Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу автора  Poems, Volume 2 (of 3)

George Crabbe

CAMBRIDGE ENGLISH CLASSICS

Poems
by
George Crabbe

In Three Volumes

GEORGE CRABBE

Born, 1754
Died, 1832

GEORGE CRABBE

POEMS

EDITED BY

ADOLPHUS WILLIAM WARD

Litt.D., Hon. LL.D., F.B.A.
Master of Peterhouse

Volume II

Cambridge:
at the University Press
1906

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE

C. F. CLAY, Manager.
London:FETTER LANE, E.C.
Glasgow: 50, WELLINGTON STREET.

Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS.
New York: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd.

[All Rights reserved]

PREFACE.

The poems contained in this volume, which comprise the whole of the Tales and the first eleven of the Tales of the Hall, are without exception printed from the edition of 1823, the last of Crabbe’s works published in this country in his lifetime.

The Variants in the Tales are from the first edition (1812) and from the ‘Original MS.’ readings given as footnotes in the younger Crabbe’s edition of his father’s Life and Poems (1834). The Variants in the Tales of the Hall are from the first edition (1819); from the ‘Original MS.’ readings as above; from the Crabbe MSS. in the possession of the Cambridge University Press (which will be described in the Preface to Vol. III, where a much fuller use will be made of them), and from the MSS. in the valuable collection of Mrs Mackay of Trowbridge, most kindly lent by her for examination and use (to which the same remark applies). In the present volume will also be found certain Addenda to the Variants in Vol. I, from the ‘Original MS.’ readings printed by the younger Crabbe.

Among the Errata in this volume are included a considerable number of quotations from Shakespeare with wrong indications of acts or scenes, and occasionally even of the plays from which the passages are taken. A large proportion of the quotations are in themselves imperfect, or otherwise incorrect. Perhaps it is stretching a point to treat all these defects as oversights; sometimes Crabbe may have made intentional changes, and more frequently he may have been wilfully careless. No readings which he could have found in any current edition of Shakespeare have been altered.

In the preparation of the present volume, I have again enjoyed the advantage of the friendly aid and cooperation of Mr A. T. Bartholomew, to whom I am specially indebted for the compilation of the Variants. Our joint efforts have been occasionally defeated by the illegibility of passages in the Crabbe MSS. acquired by our University Press. It is hoped that the third and concluding volume of this edition, which will contain a considerable amount of previously unpublished verse, will appear in the course of the summer.

A. W. WARD.

Peterhouse Lodge, Cambridge.
March 19th, 1906.

CONTENTS.

TALES

  PAGE

I. 

The Dumb Orators  13

II. 

The Parting Hour  27

III. 

The Gentleman Farmer  41

IV. 

Procrastination  56

V. 

The Patron  67

VI. 

The Frank Courtship  87

VII. 

The Widow’s Tale 101

VIII. 

The Mother 113

IX. 

Arabella 124

X. 

The Lover’s Journey 134

XI. 

Edward Shore 145

XII. 

’Squire Thomas 159

XIII. 

Jesse and Colin 170

XIV. 

The Struggles of Conscience 185

XV. 

The ’Squire and the Priest 199

XVI. 

The Confidant 211

XVII. 

Resentment 228

XVIII. 

The Wager 242

XIX. 

The Convert 251

XX. 

The Brothers 264

XXI. 

The Learned Boy 276

TALES

OF THE HALL

I. 

The Hall 302

II. 

The Brothers 312

III. 

Boys at School 319

IV. 

Adventures of Richard 332

V. 

Ruth 346

VI. 

Adventures of Richard

(

concluded

)

359

VII. 

The Elder Brother 371

VIII. 

The Sisters 394

IX. 

The Preceptor Husband 419

X. 

The Old Bachelor 430

XI. 

The Maid’s Story 451

TALES.

TO
HER GRACE ISABELLA

DUCHESS DOWAGER OF RUTLAND.

Madam,

The dedication of works of literature to persons of superior worth and eminence appears to have been a measure early adopted, and continued to the present time; so that, whatever objections have been made to the language of dedicators, such addresses must be considered as perfectly consistent with reason and propriety; in fact, superior rank and elevated situation in life naturally and justly claim such respect and it is the prerogative of greatness to give countenance and favour to all who appear to merit and to need them; it is likewise the prerogative of every kind of superiority and celebrity, of personal merit when peculiar or extraordinary, of dignity, elegance, wealth, and beauty, certainly of superior intellect and intellectual acquirements; every such kind of eminence has its privilege, and, being itself an object of distinguished approbation, it gains attention for whomsoever its possessor distinguishes and approves.

Yet the causes and motives for an address of this kind rest not entirely with the merit of the patron, the feelings of the author himself having their weight and consideration in the choice he makes; he may have gratitude for benefits received, or pride not illaudable in aspiring to the favour of those whose notice confers honour; or he may entertain a secret but strong desire of seeing a name in the entrance of his work which he is accustomed to utter with peculiar satisfaction, and to hear mentioned with veneration and delight.

Such, madam, are the various kinds of eminence for which an author on these occasions would probably seek, and they meet in your grace; such too are the feelings by which he would be actuated, and they centre in me: let me therefore entreat your grace to take this book into your favour and protection, and to receive it as an offering of the utmost respect and duty, from,

May it please Your Grace,  

Your Grace’s  

Most obedient, humble,  

And devoted servant,  

GEORGE CRABBE.

Muston, July 31, 1812.

PREFACE.

That the appearance of the present work before the public is occasioned by a favourable reception of the former two, I hesitate not to acknowledge; because, while the confession may be regarded as some proof of gratitude, or at least of attention from an author to his readers, it ought not to be considered as an indication of vanity. It is unquestionably very pleasant to be assured that our labours are well received; but, nevertheless, this must not be taken for a just and full criterion of their merit: publications of great intrinsic value have been met with so much coolness, that a writer who succeeds in obtaining some degree of notice should look upon himself rather as one favoured than meritorious, as gaining a prize from Fortune, and not a recompense for desert; and, on the contrary, as it is well known that books of very inferior kind have been at once pushed into the strong current of popularity, and are there kept buoyant by the force of the stream, the writer who acquires not this adventitious help may be reckoned rather as unfortunate than undeserving; and from these opposite considerations it follows, that a man may speak of his success without incurring justly the odium of conceit, and may likewise acknowledge a disappointment without an adequate cause for humiliation or self-reproach.

But were it true that something of the complacency of self-approbation would insinuate itself into an author’s mind with the idea of success, the sensation would not be that of unalloyed pleasure; it would perhaps assist him to bear, but it would not enable him to escape, the mortification he must encounter from censures, which, though he may be unwilling to admit, yet he finds himself unable to confute; as well as from advice, which, at the same time that he cannot but approve, he is compelled to reject.

Reproof and advice, it is probable, every author will receive, if we except those who merit so much of the former, that the latter is contemptuously denied them; now of these, reproof, though it may cause more temporary uneasiness, will in many cases create less difficulty, since errors may be corrected when opportunity occurs; but advice, I repeat, may be of such nature, that it will be painful to reject, and yet impossible to follow it; and in this predicament I conceive myself to be placed. There has been recommended to me, and from authority which neither inclination nor prudence leads me to resist, in any new work I might undertake, an unity of subject, and that arrangement of my materials which connects the whole and gives additional interest to every part; in fact, if not an Epic Poem, strictly so denominated, yet such composition as would possess a regular succession of events, and a catastrophe to which every incident should be subservient, and which every character, in a greater or less degree, should conspire to accomplish.

In a Poem of this nature, the principal and inferior characters in some degree resemble a general and his army, where no one pursues his peculiar objects and adventures, [but] pursues them in unison with the movements and grand purposes of the whole body; where there is a community of interests and a subordination of actors; and it was upon this view of the subject, and of the necessity for such distribution of persons and events, that I found myself obliged to relinquish an undertaking, for which the characters I could command, and the adventures I could describe, were altogether unfitted.

But if these characters which seemed to be at my disposal were not such as would coalesce into one body, nor were of a nature to be commanded by one mind, so neither on examination did they appear as an unconnected multitude, accidentally collected, to be suddenly dispersed; but rather beings of whom might be formed groups and smaller societies, the relations of whose adventures and pursuits might bear that kind of similitude to an Heroic Poem, which these minor associations of men (as pilgrims on the way to their saint, or parties in search of amusement, travellers excited by curiosity, or adventurers in pursuit of gain) have in points of connexion and importance with a regular and disciplined army.

Allowing this comparison, it is manifest that while much is lost for want of unity of subject and grandeur of design, something is gained by greater variety of incident and more minute display of character, by accuracy of description and diversity of scene: in these narratives we pass from gay to grave, from lively to severe, not only without impropriety, but with manifest advantage. In one continued and connected Poem, the reader is, in general, highly gratified or severely disappointed; by many independent narratives, he has the renovation of hope, although he has been dissatisfied, and a prospect of reiterated pleasure, should he find himself entertained.

I mean not, however, to compare these different modes of writing as if I were balancing their advantages and defects before I could give preference to either; with me the way I take is not a matter of choice, but of necessity; I present not my Tales to the reader as if I had chosen the best method of ensuring his approbation, but as using the only means I possessed of engaging his attention.

It may probably be remarked that Tales, however dissimilar, might have been connected by some associating circumstance to which the whole number might bear equal affinity, and that examples of such union are to be found in Chaucer, in Boccace, and other collectors and inventors of Tales, which, considered in themselves, are altogether independent; and to this idea I gave so much consideration as convinced me that I could not avail myself of the benefit of such artificial mode of affinity. To imitate the English poet, characters must be found adapted to their several relations, and this is a point of great difficulty and hazard; much allowance seems to be required even for Chaucer himself, since it is difficult to conceive that on any occasion the devout and delicate Prioress, the courtly and valiant Knight, and “the poure good Man the persone of a Towne,” would be the voluntary companions of the drunken Miller, the licentious Sompnour, and “the Wanton Wife of Bath,” and enter into that colloquial and travelling intimacy which, if a common pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Thomas may be said to excuse, I know nothing beside (and certainly nothing in these times) that would produce such effect. Boccace, it is true, avoids all difficulty of this kind, by not assigning to the ten relators of his hundred Tales any marked or peculiar characters; nor, though there are male and female in company, can the sex of the narrator be distinguished in the narration. To have followed the method of Chaucer might have been of use, but could scarcely be adopted, from its difficulty; and to have taken that of the Italian writer would have been perfectly easy, but could be of no service: the attempt at union therefore has been relinquished, and these relations are submitted to the public, connected by no other circumstance than their being the productions of the same author, and devoted to the same purpose, the entertainment of his readers.

It has been already acknowledged, that these compositions have no pretensions to be estimated with the more lofty and heroic kind of poems, but I feel great reluctance in admitting that they have not a fair and legitimate claim to the poetic character. In vulgar estimation, indeed, all that is not prose passes for poetry, but I have not ambition of so humble a kind as to be satisfied with a concession which requires nothing in the poet, except his ability for counting syllables, and I trust something more of the poetic character will be allowed to the succeeding pages than what the heroes of the Dunciad might share with the author; nor was I aware that by describing, as faithfully as I could, men, manners, and things, I was forfeiting a just title to a name which has been freely granted to many whom to equal, and even to excel, is but very stinted commendation.

In this case it appears that the usual comparison between poetry and painting entirely fails: the artist who takes an accurate likeness of individuals, or a faithful representation of scenery, may not rank so high in the public estimation as one who paints an historical event, or an heroic action; but he is nevertheless a painter, and his accuracy is so far from diminishing his reputation, that it procures for him in general both fame and emolument; nor is it perhaps with strict justice determined that the credit and reputation of those verses which strongly and faithfully delineate character and manners, should be lessened in the opinion of the public by the very accuracy which gives value and distinction to the productions of the pencil.

Nevertheless, it must be granted that the pretensions of any composition to be regarded as poetry will depend upon that definition of the poetic character which he who undertakes to determine the question has considered as decisive; and it is confessed also that one of great authority may be adopted, by which the verses now before the reader, and many others which have probably amused and delighted him, must be excluded: a definition like this will be found in the words which the greatest of poets, not divinely inspired, has given to the most noble and valiant Duke of Athens—

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as Imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation, and a name[1].”

Hence we observe the poet is one who, in the excursions of his fancy between heaven and earth, lights upon a kind of fairyland, in which he places a creation of his own, where he embodies shapes, and gives action and adventure to his ideal offspring; taking captive the imagination of his readers, he elevates them above the grossness of actual being, into the soothing and pleasant atmosphere of supra-mundane existence: there he obtains for his visionary inhabitants the interest that engages a reader’s attention without ruffling his feelings, and excites that moderate kind of sympathy which the realities of nature oftentimes fail to produce, either because they are so familiar and insignificant that they excite no determinate emotion, or are so harsh and powerful that the feelings excited are grating and distasteful.

Be it then granted that (as Duke Theseus observes) “such tricks hath strong Imagination,” and that such poets “are of imagination all compact;” let it be further conceded, that theirs is a higher and more dignified kind of composition, nay, the only kind that has pretensions to inspiration: still, that these poets should so entirely engross the title as to exclude those who address their productions to the plain sense and sober judgment of their readers, rather than to their fancy and imagination, I must repeat that I am unwilling to admit—because I conceive that, by granting such right of exclusion, a vast deal of what has been hitherto received as genuine poetry would no longer be entitled to that appellation.

All that kind of satire wherein character is skillfully delineated must (this criterion being allowed) no longer be esteemed as genuine poetry; and for the same reason many affecting narratives which are founded on real events, and borrow no aid whatever from the imagination of the writer, must likewise be rejected: a considerable part of the poems, as they have hitherto been denominated, of Chaucer, are of this naked and unveiled character; and there are in his Tales many pages of coarse, accurate, and minute, but very striking description. Many small poems in a subsequent age, of most impressive kind, are adapted and addressed to the common sense of the reader, and prevail by the strong language of truth and nature; they amused our ancestors, and they continue to engage our interest, and excite our feelings, by the same powerful appeals to the heart and affections. In times less remote, Dryden has given us much of this poetry, in which the force of expression and accuracy of description have neither needed nor obtained assistance from the fancy of the writer; the characters in his Absalom and Achitophel are instances of this, and more especially those of Doeg and Og in the second part: these, with all their grossness, and almost offensive accuracy, are found to possess that strength and spirit which has preserved from utter annihilation the dead bodies of Tate, to whom they were inhumanly bound, happily with a fate the reverse of that caused by the cruelty of Mezentius; for there the living perished in the putrefaction of the dead, and here the dead are preserved by the vitality of the living. And, to bring forward one other example, it will be found that Pope himself has no small portion of this actuality of relation, this nudity of description, and poetry without an atmosphere; the lines beginning, “In the worst inn’s worst room,” are an example, and many others may be seen in his Satires, Imitations, and above all in his Dunciad: the frequent absence of those “Sports of Fancy,” and “Tricks of strong Imagination,” have been so much observed, that some have ventured to question whether even this writer were a poet; and though, as Dr. Johnson has remarked, it would be difficult to form a definition of one in which Pope should not be admitted, yet they who doubted his claim, had, it is likely, provided for his exclusion by forming that kind of character for their poet, in which this elegant versifier, for so he must be then named, should not be comprehended.

These things considered, an author will find comfort in his expulsion from the rank and society of poets, by reflecting that men much his superiors were likewise shut out, and more especially when he finds also that men not much his superiors are entitled to admission.

But in whatever degree I may venture to differ from any others in my notions of the qualifications and character of the true poet, I most cordially assent to their opinion who assert that his principal exertions must be made to engage the attention of his readers; and further, I must allow that the effect of poetry should be to lift the mind from the painful realities of actual existence, from its every-day concerns, and its perpetually occurring vexations, and to give it repose by substituting objects in their place which it may contemplate with some degree of interest and satisfaction; but what is there in all this, which may not be effected by a fair representation of existing character? nay, by a faithful delineation of those painful realities, those every-day concerns, and those perpetually-occurring vexations themselves, provided they be not (which is hardly to be supposed) the very concerns and distresses of the reader? for, when it is admitted that they have no particular relation to him, but are the troubles and anxieties of other men, they excite and interest his feelings as the imaginary exploits, adventures, and perils of romance;—they soothe his mind, and keep his curiosity pleasantly awake; they appear to have enough of reality to engage his sympathy, but possess not interest sufficient to create painful sensations. Fiction itself, we know, and every work of fancy, must for a time have the effect of realities; nay, the very enchanters, spirits, and monsters of Ariosto and Spenser must be present in the mind of the reader while he is engaged by their operations, or they would be as the objects and incidents of a nursery tale to a rational understanding, altogether despised and neglected: in truth, I can but consider this pleasant effect upon the mind of a reader as depending neither upon the events related (whether they be actual or imaginary), nor upon the characters introduced (whether taken from life or fancy), but upon the manner in which the poem itself is conducted; let that be judiciously managed, and the occurrences actually copied from life will have the same happy effect as the inventions of a creative fancy;—while, on the other hand, the imaginary persons and incidents to which the poet has given “a local habitation, and a name,” will make upon the concurring feelings of the reader the same impressions with those taken from truth and nature, because they will appear to be derived from that source, and therefore of necessity will have a similar effect.

Having thus far presumed to claim for the ensuing pages the rank and title of poetry, I attempt no more, nor venture to class or compare them with any other kinds of poetical composition; their place will doubtless be found for them.

A principal view and wish of the poet must be to engage the mind of his readers, as, failing in that point, he will scarcely succeed in any other: I therefore willingly confess that much of my time and assiduity has been devoted to this purpose; but, to the ambition of pleasing, no other sacrifices have, I trust, been made, than of my own labour and care. Nothing will be found that militates against the rules of propriety and good manners, nothing that offends against the more important precepts of morality and religion; and with this negative kind of merit, I commit my book to the judgment and taste of the reader—not being willing to provoke his vigilance by professions of accuracy, nor to solicit his indulgence by apologies for mistakes.

TALE I.

THE DUMB ORATORS;

OR,

THE BENEFIT OF SOCIETY.

[In] fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe... Full of wise saws and modern instances. As you Like it, Act II. Scene 7.

Deep shame hath struck me dumb. King John, Act IV. Scene 2.

He gives the bastinado with his tongue, Our ears are cudgell’d. King John, Act IV. Scene 1.

Let’s kill all the lawyers; Now show yourselves men: ’tis for liberty: We will not leave one lord or gentleman. 2 Henry VI. Act IV. Scene 2.

