Volume 3 / Book 22 — THE FAREWELL AND RETURN (continued 2)
Reading edition
Or called him Neighbour; and with reason good—
The friendship rising from the neighbourhood:
A sober kind, in common service known,
Not such as is in death and peril shown;
Such as will give or ask a helping hand,
But no important sacrifice demand;
In fact, a friendship that will long abide,
If seldom rashly, never strongly, tried. 40
Yes! these are sober friendships, made for use,
And much convenience they in life produce:
Like a good coat, that keeps us from the cold,
The cloth of frieze is not a cloth of gold;
But neither is it pyebald, pieced, and poor;
’Tis a good useful coat, and nothing more.
Such is the Friendship of the world approved,
And here the Friends so loving and so loved.—
Danvers and Rayner, equals, who had made
Each decent fortune, both were yet in trade; 50
While sons and daughters, with a youthful zeal,
Seem’d the hereditary love to feel;
And ev’n their wives, though either might pretend
To claim some notice, call’d each other friend.
While yet their offspring boys and girls appear’d,
The fathers ask’d, “What evil could be fear’d?”
Nor is it easy to assign the year,
When cautious parents should begin to fear.
The boys must leave their schools, and, by and by,
The girls are sure to grow reserved and shy; 60
And then, suppose a real love should rise,
It but unites the equal families.
Love does not always from such freedom spring;
327Distrust, perhaps, would sooner cause the thing.
“We will not check it, neither will we force”—
Thus said the fathers—“Let it take its course.”
It took its course:—young Richard Danvers’ mind
In Phœbe Rayner found what lovers find—
Sense, beauty, sweetness; all that mortal eyes
Can see, or heart conceive, or thought devise. 70
And Phœbe’s eye, and thought, and heart could trace
In Richard Danvers every manly grace—
All that e’er maiden wish’d, or matron prized—
So well these good young people sympathised.
All their relations, neighbours, and allies,
All their dependants, visitors, and spies,
Such as a wealthy family caress,
Said here was love, and drank to love’s success.
’Tis thus I leave the parties, young and old,
Lovers and Friends. Will Love and Friendship hold? 80
Will Prudence with the children’s wish comply,
And Friendship strengthen with that new ally?
II.
P. I see no more within our borough’s bound
The name of Danvers! Is it to be found?
Were the young pair in Hymen’s fetters tied,
Or did succeeding years the Friends divide?
F. Nay! take the story, as by time brought forth,
And of such Love and Friendship judge the worth.
While the lad’s love—his parents call’d it so—
Was going on, as well as love could go, 90
A wealthy Danvers, in a distant place,
Left a large fortune to this favour’d race.
To that same place the father quickly went,
And Richard only murmur’d weak dissent.
Of Richard’s heart the parent truly guess’d:—
“Well, my good lad! then do what suits thee best;
No doubt thy brothers will do all they can
T’ obey the orders of the good old man.
Well, I would not thy free-born spirit bind;
Take, Dick, the way to which thou’rt most inclined.” 100
328No answer gave the youth; nor did he swear
The old man’s riches were beneath his care;
Nor that he would with his dear Phœbe stay,
And let his heartless father move away.
No! kind and constant, tender, faithful, fond—
Thus far he’d go—but not one step beyond!
Not disobedient to a parent’s will—
A lover constant—but dependent still.
Letters, at first, between the constant swain
And the kind damsel banish’d all their pain. 110
Both full and quick they were; for lovers write
With vast despatch, and read with vast delight—
So quick they were—for Love is never slow—
So full, they ever seem’d to overflow.
Their hearts are ever fill’d with grief or joy,
And these to paint is every hour’s employ;
Joy they would not retain, and, for their grief,
To read such letters is a sure relief.
But, in due time, both joy and grief supprest,
They found their comfort in a little rest. 120
Mails went and came without the accustom’d freight,
For Love grew patient, and content to wait—
Yet was not dead, nor yet afraid to die;
For, though he wrote not, Richard wonder’d why.
He could not justly tell how letters pass’d,
But, as to him appear’d, he wrote the last;
In this he meant not to accuse the maid—
Love, in some cases, ceases to upbraid.
Yet not indifferent was our Lover grown,
Although the ardour of the flame was flown; 130
He still of Phœbe thought, her lip, her smile—
But grew contented with his fate the while.
Thus, not inconstant were the youthful pair—
The Lad remembered still the Lass was fair;
And Phœbe still, with half-affected sigh,
Thought it a pity that such love should die;
And had they then, with this persuasion, met,
Love had rekindled, and been glowing yet.
But times were changed; no mention now was made
By the old Squire, or by the young, of trade. 140
329The worthy Lady, and her children all,
Had due respect—The People at the Hall.
His Worship now read Burn, and talk’d with skill
About the poor-house, and the turnpike-bill;
Lord of a manor, he had serious claims,
And knew the poaching rascals by their names.
And, if the father thus improved his mind,
Be sure the children were not far behind:
To rank and riches what respect was due,
To them and theirs what deference, well they knew, 150
And, from the greatest to the least, could show
What to the favouring few the favour’d many owe.
The mind of man must have whereon to work,
Or it will rust—we see it in the Turk;
And Justice Danvers, though he read the news,
And all of law that magistrates peruse—
Bills about roads and charities—yet still
Wanted employ his vacant mind to fill;
These were not like the shipping, once his pride,
Now, with his blue surtout, laid all aside. 160
No doubt, his spirits in their ebb to raise,
He found some help in men’s respect and praise—
Praise of his house, his land, his lawn, his trees—
He cared not what—to praise him was to please:
Yet, though his rural neighbours called to dine,
And some might kindly praise his food and wine,
This was not certain, and, another day,
He must the visit and the praise repay.
By better motives urged—we will suppose—
He thus began his purpose to disclose 170
To his good lady:—“We have lived a year,
And never ask’d our friends the Rayners here.
Do let us ask them—as for Richard’s flame,
It went, we see, as idly as it came—
Invite them kindly—here’s a power of room,
And the poor people will be glad to come.
Outside and in, the coach will hold them all,
And set them down beside the garden wall.”
The Lady wrote, for that was all he meant,
Kind soul! by asking for his wife’s assent; 180
330And every Rayner was besought to come
To dine in Hulver Hall’s grand dining-room.
About this time old Rayner, who had lost
His Friend’s advice, was by misfortune cross’d:
Some debtors fail’d, when large amounts were due,
So large, that he was nearly failing too;
But he, grown wary, that he might not fail,
Brought to in adverse gales, and shorten’d sail;
This done, he rested, and could now attend
The invitation of his distant Friend. 190
“Well! he would go; but not, indeed, t’ admire
The state and grandeur of the new-made Squire;
Danvers, belike, now wealthy, might impart
Some of his gold; for Danvers had a heart,
And may have heard, though guarded so around,
That I have lost the fortune he has found.
Yes! Dick is kind, or he and his fine seat
Might go to——where we never more should meet.”
Now, lo! the Rayners all at Hulver Place—
Or Hulver Hall—’tis not a certain case; 200
’Tis only known that Ladies’ notes were sent
Directed both ways, and they always went.
We pass the greetings, and the dinner pass,
All the male gossip o’er the sparkling glass,
And female, when retired.—The Squire invites
His Friend, by sleep refresh’d, to see his sights—
His land and lions, granary, barns, and crops, }
His dairy, piggery, pinery, apples, hops;— }
But here a hill appears, and Peter Rayner stops. }
“Ah! my old Friend, I give you joy,” he cries; 210
“But some are born to fall, and some to rise;
You’re better many a thousand, I the worse—
Dick, there’s no dealing with a failing purse;
Nor does it shame me (mine is all mischance)
To wish some friendly neighbour would advance”—
——But here the guest on such a theme was low.
His host, meantime, intent upon the show,
In hearing heard not—they came out to see—
And, pushing forward, “There’s a view,” quoth he;
“Observe that ruin, built, you see, to catch 220
331The gazer’s eye; that cottage with the thatch—
It cost me—guess you what?”—that sound of cost
Was accidental, but it was not lost.
“Ah! my good Friend, be sure such things as these
Suit well enough a man who lives at ease.
Think what ‘The Betsy’ cost, and think the shock
Of losing her upon the Dodder-Rock!
The tidings reach’d me on the very day
That villain robb’d us, and then ran away.
Loss upon loss! now if”——
“Do stay a bit;” 230
Exclaim’d the Squire, “these matters hardly fit
A morning ramble—let me show you now
My team of oxen, and my patent plough.
Talk of your horses! I the plan condemn—
They eat us up—but oxen! we eat them;
For first they plough and bring us bread to eat,
And then we fat and kill them—there’s the meat.
What’s your opinion?”—
—“I am poorly fed,
And much afraid to want both meat and bread,”
Said Rayner, half indignant; and the Squire 240}
Sigh’d, as he felt he must no more require }
A man, whose prospects fail’d, his prospects to admire. }
Homeward they moved, and met a gentle pair,
The poor man’s daughter, and the rich man’s heir.
