Observe that tall pale veteran! what a look

Of shame and guilt! who cannot read that book?

Misery and mirth are blended in his face,

Much innate vileness and some outward grace;

There wishes strong and stronger griefs are seen,

Looks ever changed, and never one serene:

Show not that manner, and these features all,

The serpent's cunning and the sinner's fall?

Hark to that laughter!--'tis the way he takes

To force applause for each vile jest he makes; 10

Such is yon man, by partial favour sent

To these calm seats to ponder and repent.

Blaney, a wealthy heir at twenty-one,

At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone:

These years with grievous crimes we need not load,

He found his ruin in the common road;--

Gamed without skill, without inquiry bought,

Lent without love, and borrowed without thought.

But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower

Of a kind wealthy widow in his power; 20

Then he aspired to loftier flights of vice,

To singing harlots of enormous price;

He took a jockey in his gig to buy

A horse, so valued that a duke was shy;

To gain the plaudits of the knowing few,

Gamblers and grooms, what would not Blaney do?

His dearest friend, at that improving age,

Was Hounslow Dick, who drove the western stage.

Cruel he was not.--If he left his wife,

He left her to her own pursuits in life; 30

Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind;

Profuse, not just, and careless, but not kind.

Yet, thus assisted, ten long winters pass'd

In wasting guineas ere he saw his last;

Then he began to reason, and to feel

He could not dig, nor had he learn'd to steal;

And should he beg as long as he might live,

He justly fear'd that nobody would give.

But he could charge a pistol, and, at will,

All that was mortal by a bullet kill: 40

And he was taught, by those whom he would call

Man's surest guides--that he was mortal all.

While thus he thought, still waiting for the day,

When he should dare to blow his brains away,

A place for him a kind relation found,

Where England's monarch ruled, but far from English ground;

He gave employ that might for bread suffice,

Correct his habits and restrain his vice.

Here Blaney tried (what such man's miseries teach)

To find what pleasures were within his reach; 50

These he enjoy'd, though not in just the style

He once possess'd them in his native isle;

Congenial souls he found in every place,

Vice in all soils, and charms in every race:

His lady took the same amusing way,

And laugh'd at Time till he had turn'd them grey:

At length for England once again they steer'd,

By ancient views and new designs endear'd;

His kindred died, and Blaney now became

An heir to one who never heard his name. 60

What could he now?--The man had tried before

The joys of youth, and they were joys no more;

To vicious pleasure he was still inclined,

But vice must now be season'd and refined;

_Then_ as a swine he would on pleasure seize,

Now common pleasures had no power to please:

Beauty alone has for the vulgar charms,

He wanted beauty trembling with alarms;

His was no more a youthful dream of joy,

The wretch desired to ruin and destroy; 70

He bought indulgence with a boundless price,

Most pleased when decency bow'd down to vice,

When a fair dame her husband's honour sold,

And a frail Countess play'd for Blaney's gold.

"But did not conscience in her anger rise?"

Yes! and he learn'd her terrors to despise;

When stung by thought, to soothing books he fled,

And grew composed and hardened as he read;

Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight,

Pleased him and shone with their phosphoric light; 80

Which, though it rose from objects vile and base,

Where'er it came threw splendour on the place,

And was that light which the deluded youth,

And this grey sinner, deem'd the light of truth.

He different works for different cause admired--

Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired;

To cheer the mind and raise a dormant flame, }

He had the books, decreed to lasting shame, }

Which those who read are careful not to name: }

These won to vicious act the yielding heart, 90

And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart.

He heard of Blount, and Mandeville, and Chubb,

How they the doctors of their day would drub;

How Hume had dwelt on miracles so well,

That none would now believe a miracle;

And though he cared not works so grave to read,

He caught their faith and sign'd the sinner's creed.

Thus was he pleased to join the laughing side;

Nor ceased the laughter when his lady died.

Yet was he kind and careful of her fame, 100

And on her tomb inscribed a virtuous name:

"A tender wife, respected, and so forth."--

The marble still bears witness to the worth.

He has some children, but he knows not where;

Something they cost, but neither love nor care;

A father's feelings he has never known,

His joys, his sorrows, have been all his own.

He now would build--and lofty seat he built,

And sought, in various ways, relief from guilt.

Restless, for ever anxious to obtain 110

Ease for the heart by ramblings of the brain,

He would have pictures, and of course a taste,

And found a thousand means his wealth to waste.

Newmarket steeds he bought at mighty cost;

They sometimes won, but Blaney always lost.

Quick came his ruin, came when he had still

For life a relish, and in pleasure skill:

By his own idle reckoning he supposed

His wealth would last him till his life was closed;

But no! he found his final hoard was spent, 120

While he had years to suffer and repent.

Yet at the last, his noble mind to show,

And in his misery how he bore the blow,

He view'd his only guinea, then suppress'd

For a short time, the tumults in his breast,

And, moved by pride, by habit and despair,

Gave it an opera-bird to hum an air.

Come ye! who live for pleasure, come, behold

A man of pleasure when he's poor and old;

When he looks back through life, and cannot find 130

A single action to relieve his mind;

When he looks forward, striving still to keep

A steady prospect of eternal sleep;

When not one friend is left, of all the train

Whom 'twas his pride and boast to entertain--

Friends now employ'd from house to house to run

And say, "Alas! poor Blaney is undone!"--

Those whom he shook with ardour by the hand,

By whom he stood as long as he could stand,

Who seem'd to him from all deception clear, 140

And who, more strange! might think themselves sincere.

Lo! now the hero shuffling through the town,

To hunt a dinner and to beg a crown;

To tell an idle tale, that boys may smile;

To bear a strumpet's billet-doux a mile;

To cull a wanton for a youth of wealth,

(With [reverent] view to both his taste and health);

To be a useful, needy thing between

Fear and desire--the pander and the screen;

To flatter pictures, houses, horses, dress, 150

The wildest fashion or the worst excess;

To be the grey seducer, and entice

Unbearded folly into acts of vice;

And then, to level every fence which law

And virtue fix to keep the mind in awe,

He first inveigles youth to walk astray, }

Next prompts and soothes them in their fatal way, }

Then vindicates the deed, and makes the mind his prey. }

Unhappy man! what pains he takes to state

(Proof of his fear!) that all below is fate; 160

That all proceed in one appointed track,

Where none can stop, or take their journey back!

Then what is vice or virtue?--Yet he'll rail

At priests till memory and quotation fail;

He reads, to learn the various ills they've done,

And calls them vipers, every mother's son.

He is the harlot's aid, who wheedling tries

To move her friend for vanity's supplies;

To weak indulgence he allures the mind,

Loth to be duped, but willing to be kind; 170

And if successful--what the labour pays?

He gets the friend's contempt and Chloe's praise,

Who, in her triumph, condescends to say,

"What a good creature Blaney was to-day!"

Hear the poor dæmon when the young attend,

And willing ear to vile experience lend;

When he relates (with laughing, leering eye)

The tale licentious, mix'd with blasphemy:

No genuine gladness his narrations cause,

The frailest heart denies sincere applause; 180

And many a youth has turn'd him half aside,

And laugh'd aloud, the sign of shame to hide.

Blaney, no aid in his vile cause to lose,

Buys pictures, prints, and a licentious muse;

He borrows every help from every art,

To stir the passions and mislead the heart.

But from the subject let us soon escape,

Nor give this feature all its ugly shape:

Some to their crimes escape from satire owe;

Who shall describe what Blaney dares to show? 190

While thus the man, to vice and passion slave,

Was, with his follies, moving to the grave,

The ancient ruler of this mansion died,

And Blaney boldly for the seat applied.

Sir Denys Brand, then guardian, join'd his suit;

"'Tis true," said he, "the fellow's quite a brute--

A very beast; but yet, with all his sin,

He has a manner--let the devil in."

They half complied, they gave the wish'd retreat,

But raised a worthier to the vacant seat. 200

Thus forced on ways unlike each former way,

Thus led to prayer without a heart to pray,

He quits the gay and rich, the young and free,

Among the badge-men with a badge to be.

He sees an humble tradesman raised to rule

The grey-beard pupils of this moral school;

Where he himself, an old licentious boy,

Will nothing learn, and nothing can enjoy;

In temp'rate measures he must eat and drink,

And, pain of pains! must live alone and think. 210

In vain, by fortune's smiles, thrice affluent made,

Still has he debts of ancient date unpaid;

Thrice into penury by error thrown,

Not one right maxim has he made his own;

The old men shun him--some his vices hate,

And all abhor his principles and prate;

Nor love nor care for him will mortal show,

Save a frail sister in the female row.

LETTER XV.

_INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE._

CLELIA.

She early found herself mistress of herself. All she did was right:

all she said was admired. Early, very early, did she dismiss blushes

from her cheek: she could not blush, because she could not doubt; and

silence, whatever was the subject, was as much a stranger to her as

diffidence.

_Richardson._

Quo fugit Venus? heu! Quove color? decens

Quo motus? Quid habes illius, illius,

Quæ spirabat amores,

Quæ me surpuerat mihi?

_Horatius_, lib. iv, od. 13 [vv. 17-20].

Her lively and pleasant Manners--Her Reading and Decision--Her

Intercourse with different Classes of Society--Her Kind of

Character--The favoured Lover--Her Management of him: his of

her--After one Period, Clelia with an Attorney: her Manner and

Situation there--Another such Period, when her Fortune still

declines--Mistress of an Inn--A Widow--Another such Interval: she

becomes poor and infirm, but still vain and frivolous--The fallen

Vanity--Admitted into the House; meets Blaney.

LETTER XV.

_CLELIA._

We had a sprightly nymph--in every town

Are some such sprights, who wander up and down;

She had her useful arts, and could contrive,

In time's despite, to stay at twenty-five;--

"Here will I rest; move on, thou lying year,

This is mine age, and I will rest me here."

Arch was her look, and she had pleasant ways

Your good opinion of her heart to raise;

Her speech was lively, and with ease express'd,

And well she judged the tempers she address'd: 10

If some soft stripling had her keenness felt,

She knew the way to make his anger melt;

Wit was allow'd her, though but few could bring

Direct example of a witty thing;

'Twas that gay, pleasant, smart, engaging speech,

Her beaux admired, and just within their reach;

Not indiscreet, perhaps, but yet more free

Than prudish nymphs allow their wit to be.

Novels and plays, with poems, old and new,

Were all the books our nymph attended to; 20

Yet from the press no treatise issued forth,

But she would speak precisely of its worth.

She with the London stage familiar grew,

And every actor's name and merit knew;

She told how this or that their part mistook,

And of the rival Romeos gave the look;

Of either house 'twas hers the strength to see,

Then judge with candour--"Drury-Lane for me."

What made this knowledge, what this skill complete?

A fortnight's visit in Whitechapel-street. 30

Her place in life was rich and poor between,

With those a favourite, and with these a queen;

She could her parts assume, and condescend

To friends more humble while an humble friend;

And thus a welcome, lively guest could pass,

Threading her pleasant way from class to class.

"Her reputation?"--That was like her wit,

And seem'd her manner and her state to fit;

Something there was--what, none presumed to say:

Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day-- 40

Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear,

And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear.

But of each sex a friendly number press'd

To joyous banquets this alluring guest.

There, if, indulging mirth and freed from awe,

If, pleasing all and pleased with all she saw,

Her speech were free, and such as freely dwelt

On the same feelings all around her felt;

Or if some fond presuming favourite tried

To come so near as once to be denied; 50

Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice,

But that he ventured on denial twice:--

If these have been, and so has scandal taught,

Yet malice never found the proof she sought.

