George Crabbe: Poems, Volume 3 (of 3)

by George Crabbe

THE FAREWELL AND RETURN

[The next Tale, and a number of others, were originally designed for a separate volume, to be entitled “The Farewell and Return.” In a letter to Mrs. Leadbetter, written in 1823, the poet says—“In my ‘Farewell and Return’ I suppose a young man to take leave of his native place, and to exchange farewells with his friends and acquaintance there—in short, with as many characters as I have fancied I could manage. These, and their several situations and prospects, being briefly sketched, an interval is supposed to elapse; and our youth, a youth no more, returns to the scene of his early days. Twenty years have passed; and the interest, if there be any, consists in the completion, more or less unexpected, of the history of each person to whom he had originally bidden farewell.”

The reader will find the Tales written on this plan divided each into two or more sections, and will easily perceive where the farewell terminates and the return begins.]

TALE VI.
THE FAREWELL AND RETURN.

I.

I am of age, and, now no more the Boy,

Am ready Fortune’s favours to enjoy,

Were they, too, ready; but, with grief I speak,

Mine is the fortune that I yet must seek.

And let me seek it; there’s the world around—

And if not sought it never can be found.

It will not come, if I the chase decline;

Wishes and wants will never make it mine.

Then let me shake these lingering fears away;

What one day must be, let it be to-day; 10

Lest courage fail ere I the search commence,

And resolution pall upon suspense.

Yet, while amid these well-known scenes I dwell,

Let me to friends and neighbours bid Farewell.

First to our men of wealth—these are but few—

In duty bound I humbly bid adieu.

This is not painful, for they know me not,

Fortune in different states has placed our lot;

It is not pleasant, for full well I know

The lordly pity that the rich bestow— 20

A proud contemptuous pity, by whose aid

Their own triumphant virtues are display’d.—

“Going, you say? and what intends the Lad?

‘To seek his fortune?’ ‘Fortune!’ is he mad?

Has he the knowledge? is he duly taught?

I think we know how Fortune should be sought.

Perhaps he takes his chance to sink or swim;

Perhaps he dreams of Fortune’s seeking him?

Life is his lottery, and away he flies,

Without a ticket to obtain his prize; 30

But never man acquired a weighty sum,

Without foreseeing whence it was to come.”

Fortunes are made, if I the facts may state—

Though poor myself, I know the fortunate—

First, there’s a knowledge of the way from whence

Good fortune comes—and that is sterling sense;

Then perseverance, never to decline

The chase of riches till the prey is thine;

And firmness, never to be drawn away

By any passion from that noble prey— 40

By love, ambition, study, travel, fame,

Or the vain hope that lives upon a name.

---

The whistling Boy that holds the plough,

Lured by the tale that soldiers tell,

Resolves to part, yet knows not how

To leave the land he loves so well.

He now rejects the thought, and now

Looks o’er the lea, and sighs “Farewell!”

“Farewell!” the pensive Maiden cries,

Who dreams of London, dreams awake— 50

But, when her favourite Lad she spies,

With whom she loved her way to take:

Then Doubts within her soul arise,

And equal Hopes her bosom shake!

Thus, like the Boy, and like the Maid,

I wish to go, yet tarry here;

And, now resolved, and now afraid,

To minds disturb’d old views appear

In melancholy charms array’d,

And, once indifferent, now are dear. 60

How shall I go, my fate to learn—

And, oh! how taught shall I return?

II.

Yes!—twenty years have pass’d, and I am come,

Unknown, unwelcomed, to my early home;

A stranger, striving in my walks to trace

The youthful features in some aged face.

On as I move, some curious looks I read;

We pause a moment, doubt, and then proceed.

They’re like what once I saw, but not the same;

I lose the air, the features, and the name. 70

Yet something seems like knowledge, but the change

Confuses me, and all in him is strange.

That bronzed old Sailor, with his wig awry—

Sure he will know me! No, he passes by.

They seem like me in doubt; but they can call

Their friends around them—I am lost to all.

The very place is alter’d. What I left

Seems of its space and dignity bereft:

The streets are narrow, and the buildings mean;

Did I, or Fancy, leave them broad and clean? 80

The ancient church, in which I felt a pride,

As struck by magic, is but half as wide;

The tower is shorter, the sonorous bell

Tells not the hour as it was wont to tell;

The market dwindles, every shop and stall

Sinks in my view; there’s littleness in all.

Mine is the error; prepossess’d I see;

And all the change I mourn is change in me.

One object only is the same; the sight

Of the wide Ocean by the moon’s pale light, 90

With her long ray of glory, that we mark

On the wild waves when all beside is dark.

This is the work of Nature, and the eye

In vain the boundless prospect would descry:

What mocks our view cannot contracted be;

We cannot lessen what we cannot see.

Would I could now a single Friend behold,

Who would the yet mysterious facts unfold,

That Time yet spares, and to a stranger show

Th’ events he wishes, and yet fears to know! 100

Much by myself I might in listening glean,

Mix’d with the crowd, unmark’d if not unseen;

Uninterrupted, I might ramble on,

Nor cause an interest, nor a thought, in one.

For who looks backward to a being tost

About the world, forgotten long, and lost;

For whom, departing, not a tear was shed,

Who disappear’d, was missing, and was dead—

Save that he left no grave, where some might pass,

And ask each other who that being was! 110

I, as a ghost invisible, can stray

Among the crowd, and cannot lose my way;

My ways are where the voice of man is known,

Though no occasion offers for my own;

My eager mind to fill with food I seek,

And, like the ghost, await for one to speak.

See I not One whom I before have seen?

That face, though now untroubled and serene,

That air, though steady now, that look, though tame,

Pertain to one, whom, though I doubt to name, 120

Yet was he not a dashing youth and wild,

Proud as a man, and haughty when a child?

Talents were his; he was in nature kind,

With lofty, strong, and independent mind;

His father wealthy, but, in very truth,

He was a rash, untamed, expensive youth;

And, as I now remember the report,

Told how his father’s money he would sport.

Yet in his dress and manner now appears

No sign of faults that stain’d his earlier years; 130

Mildness there seems, and marks of sober sense,

That bear no token of that wild expense

Such as to ruin leads!—I may mistake,

Yet may, perchance, a useful friendship make.

He looks as one whom I should not offend,

Address’d as him whom I would make a friend.

Men with respect attend him.—He proceeds

To yonder public room—why, then he reads!

Suppose me right—a mighty change is wrought;

But Time ere now has care and caution taught. 140

May I address him? And yet, why afraid? }

Deny he may, but he will not upbraid; }

Nor must I lose him, for I want his aid. }

Propitious fate! beyond my hope I find }

A being well-inform’d, and much inclined }

To solve my many doubts, and ease my anxious mind. }

Now shall we meet, and he will give reply

To all I ask!—How full of fears am I;

Poor, nervous, trembling! what have I to fear? }

Have I a wife, a child, one creature here, 150}

Whose health would bring me joy, whose death would claim a tear? }

This is the time appointed, this the place:

Now shall I learn, how some have run their race

With honour, some with shame; and I shall know

How man behaves in Fortune’s ebb and flow;—

What wealth or want, what trouble, sorrow, joy,

Have been allotted to the [girl] and boy

Whom I left laughing at the ills of life—

Now the grave father, or the awful wife.

Then shall I hear, how tried the wise and good! 160}

How fall’n the house that once in honour stood! }

And moving accidents, from war and fire and flood! }

These shall I hear, if to his promise true;

His word is pledged to tell me all he knew

Of living men; and memory then will trace

Those who no more with living men have place,

As they were borne to their last quiet homes—

This shall I learn!—And lo! my Teacher comes.

TALE VII.
THE SCHOOL-FELLOW.

I.

Yes! I must leave thee, brother of my heart,

The world demands us, and at length we part;

Thou whom that heart, since first it felt, approved—

I thought not why, nor question’d how I loved;

In my first thoughts, first notions, and first cares,

Associate; partner in my mind’s affairs,

In my young dreams, my fancies ill-express’d

But well conceived, and to the heart address’d—

A fellow-reader in the books I read;

A fellow-mourner in the tears I shed; 10

A friend, partaking every grief and joy;

A lively, frank, engaging, generous boy.

At school each other’s prompters, day by day

Companions in the frolic or the fray;

Prompt in disputes—we never sought the cause;

The laws of friendship were our only laws:

We ask’d not how or why the strife began,

But David’s foe was foe to Jonathan.

In after-years my Friend, the elder boy,

Would speak of Love, its tumult and its joy; 20

A new and strong emotion, thus imprest,

Prepared for pain to come the yielding breast;

For, though no object then the fancy found,

She dreamt of darts, and gloried at the wound;

Smooth verse and tender tales the spirit moved,

And ere the Chloes came the Strephons loved.

This is the Friend I leave; for he remains

Bound to his home by strong but viewless chains:

Nor need I fear that his aspiring soul

Will fail his adverse fortunes to controul, 30

Or lose the fame he merits; yet awhile

The clouds may lour—but then his sun will smile.

O Time, thou teller of men’s fortunes, lend

Thy aid, and be propitious to my Friend!

Let me behold him prosperous, and his name

Enroll’d among the darling sons of Fame;

In love befriend him, and be his the bride,

Proud of her choice, and of her lord the pride!

“So shall my little bark attendant sail”—

(As Pope has sung)—and prosperous be the gale! 40

II.

He is not here: the Youth I loved so well

Dwells in some place where kindred spirits dwell;

But I shall learn. Oh! tell me of my Friend,

With whom I hoped life’s evening-calm to spend;

With whom was spent the morn, the happy morn,

When gay conceits and glorious views are born;

With whom conversing I began to find

The early stirrings of an active mind,

That, done the tasks and lessons of the day, }

Sought for new pleasures in our untried way, 50}

And stray’d in fairy land, where much we long’d to stray. }

Here he abides not; could not surely fix

In this dull place, with these dull souls to mix;

He finds his place where lively spirits meet,

And loftier souls from baser kind retreat.

First, of my early Friend I gave the name,

Well known to me, and, as I judged, to Fame;

My grave informer doubted, then replied,

“That Lad!—why, yes!—some ten years since he died.”

P. Died! and unknown! the man I loved so well! 60

But is this all? the whole that you can tell

Of one so gifted?—

F. Gifted! why, in truth,

You puzzle me; how gifted was the Youth?

I recollect him, now—his long, pale face—

He dress’d in drab, and walk’d as in a race.

P. Good Heaven! what did I not of him expect!

And is this all indeed you recollect—

Of wit that charm’d me, with delightful ease— }

And gay good-humour that must ever please— }

His taste, his genius! know you nought of these? 70}

F. No, not of these:—but stop! in passing near,

I’ve heard his flute—it was not much to hear.

As for his genius—let me not offend;

I never had a genius for a friend,

And doubt of yours; but still, he did his best,

And was a decent Lad—there let him rest!

He lies in peace, with all his humble race,

And has no stone to mark his burial place;

Nor left he that which to the world might show

That he was one that world was bound to know, 80

For aught he gave it.—Here his story ends!

P. And is this all? This character my Friend’s!

That may, alas! be mine——“a decent Lad!”—

The very phrase would make a Poet mad!

And he is gone!—Oh! proudly did I think

That we together at that fount should drink;

Together climb the steep ascent of Fame;

Together gain an ever-during name,

And give due credit to our native home—

Yet here he lies, without a name or tomb; 90

Perhaps not honour’d by a single tear;

Just enter’d in a parish-register,

With common dust, forgotten to remain—

And shall I seek, what thou could’st not obtain—

A name for men when I am dead to speak?—

Oh! let me something more substantial seek;

Let me no more on man’s poor praise depend,

But learn one lesson from my buried Friend!

TALE VIII.
BARNABY, THE SHOPMAN.

I.

Farewell! to him whom, just across my way,

I see his shop attending day by day;

Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes

To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes.

Young though he is, yet careful there he stands,

Opening his shop with his own ready hands;

Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves,

Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves—

But yet preserves not: in his zeal for trade

He has his shop an ark for all things made; 10

And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye,

His sundry wares in strange confusion lie—

Delightful token of the haste that keeps

Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps;

Yet ere he rests, he takes them all away,

And order smiles on the returning day.

Most ready tradesman he of men! alive

To all that turns to money—he must thrive.

Obsequious, civil, loath t’ offend or trust,

And full of awe for greatness—thrive he must: 20

For well he knows to creep; and he in time,

By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb.

Pains-taking lad he was, and with his slate

For hours in useful meditation sate;

Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand,

To make him—hard the labour!—understand.

But, when of learning he enough possess’d

For his affairs, who would might learn the rest;

All else was useless, when he had obtain’d

Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain’d. 30

He envied no man for his learning: he

Who was not rich, was poor with Barnaby;

But he for envy has no thought to spare,

Nor love nor hate—his heart is in his ware.

Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies

In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise!

To him how bright the opening day, how blest

The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest!

To him the nation’s state is all unknown,

Whose watchful eye is ever on his own. 40

You talk of patriots, men who give up all,

Yea, life itself, at their dear country’s call:

He look’d on such as men of other date—

Men to admire, and not to imitate;

They as his Bible-Saints to him appear’d:

Lost to the world, but still to be revered.

Yet there’s a Widow, in a neighbouring street,

Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet;

Her’s house and land; and these are more delight

To him than learning, in the proverb’s spite. 50

The Widow sees at once the Trader’s views,

And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse.

Yet there are moments when a woman fails

In such design, and so the man prevails.

Love she has not; but, in a guardless hour,

May lose her purpose, and resign her power;

Yet all such hazard she resolves to run,

Pleased to be woo’d, and fearless to be won.

Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside,

Are kept and shown to feed a woman’s pride: 60

Old-fashion’d, ugly, call them what she will,

They serve as signs of her importance still.

She thinks they might inferior forms adorn

And does not love to hear them used with scorn;

Till, on some day when she has need of dress,

And none at hand to serve her in distress,

She takes th’ insulted robe, and turns about;

Long-hidden beauties one by one peer out.

“’Tis not so bad! see, Jenny—I declare,

’Tis pretty well, and then ’tis lasting wear; 70

And what is fashion?—if a woman’s wise,

She will the substance, not the shadow, prize;

’Tis a choice silk; and, if I put it on,

Off go these ugly trappings every one.”

The dress is worn; a friendly smile is raised,

But the good lady for her courage praised—

Till wonder dies.—The dress is worn with pride,

And not one trapping yet is cast aside.

Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews;

And on the seventh he worships Heav’n, and woos, 80

I leave thee, Barnaby; and if I see

Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be.

II.

But how is this? I left a thriving man,

Hight Barnaby, when he to trade began—

Trade his delight and hope; and, if alive,

Doubt I had none that Barnaby would thrive.

Yet here I see him, sweeping as before

The very dust from forth the very door.

So would a miser! but, methinks, the shop

Itself is meaner—has he made a stop? 90

I thought I should at least a burgess see,

And lo! ’tis but an older Barnaby;

With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare

As coats of his once begging kindred were;

Brush’d to the thread that is distinctly seen,

And beggarly would be, but that ’tis clean.

Why, how is this? Upon a closer view,

The shop is narrow’d; it is cut in two.

Is all that business from its station fled?

Why, Barnaby! thy very shop is dead! 100

Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate—

And what the fall from that predicted fate.

---

F. A common cause: it seems his lawful gains

Came slowly forth, and came with care and pains.

These he, indeed, was willing to bestow;

But still his progress to his point was slow,

And might be quicken’d, “could he cheat the eyes }

Of all those rascal officers and spies, }

The Customs’ greedy tribe, the wolves of the Excise.” }

Tea, coffee, spirits, laces, silks, and spice, 110

And sundry drugs that bear a noble price,

Are bought for little, but, ere sold, the things

Are deeply charged for duty of the king’s.

Now, if the servants of this king would keep

At a kind distance, or would wink or sleep,

Just till the goods in safety were disposed,

Why then his labours would be quickly closed.

True! some have thriven—but they the laws defied,

And shunn’d the powers they should have satisfied.

Their way he tried, and, finding some success, 120

His heart grew stouter, and his caution less;

Then—for why doubt, when placed in Fortune’s way?—

There was a bank, and that was sure to pay.

Yes, every partner in that thriving bank

He judged a man of a superior rank.

Were he but one in a concern so grand—

Why, he might build a house, and buy him land;

Then, too, the Widow, whom he loved so well,

Would not refuse with such a man to dwell;

And, to complete his views, he might be made 130

A Borough-Justice, when he ceased to trade;

For he had known—well pleased to know—a mayor

Who once had dealt in cheese and vinegar.

Who hastens to be rich, resembles him

Who is resolved that he will quickly swim,

And trusts his full-blown bladders! He, indeed,

With these supported, moves along with speed;

He laughs at those whom untried depths alarm,

By caution led, and moved by strength of arm;

Till in mid-way, the way his folly chose, 140

His full-blown bladder bursts, and down he goes!

Or, if preserved, ’tis by their friendly aid

Whom he despised as cautious and afraid.

Who could resist? Not Barnaby. Success

Awhile his pride exalted—to depress.

Three years he pass’d in feverish hopes and fears,

When fled the profits of the former years;

Shook by the Law’s strong arm, all he had gain’d

He dropp’d—and hopeless, pennyless remain’d.

The cruel Widow, whom he yet pursued, 150

Was kind but cautious, then was stern and rude.

“Should wealth, now hers, from that dear man which came,

Be thrown away to prop a smuggler’s fame?”

She spake, insulting; and, with many a sigh,

The fallen Trader passed her mansion by.

Fear, shame, and sorrow, for a time endured,

Th’ adventurous man was ruin’d, but was cured—

His weakness pitied, and his once-good name

The means of his returning peace became.

He was assisted, to his shop withdrew, 160

Half let, half rented, and began anew

To smile on custom, that in part return’d,

With the small gains that he no longer spurn’d.

Warn’d by the past, he rises with the day,

And tries to sweep off sorrow.——Sweep away!

TALE IX.
JANE.

I.

Known but of late, I yet am loth to leave

The gentle Jane, and wonder why I grieve—

Not for her wants, for she has no distress,

She has no suffering that her looks express,

Her air or manner—hers the mild good sense

That wins its way by making no pretence.

When yet a child, her dying mother knew

What, left by her, the widow’d man would do,

And gave her Jane, for she had power, enough

To live in ease—of love and care a proof. 10

Enabled thus, the maid is kind to all—

Is pious too, and that without a call.