This caused some thought; but on the couple went,
And a soft hour in tender converse spent.
This pair, in fact, their passion roused anew,
Alone much comfort from the visit drew.
At home the Ladies were engaged, and all
Show’d or were shown the wonders of the Hall; 250
From room to room the weary guests went on,
Till every Rayner wish’d the show was done.
Home they return’d; the Father deeply sigh’d }
To find he vainly had for aid applied; }
It hurt him much to ask—and more to be denied. }
The younger Richard, who alone sustain’d
The dying Friendship, true to Love remain’d.
His Phœbe’s smiles, although he did not yet
332Fly to behold, he could not long forget;
Nor durst he visit, nor was love so strong, 260
That he could more than think his Father wrong;
For, wrong or right, that father still profess’d
The most obedient son should fare the best.
So time pass’d on; the second spring appear’d,
Ere Richard ventured on the deed he fear’d.—
He dared at length; and not so much for love,
I grieve to add, but that he meant to prove
He had a will.—His father, in reply,
This known, had answer’d, “So, my son, have I.”
But Richard’s courage was by prudence taught, 270
And he his nymph in secret service sought.
Some days of absence—not with full consent, }
But with slow leave—were to entreaty lent; }
And forth the Lover rode, uncertain what he meant. }
He reached the dwelling he had known so long,
When a pert damsel told him, “he was wrong;
Their house she did not just precisely know,
But he would find it somewhere in the Row;
The Rayners now were come a little down,
Nor more the topmost people in the town.” 280
She might have added, they their life enjoy’d,
Although on things less hazardous employ’d.
This was not much; but yet the damsel’s sneer,
And the Row-dwelling of a lass so dear,
Were somewhat startling. He had heard, indeed,
That Rayner’s business did not well succeed:
“But what of that? They lived in decent style,
No doubt, and Phœbe still retain’d her smile;
And why,” he asked, “should all men choose to dwell
In broad cold streets?—the Row does just as well, 290
Quiet and snug;” and then the favourite maid
Rose in his fancy, tastefully array’d,
Looking with grateful joy upon the swain,
Who could his love in trying times retain.
Soothed by such thoughts, to the new house he came,
Surveyed its aspect, sigh’d, and gave his name.
But ere they opened, he had waited long,
And heard a movement—Was there somewhat wrong?
333Nay, but a friendly party, he was told; }
And look’d around, as wishing to behold 300}
Some friends—but these were not the friends of old. }
Old Peter Rayner, in his own old mode,
Bade the Squire welcome to his new abode,
For Richard had been kind, and doubtless meant
To make proposals now, and ask consent.
Mamma and misses, too, were civil all;
But what their awkward courtesy to call,
He knew not; neither could he well express
His sad sensations at their strange address.
And then their laughter loud, their story-telling, 310
All seem’d befitting to that Row and dwelling;
The hearty welcome to the various treat
Was lost on him—he could nor laugh nor eat.
But one thing pleased him, when he look’d around,
His clearest Phœbe could not there be found:
“Wise and discreet,” he says, “she shuns the crew
Of vulgar neighbours, some kind act to do;
In some fair house, some female friend to meet,
Or take at evening prayer in church her seat.”
Meantime there rose, amid the ceaseless din, 320}
A mingled scent, that crowded room within, }
Rum and red-herring, Cheshire cheese and gin; }
Pipes, too, and punch, and sausages, with tea,
Were things that Richard was disturbed to see.
Impatient now, he left them in disdain,
To call on Phœbe, when he call’d again;
To walk with her, the morning fair and bright,
And lose the painful feelings of the night.
All in the Row, and tripping at the side
Of a young Sailor, he the nymph espied, 330
As, homeward hastening with her happy boy,
She went to join the party, and enjoy.
“Fie!” Phœbe cried, as her companion spoke,
Yet laugh’d to hear the fie-compelling joke;—
Then ’twas her chance to meet, her shame to know, }
Her tender Richard, moving sad and slow, }
Musing on things full strange, the manners of the Row. }
At first amazed, and then alarm’d, the fair
334Late-laughing maid now stood in dumb despair.
As when a debtor meets in human shape 340
The foe of debtors, and cannot escape,
He stands in terror, nor can longer aim
To keep his credit, or preserve his name,
Stood Phœbe fix’d! “Unlucky time and place!
An earlier hour had kept me from disgrace!”
She thought—but now the sailor, undismay’d,
Said, “My dear Phœbe, why are you afraid?
The man seems civil, or he soon should prove
That I can well defend the girl I love.
Are you not mine?” She utter’d no reply:— 350}
“Thine I must be,” she thought; “more foolish I!” }
While Richard at the scene stood mute and wondering by. }
His spirits hurried, but his bosom light,
He left his Phœbe with a calm “good night!”
So Love like Friendship fell! The youth awhile
Dreamt, sorely moved, of Phœbe’s witching smile—
But learned in daylight visions to forego
The Sailor’s laughing Lass, the Phœbe of the Row.
Home turn’d young Richard, in due time to turn,
With all old Richard’s zeal, the leaves of Burn; 360
And home turned Phœbe—in due time to grace
A tottering cabin with a tattered race.
335
TALE XVIII. THE BOAT RACE.
I.
The man who dwells where party-spirit reigns,
May feel its triumphs, but must wear its chains;
He must the friends and foes of party take
For his, and suffer for his honour’s sake;
When once enlisted upon either side,
He must the rude septennial storm abide—
A storm that when its utmost rage is gone,
In cold and angry mutterings murmurs on;
A slow unbending scorn, a cold disdain—
Till years bring the full tempest back again. 10
Within our Borough two stiff sailors dwelt,
Who both this party storm and triumph felt;
Men who had talents, and were both design’d
For better things, but anger made them blind.
In the same year they married, and their wives
Had pass’d in friendship their yet peaceful lives,
And, as they married in a time of peace,
Had no suspicion that their love must cease.
In fact it did not; but they met by stealth,
And that perhaps might keep their love in health; 20
Like children watch’d, desirous yet afraid,
Their visits all were with discretion paid.
One Captain, so by courtesy we call
336Our [hoys’] commanders—they are captains all—
Had sons and daughters many; while but one
The rival Captain bless’d—a darling son.
Each was a burgess to his party tied,
And each was fix’d, but on a different side;
And he who sought his son’s pure mind to fill
With wholesome food, would evil too instil. 30
The last in part succeeded—but in part—
For Charles had sense, had virtue, had a heart;
And he had soon the cause of Nature tried
With the stern father, but this father died;
Who on his death-bed thus his son address’d:—
“Swear to me, Charles, and let my spirit rest—
Swear to our party to be ever true,
And let me die in peace—I pray thee, do.”
With some reluctance, but obedience more,
The weeping youth reflected, sigh’d, and swore; 40
Trembling, he swore for ever to be true,
And wear no colour but the untainted Blue.
This done, the Captain died in so much joy,
As if he’d wrought salvation for his boy.
The female friends their wishes yet retain’d,
But seldom met, by female fears restrain’d;
Yet in such town, where girls and boys must meet,
And every house is known in every street,
Charles had before, nay since his father’s death,
Met, say by chance, the young Elizabeth; 50
Who was both good and graceful, and in truth
Was but too pleasing to th’ observing youth;
And why I know not, but the youth to her
Seem’d just that being that she could prefer.
Both were disposed to think that party-strife
Destroy’d the happiest intercourse of life;
Charles, too, his growing passion could defend—
His father’s foe he call’d his mother’s friend.
Mothers, indeed, he knew were ever kind;
But in the Captain should he favour find? 60
He doubted this—yet could he that command
Which fathers love, and few its power withstand.
The mothers both agreed their joint request
337Should to the Captain jointly be address’d;
And first the lover should his heart assail, }
And then the ladies, and, if all should fail, }
They’d singly watch the hour, and jointly might prevail. }
The Captain’s heart, although unused to melt,
A strong impression from persuasion felt;
His pride was soften’d by the prayers he heard, 70
And then advantage in the match appear’d.
At length he answer’d—“Let the lad enlist
In our good cause, and I no more resist;
For I have sworn, and to my oath am true,
To hate that colour, that rebellious Blue.
His father once, ere master of the brig,
For that advantage turn’d a rascal Whig;
Now let the son—a wife’s a better thing—
A Tory turn, and say, God save the King!
For I am pledged to serve that sacred cause, 80
And love my country, while I keep her laws.”
The women trembled, for they knew full well
The fact they dare not to the Captain tell;
And the poor youth declared, with tears and sighs,
“My oath was pass’d; I dare not compromise.”
But Charles to reason made his strong appeal,
And to the heart—he bade him think and feel:
The Captain answering, with reply as strong—
“If you be right, then how can I be wrong?
You to your father swore to take his part; 90
I to oppose it ever, head and heart;
You to a parent made your oath, and I
To God! and can I to my Maker lie?
