"Trades and Professions"--these are themes the Muse,

Left to her freedom, would forbear to choose;

But to our Borough they in truth belong,

And we, perforce, must take them in our song.

Be it then known that we can boast of these

In all denominations, ranks, degrees;

All who our numerous wants through life supply, }

Who soothe us sick, attend us when we die, }

Or for the dead their various talents try. }

Then have we those who live by secret arts, 10

By hunting fortunes, and by stealing hearts;

Or who by nobler means themselves advance;

Or who subsist by charity and chance.

Say, of our native heroes shall I boast,

Born in our streets, to thunder on our coast--

Our Borough-seamen? Could the timid Muse

More patriot-ardour in their breasts infuse;

Or could she paint their merit or their skill,

She wants not love, alacrity, or will;

But needless all: that ardour is their own, 20

And, for their deeds, themselves have made them known.

Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil! }

Who from destruction save us; who from spoil }

Protect the sons of peace who traffic, or who toil: }

Would I could duly praise you; that each deed

Your foes might honour, and your friends might read:

This too is needless; you've imprinted well

Your powers, and told what I should feebly tell.

Beside, a Muse like mine, to satire prone,

Would fail in themes where there is praise alone. 30

--Law shall I sing, or what to Law belongs?

Alas! there may be danger in such songs;

A foolish rhyme, 'tis said, a trifling thing,

The law found treason, for it touch'd the king.

But kings have mercy in these happy times,

Or surely _one_ had suffer'd for his rhymes;

Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold,

So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold;

But he escaped--nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I,

Who love my king, for such offence to die. 40

But I am taught the danger would be much,

If these poor lines should one attorney touch--

(One of those _limbs_ of law who're always here;

The _heads_ come down to guide them twice a year.)

I might not swing indeed; but he in sport

Would whip a rhymer on from court to court;

Stop him in each, and make him pay for all

The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall.--

Then let my numbers flow discreetly on,

Warn'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington[50]; 50

Lest some _attorney_ (pardon me the name)

Should wound a poor _solicitor_ for fame.

One man of law in George the Second's reign

Was all our frugal fathers would maintain;

He too was kept for forms; a man of peace,

To frame a contract, or to draw a lease:

He had a clerk, with whom he used to write

All the day long, with whom he drank at night;

Spare was his visage, moderate his bill,

And he so kind, men doubted of his skill. 60

Who thinks of this, with some amazement sees,

For one so poor, three flourishing at ease--

Nay, one in splendour!--See that mansion tall,

That lofty door, the far-resounding hall;

Well-furnish'd rooms, plate shining on the board,

Gay liveried lads, and cellar proudly stored:

Then say how comes it that such fortunes crown

These sons of strife, these terrors of the town?

Lo! that small office! there th' incautious guest

Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest; 70

There in his web th' observant spider lies,

And peers about for fat intruding flies;

Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum,

And feels them flutt'ring as they nearer come.

They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread

On the strong birdlime of the utmost thread;

But, when they're once entangled by the gin,

With what an eager clasp he draws them in;

Nor shall they 'scape till after long delay,

And all that sweetens life is drawn away. 80

"Nay, this," you cry, "is common-place, the tale

Of petty tradesmen o'er their evening-ale.

There are who, living by the legal pen,

Are held in honour--'honourable men.'"

Doubtless--there are, who hold manorial courts,

Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports;

Or who, by labouring through a length of time,

Have pick'd their way, unsullied by a crime.

These are the few--in this, in every place,

Fix the litigious rupture-stirring race: 90

Who to contention as to trade are led,

To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread.

There is a doubtful pauper, and we think

'Tis with us to give him meat and drink;

There is a child, and 'tis not mighty clear

Whether the mother lived with us a year;

A road's indicted, and our seniors doubt

If in our proper boundary or without:

But what says our attorney? He our friend

Tells us 'tis just and manly to contend. 100

"What! to a neighbouring parish yield your cause,

While you have money, and the nation laws?

What! lose without a trial, that which tried,

May--nay it must--be given on our side?

All men of spirit would contend; such men

Than lose a pound would rather hazard ten.

What! be imposed on? No! a British soul

Despises imposition, hates control;

The law is open; let them, if they dare,

Support their cause; the Borough need not spare. 110

All I advise is vigour and good-will:

Is it agreed then?--Shall I file a bill?"

The trader, grazier, merchant, priest, and all

Whose sons aspiring to [professions'] call,

Choose from their lads some bold and subtle boy,

And judge him fitted for this grave employ.

Him a keen old practitioner admits,

To write five years and exercise his wits:

The youth has heard--it is in fact his creed--

Mankind dispute, that lawyers may be fee'd: 120

Jails, bailiffs, writs, all terms and threats of law,

Grow now familiar as once top and taw;

Rage, hatred, fear, the mind's severer ills,

All bring employment, all augment his bills;

As feels the surgeon for the mangled limb,

The mangled mind is but a job for him;

Thus taught to think, these legal reasoners draw

Morals and maxims from their views of law;

They cease to judge by precepts taught in schools,

By man's plain sense, or by religious rules; 130

No! nor by law itself, in truth discern'd,

But as its statutes may be warp'd and turn'd.

How they should judge of man, his word and deed,

They in their books and not their bosoms read:

Of some good act you speak with just applause,

"No! no!" says he, "'twould be a losing cause."

Blame you some tyrant's deed?--he answers, "Nay,

He'll get a verdict; heed you what you say."

Thus, to conclusions from examples led,

The heart resigns all judgment to the head; 140

Law, law alone, for ever kept in view,

His measures guides, and rules his conscience too;

Of ten commandments, he confesses three

Are yet in force, and tells you which they be,

As law instructs him, thus: "Your neighbour's wife

You must not take, his chattels, nor his life;

Break these decrees, for damage you must pay;

These you must reverence, and the rest--you may."

Law was design'd to keep a state in peace;

To punish robbery, that wrong might cease; 150

To be impregnable--a constant fort,

To which the weak and injured might resort.

But these perverted minds its force employ,

Not to protect mankind, but to annoy;

And, long as ammunition can be found,

Its lightning flashes and its thunders sound.

Or, law with lawyers is an ample still,

Wrought by the passions' heat with chymic sill;

While the fire burns, the gains are quickly made,

And freely flow the profits of the trade; 160

Nay, when the fierceness fails, these artists blow }

The dying fire, and make the embers glow, }

As long as they can make the smaller profits flow; }

At length the process of itself will stop,

When they perceive they've drawn out every drop.

Yet, I repeat, there are, who nobly strive

To keep the sense of moral worth alive:

Men who would starve, ere meanly deign to live

On what deception and chican'ry give;

And these at length succeed: they have their strife, 170

Their apprehensions, stops, and rubs in life;

But honour, application, care, and skill,

Shall bend opposing fortune to their will.

Of such is Archer, he who keeps in awe

Contending parties by his threats of law.

He, roughly honest, has been long a guide

In Borough-business, on the conquering side;

And seen so much of both sides, and so long,

He thinks the bias of man's mind goes wrong.

Thus, though he's friendly, he is still severe, 180

Surly though kind, suspiciously sincere:

So much he's seen of baseness in the mind,

That, while a friend to man, he scorns mankind;

He knows the human heart, and sees with dread,

By slight temptation, how the strong are led;

He knows how interest can asunder rend

The bond of parent, master, guardian, friend,

To form a new and a degrading tie

'Twixt needy vice and tempting villany.

Sound in himself, yet, when such flaws appear, 190

He doubts of all, and learns that self to fear:

For, where so dark the moral view is grown,

A timid conscience trembles for her own;

The pitchy taint of general vice is such

As daubs the fancy, and you dread the touch.

Far unlike him was one in former times,

Famed for the spoil he gather'd by his crimes;

Who, while his brethren nibbling held their prey,

He like an eagle seized and bore the whole away.

Swallow, a poor attorney, brought his boy 200

Up at his desk, and gave him his employ;

He would have bound him to an honest trade,

Could preparations have been duly made.

The clerkship ended, both the sire and son

Together did what business could be done;

Sometimes they'd luck to stir up small disputes

Among their friends, and raise them into suits.

Though close and hard, the father was content

With this resource, now old and indolent;

But his young Swallow, gaping and alive 210

To fiercer feelings, was resolved to thrive:--

"Father," he said, "but little can they win

Who hunt in couples, where the game is thin;

Let's part in peace, and each pursue his gain

Where it may start--our love may yet remain."

The parent growl'd, he couldn't think that love

Made the young cockatrice his den remove;

But, taught by habit, he the truth suppress'd,

Forced a frank look, and said he "thought it best."

Not long they'd parted ere dispute arose; 220

The game they hunted quickly made them foes.

Some house the father by his art had won

Seem'd a fit cause of contest to the son:

Who raised a claimant, and then found a way

By a stanch witness to secure his prey.

The people cursed him, but in times of need

Trusted in one so certain to succeed:

By law's dark by-ways he had stored his mind

With wicked knowledge, how to cheat mankind.

Few are the freeholds in our ancient town; 230

A copy-right from heir to heir came down.

From whence some heat arose, when there was doubt

In point of heirship; but the fire went out,

Till our attorney had the art to raise

The dying spark, and blow it to a blaze.

For this he now began his friends to treat;

His way to starve them was to make them eat,

And drink oblivious draughts--to his applause

It must be said, he never starved a cause;

He'd roast and boil'd upon his board--the boast 240

Of half his victims was his boil'd and roast--

And these at every hour: he seldom took

Aside his client, till he'd praised his cook;

Nor to an office led him, there in pain

To give his story and go out again,

But first the brandy and the chine were seen.

And then the business came by starts between.

"Well, if 'tis so, the house to you belongs;

But have you money to redress these wrongs?

Nay, look not sad, my friend; if you're correct, 250

You'll find the friendship that you'd not expect."

If right the man, the house was Swallow's own;

If wrong, his kindness and good-will were shown.

"Rogue!" "Villain!" "Scoundrel!" cried the losers all;

He let them cry, for what would that recall?

At length he left us, took a village seat,

And like a vulture look'd abroad for meat;

The Borough-booty, give it all its praise,

Had only served the appetite to raise;

But, if from simple heirs he drew their land, 260

He might a noble feast at will command;

Still he proceeded by his former rules,

His bait their pleasures, when he fish'd for fools;--

Flagons and haunches on his board were placed,

And subtle avarice look'd like thoughtless waste.

Most of his friends, though youth from him had fled,

Were young, were minors, of their sires in dread;

Or those whom widow'd mothers kept in bounds,

And check'd their generous rage for steeds and hounds;

Or such as travell'd 'cross the land to view 270

A Christian's conflict with a boxing Jew.

Some too had run upon Newmarket heath

With so much speed that they were out of breath;

Others had tasted claret, till they now

To humbler port would turn, and knew not how.

All these for favours would to Swallow run,

Who never sought their thanks for all he'd done;

He kindly took them by the hand, then bow'd

Politely low, and thus his love avow'd--

(For he'd a way that many judged polite; 280

A cunning dog, he'd fawn before he'd bite):--

"Observe, my friends, the frailty of our race

When age unmans us--let me state a case:

There's our friend Rupert; we shall soon redress

His present evil--drink to our success--

I flatter not, but did you ever see

Limbs better turn'd? a prettier boy than he?

His senses all acute, his passions such

As nature gave--she never does too much;

His the bold wish the cup of joy to drain, 290

And strength to bear it without qualm or pain.

"Now view his father as he dozing lies,

Whose senses wake not when he opes his eyes;

Who slips and shuffles when he means to walk,

And lisps and gabbles if he tries to talk;

Feeling he's none: he could as soon destroy

The earth itself, as aught it holds enjoy;

A nurse attends him to lay straight his limbs,

Present his gruel, and respect his whims.

Now, shall this dotard from our hero hold 300

His lands and lordships? Shall he hide his gold?

That which he cannot use, and dare not show,

And will not give--why longer should he owe?

Yet, 'twould be murder should we snap the locks,

And take the thing he worships from the box;

So let him dote and dream: but, till he die,

Shall not our generous heir receive supply?

For ever sitting on the river's brink,

And ever thirsty, shall he fear to drink?

The means are simple: let him only wish, 310

Then say he's willing, and I'll fill his dish."

They all applauded, and not least the boy,

Who now replied, "It fill'd his heart with joy

To find he needed not deliv'rance crave

Of death, or wish the justice in the grave;

Who, while he spent, would every art retain,

Of luring home the scatter'd gold again;

Just as a fountain gaily spirts and plays

With what returns in still and secret ways."

Short was the dream of bliss; he quickly found, 320

His father's acres all were Swallow's ground.

Yet to those arts would other heroes lend

A willing ear, and Swallow was their friend;

Ever successful, some began to think

That Satan help'd him to his pen and ink;

And shrewd suspicions ran about the place,

"There was a compact"--I must leave the case.

But of the parties, had the fiend been one,

The business could not have been speedier done.

Still, when a man has angled day and night, 330

The silliest gudgeons will refuse to bite:

So Swallow tried no more; but if they came

To seek his friendship, that remain'd the same.

Thus he retired in peace, and some would say,

He balk'd his partner, and had learn'd to pray.

To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought

How Swallow felt, then said "a change is wrought."

'Twas true there wanted all the signs of grace,

But there were strong professions in their place;

Then, too, the less that men from him expect, 340

The more the praise to the converting sect;

He had not yet subscribed to all their creed,

Nor own'd a call; but he confess'd the need.

His acquiescent speech, his gracious look,

That pure attention, when the brethren spoke,

Was all contrition,--he had felt the wound,

And with confession would again be sound.

True, Swallow's board had still the sumptuous treat;

But could they blame? the warmest zealots eat.

He drank--'twas needful his poor nerves to brace; 350

He swore--'twas habit; he was grieved--'twas grace.

What could they do a new-born zeal to nurse?

"His wealth's undoubted--let him hold our purse;

He'll add his bounty, and the house we'll raise

Hard by the church, and gather all her strays;

We'll watch her sinners as they home retire,

And pluck the brands from the devouring fire."

Alas! such speech was but an empty boast;

The good men reckon'd, but without their host;

Swallow, delighted, took the trusted store, 360

And own'd the sum: they did not ask for more,

Till more was needed; when they call'd for aid--

And had it?--No, their agent was afraid;

"Could he but know to whom he should refund,

He would most gladly--nay, he'd go beyond;

But, when such numbers claim'd, when some were gone,

And others going--he must hold it on;

The Lord would help them,"--Loud their anger grew, }

And while they threat'ning from his door withdrew, }

He bow'd politely low, and bade them all adieu. 370 }

But lives the man by whom such deeds are done?

