PART III.

_BURIALS._

True Christian Resignation not frequently to be seen--The Register a

melancholy Record--A dying Man, who at length sends for a Priest:

for what Purpose? answered--Old Collett of the Inn, an Instance of

Dr. Young's slow-sudden Death: his Character and Conduct--The

Manners and Management of the Widow Goe: her successful Attention

to Business; her Decease unexpected--The Infant-Boy of Gerard

Ablett dies: Reflections on his Death, and the Survivor his

Sister-Twin--The Funeral of the deceased Lady of the Manor

described: her neglected Mansion; Undertaker and Train; the

Character which her Monument will hereafter display--Burial of an

ancient Maiden: some former Drawback on her Virgin-fame;

Description of her House and Household; Her Manners,

Apprehensions, Death--Isaac Ashford, a virtuous Peasant, dies: his

manly Character; Reluctance to enter the Poor-House; and

why--Misfortune and Derangement of Intellect in Robin Dingley:

whence they proceeded: he is not restrained by Misery from a

wandering Life; his various Returns to his Parish; his final

Return--Wife of Farmer Frankford dies in Prime of Life; Affliction

in Consequence of such Death; melancholy View of her House, &c. on

her Family's Return from her Funeral: Address to Sorrow--Leah

Cousins, a Midwife: her Character; and successful Practice; at

length opposed by Doctor Glibb; Opposition in the Parish: Argument

of the Doctor; of Leah: her Failure and Decease--Burial of Roger

Cuff, a Sailor: his Enmity to his Family; how it originated: his

Experiment and its Consequence--The Register terminates--A Bell

heard: Inquiry, for whom? The Sexton--Character of old Dibble, and

the five Rectors whom he served--Reflections--Conclusion.

Qui vultus Acherontis atri,

Qui Stygia tristem, non tristis, videt,--

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Par ille Regi, par Superis erit.

_Seneca in Agamem._ [Act III. vv. 606-8.]

There was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time,

When humble Christians died with views sublime;

When all were ready for their faith to bleed,

But few to write or wrangle for their creed;

When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,

And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;

When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,

And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.

Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,

'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate; 10

Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,

They labour hard and struggle to the last,

"Hope against hope," and wildly gaze around,

In search of help that never shall be found:

Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,

Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!

When these my records I reflecting read,

And find what ills these numerous births succeed;

What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend,

With what regret these painful journeys end; 20

When from the cradle to the grave I look,

Mine I conceive a melancholy book.

Where now is perfect resignation seen?

Alas! it is not on the village-green:--

I've seldom known, though I have often read,

Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;

Whose looks proclaim'd that sunshine of the breast,

That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.

What I behold are feverish fits of strife,

'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life: 30

Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;

Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;

At best a sad submission to the doom,

Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.

Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,

His spirits vanquish'd and his strength decay'd;

No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend--

"Call then a priest, and fit him for his end."

A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,

Death enters with him at the cottage-gate; 40

Or, time allow'd, he goes, assured to find

The self-commending, all-confiding mind;

And sighs to hear, what we may justly call

Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.

"True, I'm a sinner," feebly he begins,

"But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins";

(Such cool confession no past crimes excite;

Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)

"I know, mankind are frail, that God is just,

And pardons those who in his mercy trust; 50

We're sorely tempted in a world like this;

All men have done, and I like all, amiss;

But now, if spared, it is my full intent

On all the past to ponder and repent:

Wrongs against me I pardon great and small,

And if I die, I die in peace with all."

His merits thus and not his sins confess'd,

He speaks his hopes, and leaves to Heaven the rest.

Alas! are these the prospects, dull and cold,

That dying Christians to their priests unfold? 60

Or mends the prospect when th' enthusiast cries,

"I die assured!" and in a rapture dies?

Ah, where that humble, self-abasing mind,

With that confiding spirit, shall we find--

The mind that, feeling what repentance brings,

Dejection's terrors and Contrition's stings,

Feels then the hope, that mounts all care above,

And the pure joy that flows from pardoning love?

Such have I seen in death, and much deplore,

So many dying, that I see no more. 70

Lo! now my records, where I grieve to trace,

How Death has triumph'd in so short a space;

Who are the dead, how died they, I relate,

And snatch some portion of their acts from fate.

With Andrew Collett we the year begin,

The blind, fat landlord of the Old Crown Inn--

Big as his butt, and, for the self-same use,

To take in stores of strong fermenting juice.

On his huge chair beside the fire he sate,

In revel chief, and umpire in debate; 80

Each night his string of vulgar tales he told,

When ale was cheap and bachelors were bold:

His heroes all were famous in their days,

Cheats were his boast and drunkards had his praise;

"One, in three draughts, three mugs of ale took down,

As mugs were then--the champion of the Crown;

For thrice three days another lived on ale,

And knew no change but that of mild and stale;

Two thirsty soakers watch'd a vessel's side,

When he the tap, with dexterous hand, applied; 90

Nor from their seats departed, till they found

That butt was out and heard the mournful sound."

He praised a poacher, precious child of fun!

Who shot the keeper with his own spring-gun;

Nor less the smuggler who the exciseman tied,

And left him hanging at the birch-wood side,

There to expire; but one who saw him hang

Cut the good cord--a traitor of the gang.

His own exploits with boastful glee he told,

What ponds he emptied and what pikes he sold; 100

And how, when bless'd with sight alert and gay,

The night's amusements kept him through the day.

He sang the praises of those times, when all

"For cards and dice, as for their drink, might call;

When justice wink'd on every jovial crew,

And ten-pins tumbled in the parson's view."

He told, when angry wives, provoked to rail,

Or drive a third-day drunkard from his ale,

What were his triumphs, and how great the skill

That won the vex'd virago to his will: 110

Who raving came--then talk'd in milder strain--

Then wept, then drank, and pledged her spouse again.

Such were his themes: how knaves o'er laws prevail,

Or, when made captives, how they fly from jail;

The young how brave, how subtle were the old;

And oaths attested all that Folly told.

On death like his what name shall we bestow,

So very sudden! yet so very slow?

'Twas slow:--Disease, augmenting year by year,

Show'd the grim king by gradual steps brought near. 120

'Twas not less sudden: in the night he died,

He drank, he swore, he jested, and he lied;

Thus aiding folly with departing breath.--

"Beware, Lorenzo, the slow-sudden death[24]."

Next died the Widow Goe, an active dame,

Famed ten miles round, and worthy all her fame;

She lost her husband when their loves were young,

But kept her farm, her credit, and her tongue:

Full thirty years she ruled, with matchless skill,

With guiding judgment and resistless will; 130

Advice she scorn'd, rebellions she suppress'd,

And sons and servants bow'd at her behest.

Like that great man's, who to his Saviour came,

Were the strong words of this commanding dame:--

"Come," if she said, they came; if "go," were gone;

And if "do this,"--that instant it was done.

Her maidens told she was all eye and ear,

In darkness saw and could at distance hear;--

No parish-business in the place could stir,

Without direction or assent from her; 140

In turn she took each office as it fell,

Knew all their duties, and discharged them well;

The lazy vagrants in her presence shook,

And pregnant damsels fear'd her stern rebuke;

She look'd on want with judgment clear and cool,

And felt with reason and bestow'd by rule;

She match'd both sons and daughters to her mind,

And lent them eyes--for Love, she heard, was blind;

Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive,

The working bee, in full or empty hive; 150

Busy and careful, like that working bee,

No time for love nor tender cares had she;

But when our farmers made their amorous vows,

She talk'd of market-steeds and patent-ploughs.

Not unemploy'd her evenings pass'd away,

Amusement closed, as business waked the day;

When to her toilet's brief concern she ran,

And conversation with her friends began,

Who all were welcome, what they saw, to share;

And joyous neighbours praised her Christmas fare, 160

That none around might, in their scorn, complain

Of Gossip Goe as greedy in her gain.

Thus long she reign'd, admired, if not approved;

Praised, if not honour'd; fear'd, if not beloved;--

When, as the busy days of Spring drew near,

That call'd for all the forecast of the year;

When lively hope the rising crops survey'd,

And April promised what September paid;

When stray'd her lambs where gorse and greenweed grow;

When rose her grass in richer vales below; 170

When pleased she look'd on all the smiling land,

And view'd the hinds who wrought at her command;

(Poultry in groups still follow'd where she went;)

Then dread o'ercame her--that her days were spent.

"Bless me! I die, and not a warning giv'n,--

With _much_ to do on Earth, and ALL for Heav'n!--

No reparation for my soul's affairs,

No leave petition'd for the barn's repairs;

Accounts perplex'd, my interest yet unpaid,

My mind unsettled, and my will unmade; 180

A lawyer, haste, and, in your way, a priest;

And let me die in one good work at least."

She spake, and, trembling, dropp'd upon her knees,

Heaven in her eye, and in her hand her keys;

And still the more she found her life decay,

With greater force she grasp'd those signs of sway:

Then fell and died!--In haste her sons drew near,

And dropp'd, in haste, the tributary tear;

Then from th' adhering clasp the keys unbound,

And consolation for their sorrows found. 190

Death has his infant-train; his bony arm

Strikes from the baby-cheek the rosy charm;

The brightest eye his glazing film makes dim,

And his cold touch sets fast the lithest limb:

He seized the sick'ning boy to Gerard lent[25],

When three days' life, in feeble cries, were spent;

In pain brought forth, those painful hours to stay,

To breathe in pain and sigh its soul away!

"But why thus lent, if thus recall'd again,

To cause and feel, to live and die, in pain?" 200

Or rather say, Why grievous these appear,

If all it pays for Heaven's eternal year;

If these sad sobs and piteous sighs secure

Delights that live, when worlds no more endure?

The sister-spirit long may lodge below,

And pains from nature, pains from reason, know;

Through all the common ills of life may run,

By hope perverted and by love undone;

A wife's distress, a mother's pangs, may dread,

And widow-tears, in bitter anguish, shed; 210

May at old age arrive through numerous harms,

With children's children in those feeble arms:

Nor, till by years of want and grief oppress'd,

Shall the sad spirit flee and be at rest!

Yet happier therefore shall we deem the boy,

Secured from anxious care and dangerous joy?

Not so! for then would Love Divine in vain

Send all the burthens weary men sustain;

All that now curb the passions when they rage,

The checks of youth and the regrets of age; 220

All that now bid us hope, believe, endure,

Our sorrow's comfort and our vice's cure;

All that for Heaven's high joys the spirits train,

And charity, the crown of all, were vain.

Say, will you call the breathless infant bless'd,

Because no cares the silent grave molest?

So would you deem the nursling from the wing

Untimely thrust and never train'd to sing;

But far more bless'd the bird whose grateful voice

Sings its own joy and makes the woods rejoice, 230

Though, while untaught, ere yet he charm'd the ear,

Hard were his trials and his pains severe!

Next died the Lady who yon Hall possess'd;

And here they brought her noble bones to rest.

In Town she dwelt;--forsaken stood the Hall:

Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall;

No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd;

No cheerful light the long-closed sash convey'd;

The crawling worm, that turns a summer-fly,

Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die 240

The winter-death:--upon the bed of state,

The bat shrill-shrieking woo'd his flickering mate;

To empty rooms the curious came no more, }

From empty cellars turn'd the angry poor, }

And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door. }

To one small room the steward found his way,

Where tenants follow'd to complain and pay;

Yet no complaint before the Lady came,

The feeling servant spared the feeble dame;

Who saw her farms with his observing eyes, 250

And answer'd all requests with his replies.

She came not down, her falling groves to view;

Why should she know, what one so faithful knew?

Why come, from many clamorous tongues to hear,

What one so just might whisper in her ear?

Her oaks or acres why with care explore;

Why learn the wants, the sufferings of the poor;

When one so knowing all their worth could trace,

And one so piteous govern'd in her place?

Lo! now, what dismal sons of Darkness come, 260

To bear this daughter of Indulgence home;

Tragedians all, and well arranged in black!

Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack;

Who cause no tear, but gloomily pass by,

And shake their sables in the wearied eye,

That turns disgusted from the pompous scene,

Proud without grandeur, with profusion, mean!