Much, my dear lad, I for your sake would do,
But I have sworn, and to my oath am true.”
Thus stood the parties, when my fortunes bore
Me far away from this my native shore;
And who prevail’d, I know not—Young or Old;
But, I beseech you, let the tale be told.
338II.
P. How fared these lovers? Many a time I thought 100
How with their ill-starr’d passion Time had wrought.
Did either party from his oath recede,
Or were they never from the bondage freed?
F. Alas! replied my Friend—the tale I tell
With some reluctance, nor can do it well.
There are three females in the place, and they,
Like skilful painters, could the facts portray
In their strong colours—all that I can do }
Is to present a weak imperfect view; }
The colours I must leave—the outlines shall be true. 110}
Soon did each party see the other’s mind,
What bound them both, and what was like to bind;
Oaths deeply taken in such time and place,
To break them now was dreadful—was disgrace!
“That oath a dying father bade me take,
Can I—yourself a father—can I break?
“That oath which I, a living sinner, took
Shall I make void, and yet for mercy look?”
The women wept; the men, themselves distress’d,
The cruel rage of party zeal confess’d; 120
But solemn oaths, though sprung from party zeal,
Feel them we must, as Christians ought to feel.
Yet shall a youth so good, a girl so fair,
From their obedience only draw despair?
Must they be parted? Is there not a way
For them both love and duty to obey?
Strongly they hoped; and by their friends around
A way, at least a lover’s way, was found.
“Give up your vote; you’ll then no longer be
Free in one sense, but in the better free.” 130
Such was of reasoning friends the kind advice,
And how could lovers in such case be nice?
A man may swear to walk directly on,
While sight remains; but how, if sight be gone?
“Oaths are not binding when the party’s dead,
Or when the power to keep the oath is fled;
339If I’ve no vote, I’ve neither friend nor foe,
Nor can be said on either side to go.”
They were no casuists:—“Well!” the Captain cried,
“Give up your vote, man, and behold your bride!” 140
Thus was it fix’d, and fix’d the day for both
To take the vow, and set aside the oath.
It gave some pain; but all agreed to say,
“You’re now absolved, and have no other way.
’Tis not expected you should love resign
At man’s commands, for love’s are all divine.”
When all is quiet and the mind at rest,
All in the calm of innocence are blest;
But when some scruple mixes with our joy,
We love to give the anxious mind employ. 150
In autumn late, when evening suns were bright,
The day was fix’d the lovers to unite;
But one before the eager Captain chose
To break, with jocund act, his girl’s repose,
And, sailor-like, said, “Hear how I intend
One day, before the day of days, to spend!
All round the quay, and by the river’s side,
Shall be a scene of glory for the bride.
We’ll have a RACE, and colours will devise
For every boat, for every man, a prize; 160
But that which first returns shall bear away
The proudest pendant—Let us name the day!”
They named the day; and never morn more bright
Rose on the river, nor so proud a sight;
Or, if too calm appear’d the cloudless skies,
Experienced seamen said the wind would rise.
To that full quay from this then vacant place
Thronged a vast crowd to see the promised Race.
Mid boats new painted, all with streamers fair,
That flagg’d or flutter’d in that quiet air— 170
The Captain’s boat that was so gay and trim,
That made his pride, and seem’d as proud of him—
Her, in her beauty, we might all discern,
Her rigging new, and painted on the stern,
As one who could not in the contest fail,
“Learn of the little Nautilus to sail.”
340So forth they started at the signal gun,
And down the river had three leagues to run;
This sail’d, they then their watery way retrace,
And the first landed conquers in the race. 180
The crowd await, till they no more discern;
Then, parting, say, “At evening we return.”
I could proceed; but you will guess the fate,
And but too well my tale anticipate.
P. True! yet proceed—
F. The lovers had some grief
In this day’s parting, but the time was brief;
And the poor girl, between his smiles and sighs,
Ask’d, “Do you wish to gain so poor a prize?”
“But that your father wishes,” he replied,
“I would the honour had been still denied: 190
It makes me gloomy, though I would be gay,
And oh! it seems an everlasting day.”
So thought the lass, and as she said, “Farewell!”
Soft sighs arose, and tears unbidden fell.
The morn was calm, and ev’n till noon the strong
Unruffled flood moved quietly along;
In the dead calm the billows softly fell,
And mock’d the whistling sea-boy’s favourite spell:
So rests at noon the reaper, but to rise
With mightier force and twofold energies. 200
The deep, broad stream moved softly, all was hush’d,
When o’er the flood the breeze awakening brush’d;
A sullen sound was heard along the deep,
The stormy spirit rousing from his sleep;
The porpoise rolling on the troubled wave,
Unwieldy tokens of his pleasure gave;
Dark, chilling clouds the troubled deep deform,
And, led by terror downward, rush’d the storm.
As evening came, along the river’s side,
Or on the quay, impatient crowds divide, 210
And then collect; some whispering, as afraid
Of what they saw, and more of what they said,
And yet must speak: how sudden and how great
The danger seem’d, and what might be the fate
Of men so toss’d about in craft so small,
341Lost in the dark, and subject to the squall.
Then sounds are so appalling in the night,
And, could we see, how terrible the sight;
None knew the evils that they all suspect,
And Hope at once they covet and reject. 220
But where the wife, her friend, her daughter, where?
Alas! in grief, in terror, in despair—
At home, abroad, upon the quay. No rest
In any place, but where they are not, best.
Fearful they ask, but dread the sad reply,
And many a sailor tells the friendly lie—
“There is no danger—that is, we believe,
And think—and hope”—but this does not deceive,
Although it soothes them; while they look around,
Trembling at every sight and every sound. 230
Let me not dwell on terrors——It is dark,
And lights are carried to and fro, and hark!
There is a cry—“a boat, a boat at hand!” }
What a still terror is there now on land! }
“Whose, whose?” they all enquire, and none can understand. }
At length they come—and oh! how then rejoice
A wife and children at that welcome voice!
It is not theirs—but what have these to tell?
“Where did you leave the Captain—were they well?”
Alas! they know not, they had felt an awe 240
In dread of death, and knew not what they saw.
Thus they depart—The evening darker grows,
The lights shake wildly, and as wildly blows
The stormy night-wind; fear possesses all,
The hardest hearts, in this sad interval.
But hark again to voices loud and high!
Once more that hope, that dread, that agony,
That panting expectation! “Oh! reveal
What must be known, and think what pangs we feel!”
In vain they ask! The men now landed speak 250
Confused and quick, and to escape them seek.
Our female party on a sailor press, }
But nothing learn that makes their terror less; }
Nothing the man can show, or nothing will confess. }
342To some, indeed, they whisper, bringing news
For them alone, but others they refuse;
And steal away, as if they could not bear
The griefs they cause and, if they cause, must share.
They too are gone! and our unhappy Three,
Half wild with fear, are trembling on the quay. 260
They can no ease, no peace, no quiet find,
The storm is gathering in the troubled mind;
Thoughts after thoughts in wild succession rise,
And all within is changing like the skies.
Their friends persuade them, “Do depart, we pray!” }
They will not, must not, cannot go away, }
But chill’d with icy fear, for certain tidings stay. }
And now again there must a boat be seen—
Men run together! It must something mean!
Some figure moves upon the [oozy] bound, 270
Where flows the tide—Oh! what can he have found—
What lost? And who is he?—The only one
Of the loved three—the Captain’s younger son.
Their boat was fill’d and sank—He knows no more,
But that he only hardly reach’d the shore.
He saw them swimming—for he once was near—
But he was sinking, and he could not hear;
And then the waves curl’d round him, but, at length,
He struck upon the boat with dying strength,
And that preserved him; when he turn’d around, 280}
Nought but the dark, wild, billowy flood was found— }
That flood was all he saw, that flood’s the only sound— }
Save that the angry wind, with ceaseless roar,
Dash’d the wild waves upon the rocky shore.
The Widows dwell together—so we call
The younger woman; widow’d are they all;
But she, the poor Elizabeth, it seems
Not life in her—she lives not, but she dreams;
She looks on Philip, and in him can find
Not much to mark in body or in mind— 290
He who was saved; and then her very soul
Is in that scene—her thoughts, beyond control,
Fix’d on that night, and bearing her along,
Amid the waters terrible and strong;
343Till there she sees within the troubled waves
The bodies sinking in their wat’ry graves,
When from her lover, yielding up his breath,
There comes a voice,—“Farewell, Elizabeth!”
Yet Resignation in the house is seen,
Subdued Affliction, Piety serene, 300
And Hope, for ever striving to instil
The balm for grief—“It is the Heavenly will.”
And in that will our duty bids us rest,
For all that Heaven ordains is good, is best;
We sin and suffer—this alone we know,
Grief is our portion, is our part below;
But we shall rise, that world of bliss to see,
Where sin and suffering never more shall be.
344
TALE XIX. MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD’S LOVE.
I.
