A wealthy lord of far-extended land Had all that pleased him placed at his command; Widow’d of late, but finding much relief In the world’s comforts, he dismiss’d his grief; He was by marriage of his daughters eased, And knew his sons could marry if they pleased; Meantime in travel he indulged the boys, And kept no spy nor partner of his joys. These joys, indeed, were of the grosser kind, That fed the cravings of an earthly mind; 10 A mind that, conscious of its own excess, Felt the reproach his neighbours would express. Long at th’ indulgent board he loved to sit, Where joy was laughter, and profaneness wit; And such the guest and manners of the hall, No wedded lady on the ’squire would call. Here reign’d a favourite, and her triumph gain’d O’er other favourites who before had reign’d; Reserved and modest seem’d the nymph to be, Knowing her lord was charm’d with modesty; 20 For he, a sportsman keen, the more enjoy’d, The greater value had the thing destroy’d. Our ’squire declared, that, from a wife released, He would no more give trouble to a priest; Seem’d it not, then, ungrateful and unkind, That he should trouble from the priesthood find? The church he honour’d, and he gave the due And full respect to every son he knew; But envied those who had the luck to meet A gentle pastor, civil, and discreet; 30 Who never bold and hostile sermon penn’d, To wound a sinner, or to shame a friend; One whom no being either shunn’d or fear’d, Such must be loved wherever they appear’d. Not such the stern old rector of the time, Who soothed no culprit, and who spared no crime; Who would his fears and his contempt express, For irreligion and licentiousness; Of him our village lord, his guests among, By speech vindictive proved his feelings stung. 40 “Were he a bigot,” said the ’squire, “whose zeal Condemn’d us all, I should disdain to feel: But when a man of parts, in college train’d, Prates of our conduct—who would not be pain’d, While he declaims (where no one dares reply)} On men abandon’d, grov’ling in the sty } (Like beasts in human shape) of shameless luxury? } Yet with a patriot’s zeal I stand the shock Of vile rebuke, example to his flock; But let this rector, thus severe and proud, 50 Change his wide surplice for a narrow shroud, And I will place within his seat a youth, Train’d by the Graces, to explain the truth; Then shall the flock with gentle hand be led, By wisdom won, and by compassion fed.” This purposed teacher was a sister’s son, Who of her children gave the priesthood one; And she had early train’d for this employ The pliant talents of her college-boy. At various times her letters painted all 60 Her brother’s views—the manners of the hall; The rector’s harshness, and the mischief made By chiding those whom preachers should persuade: This led the youth to views of easy life, A friendly patron, an obliging wife; His tithe, his glebe, the garden and the steed, With books as many as he wish’d to read. All this accorded with the uncle’s will; He loved a priest compliant, easy, still; Sums he had often to his favourite sent, 70 “To be,” he wrote, “in manly freedom spent; For well it pleased his spirit to assist An honest lad, who scorn’d a Methodist.” His mother too, in her maternal care, Bade him of canting hypocrites beware; Who from his duties would his heart seduce, And make his talents of no earthly use. Soon must a trial of his worth be made— The ancient priest is to the tomb convey’d; And the youth summon’d from a serious friend, 80 His guide and host, new duties to attend. Three months before, the nephew and the ’squire Saw mutual worth to praise and to admire; And though the one too early left his wine, The other still exclaim’d—“My boy will shine: Yes, I perceive that he will soon improve, And I shall form the very guide I love; Decent abroad, he will my name defend, And, when at home, be social and unbend.” The plan was specious, for the mind of James 90 Accorded duly with his uncle’s schemes: He then aspired not to a higher name Than sober clerks of moderate talents claim; Gravely to pray, and rev’rendly to preach, Was all he saw, good youth! within his reach. Thus may a mass of sulphur long abide, Cold and inert, but, to the flame applied, Kindling it blazes, and consuming turns To smoke and poison, as it boils and burns. James, leaving college, to a preacher stray’d; 100 What call’d, he knew not—but the call obey’d, Mild, idle, pensive, ever led by those Who could some specious novelty propose; Humbly he listen’d, while the preacher dwelt On touching themes, and strong emotions felt; And in this night was fix’d that pliant will To one sole point, and he retains it still. At first his care was to himself confined; Himself assured, he gave it to mankind: His zeal grew active—honest, earnest zeal, 110 And comfort dealt to him, he long’d to deal; He to his favourite preacher now withdrew, Was taught to teach, instructed to subdue; And train’d for ghostly warfare, when the call Of his new duties reach’d him from the hall. Now to the ’squire, although alert and stout, Came unexpected an attack of gout; And the grieved patron felt such serious pain, He never thought to see a church again. Thrice had the youthful rector taught the crowd, 120 Whose growing numbers spoke his powers aloud, Before the patron could himself rejoice (His pain still lingering) in the general voice; For he imputed all this early fame To graceful manner, and the well-known name; And to himself assumed a share of praise, For worth and talents he was pleased to raise. A month had flown, and with it fled disease; What pleased before, began again to please; Emerging daily from his chamber’s gloom, 130 He found his old sensations hurrying home; Then call’d his nephew, and exclaim’d, “My boy, Let us again the balm of life enjoy; The foe has left me, and I deem it right, Should he return, to arm me for the fight.” Thus spoke the ’squire, the favourite nymph stood by, And view’d the priest with insult in her eye. She thrice had heard him when he boldly spoke On dangerous points, and fear’d he would revoke; For James she loved not—and her manner told, 140 “This warm affection will be quickly cold.” And still she fear’d impression