Yes, many such--but Swallow's race is run;

His name is lost;--for, though his sons have name,

It is not his, they all escape the shame;

Nor is there vestige now of all he had,

His means are wasted, for his heir was mad.

Still we of Swallow as a monster speak,

A hard, bad man, who prey'd upon the weak.

FOOTNOTES:

[50] The account of Coddrington [Collingbourne] occurs in "_The

Mirrour for Magistrates_"; he suffered in the reign of Richard III.

LETTER VII.

_PROFESSIONS--PHYSIC._

[Jam mala finissem letho; sed credula vitam

Spes fovet, et fore cras semper ait melius.]

_Tibullus_ [Lib. II. vi. vv. 19-20].

He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat----

For as those fowls that live in water

Are never wet, he did but smatter;

Whate'er he labour'd to appear,

His understanding still was clear.

A paltry wretch he had, half-starved,

That him in place of zany served.

_Butler's Hudibras_ [Part II. Canto iii].

The Worth and Excellence of the true Physician--Merit not the sole

Cause of Success--Modes of advancing Reputation--Motives of

medical Men for publishing their Works--The great Evil of

Quackery--Present State of advertising Quacks--Their Hazard--Some

fail, and why--Causes of Success--How Men of Understanding are

prevailed upon to have Recourse to Empirics, and to permit their

Names to be advertised--Evils of Quackery: to nervous Females; to

Youth; to Infants--History of an advertising Empiric, &c.

LETTER VII.

_PROFESSIONS--PHYSIC._

Next, to a graver tribe we turn our view,

And yield the praise to worth and science due;

But this with serious words and sober style,

For these are friends with whom we seldom smile:

Helpers of men[51] they're call'd, and we confess

Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess.

We own that numbers join with care and skill

A temperate judgment, a devoted will:

Men who suppress their feelings, but who feel

The painful symptoms they delight to heal; 10

Patient in all their trials, they sustain

The starts of passion, the reproach of pain;

With hearts affected, but with looks serene,

Intent they wait through all the solemn scene;

Glad, if a hope should rise from nature's strife,

To aid their skill and save the lingering life.

But this must virtue's generous effort be,

And spring from nobler motives than a fee:

To the physicians of the soul, and these,

Turn the distress'd for safety, hope, and ease. 20

But as physicians of that nobler kind

Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind;

So among these for knowledge most renown'd,

Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found.

Some, too, admitted to this honour'd name,

Have, without learning, found a way to fame;

And some by learning:--young physicians write,

To set their merit in the fairest light;

With them a treatise is a bait that draws

Approving voices; 'tis to gain applause, 30

And to exalt them in the public view,

More than a life of worthy toil could do.

When 'tis proposed to make the man renown'd,

In every age convenient doubts abound;

Convenient themes in every period start,

Which he may treat with all the pomp of art;

Curious conjectures he may always make,

And either side of dubious questions take.

He may a system broach, or, if he please,

Start new opinions of an old disease; 40

Or may some simple in the woodland trace,

And be its patron, till it runs its race;

As rustic damsels from their woods are won,

And live in splendour till their race be run;

It weighs not much on what their powers be shown,

When all his purpose is to make them known.

To show the world what long experience gains,

Requires not courage, though it calls for pains;

But, at life's outset to inform mankind,

Is a bold effort of a valiant mind. 50

The great good man, for noblest cause, displays

What many labours taught, and many days;

These sound instruction from experience give,

The others show us how they mean to live;

That they have genius, and they hope mankind

Will to its efforts be no longer blind.

There are, beside, whom powerful friends advance,

Whom fashion favours, person, patrons, chance;

And merit sighs to see a fortune made

By daring rashness or by dull parade. 60

But these are trifling evils; there is one

Which walks uncheck'd, and triumphs in the sun:

There was a time, when we beheld the quack,

On public stage, the licensed trade attack;

He made his labour'd speech with poor parade;

And then a laughing zany lent him aid.

Smiling we pass'd him, but we felt the while

Pity so much, that soon we ceased to smile;

Assured that fluent speech and flow'ry vest

Disguised the troubles of a man distress'd. 70

But now our quacks are gamesters, and they play

With craft and skill to ruin and betray;

With monstrous promise they delude the mind,

And thrive on all that tortures human-kind.

Void of all honour, avaricious, rash,

The daring tribe compound their boasted trash--

Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill;

All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill;

And twenty names of cobblers turn'd to squires,

Aid the bold language of these blushless liars. 80

There are among them those who cannot read,

And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed;

Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid,--

For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid?

With cruel avarice still they recommend

More draughts, more syrup, to the journey's end:

"I feel it not;"--"Then take it every hour."--

"It makes me worse;"--"Why, then it shows its power."--

"I fear to die;"--"Let not your spirits sink,

You're always safe, while you believe and drink." 90

How strange to add, in this nefarious trade,

That men of parts are dupes by dunces made:

That creatures nature meant should clean our streets

Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and seats;

Wretches with conscience so obtuse, they leave

Their untaught sons their parents to deceive;

And, when they're laid upon their dying-bed,

No thought of murder comes into their head,

Nor one revengeful ghost to them appears,

To fill the soul with penitential fears. 100

Yet not the whole of this imposing train

Their gardens, seats, and carriages obtain;

Chiefly, indeed, they to the robbers fall,

Who are most fitted to disgrace them all.

But there is hazard--patents must be bought,

Venders and puffers for the poison sought;

And then in many a paper through the year

Must cures and cases, oaths and proofs appear;

Men snatch'd from graves, as they were dropping in,

Their lungs cough'd up, their bones pierced through their skin; 110

Their liver all one scirrhus, and the frame

Poison'd with evils which they dare not name;

Men who spent all upon physicians' fees, }

Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease, }

Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as bees. }

If the sick gudgeons to the bait attend,

And come in shoals, the angler gains his end;

But, should the advertising cash be spent,

Ere yet the town has due attention lent,

Then bursts the bubble, and the hungry cheat 120

Pines for the bread he ill deserves to eat:

It is a lottery, and he shares perhaps

The rich man's feast, or begs the pauper's scraps.

From powerful causes spring th' empiric's gains,

Man's love of life, his weakness, and his pains;

These first induce him the vile trash to try,

Then lend his name, that other men may buy.

This love of life, which in our nature rules,

To vile imposture makes us dupes and tools;

Then pain compels th' impatient soul to seize 130

On promised hopes of instantaneous ease;

And weakness too with every wish complies,

Worn out and won by importunities.

Troubled with something in your bile or blood,

You think your doctor does you little good;

And, grown impatient, you require in haste

The nervous cordial, nor dislike the taste;

It comforts, heals, and strengthens; nay, you think

It makes you better every time you drink;

"Then lend your name"--you're loth, but yet confess 140

Its powers are great, and so you acquiesce.

Yet, think a moment, ere your name you lend,

With whose 'tis placed, and what you recommend;

Who tipples brandy will some comfort feel,

But will he to the med'cine set his seal?

Wait, and you'll find the cordial you admire

Has added fuel to your fever's fire.

Say, should a robber chance your purse to spare,

Would you the honour of the man declare?

Would you assist his purpose? swell his crime? 150

Besides, he might not spare a second time.

Compassion sometimes sets the fatal sign,

The man was poor, and humbly begg'd a line;

Else how should noble names and titles back

The spreading praise of some advent'rous quack?

But he the moment watches, and entreats

Your honour's name--your honour joins the cheats;

You judged the med'cine harmless, and you lent

What help you could, and with the best intent;

But can it please you, thus to league with all 160

Whom he can beg or bribe to swell the scrawl?

Would you these wrappers with your name adorn,

Which hold the poison for the yet unborn?

No class escapes them--from the poor man's pay

The nostrum takes no trifling part away;

See! those square patent bottles from the shop,

Now decoration to the cupboard's top;

And there a favourite hoard you'll find within,

Companions meet! the julep and the gin.

Time too with cash is wasted; 'tis the fate 170

Of real helpers to be call'd too late;

This find the sick, when (time and patience gone)

Death with a tenfold terror hurries on.

Suppose the case surpasses human skill,

There comes a quack to flatter weakness still;

What greater evil can a flatterer do,

Than from himself to take the sufferer's view?

To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers,

And rob a sinner of his dying hours?

Yet this they, dare and craving to the last, 180

In hope's strong bondage hold their victim fast:

For soul or body no concern have they, }

All their inquiry, "Can the patient pay? }

And will he swallow draughts until his dying day?" }

Observe what ills to nervous females flow,

When the heart flutters, and the pulse is low;

If once induced these cordial sips to try,

All feel the ease, and few the danger fly;

For, while obtain'd, of drams they've all the force,

And when denied, then drams are the resource. 190

Nor these the only evils--there are those

Who for the troubled mind prepare repose;

They write: the young are tenderly address'd,

Much danger hinted, much concern express'd;

They dwell on freedoms lads are prone to take,

Which makes the doctor tremble for their sake;

Still, if the youthful patient will but trust

In one so kind, so pitiful, and just;

If he will take the tonic all the time,

And hold but moderate intercourse with crime: 200

The sage will gravely give his honest word,

That strength and spirits shall be both restored;

In plainer English--if you mean to sin,

Fly to the drops, and instantly begin.

Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh,

To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry?

That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note,

Which came with vigour from the op'ning throat;

When air and light first rush'd on lungs and eyes,

And there was life and spirit in the cries; 210

Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep

Is all we hear; sensation is asleep.

The boy was healthy, and at first express'd

His feelings loudly, when he fail'd to rest;

When cramm'd with food, and tighten'd every limb,

To cry aloud, was what pertain'd to him;

Then the good nurse, (who, had she borne a brain,

Had sought the cause that made her babe complain,)

Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied,

To set the cry, and not the cause, aside; 220

She gave her powerful sweet without remorse,

_The sleeping cordial_--she had tried its force,

Repeating oft; the infant, freed from pain,

Rejected food, but took the dose again,

Sinking to sleep; while she her joy express'd,

That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest:

Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt

Remains but quickly he will rest without.

This moves our grief and pity, and we sigh

To think what numbers from these causes die; 230

But what contempt and anger should we show,

Did we the lives of these impostors know!

Ere for the world's I left the cares of school,

One I remember who assumed the fool:

A part well suited--when the idler boys

Would shout around him, and he loved the noise;

They call'd him Neddy;--Neddy had the art

To play with skill his ignominious part;

When he his trifles would for sale display,

And act the mimic for a schoolboy's pay. 240

For many years he plied his humble trade,

And used his tricks and talents to persuade;

The fellow barely read, but chanced to look

Among the fragments of a tatter'd book,

Where, after many efforts made to spell

One puzzling word, he found it _oxymel_:

A potent thing, 'twas said, to cure the ills

Of ailing lungs--the _oxymel of squills_.

Squills he procured, but found the bitter strong,

And most unpleasant; none would take it long; 250

But the pure acid and the sweet would make

A med'cine numbers would for pleasure take.

There was a fellow near, an artful knave,

Who knew the plan, and much assistance gave;

He wrote the puffs, and every talent plied

To make it sell: it sold, and then he died.

Now all the profit fell to Ned's control,

And Pride and Avarice quarrell'd for his soul;

When mighty profits by the trash were made,

Pride built a palace, Avarice groan'd and paid; 260

Pride placed the signs of grandeur all about,

And Avarice barr'd his friends and children out.

Now see him doctor! yes, the idle fool,

The butt, the robber of the lads at school;

Who then knew nothing, nothing since acquired,

Became a doctor, honour'd and admired;

His dress, his frown, his dignity were such,

Some who had known him thought his knowledge much;

Nay, men of skill, of apprehension quick,

Spite of their knowledge, trusted him when sick. 270

Though he could never reason, write, nor spell, }

They yet had hope his trash would make them well; }

And while they scorn'd his parts, they took his oxymel. }

Oh! when his nerves had once received a shock,

Sir Isaac Newton might have gone to Rock[52]:

Hence impositions of the grossest kind;

Hence thought is feeble, understanding blind;

Hence sums enormous by those cheats are made,

And deaths unnumber'd by their dreadful trade.

Alas! in vain is my contempt express'd; 280

To stronger passions are their words address'd:

To pain, to fear, to terror their appeal,

To those who, weakly reasoning, strongly feel.

What then our hopes?--perhaps there may by law

Be method found, these pests to curb and awe;

Yet in this land of freedom, law is slack

With any being to commence attack;

Then let us trust to science--there are those }

Who can their falsehoods and their frauds disclose, }

All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks expose. 290 }

Perhaps their numbers may in time confound

Their arts--as scorpions give themselves the wound:

For, when these curers dwell in every place,

While of the cured we not a man can trace,

Strong truth may then the public mind persuade,

And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade.

FOOTNOTES:

[51] Opiferque per orbem

Dicor.

[Ovid, _Metam._ Lib. I. vv. 521-2.]

[52] An empiric who _flourished_ at the same time with this great

man.

LETTER VIII.

_TRADES._

Non possidentem multa vocaveris

Recte beatum: rectius occupat

Nomen Beati, qui Deorum

Muneribus sapienter uti,

Duramque callet pauperiem pati.

_Hor._ lib. iv. od. 9 [vv. 45-9].

Non uxor salvum te vult, non filius: omnes

Vicini oderunt; noti, pueri atque puellæ.

Miraris, cum tu argento post omnia ponas,

Si nemo præstet, quem non merearis, amorem?

_Hor._ Sat. lib. 1. [Sat. 1. vv. 84-7].

Non propter vitam faciunt patrimonia quidam,

Sed vitio cæci propter patrimonia vivunt.

_Juvenal._ Sat. 12. [vv. 50-1].

No extensive Manufactories in the Borough: yet considerable Fortunes

made there--Ill Judgment of Parents in disposing of their

Sons--The best educated not the most likely to

succeed--Instance--Want of Success compensated by the lenient

Power of some Avocations--The Naturalist--The Weaver an

Entomologist, &c.--A Prize-Flower--Story of Walter and William.

LETTER VIII.

_TRADES._

Of manufactures, trade, inventions rare,

Steam-towers and looms, you'd know our Borough's share--

'Tis small: we boast not these rich subjects here,

Who hazard thrice ten thousand pounds a year,

We've no huge buildings, where incessant noise

Is made by springs and spindles, girls and boys;

Where, 'mid such thundering sounds, the maiden's song

Is "Harmony in Uproar"[53] all day long.