The tear for kindness past affection owes;

For worth deceased the sigh from reason flows;

E'en well-feign'd passion[s] for our sorrows call, 270

And real tears for mimic miseries fall--

But this poor farce has neither truth nor art,

To please the fancy or to touch the heart;

Unlike the darkness of the sky, that pours

On the dry ground its fertilizing showers;

Unlike to that which strikes the soul with dread,

When thunders roar and forky fires are shed;

Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean,

With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene;

Presents no objects tender or profound, 280

But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around.

When woes are feign'd, how ill such forms appear;

And oh! how needless, when the wo's sincere.

Slow to the vault they come, with heavy tread,

Bending beneath the Lady and her lead;

A case of elm surrounds that ponderous chest,

Close on that case the crimson velvet's press'd;

Ungenerous this, that to the worm denies,

With niggard-caution, his appointed prize;

For now, ere yet he works his tedious way, 290

Through cloth and wood and metal to his prey,

That prey dissolving shall a mass remain,

That fancy loathes and worms themselves disdain.

But see! the master-mourner makes his way,

To end his office for the coffin'd clay;

Pleased that our rustic men and maids behold

His plate like silver, and his studs like gold,

As they approach to spell the age, the name,

And all the titles of th' illustrious dame.--

This as (my duty done) some scholar read, 300

A village-father look'd disdain and said:

"Away, my friends! why take such pains to know

What some brave marble soon in church shall show?

Where not alone her gracious name shall stand,

But how she lived--the blessing of the land;

How much we all deplored the noble dead,

What groans we utter'd and what tears we shed;

Tears, true as those, which in the sleepy eyes

Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise;

Tears, true as those, which, ere she found her grave, 310

The noble Lady to our sorrows gave."

Down by the church-way walk, and where the brook

Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook,

In that small house, with those green pales before,

Where jasmine trails on either side the door;

Where those dark shrubs that now grow wild at will,

Were clipp'd in form and tantalized with skill;

Where cockles blanch'd and pebbles neatly spread,

Form'd shining borders for the larkspurs' bed--

There lived a Lady, wise, austere, and nice, 320

Who show'd her virtue by her scorn of vice.

In the dear fashions of her youth she dress'd,

A pea-green Joseph was her favourite vest;

Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien,

Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall and lean.

There long she lived in maiden-state immured,

From looks of love and treacherous man secured;

Though evil fame (but that was long before)

Had blown her dubious blast at Catherine's door.

A Captain thither, rich from India, came, 330

And though a cousin call'd, it touch'd her fame:

Her annual stipend rose from his behest,

And all the long-prized treasures she possess'd:--

If aught like joy awhile appear'd to stay

In that stern face, and chase those frowns away,

'Twas when her treasures she disposed for view,

And heard the praises to their splendour due;

Silks beyond price, so rich, they'd stand alone,

And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone;

Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set, 340

And bracelets fair in box of glossy jet;

Bright polish'd amber precious from its size,

Or forms the fairest fancy could devise.

Her drawers of cedar, shut with secret springs,

Conceal'd the watch of gold and rubied rings;

Letters, long proofs of love, and verses fine

Round the pink'd rims of crisped Valentine.

Her china-closet, cause of daily care,

For woman's wonder held her pencill'd ware;

That pictured wealth of China and Japan, 350

Like its cold mistress, shunn'd the eye of man.

Her neat small room, adorn'd with maiden-taste,

A clipp'd French puppy, first of favourites, graced;

A parrot next, but dead and stuff'd with art;

(For Poll, when living, lost the Lady's heart,

And then his life; for he was heard to speak

Such frightful words as tinged his Lady's cheek;)

Unhappy bird! who had no power to prove,

Save by such speech, his gratitude and love.

A grey old cat his whiskers lick'd beside; 360

A type of sadness in the house of pride.

The polish'd surface of an India chest,

A glassy globe, in frame of ivory, press'd;

Where swam two finny creatures: one of gold,

Of silver one, both beauteous to behold.

All these were form'd the guiding taste to suit;

The beasts well-manner'd and the fishes mute.

A widow'd Aunt was there, compelled by need

The nymph to flatter and her tribe to feed;

Who, veiling well her scorn, endured the clog, 370

Mute as the fish and fawning as the dog.

As years increased, these treasures, her delight,

Arose in value in their owner's sight:

A miser knows that, view it as he will,

A guinea kept is but a guinea still;

And so he puts it to its proper use,

That something more this guinea may produce:

But silks and rings, in the possessor's eyes,

The oft'ner seen, the more in value rise,

And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow 380

The kind of pleasure that with years will grow.

But what avail'd their worth--if worth had they--

In the sad summer of her slow decay?

Then we beheld her turn an anxious look

From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book--

A rich-bound Book of Prayer the Captain gave,

(Some Princess had it, or was said to have;)

And then once more, on all her stores, look round,

And draw a sigh so piteous and profound,

That told, "Alas! how hard from these to part, 390

And for new hopes and habits form the heart!

What shall I do," (she cried,) "my peace of mind

To gain in dying, and to die resign'd?"

"Hear," we return'd;--"these baubles cast aside,

Nor give thy God a rival in thy pride;

Thy closets shut, and ope thy kitchen's door;

_There_ own thy failings, _here_ invite the poor;

A friend of Mammon let thy bounty make; }

For widows' prayers thy vanities forsake; }

And let the hungry of thy pride partake: 400 }

Then shall thy inward eye with joy survey

The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay!"

Alas! 'twas hard; the treasures still had charms,

Hope still its flattery, sickness its alarms;

Still was the same unsettled, clouded view,

And the same plaintive cry, "What shall I do?"

Nor change appear'd: for when her race was run,

Doubtful we all exclaim'd, "What has been done?"

Apart she lived, and still she lies alone;

Yon earthy heap awaits the flattering stone, 410

On which invention shall be long employ'd,

To show the various worth of Catherine Lloyd.

Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,

A noble Peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.

Noble he was, contemning all things mean,

His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene;

Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;

At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;

Truth, simple truth, was written in his face; 420

Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,

Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved.

To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,

And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind.

Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,

And gave allowance where he needed none;

Good he refused with future ill to buy,

Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast

No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd; 430

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,

To miss one favour which their neighbours find.)

Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;

He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.

I mark'd his action, when his infant died,

And his old neighbour for offence was tried;

The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek,

Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.

If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,

Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; 440

Nor pride in learning,--though my clerk agreed,

If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew

None his superior, and his equals few:--

But, if that spirit in his soul had place,

It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace:

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,

In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd;

Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; 450

Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,--

In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride.

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim;

Christian and countryman was all with him.

True to his church he came; no Sunday-shower

Kept him at home in that important hour;

Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect,

By the strong glare of their new light, direct;--

"On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,

But should be blind and lose it, in your blaze." 460

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain

Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain,

Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,

And feel in that his comfort and his pride.

At length he found, when seventy years were run,

His strength departed, and his labour done;

When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more,

But lost his wife and saw his children poor:

'Twas then, a spark of--say not, discontent--

Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent: 470

"Kind are your laws, ('tis not to be denied,)

That in yon house for ruin'd age provide,

And they are just;--when young, we give you all,

And for assistance in our weakness call.--

Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,

To join your poor, and eat the parish-bread?

But yet I linger, loth with him to feed,

Who gains his plenty by the sons of need;

He who, by contract, all your paupers took,

And gauges stomachs with an anxious look. 480

On some old master I could well depend;

See him with joy and thank him as a friend;

But ill on him, who doles the day's supply,

And counts our chances, who at night may die:

Yet help me, Heav'n! and let me not complain

Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain."

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew;

Daily he placed the workhouse in his view!

But came not there, for sudden was his fate:

He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage-gate. 490

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,

And view his seat and sigh for Isaac there:

I see no more those white locks thinly spread

Round the bald polish of that honoured head;

No more that awful glance on playful wight,

Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight,

To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,

Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,

Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there;-- 500

But he is bless'd, and I lament no more

A wise good man, contented to be poor.

Then died a Rambler: not the one who sails

And trucks, for female favours, beads and nails;

Not one, who posts from place to place--of men

And manners treating with a flying pen;

Not he, who climbs, for prospects, Snowd[o]n's height,

And chides the clouds that intercept the sight;

No curious shell, rare plant, or brilliant spar,

Enticed our traveller from his home so far; 500

But all the reason, by himself assign'd

For so much rambling, was, a restless mind;

As on, from place to place, without intent,

Without reflection, Robin Dingley went.

Not thus by nature;--never man was found

Less prone to wander from his parish-bound:

Claudian's old Man, to whom all scenes were new,

Save those where he and where his apples grew,

Resembled Robin, who around would look,

And his horizon for the earth's mistook. 520

To this poor swain a keen Attorney came:--

"I give thee joy, good fellow! on thy name;

The rich old Dingley's dead;--no child has he,

Nor wife, nor will; his ALL is left for thee:

To be his fortune's heir thy claim is good;

Thou hast the name, and we will prove the blood."

The claim was made; 'twas tried--it would not stand;

They proved the blood, but were refused the land.

Assured of wealth, this man of simple heart,

To every friend had predisposed a part: 530

His wife had hopes indulged of various kind;

The three Miss Dingleys had their school assign'd,

Masters were sought for what they each required,

And books were bought and harpsichords were hired:

So high was hope;--the failure touch'd his brain,

And Robin never was himself again.

Yet he no wrath, no angry wish express'd,

But tried, in vain, to labour or to rest;

Then cast his bundle on his back, and went

He knew not whither, nor for what intent. 540

Years fled;--of Robin all remembrance past,

When home he wander'd in his rags at last.

A sailor's jacket on his limbs was thrown,

A sailor's story he had made his own;

Had suffer'd battles, prisons, tempests, storms,

Encountering death in all his ugliest forms.

His cheeks were haggard, hollow was his eye,

Where madness lurk'd, conceal'd in misery;

Want, and th' ungentle world, had taught a part,

And prompted cunning to that simple heart: 550

He now bethought him, he would roam no more,

But live at home and labour as before.

Here clothed and fed, no sooner he began

To round and redden, than away he ran;

His wife was dead, their children past his aid:

So, unmolested, from his home he stray'd.

Six years elapsed, when, worn with want and pain,

Came Robin, wrapt in all his rags, again.--

We chide, we pity;--placed among our poor,

He fed again, and was a man once more. 560

As when a gaunt and hungry fox is found,

Entrapp'd alive in some rich hunter's ground;

Fed for the field, although each day's a feast,

_Fatten_ you may, but never _tame_ the beast;

A house protects him, savoury viands sustain;

But loose his neck and off he goes again:

So stole our vagrant from his warm retreat,

To rove a prowler and be deem'd a cheat.

Hard was his fare; for, him at length we saw,

In cart convey'd and laid supine on straw. 570

His feeble voice now spoke a sinking heart;

His groans now told the motions of the cart;

And when it stopp'd, he tried in vain to stand;

Closed was his eye, and clench'd his clammy hand;

Life ebb'd apace, and our best aid no more

Could his weak sense or dying heart restore:

But now he fell, a victim to the snare,

That vile attorneys for the weak prepare--

They who, when profit or resentment call,

Heed not the groaning victim they enthrall. 580

Then died lamented, in the strength of life,

A valued Mother and a faithful Wife;

Call'd not away, when time had loosed each hold

On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold;

But when, to all that knit us to our kind,

She felt fast-bound, as charity can bind--

Not, when the ills of age, its pain, its care,

The drooping spirit for its fate prepare;

And each affection, failing, leaves the heart

Loosed from life's charm and willing to depart-- 590

But all her ties the strong invader broke,

In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke!

Sudden and swift the eager pest came on,

And terror grew, till every hope was gone;

Still those around appear'd for hope to seek!

But view'd the sick, and were afraid to speak.--

Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead;

When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed,

My part began; a crowd drew near the place,

Awe in each eye, alarm in every face: 600

So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind,

That fear with pity mingled in each mind;

Friends with the husband came their griefs to blend;

For good-man Frankford was to all a friend.

The last-born boy they held above the bier;

He knew not grief, but cries express'd his fear;

Each different age and sex reveal'd its pain,

In now a louder, now a lower strain;

While the meek father, listening to their tones,

Swell'd the full cadence of the grief by groans. 610

The elder sister strove her pangs to hide,

And soothing words to younger minds applied

"Be still, be patient," oft she strove to say;

But fail'd as oft, and weeping turn'd away.

Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill,

The village-lads stood melancholy still;

And idle children, wandering to-and-fro,

As Nature guided, took the tone of wo.

Arrived at home, how then they gazed around,

In every place--where she no more was found; 620

The seat at table she was wont to fill;

The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still;

The garden-walks, a labour all her own,

The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown;

The Sunday-pew she fill'd with all her race--

Each place of hers, was now a sacred place,

That, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes,

Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise.

Oh sacred sorrow! by whom souls are tried,

Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide; 630

If thou art mine, (and who shall proudly dare

To tell his Maker, he has had his share?)

Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent,

And be my guide and not my punishment!

Of Leah Cousins next the name appears,

With honours crown'd and bless'd with length of years,

Save that she lived to feel, in life's decay,

The pleasure die, the honours drop away.

A matron she, whom every village-wife

View'd as the help and guardian of her life; 640

Fathers and sons, indebted to her aid,

Respect to her and her profession paid;

Who in the house of plenty largely fed,

Yet took her station at the pauper's bed;

Nor from that duty could be bribed again,

While fear or danger urged her to remain.

In her experience all her friends relied;

Heaven was her help and nature was her guide.

Thus Leah lived, long trusted, much caress'd,

Till a Town-Dame a youthful Farmer bless'd; 650

A gay vain bride, who would example give

To that poor village where she deign'd to live;

Some few months past, she sent, in hour of need,

For Doctor Glibb, who came with wond'rous speed:

Two days he waited, all his art applied,

To save the mother when her infant died:--

"'Twas well I came," at last he deign'd to say;

"'Twas wondrous well"--and proudly rode away.

The news ran round:--"How vast the Doctor's pow'r!

He saved the Lady in the trying hour; 660

Saved her from death, when she was dead to hope,

And her fond husband had resign'd her up:

So all, like her, may evil fate defy,

If Doctor Glibb, with saving hand, be nigh."

Fame (now his friend), fear, novelty, and whim,

And fashion, sent the varying sex to him:

From this, contention in the village rose,

And _these_ the Dame espoused, the Doctor _those_:

The wealthier part, to him and science went;

With luck and her the poor remain'd content. 670

The matron sigh'd; for she was vex'd at heart,

With so much profit, so much fame, to part:

"So long successful in my art," she cried,

"And this proud man, so young and so untried!"

"Nay," said the Doctor, "dare you trust your wives,

The joy, the pride, the solace of your lives,

To one who acts and knows no reason why,

But trusts, poor hag! to luck for an ally?--

Who, on experience, can her claims advance,

And own the powers of accident and chance? 680

A whining dame, who prays in danger's view,

(A proof she knows not what beside to do;)

What's her experience? In the time that's gone,

Blundering she wrought, and still she blunders on:--

What is Nature? One who acts in aid

Of gossips half asleep, and half afraid.

With such allies I scorn my fame to blend,

Skill is my luck and courage is my friend;

No slave to Nature, 'tis my chief delight

To win my way and act in her despite:-- 690

"Trust then my art, that, in itself complete,

Needs no assistance and fears no defeat."

Warm'd by her well-spiced ale and aiding pipe,

The angry matron grew for contest ripe.

"Can you," she said, "ungrateful and unjust,

Before experience, ostentation trust!

What is your hazard, foolish daughters, tell?

If safe, you're certain; if secure, you're well:

That I have luck must friend and foe confess,

And what's good judgment but a lucky guess? 700

_He_ boasts but what he _can_ do:--will you run

From me, your friend! who, all _he_ boasts, _have_ done?

By proud and learned words his powers are known;

By healthy boys and handsome girls my own.

Wives! fathers! children! by my help you live;

Has this pale Doctor more than life to give?

No stunted cripple hops the village round;

Your hands are active and your heads are sound:

My lads are all your fields and flocks require;

My lasses all those sturdy lads admire. 710

Can this proud leech, with all his boasted skill,

Amend the soul or body, wit or will?

Does he for courts the sons of farmers frame,

Or make the daughter differ from the dame?

Or, whom he brings into this world of wo,

Prepares he them their part to undergo?

If not, this stranger from your doors repel,

And be content to _be_, and to be _well_."

She spake; but, ah! with words too strong and plain;

Her warmth offended, and her truth was vain: 720

The _many_ left her, and the friendly _few_,

If never colder, yet they older grew;

Till, unemploy'd, she felt her spirits droop,

And took, insidious aid! th' inspiring cup;

Grew poor and peevish as her powers decay'd,

And propp'd the tottering frame with stronger aid;--

Then died!--I saw our careful swains convey,

From this our changeful world, the matron's clay,

Who to this world, at least, with equal care,

Brought them its changes, good and ill to share. 730

Now to his grave was Roger Cuff convey'd,

And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid.

Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found

His brethren three--and thrice they wish'd him drown'd.

"Is this a landman's love? Be certain then,

We part for ever!"--and they cried, "Amen!"

His words were truth's.--Some forty summers fled;

His brethren died; his kin supposed him dead:

Three nephews these, one sprightly niece, and one,

Less near in blood--they call'd him _surly John_; 740

He work'd in woods apart from all his kind.

Fierce were his looks and moody was his mind.

For home the Sailor now began to sigh:--

"The dogs are dead, and I'll return and die;

When all I have, my gains, in years of care,

The younger Cuffs with kinder souls shall share.--

Yet hold! I'm rich;--with one consent they'll say,

'You're welcome, Uncle, as the flowers in May.'

No; I'll disguise me, be in tatters dress'd,

And best befriend the lads who treat me best." 750

Now all his kindred,--neither rich nor poor--

Kept the wolf want some distance from the door.

In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate,

And begg'd for aid, as he described his state;--

But stern was George:--"Let them who had thee strong,

Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along;

To us a stranger, while your limbs would move,

From us depart and try a stranger's love:--

Ha! dost thou murmur?"--for, in Roger's throat,

Was "Rascal!" rising with disdainful note. 760

To pious James he then his prayer address'd;--

"Good lack," quoth James, "thy sorrows pierce my breast;

And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain,

One board should feed us and one roof contain.

But plead I will thy cause and I will pray;

And so farewell! Heaven help thee on thy way!"

"Scoundrel!" said Roger, (but apart;)--and told

His case to Peter;--Peter too was cold;--

"The rates are high; we have a-many poor;

But I will think,"--he said, and shut the door. 770

Then the gay Niece the seeming pauper press'd:--

"Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd;

Akin to thine is this declining frame,

And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name."

"Avaunt! begone!" the courteous maiden said,

"Thou vile impostor! Uncle Roger's dead:

I hate thee, beast; thy look my spirit shocks!

Oh! that I saw thee starving in the stocks!"

"My gentle niece!" he said--and sought the wood.--

"I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me food!" 780

"Give! am I rich? This hatchet take, and try

Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie;

Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal,

Nor whine out woes, thine own right-hand can heal:

And while that hand is thine and thine a leg,

Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg."

"Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view,"

Old Roger said:--"thy words are brave and true;

Come, live with me: we'll vex those scoundrel-boys,

And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys.-- 790

Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share,

With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care;

We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap,

And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep."

Such was their life; but when the woodman died,

His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied--

In vain; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door,

And dying, built a refuge for the poor:

With this restriction, That no Cuff should share

One meal, or shelter for one moment there. 800

My record ends:--But hark! e'en now I hear

The bell of death, and know not whose to fear.

Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well;

In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell;--

Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes,

For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times.

"Go; of my sexton seek, Whose days are sped?--

"What! he, himself!--and is old Dibble dead?"

His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay'd,

And rectors five to one close vault convey'd:-- 810

But he is gone; his care and skill I lose,

And gain a mournful subject for my Muse:

His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore,

And kindly add,--"Heaven grant, I lose no more!"

Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance

Appear'd at variance with his complaisance:

For, as he told their fate and varying worth,

He archly look'd,--"I yet may bear thee forth."

"When first"--(he so began)--"my trade I plied,

Good master Addle was the parish-guide; 820

His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear

His stride majestic, and his frown severe;

A noble pillar of the church he stood,

Adorn'd with college-gown and parish-hood.

Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about,

He fill'd the sevenfold surplice fairly out!

But in his pulpit, wearied down with prayer,

He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair;

For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceased,

Th' expecting people view'd their slumbering priest: 830

Who, dozing, died.--Our Parson Peele was next;

'I will not spare you,' was his favourite text;

Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound;

Ev'n me he mulct for my poor rood of ground;

Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech,

'What should I do,' quoth he, 'but what _I_ preach?'

His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store)

Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor;

His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke;

His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke: 840

But though so young and bless'd with spirits high,

He died as grave as any judge could die:

The strong attack subdued his lively powers,--

His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear ours.

Then were there golden times the village round;

In his abundance all appear'd t' abound;

Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread,

E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed,

Who wish'd, and hoped,--and thought a man so kind

A way to Heaven, though not their own, might find; 850

To them, to all, he was polite and free,

Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to me:

'Ralph,' would he say, 'Ralph Dibble, thou art old;

That doublet fit, 'twill keep thee from the cold.

How does my sexton?--What! the times are hard;

Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.'

But most, his rev'rence loved a mirthful jest:--

'Thy coat is thin; why, man, thou'rt _barely_ dress'd;

It's worn to th' thread; but I have nappy beer;

Clap that within, and see how they will wear!' 860

"Gay days were these; but they were quickly past:

When first he came, we found he cou'dn't last:

A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf)

Upset him quite;--but what's the gain of grief?

"Then came the Author-Rector; his delight

Was all in books; to read them, or to write:

Women and men he strove alike to shun,

And hurried homeward when his tasks were done,

Courteous enough, but careless what he said,

For points of learning he reserved his head; 870

And, when addressing either poor or rich,

He knew no better than his cassock which.

He, like an osier, was of pliant kind,

Erect by nature, but to bend inclined;

Not like a creeper falling to the ground,

Or meanly catching on the neighbours round.--

Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band--

And kindly took them as they came to hand;

Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat,

As if he sought for dignity in that. 880

He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious rules,

Nor turn'd from gipsies, vagabonds, or fools;

It was his nature, but they thought it whim,

And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him.

Of questions much he wrote, profound and dark--

How spake the serpent, and where stopp'd the ark;

From what far land the Queen of Sheba came;

Who Salem's priest, and what his father's name;

He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield,

And Revelations, to the world, reveal'd. 890

He sleeps i' the aisle--but not a stone records

His name or fame, his actions or his words:

And, truth, your reverence, when I look around,

And mark the tombs in our sepulchral ground,

(Though dare I not of one man's hope to doubt),

I'd join the party who repose without,

"Next came a youth from Cambridge, and, in truth,

He was a sober and a comely youth;

He blush'd in meekness as a modest man,

And gain'd attention ere his task began; 900

When preaching, seldom ventured on reproof,

But touch'd his neighbours tenderly enough.

Him, in his youth, a clamorous sect assail'd,

Advised and censured, flatter'd,--and prevail'd.--

Then did he much his sober hearers vex,

Confound the simple, and the sad perplex;

To a new style his reverence rashly took;

Loud grew his voice, to threat'ning swell'd his look;

Above, below, on either side, he gazed,

Amazing all, and most himself amazed: 910

No more he read his preachments pure and plain,

But launch'd outright, and rose and sank again:

At times he smiled in scorn, at times he wept, }

And such sad coil with words of vengeance kept, }

That our best sleepers started as they slept. }

"'Conviction comes like lightning,' he would cry;

'In vain you seek it, and in vain you fly;

'Tis like the rushing of the mighty wind,

Unseen its progress, but its power you find;

It strikes the child ere yet its reason wakes; 920

His reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes.

The proud, learn'd man, and him who loves to know

How and from whence these gusts of grace will blow,

It shuns,--but sinners in their way impedes,

And sots and harlots visits in their deeds:

Of faith and penance it supplies the place; }

Assures the vilest that they live by grace, }

And, without running, makes them win the race.' }

"Such was the doctrine our young prophet taught;

And here conviction, there confusion wrought; 930

When his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue,

And all the rose to one small spot withdrew:

They call'd it hectic; 'twas a fiery flush,

More fix'd and deeper than the maiden blush;

His paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed,

And lab'ring lungs the length'ning speech opposed.

