquor and the host,
“And striving who should venerate him most.
“No pride had he, and there was difference small
“Between the master's and the servants' hall;
“And here or there the guests were welcome all.

262

“Of Heaven's free gifts he took no special care,
“He never quarrel'd for a simple hare;
“But sought, by giving sport, a sportsman's name,
“Himself a poacher, though at other game:
“He never planted nor enclosed—his trees
“Grew like himself, untroubled and at ease:
“Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt
“Choked and imprison'd in a modern belt,
“Which some rare genius now has twined about
“The good old house, to keep old neighbours out.
“Along his valleys, in the evening-hours,
“The borough-damsels stray'd to gather flowers,
“Or, by the brakes and brushwood of the park,
“To take their pleasant rambles in the dark.
“Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to call
“On the kind females—favourites at the hall;
“But better natures saw, with much delight,
“The different orders of mankind unite;
“'Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait,
“Smile on his sister and receive her plate.
“His worship ever was a churchman true,
“He held in scorn the methodistic crew;
“May God defend the Church, and save the King,
“He'd pray devoutly and divinely sing.
“Admit that he the holy day would spend
“As priests approved not, still he was a friend:
“Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice,
“To call such trifles by the name of vice;
“Hinting, though gently and with cautious speech,
“Of good example—'t is their trade to preach.
“But still 'twas pity, when the worthy 'squire
“Stuck to the church, what more could they require?

263

“'Twas almost joining that fanatic crew,
“To throw such morals at his honour's pew;
“A weaker man, had he been so reviled,
“Had left the place—he only swore and smiled.
“But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think,
“Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink;
“Conceive not—mounted on your Sunday-throne,
“Your firebrands fall upon your foes alone;
“They strike your patrons—and should all withdraw,
“In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw,
“You would the flower of all your audience lose,
“And spend your crackers on their empty pews.
“The father dead, the son has found a wife,
“And lives a formal, proud, unsocial life;—
“The lands are now enclosed; the tenants all,
“Save at a rent-day, never see the hall:
“No lass is suffer'd o'er the walks to come,
“And if there's love, they have it all at home.
“Oh! could the ghost of our good 'squire arise,
“And see such change; would it believe its eyes?
“Would it not glide about from place to place,
“And mourn the manners of a feebler race?
“At that long table, where the servants found
“Mirth and abundance while the year went round;
“Where a huge pollard on the winter-fire,
“At a huge distance made them all retire;
“Where not a measure in the room was kept,
“And but one rule—they tippled till they slept—
“There would it see a pale old hag preside,
“A thing made up of stinginess and pride;

264

“Who carves the meat, as if the flesh could feel;
“Careless whose flesh must miss the plenteous meal;
“Here would the ghost a small coal-fire behold,
“Not fit to keep one body from the cold;
“Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stay
“To view a dull, dress'd company at play;
“All the old comfort, all the genial fare
“For ever gone! how sternly would it stare:
“And though it might not to their view appear,
“'Twould cause among them lassitude and fear;
“Then wait to see—where he delight has seen—
“The dire effect of fretfulness and spleen.
“Such were the worthies of these better days;
“We had their blessings—they shall have our praise.
“Of captain Dowling would you hear me speak?
“I'd sit and sing his praises for a week:
“He was a man, and man-like all his joy,—
“I'm led to question was he ever boy?
“Beef was his breakfast;—if from sea and salt,
“It relish'd better with his wine of malt;
“Then, till he dined, if walking in or out,
“Whether the gravel teased him or the gout,
“Though short in wind and flannel'd every limb,
“He drank with all who had concerns with him:
“Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came,
“They found him ready, every hour the same,
“Whatever liquors might between them pass,
“He took them all, and never balk'd his glass:
“Nay, with the seamen working in the ship,
“At their request, he'd share the grog and flip.

265

“But in the club-room was his chief delight,
“And punch the favourite liquor of the night;
“Man after man they from the trial shrank,
“And Dowling ever was the last who drank:
“Arrived at home, he, ere he sought his bed,
“With pipe and brandy would compose his head;
“Then half an hour was o'er the news beguiled,
“When he retired as harmless as a child.
“Set but aside the gravel and the gout,
“And breathing short—his sand ran fairly out.
“At fifty-five we lost him—after that
“Life grows insipid and its pleasures flat;
“He had indulged in all that man can have,
“He did not drop a dotard to his grave;
“Still to the last, his feet upon the chair,
“With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair;
“When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp,
“And not a doctor could the body vamp;
“Still at the last, to his beloved bowl
“He clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul;
“For though a man may not have much to fear,
“Yet death looks ugly, when the view is near:
“—‘I go,’ he said, ‘but still my friends shall say,
“‘'Twas as a man—I did not sneak away;
“‘An honest life with worthy souls I've spent,—
“‘Come, fill my glass;’—he took it and he went.
“Poor Dolly Murray!—I might live to see
“My hundredth year, but no such lass as she.
“Easy by nature, in her humour gay,
“She chose her comforts, ratafia and play:
“She loved the social game, the decent glass;
“And was a jovial, friendly, laughing lass;

266

“We sat not then at Whist demure and still,
“But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille:
“Lame in her side, we placed her in her seat,
“Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet;
“As the game ended, came the glass around,
‘(So was the loser cheer'd, the winner crown'd.)
“Mistress of secrets, both the young and old
“In her confided—not a tale she told;
“Love never made impression on her mind,
“She held him weak, and all his captives blind;
“She suffer'd no man her free soul to vex,
“Free from the weakness of her gentle sex;
“One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate,
“In cool discussion or in free debate.
“Once in her chair we'd placed the good old lass,
“Where first she took her preparation-glass;
“By lucky thought she'd been that day at prayers,
“And long before had fix'd her small affairs;
“So all was easy—on her cards she cast
“A smiling look; I saw the thought that pass'd:
“‘A king,’ she call'd—though conscious of her skill,
“‘Do more,’ I answer'd—‘More,’ she said, ‘I will;’
“And more she did—cards answer'd to her call,
“She saw the mighty to her mightier fall:

267

“‘A vole! a vole!’ she cried, ‘'tis fairly won,
“‘My game is ended and my work is done;’—
“This said, she gently, with a single sigh,
“Died as one taught and practised how to die.
“Such were the dead-departed; I survive,
“To breathe in pain among the dead-alive.”
The bell then call'd these ancient men to pray,
“Again!” said Benbow,—“tolls it every day?
“Where is the life I led?”—He sigh'd and walk'd his way.

269

LETTER XVII. THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS.

Blessed be the man who provideth for the sick and needy: the Lord shall deliver him in time of trouble.

Quas dederis, solas semper habebis opes.
—Martial.

Nil negat, et sese vel non poscentibus offert.
—Claudian.

Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno;
Nam mihi jam notus dissimulator eris.
—Martial.


270

Christian Charity anxious to provide for future as well as present Miseries—Hence the Hospital for the Diseased— Description of a recovered Patient—The Building: how erected—The Patrons and Governors—Eusebius—The more active Manager of Business a moral and correct Contributor —One of different Description—Good, the Result, however intermixed with Imperfection.


271

An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,
The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;
'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh;
That we the wants of pleading man supply.
That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,
Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal;
Not these suffice—to sickness, pain, and wo,
The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;
Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,
But seeks the duty—nay, prevents the need;
Her utmost aid to every ill applies,
And plans relief for coming miseries.
Hence yonder Building rose: on either side
Far stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide;
And every ward has beds by comfort spread,
And smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed:
There all have kindness, most relief,—for some
Is cure complete,—it is the sufferer's home:

272

Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains,
Each accidental mischief man sustains;
Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and lame,
With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame,
Have here attendance—here the sufferers lie,
(Where love and science every aid apply,)
And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort die.
See! one relieved from anguish, and to-day
Allow'd to walk and look an hour away;
Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain,
He comes abroad and is himself again:
'Twas in the spring, when carried to the place,
The snow fell down and melted in his face.
'T is summer now; all objects gay and new,
Smiling alike the viewer and the view:
He stops as one unwilling to advance,
Without another and another glance;
With what a pure and simple joy he sees
Those sheep and cattle browzing at their ease;
Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or moves,
But he would cherish—all that lives he loves:
Observing every ward as round he goes,
He thinks what pain, what danger they enclose;
Warm in his wish for all who suffer there,
At every view he meditates a prayer:
No evil counsels in his breast abide,
There joy and love, and gratitude reside.
The wish that Roman necks in one were found
That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound,

273

This man had never heard; but of the kind,
Is that desire which rises in his mind;
He'd have all English hands (for further he
Cannot conceive extends our charity),
All but his own, in one right-hand to grow,
And then what hearty shake would he bestow.
“How rose the Building?”—Piety first laid
A strong foundation, but she wanted aid;
To Wealth unwieldly was her prayer address'd,
Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd:
Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew,
And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew.
Then busy Vanity sustain'd her part,
“And much,” she said, “it moved her tender heart;
“To her all kinds of man's distress were known,
“And all her heart adopted as its own.”
Then Science came—his talents he display'd,
And Charity with joy the dome survey'd;
Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame,
And Piety, the joy that makes no claim.
Patrons there are, and Governors, from whom
The greater aid and guiding orders come;
Who voluntary cares and labours take,
The sufferers' servants for the service' sake;
Of these a part I give you—but a part,—
Some hearts are hidden, some have not a heart.
First let me praise—for so I best shall paint
That pious moralist, that reasoning saint!
Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak?
The man is willing, but the Muse is weak;—

274

'Tis thine to wait on wo! to soothe! to heal!
With learning social, and polite with zeal:
In thy pure breast although the passions dwell,
They're train'd by virtue, and no more rebel;
But have so long been active on her side,
That passion now might be itself the guide.
Law, conscience, honour, all obey'd; all give
Th' approving voice, and make it bliss to live;
While faith, when life can nothing more supply,
Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die.
He preaches, speaks and writes with manly sense,
No weak neglect, no labour'd eloquence;
Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways,
The rude revere him and the wicked praise.
Upon humility his virtues grow,
And tower so high because so fix'd below;
As wider spreads the oak his boughs around,
When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground.
By him, from ward to ward, is every aid
The sufferer needs, with every care convey'd:
Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth,
And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth:
Meek as the poorest Publican is he,
And strict as lives the straightest Pharisee;
Of both, in him unite the better part,
The blameless conduct and the humble heart.

275

Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wise
In carnal things, and loves to moralize:
Others can doubt, if all that Christian care
Has not its price—there's something he may share.
But this and ill severer he sustains,
As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains;
When most reviled, although he feels the smart,
It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart,
As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit,
Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot.
A second Friend we have, whose care and zeal
But few can equal—few indeed can feel;
He lived a life obscure, and profits made
In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.
His brother, master of a hoy, he loved
So well, that he the calling disapproved:
“Alas! poor Tom!” the landman oft would sigh,
When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high;
And when they parted, with a tear he'd say,
“No more adventure!—here in safety stay.”
Nor did he feign; with more than half he had
He would have kept the seaman, and been glad
Alas! how few resist, when strongly tried—
A rich relation's nearer kinsman died;

276

He sicken'd, and to him the landman went,
And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent.
This Thomas heard, and cared not: “I,” quoth he,
“Have one in port upon the watch for me.”
So Ephraim died, and when the will was shown,
Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own:
Who to his brother sent a moderate purse,
Which he return'd, in anger, with his curse;
Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong,
He died before he could forgive the wrong.
The rich man built a house, both large and high,
He enter'd in and set him down to sigh;
He planted ample woods and gardens fair,
And walk'd with anguish and compunction there:
The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat,
He saw with pain, and he refused to eat;
His daintiest food, his richest wines, were all
Turn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall:
The softest down by living body press'd,
The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest;
But care had thorns upon his pillow spread,
And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed:
Nervous he grew,—would often sigh and groan,
He talk'd but little, and he walk'd alone;
Till by his priest convinced, that from one deed
Of genuine love would joy and health proceed,
He from that time with care and zeal began
To seek and soothe the grievous ills of man;
And as his hands their aid to grief apply,
He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh.
Now he can drink his wine and taste his food,
And feel the blessings, Heav'n has dealt, are good;

277

And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door,
He sleeps as soundly as when young and poor.
Here much he gives—is urgent more to gain;
He begs—rich beggars seldom sue in vain:
Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to move,
And never wearies in the work of love:
He rules all business, settles all affairs,
He makes collections, he directs repairs;
And if he wrong'd one brother,—Heav'n forgive
The man by whom so many brethren live!
Then, 'mid our Signatures, a name appears,
Of one for wisdom famed above his years;
And these were forty: he was from his youth
A patient searcher after useful truth:
To language little of his time he gave,
To science less, nor was the Muse's slave;
Sober and grave, his college sent him down,
A fair example for his native town.
Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air,
You'd think a Socrates or Solon there;
For though a Christian, he's disposed to draw
His rules from reason's and from nature's law.
“Know,” he exclaims, “my fellow mortals, know,
“Virtue alone is happiness below;
‘And what is virtue? prudence first to choose
“Life's real good,—the evil to refuse;
“Add justice then, the eager hand to hold,
“To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold;

278

“Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health insures,
“And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures.”
He speaks, and lo!—the very man you see,
Prudent and temperate, just and patient he,
By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep,
No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap:
He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives;
Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives;
By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd,
His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd;
Temp'rate in every place—abroad, at home,
Thence will applause, and hence will profit come;
And health from either—he in time prepares
For sickness, age, and their attendant cares,
But not for fancy's ills;—he never grieves
For love that wounds or friendship that deceives.
His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains,
But neither feels nor fears ideal pains.
“Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?”—
Alas!—I think he wants infirmities;
He wants the ties that knit us to our kind—
The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind,
That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite,
And make the virtues he approves delight;
What dying martyrs, saints, and patriots feel,
The strength of action and the warmth of zeal.
Again attend!—and see a man whose cares
Are nicely placed on either world's affairs,—
Merchant and saint; 'tis doubtful if he knows
To which account he most regard bestows;
Of both he keeps his ledger:—there he reads
Of gainful ventures and of godly deeds;

279

There all he gets or loses find a place,
A lucky bargain and a lack of grace.
The joys above this prudent man invite
To pay his tax—devotion!—day and night;
The pains of hell his timid bosom awe,
And force obedience to the church's law:
Hence that continual thought,—that solemn air,
Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer.
All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraid,
To think how avarice calls and is obey'd)
He in his journal finds, and for his grief
Obtains the transient opium of relief.
“Sink not, my soul!—my spirit, rise and look
“O'er the fair entries of this precious book:
“Here are the sins, our debts;—this fairer side
“Has what to carnal wish our strength denied;
“Has those religious duties every day
“Paid,—which so few upon the sabbath pay;
“Here too are conquests over frail desires,
“Attendance due on all the church requires;
“Then alms I give—for I believe the word
“Of holy writ, and lend unto the Lord,
“And if not all th' importunate demand,
“The fear of want restrains my ready hand:
“—Behold! what sums I to the poor resign,
“Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as mine:
“Rest then, my spirit!—fastings, prayers, and alms,
“Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms,
“And weigh'd against our frailties, set in view
“A noble balance in our favour due:
“Add that I yearly here affix my name,
“Pledge for large payment—not from love of fame,

280

“But to make peace within;—that peace to make,
“What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake!
“Cheer up, my heart! let's cast off every doubt,
“Pray without dread, and place our money out.”
Such the religion of a mind that steers
Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears;
Whose passions in due bounds each other keep,
And thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep;
Whose virtues all their certain limits know,
Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow;
Who for success and safety ever tries,
And with both worlds alternately complies.
Such are the Guardians of this bless'd estate,
Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate;
That they are men, and have their faults, is true,
But here their worth alone appears in view:
The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,
Has something of the secrets there express'd,
But yet in charity;—and when she sees
Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease,
And knows how much united minds effect,
She almost dreads their failings to detect;
But Truth commands:—in man's erroneous kind,
Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind,
Happy!—when fears to public spirit move,
And even vices do the work of love.

281

LETTER XVIII. THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS.

Bene paupertas
Humili tecto contenta latet.
—Seneca.

Omnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundæ, magi' sunt, nescio quo modo,
Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis;
Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi.
—Terent.

To quit of torpid sluggishness the cave,
And from the pow'rful arms of sloth be free,
'Tis rising from the dead—Alas! it cannot be.
—Thomson.


282

The Method of treating the Borough Paupers—Many maintained at their own Dwellings—Some Characters of the Poor—The School-mistress, when aged—The Idiot—The poor Sailor—The declined Tradesman and his Companion —This contrasted with the Maintenance of the Poor in a common Mansion erected by the Hundred—The Objections to this Method: Not Want, nor Cruelty, but the necessary Evils of this Mode—What they are—Instances of the Evil—A Return to the Borough Poor—The Dwellings of these—The Lanes and By-ways—No Attention here paid to Convenience—The Pools in the Path-ways— Amusements of Sea-port Children—The Town-Flora— Herbs on Walls and vacant Spaces—A female Inhabitant of an Alley—A large Building let to several poor Inhabitants —Their Manners and Habits.


283

Yes! we've our Borough-vices, and I know
How far they spread, how rapidly they grow;
Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,
Nor charity, the virtues' crown and grace.
“Our Poor, how feed we?”—To the most we give
A weekly dole, and at their homes they live;—
Others together dwell,—but when they come
To the low roof, they see a kind of home,

284

A social people whom they've ever known,
With their own thoughts, and manners like their own.
At her old house, her dress, her air the same,
I see mine ancient Letter-loving dame:
“Learning, my child,” said she, “shall fame command;
“Learning is better worth than house or land—
“For houses perish, lands are gone and spent;
“In learning then excel, for that's most excellent.”
“And what her learning?”—'Tis with awe to look
In every verse throughout one sacred book;
From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought
This she has learned, and she is nobly taught.
If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear;
If Rutland deigns these humble Tales to hear;
If critics pardon, what my friends approved;
Can I mine ancient Widow pass unmoved?
Shall I not think what pains the matron took,
When first I trembled o'er the gilded book?
How she, all patient, both at eve and morn,
Her needle pointed at the guarding horn;
And how she soothed me, when, with study sad,
I labour'd on to reach the final zad?
Shall I not grateful still the dame survey,
And ask the Muse the poet's debt to pay?
Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen,
But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men,
Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws;
They own the matron as the leading cause,
And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause:
To her own house is borne the week's supply;
There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die.

285

With her a harmless Idiot we behold,
Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold:
These he preserves, with unremitted care,
To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor:
Alas!—who could th' ambitious changeling tell,
That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?
Near these a Sailor, in that hut of thatch
(A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match),
Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat,
Large as he wishes—in his view complete:
A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch
That hold his stores, have room for twice as much
His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box,
Lie all in view; no need has he for locks:
Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass,
He shows the shipping, he presents the glass;
He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known,
And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own,
Of noble captains, heroes every one,—
You might as soon have made the steeple run.
And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay,
He'll one by one the gallant souls display,
And as the story verges to an end,
He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend
He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old,
As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold;
Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace
Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly face,—
And then a tear or two, which sting his pride;
These he will dash indignantly aside,
And splice his tale;—now take him from his cot,
And for some cleaner berth exchange his lot,

286

How will he all that cruel aid deplore?
His heart will break, and he will fight no more.
Here is the poor old Merchant: he declined,
And, as they say, is not in perfect mind;
In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend,
Quiet he paces to his journey's end.
Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd;
Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd;
His spirits low and his exertions small,
He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall:
Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he,
But downward sank with sad alacrity.
A borough-place we gain'd him—in disgrace
For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place;
But still he kept a kind of sullen pride,
Striving his wants to hinder or to hide;
At length, compell'd by very need, in grief
He wrote a proud petition for relief.
“He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove
“Of force to wake their sympathy and love;
“Would make them feel the changes all may know,
“And stir them up a due regard to show.”
His suit was granted;—to an ancient maid,
Relieved herself, relief for him was paid:
Here they together (meet companions) dwell,
And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell:
“'Twas not a world for them, God help them! they
“Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray;
“But there's a happy change, a scene to come,
“And they, God help them! shall be soon at home.”

287

If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain,
Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain;
They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain.
The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh,
Both when they know, and when they know not why;
But we our bounty with such care bestow
That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.
Your Plan I love not;—with a number you
Have placed your poor, your pitiable few:
There, in one house, throughout their lives to be
The pauper-palace which they hate to see:
That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,
Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!
That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour,
Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power;
It is a prison, with a milder name,
Which few inhabit without dread or shame.

288

Be it agreed—the Poor who hither come
Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;
That airy rooms and decent beds are meant
To give the poor by day, by night, content;
That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,
By the stern looks of lordly Overseer:
Grant that the Guardians of the place attend,
And ready ear to each petition lend;
That they desire the grieving poor to show
What ills they feel, what partial acts they know,
Not without promise, nay desire to heal
Each wrong they suffer, and each wo they feel.
Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;
They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;
They have no evil in the place to state,
And dare not say, it is the house they hate:
They own there's granted all such place can give,
But live repining, for 't is there they live.
Grandsires are there, who now no more must see
No more must nurse upon the trembling knee
The lost loved daughter's infant progeny:
Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place
For joyful meetings of a kindred race.
Is not the matron there, to whom the son
Was wont at each declining day to run;
He (when his toil was over) gave delight,
By lifting up the latch, and one “Good night?’
Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door
The son, still lab'ring, can return no more.
Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;

289

Yet all that grief within the humble shed
Was soften'd, softened in the humble bed:
But here, in all its force, remains the grief,
And not one soft'ning object for relief.
Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?
Who learn the story current in the street?
Who to the long-known intimate impart
Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?—
They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend,
Or seek companions at their journey's end?
Here are not those whom they, when infants knew;
Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;
Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;
Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;
Whom time and custom so familiar made,
That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd:
But here to strangers, words nor looks impart
The various movements of the suffering heart;
Nor will that heart with those alliance own,
To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.
What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,
Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?
'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,
With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;
Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep,—
The day itself is, like the night, asleep;
Or on the sameness if a break be made,
'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;
By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,
News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;

290

By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,
Or justice come to see that all goes well;
Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl
On the black footway winding with the wall,
Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.
Here too the mother sees her children train'd,
Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd:
Who govern here, by general rules must move,
Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.
Nations we know have nature's law transgress'd,
And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast;
But still for public good the boy was train'd,
The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd:
Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid;
The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.
Then too I own, it grieves me to behold
Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,
By all for care and industry approved,
For truth respected, and for temper loved;
And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,
Gave want its worth and poverty its pride:
I own it grieves me to behold them sent
From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment,
To leave each scene familiar, every face,
For a new people and a stranger race;
For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame,
From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;
Men, just and guileless, at such manners start,
And bless their God that time has fenced their heart,

291

Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear
Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.
Here the good pauper, losing all the praise
By worthy deeds acquired in better days,
Breathes a few months, then, to his chamber led,
Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.
The grateful hunter, when his horse is old,
Wills not the useless favourite to be sold;
He knows his former worth, and gives him place
In some fair pasture, till he runs his race:
But has the labourer, has the seaman done
Less worthy service, though not dealt to one?
Shall we not then contribute to their ease,
In their old haunts, where ancient objects please?
That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace
The well-known prospect and the long-loved face.
The noble oak, in distant ages seen,
With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green,
Though now its bare and forky branches show
How much it lacks the vital warmth below,
The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,
Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains:
Much more shall real wants and cares of age
Our gentler passions in their cause engage;—
Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years,
What venerable ruin man appears!

292

How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief—
He claims protection—he compels relief;—
And shall we send him from our view, to brave
The storms abroad, whom we at home might save,
And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave?
No!—we will shield him from the storm he fears,
And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.
Farewell to these; but all our poor to know,
Let's seek the winding Lane, the narrow Row,
Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops
To see the sloping tenement on props,
With building-yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops;
Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite
Laborious men to taste their coarse delight;
Where the low porches, stretching from the door,
Gave some distinction in the days of yore,
Yet now neglected, more offend the eye,
By gloom and ruin, than the cottage by:
Places like these the noblest town endures,
The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.
Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,
To give us shelter when compell'd to stop;
But plashy puddles stand along the way,
Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day;
And these so closely to the buildings run,
That you must ford them, for you cannot shun;
Though here and there convenient bricks are laid,
And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid.

293

Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,
With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around:
There dwells a Fisher; if you view his boat,
With bed and barrel—'tis his house afloat;
Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound,
Tar, pitch, and oakum—'tis his boat aground:
That space enclosed, but little he regards,
Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards:
Fish by the wall, on spit of elder, rest,
Of all his food, the cheapest and the best,
By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd.
Here our reformers come not; none object
To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;
None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,
That coal dust flies along the blinding blast:
None heed the stagnant pools on either side,
Where new-launch'd ships of infant-sailors ride:
Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,
And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.
They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,
They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale.
True to her port, the frigate scuds away,
And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay:
Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth.
And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth
Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd,
When inch-high billows vex the watery world.
There, fed by food they love, to rankest size,
Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise;
Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,
Here the dull nightshade hangs her deadly fruit;

294

On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,
And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen;
At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,
With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;
Above (the growth of many a year) is spread
The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed;
In every chink delights the fern to grow,
With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below:
These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,
Form the contracted Flora of the town.
Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?
Then will I lead thee down the dusty Row;
By the warm alley and the long close lane,—
There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,
Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass,
We fear to breathe the putrefying mass:
But fearless yonder matron; she disdains
To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains;
But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay
All in the stifling fervour of the day.
Her naked children round the alley run,
And roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun
Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd,
Woos the coy breeze to fan the open breast:
She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art
To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart;

295

Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean,
And fancy left to form the charms unseen.
But when a wife, she lost her former care,
Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare;
Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside,
No rival beauty kept alive her pride:
Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place,
But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.
See that long boarded Building!—By these stairs
Each humble tenant to that home repairs—
By one large window lighted—it was made
For some bold project, some design in trade:
This fail'd,—and one, a humourist in his way,
(Ill was the humour,) bought it in decay;
Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down;
'Tis his,—what cares he for the talk of town?
“No! he will let it to the poor;—a home
“Where he delights to see the creatures come:”
“They may be thieves;”—“Well, so are richer men;”
“Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;”—“What then?”
“Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;”—
“They need the more his pity and the place:”
Convert to system his vain mind has built,
He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.
In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd,
Are sexes, families, and ages mix'd—
To union forced by crime, by fear, by need,
And all in morals and in modes agreed;
Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove;
Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love;

296

And some grown old in idleness—the prey
To vicious spleen, still railing through the day;
And need and misery, vice and danger bind
In sad alliance each degraded mind.
That window view!—oil'd paper and old glass
Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,
And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,
The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom;
When all those western rays, without so bright,
Within become a ghastly glimmering light,
As pale and faint upon the floor they fall,
Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall:
That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned,
Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd;
That wall once whiten'd, now an odious sight,
Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white;
The only door is fasten'd by a pin,
Or stubborn bar, that none may hurry in:
For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,
At times contains what prudent men would hide.
Where'er the floor allows an even space,
Chalking and marks of various games have place;
Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing;
On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring;
While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,
And the black beverage in the fractured ware.
On swinging shelf are things incongruous stored,—
Scraps of their food,—the cards and cribbage-board,—
With pipes and pouches; while on peg below,
Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow:

297

That still reminds them how he'd dance and play,
Ere sent untimely to the Convicts' Bay.
Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,
Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care;
Where some by day and some by night, as best
Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest;
The drowsy children at their pleasure creep
To the known crib, and there securely sleep.
Each end contains a grate, and these beside
Are hung utensils for their boil'd and fried—
All used at any hour, by night, by day,
As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.
Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains
Of china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains;
There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands,
All placed by vanity's unwearied hands;
For here she lives, e'en here she looks about,
To find some small consoling objects out:
Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, not sit
'Mid cares domestic,—they nor sew nor knit;
But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars,
With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars:
These lead to present evils, and a cup.
If fortune grant it, winds description up.
High hung at either end, and next the wall,
Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,
In all their force;—these aid them in their dress,
But with the good, the evils too express,
Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.

299

LETTER XIX. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH. THE PARISH-CLERK.

------ Nam dives qui fieri vult,
Et citò vult fieri; sed quæ reverentia legum,
Quis metus, aut pudor est unquam properantis avari?
Juv. Sat. xiv.

Nocte brevem si fortè indulsit cura soporem,
Et toto versata thoro jam membra quiescunt,
Continuò templum et violati Numinis aras,
Et quod præcipuis mentem sudoribus urget,
Te videt in somnis; tua sacra et major imago
Humanâ turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri.
Juv. Sat. xiii.


300

The Parish-Clerk began his Duties with the late Vicar, a grave and austere Man; one fully orthodox; a Detecter and Opposer of the Wiles of Satan—His Opinion of his own Fortitude—The more frail offended by these Professions —His good Advice gives further Provocation—They invent Stratagems to overcome his Virtue—His Triumph —He is yet not invulnerable: is assaulted by Fear of Want, and Avarice—He gradually yields to the Seduction —He reasons with himself, and is persuaded—He offends, but with Terror; repeats his Offence; grows familiar with Crime: is detected—His Sufferings and Death


301

With our late Vicar, and his age the same,
His Clerk, hight Jachin, to his office came;
The like slow speech was his, the like tall slender frame:
But Jachin was the gravest man on ground,
And heard his master's jokes with look profound;
For worldly wealth this man of letters sigh'd,
And had a sprinkling of the spirit's pride:
But he was sober, chaste, devout, and just,
One whom his neighbours could believe and trust
Of none suspected, neither man nor maid
By him were wrong'd, or were of him afraid.
There was indeed a frown, a trick of state
In Jachin;—formal was his air and gait:
But if he seem'd more solemn and less kind,
Than some light men to light affairs confined,
Still 't was allow'd that he should so behave
As in high seat, and be severely grave.

302

This book-taught man, to man's first foe profess'd
Defiance stern, and hate that knew not rest;
He held that Satan, since the world began,
In every act, had strife with every man;
That never evil deed on earth was done,
But of the acting parties he was one;
The flattering guide to make ill prospects clear;
To smooth rough ways the constant pioneer;
The ever-tempting, soothing, softening power,
Ready to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour.
“Me has the sly Seducer oft withstood,”
Said pious Jachin,—“but he gets no good;
“I pass the house where swings the tempting sign,
“And pointing, tell him, ‘Satan, that is thine:
“I pass the damsels pacing down the street,
“And look more grave and solemn when we meet;
“Nor doth it irk me to rebuke their smiles,
“Their wanton ambling and their watchful wiles:
“Nay, like the good John Bunyan, when I view
“Those forms, I'm angry at the ills they do;
“That I could pinch and spoil, in sin's despite,
“Beauties, which frail and evil thoughts excite.
“At feasts and banquets seldom am I found,
“And (save at church) abhor a tuneful sound;
“To plays and shows I run not to and fro,
“And where my master goes, forbear to go.”

303

No wonder Satan took the thing amiss,
To be opposed by such a man as this—
A man so grave, important, cautious, wise,
Who dared not trust his feeling or his eyes;
No wonder he should lurk and lie in wait,
Should fit his hooks and ponder on his bait,
Should on his movements keep a watchful eye;
For he pursued a fish who led the fry.
With his own peace our Clerk was not content,
He tried, good man! to make his friends repent.
“Nay, nay, my friends, from inns and taverns fly
“You may suppress your thirst, but not supply:
“A foolish proverb says, ‘the devil's at home;’
“But he is there, and tempts in every room:
“Men feel, they know not why, such places please;
“His are the spells—they're idleness and ease;
“Magic of fatal kind he throws around,
“Where care is banish'd but the heart is bound.
“Think not of Beauty;—when a maid you meet,
“Turn from her view and step across the street;
“Dread all the sex: their looks create a charm,
“A smile should fright you and a word alarm:
“E'en I myself, with all my watchful care,
“Have for an instant felt th' insidious snare;
“And caught my sinful eyes at the endang'ring stare;
“Till I was forced to smite my bounding breast
“With forceful blow, and bid the bold-one rest.
“Go not with crowds when they to pleasure run,
“But public joy in private safety shun:

304

“When bells, diverted from their true intent,
“Ring loud for some deluded mortal sent
“To hear or make long speech in parliament;
“What time the many, that unruly beast,
“Roars its rough joy and shares the final feast:
“Then heed my counsel, shut thine ears and eyes;
“A few will hear me—for the few are wise.”
Not Satan's friends, nor Satan's self could bear
The cautious man who took of souls such care;
An interloper,—one who, out of place,
Had volunteer'd upon the side of grace:
There was his master ready once a week
To give advice; what further need he seek?
“Amen, so be it:”—what had he to do
With more than this?—'t was insolent and new,
And some determined on a way to see
How frail he was, that so it might not be.
First they essay'd to tempt our saint to sin,
By points of doctrine argued at an inn;
Where he might warmly reason, deeply drink,
Then lose all power to argue and to think.
In vain they tried; he took the question up,
Clear'd every doubt, and barely touch'd the cup:
By many a text he proved his doctrine sound,
And look'd in triumph on the tempters round.
Next 't was their care an artful lass to find,
Who might consult him, as perplex'd in mind;
She they conceived might put her case with fears,
With tender tremblings and seducing tears;
She might such charms of various kind display
That he would feel their force and melt away:

305

For why of nymphs such caution and such dread,
Unless he felt, and fear'd to be misled?
She came, she spake: he calmly heard her case,
And plainly told her 't was a want of grace;
Bade her “such fancies and affections check,
“And wear a thicker muslin on her neck.”
Abased, his human foes the combat fled,
And the stern clerk yet higher held his head.
They were indeed a weak, impatient set,
But their shrewd prompter had his engines yet;
Had various means to make a mortal trip,
Who shunn'd a flowing bowl and rosy lip;
And knew a thousand ways his heart to move,
Who flies from banquets and who laughs at love.
Thus far the playful Muse has lent her aid,
But now departs, of graver theme afraid;
Her may we seek in more appropriate time,—
There is no jesting with distress and crime.
Our worthy Clerk had now arrived at fame,
Such as but few in his degree might claim;
But he was poor, and wanted not the sense
That lowly rates the praise without the pence:
He saw the common herd with reverence treat
The weakest burgess whom they chanced to meet;
While few respected his exalted views,
And all beheld his doublet and his shoes:
None, when they meet, would to his parts allow
(Save his poor boys) a hearing or a bow:
To this false judgment of the vulgar mind,
He was not fully, as a saint, resign'd;
He found it much his jealous soul affect,
To fear derision and to find neglect.

306

The year was bad, the christening-fees were small,
The weddings few, the parties paupers all:
Desire of gain with fear of want combined,
Raised sad commotion in his wounded mind;
Wealth was in all his thoughts, his views, his dreams,
And prompted base desires and baseless schemes.
Alas! how often erring mortals keep
The strongest watch against the foes who sleep;
While the more wakeful, bold and artful foe
Is suffer'd guardless and unmark'd to go.
Once in a month the sacramental bread
Our Clerk with wine upon the table spread:
The custom this, that, as the vicar reads,
He for our off'rings round the church proceeds:
Tall spacious seats the wealthier people hid,
And none had view of what his neighbour did:
Laid on the box and mingled when they fell,
Who should the worth of each oblation tell?
Now as poor Jachin took the usual round,
And saw the alms and heard the metal sound,
He had a thought—at first it was no more
Than—“these have cash and give it to the poor’
A second thought from this to work began—
“And can they give it to a poorer man?”
Proceeding thus,—“My merit could they know,
“And knew my need, how freely they'd bestow;
“But though they know not, these remain the same,
“And are a strong, although a secret claim:
“To me, alas! the want and worth are known,
“Why then, in fact, 'tis but to take my own.”
Thought after thought pour'd in, a tempting train,
“Suppose it done,—who is it could complain?

307

“How could the poor? for they such trifles share,
“As add no comfort, as suppress no care;
“But many a pittance makes a worthy heap,—
“What says the law? that silence puts to sleep:—
“Nought then forbids, the danger could we shun,
“And sure the business may be safely done.
“But am I earnest?—earnest? No.—I say,
“If such my mind, that I could plan a way;
“Let me reflect;—I've not allow'd me time
“To purse the pieces, and if dropp'd they'd chime:”
Fertile is evil in the soul of man,—
He paused,—said Jachin, “They may drop on bran.
“Why then 'tis safe and (all consider'd) just,
“The poor receive it,—'tis no breach of trust:
“The old and widows may their trifles miss,
“There must be evil in a good like this:
“But I'll be kind—the sick I'll visit twice,
“When now but once, and freely give advice.
“Yet let me think again:”—Again he tried,
For stronger reasons on his passion's side,
And quickly these were found, yet slowly he complied.
The morning came: the common service done,
Shut every door,—the solemn rite begun,—
And, as the priest the sacred sayings read,
The clerk went forward, trembling as he tread:
O'er the tall pew he held the box, and heard
The offer'd piece, rejoicing as he fear'd:
Just by the pillar, as he cautious tripp'd,
And turn'd the aile, he then a portion slipp'd
From the full store, and to the pocket sent,
But held a moment—and then down it went.

308

The priest read on, on walk'd the man afraid,
Till a gold offering in the plate was laid;
Trembling he took it, for a moment stopp'd,
Then down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd;
Amazed he started, for th' affrighted man,
Lost and bewilder'd, thought not of the bran.
But all were silent, all on things intent
Of high concern, none ear to money lent:
So on he walk'd, more cautious than before,
And gain'd the purposed sum and one piece more.
“Practice makes perfect:” when the month came round,
He dropp'd the cash, nor listen'd for a sound;
But yet, when last of all th' assembled flock
He ate and drank,—it gave th' electric shock:
Oft was he forced his reasons to repeat,
Ere he could kneel in quiet at his seat;
But custom soothed him—ere a single year
All this was was done without restraint or fear
Cool and collected, easy and composed,
He was correct till all the service closed;
Then to his home, without a groan or sigh,
Gravely he went, and laid his treasure by.
Want will complain: some widows had express'd
A doubt if they were favour'd like the rest;
The rest described with like regret their dole,
And thus from parts they reason'd to the whole:
When all agreed some evil must be done,
Or rich men's hearts grew harder than a stone.
Our easy vicar cut the matter short;
He would not listen to such vile report.

309

All were not thus—there govern'd in that year
A stern stout churl, an angry overseer;
A tyrant fond of power, loud, lewd, and most severe:
Him the mild vicar, him the graver clerk,
Advised, reproved, but nothing would he mark,
Save the disgrace, “and that, my friends,” said he,
“Will I avenge, whenever time may be.”
And now, alas! 'twas time;—from man to man
Doubt and alarm and shrewd suspicions ran.
With angry spirit and with sly intent,
This parish-ruler to the altar went:
A private mark he fix'd on shillings three,
And but one mark could in the money see;
Besides, in peering round, he chanced to note
A sprinkling slight on Jachin's Sunday-coat:
All doubt was over:—when the flock were bless'd,
In wrath he rose, and thus his mind express'd.
“Foul deeds are here!” and saying this, he took
The Clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook:
His pocket then was emptied on the place;
All saw his guilt; all witness'd his disgrace:
He fell, he fainted, not a groan, a look,
Escaped the culprit; 'twas a final stroke—
A death-wound never to be heal'd—a fall
That all had witness'd, and amazed were all.
As he recover'd, to his mind it came,
“I owe to Satan this disgrace and shame:”
All the seduction now appear'd in view;
“Let me withdraw,” he said, and he withdrew:
No one withheld him, all in union cried,
E'en the avenger,—“We are satisfied:

310

For what has death in any form to give,
Equal to that man's terrors, if he live?
He lived in freedom, but he hourly saw
How much more fatal justice is than law;
He saw another in his office reign,
And his mild master treat him with disdain:
He saw that all men shunn'd him, some reviled,
The harsh pass'd frowning, and the simple smiled;
The town maintain'd him, but with some reproof,
“And clerks and scholars proudly kept aloof.”
In each lone place, dejected and dismay'd,
Shrinking from view, his wasting form he laid;
Or to the restless sea and roaring wind
Gave the strong yearnings of a ruin'd mind:
On the broad beach, the silent summer-day,
Stretch'd on some wreck, he wore his life away;
Or where the river mingles with the sea,
Or on the mud-bank by the elder tree,
Or by the bounding marsh-dyke, there was he:
And when unable to forsake the town,
In the blind courts he sate desponding down—
Always alone; then feebly would he crawl
The church-way walk, and lean upon the wall:
Too ill for this, he lay beside the door,
Compell'd to hear the reasoning of the poor:
He look'd so pale, so weak, the pitying crowd
Their firm belief of his repentance vow'd;
They saw him then so ghastly and so thin,
That they exclaim'd, “Is this the work of sin?”
“Yes,” in his better moments, he replied,
“Of sinful avarice and the spirit's pride;—

311

“While yet untempted, I was safe and well;
“Temptation came; I reason'd, and I fell:
“To be man's guide and glory I design'd
“A rare example for our sinful kind;
“But now my weakness and my guilt I see,
“And am a warning—man, be warn'd by me!”
He said, and saw no more the human face;
To a lone loft he went, his dying place,
And, as the vicar of his state inquired,
Turn'd to the wall and silently expired!
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

3

LETTER XX. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH. ELLEN ORFORD.

Patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest.

—Shakspeare.


“No charms she now can boast,”—'tis true,
But other charmers wither too:
“And she is old,”—the fact I know,
And old will other heroines grow;
But not like them has she been laid,
In ruin'd castle, sore dismay'd;
Where naughty man and ghostly spright
Fill'd her pure mind with awe and dread,
Stalk'd round the room, put out the light,
And shook the curtains round her bed.
No cruel uncle kept her land,
No tyrant father forced her hand;
She had no vixen virgin-aunt,
Without whose aid she could not eat,
And yet who poison'd all her meat,
With gibe and sneer and taunt.
Yet of the heroine she'd a share,—
She saved a lover from despair,
And granted all his wish, in spite
Of what she knew and felt was right:
But, heroine then no more,
She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd,
And humbly took the parish aid,
And dwelt among the poor.


4

The Widow's Cottage—Blind Ellen one—Hers not the Sorrows or Adventures of Heroines—What these are, first described—Deserted Wives; rash Lovers; courageous Damsels: in desolated Mansions; in grievous Perplexity— These Evils, however severe, of short Duration—Ellen's Story—Her Employment in Childhood—First Love; first Adventure; its miserable Termination—An Idiot Daughter—A Husband—Care in Business without Success —The Men's Despondency and its Effect—Their Children: how disposed of—One particularly unfortunate —Fate of the Daughter—Ellen keeps a School and is happy—becomes blind: loses her School—Her Consolations.


5

Observe yon tenement, apart and small,
Where the wet pebbles shine upon the wall;
Where the low benches lean beside the door,
And the red paling bounds the space before;
Where thrift and lavender, and lad's-love bloom,—
That humble dwelling is the widow's home;
There live a pair, for various fortunes known,
But the blind Ellen will relate her own;—

6

Yet ere we hear the story she can tell,
On prouder sorrows let us briefly dwell.
I've often marvel'd, when, by night, by day
I've mark'd the manners moving in my way,
And heard the language and beheld the lives
Of lass and lover, goddesses and wives,
That books, which promise much of life to give,
Should show so little how we truly live.
To me it seems, their females and their men
Are but the creatures of the author's pen;
Nay, creatures borrow'd and again convey'd
From book to book—the shadows of a shade:
Life, if they'd search, would show them many a change;
The ruin sudden, and the misery strange!
With more of grievous, base, and dreadful things,
Than novelists relate or poet sings:
But they, who ought to look the world around,
Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground;
Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold,
And plots are laid and histories are told.

7

Time have I lent—I would their debt were less—
To flow'ry pages of sublime distress;
And to the heroine's soul-distracting fears
I early gave my sixpences and tears:
Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales,
To Darnley-Cottages and Maple-Vales,
And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born sigh,
When Henry pass'd and gazed in passing by;
Till I beheld them pacing in the park,
Close by a coppice where 't was cold and dark;
When such affection with such fate appear'd,
Want and a father to be shunn'd and fear'd,
Without employment, prospect, cot, or cash;
That I have judged th' heroic souls were rash.
Now shifts the scene,—the fair in tower confined,
In all things suffers but in change of mind;
Now woo'd by greatness to a bed of state,
Now deeply threaten'd with a dungeon's grate;
Till, suffering much, and being tried enough,
She shines, triumphant maid!—temptation-proof.
Then was I led to vengeful monks, who mix
With nymphs and swains, and play unpriestly tricks;
Then view'd banditti who in forest wide,
And cavern vast, indignant virgins hide;
Who, hemm'd with bands of sturdiest rogues about,
Find some strange succour, and come virgins out.

8

I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls,
I've stalk'd by moonlight through deserted halls,
And when the weary world was sunk to rest,
I've had such sights as—may not be express'd.
Lo! that château, the western tower decay'd,
The peasants shun it,—they are all afraid;
For there was done a deed!—could walls reveal,
Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel!
Most horrid was it:—for, behold, the floor
Has stain of blood, and will be clean no more:
Hark to the winds! which through the wide saloon
And the long passage send a dismal tune,—
Music that ghosts delight in;—and now heed
Yon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the deed;

9

See! with majestic sweep she swims alone,
Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan:
Though windows rattle, and though tap'stries shake,
And the feet falter every step they take,
'Mid moans and gibing sprights she silent goes,
To find a something, which will soon expose
The villanies and wiles of her determined foes:
And, having thus adventured, thus endured,
Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured.
Much have I fear'd, but am no more afraid,
When some chaste beauty, by some wretch betray'd,
Is drawn away with such distracted speed,
That she anticipates a dreadful deed:

10

Not so do I—Let solid walls impound
The captive fair, and dig a moat around;
Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,
And keepers cruel, such as never feel;
With not a single note the purse supply,
And when she begs, let men and maids deny;
Be windows those from which she dares not fall,
And help so distant, 't is in vain to call;
Still means of freedom will some power devise,
And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize.
To Northern Wales, in some sequester'd spot,
I've follow'd fair Louisa to her cot;
Where, then a wretched and deserted bride,
The injured fair-one wished from man to hide;
Till by her fond repenting Belville found,
By some kind chance—the straying of a hound,
He at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain,
For the relenting dove flew back again.
There's something rapturous in distress, or, oh!
Could Clementina bear her lot of wo?
Or what she underwent could maiden undergo?
The day was fix'd; for so the lover sigh'd,
So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied;
When, tale most dreadful! every hope adieu,—
For the fond lover is the brother too:
All other griefs abate; this monstrous grief
Has no remission, comfort, or relief;

11

Four ample volumes, through each page disclose,—
Good Heaven protect us! only woes on woes;
Till some strange means afford a sudden view
Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu!
Now, should we grant these beauties all endure
Severest pangs, they've still the speediest cure;
Before one charm be wither'd from the face,
Except the bloom, which shall again have place,
In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace;
And life to come, we fairly may suppose,
One light, bright contrast to these wild dark woes.
These let us leave, and at her sorrows look,
Too often seen, but seldom in a book;
Let her who felt, relate them;—on her chair
The heroine sits—in former years, the fair,
Now aged and poor; but Ellen Orford knows
That we should humbly take what Heav'n bestows.
“My father died—again my mother wed,
“And found the comforts of her life were fled;

12

“Her angry husband, vex'd through half his years
“By loss and troubles, fill'd her soul with fears:
“Their children many, and 't was my poor place
“To nurse and wait on all the infant-race;
“Labour and hunger were indeed my part,
“And should have strengthen'd an erroneous heart.
“Sore was the grief to see him angry come,
“And teased with business, make distress at home:
“The father's fury and the children's cries
“I soon could bear, but not my mother's sighs;
“For she look'd back on comforts, and would say,
“‘I wrong'd thee, Ellen,’ and then turn away:
“Thus, for my age's good, my youth was tried,
“And this my fortune till my mother died.
“So, amid sorrow much and little cheer—
“A common case—I pass'd my twentieth year;
“For these are frequent evils; thousands share
“An equal grief—the like domestic care.
“Then in my days of bloom, of health and youth,
“One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth:
“We often met, he dreading to be seen,
“And much I question'd what such dread might mean;
“Yet I believed him true; my simple heart
“And undirected reason took his part.
“Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive?
“Can I such wrong of one so kind believe,
“Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when I grieve?

13

“He dared not marry, but we met to prove
“What sad encroachments and deceits has love:
“Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew,
“I let him see that I was wretched too;
“When less my caution, I had still the pain
“Of his or mine own weakness to complain.
“Happy the lovers class'd alike in life,
“Or happier yet the rich endowing wife;
“But most aggrieved the fond believing maid,
“Of her rich lover tenderly afraid:
“You judge th' event; for grievous was my fate,
“Painful to feel, and shameful to relate:
“Ah! sad it was my burthen to sustain,
“When the least misery was the dread of pain;
“When I have grieving told him my disgrace,
“And plainly mark'd indifference in his face.
“Hard! with these fears and terrors to behold
“The cause of all, the faithless lover, cold;
“Impatient grown at every wish denied,
“And barely civil, soothed and gratified;
“Peevish when urged to think of vows so strong,
“And angry when I spake of crime and wrong.
“All this I felt, and still the sorrow grew,
“Because I felt that I deserved it too,
“And begg'd my infant stranger to forgive
“The mother's shame, which in herself must live.
“When known that shame, I, soon expell'd from home,
“With a frail sister shared a hovel's gloom;

14

“There barely fed—(what could I more request?)
“My infant slumberer sleeping at my breast,
“I from my window saw his blooming bride,
“And my seducer smiling at her side;
“Hope lived till then; I sank upon the floor,
“And grief and thought and feeling were no more:
“Although revived, I judged that life would close,
“And went to rest, to wonder that I rose:
“My dreams were dismal,—wheresoe'er I stray'd,
“I seem'd ashamed, alarm'd, despised, betray'd;
“Always in grief, in guilt, disgraced, forlorn,
“Mourning that one so weak, so vile, was born;
“The earth a desert, tumult in the sea,
“The birds affrighten'd fled from tree to tree,
“Obscured the setting sun, and every thing like me.
“But Heav'n had mercy, and my need at length
“Urged me to labour, and renew'd my strength.
“I strove for patience as a sinner must,
“Yet felt th' opinion of the world unjust:
“There was my lover, in his joy esteem'd,
“And I, in my distress, as guilty deem'd;
“Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belong
“To her who feels and suffers for the wrong:
“The cheat at play may use the wealth he's won,
“But is not honour'd for the mischief done;
“The cheat in love may use each villain art,
“And boast the deed that breaks the victim's heart.
“Four years were past; I might again have found
“Some erring wish, but for another wound:

15

“Lovely my daughter grew, her face was fair,
“But no expression ever brighten'd there;
“I doubted long, and vainly strove to make
“Some certain meaning of the words she spake;
“But meaning there was none, and I survey'd
“With dread the beauties of my idiot-maid.
“Still I submitted;—Oh! 't is meet and fit
“In all we feel to make the heart submit;
“Gloomy and calm my days, but I had then,
“It seem'd, attractions for the eyes of men:
“The sober master of a decent trade
“O'erlook'd my errors, and his offer made;
“Reason assented:—true, my heart denied,
“‘But thou,’ I said, ‘shalt be no more my guide.
“When wed, our toil and trouble, pains and care,
“Of means to live procured us humble share;
“Five were our sons,—and we, though careful found
“Our hopes declining as the year came round:
“For I perceived, yet would not soon perceive,
“My husband stealing from my view to grieve:
“Silent he grew, and when he spoke he sigh'd,
“And surly look'd, and peevishly replied:
“Pensive by nature, he had gone of late
“To those who preach'd of destiny and fate,
“Of things fore-doom'd, and of election-grace,
“And how in vain we strive to run our race;
“That all by works and moral worth we gain
“Is to perceive our care and labour vain;
“That still the more we pay, our debts the more remain:

16

“That he who feels not the mysterious call,
“Lies bound in sin, still grov'ling from the fall.
“My husband felt not:—our persuasion, prayer,
“And our best reason, darken'd his despair;
“His very nature changed; he now reviled
“My former conduct,—he reproach'd my child:
“He talked of bastard slips, and cursed his bed,
“And from our kindness to concealment fled;
“For ever to some evil change inclined,
“To every gloomy thought he lent his mind,
“Nor rest would give to us, nor rest himself could find;
“His son suspended saw him, long bereft
“Of life, nor prospect of revival left.
“With him died all our prospects, and once more
“I shared th' allotments of the parish poor;
“They took my children too, and this I know,
“Was just and lawful, but I felt the blow:
“My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boy
“Were left, a mother's misery and her joy.
“Three sons I follow'd to the grave, and one—
“Oh! can I speak of that unhappy son?
“Would all the memory of that time were fled,
“And all those horrors, with my child, were dead!
“Before the world seduced him, what a grace
“And smile of gladness shone upon his face!
“Then, he had knowledge; finely would he write;
“Study to him was pleasure and delight;

17

“Great was his courage, and but few could stand
“Against the sleight and vigour of his hand;
“The maidens loved him;—when he came to die,
“No, not the coldest could suppress a sigh:
“Here I must cease—how can I say, my child
“Was by the bad of either sex beguiled?
“Worst of the bad—they taught him that the laws
“Made wrong and right; there was no other cause,
“That all religion was the trade of priests,
“And men, when dead, must perish like the beasts:—
“And he, so lively and so gay before—
“Ah! spare a mother—I can tell no more.
“Int'rest was made that they should not destroy
“The comely form of my deluded boy—
“But pardon came not; damp the place and deep
“Where he was kept, as they'd a tiger keep;
“For he, unhappy! had before them all
“Vow'd he'd escape, whatever might befall.
“He'd means of dress, and dress'd beyond his means,
“And so to see him in such dismal scenes,
“I cannot speak it—cannot bear to tell
“Of that sad hour—I heard the passing bell!
“Slowly they went; he smiled, and look'd so smart,
“Yet sure he shudder'd when he saw the cart,
“And gave a look—until my dying day,
“That look will never from my mind away:

18

“Oft as I sit, and ever in my dreams,
“I see that look, and they have heard my screams.
“Now let me speak no more—yet all declared
“That one so young, in pity, should be spared,
“And one so manly;—on his graceful neck,
“That chains of jewels may be proud to deck,
“To a small mole a mother's lips have press'd,—
“And there the cord—my breath is sore oppress'd.
“I now can speak again:—my elder boy
“Was that year drown'd,—a seaman in a hoy:
“He left a numerous race; of these would some
“In their young troubles to my cottage come,
“And these I taught—an humble teacher I—
“Upon their heavenly Parent to rely.
“Alas! I needed such reliance more:
“My idiot-girl, so simply gay before,
“Now wept in pain; some wretch had found a time,
“Depraved and wicked, for that coward-crime;
“I had indeed my doubt, but I suppress'd
“The thought that day and night disturb'd my rest;
“She and that sick-pale brother—but why strive
“To keep the terrors of that time alive?
“The hour arrived, the new, th' undreaded pain,
“That came with violence, and yet came in vain.
“I saw her die: her brother too is dead;
“Nor own'd such crime—what is it that I dread?

19

“The parish aid withdrawn, I look'd around,
“And in my school a bless'd subsistence found—
“My winter-calm of life: to be of use
“Would pleasant thoughts and heavenly hopes produce;
“I loved them all; it soothed me to presage
“The various trials of their riper age,
“Then dwell on mine, and bless the Power who gave
“Pains to correct us, and remorse to save.
“Yes! these were days of peace, but they are past,—
“A trial came, I will believe, a last;
“I lost my sight, and my employment gone,
“Useless I live, but to the day live on;
“Those eyes, which long the light of heaven enjoy'd,
“Were not by pain, by agony destroy'd:
“My senses fail not all; I speak, I pray;
“By night my rest, my food I take by day;
“And, as my mind looks cheerful to my end,
“I love mankind, and call my God my friend.”

21

LETTER XXI. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH. ABEL KEENE.

Cœpis meliùs quàm desines: ultima primis
Cedunt. Dissimiles: hic vir et ille puer.
Ovid. Deïanira Herculi.

Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that, in the latter times, some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils. —Epistle to Timothy.


22

Abel, a poor Man, Teacher of a School of the lower Order; is placed in the Office of a Merchant; is alarmed by Discourses of the Clerks; unable to reply; becomes a Convert; dresses, drinks, and ridicules his former Conduct—The Remonstrance of his Sister, a devout Maiden—Its Effect—The Merchant dies—Abel returns to Poverty unpitied; but relieved—His abject Condition—His Melancholy—He wanders about: is found—His own Account of himself, and the Revolutions in his Mind.


23

A quiet, simple man was Abel Keene,
He meant no harm, nor did he often mean:
He kept a school of loud rebellious boys,
And growing old, grew nervous with the noise;
When a kind Merchant hired his useful pen,
And made him happiest of accompting men;
With glee he rose to every easy day,
When half the labour brought him twice the pay.
There were young clerks, and there the merchant's son,
Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one;
It must, no question, give them lively joy,
Hopes long indulged to combat and destroy;
At these they levell'd all their skill and strength,—
He fell not quickly, but he fell at length:
They quoted books, to him both bold and new,
And scorn'd as fables all he held as true;

24

“Such monkish stories, and such nursery lies,”
That he was struck with terror and surprise.
“What! all his life had he the laws obey'd,
“Which they broke through and were not once afraid?
“Had he so long his evil passions check'd,
“And yet at last had nothing to expect?
“While they their lives in joy and pleasure led,
“And then had nothing, at the end, to dread?
“Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd,
“A part! a speech! for which the man was paid?
“And were his pious books, his solemn prayers,
“Not worth one tale of the admired Voltaire's?
“Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd,
“To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd,
“And on all pleasures, which his purse could give,
“Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live.”
Much time he pass'd in this important strife,
The bliss or bane of his remaining life;
For converts all are made with care and grief,
And pangs attend the birth of unbelief;
Nor pass they soon;—with awe and fear he took
The flowery way, and cast back many a look.
The youths applauded much his wise design,
With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine;
And much in private 'twould their mirth improve,
To hear how Abel spake of life and love;
To hear him own what grievous pains it cost,
Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost,

25

Ere his poor mind, with every deed alarm'd,
By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd.
For Abel enter'd in his bold career,
Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear;
Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went,
Repenting now, now dreading to repent:
With awkward pace, and with himself at war,
Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far;
Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise,
And then proceed with blunders and delays:
The young more aptly passion's calls pursue,
But age and weakness start at scenes so new,
And tremble, when they've done, for all they dared to do.
At length example Abel's dread removed,
With small concern he sought the joys he loved:
Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame,
And first their votary, then their wit became;
His jest was bitter and his satire bold,
When he his tales of formal brethren told;
What time with pious neighbours he discuss'd,
Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust:
“Such were our dreams,” the jovial elder cried;
“Awake and live,” his youthful friends replied.
Now the gay Clerk a modest drab despised,
And clad him smartly as his friends advised;
So fine a coat upon his back he threw,
That not an alley-boy old Abel knew;

26

Broad polish'd buttons blazed that coat upon,
And just beneath the watch's trinkets shone,—
A splendid watch, that pointed out the time,
To fly from business and make free with crime;
The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose
Rank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux:
His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain,
And light elastic locks encased his brain:
More pliant pupil who could hope to find,
So deck'd in person and so changed in mind?
When Abel walked the streets, with pleasant mien
He met his friends, delighted to be seen;
And when he rode along the public way,
No beau so gaudy, and no youth so gay.
His pious sister, now an ancient maid,
For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd;
Then thus in love and scorn her notions she convey'd.
“Alas! my brother! can I see thee pace
“Hoodwink'd to hell, and not lament thy case,
“Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race?
“Lo! thou art bound; a slave in Satan's chain,
“The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain;
“His brother's blood against the murderer cried,
“Against thee thine, unhappy suicide!
“Are all our pious nights and peaceful days,
“Our evening readings and our morning praise,
“Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent,
“Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent,

27

“All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed,
“Are these for ever and for ever fled?
“When, in the years gone by, the trying years,
“When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears,
“Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not eat
“(Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat;
“When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe,
“Slow pass'd the days of the successless year;
“Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then
“Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men:
“And when thy heart has felt its wish denied,
“What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied;
“Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed,
“By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed;
“Then I have seen thy lively looks express
“The spirit's comforts in the man's distress.
“Then didst thou cry, exulting, ‘Yes, 'tis fit,
“‘'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit:’
“And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh
“Against such triumphs?—Oh! repent and pray.
“What are thy pleasures?—with the gay to sit,
“And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit;
“All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain,
“And give a wicked pleasure to the vain;
“Thy long, lean frame by fashion to attire,
“That lads may laugh and wantons may admire;

28

“To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see,
“Unhappy maniac! that they laugh at thee.
“These boyish follies, which alone the boy
“Can idly act or gracefully enjoy,
“Add new reproaches to thy fallen state,
“And make men scorn what they would only hate.
“What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove
“A taste for follies which thou canst not love!
“Why do thy stiffening limbs the steed bestride—
“That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride?
“And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek)
“Dost thou by night in Diamond-Alley sneak?
“Farewell! the parish will thy sister keep,
“Where she in peace shall pray and sing and sleep,
“Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, wandering sheep!
“When youth is fallen, there's hope the young may rise,
“But fallen age for ever hopeless lies;
“Torn up by storms, and placed in earth once more,
“The younger tree may sun and soil restore;
“But when the old and sapless trunk lies low,
“No care or soil can former life bestow;
“Reserved for burning is the worthless tree—
“And what, O Abel! is reserved for thee?”
These angry words our hero deeply felt,
Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt!

29

To gain relief he took a glass the more,
And then went on as careless as before;
Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amusements he partook,
And (save his ledger) saw no decent book;
Him found the Merchant punctual at his task,
And that perform'd, he'd nothing more to ask;
He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool,
No master he, beyond the hours of school:
Thus they proceeding, had their wine and joke,
Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke,
And, after struggling half a gloomy week,
Left his poor Clerk another friend to seek.
Alas! the son, who led the saint astray,
Forgot the man whose follies made him gay;
He cared no more for Abel in his need,
Than Abel cared about his hackney steed;
He now, alas! had all his earnings spent,
And thus was left to languish and repent;
No school nor clerkship found he in the place,
Now lost to fortune, as before to grace.
For town-relief the grieving man applied,
And begg'd with tears what some with scorn denied;
Others look'd down upon the glowing vest,
And frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd?
Happy for him his country's laws are mild,
They must support him, though they still reviled;
Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd,
Of God unmindful, and of man afraid,—
No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to speak,
His heart was sinking, and his frame was weak.

30

His sister died with such serene delight,
He once again began to think her right;
Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay,
And sweet assurance bless'd her dying-day:
Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh,
Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die.
The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door,
Just mention'd “Abel!” and then thought no more.
So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn,
Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn.
And now we saw him on the beach reclined,
Or causeless walking in the wintery wind;
And when it raised a loud and angry sea,
He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie:
He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow,
Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow:
Sometimes his frame through many an hour he spread
Upon a tombstone, moveless as the dead;
And was there found a sad and silent place,
There would he creep with slow and measured pace
Then would he wander by the river's side,
And fix his eyes upon the falling tide;
The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen,
And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then:
There, to his discontented thought a prey,
The melancholy mortal pined away.
The neighb'ring poor at length began to speak
Of Abel's ramblings—he'd been gone a week;
They knew not where, and little care they took
For one so friendless and so poor to look.

31

At last a stranger, in a pedlar's shed,
Beheld him hanging—he had long been dead.
He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times,
Entitled thus—“My Groanings and my Crimes!”
“I was a christian man, and none could lay
“Aught to my charge; I walk'd the narrow way:
“All then was simple faith, serene and pure,
“My hope was steadfast and my prospects sure;
“Then was I tried by want and sickness sore,
“But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before,
“And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore:
“Alas! new foes assail'd me; I was vain,
“They stung my pride and they confused my brain:
“Oh! these deluders! with what glee they saw
“Their simple dupe transgress the righteous law;
“'Twas joy to them to view that dreadful strife,
“When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life;
“So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart,
“Then with their logic they allay'd the smart;
“They proved (so thought I then) with reasons strong,
“That no man's feelings ever lead him wrong:
“And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice,
“The smooth career of unbelief and vice.
“Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and bold,
“Their witty tales of naughty priests unfold;
“‘'Twas all a craft,’ they said, ‘a cunning trade,
“‘Not she the priests, but priests Religion made;
“So I believed:”—No, Abel! to thy grief:
So thou relinquish'dst all that was belief:—

32

“I grew as very flint, and when the rest
“Laugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest;
“But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew,
“When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew;
“Yea! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too.
“The mouse that trespass'd and the treasure stole,
“Found his lean body fitted to the hole;
“Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay,
“And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away:
“Ah! worse for me—grown poor, I yet remain
“In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain.
“At length I thought, although these friends of sin
“Have spread their net, and caught their prey therein;
“Though my hard heart could not for mercy call,
“Because, though great my grief, my faith was small;
“Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely,
“The soul diseased may to a doctor fly.
“A famous one there was, whose skill had wrought
“Cures past belief, and him the sinners sought;
“Numbers there were defiled by mire and filth,
“Whom he recover'd by his goodly tilth:
“‘Come then,’ I said, ‘let me the man behold,
“‘And tell my case’—I saw him and I told.
“With trembling voice, ‘Oh! reverend sir,’ I said,
“‘I once believed, and I was then misled;
“‘And now such doubts my sinful soul beset,
“‘I dare not say that I'm a Christian yet;

33

“‘Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill,
“‘Inform my judgment and direct my will?
“‘Ah! give thy cordial; let my soul have rest,
“‘And be the outward man alone distress'd;
“‘For at my state I tremble.’—‘Tremble more,’
“Said the good man, ‘and then rejoice therefore;
“‘'Tis good to tremble; prospects then are fair,
“‘When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair:
“‘Once thou wert simply honest, just, and pure,
“‘Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a cure:
“‘Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace
“‘Now thou'rt an object meet for healing grace;
“‘No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief,
“‘Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief,
“‘The best, the only titles to relief.’
“‘What must I do,’ I said, ‘my soul to free?’—
“‘Do nothing, man; it will be done for thee.’—
“‘But must I not, my reverend guide, believe?’—
“‘If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faith receive:’—
“‘But I repent not.’—Angry he replied,
“‘If thou art call'd, thou needest nought beside:
“‘Attend on us, and if 't is Heaven's decree,
“‘The call will come,—if not, ah! wo for thee.
“There then I waited, ever on the watch,
“A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch;
“His words fell softly like the flakes of snow,
“But I could never find my heart o'erflow:
“He cried aloud, till in the flock began
“The sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man;

34

“They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I
“Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry:
“To me no tokens of the call would come,
“I felt my sentence, and received my doom;
“But I complain'd—‘Let thy repinings cease,
“‘Oh! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase;
“‘It bloweth where it listeth;—die in peace.’
“—‘In peace, and perish?’ I replied; ‘impart
“‘Some better comfort to a burthen'd heart.’—
“‘Alas!’ the priest return'd, ‘can I direct
“‘The heavenly call?—Do I proclaim th' elect?
“‘Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will,
“‘But take thy part with sinners, and be still.

35

“Alas, for me! no more the times of peace
“Are mine on earth—in death my pains may cease.
“Foes to my soul! ye young seducers, know,
“What serious ills from your amusements flow;
“Opinions, you with so much ease profess,
“O'erwhelm the simple and their minds oppress:
“Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong,
“That make them wretched, prove their notions wrong;
“Let them proceed in that they deem the way,
“Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray:
“Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot,
“And so had Dives, but it help'd him not:
“And is it thus?—I'm full of doubts:—Adieu!
“Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too.”

37

LETTER XXII. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH. PETER GRIMES.

Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent, and every one did threat—
Shakspeare. Richard III.

The times have been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end: but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools.
Macbeth.


38

The Father of Peter a Fisherman—Peter's early Conduct —His Grief for the old Man—He takes an Apprentice— The Boy's Suffering and Fate—A second Boy: how he died—Peter acquitted—A third Apprentice—A Voyage by Sea: the Boy does not return—Evil Report on Peter: he is tried and threatened—Lives alone—His Melancholy and incipient Madness—Is observed and visited—He escapes and is taken: is lodged in a Parish-house: Women attend and watch him—He speaks in a Delirium: grows more collected—His Account of his Feelings and visionary Terrors previous to his Death.