And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. Twelfth Night, Act V. Scene last.

TALE I.

THE DUMB ORATORS.

That all men would be cowards if they dare, Some men we know have courage to declare; And this the life of many an hero shows, That like the tide, man’s courage ebbs and flows: With friends and gay companions round them, then Men boldly speak and have the hearts of men; Who, with opponents seated, miss the aid Of kind applauding looks, and grow afraid; Like timid trav’llers in the night, they fear Th’ assault of foes, when not a friend is near. 10 In contest mighty and of conquest proud Was Justice Bolt, impetuous, warm, and loud; His fame, his prowess all the country knew, And disputants, with one so fierce, were few. He was a younger son, for law design’d, With dauntless look and persevering mind; While yet a clerk, for disputation famed, No efforts tired him, and no conflicts tamed. Scarcely he bade his master’s desk adieu, When both his brothers from the world withdrew. 20 An ample fortune he from them possess’d, And was with saving care and prudence bless’d. Now would he go and to the country give Example how an English ’squire should live; How bounteous, yet how frugal man may be, By a well-order’d hospitality; He would the rights of all so well maintain, That none should idle be, and none complain. All this and more he purposed—and what man Could do, he did to realize his plan; 30 But time convinced him that we cannot keep A breed of reasoners like a flock of sheep; For they, so far from following as we lead, Make that a cause why they will not proceed. Man will not follow where a rule is shown, But loves to take a method of his own; Explain the way with all your care and skill, This will he quit, if but to prove he will.— Yet had our Justice honour—and the crowd, Awed by his presence, their respect avow’d. 40 In later years he found his heart incline, More than in youth, to gen’rous food and wine; But no indulgence check’d the powerful love He felt to teach, to argue, and reprove. Meetings, or public calls, he never miss’d— To dictate often, always to assist. Oft he the clergy join’d, and not a cause Pertain’d to them but he could quote the laws; He upon tithes and residence display’d A fund of knowledge for the hearer’s aid; 50 And could on glebe and farming, wool and grain, A long discourse, without a pause, maintain. To his experience and his native sense He join’d a bold imperious eloquence; The grave, stern look of men inform’d and wise, } A full command of feature, heart, and eyes, } An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size. } When at the table, not a guest was seen With appetite so ling’ring, or so keen; But when the outer man no more required, 60 The inner waked, and he was man inspired. His subjects then were those, a subject true Presents in fairest form to public view; Of Church and State, of Law, with mighty strength Of words he spoke, in speech of mighty length; And now, into the vale of years declined, He hides too little of the monarch-mind; He kindles anger by untimely jokes, And opposition by contempt provokes; Mirth he suppresses by his awful frown, 70 And humble spirits, by disdain, keeps down; Blamed by the mild, approved by the severe, The prudent fly him, and the valiant fear. For overbearing is his proud discourse, And overwhelming of his voice the force; And overpowering is he when he shows What floats upon a mind that always overflows. This ready man at every meeting rose, Something to hint, determine, or propose; And grew so fond of teaching, that he taught80 Those who instruction needed not or sought. Happy our hero, when he could excite Some thoughtless talker to the wordy fight: Let him a subject at his pleasure choose, Physic or Law, Religion or the Muse; On all such themes he was prepared to shine, Physician, poet, lawyer, and divine. Hemm’d in by some tough argument, borne down By press of language and the awful frown, In vain for mercy shall the culprit plead;90 His crime is past, and sentence must proceed: Ah! suffering man, have patience, bear thy woes— For lo! the clock—at ten the Justice goes. This powerful man, on business or to please A curious taste, or weary grown of ease, On a long journey travell’d many a mile Westward, and halted midway in our isle; Content to view a city large and fair, Though none had notice what a man was there! Silent two days, he then began to long 100 Again to try a voice so loud and strong; To give his favourite topics some new grace, And gain some glory in such distant place; To reap some present pleasure, and to sow Seeds of fair fame, in after-time to grow: Here will men say, “We heard, at such an hour, The best of speakers—wonderful his power.” Inquiry made, he found that day would meet A learned club, and in the very street: Knowledge to gain and give, was the design; 110 To speak, to hearken, to debate, and dine: This pleased our traveller, for he felt his force In either way, to eat or to discourse. Nothing more easy than to gain access To men like these, with his polite address: So he succeeded, and first look’d around, To view his objects and to take his ground; And therefore silent chose awhile to sit, Then enter boldly by some lucky hit, Some observation keen or stroke severe, 120 To cause some wonder or excite some fear. Now, dinner past, no longer he suppress’d His strong dislike to be a silent guest; Subjects and words were now at his command— When disappointment frown’d on all he plann’d; For, hark!—he heard, amazed, on every side, His church insulted and her priests belied; The laws reviled, the ruling power abused, The land derided, and its foes excused:— He heard and ponder’d.—What, to men so vile, 130 Should be his language? For his threat’ning style They were too many;—if his speech were meek, They would despise such poor attempts to speak: At other times with every word at will, He now sat lost, perplex’d, astonish’d, still. Here were Socinians, Deists, and indeed} All who, as foes to England’s church, agreed;} But still with creeds unlike, and some without a creed: } Here, too, fierce friends of liberty he saw, Who own’d no prince and who obey no law; 140 There were Reformers of each different sort, Foes to the laws, the priesthood, and the court; Some on their favourite plans alone intent, Some purely angry and malevolent: The rash were proud to blame their country’s laws; The vain, to seem supporters of a cause; One call’d for change that he would dread to see; Another sigh’d for Gallic liberty! And numbers joining with the forward crew, For no one reason—but that numbers do. 150 “How,” said the Justice, “can this trouble rise, This shame and pain, from creatures I despise?” And conscience answer’d—“The prevailing cause Is thy delight in listening to applause; Here, thou art seated with a tribe, who spurn Thy favourite themes, and into laughter turn Thy fears and wishes; silent and obscure, Thyself, shalt thou the long harangue endure; And learn, by feeling, what it is to force On thy unwilling friends the long discourse. 160 What though thy thoughts be just, and these, it seems, Are traitors’ projects, idiots’ empty schemes: Yet minds like bodies cramm’d, reject their food, Nor will be forced and tortured for their good!” At length, a sharp, shrewd, sallow man arose, And begg’d he briefly might his mind disclose; “It was his duty, in these worst of times, T’ inform the govern’d of their rulers’ crimes.” This pleasant subject to attend, they each Prepared to listen, and forbore to teach. 170 Then, voluble and fierce, the wordy man Through a long chain of favourite horrors ran:— First, of the church, from whose enslaving power He was deliver’d, and he bless’d the hour; “Bishops and deans, and prebendaries all,” He said, “were cattle fatt’ning in the stall; Slothful and pursy, insolent and mean, Were every bishop, prebendary, dean, And wealthy rector; curates, poorly paid, Were only dull;—he would not them upbraid.” 180 From priests he turn’d to canons, creeds, and prayers, Rubrics and rules, and all our church affairs; Churches themselves, desk, pulpit, altar, all The Justice reverenced—and pronounced their fall. Then from religion Hammond turn’d his view, To give our rulers the correction due; Not one wise action had these triflers plann’d; There was, it seem’d, no wisdom in the land; Save in this patriot tribe, who meet at times To show the statesman’s errors and his crimes. 190 Now here was Justice Bolt compell’d to sit, To hear the deist’s scorn, the rebel’s wit; The fact mis-stated, the envenom’d lie, And staring, spell-bound, made not one reply. Then were our laws abused—and with the laws, All who prepare, defend, or judge a cause: “We have no lawyer whom a man can trust,” Proceeded Hammond—“if the laws were just; But they are evil; ’tis the savage state Is only good, and ours sophisticate! 200 See! the free creatures in their woods and plains, Where without laws each happy monarch reigns, King of himself—while we a number dread, By slaves commanded and by dunces led; Oh, let the name with either state agree— Savage our own we’ll name, and civil theirs shall be.” The silent Justice still astonish’d sate, And wonder’d much whom he was gazing at; Twice he essay’d to speak—but in a cough The faint, indignant, dying speech went off: 210 “But who is this?” thought he—“a dæmon vile, With wicked meaning and a vulgar style: Hammond they call him; they can give the name Of man to devils.—Why am I so tame? Why crush I not the viper?”—Fear replied, “Watch him awhile, and let his strength be tried; He will be foil’d, if man; but if his aid Be from beneath, ’tis well to be afraid.” “We are call’d free!” said Hammond—“doleful times When rulers add their insult to their crimes; 220 For, should our scorn expose each powerful vice, It would be libel, and we pay the price.” Thus with licentious words the man went on, Proving that liberty of speech was gone; That all were slaves—nor had we better chance For better times than as allies to France. Loud groan’d the stranger—Why, he must relate, And own’d, “In sorrow for his country’s fate.” “Nay, she were safe,” the ready man replied, “Might patriots rule her, and could reasoners guide; 230 When all to vote, to speak, to teach, are free, Whate’er their creeds or their opinions be; When books of statutes are consumed in flames, And courts and copyholds are empty names; Then will be times of joy—but ere they come, Havock, and war, and blood must be our doom.” The man here paused—then loudly for reform He call’d, and hail’d the prospect of the storm; The wholesome blast, the fertilizing flood— Peace gain’d by tumult, plenty bought with blood: 240 Sharp means, he own’d; but when the land’s disease Asks cure complete, no med’cines are like these. Our Justice now, more led by fear than rage, Saw it in vain with madness to engage; With imps of darkness no man seeks to fight, Knaves to instruct, or set deceivers right. Then, as the daring speech denounced these woes, Sick at the soul, the grieving guest arose; Quick on the board his ready cash he threw, And from the dæmons to his closet flew. 250 There when secured, he pray’d with earnest zeal, That all they wish’d these patriot-souls might feel; “Let them to France, their darling country, haste, And all the comforts of a Frenchman taste; Let them his safety, freedom, pleasure know, } Feel all their rulers on the land bestow; } And be at length dismiss’d by one unerring blow; } Not hack’d and hew’d by one afraid to strike, But shorn by that which shears all men alike; Nor, as in Britain, let them curse delay }260 Of law, but borne without a form away—} Suspected, tried, condemn’d, and carted in a day; } Oh! let them taste what they so much approve, These strong fierce freedoms of the land they love[2].” Home came our hero, to forget no more The fear he felt and ever most deplore: For, though he quickly join’d his friends again, And could with decent force his themes maintain, Still it occurr’d that, in a luckless time, He fail’d to fight with heresy and crime; 270 It was observed his words were not so strong, His tones so powerful, his harangues so long, As in old times—for he would often drop The lofty look, and of a sudden stop; When conscience whisper’d, that he once was still, And let the wicked triumph at their will; And therefore now, when not a foe was near, He had no right so valiant to appear. Some years had pass’d, and he perceived his fears Yield to the spirit of his earlier years— 280 When at a meeting, with his friends beside, He saw an object that awaked his pride; His shame, wrath, vengeance, indignation—all Man’s harsher feelings did that sight recall. For lo! beneath him fix’d, our man of law That lawless man the foe of order saw— Once fear’d, now scorn’d; once dreaded, now abhorr’d; A wordy man, and evil every word. Again he gazed—“It is,” said he, “the same; Caught and secure: his master owes him shame:” 290 So thought our hero, who each instant found His courage rising, from the numbers round. As when a felon has escaped and fled, So long, that law conceives the culprit dead; And back recall’d her myrmidons, intent On some new game, and with a stronger scent; Till she beholds him in a place, where none Could have conceived the culprit would have gone; There he sits upright in his seat, secure, As one whose conscience is correct and pure; 300 This rouses anger for the old offence, And scorn for all such seeming and pretence: So on this Hammond look’d our hero bold, Rememb’ring well that vile offence of old; And now he saw the rebel dared t’ intrude} Among the pure, the loyal, and the good;} The crime provoked his wrath, the folly stirr’d his blood. } Nor wonder was it if so strange a sight Caused joy with vengeance, terror with delight; Terror like this a tiger might create,}310 A joy like that to see his captive state,} At once to know his force and then decree his fate. } Hammond, much praised by numerous friends, was come To read his lectures, so admired at home: Historic lectures, where he loved to mix His free plain hints on modern politics. Here, he had heard, that numbers had design, Their business finish’d, to sit down and dine; This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right To show by day, that he could speak at night. 320 Rash the design—for he perceived, too late, Not one approving friend beside him sate; The greater number, whom he traced around, Were men in black, and he conceived they frown’d. “I will not speak,” he thought; “no pearls of mine Shall be presented to this herd of swine;” Not this avail’d him, when he cast his eye On Justice Bolt; he could not fight, nor fly. He saw a man to whom he gave the pain, Which now he felt must be return’d again; 330 His conscience told him with what keen delight He, at that time, enjoy’d a stranger’s fright; That stranger now befriended—he alone, For all his insult, friendless, to atone; Now he could feel it cruel that a heart Should be distress’d, and none to take its part; “Though one by one,” said Pride, “I would defy } Much greater men, yet meeting every eye, } I do confess a fear—but he will pass me by.”} Vain hope! the Justice saw the foe’s distress, 340 With exultation he could not suppress; He felt the fish was hook’d—and so forbore, In playful spite, to draw it to the shore. Hammond look’d round again; but none were near, With friendly smile, to still his growing fear; But all above him seem’d a solemn row Of priests and deacons, so they seem’d below; He wonder’d who his right-hand man might be— Vicar of Holt cum Uppingham was he; And who the man of that dark frown possess’d— 350 Rector of Bradley and of Barton-west; “A pluralist,” he growl’d—but check’d the word, That warfare might not, by his zeal, be stirr’d. But now began the man above to show Fierce looks and threat’nings to the man below; Who had some thoughts his peace by flight to seek— But how then lecture, if he dared not speak!— Now as the Justice for the war prepared, He seem’d just then to question if he dared: “He may resist, although his power be small, 360 And growing desperate may defy us all; One dog attack, and he prepares for flight— Resist another, and he strives to bite; Nor can I say, if this rebellious cur Will fly for safety, or will scorn to stir.” Alarm’d by this, he lash’d his soul to rage, Burn’d with strong shame, and hurried to engage. As a male turkey straggling on the green, When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen, He feels the insult of the noisy train, 370 And sculks aside, though moved by much disdain; But when that turkey, at his own barn-door, Sees one poor straying puppy and no more, (A foolish puppy who had left the pack, Thoughtless what foe was threat’ning at his back,) He moves about, as ship prepared to sail, He hoists his proud rotundity of tail, The half-seal’d eyes and changeful neck he shows, Where, in its quick’ning colours, vengeance glows; From red to blue the pendant wattles turn, 380 Blue mix’d with red, as matches when they burn; And thus th’ intruding snarler to oppose, Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes. So look’d our hero in his wrath, his cheeks Flush’d with fresh fires and glow’d in tingling streaks; His breath by passion’s force awhile restrain’d, Like a stopp’d current, greater force regain’d; So spoke, so look’d he, every eye and ear Were fix’d to view him, or were turn’d to hear. “My friends, you know me, you can witness all, 390 How, urged by passion, I restrain my gall; And every motive to revenge withstand— Save when I hear abused my native land. “Is it not known, agreed, confirm’d, confess’d, That of all people, we are govern’d best? We have the force of monarchies; are free, As the most proud republicans can be; And have those prudent counsels that arise In grave and cautious aristocracies; And live there those, in such all-glorious state, 400 Traitors protected in the land they hate? Rebels, still warring with the laws that give To them subsistence?—Yes, such wretches live. “Ours is a church reform’d, and now no more Is aught for man to mend or to restore; ’Tis pure in doctrines, ’tis correct in creeds, Has nought redundant, and it nothing needs; No evil is therein—no wrinkle, spot, Stain, blame, or blemish:—I affirm there’s not. “All this you know—now mark what once befell, 410 With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell; I was entrapp’d—yes, so it came to pass, ’Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class; Each to his country bore a hellish mind, Each like his neighbour was of cursèd kind; The land that nursed them they blasphemed; the laws, Their sovereign’s glory, and their country’s cause; And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and who Rebellion’s oracle?——You, caitiff, you!” He spoke, and standing stretch’d his mighty arm, 420 And fix’d the man of words, as by a charm. “How raved that railer! Sure some hellish power Restrain’d my tongue in that delirious hour, Or I had hurl’d the shame and vengeance due On him, the guide of that infuriate crew; But to mine eyes such dreadful looks appear’d, Such mingled yell of lying words I heard, That I conceived around were dæmons all, And till I fled the house, I fear’d its fall. “Oh! could our country from our coasts expel 430 Such foes! to nourish those who wish her well: This her mild laws forbid, but we may still From us eject them by our sovereign will; This let us do.”—He said, and then began A gentler feeling for the silent man; Ev’n in our hero’s mighty soul arose A touch of pity for experienced woes; But this was transient, and with angry eye He sternly look’d, and paused for a reply. ’Twas then the man of many words would speak— 440 But, in his trial, had them all to seek: To find a friend he look’d the circle round, But joy or scorn in every feature found; He sipp’d his wine, but in those times of dread Wine only adds confusion to the head; In doubt he reason’d with himself—“And how Harangue at night, if I be silent now?” From pride and praise received he sought to draw Courage to speak, but still remain’d the awe; One moment rose he with a forced disdain, 450 And then, abash’d, sunk sadly down again; While in our hero’s glance he seem’d to read, “Slave and insurgent! what hast thou to plead?”— By desperation urged, he now began: “I seek no favour—I—the Rights of Man! Claim; and I—nay!—but give me leave—and I Insist—a man—that is—and, in reply, I speak.”—Alas! each new attempt was vain: Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again; At length he growl’d defiance, sought the door, 460 Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more. “Laud we,” said Justice Bolt, “the Powers above; Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove.” Exulting now he gain’d new strength of fame, And lost all feelings of defeat and shame. “He dared not strive, you witness’d—dared not lift His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift: So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose Our church or state—thus be it to our foes.” He spoke, and, seated with his former air, 470 Look’d his full self, and fill’d his ample chair; Took one full bumper to each favourite cause, } And dwelt all night on politics and laws,} With high applauding voice, that gain’d him high applause. }

TALE II.

THE PARTING HOUR.

I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him How I would think of him, at certain hours, Such thoughts and such [............. ......] or ere I could Give him that parting kiss, which I had set Betwixt two charming words—comes in my father— Cymbeline, Act I. Scene 3.

Grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time’s deformèd hand Have written strange defeatures [in] my face. Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.

Oh! if thou be the same [Ægeon], speak, And speak unto the same [Æmilia]. Comedy of Errors, Act V. Scene 1.

I ran it through, ev’n from my boyish days To the very moment that [he bade] me tell it, Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents, by flood, and field; Of being taken by [the] insolent foe And sold to slavery. Othello, Act I. Scene 3.

An old man, broken with the storms of [state], Is come to lay his weary bones among [ye]; Give him a little earth for charity. Henry VIII. Act IV. Scene 2.

TALE II.

THE PARTING HOUR.

Minutely trace man’s life; year after year, Through all his days let all his deeds appear, And then, though some may in that life be strange, Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change; The links that bind those various deeds are seen, And no mysterious void is left between. But let these binding links be all destroy’d, All that through years he suffer’d or enjoy’d; Let that vast gap be made, and then behold— This was the youth, and he is thus when old; 10 Then we at once the work of Time survey, And in an instant see a life’s decay: Pain[s] mix’d with pity in our bosoms rise, And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise. Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair— } A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,} Watching his looks with kind and pensive air; } No wife, nor sister she, nor is the name Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same; Yet so allied are they, that few can feel 20 Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal, Their years and woes, although they long have loved, Keep their good name and conduct unreproved; Thus life’s small comforts they together share, And while life lingers for the grave prepare. No other subjects on their spirits press, Nor gain such int’rest as the past distress; Grievous events that from the mem’ry drive Life’s common cares, and those alone survive, Mix with each thought, in every action share, 30 Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer. To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy, Allen his name, was more than common joy; And as the child grew up, there seem’d in him A more than common life in every limb; A strong and handsome stripling he became, And the gay spirit answer’d to the frame; A lighter, happier lad was never seen, For ever easy, cheerful, or serene; His early love he fix’d upon a fair 40 And gentle maid—they were a handsome pair. They at an infant-school together play’d, Where the foundation of their love was laid; The boyish champion would his choice attend In every sport, in every fray defend. As prospects open’d and as life advanced, They walk’d together, they together danced; On all occasions, from their early years, They mix’d their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears; Each heart was anxious, till it could impart 50 Its daily feelings to its kindred heart; As years increased, unnumber’d petty wars Broke out between them; jealousies and jars; Causeless indeed, and follow’d by a peace, That gave to love—growth, vigour, and increase. Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void, Domestic thoughts young Allen’s hours employ’d; Judith in gaining hearts had no concern, Rather intent the matron’s part to learn; Thus early prudent and sedate they grew, 60 While lovers, thoughtful—and, though children, true. To either parents not a day appear’d, When with this love they might have interfered: Childish at first, they cared not to restrain; And strong at last, they saw restriction vain; Nor knew they when that passion to reprove— Now idle fondness, now resistless love. So, while the waters rise, the children tread On the broad estuary’s sandy bed; But soon the channel fills, from side to side 70 Comes danger rolling with the deep’ning tide; Yet none who saw the rapid current flow Could the first instant of that danger know. The lovers waited till the time should come When they together could possess a home: In either house were men and maids unwed, Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led. Then Allen’s mother of his favourite maid Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid: “Dress and amusements were her sole employ,” 80 She said—“entangling her deluded boy;” And yet, in truth, a mother’s jealous love Had much imagined and could little prove; Judith had beauty—and, if vain, was kind, Discreet, and mild, and had a serious mind. Dull was their prospect—when the lovers met, They said, we must not—dare not venture yet: “Oh! could I labour for thee,” Allen cried, “Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied? On my own arm I could depend, but they}90 Still urge obedience—must I yet obey?”} Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg’d delay. } At length a prospect came that seem’d to smile, And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle. A kinsman there a widow’s hand had gain’d, “Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain’d; Would some young Booth to his affairs attend, And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.” The elder brothers, who were not in love, Fear’d the false seas, unwilling to remove; 100 But the young Allen, an enamour’d boy, Eager an independence to enjoy, Would through all perils seek it—by the sea— Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery. The faithful Judith his design approved; For both were sanguine, they were young and loved. The mother’s slow consent was then obtain’d; The time arrived, to part alone remain’d. All things prepared, on the expected day Was seen the vessel anchor’d in the bay. 110 From her would seamen in the evening come, To take th’ advent’rous Allen from his home; With his own friends the final day he pass’d, And every painful hour, except the last. The grieving father urged the cheerful glass, To make the moments with less sorrow pass; Intent the mother look’d upon her son, And wish’d th’ assent withdrawn, the deed undone; The younger sister, as he took his way, Hung on his coat, and begg’d for more delay: 120 But his own Judith call’d him to the shore, Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more;— And there he found her—faithful, mournful, true, Weeping and waiting for a last adieu! The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair: Sweet were the painful moments—but how sweet, And without pain, when they again should meet! Now either spoke, as hope and fear impress’d Each their alternate triumph in the breast. 130 Distance alarm’d the maid—she cried, “’Tis far!” And danger too—“it is a time of war. Then, in those countries are diseases strange, And women gay, and men are prone to change; What, then, may happen in a year, when things Of vast importance every moment brings! But hark! an oar!” she cried, yet none appear’d— ’Twas love’s mistake, who fancied what it fear’d; And she continued—“Do, my Allen, keep Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep; 140 Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail, And stand in safety where so many fail; And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride, Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide; Can I believe his love will lasting prove, Who has no rev’rence for the God I love? I know thee well! how good thou art and kind; But strong the passions that invade thy mind.— Now, what to me hath Allen to commend?”— “Upon my mother,” said the youth, “attend; 150 Forget her spleen, and in my place appear; Her love to me will make my Judith dear: Oft I shall think (such comfort lovers seek), Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak; Then write on all occasions, always dwell On hope’s fair prospects, and be kind and well, And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style.” She answer’d, “No,” but answer’d with a smile. “And now, my Judith, at so sad a time, Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime; 160 When with our youthful neighbours ’tis thy chance To meet in walks, the visit or the dance, When every lad would on my lass attend, Choose not a smooth designer for a friend; That fawning Philip!—nay, be not severe, A rival’s hope must cause a lover’s fear.” Displeased she felt, and might in her reply Have mix’d some anger, but the boat was nigh, Now truly heard!—it soon was full in sight;— Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night; 170 For, see!—his friends come hast’ning to the beach, And now the gunwale is within the reach; “Adieu!—farewell!—remember!”—and what more Affection taught, was utter’d from the shore! But Judith left them with a heavy heart, Took a last view, and went to weep apart! And now his friends went slowly from the place, Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace, Till all were silent!—for the youth she pray’d, And softly then return’d the weeping maid. 180 They parted, thus by hope and fortune led, And Judith’s hours in pensive pleasure fled. But when return’d the youth?—the youth no more Return’d exulting to his native shore. But forty years were past, and then there came} A worn-out man with wither’d limbs and lame, } His mind oppress’d with woes, and bent with age his frame: } Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay, } Was Allen landing in his native bay,} Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. } In an autumnal eve he left the beach, 191 In such an eve he chanced the port to reach. He was alone; he press’d the very place Of the sad parting, of the last embrace: There stood his parents, there retired the maid, So fond, so tender, and so much afraid; And on that spot, through many a year, his mind Turn’d mournful back, half sinking, half resign’d. No one was present; of its crew bereft, A single boat was in the billows left; 200 Sent from some anchor’d vessel in the bay, At the returning tide to sail away. O’er the black stern the moonlight softly play’d, The loosen’d foresail flapping in the shade; All silent else on shore; but from the town A drowsy peal of distant bells came down; From the tall houses here and there, a light Served some confused remembrance to excite: “There,” he observed, and new emotions felt, “Was my first home—and yonder Judith dwelt; 210 Dead! dead are all! I long—I fear to know,” He said, and walk’d impatient, and yet slow. Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys: Seamen returning to their ship, were come, With idle numbers straying from their home; Allen among them mix’d, and in the old Strove some familiar features to behold; While fancy aided memory;—“Man! what cheer?” A sailor cried; “Art thou at anchor here?” 220 Faintly he answer’d, and then tried to trace Some youthful features in some aged face; A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought She might unfold the very truths he sought; Confused and trembling, he the dame address’d: “The Booths! yet live they?” pausing and oppress’d; Then spake again:—“Is there no ancient man, David his name?—assist me, if you can.— Flemmings there were—and Judith, doth she live?” The woman gazed, nor could an answer give; 230 Yet wond’ring stood, and all were silent by, Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy. The woman musing said—“She knew full well Where the old people came at last to dwell; They had a married daughter and a son, But they were dead, and now remain’d not one.” “Yes,” said an elder, who had paused intent On days long past, “there was a sad event;— One of these Booths—it was my mother’s tale— Here left his lass, I know not where to sail; 240 She saw their parting, and observed the pain; But never came th’ unhappy man again.” “The ship was captured”—Allen meekly said, “And what became of the forsaken maid?” The woman answer’d: “I remember now, She used to tell the lasses of her vow, And of her lover’s loss, and I have seen The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been; Yet in her grief she married, and was made Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey’d 250 And early buried—but I know no more. And hark! our friends are hast’ning to the shore.” Allen soon found a lodging in the town, And walk’d, a man unnoticed, up and down. This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face He sometimes could among a number trace; Of names remember’d there remain’d a few, But of no favourites, and the rest were new; A merchant’s wealth, when Allen went to sea, Was reckon’d boundless.—Could he living be? 260 Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir To a vast business, and a fortune fair. No! but that heir’s poor widow, from her shed, With crutches went to take her dole of bread. There was a friend whom he had left a boy, With hope to sail the master of a hoy; Him, after many a stormy day, he found With his great wish, his life’s whole purpose, crown’d. This hoy’s proud captain look’d in Allen’s face;— “Yours is, my friend,” said he, “a woful case; 270 We cannot all succeed; I now command The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land; But when we meet, you shall your story tell Of foreign parts—I bid you now farewell!” Allen so long had left his native shore, He saw but few whom he had seen before; The older people, as they met him, cast A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass’d:— “The man is Allen Booth, and it appears He dwelt among us in his early years; 280 We see the name engraved upon the stones, Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones.” Thus where he lived and loved—unhappy change!— He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange. But now a widow, in a village near, Chanced of the melancholy man to hear; Old as she was, to Judith’s bosom came Some strong emotions at the well-known name; He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay’d Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid; 290 Then was she wedded, of his death assured, And much of mis’ry in her lot endured; Her husband died; her children sought their bread In various places, and to her were dead. The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age, Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage: Each had immediate confidence; a friend Both now beheld, on whom they might depend: “Now is there one to whom I can express My nature’s weakness and my soul’s distress.” 300 Allen look’d up, and with impatient heart:— “Let me not lose thee—never let us part; So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give, It is not all distress to think and live.” Thus Allen spoke—for time had not removed The charms attach’d to one so fondly loved; Who with more health, the mistress of their cot, Labours to soothe the evils of his lot. To her, to her alone, his various fate, At various times, ’tis comfort to relate; 310 And yet his sorrow she too loves to hear What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear. First he related how he left the shore, Alarm’d with fears that they should meet no more; Then, ere the ship had reach’d her purposed course, They met and yielded to the Spanish force; Then ’cross th’ Atlantic seas they bore their prey, Who grieving landed from their sultry bay; And, marching many a burning league, he found Himself a slave upon a miner’s ground: 320 There a good priest his native language spoke, And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke; Kindly advanced him in his master’s grace, And he was station’d in an easier place. There, hopeless ever to escape the land, He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand; In cottage shelter’d from the blaze of day He saw his happy infants round him play; Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees, Waved o’er his seat, and soothed his reveries; 330 E’en then he thought of England, nor could sigh, But his fond Isabel demanded, “Why?” Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid, And wept in pity for the English maid: Thus twenty years were pass’d, and pass’d his views Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose. His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint “His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint; Make all his children infidels, and found An English heresy on Christian ground.” 340 “Whilst I was poor,” said Allen, “none would care What my poor notions of religion were; None ask’d me whom I worshipp’d, how I pray’d, If due obedience to the laws were paid: My good adviser taught me to be still, Nor to make converts had I power or will. I preached no foreign doctrine to my wife, And never mention’d Luther in my life; I, all they said, say what they would, allow’d, And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow’d; 350 Their forms I follow’d, whether well or sick, And was a most obedient Catholic. But I had money, and these pastors found My notions vague, heretical, unsound: A wicked book they seized; the very Turk Could not have read a more pernicious work; To me pernicious, who if it were good Or evil question’d not, nor understood: Oh! had I little but the book possess’d, I might have read it, and enjoy’d my rest.” 360 Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seen Crimes that by poverty conceal’d had been: Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown Are in an instant through the varnish shown. He told their cruel mercy: how at last, In Christian kindness for the merits past, They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly, Or for his crime and contumacy die; Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight; } His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,}370 All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his flight. } He next related how he found a way, Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay: There in the woods he wrought, and there, among Some lab’ring seamen, heard his native tongue. The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain With joyful force; he long’d to hear again; Again he heard; he seized an offer’d hand, “And when beheld you last our native land?” He cry’d, “and in what county? quickly say!”— 380 The seamen answer’d, strangers all were they; One only at his native port had been; He, landing once, the quay and church had seen, For that esteem’d; but nothing more he knew. Still more to know, would Allen join the crew, Sail where they sail’d; and, many a peril past, They at his kinsman’s isle their anchor cast; But him they found not, nor could one relate Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate. This grieved not Allen; then again he sail’d 390 For England’s coast, again his fate prevail’d: War raged, and he, an active man and strong, Was soon impress’d, and served his country long. By various shores he pass’d, on various seas, Never so happy as when void of ease.— And then he told how, in a calm distress’d, Day after day his soul was sick of rest; When as a log upon the deep they stood, Then roved his spirit to the inland wood; Till, while awake, he dream’d, that on the seas 400 Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees. He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:—“There stand My wife, my children, ’tis my lovely land; See! there my dwelling—oh! delicious scene Of my best life—unhand me—are ye men?” And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind Brush’d the fond pictures from the stagnant mind. He told of bloody fights, and how at length The rage of battle gave his spirits strength. ’Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost, 410 And he was left half-dead upon the coast; But living gain’d, ’mid rich aspiring men, A fair subsistence by his ready pen. “Thus,” he continued, “pass’d unvaried years, Without events producing hopes or fears.” Augmented pay procured him decent wealth, But years advancing undermined his health; Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew To England’s shore, and scenes his childhood knew: He saw his parents, saw his fav’rite maid, 420 No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay’d; And, thus excited, in his bosom rose A wish so strong, it baffled his repose; Anxious he felt on English earth to lie; To view his native soil, and there to die. He then described the gloom, the dread he found, When first he landed on the chosen ground, Where undefined was all he hoped and fear’d, And how confused and troubled all appear’d; His thoughts in past and present scenes employ’d, 430 All views in future blighted and destroy’d: His were a medley of bewild’ring themes, Sad as realities, and wild as dreams. Here his relation closes, but his mind Flies back again, some resting-place to find; Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees His children sporting by those lofty trees, Their mother singing in the shady scene, Where the fresh springs burst o’er the lively green;— So strong his eager fancy, he affrights 440 The faithful widow by its powerful flights; For what disturbs him he aloud will tell, And cry—“’Tis she, my wife! my Isabel! Where are my children?”—Judith grieves to hear How the soul works in sorrows so severe; Assiduous all his wishes to attend, Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend; Watch’d by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes. ’Tis now her office; her attention see! 450 While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree, Careful she guards him from the glowing heat, And pensive muses at her Allen’s feet. And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes Of his best days, amid the vivid greens, Fresh with unnumber’d rills, where ev’ry gale Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb’ring vale; Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes The night-bird’s music from the thickening glooms? And as he sits with all these treasures nigh, }460 Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly, } When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? } This is the joy that now so plainly speaks In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks; For he is list’ning to the fancied noise Of his own children, eager in their joys: All this he feels, a dream’s delusive bliss Gives the expression, and the glow like this. And now his Judith lays her knitting by, These strong emotions in her friend to spy; 470 For she can fully of their nature deem——} But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme,} And wakes and cries—“My God! ’twas but a dream.” }

TALE III.

THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

Pause [there...] And weigh thy value with an even hand; If thou beest rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough. Merchant of Venice, Act II. Scene 7.

Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is (for which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor. Much Ado about Nothing, Act I. Scene 1.

Throw physic to the dogs, I’ll none of it. Macbeth, Act V. Scene 3.

His promises are, as he then was, mighty; And his performance, as he now is, nothing. Henry VIII. Act IV. Scene 2.

TALE III.

THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all, Who dwelt around, the Gentleman would call; Whether in pure humility or pride, They only knew, and they would not decide. Far diff’rent he from that dull plodding tribe, Whom it was his amusement to describe; Creatures no more enliven’d than a clod, But treading still as their dull fathers trod; Who lived in times when not a man had seen Corn sown by drill, or thresh’d by a machine: 10 He was of those whose skill assigns the prize For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties; And who, in places where improvers meet, To fill the land with fatness, had a seat; Who in large mansions live like petty kings, And speak of farms but as amusing things; Who plans encourage, and who journals keep, And talk with lords about a breed of sheep. Two are the species in this genus known; One, who is rich in his profession grown, 20 Who yearly finds his ample stores increase, From fortune’s favours and a favouring lease; Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns; Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns, Who freely lives, and loves to show he can— This is the farmer, made the gentleman. The second species from the world is sent, Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content; In books and men beyond the former read, To farming solely by a passion led, 30 Or by a fashion; curious in his land; Now planning much, now changing what he plann’d; Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex’d, And ever certain to succeed the next; Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade— This is the gentleman, a farmer made. Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew Early in life, his reasons known to few; Some disappointment said, some pure good sense, The love of land, the press of indolence; 40 His fortune known, and coming to retire, If not a farmer, men had call’d him ’squire. Forty and five his years, no child or wife Cross’d the still tenour of his chosen life; Much land he purchased, planted far around, And let some portions of superfluous ground To farmers near him, not displeased to say, “My tenants,” nor, “our worthy landlord,” they. Fix’d in his farm, he soon display’d his skill In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, and the drill; 50 From these he rose to themes of nobler kind, And show’d the riches of a fertile mind; To all around their visits he repaid, And thus his mansion and himself display’d. His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat, And guests politely call’d his house a seat; At much expense was each apartment graced, His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste; In full festoons the crimson curtains fell, The sofas rose in bold elastic swell; 60 Mirrors in gilded frames display’d the tints Of glowing carpets and of colour’d prints; The weary eye saw every object shine, And all was costly, fanciful, and fine. As with his friends he pass’d the social hours, His generous spirit scorn’d to hide its powers; Powers unexpected, for his eye and air Gave no sure signs that eloquence was there; Oft he began with sudden fire and force, As loth to lose occasion for discourse; 70 Some, ’tis observed, who feel a wish to speak, Will a due place for introduction seek; On to their purpose step by step they steal, And all their way, by certain signals, feel; Others plunge in at once, and never heed Whose turn they take, whose purpose they impede; Resolved to shine, they hasten to begin, Of ending thoughtless—and of these was Gwyn. And thus he spake: ——“It grieves me to the soul To see how man submits to man’s control; 80 How overpower’d and shackled minds are led In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred; The coward never on himself relies, But to an equal for assistance flies; Man yields to custom as he bows to fate, In all things ruled—mind, body, and estate; In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply To them we know not, and we know not why; But that the creature has some jargon read, And got some Scotchman’s system in his head; 90 Some grave impostor, who will health insure, Long as your patience or your wealth endure; But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew, They have not health, and can they give it you? These solemn cheats their various methods choose; A system fires them, as a bard his muse: Hence wordy wars arise; the learn’d divide, And groaning patients curse each erring guide. “Next, our affairs are govern’d, buy or sell, Upon the deed the law must fix its spell; 100 Whether we hire or let, we must have still The dubious aid of an attorney’s skill; They take a part in every man’s affairs, And in all business some concern is theirs; Because mankind in ways prescribed are found, Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground, Each abject nature in the way proceeds, That now to shearing, now to slaughter leads. “Should you offend, though meaning no offence, You have no safety in your innocence; 110 The statute broken then is placed in view, And men must pay for crimes they never knew. Who would by law regain his plunder’d store, Would pick up fallen merc’ry from the floor; If he pursue it, here and there it slides; He would collect it, but it more divides; This part and this he stops, but still in vain, It slips aside, and breaks in parts again; Till, after time and pains, and care and cost, He finds his labour and his object lost. 120 “But most it grieves me, (friends alone are round,) To see a man in priestly fetters bound; Guides to the soul, these friends of Heaven contrive, Long as man lives, to keep his fears alive; Soon as an infant breathes, their rites begin; Who knows not sinning, must be freed from sin; Who needs no bond must yet engage in vows; Who has no judgment, must a creed espouse: Advanced in life, our boys are bound by rules, } Are catechised in churches, cloisters, schools,  }130 And train’d in thraldom to be fit for tools;} The youth grown up, he now a partner needs, And lo! a priest, as soon as he succeeds. What man of sense can marriage-rites approve? What man of spirit can be bound to love? Forced to be kind! compell’d to be sincere! Do chains and fetters make companions dear? Pris’ners indeed we bind; but though the bond May keep them safe, it does not make them fond: The ring, the vow, the witness, licence, prayers, 140 All parties known! made public all affairs! Such forms men suffer, and from these they date A deed of love begun with all they hate. Absurd, that none the beaten road should shun, But love to do what other dupes have done! “Well, now your priest has made you one of twain, Look you for rest? Alas! you look in vain. If sick, he comes; you cannot die in peace, Till he attends to witness your release; To vex your soul, and urge you to confess 150 The sins you feel, remember, or can guess; Nay, when departed, to your grave he goes, But there indeed he hurts not your repose. “Such are our burthens; part we must sustain, But need not link new grievance to the chain. Yet men like idiots will their frames surround With these vile shackles, nor confess they’re bound; In all that most confines them they confide, Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their pride; E’en as the pressure galls them, they declare, 160 (Good souls!) how happy and how free they are! As madmen, pointing round their wretched cells, Cry, ‘Lo! the palace where our honour dwells.’ “Such is our state: but I resolve to live By rules my reason and my feelings give; No legal guards shall keep enthrall’d my mind, No slaves command me, and no teachers blind. “Tempted by sins, let me their strength defy, But have no second in a surplice by No bottle-holder, with officious aid, 170 To comfort conscience, weaken’d and afraid: Then if I yield, my frailty is not known; And, if I stand, the glory is my own. “When Truth and Reason are our friends, we seem Alive! awake!—the superstitious dream. “Oh! then, fair Truth, for thee alone I seek, Friend to the wise, supporter of the weak; From thee we learn whate’er is right and just; Forms to despise, professions to distrust; Creeds to reject, pretensions to deride, 180 And, following thee, to follow none beside.” Such was the speech; it struck upon the ear Like sudden thunder, none expect to hear. He saw men’s wonder with a manly pride, And gravely smiled at guest electrified; “A farmer this!” they said, “Oh! let him seek That place where he may for his country speak; On some great question to harangue for hours, While speakers hearing, envy nobler powers!” Wisdom like this, as all things rich and rare, 190 Must be acquired with pains, and kept with care; In books he sought it, which his friends might view, When their kind host the guarding curtain drew. There were historic works for graver hours, And lighter verse, to spur the languid powers; There metaphysics, logic there had place; But of devotion not a single trace— Save what is taught in Gibbon’s florid page, And other guides of this inquiring age; There Hume appear’d, and, near, a splendid book 200 Composed by Gay’s good Lord of Bolingbroke: With these were mix’d the light, the free, the vain, And from a corner peep’d the sage Tom Paine: Here four neat volumes ‘Chesterfield’ were named, For manners much and easy morals famed; With chaste Memoirs of Females, to be read When deeper studies had confused the head. Such his resources, treasures where he sought For daily knowledge till his mind was fraught: Then, when his friends were present, for their use 210 He would the riches he had stored produce; He found his lamp burn clearer, when each day He drew for all he purposed to display. For these occasions, forth his knowledge sprung, As mustard quickens on a bed of dung; All was prepared, and guests allow’d the praise, For what they saw he could so quickly raise. Such this new friend; and, when the year came round, The same impressive, reasoning sage was found: Then, too, was seen the pleasant mansion graced 220 With a fair damsel—his no vulgar taste: The neat Rebecca—sly, observant, still; Watching his eye, and waiting on his will; Simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek, Her smiles spoke for her, she would seldom speak; But watch’d each look, each meaning to detect, And (pleas’d with notice) felt for all neglect. With her lived Gwyn a sweet harmonious life, Who, forms excepted, was a charming wife. The wives indeed, so made by vulgar law, 230 Affected scorn, and censured what they saw; And what they saw not, fancied; said ’twas sin, And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn. But he despised their rudeness, and would prove Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love; “Fools as they were! could they conceive that rings And parsons’ blessings were substantial things?” They answer’d “Yes;” while he contemptuous spoke Of the low notions held by simple folk; Yet, strange that anger in a man so wise }240 Should from the notions of these fools arise; } Can they so vex us, whom we so despise?} Brave as he was, our hero felt a dread Lest those who saw him kind should think him led; If to his bosom fear a visit paid, It was, lest he should be supposed afraid. Hence sprang his orders; not that he desired The things when done: obedience he required; And thus, to prove his absolute command, Ruled every heart, and moved each subject hand; 250 Assent he ask’d for every word and whim, To prove that he alone was king of him. The still Rebecca, who her station knew, With ease resign’d the honours not her due; Well pleased, she saw that men her board would grace, And wish’d not there to see a female face; When by her lover she his spouse was styled, Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled; But when he wanted wives and maidens round So to regard her, she grew grave, and frown’d; 260 And sometimes whisper’d—“Why should you respect These people’s notions, yet their forms reject?” Gwyn, though from marriage bond and fetter free, Still felt abridgment in his liberty; Something of hesitation he betray’d, And in her presence thought of what he said. Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk’d astray, His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray; To be at church, to sit with serious looks, To read her Bible and her Sunday-books. 270 She hated all those new and daring themes, And call’d his free conjectures “devil’s dreams;” She honour’d still the priesthood in her fall, And claim’d respect and reverence for them all; Call’d them “of sin’s destructive power the foes, And not such blockheads as he might suppose.” Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes say, “’Tis a kind fool, why vex her in her way?” Her way she took, and still had more in view, For she contrived that he should take it too. 280 The daring freedom of his soul, ’twas plain, In part was lost in a divided reign: A king and queen, who yet in prudence sway’d Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey’d. Yet such our fate that, when we plan the best, Something arises to disturb our rest: For, though in spirits high, in body strong, Gwyn something felt—he knew not what—was wrong; He wish’d to know, for he believed the thing, If unremoved, would other evil bring: 290 She must perceive, of late he could not eat, And when he walk’d, he trembled on his feet; He had forebodings, and he seem’d as one Stopp’d on the road, or threatened by a dun; He could not live, and yet, should he apply To those physicians—he must sooner die.” The mild Rebecca heard with some disdain, And some distress, her friend and lord complain: His death she fear’d not, but had painful doubt What his distemper’d nerves might bring about; 300 With power like hers she dreaded an ally, And yet there was a person in her eye;— She thought, debated, fix’d—“Alas!” she said, A case like yours must be no more delay’d. You hate these doctors; well! but were a friend And doctor one, your fears would have an end. My cousin Mollet—Scotland holds him now— Is above all men skilful, all allow: Of late a doctor, and within a while He means to settle in this favour’d isle; 310 Should he attend you, with his skill profound, You must be safe, and shortly would be sound.” When men in health against physicians rail, They should consider that their nerves may fail; Who calls a lawyer rogue, may find, too late, On one of these depends his whole estate; Nay, when the world can nothing more produce, The priest, th’ insulted priest, may have his use. Ease, health, and comfort, lift a man so high, These powers are dwarfs that he can scarcely spy; 320 Pain, sickness, languor, keep a man so low, That these neglected dwarfs to giants grow. Happy is he who through the medium sees Of clear good sense—but Gwyn was not of these. He heard and he rejoiced: “Ah! let him come, And, till he fixes, make my house his home.” Home came the doctor—he was much admired; He told the patient what his case required; His hours for sleep, his time to eat and drink; When he should ride, read, rest, compose, or think. 330 Thus join’d peculiar skill and art profound, To make the fancy-sick no more than fancy-sound. With such attention, who could long be ill? Returning health proclaim’d the doctor’s skill. Presents and praises from a grateful heart Were freely offer’d on the patient’s part; In high repute the doctor seem’d to stand, But still had got no footing in the land; And, as he saw the seat was rich and fair, He felt disposed to fix his station there. 340 To gain his purpose, he perform’d the part Of a good actor, and prepared to start— Not like a traveller in a day serene, When the sun shone and when the roads were clean; Not like the pilgrim, when the morning gray, The ruddy eve succeeding, sends his way; But in a season when the sharp east wind Had all its influence on a nervous mind. When past the parlour’s front it fiercely blew,} And Gwyn sat pitying every bird that flew, }350 This strange physician said—“Adieu! adieu! } Farewell!—Heaven bless you!—if you should—but no, You need not fear—farewell! ’tis time to go.” The doctor spoke; and as the patient heard, His old disorders (dreadful train!) appear’d; He felt the tingling tremor, and the stress Upon his nerves that he could not express; Should his good friend forsake him, he perhaps Might meet his death, and surely a relapse.” So, as the doctor seem’d intent to part, 360 He cried in terror—“Oh! be where thou art: Come, thou art young, and unengaged; oh! come, Make me thy friend, give comfort to mine home; I have now symptoms that require thine aid, Do, doctor, stay”—th’ obliging doctor stay’d. Thus Gwyn was happy; he had now a friend, And a meek spouse on whom he could depend. But now, possess’d of male and female guide, Divided power he thus must subdivide: In earlier days he rode, or sat at ease 370 Reclined, and having but himself to please; Now, if he would a fav’rite nag bestride, He sought permission—“Doctor, may I ride?”— (Rebecca’s eye her sovereign pleasure told,)— “I think you may; but, guarded from the cold, Ride forty minutes.”—Free and happy soul! He scorn’d submission, and a man’s control; But where such friends in every care unite All for his good, obedience is delight. Now Gwyn, a sultan, bade affairs adieu, 380 Led and assisted by the faithful two; The favourite fair, Rebecca, near him sat, And whisper’d whom to love, assist, or hate; While the chief vizier eased his lord of cares, And bore himself the burden of affairs. No dangers could from such alliance flow, But from that law that changes all below. When wint’ry winds with leaves bestrew’d the ground, And men were coughing all the village round; When public papers of invasion told, 390 Diseases, famines, perils new and old; When philosophic writers fail’d to clear The mind of gloom, and lighter works to cheer; Then came fresh terrors on our hero’s mind— Fears unforeseen, and feelings undefined. “In outward ills,” he cried, “I rest assured Of my friend’s aid; they will in time be cured: But can his art subdue, resist, control These inward griefs and troubles of the soul? Oh! my Rebecca! my disorder’d mind 400 No help in study, none in thought can find; What must I do, Rebecca?” She proposed The parish-guide; but what could be disclosed To a proud priest?—“No! him have I defied, Insulted, slighted—shall he be my guide? But one there is, and if report be just, A wise good man, whom I may safely trust; Who goes from house to house, from ear to ear,} To make his truths, his Gospel truths, appear;} True if indeed they be, ’tis time that I should hear. }410 Send for that man; and if report be just, I, like Cornelius, will the teacher trust; But, if deceiver, I the vile deceit Shall soon discover, and discharge the cheat.” To Doctor Mollet was the grief confess’d, While Gwyn the freedom of his mind express’d; Yet own’d it was to ills and errors prone, And he for guilt and frailty must atone. “My books, perhaps,” the wav’ring mortal cried, “Like men deceive—I would be satisfied; 420 And to my soul the pious man may bring Comfort and light—do let me try the thing.” The cousins met; what pass’d with Gwyn was told; “Alas!” the doctor said; “how hard to hold These easy minds, where all impressions made At first sink deeply, and then quickly fade; For while so strong these new-born fancies reign, We must divert them, to oppose is vain. You see him valiant now, he scorns to heed The bigot’s threat’nings or the zealot’s creed; 430 Shook by a dream, he next for truth receives What frenzy teaches, and what fear believes; And this will place him in the power of one Whom we must seek, because we cannot shun.” Wisp had been ostler at a busy inn, Where he beheld and grew in dread of sin; Then to a Baptists’ meeting found his way, Became a convert, and was taught to pray; Then preach’d; and, being earnest and sincere, Brought other sinners to religious fear. 440 Together grew his influence and his fame, Till our dejected hero heard his name; His little failings were a grain of pride, Raised by the numbers he presumed to guide: A love of presents, and of lofty praise For his meek spirit and his humble ways; But though this spirit would on flattery feed, No praise could blind him and no arts mislead. To him the doctor made the wishes known Of his good patron, but concealed his own; 450 He of all teachers had distrust and doubt, And was reserved in what he came about; Though on a plain and simple message sent, He had a secret and a bold intent. Their minds at first were deeply veil’d; disguise Form’d the slow speech, and op’d the eager eyes; Till by degrees sufficient light was thrown On every view, and all the business shown. Wisp, as a skilful guide who led the blind, } Had powers to rule and awe the vapourish mind, }460 But not the changeful will, the wavering fear to bind; } And, should his conscience give him leave to dwell With Gwyn, and every rival power expel, (A dubious point,) yet he, with every care, Might soon the lot of the rejected share, And other Wisps be found like him to reign, And then be thrown upon the world again. He thought it prudent, then, and felt it just, The present guides of his new friend to trust; True, he conceived, to touch the harder heart 470 Of the cool doctor, was beyond his art; But mild Rebecca he could surely sway, While Gwyn would follow where she led the way: So, to do good, (and why a duty shun, Because rewarded for the good when done?) He with his friends would join in all they plann’d, Save when his faith or feelings should withstand; There he must rest, sole judge of his affairs, While they might rule exclusively in theirs. When Gwyn his message to the teacher sent, 480 He fear’d his friends would show their discontent; And prudent seem’d it to th’ attendant pair, Not all at once to show an aspect fair. On Wisp they seem’d to look with jealous eye, And fair Rebecca was demure and shy; But by degrees the teacher’s worth they knew, And were so kind, they seem’d converted too. Wisp took occasion to the nymph to say, “You must be married: will you name the day?” She smiled,—“’Tis well; but, should he not comply, 490 Is it quite safe th’ experiment to try?”— “My child,” the teacher said, “who feels remorse, (And feels not he?) must wish relief of course; And can he find it, while he fears the crime?— You must be married; will you name the time?” Glad was the patron as a man could be,} Yet marvell’d too, to find his guides agree;} “But what the cause?” he cried; “’tis genuine love for me.” } Each found his part, and let one act describe The powers and honours of th’ accordant tribe:— 500 A man for favour to the mansion speeds, And cons his threefold task as he proceeds; To teacher Wisp he bows with humble air, And begs his interest for a barn’s repair; Then for the doctor he inquires, who loves To hear applause for what his skill improves, And gives, for praise, assent,—and to the fair He brings of pullets a delicious pair; Thus sees a peasant, with discernment nice, A love of power, conceit, and avarice. 510 Lo! now the change complete: the convert Gwyn Has sold his books, and has renounced his sin; Mollet his body orders, Wisp his soul, And o’er his purse the lady takes control; No friends beside he needs, and none attend— Soul, body, and estate, has each a friend; And fair Rebecca leads a virtuous life— She rules a mistress, and she reigns a wife.

TALE IV.

PROCRASTINATION.

Heaven witness I have been to you [a true and humble wife.] Henry VIII. Act II. Scene 4.

Gentle lady, When first I did impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had. Merchant of Venice, Act III. Scene 2.

[The leisure and the fearful time] Cuts off [the ceremonious] vows of love, And ample interchange of sweet discourse, Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon. Richard III. Act V. Scene 3.

I know thee not, old man; fall to thy prayers. 2 Henry IV. Act V. Scene 5.

Farewell, Thou pure impiety [and] impious purity; For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love. Much Ado about Nothing, Act IV. Scene 1.

TALE IV.

PROCRASTINATION.

