The Brothers met who many a year had past Since their last meeting, and that seem’d their last; They had no parent then or common friend Who might their hearts to mutual kindness bend; Who, touching both in their divided state, Might generous thoughts and warm desires create; For there are minds whom we must first excite And urge to feeling, ere they can unite; As we may hard and stubborn metals beat And blend together, if we duly heat. 10 The elder, George, had past his threescore years, A busy actor, sway’d by hopes and fears Of powerful kind; and he had fill’d the parts That try our strength and agitate our hearts. He married not, and yet he well approved The social state; but then he rashly loved; Gave to a strong delusion all his youth, Led by a vision till alarm’d by truth. That vision past, and of that truth possest, His passions wearied and disposed to rest, 20 George yet had will and power a place to choose, Where Hope might sleep, and terminate her views. He chose his native village, and the hill He climb’d a boy had its attraction still; With that small brook beneath, where he would stand, And stooping fill the hollow of his hand, To quench th’ impatient thirst—then stop awhile To see the sun upon the waters smile, In that sweet weariness when, long denied, We drink and view the fountain that supplied 30 The sparkling bliss—and feel, if not express, Our perfect ease in that sweet weariness. The oaks yet flourish’d in that fertile ground, Where still the church with lofty tower was found; And still that Hall, a first, a favourite view, But not the elms that form’d its avenue; They fell ere George arrived, or yet had stood, For he in reverence held the living wood, That widely spreads in earth the deepening root, And lifts to heaven the still aspiring shoot; 40 From age to age they fill’d a growing space, But hid the mansion they were meant to grace. It was an ancient, venerable hall, And once surrounded by a moat and wall; A part was added by a squire of taste, Who, while unvalued acres ran to waste, Made spacious rooms, whence he could look about, And mark improvements as they rose without: He fill’d the moat, he took the wall away, He thinn’d the park, and bade the view be gay. 50 The scene was rich, but he who should behold Its worth was poor, and so the whole was sold. Just then our merchant from his desk retired, And made the purchase that his heart desired— The Hall of Binning, his delight a boy, That gave his fancy in her flight employ. Here, from his father’s modest home, he gazed, Its grandeur charm’d him, and its height amazed, Work of past ages; and the brick-built place Where he resided was in much disgrace; 60 But never in his fancy’s proudest dream Did he the master of that mansion seem. Young was he then, and little did he know What years on care and diligence bestow; Now, young no more, retired to views well known, He finds that object of his awe his own: The Hall at Binning!—how he loves the gloom That sun-excluding window gives the room; Those broad brown stairs on which he loves to tread; Those beams within; without, that length of lead, 70 On which the names of wanton boys appear, Who died old men, and left memorials here— Carvings of feet and hands, and knots and flowers, The fruits of busy minds in idle hours. Here, while our squire the modern part possess’d,} His partial eye upon the old would rest;} That best his comforts gave—this sooth’d his feelings best. } Here, day by day, withdrawn from busy life, No child t’ awake him, to engage no wife, When friends were absent, not to books inclined, 80 He found a sadness steal upon his mind; Sighing the works of former lords to see, “I follow them,” he cried, “but who will follow me?” Some ancient men whom he a boy had known He knew again; their changes were his own. Comparing now he view’d them, and he felt That time with him in lenient mood had dealt; While some the half-distinguish’d features bore } That he was doubtful if he saw before,} And some in memory lived, whom he must see no more. }90 Here George had found, yet scarcely hoped to find, Companions meet, minds fitted to his mind; Here, late and loth, the worthy rector came, From college dinners and a fellow’s fame; Yet, here when fix’d, was happy to behold So near a neighbour in a friend so old. Boys on one form they parted, now to meet In equal state, their worships on one seat. Here were a sister-pair, who seem’d to live With more respect than affluence can give; 100 Although not affluent, they, by nature graced, Had sense and virtue, dignity and taste; Their minds by sorrows, by misfortunes tried, Were vex’d and heal’d, were pain’d and purified. Hither a sage physician came, and plann’d, With books his guides, improvements on his land; Nor less to mind than matter would he give His noble thoughts, to know how spirits live, And what is spirit; him his friends advised To think with fear; but caution he despised; 110 And hints of fear provoked him till he dared Beyond himself, nor bold assertion spared, But fiercely spoke, like those who strongly feel, “Priests and their craft, enthusiasts and their zeal.” More yet appear’d, of whom as we proceed— Ah! yield not yet to languor—you shall read. But ere the events that from this meeting rose, Be they of pain or pleasure, we disclose, It is of custom, doubtless is of use, That we our heroes first should introduce. 