^^y^ 5 -c ^^^^^^
*^' c?
/^/^
/
M,]SYF 'SE'i^'iiii^jii; i^iii^i]f±i.
-V
THE
LIWI. AMD FCOETICAL W®EKi
1 1^1 -own TOILTUMF.
MTETJRRAY, ALBEMMXXE STJLEETo
Tlh47
Ex libris
C. K. OGDEN
THE
L :: J'
^]
AND
POETICAL
WORKS
OF THE
REY. GEORGE
CRABBE.
EDITED BY HIS SON.
CTompIetc tn ©ne Volume.
WITH POETRAIT AND
VIGNETTE,
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1847.
1
1
LONDON :
VrinteiJ by William Clowes ami &ixs
Stamford Street.
JUXNAVERSITY OF C.AT.TFOENlA
SANTA BARBARA
CONTENTS.
iii
CONTENTS.
&c
1
Paoe
ix.
xi.
LIFE OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE
Dedication : To the Rev. W. L. Bowles, Canon of Salisbury,
Preface
Chapter I. 1754 — 1775
1
II. 1775—1780
8
III. 1780
13
IV. 1781
25
V. 1782—1783
31
VI. 1784—1792
36
VII. 1792—1804
42
VIII. 1805—1814
50
IX. 1814—1819
60
X. 1823—1832
80
i
THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE
Advertisement to the Poems
Dedication : To the Right Honourable Lord Holland .
93
94
95
96
THE LIBRARY
101
Book I
114
II.. . . .
118
121
THE NEWSPAPER:
124
124
125
a2
CONTENTS,
THE PARISH UEGISTEK: Paok
I'art I. Haitisms 132
11. Makriaoes 141
in. Burials 146
THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY 156
REFLECTIONS UPON THE SUBJECT
" Quid juvat errores, mersa jam puppe, fateri ?
Quid lacrymiE delicta juvant commissa secutte?" 160
SIR EUSTACE GREY 162
THE HALL OF JUSTICE:
Part 1 167
II 168
WOMAN 170
THE BOROUGH:
Dedication: To his Grace the Duke of Rlti^nd 171
Preface 172
Letter I. General Description 17.5
IL The Church 178
m. The Vicar, the Curate, &c 182
TV. Introduction 185
Sects and Professions in Religion 188
V. The Election 194
VI. Professions — Law 196
VII. Professions — Physic 200
Vm. Trades 204
IX. Amusemen-ts 206
X. Clubs and Social Meetings 209
XI. Inns 213
XII. Players 216
XIII. The Almshouse and Trustees 220
XIV. Inhabitants of the Almshouse : Life of Blaney 223
XV. „ „ „ ., Clelia 225
XVL „ „ „ .. Benbow 227
XVn. The Hospftal and Governors 230
XVIII. The Poor and their Dwellings 232
XIX. The Poor of THE Borough : The Parish Clerk 236
XX. „ ,, ., .. Ellen Orford 239
XXI. ,, „ „ „ Abel Keene 243
XXH. „ ,, „ „ Peter Grimes 246
XXIII. Prisons 250
XXIV. Schools 254
CONTENTS.
OCCASIONAL PIECES: p^^^
The Ladies of the Lake 260
Infancy — A Fragment 260
The Magnet 262
Stokm and Calm 262
Satire 262
Belvoir Castle 263
Lines in Laura's Album 264
Lines written at Warwick 264
On a Drawing of the Elm Tree under which the Duke of Wellington stood
SEVERAL times DURING THE BaTTLE OF WATERLOO 265
On receiving from a Lady a Present of a Ring 266
To a Lady' with some Poetical Extracts 266
To A Lady on leaving her at Sidmouth 266
To Sarah, Countess of Jersey, on her Birthday 266
To A Lady who desired some Verses at parting 267
THE WORLD OF DREAMS 268
TALES :
Dedication: To Her Grace Isabella, Duchess Dowager of Rutland 271
Preface 272
Tale I. The Dumb Orators ; or, the Benefit of Society 276
n. The Parting Hour 281
ni. The Gentleman Farmer 285
IV. Procrastination 290
V. The Patron 294
VI. The Frank Courtship 30i
VII. The Widow's Tale 306
VIII. The Mother 320
EX. Arabella 3j3
X. The Lover's Journey 316
XI. Edttard Shore 32o
XII. 'Squire Thomas ; or, the Precipitate Choice 325
XIII. Jesse and Colin 328
XrV. The Struggles of Conscience 333
XV. Advice; or, the 'Squire and the Priest 338
XVI. The Confidant 342
XVII. Resentment 347
XVIIL The Wager 352
XIX. The Convert '. 355
XX. The Brothers 360
XXI. The Learned Boy 364
FLIRTATION: A DIALOGUE 370
CONTENTS.
TALES OF TIIK HALL: I'aoe
Dkdication : To lli.ii (iu.vi r. Tiir, l)i ciikss or IJi tlam) '-i''>
PiiKFAcn 376
Book I. TiiK Hall 379
II. Tiif; BnoTiiERS 383
III. IJovs AT Sciiooi 385
IV. Al)\ KNTUKKS or KlCII AIII> 390
V. ]{uTii 395
VI. Adventuhes of Richard — concluded 399
VII. TiiF. Elper Brother 404
VIII. The Sisters 412
IX. The Preceptor Husband 420
X. The Old Bachelor 424
XI. The Maid's Story 431
XII. Sir Owen Dale 441
XIII. Delay has Danger 450
XIV. The natural Death of Love 458
XV. Gretna Green 462
XVI. Lady Barbara; or, the Ghost 466
XVn. The Widow 476
XVIII. Ellen 482
XIX. Willia-m Bailey 485
XX. The Cathedral-Walk 492
XXI. Smugglers and Poachers 496
XXII. The Visit concluded 502
POSTHUMOUS TALES 508
Dedication : To Samuel Kogers, Esq 508
Advertisement 508
Talc I. SiLFORD Hall ; or, the Happy Day 509
II. The Family of Love 516
III. The Equal Makkiage 526
IV. Rachel 529
V. Villars 530
VI. The Farewell and Return 534
VII. ,, ,, ,, ., The Schoolfellow 536
VIII. „ „ „ ., Barnaby, the Shopman '. 537
IX. „ „ „ .. Jane 53D
X. „ „ .. .. The Ancient Mansion 540
XI. „ „ .. ., The Merchant 542
XII. „ „ .. The Brother Burgesses 544
XIII. „ .. ., ., The Dean's Lady 545
XIV. „ .. „ ,. The Wife and Widow 546
XV. „ „ „ ,, Belinda Waters 548
XVI. „ „ ,, ,, The Dealer and Clerk 549
XVn. „ „ „ „ Danvebs and Rat>er 553
XA'ITT. .. ., .. .. The Boat-Race 556
CONTENTS.
POSTHUMOUS Th.luE^ -continued: p^ge
Tale XIX. The Farewell and Ketcrx: Master "NVilliam; or, Lad's Love 559
XX. ,, „ „ ,, The Will 561
XXI. „ „ „ „ The Cocsins 564
XXn. „ „ „ „ Preaching and Practice 567
APPENDIX 570
No. I. Inebrietv, A Poem; published at Ipswich, in 1775 570
11. Fragments of Verse, from Mr. Crabbe's early Note-Books 572
" Ye gentle Gales " 572
MiRA 573
Hymn — " Oh, thou, who taught my infant eye " 573
The Wish 573
The Comparison 573
Goldsmith to the Author 573
Fragment — "Proud, little Man, opioion's slave" 573
The Kesurrection 574
My Birth-day, December 24, 1778 574
To Eliza — " The Hebrew King with spleen possest " 574
Life — " Think ye the joys that fill our early day " 574
The Sacrament — " O ! sacred gift of God to man " 574
Night — " The sober stillness of the night " 574
Fragment — Written at Midnight 575
Time 575
The Choice 575
III. The Candidate; a Poetical Epistle to the Authors of the Monthly
Review 5"6
INDEX.. 581
THE
LIFE
REV. GEORGE CRABBE.
"r —
( xi )
TO
THE EEV. W. L. BOWLES,
CANON OF SALISBURY,
&c. &c.
THESE MEMOIES
OF HIS DEPARTED FRIEND AND BROTHER-POET ARE INSCRIBED, IN TESTIMONY OF THAT
GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE RESPECT WHICH HAS DESCENDED FROM
MR. CRABBE TO HIS CHILDREN'S CHILDREN.
b 2
( xii )
PREFACE.
Tine success of some recent l)i()2:raphical works, evidently written by unpractised hands,
suggested to nie the possibility that my recollections of my father might be received
with favour by the public. The rough draft of the following narrative was accordingly
drawn up, and submitted to my father's friend, Mr. Thomas Moore, whom at that time I
had never seen, and who, in returning it, was so kind as to assure me that he had read it
with much interest, and conceived that, with a little correction, it might gratify the
readers of Mr. Crabbe's Poetical Works. I afterwards transmitted it to his friend Mr.
Rogers, who expressed himself in terms equally flattering to an inexperienced writer ;
and who — as indeed, Mr. Moore had done before — gave me the most valuable species of
assistance I could have received, by indicating certain passages that ought to be oblite-
rated. Mr. Moore, Mr. Campbell, Mr. Lockhart, Mrs. Joanna Baillie, Mr. Duncan,
Mr. Clark, and others of my father's friends, have, moreover, taken the trouble to draw
up brief summaries of their personal reminiscences of him, with which I have been
kindly permitted to enrich this humble Memoir.
The letters and extracts of letters from Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Roger Wilbraham,
Mr. Canning, Mrs. Leadbeater, and other eminent friends of Mr. Crabbe, now deceased,
which are introduced in the following pages, have been so used witli the permission of
their representatives ; and I have to thank the Duke of Rutlartd, the Marquis of Lans-
downe, Earl Grey, Lord Holland, the Right Hon. J. W. Croker, the Rev. Richard
Turner, and the other living gentlemen, whose correspondence has been as serviceable
to my labours as it was honourable to my father's character, for leave to avail myself of
these valuable materials.
I cannot conclude, without expressing my sense of the important assistance which
has been rendered to me, in finally correcting my work and arranging it for the press,
by a friend high in the scale of literary distinction ; who, however, does not permit me
to mention his name on this occasion. On the assistance I have received from my
brother, and another member of my own family, it would be impertinent to dwell.
Pi OKLECHURCH, January 6, 1834.
LIFE
REV. GEORGE CRABBE.
CHAPTER I.
1754—1775.
Mr. Crabbe's Birth, Parentage, and Early Education — His
Apprenticeship to a Surgeon — His Attachment to Miss
Elmy, afterwards his Wife — Publication of " Inebriety," a
Poem.
As one of the severest calamities of life, the loss
of our first and dearest friends, can be escaped
by none whose own days are not prematurely cut
short, the most pious affection must be contented
to pray that the affliction may come on us gra-
dually, and after we have formed new connections
to sustain us, and, in part at least, fill up the
void. In this view, the present writer has every
reason to consider with humble thankfulness the
period and circumstances of his father's de-
parture. The growing decline of his bodily
strength had been perceptible to all around him
for several years. He himself had long set the
example of looking forward with calmness to the
hour of his dissolution ; and if the firmness and
resignation of a Christian's death-bed must
doubly endear his memory to his children, they
also afford indescribable consolation after the
scene is closed. At an earlier period, Mr.
Crabbe's death would have plunged his family
in insupportable suffering : but when the blow
fell, it had many alleviations.
With every softening circumstance, however,
a considerable interval must pass, before the sons
of such a parent can bear to dwell on the minor
peculiarities of his image and character ;— a much
longer one, ere they can bring themselves to con-
verse on light and ludicrous incidents connected
with his memory. The tone of some passages
in the ensuing narrative may appear at variance
with these feelings ; and it is therefore necessary
for me to state here, that the design of drawing
up some memoirs of my father's life, from his
own fireside anecdotes, had occurred to me
several years ago, and that a great part of what
I now lay before the public had been committed
to writing more than a twelvemonth before his
decease. At the time when I was thus occupied,
although his health was evidently decaying,
there was nothing to forbid the hope that he
might linger for years among us, in the enjoy-
ment of such comforts as can smooth the gradual
descent of old age to the tomb ; and I pleased
myself with the fond anticipation, that when I
should have completed my manuscript, he him-
self might be its first critic, and take the trouble
to correct it wherever I had fallen into any mis-
takes of importance. But he was at last carried
off by a violent illness, of short duration — and
thus ended for ever the most pleasing dream of
my authorship.
I mention these things to caution the reader
against construing into unfilial levity certain
passages of this little work : but, at the same
time, I feel that Mr. Crabbe himself would have
wished his son, if he attempted to write his life
at all, to do so, as far as might be possible, with
the unbiassed fairness of one less intimately
connected with him. To impartiality, certainly,
I cannot pretend ; but I hope partiality docs not
necessarily imply misrepresentation. I shall
endeavour to speak of him as his manly and
honest mind would have wished me to do. I
shall place before the reader, not only his nobler
qualities, but the weaknesses and infirmities
which mingled with them — and of which he was
more conscious than of the elevation of his
genius. To trick out an ideal character for the
public eye, by either the omission or the ex-
aggeration of really characteristic traits, is an
office which my respect for my father — even if
there were nothing else — would render it im])os-
sible for me to attempt. I am sustained by the
belief that his countrymen at large respect his
memory too much to wish that his history should
be turned into anything like a romance, and the
hope that they will receive with indulgence a
faithful narrative, even though it should be a
homely one.
I have in vain endeavoured to trace his de-
scent beyond his grandfather. Various branches
of the name appear to have been settled, from a
remote period, in Noriblk, and in different sea-
faring places on the coast of Sufiblk ; and it
LIFE OF CRAHIJE.
seems prohiililc tliiit tlic first wlio nssiimed it
was 11 fislicriniin.' A pilot, by niiiiic ('ral»l)c, of
Walton, was coDsiiltcil as a man oT rcmarkal)l(!
i-xpt'iirncc, al)out tlu; voyaj^'c of Iviward the
'riiiifl, |)n'vi()iis to the hattli- of Crcssy. 'Ilic
( 'ral)l)('s of Norfolk have hccii, for many frfnt'i'u-
tions, in the station of f'arm<'rs, or wealthy yeo-
men ; and I donttt wlictlnT any of tlio race liad
ever risen miieli above this s|»liero of lili; ; for
thonL;ii then- is now in the possession of my
nncli> at Soiitliwold an ajiparently ancient I'oat of
arms, — t/ii/rs, tiirec crali-lish, or, — how or
whence it came into the hatuis of his father we
have no trace, and therefore I cannot attach
nmch weijiht to such a shadowy token of (jcntle
pretensions.
(Jeor^c Crabhc, the Poet's graiulfather, was
a burfjess of Aldboroii!iii, who became, in his
latter days, collector of the customs in that port,
but nuist have died in narrow circumstances ;
since his son, named also Georf/e, and originally
educated foi' trade, appears to have; been, very
early in life, tiie keept-r of a ])arochial school in
the porch of the church of Orford. From this
place he removed to Norton, near Loddon, in
Norfolk, where he united the humble offices of
schoolmaster and parish clerk. lie at length
retin-ned to Aldborough, where, after acting for
many years as warehouse-keeper and deputy
collector, he rose to be collector of the salt-
duties, or Salt-master. He was a man of strong
and vigorous talents, skilful in business of all
sorts, distinguished in particular for an extra-
ordinary faculty of calculation ; and during many
years of his life was the factotum, as the Poet
ex])ressed it, of Aldl)orough. Soon after his
final settlement in his native town, he married a
widow of the name of Lodclock, a woman of the
most amiable disposition, mild, patient, ail'cc-
tionate, and deeply religious in her turn of mind ;
and by her he had six children, ail of whom,
except one girl, lived to mature years.
George Crabbe, the Poet, was the eldest of
the family ; and was born at Aldborough, on the
Christmas-eve of 1754.^ His next brother,
Robert, was bred to the business of a glazier,
and is now living in retirement at Southwold.
John Crabbe, the third son, served for some
time in the royal navy, and became subsequently
' " I cannot account for tlie vanity of that one of my an-
cestors wlio first (being dissatislied witli tlie four letters wliicli
composed tlie name of ' Oral),' tlie sour fruit, or ' Crab,' the
crusty lish) added his be by way uf disguise. .'Vlas! he gained
nothin" worth his trouble; but he has brought upon me, his
descendant alter I know not how many generations, a question
beyond mv abilities to answer." — Mr. Crabbe to Mr. Chantrey,
Dec. 11, 1823.
"' When my grandfather first settled in .\ldborough, he
lived in an old house in that range of buildings which the sea
ha') now almost demolished. 'I'lie chambers projected far
over tlie ground-lloor ; and the windows were small, with dia-
mond panes, almost impervious to the light. In this gloomy
dwelling the Poet was born. The house of which Mr Bernard
llirton has published a print as " the birth-place of Crabbe "
was inhabited by the family duriiu; ray father's boyhotid. .\
view of it, by Stanlield, forms the vignette to this volume.
the captain of a Liver|)oo] .sjavo-ship. Return-
ing from a siiccesslul voyage, he married the
owner's dauuhter ; and on his next excursion, he
perished l»y an insurrection of the slaves. The
negroes, fiaviiig mastered the crew, set the
vviiolc of them adrift in an o])en boat; and nei-
ther Captain Ciabbc; nor any of his com[>anion8
were ever again heard of". The fourth brother,
William, also took to a seafaring life. Reinp
made prisoner by the; Spaniards, he was carried
to Mexico, wher(! he became a silversmith, mar-
ried, aii(] prosper(!d, until his increa.sing riches
attracted a charge of Protestantism ; the conse-
quence of which was mucli |)ersccution. lie at
last was obliged to abandon Mexico, his pro-
perty, and his family ; aiul was discovered, in
the year 1803, by an Aldborough sailor, on the
coast of Honduras, where again he seems to have
fotuid some success in business. This sailor was
the only person he had seen for many a year
who could tell him anything of Aldborough and
his family : and great was his perplexity when he
was informed, that his eldest brother, George,
was a clergyman — the sailor, I dare say, had
never himself heard of his I)eing a poet. " This
cannot be uur (ieor^e," said the wanderer—" he
was a doctor!" This was the first, and it was
also the last, tidinijs that ever reached my father
of his brother William ; and, upon the Aldbo-
rough sailor's story of his casual interview, it is
obvious tliat the poet built his tale of "The
Parting Hour," whose hero, Allen Booth,
" yielded to the Spanish force," and —
" no more
Return'd exulting to his native sliore."
Like William Crabbe,
" Tliere, hopeless ever to escape the land.
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand :
In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day
He saw his happy infants round him play, —
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o'er liis seat, and soothed his reveries."
But—
" ' Whilst I was poor,' said .VUen, ' none would care
What my poor notions of religion were ;
I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,
And never mcntion'd Luther in my life ;
Their forms I foUow'd, whether well or sick.
And was a most obedient Catholick.
but I had money — and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound."
" Alas, poor .\llen I through his wealtli were sein
Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been :
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown,
.\rc in an instant through the varnish shown.
Tliey spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly ;
Or for his crime and contumacy die.
Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight ;
Ilis wife, his children, weeping in liis sight.
All urging him to flee — he fled, and cursed his flight.
He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay :
There, in the woods, he wrought, and there among
Some labouring seamen heard his native tongue :
LIFE OF CRABBE.
Again he heard — he seized an oflfer'd liand —
' And when beheld you last our native land ?'
He cried ; ' and in what country ? quickly say.'
The seamen answer'd — strangers all were they —
One only at his native port had been ;
lie landing once the quay and church had seen." &c.
The youngest of this family, Mary, became
the wife of JNIr. Sparkes, a builder in her native
town, where she died in 1827. Another sister,
as has been mentioned, died in infancy ; and I
find among my fathers papers the following
lines, referring to the feelings with which, in
the darkening evening of life, he still recurred
to that early distress : —
" But it was misery stung me in the day
Peatli of an infant sister made his prey ;
For then first met and moved my early fears
A father's terrors and a mother's tears.
Though greater anguish I have since endured,
Some heal'd in part, some never to be cured,
Yet was there something in that first-born ill
So new, so strange, that memory feels it still." MS.
The second of these couplets has sad truth in
every word. The fears of the future poet were
as real as the tears of his mother, and the " ter-
rors " of his father. The Salt-master was a
man of imperious temper and violent ])assions ;
Ijut the darker traits of his character had, at this
period, showed themselves only at rare intervals,
and on extraordinary occasions. He had been
hitherto, on the whole, an exemplary husband
and i'ather ; and was passionately devoted to the
little girl, whose untimely death drew from him
those gloomy and savage tokens of misery which
haunted, fifty years after, the memory of his
gentler son. He was a man of short stature,
but very robust and powerful ; and he had a
highly marked comitenance, not unlike in linea-
ments, as my father used to say, to that of
Howard the philanthropist ; but stamped with
the trace of passions which that illustrious man
either knew not or had subdued.
Aldborough (or, as it is more correctly
written, Aldeburgh) was in those days a poor
and wretched place, with nothing of the elegance
and gaiety which have since sprung up about it,
in consequence of the resort of watering parties.
The town lies between a low hill or cliff, on
which only the old church and a \'c\y better
houses were then situated, and the beach of the
German Ocean. It consisted of two parallel
and un])aved streets, running between mean and
scrambling houses, the abodes of seafaring men,
pilots, and fishers. The range of houses nearest
to the sea had suffered so much from repeated
invasions of the waves, that only a few scattered
tenements appeared erect among the desolation.^
3 " From an accurate plan of t!ie borough, which was taken
in 1559, it appears that the church was tlien more than ten
times its present distance from the shore ; and also that there
were Uenes of some extent, similar to tliose at Yarmouth,
between the town and the sea, which have long been swal-
lowed up and lost. After very high tides, the remains of
wells haVL' lieen frequently discovered below high-water
mark." — Aldborough Duscribed, by tlie Rev. James Furd, p. 4.
I have often heard my father describe a tremen-
dous spring-tide of, I think, the 1st of January,
1779, when eleven houses here were at once
demolished ; and he saw the breakers dash over
the roofs, curl round the walls, and crush all to
ruin. The beach consists of successive ridges —
large rolled stones, then loose shingle, and, at
the fall of the tide, a strijie of fine hard sand.
Vessels of all sorts, from the large heavy troll-
boat to the yawl and prame, drawn uj) along the
shore— fishermen ])reparing their tackle, or
sorting their spoil — and nearer the gloomy old
town-hall (the only indication of municipal dig-
nity) a few groujis of mariners, chiefly pilots,
taking their c^uick short walk backwards and
forwards, every eye watchful of a signal from
the offing — such was the squalid scene that first
opened on the author of " The Village."
Nor was the landscape in the vicinity of a
more engaging aspect — open commons and
sterile farms, the soil poor and sandy, the herb-
age bare and rusliy, the trees " lew and far
between," and withered and stunted by the
bleak breezes of the sea. The opening picture
of "The Village" was copied, in every touch,
from the scene of the Poet's nativity and boyish
days :—
" Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,
Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor ;
From thence a length of burning sand appears,
Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ;
Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye ;
There thistles spread their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infants threaten war."
The " broad river," called the Aid, approaches
the sea close to Aldborough, within a few hun-
dred yards, and then turning abruptly continues
to run for about ten miles parallel to the beach,
— from which, for the most part, a dreary stripe
of marsh and waste alone divides it, — until it at
length finds its embouchure at Orford. The
scenery of this river has been celebrated as lovely
and delightful, in a poem called " Slaughden
Vale," written by Mr. James Bird, a friend of my
father's; and old Camden talks of "the beau-
tiful vale of Slaughden." I confess, however,
that though I have ever found an indescribable
charm in the very weeds of the place, I never
could perceive its claims to beauty. Such as it
is, it has furnished Mr. Crabbo with many of
his happiest and most graphical doscrii)tions :
and the same may be said of the whole line of
coast from Orford to Dunwich, cveiy feature of
which has somewhere or other been reproduced
in his writings. The quay of Slaughden, in
particular, has been painted with all the minute-
ness of a Dutch landscape : —
" Here samphire banks and saltwort bound the flood,
There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud ;
And higher up a ridge of all things base,
Wliich some strong tide has roll'd upon the place. . . .
b2
LIFE OF CRABBE.
Voii is our quay 1 tliosi" smnllcr boys from town
It.i various wiirfs for couutry use l)riiii; down." &c. Jtc.
Tl)i> powcM-liil oH'i'ct willi wliicli Mr. Crahlxi
has depicted llio ocean itself, l)otli in its calm
and its tempestuous as|)ects, may lead many to
inter tliat, had lie been imrn and educated in a
reirion of mountains and forests, he mijrht have
represented ihem also as happily as he has done
the slimy marshes and withered commons of the
coast of Suti'oik : hut it is certain that he visited,
and even resided in, some of th(! tinest parts of
our island in after-life, without ap|)earing to
take much dcli^dit in the f^rander featin-cs of
inland scenery; and it may bo douhted whether,
under any circumstances, his mind would ever
have lound nuich of the excitement of deliirht
elsewhere than in the study of human beings.
And certainly,
ro spent in this agreeable
manner. His lather employed him in the ware-
house on till' (piay of Slaimhden, in labom's
which he abhorred, thouuch he in time became
tolerably expert in them ; such as piling; ii])
butter and cheese. He said lonp: after, that he
remendjered wilh regret tiie fretfuhicss and in-
dignation wherewith he submitted to these
drudgeries, in which the Salt-master himself
often shared. At length an advertisement,
headed "Apprentice wanted," met his lather's
eye; and George was oflered, and accepted, to
fill the vacant station at Wickham-Brook, a
small village near Bury St. Edmunds. He left
his home and his indulgent mother, imder the
care of two farmers, who were travelling across
the country ; with whom he ])arted within about
ten miles of the residence of his future master,
and proceeded, with feelings easily imagined in
a low-spirited, gentle lad, to seek a strange,
l)erhaj)S a severe, home. Fatigue also contri-
l)iitcd to imjjart its melancholy; and the re-
ception augmented these feelings to bitterness.
Just as he reached the door, his master's daugh-
ters, having eyed him for a few moments, burst
into a violent fit of laughter, exclaiming, " La !
here 's otu' new 'prentice." He never forgot the
dee|) mortification of that moment ; but justice
to the ladies compels me to mention, that shortly
before that ])eriod he had had his head shaved
during some illness, and, instead of the orna-
mental curls that now embellish the shorn, he
wore, by his own conlession, a very ill-made
scratch-wig. This happened when he was in
his fourteenth year, in 17G8.
Besides the duties of his profession, "our
now 'prentice " was often employed in the
drudgery of the farm— for his master had more
oceu])ations than one — and was made the bed-
fellow and companion of the jjloughboy.
How astonished would he have been, when
carrying medicines on foot to Cheveley (a
village at a considerable distance), could he
have foreseen that, in a very few years, he
should take his daily station in that same place
at a duke's table ! One day as he mixed with
the herd of lails at the public-house, to see the
exhil)ilioiis of a conjurer, the magician, having
\vork<' o
our, —
" Minutely trace man's life ; year after vear,
Tlirough all his days, let all his deeds appear^
And then, though some may in that life be strange.
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change :
Tlie links that bind those various deeds are seen.
And no mysterious void is left between :" —
but, it must be allowed, that we want several
links to connect the author of " The Library "
with the young lover of the above verses, or of
"THE WISH.
" My Mira, shepherds, is as fair
As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale.
As sylphs who dwell in purest air,
As fays who skim the dusky dale,
As Venus was wlien Venus fled
From watery Triton's oozy bed.
" My Mira, sliepherds, has a voice
As soft as Syrinx in her grove.
As sweet as eclio makes her choice.
As mild as whispering vipgin-love ;
As gentle as the winding stream.
Or fancy's song when poets dream." &c. &c.
Beibre, however, he left Woodbridge, Mr.
Crabbe not only wrote, but found courage and
means (the latter I know not how) to print and
publish at Ipswich a short piece, entitled " Ine-
briety, a Poem," in which, however rude and
unfinished as a whole, there are some couplets
not deficient in point and terseness, and not a
little to indicate that devotion to the style of
Pope, which can be traced through all the ma-
turer labours of his pen. The parallel passages
from the Dunciad and the Essay on Man, quoted
in the notes, are frequent ; and to them he mo-
destly enough alludes in " The Preface," from
which, as an early specimen of his prose, it
may be worth while to extract a paragraph : —
" Presumption or meanness are both too often
the only articles to be discovered in a preface.
Whilst one author haughtily atfects to despise the
public attention, another timidly courts it. I would
no more beg for than disdain applause, and there-
fore should advance nothing in favour of the fol-
lowing little Poem, did it not appear a cruelty and
disregard to send a first production naked into the
world.
" The World ! — how presumptuous, and yet
how trifling the sound. Every man, gentle reader,
has a world of his own, and whether it consists of
half a score or half a thousand friends, 'tis his, and
he loves to boast of it. Into my world, therefore,
I commit this, my Muse's earliest labour, nothing
doubting the clemency of the climate, nor fearing
the partiality of the censorious.
" Something by way of apology for tliis trifle is,
perhaps, necessary ; especiallj- for those parts
wherein I have taken such great liberties with Mr.
Pope. That gentleman, secure in immortal fame,
would forgive me : forgive me, too, my friendly
critic ; I promise thee, thou wilt find the extracts
from that Swan of Thames the best part of the
performance."
LIFE OF CRABBE.
I riKiy also tratisci'il)0 a f.
Favouring the Uittle, and the (iood Old Cause.
See the dull smile, whicli fearfully appears,
When gross Indecency her front uprears.
The joy conceal'd the fiercer burns within,
As masks afford the keenest gust to sin :
Imagination helps the reveren rcccjjtioM ln' slioiilil meet, uilli, imd well
knew what s\io iiiiisl .siiili'r I'roiii the (iivt liittiT-
ncss of iniiiils loo iiiicullivatrd to sii|i|)n'ss tlicir
Ici'l'm^s. lie ioiiiid it as |Piiiiirul as lie liad I'orc-
bodcd. ]\Ir. Tovidl was scalcil in liis ariii-fliair,
ill stoiii silfiioo ; l)iit (lie tears coursed eatli other
over his manly face. His wit'o was weeping
violently, Iut head reelining on the table. Oni!
or two t'cniale fViemls were there, to oti'er con-
solation. After a long silence, Mr. Tovell
observed, — " She is now out of every body's
way, poor girl
One of the females re-
marked that it was wrong, very wrong, to grieve,
because sIk; was gone to a better |)laee. " How
do 1 know where she is gone V " was the bitter
i'e|»Iy ; and then there was another long silence.
But, in the course of time, those gloomy
feelings subsided. Mr. Crabbe was received as
nsual, nay, with increased kindness; for he had
known their "dear Jane." But though the
hospitality of the house was undiminished, and
occasionally the sound of loud, joyous mirth was
heard, yet the master was never himself again.
Whether my father's more frequent visits to
Parham, growing dislike to his profession, or
increasing attachment to ])oetical composition,
contributed most to his ultimate abandonment of
medicine, I do not profess to tell. I have said,
that his spirit was buoyed up by the insjiiring
inlluencc of reijuited affection ; but this neces-
sarily led to other wishes, and to them the
obstacles appeared insuperable. Miss Elmy
was too prudent to marry, where there seemed to
be no chance of a competent livelihood ; and he,
instead of being in a position to maintain a
family, could hardly, by labour which he
abiiorred, earn daily bread for himself. He was
proud, too ; and, though conscious that he had
not deserved success in his profession, he was
also conscious of possessing no ordinary abilities,
and brooded with deep mortification on his
failure. jNleantime he iiad iierused with atten-
tion the works of the British poets and of his
favourite Horace ; and his desk had gradually
been filled with verses which he justly esteemed
more worthy of the public eye than " Inebriety."
He indulged, in short, the dreams of a young
poet : —
" A little time, and lie slioiilil burst to li^'ht,
And admiration of the world excite;
And every I'riend, now cool and apt to blame
His fond jjursuit, would wonder at his fame.
' Fame shall be mine ; — then wealth shall I possess; —
And beauty next an ardent lover bless.' "
The Patron.
He deliberated often and long, — " resolved and
re-resolved," — and again doubted ; but, well
aware as he was of the hazard he was about to
encounter, he at last made up his mind. One
gloomy day, towards the close of the year 1779,
he hail strolletl to a bleak and cheerless part of
the clitf above Aldborough, called " The Marsh
Hill," brooding, a.s lie went, over the iiumiliating
necessities of his condition, and plii(kiiiray, and the inimitahle (loldsmith, had
also departed ; and, more recently still, Chat-
terton had paid the hitter penalty of his impru-
dence, under eireumstanees wdiieh must surely
have rather disposed the jiatrons of talent to
watch the next opportunity that might offer
itself of encouraging genius " hy poverty de-
pressed." The stupendous Johnson, unrivalled
in general literature, had, from an early period,
withdrawn hin)self from poetry. Cowpcr, des-
tined to fill so large a space in the public eye,
somewhat later, had not as yet appeared as an
author ;' and as for Burns, he was still unknown
heyond the obscure circle of his fellow-villagers.
The moment, therefore, might appear favourable
for Mr. Cralibe's meditated a])i)cal :* and yet,
had he foreseen all the sorrows and disappoint-
ments which awaited him in his new career, it
is prol)able he would either have remained in
his native ])lace, or, if he had gone to London
at all, engaged himself to beat the mortar in
some disjjensary. Happily his hopes ultimately
])revailed over his fears : his Sarah cheered him
by her approbation of his bold adventure ; and
his mind soan^d and exulted when he suddenly
felt himself freeil from the drudgery and anxieties
of his hated jjrofession.
In his own little biographical sketch he says,
that, " on relin([uishing every hope of rising in
his profession, he repaired to the metroj)olis,
and resided in lodgings with a family in the city:
for reasons which he might not himself be able
to assign, he was afraid of going to the west end
of the town. He was ])laced, it is true, near to
some friends of whose kindness he was assured,
and was j)robably loth to lose that domestic and
' Cowper's first publication was in 1782, wlien lie was in
the liftieth year of liis a^'c.
2 I lind these lines in one of liis note-books for 17Sn. —
" When summer's tribe, ner rosy tribe, are lied.
And droopini; beauty mourns lier blossoms shed,
Some humbler sueet may clieer the pensive swain.
And simpler beauties deck the withering plain.
And thus when Verse lier wint'ry prospect weeps,
When Pope is fione, and mighty Milton sleeps,
When Gray in loftv lines h;is ceased to soar.
And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more,
An humbler liiu-d the widow'd Muse invites,
Who led by hope and inclination writes :
With half their art he tries the soul to move,
And swell the softer strain w ith themes of love."
ehocrfu! society which he doidily felt in a world
of strangers."
The only ac(|nainfance he had fin cnt'-ring
London was a IVIrs. ISunham, who hud been in
early youth a fri(Mid of Miss I">lmy, and who
was now tht; wife of a lin authors adchvssiMl afrrcc with
us ill tlu'ir rstiniate, they will not ^rivc this Cnn-
iliddtc luucli (Micouragc'uieut to stand a poll at
I'arnassiis."
Whether " The Candidate" did not (h'sorvc
rather a more oncouraj,MMf^ r('C('|)tion, the; jmljlic
will soon have an opportunity of jud^jfintr, as this
long-ibrg-otten poem, with some oilier early
pieces, will be included in the second volume of
the present collection.
The failure of Mr. Payne plunged the young
])oet into great perplexity, lie was absolutely
under the necessity of seeking sonic pecuniary
aid ; and he cast his eyes in succession on seve-
ral of those eminent individuals who were then
generally considered as liberal patrons of litera-
ture. Before he left Aldborougii he liad been
advised to apply to the premier, Lord North ;
but he now a])piied to him in vain. A second
application to Lord Shelburne met witli no better
success : and he often e.vi)ressed in later times
the feelings with wliich he contrasted his recep-
tion at this nobleman's door, in Berkeley-square,
in 1780, with the courteous welcome which he re-
ceived at a subsequent period in that same man-
sion, now Lansdowne House. He wrote also
several times to the Lord Chancellor Thurlow ;
but with little better fortune. To the first letter,
whicli enclosed a copy of verses, his Lordship re-
turned for answer a cold polite note, regretting
tiiat his avocations did not leave him leisure to
read verses. The great talents and discriminating
judgment of Thurlow made him feel this repulse
with double bitterness; and he addressed to his
Lordship some strong but not disrespectful lines,
intimating that, in former times, the encourage-
ment of literature hud been considered as a duty
ajiperlaining to the illustrious station he held.
Of this ertusion the Chancellor took no notice
whatever.
But I have it in my power to submit to the
reader some fragments of a Journal which my
father kept during this distressing period, for
the perusal of his affianced wife. The manu-
script was discovered lately in the possession of
a sister of my mother's. My father had never
mentioned the existence of any such treasure to
iiis own family. It is headed " The Poet's
Journal;" and' I now transcribe it ; interweav-
ing, as it proceeds, a few observations, which
occur to me as necessary to make it generally
Jntedigible.
" THE POET'S JOURNAL."
" ' Sunt laohrimae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangiint.'
" ' He felt whate'er of sorrows wound the soul,
Bui view'd Misfortune on her fairest side.'
" April 21, 1780. —I dedicate to you, my
dear Mira, this Journal, and I hope it will
be some amusement. Cod only knows what
is to Ije my lot ; but I have, as far as I can,
taken your old advice, and turned aHliclion's
better part outward, and am deterniiried to
reaj) as much consolation I'rom my i)ros()CCt8
as jiossible ; so that, whatever b(rfalls me, I
will endeavour to suppf)se it has its benefits,
though I cainiot immediately see them.
" April 24. Took lodgings at a Mr. Vickery's,
near the Exchange : rather too expensive,
but very convc'iiient — and here I, on reflec-
tion, thought it best to publish, if I could do
it with advatitage, some little i)iece, before I
attempted to introduce my principal work.
AccordiuLdy, I set about a poem, which I
called ' The Hero, an Epistle to Prince VVii.
liam Henry.'