Love will expire; the gay, the happy dream Will turn to scorn, indiff’rence, or esteem. Some favour’d pairs, in this exchange, are bless’d, Nor sigh for raptures in a state of rest; Others, ill match’d, with minds unpair’d, repent At once the deed, and know no more content; From joy to anguish they, in haste, decline, And with their fondness, their esteem resign. More luckless still their fate, who are the prey Of long-protracted hope and dull delay; 10 ’Mid plans of bliss the heavy hours pass on, Till love is wither’d, and till joy is gone. This gentle flame two youthful hearts possess’d, The sweet disturber of unenvied rest: The prudent Dinah was the maid beloved, And the kind Rupert was the swain approved. A wealthy aunt her gentle niece sustain’d, He, with a father, at his desk remain’d; The youthful couple, to their vows sincere,} Thus loved expectant; year succeeding year,}20 With pleasant views and hopes, but not a prospect near. } Rupert some comfort in his station saw, But the poor virgin lived in dread and awe; Upon her anxious looks the widow smiled, And bade her wait, “for she was yet a child.” She for her neighbour had a due respect, Nor would his son encourage or reject; And thus the pair, with expectations vain, Beheld the seasons change and change again. Meantime the nymph her tender tales perused, 30 Where cruel aunts impatient girls refused; While hers, though teasing, boasted to be kind, And she, resenting, to be all resign’d. The dame was sick, and, when the youth applied For her consent, she groan’d, and cough’d, and cried; Talk’d of departing, and again her breath Drew hard, and cough’d, and talk’d again of death: “Here you may live, my Dinah! here the boy And you together my estate enjoy.” Thus to the lovers was her mind express’d, 40 Till they forbore to urge the fond request. Servant, and nurse, and comforter, and friend, Dinah had still some duty to attend; But yet their walk, when Rupert’s evening call Obtain’d an hour, made sweet amends for all; So long they now each other’s thoughts had known, That nothing seem’d exclusively their own; But with the common wish, the mutual fear, They now had travell’d to their thirtieth year. At length a prospect open’d—but, alas! Long time must yet before the union pass; 50 Rupert was call’d in other clime, t’increase Another’s wealth, and toil for future peace; Loth were the lovers; but the aunt declared ’Twas fortune’s call, and they must be prepared: “You now are young, and for this brief delay, And Dinah’s care, what I bequeath will pay; All will be yours; nay, love, suppress that sigh; The kind must suffer, and the best must die.” Then came the cough, and strong the signs it gave Of holding long contention with the grave. 60 The lovers parted with a gloomy view, And little comfort but that both were true; He for uncertain duties doom’d to steer, While hers remained too certain and severe. Letters arrived, and Rupert fairly told “His cares were many, and his hopes were cold; The view more clouded, that was never fair, And love alone preserved him from despair.” In other letters brighter hopes he drew, 70 “His friends were kind, and he believed them true.” When the sage widow Dinah’s grief descried, She wonder’d much why one so happy sigh’d; Then bade her see how her poor aunt sustain’d The ills of life, nor murmur’d nor complain’d. To vary pleasures, from the lady’s chest Were drawn the pearly string and tabby vest; Beads, jewels, laces, all their value shown, With the kind notice—“They will be your own.” This hope, these comforts cherish’d day by day, 80 To Dinah’s bosom made a gradual way; Till love of treasure had as large a part As love of Rupert in the virgin’s heart. Whether it be that tender passions fail From their own nature, while the strong prevail; Or whether av’rice, like the poison-tree[3], Kills all beside it, and alone will be: Whatever cause prevail’d, the pleasure grew In Dinah’s soul—she loved the hoards to view; With lively joy those comforts she survey’d, 90 And love grew languid in the careful maid. Now the grave niece partook the widow’s cares; Look’d to the great and ruled the small affairs; Saw clean’d the plate, arranged the china show, And felt her passion for a shilling grow. Th’ indulgent aunt increased the maid’s delight, By placing tokens of her wealth in sight; She loved the value of her bonds to tell, And spake of stocks, and how they rose and fell. This passion grew, and gain’d at length such sway, 100 That other passions shrank to make it way; Romantic notions now the heart forsook, She read but seldom, and she changed her book; And for the verses she was wont to send, Short was her prose, and she was Rupert’s friend. Seldom she wrote, and then the widow’s cough, And constant call, excused her breaking off; Who now, oppress’d, no longer took the air, But sate and dozed upon an easy chair. The cautious doctor saw the case was clear, 110 But judged it best to have companions near; They came, they reason’d, they prescribed—at last, Like honest men, they said their hopes were past; Then came a priest—’tis comfort to reflect, When all is over, there was no neglect; And all was over—by her husband’s bones, The widow rests beneath the sculptured stones, That yet record their fondness and their fame, While all they left the virgin’s care became: Stock, bonds, and buildings;—it disturb’d her rest, 120 To think what load of troubles she possess’d. Yet, if a trouble, she resolved to take Th’ important duty, for the donor’s sake; She too was heiress to the widow’s taste, Her love of hoarding, and her dread of waste. Sometimes the past would on her mind intrude, And then a conflict full of care ensued; The thoughts of Rupert on her mind would press, His worth she knew, but doubted his success; Of old she saw him heedless; what the boy 130 Forbore to save, the man would not enjoy; Oft had he lost the chance that care would seize, Willing to live, but more to live at ease; Yet could she not a broken vow defend, And Heav’n, perhaps, might yet enrich her friend. Month after month was pass’d, and all were spent In quiet comfort and in rich content: Miseries there were, and woes the world around, But these had not her pleasant dwelling found; She knew that mothers grieved, and widows wept, 140 And she was sorry, said her prayers, and slept. Thus pass’d the seasons, and to Dinah’s board Gave what the seasons to the rich afford; For she indulged, nor was her heart so small, That one strong passion should engross it all. A love of splendour now with av’rice strove, And oft appear’d to be the stronger love; A secret pleasure fill’d the widow’s breast, When she reflected on the hoards possess’d; But livelier joy inspired th’ ambitious maid, 150 When she the purchase of those hoards display’d. In small but splendid room she loved to see That all was placed in view and harmony; There, as with eager glance she look’d around, She much delight in every object found; While books devout were near her—to destroy, Should it arise, an overflow of joy. Within that fair apartment, guests might see The comforts cull’d for wealth by vanity. Around the room an Indian paper blazed, 160 With lively tint and figures boldly raised; Silky and soft upon the floor below, Th’ elastic carpet rose with crimson glow; All things around implied both cost and care; What met the eye was elegant or rare. Some curious trifles round the room were laid, By hope presented to the wealthy maid: Within a costly case of varnish’d wood, In level rows, her polish’d volumes stood; Shown as a favour to a chosen few, 170 To prove what beauty for a book could do; A silver urn with curious work was fraught; A silver lamp from Grecian pattern wrought; Above her head, all gorgeous to behold, A time-piece stood on feet of burnish’d gold; A stag’s-head crest adorn’d the pictured case, Through the pure crystal shone th’ enamell’d face; And, while on brilliants moved the hands of steel, It click’d from pray’r to pray’r, from meal to meal. Here as the lady sate, a friendly pair 180 Stept in t’ admire the view, and took their chair. They then related how the young and gay Were thoughtless wandering in the broad highway; How tender damsels sail’d in tilted boats, And laugh’d with wicked men in scarlet coats; And how we live in such degen’rate times That men conceal their wants, and show their crimes; While vicious deeds are screen’d by fashion’s name, And what was once our pride is now our shame. Dinah was musing, as her friends discoursed, 190 When these last words a sudden entrance forced Upon her mind, and what was once her pride And now her shame, some painful views supplied; Thoughts of the past within her bosom press’d, And there a change was felt, and was confess’d. While thus the virgin strove with secret pain, Her mind was wandering o’er the troubled main; Still she was silent, nothing seem’d to see, But sate and sigh’d in pensive reverie. The friends prepared new subjects to begin, 200 When tall Susannah, maiden starch, stalk’d in; Not in her ancient mode, sedate and slow, As when she came, the mind she knew to know; Nor as, when list’ning half an hour before, She twice or thrice tapp’d gently at the door; But, all decorum cast in wrath aside, “I think the devil’s in the man!” she cried; “A huge tall sailor, with his tawny cheek, And pitted face, will with my lady speak; He grinn’d an ugly smile, and said he knew, 210 Please you, my lady, ’twould be joy to you; What must I answer?”—Trembling and distress’d Sank the pale Dinah, by her fears oppress’d; When thus alarm’d, and brooking no delay, Swift to her room the stranger made his way. “Revive, my love!” said he, “I’ve done thee harm, Give me thy pardon,” and he look’d alarm; Meantime the prudent Dinah had contrived Her soul to question, and she then revived. “See! my good friend,” and then she raised her head, }220 “The bloom of life, the strength of youth is fled;} Living we die; to us the world is dead.} We parted bless’d with health, and I am now Age-struck and feeble, so I find art thou; Thine eye is sunken, furrow’d is thy face, And downward look’st thou—so we run our race; And happier they, whose race is nearly run, Their troubles over, and their duties done.”— “True, lady, true, we are not girl and boy; But time has left us something to enjoy.”— 230 “What! thou hast learn’d my fortune?—yes, I live To feel how poor the comforts wealth can give; Thou too perhaps art wealthy; but our fate Still mocks our wishes, wealth is come too late.”— “To me nor late nor early; I am come Poor as I left thee to my native home: Nor yet,” said Rupert, “will I grieve; ’tis mine To share thy comforts, and the glory thine; For thou wilt gladly take that generous part That both exalts and gratifies the heart; 240 While mine rejoices.”—“Heavens!” return’d the maid, “This talk to one so wither’d and decayed? No! all my care is now to fit my mind For other spousal, and to die resign’d. As friend and neighbour, I shall hope to see These noble views, this pious love in thee; That we together may the change await, Guides and spectators in each other’s fate; When fellow-pilgrims, we shall daily crave The mutual prayer that arms us for the grave.” 250 Half angry, half in doubt, the lover gazed On the meek maiden, by her speech amazed. “Dinah,” said he, “dost thou respect thy vows? What spousal mean’st thou?—thou art Rupert’s spouse; The chance is mine to take, and thine to give; But trifling this, if we together live. Can I believe, that, after all the past, Our vows, our loves, thou wilt be false at last? Something thou hast—I know not what—in view; I find thee pious—let me find thee true.”— 260 “Ah! cruel this; but do, my friend, depart; And to its feelings leave my wounded heart.”— “Nay, speak at once; and, Dinah, let me know, Mean’st thou to take me, now I’m wreck’d, in tow? Be fair; nor longer keep me in the dark; Am I forsaken for a trimmer spark? Heav’n’s spouse thou art not; nor can I believe That God accepts her who will man deceive. True, I am shatter’d; I have service seen, And service done, and have in trouble been; 270 My cheek (it shames me not) has lost its red, And the brown buff is o’er my features spread; Perchance my speech is rude; for I among Th’ untamed have been, in temper and in tongue; Have been trepann’d, have lived in toil and care, And wrought for wealth I was not doom’d to share; It touch’d me deeply, for I felt a pride In gaining riches for my destined bride. Speak, then, my fate; for these my sorrows past, Time lost, youth fled, hope wearied, and at last 280 This doubt of thee—a childish thing to tell, But certain truth—my very throat they swell; They stop the breath, and but for shame could I Give way to weakness, and with passion cry; These are unmanly struggles, but I feel This hour must end them, and perhaps will heal.”— Here Dinah sigh’d as if afraid to speak— And then repeated—“They were frail and weak; His soul she loved, and hoped he had the grace To fix his thoughts upon a better place.” 290 She ceased;—with steady glance, as if to see The very root of this hypocrisy, He her small fingers moulded in his hard And bronzed broad hand; then told her, his regard, His best respect were gone, but love had still Hold in his heart, and govern’d yet the will— Or he would curse her;—saying this, he threw } The hand in scorn away, and bade adieu } To every lingering hope, with every care in view. } Proud and indignant, suffering, sick, and poor, 300 He grieved unseen, and spoke of love no more— Till all he felt in indignation died, As hers had sunk in avarice and pride. In health declining, as in mind distress’d, To some in power his troubles he confess’d, And shares a parish-gift;—at prayers he sees The pious Dinah dropp’d upon her knees; Thence as she walks the street with stately air, As chance directs, oft meet the parted pair. When he, with thickset coat of badge-man’s blue, 310 Moves near her shaded silk of changeful hue; When his thin locks of grey approach her braid, A costly purchase made in beauty’s aid; When his frank air, and his unstudied pace,} Are seen with her soft manner, air, and grace.} And his plain artless look with her sharp meaning face: } It might some wonder in a stranger move, How these together could have talk’d of love. Behold them now!—see, there a tradesman stands, And humbly hearkens to some fresh commands; 320 He moves to speak, she interrupts him—“Stay,” Her air expresses—“Hark to what I say!” Ten paces off, poor Rupert on a seat Has taken refuge from the noon-day heat, His eyes on her intent, as if to find What were the movements of that subtle mind; How still! how earnest is he!—it appears His thoughts are wand’ring through his earlier years; Through years of fruitless labour, to the day When all his earthly prospects died away. 330 “Had I,” he thinks, “been wealthier of the two, } Would she have found me so unkind, untrue? } Or knows not man, when poor, what man when rich will do? } Yes, yes! I feel that I had faithful proved, And should have soothed and raised her, bless’d and loved.” But Dinah moves—she had observed before The pensive Rupert at an humble door. Some thoughts of pity raised by his distress, Some feeling touch of ancient tenderness; Religion, duty, urged the maid to speak 340 In terms of kindness to a man so weak; But pride forbad, and to return would prove She felt the shame of his neglected love; Nor wrapp’d in silence could she pass, afraid Each eye should see her, and each heart upbraid. One way remain’d—the way the Levite took, Who without mercy could on misery look, (A way perceived by craft, approved by pride): She cross’d, and pass’d him on the other side.

TALE V.

THE PATRON.

It were all one, That I should love a bright [particular] star, And think to wed it; [he] is so much above me: In [his] bright radiance and collateral heat Must I be comforted, not in [his] sphere. All’s Well that Ends Well, Act I. Scene 1.

Poor wretches, that depend On greatness’ favours, dream as I have done,— Wake, and find nothing. Cymbeline, Act V. Scene 4.

And since... Th’ affliction of my mind amends, with which I fear a madness held me. [The] Tempest, Act V.

TALE V.

THE PATRON.