might be made Upon a subject nervous and decay’d; She knew her danger, and had no desire Of reformation in the gallant ’squire; And felt an envious pleasure in her breast To see the rector daunted and distress’d. Again the uncle to the youth applied— “Cast, my dear lad, that cursed gloom aside: There are for all things time and place; appear 150 Grave in your pulpit, and be merry here. Now take your wine—for woes a sure resource, And the best prelude to a long discourse.” James half obey’d, but cast an angry eye On the fair lass, who still stood watchful by; Resolving thus, “I have my fears—but still I must perform my duties, and I will; No love, no interest, shall my mind control; Better to lose my comforts than my soul; Better my uncle’s favour to abjure, 160 Than the upbraidings of my heart endure.” He took his glass, and then address’d the ’squire: “I feel not well, permit me to retire.” The ’squire conceived that the ensuing day Gave him these terrors for the grand essay, When he himself should this young preacher try, And stand before him with observant eye; This raised compassion in his manly breast, And he would send the rector to his rest; Yet first, in soothing voice—“A moment stay, 170 And these suggestions of a friend obey; Treasure these hints, if fame or peace you prize— The bottle emptied, I shall close my eyes. “On every priest a two-fold care attends, To prove his talents, and insure his friends: First, of the first—your stores at once produce, And bring your reading to its proper use; On doctrines dwell, and every point enforce By quoting much, the scholar’s sure resource; For he alone can show us on each head 180 What ancient schoolmen and sage fathers said: No worth has knowledge, if you fail to show How well you studied, and how much you know. Is faith your subject, and you judge it right On theme so dark to cast a ray of light: Be it that faith the orthodox maintain, Found in the rubrick, what the creeds explain; Fail not to show us on this ancient faith (And quote the passage) what some martyr saith. Dwell not one moment on a faith that shocks 190 The minds of men sincere and orthodox: That gloomy faith, that robs the wounded mind Of all the comfort it was wont to find From virtuous acts, and to the soul denies Its proper due for alms and charities; That partial faith, that, weighing sins alone, Lets not a virtue for a fault atone; That starving faith, that would our tables clear, And make one dreadful Lent of all the year; And cruel too, for this is faith that rends 200 Confiding beauties from protecting friends; A faith that all embracing, what a gloom Deep and terrific o’er the land would come! What scenes of horror would that time disclose! No sight but misery, and no sound but woes; Your nobler faith, in loftier style convey’d, Shall be with praise and admiration paid. On points like these your hearers all admire A preacher’s depth, and nothing more require; Shall we a studious youth to college send, 210 That every clown his words may comprehend? ’Tis for your glory, when your hearers own Your learning matchless, but the sense unknown. “Thus honour gain’d, learn now to gain a friend, And the sure way is—never to offend; For, James, consider—what your neighbours do Is their own business, and concerns not you. Shun all resemblance to that forward race Who preach of sins before a sinner’s face; And seem as if they overlook’d a pew, 220 Only to drag a failing man in view. Much should I feel, when groaning in disease, If a rough hand upon my limb should seize; But great my anger, if this hand were found The very doctor’s, who should make it sound; So feel our minds, young priest, so doubly feel, When hurt by those whose office is to heal. “Yet of our duties you must something tell, And must at times on sin and frailty dwell; Here you may preach in easy, flowing style, 230 How errors cloud us, and how sins defile; Here bring persuasive tropes and figures forth, To show the poor that wealth is nothing worth; That they, in fact, possess an ample share Of the world’s good, and feel not half its care; Give them this comfort, and, indeed, my gout In its full vigour causes me some doubt; And let it always, for your zeal, suffice, That vice you combat, in the abstract—vice: The very captious will be quiet then; 240 We all confess we are offending men. In lashing sin, of every stroke beware, For sinners feel, and sinners you must spare; In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves; But name th’ offence, and you absolve the rest, And point the dagger at a single breast. “Yet are there sinners of a class so low, That you with safety may the lash bestow: Poachers, and drunkards, idle rogues, who feed 250 At others’ cost, a mark’d correction need; And all the better sort, who see your zeal, Will love and reverence for their pastor feel; Reverence for one who can inflict the smart, And love, because he deals them not a part. “Remember well what love and age advise; A quiet rector is a parish prize, Who in his learning has a decent pride; Who to his people is a gentle guide; Who only hints at failings that he sees; }260 Who loves his glebe, his patron, and his ease,} And finds the way to fame and profit is to please.” } The nephew answer’d not, except a sigh And look of sorrow might be term’d reply; He saw the fearful hazard of his state, And held with truth and safety strong debate; Nor long he reason’d, for the zealous youth Resolved, though timid, to profess the truth; And, though his friend should like a lion roar, Truth would he preach, and neither less nor more. 270 The bells had toll’d—arrived the time of prayer, The flock assembled, and the ’squire was there: And now can poet sing, or proseman say, The disappointment of that trying day? As he who long had train’d a favourite steed (Whose blood and bone gave promise of his speed), Sanguine with hope, he runs with partial eye O’er every feature, and his bets are high; Of triumph sure, he sees the rivals start, And waits their coming with exulting heart; 280 Forestalling glory, with impatient glance, And sure to see his conquering steed advance; The conquering steed advances—luckless day! A rival’s Herod bears the prize away; Nor second his, nor third, but lagging last, With hanging head he comes, by all surpass’d; Surprise and wrath the owner’s mind inflame, Love turns to scorn, and glory ends in shame:— Thus waited, high in hope, the partial ’squire, Eager to hear, impatient to admire. 