Not that she doubts of calls that Heav’n has sent—

Calls to believe, or warnings to repent:

But that she rests upon the Word divine,

Without presuming on a dubious sign—

A sudden light, the momentary zeal

Of those who rashly hope, and warmly feel;

These she rejects not, nor on these relies,

And neither feels the influence nor denies. 20

Upon the sure and written Word she trusts,

And by the Law Divine her life adjusts;

She blames not her who other creed prefers,

And all she asks is charity for hers.

Her great example is her gracious Lord,

Her hope his promise, and her guide his Word;

Her quiet alms are known to God alone,

Her left hand knows not what her right has done;

Her talents, not the few, she well improves,

And puts to use in labour that she loves. 30

Pensive, though good, I leave thee, gentle maid,

In thee confiding, of thy peace afraid,

In a strange world to act a trying part,

With a soft temper, and a yielding heart!

II.

P. How fares my gentle Jane, with spirit meek,

Whose fate with some foreboding care I seek:

Her whom I pitied in my pride, while she,

For many a cause more weighty, pitied me;

For she has wonder’d how the idle boy

His head or hands would usefully employ— 40

At least for thee his grateful spirit pray’d,

And now to ask thy fortune is afraid.—

——How fares ‘the gentle Jane?—

F. Know first, she fares

As one who bade adieu to earthly cares;

As one by virtue guided, and who, tried

By man’s deceit, has never lost her guide.

Her age I knew not, but it seem’d the age

When Love is wont a serious war to wage

In female hearts,—when hopes and fears are strong,

And ’tis a fatal step to place them wrong; 50

For childish fancies now have ta’en their flight,

And love’s impressions are no longer light.

Just at this time—what time I do not tell—

There came a Stranger in the place to dwell;

He seem’d as one who sacred truth reveres,

And like her own his sentiments and years;

His person manly, with engaging mien;

His spirit quiet, and his looks serene.

He kept from all disgraceful deeds aloof,

Severely tried, and found temptation-proof: 60

This was by most unquestioned, and the few

Who made inquiry said report was true.

His very choice of our neglected place

Endear’d him to us—’twas an act of grace;

And soon to Jane, our unobtrusive maid,

In still respect was his attention paid;

Each in the other found what both approved,

Good sense and quiet manners: these they loved.

So came regard, and then esteem, and then

The kind of friendship women have with men: 70

At length t’was love, but candid, open, fair,

Such as became their years and character.

In their discourse religion had its place,

When he of doctrines talk’d, and she of grace:

He knew the different sects, the varying creeds,

While she, less learned, spake of virtuous deeds;

He dwelt on errors into which we fall,

She on the gracious remedy for all;

So between both, his knowledge and her own,

Was the whole Christian to perfection shown. 80

Though neither quite approved the other’s part—

Hers without learning, his without a heart—

Still to each other they were dear, were good,

And all these matters kindly understood;

For Jane was liberal, and her friend could trust,—

“He thinks not with me! but is fair and just.”

Her prudent lover to her man of law }

Show’d how he lived: it seem’d without a flaw; }

She saw their moderate means—content with what she saw. }

Jane had no doubts—with so much to admire, 90

She judged it insult farther to inquire.

The lover sought—what lover brooks delay?— }

For full assent, and for an early day— }

And he would construe well the soft consenting Nay! }

The day was near, and Jane, with book in hand,

Sat down to read—perhaps might understand;

For what prevented?—say, she seem’d to read;

When one there came, her own sad cause to plead;

A stranger she, who fearless named that cause,

A breach in love’s and honour’s sacred laws. 100

“In a far country, Lady, bleak and wild,

Report has reach’d me: how art thou beguiled!

Or dared he tell thee, that for ten sad years

He saw me struggling with fond hopes and fears?

“From my dear home he won me, blest and free,

To be his victim.”——“Madam, who is he?”

“Not yet thy husband, Lady; no! not yet;

For he has first to pay a mighty debt.”

“Speaks he not of religion?”—“So he speaks,

When he the ruin of his victim seeks. 110

How smooth and gracious were his words, how sweet—

The fiend his master prompting his deceit!

Me he with kind instruction led to trust

In one who seem’d so grave, so kind, so just.

Books to amuse me, and inform, he brought,

Like that old serpent with temptation fraught;

His like the precepts of the wise appear’d,

Till I imbibed the vice I had not fear’d.

By pleasant tales and dissertations gay,

He wiled the lessons of my youth away. 120

“Of moral duties he would talk, and prove

They gave a sanction, and commanded love;

His sober smile at forms and rites was shown,

To make my mind depraved, and like his own.

“But wilt thou take him? wilt thou ruin take,

With a grave robber, a religious rake?

’Tis not to serve thee, Lady, that I came—

’Tis not to claim him, ’tis not to reclaim—

But ’tis that he may for my wrongs be paid,

And feel the vengeance of the wretch he made. 130

“Not for myself I thy attention claim }

My children dare not take their father’s name; }

They know no parent’s love—love will not dwell with shame. }

What law would force, he not without it gives,

And hates each living wretch, because it lives!

Yet, with these sinful stains, the man is mine: }

How will he curse me for this rash design! }

Yes—I will bear his curse, but him will not resign. }

“I see thee grieved; but, Lady, what thy grief?

It may be pungent, but it must be brief. 140

Pious thou art; but what will profit thee,

Match’d with a demon, woman’s piety?

Not for thy sake my wrongs and wrath I tell,

Revenge I seek! but yet, I wish thee well.

And now I leave thee! Thou art warn’d by one,

The rock on which her peace was wreck’d to shun.”

The Lover heard; but not in time to stay

A woman’s vengeance in its headlong way.

Yet he essay’d, with no unpractised skill,

To warp the judgment, or at least the will; 150

To raise such tumults in the poor weak heart,

That Jane, believing all—yet should not dare to part.

But there was Virtue in her mind that strove

With all his eloquence, and all her love;

He told what hope and frailty dared to tell,

And all was answered by a stern Farewell!

Home with his consort he returned once more;

And they resumed the life they led before.

Not so our maiden. She, before resign’d, }

Had now the anguish of a wounded mind— 160}

And felt the languid grief that the deserted find. }

On him she had reposed each worldly view,

And when he fail’d, the world itself withdrew,

With all its prospects. Nothing could restore

To life its value; hope would live no more:

Pensive by nature, she can not sustain

The sneer of pity that the heartless feign;

But to the pressure of her griefs gives way,

A quiet victim, and a patient prey;

The one bright view that she had cherish’d dies, 170

And other hope must from the future rise.

She still extends to grief and want her aid,

And by the comfort she imparts, is paid.

Death is her soul’s relief; to him she flies

For consolation that this world denies.

No more to life’s false promises she clings, }

She longs to change this troubled state of things, }

Till every rising morn the happier prospect brings. }

TALE X.
THE ANCIENT MANSION.

I.

To part is painful; nay, to bid adieu

Ev’n to a favourite spot is painful too.

That fine old Seat, with all those oaks around, }

Oft have I view’d with reverence so profound, }

As something sacred dwelt in that delicious ground. }

There, with its tenantry about, reside

A genuine English race, the country’s pride;

And now a Lady, last of all that race,

Is the departing spirit of the place.

Hers is the last of all that noble blood, 10

That flow’d through generations brave and good;

And, if there dwells a native pride in her,

It is the pride of name and character.

True, she will speak, in her abundant zeal,

Of stainless honour; that she needs must feel;

She must lament, that she is now the last

Of all who gave such splendour to the past.

Still are her habits of the ancient kind;

She knows the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind.

She holds, so she believes, her wealth in trust; 20

And being kind, with her, is being just.

Though soul and body she delights to aid,

Yet of her skill she’s prudently afraid;

So to her chaplain’s care she this commends,

And, when that craves, the village doctor sends.

At church attendance she requires of all

Who would be held in credit at the Hall;

A due respect to each degree she shows,

And pays the debt that every mortal owes;

’Tis by opinion that respect is led: 30

The rich esteem because the poor are fed.

Her servants all, if so we may describe

That ancient, grave, observant, decent tribe,

Who with her share the blessings of the Hall,

Are kind but grave, are proud but courteous all—

Proud of their lucky lot! behold, how stands

That grey-haired butler, waiting her commands;

The Lady dines, and every day he feels

That his good mistress falters in her meals.

With what respectful manners he entreats 40

That she would eat—yet Jacob little eats;

When she forbears, his supplicating eye

Intreats the noble dame once more to try.

Their years the same; and he has never known

Another place; and this he deems his own—

All appertains to him. Whate’er he sees

Is ours!—“our house, our land, our walks, our trees!”

But still he fears the time is just at hand,

When he no more shall in that presence stand;

And he resolves with mingled grief and pride, 50

To serve no being in the world beside.

“He has enough,” he says, with many a sigh,

“For him to serve his God, and learn to die:

He and his lady shall have heard their call,

And the new folk, the strangers, may have all.”

But, leaving these to their accustom’d way,

The Seat itself demands a short delay.

We all have interest there—the trees that grow }

Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe; }

They take, but largely pay, and equal grace bestow. 60}

They hide a part, but still, the part they shade

Is more inviting to our fancy made;

And, if the eye be robb’d of half its sight,

Th’ imagination feels the more delight.

These giant oaks by no man’s order stand;

Heaven did the work, by no man was it plann’d.

Here I behold no puny works of art; }

None give me reasons why these views impart }

Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the heart. }

These very pinnacles, and turrets small, 70

And windows dim, have beauty in them all.

How stately stand yon pines upon the hill;

How soft the murmurs of that living rill;

And o’er the park’s tall paling, scarcely higher,

Peeps the low Church and shows the modest spire.

Unnumber’d violets on those banks appear,

And all the first-born beauties of the year;

The grey-green blossoms of the willows bring

The large wild bees upon the labouring wing.

Then comes the Summer with augmented pride, 80

Whose pure small streams along the valleys glide;

Her richer Flora their brief charms display,

And, as the fruit advances, fall away.

Then shall th’ autumnal yellow clothe the leaf,

What time the reaper binds the burden’d sheaf;

Then silent groves denote the dying year,

The morning frost, and noon-tide gossamer;

And all be silent in the scene around—

All, save the distant sea’s uncertain sound,

Or here and there the gun, whose loud report 90

Proclaims to man that Death is but his sport.

And then the wintry winds begin to blow;

Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow;

When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue,

Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew;

The aged moss grows brittle on the pale;

The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale;

And every changing season of the year

Stamps on the scene its English character.

Farewell! a prouder Mansion I may see, 100

But much must meet in that which equals thee!

II.

I leave the town, and take a well-known way

To that old Mansion in the closing day,

When beams of golden light are shed around,

And sweet is every night and every sound.

Pass but this hill, and I shall then behold

The Seat so honour’d, no admired of old,

And yet admired——

Alas! I see a change,

Of odious kind, and lamentably strange.

Who had done this? The good old Lady lies 110

Within her tomb; but, who could this advise?

What barbarous hand could all this mischief do,

And spoil a noble house, to make it new?

Who had done this? Some genuine Son of Trade

Has all this dreadful devastation made;

Some man with line and rule, and evil eye,

Who could no beauty in a tree descry,

Save in a clump, when stationed by his hand,

And standing where his genius bade them stand;

Some true admirer of the time’s reform, 120

Who strips an ancient dwelling like a storm;

Strips it of all its dignity and grace,

To put his own dear fancies in their place.

He hates concealment: all that was enclosed

By venerable wood is now exposed,

And a few stripling elms all oaks appear,

Fenced round by boards, to keep them from the deer.

I miss the grandeur of the rich old scene,

And see not what these clumps and patches mean!

This shrubby belt that runs the land around 130

Shuts freedom out! what being likes a bound?

The shrubs indeed, and ill-placed flowers, are gay, }

And some would praise; I wish they were away, }

That in the wild-wood maze I as of old might stray. }

The things themselves are pleasant to behold,

But not like those which we beheld of old—

That half-hid mansion, with its wide domain, }

Unbound and unsubdued!—but sighs are vain; }

It is the rage of Taste—the rule and compass reign. }

As thus my spleen upon the view I fed, 140

A man approach’d me, by his grandchild led—

A blind old man, and she a fair young maid,

Listening in love to what her grandsire said.

And thus with gentle voice he spoke—

“Come lead me, lassie, to the shade,

Where willows grow beside the brook;

For well I know the sound it made,

When, dashing o’er the stony rill,

It murmur’d to St. Osyth’s Mill.”

The Lass replied—“The trees are fled, 150

They’ve cut the brook a straighter bed:

No shades the present lords allow,

The miller only murmurs now;

The waters now his mill forsake,

And form a pond they call a lake.”—

“Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,

And to the holy water bring;

A cup is fasten’d to the stone,

And I would taste the healing spring,

That soon its rocky cist forsakes, 160

And green its mossy passage makes.”—

“The holy spring is turn’d aside,

The rock is gone, the stream is dried;

The plough has levell’d all around,

And here is now no holy ground.”—

“Then, lass, thy grandsire’s footsteps guide

To Bulmer’s Tree, the giant oak,

Whose boughs the keeper’s cottage hide,

And part the church-way lane o’erlook;

A boy, I climb’d the topmost bough, 170

And I would feel its shadow now!

“Or, lassie, lead me to the west,

Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall,

Where rooks unnumber’d build their nest—

Deliberate birds, and prudent all:

Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,

But they’re a social multitude.”

“The rooks are shot, the trees are fell’d,

And nest and nursery all expell’d;

With better fate the giant-tree, 180

Old Bulmer’s Oak, is gone to sea.

The church-way walk is now no more,

And men must other ways explore;

Though this indeed promotion gains,

For this the park’s new wall contains;

And here I fear we shall not meet

A shade—although, perchance, a seat.”

“O then, my lassie, lead the way

To Comfort’s Home, the ancient inn:

That something holds, if we can pay— 190

Old David is our living kin;

A servant once, he still preserves

His name, and in his office serves.”

“Alas! that mine should be the fate

Old David’s sorrows to relate!

But they were brief; not long before

He died, his office was no more.

The kennel stands upon the ground,

With something of the former sound.”

“O then,” the grieving Man replied, 200

“No further, lassie, let me stray;

Here’s nothing left of ancient pride,

Of what was grand, of what was gay;

But all is chang’d, is lost, is sold—

All, all that’s left is chilling cold.

I seek for comfort here in vain;

Then lead me to my cot again!”

TALE XI.
THE MERCHANT.

I.

Lo! one appears, to whom if I should dare

To say farewell, the lordly man would stare,

Would stretch his goodly form some inches higher,

And then, without a single word, retire;

Or from his state might haply condescend

To doubt his memory—“Ha! your name, my friend?”

He is the master of these things we see:

Those vessels proudly riding by the quay;

With all those mountain heaps of coal that lie,

For half a county’s wonder and supply. 10

Boats, cables, anchors, all to him pertain—

A swimming fortune, all his father’s gain.

He was a porter on the quay, and one

Proud of his fortune, prouder of his son—

Who was ashamed of him, and much distress’d

To see his father was no better dress’d.

Yet for this parent did the son erect

A tomb—’tis whisper’d, he must not expect

The like for him, when he shall near it sleep—

Where we behold the marble cherubs weep. 20

There are no merchants who with us reside

In half his state—no wonder he has pride;

Then he parades around that vast estate,

As if he spurn’d the slaves that make him great;

Speaking in tone so high, as if the ware

Was nothing worth—at least not worth his care;

Yet should he not these bulky stores contemn,

For all his glory he derives from them;

And, were it not for that neglected store,

This great rich man would be extremely poor. 30

Generous men call him, for he deigns to give;

He condescends to say the poor must live.

Yet in his seamen not a sign appears

That they have much respect, or many fears;

With inattention they their patron meet,

As if they thought his dignity a cheat;

Or of himself as, having much to do

With their affairs, he very little knew;

As if his ways to them so well were known

That they might hear, and bow, and take their own. 40

He might contempt for men so humble feel,

But this experience taught him to conceal;

For sailors do not to a lord at land

As to their captain in submission stand;

Nor have mere pomp and pride, of look or speech,

Been able yet respect or awe to teach.

Guns, when with powder charged, will make a noise,

To frighten babes, and be the sport of boys;

But, when within men find there’s nothing more,

They shout contemptuous at the idle roar. 50

Thus will our lofty man to all appear,

With nothing charged that they respect or fear.

His Lady, too, to her large purse applies,

And all she fancies at the instant buys.

How bows the market, when from stall to stall

She walks, attended! how respectful all!

To her free orders every maid attends,

And strangers wonder what the woman spends.

There is an auction, and the people, shy,

Are loth to bid, and yet desire to buy. 60

Jealous they gaze with mingled hope and fear,

Of buying cheaply, and of paying dear.

They see the hammer with determined air

Seized for despatch, and bid in pure despair!

They bid—the hand is quiet as before—

Still stands old Puff till one advances more.—

Behold great madam, gliding through the crowd;

Hear her too bid—decisive tone and loud!

“Going! ’tis gone!” the hammer-holder cries—

“Joy to you, Lady! you have gain’d a prize.” 70

Thus comes and goes the wealth, that, saved or spent,

Buys not a moment’s credit or content.

Farewell! your fortune I forbear to guess;

For chance, as well as sense, may give success.

II.

P. Say, what yon buildings, neat indeed, but low,

So much alike, in one commodious row?

F. You see our Alms-house: ancient men, decay’d,

Are here sustain’d, who lost their way in trade;

Here they have all that sober men require—

So thought the Poet—“meat, and clothes, and fire”; 80

A little garden to each house pertains,

Convenient each, and kept with little pains.

Here for the sick are nurse and medicine found;

Here walks and shaded alleys for the sound;

Books of devotion on the shelves are placed,

And not forbidden are the books of taste.

The Church is near them—in a common seat

The pious men with grateful spirit meet;

Thus from the world, which they no more admire,

They all in silent gratitude retire. 90

P. And is it so? Have all, with grateful mind,

The world relinquish’d, and its ways resign’d?

Look they not back with lingering love and slow,

And fain would once again the oft-tried follies know?

F. Too surely some! We must not think that all,

Call’d to be hermits, would obey the call;

We must not think that all forget the state

In which they moved, and bless their humbler fate;

But all may here the waste of life retrieve,

And, ere they leave the world, its vices leave. 100

See yonder man, who walks apart, and seems

Wrapt in some fond and visionary schemes;

Who looks uneasy, as a man oppress’d

By that large copper badge upon his breast.

His painful shame, his self-tormenting pride,

Would all that’s visible in bounty hide;

And much his anxious breast is swell’d with woe,

That where he goes his badge must with him go.