Still, common minds with us, in common trade,

Have gain'd more wealth than ever student made; 10

And yet a merchant, when he gives his son

His college-learning, thinks his duty done;

A way to wealth he leaves his boy to find,

Just when he's made for the discovery blind.

Jones and his wife perceived their elder boy

Took to his learning, and it gave them joy;

This they encouraged, and were bless'd to see

Their son a Fellow with a high degree;

A living fell, he married, and his sire

Declared 'twas all a father could require; 20

Children then bless'd them, and when letters came,

The parents proudly told each grandchild's name.

Meantime the sons at home in trade were placed,

Money their object--just the father's taste;

Saving he lived and long, and when he died,

He gave them all his fortune to divide.

"Martin," said he, "at vast expense was taught;

He gain'd his wish, and has the ease he sought."

Thus the good priest (the Christian-scholar!) finds

What estimate is made by vulgar minds; 30

He sees his brothers, who had every gift

Of thriving, now assisted in their thrift;

While he whom learning, habits, all prevent,

Is largely mulct for each impediment.

Yet, let us own that trade has much of chance:

Not all the careful by their care advance;

With the same parts and prospects, one a seat

Builds for himself; one finds it in the Fleet.

Then, to the wealthy you will see denied

Comforts and joys that with the poor abide: 40

There are who labour through the year, and yet

No more have gain'd than--not to be in debt;

Who still maintain the same laborious course,

Yet pleasure hails them from some favourite source;

And health, amusements, children, wife or friend,

With life's dull views their consolations blend.

Nor these alone possess the lenient power

Of soothing life in the desponding hour;

Some favourite studies, some delightful care,

The mind with trouble and distresses share; 50

And by a coin, a flower, a verse, a boat,

The stagnant spirits have been set afloat;

They pleased at first, and then the habit grew,

Till the fond heart no higher pleasure knew;

Till, from all cares and other comforts freed,

Th' important nothing took in life the lead.

With all his phlegm, it broke a Dutchman's heart,

At a vast price with one loved root to part;

And toys like these fill many a British mind,

Although their hearts are found of firmer kind. 60

Oft have I smiled the happy pride to see

Of humble tradesmen, in their evening glee;

When, of some pleasing, fancied good possess'd,

Each grew alert, was busy, and was bless'd;

Whether the call-bird yield the hour's delight,

Or, magnified in microscope, the mite;

Or whether tumblers, croppers, carriers seize

The gentle mind, they rule it and they please.

There is my friend the Weaver; strong desires

Reign in his breast; 'tis beauty he admires: 70

See! to the shady grove he wings his way,

And feels in hope the raptures of the day--

Eager he looks; and soon, to glad his eyes, }

From the sweet bower, by nature form'd, arise }

Bright troops of virgin moths and fresh-born butterflies; }

Who broke that morning from their half-year's sleep,

To fly o'er flow'rs where they were wont to creep.

Above the sovereign oak a sovereign skims,

The purple Emp'ror, strong in wing and limbs:

There fair Camilla takes her flight serene, 80

Adonis blue, and Paphia, silver-queen;

With every filmy fly from mead or bower,

And hungry Sphinx, who threads the honey'd flower;

She o'er the Larkspur's bed, where sweets abound,

Views ev'ry bell, and hums th' approving sound;

Poised on her busy plumes, with feeling nice

She draws from every flower, nor tries a floret twice.

He fears no bailiff's wrath, no baron's blame,

His is untax'd and undisputed game;

Nor less the place of curious plant he knows[54]; 90

He both his Flora and his Fauna shows;

For him is blooming in its rich array

The glorious flower which bore the palm away;

In vain a rival tried his utmost art,

His was the prize, and joy o'erflow'd his heart.

"This, this is beauty! cast, I pray, your eyes

On this my glory! see the grace! the size!

Was ever stem so tall, so stout, so strong,

Exact in breadth, in just proportion, long!

These brilliant hues are all distinct and clean, 100

No kindred tint, no blending streaks between;

This is no shaded, run-off[55], pin-eyed[56] thing,

A king of flowers, a flower for England's king:

I own my pride, and thank the favouring star,

Which shed such beauty on my fair Bizarre[57]."

Thus may the poor the cheap indulgence seize,

While the most wealthy pine and pray for ease;

Content not always waits upon success,

And more may he enjoy who profits less.

Walter and William took (their father dead) 110

Jointly the trade to which they both were bred;

When fix'd, they married, and they quickly found

With due success their honest labours crown'd:

Few were their losses, but, although a few,

Walter was vex'd, and somewhat peevish grew:

"You put your trust in every pleading fool,"

Said he to William, and grew strange and cool.

"Brother, forbear," he answer'd; "take your due,

Nor let my lack of caution injure you."

Half friends they parted,--better so to close, 120

Than longer wait to part entirely foes.

Walter had knowledge, prudence, jealous care;

He let no idle views his bosom share;

He never thought nor felt for other men--

"Let one mind one, and all are minded then."

Friends he respected, and believed them just;

But they were men, and he would no man trust;

He tried and watch'd his people day and night,--

The good it harm'd not; for the bad 'twas right:

He could their humours bear, nay disrespect, 130

But he could yield no pardon to neglect;

That all about him were of him afraid,

"Was right," he said--"so should we be obey'd."

These merchant-maxims, much good-fortune too, }

And ever keeping one grand point in view, }

To vast amount his once small portion drew. }

William was kind and easy; he complied

With all requests, or grieved when he denied;

To please his wife he made a costly trip,

To please his child he let a bargain slip; 140

Prone to compassion, mild with the distress'd, }

He bore with all who poverty profess'd, }

And some would he assist, nor one would he arrest. }

He had some loss at sea, bad debts at land, }

His clerk absconded with some bills in hand, }

And plans so often fail'd that he no longer plann'd. }

To a small house (his brother's) he withdrew,

At easy rent--the man was not a Jew;

And there his losses and his cares he bore,

Nor found that want of wealth could make him poor. 150

No, he in fact was rich; nor could he move,

But he was follow'd by the looks of love;

All he had suffer'd, every former grief,

Made those around more studious in relief;

He saw a cheerful smile in every face,

And lost all thoughts of error and disgrace.

Pleasant it was to see them in their walk

Round their small garden, and to hear them talk;

Free are their children, but their love refrains

From all offence--none murmurs, none complains; 160

Whether a book amused them, speech or play,

Their looks were lively, and their hearts were gay;

There no forced efforts for delight were made,

Joy came with prudence, and without parade;

Their common comforts they had all in view,

Light were their troubles, and their wishes few;

Thrift made them easy for the coming day;

Religion took the dread of death away;

A cheerful spirit still insured content,

And love smiled round them wheresoe'er they went. 170

Walter, meantime, with all his wealth's increase,

Gain'd many points, but could not purchase peace;

When he withdrew from business for an hour,

Some fled his presence, all confess'd his power;

He sought affection, but received instead

Fear undisguised, and love-repelling dread;

He look'd around him--"Harriet, dost thou love?"--

"I do my duty," said the timid dove;--

"Good Heav'n, your duty! prithee, tell me now--

To love and honour--was not that your vow? 180

Come, my good Harriet, I would gladly seek

Your inmost thought--Why can't the woman speak?

Have you not all things?"--"Sir, do I complain?"--

"No, that's my part, which I perform in vain;

I want a simple answer, and direct--

But you evade; yes! 'tis as I suspect.

Come then, my children! Watt! upon your knees

Vow that you love me."--"Yes, sir, if you please."--

"Again! by Heav'n, it mads me; I require

Love, and they'll do whatever I desire. 190

Thus too my people shun me; I would spend

A thousand pounds to get a single friend;

I would be happy--I have means to pay

For love and friendship, and you run away;

Ungrateful creatures! why, you seem to dread

My very looks; I know you wish me dead.

Come hither, Nancy! you must hold me dear;

Hither, I say; why! what have you to fear?

You see I'm gentle--Come, you trifler, come;

My God! she trembles! Idiot, leave the room! 200

Madam! your children hate me; I suppose

They know their cue; you make them all my foes;

I've not a friend in all the world--not one:

I'd be a bankrupt sooner; nay, 'tis done;

In every better hope of life I fail;

You're all tormentors, and my house a jail;

Out of my sight! I'll sit and make my will--

What, glad to go? stay, devils, and be still;

'Tis to your uncle's cot you wish to run,

To learn to live at ease and be undone; 210

Him you can love, who lost his whole estate,

And I, who gain you fortunes, have your hate;

'Tis in my absence you yourselves enjoy:

Tom! are you glad to lose me? tell me, boy:

'Yes!' does he answer?"--"'Yes!' upon my soul;"

"No awe, no fear, no duty, no control!

Away! away! ten thousand devils seize

All I possess, and plunder where they please!

What's wealth to me?--yes, yes! it gives me sway,

And you shall feel it--Go! begone, I say." 220

NOTES TO LETTER VIII.

[53] Note 1, page 358, line 8.

_Is "Harmony in Uproar" all day long._

The title of a short piece of humour by Arbuthnot.

[54] Note 2, page 360, line 90.

_Nor less the place of curious plant he knows._

In botanical language, "_the habitat_," the favourite soil or

situation of the more scarce species.

[55] Note 3, page 360, line 102.

_This is no shaded, run-off, pin-eyed thing._

This, it must be acknowledged, is contrary to the opinion of

Thomson, and I believe of some other poets, who, in describing the

varying hues of our most beautiful flowers, have considered them as

lost and blended with each other; whereas their beauty, in the eye

of a florist (and I conceive in that of the uninitiated also),

depends upon the distinctness of their colours: the stronger the

bounding line, and the less they break into the neighbouring tint,

so much the richer and more valuable is the flower esteemed.

[56] Note 4, page 360, line 102.

_Pin-eyed._

An auricula, or any other single flower, is so called when the

_stigma_ (the part which arises from the seed-vessel) is protruded

beyond the tube of the flower, and becomes visible.

[57] Note 5, page 360, line 105.

_Which shed such beauty on my faire Bizarre._

This word, so far as it relates to flowers, means those variegated

with three or more colours irregularly and indeterminately.

LETTER IX.

_AMUSEMENTS._

Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis,

Ut possis animo quemvis sufferre laborem.

[_(Dionys.) Cato de Moribus._ III. 7.]

... nostra [fatiscit]

Laxaturque chelys; vires instigat alitque

Tempestiva quies, major post otia virtus.

_Statius, Sylv._ lib. IV. [4, vv. 32-3].

Jamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant;

Omnia pontus [erat]: deerant quoque littora ponto.

_Ovid. Metamorph._ lib. I [vv. 291-2].

Common Amusements of a Bathing-place--Morning Rides, Walks,

&c.--Company resorting to the Town--Different Choice of

Lodgings--Cheap Indulgences--Sea-side Walks--Wealthy

Invalid--Summer-Evening on the Sands--Sea Productions--"Water

parted from the Sea"--Winter Views serene--In what Cases to be

avoided--Sailing upon the River--A small Islet of Sand off the

Coast--Visited by Company--Covered by the Flowing of the

Tide--Adventure in that Place.

LETTER IX.

_AMUSEMENTS._

Of our amusements ask you?--We amuse }

Ourselves and friends with sea-side walks and views, }

Or take a morning ride, a novel, or the news; }

Or, seeking nothing, glide about the street,

And, so engaged, with various parties meet;

Awhile we stop, discourse of wind and tide,

Bathing and books, the raffle, and the ride:

Thus, with the aid which shops and sailing give,

Life passes on; 'tis labour, but we live.

When evening comes, our invalids awake, 10

Nerves cease to tremble, heads forbear to ache;

Then cheerful meals the sunken spirits raise,

Cards or the dance, wine, visiting, or plays.

Soon as the season comes, and crowds arrive,

To their superior rooms the wealthy drive;

Others look round for lodging snug and small,

Such is their taste--they've hatred to a hall;

Hence one his fav'rite habitation gets,

The brick-floor'd parlour which the butcher lets;

Where, through his single light, he may regard 20

The various business of a common yard,

Bounded by backs of buildings form'd of clay,

By stable, sties, and coops, et-cætera.

The needy-vain, themselves awhile to shun,

For dissipation to these dog-holes run;

Where each (assuming petty pomp) appears,

And quite forgets the shopboard and the shears.

For them are cheap amusements: they may slip

Beyond the town and take a private dip;

When they may urge that to be safe they mean: 30

They've heard there's danger in a light machine;

They too can gratis move the quays about,

And gather kind replies to every doubt;

There they a pacing, lounging tribe may view,

The stranger's guides, who've little else to do;

The Borough's placemen, where no more they gain

Than keeps them idle, civil, poor, and vain.

Then may the poorest with the wealthy look

On ocean, glorious page of Nature's book!

May see its varying views in every hour, 40 }

All softness now, then rising with all power, }

As sleeping to invite, or threat'ning to devour: }

'Tis this which gives us all our choicest views;

Its waters heal us, and its shores amuse.

See those fair nymphs upon that rising strand,

Yon long salt lake has parted from the land;

Well pleased to press that path, so clean, so pure,

To seem in danger, yet to feel secure;

Trifling with terror, while they strive to shun

The curling billows; laughing as they run; 50

They know the neck that joins the shore and sea,

Or, ah! how changed that fearless laugh would be.

Observe how various parties take their way,

By sea-side walks, or make the sand-hills gay;

There group'd are laughing maids and sighing swains,

And some apart who feel unpitied pains:

Pains from diseases, pains which those who feel

To the physician, not the fair, reveal;

For nymphs (propitious to the lover's sigh)

Leave these poor patients to complain and die. 60

Lo! where on that huge anchor sadly leans

That sick tall figure, lost in other scenes;

He late from India's clime impatient sail'd,

There, as his fortune grew, his spirits fail'd;

For each delight, in search of wealth he went,

For ease alone, the wealth acquired is spent--

And spent in vain; enrich'd, aggriev'd, he sees

The envied poor possess'd of joy and ease;

And now he flies from place to place, to gain

Strength for enjoyment, and still flies in vain. 70

Mark, with what sadness, of that pleasant crew,

Boist'rous in mirth, he takes a transient view,

And, fixing then his eye upon the sea,

Thinks what has been and what must shortly be:

Is it not strange that man should health destroy,

For joys that come when he is dead to joy?