But then came one, the Lovelace of his day,

Rich, proud, and crafty, handsome, brave, and gay;

Yet loved he not those labour'd plans and arts,

But left the business to the ladies' hearts,

And, when he found them in a proper train,

He thought all else superfluous and vain. 60

But in that training he was deeply taught,

And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought;

He knew how far directly on to go;

How to recede and dally to and fro;

How to make all the passions his allies, }

And, when he saw them in contention rise, }

To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by surprise. }

Our heroine fear'd him not; it was her part,

To make sure conquest of such gentle heart--

Of one so mild and humble; for she saw 70

In Henry's eye a love chastised by awe.

Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime,

Nor virtuous all her thoughts; 'twas now her time

To bait each hook, in every way to please,

And the rich prize with dext'rous hand to seize.

She had no virgin-terrors; she could stray

In all love's maze, nor fear to lose her way;

Nay, could go near the precipice, nor dread

A failing caution or a giddy head;

She'd fix her eyes upon the roaring flood, 80

And dance upon the brink where danger stood.

'Twas nature all, she judged, in one so young,

To drop the eye and falter in the tongue;

To be about to take, and then command

His daring wish, and only view the hand:

Yes! all was nature; it became a maid

Of gentle soul t' encourage love afraid.--

He, so unlike the confident and bold,

Would fly in mute despair to find her cold:

The young and tender germ requires the sun 90

To make it spread; it must be smiled upon.

Thus the kind virgin gentle means devised

To gain a heart so fond, a hand so prized;

More gentle still she grew; to change her way

Would cause confusion, danger and delay:

Thus, (an increase of gentleness her mode,)

She took a plain, unvaried, certain road,

And every hour believed success was near,

Till there was nothing left to hope or fear.

It must be own'd that in this strife of hearts, 100

Man has advantage--has superior arts.

The lover's aim is to the nymph unknown,

Nor is she always certain of her own;

Or has her fears, nor these can so disguise, }

But he who searches, reads them in her eyes, }

In the avenging frown, in the regretting sighs: }

These are his signals, and he learns to steer

The straighter course whenever they appear.

* * * * *

"Pass we ten years, and what was Clelia's fate?"

At an attorney's board alert she sate, 110

Not legal mistress: he with other men

Once sought her hand, but other views were then;

And when he knew he might the bliss command,

He other [blessing] sought, without the hand;

For still he felt alive the lambent flame,

And offer'd her a home--and home she came.

There, though her higher friendships lived no more,

She loved to speak of what she shared before--

"Of the dear Lucy, heiress of the hall-- }

Of good Sir Peter--of their annual ball, 120 }

And the fair countess!--Oh! she loved them all!" }

The humbler clients of her friend would stare,

The knowing smile--but neither caused her care;

She brought her spirits to her humble state,

And soothed with idle dreams her frowning fate.

* * * * *

"Ten summers pass'd, and how was Clelia then?"

Alas! she suffer'd in this trying ten;

The pair had parted: who to him attend,

Must judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend;

But who on her would equal faith bestow, 130

Would think him rash--and surely she must know.

Then as a matron Clelia taught a school,

But nature gave not talents fit for rule.

Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen,

Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen;

Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay,

And lively speech and elegant array.

The Griffin's landlord these allured so far,

He made her mistress of his heart and bar;

He had no idle retrospective whim, 140

Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him.

So far was well,--but Clelia thought not fit

(In all the Griffin needed) to submit:

Gaily to dress and in the bar preside,

Soothed the poor spirit of degraded pride;

But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crew

Of noisy guests, were arts she never knew:

Hence daily wars, with temporary truce,

His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse;

And as their spirits wasted in the strife, 150

Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life;

But she with greater prudence--Harry tried

More powerful aid, and in the trial died;

Yet drew down vengeance: in no distant time,

Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wings sublime;--

Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen,

And show'd to frowning fate a look serene;

Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired,

Kind without love, and vain if not admired.

* * * * *

Another term is past; ten other years 160

In various trials, troubles, views, and fears.

Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade;

Houses she kept for widowers lately made;

For now she said, "They'll miss th' endearing friend,

And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend."

And true a part was done as Clelia plann'd--

The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand.

She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said,

The dedication was the best he read;

But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'd 170

The public ear, that all her pains were lost.

To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last,

There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past.

Now friendless, sick and old, and wanting bread,

The first-born tears of fallen pride were shed--

True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride,

Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd.

Though now her tales were to her audience fit;

Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit;

Though now her dress--(but let me not explain 180

The piteous patch-work of the needy-vain,

The flirtish form to coarse materials lent,

And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent;)

Though all within was sad, without was mean--

Still 'twas her wish, her comfort to be seen:

She would to plays on lowest terms resort,

Where once her box was to the beaux a court;

And, strange delight! to that same house where she

Join'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee,

Now, with the menials crowding to the wall, 190

She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball,

And with degraded vanity unfold,

How she too triumphed in the years of old.

To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tell

On what a height she stood before she fell;

At church she points to one tall seat, and "There

We sat," she cries, "when my papa was mayor."

Not quite correct in what she now relates,

She alters persons, and she forges dates;

And, finding memory's weaker help decay'd, 200

She boldly calls invention to her aid.

Touch'd by the pity he had felt before,

For her Sir Denys op'd the alms-house door.

"With all her faults," he said, "the woman knew

How to distinguish--had a manner too;

And, as they say she is allied to some

In decent station--let the creature come."

Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view

Of all the pleasures they would still pursue.

Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide 210

Of vices past; their follies are their pride;

What to the sober and the cool are crimes,

They boast--exulting in those happy times;

The darkest deeds no indignation raise,

The purest virtue never wins their praise;

But still they on their ancient joys dilate, }

Still with regret departed glories state, }

And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate. }

LETTER XVI.

_INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE._

BENBOW.

Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp[....] ... If thou [wert] any

way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be by

this fire. [....] a perpetual triumph, [ ...] Thou hast saved me a

thousand marks in links and torches, walking [with thee in the] night

betwixt tavern and tavern ...

_Shakspeare_ [Henry IV. Part I. Act III. Sc. 3].

Ebrietas tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atris

Circa te semper volitans Infamia pennis.

_Silius Italicus_ [Punica, Lib, V. vv. 96-7].

Benbow, an improper Companion for the Badgemen of the Alms-house--He

resembles Bardolph--Left in Trade by his Father--Contracts useless

Friendships--His Friends drink with him, and employ others--Called

worthy and honest! Why--Effect of Wine on the Mind of

Man--Benbow's common Subject--the Praise of departed Friends and

Patrons--'Squire Asgill, at the Grange: his Manners, Servants,

Friends--True to his Church: ought therefore to be spared--His

Son's different Conduct--Vexation of the Father's Spirit if

admitted to see the Alteration--Captain Dowling, a boon Companion,

ready to drink at all Times, and with any Company; famous in his

Club-room--His easy Departure--Dolley Murrey, a Maiden advanced in

Years: abides by Ratafia and Cards--Her free Manners--Her Skill in

the Game--Her Preparation and Death--Benbow, how interrupted; his

Submission.

LETTER XVI.

_BENBOW._

See yonder badgeman, with that glowing face,

A meteor shining in this sober place!

Vast sums were paid, and many years were past,

Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast!

Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore,

Guiding his master to the tavern-door;

There first that meteor rose, and there alone,

In its due place, the rich effulgence shone.

But this strange fire the seat of peace invades,

And shines portentous in these solemn shades. 10

Benbow, a boon companion, long approved

By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved,

Was judged as one to joy and friendship prone,

And deem'd injurious to himself alone;

Gen'rous and free, he paid but small regard

To trade, and fail'd; and some declared "'twas hard."

These were his friends--his foes conceived the case

Of common kind; he sought and found disgrace;

The reasoning few, who neither scorn'd nor loved,

His feelings pitied and his faults reproved. 20

Benbow, the father, left possessions fair,

A worthy name and business to his heir;

Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold,

And lost his credit, while he spent the gold.

He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'd

The night with him; his day was unemploy'd;

So, when his credit and his cash were spent,

Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent;

Of late he came, with passions unsubdued, }

And shared and cursed the hated solitude, 30 }

Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous cares intrude. }

Known but in drink--he found an easy friend,

Well pleased his worth and honour to commend;

And, thus inform'd, the guardian of the trust

Heard the applause and said the claim was just;

A worthy soul! unfitted for the strife,

Care and contention of a busy life;--

Worthy, and why?--that o'er the midnight bowl

He made his friend the partner of his soul,

And any man his friend;--then thus in glee, 40

"I speak my mind; I love the truth," quoth he;

Till 'twas his fate that useful truth to find,

'Tis sometimes prudent not to speak the mind.

With wine inflated, man is all upblown,

And feels a power which he believes his own;

With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks

His all the virtues all the while he drinks;

But when the gas from the balloon is gone,

When sober thoughts and serious cares come on,

Where then the worth that in himself he found?-- 50

Vanish'd--and he sank grov'ling on the ground.

Still some conceit will Benbow's mind inflate; }

Poor as he is--'tis pleasant to relate }

The joys he once possess'd: it soothes his present state. }

Seated with some grey beadsman, he regrets

His former feasting, though it swell'd his debts;

Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days,

Well he describes, and thinks description praise:

Each hero's worth with much delight he paints;

Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints. 60

"Alas! alas!" Old England now may say,

"My glory withers; it has had its day:

We're fallen on evil times; men read and think;

Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink.

"Then lived the good 'Squire Asgill--what a change

Has death and fashion shown us at the Grange!

He bravely thought it best became his rank,

That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank;

He was delighted from his favourite room

To see them 'cross the park go daily home, 70

Praising aloud the liquor and the host,

And striving who should venerate him most.

"No pride had he, and there was difference small }

Between the master's and the servants' hall; }

And here or there the guests were welcome all. }

Of Heaven's free gifts he took no special care;

He never quarrel'd for a simple hare;

But sought, by giving sport, a sportsman's name,

Himself a poacher, though at other game.

He never planted nor inclosed--his trees 80

Grew like himself, untroubled and at ease;

Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt

Choked and imprison'd in a modern belt,

Which some rare genius now has twined about

The good old house, to keep old neighbours out;

Along his valleys, in the evening hours,

The borough-damsels stray'd to gather flowers,

Or by the brakes and brushwood of the park,

To take their pleasant rambles in the dark.

"Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to call 90

On the kind females--favourites at the hall;

But better natures saw, with much delight,

The different orders of mankind unite;

'Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait,

Smile on his sister and receive her plate.

"His worship ever was a churchman true,

He held in scorn the methodistic crew;

'May God defend the Church, and save the King,'

He'd pray devoutly and divinely sing.

Admit that he the holy day would spend 100

As priests approved not--still he was a friend.

Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice,

To call such trifles by the name of vice,

Hinting, though gently and with cautious speech,

Of good example--'tis their trade to preach;

But still 'twas pity, when the worthy 'squire

Stuck to the church: what more could they require?

'Twas almost joining that fanatic crew,

To throw such morals at his honour's pew;

A weaker man, had he been so reviled, 110

Had left the place--he only swore and smiled.

"But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think,

Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink;

Conceive not--mounted on your Sunday-throne,

Your fire-brands fall upon your foes alone;

They strike your patrons--and, should all withdraw

In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw,

You would the flower of all your audience lose,

And spend your crackers on their empty pews,

"The father dead, the son has found a wife, 120

And lives a formal, proud, unsocial life;--

The lands are now enclosed; the tenants all,

Save at a rent-day, never see the hall;

No lass is suffer'd o'er the walks to come,

And, if there's love, they have it all at home.

"Oh! could the ghost of our good 'squire arise,

And see such change, would it believe its eyes?

Would it not glide about from place to place,

And mourn the manners of a feebler race?

At that long table, where the servants found 130

Mirth and abundance while the year went round;

Where a huge pollard on the winter-fire

At a huge distance made them all retire;

Where not a measure in the room was kept,

And but one rule--they tippled till they slept:

There would it see a pale old hag preside,

A thing made up of stinginess and pride;

Who carves the meat, as if the flesh could feel,

Careless whose flesh must miss the plenteous meal.