P. Who then is he? Do I behold aright?

My lofty Merchant in this humble plight! 110

Still has he pride?

F. If common fame be just,

He yet has pride—the pride that licks the dust;

Pride that can stoop, and feed upon the base

And wretched flattery of this humbling place;

Nay, feeds himself! his failing is avow’d:

He of the cause that made him poor is proud;

Proud of his greatness, of the sums he spent,

And honours shown him wheresoe’er he went.

Yes! there he walks, that lofty man is he,

Who was so rich; but great he could not be. 120

Now to the paupers who about him stand

He tells of wonders, by his bounty plann’d;

Tells of his traffic, where his vessels sail’d,

And what a trade he drove—before he fail’d;

Then what a failure, not a paltry sum,

Like a mean trader, but for half a plum;

His Lady’s wardrobe was apprised so high

At his own sale, that nobody would buy!—

“But she is gone,” he cries, “and never saw

The spoil and havoc of our cruel law; 130

My steeds, our chariot that so roll’d along,

Admired of all! they sold them for a song.

You all can witness what my purse could do;

And now I wear a badge like one of you,

Who in my service had been proud to live—

And this is all a thankless town will give.

I, who have raised the credit of that town,

And gave it, thankless as it is, renown—

Who’ve done, what no man there had done before,

Now hide my head within an Alms-house door— 140

Deprived of all—my wife, my wealth, my vote,

And in this blue defilement——Curse the Coat!”

TALE XII.
THE BROTHER BURGESSES.

I.

Two busy Brothers in our place reside,

And wealthy each, his party’s boast and pride;

Sons of one father, of two mothers born,

They hold each other in true party-scorn.

James is the one who for the people fights,

The sturdy champion of their dubious rights;

Merchant and seaman rough, but not the less

Keen in pursuit of his own happiness;

And what his happiness?—To see his store

Of wealth increase, till Mammon groans, “No more!” 10

James goes to church—because his father went,

But does not hide his leaning to dissent;

Reasons for this, whoe’er may frown, he’ll speak—

Yet the old pew receives him once a week.

Charles is a churchman, and has all the zeal

That a strong member of his church can feel;

A loyal subject is the name he seeks;

He of “his King and Country” proudly speaks:

He says, his brother and a rebel-crew,

Minded like him, the nation would undo, 20

If they had power, or were esteem’d enough

Of those who had, to bring their plans to proof.

James answers sharply—“I will never place

My hopes upon a Lordship or a Grace!

To some great man you bow, to greater he,

Who to the greatest bends his supple knee,

That so the manna from the head may drop,

And at the lowest of the kneelers stop.

Lords call you loyal, and on them you call

To spare you something from our plunder’d all: 30

If tricks like these to slaves can treasure bring,

Slaves well may shout them hoarse for ‘Church and King!’”

“Brother!” says Charles,—“yet ‘brother’ is a name

I own with pity, and I speak with shame—

One of these days you’ll surely lead a mob,

And then the hangman will conclude the job.”

“And would you, Charles, in that unlucky case, }

Beg for his life whose death would bring disgrace }

On you, and all the loyal of our race? }

Your worth would surely from the halter bring 40}

One neck, and I, a patriot, then might sing— }

A brother patriot I—‘God save our noble King!’” }

“James!” said the graver man, in manner grave—

“Your neck I could not, I your soul would save;

Oh! ere that day, alas, too likely! come,

I would prepare your mind to meet your doom,

That then the priest, who prays with that bad race

Of men, may find you not devoid of grace.”

These are the men who, from their seats above,

Hear frequent sermons on fraternal love; 50

Nay, each approves, and answers—“Very true!

Brother would heed it, were he not a Jew.”

II.

P. Read I aright? beneath this stately stone

The Brothers rest in peace, their grave is one!

What friend, what fortune interfered, that they

Take their long sleep together, clay with clay?

How came it thus?—

F. It was their own request,

By both repeated, that they thus might rest.

P. ’Tis well! Did friends at length the pair unite?

Or was it done because the deed was right? 60

Did the cool spirit of enfeebling age

Chill the warm blood, and calm the party rage,

And kindly lead them, in their closing day,

To put their animosity away,

Incline their hearts to live in love and peace,

And bid the ferment in each bosom cease?

F. Rich men have runners, who will to and fro

In search of food for their amusement go;

Who watch their spirits, and with tales of grief

Yield to their melancholy minds relief; 70

Who of their foes will each mishap relate,

And of their friends the fall or failings state.

One of this breed—the Jackall who supplied

Our Burgess Charles with food for spleen and pride—

Before he utter’d what his memory brought,

On its effect, in doubtful matters, thought,

Lest he, perchance, in his intent might trip,

Or a strange fact might indiscreetly slip.—

But he, one morning, had a tale to bring,

And felt full sure he need not weigh the thing; 80

That must be welcome! With a smiling face

He watch’d th’ accustom’d nod, and took his place.

“Well! you have news—I see it—Good, my friend,

No preface, Peter! Speak, man; I attend.”

“Then, sir, I’m told—nay, ’tis beyond dispute—

Our Burgess James is routed horse and foot;

He’ll not be seen; a clerk for him appears,

And their precautions testify their fears;

Before the week be ended you shall see,

That our famed patriot will a bankrupt be.”— 90

“Will he, by——! No, I will not be profane,

But James a bankrupt! Boy, my hat and cane!

No! he’ll refuse my offers—Let me think!

So would I his; here, give me pen and ink!

There! that will do.—What! let my father’s son,

My brother, want, and I—away! and run;

Run, as for life, and then return—but stay

To take his message—now, away, away!”

The pride of James was shaken as he read—

The Brothers met—the angry spirit fled. 100

Few words were needed—in the look of each

There was a language words can never reach;

But, when they took each other’s hand, and press’d,

Subsiding tumult sank to endless rest;

Nor party wrath with quick affection strove,

Drown’d in the tears of reconciling love.

Affairs confused, and business at a stand,

Were soon set right by Charles’s powerful hand;

The rudest mind in this rude place enjoy’d

The pleasing thought of enmity destroy’d, 110

And so destroy’d, that neither spite nor spleen,

Nor peevish look from that blest hour were seen;

Yet each his party and his spirit kept,

Though all the harsh and angry passions slept.

P. And they too sleep! and, at their joint request,

Within one tomb, beneath one stone, they rest!

TALE XIII.
THE DEAN’S LADY.

I.

Next, to a Lady I must bid adieu—

Whom some in mirth or malice call a “Blue.”

There needs no more—when that same word is said,

The men grow shy, respectful, and afraid;

Save the choice friends who in her colour dress,

And all her praise in words like hers express.

Why should proud man in man that knowledge prize,

Which he affects in woman to despise?

Is he not envious when a lady gains, }

In hours of leisure, and with little pains, 10}

What he in many a year with painful toil obtains? }

For surely knowledge should not odious grow,

Nor ladies be despised for what they know;

Truth, to no sex confined, her friends invites,

And woman, long restrain’d, demands her rights.

Nor should a light and odious name be thrown

On the fair dame who makes that knowledge known—

Who bravely dares the world’s sarcastic sneer,

And what she is, is willing to appear.

“And what she is not!” peevish man replies, 20

His envy owning what his pride denies.

But let him, envious as he is, repair

To this sage Dame, and meet conviction there!

Miranda sees her morning levee fill’d

With men, in every art and science skill’d—

Men who have gain’d a name, whom she invites,

Because in men of genius she delights.

To these she puts her questions, that produce

Discussion vivid, and discourse abstruse;

She no opinion for its boldness spares, 30

But loves to show her audience what she dares;

The creeds of all men she takes leave to sift,

And, quite impartial, turns her own adrift.

Her noble mind, with independent force,

Her Rector questions on his late discourse;

Perplex’d and pain’d, he wishes to retire

From one whom critics, nay, whom crowds, admire—

From her whose faith on no man’s dictate leans;

Who her large creed from many a teacher gleans;

Who for herself will judge, debate, decide, 40

And be her own “philosopher and guide.”

Why call a lady Blue? It is because

She reads, converses, studies for applause;

And therefore all that she desires to know

Is just as much as she can fairly show.

The real knowledge we in secret hide;

It is the counterfeit that makes our pride.

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”—

So sings the Poet, and so let him sing;

But, if from little learning danger rose, 50

I know not who in safety could repose.

The evil rises from our own mistake,

When we our ignorance for knowledge take;

Or when the little that we have, through pride

And vain poor self-love view’d, is magnified.

Nor is your deepest Azure always free

From these same dangerous calls of vanity.

Yet of the sex are those who never show,

By way of exhibition, what they know.

Their books are read and praised, and so are they, 60

But all without design, without display.

Is there not One who reads the hearts of men,

And paints them strongly with unrivall’d pen?

All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear;

Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear;

Looks in the close recesses of the mind,

And gives the finish’d portraits to mankind,

By skill conducted, and to Nature true—

And yet no man on earth would call Joanna Blue!

Not so Miranda! She is ever prest 70

To give opinions, and she gives her best.

To these with gentle smile her guests incline,

Who come to hear, improve, applaud—and dine.

Her hungry mind on every subject feeds;

She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads;

Locke entertains her, and she wonders why

His famous Essay is consider’d dry.

For her amusement in her vacant hours

Are earths and rocks, and animals and flowers;

She could the farmer at his work assist, 80

A systematic agriculturist.

Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind,

Nor let us see that they themselves are blind;

But—thank our stars!—the liberal times allow,

That all may think, and men have rivals now.

Miranda deems all knowledge might be gain’d—

“But she is idle, nor has much attain’d;

Men are in her deceived: she knows at most

A few light matters, for she scorns to boast.

Her mathematic studies she resign’d— 90

They did not suit the genius of her mind.

She thought indeed the higher parts sublime,

But then they took a monstrous deal of time!”

Frequent and full the letters she delights

To read in part; she names not him who writes—

But here and there a precious sentence shows,

Telling what literary debts she owes.

Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come,

“Alas!” she cries, “and I must seal their doom.

Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain— 100

Ah! why must truth be told, or man be vain?”

Much she has written, and still deigns to write,

But not an effort yet must see the light.

“Cruel!” her friends exclaim; “unkind, unjust!”

But, no! the envious mass she will not trust;

Content to hear that fame is due to her,

Which on her works the world might not confer—

Content with loud applauses while she lives;

Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives.

II.

P. Now where the Learned Lady? Doth she live, 110

Her dinners yet and sentiments to give—

The Dean’s wise consort, with the many friends,

From whom she borrows, and to whom she lends

Her precious maxims?

F. Yes, she lives to shed

Her light around her; but her Dean is dead.

Seen her I have, but seldom could I see;

Borrow she could not, could not lend to me.

Yet I attended, and beheld the tribe

Attending too, whom I will not describe—

Miranda Thomson! Yes, I sometimes found 120

A seat among a circle so profound;

When all the science of the age combined

Was in that room, and hers the master-mind.

Well I remember the admiring crowd,

Who spoke their wonder and applause aloud;

They strove who highest should her glory raise,

And cramm’d the hungry mind with honied praise—

While she, with grateful hand, a table spread,

The Dean assenting—but the Dean is dead;

And, though her sentiments are still divine,

She asks no more her auditors to dine. 130

Once from her lips came wisdom; when she spoke,

Her friends in transport or amazement broke.

Now to her dictates there attend but few,

And they expect to meet attention too;

Respect she finds is purchased at some cost,

And deference is withheld, when dinner’s lost.

She, once the guide and glory of the place

Exists between oblivion and disgrace;

Praise, once afforded, now—they say not why, 140

They dare not say it—fickle men deny;

That buzz of fame a new Minerva cheers,

Which our deserted queen no longer hears.

Old, but not wise, forsaken, not resign’d,

She gives to honours past her feeble mind;

Back to her former state her fancy moves,

And lives on past applause, that still she loves;

Yet holds in scorn the fame no more in view, }

And flies the glory that would not pursue }

To yon small cot a poorly jointured Blue. 150}

TALE XIV.
THE WIFE AND WIDOW.

I.

I leave Sophia; it would please me well,

Before we part, on so much worth to dwell.

’Tis said of one who lived in times of strife,

There was no boyhood in his busy life;

Born to do all that mortal being can,

The thinking child became at once the man;

So this fair girl in early youth was led,

By reasons strong in early youth, to wed.

In her new state her prudence was her guide,

And of experience well the place supplied; 10

With life’s important business full in view,

She had no time for its amusements too;

She had no practised look man’s heart t’ allure,

No frown to kill him, and no smile to cure;

No art coquettish, nothing of the prude;

She was with strong yet simple sense endued,

Intent on duties, and resolved to shun

Nothing that ought to be, and could be, done.

A Captain’s wife, with him she long sustain’d

The toil of war, and in a camp remain’d; 20

Her husband wounded, with a child in arms,

She nurst them both, unheeded all alarms;

All useless terror in her soul supprest—

None could discern in hers a troubled breast.

Her wounded soldier is a prisoner made—

She hears, prepares, and is at once convey’d

Through hostile ranks; with air sedate she goes,

And makes admiring friends of wondering foes.

Her dying husband to her care confides }

Affairs perplex’d; she reasons, she decides; 30}

If intricate her way, her walk discretion guides. }

Home to her country she returns alone,

Her health decay’d, her child, her husband, gone;

There she in peace reposes, there resumes

Her female duties, and in rest reblooms;

She is not one at common ills to droop,

Nor to vain murmuring will her spirit stoop.

I leave her thus: her fortieth year is nigh,

She will not for another captain sigh;

Will not a young and gay lieutenant take, 40

Because ’tis pretty to reform a rake;

Yet she again may plight her widow’d hand,

Should love invite, or charity demand,

And make her days, although for duty’s sake,

As sad as folly and mischance can make.

II.

P. Lives yet the Widow, whose firm spirit bore

Ills unrepining?—

F. Here she lives no more;

But where—I speak with some good people’s leave—

Where all good works their due reward receive;

Though, what reward to our best works is due, 50

I leave to them—and will my tale pursue.

Again she married, to her husband’s friend,

Whose wife was hers; whom going to attend,

As on her death-bed she, yet young, was laid,

The anxious parent took her hand and said:

“Prove now your love; let these poor infants be

As thine, and find a mother’s love in thee!”—

“And must I woo their father?”—“Nay, indeed; }

He no encouragement but hope will need; }

In hope too let me die, and think my wish decreed!” 60}

The wife expires; the widow’d pair unite;

Their love was sober, and their prospect bright.

She train’d the children with a studious love,

That knew full well t’ encourage and reprove;

Nicely she dealt her praise and her disgrace;

Not harsh and not indulgent out of place;

Not to the forward partial—to the slow }

All patient, waiting for the time to sow }

The seeds that, suited to the soil, would grow. }

Nor watch’d she less the Husband’s weaker soul, 70

But learn’d to lead him who abhorr’d control;

Who thought a nursery, next a kitchen, best

To women suited—and she acquiesced;

She only begg’d to rule in small affairs,

And ease her wedded lord of common cares;

Till he at length thought every care was small,

Beneath his notice, and she had them all.

He on his throne the lawful monarch sate,

And she was by—the minister of state;

He gave assent, and he required no more, 80

But sign’d the act that she decreed before.

Again, her fates in other work decree

A mind so active should experienced be.

One of the name, who roved the world around,

At length had something of its treasures found,

And childless died, amid his goods and gain,

In far Barbadoes on the western main.

His kinsman heard, and wish’d the wealth to share,

But had no mind to be transported there:

“His Wife could sail—her courage who could doubt?— 90

And she was not tormented with the gout.”

She liked it not; but for his children’s sake,

And for their father’s, would the duty take.

Storms she encounter’d, ere she reach’d the shore,

And other storms when these were heard no more—

The rage of lawyers forced to drop their prey—

And once again to England made her way.

She found her Husband with his gout removed,

And a young nurse, most skilful and approved;

Whom—for he yet was weak—he urged to stay, 100

And nurse him while his consort was away:—

“She was so handy, so discreet, so nice,

As kind as comfort, though as cold as ice!

Else,” he assured his lady, “in no case,

So young a creature should have fill’d the place.”

It has been held—indeed, the point is clear—

“None are so deaf as those who will not hear;”

And, by the same good logic, we shall find,

“As those who will not see, are none so blind.”

The thankful Wife repaid th’ attention shown, 110

But now would make the duty all her own.

Again the gout return’d; but, seizing now

A vital part, would no relief allow.

The Husband died, but left a will that proved

He much respected whom he coolly loved.

All power was hers; nor yet was such her age

But rivals strove her favour to engage.

They talk’d of love with so much warmth and zeal,

That they believed the woman’s heart must feel;

Adding such praises of her worth beside, 120

As vanquish prudence oft by help of pride.

In vain! her heart was by discretion led—

She to the children of her Friend was wed;

These she establish’d in the world, and died,

In ease and hope, serene and satisfied.

And loves not man that woman who can charm

Life’s grievous ills, and grief itself disarm;

Who in his fears and troubles brings him aid,

And seldom is, and never seems, afraid?

No! ask of man the fair one whom he loves: 130

You’ll find her one of the desponding doves,

Who tender troubles as her portion brings,

And with them fondly to a husband clings—

Who never moves abroad, nor sits at home,

Without distress, past, present, or to come—

Who never walks the unfrequented street,

Without a dread that death and she shall meet:

At land, on water, she must guarded be,

Who sees the danger none besides her see,

And is determined by her cries to call 140

All men around her: she will have them all.

Man loves to think the tender being lives

But by the power that his protection gives:

He loves the feeble step, the plaintive tone,

And flies to help who cannot stand alone;

He thinks of propping elms and clasping vines,

And in her weakness thinks her virtue shines;

On him not one of her desires is lost,

And he admires her for this care and cost.

But, when afflictions come, when beauty dies, 150

Or sorrows vex the heart, or danger tries—

When time of trouble brings the daily care,

And gives of pain as much as he can bear:

’Tis then he wants, if not the helping hand,

At least a soothing temper, meek and bland;

He wants the heart that shares in his distress—

At least, the kindness that would make it less;

And when, instead, he hears th’ eternal grief

For some light want, and not for his relief—

And when he hears the tender trembler sigh 160

For some indulgence he cannot supply—

When, in the midst of many a care, his “dear”

Would like a duchess at a ball appear,

And, while he feels a weight that wears him down,

Would see the prettiest sight in all the town—

Love then departs; and, if some Pity lives,

That Pity half despises, half forgives;

’Tis join’d with grief, is not from shame exempt,

And has a plenteous mixture of contempt.