120 Come, then, fair Truth! and let me clearly see The minds I paint, as they are seen in thee; To me their merits and their faults impart;} Give me to say, “frail being! such thou art,” } And closely let me view the naked human heart. } George loved to think; but, as he late began To muse on all the grander thoughts of man, He took a solemn and a serious view Of his religion, and he found it true; Firmly, yet meekly, he his mind applied 130 To this great subject, and was satisfied. He then proceeded, not so much intent, But still in earnest, and to church he went. Although they found some difference in their creed, He and his pastor cordially agreed, Convinced that they who would the truth obtain By disputation, find their efforts vain; The church he view’d as liberal minds will view, And there he fix’d his principles and pew. He saw—he thought he saw—how weakness, pride, 140 And habit, draw seceding crowds aside: Weakness, that loves on trifling points to dwell; Pride, that at first from Heaven’s own worship fell; And habit, going where it went before, Or to the meeting or the tavern door. George loved the cause of freedom, but reproved All who with wild and boyish ardour loved: Those who believed they never could be free, Except when fighting for their liberty; Who by their very clamour and complaint 150 Invite coercion or enforce restraint. He thought a trust so great, so good a cause, Was only to be kept by guarding laws; For, public blessings firmly to secure, We must a lessening of the good endure. The public waters are to none denied; All drink the stream, but only few must guide. There must be reservoirs to hold supply, And channels form’d to send the blessing by; The public good must be a private care; 160 None all they would may have, but all a share. So we must freedom with restraint enjoy; What crowds possess they will, uncheck’d, destroy; And hence, that freedom may to all be dealt, Guards must be fix’d, and safety must be felt. So thought our squire, nor wish’d the guards t’ appear So strong, that safety might be bought too dear; The constitution was the ark that he Join’d to support with zeal and sanctity; Nor would expose it, as th’ accursed son 170 His father’s weakness, to be gazed upon. “I for that freedom make,” said he, “my prayer, That suits with all, like atmospheric air; That is to mortal man by heaven assign’d, Who cannot bear a pure and perfect kind. The lighter gas, that, taken in the frame, The spirit heats, and sets the blood in flame: Such is the freedom which when men approve, They know not what a dangerous thing they love.” George chose the company of men of sense, 180 But could with wit in moderate share dispense; He wish’d in social ease his friends to meet, When still he thought the female accent sweet; Well from the ancient, better from the young, He loved the lispings of the mother tongue. He ate and drank, as much as men who think Of life’s best pleasures, ought to eat or drink; Men purely temperate might have taken less, But still he loved indulgence, not excess; Nor would alone the grants of fortune taste, 190 But shared the wealth he judged it crime to waste; And thus obtained the sure reward of care— For none can spend like him who learns to spare. Time, thought, and trouble made the man appear— By nature shrewd—sarcastic and severe; Still, he was one whom those who fully knew Esteem’d and trusted, one correct and true; All on his word with surety might depend, Kind as a man, and faithful as a friend. But him the many [knew] not, knew not cause 200 In their new squire for censure or applause; Ask them, “Who dwelt within that lofty wall?” And they would say, “the gentleman was tall; Look’d old when follow’d, but alert when met, And had some vigour in his movements yet; He stoops, but not as one infirm; and wears Dress that becomes his station and his years.” Such was the man who from the world return’d Nor friend nor foe; he prized it not, nor spurn’d; But came and sat him in his village down, 210 Safe from its smile, and careless of its frown: He, fairly looking into life’s account, Saw frowns and favours were of like amount; And viewing all—his perils, prospects, purse— He said, “Content! ’tis well it is no worse.” Through ways more rough had fortune Richard led, The world he traversed was the book he read; Hence clashing notions and opinions strange Lodged in his mind: all liable to change. By nature generous, open, daring, free, 220 The vice he hated was hypocrisy. Religious notions, in her latter years, His mother gave, admonish’d by her fears; To these he added, as he chanced to read A pious work or learn a christian creed. He heard the preacher by the highway side, The church’s teacher, and the meeting’s guide; And, mixing all their matters in his brain, Distill’d a something he could ill explain; But still it served him for his daily use, 230 