Now is it pleasant in the summer-eve,

When a broad shore retiring waters leave,

Awhile to wait upon the firm fair sand,

When all is calm at sea, all still at land; 80

And there the ocean's produce to explore,

As floating by, or rolling on the shore;

Those living jellies[58] which the flesh inflame,

Fierce as a nettle, and from that its name;

Some in huge masses, some that you may bring

In the small compass of a lady's ring;

Figured by hand divine--there's not a gem

Wrought by man's art to be compared to them;

Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow,

And make the moon-beam brighter where they flow. 90

Involved in sea-wrack, here you find a race,

Which science, doubting, knows not where to place;

On shell or stone is dropp'd the embryo-seed,

And quickly vegetates a vital breed[59].

While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect

Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject,

See as they float along th' entangled weeds

Slowly approach, upborne on bladdery beads;

Wait till they land, and you shall then behold

The fiery sparks those tangled frons' infold, 100

Myriads of living points[60]; th' unaided eye

Can but the fire and not the form descry.

And now your view upon the ocean turn,

And there the splendour of the waves discern;

Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar,

And you shall flames within the deep explore;

Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand,

And the cold flames shall flash along your hand;

When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze

On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze[61]. 110

The ocean too has winter-views serene,

When all you see through densest fog is seen;

When you can hear the fishers near at hand

Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand;

Or sometimes them and not their boat discern,

Or half-conceal'd some figure at the stern;

The view's all bounded, and from side to side

Your utmost prospect but a few ells wide;

Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast,

Will hear it strike against the viewless mast; 120

While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain,

At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain.

'Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past,

Net after net till you have seen the last;

And as you wait till all beyond you slip,

A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship,

Breaking the silence with the dipping oar

And their own tones, as labouring for the shore--

Those measured tones which with the scene agree,

And give a sadness to serenity. 130

All scenes like these the tender maid should shun,

Nor to a misty beach in autumn run;

Much should she guard against the evening cold,

And her slight shape with fleecy warmth infold;

This she admits, but not with so much ease

Gives up the night-walk when th' attendants please.

Her have I seen, pale, vapour'd through the day,

With crowded parties at the midnight play;

Faint in the morn, no powers could she exert;

At night with Pam delighted and alert; 140

In a small shop she's raffled with a crowd,

Breathed the thick air, and cough'd and laugh'd aloud;

She, who will tremble if her eye explore

"The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor;"

Whom the kind doctor charged, with shaking head,

At early hour to quit the beaux for bed:

She has, contemning fear, gone down the dance,

Till she perceived the rosy morn advance;

Then has she wonder'd, fainting o'er her tea,

Her drops and juleps should so useless be: 150

Ah! sure her joys must ravish every sense,

Who buys a portion at so vast expense.

Among those joys, 'tis one at eve to sail

On the broad river with a favourite gale;

When no rough waves upon the bosom ride,

But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide;

Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands,

Where playful children trail their idle hands,

Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float

On either side of the impeded boat: 160

What time the moon, arising, shows the mud

A shining border to the silver flood;

When, by her dubious light, the meanest views,

Chalk, stones, and stakes, obtain the richest hues;

And when the cattle, as they gazing stand,

Seem nobler objects than when view'd from land.

Then anchor'd vessels in the way appear,

And sea-boys greet them as they pass--"What cheer?"

The sleeping shell-ducks at the sound arise,

And utter loud their unharmonious cries; 170

Fluttering, they move their weedy beds among,

Or, instant diving, hide their plumeless young.

Along the wall, returning from the town,

The weary rustic homeward wanders down;

Who stops and gazes at such joyous crew,

And feels his envy rising at the view;

He the light speech and laugh indignant hears,

And feels more press'd by want, more vex'd by fears.

Ah! go in peace, good fellow, to thine home,

Nor fancy these escape the general doom; 180

Gay as they seem, be sure with them are hearts

With sorrow tried; there's sadness in their parts.

If thou couldst see them when they think alone,

Mirth, music, friends, and these amusements gone;

Couldst thou discover every secret ill

That pains their spirit, or resists their will;

Couldst thou behold forsaken Love's distress,

Or Envy's pang at glory and success,

Or Beauty, conscious of the spoils of Time,

Or Guilt, alarm'd when Memory shows the crime-- 190

All that gives sorrow, terror, grief, and gloom:

Content would cheer thee, trudging to thine home[62].

There are, 'tis true, who lay their cares aside,

And bid some hours in calm enjoyment glide;

Perchance some fair-one to the sober night

Adds (by the sweetness of her song) delight;

And, as the music on the water floats,

Some bolder shore returns the soften'd notes;

Then, youth, beware, for all around conspire

To banish caution and to wake desire; 200

The day's amusement, feasting, beauty, wine, }

These accents sweet and this soft hour combine, }

When most unguarded, then to win that heart of thine: }

But see, they land! the fond enchantment flies,

And in its place life's common views arise.

Sometimes a party, row'd from town, will land

On a small islet form'd of shelly sand,

Left by the water when the tides are low,

But which the floods in their return o'erflow:

There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view 210

The watery waste, a prospect wild and new;

The now receding billows give them space

On either side the growing shores to pace;

And then, returning, they contract the scene,

Till small and smaller grows the walk between,

As sea to sea approaches, shore to shores,

Till the next ebb the sandy isle restores.

Then what alarm! what danger and dismay,

If all their trust, their boat should drift away;

And once it happen'd--gay the friends advanced; 220

They walk'd, they ran, they play'd, they sang, they danced;

The urns were boiling, and the cups went round,

And not a grave or thoughtful face was found;

On the bright sand they trod with nimble feet,

Dry shelly sand that made the summer-seat;

The wondering mews flew fluttering o'er the head,

And waves ran softly up their shining bed.

Some form'd a party from the rest to stray,

Pleased to collect the trifles in their way;

These to behold, they call their friends around-- 230

No friends can hear, or hear another sound;

Alarm'd, they hasten, yet perceive not why,

But catch the fear that quickens as they fly.

For lo! a lady sage, who paced the sand

With her fair children, one in either hand,

Intent on home, had turn'd, and saw the boat

Slipp'd from her moorings, and now far afloat;

She gazed, she trembled, and though faint her call,

It seem'd, like thunder, to confound them all.

Their sailor-guides, the boatman and his mate, 240

Had drank, and slept regardless of their state;

"Awake!" they cried aloud; "Alarm the shore!

"Shout all, or never shall we reach it more!"

Alas! no shout the distant land can reach,

Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach.

Again they join in one loud, powerful cry, }

Then cease, and eager listen for reply; }

None came--the rising wind blew sadly by. }

They shout once more, and then they turn aside,

To see how quickly flow'd the coming tide; 250

Between each cry they find the waters steal

On their strange prison, and new horrors feel;

Foot after foot on the contracted ground

The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound;

Less and yet less the sinking isle became,

And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame.

Had one been there, with spirit strong and high,

Who could observe, as he prepared to die:

He might have seen of hearts the varying kind,

And traced the movement of each different mind; 260

He might have seen, that not the gentle maid

Was more than stern and haughty man afraid;

Such calmly grieving, will their fears suppress,

And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address;

While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud,

Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd.

The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried,

"Why would you urge me? I at first denied."

Fiercely they answer'd, "Why will you complain,

"Who saw no danger, or was warn'd in vain?" 270

A few essay'd the troubled soul to calm;

But dread prevail'd, and anguish and alarm.

Now rose the water through the lessening sand,

And they seem'd sinking while they yet could stand;

The sun went down, they look'd from side to side,

Nor aught except the gathering sea descried;

Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew,

And the most lively bade to hope adieu;

Children, by love then lifted from the seas,

Felt not the waters at the parents' knees, 280

But wept aloud; the wind increased the sound,

And the cold billows as they broke around.

"Once more, yet once again, with all our strength,

Cry to the land--we may be heard at length."

Vain hope, if yet unseen! but hark! an oar,

That sound of bliss! comes dashing to their shore;

Still, still the water rises; "Haste!" they cry,

"Oh! hurry, seamen; in delay we die;"

(Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived

The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.) 290

And now the keel just cuts the cover'd sand,

Now to the gunwale stretches every hand;

With trembling pleasure all confused embark,

And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark;

While the most giddy, as they reach the shore,

Think of their danger, and their GOD adore.

NOTES TO LETTER IX.

[58] Note 1, page 368, line 83.

_Those living jellies which the flesh inflame._

Some of the smaller species of the Medusa (sea-nettle) are

exquisitely beautiful: their form is nearly oval, varied with

serrated longitudinal lines; they are extremely tender, and by no

means which I am acquainted with can be preserved, for they soon

dissolve in either spirit of wine or water, and lose every vestige

of their shape, and indeed of their substance: the larger species

are found in mis-shapen masses of many pounds weight; these, when

handled, have the effect of the nettle, and the stinging is often

accompanied or succeeded by the more unpleasant feeling, perhaps in

a slight degree resembling that caused by the torpedo.

[59] Note 2, page 368, line 94.

_And quickly vegetates a vital breed._

Various tribes and species of marine vermes are here meant: that

which so nearly resembles a vegetable in its form, and perhaps, in

some degree, manner of growth, is the coralline called by

naturalists Sertularia, of which there are many species in almost

every part of the coast. The animal protrudes its many claws

(apparently in search of prey) from certain pellucid vesicles which

proceed from a horny, tenacious, branchy stem.

[60] Note 3, page 368, line 101.

_Myriads of living points; th' unaided eye_

_Can but the fire and not the form descry._

These are said to be a minute kind of animal of the same class; when

it does not shine, it is invisible to the naked eye.

[61] Note 4, page 369, line 110.

_On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze._

For the cause or causes of this phenomenon, which is sometimes,

though rarely, observed on our coasts, I must refer the reader to

the writers on natural philosophy and natural history.

[62] Note 5, page 371, line 192.

_Content would cheer thee, trudging to thine home._

This is not offered as a reasonable source of contentment, but as

one motive for resignation: there would not be so much envy if there

were more discernment.

LETTER X.

_CLUBS AND SOCIAL MEETINGS._

Non inter lances mensasque nitentes,

Cum stupet insanis acies fulgoribus, et cum

Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat;

Verum hîc impransi mecum disquirite.

_Hor._ Sat. lib. ii. [Sat. 2. vv. 4-7].

O prodiga rerum

Luxuries, nunquam parvo contenta paratu,

Et quæsitorum terrâ pelagoque ciborum

Ambitiosa fames et lautæ gloria mensæ.

_Lucan._ lib. iv. [vv. 373-6].

[Sed] quæ non prosunt singula, [multa] juvant.

[_Ovid. Remed. Amor._ v. 420.]

Rusticus agricolam, miles fera bella gerentem,

Rectorem dubiæ navita puppis amat.

_Ovid. Pont._ lib. ii. [Ep. 2. vv. 61-2].

Desire of Country Gentlemen for Town Associations--Book-clubs--Too

much of literary Character expected from them--Literary

Conversation prevented: by Feasting: by Cards--Good,

notwithstanding, results--Card-club with Eagerness resorted

to--Players--Umpires at the Whist Table--Petulances of Temper

there discovered--Free-and-easy Club: not perfectly easy or

free--Freedom, how interrupted--The superior Member--Termination

of the Evening--Drinking and Smoking Clubs--The Midnight

Conversation of the Delaying Members--Society of the poorer

Inhabitants: its Use: gives Pride and Consequence to the humble

Character--Pleasant Habitations of the frugal Poor--Sailor

returning to his Family--Freemasons' Club--The Mystery--What its

Origin--Its professed Advantages--Griggs and Gregorians--A Kind of

Masons--Reflections on these various Societies.

LETTER X.

_CLUBS AND SOCIAL MEETINGS._

You say you envy in your calm retreat

Our social meetings;--'tis with joy we meet.

In these our parties you are pleased to find

Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind;

Composed of men, who read, reflect, and write;

Who, when they meet, must yield and share delight.

To you our Book-club has peculiar charm,

For which you sicken in your quiet farm;

Here you suppose us at our leisure placed,

Enjoying freedom, and displaying taste; 10

With wisdom cheerful, temperately gay,

Pleased to enjoy, and willing to display.

If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom,

Give wings to fancy, and among us come.

We're now assembled; you may soon attend--

I'll introduce you--"Gentlemen, my friend."--

"Now are you happy? you have pass'd a night

In gay discourse, and rational delight."--

"Alas! not so; for how can mortals think,

Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and drink? 20

No! I confess, when we had fairly dined,

That was no time for intercourse of mind;

There was each dish prepared with skill t' invite,

And to detain the struggling appetite;

On such occasions minds with one consent

Are to the comforts of the body lent;

There was no pause--the wine went quickly round,

Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound;

Wine is to wit as water thrown on fire:

By duly sprinkling, both are raised the higher; 30

Thus largely dealt, the vivid blaze they choke,

And all the genial flame goes off in smoke."--

"But when no more your boards these loads contain,

When wine no more o'erwhelms the labouring brain,

But serves, a gentle stimulus: we know

How wit must sparkle, and how fancy flow."--

It might be so, but no such club-days come;

We always find these dampers in the room.

If to converse were all that brought us here,

A few odd members would in turn appear; 40

Who, dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out,

O'erlook the list, and toss the books about;

Or, yawning, read them, walking up and down,

Just as the loungers in the shops in town;

Till, fancying nothing would their minds amuse,

They'd push them by, and go in search of news.

But our attractions are a stronger sort,

The earliest dainties and the oldest port;

All enter then with glee in every look,

And not a member thinks about a book. 50

Still let me own, there are some vacant hours,

When minds might work, and men exert their powers:

Ere wine to folly spurs the giddy guest,

But gives to wit its vigour and its zest;

Then might we reason, might in turn display

Our several talents, and be wisely gay;

We might--but who a tame discourse regards,

When whist is named, and we behold the cards?

We from that time are neither grave nor gay;

Our thought, our care, our business is to play: 60

Fix'd on these spots and figures, each attends

Much to his partners, nothing to his friends.

Our public cares, the long, the warm debate,

That kept our patriots from their beds so late;

War, peace, invasion, all we hope or dread,

Vanish like dreams when men forsake their bed;

And groaning nations and contending kings

Are all forgotten for these painted things:

Paper and paste, vile figures and poor spots,

Level all minds, philosophers and sots; 70

And give an equal spirit, pause, and force,

Join'd with peculiar diction, to discourse:

"Who deals?--you led--we're three by cards--had you

Honour in hand?"--"Upon my honour, two."

Hour after hour, men thus contending sit,

Grave without sense, and pointed without wit.