TALE XV.
BELINDA WATERS.

I.

Of all the beauties in our favour’d place,

Belinda Waters was the pride and grace.

Say ye, who sagely can our fortunes read,

Shall this fair damsel in the world succeed?

A rosy beauty she, and fresh and fair,

Who never felt a caution or a care;

Gentle by nature, ever fond of ease,

And more consenting than inclined to please.

A tame good nature in her spirit lives—

She hates refusal for the pain it gives: 10

From opposition arguments arise,

And, to prevent the trouble, she complies.

She, if in Scotland, would be fash’d all day,

If call’d to any work or any play;

She lets no busy, idle wish intrude,

But is by nature negatively good.

In marriage hers will be a dubious fate:

She is not fitted for a high estate—

There wants the grace, the polish, and the pride; }

Less is she fitted for a humble bride: 20}

Whom fair Belinda weds—let chance decide! }

She sees her father oft engross’d by cares,

And therefore hates to hear of men’s affairs.

An active mother in the household reigns,

And spares Belinda all domestic pains;

Of food she knows but this, that we are fed;

Though, duly taught, she prays for daily bread,

Yet, whence it comes, of hers is no concern—

It comes; and more she never wants to learn.

She on the table sees the common fare, 30

But, how provided, is beneath her care.

Lovely and useless, she has no concern

About the things that aunts and mothers learn;

But thinks, when married—if she thinks at all—

That what she needs will answer to her call.

To write is business, and, though taught to write,

She keeps the pen and paper out of sight;

What once was painful she cannot allow

To be enjoyment or amusement now.

She wonders why the ladies are so fond 40

Of such long letters, when they correspond;

Crowded and cross’d by ink of different stain,

She thinks to read them would confuse her brain;

Nor much mistakes; but still has no pretence

To praise for this, her critic’s indolence.

Behold her now! she on her sofa looks

O’er half a shelf of circulating books.

This she admired, but she forgets the name,

And reads again another, or the same.

She likes to read of strange and bold escapes, 50}

Of plans and plottings, murders and mishaps, }

Love in all hearts, and lovers in all shapes. }

She sighs for pity, and her sorrows flow

From the dark eyelash on the page below;

And is so glad when, all the misery past,

The dear adventurous lovers meet at last—

Meet and are happy; and she thinks it hard,

When thus an author might a pair reward—

When they, the troubles all dispersed, might wed—

He makes them part, and die of grief instead! 60

Yet tales of terror are her dear delight,

All in the wintry storm to read at night;

And to her maid she turns in all her doubt,—

“This shall I like? and what is that about?”

She had “Clarissa” for her heart’s dear friend—

Was pleased each well-tried virtue to commend.

And praised the scenes that one might fairly doubt

If one so young could know so much about.

Pious and pure, th’ heroic beauty strove

Against the lover and against the love; 70

But strange that maid so young should know the strife,

In all its views, was painted to the life!

Belinda knew not—nor a tale would read,

That could so slowly on its way proceed;

And, ere Clarissa reach’d the wicked town,

The weary damsel threw the volume down.

“Give me,” she said, “for I would laugh or cry,

‘Scenes from the Life,’ and ‘Sensibility;’

‘Winters at Bath,’—I would that I had one! }

‘The Constant Lover,’ the ‘Discarded Son,’ 80}

‘The Rose of Raby,’ ‘Delmore,’ or ‘The Nun.’ }

These promise something, and may please, perhaps,

Like ‘Ethelinda,’ and the dear ‘Relapse.’”

To these her heart the gentle maid resign’d,

And such the food that fed the gentle mind.

II.

P. Knew you the fair Belinda, once the boast

Of a vain mother, and a favourite toast

Of clerks and young lieutenants, a gay set

Of light admirers?—Is she married yet?

F. Yes! she is married; though she waited long, 90

Not from a prudent fear of choosing wrong,

But want of choice.—She took a surgeon’s mate,

With his half-pay, that was his whole estate.

Fled is the charming bloom that nature spread }

Upon her cheek, the pure, the rosy red— }

This, and the look serene, the calm, kind look, are fled. }

Sorrow and sadness now the place possess,

And the pale cast of anxious fretfulness.

She wonders much—as, why they live so ill;

Why the rude butcher brings his weekly bill; 100

She wonders why that baker will not trust,

And says, most truly says,—“Indeed, he must.”

She wonders where her former friends are gone—

And thus, from day to day, she wonders on.

Howe’er she can—she dresses gaily yet,

And then she wonders how they came in debt.

Her husband loves her, and in accent mild

Answers, and treats her like a fretted child;

But when he, ruffled, makes severe replies, }

And seems unhappy—then she pouts, and cries 110}

“She wonders when she’ll die!”—She faints, but never dies. }

“How well my father lived!” she says.—“How well,

My dear, your father’s creditors could tell!”

And then she weeps, till comfort is applied,

That soothes her spleen or gratifies her pride:

Her dress and novels, visits and success

In a chance-game, are soft’ners of distress.

So life goes on!—But who, that loved his life,

Would take a fair Belinda for his wife!

Who thinks that all are for their stations born, 120

Some to indulge themselves, and to adorn;

And some, a useful people, to prepare,

Not being rich, good things for those who are,

And who are born, it cannot be denied,

To have their wants and their demands supplied.

She knows that money is a needful thing,

That fathers first, and then that husbands bring;

Or, if those persons should the aid deny,

Daughters and wives have but to faint and die,

Till flesh and blood cannot endure the pain; 130

And then the lady lives and laughs again.

To wed an ague, and to feel, for life,

Hot fits and cold succeeding in a wife;

To take the pestilence with poison’d breath,

And wed some potent minister of death,

Is cruel fate—yet death is then relief;

But thus to wed is ever-during grief.

Oft have I heard, how blest the youth who weds

Belinda Waters!—rather he who dreads

That fate—a truth her husband well approves, 140

Who blames and fondles, humours, chides, and loves.

TALE XVI.
THE DEALER AND CLERK.

I.

Bad men are seldom cheerful; but we see

That, when successful, they can merry be.

One, whom I leave, his darling money lends,

On terms well known, to his unhappy friends;

He farms and trades, and in his method treats

His guests, whom first he comforts, then he cheats.

He knows their private griefs, their inward groans,

And then applies his leeches and his loans

To failing, falling families—and gets,

I know not how, with large increase, their debts. 10

He early married, and the woman made

A losing bargain; she with scorn was paid

For no small fortune. On this slave he vents

His peevish slights, his moody discontents.

Her he neglects, indulging, in her stead,

One whom he bribed to leave a husband’s bed—

A young fair mother too, the pride and joy

Of him whom her desertion will destroy.

The poor man walks by the adulterer’s door,

To see the wife, whom he must meet no more; 20

She will not look upon the face of one

Whom she has blighted, ruined, and undone.

He feels the shame; his heart with grief is rent;

Hers is the guilt, and his the punishment.

The cruel spoiler to his need would lend

Unsought relief—his need will soon have end.

Let a few wint’ry months in sorrow pass,

And on his corse shall grow the vernal grass.

Neighbours, indignant, of his griefs partake,

And hate the villain for the victim’s sake; 30

Wond’ring what bolt within the stores of heaven

Shall on that bold, offending wretch be driven.

Alas! my grieving friends, we cannot know

Why Heaven inflicts, and why suspends, the blow.

Meanwhile the godless man, who thus destroys

Another’s peace, in peace his wealth enjoys,

And, every law evaded or defied,

Is with long life and prosperous fortune tried.

“How long?” the Prophet cried, and we, “how long?” }

But think how quick that Eye, that Arm how strong, 40}

And bear what seems not right, and trust it is not wrong! }

Does Heaven forbear? then sinners mercy find—

Do sinners fall? ’tis mercy to mankind.

Adieu! can one so miserable be,

Rich, wretched man, to barter fates with thee?

II.

Yet, ere I go, some notice must be paid

To John, his Clerk, a man full sore afraid

Of his own frailty—many a troubled day

Has he walk’d doubtful in some close by-way,

Beseeching Conscience on her watch to keep, 50

Afraid that she one day should fall asleep.

A quiet man was John; his mind was slow;

Little he knew, and little sought to know.

He gave respect to worth, to riches more,

And had instinctive dread of being poor.

Humble and careful, diligent and neat,

He in the Dealer’s office found a seat;

Happy in all things, till a fear began

To break his rest—He served a wicked man,

Who spurn’d the way direct of honest trade, 60

But praised the laws his cunning could evade.

This crafty Dealer of religion spoke,

As if design’d to be the wise man’s cloak,

And the weak man’s encumbrance, whom it awes,

And keeps in dread of conscience and the laws.

Yet, for himself, he loved not to appear

In her grave dress; ’twas troublesome to wear.

This Dealer played at games of skill, and won

Sums that surprised the simple mind of John;

Nor trusted skill alone; for well he knew, 70

What a sharp eye and dext’rous hand could do;

When, if suspected, he had always by

The daring oath to back the cunning lie.

John was distress’d, and said, with aching heart,

“I from the vile, usurious man must part;

For, if I go not—yet I mean to go—

This friend to me will to my soul be foe.

I serve my master: there is nought to blame;

But, whom he serves, I tremble but to name.”

From such reflections sprung the painful fear— 80

“The Foe of Souls is too familiar here;

My master stands between: so far, so good;

But ’tis at best a dangerous neighbourhood.”

Then livelier thoughts began this fear to chase—

“It is a gainful, a convenient place.

If I should quit—another takes the pen,

And what a chance for my preferment then?

Religion nothing by my going gains;

If I depart, my master still remains.

True, I record the deeds that I abhor, 90

But these that master has to answer for.

Then say, I leave the office: his success,

And his injustice, will not be the less;

Nay, would be greater—I am right to stay;

It checks him, doubtless, in his fearful way.

Fain would I stay, and yet be not beguiled;

But pitch is near, and man is soon defiled.”

III.

P. Such were the Man and Master—and I now

Would know if they together live, and how.

To such enquiries, thus my Friend replied:— 100

F. The Wife was slain—or, say at least, she died.

But there are murders that the human eye

Cannot detect—which human laws defy.

There are the wrongs insulted fondness feels,

In many a secret wound that never heals;

The Savage murders with a single blow;

Murders like this are secret and are slow.

Yet, when his victim lay upon her bier,

There were who witness’d that he dropt a tear;

Nay, more, he praised the woman he had lost, 110

And undisputed paid the funeral cost.

The Favourite now, her lord and master freed,

Prepared to wed, and be a wife indeed.

The day, ’twas said, was fix’d, the robes were bought,

A feast was order’d; but a cold was caught,

And pain ensued, with fever—grievous pain,

With the mind’s anguish that disturb’d the brain—

Till nature ceased to struggle, and the mind

Saw clearly death before, and sin behind.

Priests and physicians gave what they could give; 120

She turn’d away, and, shuddering, ceased to live.

The Dealer now appeared awhile as one

Lost, with but little of his race to run,

And that in sorrow; men with one consent,

And one kind hope, said, “Bonner will repent.”

Alas! we saw not what his fate would be,

But this we fear’d—no penitence had he;

Nor time for penitence, nor any time,

So quick the summons, to look back on crime.

When he the partner of his sin entomb’d, 130

He paused awhile, and then the way resumed,

Ev’n as before; yet was he not the same:

The tempter once, he now the dupe became.

John long had left him, nor did one remain

Who would his harlot in her course refrain;

Obsequious, humble, studious of his ease,

The present Phœbe only sought to please.

“With one so artless, what,” said he, “to fear,

Or what to doubt, in one who holds me dear?

Friends she may have, but me she will not wrong; 140

If weak her judgment, yet her love is strong;

And I am lucky now in age to find

A friend so trusty, and a nurse so kind.”

Yet neither party was in peace; the man

Had restless nights, and in the morn began

To cough and tremble; he was hot and cold—

He had a nervous fever, he was told.

His dreams—’twas strange, for none reflected less

On his past life—were frightful to excess;

His favourite dinners were no more enjoy’d, 150

And, in a word, his spirits were destroy’d.

And what of Phœbe? She her measures plann’d;

All but his money was at her command;

All would be hers, when Heav’n her Friend should call;

But Heav’n was slow, and much she long’d for all:—

“Mine when he dies, mean wretch! and why not mine,

When it would prove him generous to resign

What he enjoys not!”—Phœbe, at command,

Gave him his brandy with a liberal hand.

A way more quick and safe she did not know, 160

And brandy, though it might be sure, was slow.

But more she dared not; for she felt a dread

Of being tried, and only wish’d him dead.

Such was her restless strife of hope and fear—

He might cough on for many a weary year;

Nay, his poor mind was changing, and, when ill, }

Some foe to her may wicked thoughts instil! }

Oh! ’tis a trial sore to watch a Miser’s will! }

Thus, though the pair appear’d in peace to live,

They felt that vice has not that peace to give. 170

There watch’d a cur before the Miser’s gate—

A very cur, whom all men seem’d to hate;

Gaunt, savage, shaggy, with an eye that shone

Like a live coal, and he possess’d but one;

His bark was wild and eager, and became }

That meagre body and that eye of flame; }

His master prized him much, and Fang his name. }

His master fed him largely; but not that,

Nor aught of kindness, made the snarler fat.

Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay; 180

He bark’d, and snarl’d, and growl’d it all away.

His ribs were seen extended like a rack,

And coarse red hair hung roughly o’er his back.

Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore,

Now his sore body made his temper sore.

Such was the friend of him, who could not find,

Nor make him one, ‘mong creatures of his kind.

Brave deeds of Fang his master often told,

The son of Fury, famed in days of old,

From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they 190

In earlier times—each dog will have his day.

The notes of Fang were to his master known,

And dear—they bore some likeness to his own;

For both convey’d to the experienced ear,

“I snarl and bite, because I hate and fear.”

None pass’d ungreeted by the master’s door;

Fang rail’d at all, but chiefly at the poor;

And, when the nights were stormy, cold, and dark,

The act of Fang was a perpetual bark;

But though the master loved the growl of Fang, 200

There were who vow’d the ugly cur to hang;

Whose angry master, watchful for his friend,

As strongly vow’d his servant to defend.

In one dark night, and such as Fang before

Was ever known its tempests to outroar,

To his protector’s wonder now express’d

No angry notes—his anger was at rest.

The wond’ring master sought the silent yard,

Left Phœbe sleeping, and his door unbarr’d;

Nor more returned to that forsaken bed— 210

But lo! the morning came, and he was dead.

Fang and his master side by side were laid

In grim repose—their debt of nature paid!

The master’s hand upon the cur’s cold chest

Was now reclined, and had before been press’d,

As if he search’d how deep and wide the wound

That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;

And, when he found it was the sleep of death,

A sympathising sorrow stopp’d his breath.

Close to his trusty servant he was found, 220

As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.

We know no more; but who on horrors dwell

Of that same night have dreadful things to tell.

Of outward force, they say, was not a sign—

The hand that struck him was the Hand Divine;

And then the Fiend, in that same stormy night,

Was heard—as many thought—to claim his right;

While grinning imps the body danced about,

And then they vanish’d with triumphant shout.

So think the crowd, and well it seems in them, 230

That ev’n their dreams and fancies vice condemn;

That not alone for virtue Reason pleads,

But Nature shudders at unholy deeds;

While our strong fancy lists in her defence,

And takes the side of Truth and Innocence.

IV.

P. But, what the fortune of the Man, whose fear

Inform’d his Conscience that the foe was near;

But yet whose interest to his desk confined

That sober Clerk of indecisive mind?

F. John served his master, with himself at strife, 240

For he with Conscience lived like man and wife;

Now jarring, now at peace,—the life they led

Was all contention, both at board and bed:

His meals were troubled by his scruples all,

And in his dreams he was about to fall

Into some strong temptation—for it seems

He never could resist it in his dreams.

At length his Master, dealer, smuggler, cheat,

As John would call him in his temper’s heat,

Proposed a something—what, is dubious still— 230

That John resisted with a stout good-will.

Scruples like his were treated with disdain,

Whose waking conscience spurn’d the offer’d gain.

“Quit then my office, scoundrel, and begone!”

“I dare not do it,” said the affrighten’d John.

“What fear’st thou, driveller! can thy fancy tell?”

“I doubt,” said John—“I’m sure, there is a hell.”

“No question, wretch! thy foot is on the door;

To be in hell, thou fool! is to be poor.

Wilt thou consent?”—But John, with many a sigh, 260

Refused, then sank beneath his stronger eye,

Who with a curse dismiss’d the fool that dared

Not join a venture which he might have shared.

The worthy Clerk then served a man in trade,

And was his friend and his companion made—

A sickly man, who sundry wares retail’d,

Till, while his trade increased, his spirit fail’d.

John was to him a treasure, whom he proved,

And, finding faithful, as a brother loved.

To John his views and business he consign’d, 270

And forward look’d with a contented mind;

As sickness bore him onward to the grave,

A charge of all things to his friend he gave.

But neighbours talk’d—’twas idle—of the day

When Richard Shale should walk the dark highway—

And whisper’d—tatlers!—that the wife received

Such hints with anger, but she nothing grieved.

These whispers reach’d the man, who weak, and ill

In mind and body, had to make his will;

And, though he died in peace, and all resign’d, 280

’Twas plain he harbour’d fancies in his mind.

With jealous foresight, all that he had gain’d

His widow’s was, while widow she remain’d;

But, if another should the dame persuade

To wed again, farewell the gains of trade:

For if the widow’d dove could not refrain,

She must return to poverty again.

The man was buried, and the will was read,

And censure spared them not, alive or dead!

At first the Widow and the Clerk, her friend, 290

Spent their free days as prudence bade them spend.

At the same table they would dine, ’tis true,

And they would worship in the self-same pew:

Each had the common interest so at heart,

It would have griev’d them terribly to part;

And as they both were serious and sedate,

’Twas long before the world began to prate.

But when it prated—though without a cause,—

It put the pair in mind of breaking laws,

Led them to reason what it was that gave 300

A husband power, when quiet in his grave.

The marriage contract they had now by heart—

“Till death!”—you see, no longer—“do us part.”

“Well! death has loosed us from the tie, but still

The loosen’d husband makes a binding will;

Unjust and cruel are the acts of men.”

“Thus they—and then they sigh’d—and then—and then,

’Twas snaring souls,” they said; and how he dared

They did not know—they wonder’d—and were snared.

“It is a marriage, surely! Conscience might 310

Allow an act so very nearly right;

Was it not witness to our solemn vow,

As man and wife? it must the act allow.”