A borough-bailiff, who to law was train’d, A wife and sons in decent state maintain’d; He had his way in life’s rough ocean steer’d, And many a rock and coast of danger clear’d; He saw where others fail’d, and care had he Others in him should not such failings see; His sons in various busy states were placed, And all began the sweets of gain to taste, Save John, the younger; who, of sprightly parts, Felt not a love for money-making arts. 10 In childhood feeble, he, for country air, Had long resided with a rustic pair; All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs, Of lovers’ sufferings and of ladies’ wrongs; Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight, For breach of promise guilty men to fright; Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with these, All that on idle, ardent spirits seize; Robbers at land and pirates on the main, Enchanters foil’d, spells broken, giants slain; 20 Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers, } Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice flowers, } And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.} From village-children kept apart by pride, With such enjoyments, and without a guide, Inspired by feelings all such works infused, John snatch’d a pen, and wrote as he perused: With the like fancy he could make his knight Slay half an host and put the rest to flight; With the like knowledge, he could make him ride 30 From isle to isle at Parthenissa’s side; And with a heart yet free, no busy brain} Form’d wilder notions of delight and pain,} The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain. } Such were the fruits of John’s poetic toil— Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil. He nothing purposed but with vast delight, Let Fancy loose, and wonder’d at her flight; His notions of poetic worth were high, And of his own still-hoarded poetry.— 40 These to his father’s house he bore with pride, A miser’s treasure, in his room to hide; Till, spurr’d by glory, to a reading friend He kindly show’d the sonnets he had penn’d. With erring judgment, though with heart sincere, That friend exclaim’d, “These beauties must appear.” In Magazines they claim’d their share of fame, Though undistinguish’d by their author’s name; And with delight the young enthusiast found The muse of ‘Marcus’ with applauses crown’d. 50 This heard the father, and with some alarm; “The boy,” said he, “will neither trade nor farm; He for both law and physic is unfit; Wit he may have, but cannot live on wit: Let him his talents then to learning give, Where verse is honour’d, and where poets live.” John kept his terms at college unreproved, Took his degree, and left the life he loved; Not yet ordain’d, his leisure he employ’d In the light labours he so much enjoy’d; 60 His favourite notions and his daring views Were cherish’d still, and he adored the Muse. “A little time, and he should burst to light, And admiration of the world excite; And every friend, now cool and apt to blame His fond pursuit, would wonder at his fame.” When led by fancy, and from view retired, He call’d before him all his heart desired; “Fame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess, And beauty next an ardent lover bless; 70 For me the maid shall leave her nobler state, Happy to raise and share her poet’s fate.” He saw each day his father’s frugal board With simple fare by cautious prudence stored; Where each indulgence was foreweigh’d with care, And the grand maxims were to save and spare. Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed, All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled; And bounteous Fancy for his glowing mind Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind; 80 Slaves of the ring and lamp! what need of you, When Fancy’s self such magic deeds can do? Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind, To common subjects stoop’d our poet’s mind; And oft, when wearied with more ardent flight, He felt a spur satiric song to write; A rival burgess his bold muse attack’d, And whipp’d severely for a well-known fact; For, while he seem’d to all demure and shy, Our poet gazed at what was passing by; 90 And ev’n his father smiled when playful wit, From his young bard, some haughty object hit. From ancient times the borough where they dwelt Had mighty contest at elections felt. Sir Godfrey Ball, ’tis true, had held in pay Electors many for the trying day; But in such golden chains to bind them all Required too much for e’en Sir Godfrey Ball. A member died, and, to supply his place, Two heroes enter’d for th’ important race; 100 Sir Godfrey’s friend and Earl Fitzdonnel’s son, Lord Frederick Damer, both prepared to run; And partial numbers saw with vast delight Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight. Our poet’s father, at a first request, Gave the young lord his vote and interest, And, what he could, our poet; for he stung The foe by verse satiric, said and sung. Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal, And felt as lords upon a canvass feel; 110 He read the satire, and he saw the use } That such cool insult, and such keen abuse,} Might on the wavering minds of voting men produce; } Then, too, his praises were in contrast seen, “A lord as noble as the knight was mean.” “I much rejoice,” he cried, “such worth to find; To this the world must be no longer blind; His glory will descend from sire to son, The Burns of English race, the happier Chatterton.” Our poet’s mind, now hurried and elate, 120 Alarm’d the anxious parent for his fate; Who saw with sorrow, should their friend succeed, That much discretion would the poet need. Their friend succeeded, and repaid the zeal The poet felt, and made opposers feel, By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet!) And invitation to his noble seat. The father ponder’d, doubtful if the brain Of his proud boy such honour could sustain; Pleased with the favours offer’d to a son, 130 But seeing dangers few so ardent shun. Thus, when they parted, to the youthful breast The father’s fears were by his love impress’d: “There you will find, my son, the courteous ease That must subdue the soul it means to please; That soft attention which ev’n beauty pays To wake our passions, or provoke our praise; There all the eye beholds will give delight, Where every sense is flatter’d like the sight. This is your peril; can you from such scene 140 Of splendour part, and feel your mind serene, And in the father’s humble state resume The frugal diet and the narrow room?” To this the youth with cheerful heart replied, Pleased with the trial, but as yet untried; And while professing patience, should he fail, He suffer’d hope o’er reason to prevail. Impatient, by the morning mail convey’d, The happy guest his promised visit paid; And now, arriving at the hall, he tried 150 For air composed, serene and satisfied; As he had practised in his room alone, And there acquired a free and easy tone. There he had said, “Whatever the degree A man obtains, what more than man is he?” And when arrived—“This room is but a room; Can aught we see the steady soul o’ercome? Let me in all a manly firmness show, Upheld by talents, and their value know.” This reason urged; but it surpass’d his skill 160 To be in act as manly as in will: When he his lordship and the lady saw, Brave as he was, he felt oppress’d with awe; And spite of verse, that so much praise had won, The poet found he was the bailiff’s son. But dinner came, and the succeeding hours Fix’d his weak nerves, and raised his failing powers; Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice On some remark, and bravely broke the ice; So that at night, reflecting on his words, 170 He found in time, he might converse with lords. Now was the sister of his patron seen— A lovely creature, with majestic mien; Who, softly smiling while she look’d so fair, Praised the young poet with such friendly air; Such winning frankness in her looks express’d, And such attention to her brother’s guest, That so much beauty, join’d with speech so kind, Raised strong emotions in the poet’s mind; Till reason fail’d his bosom to defend 180 From the sweet power of this enchanting friend.— Rash boy! what hope thy frantic mind invades? What love confuses, and what pride persuades? Awake to truth! shouldst thou deluded feed On hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed. What say’st thou, wise-one? “that all-powerful love Can fortune’s strong impediments remove; Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth, The pride of genius with the pride of birth.” While thou art dreaming thus, the beauty spies 190 Love in thy tremor, passion in thine eyes; And, with th’ amusement pleased, of conquest vain, She seeks her pleasure, careless of thy pain; She gives thee praise to humble and confound, Smiles to ensnare, and flatters thee to wound. Why has she said that in the lowest state The noble mind insures a noble fate? And why thy daring mind to glory call? That thou may’st dare and suffer, soar and fall. Beauties are tyrants, and if they can reign, 200 They have no feeling for their subject’s pain; Their victim’s anguish gives their charms applause, And their chief glory is the woe they cause. Something of this was felt, in spite of love, Which hope, in spite of reason, would remove. Thus lived our youth, with conversation, books, And Lady Emma’s soul-subduing looks; Lost in delight, astonish’d at his lot, } All prudence banish’d, all advice forgot— } Hopes, fears, and every thought, were fix’d upon the spot. }210 ’Twas autumn yet, and many a day must frown On Brandon-Hall, ere went my lord to town; Meantime the father, who had heard his boy Lived in a round of luxury and joy, And, justly thinking that the youth was one Who, meeting danger, was unskill’d to shun; Knowing his temper, virtue, spirit, zeal, How prone to hope and trust, believe and feel: These on the parent’s soul their weight impress’d, And thus he wrote the counsels of his breast. 220 “John, thou’rt a genius; thou hast some pretence, I think, to wit, but hast thou sterling sense? That which, like gold, may through the world go forth, And always pass for what ’tis truly worth? Whereas this genius, like a bill, must take Only the value our opinions make. “Men famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain, Treat those of common parts with proud disdain; The powers that wisdom would, improving, hide, They blaze abroad with inconsid’rate pride; 230 While yet but mere probationers for fame, They seize the honour they should then disclaim: Honour so hurried to the light must fade; The lasting laurels flourish in the shade. “Genius is jealous; I have heard of some Who, if unnoticed, grew perversely dumb; Nay, different talents would their envy raise; Poets have sicken’d at a dancer’s praise; And one, the happiest writer of his time, Grew pale at hearing Reynolds was sublime; 240 That Rutland’s duchess wore a heavenly smile— And I, said he, neglected all the while! “A waspish tribe are these, on gilded wings, Humming their lays, and brandishing their stings; And thus they move their friends and foes among, Prepared for soothing or satiric song. “Hear me, my boy; thou hast a virtuous mind— But be thy virtues of the sober kind; Be not a Quixote, ever up in arms To give the guilty and the great alarms: 250 If never heeded, thy attack is vain; And if they heed thee, they’ll attack again; Then, too, in striking at that heedless rate, Thou in an instant may’st decide thy fate. “Leave admonition—let the vicar give Rules how the nobles of his flock should live; Nor take that simple fancy to thy brain, That thou canst cure the wicked and the vain. “Our Pope, they say, once entertain’d the whim, Who fear’d not God should be afraid of him; 260 But grant they fear’d him, was it further said, That he reform’d the hearts he made afraid? Did Chartres mend? Ward, Waters, and a score Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore? Was Cibber silenced? No; with vigour bless’d, And brazen front, half earnest, half in jest, He dared the bard to battle, and was seen In all his glory match’d with Pope and spleen; Himself he stripp’d, the harder blow to hit, Then boldly match’d his ribaldry with wit; 270 The poet’s conquest Truth and Time proclaim, But yet the battle hurt his peace and fame. “Strive not too much for favour; seem at ease, And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please: Upon thy lord with decent care attend, But not too near; thou canst not be a friend; And favourite be not, ’tis a dangerous post— Is gain’d by labour, and by fortune lost. Talents like thine may make a man approved, But other talents trusted and beloved. 280 Look round, my son, and thou wilt early see The kind of man thou art not form’d to be. “The real favourites of the great are they Who to their views and wants attention pay, And pay it ever; who, with all their skill, Dive to the heart, and learn the secret will; If that be vicious, soon can they provide The favourite ill, and o’er the soul preside; For vice is weakness, and the artful know Their power increases as the passions grow; 290 If indolent the pupil, hard their task; Such minds will ever for amusement ask; And great the labour for a man to choose Objects for one whom nothing can amuse! For ere those objects can the soul delight, They must to joy the soul herself excite; Therefore it is, this patient, watchful kind With gentle friction stir the drowsy mind; Fix’d on their end, with caution they proceed, And sometimes give, and sometimes take the lead; 300 Will now a hint convey, and then retire, And let the spark awake the lingering fire; Or seek new joys and livelier pleasures bring, To give the jaded sense a quick’ning spring. “These arts, indeed, my son must not pursue; Nor must he quarrel with the tribe that do: It is not safe another’s crimes to know, Nor is it wise our proper worth to show.— ‘My lord,’ you say, ‘engaged me for that worth;’— True, and preserve it ready to come forth: 310 If question’d, fairly answer—and, that done, Shrink back, be silent, and thy father’s son; For they who doubt thy talents scorn thy boast, But they who grant them will dislike thee most. Observe the prudent; they in silence sit, Display no learning, and affect no wit; They hazard nothing, nothing they assume, But know the useful art of acting dumb. Yet to their eyes each varying look appears, And every word finds entrance at their ears. 320 “Thou art religion’s advocate—take heed, Hurt not the cause thy pleasure ’tis to plead; With wine before thee, and with wits beside, Do not in strength of reas’ning powers confide; What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain, They will deny, and dare thee to maintain; And thus will triumph o’er thy eager youth, While thou wilt grieve for so disgracing truth. “With pain I’ve seen, these wrangling wits among, Faith’s weak defenders, passionate and young; 330 Weak thou art not, yet not enough on guard, Where wit and humour keep their watch and ward: Men gay and noisy will o’erwhelm thy sense, Then loudly laugh at Truth’s and thy expense; While the kind ladies will do all they can To check their mirth, and cry, ‘The good young man!’ “Prudence, my boy, forbids thee to commend The cause or party of thy noble friend; What are his praises worth, who must be known To take a patron’s maxims for his own? 340 When ladies sing, or in thy presence play, Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away; ’Tis not thy part, there will be list’ners round, To cry ‘divine!’ and dote upon the sound; Remember too, that though the poor have ears, They take not in the music of the spheres; They must not feel the warble and the thrill, Or be dissolved in ecstacy at will; Beside, ’tis freedom in a youth like thee To drop his awe, and deal in ecstacy! 350 “In silent ease, at least in silence, dine, Nor one opinion start of food or wine: Thou know’st that all the science thou canst boast Is of thy father’s simple boil’d and roast; Nor always these; he sometimes saved his cash, By interlinear days of frugal hash. Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou be so vain As to decide on claret or champagne? Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime, Who order port the dozen at a time; 360 When (every glass held precious in our eyes) We judged the value by the bottle’s size? Then, never merit for thy praise assume, Its worth well knows each servant in the room. “Hard, boy, thy task, to steer thy way among That servile, supple, shrewd, insidious throng; Who look upon thee as of doubtful race, An interloper, one who wants a place: Freedom with these let thy free soul condemn, Nor with thy heart’s concerns associate them. 370 “Of all be cautious—but be most afraid Of the pale charms that grace my lady’s maid; Of those sweet dimples, of that fraudful eye,} The frequent glance, design’d for thee to spy;} The soft bewitching look, the fond bewailing sigh. } Let others frown and envy; she the while (Insidious syren!) will demurely smile; And, for her gentle purpose, every day Inquire thy wants, and meet thee in thy way; She has her blandishments, and, though so weak, 380 Her person pleases, and her actions speak. At first her folly may her aim defeat; But kindness shown at length will kindness meet. Have some offended? them will she disdain, And, for thy sake, contempt and pity feign; She hates the vulgar, she admires to look On woods and groves, and dotes upon a book; Let her once see thee on her features dwell, And hear one sigh—then, liberty, farewell. “But, John, remember, we cannot maintain 390 A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain. “Doubt much of friendship: shouldst thou find a friend Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend; Should he the praises he has heard report, And confidence (in thee confiding) court; Much of neglectful patrons should he say, And then exclaim—‘How long must merit stay;’ Then show how high thy modest hopes may stretch, And point to stations far beyond thy reach: Let such designer, by thy conduct, see 400 (Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee; And he will quit thee, as a man too wise For him to ruin first, and then despise. “Such are thy dangers;—yet, if thou canst steer Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear, Then may’st thou profit; but if storms prevail, If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail— No more of winds or waters be the sport, But in thy father’s mansion find a port.” Our poet read.—“It is, in truth,” said he, 410 “Correct in part, but what is this to me? I love a foolish Abigail! in base And sordid office! fear not such disgrace: Am I so blind?”—“Or thou wouldst surely see That lady’s fall, if she should stoop to thee.”— “The cases differ.”—“True! for what surprise Could from thy marriage with the maid arise? But through the island would the shame be spread, Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed.” John saw not this; and many a week had pass’d, 420 While the vain beauty held her victim fast; The noble friend still condescension show’d, And, as before, with praises overflow’d; But his grave lady took a silent view Of all that pass’d, and, smiling, pitied too. Cold grew the foggy morn; the day was brief; Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf; The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods Roar’d with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods; All green was vanish’d, save of pine and yew, 430 That still display’d their melancholy hue; Save the green holly with its berries red, And the green moss that o’er the gravel spread. To public views my lord must soon attend; And soon the ladies—would they leave their friend? The time was fix’d—approach’d—was near—was come, The trying time that fill’d his soul with gloom. Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose, And cried, “One hour my fortune will disclose; Terrific hour! from thee have I to date 440 Life’s loftier views, or my degraded state; For now to be what I have been before Is so to fall, that I can rise no more.” The morning meal was past, and all around The mansion rang with each discordant sound; Haste was in every foot, and every look The trav’ller’s joy for London-journey spoke. Not so our youth; whose feelings, at the noise Of preparation, had no touch of joys; He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn, 450 With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn. The ladies came; and John in terror threw One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew; Not with such speed, but he in other eyes With anguish read—“I pity but despise— Unhappy boy! presumptuous scribbler!—you To dream such dreams!—be sober, and adieu!” Then came the noble friend—“And will my lord Vouchsafe no comfort? drop no soothing word? Yes, he must speak:” he speaks, “My good young friend,— You know my views; upon my care depend; 461 My hearty thanks to your good father pay, And be a student.—Harry, drive away.” Stillness reign’d all around; of late so full, The busy scene deserted now and dull. Stern is his nature who forbears to feel Gloom o’er his spirits on such trials steal; Most keenly felt our poet as he went From room to room without a fix’d intent; “And here,” he thought, “I was caress’d; admired 470 Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired: The change how grievous!” As he mused, a dame Busy and peevish to her duties came; Aside the tables and the chairs she drew, And sang and mutter’d in the poet’s view:— “This was her fortune; here they leave the poor; Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more; I had a promise—” here his pride and shame Urged him to fly from this familiar dame; He gave one farewell look, and by a coach 480 Reach’d his own mansion at the night’s approach. His father met him with an anxious air, Heard his sad tale, and check’d what seem’d despair; Hope was in him corrected, but alive; My lord would something for a friend contrive; His word was pledged; our hero’s feverish mind Admitted this, and half his grief resign’d. But when three months had fled, and every day Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away, The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull; 490 He utter’d nothing, though his heart was full. Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks, And all forgetful of his muse and books, Awake he mourn’d, but in his sleep perceived A lovely vision that his pain relieved; His soul transported, hail’d the happy seat, Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet; Where joys departed came in blissful view, Till reason wak’d, and not a joy he knew. Questions now vex’d his spirit, most from those 500 Who are called friends, because they are not foes. “John!” they would say; he, starting, turn’d around; “John!” there was something shocking in the sound; Ill brook’d he then the pert familiar phrase, The untaught freedom, and th’ inquiring gaze; Much was his temper touch’d, his spleen provoked, When ask’d how ladies talk’d, or walk’d, or look’d? What said my lord of politics? how spent He there his time? and was he glad he went?” At length a letter came, both cool and brief, 510 But still it gave the burthen’d heart relief: Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the youth Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick’s truth; Summon’d to town, he thought the visit one Where something fair and friendly would be done; Although he judged not, as before his fall, When all was love and promise at the hall. Arrived in town, he early sought to know The fate such dubious friendship would bestow; At a tall building, trembling, he appear’d, 520 And his low rap was indistinctly heard; A well-known servant came—“A while,” said he, “Be pleased to wait; my lord has company.” Alone our hero sate; the news in hand, Which, though he read, he could not understand. Cold was the day; in days so cold as these There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze; The vast and echoing room, the polish’d grate, The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate; The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest, 530 He then had thought it freedom to have press’d; The shining tables, curiously inlaid, Were all in comfortless proud style display’d; And to the troubled feelings terror gave, That made the once-dear friend the sick’ning slave. “Was he forgotten?” Thrice upon his ear Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near; Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke; Oft as a servant chanced the way to come, 540 “Brings he a message?” no! he pass’d the room. At length ’tis certain; “Sir you will attend At twelve on Thursday!” Thus the day had end. Vex’d by these tedious hours of needless pain, John left the noble mansion with disdain; For there was something in that still, cold place, That seem’d to threaten and portend disgrace. Punctual again the modest rap declared The youth attended; then was all prepared: For the same servant, by his lord’s command, 550 A paper offer’d to his trembling hand. “No more!” he cried; “disdains he to afford One kind expression, one consoling word?” With troubled spirit he began to read That “In the church my lord could not succeed;” Who had “to peers of either kind applied, And was with dignity and grace denied; While his own livings were by men possess’d, Not likely in their chancels yet to rest; And therefore, all things weigh’d (as he, my lord, 560 Had done maturely, and he pledged his word), Wisdom it seem’d for John to turn his view To busier scenes, and bid the church adieu!” Here grieved the youth; he felt his father’s pride Must with his own be shock’d and mortified; But when he found his future comforts placed Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced— In some appointment on the London quays, He bade farewell to honour and to ease; His spirit fell; and, from that hour assured 570 How vain his dreams, he suffer’d and was cured. Our poet hurried on, with wish to fly From all mankind, to be conceal’d, and die. Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views } Did that one visit to the soul infuse, } Which cherish’d with such love, ’twas worse than death to lose! } Still he would strive, though painful was the strife, To walk in this appointed road of life; On these low duties duteous he would wait, And patient bear the anguish of his fate. 580 Thanks to the patron, but of coldest kind, Express’d the sadness of the poet’s mind; Whose heavy hours were pass’d with busy men, In the dull practice of th’ official pen; Who to superiors must in time impart (The custom this) his progress in their art. But so had grief on his perception wrought, That all unheeded were the duties taught; No answers gave he when his trial came, Silent he stood, but suffering without shame; 590 And they observed that words severe or kind Made no impression on his wounded mind; For all perceived from whence his failure rose— Some grief whose cause he deign’d not to disclose. A soul averse from scenes and works so new; Fear, ever shrinking from the vulgar crew; Distaste for each mechanic law and rule, Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool; A grieving parent, and a feeling mind, Timid and ardent, tender and refined: 600 These all with mighty force the youth assail’d, Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail’d. When this was known, and some debate arose How they who saw it should the fact disclose, He found their purpose, and in terror fled From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread. Meantime the parent was distress’d to find His son no longer for a priest design’d; But still he gain’d some comfort by the news Of John’s promotion, though with humbler views; 610 For he conceived that in no distant time The boy would learn to scramble and to climb. He little thought a son, his hope and pride, His favour’d boy, was now a home denied: Yes! while the parent was intent to trace How men in office climb from place to place, By day, by night, o’er moor and heath and hill, } Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will, } Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill.} Thus as he sate, absorb’d in all the care 620 And all the hope that anxious fathers share, A friend abruptly to his presence brought, With trembling hand, the subject of his thought, Whom he had found afflicted and subdued By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude. Silent he enter’d the forgotten room As ghostly forms may be conceived to come; With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright, He look’d dismay, neglect, despair, affright; But, dead to comfort, and on misery thrown, 630 His parent’s loss he felt not, nor his own. The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud, And drew around him an astonish’d crowd; The sons and servants to the father ran, To share the feelings of the grieved old man. “Our brother, speak!” they all exclaim’d; “explain Thy grief, thy suffering;”—but they ask’d in vain: The friend told all he knew; and all was known, Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown. But, if obscure the cause, they all agreed 640 From rest and kindness must the cure proceed: And he was cured; for quiet, love, and care, Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair. Yet slow their progress; and, as vapours move Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove; All is confusion till the morning light Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight; More and yet more defined the trunks appear, Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear— So the dark mind of our young poet grew 650 Clear and sedate; the dreadful mist withdrew; And he resembled that bleak wintry scene, Sad, though unclouded; dismal, though serene. At times he utter’d, “What a dream was mine! And what a prospect! glorious and divine! Oh! in that room, and on that night, to see These looks, that sweetness beaming all on me; That syren-flattery—and to send me then, Hope-raised and soften’d, to those heartless men; That dark-brow’d stern director, pleased to show 660 Knowledge of subjects I disdain’d to know; Cold and controlling—but ’tis gone, ’tis past; I had my trial, and have peace at last.” Now grew the youth resign’d; he bade adieu To all that hope, to all that fancy drew; His frame was languid, and the hectic heat Flush’d on his pallid face, and countless beat The quick’ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore The slender form that soon would breathe no more. Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain’d, 670 And not a lingering thought of earth remain’d; Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at love, And the wild sallies of his youth reprove; Then could he dwell upon the tempting days, The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise; Victorious now, his worldly views were closed, And on the bed of death the youth reposed. The father grieved—but, as the poet’s heart Was all unfitted for his earthly part; As, he conceived, some other haughty fair 680 Would, had he lived, have led him to despair; As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt; While the strong faith the pious youth possess’d, His hope enlivening, gave his sorrows rest: Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy For his aspiring and devoted boy. Meantime the news through various channels spread: The youth, once favour’d with such praise, was dead. “Emma,” the lady cried, “my words attend, 690 Your syren-smiles have kill’d your humble friend; The hope you raised can now delude no more, Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore.” Faint was the flush of anger and of shame, That o’er the cheek of conscious beauty came. “You censure not,” said she, “the sun’s bright rays, When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze; And, should a stripling look till he were blind, You would not justly call the light unkind.— But is he dead? and am I to suppose 700 The power of poison in such looks as those?” She spoke, and, pointing to the mirror, cast A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass’d. My lord, to whom the poet’s fate was told, Was much affected, for a man so cold. “Dead!” said his lordship, “run distracted, mad! Upon my soul I’m sorry for the lad; And now, no doubt, th’ obliging world will say That my harsh usage help’d him on his way. What! I suppose, I should have nursed his muse, 710 And with champagne have brighten’d up his views: Then had he made me famed my whole life long, And stunn’d my ears with gratitude and song. Still, should the father hear that I regret Our joint misfortune—Yes! I’ll not forget.”— Thus they.—The father to his grave convey’d The son he loved, and his last duties paid. “There lies my boy,” he cried, “of care bereft, And, Heav’n be praised, I’ve not a genius left: No one among ye, sons! is doom’d to live 720 On high-raised hopes of what the great may give; None, with exalted views and fortunes mean, To die in anguish, or to live in spleen. Your pious brother soon escaped the strife Of such contention, but it cost his life; You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend, And in your own exertions find the friend.”