[I must here interrupt the Journal for a mo-
ment, to explain. The " principal work" al-
luded to in the above entry was a prose treatise,
entitled " A Plan for the Exumiuntion of our
3Ioral raid Jieliyious Opinions,' of which the
first rough draft alone has been preserved : and
to which, in one of his rhymed e|)istles to Mira,
composed in this same April, 1780, my father
thus alludes : —
" Of substance I 've thought, and the varied disputes
On the nature of man and tlie notions of brutes ;
Of systems confuted, and systems explrtin'd,
Of science disputed and tenets maintain'd . . .
These, and such speculations on these kind of things.
Have roUi'd my poor Muse of lier plume and her wings ;
Consumed the plilogiston you used to admire.
The spirit extracted, extintjuish'd the fire ;
Let out all tlie ether, so pure and rclined,
And left but a mere caput murtuum behind."
With respect to the " Epistle to Prince Wil-
liam Henry" — now King William IV., — I
need only remind the reader that his Royal
Highness had recently been serving with ho-
nour under Admiral Rodney, and was about to
return to sea. The Poet, after many cautions
against the flattery of courtiers, &c. &c., thus con-
cluded his Epistle. I copy from his note-book :
" Who thus aspiring sings ? would'st thou explore ;
A Bard replies, wlio ne'er assumed before, —
One taugtit in hard affliction's school to l>ear
Life's ills, where every lesson costs a tear,
Who sees from thence, the proper point of view,
What the w ise heed not, and the weak pursue.
* » • »
" And now farewell, the drooping Muse exclaims.
She lothly leaves thee to the shock of war.
And fondly dwelling on her princely tar.
Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share,
Without her misery and without her care.
For, ah ! unknown to thee, a rueful train.
Her hapless children, sigh, and sigh in vain ;
A numerous band, denied the boon to die,
Half-starved, hall-fed by fiU of charity.
Unknown to thee ! and yet, perhaps, thy ear
Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to bear,
LIFE OF CRABBE.
17
IIow some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease ;''
How some, like Savage, sicken'd by degrees ;
How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, slied
The proud big tear on song-extorted bread ;
Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose
Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse."
" One of this train — and of these wretches one —
Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son — ■
Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed.
On Henry, laurels ; on his poet, bread !
" Unhappy art ! decreed thine owner's curse ;
Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse ;
Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex,
And every friend, and every brother vex !
Each fond companion ! No, I thank my Goil !
There rests my torment — there is hung the rod.
To friend, to fame, to family unknown.
Sour disappointments frow n on me alone.
Who hates my song, and damns the poor design,
Shall wound no peace — shall grieve no heart but mine !
" Pardon, sweet Prince! the thoughts that will intrude,
For want is absent, and dejection rude.
Methinks I hear, amid the shouts of Fame,
Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name ;
And, Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day.
One British bard should grieve w hen all are gay.
No ! let him lind his country has redress.
And bid adieu to every fond distress ;
Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes retire,
Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire !"
We now return to my father's Journal.]
" April, 25. — Reading the 'Daily Advertiser' of
the 22nd, I found the following: — ' Wanted
an amanuensis, of grammatical education, and
endued with a genius cajmble of making im-
])rovcments in the writings of a gentleman not
well versed in the English language.' Now,
Vanity having no doubt of my capacity, I sent
immediately the following note to a Mrs.
Brooke, Coventry-street, Haymarket, the
person at whose house I was to inquire : —
' A person having the advantage of a gramma-
tical education, and who supposes himself
endowed with a genius capable of making
emendations to the writings of any gentleman
not perfectly acquainted with the English
language, would be very happy to act as an
amanuensis, where the confinement was not
too rigid,' &c. An answer was returned
verbally, by a porter, that the person should
call in a day or two.
^' April 27. — Called on Mrs. Brooke, from
whose husband or servant in the shop I had
the intelligence that the gentleman was pro-
vided — twelve long miles walked away, loss
5 Eustace Hudgell drowned himself in the Thames in 173C:
the miseries of Otway and Savage are familiar to every reader.
' Goldsmith, on his return to England, w'as so poor tliat it
was with ditliculty he was enabled to reach the metropolis
with a few halfpence only in his pocket. He was an entire
stranger, and without any re-commendation. He offered him-
self to several apothecaries, in the character of a journeyman,
l)ut had the mortification to find every application witliout
success. At length he was admitted into tlie lioase of a che-
mist. ■ This example was often in my father's thoughts, as
the second volume of this collection will show.
of time, and a little disappointment, thought
I : — now for my philosojjhy. Perhaps, then,
I reflected, the ' gentleman ' might not have
so very much of that character as I at first sup-
jiosed : he might be a sharper, and would not,
or an author himself, and consequently could
not, pay me. He might have employed me
seven hours in a day over law or politics, and
treated me at night with a Welsh rabbit and
jiorter! — It 's all well; I can at present buy
porter myself, and am my own amanuensis.
" N.B. Sent my poem to Dodslcy, and
required him to return it to-morrow if not
approved, otherwise its author would call
upon him.
" April 28. — Judging it besttohave two strings
to the bow, and fearing Mr. Dodsley's will
snap, I have finished another little work, from
that awkward-titled piece ' The Foes of
Mankind ;' have run it on to three hundred
and fifty lines, and given it a still more odd
name, ' An Epistle from the Devil.' To-
morrow I hope to transcribe it fair, and send
it by Monday.
" Mr. Dodsley's reply just received. ' Mr.
Dodsley presents his compliments to the
gentleman who favoured him with the en-
closed poem, which he has returned, as he
apprehends the sale of it would piobably not
enable him to give any consideration. He
does not mean by this to insinuate a want of
merit in the poem, but rather a want of atten-
tion in the public'
" Once more, my Mira, I '11 try, and write
to Mr. Becket : if he fails me ! — I know not
how I shall ever get sufficient time to go
through my principal design ; but 1 've jiro-
mised to keep up my spirits, and I will. God
help me !
" April 28. — I thank Heaven my spirits are not
at all aft'ected by Dodsley's refusal. I have
not been able to get the poem ready for Mr.
Becket to-day, but will take some pains with it.
" I fintl myself under the disagreeable ne-
cessity of vending, or pawning, some of my
more useless articles : accordingly have ])ut
into a paper such as cost about two or three
guineas, and, being silver, have not greatlj'
lessened in their value. The conscientious
pawnbroker allowed me — " he thoiiglit he
might" — half a guinea for them. I took it
very readily, being determined to call for
them very soon, and then, if I afterwards
wanted, carry them to some less voracious
animal of the kind.
" Moy 1.— -Still in suspense; but still resigned.
I think of sending Mr. Becket two or three
little pieces, large enough for an eighteen-
penny pamplilet : but, notwithstanding this, to
set about the book I chiefly dejjend upon.
My good broker's money reduced to five
IM
LIl'E OF crahbe.
shilliiips ;in(l >i\|)i'ii(c, and no immccliati! pro-
spect ol' more, i luivc only to koop ii|) i:iy
spirits as well as I can, and depend iijxin
tiic |)rotcctioii of Pi'ovidc'iice, wliidi lias
liitlicrto helped inc in worse situations.
" Let me liojjc tlio last day of this month
may l)e a more smiling onf; than the first,
(iod only knows, and to Iliin 1 readily, and
not unresifrncdly, leave it.
" Mdji 3. — Mr. Hocket has just had my copy.
1 have ;/;«r//,'al)oiil four hundred and Hfty lines,
and entitled them ' Poetical Epistles, with a
Preface by the learned Martinus Scriblerus.'
I do not say it is chance whether they take or
not ; it is as Cod pleases, whatever wits may
say to the contrary.
" I this day met an old friend ; poor Mor-
ley ! — not very clean ; ill, heavy, and dejected.
The poor fellow has had Fortune's smiles and
her frowns, and alas, for him ! her smiles
came first. May I hope a hap]>y prognostic
from this. No, I do not, caimot, will not
depend upon Fortune.
"N.n. The purse a little recruited, by
twenty-five shillings received for books. Now
then, when the spirits are tolerable, we '11
pursue our Work, and make hay while the
sun shines, for it 's l)laguy apt to be clouded.
" May G. — Having nearly finished my plan for
one volume, I hope by next week to complete
it, and then try my fortune in earnest. Mr.
Becket, not yet called upon, has had a pretty
long time to deliberate upon my ' E]>istles.'
If they will do, I shall continue them ; Lon-
don artbrding ample matter for the smiles as
well as fi'owns of satire.
" Should I have time after my princii)al
business is completed, I don't know whether
I shall not write a Novel ; those things used
to sell, and perhaps will now — but of this
hereafter. My s])irits are marvellously good,
considering I 'm in the middle of the great
city, and a stranger, too, without money, —
but sometimes we have unaccountable fears,
and at other times unaccountable courage.
" Miiij 10. — ]\Ir. Becket says just what Mr.
Dodsley wrote, 't was a very pretty thing,
' but, sir, these little pieces the town do not
regard : it has merit, — perhaj)s some other
may. — ' It will bo ottered to no other, sir! —
' Well, sir, I am obliged to you, but,' &c.
— and so these little atl'airs have their end.
And are you not disheartened? My dearest
Mira, not I ! The wanting a letter from you
today, and the knowing myself to be ])os-
sessed but of sixpence-farthing in the world,
are nuich more consequential things.
" 1 have got pretty forward in my book,
and shall soon know its fate ; if bad, these
things will the better prepare me for it ; if
gootl, the contrasted fortune will be the more
agreeable. We are helped, I m |iersuaded,
with s|)irits in our necessities. I did not, nor
could, fronceive that, with a very uncertain
])rospect before me, a very bleak one ln'liiml,
and a vc.nj poor one around nu;, I should be
so happy a fellow : I don't think there 's a
man in London worth but fourpencc halfpenny
— tor I 've this moment sent .seven farthings for
a pint of porter-T-who is so resigned to his
poverty. Ho|)e, Vanity, and the Muse, will
certainly contribute something towards a light
heart ; but Love and the god of Love only
can throw a beam of gladness on a heavy
one.
" I am now debating whether an Ode or a
Song shoidd have the next place in the col-
lection ; which being a matter of so great
consequence, we 'II bid our Mira good night.
" May 12. — Perhaps it is the most difficult
thing in the world to tell how far a man's
vanity will run away with his passions. I
shall therefore not judge, at least not deter-
mine, how far my poetic-al talents may or may
not merit ap{)lause. For the first time in my
life that I recollect, I have written three or
four stanzas that so far touched me in the
reading them, as to take otf the consideration
that they were things of my own fancy.
Now, if I ever do succeed, I will take \\&r-
ticular notice if this passage is remarked ; if
not, I shall conclude 'twas mere self-love, —
but if so, 't was the strangest, and, at the same
time, strongest disguise she ever put on.
" You shall rarely find the same humour
hold two days. I 'm dull and heavy, nor can
go on with my work. The head and heart
are like children, who, being praised for their
good behaviour, will overact themselves ; and
so is the case w ith me. Oh ! Sally, how I
want you !
" May 16. — O! my dear Mira, how yon dis-
tress me : you inquire into m\' affairs, and
love not to be denied, — yet you must. To
what purpose should I tell you the particulars
of my gloomy situation ; that I have ])arted
with my money, sold my icaidrobc, pawned
my watch, am in ilebt to my landlord, and
finally, at some loss how to eat a week longer ?
Yet you say, tell me all. Ah, my dear Sally,
do not desire it ; you must not yet be told these
things. Appearance is what distresses me:
I must have dress, anil therefore am horribly
fearful I shall accom|iany Fashion with fasting
— but a fortnight more will tell me of a cer-
tainty.
" May 18. — A day of bustle — twenty shillings
to pay a tailor, when the stock amounted to
thirteen and three-jience. Well, — there were
instruments to part with, that fetched no less
than eight shillings more ; but twenty-one
shillings and three-pence would yet be so poor
LIFE OF CRABBE.
19
a superfluity, that the Muse would never visit
till the purse was recruited ; for, say men
what they will, she does not love empty
pockets nor poor living. Now, you must
know, my watch was mortgaged for less than
it ought ; so I redeemed and renledged it,
which has made me, — the tailor paid and the
day's expenses, — at this instant worth (let me
count my cash) ten shillings — a rare case, and
most bountiful provision of fortune !
" Great God ! I thank thee for these happy
spirits : seldom they come, but coming, make
large amends for preceding gloom.
" I wonder what these people, my Mira,
think of me. Here 's Vickery, his wife, two
maids, and a shop full of men : the latter,
consequently, neither know nor care who I am.
A little pretty hawk-eyed girl, I 've a great
notion, thinks me a fool, for neglecting the
devoirs a lodger is supposed to pay to an at-
tendant in liis house : I know but one way to
remove the suspicion, and that in the end
might tend to confirm it.
" Mrs. Vickery is a clear-sighted woman,
who appears to me a good wife, mother, and
friend. She thinks me a soft-tempered gen-
tleman — I 'm a gentleman here not quite
nice enough.
" Mr. Vickery is an honest fellow, hasty,
and not over distinguishing. He looks upon
me as a bookish young man, and so respects
me — for he is bookish himself — as one who is
not quite settled in the world, nor has much
knowledge of it; and as a careless easy-tem-
pered fellow, who never made an observation,
nor is ever likely to do so.
" Having thus got my character in the
family, my em|)loyment remains (I suppose)
a secret, and I believe 't is a debate whether
I am copying briefs for an attoiney, or songs
for ' the lady whose picture was found on the
pillow t' other day.'
" N.B. We remove to Bishopsgale-street
in a day or two. Not an unlucky circum-
stance ; as I shall then, concealing Vickery 's
name, let my father know only the number of
my lodging.
" May 20. — The cash, by a sad temptation,
greatly reduced. An unlucky book-stall pre-
sented to the eyes three volumes of Dryden's
works, octavo, five shillings. Prudence, how-
ever, got the better of the devil, when she
whispered me to bid three shillings and six-
pence : after some hesitation, that prevailed
with the woman, and I carried reluctantly
hom.e, 1 believe, a fair bargain, but a very ill-
judged one.
" It s the vilest thing in the world to have
but one coat. My only one has happened
with a mischance, and how to manage it is
some difficulty. A confounded stove's modish
ornament caught its elbow, and rent it half-
way. Pinioned to the side it came home, and
Iran de])loring to my loft. In the dileuuna, it
occurred to me to turn tailor myself; but how
to get materials to work with puzzled me.
At last I went running down in a hurry, with
three or four sheets of paper in my hand, and
begged for a needle, &c., to sew them together.
This finished my job, and but that it is some-
what thicker, the elbow is a good one j^et.
" These are foolish things, Mira, to write
or speak, and wc may laugh at them ; but I '11
be bound to say they are much more likely to
make a man cry, where they happen, — though
I was too much of a philosopher for that,
however not one of those who ])referred a
ragged coat to a whole one.
" On Monday, I hope to finish my book
entirely, and perhaps send it. God Almighty
give it a better fate than the trifles tried
before !
" Sometimes I think I cannot fail ; and
then, knowing how often I have thought so of
fallible things, I am again desponding. Yet,
within these three or four days, I 've been
remarkably high in spirits, and now am so,
though I 've somewhat exhausted them by
writing upwards of thirty pages.
" I am happy in being in the best family
you could conceive me to have been led to ;
— people of real good character and good
nature : whose circumstances are affluent above
their station, and their manners affiible beyond
their circumstances. Had I taken a lodging
at a different kind of house, I must have been
greatly distressed ; but now I shall, at all
events, not be so before 't is determined, one
way or other, what I am to expect.
" I keep too little of the journal form here,
for I always think I am writing to you for tlie
evening's post; and, according to custom
then, shall bid my dear Sally good night,
and ask her prayers.
" May 21. — I give you, my dear Miss Elmy,
a short abstract of a Sermon, preached tliis
morning by my favourite clergyman, at St.
Dunstan's.* There is nothing particular in
it, but had yoi: heard the good man, reverend
in appearance, and with a hollow, slow voice,
deliver it — a man who seems as if already
half way to Heaven, — you would have joined
with me in wondering peo])le call it dull and
disagreeable to hear such discourses, and run
from them to societies w here Deists foolishly
blaspheme, or to pantomimes and farces,
where men seek to deform the creatures God
stamped his own image upon. What, I
« The Rev. Thomas Winstanley, of Trinity College, Cam-
bridge, A.M., was appointed rector of St. Hunstan's in the
East, in January, 1771,— succeeding the celebrated Or. Jortin,
author of the Life of Erasmus, &c. This eminently respect-
able clergyman died in February, 1 789.
D 2
!^0
LIFE OF CRAUBE.
woinlor, can Mr. Williams," as a troo-lliinkor,
or Mr. Loc Lewis,'" as a f'roc-.';|)('ai4cr, find .so
ciitcrtaiiiinji' to prodiifc, that their coiiirio-
pations so far oxcccd those which grace, and
) c't dis;j:racc, our churches.
"Text. — ' Far iikiiii/ arc ccilhtl, hut few chosen.'
" Observe, my brediren, that many arc called —
so many that who can say he is not ? Which of
3'ou is not called? Where is the man who neither
is. nor will In'? such neither is nor will be horn.
The call is universal ; it is not confined to this or
that sect or country ; to this or that class of people :
every man sliares in this blessed invitation — every
man is called. Some by outward, some by inward
means : to some, the happy news is proclaimed,
ti) some it is whispered. Some have the word
preached to their outward cars ; some have it sug-
gested, inwardly, in their hearts. None are omitted
in this universal invitation; none shall say, 'I
came not, for I was not called.' But take notice —
when you have well considered the universality of
the call — pondered it, admired, wondered, been
lost in contemplation of the bounty ; take notice
how it is abused — ' Few are chosen.' Few ! but
that, you will say, is in comparison, not in reality;
— a sad interpretation ! degrading whilst it pal-
liates, still it sounds a lesson to pride; — still I
repeat it, ' Few are chosen.' IIow doidjly lessen-
ing ! — many, yea, all, are called — are invited, are
entreated, are pressed to the wedding. Many,
yea, all — but a little remnant, — heed not, love not,
obey not the invitation. INIany are called to the
choice of eternal happiness, and yet few will make
eternal happiness their choice.
" Brethren, wliat reasons may be assigned for
these things ? For the universality of the call ?
For the limitation of the choice ? The reason why
all are called, is this : that God is no respecter of
persons. Shall any, in the last day, proclaim that
the Judge of the whole earth did not right ? Shall
any plead a want of this call, as a reason why he
came not ? Shall any be eternally miserable,
because he was refused the means of being happj- ?
No ; not one. All require this mercy ; all have
this mercy granted them. From the first man
to the last, all are sinners ; from the first man to
the last, all are invited to be clean ; for, as in Adam
all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.
" The reason why many are called, is, because
the mercy of God is not coufnied, is unspeakable.
The reason why so few are chosen, is, because
man's depravity is so great, so extensive. The call
is God's ; the choice is ours ; — that we may be
happy, is his, of his goodness ; that we will not,
is our own folly : He wills not that a sinner should
9 About this time, David Williams, originally a dissenting
minister in Glamoriianshire, published " lectures on the Uni-
versal Principles of Religion and Morality," " Apology lor
professing the Religion of N.itiire," S;c., and attempted to
establish a congregation, on the avowed principles of deism,
in Margaret-street, Cavendish-square : but this last plan soon
failed. " lie died in ISIfi.
10 l/li irles Lee I,e\vis, the celebrated comedian, was at this
time amusing the town with an evening entertainment of
songs and recitations, in the style of Uibdin.
die in his sins, but, sinners as wc arc, we had rather
die than part with them, 'i'lic reason why few are
chosen doth not deijcnd ui)on him who calls, hut
upon those who are called. (!oriiplaiii not that
you want an invitation to heaven, but complain
that you want the inclination to oU-y it. Say not
that you cannot go, but that yon wilj not part with
the objects which prevent your going.
" Again : — To what are we called ? and who are
those who obey the call ? The last question is to
us the most important. Those who obey the call
are such as pay respect to it. Those who accept
the invitation are such as go like guests. Tlujse
who think themselves honoured in the summons
will have on their wedding garment; they will put
off the filthy rol)es of tht'ir own righteousness, and
much more will they put aside the garments spotted
with iniipiity. They consider themselves as called
to faith, to thanksgiving, to justification, to sancti-
fication, and they will, therefore, go in the dis-
position and temper of men desirous of these
immortal benefits : they know that he who had
them not — and who, though but one, typifies all the
rejected, all the not chosen— they know he was
bound hand and foot, and thrust out for that reason :
yet, mark you, my fellow sinners ! this man went to
the wedding, he enrolled himself amongst the guests,
he was of the profession, a nominal Christian.
How many are there now who are such, deaf to
the true end of their calling I who love mercy, hut
not to use the means of attaining its blessing; who
admire the robe of righteousness, but would wear
it over the polluted weeds of depravity and hard-
ness of heart.
" But to what are we called ? To everlasting
happiness ! Consider, I implore you, whether it
is worth the trouble of looking after. Do by it as
by your worldly bargains, which surely do not offer
more. Examine the truths it is founded upon ;
they will bear examination. Try its merits ; they
will stand the trial. You would grieve to see
thousands of saints in tlie kingdom of God, and
you yourselves shut out : and yet, shut out j'ou
will be into everlasting darkness, unless you rightly
obey the call which you have heard. It is not
enough to be called; for that all are. It is not
enough to obey the call, for he did so in part who
■was rejected from the wedding ; but to join the
practice of religion to the profession of it, is truly
to accept the invitation, and will, through our
Lord Jesus Christ, entitle you to the mercy to
which we are called, even the pleasures which are
at the right hand of God the Father Almighty, to
whom," &c.
" The foregoing, as near as I remetnbcr,
was the substance of the good Doctor's dis-
course. I have doubtless not done him justice
in the expressions ; those it was impossible
for me to retain ; but I have preserved, in
a great measiu'e, the manner, jiathos, and
argument. Nor was the sermon nmch longer,
tiioiigh it took a long time to preach, for here
wc do not find a discourse run oft' as if they
were the best teachers w ho say most upon a
subject : here they dwell upon a sentence,
LIFE OF CRABBE.
21
and often repeat it, till it shall hardly fail of
uiakinhip has my
fortune in your iiower, and I will, with respect and
submission, await your determination. I am, my
Lord, &e. &c."
" — You see, my dear Mira, to what our
situation here may reduce us. Yet am I not
conscious of losing the dignity becoming a
man : some respect is due to the superiority
of station ; and that I will always ])ay. but I
cannot flatter or fawn, nor shall my hund)lest
request be so ju-csented. If respect will not
do, adulation shall not ; but I hope it will ;
as I 'm sure he nmst have a poor idea of
greatness, who delights in a supple knee
bending to him, or a tongue voluble in ])altry
praise, which conscience says is totally un-
deserved. One of the poetical pieces I sent
to Lord Shelburne you have no cojiy of, and
I will therefore give it you here.
" Ai> Epistle to a Friend.
" Why, true, thou say'st the fools at Court denied.
Growl vengeance, — and then take the other side :
'J'he unfed flatterer lx>rrows satire's power.
As sweets unshelter'd run to vapid smr.
But thou, the counsel to my closest thought,
Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stan/.as wrouglit.
Tlie Muse I caught ne'er fawn'd on venal souls,
Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls ;
She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream,
Sang to the woods, and .Mira was her theme.
LIFE OF CllABBE.
23
But when she sees a titleJ nothing stand
The really cipher of a trembling land, —
Not of that simple kind that placed alone
Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none, —
But those which, join'd to figures, well express
A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress,
Grow in proportion to their number great,
And help each other in the ranks of state ; — •
When this and more the pensive Muses see,
They leave the vales and willing nj'mphs to thee ;
To Court on wings of agile anger speed,
And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed.
Hence rascals teach tlie virtues they detest,
And fright base action fron^ sin's wavering breast ;
For though the knave may scorn the Muse's arts,
Iler sting may haply pierce more timid hearts.
Some, though they wish it, are not steel'd enoti,'h,
Nor is each would-be villain conscience- proof.
" And what, my friend, is left my song besides ?
No school-day wealth that roU'd in silver tidei,
No dreams of hope that won my early will,
Nor love, that pain'd in temporary thrill ;
No gold to deck my pleasure-scorn 'd abode,
No friend to whisper peace, — to give me food ; —
Poor to the World I 'd yet not live in vain.
But show its lords their hearts, arid my disdain.
" Yet shall not Satire all my song engage
In indiscriminate and idle rage ;
True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line.
And long — if Vanity deceives not — shine.
For thougli in harsher strains, the strains of woe,
And unadom'd, my l\eart-felt murmurs flow.
Yet time shall be when this thine humbled friend
Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend.
A Man — for other title were too poor —
Such as 't were almost virtue to adore,
He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale.
As the sun vapours from the dew-pressed vale ;
Himself iminjuring shall new warmth infuse,
And call to blossom every want-nipp'd Muse.
Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice,
His name harmonious thrill'd on Mira's voice ;
Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring,
And Siielburne's fame tlirough laughing valleys ring."
" Pay me, dear, for this long morning's
work, with your patience, and, if you can,
your approbation. I suppose we shall have
nothing more of this riot in the city, and I
hope now to entertain 3'ou with better things.
God knows, and we will be happy that it is
not the work of accident. Something will
happen, and perhaps now. Angels guide
and bless you !
" Jitne 8. — Yesterday, my own business being
decided, I was at Westminster at about three
o'clock in the afternoon, and saw the members
go to the House. The mob stopped many per-
sons, but let all whom I saw pass, excepting
Lord Sandwich, whom they treated roughly,
broke his coach windows, cut his face^ and
turned him back. A guard of horse and foot
were immediately sent for, who did no parti-
cular service, the mob increasing and defeating
them.
" I left Westminster when all the members,
that were permitted, had entered the House
and came homo. In my way I met a resolute
band of vile-looking fellows, ragged, dirty,
and insolent, armed with clubs, going to join
their companions. I since learned that there
were eight or ten of these bodies in different
parts of the City.
" About seven o'clock in the evening I
went out again. At Westminster the mob
were few, and those quiet, and decent in ap-
pearance. I crossed St. George's Fields,
which were empty, and came home again by
Blackfriars Bridge ; and in going from thence
to the Exchange, you pass the Old Bailey ;
and here it was that I saw the first scene of
terror and riot ever presented to me. The
new ])rison was a very large, strong, antl
beautiful building, having two wings, of
which you can suppose the extent, when you
consider their use ; besides these, were the
keeper's (Mr. Akerman's) house, a strong
intermediate work, and likewise other parts,
of which I can give you no descri])tion.
Akerman had in his custody four prisoners,
taken in the riot ; these the mob went to his
house and demantled. He begged he might
send to the sheritf', but this was not permitted.
How he escaped, or where he is gone, I
know not; but just at the time I speak of
they set fire to his house, broke in, and threw
every piece of furniture they could find into
the street, firing them also in an instant.
The engines came, but were only suffered to
preserve the private houses near the prison.
" As I was standing near the spot, there
approached another body of men, I suppose
500, and Lord George Gordon in a coach,
drawn by the mob towards Alderman Bulls,
bowing as he passed along. He is a lively-
looking young man in ajjpcaiance, and notliing
more, though just now the reigning hero.
" By eight o'clock, Akerman's house was
in flames. I went close to it, and never saw
any thing so dreadful. The prison was, as I
said, a remarkably strong building; but,
determined to force it, they broke the gates
with crows and other instruments, and climbed
up the outside of the cell part, which joins
the two great wings of the building, where
the felons were confined ; and I stood where
I plainly saw their operations. They broke
the I'oof, tore away the rafters, and having
got ladders they descended. Not Orpheus
himself had more courage or better luck ;
i3amcs all around them, and a body of soldiers
expected, they defied and laughed at all
opposition.
" The prisoners escaped. I stood and saw
about twelve women and eight men ascend
from their confinement to tlie open air, and
they were conducted through the street in
their chains. 'I'iiiee of these were to be
hanged on Friday. You have no conce])tion
of the phrcnsy of the multitude. This being
24
LIFE OF CIIAIJBE.
(lone, and Akcriiiiiii's lioiiso now a mere sliell
(>r lirickwoik, tlicy kcnt u stdro of (lairie then'
liir otlicr purposes. It l)Pcamo rcd-liot, and
tli»> doors and windows appeared like the
entianee to so many voleanoe.s. Wilh some
(litliculty they tiien fired tiic dei>tor's prison
— broke tlie doors— and tiiey, too, ail made
tiieir escajje.
" Tired of the scene, I went iiome, and
returned again at eleven o'clock at nijriit. I
met large bodies of liorse and foot soldiers
coininir to truai'd tlio IJank, and some houses
of llonian Catholics near it. Newgate was
at this time o|)en to all ; any one might get
in, and, what was never the case before, any
one might get out. I did both ; for the
|)eo|)lc were now chiefly lookers on. The
mischief was done, and the doers of it gone
lo another part of tlic town.
" Jiut I must not omit what struck me
most. About ten or twelve of the mob get-
ting to the toj)ol'the debtors' ])rison, whilst
it was burning, to halloo, they appeared rolled
in black smoke mi.\ed with sudden bursts of
fire — like Milton's infernals, who were as
familiar with flame as with each other. On
comparing notes with my neighbours, I find
I saw but a small |)art of the mischief. They
say Lord MansfiehTs house is now in flames."
* si! * Sf
[Some leaves arc here torn out.]
* * * ♦
^^ June 11. — Sunday.- — As I 'm afraid my ever
reviously been a stranger. He heard no more
taunts about that " d d learning,"
On his first entrance, however, into his father's
house, at this time, his joyous feelings had to
undergo a painful revulsion. That afiectionate
parent, who would have lost all sense of sickness
and suffering, had she witnessed his success, was
no more : she had sunk under the dropsy, in his
absence, with a fortitude of resignation closely
resembling that of his own last hours. It hap-
pened that a friend and neighbour was slowly
yielding at the same time to the same hojieless
disorder, and every morning she used to desire
her daughter to see if this sufferer's window-
was opened ; saying, cheerfully, " she must make
30
LIFE OF CRABHE.
hash', or I sliall \w at rest, licforc hor." My
fiitlicT liasalliidiMl to liis linjliiigs on this occasion
in tlio " Tarish Register:" —
" Arrived nt liomi', liow then lio Rji/.cd arounil
On every plaee where she no more wiw found ;
The sent at liilde she was wont to fill,
The fireside dmir, still set, but vacant still ;
The Suniliiy pew she fdl'd with all hr'r race,
ICach place o( hers w as now a sacred place."
And I find liini recurring to tiic same theme in
one of liis niaiuiscri|)t pieces : —
" lint oh 1 in after-years
\Vero other deaths that call'd for other tears : —
No, thai I dare not, that I cannot paint!
The patient sufferer! the endurin;; salnti
Holy and cheerful ! — hut all words are faint !"
Mr. Crabbc's early rdifrions impressions were,
no doubt, strongly intlnenced by those of his
mother; and she was, as I have already said, a
deeply devout woman ; but her seriousness was
not of the kind that now almost exclusively
receives that designation. Among persons of
her class, at least, at that ])criod, there was a
general impression that the doctrinal creed
ought rather to be considered the affair of the
pastor than of the humble and iiidearned mem-
bers of his flock — that the former would be held
responsible for the tenets he inculcated — the
latter for the practical observance of those rides
of conduct and temper which good men of all
persuasions alike advocate and desire to exem-
plify. The controversial spirit, in a word,
lighted up by Whitfield and Wesley, hat! not as
yet reached the coast of Suffolk. Persons turned
througii misfortimo, sickness, or any other ex-
citing cause, to think with seriousness of secur-
ing their salvation, were used to say to them-
selves, " I must amend and correct whatever
in my life and conversation does offend the eyes
of my Heavenly Father ; I must hcncetbrlh be
diligent in my duties, search out and oppose the
evil in my heart, and cultivate virtuous dispo-
sitions and devout affections." Not from their
own strength, however, did they hope and
expect such improvement: they sought it from,
and ascribed it to, •' Him from whom ail good
coimscls and works do proceed," and admitted,
without hesitation, that their own best services
could be made acceptable only through t-lie
merits of tiieir Redeemer. Thus far such per-
sons accorded with the mere serious of a later
period ; but the subtle distinction between
gooil works as necessary and yet not conditional
to salvation, and othersof alike kind, jjarticidarly
prevalent afterwards, were not then familiar;
nor was it at all common to believe, that Chris-
tians ought to renounce this world, in any other
sense titan that of renoimcing its wickedness, or
that they are called upon to shun any tiling but
the excessive iiuhdgence in amusements and
recreations not in themselves palpably evil.
Such was the religion of Mrs. Crabbc ; and,
doubtless, htT mildness, humility, patient endur-
ance of afflictions and siiff'eringH, mr'ck haiiits,
and (h^vout spirit, .strongly recommended her
example to her son, and imprcs.Hod iiis young
miml with a deep Ixdief that the principlcH
which led to such |»racticc must be those of the
Scri|)fur('S of (Jod.
It is true that neither the precepts nor the
example of his mother were able altogether to
[ireserve Mr. Crabbe from the snares that beset,
with ])eculiar strength, young men early removed
from the paternal roof. The juvenile apprentice
is, in many respects, too much his own master;
and though my father, in his first service, csca[)cd
with no worse injury than the association with
idle lads generally brings with it, yet, in hisse-
conil apprenticeship, and afterwards, in tlie begin-
ning of Ids own |iracticeat Aidborough,hedid not
scruple to confess that he was not always proof
against the temptations of a town. Where
" High in the street, o'erlooking all the place,
The rampant lion shows his kingly face" —
the Aldborough Boniface of the present day
shows, I am told, with no little exultation, an
old-fashioned room, tlie usual scene of convivial
meetings, not always remarkable for " mea-
siu'cd meiTiment," in which the young doctor
had his share. It seems probable that the seri-
ousness and purity of his early impressions had,
for a season, been smothered : but they were
never obliterated ; and 1 believe I do not err in
tracing to the severe illness which befell him
not long after he had commenced as surgeon at
Aldborough, their revival and confirmation — a
strong and a permanent change. On his reco-
very from an affliction, during which he bad
felt that life hung by a thread, he told his
children that he made a solemn resolution
against all deliberate evil ; and those who ob-
served him after that jjcriod all concur in stating
his conduct and conversation to have been that
of a regular, temperate, and religious young
man.
When his sister and he kept house apart from
the rest of the family, it wa.-; their invariable
]»ractice to read a portion of the Scri]>tures toge-
ther every evening ; and even while struggling
with the difficulties of his medical occu|)ation,
poetry was not the only literary diversion he
indulged in. His early note-books now before
me, contain proofs that he was in the habit of
composing sermons, in imitation of Tillotson,
long before he could have had the least surmise
that he was ever to be a preacher. Indeed, the
"Journal to ^lira" contains such evidence of
the purity of his conduct, and of the habitual
attention he jiaiil to religious topics, that I need
not enlarge further u]ion the subject. He cer-
tainly was not guilty of rushing into the service
of the altiir without having done his endeavour
LIFE OF CRABBE.
31
to discipline himself for a due discharge of its
awful obligations, by cultivating the virtues of
Christianity in his lieart, and, in as far as his
opportunities extended, making himself lit to
minister to the spiritual necessities of others.
But I am bound to add, that in a later period of
life, and more especially during the last ten
years of it, he became more conscious of the
importance of dwelling on the doctrines as v\'ell
as the practice of Christianity, than he had been
when he first took orders ; and when a selection
of his Sermons is placed, as I hope it ere long
will be, before the public, it will be seen that he
had gradually appi'oached, in substantial matters,
though not exactly in certain peculiar ways of
expression, to that respected body usually deno-
minated Evangelical Christians of the Church
of England ; with whom, nevertheless, he was
never classed by others, nor, indeed, by himself.
And what, it will naturally be asked, was his
reception by the people of Aldborough, when
he re-appeared among them in this new charac-
ter? " The prophet is not without honour,
save in his own country :"' — this Scriptural pro-
verb was entirely exemplified here. The whis-
per ran through the town, that a man who had
failed in one calling, was not very likely to make
a great figure in a new one. Others revived,
most unjustly, old stories, in which my father
did not appear with quite clerical decorum : and
others again bruited about a most groundless
rumour that he had been, when in London, a
preacher among the Methodists. For this last
report there was, indeed, no foundation at all,
except that an Aldborough sailor, happening-
one day to enter Mr. Wesley's chapel at Moor-
fields, had perceived my father, who had gone
thither, like himself, from pure curiosity, stand-
ing on the steps of the pulpit; the place being
so crowded that he could find no more convenient
situation. But perhaps the most common, as
well as unworthy, of all the rumours afloat, was,
that he had been spoiled by the notice of fine
folks in town, and would now be too proud to be
bearable among his old equals. When I asked
him how he felt when he entered the pulpit at
Aldborough, for the first time, he answered, " I
had been unkindly received in the place — I saw
unfriendly countenances about me, and, I am
sorry to say, I had too much indignation, though
mingled, I hope, with better feelings, to care
what they thought of me or my sermon." Per-
haps, as he himself remarked, all this may have
been well ordered for my father. Had there
been nothing to operate as an antidote, the cir-
cumstances of his altered position in life might
have tempted human infirmity, even in him, to
a vain-glorious self esteem.
He appears to have ei'e long signified some
uneasiness of feeling to the Lord Chancellor,
whose very kind answer concluded in these
words : — " I can form no opinion of your pre-
sent situation or prospects, still less upon the
agreeableness of it ; but you may imagine that I
wish you well, and, if you make yourself capable
of preferment, that I shall try to find an early
opportunity of serving you. 1 am, with great
regard, dear Sir, your faithful friend and servant,
TUUKLOW."
CHAPTER V.
1782—1783.
Mr. Crabbe's Appointment as domestic Chaplain to the Duke
of Rutland— Removes to Belvoir Castle — Publication of
" The Village."
My father continued to be curate at Aldboi-ough
for only a few months, during which his sister
resumed the charge of his domestic affairs, in a
small lodging apart from the rest of the family.