And kept his lively passions from abuse; For he believed, and held in reverence high, The truth so dear to man—“not all shall die.” The minor portions of his creed hung loose, For time to shapen and an whole produce; This love effected, and a favourite maid With clearer views his honest flame repaid; Hers was the thought correct, the hope sublime, She shaped his creed, and did the work of time. He spake of freedom as a nation’s cause, 240 And loved, like George, our liberty and laws; But had more youthful ardour to be free, And stronger fears for injured liberty. With him, on various questions that arose, The monarch’s servants were the people’s foes; And, though he fought with all a Briton’s zeal, He felt for France as Freedom’s children feel; Went far with her in what she thought reform, And hail’d the revolutionary storm; Yet would not here, where there was least to win, 250 And most to lose, the doubtful work begin; But look’d on change with some religious fear, And cried, with filial dread, “Ah! come not here.” His friends he did not as the thoughtful choose; Long to deliberate was, he judged, to lose; Frankly he join’d the free, nor suffered pride Or doubt to part them, whom their fate allied; Men with such minds at once each other aid;} “Frankness,” they cry, “with frankness is repaid; } If honest, why suspect? if poor, of what afraid?}260 Wealth’s timid votaries may with caution move; Be it our wisdom to confide and love.” So pleasures came, (not purchased first or plann’d) But the chance pleasures that the poor command; They came but seldom, they remain’d not long, Nor gave him time to question “are they wrong?” These he enjoy’d, and left to after time To judge the folly or decide the crime; Sure had he been, he had perhaps been pure From this reproach—but Richard was not sure— 270 Yet from the sordid vice, the mean, the base, He stood aloof—death frown’d not like disgrace. With handsome figure, and with manly air, He pleased the sex, who all to him were fair; With filial love he look’d on forms decay’d, And admiration’s debt to beauty paid; On sea or land, wherever Richard went, He felt affection, and he found content; There was in him a strong presiding hope In fortune’s tempests, and it bore him up. 280 But when that mystic vine his mansion graced, When numerous branches round his board were placed, When sighs of apprehensive love were heard— Then first the spirit of the hero fear’d; Then he reflected on the father’s part, And all an husband’s sorrow touch’d his heart; Then thought he, “Who will their assistance lend? And be the children’s guide, the parent’s friend? Who shall their guardian, their protector be? I have a brother—Well!—and so has he.” 290 And now they met; a message—kind, ’tis true, But verbal only—ask’d an interview; And many a mile, perplex’d by doubt and fear, Had Richard past, unwilling to appear— “How shall I now my unknown way explore, He proud and rich—I very proud and poor? Perhaps my friend a dubious speech mistook, And George may meet me with a stranger’s look; Then to my home when I return again, } How shall I bear this business to explain, }300 And tell of hopes raised high, and feelings hurt, in vain? } “How stands the case? My brother’s friend and mine Met at an inn, and sat them down to dine: When, having settled all their own affairs, And kindly canvass’d such as were not theirs, Just as my friend was going to retire— ‘Stay!—you will see the brother of our squire,’ Said his companion; ‘be his friend, and tell The captain that his brother loves him well, And, when he has no better thing in view, 310 Will be rejoiced to see him. Now, adieu!’ Well! here I am; and, brother, take you heed, I am not come to flatter you and feed; You shall no soother, fawner, hearer find, I will not brush your coat, nor smooth your mind; I will not hear your tales the whole day long, Nor swear you’re right if I believe you wrong. Nor be a witness of the facts you state, Nor as my own adopt your love or hate: I will not earn my dinner when I dine, 320 By taking all your sentiments for mine; Nor watch the guiding motions of your eye, Before I venture question or reply; Nor when you speak affect an awe profound, Sinking my voice, as if I fear’d the sound; Nor to your looks obediently attend, The poor, the humble, the dependant friend; Yet, son of that dear mother could I meet— But lo! the mansion—’tis a fine old seat!” The Brothers met, with both too much at heart 330 To be observant of each other’s part. “Brother, I’m glad,” was all that George could say, Then stretch’d his hand, and turn’d his head away; For he in tender tears had no delight, But scorn’d the thought, and ridiculed the sight; Yet now with pleasure, though with some surprise, He felt his heart o’erflowing at his eyes. Richard, mean time, made some attempts to speak, Strong in his purpose, in his trial weak; We cannot nature by our wishes rule, 340 Nor at our will her warm emotions cool;— At length affection, like a risen tide, Stood still, and then seem’d slowly to subside; Each on the other’s looks had power to dwell, And Brother Brother greeted passing well.
