University of Virginia Library

UPON a rise near Sydney Grange is seen
A small neat house with lawn of velvet green;
A shrubbery skirts and screens it from the wind,
And a snug garden wooes the sun behind.
Here with his wife and rosy children twain,
A man and maid, and chattels few and plain,
Some years ago from distant town or shire
Came Mister Field, or Edward Field Esquire,
The neighbouring village gossips o'er their tea
Have not yet settled his precise degree.
Farmer he was not; stock nor land he kept,
A few small fields around his house except;
Nor yet like neighbouring squires he entertained,
Nor drank, nor swore, nor dogs nor hunters trained,
But still he was the parson's friend and guest,
And all the poor around his bounty could attest.

Well! Squire or Mister Field, (just call him which
You please) inhabited this quiet niche;
Milked his three cows, and made his bread and beer
On just four hundred annual pounds in clear.
Sleek were his kine. His yard was peopled thick
With turkey, guinea-fowl, and hen and chick,
All of choice kinds; and o'er his lawn there went
Six sheep, kept less for use than ornament.
O'er a neat paddock gate all free and tame,
Neighed his one horse in answer to his name.
I pass swine, ducks, and things of like degree,
He kept them out of sight, and so shall we.

His wife, good Mrs. Field, Heaven bless her face!
Was one might well adorn a higher place;
Accomplished, mannered, lady-like and fair,
Though not quite all that some fine ladies are.
She read few novels, seldom screamed, or fainted,
Dangled no reticule, was flounced nor painted;
And thought her hands were made for something more
Than nursing up in kid, or running o'er
Piano keys. She could both mend and make,
Wash and get up small linen, boil and bake;
And her made-wines, her puddings, and preserves,—
What tongue can speak of them as each deserves?
Her dress was simple; but you might suppose
The Graces helped her to put on her clothes.
Her house too perfect neatness; yet not such
As makes one half afraid to step or touch;
And all things there appeared to go or stand
Rather by secret clock-work than command;
Then in the healing art how vast her skill!
How deep her lore in herb and salve and pill!
Buchan and Reece right well she understood,
And even in Thomas dipped, and Underwood.
The ailing poor for miles around confessed
The sovereign virtues of her medicine chest;
And lean the village doctor grew, and bare,
Since Mrs. Field began to practise there.

Her husband had his avocations too:
He kept, I've said, a garden, where he grew
The earliest peas in all the country round,
And fruit for size and flavour far renowned.
Here were his bees in hives of curious form,
And there his greenhouse, to keep off the storm
From favorite flowers of every scent and hue,
Tended by him, and ranged in order due.
To bud and graft he was supremely skilled;
And aye a pruning knife his pocket filled.

His other tasks were various. On his land
He commonly employed a labouring hand.
His poultry likewise 'twas his due delight
Himself to serve with barley morn and night.
He taught his boy and girl; and taught them so
That will and duty hand in hand might go.
For he had still for them a smile in store,
A playful word, or tale of pleasing lore:
A happy knack, that tired not while it taught,
And rarely failed to gain the end he sought.

A school then in the village he maintained,
Where boys to write, and girls to sew were trained;
And where on sunday all the neighbouring young
Hymns, catechisms and collects said or sung.
The poor there claimed his frequent inquest too,
For truest suffering oft is least in view;
And not content to notice, and redress
The loud, bold plaint of petulant distress,
He loved affliction to its home to trace
And by inspection learn its real case;
See who might dress or baby-clothes require,
Or Madam's Thursday soup, or wine, or fire.
He was not one whose charity found vent
In very fine but empty sentiment;
None of the simpering, soft poetic crew,
Who talk, and feel, and weep, but never do.
Where'er were wants to succour, woes to share,
There was his haunt, though none might see him there.
He loved to seat him in the poor man's cot,
And hear the annals of his humble lot,
Joy round the widow's lonely heart to shed,
And weep and pray beside the sick straw bed.
And ‘what sweet tears they were, pure, bright, as flow
‘From angel eyes o'er earthly sin and woe!
‘What luxury of sorrow,’ (he would say),
‘And how unskilled in true enjoyment they
‘Who ne'er the full uplifted eyes have viewed,
‘Nor drank the wild warm voice of gratitude;
‘Seen the poor children's smile their steps attend
‘And the dog bark not at his master's friend,
‘And all the simple joys that God hath given,
‘To light the steps of charity to Heaven!’