His brother Robert, a man in many respects
closely resembling himself, of strong faculties
and amiable disposition, was now settled at
Southwold ; but the two brothers, much attached
to each other's society, made a point of meeting
one evening of each week at Blythborough,
aliout half way between their ])!aces of residence.
I need hardly add, that my father passed also a
considerable part of his time under the same
roof with Miss Elmy, who still prudently re-
sisted every proposition of immediate marriage,
being resolved not to take such a step until her
lover should have reached some position less
precarious than that of a mere curate.
Most persons who had done as much for one
in my father's situation as Mr. Burke had already
accomplished, would, no doubt, have been dis-
posed to say, or to think, "Now, young man,
help yourself:" but it was far otherwise with
Mr. Crabbe's illustrious benefactor. He was
anxious to see his protege raised as high as his
friendship could elevate him ; and he soon was
the means of placing him in a station such as
has, in numerous instances, led to the first dig-
nities of the church. My father received a
letter from Mr. Burke, informing him that, in
consequence of some conversation he had held
with the Duke of Rutland, that nobleman would
willingly receive him as his domestic chaplain
at Belvoir Castle, so soon as he could get rid of
his existing engagements at Aldborough. 'i'his
was a very unusual occurrence, such situations
in the mansions of that rank being commoidy
filled either by relations of the noble family
itself, or by college acquaintances, or dej)endants
recommended by political service and local
attachment. But, in spite of political difference,
the recommendation of Burke was all-powerful
with the late Duke of Rutland, the son of the
great Marquis of Granby ; for this nobleman,
though not what is usually called a literary man,
had a strong partiality for letters, a refined taste
82
LIFE OF CRABHE,
for tlio arts, and felt that a yoiinfr author of such
fiiMiiiis as Hiirkf hail iiii|)ulc(l to my father would
be a vahiahle !iC(|uisilion to tho society of his
maiiNion, where, like a treiuiine Kui,di.-h jieer of
the old school, he spent the f,M-eati'r i)ortion of
his time in the exercise of houndless hospitality
and henevoleuce. My father did not hesitate,
of course, to accept the offered situation; and,
havinir taken farewell for a season of his friends
at Tarhaui, he once more (piitted Aldhoroujih,
but not now in tiic hold of a sloop, nor with
those irloomy fears and trembling antici|jations
which had agitated liis mind on a former occa-
sion, lie was now morally sure of being, within
no long interval, placed in a situation that would
enable him to have a house of liis own and to
settle for life in the enjoyment of at least a
moderate competency.
What his hopes exactly amounted to when
this change took jilace, or what apprehensions
chequered them when he approached Bel voir,
or what were liis impressions on his first re-
ception there, are questions which I never ven-
tured to ask of him. It would have been highly
interesting, certainly, to have his remarks on
what now" befell him at the opening of so new a
scene of life, recorded in another "Journal to
Mira;" but none such has been discovered.
He always seemed to shrink from going into
oral details on the subject. The numberless
allusions to the nature of a literary dependant's
existence in a great lord's house, which occur
in my father's writings, and especially in the
tale of " The Patron," ai-e, however, quite
enough to lead any one who knew his character
and feelings to the conclusion that, notwith-
standing the kindness and condescension of the
Duke and Duchess themselves — which were, I
believe, miiform, and of which he always spoke
with gratitude— the situation he tilled at Belvoir
was attended with many painful circumstances,
and productive in his mind of some of the
acutest sensations of wounded pride that have
ever been traced by any pen.
The Duchess ' was then the most celebrated
beauty in England ; and the fascinating grace
of her manners made the due impression on my
father. The Duke himself was a generous man,
"cordial, frank, and free;" and highly popular
with all classes. His establishments of race-
horses, hunters, and hounds were extensive, be-
cause it was then held a jiart of such a nol)le-
muu's duty that they should be so ; but these
things were rather for the enjoyment of his
friends than for his own. He was sufficiently
interested in such recreations to join in them
occasionally ; but he would frequently dismiss a
splendid jiarty from his gates, and himself ride,
accompanied only by JNIr. Crabbe, to some se-
tiuestered part of his domain, to converse on
' I,;i(\v Jlan-Isabolla Somerset, daugliter of tlie fourth
Duke of beaufoft. She died in 1831.
literary topics, quotn verses, and criticise play.s.
'i'heir (« races' cliildren were at this period still
in tli(! nm'sery.
'I'he iuunediate chiefs of the place, then, were
all tliat my father could have desired to find
them ; but th(,'ir guests, anaiirit of the Irish, whom it wjis his
wish to attach, and the customs of that period
unhappily tem])ting him to prolonged festivity,
he becauie a prey to an attack of fever ; and tiie
medical attendants were said to ha\ e overlooked
tiiat nice point, in inflammatory cases, where re-
duction should cease. He was only in the
thirty-fifth year of his age ; leaving a young and
lovely widow, with six children, the eldest in
his ninth year. His remains were brought to
Belvoir Castle, to be interred in the family vault
at Bottesford, and my father, of course, was pre-
sent at the melancholy soleumity.
The widowed Duchess did not forget the pro-
tege of her lamented husband : kindly desirous
of retaining hiui in the neighliourhood, she gave
him a letter to the Lord Chancellor, earnestly
requesting him to exchange the two small liv-
ings jNIr. Crabbe held in Dorsetshire for two of
siq)erior value in tlie vale of Belvoir. My father
proceeded to London but was not, on this occa-
sion, ver}' courteously received by Lord Thurlow.
" No," he growled ; " by G — d, I will not do
this for any man in England." But he did it,
nevertheless, for a woman in England. The
good Duchess, on arriving in town, waited on
him personally, to renew her request ; and he
yielded. My father, having pixsscd the neces-
sary examination at Lambeth, received a dispen-
sation from the Archbishop, and became rector
of Muston, in Leicestershire, and the neighbour-
ing parish of Allington, in Lincolnshire.
It was on the '25th of February, 1789, that
Mr. Crabbe left Stathern, and brought his fa-
mily to the parsonage of iluston. Soon afrer
this his father died. My grandfather, soon
after my grandmother's death, had married
again ; and nis new wife bringing home with
her several children by a former husband, the
house became still more uncomfortable than it
LIFE OF CRABBE.
39
had for many years before been to the members
of his own family. It was on the appearance of
these strangers that my uncle William, the hero
of the " Parting Hour," went to sea, never to
return. For many years, the old man's habits
had been undermining his health ; but his end
was sudden.
I am now arrived at that period of my father's
life, when I became conscious of existence ;
when, if the happiness I experienced was not
quite perfect, there was only alloy enough to
make it felt the more. The reader himself will
judge what must have been the lot of a child of
such parents — how indulgence and fondness were
mingled with care and solicitude.
What a pity it seems that the poignant feelings
of early youth should ever be blunted, and, as it
were, absorbed in the interests of manhood ;
that they cannot remain, together with the
stronger stimuli of mature passions — passions so
liable to make the heart ultimately selfish and
cold. It is true, no one could endure the
thoughts of remaining a child for ever; but with
all that we gain, as we advance, some of the
finer and better spirit of the mind appears to
evaporate ; seldom do we again feel those acute
and innocent impressions, which recalling for a
moment, one could almost cry to retain. Now
and then, under peculiar circumstances, this
youthful tenderness of feeling does return, when
the spirits are depressed either by fatigue or
illness, or some other softening circumstance ;
and then, especially if we should happen to hear
some pleasing melody, even chimes or distant
bells, a flood of early remembrances and warm
affections flows into the mind, and we dwell on
the past with the fondest regret ; for such scenes
are never to return : yet, though painful, these
impressions are ever mingled with delight ; we
are tenacious of their duration, and feel the
better for the transient susceptibility : — indeed
transient ; for soon the music ceases, the fatigue
yields to rest, the mind recovers its strength,
and straightway all is (to such salutary sen-
sations) cold and insensible as marble. Surely
the most delightful ideas one could connect with
this sublunary state would be a union of these
vivid impressions of infancy with the warmth
and purity of passion in early youth, and the
judgment of maturity : — perhaps such a union
might faintly shadow the blessedness that may be
hereafter.
How delightful is it to recall the innocent
feelings of unbounded love, confidence, and
respect, associated with my earliest visions of
my parents. They appeared to their children not
only good, but free from any taint of the cor-
ruption common to our nature ; and such was
the strength of the impressions then received,
that hardly could subsequent experience ever
enable our judgments to modify them. Many a
happy and indulged child has, no doubt, partaken
in the same fond exaggeration ; but ours surely
had every thing to excuse it.
Always visibly happy in the happiness of others,
especially of children, our father entered into all
our pleasures, and soothed and cheereil us in all
our little griefs with such overflowing tenderness,
that it was no wonder we almost worshipped
him. My first recollection of him is of his
carrying me up to his private room to prayers, in
the summer evenings, about sunset, and reward-
ing my silence and attention afterwards with a
view of the flower-garden through his prism.
Then I recall the delight it was to me fo be
permitted to sleep with him during a confine-
ment of my mother's, — how I longed for the
morning, because then he would be sure to tell
me some fairy tale, of his own invention, all
sparkling with gold and diamonds, magic I'oun-
tains and enchanted princesses. In the eye of
memory I can still see him as he was at that period
of his life, — his fatherly countenance, unmixed
with any of the less loveable expressions that, in
too many faces, obscure that character — but pve-
em\nent\y fatherly ; conveying the ideas of kind-
ness, intellect, and purity ; his manner grave,
manly, and cheerful, in unison with his high and
open forehead : his very attitudes, whether as he
sat absorbed in the arrangement of his minerals,
shells, and insects — or as he laboured in his
garden until his naturally pale complexion ac-
quired a tinge of fresh healthy red ; or as,
coming lightly towards us with some unexpected
present, his smile of indescribable benevolence
spoke exultation in the foretaste of our rap-
tures.
But I think, even earlier than these are my
first recollections of my mother. I think the
very earliest is of her as condjing my hair one
evening, by the light of the fire, which hardly
broke the long shadows of the room, and singing
the plaintive air of " Kitty Fell," till, though I
could not have been more than three years old,
the melody found its way into my heart, and the
tears dropped down so profusely that I was glad
the darkness concealed them. How mysterious
is shame without guilt !
There are few situations on earth more en-
viable than that of a child on his first journey
with indulgent parents ; there is perpetual excite-
ment and novelty, — " omne ignotum pro mag-
nifico," — and at the same time a perfect freedom
from care. This blessed ignorance of limits and
boundaries, and absence of all forecast, form the
very charm of the enchantment ; each town
appears indefinitely vast, each day as if it were
never to have a close : no decline of any kind
being dreamt of, the present is enjoyed in a way
wholly impossible with those who have a long
past to remember, and a dark future to antici-
pate. Never can I forget my first excursion
into Suffolk, in company with my parents. It
was in the month of September, 1790 — (shortly
40
LIFE OF CRABBE.
aCtcM" my mother huil rcfovorcd from Ikt confitio-
nuMit with licr foiirtli son, Ivhiiund (,'ral)hc, wlio
tlii'd in his sixtii year), — that, (h-cssod in iny
first suit of" boy's ciotiics (and tliat scarlet), in
the hci^'-jit of a dclicions season, I was moinited
beside tliein in their iMif,''e oh] ^'v^, and visiteiJ
the scenes anil the; persons familiar to me, from
my earliest nursery days, in their conversation
and anecdotes. Sometimes, as we proceeded, my
father read aloud ; sometimes he lidt us for a
while to botanise among the hedfjerows, and
returned with some unsightly weed or buncli of
moss, to him precious. Then, in the evening,
when wc had reached our inn, the happy child,
instead of being sent early as usual to bed, was
permitted to stretch himself on the carpet, while
the reading was resumed, blending with sounds
which, from novelty, a])pcared delightful, — the
inizzing of the bar, the rattling of wheels, the
horn of the mail-coach, the gay clamour of the
streets— everything to excite and astonish, in
the midst of safety and repose. My fatlicr's
countenance at such moments is still before me ;
— with what gentle sym|)athy did he seem to
enjoy the happiness of childhood !
On the third day we reached Parham, and I
was introduced to a set of manners and customs,
of which there remains, perhaps, no counterpart
in the present day. My great-uncle's establish-
ment was that of the first-rate yeoman of that
period — the Yeoman that already began to be
styled by courtesy an Esquire. Mr. Tovell
might possess an estate of some eight hundred
pounds per annum, a portion of which be himself
cultivated. Educated at a mercantile school, he
often said of himself, " Jack will never make a
gentleman ;" yet he had a native dignity of mind
and of manners, which might have enabled him
to pass muster in that character with any but very
fastidious critics. His house was large, and the
surrounding moat, the rookery, the ancient dove-
cot, and the well-stored fishponds, were such as
might have suited a gentleman's seat of some
consequence ; but one side of the house imme-
diately overlooked a farm-yard, full of all sorts
of domestic animals, and the scene of constant
bustle and noise. On entering the house, there
was nothing at first sight to remind one of the
farm:— a S|)acious hall, paved with black and
white marble, — at one extremity a very hand-
some drawing-room, and at the other a fine old
staircase of black oak, polished till it was as
sli])pery as ice, and having a chime-clock and a
barrel-organ on its landing-places. But this
drawing-room, a corresponcling dining-parlour,
and a handsome sleeping aj)artment up stairs,
were all tabooed ground, and made use of on
great and solemn occasions only — such as rent-
days, and an occasional visit with which Mr.
Tovell was honoured by a neighbouring peer.
At all other times the family and their visiters
lived entirely in the old-fashioned kitchen along
with the servants. My great-uncle occupied an
arm-chair, or, in attacks of gout, a couch on one
sid(! of a large open chimney. Mrs. Tovell sat
at a small table, on which, in the evening, stood
one small c-aridh!, in an iron candlestick, [ilying
her needle by the feeblf! gliiiiriK-r, surrounded
by her maids, all busy at the samr; cmploynumt ;
but in winter a noble block of wotwl, sometimes
the whole circumfV-renci! of a pollard, threw it:
comfortable warmth an(J cheerful blaze over the
ajjartment.
At a very early hour in the morning, the
alarum called the? maids, and their mistress also;
and if the former were tardy, a louder alanim,
and more formidable, was heard chiding the
delay — not that scolding was [)eculiar to any
occasion, it regularly ran on throutrh all the day,
like bells on harness, in spiriting the work,
whether it were done ill or well. After the
important business of the dairy, and a hasty
breakfast, their respective em|)loyments were
again resumed ; that which the mistress took for
her especial privilege being the scrubbing of
the floors of the state apartments. A new
servant, ignorant of her j)resumption, was found
one morning on her knees, hard at work on the
floor of one of these preserves, and was thus
addressed by her mistress: — " low wash such
floors as these ? Give me the brush this instant,
and troop to the scullery and wash that, madam !
As true as G — d 's in heaven, here
comes Lord llochford, to call on Mr. Tovell. —
Here, take my mantle (a blue woollen apron),
and I '11 go to the door !
If the sacred apartments had not been opened,
the family dined on this wise ; — the heads seated
in the kitchen at an old table ; the farm-men
standing in the adjoining scullery, door open —
the female servants at a side table, called a
bolder; — with the principals, at the table, j)er-
chance some travelling rat-catcher, or tinker, or
farrier, or an occasional gardener in his shirt-
sleeves, his face probably streaming w ith perspi-
ration. My father well describes, in " The
Widow's Tale," my mother's situation, when
living in her younger days at Parham : —
" But when the men beside tlieir station took.
The maidens with them, and with these the cook ;
Wlieii one hii^'e wooden bowl before them stood,
Fill'd witli huge balls of farinaceous food ;
With bacon, mass suline ! whore never lean
Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen :
When from a single horn the party drew
Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new ;
When the coarse cloth she saw, with m.iny a stain,
Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again ;
She could not breathe, but, witli a heavy sigh,
Rein'd the fair neok, and shut the offended eye;
She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine,
And wondered much to see the creatwres dine."
On ordinary days, when the dinner was over,
the fire replenished, the kitchen sanded and
lightly swept over in waves, mistress and maids,
LIFE OF CRABBE.
41
taking off their shoes, retired to their chambers
for a nap of one hour to the minute. The dogs
and cats commenced their siesta by the fire.
Mr. Tovell dozed in his chair, and no noise was
heard, except the melancholy and monotonous
cooing of a turtle-dove, varied, however, by the
shrill treble of a canary. After the hour had
expired, the active part of the family were on
the alert, the bottles (Mr. Tovell's tea equipage)
placed on the table ; and as if by instinct some
old acquaintance w ould glide in for the evening's
carousal, and then another, and another. If
four or five arrived, the punchbowl was taken
down, and emptied and filled again. But, who-
ever came, it was comparatively a dull even-
ing, unless two especial Knights Companions
were of the party ;— one was a jolly old farmer,
with much of the person and humour of FalstafF,
a face as rosy as brandy' could make it, and an
eye teeming with subdued merriment ; for he
had that prime quality of a joker, superficial
gravity : — the other was a relative of the family,
a wealthy yeoman, middle-aged, thin, and mus-
cular. He was a bachelor, and famed for his
indiscriminate attachment to all who bore the
name of woman, — young or aged, clean or dirty,
a lady or a gipsy, it mattered not to him ; all
were equally admired. He had peopled the
village green ; and it was remarked, that, who-
ever was the motiier, the children might be re-
cognised in an instant to belong to him. Such
was the strength of his constitution, that, though
he seldom went to bed sober, he retained a clear
eye and stentorian voice to his eightieth year,
and coursed when he was ninety. He some-
times rendered the colloquies over the bowl pe-
culiarly piquant ; and so soon as his voice began
to be elevated, one or two of the inmates, my
father and mother for example, withdrew with
Mrs. Tovell into her own sanctum sanctorum ;
but I, not being supposed capable of under-
standing much of what might be said, was
allowed to linger on the skirts of the festive
circle ; and the servants, being considered much
in the same point of view as the animals dozing
on the hearth, remained, to have the full benefit
of their wit, neither producing the slightest
restraint, nor feeling it themselves.
After we had spent some weeks amidst this
primitive set, we proceeded to Aldborough,
where we were received with the most cordial "
welcome by my father's sister and her worthy
husband, Mr. Sparkes. How well do I remem-
ber that morning! — my father watching the
effect of the first view of the sea on my counte-
nance, the tempered joyfulness of his manner
when he carried me in his arms to the verge of
the rippling waves, and the nameless delight
with which I fii-st inhaled the odours of the
beach. What variety of emotions had he not
experienced on that spot ! — how unmingled
would have been his happiness then, had his
mother survived to see him as a husband and
a father !
We visited also on this occasion my errand-
mother Mrs. Elmy, and her two daughters, at
the delightful town of Bcccles ; and never can I
forget the admiration with which I even then
viewed this gem of the Waveney, and the fine
old church (Beata Ecclesia), which gives name
to the place ; though, as there were no other
children in the house, there were abundant
attractions of another kind more suited to my
years. In fact, Beccles seemed a paradise, as
we visited from house to house with our kind
relations. From this town we proceeded to a
sweet little villa called Normanston, another of
the early resorts of my mother and her lover, in
the days of their anxious affection. Here four
or five spinsters of independent fortune had
formed a sort of Protestant nunnery, the abbess
being Miss Blacknell, who afterwards deserted
it to become the wife of the late Admiral Sir
Thomas Graves, a lady of distinguished elegance
in her tastes and manners. Another of the
sisterhood was Miss Waldron, late of Tamworth,
— dear, good-humoured, hearty, masculine Miss
Waldron, who could sing a jovial song like a
fox-hunter, and like him I had almost said toss
a glass ; and yet was there such an air of high
t07i, and such intellect mingled with these man-
ners, that the perfect lady was not veiled lor
a moment, — no, not when, with a face rosy red,
and an eye beaming with mirth, she would seize
a cup and sing " Toby Fillpot," glorying as it
were in her own jollity. When we took our
morning rides, she general!}' drove my father in
her phaeton, and interested him exceedingly by
her strong understanding and conversational
powers.
After morning prayers read by their clerical
guest in the elegant boudoir, the carriages came
to the door, and we went to some neighbouring
town, or to the sea-side, or to a camp then
formed at Hopton, a few miles distant ; more
frequently to Lowestoff; where, one evening,
all adjourned to a dissenting chapel, to hear the
venerable John W^esley on one of the last of his
peregrinations. He was exceedingly old and
infirm, and was attended, almost supported in
the pulpit, by a young minister on each side.
The chapel was crowded to suffocation. In the
course of the sermon, he repeated, though with
an application of his own, the lines from Ana-
creon —
" Oft am I by women told,
Poor Anacreon I thou grow'st olil ;
See, thine hairs are tailing all,
Poor Anacreon ! how they fall !
Whether I grow old or no,
Bv these signs I do not know ;
But this I need not to be told,
'T is time to lire if I groiv old."
My father was much struck by his reverend ap-
42
lii'l: of CRAniJK
l)('ar;incc iiiid liis cliccrrtil air, und tin' l(caiitif'iil
nulenco he pivc to llicse lines; and, alter th(>
s(M-vi('e, iiilroduced liiiiiscdl' to tlm |iatriarcli,
who received liiin witli Ix'iievoleiit poiiteiicsH.
Shortly after our return from SuH'olk, the; par-
sonage at Miiston was visited l)y tlu; lafn Mi.
.lolni Nichols, his son (the present " Mr. Ur-
lian"),aiid an artist cnpaged in making drawings
for the History of Leicestershire. Mr. Cratjho
on this occasion rendered what service ho could
to a work for which he had ))reviously, as 1 have
stated, undertaken to write a chapter of natural
history; and was gratified, alter his friend's re-
turn to London, by a present of some very fine
Dutch engravings of jdants, sph^ndidly coloured.
In the spring of the next year (}J^'2) my
lather preached a sermon at the visitation at
Crantham, which so much struck the late Mr.
Turner, rector of Denton and Wing, who had
been commissioned to select a tutor for the sons
of the Earl of Bute, that he came up after the
service and solicited the preacher to receive
these young noblemen into his family. But this
he at once declined ; and he never acted more
wisely than in so doing. Like the late Arch-
bishop Moore, when tutor to the sons of the
Duke of Marlborough, he might easily have
" read a-head " of his inipils, and thus concealed
or remedied the defects of his own education ;
but the restraint of strange inmates would have
been intolerable in my father's humble parson-
age, and nothing could have repaid him for sub-
mitting to such an interruption of all his domes-
tic habits anK (iftrrdKT — I the tliin){ receive
I'rom reverenrl men — anil I in part Iwlleve—
.''IiowM a clear minil ami clean, and »liotarative
prominency of the parts, and in the contrasts
aflbriled by bearing lightly or heavily on the
pencil. In these things Mr. Crabbe is generally
admitted to be not a little deficient ; and what
can demonstrate the high rank of his other quali-
fications better than the fact, that he could
ac(|uire sucii a reputation in spite of so serious
a disadvantage ? This view of his mind, 1 must
add, is confirmed by his remarkable inditierencc
to almost all the proper objects of taste. He
had no real love lor painting, or music, or archi-
tecture, or for what a j)ainter's eye considers as
the beauties of landscape. But he had a i)assion i
for science — the science of the human mind, I
first ; then, that of nature in general ; and,
lastly, that of abstract quantities. His powerful
intellect did not seem to require the ideas of
sense to move it to enjoyment, but he could at
all times find luxury in tlie most dry and forbid-
ding calcidations.
One of his chief labours at this period was the
completion of the English Treatise on Botany,
which I mentioned at an earlier jiage of this
narrative, and the destruction of which I still
think of with some regret. He had even gone
so far as to i)ropose its publication to ^Ir.
Uodsley, before the scruples of another inter-
fered, and made him put the manuscript into the
fire. But aniontr other prose writings of the
same period some were of a class which, per-
haj)«, few have ever suspected ^Ir. Crabbe of
meddling with, though it be one in which so
nuiny of his ))oetical contemporaries have earned
high distinction. During one or two of his
winters in Sutlblk, he gave most of his evening
LIFE OF CRABBE.
47
hours to the writing of Novels, and he brought
not less than three such worivs to a conclusion.
The first was entitled " The Widow Grey ;"
but I recollect nothing of it except that the
principal character was a benevolent humourist,
a Dr. Allison. The next was called " Reginald
Glanshaw, or the Man who commanded Suc-
cess;" a portrait of an assuming, overbearing,
ambitious mind, rendered interesting by some
generous virtues, and gradually wearing down
into idiotism. I cannot help thinking that this
Glanshaw was drawn with very extraordinary
power ; but the story was not well managed in
the details. I forget the title of his third novel ;
but I clearly remember that it opened with a
description of a wretched room, similar to some
that arc presented in his poetry, and that, on
my mother's telling him frankly that she thought
the effect very inferior to that of the correspond-
ing pieces in verse, he paused in his reading,
and, after some reflection, said, "Your remark
is just." The result was a leisurely examination
of all these manuscript novels, and another of
those grand incremations which, at an earlier
period, had been sport to his children. The
prefaces and dedications to his poems have been
commended for simple elegance of language ;
nor was it in point of diction, I believe, that his
novels would have been found defective, but
rather in that want of skill and taste for order
and arrangement, which I have before noticed
as displayed even in his physiological pursuits.
He had now accumulated so many poetical
pieces of various descriptions, that he began to
think of appearing once more in the capacity
which had first made him known to fame. In
the course of the year 1799, he opened a com-
munication with Mr, Hatchard, the well-known
bookseller, and was encouraged to prepare for
publication a series of poems, sufficient to fill
a volume — among others, one on the Scripture
story of Naaman ; another, strange contrast !
entitled " Gipsy Will ;" and a third founded on
the legend of the Pedlar of SwafFham. But
before finally committing his re])utation to the
hazards of a new appearance, he judiciously
paused to consult the well-known taste of the
Reverend Richard Turner, already mentioned
as rector of Sweffling. This friendly critic
advised further revision, and his own mature
opinion coinciding with that thus modestly
hinted, he finally rejected the tales I have
named altogether ; deferred for a further period
of eight years his re-appearance as a poetical
author ; and meantime began " The Parish
Register," and gradually finished it and the
smaller pieces, which issued with it from the
press in 1807.
Since I have been led to mention Mr. Turner
in this manner, let me be pardoned for adding,
that one of the chief sources of comfort all
through my father's residence in Suffolk was his
connection with this honoured man. He con-
sidered his judgment a sure safeguard and
reliance in all cases practical and literary. The
jieculiar characteristic of his vigorous mind being
an interest, not a seeming, but a real interest,
in every object of nature and art, he had stored
it with multifarious knowledge, and had the
faculty of imparting some portion of the interest
he felt on all subjects, by the zeal and relish
with which he discussed them. With my father
he would converse on natural history, as if this
had been his whole study ; with my mother, on
mechanical contrivances and new inventions, for
use or ornament, as if that were an exclusive
taste ; while he would amuse us young folks
with well-told anecdotes, and to walk or ride
with him was considered our happiest privilege.
Mr. Turner is too extensively and honourably
known to need any such eulogy as I can offer ;
but my father's most intimate friend and chosen
critic will forgive the effusion of my regard and
respect. While at Glemham, as at Parham, my
father rarely visited any neighbours except Mr.
North and his brother Mr. Long ; nor did he
often receive any visiters. But one week in
every year was to him, and to all his household,
a period of ])eculiar enjoj'ment— that during
which he had Mr. Turner for his guest.
About this time the bishops began very pro-
perly to urge all non-resident incumbents to
return to their livings ; and Mr. Dudley North,
willing to retain my father in his neighbourhood,
took the trouble to call upon the Bishop of Lin-
coln, Dr. Prettyman, and to request that Mr.
Crabbe might remain in Suffolk ; adding, as an
argument in favour of the solicited indulgence,
his kindness and attention to his present pa-
rishioners. But his Lordship would not yield —
observing that they of Muston and Allington
had a prior claim. "Now," said Mr. North,
when he reported his failure, " we must try and
procure you an incumbency here ;" and one in his
own gift becoming vacant, he very obligingly of-
fered it to my father. This living* Mas, however,
too small to be held singly, and he prepared ulti-
mately (having obtained an additional furlough
of four years) to return to his own parishes.
His strong partiality to Suffolk was not the only
motive for desiring to remain in that county,
and near to all our relatives on both sides ; lie
would have sacrificed mere personal inclination
without hesitation, but he was looking to the in-
terests of his children.
In the autumn of 1801, Mr. North and his
brother, having a joint property in the Glemham
estate, agreed to divide by selling it ; and in Oc-
tober we left this sweet place, and entered a
house at Rendhani, a neighbouring village, lor the
four years we were to remain in the East Angles.
•4 The two Glemhams, botli in the gift of Mrs. Nortli, were
lately presented to my brother John, wlio is now tlie incum-
bent.
48
LIFE OF CIIADBE.
In July, 1802, my fiitlior paid Iiis last visit to
Mustoii, previous to iiis filial return. We ])a'iscd
lliroutili C'aiiiiiri(l<;o in tiio week of tlin com-
iiienceinoiit ; and ho was introduced by the
Viee-Master of 'rriiiity to the present Duito of
llulhuid, whom lie iiacl not seen since lie was a
chihl, and to several other pul)lic characters. 1
tiu-n saw from the fiallery of the Senate House
the academical ceremonies in all tiicir imposing
effect, and viewed them with the more interest,
because I was soon after to be a<]mitte(l to 'JVi-
nity. 'J'he area below was entirely filled. Tlie
late Duchess of Rutland attracted much admira-
tion. There were the Bishops of Lincoln and
JJath and Wells, and many others of hi^^h rank ;
but, conspicuous above all, the commanding
lieii^ht and noble bust, and intellectual and dig-
nified countenance of Mr. Pitt. I fancied —
perliaps it was only ])artiality — that there was,
in that assembly, another high forehead very
like his.
My father haunted the Botanic Garden when-
ever he was at Cambridge, and he had a strong
partiality for the late worthy curator, Mr. James
Donn. " Donn is — Donn is," said he one day,
seeking an apjjropriatc epithet, — " a man," saiti
my mother ; and it was agreed that it was the
very word. And, should any reader of these
pages remember that independent, unassuming,
but uncompromising character, he will assent to
the distinction. lie had no little-minded sus-
picions, or narrow self-interest. He read my
lather's character at once — felt assured of his
honour, and when he rang at the gate for ad-
mission to jiass the morning in selecting such
dujilicates of pttints as could be well spared from
the garden, Donn would receive us with a grave,
benevolent smile, which said, " Dear Sir, you
are freely welcome to wander where, and to se-
lect what, you will — I am sure you will do us no
injury."
On our return through Cambridge, I was ex-
amined, and entered; and in October, 1803,
went to reside. When I left college for the
Christmas vacation, I found my father and mo-
ther stationed at Aldborough for the winter, and
was told of a very singular circumstance which
had occurred while I was absent. My father
had received a letter from a stranger, signing his
name " Aldcrsey " (dated from Ludlow), stating
that, having read his publications, he felt a
strong inclination to have the pleasure of his so-
ciety — that he possessed property enough for
both, and requested him to relinquish any en-
gagements he might have of a professional nature,
and reside with him. The most remarkable part
of the matter was, the ])erfect coherency with j
which this strange offer was expressed.
One day about this time, casually stepping |
into a bookseller's at Ipswich, my father first saw
the "Lay of the last Minstrel."' A few words
only riveted his attention, and he read it nearly I
through while standing at the counter, observ-
ing, "a new and great poet has appeared!"
How often have 1 lieanl him repeat those
striking lines near the conunencemcnt of that
poem : —
" 'Ilie liuly '« gone into her secret ci'll,
Josu Maria! xhiold us welll "
lie was for several years, like many other
readers, a cool aibuircr of the earlier and shorter
])oems of what is called the Lake Sublic,
that in that simplicity was veiled genius of the
greatest magnitude. Of Burns he was ever as
enthusiastic an admirer as the warmest of his
own countrymen. On his high ap])rcciation of
the more recent works of his distinguished con-
temporaries, it is needless to dwell.*
I have not much more to say with respect to
my father's second residence in Suffolk ; but I
must not dismiss this period— a considerable one
in the sum of his life — without making some allu-
sion to certain rumours which, long before it
terminated, had reached his own parish of
Muston, and disinclined the hearts of many of
the country people there to receive him, when ho
again returned among them, with all the warmth
of former days. W'hcn first it was reported
among those villagers by a casual traveller from
Suffolk, that ^Ir. Crabbe was a Jacobin, there
were few to believe the story — " it nmst be a
lay, for the rector had always been a good, kind
gentleman, and much noticed hy the Duke ;" but
by degrees the tale was more and more dissem-
inated, and at length it gained a pretty general
credence among a poj)ulation which, being
purely agricultural — and, therefore, connecting
every notion of what was praiseworthy w ith the
maintenance of the war that, undoubtedly, had
raised agricultural ])riccs to an unprecedented
scale — was atfected in a manner extremely dis-
agreeable to my father's feelings, and even
worldly interests, by such an impression as thus
'' My l>rottier says on this subject — " He lieartily .issentetl
h) the maxim, tliat — allowing a fair time, longer in some coses
tlian in others — a book would find its proper level ; and that
a well-filled theatre would form a just opinion of a play or an
actor. Yet he would not timidly w.ait the decision of tlie
public, but give his opinion freely. Soon after Waverley ap-
peared, he was in a company where a gentleman of some
literary weight was spe;»kin^ of it in a disparaging tone. A
lady defended the new novel, but with a timid reserve. Mr.
Crabbe called out, ' Do not be frightened. Madam ; you are
right: speak your opinion boldly.' Yet he did not altogether
like Sir Walter's principal male characters. He thought they
wanted gentleness and urbanity ; especially Quentin Dunvard,
Halbcrt CUendinning, and Nigel. He said t'olonel Manner-
ing's a:;e and peculiar situation excused his haughtiness ; but
he disliked fierceness and glorying, and the trait he especially
admired in Vrince Henry, wasliis greatness of mind in yield-
ing the credit of Hotspur's death to his old companion Falstad".
Henry, at Agincoiirt, ' covetous of honour," was ordin,ary, he
said, to this."
origiuatod. The truth is, that my father never
was a politician — that is to say, he never al-
lowed political affairs to occuj)y much of his
mind at any period of his life, or thouirht either
better or worse of any individual for the bias he
had received. Eat he did not, certainly, approve
of the on'(/m of the war that was raging while he
lived at Parhani, Glemham, and Rendham ; nor
did he ever conceal his opinion, that this war
might have been avoided — and hence, in j)ro-
portion to the weight of his local character, he
gave otfence to persons maintaining the diametri-
cally opposite view of public matters at that pecu-
liar crisis. As to the term Jacobin, I shall say only
one word. None could have been less fitly ap-
plied to him at any period of his life. He was
one of the innumerable good men who, indeed,
hailed the beginning of the French Revolution,
but who execrated its close. No syllable in ap-
probation of Jacobins or Jacobinism ever came
from his tongue or from his pen ; and as to the
" child and champion of Jacobinism," Napoleon
had not long pursued his career of ambition, be-
fore my father was well convinced that to put
hi/n down was the first duty of every nation that
wished to be happy and free.
With respect to the gradual change which his
early sentiments on political subjects in general
unquestionably underwent, I ma}' as well, per-
haps, say a word or two here ; for the topic is
one I have no wish to recur to again.
Perhaps the natin-al tendency of every young
man who is conscious of powers and capabilities
above his station, is, to adopt what are called
popular or liberal opinions. He peculiarly feeis
the disadvantages of his own class, and is tempted
to look with jealousy on all those who, with less
natural talent, enjoy su]ierior privileges. But,
if this young man should succeed in raising him-
self by his talents into a higher walk of society,
it is perhaps equally natural that he should im-
bibe aristocratic sentiments : feeling the reward
of his exertions to be valuable in ]iroportion to
the superiority of his acquired station, he be-
comes an advocate for the privileges of rank in
general, reconciling his desertion of the exclusive
interests of his former caste, by alleging the
facility of his own rise. And if he should be
assisted by patronage, and become acquainted
with his patrons, the jirinciple of gratitude, and
the opportunity of witnessing the manners of the
great, would contribute materially to this change
in his feelings. Such is, probably, the natural
tendency of such a rise in society; and, in truth,
I do not think Mr. Crabbe's case was an excep-
tion. The popular opinions of his father were,
I think, originally embraced by him rather from
the unconscious influence I have alluded to,
than from the deliberate conviction of his judg-
ment. But his was no ordinary mind, and he
did not desert them merely from the vulgar
motive of interest. At Belvoir he had more than
once to drink a glass of salt water, because he
would not join in Tory toasts. He preserved
his early partialities through all this trying time
of Tory patronage ; and of course he felt, on the
whole, a greater political accord with the owner
of Glemham and his distinguished guests. But
when, in the later portion of his life, he became
still more intimate with the highest ranks of
society, and mingled with them, not as a young
person whose fortune was not made, and who
had therefore to assert his independence, but as
one whom talent had placed above the suspicion
of subserviency ; when he felt the full advantages
of his rise, and became the rector of a large
town, and a magistrate, I think again, the aris-
tocratic and Tory leanings he then showed were
rather the effect of these circumstances than of
any alteration of judgment founded upon de-
liberate inquiry and reflection. But of this I
am sure, that his own passions were never vio-
lently enlisted in any political cause whatever ;
and that to purely parti/ questions he was, first
and last, almost indiflerent. The dedication
of his poems to persons of such opposite opinions
arose entirely from motives of personal gratitude
and attachment ; and he carried his impartiality
so far, that I have heard him declare, he thought
it very immaterial who were our representatives
in pai-liament, provided they were men of in-
tegrity, liberal education, and possessed an
adequate stake in the country.