No more his span-girth shanks and quiv'ring thighs

Upheld a body of the smaller size;

But down he sank upon his dying bed,

And gloomy crotchets fill'd his wandering head.-- 940

"'Spite of my faith, all-saving faith,' he cried,

'I fear of worldly works the wicked pride;

Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind,

The good I've wrought still rankles in my mind;

My alms-deeds all, and every deed I've done,

My moral-rags defile me, every one;

It should not be--what say'st thou? tell me, Ralph.'

Quoth I, 'Your reverence, I believe, you're safe;

Your faith's your prop, nor have you pass'd such time

In life's good-works as swell them to a crime. 950

If I of pardon for my sins were sure,

About my goodness I would rest secure.'

"Such was his end; and mine approaches fast;

I've seen my best of preachers--and my last."--

He bow'd, and archly smiled at what he said,

Civil but sly:--"And is old Dibble dead?"

Yes! he is gone: and WE are going all;

Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall;--

Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come,

Then bear the new-made Christian to its home; 960

A few short years, and we behold him stand,

To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand:

A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear

His widow weeping at her husband's bier:--

Thus, as the months succeed, shall infants take

Their names; thus parents shall the child forsake;

Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel,

By love or law compell'd their vows to seal,

Ere I again, or one like me, explore

These simple annals of the VILLAGE POOR. 970

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Young's _The Complaint, or Night Thoughts, Night_ I.

[25] See p. 170.

THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

The Subject--Poverty and Cunning described--When united, a jarring

Couple--Mutual Reproof--The Wife consoled by a Dream--Birth of a

Daughter--Description and Prediction of Envy--How to be rendered

ineffectual, explained in a Vision--Simulation foretells the

future Success and Triumphs of Flattery--Her Power over various

Characters and different Minds; over certain Classes of Men; over

Envy himself--Her successful Art of softening the Evils of Life;

of changing Characters; of meliorating Prospects, and affixing

Value to Possessions, Pictures, &c.--Conclusion.

Omnia habeo, nec quicquam habeo [...]

Quidquid dicunt, laudo; id rursum si negant, laudo id quoque.

Negat quis, nego; ait, aio. Postremò imperavi egomet mihi

Omnia assentari.

_Terent. in Eunuch._ [Act II. Sc. 2.]

It has been held in ancient rules,

That flattery is the food of fools;

Yet now and then your men of wit

Will condescend to taste a bit.

_Swift_[, Cadenus and Vanessa.]

Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing

The passions all, their bearings and their ties;

Who could in view those shadowy beings bring,

And with bold hand remove each dark disguise,

Wherein love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies:

Guide him to Fairy-land, who now intends

That way his flight; assist him as he flies,

To mark those passions, Virtue's foes and friends,

By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.

Yes! they appear, I see the fairy-train! 10

And who that modest nymph of meek address?

Not Vanity, though loved by all the vain;

Not Hope, though promising to all success;

Nor Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress;

Thee, sprightly syren, from this train I choose,

Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess;

'Tis not in thy mild nature to refuse,

When poets ask thine aid, so oft their meed and muse.

* * * * *

In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain,

Dwelt, in the house of Care, a sturdy swain; 20

A hireling he, who, when he till'd the soil,

Look'd to the pittance that repaid his toil;

And to a master left the mingled joy

And anxious care that follow'd his employ.

Sullen and patient he at once appear'd,

As one who murmur'd, yet as one who fear'd;

Th' attire was coarse that clothed his sinewy frame,

Rude his address, and Poverty his name.

In that same plain a nymph, of curious taste,

A cottage (plann'd with all her skill) had placed; 30

Strange the materials, and for what design'd

The various parts, no simple man might find;

What seem'd the door, each entering guest withstood,

What seem'd a window was but painted wood;

But by a secret spring the wall would move,

And day-light drop through glassy door above.

'Twas all her pride, new traps for praise to lay,

And all her wisdom was to hide her way;

In small attempts incessant were her pains,

And Cunning was her name among the swains. 40

Now, whether fate decreed this pair should wed,

And blindly drove them to the marriage-bed;

Or whether love in some soft hour inclined

The damsel's heart, and won her to be kind,

Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match'd pair,

But both disposed to wed--and wed they were.

Yet, though united in their fortune, still

Their ways were diverse; varying was their will;

Nor long the maid had bless'd the simple man,

Before dissensions rose, and she began:-- 50

"Wretch that I am! since to thy fortune bound,

What plan, what project, with success is crown'd?

I, who a thousand secret arts possess,

Who every rank approach with right address;

Who've loosed a guinea from a miser's chest,

And worm'd his secret from a traitor's breast;

Thence gifts and gains collecting, great and small,

Have brought to thee, and thou consum'st them all:

For want like thine--a bog without a base--

Ingulfs all gains I gather for the place; 60

Feeding, unfill'd; destroying, undestroy'd;

It craves for ever, and is ever void:--

Wretch that I am! what misery have I found,

Since my sure craft was to thy calling bound!"

"Oh! vaunt of worthless art," the swain replied,

Scowling contempt, "how pitiful this pride!

What are these specious gifts, these paltry gains,

But base rewards for ignominious pains?

With all thy tricking, still for bread we strive;

Thine is, proud wretch! the care that cannot thrive; 70

By all thy boasted skill and baffled hooks

Thou gain'st no more than students by their books;

No more than I for my poor deeds am paid,

Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid.

"Call this our need, a bog that all devours--

Then what thy petty arts but summer-flowers,

Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray

The place they make unprofitably gay?

Who know it not, some useless beauties see--

But ah! to prove it, was reserved for me." 80

Unhappy state! that, in decay of love,

Permits harsh truth his errors to disprove;

While he remains, to wrangle and to jar

Is friendly tournament, not fatal war;

Love in his play will borrow arms of hate,

Anger and rage, upbraiding and debate;

And by his power the desperate weapons thrown,

Become as safe and pleasant as his own;

But left by him, their natures they assume,

And fatal, in their poisoning force, become. 90

Time fled, and now the swain compell'd to see

New cause for fear--"Is this thy thrift?" quoth he.

To whom the wife with cheerful voice replied:--

"Thou moody man, lay all thy fears aside,

I've seen a vision;--they, from whom I came,

A daughter promise, promise wealth and fame;

Born with my features, with my arts, yet she }

Shall patient, pliant, persevering be, }

And in thy better ways resemble thee. }

The fairies round shall at her birth attend; 100

The friend of all in all shall find a friend;

And, save that one sad star that hour must gleam

On our fair child, how glorious were my dream!"

This heard the husband, and, in surly smile,

Aim'd at contempt, but yet he hoped the while:

For as, when sinking, wretched men are found

To catch at rushes rather than be drown'd;

So on a dream our peasant placed his hope,

And found that rush as valid as a rope.

Swift fled the days, for now in hope they fled, 110

When a fair daughter bless'd the nuptial bed;

Her infant-face the mother's pains beguiled,

She look'd so pleasing, and so softly smiled;

Those smiles, those looks, with sweet sensations moved

The gazer's soul, and, as he look'd, he loved.

And now the fairies came, with gifts, to grace

So mild a nature and so fair a face.

They gave, with beauty, that bewitching art,

That holds in easy chains the human heart;

They gave her skill to win the stubborn mind, 120

To make the suffering to their sorrows blind,

To bring on pensive looks the pleasing smile,

And Care's stern brow of every frown beguile.

These magic favours graced the infant-maid,

Whose more enlivening smile the charming gifts repaid.

Now Fortune changed, who, were she constant long,

Would leave us few adventures for our song.

A wicked elfin roved this land around,

Whose joys proceeded from the griefs he found;

Envy his name:--his fascinating eye 130

From the light bosom drew the sudden sigh;

Unsocial he, but with malignant mind,

He dwelt with man, that he might curse mankind;

Like the first foe, he sought th' abode of Joy,

Grieved to behold, but eager to destroy;

Round blooming beauty, like the wasp, he flew,

Soil'd the fresh sweet, and changed the rosy hue;

The wise, the good, with anxious heart, he saw,

And here a failing found, and there a flaw;

Discord in families 'twas his to move, 140

Distrust in friendship, jealousy in love;

He told the poor, what joys the great possess'd,

The great--what calm content the cottage bless'd;

To part the learned and the rich he tried,

Till their slow friendship perish'd in their pride.

Such was the fiend, and so secure of prey,

That only Misery pass'd unstung away.

Soon as he heard the fairy-babe was born,

Scornful he smiled, but felt no more than scorn;

For why, when Fortune placed her state so low, 150

In useless spite his lofty malice show?

Why, in a mischief of the meaner kind,

Exhaust the vigour of a ranc'rous mind?

But, soon as Fame the fairy-gifts proclaim'd,

Quick-rising wrath his ready soul inflamed,

To swear, by vows that e'en the wicked tie,

The nymph should weep her varied destiny;

That every gift, that now appear'd to shine

In her fair face, and make her smiles divine,

Should all the poison of his magic prove, 160

And they should scorn her, whom she sought for love.

His spell prepared, in form an ancient dame,

A fiend in spirit, to the cot he came;

There gain'd admittance, and the infant press'd

(Muttering his wicked magic) to his breast;

And thus he said:--"Of all the powers, who wait

On Jove's decrees, and do the work of fate,

Was I alone, despised or worthless, found,

Weak to protect, or impotent to wound?

See then thy foe, regret the friendship lost, 170

And learn my skill, but learn it at your cost.

"Know then, O child! devote to fates severe,

The good shall hate thy name, the wise shall fear;

Wit shall deride, and no protecting friend

Thy shame shall cover, or thy name defend.

Thy gentle sex, who, more than ours, should spare

A humble foe, will greater scorn declare;

The base alone thy advocates shall be,

Or boast alliance with a wretch like thee."

He spake and vanish'd, other prey to find, 180

And waste in slow disease the conquer'd mind.

Awed by the elfin's threats, and fill'd with dread,

The parents wept, and sought their infant's bed:

Despair alone the father's soul possess'd,

But hope rose gently in the mother's breast;

For well she knew that neither grief nor joy

Pain'd without hope, or pleased without alloy;

And while these hopes and fears her heart divide,

A cheerful vision bade the fears subside.

She saw descending to the world below 190

An ancient form, with solemn pace and slow.

"Daughter, no more be sad," (the phantom cried,)

"Success is seldom to the wise denied;

In idle wishes fools supinely stay--

Be there a will, and wisdom finds a way:

Why art thou grieved? Be rather glad, that he,

Who hates the happy, aims his darts at thee,

But aims in vain; thy favour'd daughter lies,

Serenely blest, and shall to joy arise.

For, grant that curses on her name shall wait, 200

(So envy wills and such the voice of fate,)

Yet, if that name be prudently suppress'd,

She shall be courted, favour'd, and caress'd.

"For what are names? and where agree mankind

In those to persons or to acts assign'd?

Brave, learn'd, or wise, if some their favourites call,

Have they the titles or the praise from all?

Not so, but others will the brave disdain

As rash, and deem the sons of wisdom vain;

The self-same mind shall scorn or kindness move, 210

And the same deed attract contempt and love.

"So all the powers who move the human soul,

With all the passions who the will control,

Have various names--[one] giv'n by Truth Divine,

(As Simulation thus was fix'd for mine,)

The rest by man, who now, as wisdom's, prize

My secret counsels, now as art despise;

One hour, as just, those counsels they embrace,

And spurn, the next, as pitiful and base.

"Thee, too, my child, those fools as Cunning fly, 220

Who on thy counsel and thy craft rely;

That worthy craft in others they condemn,

But 'tis their prudence, while conducting them.

"Be FLATTERY, then, thy happy infant's name,

Let Honour scorn her and let Wit defame;

Let all be true that Envy dooms, yet all,

Not on herself, but on her name, shall fall;

While she thy fortune and her own shall raise,

And decent Truth be call'd, and loved as modest Praise.

"O happy child! the glorious day shall shine, 230 }

When every ear shall to thy speech incline, }

Thy words alluring and thy voice divine. }

The sullen pedant and the sprightly wit,

To hear thy soothing eloquence, shall sit;

And both, abjuring Flattery, will agree

That truth inspires, and they must honour thee.

"Envy himself shall to thy accents bend, }

Force a faint smile and sullenly attend, }

When thou shalt call him Virtue's jealous friend, }

Whose bosom glows with generous rage to find 240

How fools and knaves are flatter'd by mankind.