39

Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ,
His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy,
And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy:
To town came quiet Peter with his fish,
And had of all a civil word and wish.
He left his trade upon the Sabbath-day,
And took young Peter in his hand to pray:
But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose,
At first refused, then added his abuse:
His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied,
But being drunk, wept sorely when he died.

40

Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there came
Much of his conduct, and he felt the shame,—
How he had oft the good old man reviled,
And never paid the duty of a child;
How, when the father in his Bible read,
He in contempt and anger left the shed:
“It is the word of life,” the parent cried;
—“This is the life itself,” the boy replied.
And while old Peter in amazement stood,
Gave the hot spirit to his boiling blood:—
How he, with oath and furious speech, began
To prove his freedom and assert the man;
And when the parent check'd his impious rage,
How he had cursed the tyranny of age,—
Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow
On his bare head, and laid his parent low;
The father groan'd—“If thou art old,” said he,
“And hast a son—thou wilt remember me:
“Thy mother left me in a happy time,
“Thou kill'dst not her—Heav'n spares the double crime.”
On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief,
This he revolved, and drank for his relief.
Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd
From constant pleasure, and he thought it hard;
Hard that he could not every wish obey,
But must awhile relinquish ale and play;
Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,
But must acquire the money he would spend.

41

With greedy eye he look'd on all he saw,
He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law;
On all he mark'd, he stretch'd his ready hand;
He fish'd by water and he filch'd by land:
Oft in the night has Peter dropp'd his oar,
Fled from his boat, and sought for prey on shore;
Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back
Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack,
Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack;
And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose,
The more he look'd on all men as his foes.
He built a mud-wall'd hovel, where he kept
His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept;
But no success could please his cruel soul,
He wish'd for one to trouble and control;
He wanted some obedient boy to stand
And bear the blow of his outrageous hand;
And hoped to find in some propitious hour
A feeling creature subject to his power.
Peter had heard there were in London then,—
Still have they being!—workhouse-clearing men,
Who, undisturb'd by feelings just or kind,
Would parish-boys to needy tradesmen bind:
They in their want a trifling sum would take,
And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make.
Such Peter sought, and when a lad was found,
The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound.
Some few in town observed in Peter's trap
A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap;

42

But none enquired how Peter used the rope,
Or what the bruise, that made the stripling stoop;
None could the ridges on his back behold,
None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold;
None put the question,—“Peter, dost thou give
“The boy his food?—What, man! the lad must live:
“Consider, Peter, let the child have bread,
“He'll serve thee better if he's stroked and fed.”
None reason'd thus—and some, on hearing cries,
Said calmly, “Grimes is at his exercise.”
Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, threaten'd, and abused—
His efforts punish'd and his food refused,—
Awake tormented,—soon aroused from sleep,—
Struck if he wept, and yet compell'd to weep,
The trembling boy dropp'd down and strove to pray,
Received a blow, and trembling turn'd away,
Or sobb'd and hid his piteous face;—while he,
The savage master, grinn'd in horrid glee:
He'd now the power he ever loved to show,
A feeling being subject to his blow.
Thus lived the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,
His tears despised, his supplications vain:
Compell'd by fear to lie, by need to steal,
His bed uneasy and unbless'd his meal,
For three sad years the boy his tortures bore,
And then his pains and trials were no more.

43

“How died he, Peter?” when the people said,
He growl'd—“I found him lifeless in his bed;”
Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, “Poor Sam is dead.”
Yet murmurs were there, and some questions ask'd—
How he was fed, how punish'd, and how task'd?
Much they suspected, but they little proved,
And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmoved.
Another boy with equal ease was found,
The money granted, and the victim bound;
And what his fate?—One night it chanced he fell
From the boat's mast and perish'd in her well,
Where fish were living kept, and where the boy
(So reason'd men) could not himself destroy:—
“Yes! so it was,” said Peter, “in his play,
“(For he was idle both by night and day,)
“He climb'd the main-mast and then fell below;”—
Then show'd his corpse, and pointed to the blow:
“What said the jury?”—they were long in doubt,
But sturdy Peter faced the matter out:
So they dismiss'd him, saying at the time,
“Keep fast your hatchway when you've boys who climb.”
This hit the conscience, and he colour'd more
Than for the closest questions put before.
Thus all his fears the verdict set aside,
And at the slave-shop Peter still applied.

44

Then came a boy, of manners soft and mild,—
Our seamen's wives with grief beheld the child;
All thought (the poor themselves) that he was one
Of gentle blood, some noble sinner's son,
Who had, belike, deceived some humble maid,
Whom he had first seduced and then betray'd:—
However this, he seem'd a gracious lad,
In grief submissive and with patience sad.
Passive he labour'd, till his slender frame
Bent with his loads, and he at length was lame:
Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long
The grossest insult and the foulest wrong;
But there were causes—in the town they gave
Fire, food, and comfort, to the gentle slave;
And though stern Peter, with a cruel hand,
And knotted rope, enforced the rude command,
Yet he consider'd what he'd lately felt,
And his vile blows with selfish pity dealt.
One day such draughts the cruel fisher made,
He could not vend them in his borough-trade,
But sail'd for London-mart: the boy was ill,
But ever humbled to his master's will;
And on the river, where they smoothly sail'd,
He strove with terror and awhile prevail'd;
But new to danger on the angry sea,
He clung affrighten'd to his master's knee:
The boat grew leaky and the wind was strong,
Rough was the passage and the time was long;
His liquor fail'd, and Peter's wrath arose,—
No more is known—the rest we must suppose,

45

Or learn of Peter:—Peter says, he “spied
“The stripling's danger and for harbour tried;
“Meantime the fish, and then th' apprentice died.”
The pitying women raised a clamour round,
And weeping said, “Thou hast thy 'prentice drown'd.”
Now the stern man was summon'd to the hall,
To tell his tale before the burghers all:
He gave th' account; profess'd the lad he loved,
And kept his brazen features all unmoved.
The mayor himself with tone severe replied,—
“Henceforth with thee shall never boy abide;
“Hire thee a freeman, whom thou durst not beat,
“But who, in thy despite, will sleep and eat:
“Free thou art now!—again shouldst thou appear,
“Thou'lt find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe.”
Alas! for Peter not a helping hand,
So was he hated, could he now command;
Alone he row'd his boat, alone he cast
His nets beside, or made his anchor fast;
To hold a rope or hear a curse was none,—
He toil'd and rail'd; he groan'd and swore alone.
Thus by himself compell'd to live each day,
To wait for certain hours the tide's delay;
At the same time the same dull views to see,
The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree;
The water only, when the tides were high,
When low, the mud half-cover'd and half-dry;

46

The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks,
And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks;
Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float,
As the tide rolls by the impeded boat.
When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day,
Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way,
Which on each side rose swelling, and below
The dark warm flood ran silently and slow;
There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,
There hang his head, and view the lazy tide
In its hot slimy channel slowly glide;
Where the small eels that left the deeper way
For the warm shore, within the shallows play;
Where gaping muscles, left upon the mud,
Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood;—
Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and trace
How sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked race
Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry
Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye;
What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come,
And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home,
Gave from the salt-ditch side the bellowing boom:
He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,
And loved to stop beside the opening sluice,
Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,
Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound;
Where all, presented to the eye or ear,
Oppress'd the soul with misery, grief, and fear.
Besides these objects, there were places three,
Which Peter seem'd with certain dread to see;

47

When he drew near them he would turn from each,
And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach.
A change of scene to him brought no relief,
In town, 't was plain, men took him for a thief:
The sailors' wives would stop him in the street,
And say, “Now, Peter, thou'st no boy to beat:”
Infants at play, when they perceived him, ran,
Warning each other—“That's the wicked man:”
He growl'd an oath, and in an angry tone
Cursed the whole place and wish'd to be alone.
Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view,
And still more gloomy in his sight they grew:
Though man he hated, yet employ'd alone
At bootless labour, he would swear and groan,
Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot,
And gulls that caught them when his arts could not.
Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame,
And strange disease—he couldn't say the name;
Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright,
Waked by his view of horrors in the night,—
Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,
Horrors that demons might be proud to raise:

48

And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,
To think he lived from all mankind apart;
Yet, if a man approach'd, in terrors he would start.
A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town,
And summer lodgers were again come down;
These, idly curious, with their glasses spied
The ships in bay as anchor'd for the tide,—
The river's craft,—the bustle of the quay,—
And sea-port views, which landmen love to see.
One, up the river, had a man and boat
Seen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat;
Fisher he seem'd, yet used no net nor hook;
Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took,
But on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look:
At certain stations he would view the stream,
As if he stood bewilder'd in a dream,
Or that some power had chain'd him for a time,
To feel a curse or meditate on crime.
This known, some curious, some in pity went,
And others question'd—“Wretch, dost thou repent?”
He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd
His boat: new terror fill'd his restless mind;
Furious he grew, and up the country ran,
And there they seized him—a distemper'd man:—
Him we received, and to a parish-bed,
Follow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led.
Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun.
A lost, lone man, so harass'd and undone;

49

Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel,
Perceived compassion on their anger steal;
His crimes they could not from their memories blot,
But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot.
A Priest too came, to whom his words are told;
And all the signs they shudder'd to behold.
“Look! look!” they cried; “his limbs with horror shake,
“And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make!
“How glare his angry eyes, and yet he's not awake:
“See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,
“And how he clenches that broad bony hand.”
The Priest attending, found he spoke at times
As one alluding to his fears and crimes;
“It was the fall,” he mutter'd, “I can show
“The manner how,—I never struck a blow:”—
And then aloud,—“Unhand me, free my chain;
“On oath he fell—it struck him to the brain:—
“Why ask my father?—that old man will swear
“Against my life; besides, he wasn't there:—
“What, all agreed?—Am I to die to-day?—
“My Lord, in mercy give me time to pray.”
Then as they watch'd him, calmer he became,
And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame,
But murmuring spake—while they could see and hear
The start of terror and the groan of fear;
See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise,
And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes.

50

Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force
Seem'd with some fancied being to discourse:
He knew not us, or with accustom'd art
He hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart;
'Twas part confession and the rest defence,
A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense.
“I'll tell you all,” he said, “the very day
“When the old man first placed them in my way:
“My father's spirit—he who always tried
“To give me trouble, when he lived and died—
“When he was gone he could not be content
“To see my days in painful labour spent,
“But would appoint his meetings, and he made
“Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade.
“'Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene,
“No living being had I lately seen;
“I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net,
“But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get,—
“A father's pleasure, when his toil was done,
“To plague and torture thus an only son!
“And so I sat and look'd upon the stream,
“How it ran on, and felt as in a dream:
“But dream it was not: No!—I fix'd my eyes
“On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise:
“I saw my father on the water stand,
“And hold a thin pale boy in either hand;
“And there they glided ghastly on the top
“Of the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop:
“I would have struck them, but they knew th' intent,
“And smiled upon the oar and down they went.

51

“Now, from that day, whenever I began
“To dip my net, there stood the hard old man—
“He and those boys: I humbled me and pray'd
“They would be gone;—they heeded not, but stay'd:
“Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by,
“But, gazing on the spirits, there was I:
“They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to die:
“And every day, as sure as day arose,
“Would these three spirits meet me ere the close;
“To hear and mark them daily was my doom,
“And ‘Come,’ they said, with weak, sad voices, ‘come.’
“To row away, with all my strength I tried,
“But there were they, hard by me in the tide,
“The three unbodied forms—and ‘Come,’ still ‘come,’ they cried.
“Fathers should pity—but this old man shook
“His hoary locks, and froze me by a look:
“Thrice, when I struck them, through the water came
“A hollow groan, that weaken'd all my frame:
“‘Father!’ said I, ‘have mercy:’—he replied,
“I know not what—the angry spirit lied,—
“‘Didst thou not draw thy knife?’ said he:—'Twas true,
“But I had pity and my arm withdrew:
“He cried for mercy, which I kindly gave,
“But he has no compassion in his grave.
“There were three places, where they ever rose,—
“The whole long river has not such as those—

52

“Places accursed, where, if a man remain,
“He'll see the things which strike him to the brain
“And there they made me on my paddle lean,
“And look at them for hours;—accursed scene!
“When they would glide to that smooth eddy-space,
“Then bid me leap and join them in the place;
“And at my groans each little villain sprite
“Enjoy'd my pains and vanish'd in delight.
“In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain
“Was burning hot, and cruel was my pain,
“Then came this father-foe, and there he stood
“With his two boys again upon the flood:
“There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee,
“In their pale faces when they glared at me:
“Still did they force me on the oar to rest,
“And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd,
“He, with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood,
“And there came flame about him mix'd with blood;
“He bade me stoop and look upon the place,
“Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face;
“Burning it blazed, and then I roar'd for pain,
“I thought the demons would have turn'd my brain.
“Still there they stood, and forced me to behold
“A place of horrors—they can not be told—

53

“Where the flood open'd, there I heard the shriek
“Of tortured guilt—no earthly tongue can speak:
“‘All days alike! for ever!’ did they say,
“‘And unremitted torments every day’—
“Yes, so they said”—But here he ceased, and gazed
On all around, affrighten'd and amazed;
And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dread
Of frighten'd females gathering round his bed;
Then dropp'd exhausted, and appear'd at rest,
Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd;
Then with an inward, broken voice he cried,
“Again they come,” and mutter'd as he died.

55

LETTER XXIII. PRISONS.

Pœna autem vehemens ac multò sævior illis,
Quas et Cæditius gravis invenit aut Rhadamanthus,
Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem.
Juv. Sat. xiii.

------ Think my former state a happy dream,
From which awaked, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this,—I am sworn brother now
To grim Necessity, and he and I
Will keep a league till death.
Richard II.


58

The Mind of Man accommodates itself to all Situations; Prisons otherwise would be intolerable—Debtors: their different Kinds: three particularly described; others more briefly—An arrested Prisoner: his Account of his Feelings and his Situation—The Alleviations of a Prison—Prisoners for Crimes—Two condemned: a vindictive Female: a Highwayman—The Interval between Condemnation and Execution—His Feelings as the Time approaches—His Dream.


59

'Tis well—that Man to all the varying states
Of good and ill his mind accommodates;
He not alone progressive grief sustains,
But soon submits to unexperienced pains:
Change after change, all climes his body bears;
His mind repeated shocks of changing cares:
Faith and fair Virtue arm the nobler breast;
Hope and mere want of feeling aid the rest.
Or who could bear to lose the balmy air
Of summer's breath, from all things fresh and fair,
With all that man admires or loves below;
All earth and water, wood and vale bestow,
Where rosy pleasures smile, whence real blessings flow;
With sight and sound of every kind that lives,
And crowning all with joy that freedom gives?

60

Who could from these, in some unhappy day,
Bear to be drawn by ruthless arms away,
To the vile nuisance of a noisome room,
Where only insolence and misery come?
(Save that the curious will by chance appear,
Or some in pity drop a fruitless tear;)
To a damp Prison, where the very sight
Of the warm sun is favour and not right;
Where all we hear or see the feelings shock,
The oath and groan, the fetter and the lock?
Who could bear this and live?—Oh! many a year
All this is borne, and miseries more severe;
And some there are, familiar with the scene,
Who live in mirth, though few become serene.
Far as I might the inward man perceive,
There was a constant effort—not to grieve:
Not to despair, for better days would come,
And the freed debtor smile again at home:
Subdued his habits, he may peace regain,
And bless the woes that were not sent in vain.
Thus might we class the Debtors here confined,
The more deceived, the more deceitful kind;
Here are the guilty race, who mean to live
On credit, that credulity will give;
Who purchase, conscious they can never pay;
Who know their fate, and traffic to betray;
On whom no pity, fear, remorse, prevail,
Their aim a statute, their resource a jail;—

61

These as the public spoilers we regard,
No dun so harsh, no creditor so hard.
A second kind are they, who truly strive
To keep their sinking credit long alive;
Success, nay prudence, they may want, but yet
They would be solvent, and deplore a debt;
All means they use, to all expedients run,
And are by slow, sad steps, at last undone:
Justly, perhaps, you blame their want of skill,
But mourn their feelings and absolve their will.
There is a Debtor, who his trifling all
Spreads in a shop; it would not fill a stall;
There at one window his temptation lays,
And in new modes disposes and displays:
Above the door you shall his name behold,
And what he vends in ample letters told,
The words ‘Repository,’ ‘Warehouse,’ all
He uses to enlarge concerns so small:
He to his goods assigns some beauty's name,
Then in her reign, and hopes they'll share her fame,
And talks of credit, commerce, traffic, trade,
As one important by their profit made;
But who can paint the vacancy, the gloom,
And spare dimensions of one backward room?
Wherein he dines, if so 't is fit to speak
Of one day's herring and the morrow's steak:
An anchorite in diet, all his care
Is to display his stock and vend his ware.

62

Long waiting hopeless, then he tries to meet
A kinder fortune in a distant street;
There he again displays, increasing yet
Corroding sorrow and consuming debt:
Alas! he wants the requisites to rise—
The true connections, the availing ties;
They who proceed on certainties advance,
These are not times when men prevail by chance:
But still he tries, till, after years of pain,
He finds, with anguish, he has tried in vain.
Debtors are these on whom 't is hard to press,
'Tis base, impolitic, and merciless.
To these we add a miscellaneous kind,
By pleasure, pride, and indolence confined;
Those whom no calls, no warnings could divert,
The unexperienced and the inexpert;
The builder, idler, schemer, gamester, sot,—
The follies different, but the same their lot;
Victims of horses, lasses, drinking, dice,
Of every passion, humour, whim, and vice.
See! that sad Merchant, who but yesterday
Had a vast household in command and pay;
He now entreats permission to employ
A boy he needs, and then entreats the boy.
And there sits one, improvident but kind,
Bound for a friend, whom honour could not bind;
Sighing, he speaks to any who appear,
“A treach'rous friend—'twas that which sent me here:

63

“I was too kind,—I thought I could depend
“On his bare word—he was a treach'rous friend.”
A Female too!—it is to her a home,
She came before—and she again will come:
Her friends have pity; when their anger drops,
They take her home;—she's tried her schools and shops—
Plan after plan;—but fortune would not mend,
She to herself was still the treach'rous friend;
And wheresoe'er began, all here was sure to end:
And there she sits, as thoughtless and as gay
As if she'd means, or not a debt to pay—
Or knew to-morrow she'd be call'd away—
Or felt a shilling and could dine to-day.
While thus observing, I began to trace
The sober'd features of a well-known face—
Looks once familiar, manners form'd to please,
And all illumined by a heart at ease:
But fraud and flattery ever claim'd a part
(Still unresisted) of that easy heart;
But he at length beholds me—“Ah! my friend!
“And have thy pleasures this unlucky end?
“Too sure,” he said, and smiling as he sigh'd;
“I went astray, though Prudence seem'd my guide;
“All she proposed I in my heart approved,
“And she was honour'd, but my pleasure loved—
“Pleasure, the mistress to whose arms I fled,
“From wife-like lectures angry Prudence read.

64

“Why speak the madness of a life like mine,
“The powers of beauty, novelty, and wine?
“Why paint the wanton smile, the venal vow,
“Or friends whose worth I can appreciate now;
“Oft I perceived my fate, and then could say,
“I'll think to-morrow, I must live to-day:
“So am I here—I own the laws are just—
“And here, where thought is painful, think I must:
“But speech is pleasant; this discourse with thee
“Brings to my mind the sweets of liberty,
“Breaks on the sameness of the place, and gives
“The doubtful heart conviction that it lives.
“Let me describe my anguish in the hour
“When law detain'd me and I felt its power.
“When, in that shipwreck, this I found my shore,
“And join'd the wretched, who were wreck'd before;
“When I perceived each feature in the face,
“Pinch'd through neglect or turbid by disgrace;
“When in these wasting forms affliction stood
“In my afflicted view, it chill'd my blood;—
“And forth I rush'd, a quick retreat to make,
“Till a loud laugh proclaim'd the dire mistake:
“But when the groan had settled to a sigh,
“When gloom became familiar to the eye,
“When I perceive how others seem to rest,
“With every evil rankling in my breast,—
“Led by example, I put on the man,
“Sing off my sighs, and trifle as I can.

65

“Homer! nay Pope! (for never will I seek
“Applause for learning—nought have I with Greek)
“Gives us the secrets of his pagan hell,
“Where ghost with ghost in sad communion dwell;
“Where shade meets shade, and round the gloomy meads
“They glide, and speak of old heroic deeds,—
“What fields they conquer'd, and what foes they slew,
“And sent to join the melancholy crew.
“When a new spirit in that world was found,
“A thousand shadowy forms came flitting round;
“Those who had known him, fond enquiries made,—
“‘Of all we left, inform us, gentle shade,
“‘Now as we lead thee in our realms to dwell,
“‘Our twilight groves, and meads of asphodel.’
“What paints the poet, is our station here.
“Where we like ghosts and flitting shades appear:
“This is the hell he sings, and here we meet,
“And former deeds to new-made friends repeat;
“Heroic deeds, which here obtain us fame,
“And are in fact the causes why we came:
“Yes! this dim region is old Homer's hell,
“Abate but groves and meads of asphodel.
“Here, when a stranger from your world we spy,
“We gather round him and for news apply;
“He hears unheeding, nor can speech endure,
“But shivering gazes on the vast obscure:
“We smiling pity, and by kindness show
“We felt his feelings and his terrors know;

66

“Then speak of comfort—time will give him sight,
“Where now 'tis dark; where now tis wo—delight.
“‘Have hope,’ we say, ‘and soon the place to thee
“‘Shall not a prison but a castle be:
“‘When to the wretch whom care and guilt confound,
“‘The world's a prison, with a wider bound;
“‘Go where he may, he feels himself confined,
“‘And wears the fetters of an abject mind.
“But now adieu! those giant-keys appear,
“Thou art not worthy to be inmate here:
“Go to thy world, and to the young declare
“What we, our spirits and employments, are;
“Tell them how we the ills of life endure,
“Our empire stable, and our state secure;
“Our dress, our diet, for their use describe,
“And bid them haste to join the gen'rous tribe.
“Go to thy world, and leave us here to dwell,
“Who to its joys and comforts bid farewell.”
Farewell to these; but other scenes I view,
And other griefs, and guilt of deeper hue;
Where Conscience gives to outward ills her pain,
Gloom to the night, and pressure to the chain:
Here separate cells awhile in misery keep
Two doom'd to suffer: there they strive for sleep;
By day indulged, in larger space they range,
Their bondage certain, but their bounds have change.

67

One was a female, who had grievous ill
Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still:
With death before her, and her fate in view,
Unsated vengeance in her bosom grew:
Sullen she was and threat'ning; in her eye
Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die:
But first a being in the world must leave—
'Twas once reproach; 'twas now a short reprieve.
She was a pauper bound, who early gave
Her mind to vice and doubly was a slave:
Upbraided, beaten, held by rough control,
Revenge sustain'd, inspired, and fill'd her soul:
She fired a full-stored barn, confess'd the fact,
And laugh'd at law and justified the act:
Our gentle Vicar tried his powers in vain,
She answer'd not, or answer'd with disdain;
Th' approaching fate she heard without a sigh,
And neither cared to live nor fear'd to die.
Not so he felt, who with her was to pay
The forfeit, life—with dread he view'd the day,
And that short space which yet for him remain'd,
Till with his limbs his faculties were chain'd:
He paced his narrow bounds some ease to find,
But found it not,—no comfort reach'd his mind:
Each sense was palsied; when he tasted food,
He sigh'd and said, “Enough—'tis very good.”
Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be
As once it was—he seeing could not see,

68

Nor hearing, hear aright;—when first I came
Within his view, I fancied there was shame,
I judged resentment; I mistook the air,—
These fainter passions live not with despair;
Or but exist and die:—Hope, fear, and love,
Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move,
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power.
“But will not Mercy?”—No! she cannot plead
For such an outrage;—'twas a cruel deed:
He stopp'd a timid traveller;—to his breast,
With oaths and curses, was the danger press'd:—
No! he must suffer; pity we may find
For one man's pangs, but must not wrong mankind.
Still I behold him, every thought employ'd
On one dire view!—all others are destroy'd;
This makes his features ghastly, gives the tone
Of his few words resemblance to a groan;

69

He takes his tasteless food, and when 'tis done,
Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one;
For expectation is on time intent,
Whether he brings us joy or punishment.
Yes! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain,
He hears the sentence and he feels the chain;
He sees the judge and jury, when he shakes,
And loudly cries, “Not guilty,” and awakes:
Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep,
Till worn-out nature is compell'd to sleep.
Now comes the dream again: it shows each scene,
With each small circumstance that comes between—
The call to suffering and the very deed—
There crowds go with him, follow, and precede;
Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn,
While he in fancied envy looks at them:
He seems the place for that sad act to see,
And dreams the very thirst which then will be:
A priest attends—it seems, the one he knew
In his best days, beneath whose care he grew.
At this his terrors take a sudden flight,
He sees his native village with delight;
The house, the chamber, where he once array'd
His youthful person; where he knelt and pray'd:
Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home,
The days of joy; the joys themselves are come;—
The hours of innocence;—the timid look
Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took,

70

And told his hope; her trembling joy appears,
Her forced reserve and his retreating fears.
All now is present;—'tis a moment's gleam
Of former sunshine—stay, delightful dream!
Let him within his pleasant garden walk,
Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.
Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile:
Then come his sister and his village-friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield;—No! never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind:
He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,
Love in their looks and honour on the tongue:
Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows,
The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows;—
Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane,—then linger in the mead,—
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom,—
And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread,
And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed;
Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way
O'er its rough bridge—and there behold the bay!—

71

The ocean smiling to the fervid sun—
The waves that faintly fall and slowly run—
The ships at distance and the boats at hand;
And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,
Counting the number and what kind they be,
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea:
Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold
The glitt'ring waters on the shingles roll'd:
The timid girls, half dreading their design,
Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,
And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow,
Or lie like pictures on the sand below:
With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon;
And those live lucid jellies which the eye
Delights to trace as they swim glittering by:
Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour-fire,—
Tokens of bliss!—“Oh! horrible! a wave
“Roars as it rises—save me, Edward! save!”
She cries:—Alas! the watchman on his way
Calls, and lets in—truth, terror, and the day!

73

LETTER XXIV. SCHOOLS.

Tu quoque ne metuas, quamvis schola verbere multo
Increpet et truculenta senex geret ora magister;
Degeneres animos timor arguit; at tibi consta
Intrepidus, nec te clamor plagæque sonantes,
Nec matutinis agitet formido sub horis,
Quòd sceptrum vibrat ferulæ, quòd multa supellex
Virgea, quòd molis scuticam prætexit aluta,
Quòd fervent trepido subsellia vestra tumultu,
Pompa loci, et vani fugiatur scena timoris.
Ausonius in Protreptico ad Nepotem.


76

Schools of every Kind to be found in the Borough—The School for Infants—The School Preparatory: the Sagacity of the Mistress in foreseeing Character—Day-Schools of the lower Kind—A Master with Talents adapted to such Pupils: one of superior Qualifications—Boarding-Schools: that for young Ladies: one going first to the Governess, one finally returning Home—School for Youth: Master and Teacher; various Dispositions and Capacities—The Miser-Boy— The Boy-Bully—Sons of Farmers: how amused —What Study will effect, examined—A College Life: one sent from his College to a Benefice; one retained there in Dignity—The Advantages in either Case not considerable —Where, then, the Good of a literary Life?—Answered —Conclusion.


77

To every class we have a School assign'd,
Rules for all ranks and food for every mind:
Yet one there is, that small regard to rule
Or study pays, and still is deem'd a School;
That, where a deaf, poor, patient widow sits,
And awes some thirty infants as she knits;
Infants of humble, busy wives, who pay
Some trifling price for freedom through the day.
At this good matron's hut the children meet,
Who thus becomes the mother of the street:
Her room is small, they cannot widely stray,—
Her threshold high, they cannot run away:
Though deaf, she sees the rebel-heroes shout,—
Though lame, her white rod nimbly walks about;
With band of yarn she keeps offenders in,
And to her gown the sturdiest rogue can pin:

78

Aided by these, and spells, and tell-tale birds,
Her power they dread and reverence her words.
To Learning's second seats we now proceed,
Where humming students gilded primers read;
Or books with letters large and pictures gay,
To make their reading but a kind of play—
“Reading made Easy,” so the titles tell;
But they who read must first begin to spell:
There may be profit in these arts, but still
Learning is labour, call it what you will;
Upon the youthful mind a heavy load,
Nor must we hope to find the royal road.
Some will their easy steps to science show,
And some to heav'n itself their by-way know;
Ah! trust them not,—who fame or bliss would share,
Must learn by labour, and must live by care.
Another matron, of superior kind,
For higher schools prepares the rising mind;
Preparatory she her Learning calls,
The step first made to colleges and halls.

79

She early sees to what the mind will grow,
Nor abler judge of infant-powers I know;
She sees what soon the lively will impede,
And how the steadier will in turn succeed;
Observes the dawn of wisdom, fancy, taste,
And knows what parts will wear, and what will waste:
She marks the mind too lively, and at once
Sees the gay coxcomb and the rattling dunce.
Long has she lived, and much she loves to trace
Her former pupils, now a lordly race;
Whom when she sees rich robes and furs bedeck,
She marks the pride which once she strove to check.
A Burgess comes, and she remembers well
How hard her task to make his worship spell;
Cold, selfish, dull, inanimate, unkind,
'Twas but by anger he display'd a mind:
Now civil, smiling, complaisant, and gay,
The world has worn th' unsocial crust away:
That sullen spirit now a softness wears,
And, save by fits, e'en dulness disappears:
But still the matron can the man behold,
Dull, selfish, hard, inanimate, and cold.
A Merchant passes,—“Probity and truth,
“Prudence and patience, mark'd thee from thy youth.”

80

Thus she observes, but oft retains her fears
For him, who now with name unstain'd appears;
Nor hope relinquishes, for one who yet
Is lost in error and involved in debt;
For latent evil in that heart she found,
More open here, but here the core was sound.
Various our Day-Schools: here behold we one
Empty and still:—the morning duties done,
Soil'd, tatter'd, worn, and thrown in various heaps,
Appear their books, and there confusion sleeps;
The workmen all are from the Babel fled,
And lost their tools, till the return they dread:
Meantime the master, with his wig awry,
Prepares his books for business by-and-by:
Now all th' insignia of the monarch laid
Beside him rest, and none stand by afraid;
He, while his troop light-hearted leap and play,
Is all intent on duties of the day;
No more the tyrant stern or judge severe,
He feels the father's and the husband's fear.
Ah! little think the timid trembling crowd,
That one so wise, so powerful, and so proud,
Should feel himself, and dread the humble ills
Of rent-day charges and of coalman's bills;
That while they mercy from their judge implore,
He fears himself—a knocking at the door;
And feels the burthen as his neighbour states
His humble portion to the parish-rates.

81

They sit th' allotted hours, then eager run,
Rushing to pleasure when the duty's done;
His hour of leisure is of different kind,
Then cares domestic rush upon his mind,
And half the ease and comfort he enjoys,
Is when surrounded by slates, books, and boys.
Poor Reuben Dixon has the noisiest school
Of ragged lads, who ever bow'd to rule;
Low in his price—the men who heave our coals,
And clean our causeways, send him boys in shoals:
To see poor Reuben, with his fry beside,—
Their half-check'd rudeness and his half-scorn'd pride,—
Their room, the sty in which th' assembly meet,
In the close lane behind the Northgate-street;
T' observe his vain attempts to keep the peace,
Till tolls the bell, and strife and troubles cease,—
Calls for our praise; his labour praise deserves,
But not our pity; Reuben has no nerves:
'Mid noise and dirt, and stench, and play, and prate,
He calmly cuts the pen or views the slate.
But Leonard!—yes, for Leonard's fate I grieve,
Who loathes the station which he dares not leave;
He cannot dig, he will not beg his bread,
All his dependence rests upon his head;
And deeply skill'd in sciences and arts,
On vulgar lads he wastes superior parts.
Alas! what grief that feeling mind sustains,
In guiding hands and stirring torpid brains;

82

He whose proud mind from pole to pole will move,
And view the wonders of the worlds above;
Who thinks and reasons strongly:—hard his fate,
Confined for ever to the pen and slate:
True, he submits, and when the long dull day
Has slowly pass'd, in weary tasks, away,
To other worlds with cheerful view he looks,
And parts the night between repose and books.
Amid his labours, he has sometimes tried
To turn a little from his cares aside;
Pope, Milton, Dryden, with delight has seized,
His soul engaged and of his trouble eased:
When, with a heavy eye and ill-done sum,
No part conceived, a stupid boy will come;
Then Leonard first subdues the rising frown,
And bids the blockhead lay his blunders down;
O'er which disgusted he will turn his eye,
To his sad duty his sound mind apply,
And, vex'd in spirit, throw his pleasures by.
Turn we to Schools which more than these afford—
The sound instruction and the wholesome board;
And first our School for Ladies:—pity calls
For one soft sigh, when we behold these walls,
Placed near the town, and where, from window high,
The fair, confined, may our free crowds espy,
With many a stranger gazing up and down,
And all the envied tumult of the town;
May, in the smiling summer-eve, when they
Are sent to sleep the pleasant hours away,

83

Behold the poor (whom they conceive the bless'd)
Employ'd for hours, and grieved they cannot rest.
Here the fond girl, whose days are sad and few
Since dear mamma pronounced the last adieu,
Looks to the road, and fondly thinks she hears
The carriage-wheels, and struggles with her tears:
All yet is new, the misses great and small,
Madam herself, and teachers, odious all;
From laughter, pity, nay command, she turns,
But melts in softness, or with anger burns;
Nauseates her food, and wonders who can sleep
On such mean beds, where she can only weep:
She scorns condolence—but to all she hates
Slowly at length her mind accommodates;
Then looks on bondage with the same concern
As others felt, and finds that she must learn
As others learn'd—the common lot to share,
To search for comfort and submit to care.
There are, 't is said, who on these seats attend,
And to these ductile minds destruction vend;
Wretches—(to virtue, peace, and nature, foes)—
To these soft minds, their wicked trash expose;
Seize on the soul, ere passions take the sway,
And lead the heart, ere yet it feels, astray:
Smugglers obscene!—and can there be who take
Infernal pains, the sleeping vice to wake?
Can there be those, by whom the thought defiled
Enters the spotless bosom of a child?

84

By whom the ill is to the heart convey'd,
Who lend the foe, not yet in arms, their aid,
And sap the city-walls before the siege be laid?
Oh! rather skulking in the by-ways steal,
And rob the poorest traveller of his meal;
Burst through the humblest trader's bolted door;
Bear from the widow's hut her winter-store;
With stolen steed, on highways take your stand,
Your lips with curses arm'd, with death your hand;—
Take all but life—the virtuous more would say,
Take life itself, dear as it is, away,
Rather than guilty thus the guileless soul betray.
Years pass away—let us suppose them past,
Th' accomplish'd nymph for freedom looks at last;
All hardships over, which a school contains,
The spirit's bondage and the body's pains;
Where teachers make the heartless, trembling set
Of pupils suffer for their own regret;
Where winter's cold, attack'd by one poor fire,
Chills the fair child, commanded to retire;
She felt it keenly in the morning-air,
Keenly she felt it at the evening prayer.
More pleasant summer; but then walks were made,
Not a sweet ramble, but a slow parade;
They moved by pairs beside the hawthorn-hedge,
Only to set their feelings on an edge;
And now at eve, when all their spirits rise,
Are sent to rest, and all their pleasure dies;
Where yet they all the town alert can see,
And distant plough-boys pacing o'er the lea.

85

These and the tasks successive masters brought—
The French they conn'd, the curious works they wrought:
The hours they made their taper fingers strike
Note after note, all dull to them alike;
Their drawings, dancings on appointed days,
Playing with globes, and getting parts of plays;
The tender friendships made 'twixt heart and heart,
When the dear friends had nothing to impart:—
All! all! are over;—now th' accomplish'd maid
Longs for the world, of nothing there afraid:
Dreams of delight invade her gentle breast,
And fancied lovers rob the heart of rest;
At the paternal door a carriage stands,
Love knits their hearts and Hymen joins their hands.
Ah!—world unknown! how charming is thy view,
Thy pleasures many, and each pleasure new:
Ah!—world experienced! what of thee is told?
How few thy pleasures, and those few how old!
Within a silent street, and far apart
From noise of business, from a quay or mart,
Stands an old spacious building, and the din
You hear without, explains the work within;
Unlike the whispering of the nymphs, this noise
Loudly proclaims a “Boarding-School for Boys;”
The master heeds it not, for thirty years
Have render'd all familiar to his ears;

86

He sits in comfort, 'mid the various sound
Of mingled tones for ever flowing round;
Day after day he to his task attends,—
Unvaried toil, and care that never ends:
Boys in their works proceed; while his employ
Admits no change, or changes but the boy;
Yet time has made it easy;—he beside
Has power supreme, and power is sweet to pride:
But grant him pleasure;—what can teachers feel,
Dependent helpers always at the wheel?
Their power despised, their compensation small,
Their labour dull, their life laborious all;
Set after set the lower lads to make
Fit for the class which their superiors take;
The road of learning for a time to track
In roughest state, and then again go back:
Just the same way on other troops to wait,—
Attendants fix'd at learning's lower gate.
The Day-tasks now are over,—to their ground
Rush the gay crowd with joy-compelling sound;
Glad to illude the burthens of the day,
The eager parties hurry to their play:

87

Then in these hours of liberty we find
The native bias of the opening mind;
They yet possess not skill the mask to place,
And hide the passions glowing in the face;
Yet some are found—the close, the sly, the mean,
Who know already all must not be seen.
Lo! one who walks apart, although so young,
He lays restraint upon his eye and tongue;
Nor will he into scrapes or dangers get,
And half the school are in the stripling's debt:
Suspicious, timid, he is much afraid
Of trick and plot:—he dreads to be betray'd:
He shuns all friendship, for he finds they lend,
When lads begin to call each other friend:
Yet self with self has war; the tempting sight
Of fruit on sale provokes his appetite;—
See! how he walks the sweet seduction by;
That he is tempted, costs him first a sigh,—
'T is dangerous to indulge, 'tis grievous to deny!
This he will choose, and whispering asks the price,
The purchase dreadful, but the portion nice;

88

Within the pocket he explores the pence;
Without, temptation strikes on either sense,
The sight, the smell;—but then he thinks again
O money gone! while fruit nor taste remain.
Meantime there comes an eager thoughtless boy,
Who gives the price and only feels the joy:
Example dire! the youthful miser stops,
And slowly back the treasured coinage drops:
Heroic deed! for should he now comply,
Can he to-morrow's appetite deny?
Beside, these spendthrifts who so freely live,
Cloy'd with their purchase, will a portion give:—
Here ends debate, he buttons up his store,
And feels the comfort that it burns no more.
Unlike to him the Tyrant-boy, whose sway
All hearts acknowledge; him the crowds obey:
At his command they break through every rule;
Whoever governs, he controls the school:
'T is not the distant emperor moves their fear,
But the proud viceroy who is ever near.
Verres could do that mischief in a day,
For which not Rome, in all its power, could pay;
And these boy-tyrants will their slaves distress,
And do the wrongs no master can redress:
The mind they load with fear: it feels disdain
For its own baseness; yet it tries in vain

89

To shake th' admitted power;—the coward comes again:
'T is more than present pain these tyrants give,
Long as we've life some strong impressions live;
And these young ruffians in the soul will sow
Seeds of all vices that on weakness grow.
Hark! at his word the trembling younglings flee,
Where he is walking none must walk but he;
See! from the winter-fire the weak retreat,
His the warm corner, his the favourite seat,
Save when he yields it to some slave to keep
Awhile, then back, at his return, to creep:
At his command his poor dependants fly,
And humbly bribe him as a proud ally;
Flatter'd by all, the notice he bestows,
Is gross abuse, and bantering and blows;
Yet he's a dunce, and, spite of all his fame
Without the desk, within he feels his shame:
For there the weaker boy, who felt his scorn,
For him corrects the blunders of the morn;
And he is taught, unpleasant truth! to find
The trembling body has the prouder mind.
Hark! to that shout, that burst of empty noise,
From a rude set of bluff, obstreperous boys;
They who, like colts let loose, with vigour bound,
And thoughtless spirit, o'er the beaten ground;
Fearless they leap, and every youngster feels
His Alma active in his hands and heels.

90

These are the sons of farmers, and they come
With partial fondness for the joys of home;
Their minds are coursing in their fathers' fields,
And e'en the dream a lively pleasure yields;
They, much enduring, sit th' allotted hours,
And o'er a grammar waste their sprightly powers;
They dance; but them can measured steps delight,
Whom horse and hounds to daring deeds excite?
Nor could they bear to wait from meal to meal,
Did they not slyly to the chamber steal,
And there the produce of the basket seize,
The mother's gift! still studious of their ease.
Poor Alma, thus oppress'd, forbears to rise,
But rests or revels in the arms and thighs.
“But is it sure that study will repay
“The more attentive and forbearing?”—Nay!
The farm, the ship, the humble shop have each
Gains which severest studies seldom reach.

91

At College place a youth, who means to raise
His state by merit and his name by praise;
Still much he hazards; there is serious strife
In the contentions of a scholar's life:
Not all the mind's attention, care, distress,
Nor diligence itself, ensure success:
His jealous heart a rival's powers may dread,
Till its strong feelings have confused his head,
And, after days and months, nay, years of pain,
He finds just lost the object he would gain.
But grant him this and all such life can give,
For other prospects he begins to live;
Begins to feel that man was form'd to look
And long for other objects than a book:
In his mind's eye his house and glebe he sees,
And farms and talks with farmers at his ease;
And time is lost, till fortune sends him forth
To a rude world unconscious of his worth;
There in some petty parish to reside,
The college-boast, then turn'd the village guide:
And though awhile his flock and dairy please,
He soon reverts to former joys and ease,
Glad when a friend shall come to break his rest,
And speak of all the pleasures they possess'd,
Of masters, fellows, tutors, all with whom
They shared those pleasures, never more to come;

92

Till both conceive the times by bliss endear'd,
Which once so dismal and so dull appear'd.
But fix our Scholar, and suppose him crown'd
With all the glory gain'd on classic ground;
Suppose the world without a sigh resign'd,
And to his college all his care confined;
Give him all honours that such states allow,
The freshman's terror and the tradesman's bow;
Let his apartments with his taste agree,
And all his views be those he loves to see;
Let him each day behold the savoury treat,
For which he pays not, but is paid to eat;
These joys and glories soon delight no more,
Although, withheld, the mind is vex'd and sore;
The honour too is to the place confined,
Abroad they know not each superior mind:
Strangers no wranglers in these figures see,
Nor give they worship to a high degree;
Unlike the prophet's is the scholar's case,
His honour all is in his dwelling-place:
And there such honours are familiar things;
What is a monarch in a crowd of kings?
Like other sovereigns he's by forms address'd,
By statutes govern'd and with rules oppress'd.

93

When all these forms and duties die away,
And the day passes like the former day,
Then of exterior things at once bereft,
He's to himself and one attendant left;
Nay, John too goes; nor aught of service more
Remains for him; he gladly quits the door,
And, as he whistles to the college-gate,
He kindly pities his poor master's fate.
Books cannot always please, however good;
Minds are not ever craving for their food;
But sleep will soon the weary soul prepare
For cares to-morrow that were this day's care:
For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past,
And formal feasts that will for ever last.
“But then from Study will no comforts rise?”—
Yes! such as studious minds alone can prize;
Comforts, yea!—joys ineffable they find,
Who seek the prouder pleasures of the mind:
The soul, collected in those happy hours,
Then makes her efforts, then enjoys her powers;
And in those seasons feels herself repaid,
For labours past and honours long delay'd.
No! 'tis not worldly gain, although by chance
The sons of learning may to wealth advance;
Nor station high, though in some favouring hour
The sons of learning may arrive at power;

94

Nor is it glory, though the public voice
Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice:
But 'tis the mind's own feelings give the joy,
Pleasures she gathers in her own employ—
Pleasures that gain or praise cannot bestow,
Yet can dilate and raise them when they flow.
For this the Poet looks the world around,
Where form and life and reasoning man are found.
He loves the mind, in all its modes, to trace,
And all the manners of the changing race;
Silent he walks the road of life along,
And views the aims of its tumultuous throng:
He finds what shapes the Proteus-passions take,
And what strange waste of life and joy they make,
And loves to show them in their varied ways,
With honest blame or with unflattering praise:
'Tis good to know, 'tis pleasant to impart,
These turns and movements of the human heart:
The stronger features of the soul to paint,
And make distinct the latent and the faint;
Man as he is, to place in all men's view,
Yet none with rancour, none with scorn pursue:
Nor be it ever of my Portraits told—
“Here the strong lines of malice we behold.”
This let me hope, that when in public view
I bring my Pictures, men may feel them true;

95

“This is a Likeness,” may they all declare,
“And I have seen him, but I know not where:”
For I should mourn the mischief I had done,
If as the likeness all would fix on one.
Man's Vice and Crime I combat as I can,
But to his God and conscience leave the Man;
I search (a Quixote!) all the land about,
To find its Giants and Enchanters out,—
(The Giant-Folly, the Enchanter-Vice,
Whom doubtless I shall vanquish in a trice;)—
But is there man whom I would injure?—No!
I am to him a fellow, not a foe,—
A fellow-sinner, who must rather dread
The bolt, than hurl it at another's head.
No! let the guiltless, if there such be found,
Launch forth the spear, and deal the deadly wound
How can I so the cause of Virtue aid,
Who am myself attainted and afraid?
Yet as I can, I point the powers of rhyme,
And, sparing criminals, attack the crime.

97

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.]


99

THE LADIES OF THE LAKE.

WRITTEN ON VISITING NORMANSTON IN THE YEAR 1785.

Shall I, who oft have woo'd the Muse
For gentle Ladies' sake,
So fair a theme as this refuse—
The Ladies of the Lake?

100

Hail, happy pair! 't is yours to share
Life's elegance and ease;
The bliss of wealth without the care,
The will and power to please,—
To please, but not alone our eyes,
Nor yet alone our mind;
Your taste, your goodness, charm the wise—
Your manners all mankind.
The pleasant scenes that round you glow,
Like caskets fraught with gold,
Though beauteous in themselves, yet owe
Their worth to what they hold.
Trees may be found, and lakes, as fair;
Fresh lawns, and gardens green;
But where again the Sister-pair
Who animate the scene?
Where sense of that superior kind,
Without man's haughty air?
And where, without the trifling mind,
The softness of the fair?
Folly, with wealth, may idly raise
Her hopes to shine like you,
And humble flattery sound her praise,
Till she believes it true;
But wealth no more can give that grace
To souls of meaner kind,
Than summer's fiery sun can chase
Their darkness from the blind.

101

But drop, you'll say, the useless pen:
Reluctant—I obey,
Yet let me take it once again,
If not to praise, to pray
That you, with partial grace, may deign
This poor attempt to take,
And I may oft behold again
The Ladies of the Lake.

INFANCY—A FRAGMENT.

Who on the new-born light can back return,
And the first efforts of the soul discern—
Waked by some sweet maternal smile, no more
To sleep so long or fondly as before?

102

No! Memory cannot reach, with all her power,
To that new birth, that life-awakening hour.
No! all the traces of her first employ
Are keen perceptions of the senses' joy,
And their distaste—what then could they impart?—
That figs were luscious, and that rods had smart.
But, though the Memory in that dubious way
Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day,
And thus encounters, in the doubtful view,
With imperfection and distortion too;
Can she not tell us, as she looks around,
Of good and evil, which the most abound?
Alas! and what is earthly good? 't is lent
Evil to hide, to soften, to prevent,
By scenes and shows that cheat the wandering eye,
While the more pompous misery passes by;
Shifts and amusements that awhile succeed,
And heads are turn'd, that bosoms may not bleed:
For what is Pleasure, that we toil to gain?
'T is but the slow or rapid flight of Pain.
Set Pleasure by, and there would yet remain,
For every nerve and sense the sting of Pain:
Set Pain aside, and fear no more the sting,
And whence your hopes and pleasures can ye bring?
No! there is not a joy beneath the skies,
That from no grief nor trouble shall arise.
Why does the Lover with such rapture fly
To his dear mistress?—He shall show us why:—

103

Because her absence is such cause of grief
That her sweet smile alone can yield relief.
Why, then, that smile is Pleasure:—True, yet still
'T is but the absence of the former ill:
For, married, soon at will he comes and goes;
Then pleasures die, and pains become repose,
And he has none of these, and therefore none of those.
Yes! looking back as early as I can,
I see the griefs that seize their subject Man,
That in the weeping Child their early reign began:
Yes! though Pain softens, and is absent since,
He still controls me like my lawful prince.
Joys I remember, like phosphoric light
Or squibs and crackers on a gala night.
Joys are like oil; if thrown upon the tide
Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside:
Griefs are like waters on the river thrown,
They mix entirely, and become its own.
Of all the good that grew of early date,
I can but parts and incidents relate:
A guest arriving, or a borrow'd day
From school, or schoolboy triumph at some play:
And these from Pain may be deduced; for these
Removed some ill, and hence their power to please.
But it was Misery stung me in the day
Death of an infant sister made a prey;
For then first met and moved my early fears,
A father's terrors, and a mother's tears.
Though greater anguish I have since endured,—
Some heal'd in part, some never to be cured;

104

Yet was there something in that first-born ill,
So new, so strange, that memory feels it still!
That my first grief: but, oh! in after-years
Were other deaths, that call'd for other tears.
No! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint—
That patient sufferer, that enduring saint,
Holy and lovely—but all words are faint.
But here I dwell not—let me, while I can,
Go to the Child, and lose the suffering Man.
Sweet was the morning's breath, the inland tide,
And our boat gliding, where alone could glide
Small craft—and they oft touch'd on either side.
It was my first-born joy. I heard them say,
“Let the child go; he will enjoy the day.”
For children ever feel delighted when
They take their portion, and enjoy with men.
Give him the pastime that the old partake,
And he will quickly top and taw forsake.
The linnet chirp'd upon the furze as well,
To my young sense, as sings the nightingale.
Without was paradise—because within
Was a keen relish, without taint of sin.
A town appear'd,—and where an infant went,
Could they determine, on themselves intent?

105

I lost my way, and my companions me,
And all, their comforts and tranquillity.
Mid-day it was, and, as the sun declined,
The good, found early, I no more could find:
The men drank much, to whet the appetite;
And, growing heavy, drank to make them light;
Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite.
Their cheerfulness did but a moment last;
Something fell short, or something overpast.
The lads play'd idly with the helm and oar,
And nervous women would be set on shore,
Till “civil dudgeon” grew, and peace would smile no more.
Now on the colder water faintly shone
The sloping light—the cheerful day was gone;
Frown'd every cloud, and from the gather'd frown
The thunder burst, and rain came pattering down.
My torpid senses now my fears obey'd,
When the fierce lightning on the eye-balls play'd.
Now, all the freshness of the morning fled,
My spirits burden'd, and my heart was dead;
The female servants show'd a child their fear,
And men, full wearied, wanted strength to cheer;
And when, at length, the dreaded storm went past,
And there was peace and quietness at last,
'Twas not the morning's quiet—it was not
Pleasure revived, but Misery forgot:
It was not Joy that now commenced her reign,
But mere relief from wretchedness and Pain.

106

So many a day, in life's advance, I knew;
So they commenced, and so they ended too.
All Promise they—all Joy as they began!
But Joy grew less, and vanish'd as they ran!
Errors and evils came in many a form,—
The mind's delusion, and the passions' storm.
The promised joy, that like this morning rose,
Broke on my view, then clouded at its close;
E'en Love himself, that promiser of bliss,
Made his best days of pleasure end like this:
He mix'd his bitters in the cup of joy
Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy.

THE MAGNET.

Why force the backward heart on love,
That of itself the flame might feel?
When you the Magnet's power would prove,
Say, would you strike it on the Steel?
From common flints you may by force
Excite some transient sparks of fire;
And so, in natures rude and coarse,
Compulsion may provoke desire.
But when, approaching by degrees,
The Magnet to the Steel draws nigh,
At once they feel, each other seize,
And rest in mutual sympathy.

107

So must the Lover find his way
To move the heart he hopes to win—
Must not in distant forms delay—
Must not in rude assaults begin.
For such attractive power has Love,
We justly each extreme may fear:
'T is lost when we too distant prove,
And when we rashly press too near.

STORM AND CALM.

[FROM THE ALBUM OF THE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.]

At sea when threatening tempests rise,
When angry winds the waves deform,
The seaman lifts to Heaven his eyes,
And deprecates the dreaded storm.
“Ye furious powers, no more contend;
“Ye winds and seas, your conflict end;
“And on the mild subsiding deep,
“Let Fear repose and Terror sleep!”
At length the waves are hush'd in peace,
O'er flying clouds the sun prevails;
The weary winds their efforts cease,
And fill no more the flagging sails;
Fix'd to the deep the vessel rides
Obedient to the changing tides;

108

No helm she feels, no course she keeps,
But on the liquid marble sleeps.
Sick of a Calm the sailor lies,
And views the still, reflecting seas;
Or, whistling to the burning skies,
He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze:
The silent noon, the solemn night,
The same dull round of thoughts excite,
Till, tired of the revolving train,
He wishes for the Storm again.
Thus, when I felt the force of Love,
When all the passion fill'd my breast,—
When, trembling, with the storm I strove,
And pray'd, but vainly pray'd, for rest;
'T was tempest all, a dreadful strife
For ease, for joy, for more than life:
'T was every hour to groan and sigh
In grief, in fear, in jealousy.
I suffer'd much, but found at length
Composure in my wounded heart;
The mind attain'd its former strength,
And bade the lingering hopes depart;
Then Beauty smiled, and I was gay,
I view'd her as the cheerful day;
And if she frown'd, the clouded sky
Had greater terrors for mine eye.
I slept, I waked, and, morn and eve,
The noon, the night appear'd the same;

109

No thought arose the soul to grieve,
To me no thought of pleasure came;
Doom'd the dull comforts to receive
Of wearied passions still and tame.—
“Alas!” I cried, when years had flown—
“Must no awakening joy be known?
“Must never Hope's inspiring breeze
“Sweep off this dull and torpid ease—
“Must never Love's all-cheering ray
“Upon the frozen fancy play—
“Unless they seize the passive soul,
“And with resistless power control?
“Then let me all their force sustain,
“And bring me back the Storm again.”

SATIRE.

I love not the satiric Muse:
No man on earth would I abuse;
Nor with empoison'd verses grieve
The most offending son of Eve.
Leave him to law, if he have done
What injures any other son:
It hardens man to see his name
Exposed to public mirth or shame;
And rouses, as it spoils his rest,
The baser passions of his breast.

110

Attack a book—attack a song—
You will not do essential wrong;
You may their blemishes expose,
And yet not be the writer's foes.
But when the man you thus attack,
And him expose with critic art,
You put a creature to the rack—
You wring, you agonise, his heart.
No farther honest Satire can
In all her enmity proceed,
Than passing by the wicked Man,
To execrate the wicked Deed.
If so much virtue yet remain
That he would feel the sting and pain,
That virtue is a reason why
The Muse her sting should not apply:
If no such Virtue yet survive,
What is your angry Satire worth,
But to arouse the sleeping hive,
And send the raging Passions forth,
In bold, vindictive, angry flight,
To sting wherever they alight?

111

BELVOIR CASTLE.

[WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE DUCHESS DOWAGER OF RUTLAND, AND INSCRIBED IN HER ALBUM, 1812.]

When native Britons British lands possess'd,
Their glory freedom—and their blessing rest—
A powerful chief this lofty Seat survey'd,
And here his mansion's strong foundation laid:
In his own ground the massy stone he sought,
From his own woods the rugged timbers brought;
Rudeness and greatness in his work combined,—
An humble taste with an aspiring mind.
His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'erspread;
Warriors and vassals at his table fed;
Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will,
And hail'd his mansion on the mighty hill.
In a new age a Saxon Lord appear'd,
And on the lofty base his dwelling rear'd:
Then first the grand but threatening form was known,
And to the subject-vale a Castle shown,
Where strength alone appear'd,—the gloomy wall
Enclosed the dark recess, the frowning hall;
In chilling rooms the sullen fagot gleam'd;
On the rude board the common banquet steam'd;
Astonish'd peasants fear'd the dreadful skill
That placed such wonders on their favourite hill:
The soldier praised it as he march'd around,
And the dark building o'er the valley frown'd.

112

A Norman Baron, in succeeding times,
Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes,
In feudal pomp appear'd. It was his praise
A loftier dome with happier skill to raise;
His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose;
Here friends were feasted,—here confined were foes.
In distant chambers, with her female train,
Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign:
Curb'd by no laws, his vassal-tribe he sway'd,—
The Lord commanded, and the slave obey'd:
No soft'ning arts in those fierce times were found,
But rival Barons spread their terrors round;
Each, in the fortress of his power, secure,
Of foes was fearless, and of soldiers sure;
And here the chieftain, for his prowess praised,
Long held the Castle that his might had raised.
Came gentler times:—the Barons ceased to strive
With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive;
Impell'd by softening arts, by honour charm'd,
Fair ladies studied and brave heroes arm'd.
The Lord of Belvoir then his Castle view'd,
Strong without form, and dignified but rude;
The dark long passage, and the chambers small,
Recess and secret hold, he banish'd all,
Took the rude gloom and terror from the place,
And bade it shine with majesty and grace.
Then arras first o'er rugged walls appear'd,
Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheer'd;

113

In each superior room were polish'd floors,
Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors:
All was improved within, and then below
Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow;
The silver flagon on the table stood,
And to the vassal left the horn and wood.
Dress'd in his liveries, of his honours vain,
Came at the Baron's call a menial train;
Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight;
Loud in the feast, and fearless in the fight.
Then every eye the stately fabric drew
To every part; for all were fair to view:
The powerful chief the far-famed work descried,
And heard the public voice that waked his pride.
Pleased he began—“About, above, below,
“What more can wealth command, or science show?
“Here taste and grandeur join with massy strength;
“Slow comes perfection, but it comes at length.
“Still must I grieve: these halls and towers sublime,
“Like vulgar domes, must feel the force of time;
“And, when decay'd, can future days repair
“What I in these have made so strong and fair?
“My future heirs shall want of power deplore,
“When Time destroys what Time can not restore.”
Sad in his glory, serious in his pride,
At once the chief exulted and he sigh'd;
Dreaming he sigh'd, and still, in sleep profound,
His thoughts were fix'd within the favourite bound;
When lo! another Castle rose in view,
That in an instant all his pride o'erthrew.

114

In that he saw what massy strength bestows,
And what from grace and lighter beauty flows,
Yet all harmonious; what was light and free,
Robb'd not the weightier parts of dignity—
Nor what was ponderous hid the work of grace,
But all were just, and all in proper place:
Terrace on terrace rose, and there was seen
Adorn'd with flowery knolls the sloping green,
Bounded by balmy shrubs from climes unknown,
And all the nobler trees that grace our own.
Above, he saw a giant-tower ascend,
That seem'd the neighbouring beauty to defend
Of some light graceful dome,—“And this,” he cried,
“Awakes my pleasure, though it wounds my pride.”
He saw apartments where appear'd to rise
What seem'd as men, and fix'd on him their eyes,—
Pictures that spoke; and there were mirrors tall,
Doubling each wonder by reflecting all.
He saw the genial board, the massy plate,
Grace unaffected, unencumber'd state;
And something reach'd him of the social arts,
That soften manners, and that conquer hearts.
Wrapt in amazement, as he gazed he saw
A form of heav'nly kind, and bow'd in awe:
The spirit view'd him with benignant grace,
And styled himself the Genius of the Place.
“Gaze, and be glad!” he cried, “for this, indeed,
“Is the fair Seat that shall to thine succeed,

115

“When these famed kingdoms shall as sisters be,
“And one great sovereign rule the powerful three:
“Then yon rich Vale, far stretching to the west,
“Beyond thy bound, shall be by one possess'd:
“Then shall true grace and dignity accord—
“With splendour, ease—the Castle with its Lord.”
The Baron waked,—“It was,” he cried, “a view
“Lively as truth, and I will think it true:
“Some gentle spirit to my mind has brought
“Forms of fair works to be hereafter wrought;
“But yet of mine a part will then remain,
“Nor will that Lord its humbler worth disdain;
“Mix'd with his mightier pile shall mine be found,
“By him protected, and with his renown'd;
“He who its full destruction could command,
“A part shall save from the destroying hand,
“And say, ‘It long has stood,—still honour'd let it stand.’”

116

THE WORLD OF DREAMS.

I

And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep?
Thy senses, thy affections, fled?
No play of fancy thine, to keep
Oblivion from that grave, thy bed?
Then art thou but the breathing dead:
I envy, but I pity too:
The bravest may my terrors dread,
The happiest fain my joys pursue.

II

Soon as the real World I lose,
Quick Fancy takes her wonted way,
Or Baxter's sprites my soul abuse—
For how it is I cannot say,
Nor to what powers a passive prey,
I feel such bliss, I fear such pain;
But all is gloom, or all is gay,
Soon as th' ideal World I gain.

117

III

Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep!
Vain troubles of the world, farewell!
Spirits of Ill! your distance keep—
And in your own dominions dwell,
Ye, the sad emigrants from hell!
Watch, dear seraphic beings, round,
And these black Enemies repel;
Safe be my soul, my slumbers sound!

IV

In vain I pray! It is my sin
That thus admits the shadowy throng.
Oh! now they break tumultuous in—
Angels of darkness fierce and strong.
Oh! I am borne of fate along;
My soul, subdued, admits the foe,
Perceives and yet endures the wrong,
Resists, and yet prepares to go.

V

Where am I now? and what to meet?
Where I have been entrapt before:
The wicked city's vilest street,—
I know what I must now explore.
The dark-brow'd throng more near and more,
With murderous looks are on me thrust,
And lo! they ope the accursed door,
And I must go—I know I must!

118

VI

That female fiend!—Why is she there?
Alas! I know her.—Oh, begone!
Why is that tainted bosom bare,
Why fix'd on me that eye of stone?
Why have they left us thus alone?
I saw the deed—why then appear?
Thou art not form'd of blood and bone!
Come not, dread being, come not near!

VII

So! all is quiet, calm, serene;
I walk a noble mansion round—
From room to room, from scene to scene,
I breathless pass, in gloom profound:
No human shape, no mortal sound—
I feel an awe, I own a dread,
And still proceed!—nor stop nor bound—
And all is silent, all is dead.

VIII

Now I'm hurried, borne along,
All is business! all alive!
Heavens! how mighty is the throng,
Voices humming like a hive!
Through the swelling crowd I strive,
Bustling forth my way to trace:
Never fated to arrive
At the still-expected place.

119

IX

Ah me! how sweet the morning sun
Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine!
How soft those far-off rivers run—
Those trees their leafy heads decline!
Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine,
Their health-imparting influence give:
Now, all that earth allows is mine—
Now, now I dream not, but I live.

X

My friend, my brother, lost in youth,
I meet in doubtful, glad surprise,
In conscious love, in fearless truth:
What pleasures in the meeting rise!
Ah! brief enjoyment!—Pleasure dies
E'en in its birth, and turns to pain:
He meets me with hard glazed eyes!
He quits me—spurns me—with disdain.

XI

I sail the sea, I walk the land;
In all the world am I alone:
Silent I pace the sea-worn sand,
Silent I view the princely throne;
I listen heartless for the tone
Of winds and waters, but in vain;
Creation dies without a groan!
And I without a hope remain!

120

XII

Unnumber'd riches I behold,
Glories untasted I survey:
My heart is sick, my bosom cold,
Friends! neighbours! kindred! where are they?
In the sad, last, long, endless day!
When I can neither pray nor weep,
Doom'd o'er the sleeping world to stray,
And not to die, and not to sleep.

XIII

Beside the summer sea I stand,
Where the slow billows swelling shine:
How beautiful this pearly sand,
That waves, and winds, and years refine:
Be this delicious quiet mine!
The joy of youth! so sweet before,
When I could thus my frame recline,
And watch th' entangled weeds ashore.

XIV

Yet, I remember not that sea,
That other shore on yonder side:
Between them narrow bound must be,
If equal rise the' opposing tide—
Lo! lo! they rise—and I abide
The peril of the meeting flood:
Away, away, my footsteps slide—
I pant upon the clinging mud!

121

XV

Oh let me now possession take
Of this—it cannot be a dream.
Yes! now the soul must be awake—
These pleasures are—they do not seem.
And is it true? Oh joy extreme!
All whom I loved, and thought them dead,
Far down in Lethe's flowing stream,
And, with them, life's best pleasures fled:

XVI

Yes, many a tear for them I shed—
Tears that relieve the anxious breast;
And now, by heavenly favour led,
We meet—and One, the fairest, best,
Among them—ever-welcome guest!
Within the room, that seem'd destroy'd—
This room endear'd, and still possess'd,
By this dear party still enjoy'd.

XVII

Speak to me! speak! that I may know
I am thus happy!—dearest, speak!
Those smiles that haunt fond memory show!
Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak;
But yet 'tis joy—And all I seek
Is mine! What glorious day is this!
Now let me bear with spirit meek
An hour of pure and perfect bliss.

122

XVIII

But do ye look indeed as friends?
Is there no change? Are not ye cold?
Oh! I do dread that Fortune lends
Fictitious good!—that I behold,
To lose, these treasures, which of old
Were all my glory, all my pride:
May not these arms that form infold?
Is all affection asks denied?

XIX

Say, what is this?—How are we tried,
In this sad world!—I know not these—
All strangers, none to me allied—
Those aspects blood and spirit freeze:
Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare;
And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm,
Resume thy wonted looks and air,
And break this melancholy charm.

XX

And are they vanish'd? Is she lost?
Shall never day that form restore?
Oh! I am all by fears engross'd;
Sad truth has broken in once more,
And I the brief delight deplore:
How durst they such resemblance take?
Heavens! with what grace the mask they wore!
Oh, from what visions I awake!

123

XXI

Once more, once more upon the shore!
Now back the rolling ocean flows:
The rocky bed now far before
On the receding water grows—
The treasures and the wealth it owes
To human misery—all in view;
Fate all on me at once bestows,
From thousands robb'd and murder'd too.

XXII

But, lo! whatever I can find
Grows mean and worthless as I view:
They promise, but they cheat the mind,
As promises are born to do:
How lovely every form and hue,
Till seized and master'd—Then arise,
For all that admiration drew,
All that our senses can despise!

XXIII

Within the basis of a tower,
I saw a plant—it graced the spot;
There was within nor wind nor shower,
And this had life that flowers have not.
I drew it forth—Ah, luckless lot!
It was the mandrake; and the sound
Of anguish deeply smother'd shot
Into my breast with pang profound.

124

XXIV

“I would I were a soaring bird,”
Said Folly, “and I then would fly:”
Some mocking Muse or Fairy heard—
“You can but fall—suppose you try?
And though you may not mount the sky,
You will not grovel in the mire.”
Hail, words of comfort! Now can I
Spurn earth, and to the air aspire.

XXV

And this, before, might I have done
If I had courage—that is all:
'T is easier now to soar than run;
Up! up!—we neither tire nor fall.
Children of dust, be yours to crawl
On the vile earth!—while, happier, I
Must listen to an inward call,
That bids me mount, that makes me fly.

XXVI

I tumble from the loftiest tower,
Yet evil have I never found;
Supported by some favouring power,
I come in safety to the ground.
I rest upon the sea, the sound
Of many waters in mine ear,
Yet have no dread of being drown'd,
But see my way, and cease to fear.

125

XXVII

Awake, there is no living man
Who may my fixed spirit shake;
But, sleeping, there is one who can,
And oft does he the trial make:
Against his might resolves I take,
And him oppose with high disdain;
But quickly all my powers forsake
My mind, and I resume my chain.