I shall not attempt to defend this apathy on a
point of such consequence, but it accounts for
circumstances which those who feel no such
moderation might consider as aggravated in-
stances of inconsistency. He not only felt an
equal regard for persons of both parties, but
would willingly have given his vote to either ;
and at one or two general elections, I believe he
actually did so ;^for example, to Mr. Benett,
the Whig candidate for Wiltshire, and to Lord
Douro and Mr. Croker,^ the Tory candidates
at Aldborough.
s I take tlie liberty of quoting what follows, from a letter
with w hich I have lately been honoured by tlie Right Honour-
able J. W. Croker : — " I have heard, from those who knew
Mr. Crabbe earlier than I liad the pleasure of doing (and his
communications with me led to the same conclusion), that he
never was a violent nor even a zealous politician. He was, as
a conscientious clergyman might be expected to be, a church-
and-kin',' man ; but he seemed to me to think and care less
about party politics than any man of his condition in life that
I ever met. At one of my elections for .\ldeburi;li, he hap-
pened to be in the neighbourhood, and he did me the honour
of attending in the Town Hall, and proposing me. This was,
I suppose, the last act of his life which had any reference (o
politics — at least, to local politics ; for it was, I believe, his
last visit to the place of his nativity. My opinion of his
admirable works, I took the liberty of recording in a note on
Boswell's Johnson. To that opinion, on reconsideration, and
frequent reperusals of his poems, I adhere with increased con-
fidence ; and I hope you will not think me presumptuous for
adding, that I was scarcely more struck by his genius, than bv
the amiable simplicity of his manners, and the dignified
modesty of his mind. With talents of a much hisjher order, he
realised all that we read of the personal amiability of Gay.'
The note on Boswell, to which Mr. Croker here refers, is
in these terms : — " The writings of this amiable gentleman
have placed him high on the roll of British poets ; though his
H
LIFE OF CIIAHHP:.
lie suys, ill ii lottcr on lliis siil)joct, " Witli
rcs|)i'(t U) tlic piulics (lieinselvcs, Whig and
'I'oiy, 1 can but think, two dispassionate, scnsi-
iih- ini'n, who havo seen, read, and ol)Si'rvcd,
will a|)i)n)xiniat(i in their sentiments more and
more ; and it' they <'onl'er toiictlier, and artMio, —
not to eonviiu'o each other, hut lor pure iniornia-
tion, and with a simple desire for the truth, —
the ultimate diti'crence will he small indeed.
The 'I'ory, for instance, would allow that, hut
for tlu- Revolution in this country, and the nohU-
stand airainst the arbitrary ste])s of the house of
Stuart, the kinjidom would havo l)ecn in dan>rer
of becoming'- what France once was; and the
Whig nuist also grant, tliat there is at least an
equal danger in an unsettled, undefined demo-
cracy ; the ever-changing laws of a popular go-
vernment. Every state is at times on the in-
clination to change : either the monarchical or
the popular interest will predominate; and in
the former case, I conceive, the woU-meaning
Tory will incline to Whiggism, — in tiie latter,
the honest Whig will take the j)art of declin-
ing monarchy." I quote this as a proof of the
]K)litical moderation I have ascribed to him ;
and I may appeal with safety, on the same head,
to the whole tenour, not only of his i)ublished
works, but of his private conversations and pas-
toral discourses.
We happened to be on a visit at Aldborough,
when the dread of a French invasion was at its
height. The old artillery of the fort had been
replaced by cannon of a large calibre; and one,
the most weighty I remember to have seen, was
constantly primed, as an alarm gun. About one
o'clock one dark morning, 1 heard a distant gun
at sea ; in about ten miimtes another, and at an
equal interval a third : anil then at last, the tre-
mendous roar of the great gun on the fort, which
shook every house in the town. After inquir-
ing into the state of affairs, I went to my father's
room, and, knocking at the door, with ditiiculty
waked the inmates, and said, " Do not be
alarmed, but the French are landing." I tiicn
mentioned that the alarm gun had been fired,
that horsemen had been des]iatched for the
troops at Ipswich, and that the drum on the
quay was then beating to arms. He rej)lied,
" VVell, my old fellow, you anil I can do no
good, or we would be among them ; we must
wait the event." I returned to his door in
about three quarters of an hour, to tell him that
the agitation was subsiding, and found him fast
asleep. Whether the affair was a mere blunder,
hiivint; taken a view of lil'o too minute, too liumiliating, too
painful, and too just, may have depriveil his works of so ex-
tensive, or, at least, so brilliant, a popularity as some of his
contemporaries have attained; but I venture to believe that
tlu're is no poet of his times who will stand higher in the
opinion of posterity. He generally deals with ' Uie short and
simple annals of the poor ;' but lie exhibits them with such a
deep knowledge of human nature, with such general ease and
simplicity, and such accurate force of expression — whether
gay or pathetical, — as, in my humble judgment, no poet
except Shakspeare, has excelled."
or tlu^re had been a concerted manouvrc to try
tiie fencibles, we never coidd learn with cer-
tainty ; i)ut I remember that my father's cool-
ness on the oi:ca.sion, when we rnenlioni-d it next
day, caused some snspici(»uH shakings ot the head
among the idtra-loyalists of Aldboiough.
Hut the time wa.s now at hand that wc were
all to return finally to Leicestershire ; and when,
in the year iHUf), we at length bade adieu to
.Siitiiilk, and travelled once more to Muston, my
father had the full expectation that his changes
of residence were at an end, and that he would
finish his days in his own old parsonage. I
must indulge myself", in closing this chajiter, with
part of the letter which he received, when on
the eve. of starting for Leicestershire, from the
honoured rector of SwetHing : —
" It woidd be very little to my credit, if I could
close, without much concern, a connection which
has lasted nearly twelve years, — no inconsiderable
part of human life, — and never was attended with
a cross word or a cross thought. My parish lias
been attended to with exemplary care ; 1 have ex-
perienced the greatest friendship and hospitality
from you and Mrs. Crabbe; and I have never
visited or left you without bringing away with me
the means of improvement. And all this must
return no more ! Such are the awful conditions
upon which the comforts of this life must be held.
Accept, my dear sir, my best thanks for your whole
conduct towards me, during the whole time of our
connection, and my best wishes for a great increase
of happiness to you and Mrs. Crabbe, in your
removal to the performance of more immediate
duties. Your own parishioners will, I am per-
suaded, be as much gratified by your residence
amongst them as mine have been by your residence
in Suffolk. Our personal intercourse must be some-
what diminished ; yet, I hope, opportunities of seeing
each other will arise, and if sul>jects of correspond-
ence be less frequent, the knowledge of each other's
and our families' welfare will always be acceptable
information. Adieu, my dear sir, for the present.
Your much obliged and faithful friend, R. Tcbner."
CHAPTER YIII.
1805—1814.
Mr. Crabbe's second Residence at Muston — Publication of
" Tlie I'arish Register" — Letters from Eminent Individuals
— Visit to Cambridge — .\ppearance of " The Borough," and
of the "Tales in Verse" — Letters to and from Sir Walter
Scott and others— .\ Month in London — The Prince Re-
gent at Helvoir — Death of Mrs. Crablie — Mr. Crabbe's
Removal from Leicestershire — Lines written at Glemham
after my Motlier's decease.
Whex, in October, 1805, Mr. Crabbe resumed
the charge of his own parish of Muston, he
found some changes to vex him, and not the loss,
because he had too much reason to suspect that
his long absence from his incumbency had been,
partly at least, the cause of them. Ilis cure had
been served by respectable and diligent clergy-
LIFE OF CRABBE.
51
men, but they had been often changed, and
some of them had never resided within the
parish ; and he felt that the binding influence
of a settled and permanent minister had not
been withdrawn for twelve years with im])unity.
A Wesleyan missionary had formed a thriving
establishment in Muston, and the congregations
at the parish church were no longer such as
they had been of old. This much annoyed my
father; and the warmth with which he began
to preach against dissent only irritated himself
and others, without bringing back disciples to
the fold.
But the progress of the Wesleyans, of all sects
the least unfriendly in feeling, as well as the
least dissimilar in tenets, to the established
church, was, after all, a slight vexation com-
pared to what he underwent from witnessing
the much more limited success of a disciple of
Huntington in spreading in the same neighbour-
hood the i)ernicious fanaticism of his half-crazy
master. The social and jnoral effects of that
new mission were well calculated to excite not
only regret, but indignation ; and, among other
distressing incidents, was the departure lioni his
own household of two servants, a woman and a
man, one of whom had been employed by him
for twenty years. The man, a conceited plough-
man, set up for a Huntingtonian preacher him-
self; and the woman, whose moral character
had been sadly deteriorated since her adoption
of the new lights, was at last obliged to be dis-
missed, in consequence of intolerable insolence.
I mention these things, because they may throw
light on some passages in my father's later poetry.
By the latter part of the year 1806, ]Mr.
Crabbe had nearly completed his " Parish Re-
gister," and the shorter poems that accompanied
it, and had prepared to add them to a new edi-
tion of his early works ; and his desire to give
his second son also the benefits of an academical
education was, I ought to add, a principal mo-
tive for no longer delaying his re-appearance as
a poet. He had been, as we have seen, pro-
mised, years before, in Suffolk, the high advan-
tage of ]Mr. Fox's criticism ; but now, when the
manuscript was ready, he was in office, and in
declining health ; so that my father felt great
reluctance to remind him of his promise. He
wrote to the great statesman to say that he could
not hope, under such circumstances, to occupy
any portion of his valuable time, but that it
would afford much gratification if he might be
permitted to dedicate the forthcoming volume
to Mr. Fox. That warm and energetic spirit,
however, was not subdued by all the pressure of
his high functions added to that of an incurable
disease ; and " he repeated an offer," says my
father, in his preface, " which, though 1 had
not presumed to expect, I was happy to receive."
The manuscript was immediately sent to him at
St. Anne's Hill ; "and," continues Mr. Crabbe,
" as I have the information from Lord Holland,
and his Lordship's permission to inform my
readers, the poem which I have named ' The
Parish Register,' was heard by Mr. Fox, and it
excited interest enough, by some of its parts, to
gain for me the benefit of his judgment upon the
whole. Whatever he approved the reader w ill
readily believe I carefully retained ; the ])arts
he disliked are totally expunged, and others are
substituted, which, I hope, resemble those nioie
conformable to the taste of so admirable a judge.
Nor can I deny myself the melancholy satisfac-
tion of adding, that this poem (and more espe-
cially the story of Phoebe Dawson, with some
parts of the second book), were the last com-
positions of their kind that engaged and amused
the capacious, the candid, the benevolent mind
of this great man." In the same preface my
father acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Tur-
ner. " He, indeed," says Mr. Crabbe, " is the
kind of critic for whom every poet should de-
voutly wish, and the friend whom every man
would be happy to acquire. To this gentleman
I am indebted more than I am able to express,
or than he is willing to allow, for the time he
has bestowed upon the attempts I have made."
This preface is dated Muston, September,
1807 ; and in the same month the volume was
published by Mr. Hatchard. It contained, with
the earlier series, " The Parish Register," " Sir
Eustace Grey," " The Birth of Flattery," and
other minor pieces ; and its success was not only
decided, but nearly unprecedented. By " The
Parish Register," indeed, my father must be
considered as having first assumed that station
among British poets which the world has now-
settled to be peculiarly his own. The same
character was afterwards still more strikingly
exemplified and illustrated— but it was hence-
forth the same ; whereas there was but little in
the earlier series that could have led to the
expectation of such a performance as " The
Register." In the former works, a few minute
descriptions had been introduced — but here
there was nothing but a succession of such
descriptions ; in them there had been no tale —
this was a chain of stories ; they w ere didactic —
here no moral inference is directly inculcated :
finally, they were regularly constructed jiocms
— this boldly defies any but the very slightest
and most transparently artificial connections.
Thus difiering from his former self, his utter
dissimilarity to any other author then enjoying
])ublic favour was still more striking ; the man-
ner of expression was as entirely his own as the
singular minuteness of his delineation, and the
strictness of his adherence to the literal truth of
nature ; and it was now universally admitted,
that, with lesser peculiarities, he mingled the
const'ious strength, and, occasionally, the jiro-
found pathos, of a great original poet.
Nor was '' Sir Eustace Grey" less admired
H 2
52
LIFE OF CRABBE.
on oilier ^Toiiiiils, lliaii " Tlic I'arisli Ilcj:istcr "
was lor till' siiiiiuliir coinliiiialioii (tf cxccllcnfcs
v\ liifli I have Ix'cii I'aiiilly alliuliiij? to, and which
callt'd I'orlh the wannest eiiIog a period. It is
sufHcient that you are well and happy, and that you
have not forgot your old friend; who, you may
be assured, has never ceased to cherish the same
friendly remembrance of you. — You are as well
known in my family as you are pleased to say I am
in yours ; and whenever you may find it convenient
to come to this j)art of the world, both you and
yours may depend upon the most sincere and cor-
dial reception. I have a daughter nearly twenty,
a son upon the point of beconnng an officer in the
engineers, and two younger boys, who at this mo-
ment are deeply engaged in your poems, and highly
desirous of seeing the author, of whom they have so
often heard me speak. They are, of course, no
great critics ; but all beg me to say, that they are
much pleased with your beautifid verses, whioli I
promised to read to them again when they have
done ; having conceded to their eagerness the pre-
mices of the treat. It affords me the greatest grati-
fication to find that, in this world of chances, you
are so comfortably and honourably established in
your profession, and I sincerely hope your sons
may be as well provided for. I spent a few days
at Cambridge a short time since, and had I known
they had been there, I should not have failed mak-
ing myself known to them, as an old friend of their
father's. For myself, I have had little to complain
of, except the anxiety and fatigue attending the
duties of my calling; but as 1 have lately succeeded
to the place of Dr. llutton, who has resigned the
attendance at the academy, this has made it more
easy, and my situation as respectable and pleasant
as I could have any reason to expect. Life, as my
friend Fuseli constantly repeats, is very short,
therefore do not delay coming to see us any longer
than yf»u can possibly help. Ik- assured we sliall
all rejoice at the event. lu the mean time, believe
me, my dear Sir, your truly sincere friend, J.
BO.NNYCASTLE."
From Mrs. Btirhe-^
" Uf.-icoiuinelil, Nov. no, 1807.
"Sin, — I am much ashamed to find tliat your
very kind letter and very valuable present have
remained so long unacknowledged. I'lit the truth
is, when I received them, I was fur from well ; and
procrastination being one of my natural vices, 1
have deferred returning you my most sincere thanks
for your gratifying my feelings, by your beautiful
preface and poems. I have a full sense of their
value and your attention. Your friend never lost
sight of worth and abilities. He found them in
you, and was most happy in havii'g it in his i)ower
to bring them forward. I beg you. Sir, to believe,
and to be assured, that your situation in life was not
indifferent to me, and that it rejoices me to know
that you are happy. I beg my compliments to
Mrs. Crabbe, and my thanks for her remembering
that I have had the pleasure of seeing her. I am,
Sir, with great respect and esteem, &c.
"Jane Buiike."
From Dr. Mansel.*
"Trinity Lodge, Cambridge, Oct. 2P, I«07.
" Dear Sir, — I could not resist the pleasure of
going completely through your delightl'ul poems,
before I returned yon, as I now do, my best thanks
for so truly valuable a proof of your remembrance.
The testimony of my opinion is but of small im-
portance, wdien set by the side of those which have
already been given of this accession to our standard
national poetry; but I must be allowed to say, that
so much have 1 been delighted with the perusal of
the incomparable descriptions which you have laid
before me ; Avith the easiness and purity of the
diction, the knowledge of life and manners, and the
vividness of tliat imagination which could produce,
and so well sustain and keep up such charming
scenes — that I have found it to be almost the only
book of late times wliich I could read through
without making it a sort of duty to do so. Once
more, dear Sir, accept of my best thanks for this
very flattering remembrance of me ; and be assured
of my being, with much regard, your faithful, &c.
" \V. L. Maxsel."
From Earl Grey.
" Hertfonl Street, Feb. 2S, ISOS.
" Sir, — I have many excuses to offer for not
having sooner returned my thanks for your letter
of the liuh of October, and the valuable present
which accompanied it. I did not receive it till I
arrived in London, about the middle of the last
month, and I waited till I should have had time —
for wliieh the first business of an opening session of
parliament was not favourable— to read a work
' Of tliis lady, who ilied in 1SI2, Mr. Prior says: — *' .\ddetl
to all'ectionate admiration of Mr. Uurke"s talents, she possessed
aicomplishments, good sense, goodness of heart, and a sweet-
ness of miinners and disposition, which served to allay many
of the anxieties of his career. He repeatedly declared, that
' every care vanished the moment he entered under his own
roof.' "— J.i/f of' Biirkr.
2 Afterwards" Bishop of Uristol. His Lordship died in li*20.
from which I anticipated much pleasure. I am
now able, at the same time, to offer you my best
thanks in sending me the poems you have lately
published, and to say that my admiration of the
author of the ' Library,' has not been diminished
by the perusal of the ' Parish Register,' and the
other additional poems. But all other praise must
appear insipid after that of Mr. Fox ; and I will
only add, that I think that highest praise, for such
I esteem it, was justly due to you. I well remember
the pleasure which 1 had in meeting you at Mr.
Dudley North's, and wish I could look to a revival
of it. I have the honour to be, with great regard,
Sir, &c. Grey."
From Eager Wilbraham, Esq.
"Strattou Street, May 21, 1808.
"Dear Sir, — Unless I had heard from our
frieud, Mr. North, that you had received compli-
mentary letters from most of your friends on your
late publication, I should not have thought of adding
my name to the number. The only reason for my |
silence was the fear of assuming much more of a |
literary character than belongs to me ; though, on I
the score of friendship for the author, and admi- i
ration of his works, I will not yield to the most
intelligent and sagacious critic. Perhaps, indeed,
an earlier letter from me might have been autho-
rised by the various conversations we have had
together at Glemham, in which I so frequently took
the liberty to urge you not to rest contented with
that sprig of bays which your former publications
had justly acquired, but to aim at a larger branch
of thicker foliage. This I can truly say, my dear
Sir, you have obtained by universal consent ; and I
feel considerable pride in having the honour to be
known to a person who has afforded so much real
delight to a discerning public. — No, no. Sir, when
we thought you idle, you were by no means so ; you
were observing man, and studying his character
among the inferior orders of the community ; and
the varieties that belong to his character you have
now descrilicd with the most perfect truth, and in
the most captivating language. When I took up
your book, the novelties of it first attracted my
notice, and afterwards I visited my old acquaint-
ances with as much pleasure as ever. The only
regret I felt at the end was, that the book was not
marked Vol. I. : but that may be amended. In
which hope I take my leave, assuring you of the
very sincere regard, and real admiration of, yours
most truly and sincerely, Eogek Wilbraham."
From Mr. Canning.
"Stanliope Street, Nov. 13, 180T.
" Sir, — I have deferred acknowledging the civility
of your letter, until I should at the same time
acknowledge the pleasure which I had derived from
the perusal of the volume which accompanied it.
I have lately made that volume the companion of a
journey into the country. 1 am now therefore able
to appreciate the value of your present, as well as
to thank you for your obliging attention in sending
it to me. With some of the poems — the ' \'illage,'
particularly — 1 had been long acquainted ; but I
was glad to have them brought back to my recol-
lection ; and I have read with no less pleasure and
admiration those which I now saw for the first time.
I have the honour to be, Sir, &c., &c.
" George Canning."
From Lord Holland.
" Sir, — Having been upon a tour in Scotland, I
did not receive your book till my arrival at York,
and was unwilling to answer your very obliging
letter till I had read the ' Parish Kegister ' in print.
I can assure you that its appearance in this dress
has increased my opinion of its beauty : and, as
you have done me, very undeservedlj', the honour
of calling me a judge of such matteis, I will venture
to say that it seems to me calculated to advance the
reputation of the author of the ' Library ' and the
' Village,' which, to any one acquainted with those
two excellent poems, is saying a great deal. With
regard to the very flattering things you are pleased
to say of me, I am conscious that your willingness
to oblige has blinded your judgment ; but cannot
conclude my letter without returning you thanks
for such expressions of your partiality. I am, Sir,
&c. Holland."
To these I may add a letter from Mr. Walter
Scott, dated " Ashestiel, October 21st, 1809,"
— acknowledging the receipt of a subsequent
edition of the same volume.
" Dear Sir, — I am just honoured with your
letter, which gives me the more sensible pleasure,
since it has gratified a wish of more than twenty
years' standing. It is, I think, fully that time since
I was, for great part of a very snowy winter, the
inhabitant of an old house in the country, in a
course of poetical study, so very like that of your
adrairally painted 'Young Lad,' that I could hardly
help saying, ' That's me ! ' when I was reading the
tale to my family. Among the very few books which
fell under my hands was a volume or two of
Dodsley's Annual Register, one of which contained
ct>pious extracts from ' The Village,' and ' The
Library,' particularly the conclusion of book first
of the former, and an extract from the latter,
beginning with the description of the old Romancers.
I committed them most faithfully to my memory,
where your verses must have felt themselves very
strangely lodged, in company with ghost stories,
border riding-ballads, scraps of old plays, and all
the miscellaneous stuff which a strong appetite for
reading, with neither means nor discrimination for
selection, had assembled in the head of a lad of
eighteen. New publications, at that time, were very
rare in Edinburgh, and my means of procuring tliem
very limited ; so that, after a long search for the
poems which contained these beautiful specimens,
and which had afforded me so much delight, I was
fain to rest contented with the extracts from the
Register, which I could repeat at this moment.
You may, therefore, guess my sincere delight when
I saw your poems at a later period assume the rank
in the public consideration which they so well
deserve. It was a triumph to my own immature
taste to find I had anticipated the applause of the
learned and of the critical, and I became very
desirous to offer mj- (/ratiilor, among the more im-
portant plaudits which you have had from every
quarter. I should certainly have availed myself
54
LIFE OF CRABBE.
of tlie freemasonry of autliorship (for fitir traliil()S(>i)liised as
well as we eoidd ; and after some three or four
years, Lord Tliiulow, once more at tlie ret help it." He pro-
nounced Liston "a trui; genius in his way."
Mr. Dutlley North called upon my father,
and he had again th(! ph-asnri! of renewing his
iiit( rcours(! with that early friend and patron,
dining with him several times during our stay.
One morning, to om* great satisfaction, the
servant announced Mr. lionnycastle. A fine,
tall, elderly man cordially shook hands with nty
father; and we had, for the first time, the satis-
faction of seeing one whose name liad been from
chilhood familiar to ns. He and my father had,
frotn some accidental impediment, not seen one
another since their days of poverty, anndon— I>;t-
ters to and from Mr. Crabbe— His "Tales of the Hall,"
etc.
WiiKN my brother and myself arrived, on the
occasion already alluded to, within a mile of
Trowbridge, my father appeared on the road,
having walked out to meet us; and, as he re-
turned with us in the chaise, the manner in
which he pointed out various houses to our
notice satisfied us that he had met with a very
gratifying reception among the |)rinci])al inhabi-
tants of his new parish. On the very night of
his coming to Trowbridge, he had been most
cordially received by the family of the late Mr.
Waldron; and there, but not there only, we
found the foundations already laid of intimacy,
that soon ripened into friendship which death
alone could break ; for such casual variations of
humour as he was subject to, serve only to prove
the strength of the sentiment that survived
them.
We were soon satisfied that Mr. Crabbe had
made a wise and happy choice in this change of
residence. While my mother lived, her infirm
health forbade her mingling mucli in society,
nor, with her to care for, did he often miss it ;
but he was naturally disposed lor, and calculated
to find ])leasure in, social intercourse : and after
his great loss, the loneliness of Muston began to
depress him seriously. In answering the Duke
of Rutland's kind letter, ofiering him the rectory
of Trowbridge, he said, ''It is too true that
Musfon is no longer what it has been to me :
here I am now a solitary with a social dis|)osi-
tion, — a hermit without a hermit's resignation."
What wonder that he was healthfully e.xcited by
the warm reception he vas now experiencing
among the most cultivated families of Trow-
bridge and its vicinity : by the attractive atten-
tions of the young and gay anion? them, in par-
ticular, who, finding the old satirist in many
things very diflerent from what they had looked
LIFE OF CRABBE.
Gl
for, hastened to show a manifest partiality for
his manners, as well as admiration of his talents ?
We were surprised, certainly, as well as
delighted, to observe the tempered exuberance
to which, ere many weeks had passed, his
spirits, lately so sombre and desponding, were
raised, — how lively and cheerful he appeared in
every company, pleased with all about him, and
evidently imparting ])leasure wherever he went.
But a physical change that occurred in his
constitution, at the time of the severe illness
that followed close on my mother's death, had,
I believe, a great share in all these happy symp-
toms. It always seemed to be his own opinion
that at that crisis his system had, by a violent
effort, thrown off some weight or obstruction
which had been, for many years previously,
giving his bodily condition the appearances of
a gradual decline, — afflicting him with occa-
sional fits of low fever, and vexatiously disor-
dering his digestive organs. In those days,
" life is as tedious as a twice-told tale," was an
expression not seldom in his mouth ; and he
once told me, he felt that he could not possibly
live more than six or seven years. But now it
seemed that he had recovered not only the enjo}'-
ment of sound health, but much of the vigour
and spirit of youthful feelings. Such a renova-
tion of health and strength at sixty is rare
enough ; and never, I believe, occurs unless
there has been much temperance in the early
period of life. Perhaps, he had never looked
so well, in many respects, as he did about this
time ; his temj)les getting more bare, the height
of his well-developed forehead appeared as in-
creased, and more than ever like one of those
heads by which Wilkie makes so many converts
to the beauty of human decay. He became
stouter in person than he had been, though
without fatness ; and, although he began to
stoop, his limbs and motions were strong and
active.
Notwithstanding his flattering reception among
the principal people of the place, he was far
from being much liked, for some years, by his
new parishioners in general : nor, in truth, is it
at all difficult to account for this. His imme-
diate predecessor, the curate of the previous
rector, had been endeared fo the more serious
inhabitants by warm zeal and a ])owerful talent
lor preaching extempore, and had moreover,
been so universally respected, that the town
petitioned the Duke of Rutland to give him the
living. His Grace's refusal had irritated many
even of those who took little interest in the
qualifications of their pastor, and engendered a
feeling bordering on ill-will, towards Mr.
Crabbe himself, which was heightened by the
prevalence of some reports so ridiculous, that I
am almost ashamed to notice them ; such as,
that he was a dissipated man — a dandy — even a
gambler. And then, when he appeared among
them, the perfect openness of his nature, — that,
perhaps, impolitic frankness which made him at
all times scorn the assumption of a scruple which
he did not really feel, led him to violate occa-
sionally, what were considered, among many
classes in that neighbourhood, the settled laws
of clerical decorum. For example, though little
delighting in such scenes, except as they were
partaken by kind and partial friends, he might
be seen occasionally at a concert, a ball, or even
a play. Then, even in the exercise of his un-
wearied and extensive charity, he often so con-
ducted himself as to neutralise, in coarse and
bad minds, all the natural movements of grati-
tude ; mixing the clergyman too much with the
almsgiver, and reading a lecture, the severity of
which, however just, was more thought of than
the benefaction it accompanied. He, moreover,
soon after his arrival, espoused the cause of a
candidate for the county representation, to whom
the manufacturing interest, the prevalent one in
his parish, was extremely hostile. Lastly, to
conclude this long list, Mr. Crabbe, in a town
remarkable for diversity of sects and warmth of
discussion, adhered tor a season unchanged to
the same view of scriptural doctrines which had
latterly found little favour even at JNIuston. As
he has told us of his own Rector, in the Tales
of the Hall :—
" ' A moral teaclier ! ' some contemptuous cried ;
He smiled, but nothing of the fact denied ;
Nor, save by his fair life, to charge so strong replied.
Still, though he bade them not on aught rely
That was tlieir own, but all tlieir worth deny,
They call'd his pure advice his cold morality.
' Heathens,' they said, ' can tell us right from wTong,
But to a Christian higher points belong.' "
But, while these things were against him,
there were two or three traits in liis character
which wrought slowly, but steadily, in his favour.
One was his boldness and uncompromising per-
severance in the midst of opposition and reproach.
During the violence of that contested election,
while the few friends of Mr. Benett were almost
in danger of their lives, he was twice assailed
by a mob of his parishioners, with hisses and the
most virulent abuse. He replied to their for-
midable menaces by "rating them roundly;"
and though he was induced to retire by the
advice of some friends, who hastened to his
succour, yet this made no change in his vote,
habits, or conduct. He continued to sui)port
Mr. Benett; he walked in the streets always
alone, and just as frequently as before ; and
spoke as fearlessly. INIr. Canon Bowles says,
in a letter to the present writer,—
" A riotous, tumultuous, and most appalling
mob, at the time of election, besieged his house,
when a chaise was at the door, to prevent his going
to the poll and giving his vote in favour of my
most worthy friend, John Benett of Pyt House,
the present member for the county. The mob
62
LIFE OF CRABBE.
tlircatt'licd to destroy tlie cliaisc and foar liim to
pii'i'C'S, if he attempted to set out. In the faee of
the furious asseni1ilM;:;c, he eanie out ealiiily, told
tliem thi'y inij^ht kill liiiii if they ehose, hut, whilst
alive, nothing should prevent his };iving a vot<; at
the eleetion, aeeording to his jn-oniisc and princi-
jiles, and set oil", undisturhed and unhurt, to vote
tor Mr. Benett."
lie manifostod the samo derision respecting
his reli^Mous opinions ; for one or two re-
jiroaelifiii k'ttcrs made no impression, nor
altered his lan^iiatre in the least, isuch firmness,
where it is tiie edeet of prineiple, is sure to pain
respect from ail Eiifrlislimcn. Ihit mildness
was as natural to liini as his fortitude ; and this,
of course, had a tendency to appease enmity
even at its iu-iLriit. A benevolent gentle heart
was seen in his manner and coimtenanee, and no
occasional hastiness of temper could conceal it ;
— and then it soon became known that no one
left his house mu'clieved.
Ihit, above all, the liberality of his conduct
with respect to dissenters brought a counter-
current in his favour. Tliough he was warmly
attached to the established church, he held that
" A man's opinion was Iiis own, his due
Ami just possession, whether false or true ;"'
and in all his intercourse with his much-divided
parishioners lie acted upon this princi|)le, visit-
ing and dealing indiscriminately, and joining the
ministers of the various denominations in every
good work. In the com-se of a few years, there-
fore, not only all op])osition died away, but he
became generally and cordially esteemed. They
who ditibred from him admitted that he had a
right also to his own religious and political opi-
nions, llis integrity and l)encvolence were justly
a|)preciatod ; his talents acknowledged, and his
dis|)Osition loved.
In the spring of 1815, my brother and I,
thinking it ])robable that we might soon settle
for life, each in some vili.-ge parsonage, and that
this was the oidy o])p()rtunity of seeing some-
thing of our native ct)untry — leaving my father
in sotmd health and among attached friends,
absorbed by his duties, his new connections and
anuisements, — quitted Trowbridge about the
the same time, and continued absent from it,
sometimes in London together, sometimes a])art
in distant places in the kingdom, for nearly two
' He wrote thus to a friend on tlie subject : — " Thousands
and tensor tliousands of sincere and earnest believers in the
Gospel of our Lord, and in t)ie p-neral contents of Scripture,
soekin;; its meaning with veneration and prayer, af;ree, I cm-
not doubt, in essentials, but dilier in many points, and in
some which unwise and uncliaritable persons deem of mucli
importance ; nay, thinl< that there is no salvation without
them. Look at the yood — gooil, comparatively speakin;; —
just, pure, pious; tlie patient and su tiering amongst recorded
characters — and were not they of ditlerent opinions in many
articles of their faith ? and can we suppose their heavenly
Fattier will select from this number a lew, a very few, and
that for tlieir assent to certain tenets, which causes, inde-
pendent of any merit of their own, in all probability, led
I hem to embrace?"
years. In lliat interval, though we constant!)'
corresponded. I saw my lather only twifM*.
Calling, one day, at Mr. Ilalchanrs, in I'ic-
cadilly, he said, " Look roiirul," and pointed to
his inner room ; and there stood my father,
reading intently, a.s his manner wa.s — with his
knees somewhat bent, insensible to all around
him. How homelike was the .'^ight oi' that ve-
nerable w hite head among a world of strangers !
lie was engaged, anil I was leaving town ; and,
after appointinir a day to meet at IJecclcs, and
a short cheerful half hour, we j)arlcd.
When the time arrive«l, he joined my brother
and me at IJeccles, at the house of his kind
sister-in-law. Miss Elmy ; where, after staying
about a-week, and being introducc-d to Lady
Byron, who attracted his just admiration, he left
us r/VJ Aldborough, and returned into Wiltshire.
This was about the end of October, 1816.
I cannot pass this date — October, 181G —
without ollering a remark or two, suggested by
my father's diary and note-book of that |)eriod.
lie was peculiarly fond of the society and cor-
respondence of females : all his most intimate
friends, I think, were ladies ; and 1 believe no
better proof could be given of the delicacy and
purity of his mind and character. He loved the
very failings of the female mind : men in gene-
ral appeared to him too stern, reserved, unyield-
ing, and worldly ; and he ever found relief in
the gentleness, the tenderness, and the unselfish-
ness of woman. Many of his chosen female
friends were married, but this was not uniforndy
the case ; and will it seem wondcrfid, when we
consider how he was situated at this time, that
with a most affectionate heart, a peculiar attach-
ment to female society, and with unwiisted pas-
sions, Mr. Crablie, though in his si.\ty-sccond
year, shoidd have again thought of marriage?
He could say with Shakspeare's good old Adam,
— I quote lines which, for their surpassing
beauty, he himself never could read steadily, —
" Though I look old, yet am I strong and lusty ;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
Tlie means of weakness and debility :
I'lierefore, my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty but kindly."
Moreover, a poet's mind is proverbially always
young. If, therefore, youth and beauty could
more than once warm his imagination to outrun
his prudence — for, surely, the union of youth
and beauty with a man of such age can never
bo wis/' — I feel satisfied that no one will be se-
riously shocked with such an evidence of the
freshness of ids feelings. The critics of his last
publication bestowed some good-natured raillery
on the warmth with which he there expressed
himself on certain subjects — the increased ten-
derness of his love-scenes especially — and there
occurred various incidents in his ow n later his-
LIFE OF CRABBE.
63
tory that might afford his friends fair matter for
a little innocent jesting : but none that knew
him ever regarded him with less respect on ac-
count of this j)ardonable sort of weakness ; and
though love might be out of the question, I be-
lieve he inspired feelings of no ordinary regard
in more than one of the fair objects of his vain
devotion. These things were so well known
among the circle of which at this period he
formed the delight and ornament, that I thought
it absurd not to allude to them. I have, how-
ever, no great wish to dwell on the subject;
though, I must add, it was one that fiever for a
moment distuibed the tranquillity of his family ;
nay, that, on one occasion at least, my brother
and myself looked with sincere pleasure to the
prospect of seeing our father's happiness in-
creased by a new alliance.
Whether the two following sets of stanzas
refer to the same period, I have not been curious
to inquire. It is even possible that I may be
wrong in suspecting any allusion to his personal
feelings.
" Unhappy is the wretcli who feels
The trembling lover's anient flame,
And yet the treacherous hope conceals
By using Friendship's colder name.
He must the lover's pangs endure,
And still the outward sign suppress ;
Nor may expect the smiles that cure
t'he wounded heart's concealed distress.
When her soft looks on others bend,
By him discern'd, to him denied,
He must be then the silent friend.
And all his jealous tormenis hide.
AVlien she shall one blest youth select,
His bleeding heart must still approve ;
Must every angry thought correct,
And strive to like, where she can love.
Heaven from my heart such pangs remove,
And let these feverish sufferings cease —
These pains w ithout the hope of love,
These caies of friendship, not its peace."
II.
' And wilt thou never smile again ;
Tliy cruel purpose never shaken ?
Hast thou no feeling for my pain,
Refused, disdain'd, despised, forsaken .'
Thy uncle, crafty, careful, cold.
His wealth upon my mind imprinted ;
His fields described, and praised his fold,
And jested, boasted, promised, hinted.
Thy aunt — I scorn'd the omen — spoke
Of lovers by thy scorn rejected ;
But I the warning never took
When chosen, cheer'd, received, respected.
Thy brother, too — but all was plann'd
To murder peace — all freely granted ;
And then I lived in fairy land,
Transported, bless'd, enrapt, enchanted.
Oh, what a dream of happy love !
From which the wise in time awaken ;
While I must all its anguish prove.
Deceived, despised, abused, forsaken !"
I am persuaded that but few men have, even
in early life, tasted either of the happiness or the
pain which attend the most exquisite of ])assions,
in such extremes as my father experienced at
this period of his life. In his young " true
love," indeed, he was so soon assured of a full
return, that one side of the picture could scarcely
have been then revealed to his view ; and I
cannot but consider it as a very interesting trait
in the history of his mind, that he was capable at
so late a stage, of feeling, with regard to the
other side of it, so exactly as a man of five-and-
tvventy would have done under the same cir-
cumstances.
But my brother, in December, 1816, married,
with his entire approbation, the daughter of the
late William Crowfoot, Esq., and sister to the
present Dr. Crowfoot, of Beccles, and imme-
diately came to reside as his curate at Trow-
bridge , thus relieving him from much of the
fatigue of his professional duties, as well as from
domestic cares and the weariness of a solitary
house. Soon after this I again joined the fa-
mily ; and early in 1817, my father had the sa-
tisfaction of marrying me to the daughter of the
late Thomas Timbrell, Esq., of Trowbridge,
and of seeing my wife and myself established,
within twenty miles of him, in the curacy of
Pucklechurch ; where, during the rest of his
life, he had always at his command a second, and,
what was often refreshing to him, a rural home.
In relating my own impressions of my father,
I have often been apprehensive that I have de-
scribed him in terms which those who did not
know him may deem exaggeration ; yet am I
supported by the testimony, not only of many
who were well acquainted with his worth, but
of one who knew him not, except by his publi-
cations and his letters. The talented individual
who began the following correspondence, which
was continued till her death in 1826, read and
appreciated his character nearly as well as the
most intimate of his friends. The daughter of
Richard Shackleton, the intimate friend of
Burke, had met my father at Mr. Burke's table
in the year 1784, when, just after his marriage,
he had the pleasure of introducing his bride to
his patron. This distinguished lady possessed
that superiority of intellect which marked her
family, and was evidently honoured by ^Ir.