"The sage retired, who spends alone his days,

And flies th' obstreperous voice of public praise;

The vain, the vulgar cry shall gladly meet,

And bid thee welcome to his still retreat;

Much will he wonder, how thou cam'st to find

A man to glory dead, to peace consign'd.

'O Fame!' he'll cry, (for he will call thee Fame,)

'From thee I fly, from thee conceal my name.'

But thou shalt say, 'Though Genius takes his flight, 250

He leaves behind a glorious train of light,

And hides in vain;--yet prudent he that flies

The flatterer's art, and for himself is wise.'

"Yes, happy child! I mark th' approaching day,

When warring natures will confess thy sway;

When thou shalt Saturn's golden reign restore,

And vice and folly shall be known no more.

"Pride shall not then in human-kind have place,

Changed, by thy skill, to Dignity and Grace;

While Shame, who now betrays the inward sense 260

Of secret ill, shall be thy Diffidence;

Avarice shall thenceforth prudent Forecast be,

And bloody Vengeance, Magnanimity;

The lavish tongue shall honest truths impart, }

The lavish hand shall show the generous heart, }

And Indiscretion be contempt of art: }

Folly and Vice shall then, no longer known,

Be, this as Virtue, that as Wisdom, shown.

"Then shall the Robber, as the Hero, rise

To seize the good that churlish law denies; 270

Throughout the world shall rove the generous band,

And deal the gifts of Heaven from hand to hand.

"In thy blest days no tyrant shall be seen,

Thy gracious king shall rule contented men;

In thy blest days shall not a rebel be,

But patriots all and well approved of thee.

"Such powers are thine, that man, by thee, shall wrest

The gainful secret from the cautious breast;

Nor then, with all his care, the good retain,

But yield to thee the secret and the gain. 280

In vain shall much experience guard the heart

Against the charm of thy prevailing art;

Admitted once, so soothing is thy strain,

It comes the sweeter, when it comes again;

And when confess'd as thine, what mind so strong

Forbears the pleasure it indulged so long?

"Soft'ner of every ill! of all our woes

The balmy solace! friend of fiercest foes!

Begin thy reign, and like the morning rise!

Bring joy, bring beauty, to our eager eyes; 290

Break on the drowsy world like opening day, }

While grace and gladness join thy flow'ry way; }

While every voice is praise, while every heart is gay. }

"From thee all prospects shall new beauties take,

'Tis thine to seek them and 'tis thine to make;

On the cold fen I see thee turn thine eyes,

Its mists recede, its chilling vapour flies;

Th' enraptured lord th' improving ground surveys,

And for his Eden asks the traveller's praise,

Which yet, unview'd of thee, a bog had been, 300

Where spungy rushes hide the plashy green.

"I see thee breathing on the barren moor,

That seems to bloom although so bleak before;

There, if beneath the gorse the primrose spring,

Or the pied daisy smile below the ling,

They shall new charms, at thy command, disclose,

And none shall miss the myrtle or the rose.

The wiry moss, that whitens all the hill,

Shall live a beauty by thy matchless skill;

Gale[26] from the bog shall yield Arabian balm, 310

And the grey willow wave a golden palm.

"I see thee smiling in the pictured room,

Now breathing beauty, now reviving bloom;

There, each immortal name 'tis thine to give

To graceless forms, and bid the lumber live.

Should'st thou coarse boors or gloomy martyrs see,

These shall thy Guidos those thy Teniers' be;

There shalt thou Raphael's saints and angels trace, }

There make for Rubens and for Reynolds place, }

And all the pride of art [shalt] find in her disgrace. 320 }

"Delight of either sex! thy reign commence; }

With balmy sweetness soothe the weary sense, }

And to the sickening soul thy cheering aid dispense. }

Queen of the mind! thy golden age begin; }

In mortal bosoms varnish shame and sin; }

Let all be fair without, let all be calm within." }

The Vision fled; the happy mother rose,

Kiss'd the fair infant, smiled at all her foes,

And FLATTERY made her name:--her reign began,

Her own dear sex she ruled, then vanquish'd man; 330

A smiling friend, to every class, she spoke,

Assumed their manners, and their habits took;

Her, for her humble mien, the modest loved;

Her cheerful looks the light and gay approved;

The just beheld her, firm; the valiant, brave;

Her mirth the free, her silence pleased the grave;

Zeal heard her voice, and, as he preach'd aloud,

Well-pleased he caught her whispers from the crowd--

(Those whispers, soothing-sweet to every ear,

Which some refuse to pay, but none to hear); 340

Shame fled her presence; at her gentle strain,

Care softly smiled, and guilt forgot its pain;

The wretched thought, the happy found her true;

The learn'd confess'd that she their merits knew;

The rich--could they a constant friend condemn?

The poor believed--for who should flatter them?

Thus on her name though all disgrace attend,

In every creature she beholds a friend.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] "Myrica gale," a shrub growing in boggy and fenny grounds.

REFLECTIONS

UPON THE SUBJECT----

Quid juvat errores, mersâ jam puppe, fateri?

Quid lacrymæ delicta juvant commissa secutæ?

_Claudian. in Eutrop._ lib. ii. lin. 7

What avails it, when shipwrecked, that error appears?

Are the crimes we commit wash'd away by our tears?

When all the fiercer passions cease

(The glory and disgrace of youth);

When the deluded soul, in peace,

Can listen to the voice of truth;

When we are taught in whom to trust,

And how to spare, to spend, to give,

(Our prudence kind, our pity just)--

'Tis then we rightly learn to live.

Its weakness when the body feels,

Nor danger in contempt defies; 10

To reason when desire appeals,

When on experience hope relies;

When every passing hour we prize,

Nor rashly on our follies spend;

But use it, as it quickly flies,

With sober aim to serious end;

When prudence bounds our utmost views,

And bids us wrath and wrong forgive;

When we can calmly gain or lose--

'Tis then we rightly learn to live. 20

Yet thus, when we our way discern,

And can upon our care depend,

To travel safely when we learn,

Behold! we're near our journey's end.

We've trod the maze of error round,

Long wand'ring in the winding glade;

And now the torch of truth is found,

It only shows us where we stray'd:

Light for ourselves, what is it worth,

When we no more our way can choose? 30

For others when we hold it forth,

They, in their pride, the boon refuse.

By long experience taught, we now

Can rightly judge of friends and foes,

Can all the worth of these allow,

And all their faults discern in those;

Relentless hatred, erring love,

We can for sacred truth forego;

We can the warmest friend reprove,

And bear to praise the fiercest foe: 40

To what effect? Our friends are gone,

Beyond reproof, regard, or care;

And of our foes remains there one,

The mild relenting thoughts to share?

Now 'tis our boast that we can quell

The wildest passions in their rage;

Can their destructive force repel,

And their impetuous wrath assuage:

Ah! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now

This bold rebellious race are fled; 50

When all these tyrants rest, and thou

Art warring with the mighty dead?

Revenge, ambition, scorn, and pride,

And strong desire and fierce disdain,

The giant-brood, by thee defied,

Lo! Time's resistless strokes have slain.

Yet Time, who could that race subdue,

(O'erpow'ring strength, appeasing rage,)

Leaves yet a persevering crew,

To try the failing powers of age. 60

Vex'd by the constant call of these,

Virtue awhile for conquest tries,

But weary grown and fond of ease,

She makes with them a compromise:

Av'rice himself she gives to rest,

But rules him with her strict commands;

Bids Pity touch his torpid breast,

And Justice hold his eager hands.

Yet is there nothing men can do,

When chilling Age comes creeping on? 70

Cannot we yet some good pursue?

Are talents buried? genius gone?

If passions slumber in the breast,

If follies from the heart be fled:

Of laurels let us go in quest,

And place them on the poet's head.

Yes, we'll redeem the wasted time,

And to neglected studies flee;

We'll build again the lofty rhyme,

Or live, Philosophy, with thee; 80

For reasoning clear, for flight sublime,

Eternal fame reward shall be;

And to what glorious heights we'll climb,

Th' admiring crowd shall envying see.

Begin the song! begin the theme!--

Alas! and is Invention dead?

Dream we no more the golden dream?

Is Mem'ry with her treasures fled?

Yes, 'tis too late--now Reason guides

The mind, sole judge in all debate; 90

And thus th' important point decides,

For laurels, 'tis, alas! too late.

What is possess'd we may retain,

But for new conquests strive in vain.

Beware then, Age, that what was won,

[In] life's past labours, studies, views,

Be lost not, now the labour's done,

When all thy part is--not to lose:

When thou canst toil or gain no more,

Destroy not what was gain'd before. 100

For, all that's gain'd of all that's good,

When time shall his weak frame destroy,

(Their use then rightly understood,)

Shall man, in happier state, enjoy.

Oh! argument for truth divine,

For study's cares, for virtue's strife:

To know th' enjoyment will be thine,

In that renew'd, that endless life!

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

_SCENE_--A MAD-HOUSE.

_PERSONS_--VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT.

Veris miscens falsa.--

_Seneca in Herc. furente_ [Act IV. V. 1070].

VISITOR.

I'll know no more;--the heart is torn

By views of wo we cannot heal;

Long shall I see these things forlorn,

And oft again their griefs shall feel,

As each upon the mind shall steal;

That wan projector's mystic style,

That lumpish idiot leering by,

That peevish idler's ceaseless wile,

And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile,

While struggling for the full-drawn sigh!-- 10

I'll know no more.

PHYSICIAN.

--Yes, turn again;

Then speed to happier scenes thy way,

When thou hast view'd, what yet remain,

The ruins of Sir Eustace Grey,

The sport of madness, misery's prey.

But he will no historian need;

His cares, his crimes, will he display,

And show (as one from frenzy freed)

The proud-lost mind, the rash-done deed.

That cell to him is Greyling Hall:-- 20

Approach; he'll bid thee welcome there;

Will sometimes for his servant call,

And sometimes point the vacant chair:

He can, with free and easy air,

Appear attentive and polite;

Can veil his woes in manners fair,

And pity with respect excite.

PATIENT.

Who comes?--Approach!--'tis kindly done:--

My learn'd physician, and a friend,

Their pleasures quit, to visit one 30

Who cannot to their ease attend,

Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend,

As when I lived so bless'd, so well,

And dreamt not I must soon contend

With those malignant powers of hell.

PHYSICIAN.

Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go.--

PATIENT.

See! I am calm as infant-love,

A very child, but one of wo,

Whom you should pity, not reprove:--

But men at ease, who never strove 40

With passions wild, will calmly show

How soon we may their ills remove,

And masters of their madness grow.

Some twenty years I think are gone;--

(Time flies, I know not how, away;)--

The sun upon no happier shone,

Nor prouder man, than Eustace Grey.

Ask where you would, and all would say,

The man admired and praised of all,

By rich and poor, by grave and gay. 50

Was the young lord of Greyling Hall.

Yes! I had youth and rosy health;

Was nobly form'd, as man might be;

For sickness then, of all my wealth,

I never gave a single fee:

The ladies fair, the maidens free,

Were all accustom'd then to say,

Who would a handsome figure see

Should look upon Sir Eustace Grey.

He had a frank and pleasant look, 60

A cheerful eye and accent bland;

His very speech and manner spoke

The generous heart, the open hand;

About him all was gay or grand,

He had the praise of great and small;

He bought, improved, projected, plann'd,

And reign'd a prince at Greyling Hall.

My lady!--she was all we love;

All praise (to speak her worth) is faint;

Her manners show'd the yielding dove, 70

Her morals, the seraphic saint;

She never breathed nor look'd complaint;

No equal upon earth had she:--

Now, what is this fair thing I paint?

Alas! as all that live shall be.

There was, beside, a gallant youth,

And him my bosom's friend I had:--

Oh! I was rich in very truth,

It made me proud--it made me mad!--

Yes, I was lost--but there was cause!-- 80

Where stood my tale?--I cannot find--

But I had all mankind's applause,

And all the smiles of womankind.

There were two cherub-things beside,

A gracious girl, a glorious boy;

Yet more to swell my full-blown pride,

To varnish higher my fading joy,

Pleasures were ours without alloy,

Nay, Paradise,--till my frail Eve

Our bliss was tempted to destroy, 90

Deceived and fated to deceive.