TALE VI.

THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, “Father, as it please you;” but [yet] for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, “Father, as it pleases me.” Much Ado about Nothing, Act II. Scene 1.

He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain—he must speak truth. King Lear, Act II. Scene 2.

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another; you jig, you amble, [and you lisp, and] nick-name God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Hamlet, Act III. Scene 1.

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? [Stand I condemn’d] for pride and scorn so much? Much Ado about Nothing, Act III. Scene 1.

TALE VI.

THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred’s sire, Was six feet high, and look’d six inches higher; Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow, Who knew the man, could never cease to know; His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by, Had a firm presence and a steady eye; But with her husband dropp’d her look and tone, And Jonas ruled unquestion’d and alone. He read, and oft would quote the sacred words, How pious husbands of their wives were lords; 10 Sarah called Abraham lord! and who could be, So Jonas thought, a greater man than he? Himself he view’d with undisguised respect, And never pardon’d freedom or neglect. They had one daughter, and this favourite child Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled; Soothed by attention from her early years, She gain’d all wishes by her smiles or tears: But Sybil then was in that playful time, When contradiction is not held a crime; 20 When parents yield their children idle praise For faults corrected in their after days. Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt, Where each his duty and his station felt: Yet not that peace some favour’d mortals find, In equal views and harmony of mind; Not the soft peace that blesses those who love, Where all with one consent in union move; But it was that which one superior will Commands, by making all inferiors still; 30 Who bids all murmurs, all objections cease, And with imperious voice announces—Peace! They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew, Who, as their foes maintain, their sovereign slew: An independent race, precise, correct, Who ever married in the kindred sect. No son or daughter of their order wed A friend to England’s king who lost his head; Cromwell was still their saint, and, when they met, They mourn’d that saints[4] were not our rulers yet. 40 Fix’d were their habits; they arose betimes, Then pray’d their hour, and sang their party-rhymes: Their meals were plenteous, regular, and plain; The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain; Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn— And, like his father, he was merchant born. Neat was their house; each table, chair, and stool, Stood in its place, or moving moved by rule; No lively print or picture graced the room; A plain brown paper lent its decent gloom; 50 But here the eye, in glancing round, survey’d A small recess that seem’d for china made; Such pleasing pictures seem’d this pencill’d ware, That few would search for nobler objects there— Yet, turn’d by chosen friends, and there appear’d His stern, strong features, whom they all revered; For there in lofty air was seen to stand The bold protector of the conquer’d land; Drawn in that look with which he wept and swore, Turn’d out the members, and made fast the door, 60 Ridding the house of every knave and drone; Forced, though it grieved his soul, to rule alone. The stern, still smile each friend, approving, gave; Then turn’d the view, and all again were grave. There stood a clock, though small the owner’s need— For habit told when all things should proceed. Few their amusements, but, when friends appear’d, They with the world’s distress their spirits cheer’d; The nation’s guilt, that would not long endure The reign of men so modest and so pure. 70 Their town was large, and seldom pass’d a day But some had fail’d, and others gone astray; Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls flown To Gretna-Green, or sons rebellious grown; Quarrels and fires arose;—and it was plain The times were bad; the saints had ceased to reign! A few yet lived to languish and to mourn For good old manners, never to return. Jonas had sisters, and of these was one Who lost a husband and an only son: 80 Twelve months her sables she in sorrow wore, And mourn’d so long that she could mourn no more. Distant from Jonas, and from all her race, She now resided in a lively place; There, by the sect unseen, at whist she play’d, Nor was of churchmen or their church afraid. If much of this the graver brother heard, He something censured, but he little fear’d; He knew her rich and frugal; for the rest, He felt no care, or, if he felt, suppress’d; 90 Nor, for companion when she ask’d her niece, Had he suspicions that disturbed his peace; Frugal and rich, these virtues as a charm Preserved the thoughtful man from all alarm; An infant yet, she soon would home return, Nor stay the manners of the world to learn; Meantime his boys would all his care engross, And be his comforts if he felt the loss. The sprightly Sybil, pleased and unconfined, Felt the pure pleasure of the op’ning mind: 100 All here was gay and cheerful—all at home Unvaried quiet and unruffled gloom. There were no changes, and amusements few; Here, all was varied, wonderful, and new; There were plain meals, plain dresses, and grave looks— Here, gay companions and amusing books; And the young beauty soon began to taste The light vocations of the scene she graced. A man of business feels it as a crime On calls domestic to consume his time; 110 Yet this grave man had not so cold a heart, But with his daughter he was grieved to part; And he demanded that in every year The aunt and niece should at his house appear. “Yes! we must go, my child, and by our dress A grave conformity of mind express; Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain, The more t’ enjoy when we return again.” Thus spake the aunt, and the discerning child Was pleased to learn how fathers are beguiled. 120 Her artful part the young dissembler took, And from the matron caught th’ approving look. When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent For more delay, and Jonas was content; Till a tall maiden by her sire was seen, In all the bloom and beauty of sixteen; He gazed admiring;—she, with visage prim, Glanced an arch look of gravity on him; For she was gay at heart, but wore disguise, And stood a vestal in her father’s eyes— 130 Pure, pensive, simple, sad; the damsel’s heart, When Jonas praised, reproved her for the part; For Sybil, fond of pleasure, gay and light, Had still a secret bias to the right; Vain as she was—and flattery made her vain— Her simulation gave her bosom pain. Again return’d, the matron and the niece Found the late quiet gave their joy increase; The aunt, infirm, no more her visits paid, But still with her sojourn’d the favourite maid. 140 Letters were sent when franks could be procured; And, when they could not, silence was endured. All were in health, and, if they older grew, It seem’d a fact that none among them knew; The aunt and niece still led a pleasant life, And quiet days had Jonas and his wife. Near him a widow dwelt of worthy fame: Like his her manners, and her creed the same. The wealth her husband left her care retain’d For one tall youth, and widow she remained; 150 His love respectful all her care repaid, Her wishes watch’d, and her commands obey’d. Sober he was and grave from early youth, Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth; In a light drab he uniformly dress’d, And look serene th’ unruffled mind express’d; A hat with ample verge his brows o’erspread, And his brown locks curl’d graceful on his head; Yet might observers in his speaking eye} Some observation, some acuteness spy; }160 The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous deem’d it sly. } Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect; His actions all were, like his speech, correct; And they who jested on a mind so sound, Upon his virtues must their laughter found: ‘Chaste, sober, solemn,’ and ‘devout’ they named Him who was thus, and not of this ashamed. Such were the virtues Jonas found in one In whom he warmly wish’d to find a son. Three years had pass’d since he had Sybil seen; 170 But she was doubtless what she once had been— Lovely and mild, obedient and discreet: The pair must love whenever they should meet; Then, ere the widow or her son should choose Some happier maid, he would explain his views. Now she, like him, was politic and shrewd, With strong desire of lawful gain embued; To all he said, she bow’d with much respect, Pleased to comply, yet seeming to reject; Cool, and yet eager, each admired the strength 180 Of the opponent, and agreed at length. As a drawn battle shows to each a force, Powerful as his, he honours it of course: So in these neighbours, each the power discern’d, And gave the praise that was to each return’d. Jonas now ask’d his daughter; and the aunt, Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant.— But would not Sybil to the matron cling, And fear to leave the shelter of her wing? No! in the young there lives a love of change, 190 And to the easy they prefer the strange! Then too the joys she once pursued with zeal, From whist and visits sprung, she ceased to feel; When with the matrons Sybil first sat down, To cut for partners and to stake her crown, This to the youthful maid preferment seem’d, Who thought [that] woman she was then esteem’d; But in few years, when she perceived, indeed, The real woman to the girl succeed, No longer tricks and honours fill’d her mind, 200 But other feelings, not so well defined. She then reluctant grew, and thought it hard, To sit and ponder o’er an ugly card; Rather the nut-tree shade the nymph preferr’d, Pleased with the pensive gloom and evening bird; Thither, from company retired, she took The silent walk, or read the fav’rite book. The father’s letter, sudden, short, and kind, Awaked her wonder, and disturb’d her mind; She found new dreams upon her fancy seize, 210 Wild roving thoughts and endless reveries. The parting came;—and, when the aunt perceived The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved, To love for her that tender grief she laid, That various, soft, contending passions made. When Sybil rested in her father’s arms, His pride exulted in a daughter’s charms; A maid accomplish’d he was pleased to find, Nor seem’d the form more lovely than the mind. But when the fit of pride and fondness fled, 220 He saw his judgment by his hopes misled; High were the lady’s spirits, far more free Her mode of speaking than a maid’s should be; Too much, as Jonas thought, she seem’d to know, And all her knowledge was disposed to show: “Too gay her dress, like theirs who idly dote On a young coxcomb, or a coxcomb’s coat; In foolish spirits when our friends appear, And vainly grave when not a man is near.” Thus Jonas, adding to his sorrow blame, 230 And terms disdainful to his sister’s name:— “The sinful wretch has by her arts defiled The ductile spirit of my darling child.” “The maid is virtuous,” said the dame.—Quoth he, “Let her give proof, by acting virtuously: Is it in gaping when the elders pray? In reading nonsense half a summer’s day? In those mock forms that she delights to trace, Or her loud laughs in Hezekiah’s face? She—O Susannah!—to the world belongs;}240 She loves the follies of its idle throngs,} And reads soft tales of love, and sings love’s soft’ning songs. } But, as our friend is yet delay’d in town, We must prepare her till the youth comes down; You shall advise the maiden; I will threat; Her fears and hopes may yield us comfort yet.” Now the grave father took the lass aside, Demanding sternly, “Wilt thou be a bride?” She answer’d, calling up an air sedate, “I have not vow’d against the holy state.” 250 “No folly, Sybil,” said the parent; “know What to their parents virtuous maidens owe: A worthy, wealthy youth, whom I approve, Must thou prepare to honour and to love. Formal to thee his air and dress may seem, But the good youth is worthy of esteem; Shouldst thou with rudeness treat him, of disdain Should he with justice or of slight complain, Or of one taunting speech give certain proof: Girl! I reject thee from my sober roof.” 260 “My aunt,” said Sybil, “will with pride protect One whom a father can for this reject; Nor shall a formal, rigid, soul-less boy My manners alter, or my views destroy!” Jonas [then] lifted up his hands on high,} And, utt’ring something ’twixt a groan and sigh,} Left the determined maid her doubtful mother by. } “Hear me,” she said; “incline thy heart, my child, And fix thy fancy on a man so mild; Thy father, Sybil, never could be moved 270 By one who loved him, or by one he loved. Union like ours is but a bargain made By slave and tyrant—he will be obey’d, Then calls the quiet comfort;—but thy youth Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth.” “But will he love?” said Sybil; “I am told That these mild creatures are by nature cold.” “Alas!” the matron answer’d, “much I dread That dangerous love by which the young are led! That love is earthy; you the creature prize, 280 And trust your feelings and believe your eyes: Can eyes and feelings inward worth descry? No! my fair daughter, on our choice rely! Your love, like that display’d upon the stage, Indulged is folly, and opposed is rage;— More prudent love our sober couples show, All that to mortal beings mortals owe. All flesh is grass—before you give a heart, Remember, Sybil, that in death you part; And, should your husband die before your love, 290 What needless anguish must a widow prove! No! my fair child, let all such visions cease; Yield but esteem, and only try for peace.” “I must be loved,” said Sybil; “I must see The man in terrors who aspires to me; At my forbidding frown his heart must ache, His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake; And, if I grant him at my feet to kneel, What trembling, fearful pleasure must he feel; Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire, 300 That reason’s self must for a time retire.” “Alas! for good Josiah,” said the dame, “These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame. He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust! He cannot, child.”—The child replied, “He must.” They ceased; the matron left her with a frown; So Jonas met her when the youth came down. “Behold,” said he, “thy future spouse attends; Receive him, daughter, as the best of friends; Observe, respect him—humble be each word, 310 That welcomes home thy husband and thy lord.” Forewarn’d, thought Sybil, with a bitter smile, I shall prepare my manner and my style. Ere yet Josiah enter’d on his task, The father met him:—“Deign to wear a mask A few dull days, Josiah—but a few— It is our duty, and the sex’s due; I wore it once, and every grateful wife Repays it with obedience through her life: Have no regard to Sybil’s dress, have none}320 To her pert language, to her flippant tone:} Henceforward thou shalt rule unquestion’d and alone; } And she thy pleasure in thy looks shall seek— How she shall dress, and whether she may speak.” A sober smile return’d the youth, and said, “Can I cause fear, who am myself afraid?” Sybil, meantime, sat thoughtful in her room, And often wonder’d—“Will the creature come? Nothing shall tempt, shall force me to bestow My hand upon him—yet I wish to know.” 330 The door unclosed, and she beheld her sire Lead in the youth, then hasten to retire. “Daughter, my friend—my daughter, friend,” he cried, And gave a meaning look, and stepp’d aside; That look contain’d a mingled threat and prayer, “Do take him, child—offend him, if you dare.” The couple gazed—were silent; and the maid Look’d in his face, to make the man afraid; The man, unmoved, upon the maiden cast A steady view—so salutation pass’d; 340 But in this instant Sybil’s eye had seen The tall fair person, and the still staid mien; The glow that temp’rance o’er the cheek had spread, Where the soft down half veil’d the purest red; And the serene deportment that proclaim’d A heart unspotted, and a life unblamed. But then with these she saw attire too plain, The pale brown coat, though worn without a stain; The formal air, and something of the pride That indicates the wealth it seems to hide; 350 And looks that were not, she conceived, exempt From a proud pity, or a sly contempt. Josiah’s eyes had their employment too, Engaged and soften’d by so bright a view: A fair and meaning face, an eye of fire, That check’d the bold, and made the free retire. But then with these he mark’d the studied dress And lofty air, that scorn or pride express; With that insidious look, that seem’d to hide In an affected smile the scorn and pride; 360 And if his mind the virgin’s meaning caught, } He saw a foe with treacherous purpose fraught—} Captive the heart to take, and to reject it caught. } Silent they sate—thought Sybil, that he seeks Something, no doubt; I wonder if he speaks. Scarcely she wonder’d, when these accents fell Slow in her ear—“Fair maiden, art thou well?”— “Art thou physician?” she replied; “my hand, My pulse, at least, shall be at thy command.” She said—and saw, surprised, Josiah kneel, 370 And gave his lips the offer’d pulse to feel; The rosy colour rising in her cheek Seem’d that surprise, unmix’d with wrath, to speak; Then sternness she assumed, and—“Doctor, tell, Thy words cannot alarm me—am I well?” “Thou art,” said he; “and yet thy dress so light, I do conceive, some danger must excite.” “In whom?” said Sybil, with a look demure; “In more,” said he, “than I expect to cure. I, in thy light luxuriant robe, behold} Want and excess, abounding and yet cold:} Here needed, there display’d, in many a wanton fold; } Both health and beauty, learned authors show, From a just medium in our clothing flow.” “Proceed, good doctor; if so great my need, What is thy fee? Good doctor! pray proceed.” “Large is my fee, fair lady, but I take None till some progress in my cure I make. Thou hast disease, fair maiden; thou art vain; Within that face sit insult and disdain; 390 Thou art enamour’d of thyself; my art Can see the naughty malice of thy heart; With a strong pleasure would thy bosom move, Were I to own thy power, and ask thy love; And such thy beauty, damsel, that I might,} But for thy pride, feel danger in thy sight,} And lose my present peace in dreams of vain delight.” } “And can thy patients,” said the nymph, “endure Physic like this? and will it work a cure?” “Such is my hope, fair damsel; thou, I find, 400 Hast the true tokens of a noble mind; But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys; Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around, That in thine own pure bosom should be found. Did all that world admire thee, praise and love, Could it the least of nature’s pains remove? Could it for errors, follies, sins atone, Or give thee comfort, thoughtful and alone? It has, believe me, maid, no power to charm 410 Thy soul from sorrow, or thy flesh from harm: Turn then, fair creature, from a world of sin, And seek the jewel happiness within.” “Speak’st thou at meeting?” said the nymph; “thy speech Is that of mortal very prone to teach; But wouldst thou, doctor, from the patient learn Thine own disease?—The cure is thy concern.” “Yea, with good will.”—“Then know, ’tis thy complaint, That, for a sinner, thou’rt too much a saint; Hast too much show of the sedate and pure, 420 And without cause art formal and demure: This makes a man unsocial, unpolite; Odious when wrong, and insolent if right. Thou may’st be good, but why should goodness be Wrapt in a garb of such formality? Thy person well might please a damsel’s eye, In decent habit with a scarlet dye; But, jest apart—what virtue canst thou trace In that broad brim that hides thy sober face? Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice 430 And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? Then for thine accent—what in sound can be So void of grace as dull monotony? Love has a thousand varied notes to move The human heart—thou may’st not speak of love Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside, And those becoming youth and nature tried; Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease, Prove it thy study and delight to please; Not till these follies meet thy just disdain, 440 While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain.” “This is severe!—Oh! maiden, wilt not thou Something for habits, manners, modes, allow?”— “Yes! but allowing much, I much require, In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire!” “True, lovely Sybil; and, this point agreed, Let me to those of greater weight proceed: Thy father”—“Nay,” she quickly interposed, “Good doctor, here our conference is closed!” Then left the youth, who, lost in his retreat, 450 Pass’d the good matron on her garden-seat; His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild And calm, was hurried:—“My audacious child!” Exclaim’d the dame, “I read what she has done In thy displeasure—Ah! the thoughtless one; But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man Speak of the maid as mildly as you can. Can you not seem to woo a little while The daughter’s will, the father to beguile, So that his wrath in time may wear away? 460 Will you preserve our peace, Josiah? say!” “Yes! my good neighbour,” said the gentle youth, “Rely securely on my care and truth; And, should thy comfort with my efforts cease, And only then—perpetual is thy peace.” The dame had doubts: she well his virtues knew, His deeds were friendly, and his words were true; “But to address this vixen is a task He is ashamed to take, and I to ask.” Soon as the father from Josiah learn’d 470 What pass’d with Sybil, he the truth discern’d. “He loves,” the man exclaim’d, “he loves, ’tis plain, The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain? She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried, Born as she is of wilfulness and pride.” With anger fraught, but willing to persuade, The wrathful father met the smiling maid. “Sybil,” said he, “I long, and yet I dread To know thy conduct—hath Josiah fled, And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air, 480 For his lost peace betaken him to prayer? Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress,} By vile remarks upon his speech, address,} Attire, and voice?”—“All this I must confess.”— } “Unhappy child! what labour will it cost To win him back!”—“I do not think him lost.” “Courts he then, trifler, insult and disdain?”— “No: but from these he courts me to refrain.”— “Then hear me, Sybil: should Josiah leave Thy father’s house?”—“My father’s child would grieve.”— “That is of grace; and if he come again 491 To speak of love?”—“I might from grief refrain.”— “Then wilt thou, daughter, our design embrace?”— “Can I resist it, if it be of grace?”— “Dear child! in three plain words thy mind express— Wilt thou have this good youth?”—“Dear father! yes.”