Burke, not merely as the daughter of his old
friend, but as one worthy to enjoy that high
title herself. Her coiTcspondence with Mr.
Burke forms an interesting feature in Mr. Prior's
able work. She was a poet, though not of the
highest class, and sent to her eminent friend
some jjleasing verses on his residence at Beacons-
field, which drew forth a long and warm reply.
('.4
LIFE OF CRABI3E.
How would lie h!iv(> been ^'nitificfl hail lie lived
to rend tlic very sujx'rior piiljiicatioiis in |)^()^s(',
"(.'() I tap" l)ialof.Mi('.s," " Coltajrc nio^Tapliv,"
&C., wliicli slic pavt' to the world al'lrr she fiail
cliatifiod licr name to Lcaiilx-atcr ! Tiiis oxccl-
liMit woman liad not I'orfiottcn that early niectinfr
with Mr. Cral»i)e ; and in Noveinhcr, lMl(), he
had the unex|)eeted pleasure of reeeivini; from
her the first of a lonrj series of" letters ; his
replies to which are rendered partieidarly in-
terestin;^ by the playful in'.'enuousness with w hieli
he S4. I was brought
thither by my father, liichard Shackleton, the
friend, from their childhood, of Kdniund Burke.
My dear father told thee, that ' (>oklsmith's woidd
now be the deserted vUhuje.' Perhaps thou dost
not remember this compliment ; but I remember
the ingenuous modesty which disclaimed it. He
admired the ' Village,' the ' Library," and the
' Newspaper ' exceedingly ; and the delight with
which lie read them to bis family could not but be
acceptable to the author, had he known the sound
judgment and the exquisite taste which that excel-
lent man possessed. But he saw no more of the
productions of the Muse he admired, whose ori-
ginality was not the least charm. He is dead — the
friend whom he loved and honoured, and to whose
character thou dost so much justice in the Preface
to the ' Parish Register,' is also gone to the house
appointed for all living. A splendid constellation
of poets arose in the literary horizon. I looked
around for Crabbe. ' Why does not he, who shines
as brightly as any of these, add his lustre'?' 1 had
not long thought thus, wlien, in an Edinburgh
lleview, 1 met with retlections similar to my own,
which introduced the ' Parish Register.' Oh I it
was like the voice of a long-lost friend ; and glad
was I to bear that voice again in ' The Borough I '
— still more in the ' Tales,' which appear to me
excelling all that preceded them. Every work is
so much in unison wiili our own feelings, that a
wish for information concerning them and their au-
thor, received into our hearts, is strongly excited.
One of our friends. Dykes .Alexander, who was in
15allitore, in 1810 I think, said, he was personally
accpiainted with thee, and spoke highly of thy cha-
racter. I regretted 1 had not an opportunity of
conversing with him on this subject, as perhaps he
would have been able to decide arguments which
have arisen ; namely, whether we owe to truth or
to fiction that 'ever new delight ' which thy poetry
attbrds us ? Thy characters, however singular some
of them may be, are never unnatural ; and thy sen-
timents, so true to domestic and social feelings, as
widl as to those of a higher nature, have the con-
vincing power of reality over the mind; and /
maiutaiu that all thy pictures are drawn from life.
To inquire wlietluT this be the ease, in the excuKe
wliieh I make to mys«-lf f"or writing this letter. I
wish the excnn- may be acce[)ted by thee; for I
greatly fear I have taken an unwarrantable lilx-rty
in making the inquiry. Tb.)ngh advanced in life,
yet, from an education of |)cenliar ^ilnplicity, and
from never having l>een long absent from my re-
tired native village, I am tfx) little acquainted with
decorum. If I have now tran.sgressed the rules it
prescribes, I appeal to the candour and liln'rality
of thy mind to forgive a fault caused by strong en-
thusiasm.
" I am thy sincere friend, Mary Lkadhkatkk."
" P.S. Ballitore is the village in which Edmund
Burke was educated by Abraham Shackleton, whose
pupil he became in 1741, and from whose school he
entered the college of Dublin in 174-1. The school
is still flourishing."
To Mrs. Leadlicata . <
" Trowbriilge, 1st of 12th montli, Ixic.
" Mary Leadbeat?;r ! — Yes, indeed, I do wtdl
remember you ! Not Leadbeater then, but a pretty
demure lass, standing a timid auditor while her
own verses were read by a kind friend, but a keen
judge. And 1 have in my memorj- your father's
person and countenance, and you may be sure that
my vanity retained the compliment which he paid
me in the moment when he permitted his judgment
to slip behind his good humour and desire of giving
pleasure : — Yes, I remember all who were present;
and, of all, are not you and I the only survivors?
It was the day — was it not ? — when I introduced
my wife to my friend. And now both are gone I
and your father, and Kichard Burke, who was pre-
sent (yet again I must ask — was he not?) — and
Mrs. Burke ! All departed — and so, by and b}-,
they will speak of us. But, in the mean time, it
was good of you to write. Oh very — very good.
" But, are you not your father's own daughter ?
Do you not flatter after his manner ? How do you
know the mischief that you may do in the mind of
a vain man, Mho is but too susceptible of praise,
even while he is conscious of so much to be placed
against it? 1 am glad that you like my verses: it
would have mortified me much if you had not, for
you can judge as well a.s write Yours are
really very admirable things; and the morality is
as pure as the literary merit is conspicuous. I am
not sure that I have read all that you have given
us; but what I have read has really that rare and
almost undefinable quality — genius : that is to say,
it seizes on the mind, and commands attention ; and
on the heart, and compels its feelings.
" How could you imagine that I could be other-
wise than pleased — delighted rather — with your
letter? And let me not omit the fact, that 1 reply
the instant I am at liberty, for I was enrobing
myself for church. You are a child of simplicity.
1 know, and do not love robing ; but you are a pupil
of liberality, and kx>k upon such things with a large
mind, smiling in charity. Well ! I was putting on
the great black gown, when my servant — you see
I can be pomjx)us, to write of gowns and servants
with such familiarity) — -when he brought me a let-
ter first directed, the words yet legible, to • George
Crabbe, at Belvoir Castle,' and then by Lord Mendip
LIFE OF CRABBE.
65
to ' the Eeverend ' at Trowbridge ; and at Trow-
bridge I hope again to receive these welcome evi-
dences of jour remembrance, directed in all their
simplicity, and written, I trust, in all sincerity. The
delay was occasioned by a change in my place of
residence. I now dwell in the parsonage of a busy,
populous, clothing town, sent thither by ambition,
and the Uuke of Kutland. It is situated in Wilt-
shire, not far from Bath.
" There was a Suffolk family of Alexanders, one
of whom you probably mean ; and as he knew very
little of me, I see no reason why he should not give
nie a good character. Whether it was merited is
another point, and that will depend upon our ideas
of a good character. If it means, as it generally
does, that 1 paid my debts, and was guilty of
no glaring world-defying immorality — why yes !
I was so far a good character. But before
the Searcher of Hearts what are our good cha-
racters ?
" But your motive for writing to me was j'our
desire of knowing whether my men and women
were really existing creatures, or beings of my own
imagination ? Nay, Mary Leadbeater, yours was
a better motive : you thought that you should give
pleasure by writing, and — yet you will think me
very vain — you felt some pleasure yourself in re-
newing the acquaintance that commenced under
such auspices ! Am I not right ? My heart tells
me that I am, and hopes that you will confirm it.
Be assured that I feel a very cordial esteem for the
friend of my friend — the virtuous, the worthy cha-
racter whom I am addressing. Yes, I will tell you
readily about my creatures, whom I endeavoured to
paint as nearly as I could and dared ; for, in some
cases, I dared not. This you will readily admit : be-
sides, charity bade me be cautious. Thus far you
are correct : there is not one of whom I had not in
my mind the original ; but I was obliged, in some
cases, to take them from their real situations,
i in one or two instances to change even the sex,
and, in many, the circumstances. The nearest to
real life was the proud, ostentatious man in the
' Borough,' who disguises an ordinary mind by doing
great things; but the others approach to real itj^ at
greater or less distances. Indeed, I do not know
that I could paint merely from my own fancy ; and
there is no cause why we should. Is there not
diversity sufficient in society ? and who can go,
even but a little, into the assemblies of our fellow-
wanderers from the way of perfect rectitude, and
not find characters so varied and so pointed, that
he need not call upon his imagination ?
" Will yon not write again ? ' Write to thee, or
for the public ? ' wilt thou not ask ? To me and
for as many as love and can discern the union of
strength and simplicity, purity and good sense.
Our feeling and our hearts is the language you can
adopt. Alas, / cannot with propriety use it — our I
too could once say ; but I am alone now • and since
my removing into a busy town among the multi-
tude, the loneliness is but more apparent and more
melancholy. But this is only at certain times ; and
then I have, though at considerable distances, six
female friends unknown to each other, but all dear,
very dear, to me. With men I do not much asso-
ciate, not as deserting, and much less disliking, the
male part of society, but as being unfit for it ; not
hardy nor grave, not knowing enough, nor suf-
ficiently acquainted with the every-day concerns of
men. But my beloved creatures have minds with
which I can better assimilate. Think of you I
must ; and of me, I must entreat that you would
not be unmindful. Thine, dear lady, very truly,
" George Crabbe."
I dare say no one will put an unfavourable
interpretation on my father's condescension to
Mrs. Leadbeater's feelings, if, indeed, it was
anything but a playful one, in dating the above
letter after the Quaker fashion, " 1st of r2th
month." I need not transcribe the whole of
this excellent lady's next letter : but the first
and last paragraphs are as follow : —
" Ballitore, 29th of 12th month, 1816.
" Eespected Friend, — I cannot describe the
sensations with which I began to read thy letter.
They overpowered me. I burst into tears, and,
even after I had recovered composure, found it
necessary frequently to wipe my spectacles before I
reached the conclusion. I felt astonishment mingled
with delight, to find that I, in my lonely valley,
was looked upon with such benevolence by him
who sits upon the top of the hill. That benevo-
lence eucourages me again to take up the pen.—
That day on which I had tlie pleasure of seeing
thee and thy wife was the tenth day of the sixth
mouth (June), 1784. It was the day thou intro-
duced thy bride to thy friends. She sat on a sofa
with Jane Burke ; thou stood with Edmund near
the window. May I ask how long it is since thou
wast visited by the affliction of losing her, and how
many children are left to comfort thee ? But this
is a delicate chord, and perhaps I should not touch
it. The report of my having received a letter
from thee, quickly spread through Ballitore, and I
was congratulated by my family, friends, and
neighbours, with unfeigned cordiality, on this dis-
tinction ; fur we partake in each other's joys and
sorrows, being closely united in friendship and
good neighbourhood. We are mostly a colony of
Quakers ; and those who are not of our profession,
in their social intercourse with us coufonn to our
sober habits. None of us are wealthy, all depend-
ing on industry for our humble competence, yet
we find time to recreate ourselves with books, and
generally see every publication which is proper for
our perusal. Some profess not to relish poetry ;
yet thou hast contrived to charm us all, and sorry
shall we be if thy next visit be to take leave.
Therefore do not mar the pleasure we anticipate by
a threat so alarming. In thy partiality for female
society, I discern a resemblance to dear Cowper,
our other moral poet, but enlivened by that flow of
cheerfulness, which he so sadly wanted.
# # « * *
" I cannot define my motives for writing to thee. .
I perfectly recollect that one of them u-as the wish
to be assured of the reality of thy characters. I
suppose, also, I wished to know thy own ; but I
did not imagine I could give pleasure to thee by
such an address ; indeed, I feared offending, though
that fear was dissipated when I opened one of thy
volumes. How condescending art thou to gratify
K
(Ki
LIFE OF CRAnilE.
my curioKity, and how (^liid am I to fiii*8ertion himself, he exj)ccted similar deference.
And, to be candid, though what In; said was
pretty sure to be just, yet there was an unfair
and aristocratic j)rinciple in this «'xpeeecli. Kenihle's—
Tulnia's. Wo leave the company, and go to Vaux-
liall to meet Miss IJo;,'ers and lier party. Stay late.
"•J8f/(.— (io to St. James's I'lacr. Lord I'.yroii's
new works, Manfred, and Tasso s Lament. The
tragedy very fme — hut very obscure in places. The
Lament more jicrspicuous, and more feelile. Seek
loiljjin^s, .'i7, Mnry Street. Females only visible.
Dine as agreed with Mr. Douplas. (.'hietly strangers.
My new lodf;inps a little mysterious.
" 2',)e Frontispiece.)
3 I take the liberty of insertins; the following passage from
a letter with which I have recently been honoured by the
noble marquess : — " Any testimony "to your father's amiable
and unatlVcled manners, and to that simplicity of character
which he united to the uncommon powers of minute obser-
vation, would indeed be uncalled for ; as it could only express
the common feeling of all who had access to his society."
10 Now Uuke of S itherland.
and library ; and I can answer for one of the party
at least being very niueii pl(.-a.sed witii it. Our con-
versation, I remember, was about novelist*. Your
father was a strong Fieldiiigite, and I a-S sturdy a
Smollettite. His niihlness in literary argument
struck me with surprise in so stern a poet of nature,
and I coidd not but contrast tlie unassumingriess
of his maimers with the originality of his powers.
In what may be called the ready-money small-talk
of conversation, his facility might not perhaps seem
equal to the known calibre of his talents ; but in th«
progress of conversation I recollect remarking that
there was a vigilant shrewdness that almost eluded
you by keeping its watch so quietly. Though an
oldish man when I saw him, he was not a • laiidalur
tciiiporis acti,' but a decided lover of later times.
" The part of the morning which I spent at Hol-
land House with him and Tom Moore, was one, to
me at least, of memorable agreeableness. He was
verj frank, and even confidential, in speaking of
his own feelings. Though in a serene tone of
spirits, he confessed to me that since the death of
his wife he had scarcely known positive happiness.
I told him that in that respect, viz. the calculation
of our own happiness, we are apt to deceive our-
selves. The man whose manners are mild and tran-
quil, and whose conversation is amusing, cannot be
positively unhappy.
" When Moore left us we were joined by Fos-
colo ; and I remendier as distinctly as if it had been
yesterday, the contrasted light in w hich Crabbe and
Foscolo struck me. It is not an invidious contrast
— at least my feelings towards L'gos memory in-
tend it not to be so, — yet it was to me morally in-
structive, and, I need hardly say, greatly in favour
of your father. They were both men of genius, and
both simple. Put what a dit!'erent sort of simpli-
city ! I felt myself between them as if I had been
stantling between a roaring cataract and a placid
stream. Ugo raged and foamed in argument, to my
amusement, but not at all to your father's liking.
He could not abide him. What we talked about I
do not recollect ; but only that Logo's impetuosity
was a foil to the amenity of the elder bard.
" One day — and how can it fail to be memorable
to me when Moore has commemorated it ? — your
father, and Rogers, and Moore, came down to Syden-
ham pretty early in the forenoon, and stopped to
dine with me. We talked of founding a Poets'
Club, and even set about electing the members, not
by ballot, but viva roce. The scheme failed, I
scarcely know how ; but this 1 know, that a week
or so afterwards, I met with Perry, of the Morning
Chronicle, who asked me how our Poi-ts' Club was
going ou. I said, ' I don't know— we have some
difficulty of giving it a name,— we thought of call-
ing ourselves tlic Bees' ' Ah.' siiid Perry, ' that 's a
little different from the common repK>rt, for they
say you are to Ih? called the Wasps.' I was so stung
with this waspish report, tliat I thought no more of
the Poets' Club.
" The last time I saw Crahbe was, when I dined
with him at Mr. Iloare's at Hampstead. He very
kindly aime with me to the coach to see me off, and
I never pass that spot on the top of Hampstead
Heath without thinking of him. As to the force
and faith of his genius, it would be superfluous in
rae to offer any opinion. Pray, pardon me for
LIFE OF CRABBE.
69
speaking of his memory in this very imperfect man-
ner, and believe me, dear sir, yours very truly,
" T. Campbell."
I return to Mr. Crabbe's Journal : —
" Julij 3d. — Letter from Trowbridge. I pity you,
my dear John, but I must plague you. Robert
Bloomfield. He had better rested as a shoemaker,
or even a farmer's boy ; for he would have been a
farmer perhaps in time, and now he is an unfor-
tunate poet. By the way, indiscretion did much.
It might be virtuous and affectionate in him to help
his thoughtless relations ; but his more liberal
friends do not love to have their favours so disposed
of. He is, however, to be pitied and assisted. Note
from Mr. Murray respecting the picture. Go, with
Mr. Uogers, in his carnage, to Wimbledon. Earl
and Countess Spencer. The grounds more beauti-
ful than any I have yet seen ; more extensive, vari-
ous, rich. The profusion of roses extraordinary.
Dinner. Mr. Heber, to whom Mr. Scott addresses
one canto of Marmion. Mr. Stanhope. A pleasant
day. Sleep at Wimbledon.
" 4th. — Morning view, and walk with Mr. Heber
and Mr. Stanhope. Afterwards Mr. Rogei's, Lady
S., Lady H. A good picture, if I dare draw it accu-
rately : to place in lower life, would lose the pecu-
liarities which depend upon their station ; yet, in
any station. Return with Mr. Rogers. Dine at
Lansdowne House. Sir James Mackintosh, Mr.
Grenvillc, elder brother to Lord Grenville. My
visit to Lord Lansdowne's father in this house,
thirty-seven years since! Porter's lodge. Mr.
Wynn. Lord Ossory.
" ^th. — My thirty lines done ; but not well I fear ;
thirty daily is the self-engagement. Dine at
George's Coffee-house. Return. Stay late at
Holborn. The kind of shops open at so late an hour.
Purchase in one of them. Do not think they deceive
any person in particular.
" titli. — Call at Mr. Rogers's and go to Lady
Spencer. Go with Mr. Rogers to dine at High-
bury witli his brother and family. Miss Rogers
the same at Highbury as in town. Visit to Mr.
John Nichols. He relates the story of our meeting
at Muston, and inquires for John, &c. His daugh-
ters agreeable women. Mr. Urban wealthy. Ar-
rive at home in early time. Go to Pall Mall Coffee-
house and dine. Feel hurt about Hampstead. Mr.
Rogers says I must dine with him to-morrow, and
that 1 consented when at Sydenham ; and now cer-
tainly they expect me at Hampstead, though I have
made no promise.
" 7th. — Abide by the promise, and take all pos-
sible care to send my letter ; so that Mr. Hoare ' ' may
receive it before dinner. Set out for Holboru
Bridge to obtain assistance. In tlie way find the
Hampstead stage, and obtain a promise of delivery
in time. Prepare to meet our friends at Mr.
Rogers's. Agree to go to Mr. Phillips, and sit two
hours and a half. Mrs. Phillips a very agreeable
and beautiful woman. Promise to breakfast next
morning. Go to Holborn. Letter from Mr. Frere.
Invited to meet Mr. Canning, &c. Letter from Mr.
Wilbraham. Dinner at Mr. Rogers's with Mr.
" Tlie late Samuel Hoare, Esq., of Hampstead.
Moore and Mr. Campbell, Lord Strangford, and
Mr. Spencer. Leave them, and go by engagement
to see Miss O'Neil, in Lady Spencer's box. Meet
there Lady Besborough, with whom I became ac-
quainted at Holland House, and her married daugh-
ter. Lady B. the same frank character ; Mr. Gren-
ville the same gentle and polite one : Miss O'Neil
natural, and I think excellent ; and even her ' Ca-
therine," especially in the act of yielding the supe-
riority to the husband, well done and touching.
Lady Besborough obligingly offers to set me down
at twelve o'clock. Agreed to visit the Hon. W.
Spencer '^ at his house at Petersham, and there to
dine next day with Mr, Wilbraham.
"8th. — Mr. Phillips, Sit again. Begin to think
something may be made, Mrs. Phillips. Find a
stray child. Mrs, Phillips takes him home, Mr,
Murray s. Mr. Frere. To dine on Monday next.
Dine this day with Mr, North. Meet Lord Dundas.
Mrs. Wedall, Story of the poor weaver, wlio
begged his master to allow him a loom, for the work
of which he would charge nothing ; an instance
of distress. Thirty lines to-day; but not yester-
day : must work up.— I even still doubt whether it
be pure simplicity, a little romantic, or — a great deal
simplified. Yet I may, and it is likely do, mistake.
" 9th. — Agree to dine with Mr, Phillips. A day
of indisposition unlike the former. Dine at George's
Coffee-house, and in a stupid humour. Go to a play
not very enlivening ; yet the ' Magpie and Maid '
was, in some parts, affecting, till you reflected.
" 10^/(. — Apology for last night. Maiden at a
ball ; I hope not mistress too. Rise early for the
coach to Twickenham, as 1 prefer going first to
Mr, Wilbraham, who first invited me. Ask what
is the name of every place except one, and that one
is Twickenham, and so go a mile at least beyond.
Walk back to Twickenham. Meet a man carrying
a child. He passed me. but with hesitation ; and
there was, as I believed, both distress and honesty.
As he watched my manner, he stopped, and I was
unwilling to disappoint him. The most accom-
plished actor could not counterfeit the joy and sur-
prise at first, and then the joy without the surprise
afterwards. The man was simple, and had no
roguish shrewdness. Pope's house.''' Civil man,
and something more. Mr. Wilbraham. A drive
round the country three hours. Richmond Hill.
Recollect Sir Joshua's house. Hampton Court.
Petersham. In Mr. Wilbraham's carriage to Brent-
ford. Take a chaise to Knightsbridge. Make up
my thirty lines for yesterdaj' and to-daj'. Take a
story from the Dutch imposition, but with great
variation,
" llth. — Breakfast with Mr. Rogers: talk of Mr.
Frere. Mr. Douglas. Called for by Mr. Spencer.
This gentleman is grandson to the Duke of Marlbo-
rough. He married, at nineteen, a very beautiftd
and most accomplished woman, in the court of the
Duke of Weimar. Siie was sixteen. His manner
is fascinating, and his temper all complacency and
kindness. His poetry far beyond that implied in
the character of Vers de Snciete. I am informed
Mrs, S, has very extraordinary talents. Go in the
' '■' Mr. Spencer, the well-known translator of " Leonora,''
&c. &c. &c.
13 Pope's villa, now inhabited by Sir Wathen ^Vallcr, Hart.,
and his ladv, the Baroness Howe,
Vv
70
LIFE OF CRADHE.
c.iriii»f;f witli liis dauplitcr to Pctcrsliiim liy Hum
Hoiist'. Introdtu'i'd to Mrs. Spencer, Sir Harry
KnglcCKlil, and Mr. Slandish, a IJond-streut man,
l)iit ofa stijicrior Kind ; and so is Sir Harry. A very
delifj;litfiil niorninfr. (Jardens. Miss Si)encer drives
me to liiclimoiid in lier pony-eliaise. 'I'lie Dnke
and Dneliiss of Cnmlicrland and Madame W
came in tlie ev^•nillf,^ 'J'lie dueliess very en^aginp.
D.ni^liter of tin' Duke of Weimar, and sister to the
(^neen of Prussia. Mr. Spencer witli them at the
court. All this period ideasant, easy, fray, with a
tinetiire of mehineholy that makes it delicious. A
drawback on mirth, but not on happiness, when our
atUetion has a mi.xture of regret and pity.
« 14//,. — Some more intimate conversation this
morning with Mr. and Mrs. Moore. 'J'hcy mean
to go to Trowbridge. He is going to Paris, but
will not stay long. Mrs. Spencer's album. Agree
to dine at t^urzon Street. A welcome letter from
. This makes the day more cheerful. Sup-
pose it were so. Well ! 't is not ! Go to Mr.
Jiogers, and take a farewell visit to Highbury.
Miss Ikogers. Promise to go when . Return
early. Dine there, and purpose to see Mr. Moore
and.Mr. Kogers in the morning when they set out
for Calais.
"\ru/i. — Was too late this morning. Messrs.
Rogers and Moore were gone. Go to church at St.
James's. The sermon good ; but the preacher
thought proper to apologise for a severity which
he had not used. Write some lines in the solitude
of Somerset House, not fifty yards fnmi the Thames
on one side, and the Strand on the other ; but as
quiet as the sands of Arabia. I am not (juite in
good humour with this day ; but, happily, 1 cannot
say why.
" Hilh. — Mr. Boswell the younger. Malone's
papers. He is an advocate, like most of his coun-
trymen, for Mary. Mr. Frere's poem.''* Meet, at
Mr. Murray's, iNlr. Heber. Mr. Douglas takes me
to Mr. Frere at lirompton. Meet Mr. Caiming and
Lord IJinniug. Conversation on church atfairs.
A little on tlie poem of the Stowmarket men. Go
home M'ith Mr. Douglas, and call for the ladies at
St. Jamess Place. Write about eighty verses.
Agree to stay over Sunday.
" 16^//. — Picture finished, which allows me more
time. Lady Errol'* and Lady Holland. Invitation
from Lord Binning."' Write, inconsequence of my
second delay, to Airs. Norris and Anna. Resolve
not to stay beyond Tuesday. Farewell dinner with
Mr. Canning. Dine to-day with my friends in
Curzon Street. Pleasant, as all is there. Mrs.
Spencer the same agreeable young woman. Besides
the family, Sir Harry Euglefield, a Catholic. His
character opens upon me very much. He appeared
to be in earnest, and I hope he was. It would be
hard if we were judged bj- our youthful sins, or
even if sins necessarily implied unbelief. Meet in
my way Lady Besborough, with a gentleman and
a young lady. She does not introduce me, and I
pass on ; but, describing the lady, I understand it
was Lady Caroline Lamb. Lady Besborough
'■' " The Monks .md the Giants," published under the name
of Wliistlecrart, of Stowmarket, Suliolk.
I'* The Countess Dowajrer of Errol, wife of the Uight Ho-
nouralile ,Iohn Hookham Frere.
'^ Now Earl of Haddington.
comes at night to Mr. SfKjncer's, and confirms it.
She invites me to KfR-haiiipton. I'lea-sant evening.
" IT///. — (Emitted a visit to the Duchess of Rut-
land at an earlier time. She invites me to dine;
but our da}s did not accord. Notes from Mr.
Frere and Mr. Canning. Dine with Mr. Doiigla.s.
Mr. I'oswell the younger: I met the elder in the
morning. .Many gentlemen with ns. Mr. Da-
rishioners, his care of ]>arish business, his books
and papers, and last, not least, his long rambles
among the quarries near Trowbridge : for never,
after my mother's death, did he return seriously
to botany, tlie favom'ite study of his earlier life.
Fossils were thencefortii to him what weeds and
flowers had been : he would spend hours on
good opinion I do indeed highly value, and who, I believe, is
disposetl to l>e more severe upon himself tlian upon another ;
but if the graceful ligure which I saw in London^-designated
by my father ' the youth w ith the smir name and the iweet
countenance' — has l>ecorae somowliat corpulent, that is a
consequence of good humour as well as gootl living ; and
why not partake of venison and claret with the moderation
which such a mind will dictate? The sentiment expresed
in an old son;; has occurred to me, when too little allowance
has been made for tlu^se in exalted situations : —
' l^eceit may dress in linen gown,
.\nd truth in diamonds shine."
From my own contracteil sphere I have had some oppor-
tunities of p<>roeivini; the virtues which, beaming from the
zenitli of wealth and rank, dilTuse their influence to a wide
extent."
hours hammer in hand, not much pleased if any
one interrupted him, rarely inviting either my
brother or myself to accompany him, and, in
short, solitary as far as he could manage to be so —
unless when some little boy or girl of a friend's
family pleaded hard to be allowed to attend
him, and mimic his labours with a tiny hammer.
To children he was ever the same. No word
or look of harshness ever drove them from his
side, "and I believe," says a friend '■^^ who
knew him well, " many a mother will bless,
many days hence, the accident that threw her
offspring into the way of his unlaboured and
paternal kindness and instruction."
To his |)ropcr ministerial duties he returned
with equal zeal. " To these," observes the
same dear friend of his, "Mr. Crabbe ever
attached great importance. He would put off a
meditated journey rather than leave a poor pa-
rishioner who required his services ; and from
his knowledge of human nature, he was able, in
a remarkable manner, to throw himself into the
circumstances of those who needed his help—
no sympatliy tins like his ; and no man, perhaps,
had the inmost feelings of others more frequently
laid open to his inspection. lie did not, how-
ever, enjoy the hap])iness w^hich many pastors
express in being able to benefit their flocks ;
never was satisfied that he used the best means ;
complained that men more imbued with a sense
of the terrors of the Lord and less with his
mercies, succeeded better ; and was glad to ask
advice of all in whose judgment and experience
he confided. Whatever might be the enjoy-
ments of his study, he never allowed any of the
numerous petitioners who called in the course
of the day to be dismissed by a servant. He
saw them all, and often gave them more pecu-
niary aid than he thought right ; and when the
duties of a magistrate were afterwards added to
those of a clergyman, these multiplied calls
scarcely allowed him necessary relaxation."
His then parishioner, Mr. Taylor, says " on
the same subject : — "His income amounted to
about 800/. per annum, a large portion of which
he spent in acts of charity. He was the com-
mon refuge of the unhappy —
' In every family
Alike in every generation dear,
The chililren's favourite, and the grandsire's friend.
Tried, trusted, and beloved.'
To him it was recommendation enough to be
poor and wretched. He was extremely mode-
rate in the exaction of tithes. When told of
really poor defaulters, his reply was, ' Let it be
— they cannot afford to pay so well as I can to
want it — let it be.' His charity was so well
known that he was regularly visited by mendi-
cants of all grades. He listened to their long
stories of wants and woes, gave them a trifle,
24 Miss Hoare.
25 In a short sketch of his life, published at Bath.
and then would say, ' God save you, — I can do
no more for you;' but he would sometimes
follow them, on reflection, and double or quad-
ruple his gift. He has been known to dive into
those obscure scenes of wretchedness and want,
where wandering paupers lodge, in order to
relieve them. He was, of course, often im-
posed upon ; which discovering, he merely said,
' God forgive them, — I do.'
" He was anxious for the education of the
humbler classes. The Sunday-school was a fa-
vourite place of resort. WHien listening to the
children, he observed, ' I love to hear the little
dears, and now old age has made me a fit com-
panion for them.' He was much beloved by
the scholars : on leaving the school he would
give them a Bible, with suitable admonition.
His health was generally good, though he some-
times suffered from the tic douloureux. Not long
before his death he met a poor old woman in
the street, whom he had ibrsome time missed at
church, and asked her if she had been ill. ' Lord
bless you, Sir — no,' was the answer, ' but it is
of no use going to i/our chin-ch, for I can't hear;
you do speak so low.' — ' Well, well, my good
old friend,' said he, slipping half-a-crown into
her hand, ' you do quite right in going where
you can hear.' "
I may here add, that Mr. Crabbe was a
subscriber to most of our great charitable in-
stitutions, and, as a member of the British and
Foreign Bible Society, was prevailed ujion to
take the chair at the meetings in Trowbridge ;
but his aversion to forms and ceremony, and to
set speeches, made it a very painful station.
Mr. Crabbe was now (1817 and 1818) busily
engaged in finishing the last of his hitherto pub-
lished works — that which he originally entitled
" Remembrances," but which, by Mr. Murray's
advice, was produced as " Tales of the Hall."
His note-book was at this time ever with him
in his walks, and he would every now and then
lay down his hammer to insert a new or amended
couplet. He fancied that autumn was, on the
whole, the most favourable season for him in the
composition of poetry ; but tiiere was something
in the etiect of a sudden fall of snow that ap-
peared to stimulate him in a very extraordinary
manner. It was during a great snow-storm that,
shut up in his room, he wrote almost ciorente
calamo his Sir Eustace Grey. Latterly, he
worked chiefly at night, after the family had ail
retired ; and in case any one should wish to be
informed of such important particulars, he had
generally by him a glass of very weak s|)irits
and water, or negus ; and at all times indulged
largely in snufl', which last hal)it somewhat in-
terfered, as he grew old, with the effects of his
remarkable attention to personal cleanliness and
neatness of dress.
Would the reader like to follow my father
into his library ? — a scene of unparalleled con-
LIFE OF CUABIIE.
rusiuii — wiiiilows rnttlinff, paint in great re(|iiest,
hiioks ill every (iircctioii lint tlio ri;;lit — tlu" tal>I(;
- Imt 111), I eaiiiiut liiiil terms lode.scrilie it, tli()ii;.'li
the eoiiiiteriiart ini;^'iit lie seen, perliajis, not one
iimiiireil miles IVoiii the study of the jiistly-t'aiiied
and heaiitit'dl reetory of IJremhill. Onet!, wiien
wo were staying at 'I'rowiiridj^e, in his alwenco lor
a lew days at Hatli, my eldest f^iil tiiou;;ht she
should surprise and pleasi; iiini i«y iiiitting every
liooiv ill perfect order, niakiii}^ the best hoiiiul
tlie most prominent ; but, on his return, thaiik-
\netter judge
whether tlie honour niaki's amends for the coft«."
In Juno, 1H19, tht; " 'I'alos of the Hall " were
published by Mr. Murray, who, for tlioin and
the remaining copyright of all my father's |)re-
vious |)0cms, gave the munificent sunt of 3000/.
The new wfirk had, at least, as general ap[)r()-
bation as any that had gone before it ; and wa.s
not the less liked for its opening views of a
higher class of society than he had hitherto
dealt much in. But 1 reserve what particulars
I have to ofler with respect to the subjects of
these Tales for notes to its forthcoming repub-
lication in the C(jllective edition, of which this
little narrative may be considered as the preface.
I shall, however, avail myself of the permission
to in.sert in this jilaco a letter lately addressed
to Mr. Murray by Mr. Moore, which, among
other interesting particulars, gives a curious
enough account of some transactions respecting
the publication of the new work : —
" Sloperton Cottage, January 1, 183-1.
" My dear Mr. Mi;rray, — Had I been aware
that your time of publication was so near, the few
scattered notices and recollections of Mr. Crabbe,
which it is in my power to furnish for his son's
memoir, should have been presented in a somewhat
less crude and careless shape than, in this hasty
reply to your letter, I shall be able to give them.
" It was in the year 1817, if I recollect right,
that, during a visit of a few weeks to London, I
fii"st became acquainted with Mr. Crabt>e ; and my
opportunities of seeing him during that period, at
Mr. Kogers's and Holland House, were frequent.
The circumstance connected with him at that time,
which most dwelt upon my niemor}-, was one in
which you yourself were concerned ; as it occurred
in the course of the negotiation which led to your
purchxse of the copyright of his poems. Though
to Crabbe himself, who had up to this period re-
ceived but little for his writings, the liberal sura
Mhich you offered, namely, 300(i/., appeared a
mine of wealth, the two friends whom he had em-
ployed to negotiate for him, and who, Ixith exquisite
judges of literary merit, measured the marketable
value of his works by their own admiration of
them, thought that a bargain more advantageous
might 1)0 made, and (as you, probably, now for tlie
first time learn) applied to another eminent hoiLse
on the subject. Taking but too just a measure of
the state of public taste at that moment, the respect-
able pnblishei-s to whom I allude named, as the
utmost which they could afford to give, but a third
of the sum which you had the day before offered.
In this predicament, the situation of poor Crabbe
was most critical. He had seen within his reach a
prize far beyond his most sanguine hof)es, and was
now, by the over-sanguineness of friends, put in
danger of losing it. Change of mind, or a feeling
of umbrage at this reference to other publishers,
luight, not unnaturally, it was feared, induce you
to decline all further negotiation; and that such
was likely to be the result there appeared every
LIFE OF CRABBE.
75
reason to apprehend, as a letter which Crabbe had
addressed to you, saying that he had made up his
mind to accept your ofifer, had not yet received
any answer.
" In this crisis it was that Mr. Rogers and my-
self, anxious to relieve our poor friend from his
suspense, called upon you, as you must well re-
member, in Albermarle-Street; and seldom have I
watched a countenance with more solicitude, or
heard words that gave me much more pleasure,
than when, on the subject being mentioned, you
said, ' Oh yes — I have heard from Mr. Crabbe, and
look upon the matter as all settled.' I was rather
pressed, 1 recollect, for time that morning, having
an appointment on some business of my own ; but
Mr. Rogers insisted that I should accompany him
to Crabbe's lodgings, and enjoy the pleasure of
seeing him relieved from his suspense. We found
liim sitting in his room, alone, and expecting the
worst; but soon dissipated all his fears by the
agreeable intelligence -which we brought.
" When he received the bills for 3000/., we
earnestly advised that he should, without delay,
deposit them in some safe hands ; but no — he must
' take them Avith him to Trowbridge, and show
them to his son John. They would hardly believe
in his good luck, at home, if they did not see the
bills.' On his way down to Trowbridge, a friend
at Salisbury, at whose house he rested (Mr. Everett,
the banker), seeing that he carried these bills
loosely in his waistcoat pocket, requested to be al-
lowed to take charge of them for him, but with
equal ill-success. ' There was no fear,' he said
' of his losing them, and he must show them to his
son John.
" It was during the same visit of Mr. Crabbe to
London that we enjoyed a very agreeable day to-
gether at Mr. Horace Twiss's ; — a day remarkable,
not only for the presence of this great poet, but for
the amusing assemblage of other remarkable cha-
racters who were there collected ; the dinner guests
being, besides the Dowager Countess of Cork and
the present Lord and Lady Clarendon, Mr. William
Spencer, Keau the actor. Colonel Berkeley, and
Lord Petersham. Between these two last-mentioned
gentlemen Mr. Crabbe got seated at dinner; and
though I was not near enough to hear distinctly their
conversation, I could see that he was alternately
edified and surprised by the information they were
giving him.