TALES OF THE HALL.
BOOK II.
THE BROTHERS.
Further Account of the Meeting—Of the Men—The Mother—The Uncle—The private Tutor—The second Husband—Dinner Conversation— School of the Rector and Squire—The Master.
TALES OF THE HALL.
BOOK II.
THE BROTHERS.
At length the Brothers met, no longer tried By those strong feelings that in time subside; Not fluent yet their language, but the eye And action spoke both question and reply; Till the heart rested, and could calmly feel; Till the shook compass felt the settling steel; Till playful smiles on graver converse broke, And either speaker less abruptly spoke. Still was there oft-times silence, silence blest, Expressive, thoughtful—their emotions’ rest: 10 Pauses that came not from a want of thought, But want of ease, by wearied passion sought; For souls, when hurried by such powerful force, Rest, and retrace the pleasure of the course. They differ’d much; yet might observers trace Likeness of features both in mind and face; Pride they possess’d, that neither strove to hide, But not offensive, not obtrusive pride. Unlike had been their life, unlike the fruits Of different tempers, studies, and pursuits; 20 Nay, in such varying scenes the men had moved, ’Twas passing strange that aught alike they loved. But all distinction now was thrown apart, While these strong feelings ruled in either heart. As various colours in a painted ball, While it has rest, are seen distinctly all, Till, whirl’d around by some exterior force, They all are blended in the rapid course: So in repose, and not by passion sway’d, We saw the difference by their habits made; 30 But, tried by strong emotions, they became Fill’d with one love, and were in heart the same; Joy to the face its own expression sent, And gave a likeness in the looks it lent. All now was sober certainty; the joy That no strong passions swell till they destroy: For they, like wine, our pleasures raise so high, That they subdue our strength, and then they die. George in his brother felt a glowing pride, He wonder’d who that fertile mind supplied— 40 “Where could the wanderer gather on his road Knowledge so various? how the mind this food? No college train’d him, guideless through his life, Without a friend—not so! he has a wife. Ah! had I married, I might now have seen My——No! it never, never could have been, That long enchantment, that pernicious state!— True, I recover’d, but alas! too late— And here is Richard, poor indeed—but—nay! This is self-torment—foolish thoughts, away!” 50 Ease leads to habit, as success to ease, He lives by rule who lives himself to please; For change is trouble, and a man of wealth Consults his quiet as he guards his health; And habit now on George had sovereign power, His actions all had their accustom’d hour: At the fix’d time he slept, he walk’d, he read, Or sought his grounds, his gruel, and his bed; For every season he with caution dress’d, And morn and eve had the appropriate vest; 60 He talk’d of early mists, and night’s cold air, And in one spot was fix’d his worship’s chair. But not a custom yet on Richard’s mind Had force, or him to certain modes confined; To him no joy such frequent visits paid That habit by its beaten track was made; He was not one who at his ease could say, “We’ll live to-morrow as we lived to-day;” But he and his were as the ravens fed, As the day came it brought the daily bread. 70 George, born to fortune, though of moderate kind, Was not in haste his road through life to find. His father early lost, his mother tried} To live without him, liked it not, and—sigh’d, } When, for her widow’d hand, an amorous youth applied. } She still was young, and felt that she could share A lover’s passion, and an husband’s care; Yet past twelve years before her son was told, To his surprise, “your father you behold.” But he beheld not with his mother’s eye 80 The new relation, and would not comply, But all obedience, all connexion spurn’d, And fled their home, where he no more return’d. His father’s brother was a man whose mind Was to his business and his bank confined; His guardian care the captious nephew sought, And was received, caress’d, advised, and taught. “That Irish beggar, whom your mother took, Does you this good, he sends you to your book; Yet love not books beyond their proper worth, 90 But, when they fit you for the world, go forth: They are like beauties, and may blessings prove, When we with caution study them, or love; But, when to either we our souls devote, We grow unfitted for that world, and dote.” George to a school of higher class was sent, But he was ever grieving that he went: A still, retiring, musing, dreaming boy, He relish’d not their sudden bursts of joy; Nor the tumultuous pleasures of a rude, 100 A noisy, careless, fearless multitude. He had his own delights, as one who flies From every pleasure that a crowd supplies; Thrice he return’d, but then was weary grown, And was indulged with studies of his own. Still could the rector and his friend relate The small adventures of that distant date; And Richard listen’d as they spake of time Past in that world