290 When the young preacher in the tones that find A certain passage to the kindling mind, With air and accent strange, impressive, sad, Alarm’d the judge—he trembled for the lad; But when the text announced the power of grace, } Amazement scowl’d upon his clouded face, } At this degenerate son of his illustrious race;} Staring he stood, till hope again arose, That James might well define the words he chose: For this he listen’d—but, alas! he found 300 The preacher always on forbidden ground. And now the uncle left the hated pew, With James, and James’s conduct in his view. A long farewell to all his favourite schemes!} For now no crazed fanatic’s frantic dreams} Seem’d vile as James’s conduct, or as James. } All he had long derided, hated, fear’d, This from the chosen youth the uncle heard— The needless pause, the fierce disorder’d air, The groan for sin, the vehemence of prayer, 310 Gave birth to wrath, that, in a long discourse Of grace, triumphant rose to four-fold force. He found his thoughts despised, his rules transgress’d; } And, while the anger kindled in his breast, } The pain must be endured that could not be express’d. } Each new idea more inflamed his ire, As fuel thrown upon a rising fire: A hearer yet, he sought by threatening sign To ease his heart, and awe the young divine; But James refused those angry looks to meet, 320 Till he dismiss’d his flock, and left his seat. Exhausted then he felt his trembling frame, But fix’d his soul—his sentiments the same; And therefore wise it seem’d to fly from rage, And seek for shelter in his parsonage: There, if forsaken, yet consoled to find Some comforts left, though not a few resign’d; There, if he lost an erring parent’s love, An honest conscience must the cause approve; If the nice palate were no longer fed, 330 The mind enjoy’d delicious thoughts instead; And if some part of earthly good was flown, Still was the tithe of ten good farms his own. Fear now, and discord, in the village reign,} The cool remonstrate, and the meek complain;} But there is war within, and wisdom pleads in vain. } Now dreads the uncle, and proclaims his dread, Lest the boy-priest should turn each rustic head; The certain converts cost him certain wo; The doubtful fear lest they should join the foe; 340 Matrons of old, with whom he used to joke, Now pass his Honour with a pious look; Lasses, who met him once with lively airs, Now cross his way, and gravely walk to prayers; An old companion, whom he long has loved, By coward fears confess’d his conscience moved; As the third bottle gave its spirit forth. And they bore witness to departed worth, The friend arose, and he too would depart— “Man,” said the ’squire, “thou wert not wont to start; 350 Hast thou attended to that foolish boy, Who would abridge all comforts, or destroy?” Yes, he had listen’d, who had slumber’d long, And was convinced that something must be wrong; But, though affected, still his yielding heart, And craving palate, took the uncle’s part. Wine now oppress’d him, who, when free from wine, Could seldom clearly utter his design; But, though by nature and indulgence weak, Yet, half-converted, he resolved to speak; 360 And, speaking, own’d, “that in his mind the youth Had gifts and learning, and that truth was truth. The ’squire he honour’d, and, for his poor part, He hated nothing like a hollow heart; But ’twas a maxim he had often tried, That right was right, and there he would abide; He honour’d learning, and he would confess The preacher had his talents—more or less: Why not agree? he thought the young divine Had no such strictness—they might drink and dine, 370 For them sufficient—but he said before, That truth was truth, and he would drink no more.” This heard the ’squire with mix’d contempt and pain; He fear’d the priest this recreant sot would gain. The favourite nymph, though not a convert made, Conceived the man she scorn’d her cause would aid; And when the spirits of her lord were low, The lass presumed the wicked cause to show: “It was the wretched life his Honour led, And would draw vengeance on his guilty head; 380 Their loves (Heav’n knew how dreadfully distress’d The thought had made her!) were as yet unbless’d: And till the church had sanction’d”—here she saw The wrath that forced her trembling to withdraw. Add to these outward ills some inward light, That show’d him all was not correct and right: Though now he less indulged—and to the poor, From day to day, sent alms from door to door; Though he some ease from easy virtues found, Yet conscience told him he could not compound; 390 But must himself the darling sin deny, } Change the whole heart—but here a heavy sigh} Proclaim’d, “How vast the toil! and ah! how weak am I!” } James too has trouble—he divided sees A parish, once harmonious and at ease: With him united are the simply meek, The warm, the sad, the nervous, and the weak; The rest his uncle’s, save the few beside, Who own no doctrine, and obey no guide; With stragglers of each adverse camp, who lend 400 Their aid to both, but each in turn offend. Though zealous still, yet he begins to feel The heat too fierce, that glows in vulgar zeal; With pain he hears his simple friends relate Their week’s experience, and their woful state: With small temptation struggling every hour, And bravely battling with the tempting power; His native sense is hurt by strange complaints Of inward motions in these warring saints: Who never cast on sinful bait a look 410 But they perceive the devil at the hook. Grieved, yet compell’d to smile, he finds it hard Against the blunders of conceit to guard; He sighs to hear the jests his converts cause, He cannot give their erring zeal applause; But finds it inconsistent to condemn The flights and follies he has nursed in them: These, in opposing minds, contempt produce, Or mirth occasion, or provoke abuse; On each momentous theme disgrace they bring, 420 And give to Scorn her poison and her sting.