But Conscience, stubborn to the last, replied,

“It cannot be! I am not satisfied;

’Tis not a marriage: either dare be poor,

Or dare be virtuous—part, and sin no more!”

Alas! they many a fond evasion made;

They could relinquish neither love nor trade.

They went to church, but, thinking, fail’d to pray; 320

They felt not ease or comfort at a play.

If times were good—“We merit not such times;”

If ill—“Is this the produce of our crimes?”

When sick—“’Tis thus forbidden pleasures cease;”

When well—they both demand, “Had Zimri peace?

For though our worthy master was not slain,

His injured ghost has reason to complain.”

Ah, John! bethink thee of thy generous joy,

When Conscience drove thee from thy late employ;

When thou wert poor, and knew not where to run, 330

But then could say, “The will of God be done!”

When thou that will, and not thine own, obey’d—

Of Him alone, and not of man afraid.

Thou then hadst pity on that wretch, and, free

Thyself, couldst pray for him who injured thee;

Then how alert thy step, thyself how light

All the day long! thy sleep how sound at night!

But now, though plenty on thy board be found,

And thou hast credit with thy neighbours round,

Yet there is something in thy looks that tells, 340

An odious secret in thy bosom dwells.

Thy form is not erect, thy neighbours trace

A coward spirit in thy shifting pace.

Thou goest to meeting, not from any call,

But just to hear, that we are sinners all—

And equal sinners, or the difference made

’Twixt man and man has but the slightest shade;

That reformation asks a world of pains,

And, after all, must leave a thousand stains;

And, worst of all, we must the work begin 350

By first attacking the prevailing sin!—

These thoughts the feeble mind of John assail,

And o’er his reason and his fears prevail;

They fill his mind with hopes of gifts and grace, }

Faith, feelings!—something that supplies the place }

Of true conversion—this will he embrace; }

For John perceives that he was scarcely tried

By the first conquest, that increased his pride,

When he refused his master’s crime to aid,

And by his self-applause was amply paid. 360

But now he feels the difference—feels it hard

Against his will and favourite wish to guard;

He mourns his weakness, hopes he shall prevail

Against his frailty, and yet still is frail.

Such is his life! and such the life must be

Of all who will be bound, yet would be free;

Who would unite what God to part decrees—

The offended conscience, and the mind at ease:

Who think, but vainly think, to sin and pray,

And God and Mammon in their turn obey. 370

Such is his life!—and so I would not live

For all that wealthy widows have to give.

TALE XVII.
DANVERS AND RAYNER.

I.

The purest Friendship, like the finest ware,

Deserves our praises, but demands our care.

For admiration we the things produce,

But they are not design’d for common use;

Flaws the most trifling from their virtue take,

And lamentation for their loss we make;

While common Friendships, like the wares of clay,

Are a cheap kind, but useful every day.

Though crack’d and damaged, still we make them do;

And, when they’re broken, they’re forgotten too. 10

There is within the world in which we dwell

A Friendship, answering to that world full well:

An interchange of looks and actions kind,

And, in some sense, an intercourse of mind;

A useful commerce, a convenient trade,

By which both parties are the happier made;

And, when the thing is rightly understood,

And justly valued, it is wise and good.

I speak not here of Friendships that excite

In boys at school such wonder and delight— 20

Of high, heroic Friends, in serious strife

Contending which should yield a forfeit life—

Such wondrous love, in their maturer days,

Men, if they credit, are content to praise.

I speak not here of Friendships true and just,

When friend can friend with life and honour trust;

Where mind to mind has long familiar grown,

And every failing, every virtue known.

Of these I speak not—things so rich and rare,

That we degrade with jewels to compare, 30

Or bullion pure and massy.—I intend

To treat of one whose Neighbour called him Friend,

Or called him Neighbour; and with reason good—

The friendship rising from the neighbourhood:

A sober kind, in common service known,

Not such as is in death and peril shown;

Such as will give or ask a helping hand,

But no important sacrifice demand;

In fact, a friendship that will long abide,

If seldom rashly, never strongly, tried. 40

Yes! these are sober friendships, made for use,

And much convenience they in life produce:

Like a good coat, that keeps us from the cold,

The cloth of frieze is not a cloth of gold;

But neither is it pyebald, pieced, and poor;

’Tis a good useful coat, and nothing more.

Such is the Friendship of the world approved,

And here the Friends so loving and so loved.—

Danvers and Rayner, equals, who had made

Each decent fortune, both were yet in trade; 50

While sons and daughters, with a youthful zeal,

Seem’d the hereditary love to feel;

And ev’n their wives, though either might pretend

To claim some notice, call’d each other friend.

While yet their offspring boys and girls appear’d,

The fathers ask’d, “What evil could be fear’d?”

Nor is it easy to assign the year,

When cautious parents should begin to fear.

The boys must leave their schools, and, by and by,

The girls are sure to grow reserved and shy; 60

And then, suppose a real love should rise,

It but unites the equal families.

Love does not always from such freedom spring;

Distrust, perhaps, would sooner cause the thing.

“We will not check it, neither will we force”—

Thus said the fathers—“Let it take its course.”

It took its course:—young Richard Danvers’ mind

In Phœbe Rayner found what lovers find—

Sense, beauty, sweetness; all that mortal eyes

Can see, or heart conceive, or thought devise. 70

And Phœbe’s eye, and thought, and heart could trace

In Richard Danvers every manly grace—

All that e’er maiden wish’d, or matron prized—

So well these good young people sympathised.

All their relations, neighbours, and allies,

All their dependants, visitors, and spies,

Such as a wealthy family caress,

Said here was love, and drank to love’s success.

’Tis thus I leave the parties, young and old,

Lovers and Friends. Will Love and Friendship hold? 80

Will Prudence with the children’s wish comply,

And Friendship strengthen with that new ally?

II.

P. I see no more within our borough’s bound

The name of Danvers! Is it to be found?

Were the young pair in Hymen’s fetters tied,

Or did succeeding years the Friends divide?

F. Nay! take the story, as by time brought forth,

And of such Love and Friendship judge the worth.

While the lad’s love—his parents call’d it so—

Was going on, as well as love could go, 90

A wealthy Danvers, in a distant place,

Left a large fortune to this favour’d race.

To that same place the father quickly went,

And Richard only murmur’d weak dissent.

Of Richard’s heart the parent truly guess’d:—

“Well, my good lad! then do what suits thee best;

No doubt thy brothers will do all they can

T’ obey the orders of the good old man.

Well, I would not thy free-born spirit bind;

Take, Dick, the way to which thou’rt most inclined.” 100

No answer gave the youth; nor did he swear

The old man’s riches were beneath his care;

Nor that he would with his dear Phœbe stay,

And let his heartless father move away.

No! kind and constant, tender, faithful, fond—

Thus far he’d go—but not one step beyond!

Not disobedient to a parent’s will—

A lover constant—but dependent still.

Letters, at first, between the constant swain

And the kind damsel banish’d all their pain. 110

Both full and quick they were; for lovers write

With vast despatch, and read with vast delight—

So quick they were—for Love is never slow—

So full, they ever seem’d to overflow.

Their hearts are ever fill’d with grief or joy,

And these to paint is every hour’s employ;

Joy they would not retain, and, for their grief,

To read such letters is a sure relief.

But, in due time, both joy and grief supprest,

They found their comfort in a little rest. 120

Mails went and came without the accustom’d freight,

For Love grew patient, and content to wait—

Yet was not dead, nor yet afraid to die;

For, though he wrote not, Richard wonder’d why.

He could not justly tell how letters pass’d,

But, as to him appear’d, he wrote the last;

In this he meant not to accuse the maid—

Love, in some cases, ceases to upbraid.

Yet not indifferent was our Lover grown,

Although the ardour of the flame was flown; 130

He still of Phœbe thought, her lip, her smile—

But grew contented with his fate the while.

Thus, not inconstant were the youthful pair—

The Lad remembered still the Lass was fair;

And Phœbe still, with half-affected sigh,

Thought it a pity that such love should die;

And had they then, with this persuasion, met,

Love had rekindled, and been glowing yet.

But times were changed; no mention now was made

By the old Squire, or by the young, of trade. 140

The worthy Lady, and her children all,

Had due respect—The People at the Hall.

His Worship now read Burn, and talk’d with skill

About the poor-house, and the turnpike-bill;

Lord of a manor, he had serious claims,

And knew the poaching rascals by their names.

And, if the father thus improved his mind,

Be sure the children were not far behind:

To rank and riches what respect was due,

To them and theirs what deference, well they knew, 150

And, from the greatest to the least, could show

What to the favouring few the favour’d many owe.

The mind of man must have whereon to work,

Or it will rust—we see it in the Turk;

And Justice Danvers, though he read the news,

And all of law that magistrates peruse—

Bills about roads and charities—yet still

Wanted employ his vacant mind to fill;

These were not like the shipping, once his pride,

Now, with his blue surtout, laid all aside. 160

No doubt, his spirits in their ebb to raise,

He found some help in men’s respect and praise—

Praise of his house, his land, his lawn, his trees—

He cared not what—to praise him was to please:

Yet, though his rural neighbours called to dine,

And some might kindly praise his food and wine,

This was not certain, and, another day,

He must the visit and the praise repay.

By better motives urged—we will suppose—

He thus began his purpose to disclose 170

To his good lady:—“We have lived a year,

And never ask’d our friends the Rayners here.

Do let us ask them—as for Richard’s flame,

It went, we see, as idly as it came—

Invite them kindly—here’s a power of room,

And the poor people will be glad to come.

Outside and in, the coach will hold them all,

And set them down beside the garden wall.”

The Lady wrote, for that was all he meant,

Kind soul! by asking for his wife’s assent; 180

And every Rayner was besought to come

To dine in Hulver Hall’s grand dining-room.

About this time old Rayner, who had lost

His Friend’s advice, was by misfortune cross’d:

Some debtors fail’d, when large amounts were due,

So large, that he was nearly failing too;

But he, grown wary, that he might not fail,

Brought to in adverse gales, and shorten’d sail;

This done, he rested, and could now attend

The invitation of his distant Friend. 190

“Well! he would go; but not, indeed, t’ admire

The state and grandeur of the new-made Squire;

Danvers, belike, now wealthy, might impart

Some of his gold; for Danvers had a heart,

And may have heard, though guarded so around,

That I have lost the fortune he has found.

Yes! Dick is kind, or he and his fine seat

Might go to——where we never more should meet.”

Now, lo! the Rayners all at Hulver Place—

Or Hulver Hall—’tis not a certain case; 200

’Tis only known that Ladies’ notes were sent

Directed both ways, and they always went.

We pass the greetings, and the dinner pass,

All the male gossip o’er the sparkling glass,

And female, when retired.—The Squire invites

His Friend, by sleep refresh’d, to see his sights—

His land and lions, granary, barns, and crops, }

His dairy, piggery, pinery, apples, hops;— }

But here a hill appears, and Peter Rayner stops. }

“Ah! my old Friend, I give you joy,” he cries; 210

“But some are born to fall, and some to rise;

You’re better many a thousand, I the worse—

Dick, there’s no dealing with a failing purse;

Nor does it shame me (mine is all mischance)

To wish some friendly neighbour would advance”—

——But here the guest on such a theme was low.

His host, meantime, intent upon the show,

In hearing heard not—they came out to see—

And, pushing forward, “There’s a view,” quoth he;

“Observe that ruin, built, you see, to catch 220

The gazer’s eye; that cottage with the thatch—

It cost me—guess you what?”—that sound of cost

Was accidental, but it was not lost.

“Ah! my good Friend, be sure such things as these

Suit well enough a man who lives at ease.

Think what ‘The Betsy’ cost, and think the shock

Of losing her upon the Dodder-Rock!

The tidings reach’d me on the very day

That villain robb’d us, and then ran away.

Loss upon loss! now if”——

“Do stay a bit;” 230

Exclaim’d the Squire, “these matters hardly fit

A morning ramble—let me show you now

My team of oxen, and my patent plough.

Talk of your horses! I the plan condemn—

They eat us up—but oxen! we eat them;

For first they plough and bring us bread to eat,

And then we fat and kill them—there’s the meat.

What’s your opinion?”—

—“I am poorly fed,

And much afraid to want both meat and bread,”

Said Rayner, half indignant; and the Squire 240}

Sigh’d, as he felt he must no more require }

A man, whose prospects fail’d, his prospects to admire. }

Homeward they moved, and met a gentle pair,

The poor man’s daughter, and the rich man’s heir.

This caused some thought; but on the couple went,

And a soft hour in tender converse spent.

This pair, in fact, their passion roused anew,

Alone much comfort from the visit drew.

At home the Ladies were engaged, and all

Show’d or were shown the wonders of the Hall; 250

From room to room the weary guests went on,

Till every Rayner wish’d the show was done.

Home they return’d; the Father deeply sigh’d }

To find he vainly had for aid applied; }

It hurt him much to ask—and more to be denied. }

The younger Richard, who alone sustain’d

The dying Friendship, true to Love remain’d.

His Phœbe’s smiles, although he did not yet

Fly to behold, he could not long forget;

Nor durst he visit, nor was love so strong, 260

That he could more than think his Father wrong;

For, wrong or right, that father still profess’d

The most obedient son should fare the best.

So time pass’d on; the second spring appear’d,

Ere Richard ventured on the deed he fear’d.—

He dared at length; and not so much for love,

I grieve to add, but that he meant to prove

He had a will.—His father, in reply,

This known, had answer’d, “So, my son, have I.”

But Richard’s courage was by prudence taught, 270

And he his nymph in secret service sought.

Some days of absence—not with full consent, }

But with slow leave—were to entreaty lent; }

And forth the Lover rode, uncertain what he meant. }

He reached the dwelling he had known so long,

When a pert damsel told him, “he was wrong;

Their house she did not just precisely know,

But he would find it somewhere in the Row;

The Rayners now were come a little down,

Nor more the topmost people in the town.” 280

She might have added, they their life enjoy’d,

Although on things less hazardous employ’d.

This was not much; but yet the damsel’s sneer,

And the Row-dwelling of a lass so dear,

Were somewhat startling. He had heard, indeed,

That Rayner’s business did not well succeed:

“But what of that? They lived in decent style,

No doubt, and Phœbe still retain’d her smile;

And why,” he asked, “should all men choose to dwell

In broad cold streets?—the Row does just as well, 290

Quiet and snug;” and then the favourite maid

Rose in his fancy, tastefully array’d,

Looking with grateful joy upon the swain,

Who could his love in trying times retain.

Soothed by such thoughts, to the new house he came,

Surveyed its aspect, sigh’d, and gave his name.

But ere they opened, he had waited long,

And heard a movement—Was there somewhat wrong?

Nay, but a friendly party, he was told; }

And look’d around, as wishing to behold 300}

Some friends—but these were not the friends of old. }

Old Peter Rayner, in his own old mode,

Bade the Squire welcome to his new abode,

For Richard had been kind, and doubtless meant

To make proposals now, and ask consent.

Mamma and misses, too, were civil all;

But what their awkward courtesy to call,

He knew not; neither could he well express

His sad sensations at their strange address.

And then their laughter loud, their story-telling, 310

All seem’d befitting to that Row and dwelling;

The hearty welcome to the various treat

Was lost on him—he could nor laugh nor eat.

But one thing pleased him, when he look’d around,

His clearest Phœbe could not there be found:

“Wise and discreet,” he says, “she shuns the crew

Of vulgar neighbours, some kind act to do;

In some fair house, some female friend to meet,

Or take at evening prayer in church her seat.”

Meantime there rose, amid the ceaseless din, 320}

A mingled scent, that crowded room within, }

Rum and red-herring, Cheshire cheese and gin; }

Pipes, too, and punch, and sausages, with tea,

Were things that Richard was disturbed to see.

Impatient now, he left them in disdain,

To call on Phœbe, when he call’d again;

To walk with her, the morning fair and bright,

And lose the painful feelings of the night.

All in the Row, and tripping at the side

Of a young Sailor, he the nymph espied, 330

As, homeward hastening with her happy boy,

She went to join the party, and enjoy.

“Fie!” Phœbe cried, as her companion spoke,

Yet laugh’d to hear the fie-compelling joke;—

Then ’twas her chance to meet, her shame to know, }

Her tender Richard, moving sad and slow, }

Musing on things full strange, the manners of the Row. }

At first amazed, and then alarm’d, the fair

Late-laughing maid now stood in dumb despair.

As when a debtor meets in human shape 340

The foe of debtors, and cannot escape,

He stands in terror, nor can longer aim

To keep his credit, or preserve his name,

Stood Phœbe fix’d! “Unlucky time and place!

An earlier hour had kept me from disgrace!”

She thought—but now the sailor, undismay’d,

Said, “My dear Phœbe, why are you afraid?

The man seems civil, or he soon should prove

That I can well defend the girl I love.

Are you not mine?” She utter’d no reply:— 350}

“Thine I must be,” she thought; “more foolish I!” }

While Richard at the scene stood mute and wondering by. }

His spirits hurried, but his bosom light,

He left his Phœbe with a calm “good night!”

So Love like Friendship fell! The youth awhile

Dreamt, sorely moved, of Phœbe’s witching smile—

But learned in daylight visions to forego

The Sailor’s laughing Lass, the Phœbe of the Row.

Home turn’d young Richard, in due time to turn,

With all old Richard’s zeal, the leaves of Burn; 360

And home turned Phœbe—in due time to grace

A tottering cabin with a tattered race.

TALE XVIII.
THE BOAT RACE.

I.

The man who dwells where party-spirit reigns,

May feel its triumphs, but must wear its chains;

He must the friends and foes of party take

For his, and suffer for his honour’s sake;

When once enlisted upon either side,

He must the rude septennial storm abide—

A storm that when its utmost rage is gone,

In cold and angry mutterings murmurs on;

A slow unbending scorn, a cold disdain—

Till years bring the full tempest back again. 10

Within our Borough two stiff sailors dwelt,

Who both this party storm and triumph felt;

Men who had talents, and were both design’d

For better things, but anger made them blind.

In the same year they married, and their wives

Had pass’d in friendship their yet peaceful lives,

And, as they married in a time of peace,

Had no suspicion that their love must cease.

In fact it did not; but they met by stealth,

And that perhaps might keep their love in health; 20

Like children watch’d, desirous yet afraid,

Their visits all were with discretion paid.

One Captain, so by courtesy we call

Our [hoys’] commanders—they are captains all—

Had sons and daughters many; while but one

The rival Captain bless’d—a darling son.