of misery and crime. Freed from his school, a priest of gentle kind 110 The uncle found to guide the nephew’s mind; Pleased with his teacher, George so long remain’d, The mind was weaken’d by the store it gain’d. His guardian uncle, then on foreign ground, No time to think of his improvements found; Nor had the nephew, now to manhood grown, Talents or taste for trade or commerce shown, But shunn’d a world of which he little knew, Nor of that little did he like the view. His mother chose, nor I the choice upbraid, 120 An Irish soldier of an house decay’d, And passing poor; but, precious in her eyes As she in his, they both obtain’d a prize. To do the captain justice, she might share What of her jointure his affairs could spare; Irish he was in his profusion—true, But he was Irish in affection too; And, though he spent her wealth and made her grieve, He always said “my dear” and “with your leave.” Him she survived; she saw his boy possess’d 130 Of manly spirit, and then sank to rest. Her sons thus left, some legal cause required That they should meet, but neither this desired. George, a recluse, with mind engaged, was one Who did no business, with whom none was done; Whose heart, engross’d by its peculiar care, Shared no one’s counsel—no one his might share. Richard, a boy, a lively boy, was told Of his half-brother, haughty, stern, and cold; And his boy folly, or his manly pride, 140 Made him on measures cool and harsh decide. So, when they met, a distant cold salute Was of a long-expected day the fruit; The rest by proxies managed, each withdrew, Vex’d by the business and the brother too; But now they met when time had calm’d the mind; Both wish’d for kindness, and it made them kind. George had no wife or child, and was disposed To love the man on whom his hope reposed: Richard had both; and those so well beloved, 150 Husband and father were to kindness moved; And thus th’ affections check’d, subdued, restrain’d, Rose in their force, and in their fulness reign’d. The bell now bids to dine; the friendly priest, Social and shrewd, the day’s delight increased. Brief and abrupt their speeches while they dined, Nor were their themes of intellectual kind; Nor, dinner past, did they to these advance, But left the subjects they discuss’d to chance. Richard, whose boyhood in the place was spent, 160 Profound attention to the speakers lent, Who spake of men; and, as he heard a name, Actors and actions to his memory came. Then, too, the scenes he could distinctly trace, Here he had fought, and there had gain’d a race; In that church-walk he had affrighted been; In that old tower he had a something seen— What time, dismiss’d from school, he upward cast A fearful look, and trembled as he past. No private tutor Richard’s parents sought, 170 Made keen by hardship, and by trouble taught; They might have sent him—some the counsel gave— Seven gloomy winters of the North to brave: Where a few pounds would pay for board and bed, While the poor frozen boy was taught and fed; When, say he lives, fair, freckled, lank and lean, The lad returns shrewd, subtle, close and keen; With all the northern virtues, and the rules Taught to the thrifty in these thriving schools. There had he gone, and borne this trying part— 180 But Richard’s mother had a mother’s heart. Now squire and rector were return’d to school, And spoke of him who there had sovereign rule: He was, it seem’d, a tyrant of the sort Who make the cries of tortured boys his sport; One of a race, if not extinguish’d, tamed— The flogger now is of the act ashamed; But this great mind all mercy’s calls withstood; This Holofernes was a man of blood. “Students,” he said, “like horses on the road, 190 Must well be lash’d before they take the load; They may be willing for a time to run, But you must whip them ere the work be done. To tell a boy, that, if he will improve, His friends will praise him, and his parents love, Is doing nothing—he has not a doubt But they will love him, nay, applaud, without; Let no fond sire a boy’s ambition trust, To make him study, let him see he must.” Such his opinion; and, to prove it true, 200 At least sincere, it was his practice too. Pluto they call’d him, and they named him well: ’Twas not an heaven where he was pleased to dwell. From him a smile was like the Greenland sun, Surprising, nay portentous, when it shone; Or like the lightning, for the sudden flash Prepared the children for the thunder’s crash. O! had Narcissa, when she fondly kiss’d The weeping boy whom she to school dismiss’d, Had she beheld him shrinking from the arm 210 Uplifted high to do the greater harm, Then seen her darling stript, and that pure white, And—O! her soul had fainted at the sight; And with those looks that love could not withstand, She would have cried, “Barbarian, hold thy hand!” In vain! no grief to this stern soul could speak, No iron-tear roll down this Pluto’s cheek. Thus far they went, half earnest, half in jest, Then turn’d to themes of deeper interest; While Richard’s mind, that for awhile had stray’d, 220 Call’d home its powers, and due attention paid.