But I deserved; for all that time,

When I was loved, admired, caress'd,

There was within each secret crime,

Unfelt, uncancell'd, unconfess'd:

I never then my God address'd,

In grateful praise or humble prayer;

And, if His Word was not my jest,

(Dread thought!) it never was my care.

I doubted--fool I was to doubt!-- 100

If that all-piercing eye could see;

If He who looks all worlds throughout,

Would so minute and careful be,

As to perceive and punish me:--

With man I would be great and high,

But with my God so lost, that He,

In his large view, should pass me by.

Thus bless'd with children, friend, and wife,

Bless'd far beyond the vulgar lot;

Of all that gladdens human life, 110

Where was the good, that I had not?

But my vile heart had sinful spot,

And Heaven beheld its deep'ning stain;

Eternal justice I forgot,

And mercy sought not to obtain.

Come near--I'll softly speak the rest!--

Alas! 'tis known to all the crowd,

Her guilty love was all confess'd,

And his, who so much truth avow'd,

My faithless friend's.--In pleasure proud 120

I sat, when these cursed tidings came;

Their guilt, their flight was told aloud,

And Envy smiled to hear my shame!

I call'd on Vengeance; at the word

She came:--Can I the deed forget?

I held the sword, th' accursed sword,

The blood of his false heart made wet;

And that fair victim paid her debt;

She pined, she died, she loath'd to live;--

I saw her dying--see her yet: 130

Fair fallen thing! my rage forgive!

Those cherubs still, my life to bless,

Were left; could I my fears remove,

Sad fears that checked each fond caress,

And poison'd all parental love?

Yet that with jealous feelings strove,

And would at last have won my will,

Had I not, wretch! been doom'd to prove

Th' extremes of mortal good and ill.

In youth! health! joy! in beauty's pride! 140

They droop'd: as flowers when blighted bow,

The dire infection came.--They died,

And I was cursed--as I am now.--

Nay, frown not, angry friend--allow

That I was deeply, sorely tried;

Hear then, and you must wonder how

I could such storms and strifes abide.

Storms!--not that clouds embattled make,

When they afflict this earthly globe;

But such as with their terrors shake 150

Man's breast, and to the bottom probe:

They make the hypocrite disrobe,

They try us all, if false or true;

For this, one devil had pow'r on Job;

And I was long the slave of two.

PHYSICIAN.

Peace, peace, my friend; these subjects fly;

Collect thy thoughts--go calmly on.--

PATIENT.

And shall I then the fact deny?

I was,--thou know'st--I was begone,

Like him who fill'd the eastern throne, 160

To whom the Watcher cried aloud[27];

That royal wretch of Babylon,

Who was so guilty and so proud.

Like him, with haughty, stubborn mind,

I, in my state, my comforts sought;

Delight and praise I hoped to find,

In what I builded, planted, bought!

Oh! arrogance! by misery taught--

Soon came a voice! I felt it come:

"Full be his cup, with evil fraught, 170

"Demons his guides, and death his doom!"

Then was I cast from out my state;

Two fiends of darkness led my way;

They waked me early, watch'd me late,

My dread by night, my plague by day!

Oh! I was made their sport, their play,

Through many a stormy troubled year;

And how they used their passive prey

Is sad to tell;--but you shall hear.

And first, before they sent me forth, 180

Through this unpitying world to run,

They robb'd Sir Eustace of his worth,

Lands, manors, lordships, every one;

So was that gracious man undone,

Was spurn'd as vile, was scorn'd as poor,

Whom every former friend would shun,

And menials drove from every door.

Then those ill-favour'd Ones[28], whom none

But my unhappy eyes could view,

Led me, with wild emotion, on, 190

And, with resistless terror, drew.

Through lands we fled, o'er seas we flew,

And halted on a boundless plain;

Where nothing fed, nor breathed, nor grew,

But silence ruled the still domain.

Upon that boundless plain, below,

The setting sun's last rays were shed,

And gave a mild and sober glow,

Where all were still, asleep, or dead;

Vast ruins in the midst were spread, 200

Pillars and pediments sublime,

Where the grey moss had form'd a bed,

And clothed the crumbling spoils of time.

There was I fix'd, I know not how,

Condemn'd for untold years to stay:

Yet years were not;--one dreadful _now_

Endured no change of night or day;

The same mild evening's sleeping ray

Shone softly-solemn and serene,

And all that time I gazed away, 210

The setting sun's sad rays were seen.

At length a moment's sleep stole on--

Again came my commission'd foes;

Again through sea and land we're gone,

No peace, no respite, no repose:

Above the dark broad sea we rose,

We ran through bleak and frozen land;

I had no strength their strength t' oppose,

An infant in a giant's hand.

They placed me where those streamers play, 220

Those nimble beams of brilliant light;

It would the stoutest heart dismay,

To see, to feel, that dreadful sight:

So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright,

They pierced my frame with icy wound,

And, all that half-year's polar night,

Those dancing streamers wrapp'd me round.

Slowly that darkness pass'd away,

When down upon the earth I fell;--

Some hurried sleep was mine by day; 230

But, soon as toll'd the evening bell,

They forced me on, where ever dwell

Far-distant men in cities fair,

Cities of whom no trav'lers tell,

Nor feet but mine were wanderers there.

Their watchmen stare, and stand aghast,

As on we hurry through the dark;

The watch-light blinks as we go past,

The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark;

The watch-tower's bell sounds shrill; and, hark! 240

The free wind blows--we've left the town--

A wide sepulchral ground I mark,

And on a tombstone place me down.

What monuments of mighty dead!

What tombs of various kinds are found!

And stones erect their shadows shed

On humble graves, with wickers bound;

Some risen fresh, above the ground,

Some level with the native clay,

What sleeping millions wait the sound, 250

"Arise, ye dead, and come away!"

Alas! they stay not for that call;

Spare me this wo! ye demons, spare!--

They come! the shrouded shadows all--

'Tis more than mortal brain can bear;

Rustling they rise, they sternly glare

At man, upheld by vital breath;

Who, led by wicked fiends, should dare

To join the shadowy troops of death!

Yes, I have felt all man can feel, 260

Till he shall pay his nature's debt:

Ills that no hope has strength to heal,

No mind the comfort to forget:

Whatever cares the heart can fret,

The spirits wear, the temper gall,

Wo, want, dread, anguish, all beset

My sinful soul!--together all!

Those fiends upon a shaking fen

Fix'd me, in dark tempestuous night;

There never trod the foot of men; 270

There flock'd the fowl in wint'ry flight;

There danced the moor's deceitful light

Above the pool where sedges grow;

And, when the morning-sun shone bright,

It shone upon a field of snow.

They hung me on a bough so small.

The rook could build her nest no higher;

They fix'd me on the trembling ball

That crowns the steeple's quiv'ring spire;

They set me where the seas retire, 280

But drown with their returning tide;

And made me flee the mountain's fire,

When rolling from its burning side.

I've hung upon the ridgy steep

Of cliffs, and held the rambling brier;

I've plunged below the billowy deep,

Where air was sent me to respire;

I've been where hungry wolves retire;

And (to complete my woes) I've ran

Where Bedlam's crazy crew conspire 290

Against the life of reasoning man.

I've furl'd in storms the flapping sail,

By hanging from the topmast-head;

I've served the vilest slaves in jail,

And pick'd the dunghill's spoil for bread;

I've made the badger's hole my bed,

I've wander'd with a gipsy crew;

I've dreaded all the guilty dread,

And done what they would fear to do.

On sand, where ebbs and flows the flood, 300

Midway they placed and bade me die;

Propp'd on my staff, I stoutly stood,

When the swift waves came rolling by;

And high they rose, and still more high,

Till my lips drank the bitter brine;

I sobb'd convulsed, then cast mine eye,

And saw the tide's re-flowing sign.

And then, my dreams were such as nought

Could yield but my unhappy case;

I've been of thousand devils caught, 310

And thrust into that horrid place,

Where reign dismay, despair, disgrace;

Furies with iron fangs were there,

To torture that accursed race,

Doomed to dismay, disgrace, despair.

Harmless I was, yet hunted down

For treasons, to my soul unfit;

I've been pursued through many a town,

For crimes that petty knaves commit;

I've been adjudged t' have lost my wit, 320

Because I preach'd so loud and well;

And thrown into the dungeon's pit,

For trampling on the pit of hell.

Such were the evils, man of sin.

That I was fated to sustain;

And add to all, without--within,

A soul defiled with every stain

That man's reflecting mind can pain;

That pride, wrong, rage, despair, can make;

In fact, they'd nearly touch'd my brain, 330

And reason on her throne would shake.

But pity will the vilest seek,

If punish'd guilt will not repine;--

I heard a heavenly teacher speak,

And felt the SUN OF MERCY shine:

I hail'd the light! the birth divine!

And then was seal'd among the few;

Those angry fiends beheld the sign,

And from me in an instant flew.

Come, hear how thus the charmers cry 340

To wandering sheep, the strays of sin,

While some the wicket-gate pass by,

And some will knock and enter in:

Full joyful 'tis a soul to win,

For he that winneth souls is wise;

Now, hark! the holy strains begin,

And thus the sainted preacher cries[29]:--

"Pilgrim, burthen'd with thy sin,

Come the way to Zion's gate,

There, till Mercy let thee in, 350

Knock and weep, and watch and wait.

Knock!--He knows the sinner's cry;

Weep!--He loves the mourner's tears;

Watch!--for saving grace is nigh;

Wait!--till heavenly light appears.

"Hark! it is the Bridegroom's voice;

Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest;

Now within the gate rejoice,

Safe and seal'd, and bought and bless'd!

Safe--from all the lures of vice; 360

Seal'd--by signs the chosen know;

Bought--by love and life the price;

Bless'd--the mighty debt to owe.

"Holy Pilgrim! what for thee

In a world like this remain?

From thy guarded breast shall flee

Fear and shame, and doubt and pain.

Fear--the hope of Heaven shall fly;

Shame--from glory's view retire;

Doubt--in certain rapture die; 370

Pain--in endless bliss expire."

But though my day of grace was come,

Yet still my days of grief I find;

The former clouds' collected gloom

Still sadden the reflecting mind;

The soul, to evil things consign'd.

Will of their evil some retain;

The man will seem to earth inclined,

And will not look erect again.

Thus, though elect, I feel it hard 380

To lose what I possess'd before,

To be from all my wealth debarr'd:--

The brave Sir Eustace is no more.

But old I wax and passing poor,

Stern, rugged men my conduct view;

They chide my wish, they bar my door,

'Tis hard--I weep--you see I do.--

Must you, my friends, no longer stay?

Thus quickly all my pleasures end;

But I'll remember, when I pray, 390

My kind physician and his friend;

And those sad hours you deign to spend

With me, I shall requite them all;

Sir Eustace for his friends shall send,

And thank their love at Greyling Hall.

VISITOR.

The poor Sir Eustace!--Yet his hope

Leads him to think of joys again;

And when his earthly visions droop,

His views of heavenly kind remain.--

But whence that meek and humbled strain, 400

That spirit wounded, lost, resign'd?

Would not so proud a soul disdain

The madness of the poorest mind?

PHYSICIAN.

No! for the more he swell'd with pride,

The more he felt misfortune's blow;

Disgrace and grief he could not hide,

And poverty had laid him low:

Thus shame and sorrow working slow,

At length this humble spirit gave;

Madness on these began to grow, 410

And bound him to his fiends a slave.

Though the wild thoughts had touch'd his brain,

Then was he free.--So, forth he ran;

To soothe or threat, alike were vain:

He spake of fiends; look'd wild and wan;

Year after year, the hurried man

Obey'd those fiends from place to place;

Till his religious change began

To form a frenzied child of grace.

For, as the fury lost its strength, 420

The mind reposed; by slow degrees

Came lingering hope, and brought at length,

To the tormented spirit ease:

This slave of sin, whom fiends could seize,

Felt or believed their power had end;--

"'Tis faith," he cried, "my bosom frees,

And now my SAVIOUR is my friend."

But ah! though time can yield relief,

And soften woes it cannot cure,

Would we not suffer pain and grief, 430

To have our reason sound and sure?