TALE XVI.
THE CONFIDANT.
Think’st thou I’d make a life of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon,
With fresh suspicion?
Othello, Act III. Scene 3.
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks,
And given my treasure and my rights [of] thee
To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy?
1 Henry IV. Act II. Scene 3.
It is excellent
To have a giant’s strength, but [it is] tyrannous
To use it as a giant.
Measure for Measure, Act II. Scene 2.
TALE XVI.
THE CONFIDANT.
Anna was young and lovely—in her eye The glance of beauty, in her cheek the dye; Her shape was slender, and her features small, But graceful, easy, unaffected all. The liveliest tints her youthful face disclosed; There beauty sparkled, and there health reposed; For the pure blood that flush’d that rosy cheek Spoke what the heart forbad the tongue to speak; And told the feelings of that heart as well, Nay, with more candour than the tongue could tell. 10 Though this fair lass had with the wealthy dwelt, Yet like the damsel of the cot she felt; And, at the distant hint or dark surmise, The blood into the mantling cheek would rise. Now Anna’s station frequent terrors wrought In one whose looks were with such meaning fraught; For on a lady, as an humble friend, It was her painful office to attend. Her duties here were of the usual kind— And some the body harass’d, some the mind: 20 Billets she wrote, and tender stories read, To make the lady sleepy in her bed; She play’d at whist, but with inferior skill, And heard the summons as a call to drill; Music was ever pleasant till she play’d At a request that no request convey’d; The lady’s tales with anxious looks she heard, For she must witness what her friend averr’d; The lady’s taste she must in all approve, Hate whom she hated, whom she loved must love; 30 These, with the various duties of her place, With care she studied, and perform’d with grace; She veil’d her troubles in a mask of ease, And show’d her pleasure was a power to please. Such were the damsel’s duties; she was poor— Above a servant, but with service more. Men on her face with careless freedom gazed, Nor thought how painful was the glow they raised; A wealthy few to gain her favour tried, But not the favour of a grateful bride: 40 They spoke their purpose with an easy air, That shamed and frighten’d the dependent fair: Past time she view’d, the passing time to cheat, But nothing found to make the present sweet; With pensive soul she read life’s future page, And saw dependent, poor, repining age. But who shall dare t’ assert what years may bring, When wonders from the passing hour may spring?— There dwelt a yeoman in the place, whose mind Was gentle, generous, cultivated, kind; 50 For thirty years he labour’d; fortune then Placed the mild rustic with superior men: A richer Stafford, who had lived to save, What he had treasured to the poorer gave; Who with a sober mind that treasure view’d, And the slight studies of his youth renew’d. He not profoundly, but discreetly read, And a fair mind with useful culture fed; Then thought of marriage—“But the great,” said he, “I shall not suit, nor will the meaner me.” 60 Anna he saw, admired her modest air; He thought her virtuous, and he knew her fair; Love raised his pity for her humble state, And prompted wishes for her happier fate; No pride in money would his feelings wound, Nor vulgar manners hurt him and confound: He then the lady at the hall address’d, Sought her consent, and his regard express’d; Yet, if some cause his earnest wish denied, He begg’d to know it; and he bow’d and sigh’d. 70 The lady own’d that she was loth to part, But praised the damsel for her gentle heart, Her pleasing person, and her blooming health; But ended thus, “Her virtue is her wealth.” “Then is she rich!” he cried, with lively air; “But whence, so please you, came a lass so fair?” “A placeman’s child was Anna, one who died And left a widow by afflictions tried; She to support her infant daughter strove, But early left the object of her love; 80 Her youth, her beauty, and her orphan-state Gave a kind countess interest in her fate; With her she dwelt, and still might dwelling be, When the earl’s folly caused the lass to flee; A second friend was she compell’d to shun, By the rude offers of an uncheck’d son; I found her then, and with a mother’s love Regard the gentle girl whom you approve. Yet, e’en with me, protection is not peace; Nor man’s designs, nor beauty’s trial, cease; 90 Like sordid boys by costly fruit they feel: They will not purchase, but they try to steal.” Now this good lady, like a witness true, Told but the truth, and all the truth she knew; And ’tis our duty and our pain to show Truth this good lady had not means to know. Yes, there was lock’d within the damsel’s breast A fact important to be now confess’d; Gently, my muse, th’ afflicting tale relate, And have some feeling for a sister’s fate. 100 Where Anna dwelt, a conquering hero came— An Irish captain, Sedley was his name; And he too had that same prevailing art, That gave soft wishes to the virgin’s heart. In years they differ’d; he had thirty seen When this young beauty counted just fifteen; But still they were a lovely lively pair, And trod on earth as if they trod on air. On love, delightful theme! the captain dwelt With force still growing with the hopes he felt; 110 But with some caution and reluctance told, He had a father crafty, harsh, and old; Who, as possessing much, would much expect, Or both, for ever, from his love reject: Why then offence to one so powerful give, Who (for their comfort) had not long to live? With this poor prospect the deluded maid, In words confiding, was indeed betray’d; And, soon as terrors in her bosom rose, The hero fled; they hinder’d his repose. 