Here would the ghost a small coal-fire behold, 140

Not fit to keep one body from the cold;

Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stay

To view a dull, dress'd company at play;

All the old comfort, all the genial fare

For ever gone! how sternly would it stare;

And, though it might not to their view appear,

'Twould cause among them lassitude and fear;

Then wait to see--where he delight has seen--

The dire effect of fretfulness and spleen.

"Such were the worthies of these better days; 150

We had their blessings--they shall have our praise.--

"Of Captain Dowling would you hear me speak?

I'd sit and sing his praises for a week:

He was a man, and man-like all his joy,--

I'm led to question, was he ever boy?

Beef was his breakfast;--if from sea and salt,

It relish'd better with his wine of malt;

Then, till he dined, if walking in or out,

Whether the gravel teased him or the gout,

Though short in wind and flannel'd every limb, 160

He drank with all who had concerns with him:

Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came,

They found him ready, every hour the same;

Whatever liquors might between them pass,

He took them all, and never balk'd his glass;

Nay, with the seamen working in the ship,

At their request, he'd share the grog and flip.

But in the club-room was his chief delight,

And punch the favourite liquor of the night;

Man after man they from the trial shrank, 170

And Dowling ever was the last who drank.

Arrived at home, he, ere he sought his bed,

With pipe and brandy would compose his head;

Then half an hour was o'er the news beguiled,

When he retired as harmless as a child.

Set but aside the gravel and the gout,

And breathing short--his sand ran fairly out.

"At fifty-five we lost him--after that

Life grows insipid and its pleasures flat;

He had indulged in all that man can have, 180

He did not drop a dotard to his grave;

Still to the last, his feet upon the chair,

With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair;

When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp,

And not a doctor could the body vamp;

Still at the last, to his beloved bowl

He clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul;

For, though a man may not have much to fear,

Yet death looks ugly, when the view is near.

--'I go,' he said, 'but still my friends shall say, 190

'Twas as a man--I did not sneak away;

An honest life with worthy souls I've spent--

Come, fill my glass;'--he took it, and he went.--

"Poor Dolly Murrey!--I might live to see

My hundredth year, but no such lass as she.

Easy by nature, in her humour gay,

She chose her comforts, ratafia and play:

She loved the social game, the decent glass;

And was a jovial, friendly, laughing lass.

We sat not then at Whist demure and still, 200

But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille;

Lame in her side, we placed her in her seat,

Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet;

As the game ended, came the glass around,

(So was the loser cheer'd, the winner crown'd.)

Mistress of secrets, both the young and old

In her confided--not a tale she told;

Love never made impression on her mind,

She held him weak, and all his captives blind;

She suffered no man her free soul to vex, 210

Free from the weakness of her gentle sex;

One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate,

In cool discussion or in free debate.

"Once in her chair we'd placed the good old lass,

Where first she took her preparation glass;

By lucky thought she'd been that day at prayers,

And long before had fix'd her small affairs;

So all was easy--on her cards she cast

A smiling look; I saw the thought that pass'd:

'A king,' she call'd;--though conscious of her skill, 220

'Do more,' I answer'd--'More?' she said; 'I will;'

And more she did--cards answer'd to her call,

She saw the mighty to her mightier fall:

'A vole! a vole!' she cried, ''tis fairly won,

My game is ended and my work is done.'--

This said, she gently, with a single sigh,

Died as one taught and practised how to die.

"Such were the dead-departed; I survive,

To breathe in pain among the dead-alive."

The bell then call'd these ancient men to pray; 230 }

"Again!" said Benbow--"tolls it every day? }

Where is the life I led?"--He sigh'd, and walk'd his way. }

LETTER XVII.

_THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS._

Blessed be the man [that] provideth for the sick and needy: the Lord

shall deliver him in [the] time of trouble.

[Communion Service, [Ps. xli. v. Prayer Book Version].]

Quas dederis, solas semper habebis opes.

_Martial_ [Lib. v. Epigr. xliii.].

Nil negat, et sese vel non poscentibus offert.

_Claudian_ [_in Eutrop._ Lib. i. v. 365].

Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno;

Nam mihi jam notus dissimulator eris.

_Martial_ [Lib. iv. Epigr. lxxxix.].

Christian Charity anxious to provide for future as well as present

Miseries--Hence the Hospital for the Diseased--Description of a

recovered Patient--The Building: how erected--The Patrons and

Governors--Eusebius--The more active Manager of Business a moral

and correct Contributor--One of different Description--Good the

Result, however intermixed with Imperfection.

LETTER XVII.

_THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS._

An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,

The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;

'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,

That we the wants of pleading man supply;

That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,

Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal.

Not these suffice--to sickness, pain, and wo,

The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;

Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,

But seeks the duty--nay, prevents the need; 10

Her utmost aid to every ill applies,

And plans relief for coming miseries.

Hence yonder building rose: on either side

Far stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide;

And every ward has beds by comfort spread,

And smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed.

There have all kindness, most relief--for some

Is cure complete--it is the sufferer's home:

Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains,

Each accidental mischief man sustains; 20

Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and lame,

With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame,

Have here attendance--here the sufferers lie }

(Where love and science every aid apply), }

And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort die. }

See one relieved from anguish, and to-day

Allow'd to walk and look an hour away;

Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain,

He comes abroad and is himself again:

'Twas in the spring, when carried to the place, 30

The snow fell down and melted in his face.

'Tis summer now; all objects gay and new;

Smiling alike the viewer and the view:

He stops as one unwilling to advance,

Without another and another glance;

With what a pure and simple joy he sees

Those sheep and cattle browzing at their ease;

Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or moves

But he would cherish--all that lives he loves:

Observing every ward as round he goes, 40

He thinks what pain, what danger they enclose;

Warm in his wish for all who suffer there,

At every view he meditates a prayer:

No evil counsels in his breast abide,

There joy, and love, and gratitude reside.

The wish that Roman necks in one were found,

That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound,

This man had never heard; but of the kind,

Is that desire which rises in his mind;

He'd have all English hands (for further he 50

Cannot conceive extends our charity),

All but his own, in one right-hand to grow,

And then what hearty shake would he bestow!

"How rose the building?"--Piety first laid

A strong foundation, but she wanted aid;

To Wealth unwieldy was her prayer address'd,

Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd.

Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew,

And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew.

Then busy Vanity sustain'd her part, 60

"And much," she said, "it moved her tender heart;

To her all kinds of man's distress were known,

And all her heart adopted as its own."

Then Science came--his talents he display'd,

And Charity with joy the dome survey'd;

Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame,

And Piety, the joy that makes no claim.

Patrons there are, and governors, from whom

The greater aid and guiding orders come;

Who voluntary cares and labours take, 70

The sufferers' servants for the service' sake.

Of these a part I give you--but a part--

Some hearts are hidden; some have not a heart.

First let me praise--for so I best shall paint--

That pious moralist, that reasoning saint!

Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak?

The man is willing, but the muse is weak;--

'Tis thine to wait on wo! to soothe! to heal!

With learning social, and polite with zeal:

In thy pure breast although the passions dwell, 80

They're train'd by virtue and no more rebel;

But have so long been active on her side,

That passion now might be itself the guide.

Law, conscience, honour, all obey'd; all give

Th' approving voice, and make it bliss to live;

While faith, when life can nothing more supply,

Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die.

He preaches, speaks and writes with manly sense--

No weak neglect, no laboured eloquence;

Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways, 90

The rude revere him and the wicked praise.

Upon humility his virtues grow,

And tower so high because so fix'd below;

As wider spreads the oak his boughs around,

When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground.

By him, from ward to ward, is every aid

The sufferer needs with every care convey'd.

Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth,

And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth;

Meek as the poorest Publican is he, 100

And strict as lives the straitest Pharisee;

Of both, in him unite the better part--

The blameless conduct and the humble heart.

Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wise

In carnal things, and loves to moralize;

Others can doubt, if all that Christian care

Has not its price--there's something he may share.

But this, and ill severer, he sustains,

As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains;

When most reviled, although he feels the smart, 110

It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart,

As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit,

Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot.

A second friend we have, whose care and zeal

But few can equal--few indeed can feel.

He lived a life obscure, and profits made

In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.

His brother, master of a hoy, he loved

So well, that he the calling disapproved:

"Alas! poor Tom!" the landman oft would sigh, 120

When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high;

And when they parted, with a tear he'd say,

"No more adventure!--here in safety stay."

Nor did he feign; with more than half he had,

He would have kept the seaman, and been glad.

Alas! how few resist, when strongly tried!--

A rich relation's nearer kinsman died;

He sicken'd, and to him the landman went,

And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent.

This Thomas heard, and cared not: "I," quoth he, 130

"Have one in port upon the watch for me."

So Ephraim died, and, when the will was shown,

Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own:

Who to his brother sent a moderate purse,

Which he return'd, in anger, with his curse;

Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong,

He died before he could forgive the wrong.

The rich man built a house, both large and high,

He enter'd in and set him down to sigh;

He planted ample woods and gardens fair, 140

And walk'd with anguish and compunction there:

The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat,

He saw with pain, and he refused to eat;

His daintiest food, his richest wines, were all

Turn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall:

The softest down, by living body press'd,

The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest;

But care had thorns upon his pillow spread,

And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed.

Nervous he grew--would often sigh and groan, 150

He talk'd but little, and he walk'd alone;

Till by his priest convinced, that from one deed

Of genuine love would joy and health proceed;

He from that time with care and zeal began

To seek and soothe the grievous ills of man;

And, as his hands their aid to grief apply,

He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh.

Now he can drink his wine and taste his food.

And feel the blessings Heav'n has dealt are good;

And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door, 160

He sleeps as soundly as when young and poor.

Here much he gives--is urgent more to gain;

He begs--rich beggars seldom sue in vain;

Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to move,

And never wearies in the work of love;

He rules all business, settles all affairs,

He makes collections, he directs repairs;

And if he wrong'd one brother--Heav'n forgive

The man by whom so many brethren live!

* * * * *

Then, 'mid our signatures, a name appears 170

Of one for wisdom famed above his years;

And these were forty: he was from his youth

A patient searcher after useful truth:

To language little of his time he gave,

To science less, nor was the muse's slave;

Sober and grave, his college sent him down,

A fair example for his native town.

Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air,

You'd think a Socrates or Solon there,

For though a Christian, he's disposed to draw 180

His rules from reason's and from nature's law.

"Know," he exclaims, "my fellow mortals, know,

Virtue alone is happiness below;

And what is virtue? Prudence, first to choose

Life's real good--the evil to refuse;

Add justice then, the eager hand to hold,

To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold;

Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health insures,

And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures."

He speaks, and lo!--the very man you see: 190

Prudent and temperate, just and patient he;

By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep,

No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap:

He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives;

Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives;

By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd,

His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd;

Temp'rate in every place--abroad, at home,

Thence will applause, and hence will profit come;

And health from either he in time prepares 200

For sickness, age, and their attendant cares,

But not for fancy's ills;--he never grieves

For love that wounds or friendship that deceives;

His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains,

But neither feels nor fears ideal pains.

"Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?"--

Alas!--I think he wants infirmities;

He wants the ties that knit us to our kind--

The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind,

That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite, 210

And make the virtues he approves delight;

What dying martyrs, saints, and patriots feel--

The strength of action and the warmth of zeal.

Again attend!--and see a man whose cares

Are nicely placed on either world's affairs.--

Merchant and saint, 'tis doubtful if he knows

To which account he most regard bestows;

Of both he keeps his ledger:--there he reads

Of gainful ventures and of godly deeds;

There all he gets or loses find a place-- 220

A lucky bargain and a lack of grace.

The joys above this prudent man invite

To pay his tax--devotion!--day and night;

The pains of hell his timid bosom awe,

And force obedience to the church's law:

Hence that continual thought, that solemn air,

Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer.

All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraid

To think how avarice calls and is obey'd)

He in his journal finds, and for his grief 230

Obtains the transient opium of relief.