Each was a burgess to his party tied,

And each was fix’d, but on a different side;

And he who sought his son’s pure mind to fill

With wholesome food, would evil too instil. 30

The last in part succeeded—but in part—

For Charles had sense, had virtue, had a heart;

And he had soon the cause of Nature tried

With the stern father, but this father died;

Who on his death-bed thus his son address’d:—

“Swear to me, Charles, and let my spirit rest—

Swear to our party to be ever true,

And let me die in peace—I pray thee, do.”

With some reluctance, but obedience more,

The weeping youth reflected, sigh’d, and swore; 40

Trembling, he swore for ever to be true,

And wear no colour but the untainted Blue.

This done, the Captain died in so much joy,

As if he’d wrought salvation for his boy.

The female friends their wishes yet retain’d,

But seldom met, by female fears restrain’d;

Yet in such town, where girls and boys must meet,

And every house is known in every street,

Charles had before, nay since his father’s death,

Met, say by chance, the young Elizabeth; 50

Who was both good and graceful, and in truth

Was but too pleasing to th’ observing youth;

And why I know not, but the youth to her

Seem’d just that being that she could prefer.

Both were disposed to think that party-strife

Destroy’d the happiest intercourse of life;

Charles, too, his growing passion could defend—

His father’s foe he call’d his mother’s friend.

Mothers, indeed, he knew were ever kind;

But in the Captain should he favour find? 60

He doubted this—yet could he that command

Which fathers love, and few its power withstand.

The mothers both agreed their joint request

Should to the Captain jointly be address’d;

And first the lover should his heart assail, }

And then the ladies, and, if all should fail, }

They’d singly watch the hour, and jointly might prevail. }

The Captain’s heart, although unused to melt,

A strong impression from persuasion felt;

His pride was soften’d by the prayers he heard, 70

And then advantage in the match appear’d.

At length he answer’d—“Let the lad enlist

In our good cause, and I no more resist;

For I have sworn, and to my oath am true,

To hate that colour, that rebellious Blue.

His father once, ere master of the brig,

For that advantage turn’d a rascal Whig;

Now let the son—a wife’s a better thing—

A Tory turn, and say, God save the King!

For I am pledged to serve that sacred cause, 80

And love my country, while I keep her laws.”

The women trembled, for they knew full well

The fact they dare not to the Captain tell;

And the poor youth declared, with tears and sighs,

“My oath was pass’d; I dare not compromise.”

But Charles to reason made his strong appeal,

And to the heart—he bade him think and feel:

The Captain answering, with reply as strong—

“If you be right, then how can I be wrong?

You to your father swore to take his part; 90

I to oppose it ever, head and heart;

You to a parent made your oath, and I

To God! and can I to my Maker lie?

Much, my dear lad, I for your sake would do,

But I have sworn, and to my oath am true.”

Thus stood the parties, when my fortunes bore

Me far away from this my native shore;

And who prevail’d, I know not—Young or Old;

But, I beseech you, let the tale be told.

II.

P. How fared these lovers? Many a time I thought 100

How with their ill-starr’d passion Time had wrought.

Did either party from his oath recede,

Or were they never from the bondage freed?

F. Alas! replied my Friend—the tale I tell

With some reluctance, nor can do it well.

There are three females in the place, and they,

Like skilful painters, could the facts portray

In their strong colours—all that I can do }

Is to present a weak imperfect view; }

The colours I must leave—the outlines shall be true. 110}

Soon did each party see the other’s mind,

What bound them both, and what was like to bind;

Oaths deeply taken in such time and place,

To break them now was dreadful—was disgrace!

“That oath a dying father bade me take,

Can I—yourself a father—can I break?

“That oath which I, a living sinner, took

Shall I make void, and yet for mercy look?”

The women wept; the men, themselves distress’d,

The cruel rage of party zeal confess’d; 120

But solemn oaths, though sprung from party zeal,

Feel them we must, as Christians ought to feel.

Yet shall a youth so good, a girl so fair,

From their obedience only draw despair?

Must they be parted? Is there not a way

For them both love and duty to obey?

Strongly they hoped; and by their friends around

A way, at least a lover’s way, was found.

“Give up your vote; you’ll then no longer be

Free in one sense, but in the better free.” 130

Such was of reasoning friends the kind advice,

And how could lovers in such case be nice?

A man may swear to walk directly on,

While sight remains; but how, if sight be gone?

“Oaths are not binding when the party’s dead,

Or when the power to keep the oath is fled;

If I’ve no vote, I’ve neither friend nor foe,

Nor can be said on either side to go.”

They were no casuists:—“Well!” the Captain cried,

“Give up your vote, man, and behold your bride!” 140

Thus was it fix’d, and fix’d the day for both

To take the vow, and set aside the oath.

It gave some pain; but all agreed to say,

“You’re now absolved, and have no other way.

’Tis not expected you should love resign

At man’s commands, for love’s are all divine.”

When all is quiet and the mind at rest,

All in the calm of innocence are blest;

But when some scruple mixes with our joy,

We love to give the anxious mind employ. 150

In autumn late, when evening suns were bright,

The day was fix’d the lovers to unite;

But one before the eager Captain chose

To break, with jocund act, his girl’s repose,

And, sailor-like, said, “Hear how I intend

One day, before the day of days, to spend!

All round the quay, and by the river’s side,

Shall be a scene of glory for the bride.

We’ll have a RACE, and colours will devise

For every boat, for every man, a prize; 160

But that which first returns shall bear away

The proudest pendant—Let us name the day!”

They named the day; and never morn more bright

Rose on the river, nor so proud a sight;

Or, if too calm appear’d the cloudless skies,

Experienced seamen said the wind would rise.

To that full quay from this then vacant place

Thronged a vast crowd to see the promised Race.

Mid boats new painted, all with streamers fair,

That flagg’d or flutter’d in that quiet air— 170

The Captain’s boat that was so gay and trim,

That made his pride, and seem’d as proud of him—

Her, in her beauty, we might all discern,

Her rigging new, and painted on the stern,

As one who could not in the contest fail,

“Learn of the little Nautilus to sail.”

So forth they started at the signal gun,

And down the river had three leagues to run;

This sail’d, they then their watery way retrace,

And the first landed conquers in the race. 180

The crowd await, till they no more discern;

Then, parting, say, “At evening we return.”

I could proceed; but you will guess the fate,

And but too well my tale anticipate.

P. True! yet proceed—

F. The lovers had some grief

In this day’s parting, but the time was brief;

And the poor girl, between his smiles and sighs,

Ask’d, “Do you wish to gain so poor a prize?”

“But that your father wishes,” he replied,

“I would the honour had been still denied: 190

It makes me gloomy, though I would be gay,

And oh! it seems an everlasting day.”

So thought the lass, and as she said, “Farewell!”

Soft sighs arose, and tears unbidden fell.

The morn was calm, and ev’n till noon the strong

Unruffled flood moved quietly along;

In the dead calm the billows softly fell,

And mock’d the whistling sea-boy’s favourite spell:

So rests at noon the reaper, but to rise

With mightier force and twofold energies. 200

The deep, broad stream moved softly, all was hush’d,

When o’er the flood the breeze awakening brush’d;

A sullen sound was heard along the deep,

The stormy spirit rousing from his sleep;

The porpoise rolling on the troubled wave,

Unwieldy tokens of his pleasure gave;

Dark, chilling clouds the troubled deep deform,

And, led by terror downward, rush’d the storm.

As evening came, along the river’s side,

Or on the quay, impatient crowds divide, 210

And then collect; some whispering, as afraid

Of what they saw, and more of what they said,

And yet must speak: how sudden and how great

The danger seem’d, and what might be the fate

Of men so toss’d about in craft so small,

Lost in the dark, and subject to the squall.

Then sounds are so appalling in the night,

And, could we see, how terrible the sight;

None knew the evils that they all suspect,

And Hope at once they covet and reject. 220

But where the wife, her friend, her daughter, where?

Alas! in grief, in terror, in despair—

At home, abroad, upon the quay. No rest

In any place, but where they are not, best.

Fearful they ask, but dread the sad reply,

And many a sailor tells the friendly lie—

“There is no danger—that is, we believe,

And think—and hope”—but this does not deceive,

Although it soothes them; while they look around,

Trembling at every sight and every sound. 230

Let me not dwell on terrors——It is dark,

And lights are carried to and fro, and hark!

There is a cry—“a boat, a boat at hand!” }

What a still terror is there now on land! }

“Whose, whose?” they all enquire, and none can understand. }

At length they come—and oh! how then rejoice

A wife and children at that welcome voice!

It is not theirs—but what have these to tell?

“Where did you leave the Captain—were they well?”

Alas! they know not, they had felt an awe 240

In dread of death, and knew not what they saw.

Thus they depart—The evening darker grows,

The lights shake wildly, and as wildly blows

The stormy night-wind; fear possesses all,

The hardest hearts, in this sad interval.

But hark again to voices loud and high!

Once more that hope, that dread, that agony,

That panting expectation! “Oh! reveal

What must be known, and think what pangs we feel!”

In vain they ask! The men now landed speak 250

Confused and quick, and to escape them seek.

Our female party on a sailor press, }

But nothing learn that makes their terror less; }

Nothing the man can show, or nothing will confess. }

To some, indeed, they whisper, bringing news

For them alone, but others they refuse;

And steal away, as if they could not bear

The griefs they cause and, if they cause, must share.

They too are gone! and our unhappy Three,

Half wild with fear, are trembling on the quay. 260

They can no ease, no peace, no quiet find,

The storm is gathering in the troubled mind;

Thoughts after thoughts in wild succession rise,

And all within is changing like the skies.

Their friends persuade them, “Do depart, we pray!” }

They will not, must not, cannot go away, }

But chill’d with icy fear, for certain tidings stay. }

And now again there must a boat be seen—

Men run together! It must something mean!

Some figure moves upon the [oozy] bound, 270

Where flows the tide—Oh! what can he have found—

What lost? And who is he?—The only one

Of the loved three—the Captain’s younger son.

Their boat was fill’d and sank—He knows no more,

But that he only hardly reach’d the shore.

He saw them swimming—for he once was near—

But he was sinking, and he could not hear;

And then the waves curl’d round him, but, at length,

He struck upon the boat with dying strength,

And that preserved him; when he turn’d around, 280}

Nought but the dark, wild, billowy flood was found— }

That flood was all he saw, that flood’s the only sound— }

Save that the angry wind, with ceaseless roar,

Dash’d the wild waves upon the rocky shore.

The Widows dwell together—so we call

The younger woman; widow’d are they all;

But she, the poor Elizabeth, it seems

Not life in her—she lives not, but she dreams;

She looks on Philip, and in him can find

Not much to mark in body or in mind— 290

He who was saved; and then her very soul

Is in that scene—her thoughts, beyond control,

Fix’d on that night, and bearing her along,

Amid the waters terrible and strong;

Till there she sees within the troubled waves

The bodies sinking in their wat’ry graves,

When from her lover, yielding up his breath,

There comes a voice,—“Farewell, Elizabeth!”

Yet Resignation in the house is seen,

Subdued Affliction, Piety serene, 300

And Hope, for ever striving to instil

The balm for grief—“It is the Heavenly will.”

And in that will our duty bids us rest,

For all that Heaven ordains is good, is best;

We sin and suffer—this alone we know,

Grief is our portion, is our part below;

But we shall rise, that world of bliss to see,

Where sin and suffering never more shall be.

TALE XIX.
MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD’S LOVE.

I.

I have remembrance of a Boy, whose mind

Was weak: he seem’d not for the world design’d;

Seem’d not as one who in that world could strive,

And keep his spirits even and alive—

A feeling Boy, and happy, though the less,

From that fine feeling, form’d for happiness.

His mother left him to his favourite ways,

And what he made his pleasure brought him praise.

Romantic, tender, visionary, mild,

Affectionate, reflecting when a child, 10

With fear instinctive he from harshness fled,

And gentle tears for all who suffer’d shed;

Tales of misfortune touch’d his generous heart,

Of maidens left, and lovers forced to part.

In spite of all that weak indulgence wrought,

That love permitted, or that flattery taught;

In spite of teachers who no fault would find,

The Boy was neither selfish nor unkind.

Justice and truth his honest heart approved,

And all things lovely he admired and loved. 20

Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales, he read,

And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed.

The long Romances, wild Adventures fired

His stirring thoughts: he felt like Boy inspired.

The cruel fight, the constant love, the art

Of vile magicians, thrill’d his inmost heart:

An early Quixote, dreaming dreadful sights

Of warring dragons, and victorious knights—

In every dream some beauteous Princess shone,

The pride of thousands, and the prize of one. 30

Not yet he read, nor, reading, would approve

The Novel’s hero, or its ladies’ love.

He would Sophia for a wanton take,

Jones for a wicked, nay a vulgar rake.

He would no time on Smollett’s page bestow;

Such men he knew not, would disdain to know:

And if he read, he travell’d slowly on,

Teazed by the tame and faultless Grandison.

He in that hero’s deeds could not delight—

“He loved two ladies, and he would not fight.” 40

The minor works of this prolific kind

Presented beings he could never find:

Beings, he thought, that no man should describe,

A vile, intriguing, lying, perjured tribe,

With impious habits, and dishonest views;

The men he knew, had souls they feared to lose;

These had no views that could their sins controul,

With them nor fears nor hopes disturb’d the soul.

To dear Romance with fresh delight he turn’d,

And vicious men, like recreant cowards, spurn’d. 50

The Scripture Stories he with reverence read,

And duly took his Bible to his bed.

Yet Joshua, Samson, David, were a race

He dared not with his favourite heroes place.

Young as he was, the difference well he knew

Between the Truth, and what we fancy true:

He was with these entranced, of those afraid,

With Guy he triumph’d, but with David pray’d.

II.

P. Such was the Boy, and what the man would be,

I might conjecture, but could not foresee. 60

F. He has his trials met, his troubles seen,

And now deluded, now deserted, been.

His easy nature has been oft assail’d

By grief assumed, scorn hid, and flattery veil’d.

P. But has he, safe and cautious, shunn’d the snares

That life presents?—I ask not of its cares.

F. Your gentle Boy a course of life began

That made him, what he is, the gentle-man,

A man of business. He in courts presides

Among their Worships, whom his judgment guides. 70

He in the Temple studied, and came down

A very lawyer, though without a gown;

Still he is kind, but prudent, steady, just,

And takes but little that he hears on trust.

He has no visions now, no boyish plans;

All his designs and prospects are the man’s,

The man of sound discretion—

P. How so made?

What could his mind to change like this persuade—

What first awaken’d our romantic friend—

For such he is—

F. If you would know, attend. 80

In those gay years, when boys their manhood prove,

Because they talk of girls, and dream of love,

In William’s way there came a maiden fair,

With soft, meek look, and sweet, retiring air;

With just the rosy tint upon her cheek,

With sparkling eye, and tongue unused to speak;

With manner decent, quiet, chaste, that one,

Modest himself, might love to look upon.

As William look’d; and thus the gentle Squire

Began the Nymph, albeit poor, t’admire. 90

She was, to wit, the gardener’s niece; her place

Gave to her care the Lady’s silks and lace;

With other duties of an easy kind, }

And left her time, as much she felt inclined, }

T’adorn her graceful form, and fill her craving mind; }

Nay, left her leisure to employ some hours

Of the long day, among her uncle’s flowers—

Myrtle and rose, of which she took the care,

And was as sweet as pinks and lilies are.

Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld 100

With passion unencouraged, unrepell’d;

For how encourage what was not in view,

Or how repel what strove not to pursue?

What books inspired, or glowing fancy wrought;

What dreams suggested, or reflection taught;

Whate’er of love was to the mind convey’d—

Was all directed to his darling maid.

He saw his damsel with a lover’s eyes,

As pliant fancy wove the fair disguise;

A Quixote he, who in his nymph could trace 110

The high-born beauty, changed and—out of place,

That William loved, mamma, with easy smile,

Would jesting say; but love might grow the while;

The damsel’s self, with unassuming pride,

With love so led by fear was gratified.

What cause for censure? Could a man reprove

A child for fondness, or miscall it love?

Not William’s self; yet well inform’d was he,

That love it was, and endless love would be.

Month after month the sweet delusion bred 120

Wild, feverish hopes, that flourish’d, and then fled,

Like Fanny’s sweetest flower—and that was lost

In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost.

In some soft evenings, mid the garden’s bloom,

Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come;

And Fanny came, by chance it may be; still,

There was a gentle bias of the will,

Such as the soundest minds may act upon,

When motives of superior kind are gone.

There then they met, and Master William’s look 130

Was the less timid, for he held a book;

And when the sweetness of the evening hours,

The fresh soft air, the beauty of the flowers,

The night-bird’s note, the gently falling dew,

Were all discuss’d, and silence would ensue,

There were some lovely Lines—if she could stay—

And Fanny rises not to go away.

---

“Young Paris was the shepherd’s pride,

As well the fair Œnone knew;

They sat the mountain stream beside, 140

And o’er the bank a poplar grew.

“Upon its bark this verse he traced:

‘Bear witness to the vow I make;

Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste,

E’er I my matchless maid forsake.

“‘No prince or peasant lad am I,

Nor crown nor crook to me belong;

But I will love thee till I die,

And die before I do thee wrong.’

“Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run, 150

Paris is now a prince of Troy;

He leaves the Fair his flattery won,

Himself and country to destroy.

“He seizes on a sovereign’s wife,

The pride of Greece, and with her flies;

He causes thus a ten years’ strife,

And with his dying parent dies.

“Oh! think me not this Shepherd’s Boy,

Who from the Maid he loves would run:

Oh! think me not a Prince of Troy, 160

By whom such treacherous deeds are done.”

---

The Lines were read, and many an idle word

Pronounced with emphasis, and underscored,

As if the writer had resolved that all

His nouns and verbs should be emphatical

But what they were the damsel little thought;

The sense escaped her, but the voice she caught,

Soft, tender, trembling; and the gipsy felt

As if by listening she unfairly dealt;

For she, if not mamma, had rightly guess’d, 170

That William’s bosom was no seat of rest.

But Love’s young hope must die.—There was a day

When nature smiled, and all around was gay;

The Boy o’ertook the damsel, as she went

The village road—unknown was her intent;

He, happy hour, when lock’d in Fanny’s arm,

Walk’d on enamour’d, every look a charm!

Yet her soft looks were but her heart’s disguise,

There was no answering love in Fanny’s eyes;

But, or by prudence or by pity moved, 180

She thought it time his folly was reproved;

Then took her measures, not perchance without

Some conscious pride in what she was about.