" In that same year I had the good luck to be
present with him at a dinner in celebration of the
memory of Burns, where he was one of a large
party (yourself among the number), whom I was
the means of collecting for the occasion ; and who.
by the way, subscribed liberally towards a monu-
ment to the Scottish bard, of which we have heard
nothing ever since. Another public festival to
which I accompanied him was the anniversary of
the Wiltshire Society; where, on his health being
proposed from the chair by Lord Lansdowne, he
returned thanks in a short speech, simply, but col-
lectedly, and with the manner of a man not deficient
in the nerve necessary for such displays. In look-
ing over an old newspaper report of that dinner, I
find, in a speech by one of the guests, the following
passage, which, more for its truth than its elo-
quence, I here venture to cite : ' Of Mr. Crabbe,
the speaker would say, that the Musa severior
which he worships has had no influence whatever
on the kindly dispositions of his heart: but that,
while, with the eye of a sage and a poet, he looks
penetratingly into the darker region of human
nature, he stands surrounded by its most genial
light himself.'
" In the summer of the jear 1824, I passed a few
days in his company at Longleat, the noble seat of
the Maiquis of Bath; and it was there, as we
walked about those delicious gardens, that he, for
the fii'st time, told me of an unpublished poem
which he had by him, entitled, as I think he then
said, the ' Departure and the Return,' and the same,
doubtless, which you are now about to give to the
world. Among the visiters at Longleat, at that
time, was the beautiful Madame * * *, a Genoese
lady, whose knowledge and love of English litera-
ture rendered her admiration of Crabbe's genius
doubly flattering. Nor was either the beauty or
the praises of the fair Italian thrown away upon the
venerable poet ; among whose many amiable attri-
butes a due appreciation of the charms of female
society was not the least conspicuous. There was,
indeed, in his manner to women, a sweetness bor-
dering rather too much upon what the French call
doucereuT, and I remember hearing Miss * * *, a
lady known as the writer of some of the happiest
jeux d'esprit of our day, say once of him, in allu-
sion to this excessive courtesy — 'the cake is no
doubt very good, but there is too much sugar to cut
through in getting at it.'
" In reference to his early intercourse with Mr.
Burke, Sir James Mackintosh had, more than once,
said to me, ' It is incumbent on you, Moore, who
are Crabbe's neighbour, not to allow him to leave
this world without putting on record, in some shape
or other, all that he remembers of Burke.' On
mentioning this to Mr. Rogers, when he came down
to Bowood. one summer, to meet Mr. Crabbe, it was
agreed between us that we should use our united
efforts to sift him upon this subject, and endeavour
to collect whatever traces of Beaconsfield might
still have remained in his memory. But, beyond
a few vague generalities, we could extract nothing
from him whatever, and it was plain that, in his
memory at least, the conversational powers of the
great orator had left but little vestige. The range
of subjects, indeed, in which Mr. Crabbe took any
interest was, at all times of his life, very limited ;
and, at the early period, Avhen he became ac-
quainted with Mr. Burke, when the power of poetry
was but newly awakening within him, it may
easily be conceived that whatever was unctmnected
with his own absorbing art, or even with his own
peculiar province of that art, would leave but a
feeble and transient impression upon his mind.
" This indifference to most of the gcineral topics,
whether of learning or politics, which diversify the
conversation of men of the world, Mr. Crabbe re-
tained through life; and in this peculiarity, I think,
lay one of the causes of his comparative ineffi-
ciency, as a member of society, — of that impression,
so disproportionate to the real powers of his mind,
which he produced in ordinary life. Another
cause, no doubt, of the inferiority of his conversa-
tion to his writings is to bo found in that fate
which threw him, early in life, into a state of de-
L 2
76
LIFE OF CRABBE.
pciulciit iutcrcoiirsf willi persons far superior to
liiiii in runk, but iinineasiiniMy licncutli him in
intellect. The eourteoiis policy which wonid then
lead him to keep his conversation down to the level
of those he lived with, afterwards grew into a lialiit
which, in the commerce of the world, did injnstiee
to his (Treat powers.
" Voii have here all that, at this moment, occurs
to me, in the May either of recollection or remark,
on the siiliject of our able and venerateil friend.
The diiijiliU'iil day which Mr. liof^ers and myself
passed with him, at Sydenham, you liave already,
I believe, an account of from my friend, Mr.
Campl>ell, who was our host on the occasion. Mr.
liOckhart has, I t;ike for f;ranted, comnuinicated to
you the anmsinp anecdote of Crabbe's interview
with the two Scotcli lairds — an anecdote which I
cherish the moie freshly and fi>ii(lly in my memory-,
from its liavinj; been told nu', with his own peculiar
luimour, by Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford. I
luive, therefore, notliinp; further left than to assure
you how nuich and truly I am, jours,
" TaOiMA.S MOOKK."
Durini; his first aiul socoiul visits to Lomiun,
my father spent a good deal of his time heiicath
the liospitablo roof of the; hitc Sauuiol lloaro,
Escjuire, on llunipstead Heath, lie owed his
introdiu'tiou to this rospeetod family to his
friends, Mr. Bowles, and the aiitlior of tlie
deligiitiiil " Excursions in the West," Mr.
Warner ; aiul thougii Mr. lloare was an invalid,
anil little disposed to form new connections, he
was so nnich gratified with Mr. Crabbe's man-
ners and conversation, tiiat their actjuaintance
soon grew into an ali'ectionale and lasting inti-
macy.-' Mr. Crabbe, in sidjsequent years, mode
llainpstead his head-quarters on his sj)ring visits,
and oidy repaired from thence occasionally to
the brilliant circles of the metropolis. Ad-
vancing age, failing health, tiie tortures of tic
ilouloureux, witli which he began to be afflicted
about IS'20, and, I may add, the increasing
earnestness of his devotional feelings, reiulercd
him, in ins closing years, less and less an.xious
to mingle much in the scenes of gaiety and
fashion.
The following jjassagc of a letter which he
received, in April, lH-21, from his amiable cor-
res])ondent at IJallitore, descriptive of his re-
ception at Trowbridge of lier friend Leckey, is
highly characteristic : —
" Wlien my feeble and simple efforts have ob-
^' I quote what follows from a letter wliirh I have recently
been favoiireil with from Mr. Howies: — " Perhajw it misjlit he
staled in your memoir that, at Hath, I liist introihiced your
father to the estimable family of the Hoares of Ilampstead ;
with whom, throusjli his sulwequent life, he was so intimate,
and who contributed so murh to the happiness of all his later
days. I wish sincerely that any incident I could recollect
mi;;ht be such as would contribute to the illustration of his
mind, and amiable, ijentle, all'ectionate character; but I never
noted an expression or incident at the time, and only preserve
an impression of his mild manner, his observations, playful,
Init often acute, his hiuh and steady principles of religious and
moral otilijjation, his warm feelings against anjthing which
aprx-iu-ed harsh or unjust, and his undeviating and steady at-
tacliments."
tained the approbation of the fin;t moral pwtof his
time, is it surprising that I hhould Ix.- inflated
thereby ? Yet thou art too Unevolent to intend to
turn the brain of a poor old wom;in, by coiiiniend-
ation so valued, though tliou Jias practised on my
credidity by a little deception; and. from being
always accustomed to matter of fact, I generally
take what I hear in a literal sense. A gentlewoman
once assured me that the husband of Jier waiting-
woman came to her house stark naked — naked as
he was born. I said, ' O dear,' and reflected with
pity on the poor man's situation; certainly thinking
him mad, as maniacs often tlirow away their
clothes. My neighbour went on: — 'His coat was
so ragged! his hat so shabby!' — and, to my ^u^-
prisc, I found the man dressed, though in a garb
ill-befitting the spouse of a lady's maid. And thou
madest me believe thou wert in good ca.se, by say-
ing, 'Am I not a great fat rector?' We said, 'it
was the exuberance of good humour that caused
increase of flesh: but a curate, witli six hungry-
children, sfciggered our belief. Now we know tliy
son is thy curate, and that thou art light and active
in form, with looks irradiated, and accents modu-
lated by genuine kindness of heart. Thus our
friend John James Leckey describes thee; for I
have seen his long letter to his mother on the sub-
ject of his visit, which, with his letter to me, has
placed thee so before our view, that we all but see
aud hear thee, freciuently going out and coming
into the room, with a book in thy hand, aud a smile
aud friendly expression on thy lips, — the l)enevo-
lence which swam in thy eyes, and the cordial
shake of both hands with which thou partedst with
him, — and thou came out with him in the damp
night, and sent thy servant with him to the inn,
where he should not have lodged, had there been
room for him in thy own house."
It was during the last of my father's very
active seasons in London (1822), that he had
the satisfaction of meeting with Sir Walter
Scott; and the baronet, who was evidently
much afl'ected on seeing Mr. Crabbe, -w ould not
part with him until he had ])roniised to visit him
in Scotland the ensuing autumn. But I much
regret that the invitation was accepted for that
particular occasion ; for, as it happened, the late
king fixed on the same time for his northern
progress; and, instead of finding Sir Walter in
his own mansion in the country, when Mr.
Crabbe reached Scotland, in August, the family
had all rei)aircd to Etlinburgh, to be present
amidst a scene of bustle and festivity little
favourable to the sort of intercourse w ith a con-
genial mind, to which he had looked forward
with such ])leasing anticipations. He took up
his residence, however, in Sir Walters house in
North Castle Street, Edinburgh, and was treated
by him aiul all his connections with the greatest
kindness, respect, and attention ; and though the
baronet's time was nuich occujiied with the
business of the royal visit, and he had to dine
almost daily at his majesty's table, still my father
had an opportunity not to be undervalued of
seeing what was to him an aspect of society
wholly new. The Highlanders, in particular,
their language, their dress, and their manners
were contemplated with exceeding interest. I
am enabled, by the kindness of one of my father's
female friends, to offer some extracts from a
short Journal, which he kept for her amusement
during his stay in the northern metropolis : —
" Whilst it is fresh in my memory, I should de-
scribe the day which I have just passed, but I do
not believe au accurate description to be possible.
What avails it to say, for instance, that there met
at the sumptuous dinner, in all the costume of the
Highlanders, the great chief himself and officers of
his company. This expresses not the singularity
of appearance and manners — the peculiarities of
men, all gentlemen, but remote from our society —
leaders of clans — joyous company. Then we had
Sir AValter Scott's national songs and ballads, ex-
hibiting all the feelings of clanship. I thought it
an honour that Glengarry even took notice of me,
for there were those, and gentlemen, too, who con-
sidered themselves honoured by following in his
train. There were, also, Lord Errol, and the
Macleod, and the Frazer, and the Gordon, and the
Ferguson ; and I conversed at dinner with Lady
Gk-ngarry, and did almost believe myself a harper,
or bard, rather — for harp I cannot strike — and Sir
Walter was the life and soul of the whole. It was
a splendid festivity, and I felt I know not how
much younger."
The lady to whom he addressed the above
journal says, — " A few more extracts will, per-
hajjs, be interesting. It is not surprising that,
under the guidance of Mr. Lockhart, Mr.
Crabbe's walks should have been very interest-
ing, and that all he saw should take an advan-
tageous colouring from such society :" —
" I went to the palace of Holyrood House, and
was much interested ; — the rooms, indeed, did not
afi'ect me, — the old tapestry was such as 1 had seen
l)efore, and I did not much care about the leather
chairs, with three legs each, nor the furniture, ex-
cept in one room — that where Queen Mary slept.
The bed has a canopy very rich, but time-stained.
We went into the little room where the Queen and
Hizzio sat, when his murderers broke in and cut him
down as he struggled to escape : they show certain
staius on the floor ; and I see no reason why you
should not believe them made by his blood, if you
can.
" Edinburgh is really a very interesting place, —
to me very singular. How can I describe the view
from the hill that overlooks the palace— the fine
group of buildings which form the castle; the
bridges, uniting the two towns; and the beautiful
view of the Frith and its islands ?
" But Sunday came, and the streets were for-
saken; and silence reigned over the whole city.
London has a diminished population on that day in
her streets ; but in Edinburgh it is a total stagna-
tion — a quiet that is in itself devout.
" A long walk through divers streets, lanes, and
alleys, up to the Old Town, makes me better ac-
quaiuted with it ; a lane of cobblers struck me par-
ticularly ; and I could not but remark the civility
and urbanity of the Scotch poor ; they certainly
exceed ours in politeness, arising, probably, from
minds more generally cultivated.
" This day I dined with Mr. Mackenzie, the
Man of Feeling, as he is commonly called. He has
not the manner you would expect from his works ;
but a rare sportsman, still enjoying the relation of
a good day, though only the ghost of the pleasure
remains. — What a discriminating and keen man is
my friend ; and I am disposed to think highly of
his son-in-law, Mr. Lockhart — of his heart — his
understanding will not be disputed by any one."
At the table of Mr. Lockhart, with whom he
commonly dined when Sir Walter was engaged
to the King, he one day sat down with three of
the supposed writers or symposiasts of the in-
imitable " Noctes Ambrosianae;" viz. his host
himself — the far-famed Professor Wilson, whom
he termed " that extraordinary man" — and the
honest Shepherd of Ettrick, who amused him
much by calling for a can of ale, while cham-
pagne and claret, and other choice wines, were
in full circulation. This must have been an
evening cheaply purchased by a journey from
Trowbridge. On the other hand, he was intro-
duced, by a friend from the south, to the
" Scottish Chiefs" of the opposite clan, though
brothers in talent and fame — the present Lord
Advocate Jeffrey, Mr. John Archibald Murray,
Professor Leslie, and some other distinguished
characters.
Before he retired at night, he had generally
the pleasure of half an hour's confidential con-
versation with Sir Walter, when he spoke occa-
sionally of the Waverley Novels — though not as
compositions of his own, for that was yet a
secret — but without reserve upon all other sub-
jects in which they had a common interest.
These were evenings !
I am enabled to present a few more particu-
lars of my father's visit to Edinburgh, by the
kindness of Mr. Lockhart, who has recently
favoured me with the following letter : —
" London, December 26lh, 1S33.
" Dear Sie,— I am sorry to tell you that Sir
Walter Scott kept no diary during the time of your
fathers visit to Scotland, otherwise it would have
given me pleasure to make extracts for the use of
your memoirs. For myself, although it is true that,
in consequence of Sir Walter's being constantly
consulted about the details of every procession and
festival of that busy fortnight, the pleasing task of
showing to 5Ir. Crabbe the usual lions of Edinburgh
fell principally to my share, I regret to say that my
memory does not supply me with many traces of
his conversation. The general impression, how-
ever, that he left on ray mind was strong, and, I
think, indelible: while all the nmrameries and
carousals of an interval, in which Edinburgh looked
very unlike herself, have faded into a vague and
dreamlike indistinctness, the image of your father,
then first seen, but long before admired and revered
in his works, remains as fresh as if the years that
have now passed were but so many days. — His
78
LIFE OF CRAUnE.
noble I'oi'cliciul, liis brij^lit iK'niiiiiif^ cjc, witlioiit any
tiling of old iv^v about it — tliongli he was then, I
jiresiinic, above seventy — his hweet, and, I would
say, innoeent smile, and the calm mellow tones of
liis voice- all :iw re|iroiliice(l the moment I ojien
any pap' of his jjoctry : and Imw much better have
I miderstood and enjoyed his j)o;-try, since I was
able thus to connect with it the living presence of
the man !
" The literary persons in company with whom 1
saw him the most freipiently were Sir Walter and
Henry MaeUi'n/ie; and between two siieh thorough
men of the world as they were, ])erliaps his ajijin-
rc/U simplicity of look and manners struck one
more than it might have done under dill'erent cir-
cumstances; hut all three liarmoiiiscd admirably
together — Mr. Crabt)e's avowed ignorance about
(iaels, and clans, and tartans, and everything that
was at the moment nppermost in Sir Walter's
thoughts, furnishing him with a welcome apology
for dilating on such topics with enthusiastic minute-
ness — while your father's countenance spoke the
quiet delight he felt in opening his imagination to
what was really a new world — and the venerable
' Man of Feeling,' though a fiery Highlander him-
self at bottom, had the satisfaction of lying by and
listening until some opportunity offered itself of
liooking in, between the links, perliaps, of some
grand chain of poetical imagery, some small comic
or sarcastic trait, which Sir Walter caught up,
played with, and, with that art so peculiarly his
own, forced into the service of the very impression
it seemed meant to disturb. One evening, at Mr.
Mackenzie's own house, I particularly remember,
among the iioctcs ca-iurqtie Deum.
'• Mr. Crabbe had, I presume, read very little
about Scotland before that excursion. It appeared
to me that he confounded tlie Inchcolm of the Frith
of Forth w ith the Icolmkill of the Hebrides ; but
■lohu Kemble, I have heard, ditl the same. I be-
lieve, he really never had known, until then, tliat a
language radically distinct from the F.nglish, was
still actually spoken within the island. And this
recals a scene of liigli merriment which occurri'd
the very morning after his arrival. When lie came
down into the breakfast parlour, Sir Walter had
not yet appeared there ; and Mr. Crabbe had before
him two or three portly personages all in the fidl
Highland garb. These gentlemen, arrayed in a
costume so novel, were talking in a language which
he did not understand; so he never doubted that
they were foreigners. The Celts, on their part,
conceived Mr. Crabbe, dressed as he was in rather
an old-fashioned style of clerical propriety, with
buckles in his shoes for instance, to be some learned
abbe', w ho had come on a pilgrimage to the shrine
of Waverley ; and the result was, that w hen, a little
afterwards. Sir Walter and his family entered the
room, they found your father and these worthy lairds
hauunering away, with pain and labour, to make
themselves mutually understood, in most execrable
French. Great was the relief, and potent the laugh-
ter, when the host interrupted their colloquy with
his plain Knglisli 'Good-morning.'
" It surprised me, on taking Mr. Crabbe to see
the house of Allan Kamsay on the Castle Hill, to
find that he had never heard of Allan's name ; or,
at all events was unacquainted with his works.
The same evening, hftwever, lie [M-rusi-d ' The
(ientle .Shepherd,' and lie told ine next iiiorning,
that he had been i»lea.sed with it, but added, ' there
is a long step between Kamsay and Hums.' He
then maih' Sir Walter read ami interpret some of
old Dunbar to him ; and said, ' I see that the Ayr-
shire bard had one giant before him.'
" Mr. Crabl)e seemed to admire, like other [>eople,
the grand natural scenery aliout Fdinlturgh; but
when I walked with him to the Salisbury Craigfi,
where the superb view had then a lively foreground
of tents and batteries, he ap|)eared to be more in-
terested with the stratification of the rocks alxiut us,
than with any other feature in the landscape. As
to the city itself, he said he segin to
Im? companions ; and the seven months and tlie
seventy years accord very nicely, and will do so,
probably (the parties living\ for a year or two to
come ; when, the man becoming weaker and the
child stronger, there will come an inequality to dis-
turb the friendship.
'• 1 think something more than two years have
passed, since the disease, known by a very for-
midable name, which I have never consented to
adopt, attacked me. It came like momentary
shocks of a grievous tooth-ache ; and, indeed, I was
imprudent enough to have one tooth extracttnl
which appeared to be most atfected ; but the loss of
this guiltless and useful tooth had not one beneficial
consequence. For many months the pain came,
sometimes on a slight touch, as the application of
LIFE OF CUABBE.
81
a towel or a razor, and it sometimes came without
any apparent cause, and certainly was at one time
alarming, more especially when I heard of opera-
tions, as cutting down and scraping the bone, &c. ;
but tlicse tailing, and a mode of treating the disease
being found,' 1 lost my fears, and took blue pills and
medicines of like kind for a long season, and with
good success."
To a Lady at Trowbridge.
" Beccles, May 10, 1825.
" A letter from my son to-day, gives me pain, by
its account of your illness : I had hope of better
information ; and though he writes that there is
amendment, yet he confesses it is slow, and your
disorder is painful too. That men of free lives, and
in habits of intemperance, should be ill, is to be
expected ; but we are surprised, as well as grieved,
when frequent attacks of this kind are the lot of the
temperate, the young, and the careful : still, it is
the will of Him who afSicts not his creatures with-
out a cause, which we may not perceive, but must
believe ; for he is all wisdom and goodness, and sees
the way to our final happiness, when we cannot. In
all kinds of affliction, the Christian is consoled by
the confiding hope, that such trials, well borne, will
work for glory and happiness, as they work in us
patience and resignation. In our pains and weak-
ness we approach nearer, and learn to make our
supplications to a merciful Being, as to a parent,
who, if he doth not withdraw the evil from us, yet
gives us strength to endure and be thankful. — I
grant there is much that we cannot know nor com-
prehend in the government of this world ; but we
know that our duty is to submit, because there is
enough we can see to make us rest in hope and com-
fort, though there be much that we cannot under-
stand. We know not why one in the prime of life
should suffer long ; and, while suffering, should hear
of threescore persons, of every age and station, and
with minds, some devoted to their God, and others
to this world altogether, all in one dreadful moment
to be sunk in the ocean, and the stillness of death
to surround them. But though this and a number
of other things are mysteries to us, they are all
open to Him from whom nothing can be hidden.
Let us, then, my dear Miss W., have confidence in
this, that we are tried, and disciplined, and pre-
pared — for another state of being ; and let not our
ignorance in what is not revealed, prevent our
belief in what is. ' I do not know,' is a very good
answer to most of the questions put to us by those
who wish for help to unbelief. But why all this?
will you ask : first, because I love you very much,
and then you will recollect that I have had, of late,
very strong admonition to be serious ; for though
the pain of itself be not dangerous, yet the weakness
it brought on, and still brings, persuades me that
not many such strokes are needed to demolish a
frame which has been seventy years moving, and
not always regulated with due caution : but I will
not fatigue you any more now, nor, I hope, at any
future time. I trust, my dear friend, to see you in
good health, cheerful and happy, relying entirely
on that great and good Being, whose ways are not
ours, neither can we comprehend them ; and our
' The kind and skilful physician on whose advice my father
relied was Dr. Kerrison, of New Burlington Street.
very ignorance should teach us perfect reliance on
his wisdom and goodness. I had a troubled night,
and am thinking of the time when you will kindly
send, and sometimes call, to hear, ' how Mr. Crabbe
does to-day, and how he rested;' for though we
must all take the way of our friend departed, yet
mine is the natural first turn ; and you will not
wonder that restless nights put me in mind of
this."
A friend having for the first time seen the
" Rejected Addresses," had written with some
soreness of the parody on my father's poetry ;
he thus answers : —
" You were more feeling than I was, when you
read the excellent parodies of the young men who
wrote the ' Rejected Addresses.' "^There is a little
ill-nature — and, I take the liberty of adding, unde-
served ill-nature — in their prefatory address; but
in their versification, they have done me admirably.
They are extraordinary men ;■ but it is easier to
imitate style, than to furnish matter," ^
In June, 1825, he thus writes from JMr.
Hoare's villa at Hampstead : —
" Hampstead, June, 1825.
" My time passes I cannot tell how pleasantly,
when the pain leaves me. To-day I read one of
my long stories to my friends, and Mrs. Joanna
Baillie and her sister. It was a task ; but they
encouraged me, and were, or seemed, gratified. I
rhyme at Hampstead with a great deal of facility,
for nothing interrupts me but kind calls to some-
thing pleasant; and though all this makes parting
painful, it will, I hope, make me resolute to enter
upon my duties diligently when I return. — I am too
much indulged. Except a return of pain, and that
not severe, I have good health ; and if my walks
are not so long, they are more frequent. I have
seen many things and many people ; have seen Mr.
Southey and Mr. Wordsworth; have been some
days with Mr. Rogers, and at last have been at the
Athenaium, and purpose to visit the Royal Institu-
tion ; and have been to Richmond in a steam-boat ;
seen, also, the picture galleries, and some other ex-
2 In the new edition of the " Rejected Addresses," I find a
note, part of which is as follows : — " The writer's first inter-
view with the Poet Crabbe, who may be designated Pope in
worsted stockings, took place at \Vm. Spencer's villa at
Petersham, close to what that gentleman called his gold-fish
pond, though it was scarcely tliree feet in diameter, throning
up SLJet-d'eau like a thread. The venerable bard, seizing bolli
tlie hands of his satirist, exclaimed, with a good humoured
laugh, ' Ah, my old enemy, how do you do ? ' In the course
of conversation lie expressed great astonishment at his popu-
larity In London ; adding, ' In my own village they think
notliing of me.' The subject happening to be the inroads of
time upon beauty, tlie writer quoted the following lines : —
' Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six.
When Time began to play his usual tricks :
My locks, once comely in a virgin's sight,
Locks of pure brown, now felt th' encroaching wlilte.
Gradual each day I liked my horses less,
My dinner more — I learnt to play at chess.'
'Tliat's very good!' cried the bard; 'whose is it?'— 'Your
own.'— 'Indeed 1 hah! well, I had quite forgotten it.' " The
writer proceeds to insinuate, that this w.n.s a piece of afl'.cta-
tion on the part of my fatlier. If Mr. .*^mith had written
as many verses, and lived as long, as Mr. Crabbe, he would,
I fancy, have been incapable of expressing sudi a suspicion.
M
)iil)itlons : but I jnissed one Sunday in London with
discontent, doing no eings
out of their way. I think I am beyond that time;
but as we have no such pnulent custom, I will not
refuse myself the good you so kindly offer, and
you will make due allowance for the stupidity
aforesaid."
" Parsonage, Dec. 24, 1828. — This has been a
very busy day with me. My kind neighliours
have found out that the 24th of this month is my
birthday, and I have not only had music in the
evening, but small requests all the day long, for
' Sure the minister will not mind giving us a trifle
on his birthday' — and so they have done me the
honour of making a trial; as if it were a joyftil
thing for a man to enter into his seventy-sixth
year ; and I grant it ought to be. But your time
is precious, and I mtist not detain you. Mr. ,
I hear, has l>een with you to-day. I have never
yet been able to fulfil my engagements. He
LIFE OF CRABBE.
83
puzzles me. It is strange, I can but think, for
a man of sense and reflection openly to avow
disbelief of a religion that has satisfied the wisest,
converted the most wicked, and consoled the most
afilicted of our fellow-creatures. lie says he is
happy ; and it may be so. 1 am sure I should not,
having the same opinions. Certainly, if we wait
till all doubts be cleared away, we shall die doubt-
ing. I ought to ask your pardon, and I do. How
I came to be in a grave humour, I know not ; for
I have been dancing with my little girl to all
kinds of tunes, and, I dare say, with all kinds of
steps, such as old men and children are likely to
exhibit."
In October, 1829, he thus writes to the pre-
sent biographer : —
" I am in tiiith not well. It is not pain, nor can
I tell what it is. Probably when you reach the
year I am arrived at, you will want no explana-
tion. But I should be a burden to you : the dear
girls and boys would not know what to make of a
grandfather who could not romp nor play -nith
them."
In January, 1830, he thus addresses his
grand-daughter : —
" You and I both love reading, and it is well for
me that I do ; but at your time reading is but one
employment, whereas with me it is almost all.
And yet I often ask myself, at the end of my
volumes, — Well ! what am I the wiser, what the
better, for this? Reading for amusement only,
and, as it is said, merely to kill time, is not the
satisfaction of a reasonable being. At your age,
my dear Caroline, I read every book which I
could procure. Now, I should wish to procure
only such as are worth reading ; but I confess
I am frequently disappointed."
Dinina: one day with a party at Pucklechurch,
about this jjeriod, some one was mentioning a
professor of gastronomy, who looked to the time
when his art should get to such perfection as to
keep people alive for ever. My father said,
most emphatically, " God forbid !" lie had
begun to feel that old age, even without any
very severe disease, is not a state to hold tena-
ciously. Towards the latter end of the last year
he had found a perceptible and general decline
of the vital powers, without any specific coni-
])Iaint of any consequence ; and though there
were intervals in which he felt peculiarly reno-
vated, yet, from the autumn of 1828, he could
trace a marked, though still very gradual
change ; or, as he himself called it, a breaking
up of the constitution; in which, however, the
mind ]iartook not, ibr there was no symptom of
mental decay, except, and that only slightly and
partially, in the memory.
But the most remarkable characteristic of his
decline was the unabated warmth of his affec-
tions. In general, the feelings of old age are
somewhat weakened and concentrated under the
sense of a precarious life, and of personal de-
privation ; but his interest in the welfare of
others, his sympathy witii the sufferings or hap-
piness of his friends, and even in the amuse-
ments of children, continued to the last as vivid
as ever : and he thought, spoke, and wrote of
his departure with such fortitude and cheerful
resignation, that I have not that pain in recording
his latter days which, under other circumstances,
would have made the termination of this memoir
a task scarcely to be endured.
A most valued friend of my father describes
his decline in terms so affectionate, beautiful,
and original, that I have obtained her ])ennission
to add this to other passages from the same
pen : —
" Mr. Crabbe was so much beloved, that the ap-
proaches of age were watched by his friends with
jealousy, as an enemy undermining their own
happiness; and the privations inflicted upon him
by its infirmities were peculiarly distressing.
There is sometimes an apathy attending advanced
life, which makes its accompanying changes less
perceptible; but when the dull ear, and dim eye,
and lingering step, and ti'embling hand, are for
ever interfering with the enjoyments of a man, who
would otherwise delight in the society of the young
and active — such a contrast between the body and
mind can only be borne with fortitude by those
who look hopefully for youth renewed in another
state of existence, ' It cannot be supposed,' says
the Roman orator, ' that Nature, after having
widely distributed to all the preceding periods of
life their peculiar and proper enjoyments, should
have neglected, like an indolent poet, the last act
of the human drama, and left it destitute of suit-
able advantages :' — and yet it would be difficult to
point out in what these consist. On the contrary,
Nature discovers her destitute state, and manifests
it in peevishness and repining, unless a higher
principle than Nature takes possession of the mind,
and makes it sensible, that, ' though the outward
man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by
day.' It was by this principle that Mr. Crabbe
was actuated ; and he at times gave such proofs of
his confidence in the promises of the Gospel, that
the spot on which he expressed these hopes with
peculiar energy is now looked upon by the friend
who conversed with him as holy gi-ouud. But he
rarely spoke thus; for he had such an humble
spirit, so much fear of conveying the impression
that he believed himself accepted, that the extent
of these enjoyments was known to few. Thus,
however, the privations of age and frequent sufl'er-
iug were converted into blessings, and he acknow-
ledged their advantage in weaning hhn from the
world. Considering life as the season of discipline,
and looking back to the merciful restraints, and
also acknowledging the many encouragements,
which he had received from an over-ruling Pro\a-
dence, he was not impatient under the most trouble-
some and vexatious infirmity, or over-anxious to
escape that evil which, if rightly received, might
add to the evidence and security of the happiness
hereafter. He had a notion, perhaps somewhat
whimsical, that we shall be gainers in a future
m2
K4
LIFE OF CRABBE.
state hy the cultiviUion of tlic iiiti-llcct, ami always
allixi'd a si'iist- of tliis nature also to tlu' more iiii-
porlaiit im'aiiiii^i; of the word 'talents' in the
[laralile: and tliis stiiiuiliis doiihlless increased his
avidity for knowledf^e, at a (leriod when siieh study
was of little use besides the aniusenient of the pre-
sent lumr."
rreparin^ to visit Hastings, in Sontonihcr,
1830, witli his friends from llampsteau Heath,
he says : —
" 1 feel, in looking forward to this journey, as if
there was a gulf fixed between us : and yet what
are three or four weeks when passed ! When an-
ticipated, they appear as if they might be pro-
ductive of I know not what pleasures and adven-
tures ; but when they are gone, we are almost at a
loss to recollect any incident that occurred. My
I)reaching days are almost over. On the Sunday
evening I feel too much like a labourer who re-
joices that his day's work is done, rather than cue
"who reflects how it was performed."
Some friends having offered a visit at the par-
sonage during his absence on this occasion, he
thus wrote to my brother : —
" Now, my dear John, do remember that you
must make the house what it should be. Do me
honour, 1 pray you, till I can take it upon myself:
all that the cellar can afford, or the market, rests
with you and your guests, who know very well in
what good living consists. I doubt if G drinks
claret. Mr. Spackman, I think, does ; at least he
produces it, and to him it should be produced.
Now do, my good fellow, go along with me in this
matter : you know all I would have, as well as I
do myself."
This short extract will exemplify another
characteristic. Always generous and liberal,
I think he grew more so in the later portion of
his life — not less careful, but more boimtiful and
charitable. lie lived scruimlously within the
limits of his income, increased by the produce
of his literary exertions ; but he freely gave
away all that he did not want for current ex-
penses. I know not wiiich of his relatives have
not received some substantial proofs of this
generous sjjirit.
The following letter from Hastings, dated
28th September, 1830, produced in his par-
sonage feelings which 1 shall not attempt to
describe : —
To the Rev. John Cnthhe.
" My dkar Son, — I write (as soon as the post
permits) to inform you that I arrived in the evening
of yesterday, in nearly the same state as I left you,
and full as well as I expected, though a rather
alarming accident made me feel unpleasantly for
some hours, and its elfects in a slight degree re-
main. I had been out of the coach a very short
time, while other passengers were leaving it on
their arrival at their places ; and, on getting into
the coach again, and close beside it, a gig, with two
men in it, came on as fast as it conld drive, wliich
I neither saw nor heard till I felt the shaft against
my side. I fell, of course, and the wheel went over
one f(K)t and one arm. 'I'wenty [K.-o])le were ready
to assist a strangiT, who in a few minutes was
sensible that the alarm was all the injury. Hen-
jamin was ready, and my friends tof^k care that I
should have all the indulgence that even a man
frightened could reijuire. Happily I found them
well, and we are all this morning going t(; one of
the churches, where I hope I shall remember that
many ])ersons, uniler like circumstances, have never
survived to relate their adventure. I hope to learn
very shortly that you are all well : rememlK-r me
to all with you, and to our friends, westward and
elsewhere. AV'rite — briefly if you must, but write.
From your affectionate father, Gko. Crabuk.
" P.S. — You know my poor. Oram had a shil-
ling on Sunday ; but Smith, the bed-ridden woman,
Martin, and Gregory, the lame man, you will give
to as I would ; nay, I must give somewhat more
than usual ; and if you meet with my other poor
people, think of my accident, and give a few ad-
ditional shillings for me ; and I nmst also find
some who want where I am, for my danger was
great, and I must be thankful in every way I can."
On the 2nd of the next month he thus
writes : —
" I do not eat yet with appetite, but am terribly
dainty. I walk by the sea and inhale the breeze
in the morning, and feel as if I were really hungry ;
but it is not the true hunger, for, whatever the
food, I am soon satisfied, or rather satiated : but
all in good time; I have yet been at Hastings but
one week. Dear little Georgy ! I shall not forget
her sympathy : my love to her, and to my two
younger dears, not forgetting mamma."
A friend, who was with him in this "expe-
dition, thus speaks of him : — ^"~^--
" He was able, though with some effort, to join a
party to Hastings in the autumn, and passed much
of his time on the sea-shore, watching the objects
familiar to him in early life. It was on a cold
November morning that he took his last look at
his favourite element, in full glory, the waves foam-
ing and dashing against the shore. He returned,
with the friends whom he had been visiting, to
town, and spent some weeks with them in its vici-
nity, enjoying the society to which he was strongly
attached, but aware for how short a period those
pleasures were to last. Having made a morning
call iu Cavendish Square, where he had met Mrs.
Joanna Baillie, for whom he had a high esteem,
and several members of her family, he was affected
to tears, on getting into the carriage after taking
leave of them, saying, ' I shall never meet this
party again.' His affections knew no decline. He
was never, apparently, the least tenacious of a re-
putation for talent ; but most deeply sensible of
every proof of regard and affection. One day,
when absent from home, and suffering from severe
illness, he received a letter from Miss Waldron,
informing him of the heartfelt interest which many
of his parishioners had expressed for his welfare.
Holding up this letter, he said, with great emotion,
' Here is something worth living for !' "
LIFE OF CRABBE.
85
I may, perhaps, as well insert in this place a
kind letter with which I have lately been ho-
noured by the great Poetess of the Passions : —
From Mrs. Joanna Baillie.
" I have often met your excellent father at
Mr. Hoare's, and frequently elsewhere ; and he
was always, when at Hanipstead, kind enough to
visit my sister and me ; but, excepting the good
sense and gentle courtesy of his conversation and
manners, I can scarcely remember anything to
mention in particular. Well as he knew mankind
under their least favourable aspect, he seemed never
to forget that they were his brethren, and to love
them even when most unloveable — if I may be per-
mitted to use the word. I have sometimes been
almost provoked by the very charitable allowances
which he made for the unworthy, so that it required
my knowledge of the great benevolence of his own
character, and to receive his sentiments as a fol-
lower of Him who was the friend of publicans and
sinners, to reconcile me to such lenity. On the
other band, I have sometimes remarked that, when
a good or generous action has been much praised,
he would say in a low voice, as to himself, some-
thing that insinuated a more mingled and worldly
cause for it. But this never, as it would have done
from any other person, gave the least offence ; for
you felt quite assured as he uttered it, that it pro-
ceeded from a sagacious observance of mankind,
and was spoken in sadness, not in the spirit of
satire.
" In regard to his courtesy relating to the feelings
of others in smaller matters, a circumstance comes
to my recollection, in which you will, perhaps, re-
cognise your father. While he was staying with
Mrs. Hoare a few years since, I sent him one day
the present of a blackcock, and a message with it,
that Mr. Crabbe should look at the bird before it
was delivered to the cook, or something to that pur-
pose. He looked at the bird as desired, and then
went to Mrs. Hoare in some perplexity, to ask
whether he ought not to have it stuffed, instead of
eating it. She could not, in her own house, tell
him that it was simply intended for the larder ; and
he was at the trouble and expense of having it
stufi'ed, lest I should think proper respect had not
been put upon my present. This both vexed and
amused me at the time, and was remembered as a
pleasing and peculiar trait of his character.
" He was a man fitted to engage the esteem and
good-will of all who were fortunate enough to know
him well ; and I have always considered it as one
of the many obligations I owe to the friendship of
Mrs. and Miss Hoare, that through them I first
became acquainted with this distinguished and
amiable poet. Believe me, with all good wishes, &c.
" J. Baillie."