Thus it appears these envied clubs possess

No certain means of social happiness;

Yet there's a good that flows from scenes like these--

Man meets with man at leisure and at ease; 80

We to our neighbours and our equals come,

And rub off pride that man contracts at home;

For there, admitted master, he is prone

To claim attention and to talk alone:

But here he meets with neither son nor spouse;

No humble cousin to his bidding bows;

To his raised voice his neighbours' voices rise;

To his high look as lofty look replies;

When much he speaks, he finds that ears are closed,

And certain signs inform him when he's prosed; 90

Here all the value of a listener know,

And claim, in turn, the favour they bestow.

No pleasure gives the speech, when all would speak,

And all in vain a civil hearer seek.

To chance alone we owe the free discourse,

In vain you purpose what you cannot force;

'Tis when the favourite themes unbidden spring,

That fancy soars with such unwearied wing;

Then may you call in aid the moderate glass,

But let it slowly and unprompted pass; 100

So shall there all things for the end unite,

And give that hour of rational delight.

Men to their clubs repair, themselves to please,

To care for nothing, and to take their ease;

In fact, for play, for wine, for news they come;

Discourse is shared with friends, or found at home.

* * * * *

But cards with books are incidental things;

We've nights devoted to these queens and kings.

Then, if we choose the social game, we may;

Now, 'tis a duty, and we're bound to play; 110

Nor ever meeting of the social kind

Was more engaging, yet had less of mind.

Our eager parties, when the lunar light

Throws its full radiance on the festive night,

Of either sex, with punctual hurry come,

And fill, with one accord, an ample room.

Pleased, the fresh packs on cloth of green they see,

And, seizing, handle with preluding glee;

They draw, they sit, they shuffle, cut and deal;

Like friends assembled, but like foes to feel: 120

But yet not all--a happier few have joys

Of mere amusement, and their cards are toys;

No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they,

But while their friends are gaming, laugh and play.

Others there are, the veterans of the game,

Who owe their pleasure to their envied fame;

Through many a year, with hard-contested strife,

Have they attain'd this glory of their life.

Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain

Would gout and fever on his couch detain; 130

And that large lady, who resolves to come,

Though a first fit has warn'd her of her doom!

These are as oracles: in every cause

They settle doubts, and their decrees are laws;

But all are troubled, when, with dubious look,

Diana questions what Apollo spoke.

Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain,

Rules in each heart, and works in every brain;

Alike the veteran-dames and virgins feel,

Nor care what gray-beards or what striplings deal; 140

Sex, age, and station, vanish from their view,

And gold, their sov'reign good, the mingled crowd pursue.

Hence they are jealous, and as rivals, keep

A watchful eye on the beloved heap;

Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still,

And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will;

Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,

They make their grief, by their suspicions, known.

"Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,

He'd rave to see you throw your cards away; 150

Not that I care a button--not a pin

For what I lose; but we had cards to win:

A saint in heaven would grieve to see such hand

Cut up by one who will not understand."--

"Complain of me! and so you might indeed,

If I had ventured on that foolish lead,

That fatal heart--but I forgot your play--

Some folk have ever thrown their hearts away."--

"Yes, and their diamonds; I have heard of one

Who made a beggar of an only son."-- 160

"Better a beggar, than to see him tied

To art and spite, to insolence and pride."--

"Sir, were I you, I'd strive to be polite,

Against my nature, for a single night."--

"So did you strive, and, madam! with success;

I knew no being we could censure less!"--

Is this too much? alas! my peaceful muse

Cannot with half their virulence abuse.

And hark! at other tables discord reigns,

With feign'd contempt for losses and for gains; 170

Passions awhile are bridled; then they rage,

In waspish youth, and in resentful age;

With scraps of insult--"Sir, when next you play,

Reflect whose money 'tis you throw away.

No one on earth can less such things regard,

But when one's partner doesn't know a card----"

"I scorn suspicion, ma'am, but while you stand

Behind that lady, pray keep down your hand."--

"Good heav'n, revoke! remember, if the set

Be lost, in honour you should pay the debt."-- 180

"There, there's your money; but, while I have life,

I'll never more sit down with man and wife;

They snap and snarl indeed, but in the heat

Of all their spleen, their understandings meet;

They are Freemasons, and have many a sign,

That we, poor devils! never can divine:

May it be told, do ye divide th' amount,

Or goes it all to family account?"

* * * * *

Next is the club, where to their friends in town

Our country neighbours once a month come down; 190

We term it Free-and-easy, and yet we

Find it no easy matter to be free:

Ev'n in our small assembly, friends among,

Are minds perverse, there's something will be wrong;

Men are not equal; some will claim a right

To be the kings and heroes of the night;

Will their own favourite themes and notions start,

And you must hear, offend them, or depart.

There comes Sir Thomas from his village-seat,

Happy, he tells us, all his friends to meet; 200

He brings the ruin'd brother of his wife,

Whom he supports, and makes him sick of life:

A ready witness whom he can produce

Of all his deeds--a butt for his abuse.

Soon as he enters, has the guests espied,

Drawn to the fire, and to the glass applied--

"Well, what's the subject?--what are you about?

The news, I take it--come, I'll help you out;"--

And then, without one answer, he bestows

Freely upon us all he hears and knows; 210

Gives us opinions, tells us how he votes, }

Recites the speeches, adds to them his notes, }

And gives old ill-told tales for new-born anecdotes; }

Yet cares he nothing what we judge or think,

Our only duty's to attend and drink.

At length, admonish'd by his gout, he ends

The various speech, and leaves at peace his friends;

But now, alas! we've lost the pleasant hour,

And wisdom flies from wine's superior power.

Wine, like the rising sun, possession gains, 220

And drives the mist of dulness from the brains;

The gloomy vapour from the spirit flies,

And views of gaiety and gladness rise.

Still it proceeds, till from the glowing heat,

The prudent calmly to their shades retreat;--

Then is the mind o'ercast--in wordy rage

And loud contention angry men engage;

Then spleen and pique, like fire-works thrown in spite,

To mischief turn the pleasures of the night;

Anger abuses, Malice loudly rails, 230

Revenge awakes, and Anarchy prevails:

Till wine, that raised the tempest, makes it cease,

And maudlin Love insists on instant peace;

He noisy mirth and roaring song commands,

Gives idle toasts, and joins unfriendly hands;

Till fuddled Friendship vows esteem and weeps,

And jovial Folly drinks and sings and sleeps.

* * * * *

A club there is of Smokers.--Dare you come

To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room?

When, midnight past, the very candles seem 240

Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam;

When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise,

And prosing topers rub their winking eyes;

When the long tale, renew'd when last they met,

Is spliced anew, and is unfinish'd yet;

When but a few are left the house to tire,

And they half-sleeping by the sleepy fire;

Ev'n the poor ventilating vane, that flew

Of late so fast, is now grown drowsy too;

When sweet, cold, clammy punch its aid bestows, 250

Then thus the midnight conversation flows:--

"Then, as I said, and--mind me--as I say,

At our last meeting--you remember"--"Ay;"

"Well, very well--then freely as I drink

I spoke my thought--you take me--what I think:

And sir, said I, if I a freeman be,

It is my bounden duty to be free."--

"Ay, there you posed him; I respect the chair,

But man is man, although the man's a mayor.

If Muggins live--no, no!--if Muggins die, 260

He'll quit his office--neighbour, shall I try?"--

"I'll speak my mind, for here are none but friends:

They're all contending for their private ends;

No public spirit, once a vote would bring; }

I say a vote was then a pretty thing; }

It made a man to serve his country and his king. }

But for that place, that Muggins must resign,

You've my advice--'tis no affair of mine."

* * * * *

The poor man has his club; he comes and spends

His hoarded pittance with his chosen friends; 270

Nor this alone--a monthly dole he pays,

To be assisted when his health decays;

Some part his prudence, from the day's supply,

For cares and troubles in his age, lays by;

The printed rules he guards with painted frame,

And shows his children where to read his name:

Those simple words his honest nature move,

That bond of union tied by laws of love.

This is his pride, it gives to his employ

New value, to his home another joy; 280

While a religious hope its balm applies

For all his fate inflicts and all his state denies.

Much would it please you, sometimes to explore

The peaceful dwellings of our borough poor;

To view a sailor just return'd from sea;

His wife beside; a child on either knee,

And others crowding near, that none may lose

The smallest portion of the welcome news:

What dangers pass'd, "when seas ran mountains high,

When tempests raved, and horrors veil'd the sky; 290

When prudence fail'd, when courage grew dismay'd

When the strong fainted, and the wicked pray'd,--

Then in the yawning gulf far down we drove,

And gazed upon the billowy mount above;

Till up that mountain, swinging with the gale,

We view'd the horrors of the watery vale."

The trembling children look with stedfast eyes,

And panting, sob involuntary sighs:

Soft sleep awhile his torpid touch delays,

And all is joy and piety and praise. 300

* * * * *

Masons are ours. Freemasons--but, alas!

To their own bards I leave the mystic class;

In vain shall one, and not a gifted man,

Attempt to sing of this enlighten'd clan:

I know no word, boast no directing sign,

And not one token of the race is mine;

Whether with Hiram, that wise widow's son,

They came from Tyre to royal Solomon,

Two pillars raising by their skill profound,

Boaz and Jachin through the East renown'd: 310

Whether the sacred books their rise express,

Or books profane, 'tis vain for me to guess.

It may be, lost in date remote and high,

They know not what their own antiquity;

It may be too, derived from cause so low,

They have no wish their origin to show.

If, as crusaders, they combined to wrest

From heathen lords the land they long possess'd,

Or were at first some harmless club, who made

Their idle meetings solemn by parade, 320

Is but conjecture--for the task unfit,

Awe-struck and mute, the puzzling theme I quit.

Yet, if such blessings from their order flow,

We should be glad their moral code to know;

Trowels of silver are but simple things,

And aprons worthless as their apron-strings;

But, if indeed you have the skill to teach

A social spirit, now beyond our reach;

If man's warm passions you can guide and bind,

And plant the virtues in the wayward mind; 330

If you can wake to christian-love the heart--

In mercy, something of your powers impart.

But, as it seems, we Masons must become

To know the secret, and must then be dumb;

And, as we venture for uncertain gains,

Perhaps the profit is not worth the pains.

When Bruce, the dauntless traveller, thought he stood

On Nile's first rise, the fountain of the flood,

And drank exulting in the sacred spring,

The critics told him, it was no such thing; 340

That springs unnumber'd round the country ran,

But none could show him where they first began:

So might we feel, should we our time bestow

To gain these secrets and these signs to know;

Might question still if all the truth we found,

And firmly stood upon the certain ground;

We might our title to the mystery dread,

And fear we drank not at the river-head.

* * * * *

Griggs and Gregorians here their meetings hold,

Convivial sects, and Bucks alert and bold: 350

A kind of Masons, but without their sign;

The bonds of union--pleasure, song, and wine.

Man, a gregarious creature, loves to fly

Where he the trackings of the herd can spy;

Still to be one with many he desires,

Although it leads him through the thorns and briers.

A few--but few--there are, who in the mind

Perpetual source of consolation find;

The weaker many to the world will come,

For comforts seldom to be found from home. 360

When the faint hands no more a brimmer hold; }

When flannel-wreaths the useless limbs infold, }

The breath impeded, and the bosom cold; }

When half the pillow'd man the palsy chains,

And the blood falters in the bloated veins--

Then, as our friends no further aid supply

Than hope's cold phrase and courtesy's soft sigh,

We should that comfort for ourselves ensure,

Which friends could not, if we could friends procure.

Early in life, when we can laugh aloud, 370

There's something pleasant in a social crowd,

Who laugh with us--but will such joy remain,

When we lie struggling on the bed of pain?

When our physician tells us with a sigh,

No more on hope and science to rely,

Life's staff is useless then; with labouring breath

We pray for hope divine--the staff of death.

This is a scene which few companions grace,

And where the heart's first favourites yield their place.

Here all the aid of man to man must end, 380

Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend;

The tenderest love must here its tie resign,

And give th' aspiring heart to love divine.

Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run,

Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun;

But though to this our weakness may be prone,

Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone.

LETTER XI.

_INNS._

All the comforts of life in a tavern are known,

'Tis his home who possesses not one of his own;

And to him who has rather too much of that one,

'Tis the house of a friend where he's welcome to run:

The instant you enter my door you're my lord,

With whose taste and whose pleasure I'm proud to accord;

And the louder you call and the longer you stay,

The more I am happy to serve and obey.

To the house of a friend if you're pleased to retire,

You must all things admit, you must all things admire;

You must pay with observance the price of your treat,

You must eat what is praised, and must praise what you eat:

But here you may come, and no tax we require,

You may loudly condemn what you greatly admire;

You may growl at our wishes and pains to excel,

And may snarl at the rascals who please you so well.

At your wish we attend, and confess that your speech

On the nation's affairs might the minister teach;

His views you may blame, and his measures oppose,

There's no tavern-treason--you're under the Rose:

Should rebellions arise in your own little state,

With me you may safely their consequence wait;

To recruit your lost spirits 'tis prudent to come,

And to fly to a friend when the devil's at home.

That I've faults is confess'd; but it won't be denied,

'Tis my interest the faults of my neighbours to hide;

If I've sometimes lent Scandal occasion to prate,

I've often conceal'd what she'd love to relate;

If to Justice's bar some have wander'd from mine,

'Twas because the dull rogues wouldn't stay by their wine;

And for brawls at my house, well the poet explains,

That men drink _shallow draughts_, and so madden their brains.

A difficult Subject for Poetry--Invocation of the Muse--Description of

the principal Inn and those of the first Class--The large deserted

Tavern--Those of a second Order--Their Company--One of particular

Description--A lower Kind of Public-Houses; yet distinguished

among themselves--Houses on the Quays for Sailors--The Green-Man:

its Landlord, and the Adventure of his Marriage, &c.

LETTER XI.

_INNS._

Much do I need, and therefore will I ask,

A Muse to aid me in my present task;

For then with special cause we beg for aid,

When of our subject we are most afraid:

Inns are this subject--'tis an ill-drawn lot;

So, thou who gravely triflest, fail me not.

Fail not, but haste, and to my memory bring

Scenes yet unsung, which few would choose to sing:

Thou mad'st a Shilling splendid; thou hast thrown

On humble themes the graces all thine own; 10

By thee the Mistress of a village-school

Became a queen, enthroned upon her stool;

And far beyond the rest thou gav'st to shine

Belinda's Lock--that deathless work was thine.

Come, lend thy cheerful light, and give to please

These seats of revelry, these scenes of ease;

Who sings of Inns much danger has to dread,

And needs assistance from the fountain-head.