Along the brook with gentle pace they go,

The Youth unconscious of th’ impending woe;

And oft he urged the absent Maid to talk,

As she was wont in many a former walk;

And still she slowly walk’d beside the brook,

Or look’d around—for what could Fanny look?

Something there must be! What, did not appear; 190

But William’s eye betray’d the anxious fear,

The cause unseen!——

But who, with giant-stride,

Bounds o’er the brook, and is at Fanny’s side?

Who takes her arm? and oh! what villain dares

To press those lips? Not even her lips he spares!

Nay, she herself, the Fanny, the divine,

Lip to his lip can wickedly incline!

The lad, unnerved by horror, with an air

Of wonder quits her arm and looks despair;

Nor will proceed. Oh no! he must return, 200

Though his drown’d sight cannot the path discern.

“Come, Master William! come, Sir, let us on.

What can you fear? You’re not afraid of John?”

“What ails our youngster?” quoth the burly swain,

Six feet in height—but he inquires in vain.

William, in deep resentment, scans the frame

Of the fond giant, and abhors his name;

Thinks him a demon of th’ infernal brood,

And longs to shed his most pernicious blood.

Again the monster spake in thoughtless joy,— 210

“We shall be married soon, my pretty Boy!

And dwell in Madam’s cottage, where you’ll see

The strawberry-beds, and cherries on the tree.”

Back to his home in silent scorn return’d

Th’ indignant Boy, and all endearment spurn’d.

Fanny perforce with Master takes her way,

But finds him to th’ o’erwhelming grief a prey,

Wrapt in resentful silence, till he came

Where he might vent his woes, and hide his shame.

Fierce was his strife, but with success he strove, 220

And freed his troubled breast from fruitless love;

Or what of love his reason fail’d to cool

Was lost and perish’d in a public school—

Those seats and sources both of good and ill,

By what they cure in Boys, and what they kill.

TALE XX.
THE WILL.

I.

Thus to his Friend an angry Father spoke—

Nay, do not think that I the Will revoke.

My cruel Son in every way I’ve tried, }

And every vice have found in him but pride; }

For he, of pride possess’d, would meaner vices hide. }

Money he wastes, I will not say he spends; }

He neither makes the poor nor rich his friends— }

To those he nothing gives, to these he never lends. }

“’Tis for himself each legal pale he breaks;

He joins the miser’s spirit to the rake’s. 10

Like the worst Roman in the worst of times,

He can be guilty of conflicting crimes;

Greedy of others’ wealth, unknown the use,

And of his own contemptuously profuse.

“To such a mind shall I my wealth confide,

That you to nobler, worthier ends, may guide?

No! let my Will my scorn of vice express,

And let him learn repentance from distress.”

So said the Father; and the Friend, who spurn’d

Wealth ill-acquired, his sober speech return’d— 20

“The youth is faulty, but his faults are weigh’d

With a strong bias, and by wrath repaid;

Pleasure deludes him, not the vain design

Of making vices unallied combine.

He wastes your wealth, for he is yet a boy;

He covets more, for he would more enjoy.

For, my good friend, believe me, very few, }

At once are prodigals and misers too— }

The spendthrift vice engrafted on the Jew. }

Leave me one thousand pounds; for I confess 30

I have my wants, and will not tax you less.

But your estate let this young man enjoy:

If he reforms, you’ve saved a grateful boy;

If not, a father’s cares and troubles cease,

You’ve done your duty, and may rest in peace.”

The Will in hand, the Father musing stood,

Then gravely answered, “Your advice is good;

Yet take the paper, and in safety keep;

I’ll make another Will before I sleep;

But, if I hear of some atrocious deed, 40

That deed I’ll burn, and yours will then succeed.

Two thousand I bequeath you. No reproof!

And there are small bequests—he’ll have enough;

For, if he wastes, he would with all be poor;

And, if he wastes not, he will need no more.”

The Friends then parted; this the Will possess’d,

And that another made—so things had rest.

George, who was conscious that his Father grew

Sick and infirm, engaged in nothing new.

No letters came from injured man or maid; 50

No bills from wearied duns, that must be paid;

No fierce reproaches from deserted fair,

Mixed with wild tenderness of desperate prayer;

So hope rose softly in the parent’s breast; }

He, dying, called his son and fondly blest, }

Hailed the propitious tear, and mildly sunk to rest. }

Unhappy Youth! e’er yet the tomb was closed,

And dust to dust convey’d in peace repos’d,

He sought his father’s closet, search’d around,

To find a Will: the important Will was found. 60

Well pleased he read, “These lands, this manor, all,

Now call me master!—I obey the call.”

Then from the window look’d the valley o’er,

And never saw it look so rich before.

He viewed the dairy, view’d the men at plough, }

With other eyes, with other feelings now, }

And with a new-formed taste found beauty in a cow. }

The distant swain who drove the plough along

Was a good useful slave, and passing strong!

In short, the view was pleasing, nay, was fine: 70

“Good as my father’s, excellent as mine!”

Again he reads—but he had read enough;

What followed put his virtue to a proof.

[How’s] this? to David Wright two thousand pounds! }

A monstrous sum! beyond all reason!—zounds! }

This is your friendship running out of bounds! }

“Then here are cousins Susan, Robert, Joe— }

Five hundred each. Do they deserve it? No! }

Claim they have none—I wonder if they know }

What the good man intended to bestow! 80}

This might be paid—but Wright’s enormous sum

Is—I’m alone—there’s nobody can come—

’Tis all his hand, no lawyer was employ’d

To write this prose, that ought to be destroy’d!

To no attorney would my father trust:

He wished his son to judge of what was just;

As if he said, ‘My boy will find the Will,

And, as he likes, destroy it or fulfil.’

This now is reason, this I understand—

What was at his, is now at my, command. 90

As for this paper, with these cousiny names,

I—’tis my Will—commit it to the flames.

Hence! disappear! now am I lord alone:

They’ll groan, I know; but, curse them, let them groan.

Who wants his money like a new made heir,

To put all things in order and repair?

I need the whole the worthy man could save,

To do my father credit in his grave:

It takes no trifle to have squires convey’d

To their last house with honour and parade. 100

All this, attended by a world of cost,

Requires, demands, that nothing should be lost.

These fond bequests cannot demanded be—

Where no Will is, can be no legacy;

And none is here! I safely swear it—none!—

The very ashes are dispersed and gone.

All would be well, would that same sober Friend, }

That Wright, my father on his way attend; }

My fears—but why afraid?—my troubles then would end.” }

In triumph, yet in trouble, meets our Squire 110}

The friends assembled, who a Will require. }

“There is no Will,” he said.—They murmur and retire. }

Days pass away, while yet the Heir is blest

By pleasant cares, and thoughts that banish rest;

When comes the Friend, and asks, in solemn tone,

If he may see the busy Squire alone.

They are in private—all about is still—

When thus the Guest:—“Your father left a Will,

And I would see it.”—Rising in reply,

The youth beheld a fix’d and piercing eye, 120

From which his own receded; and the sound

Of his own words was in disorder drown’d.

He answered softly—“I in vain have spent

Days in the search; I pray you be content;

And, if a Will”—— The pertinacious Man, }

At ‘if’ displeased, with steady tone began— }

“There is a Will—produce it, for you can.”— }

“Sir, I have sought in vain, and what the use?

What has no being, how can I produce?”—

“Two days I give you; to my words attend,” 130

Was the reply, “and let the business end.”

Two days were past, and still the same reply

To the same question—“Not a Will have I.”

More grave, more earnest, then the Friend appear’d;

He spoke with power, as one who would be heard—

“A Will your father made! I witness’d one.”

The Heir arose in anger—“Sir, begone!

Think you my spirit by your looks to awe?

Go to your lodgings, friend, or to your law.

To what would you our easy souls persuade? 140

Once more I tell you, not a Will was made;

There’s none with me, I swear it—now, deny

This if you can!”—

“That, surely, cannot I;

Nay, I believe you, and, as no such deed

Is found with you, this surely will succeed!”—

He said, and from his pocket slowly drew }

Of the first testament a copy true, }

And held it spread abroad, that he might see it too. }

“Read, and be sure; your parent’s pleasure see—

Then leave this mansion and these lands to me.” 150

He said, and terror seized the guilty youth;

He saw his misery, meanness, and the truth;

Could not before his stern accuser stand,

Yet could not quit that hall, that park, that land;

But, when surprise had pass’d away, his grief

Began to think in law to find relief.

“While courts are open, why should I despair?

Juries will feel for an abandon’d heir.

I will resist,” he said, impell’d by pride—

“I must submit,” recurring fear replied. 160

As wheels the vane when winds around it play,

So his strong passions turn’d him every way;

But growing terrors seized th’ unhappy youth:

He knew the Man, and more, he knew—the Truth;

When, stung by all he fear’d, and all he felt,

He sought for mercy, and in terror knelt.

Grieved, but indignant—“Let me not despise

Thy father’s son,” replied the Friend; “arise!

To my fix’d purpose your attention lend,

And know, your fate will on yourself depend. 170

“Thou shalt not want, young man! nor yet abound,

And time shall try thee, if thy heart be sound;

Thou shalt be watch’d till thou hast learn’d to know

Th’ All-seeing Watcher of the world below,

And worlds above, and thoughts within; from Whom

Must be thy certain, just, and final doom.

Thy doors all closely barr’d, thy windows blind,

Before all silent, silent all behind—

Thy hand was stretch’d to do whate’er thy soul

In secret would—no mortal could—controul. 180

Oh, fool! to think that thou thy act could’st keep

From that All-piercing Eye, which cannot sleep!

“Go to thy trial! and may I—with thee

A fellow-sinner, who to mercy flee—

That mercy find, as justly I dispense

Between thy frailty and thy penitence!

“Go to thy trial! and be wise in time,

And know that no man can conceal a crime.

God and his Conscience witness all that’s done,

And these he cannot cheat, he cannot shun. 190

What, then, could fortune, what could safety, give,

If [he] with these at enmity must live?

“Go!”—and the young man from his presence went, }

Confused, uncertain of his own intent— }

To sin, if pride prevail’d; if soften’d, to repent. }

II.

P. Lives yet the Friend of that unhappy Boy,

Who could the WILL that made him rich destroy,

And made him poor? And what the after-plan,

For one so selfish, of that stern, good man?

F. “Choose,” said this Friend, “thy way in life, and I 200

Will means to aid thee in thy work supply.”

He will the army, thought this guardian, choose,

And there the sense of his dishonour lose.

Humbly he answer’d—“With your kind consent,

Of your estate I would a portion rent,

And farm with care”——

“Alas! the wretched fruit

Of evil habit! he will hunt and shoot!”

So judged the Friend, but soon perceived a change,

To him important, and to all men strange.

Industrious, temperate, with the sun he rose, 210

And of his time gave little to repose:

Nor to the labour only bent his will,

But sought experience, and improved with skill;

With cautious prudence placed his gains to use,

Inquiring always, “What will this produce?”

The Friend, not long suspicious, now began

To think more kindly of the alter’d man—

In his opinion alter’d; but, in truth,

The same the spirit that still ruled the youth.

That dwelt within, where other demons dwell, 220

Avarice unsated and insatiable.

But this Wright saw not; he was more inclined

To trace the way of a repenting mind;

And he was now by strong disease assail’d,

That quickly o’er the vital powers prevail’d:

And now the son had all, was rich beyond

His fondest hope, and he, indeed, was fond.

His life’s great care has been his zeal to prove,

And time to dotage has increased his love.

A Miser now, the one strong passion guides 230

The heart and soul; there’s not a love besides.

Where’er he comes, he sees in every face

A look that tells him of his own disgrace.

Men’s features vary, but the mildest show—

“It is a tale of infamy we know.”

Some with contempt the wealthy miser view,

Some with disgust, yet mix’d with pity too;

A part the looks of wrath and hatred wear,

And some, less happy, lose their scorn in fear.

Meanwhile, devoid of kindness, comfort, friends, 240

On his possessions solely he depends.

Yet is he wretched; for his fate decrees

That his own feelings should deny him ease.

With talents gifted, he himself reproves,

And can but scorn the vile pursuit he loves;

He can but feel that there abides within

The secret shame, the unrepented sin,

And the strong sense, that bids him to confess

He has not found the way to happiness.

But ’tis the way where he has travell’d long— 250

And turn he will not, though he feels it wrong;

Like a sad traveller, who, at closing day,

Finds he has wander’d widely from his way,

Yet wanders on, nor will new paths explore,

Till the night falls, and he can walk no more.

TALE XXI.
THE COUSINS.

I.

P. I left a frugal Merchant, who began

Early to thrive, and grew a wealthy man;

Retired from business with a favourite Niece,

He lived in plenty, or, if not—in peace.

Their small affairs, conforming to his will,

The maiden managed with superior skill.

He had a Nephew too, a brother’s child—

But James offended, for the lad was wild:

And Patty’s tender soul was vex’d to hear,

“Your Cousin James will rot in gaol, my dear; 10

And now, I charge you, by no kind of gift

Show him that folly may be help’d by thrift.”

This Patty heard, but in her generous mind

Precept so harsh could no admission find.

Her Cousin James, too sure in prison laid,

With strong petitions plied the gentle maid,

That she would humbly on their Uncle press

His deep repentance, and his sore distress;

How that he mourn’d in durance, night and day,

And, which removed, he would for ever pray. 20

“Nought will I give, his worthless life to save,”

The Uncle said; and nought in fact he gave.

But the kind maiden from her pittance took

All that she could, and gave with pitying look;

For soft compassion in her bosom reign’d,

And her heart melted when the Youth complain’d.

Of his complaints the Uncle loved to hear,

As Patty told them, shedding many a tear;

While he would wonder how the girl could pray

For a young rake, to place him in her way, 30

Or once admit him in his Uncle’s view;

“But these,” said he, “are things that women do.”

Thus were the Cousins, young, unguarded, fond,

Bound in true friendship—so they named the bond—

Nor call’d it love—and James resolved, when free,

A most correct and frugal man to be.

He sought her prayers, but not for heavenly aid:

“Pray to my Uncle,” and she kindly pray’d—

“James will be careful,” said the Niece; “and I

Will be as careful,” was the stern reply. 40

Thus he resisted, and I know not how

He could be soften’d—Is he kinder now?

Hard was his heart; but yet a heart of steel

May melt in dying, and dissolving feel.

II.

F. What were his feelings I cannot explain,

His actions only on my mind remain.

He never married, that indeed we know,

But childless was not, as his foes could show—

Perhaps his friends—for friends, as well as foes,

Will the infirmities of man disclose. 50

When young, our Merchant, though of sober fame,

Had a rude passion that he could not tame;

And, not to dwell upon the passion’s strife,

He had a Son, who never had a wife;

The father paid just what the law required,

Nor saw the infant, nor to see desired.

That infant, thriving on the parish fare,

Without a parent’s love, consent, or care,

Became a sailor, and sustain’d his part

So like a man, it touch’d his father’s heart.— 60

He for protection gave the ready pay,

And placed the seaman in preferment’s way;

Who doubted not, with sanguine heart, to rise,

And bring home riches, gain’d from many a prize.

But Jack—for so we call’d him—Jack once more,

And never after, touch’d his native shore;

Nor was it known if he in battle fell,

Or sickening died—we sought, but none could tell.

The father sigh’d—as some report, he wept;

And then his sorrow with the Sailor slept; 70

Then age came on; he found his spirits droop,

And his kind Niece remain’d the only hope.

Premising this, our story then proceeds—

Our gentle Patty for her Cousin pleads;

And now her Uncle, to his room confined,

And kindly nursed, was soften’d and was kind.

James, whom the law had from his prison sent, }

With much contrition to his Uncle went, }

And, humbly kneeling, said, “Forgive me, I repent.” }

Reproach, of course, his humbled spirit bore; 80

He knew for pardon anger opes the door;

The man, whom we with too much warmth reprove,

Has the best chance our softening hearts to move;

And this he had—“Why, Patty, love! it seems,”

Said the old man, “there’s something good in James;

I must forgive; but you my child, are yet

My stay and prop; I cannot this forget.

Still, my dear Niece, as a reforming man,

I mean to aid your Cousin, if I can.”

Then Patty smiled; for James and she had now 90

Time for their loves, and pledged the constant vow.

James the fair way to favouring thoughts discern’d—

He learn’d the news, and told of all he learn’d;

Read all the papers in an easy style,

And knew the bits would raise his Uncle’s smile;

Then would refrain, to hear the good man say,

“You did not come as usual yesterday;

I must not take you from your duties, lad,

But of your daily visits should be glad!”

Patty was certain that their Uncle now 100

Would their affection all it ask’d allow;

She was convinced her lover now would find

The past forgotten and old Uncle kind.

“It matters not,” she added, “who receives

The larger portion; what to one he leaves

We both inherit! let us nothing hide,

Dear James, from him in whom we both confide.”

“Not for your life!” quoth James. “Let Uncle choose

Our ways for us—or we the way shall lose.

For know you, Cousin, all these miser men”—— 110

“Nay, my dear James!”—

“Our worthy Uncle, then,

And all, like Uncle, like to be obey’d

By their dependants, who must seem afraid

Of their own will.—If we to wed incline,

You’ll quickly hear him peevishly repine,

Object, dispute, and sundry reasons give,

To prove we ne’er could find the means to live;

And then, due credit for his speech to gain,

He’ll leave us poor—lest wealth should prove it vain.

Let him propose the measure, and then we 120

May for his pleasure to his plan agree.

I, when at last assenting, shall be still

But giving way to a kind Uncle’s will;

Then will he deem it just, amends to make

To one who ventures all things for his sake;

So, should you deign to take this worthless hand,

Be sure, dear Patty, ’tis at his command!”

But Patty questioned—“Is it, let me ask,

The will of God that we should wear a mask?”

This startled James: he lifted up his eyes, 130

And said with some contempt, besides surprise,

“Patty, my love! the will of God, ’tis plain,

Is that we live by what we can obtain;

Shall we a weak and foolish man offend,

And when our trial is so near our end?”

This hurt the maiden, and she said, “’Tis well!

Unask’d I will not of your purpose tell,

But will not lie.”—

“Lie! Patty, no, indeed;

Your downright lying never will succeed!

A better way our prudence may devise 140

Than such unprofitable things as lies.

Yet, a dependant, if he would not starve,

The way through life must with discretion carve,

And, though a lie he may with pride disdain,

He must not every useless truth maintain.