XXVIII

I know not how, but I am brought
Into a large and Gothic hall,
Seated with those I never sought—
Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers,—silent all;
Pale as the dead; enrobed and tall,
Majestic, frozen, solemn, still;
They wake my fears, my wits appal,
And with both scorn and terror fill.

XXIX

Now are they seated at a board
In that cold grandeur—I am there.
But what can mummied kings afford?
This is their meagre ghostly fare,
And proves what fleshless things they stare!
Yes! I am seated with the dead:
How great, and yet how mean they are
Yes! I can scorn them while I dread.

126

XXX

They're gone!—and in their room I see
A fairy being, form and dress
Brilliant as light; nor can there be
On earth that heavenly loveliness;
Nor words can that sweet look express,
Or tell what living gems adorn
That wond'rous beauty: who can guess
Where such celestial charms were born?

XXXI

Yet, as I wonder and admire,
The grace is gone, the glory dead;
And now it is but mean attire
Upon a shrivel'd beldame spread,
Laid loathsome on a pauper's bed,
Where wretchedness and woe are found,
And the faint putrid odour shed
By all that's foul and base around!

XXXII

A garden this? oh! lovely breeze!
Oh! flowers that with such freshness bloom!—
Flowers shall I call such forms as these,
Or this delicious air perfume?
Oh! this from better worlds must come;
On earth such beauty who can meet?
No! this is not the native home
Of things so pure, so bright, so sweet!

127

XXXIII

Where? where?—am I reduced to this—
Thus sunk in poverty extreme?
Can I not these vile things dismiss?
No! they are things that more than seem:
This room with that cross-parting beam
Holds yonder squalid tribe and me—
But they were ever thus, nor dream
Of being wealthy, favour'd, free!—

XXXIV

Shall I a coat and badge receive,
And sit among these crippled men,
And not go forth without the leave
Of him—and ask it humbly then—
Who reigns in this infernal den—
Where all beside in woe repine?
Yes, yes, I must: nor tongue nor pen
Can paint such misery as mine!

XXXV

Wretches! if ye were only poor,
You would my sympathy engage;
Or were ye vicious, and no more,
I might be fill'd with manly rage;
Or had ye patience, wise and sage
We might such worthy sufferers call:
But ye are birds that suit your cage—
Poor, vile, impatient, worthless all!

128

XXXVI

How came I hither? Oh, that Hag!
'T is she the enchanting spell prepares;
By cruel witchcraft she can drag
My struggling being in her snares:
Oh, how triumphantly she glares!
But yet would leave me, could I make
Strong effort to subdue my cares.—
'T is made!—and I to Freedom wake!

129

TALES.


131

TO HER GRACE ISABELLA, DUCHESS DOWAGER OF RUTLAND.

153

TALE I. THE DUMB ORATORS;

OR, THE BENEFIT OF SOCIETY.

With fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe ------
Full of wise saws and modern instances.
—As You Like It.

Deep shame hath struck me dumb.
—King John.

He gives the bastinado with his tongue;
Our ears are cudgell'd.
—King John.

------ Let's kill all the lawyers;
Now show yourselves men: 'tis for liberty:
We will not leave one lord or gentleman.
—2 Henry VI.

And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
Twelfth Night.


155

That all men would be cowards if they dare,
Some men we know have courage to declare;
And this the life of many a hero shows,
That, like the tide, man's courage ebbs and flows:
With friends and gay companions round them, then
Men boldly speak and have the hearts of men;
Who, with opponents seated, miss the aid
Of kind applauding looks, and grow afraid;
Like timid trav'llers in the night, they fear
Th' assault of foes, when not a friend is near.
In contest mighty, and of conquest proud,
Was Justice Bolt, impetuous, warm, and loud;
His fame, his prowess all the country knew,
And disputants, with one so fierce, were few:
He was a younger son, for law design'd,
With dauntless look and persevering mind;
While yet a clerk, for disputation famed,
No efforts tired him, and no conflicts tamed.
Scarcely he bade his master's desk adieu,
When both his brothers from the world withdrew.

156

An ample fortune he from them possess'd,
And was with saving care and prudence bless'd.
Now would he go and to the country give
Example how an English 'squire should live;
How bounteous, yet how frugal man may be,
By a well-order'd hospitality;
He would the rights of all so well maintain,
That none should idle be, and none complain.
All this and more he purposed—and what man
Could do, he did to realise his plan:
But time convinced him that we cannot keep
A breed of reasoners like a flock of sheep;
For they, so far from following as we lead,
Make that a cause why they will not proceed.
Man will not follow where a rule is shown,
But loves to take a method of his own:
Explain the way with all your care and skill,
This will he quit, if but to prove he will.—
Yet had our Justice honour—and the crowd,
Awed by his presence, their respect avow'd.
In later years he found his heart incline,
More than in youth, to gen'rous food and wine;
But no indulgence check'd the powerful love
He felt to teach, to argue, and reprove.
Meetings, or public calls, he never miss'd—
To dictate often, always to assist.
Oft he the clergy join'd, and not a cause
Pertain'd to them but he could quote the laws;

157

He upon tithes and residence display'd
A fund of knowledge for the hearer's aid;
And could on glebe and farming, wool and grain,
A long discourse, without a pause, maintain.
To his experience and his native sense
He join'd a bold imperious eloquence;
The grave, stern look of men inform'd and wise,
A full command of feature, heart, and eyes,
An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size.
When at the table, not a guest was seen
With appetite so lingering, or so keen;
But when the outer man no more required,
The inner waked, and he was man inspired.
His subjects then were those, a subject true
Presents in fairest form to public view;
Of church and state, of law, with mighty strength
Of words he spoke, in speech of mighty length:
And now, into the vale of years declined,
He hides too little of the monarch-mind:
He kindles anger by untimely jokes,
And opposition by contempt provokes;
Mirth he suppresses by his awful frown,
And humble spirits, by disdain, keeps down;
Blamed by the mild, approved by the severe,
The prudent fly him, and the valiant fear.
For overbearing is his proud discourse,
And overwhelming of his voice the force;
And overpowering is he when he shows
What floats upon a mind that always overflows.

158

This ready man at every meeting rose,
Something to hint, determine, or propose;
And grew so fond of teaching, that he taught
Those who instruction needed not or sought:
Happy our hero, when he could excite
Some thoughtless talker to the wordy fight:
Let him a subject at his pleasure choose,
Physic or law, religion or the muse;
On all such themes he was prepared to shine,—
Physician, poet, lawyer, and divine.
Hemm'd in by some tough argument, borne down
By press of language and the awful frown,
In vain for mercy shall the culprit plead;
His crime is past, and sentence must proceed:
Ah! suffering man, have patience, bear thy woes—
For lo! the clock—at ten the Justice goes.
This powerful man, on business, or to please
A curious taste, or weary grown of ease,
On a long journey travell'd many a mile
Westward, and halted midway in our isle;
Content to view a city large and fair,
Though none had notice—what a man was there!
Silent two days, he then began to long
Again to try a voice so loud and strong;
To give his favourite topics some new grace,
And gain some glory in such distant place;
To reap some present pleasure, and to sow
Seeds of fair fame, in after-time to grow:
Here will men say, “We heard, at such an hour,
‘The best of speakers—wonderful his power.”

159

Inquiry made, he found that day would meet
A learned club, and in the very street:
Knowledge to gain and give, was the design;
To speak, to hearken, to debate, and dine:
This pleased our traveller, for he felt his force
In either way, to eat or to discourse.
Nothing more easy than to gain access
To men like these, with his polite address:
So he succeeded, and first look'd around,
To view his objects and to take his ground;
And therefore silent chose awhile to sit,
Then enter boldly by some lucky hit;
Some observation keen or stroke severe,
To cause some wonder or excite some fear.
Now, dinner past, no longer he supprest
His strong dislike to be a silent guest;
Subjects and words were now at his command—
When disappointment frown'd on all he plann'd;
For, hark!—he heard amazed, on every side,
His church insulted and her priests belied;
The laws reviled, the ruling power abused,
The land derided, and its foes excused:—
He heard and ponder'd—What, to men so vile,
Should be his language?—For his threat'ning style
They were too many;—if his speech were meek,
They would despise such poor attempts to speak:
At other times with every word at will,
He now sat lost, perplex'd, astonish'd, still.

160

Here were Socinians, Deists, and indeed
All who, as foes to England's church, agreed;
But still with creeds unlike, and some without a creed:
Here, too, fierce friends of liberty he saw,
Who own'd no prince and who obey no law;
There were reformers of each different sort,
Foes to the laws, the priesthood, and the court;
Some on their favourite plans alone intent,
Some purely angry and malevolent:
The rash were proud to blame their country's laws;
The vain, to seem supporters of a cause;
One call'd for change, that he would dread to see;
Another sigh'd for Gallic liberty!
And numbers joining with the forward crew,
For no one reason—but that numbers do.
“How,” said the Justice, “can this trouble rise,
“This shame and pain, from creatures I despise?”
And Conscience answer'd—“The prevailing cause
“Is thy delight in listening to applause;
“Here, thou art seated with a tribe, who spurn
“Thy favourite themes, and into laughter turn
“Thy fears and wishes: silent and obscure,
“Thyself, shalt thou the long harangue endure;
“And learn, by feeling, what it is to force
“On thy unwilling friends the long discourse:
“What though thy thoughts be just, and these, it seems,
“Are traitors' projects, idiots' empty schemes;
“Yet minds, like bodies, cramm'd, reject their food,
“Nor will be forced and tortured for their good!”

161

At length, a sharp, shrewd, sallow man arose,
And begg'd he briefly might his mind disclose;
“It was his duty, in these worst of times,
“T' inform the govern'd of their rulers' crimes:”
This pleasant subject to attend, they each
Prepared to listen, and forbore to teach.
Then voluble and fierce the wordy man
Through a long chain of favourite horrors ran:—
First, of the Church, from whose enslaving power,
He was deliver'd, and he bless'd the hour;
“Bishops and deans, and prebendaries all,”
He said, “were cattle fatt'ning in the stall;
“Slothful and pursy, insolent and mean,
“Were every bishop, prebendary, dean,
“And wealthy rector: curates, poorly paid,
“Were only dull;—he would not them upbraid.”
From priests he turn'd to canons, creeds, and prayers,
Rubrics and rules, and all our Church affairs;
Churches themselves, desk, pulpit, altar, all
The Justice reverenced—and pronounced their fall.
Then from religion Hammond turn'd his view
To give our Rulers the correction due;
Not one wise action had these triflers plann'd;
There was, it seem'd, no wisdom in the land;
Save in this patriot tribe, who meet at times
To show the statesman's errors and his crimes.

162

Now here was Justice Bolt compell'd to sit,
To hear the deist's scorn, the rebel's wit;
The fact mis-stated, the envenom'd lie,
And, staring spell-bound, made not one reply.
Then were our Laws abused—and with the laws,
All who prepare, defend, or judge a cause:
“We have no lawyer whom a man can trust,”
Proceeded Hammond—“if the laws were just;
“But they are evil; 't is the savage state
“Is only good, and ours sophisticate!
“See! the free creatures in their woods and plains,
“Where without laws each happy monarch reigns,
“King of himself—while we a number dread,
“By slaves commanded and by dunces led:
“Oh, let the name with either state agree—
“Savage our own we'll name, and civil theirs shall be.”
The silent Justice still astonish'd sate,
And wonder'd much whom he was gazing at;
Twice he essay'd to speak—but in a cough,
The faint, indignant, dying speech went off:
“But who is this?” thought he—“a demon vile,
“With wicked meaning and a vulgar style:
“Hammond they call him: they can give the name
“Of man to devils.—Why am I so tame?
“Why crush I not the viper?”—Fear replied,
“Watch him awhile, and let his strength be tried;
“He will be foil'd, if man; but if his aid
“Be from beneath, 'tis well to be afraid.”

163

“We are call'd free!” said Hammond—“doleful times,
“When rulers add their insult to their crimes;
“For should our scorn expose each powerful vice,
“It would be libel, and we pay the price.”
Thus with licentious words the man went on,
Proving that liberty of speech was gone;
That all were slaves—nor had we better chance
For better times, than as allies to France.
Loud groan'd the Stranger—Why, he must relate,
And own'd, “In sorrow for his country's fate;”
“Nay, she were safe,” the ready man replied,
“Might patriots rule her, and could reasoners guide;
“When all to vote, to speak, to teach, are free,
“Whate'er their creeds or their opinions be;
“When books of statutes are consumed in flames,
“And courts and copyholds are empty names:
“Then will be times of joy—but ere they come,
“Havock, and war, and blood must be our doom.”
The man here paused—then loudly for Reform
He call'd, and hail'd the prospect of the storm;
The wholesome blast, the fertilising flood—
Peace gain'd by tumult, plenty bought with blood:
Sharp means, he own'd; but when the land's disease
Asks cure complete, no med'cines are like these.
Our Justice now, more led by fear than rage,
Saw it in vain with madness to engage;

164

With imps of darkness no man seeks to fight,
Knaves to instruct, or set deceivers right:
Then as the daring speech denounced these woes,
Sick at the soul, the grieving Guest arose;
Quick on the board his ready cash he threw,
And from the demons to his closet flew:
There when secured, he pray'd with earnest zeal,
That all they wish'd, these patriot-souls might feel;
“Let them to France, their darling country, haste
“And all the comforts of a Frenchman taste;
“Let them his safety, freedom, pleasure know,
“Feel all their rulers on the land bestow;
“And be at length dismiss'd by one unerring blow,—
“Not hack'd and hew'd by one afraid to strike,
“But shorn by that which shears all men alike;
“Nor, as in Britain, let them curse delay
“Of law, but borne without a form away—
“Suspected, tried, condemn'd, and carted in a day;
“Oh! let them taste what they so much approve,
“These strong fierce freedoms of the land they love.”
Home came our hero, to forget no more
The fear he felt and ever must deplore:
For though he quickly join'd his friends again,
And could with decent force his themes maintain,

165

Still it occurr'd that, in a luckless time,
He fail'd to fight with heresy and crime;
It was observed his words were not so strong,
His tones so powerful, his harangues so long,
As in old times—for he would often drop
The lofty look, and of a sudden stop;
When conscience whisper'd, that he once was still,
And let the wicked triumph at their will;
And therefore now, when not a foe was near,
He had no right so valiant to appear.
Some years had pass'd, and he perceived his fears
Yield to the spirit of his earlier years—
When at a meeting, with his friends beside,
He saw an object that awaked his pride;
His shame, wrath, vengeance, indignation—all
Man's harsher feelings did that sight recall.
For, lo! beneath him fix'd, our Man of Law
That lawless man the Foe of Order saw;
Once fear'd, now scorn'd; once dreaded, now abhorr'd;
A wordy man, and evil every word:
Again he gazed—“It is,” said he “the same;
“Caught and secure: his master owes him shame:”
So thought our hero, who each instant found
His courage rising, from the numbers round.
As when a felon has escaped and fled,
So long, that law conceives the culprit dead;
And back recall'd her myrmidons, intent
On some new game, and with a stronger scent;

166

Till she beholds him in a place, where none
Could have conceived the culprit would have gone;
There he sits upright in his seat, secure,
As one whose conscience is correct and pure;
This rouses anger for the old offence,
And scorn for all such seeming and pretence:
So on this Hammond look'd our hero bold,
Rememb'ring well that vile offence of old;
And now he saw the rebel dared t' intrude
Among the pure, the loyal, and the good;
The crime provoked his wrath, the folly stirr'd his blood:
Nor wonder was it, if so strange a sight
Caused joy with vengeance, terror with delight;
Terror like this a tiger might create,
A joy like that to see his captive state,
At once to know his force and then decree his fate.
Hammond, much praised by numerous friends, was come
To read his lectures, so admired at home;
Historic lectures, where he loved to mix
His free plain hints on modern politics:
Here, he had heard, that numbers had design,
Their business finish'd, to sit down and dine;
This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right
To show by day that he could speak at night.
Rash the design—for he perceived, too late,
Not one approving friend beside him sate;
The greater number, whom he traced around,
Were men in black, and he conceived they frown'd.

167

“I will not speak,” he thought; “no pearls of mine
“Shall be presented to this herd of swine;”
Not this avail'd him, when he cast his eye
On Justice Bolt; he could not fight, nor fly:
He saw a man to whom he gave the pain,
Which now he felt must be return'd again;
His conscience told him with what keen delight
He, at that time, enjoy'd a stranger's fright;
That stranger now befriended—he alone,
For all his insult, friendless, to atone;
Now he could feel it cruel that a heart
Should be distress'd, and none to take its part;
“Though one by one,” said Pride, “I would defy
“Much greater men, yet meeting every eye,
“I do confess a fear—but he will pass me by”
Vain hope! the Justice saw the foe's distress,
With exultation he could not suppress;
He felt the fish was hook'd—and so forbore,
In playful spite, to draw it to the shore.
Hammond look'd round again; but none were near,
With friendly smile to still his growing fear;
But all above him seem'd a solemn row
Of priests and deacons, so they seem'd below;
He wonder'd who his right-hand man might be—
Vicar of Holt cum Uppingham was he;
And who the man of that dark frown possess'd—
Rector of Bradley and of Barton-west;
“A pluralist,” he growl'd—but check'd the word,
That warfare might not, by his zeal, be stirr'd.

168

But now began the man above to show
Fierce looks and threat'nings to the man below;
Who had some thoughts his peace by flight to seek—
But how then lecture, if he dared not speak!—
Now as the Justice for the war prepared,
He seem'd just then to question if he dared:
“He may resist, although his power be small,
“And growing desperate may defy us all;
“One dog attack, and he prepares for flight—
“Resist another, and he strives to bite;
“Nor can I say, if this rebellious cur
“Will fly for safety, or will scorn to stir.”
Alarm'd by this, he lash'd his soul to rage,
Burn'd with strong shame, and hurried to engage.
As a male turkey straggling on the green,
When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen,
He feels the insult of the noisy train
And sculks aside, though moved by much disdain;
But when that turkey at his own barn-door,
Sees one poor straying puppy and no more,
(A foolish puppy who had left the pack,
Thoughtless what foe was threat'ning at his back,)
He moves about, as ship prepared to sail,
He hoists his proud rotundity of tail,
The half-seal'd eyes and changeful neck he shows.
Where, in its quick'ning colours, vengeance glows;
From red to blue the pendent wattles turn,
Blue mix'd with red, as matches when they burn;
And thus th' intruding snarler to oppose,
Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes.

169

So look'd our hero in his wrath, his cheeks
Flush'd with fresh fires and glow'd in tingling streaks,
His breath by passion's force awhile restrain'd,
Like a stopp'd current greater force regain'd;
So spoke, so look'd he, every eye and ear
Were fix'd to view him, or were turn'd to hear.
“My friends, you know me, you can witness all,
“How, urged by passion, I restrain my gall;
“And every motive to revenge withstand—
“Save when I hear abused my native land.
“Is it not known, agreed, confirm'd, confess'd,
“That, of all people, we are govern'd best?
“We have the force of monarchies; are free,
“As the most proud republicans can be;
“And have those prudent counsels that arise
“In grave and cautious aristocracies;
“And live there those, in such all-glorious state,
“Traitors protected in the land they hate?
“Rebels, still warring with the laws that give
“To them subsistence?—Yes, such wretches live.
“Ours is a Church reform'd, and now no more
“Is aught for man to mend or to restore;
“'T is pure in doctrines, 't is correct in creeds,
“Has nought redundant, and it nothing needs;
“No evil is therein—no wrinkle, spot,
“Stain, blame, or blemish:—I affirm there's not.
“All this you know—now mark what once befell,
“With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell:

170

“I was entrapp'd—yes, so it came to pass,
“'Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class;
“Each to his country bore a hellish mind,
“Each like his neighbour was of cursed kind;
“The land that nursed them, they blasphemed; the laws,
“Their sovereign's glory, and their country's cause;
“And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and who
“Rebellion's oracle?—You, caitiff, you!”
He spoke, and standing stretch'd his mighty arm
And fix'd the Man of Words, as by a charm.
“How raved that railer! Sure some hellish power
“Restrain'd my tongue in that delirious hour,
“Or I had hurl'd the shame and vengeance due
“On him, the guide of that infuriate crew;
‘But to mine eyes, such dreadful looks appear'd,
“Such mingled yell of lying words I heard,
“That I conceived around were demons all,
“And till I fled the house, I fear'd its fall.
“Oh! could our country from our coasts expel
“Such foes! to nourish those who wish her well:
“This her mild laws forbid, but we may still
“From us eject them by our sovereign will;
“This let us do.”—He said, and then began
A gentler feeling for the silent man;
Ev'n in our hero's mighty soul arose
A touch of pity for experienced woes;
But this was transient, and with angry eye
He sternly look'd, and paused for a reply.

171

'T was then the Man of many Words would speak—
But, in his trial, had them all to seek:
To find a friend he look'd the circle round,
But joy or scorn in every feature found;
He sipp'd his wine, but in those times of dread
Wine only adds confusion to the head;
In doubt he reason'd with himself—“And how
“Harangue at night, if I be silent now?”
From pride and praise received, he sought to draw
Courage to speak, but still remain'd the awe;
One moment rose he with a forced disdain,
And then, abash'd, sunk sadly down again;
While in our hero's glance he seem'd to read,
“Slave and insurgent! what hast thou to plead?”—
By desperation urged, he now began:
“I seek no favour—I—the rights of man!
“Claim; and I—nay!—but give me leave—and I
“Insist—a man—that is—and in reply,
“I speak.”—Alas! each new attempt was vain:
Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again;
At length he growl'd defiance, sought the door,
Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more.
“Laud we,” said Justice Bolt, “the Powers above;
“Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove.”
Exulting now he gain'd new strength of fame,
And lost all feelings of defeat and shame.
“He dared not strive, you witness'd—dared not lift
“His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift:

172

“So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose
“Our Church or State—thus be it to our foes.”
He spoke, and, seated with his former air,
Look'd his full self, and fill'd his ample chair;
Took one full bumper to each favourite cause,
And dwelt all night on politics and laws,
With high applauding voice, that gain'd him high applause.

173

TALE II. THE PARTING HOUR.

------ I did not take my leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him
How I would think of him, at certain hours,
Such thoughts and such;—or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words—comes in my father.
—Cymbeline.

Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,
And careful hours with Time's deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures o'er my face.
—Comedy of Errors.

Oh! if thou be the same Egean, speak,
And speak unto the same Emilia.
—Comedy of Errors.

I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days
To the very moment that she bad me tell it,
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery.
—Othello.

An old man, broken with the storms of fate,
Is come to lay his weary bones among you;
Give him a little earth for charity.
—Henry VIII.


175

Minutely trace man's life; year after year,
Through all his days let all his deeds appear,
And then, though some may in that life be strange,
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change:
The links that bind those various deeds are seen,
And no mysterious void is left between.
But let these binding links be all destroy'd,
All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd:

176

Let that vast gap be made, and then behold—
This was the youth, and he is thus when old;
Then we at once the work of time survey,
And in an instant see a life's decay;
Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise,
And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.
Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair—
A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,
Watching his looks with kind and pensive air;
Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the name
Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same;
Yet so allied are they, that few can feel
Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal;
Their years and woes, although they long have loved
Keep their good name and conduct unreproved;
Thus life's small comforts they together share,
And while life lingers for the grave prepare.
No other subjects on their spirits press,
Nor gain such int'rest as the past distress;
Grievous events, that from the mem'ry drive
Life's common cares, and those alone survive,
Mix with each thought, in every action share,
Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.
To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,
Allen his name, was more than common joy;
And as the child grew up, there seem'd in him,
A more than common life in every limb;
A strong and handsome stripling he became,
And the gay spirit answer'd to the frame;

177

A lighter, happier lad was never seen,
For ever easy, cheerful, or serene;
His early love he fix'd upon a fair
And gentle maid—they were a handsome pair.
They at an infant-school together play'd,
Where the foundation of their love was laid:
The boyish champion would his choice attend
In every sport, in every fray defend.
As prospects open'd, and as life advanced,
They walk'd together, they together danced;
On all occasions, from their early years,
They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;
Each heart was anxious, till it could impart
Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;
As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars
Broke out between them; jealousies and jars;
Causeless indeed, and follow'd by a peace,
That gave to love—growth, vigour, and increase.
Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,
Domestic thoughts young Allen's hours employ'd
Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,
Rather intent the matron's part to learn;
Thus early prudent and sedate they grew,
While lovers, thoughtful—and though children, true.
To either parents not a day appear'd,
When with this love they might have interfered
Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;
And strong at last, they saw restriction vain;
Nor knew they when that passion to reprove
Now idle fondness, now resistless love.

178

So while the waters rise, the children tread
On the broad estuary's sandy bed;
But soon the channel fills, from side to side
Comes danger rolling with the deep'ning tide;
Yet none who saw the rapid current flow
Could the first instant of that danger know.
The lovers waited till the time should come
When they together could possess a home:
In either house were men and maids unwed,
Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.
Then Allen's mother of his favourite maid
Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid:
“Dress and amusements were her sole employ,”
She said—“entangling her deluded boy;”
And yet, in truth, a mother's jealous love
Had much imagined and could little prove;
Judith had beauty—and if vain, was kind,
Discreet and mild, and had a serious mind.
Dull was their prospect—when the lovers met,
They said, “We must not—dare not venture yet.”
“Oh! could I labour for thee,” Allen cried,
“Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied?
“On my own arm I could depend, but they
“Still urge obedience—must I yet obey?”
Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg'd delay.
At length a prospect came that seem'd to smile,
And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle;
A kinsman there a widow's hand had gain'd,
“Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain'd;

179

“Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,
“And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.”
The elder brothers, who were not in love,
Fear'd the false seas, unwilling to remove;
But the young Allen, an enamour'd boy,
Eager an independence to enjoy,
Would through all perils seek it,—by the sea,—
Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.
The faithful Judith his design approved,
For both were sanguine, they were young, and loved.
The mother's slow consent was then obtain'd;
The time arrived, to part alone remain'd:
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor'd in the bay.
From her would seamen in the evening come,
To take th' adventurous Allen from his home;
With his own friends the final day he pass'd,
And every painful hour, except the last.
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass;
Intent the mother look'd upon her son,
And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed undone;
The younger sister, as he took his way,
Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay:
But his own Judith call'd him to the shore,
Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more;—
And there he found her—faithful, mournful, true,
Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu!
The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there
Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair:
Sweet were the painful moments—but, how sweet,
And without pain, when they again should meet!

180

Now either spoke, as hope and fear impressd,
Each their alternate triumph in the breast.
Distance alarm'd the maid—she cried, “'Tis far!”
And danger too—“it is a time of war:
“Then in those countries are diseases strange,
“And women gay, and men are prone to change:
“What then may happen in a year, when things
“Of vast importance every moment brings!
“But hark! an oar!” she cried, yet none appear'd—
'T was love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd;
And she continued—“Do, my Allen, keep
“Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;
“Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail,
“And stand in safety where so many fail;
“And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,
“Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;
“Can I believe his love will lasting prove,
“Who has no rev'rence for the God I love?
“I know thee well! how good thou art and kind;
“But strong the passions that invade thy mind—
“Now, what to me hath Allen to commend?”—
“Upon my mother,” said the youth, “attend;
“Forget her spleen, and, in my place appear,
“Her love to me will make my Judith dear,
“Oft I shall think (such comforts lovers seek),
“Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
“Then write on all occasions, always dwell
“On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well,
“And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style.
She answer'd, “No,” but answer'd with a smile.

181

“And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
“Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime;
“When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance
“To meet in walks, the visit or the dance,
“When every lad would on my lass attend,
“Choose not a smooth designer for a friend:
“That fawning Philip!—nay, be not severe,
“A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear.”
Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!—it soon was full in sight;—
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;
For see!—his friends come hast'ning to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach:
“Adieu!—farewell!—remember!”—and what more
Affection taught, was utter'd from the shore.
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart.
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace,
Till all were silent!—for the youth she pray'd,
And softly then return'd the weeping maid.
They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled;
But when return'd the youth?—the youth no more
Return'd exulting to his native shore;
But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man with wither'd limbs and lame,
His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age his frame:

182

Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,
Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay.
In an autumnal eve he left the beach,
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach:
He was alone; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many a year, his mind
Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd.
No one was present; of its crew bereft,
A single boat was in the billows left;
Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay
At the returning tide to sail away
O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,
The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down:
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite:
“There,” he observed, and new emotions felt,
“Was my first home—and yonder Judith dwelt;
“Dead! dead are all! I long—I fear to know,”
He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.

183

Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:
Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory:—“Man! what cheer?”
A sailor cried; “Art thou at anchor here?”
Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face:
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought:
Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd:
“The Booths! yet live they?” pausing and oppress'd;
Then spake again:—“Is there no ancient man,
“David his name?—assist me, if you can.—
“Flemmings there were—and Judith, doth she live?”
The woman gazed, nor could an answer give;
Yet wond'ring stood, and all were silent by,
Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
The woman musing said—“She knew full well
“Where the old people came at last to dwell;
“They had a married daughter, and a son,
“But they were dead, and now remain'd not one.”
“Yes,” said an elder, who had paused intent
On days long past, “there was a sad event;—
“One of these Booths—it was my mother's tale—
“Here left his lass, I know not where to sail:

184

“She saw their parting, and observed the pain;
“But never came th' unhappy man again:”
“The ship was captured”—Allen meekly said,
“And what became of the forsaken maid?”
The woman answer'd: “I remember now,
“She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
“And of her lover's loss, and I have seen
“The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been;
“Yet in her grief she married, and was made
“Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,
“And early buried—but I know no more:
“And hark! our friends are hast'ning to the shore.”
Allen soon found a lodging in the town,
And walk'd, a man unnoticed up and down.
This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face
He sometimes could among a number trace:
Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,
But of no favourites, and the rest were new:
A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,
Was reckon'd boundless.—Could he living be?
Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business, and a fortune fair.
No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,
With crutches went to take her dole of bread.

185

There was a friend whom he had left a boy,
With hope to sail the master of a hoy;
Him, after many a stormy day, he found
With his great wish, his life's whole purpose, crown'd.
This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face,—
“Yours is, my friend,” said he, “a woful case;
“We cannot all succeed: I now command
“The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;
“But when we meet, you shall your story tell
“Of foreign parts—I bid you now farewell!”
Allen so long had left his native shore,
He saw but few whom he had seen before;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd—
“The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
“He dwelt among us in his early years:

186

“We see the name engraved upon the stones,
“Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones.”
Thus where he lived and loved—unhappy change!—
He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.
But now a Widow, in a village near
Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;
Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came
Some strong emotions at the well-known name;
He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;
Then was she wedded, of his death assured,
And much of mis'ry in her lot endured;
Her husband died; her children sought their bread
In various places, and to her were dead.
The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,
Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage:
Each had immediate confidence; a friend
Both now beheld, on whom they might depend:
“Now is there one to whom I can express
“My nature's weakness, and my soul's distress.”
Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart—
“Let me not lose thee—never let us part:
“So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,
“It is not all distress to think and live.”
Thus Allen spoke—for time had not removed
The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved;
Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,
Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.
To her, to her alone, his various fate,
At various times, 'tis comfort to relate;

187

And yet his sorrow—she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear
First he related how he left the shore,
Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more.
Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed course,
They met and yielded to the Spanish force;
Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas they bore their prey,
Who grieving landed from their sultry bay;
And marching many a burning league, he found
Himself a slave upon a miner's ground:
There a good priest his native language spoke,
And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke;
Kindly advanced him in his master's grace,
And he was station'd in an easier place:
There, hopeless ever to escape the land,
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand;
In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day,
He saw his happy infants round him play;
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries;
E'en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,
But his fond Isabel demanded, “Why?”
Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,
And wept in pity for the English maid:
Thus twenty years were pass'd, and pass'd his views,
Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose:
His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint
“His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;
“Make all his children infidels, and found
“An English heresy on Christian ground.”

188

“Whilst I was poor,” said Allen, “none would care
“What my poor notions of religion were;
“None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I pray'd,
“If due obedience to the laws were paid:
“My good adviser taught me to be still,
“Nor to make converts had I power or will.
“I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,
“And never mention'd Luther in my life;
“I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd,
“And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd;
“Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,
“And was a most obedient Catholic.
“But I had money, and these pastors found
“My notions vague, heretical, unsound:
“A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
“Could not have read a more pernicious work;
“To me pernicious, who if it were good
“Or evil question'd not, nor understood:
“Oh! had I little but the book possess'd,
“I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest.”
Alas! poor Allen—through his wealth was seen
Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been:
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown
Are in an instant through the varnish shown.
He told their cruel mercy; how at last,
In Christian kindness for the merits past,
They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly,
Or for his crime and contumacy die;

189

Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight:
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his flight.
He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy-Bay:
There in the woods he wrought, and there, among
Some lab'ring seamen, heard his native tongue:
The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain
With joyful force; he long'd to hear again:
Again he heard; he seized an offer'd hand,
“And when beheld you last our native land!”
He cried, “and in what country? quickly say”—
The seamen answer'd—strangers all were they;
One only at his native port had been;
He, landing once, the quay and church had seen
For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew
Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,
Sail where they sail'd, and, many a peril past,
They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast;
But him they found not, nor could one relate
Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.
This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd
For England's coast, again his fate prevail'd:
War raged, and he, an active man and strong,
Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.
By various shores he pass'd, on various seas,
Never so happy as when void of ease.—
And then he told how in a calm distress'd,
Day after day his soul was sick of rest;
When, as a log upon the deep they stood,
Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;

190

Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas
Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees:
He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:—“There stand
“My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land;
“See! there my dwelling—oh! delicious scene
“Of my best life—unhand me—are ye men?”
And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind
Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.
He told of bloody fights, and how at length
The rage of battle gave his spirits strength:
'T was in the Indian seas his limb he lost,
And he was left half-dead upon the coast;
But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men,
A fair subsistence by his ready pen.
“Thus,” he continued, “pass'd unvaried years,
“Without events producing hopes or fears.”
Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,
But years advancing undermined his health;
Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew
To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew:
He saw his parents, saw his fav'rite maid,
No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd;
And thus excited, in his bosom rose
A wish so strong, it baffled his repose;
Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;
To view his native soil, and there to die.
He then described the gloom, the dread he found,
When first he landed on the chosen ground,
Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd,
And how confused and troubled all appear'd;
His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd,
All views in future blighted and destroy'd;

191

His were a medley of bewild'ring themes,
Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.
Here his relation closes, but his mind
Flies back again some resting-place to find;
Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees
His children sporting by those lofty trees,
Their mother singing in the shady scene,
Where the fresh springs burst o'er the lively green;—
So strong his eager fancy, he affrights
The faithful widow by its powerful flights;
For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,
And cry—“'Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!
“Where are my children?”—Judith grieves to hear
How the soul works in sorrows so severe;
Assiduous all his wishes to attend,
Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;
Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes
Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.
'Tis now her office; her attention see!
While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,
Careful, she guards him from the glowing heat,
And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.
And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes
Of his best days, amid the vivid greens,
Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where ev'ry gale
Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring vale,
Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes
The night-bird's music from the thick'ning glooms?

192

And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,
Blaze not with fairy-light the phosphor-fly,
When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by?
This is the joy that now so plainly speaks
In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;
For he is list'ning to the fancied noise
Of his own children, eager in their joys:
All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss
Gives the expression, and the glow like this.
And now his Judith lays her knitting by,
These strong emotions in her friend to spy;
For she can fully of their nature deem—
But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,
And wakes, and cries—“My God! 'twas but a dream.”

193

TALE III. THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

------ Pause then,
And weigh thy value with an even hand:
If thou beest rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough.
—Merchant of Venice.

Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is (for which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor. —Much Ado about Nothing.

Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
—Macbeth.

His promises are, as he then was, mighty;
And his performance, as he now is, nothing.
—Henry VIII.


195

Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all,
Who dwelt around, “the Gentleman” would call;
Whether in pure humility or pride,
They only knew, and they would not decide.
Far different he from that dull plodding tribe
Whom it was his amusement to describe;
Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod,
But treading still as their dull fathers trod;
Who lived in times when not a man had seen
Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine:
He was of those whose skill assigns the prize
For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;
And who, in places where improvers meet,
To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;
Who in large mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms but as amusing things;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,
And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.

196

Two are the species in this genus known;
One, who is rich in his profession grown,
Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,
From fortune's favours and a favouring lease;
Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns;
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can—
This is the Farmer made the Gentleman.
The second species from the world is sent,
Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content;
In books and men beyond the former read,
To farming solely by a passion led,
Or by a fashion; curious in his land;
Now planning much, now changing what he plann'd;
Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd,
And ever certain to succeed the next;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade—
This is the Gentleman, a Farmer made.
Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew
Early in life, his reasons known to few;
Some disappointment said, some pure good sense,
The love of land, the press of indolence;
His fortune known, and coming to retire,
If not a Farmer, men had call'd him 'Squire.
Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross'd the still tenour of his chosen life;
Much land he purchased, planted far around,
And let some portions of superfluous ground

197

To farmers near him, not displeased to say,
“My tenants,” nor “our worthy landlord,” they.
Fix'd in his farm, he soon display'd his skill
In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, and the drill;
From these he rose to themes of nobler kind,
And show'd the riches of a fertile mind;
To all around their visits he repaid,
And thus his mansion and himself display'd.
His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat,
And guests politely call'd his house a Seat;
At much expense was each apartment graced,
His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste;
In full festoons the crimson curtains fell,
The sofas rose in bold elastic swell;
Mirrors in gilded frames display'd the tints
Of glowing carpets and of colour'd prints;
The weary eye saw every object shine,
And all was costly, fanciful, and fine.
As with his friends he pass'd the social hours,
His generous spirit scorn'd to hide its powers;
Powers unexpected, for his eye and air
Gave no sure signs that eloquence was there;
Oft he began with sudden fire and force,
As loth to lose occasion for discourse;
Some, 'tis observed, who feel a wish to speak,
Will a due place for introduction seek;
On to their purpose step by step they steal,
And all their way, by certain signals, feel;
Others plunge in at once, and never heed
Whose turn they take, whose purpose they impede;

198

Resolved to shine, they hasten to begin,
Of ending thoughtless—and of these was Gwyn.
And thus he spake:—
“It grieves me to the soul,
“To see how man submits to man's control;
“How overpower'd and shackled minds are led
“In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred;
“The coward never on himself relies,
“But to an equal for assistance flies;
“Man yields to custom, as he bows to fate,
“In all things ruled—mind, body, and estate;
“In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply
“To them we know not, and we know not why;
“But that the creature has some jargon read,
“And got some Scotchman's system in his head;
“Some grave impostor, who will health insure,
“Long as your patience or your wealth endure,
“But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew,
“They have not health, and can they give it you?
“These solemn cheats their various methods choose
“A system fires them, as a bard his muse:
“Hence wordy wars arise: the learn'd divide,
“And groaning patients curse each erring guide.
“Next, our affairs are govern'd, buy or sell,
“Upon the deed the law must fix its spell;
“Whether we hire or let, we must have still
“The dubious aid of an attorney's skill;
“They take a part in every man's affairs,
“And in all business some concern is theirs;
“Because mankind in ways prescribed are found
“Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground,

199

“Each abject nature in the way proceeds,
“That now to shearing, now to slaughter leads.
“Should you offend, though meaning no offence,
“You have no safety in your innocence;
“The statute broken then is placed in view,
“And men must pay for crimes they never knew,
“Who would by law regain his plunder'd store,
“Would pick up fallen merc'ry from the floor;
“If he pursue it, here and there it slides,
“He would collect it, but it more divides;
“This part and this he stops, but still in vain,
“It slips aside, and breaks in parts again;
“Till, after time and pains, and care and cost,
“He finds his labour and his object lost.
“But most it grieves me (friends alone are round),
“To see a man in priestly fetters bound;
“Guides to the soul, these friends of Heaven contrive,
“Long as man lives, to keep his fears alive:
“Soon as an infant breathes, their rites begin;
“Who knows not sinning, must be freed from sin;
“Who needs no bond, must yet engage in vows;
“Who has no judgment, must a creed espouse:
“Advanced in life, our boys are bound by rules,
“Are catechised in churches, cloisters, schools,
“And train'd in thraldrom to be fit for tools:
“The youth grown up, he now a partner needs,
“And lo! a priest, as soon as he succeeds.

200

“What man of sense can marriage-rites approve?
“What man of spirit can be bound to love?
“Forced to be kind! compell'd to be sincere!
“Do chains and fetters make companions dear?
“Pris'ners indeed we bind; but though the bond
“May keep them safe, it does not make them fond:
“The ring, the vow, the witness, licence, prayers,
“All parties known! made public all affairs!
“Such forms men suffer, and from these they date
“A deed of love begun with all they hate:
“Absurd! that none the beaten road should shun,
“But love to do what other dupes have done.
“Well, now your priest has made you one of twain,
“Look you for rest? Alas! you look in vain.
“If sick, he comes; you cannot die in peace,
“Till he attends to witness your release;
“To vex your soul, and urge you to confess
“The sins you feel, remember, or can guess;
“Nay, when departed, to your grave he goes,
“But there indeed he hurts not your repose.
“Such are our burthens; part we must sustain,
“But need not link new grievance to the chain:
“Yet men like idiots will their frames surround
“With these vile shackles, nor confess they're bound;
“In all that most confines them they confide,
“Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their pride;
“E'en as the pressure galls them, they declare,
“(Good souls!) how happy and how free they are!

201

“As madmen, pointing round their wretched cells,
“Cry, ‘Lo! the palace where our honour dwells.’
“Such is our state: but I resolve to live
“By rules my reason and my feelings give;
“No legal guards shall keep enthrall'd my mind,
“No slaves command me, and no teachers blind.
“Tempted by sins, let me their strength defy,
“But have no second in a surplice by;
“No bottle-holder, with officious aid,
“To comfort conscience, weaken'd and afraid:
“Then if I yield, my frailty is not known;
“And, if I stand, the glory is my own.
“When Truth and Reason are our friends, we seem
“Alive! awake!—the superstitious dream.
“Oh! then, fair Truth, for thee alone I seek,
“Friend to the wise, supporter of the weak;
“From thee we learn whate'er is right and just;
“Forms to despise, professions to distrust;
“Creeds to reject, pretensions to deride,
“And, following thee, to follow none beside.”
Such was the speech: it struck upon the ear
Like sudden thunder, none expect to hear.
He saw men's wonder with a manly pride,
And gravely smiled at guest electrified;
“A farmer this!” they said, “Oh! let him seek
“That place where he may for his country speak;
“On some great question to harangue for hours,
“While speakers, hearing, envy nobler powers!”

202

Wisdom like this, as all things rich and rare,
Must be acquired with pains, and kept with care;
In books he sought it, which his friends might view,
When their kind host the guarding curtain drew.
There were historic works for graver hours,
And lighter verse, to spur the languid powers;
There metaphysics, logic there had place;
But of devotion not a single trace—
Save what is taught in Gibbon's florid page,
And other guides of this inquiring age;
There Hume appear'd, and near, a splendid book
Composed by Gay's “good lord of Bolingbroke:”
With these were mix'd the light, the free, the vain,
And from a corner peep'd the sage Tom Paine:
Here four neat volumes Chesterfield were named,
For manners much and easy morals famed;
With chaste Memoirs of females, to be read
When deeper studies had confused the head.
Such his resources, treasures where he sought
For daily knowledge till his mind was fraught:
Then, when his friends were present, for their use
He would the riches he had stored produce;
He found his lamp burn clearer, when each day,
He drew for all he purposed to display:

203

For these occasions, forth his knowledge sprung,
As mustard quickens on a bed of dung:
All was prepared, and guests allow'd the praise
For what they saw he could so quickly raise.
Such this new friend; and when the year came round,
The same impressive, reasoning sage was found:
Then, too, was seen the pleasant mansion graced
With a fair damsel—his no vulgar taste;
The neat Rebecca—sly, observant, still,
Watching his eye, and waiting on his will;
Simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek,
Her smiles spoke for her, she would seldom speak:
But watch'd each look, each meaning to detect,
And (pleased with notice) felt for all neglect.
With her lived Gwyn a sweet harmonious life,
Who, forms excepted, was a charming wife:
The wives indeed, so made by vulgar law,
Affected scorn, and censured what they saw,
And what they saw not, fancied; said 't was sin,
And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn:
But he despised their rudeness, and would prove
Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love;
“Fools as they were! could they conceive that rings
“And parsons' blessings were substantial things?”
They answer'd “Yes;” while he contemptuous spoke
Of the low notions held by simple folk;
Yet, strange that anger in a man so wise
Should from the notions of these fools arise;
Can they so vex us, whom we so despise?

204

Brave as he was, our hero felt a dread
Lest those who saw him kind should think him led;
If to his bosom fear a visit paid,
It was, lest he should be supposed afraid:
Hence sprang his orders; not that he desired
The things when done: obedience he required;
And thus, to prove his absolute command,
Ruled every heart, and moved each subject hand,
Assent he ask'd for every word and whim,
To prove that he alone was king of him.
The still Rebecca, who her station knew,
With ease resign'd the honours not her due;
Well pleased she saw that men her board would grace,
And wish'd not there to see a female face;
When by her lover she his spouse was styled,
Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled;
But when he wanted wives and maidens round
So to regard her, she grew grave and frown'd;
And sometimes whisper'd—“Why should you respect
“These people's notions, yet their forms reject?”
Gwyn, though from marriage bond and fetter free,
Still felt abridgment in his liberty;
Something of hesitation he betray'd,
And in her presence thought of what he said.
Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk'd astray,
His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray,
To be at church, to sit with serious looks,
To read her Bible and her Sunday-books:
She hated all those new and daring themes,
And call'd his free conjectures “devil's dreams:”

205

She honour'd still the priesthood in her fall,
And claim'd respect and reverence for them all;
Call'd them “of sin's destructive power the foes,
“And not such blockheads as he might suppose.”
Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes say,
“'T is a kind fool, why vex her in her way?”
Her way she took, and still had more in view,
For she contrived that he should take it too.
The daring freedom of his soul, 't was plain,
In part was lost in a divided reign;
A king and queen, who yet in prudence sway'd
Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey'd.
Yet such our fate, that, when we plan the best,
Something arises to disturb our rest:
For though in spirits high, in body strong,
Gwyn something felt—he knew not what—was wrong;
He wish'd to know, for he believed the thing,
If unremoved, would other evil bring:
“She must perceive, of late he could not eat,
“And when he walk'd he trembled on his feet:
“He had forebodings, and he seem'd as one
“Stopp'd on the road, or threaten'd by a dun;
“He could not live, and yet, should he apply
“To those physicians—he must sooner die.”
The mild Rebecca heard with some disdain,
And some distress, her friend and lord complain:
His death she fear'd not, but had painful doubt
What his distemper'd nerves might bring about;

206

With power like hers she dreaded an ally,
And yet there was a person in her eye;—
She thought, debated, fix'd—“Alas!” she said,
“A case like yours must be no more delay'd;
“You hate these doctors: well! but were a friend
“And doctor one, your fears would have an end:
“My cousin Mollet—Scotland holds him now—
“Is above all men skilful, all allow;
“Of late a Doctor, and within a while
“He means to settle in this favour'd isle;
“Should he attend you, with his skill profound,
“You must be safe, and shortly would be sound.”
When men in health against Physicians rail,
They should consider that their nerves may fail;
Who calls a Lawyer rogue, may find, too late,
On one of these depends his whole estate:
Nay, when the world can nothing more produce,
The Priest, th' insulted priest, may have his use;
Ease, health, and comfort lift a man so high,
These powers are dwarfs that he can scarcely spy;
Pain, sickness, languor, keep a man so low,
That these neglected dwarfs to giants grow:
Happy is he who through the medium sees
Of clear good sense—but Gwyn was not of these.
He heard and he rejoiced: “Ah! let him come,
“And, till he fixes, make my house his home.”
Home came the Doctor—he was much admired;
He told the patient what his case required;
His hours for sleep, his time to eat and drink,
When he should ride, read, rest, compose, or think.

207

Thus join'd peculiar skill and art profound,
To make the fancy-sick no more than fancy-sound.
With such attention, who could long be ill?
Returning health proclaim'd the Doctor's skill.
Presents and praises from a grateful heart
Were freely offer'd on the patient's part;
In high repute the Doctor seem'd to stand,
But still had got no footing in the land;
And, as he saw the seat was rich and fair,
He felt disposed to fix his station there:
To gain his purpose he perform'd the part
Of a good actor, and prepared to start;
Not like a traveller in a day serene,
When the sun shone and when the roads were clean;
Not like the pilgrim, when the morning grey,
The ruddy eve succeeding, sends his way;
But in a season when the sharp east wind
Had all its influence on a nervous mind;
When past the parlour's front it fiercely blew,
And Gwyn sat pitying every bird that flew,
This strange physician said—“Adieu! adieu!
“Farewell!—Heaven bless you!—if you should—but no,
“You need not fear—farewell! 't is time to go.”
The Doctor spoke; and as the patient heard,
His old disorders (dreadful train!) appear'd;
“He felt the tingling tremor, and the stress
“Upon his nerves that he could not express;
“Should his good friend forsake him, he perhaps
“Might meet his death, and surely a relapse.”

208

So, as the Doctor seem'd intent to part,
He cried in terror—“Oh! be where thou art:
“Come, thou art young, and unengaged; oh! come,
“Make me thy friend, give comfort to mine home;
“I have now symptoms that require thine aid,
“Do, Doctor stay”—th' obliging Doctor stay'd.
Thus Gwyn was happy; he had now a friend,
And a meek spouse on whom he could depend:
But now possess'd of male and female guide,
Divided power he thus must subdivide:
In earlier days he rode, or sat at ease
Reclined, and having but himself to please;
Now if he would a fav'rite nag bestride,
He sought permission—“Doctor, may I ride?”
(Rebecca's eye her sovereign pleasure told)—
“I think you may, but guarded from the cold
“Ride forty minutes.”—Free and happy soul!
He scorn'd submission, and a man's control;
But where such friends in every care unite
All for his good, obedience is delight.
Now Gwyn a sultan bade affairs adieu,
Led and assisted by the faithful two:
The favourite fair, Rebecca, near him sat,
And whisper'd whom to love, assist, or hate;
While the chief vizier eased his lord of cares,
And bore himself the burden of affairs:
No dangers could from such alliance flow,
But from that law, that changes all below.

209

When wintry winds with leaves bestrew'd the ground,
And men were coughing all the village round;
When public papers of invasion told,
Diseases, famines, perils new and old;
When philosophic writers fail'd to clear
The mind of gloom, and lighter works to cheer;
Then came fresh terrors on our hero's mind—
Fears unforeseen, and feelings undefined.
“In outward ills,” he cried, “I rest assured
“Of my friend's aid; they will in time be cured;
“But can his art subdue, resist, control
“These inward griefs and troubles of the soul?
“Oh! my Rebecca! my disorder'd mind
“No help in study, none in thought can find;
“What must I do, Rebecca?” She proposed
The Parish-guide; but what could be disclosed
To a proud priest?—“No! him have I defied,
‘Insulted, slighted—shall he be my guide?
“But one there is, and if report be just,
“A wise good man, whom I may safely trust;
“Who goes from house to house, from ear to ear,
“To make his truths, his Gospel-truths, appear;
“True if indeed they be, 'tis time that I should hear:
“Send for that man; and if report be just,
“I, like Cornelius, will the teacher trust;
“But if deceiver, I the vile deceit
“Shall soon discover, and discharge the cheat.”
To Doctor Mollet was the grief confess'd,
While Gwyn the freedom of his mind express'd;

210

Yet own'd it was to ills and errors prone,
And he for guilt and frailty must atone.
“My books, perhaps,” the wav'ring mortal cried,
“Like men deceive; I would be satisfied;—
“And to my soul the pious man may bring
“Comfort and light—do let me try the thing.”
The cousins met, what pass'd with Gwyn was told:
“Alas!” the Doctor said, “how hard to hold
“These easy minds, where all impressions made
“At first sink deeply, and then quickly fade;
“For while so strong these new-born fancies reign,
“We must divert them, to oppose is vain:
“You see him valiant now, he scorns to heed
“The bigot's threat'nings or the zealot's creed;
“Shook by a dream, he next for truth receives
“What frenzy teaches, and what fear believes;
“And this will place him in the power of one
“Whom we must seek, because we cannot shun.”
Wisp had been ostler at a busy inn,
Where he beheld and grew in dread of sin;
Then to a Baptists' meeting found his way,
Became a convert, and was taught to pray;
Then preach'd; and, being earnest and sincere,
Brought other sinners to religious fear:
Together grew his influence and his fame,
Till our dejected hero heard his name:
His little failings were a grain of pride,
Raised by the numbers he presumed to guide:
A love of presents, and of lofty praise
For his meek spirit and his humble ways;

211

But though this spirit would on flattery feed,
No praise could blind him and no arts mislead:—
To him the Doctor made the wishes known
Of his good patron, but conceal'd his own;
He of all teachers had distrust and doubt,
And was reserved in what he came about;
Though on a plain and simple message sent,
He had a secret and a bold intent:
Their minds at first were deeply veil'd; disguise
Form'd the slow speech, and oped the eager eyes;
Till by degrees sufficient light was thrown
On every view, and all the business shown.
Wisp, as a skilful guide who led the blind,
Had powers to rule and awe the vapourish mind;
But not the changeful will, the wavering fear to bind:
And should his conscience give him leave to dwell
With Gwyn, and every rival power expel
(A dubious point), yet he, with every care,
Might soon the lot of the rejected share;
And other Wisps be found like him to reign,
And then be thrown upon the world again:
He thought it prudent then, and felt it just,
The present guides of his new friend to trust:
True, he conceived, to touch the harder heart
Of the cool Doctor, was beyond his art;
But mild Rebecca he could surely sway,
While Gwyn would follow where she led the way:
So to do good, (and why a duty shun,
Because rewarded for the good when done?)
He with his friends would join in all they plann'd,
Save when his faith or feelings should withstand;

212

There he must rest sole judge of his affairs,
While they might rule exclusively in theirs.
When Gwyn his message to the teacher sent,
He fear'd his friends would show their discontent;
And prudent seem'd it to th' attendant pair,
Not all at once to show an aspect fair:
On Wisp they seem'd to look with jealous eye,
And fair Rebecca was demure and shy;
But by degrees the teacher's worth they knew,
And were so kind, they seem'd converted too.
Wisp took occasion to the nymph to say,
“You must be married: will you name the day?”
She smiled,—“'Tis well; but should he not comply,
“Is it quite safe th' experiment to try?”—
“My child,” the teacher said, “who feels remorse,
“(And feels not he?) must wish relief of course:
“And can he find it, while he fears the crime?—
“You must be married; will you name the time?”
Glad was the patron as a man could be,
Yet marvell'd too, to find his guides agree;
“But what the cause?” he cried; “'tis genuine love for me.’
Each found his part, and let one act describe
The powers and honours of th' accordant tribe:—
A man for favour to the mansion speeds,
And cons his threefold task as he proceeds;
To teacher Wisp he bows with humble air,
And begs his interest for a barn's repair:

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Then for the Doctor he enquires, who loves
To hear applause for what his skill improves,
And gives for praise, assent—and to the Fair
He brings of pullets a delicious pair;
Thus sees a peasant, with discernment nice,
A love of power, conceit, and avarice.
Lo! now the change complete: the convert Gwyn
Has sold his books, and has renounced his sin;
Mollet his body orders, Wisp his soul,
And o'er his purse the Lady takes control;
No friends beside he needs, and none attend—
Soul, body, and estate, has each a friend;
And fair Rebecca leads a virtuous life—
She rules a mistress, and she reigns a wife.

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TALE IV. PROCRASTINATION.

------ Heaven witness
I have been to you ever true and humble.
—Henry VIII.

------ Gentle lady,
When I did first impart my love to you,
I freely told you all the wealth I had.
—Merchant of Venice.

------ The fatal time
Cuts off all ceremonies and vows of love,
And ample interchange of sweet discourse,
Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon.
Richard III.

I know thee not, old man; fall to thy prayers.
—Henry IV.

------ Farewell,
Thou pure impiety, thou impious purity,
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love.
Much Ado about Nothing.


217

Love will expire—the gay, the happy dream
Will turn to scorn, indiff'rence, or esteem:
Some favour'd pairs, in this exchange, are blest,
Nor sigh for raptures in a state of rest;
Others, ill match'd, with minds unpair'd, repent
At once the deed, and know no more content;
From joy to anguish they, in haste, decline,
And, with their fondness, their esteem resign;
More luckless still their fate, who are the prey
Of long-protracted hope and dull delay:
'Mid plans of bliss the heavy hours pass on,
Till love is wither'd, and till joy is gone.
This gentle flame two youthful hearts possess'd,
The sweet disturber of unenvied rest:
The prudent Dinah was the maid beloved,
And the kind Rupert was the swain approved:

218

A wealthy Aunt her gentle niece sustain'd,
He, with a father, at his desk remain'd,
The youthful couple, to their vows sincere,
Thus loved expectant; year succeeding year,
With pleasant views and hopes, but not a prospect near.
Rupert some comfort in his station saw,
But the poor virgin lived in dread and awe;
Upon her anxious looks the widow smiled,
And bade her wait, “for she was yet a child.”
She for her neighbour had a due respect,
Nor would his son encourage or reject;
And thus the pair, with expectations vain,
Beheld the seasons change and change again:
Meantime the nymph her tender tales perused,
Where cruel aunts impatient girls refused:
While hers, though teasing, boasted to be kind,
And she, resenting, to be all resign'd.
The dame was sick, and when the youth applied
For her consent, she groan'd, and cough'd and cried,
Talk'd of departing, and again her breath
Drew hard, and cough'd, and talk'd again of death:
“Here you may live, my Dinah! here the boy
“And you together my estate enjoy:”
Thus to the lovers was her mind express'd,
Till they forbore to urge the fond request.
Servant, and nurse, and comforter, and friend,
Dinah had still some duty to attend;
But yet their walk, when Rupert's evening call
Obtain'd an hour, made sweet amends for all;

219

So long they now each other's thoughts had known,
That nothing seem'd exclusively their own:
But with the common wish, the mutual fear,
They now had travell'd to their thirtieth year.
At length a prospect open'd—but alas!
Long time must yet, before the union, pass:
Rupert was call'd, in other clime, t' increase
Another's wealth, and toil for future peace.
Loth were the lovers; but the aunt declared
'T was fortune's call, and they must be prepared:
“You now are young, and for this brief delay,
“And Dinah's care, what I bequeath will pay
“All will be yours; nay, love, suppress that sigh;
“The kind must suffer, and the best must die:”
Then came the cough, and strong the signs it gave
Of holding long contention with the grave.
The lovers parted with a gloomy view,
And little comfort, but that both were true;
He for uncertain duties doom'd to steer,
While hers remain'd too certain and severe.
Letters arrived, and Rupert fairly told
“His cares were many, and his hopes were cold:
“The view more clouded, that was never fair,
“And love alone preserved him from despair:”
In other letters brighter hopes he drew,
“His friends were kind, and he believed them true.”
When the sage widow Dinah's grief descried,
She wonder'd much why one so happy sigh'd:

220

Then bade her see how her poor aunt sustain'd
The ills of life, nor murmur'd nor complain'd.
To vary pleasures, from the lady's chest
Were drawn the pearly string and tabby vest;
Beads, jewels, laces, all their value shown,
With the kind notice—“They will be your own.”
This hope, these comforts, cherish'd day by day,
To Dinah's bosom made a gradual way;
Till love of treasure had as large a part,
As love of Rupert, in the virgin's heart.
Whether it be that tender passions fail,
From their own nature, while the strong prevail:
Or whether av'rice, like the poison-tree,
Kills all beside it, and alone will be;

221

Whatever cause prevail'd, the pleasure grew
In Dinah's soul,—she loved the hoards to view;
With lively joy those comforts she survey'd,
And love grew languid in the careful maid.
Now the grave niece partook the widow's cares,
Look'd to the great, and ruled the small affairs:
Saw clean'd the plate, arranged the china-show,
And felt her passion for a shilling grow:
Th' indulgent aunt increased the maid's delight,
By placing tokens of her wealth in sight;
She loved the value of her bonds to tell,
And spake of stocks, and how they rose and fell.
This passion grew, and gain'd at length such sway,
That other passions shrank to make it way;
Romantic notions now the heart forsook,
She read but seldom, and she changed her book;
And for the verses she was wont to send,
Short was her prose, and she was Rupert's friend.
Seldom she wrote, and then the widow's cough,
And constant call, excused her breaking off;
Who, now oppress'd, no longer took the air,
But sate and dozed upon an easy chair.
The cautious doctor saw the case was clear,
But judged it best to have companions near;
They came, they reason'd, they prescribed,—at last,
Like honest men, they said their hopes were past;
Then came a priest—'tis comfort to reflect,
When all is over, there was no neglect:

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And all was over—By her husband's bones,
The widow rests beneath the sculptured stones,
That yet record their fondness and their fame,
While all they left, the virgin's care became:
Stock, bonds, and buildings;—it disturb'd her rest,
To think what load of troubles she possess'd:
Yet, if a trouble, she resolved to take
Th' important duty for the donor's sake;
She too was heiress to the widow's taste,
Her love of hoarding, and her dread of waste.
Sometimes the past would on her mind intrude,
And then a conflict full of care ensued;
The thoughts of Rupert on her mind would press,
His worth she knew, but doubted his success:
Of old she saw him heedless; what the boy
Forbore to save, the man would not enjoy;
Oft had he lost the chance that care would seize,
Willing to live, but more to live at ease:
Yet could she not a broken vow defend,
And Heav'n, perhaps, might yet enrich her friend.
Month after month was pass'd, and all were spent
In quiet comfort and in rich content:
Miseries there were, and woes the world around,
But these had not her pleasant dwelling found;
She knew that mothers grieved, and widows wept,
And she was sorry, said her prayers, and slept:
Thus pass'd the seasons, and to Dinah's board
Gave what the seasons to the rich afford;
For she indulged, nor was her heart so small,
That one strong passion should engross it all.

223

A love of splendour now with av'rice strove,
And oft appear'd to be the stronger love:
A secret pleasure fill'd the Widow's breast,
When she reflected on the hoards possess'd;
But livelier joy inspired th' ambitious Maid,
When she the purchase of those hoards display'd:
In small but splendid room she loved to see
That all was placed in view and harmony;
There, as with eager glance she look'd around,
She much delight in every object found;
While books devout were near her—to destroy,
Should it arise, an overflow of joy.
Within that fair apartment guests might see
The comforts cull'd for wealth by vanity:
Around the room an Indian paper blazed,
With lively tint and figures boldly raised;
Silky and soft upon the floor below,
Th' elastic carpet rose with crimson glow;
All things around implied both cost and care,
What met the eye was elegant or rare:
Some curious trifles round the room were laid,
By hope presented to the wealthy Maid;
Within a costly case of varnish'd wood,
In level rows, her polish'd volumes stood;
Shown as a favour to a chosen few,
To prove what beauty for a book could do:
A silver urn with curious work was fraught;
A silver lamp from Grecian pattern wrought:
Above her head, all gorgeous to behold,
A time-piece stood on feet of burnish'd gold;

224

A stag's-head crest adorn'd the pictured case,
Through the pure crystal shone the enamell'd face;
And while on brilliants moved the hands of steel,
It click'd from pray'r to pray'r, from meal to meal.
Here as the lady sate, a friendly pair
Stept in t' admire the view, and took their chair:
They then related how the young and gay
Were thoughtless wandering in the broad highway:
How tender damsels sail'd in tilted boats,
And laugh'd with wicked men in scarlet coats;
And how we live in such degen'rate times,
That men conceal their wants, and show their crimes;
While vicious deeds are screen'd by fashion's name,
And what was once our pride is now our shame.
Dinah was musing, as her friends discoursed,
When these last words a sudden entrance forced
Upon her mind, and what was once her pride
And now her shame, some painful views supplied;
Thoughts of the past within her bosom press'd,
And there a change was felt, and was confess'd:
While thus the Virgin strove with secret pain,
Her mind was wandering o'er the troubled main;
Still she was silent, nothing seem'd to see,
But sate and sigh'd in pensive reverie.
The friends prepared new subjects to begin,
When tall Susannah, maiden starch, stalk'd in;
Not in her ancient mode, sedate and slow,
As when she came, the mind she knew, to know;

225

Nor as, when list'ning half an hour before,
She twice or thrice tapp'd gently at the door;
But, all decorum cast in wrath aside,
“I think the devil's in the man!” she cried;
“A huge tall sailor, with his tawny cheek,
“And pitted face, will with my lady speak;
“He grinn'd an ugly smile, and said he knew,
“Please you, my lady, 't would be joy to you:
“What must I answer?”—Trembling and distress'd
Sank the pale Dinah by her fears oppress'd;
When thus alarm'd, and brooking no delay,
Swift to her room the stranger made his way.
“Revive, my love!” said he, “I've done thee harm,
“Give me thy pardon,” and he look'd alarm:
Meantime the prudent Dinah had contrived
Her soul to question, and she then revived.
“See! my good friend,” and then she raised her head,
“The bloom of life, the strength of youth is fled;
“Living we die; to us the world is dead;
“We parted bless'd with health, and I am now
“Age-struck and feeble—so I find art thou;
“Thine eye is sunken, furrow'd is thy face,
“And downward look'st thou—so we run our race;
“And happier they whose race is nearly run,
“Their troubles over, and their duties done.
“True, lady, true—we are not girl and boy,
“But time has left us something to enjoy.”

226

“What! thou hast learn'd my fortune?—yes, I live
“To feel how poor the comforts wealth can give:
“Thou too perhaps art wealthy; but our fate
“Still mocks our wishes, wealth is come too late.”
“To me nor late nor early; I am come
“Poor as I left thee to my native home:
“Nor yet,” said Rupert, “will I grieve; 't is mine
“To share thy comforts, and the glory thine:
“For thou wilt gladly take that generous part
“That both exalts and gratifies the heart;
“While mine rejoices”—“Heavens!” return'd the maid,
“This talk to one so wither'd and decay'd?
“No! all my care is now to fit my mind
“For other spousal, and to die resign'd:
“As friend and neighbour, I shall hope to see
“These noble views, this pious love in thee;
“That we together may the change await,
“Guides and spectators in each other's fate;
“When, fellow-pilgrims, we shall daily crave
“The mutual prayer that arms us for the grave.”
Half angry, half in doubt, the lover gazed
On the meek maiden, by her speech amazed;
“Dinah,” said he, “dost thou respect thy vows?
“What spousal mean'st thou?—thou art Rupert's spouse;
“The chance is mine to take, and thine to give;
“But, trifling this, if we together live:

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‘Can I believe, that, after all the past,
“Our vows, our loves, thou wilt be false at last?
“Something thou hast—I know not what—in view;
“I find thee pious—let me find thee true.”
“Ah! cruel this; but do, my friend, depart;
“And to its feelings leave my wounded heart.”
“Nay, speak at once; and Dinah, let me know,
“Mean'st thou to take me, now I'm wreck'd, in tow?
“Be fair; nor longer keep me in the dark;
“Am I forsaken for a trimmer spark?
“Heaven's spouse thou art not; nor can I believe
“That God accepts her who will man deceive:
“True I am shatter'd, I have service seen,
“And service done, and have in trouble been;
“My cheek (it shames me not) has lost its red,
“And the brown buff is o'er my features spread;
“Perchance my speech is rude; for I among
“Th' untamed have been, in temper and in tongue;
“Have been trepann'd, have lived in toil and care,
“And wrought for wealth I was not doom'd to share;
“It touch'd me deeply, for I felt a pride
“In gaining riches for my destined bride:
“Speak then my fate; for these my sorrows past,
“Time lost, youth fled, hope wearied, and at last
“This doubt of thee—a childish thing to tell,
“But certain truth—my very throat they swell;
“They stop the breath, and but for shame could I
“Give way to weakness, and with passion cry;

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“These are unmanly struggles, but I feel
“This hour must end them, and perhaps will heal.”—
Here Dinah sigh'd, as if afraid to speak—
And then repeated—“They were frail and weak
“His soul she lov'd, and hoped he had the grace
“To fix his thoughts upon a better place.”
She ceased;—with steady glance, as if to see
The very root of this hypocrisy,—
He her small fingers moulded in his hard
And bronzed broad hand; then told her his regard
His best respect were gone, but love had still
Hold in his heart, and govern'd yet the will—
Or he would curse her:—saying this, he threw
The hand in scorn away, and bade adieu
To every lingering hope, with every care in view.
Proud and indignant, suffering, sick, and poor,
He grieved unseen; and spoke of love no more—
Till all he felt in indignation died,
As hers had sunk in avarice and pride.
In health declining, as in mind distress'd,
To some in power his troubles he confess'd,
And shares a parish-gift;—at prayers he sees
The pious Dinah dropp'd upon her knees;
Thence as she walks the street with stately air
As chance directs, oft meet the parted pair;
When he, with thickset coat of badge-man's blue,
Moves near her shaded silk of changeful hue;

229

When his thin locks of grey approach her braid,
A costly purchase made in beauty's aid;
When his frank air, and his unstudied pace,
Are seen with her soft manner, air, and grace,
And his plain artless look with her sharp meaning face;
It might some wonder in a stranger move,
How these together could have talk'd of love.
Behold them now!—see there a tradesman stands,
And humbly hearkens to some fresh commands;
He moves to speak, she interrupts him—“Stay,”
Her air expresses—“Hark! to what I say:”
Ten paces off, poor Rupert on a seat
Has taken refuge from the noon-day heat,
His eyes on her intent, as if to find
What were the movements of that subtle mind:
How still!—how earnest is he!—it appears
His thoughts are wand'ring through his earlier years;
Through years of fruitless labour, to the day
When all his earthly prospects died away:
“Had I,” he thinks, “been wealthier of the two,
“Would she have found me so unkind, untrue?
“Or knows not man when poor, what man when rich will do?
“Yes, yes! I feel that I had faithful proved,
“And should have soothed and raised her, bless'd and loved.”
But Dinah moves—she had observed before,
The pensive Rupert at an humble door.