120 Deprived of him, she to a parent’s breast Her secret trusted, and her pains impress’d: Let her to town (so prudence urged) repair, To shun disgrace, at least to hide it there; But ere she went, the luckless damsel pray’d A chosen friend might lend her timely aid: “Yes! my soul’s sister, my Eliza, come, Hear her last sigh, and ease thy Anna’s doom:” “’Tis a fool’s wish,” the angry father cried, But, lost in troubles of his own, complied; 130 And dear Eliza to her friend was sent, T’ indulge that wish, and be her punishment: The time arrived, and brought a tenfold dread; The time was past, and all the terror fled; The infant died; the face resumed each charm, And reason now brought trouble and alarm: “Should her Eliza—no! she was too just, Too good and kind—but ah! too young to trust.” Anna return’d, her former place resumed, And faded beauty with new grace re-bloom’d; 140 And, if some whispers of the past were heard, They died innoxious, as no cause appear’d; But other cares on Anna’s bosom press’d, She saw her father gloomy and distress’d; He died o’erwhelm’d with debt, and soon was shed} The filial sorrow o’er a mother dead: } She sought Eliza’s arms, that faithful friend was wed; } Then was compassion by the countess shown, And all th’ adventures of her life are known. And now beyond her hopes—no longer tried 150 By slavish awe—she lived a yeoman’s bride; Then bless’d her lot, and with a grateful mind Was careful, cheerful, vigilant, and kind. The gentle husband felt supreme delight, Bless’d by her joy, and happy in her sight; He saw with pride in every friend and guest High admiration and regard express’d; With greater pride, and with superior joy, He look’d exulting on his first-born boy; To her fond breast the wife her infant strain’d, 160 Some feelings utter’d, some were not explain’d; And she enraptured with her treasure grew, The sight familiar, but the pleasure new. Yet there appear’d within that tranquil state Some threat’ning prospect of uncertain fate; Between the married when a secret lies, It wakes suspicion from enforced disguise. Still thought the wife upon her absent friend, With all that must upon her truth depend: “There is no being in the world beside, 170 Who can discover what that friend will hide; Who knew the fact, knew not my name or state, Who these can tell cannot the fact relate; But thou, Eliza, canst the whole impart, And all my safety is thy generous heart.” Mix’d with these fears—but light and transient these— Fled years of peace, prosperity, and ease; So tranquil all that scarce a gloomy day For days of gloom unmix’d prepared the way. One eve, the wife, still happy in her state, 180 Sang gaily, thoughtless of approaching fate; Then came a letter, that (received in dread Not unobserved) she in confusion read; The substance this—“Her friend rejoiced to find That she had riches with a grateful mind; While poor Eliza had from place to place Been lured by hope to labour for disgrace; That every scheme her wandering husband tried, Pain’d while he lived, and perish’d when he died.” She then of want in angry style complain’d: }190 Her child a burthen to her life remain’d, } Her kindred shunn’d her prayers, no friend her soul sustain’d. } “Yet why neglected? Dearest Anna knew Her worth once tried, her friendship ever true; She hoped, she trusted, though by wants oppress’d, To lock the treasured secret in her breast; Yet, vex’d by trouble, must apply to one, For kindness due to her for kindness done.” In Anna’s mind was tumult; in her face Flushings of dread had momentary place. 200 “I must,” she judged, “these cruel lines expose, Or fears, or worse than fears, my crime disclose.” The letter shown, he said, with sober smile— “Anna, your friend has not a friendly style. Say, where could you with this fair lady dwell, Who boasts of secrets that she scorns to tell?” “At school,” she answer’d; he “at school!” replied; “Nay, then I know the secrets you would hide: Some [early] longings these, without dispute; Some youthful gaspings for forbidden fruit. 210 Why so disorder’d, love? are such the crimes That give us sorrow in our graver times? Come, take a present for your friend, and rest In perfect peace—you find you are confess’d.” This cloud, though past, alarm’d the conscious wife, Presaging gloom and sorrow for her life; Who to her answer join’d a fervent prayer, That her Eliza would a sister spare: If she again—but was there cause?—should send, Let her direct—and then she named a friend.