Then there were other lighter rambles, when
He and his boy went up the neighbouring glen,
Old Walton for their guide, and from the brook
Wiled the lithe trout, but not with baited hook.
Or all together in a one-horse chair
They went at times to breathe the fresh sea air,
In summer, picking shells along the sand,
Or watching while the ocean o'er the strand
His lordly crest smoothed down, his thunders mute
Crept like a tame thing up to lick their foot.
Or when at eve along the fields they strayed,
Just when the cattle ventured from the shade;
When the tall grove upon the neighbouring rise,
Stood in relief before the Western skies;
And pleasant murmurs on the ear would come
Of lowing kine, and rooks returning home;
And every breeze brought in some varied sweet;
And grass more soft than sleep wooed on their feet:
Till dancing insects humming round their way,
And the wild thrush's lessening roundelay,
And stars faint twinkling through the twilight blue
Warned them in home from darkness and the dew.

On other evenings, when rough weather brings
Us friends with fires, rugs, shutters, and such things;
And when the Vicar, or some neighbour friend
Dropped not in on them to take tea, and spend
An hour in chat; nor when the county news
Came once a week, nor monthly the Reviews:—
The children then would either draw or write,
Or cut out forms in paper blue and white,
Or sing together at their mother's side;
Or while the female part their needles plied,
The others read aloud; perchance with Cook
From isle to isle their way through Ocean took;
Or else with Bruce or Park the desart thrid,
Or learned what other ages felt and did:
And traced the lore of England, Greece, and Rome,
With safer guides than Gibbon or than Hume.
Thus bed-time stole upon them unawares;
And the night closed, as morning oped, with prayers.

Such was the dwelling, such the simple life
Of Edward Field, his children, and his wife.
Here from the world, its toils, and snares, he fled
To serve his God, and eat his daily bread.
Retired, but active; useful, though forgot;
The world owed much to him that owned him not.
His aim was not men's notice, but their good,
To have his actions felt, enjoyed, not viewed.
And like the tree that bows its head the lower
The heavier it is hung with fruitful store,
He lived humility;—unlike to those
Who wear it in their manners, looks and clothes,
Who tell their frailties, spread their sins abroad
To man who disbelieves them, not to God;
Then triumph in their hypocritic sham,—
“How humble must the world suppose I am!”
His heart was humble, for he knew its state:
He had no claims to guard and vindicate;
Made no pretensions, took offence at none,
And notice oft but for endurance won;
As in the grass the wild thyme we discover,
Smelling most fragrant when most trampled over.
The judgement of the vulgar, small, or great,
In praise or blame with him had little weight.
He chose his path in life, and walked right on,
And yet, if possible, offended none.
Ambitious of no martyr's lot and name
From gibbets, racks, and fires of worldly fame:
Nor swift to take the lists, and hew and hack
In controversial parry and attack,
Where seldom aught is gained, though much is spent
Of temper, time, and breath, and argument.
His object Heaven, and God his Judge alone,
Busy, yet quiet, moved the Christian on.
Like home-bound vessel through life's voyage hied,
Leaving no track along the closing tide:
Took what of joy he might with safety there,
And for his perfect bliss looked on elsewhere.

Who now would think this simple plain good man
Had once been joined to fashion's lightest clan?
Had chased Ambition's wildest meteor down
And shared the idlest follies of the Town?
Yet such had Edward Field. The earliest air
He breathed was in a smoky London Square;
Where in a dingy brick and mortar pile
His high-born parents lived in handsome style,
Kept their state coach, with many a liveried knave,
And large sad parties once a fortnight gave;
Using a world of pother and address
To make themselves and others comfortless.

To Eton, thence to Oxford, was he whirled,
To make acquaintance there, and see the world.
And then pro formâ to the Continent
The graduate dunce was with his tutor sent,
To just learn how to dress, and cook, and stare,
And say of places, “O! yes! I've been there!”

Thence must he pass through fashion's usual paces,
Learn the right manners, jargon, and grimaces,
Acquire the one sublime indifference
To all that smacks of feeling, thought, or sense.
In friendless intimacy day by day
With grinning things must languish life away:
Must go to bed at four and rise at two,
Then ride out in the park as others do;
Or lounge at five in Bond Street, with a score
Of just such stiff, starched, stayed poor creatures more.
To dinner then at eight, and thence away
To formal rout, the club-house, or the play,
For which till the fifth act he never starts,
And talks aloud through all the finest parts.