I have remembrance of a Boy, whose mind
Was weak: he seem’d not for the world design’d;
Seem’d not as one who in that world could strive,
And keep his spirits even and alive—
A feeling Boy, and happy, though the less,
From that fine feeling, form’d for happiness.
His mother left him to his favourite ways,
And what he made his pleasure brought him praise.
Romantic, tender, visionary, mild,
Affectionate, reflecting when a child, 10
With fear instinctive he from harshness fled,
And gentle tears for all who suffer’d shed;
Tales of misfortune touch’d his generous heart,
Of maidens left, and lovers forced to part.
In spite of all that weak indulgence wrought,
That love permitted, or that flattery taught;
In spite of teachers who no fault would find,
The Boy was neither selfish nor unkind.
Justice and truth his honest heart approved,
And all things lovely he admired and loved. 20
Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales, he read,
And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed.
The long Romances, wild Adventures fired
345His stirring thoughts: he felt like Boy inspired.
The cruel fight, the constant love, the art
Of vile magicians, thrill’d his inmost heart:
An early Quixote, dreaming dreadful sights
Of warring dragons, and victorious knights—
In every dream some beauteous Princess shone,
The pride of thousands, and the prize of one. 30
Not yet he read, nor, reading, would approve
The Novel’s hero, or its ladies’ love.
He would Sophia for a wanton take,
Jones for a wicked, nay a vulgar rake.
He would no time on Smollett’s page bestow;
Such men he knew not, would disdain to know:
And if he read, he travell’d slowly on,
Teazed by the tame and faultless Grandison.
He in that hero’s deeds could not delight—
“He loved two ladies, and he would not fight.” 40
The minor works of this prolific kind
Presented beings he could never find:
Beings, he thought, that no man should describe,
A vile, intriguing, lying, perjured tribe,
With impious habits, and dishonest views;
The men he knew, had souls they feared to lose;
These had no views that could their sins controul,
With them nor fears nor hopes disturb’d the soul.
To dear Romance with fresh delight he turn’d,
And vicious men, like recreant cowards, spurn’d. 50
The Scripture Stories he with reverence read,
And duly took his Bible to his bed.
Yet Joshua, Samson, David, were a race
He dared not with his favourite heroes place.
Young as he was, the difference well he knew
Between the Truth, and what we fancy true:
He was with these entranced, of those afraid,
With Guy he triumph’d, but with David pray’d.
346II.
P. Such was the Boy, and what the man would be,
I might conjecture, but could not foresee. 60
F. He has his trials met, his troubles seen,
And now deluded, now deserted, been.
His easy nature has been oft assail’d
By grief assumed, scorn hid, and flattery veil’d.
P. But has he, safe and cautious, shunn’d the snares
That life presents?—I ask not of its cares.
F. Your gentle Boy a course of life began
That made him, what he is, the gentle-man,
A man of business. He in courts presides
Among their Worships, whom his judgment guides. 70
He in the Temple studied, and came down
A very lawyer, though without a gown;
Still he is kind, but prudent, steady, just,
And takes but little that he hears on trust.
He has no visions now, no boyish plans;
All his designs and prospects are the man’s,
The man of sound discretion—
P. How so made?
What could his mind to change like this persuade—
What first awaken’d our romantic friend—
For such he is—
F. If you would know, attend. 80
In those gay years, when boys their manhood prove,
Because they talk of girls, and dream of love,
In William’s way there came a maiden fair,
With soft, meek look, and sweet, retiring air;
With just the rosy tint upon her cheek,
With sparkling eye, and tongue unused to speak;
With manner decent, quiet, chaste, that one,
Modest himself, might love to look upon.
As William look’d; and thus the gentle Squire
Began the Nymph, albeit poor, t’admire. 90
She was, to wit, the gardener’s niece; her place
Gave to her care the Lady’s silks and lace;
347With other duties of an easy kind, }
And left her time, as much she felt inclined, }
T’adorn her graceful form, and fill her craving mind; }
Nay, left her leisure to employ some hours
Of the long day, among her uncle’s flowers—
Myrtle and rose, of which she took the care,
And was as sweet as pinks and lilies are.
Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld 100
With passion unencouraged, unrepell’d;
For how encourage what was not in view,
Or how repel what strove not to pursue?
What books inspired, or glowing fancy wrought;
What dreams suggested, or reflection taught;
Whate’er of love was to the mind convey’d—
Was all directed to his darling maid.
He saw his damsel with a lover’s eyes,
As pliant fancy wove the fair disguise;
A Quixote he, who in his nymph could trace 110
The high-born beauty, changed and—out of place,
That William loved, mamma, with easy smile,
Would jesting say; but love might grow the while;
The damsel’s self, with unassuming pride,
With love so led by fear was gratified.
What cause for censure? Could a man reprove
A child for fondness, or miscall it love?
Not William’s self; yet well inform’d was he,
That love it was, and endless love would be.
Month after month the sweet delusion bred 120
Wild, feverish hopes, that flourish’d, and then fled,
Like Fanny’s sweetest flower—and that was lost
In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost.
In some soft evenings, mid the garden’s bloom,
Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come;
And Fanny came, by chance it may be; still,
There was a gentle bias of the will,
Such as the soundest minds may act upon,
When motives of superior kind are gone.
There then they met, and Master William’s look 130
Was the less timid, for he held a book;
And when the sweetness of the evening hours,
348The fresh soft air, the beauty of the flowers,
The night-bird’s note, the gently falling dew,
Were all discuss’d, and silence would ensue,
There were some lovely Lines—if she could stay—
And Fanny rises not to go away.
“Young Paris was the shepherd’s pride,
As well the fair Œnone knew;
They sat the mountain stream beside, 140
And o’er the bank a poplar grew.
“Upon its bark this verse he traced:
‘Bear witness to the vow I make;
Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste,
E’er I my matchless maid forsake.
“‘No prince or peasant lad am I,
Nor crown nor crook to me belong;
But I will love thee till I die,
And die before I do thee wrong.’
“Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run, 150
Paris is now a prince of Troy;
He leaves the Fair his flattery won,
Himself and country to destroy.
“He seizes on a sovereign’s wife,
The pride of Greece, and with her flies;
He causes thus a ten years’ strife,
And with his dying parent dies.
“Oh! think me not this Shepherd’s Boy,
Who from the Maid he loves would run:
Oh! think me not a Prince of Troy, 160
By whom such treacherous deeds are done.”
The Lines were read, and many an idle word
Pronounced with emphasis, and underscored,
As if the writer had resolved that all
349His nouns and verbs should be emphatical
But what they were the damsel little thought;
The sense escaped her, but the voice she caught,
Soft, tender, trembling; and the gipsy felt
As if by listening she unfairly dealt;
For she, if not mamma, had rightly guess’d, 170
That William’s bosom was no seat of rest.
But Love’s young hope must die.—There was a day
When nature smiled, and all around was gay;
The Boy o’ertook the damsel, as she went
The village road—unknown was her intent;
He, happy hour, when lock’d in Fanny’s arm,
Walk’d on enamour’d, every look a charm!
Yet her soft looks were but her heart’s disguise,
There was no answering love in Fanny’s eyes;
But, or by prudence or by pity moved, 180
She thought it time his folly was reproved;
Then took her measures, not perchance without
Some conscious pride in what she was about.
Along the brook with gentle pace they go,
The Youth unconscious of th’ impending woe;
And oft he urged the absent Maid to talk,
As she was wont in many a former walk;
And still she slowly walk’d beside the brook,
Or look’d around—for what could Fanny look?
Something there must be! What, did not appear; 190
But William’s eye betray’d the anxious fear,
The cause unseen!——
But who, with giant-stride,
Bounds o’er the brook, and is at Fanny’s side?
Who takes her arm? and oh! what villain dares
To press those lips? Not even her lips he spares!
Nay, she herself, the Fanny, the divine,
Lip to his lip can wickedly incline!
The lad, unnerved by horror, with an air
Of wonder quits her arm and looks despair;
Nor will proceed. Oh no! he must return, 200
Though his drown’d sight cannot the path discern.
“Come, Master William! come, Sir, let us on.
What can you fear? You’re not afraid of John?”
350“What ails our youngster?” quoth the burly swain,
Six feet in height—but he inquires in vain.
William, in deep resentment, scans the frame
Of the fond giant, and abhors his name;
Thinks him a demon of th’ infernal brood,
And longs to shed his most pernicious blood.
Again the monster spake in thoughtless joy,— 210
“We shall be married soon, my pretty Boy!
And dwell in Madam’s cottage, where you’ll see
The strawberry-beds, and cherries on the tree.”
Back to his home in silent scorn return’d
Th’ indignant Boy, and all endearment spurn’d.
Fanny perforce with Master takes her way,
But finds him to th’ o’erwhelming grief a prey,
Wrapt in resentful silence, till he came
Where he might vent his woes, and hide his shame.