— 220 A sad expedient, untried friends to trust, And still to fear the tried may be unjust: Such is his pain, who, by his debt oppress’d, Seeks by new bonds a temporary rest. Few were her peaceful days till Anna readThe words she dreaded, and had cause to dread:— “Did she believe, did she, unkind, suppose That thus Eliza’s friendship was to close? No! though she tried, and her desire was plain, To break the friendly bond, she strove in vain: 230 Ask’d she for silence? why so loud the call, And yet the token of her love so small? By means like these will you attempt to bind And check the movements of an injured mind? Poor as I am, I shall be proud to show What dangerous secrets I may safely know. Secrets, to men of jealous minds convey’d, Have many a noble house in ruins laid; Anna, I trust, although with wrongs beset, And urged by want, I shall be faithful yet; 240 But what temptation may from these arise, To take a slighted woman by surprise, Becomes a subject for your serious care— For who offends, must for offence prepare.” Perplex’d, dismay’d, the wife foresaw her doom; A day deferr’d was yet a day to come; But still, though painful her suspended state, She dreaded more the crisis of her fate; Better to die than Stafford’s scorn to meet, And her strange friend perhaps would be discreet. 250 Presents she sent, and made a strong appeal To woman’s feelings, begging her to feel; With too much force she wrote of jealous men, And her tears falling spoke beyond the pen; Eliza’s silence she again implored, And promised all that prudence could afford. For looks composed and careless Anna tried; She seem’d in trouble, and unconscious sigh’d: The faithful husband, who devoutly loved His silent partner, with concern reproved: 260 “What secret sorrows on my Anna press, That love may not partake, nor care redress?” “None, none,” she answer’d, with a look so kind, That the fond man determined to be blind. A few succeeding weeks of brief repose In Anna’s cheek revived the faded rose; A hue like this the western sky displays, That glows awhile, and withers as we gaze. Again the friend’s tormenting letter came— “The wants she suffer’d were affection’s shame; 270 She with her child a life of terrors led, Unhappy fruit! but of a lawful bed. Her friend was tasting every bliss in life, The joyful mother, and the wealthy wife; While she was placed in doubt, in fear, in want, To starve on trifles that the happy grant; Poorly for all her faithful silence paid, And tantalized by ineffectual aid. She could not thus a beggar’s lot endure; She wanted something permanent and sure: 280 If they were friends, then equal be their lot, And she was free to speak if they were not.” Despair and terror seized the wife, to find The artful workings of a vulgar mind: Money she had not, but the hint of dress Taught her new bribes, new terrors to redress; She with such feeling then described her woes, That envy’s self might on the view repose; Then to a mother’s pains she made appeal, And painted grief like one compell’d to feel. 290 Yes! so she felt, that in her air, her face, In every purpose, and in every place; In her slow motion, in her languid mien, The grief, the sickness of her soul were seen. Of some mysterious ill the husband sure, Desired to trace it, for he hoped to cure; Something he knew obscurely, and had seen His wife attend a cottage on the green; Love, loth to wound, endured conjecture long, Till fear would speak, and spoke in language strong. 300 “All I must know, my Anna—truly know Whence these emotions, terrors, troubles flow; Give me thy grief, and I will fairly prove Mine is no selfish, no ungenerous love.” Now Anna’s soul the seat of strife became: Fear with respect contended, love with shame; But fear, prevailing, was the ruling guide, Prescribing what to show and what to hide. “It is my friend,” she said—“but why disclose A woman’s weakness struggling with her woes? 310 Yes, she has grieved me by her fond complaints, The wrongs she suffers, the distress she paints; Something we do—but she afflicts me still, And says, with power to help, I want the will. This plaintive style I pity and excuse, Help when I can, and grieve when I refuse; But here my useless sorrows I resign, And will be happy in a love like thine.” The husband doubted; he was kind but cool:— “’Tis a strong friendship to arise at school; 320 Once more then, love, once more the sufferer aid— I too can pity, but I must upbraid; Of these vain feelings then thy bosom free, Nor be o’erwhelm’d by useless sympathy.” The wife again despatch’d the useless bribe, Again essay’d her terrors to describe; Again with kindest words entreated peace, And begg’d her offerings for a time might cease. A calm succeeded, but too like the one That causes terror ere the storm comes on: 330 A secret sorrow lived in Anna’s heart, In Stafford’s mind a secret fear of art; Not long they lasted—this determined foe Knew all her claims, and nothing would forego; Again her letter came, where Anna read, “My child, one cause of my distress, is dead; Heav’n has my infant.” “Heartless wretch!” she cried, “Is this thy joy?”—“I am no longer tied: Now will I, hast’ning to my friend, partake Her cares and comforts, and no more forsake; 340 Now shall we both in equal station move, Save that my friend enjoys a husband’s love.” Complaint and threats so strong the wife amazed, Who wildly on her cottage-neighbour gazed; Her tones, her trembling, first betray’d her grief; When floods of tears gave anguish its relief. She fear’d that Stafford would refuse assent, And knew her selfish friend would not relent; She must petition, yet delay’d the task, Ashamed, afraid, and yet compell’d to ask; 350 Unknown to him some object filled her mind, And, once suspicious, he became unkind.