"Sink not, my soul!--my spirit, rise and look

O'er the fair entries of this precious book:

Here are the sins, our debts;--this fairer side

Has what to carnal wish our strength denied;

Has those religious duties every day

Paid--which so few upon the sabbath pay;

Here too are conquests over frail desires,

Attendance due on all the church requires;

Then alms I give--for I believe the word 240

Of holy writ, and lend unto the Lord--

And, if not all th' importunate demand,

The fear of want restrains my ready hand;

--Behold what sums I to the poor resign,

Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as mine!

Rest, then, my spirit!--fastings, prayers, and alms,

Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms,

And, weigh'd against our frailties, set in view

A noble balance in our favour due.

Add that I yearly here affix my name, 250

Pledge for large payment--not from love of fame,

But to make peace within;--that peace to make,

What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake!

Cheer up, my heart!--let's cast off every doubt,

Pray without dread, and place our money out."

Such the religion of a mind that steers

Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears;

Whose passions in due bounds each other keep,

And, thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep;

Whose virtues all their certain limits know, 260

Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow;

Who for success and safety ever tries,

And with both worlds alternately complies.

Such are the guardians of this bless'd estate;

Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate;

That they are men, and have their faults, is true,

But here their worth alone appears in view:

The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,

Has something of the secrets there express'd,

But yet in charity;--and, when she sees 270

Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease,

And knows how much united minds effect,

She almost dreads their failings to detect;

But truth commands:--in man's erroneous kind,

Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind;

Happy, when fears to public spirit move,

And even vices to the work of love!

LETTER XVIII.

_THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS._

Bene paupertas

Humili tecto contenta latet.

_Seneca_ [Octavia, Act V. vv. 895-6].

Omnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundæ, magi' sunt, nescio quo modo,

Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis;

Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi.

_Terent. in Adelph._ Act 4. Sc. 3 [vv. 12-4].

Show not to the poor thy pride,

Let their home a cottage be;

Nor the feeble body hide

In a palace fit for thee;

Let him not about him see

Lofty ceilings, ample halls,

Or a gate his boundary be,

Where nor friend or kinsman calls.

Let him not one walk behold,

That only one which he must tread,

Nor a chamber large and cold,

Better far his humble shed,

Where the aged and sick are led;

Humble sheds of neighbours by,

And the old and tatter'd bed,

Where he sleeps and hopes to die.

To quit of torpid sluggishness the [lair],

And from the pow'rful arms of sloth [get] free,

'Tis rising from the dead--Alas! it cannot be.

_Thomson's Castle of Indolence_ [Canto II. ll. 59-61].

The Method of treating the Borough Paupers--Many maintained at their

own Dwellings--Some Characters of the Poor--The School-mistress,

when aged--The Idiot--The poor Sailor--The declined Tradesman and

his Companion--This contrasted with the Maintenance of the Poor in

a common Mansion erected by the Hundred--The Objections to this

Method: not Want, nor Cruelty, but the necessary Evils of this

Mode--What they are--Instances of the Evil--A Return to the

Borough Poor--The Dwellings of these--The Lanes and By-ways--No

Attention here paid to Convenience--The Pools in the

Path-ways--Amusements of Sea-port Children--The Town-Flora--Herbs

on Walls and vacant Spaces--A female Inhabitant of an Alley--A

large Building let to several poor Inhabitants--Their Manners and

Habits.

LETTER XVIII.

_THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS._

Yes! we've our Borough-vices, and I know

How far they spread, how rapidly they grow;

Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,

Nor charity, the virtues' crown and grace.

"Our poor how feed we?"--To the most we give

A weekly dole, and at their homes they live;--

Others together dwell--but when they come

To the low roof, they see a kind of home,

A social people whom they've ever known,

With their own thoughts and manners like their own. 10

At her old house, her dress, her air the same,

I see mine ancient letter-loving dame:

"Learning, my child," said she, "shall fame command;

Learning is better worth than house or land--

For houses perish, lands are gone and spent;

In learning then excel, for that's most excellent."

"And what her learning?"--'Tis with awe to look

In every verse throughout one sacred book;

From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought:

This she has learn'd, and she is nobly taught. 20

If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear;

If RUTLAND deigns these humble Tales to hear;

If critics pardon what my friends approved,

Can I mine ancient widow pass unmoved?

Shall I not think what pains the matron took,

When first I trembled o'er the gilded book?

How she, all patient, both at eve and morn,

Her needle pointed at the guarding horn;

And how she soothed me, when, with study sad,

I labour'd on to reach the final zad? 30

Shall I not grateful still the dame survey,

And ask the muse the poet's debt to pay?

Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen,

But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men,

Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws, }

They own the matron as the leading cause, }

And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause: }

To her own house is borne the week's supply;

There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die.

With her a harmless idiot we behold, 40

Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold;

These he preserves, with unremitted care,

To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor:

Alas!--who could th' ambitious changeling tell,

That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?

Near these a sailor in that hut of thatch

(A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match)

Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat,

Large as he wishes--in his view complete.

A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch 50

That hold his stores, have room for twice as much;

His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box,

Lie all in view; no need has he for locks.

Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass,

He shows the shipping, he presents the glass;

He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known,

And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own.

Of noble captains--heroes every one--

You might as soon have made the steeple run:

And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay, 60

He'll one by one the gallant souls display;

And as the story verges to an end,

He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend;

He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old,

As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold;

Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace

Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly face--

And then a tear or two, which sting his pride,

These he will dash indignantly aside,

And splice his tale;--now take him from his cot, 70

And for some cleaner [berth] exchange his lot,

How will he all that cruel aid deplore?

His heart will break, and he will fight no more.

Here is the poor old merchant: he declined,

And, as they say, is not in perfect mind;

In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend,

Quiet he paces to his journey's end.

Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd;

Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd;

His spirits low and his exertions small, 80

He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall:

Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he,

But downward sank with sad alacrity.

A borough-place we gain'd him--in disgrace

For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place;

But still he kept a kind of sullen pride,

Striving his wants to hinder or to hide.

At length, compell'd by very need, in grief

He wrote a proud petition for relief.

"He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove 90

Of force to wake their sympathy and love;

Would make them feel the changes all may know,

And stir them up a new regard to show."

His suit was granted;--to an ancient maid,

Relieved herself, relief for him was paid.

Here they together (meet companions) dwell,

And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell:

"'Twas not a world for them, God help them! they

Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray;

But there's a happy change, a scene to come, 100

And they, God help them! shall be soon at home."

If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain, }

Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain; }

They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain. }

The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh,

Both when they know, and when they know not why;

But we our bounty with such care bestow,

That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.

Your plan I love not;--with a number you

Have placed your poor, your pitiable few; 110

There, in one house, throughout their lives to be--

The pauper-palace which they hate to see;

That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,

Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!

That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour;

Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:

It is a prison, with a milder name,

Which few inhabit without dread or shame.

Be it agreed--the poor who hither come

Partake of plenty, seldom found at home; 120

That airy rooms and decent beds are meant

To give the poor by day, by night, content;

That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,

By the stern looks of lordly overseer;

Grant that the guardians of the place attend,

And ready ear to each petition lend;

That they desire the grieving poor to show

What ills they feel, what partial acts they know,

Not without promise, nay desire to heal

Each wrong they suffer and each wo they feel.-- 130

Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;

They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;

They have no evil in the place to state,

And dare not say, it is the house they hate:

They own, there's granted all such place can give,

But live repining, for 'tis there they live.

Grandsires are there, who now no more must see, }

No more must nurse upon the trembling knee, }

The lost loved daughter's infant progeny: }

Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place 140

For joyful meetings of a kindred race.

Is not the matron there, to whom the son

Was wont at each declining day to run;

He (when his toil was over) gave delight,

By lifting up the latch, and one "good night"?

Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door

The son, still lab'ring, can return no more.

Widows are here, who in their huts were left,

Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;

Yet all that grief within the humble shed 150

Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed;--

But here, in all its force, remains the grief,

And not one soft'ning object for relief.

Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?

Who learn the story current in the street?

Who to the long-known intimate impart

Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?--

They talk indeed; but who can choose a friend,

Or seek companions at their journey's end?

Here are not those whom they, when infants, knew; 160

Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;

Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;

Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;

Whom time and custom so familiar made,

That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd:

But here, to strangers, words nor looks impart

The various movements of the suffering heart;

Nor will that heart with those alliance own,

To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.

What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy, 170

Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?

'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,

With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;

Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep--

The day itself is, like the night, asleep;

Or, on the sameness if a break be made,

'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;

By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,

News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;

By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell, 180

Or justice come to see that all goes well;

Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl }

On the black footway winding with the wall, }

Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call. }

Here too the mother sees her children train'd,

Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd.

Who govern here, by general rules must move,

Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.

Nations, we know, have nature's law transgressed.

And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast; 190

But still for public good the boy was train'd,

The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd:

Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid;

The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.

Then too, I own, it grieves me to behold

Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,

By all for care and industry approved,

For truth respected, and for temper loved;

And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,

Gave want its worth and poverty its pride: 200

I own it grieves me to behold them sent

From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment,

To leave each scene familiar, every face,

For a new people and a stranger race;

For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame,

From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;

Men, just and guileless, at such manners start,

And bless their God that time has fenced their heart,

Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear

Of vice in minds so simple and sincere. 210

Here the good pauper, losing all the praise

By worthy deeds acquired in better days,

Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led,

Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.

The grateful hunter, when his horse is old,

Wills not the useless favourite to be sold;

He knows his former worth, and gives him place

In some fair pasture, till he runs his race.

But has the labourer, has the seaman done

Less worthy service, thought not dealt to one? 220

Shall we not, then, contribute to their ease,

In their old haunts, where ancient objects please;

That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace

The well-known prospect and the long-loved face?

The noble oak, in distant ages seen,

With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green,

Though now its bare and forky branches show

How much it lacks the vital warmth below--

The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,

Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains; 230

Much more shall real wants and cares of age

Our gentler passions in their cause engage.--

Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years,

What venerable ruin man appears!

How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief--

He claims protection--he compels relief;--

And shall we send him from our view, to brave }

The storms abroad, whom we at home might save, }

And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave? }

No!--we will shield him from the storm he fears, 240

And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.

* * * * *

Farewell to these; but all our poor to know,

Let's seek the winding lane, the narrow row--

Suburbian prospects, where the traveller stops }

To see the sloping tenement on props, }

With building yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops; }

Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite

Laborious men to taste their coarse delight;

Where the low porches, stretching from the door,

Gave some distinction in the days of yore-- 250

Yet now, neglected, more offend the eye

By gloom and ruin than the cottage by.

Places like these the noblest town endures,

The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.

Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,

To give us shelter when compell'd to stop;

But plashy puddles stand along the way,

Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day;

And these so closely to the buildings run,

That you must ford them, for you cannot shun; 260

Though here and there convenient bricks are laid,

And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid.

Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,

With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around:

There dwells a fisher; if you view his boat,

With bed and barrel--'tis his house afloat;

Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound,

Tar, pitch, and oakum--'tis his boat aground:

That space enclosed but little he regards,

Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards; 270

Fish by the wall on spit of elder rest, }

Of all his food the cheapest and the best, }

By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd. }

Here our reformers come not; none object

To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;

None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,

That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast;

None heed the stagnant pools on either side,

Where new-launch'd ships of infant sailors ride:

Rodneys in rags here British valour boast, 280

And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.

They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,

They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale.

True to her port, the frigate scuds away,

And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay:

Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth,

And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth;

Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd,

When inch-high billows vex the watery world.

There, fed by food they love, to rankest size 290

Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise;

Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,

Here the dull night-shade hangs her deadly fruit;

On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,

And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen;

At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,

With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;

Above (the growth of many a year) is spread

The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed;

In every chink delights the fern to grow, 300

With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below[64]:

These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,

Form the contracted Flora[65] of the town.

Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?

Then will I lead thee down the dusty row,

By the warm alley and the long close lane--

There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,

Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass,

We fear to breathe the putrefying mass.

But fearless yonder matron; she disdains 310

To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains;

But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay

All in the stifling fervour of the day.

Her naked children round the alley run,

And, roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun;

Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd,

Woos the coy breeze, to fan the open breast.

She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art

To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart;

Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean, 320

And fancy left to form the charms unseen.

But, when a wife, she lost her former care,

Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare;

Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside;

No rival beauty kept alive her pride:

Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place;

But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.

See that long boarded building!--By these stairs

Each humble tenant to that home repairs--

By one large window lighted; it was made 330

For some bold project, some design in trade.

This fail'd--and one, a humorist in his way,

(Ill was the humour), bought it in decay;

Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down;

'Tis his--what cares he for the talk of town?

"No! he will let it to the poor--a home

Where he delights to see the creatures come."

"They may be thieves;"--"Well, so are richer men;"--

"Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;"--"What then?"--

"Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;"-- 340

"They need the more his pity and the place,"

Convert to system his vain mind has built,

He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.

In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd,

Are sexes, families, and ages mix'd--

To union forced by crime, by fear, by need,

And all in morals and in modes agreed:

Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove;

Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love;

And some grown old in idleness--the prey 350

To vicious spleen, still railing through the day;

And need and misery, vice and danger bind

In sad alliance each degraded mind.

That window view!--oil'd paper and old glass

Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,

And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,

The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom;

When all those western rays, without so bright,

Within become a ghastly glimmering light,

As pale and faint upon the floor they fall, 360

Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall.

That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned

Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd;

That wall, once whiten'd, now an odious sight,

Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white;

The only door is fastened by a pin

Or stubborn bar, that none may hurry in:

For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,

At times contains what prudent men would hide.

Where'er the floor allows an even space, 370

Chalking and marks of various games have place;

Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing,

On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring;

While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,

And the black beverage in the fractured ware.

On swinging shelf are things incongruous stored--

Scraps of their food; the cards and cribbage-board,

With pipes and pouches; while on peg below

Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow,

That still reminds them how he'd dance and play, 380

Ere sent untimely to the convicts' bay.

Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,

Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care;

Where some by day and some by night, as best

Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest;

The drowsy children at their pleasure creep

To the known crib, and there securely sleep.

Each end contains a grate, and these beside

Are hung utensils for their boil'd and fried--

All used at any hour, by night, by day, 390

As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.

Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains

Of china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains;

There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands,

All placed by vanity's unwearied hands;

For here she lives, e'en here she looks about,

To find some small consoling objects out.

Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, nor sit

'Mid cares domestic--they nor sew nor knit;

But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars, 400

With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars:

These lead to present evils, and a cup,

If fortune grant it, winds description up.

High hung at either end, and next the wall,

Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,

In all their force;--these aid them in their dress, }

But, with the good, the evils too express, }

Doubling each look of care, each token of distress. }

NOTES TO LETTER XVIII.

[64] Note 1, p. 456, line 301.

_With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below._

This scenery is, I must acknowledge, in a certain degree like that

heretofore described in the Village; but that also was a maritime

country:--if the objects be similar, the pictures must (in their

principal features) be alike, or be bad pictures. I have varied them

as much as I could, consistently with my wish to be accurate.

[65] Note 2, page 456, line 303.

_Form the contracted Flora of the town._

The reader unacquainted with the language of botany is informed,

that the Flora of a place means the vegetable species it contains,

and is the title of a book which describes them.

LETTER XIX.

_THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH._

THE PARISH-CLERK.

Nam dives qui fieri vult,

Et citò vult fieri; sed quæ reverentia legum,

Quis metus aut pudor est unquam properantis avari?

_Juvenal._ Sat. 14 [vv. 176-8].

Nocte brevem si forte indulsit cura soporem,

Et toto versata thoro jam membra quiescunt,

Continuò templum et violati Numinis aras,

Et, quod præcipuis mentem sudoribus urget,

Te videt in somnis; tua sacra et major imago

Humanâ turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri.

_Juvenal._ Sat. 13 [vv. 217-22].

The Parish-Clerk began his Duties with the late Vicar, a grave and

austere Man; one fully orthodox; a Detecter and Opposer of the

Wiles of Satan--His Opinion of his own Fortitude--The more frail

offended by these Professions--His good Advice gives further

Provocation--They invent Stratagems to overcome his Virtue--His

Triumph--He is yet not invulnerable: is assaulted by Fear of Want,

and Avarice--He gradually yields to the Seduction--He reasons with

himself and is persuaded--He offends, but with Terror; repeats his

Offence; grows familiar with Crime; is detected--His Sufferings

and Death.

LETTER XIX.

_THE PARISH-CLERK._

With our late vicar, and his age the same, }

His clerk, hight Jachin, to his office came: }

The like slow speech was his, the like tall slender frame. }

But Jachin was the gravest man on ground,

And heard his master's jokes with look profound;

For worldly wealth this man of letters sigh'd,

And had a sprinkling of the spirit's pride;

But he was sober, chaste, devout, and just,

One whom his neighbours could believe and trust:

Of none suspected, neither man nor maid 10

By him were wrong'd, or were of him afraid.

There was indeed a frown, a trick of state

In Jachin;--formal was his air and gait;

But if he seem'd more solemn and less kind

Than some light men to light affairs confined,

Still 'twas allow'd that he should so behave

As in high seat, and be severely grave.

This book-taught man to man's first foe profess'd

Defiance stern, and hate that knew not rest;

He held that Satan, since the world began, 20

In every act had strife with every man;

That never evil deed on earth was done,

But of the acting parties he was one:

The flattering guide to make ill prospers clear;

To smooth rough ways the constant pioneer;

The ever-tempting, soothing, softening power,

Ready to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour.

"Me has the sly seducer oft withstood,"

Said pious Jachin,--"but he gets no good;

I pass the house where swings the tempting sign, 30

And, pointing, tell him, 'Satan, that is thine;'

I pass the damsels pacing down the street,

And look more grave and solemn when we meet;

Nor doth it irk me to rebuke their smiles,

Their wanton ambling and their watchful wiles.

Nay, like the good John Bunyan, when I view

Those forms, I'm angry at the ills they do;

That I could pinch and spoil, in sin's despite,

Beauties, which frail and evil thoughts excite[66]!

"At feasts and banquets seldom am I found, 40

And (save at church) abhor a tuneful sound;

To plays and shows I run not to and fro,

And where my master goes forbear to go."

No wonder Satan took the thing amiss,

To be opposed by such a man as this--

A man so grave, important, cautious, wise,

Who dared not trust his feeling or his eyes;

No wonder he should lurk and lie in wait,

Should fit his hooks and ponder on his bait;

Should on his movements keep a watchful eye; 50

For he pursued a fish who led the fry.

With his own peace our clerk was not content;

He tried, good man! to make his friends repent.

"Nay, nay, my friends, from inns and taverns fly;

You may suppress your thirst, but not supply.

A foolish proverb says, 'the devil's at home;'

But he is there, and tempts in every room:

Men feel, they know not why, such places please;

His are the spells--they're idleness and ease;

Magic of fatal kind he throws around, 60

Where care is banish'd but the heart is bound.

"Think not of beauty; when a maid you meet,

Turn from her view, and step across the street;

Dread all the sex: their looks create a charm,

A smile should fright you and a word alarm.

E'en I myself, with all my watchful care, }

Have for an instant felt th' insidious snare, }

And caught my sinful eyes at th' endangering stare; }

Till I was forced to smite my bounding breast

With forceful blow and bid the bold-one rest. 70

"Go not with crowds when they to pleasure run,

But public joy in private safety shun.

When bells, diverted from their true intent, }

Ring loud for some deluded mortal sent }

To hear or make long speech in parliament; }

What time the many, that unruly beast,

Roars its rough joy and shares the final feast:

Then heed my counsel, shut thine ears and eyes;

A few will hear me--for the few are wise."

Not Satan's friends, nor Satan's self could bear 80

The cautious man who took of souls such care:

An interloper--one who, out of place,

Had volunteer'd upon the side of grace.

There was his master ready once a week

To give advice; what further need he seek?

"Amen, so be it:"--what had he to do

With more than this?--'twas insolent and new;

And some determined on a way to see

How frail he was, that so it might not be.

First they essay'd to tempt our saint to sin, 90

By points of doctrine argued at an inn;

Where he might warmly reason, deeply drink,

Then lose all power to argue and to think.

In vain they tried; he took the question up,

Clear'd every doubt, and barely touch'd the cup;

By many a text he proved his doctrine sound,

And look'd in triumph on the tempters round.

Next 'twas their care an artful lass to find,

Who might consult him, as perplex'd in mind;

She, they conceived, might put her case with fears, 100

With tender tremblings and seducing tears;

She might such charms of various kind display,

That he would feel their force and melt away:

For why of nymphs such caution and such dread,

Unless he felt and fear'd to be misled?

She came, she spake: he calmly heard her case,

And plainly told her 'twas a want of grace;

Bade her "such fancies and affections check,

And wear a thicker muslin on her neck."

Abased, his human foes the combat fled, 110

And the stern clerk yet higher held his head.

They were indeed a weak, impatient set;

But their shrewd prompter had his engines yet;

Had various means to make a mortal trip,

Who shunn'd a flowing bowl and rosy lip;

And knew a thousand ways his heart to move,

Who flies from banquets and who laughs at love.

Thus far the playful Muse has lent her aid,

But now departs, of graver theme afraid;

Her may we seek in more appropriate time-- 120

There is no jesting with distress and crime.

Our worthy clerk had now arrived at fame,

Such as but few in his degree might claim;

But he was poor, and wanted not the sense

That lowly rates the praise without the pence:

He saw the common herd with reverence treat

The weakest burgess whom they chanced to meet;

While few respected his exalted views,

And all beheld his doublet and his shoes;

None, when they meet, would to his parts allow 130

(Save his poor boys) a hearing or a bow.

To this false judgment of the vulgar mind

He was not fully, as a saint, resign'd;

He found it much his jealous soul affect,

To fear derision and to find neglect.

The year was bad, the christening-fees were small,

The weddings few, the parties paupers all:

Desire of gain, with fear of want combined,

Raised sad commotion in his wounded mind;

Wealth was in all his thoughts, his views, his dreams, 140

And prompted base desires and baseless schemes.

Alas! how often erring mortals keep

The strongest watch against the foes who sleep;

While the more wakeful, bold and artful foe

Is suffer'd guardless and unmark'd to go.

Once in a month the sacramental bread

Our clerk with wine upon the table spread;

The custom this, that, as the vicar reads,

He for our off'rings round the church proceeds.

Tall, spacious seats the wealthier people hid, 150

And none had view of what his neighbour did;

Laid on the box and mingled when they fell,

Who should the worth of each oblation tell?

Now as poor Jachin took the usual round,

And saw the alms and heard the metal sound,

He had a thought;--at first it was no more

Than--"these have cash and give it to the poor."

A second thought from this to work began--

"And can they give it to a poorer man?"

Proceeding thus--"My merit could they know, 160

And knew my need, how freely they'd bestow;

But though they know not, these remain the same;

And are a strong, although a secret claim:

To me, alas! the want and worth are known;--

Why then, in fact, 'tis but to take my own."

Thought after thought pour'd in, a tempting train--

"Suppose it done, who is it could complain?

How could the poor? for they such trifles share

As add no comfort, as suppress no care;

But many a pittance makes a worthy heap-- 170

What says the law? that silence puts to sleep;--

Nought then forbids, the danger could we shun;

And sure the business may be safely done.

"But am I earnest?--earnest? No.--I say,

If such my mind, that I could plan a way;

Let me reflect;--I've not allow'd me time

To purse the pieces, and if dropp'd they'd chime."