Fierce was his strife, but with success he strove, 220
And freed his troubled breast from fruitless love;
Or what of love his reason fail’d to cool
Was lost and perish’d in a public school—
Those seats and sources both of good and ill,
By what they cure in Boys, and what they kill.
351
TALE XX. THE WILL.
I.
Thus to his Friend an angry Father spoke—
Nay, do not think that I the Will revoke.
My cruel Son in every way I’ve tried, }
And every vice have found in him but pride; }
For he, of pride possess’d, would meaner vices hide. }
Money he wastes, I will not say he spends; }
He neither makes the poor nor rich his friends— }
To those he nothing gives, to these he never lends. }
“’Tis for himself each legal pale he breaks;
He joins the miser’s spirit to the rake’s. 10
Like the worst Roman in the worst of times,
He can be guilty of conflicting crimes;
Greedy of others’ wealth, unknown the use,
And of his own contemptuously profuse.
“To such a mind shall I my wealth confide,
That you to nobler, worthier ends, may guide?
No! let my Will my scorn of vice express,
And let him learn repentance from distress.”
So said the Father; and the Friend, who spurn’d
Wealth ill-acquired, his sober speech return’d— 20
“The youth is faulty, but his faults are weigh’d
With a strong bias, and by wrath repaid;
Pleasure deludes him, not the vain design
352Of making vices unallied combine.
He wastes your wealth, for he is yet a boy;
He covets more, for he would more enjoy.
For, my good friend, believe me, very few, }
At once are prodigals and misers too— }
The spendthrift vice engrafted on the Jew. }
Leave me one thousand pounds; for I confess 30
I have my wants, and will not tax you less.
But your estate let this young man enjoy:
If he reforms, you’ve saved a grateful boy;
If not, a father’s cares and troubles cease,
You’ve done your duty, and may rest in peace.”
The Will in hand, the Father musing stood,
Then gravely answered, “Your advice is good;
Yet take the paper, and in safety keep;
I’ll make another Will before I sleep;
But, if I hear of some atrocious deed, 40
That deed I’ll burn, and yours will then succeed.
Two thousand I bequeath you. No reproof!
And there are small bequests—he’ll have enough;
For, if he wastes, he would with all be poor;
And, if he wastes not, he will need no more.”
The Friends then parted; this the Will possess’d,
And that another made—so things had rest.
George, who was conscious that his Father grew
Sick and infirm, engaged in nothing new.
No letters came from injured man or maid; 50
No bills from wearied duns, that must be paid;
No fierce reproaches from deserted fair,
Mixed with wild tenderness of desperate prayer;
So hope rose softly in the parent’s breast; }
He, dying, called his son and fondly blest, }
Hailed the propitious tear, and mildly sunk to rest. }
Unhappy Youth! e’er yet the tomb was closed,
And dust to dust convey’d in peace repos’d,
He sought his father’s closet, search’d around,
To find a Will: the important Will was found. 60
Well pleased he read, “These lands, this manor, all,
Now call me master!—I obey the call.”
Then from the window look’d the valley o’er,
353And never saw it look so rich before.
He viewed the dairy, view’d the men at plough, }
With other eyes, with other feelings now, }
And with a new-formed taste found beauty in a cow. }
The distant swain who drove the plough along
Was a good useful slave, and passing strong!
In short, the view was pleasing, nay, was fine: 70
“Good as my father’s, excellent as mine!”
Again he reads—but he had read enough;
What followed put his virtue to a proof.
[How’s] this? to David Wright two thousand pounds! }
A monstrous sum! beyond all reason!—zounds! }
This is your friendship running out of bounds! }
“Then here are cousins Susan, Robert, Joe— }
Five hundred each. Do they deserve it? No! }
Claim they have none—I wonder if they know }
What the good man intended to bestow! 80}
This might be paid—but Wright’s enormous sum
Is—I’m alone—there’s nobody can come—
’Tis all his hand, no lawyer was employ’d
To write this prose, that ought to be destroy’d!
To no attorney would my father trust:
He wished his son to judge of what was just;
As if he said, ‘My boy will find the Will,
And, as he likes, destroy it or fulfil.’
This now is reason, this I understand—
What was at his, is now at my, command. 90
As for this paper, with these cousiny names,
I—’tis my Will—commit it to the flames.
Hence! disappear! now am I lord alone:
They’ll groan, I know; but, curse them, let them groan.
Who wants his money like a new made heir,
To put all things in order and repair?
I need the whole the worthy man could save,
To do my father credit in his grave:
It takes no trifle to have squires convey’d
To their last house with honour and parade. 100
All this, attended by a world of cost,
Requires, demands, that nothing should be lost.
These fond bequests cannot demanded be—
354Where no Will is, can be no legacy;
And none is here! I safely swear it—none!—
The very ashes are dispersed and gone.
All would be well, would that same sober Friend, }
That Wright, my father on his way attend; }
My fears—but why afraid?—my troubles then would end.” }
In triumph, yet in trouble, meets our Squire 110}
The friends assembled, who a Will require. }
“There is no Will,” he said.—They murmur and retire. }
Days pass away, while yet the Heir is blest
By pleasant cares, and thoughts that banish rest;
When comes the Friend, and asks, in solemn tone,
If he may see the busy Squire alone.
They are in private—all about is still—
When thus the Guest:—“Your father left a Will,
And I would see it.”—Rising in reply,
The youth beheld a fix’d and piercing eye, 120
From which his own receded; and the sound
Of his own words was in disorder drown’d.
He answered softly—“I in vain have spent
Days in the search; I pray you be content;
And, if a Will”—— The pertinacious Man, }
At ‘if’ displeased, with steady tone began— }
“There is a Will—produce it, for you can.”— }
“Sir, I have sought in vain, and what the use?
What has no being, how can I produce?”—
“Two days I give you; to my words attend,” 130
Was the reply, “and let the business end.”
Two days were past, and still the same reply
To the same question—“Not a Will have I.”
More grave, more earnest, then the Friend appear’d;
He spoke with power, as one who would be heard—
“A Will your father made! I witness’d one.”
The Heir arose in anger—“Sir, begone!
Think you my spirit by your looks to awe?
Go to your lodgings, friend, or to your law.
To what would you our easy souls persuade? 140
Once more I tell you, not a Will was made;
There’s none with me, I swear it—now, deny
355This if you can!”—
“That, surely, cannot I;
Nay, I believe you, and, as no such deed
Is found with you, this surely will succeed!”—
He said, and from his pocket slowly drew }
Of the first testament a copy true, }
And held it spread abroad, that he might see it too. }
“Read, and be sure; your parent’s pleasure see—
Then leave this mansion and these lands to me.” 150
He said, and terror seized the guilty youth;
He saw his misery, meanness, and the truth;
Could not before his stern accuser stand,
Yet could not quit that hall, that park, that land;
But, when surprise had pass’d away, his grief
Began to think in law to find relief.
“While courts are open, why should I despair?
Juries will feel for an abandon’d heir.
I will resist,” he said, impell’d by pride—
“I must submit,” recurring fear replied. 160
As wheels the vane when winds around it play,
So his strong passions turn’d him every way;
But growing terrors seized th’ unhappy youth:
He knew the Man, and more, he knew—the Truth;
When, stung by all he fear’d, and all he felt,
He sought for mercy, and in terror knelt.
Grieved, but indignant—“Let me not despise
Thy father’s son,” replied the Friend; “arise!
To my fix’d purpose your attention lend,
And know, your fate will on yourself depend. 170
“Thou shalt not want, young man! nor yet abound,
And time shall try thee, if thy heart be sound;
Thou shalt be watch’d till thou hast learn’d to know
Th’ All-seeing Watcher of the world below,
And worlds above, and thoughts within; from Whom
Must be thy certain, just, and final doom.
Thy doors all closely barr’d, thy windows blind,
Before all silent, silent all behind—
Thy hand was stretch’d to do whate’er thy soul
In secret would—no mortal could—controul. 180
Oh, fool! to think that thou thy act could’st keep
356From that All-piercing Eye, which cannot sleep!
“Go to thy trial! and may I—with thee
A fellow-sinner, who to mercy flee—
That mercy find, as justly I dispense
Between thy frailty and thy penitence!
“Go to thy trial! and be wise in time,
And know that no man can conceal a crime.
God and his Conscience witness all that’s done,
And these he cannot cheat, he cannot shun. 190
What, then, could fortune, what could safety, give,
If [he] with these at enmity must live?
“Go!”—and the young man from his presence went, }
Confused, uncertain of his own intent— }
To sin, if pride prevail’d; if soften’d, to repent. }
II.
P. Lives yet the Friend of that unhappy Boy,
Who could the WILL that made him rich destroy,
And made him poor? And what the after-plan,
For one so selfish, of that stern, good man?
F. “Choose,” said this Friend, “thy way in life, and I 200
Will means to aid thee in thy work supply.”
He will the army, thought this guardian, choose,
And there the sense of his dishonour lose.