High in the street, o'erlooking all the place,

The rampant Lion shows his kingly face; 20

His ample jaws extend from side to side,

His eyes are glaring, and his nostrils wide;

In silver shag the sovereign form is dress'd;

A mane horrific sweeps his ample chest;

Elate with pride, he seems t' assert his reign,

And stands, the glory of his wide domain.

Yet nothing dreadful to his friends the sight,

But sign and pledge of welcome and delight:

To him the noblest guest the town detains

Flies for repast, and in his court remains; 30

Him too the crowd with longing looks admire,

Sigh for his joys, and modestly retire;

Here not a comfort shall to them be lost

Who never ask or never feel the cost.

The ample yards on either side contain

Buildings where order and distinction reign;--

The splendid carriage of the wealthier guest,

The ready chaise and driver smartly dress'd;

Whiskeys and gigs and curricles are there,

And high-fed prancers, many a raw-boned pair. 40

On all without a lordly host sustains

The care of empire, and observant reigns;

The parting guest beholds him at his side,

With pomp obsequious, bending in his pride;

Round all the place his eyes all objects meet,

Attentive, silent, civil, and discreet.

O'er all within the lady-hostess rules,

Her bar she governs, and her kitchen schools;

To every guest th' appropriate speech is made,

And every duty with distinction paid: 50

Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite--

"Your honour's servant--Mister Smith, good night."

Next, but not near, yet honour'd through the town,

There swing, incongruous pair! the Bear and Crown;

That Crown suspended gems and ribands deck,

A golden chain hangs o'er that furry neck.

Unlike the nobler beast, the Bear is bound,

And with the Crown so near him, scowls uncrown'd;

Less his dominion, but alert are all

Without, within, and ready for the call; 60

Smart lads and light run nimbly here and there,

Nor for neglected duties mourns the Bear.

To his retreats, on the election-day,

The losing party found their silent way;

There they partook of each consoling good,

Like him uncrown'd, like him in sullen mood--

Threat'ning, but bound.--Here meet a social kind,

Our various clubs, for various cause combined;

Nor has he pride, but thankful takes as gain

The dew-drops shaken from the Lion's mane: 70

A thriving couple here their skill display,

And share the profits of no vulgar sway.

Third in our Borough's list appears the sign

Of a fair queen--the gracious Caroline;

But in decay--each feature in the face

Has stain of Time, and token of disgrace.

The storm of winter, and the summer-sun,

Have on that form their equal mischief done;

The features now are all disfigured seen,

And not one charm adorns th' insulted queen: 80

To this poor face was never paint applied,

Th' unseemly work of cruel Time to hide;

Here we may rightly such neglect upbraid;

Paint on such faces is by prudence laid.

Large the domain, but all within combine

To correspond with the dishonour'd sign;

And all around dilapidates; you call--

But none replies--they're inattentive all.

At length a ruin'd stable holds your steed,

While you through large and dirty rooms proceed, 90

Spacious and cold; a proof they once had been

In honour--now magnificently mean;

Till in some small half-furnish'd room you rest,

Whose dying fire denotes it had a guest.

In those you pass'd where former splendour reign'd,

You saw the carpets torn, the paper stain'd;

Squares of discordant glass in windows fix'd,

And paper oil'd in many a space betwixt;

A soil'd and broken sconce; a mirror crack'd,

With table underpropp'd, and chairs new-back'd; 100

A marble side-slab with ten thousand stains,

And all an ancient tavern's poor remains.

With much entreaty, they your food prepare,

And acid wine afford, with meagre fare;

Heartless you sup; and when a dozen times

You've read the fractured window's senseless rhymes;

Have been assured that Phoebe Green was fair,

And Peter Jackson took his supper there:

You reach a chilling chamber, where you dread

Damps, hot or cold, from a tremendous bed; 110

Late comes your sleep, and you are waken'd soon

By rustling tatters of the old festoon.

O'er this large building, thus by time defaced,

A servile couple has its owner placed,

Who, not unmindful that its style is large,

To lost magnificence adapt their charge.

Thus an old beauty, who has long declined,

Keeps former dues and dignity in mind;

And wills that all attention should be paid

For graces vanish'd and for charms decay'd. 120

Few years have pass'd, since brightly 'cross the way

Lights from each window shot the lengthen'd ray,

And busy looks in every face were seen,

Through the warm precincts of the reigning Queen.

There fires inviting blazed, and all around

Was heard the tinkling bells' seducing sound;

The nimble waiters to that sound from far

Sprang to the call, then hasten'd to the bar;

Where a glad priestess of the temple sway'd,

The most obedient, and the most obey'd; 130

Rosy and round, adorn'd in crimson vest,

And flaming ribands at her ample breast,

She, skill'd like Circe, tried her guests to move

With looks of welcome and with words of love;

And such her potent charms, that men unwise

Were soon transform'd and fitted for the sties.

Her port in bottles stood, a well-stain'd row,

Drawn for the evening from the pipe below;

Three powerful spirits fill'd a parted case;

Some cordial-bottles stood in secret place; 140

Fair acid fruits in nets above were seen;

Her plate was splendid, and her glasses clean;

Basins and bowls were ready on the stand,

And measures clatter'd in her powerful hand.

Inferior houses now our notice claim,

But who shall deal them their appropriate fame?

Who shall the nice, yet known distinction, tell,

Between the peal complete and single bell?

Determine, ye, who on your shining nags

Wear oil-skin beavers and bear seal-skin bags; 150

Or ye, grave topers, who with coy delight

Snugly enjoy the sweetness of the night;

Ye travellers all, superior inns denied

By moderate purse, the low by decent pride:

Come and determine,--will ye take your place

At the _full_ orb, or _half_ the lunar face?

With the Black-Boy or Angel will ye dine?

Will ye approve the Fountain or the Vine?

Horses the _white_ or _black_ will ye prefer?

The Silver-Swan, or swan opposed to her-- 160

Rare bird! whose form the raven-plumage decks,

And graceful curve her three alluring necks?

All these a decent entertainment give,

And by their comforts comfortably live.

Shall I pass by the Boar?--there are who cry,

"Beware the Boar," and pass determined by:

Those dreadful tusks, those little peering eyes

And churning chaps, are tokens to the wise.

There dwells a kind old aunt, and there you see

Some kind young nieces in her company-- 170

Poor village nieces, whom the tender dame

Invites to town, and gives their beauty fame;

The grateful sisters feel th' important aid,

And the good aunt is flatter'd and repaid.

What though it may some cool observers strike,

That such fair sisters should be so unlike;

That still another and another comes,

And at the matron's table smiles and blooms;

That all appear as if they meant to stay

Time undefined, nor name a parting day; 180

And yet, though all are valued, all are dear,

Causeless, they go, and seldom more appear:

Yet--let Suspicion hide her odious head,

And Scandal vengeance from a burgess dread--

A pious friend, who with the ancient dame

At sober cribbage takes an evening game;

His cup beside him, through their play he quaffs,

And oft renews, and innocently laughs;

Or, growing serious, to the text resorts,

And from the Sunday-sermon makes reports; 190

While all, with grateful glee, his wish attend,

A grave protector and a powerful friend.

But Slander says, who indistinctly sees,

Once he was caught with Silvia on his knees--

A cautious burgess with a careful wife

To be so caught!--'tis false, upon my life.

Next are a lower kind, yet not so low

But they, among them, their distinctions know;

And, when a thriving landlord aims so high

As to exchange the Chequer for the Pye, 200

Or from Duke William to the Dog repairs,

He takes a finer coat and fiercer airs.

Pleased with his power, the poor man loves to say

What favourite inn shall share his evening's pay;

Where he shall sit the social hour, and lose

His past day's labours and his next day's views.

Our seamen too have choice: one takes a trip

In the warm cabin of his favourite ship;

And on the morrow in the humbler boat

He rows, till fancy feels herself afloat; 210

Can he the sign--Three Jolly Sailors pass,

Who hears a fiddle and who sees a lass?

The Anchor too affords the seaman joys,

In small smoked room, all clamour, crowd, and noise;

Where a curved settle half surrounds the fire,

Where fifty voices purl and punch require.

They come for pleasure in their leisure hour,

And they enjoy it to their utmost power;

Standing they drink, they swearing smoke, while all

Call or make ready for a second call: 220

There is no time for trifling--"Do ye see?

We drink and drub the French extempore."

See! round the room, on every beam and balk,

Are mingled scrolls of hieroglyphic chalk;

Yet nothing heeded--would one stroke suffice

To blot out all, here honour is too nice--

"Let knavish landsmen think such dirty things,

We're British tars, and British tars are kings."

But the Green-Man shall I pass by unsung,

Which mine own James upon his sign-post hung? 230

His sign, his image,--for he once was seen

A squire's attendant, clad in keeper's green;

Ere yet, with wages more, and honour less,

He stood behind me in a graver dress.

James in an evil hour went forth to woo

Young Juliet Hart, and was her Romeo:

They'd seen the play, and thought it vastly sweet

For two young lovers by the moon to meet;

The nymph was gentle, of her favours free,

Ev'n at a word--no Rosalind was she; 240

Nor, like that other Juliet, tried his truth

With--"Be thy purpose marriage, gentle youth?"

But him received, and heard his tender tale,

When sang the lark, and when the nightingale:

So in few months the generous lass was seen

I' the way that all the Capulets had been.

Then first repentance seized the amorous man,

And--shame on love--he reason'd and he ran;

The thoughtful Romeo trembled for his purse,

And the sad sounds, "for better and for worse." 250

Yet could the lover not so far withdraw,

But he was haunted both by love and law:

Now law dismay'd him as he view'd its fangs,

Now pity seized him for his Juliet's pangs;

Then thoughts of justice and some dread of jail,

Where all would blame him and where none might bail;

These drew him back, till Juliet's hut appear'd,

Where love had drawn him when he should have fear'd.

There sat the father in his wicker throne,

Uttering his curses in tremendous tone; 260

With foulest names his daughter he reviled,

And look'd a very Herod at the child:

Nor was she patient, but with equal scorn,

Bade him remember when his Joe was born:

Then rose the mother, eager to begin

Her plea for frailty, when the swain came in.

To him she turn'd, and other theme began,

Show'd him his boy, and bade him be a man--

"An honest man, who, when he breaks the laws,

Will make a woman honest if there's cause." 270

With lengthened speech she proved what came to pass

Was no reflection on a loving lass:

"If she your love as wife and mother claim,

What can it matter which was first the name?

But 'tis most base, 'tis perjury and theft,

When a lost girl is like a widow left;

The rogue who ruins"--here the father found

His spouse was treading on forbidden ground.

"That's not the point," quoth he,--"I don't suppose

My good friend Fletcher to be one of those; 280

What's done amiss he'll mend in proper time--

I hate to hear of villany and crime.

'Twas my misfortune, in the days of youth,

To find two lasses pleading for my truth;

The case was hard, I would with all my soul

Have wedded both, but law is our control;

So one I took, and when we gain'd a home,

Her friend agreed--what could she more?--to come;

And when she found that I'd a widow'd bed,

Me she desired--what could I less?--to wed. 290

An easier case is yours: you've not the smart

That two fond pleaders cause in one man's heart;

You've not to wait from year to year distress'd,

Before your conscience can be laid at rest;

There smiles your bride, there sprawls your new-born son,

--A ring, a licence, and the thing is done."

"My loving James,"--the lass began her plea,

"I'll make thy reason take a part with me.

Had I been froward, skittish, or unkind,

Or to thy person or thy passion blind; 300

Had I refused, when 'twas thy part to pray,

Or put thee off with promise and delay;

Thou might'st in justice and in conscience fly,

Denying her who taught thee to deny:

But, James, with me thou hadst an easier task,

Bonds and conditions I forbore to ask;

"I laid no traps for thee, no plots or plans,

Nor marriage named by licence or by banns;

Nor would I now the parson's aid employ,

But for this cause"--and up she held her boy. 310

Motives like these could heart of flesh resist?

James took the infant and in triumph kiss'd;

Then to his mother's arms the child restored,

Made his proud speech, and pledged his worthy word.

"Three times at church our banns shall publish'd be,

Thy health be drunk in bumpers three times three;

And thou shalt grace (bedeck'd in garments gay)

The christening-dinner on the wedding day."

James at my door then made his parting bow,

Took the Green-Man, and is a master now. 320

LETTER XII.

_PLAYERS._

These are monarchs none respect;

Heroes, yet an humbled crew;

Nobles, whom the crowd correct;

Wealthy men, whom duns pursue;

Beauties, shrinking from the view

Of the day's detecting eye;

Lovers, who with much ado

Long-forsaken damsels woo,

And heave the ill-feign'd sigh.

These are misers, craving means

Of existence through the day;

Famous scholars, conning scenes

Of a dull bewildering play;

Ragged beaux and misses grey,

Whom the rabble praise and blame;

Proud and mean, and sad and gay,

Toiling after ease, are they,

Infamous[63], and boasting fame.

Players arrive in the Borough--Welcomed by their former Friends--Are

better fitted for Comic than Tragic Scenes: yet better approved in

the latter by one Part of their Audience--Their general Character

and Pleasantry--Particular Distresses and Labours--Their Fortitude

and Patience--A private Rehearsal--The Vanity of the aged

Actress--A Heroine from the Milliner's Shop--A deluded

Tradesman--Of what Persons the Company is composed--Character and

Adventures of Frederick Thompson.

LETTER XII.

_PLAYERS._

Drawn by the annual call, we now behold }

Our troop dramatic, heroes known of old, }

And those, since last they march'd, inlisted and enroll'd: }

Mounted on hacks or borne in waggons some,

The rest on foot (the humbler brethren) come.

Three favour'd places, an unequal time,

Join to support this company sublime:

Ours for the longer period--see how light }

Yon parties move, their former friends in sight, }

Whose claims are all allow'd, and friendship glads the night. 10 }

Now public rooms shall sound with words divine,

And private lodgings hear how heroes shine;

No talk of pay shall yet on pleasure steal,

But kindest welcome bless the friendly meal;

While o'er the social jug and decent cheer,

Shall be described the fortunes of the year.

Peruse these bills, and see what each can do,--

Behold! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew;

Change but the garment, and they'll all engage

To take each part, and act in every age. 20

Cull'd from all houses, what a house are they!

Swept from all barns, our borough-critics say;

But with some portion of a critic's ire,

We all endure them; there are some admire:

They might have praise, confined to farce alone;

Full well they grin--they should not try to groan;

But then our servants' and our seamen's wives

Love all that rant and rapture as their lives;

He who 'Squire Richard's part could well sustain,

Finds as King Richard he must roar amain, 30

"My horse! my horse!"--Lo! now to their abodes,

Come lords and lovers, empresses and gods.