Fertile is evil in the soul of man--

He paused--said Jachin, "They may drop on bran.

Why then 'tis safe and (all consider'd) just; 180

The poor receive it--'tis no breach of trust;

The old and widows may their trifles miss,

There must be evil in a good like this.

But I'll be kind--the sick I'll visit twice,

When now but once, and freely give advice.

Yet let me think again,"--Again he tried

For stronger reasons on his passion's side;

And quickly these were found, yet slowly he complied.

The morning came: the common service done--

Shut every door--the solemn rite begun; 190

And, as the priest the sacred sayings read,

The clerk went forward, trembling as he tread;

O'er the tall pew he held the box, and heard

The offer'd piece, rejoicing as he fear'd.

Just by the pillar, as he cautious tripp'd,

And turn'd the aile, he then a portion slipp'd

From the full store, and to the pocket sent,

But held a moment--and then down it went.

The priest read on; on walk'd the man afraid,

Till a gold offering in the plate was laid; 200

Trembling he took it, for a moment stopp'd,

Then down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd;

Amazed he started, for th' affrighted man,

Lost and bewildered, thought not of the bran;

But all were silent, all on things intent

Of high concern; none ear to money lent;

So on he walk'd, more cautious than before,

And gain'd the purposed sum, and one piece more.

_Practice makes perfect_;--when the month came round,

He dropp'd the cash, nor listen'd for a sound; 210

But yet, when, last of all th' assembled flock,

He ate and drank--it gave th' electric shock.

Oft was he forced his reasons to repeat,

Ere he could kneel in quiet at his seat;

But custom soothed him.--Ere a single year

All this was done without restraint or fear:

Cool and collected, easy and composed,

He was correct till all the service closed;

Then to his home, without a groan or sigh,

Gravely he went, and laid his treasure by. 220

Want will complain: some widows had express'd

A doubt if they were favour'd like the rest;

The rest described with like regret their dole,

And thus from parts they reason'd to the whole;

When all agreed some evil must be done,

Or rich men's hearts grew harder than a stone.

Our easy vicar cut the matter short;

He would not listen to such vile report.

All were not thus--there govern'd in that year }

A stern stout churl, an angry overseer; 230 }

A tyrant fond of power, loud, lewd, and most severe. }

Him the mild vicar, him the graver clerk,

Advised, reproved, but nothing would he mark,

Save the disgrace; "and that, my friends," said he,

"Will I avenge, whenever time may be."

And now, alas! 'twas time;--from man to man

Doubt and alarm and shrewd suspicions ran.

With angry spirit and with sly intent,

This parish ruler to the altar went;

A private mark he fix'd on shillings three, 240

And but one mark could in the money see;

Besides, in peering round, he chanced to note

A sprinkling slight on Jachin's Sunday-coat.

All doubt was over:--when the flock were bless'd,

In wrath he rose, and thus his mind express'd,

"Foul deeds are here!" and, saying this, he took

The clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook.

His pocket then was emptied on the place;

All saw his guilt; all witness'd his disgrace:

He fell, he fainted; not a groan, a look, 250

Escaped the culprit; 'twas a final stroke--

A death-wound never to be heal'd--a fall

That all had witness'd, and amazed were all.

As he recover'd, to his mind it came,

"I owe to Satan this disgrace and shame."

All the seduction now appear'd in view;

"Let me withdraw," he said, and he withdrew;

No one withheld him, all in union cried,

E'en the avenger--"We are satisfied;"

For what has death in any form to give, 260

Equal to that man's terrors, if he live?

He lived in freedom, but he hourly saw

How much more fatal justice is than law;

He saw another in his office reign,

And his mild master treat him with disdain;

He saw that all men shunn'd him, some reviled;

The harsh pass'd frowning, and the simple smiled;

The town maintain'd him, but with some reproof;

"And clerks and scholars proudly kept aloof."

In each lone place, dejected and dismay'd, 270

Shrinking from view, his wasting form he laid;

Or to the restless sea and roaring wind

Gave the strong yearnings of a ruin'd mind.

On the broad beach, the silent summer day,

Stretch'd on some wreck, he wore his life away;

Or where the river mingles with the sea, }

Or on the mud-bank by the elder-tree, }

Or by the bounding marsh-dyke, there was he; }

And when unable to forsake the town,

In the blind courts he sate desponding down-- 280

Always alone; then feebly would he crawl

The church-way walk, and lean upon the wall.

Too ill for this, he lay beside the door,

Compell'd to hear the reasoning of the poor:

He look'd so pale, so weak, the pitying crowd

Their firm belief of his repentance vow'd;

They saw him then so ghastly and so thin,

That they exclaim'd, "Is this the work of sin?"

"Yes," in his better moments, he replied,

"Of sinful avarice and the spirit's pride;-- 290

While yet untempted, I was safe and well;

Temptation came; I reason'd, and I fell.

To be man's guide and glory I design'd,

A rare example for our sinful kind;

But now my weakness and my guilt I see,

And am a warning--man, be warn'd by me!"

He said, and saw no more the human face;

To a lone loft he went, his dying place,

And, as the vicar of his state inquired,

Turn'd to the wall and silently expired! 300

FOOTNOTES:

[66] John Bunyan, in one of the many productions of his zeal, has

ventured to make public this extraordinary sentiment, which the

frigid piety of our clerk so readily adopted.

LETTER XX.

_THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH._

ELLEN ORFORD.

Patience and sorrow strove

Who should express her goodliest.

_Shakspeare. Lear_ [Act iv. Sc. 3, ll. 16-7].

"No charms she now can boast,"--'tis true,

But other charmers wither too:

"And she is old,"--the fact I know,

And old will other heroines grow;

But not like them has she been laid,

In ruin'd castle, sore dismay'd;

Where naughty man and ghostly spright

Fill'd her pure mind with awe and dread,

Stalk'd round the room, put out the light,

And shook the curtains round the bed.

No cruel uncle kept her land;

No tyrant father forced her hand;

She had no vixen virgin-aunt,

Without whose aid she could not eat,

And yet who poison'd all her meat,

With gibe and sneer and taunt.

Yet of the heroine she'd a share:

She saved a lover from despair,

And granted all his wish, in spite

Of what she knew and felt was right;

But heroine then no more,

She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd,

And humbly took the parish aid,

And dwelt among the poor.

The Widow's Cottage--Blind Ellen one--Hers not the Sorrows or

Adventures of Heroines--What these are, first described--Deserted

Wives; rash Lovers; courageous Damsels: in desolated Mansions; in

grievous Perplexity--These Evils, however severe, of short

Duration--Ellen's Story--Her Employment in Childhood--First Love;

first Adventure; its miserable Termination--An idiot Daughter--A

Husband--Care in Business without Success--The Man's Despondency

and its Effect--Their Children: how disposed of--One particularly

unfortunate--Fate of the Daughter--Ellen keeps a School and is

happy--Becomes blind; loses her School--Her Consolations.

LETTER XX.

_ELLEN ORFORD._

Observe yon tenement, apart and small,

Where the wet pebbles shine upon the wall;

Where the low benches lean beside the door,

And the red paling bounds the space before;

Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love[67] bloom--

That humble dwelling is the widow's home.

There live a pair, for various fortunes known,

But the Blind Ellen will relate her own;--

Yet, ere we hear the story she can tell,

On prouder sorrows let us briefly dwell. 10

I've often marvel'd, when by night, by day,

I've mark'd the manners moving in my way,

And heard the language and beheld the lives

Of lass and lover, goddesses and wives:

That books, which promise much of life to give,

Should show so little how we truly live.

To me it seems, their females and their men

Are but the creatures of the author's pen;

Nay, creatures borrow'd and again convey'd

From book to book--the shadows of a shade. 20

Life, if they'd search, would show them many a change,

The ruin sudden and the misery strange!

With more of grievous, base, and dreadful things,

Than novelists relate or poet sings.

But they, who ought to look the world around,

Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground;

Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold,

And plots are laid and histories are told.

Time have I lent--I would their debt were less--

To flow'ry pages of sublime distress; 30

And to the heroine's soul-distracting fears

I early gave my sixpences and tears:

Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales,

To Darnley-Cottages and Maple-Vales,

And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born sigh,

When Henry pass'd and gazed in passing by;

Till I beheld them pacing in the park,

Close by a coppice where 'twas cold and dark;

When such affection with such fate appear'd,

Want and a father to be shunn'd and fear'd, 40

Without employment, prospect, cot, or cash,

That I have judged th' heroic souls were rash.

Now shifts the scene--the fair, in tower confined,

In all things suffers but in change of mind;

Now woo'd by greatness to a bed of state,

Now deeply threaten'd with a dungeon's grate;

Till, suffering much and being tried enough,

She shines, triumphant maid!--temptation-proof.

Then was I led to vengeful monks, who mix

With nymphs and swains, and play unpriestly tricks; 50

Then view'd banditti, who in forest wide,

And cavern vast, indignant virgins hide;

Who, hemm'd with bands of sturdiest rogues about,

Find some strange succour, and come virgins out.

I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls;

I've stalk'd by moonlight through deserted halls;

And, when the weary world was sunk to rest,

I've had such sights as--may not be express'd.

Lo! that chateau, the western tower decay'd,

The peasants shun it--they are all afraid; 60

For there was done a deed!--could walls reveal,

Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel!

Most horrid was it:--for, behold, the floor

Has stain of blood, and will be clean no more.

Hark to the winds! which through the wide saloon

And the long passage send a dismal tune--

Music that ghosts delight in;--and now heed

Yon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the deed.

See! with majestic sweep she swims alone

Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan; 70

Though windows rattle, and though tap'stries shake,

And the feet falter every step they take,

'Mid groans and gibing sprights she silent goes, }

To find a something, which will soon expose }

The villanies and wiles of her determined foes; }

And, having thus adventured, thus endured,

Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured.

Much have I fear'd, but am no more afraid,

When some chaste beauty, by some wretch betray'd,

Is drawn away with such distracted speed, 80

That she anticipates a dreadful deed;--

Not so do I.--Let solid walls impound

The captive fair, and dig a moat around;

Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,

And keepers cruel, such as never feel;

With not a single note the purse supply,

And when she begs, let men and maids deny;

Be windows those from which she dares not fall,

And help so distant, 'tis in vain to call;

Still means of freedom will some power devise, 90

And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize.

To Northern Wales, in some sequester'd spot,

I've followed fair Louisa to her cot;

Where, then a wretched and deserted bride,

The injured fair-one wish'd from man to hide;

Till by her fond repenting Belville found,

By some kind chance--the straying of a hound--

He at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain;

For the relenting dove flew back again.

There's something rapturous in distress, or, oh! 100 }

Could Clementina bear her lot of wo? }

Or what she underwent could maiden undergo? }

The day was fix'd; for so the lover sigh'd,

So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied;

When, tale most dreadful! every hope adieu--

For the fond lover is the brother too:

All other griefs abate; this monstrous grief

Has no remission, comfort, or relief;

Four ample volumes, through each page disclose--

Good Heaven protect us!--only woes on woes; 110

Till some strange means afford a sudden view

Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu![68]

Now, should we grant these beauties all endure

Severest pangs, they've still the speediest cure,

Before one charm be wither'd from the face, }

Except the bloom, which shall again have place, }

In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace; }

And life to come we fairly may suppose

One light, bright contrast to these wild dark woes.

These let us leave, and at her sorrows look, 120

Too often seen, but seldom in a book;

Let her who felt, relate them.--On her chair

The heroine sits--in former years the fair,

Now aged and poor; but Ellen Orford knows,

That we should humbly take what Heav'n bestows.

"My father died--again my mother wed,

And found the comforts of her life were fled;

Her angry husband, vex'd through half his years

By loss and troubles, fill'd her soul with fears;

Their children many, and 'twas my poor place 130

To nurse and wait on all the infant-race;

Labour and hunger were indeed my part,

And should have strengthen'd an erroneous heart.