— They sate one evening, each absorb’d in gloom,} When, hark! a noise and rushing to the room,} The friend tripp’d lightly in, and laughing said, “I come.” } Anna received her with an anxious mind, And meeting whisper’d, “Is Eliza kind?” Reserved and cool, the husband sought to prove The depth and force of this mysterious love. To nought that pass’d between the stranger-friend 360 And his meek partner seem’d he to attend; But, anxious, listen’d to the lightest word That might some knowledge of his guest afford; And learn the reason one to him so dear Should feel such fondness, yet betray such fear. Soon he perceived this uninvited guest, Unwelcome too, a sovereign power possess’d; Lofty she was and careless, while the meek And humbled Anna was afraid to speak: As mute she listen’d with a painful smile, 370 Her friend sate laughing and at ease the while, Telling her idle tales with all the glee Of careless and unfeeling levity. With calm good sense he knew his wife endued, And now with wounded pride her conduct view’d; Her speech was low, her every look convey’d— “I am a slave, subservient and afraid.” All trace of comfort vanish’d if she spoke; The noisy friend upon her purpose broke, To her remarks with insolence replied, 380 And her assertions doubted or denied; While the meek Anna like an infant shook, Wo-struck and trembling at the serpent’s look. “There is,” said Stafford, “yes, there is a cause— This creature frights her, overpowers and awes.” Six weeks had pass’d—“In truth, my love, this friend Has liberal notions; what does she intend? Without a hint she came, and will she stay Till she receives the hint to go away?” Confused the wife replied, in spite of truth, 390 “I love the dear companion of my youth.” “’Tis well,” said Stafford; “then your loves renew; Trust me, your rivals, Anna, will be few.” Though playful this, she felt too much distress’d T’ admit the consolation of a jest; Ill she reposed, and in her dreams would sigh And, murmuring forth her anguish, beg to die; With sunken eye, slow pace, and pallid cheek, She look’d confusion, and she fear’d to speak. All this the friend beheld, for, quick of sight, 400 She knew the husband eager for her flight; And that by force alone she could retain The lasting comforts she had hope to gain: She now perceived, to win her post for life, She must infuse fresh terrors in the wife; Must bid to friendship’s feebler ties adieu, And boldly claim the object in her view; She saw the husband’s love, and knew the power Her friend might use in some propitious hour. Meantime the anxious wife, from pure distress 410 Assuming courage, said, “I will confess;” But with her children felt a parent’s pride, And sought once more the hated truth to hide. Offended, grieved, impatient, Stafford bore The odious change till he could bear no more. A friend to truth, in speech and action plain, He held all fraud and cunning in disdain; But fraud to find, and falsehood to detect, For once he fled to measures indirect. One day the friends were seated in that room 420 The guest with care adorn’d, and named her home. To please the eye, there curious prints were placed, And some light volumes to amuse the taste; Letters and music, on a table laid, The favourite studies of the fair betray’d; Beneath the window was the toilet spread, And the fire gleam’d upon a crimson bed. In Anna’s looks and falling tears were seen How interesting had their subjects been: “Oh! then,” resumed the friend, “I plainly find 430 That you and Stafford know each other’s mind; I must depart, must on the world be thrown, Like one discarded, worthless and unknown; But shall I carry, and to please a foe, A painful secret in my bosom? No! Think not your friend a reptile you may tread Beneath your feet, and say, the worm is dead: I have some feeling, and will not be made The scorn of her whom love cannot persuade. Would not your word, your slightest wish, effect 440 All that I hope, petition, or expect? The power you have, but you the use decline— Proof that you feel not, or you fear not mine. There was a time, when I, a tender maid, Flew at a call, and your desires obey’d; A very mother to the child became, Consoled your sorrow, and conceal’d your shame; But now, grown rich and happy, from the door You thrust a bosom-friend, despised and poor; That child alive, its mother might have known 450 The hard, ungrateful spirit she has shown.” Here paused the guest, and Anna cried at length— “You try me, cruel friend! beyond my strength; Would I had been beside my infant laid, Where none would vex me, threaten, or upbraid.” In Anna’s looks the friend beheld despair; Her speech she soften’d, and composed her air; Yet, while professing love, she answered still— “You can befriend me, but you want the will.” They parted thus, and Anna went her way, 460 To shed her secret sorrows, and to pray. Stafford, amused with books, and fond of home, By reading oft dispell’d the evening gloom; History or tale—all heard him with delight, And thus was pass’d this memorable night. The listening friend bestow’d a flattering smile; A sleeping boy the mother held the while; And, ere she fondly bore him to his bed, On his fair face the tear of anguish shed. And now, his task resumed, “My tale,” said he, 470 “Is short and sad, short may our sadness be!”