Humbly he answer’d—“With your kind consent,
Of your estate I would a portion rent,
And farm with care”——
“Alas! the wretched fruit
Of evil habit! he will hunt and shoot!”
So judged the Friend, but soon perceived a change,
To him important, and to all men strange.
Industrious, temperate, with the sun he rose, 210
And of his time gave little to repose:
Nor to the labour only bent his will,
But sought experience, and improved with skill;
With cautious prudence placed his gains to use,
Inquiring always, “What will this produce?”
The Friend, not long suspicious, now began
357To think more kindly of the alter’d man—
In his opinion alter’d; but, in truth,
The same the spirit that still ruled the youth.
That dwelt within, where other demons dwell, 220
Avarice unsated and insatiable.
But this Wright saw not; he was more inclined
To trace the way of a repenting mind;
And he was now by strong disease assail’d,
That quickly o’er the vital powers prevail’d:
And now the son had all, was rich beyond
His fondest hope, and he, indeed, was fond.
His life’s great care has been his zeal to prove,
And time to dotage has increased his love.
A Miser now, the one strong passion guides 230
The heart and soul; there’s not a love besides.
Where’er he comes, he sees in every face
A look that tells him of his own disgrace.
Men’s features vary, but the mildest show—
“It is a tale of infamy we know.”
Some with contempt the wealthy miser view,
Some with disgust, yet mix’d with pity too;
A part the looks of wrath and hatred wear,
And some, less happy, lose their scorn in fear.
Meanwhile, devoid of kindness, comfort, friends, 240
On his possessions solely he depends.
Yet is he wretched; for his fate decrees
That his own feelings should deny him ease.
With talents gifted, he himself reproves,
And can but scorn the vile pursuit he loves;
He can but feel that there abides within
The secret shame, the unrepented sin,
And the strong sense, that bids him to confess
He has not found the way to happiness.
But ’tis the way where he has travell’d long— 250
And turn he will not, though he feels it wrong;
Like a sad traveller, who, at closing day,
Finds he has wander’d widely from his way,
Yet wanders on, nor will new paths explore,
Till the night falls, and he can walk no more.
358
TALE XXI. THE COUSINS.
I.
P. I left a frugal Merchant, who began
Early to thrive, and grew a wealthy man;
Retired from business with a favourite Niece,
He lived in plenty, or, if not—in peace.
Their small affairs, conforming to his will,
The maiden managed with superior skill.
He had a Nephew too, a brother’s child—
But James offended, for the lad was wild:
And Patty’s tender soul was vex’d to hear,
“Your Cousin James will rot in gaol, my dear; 10
And now, I charge you, by no kind of gift
Show him that folly may be help’d by thrift.”
This Patty heard, but in her generous mind
Precept so harsh could no admission find.
Her Cousin James, too sure in prison laid,
With strong petitions plied the gentle maid,
That she would humbly on their Uncle press
His deep repentance, and his sore distress;
How that he mourn’d in durance, night and day,
And, which removed, he would for ever pray. 20
“Nought will I give, his worthless life to save,”
The Uncle said; and nought in fact he gave.
But the kind maiden from her pittance took
All that she could, and gave with pitying look;
For soft compassion in her bosom reign’d,
359And her heart melted when the Youth complain’d.
Of his complaints the Uncle loved to hear,
As Patty told them, shedding many a tear;
While he would wonder how the girl could pray
For a young rake, to place him in her way, 30
Or once admit him in his Uncle’s view;
“But these,” said he, “are things that women do.”
Thus were the Cousins, young, unguarded, fond,
Bound in true friendship—so they named the bond—
Nor call’d it love—and James resolved, when free,
A most correct and frugal man to be.
He sought her prayers, but not for heavenly aid:
“Pray to my Uncle,” and she kindly pray’d—
“James will be careful,” said the Niece; “and I
Will be as careful,” was the stern reply. 40
Thus he resisted, and I know not how
He could be soften’d—Is he kinder now?
Hard was his heart; but yet a heart of steel
May melt in dying, and dissolving feel.
II.
F. What were his feelings I cannot explain,
His actions only on my mind remain.
He never married, that indeed we know,
But childless was not, as his foes could show—
Perhaps his friends—for friends, as well as foes,
Will the infirmities of man disclose. 50
When young, our Merchant, though of sober fame,
Had a rude passion that he could not tame;
And, not to dwell upon the passion’s strife,
He had a Son, who never had a wife;
The father paid just what the law required,
Nor saw the infant, nor to see desired.
That infant, thriving on the parish fare,
Without a parent’s love, consent, or care,
Became a sailor, and sustain’d his part
So like a man, it touch’d his father’s heart.— 60
He for protection gave the ready pay,
360And placed the seaman in preferment’s way;
Who doubted not, with sanguine heart, to rise,
And bring home riches, gain’d from many a prize.
But Jack—for so we call’d him—Jack once more,
And never after, touch’d his native shore;
Nor was it known if he in battle fell,
Or sickening died—we sought, but none could tell.
The father sigh’d—as some report, he wept;
And then his sorrow with the Sailor slept; 70
Then age came on; he found his spirits droop,
And his kind Niece remain’d the only hope.
Premising this, our story then proceeds—
Our gentle Patty for her Cousin pleads;
And now her Uncle, to his room confined,
And kindly nursed, was soften’d and was kind.
James, whom the law had from his prison sent, }
With much contrition to his Uncle went, }
And, humbly kneeling, said, “Forgive me, I repent.” }
Reproach, of course, his humbled spirit bore; 80
He knew for pardon anger opes the door;
The man, whom we with too much warmth reprove,
Has the best chance our softening hearts to move;
And this he had—“Why, Patty, love! it seems,”
Said the old man, “there’s something good in James;
I must forgive; but you my child, are yet
My stay and prop; I cannot this forget.
Still, my dear Niece, as a reforming man,
I mean to aid your Cousin, if I can.”
Then Patty smiled; for James and she had now 90
Time for their loves, and pledged the constant vow.
James the fair way to favouring thoughts discern’d—
He learn’d the news, and told of all he learn’d;
Read all the papers in an easy style,
And knew the bits would raise his Uncle’s smile;
Then would refrain, to hear the good man say,
“You did not come as usual yesterday;
I must not take you from your duties, lad,
But of your daily visits should be glad!”
Patty was certain that their Uncle now 100
Would their affection all it ask’d allow;
361She was convinced her lover now would find
The past forgotten and old Uncle kind.
“It matters not,” she added, “who receives
The larger portion; what to one he leaves
We both inherit! let us nothing hide,
Dear James, from him in whom we both confide.”
“Not for your life!” quoth James. “Let Uncle choose
Our ways for us—or we the way shall lose.
For know you, Cousin, all these miser men”—— 110
“Nay, my dear James!”—
“Our worthy Uncle, then,
And all, like Uncle, like to be obey’d
By their dependants, who must seem afraid
Of their own will.—If we to wed incline,
You’ll quickly hear him peevishly repine,
Object, dispute, and sundry reasons give,
To prove we ne’er could find the means to live;
And then, due credit for his speech to gain,
He’ll leave us poor—lest wealth should prove it vain.
Let him propose the measure, and then we 120
May for his pleasure to his plan agree.
I, when at last assenting, shall be still
But giving way to a kind Uncle’s will;
Then will he deem it just, amends to make
To one who ventures all things for his sake;
So, should you deign to take this worthless hand,
Be sure, dear Patty, ’tis at his command!”
But Patty questioned—“Is it, let me ask,
The will of God that we should wear a mask?”
This startled James: he lifted up his eyes, 130
And said with some contempt, besides surprise,
“Patty, my love! the will of God, ’tis plain,
Is that we live by what we can obtain;
Shall we a weak and foolish man offend,
And when our trial is so near our end?”
This hurt the maiden, and she said, “’Tis well!
Unask’d I will not of your purpose tell,
But will not lie.”—
“Lie! Patty, no, indeed;
Your downright lying never will succeed!
362A better way our prudence may devise 140
Than such unprofitable things as lies.
Yet, a dependant, if he would not starve,
The way through life must with discretion carve,
And, though a lie he may with pride disdain,
He must not every useless truth maintain.
If one respect to these fond men would show,
Conceal the facts that give them pain to know;
While all that pleases may be placed in view,
And, if it be not, they will think it true.”
The humble Patty dropp’d a silent tear, 150
And said, “Indeed, ’tis best to be sincere.”
James answer’d not—there could be no reply
To what he would not grant nor could deny;
But from that time he in the maiden saw
What he condemn’d; yet James was kept in awe.
He felt her virtue, but was sore afraid
For the frank blunders of the virtuous maid.
Meantime he daily to his Uncle read
The news, and to his favourite subjects led:
If closely press’d, he sometimes staid to dine, 160
Eat of one dish, and drank one glass of wine;
For James was crafty grown, and felt his way
To favour, step by step, and day by day;
He talk’d of business, till the Uncle prized
The lad’s opinion, whom he once despised,
And, glad to see him thus his faults survive,
“This Boy,” quoth he, “will keep our name alive.