"Sore was the grief to see him angry come,

And, teased with business, make distress at home;

The father's fury and the children's cries

I soon could bear, but not my mother's sighs;

For she look'd back on comforts, and would say,

'I wrong'd thee, Ellen,' and then turn away.

Thus for my age's good, my youth was tried, 140

And this my fortune till my mother died.

"So, amid sorrow much and little cheer--

A common case--I pass'd my twentieth year;

For these are frequent evils; thousands share

An equal grief--the like domestic care.

"Then in my days of bloom, of health and youth,

One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth.

We often met, he dreading to be seen,

And much I question'd what such dread might mean;

Yet I believed him true; my simple heart 150

And undirected reason took his part.

"Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive? }

Can I such wrong of one so kind believe, }

Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when I grieve? }

"He dared not marry, but we met to prove

What sad encroachments and deceits has love:

Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew,

I let him see that I was wretched too;

When less my caution, I had still the pain

Of his or mine own weakness to complain. 160

"Happy the lovers class'd alike in life,

Or happier yet the rich endowing wife;

But most aggrieved the fond believing maid,

Of her rich lover tenderly afraid.

You judge th' event; for grievous was my fate,

Painful to feel, and shameful to relate:

Ah! sad it was my burthen to sustain,

When the least misery was the dread of pain;

When I have grieving told him my disgrace,

And plainly mark'd indifference in his face. 170

"Hard! with these fears and terrors to behold

The cause of all, the faithless lover cold;

Impatient grown at every wish denied,

And barely civil, soothed and gratified;

Peevish when urged to think of vows so strong,

And angry when I spake of crime and wrong.

"All this I felt, and still the sorrow grew,

Because I felt that I deserved it too,

And begg'd my infant stranger to forgive

The mother's shame, which in herself must live. 180

"When known that shame, I, soon expell'd from home,

With a frail sister shared a hovel's gloom;

There barely fed--(what could I more request?)--

My infant slumberer sleeping at my breast;

I from my window saw his blooming bride,

And my seducer smiling at her side;

Hope lived till then; I sank upon the floor,

And grief and thought and feeling were no more.

Although revived, I judged that life would close,

And went to rest, to wonder that I rose: 190

My dreams were dismal; wheresoe'er I stray'd,

I seem'd ashamed, alarm'd, despised, betray'd;

Always in grief, in guilt, disgraced, forlorn,

Mourning that one so weak, so vile, was born;

The earth a desert, tumult in the sea, }

The birds affrighted fled from tree to tree, }

Obscured the setting sun, and every thing like me; }

But Heav'n had mercy, and my need at length

Urged me to labour and renew'd my strength.

"I strove for patience as a sinner must, 200

Yet felt th' opinion of the world unjust:

There was my lover, in his joy, esteem'd,

And I, in my distress, as guilty deem'd;

Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belong

To her who feels and suffers for the wrong.

The cheat at play may use the wealth he's won,

But is not honour'd for the mischief done;

The cheat in love may use each villain-art,

And boast the deed that breaks the victim's heart.

"Four years were past; I might again have found 210

Some erring wish, but for another wound:

Lovely my daughter grew, her face was fair;

But no expression ever brighten'd there.

I doubted long, and vainly strove to make

Some certain meaning of the words she spake;

But meaning there was none, and I survey'd

With dread the beauties of my idiot-maid.

"Still I submitted;--Oh! 'tis meet and fit

In all we feel to make the heart submit;

Gloomy and calm my days, but I had then, 220

It seem'd, attractions for the eyes of men.

The sober master of a decent trade

O'erlook'd my errors, and his offer made;

Reason assented;--true, my heart denied,

'But thou,' I said, 'shalt be no more my guide.'

"When wed, our toil and trouble, pains and care,

Of means to live procured us humble share;

Five were our sons,--and we, though careful, found

Our hopes declining as the year came round;

For I perceived, yet would not soon perceive, 230

My husband stealing from my view to grieve;

Silent he grew, and when he spoke he sigh'd,

And surly look'd and peevishly replied.

Pensive by nature, he had gone of late

To those who preach'd of destiny and fate,

Of things fore-doom'd, and of election-grace,

And how in vain we strive to run our race;

That all by works and moral worth we gain }

Is to perceive our care and labour vain; }

That still the more we pay, our debts the more remain; 240 }

That he who feels not the mysterious call,

Lies bound in sin, still grov'ling from the fall.

My husband felt not;--our persuasion, prayer,

And our best reason darken'd his despair;

His very nature changed; he now reviled

My former conduct--he reproach'd my child;

He talk'd of bastard slips, and cursed his bed,

And from our kindness to concealment fled;

For ever to some evil change inclined, }

To every gloomy thought he lent his mind, 250 }

Nor rest would give to us, nor rest himself could find; }

His son suspended saw him, long bereft

Of life, nor prospect of revival left.

"With him died all our prospects, and once more

I shared th' allotments of the parish poor;

They took my children too, and this I know

Was just and lawful, but I felt the blow;

My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boy

Were left, a mother's misery and her joy.

"Three sons I follow'd to the grave, and one-- 260

Oh! can I speak of that unhappy son?

Would all the memory of that time were fled,

And all those horrors, with my child, were dead!

Before the world seduced him, what a grace

And smile of gladness shone upon his face!

Then he had knowledge; finely would he write;

Study to him was pleasure and delight;

Great was his courage, and but few could stand

Against the sleight and vigour of his hand;

The maidens loved him;--when he came to die, 270

No, not the coldest could suppress a sigh.

Here I must cease--how can I say, my child

Was by the bad of either sex beguiled?

Worst of the bad--they taught him that the laws

Made wrong and right; there was no other cause;

That all religion was the trade of priests,

And men, when dead, must perish like the beasts;--

And he, so lively and so gay before--

Ah! spare a mother--I can tell no more.

"Int'rest was made that they should not destroy 280

The comely form of my deluded boy--

But pardon came not; damp the place and deep

Where he was kept, as they'd a tiger keep;

For he, unhappy! had before them all

Vow'd he'd escape, whatever might befall.

"He'd means of dress, and dress'd beyond his means,

And, so to see him in such dismal scenes,

I cannot speak it--cannot bear to tell

Of that sad hour--I heard the passing-bell!

"Slowly they went; he smiled and look'd so smart, 290

Yet sure he shudder'd when he saw the cart,

And gave a look--until my dying-day,

That look will never from my mind away;

Oft as I sit, and ever in my dreams,

I see that look, and they have heard my screams.

"Now let me speak no more--yet all declared

That one so young, in pity should be spared,

And one so manly;--on his graceful neck,

That chains of jewels may be proud to deck,

To a small mole a mother's lips have press'd-- 300

And there the cord--my breath is sore oppress'd.

"I now can speak again:--my elder boy

Was that year drown'd--a seaman in a hoy.

He left a numerous race; of these would some

In their young troubles to my cottage come;

And these I taught--an humble teacher I--

Upon their heavenly Parent to rely.

"Alas! I needed such reliance more:--

My idiot-girl, so simply gay before,

Now wept in pain; some wretch had found a time, 310

Depraved and wicked, for that coward-crime;

I had indeed my doubt, but I suppress'd

The thought that day and night disturb'd my rest;

She and that sick-pale brother--but why strive

To keep the terrors of that time alive?

"The hour arrived, the new, th' undreaded pain,

That came with violence and yet came in vain.

I saw her die; her brother too is dead,

Nor own'd such crime--what is it that I dread?

"The parish-aid withdrawn, I look'd around, 320

And in my school a bless'd subsistence found--

My winter-calm of life: to be of use

Would pleasant thoughts and heavenly hopes produce;

I loved them all; it soothed me to presage

The various trials of their riper age,

Then dwell on mine, and bless the Power who gave

Pains to correct us, and remorse to save.

"Yes! these were days of peace, but they are past--

A trial came, I will believe, a last;

I lost my sight, and my employment gone, 330

Useless I live, but to the day live on;

Those eyes, which long the light of heaven enjoy'd,

Were not by pain, by agony destroy'd;

My senses fail not all; I speak, I pray;

By night my rest, my food I take by day;

And as my mind looks cheerful to my end,

I love mankind and call my God my friend."

NOTES TO LETTER XX.

[67] Note 1, page 470, line 5.

_Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love bloom._

The lad's or boy's love of some counties is the plant southernwood,

the artemisia abrotanum of botanists.

[68] Note 2, page 473, line 112.

_Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu!_

As this incident points out the work alluded to, I wish it to be

remembered, that the gloomy tenour, the querulous melancholy of the

story, is all I censure. The language of the writer is often

animated, and is, I believe, correct; the characters well drawn, and

the manners described from real life; but the perpetual occurrence

of sad events, the protracted list of teasing and perplexing

mischances, joined with much waspish invective, unallayed by

pleasantry or sprightliness, and these continued through many

hundred pages, render publications, intended for amusement and

executed with ability, heavy and displeasing;--you find your

favourite persons happy in the end; but they have teased you so much

with their perplexities by the way, that you were frequently

disposed to quit them in their distresses.

LETTER XXI.

_THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH._

ABEL KEENE.

[Coepisti] melius quam [desinis]: ultima primis

Cedunt. Dissimiles: hic vir et ille puer.

_Ovid. Deïanira Herculi_ [Heroid. VIII. vv. 23-4].

Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that, in the latter times, some

shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and

doctrines of devils.

[I] _Epistle to Timothy_, [ch. IV. v. 1].

Abel, a poor Man, Teacher of a School of the lower Order; is placed in

the Office of a Merchant; is alarmed by Discourses of the Clerks;

unable to reply; becomes a Convert; dresses, drinks, and ridicules

his former Conduct--The Remonstrance of his Sister, a devout

Maiden--Its Effect--The Merchant dies--Abel returns to Poverty

unpitied; but relieved--His abject Condition--His Melancholy--He

wanders about: is found--His own Account of himself, and the

Revolutions in his Mind.

LETTER XXI.

_ABEL KEENE._

A quiet simple man was Abel Keene;

He meant no harm, nor did he often mean.

He kept a school of loud rebellious boys,

And growing old, grew nervous with the noise;

When a kind merchant hired his useful pen,

And made him happiest of accompting men;

With glee he rose to every easy day,

When half the labour brought him twice the pay.

There were young clerks, and there the merchant's son,

Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one; 10

It must, no question, give them lively joy,

Hopes long indulged, to combat and destroy;

At these they level'd all their skill and strength--

He fell not quickly, but he fell at length.

They quoted books, to him both bold and new,

And scorn'd as fables all he held as true--

"Such monkish stories and such nursery lies,"

That he was struck with terror and surprise.

"What! all his life had he the laws obey'd,

Which they broke through and were not once afraid? 20

Had he so long his evil passions check'd,

And yet at last had nothing to expect?

While they their lives in joy and pleasure led,

And then had nothing, at the end, to dread?

Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd,

A part! a speech! for which the man was paid?

And were his pious books, his solemn prayers,

Not worth one tale of the admired Voltaire's?

Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd,

To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd, 30

And on all pleasures, which his purse could give,

Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live."

Much time he passed in this important strife,

The bliss or bane of his remaining life;

For converts all are made with care and grief,

And pangs attend the birth of unbelief;

Nor pass they soon;--with awe and fear he took

The flow'ry way, and cast back many a look.

The youths applauded much his wise design,

With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine; 40

And much in private 'twould their mirth improve,

To hear how Abel spake of life and love;

To hear him own what grievous pains it cost,

Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost;

Ere his poor mind with every deed alarm'd,

By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd.

For Abel enter'd in his bold career,

Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear;

Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went,

Repenting now, now dreading to repent; 50

With awkward pace, and with himself at war,

Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far;

Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise,

And then proceed with blunders and delays.