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Some thoughts of pity raised by his distress,
Some feeling touch of ancient tenderness;
Religion, duty urged the maid to speak,
In terms of kindness to a man so weak:
But pride forbad, and to return would prove
She felt the shame of his neglected love;
Nor wrapp'd in silence could she pass, afraid
Each eye should see her, and each heart upbraid;
One way remain'd—the way the Levite took,
Who without mercy could on misery look;
(A way perceived by craft, approved by pride),
She cross'd and pass'd him on the other side.

231

TALE V. THE PATRON.

It were all one,
That I should love a bright peculiar star,
And think to wed it; she is so much above me:
In her bright radiance and collateral heat
Must I be comforted, not in her sphere.
All's Well that Ends Well.

Poor wretches, that depend
On greatness' favours, dream as I have done,—
Wake and find nothing.
Cymbeline.

And since ------
Th' affliction of my mind amends, with which
I fear a madness held me.
Tempest.


233

A borough-bailiff, who to law was train'd,
A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd;
He had his way in life's rough ocean steer'd,
And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd;
He saw where others fail'd, and care had he,
Others in him should not such failings see:
His sons in various busy states were placed,
And all began the sweets of gain to taste,

234

Save John, the younger, who, of sprightly parts,
Felt not a love for money-making arts:
In childhood feeble, he, for country air,
Had long resided with a rustic pair;
All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs,
Of lovers' sufferings and of ladies' wrongs;
Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight,
For breach of promise, guilty men to fright;
Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with these,
All that on idle, ardent spirits seize;
Robbers at land and pirates on the main,
Enchanters foil'd, spells broken, giants slain;
Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers,
Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice flowers,
And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.
From village-children kept apart by pride,
With such enjoyments, and without a guide,
Inspired by feelings all such works infused
John snatch'd a pen, and wrote as he perused
With the like fancy he could make his knight
Slay half a host, and put the rest to flight;
With the like knowledge he could make him ride
From isle to isle at Parthenissa's side;
And with a heart yet free, no busy brain
Form'd wilder notions of delight and pain,
The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain.

235

Such were the fruits of John's poetic toil,
Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil;
He nothing purposed but with vast delight,
Let Fancy loose, and wonder'd at her flight:
His notions of poetic worth were high,
And of his own still-hoarded poetry;—
These to his father's house he bore with pride,
A miser's treasure, in his room to hide;
Till spurr'd by glory, to a reading friend
He kindly show'd the sonnets he had penn'd:
With erring judgment, though with heart sincere,
That friend exclaim'd, “These beauties must appear.
In magazines they claim'd their share of fame,
Though undistinguish'd by their author's name;
And with delight the young enthusiast found
The muse of Marcus with applauses crown'd.
This heard the father, and with some alarm;
“The boy,” said he, “will neither trade nor farm;
“He for both law and physic is unfit,
“Wit he may have, but cannot live on wit:
“Let him his talents then to learning give
“Where verse is honour'd, and where poets live.”
John kept his terms at college unreproved,
Took his degree, and left the life he loved;
Not yet ordain'd, his leisure he employ'd
In the light labours he so much enjoy'd;
His favourite notions and his daring views
Were cherish'd still, and he adored the Muse.
“A little time, and he should burst to light,
“And admiration of the world excite;

236

“And every friend, now cool and apt to blame
“His fond pursuit, would wonder at his fame.”
When led by fancy, and from view retired,
He call'd before him all his heart desired;
“Fame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess,
“And beauty next an ardent lover bless;
“For me the maid shall leave her nobler state,
“Happy to raise and share her poet's fate.”
He saw each day his father's frugal board,
With simple fare by cautious prudence stored:
Where each indulgence was foreweigh'd with care,
And the grand maxims were to save and spare:
Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed,
All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled;
And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind,
Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind:
Slaves of the ring and lamp! what need of you
When Fancy's self such magic deeds can do?
Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind,
To common subjects stoop'd our poet's mind;
And oft when wearied with more ardent flight,
He felt a spur satiric song to write;
A rival burgess his bold Muse attack'd,
And whipp'd severely for a well known fact;
For while he seem'd to all demure and shy,
Our poet gazed at what was passing by;
And ev'n his father smiled when playful wit,
From his young bard, some haughty object hit.

237

From ancient times, the borough where they dwelt
Had mighty contest at elections felt:
Sir Godfrey Ball, 'tis true, had held in pay
Electors many for the trying day;
But in such golden chains to bind them all
Required too much for e'en Sir Godfrey Ball.
A member died, and to supply his place,
Two heroes enter'd for th' important race;
Sir Godfrey's friend and Earl Fitzdonnel's son,
Lord Frederick Damer, both prepared to run;
And partial numbers saw with vast delight
Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight.
Our poet's father, at a first request,
Gave the young lord his vote and interest;
And what he could our poet, for he stung
The foe by verse satiric, said and sung.
Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal,
And felt as lords upon a canvass feel;
He read the satire, and he saw the use
That such cool insult, and such keen abuse,
Might on the wavering minds of voting men produce
Then too his praises were in contrast seen,
“A lord as noble as the knight was mean.”
“I much rejoice,” he cried, “such worth to find;
‘To this the world must be no longer blind:
“His glory will descend from sire to son,
“The Burns of English race, the happier Chatterton.
Our poet's mind, now hurried and elate,
Alarm'd the anxious parent for his fate:

238

Who saw with sorrow, should their friend succeed
That much discretion would the poet need.
Their friend succeeded, and repaid the zeal
The poet felt, and made opposers feel,
By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet!)
And invitation to his noble seat.
The father ponder'd, doubtful if the brain
Of his proud boy such honour could sustain;
Pleased with the favours offer'd to a son,
But seeing dangers few so ardent shun.
Thus, when they parted, to the youthful breast
The father's fears were by his love impress'd:
“There will you find, my son, the courteous ease
“That must subdue the soul it means to please;
“That soft attention which ev'n beauty pays
“To wake our passions, or provoke our praise:
“There all the eye beholds will give delight,
“Where every sense is flatter'd like the sight
“This is your peril; can you from such scene
“Of splendour part, and feel your mind serene,
“And in the father's humble state resume
“The frugal diet and the narrow room?”
To this the youth with cheerful heart replied,
Pleased with the trial, but as yet untried;
And while professing patience, should he fail,
He suffer'd hope o'er reason to prevail.
Impatient, by the morning mail convey'd,
The happy guest his promised visit paid;

239

And now arriving at the Hall, he tried
For air composed, serene and satisfied;
As he had practised in his room alone,
And there acquired a free and easy tone:
There he had said, “Whatever the degree
“A man obtains, what more than man is he?”
And when arrived—“This room is but a room,
“Can aught we see the steady soul o'ercome?
“Let me in all a manly firmness show,
“Upheld by talents, and their value know.”
This reason urged; but it surpass'd his skill
To be in act as manly as in will:
When he his Lordship and the Lady saw,
Brave as he was, he felt oppress'd with awe;
And spite of verse, that so much praise had won,
The poet found he was the Bailiff's son.
But dinner came, and the succeeding hours
Fix'd his weak nerves, and raised his failing powers
Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice
On some remark, and bravely broke the ice;
So that at night, reflecting on his words,
He found, in time, he might converse with lords.
Now was the Sister of his Patron seen—
A lovely creature, with majestic mien;
Who, softly smiling while she look'd so fair,
Praised the young poet with such friendly air;
Such winning frankness in her looks express'd,
And such attention to her brother's guest;

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That so much beauty, join'd with speech so kind,
Raised strong emotions in the poet's mind;
Till reason fail'd his bosom to defend,
From the sweet power of this enchanting friend.—
Rash boy! what hope thy frantic mind invades?
What love confuses, and what pride persuades?
Awake to truth! shouldst thou deluded feed
On hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed.
What say'st thou, wise one? “that all powerful Love
“Can fortune's strong impediments remove;
“Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth
“The pride of genius with the pride of birth.”
While thou art dreaming thus, the Beauty spies
Love in thy tremour, passion in thine eyes;
And with th' amusement pleased, of conquest vain
She seeks her pleasure, careless of thy pain;
She gives thee praise to humble and confound,
Smiles to ensnare, and flatters thee to wound.
Why has she said that in the lowest state
The noble mind ensures a noble fate?
And why thy daring mind to glory call?
That thou may'st dare and suffer, soar and fall.
Beauties are tyrants, and if they can reign
They have no feeling for their subjects pain;
Their victim's anguish gives their charms applause
And their chief glory is the wo they cause:
Something of this was felt, in spite of love,
Which hope, in spite of reason, would remove.

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Thus lived our youth, with conversation, books,
And Lady Emma's soul-subduing looks;
Lost in delight, astonish'd at his lot,
All prudence banish'd, all advice forgot—
Hopes, fears, and every thought, were fix'd upon the spot.
'Twas autumn yet, and many a day must frown
On Brandon-Hall, ere went my Lord to town;
Meantime the father, who had heard his boy
Lived in a round of luxury and joy,
And justly thinking that the youth was one
Who, meeting danger, was unskill'd to shun;
Knowing his temper, virtue, spirit, zeal,
How prone to hope and trust, believe and feel;
These on the parent's soul their weight impress'd,
And thus he wrote the counsels of his breast:—
“John, thou'rt a genius; thou hast some pretence,
“I think, to wit,—but hast thou sterling sense?
“That which, like gold, may through the world go forth,
“And always pass for what 'tis truly worth;
“Whereas this genius, like a bill, must take
“Only the value our opinions make.
“Men famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain,
“Treat those of common parts with proud disdain;
“The powers that wisdom would, improving, hide,
“They blaze abroad with inconsid'rate pride;
“While yet but mere probationers for fame,
“They seize the honour they should then disclaim:

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“Honour so hurried to the light must fade,
“The lasting laurels flourish in the shade.
“Genius is jealous: I have heard of some
“Who, if unnoticed, grew perversely dumb;
“Nay, different talents would their envy raise;
“Poets have sicken'd at a dancer's praise;
“And one, the happiest writer of his time,
“Grew pale at hearing Reynolds was sublime;
“That Rutland's Duchess wore a heavenly smile—
“‘And I,’ said he, ‘neglected all the while!’
“A waspish tribe are these, on gilded wings,
“Humming their lays, and brandishing their stings:
“And thus they move their friends and foes among,
“Prepared for soothing or satiric song.
“Hear me, my Boy; thou hast a virtuous mind—
“But be thy virtues of the sober kind;
“Be not a Quixote, ever up in arms
“To give the guilty and the great alarms:
“If never heeded, thy attack is vain;
“And if they heed thee, they'll attack again;
“Then too in striking at that heedless rate,
“Thou in an instant may'st decide thy fate.
“Leave admonition—let the vicar give
“Rules how the nobles of his flock should live;

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“Nor take that simple fancy to thy brain,
“That thou canst cure the wicked and the vain.
“Our Pope, they say, once entertain'd the whim,
“Who fear'd not God should be afraid of him;
“But grant they fear'd him, was it further said,
“That he reform'd the hearts he made afraid?
“Did Chartres mend? Ward, Waters, and a score
“Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore?
“Was Cibber silenced? No; with vigour blest,
“And brazen front, half earnest, half in jest,
“He dared the bard to battle, and was seen
“In all his glory match'd with Pope and spleen;
“Himself he stripp'd, the harder blow to hit,
“Then boldly match'd his ribaldry with wit;
“The poet's conquest truth and time proclaim,
“But yet the battle hurt his peace and fame.

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“Strive not too much for favour; seem at ease,
“And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please:
“Upon thy lord with decent care attend,
“But not too near; thou canst not be a friend;
“And favourite be not, 'tis a dangerous post—
“Is gain'd by labour, and by fortune lost:
“Talents like thine may make a man approved,
“But other talents trusted and beloved.
“Look round, my son, and thou wilt early see
“The kind of man thou art not form'd to be.
“The real favourites of the great are they
“Who to their views and wants attention pay,
“And pay it ever; who, with all their skill,
“Dive to the heart, and learn the secret will;
“If that be vicious, soon can they provide
“The favourite ill, and o'er the soul preside;
“For vice is weakness, and the artful know
“Their power increases as the passions grow;
“If indolent the pupil, hard their task;
“Such minds will ever for amusement ask;
“And great the labour! for a man to choose
“Objects for one whom nothing can amuse;
“For ere those objects can the soul delight,
“They must to joy the soul herself excite;

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“Therefore it is, this patient, watchful kind
“With gentle friction stir the drowsy mind:
“Fix'd on their end, with caution they proceed,
“And sometimes give, and sometimes take the lead;
“Will now a hint convey, and then retire,
“And let the spark awake the lingering fire;
“Or seek new joys, and livelier pleasures bring,
“To give the jaded sense a quick'ning spring.
“These arts, indeed, my son must not pursue;
“Nor must he quarrel with the tribe that do:
“It is not safe another's crimes to know,
“Nor is it wise our proper worth to show:—
“‘My lord,’ you say, ‘engaged me for that worth;’—
“True, and preserve it ready to come forth:
“If question'd, fairly answer,—and that done,
“Shrink back, be silent, and thy father's son;
“For they who doubt thy talents scorn thy boast,
“But they who grant them will dislike thee most:
“Observe the prudent; they in silence sit,
“Display no learning, and affect no wit;
“They hazard nothing, nothing they assume,
“But know the useful art of acting dumb.
“Yet to their eyes each varying look appears,
“And every word finds entrance at their ears.
“Thou art Religion's advocate—take heed,
“Hurt not the cause, thy pleasure 'tis to plead;
“With wine before thee, and with wits beside,
“Do not in strength of reasoning powers confide;

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“What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain,
“They will deny, and dare thee to maintain;
“And thus will triumph o'er thy eager youth,
“While thou wilt grieve for so disgracing truth.
“With pain I've seen, these wrangling wits among,
“Faith's weak defenders, passionate and young;
“Weak thou art not, yet not enough on guard,
“Where wit and humour keep their watch and ward:
“Men gay and noisy will o'erwhelm thy sense,
“Then loudly laugh at truth's and thy expense;
“While the kind ladies will do all they can
“To check their mirth, and cry, ‘The good young man!
“Prudence, my Boy, forbids thee to commend
“The cause or party of thy noble friend;
“What are his praises worth, who must be known
“To take a Patron's maxims for his own?
“When ladies sing, or in thy presence play,
“Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away;
“'Tis not thy part, there will be list'ners round,
“To cry Divine! and dote upon the sound;
“Remember, too, that though the poor have ears,
“They take not in the music of the spheres;
“They must not feel the warble and the thrill,
“Or be dissolved in ecstasy at will;
“Beside, 'tis freedom in a youth like thee
“To drop his awe, and deal in ecstasy!

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“In silent ease, at least in silence, dine,
“Nor one opinion start of food or wine:
“Thou know'st that all the science thou can boast,
“Is of thy father's simple boil'd and roast;
“Nor always these; he sometimes saved his cash,
“By interlinear days of frugal hash:
“Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou be so vain
“As to decide on claret or champagne?
“Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime,
“Who order port the dozen at a time?
“When (every glass held precious in our eyes)
“We judged the value by the bottle's size:
“Then never merit for thy praise assume,
“Its worth well knows each servant in the room.
“Hard, Boy, thy task, to steer thy way among
“That servile, supple, shrewd, insidious throng;
“Who look upon thee as of doubtful race,
“An interloper, one who wants a place:
“Freedom with these, let thy free soul condemn,
“Nor with thy heart's concerns associate them.
“Of all be cautious—but be most afraid
“Of the pale charms that grace My Lady's Maid;
“Of those sweet dimples, of that fraudful eye,
“The frequent glance design'd for thee to spy;
“The soft bewitching look, the fond bewailing sigh:
“Let others frown and envy; she the while
“(Insidious syren!) will demurely smile;
“And for her gentle purpose, every day
“Inquire thy wants, and meet thee in thy way;

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“She has her blandishments, and, though so weak,
“Her person pleases, and her actions speak:
“At first her folly may her aim defeat;
“But kindness shown, at length will kindness meet:
“Have some offended? them will she disdain,
“And, for thy sake, contempt and pity feign;
“She hates the vulgar, she admires to look
“On woods and groves, and dotes upon a book;
“Let her once see thee on her features dwell,
“And hear one sigh, then liberty farewell.
“But, John, remember we cannot maintain
“A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain.
“Doubt much of friendship: shouldst thou find a friend
“Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend;
“Should he the praises he has heard report,
“And confidence (in thee confiding) court;
“Much of neglected Patrons should he say,
“And then exclaim—‘How long must merit stay!’
“Then show how high thy modest hopes may stretch,
“And point to stations far beyond thy reach;—
“Let such designer, by thy conduct, see
“(Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee;
“And he will quit thee, as a man too wise
“For him to ruin first, and then despise.
“Such are thy dangers:—yet, if thou canst steer
“Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear,

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“Then may'st thou profit; but if storms prevail,
“If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail,—
“No more of winds or waters be the sport,
“But in thy father's mansion find a port.”
Our poet read.—“It is in truth,” said he,
“Correct in part, but what is this to me?
“I love a foolish Abigail! in base
“And sordid office! fear not such disgrace:
“Am I so blind?” “Or thou wouldst surely see
“That lady's fall, if she should stoop to thee!”
“The cases differ.” “True! for what surprise
“Could from thy marriage with the maid arise?
“But through the island would the shame be spread,
“Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed.”
John saw not this; and many a week had pass'd,
While the vain Beauty held her victim fast;
The Noble Friend still condescension show'd,
And, as before, with praises overflow'd;
But his grave Lady took a silent view
Of all that pass'd, and smiling, pitied too.
Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief,
Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf;
The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods
Roar'd with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods:
All green was vanish'd, save of pine and yew,
That still displayed their melancholy hue;
Save the green holly with its berries red,
And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread.

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To public views my Lord must soon attend;
And soon the Ladies—would they leave their friend?
The time was fix'd—approach'd—was near—was come;
The trying time that fill'd his soul with gloom:
Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose,
And cried, “One hour my fortune will disclose;
“Terrific hour! from thee have I to date
“Life's loftier views, or my degraded state;
“For now to be what I have been before
“Is so to fall, that I can rise no more.”
The morning meal was past; and all around
The mansion rang with each discordant sound;
Haste was in every foot, and every look
The trav'ller's joy for London-journey spoke:
Not so our youth; whose feelings, at the noise
Of preparation, had no touch of joys:
He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn,
With lackies mounted, ready on the lawn:
The Ladies came; and John in terror threw
One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew;
Not with such speed, but he in other eyes
With anguish read—“I pity but despise—
“Unhappy boy! presumptuous scribbler!—you,
“To dream such dreams!—be sober, and adieu!”
Then came the Noble Friend—“And will my lord
“Vouchsafe no comfort? drop no soothing word?
“Yes, he must speak:” he speaks, “My good young friend,
“You know my views; upon my care depend;

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“My hearty thanks to your good father pay,
“And be a student.—Harry, drive away.”
Stillness reign'd all around; of late so full
The busy scene, deserted now and dull:
Stern is his nature who forbears to feel
Gloom o'er his spirits on such trials steal;
Most keenly felt our poet as he went
From room to room without a fix'd intent;
“And here,” he thought, “I was caress'd; admired
“Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired:
“The change how grievous!” As he mused, a dame
Busy and peevish to her duties came;
Aside the tables and the chairs she drew,
And sang and mutter'd in the poet's view:—
“This was her fortune; here they leave the poor;
“Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more;
“I had a promise—” here his pride and shame
Urged him to fly from this familiar dame;
He gave one farewell look, and by a coach
Reach'd his own mansion at the night's approach.
His father met him with an anxious air,
Heard his sad tale, and check'd what seem'd despair:
Hope was in him corrected, but alive;
My lord would something for a friend contrive;
His word was pledged: our hero's feverish mind
Admitted this, and half his grief resign'd:
But, when three months had fled, and every day
Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away,

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The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull,
He utter'd nothing, though his heart was full;
Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks,
And all forgetful of his Muse and books;
Awake he mourn'd, but in his sleep perceived
A lovely vision that his pain relieved:—
His soul, transported, hail'd the happy seat,
Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet;
Where joys departed came in blissful view,
Till reason waked, and not a joy he knew.
Questions now vex'd his spirit, most from those
Who are call'd friends, because they are not foes:
“John!” they would say; he, starting, turn'd around
“John!” there was something shocking in the sound:
Ill brook'd he then the pert familiar phrase,
The untaught freedom, and th' inquiring gaze;
Much was his temper touch'd, his spleen provoked,
When ask'd how ladies talk'd, or walk'd, or look'd?
“What said my Lord of politics? how spent
“He there his time? and was he glad he went?”
At length a letter came, both cool and brief,
But still it gave the burthen'd heart relief:
Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the youth
Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick's truth;
Summon'd to town, he thought the visit one
Where something fair and friendly would be done;
Although he judged not, as before his fall,
When all was love and promise at the Hall.

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Arrived in town, he early sought to know
The fate such dubious friendship would bestow;
At a tall building trembling he appear'd,
And his low rap was indistinctly heard;
A well-known servant came—“Awhile,” said he,
“Be pleased to wait; my Lord has company.”
Alone our hero sate; the news in hand,
Which though he read, he could not understand:
Cold was the day; in days so cold as these
There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze;
The vast and echoing room, the polish'd grate,
The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate;
The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest,
He then had thought it freedom to have press'd;
The shining tables, curiously inlaid,
Were all in comfortless proud style display'd;
And to the troubled feelings terror gave,
That made the once-dear friend, the sick'ning slave
“Was he forgotten?” Thrice upon his ear
Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near:
Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke
On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke;
Oft as a servant chanced the way to come,
“Brings he a message?” no! he pass'd the room:
At length 't is certain; “Sir, you will attend
‘At twelve on Thursday!” Thus the day had end.
Vex'd by these tedious hours of needless pain,
John left the noble mansion with disdain;

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For there was something in that still, cold place,
That seem'd to threaten and portend disgrace.
Punctual again the modest rap declared
The youth attended; then was all prepared:
For the same servant, by his lord's command,
A paper offer'd to his trembling hand:
“No more!” he cried: “disdains he to afford
“One kind expression, one consoling word?”
With troubled spirit he began to read
That “In the Church my lord could not succeed;”
Who had “to peers of either kind applied,
“And was with dignity and grace denied;
“While his own livings were by men possess'd,
“Not likely in their chancels yet to rest;
“And therefore, all things weigh'd (as he, my lord,
“Had done maturely, and he pledged his word),
“Wisdom it seem'd for John to turn his view
“To busier scenes, and bid the Church adieu!”
Here grieved the youth: he felt his father's pride
Must with his own be shock'd and mortified;
But, when he found his future comforts placed
Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced—
In some appointment on the London quays,
He bade farewell to honour and to ease;
His spirit fell, and, from that hour assured
How vain his dreams, he suffer'd and was cured.
Our Poet hurried on, with wish to fly,
From all mankind, to be conceal'd, and die.

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Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views
Did that one visit to the soul infuse,
Which, cherish'd with such love, 'twas worse than death to lose!
Still he would strive, though painful was the strife,
To walk in this appointed road of life;
On these low duties duteous he would wait,
And patient bear the anguish of his fate.
Thanks to the Patron, but of coldest kind,
Express'd the sadness of the Poet's mind;
Whose heavy hours were pass'd with busy men,
In the dull practice of th' official pen;
Who to Superiors must in time impart
(The custom this) his progress in their art:
But, so had grief on his perception wrought,
That all unheeded were the duties taught;
No answers gave he when his trial came,
Silent he stood, but suffering without shame;
And they observed that words severe or kind
Made no impression on his wounded mind:
For all perceived from whence his failure rose,
Some grief whose cause he deign'd not to disclose.
A soul averse from scenes and works so new,
Fear ever shrinking from the vulgar crew;
Distaste for each mechanic law and rule,
Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool;
A grieving parent, and a feeling mind,
Timid and ardent, tender and refined:
These all with mighty force the youth assail'd,
Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail'd:
When this was known, and some debate arose,
How they who saw it should the fact disclose,

256

He found their purpose, and in terror fled
From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread.
Meantime the parent was distress'd to find
His son no longer for a priest design'd;
But still he gain'd some comfort by the news
Of John's promotion, though with humbler views:
For he conceived that in no distant time
The boy would learn to scramble and to climb;
He little thought his son, his hope and pride,
His favour'd boy, was now a home denied:
Yes! while the parent was intent to trace
How men in office climb from place to place,
By day, by night, o'er moor, and heath, and hill,
Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will,
Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill.
Thus as he sate, absorb'd in all the care
And all the hope that anxious fathers share,
A friend abruptly to his presence brought,
With trembling hand, the subject of his thought;
Whom he had found afflicted and subdued
By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude.
Silent he enter'd the forgotten room,
As ghostly forms may be conceived to come;
With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright,
He look'd dismay, neglect, despair, affright;
But, dead to comfort, and on misery thrown,
His parent's loss he felt not, nor his own.

257

The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud,
And drew around him an astonish'd crowd;
The sons and servants to the father ran,
To share the feelings of the griev'd old man.
“Our brother, speak!” they all exclaim'd; “explain
“Thy grief, thy suffering:”—but they ask'd in vain:
The friend told all he knew; and all was known,
Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown:
But, if obscure the cause, they all agreed
From rest and kindness must the cure proceed:
And he was cured; for quiet, love, and care,
Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair:
Yet slow their progress, and, as vapours move
Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove;
All is confusion till the morning light
Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight;
More and yet more defined the trunks appear,
Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear;—
So the dark mind of our young poet grew
Clear and sedate; the dreadful mist withdrew;
And he resembled that bleak wintry scene,
Sad, though unclouded; dismal, though serene.
At times he utter'd, “What a dream was mine!
“And what a prospect! glorious and divine!
“Oh! in that room, and on that night to see
“These looks, that sweetness beaming all on me:
“That syren-flattery—and to send me then,
“Hope-raised and soften'd, to those heartless men;

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“That dark-brow'd stern Director, pleased to show
“Knowledge of subjects, I disdain'd to know;
“Cold and controlling—but 'tis gone—'tis past;
“I had my trial, and have peace at last.”
Now grew the youth resigned: he bade adieu
To all that hope, to all that fancy drew;
His frame was languid, and the hectic heat
Flush'd on his pallid face, and countless beat
The quick'ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore
The slender form that soon would breathe no more.
Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain'd,
And not a lingering thought of earth remain'd;
Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at Love,
And the wild sallies of his youth reprove;
Then could he dwell upon the tempting days,
The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise;
Victorious now his worldly views were closed,
And on the bed of death the youth reposed.
The father grieved—but as the poet's heart
Was all unfitted for his earthly part;
As, he conceived, some other haughty fair
Would, had he lived, have led him to despair;
As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out
All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt;
While the strong faith the pious youth possess'd,
His hope enlivening, gave his sorrows rest;
Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy
For his aspiring and devoted boy.

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Meantime the news through various channels spread,
The youth, once favour'd with such praise, was dead:
“Emma,” the Lady cried, “my words attend,
“Your syren-smiles have kill'd your humble friend;
“The hope you raised can now delude no more,
“Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore.”
Faint was the flush of anger and of shame,
That o'er the cheek of conscious beauty came:
“You censure not,” said she, “the sun's bright rays,
“When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze;
“And should a stripling look till he were blind,
“You would not justly call the light unkind:
“But is he dead? and am I to suppose
“The power of poison in such looks as those?”
She spoke, and, pointing to the mirror, cast
A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass'd.
My Lord, to whom the poet's fate was told
Was much affected, for a man so cold:
“Dead!” said his lordship, “run distracted, mad!
“Upon my soul I'm sorry for the lad;
“And now, no doubt, th' obliging world will say
“That my harsh usage help'd him on his way:
“What! I suppose, I should have nursed his muse,
“And with champagne have brighten'd up his views;
“Then had he made me famed my whole life long,
“And stunn'd my ears with gratitude and song.
“Still should the father hear that I regret
“Our joint misfortune—Yes! I'll not forget.”—

260

Thus they:—The father to his grave convey'd
The son he loved, and his last duties paid.
“There lies my Boy,” he cried, “of care bereft,
“And, Heav'n be praised, I've not a genius left:
“No one among ye, sons! is doomed to live
“On high-raised hopes of what the Great may give;
“None, with exalted views and fortunes mean,
“To die in anguish, or to live in spleen:
“Your pious brother soon escaped the strife
“Of such contention, but it cost his life;
“You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend,
“And in your own exertions find the friend.”

263

TALE VI. THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

Yes, faith, it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsy, and say, “Father, as it please you;” but for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, “Father, as it pleases me.” Much Ado about Nothing.

He cannot flatter, he!
An honest mind and plain—he must speak truth.
King Lear.

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another; you jig, you amble, you nick-name God's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. —Hamlet.

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Am I contemn'd for pride and scorn so much?
Much Ado about Nothing


265

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire,
Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher;
Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow,
Who knew the man, could never cease to know;
His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by,
Had a firm presence and a steady eye;
But with her husband dropp'd her look and tone,
And Jonas ruled unquestion'd and alone.
He read, and oft would quote the sacred words,
How pious husbands of their wives were lords;
Sarah call'd Abraham Lord! and who could be,
So Jonas thought, a greater man than he?
Himself he view'd with undisguised respect,
And never pardon'd freedom or neglect.
They had one daughter, and this favourite child
Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled;
Soothed by attention from her early years,
She gain'd all wishes by her smiles or tears:

266

But Sybil then was in that playful time,
When contradiction is not held a crime;
When parents yield their children idle praise
For faults corrected in their after days.
Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt,
Where each his duty and his station felt:
Yet not that peace some favour'd mortals find,
In equal views and harmony of mind;
Not the soft peace that blesses those who love,
Where all with one consent in union move;
But it was that which one superior will
Commands, by making all inferiors still;
Who bids all murmurs, all objections cease,
And with imperious voice announces—Peace!
They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew,
Who, as their foes maintain, their Sovereign slew;
An independent race, precise, correct,
Who ever married in the kindred sect:
No son or daughter of their order wed
A friend to England's king who lost his head;
Cromwell was still their Saint, and when they met,
They mourn'd that Saints were not our rulers yet.
Fix'd were their habits; they arose betimes,
Then pray'd their hour, and sang their party-rhymes:
Their meals were plenteous, regular and plain;
The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain;

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Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn—
And, like his father, he was merchant born:
Neat was their house; each table, chair, and stool,
Stood in its place, or moving moved by rule;
No lively print or picture graced the room;
A plain brown paper lent its decent gloom;
But here the eye, in glancing round, survey'd
A small recess that seem'd for china made;
Such pleasing pictures seem'd this pencill'd ware,
That few would search for nobler objects there—
Yet, turn'd by chosen friends, and there appear'd
His stern, strong features, whom they all revered;
For there in lofty air was seen to stand
The bold Protector of the conquer'd land;
Drawn in that look with which he wept and swore,
Turn'd out the Members, and made fast the door,
Ridding the House of every knave and drone,
Forced, though it grieved his soul, to rule alone.
The stern still smile each friend approving gave,
Then turn'd the view, and all again were grave.
There stood a clock, though small the owner's need,
For habit told when all things should proceed;
Few their amusements, but when friends appear'd,
They with the world's distress their spirits cheer'd;
The nation's guilt, that would not long endure
The reign of men so modest and so pure:
Their town was large, and seldom pass'd a day
But some had fail'd, and others gone astray;

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Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls flown
To Gretna-Green, or sons rebellious grown;
Quarrels and fires arose;—and it was plain
The times were bad; the Saints had ceased to reign!
A few yet lived, to languish and to mourn
For good old manners never to return.
Jonas had sisters, and of these was one
Who lost a husband and an only son:
Twelve months her sables she in sorrow wore,
And mourn'd so long that she could mourn no more.
Distant from Jonas, and from all her race,
She now resided in a lively place;
There, by the sect unseen, at whist she play'd,
Nor was of churchmen or their church afraid:
If much of this the graver brother heard,
He something censured, but he little fear'd;
He knew her rich and frugal; for the rest,
He felt no care, or, if he felt, suppress'd:
Nor for companion when she ask'd her Niece,
Had he suspicions that disturb'd his peace;
Frugal and rich, these virtues as a charm
Preserved the thoughtful man from all alarm;
An infant yet, she soon would home return,
Nor stay the manners of the world to learn;
Meantime his boys would all his care engross,
And be his comforts if he felt the loss.
The sprightly Sybil, pleased and unconfined,
Felt the pure pleasure of the op'ning mind:
All here was gay and cheerful—all at home
Unvaried quiet and unruffled gloom:

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There were no changes, and amusements few;—
Here, all was varied, wonderful, and new;
There were plain meals, plain dresses, and grave looks—
Here, gay companions and amusing books;
And the young Beauty soon began to taste
The light vocations of the scene she graced.
A man of business feels it as a crime
On calls domestic to consume his time;
Yet this grave man had not so cold a heart,
But with his daughter he was grieved to part:
And he demanded that in every year
The Aunt and Niece should at his house appear.
“Yes! we must go, my child, and by our dress
“A grave conformity of mind express;
“Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain,
“The more t' enjoy when we return again.”
Thus spake the Aunt, and the discerning child
Was pleased to learn how fathers are beguiled.
Her artful part the young dissembler took,
And from the matron caught th' approving look:
When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent
For more delay, and Jonas was content;
Till a tall maiden by her sire was seen,
In all the bloom and beauty of sixteen;
He gazed admiring;—she, with visage prim,
Glanced an arch look of gravity on him;
For she was gay at heart, but wore disguise,
And stood a vestal in her father's eyes:

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Pure, pensive, simple, sad; the damsel's heart,
When Jonas praised, reproved her for the part;
For Sybil, fond of pleasure, gay and light,
Had still a secret bias to the right;
Vain as she was—and flattery made her vain—
Her simulation gave her bosom pain.
Again return'd, the Matron and the Niece
Found the late quiet gave their joy increase;
The aunt infirm, no more her visits paid,
But still with her sojourn'd the favourite maid.
Letters were sent when franks could be procured,
And when they could not, silence was endured;
All were in health, and if they older grew,
It seem'd a fact that none among them knew;
The aunt and niece still led a pleasant life,
And quiet days had Jonas and his wife.
Near him a Widow dwelt of worthy fame,
Like his her manners, and her creed the same;
The wealth her husband left, her care retain'd
For one tall Youth, and widow she remain'd;
His love respectful all her care repaid,
Her wishes watch'd, and her commands obey'd.
Sober he was and grave from early youth,
Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth;
In a light drab he uniformly dress'd,
And look serene th' unruffled mind express'd;
A hat with ample verge his brows o'erspread,
And his brown locks curl'd graceful on his head;

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Yet might observers in his speaking eye
Some observation, some acuteness spy;
The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous deemd it sly;
Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect,
His actions all were, like his speech, correct;
And they who jested on a mind so sound,
Upon his virtues must their laughter found;
Chaste, sober, solemn, and devout they named
Him who was thus, and not of this ashamed.
Such were the virtues Jonas found in one
In whom he warmly wish'd to find a son:
Three years had pass'd since he had Sybil seen;
But she was doubtless what she once had been,
Lovely and mild, obedient and discreet;
The pair must love whenever they should meet;
Then ere the widow or her son should choose
Some happier maid, he would explain his views:
Now she, like him, was politic and shrewd,
With strong desire of lawful gain embued;
To all he said, she bow'd with much respect,
Pleased to comply, yet seeming to reject;
Cool and yet eager, each admired the strength
Of the opponent, and agreed at length:
As a drawn battle shows to each a force,
Powerful as his, he honours it of course;
So in these neighbours, each the power discern'd,
And gave the praise that was to each return'd.
Jonas now ask'd his daughter—and the Aunt,
Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant:—

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But would not Sybil to the matron cling,
And fear to leave the shelter of her wing?
No! in the young there lives a love of change,
And to the easy, they prefer the strange!
Then, too, the joys she once pursued with zeal,
From whist and visits sprung, she ceased to feel:
When with the matrons Sybil first sat down,
To cut for partners and to stake her crown,
This to the youthful maid preferment seem'd,
Who thought what woman she was then esteem'd;
But in few years, when she perceived, indeed,
The real woman to the girl succeed,
No longer tricks and honours fill'd her mind,
But other feelings, not so well defined;
She then reluctant grew, and thought it hard,
To sit and ponder o'er an ugly card;
Rather the nut-tree shade the nymph preferr'd,
Pleased with the pensive gloom and evening bird;
Thither, from company retired, she took
The silent walk, or read the fav'rite book.
The father's letter, sudden, short, and kind,
Awaked her wonder, and disturb'd her mind;
She found new dreams upon her fancy seize,
Wild roving thoughts and endless reveries:
The parting came;—and when the Aunt perceived
The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved—
To love for her that tender grief she laid,
That various, soft, contending passions made.
When Sybil rested in her father's arms,
His pride exulted in a daughter's charms;

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A maid accomplish'd he was pleased to find,
Nor seem'd the form more lovely than the mind:
But when the fit of pride and fondness fled,
He saw his judgment by his hopes misled;
High were the lady's spirits, far more free
Her mode of speaking than a maid's should be;
Too much, as Jonas thought, she seem'd to know,
And all her knowledge was disposed to show;
“Too gay her dress, like theirs who idly dote
“On a young coxcomb, or a coxcomb's coat;
“In foolish spirits when our friends appear.
“And vainly grave when not a man is near.”
Thus Jonas, adding to his sorrow blame,
And terms disdainful to a Sister's name:—
“The sinful wretch has by her arts defiled
“The ductile spirit of my darling child.”
“The maid is virtuous,” said the dame—Quoth he,
“Let her give proof, by acting virtuously:
“Is it in gaping when the Elders pray?
“In reading nonsense half a summer's day?
“In those mock forms that she delights to trace,
“Or her loud laughs in Hezekiah's face?
“She—O Susanna!—to the world belongs;
“She loves the follies of its idle throngs,
“And reads soft tales of love, and sings love's soft'ning songs.
“But, as our friend is yet delay'd in town,
“We must prepare her till the Youth comes down:
“You shall advise the maiden; I will threat;
“Her fears and hopes may yield us comfort yet.”

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Now the grave father took the lass aside,
Demanding sternly, “Wilt thou be a bride?”
She answer'd, calling up an air sedate,
“I have not vow'd against the holy state.”
“No folly, Sybil,” said the parent; “know
“What to their parents virtuous maidens owe:
“A worthy, wealthy youth, whom I approve,
“Must thou prepare to honour and to love.
“Formal to thee his air and dress may seem,
“But the good youth is worthy of esteem:
“Shouldst thou with rudeness treat him; of disdain
“Should he with justice or of slight complain,
“Or of one taunting speech give certain proof,
“Girl! I reject thee from my sober roof.”
“My aunt,” said Sybil, “will with pride protect
“One whom a father can for this reject;
“Nor shall a formal, rigid, soul-less boy
“My manners alter, or my views destroy!”
Jonas then lifted up his hands on high,
And, utt'ring something 'twixt a groan and sigh,
Left the determined maid, her doubtful mother by
“Hear me,” she said; “incline thy heart, my child,
“And fix thy fancy on a man so mild:
“Thy father, Sybil, never could be moved
“By one who loved him, or by one he loved
“Union like ours is but a bargain made
“By slave and tyrant—he will be obey'd;

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“Then calls the quiet, comfort—but thy Youth
“Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth.”
“But will he love?” said Sybil; “I am told
“That these mild creatures are by nature cold.”
“Alas!” the matron answer'd, “much I dread
“That dangerous love by which the young are led!
“That love is earthy; you the creature prize,
“And trust your feelings and believe your eyes:
“Can eyes and feelings inward worth descry?
“No! my fair daughter, on our choice rely!
“Your love, like that display'd upon the stage,
“Indulged is folly, and opposed is rage;—
“More prudent love our sober couples show,
“All that to mortal beings, mortals owe;
“All flesh is grass—before you give a heart,
“Remember, Sybil, that in death you part
“And should your husband die before your love,
“What needless anguish must a widow prove!
“No! my fair child, let all such visions cease;
“Yield but esteem, and only try for peace.”
“I must be loved,” said Sybil; “I must see
“The man in terrors who aspires to me;
“At my forbidding frown his heart must ache,
“His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake:
“And if I grant him at my feet to kneel,
“What trembling, fearful pleasure must he feel;
“Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire,
“That reason's self must for a time retire.”

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“Alas! for good Josiah,” said the dame,
“These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame;
“He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust!
“He cannot, child:”—the Child replied, “He must.”
They ceased: the matron left her with a frown;
So Jonas met her when the Youth came down:
“Behold,” said he, “thy future spouse attends;
“Receive him, daughter, as the best of friends;
“Observe, respect him—humble be each word,
“That welcomes home thy husband and thy lord.”
Forewarn'd, thought Sybil, with a bitter smile,
I shall prepare my manner and my style.
Ere yet Josiah enter'd on his task,
The father met him—“Deign to wear a mask
“A few dull days, Josiah,—but a few—
“It is our duty, and the sex's due;
“I wore it once, and every grateful wife
“Repays it with obedience through her life:
“Have no regard to Sybil's dress, have none
“To her pert language, to her flippant tone;
“Henceforward thou shalt rule unquestion'd and alone;
“And she thy pleasure in thy looks shall seek—
“How she shall dress, and whether she may speak.
A sober smile return'd the Youth, and said,
“Can I cause fear, who am myself afraid?”

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Sybil, meantime, sat thoughtful in her room,
And often wonder'd—“Will the creature come?
“Nothing shall tempt, shall force me to bestow
“My hand upon him,—yet I wish to know.”
The door unclosed, and she beheld her sire
Lead in the Youth, then hasten to retire;
“Daughter, my friend—my daughter, friend” he cried,
And gave a meaning look, and stepp'd aside:
That look contain'd a mingled threat and prayer,
“Do take him, child—offend him, if you dare.”
The couple gazed—were silent, and the maid
Look'd in his face, to make the man afraid;
The man, unmoved, upon the maiden cast
A steady view—so salutation pass'd:
But in this instant Sybil's eye had seen
The tall fair person, and the still staid mien;
The glow that temp'rance o'er the cheek had spread,
Where the soft down half veil'd the purest red;
And the serene deportment that proclaim'd
A heart unspotted, and a life unblamed:
But then with these she saw attire too plain,
The pale brown coat, though worn without a stain;
The formal air, and something of the pride
That indicates the wealth it seems to hide;
And looks that were not, she conceived, exempt
From a proud pity, or a sly contempt.
Josiah's eyes had their employment too,
Engaged and soften'd by so bright a view;

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A fair and meaning face, an eye of fire,
That check'd the bold, and made the free retire:
But then with these he mark'd the studied dress
And lofty air, that scorn or pride express;
With that insidious look, that seem'd to hide
In an affected smile the scorn and pride;
And if his mind the virgin's meaning caught,
He saw a foe with treacherous purpose fraught—
Captive the heart to take, and to reject it, caught.
Silent they sate—thought Sybil, that he seeks
Something, no doubt; I wonder if he speaks:
Scarcely she wonder'd, when these accents fell
Slow in her ear—“Fair maiden, art thou well?”
“Art thou physician?” she replied; “my hand,
“My pulse, at least, shall be at thy command.”
She said—and saw, surprised, Josiah kneel,
And gave his lips the offer'd pulse to feel;
The rosy colour rising in her cheek,
Seem'd that surprise unmix'd with wrath to speak;
Then sternness she assumed, and—“Doctor, tell,
“Thy words cannot alarm me—am I well?”
“Thou art,” said he; “and yet thy dress so light,
“I do conceive, some danger must excite:”
“In whom?” said Sybil, with a look demure:
“In more,” said he, “than I expect to cure;—
“I, in thy light luxuriant robe, behold
“Want and excess, abounding and yet cold;
“Here needed, there display'd, in many a wanton fold:

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“Both health and beauty, learned authors show,
“From a just medium in our clothing flow.”
“Proceed, good doctor; if so great my need,
“What is thy fee? Good doctor! pray proceed.”
“Large is my fee, fair lady, but I take
“None till some progress in my cure I make:
“Thou hast disease, fair maiden; thou art vain;
“Within that face sit insult and disdain;
“Thou art enamour'd of thyself; my art
“Can see the naughty malice of thy heart:
“With a strong pleasure would thy bosom move,
“Were I to own thy power, and ask thy love;
“And such thy beauty, damsel, that I might,
“But for thy pride, feel danger in thy sight,
“And lose my present peace in dreams of vain delight.”
“And can thy patients,” said the nymph, “endure
“Physic like this? and will it work a cure?”
“Such is my hope, fair damsel; thou, I find,
“Hast the true tokens of a noble mind;
“But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys
“Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys;
“Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around,
“That in thine own pure bosom should be found:
“Did all that world admire thee, praise and love,
“Could it the least of nature's pains remove?
“Could it for errors, follies, sins atone,
“Or give thee comfort, thoughtful and alone?

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“It has, believe me, maid, no power to charm
“Thy soul from sorrow, or thy flesh from harm:
“Turn then, fair creature, from a world of sin,
“And seek the jewel happiness within.”
“Speak'st thou at meeting?” said the nymph “thy speech
“Is that of mortal very prone to teach;
“But wouldst thou, doctor, from the patient learn
“Thine own disease?—The cure is thy concern.”
“Yea, with good will.”—“Then know 't is thy complaint,
“That, for a sinner, thou'rt too much a saint;
“Hast too much show of the sedate and pure,
“And without cause art formal and demure:
“This makes a man unsocial, unpolite;
“Odious when wrong, and insolent if right.
“Thou may'st be good, but why should goodness be
“Wrapt in a garb of such formality?
“Thy person well might please a damsel's eye,
“In decent habit with a scarlet dye;
“But, jest apart—what virtue canst thou trace
“In that broad brim that hides thy sober face?
“Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice
“And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice?
“Then for thine accent—what in sound can be
“So void of grace as dull monotony?
“Love has a thousand varied notes to move
“The human heart:—thou may'st not speak of love,
“Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside,
“And those becoming youth and nature tried:

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“Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease,
“Prove it thy study and delight to please;
“Not till these follies meet thy just disdain,
“While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain.”
“This is severe!—Oh! maiden, wilt not thou
“Something for habits, manners, modes, allow?”—
“Yes! but allowing much, I much require,
“In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire!”
“True, lovely Sybil; and, this point agreed,
“Let me to those of greater weight proceed:
“Thy father!”—“Nay,” she quickly interposed,
“Good doctor, here our conference is closed!”
Then left the Youth, who, lost in his retreat,
Pass'd the good matron on her garden-seat;
His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild
And calm, was hurried:—“My audacious child!”
Exclaim'd the dame, “I read what she has done
“In thy displeasure—Ah! the thoughtless one:
“But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man
“Speak of the maid as mildly as you can:
“Can you not seem to woo a little while
“The daughter's will, the father to beguile?
“So that his wrath in time may wear away;
“Will you preserve our peace, Josiah! say.”
“Yes! my good neighbour,” said the gentle youth,
“Rely securely on my care and truth;
“And should thy comfort with my efforts cease;
“And only then,—perpetual is thy peace.”

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The dame had doubts: she well his virtues knew,
His deeds were friendly, and his words were true;
“But to address this vixen is a task
“He is ashamed to take, and I to ask.”
Soon as the father from Josiah learn'd
What pass'd with Sybil, he the truth discern'd.
“He loves,” the man exclaim'd, “he loves, 't is plain,
“The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain?
“She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried,
“Born as she is of wilfulness and pride.”
With anger fraught, but willing to persuade,
The wrathful father met the smiling maid:
“Sybil,” said he, “I long, and yet I dread
“To know thy conduct—hath Josiah fled?
“And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air,
“For his lost peace, betaken him to prayer?
“Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress,
“By vile remarks upon his speech, address,
“Attire, and voice?”—“All this I must confess.”—
“Unhappy child! what labour will it cost
“To win him back!”—“I do not think him lost.”—
“Courts he then, (trifler!) insult and disdain?”—
“No: but from these he courts me to refrain.—
“Then hear me, Sybil—should Josiah leave
“Thy father's house?”—“My father's child would grieve:’
“That is of grace, and if he come again
“To speak of love?”—“I might from grief refrain.”—

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“Then wilt thou, daughter, our design embrace?”—
“Can I resist it, if it be of grace?”—
“Dear child! in three plain words thy mind express—
“Wilt thou have this good youth?”—“Dear father! yes.”

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TALE VII. THE WIDOW'S TALE

Ah me! for aught that I could ever read,
Or ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth;
But either it was different in blood,
Or else misgrafted in respect of years,
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.
Midsummer Night's Dream.

Oh! thou didst then ne'er love so heartily,
If thou rememberest not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into.
—As You Like It.

Cry the man mercy; love him, take his offer.
—As You Like It


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To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down,
His only Daughter, from her school in town;
A tender, timid maid! who knew not how
To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow:
Smiling she came, with petty talents graced,
A fair complexion, and a slender waist.
Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure,
Her father's kitchen she could ill endure:
Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat,
And laid at once a pound upon his plate;
Hot from the field, her eager brother seized
An equal part, and hunger's rage appeased;
The air surcharged with moisture, flagg'd around,
And the offended damsel sigh'd and frown'd;
The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid,
And fancy's sickness seized the loathing maid:
But when the men beside their station took,
The maidens with them, and with these the cook:

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When one huge wooden bowl before them stood,
Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food;
With bacon, mass saline, where never lean
Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen;
When from a single horn the party drew
Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new;
When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain
Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again—
She could not breathe; but with a heavy sigh,
Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye;
She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine,
And wonder'd much to see the creatures dine:
When she resolved her father's heart to move,
If hearts of farmers were alive to love.
She now entreated by herself to sit
In the small parlour, if papa thought fit,
And there to dine, to read, to work alone:—
“No!” said the Farmer, in an angry tone;
“These are your school-taught airs; your mother's pride
“Would send you there; but I am now your guide.—
“Arise betimes, our early meal prepare,
“And, this despatch'd, let business be your care;
“Look to the lasses, let there not be one
“Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done;
“In every household work your portion take,
“And what you make not, see that others make:
“At leisure times attend the wheel, and see
“The whit'ning web be sprinkled on the lea;
“When thus employ'd, should our young neighbour view,
‘A useful lass,—you may have more to do.”

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Dreadful were these commands; but worse than these
The parting hint—a Farmer could not please:
'T is true she had without abhorrence seen
Young Harry Carr, when he was smart and clean:
But, to be married—be a farmer's wife—
A slave! a drudge!—she could not, for her life.
With swimming eyes the fretful nymph withdrew,
And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew;
There on her knees, to Heaven she grieving pray'd
For change of prospect to a tortured maid.
Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire
Had left him all industrious men require,
Saw the pale Beauty,—and her shape and air
Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear:
“For my small farm, what can the damsel do?”
He said,—then stopp'd to take another view:
“Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn
“Of household cares,—for what can beauty earn
“By those small arts which they at school attain,
“That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?”
This luckless Damsel look'd the village round,
To find a friend, and one was quickly found:
A pensive Widow,—whose mild air and dress
Pleased the sad nymph, who wish'd her soul's distress
To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess.
“What Lady that?” the anxious lass inquired,
Who then beheld the one she most admired:

290

“Here,” said the Brother, “are no ladies seen—
“That is a widow dwelling on the Green;
“A dainty dame, who can but barely live
“On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give;
“She happier days has known, but seems at ease,
“And you may call her Lady, if you please:
“But if you wish, good sister, to improve,
“You shall see twenty better worth your love.”
These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught,
This useless Widow was the one she sought:
The father growl'd; but said he knew no harm
In such connexion that could give alarm;
“And if we thwart the trifler in her course,
“'Tis odds against us she will take a worse.”
Then met the friends; the Widow heard the sigh
That ask'd at once compassion and reply:—
“Would you, my child, converse with one so poor,
“Yours were the kindness—yonder is my door:
“And, save the time that we in public pray,
‘From that poor cottage I but rarely stray.
There went the Nymph, and made her strong complaints,
Painting her wo as injured feeling paints.
“Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel,
“Shock'd all day long, and sicken'd every meal;
“Could you behold our kitchen (and to you
“A scene so shocking must indeed be new),
“A mind like yours, with true refinement graced,
“Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste:

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“And yet, in truth, from such a polish'd mind
“All base ideas must resistance find,
“And sordid pictures from the fancy pass,
“As the breath startles from the polish'd glass.
“Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene,
“Without so pleasant, and within so clean;
“These twining jess'mines, what delicious gloom
“And soothing fragrance yield they to the room!
“What lovely garden! there you oft retire,
“And tales of wo and tenderness admire:
“In that neat case your books, in order placed,
“Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultured taste;
“And thus, while all about you wears a charm,
“How must you scorn the Farmer and the Farm!”
The Widow smiled, and “Know you not,” said she,
“How much these farmers scorn or pity me;
“Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see?
“True, their opinion alters not my fate,
“By falsely judging of an humble state:
‘This garden you with such delight behold,
“Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold;
“These plants, which please so well your livelier sense,
“To mine but little of their sweets dispense:
“Books soon are painful to my failing sight,
“And oftener read from duty than delight;
“(Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find
“Both joy and duty in the act combined;)
“But view me rightly, you will see no more
“Than a poor female, willing to be poor;

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“Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers,
“Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours,
“Of never-tasted joys;—such visions shun,
“My youthful friend, nor scorn the Farmer's Son.”
“Nay,” said the Damsel, nothing pleased to see
A Friend's advice could like a Father's be,
“Bless'd in your cottage, you must surely smile
“At those who live in our detested style:
“To my Lucinda's sympathising heart
“Could I my prospects and my griefs impart,
“She would console me; but I dare not show
“Ills that would wound her tender soul to know:
“And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell
“The secrets of the prison where I dwell;
“For that dear maiden would be shock'd to feel
“The secrets I should shudder to reveal;
“When told her friend was by a parent ask'd,
“‘Fed you the swine?’—Good heaven! how I am task'd!—
“What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief
“That woos your pity and demands relief.”
“Trifles, my love: you take a false alarm;
“Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm:
“Duties in every state demand your care,
“And light are those that will require it there.
“Fix on the Youth a favouring eye, and these,
“To him pertaining, or as his, will please.”
“What words,” the Lass replied, “offend my ear!
“Try you my patience? Can you be sincere?

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“And am I told a willing hand to give
“To a rude farmer, and with rustics live?
“Far other fate was yours;—some gentle youth
“Admired your beauty, and avow'd his truth;
“The power of love prevail'd, and freely both
“Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding oath;
“And then the rival's plot, the parent's power,
“And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour:
“Ah! let not memory lose the blissful view,
“But fairly show what Love has done for you.”
“Agreed, my daughter; what my heart has known
“Of Love's strange power, shall be with frankness shown:
“But let me warn you, that experience finds
“Few of the scenes that lively hope designs.”—
“Mysterious all,” said Nancy; “you, I know,
“Have suffer'd much; now deign the grief to show;—
“I am your friend, and so prepare my heart
“In all your sorrows to receive a part.”
The Widow answer'd: “I had once, like you,
“Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue;
“You judge it fated, and decreed to dwell
“In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel,
“A passion doom'd to reign, and irresistible.
“The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain
“Rejects the fury or defies the pain;
“The strongest reason fails the flame t' allay,
“And resolution droops and faints away:

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“Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they prove
“At once the force of this all-powerful love;
“Each from that period feels the mutual smart,
“Nor seeks to cure it—heart is changed for heart;
“Nor is there peace till they delighted stand,
“And, at the altar—hand is join'd to hand.
“Alas! my child, there are who, dreaming so,
“Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the wo;
“There is no spirit sent the heart to move
“With such prevailing and alarming love;
“Passion to reason will submit—or why
“Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny?
“Or how could classes and degrees create
“The slightest bar to such resistless fate?
“Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix;
“No beggars' eyes the heart of kings transfix;
“And who but am'rous peers or nobles sigh,
“When titled beauties pass triumphant by?
“For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove;
“You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love:
“All would be safe, did we at first inquire—
“‘Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?’
“But quitting precept, let example show
“What joys from Love uncheck'd by prudence flow.
“A Youth, my father in his office placed,
“Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste;
“But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks;
“He studied much, and pored upon his books:
“Confused he was when seen, and, when he saw
“Me or my sisters, would in haste withdraw;

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“And had this youth departed with the year,
“His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear.
“But with my father still the Youth remain'd,
“And more reward and kinder notice gain'd:
“He often, reading, to the garden stray'd,
“Where I by books or musing was delay'd;
“This to discourse in summer evenings led,
“Of these same evenings, or of what we read:
“On such occasions we were much alone;
“But, save the look, the manner, and the tone,
“(These might have meaning,) all that we discuss'd
“We could with pleasure to a parent trust.
“At length 't was friendship—and my Friend and I
“Said we were happy, and began to sigh:
“My sisters first, and then my father, found
“That we were wandering o'er enchanted ground;
“But he had troubles in his own affairs,
“And would not bear addition to his cares:
“With pity moved, yet angry, ‘Child,’ said he,
“‘Will you embrace contempt and beggary?
“‘Can you endure to see each other cursed
“‘By want, of every human wo the worst?
“‘Warring for ever with distress, in dread
“‘Either of begging or of wanting bread;
“‘While poverty, with unrelenting force,
“‘Will your own offspring from your love divorce;
“‘They, through your folly, must be doom'd to pine,
“‘And you deplore your passion, or resign;

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“‘For if it die, what good will then remain?
“‘And if it live, it doubles every pain.’”
“But you were true,” exclaim'd the Lass, “and fled
“The tyrant's power who fill'd your soul with dread?”
“But,” said the smiling Friend, “he fill'd my mouth with bread:
“And in what other place that bread to gain
“We long consider'd, and we sought in vain:
“This was my twentieth year,—at thirty-five
“Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive;
“So many years in anxious doubt had pass'd.”
“Then,” said the Damsel, “you were bless'd at last?”
A smile again adorn'd the Widow's face,
But soon a starting tear usurp'd its place.
“Slow pass'd the heavy years, and each had more
“Pains and vexations than the years before.
“My father fail'd; his family was rent,
“And to new states his grieving daughters sent;
“Each to more thriving kindred found a way,
“Guests without welcome—servants without pay
“Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel
“The sad, sweet converse at our final meal;
“Our father then reveal'd his former fears,
“Cause of his sternness, and then join'd our tears,
“Kindly he strove our feelings to repress,
“But died, and left us heirs to his distress.

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“The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose;
“I with a wealthy widow sought repose;
“Who with a chilling frown her friend received,
“Bade me rejoice, and wonder'd that I grieved:
“In vain my anxious lover tried his skill
“To rise in life, he was dependent still;
“We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears
“Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years:
“Our dying hopes and stronger fears between,
“We felt no season peaceful or serene;
“Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night,
“Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light;
“And then domestic sorrows, till the mind,
“Worn with distresses, to despair inclined;
“Add too the ill that from the passion flows,
“When its contemptuous frown the world bestows,
“The peevish spirit caused by long delay,
“When, being gloomy, we contemn the gay,
“When, being wretched, we incline to hate
“And censure others in a happier state;
“Yet loving still, and still compell'd to move
“In the sad labyrinth of lingering love:
“While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm,
“May wed—oh! take the Farmer and the Farm.”
“Nay,” said the Nymph, “joy smiled on you at last?”
“Smiled for a moment,” she replied, “and pass'd:
“My lover still the same dull means pursued,
“Assistant call'd, but kept in servitude;
“His spirits wearied in the prime of life,
“By fears and wishes in eternal strife;

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“At length he urged impatient—‘Now consent;
“‘With thee united, Fortune may relent.’
“I paused, consenting; but a Friend arose,
“Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose;
“From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam
“Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream;
“By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired,
“And sail'd—was wounded—reach'd us—and expired!
“You shall behold his grave; and when I die,
“There—but 't is folly—I request to lie.”
“Thus,” said the Lass, “to joy you bade adieu!
“But how a widow?—that cannot be true:
“Or was it force, in some unhappy hour,
“That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant's power?”
“Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled,
“Is what a woman seldom has to dread;
“She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls,
“And seldom comes a lover though she calls:
“Yet, moved by fancy, one approved my face,
“Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace.
“The man I married was sedate and meek,
“And spoke of love as men in earnest speak;
“Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought, for years,
“A heart in sorrow and a face in tears:
‘That heart I gave not; and 'twas long before
‘I gave attention, and then nothing more;

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“But in my breast some grateful feeling rose,
“For one whose love so sad a subject chose;
“Till long delaying, fearing to repent,
“But grateful still, I gave a cold assent.
“Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find,
“And he but one; my heart could not be kind:
“Alas! of every early hope bereft,
“There was no fondness in my bosom left;
“So had I told him, but had told in vain,
“He lived but to indulge me and complain:
“His was this cottage; he inclosed this ground,
“And planted all these blooming shrubs around;
“He to my room these curious trifles brought,
“And with assiduous love my pleasure sought;
“He lived to please me, and I ofttimes strove,
“Smiling, to thank his unrequited love:
“‘Teach me,’ he cried, ‘that pensive mind to ease,
“‘For all my pleasure is the hope to please.’
“Serene, though heavy, were the days we spent,
“Yet kind each word, and gen'rous each intent;
“But his dejection lessen'd every day,
“And to a placid kindness died away:
“In tranquil ease we pass'd our latter years,
“By griefs untroubled, unassail'd by fears.
“Let not romantic views your bosom sway,
“Yield to your duties, and their call obey:
“Fly not a Youth, frank, honest, and sincere;
“Observe his merits, and his passion hear!

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“'Tis true, no hero, but a farmer sues—
“Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views;
“With him you cannot that affliction prove,
“That rends the bosom of the poor, in love:
“Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days,
“Your friends' approval, and your father's praise,
“Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate
“Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late.”
The Damsel heard; at first th' advice was strange,
Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change:
“I have no care,” she said, when next they met,
“But one may wonder, he is silent yet;
“He looks around him with his usual stare,
“And utters nothing—not that I shall care.”
This pettish humour pleased th experienced Friend—
None need despair, whose silence can offend;
“Should I,” resumed the thoughtful Lass, “consent
“To hear the man, the man may now repent:
“Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough,
“Or give one hint, that ‘You may woo me now?’”
“Persist, my love,” replied the Friend, “and gain
“A parent's praise, that cannot be in vain.”
The father saw the change, but not the cause,
And gave the alter'd maid his fond applause;
The coarser manners she in part removed,
In part endured, improving and improved;

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She spoke of household works, she rose betimes,
And said neglect and indolence were crimes;
The various duties of their life she weigh'd,
And strict attention to her dairy paid;
The names of servants now familiar grew,
And fair Lucinda's from her mind withdrew;
As prudent travellers for their ease assume
Their modes and language to whose lands they come:
So to the Farmer this fair Lass inclined,
Gave to the business of the Farm her mind;
To useful arts she turn'd her hand and eye;
And by her manners told him—“You may try.”
Th' observing Lover more attention paid,
With growing pleasure, to the alter'd maid;
He fear'd to lose her, and began to see
That a slim beauty might a helpmate be:
'Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address'd,
And in his Sunday robe his love express'd:
She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy,
Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy,
But still she lent an unreluctant ear
To all the rural business of the year;
Till love's strong hopes endured no more delay,
And Harry ask'd, and Nancy named the day.
“A happy change! my Boy, the father cried:
“How lost your sister all her school-day pride?”
The Youth replied, “It is the Widow's deed;
“The cure is perfect, and was wrought with speed.”—

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“And comes there, Boy, this benefit of books,
“Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks?
“We must be kind—some offerings from the Farm
“To the White Cot will speak our feelings warm;
“Will show that people, when they know the fact,
“Where they have judged severely, can retract.
“Oft have I smiled, when I beheld her pass
“With cautious step, as if she hurt the grass;
“Where, if a snail's retreat she chanced to storm,
“She look'd as begging pardon of the worm;
“And what, said I, still laughing at the view,
“Have these weak creatures in the world to do?
“But some are made for action, some to speak;
“And, while she looks so pitiful and meek,
“Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.”
Soon told the village-bells the rite was done,
That join'd the school-bred Miss and Farmer's Son,
Her former habits some slight scandal raised,
But real worth was soon perceived and praised;
She, her neat taste imparted to the Farm,
And he, th' improving skill and vigorous arm.

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TALE VIII. THE MOTHER.

What though you have beauty,
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
—As You Like It.

I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed. —As You Like It.

Wilt thou love such a woman? What! to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee!—Not to be endured. —As You Like It.

Your son,
As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
Her estimation hence.
All's Well that Ends Well.

Be this sweet Helen's knell;
He left a wife whose words all ears took captive,
Whose dear perfections hearts that scorn'd to serve
Humbly call'd Mistress.
All's Well that Ends Well.


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There was a worthy, but a simple Pair,
Who nursed a Daughter, fairest of the fair:
Sons they had lost, and she alone remain'd,
Heir to the kindness they had all obtain'd;
Heir to the fortune they design'd for all,
Nor had th' allotted portion then been small;
But now, by fate enrich'd with beauty rare,
They watch'd their treasure with peculiar care:
The fairest features they could early trace,
And, blind with love, saw merit in her face—
Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace;
And Dorothea, from her infant years,
Gain'd all her wishes from their pride or fears;
She wrote a billet, and a novel read,
And with her fame her vanity was fed;
Each word, each look, each action was a cause
For flattering wonder and for fond applause;
She rode or danced, and ever glanced around,
Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found.
The yielding pair to her petitions gave
An humble friend to be a civil slave;

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Who for a poor support herself resign'd
To the base toil of a dependent mind:
By nature cold, our Heiress stoop'd to art,
To gain the credit of a tender heart.
Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand,
To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand:
And now, her education all complete,
She talk'd of virtuous love and union sweet;
She was indeed by no soft passion moved,
But wish'd, with all her soul, to be beloved.
Here, on the favour'd beauty Fortune smiled;
Her chosen Husband was a man so mild,
So humbly temper'd, so intent to please,
It quite distress'd her to remain at ease,
Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease:
She tried his patience in a thousand modes,
And tired it not upon the roughest roads.
Pleasure she sought, and, disappointed, sigh'd
For joys, she said, “to her alone denied;”
And she was “sure her parents, if alive,
“Would many comforts for their child contrive:”
The gentle Husband bade her name him one;
“No—that,” she answer'd, “should for her be done;
“How could she say what pleasures were around?
“But she was certain many might be found.”—
“Would she some sea-port, Weymouth, Scarborough, grace?”
“He knew she hated every watering-place:”—
“The town?”—“What! now 'twas empty, joyless, dull?”
—“In winter?”—“No; she liked it worse when full.”