Women are weak, and Patty, though the best
Of her weak sex, is woman like the rest:
An idle husband will her money spend, 170
And bring my hard-earn’d savings to an end.”
Far as he dared, his Nephew this way led,
And told his tales of lasses rashly wed,
Told them as matters that “He heard, he knew
Not where,” he said—“they might be false or true:
One must confess that girls are apt to dote
On the bright scarlet of a coxcomb’s coat;
And that with ease a woman they beguile
With a fool’s flattery, or a rascal’s smile;—
363But then,” he added, fearing to displease, 180
“Our Patty never saw such men as these.”
“True! but she may—some scoundrel may command
The girl’s whole store, if he can gain her hand.
Her very goodness will itself deceive,
And her weak virtue help her to believe;
Yet she is kind; and, Nephew! go, and say,
I need her now—You’ll come another day.”
In such discourses, while the maiden went
About her household, many an hour was spent,
Till James was sure that when his Uncle died, 190}
He should at least the property divide; }
Nor long had he to wait—the fact was quickly tried. }
The Uncle now, to his last bed confined,
To James and Patty his affairs resign’d;
The doctor took his final fee in hand;
The man of law received his last command;
The silent priest sat watching in his chair,
If he might wake the dying man to prayer—
When the last groan was heard; then all was still,
And James indulged his musings—on the Will. 200
This in due time was read, and Patty saw
Her own dear Cousin made the heir-by-law.
Something indeed was hers, but yet she felt
As if her Uncle had not kindly dealt;
And but that James was one whom she could trust,
She would have thought it cruel and unjust.
Ev’n as it was, it gave her some surprise,
And tears unbidden started in her eyes;
Yet she confess’d it was the same to her,
And it was likely men would men prefer. 210
Loth was the Niece to think her Uncle wrong;
And other thoughts engaged her—“Is it long
That custom bids us tarry ere we wed,
When a kind Uncle is so lately dead?
At any rate,” the maiden judged, “’tis he
That first will speak—it does not rest with me.”
James to the Will his every thought confined,
And found some parts that vex’d his sober mind.
He, getting much, to angry thoughts gave way,
364For the poor pittance that he had to pay, 220
With Patty’s larger claim. Save these alone,
The weeping heir beheld the whole his own;
Yet something painful in his mind would dwell—
It was not likely, but was possible—”
No—Fortune lately was to James so kind,
He was determined not to think her blind:
She saw his merit, and would never throw
His prospects down by such malicious blow.”
Patty, meanwhile, had quite enough betray’d
Of her own mind to make her James afraid 230
Of one so simply pure: his hardening heart
Inclined to anger—he resolved to part.
Why marry Patty?—if he look’d around,
More advantageous matches might be found;
But, though he might a richer wife command,
He first must break her hold upon his hand.
She with a spinster-friend retired awhile—
“Not long,” she said—and said it with a smile.
Not so had James determined.—He essay’d
To move suspicion in the gentle maid. 240
Words not succeeding, he design’d to pass
The spinster’s window with some forward lass.
If in her heart so pure no pang was known,
At least he might affect it in his own.
There was a brother of her friend, and he,
Though poor and rude, might serve for jealousy.
If all should fail, he, though of schemes bereft,
Might leave her yet!—They fail’d, and she was left.
Poor Patty bore it with a woman’s mind,
And with an angel’s, sorrowing and resign’d. 250
Ere this in secret long she wept and pray’d,
Long tried to think her lover but delay’d
The union, once his hope, his prayer, his pride;—
She could in James as in herself confide:
Was he not bound by all that man can bind,
In love, in honour, to be just and kind?
Large was his debt, and, when their debts are large,
The ungrateful cancel what the just discharge;
Nor payment only in their pride refuse,
365But first they wrong their friend, and then accuse. 260
Thus Patty finds her bosom’s claims denied,
Her love insulted, and her right defied.
She urged it not; her claim the maid withdrew, }
For maiden pride would not the wretch pursue; }
She sigh’d to find him false, herself so good and true. }
Now all his fears, at least the present, still—
He talk’d, good man! about his uncle’s will—
“All unexpected,” he declared—“surprised
Was he—and his good uncle ill-advised.
He no such luck had look’d for, he was sure, 270
Nor such deserved,” he said, with look demure;
“He did not merit such exceeding love;
But his, he meant, so help him God, to prove.”
And he has proved it! all his cares and schemes
Have proved the exceeding love James bears to James.
But to proceed—for we have yet the facts
That show how Justice looks on wicked acts;
For, though not always, she at times appears—
To wake in man her salutary fears.
James, restless grown—for no such mind can rest— 280
Would build a house, that should his wealth attest;
In fact, he saw, in many a clouded face, }
A certain token of his own disgrace, }
And wish’d to overawe the murmurs of the place. }
The finish’d building show’d the master’s wealth,
And noisy workmen drank his Honour’s health—
“His and his heirs”—and at the thoughtless word
A strange commotion in his bosom stirr’d.
“‘Heirs!’ said the idiots?”—and again that clause
In the strange Will corrected their applause. 290
Prophetic fears! for now reports arose
That spoil’d “his Honour’s” comforts and repose.
A stout young Sailor, though in battle maim’d,
Arrived in port, and his possessions claim’d.
The Will he read: he stated his demand,
And his attorney grasp’d at house and land.
The Will provided—“If my son survive,
He shall inherit;” and lo! Jack’s alive!
Yes! he was that lost lad, preserved by fate,
366And now was bent on finding his estate. 300
But claim like this the angry James denied,
And to the law the sturdy heir applied.
James did what men when placed like him would do—
Avow’d his right, and fee’d his lawyer too:
The Will, indeed, provided for a son;
But was this Sailor youth the very one?
Ere Jack’s strong proofs in all their strength were shown, }
To gain a part James used a milder tone; }
But the instructed tar would reign alone. }
At last he reign’d: to James a large bequest 310
Was frankly dealt; the Seaman had the rest—
Save a like portion to the gentle Niece,
Who lived in comfort, and regain’d her peace.
In her neat room her talent she employ’d,
With more true peace than ever James enjoy’d.
The young, the aged, in her praise agreed—
Meek in her manner, bounteous in her deed;
The very children their respect avow’d:
“’Twas the good lady,” they were told, and bow’d.
The merry Seaman much the maid approv’d— 320
Nor that alone—he like a seaman loved;
Loved as a man who did not much complain;
Loved like a sailor, not a sighing swain;
Had heard of wooing maids, but knew not how—
“Lass, if you love me, prithee tell me now,”
Was his address—but this was nothing cold—
“Tell if you love me;” and she smiled and told.
He brought her presents, such as sailors buy, }
Glittering like gold, to please a maiden’s eye, }
All silk and silver, fringe and finery; 330}
These she accepted in respect to him,
And thought but little of the missing limb.
Of this he told her, for he loved to tell
A warlike tale, and judged he told it well:—
“You mark me, love! the French were two to one,
And so, you see, they were ashamed to run;
We fought an hour; and then there came the shot
That struck me here—a man must take his lot;—
A minute after, and the Frenchman struck:
367One minute sooner had been better luck; 340
But, if you can a crippled cousin like,
You ne’er shall see him for a trifle strike.”
Patty, whose gentle heart was not so nice
As to reject the thought of loving twice,
Judged her new Cousin was by nature kind,
With no suspicions in his honest mind,
Such as our virtuous ladies now and then
Find strongly floating in the minds of men.
So they were married, and the lasses vow’d
That Patty’s luck would make an angel proud: 350
“Not but that time would come when she must prove
That men are men, no matter how they love!”—
And she has prov’d it; for she finds her man
As kind and true as when their loves began.
James is unhappy; not that he is poor,
But, having much, because he has no more;
Because a rival’s pleasure gives him pain;
Because his vices work’d their way in vain;
And, more than these, because he sees the smile
Of a wrong’d woman pitying man so vile. 360
He sought an office, serves in the excise, }
And every wish, but that for wealth, denies; }
Wealth is the world to him, and he is worldly wise. }
But disappointment in his face appears; }
Care and vexation, sad regret and fears }
Have fix’d on him their fangs, and done the work of years. }
Yet grows he wealthy in a strange degree,
And neighbours wonder how the fact can be.
He lives alone, contracts a sordid air,
And sees with sullen grief the cheerful pair; 370
Feels a keen pang, as he beholds the door
Where peace abides, and mutters—“I am poor!”
368
TALE XXII. PREACHING AND PRACTICE.
I.
P. What I have ask’d are questions that relate
To those once known, that I might learn their fate.
But there was One, whom though I scarcely knew,
Much do I wish to learn his fortunes too.