The young more aptly passion's calls pursue, }

But age and weakness start at scenes so new, }

And tremble when they've done, for all they dared to do. }

At length example Abel's dread removed;

With small concern he sought the joys he loved;

Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame, 60

And first their votary, then their wit became;

His jest was bitter and his satire bold,

When he his tales of formal brethren told,

What time with pious neighbours he discuss'd,

Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust:

"Such were our dreams," the jovial elder cried;

"Awake and live," his youthful friends replied.

Now the gay clerk a modest drab despised,

And clad him smartly as his friends advised;

So fine a coat upon his back he threw, 70

That not an alley-boy old Abel knew;

Broad polish'd buttons blazed that coat upon,

And just beneath the watch's trinkets shone--

A splendid watch, that pointed out the time,

To fly from business and make free with crime.

The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose

Rank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux;

His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain,

And light elastic locks encased his brain:

More pliant pupil who could hope to find, 80

So deck'd in person and so changed in mind?

When Abel walk'd the streets, with pleasant mien

He met his friends, delighted to be seen;

And, when he rode along the public way,

No beau so gaudy and no youth so gay.

His pious sister, now an ancient maid, }

For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd; }

Then thus in love and scorn her notions she convey'd: }

"Alas! my brother! can I see thee pace }

Hoodwink'd to hell, and not lament thy case, 90 }

Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race? }

Lo! thou art bound; a slave in Satan's chain,

The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain;

His brother's blood against the murderer cried;

Against thee thine, unhappy suicide!

Are all our pious nights and peaceful days,

Our evening readings and our morning praise,

Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent,

Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent,

All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed-- 100

Are these for ever and for ever fled?

"When in the years gone by, the trying years,

When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears,

Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not eat

(Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat;

When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe,

Slow pass'd the days of the successless year;

Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then

Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men:

And when thy heart has felt its wish denied, 110

What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied;

Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed,

By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed;

Then I have seen thy lively looks express

The spirit's comforts in the man's distress.

"Then didst thou cry, exulting, 'Yes, 'tis fit,

'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit;'

And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh

Against such triumphs?--Oh! repent and pray.

"What are thy pleasures?--with the gay to sit, 120

And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit;

All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain,

And give a wicked pleasure to the vain;

Thy long lean frame by fashion to attire,

That lads may laugh and wantons may admire;

To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see,

Unhappy maniac! that they laugh at thee.

"These boyish follies, which alone the boy

Can idly act or gracefully enjoy,

Add new reproaches to thy fallen state, 130

And make men scorn what they would only hate.

"What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove

A taste for follies which thou canst not love!

Why do thy stiffening limbs the steed bestride--

That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride?

And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek)

Dost thou by night in Diamond-Alley sneak?

"Farewell! the parish will thy sister keep, }

Where she in peace shall pray and sing and sleep, }

Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, wandering sheep! 140 }

When youth is fall'n, there's hope the young may rise,

But fallen age for ever hopeless lies:

Torn up by storms and placed in earth once more,

The younger tree may sun and soil restore;

But when the old and sapless trunk lies low,

No care or soil can former life bestow;

Reserved for burning is the worthless tree;

And what, O Abel! is reserved for thee?"

These angry words our hero deeply felt,

Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt! 150

To gain relief he took a glass the more,

And, then went on as careless as before;

Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amusements he partook,

And (save his ledger) saw no decent book;

Him found the merchant punctual at his task,

And, that perform'd, he'd nothing more to ask;

He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool,

No master he, beyond the hours of school:

Thus they, proceeding, had their wine and joke,

Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke, 160

And, after struggling half a gloomy week,

Left his poor clerk another friend to seek.

Alas! the son, who led the saint astray,

Forgot the man whose follies made him gay;

He cared no more for Abel in his need,

[Than] Abel cared about his hackney steed;

He now, alas! had all his earnings spent,

And thus was left to languish and repent;

No school nor clerkship found he in the place,

Now lost to fortune, as before to grace. 170

For town-relief the grieving man applied,

And begg'd with tears what some with scorn denied;

Others look'd down upon the glowing vest,

And, frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd?

Happy for him his country's laws are mild,

They must support him, though they still reviled;

Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd,

Of God unmindful, and of man afraid--

No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to speak,

His heart was sinking and his frame was weak. 180

His sister died with such serene delight,

He once again began to think her right;

Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay,

And sweet assurance bless'd her dying-day;

Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh,

Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die.

The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door,

Just mention'd "Abel!" and then thought no more.

So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn,

Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn. 190

And now we saw him on the beach reclined,

Or causeless walking in the wint'ry wind;

And, when it raised a loud and angry sea,

He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie;

He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow;

Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow.

Sometimes his frame through many an hour he spread

Upon a tombstone, moveless as the dead;

And, was there found a sad and silent place,

There would he creep with slow and measured pace. 200

Then would he wander by the river's side,

And fix his eyes upon the falling tide;

The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen,

And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then:

There, to his discontented thoughts a prey,

The melancholy mortal pined away.

The neighb'ring poor at length began to speak

Of Abel's ramblings--he'd been gone a week,

They knew not where; and little care they took

For one so friendless and so poor to look; 210

At last a stranger, in a pedler's shed,

Beheld him hanging--he had long been dead.

He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times,

Intitled thus--"My Groanings and my Crimes!"

"I was a christian man, and none could lay

Aught to my charge; I walk'd the narrow way:

All then was simple faith, serene and pure,

My hope was steadfast and my prospects sure;

Then was I tried by want and sickness sore, }

But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before, 220 }

And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore. }

Alas! new foes assail'd me; I was vain,

They stung my pride and they confused my brain:

Oh! these deluders! with what glee they saw

Their simple dupe transgress the righteous law;

'Twas joy to them to view that dreadful strife,

When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life;

So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart,

Then with their logic they allay'd the smart;

They proved (so thought I then) with reasons strong, 230

That no man's feelings ever led him wrong;

And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice,

The smooth career of unbelief and vice.

Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and bold,

Their witty tales of naughty priests unfold;

''Twas all a craft,' they said, 'a cunning trade,

Not she the priests, but priests religion made:'

So I believed;"--No, Abel! to thy grief,

So thou relinquish'dst all that was belief;--

"I grew as very flint, and when the rest 240

Laugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest;

But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew, }

When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew; }

Yea! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too. }

"The mouse that trespass'd and the treasure stole,

Found his lean body fitted to the hole;

Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay,

And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away.

Ah! worse for me--grown poor, I yet remain

In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain. 250

"At length I thought: although these friends of sin

Have spread their net and caught their prey therein;

Though my hard heart could not for mercy call,

Because, though great my grief, my faith was small;

Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely,

The soul diseased may to a doctor fly.

"A famous one there was, whose skill had wrought

Cures past relief, and him the sinners sought;

Numbers there were denied by mire and filth,

Whom he recover'd by his goodly tilth:-- 260

'Come then,' I said, 'let me the man behold,

And tell my case;'--I saw him and I told.

"With trembling voice, 'Oh! reverend sir,' I said,

'I once believed, and I was then misled;

And now such doubts my sinful soul beset,

I dare not say that I'm a Christian yet;

Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill,

Inform my judgment and direct my will?

Ah! give thy cordial; let my soul have rest,

And be the outward man alone distress'd; 270

For at my state I tremble.'--'Tremble more,'

Said the good man, 'and then rejoice therefore;

'Tis good to tremble; prospects then are fair,

When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair.

Once thou wert simply honest, just and pure,

Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a cure;

Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace;

Now thou'rt an object meet for healing grace;

No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief; }

Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief, 280 }

The best, the only titles to relief.' }

"'What must I do,' I said, 'my soul to free?'

'--Do nothing, man; it will be done for thee.'

'But must I not, my reverend guide, believe?'

'--If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faith receive;'--

'But I repent not.'--Angry he replied,

'If thou art call'd, thou needest nought beside;

Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree,

The call will come--if not, ah! wo for thee.'

"There then I waited, ever on the watch, 290

A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch;

His words fell softly like the flakes of snow,

But I could never find my heart o'erflow.

He cried aloud, till in the flock began

The sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man;

They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I,

Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry.

To me no tokens of the call would come,

I felt my sentence and received my doom;

But I complain'd;--'Let thy repinings cease, 300 }

Oh! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase; }

It bloweth where it listeth,--die in peace.' }

--'In peace, and perish?' I replied; 'impart

Some better comfort to a burthen'd heart.'--

'Alas!' the priest return'd, 'can I direct

The heavenly call?--Do I proclaim th' elect?

Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will,

But take thy part with sinners and be still[69].'

"Alas! for me, no more the times of peace

Are mine on earth--in death my pains may cease. 310

"Foes to my soul! ye young seducers, know,

What serious ills from your amusements flow;

Opinions you with so much ease profess

O'erwhelm the simple and their minds oppress:

Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong,

That make them wretched, prove their notions wrong;

Let them proceed in that they deem the way,

Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray.

Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot;

And so had Dives, but it help'd him not. 320

And is it thus?--I'm full of doubts:--Adieu!

Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too."

NOTE TO LETTER XXI.

[69] Note 1, page 489, line 308.

_But take thy part with sinners and be still._

In a periodical work for the month of June last, the preceding

dialogue is pronounced to be a most abominable caricature, if meant

to be applied to Calvinists in general, and greatly distorted, if

designed for an individual. Now, the author in his preface has

declared, that he takes not upon him the censure of any sect or

society for their opinions; and the lines themselves evidently point

to an individual, whose sentiments they very fairly represent,

without any distortion whatsoever. In a pamphlet entitled "A Cordial

for a Sin-despairing Soul," originally written by a teacher of

religion, and lately re-published by another teacher of greater

notoriety, the reader is informed that after he had full assurance

of his salvation, the Spirit entered particularly into the subject

with him; and, among many other matters of like nature, assured him

that "his sins were fully and freely forgiven, as if they had never

been committed: not for any act done by him, whether believing in

Christ, or repenting of sin; nor yet for the sorrows and miseries he

endured, nor for any service he should be called upon in his

militant state, but for his own name and for his glory's sake[70],"

&c. And the whole drift and tenour of the book is to the same

purpose, viz. the uselessness of all religious duties, such as

prayer, contrition, fasting, and good works: he shows the evil done

by reading such books as the Whole Duty of Man, and the Practice of

Piety; and complains heavily of his relation, an Irish bishop, who

wanted him to join with the household in family prayer: in fact, the

whole work inculcates that sort of quietism which this dialogue

alludes to, and that without any recommendation of attendance on the

teachers of the Gospel, but rather holding forth encouragement to

the supineness of man's nature; by the information that he in vain

looks for acceptance by the employment of his talents, and that his

hopes of glory are rather extinguished than raised by any

application to the means of grace.

[70] Cordial, &c. page 87.

LETTER XXII.

_THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH._

PETER GRIMES.

----Was a sordid soul,

Such as does murder for a meed;

Who but for fear knows no control,

Because his conscience, sear'd and foul,

Feels not the import of the deed;

One whose brute feeling ne'er aspires

Beyond his own more brute desires.

_Scott, Marmion_ [Canto II.].

Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd

Came to my tent, and every one did threat----

_Shakspeare. Richard III._ [Act V. Sc. 3, vv. 204-5].

The times have been,

That, when the brains were out, the man would die,

And there an end; but now they rise again,

With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,

And push us from our stools.

_Macbeth_ [Act III. Sc. 4. vv. 78-82].

The Father of Peter a Fisherman--Peter's early Conduct--His Grief for

the old Man--He takes an Apprentice--The Boy's Suffering and

Fate--A second Boy: how he died--Peter acquitted--A third

Apprentice--A Voyage by Sea: the Boy does not return--Evil Report

on Peter: he is tried and threatened--Lives alone--His Melancholy

and incipient Madness--Is observed and visited--He escapes and is

taken: is lodged in a Parish-house: Women attend and watch him--He

speaks in a Delirium: grows more collected--His Account of his

Feelings and visionary Terrors previous to his Death.

LETTER XXII.

_PETER GRIMES._