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She talk'd of building—“Would she plan a room?”—
“No! she could live, as he desired, in gloom:”
“Call then our friends and neighbours:”—“He might call,
“And they might come and fill his ugly hall;
“A noisy vulgar set, he knew she scorn'd them all:”—
“Then might their two dear girls the time employ,
“And their improvement yield a solid joy;”—
“Solid indeed! and heavy—oh! the bliss
“Of teaching letters to a lisping miss!”—
“My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say,
“Can I oblige you?”—“You may go away.”
Twelve heavy years this patient soul sustain'd
This wasp's attacks, and then her praise obtain'd,
Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace remain'd.
Two daughters wept their loss; the one a child
With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild,
Who keenly felt the Mother's angry taunt,
“Thou art the image of thy pious Aunt:”
Long time had Lucy wept her slighted face,
And then began to smile at her disgrace.
Her father's sister, who the world had seen
Near sixty years when Lucy saw sixteen,
Begg'd the plain girl: the gracious Mother smiled,
And freely gave her grieved but passive child;
And with her elder-born, the beauty blest,
This parent rested, if such minds can rest:
No miss her waxen babe could so admire,
Nurse with such care, or with such pride attire;

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They were companions meet, with equal mind,
Bless'd with one love, and to one point inclined;
Beauty to keep, adorn, increase, and guard,
Was their sole care, and had its full reward:
In rising splendor with the one it reign'd,
And in the other was by care sustain'd,
The daughter's charms increased, the parent's yet remain'd.
Leave we these ladies to their daily care,
To see how meekness and discretion fare:—
A village maid, unvex'd by want or love,
Could not with more delight than Lucy move;
The village-lark, high mounted in the spring,
Could not with purer joy than Lucy sing;
Her cares all light, her pleasures all sincere,
Her duty joy, and her companion dear;
In tender friendship and in true respect
Lived Aunt and Niece, no flattery, no neglect—
They read, walk'd, visited—together pray'd,
Together slept the matron and the maid:
There was such goodness, such pure nature seen
In Lucy's looks, a manner so serene;
Such harmony in motion, speech, and air,
That without fairness she was more than fair,
Had more than beauty in each speaking grace,
That lent their cloudless glory to the face;
Where mild good sense in placid looks were shown,
And felt in every bosom but her own.
The one presiding feature in her mind,
Was the pure meekness of a will resign'd;

309

A tender spirit, freed from all pretence
Of wit, and pleased in mild benevolence;
Blest in protecting fondness she reposed,
With every wish indulged though undisclosed;
But Love, like zephyr on the limpid lake,
Was now the bosom of the maid to shake,
And in that gentle mind a gentle strife to make.
Among their chosen friends, a favour'd few
The aunt and niece a youthful Rector knew;
Who, though a younger brother, might address
A younger sister, fearless of success:
His friends, a lofty race, their native pride
At first display'd, and their assent denied;
But, pleased such virtues and such love to trace,
They own'd she would adorn the loftiest race.
The Aunt, a mother's caution to supply,
Had watch'd the youthful priest with jealous eye;
And, anxious for her charge, had view'd unseen
The cautious life that keeps the conscience clean:
In all she found him all she wish'd to find,
With slight exception of a lofty mind:
A certain manner that express'd desire,
To be received as brother to the 'Squire.
Lucy's meek eye had beam'd with many a tear,
Lucy's soft heart had beat with many a fear,
Before he told (although his looks, she thought,
Had oft confess'd) that he her favour sought:
But when he kneel'd, (she wish'd him not to kneel,)
And spoke the fears and hopes that lovers feel;

310

When too the prudent aunt herself confess'd,
Her wishes on the gentle youth would rest;
The maiden's eye with tender passion beam'd,
She dwelt with fondness on the life she schemed;
The household cares, the soft and lasting ties
Of love, with all his binding charities;
Their village taught, consoled, assisted, fed,
Till the young zealot tears of pleasure shed.
But would her Mother? Ah! she fear'd it wrong
To have indulged these forward hopes so long;
Her mother loved, but was not used to grant
Favours so freely as her gentle aunt.—
Her gentle aunt, with smiles that angels wear,
Dispell'd her Lucy's apprehensive tear:
Her prudent foresight the request had made
To one whom none could govern, few persuade;
She doubted much if one in earnest woo'd
A girl with not a single charm endued;
The Sister's nobler views she then declared,
And what small sum for Lucy could be spared;
“If more than this the foolish priest requires,
“Tell him,” she wrote, “to check his vain desires.”
At length, with many a cold expression mix'd,
With many a sneer on girls so fondly fix'd,
There came a promise—should they not repent,
But take with grateful minds the portion meant,
And wait the Sister's day—the Mother might consent.
And here, might pitying hope o'er truth prevail,
Or love o'er fortune, we would end our tale.

311

For who more blest than youthful pair removed
From fear of want—by mutual friends approved—
Short time to wait, and in that time to live
With all the pleasures hope and fancy give;
Their equal passion raised on just esteem,
When reason sanctions all that love can dream?
Yes! reason sanctions what stern fate denies:
The early prospect in the glory dies,
As the soft smiles on dying infants play
In their mild features, and then pass away.
The Beauty died, ere she could yield her hand
In the high marriage by the Mother plann'd;
Who grieved indeed, but found a vast relief
In a cold heart, that ever warr'd with grief.
Lucy was present when her sister died,
Heiress to duties that she ill supplied.
There were no mutual feelings, sister arts,
No kindred taste, nor intercourse of hearts;
When in the mirror play'd the matron's smile,
The maiden's thoughts were trav'lling all the while;
And when desired to speak, she sigh'd to find
Her pause offended; “Envy made her blind:
“Tasteless she was, nor had a claim in life
“Above the station of a rector's wife;
“Yet as an heiress, she must shun disgrace,
“Although no heiress to her mother's face:
‘It is your duty,” said th' imperious dame,
“(Advanced your fortune) to advance your name,

312

“And with superior rank, superior offers claim.
“Your sister's lover, when his sorrows die,
“May look upon you, and for favour sigh;
“Nor can you offer a reluctant hand;
“His birth is noble, and his seat is grand.”
Alarm'd was Lucy, was in tears—“A fool!
“Was she a child in love?—a miss at school?
“Doubts any mortal, if a change of state
“Dissolves all claims and ties of earlier date?”
The Rector doubted, for he came to mourn
A sister dead, and with a wife return:
Lucy with heart unchanged received the youth,
True in herself, confiding in his truth;
But own'd her mother's change; the haughty dame
Pour'd strong contempt upon the youthful flame;
She firmly vow'd her purpose to pursue,
Judged her own cause, and bade the youth adieu!
The lover begg'd, insisted, urged his pain,
His brother wrote to threaten and complain,
Her sister reasoning proved the promise made,
Lucy appealing to a parent pray'd;
But all opposed the event that she design'd,
And all in vain—she never changed her mind;
But coldly answer'd in her wonted way,
That she “would rule, and Lucy must obey.”
With peevish fear, she saw her health decline,
And cried, “Oh! monstrous, for a man to pine
“But if your foolish heart must yield to love,
“Let him possess it whom I now approve;

313

“This is my pleasure:”—Still the Rector came
With larger offers and with bolder claim;
But the stern lady would attend no more—
She frown'd, and rudely pointed to the door;
Whate'er he wrote, he saw unread return'd,
And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn'd:
Nay, fix'd suspicion where he might confide,
And sacrificed his passion to his pride.
Lucy, meantime, though threaten'd and distress'd;
Against her marriage made a strong protest:
All was domestic war; the Aunt rebell'd
Against the sovereign will, and was expell'd;
And every power was tried, and every art,
To bend to falsehood one determined heart;
Assail'd, in patience it received the shock,
Soft as the wave, unshaken as the rock:
But while th' unconquer'd soul endures the storm
Of angry fate, it preys upon the form;
With conscious virtue she resisted still,
And conscious love gave vigour to her will:
But Lucy's trial was at hand; with joy
The Mother cried—“Behold your constant boy—
“Thursday—was married:—take the paper, sweet,
“And read the conduct of your reverend cheat;
“See with what pomp of coaches, in what crowd
“The creature married—of his falsehood proud!
“False, did I say?—at least no whining fool;
“And thus will hopeless passions ever cool:
“But shall his bride your single state reproach?
“No! give him crowd for crowd, and coach for coach.

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“Oh! you retire; reflect then, gentle miss,
“And gain some spirit in a cause like this.”
Some spirit Lucy gain'd; a steady soul,
Defying all persuasion, all control:
In vain reproach, derision, threats were tried;
The constant mind all outward force defied,
By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail'd by pride;
Fix'd in her purpose, perfect in her part,
She felt the courage of a wounded heart;
The world receded from her rising view,
When heaven approach'd as earthly things withdrew;
Not strange before, for in the days of love,
Joy, hope, and pleasure, she had thoughts above,
Pious when most of worldly prospects fond,
When they best pleased her she could look beyond
Had the young priest a faithful lover died,
Something had been her bosom to divide;
Now heaven had all, for in her holiest views
She saw the matron whom she fear'd to lose;
While from her parent, the dejected maid
Forced the unpleasant thought, or thinking pray'd.
Surprised, the Mother saw the languid frame,
And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame:
Once with a frown she cried, “And do you mean
“To die of love—the folly of fifteen?”
But as her anger met with no reply,
She let the gentle girl in quiet die;
And to her sister wrote, impell'd by pain,
“Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain.”

315

Lucy meantime profess'd with joy sincere,
That nothing held, employ'd, engaged her here.
“I am an humble actor, doom'd to play
“A part obscure, and then to glide away:
“Incurious how the great or happy shine,
“Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine;
“In its best prospect I but wish'd, for life,
“To be th' assiduous, gentle, useful wife;
“That lost, with wearied mind, and spirit poor,
“I drop my efforts, and can act no more;
“With growing joy I feel my spirits tend
“To that last scene where all my duties end.”
Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying gave,
Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave;
She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm,
And said, “She left but little for the worm:”
As toll'd the bell, “There's one,” she said, “hath press'd
“Awhile before me to the bed of rest:”
And she beside her with attention spread
The decorations of the maiden dead.
While quickly thus the mortal part declin'd,
The happiest visions fill'd the active mind;

316

A soft, religious melancholy gain'd
Entire possession, and for ever reign'd:
On Holy Writ her mind reposing dwelt,
She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt;
Till in a blest and glorious reverie,
She seem'd the Saviour as on earth to see,
And, fill'd with love divine, th' attending friend to be;
Or she who trembling, yet confiding, stole
Near to the garment, touch'd it, and was whole;
When, such th' intenseness of the working thought,
On her it seem'd the very deed was wrought;
She the glad patient's fear and rapture found,
The holy transport, and the healing wound;
This was so fix'd, so grafted in the heart,
That she adopted, nay became the part:
But one chief scene was present to her sight,
Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night;
Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind
Was to that scene, that hallow'd cave, confin'd—
Where in the shade of death the body laid,
There watch'd the spirit of the wandering maid;
Her looks were fix'd, entranced, illumed, serene,
In the still glory of the midnight scene:
There at her Saviour's feet, in visions blest,
Th' enraptured maid a sacred joy possess'd;
In patience waiting for the first-born ray
Of that all-glorious and triumphant day:
To this idea all her soul she gave,
Her mind reposing by the sacred grave;
Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close,
And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose.

317

Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers
Again restored, illumed the dying hours;
But reason dwelt where fancy stray'd before,
And the mind wander'd from its views no more;
Till death approach'd, when every look express'd
A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest.
The Mother lives, and has enough to buy
Th' attentive ear and the submissive eye
Of abject natures—these are daily told,
How triumph'd beauty in the days of old;
How, by her window seated, crowds have cast
Admiring glances, wondering as they pass'd;
How from her carriage as she stepp'd to pray,
Divided ranks would humbly make her way;
And how each voice in the astonish'd throng
Pronounced her peerless as she moved along.
Her picture then the greedy Dame displays;
Touch'd by no shame, she now demands its praise;
In her tall mirror then she shows a face,
Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace;
These she compares, “It has the form,” she cries,
“But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes;
“This, as a likeness, is correct and true,
“But there alone the living grace we view.”
This said, th' applauding voice the Dame required,
And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired.
END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.

3

TALE IX. ARABELLA.

Thrice blessed they that master so their blood—
But earthly happier is the rose distill'd,
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Midsummer Night's Dream.

I sometimes do excuse the thing I hate,
For his advantage whom I dearly love.
Measure for Measure.

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!
Much Ado about Nothing.


5

Of a fair town where Doctor Rack was guide,
His only daughter was the boast and pride;
Wise Arabella, yet not wise alone,
She like a bright and polish'd brilliant shone;
Her father own'd her for his prop and stay,
Able to guide, yet willing to obey;
Pleased with her learning while discourse could please,
And with her love in languor and disease:
To every mother were her virtues known,
And to their daughters as a pattern shown;
Who in her youth had all that age requires,
And with her prudence, all that youth admires:
These odious praises made the damsels try
Not to obtain such merits, but deny;
For, whatsoever wise mammas might say,
To guide a daughter, this was not the way;
From such applause disdain and anger rise,
And envy lives where emulation dies.

6

In all his strength, contends the noble horse,
With one who just precedes him on the course;
But when the rival flies too far before,
His spirit fails, and he attempts no more.
This reasoning Maid, above her sex's dread,
Had dared to read, and dared to say she read;
Not the last novel, not the new-born play;
Not the mere trash and scandal of the day;
But (though her young companions felt the shock)
She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes, and Locke:
Her mind within the maze of history dwelt,
And of the moral Muse the beauty felt;
The merits of the Roman page she knew,
And could converse with More and Montagu:
Thus she became the wonder of the town,
From that she reap'd, to that she gave renown,
And strangers coming, all were taught t' admire
The learned lady, and the lofty spire.
Thus Fame in public fix'd the Maid where all
Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall:
A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen,
From tongues envenom'd, and from arms unseen;
A thousand eyes were fix'd upon the place,
That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace:
But malice vainly throws the poison'd dart,
Unless our frailty shows the peccant part;
And Arabella still preserved her name
Untouch'd, and shone with undisputed fame;

7

Her very notice some respect would cause,
And her esteem was honour and applause.
Men she avoided; not in childish fear,
As if she thought some savage foe was near;
Not as a prude, who hides that man should seek,
Or who by silence hints that they should speak;
But with discretion all the sex she view'd,
Ere yet engaged pursuing or pursued;
Ere love had made her to his vices blind,
Or hid the favourite's failings from her mind.
Thus was the picture of the man portray'd,
By merit destined for so rare a maid;
At whose request she might exchange her state,
Or still be happy in a virgin's fate:—
He must be one with manners like her own,
His life unquestion'd, his opinions known;
His stainless virtue must all tests endure,
His honour spotless, and his bosom pure;
She no allowance made for sex or times,
Of lax opinion—crimes were ever crimes;
No wretch forsaken must his frailty curse,
No spurious offspring drain his private purse.
He at all times his passions must command,
And yet possess—or be refused her hand.
All this without reserve the maiden told,
And some began to weigh the rector's gold;
To ask what sum a prudent man might gain,
Who had such store of virtues to maintain?

8

A Doctor Campbell, north of Tweed, came forth,
Declared his passion, and proclaim'd his worth;
Not unapproved, for he had much to say
On every cause, and in a pleasant way;
Not all his trust was in a pliant tongue,
His form was good, and ruddy he, and young:
But though the doctor was a man of parts,
He read not deeply male or female hearts;
But judged that all whom he esteem'd as wise
Must think alike, though some assumed disguise;
That every reasoning Bramin, Christian, Jew,
Of all religions took their liberal view;
And of her own, no doubt, this learned Maid
Denied the substance, and the forms obey'd:
And thus persuaded, he his thoughts express'd
Of her opinions, and his own profess'd:
“All states demand this aid, the vulgar need
“Their priests and pray'rs, their sermons and their creed;
“And those of stronger minds should never speak
“(In his opinion) what might hurt the weak:
“A man may smile, but still he should attend
“His hour at church, and be the Church's friend,
“What there he thinks conceal, and what he hears commend.”
Frank was the speech, but heard with high disdain,
Nor had the doctor leave to speak again;
A man who own'd, nay gloried in deceit,
“He might despise her, but he should not cheat.”

9

The Vicar Holmes appear'd: he heard it said
That ancient men best pleased the prudent maid;
And true it was her ancient friends she loved,
Servants when old she favour'd and approved,
Age in her pious parents she revered,
And neighbours were by length of days endear'd;
But, if her husband too must ancient be,
The good old vicar found it was not he.
On Captain Bligh her mind in balance hung—
Though valiant, modest; and reserved, though young:
Against these merits must defects be set—
Though poor, imprudent; and though proud, in debt:
In vain the captain close attention paid;
She found him wanting, whom she fairly weigh'd.
Then came a youth, and all their friends agreed,
That Edward Huntly was the man indeed;
Respectful duty he had paid awhile,
Then ask'd her hand, and had a gracious smile:
A lover now declared, he led the fair
To woods and fields, to visits, and to pray'r;
Then whisper'd softly—“Will you name the day?”
She softly whisper'd—“If you love me, stay:”
“Oh! try me not beyond my strength,” he cried:
“Oh! be not weak,” the prudent Maid replied;
“But by some trial your affection prove—
“Respect and not impatience argues love:
“And love no more is by impatience known,
“Than ocean's depth is by its tempests shown:

10

“He whom a weak and fond impatience sways,
“But for himself with all his fervour prays,
“And not the maid he woos, but his own will obeys;
“And will she love the being who prefers,
“With so much ardour, his desire to hers?”
Young Edward grieved, but let not grief be seen;
He knew obedience pleased his fancy's queen:
Awhile he waited, and then cried—“Behold!
“The year advancing, be no longer cold!”
For she had promised—“Let the flowers appear,
“And I will pass with thee the smiling year:”
Then pressing grew the youth; the more he press'd,
The less inclined the maid to his request:
“Let June arrive.”—Alas! when April came,
It brought a stranger, and the stranger, shame;
Nor could the Lover from his house persuade
A stubborn lass whom he had mournful made;
Angry and weak, by thoughtless vengeance moved,
She told her story to the Fair beloved;
In strongest words th' unwelcome truth was shown,
To blight his prospects, careless of her own.
Our heroine grieved, but had too firm a heart
For him to soften, when she swore to part;
In vain his seeming penitence and pray'r,
His vows, his tears; she left him in despair:
His mother fondly laid her grief aside,
And to the reason of the nymph applied—
“It well becomes thee, lady, to appear,
“But not to be, in very truth, severe;

11

“Although the crime be odious in thy sight,
“That daring sex is taught such things to slight:
“His heart is thine, although it once was frail;
“Think of his grief, and let his love prevail!”—
“Plead thou no more,” the lofty lass return'd:
“Forgiving woman is deceived and spurn'd:
“Say that the crime is common—shall I take
“A common man my wedded lord to make?
“See! a weak woman by his arts betray'd,
“An infant born his father to upbraid;
“Shall I forgive his vileness, take his name,
“Sanction his error, and partake his shame?
“No! this assent would kindred frailty prove,
“A love for him would be a vicious love:
“Can a chaste maiden secret counsel hold
“With one whose crime by every mouth is told?
“Forbid it spirit, prudence, virtuous pride;
“He must despise me, were he not denied:
“The way from vice the erring mind to win
“Is with presuming sinners to begin,
“And show, by scorning them, a just contempt for sin.”
The youth repulsed, to one more mild convey'd
His heart, and smiled on the remorseless maid;
The maid, remorseless in her pride, the while
Despised the insult, and return'd the smile.
First to admire, to praise her, and defend,
Was (now in years advanced) a virgin-friend:
Much she preferr'd, she cried, the single state,
“It was her choice”—it surely was her fate;

12

And much it pleased her in the train to view
A maiden vot'ress, wise and lovely too.
Time to the yielding mind his change imparts,
He varies notions, and he alters hearts;
'Tis right, 'tis just to feel contempt for vice,
But he that shows it may be over-nice:
There are who feel, when young, the false sublime,
And proudly love to show disdain for crime;
To whom the future will new thoughts supply,
The pride will soften, and the scorn will die;
Nay, where they still the vice itself condemn,
They bear the vicious, and consort with them:
Young Captain Grove, when one had changed his side,
Despised the venal turn-coat, and defied;
Old Colonel Grove now shakes him by the hand,
Though he who bribes may still his vote command:
Why would not Ellen to Belinda speak,
When she had flown to London for a week;
And then return'd, to every friend's surprise,
With twice the spirit, and with half the size?
She spoke not then—but, after years had flown,
A better friend had Ellen never known:
Was it the lady her mistake had seen?
Or had she also such a journey been?
No: 'twas the gradual change in human hearts,
That time, in commerce with the world, imparts;
That on the roughest temper throws disguise,
And steals from virtue her asperities.
The young and ardent, who with glowing zeal
Felt wrath for trifles, and were proud to feel,

13

Now find those trifles all the mind engage,
To soothe dull hours, and cheat the cares of age;
As young Zelinda, in her quaker-dress,
Disdain'd each varying fashion's vile excess,
And now her friends on old Zelinda gaze,
Pleased in rich silks and orient gems to blaze:
Changes like these 'tis folly to condemn,
So virtue yields not, nor is changed with them.
Let us proceed:—Twelve brilliant years were past,
Yet each with less of glory than the last;
Whether these years to this fair virgin gave
A softer mind—effect they often have;
Whether the virgin-state was not so bless'd
As that good maiden in her zeal profess'd;
Or whether lovers falling from her train,
Gave greater price to those she could retain,
Is all unknown;—but Arabella now
Was kindly listening to a Merchant's vow;
Who offer'd terms so fair, against his love
To strive was folly, so she never strove.—
Man in his earlier days we often find
With a too easy and unguarded mind;
But by increasing years and prudence taught,
He grows reserved, and locks up every thought:
Not thus the maiden, for in blooming youth
She hides her thought and guards the tender truth:
This, when no longer young, no more she hides,
But frankly in the favour'd swain confides:
Man, stubborn man, is like the growing tree,
That, longer standing, still will harder be;

14

And like its fruit, the virgin, first austere,
Then kindly softening with the ripening year.
Now was the lover urgent, and the kind
And yielding lady to his suit inclined:
“A little time, my friend, is just, is right;
“We must be decent in our neighbours' sight:”
Still she allow'd him of his hopes to speak,
And in compassion took off week by week;
Till few remain'd, when, wearied with delay,
She kindly meant to take off day by day.
That female Friend who gave our virgin praise
For flying man and all his treacherous ways,
Now heard with mingled anger, shame, and fear,
Of one accepted, and a wedding near;
But she resolved again with friendly zeal
To make the maid her scorn of wedlock feel;
For she was grieved to find her work undone,
And like a sister mourn'd the failing nun.
Why are these gentle maidens prone to make
Their sister-doves the tempting world forsake?
Why all their triumph when a maid disdains
The tyrant sex, and scorns to wear its chains?
Is it pure joy to see a sister flown
From the false pleasures they themselves have known?
Or do they, as the call-birds in the cage,
Try, in pure envy, others to engage?
And therefore paint their native woods and groves,
As scenes of dangerous joys and naughty loves?

15

Strong was the maiden's hope; her friend was proud,
And had her notions to the world avow'd;
And, could she find the Merchant weak and frail,
With power to prove it, then she must prevail:
For she aloud would publish his disgrace,
And save his victim from a man so base.
When all inquiries had been duly made,
Came the kind Friend her burthen to unlade—
“Alas! my dear! not all our care and art
“Can thread the maze of man's deceitful heart:
“Look not surprise—nor let resentment swell
“Those lovely features, all will yet be well;
“And thou, from love's and man's deceptions free,
“Wilt dwell in virgin-state, and walk to Heaven with me.”
The Maiden frown'd, and then conceived “that wives
“Could walk as well, and lead as holy lives
“As angry prudes who scorn'd the marriage-chain,
“Or luckless maids, who sought it still in vain.”
The Friend was vex'd—she paused: at length she cried,
“Know your own danger, then your lot decide;
“That traitor Beswell, while he seeks your hand,
“Has, I affirm, a wanton at command;
“A slave, a creature from a foreign place,
“The nurse and mother of a spurious race;
“Brown ugly bastards—(Heaven the word forgive,
“And the deed punish!)—in his cottage live;

16

“To town if business calls him, there he stays
“In sinful pleasures wasting countless days;
“Nor doubt the facts, for I can witness call
“For every crime, and prove them one and all.”
Here ceased th' informer; Arabella's look
Was like a school-boy's puzzled by his book;
Intent she cast her eyes upon the floor,
Paused—then replied—
“I wish to know no more:
“I question not your motive, zeal, or love,
“But must decline such dubious points to prove—
“All is not true, I judge, for who can guess
“Those deeds of darkness men with care suppress?
“He brought a slave perhaps to England's coast,
“And made her free; it is our country's boast!
“And she perchance too grateful—good and ill
“Were sown at first, and grow together still;
“The colour'd infants on the village green,
“What are they more than we have often seen?
“Children half-clothed who round their village stray,
“In sun or rain, now starved, now beaten, they
“Will the dark colour of their fate betray:
“Let us in Christian love for all account,
“And then behold to what such tales amount.”
“His heart is evil,” said th' impatient Friend.
“My duty bids me try that heart to mend,”
Replied the virgin—“We may be too nice
“And lose a soul in our contempt of vice;
“If false the charge, I then shall show regard
“For a good man, and be his just reward:

17

“And what for virtue can I better do
“Than to reclaim him, if the charge be true?”
She spoke, nor more her holy work delay'd;
'Twas time to lend an erring mortal aid:
“The noblest way,” she judged, “a soul to win,
“Was with an act of kindness to begin,
“To make the sinner sure, and then t' attack the sin.”

19

TALE X. THE LOVER'S JOURNEY.

The sun is in the heavens, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton.
—King John.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact.
Midsummer Night's Dream.

Oh! how this spring of love resembleth
Th' uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all her beauty to the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away.
Two Gentlemen of Verona.

And happily I have arrived at last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss.
—Taming of the Shrew.


21

It is the Soul that sees; the outward eyes
Present the object, but the Mind descries;
And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiff'rence rise:
When minds are joyful, then we look around,
And what is seen is all on fairy ground;
Again they sicken, and on every view
Cast their own dull and melancholy hue;
Or, if absorb'd by their peculiar cares,
The vacant eye on viewless matter glares,
Our feelings still upon our views attend,
And their own natures to the objects lend;

22

Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure,
Long as the passion reigns th' effects endure;
But Love in minds his various changes makes,
And clothes each object with the change he takes;
His light and shade on every view he throws,
And on each object, what he feels, bestows.
Fair was the morning, and the month was June,
When rose a Lover;—love awakens soon:
Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while
Of that day's meeting, and his Laura's smile;
Fancy and love that name assign'd to her,
Call'd Susan in the parish-register;
And he no more was John—his Laura gave
The name Orlando to her faithful slave.
Bright shone the glory of the rising day,
When the fond traveller took his favourite way;
He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light,
And all he saw was pleasing in his sight.
“Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly,
“And bring on hours of blest reality;
“When I shall Laura see, beside her stand,
“Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand.”
First o'er a barren heath beside the coast
Orlando rode, and joy began to boast.
“This neat low gorse,” said he, “with golden bloom,
“Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume;

23

“And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers,
“A man at leisure might admire for hours;
“This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip,
“That yields to nothing but my Laura's lip;
“And then how fine this herbage! men may say
“A heath is barren; nothing is so gay:
“Barren or bare to call such charming scene
“Argues a mind possess'd by care and spleen.”
Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat,
Dust rose in clouds before the horse's feet;
For now he pass'd through lanes of burning sand,
Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured land;
Where the dark poppy flourish'd on the dry
And sterile soil, and mock'd the thin-set rye.
“How lovely this!” the rapt Orlando said;
“With what delight is labouring man repaid!
“The very lane has sweets that all admire,
“The rambling suckling, and the vigorous brier;
“See! wholesome wormwood grows beside the way,
“Where dew-press'd yet the dog-rose bends the spray;
“Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn,
“And snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn;
“No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall,
“They spring uncultured, and they bloom for all.”
The Lover rode as hasty lovers ride,
And reach'd a common pasture wild and wide;
Small black-legg'd sheep devour with hunger keen
The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean;

24

Such o'er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray,
And there, with other black-legs, find their prey:
He saw some scatter'd hovels; turf was piled
In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild!
A mill, indeed, was in the centre found,
With short sear herbage withering all around;
A smith's black shed opposed a wright's long shop,
And join'd an inn where humble travellers stop.
“Ay, this is Nature,” said the gentle 'Squire;
“This ease, peace, pleasure—who would not admire?
“With what delight these sturdy children play,
“And joyful rustics at the close of day;
“Sport follows labour, on this even space
“Will soon commence the wrestling and the race;
“Then will the village-maidens leave their home,
“And to the dance with buoyant spirits come;
“No affectation in their looks is seen,
“Nor know they what disguise or flattery mean;
“Nor aught to move an envious pang they see,
“Easy their service, and their love is free;
“Hence early springs that love, it long endures,
“And life's first comfort, while they live, ensures:
“They the low roof and rustic comforts prize,
“Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes:
“Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear,
“And learn what busier mortals feel and fear;

25

“Secure themselves, although by tales amazed,
“Of towns bombarded and of cities razed;
“As if they doubted, in their still retreat,
“The very news that makes their quiet sweet,
“And their days happy—happier only knows
“He on whom Laura her regard bestows.”
On rode Orlando, counting all the while
The miles he pass'd, and every coming mile;
Like all attracted things, he quicker flies,
The place approaching where th' attraction lies;
When next appear'd a dam—so call the place—
Where lies a road confined in narrow space;
A work of labour, for on either side
Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide,
With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied:
Far on the right the distant sea is seen,
And salt the springs that feed the marsh between;
Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten'd flood
Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud;
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide,
That frets and hurries to th' opposing side;
The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow,
Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below,
Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow:
Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;

26

The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread
Partake the nature of their fenny bed;
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh,
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stony bound;
No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun,
Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun,
Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run.
“Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face,”
Exclaim'd Orlando: “all that grows has grace;
“All are appropriate—bog, and marsh, and fen,
“Are only poor to undiscerning men;
“Here may the nice and curious eye explore
“How Nature's hand adorns the rushy moor;

27

“Here the rare moss in secret shade is found,
“Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground;
“Beauties are these that from the view retire,
“But well repay th' attention they require;
“For these, my Laura will her home forsake,
“And all the pleasures they afford partake.”
Again, the country was enclosed, a wide
And sandy road has banks on either side;
Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd,
And there a Gipsy-tribe their tent had rear'd;
'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun,
And they had now their early meal begun,
When two brown boys just left their grassy seat,
The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet:
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand,
He saw their sister on her duty stand;
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to try;
Sudden a look of languor he descries,
And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes;
Train'd but yet savage, in her speaking face
He mark'd the features of her vagrant race;
When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd
The vice implanted in her youthful breast:
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the Trav'ller's face:
Within, the Father, who from fences nigh
Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply,
Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by:

28

On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd,
Reclined the Wife, an infant at her breast;
In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd,
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd;
Her blood-shot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state,
Cursing his tardy aid—her Mother there
With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair;
Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands,
And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands,
Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years,
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears:
With hard and savage eye she views the food,
And grudging pinches their intruding brood;
Last in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious Son,
Who half supports him; he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him dance;
And, by the sadness in his face, appears
To trace the progress of their future years:
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit,
Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat!
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain—
Ere they like him approach their latter end,
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend!

29

But this Orlando felt not; “Rogues,” said he,
“Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be;
“They wander round the land, and be it true,
“They break the laws—then let the laws pursue
“The wanton idlers; for the life they live,
“Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive.”
This said, a portion from his purse was thrown,
And every heart seem'd happy like his own.
He hurried forth, for now the town was nigh—
“The happiest man of mortal men am I.”
Thou art! but change in every state is near,
(So while the wretched hope, the blest may fear):
“Say, where is Laura?”—“That her words must show,”
A lass replied; “read this, and thou shalt know!”
“What, gone!”—her friend insisted—forced to go:—
“Is vex'd, was teased, could not refuse her!—No?”
“But you can follow;” “Yes:” “The miles are few,
‘The way is pleasant; will you come?—Adieu!
“Thy Laura!” “No! I feel I must resign
“The pleasing hope, thou hadst been here, if mine:
“A lady was it?—Was no brother there?
“But why should I afflict me, if there were?”
“The way is pleasant:” “What to me the way?
“I cannot reach her till the close of day.
“My dumb companion! is it thus we speed?
“Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed;

30

“Still art thou doom'd to travel and to pine,
“For my vexation—What a fate is mine!
“Gone to a friend, she tells me;—I commend
“Her purpose: means she to a female friend?
“By Heaven, I wish she suffer'd half the pain
“Of hope protracted through the day in vain:
“Shall I persist to see th' ungrateful maid?
“Yes, I will see her, slight her, and upbraid:
“What! in the very hour? She knew the time,
“And doubtless chose it to increase her crime.”
Forth rode Orlando by a river's side,
Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide,
That roll'd majestic on, in one soft-flowing tide;
The bottom gravel, flow'ry were the banks,
Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks;
The road, now near, now distant, winding led
By lovely meadows which the waters fed;
He pass'd the way-side inn, the village spire,
Nor stopp'd to gaze, to question, or admire;
On either side the rural mansions stood,
With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crown'd with wood,
And many a devious stream that reach'd the nobler flood.
“I hate these scenes,” Orlando angry cried,
“And these proud farmers! yes, I hate their pride:
“See! that sleek fellow, how he strides along,
“Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong;
“Can yon close crops a single eye detain
“But he who counts the profits of the grain?

31

“And these vile beans with deleterious smell,
“Where is their beauty? can a mortal tell?
“These deep fat meadows I detest; it shocks
“One's feelings there to see the grazing ox;—
“For slaughter fatted, as a lady's smile
“Rejoices man, and means his death the while.
“Lo! now the sons of labour! every day
“Employ'd in toil, and vex'd in every way;
“Theirs is but mirth assumed, and they conceal,
“In their affected joys, the ills they feel:
“I hate these long green lanes; there's nothing seen
“In this vile country but eternal green;
“Woods! waters! meadows! Will they never end?
“'T is a vile prospect:—Gone to see a friend!”—
Still on he rode! a mansion fair and tall
Rose on his view—the pride of Loddon Hall:
Spread o'er the park he saw the grazing steer,
The full-fed steed, and herds of bounding deer:
On a clear stream the vivid sunbeams play'd,
Through noble elms, and on the surface made
That moving picture, checker'd light and shade;
Th' attended children, there indulged to stray,
Enjoy'd and gave new beauty to the day;
Whose happy parents from their room were seen
Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green.
“Well!” said Orlando, “and for one so bless'd,
“A thousand reasoning wretches are distress'd;
“Nay, these so seeming glad, are grieving like the rest:

32

“Man is a cheat—and all but strive to hide
“Their inward misery by their outward pride.
“What do yon lofty gates and walls contain,
“But fruitless means to soothe unconquer'd pain?
“The parents read each infant daughter's smile,
“Formed to seduce, encouraged to beguile;
“They view the boys unconscious of their fate,
“Sure to be tempted, sure to take the bait;
“These will be Lauras, sad Orlandos these—
“There's guilt and grief in all one hears and sees.”
Our Trav'ller, lab'ring up a hill, look'd down
Upon a lively, busy, pleasant town;
All he beheld were there alert, alive,
The busiest bees that ever stock'd a hive:
A pair were married, and the bells aloud
Proclaim'd their joy, and joyful seem'd the crowd;
And now proceeding on his way, he spied,
Bound by strong ties, the bridegroom and the bride;
Each by some friends attended, near they drew,
And spleen beheld them with prophetic view.
“Married! nay, mad!” Orlando cried in scorn;
“Another wretch on this unlucky morn:
“What are this foolish mirth, these idle joys?
“Attempts to stifle doubt and fear by noise:
“To me these robes, expressive of delight,
“Foreshow distress, and only grief excite;
“And for these cheerful friends, will they behold
“Their wailing brood in sickness, want, and cold;
“And his proud look, and her soft languid air
“Will—but I spare you—go, unhappy pair!”

33

And now approaching to the Journey's end,
His anger fails, his thoughts to kindness tend,
He less offended feels, and rather fears t' offend:
Now gently rising, hope contends with doubt,
And casts a sunshine on the views without;
And still reviving joy and lingering gloom
Alternate empire o'er his soul assume;
Till, long perplex'd, he now began to find
The softer thoughts engross the settling mind:
He saw the mansion, and should quickly see
His Laura's self—and angry could he be?
No! the resentment melted all away—
“For this my grief a single smile will pay,”
Our trav'ller cried;—“And why should it offend,
“That one so good should have a pressing friend
“Grieve not, my heart! to find a favourite guest
“Thy pride and boast—ye selfish sorrows, rest;
“She will be kind, and I again be blest.”
While gentler passions thus his bosom sway'd,
He reach'd the mansion, and he saw the maid;
“My Laura!”—“My Orlando!—this is kind;
“In truth I came persuaded, not inclined:
“Our friends' amusement let us now pursue,
“And I to-morrow will return with you.”
Like man entranced, the happy Lover stood—
“As Laura wills, for she is kind and good;
“Ever the truest, gentlest, fairest, best—
“As Laura wills, I see her and am blest”

34

Home went the Lovers through that busy place,
By Loddon Hall, the country's pride and grace;
By the rich meadows where the oxen fed,
Through the green vale that form'd the river's bed;
And by unnumber'd cottages and farms,
That have for musing minds unnumber'd charms;
And how affected by the view of these
Was then Orlando—did they pain or please?
Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield—and why?
The mind was fill'd, was happy, and the eye
Roved o'er the fleeting views, that but appear'd to die.
Alone Orlando on the morrow paced
The well-known road; the gipsy-tent he traced;
The dam high-raised, the reedy dykes between,
The scatter'd hovels on the barren green,
The burning sand, the fields of thin-set rye,
Mock'd by the useless Flora, blooming by;
And last the heath with all its various bloom,
And the close lanes that led the trav'ller home.
Then could these scenes the former joys renew?
Or was there now dejection in the view?—
Nor one or other would they yield—and why?
The mind was absent, and the vacant eye
Wander'd o'er viewless scenes, that but appear'd to die.

37

TALE XI. EDWARD SHORE.

------ Seem they grave or learned?
Why, so didst thou—Seem they religious?
Why, so didst thou; or are they spare in diet,
Free from gross passion, or of mirth or anger,
Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,
Garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment,
Not working with the eye without the ear,
And but with purged judgment trusting neither?
Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
—Henry V.

------ Better I were distract,
So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs,
And woes by strong imagination lose
The knowledge of themselves.
—Lear.


39

Genius! thou gift of Heav'n! thou light divine!
Amid what dangers art thou doom'd to shine!
Oft will the body's weakness check thy force,
Oft damp thy vigour, and impede thy course;
And trembling nerves compel thee to restrain
Thy nobler efforts, to contend with pain;
Or Want (sad guest!) will in thy presence come,
And breathe around her melancholy gloom:
To life's low cares will thy proud thought confine,
And make her sufferings, her impatience, thine.
Evil and strong, seducing passions prey
On soaring minds, and win them from their way,

40

Who then to Vice the subject spirits give,
And in the service of the conqu'ror live;
Like captive Samson making sport for all,
Who fear'd their strength, and glory in their fall.
Genius, with virtue, still may lack the aid
Implored by humble minds, and hearts afraid:
May leave to timid souls the shield and sword
Of the tried Faith, and the resistless Word;
Amid a world of dangers venturing forth,
Frail, but yet fearless, proud in conscious worth,
Till strong temptation, in some fatal time,
Assails the heart, and wins the soul to crime;
When left by honour, and by sorrow spent,
Unused to pray, unable to repent,
The nobler powers that once exalted high
Th' aspiring man, shall then degraded lie:
Reason, through anguish, shall her throne forsake,
And strength of mind but stronger madness make.
When Edward Shore had reached his twentieth year,
He felt his bosom light, his conscience clear;
Applause at school the youthful hero gain'd,
And trials there with manly strength sustain'd:
With prospects bright upon the world he came,
Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame:
Men watch'd the way his lofty mind would take,
And all foretold the progress he would make.
Boast of these friends, to older men a guide,
Proud of his parts, but gracious in his pride;

41

He bore a gay good-nature in his face,
And in his air were dignity and grace;
Dress that became his state and years he wore,
And sense and spirit shone in Edward Shore.
Thus, while admiring friends the Youth beheld,
His own disgust their forward hopes repell'd;
For he unfix'd, unfixing, look'd around,
And no employment but in seeking found;
He gave his restless thoughts to views refined,
And shrank from worldly cares with wounded mind.
Rejecting trade, awhile he dwelt on laws,
“But who could plead, if unapproved the cause?”
A doubting, dismal tribe physicians seem'd;
Divines o'er texts and disputations dream'd;
War and its glory he perhaps could love,
But there again he must the cause approve.
Our hero thought no deed should gain applause
Where timid virtue found support in laws;
He to all good would soar, would fly all sin,
By the pure prompting of the will within;
“Who needs a law that binds him not to steal?”
Ask'd the young teacher; “can he rightly feel?
“To curb the will, or arm in honour's cause,
“Or aid the weak—are these enforced by laws?
“Should we a foul, ungenerous action dread,
“Because a law condemns th' adulterous bed?
“Or fly pollution, not for fear of stain,
“But that some statute tells us to refrain?

42

“The grosser herd in ties like these we bind,
“In virtue's freedom moves th' enlighten'd mind.”
“Man's heart deceives him,” said a friend.—“Of course,”
Replied the Youth; “but has it power to force?
“Unless it forces, call it as you will,
“It is but wish, and proneness to the ill.”
“Art thou not tempted?”—“Do I fall?” said Shore.—
“The pure have fallen.”—“Then are pure no more:
“While Reason guides me, I shall walk aright,
“Nor need a steadier hand, or stronger light;
“Nor this in dread of awful threats, design'd
“For the weak spirit and the grov'ling mind;
“But that, engaged by thoughts and views sublime,
“I wage free war with grossness and with crime.”
Thus look'd he proudly on the vulgar crew,
Whom statutes govern, and whom fears subdue.
Faith, with his virtue, he indeed profess'd,
But doubts deprived his ardent mind of rest;
Reason, his sovereign mistress, fail'd to show,
Light through the mazes of the world below:
Questions arose, and they surpass'd the skill
Of his sole aid, and would be dubious still;
These to discuss he sought no common guide,
But to the doubters in his doubts applied;

43

When all together might in freedom speak,
And their loved truth with mutual ardour seek.
Alas! though men who feel their eyes decay
Take more than common pains to find their way,
Yet, when for this they ask each other's aid,
Their mutual purpose is the more delay'd:
Of all their doubts, their reasoning clear'd not one,
Still the same spots were present in the sun;
Still the same scruples haunted Edward's mind,
Who found no rest, nor took the means to find.
But though with shaken faith, and slave to fame,
Vain and aspiring on the world he came;
Yet was he studious, serious, moral, grave,
No passion's victim, and no system's slave:
Vice he opposed, indulgence he disdain'd,
And o'er each sense in conscious triumph reign'd.
Who often reads, will sometimes wish to write,
And Shore would yield instruction and delight:
A serious drama he design'd, but found
'T was tedious travelling in that gloomy ground;
A deep and solemn story he would try,
But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid it by;
Sermons he wrote, but they who knew his creed,
Or knew it not, were ill disposed to read;
And he would lastly be the nation's guide,
But, studying, fail'd to fix upon a side;
Fame he desired, and talents he possess'd,
But loved not labour, though he could not rest,
Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind,
That, ever working, could no centre find.

44

'T is thus a sanguine reader loves to trace
The Nile forth rushing on his glorious race;
Calm and secure the fancied traveller goes
Through sterile deserts and by threat'ning foes;
He thinks not then of Afric's scorching sands,
Th' Arabian sea, the Abyssinian bands;
Fasils and Michaels, and the robbers all,
Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call:
He of success alone delights to think,
He views that fount, he stands upon the brink,
And drinks a fancied draught, exulting so to drink.
In his own room, and with his books around,
His lively mind its chief employment found;
Then idly busy, quietly employ'd,
And, lost to life, his visions were enjoy'd:
Yet still he took a keen enquiring view
Of all that crowds neglect, desire, pursue;
And thus abstracted, curious, still, serene,
He unemploy'd, beheld life's shifting scene;
Still more averse from vulgar joys and cares,
Still more unfitted for the world's affairs.
There was a house where Edward ofttimes went,
And social hours in pleasant trifling spent;

45

He read, conversed, and reason'd, sang and play'd,
And all were happy while the idler stay'd;
Too happy one! for thence arose the pain,
Till this engaging trifler came again.
But did he love? We answer, day by day,
The loving feet would take th' accustom'd way,
The amorous eye would rove as if in quest
Of something rare, and on the mansion rest;
The same soft passion touch'd the gentle tongue,
And Anna's charms in tender notes were sung;
The ear, too, seem'd to feel the common flame,
Soothed and delighted with the fair one's name;
And thus as love each other part possess'd,
The heart, no doubt, its sovereign power confess'd.
Pleased in her sight, the Youth required no more;
Not rich himself, he saw the damsel poor;
And he too wisely, nay, too kindly loved,
To pain the being whom his soul approved.
A serious Friend our cautious Youth possess'd,
And at his table sat a welcome guest;
Both unemploy'd, it was their chief delight
To read what free and daring authors write;
Authors who loved from common views to soar,
And seek the fountains never traced before:
Truth they profess'd, yet often left the true
And beaten prospect, for the wild and new.
His chosen friend his fiftieth year had seen,
His fortune easy, and his air serene;

46

Deist and atheist call'd; for few agreed
What were his notions, principles, or creed;
His mind reposed not, for he hated rest,
But all things made a query or a jest;
Perplex'd himself, he ever sought to prove
That man is doom'd in endless doubt to rove;
Himself in darkness he profess'd to be,
And would maintain that not a man could see.
The youthful Friend, dissentient, reason'd still
Of the soul's prowess, and the subject-will;
Of virtue's beauty, and of honour's force,
And a warm zeal gave life to his discourse:
Since from his feelings all his fire arose,
And he had interest in the themes he chose.
The Friend, indulging a sarcastic smile,
Said—“Dear enthusiast! thou wilt change thy style,
“When man's delusions, errors, crimes, deceit,
“No more distress thee, and no longer cheat.”
Yet, lo! this cautious man, so coolly wise,
On a young Beauty fix'd unguarded eyes;
And her he married: Edward at the view
Bade to his cheerful visits long adieu;
But haply err'd, for this engaging bride
No mirth suppress'd, but rather cause supplied:
And when she saw the friends, by reasoning long,
Confused if right, and positive if wrong,
With playful speech and smile, that spoke delight,
She made them careless both of wrong and right.

47

This gentle damsel gave consent to wed,
With school and school-day dinners in her head:
She now was promised choice of daintiest food,
And costly dress, that made her sovereign good;
With walks on hilly heath to banish spleen,
And summer-visits when the roads were clean.
All these she loved, to these she gave consent,
And she was married to her heart's content.
Their manner this—the Friends together read,
Till books a cause for disputation bred;
Debate then follow'd, and the vapour'd child
Declared they argued till her head was wild;
And strange to her it was that mortal brain
Could seek the trial, or endure the pain.
Then as the Friend reposed, the younger pair
Sat down to cards, and play'd beside his chair;
Till he awaking, to his books applied,
Or heard the music of th' obedient bride:
If mild the evening, in the fields they stray'd,
And their own flock with partial eye survey'd;
But oft the husband, to indulgence prone,
Resumed his book, and bade them walk alone.
“Do, my kind Edward! I must take mine ease,
“Name the dear girl the planets and the trees;
“Tell her what warblers pour their evening song,
“What insects flutter, as you walk along;
“Teach her to fix the roving thoughts, to bind
“The wandering sense, and methodise the mind.”

48

This was obey'd; and oft when this was done,
They calmly gazed on the declining sun;
In silence saw the glowing landscape fade,
Or, sitting, sang beneath the arbour's shade:
Till rose the moon, and on each youthful face
Shed a soft beauty, and a dangerous grace.
When the young Wife beheld in long debate
The friends, all careless as she seeming sate;
It soon appear'd, there was in one combined
The nobler person, and the richer mind:
He wore no wig, no grisly beard was seen,
And none beheld him careless or unclean;
Or watch'd him sleeping. We indeed have heard
Of sleeping beauty, and it has appear'd;
'T is seen in infants—there indeed we find
The features soften'd by the slumbering mind;
But other beauties, when disposed to sleep,
Should from the eye of keen inspector keep:
The lovely nymph who would her swain surprise,
May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes;
Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes,
And all the homely features homelier makes;
So thought our wife, beholding with a sigh
Her sleeping spouse, and Edward smiling by.
A sick relation for the husband sent;
Without delay the friendly sceptic went;
Nor fear'd the youthful pair, for he had seen
The wife untroubled, and the friend serene;
No selfish purpose in his roving eyes,
No vile deception in her fond replies:

49

So judged the husband, and with judgment true,
For neither yet the guilt or danger knew.
What now remain'd? but they again should play
Th' accustom'd game, and walk th' accustom'd way;
With careless freedom should converse or read,
And the Friend's absence neither fear nor heed:
But rather now they seem'd confused, constrain'd;
Within their room still restless they remain'd,
And painfully they felt, and knew each other pain'd.—
Ah, foolish men! how could ye thus depend,
One on himself, the other on his friend?
The Youth with troubled eye the lady saw,
Yet felt too brave, too daring to withdraw;
While she, with tuneless hand the jarring keys
Touching, was not one moment at her ease:
Now would she walk, and call her friendly guide,
Now speak of rain, and cast her cloke aside,
Seize on a book, unconscious what she read,
And restless still to new resources fled;
Then laugh'd aloud, then tried to look serene;
And ever changed, and every change was seen.
Painful it is to dwell on deeds of shame—
The trying day was past, another came;
The third was all remorse, confusion, dread,
And (all too late!) the fallen hero fled.
Then felt the Youth, in that seducing time,
How feebly Honour guards the heart from crime:

50

Small is his native strength; man needs the stay,
The strength imparted in the trying day;
For all that Honour brings against the force
Of headlong passion, aids its rapid course;
Its slight resistance but provokes the fire,
As wood-work stops the flame, and then conveys it higher.
The Husband came; a wife by guilt made bold
Had, meeting, soothed him, as in days of old;
But soon this fact transpired; her strong distress,
And his Friend's absence, left him nought to guess.
Still cool, though grieved, thus prudence bade him write—
“I cannot pardon, and I will not fight;
“Thou art too poor a culprit for the laws,
“And I too faulty to support my cause:
“All must be punish'd; I must sigh alone,
“At home thy victim for her guilt atone;
“And thou, unhappy! virtuous now no more,
“Must loss of fame, peace, purity deplore;
“Sinners with praise will pierce thee to the heart,
“And saints deriding, tell thee what thou art.”
Such was his fall; and Edward, from that time,
Felt in full force the censure and the crime—
Despised, ashamed; his noble views before,
And his proud thoughts, degraded him the more:
Should he repent—would that conceal his shame?
Could peace be his? It perished with his fame:

51

Himself he scorn'd, nor could his crime forgive;
He fear'd to die, yet felt ashamed to live:
Grieved, but not contrite was his heart; oppress'd,
Not broken; not converted, but distress'd;
He wanted will to bend the stubborn knee,
He wanted light the cause of ill to see,
To learn how frail is man, how humble then should be;
For faith he had not, or a faith too weak
To gain the help that humbled sinners seek;
Else had he pray'd—to an offended God
His tears had flown a penitential flood;
Though far astray, he would have heard the call
Of mercy—“Come! return, thou prodigal;”
Then, though confused, distress'd, ashamed, afraid,
Still had the trembling penitent obey'd;
Though faith had fainted, when assail'd by fear,
Hope to the soul had whisper'd, “Persevere!”
Till in his Father's house an humbled guest,
He would have found forgiveness, comfort, rest.
But all this joy was to our Youth denied
By his fierce passions, and his daring pride;
And shame and doubt impell'd him in a course,
Once so abhorr'd, with unresisted force.
Proud minds and guilty, whom their crimes oppress,
Fly to new crimes for comfort and redress;
So found our fallen Youth a short relief
In wine, the opiate guilt applies to grief,—
From fleeting mirth that o'er the bottle lives,
From the false joy its inspiration gives;

52

And from associates pleased to find a friend,
With powers to lead them, gladden, and defend,
In all those scenes where transient ease is found,
For minds whom sins oppress, and sorrows wound.
Wine is like anger; for it makes us strong,
Blind and impatient, and it leads us wrong;
The strength is quickly lost, we feel the error long:
Thus led, thus strengthen'd, in an evil cause,
For folly pleading, sought the Youth applause;
Sad for a time, then eloquently wild,
He gaily spoke as his companions smiled;
Lightly he rose, and with his former grace
Proposed some doubt, and argued on the case;
Fate and fore-knowledge were his favourite themes—
How vain man's purpose, how absurd his schemes:
“Whatever is, was ere our birth decreed;
“We think our actions from ourselves proceed,
“And idly we lament th' inevitable deed;
“It seems our own, but there's a power above
“Directs the motion, nay, that makes us move;
“Nor good nor evil can you beings name,
“Who are but rooks and castles in the game;
“Superior natures with their puppets play,
“Till, bagg'd or buried, all are swept away.”
Such were the notions of a mind to ill
Now prone, but ardent, and determined still:
Of joy now eager, as before of fame,
And screen'd by folly when assail'd by shame,
Deeply he sank; obey'd each passion's call,
And used his reason to defend them all.

53

Shall I proceed, and step by step relate
The odious progress of a Sinner's fate?
No—let me rather hasten to the time
(Sure to arrive!) when misery waits on crime.
With Virtue, prudence fled; what Shore possess'd
Was sold, was spent, and he was now distress'd:
And Want, unwelcome stranger, pale and wan,
Met with her haggard looks the hurried man;
His pride felt keenly what he must expect
From useless pity and from cold neglect.
Struck by new terrors, from his friends he fled,
And wept his woes upon a restless bed;
Retiring late, at early hour to rise,
With shrunken features, and with bloodshot eyes:
If sleep one moment closed the dismal view,
Fancy her terrors built upon the true:
And night and day had their alternate woes,
That baffled pleasure, and that mock'd repose;
Till to despair and anguish was consign'd
The wreck and ruin of a noble mind.
Now seized for debt, and lodged within a jail,
He tried his friendships, and he found them fail;
Then fail'd his spirits, and his thoughts were all
Fix'd on his sins, his sufferings, and his fall:
His ruffled mind was pictured in his face,
Once the fair seat of dignity and grace:
Great was the danger of a man so prone
To think of madness, and to think alone;

54

Yet pride still lived, and struggled to sustain
The drooping spirit, and the roving brain:
But this too fail'd: a Friend his freedom gave,
And sent him help the threat'ning world to brave;
Gave solid counsel what to seek or flee,
But still would stranger to his person be:
In vain! the truth determined to explore,
He traced the Friend whom he had wrong'd before.
This was too much; both aided and advised
By one who shunn'd him, pitied, and despised:
He bore it not; 't was a deciding stroke,
And on his reason like a torrent broke:
In dreadful stillness he appear'd awhile,
With vacant horror and a ghastly smile;
Then rose at once into the frantic rage,
That force controll'd not, nor could love assuage.
Friends now appear'd, but in the Man was seen
The angry Maniac, with vindictive mien;
Too late their pity gave to care and skill
The hurried mind and ever-wandering will;
Unnoticed pass'd all time, and not a ray
Of reason broke on his benighted way;
But now he spurn'd the straw in pure disdain,
And now laugh'd loudly at the clinking chain.
Then as its wrath subsided, by degrees
The mind sank slowly to infantine ease;
To playful folly, and to causeless joy,
Speech without aim, and without end, employ;

55

He drew fantastic figures on the wall,
And gave some wild relation of them all;
With brutal shape he join'd the human face,
And idiot smiles approved the motley race.
Harmless at length th' unhappy man was found,
The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd;
And all the dreadful tempest died away,
To the dull stillness of the misty day.
And now his freedom he attain'd,—if free
The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be;
His friends, or wearied with the charge, or sure
The harmless wretch was now beyond a cure,
Gave him to wander where he pleased, and find
His own resources for the eager mind:
The playful children of the place he meets,
Playful with them he rambles through the streets;
In all they need, his stronger arm he lends,
And his lost mind to these approving friends.
That gentle Maid, whom once the Youth had loved,
Is now with mild religious pity moved;
Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he
Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be;
And as she trembling speaks, his lively eyes
Explore her looks, he listens to her sighs;
Charm'd by her voice, th' harmonious sounds invade
His clouded mind, and for a time persuade:
Like a pleased infant, who has newly caught
From the maternal glance a gleam of thought:

56

He stands enrapt, the half known voice to hear,
And starts, half conscious, at the falling tear.
Rarely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes,
In darker mood, as if to hide his woes;
Returning soon, he with impatience seeks
His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and speaks;
Speaks a wild speech with action all as wild—
The children's leader, and himself a child;
He spins their top, or, at their bidding, bends
His back, while o'er it leap his laughing friends;
Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more,
And heedless children call him Silly Shore.

57

TALE XII. 'SQUIRE THOMAS;

OR, THE PRECIPITATE CHOICE.

------ Such smiling rogues as these,
Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain,
Too intrinsicate t' unloose ------.
—Lear.

My other self, my counsel's consistory,
My oracle, my prophet,—
I as a child will go by thy direction.
—Richard III.

If I do not have pity upon her, I'm a villain;
If I do not love her, I am a Jew.
—Much Ado about Nothing

Women are soft, mild, pitiable, flexible;
But thou art obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Henry VI.

He must be told of it, and he shall; the office
Becomes a woman best; I'll take it upon me;
If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister.
Winter's Tale.

------ Disguise—I see thou art a wickedness.
Twelfth Night.


59

'Squire Thomas flatter'd long a wealthy Aunt,
Who left him all that she could give or grant;
Ten years he tried, with all his craft and skill,
To fix the sovereign lady's varying will;
Ten years enduring at her board to sit,
He meekly listen'd to her tales and wit;
He took the meanest office man can take,
And his aunt's vices for her money's sake:
By many a threat'ning hint she waked his fear,
And he was pain'd to see a rival near;
Yet all the taunts of her contemptuous pride
He bore, nor found his grov'ling spirit tried;
Nay, when she wish'd his parents to traduce,
Fawning he smiled, and justice call'd th' abuse:
“They taught you nothing; are you not, at best,”
Said the proud Dame, “a trifler, and a jest?
“Confess you are a fool!”—he bow'd and he confess'd.
This vex'd him much, but could not always last
The dame is buried, and the trial past.

60

There was a female, who had courted long
Her cousin's gifts, and deeply felt the wrong;
By a vain boy forbidden to attend
The private councils of her wealthy friend,
She vow'd revenge, nor should that crafty boy
In triumph undisturb'd his spoils enjoy:
He heard, he smiled, and when the Will was read,
Kindly dismiss'd the Kindred of the dead;
“The dear deceased,” he call'd her, and the crowd
Moved off with curses deep and threat'nings loud.
The Youth retired, and, with a mind at ease,
Found he was rich, and fancied he must please:
He might have pleased, and to his comfort found
The wife he wish'd, if he had sought around;
For there were lasses of his own degree,
With no more hatred to the state than he:
But he had courted spleen and age so long,
His heart refused to woo the fair and young;
So long attended on caprice and whim,
He thought attention now was due to him;
And as his flattery pleased the wealthy Dame,
Heir to the wealth, he might the flattery claim;
But this the fair, with one accord, denied,
Nor waved for man's caprice the sex's pride:
There is a season when to them is due
Worship and awe, and they will claim it too:
“Fathers,” they cry, “long hold us in their chain,
“Nay, tyrant brothers claim a right to reign;
“Uncles and guardians we in turn obey,
“And husbands rule with ever-during sway;

61

“Short is the time when lovers at the feet
“Of beauty kneel, and own the slavery sweet;
“And shall we this our triumph, this the aim
“And boast of female power, forbear to claim?
“No! we demand that homage, that respect,
“Or the proud rebel punish and reject.”
Our Hero, still too indolent, too nice,
To pay for beauty the accustom'd price,
No less forbore t' address the humbler maid,
Who might have yielded with the price unpaid;
But lived, himself to humour and to please,
To count his money, and enjoy his ease.
It pleased a neighbouring 'squire to recommend,
A faithful youth, as servant to his friend;
Nay, more than servant, whom he praised for parts
Ductile yet strong, and for the best of hearts;
One who might ease him in his small affairs,
With tenants, tradesmen, taxes, and repairs;
Answer his letters, look to all his dues,
And entertain him with discourse and news.
The 'Squire believed, and found the trusted youth
A very pattern for his care and truth;
Not for his virtues to be praised alone,
But for a modest mien and humble tone;
Assenting always, but as if he meant
Only to strength of reasons to assent:
For was he stubborn, and retain'd his doubt,
Till the more subtle 'Squire had forced it out;

62

“Nay, still was right, but he perceived that strong
“And powerful minds could make the right the wrong.”
When the 'Squire's thoughts on some fair damsel dwelt,
The faithful Friend his apprehensions felt;
It would rejoice his faithful heart to find
A lady suited to his master's mind;
But who deserved that master? who would prove
That hers was pure, uninterested love?
Although a servant, he would scorn to take
A countess, till she suffer'd for his sake;
Some tender spirit, humble, faithful, true,
Such, my dear master! must be sought for you.
Six months had pass'd, and not a lady seen,
With just this love, 'twixt fifty and fifteen;
All seem'd his doctrine or his pride to shun,
All would be woo'd, before they would be won;
When the chance naming of a race and fair,
Our 'Squire disposed to take his pleasure there:
The Friend profess'd, “although he first began
“To hint the thing, it seem'd a thoughtless plan;
“The roads, he fear'd, were foul, the days were short,
“The village far, and yet there might be sport.”
“What! you of roads and starless nights afraid?
“You think to govern! you to be obey'd!”
Smiling he spoke, the humble Friend declared
His soul's obedience, and to go prepared.

63

The place was distant, but with great delight
They saw a race, and hail'd the glorious sight:
The 'Squire exulted, and declared the ride
Had amply paid, and he was satisfied.
They gazed, they feasted, and, in happy mood,
Homeward return'd, and hastening as they rode;
For short the day, and sudden was the change
From light to darkness, and the way was strange:
Our hero soon grew peevish, then distress'd;
He dreaded darkness, and he sigh'd for rest:
Going, they pass'd a village; but, alas!
Returning saw no village to repass;
The 'Squire remember'd too a noble hall,
Large as a church, and whiter than its wall:
This he had noticed as they rode along,
And justly reason'd that their road was wrong.
George, full of awe, was modest in reply—
“The fault was his, 'twas folly to deny;
“And of his master's safety were he sure,
“There was no grievance he would not endure.”
This made his peace with the relenting 'Squire,
Whose thoughts yet dwelt on supper and a fire;
When, as they reach'd a long and pleasant green,
Dwellings of men, and next a man, were seen.
“My friend,” said George, “to travellers astray
“Point out an inn, and guide us on the way.”
The man look'd up; “Surprising! can it be
“My master's son? as I'm alive, 't is he.

64

“How! Robin,” George replied, “and are we near
“My father's house? how strangely things appear!—
“Dear sir, though wanderers, we at last are right:
“Let us proceed, and glad my father's sight:
“We shall at least be fairly lodged and fed,
“I can ensure a supper and a bed;
“Let us this night, as one of pleasure date,
“And of surprise: it is an act of Fate.”
“Go on,” the 'Squire in happy temper cried;
“I like such blunder! I approve such guide.”
They ride, they halt, the Farmer comes in haste,
Then tells his wife how much their house is graced;
They bless the chance, they praise the lucky son,
That caused the error—Nay! it was not one;
But their good fortune—cheerful grew the 'Squire,
Who found dependents, flattery, wine, and fire;
He heard the jack turn round; the busy dame
Produced her damask; and with supper came
The Daughter, dress'd with care, and full of maiden-shame.
Surprised, our hero saw the air and dress,
And strove his admiration to express;
Nay! felt it too—for Harriot was, in truth,
A tall fair beauty in the bloom of youth;
And from the pleasure and surprise, a grace
Adorn'd the blooming damsel's form and face;
Then, too, such high respect and duty paid
By all—such silent reverence in the maid;

65

Vent'ring with caution, yet with haste, a glance;
Loth to retire, yet trembling to advance,
Appear'd the nymph, and in her gentle guest
Stirr'd soft emotions till the hour of rest:
Sweet was his sleep, and in the morn again
He felt a mixture of delight and pain:
“How fair, how gentle,” said the 'Squire, “how meek,
“And yet how sprightly, when disposed to speak!
“Nature has bless'd her form, and Heaven her mind,
“But in her favours Fortune is unkind;
“Poor is the maid—nay, poor she cannot prove
“Who is enrich'd with beauty, worth, and love.”
The 'Squire arose, with no precise intent
To go or stay—uncertain what he meant:
He moved to part—they begg'd him first to dine;
And who could then escape from Love and Wine?
As came the night, more charming grew the Fair,
And seem'd to watch him with a two-fold care:
On the third morn, resolving not to stay,
Though urged by Love, he bravely rode away.
Arrived at home, three pensive days he gave
To feelings fond and meditations grave;
Lovely she was, and, if he did not err,
As fond of him as his fond heart of her;
Still he delay'd, unable to decide,
Which was the master-passion, Love or Pride:
He sometimes wonder'd how his friend could make,
And then exulted in, the night's mistake;

66

Had she but fortune, “doubtless then,” he cried,
“Some happier man had won the wealthy bride.”
While thus he hung in balance, now inclined
To change his state, and then to change his mind,—
That careless George dropp'd idly on the ground
A letter, which his crafty master found;
The stupid youth confess'd his fault, and pray'd
The generous 'Squire to spare a gentle maid;
Of whom her tender mother, full of fears,
Had written much—“She caught her oft in tears,
“For ever thinking on a youth above
“Her humble fortune—still she own'd not love;
“Nor can define, dear girl! the cherish'd pain,
“But would rejoice to see the cause again:
“That neighbouring youth, whom she endured before,
“She now rejects, and will behold no more;
“Raised by her passion, she no longer stoops
“To her own equals, but she pines and droops,
“Like to a lily, on whose sweets the sun
“Has withering gazed—she saw and was undone:
“His wealth allured her not—nor was she moved
“By his superior state, himself she loved;
“So mild, so good, so gracious, so genteel,—
“But spare your sister, and her love conceal;
“We must the fault forgive, since she the pain must feel.”
“Fault!” said the 'Squire, “there's coarseness in the mind
“That thus conceives of feelings so refined;

67

“Here end my doubts, nor blame yourself, my friend,
“Fate made you careless—here my doubts have end.”
The way is plain before us—there is now
The Lover's visit first, and then the vow,
Mutual and fond, the marriage-rite, the Bride
Brought to her home with all a husband's pride:
The 'Squire receives the prize his merits won,
And the glad parents leave the patron-son.
But in short time he saw, with much surprise,
First gloom, then grief, and then resentment rise,
From proud, commanding frowns, and anger-darting eyes:
“Is there in Harriot's humble mind this fire,
“This fierce impatience?” ask'd the puzzled 'Squire;
“Has marriage changed her? or the mask she wore
“Has she thrown by, and is herself once more?”
Hour after hour, when clouds on clouds appear,
Dark and more dark, we know the tempest near;
And thus the frowning brow, the restless form,
And threat'ning glance, forerun domestic storm:
So read the Husband, and, with troubled mind,
Reveal'd his fears—“My Love, I hope you find
“All here is pleasant—but I must confess
“You seem offended, or in some distress;
“Explain the grief you feel, and leave me to redress.”