Then let us keep our bosoms pure,

Our fancy's favourite flights suppress;

Prepare the body to endure,

And bend the mind to meet distress;

And then HIS guardian care implore,

Whom demons dread and men adore.

NOTES TO SIR EUSTACE GREY.

[27] Note 1, p. 243, line 161.

_To whom the Watcher cried aloud._

Prophecy of Daniel, chap. iv. 22 [and 23].

[28] Note 2, page 243, line 188.

_Then those ill-favour'd Ones, &c._

Vide Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress [Part II.].

[29] Note 3, page 248, line 347.

_And thus the sainted preacher cries._

It has been suggested to me, that this change from restlessness to

repose, in the mind of Sir Eustace, is wrought by a methodistic

call; and it is admitted to be such: a sober and rational conversion

could not have happened while the disorder of the brain continued.

Yet the verses which follow, in a different measure, are not

intended to make any religious persuasion appear ridiculous; they

are to be supposed as the effect of memory in the disordered mind of

the speaker, and, though evidently enthusiastic in respect to

language, are not meant to convey any impropriety of sentiment.

THE HALL OF JUSTICE.

_IN TWO PARTS._

PART I.

Confiteor facere hoc annos; sed et altera causa est,

Anxietas animi, continuusque dolor.

_Ovid_ [Epp. ex Ponto Lib. I. Ep. iv. vv. 7-8].

MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &c.

VAGRANT.

Take, take away thy barbarous hand,

And let me to thy master speak;

Remit awhile the harsh command,

And hear me, or my heart will break.

MAGISTRATE.

Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,

But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?

Thy crime is proved, thou know'st thy fate;

But come, thy tale!--begin, begin!--

VAGRANT.

My crime!--This sick'ning child to feed,

I seized the food your witness saw; 10

I knew your laws forbade the deed,

But yielded to a stronger law.

Know'st thou, to Nature's great command

All human laws are frail and weak?

Nay! frown not--stay his eager hand,

And hear me, or my heart will break.

In this, th' adopted babe I hold

With anxious fondness to my breast,

My heart's sole comfort I behold,

More dear than life, when life was bless'd; 20

I saw her pining, fainting, cold,

I begg'd--but vain was my request.

I saw the tempting food, and seized--

My infant-sufferer found relief;

And, in the pilfer'd treasure pleased,

Smiled on my guilt, and hush'd my grief.

But I have griefs of other kind,

Troubles and sorrows more severe;

Give me to ease my tortured mind,

Lend to my woes a patient ear; 30

And let me--if I may not find

A friend to help--find one to hear.

Yet nameless let me plead--my name

Would only wake the cry of scorn;

A child of sin, conceived in shame,

Brought forth in wo, to misery born.

My mother dead, my father lost,

I wander'd with a vagrant crew;

A common care, a common cost,

Their sorrows and their sins I knew; 40

With them, by want on error forced,

Like them, I base and guilty grew.

Few are my years, not so my crimes;

The age, which these sad looks declare,

Is Sorrow's work, it is not Time's,

And I am old in shame and care.

Taught to believe the world a place

Where every stranger was a foe,

Train'd in the arts that mark our race,

To what new people could I go? 50

Could I a better life embrace,

Or live as virtue dictates? No!--

So through the land I wandering went,

And little found of grief or joy;

But lost my bosom's sweet content

When first I loved--the Gipsy-Boy.

A sturdy youth he was and tall,

His looks would all his soul declare;

His piercing eyes were deep and small,

And strongly curl'd his raven-hair. 60

Yes, Aaron had each manly charm,

All in the May of youthful pride;

He scarcely fear'd his father's arm,

And every other arm defied.--

Oft, when they grew in anger warm,

(Whom will not love and power divide?)

I rose, their wrathful souls to calm,

Not yet in sinful combat tried.

His father was our party's chief,

And dark and dreadful was his look; 70

His presence fill'd my heart with grief;

Although to me he kindly spoke.

With Aaron I delighted went,

His favour was my bliss and pride;

In growing hope our days we spent,

Love growing charms in either spied;

It saw them, all which Nature lent,

It lent them all which she denied.

Could I the father's kindness prize,

Or grateful looks on him bestow, 80

Whom I beheld in wrath arise,

When Aaron sunk beneath his blow?

He drove him down with wicked hand,--

It was a dreadful sight to see;

Then vex'd him, till he left the land,

And told his cruel love to me;--

The clan were all at his command,

Whatever his command might be.

The night was dark, the lanes were deep,

And one by one they took their way; 90

He bade me lay me down and sleep,

I only wept and wish'd for day.

Accursèd be the love he bore.

Accursèd was the force he used;

So let him of his God implore

For mercy, and be so refused!

You frown again;--to show my wrong,

Can I in gentle language speak?

My woes are deep, my words are strong;--

And hear me, or my heart will break. 100

MAGISTRATE.

I hear thy words, I feel thy pain;

Forbear awhile to speak thy woes;

Receive our aid, and then again

The story of thy life disclose.

For, though seduced and led astray,

Thou'st travell'd far and wander'd long;

Thy God hath seen thee all the way,

And all the turns that led thee wrong.

PART II.

Quondam ridentes oculi, nunc fonte perenni

Deplorant poenas nocte dieque suas.

_Corn. Galli_ [Maximiniani (Pseudo-Galli)] _Eleg._ [I. vv. 137-8.]

MAGISTRATE.

Come, now again thy woes impart,

Tell all thy sorrows, all thy sin;

We cannot heal the throbbing heart

Till we discern the wounds within.

Compunction weeps our guilt away,

The sinner's safety is his pain;

Such pangs for our offences pay,

And these severer griefs are gain.

VAGRANT.

The son came back--he found us wed;

Then dreadful was the oath he swore;-- 10

His way through Blackburn Forest led;--

His father we beheld no more.

Of all our daring clan not one

Would on the doubtful subject dwell;

For all esteem'd the injured son,

And fear'd the tale which he could tell.

But I had mightier cause for fear;

For slow and mournful round my bed

I saw a dreadful form appear--

It came when I and Aaron wed. 20

(Yes! we were wed, I know my crime,--

We slept beneath the [elmen] tree;

But I was grieving all the time,

And Aaron frown'd my tears to see.

For he not yet had felt the pain

That rankles in a wounded breast;

He waked to sin, then slept again,

Forsook his God, yet took his rest.--

But I was forced to feign delight,

And joy in mirth and music sought; 30

And mem'ry now recalls the night,

With such surprise and horror fraught,

That reason felt a moment's flight,

And left a mind to madness wrought.)

When waking, on my heaving breast

I felt a hand as cold as death;

A sudden fear my voice suppress'd,

A chilling terror stopp'd my breath.--

I seem'd--no words can utter how!

For there my father-husband stood-- 40

And thus he said:--"Will God allow,

"The great avenger, just and good,

A wife to break her marriage vow,

A son to shed his father's blood?"

I trembled at the dismal sounds,

But vainly strove a word to say;

So, pointing to his bleeding wounds,

The threat'ning spectre stalk'd away[30].

I brought a lovely daughter forth,

His father's child, in Aaron's bed; 50

He took her from me in his wrath;--

"Where is my child?"--"Thy child is dead."

'Twas false--we wander'd far and wide,

Through town and country, field and fen,

Till Aaron, fighting, fell and died,

And I became a wife again.

I then was young:--my husband sold

My fancied charms for wicked price;

He gave me oft, for sinful gold,

The slave, but not the friend, of vice-- 60

Behold me, Heaven! my pains behold,

And let them for my sins suffice!

The wretch, who lent me thus for gain,

Despised me when my youth was fled;

Then came disease, and brought me pain--

Come, death, and bear me to the dead!

For, though I grieve, my grief is vain,

And fruitless all the tears I shed.

True, I was not to virtue train'd;

Yet well I knew my deeds were ill; 70

By each offence my heart was pain'd--

I wept, but I offended still;

My better thoughts my life disdain'd,

But yet the viler led my will.

My husband died, and now no more

My smile was sought, or ask'd my hand--

A widow'd vagrant, vile and poor,

Beneath a vagrant's vile command.

Ceaseless I roved the country round,

To win my bread by fraudful arts, 80

And long a poor subsistence found,

By spreading nets for simple hearts.

Though poor, and abject, and despised,

Their fortunes to the crowd I told;

I gave the young the love they prized,

And promised wealth to bless the old;

Schemes for the doubtful I devised,

And charms for the forsaken sold.

At length for arts like these confined

In prison with a lawless crew, 90

I soon perceived a kindred mind,

And there my long-lost daughter knew:

His father's child, whom Aaron gave

To wander with a distant clan,

The miseries of the world to brave,

And be the slave of vice and man.

She knew my name--we met in pain;

Our parting pangs can I express?

She sail'd a convict o'er the main,

And left an heir to her distress. 100

This is that heir to shame and pain,

For whom I only could descry

A world of trouble and disdain--

Yet, could I bear to see her die,

Or stretch her feeble hand in vain,

And, weeping, beg of me supply?

No! though the fate thy mother knew

Was shameful! shameful though thy race

Have wander'd all, a lawless crew,

Outcasts, despised in every place: 110

Yet, as the dark and muddy tide,

When far from its polluted source,

Becomes more pure, and, purified,

Flows in a clear and happy course--

In thee, dear infant! so may end

Our shame, in thee our sorrows cease!

And thy pure course will then extend,

In floods of joy, o'er vales of peace.

Oh! by the God who loves to spare,

Deny me not the boon I crave; 120

Let this loved child your mercy share,

And let me find a peaceful grave;

Make her yet spotless soul your care,

And let my sins their portion have;

Her for a better fate prepare,

And punish whom 'twere sin to save!

MAGISTRATE.

Recall the word, renounce the thought,

Command thy heart and bend thy knee.

There is to all a pardon brought,

A ransom rich, assured and free; 130

'Tis full when found, 'tis found if sought,

Oh! seek it, till 'tis seal'd to thee.

VAGRANT.

But how my pardon shall I know?

MAGISTRATE.

By feeling dread that 'tis not sent;

By tears, for sin that freely flow;

By grief, that all thy tears are spent;

By thoughts on that great debt we owe,

With all the mercy God has lent;

By suffering what thou canst not show,

Yet showing how thine heart is rent: 140

Till thou canst feel thy bosom glow,

And say, "MY SAVIOUR, I REPENT!"

FOOTNOTES:

[30] The state of mind here described will account for a vision of

this nature, without having recourse to any supernatural appearance.

WOMAN!

MR. LEDYARD, AS QUOTED BY M. PARKE IN HIS TRAVELS INTO AFRIC:

"To a Woman I never addressed myself in the language of decency and

friendship, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. If I

was hungry or thirsty, wet or sick, they did not hesitate, like

Men, to perform a generous action: in so free and kind a manner

did they contribute to my relief, that if I was dry, I drank the

sweetest draught; and if hungry, I ate the coarsest morsel with a

double relish."

Place the white man on Afric's coast,

Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,

Who of their scorn to Europe boast,

And paint their very demons white:

There, while the sterner sex disdains

To soothe the woes they cannot feel,

Woman will strive to heal his pains,

And weep for those she cannot heal.

Hers is warm pity's sacred glow;

From all her stores she bears a part, 10

And bids the spring of hope re-flow,

That languish'd in the fainting heart.

"What, though so pale his haggard face,

So sunk and sad his looks,"--she cries--

"And far unlike our nobler race,

With crisped locks and rolling eyes:

Yet misery marks him of our kind;

We see him lost, alone, afraid;

And pangs of body, griefs in mind,

Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. 20

"Perhaps, in some far-distant shore,

There are who in these forms delight;

Whose milky features please them more,

Than ours of jet thus burnish'd bright.

Of such may be his weeping wife,

Such children for their sire may call;

And, if we spare his ebbing life,

Our kindness may preserve them all."

Thus her compassion woman shows,

Beneath the line her acts are these; 30

Nor the wide waste of Lapland-snows

Can her warm flow of pity freeze:--

"From some sad land the stranger comes,

Where joys, like ours, are never found;

Let's soothe him in our happy homes,

Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.

"'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,

To see the famish'd stranger fed;

To milk for him the mother-deer,

To smooth for him the furry bed. 40

The powers above our Lapland bless

With good no other people know,

T' enlarge the joys that we possess,

By feeling those that we bestow!"