The master-mover of these scenes has made

No trifling gain in this adventurous trade;--

Trade we may term it, for he duly buys

Arms out of use and undirected eyes;

These he instructs, and guides them as he can,

And vends each night the manufactured man.

Long as our custom lasts, they gladly stay,

Then strike their tents, like Tartars! and away! 40

The place grows bare where they too long remain,

But grass will rise ere they return again.

Children of Thespis, welcome! knights and queens!

Counts! barons! beauties! when before your scenes,

And mighty monarchs thund'ring from your throne;

Then step behind, and all your glory's gone:

Of crown and palace, throne and guards bereft,

The pomp is vanish'd, and the care is left.

Yet strong and lively is the joy they feel,

When the full house secures the plenteous meal; 50

Flatt'ring and flatter'd, each attempts to raise

A brother's merits for a brother's praise:

For never hero shows a prouder heart,

Than he who proudly acts a hero's part--

Nor without cause; the boards, we know, can yield

Place for fierce contest, like the tented field.

Graceful to tread the stage, to be in turn

The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn;

Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd,

The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud: 60

These are their parts--and he who these sustains

Deserves some praise and profit for his pains.

Heroes at least of gentler kind are they, }

Against whose swords no weeping widows pray, }

No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their way. }

Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depress'd;

Your days all pass'd in jeopardy and jest;

Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain,

Not warn'd by misery, not enrich'd by gain;

Whom justice pitying, chides from place to place, 70

A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race;

Who cheerful looks assume, and play the parts

Of happy rovers with repining hearts;

Then cast off care, and in the mimic pain

Of tragic wo, feel spirits light and vain,

Distress and hope--the mind's, the body's wear,

The man's affliction, and the actor's tear:

Alternate times of fasting and excess

Are yours, ye smiling children of distress.

Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom seems, 80 }

And with your varying views and restless schemes, }

Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams. }

Yet keen those griefs--ah! what avail thy charms,

Fair Juliet! what that infant in thine arms;

What those heroic lines thy patience learns,

What all the aid thy present Romeo earns,

Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain,

With all thy plaintive sisters to complain?

Nor is there lack of labour.--To rehearse,

Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse; 90

To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite;

To hide in rant the heart-ache of the night;

To dress in gaudy patch-work, and to force

The mind to think on the appointed course:

This is laborious, and may be defined

The bootless labour of the thriftless mind.

There is a veteran dame--I see her stand

Intent and pensive with her book in hand;

Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part,

Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart; 100

Across the room she paces, gets her tone,

And fits her features for the Danish throne;

To-night a queen--I mark her motion slow,

I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother know.

Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try

For strength of arms and energy of eye;

With vigour lost, and spirits worn away,

Her pomp and pride she labours to display;

And when awhile she's tried her part to act,

To find her thoughts arrested by some fact; 110

When struggles more and more severe are seen

In the plain actress than the Danish queen;--

At length she feels her part, she finds delight,

And fancies all the plaudits of the night:

Old as she is, she smiles at every speech,

And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach.

But, as the mist of vanity again

Is blown away by press of present pain,

Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies

For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies; 120

Then to her task she sighing turns again,--

"Oh! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!"

And who that poor, consumptive, wither'd thing,

Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing?

Panting for breath, and forced her voice to drop,

And far unlike the inmate of the shop,

Where she, in youth and health, alert and gay,

Laugh'd off at night the labours of the day;

With novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers,

And sister-converse pass'd the evening-hours; 130

But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong,

Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong.

The morning-call and counter were her dread,

And her contempt the needle and the thread;

But, when she read a gentle damsel's part,

Her wo, her wish--she had them all by heart.

At length the hero of the boards drew nigh,

Who spake of love till sigh re-echo'd sigh;

He told in honey'd words his deathless flame,

And she his own by tender vows became; 140

Nor ring nor licence needed souls so fond,

Alphonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond:

And thus the simple girl, to shame betray'd,

Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay'd.

Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope,

See her, the grief and scandal of the troop;

A wretched martyr to a childish pride,

Her wo insulted, and her praise denied;

Her humble talents, though derided, used,

Her prospects lost, her confidence abused; 150

All that remains--for she not long can brave

Increase of evils--is an early grave,

Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed

What dreams ye cherish, and what books ye read.

A decent sum had Peter Nottage made,

By joining bricks--to him a thriving trade.

Of his employment master and his wife,

This humble tradesman led a lordly life;

The house of kings and heroes lack'd repairs,

And Peter, though reluctant, served the players: 160

Connected thus, he heard in way polite,--

"Come, Master Nottage, see us play to-night."

At first 'twas folly, nonsense, idle stuff,

But seen for nothing it grew well enough;

And better now--now best, and every night

In this fool's paradise he drank delight;

And, as he felt the bliss, he wish'd to know

Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow;

For, if the seeing could such pleasure bring,

What must the feeling?--feeling like a king? 170

In vain his wife, his uncle, and his friend,

Cried--"Peter! Peter! let such follies end;

'Tis well enough these vagabonds to see,

But would you partner with a showman be?"

"Showman!" said Peter, "did not Quin and Clive,

And Roscius-Garrick, by the science thrive?

Showman!--'tis scandal; I'm by genius led

To join a class who've Shakspeare at their head."

Poor Peter thus by easy steps became

A dreaming candidate for scenic fame; 180

And, after years consumed, infirm and poor,

He sits and takes the tickets at the door.

Of various men these marching troops are made--

Pen-spurning clerks, and lads contemning trade;

Waiters and servants by confinement teased,

And youths of wealth by dissipation eased;

With feeling nymphs, who, such resource at hand,

Scorn to obey the rigour of command;

Some, who from higher views by vice are won,

And some of either sex by love undone; 190

The greater part lamenting as their fall

What some an honour and advancement call.

There are who names in shame or fear assume,

And hence our Bevilles and our Savilles come:

It honours him, from tailor's board kick'd down,

As Mister Dormer to amuse the town;

Falling, he rises: but a kind there are

Who dwell on former prospects, and despair;

Justly, but vainly, they their fate deplore,

And mourn their fall who fell to rise no more. 200

Our merchant Thompson, with his sons around,

Most mind and talent in his Frederick found:

He was so lively, that his mother knew,

If he were taught, that honour must ensue;

The father's views were in a different line;

But if at college he were sure to shine,

Then should he go--to prosper, who could doubt--

When school-boy stigmas would be all wash'd out;

For there were marks upon his youthful face,

'Twixt vice and error--a neglected case: 210

These would submit to skill; a little time,

And none could trace the error or the crime;

Then let him go, and once at college, he

Might choose his station--what would Frederick be?

'Twas soon determined.--He could not descend

To pedant-laws and lectures without end;

And then the chapel--night and morn to pray,

Or mulct and threaten'd if he kept away;

No! not to be a bishop--so he swore,

And at his college he was seen no more. 220

His debts all paid, the father with a sigh,

Placed him in office--"Do, my Frederick, try;

"Confine thyself a few short months, and then----"

He tried a fortnight, and threw down the pen.

Again demands were hush'd: "My son, you're free,

But you're unsettled; take your chance at sea:"

So in few days the midshipman equipp'd,

Received the mother's blessing and was shipp'd.

Hard was her fortune! soon compell'd to meet

The wretched stripling staggering through the street; 230

For, rash, impetuous, insolent and vain,

The captain sent him to his friends again.

About the borough roved th' unhappy boy,

And ate the bread of every chance-employ;

Of friends he borrow'd, and the parents yet

In secret fondness authorised the debt;

The younger sister, still a child, was taught

To give with feign'd affright the pittance sought;

For now the father cried--"It is too late

For trial more--I leave him to his fate"-- 240

Yet left him not; and with a kind of joy

The mother heard of her desponding boy:

At length he sicken'd, and he found, when sick,

All aid was ready, all attendance quick;

A fever seized him, and at once was lost

The thought of trespass, error, crime and cost;

Th' indulgent parents knelt beside the youth;

They heard his promise and believed his truth;

And, when the danger lessen'd on their view,

They cast off doubt, and hope assurance grew;-- 250

Nursed by his sisters, cherish'd by his sire,

Begg'd to be glad, encouraged to aspire,

His life, they said, would now all care repay,

And he might date his prospects from that day;

A son, a brother to his home received,

They hoped for all things, and in all believed.

And now will pardon, comfort, kindness, draw

The youth from vice? will honour, duty, law?

Alas! not all: the more the trials lent,

The less he seem'd to ponder and repent; 260

Headstrong, determined in his own career,

He thought reproof unjust and truth severe;

The soul's disease was to its crisis come,

He first abused and then abjured his home;

And when he chose a vagabond to be,

He made his shame his glory--"I'll be free."

Friends, parents, relatives, hope, reason, love,

With anxious ardour for that empire strove;

In vain their strife, in vain the means applied,

They had no comfort, but that all were tried; 270

One strong vain trial made, the mind to move,

Was the last effort of parental love.

Ev'n then he watch'd his father from his home,

And to his mother would for pity come,

Where, as he made her tender terrors rise,

He talk'd of death, and threaten'd for supplies.

Against a youth so vicious and undone

All hearts were closed, and every door but one:

The players received him; they with open heart

Gave him his portion and assign'd his part; 280

And ere three days were added to his life,

He found a home, a duty, and a wife.

His present friends, though they were nothing nice,

Nor ask'd how vicious he, or what his vice,

Still they expected he should now attend

To the joint duty as an useful friend;

The leader too declared, with frown severe,

That none should pawn a robe that kings might wear;

And much it moved him, when he Hamlet play'd,

To see his Father's Ghost so drunken made. 290

Then too the temper, the unbending pride

Of this ally would no reproof abide:--

So, leaving these, he march'd away and join'd

Another troop, and other goods purloin'd;

And other characters, both gay and sage,

Sober and sad, made stagger on the stage;

Then to rebuke, with arrogant disdain,

He gave abuse, and sought a home again.

Thus changing scenes, but with unchanging vice,

Engaged by many, but with no one twice: 300

Of this, a last and poor resource, bereft,

He to himself, unhappy guide! was left--

And who shall say where guided? to what seats

Of starving villany? of thieves and cheats?

In that sad time, of many a dismal scene

Had he a witness (not inactive) been;

Had leagued with petty pilferers, and had crept,

Where of each sex degraded numbers slept.

With such associates he was long allied, }

Where his capacity for ill was tried, 310 }

And, that once lost, the wretch was cast aside; }

For now, though willing with the worst to act,

He wanted powers for an important fact;

And, while he felt as lawless spirits feel,

His hand was palsied, and he couldn't steal.

By these rejected, is there lot so strange,

So low, that he could suffer by the change?

Yes! the new station as a fall we judge--

He now became the harlot's humble drudge,

Their drudge in common: they combined to save 320

Awhile from starving their submissive slave;

For now his spirit left him, and his pride,

His scorn, his rancour, and resentment died;

Few were his feelings--but the keenest these,

The rage of hunger, and the sigh for ease;

He who abused indulgence, now became

By want subservient and by misery tame;

A slave, he begg'd forbearance; bent with pain,

He shunn'd the blow--"Ah! strike me not again."

Thus was he found: the master of a hoy 330

Saw the sad wretch, whom he had known a boy

At first in doubt; but Frederick laid aside

All shame, and humbly for his aid applied.

He, tamed and smitten with the storms gone by,

Look'd for compassion through one living eye,

And stretch'd th' unpalsied hand; the seaman felt }

His honest heart with gentle pity melt, }

And his small boon with cheerful frankness dealt; }

Then made inquiries of th' unhappy youth,

Who told, nor shame forbade him, all the truth. 340

"Young Frederick Thompson to a chandler's shop

By harlots order'd and afraid to stop!--

What! our good merchant's favourite to be seen

In state so loathsome and in dress so mean?"--

So thought the seaman as he bade adieu,

And, when in port, related all he knew.

But time was lost, inquiry came too late,

Those whom he served knew nothing of his fate;

No! they had seized on what the sailor gave,

Nor bore resistance from their abject slave; 350

The spoil obtain'd, they cast him from the door,

Robb'd, beaten, hungry, pain'd, diseased and poor.

Then nature (pointing to the only spot

Which still had comfort for so dire a lot,)

Although so feeble, led him on the way,

And hope look'd forward to a happier day.

He thought, poor prodigal! a father yet

His woes would pity and his crimes forget;

Nor had he brother who with speech severe

Would check the pity or refrain the tear: 360

A lighter spirit in his bosom rose,

As near the road he sought an hour's repose.

And there he found it: he had left the town,

But buildings yet were scatter'd up and down;

To one of these, half-ruin'd and half-built,

Was traced this child of wretchedness and guilt;

There on the remnant of a beggar's vest,

Thrown by in scorn, the sufferer sought for rest;

There was this scene of vice and wo to close,

And there the wretched body found repose. 370

FOOTNOTES:

[63] Strolling players are thus held in a legal sense.

LETTER XIII.

_THE ALMS-HOUSE AND TRUSTEES._

Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.

[_Pope, Epilogue to the Satires_, Dialogue I., v. 136.]

There are a sort of men whose visages

Do cream and mantle like a standing [pond,]

And do a wilful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion[...]

As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"

_Merchant of Venice_ [Act I. Sc. 1. vv. 88-94].

Sum felix; quis enim neget? felixque manebo;

Hoc quoque quis dubitet? Tutum me copia fecit.

The frugal Merchant--Rivalship in Modes of Frugality--Private

Exceptions to the general Manners--Alms-House built--Its

Description--Founder dies--Six Trustees--Sir Denys Brand, a

Principal--His Eulogium in the Chronicles of the Day--Truth

reckoned invidious on these Occasions--An Explanation of the

Magnanimity and Wisdom of Sir Denys--His Kinds of Moderation and

Humility--Laughton, his Successor, a planning, ambitious, wealthy

Man--Advancement in Life his perpetual Object, and all Things made

the Means of it--His Idea of Falsehood--His Resentment dangerous:

how removed--Success produces Love of Flattery: his daily

Gratification--His Merits and Acts of Kindness--His proper Choice

of Alms-Men--In this Respect meritorious--His Predecessor not so

cautious.

LETTER XIII.

_THE ALMS-HOUSE AND TRUSTEES._

Leave now our streets, and in yon plain behold

Those pleasant seats for the reduced and old;

A merchant's gift, whose wife and children died,

When he to saving all his powers applied;

He wore his coat till bare was every thread,

And with the meanest fare his body fed.