68

“Leave it to you?” replied the Nymph—“indeed!
“What! to the cause from whence the ills proceed?
“Good Heaven! to take me from a place, where I
“Had every comfort underneath the sky;
“And then immure me in a gloomy place,
“With the grim monsters of your ugly race,
“That from their canvass staring, make me dread
“Through the dark chambers, where they hang, to tread!
“No friend nor neighbour comes to give that joy
“Which all things here must banish or destroy:
“Where is the promised coach? the pleasant ride?
“Oh! what a fortune has a Farmer's bride!
“Your sordid pride has placed me just above
“Your hired domestics—and what pays me? Love!
“A selfish fondness I endure each hour,
“And share unwitness'd pomp, unenvied power;
“I hear your folly, smile at your parade,
“And see your favourite dishes duly made;
“Then am I richly dress'd for you t' admire,
“Such is my duty and my Lord's desire;
“Is this a life for youth, for health, for joy?
“Are these my duties—this my base employ?
“No! to my father's house will I repair,
“And make your idle wealth support me there;
“Was it your wish to have an humble bride
“For bondage thankful? Curse upon your pride!
“Was it a slave you wanted? You shall see,
“That, if not happy, I at least am free:
“Well, sir! your answer:”—silent stood the 'Squire,
As looks a miser at his house on fire;

69

Where all he deems is vanish'd in that flame,
Swept from the earth his substance and his name;
So, lost to every promised joy of life,
Our 'Squire stood gaping at his angry wife;—
His fate, his ruin, where he saw it vain,
To hope for peace, pray, threaten, or complain;
And thus, betwixt his wonder at the ill
And his despair—there stood he gaping still.
“Your answer, sir!—shall I depart a spot
“I thus detest?”—“Oh, miserable lot!”
Exclaim'd the man. “Go, serpent! nor remain
“To sharpen woe by insult and disdain:
“A nest of harpies was I doom'd to meet;
“What plots, what combinations of deceit!
“I see it now—all plann'd, design'd, contrived;
“Served by that villain—by this fury wived—
“What fate is mine! What wisdom, virtue, truth,
“Can stand, if demons set their traps for youth?
“He lose his way! vile dog! he cannot lose
“The way a villain through his life pursues;
“And thou, deceiver! thou afraid to move,
“And hiding close the serpent in the dove!
“I saw—but, fated to endure disgrace,—
“Unheeding saw, the fury in thy face;
“And call'd it spirit—Oh! I might have found
“Fraud and imposture—all the kindred round!
“A nest of vipers”—
—“Sir, I'll not admit
“These wild effusions of your angry wit:

70

“Have you that value, that we all should use
“Such mighty arts for such important views?
“Are you such prize—and is my state so fair,
“That they should sell their souls to get me there?
“Think you that we alone our thoughts disguise?
“When in pursuit of some contended prize,
“Mask we alone the heart, and soothe whom we despise!
“Speak you of craft and subtle schemes, who know
“That all your wealth you to deception owe;
“Who play'd for ten dull years a scoundrel-part,
“To worm yourself into a Widow's heart?
“Now, when you guarded, with superior skill,
“That lady's closet, and preserved her Will,
“Blind in your craft, you saw not one of those
“Opposed by you might you in turn oppose;
“Or watch your motions, and by art obtain
“Share of that wealth you gave your peace to gain?
“Did conscience never ------”
—“Cease, tormentor, cease—
“Or reach me poison—let me rest in peace!”
“Agreed—but hear me—let the truth appear:”—
“Then state your purpose—I'll be calm and hear.”—
“Know then, this wealth, sole object of your care,
“I had some right, without your hand, to share;
“My mother's claim was just—but soon she saw
“Your power, compell'd, insulted, to withdraw:
“'T was then my father, in his anger, swore
“You should divide the fortune, or restore;

71

“Long we debated—and you find me now
“Heroic victim to a father's vow;
“Like Jephtha's daughter, but in different state,
“And both decreed to mourn our early fate;
“Hence was my brother servant to your pride,
“Vengeance made him your slave—and me your bride:
“Now all is known—a dreadful price I pay
“For our revenge—but still we have our day;
“All that you love you must with others share,
“Or all you dread from their resentment dare:
“Yet terms I offer—let contention cease;
“Divide the spoil, and let us part in peace.”
Our Hero trembling heard—he sat—he rose—
Nor could his motions nor his mind compose;
He paced the room—and, stalking to her side,
Gazed on the face of his undaunted bride;
And nothing there but scorn and calm aversion spied.
He would have vengeance, yet he fear'd the law:
Her friends would threaten, and their power he saw;
“Then let her go:”—but, oh! a mighty sum
Would that demand, since he had let her come;
Nor from his sorrows could he find redress,
Save that which led him to a like distress,
And all his ease was in his wife to see
A wretch as anxious and distress'd as he:
Her strongest wish, the fortune to divide,
And part in peace, his avarice denied;
And thus it happen'd, as in all deceit,
The cheater found the evil of the cheat;

72

The Husband grieved—nor was the Wife at rest;
Him she could vex, and he could her molest;
She could his passion into frenzy raise,
But when the fire was kindled, fear'd the blaze:
As much they studied, so in time they found
The easiest way to give the deepest wound;
But then, like fencers, they were equal still,
Both lost in danger what they gain'd in skill;
Each heart a keener kind of rancour gain'd,
And paining more, was more severely pain'd;
And thus by both were equal vengeance dealt,
And both the anguish they inflicted felt.

73

TALE XIII. JESSE AND COLIN.

Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises, and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. —Merry Wives of Windsor.

She hath spoken that she should not, I am sure of that; Heaven knows what she hath known. —Macbeth.

Our house is hell, and thou a merry devil. Merchant of Venice.

And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit of too much, as they that starve with nothing; it is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. —Merchant of Venice.


75

A Vicar died and left his Daughter poor—
It hurt her not, she was not rich before:
Her humble share of worldly goods she sold,
Paid every debt, and then her fortune told;
And found, with youth and beauty, hope and health,
Two hundred guineas was her worldly wealth;
It then remain'd to choose her path in life,
And first, said Jesse, “Shall I be a wife?—
Colin is mild and civil, kind and just,
“I know his love, his temper I can trust;
“But small his farm, it asks perpetual care,
“And we must toil as well as trouble share:
“True, he was taught in all the gentle arts
“That raise the soul, and soften human hearts;
“And boasts a parent, who deserves to shine
“In higher class, and I could wish her mine;
“Nor wants he will his station to improve,
“A just ambition waked by faithful love;—
“Still is he poor—and here my Father's Friend
“Deigns for his Daughter, as her own, to send:

76

“A worthy lady, who it seems has known
“A world of griefs and troubles of her own:
“I was an infant, when she came, a guest
“Beneath my father's humble roof to rest;
“Her kindred all unfeeling, vast her woes,
“Such her complaint, and there she found repose;
“Enrich'd by fortune, now she nobly lives,
“And nobly, from the blest abundance, gives;
“The grief, the want, of human life, she knows,
“And comfort there and here relief bestows:
“But, are they not dependants?—Foolish pride!
“Am I not honour'd by such friend and guide?
“Have I a home” (here Jesse dropp'd a tear),
“Or friend beside?”—A faithful friend was near.
Now Colin came, at length resolved to lay
His heart before her, and to urge her stay:
True, his own plough the gentle Colin drove,
An humble farmer with aspiring love;
Who, urged by passion, never dared till now,
Thus urged by fears, his trembling hopes avow:
Her father's glebe he managed; every year
The grateful Vicar held the youth more dear;
He saw indeed the prize in Colin's view,
And wish'd his Jesse with a man so true:
Timid as true, he urged with anxious air
His tender hope, and made the trembling prayer;
When Jesse saw, nor could with coldness see,
Such fond respect, such tried sincerity;
Grateful for favours to her father dealt,
She more than grateful for his passion felt;

77

Nor could she frown on one so good and kind,
Yet fear'd to smile, and was unfix'd in mind;
But prudence placed the Female Friend in view—
What might not one so rich and grateful do?
So lately, too, the good old Vicar died,
His faithful daughter must not cast aside
The signs of filial grief, and be a ready bride:
Thus, led by prudence, to the Lady's seat
The Village-Beauty purposed to retreat;
But, as in hard-fought fields the victor knows
What to the vanquish'd he, in honour, owes,
So, in this conquest over powerful love,
Prudence resolved a generous foe to prove;
And Jesse felt a mingled fear and pain
In her dismission of a faithful swain,
Gave her kind thanks, and when she saw his woe,
Kindly betray'd that she was loth to go;
“But would she promise, if abroad she met
“A frowning world, she would remember yet
“Where dwelt a friend?”—“That could she not forget.”
And thus they parted; but each faithful heart
Felt the compulsion, and refused to part.
Now, by the morning mail the timid Maid
Was to that kind and wealthy Dame convey'd;
Whose invitation, when her father died,
Jesse as comfort to her heart applied;
She knew the days her generous Friend had seen—
As wife and widow, evil days had been;
She married early, and for half her life
Was an insulted and forsaken wife;

78

Widow'd and poor, her angry father gave,
Mix'd with reproach, the pittance of a slave;
Forgetful brothers pass'd her, but she knew
Her humbler friends, and to their home withdrew:
The good old Vicar to her sire applied
For help, and help'd her when her sire denied;
When in few years Death stalk'd through bower and hall,
Sires, sons, and sons of sons, were buried all:
She then abounded, and had wealth to spare
For softening grief she once was doom'd to share;
Thus train'd in misery's school, and taught to feel,
She would rejoice an orphan's woes to heal:—
So Jesse thought, who look'd within her breast,
And thence conceived how bounteous minds are bless'd.
From her vast mansion look'd the Lady down
On humbler buildings of a busy town;
Thence came her friends of either sex, and all
With whom she lived on terms reciprocal:
They pass'd the hours with their accustom'd ease,
As guests inclined, but not compell'd, to please:
But there were others in the mansion found,
For office chosen, and by duties bound;
Three female rivals, each of power possess'd,
Th' attendant Maid, poor Friend, and kindred-Guest.
To these came Jesse, as a seaman thrown
By the rude storm upon a coast unknown:
The view was flattering, civil seem'd the race,
But all unknown the dangers of the place.

79

Few hours had pass'd, when, from attendants freed,
The Lady utter'd—“This is kind indeed;
“Believe me, love! that I for one like you
“Have daily pray'd, a friend discreet and true;
“Oh! wonder not that I on you depend,
“You are mine own hereditary friend:
“Hearken, my Jesse, never can I trust
“Beings ungrateful, selfish, and unjust;
“But you are present, and my load of care
“Your love will serve to lighten and to share:
“Come near me, Jesse—let not those below
“Of my reliance on your friendship know;
“Look as they look, be in their freedoms free—
“But all they say, do you convey to me.”
Here Jesse's thoughts to Colin's cottage flew,
And with such speed she scarce their absence knew.
“Jane loves her mistress, and should she depart,
“I lose her service, and she breaks her heart;
“My ways and wishes, looks and thoughts, she knows,
“And duteous care by close attention shows:
“But is she faithful? in temptation strong?
“Will she not wrong me? ah! I fear the wrong:
“Your father loved me; now, in time of need,
“Watch for my good, and to his place succeed.
“Blood doesn't bind—that Girl, who every day
“Eats of my bread, would wish my life away;
“I am her dear relation, and she thinks
“To make her fortune, an ambitious minx!

80

“She only courts me for the prospect's sake,
“Because she knows I have a Will to make;
“Yes, love! my Will delay'd, I know not how—
“But you are here, and I will make it now.
“That idle Creature, keep her in your view,
“See what she does, what she desires to do;
“On her young mind may artful villains prey,
“And to my plate and jewels find a way:
“A pleasant humour has the girl; her smile,
“And cheerful manner, tedious hours beguile:
“But well observe her, ever near her be,
“Close in your thoughts, in your professions free.
“Again, my Jesse, hear what I advise,
“And watch a woman ever in disguise;
Issop, that widow, serious, subtle, sly—
“But what of this?—I must have company:
“She markets for me, and although she makes
“Profit, no doubt, of all she undertakes,
“Yet she is one I can to all produce,
“And all her talents are in daily use:
“Deprived of her, I may another find
“As sly and selfish, with a weaker mind:
“But never trust her, she is full of art,
“And worms herself into the closest heart;
“Seem then, I pray you, careless in her sight,
“Nor let her know, my love, how we unite.
“Do, my good Jesse, cast a view around,
“And let no wrong within my house be found;

81

“That Girl associates with—I know not who
“Are her companions, nor what ill they do;
“'Tis then the Widow plans, 't is then she tries
“Her various arts and schemes for fresh supplies:
“'Tis then, if ever, Jane her duty quits,
“And, whom I know not, favours and admits:
“Oh! watch their movements all; for me 'tis hard,
“Indeed is vain, but you may keep a guard;
“And I, when none your watchful glance deceive,
“May make my Will, and think what I shall leave.”
Jesse, with fear, disgust, alarm, surprise,
Heard of these duties for her ears and eyes;
Heard by what service she must gain her bread,
And went with scorn and sorrow to her bed.
Jane was a servant fitted for her place,
Experienced, cunning, fraudful, selfish, base;
Skill'd in those mean humiliating arts
That make their way to proud and selfish hearts:
By instinct taught, she felt an awe, a fear,
For Jesse's upright, simple character;
Whom with gross flattery she awhile assail'd,
And then beheld with hatred when it fail'd;
Yet trying still upon her mind for hold,
She all the secrets of the mansion told;
And, to invite an equal trust, she drew
Of every mind a bold and rapid view;
But on the widow'd Friend with deep disdain,
And rancorous envy, dwelt the treacherous Jane:—
In vain such arts; without deceit or pride,
With a just taste and feeling for her guide,

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From all contagion Jesse kept apart,
Free in her manners, guarded in her heart.
Jesse one morn was thoughtful, and her sigh
The Widow heard as she was passing by;
And—“Well!” she said, “is that some distant swain,
“Or aught with us, that gives your bosom pain?
“Come, we are fellow-sufferers, slaves in thrall,
“And tasks and griefs are common to us all;
“Think not my frankness strange: they love to paint
“Their state with freedom, who endure restraint;
“And there is something in that speaking eye
“And sober mien, that prove I may rely:
“You came a stranger; to my words attend,
“Accept my offer, and you find a friend;
“It is a labyrinth in which you stray,
“Come, hold my clue, and I will lead the way.
“Good Heav'n! that one so jealous, envious base,
“Should be the mistress of so sweet a place;
“She, who so long herself was low and poor,
“Now broods suspicious on her useless store;
“She loves to see us abject, loves to deal
“Her insult round, and then pretends to feel:
“Prepare to cast all dignity aside,
“For know your talents will be quickly tried;
“Nor think, from favours past, a friend to gain,
“'T is but by duties we our posts maintain:
“I read her novels, gossip through the town,
“And daily go, for idle stories, down;

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“I cheapen all she buys, and bear the curse
“Of honest tradesmen for my niggard-purse;
“And, when for her this meanness I display,
“She cries, ‘I heed not what I throw away;’
“Of secret bargains I endure the shame,
“And stake my credit for our fish and game;
“Oft has she smiled to hear ‘her generous soul
“‘Would gladly give, but stoops to my control:’
“Nay! I have heard her, when she chanced to come
“Where I contended for a petty sum,
“Affirm 'twas painful to behold such care,
“‘But Issop's nature is to pinch and spare:’
“Thus all the meanness of the house is mine,
“And my reward—to scorn her, and to dine.
“See next that giddy thing, with neither pride
“To keep her safe, nor principle to guide:
“Poor, idle, simple flirt! as sure as fate
“Her maiden-fame will have an early date:
“Of her beware; for all who live below
“Have faults they wish not all the world to know;
“And she is fond of listening, full of doubt,
“And stoops to guilt to find an error out.
“And now once more observe the artful Maid,
“A lying, prying, jilting, thievish jade;
“I think, my love, you would not condescend
“To call a low, illiterate girl your friend:
“But in our troubles we are apt, you know,
“To lean on all who some compassion show;
“And she has flexile features, acting eyes,
“And seems with every look to sympathise;

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“No mirror can a mortal's grief express
“With more precision, or can feel it less;
“That proud, mean spirit, she by fawning courts,
“By vulgar flattery, and by vile reports;
“And, by that proof she every instant gives
“To one so mean, that yet a meaner lives.—
“Come, I have drawn the curtain, and you see
“Your fellow-actors, all our company;
“Should you incline to throw reserve aside,
“And in my judgment and my love confide,
“I could some prospects open to your view,
“That ask attention—and, till then, adieu.”
“Farewell!” said Jesse, hastening to her room,
Where all she saw within, without, was gloom:
Confused, perplex'd, she pass'd a dreary hour,
Before her reason could exert its power;
To her all seem'd mysterious, all allied
To avarice, meanness, folly, craft, and pride;
Wearied with thought, she breathed the garden's air,
Then came the laughing Lass, and join'd her there.
“My sweetest friend has dwelt with us a week,
“And does she love us? be sincere and speak;
“My Aunt you cannot—Lord! how I should hate
“To be like her, all misery and state;
“Proud, and yet envious, she disgusted sees
“All who are happy, and who look at ease.
“Let friendship bind us, I will quickly show
“Some favourites near us, you'll be blest to know;

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“My aunt forbids it—but, can she expect,
“To soothe her spleen, we shall ourselves neglect?
“Jane and the Widow were to watch and stay
“My free-born feet; I watch'd as well as they;
“Lo! what is this? this simple key explores
“The dark recess that holds the Spinster's stores;
“And, led by her ill star, I chanced to see
“Where Issop keeps her stock of ratafie;
“Used in the hours of anger and alarm,
“It makes her civil, and it keeps her warm:
“Thus bless'd with secrets, both would choose to hide,
“Their fears now grant me what their scorn denied.
“My freedom thus by their assent secured,
“Bad as it is, the place may be endured;
“And bad it is, but her estates, you know,
“And her beloved hoards, she must bestow;
“So we can slyly our amusements take,
“And friends of demons, if they help us, make.”
“Strange creatures these,” thought Jesse, half inclined
To smile at one malicious and yet kind;
Frank and yet cunning, with a heart to love
And malice prompt—the serpent and the dove;
Here could she dwell? or could she yet depart?
Could she be artful? could she bear with art?—
This splendid mansion gave the cottage grace,
She thought a dungeon was a happier place;
And Colin pleading, when he pleaded best,
Wrought not such sudden change in Jesse's breast.

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The wondering maiden, who had only read
Of such vile beings, saw them now with dread;
Safe in themselves—for nature has design'd
The creature's poison harmless to the kind;
But all beside who in the haunts are found
Must dread the poison, and must feel the wound.
Days full of care, slow weary weeks pass'd on,
Eager to go, still Jesse was not gone;
Her time in trifling, or in tears, she spent,
She never gave, she never felt, content:
The Lady wonder'd that her humble guest
Strove not to please, would neither lie nor jest;
She sought no news, no scandal would convey,
But walk'd for health, and was at church to pray;
All this displeased, and soon the Widow cried:
“Let me be frank—I am not satisfied;
“You know my wishes, I your judgment trust;
“You can be useful, Jesse, and you must;
“Let me be plainer, child—I want an ear,
“When I am deaf, instead of mine to hear;
“When mine is sleeping, let your eye awake;
“When I observe not, observation take;
“Alas! I rest not on my pillow laid,
“Then threat'ning whispers make my soul afraid;
“The tread of strangers to my ear ascends,
“Fed at my cost, the minions of my friends;
“While you, without a care, a wish to please,
“Eat the vile bread of idleness and ease.”
Th' indignant Girl astonish'd answer'd—“Nay!
“This instant, madam, let me haste away;

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“Thus speaks my father's, thus an orphan's friend?
“This instant, lady, let your bounty end.”
The Lady frown'd indignant—“What!” she cried,
“A vicar's daughter with a princess' pride!
“And pauper's lot! but pitying I forgive;
“How, simple Jesse, do you think to live?
“Have I not power to help you, foolish maid?
“To my concerns be your attention paid;
“With cheerful mind th' allotted duties take,
“And recollect I have a Will to make.”
Jesse, who felt as liberal natures feel,
When thus the baser their designs reveal,
Replied—“Those duties were to her unfit,
“Nor would her spirit to her tasks submit.”
In silent scorn the Lady sate awhile,
And then replied with stern contemptuous smile—
“Think you, fair madam, that you came to share
“Fortunes like mine without a thought or care?
“A guest, indeed! from every trouble free,
“Dress'd by my help, with not a care for me;
“When I a visit to your father made,
“I for the poor assistance largely paid;
“To his domestics I their tasks assign'd,
“I fix'd the portion for his hungry hind;
“And had your father (simple man!) obey'd
“My good advice, and watch'd as well as pray'd,

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“He might have left you something with his prayers,
“And lent some colour for these lofty airs.—
“In tears! my love! Oh, then my soften'd heart
“Cannot resist—we never more will part;
“I need your friendship—I will be your friend,
“And thus determined, to my Will attend.”
Jesse went forth, but with determined soul
To fly such love, to break from such control:
“I hear enough,” the trembling damsel cried;
“Flight be my care, and Providence my guide:
“Ere yet a prisoner, I escape will make;
“Will, thus display'd, th' insidious arts forsake,
“And, as the rattle sounds, will fly the fatal snake.”
Jesse her thanks upon the morrow paid,
Prepared to go, determined though afraid.
“Ungrateful creature,” said the Lady, “this
“Could I imagine?—are you frantic, miss?
“What! leave your friend, your prospects—is it true!”
This Jesse answer'd by a mild “Adieu!”
The Dame replied, “Then houseless may you rove,
“The starving victim to a guilty love;
“Branded with shame, in sickness doom'd to nurse
“An ill-form'd cub, your scandal and your curse:

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“Spurn'd by its scoundrel father, and ill fed
“By surly rustics with the parish-bread!—
“Relent you not?—speak—yet I can forgive;
“Still live with me”—“With you,” said Jesse, “live?
“No! I would first endure what you describe,
“Rather than breathe with your detested tribe;
“Who long have feign'd, till now their very hearts
“Are firmly fix'd in their accursed parts;
“Who all profess esteem, and feel disdain,
“And all, with justice, of deceit complain;
“Whom I could pity, but that, while I stay,
“My terror drives all kinder thoughts away;
“Grateful for this, that, when I think of you,
“I little fear what poverty can do.”
The angry matron her attendant Jane
Summon'd in haste to soothe the fierce disdain:
“A vile detested wretch!” the Lady cried,
“Yet shall she be, by many an effort, tried,
“And, clogg'd with debt and fear, against her will abide;
“And, once secured, she never shall depart
“Till I have proved the firmness of her heart;
“Then when she dares not, would not, cannot go,
“I'll make her feel what 't is to use me so.”
The pensive Colin in his garden stray'd,
But felt not then the beauties it display'd;
There many a pleasant object met his view,
A rising wood of oaks behind it grew;

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A stream ran by it, and the village-green
And public road were from the garden seen;
Save where the pine and larch the bound'ry made,
And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade.
The Mother sat beside the garden-door,
Dress'd as in times ere she and hers were poor;
The broad-laced cap was known in ancient days,
When madam's dress compell'd the village praise;
And still she look'd as in the times of old,
Ere his last farm the erring husband sold;
While yet the mansion stood in decent state,
And paupers waited at the well-known gate.
“Alas, my son!” the Mother cried, “and why
“That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh?
“True we are poor, but thou hast never felt
“Pangs to thy father for his error dealt;
“Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain,
“For ever raised, and ever found in vain.
“He rose unhappy from his fruitless schemes,
“As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams;
“But thou wert then, my son, a playful child,
“Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild;
“Listening at times to thy poor mother's sighs,
“With curious looks and innocent surprise;
“Thy father dying, thou, my virtuous boy,
“My comfort always, waked my soul to joy;
“With the poor remnant of our fortune left,
“Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft:
“Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air,
“Have cast a smile on sadness and despair;

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“Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space
“The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace;
“And all around us wonder when they find
“Such taste and strength, such skill and power combined;
“There is no mother, Colin, no not one,
“But envies me so kind, so good a son;
“By thee supported on this failing side,
“Weakness itself awakes a parent's pride:
“I bless the stroke that was my grief before,
“And feel such joy that 't is disease no more;
“Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth—
“And soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health;
“The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise,
“And say, like thee were youth in earlier days;
“While every village-maiden cries, ‘How gay,
“‘How smart, how brave, how good is Colin Grey!’
“Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know
“Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow;
“Fain would I think that Jesse still may come
“To share the comforts of our rustic home:
“She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid,
“When thou hast kindly brought the Vicar aid—
“When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain,
“Oh! I have seen her—she will come again.”
The Matron ceased; and Colin stood the while
Silent, but striving for a grateful smile;
He then replied—“Ah! sure, had Jesse stay'd,
“And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade,

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“The tenderest duty and the fondest love
“Would not have fail'd that generous heart to move;
“A grateful pity would have ruled her breast,
“And my distresses would have made me blest.
“But she is gone, and ever has in view
“Grandeur and taste,—and what will then ensue?
“Surprise and then delight in scenes so fair and new;
“For many a day, perhaps for many a week,
“Home will have charms, and to her bosom speak;
“But thoughtless ease, and affluence, and pride,
“Seen day by day, will draw the heart aside:
“And she at length, though gentle and sincere,
“Will think no more of our enjoyments here.”
Sighing he spake—but hark! he hears th' approach
Of rattling wheels! and, lo! the evening-coach;
Once more the movement of the horses' feet
Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat:
Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight
Drawn him to gaze beside his gate at night;
And when with rapid wheels it hurried by,
He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh;
And could the blessing have been bought—what sum
Had he not offer'd, to have Jesse come!
She came—he saw her bending from the door,
Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more;
Lost in his joy—the mother lent her aid
T' assist and to detain the willing Maid;

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Who thought her late, her present home to make,
Sure of a welcome for the Vicar's sake:
But the good parent was so pleased, so kind,
So pressing Colin, she so much inclined,
That night advanced; and then so long detain'd,
No wishes to depart she felt, or feign'd;
Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce remain'd.
Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere;
Here was content and joy, for she was here:
In the mild evening, in the scene around,
The Maid, now free, peculiar beauties found;
Blended with village-tones, the evening gale
Gave the sweet night-bird's warblings to the vale;
The Youth embolden'd, yet abash'd, now told
His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold;
The Mother smiling whisper'd—“Let him go
“And seek the licence!” Jesse answer'd, “No:”
But Colin went.—I know not if they live
With all the comforts wealth and plenty give;
But with pure joy to envious souls denied,
To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride;
And village-maids of happy couples say,
“They live like Jesse Bourn and Colin Grey.”

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TALE XIV. THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE.

I am a Villain; yet I lie, I am not;
Fool! of thyself speak well:—Fool! do not flatter.
My Conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale.
—Richard III.

My Conscience is but a kind of hard Conscience.... The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. —Merchant of Venice.

Thou hast it now—and I fear
Thou play'dst most foully for it.
—Macbeth.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Rase out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
—Macbeth.

------ Soft! I did but dream—
Oh! coward Conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
Richard III.


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A serious Toyman in the city dwelt,
Who much concern for his religion felt;
Reading, he changed his tenets, read again,
And various questions could with skill maintain;
Papist and Quaker if we set aside,
He had the road of every traveller tried;
There walk'd awhile, and on a sudden turn'd
Into some by-way he had just discern'd:
He had a nephew, Fulham:—Fulham went
His Uncle's way, with every turn content;
He saw his pious kinsman's watchful care,
And thought such anxious pains his own might spare,
And he the truth obtain'd, without the toil, might share.
In fact, young Fulham, though he little read,
Perceived his uncle was by fancy led;
And smiled to see the constant care he took,
Collating creed with creed, and book with book.

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At length the senior fix'd; I pass the sect
He call'd a Church, 'twas precious and elect;
Yet the seed fell not in the richest soil,
For few disciples paid the preacher's toil;
All in an attic-room were wont to meet
These few disciples at their pastor's feet;
With these went Fulham, who, discreet and grave,
Follow'd the light his worthy uncle gave;
Till a warm Preacher found a way t' impart
Awakening feelings to his torpid heart:
Some weighty truths, and of unpleasant kind,
Sank, though resisted, in his struggling mind:
He wish'd to fly them, but compell'd to stay,
Truth to the waking Conscience found her way;—
For though the Youth was call'd a prudent lad,
And prudent was, yet serious faults he had—
Who now reflected—“Much am I surprised;
“I find these notions cannot be despised;
“No! there is something I perceive at last,
“Although my uncle cannot hold it fast;
“Though I the strictness of these men reject,
“Yet I determine to be circumspect:
“This man alarms me, and I must begin
“To look more closely to the things within:
“These sons of zeal have I derided long,
“But now begin to think the laughers wrong;
“Nay! my good uncle, by all teachers moved,
“Will be preferr'd to him who none approved;
“Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.”

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Such were his thoughts, when Conscience first began
To hold close converse with th' awaken'd man:
He from that time reserved and cautious grew,
And for his duties felt obedience due;
Pious he was not, but he fear'd the pain
Of sins committed, nor would sin again.
Whene'er he stray'd, he found his Conscience rose,
Like one determined what was ill t' oppose,
What wrong t'accuse, what secret to disclose:
To drag forth every latent act to light,
And fix them fully in the actor's sight:
This gave him trouble, but he still confess'd
The labour useful, for it brought him rest.
The Uncle died, and when the Nephew read
The will, and saw the substance of the dead—
Five hundred guineas, with a stock in trade—
He much rejoiced, and thought his fortune made;
Yet felt aspiring pleasure at the sight,
And for increase, increasing appetite:
Desire of profit idle habits check'd,
(For Fulham's virtue was to be correct);
He and his Conscience had their compact made—
“Urge me with truth, and you will soon persuade;
“But not,” he cried, “for mere ideal things
“Give me to feel those terror-breeding stings.”
“Let not such thoughts,” she said, “your mind confound;
“Trifles may wake me, but they never wound;

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“In them indeed there is a wrong and right,
“But you will find me pliant and polite;
“Not like a Conscience of the dotard kind,
“Awake to dreams, to dire offences blind:
“Let all within be pure, in all beside
“Be your own master, governor, and guide;
“Alive to danger, in temptation strong,
“And I shall sleep our whole existence long.”
“Sweet be thy sleep,” said Fulham; “strong must be
“The tempting ill that gains access to me:
“Never will I to evil deed consent,
“Or, if surprised, oh! how will I repent!
“Should gain be doubtful, soon would I restore
“The dangerous good, or give it to the poor;
“Repose for them my growing wealth shall buy—
“Or build—who knows? an hospital like Guy?—
“Yet why such means to soothe the smart within,
“While firmly purposed to renounce the sin?”
Thus our young Trader and his Conscience dwelt
In mutual love, and great the joy they felt;
But yet in small concerns, in trivial things,
“She was,” he said, “too ready with the stings;”

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And he too apt, in search of growing gains,
To lose the fear of penalties and pains:
Yet these were trifling bickerings, petty jars,
Domestic strifes, preliminary wars;
He ventured little, little she express'd
Of indignation, and they both had rest.
Thus was he fix'd to walk the worthy way,
When profit urged him to a bold essay:—
A time was that when all at pleasure gamed
In lottery chances, yet a law unblamed;
This Fulham tried; who would to him advance
A pound or crown, he gave in turn a chance
For weighty prize—and should they nothing share,
They had their crown or pound in Fulham's ware;
Thus the old stores within the shop were sold
For that which none refuses, new or old.
Was this unjust? yet Conscience could not rest,
But made a mighty struggle in the breast;
And gave th' aspiring man an early proof,
That should they war he would have work enough:
“Suppose,” said she, “your vended numbers rise
“The same with those which gain each real prize,
“(Such your proposal), can you ruin shun?”
“A hundred thousand,” he replied, “to one.”

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“Still it may happen:” “I the sum must pay.”
“You know you cannot:” “I can run away.”
“That is dishonest:”—“Nay, but you must wink
“At a chance-hit: it cannot be, I think:
“Upon my conduct as a whole decide,
“Such trifling errors let my virtues hide;
“Fail I at meeting? am I sleepy there?
“My purse refuse I with the priest to share?
“Do I deny the poor a helping hand?
“Or stop the wicked women in the Strand?
“Or drink at club beyond a certain pitch?
“Which are your charges? Conscience, tell me which?”
“'Tis well,” said she, “but ------” “Nay, I pray, have done:
“Trust me, I will not into danger run.”
The lottery drawn, not one demand was made;
Fulham gain'd profit and increase of trade.
“See now,” said he—for Conscience yet arose—
“How foolish 't is such measures to oppose:
“Have I not blameless thus my state advanced?”
“Still,” mutter'd Conscience, “still it might have chanced.”
“Might!” said our hero, “who is so exact
“As to inquire what might have been a fact?”
Now Fulham's shop contain'd a curious view
Of costly trifles elegant and new:
The papers told where kind mammas might buy
The gayest toys to charm an infant's eye;

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Where generous beaux might gentle damsels please,
And travellers call who cross the land or seas,
And find the curious art, the neat device,
Of precious value and of trifling price.
Here Conscience rested, she was pleased to find
No less an active than an honest mind;
But when he named his price, and when he swore,
His Conscience check'd him, that he ask'd no more,
When half he sought had been a large increase
On fair demand, she could not rest in peace:
(Beside th' affront to call th' adviser in,
Who would prevent, to justify the sin?)
She therefore told him, that “he vainly tried
“To soothe her anger, conscious that he lied;
“If thus he grasp'd at such usurious gains,
“He must deserve, and should expect her pains.”
The charge was strong; he would in part confess
Offence there was—But, who offended less?
“What! is a mere assertion call'd a lie?
“And if it be, are men compell'd to buy?
“'Twas strange that Conscience on such points should dwell,
“While he was acting (he would call it) well;
“He bought as others buy, he sold as others sell;

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“There was no fraud, and he demanded cause
“Why he was troubled, when he kept the laws?”
“My laws!” said Conscience: “What,” said he, “are thine?
“Oral or written, human or divine?
“Show me the chapter, let me see the text;
“By laws uncertain subjects are perplex'd:
“Let me my finger on the statute lay,
“And I shall feel it duty to obey.
“Reflect,” said Conscience, “'t was your own desire
“That I should warn you—does the compact tire?
“Repent you this? then bid me not advise,
“And rather hear your passions as they rise,
“So you may counsel and remonstrance shun,
“But then remember it is war begun;
“And you may judge from some attacks, my friend,
“What serious conflicts will on war attend.”
“Nay, but,” at length the thoughtful man replied,
“I say not that; I wish you for my guide;
“Wish for your checks and your reproofs—but then
“Be like a Conscience of my fellow-men;
“Worthy I mean, and men of good report,
“And not the wretches who with conscience sport:
“There's Bice, my friend, who passes off his grease
“Of pigs for bears', in pots a crown apiece;

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“His Conscience never checks him when he swears
“The fat he sells is honest fat of bears;
“And so it is, for he contrives to give
“A drachm to each—'tis thus that tradesmen live:
“Now why should you and I be over-nice;
“What man is held in more repute than Bice?”
Here ended the dispute; but yet 'twas plain
The parties both expected strife again:
Their friendship cool'd, he look'd about and saw
Numbers who seem'd unshackled by his awe;
While like a school-boy he was threaten'd still,
Now for the deed, now only for the will;
Here Conscience answer'd, “To thy neighbour's guide
“Thy neighbour leave, and in thine own confide.”
Such were each day the charges and replies,
When a new object caught the trader's eyes;
A Vestry-patriot, could he gain the name,
Would famous make him, and would pay the fame:
He knew full well the sum's bequeath'd in charge
For schools, for alms-men, for the poor, were large;
Report had told, and he could feel it true,
That most unfairly dealt the trusted few;
No partners would they in their office take,
Nor clear accounts at annual meetings make;

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Aloud our hero in the vestry spoke
Of hidden deeds, and vow'd to draw the cloak;
It was the poor man's cause, and he for one
Was quite determined to see justice done:
His foes affected laughter, then disdain,
They too were loud and threat'ning, but in vain;
The pauper's friend, their foe, arose and spoke again:
Fiercely he cried, “Your garbled statements show
“That you determine we shall nothing know;
“But we shall bring your hidden crimes to light,
“Give you to shame, and to the poor their right.”
Virtue like this might some approval ask—
But Conscience sternly said, “You wear a mask!”
“At least,” said Fulham, “if I have a view
“To serve myself, I serve the public too.”
Fulham, though check'd, retain'd his former zeal,
And this the cautious rogues began to feel:
“Thus will he ever bark,” in peevish tone,
An elder cried—“the cur must have a bone:”
They then began to hint, and to begin
Was all they needed—it was felt within;
In terms less veil'd an offer then was made,
Though distant still, it fail'd not to persuade:
More plainly then was every point proposed,
Approved, accepted, and the bargain closed.
The exulting paupers hail'd their Friend's success,
And bade adieu to murmurs and distress.

107

Alas! their Friend had now superior light,
And, view'd by that, he found that all was right;
“There were no errors, the disbursements small;
“This was the truth, and truth was due to all.”
And rested Conscience? No! she would not rest,
Yet was content with making a protest:
Some acts she now with less resistance bore,
Nor took alarm so quickly as before:
Like those in towns besieged, who every ball
At first with terror view, and dread them all;
But, grown familiar with the scenes, they fear
The danger less, as it approaches near;
So Conscience, more familiar with the view
Of growing evils, less attentive grew:
Yet he, who felt some pain and dreaded more,
Gave a peace-offering to the angry poor.
Thus had he quiet—but the time was brief;
From his new triumph sprang a cause of grief;
In office join'd, and acting with the rest,
He must admit the sacramental test.
Now, as a sectary, he had all his life,
As he supposed, been with the Church at strife;—
No rules of hers, no laws had he perused,
Nor knew the tenets he by rote abused;
Yet Conscience here arose more fierce and strong,
Than when she told of robbery and wrong;
“Change his religion! No! he must be sure
“That was a blow no Conscience could endure.”

108

Though friend to Virtue, yet she oft abides
In early notions, fix'd by erring guides;
And is more startled by a call from those,
Than when the foulest crimes her rest oppose;
By error taught, by prejudice misled,
She yields her rights, and Fancy rules instead;
When Conscience all her stings and terror deals,
Not as Truth dictates, but as Fancy feels:
And thus within our hero's troubled breast,
Crime was less torture than the odious test.
New forms, new measures, he must now embrace,
With sad conviction that they warr'd with grace;
To his new church no former friend would come,
They scarce preferr'd her to the church of Rome:
But thinking much, and weighing guilt and gain,
Conscience and he commuted for her pain;
Then promised Fulham to retain his creed,
And their peculiar paupers still to feed;
Their attic-room (in secret) to attend,
And not forget he was the preacher's friend;
Thus he proposed, and Conscience, troubled, tried,
And wanting peace, reluctantly complied.
Now care subdued, and apprehensions gone,
In peace our hero went aspiring on;
But short the period—soon a quarrel rose,
Fierce in the birth, and fatal in the close;
With times of truce between, which rather proved
That both were weary, than that either loved.

109

Fulham ev'n now disliked the heavy thrall,
And for her death would in his anguish call,
As Rome's mistaken friend exclaim'd, Let Carthage fall!
So felt our hero, so his wish express'd,
Against this powerful sprite—delenda est:
Rome in her conquest saw not danger near,
Freed from her rival, and without a fear;
So, Conscience conquer'd, men perceive how free,
But not how fatal such a state must be.
Fatal not free our hero's; foe or friend,
Conscience on him was destined to attend:
She dozed indeed, grew dull, nor seem'd to spy
Crime following crime, and each of deeper dye;
But all were noticed, and the reckoning time
With her account came on—crime following crime.
This, once a foe, now Brother in the Trust,
Whom Fulham late described as fair and just,
Was the sole Guardian of a wealthy maid,
Placed in his power, and of his frown afraid:
Not quite an idiot, for her busy brain
Sought, by poor cunning, trifling points to gain;
Success in childish projects her delight,
She took no heed of each important right.

110

The friendly parties met—the Guardian cried,
“I am too old; my sons have each a bride:
“Martha, my ward, would make an easy wife;
“On easy terms I'll make her yours for life;
“And then the creature is so weak and mild,
“She may be soothed and threaten'd as a child;”—
“Yet not obey,” said Fulham, “for your fools,
“Female and male, are obstinate as mules.”
Some points adjusted, these new friends agreed,
Proposed the day, and hurried on the deed.
“'Tis a vile act,” said Conscience:—“It will prove,”
Replied the bolder man, “an act of love;
“Her wicked guardian might the girl have sold
“To endless misery for a tyrant's gold;
“Now may her life be happy—for I mean
“To keep my temper even and serene.”
“I cannot thus compound,” the spirit cried,
“Nor have my laws thus broken and defied:
“This is a fraud, a bargain for a wife;
“Expect my vengeance, or amend your life.”
The Wife was pretty, trifling, childish, weak;
She could not think, but would not cease to speak:
This he forbad—she took the caution ill,
And boldly rose against his sovereign will;
With idiot-cunning she would watch the hour,
When friends were present, to dispute his power:
With tyrant-craft, he then was still and calm,
But raised in private terror and alarm:

111

By many trials, she perceived how far
To vex and tease, without an open war;
And he discover'd that so weak a mind
No art could lead, and no compulsion bind;
The rudest force would fail such mind to tame,
And she was callous to rebuke and shame;
Proud of her wealth, the power of law she kenw,
And would assist him in the spending too:
His threat'ning words with insult she defied,
To all his reasoning with a stare replied;
And when he begg'd her to attend, would say,
“Attend I will—but let me have my way.”
Nor rest had Conscience: “While you merit pain
“From me,” she cried, “you seek redress in vain.”
His thoughts were grievous: “All that I possess
“From this vile bargain adds to my distress;
“To pass a life with one who will not mend,
“Who cannot love, nor save, nor wisely spend,
“Is a vile prospect, and I see no end;
“For if we part, I must of course restore
“Much of her money, and must wed no more.
“Is there no way?”—here Conscience rose in power,
“Oh! fly the danger of this fatal hour;
“I am thy Conscience faithful, fond, and true,
“Ah, fly this thought, or evil must ensue;
“Fall on thy knees, and pray with all thy soul,
“Thy purpose banish, thy design control;
“Let every hope of such advantage cease,
“Or never more expect a moment's peace.”

112

Th' affrighten'd man a due attention paid,
Felt the rebuke, and the command obey'd.
Again the wife rebell'd, again express'd
A love for pleasure—a contempt of rest;
“She whom she pleased would visit, would receive
“Those who pleased her, nor deign to ask for leave.”
“One way there is,” said he; “I might contrive
“Into a trap this foolish thing to drive:
“Who pleased her, said she?—I'll be certain who—”
“Take heed,” said Conscience, “what thou mean'st to do:
“Ensnare thy wife?”—“Why yes,” he must confess,
“It might be wrong—but there was no redress;
“Beside, to think,” said he, “is not to sin.”
“Mistaken man!” replied the power within.
No guest unnoticed to the lady came,
He judged th' event with mingled joy and shame;
Oft he withdrew, and seem'd to leave her free,
But still as watchful as a lynx was he;
Meanwhile the wife was thoughtless, cool, and gay,
And, without virtue, had no wish to stray.
Though thus opposed, his plans were not resign'd;
“Revenge,” said he, “will prompt that daring mind;
“Refused supplies, insulted and distress'd,
“Enraged with me, and near a favourite guest—

113

“Then will her vengeance prompt the daring deed,
“And I shall watch, detect her, and be freed.”
There was a Youth—but let me hide the name,
With all the progress of this deed of shame;—
He had his views—on him the husband cast
His net, and saw him in his trammels fast.
“Pause but a moment—think what you intend,”
Said the roused Sleeper: “I am yet a friend;
“Must all our days in enmity be spent?”
“No!” and he paused—“I surely shall repent:”
Then hurried on—the evil plan was laid,
The wife was guilty, and her friend betray'd,
And Fulham gain'd his wish, and for his will was paid.
Had crimes less weighty on the spirit press'd,
This troubled Conscience might have sunk to rest;
And, like a foolish guard, been bribed to peace,
By a false promise, that offence should cease;
Past faults had seem'd familiar to the view,
Confused if many, and obscure though true;
And Conscience, troubled with the dull account,
Had dropp'd her tale, and slumber'd o'er th' amount:
But, struck by daring guilt, alert she rose,
Disturb'd, alarm'd, and could no more repose;
All hopes of friendship, and of peace, were past,
And every view with gloom was overcast.
Hence from that day, that day of shame and sin,
Arose the restless enmity within:

114

On no resource could Fulham now rely,
Doom'd all expedients, and in vain, to try;
For Conscience, roused, sat boldly on her throne,
Watch'd every thought, attack'd the foe alone,
And with envenom'd sting drew forth the inward groan:
Expedients fail'd that brought relief before,
In vain his alms gave comfort to the poor,
Give what he would, to him the comfort came no more:
Not prayer avail'd, and when (his crimes confess'd)
He felt some ease—she said—“Are they redress'd?
“You still retain the profit, and be sure,
“Long as it lasts, this anguish shall endure.”
Fulham still tried to soothe her, cheat, mislead;
But Conscience laid her finger on the deed,
And read the crime with power, and all that must succeed:
He tried t' expel her, but was sure to find
Her strength increased by all that he design'd;
Nor ever was his groan more loud and deep,
Than when refresh'd she rose from momentary sleep.
Now desperate grown, weak, harass'd, and afraid,
From new allies he sought for doubtful aid;
To thought itself he strove to bid adieu,
And from devotions to diversions flew;
He took a poor domestic for a slave,
(Though avarice grieved to see the price he gave);
Upon his board, once frugal, press'd a load
Of viands rich, the appetite to goad;

115

The long-protracted meal, the sparkling cup,
Fought with his gloom, and kept his courage up:
Soon as the morning came, there met his eyes
Accounts of wealth, that he might reading rise;
To profit then he gave some active hours,
Till food and wine again should renovate his powers:
Yet, spite of all defence, of every aid,
The watchful Foe her close attention paid;
In every thoughtful moment on she press'd,
And gave at once her dagger to his breast;
He waked at midnight, and the fears of sin,
As waters, through a bursten dam, broke in;
Nay, in the banquet, with his friends around,
When all their cares and half their crimes were drown'd,
Would some chance act awake the slumbering fear,
And care and crime in all their strength appear:
The news is read, a guilty victim swings,
And troubled looks proclaim the bosom-stings;
Some pair are wed; this brings the wife in view,
And some divorced: this shows the parting too;
Nor can he hear of evil word or deed,
But they to thought, and thought to sufferings lead.
Such was his life—no other changes came,
The hurrying day, the conscious night the same;
The night of horror—when he starting cried,
To the poor startled sinner at his side:
“Is it in law? am I condemn'd to die?
“Let me escape!—I'll give—oh! let me fly—
“How! but a dream—no judges! dungeon! chain!
“Or these grim men!—I will not sleep again.—

116

“Wilt thou, dread being! thus thy promise keep?
“Day is thy time—and wilt thou murder sleep?
“Sorrow and want repose, and wilt thou come,
“Nor give one hour of pure untroubled gloom?
“Oh! Conscience! Conscience! man's most faithful friend,
“Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend;
“But if he will thy friendly checks forego,
“Thou art, oh! wo for me, his deadliest foe!”

117

TALE XV. ADVICE;

OR, THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.

His hours fill'd up with riots, banquets, sports—
And never noted in him any study,
Any retirement, any sequestration.
—Henry V.

I will converse with iron-witted fools,
With unrespective boys; none are for me,
Who look into me with considerate eyes.
—Richard III.

You cram these words into mine ears, against
The stomach of my sense.
—Tempest.


119

A wealthy Lord of far-extended land
Had all that pleased him placed at his command;
Widow'd of late, but finding much relief
In the world's comforts, he dismiss'd his grief;
He was by marriage of his daughters eased,
And knew his sons could marry if they pleased;
Meantime in travel he indulged the boys,
And kept no spy nor partner of his joys.
These joys, indeed, were of the grosser kind,
That fed the cravings of an earthly mind;
A mind that, conscious of its own excess,
Felt the reproach his neighbours would express.
Long at th' indulgent board he loved to sit,
Where joy was laughter, and profaneness wit;
And such the guest and manners of the Hall,
No wedded lady on the 'Squire would call:
Here reign'd a Favourite, and her triumph gain'd
O'er other favourites who before had reign'd;

120

Reserved and modest seem'd the nymph to be,
Knowing her lord was charm'd with modesty;
For he, a sportsman keen, the more enjoy'd,
The greater value had the thing destroy'd.
Our 'Squire declared, that, from a wife released,
He would no more give trouble to a Priest;
Seem'd it not, then, ungrateful and unkind,
That he should trouble from the priesthood find?
The Church he honour'd, and he gave the due
And full respect to every son he knew;
But envied those who had the luck to meet
A gentle pastor, civil, and discreet;
Who never bold and hostile sermon penn'd,
To wound a sinner, or to shame a friend;
One whom no being either shunn'd or fear'd,
Such must be loved wherever they appear'd.
Not such the stern old Rector of the time,
Who soothed no culprit, and who spared no crime;
Who would his fears and his contempt express
For irreligion and licentiousness;
Of him our Village Lord, his guests among,
By speech vindictive proved his feelings stung.
“Were he a bigot,” said the 'Squire, “whose zeal
“Condemn'd us all, I should disdain to feel:
“But when a man of parts, in college train'd,
“Prates of our conduct—who would not be pain'd?
“While he declaims (where no one dares reply)
“On men abandon'd, grov'ling in the sty
“(Like beasts in human shape) of shameless luxury.

121

“Yet with a patriot's zeal I stand the shock
“Of vile rebuke, example to his flock:
“But let this Rector, thus severe and proud,
“Change his wide surplice for a narrow shroud,
“And I will place within his seat a youth,
“Train'd by the Graces to explain the Truth;
“Then shall the flock with gentle hand be led,
“By wisdom won, and by compassion fed.”
This purposed Teacher was a sister's son,
Who of her children gave the priesthood one;
And she had early train'd for this employ
The pliant talents of her college-boy:
At various times her letters painted all
Her brother's views—the manners of the Hall;
The rector's harshness, and the mischief made
By chiding those whom preachers should persuade:
This led the youth to views of easy life,
A friendly patron, an obliging wife;
His tithe, his glebe, the garden and the steed,
With books as many as he wish'd to read.
All this accorded with the Uncle's will;
He loved a priest compliant, easy, still;
Sums he had often to his favourite sent,
“To be,” he wrote, “in manly freedom spent;
“For well it pleased his spirit to assist
“An honest lad, who scorn'd a Methodist:”
His mother, too, in her maternal care,
Bade him of canting hypocrites beware;
Who from his duties would his heart seduce,
And make his talents of no earthly use.

122

Soon must a trial of his worth be made—
The ancient priest is to the tomb convey'd;
And the Youth summon'd from a serious friend,
His guide and host, new duties to attend.
Three months before, the nephew and the 'Squire
Saw mutual worth to praise and to admire;
And though the one too early left his wine,
The other still exclaim'd—“My boy will shine:
“Yes, I perceive that he will soon improve,
“And I shall form the very guide I love;
“Decent abroad, he will my name defend,
“And when at home, be social and unbend.”
The plan was specious, for the mind of James
Accorded duly with his uncle's schemes:
He then aspired not to a higher name
Than sober clerks of moderate talents claim;
Gravely to pray, and rev'rendly to preach,
Was all he saw, good youth! within his reach:
Thus may a mass of sulphur long abide,
Cold and inert, but, to the flame applied,
Kindling it blazes, and consuming turns
To smoke and poison, as it boils and burns.
James, leaving college, to a Preacher stray'd;
What call'd he knew not—but the call obey'd:
Mild, idle, pensive, ever led by those
Who could some specious novelty propose;
Humbly he listen'd, while the preacher dwelt
On touching themes, and strong emotions felt;

123

And in this night was fix'd that pliant will
To one sole point, and he retains it still.
At first his care was to himself confined;
Himself assured, he gave it to mankind:
His zeal grew active—honest, earnest zeal,
And comfort dealt to him, he long'd to deal;
He to his favourite preacher now withdrew,
Was taught to teach, instructed to subdue;
And train'd for ghostly warfare, when the call
Of his new duties reach'd him from the Hall.
Now to the 'Squire, although alert and stout,
Came unexpected an attack of gout;
And the grieved patron felt such serious pain;
He never thought to see a church again:
Thrice had the youthful rector taught the crowd,
Whose growing numbers spoke his powers aloud,
Before the patron could himself rejoice
(His pain still lingering) in the general voice;
For he imputed all this early fame
To graceful manner, and the well-known name;
And to himself assumed a share of praise,
For worth and talents he was pleased to raise.
A month had flown, and with it fled disease;
What pleased before, began again to please;
Emerging daily from his chamber's gloom,
He found his old sensations hurrying home;
Then call'd his nephew, and exclaim'd, “My boy,
“Let us again the balm of life enjoy;

124

“The foe has left me, and I deem it right,
“Should he return, to arm me for the fight.”
Thus spoke the 'Squire, the favourite nymph stood by,
And viewed the priest with insult in her eye:
She thrice had heard him when he boldly spoke
On dangerous points, and fear'd he would revoke:
For James she loved not—and her manner told,
“This warm affection will be quickly cold:”
And still she fear'd impression might be made
Upon a subject, nervous and decay'd;
She knew her danger, and had no desire
Of reformation in the gallant 'Squire;
And felt an envious pleasure in her breast
To see the rector daunted and distress'd.
Again the Uncle to the youth applied—
“Cast, my dear lad, that cursed gloom aside:
“There are for all things time and place; appear
“Grave in your pulpit, and be merry here:
“Now take your wine—for woes a sure resource,
“And the best prelude to a long discourse.”
James half obey'd, but cast an angry eye
On the fair lass, who still stood watchful by;
Resolving thus, “I have my fears—but still
“I must perform my duties, and I will;
“No love, no interest, shall my mind control;
“Better to lose my comforts than my soul;
“Better my uncle's favour to abjure,
“Than the upbraidings of my heart endure.”

125

He took his glass, and then address'd the 'Squire:
“I feel not well, permit me to retire.”
The 'Squire conceived that the ensuing day
Gave him these terrors for the grand essay,
When he himself should this young preacher try,
And stand before with him with observant eye;
This raised compassion in his manly breast,
And he would send the rector to his rest:
Yet first, in soothing voice—“A moment stay,
“And these suggestions of a friend obey;
“Treasure these hints, if fame or peace you prize,—
“The bottle emptied, I shall close my eyes.
“On every priest a twofold care attends,
“To prove his talents, and insure his friends:
“First, of the first—your stores at once produce;
“And bring your reading to its proper use:
“On doctrines dwell, and every point enforce
“By quoting much, the scholar's sure resource;
“For he alone can show us on each head
“What ancient schoolmen and sage fathers said:
“No worth has knowledge, if you fail to show
“How well you studied and how much you know:
“Is faith your subject, and you judge it right
“On theme so dark to cast a ray of light;
“Be it that faith the orthodox maintain,
“Found in the rubric, what the creeds explain;
“Fail not to show us on this ancient faith
“(And quote the passage) what some martyr saith:
“Dwell not one moment on a faith that shocks
“The minds of men sincere and orthodox;

126

“That gloomy faith, that robs the wounded mind
“Of all the comfort it was wont to find
“From virtuous acts, and to the soul denies
“Its proper due for alms and charities;
“That partial faith, that, weighing sins alone,
“Lets not a virtue for a fault atone;
“That starving faith, that would our tables clear,
“And make one dreadful Lent of all the year;
“And cruel too, for this is faith that rends
“Confiding beauties from protecting friends;
“A faith that all embracing, what a gloom
“Deep and terrific o'er the land would come!
“What scenes of horror would that time disclose!
“No sight but misery, and no sound but woes;
“Your nobler faith, in loftier style convey'd,
“Shall be with praise and admiration paid
“On points like these your hearers all admire
“A preacher's depth, and nothing more require;
“Shall we a studious youth to college send,
“That every clown his words may comprehend?
“'Tis for your glory, when your hearers own
“Your learning matchless, but the sense unknown.
“Thus honour gain'd, learn now to gain a friend,
“And the sure way is—never to offend;
“For, James, consider—what your neighbours do
“Is their own business, and concerns not you:
“Shun all resemblance to that forward race
“Who preach of sins before a sinner's face;
“And seem as if they overlook'd a pew,
“Only to drag a failing man in view:

127

“Much should I feel, when groaning in disease,
“If a rough hand upon my limb should seize;
“But great my anger, if this hand were found
“The very doctor's, who should make it sound:
“So feel our minds, young Priest, so doubly feel,
“When hurt by those whose office is to heal.
“Yet of our duties you must something tell,
“And must at times on sin and frailty dwell;
“Here you may preach in easy, flowing style,
“How errors cloud us, and how sins defile:
“Here bring persuasive tropes and figures forth,
“To show the poor that wealth is nothing worth;
“That they, in fact, possess an ample share
“Of the world's good, and feel not half its care;
“Give them this comfort, and, indeed, my gout
“In its full vigour causes me some doubt;
“And let it always, for your zeal, suffice,
“That vice you combat, in the abstract—vice:
“The very captious will be quiet then;
“We all confess we are offending men:
“In lashing sin, of every stroke beware,
“For sinners feel, and sinners you must spare;
“In general satire, every man perceives
“A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves;
“But name th' offence, and you absolve the rest,
“And point the dagger at a single breast.
“Yet are there sinners of a class so low,
“That you with safety may the lash bestow;
“Poachers, and drunkards, idle rogues, who feed
“At others' cost, a mark'd correction need:

128

“And all the better sort, who see your zeal,
“Will love and reverence for their pastor feel;
“Reverence for one who can inflict the smart,
“And love, because he deals them not a part.
“Remember well what love and age advise;
“A quiet rector is a parish prize,
“Who in his learning has a decent pride;
“Who to his people is a gentle guide;
“Who only hints at failings that he sees;
“Who loves his glebe, his patron, and his ease,
“And finds the way to fame and profit is to please.”
The Nephew answer'd not, except a sigh
And look of sorrow might be term'd reply;
He saw the fearful hazard of his state,
And held with truth and safety strong debate;
Nor long he reason'd, for the zealous youth
Resolved, though timid, to profess the truth;
And though his friend should like a lion roar,
Truth would he preach, and neither less nor more.
The bells had toll'd—arrived the time of prayer,
The flock assembled, and the 'Squire was there:
And now can poet sing, or proseman say,
The disappointment of that trying day?
As he who long had train'd a favourite steed,
(Whose blood and bone gave promise of his speed),
Sanguine with hope, he runs with partial eye
O'er every feature, and his bets are high;

129

Of triumph sure, he sees the rivals start,
And waits their coming with exulting heart;
Forestalling glory, with impatient glance,
And sure to see his conquering steed advance;
The conquering steed advances—luckless day!
A rival's Herod bears the prize away,
Nor second his, nor third, but lagging last,
With hanging head he comes, by all surpass'd:
Surprise and wrath the owner's mind inflame,
Love turns to scorn, and glory ends in shame;—
Thus waited, high in hope, the partial 'Squire,
Eager to hear, impatient to admire:
When the young Preacher, in the tones that find
A certain passage to the kindling mind,
With air and accent strange, impressive, sad,
Alarm'd the judge—he trembled for the lad;
But when the text announced the power of grace,
Amazement scowl'd upon his clouded face,
At this degenerate son of his illustrious race;
Staring he stood, till hope again arose,
That James might well define the words he chose:
For this he listen'd—but, alas! he found
The preacher always on forbidden ground.
And now the Uncle left the hated pew,
With James, and James's conduct, in his view;
A long farewell to all his favourite schemes!
For now no crazed fanatic's frantic dreams
Seem'd vile as James's conduct, or as James:
All he had long derided, hated, fear'd,
This, from the chosen youth, the uncle heard;—

130

The needless pause, the fierce disorder'd air,
The groan for sin, the vehemence of prayer,
Gave birth to wrath, that, in a long discourse
Of grace triumphant, rose to fourfold force:
He found his thoughts despised, his rules transgress'd,
And while the anger kindled in his breast,
The pain must be endured that could not be express'd:
Each new idea more inflamed his ire,
As fuel thrown upon a rising fire:
A hearer yet, he sought by threatening sign
To ease his heart, and awe the young divine;
But James refused those angry looks to meet,
Till he dismiss'd his flock, and left his seat:
Exhausted then he felt his trembling frame,
But fix'd his soul,—his sentiments the same;
And therefore wise it seem'd to fly from rage,
And seek for shelter in his parsonage:
There, if forsaken, yet consoled to find
Some comforts left, though not a few resign'd;
There, if he lost an erring parent's love,
An honest conscience must the cause approve;
If the nice palate were no longer fed,
The mind enjoy'd delicious thoughts instead;
And if some part of earthly good was flown,
Still was the tithe of ten good farms his own.
Fear now, and discord, in the village reign,
The cool remonstrate, and the meek complain;
But there is war within, and wisdom pleads in vain.
Now dreads the Uncle, and proclaims his dread,
Lest the Boy-priest should turn each rustic head;

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The certain converts cost him certain wo,
The doubtful fear lest they should join the foe:
Matrons of old, with whom he used to joke,
Now pass his Honour with a pious look;
Lasses, who met him once with lively airs,
Now cross his way, and gravely walk to prayers:
An old companion, whom he long has loved,
By coward fears confess'd his conscience moved;
As the third bottle gave its spirit forth,
And they bore witness to departing worth,
The friend arose, and he too would depart:—
“Man,” said the 'Squire, “thou wert not wont to start;
“Hast thou attended to that foolish boy,
“Who would abridge all comforts, or destroy?”
Yes, he had listen'd, who had slumber'd long,
And was convinced that something must be wrong:
But, though affected, still his yielding heart,
And craving palate, took the Uncle's part;
Wine now oppress'd him, who, when free from wine,
Could seldom clearly utter his design;
But though by nature and indulgence weak,
Yet, half converted, he resolved to speak;
And, speaking, own'd, “that in his mind the Youth
“Had gifts and learning, and that truth was truth:
“The 'Squire he honour'd, and, for his poor part,
“He hated nothing like a hollow heart:
“But 'twas a maxim he had often tried,
“That right was right, and there he would abide;
“He honour'd learning, and he would confess
“The preacher had his talents—more or less:

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“Why not agree? he thought the young divine
“Had no such strictness—they might drink and dine;
“For them sufficient—but he said before,—
“That truth was truth, and he would drink no more.”
This heard the 'Squire with mix'd contempt and pain;
He fear'd the Priest this recreant sot would gain.
The favourite Nymph, though not a convert made,
Conceived the man she scorn'd her cause would aid,
And when the spirits of her lord were low,
The lass presumed the wicked cause to show:
“It was the wretched life his Honour led,
“And would draw vengeance on his guilty head;
“Their loves (Heav'n knew how dreadfully distress'd
“The thought had made her!) were as yet unbless'd:
“And till the church had sanction'd”—Here she saw
The wrath that forced her trembling to withdraw.
Add to these outward ills, some inward light,
That show'd him all was not correct and right:
Though now he less indulged—and to the poor,
From day to day, sent alms from door to door;
Though he some ease from easy virtues found,
Yet conscience told him he could not compound;
But must himself the darling sin deny,
Change the whole heart,—but here a heavy sigh
Proclaim'd, “How vast the toil! and ah! how weak am I!”

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James too has trouble—he divided sees
A parish, once harmonious and at ease:
With him united are the simply meek,
The warm, the sad, the nervous, and the weak;
The rest his Uncle's, save the few beside,
Who own no doctrine, and obey no guide;
With stragglers of each adverse camp, who lend
Their aid to both, but each in turn offend.
Though zealous still, yet he begins to feel
The heat too fierce, that glows in vulgar zeal;
With pain he hears his simple friends relate
Their week's experience, and their woful state:
With small temptation struggling every hour,
And bravely battling with the tempting power;
His native sense is hurt by strange complaints
Of inward motions in these warring saints;
Who never cast on sinful bait a look,
But they perceive the devil at the hook:
Grieved, yet compell'd to smile, he finds it hard
Against the blunders of conceit to guard;
He sighs to hear the jests his converts cause,
He cannot give their erring zeal applause;
But finds it inconsistent to condemn
The flights and follies he has nursed in them:
These, in opposing minds, contempt produce,
Or mirth occasion, or provoke abuse;
On each momentous theme disgrace they bring,
And give to Scorn her poison and her sting.

135

TALE XVI. THE CONFIDANT.

Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon,
With fresh suspicion?
—Othello.

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks,
And given my treasure and my rights in thee
To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy?
—1 Henry IV.

------ It is excellent
To have a giant's strength, but tyrannous
To use it as a giant.
—Measure for Measure.


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Anna was young and lovely—in her eye
The glance of beauty, in her cheek the dye;
Her shape was slender, and her features small,
But graceful, easy, unaffected all:
The liveliest tints her youthful face disclosed;
There beauty sparkled, and there health reposed;
For the pure blood that flush'd that rosy cheek
Spoke what the heart forbad the tongue to speak;
And told the feelings of that heart as well,
Nay, with more candour than the tongue could tell:
Though this fair lass had with the wealthy dwelt,
Yet like the damsel of the cot she felt;
And, at the distant hint or dark surmise,
The blood into the mantling cheek would rise.
Now Anna's station frequent terrors wrought
In one whose looks were with such meaning fraught:
For on a Lady, as an humble friend,
It was her painful office to attend.

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Her duties here were of the usual kind—
And some the body harass'd, some the mind:
Billets she wrote, and tender stories read,
To make the Lady sleepy in her bed;
She play'd at whist, but with inferior skill,
And heard the summons as a call to drill;
Music was ever pleasant till she play'd
At a request that no request convey'd;
The Lady's tales with anxious looks she heard,
For she must witness what her Friend averr'd;
The Lady's taste she must in all approve,
Hate whom she hated, whom she loved must love;
These, with the various duties of her place,
With care she studied, and perform'd with grace;
She veil'd her troubles in a mask of ease,
And show'd her pleasure was a power to please.
Such were the Damsel's duties; she was poor—
Above a servant, but with service more:
Men on her face with careless freedom gazed,
Nor thought how painful was the glow they raised;
A wealthy few to gain her favour tried,
But not the favour of a grateful bride;
They spoke their purpose with an easy air,
That shamed and frighten'd the dependent fair;
Past time she view'd, the passing time to cheat,
But nothing found to make the present sweet;
With pensive soul she read life's future page,
And saw dependent, poor, repining age.
But who shall dare t' assert what years may bring,
When wonders from the passing hour may spring?

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There dwelt a Yeoman in the place, whose mind
Was gentle, generous, cultivated, kind;
For thirty years he labour'd; fortune then
Placed the mild rustic with superior men:
A richer Stafford who had lived to save,
What he had treasured to the poorer gave;
Who with a sober mind that treasure view'd,
And the slight studies of his youth renew'd:
He not profoundly, but discreetly read,
And a fair mind with useful culture fed;
Then thought of marriage—“But the great,” said he,
“I shall not suit, nor will the meaner me:”
Anna he saw, admired her modest air;
He thought her virtuous, and he knew her fair;
Love raised his pity for her humble state,
And prompted wishes for her happier fate;
No pride in money would his feelings wound,
Nor vulgar manners hurt him and confound:
He then the Lady at the Hall address'd,
Sought her consent, and his regard express'd;
Yet if some cause his earnest wish denied,
He begg'd to know it, and he bow'd and sigh'd.
The Lady own'd that she was loth to part,
But praised the damsel for her gentle heart,
Her pleasing person, and her blooming health;
But ended thus, “Her virtue is her wealth.”
“Then is she rich!” he cried, with lively air;
“But whence, so please you, came a lass so fair?”