TALE VII.

THE WIDOW’S TALE.

Ah me! for aught that I could ever read, [Could] ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth; But, either it was different in blood, [...] Or else misgrafted in respect of years, [...] Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, [...] Or if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act I. Scene 1.

Oh! thou didst then ne’er love so heartily, If thou rememberest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into ... As You Like It, Act II. Scene 4.

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer. As You Like It, Act III. Scene 5.

TALE VII.

THE WIDOW’S TALE.

To farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down His only daughter, from her school in town; A tender, timid maid! who knew not how To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow: Smiling she came, with petty talents graced, A fair complexion, and a slender waist. Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure, Her father’s kitchen she could ill endure; Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat, And laid at once a pound upon his plate; 10 Hot from the field, her eager brother seized An equal part, and hunger’s rage appeased; The air, surcharged with moisture, flagg’d around, And the offended damsel sigh’d and frown’d; The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid, And fancy’s sickness seized the loathing maid. But, when the men beside their station took, The maidens with them, and with these the cook; When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, Fill’d with huge balls of farinaceous food; 20 With bacon, mass saline, where never lean Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen; When from a single horn the party drew Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new; When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain, Soil’d by rude hinds who cut and came again— She could not breathe; but, with a heavy sigh, Rein’d the fair neck, and shut th’ offended eye; She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine, And wonder’d much to see the creatures dine: 30 When she resolved her father’s heart to move, If hearts of farmers were alive to love. She now entreated by herself to sit In the small parlour, if papa thought fit, And there to dine, to read, to work alone.— “No!” said the farmer, in an angry tone; “These are your school-taught airs; your mother’s pride Would send you there; but I am now your guide.— Arise betimes, our early meal prepare, And, this despatch’d, let business be your care; 40 Look to the lasses, let there not be one Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done; In every household work your portion take, And what you make not, see that others make. At leisure times attend the wheel, and see The whit’ning web be sprinkled on the [lea]; When thus employ’d, should our young neighbour view An useful lass, you may have more to do.” Dreadful were these commands; but worse than these The parting hint—a farmer could not please: 50 ’Tis true she had without abhorrence seen Young Harry Carr, when he was smart and clean; But to be married—be a farmer’s wife— A slave! a drudge!—she could not, for her life. With swimming eyes the fretful nymph withdrew, And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew; There on her knees, to Heav’n she grieving pray’d For change of prospect to a tortured maid. Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire Had left him all industrious men require, 60 Saw the pale beauty—and her shape and air Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear: “For my small farm what can the damsel do?” He said—then stopp’d to take another view: “Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn Of household cares—for what can beauty earn By those small arts which they at school attain, That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?” This luckless damsel look’d the village round, To find a friend, and one was quickly found; 70 A pensive widow—whose mild air and dress} Pleased the sad nymph, who wish’d her soul’s distress } To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess.— } “What lady that?” the anxious lass inquired, Who then beheld the one she most admired. “Here,” said the brother, “are no ladies seen— That is a widow dwelling on the green; A dainty dame, who can but barely live On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give; She happier days has known, but seems at ease, 80 And you may call her lady, if you please. But if you wish, good sister, to improve, You shall see twenty better worth your love.” These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught, This useless widow was the one she sought. The father growl’d; but said he knew no harm In such connexion that could give alarm; “And if we thwart the trifler in her course, ’Tis odds against us she will take a worse.” Then met the friends; the widow heard the sigh 90 That ask’d at once compassion and reply:— “Would you, my child, converse with one so poor, Yours were the kindness—yonder is my door; And, save the time that we in public pray, From that poor cottage I but rarely stray.” There went the nymph, and made her strong complaints, Painting her wo as injured feeling paints. “Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel, Shock’d all day long, and sicken’d every meal; Could you behold our kitchen (and to you 100 A scene so shocking must indeed be new), A mind like yours, with true refinement graced, Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste; And yet, in truth, from such a polish’d mind All base ideas must resistance find, And sordid pictures from the fancy pass, As the breath startles from the polish’d glass. “Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene, Without so pleasant, and within so clean; These twining jess’mines, what delicious gloom 110 And soothing fragrance yield they to the room! What lovely garden! there you oft retire, And tales of wo and tenderness admire: In that neat case, your books, in order placed, Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultured taste; And thus, while all about you wears a charm, How must you scorn the farmer and the farm!” The widow smiled, and “Know you not,” said she, } “How much these farmers scorn or pity me; } Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see? }120 True, their opinion alters not my fate, By falsely judging of an humble state: This garden, you with such delight behold, Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold; These plants, which please so well your livelier sense, To mine but little of their sweets dispense; Books soon are painful to my failing sight, And oftener read from duty than delight; (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find Both joy and duty in the act combined;) 130 But view me rightly, you will see no more Than a poor female, willing to be poor; Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers, Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours, Of never-tasted joys—such visions shun, My youthful friend, nor scorn the farmer’s son.” “Nay,” said the damsel, nothing pleased to see A friend’s advice could like a father’s be; “Bless’d in your cottage, you must surely smile At those who live in our detested style. 140 To my Lucinda’s sympathizing heart Could I my prospects and my griefs impart, She would console me; but I dare not show Ills that would wound her tender soul to know: And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell The secrets of the prison where I dwell; For that dear maiden would be shock’d to feel The secrets I should shudder to reveal; When told her friend was by a parent ask’d, ‘Fed you the swine?’—Good heav’n! how I am task’d! 150 What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief That woos your pity and demands relief.” “Trifles, my love; you take a false alarm; Think, I beseech you, better of the farm: Duties in every state demand your care, And light are those that will require it there: Fix on the youth a favouring eye, and these, To him pertaining, or as his, will please.” “What words,” the lass replied, “offend my ear! Try you my patience? Can you be sincere? 160 And am I told a willing hand to give To a rude farmer, and with rustic live? Far other fate was yours—some gentle youth Admired your beauty, and avow’d his truth; The power of love prevail’d, and freely both Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding oath; And then the rivals’ plot, the parent’s power, And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour: Ah! let not memory lose the blissful view, But fairly show what love has done for you.” 170 “Agreed, my daughter; what my heart has known Of love’s strange power shall be with frankness shown: But let me warn you, that experience finds Few of the scenes that lively hope designs.”— “Mysterious all,” said Nancy; “you, I know, Have suffer’d much; now deign the grief to show— I am your friend, and so prepare my heart In all your sorrows to receive a part.” The widow answer’d: “I had once, like you, Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue. 180 You judge it fated and decreed to dwell} In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel, } A passion doom’d to reign, and irresistible.} The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain Rejects the fury or defies the pain; The strongest reason fails the flame t’ allay, And resolution droops and faints away: Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they prove At once the force of this all-powerful love; Each from that period feels the mutual smart, 190 Nor seeks to cure it—heart is changed for heart; Nor is there peace till they delighted stand, And, at the altar, hand is join’d to hand. “Alas! my child, there are who, dreaming so, Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the wo; There is no spirit sent the heart to move With such prevailing and alarming love; Passion to reason will submit—or why Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny? Or how could classes and degrees create 200 The slightest bar to such resistless fate? Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix; No beggars’ eyes the heart of kings transfix; And who but am’rous peers or nobles sigh When titled beauties pass triumphant by? For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove; You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love: All would be safe, did we at first inquire— ‘Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?’ But, quitting precept, let example show 210 What joys from love uncheck’d by prudence flow. “A youth my father in his office placed, Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste; But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks; He studied much, and pored upon his books: Confused he was when seen, and, when he saw Me or my sisters, would in haste withdraw; And had this youth departed with the year, His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear. “But with my father still the youth remain’d, 220 And more reward and kinder notice gain’d: He often, reading, to the garden stray’d, Where I by books or musing was delay’d; This to discourse in summer evenings led, Of these same evenings, or of what we read. On such occasions we were much alone; But, save the look, the manner, and the tone, (These might have meaning,) all that we discuss’d We could with pleasure to a parent trust. “At length ’twas friendship—and my friend and I 230 Said we were happy, and began to sigh; My sisters first, and then my father, found That we were wandering o’er enchanted ground; But he had troubles in his own affairs, And would not bear addition to his cares. With pity moved, yet angry, ‘Child,’ said he, ‘Will you embrace contempt and beggary? Can you endure to see each other cursed By want, of every human wo the worst? Warring for ever with distress, in dread 240 Either of begging or of wanting bread; While poverty, with unrelenting force, Will your own offspring from your love divorce; They, through your folly, must be doom’d to pine, And you deplore your passion, or resign; For, if it die, what good will then remain? And if it live, it doubles every pain.’”— “But you were true,” exclaim’d the lass, “and fled } The tyrant’s power who fill’d your soul with dread?”—} “But,” said the smiling friend, “he fill’d my mouth with bread; }250 And in what other place that bread to gain We long consider’d, and we sought in vain. This was my twentieth year—at thirty-five Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive; So many years in anxious doubt had pass’d.”— “Then,” said the damsel, “you were bless’d at last?” A smile again adorn’d the widow’s face, But soon a starting tear usurp’d its place.— “Slow pass’d the heavy years, and each had more Pains and vexations than the years before. 260 My father fail’d; his family was rent, And to new states his grieving daughters sent; Each to more thriving kindred found a way, Guests without welcome—servants without pay; Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel The sad, sweet converse at our final meal: Our father then reveal’d his former fears, Cause of his sternness, and then join’d our tears; Kindly he strove our feelings to repress, But died, and left us heirs to his distress. 270 The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose; I with a wealthy widow sought repose; Who with a chilling frown her friend received, Bade me rejoice, and wonder’d that I grieved: In vain my anxious lover tried his skill To rise in life, he was dependent still; We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years: Our dying hopes and stronger fears between, We felt no season peaceful or serene; 280 Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night, Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light; And then domestic sorrows, till the mind, Worn with distresses, to despair inclined; Add too the ill that from the passion flows, When its contemptuous frown the world bestows— The peevish spirit caused by long delay, When being gloomy we contemn the gay, When, being wretched, we incline to hate And censure others in a happier state; 290 Yet loving still, and still compell’d to move In the sad labyrinth of ling’ring love: While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm, May wed—oh! take the farmer and the farm.” “Nay,” said the nymph, “joy smiled on you at last!” “Smiled for a moment,” she replied, “and pass’d: My lover still the same dull means pursued, Assistant call’d, but kept in servitude; His spirits wearied in the prime of life, By fears and wishes in eternal strife; 300 At length he urged impatient—‘Now consent; With thee united, fortune may relent.’ I paused, consenting; but a friend arose, Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose; From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream; By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired, And sail’d—was wounded—reach’d us—and expired! You shall behold his grave, and, when I die, There—but ’tis folly—I request to lie.” 310 “Thus,” said the lass, “to joy you bade adieu! But how a widow?—that cannot be true; Or was it force, in some unhappy hour, That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant’s power?” “Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled, Is what a woman seldom has to dread; She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls, And seldom comes a lover, though she calls. Yet moved by fancy, one approved my face, Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace. 320 “The man I married was sedate and meek, And spoke of love as men in earnest speak; Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought, for years, A heart in sorrow and a face in tears; That heart I gave not; and ’twas long before I gave attention, and then nothing more; But in my breast some grateful feeling rose For one whose love so sad a subject chose; Till long delaying, fearing to repent, But grateful still, I gave a cold assent. 330 “Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find, And he but one; my heart could not be kind: Alas! of every early hope bereft, There was no fondness in my bosom left; So had I told him, but had told in vain, He lived but to indulge me and complain. His was this cottage, he inclosed this ground, And planted all these blooming shrubs around; He to my room these curious trifles brought, And with assiduous love my pleasure sought; 340 He lived to please me, and I oft-times strove Smiling, to thank his unrequited love; ‘Teach me,’ he cried, ‘that pensive mind to ease, For all my pleasure is the hope to please.’ “Serene, though heavy, were the days we spent, Yet kind each word, and gen’rous each intent; But his dejection lessen’d every day, And to a placid kindness died away. In tranquil ease we pass’d our latter years, By griefs untroubl’d, unassail’d by fears. 350 “Let not romantic views your bosom sway, Yield to your duties, and their call obey: Fly not a youth, frank, honest, and sincere; Observe his merits, and his passion hear! ’Tis true, no hero, but a farmer sues— Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views; With him you cannot that affliction prove, That rends the bosom of the poor in love; Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days, Your friends’ approval, and your father’s praise, 360 Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late.” The damsel heard; at first th’ advice was strange, Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change. “I have no care,” she said, when next they met, “But one may wonder he is silent yet; He looks around him with his usual stare, And utters nothing—not that I shall care.” This pettish humour pleased th’ experienced friend— None need despair, whose silence can offend; 370 “Should I,” resumed the thoughtful lass, “consent To hear the man, the man may now repent. Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough, Or give one hint, that ‘You may woo me now?’” “Persist, my love,” replied the friend, “and gain A parent’s praise, that cannot be in vain.” The father saw the change, but not the cause, And gave the alter’d maid his fond applause. The coarser manners she in part removed, In part endured, improving and improved; 380 She spoke of household works, she rose betimes, And said neglect and indolence were crimes; The various duties of their life she weigh’d, And strict attention to her dairy paid; The names of servants now familiar grew, And fair Lucinda’s from her mind withdrew. As prudent travellers for their ease assume Their modes and language to whose lands they come: So to the farmer this fair lass inclined, Gave to the business of the farm her mind; 390 To useful arts she turn’d her hand and eye; And by her manners told him—“You may try.” Th’ observing lover more attention paid, With growing pleasure, to the alter’d maid; He fear’d to lose her, and began to see That a slim beauty might a helpmate be; ’Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address’d, And in his Sunday robe his love express’d. She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy, Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; 400 But still she lent an unreluctant ear To all the rural business of the year; Till love’s strong hopes endured no more delay, And Harry ask’d, and Nancy named the day. “A happy change! my boy,” the father cried: “How lost your sister all her school-day pride?” The youth replied, “It is the widow’s deed: The cure is perfect, and was wrought with speed.”— “And comes there, boy, this benefit of books, Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks? 410 We must be kind—some offerings from the farm To the white cot will speak our feelings warm; Will show that people, when they know the fact, Where they have judged severely, can retract. Oft have I smil’d, when I beheld her pass With cautious step, as if she hurt the grass; Where if a snail’s retreat she chanced to storm, She look’d as begging pardon of the worm; And what, said I, still laughing at the view, Have these weak creatures in the world to do? 420 But some are made for action, some to speak;} And, while she looks so pitiful and meek,} Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.” } Soon told the village-bells the rite was done, That join’d the school-bred miss and farmer’s son; Her former habits some slight scandal raised, But real worth was soon perceived and praised; She, her neat taste imparted to the farm, And he, th’ improving skill and vigorous arm.