I shall add here part of a letter which I have
received from another of what I may call my
father's Hampstead friends — Mr. Duncan, of
Bath, well known for the extent and elegance
of his accomplishments. He says : —
" My first acquaintance with him was at the
house of Mr. Hoare, at Hampstead ; by whose whole
family he appeared to be regarded as a beloved and
venerated relation. I was much struck, as I think
every one who was ever in his company must have
been, by his peculiar suavity, courtesy, and even
humility of manner. There was a self-renunciation,
a carelessness of attracting admiration, which formed
a remarkable contrast with the ambitious style of
conversation of some other literati, in whose com-
pany I have occasionally seen him. I have often
thought that a natural politeness and sensitive re-
gard for the feelings of others occasioned him to
reject opportunities of saying smart and pointed
things, or of putting his remarks into that epigram-
matic, and, perhaps, not always extemporaneous
form, which supplies brilliant scraps for collectors
of anecdotes. His conversation was easy, fluent,
and abundant in correct information; but distin-
guished chiefly by good sense and good feeling.
When the merits of contemporary authors were
discussed, his disapprobation was rather to be col-
lected from his unwillingness to dwell on obvious
and too prominent faults, than from severity in the
exposure of them. But his sympathy with good
expression of good feelings, such as he found, for
example, in the pages of Scott, roused him to occa-
sional fervour. If he appeared at any time to show
a wish that what he said might be remembered, it
was when he endeavoured to place in a simple and
clear point of view, for the information of a young
person, some useful truth, whether historical, phy-
siological, moral, or religious. He had much ac-
quaintance with botany and geology ; and, as you
know, was a successful collector of local specimens ;
and as I, and doubtless many others, know, was a
liberal imparter of his collected store.
" The peculiar humour which gives brilliancy
to his writings, gave a charm to his conversation :
but its tendency was to excite pleasurable feeling,
by affording indulgence to harmless curiosity by a
peep behind the scenes of human nature, rather
than to produce a laugh. I remember to have
heard a country gentleman relate an instance of his
good temper and self-command. They were tra-
velling in a stage-coach from Bath ; and as they ap-
proached Calne, the squire mentioned the names of
certain poets of the neighbourhood ; expressed his
admiration of your father's earlier works ; — but
ventured to hint that one of the latter, I forget
which, was a failure, and that he would do well to
lay his pen aside. ' Sir,' said your father, ' I am
quite of your opinion. Artists and poets of all ages
have fallen into the same error. Time creeps on
so gently, that they never find out that they are
growing old ! ' ' So,' said tiie squire, ' we talked of
Gil Bias and the Archbishop, and soon digressed
into talk of parish matters and justice business.
I was delighted with my companion, who soon
alighted ; and I only learaed by inquiring of the
coachman who had been my fellow-traveller.' I
told this to your father, who laughed, remembered
the incident, and said, 'the squire, perhaps, Mas
right ; but you know I was an incompetent judge
upon that subject.' "
I liave already mentioned his visits to Pucklc-
church. Great was the (jicasure of our house-
hold in expecting him, for his liberality left no
domestic without an ample remembrance. What
86
LIFE OF CRABBE.
!i>t('niiiir liir flic chaise' iiinonp tlic cliildrcn !
It is licanl rattliiiir tliroiiirli tlic street — it is in
tlic ciiiireliyiinl at tiie door. His pale face is
lighted witli pleasure! - as IxMK'volent, as warrii-
lieaiti'd as in liis days of yoiilli and .stren{,'tli ;
itiil aj.'e lias sadly bent liis once tall statinT, and
liis liand trend)les. What a paekafje of hooks
— what stores lor the table— what presents for
the nin-sery ! Little tales, as nearly reseniblinf,'
those whieli had delifjlitcd his own inf'aney as
modern systems permit — one (piite after his own
heart -the (lerman Nursery Stories.'* After
dinner the ehildren assemble round the dessert,
and perluijis he reads them the story of the
Fisherman, his fjreatest favourite. How often
have I heard him repeat to thcin the invo-
cation —
" O, mnn of the sen, come listen to me,
For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life,
Hatli sent me to beg a boon of thee."
And he would excite their wonder and deliirht,
witii the same evident satisfaction, that 1 so well
remembered in my early days. Of the morose
feelinfi:s of age, rei>ininv a union of
sentiment on this (,Mvat suhject of reform l>y and
liy ; at least, the f,'ood and well-meaning will drop
their minor differences and he united.
" So you have heen reading my almost forgotten
stories— Lady ISarhara and Ellen ! I protest to you
their origin is lost to me, and I must read them
myself liefore I can apply your remarks, hut I
am glad you have mentioned the subject, because
1 have to observe that there are, in my recess at
home, where they liavc been long ninlisturbed,
another series of such stories, — in number and
(luantity sufficient for an octavo volume; and as
I suppose they are much like the former in exe-
cution, and sufficiently different in events and
characters, they may hereafter, in peaceable times,
l)e worth something to you ; and the more, because
I shall, wliatever is mortal of me, be at rest in the
eluincel of Trowbridge church ; for the works of
authors departed are generally received with some
favour, partly as they are old ac([uaintances, and in
part because there can be no more of them."
This letter was our first intimation that my
father hail any more poems quite ])rcparcd i'or
the j)ress ; — little did we at that moment dream
that we should never have an opportunity of
telling; him, that since we knew of their exist-
ence, he might as well indulge us with the
pleasure of hearing them read by himself. On
the 26th of the same October he thus wrote to
me : —
" I have been with Mrs. Hoare at Bristol, where
all appears still : should any thing arise to alarm,
you may rely upon our care to avoid danger. Sir
(^hnrles Wetherell, to be sure, is not popular, nor
is the Bishop, but I trust that both will be safe
from violence — abuse they will not mind. The
Bisliop seems a good-humoured man, and, except
by the populace, is greatly admired. — I am sorry
to part with my friends, wliom 1 cannot reasonably
expect to meet often, — or, nu)re reasonablj' yet,
whom 1 ought to look upon as here taking our
final leave; but, happily, our ignorance of oin- time
is in this our comfort, — that let friends part at any-
period of their lives, hope will whisper, ' We shall
meet again.' "
Happily, he knew not that this iras their last
meeting. In his next letter he speaks of the
memoral)le riots of Bristol — the most alarming
of the sort since thos(» recorded in his own
London diary, of 1780 — and which he had
evidently anticipated.
" Bristol, 1 suppose, never, in the most turbulent
times of old, witnessed such outrage. (Queen's
S(iuare is but half standing ; half is a smoking ruin.
As you may be apprehensive for my safety, it is
right to let you know that my friends and I are
undisturbed, except by our fears for the progress
of this molvgovernment, which is already some-
what broken into parties, who M-ander stupidly
about, or sleep wherever they fall wearied with
their work and their indulgence. The military
are now in considerable force, and many men are
sworn in as constables: many volunteers are met
in ('lifton churchyard, with white round one arm,
to distinguish them ; some with guns, and the rest
with bludgeons. The Mayor's house has l)een
destroyed, — the Bishop's palace plundered, but
whether burnt or not I do not know. This morn-
ing, a party of soldiers attacked the crowd in the
Square; some livijs were lost, and the mob dis-
persed, whether to meet again is doubtful. It has
heen a dreadful time, but we may reasonably hope
it is now over. People are frightened certainly —
anil no wonder, for it is evident these p(K)r wretches
would plunder to the extent of their power. At-
tempts were made to bum the cathedral, but failed.
Many lives were lost. To attempt any other
subject now would be fruitless. We can think,
speak, and write only of our fears, hopes, or troubles.
1 would have gone to Bristol to-day, but Mrs. Hoare
was unwilling that I should. She thought, and
perhaps rightly, that clergymen were marked
objects. 1 therefore only went about half way,
and of course could learn but little. All now is
quiet and well."
Leaving his most valued friends in the begin-
ning of November, my father came to Puckle-
church, so improved in health and strength, that
his descri[)tion of himself would have been
deemed the ctlcct of mere ennui, except by those
who know the variableness of age — the tem-
porary strength, — the permanent weakness. He
preached at both my churches the following
Sunday, in a voice so firm and loud, and in a
manner so impressive, that I wiis congratulated
on the i)ower he manifested at that advanced
stage of life, and was nuich comforted with the
indications of a long protracted decline. I s;iid,
" Why, Sir, I will venture a good sum that you
will be assisting me ten years hence." — " Ten
weeks," was his answer— and that was almost
literally the ])eriod when he ceased to assist any
one. He left us after a fortnigiit, and returned
to Trowbridge. On the 7tli of January he
wrote, —
" I do not like drowsiness — mine is an old man's
natural infirmity, and that same old man creeps upon
me more and more. I cannot walk him away : he
gets old on the memory, and my poor little accounts
never come right. I^-t me nevertheless be thankful :
I have very little pain. 'T is true, from a stitTuess
in my mouth, I read prayers before we take our
breakfast with some difficulty ; but that being over,
I feel very little incommoded for the rest of the
dav. We are all in health, for 1 will not call my
lassitiule and stupidity by the name of illness.
Like Lear, I am a poor old man and foolish, but
happily I have no daughter who vexes me."
Li tlio course of this month. I jmid him a
visit, and stayed with him three or four dajs ;
ami if I had been satisfied with the indications
of his improved health when at Pucklechurch,
I was most agreeably surprised to find him still
stronger and in better spirits than I had wit-
LIFE OF CRABBE.
89
nessed for the last three years. He had become
perceptibly stouter in that short interval : he
took his meals with a keen appetite, and walked
in a more upright position ; and there were no
counter-tokens to excite our suspicions. It is
true, he observed that he did not like the in-
crease of flesh ; but this was said in that light
cheerful manner, which imported no serious
fears. On the 29th, I received a letter from
my brother, stating that he had caught a sharp
cold, accompanied with oppression in the chest
and pain in the forehead, for which he had been
bled. He added, that my father felt relieved,
and that he would write again immediately ;
but on the following morning, while I was
expecting an account of his amendment, a chaise
drove to the door, which my brother had sent
me to save time. In fact, all hope of recovery
was already over.
I had once before seen him, as I have already
described, under nearly similar circumstances,
when, if he was not in extreme danger, he
evidently thought he was. He had then said,
" Unless some great change takes place, I cannot
recover," and had ordered my mother's grave
to be kept open to receive him. I asked myself.
Will he bear the shock now as firmly as he did
then ? I feared he would not ; because he
nuist be aware that such a change as had then
ensued was next to impossible under the present
disorder at the age of seventy-seven ; and be-
cause, whenever he had parted with any of us
for the last four or five years, he had been much
affected, evidently from the thought that it
might be the last meeting. I greatly feared,
therefore, that his spirits would be woefully
depressed — that the love of life might remain in
all its force, and that the dread of death might
be strong and distressing. I now state with
feelings of indescribable thankfulness, that I
had been foreboding a weight of evil that was
not ; and that we had only to lament his bodily
sufferings and our incalculable loss.
During the days that preceded his departure,
we had not one painful feeling arising from the
state of his mind. That was more firm than I
ever remembered under any circumstances. lie
knew there was no chance of his recovery, and
yet he talked at intervals of his death, and of
certain consequent arrangements, with a strong
complacent voice ; and bade us all adieu without
the least faltering of the tongue or moisture of
the eye. The awfulness of death, apprehended
l)y his capacious mind, must have had a tendency
to absord other feelings ; yet was he calm and
unappalled ; — and intervals of oblivion, under
the appearance of sleep, softened his sufferings
and administered an opiate to his faculties. One
of his characteristics, — exuberance of thought,
seemed sometimes, even when pleased, as if it
oppressed him ; and in this last illness, when he
was awake, his mind worked with astonisiiing
rapidity. It was not delirium ; for on our re-
calling his attention to present objects, he would
speak with perfect rationality ; but, when un-
interrupted, the greater portion of his waking
hours were passed in ra])id soliloquies on a
variety of subjects, the chain of which, from his
imperfect utterance (when he did not exert him-
self), we were unable to follow. We seldom in-
terrupted the course that nature was taking, or
brought him to the effort of connected discourse,
except to learn how we could assist or relieve
him. But as in no instance (except in a final
lapse of memory) did we discover the least
irrationality — so there was no despondency ; on
the contrary, the cheerful expressions which he
had been accustomed to use, were heard from
time to time ; nay, even that elevation of the
inner side of the eyebrows, which occasionally
accompanied some humorous observation in the
days of his health, occurred once or twice after
every hope of life was over. But, if we were
thankful for his firmness of mind, we had to
lament the strength of" his constitution. I was
not aware how powerful it was till tried by
this disease. I said, " It is your great strength
which causes this suffering." He replied, " But
it is a great price to pay for it."
On one essential subject it would be wrong to
be silent. I have stated, that the most im-
portant of all considerations had had an increas-
iiKj influence over him mind. The growth had
been ripening with his age, and was especially
perceptible in his later years. With regard to
the ordinances of I'eligion, he was always mani-
festly pained if, when absent from home on a
Sunday, he had been induced to neglect either
the morning or evening services : in his i)rivate
devotions, as his household can testify, lie was
most exemplary and earnest uj) to the period of
his attack ; yet at that time, when fear often
causes the first real prayer to be uttered, tJien
did he, as it were, confine himself to the inward
workings of his pious and resigned spirit, occa-
sionally, however, betrayed by aspirations most
applicable to his circumstances. Among the intel-
ligible fragments that can never be forgotten, were
frequent exclamations of, " My time is short ; it
is well to be prepared for death." " Lucy," —
this was the affectionate servant that attended
along with his sons, — " dear Lucy, be earnest
in ])rayer ! May you see your children's cliil-
dr(>n." From time to time he expressed great
fear that we were all over-exerting ourselves in
sitting up at night with him ; but the last night
he said, " Have patience witli me — it will soon
be over. — Stay with me, Lucy, till I am dead,
and then let others take care of me." This
night was most distressing. The changes of
posture sometimes necessary, gave him extreme
pain, and he said, " This is shocking." Then
again he became exhausted, or his mind wandered
in a troubled sleep. Awaking a little rel'reslicd,
DO
LIFE OF CUAHIJE.
Ih> held out liis hand to us, sayintr — as il' lie felt
it iiiiulit 1)1' the last oppoifuiiily, " ("(mI hicss
you — 1)C (jooii, and conu; to nic !" lOvcn then,
tlioufrli wo wore all overpowered, and lost ail
selt'-eoniMiand, he continued firtn. His ooun-
(enauee now hefraii to vary and alter. Oiue,
however, we had the satisfaction of seeing it
li^dited up with an indescribable expression of
joy, as he api)eared to he looking at something
lu'fore him, and uttered these words, "That
blessed book !"
After another considerable interval of apparent
insensibility, he awoke, and said, in a tone so
melancholy, that it rang in my ears for weeks
after, " 1 thought it had been all over," with
such an emphasis on the all! Afterwards he
said, " I cannot sec you now." When I said,
" We shall soon follow ;" he answered, " Yes,
yes !" I mentioned his exem|)lary fortitude ;
but he appeared unwilling to have any good
ascribed to himself.
When the incessant presents and enquiries of
his iriends in the town were mentioned, he said,
" What a trouble I am to them all!" And in
the course of tlie night, these most consolatory
words were distinctly heard, " All is well at
last !" Soon after, he said, imperfectly, " You
nmst make an entertainment;" meaning for his
kind Trowbridge friends after his departure.
These were the last intelligible words I heard.
Lucy, who could scarcely be persuaded to leave
him, day or night, and was close by him when
he died, says that the last words he uttered were,
" God bless you — God bless you !"
Alx)ut one o'clock he became apparently
torpid ; and I left him w ith my brother, re-
questing to be called instantly, in case of the least
returning sensit)ility, — but it never returned. As
my brother was watching his countenance at
seven o'clock in the morning, a rattlmg in the
throat was heard once, and twice, but the third
or fourth time all was over.
The shutters of the shops in the town were
half closed, as soon as his death was known.
On the day of his funeral, ninety-two of the
princi])al inhabitants, including all the dissent-
ing ministers, assembling of their own accord in
the school-room, followed him to the grave.
The shops on this day were again dosed ; the
streets crowded ; the three galleries and the
organ-loft were hung with black cloth, as well
as the pul|)it and chancel. The choir was in
mourning — the other inhabitants of the town
were in their scats and in mourning — tlie church
was full — the ettect ap])alliiig. The terrible so-
Kniuity seems yet recent v\liile I write. The
leader t)f the choir selected the following beau-
tiful anthem : —
" When till! ear licard liim, then it l)le8sed him ;
AtiiJ wlieu the eye saw him, it cave witness of liim.
He deliveriil the poor th.it cried, tlie fatherless, and him
that li.id none to help him :
Kindness and meekness and comfort werein his tongue."
The worthy master of the Free and Simday
school at Trowl)ri(!irc, Mr. Nightingale, on tlie
Sunday after his liuieral, lielivered an imprcssiw;
address to tin; niunerouH chihiren under his
care, on the death of their atred and ati'ectioriate
minister. It was printed, and contains the fol-
lowing passage: " ' Poor Mr. Crabbc,' said a
little girl, the other day, very simply, '/>oor
I\[r. Crahlu: irlll never (id up in puljiif any more
ivitli his white head.' No! my children, that
hoary hca;e, Imt from a jiaiiifnl conten-
tion in liis mind, hetween a desire of giving [)leastire
and a determination to speak trutli. No man can, I
tiiinU, piililish a work witlioiit some exjieetation of
satisfying those who are to judge of its merit: hut
I can, witii tiie utmost regard to veracity, s|)eak my
fears, as predominating over every pre-indulged
tlioiiglit of a more favoiirahle nature, when I was
toUl tliat a judge so discerning had consented to read
and give his opinion of " Tlie ViUage," the poem I
had prepared lor ])iililicatioii. The time of suspense
was not hmg protractt'd ; I was soon favoured with
a few words from Sir Joshua, wlio ohserved, — " If
1 knew how cautious Dr. Johnson was in giving
eommendation, I shouhl he well satisfied with the
portion dealt to me in his letter." Of that letter
the following is a copy : —
" March 1, 178:i.
" Sin,
" I have sent you back Mr. Crahhe's poem ;
which I read with great delight. It is original,
vigorous, and elegant. The alterations which I have
made, 1 do not require him to adopt; for my lines
are. perhaps, not often hetter [than] his own : ])Ut
he may take mine and his own together, and perhaps,
between them, produce something better than either.
— He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced : a
wet sponge will wash all the red Hues away, and
leave the pages clean. His Dedication '" will be
least liked : it were better to contract it into a short
sprightly address. — I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's
success. I am, Sir, your most humble servant,
" Sam. Johnson."
That I was fully satisfied, my readers will do me
the justice to believe ; and I hope they will pardon
me, if there should appear to them any impropriety
in publishing the favourable opinion expressed in a
private letter : they will judge, and truly, that by
so doing, I wish to bespeak their good opinion, but
have no design of extorting their applause. I would
not hazard an appearance so ostentatious to gratify
my vanity, but I venture to do it in compliance with
my fears.
After these was publislied " The Newspaper:" it
had not the advantage of such previous criticism
from any friends, nor perhaps so much of my own
attention as I ought to have given to it ; but the
impression was disposed of, and I will not pay so
little respect to the judgment of my readers as now
to suppress what they then approved.
Since the publication of this poem, more than
twenty years have elapsed ; and 1 am not without
apprehension, lest so long a silence should be con-
struct! into a blamable neglect of my own interest,
which those excellent friends were desirous of pro-
moting ; or, what is yet worse, into a want of
gratitude for their assistance ; since it becomes me
to suppose tliey considered these first attempts as
"> Neither of tliese were adopted. The author had written,
Bl>out that time, some verses to the memory of Lord Robert
Manners, brotlier to tlie late Duke of Uulhuid ; and these, by
|)romiscs of better things, and tlieir favours as sti-
mulants to future exertion. And here, be the con-
struction put upon my apparent negligence what it
nidi/, let me not sup[)iess my testimony to the lilie-
rality of those who are lookecl up to as patrons and
encouragcrs of literary merit, or, indeed, of merit of
any kintl : their patronage has never been refused,
I conceive, when it has i)een reasonably expected or
modestly re-
scurity or necessity for want of it ; unless in those
cases where it was prevented by the resolution of
impatient pride, or wearied by the solicitations of
determined profligacy. And, while tlie subject is
before me, I am unwilling to pass silently over the
debt of gratitude which I owe to the memory of two
deceased nolilemen, — His Grace the late Duke of
Kutland, and the K'ight Honourable the Lord
Tluuiow : sensible of the honour done me by their
notice, and the benefits received from them, I trust
this acknowledgment will be imputed to its only
motive — a grateful sense of their favours.
Upon this subject I could dwell with much plea-
sure ; but, to give a reason for that appearance of
neglect, as it is more difficult, so, happily, it is less
required. In truth, I have, for many years, in-
tended a republication of these poems, as soon as I
should be able to join with them such other of later
date as might not deprive me of the little credit
the former had obtained. Long, indeed, has this
purpose been procrastinated : and if the duties of
a profession, not before pressing upon me — if the
claims of a situation, at that time untried — if dif-
fidence of my own judgment, and the loss of my
earliest friends, — will not sufficiently account for
my delay, I must rely upon the good-nature of my
reader, that he will let them avail as far as he can,
and find an additional apology iu my fears of his
censure.
These fears being so prevalent with me, I deter-
mined not to publish any thing more, unless I could
first obtain the sanction of such an opinion as I
might with some confidence rely upon. I looked
for a friend who, having the discerning taste of
Mr. Burke, and the critical sagacity of Doctor
Johnson, would bestow upon my MS. the attention
requisite to form his opinion, and would then favour
me with the result of his observations ; and it was
my singular good fortune to gain such assistance ;
the opinion of a critic so qualified, and a friend so
disposed to favour me. I had been honoured by an
introduction to the Kight Honourable Charles James
Fox some years before, at the seat of Mr. Burke;
and being again with him, I received a promise
that he would peruse any work I might send to him
previous to its publication, and would give me his
opinion. At that time, I did not think myself suffi-
ciently prepared ; and when, afterwards. I had
collected some poems for his inspection. I found my
right honourable friend engaged by the affairs of a
a junction, it is presumed, not forced or unnatural, form the
concluding part of " The Village."'
PREFACE.
99
great empire, and struggling with the inveteracy of
a fatal disease : at such time, upon such mind, ever
disposed to oblige as that miud was, I could not
obtrude the petty business of criticising verses ; but
he remembered the promise he had kindly given,
and repeated an offer, which though I had not pre-
sumed to expect, I was happj' to receive. A copy
of the poems, now first published, was immediately
sent to him, and (as I have the information from
Lord Holland, and his Lordship's permission to
inform my readers) the poem which I have named
" The Parish Register" was heard by Mr. Fox, and
it excited interest enough, by some of its parts, to
gain for me the benefit of his judgment upon the
whole. Whatever he approved, the reader will
readily believe, I have carefully retained ; the parts
he disliked are totally expunged, and others are
substituted, which I hope resemble those more
conformable to the taste of so admirable a judge.
Nor can I deny myself the melancholy satisfaction
of adding, that this poem (and more especially the
history of Phoebe Dawson, with some parts of the
second book), were the last compositions of their
kind that engaged and amused the capacious, the
candid, the benevolent mind of this great man.
The above information I owe to the favour of the
Eight Honourable Lord Holland; nor this only,
but to his Lordship I am indebted for some
excellent remarks upon the other parts of my MS.
It was not, indeed, my good fortune then to know
that my verses were in the hands of a nobleman
who had given proof of his accurate judgment as a
critic, and his elegance as a writer, by favouring
the public with an easy and spirited translation of
some interesting scenes of a dramatic poet not often
read in this kingdom. The Life of Lope de Vega
was then unknown to me : I had, in common with
many English readers, heard of him ; but could
not judge whether his far-extended reputation was
caused by the sublime efforts of a mighty genius,
or the unequalled facility of a rapid composer, aided
by peculiar and fortunate circumstances. That any
part of my MS. was honoured by the remarks of
Lord Holland yields me a high degree of satis-
faction, and his Lordship will perceive the use I
have made of them ; but I must feel some regret
when I know to what small portion they were
limited ; and discerning, as I do, the taste and judg-
ment bestowed upon the verses of Lope de Vega, I
must perceive how much my own needed the
assistance afforded to one who cannot be sensible
of the benefit he has received.
But how much soever I may lament the advan-
tages lost, let me remember with gratitude the helps
I have obtained. With a single exception, every
poem in the ensuing collection has been submitted to
the critical sagacity of a gentleman upon whose
skill and candour their author could rely. To pub-
lish by advice of friends has been severely ridiculed,
and that too by a poet who probably, without such
advice, never made public any verses of his own :
in fact it may not be easily determined who acts
with less discretion, — the writer who is encouraged
to publish his works merely by the advice of friends
whom he consulted, or he who, against advice, pub-
lishes from the sole encouragement of his own
opinion. These are deceptions to be carefully
avoided ; and I was happy to escape the latter by
the friendly attentions of the lleverend Richard
Turner, minister of Great Yarmouth. To this
gentleman I am indebted more than I am able to
describe, or than he is willing to allow, for the time
he has bestowed upon the attempts I have made.
He is, indeed, the kind of critic for whom every
poet should devoutly wish, and the friend whom
every man would be happy to acquire ; he has taste
to discern all that is meritorious, and sagacity to
detect whatsoever should be discarded ; he gives
just the opinion an author's wisdom should covet,
however his vanity might prompt him to reject it ;
what altogether to expunge and what to improve he
has repeatedly taught me, and, could I have obeyed
him in the latter direction, as I invariably have in
the former, the public would have found this
collection more worthy its attention, and 1 should
have sought the opinion of the critic more void of
apprehension.
But, whatever I may hope or fear, whatever
assistance I have had or have needed, it becomes
me to leave my verses to the judgment of the reader,
without my endeavour to point out their merit, or
an apology for their defects: yet as, among the
poetical attempts of one who has been for many
years a priest, it may seem a want of respect for
the legitimate objects of his study, that nothing
occurs, unless it be incidentally, of the great subjects
of religion; so it may appear a kind of ingratitude
of a beneficed clergyman, that he has not employed
his talent (be it estimated as it may) to some
patriotic purpose ; as in celebrating the unsubdued
spirit of his countrymen iu their glorious resistance
of those enemies who would have no peace through-
out the world, except that which is dictated to the
drooping spirit of suffering humanity by the tri-
umphant insolence of military success.
Credit will be given to me, I hope, when I affirm,
that subjects so interesting have the due weight with
me, which the sacred nature of the one, and the
national importance of the other, must impress upon
every mind not seduced into carelessness for religion
by the lethargic influence of a perverted philosophy,
nor into indifference for the cause of our country
by hyperbolical or hypocritical professions of uni-
versal philanthropy; but, after many efforts to
satisfy myself, by various trials on these subjects, I
declined all further attempt, from a conviction that
I should not be able to give satisfaction to my
readers. Poetry of a religious nature must, indeed,
ever be clogged with almost insuperable difficulty ;
but there are, doubtless, to be found poets who are
well qualified to celebrate the unanimous and
heroic spirit of our countrymen, and to describe in
appropriate colours some of those extraordinary
scenes which have been and are shifting in the face
of Europe with such dreadful celerity ; and to such
I relinquish the duty.
It remains for me to give the reader a brief view
of those articles in the following collection, which
for the first time solicit his attention.
In the "Parish Register" he will find an cndea-
o 2
100
CRABDE'S WORKS.
vour once more to describe village inanners, not by
adopting tlie notion of pastoral simplicity, or as-
suming ideas of rustic barbarity, l)ut l)y more na-
tural views of the j)casaiitry, considered as a mixed
body of persons, sober or proiligate, and hence, in a
great measure, contented or miserable. To this
more general description are added the various
cliaracters which occur in the threi- parts of a Re-
gister — 15aptism, Marriages, and IJurials.
If the " ITirtii of Flattery " offer no moral, as an
appendage to the fable, it is ho[)ed that nothing of
an ininiorat, nothing of im])roper tendency, will be
imputed to apiece of poetical playfulness; in fact,
genuine praise, like all other species of truth, is
known by its bearing full investigation : it is what
the giver is happy that lie can justly bestow, and
the receiver conscious that he nuiy boldly accept ;
but adulation n)ust ever be afraid of inquiry, and
must, in proportion to their degrees of moral sensi-
bility,
He shame " to liim that ^ives and him that takes."
The verses, " When all the youthful passions
cease," &c., want a title ; nor does the motto, al-
thougli it gave occasion to them, altogether express
tlie sense of the writer, who meant to observe,
that some of our best acquisitions, and some of
our nobler conquests, are rendered ineffectual by
the passing away of opportunity, and the changes
made by time ; an argument that such acquire-
ments and moral habits are reserved for a state
of being in which they have the uses here denied
them.
In the story of " Sir Eustace Grey," an attempt
is made to describe the wanderings of a mind first
irritated by the conseciuences of error and mis-
fortune, and afterwards soothed by a species of
enthusiastic conversion, still keeping him insane —
a task very difhcult; and, if the presumption of the
attempt may find pardon, it will not be refused to
the failure of the poet. It is said of our Shakspeare,
respecting madness, —
" In that circle none dare walk but lie :" —
yet be it granted to one, who dares not to pass the
boundary fixed for common minds, at least to step
near to the tremendous verge, and form some idea
of the terrors that are stalking in tlie interdicted
space.
VVnienfirstl had written " Aaron, or The Gipsy,"
I had no nnfav()ural)l(; opinion of it ; and liad I been
collecting my verses at that time for publication,
1 should certainly have included this tale. Nine
years liave since elapsed, and I continue to judge
the same of it; thus literally obeying one of the
directions given by the prudence of criticism to the
eagerness of the poet : but how far I may have con-
formed to rules of more importance must be left to
the less partial judgment of the reader.
The concluding poem, entitled " Woman I " was
written at the time when the quotation from Mr.
Ledyard was first made public : the expression has
since become hackneyed ; but the sentiment is con-
genial with our feelings, and, though somewhat
amplified in these verses, it is hoped they are not
so far extended as to become tedious.
After this brief account of his subjects, the au-
thor leaves them to their fate, not presuming to
make any remarks upon the kinds of versification
he has chosen, or the merit of the execution: he
has, indeed, brought forward the favouraljle opinion
of his friends, and for that he earnestly hopes his
motives will be rightly understood ; it was a step
of which he felt the advantage, while he foresaw
the danger: he was aware of the benefit, if his
readers would consider him as one who puts on a
defensive armour against hasty and determined
severity ; but he feels also the hazard, lest they
should suppose he looks upon himself to be guarded
by his friends, and so secure in the defence, that
he may defy the fair judgment of legal criticism.
It will probably be said, " he has brought with him
his testimonials to the bar of the public ;" and he
must admit the truth of the remark ; but he begs
leave to observe in reply, that, of those who bear
testimonials of any kind, the greater number feel
apprehension, and not security ; they are, indeed,
so far from the enjoyment of victory, of the exult-
ation of triumph, that, with all they can do for
themselves, with all their frienils have done for
them, they are. like him, in dread of examination,
and in fear of disappointment.
Muston, Leicestershire,
September, 1807.
THE LIBRARY.
101
THE LIBRARY.'
Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substi-
tuting a lighter Kind of Distress for its own — They are pro-
ductive of other Advantages — An Author's Hope of being
known in distant Times — Arrangement of the Library —
Size and Form of tlie \'olumes — The ancient Folio, clasped
and chained — Fashion prevalent even in this Place — The
Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets, &c. — Subjects
of the different Classes Divinity — Controversy — Tlie
Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes —
Sceptical Autliors — Reason too much rejected by the
former Converts ; exclusively relied upon by the latter —
Philosophy ascending through the Scale of Being to moral
Subjects — Books of Medicine ; their Variety, Variance,
and Proneness to System : the Evil of tliis, and the Diffi-
culty it causes— Farewell to tliis Study — Law : the increas-
ing Number of its Volumes — Supposed happy State of Man
without Laws— Progress of Society — Historians : their
Sulijects — Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic — Ancient
Romances — Tlie Captive Heroine — Happiness in the
Perusal of such Books : why — Criticism — Apprehensions
of the Author ; removed by the Appearance of the Genius
of tlie Place ; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude
the Subject.
When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,
Looks round tlie world, but looks in vain for rest ;
When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too ;
Wliere shall affliction from itself retire ? *
Where fade away and placidly expire ?
1 [For Mr. Crabbe's own account of the preparation of this
poem for the press, under Mr. Burke's eye, at Beaconsfield,
see ante, p. 27. " The Library " appeared anonymouslv, in
June, 1781 ; but the author's name and designation as domes-
tic chaplain to the Duke of Rutland were on the title-page of
a second edition published in 1783.]
* [-\fter line fourth, the original MS. reads as follows : —
Where can the wretched lose their cares, and hide
The tears of sorrow from tlie eyes of pride ?
Can they in silent shades a refuge find
From all the scorn and malice of mankind ?
From wit's disdain, and wealtli's provoking sneer,
From folly's grin, and humour's stupid leer,
-\nd clamour's iron tongue, censorious and severe ?
Tliere can they see the scenes of nature gay,
And shake tlie gloomy dreams of life away ?
Witliout a sigli, tlie hope of youth give o'er,
And with aspiring honour climb no more.
Alas ! we Hy to peaceful shades in vain ;
Peace dwells within, or all without is pain :
No storm -tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas —
He dreads a tempest, but desires a breeze.
The placid waves with silent swell disclose
A clearer view, and but reflect his woes.
So life lias calms, in which we only see
A fuller prospect of our misery.
Alas ! we fly to silent scenes in vain ;
Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain :
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,
Sighs tlirough the grove, and murmurs in the stream ;
For when the soul is labouring in despair,
In vain the body breatlies a purer air :
No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas, —
He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze ;
On the smooth mirror of the deep resides
Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides
The ghost of every former danger glides.
Thus, in the calms of life, we onlj' see
A steadier image of our misery ;
But lively gales and gently clouded skies
Disperse the sad reflections as they rise ;
And busy thoughts and little cares avail
To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.
Wlien the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,
Dwells on the past, or stitFer'd or enjoy'd.
We bleed anew in every former grief.
And joys departed furnish no relief.
Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,
Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart :
The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,
And anxious searches for congenial cares ;
Those lenient cares, which with our owti combined,
By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind.
And stealour grief away, and leave their own behind ;
When the sick heart, by no design employ'd,
Tlirobs o'er the past, or suffer'd, or enjoy'd,
In former pleasures finding no relief.
And pain'd anew in every former grief.
Can friends console us when our cares distress.
Smile on our woes, and make misfortunes less ?
Alas ! like winter'd leaves, they fall away,
Or more disgrace our prospects by delay ;
The genial warmth, the fostering sap is past.
That kept them faithful, and that held them f:ist.
Where shall we fly ? — to yonder still retreat.
The haunt of Genius and the Muses' seat,
Where all our griefs in others' strains rehearse.
Speak with old Time, and with the dead converse ;
Till Fancy, far in distant regions flown,
Adopts a thousand schemes, and quits her own ;
Skims every scene, and plans with each design,
Towers in each thought, and lives in every line ;
From clime to clime with rapid motion flies.
Weeps w ithout woe, and without sorrow siglis :
To all things yielding, and by all things sway'd,
To all obedient, and by all obey'd ;
The scource of pleasures, noble and refined,
And the great empress of the Poet's mind.
Here led by thee, fair Fancy, I behold
The mighty heroes, and the bards of old,
For here the Muses sacred vigils keep,
And all the busy cares of being sleep ;
LIBRARY
UNIVEP.STTY OF CALIFORNIA
SANTA BARBARA
102
CRABBE'S WORKS.
A linlitcr griof ! wliirli fccliii)^ lionrtH cinliirc
Without r('nr(!f, nor c't-n ilt'iiuunl a ciiri-.
Ittit wliiit stnui;{f nrt, wliiit iiia^'ic run (liH|ioHC
Till" tniiililiMl niiiid to cliniii^c its niitivo woes?
Or loud us williii;,' IVoni oiirsclvt-H, to Bi-r?
OtlnTH more wrrtclicil, more umlono tliun wc ?
This Hooks can ilo ; -nor tliis alonr ; tlicy give
New views to life, aneen of the medical faculty, I cannot
but think it probable that tliose great benefactors to literature.
THE LIBRARY.
103
Silent they are — but. though deprived of sound,
Here all the living languages abound;
Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.^
Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind
To stamp a lasting image of the mind !
Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,
Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring ;
But Man alone has skill and power to send
The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend ;
'T is his alone to please, instruct, advise
Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.^
In sweet repose, when Labour's children sleep,
When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep,
When Passion slumbers in the lover's breast.
And Fear and Guilt partake the balm of rest.
Why then 'denies the studious man to share
Man's common good, who feels his common care ?
Because the hope is his, that bids him fly
Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy ;
That after-ages may repeat his praise.
And fame's fair meed be his. for length of days.
Delightful prospect ! when we leave behind
A worthy otfspring of the fruitful mind !
Which, bom and nursed through many an anxious
day,
Shall all our labour, all our care repay.
Yet all are not these births of noble kind,
Not all the children of a vigorous mind ;
But where the wisest should alone preside,
The weak would rule us, and the blind would
guide ;
Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show
The poor and troubled source from which they flow ;
Radcliffe, Mead, Sloane, Hunter, and others, have had this
very idea in their minds, when tliey founded their libraries."
— Cumberland.]
' ["How often does the worm-eaten voUime outlast the
reputation of the worm-eaten autlior ? Some literary reputa-
tions die in the birth ; a few are nibbled to death by critics —
but tliey are weakly ones that perish tluis; such only as must
otherwise soon have come to a natural death. Somewhat more
numerous are those which are overfed with praise, and die in
the surfeit. Brisk reputations, indeed, are like bottled two-
penny, or pop — ' they sparkle, are exhaled, and fly,' — not to
heaven, but to the Limljo. To live among books is, in this
respect, like being among the tombs ; — you have in them
speaking remembrances of mortality."- — Southey.]