If one respect to these fond men would show,

Conceal the facts that give them pain to know;

While all that pleases may be placed in view,

And, if it be not, they will think it true.”

The humble Patty dropp’d a silent tear, 150

And said, “Indeed, ’tis best to be sincere.”

James answer’d not—there could be no reply

To what he would not grant nor could deny;

But from that time he in the maiden saw

What he condemn’d; yet James was kept in awe.

He felt her virtue, but was sore afraid

For the frank blunders of the virtuous maid.

Meantime he daily to his Uncle read

The news, and to his favourite subjects led:

If closely press’d, he sometimes staid to dine, 160

Eat of one dish, and drank one glass of wine;

For James was crafty grown, and felt his way

To favour, step by step, and day by day;

He talk’d of business, till the Uncle prized

The lad’s opinion, whom he once despised,

And, glad to see him thus his faults survive,

“This Boy,” quoth he, “will keep our name alive.

Women are weak, and Patty, though the best

Of her weak sex, is woman like the rest:

An idle husband will her money spend, 170

And bring my hard-earn’d savings to an end.”

Far as he dared, his Nephew this way led,

And told his tales of lasses rashly wed,

Told them as matters that “He heard, he knew

Not where,” he said—“they might be false or true:

One must confess that girls are apt to dote

On the bright scarlet of a coxcomb’s coat;

And that with ease a woman they beguile

With a fool’s flattery, or a rascal’s smile;—

But then,” he added, fearing to displease, 180

“Our Patty never saw such men as these.”

“True! but she may—some scoundrel may command

The girl’s whole store, if he can gain her hand.

Her very goodness will itself deceive,

And her weak virtue help her to believe;

Yet she is kind; and, Nephew! go, and say,

I need her now—You’ll come another day.”

In such discourses, while the maiden went

About her household, many an hour was spent,

Till James was sure that when his Uncle died, 190}

He should at least the property divide; }

Nor long had he to wait—the fact was quickly tried. }

The Uncle now, to his last bed confined,

To James and Patty his affairs resign’d;

The doctor took his final fee in hand;

The man of law received his last command;

The silent priest sat watching in his chair,

If he might wake the dying man to prayer—

When the last groan was heard; then all was still,

And James indulged his musings—on the Will. 200

This in due time was read, and Patty saw

Her own dear Cousin made the heir-by-law.

Something indeed was hers, but yet she felt

As if her Uncle had not kindly dealt;

And but that James was one whom she could trust,

She would have thought it cruel and unjust.

Ev’n as it was, it gave her some surprise,

And tears unbidden started in her eyes;

Yet she confess’d it was the same to her,

And it was likely men would men prefer. 210

Loth was the Niece to think her Uncle wrong;

And other thoughts engaged her—“Is it long

That custom bids us tarry ere we wed,

When a kind Uncle is so lately dead?

At any rate,” the maiden judged, “’tis he

That first will speak—it does not rest with me.”

James to the Will his every thought confined,

And found some parts that vex’d his sober mind.

He, getting much, to angry thoughts gave way,

For the poor pittance that he had to pay, 220

With Patty’s larger claim. Save these alone,

The weeping heir beheld the whole his own;

Yet something painful in his mind would dwell—

It was not likely, but was possible—”

No—Fortune lately was to James so kind,

He was determined not to think her blind:

She saw his merit, and would never throw

His prospects down by such malicious blow.”

Patty, meanwhile, had quite enough betray’d

Of her own mind to make her James afraid 230

Of one so simply pure: his hardening heart

Inclined to anger—he resolved to part.

Why marry Patty?—if he look’d around,

More advantageous matches might be found;

But, though he might a richer wife command,

He first must break her hold upon his hand.

She with a spinster-friend retired awhile—

“Not long,” she said—and said it with a smile.

Not so had James determined.—He essay’d

To move suspicion in the gentle maid. 240

Words not succeeding, he design’d to pass

The spinster’s window with some forward lass.

If in her heart so pure no pang was known,

At least he might affect it in his own.

There was a brother of her friend, and he,

Though poor and rude, might serve for jealousy.

If all should fail, he, though of schemes bereft,

Might leave her yet!—They fail’d, and she was left.

Poor Patty bore it with a woman’s mind,

And with an angel’s, sorrowing and resign’d. 250

Ere this in secret long she wept and pray’d,

Long tried to think her lover but delay’d

The union, once his hope, his prayer, his pride;—

She could in James as in herself confide:

Was he not bound by all that man can bind,

In love, in honour, to be just and kind?

Large was his debt, and, when their debts are large,

The ungrateful cancel what the just discharge;

Nor payment only in their pride refuse,

But first they wrong their friend, and then accuse. 260

Thus Patty finds her bosom’s claims denied,

Her love insulted, and her right defied.

She urged it not; her claim the maid withdrew, }

For maiden pride would not the wretch pursue; }

She sigh’d to find him false, herself so good and true. }

Now all his fears, at least the present, still—

He talk’d, good man! about his uncle’s will—

“All unexpected,” he declared—“surprised

Was he—and his good uncle ill-advised.

He no such luck had look’d for, he was sure, 270

Nor such deserved,” he said, with look demure;

“He did not merit such exceeding love;

But his, he meant, so help him God, to prove.”

And he has proved it! all his cares and schemes

Have proved the exceeding love James bears to James.

But to proceed—for we have yet the facts

That show how Justice looks on wicked acts;

For, though not always, she at times appears—

To wake in man her salutary fears.

James, restless grown—for no such mind can rest— 280

Would build a house, that should his wealth attest;

In fact, he saw, in many a clouded face, }

A certain token of his own disgrace, }

And wish’d to overawe the murmurs of the place. }

The finish’d building show’d the master’s wealth,

And noisy workmen drank his Honour’s health—

“His and his heirs”—and at the thoughtless word

A strange commotion in his bosom stirr’d.

“‘Heirs!’ said the idiots?”—and again that clause

In the strange Will corrected their applause. 290

Prophetic fears! for now reports arose

That spoil’d “his Honour’s” comforts and repose.

A stout young Sailor, though in battle maim’d,

Arrived in port, and his possessions claim’d.

The Will he read: he stated his demand,

And his attorney grasp’d at house and land.

The Will provided—“If my son survive,

He shall inherit;” and lo! Jack’s alive!

Yes! he was that lost lad, preserved by fate,

And now was bent on finding his estate. 300

But claim like this the angry James denied,

And to the law the sturdy heir applied.

James did what men when placed like him would do—

Avow’d his right, and fee’d his lawyer too:

The Will, indeed, provided for a son;

But was this Sailor youth the very one?

Ere Jack’s strong proofs in all their strength were shown, }

To gain a part James used a milder tone; }

But the instructed tar would reign alone. }

At last he reign’d: to James a large bequest 310

Was frankly dealt; the Seaman had the rest—

Save a like portion to the gentle Niece,

Who lived in comfort, and regain’d her peace.

In her neat room her talent she employ’d,

With more true peace than ever James enjoy’d.

The young, the aged, in her praise agreed—

Meek in her manner, bounteous in her deed;

The very children their respect avow’d:

“’Twas the good lady,” they were told, and bow’d.

The merry Seaman much the maid approv’d— 320

Nor that alone—he like a seaman loved;

Loved as a man who did not much complain;

Loved like a sailor, not a sighing swain;

Had heard of wooing maids, but knew not how—

“Lass, if you love me, prithee tell me now,”

Was his address—but this was nothing cold—

“Tell if you love me;” and she smiled and told.

He brought her presents, such as sailors buy, }

Glittering like gold, to please a maiden’s eye, }

All silk and silver, fringe and finery; 330}

These she accepted in respect to him,

And thought but little of the missing limb.

Of this he told her, for he loved to tell

A warlike tale, and judged he told it well:—

“You mark me, love! the French were two to one,

And so, you see, they were ashamed to run;

We fought an hour; and then there came the shot

That struck me here—a man must take his lot;—

A minute after, and the Frenchman struck:

One minute sooner had been better luck; 340

But, if you can a crippled cousin like,

You ne’er shall see him for a trifle strike.”

Patty, whose gentle heart was not so nice

As to reject the thought of loving twice,

Judged her new Cousin was by nature kind,

With no suspicions in his honest mind,

Such as our virtuous ladies now and then

Find strongly floating in the minds of men.

So they were married, and the lasses vow’d

That Patty’s luck would make an angel proud: 350

“Not but that time would come when she must prove

That men are men, no matter how they love!”—

And she has prov’d it; for she finds her man

As kind and true as when their loves began.

James is unhappy; not that he is poor,

But, having much, because he has no more;

Because a rival’s pleasure gives him pain;

Because his vices work’d their way in vain;

And, more than these, because he sees the smile

Of a wrong’d woman pitying man so vile. 360

He sought an office, serves in the excise, }

And every wish, but that for wealth, denies; }

Wealth is the world to him, and he is worldly wise. }

But disappointment in his face appears; }

Care and vexation, sad regret and fears }

Have fix’d on him their fangs, and done the work of years. }

Yet grows he wealthy in a strange degree,

And neighbours wonder how the fact can be.

He lives alone, contracts a sordid air,

And sees with sullen grief the cheerful pair; 370

Feels a keen pang, as he beholds the door

Where peace abides, and mutters—“I am poor!”

TALE XXII.
PREACHING AND PRACTICE.

I.

P. What I have ask’d are questions that relate

To those once known, that I might learn their fate.

But there was One, whom though I scarcely knew,

Much do I wish to learn his fortunes too.

Yet what expect?—He was a rich man’s Heir,

His conduct doubtful, but his prospects fair;

Thoughtless and brave, extravagant and gay,

Wild as the wind, and open as the day;

His freaks and follies were a thousand times

Brought full in view; I heard not of his crimes. 10

Like our Prince Hal, his company he chose

Among the lawless, of restraint the foes;

But, though to their poor pleasures he could stoop,

He was not, rumour said, their victim-dupe.

His mother’s Sister was a maiden prim,

Pious and poor, and much in debt to him.

This she repaid with volumes of reproof,

And sage advice, till he would cry “Enough!”

His father’s Brother no such hints allow’d—

Peevish and rich, and insolent and proud, 20

Of stern, strong spirit. Him the Youth withstood,

At length; “Presume not” (said he) “on our blood!

Treat with politeness him whom you advise,

Nor think I fear your doting prophecies!”

And fame has told of many an angry word,

When anger this, and that contempt had stirr’d.

“Boy! thou wilt beg thy bread, I plainly see.”—

“Upbraid not, Uncle! till I beg of thee.”—

“Oh! thou wilt run to ruin and disgrace.”—

“What! and so kind an Uncle in the place?”— 30

“Nay, for I hold thee stranger to my blood.”—

“Then must I treat thee as a stranger would;

For, if you throw the tie of blood aside,

You must the roughness of your speech abide.”—

“What! to your father’s Brother do you give

A challenge?—Mercy! in what times we live!”

Now, I confess, the youth who could supply

Thus that poor Spinster, and could thus defy

This wealthy Uncle;—who could mix with them

Whom his strong sense and feeling must condemn, 40

And in their follies his amusement find,

Yet never lose the vigour of his mind—

A youth like this, with much we must reprove,

Had something still to win esteem and love.

Perhaps he lives not; but he seem’d not made

To pass through life entirely in the shade.

F. Suppose you saw him—does your mind retain

So much, that you would know the man again?

Yet hold in mind, he may have felt the press

Of grief or guilt, the withering of distress; 50

He now may show the stamp of woe and pain,

And nothing of his lively cast remain.

Survey these features—see if nothing there

May old impressions on your mind repair!

Is there not something in this shattered frame

Like to that—

P. No! not like it, but the same;

That eye so brilliant, and that smile so gay,

Are lighted up, and sparkle through decay.

But may I question? Will you that allow?

There was a difference, and there must be now; 60

And yet, permitted, I would gladly hear

What must have pass’d in many a troubled year.

---

F. Then hear my tale; but I the price demand: }

That understood, I too must understand }

Thy wanderings through, or sufferings in, the land; }

And, if our virtues cannot much produce,

Perhaps our errors may be found of use.

To all the wealth my Father’s care laid by,

I added wings, and taught it how to fly.

To him that act had been of grievous sight; 70

But he survived not to behold the flight.

Strange doth it seem to grave and sober minds,

How the dear vice the simple votary blinds,

So that he goes to ruin smoothly on,

And scarcely feels he’s going, till he’s gone.

I had made over, in a lucky hour,

Funds for my Aunt, and placed beyond my power:

The rest was flown, I speak it with remorse,

And now a pistol seem’d a thing in course.

But, though its precepts I had not obey’d, 80

Thoughts of my Bible made me much afraid

Of such rebellion, and, though not content,

I must live on when life’s supports were spent;

Nay, I must eat, and of my frugal Aunt

Must grateful take what gracious she would grant;

And true, she granted, but with much discourse—

Oh! with what words did she her sense enforce!

Great was her wonder, in my need that I

Should on the prop myself had raised rely—

I, who provided for her in my care, 90

“Must be assured how little she could spare!”

I stood confounded, and with angry tone,

With rage and grief, that blended oath and groan,

I fled her presence—yet I saw her air

Of resignation, and I heard her prayer;

“Now Heaven,” she utter’d, “make his burden light!”

And I, in parting, cried, “Thou hypocrite!”

But I was wrong—she might have meant to pray;

Though not to give her soul—her cash—away.

Of course, my Uncle would the spendthrift shun; 100

So friends on earth I now could reckon none.

One morn I rambled, thinking of the past,

Far in the country—Did you ever fast

Through a long summer’s day? or, sturdy, go

To pluck the crab, the bramble, and the sloe,

The hyp, the cornel, and the beech, the food

And the wild solace of the gypsy brood?

To pick the cress, embrown’d by summer sun,

From the dry bed where streams no longer run?

Have you, like school-boy, mingling play and toil, 110

Dug for the ground-nut, and enjoy’d the spoil?

Or chafed with feverish hand the ripening wheat,

Resolved to fast, and yet compell’d to eat?

Say, did you this, and drink the crystal spring,

And think yourself an abdicated king,

Driv’n from your state by a rebellious race?

And, in your pride contending with disgrace,

Could you your hunger in your anger lose,

And call the ills you bear the ways you choose?

Thus, on myself depending, I began 120

To feel the pride of a neglected man;

Not yet correct, but still I could command

Unshaken nerves, and a determined hand.

“Lo! men at work!” I said, “and I, a man,

Can work! I feel it is my pride, I can.”

This said, I wander’d on, and join’d the poor,

Assumed a labourer’s dress, and was no more

Than labour made—Upon the road I broke

Stones for my bread, and startled at the stroke;

But every day the labour seem’d more light, 130

And sounder, sweeter still the sleep of every night.

“Thus will I live,” I cried, “nor more return

To herd with men, whose love and hate I spurn.

All creatures toil; the beast, if tamed or free,

Must toil for daily sustenance like me;

The feather’d people hunt as well as sing,

And catch their flying food upon the wing.

The fish, the insect, all who live, employ

Their powers to keep on life, or to enjoy,

Their life th’ enjoyment; thus will I proceed, 140

A man from man’s detested favours freed.”

Thus was I reasoning, when at length there came

A gift, a present, but without a name.

“That Spinster-witch, has she then found a way

To cure her conscience, and her Nephew pay,

And sends her pittance? Well, and let it buy

What sweetens labour; need I this deny?

I thank her not; it is as if I found

The fairy-gift upon this stony ground.”

Still I wrought on; again occurred the day, 150

And then the same addition to my pay.

Then, lo! another Friend, if not the same,

For that I knew not, with a message came—

“Canst keep accounts?” the man was pleased to ask—

“I could not cash!—but that the harder task.”

“Yet try,” he said; and I was quickly brought

To Lawyer Snell, and in his office taught.

Not much my pay, but my desires were less,

And I for evil days reserved th’ excess.

Such day occurr’d not: quickly came there one, 160

When I was told my present work was done.

My Friend then brought me to a building large,

And gave far weightier business to my charge.

There I was told I had accounts to keep

Of those vast Works, where wonders never sleep,

Where spindles, bobbins, rovings, threads, and pins,

[Make] up the complex mass that ever spins.

There, at my desk, in my six feet of room,

I noted every power of every loom;

Sounds of all kinds I heard from mortal lungs— 170

Eternal battle of unwearied tongues,

The jar of men and women, girls and boys,

And the huge Babel’s own dull whirring, grinding noise.

My care was mark’d, and I had soon in charge

Important matters, and my pay was large.

I at my fortune marvell’d; it was strange,

And so the outward and the inward change,

Till to the Power who “gives and takes away”

I turn’d in praise, and taught my soul to pray.

Another came! “I come,” he said, “to show, 180

Your unknown Friend—have you a wish to know?”

Much I desired, and forth we rode, and found

My Uncle dying, but his judgment sound.

The good old man, whom I abused, had been

The guardian power, directing but unseen;

And thus the wild but grateful boy he led

To take new motives at his dying bed.

The rest you judge—I now have all I need—

And now the tale you promised!—Come, proceed.

---

P. ’Tis due, I own, but yet in mercy spare! 190}

Alas! no Uncle was my guide—my care }

Was all my own; no guardian took a share. }

I, like Columbus, for a world unknown—

’Twas no great effort—sacrificed my own—

My own sad world, where I had never seen

The earth productive, or the sky serene.

But this is past—and I at length am come

To see what changes have been wrought at home;

Happy in this, that I can set me down

At worst a stranger in my native town. 200

F. Then be it so! but mean you not to show

How time has pass’d? for we expect to know;

And, if you tell not, know you we shall trace

Your movements for ourselves from place to place!

Your wants, your wishes, all you’ve sought or seen,

Shall be the food for our remark and spleen.

So, warn’d in time, the real page unfold,

And let the Truth, before the Lie, be told.

P. This might be done; but wonders I have none;

All my adventures are of Self alone. 210

F. What then? I grant you, if your way was clear,

All smooth and right—we’ve no desire to hear;

But, if you’ve lewd and wicked things to tell, }

Low passions, cruel deeds, nay crimes—’tis well: }

Who would not listen?—— }

P. Hark! I hear the bell. }

It calls to dinner with inviting sound,

For now we know where dinners may be found,

And can behold and share the glad repast,

Without a dread that we behold our last.

F. Come then, shy friend, let doleful subjects cease, 220

And thank our God that we can dine in peace.

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES
(1780—1829)
PREVIOUSLY PRINTED AND NOW FIRST ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL SEQUENCE.