From thence in time his genius onward passed,
And left this wooden life behind at last.
But who, all inexpert may think to trace
Each new gradation of his hopeful race?
Now in his tandem, now in ring or pit,
A gudgeon here, and there a blood and wit,
He did in fact what others like him do,
And found in all as much enjoyment too.

Meanwhile his parents their own path pursued
And with complacency his progress viewed;
Saw their three hundred friends each fortnight still
And took their share of scandal and quadrille;
Still smiled and simpered with the same dull set,
Kept up appearances, and ran in debt.
Yet while so smooth and fair in public eyes
They doffed at home the cumbersome disguise;
And fretful words were heard, and frowns were seen,
And angry squabbles with short truce between.
At last one night at cards Miss Farley said
“You've heard the news, that Mrs. Field is dead.”
“Good Heavens! poor Mrs. Field!” another cried,
“Diamonds are trumps,—do tell us how she died.”

The hatchment now was hung up o'er the door,
The family their decent mourning wore;
The spouse went through the usual routine,
And for due time in public was not seen:
And, to speak truth, in spite of every cross,
And every pet and humour, felt his loss.
He had no longer one to scold and flout,
To order dinner, and to nurse his gout.
The servants too had all things their own way
And bills besieged him which he could not pay.
Beset with all these complicated ills,
Vexation, ennui, pilferers, duns and bills;
He saw no better speedier antidote
And so one morning coolly cut his throat.
His property was so secured, no dun
Could claim, he knew, a farthing from his son;
And on his table this advice was found,
“Pay them my boy, a penny in the pound.”

Edward was shocked, astonished; and decreed
To make no profit of this fearful deed.
A generous spirit that too long had slept
Awoke within him, scorning to accept
At the red purchase of a parent's blood,
And tradesmen's ruin, such ill-gotten good,
And with a nobleness foreseen by few
He sold up all, and gave to each his due.

A monied man of fashion now no more
A different path must Edward Field explore;
And though it was some pain at first to meet
His old friends tittering by him in the street;
And though his pride some passing shocks received,
His mind upon the whole felt lightened and relieved.
He took to letters, and began to mix
With graver men, and talk of politics,
With authors and new books became acquainted
And Mister Murray's drawing room frequented;
Wrote articles for magazine Reviews,
And was in high request among the blues;
Kept common-place book, talked in learned strain,
And praised his rivals to be praised again.
As mangy horses in the fields we see
Scratching each other where they scratched would be.

Fired with his progress he new courage took,
And set him down at last to write a book;
A pamphlet by Ignotus. O what paper,
What pens and ink were spent upon the labour!
What brows were knitted, and what nails were bitten,
Before this mighty work was planned and written!
And lo, in cover blue it now appears,
To set the wondering public by the ears,
To fill the world with envy and delight,
And make the critics bark that cannot bite.
What questions will be asked! what tart replies,
And brisk rejoinders from all sides will rise!
But weeks, now fortnights, now whole months go by,
And no critique, rejoinder, or reply;
The world alas! jogs on the very same,
And neither readers buy, nor rivals blame!
At last a friend in some obscure Review
Gave it a fillip; but it would not do.
Puffs and advertisements in vain are penned,
Copies in vain sent round to foe and friend;
And the whole matter ere six months were shotten
Was born, and dead, and buried, and forgotten.

So much for authorship. His next design
For wealth and fame was in another line.
Lord Littleworth, prime minister of state,
Had been his father's friend and intimate;
And many handsome offers once had made
If he would bring his son up to the trade.
He met poor Edward's application now
With many a flattering smile, and courtly bow,
And bade him dance attendance with a bevy
Of would-be placemen at his Lordship's levee.
Long were to tell his harassments and trials,
Mid marble looks, smooth lies, and kind denials.
Long were to tell his various dirty jobs
In public and in private; and the throbs
Of wounded honour rankling in his breast,
And scorn and wrath that dared not be expressed,
And hopes and fears so tempered as to keep
The heart half-drowned, half floating in the deep.
Suffice to say a year or two went by,
And still promotion failed, and still was nigh:
When an event occurred to calm his fever,
And burst his bonds, and set him free for ever.