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“A placeman's child was Anna, one who died
“And left a widow by afflictions tried;
“She to support her infant daughter strove,
“But early left the object of her love;
“Her youth, her beauty, and her orphan-state
“Gave a kind countess interest in her fate;
“With her she dwelt, and still might dwelling be,
“When the earl's folly caused the lass to flee;
“A second friend was she compell'd to shun,
“By the rude offers of an uncheck'd son;
“I found her then, and with a mother's love
“Regard the gentle girl whom you approve;
“Yet, e'en with me protection is not peace,
“Nor man's designs, nor beauty's trials cease:
“Like sordid boys by costly fruit they feel,
“They will not purchase, but they try to steal.”
Now this good Lady, like a witness true,
Told but the truth, and all the truth she knew;
And 'tis our duty and our pain to show
Truth this good lady had not means to know.
Yes, there was lock'd within the damsel's breast
A fact important to be now confess'd;
Gently, my muse, th' afflicting tale relate,
And have some feeling for a sister's fate.
Where Anna dwelt, a conquering hero came,—
An Irish captain, Sedley was his name;
And he too had that same prevailing art,
That gave soft wishes to the virgin's heart:
In years they differ'd; he had thirty seen
When this young beauty counted just fifteen;

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But still they were a lovely lively pair,
And trod on earth as if they trod on air.
On love, delightful theme! the captain dwelt
With force still growing with the hopes he felt;
But with some caution and reluctance told,
He had a father crafty, harsh, and old;
Who, as possessing much, would much expect,
Or both, for ever, from his love reject:
Why then offence to one so powerful give,
Who (for their comfort) had not long to live
With this poor prospect the deluded maid,
In words confiding, was indeed betray'd;
And, soon as terrors in her bosom rose,
The hero fled; they hinder'd his repose.
Deprived of him, she to a parent's breast
Her secret trusted, and her pains impress'd;
Let her to town (so prudence urged) repair,
To shun disgrace, at least to hide it there;
But ere she went, the luckless damsel pray'd
A chosen friend might lend her timely aid:
“Yes! my soul's sister, my Eliza, come,
“Hear her last sigh, and ease thy Anna's doom:”
“'Tis a fool's wish,” the angry father cried,
But, lost in troubles of his own, complied;
And dear Eliza to her friend was sent,
T' indulge that wish, and be her punishment:
The time arrived, and brought a tenfold dread;
The time was past, and all the terror fled;
The infant died; the face resumed each charm,
And reason now brought trouble and alarm:

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Should her Eliza—no! she was too just,
“Too good and kind—but ah! too young to trust.”
Anna return'd, her former place resumed,
And faded beauty with new grace re-bloom'd;
And if some whispers of the past were heard,
They died innoxious, as no cause appear'd;
But other cares on Anna's bosom press'd,
She saw her father gloomy and distress'd;
He died o'erwhelm'd with debt, and soon was shed
The filial sorrow o'er a mother dead:
She sought Eliza's arms—that faithful friend was wed;
Then was compassion by the countess shown,
And all th' adventures of her life are known.
And now, beyond her hopes—no longer tried
By slavish awe—she lived a Yeoman's bride;
Then bless'd her lot, and with a grateful mind
Was careful, cheerful, vigilant, and kind:
The gentle husband felt supreme delight,
Bless'd by her joy, and happy in her sight;
He saw with pride in every friend and guest
High admiration and regard express'd:
With greater pride, and with superior joy,
He look'd exulting on his first-born boy;
To her fond breast the wife her infant strain'd,
Some feelings utter'd, some were not explain'd;
And she enraptured with her treasure grew,
The sight familiar, but the pleasure new.
Yet there appear'd within that tranquil state
Some threat'ning prospect of uncertain fate;

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Between the married when a secret lies,
It wakes suspicion from enforced disguise:
Still thought the Wife upon her absent friend,
With all that must upon her truth depend;
“There is no being in the world beside,
“Who can discover what that friend will hide;
“Who knew the fact, knew not my name or state,
“Who these can tell cannot the fact relate;
“But thou, Eliza, canst the whole impart,
“And all my safety is thy generous heart.”
Mix'd with these fears—but light and transient these—
Fled years of peace, prosperity, and ease;
So tranquil all, that scarce a gloomy day
For days of gloom unmix'd prepared the way:
One eve, the Wife, still happy in her state,
Sang gaily, thoughtless of approaching fate;
Then came a letter, that (received in dread
Not unobserved) she in confusion read;
The substance this—“Her friend rejoiced to find
“That she had riches with a grateful mind;
“While poor Eliza had, from place to place,
“Been lured by hope to labour for disgrace;
“That every scheme her wandering husband tried,
“Pain'd while he lived, and perish'd when he died.”
She then of want in angry style complain'd,
Her child a burthen to her life remain'd,
Her kindred shunn'd her prayers, no friend her soul sustain'd.
“Yet why neglected? Dearest Anna knew
“Her worth once tried, her friendship ever true;

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“She hoped, she trusted, though by wants oppress'd,
“To lock the treasured secret in her breast;
“Yet, vex'd by trouble, must apply to one,
“For kindness due to her for kindness done.”
In Anna's mind was tumult, in her face
Flushings of dread had momentary place:
“I must,” she judged, “these cruel lines expose,
“Or fears, or worse than fears, my crime disclose.”
The letter shown, he said, with sober smile,—
“Anna, your Friend has not a friendly style:
“Say, where could you with this fair lady dwell,
“Who boasts of secrets that she scorns to tell?”
“At school,” she answer'd: he “at school!” replied;
“Nay, then I know the secrets you would hide;
“Some early longings these, without dispute,
“Some youthful gaspings for forbidden fruit:
“Why so disorder'd, love? are such the crimes
“That give us sorrow in our graver times?
“Come, take a present for your friend, and rest
“In perfect peace—you find you are confess'd.”
This cloud, though past, alarm'd the conscious wife,
Presaging gloom and sorrow for her life;
Who to her answer join'd a fervent prayer,
That her Eliza would a sister spare:
If she again—but was there cause?—should send,
Let her direct—and then she named a friend:
A sad expedient untried friends to trust,
And still to fear the tried may be unjust:

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Such is his pain, who, by his debt oppress'd,
Seeks by new bonds a temporary rest.
Few were her peaceful days till Anna read
The words she dreaded, and had cause to dread:—
“Did she believe, did she, unkind, suppose
“That thus Eliza's friendship was to close?
“No! though she tried, and her desire was plain,
“To break the friendly bond, she strove in vain:
“Ask'd she for silence? why so loud the call,
“And yet the token of her love so small?
“By means like these will you attempt to bind
“And check the movements of an injured mind?
“Poor as I am, I shall be proud to show
“What dangerous secrets I may safely know:
“Secrets to men of jealous minds convey'd
“Have many a noble house in ruins laid:
“Anna, I trust, although with wrongs beset,
“And urged by want, I shall be faithful yet;
“But what temptation may from these arise,
“To take a slighted woman by surprise,
“Becomes a subject for your serious care—
“For who offends, must for offence prepare.”
Perplex'd, dismay'd, the Wife foresaw her doom;
A day deferr'd was yet a day to come;
But still, though painful her suspended state,
She dreaded more the crisis of her fate;
Better to die than Stafford's scorn to meet,
And her strange friend perhaps would be discreet:

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Presents she sent, and made a strong appeal
To woman's feelings, begging her to feel;
With too much force she wrote of jealous men,
And her tears falling spoke beyond the pen;
Eliza's silence she again implored,
And promised all that prudence could afford.
For looks composed and careless, Anna tried;
She seem'd in trouble, and unconscious sigh'd:
The faithful Husband, who devoutly loved
His silent partner, with concern reproved:
“What secret sorrows on my Anna press,
“That love may not partake, nor care redress?”
“None, none,” she answer'd, with a look so kind,
That the fond man determined to be blind.
A few succeeding weeks of brief repose
In Anna's cheek revived the faded rose;
A hue like this the western sky displays,
That glows awhile, and withers as we gaze.
Again the Friend's tormenting letter came—
“The wants she suffer'd were affection's shame;
“She with her child a life of terrors led,
“Unhappy fruit! but of a lawful bed:
“Her friend was tasting every bliss in life,
“The joyful mother, and the wealthy wife;
“While she was placed in doubt, in fear, in want,
“To starve on trifles that the happy grant;
“Poorly for all her faithful silence paid,
“And tantalized by ineffectual aid:

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“She could not thus a beggar's lot endure;
“She wanted something permanent and sure:
“If they were friends, then equal be their lot,
“And she was free to speak if they were not.”
Despair and terror seized the Wife, to find
The artful workings of a vulgar mind:
Money she had not, but the hint of dress
Taught her new bribes, new terrors to redress:
She with such feeling then described her woes,
That envy's self might on the view repose;
Then to a mother's pains she made appeal,
And painted grief like one compell'd to feel.
Yes! so she felt, that in her air, her face,
In every purpose, and in every place;
In her slow motion, in her languid mien,
The grief, the sickness of her soul, were seen.
Of some mysterious ill, the Husband sure,
Desired to trace it, for he hoped to cure;
Something he knew obscurely, and had seen
His wife attend a cottage on the green;
Love, loth to wound, endured conjecture long,
Till fear would speak, and spoke in language strong.
“All I must know, my Anna—truly know
“Whence these emotions, terrors, troubles flow;
“Give me thy grief, and I will fairly prove
“Mine is no selfish, no ungenerous love.”

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Now Anna's soul the seat of strife became,
Fear with respect contended, love with shame;
But fear prevailing was the ruling guide,
Prescribing what to show and what to hide.
“It is my friend,” she said—“but why disclose
“A woman's weakness struggling with her woes?
“Yes, she has grieved me by her fond complaints,
“The wrongs she suffers, the distress she paints:
“Something we do—but she afflicts me still,
“And says, with power to help, I want the will;
“This plaintive style I pity and excuse,
“Help when I can, and grieve when I refuse;
“But here my useless sorrows I resign,
“And will be happy in a love like thine.”
The Husband doubted; he was kind but cool:—
“'T is a strong friendship to arise at school;
“Once more then, love, once more the sufferer aid,—
“I too can pity, but I must upbraid:
“Of these vain feelings then thy bosom free,
“Nor be o'erwhelm'd by useless sympathy.”
The Wife again despatch'd the useless bribe,
Again essay'd her terrors to describe;
Again with kindest words entreated peace,
And begg'd her offerings for a time might cease.
A calm succeeded, but too like the one
That causes terror ere the storm comes on:

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A secret sorrow lived in Anna's heart,
In Stafford's mind a secret fear of art;
Not long they lasted—this determined foe
Knew all her claims, and nothing would forego;
Again her letter came, where Anna read,
“My child, one cause of my distress, is dead:
“Heav'n has my infant:”—“Heartless wretch!” she cried,
“Is this thy joy?”—“I am no longer tied:
“Now will I, hast'ning to my friend, partake
“Her cares and comforts, and no more forsake;
“Now shall we both in equal station move,
“Save that my friend enjoys a husband's love.”
Complaint and threats so strong, the Wife amazed,
Who wildly on her cottage-neighbour gazed;
Her tones, her trembling, first betray'd her grief
When floods of tears gave anguish its relief.
She fear'd that Stafford would refuse assent,
And knew her selfish Friend would not relent;
She must petition, yet delay'd the task,
Ashamed, afraid, and yet compell'd to ask;
Unknown to him some object fill'd her mind,
And, once suspicious, he became unkind:
They sate one evening, each absorb'd in gloom,
When, hark! a noise and rushing to the room,
The Friend tripp'd lightly in, and laughing said, “I come.”
Anna received her with an anxious mind,
And meeting whisper'd, “Is Eliza kind?”

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Reserved and cool, the Husband sought to prove
The depth and force of this mysterious love.
To nought that pass'd between the Stranger-friend
And his meek partner seem'd he to attend;
But, anxious, listen'd to the lightest word
That might some knowledge of his guest afford;
And learn the reason one to him so dear
Should feel such fondness, yet betray such fear.
Soon he perceived this uninvited guest,
Unwelcome too, a sovereign power possess'd;
Lofty she was and careless, while the meek
And humbled Anna was afraid to speak:
As mute she listen'd with a painful smile,
Her friend sate laughing and at ease the while,
Telling her idle tales with all the glee
Of careless and unfeeling levity.
With calm good sense he knew his Wife endued,
And now with wounded pride her conduct view'd;
Her speech was low, her every look convey'd—
“I am a slave, subservient and afraid.”
All trace of comfort vanish'd, if she spoke,
The noisy friend upon her purpose broke;
To her remarks with insolence replied,
And her assertions doubted or denied;
While the meek Anna like an infant shook,
Wo-struck and trembling at the serpent's look.
“There is,” said Stafford, “yes, there is a cause—
“This creature frights her, overpowers and awes.”

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Six weeks had pass'd—“In truth, my love, this friend
“Has liberal notions; what does she intend?
“Without a hint she came, and will she stay
“Till she receives the hint to go away?”
Confused the Wife replied, in spite of truth,
“I love the dear companion of my youth.”
“'Tis well,” said Stafford; “then your loves renew;
“Trust me, your rivals, Anna, will be few.”
Though playful this, she felt too much distress'd
T' admit the consolation of a jest;
Ill she reposed, and in her dreams would sigh,
And murmuring forth her anguish, beg to die;
With sunken eye, slow pace, and pallid cheek,
She look'd confusion, and she fear'd to speak.
All this the Friend beheld, for, quick of sight,
She knew the husband eager for her flight;
And that by force alone she could retain
The lasting comforts she had hope to gain:
She now perceived, to win her post for life,
She must infuse fresh terrors in the wife;
Must bid to friendship's feebler ties adieu,
And boldly claim the object in her view:
She saw the husband's love, and knew the power
Her friend might use in some propitious hour.
Meantime the anxious Wife, from pure distress
Assuming courage, said, “I will confess;”

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But with her children felt a parent's pride,
And sought once more the hated truth to hide.
Offended, grieved, impatient, Stafford bore
The odious change, till he could bear no more;
A friend to truth, in speech and action plain,
He held all fraud and cunning in disdain;
But fraud to find, and falsehood to detect,
For once he fled to measures indirect.
One day the Friends were seated in that room
The Guest with care adorn'd, and named her home:
To please the eye, there curious prints were placed,
And some light volumes to amuse the taste;
Letters and music, on a table laid,
The favourite studies of the fair betray'd;
Beneath the window was the toilet spread,
And the fire gleam'd upon a crimson bed.
In Anna's looks and falling tears were seen
How interesting had their subjects been:
“Oh! then,” resumed the Friend, “I plainly find
“That you and Stafford know each other's mind;
“I must depart, must on the world be thrown,
“Like one discarded, worthless and unknown;
“But, shall I carry, and to please a foe,
“A painful secret in my bosom? No!
“Think not your Friend a reptile you may tread
“Beneath your feet, and say, the worm is dead;
“I have some feeling, and will not be made
“The scorn of her whom love cannot persuade:

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“Would not your word, your slightest wish, effect
“All that I hope, petition, or expect?
“The power you have, but you the use decline—
“Proof that you feel not, or you fear not mine.
“There was a time, when I, a tender maid,
“Flew at a call, and your desires obey'd;
“A very mother to the child became,
“Consoled your sorrow, and conceal'd your shame;
“But now, grown rich and happy, from the door
“You thrust a bosom-friend, despised and poor;
“That child alive, its mother might have known
“The hard, ungrateful spirit she has shown.”
Here paused the Guest, and Anna cried at length—
“You try me, cruel friend! beyond my strength:
“Would I had been beside my infant laid,
“Where none would vex me, threaten, or upbraid!”
In Anna's looks the Friend beheld despair;
Her speech she soften'd, and composed her air;
Yet, while professing love, she answer'd still—
“You can befriend me, but you want the will.”
They parted thus, and Anna went her way,
To shed her secret sorrows, and to pray.
Stafford, amused with books, and fond of home,
By reading oft dispell'd the evening gloom;
History or tale—all heard him with delight,
And thus was pass'd this memorable night.
The listening Friend bestow'd a flattering smile;
A sleeping boy the mother held the while;

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And ere she fondly bore him to his bed,
On his fair face the tear of anguish shed.
And now his task resumed, “My tale,” said he,
“Is short and sad, short may our sadness be!”—
“The Caliph Harun, as historians tell,
“Ruled, for a tyrant, admirably well;
“Where his own pleasures were not touch'd, to men
“He was humane, and sometimes even then;
“Harun was fond of fruits, and gardens fair,
“And wo to all whom he found poaching there:
“Among his pages was a lively Boy,
“Eager in search of every trifling joy;
“His feelings vivid, and his fancy strong,
“He sigh'd for pleasure while he shrank from wrong;
“When by the Caliph in the garden placed,
“He saw the treasures which he long'd to taste;
“And oft alone he ventured to behold
“Rich hanging fruits with rind of glowing gold;
“Too long he stay'd forbidden bliss to view,
“His virtue failing, as his longings grew;
“Athirst and wearied with the noontide heat,
“Fate to the garden led his luckless feet;
“With eager eyes and open mouth he stood,
“Smelt the sweet breath, and touch'd the fragrant food;

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“The tempting beauty sparkling in the sun
“Charm'd his young sense—he ate, and was undone:
“When the fond glutton paused, his eyes around
“He turn'd, and eyes upon him turning found;
“Pleased he beheld the spy, a brother-page,
“A friend allied in office and in age;
“Who promised much that secret he would be,
“But high the price he fix'd on secrecy.
“‘Were you suspected, my unhappy friend,’
“Began the Boy, ‘where would your sorrows end?
“‘In all the palace there is not a page
“‘The Caliph would not torture in his rage:
“‘I think I see thee now impaled alive,
“‘Writhing in pangs—but come, my friend! revive;
“‘Had some beheld you, all your purse contains
“‘Could not have saved you from terrific pains;
“‘I scorn such meanness; and, if not in debt,
“‘Would not an asper on your folly set.’
“The hint was strong; young Osmyn search'd his store
“For bribes, and found he soon could bribe no more;
“That time arrived, for Osmyn's stock was small,
“And the young tyrant now possess'd it all;
“The cruel youth, with his companions near,
“Gave the broad hint that raised the sudden fear;
“Th' ungenerous insult now was daily shown,
“And Osmyn's peace and honest pride were flown;

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“Then came augmenting woes, and fancy strong
“Drew forms of suffering, a tormenting throng;
“He felt degraded, and the struggling mind
“Dared not be free, and could not be resign'd;
“And all his pains and fervent prayers obtain'd
“Was truce from insult, while the fears remain'd.
“One day it chanced that this degraded Boy
“And Tyrant-friend were fix'd at their employ;
“Who now had thrown restraint and form aside,
“And for his bribe in plainer speech applied:
“‘Long have I waited, and the last supply
“‘Was but a pittance, yet how patient I!
“‘But give me now what thy first terrors gave,
“‘My speech shall praise thee, and my silence save.’
“Osmyn had found, in many a dreadful day,
“The tyrant fiercer when he seem'd in play:
“He begg'd forbearance; ‘I have not to give;
“‘Spare me awhile, although 't is pain to live:
“‘Oh! had that stolen fruit the power possess'd
“‘To war with life, I now had been at rest.’
“‘So fond of death,’ replied the Boy, ‘'t is plain
“‘Thou hast no certain notion of the pain;
“‘But to the Caliph were a secret shown,
“‘Death has no pain that would be then unknown.’
“Now,” says the story, “in a closet near,
“The monarch seated, chanced the boys to hear;

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“There oft he came, when wearied on his throne,
“To read, sleep, listen, pray, or be alone.
“The tale proceeds, when first the Caliph found
“That he was robb'd, although alone, he frown'd;
“And swore in wrath, that he would send the boy
“Far from his notice, favour, or employ;
“But gentler movements soothed his ruffled mind,
“And his own failings taught him to be kind.
“Relenting thoughts then painted Osmyn young,
“His passion urgent, and temptation strong;
“And that he suffer'd from that villain-Spy
“Pains worse than death, till he desired to die;
“Then if his morals had received a stain,
“His bitter sorrows made him pure again:
“To reason, pity lent her powerful aid,
“For one so tempted, troubled, and betray'd;
“And a free pardon the glad Boy restored
“To the kind presence of a gentle lord;
“Who from his office and his country drove
“That traitor-Friend, whom pains nor pray'rs could move;
“Who raised the fears no mortal could endure,
“And then with cruel av'rice sold the cure.
“My tale is ended; but, to be applied,
“I must describe the place where Caliphs hide.”
Here both the females look'd alarm'd, distress'd,
With hurried passions hard to be express'd.

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“It was a closet by a chamber placed,
“Where slept a lady of no vulgar taste;
“Her friend attended in that chosen room
“That she had honour'd and proclaim'd her home;
“To please the eye were chosen pictures placed,
“And some light volumes to amuse the taste;
“Letters and music on a table laid,
“For much the lady wrote, and often played;
“Beneath the window was a toilet spread,
“And a fire gleam'd upon a crimson bed.”
He paused, he rose; with troubled joy the Wife
Felt the new era of her changeful life;
Frankness and love appear'd in Stafford's face,
And all her trouble to delight gave place.
Twice made the Guest an effort to sustain
Her feelings, twice resumed her seat in vain,
Nor could suppress her shame, nor could support her pain:
Quick she retired, and all the dismal night
Thought of her guilt, her folly, and her flight;
Then sought unseen her miserable home,
To think of comforts lost, and brood on wants to come.

161

TALE XVII. RESENTMENT.

------ She hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day for melting charity;
Yet, notwithstanding, being incensed, is flint ------
Her temper, therefore, must be well observed.
—2 Henry IV.

------ Three or four wenches where I stood cried—“Alas! good soul!” and forgave him with all their hearts; but there is no heed to be taken of them: if Cæsar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. —Julius Cæsar.

------ How dost? Art cold?
I'm cold myself—Where is the straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious.
—Lear.


163

Females there are of unsuspicious mind,
Easy and soft, and credulous and kind;
Who, when offended for the twentieth time,
Will hear th' offender and forgive the crime:
And there are others whom, like these to cheat,
Asks but the humblest effort of deceit;
But they, once injured, feel a strong disdain,
And, seldom pardoning, never trust again;
Urged by religion, they forgive—but yet
Guard the warm heart, and never more forget:
Those are like wax—apply them to the fire,
Melting, they take th' impressions you desire;
Easy to mould, and fashion as you please,
And again moulded with an equal ease:
Like smelted iron these the forms retain,
But once impress'd will never melt again.
A busy port a serious Merchant made
His chosen place to recommence his trade;
And brought his Lady, who, their children dead,
Their native seat of recent sorrow fled:

164

The husband duly on the quay was seen,
The wife at home became at length serene;
There in short time the social couple grew
With all acquainted, friendly with a few;
When the good lady, by disease assail'd,
In vain resisted—hope and science fail'd:
Then spake the female friends, by pity led,
“Poor merchant Paul! what think ye? will he wed?
“A quiet, easy, kind, religious man,
“Thus can he rest?—I wonder if he can.”
He too, as grief subsided in his mind,
Gave place to notions of congenial kind;
Grave was the man, as we have told before;
His years were forty—he might pass for more;
Composed his features were, his stature low,
His air important, and his motion slow;
His dress became him, it was neat and plain,
The colour purple, and without a stain;
His words were few, and special was his care
In simplest terms his purpose to declare;
A man more civil, sober, and discreet,
More grave and courteous, you could seldom meet:
Though frugal he, yet sumptuous was his board,
As if to prove how much he could afford;
For though reserved himself, he loved to see
His table plenteous, and his neighbours free:
Among these friends he sat in solemn style,
And rarely soften'd to a sober smile;
For this, observant friends their reasons gave—
“Concerns so vast would make the idlest grave;

165

“And for such man to be of language free,
“Would seem incongruous as a singing tree:
“Trees have their music, but the birds they shield
“The pleasing tribute for protection yield;
“Each ample tree the tuneful choir defends,
“As this rich Merchant cheers his happy friends!”
In the same town it was his chance to meet
A gentle Lady, with a mind discreet;
Neither in life's decline, nor bloom of youth,
One famed for maiden modesty and truth:
By nature cool, in pious habits bred,
She look'd on lovers with a virgin's dread:
Deceivers, rakes, and libertines were they,
And harmless beauty their pursuit and prey;
As bad as giants in the ancient times
Were modern lovers, and the same their crimes:
Soon as she heard of her all-conquering charms,
At once she fled to her defensive arms;
Conn'd o'er the tales her maiden aunt had told,
And, statue-like, was motionless and cold;
From prayer of love, like that Pygmalion pray'd,
Ere the hard stone became the yielding maid—
A different change in this chaste nymph ensued,
And turn'd to stone the breathing flesh and blood:
Whatever youth described his wounded heart,
“He came to rob her, and she scorn'd his art;

166

“And who of raptures once presumed to speak,
“Told listening maids he thought them fond and weak;
“But should a worthy man his hopes display
“In few plain words, and beg a yes or nay,
“He would deserve an answer just and plain,
“Since adulation only moved disdain—
“Sir, if my friends object not, come again.”
Hence, our grave Lover, though he liked the face,
Praised not a feature—dwelt not on a grace;
But in the simplest terms declared his state,
“A widow'd man, who wish'd a virtuous mate;
“Who fear'd neglect, and was compell'd to trust
“Dependents wasteful, idle, or unjust;
“Or should they not the trusted stores destroy,
“At best, they could not help him to enjoy;
“But with her person and her prudence blest,
“His acts would prosper, and his soul have rest:
“Would she be his?”—“Why, that was much to say;
“She would consider: he awhile might stay;
“She liked his manners, and believed his word;
“He did not flatter, flattery she abhorr'd:
“It was her happy lot in peace to dwell—
“Would change make better what was now so well?
“But she would ponder.”—“This,” he said, “was kind,”
And begg'd to know “when she had fix'd her mind.”
Romantic maidens would have scorn'd the air,
And the cool prudence of a mind so fair;

167

But well it pleased this wiser maid to find
Her own mild virtues in her lover's mind.
His worldly wealth she sought, and quickly grew
Pleased with her search, and happy in the view
Of vessels freighted with abundant stores,
Of rooms whose treasures press'd the groaning floors;
And he of clerks and servants could display
A little army on a public day:
Was this a man like needy bard to speak
Of balmy lip, bright eye, or rosy cheek?
The sum appointed for her widow'd state,
Fix'd by her friend, excited no debate;
Then the kind lady gave her hand and heart,
And, never finding, never dealt with art:
In his engagements she had no concern;
He taught her not, nor had she wish to learn:
On him in all occasions she relied,
His word her surety, and his worth her pride.
When ship was launch'd, and merchant Paul had share,
A bounteous feast became the lady's care;
Who then her entry to the dinner made,
In costly raiment, and with kind parade.
Call'd by this duty on a certain day,
And robed to grace it in a rich array,
Forth from her room, with measured step she came,
Proud of th' event, and stately look'd the dame:

168

The husband met her at his study-door—
“This way, my love—one moment, and no more:
“A trifling business—you will understand,
“The law requires that you affix your hand;
“But first attend, and you shall learn the cause,
“Why forms like these have been prescribed by laws:”
Then from his chair a man in black arose,
And with much quickness hurried off his prose:
That “Ellen Paul, the wife, and so forth, freed
“From all control, her own the act and deed,
“And forasmuch”—said she, “I've no distrust,
“For he that asks it is discreet and just;
“Our friends are waiting—where am I to sign?—
“There!—Now be ready when we meet to dine.”
This said, she hurried off in great delight,
The ship was launch'd, and joyful was the night.
Now, says the reader, and in much disdain,
This serious Merchant was a rogue in grain;
A treacherous wretch, an artful, sober knave,
And ten times worse for manners cool and grave;
And she devoid of sense, to set her hand
To scoundrel deeds, she could not understand.
Alas! 'tis true; and I in vain had tried
To soften crime, that cannot be denied;
And might have labour'd many a tedious verse
The latent cause of mischief to rehearse:
Be it confess'd, that long, with troubled look,
This Trader view'd a huge accompting-book;

169

(His former marriage for a time delay'd
The dreaded hour, the present lent its aid):
But he too clearly saw the evil day,
And put the terror, by deceit, away;
Thus by connecting with his sorrows, crime,
He gain'd a portion of uneasy time.—
All this too late the injured Lady saw,
What law had given, again she gave to law;
His guilt, her folly—these at once impress'd
Their lasting feelings on her guileless breast.
“Shame I can bear,” she cried, “and want sustain,
“But will not see this guilty wretch again:”
For all was lost, and he, with many a tear,
Confess'd the fault—she turning scorn'd to hear.
To legal claims he yielded all his worth,
But small the portion, and the wrong'd were wroth,
Nor to their debtor would a part allow;
And where to live he knew not—knew not how.
The Wife a cottage found, and thither went
The suppliant man, but she would not relent:
Thenceforth she utter'd with indignant tone,
“I feel the misery, and will feel alone:”—
He would turn servant for her sake, would keep
The poorest school; the very streets would sweep,
To show his love—“It was already shown:
“And her affliction should be all her own:
“His wants and weakness might have touch'd her heart,
“But from his meanness she resolved to part.”

170

In a small alley was she lodged, beside
Its humblest poor, and at the view she cried:
“Welcome—yes! let me welcome, if I can,
“The fortune dealt me by this cruel man;
“Welcome this low thatch'd roof, this shatter'd door,
“These walls of clay, this miserable floor;
“Welcome my envied neighbours; this, to you,
“Is all familiar—all to me is new:
“You have no hatred to the loathsome meal;
“Your firmer nerves no trembling terrors feel,
“Nor, what you must expose, desire you to conceal;
“What your coarse feelings bear without offence,
“Disgusts my taste, and poisons every sense:
“Daily shall I your sad relations hear,
“Of wanton women, and of men severe;
“There will dire curses, dreadful oaths abound,
“And vile expressions shock me and confound;
“Noise of dull wheels, and songs with horrid words,
“Will be the music that this lane affords;
“Mirth that disgusts, and quarrels that degrade
“The human mind, must my retreat invade:
“Hard is my fate! yet easier to sustain,
“Than to abide with guilt and fraud again;
“A grave impostor! who expects to meet,
“In such grey locks and gravity, deceit?
“Where the sea rages, and the billows roar,
“Men know the danger, and they quit the shore;
“But, be there nothing in the way descried,
“When o'er the rocks smooth runs the wicked tide—
“Sinking unwarn'd, they execrate the shock,
“And the dread peril of the sunken rock.”

171

A frowning world had now the man to dread,
Taught in no arts, to no profession bred:
Pining in grief, beset with constant care,
Wandering he went, to rest he knew not where.
Meantime the Wife—but she abjured the name—
Endured her lot, and struggled with the shame;
When lo! an uncle on the mother's side,
In nature something, as in blood allied,
Admired her firmness, his protection gave,
And show'd a kindness she disdain'd to crave.
Frugal and rich the man, and frugal grew
The sister-mind, without a selfish view;
And further still—the temp'rate pair agreed
With what they saved the patient poor to feed:
His whole estate, when to the grave consign'd,
Left the good kinsman to the kindred mind;
Assured that law, with spell secure and tight,
Had fix'd it as her own peculiar right.
Now to her ancient residence removed,
She lived as widow, well endowed and loved;
Decent her table was, and to her door
Came daily welcomed the neglected poor:
The absent sick were soothed by her relief,
As her free bounty sought the haunts of grief;
A plain and homely charity had she,
And loved the objects of her alms to see;
With her own hands she dress'd the savoury meat,
With her own fingers wrote the choice receipt;

172

She heard all tales that injured wives relate,
And took a double interest in their fate;
But of all husbands not a wretch was known
So vile, so mean, so cruel, as her own.
This bounteous Lady kept an active spy,
To search th' abodes of want, and to supply;
The gentle Susan served the liberal dame—
Unlike their notions, yet their deeds the same:
No practised villain could a victim find,
Than this stern Lady more completely blind;
Nor (if detected in his fraud) could meet
One less disposed to pardon a deceit;
The wrong she treasured, and on no pretence
Received th' offender, or forgot th' offence:
But the kind Servant, to the thrice-proved knave
A fourth time listen'd, and the past forgave.
First in her youth, when she was blithe and gay,
Came a smooth rogue, and stole her love away;
Then to another and another flew,
To boast the wanton mischief he could do:
Yet she forgave him, though so great her pain,
That she was never blithe or gay again.
Then came a spoiler, who, with villain-art,
Implored her hand, and agonized her heart;
He seized her purse, in idle waste to spend
With a vile wanton, whom she call'd her friend;
Five years she suffer'd—he had revell'd five—
Then came to show her he was just alive;

173

Alone he came, his vile companion dead;
And he, a wand'ring pauper, wanting bread;
His body wasted, wither'd life and limb,
When this kind soul became a slave to him:
Nay, she was sure that, should he now survive,
No better husband would be left alive;
For him she mourn'd, and then, alone and poor,
Sought and found comfort at her Lady's door:
Ten years she served, and, mercy her employ,
Her tasks were pleasure, and her duty joy.
Thus lived the Mistress and the Maid, design'd
Each other's aid—one cautious, and both kind:
Oft at their window, working, they would sigh
To see the aged and the sick go by;
Like wounded bees, that at their home arrive,
Slowly and weak, but labouring for the hive.
The busy people of a mason's yard
The curious Lady view'd with much regard;
With steady motion she perceived them draw
Through blocks of stone the slowly-working saw;
It gave her pleasure and surprise to see
Among these men the signs of revelry:
Cold was the season, and confined their view,
Tedious their tasks, but merry were the crew:
There she beheld an aged pauper wait,
Patient and still, to take an humble freight;
Within the panniers on an ass he laid
The ponderous grit, and for the portion paid;
This he re-sold, and, with each trifling gift,
Made shift to live, and wretched was the shift.

174

Now will it be by every reader told
Who was this humble trader, poor and old.—
In vain an author would a name suppress,
From the least hint a reader learns to guess;
Of children lost, our novels sometimes treat,
We never care—assured again to meet:
In vain the writer for concealment tries,
We trace his purpose under all disguise;
Nay, though he tells us they are dead and gone,
Of whom we wot—they will appear anon;
Our favourites fight, are wounded, hopeless lie,
Survive they cannot—nay, they cannot die;
Now, as these tricks and stratagems are known,
'Tis best, at once, the simple truth to own.
This was the Husband—in an humble shed
He nightly slept, and daily sought his bread:
Once for relief the weary man applied;
“Your wife is rich,” the angry vestry cried:
Alas! he dared not to his wife complain,
Feeling her wrongs, and fearing her disdain:
By various methods he had tried to live,
But not one effort would subsistence give:
He was an usher in a school, till noise
Made him less able than the weaker boys;
On messages he went, till he in vain
Strove names, or words, or meanings to retain;
Each small employment in each neighbouring town,
By turn he took, to lay as quickly down:
For, such his fate, he fail'd in all he plann'd,
And nothing prosper'd in his luckless hand.

175

At his old home, his motive half suppress'd,
He sought no more for riches, but for rest:
There lived the bounteous Wife, and at her gate
He saw in cheerful groups the needy wait;
“Had he a right with bolder hope t' apply?”
He ask'd—was answer'd, and went groaning by:
For some remains of spirit, temper, pride,
Forbade a prayer he knew would be denied.
Thus was the grieving man, with burthen'd ass,
Seen day by day along the street to pass:
“Who is he, Susan? who the poor old man?
“He never calls—do make him, if you can.”—
The conscious damsel still delay'd to speak,
She stopp'd confused, and had her words to seek;
From Susan's fears the fact her mistress knew,
And cried—“The wretch! what scheme has he in view?
“Is this his lot?—but let him, let him feel—
“Who wants the courage, not the will, to steal.”
A dreadful winter came, each day severe,
Misty when mild, and icy cold when clear;
And still the humble dealer took his load,
Returning slow, and shivering on the road:
The Lady, still relentless, saw him come,
And said—“I wonder, has the wretch a home?”—
“A hut! a hovel!”—“Then his fate appears
“To suit his crime:”—“Yes, lady, not his years;—
“No! nor his sufferings—nor that form decay'd.”—
“Well! let the parish give its paupers aid:

176

“You must the vileness of his acts allow:”—
“And you, dear lady, that he feels it now.”—
“When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect,
“Can they the pity they refused expect?
“He that doth evil, evil shall he dread.”—
“The snow,” quoth Susan, “falls upon his bed—
“It blows beside the thatch—it melts upon his head.”—
“'Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to feel:”—
“Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal;
“Through his bare dress appears his shrivell'd skin,
“And ill he fares without, and worse within:
“With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow,
“What cold, pain, peril, must the sufferer know!”—
“Think on his crime.”—“Yes, sure 't was very wrong;
“But look, (God bless him!) how he gropes along.”—
“Brought me to shame.”—“Oh! yes, I know it all—
“What cutting blast! and he can scarcely crawl;
“He freezes as he moves—he dies! if he should fall:
“With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet—
“And must a Christian perish in the street,
“In sight of Christians?—There! at last, he lies;—
“Nor unsupported can he ever rise:
“He cannot live.”—“But is he fit to die?”—
Here Susan softly mutter'd a reply,
Look'd round the room—said something of its state,
Dives the rich, and Lazarus at his gate;
And then aloud—“In pity do behold
“The man affrighten'd, weeping, trembling, cold:

177

“Oh! how those flakes of snow their entrance win
“Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within;
“His very heart seems frozen as he goes,
“Leading that starved companion of his woes:
“He tried to pray—his lips, I saw them move,
“And he so turn'd his piteous looks above;
“But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed,
“And, ere he spoke, the lips in misery closed:
“Poor suffering object! yes, for ease you pray'd,
“And God will hear—he only, I'm afraid.”
“Peace! Susan, peace! pain ever follows sin.”—
“Ah! then,” thought Susan, “when will ours begin?
“When reach'd his home, to what a cheerless fire
“And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire!
“Yet ragged, wretched as it is, that bed
“Takes half the space of his contracted shed;
“I saw the thorns beside the narrow grate,
“With straw collected in a putrid state:
“There will he, kneeling, strive the fire to raise,
“And that will warm him, rather than the blaze:
“The sullen, smoky blaze, that cannot last
“One moment after his attempt is past:
“And I so warmly and so purely laid,
“To sink to rest—indeed, I am afraid.”—
“Know you his conduct?”—“Yes, indeed, I know—
“And how he wanders in the wind and snow:
“Safe in our rooms the threat'ning storm we hear,
“But he feels strongly what we faintly fear.”

178

“Wilful was rich, and he the storm defied;
“Wilful is poor, and must the storm abide;”
Said the stern Lady—“'T is in vain to feel;
“Go and prepare the chicken for our meal.”
Susan her task reluctantly began,
And utter'd as she went—“The poor old man!”—
But while her soft and ever-yielding heart
Made strong protest against her lady's part,
The lady's self began to think it wrong
To feel so wrathful, and resent so long.
“No more the wretch would she receive again,
“No more behold him—but she would sustain;
“Great his offence, and evil was his mind—
“But he had suffer'd, and she would be kind:
“She spurn'd such baseness, and she found within
“A fair acquittal from so foul a sin;
“Yet she too err'd, and must of Heaven expect
“To be rejected, him should she reject.”
Susan was summon'd—“I'm about to do
“A foolish act, in part seduced by you;
“Go to the creature—say that I intend,
“Foe to his sins, to be his sorrow's friend;
“Take, for his present comforts, food and wine,
“And mark his feelings at this act of mine:
“Observe if shame be o'er his features spread,
“By his own victim to be soothed and fed;
“But, this inform him, that it is not love
“That prompts my heart, that duties only move:

179

“Say, that no merits in his favour plead,
“But miseries only, and his abject need;
“Nor bring me grov'ling thanks, nor high-flown praise;
“I would his spirits, not his fancy raise:
“Give him no hope that I shall ever more
“A man so vile to my esteem restore;
“But warn him rather, that, in time of rest,
“His crimes be all remember'd and confess'd:
“I know not all that form the sinner's debt,
“But there is one that he must not forget.”
The mind of Susan prompted her with speed
To act her part in every courteous deed:
All that was kind she was prepared to say,
And keep the lecture for a future day;
When he had all life's comforts by his side,
Pity might sleep, and good advice be tried.
This done, the mistress felt disposed to look,
As self-approving, on a pious book:
Yet, to her native bias still inclined,
She felt her act too merciful and kind;
But when, long musing on the chilling scene
So lately past—the frost and sleet so keen—
The man's whole misery in a single view—
Yes! she could think some pity was his due.
Thus fix'd, she heard not her attendant glide
With soft slow step—till, standing by her side,
The trembling servant gasp'd for breath, and shed
Relieving tears, then utter'd—“He is dead!”

180

“Dead!” said the startled Lady. “Yes, he fell
“Close at the door where he was wont to dwell;
“There his sole friend, the Ass, was standing by,
“Half dead himself, to see his Master die.”
“Expired he then, good Heaven! for want food?”
“No! crusts and water in a corner stood;—
“To have this plenty, and to wait so long,
“And to be right too late, is doubly wrong:
“Then, every day to see him totter by,
“And to forbear—Oh! what a heart had I!”
“Blame me not, child; I tremble at the news.”
“'T is my own heart,” said Susan, “I accuse:
“To have this money in my purse—to know
“What grief was his, and what to grief we owe;
“To see him often, always to conceive
“How he must pine and languish, groan and grieve,
“And every day in ease and peace to dine,
“And rest in comfort!—what a heart is mine!”

183

TALE XVIII. THE WAGER.

'Tis thought your deer doth hold you at a bay.

------ I choose her for myself;
If she and I are pleased, what's that to you?

------ Let's send each one to his wife,
And he whose wife is most obedient
Shall win the wager.

------ Now by the world it is a lusty wench,
I love her ten times more than e'er I did.
Taming of the Shrew.


185

Counter and Clubb were men in trade, whose pains,
Credit, and prudence, brought them constant gains;
Partners and punctual, every friend agreed
Counter and Clubb were men who must succeed.
When they had fix'd some little time in life,
Each thought of taking to himself a wife:
As men in trade alike, as men in love,
They seem'd with no according views to move;
As certain ores in outward view the same,
They show'd their difference when the magnet came.
Counter was vain: with spirit strong and high,
'T was not in him like suppliant swain to sigh:
“His wife might o'er his men and maids preside,
“And in her province be a judge and guide;
“But what he thought, or did, or wish'd to do,
“She must not know, or censure if she knew;
“At home, abroad, by day, by night, if he
“On aught determined, so it was to be:
“How is a man,” he ask'd, “for business fit,
“Who to a female can his will submit?

186

“Absent awhile, let no inquiring eye
“Or plainer speech presume to question why:
“But all be silent; and, when seen again,
“Let all be cheerful—shall a wife complain?
“Friends I invite, and who shall dare t' object,
“Or look on them with coolness or neglect?
“No! I must ever of my house be head,
“And, thus obey'd, I condescend to wed.”
Clubb heard the speech—“My friend is nice, said he;
“A wife with less respect will do for me:
“How is he certain such a prize to gain?
“What he approves, a lass may learn to feign,
“And so affect t' obey till she begins to reign;
“Awhile complying, she may vary then,
“And be as wives of more unwary men;
“Beside, to him who plays such lordly part,
“How shall a tender creature yield her heart?
“Should he the promised confidence refuse,
“She may another more confiding choose;
“May show her anger, yet her purpose hide,
“And wake his jealousy, and wound his pride.
“In one so humbled, who can trace the friend?
“I on an equal, not a slave, depend;
“If true, my confidence is wisely placed,
“And being false, she only is disgraced.”
Clubb, with these notions, cast his eye around,
And one so easy soon a partner found.
The lady chosen was of good repute;
Meekness she had not, and was seldom mute;

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Though quick to anger, still she loved to smile;
And would be calm if men would wait awhile:
She knew her duty, and she loved her way,
More pleased in truth to govern than obey;
She heard her priest with reverence, and her spouse
As one who felt the pressure of her vows;
Useful and civil, all her friends confess'd—
Give her her way, and she would choose the best;
Though some indeed a sly remark would make—
Give it her not, and she would choose to take.
All this, when Clubb some cheerful months had spent,
He saw, confess'd, and said he was content.
Counter meantime selected, doubted, weigh'd,
And then brought home a young complying maid;
A tender creature, full of fears as charms,
A beauteous nursling from its mother's arms;
A soft, sweet blossom, such as men must love,
But to preserve must keep it in the stove:
She had a mild, subdued, expiring look—
Raise but the voice, and this fair creature shook;
Leave her alone, she felt a thousand fears—
Chide, and she melted into floods of tears;
Fondly she pleaded and would gently sigh,
For very pity, or she knew not why;
One whom to govern none could be afraid—
Hold up the finger, this meek thing obey'd;
Her happy husband had the easiest task—
Say but his will, no question would she ask;

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She sought no reasons, no affairs she knew,
Of business spoke not, and had nought to do.
Oft he exclaim'd, “How meek! how mild! how kind!
“With her 'twere cruel but to seem unkind;
“Though ever silent when I take my leave,
“It pains my heart to think how hers will grieve;
“'Tis heaven on earth with such a wife to dwell,
“I am in raptures to have sped so well;
“But let me not, my friend, your envy raise,
“No! on my life, your patience has my praise.”
His Friend, though silent, felt the scorn implied—
“What need of patience?” to himself he cried:
“Better a woman o'er her house to rule,
“Than a poor child just hurried from her school;
“Who has no care, yet never lives at ease;
“Unfit to rule, and indisposed to please;
“What if he govern, there his boast should end,
“No husband's power can make a slave his friend.”
It was the custom of these Friends to meet
With a few neighbours in a neighbouring street;
Where Counter ofttimes would occasion seize,
To move his silent friend by words like these:
“A man,” said he, “if govern'd by his wife,
“Gives up his rank and dignity in life;
“Now, better fate befalls my Friend and me”—
He spoke, and look'd th' approving smile to see.

189

The quiet partner, when he chose to speak,
Desired his friend, “another theme to seek;
“When thus they met, he judged that state-affairs
“And such important subjects should be theirs:”
But still the partner, in his lighter vein,
Would cause in Clubb affliction or disdain;
It made him anxious to detect the cause
Of all that boasting—“Wants my friend applause?
“This plainly proves him not at perfect ease,
“For, felt he pleasure, he would wish to please.—
“These triumphs here for some regrets atone—
“Men who are blest let other men alone.”
Thus made suspicious, he observed and saw
His friend each night at early hour withdraw;
He sometimes mention'd Juliet's tender nerves,
And what attention such a wife deserves:
“In this,” thought Clubb, “full sure some mystery lies—
“He laughs at me, yet he with much complies,
“And all his vaunts of bliss are proud apologies.”
With such ideas treasured in his breast,
He grew composed, and let his anger rest;
Till Counter once (when wine so long went round,
That friendship and discretion both were drown'd)
Began, in teasing and triumphant mood,
His evening banter—“Of all earthly good,
“The best,” he said, “was an obedient spouse,
“Such as my friend's—that every one allows:
“What if she wishes his designs to know?
“It is because she would her praise bestow;

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“What if she wills that he remain at home?
“She knows that mischief may from travel come.
“I, who am free to venture where I please,
“Have no such kind preventing checks as these;
“But mine is double duty, first to guide
“Myself aright, then rule a house beside;
“While this our friend, more happy than the free,
“Resigns all power, and laughs at liberty.”
“By Heaven,” said Clubb, “excuse me if I swear,
“I'll bet a hundred guineas, if he dare,
“That uncontroll'd I will such freedoms take,
“That he will fear to equal—there's my stake.”
“A match!” said Counter, much by wine inflamed;
“But we are friends—let smaller stake be named:
“Wine for our future meeting, that will I
“Take and no more—what peril shall we try?”
“Let's to Newmarket,” Clubb replied; “or choose
“Yourself the place, and what you like to lose;
“And he who first returns, or fears to go,
“Forfeits his cash—” Said Counter, “Be it so.”
The friends around them saw with much delight
The social war, and hail'd the pleasant night;
Nor would they further hear the cause discuss'd,
Afraid the recreant heart of Clubb to trust.
Now sober thoughts return'd as each withdrew,
And of the subject took a serious view;

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“'Twas wrong,” thought Counter, “and will grieve my love;”
“'T was wrong,” thought Clubb, “my wife will not approve;
“But friends were present; I must try the thing,
“Or with my folly half the town will ring.”
He sought his lady—“Madam, I'm to blame,
“But was reproach'd, and could not bear the shame;
“Here in my folly—for 'tis best to say
“The very truth—I've sworn to have my way;
“To that Newmarket—(though I hate the place,
“And have no taste or talents for a race,
“Yet so it is—well, now prepare to chide—)
“I laid a wager that I dared to ride;
“And I must go: by Heaven, if you resist
“I shall be scorn'd, and ridiculed, and hiss'd;
“Let me with grace before my friends appear,
“You know the truth, and must not be severe:
“He too must go, but that he will of course;
“Do you consent?—I never think of force.”
“You never need,” the worthy Dame replied;
“The husband's honour is the woman's pride;
“If I in trifles be the wilful wife,
“Still for your credit I would lose my life;
“Go! and when fix'd the day of your return,
“Stay longer yet, and let the blockheads learn,
“That though a wife may sometimes wish to rule,
“She would not make th' indulgent man a fool;
“I would at times advise—but idle they
“Who think th' assenting husband must obey.”

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The happy man, who thought his lady right
In other cases, was assured to-night;
Then for the day with proud delight prepared,
To show his doubting friends how much he dared.
Counter—who grieving sought his bed, his rest
Broken by pictures of his love distress'd—
With soft and winning speech the fair prepared;
“She all his councils, comforts, pleasures shared:
“She was assured he loved her from his soul,
“She never knew and need not fear control;
“But so it happen'd—he was grieved at heart,
“It happen'd so, that they awhile must part—
“A little time—the distance was but short,
“And business call'd him—he despised the sport;
“But to Newmarket he engaged to ride,
“With his friend Clubb,” and there he stopp'd and sigh'd.
Awhile the tender creature look'd dismay'd,
Then floods of tears the call of grief obey'd:—
“She an objection! No!” she sobb'd, “not one;
“Her work was finish'd, and her race was run;
“For die she must, indeed she would not live
“A week alone, for all the world could give;
“He too must die in that same wicked place;
“It always happen'd—was a common case;
“Among those horrid horses, jockeys, crowds,
“'Twas certain death—they might bespeak their shrouds;

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“He would attempt a race, be sure to fall—
“And she expire with terror—that was all;
“With love like hers she was indeed unfit
“To bear such horrors, but she must submit.”
“But for three days, my love! three days at most—”
“Enough for me; I then shall be a ghost—”
“My honour's pledged!”—“Oh! yes, my dearest life,
“I know your honour must outweigh your wife;
“But ere this absence, have you sought a friend?
“I shall be dead—on whom can you depend?—
“Let me one favour of your kindness crave,
“Grant me the stone I mention'd for my grave.—”
“Nay, love, attend—why, bless my soul—I say
“I will return—there—weep no longer—nay!—”
“Well! I obey, and to the last am true,
“But spirits fail me; I must die; adieu!”
“What, Madam! must?—'tis wrong—I'm angry—zounds!
“Can I remain and lose a thousand pounds?”
“Go then, my love! it is a monstrous sum,
“Worth twenty wives—go, love! and I am dumb—
“Nor be displeased—had I the power to live,
“You might be angry, now you must forgive;
“Alas! I faint—ah! cruel—there's no need
“Of wounds or fevers—this has done the deed.”

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The lady fainted, and the husband sent
For every aid, for every comfort went;
Strong terror seized him: “Oh! she loved so well,
“And who th' effect of tenderness could tell?”
She now recover'd, and again began
With accent querulous—“Ah! cruel man—”
Till the sad husband, conscience-struck, confess'd,
'T was very wicked with his Friend to jest;
For now he saw that those who were obey'd,
Could like the most subservient feel afraid;
And though a wife might not dispute the will
Of her liege lord, she could prevent it still.
The morning came, and Clubb prepared to ride
With a smart boy, his servant and his guide;
When, ere he mounted on the ready steed,
Arrived a letter, and he stopp'd to read.
“My friend,” he read—“our journey I decline,
“A heart too tender for such strife is mine;
“Yours is the triumph, be you so inclined;
“But you are too considerate and kind:
“In tender pity to my Juliet's fears
“I thus relent, o'ercome by love and tears;
“She knows your kindness; I have heard her say
“A man like you 't is pleasure to obey:
“Each faithful wife, like ours, must disapprove
“Such dangerous trifling with connubial love;
“What has the idle world, my friend, to do
“With our affairs? they envy me and you:

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“What if I could my gentle spouse command—
“Is that a cause I should her tears withstand?
“And what if you, a friend of peace, submit
“To one you love—is that a theme for wit?
“'T was wrong, and I shall henceforth judge it weak
“Both of submission and control to speak:
“Be it agreed that all contention cease,
“And no such follies vex our future peace;
“Let each keep guard against domestic strife,
“And find nor slave nor tyrant in his wife.”
“Agreed,” said Clubb, “with all my soul agreed”—
And to the boy, delighted, gave his steed;
“I think my friend has well his mind express'd,
“And I assent; such things are not a jest.”
“True,” said the Wife, “no longer he can hide
“The truth that pains him by his wounded pride:
“Your Friend has found it not an easy thing,
“Beneath his yoke, this yielding soul to bring;
“These weeping willows, though they seem inclined
“By every breeze, yet not the strongest wind
“Can from their bent divert this weak but stubborn kind;
“Drooping they seek your pity to excite,
“But 't is at once their nature and delight;
“Such women feel not; while they sigh and weep,
“'T is but their habit—their affections sleep;
“They are like ice that in the hand we hold,
“So very melting, yet so very cold;
“On such affection let not man rely,
“The husbands suffer, and the ladies sigh:

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“But your friend's offer let us kindly take,
“And spare his pride for his vexation's sake;
“For he has found, and through his life will find,
“'T is easiest dealing with the firmest mind—
“More just when it resists, and, when it yields, more kind.”

197

TALE XIX. THE CONVERT.

------ A tapster is a good trade, and an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a wither'd serving-man, a fresh tapster. —Merry Wives of Windsor.

A fellow, sir, that I have known go about with my troll-my-dames. —Winter's Tale.

------ I myself, sometimes leaving the fear of Heaven on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am forced to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch. —Merry Wives of Windsor.

------ Yea, and at that very moment,
Consideration like an angel came,
And whipp'd th' offending Adam out of him
—Henry V.

I have lived long enough! my May of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends.
I must not look to have.
—Macbeth.


199

Some to our Hero have a hero's name
Denied, because no father's he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend—
A point she was not eager to defend:
But who, without a father's name, can raise
His own so high, deserves the greater praise:
The less advantage to the strife he brought,
The greater wonders has his prowess wrought;
He who depends upon his wind and limbs,
Needs neither cork or bladder when he swims;
Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along,
As not himself—but in his helpers—strong.
Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear,
For, call John Dighton, and he answer'd “Here!”

200

But who that name in early life assign'd
He never found, he never tried to find;
Whether his kindred were to John disgrace,
Or John to them, is a disputed case;
His infant-state owed nothing to their care—
His mind neglected, and his body bare;
All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
But in a market-town an active boy
Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ;
Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began
To show the talents of a thriving man.
With spirit high John learn'd the world to brave,
And in both senses was a ready knave;
Knave as of old, obedient, keen, and quick,
Knave as at present, skill'd to shift and trick;
Some humble part of many trades he caught,
He for the builder and the painter wrought;
For serving-maids on secret errands ran,
The waiter's helper, and the hostler's man;
And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose,
His varying genius shone in blacking shoes:
A midnight fisher by the pond he stood,
Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood;
At an election John's impartial mind
Was to no cause nor candidate confined;

201

To all in turn he full allegiance swore,
And in his hat the various badges bore:
His liberal soul with every sect agreed,
Unheard their reasons, he received their creed;
At church he deign'd the organ-pipes to fill,
And at the meeting sang both loud and shrill:
But the full purse these different merits gain'd,
By strong demands his lively passions drain'd;
Liquors he loved of each inflaming kind,
To midnight revels flew with ardent mind;
Too warm at cards, a losing game he play'd,
To fleecing beauty his attention paid;
His boiling passions were by oaths express'd,
And lies he made his profit and his jest.
Such was the boy, and such the man had been,
But fate or happier fortune changed the scene;
A fever seized him, “He should surely die—”
He fear'd, and lo! a friend was praying by;
With terror moved, this Teacher he address'd,
And all the errors of his youth confess'd:
The good man kindly clear'd the Sinner's way
To lively hope, and counsell'd him to pray;
Who then resolved, should he from sickness rise,
To quit cards, liquors, poaching, oaths, and lies:
His health restored, he yet resolved, and grew
True to his masters, to their Meeting true;

202

His old companions at his sober face
Laugh'd loud, while he, attesting it was grace,
With tears besought them all his calling to embrace:
To his new friends such Convert gave applause,
Life to their zeal, and glory to their cause:
Though terror wrought the mighty change, yet strong
Was the impression, and it lasted long;
John at the lectures due attendance paid,
A convert meek, obedient, and afraid.
His manners strict, though form'd on fear alone,
Pleased the grave friends, nor less his solemn tone,
The lengthen'd face of care, the low and inward groan:
The stern good men exulted, when they saw
Those timid looks of penitence and awe;
Nor thought that one so passive, humble, meek,
Had yet a creed and principles to seek.
The Faith that Reason finds, confirms, avows
The hopes, the views, the comforts she allows—
These were not his, who by his feelings found,
And by them only, that his faith was sound;
Feelings of terror these, for evil past,
Feelings of hope, to be received at last;

203

Now weak, now lively, changing with the day,
These were his feelings, and he felt his way.
Sprung from such sources, will this faith remain
While these supporters can their strength retain:
As heaviest weights the deepest rivers pass,
While icy chains fast bind the solid mass;
So, born of feelings, faith remains secure,
Long as their firmness and their strength endure:
But when the waters in their channel glide,
A bridge must bear us o'er the threat'ning tide;
Such bridge is Reason, and there Faith relies,
Whether the varying spirits fall or rise.
His patrons, still disposed their aid to lend,
Behind a counter placed their humble friend;
Where pens and paper were on shelves display'd,
And pious pamphlets on the windows laid:
By nature active, and from vice restrain'd,
Increasing trade his bolder views sustain'd;
His friends and teachers, finding so much zeal
In that young convert whom they taught to feel,
His trade encouraged, and were pleased to find
A hand so ready, with such humble mind.
And now, his health restored, his spirits eased,
He wish'd to marry, if the teachers pleased.

204

They, not unwilling, from the virgin-class,
Took him a comely and a courteous lass;
Simple and civil, loving and beloved,
She long a fond and faithful partner proved;
In every year the elders and the priest
Were duly summon'd to a christening feast;
Nor came a babe, but by his growing trade,
John had provision for the coming made;
For friends and strangers all were pleased to deal
With one whose care was equal to his zeal.
In human friendships, it compels a sigh,
To think what trifles will dissolve the tie.
John, now become a master of his trade,
Perceived how much improvement might be made;
And as this prospect open'd to his view,
A certain portion of his zeal withdrew;
His fear abated—“What had he to fear—
“His profits certain, and his conscience clear?”
Above his door a board was placed by John,
And “Dighton, Stationer,” was gilt thereon;
His window next, enlarged to twice the size,
Shone with such trinkets as the simple prize;
While in the shop with pious works were seen
The last new play, review, or magazine:
In orders punctual, he observed—“The books
“He never read, and could he judge their looks?
“Readers and critics should their merits try,
“He had no office but to sell and buy;
“Like other traders, profit was his care;
“Of what they print, the authors must beware.”

205

He held his patrons and his teachers dear,
But with his trade—they must not interfere.
'T was certain now that John had lost the dread
And pious thoughts that once such terrors bred;
His habits varied, and he more inclined
To the vain world, which he had half-resign'd:
He had moreover in his brethren seen,
Or he imagined, craft, conceit, and spleen;
“They are but men,” said John, “and shall I then
“Fear man's control, or stand in awe of men?
“'T is their advice (their Convert's rule and law),
“And good it is—I will not stand in awe.”
Moreover Dighton, though he thought of books
As one who chiefly on the title looks,
Yet sometimes ponder'd o'er a page to find,
When vex'd with cares, amusement for his mind;
And by degrees that mind had treasured much
From works his teachers were afraid to touch:
Satiric novels, poets bold and free,
And what their writers term philosophy;
All these were read, and he began to feel
Some self-approval on his bosom steal.

206

Wisdom creates humility, but he
Who thus collects it, will not humble be:
No longer John was fill'd with pure delight
And humble reverence in a pastor's sight;
Who, like a grateful zealot, listening stood,
To hear a man so friendly and so good;
But felt the dignity of one who made
Himself important by a thriving trade;
And growing pride in Dighton's mind was bred
By the strange food on which it coarsely fed.
Their Brother's fall the grieving Brethren heard—
His pride indeed to all around appear'd;
The world, his friends agreed, had won the soul
From its best hopes, the man from their control.
To make him humble, and confine his views
Within their bounds, and books which they peruse,
A deputation from these friends select,
Might reason with him to some good effect;
Arm'd with authority, and led by love,
They might those follies from his mind remove;
Deciding thus, and with this kind intent,
A chosen body with its speaker went.
“John,” said the Teacher, “John,” with great concern,
“We see thy frailty, and thy fate discern—
“Satan with toils thy simple soul beset,
“And thou art careless, slumbering in the net;
“Unmindful art thou of thy early vow;
“Who at the morning-meeting sees thee now?

207

“Who at the evening? where is brother John?
“We ask—are answer'd, To the tavern gone:
“Thee on the sabbath seldom we behold;
“Thou canst not sing, thou'rt nursing for a cold:
“This from the churchmen thou hast learn'd, for they
“Have colds and fevers on the sabbath-day;
“When in some snug warm room they sit, and pen
“Bills from their ledgers—world-entangled men!
“See with what pride thou hast enlarged thy shop;
“To view thy tempting stores the heedless stop;
“By what strange names dost thou these baubles know,
“Which wantons wear, to make a sinful show?
“Hast thou in view these idle volumes placed
“To be the pander of a vicious taste?
“What's here! a book of dances!—you advance
“In goodly knowledge—John, wilt learn to dance?
“How! ‘Go—’ it says, and ‘to the devil go!
“‘And shake thyself!’ I tremble—but 't is so—

208

“Wretch as thou art, what answer canst thou make?
“Oh! without question, thou wilt go and shake.
“What's here? the ‘School for Scandal’—pretty schools!
“Well, and art thou proficient in the rules?
“Art thou a pupil, is it thy design
“To make our names contemptible as thine?
“‘Old Nick, a novel!’ oh! 't is mighty well—
“A fool has courage when he laughs at hell;
“‘Frolic and Fun,’ the ‘Humours of Tim Grin;’
“Why, John, thou grow'st facetious in thy sin;
“And what?—‘the Archdeacon's Charge’!—'tis mighty well—
“If Satan publish'd, thou wouldst doubtless sell;
“Jests, novels, dances, and this precious stuff
“To crown thy folly—we have seen enough;
“We find thee fitted for each evil work;
“Do print the Koran, and become a Turk.
“John, thou art lost; success and worldly pride
“O'er all thy thoughts and purposes preside,
“Have bound thee fast, and drawn thee far aside:
“Yet turn; these sin-traps from thy shop expel,
“Repent and pray, and all may yet be well.
“And here thy wife, thy Dorothy, behold,
“How fashion's wanton robes her form infold!
“Can grace, can goodness with such trappings dwell?
“John, thou hast made thy wife a Jezebel:

209

“See! on her bosom rests the sign of sin,
“The glaring proof of naughty thoughts within;
“What! 't is a cross; come hither—as a friend,
“Thus from thy neck the shameful badge I rend.”
“Rend, if you dare,” said Dighton; “you shall find
“A man of spirit, though to peace inclined;
“Call me ungrateful! have I not my pay
“At all times ready for the expected day?—
“To share my plenteous board you deign to come,
“Myself your pupil, and my house your home;
“And shall the persons who my meat enjoy
“Talk of my faults, and treat me as a boy?
“Have you not told how Rome's insulting priests
“Led their meek laymen like a herd of beasts;
“And by their fleecing and their forgery made
“Their holy calling an accursed trade?
“Can you such acts and insolence condemn,
“Who to your utmost power resemble them?
“Concerns it you what books I set for sale?
“The tale perchance may be a virtuous tale;
“And for the rest, 't is neither wise nor just,
“In you, who read not, to condemn on trust;
“Why should the Archdeacon's Charge your spleen excite?
“He, or perchance th' Archbishop, may be right.
“That from your meetings I refrain, is true;
“I meet with nothing pleasant—nothing new;

210

“But the same proofs, that not one text explain,
“And the same lights, where all things dark remain;
“I thought you saints on earth—but I have found
“Some sins among you, and the best unsound;
“You have your failings, like the crowds below,
“And at your pleasure hot and cold can blow:
“When I at first your grave deportment saw,
“(I own my folly), I was fill'd with awe;
“You spoke so warmly, and it seemed so well,
“I should have thought it treason to rebel;
“Is it a wonder that a man like me
“Should such perfection in such teachers see;
“Nay, should conceive you sent from Heav'n to brave
“The host of sin, and sinful souls to save?
“But as our reason wakes, our prospects clear,
“And failings, flaws, and blemishes appear.
“When you were mounted in your rostrum high,
“We shrank beneath your tone, your frown, your eye;
“Then you beheld us abject, fallen, low,
“And felt your glory from our baseness grow;
“Touch'd by your words, I trembled like the rest,
“And my own vileness and your power confess'd:
“These, I exclaim'd, are men divine, and gazed
“On him who taught, delighted and amazed;
“Glad when he finish'd, if by chance he cast
“One look on such a sinner, as he pass'd.
“But when I view'd you in a clearer light,
“And saw the frail and carnal appetite;

211

“When, at his humble pray'r, you deign'd to eat,
“Saints as you are, a civil sinner's meat;
“When as you sat contented and at ease,
“Nibbling at leisure on the ducks and peas,
“And, pleased some comforts in such place to find,
“You could descend to be a little kind;
“And gave us hope, in heaven there might be room
“For a few souls beside your own to come;
“While this world's good engaged your carnal view,
“And like a sinner you enjoy'd it too;
“All this perceiving, can you think it strange
“That change in you should work an equal change?”
“Wretch that thou art,” an elder cried, “and gone
“For everlasting.”—“Go thyself,” said John;
“Depart this instant, let me hear no more;
“My house my castle is, and that my door.”
The hint they took, and from the door withdrew,
And John to meeting bade a long adieu;
Attach'd to business, he in time became
A wealthy man of no inferior name.
It seem'd, alas! in John's deluded sight,
That all was wrong because not all was right;

212

And when he found his teachers had their stains,
Resentment and not reason broke his chains:
Thus on his feelings he again relied,
And never look'd to reason for his guide:
Could he have wisely view'd the frailty shown,
And rightly weigh'd their wanderings and his own,
He might have known that men may be sincere,
Though gay and feasting on the savoury cheer;
That doctrines sound and sober they may teach,
Who love to eat with all the glee they preach;
Nay! who believe the duck, the grape, the pine,
Were not intended for the dog and swine:
But Dighton's hasty mind on every theme
Ran from the truth, and rested in th' extreme:
Flaws in his friends he found, and then withdrew
(Vain of his knowledge) from their virtues too.
Best of his books he loved the liberal kind,
That, if they improve not, still enlarge the mind;
And found himself, with such advisers, free
From a fix'd creed, as mind enlarged could be.
His humble wife at these opinions sigh'd,
But her he never heeded till she died;
He then assented to a last request,
And by the meeting-window let her rest;
And on her stone the sacred text was seen,
Which had her comfort in departing been.
Dighton with joy beheld his trade advance,
Yet seldom publish'd, loth to trust to chance:
Then wed a doctor's sister—poor indeed,
But skill'd in works her husband could not read;

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Who, if he wish'd new ways of wealth to seek,
Could make her half-crown pamphlet in a week:
This he rejected, though without disdain,
And chose the old and certain way to gain.
Thus he proceeded; trade increased the while,
And fortune woo'd him with perpetual smile:
On early scenes he sometimes cast a thought,
When on his heart the mighty change was wrought;
And all the ease and comfort Converts find
Was magnified in his reflecting mind:
Then on the teacher's priestly pride he dwelt,
That caused his freedom, but with this he felt
The danger of the free—for since that day
No guide had shown, no brethren join'd his way;
Forsaking one, he found no second creed,
But reading doubted, doubting what to read.
Still, though reproof had brought some present pain,
The gain he made was fair and honest gain;
He laid his wares indeed in public view,
But that all traders claim a right to do:
By means like these, he saw his wealth increase,
And felt his consequence, and dwelt in peace.
Our Hero's age was threescore years and five,
When he exclaim'd, “Why longer should I strive?”
“Why more amass, who never must behold
“A young John Dighton to make glad the old?”
(The sons he had, to early graves were gone,
And girls were burdens to the mind of John.)