He had a female cousin, who with care

Walk'd in his steps and learn'd of him to spare;

With emulation and success they strove,

Improving still, still seeking to improve, 10

As if that useful knowledge they would gain--

How little food would human life sustain:

No pauper came their table's crums to crave;

Scraping they lived, but not a scrap they gave:

When beggars saw the frugal merchant pass,

It moved their pity, and they said, "Alas!

Hard is thy fate, my brother," and they felt

A beggar's pride as they that pity dealt:

The dogs, who learn of man to scorn the poor,

Bark'd him away from ev'ry decent door; 20

While they who saw him bare, but thought him rich,

To show respect or scorn, they knew not which.

But while our merchant seem'd so base and mean,

He had his wanderings, sometimes, "not unseen;"

To give in secret was a favourite act,

Yet more than once they took him in the fact.

To scenes of various wo he nightly went,

And serious sums in healing misery spent;

Oft has he cheer'd the wretched, at a rate

For which he daily might have dined on plate; 30

He has been seen--his hair all silver-white, }

Shaking and shining--as he stole by night, }

To feed unenvied on his still delight. }

A two-fold taste he had: to give and spare,

Both were his duties, and had equal care;

It was his joy, to sit alone and fast,

Then send a widow and her boys repast.

Tears in his eyes would, spite of him, appear,

But he from other eyes has kept the tear:

All in a wint'ry night from far he came, 40

To soothe the sorrows of a suff'ring dame;

Whose husband robb'd him, and to whom he meant

A ling'ring, but reforming punishment.

Home then he walk'd, and found his anger rise,

When fire and rush-light met his troubled eyes;

But, these extinguish'd, and his prayer address'd

To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to rest.

His seventieth year was pass'd, and then was seen

A building rising on the northern green;

There was no blinding all his neighbours' eyes, 50

Or surely no one would have seen it rise.

Twelve rooms contiguous stood, and six were near;

There men were placed, and sober matrons here;

There were behind small useful gardens made,

Benches before, and trees to give them shade;

In the first room were seen, above, below,

Some marks of taste, a few attempts at show;

The founder's picture and his arms were there

(Not till he left us), and an elbow'd chair;

There, 'mid these signs of his superior place, 60

Sat the mild ruler of this humble race.

Within the row are men who strove in vain,

Through years of trouble, wealth and ease to gain;

Less must they have than an appointed sum,

And freemen been, or hither must not come;

They should be decent and command respect

(Though needing fortune,) whom these doors protect,

And should for thirty dismal years have tried

For peace unfelt and competence denied.

Strange, that o'er men thus train'd in sorrow's school, 70

Power must be held, and they must live by rule!

Infirm, corrected by misfortunes, old,

Their habits settled and their passions cold;

Of health, wealth, power, and worldly cares, bereft,

Still must they not at liberty be left;

There must be one to rule them, to restrain

And guide the movements of his erring train.

If then control imperious, check severe,

Be needed where such reverend men appear;

To what would youth, without such checks, aspire, 80

Free the wild wish, uncurb'd the strong desire?

And where (in college or in camp) they found

The heart ungovern'd and the hand unbound?

His house endow'd, the generous man resign'd

All power to rule, nay power of choice declined;

He and the female saint survived to view

Their work complete, and bade the world adieu!

Six are the guardians of this happy seat,

And one presides when they on business meet;

As each expires, the five a brother choose; 90

Nor would Sir Denys Brand the charge refuse;

True, 'twas beneath him, "but to do men good

Was motive never by his heart withstood."

He too is gone, and they again must strive

To find a man in whom his gifts survive.

Now, in the various records of the dead,

Thy worth, Sir Denys, shall be weigh'd and read;

There we the glory of thy house shall trace,

With each alliance of thy noble race.

Yes! here we have him!--"Came in William's reign 100

The Norman-Brand, the blood without a stain;

From the fierce Dane and ruder Saxon clear,

Pict, Irish, Scot, or Cambrian mountaineer;

But the pure Norman was the sacred spring,

And he, Sir Denys, was in heart a king:

Erect in person and so firm in soul,

Fortune he seem'd to govern and control;

"Generous as he who gives his all away,

Prudent as one who toils for weekly pay;

In him all merits were decreed to meet-- 110

Sincere though cautious, frank and yet discreet;

Just all his dealings, faithful every word;

His passions' master, and his temper's lord."

Yet more, kind dealers in decaying fame?

His magnanimity you next proclaim;

You give him learning, join'd with sound good sense,

And match his wealth with his benevolence;

What hides the multitude of sins, you add--

Yet seem to doubt if sins he ever had.

Poor honest Truth! thou writ'st of living men, 120

And art a railer and detractor then;

They die, again to be described, and now

A foe to merit and mankind art thou!

Why banish truth? it injures not the dead;

It aids not them with flattery to be fed;

And, when mankind such perfect pictures view,

They copy less, the more they think them true.

Let us a mortal as he was behold,

And see the dross adhering to the gold;

When we the errors of the virtuous state, 130

Then erring men their worth may emulate.

View then this picture of a noble mind:

Let him be wise, magnanimous, and kind;

What was the wisdom? Was it not the frown

That keeps all question, all inquiry down?

His words were powerful and decisive all;

But his slow reasons came for no man's call.

"'Tis thus," he cried, no doubt with kind intent,

To give results and spare all argument.--

"Let it be spared--all men at least agree 140

Sir Denys Brand had magnanimity:

His were no vulgar charities; none saw

Him like the merchant to the hut withdraw;

He left to meaner minds the simple deed,

By which the houseless rest, the hungry feed;

His was a public bounty vast and grand;

'Twas not in him to work with viewless hand;

He raised the room that towers above the street,

A public room where grateful parties meet;

He first the life-boat plann'd; to him the place 150

Is deep in debt--'twas he reviv'd the race;

To every public act this hearty friend

Would give with freedom or with frankness lend;

His money built the jail, nor prisoner yet

Sits at his ease, but he must feel the debt;

To these let candour add his vast display-- }

Around his mansion all is grand and gay, }

And this is bounty with the name of pay." }

I grant the whole, nor from one deed retract,

But wish recorded too the private act; 160

All these were great, but still our hearts approve

Those simpler tokens of the Christian love;

'Twould give me joy some gracious deed to meet,

That has not call'd for glory through the street.

Who felt for many, could not always shun,

In some soft moment, to be kind to one;

And yet they tell us, when Sir Denys died,

That not a widow in the Borough sigh'd;

Great were his gifts, his mighty heart I own,

But why describe what all the world has known? 170

The rest is petty pride, the useless art

Of a vain mind to hide a swelling heart.

Small was his private room; men found him there

By a plain table, on a paltry chair;

A wretched floor-cloth, and some prints around,

The easy purchase of a single pound:

These humble trifles and that study small

Make a strong contrast with the servants' hall;

There barely comfort, here a proud excess,

The pompous seat of pamper'd idleness, 180

Where the sleek rogues with one consent declare,

They would not live upon his honour's fare.

He daily took but one half-hour to dine,

On one poor dish and some three sips of wine;

Then he'd abuse them for their sumptuous feasts,

And say, "My friends! you make yourselves like beasts;

One dish suffices any man to dine,

But you are greedy as a herd of swine;

Learn to be temperate."--Had they dared t' obey,

He would have praised and turn'd them all away. 190

Friends met Sir Denys riding in his ground,

And there the meekness of his spirit found:

For that grey coat, not new for many a year,

Hides all that would like decent dress appear;

An old brown pony 'twas his will to ride,

Who shuffled onward, and from side to side;

A five-pound purchase, but so fat and sleek,

His very plenty made the creature weak.

"Sir Denys Brand! and on so poor a steed!"--

"Poor! it may be--such things I never heed:" 200

And who that youth behind, of pleasant mien,

Equipp'd as one who wishes to be seen,

Upon a horse, twice victor for a plate,

A noble hunter, bought at dearest rate?--

Him the lad, fearing, yet resolved to guide,

He curbs his spirit, while he strokes his pride.

"A handsome youth, Sir Denys; and a horse

Of finer figure never trod the course--

Yours, without question?"--"Yes! I think, a groom

Bought me the beast; I cannot say the sum: 210

I ride him not, it is a foolish pride

Men have in cattle--but my people ride;

The boy is--hark ye, sirrah! what's your name?

Ay, Jacob, yes! I recollect--the same,

As I bethink me now, a tenant's son--

I think a tenant--is your father one?"

There was an idle boy who ran about,

And found his master's humble spirit out;

He would at awful distance snatch a look,

Then run away and hide him in some nook; 220

"For oh!" quoth he, "I dare not fix my sight

On him, his grandeur puts me in a fright;

Oh! Mister Jacob, when you wait on him,

Do you not quake and tremble every limb?"

The steward soon had orders--"Summers, see

That Sam be clothed, and let him wait on me."

* * * * *

Sir Denys died, bequeathing all affairs

In trust to Laughton's long experienced cares,

Before a guardian; and, Sir Denys dead,

All rule and power devolved upon his head. 230

Numbers are call'd to govern, but in fact

Only the powerful and assuming act.

Laughton, too wise to be a dupe to fame,

Cared not a whit of what descent he came,

Till he was rich; he then conceived the thought

To fish for pedigree, but never caught.

All his desire, when he was young and poor,

Was to advance; he never cared for more:

"Let me buy, sell, be factor, take a wife,

Take any road to get along in life." 240

Was he a miser then? a robber? foe

To those who trusted? a deceiver?--No!

He was ambitious; all his powers of mind

Were to one end controll'd, improved, combined;

Wit, learning, judgment, were, by his account,

Steps for the ladder he design'd to mount.

Such step was money: wealth was but his slave,

For power he gain'd it, and for power he gave;

Full well the Borough knows that he'd the art

Of bringing money to the surest mart; 250

Friends too were aids, they led to certain ends,

Increase of power and claim on other friends.

A favourite step was marriage: then he gain'd

Seat in our hall, and o'er his party reign'd;

Houses and lands he bought, and long'd to buy,

But never drew the springs of purchase dry;

And thus at last they answer'd every call,

The failing found him ready for their fall.

He walks along the street, the mart, the quay,

And looks and mutters, "This belongs to me." 260

His passions all partook the general bent; }

Interest inform'd him when he should resent, }

How long resist, and on what terms relent. }

In points where he determined to succeed,

In vain might reason or compassion plead;

But gain'd his point, he was the best of men,

'Twas loss of time to be vexatious then:

Hence he was mild to all men whom he led,

Of all who dared resist the scourge and dread.

Falsehood in him was not the useless lie 270

Of boasting pride or laughing vanity;

It was the gainful, the persuading art,

That made its way and won the doubting heart,

Which argued, soften'd, humbled, and prevail'd;

Nor was it tried till ev'ry truth had fail'd;

No sage on earth could more than he despise

Degrading, poor, unprofitable lies.

Though fond of gain, and grieved by wanton waste,

To social parties he had no distaste;

With one presiding purpose in his view, 280

He sometimes could descend to trifle too!

Yet, in these moments, he had still the art

To ope the looks and close the guarded heart;

And, like the public host, has sometimes made

A grand repast, for which the guests have paid.

At length, with power endued and wealthy grown,

Frailties and passions, long suppressed, were shown;

Then, to provoke him was a dangerous thing;

His pride would punish, and his temper sting;

His powerful hatred sought th' avenging hour, 290

And his proud vengeance struck with all his power--

Save when th' offender took a prudent way

The rising storm of fury to allay.

This might he do, and so in safety sleep,

By largely casting to the angry deep;

Or, better yet (its swelling force t' assuage,)

By pouring oil of flattery on its rage.

And now, of all the heart approved, possess'd,

Fear'd, favour'd, follow'd, dreaded, and caress'd,

He gently yields to one mellifluous joy, 300

The only sweet that is not found to cloy,

Bland adulation! Other pleasures pall

On the sick taste, and transient are they all;

But this one sweet has such enchanting power,

The more we take, the faster we devour;

Nauseous to those who must the dose apply,

And most disgusting to the standers-by;

Yet in all companies will Laughton feed,

Nor care how grossly men perform the deed.

As gapes the nursling, or, what comes more near, 310

Some Friendly-island chief, for hourly cheer--

When wives and slaves, attending round his seat,

Prepare by turns the masticated meat:

So for this master, husband, parent, friend,

His ready slaves their various efforts blend,

And, to their lord still eagerly inclined,

Pour the crude trash of a dependent mind.

But let the muse assign the man his due;

Worth he possess'd, nor were his virtues few;--

He sometimes help'd the injured in their cause; 320

His power and purse have back'd the failing laws;

He for religion has a due respect,

And all his serious notions are correct;

Although he pray'd and languished for a son,

He grew resigned when Heaven denied him one;

He never to this quiet mansion sends

Subject unfit, in compliment to friends.

Not so Sir Denys, who would yet protest

He always chose the worthiest and the best:

Not men in trade by various loss brought down, 330

But those whose glory once amazed the town;

Who their last guinea in their pleasures spent,

Yet never fell so low as to repent;

To these his pity he could largely deal,

Wealth they had known, and therefore want could feel.

Three seats were vacant while Sir Denys reign'd,

And three such favourites their admission gain'd;

These let us view, still more to understand

The moral feelings of Sir Denys Brand.

LETTER XIV.

_INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE._

BLANEY.

Sed [quam] cæcus inest vitiis amor, omne futurum

Despicitur; suadent brevem præsentia fructum,

Et ruit in vetitum damni secura libido.

_Claudian. in Eutrop._ [Lib. II. vv. 50-2].

Nunquam parvo contenta peracta

Et quæsitorum terrâ pelagoque ciborum

Ambitiosa fames et lautæ gloria mensæ.

Et Luxus, populator Opum, [cui] semper adhærens,

Infelix humili gressu comitatur Egestas.

_Claudian. in Rufinum_ [Lib. I. vv. 35-6].

Behold what blessing[s] wealth to life can lend!

_Pope_ [Moral Essays, Ep. III. v. 297].

Blaney, a wealthy Heir, dissipated, and reduced to Poverty--His

Fortune restored by Marriage: again consumed--His Manner of living

in the West Indies--Recalled to a larger Inheritance--His more

refined and expensive Luxuries--His Method of quieting

Conscience--Death of his Wife--Again become poor--His Method of

supporting Existence--His Ideas of Religion--His Habits and

Connexions when old--Admitted into the Alms-House.

LETTER XIV.

_LIFE OF BLANEY._