Yet what expect?—He was a rich man’s Heir,
His conduct doubtful, but his prospects fair;
Thoughtless and brave, extravagant and gay,
Wild as the wind, and open as the day;
His freaks and follies were a thousand times
Brought full in view; I heard not of his crimes. 10
Like our Prince Hal, his company he chose
Among the lawless, of restraint the foes;
But, though to their poor pleasures he could stoop,
He was not, rumour said, their victim-dupe.
His mother’s Sister was a maiden prim,
Pious and poor, and much in debt to him.
This she repaid with volumes of reproof,
And sage advice, till he would cry “Enough!”
His father’s Brother no such hints allow’d—
Peevish and rich, and insolent and proud, 20
Of stern, strong spirit. Him the Youth withstood,
At length; “Presume not” (said he) “on our blood!
Treat with politeness him whom you advise,
Nor think I fear your doting prophecies!”
And fame has told of many an angry word,
369When anger this, and that contempt had stirr’d.
“Boy! thou wilt beg thy bread, I plainly see.”—
“Upbraid not, Uncle! till I beg of thee.”—
“Oh! thou wilt run to ruin and disgrace.”—
“What! and so kind an Uncle in the place?”— 30
“Nay, for I hold thee stranger to my blood.”—
“Then must I treat thee as a stranger would;
For, if you throw the tie of blood aside,
You must the roughness of your speech abide.”—
“What! to your father’s Brother do you give
A challenge?—Mercy! in what times we live!”
Now, I confess, the youth who could supply
Thus that poor Spinster, and could thus defy
This wealthy Uncle;—who could mix with them
Whom his strong sense and feeling must condemn, 40
And in their follies his amusement find,
Yet never lose the vigour of his mind—
A youth like this, with much we must reprove,
Had something still to win esteem and love.
Perhaps he lives not; but he seem’d not made
To pass through life entirely in the shade.
F. Suppose you saw him—does your mind retain
So much, that you would know the man again?
Yet hold in mind, he may have felt the press
Of grief or guilt, the withering of distress; 50
He now may show the stamp of woe and pain,
And nothing of his lively cast remain.
Survey these features—see if nothing there
May old impressions on your mind repair!
Is there not something in this shattered frame
Like to that—
P. No! not like it, but the same;
That eye so brilliant, and that smile so gay,
Are lighted up, and sparkle through decay.
But may I question? Will you that allow?
There was a difference, and there must be now; 60
And yet, permitted, I would gladly hear
What must have pass’d in many a troubled year.
370F. Then hear my tale; but I the price demand: }
That understood, I too must understand }
Thy wanderings through, or sufferings in, the land; }
And, if our virtues cannot much produce,
Perhaps our errors may be found of use.
To all the wealth my Father’s care laid by,
I added wings, and taught it how to fly.
To him that act had been of grievous sight; 70
But he survived not to behold the flight.
Strange doth it seem to grave and sober minds,
How the dear vice the simple votary blinds,
So that he goes to ruin smoothly on,
And scarcely feels he’s going, till he’s gone.
I had made over, in a lucky hour,
Funds for my Aunt, and placed beyond my power:
The rest was flown, I speak it with remorse,
And now a pistol seem’d a thing in course.
But, though its precepts I had not obey’d, 80
Thoughts of my Bible made me much afraid
Of such rebellion, and, though not content,
I must live on when life’s supports were spent;
Nay, I must eat, and of my frugal Aunt
Must grateful take what gracious she would grant;
And true, she granted, but with much discourse—
Oh! with what words did she her sense enforce!
Great was her wonder, in my need that I
Should on the prop myself had raised rely—
I, who provided for her in my care, 90
“Must be assured how little she could spare!”
I stood confounded, and with angry tone,
With rage and grief, that blended oath and groan,
I fled her presence—yet I saw her air
Of resignation, and I heard her prayer;
“Now Heaven,” she utter’d, “make his burden light!”
And I, in parting, cried, “Thou hypocrite!”
But I was wrong—she might have meant to pray;
Though not to give her soul—her cash—away.
Of course, my Uncle would the spendthrift shun; 100
So friends on earth I now could reckon none.
One morn I rambled, thinking of the past,
371Far in the country—Did you ever fast
Through a long summer’s day? or, sturdy, go
To pluck the crab, the bramble, and the sloe,
The hyp, the cornel, and the beech, the food
And the wild solace of the gypsy brood?
To pick the cress, embrown’d by summer sun,
From the dry bed where streams no longer run?
Have you, like school-boy, mingling play and toil, 110
Dug for the ground-nut, and enjoy’d the spoil?
Or chafed with feverish hand the ripening wheat,
Resolved to fast, and yet compell’d to eat?
Say, did you this, and drink the crystal spring,
And think yourself an abdicated king,
Driv’n from your state by a rebellious race?
And, in your pride contending with disgrace,
Could you your hunger in your anger lose,
And call the ills you bear the ways you choose?
Thus, on myself depending, I began 120
To feel the pride of a neglected man;
Not yet correct, but still I could command
Unshaken nerves, and a determined hand.
“Lo! men at work!” I said, “and I, a man,
Can work! I feel it is my pride, I can.”
This said, I wander’d on, and join’d the poor,
Assumed a labourer’s dress, and was no more
Than labour made—Upon the road I broke
Stones for my bread, and startled at the stroke;
But every day the labour seem’d more light, 130
And sounder, sweeter still the sleep of every night.
“Thus will I live,” I cried, “nor more return
To herd with men, whose love and hate I spurn.
All creatures toil; the beast, if tamed or free,
Must toil for daily sustenance like me;
The feather’d people hunt as well as sing,
And catch their flying food upon the wing.
The fish, the insect, all who live, employ
Their powers to keep on life, or to enjoy,
Their life th’ enjoyment; thus will I proceed, 140
A man from man’s detested favours freed.”
372Thus was I reasoning, when at length there came
A gift, a present, but without a name.
“That Spinster-witch, has she then found a way
To cure her conscience, and her Nephew pay,
And sends her pittance? Well, and let it buy
What sweetens labour; need I this deny?
I thank her not; it is as if I found
The fairy-gift upon this stony ground.”
Still I wrought on; again occurred the day, 150
And then the same addition to my pay.
Then, lo! another Friend, if not the same,
For that I knew not, with a message came—
“Canst keep accounts?” the man was pleased to ask—
“I could not cash!—but that the harder task.”
“Yet try,” he said; and I was quickly brought
To Lawyer Snell, and in his office taught.
Not much my pay, but my desires were less,
And I for evil days reserved th’ excess.
Such day occurr’d not: quickly came there one, 160
When I was told my present work was done.
My Friend then brought me to a building large,
And gave far weightier business to my charge.
There I was told I had accounts to keep
Of those vast Works, where wonders never sleep,
Where spindles, bobbins, rovings, threads, and pins,
[Make] up the complex mass that ever spins.
There, at my desk, in my six feet of room,
I noted every power of every loom;
Sounds of all kinds I heard from mortal lungs— 170
Eternal battle of unwearied tongues,
The jar of men and women, girls and boys,
And the huge Babel’s own dull whirring, grinding noise.
My care was mark’d, and I had soon in charge
Important matters, and my pay was large.
I at my fortune marvell’d; it was strange,
And so the outward and the inward change,
Till to the Power who “gives and takes away”
I turn’d in praise, and taught my soul to pray.
Another came! “I come,” he said, “to show, 180
373Your unknown Friend—have you a wish to know?”
Much I desired, and forth we rode, and found
My Uncle dying, but his judgment sound.
The good old man, whom I abused, had been
The guardian power, directing but unseen;
And thus the wild but grateful boy he led
To take new motives at his dying bed.
The rest you judge—I now have all I need—
And now the tale you promised!—Come, proceed.
P. ’Tis due, I own, but yet in mercy spare! 190}
Alas! no Uncle was my guide—my care }
Was all my own; no guardian took a share. }
I, like Columbus, for a world unknown—
’Twas no great effort—sacrificed my own—
My own sad world, where I had never seen
The earth productive, or the sky serene.
But this is past—and I at length am come
To see what changes have been wrought at home;
Happy in this, that I can set me down
At worst a stranger in my native town. 200
F. Then be it so! but mean you not to show
How time has pass’d? for we expect to know;
And, if you tell not, know you we shall trace
Your movements for ourselves from place to place!
Your wants, your wishes, all you’ve sought or seen,
Shall be the food for our remark and spleen.
So, warn’d in time, the real page unfold,
And let the Truth, before the Lie, be told.
P. This might be done; but wonders I have none;
All my adventures are of Self alone. 210
F. What then? I grant you, if your way was clear,
All smooth and right—we’ve no desire to hear;
But, if you’ve lewd and wicked things to tell, }
Low passions, cruel deeds, nay crimes—’tis well: }
Who would not listen?—— }
P. Hark! I hear the bell. }
374It calls to dinner with inviting sound,
For now we know where dinners may be found,
And can behold and share the glad repast,
Without a dread that we behold our last.
F. Come then, shy friend, let doleful subjects cease, 220
And thank our God that we can dine in peace.
375