It chanced that Edward, when at Oxford, had
Among his college friends a lively lad,
Who afterwards assumed the sacred gown,
And held a living three-score miles from Town;
And when his friend he happened there to meet
He often asked him down to his retreat;
And Edward now was in a mood and station,
To take advantage of the invitation.
He found the Rector living on the skirt
Of a neat village, safe from noise and dirt,
With sister, wife, and rosy children seven,
Enjoying earth, and looking on to heaven;
In a fair house with pleasant glebe embraced,
Where grace and comfort well were matched by taste.
There Duty walked; there decent Order dwelt:
There Quiet nestled, and Religion knelt.
There might the needy for assistance turn,
And there the erring ever look and learn.
Amid his books, his children, and the poor
Loving and loved, the good man dwelt secure;
A sun within his little system shone,
Still bright, and brightening all he looked upon.
Mild on his face good nature seemed to sleep,
Forth at each call in smiles to wake and leap:
And kindness, cheerfulness, and strong good sense
To higher graces added influence.

With him now Edward sat, and chatted o'er
Their various boyish feats and whims of yore;
Talked of the scenes and facts of other years,
And what was come of these and those compeers.
With him around the village Edward strolled
To see and minister to sick and old,
And learn their simple histories, and gain
Truths that are rarely heard in prouder fane.
Oft with the ladies too abroad he walked
Along the pleasant fields, and sweetly talked
Unheeding, till the evening round them fell
And roosting blackbirds twitted tbrough the dell:
Or else with music or with books at home
Taught bed-time all unconsciously to come.
And then the little farm and garden too
Were rife with occupation sweet as new,
The children also twined them round his heart
As in their plays and tasks he bore a part;
Nay even the very family devotions,
So ill according with his former notions,
Grew grateful in the end; and when he knelt
On Sabbath in the decent Church, he felt
An awe and interest all unknown before,
A new reality religion wore;
And as the man of God its truths proclaimed,
Rebuked, alarmed, exhorted, urged, and shamed,
His altering mood bore witness to the word,
And listening conscience echoed all she heard.

This simple, useful, unambitious life
Unwarped by passion, undisturbed by strife,
To Edward's fluttering heart was new and strange;
Yet sense approved, and taste enjoyed, the change.
Weeks rolled away, and still the rector pressed,
And Edward still remained his willing guest;
And as the time of parting nearer drew,
The more his heart revolted to renew
His former wretched course, and bid his friends adieu.
‘Here man,’ he thought, ‘his destiny fulfils,
‘And finds the goods of life with half its ills.
‘Here mind and heart have both their ample play
‘And chance grows stable 'neath religion's sway.
‘Ah happy life! where simple joys abide,
‘And calm content makes up for all beside!
‘Where man exalted, hallowed, and refined,
‘Lives for his God, himself, and humankind!
‘How shall I leave thee? how return to trace
‘My former round of folly and disgrace,
‘And stand again a blot on fair creation's face?’
And then a conscious shame upon him grew
And his heart sickened at the bleak review,
And awful thoughts arose of God offended,
With strong compunctions and forebodings blended,
A sense of wasted years for ever flown,
And deeds of shame no more to be undone,
And all the fearful images that press
On the lone hours of trembling consciousness.
It was a time of trial, harsh, but good;
His heart was 'neath it humbled and subdued.
Remorse became repentance; and despair
Changed her dark groan at last for faith and prayer:
A sweet assurance o'er his spirit crept,
And at his Saviour's feet he wept,—he wept.

Each day confirmed the temper; and he passed
From strength to strength, till all was Heaven's at last.
His former views and sentiments were gone
And every past ambition lost in one,
And that unearthly; for beneath the sky
He now found little to detain his eye.
Life seemed a passage to a place of rest;
A road the lightest-laden travelled best.
He had no wish to fix his dwelling there
Or take too largely of its cumbering care;
As much of earthly goods he still possessed
As nature craved, or wisdom would request.
Enough had to a faithless world been given;
It now was time to live for self and Heaven.

His friends with joy beheld the change; and none
Beheld it with more interest than one,
Of whom, though tempted much, I've little sung,
The Rector's gentle sister, fair and young,
Bright and unearthly as a star of light,
Pure!—But I check my fancy in her flight.
I've said before that she could mend and make,
Wash and get up small linen, boil and bake,
Could keep the heart, and keep the house beside,
And elegant with useful well divide.
Their dwelling, mode of life, and all the rest
My rhymes already have at large expressed.