Thus, in extremes of cold and heat,

Where wandering man may trace his kind;

Wherever grief and want retreat,

In Woman they compassion find;

She makes the female breast her seat,

And dictates mercy to the mind. 50

Man may the sterner virtues know,

Determined justice, truth severe;

But female hearts with pity glow,

And Woman holds affliction dear.

For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,

And suffering vice compels her tear;

'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,

And bid life's fairer views appear.

To Woman's gentle kind we owe

What comforts and delights us here; 60

They its gay hopes on youth bestow,

And care they soothe, and age they cheer.

THE BOROUGH.

Paulo majora canamus.--VIRGIL. [_Ecl._ IV. v. 1.]

TO

HIS GRACE

THE DUKE OF RUTLAND,

_MARQUIS OF GRANBY;_

RECORDER OF CAMBRIDGE AND SCARBOROUGH;

LORD-LIEUTENANT AND CUSTOS-ROTULORUM OF THE

COUNTY OF LEICESTER; K.G. & LL.D.

MY LORD,

The poem, for which I have ventured to solicit your Grace's attention,

was composed in a situation so near to Belvoir Castle, that the author

had all the advantage to be derived from prospects extensive and

beautiful, and from works of grandeur and sublimity: and, though

nothing of the influence arising from such situation should be

discernible in these verses, either from want of adequate powers in

the writer, or because his subjects do not assimilate with such views,

yet would it be natural for him to indulge a wish, that he might

inscribe his labours to the lord of a scene which perpetually excited

his admiration, and he would plead the propriety of placing the titles

of the House of Rutland at the entrance of a volume written in the

Vale of Belvoir.

But, my Lord, a motive much more powerful than a sense of propriety, a

grateful remembrance of benefits conferred by the noble family in

which you preside, has been the great inducement for me to wish that I

might be permitted to inscribe this work to your Grace. The honours of

that time were to me unexpected, they were unmerited, and they were

transitory; but since I am thus allowed to make public my gratitude, I

am in some degree restored to the honour of that period; I have again

the happiness to find myself favoured, and my exertions stimulated, by

the condescension of the Duke of Rutland.

It was my fortune, in a poem which yet circulates, to write of the

virtues, talents, and heroic death of Lord Robert Manners, and to bear

witness to the affection of a brother whose grief was poignant, and to

be soothed only by remembrance of his worth whom he so deeply

deplored. In a patron thus favourably predisposed, my Lord, I might

look for much lenity, and could not fear the severity of critical

examination: from your Grace, who, happily, have no such impediment to

justice, I must not look for the same kind of indulgence. I am

assured, by those whose situation gave them opportunity for knowledge,

and whose abilities and attention guarded them from error, that I must

not expect my failings will escape detection from want of discernment,

neither am I to fear that any merit will be undistinguished through

deficiency of taste. It is from this information, my Lord, and a

consciousness of much which needs forgiveness, that I entreat your

Grace to read my verses, with a wish, I had almost added, with a

purpose, to be pleased, and to make every possible allowance for

subjects not always pleasing, for manners sometimes gross, and for

language too frequently incorrect.

With the fullest confidence in your Grace's ability and favour, in the

accuracy of your judgment, and the lenity of your decision; with

grateful remembrance of benefits received, and due consciousness of

the little I could merit; with prayers that your Grace may long enjoy

the dignities of the House of Rutland, and continue to dictate

improvement for the surrounding country--I terminate an address, in

which a fear of offending your Grace has made me so cautious in my

expressions, that I may justly fear to offend many of my readers, who

will think that something more of animation should have been excited

by the objects I view, the benevolence I honour, and the gratitude I

profess.

I have the honour to be,

My Lord,

Your Grace's

Most obliged

and obedient humble servant,

GEORGE CRABBE.

PREFACE.

Whether, if I had not been encouraged by some proofs of public favour,

I should have written the Poem now before the reader, is a question

which I cannot positively determine; but I will venture to assert,

that I should not, in that case, have committed the work to the press;

I should not have allowed my own opinion of it to have led me into

further disappointment, against the voice of judges impartial and

indifferent, from whose sentence it had been fruitless to appeal. The

success of a late publication, therefore, may be fairly assigned as

the principal cause for the appearance of this.

When the ensuing Letters were so far written, that I could form an

opinion of them, and when I began to conceive that they might not be

unacceptable to the public, I felt myself prompted by duty, as well as

interest, to put them to the press; I considered myself bound by

gratitude for the favourable treatment I had already received, to show

that I was not unmindful of it; and, however this might be mixed with

other motives, it operated with considerable force upon my mind,

acting as a stimulus to exertions naturally tardy, and to expectations

easily checked.

It must nevertheless be acknowledged that, although such favourable

opinion had been formed, I was not able, with the requisite

impartiality, to determine the comparative value of an unpublished

manuscript, and a work sent into the world. Books, like children, when

established, have doubtless our parental affection and good wishes; we

rejoice to hear that they are doing well, and are received and

respected in good company: but it is to manuscripts in the study, as

to children in the nursery, that our care, our anxiety, and our

tenderness are principally directed: they are fondled as our endearing

companions, their faults are corrected with the lenity of partial

love, and their good parts are exaggerated by the strength of parental

imagination; nor is it easy even for the more cool and reasonable

among parents, thus circumstanced, to decide upon the comparative

merits of their offspring, whether they be children of the bed or

issue of the brain.

But, however favourable my own opinion may have been, or may still be,

I could not venture to commit so long a Poem to the press without some

endeavour to obtain the more valuable opinion of less partial judges.

At the same time, I am willing to confess that I have lost some

portion of the timidity once so painful, and that I am encouraged to

take upon myself the decision of various points, which heretofore I

entreated my friends to decide. Those friends were then my council,

whose opinion I was implicitly to follow; they are now advisers, whose

ideas I am at liberty to reject. This will not, I hope, seem like

arrogance: it would be more safe, it would be more pleasant, still to

have that reliance on the judgment of others; but it cannot always be

obtained; nor are they, however friendly disposed, ever ready to lend

a helping hand to him whom they consider as one who ought by this time

to have cast away the timidity of inexperience, and to have acquired

the courage that would enable him to decide for himself.

When it is confessed that I have less assistance from my friends, and

that the appearance of this work is, in a great measure, occasioned by

the success of a former, some readers will, I fear, entertain the

opinion that the book before them was written in haste, and published

without due examination and revisal. Should this opinion be formed,

there will doubtless occur many faults which may appear as originating

in neglect. Now, readers are, I believe, disposed to treat with more

than common severity those writers who have been led into presumption

by the approbation bestowed on their diffidence, and into idleness and

unconcern, by the praises given to their attention. I am therefore

even anxious it should be generally known that sufficient time and

application were bestowed upon this work, and by this I mean that no

material alteration would be effected by delay; it is true that this

confession removes one plea for the errors of the book--want of time,

but, in my opinion, there is not much consolation to be drawn by

reasonable minds from this resource: if a work fails, it appears to be

poor satisfaction when it is observed, that if the author had taken

more care, the event had been less disgraceful.

When the reader enters into the Poem, he will find the author retired

from view, and an imaginary personage brought forward to describe his

Borough for him. To him it seemed convenient to speak in the first

person; but the inhabitant of a village, in the centre of the kingdom,

could not appear in the character of a residing burgess in a large

sea-port; and when, with this point, was considered what relations

were to be given, what manners delineated, and what situations

described, no method appeared to be so convenient as that of borrowing

the assistance of an ideal friend. By this means the reader is in some

degree kept from view of any particular place; nor will he perhaps be

so likely to determine where those persons reside, and what their

connexions, who are so intimately known to this man of straw.

From the title of this Poem, some persons will, I fear, expect a

political satire,--an attack upon corrupt principles in a general

view, or upon the customs and manners of some particular place; of

these they will find nothing satirized, nothing related. It may be

that graver readers would have preferred a more historical account of

so considerable a Borough--its charter, privileges, trade, public

structures, and subjects of this kind; but I have an apology for the

omission of these things, in the difficulty of describing them, and in

the utter repugnancy which subsists between the studies and objects of

topography and poetry. What I thought I could best describe, that I

attempted:--the sea, and the country in the immediate vicinity; the

dwellings, and the inhabitants; some incidents and characters, with an

exhibition of morals and manners, offensive perhaps to those of

extremely delicate feelings, but sometimes, I hope, neither unamiable

nor unaffecting. An Election indeed forms a part of one Letter, but

the evil there described is one not greatly nor generally deplored,

and there are probably many places of this kind where it is not felt.

From the variety of relations, characters, and descriptions which a

BOROUGH affords, several were rejected which a reader might reasonably

expect to have met with: in this case he is entreated to believe that

these, if they occurred to the author, were considered by him as

beyond his ability, as subjects which he could not treat in a manner

satisfactory to himself. Possibly the admission of some will be

thought to require more apology than the rejection of others. In such

variety, it is to be apprehended, that almost every reader will find

something not according with his ideas of propriety, or something

repulsive to the tone of his feelings; nor could this be avoided but

by the sacrifice of every event, opinion, and even expression, which

could be thought liable to produce such effect; and this casting away

so largely of our cargo, through fears of danger, though it might help

us to clear it, would render our vessel of little worth when she came

into port. I may likewise entertain a hope, that this very variety,

which gives scope to objection and censure, will also afford a better

chance for approval and satisfaction.

Of these objectionable parts many must be to me unknown; of others

some opinion may be formed, and for their admission some plea may be

stated.

In the first Letter is nothing which particularly calls for remark,

except possibly the last line--giving a promise to the reader that he

should both smile and sigh in the perusal of the following Letters.

This may appear vain, and more than an author ought to promise; but

let it be considered that the character assumed is that of a friend,

who gives an account of objects, persons, and events to his

correspondent, and who was therefore at liberty, without any

imputation of this kind, to suppose in what manner he would be

affected by such descriptions.

Nothing, I trust, in the second Letter, which relates to the imitation

of what are called weather-stains on buildings, will seem to any

invidious or offensive. I wished to make a comparison between those

minute and curious bodies which cover the surface of some edifices,

and those kinds of stain which are formed of boles and ochres, and

laid on with a brush. Now, as the work of time cannot be anticipated

in such cases, it may be very judicious to have recourse to such

expedients as will give to a recent structure the venerable appearance

of antiquity; and in this case, though I might still observe the vast

difference between the living varieties of nature, and the distant

imitation of the artist, yet I would not forbear to make use of his

dexterity, because he could not clothe my freestone with _mucor_,

_lichen_, and _byssus_.

The wants and mortifications of a poor Clergyman are the subjects of

one portion of the third Letter; and, he being represented as a

stranger in the Borough, it may be necessary to make some apology for

his appearance in the Poem. Previous to a late meeting of a literary

society, whose benevolent purpose is well known to the public, I was

induced by a friend to compose a few verses, in which, with the

general commendation of the design, should be introduced a hint that

the bounty might be farther extended; these verses a gentleman did me

the honour to recite at the meeting, and they were printed as an

extract from the Poem, to which in fact they may be called an

appendage.

I am now arrived at that part of my work, which I may expect will

bring upon me some animadversion. Religion is a subject deeply

interesting to the minds of many; and, when these minds are weak, they

are often led by a warmth of feeling into the violence of causeless

resentment. I am therefore anxious that my purpose should be

understood; and I wish to point out what things they are which an

author may hold up to ridicule and be blameless. In referring to the

two principal divisions of enthusiastical teachers, I have denominated

them, as I conceive they are generally called, _Calvinistic_ and

_Arminian_ Methodists. The _Arminians_, though divided and perhaps

subdivided, are still, when particular accuracy is not intended,

considered as one body, having had, for many years, one head, who is

yet held in high respect by the varying members of the present day.

But the Calvinistic societies are to be looked upon rather as separate

and independent congregations; and it is to one of these (unconnected,

as is supposed, with any other) I more particularly allude. But while

I am making use of this division, I must entreat that I may not be

considered as one who takes upon him to censure the religious opinions

of any society or individual: the reader will find that the spirit of

the enthusiast, and not his opinions, his manners, and not his creed,

have engaged my attention. I have nothing to observe of the Calvinist

and Arminian, considered as such; but my remarks are pointed at the

enthusiast and the bigot, at their folly and their craft.