— “The Caliph Harun[8], as historians tell, Ruled, for a tyrant, admirably well; Where his own pleasures were not touch’d, to men He was humane, and sometimes even then. Harun was fond of fruits, and gardens fair; And wo to all whom he found poaching there. Among his pages was a lively boy, Eager in search of every trifling joy; His feelings vivid, and his fancy strong, 480 He sigh’d for pleasure while he shrank from wrong; When by the caliph in the garden placed, He saw the treasures which he long’d to taste; And oft alone he ventured to behold Rich hanging fruits with rind of glowing gold; Too long he staid forbidden bliss to view, His virtue failing, as his longings grew; Athirst and wearied with the noon-tide heat, Fate to the garden led his luckless feet; With eager eyes and open mouth he stood, 490 Smelt the sweet breath, and touch’d the fragrant food; The tempting beauty sparkling in the sun Charm’d his young sense—he ate, and was undone. When the fond glutton paused, his eyes around He turn’d, and eyes upon him turning found; Pleased he beheld the spy, a brother-page, A friend allied in office and in age; Who promised much that secret he would be, But high the price he fix’d on secrecy. “‘Were you suspected, my unhappy friend,’ 500 Began the boy, ‘where would your sorrows end? In all the palace there is not a page The caliph would not torture in his rage: I think I see thee now impaled alive, Writhing in pangs—but come, my friend! revive; Had some beheld you, all your purse contains Could not have saved you from terrific pains; I scorn such meanness; and, if not in debt, Would not an asper on your folly set.’ “The hint was strong; young Osmyn search’d his store For bribes, and found he soon could bribe no more; 511 That time arrived, for Osmyn’s stock was small, And the young tyrant now possess’d it all; The cruel youth, with his companions near, Gave the broad hint that raised the sudden fear; Th’ ungenerous insult now was daily shown, And Osmyn’s peace and honest pride were flown; Then came augmenting woes, and fancy strong Drew forms of suffering, a tormenting throng; He felt degraded, and the struggling mind 520 Dared not be free, and could not be resign’d; And all his pains and fervent prayers obtain’d Was truce from insult, while the fears remain’d. “One day it chanced that this degraded boy And tyrant-friend were fix’d at their employ; Who now had thrown restraint and form aside, And for his bribe in plainer speech applied: ‘Long have I waited, and the last supply Was but a pittance, yet how patient I! But, give me now what thy first terrors gave, 530 My speech shall praise thee, and my silence save.’ “Osmyn had found, in many a dreadful day, The tyrant fiercer when he seem’d in play: He begg’d forbearance: ‘I have not to give; Spare me awhile, although ’tis pain to live. Oh! had that stolen fruit the power possess’d To war with life, I now had been at rest.’ “‘So fond of death,’ replied the boy, ‘’tis plain Thou hast no certain notion of the pain; But, to the caliph were a secret shown, 540 Death has no pain that would be then unknown,’ “Now,” says the story, “in a closet near, The monarch, seated, chanced the boys to hear; There oft he came, when wearied on his throne, To read, sleep, listen, pray, or be alone. “The tale proceeds: when first the caliph found That he was robb’d, although alone, he frown’d; And swore in wrath, that he would send the boy Far from his notice, favour, or employ; But gentler movements soothed his ruffled mind, 550 And his own failings taught him to be kind. “Relenting thoughts then painted Osmyn young, His passion urgent, and temptation strong; And that he suffer’d from that villain-spy Pains worse than death till he desired to die; Then, if his morals had received a stain, His bitter sorrows made him pure again; To Reason Pity lent her generous aid, For one so tempted, troubled, and betray’d; And a free pardon the glad boy restored 560 To the kind presence of a gentle lord; Who from his office and his country drove That traitor-friend, whom pains nor pray’rs could move; Who raised the fears no mortal could endure, And then with cruel av’rice sold the cure. “My tale is ended; but, to be applied, I must describe the place where caliphs hide.” Here both the females look’d alarm’d, distress’d, With hurried passions hard to be express’d. “It was a closet by a chamber placed, 570 Where slept a lady of no vulgar taste; Her friend attended in that chosen room That she had honour’d and proclaim’d her home; To please the eye were chosen pictures placed, And some light volumes to amuse the taste; Letters and music on a table laid, For much the lady wrote, and often play’d; Beneath the window was a toilet spread, And a fire gleam’d upon a crimson bed.” He paused, he rose; with troubled joy the wife 580 Felt the new era of her changeful life; Frankness and love appear’d in Stafford’s face, And all her trouble to delight gave place. Twice made the guest an effort to sustain } Her feelings, twice resumed her seat in vain,} Nor could suppress her shame, nor could support her pain. } Quick she retired, and all the dismal night Thought of her guilt, her folly, and her flight; Then sought unseen her miserable home, To think of comforts lost, and brood on wants to come. 590