214

“Had I a boy, he would our name sustain,
“That now to nothing must return again;
“But what are all my profits, credit, trade,
“And parish-honours?—folly and parade.”
Thus Dighton thought, and in his looks appear'd
Sadness, increased by much he saw and heard:
The Brethren often at the shop would stay,
And make their comments ere they walk'd away:
They mark'd the window, fill'd in every pane
With lawless prints of reputations slain;
Distorted forms of men with honours graced,
And our chief rulers in derision placed:
Amazed they stood, remembering well the days,
When to be humble was their brother's praise;
When at the dwelling of their friend they stopp'd
To drop a word, or to receive it dropp'd;
Where they beheld the prints of men renown'd,
And far-famed preachers pasted all around;
(Such mouths! eyes! hair! so prim! so fierce! so sleek!
They look'd as speaking what is wo to speak):
On these the passing brethren loved to dwell—
How long they spake! how strongly! warmly! well!
What power had each to dive in mysteries deep,
To warm the cold, to make the harden'd weep;
To lure, to fright, to soothe, to awe the soul,
And list'ning flocks to lead and to control!
But now discoursing, as they linger'd near,
They tempted John (whom they accused) to hear

215

Their weighty charge—“And can the lost-one feel,
“As in the time of duty, love, and zeal;
“When all were summon'd at the rising sun,
“And he was ready with his friends to run;
“When he, partaking with a chosen few,
“Felt the great change, sensation rich and new?
“No! all is lost, her favours Fortune shower'd
“Upon the man, and he is overpower'd;
“The world has won him with its tempting store
“Of needless wealth, and that has made him poor:
“Success undoes him; he has risen to fall,
“Has gain'd a fortune, and has lost his all;
“Gone back from Sion, he will find his age
“Loth to commence a second pilgrimage;
“He has retreated from the chosen track;
“And now must ever bear the burden on his back.”
Hurt by such censure, John began to find
Fresh revolutions working in his mind;
He sought for comfort in his books, but read
Without a plan or method in his head;
What once amused, now rather made him sad;
What should inform, increased the doubts he had;
Shame would not let him seek at Church a guide,
And from his Meeting he was held by pride;
His wife derided fears she never felt,
And passing brethren daily censures dealt;
Hope for a son was now for ever past,
He was the first John Dighton and the last;
His stomach fail'd, his case the doctor knew,
But said, “he still might hold a year or two:”

216

“No more!” he said, “but why should I complain?
“A life of doubt must be a life of pain:
“Could I be sure—but why should I despair?
“I'm sure my conduct has been just and fair;
“In youth, indeed, I had a wicked will,
“But I repented, and have sorrow still:
“I had my comforts, and a growing trade
“Gave greater pleasure than a fortune made;
“And as I more possess'd and reason'd more,
“I lost those comforts I enjoy'd before,
“When reverend guides I saw my table round,
“And in my guardian guest my safety found:
“Now sick and sad, no appetite, no ease,
“Nor pleasures have I, nor a wish to please;
“Nor views, nor hopes, nor plans, nor taste have I,
“Yet sick of life, have no desire to die.”
He said and died: his trade, his name is gone,
And all that once gave consequence to John.
Unhappy Dighton! had he found a friend,
When conscience told him it was time to mend;
A friend discreet, considerate, kind, sincere,
Who would have shown the grounds of hope and fear,
And proved that spirits, whether high or low,
No certain tokens of man's safety show;
Had Reason ruled him in her proper place,
And Virtue led him while he lean'd on grace;
Had he while zealous been discreet and pure,
His knowledge humble, and his hope secure;—
These guides had placed him on the solid rock,
Where Faith had rested, nor received a shock;

217

But his, alas! was placed upon the sand,
Where long it stood not, and where none can stand.

219

TALE XX. THE BROTHERS.

------ A brother noble,
Whose nature is so far from doing harms,
That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty
My practice may ride easy.
—Lear.

------ He lets me feed with hinds,
Bars me the place of brother.
—As You Like It.

------ 'T was I, but 't is not I: I do not shame
To tell you what I was, being what I am.
—As You Like It.


221

Than old George Fletcher, on the British coast,
Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast:
Kind, simple, and sincere—he seldom spoke,
But sometimes sang and chorus'd—“Hearts of oak!”
In dangers steady, with his lot content,
His days in labour and in love were spent.
He left a Son so like him, that the old
With joy exclaim'd, “'T is Fletcher we behold;”
But to his Brother when the kinsmen came,
And view'd his form, they grudged the father's name.
George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad,
With just the failings that his father had;

222

Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact,
With just the virtues that his father lack'd.
George lived at sea: upon the land a guest—
He sought for recreation, not for rest—
While, far unlike, his brother's feebler form
Shrank from the cold, and shudder'd at the storm;
Still with the Seaman's to connect his trade,
The boy was bound where blocks and ropes were made.
George, strong and sturdy, had a tender mind,
And was to Isaac pitiful and kind;
A very father, till his art was gain'd,
And then a friend unwearied he remain'd;
He saw his brother was of spirit low,
His temper peevish, and his motions slow;
Not fit to bustle in a world, or make
Friends to his fortune for his merit's sake;
But the kind sailor could not boast the art
Of looking deeply in the human heart;
Else had he seen that this weak brother knew
What men to court—what objects to pursue;
That he to distant gain the way discern'd,
And none so crooked but his genius learn'd.
Isaac was poor, and this the brother felt;
He hired a house, and there the Landman dwelt;
Wrought at his trade, and had an easy home,
For there would George with cash and comforts come.
And when they parted, Isaac look'd around,
Where other friends and helpers might be found.

223

He wish'd for some port-place, and one might fall,
He wisely thought, if he should try for all;
He had a vote—and were it well applied,
Might have its worth—and he had views beside;
Old Burgess Steel was able to promote
An humble man who served him with a vote;
For Isaac felt not what some tempers feel,
But bow'd and bent the neck to Burgess Steel;
And great attention to a Lady gave,
His ancient friend, a maiden spare and grave:
One whom the visage long and look demure
Of Isaac pleased—he seem'd sedate and pure;
And his soft heart conceived a gentle flame
For her who waited on this virtuous dame:
Not an outrageous love, a scorching fire,
But friendly liking and chastised desire;
And thus he waited, patient in delay,
In present favour and in fortune's way.
George then was coasting—war was yet delay'd,
And what he gain'd was to his brother paid;
Nor ask'd the Seaman what he saved or spent;
But took his grog, wrought hard, and was content;
Till war awaked the land, and George began
To think what part became a useful man:
“Press'd, I must go; why, then, 't is better far
“At once to enter like a British tar,
“Than a brave captain and the foe to shun,
“As if I fear'd the music of a gun.”
“Go not!” said Isaac—“You shall wear disguise.”
“What!” said the Seaman, “clothe myself with lies!”—

224

“Oh! but there's danger.”—“Danger in the fleet?
“You cannot mean, good brother, of defeat;
“And other dangers I at land must share—
“So now adieu! and trust a brother's care.”
Isaac awhile demurr'd—but, in his heart,
So might he share, he was disposed to part:
The better mind will sometimes feel the pain
Of benefactions—favour is a chain;
But they the feeling scorn, and what they wish, disdain;—
While beings form'd in coarser mould will hate
The helping hand they ought to venerate;
No wonder George should in this cause prevail,
With one contending who was glad to fail:
“Isaac, farewell! do wipe that doleful eye;
“Crying we came, and groaning we may die;
“Let us do something 'twixt the groan and cry:
“And hear me, brother, whether pay or prize,
“One half to thee I give and I devise;
“For thou hast oft occasion for the aid
“Of learn'd physicians, and they will be paid;
“Their wives and children, men support, at sea,
“And thou, my lad, art wife and child to me:
“Farewell!—I go where hope and honour call,
“Nor does it follow that who fights must fall.”
Isaac here made a poor attempt to speak,
And a huge tear moved slowly down his cheek;
Like Pluto's iron drop, hard sign of grace,
It slowly roll'd upon the rueful face,
Forced by the striving will alone its way to trace.

225

Years fled—war lasted—George at sea remain'd,
While the slow Landman still his profits gain'd:
A humble place was vacant—he besought
His patron's interest, and the office caught;
For still the Virgin was his faithful friend,
And one so sober could with truth commend,
Who of his own defects most humbly thought,
And their advice with zeal and reverence sought:
Whom thus the Mistress praised, the Maid approved,
And her he wedded whom he wisely loved.
No more he needs assistance—but, alas!
He fears the money will for liquor pass;
Or that the Seaman might to flatterers lend,
Or give support to some pretended friend:
Still he must write—he wrote, and he confess'd
That, till absolved, he should be sore distress'd;
But one so friendly would, he thought, forgive
The hasty deed—Heav'n knew how he should live;
“But you,” he added, “as a man of sense,
“Have well consider'd danger and expense:
“I ran, alas! into the fatal snare,
“And now for trouble must my mind prepare;
“And how, with children, I shall pick my way,
“Through a hard world, is more than I can say:
“Then change not, Brother, your more happy state,
“Or on the hazard long deliberate.”
George answer'd gravely, “It is right and fit,
“In all our crosses, humbly to submit:
“Your apprehensions are unwise, unjust;
“Forbear repining, and expel distrust.”—

226

He added, “Marriage was the joy of life,”
And gave his service to his brother's wife;
Then vow'd to bear in all expense a part,
And thus concluded, “Have a cheerful heart.”
Had the glad Isaac been his brother's guide,
In the same terms the Seaman had replied;
At such reproofs the crafty Landman smiled,
And softly said—“This creature is a child.”
Twice had the gallant ship a capture made—
And when in port the happy crew were paid,
Home went the Sailor, with his pockets stored,
Ease to enjoy, and pleasure to afford;
His time was short, joy shone in every face,
Isaac half fainted in the fond embrace:
The wife resolved her honour'd guest to please,
The children clung upon their uncle's knees;
The grog went round, the neighbours drank his health,
And George exclaim'd—“Ah! what to this is wealth?
“Better,” said he, “to bear a loving heart,
“Than roll in riches—but we now must part!”
All yet is still—but hark! the winds o'ersweep
The rising waves, and howl upon the deep;
Ships late becalm'd on mountain-billows ride—
So life is threaten'd, and so man is tried.
Ill were the tidings that arrived from sea,
The worthy George must now a cripple be;

227

His leg was lopp'd; and though his heart was sound,
Though his brave captain was with glory crown'd—
Yet much it vex'd him to repose on shore,
An idle log, and be of use no more:
True, he was sure that Isaac would receive
All of his Brother that the foe might leave;
To whom the Seaman his design had sent,
Ere from the port the wounded hero went:
His wealth and expectations told, he “knew
“Wherein they fail'd, what Isaac's love would do;
“That he the grog and cabin would supply,
“Where George at anchor during life would lie.”
The Landman read—and, reading, grew distress'd:—
“Could he resolve t' admit so poor a guest?
“Better at Greenwich might the Sailor stay,
“Unless his purse could for his comforts pay;”
So Isaac judged, and to his wife appeal'd,
But yet acknowledged it was best to yield:
“Perhaps his pension, with what sums remain
“Due or unsquander'd, may the man maintain;
“Refuse we must not.”—With a heavy sigh
The lady heard, and made her kind reply:—
“Nor would I wish it, Isaac, were we sure
“How long this crazy building will endure;
“Like an old house, that every day appears
“About to fall—he may be propp'd for years;
“For a few months, indeed, we might comply,
“But these old batter'd fellows never die.”

228

The hand of Isaac, George on entering took,
With love and resignation in his look;
Declared his comfort in the fortune past,
And joy to find his anchor safely cast;
“Call then my nephews, let the grog be brought,
“And I will tell them how the ship was fought.”
Alas! our simple Seaman should have known,
That all the care, the kindness, he had shown,
Were from his Brother's heart, if not his memory, flown:
All swept away to be perceived no more,
Like idle structures on the sandy shore;
The chance amusement of the playful boy,
That the rude billows in their rage destroy.
Poor George confess'd, though loth the truth to find,
Slight was his knowledge of a Brother's mind:
The vulgar pipe was to the wife offence,
The frequent grog to Isaac an expense;
Would friends like hers, she question'd, “choose to come,
“Where clouds of poison'd fume defiled a room?
“This could their Lady-friend, and Burgess Steel,
“(Teased with his worship's asthma) bear to feel?
“Could they associate or converse with him—
“A loud rough sailor with a timber limb?”
Cold as he grew, still Isaac strove to show,
By well-feign'd care, that cold he could not grow;

229

And when he saw his brother look distress'd,
He strove some petty comforts to suggest;
On his wife solely their neglect to lay,
And then t' excuse it, as a woman's way;
He too was chidden when her rules he broke,
And then she sicken'd at the scent of smoke.
George, though in doubt, was still consoled to find
His Brother wishing to be reckon'd kind:
That Isaac seem'd concern'd by his distress,
Gave to his injured feelings some redress;
But none he found disposed to lend an ear
To stories, all were once intent to hear:
Except his nephew, seated on his knee,
He found no creature cared about the sea;
But George indeed—for George they call'd the boy,
When his good uncle was their boast and joy—
Would listen long, and would contend with sleep,
To hear the woes and wonders of the deep;
Till the fond mother cried—“That man will teach
“The foolish boy his loud and boisterous speech.”
So judged the father—and the boy was taught
To shun the uncle, whom his love had sought.
The mask of kindness now but seldom worn,
George felt each evil harder to be borne;
And cried (vexation growing day by day),
“Ah! brother Isaac!—What! I'm in the way!”
“No! on my credit, look ye, No! but I
“Am fond of peace, and my repose would buy
“On any terms—in short, we must comply:

230

“My spouse had money—she must have her will—
“Ah! Brother—marriage is a bitter pill.”—
George tried the lady—“Sister, I offend.”
“Me?” she replied—“Oh no!—you may depend
“On my regard—but watch your Brother's way,
“Whom I, like you, must study and obey.”
“Ah!” thought the Seaman, “what a head was mine,
“That easy birth at Greenwich to resign!
“I'll to the parish”—but a little pride,
And some affection, put the thought aside.
Now gross neglect and open scorn he bore
In silent sorrow—but he felt the more:
The odious pipe he to the kitchen took,
Or strove to profit by some pious book.
When the mind stoops to this degraded state,
New griefs will darken the dependent's fate;
“Brother!” said Isaac, “you will sure excuse
“The little freedom I'm compell'd to use:
“My wife's relations—(curse the haughty crew)—
“Affect such niceness, and such dread of you:
“You speak so loud—and they have natures soft—
“Brother—I wish—do go upon the loft!”
Poor George obey'd, and to the garret fled,
Where not a being saw the tears he shed:

231

But more was yet required, for guests were come,
Who could not dine if he disgraced the room.
It shock'd his spirit to be esteem'd unfit
With an own brother and his wife to sit;
He grew rebellious—at the vestry spoke
For weekly aid—they heard it as a joke:
“So kind a brother, and so wealthy—you
“Apply to us?—No! this will never do:
“Good neighbour Fletcher,” said the Overseer,
“We are engaged—you can have nothing here!’
George mutter'd something in despairing tone,
Then sought his loft, to think and grieve alone;
Neglected, slighted, restless on his bed,
With heart half broken, and with scraps ill fed;
Yet was he pleased, that hours for play design'd
Were given to ease his ever-troubled mind;
The child still listen'd with increasing joy,
And he was sooth'd by the attentive boy.
At length he sicken'd, and this duteous child
Watch'd o'er his sickness, and his pains beguiled;
The mother bade him from the loft refrain,
But, though with caution, yet he went again;
And now his tales the Sailor feebly told,
His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold:
The tender boy came often to entreat
His good kind friend would of his presents eat;
Purloin'd or purchased, for he saw, with shame,
The food untouch'd that to his uncle came;
Who, sick in body and in mind, received
The boy's indulgence, gratified and grieved.

232

“Uncle will die!” said George—the piteous wife
Exclaim'd, “she saw no value in his life;
“But, sick or well, to my commands attend,
“And go no more to your complaining friend.”
The boy was vex'd, he felt his heart reprove
The stern decree.—What! punish'd for his love!
No! he would go, but softly, to the room,
Stealing in silence—for he knew his doom.
Once in a week the father came to say,
“George, are you ill?”—and hurried him away;
Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell,
And often cry, “Do use my brother well:”
And something kind, no question, Isaac meant,
Who took vast credit for the vague intent.
But truly kind, the gentle boy essay'd
To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid;
But now the father caught him at the door,
And, swearing—yes, the man in office swore,
And cried, “Away! How! Brother, I'm surprised,
“That one so old can be so ill advised:
“Let him not dare to visit you again,
“Your cursed stories will disturb his brain;
“Is it not vile to court a foolish boy,
“Your own absurd narrations to enjoy?
“What! sullen!—ha, George Fletcher! you shall see,
“Proud as you are, your bread depends on me!”
He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went,
Then cool'd and felt some qualms of discontent;

233

And thought on times when he compell'd his son
To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one:
But the wife's wrath o'ercame the brother's pain,
And shame was felt, and conscience rose in vain.
George yet stole up; he saw his Uncle lie
Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh:
So he resolved, before he went to rest,
To comfort one so dear and so distress'd;
Then watch'd his time, but with a child-like art,
Betray'd a something treasured at his heart:
Th' observant wife remark'd, “the boy is grown
“So like your brother, that he seems his own;
“So close and sullen! and I still suspect
“They often meet—do watch them and detect.”
George now remark'd that all was still as night,
And hasten'd up with terror and delight;
“Uncle!” he cried, and softly tapp'd the door;
“Do let me in”—but he could add no more;
The careful father caught him in the fact,
And cried,—“You serpent! is it thus you act?
“Back to your mother!”—and, with hasty blow,
He sent th' indignant boy to grieve below;
Then at the door an angry speech began—
“Is this your conduct?—Is it thus you plan?
“Seduce my child, and make my house a scene
“Of vile dispute—What is it that you mean?—
“George, are you dumb? do learn to know your friends,
“And think awhile on whom your bread depends:

234

“What! not a word? be thankful I am cool—
“But, sir, beware, nor longer play the fool:
“Come! brother, come! what is it that you seek
“By this rebellion?—Speak, you villain, speak!—
“Weeping! I warrant—sorrow makes you dumb:
“I'll ope your mouth, impostor! if I come:
“Let me approach—I'll shake you from the bed,
“You stubborn dog—Oh God! my Brother's dead!—”
Timid was Isaac, and in all the past
He felt a purpose to be kind at last;
Nor did he mean his brother to depart,
Till he had shown this kindness of his heart:
But day by day he put the cause aside,
Induced by av'rice, peevishness, or pride.
But now awaken'd, from this fatal time
His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime:
He raised to George a monumental stone,
And there retired to sigh and think alone;
An ague seized him, he grew pale, and shook—
“So,” said his son, “would my poor Uncle look.”
“And so, my child, shall I like him expire.”
“No! you have physic and a cheerful fire.”
“Unhappy sinner! yes, I'm well supplied
“With every comfort my cold heart denied.”
He view'd his Brother now, but not as one
Who vex'd his wife, by fondness for her son;
Not as with wooden limb, and seaman's tale,
The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale:

235

He now the worth and grief alone can view
Of one so mild, so generous, and so true;
“The frank, kind Brother, with such open heart,
“And I to break it—'twas a dæmon's part!”
So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels,
Nor his unkindness palliates or conceals;
“This is your folly,” said his heartless wife:
“Alas! my folly cost my Brother's life;
“It suffer'd him to languish and decay,
“My gentle brother, whom I could not pay,
“And therefore left to pine, and fret his life away!”
He takes his Son, and bids the boy unfold
All the good Uncle of his feelings told,
All he lamented—and the ready tear
Falls as he listens, soothed, and grieved to hear.
“Did he not curse me, child?”—“He never cursed,
“But could not breathe, and said his heart would burst:”
“And so will mine:”—“Then, father, you must pray;
“My uncle said it took his pains away.”
Repeating thus his sorrows, Isaac shows
That he, repenting, feels the debt he owes,
And from this source alone his every comfort flows.
He takes no joy in office, honours, gain;
They make him humble, nay, they give him pain;

236

“These from my heart,” he cries, “all feeling drove;
“They made me cold to nature, dead to love:”
He takes no joy in home, but sighing, sees
A son in sorrow, and a wife at ease;
He takes no joy in office—see him now,
And Burgess Steel has but a passing bow;
Of one sad train of gloomy thoughts possess'd,
He takes no joy in friends, in food, in rest—
Dark are the evil days, and void of peace the best
And thus he lives, if living be to sigh,
And from all comforts of the world to fly,
Without a hope in life—without a wish to die.

237

TALE XXI. THE LEARNED BOY.

------ Like one well studied in a sad ostent.
To please his grandam.
—Merchant of Venice.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping, like snail,
Unwillingly to school.
—As You Like It.

------ He is a better scholar than I thought he was— He has a good sprag memory. —Merry Wives of Windsor.

------ One that feeds
On objects, arts, and imitations,
Which out of use, and staled by other men,
Begin his fashion.
—Julius Cæsar.

Oh! torture me no more—I will confess.
—2 Henry VI.


239

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy:
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone—
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead:

240

And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants—then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
And equal temper, (thank their stars!) are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed;
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and hard,
Can hear such claims, and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,—
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious—gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
“Three girls,” the Widow cried, “a lively three
“To govern well—indeed it cannot be.”
“Yes,” he replied, “it calls for pains and care;
“But I must bear it:”—“Sir, you cannot bear;
“Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:”
“That, my kind friend, a father's may supply:”
“Such growing griefs your very soul will tease:’
“To grieve another would not give me ease—

241

“I have a mother”—‘She, poor ancient soul!
“Can she the spirits of the young control?
“Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care,
“Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share?
“Age is itself impatient, uncontroll'd:”
“But wives like mothers must at length be old.”
“Thou hast shrewd servants—they are evils sore:”
“Yet a shrewd mistress might afflict me more.”
“Wilt thou not be a weary, wailing man?”
“Alas! and I must bear it as I can.”
Resisted thus, the Widow soon withdrew,
That in his pride the Hero might pursue;
And off his wonted guard, in some retreat,
Find from a foe prepared entire defeat:
But he was prudent; for he knew in flight
These Parthian warriors turn again and fight:
He but at freedom, not at glory aim'd,
And only safety by his caution claim'd.
Thus, when a great and powerful state decrees,
Upon a small one, in its love, to seize—
It vows in kindness to protect, defend,
And be the fond ally, the faithful friend;
It therefore wills that humbler state to place
Its hopes of safety in a fond embrace;
Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove,
By kind rejection of such pressing love;
Must dread such dangerous friendship to commence,
And stand collected in its own defence:—

242

Our Farmer thus the proffer'd kindness fled,
And shunn'd the love that into bondage led.
The Widow failing, fresh besiegers came,
To share the fate of this retiring dame:
And each foresaw a thousand ills attend
The man, that fled from so discreet a friend;
And pray'd, kind soul! that no event might make
The harden'd heart of Farmer Jones to ache.
But he still govern'd with resistless hand,
And where he could not guide he would command:
With steady view in course direct he steer'd,
And his fair daughters loved him, though they fear'd;
Each had her school, and as his wealth was known,
Each had in time a household of her own.
The Boy indeed was at the Grandam's side,
Humour'd and train'd, her trouble and her pride:
Companions dear, with speech and spirits mild,
The childish widow and the vapourish child;
This nature prompts; minds uninform'd and weak
In such alliance ease and comfort seek;
Push'd by the levity of youth aside,
The cares of man, his humour, or his pride,
They feel, in their defenceless state, allied:
The child is pleased to meet regard from age,
The old are pleased ev'n children to engage;
And all their wisdom, scorn'd by proud mankind,
They love to pour into the ductile mind;
By its own weakness into error led,
And by fond age with prejudices fed.

243

The Father, thankful for the good he had,
Yet saw with pain a whining, timid Lad;
Whom he instructing led through cultured fields,
To show what Man performs, what Nature yields:
But Stephen, listless, wander'd from the view,
From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew,
And idly gazed about, in search of something new.
The lambs indeed he loved, and wish'd to play
With things so mild, so harmless, and so gay;
Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see,
With whom he felt a sickly sympathy.
Meantime the Dame was anxious, day and night,
To guide the notions of her babe aright,
And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering light;
Her Bible-stories she impress'd betimes,
And fill'd his head with hymns and holy rhymes;
On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt,
And the poor Boy mysterious terrors felt;
From frightful dreams, he waking sobb'd in dread,
Till the good lady came to guard his bed.
The Father wish'd such errors to correct,
But let them pass in duty and respect:
But more it grieved his worthy mind to see
That Stephen never would a farmer be;
In vain he tried the shiftless Lad to guide,
And yet 't was time that something should be tried:
He at the village-school perchance might gain
All that such mind could gather and retain;

244

Yet the good Dame affirm'd her favourite child
Was apt and studious, though sedate and mild;
“That he on many a learned point could speak,
“And that his body, not his mind, was weak.
The Father doubted—but to school was sent
The timid Stephen, weeping as he went:
There the rude lads compell'd the child to fight,
And sent him bleeding to his home at night;
At this the Grandam more indulgent grew,
And bade her Darling “shun the beastly crew;
“Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie,
“Howling in torments, when they came to die:”
This was such comfort, that in high disdain
He told their fate, and felt their blows again:
Yet if the Boy had not a hero's heart,
Within the school he play'd a better part;
He wrote a clean fine hand, and at his slate,
With more success than many a hero, sate;
He thought not much indeed—but what depends
On pains and care, was at his fingers' ends.
This had his Father's praise, who now espied
A spark of merit, with a blaze of pride
And though a farmer he would never make,
He might a pen with some advantage take;
And as a clerk that instrument employ,
So well adapted to a timid boy.
A London Cousin soon a place obtain'd,
Easy but humble—little could be gain'd:

245

The time arrived when youth and age must part,
Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart;
The careful Father bade his Son attend
To all his duties and obey his Friend;
To keep his church and there behave aright,
As one existing in his Maker's sight,
Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight:
“Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can,
“T' assume the looks and spirit of a man;
“I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true,
“And this you may, and yet have courage too:
“Heroic men, their country's boast and pride,
“Have fear'd their God, and nothing fear'd beside;
“While others daring, yet imbecile, fly
“The power of man, and that of God defy:
“Be manly, then, though mild, for, sure as fate,
“Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate;
“Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use
“('T is fairly stock'd) of what it will produce:
“And now my blessing, not as any charm
“Or conjuration; but 'twill do no harm.”
Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and down,
Now charm'd with promised sights in London-town,
Now loth to leave his Grandam—lost the force,
The drift and tenor of this grave discourse;
But, in a general way, he understood
'T was good advice, and meant, “My son, be good;”
And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean,
That lads should read their Bible, and be clean.

246

The good old Lady, though in some distress,
Begg'd her dear Stephen would his grief suppress;
“Nay, dry those eyes, my child—and, first of all,
“Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall:
“Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text
“For meditation, till you hear the next;
“Within your Bible night and morning look—
“There is your duty, read no other book;
“Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen,
“And keep your conscience and your linen clean:
“Be you a Joseph, and the time may be,
“When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee.”
“Nay,” said the Father—“Hush, my son,” replied
The Dame—“The Scriptures must not be denied.”
The Lad, still weeping, heard the wheels approach,
And took his place within the evening coach,
With heart quite rent asunder: on one side
Was love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried;
Wild-beasts and wax-work fill'd the happier part
Of Stephen's varying and divided heart:
This he betray'd by sighs and questions strange,
Of famous shows, the Tow'r, and the Exchange.
Soon at his desk was placed the curious Boy,
Demure and silent at his new employ:
Yet as he could, he much attention paid
To all around him, cautious and afraid;
On older Clerks his eager eyes were fix'd,
But Stephen never in their council mix'd

247

Much their contempt he fear'd, for if like them,
He felt assured he should himself contemn;
“Oh! they were all so eloquent, so free,
“No! he was nothing—nothing could he be:
“They dress so smartly, and so boldly look,
“And talk as if they read it from a book;
“But I,” said Stephen, “will forbear to speak,
“And they will think me prudent and not weak.
“They talk, the instant they have dropp'd the pen,
“Of singing-women and of acting-men;
“Of plays and places where at night they walk
“Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk;
“While other ladies for their pleasure sing,
“Oh! 't is a glorious and a happy thing:
“They would despise me, did they understand
“I dare not look upon a scene so grand;
“Or see the plays when critics rise and roar,
“And hiss and groan, and cry—Encore! encore!—
“There's one among them looks a little kind;
“If more encouraged, I would ope my mind.”
Alas! poor Stephen, happier had he kept
His purpose secret, while his envy slept;
Virtue, perhaps, had conquer'd, or his shame
At least preserved him simple as he came.
A year elapsed before this Clerk began
To treat the rustic something like a man;
He then in trifling points the youth advised,
Talk'd of his coat, and had it modernised;
Or with the lad a Sunday-walk would take,
And kindly strive his passions to awake;

248

Meanwhile explaining all they heard and saw,
Till Stephen stood in wonderment and awe:
To a neat garden near the town they stray'd,
Where the Lad felt delighted and afraid;
There all he saw was smart, and fine, and fair—
He could but marvel how he ventured there:
Soon he observed, with terror and alarm,
His friend enlock'd within a lady's arm,
And freely talking—“But it is,” said he,
“A near relation, and that makes him free;”
And much amazed was Stephen, when he knew
This was the first and only interview:
Nay, had that lovely arm by him been seized,
The lovely owner had been highly pleased:
“Alas!” he sigh'd, “I never can contrive,
“At such bold, blessed freedoms to arrive;
“Never shall I such happy courage boast,
“I dare as soon encounter with a ghost.”
Now to a play the friendly couple went,
But the Boy murmur'd at the money spent;
“He loved,” he said, “to buy, but not to spend—
“They only talk awhile, and there's an end.”
“Come, you shall purchase books,” the Friend replied;
“You are bewilder'd, and you want a guide;
“To me refer the choice, and you shall find
“The light break in upon your stagnant mind!
The cooler Clerks exclaim'd, “In vain your art
“To improve a cub without a head or heart;

249

“Rustics though coarse, and savages though wild,
“Our cares may render liberal and mild;
“But what, my friend, can flow from all these pains?
“There is no dealing with a lack of brains.”—
“True I am hopeless to behold him man,
“But let me make the booby what I can:
“Though the rude stone no polish will display,
“Yet you may strip the rugged coat away.”
Stephen beheld his books—“I love to know
“How money goes—now here is that to show:
“And now,” he cried, “I shall be pleased to get
“Beyond the Bible—there I puzzle yet.”
He spoke abash'd—“Nay, nay!” the friend replied,
“You need not lay the good old book aside:
“Antique and curious, I myself indeed
“Read it at times, but as a man should read;
“A fine old work it is, and I protest
“I hate to hear it treated as a jest;
“The book has wisdom in it, if you look
“Wisely upon it, as another book:
“For superstition (as our priests of sin
“Are pleased to tell us) makes us blind within;
“Of this hereafter—we will now select
‘Some works to please you, others to direct:
“Tales and romances shall your fancy feed,
“And reasoners form your morals and your creed.”

250

The books were view'd, the price was fairly paid,
And Stephen read undaunted, undismay'd:
But not till first he paper'd all the row,
And placed in order, to enjoy the show;
Next letter'd all the backs with care and speed,
Set them in ranks, and then began to read.
The love of Order,—I the thing receive
From reverend men, and I in part believe,—
Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs
This love, but seldom in the world succeeds;
And yet with this some other love must be,
Ere I can fully to the fact agree;
Valour and study may by order gain,
By order sovereigns hold more steady reign;
Through all the tribes of nature order runs,
And rules around in systems and in suns:
Still has the love of order found a place,
With all that's low, degrading, mean, and base,
With all that merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace:
In the cold miser, of all change afraid,
In pompous men in public seats obey'd;
In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones,
Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones;
Order to these is armour and defence,
And love of method serves in lack of sense.

251

For rustic youth could I a list produce
Of Stephen's books, how great might be the use;
But evil fate was theirs—survey'd, enjoy'd
Some happy months, and then by force destroy'd:
So will'd the Fates—but these with patience read,
Had vast effect on Stephen's heart and head.
This soon appear'd—within a single week
He oped his lips, and made attempt to speak;
He fail'd indeed—but still his Friend confess'd
The best have fail'd, and he had done his best:
The first of swimmers, when at first he swims,
Has little use or freedom in his limbs;
Nay, when at length he strikes with manly force,
The cramp may seize him, and impede his course.
Encouraged thus, our Clerk again essay'd
The daring act, though daunted and afraid;
Succeeding now, though partial his success,
And pertness mark'd his manner and address,
Yet such improvement issued from his books,
That all discern'd it in his speech and looks:
He ventured then on every theme to speak,
And felt no feverish tingling in his cheek;

252

His friend approving, hail'd the happy change,
The Clerks exclaim'd—“'T is famous, and 't is strange.”
Two years had pass'd; the Youth attended still,
(Though thus accomplish'd) with a ready quill;
He sat th' allotted hours, though hard the case,
While timid prudence ruled in virtue's place;
By promise bound, the Son his letters penn'd
To his good parent, at the quarter's end.
At first he sent those lines, the state to tell
Of his own health, and hoped his friends were well;
He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind,
And needed nothing—then his name was sign'd:
But now he wrote of Sunday-walks and views,
Of actors' names, choice novels, and strange news;
How coats were cut, and of his urgent need
For fresh supply, which he desired with speed.
The Father doubted, when these letters came,
To what they tended, yet was loth to blame:
“Stephen was once my duteous son, and now
My most obedient—this can I allow?
“Can I with pleasure or with patience see
“A boy at once so heartless, and so free?”
But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told,
That love and prudence could no more withhold:
“Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grown
“A rake and coxcomb—this he grieved to own;
“His cousin left his church, and spent the day
“Lounging about in quite a heathen way;

253

“Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace
“To show the shame imprinted on his face:
“I search'd his room, and in his absence read
“Books that I knew would turn a stronger head;
“The works of atheists half the number made,
“The rests were lives of harlots leaving trade;
“Which neither man nor boy would deign to read,
“If from the scandal and pollution freed:
“I sometimes threaten'd, and would fairly state
“My sense of things so vile and profligate;
“But I'm a cit, such works are lost on me—
“They're knowledge, and (good Lord!) philosophy.”
“Oh, send him down,” the Father soon replied;
“Let me behold him, and my skill be tried:
“If care and kindness lose their wonted use,
“Some rougher medicine will the end produce.”
Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom—
“Go to the farmer? to the rustic's home?
“Curse the base threat'ning—” “Nay, child, never curse;
“Corrupted long your case is growing worse.”—
“I!” quoth the youth, “I challenge all mankind
“To find a fault; what fault have you to find?
“Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace?
“Inquire—my friends will tell it to your face;
“Have I been taught to guard his kine and sheep?
“A man like me has other things to keep;
“This let him know.”—“It would his wrath excite:
“But come, prepare, you must away to-night.”

254

“What! leave my studies, my improvements leave,
“My faithful friends and intimates to grieve!”—
“Go to your father, Stephen, let him see
“All these improvements; they are lost on me.”
The Youth, though loth, obey'd, and soon he saw
The Farmer-father, with some signs of awe;
Who kind, yet silent, waited to behold
How one would act, so daring, yet so cold:
And soon he found, between the friendly pair
That secrets pass'd which he was not to share;
But he resolved those secrets to obtain,
And quash rebellion in his lawful reign.
Stephen, though vain, was with his father mute;
He fear'd a crisis, and he shunn'd dispute;
And yet he long'd with youthful pride to show
He knew such things as farmers could not know;
These to the Grandam he with freedom spoke,
Saw her amazement, and enjoy'd the joke:
But on the father when he cast his eye,
Something he found that made his valour shy
And thus there seem'd to be a hollow truce,
Still threatning something dismal to produce.
Ere this the Father at his leisure read
The son's choice volumes, and his wonder fled;
He saw how wrought the works of either kind
On so presuming, yet so weak a mind;
These in a chosen hour he made his prey,
Condemn'd, and bore with vengeful thoughts away;

255

Then in a close recess the couple near,
He sat unseen to see, unheard to hear.
There soon a trial for his patience came;
Beneath were placed the Youth and ancient Dame,
Each on a purpose fix'd—but neither thought
How near a foe, with power and vengeance fraught.
And now the matron told, as tidings sad,
What she had heard of her beloved lad;
How he to graceless, wicked men gave heed,
And wicked books would night and morning read
Some former lectures she again began,
And begg'd attention of her little man;
She brought, with many a pious boast, in view
His former studies, and condemn'd the new:
Once he the names of saints and patriarchs old,
Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told;
Then he in winter-nights the Bible took,
To count how often in the sacred book
The sacred name appear'd, and could rehearse
Which were the middle chapter, word, and verse,
The very letter in the middle placed,
And so employ'd the hours that others waste
“Such wert thou once; and now, my child, they say
“Thy faith like water runneth fast away;
“The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiled
“The ready wit of my backsliding child.”
On this, with lofty looks, our Clerk began
His grave rebuke, as he assumed the man—

256

“There is no devil,” said the hopeful youth,
“Nor prince of devils; that I know for truth:
“Have I not told you how my books describe
“The arts of priests, and all the canting tribe?
“Your Bible mentions Egypt, where it seems
“Was Joseph found when Pharaoh dream'd his dreams:
“Now in that place, in some bewilder'd head,
“(The learned write) religious dreams were bred;
“Whence through the earth, with various forms combined,
“They came to frighten and afflict mankind,
“Prone (so I read) to let a priest invade
“Their souls with awe, and by his craft be made
“Slave to his will, and profit to his trade:
“So say my books, and how the rogues agreed
“To blind the victims, to defraud and lead;
“When joys above to ready dupes were sold,
“And hell was threaten'd to the shy and cold.
“Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray?
“As if a Being heard a word we say:
“This may surprise you; I myself began
“To feel disturb'd, and to my Bible ran;
“I now am wiser—yet agree in this,
“The book has things that are not much amiss;
“It is a fine old work, and I protest
“I hate to hear it treated as a jest:
“The book has wisdom in it, if you look
“Wisely upon it as another book.”—

257

“Oh! wicked! wicked! my unhappy child,
“How hast thou been by evil men beguiled!”
“How! wicked, say you? you can little guess
“The gain of that which you call wickedness:
“Why, sins you think it sinful but to name
“Have gain'd both wives and widows, wealth and fame;
“And this because such people never dread
“Those threaten'd pains; hell comes not in their head:
“Love is our nature, wealth we all desire,
“And what we wish 'tis lawful to acquire;
“So say my books—and what beside they show
“'Tis time to let this honest farmer know.
“Nay, look not grave; am I commanded down
“To feed his cattle and become his clown?
“Is such his purpose? then he shall be told
“The vulgar insult—
—“Hold, in mercy hold—
“Father, oh! father! throw the whip away;
“I was but jesting, on my knees I pray—
“There, hold his arm—oh! leave us not alone:
“In pity cease, and I will yet atone
“For all my sin—” In vain; stroke after stroke,
On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke;
Quick as the patient's pulse, who trembling cried,
And still the parent with a stroke replied;
Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt,
And every bone the precious influence felt;
Till all the panting flesh was red and raw,
And every thought was turn'd to fear and awe;

258

Till every doubt to due respect gave place—
Such cures are done when doctors know the case.
“Oh! I shall die—my father! do receive
“My dying words; indeed I do believe;
“The books are lying books, I know it well,
“There is a devil, oh! there is a hell;
“And I'm a sinner: spare me, I am young,
“My sinful words were only on my tongue;
“My heart consented not; 't is all a lie:
“Oh! spare me then, I'm not prepared to die.”
“Vain, worthless, stupid wretch!” the Father cried,
“Dost thou presume to teach? art thou a guide?
“Driveller and dog, it gave the mind distress
“To hear thy thoughts in their religious dress;
“Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain,
“Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain:
“But Job in patience must the man exceed
“Who could endure thee in thy present creed;
“Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend
“The wicked cause a helping hand to lend?
“Canst thou a judge in any question be?
“Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee.—
“Lo! yonder blaze thy worthies; in one heap
“Thy scoundrel-favourites must for ever sleep:
“Each yields its poison to the flame in turn,
“Where whores and infidels are doom'd to burn;

259

“Two noble faggots made the flame you see,
“Reserving only two fair twigs for thee;
“That in thy view the instruments may stand,
“And be in future ready for my hand:
“The just mementos that, though silent, show
“Whence thy correction and improvements flow;
“Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power,
“And feel the shame of this important hour.
“Hadst thou been humble, I had first design'd
“By care from folly to have freed thy mind;
“And when a clean foundation had been laid,
“Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid:
“But thou art weak, and force must folly guide,
“And thou art vain, and pain must humble pride:
“Teachers men honour, learners they allure;
“But learners teaching, of contempt are sure;
“Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only cure!”
END OF THE TALES.

263

FLIRTATION,

A DIALOGUE.

[WRITTEN IN MAY, 1816, AND NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.]


265

From her own room, in summer's softest eve,
Stept Celia forth her Delia to receive,—
Joy in her looks, that half her tale declared:
C.—
War and the waves my fav'rite Youth have spared;
Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,
My Charles will come—Do give me joy, my dear.

D.—
I give you joy, and so may he; but still,
'Tis right to question, if 't is sure he will;
A sailor's open honest heart we prize,
But honest sailors have their ears and eyes.

C.—
Oh! but he surely will on me depend,
Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.

D.—
Be not secure; the very best have foes,
And facts they would not to the world expose;
And these he may be told, if he converse with those.


266

C.—
Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincere
And naked truth,—and what have I to fear?

D.—
I speak in friendship; and I do confess
If I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:
If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind.
Would you to him present the naked mind?
If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks
One's joy to think that he may fancy specks;
And now, in five long years, we scarcely know
How the mind gets them, and how large they grow.
Let woman be as rigid as a nun,
She cannot censures and surmises shun.
Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—
Your father's rooms were not like sisters' cells;
Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars,
But well-dress'd captains, and approving squires.

C.—
What these to me, admit th' account be true?

D.—
Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!

C.—
Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,
Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;
Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote
Those pretty verses, he began to dote;
That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop
A moment with him, at my feet would drop;
Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake,
I to my favour often used to take:
And was, vile world! my character at stake?

267

If such reports my Sailor's ear should reach,
What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach:
If without cause ill-judging men suspect,
What may not all these harmless Truths effect?
And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,
What must we fear if conscious we are frail;
And well you know, my friend, nor fear t' impart,
The tender frailties of the yielding heart.

D.—
Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;
I, not your frailties, but your suffering share.
You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;
But pray beware, how you my name accuse.

C.—
Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,
To do what long the public voice has done.
What misses then at school, forget the fall
Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall?
That was a first exploit, and we were witness all;
And that sad night, upon my faithful breast,
We wept together, till we sank to rest;
You own'd your love—

D.—
A girl, a chit, a child!
Am I for this, and by a friend reviled?

C.—
Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,
And say how many there have had a part:
Six I remember; and if Fame be true,
The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.


268

D.—
A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,
Do use some small discretion in such lies:
A Serjeant, Celia?—

C.—
Handsome, smart, and clean.
Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,
That might excuse you had you giv'n your hand,—
But this your father could not understand.

D.—
Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,
As if you'd not a secret of your own;
Yet would you tremble should your Sailor know,
What I, or my small cabinet, could show:
He might suspect a heart with many a wound
Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;
That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled,
The feeling ceases, and the love is dead;
But sense exists, and passion serves instead.

C.—
Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!
Is thus my confidential faith repaid?
Is this the counsel that we two have held,
When duty trembled, and desire rebell'd;
The sister-vows we made, through many a night,
To aid each other in the arduous fight
With the harsh-minded powers who never think
What nature needs, nor will at weakness wink:
And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot,
The wish oft whisper'd, the imagined lot,
The secret Hymen, the sequester'd cot?
And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,
And join the world in censure of your friend?

269

Oh! 'tis not right! as all with scorn must see,
Although the certain mischief falls on me.

D.—
Nay, never weep! but let this kiss restore,
And make our friendship perfect as before;
Do not our wiser selves, ourselves condemn,
And yet we dearly love their faults and them?
So our reproofs to tender minds are shown,
We treat their wanderings as we treat our own;
We are each other's conscience, and we tell
Our friend her fault, because we wish her well;
We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,
Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.
Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,
Their answers practise, and their powers essay.
By means like these they guard against surprise,
And all the puzzling questions that may rise.
“Guilty or not?” His lawyer thus address'd
A wealthy rogue—“Not guilty, I protest—”
“Why, then, my friend, we've nothing here to say,
“But you're in danger! prithee heed your way:
You know your truth, I where your error lies:
“From your ‘Not guilty’ will your danger rise.”
“Oh! but I am, and I have here the gain
“Of wicked craft:”—“Then let it here remain;
“For we must guard it by a sure defence,
“And not professions of your innocence;
“For that's the way, whatever you suppose,
“To slip your neck within the ready noose.”

270

Thus, my beloved friend! a girl, if wise,
Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies;
It is confess'd, that not the good and pure
Are in this world of calumny secure—
And therefore never let a lass rely
Upon her goodness and her chastity;
Her very virtue makes her heedless: youth
Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth;
Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame,
She grows discreet, and well defends her fame;
And thus, offending, better makes her way—
As Joseph Surface argues in the play—
Than when in virtue's strength she proudly stood,
So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.
Now, when your Charles shall be your judge, and try
His own dear damsel—questioning how and why—
Let her be ready, arm'd with prompt reply;
No hesitation let the man discern,
But answer boldly, then accuse in turn;
Some trifling points with candid speech confess'd,
You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.
Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,
And with your anger keep his malice down;
Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heart
To sue for pardon when you come to part;
But let him have it; let him go in peace,
And all inquiries of themselves will cease;
To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,
Have a few tears in petto at the last;

271

But, this with care! for 'tis a point of doubt,
If you should end with weeping or without.
'T is true you much affect him by your pain,
But he may want to prove his power again;
And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes—
A girl is never handsome when she cries.
Take it for granted, in a general way,
The more you weep for men, the more you may.
Save your resources; for though now you cry
With good effect, you may not by and by.
It is a knack; and there are those that weep
Without emotion that a man may sleep;
Others disgust—'tis genius, not advice,
That will avail us in a thing so nice.
If you should love him, you have greater need
Of all your care, and may not then succeed:—
For that's our bane—we should be conquerors all
With hearts untouch'd—our feelings cause our fall.
But your experience aids you: you can hide
Your real weakness in your borrow'd pride.
But to the point—should so the Charge be laid,
That nought against it fairly can be said—
How would you act? You would not then confess?—

C.—
Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!
To mute contempt I would alone resort
For the Reporters, and for their Report.
If he profess'd forgiveness, I would cry—
“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I!

272

“Such errors pardon! he that so would act
“Would, I am sure, be guilty of the fact;
“Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,
“I would not longer in your walks be seen:
“Could you such woman for a moment prize?
“You might forgive her, but you must despise.”

D.—
Bravo, my girl! 't is then our sex command,
When we can seize the weapon in their hand,
When we their charge so manage, that 'tis found
To save the credit it was meant to wound.
Those who by reasons their acquittal seek,
Make the whole sex contemptible and weak;
This, too, observe—that men of sense in love
Dupes more complete than fools and blockheads prove;
For all that knowledge lent them as a guide,
Goes off entirely to the lady's side;
Whereas the blockhead rather sees the more,
And gains perception that he lack'd before.
His honest passion blinds the man of sense,
While want of feeling is the fool's defence;
Arm'd with insensibility he comes,
When more repell'd he but the more assumes,
And thus succeeds where fails the man of wit;
For where we cannot conquer we submit.
But come, my love! let us examine now,
These Charges all;—say, what shall we avow,
Admit, deny; and which defend, and how?
That old affair between your friend and you,
When your fond Sailor bade his home adieu,

273

May be forgotten; yet we should prepare
For all events: and are you guarded there?

C.—
Oh! 'tis long since—I might the whole deny—
“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!
“Charles, if 'tis pleasant to abuse your friend,
“Let there be something that she may defend;
“This is too silly—”

D.—
Well you may appear
With so much spirit—not a witness near;
Time puzzles judgment, and, when none explain,
You may assume the airs of high disdain;
But for my Brother—night and morn were you
Together found, th' inseparable two,
Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—
In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—
In the beech-wood—within the quarry made
By hands long dead—within the silent glade,
Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flows
By the grey willows as they stand in rows—
Shall I proceed? there's not a quiet spot
In all the parish where the pair were not,
Oft watch'd, oft seen. You must not so despise
This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?

C.—
“Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!
“A friend's relation! Why, the man is wild—
“A boy not yet at college! Come, this proves
“Some truth in you! This is a freak of Love's:

274

“I must forgive it, though I know not how
“A thing so very simple to allow.
“Pray, if I meet my cousin's little boy,
“And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?
“But I remember Delia—yet to give
“A thought to this is folly, as I live—
“But I remember Delia made her prayer
“That I would try and give the Boy an air;
“Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—
“A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;
“And since the lad is grown to man's estate,
“We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.”

D.—
Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,
Our father's will compell'd you both to part.

C.—
Nay, this is needless—

D.—
Oh! when you are tried,
And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?
Oh! that's the vice of which I still complain:
Men could not triumph were not women vain.
But now proceed—say boyhood in this case
(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.
But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,
And all your friends, that here indeed was love.
For three long months you met as lovers meet,
And half the town has seen him at your feet;
Then, on the evil day that saw you part,
Your ashy looks betray'd your aching heart.
With this against you—


275

C.—
This, my watchful friend,
Confess I cannot; therefore must defend.
“Shelley! dear Charles, how enter'd he your mind?
“Well may they say that jealousy is blind!
“Of all the men who talk'd with me of love,
“His were the offers I could least approve;
“My father's choice—and, Charles, you must agree
“That my good father seldom thinks with me—
“Or his had been the grief, while thou wert tost at sea!
“It was so odious—when that man was near,
“My father never could himself appear;
“Had I received his fav'rite with a frown,
“Upon my word he would have knock'd me down.

D.—
Well! grant you durst not frown—but people say
That you were dying when he went away:—
Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;
And how explain it?—

C.—
Oh! I'll soon explain:—
“I sicken'd, say you, when the man was gone—
“Could I be well, if sickness would come on?
“Fact follows fact: but is't of Nature's laws
“That one of course must be the other's cause?
“Just as her husband tried his fav'rite gun,
“My cousin brought him forth his first-born son—
‘The birth might either flash or fright succeed,
‘But neither, sure, were causes of the deed.

276

“That Shelley left us, it is very true—
“That sickness found me, I confess it too;
“But that the one was cause, and one effect,
“Is a conceit I utterly reject.
“You may, my Friend, demonstrate, if you please,
“That disappointment will bring on disease;
“But, if it should, I would be glad to know
“If 'tis a quinsy that such griefs bestow?
“A heart may suffer, if a lady doat;
“But will she feel her anguish in the throat?
“I've heard of pangs that tender folks endure,
“But not that linctuses and blisters cure.”
Your thoughts, my Delia!—

D.—
What I think of this?
Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss;
But there are humours; and, by them possess'd,
A lover will not hearken to a jest.

Well, let this pass!—but, for the next affair,
We know your father was indignant there;
He hated Miller. Say! if Charles should press
For explanation, what would you confess?
You cannot there on his commands presume;
Besides, you fainted in a public room;
There own'd your flame, and, like heroic maid,
The sovereign impulse of your will obey'd.
What, to your thinking, was the world's disdain?
You could retort its insolence again:
Your boundless passion boldly you avow'd,
And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud;

277

Associates, servants, friends, alike can prove
The world-defying force of Celia's love.
Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison her
Whom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer?
And then that frantic quarrel at the ball—
It must be known, and he will hear it all.
Nay! never frown, but cast about, in time,
How best to answer what he thinks a crime:
For what he thinks might have but little weight,
If you could answer—
C.—
Then I'll answer straight—
Not without Truth; for who would vainly tell
A wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well?
Had I not fever? is not that the bane
Of human wisdom? was I not insane?
“Oh! Charles, no more! would you recall the day
“When it pleased Fate to take my wits away?
“How can I answer for a thousand things
“That this disorder to the sufferer brings?
“Is it not known, the men whom you dislike
“Are those who now the erring fancy strike?
“Nor would it much surprise me, if 'twere true,
“That in those days of dread I slighted you:
“When the poor mind, illumined by no spark
“Of reason's light, was wandering in the dark,
“You must not wonder, if the vilest train
“Of evil thoughts were printed on the brain;
“Nor if the loyal and the faithful prove
“False to their king, and faithless to their love.”
Your thoughts on this?


278

D.—
With some you may succeed
By such bold strokes; but they must love indeed.

C.—
Doubt you his passion?—

D.—
But, in five long years
The passion settles—then the reason clears:
Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined,
But by and by grows sober and refined,
And peers for facts; but if one can't rely
On truth, one takes one's chance—you can but try.
Yet once again I must attention ask
To a new Charge, and then resign my task.
I would not hurt you; but confess at least
That you were partial to that handsome Priest;
Say what they will of his religious mind,
He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind:
Now, with his reverence you were daily seen,
When it was winter and the weather keen,
Traced to the mountains when the winds were strong,
And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along—
That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal,
You were too faithful or too fond to feel.
Shielded from inward and from outward harm
By the strong spirit, and the fleshly arm—
The winter-garden you could both admire,
And leave his sisters at the parlour fire;
You trusted not your speech these dames among—
Better the teeth should chatter, than the tongue!

279

Did not your father stop the pure delight,
Of this perambulating Love at night?
It is reported, that his craft contrived
To get the Priest with expedition wived,
And sent away; for fathers will suspect
Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect—
Patience, my dear! your Lover will appear;
At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer?
“I hear,” says he,—and he will look as grim
As if he heard his lass accusing him—
“I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks
“Kept the young Curate from his holy books:
“Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray;
“But 't is their duty—not the better they;
“'T is done for policy, for praise, for pay:
“Or let the very best be understood,
“They're men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.
“Now, they do say—but let me not offend—
“You were too often with this pious friend,
“And spent your time—”

C.—
“As people ought to spend.
“And, sir, if you of some divine would ask
“Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task;
“But you, alas! the while, are not perplex'd
“By the dark meaning of a threat'ning text;
“You rather censure her who spends her time
“In search of Truth, as if it were a crime!
“Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,
“To whom should I, in my distress, appeal?

280

“A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must,
“When you will need a faithful Priest to trust,
“In conscience tender, but in counsel just.
“Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive,
“And, if I could, would keep your Love alive;
“But there are things that our attention claim,
“More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!”

D.—
“But why in secret?” he will ask you—

C.—
“Why?
“Oh! Charles, could you the doubting spirit spy,
“Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun;
“What one confesses should be heard by one.
“Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long
“With such companions, that you will be wrong:
“We fill our minds from those with whom we live,
“And as your fears are Nature's, I forgive;
“But learn your peace and my good name to prize,
“And fears of fancy let us both despise.”

D.—
Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance—
You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance:
'T is not sufficient that we're pure and just;
The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust—

281

Will he himself appear, or will he send,
Duteous as warm! and not alarm my friend?
We need not ask—behold! his servant comes:
His father's livery! no fond heart presumes:
Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you space
To arm your mind, and rectify your face.
Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heart
Feels all that his can dictate or impart.
Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy tale
Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?
It is his sister's writing, but the seal
Is red: he lives. What is it that you feel?

C.—
O! my dear friend! let us from man retreat,
Or never trust him if we chance to meet—
The fickle wretch! that from our presence flies
To any flirt that any place supplies,
And laughs at vows!—but see the Letter!—here—
Married at Guernsey!!!”—Oh! the Villain, dear!


283

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.]


285

LINES IN LAURA'S ALBUM.

[_]

[These lines were written at the desire of a young lady, who requested some verses on a cameo in her possession.]

See with what ease the child-like god
Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod;
How gaily, like a smiling boy,
He seems his triumphs to enjoy,
And looks as innocently mild
As if he were indeed a child!
But in that meekness who shall tell,
What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell?
By him are tamed the fierce;—the bold
And haughty are by him controll'd;
The hero of th' ensanguined field
Finds there is neither sword nor shield
Availing here. Amid his books
The student thinks how Laura looks;
The miser's self, with heart of lead,
With all the nobler feelings fled,
Has thrown his darling treasures by,
And sigh'd for something worth a sigh.
Love over gentle natures reigns
A gentle master; yet his pains
Are felt by them, are felt by all,
The bitter sweet, the honied gall,

286

Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs,
Sweet pain, and joys that agonise.
Against a power like this, what arts,
What virtues, can secure our hearts?
In vain are both—The good, the wise,
Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes:
And then, to banish Virtue's fear,
Like Virtue's self will Love appear;
Bid every anxious feeling cease,
And all be confidence and peace.
He such insidious method takes,
He seems to heal the wound he makes,
Till, master of the human breast,
He shows himself the foe of rest,
Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains,
And now a very tyrant reigns.
If, then, his power we cannot shun,
And must endure—what can be done?
To whom, thus bound, can we apply?—
To Prudence, as our best ally:
For she, like Pallas, for the fight
Can arm our eye with clearer sight;
Can teach the happy art that gains
A captive who will grace our chains;
And, as we must the dart endure,
To bear the wound we cannot cure.

287

LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK.

“You that in warlike stories take delight,” &c.

Hail! centre-county of our land, and known
For matchless worth and valour all thine own—
Warwick! renown'd for him who best could write,
Shakspeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight,
Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly,
And giants fall—Who has not heard of Guy?
Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms,
To gain immortal glory by his arms,
Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintain'd,
The prize of beauty over Venus gain'd;
For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot
That marr'd some beauty, which our nymph had not:
But this apart, for in a fav'rite theme
Poets and lovers are allow'd to dream—
Still we believe the lady and her knight
Were matchless both: He in the glorious fight,
She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night.
Urged by his love, th' adventurous Guy proceeds,
And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds;
Whatever prince his potent arm sustains,
However weak, the certain conquest gains;
On every side the routed legions fly,
Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy:
To him the injured made their sufferings known,
And he relieved all sorrows, but his own:

288

Ladies who owed their freedom to his might
Were grieved to find his heart another's right:
The brood of giants, famous in those times,
Fell by his arm, and perish'd for their crimes.
Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought,
When he the crown of good Athelstan sought,
Fell by the prowess of our champion brave,
And his huge body found an English grave.
But what to Guy were men, or great or small,
Or one or many?—he despatch'd them all;
A huge dun Cow, the dread of all around,
A master-spirit in our hero found:
'Twas desolation all about her den—
Her sport was murder, and her meals were men
At Dunmore Heath the monster he assail'd,
And o'er the fiercest of his foes prevail'd.
Nor fear'd he lions more than lions fear
Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear:
A fiery dragon, whether green or red
The story tells not, by his valour bled;
What more I know not, but by these 't is plain
That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain.
When much of life in martial deeds was spent,
His sovereign lady found her heart relent,
And gave her hand. Then, all was joy around,
And valiant Guy with love and glory crown'd;
Then Warwick Castle wide its gate display'd,
And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made.

289

Alas! not long—a hero knows not rest;
A new sensation fill'd his anxious breast.
His fancy brought before his eyes a train
Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain;
His dreams presented what his sword had done;
He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run,
And dying men, with every ghastly wound,
Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground.
Alarm'd at this, he dared no longer stay,
But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray,
With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast and pray.
In vain his Felice sigh'd—nay, smiled in vain;
With all he loved he dare not long remain,
But roved he knew not where, nor said, “I come again.”
The widow'd countess pass'd her years in grief,
But sought in alms and holy deeds relief;
And many a pilgrim ask'd, with many a sigh,
To give her tidings of the wandering Guy.
Perverse and cruel! could it conscience ease,
A wife so lovely and so fond to tease?
Or could he not with her a saint become,
And, like a quiet man, repent at home?
How different those who now this seat possess!
No idle dreams disturb their happiness:
The Lord who now presides o'er Warwick's towers,
To nobler purpose dedicates his powers:

290

No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear,
Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear:
The lovely Felice of the present day
Dreads not her lord should from her presence stray;
He feels the charm that binds him to a seat
Where love and honour, joy and duty, meet.
But forty days could Guy his fair afford;
Not forty years would weary Warwick's lord:
He better knows how charms like hers control
All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul;
He better knows that not on mortal strife,
Or deeds of blood, depend the bliss of life;
But on the ties that first the heart enchain,
And every grace that bids the charm remain:
Time will, we know, to beauty work despite,
And youthful bloom will take with him its flight;
But Love shall still subsist, and, undecay'd;
Feel not one change of all that Time has made.

ON A DRAWING OF THE ELM TREE,

UNDER WHICH THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON STOOD SEVERAL TIMES DURING THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Is there one heart that beats on English ground,
One grateful spirit in the kingdoms round:
One who had traced the progress of the foe,
And does not hail the field of Waterloo?

291

Who o'er that field, if but in thought, has gone,
Without a grateful wish for Wellington?
Within that field of glory rose a Tree
(Which a fair hand has given us here to see),
A noble tree, that, pierced by many a ball,
Fell not—decreed in time of peace to fall:
Nor shall it die unsung; for there shall be
In many a noble verse the praise of thee,
With that heroic chief—renown'd and glorious tree!—
Men shall divide thee, and thy smallest part
Shall be to warm and stir the English heart;
Form'd into shapes as fancy may design,
In all, fair fame and honour shall be thine.
The noblest ladies in the land with joy
Shall own thy value in the slightest toy;
Preserved through life, it shall a treasure prove,
And left to friends, a legacy of love.
And thou, fair semblance of that tree sublime,
Shalt a memorial be to distant time;
Shalt wake a grateful sense in every heart,
And noble thoughts to opening minds impart;
Who shall hereafter learn what deeds were done,
What nations freed by Heaven and Wellington.
Heroic tree we surely this may call—
Wounded it fell, and numbers mourn'd its fall;
If fell for many here, but there it stood for all.

292

ON RECEIVING FROM A LADY A PRESENT OF A RING.

A ring to me Cecilia sends—
And what to show?—that we are friends;
That she with favour reads my lays,
And sends a token of her praise;
Such as the nun, with heart of snow,
Might on her confessor bestow;
Or which some favourite nymph would pay,
Upon her grandsire's natal day,
And to his trembling hand impart
The offering of a feeling heart.
And what shall I return the fair
And flattering nymph?—A verse?—a prayer?
For were a Ring my present too,
I see the smile that must ensue;—
The smile that pleases though it stings,
And says—“No more of giving rings:
Remember, thirty years are gone,
Old friend! since you presented one!”
Well! one there is, or one shall be,
To give a ring instead of me;
And with it sacred vows for life
To love the fair—the angel-wife;
In that one act may every grace,
And every blessing have their place—
And give to future hours the bliss,
The charm of life, derived from this;

293

And when even love no more supplies—
When weary nature sinks to rest;—
May brighter, steadier light arise,
And make the parting moment blest!

TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL EXTRACTS.

Say, shall thine eye, and with the eye the mind,
Dwell on a work for thee alone design'd?
Traced by my hand, selected by my heart,
Will it not pleasure to a friend impart;
And her dear smile an ample payment prove
For this light labour of aspiring love?
Read, but with partial mind, the themes I choose:
A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse:
This shall a charm to every verse impart,
And the cold line shall reach the willing heart:
For willing hearts the tamest song approve,
All read with pleasure when they read with love.
There are no passions to the Muse unknown,—
Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity are her own:
She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power,
By varying moods to suit the varying hour;
She plays with each, and veils in changing robes
The grief she pities, and the love she probes.

294

'T is hers for wo the sullen smile to feign,
And Laughter lend to Envy's rankling pain;
Soft Pity's look to Scorn, mild Friendship's to Disdain.
Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils,
And weeps her transport, where expression fails.

TO A LADY ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH.

Yes! I must go—it is a part
That cruel Fortune has assign'd me,—
Must go, and leave, with aching heart,
What most that heart adores, behind me.
Still I shall see thee on the sand
Till o'er the space the water rises,
Still shall in thought behind thee stand,
And watch the look affection prizes.
But ah! what youth attends thy side,
With eyes that speak his soul's devotion—
To thee as constant as the tide
That gives the restless wave its motion?
Still in thy train must he appear,
For ever gazing, smiling, talking?
Ah! would that he were sighing here,
And I were there beside thee walking!

295

Wilt thou to him that arm resign,
Who is to that dear heart a stranger,
And with those matchless looks of thine
The peace of this poor youth endanger?
Away this fear that fancy makes
When night and death's dull image hide thee:
In sleep, to thee my mind awakes;
Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee.
Who could in absence bear the pain
Of all this fierce and jealous feeling,
But for the hope to meet again,
And see those smiles all sorrow healing?
Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart,
Lament that fate such friends should sever,
And I shall say—“We must not part;”
And thou wilt answer—“Never, never!”

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Of all the subjects poetry commands,
Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow;
'Tis like the streams in Afric's burning sands,
Exhausted now, and now they overflow.
As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,
So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise;
For when he would the cheerful warmth inspire,
He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.

296

How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,
And give the just proportion to my song?
How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit,
Yet fear at once t' offend thee and to wrong?
Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar,
And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare;
Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore—
That all confess what I must not declare.
Yet, on this day, in every passing year,
Poets the tribute of their praise may bring;
Nor should thy virtues then be so severe,
As to forbid us of thy worth to sing.
Still I forbear: for why should I portray
Those looks that seize—that mind that wins the heart—
Since all the world, on this propitious day,
Will tell how lovely and how good thou art.

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING.

Oh! do not ask the Muse to show
Or how we met, or how we part:
The bliss, the pain, too well I know,
That seize in turn this faithful heart.
That meeting—it was tumult all—
The eye was pleased, the soul was glad;
But thus to memory I recall,
And feel the parting doubly sad.

297

Yes, it was pleasant so to meet
For us, who fear'd to meet no more,
When every passing hour was sweet—
Sweeter, we thought, than all before.
When eye from eye new meanings steal,
When hearts approach, and thoughts unite—
Then is indeed the time to feel,
But, Laura! not a time to write.
And when at length compell'd to part,
When fear is strong, and fancy weak,
When in some distant good the heart
For present ease is forced to seek,—
When hurried spirits fall and rise,
As on the changing views we dwell,
How vainly then the sufferer tries
In studied verse his pains to tell!
Time brings, indeed, his slow relief,
In whom the passions live and die;
He gives the bright'ning smile to grief,
And his the soft consoling sigh:
Till then, we vainly wish the power
To paint the grief, or use the pen:
But distant far that quiet hour;
And I must feel and grieve till then.
END OF THE FIFTH VOLUME.