8 ["As the Supreme Being has expressed, and, as it were,
printed his ideas in the creation, men express their ideas in
Books — which, by this great invention of these latter ages,
may last as long as the sun and moon, and perish only in the
general wreck of nature. Thus Cowley, in his poem on the
Resurrection, mentioning the destruction of the universe, has
these admiraljle lines : —
' Now all the wide extended sky,
And all th' haimonious worlds on high,
And Virgil's sacred IFurli, shall die.'
Tliere is no other method of fixing these thoughts which arise
and disappear in the mind of men, and transmitting them to
the last periods of time ; no other method of giving a per-
manency to our ideas, and preser\ing the knowledge of any
particular person, when his body is mixed with the common
mass of matter, and his soul retired into the world of spirits.
Statues can last but a few thousands of years, edifices fewer,
and colours still fewer than edifices." — .Addison.]
9 [Here follows, in the original MS. : —
Maxims I glean, of mighty pith and force.
And moral themes to shine in a discourse ;
But, tired with these, I take a lighter train.
Tuned to the times, impertinent and vain.
Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,
And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.
But though imperfect all ; yet wisdom loves
This seat serene, and virtue's self approves : —
Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find ;
The curious here to feed a craving mind ;
Here the devout their peaceful temple choose ;
And here the poet meets his favouring Muse.^
With awe, around these silent walks 1 tread ;
These are the lasting mansions of the dead : — ■
" The dead ! " methiuks a thousand tongues
reply ;
" These are the tombs of such as cannot die !
" Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime,
" And laugh at all the little strife of time." '"
Hail, then, immortals ! ye who shine above,
Each, in his sphere, the literary Jove ;
And ye the common people of these skies,
A humbler crowd of nameless deities ;
Whether 't is yours to lead the willing mind
Through History's mazes, and the turnings find ;
Or, whether led by Science, ye retire.
Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire ;
Whether the !Muse invites you to her bowers.
And crowns your jjlacid brows with living flowers :
Or godlike Wisdom teaches you to show
The noblest road to happiness below ;
Or men and manners prompt the easy page
To mark the flying follies of the age :
Whatever good ye boast, that good impart ;
Inform the head and rectify the heart.
Lo, all in silence, all in order stand.
And mighty folios '- first, a lordly band ;
Tlie tarts which wits provide for taste decay'd,
And syllabubs by frothy witlings made,
An easy, idle, thoughtless, graceless tlu-ong.
Pun, jest, and quibble, epigram and song.
Trifles to which declining genius bends,
And steps by which aspiring wit ascends.
Now sad and slow, with cautious step I tread,
And view around the venerable dead ;
For where in all her walks shall study seize
Such monuments of human state as these ?J
10 [" Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a
progeny of life in them, to be as active as that soul was whose
progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest
efficacy and extraction of that living iritellect that bred them.
I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as
those fabulous dragon's teeth ; and being sown up and down,
may chance to bring up armed men. And yet, on the other
hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as
kill a good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable crea-
ture, God's image ; but he who destroys a good book, kills
reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye.
Many a man lives a burden to the earth ; but a good book is
the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and
treasured upon purpose to a life beyond life. It is true, no
age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great
loss; and revolutions of ages do not oft recover the loss of
a rejected truth, for the want of which whole nations fare
the worse. We should be wary, therefore, what persecution
we raise against the living labours of public men, how we
spill that seasoned life of man, preserved and stored up in
books ; since we see a kind of homicide may be thus com-
mitted, sometimes a martyrdom ; and if it extend to the
whole impression, a kind of massacre, w hereof the execution
ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, but strikes at
the ethereal and fifth essence, the breadth of reason itself;
slays an immortality rather than a life." — Milton.]
11 ["' No man,' Johnson used to say, 'reads long together
with a folio on his table. Books,' said he, ' that you may
carry to the fire, and hold readily in your hand, are the most
Then qunrtoH ''^ tlicir wcll-dnlcrM rniiks iimiiitniii,
Ami li^li' •x'taviis (ill ii spiiciniiM plain :
Sec y'i'iil''''. i"imKfil '"• inure tViN|urntfil rows,
A )iunil)li-r liMiiil iif iliKiilrciniiis ;
Wliilo iiiiilistinniiisirtl trilli'M hwcII tlic sfpno,
Till' last new )>lay anil t'rittcr'il niaf^azinc.
Tims 't is in life, when' first tlir )iniiiil, (lie ^reat,
III l('aj;ut'il assfinlily keep their cmnlirims state; '■'
Heavy ami liiifje, tliey fill the worlil with ilrciid,
Are much adniireil, and are hut little read :
The eoininoiis next, a inie made a prisoner, I would have no other prisou
than this library, and l>e chaineil together with all tliese
goodly authors! ' In this exclamation, the king had in his
mind thethen previilent custom of securing books by fastening
them to the shelves by chains, long enough to_ reach to the
reading-desks under them." — D'Israeli.J
>8 [" From pamphlets mav l>e learned the genius of the
age, the debates of the learneil, the bevues of government, and
mistakes of the courtiers. Pamphlets furnish lieaus w itli their
airs ; coquettes w ith their charms. Pamplilets are as modish
ornaments to gentlewomen's toilets, as to gentlemen's
pockets : thev carry reputation of wit and learning to all that
make tliem their companions; tlie poor find their account io
THE LIBRARY.
105
Amid these works, on which the eager eye
Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by.
When all combined, their decent pomp display.
Where shall we first our early offering pay ? —
To thee, Divinity ! to thee, the light
And guide of mortals, through their mental night ;
By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide ;
To bear with pain, and to contend with pride ;
When grieved, to pray ; when injured, to forgive ;
And with the world in charity to live.'^
Not truths like these inspired that numerous race,
Whose pious labours fill this ample space ;
But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,
Awaked to war tlie long-contending foes.
For dubious meanings, learn'd polemics strove,
And wars on faith prevented works of love ;
The brands of discord far around were hurl'd,
And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world : —
Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,
With wit disgusting, and despised without ;
Saints in design, in execution men.
Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.^"
Methinks I see, and sicken at the sight.
Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight ;
Spirits who prompted every damning page.
With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage : '
Lo ! how they stretch their gloomy wings around.
And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground !
They pray, they fight, they murder, and they
weep,—
Wolves in their vengeance, in their manners sheep ;
stall-keeping and hawking them ; the rich find in them their
shortest way to the secrets of church ami state. In short, with
pamphlets, the booksellers adorn the gaiety of shop-gazing.
Hence accrues to grocers, apotliecaries, and chandlers, good
furniture, and supplies to necessary retreats. In pamphlets,
lawyers meet witli their chicanery, physicians with their cant,
divines w ith their shibboleth. Pamphlets become more and
more daily amusements to the curious, idle, and inquisitive ;
pastime to gallants and coquettes ; chat to the talkative ;
catch-words to informers ; fuel to the envious ; poison to the
unfortunate ; balsam to tlie wounded ; employment to the
lazy ; and fabulous materials to romancers and novelists." —
Myi.es Da vies, Icon Libelltrrum, 1715.]
•9 [" It is not the reading many books which makes a man
a divine, but the reading a few of the best books often over,
and with attention: those, at least, who are beginning their
tlieolo„'ical studies should follow this rule." — Bishop Watson.
" If the reader is disposed to attend to the humble sugges-
tions of a very private layman, I think he would find great
advantage in studying and considering the following worlds,
in the order in which they are arranged: — 1. The View of
the Internal Evidence of the Christian Religion, by Soame
Jenvns. 2. The Evidences of Cliristianity, by Dr. Paley. 3.
Grotius on the Truth of the Christian Religion. 4. Evidences
of Natural and Revealed Religion, by Dr. Samuel Clarke. 5.
Locke's Reasonableness of Christianity. 6. Bishop Kurd's
Introduction to the Study of the Prophecies. 7. Lord Lyttel-
ton's Dissertation on the Conversion of St. Paul ; and 8. Dr.
Butler's Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the
Constitution and Course of Nature. From these few volumes,
if they are studied with care and an upright intention, I think
it may be said, that ' Tliey shall see to whom He was not
(before) spoken of; and they that have not (before) heard,
shall understand.' " — Matthias.]
20 [" xhe history of the scholastic philosophy might fur-
nish a philosophical writer with an instructive theme ; it
would enter into the history of the human mind, and fill a
niche in our literary annals ; tlie works of the scholastics,
with the controversies of these QiwdliliPtinnrs, would at once
testify all the greatness and the littleness of the human intel-
lect. Of these scholastic divines, the most illustrious was
Saint Thomas Aquinas, styled the angelical doctor. Seventeen
Too well they act the prophet's fatal part,
Denouncing evil with a zealous heart ;
And each, like Jonah, is displeased if God
Repent his anger, or withhold his rod."'"
But here the dormant fury rests unsought,
And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought ;
Here all the rage of controversy ends.
And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends :
An Athanasiau here, in deep repose.
Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes ;
Socinians here with Calvinists abide.
And thin partitions angry chiefs divide ;
Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet.
And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet.^^
Great authors, for the church's glory fired.
Are for the church's peace, to rest retired ;
And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race.
Lie " Crumbs of Comfort for the Babes of Grace. "-^
Against her foes Religion well defends
Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends ;
If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she
dreads.
And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest
heads :
But most she fears the controversial pen,
The holy strife of disputatious men ; ^*
Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page explore.
Only to fight against its precepts more.''^
Near to these seats behold yon slender frames.
All closely fiU'd and mark'd with modern names ;
Where no fair science ever shows her face.
Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace ;
folio volumes not only testify his industry, but even his
genius. He was a great man busied all his life with making
a cliarade of metaphysics. His ' Sum of all Theology,' a meta-
physicological treatise, occupies above 1250 folio pages, of very
close print in double columns." — D'Israeli.]
21 ["And God saw their works that they turned from their
evil way ; and God repented of the evil, that he liad said that
he would do unto them ; and he did it not. But it displeased
.Tonah exceedingly, and he was very angry."— ^o«n/i, iii. 10.]
22 [Original MS. :—
Calvin grows gentle in this silent coast.
Nor finds a single heretic to roast ;
Here, their fierce rage subdued, and lost their pride.
The Pope and Luther slumber side by side.]
23 [" How peaceably thev stand together: Papists and Pro-
testants side by side! their very dust reposes not more
quietly in the cemetery. Ancient and modern, Jew and
Gentile, Moliamraedan and Crusader, French and English,
Spaniards and Portuguese, Dutch and Bnizilians, fighting their
old battles, silently now, upon the same shelf : Fernam Lopez
and Pedro de Ayala; John de Laet and Barla^us, with the
historians of Joam Fernandez Viera ; Fox's Martyrs and the
Three Conversions of Father Parsons ; Cranmer and Stephen
Gardiner ; Dominican and Franciscan; Jesuit and Philosophe ;
Churchmen and Sectsirians ; Roundheads and Cavaliers!"—
South E v.]
24 [" Your whole school is nothing but a stinking sty of
pit's. Dog ! do vou understand ine ? Do you understand me,
madman ? Do you understand me, you great beast ? "—Cal-
vin to LUTHEE.]
25 [" These controversial divines have changed the rule of
life into a standard of disputation. They have employed the
temple of the Most High as a fencing-school, where gymnastic
exercises are daily exhibited, and where victory serves only
to excite new contests ; slighting the bulwarks wherewith He
who bestowed religion on mankind had secured it, they have
encompassed it with various minute outworks, w^ich an
army of warriors can with difiiculty defend."— Sir D. Dal-
RVMl'LE.]
lOG
CRAUBE'S WORKS.
'I'licri" sco|)lirs rrst, ix Kfill-inorcasiiiK thrniij?.
Ami strctcli their ^^ iilcniii); wings ten tlioiisniid
stion;^ ;
Some in close ii^;lit their duliiouM claims maiii-
tiiin ;
Some skirmish li;,'htly, lly, iiinl fi^^ht ii;;uiii ;
Colclly lUfiCime, iinil inipinusly ^jiiy,
'I'jieir end the same, tlmnuli various in tlieir way.
\\ hen first Keligion came to hiess the land,
Her friends were then a tirni helievini^ hand ;
'I'o douht was then lo plnnf^e in guilt extreme,
And all was gospel that a monk could dream ;
Insulted Kenson tied the grov'liiig soul,
For Fear to guide, and visions to eonti'ol :
IJut now, when Ueason has assumed her tlironc.
She, in her turn, demanils to reign alone;
Kejecliug all that lies beyond her view,
And, heing judge, will he a witness too :
Insulted Faith then leaves the douhtful mind,
To seek for truth, without a power to find :
Ah ! when will hoth in friendly beams unite,
And pour on erring man resistless light?
Next to the seats, well stored with works divine,
An ample space, I'liiLosoriiv ! is thine ; ^^
Our reason's guide, by whose assisting liglit
Wc trace the moral bounds of wrong and right ;
Our guide through nature, from tlio sterile clay,
To the bright orl>s of yon celestial way !
'T is thine, the great, the golden chain to trace,
AVhich runs through all, corniecting race with race ;
Save where tliose puzzling, stubborn links remain,
Which thy inferior light pursues in vain : —
2ij [The edition of 1781 reads as follows : —
To thee. Philosophy ! to thee, the light,
The f,'iiiileot' mortals throufjh their mental night,
liy wiiom the world in all its views is shown,
Our guide through Nature's works, and in our own
\Vlio place in order Being's wondrous chain,
Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain,
Hy art divine involved, which man can ne'er explain.
Thc'^e are thy volumes ; and in these we look,
As alistracLs drawn from Nature's larger book ;
Here lirst described the humble ylelK- appears,
Unconscious of the gaudy rolie it we.irs.
All that the earth's profound recesses hide.
And all that roll l>eneath the raging tide ;
The sullen gem that yet disdains to sliine,
And all the ductile matter of tlie mine.
Next to the vegetalde trilH>s they lead,
WluKse fruitful l>eds o'er every balmy mead
Teem with new life ; and hills, and vales, and groves.
Feed the still flame, ami nurse the silent loves;
Which, whi'n tlic Sprini; calls forth their genial power,
!^\M'll with till' seed, and lloiirish in the llower :
There,* willi the husband-slaves, in royal pride,
(Queens, like the Amazons of ohl, reside ;
There, like the Turk, the lordly husband lives.
And joy to all the gay seraglio gives ;
There.f in the secret chambers, veil'd from sight,
A basliful tribe in hidilen dailies delight ;
There ,J in the open day, and gaily deck'd,
The bolder brides their distant lords expect ;
Who with the wings of love instinctive rise,
And on prolific winds each ardent bridegroom flies.
Next are that tribe »hom life .and sense inform,
The torpid lieetle, and the slirinking worm ;
And insects, proud to spread their brilliant wing,
To catch the fostering sunbeams of the spring ;
* Alluding to the sexual sj-stem of Linnaeus.
+ The class crypfogamia. + The class dioecia.
How vine and virtue in tlic Houl contend ;
How widfdy differ, y<'t htiw nearly blend ;
What various passions war on either jiart,
•Viid now confirm, now iindt the yi(dding lieart :
How Fancy loves around the world to stray.
While Judgment slowly picks his sober way ;
'I'ho stores of memory, and the flights Hublimc
Of genius, bound by neither sjiacc; nor time;—
All these divine I'hilosopliy explores.
Till, lost in awe, she weaux and beauties crowd the gaudy groves,
And woo and win their vegetable loves :
lli>w snowdrops cold, and Idiie-eyed harebells blend
Their tender tears, .as o'er the stream they bend ;
The lovesick violet, and the primrose p,ile.
How their sweet heails, and whisper to the gale ;
With secret sighs the virgin lily droops.
And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups ;
How the young rose, in beauty's damask pride,
l>rinks the warm blushes of his bashlVil bride :
With honey'd lips enamour'd woodbines meet :
t'hisp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet."]
THE LIBRARY.
107
Man '^s crowns the scene, a world of wonders new,
A moral world, that well demands our view.
This world is here ; for, of more lofty kind.
These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind ;
They paint the state of man ere yet endued
With knowledge ; — man, poor, ignorant, and rude ;
Then, as his state improves, their pages swell,
And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell :
Here we behold how inexperience buys,
At little price, the wisdom of the wise ;
"Without the troubles of an active state,
"Without the cares and dangers of the great,
Without the miseries of the poor, we know
What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow ;
We see how reason calms the raging mind,
And how contending passions urge mankind :
Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire ;
Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire ;
Whilst others, won by either, now pursue
The guilty chase, now keep the good in view ;
For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,
They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life ;
For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain.
Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.
Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul.
New interests draw, new principles control :
Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief,
But here the tortured body finds relief;
For see where yonder sage Arachne shapes
Iler subtile gin, that not a fly escapes '.
There Physic fills the space, and far around,
Pile above pile her learned works abound :
Glorious their aim^to ease the labouring heart;
To war with death, and stop his flying dart ;
To trace the source whence the fierce contest
grew,
And life's short lease on easier terms renew ;
^' [" It was from out tlie rind of one apple tasted, that the
knoNNledije of good and evil, as two twins cleaving tofjether,
leaped forth into the world. And perhaps, this is tliat doom
which Adam fell into of knowing good and evil, that is, of
knowing good by evil. As, therefore, the state of man now
is — what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to
forbear, without the knowledge of evil ? He that can appre-
hend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming plea-
sures, and yet alistain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that
whicli is truly better, lie is the true warfaring Christian. I
cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue unexercised and
unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but
slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be
run for, not without dust and heat. Assuredly we tiring not
innocence into the world ; we bring impurity much rather:
that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by what is contrary.
That virtue, therefore, which is but a youngling in the con-
templation of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice pro-
mises to her followers, and rejects it, is but a blank virtue, not
a pure; her whiteness is but an excremental whiteness;
w hich was the reason why our sage and serious poet Spenser
(whom I dare be known to think a better teacher than Scotus
or Aquinas), describing true temperance under the person of
Guion, brings him in with his palmer tlu-ough the cave of
Mammon and the bower of earthly bliss, that he might see
and know, and yet abstain. Since, therefore, the knowledge
and survey of vice is in tliis world so necessary to the constitut-
ing of human virtue, and the scanning of errour to the confir-
mation of truth, how can we more safely, and with less dan-
ger, scout into the regions of sin and falsity, than by read-
ing all manner of tractates, and hearing all manner."— Mil-
ton.]
30 [Sir Henry Halford, in the " Essay on the Influence of
Disease on the Mind," lias the following striking passages on
the conduct proper to be observed by a physician, in with-
holding, or making his patient acquainted uitli, his opinion
To calm the phrensy of the burning brain ;
To heal the tortures of imploring pain ;
Or, when more powerful ills all efibrts brave,
To ease the victim no device can save,
And smooth the stormy passage to the grave. ^^
But man, who knows no good uumix'd and
pure,
Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure ;
For grave deceivers lodge their labours here.
And cloud the science they pretend to clear ;
Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent ;
Like fire and storms, they call us to repent ;
But storms subside, and fixes forget to rage.
These are eternal scourges of the age :
'T is not enough that each terrific hand
Spreads desolation round a guilty land ;
But train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes,
Their pen relentless kills through future times.
Say, ye, who search these records of the dead —
Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read ;
Can all the real knowledge ye possess.
Or those — if such there are — who more than
guess,
Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes.
And mend the blunders pride or folly makes ?
W^hat thought so wild, what airy dream so light,
That will not prompt a theorist to write ?
"VVhat art so prevalent, what proof so strong.
That will convince him his attempt is wrong ?
One in the solids finds each lurking ill.
Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill ;
A learned friend some subtler reason brings,
Absolves the channels, but condemns their springs ;
The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye,
Escape no more his subtler theory ;
The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart,
Lends a fair system to these sons of art ;
of the probalile issue of a malady manifesting mortal symp-
toms : — " I own, 1 think it my tirst duty to protract his life
bv all practicable means, and to interpose myself between him
and every thing which may possibly aggravate his danger.
And unless I shall have found him averse from doing what
was necessary in aid of my remedies, from a want of a proper
sense of his 'perilous situation, I forbear to step out of the
bounds of my province, in order to offer any advice which is
not necessary to promote liis cure. At the same time, I think
it indispensable to let his friends know the danger of \\U
case, the instant I discover it. An arrangement of his worldly
affairs, in wliicli the comfort or unhappiness of those who are
to come after him is involved, may be necessary ; and a sug-
gestion of his danger, by which the accomplishment of this
object is to be obtained, naturally induces a contemplation of
liis more important spiritual concerns. If friends can do
their good offices at a proper time, and under the suggestion
of the phvsician, it is far better that they should undertake
them, than the medical adviser. Hut friends may be absent,
and nobody near the patient, in his extremity, of sufVicient
influence or pretension to inform him of his dangerous con-
dition ; and surelv it is lamentable to think that any human
being should leave the world unprepared to meet his Creator.
Rather than so, I have departed from my strict professional
duty, done that which I would have done by myself, and
apprised my patient of the great change he was about to
undergo Lord Bacon encourages pliysicians to make it a
part of their art to smooth the bed of death, and to render the
departure from life ea.sy, placid, and gentle. This doctrine, so
accordant with the best principles of our nature, commended
not only by the wisdom of this consummate philosopher, but
also by'the experience of one of the most judicious and con-
scienti'ous physicians of modern times— the late Ur. Heberden
was practised with such happy success in the case of our late
lamented sovereign (George the Fourth), that at tlie close of
his painful disease ' non tarn mori videretur (as was said of a
Roman emperor), quam dulci et alto sopore excipi.' "]
p 2
108
CRAIMIKS WORKS.
'i'lio vUnI nir, ii |Miro aiicl 8iil)tilo Hlream,
Serves a roiitidutioii for nii niry Hrlicinc,
AssiNts tlio ilootiir, niicl KiipporlN liis ilrrain.
Soiup liavo tlioir riivoiiriti- ills, nii'l ciicli di.scaHC
Ih Imt a yoimi^cr branch that kills fVnin tlicsc;
Olio to tlic };<>iit roiitracts all hiiiniiii pain;
He views it nif^iii;; in the rraiilic liraiii ;
Finiis it in fevers all his ellorts miir,
And sees it Inikiii;; in the cohl catarrh:
Kilious liy some, by others nervous seen,
|{a^e the fantastic demons of tiie spleen;
And every symptom of the strange disease
AVitli every system of tlie sb;;c aj^rces.
Ye frigid trihe, on whom 1 wasted lonf^
'riie tedious hours, and iu''er indulj^ed in song;"
Ye first seducers of my easy iieart,
\Vho promised knowledf^e ye co\iid not impart;
Ye dull dehiders, truth's destructive foes;
Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose ;
Ye treacherous leaders, who, j-ourselvcs in doubt,
I.i^ht up false fires, and send us far about ; —
Still may yon spider round your pa^os spin,
Sul)tile and slow, )ier eml)leinatic gin!
Burieil in dust and lost in silence, dwell.
Most potent, grave, and reverend friends — fare-
well ! ■"=
Near these, and where the settiiig sun displays,
Tlirough the dim window, liis departing rays.
And gilds yon columns, there, on either side.
The huge Abridgments of tlie Law abide ;^^
Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand,
And spread their guardian terrors round the land;
Yet, as the best that human care can do.
Is mix'd witli error, oft with evil too,
Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade.
Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were
made,
And justice vainly each expedient tries,
AVliile art eludes it, or while power defies.
•• Ah 1 liappy age," the youthful poet sings,^''
" "\Vlien the free nations know not laws nor kings;
" [" Tlio timo had come, when Mr. Crabbe was told, and
l)elievod, that lie had more imjiortant concerns to engage liim
than verse ; and therefore, for some years, thou;;h lie occa-
sionally found time to write lines upon ' Mira's Birthday ' and
'Silvia's bapdoL',' though he composed enigmas and solved
reliuses, lie had some degree of forbearance, and did not
believe that the knowledge of diseases, and the sciences of
anatomv and physiology, were to lie acquired hy the perusal
of I'ope's Homer, a Dictionary of Uhymes, anil a Treatise on
the Art of Poetry." — See aiile', p. y.] "
3* [" About the end of the year 1770, Mr. Crabbe, after as full
and perfect a survey of the r;oud and evil before him as his pre-
judices, inclinations, and little know ledge of the world enabled
him to take, linally resolved to abandon his profession; His
health was not robust, his spirits were not equal ; assistance
he could expect none, and he was not so sanguine as to
believe he could do « ithout it. With the best verses he oould
write, and with very little more, he quitted the place of his
birth ; not without the most serious apprehensions of the con-
sequence of such a step, — apprehensions which were con-
quered, and b.irely conciuerea, by the more certain evil of the
prospect liefore him, should he "remain where he was." — See
flHtt', p. 12.]
M [" \\ ho are they, whose unadorned raiment bespeaks
ttieir inward simplicity? These are law-books, statutes, and
commentaries on statutes— whom all men must obev, and
vet few onlv can purcluise. Like the Sphvnx in antiquitv,
they speak in enigmas, and yet devour the u'nhappv wretchis
" When nil were blest to fdinre a commrm tttorc,
" -Vnd ntiiic were proud of wealth, for none were
poor ;
" iNo wars nor tumults vcxM each still domain,
" No thirst of empire, no desire of gain ;
" No prouil grr-at man, nor one who would be great,
" J)rove modest merit from its proper state;
" Nor into ilistaiit eliines woubl .Vvarice roam,
" To fetcli delights for Luxury at home :
" Moimd by no ties which kei)t the soul in awe,
" They dwelt at liberty, and love was law ! "
" Mistaken youth ! each nation first wa,s rude,
" Each man a cheerless son of stditude,
" To wlioin no joys of social life were known,
" None felt a care that was not all his own ;
" Or in some languid clime his abject soul
'' Bow'd to a little tyrant's stem control;
" .V slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised,
" .Vnd in rude song his ruder idol praised ;
" The meaner cares of life were all he knew ;
'' Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few ;
" But when by slow degrees the .Vrts arose,
" .\nd Science waken'd from her long repose ;
" When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease,
" Han round the lanridgmerit of Law and Ivquity i" It consists not of many
^oblmes ; it extends only to twent\-two folios ; yet as a few-
thin cakes may contain the whole nutritive substance of a
stalled ox, .so may this compendium contain the essential
gravy of many a report and adjudged case. The s-iges of the
law recommend this .\l>ridgment to our perusal. Let us,
with all thankfulness of heiirt, receive their counsel. Much arc
we beluililen to phvsicians, who only prescribe the bark of the
Quinquina, when t'liey misjlit obUge their patieuts toswallow
the whole tree!" — Sir D. LIalrvmple.]
3' [The original .MS., in place of the next Unes, reads : —
" .\h ! liappy age," the youthful poet cries,
" Kre laws arose— ere tyrants l)ade them rise :
No land marks then the happy swain beheld.
Nor lonls walk'd proudly o'er the fiirrow'd field ;
Nor through distorted ways did .Vvarice roam,
To fetch delights for Luxury at home :
But mutual joy the friends of Nature proved,
.■\nd swains were faithful to the nymphs they loved."
'■ Mistaken bards! all nations first were rude;
Man I proud, nnsoc'al, prone to solitude.
O'er hills, or vales, or llomls, was fond to roam —
The mead his garden, and the rock his home ;
For llying prey he search'd a savage coast —
Want was his spur, and liberty his boast."]
" [See Blackstone's Commentaries, i. l."?!, 3J!) ; iv. 432.]
THE LIBRARY.
109
Till, like a miner working sure and slow,
Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below ;
The basis sinks, the ample piles decay ;
The stately fabric shakes and falls away ;
Primeval want and ignorance come on.
But Freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone.^''
Next, History ranks ; — there full in front she lies,
And every nation her dread tale supplies ;
Yet History has her doubts, and evei-y age
With sceptic queries marks the passing i^age ;
Records of old nor later date are clear,
Too distant those, and these are placed too near ;
There time conceals the objects from our view,
Here our own passions and a writer's too : -'^
Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose !
Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes ;
Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain,
Lo ! how they sunk to slavery again !
Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd,
A nation grows too glorious to be blest ;
Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all.
And foes join foes to triumph in her fall.
Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race,
The monarch's pride, his glory,*^ his disgrace ;
The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run,
How soon triumphant, and how soon undone ;
How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale,
And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale."^
Lo ! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood.
Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood ;
There, such the taste of our degenerate age,
Stand the profane delusions of the Stage :
Yet virtue owns the Tragic Muse a friend,
Fable her means, morality her end ; '"'
For this she rules all passions in their turns,
And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns ;
^^ [See Montesquieu's Esprit des Lois, liv. xxii. cli. 22.]
^' [" Malheureux sort de Ihistoire ! Les spectateurs sont
trop peu instruits, et les acteurs trop interesses pouriiue nous
puissions compter sur les recits des uns ou des autres!" —
GlUIlON.]
5^ [ "glory long has made the sages smile ;
'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind —
Depending more upon the historian's style.
Than on the name a person leaves behind :
Troy owes to Homer wliat whist owes to Iloyle :
The present century was growing blind
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe." — Byron.]
39 ^u Though the most sagacious author that ever deduced
maxims of policy from the experience of former ages has said,
thiit the misgovernment of states, and the evils consequent
tlicroon, have arisen more from historical ignorance than
from any other cause, the sum and substance of historical
knowledge for practical purposes consists in certain general
principles ; and he who understands those principles, and
has a due sense of their importance, has always, in the darkest
circumstances, a star in sight by which he may direct his
course." — Southey.]
40 [^" Tragedies, as they are now made, are good, instruc-
tive, moral sermons enough ; and it would be a fault not to be
pleased with good things. There I learn several great truths :
as that it is impossible to see into tlie ways of futurity ; that
punishment always attends the villain ; that love is the fond
soother of the human breast ; that we should not resist
Heaven's will, for in resisting Heaven's will, Heaven's will is
resisted ; with several other sentiments equally new, delicate,
and striking. Every new tragedy, tlierefore, I go to see ; for
Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl.
Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul ;
She makes the vile to virtue yield applause,
And own her sceptre while they break her laws ; ■*'
For vice in others is abhorr'd of all.
And villains triumph when the worthless fall.
Not thus her sister Comedy prevails,
Who shoots at Folly, for her arrow fails ;
Folly, by Dullness arm'd, eludes the wound,
And harmless sees the feathcr'd shafts rebound ;
Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill,
Laughs at her malice, and is Folly still.
Yet well the Muse portrays, in fancied scenes.
What pride will stoop to, what profession means ;
How formal fools the farce of state applaud ;
How caution watches at the lips of fraud ;
The wordy variance of domestic life ;
The tyrant husband, the retorting wife ;
The snares for innocence, the lie of trade,
And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade. ^■-
With her the Virtues too obtain a place,
Each gentle passion, each becoming grace ;
The social joy in life's securer road,
Its easy pleasure, its substantial good ;
The happy thought that conscious virtue gives.
And all that ought to live, and all that lives.
But who are these ? Methinks a noble mien
And awful grandeur in their form are seen.
Now in disgrace : what though by time is spread
Polluting dust o'er every reverend head ;
What though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie.
And dull observers pass insulting by :
Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe,
What seems so grave, should no attention draw I
Come, let us then with reverend step advance.
And greet — the ancient worthies of Komance.''^
reflections of this nature make a tolerable harmonv, when
mixed up with a proper quantity of drum , trumpet, thunder,
liglitning, or the scene-shifter's whistle." — Goljismith.]
■" [" For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through every age ;
Tyrants'no more their savage nature kept.
And foes to virtue wonder'd liow they wept." — Pope.]
42 [" xhe days of Comedy are gone, alas !
When (Jongreve's fool could vie with Moliere's hctc ,
Society is smooth'd to that excess.
That manners hardly differ more than dress." — Byron.]
'" [" In the view taken by Ilurd, Percy, and other older
authorities of the origin and history of romantic fiction, their
attentions were so exclusively fixed upon the romance of
chivalry alone, that they seem to have forgotten that, how-
ever interesting and peculiar, it formed only one species of
a very numerous and extensive genus. The progress of
romance, in fact, keeps pace h ith that of society, which cannot
long exist, even in the simplest state, without exhibiting some
specimens of this attractive style of composition. It is not
meant, by this assertion, that in early ages .such narratives
were invented in the character of mere fictions, devised to
pass away the leisure of those who have time enough to read
and attend to them. On the contrary, romance and real
history have the same common origin. It is the aim of the
former to maintain as long as possible the mask of veracity ;
and, indeed, the traditional memorials of all earlier ai^es par-
take in such a varied and doubtful degree of the qualities
essential to those opposite lines of composition, that they form
a mixed class between them ; and may be termed either
romantic histories, or historical romances, according to tlie
proportion in which their truth is debased by fiction, or their
fiction mingled with truth." — Sir W.\lter Scott.]
no
CHAIJIIK'S WOIJKS.
Ilfiico. yo ])r(ifanp ! 1 feel a former droad,
A lliiMisiiiul visions tloat aroiiiul my licail :
lliirk I liollow liiasts tliroii^'li ••iiipty courts rcMoiiinl,
Aiiil sliailou V forms with staling eyes stall* roiiml ;
Si'i- ! moats ami l>riil};i's, walls ami rnstlcs rise,
(Iliosts, fairies, ilemoiis, datiee before our eyes:
l,o! ma^jie verse inx'rilieil on ;,'o|(|en J,'ate,
And Mooily hand that 1 kons on to fate :—
" And who art thou, tlion little jia^je, nnfcdd?
" Sny, doth thy lord my Clariliel withhold?
" do tell him straijjlit, Sir Kuiiihl, thou must rc-
sipi
" The captive queen ; — for ("lariti(d is mine."
Away he tlies; and now for Idoocly deeds,
Hlack suits of armour, musks, and foamiu}; steeds;
The giant falls; his recreant throat I seize,
And from his corslet take the massy keys: —
Dukes, lords, and knights in long ]>r«cession move,
Heleasetl from bondage with mj' virgin love: —
She comes ! she conies ! in nil the charms of youth,
llneciuMll'd love, and nnsus])ected truth!
Ah I haiipy lu- who thus, in magic themes,
O'er worlds hewitch'd, in early raiiture dreams.
Where wild Knchantmeut waves her potent wand.
And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land ;
Whore doubtful objects strange desires excite,
And Fear and Ignorance all'ord delight.
" [dri.ijinal MS. :—
All ! lost, for ever lost, to me these charms,
Tlu'se loPly notions anil divine alarms,
Too dearly bought — raatiirer jiidf;ment calls
My pensive soul from tales and madrigals —
For who so Vilest or who so «reat as I,
Wing'd round the globe witli Rowland or Sir Gu\ ?
Al.Ls! no more I see my queen repair
To lialmy bowers tliat blossom in the air,
AVliere on their rosy beds the Graces rest,
And not a care lies heavy on tlie bre.ist.
No more tlie liermit's mossy cave I choose,
Nor o'er the babbling brook delight to muse ;
My doughty giants all are slain or lied,
.And all my knights — blue, green, and yellow — dead !
Magicians cease to charm me with their art,
And not a grillin Hies to glad my heart,
No more the midnight t'airy tribe I view,
.\11 in the merry moonshine tippling dew.
The easy joys that cliarm'd my sportive youth,
I'My Reason's power, and slinn the voice of Trutli.
Maturer thoughts severer taste prepares,
Anil baffles every spell that charind my cares.
Can Fiction, then, the noblest bliss supply,
Or joy reside in inconsistency .'
Is it then right, &c.]
45 ^'> Truth is always strange —
Stranger than Fiction. If it could be told.
Mow much would Novels gain by the exchange!
How dilTerenlly the world would men liehold !
Mow oft would vice and virtue places change!
The new world would be nothing to the old,
If some Columbus of the moral seas
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes."— Bvron.]
■•* [Here follows, in the original draft : —
Hut who are these, a tribe that soar above,
And tell more tender tales of modern love ?
A Novel train ! the brond of old Romance,
Conceived liy Folly on the coast of France,
That now with ligh'er thought, and gentler fire,
Vsurp the honours of their drooping sire ;
And still fantastic, vain, and trilling, sing
Of many a soft and inconsistent thing, —
Of rakes repenting, clogg'd in Hymen's chain—
Of nymph reclined by unpresuming swain —
Of captains, colonels, lords, and amorous knights,
That find in humbler nymphs such chaste delights,
But lost, for ever lost, to me tlmso joys,**
Which Ueason scatters, and which Time Partial to talents, tlien, shall lleav'n withdraw
" Tir alliietin^; rod, or lireak the general law?
" Shall he who soars, inspired hy loftier views,
" Life's little cares and little pains refuse?
" Shall lie not rather feel a double share
" Of mortal woe, when doubly arm'd to bear?
" Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind
" On the precarious mercy of mankind ;
" Who hopes for wild and visionary things,
" And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous
winfjs :
" But as, of various evils that befall
" The human race, some portion goes to all ;.
" To liim perhaps the milder lot 's assigned,
" Who feels his consolation in his mind ;
50 [" Struck at the sii;lit, I melt with filial woe,
Ami down my cheek the pious sorrows How. ' —
Pope's Humer.']
'' [ " Tlie canker-worm
Will feed upon the fairest, fresliest cheek,
As well as further drain the wither'd form.
Care, like a liousekeeper, t)rings every week
His bills in, and, however we may storm,
Tliey must be paid ; — though six days smoothly run,
The seventh will bring blue-devils, or a dun."— Bvron.]
" [" Cares, both in kind and degree, are as innumerable as
the sands of the sea-shore ; and the fable which Hvginus has
so plea-iantly constructeil on this subject, shows that man is
their proper j'rey. '('are,' says he, 'crossinij a dangerous
brook, collected a mass of the dirty slime which deformed its
banks, and moulded it into the image of an eartlilv being,
which Jupiter, on passing liy soon afterwards, touched with
ethereal lire and warmed into animation ; but, being at a loss
what name to give this new production, and disputing to
whom of right it belonged, the matter was referred to Saturn,
who decreed that his name should be man, Iltniio ah huma,
from the dirt of which he h:isivi,' said Thomas li Kempis, 'sed non inveni nisi in
angulis et liliellis.' I too have found repose where he did, in
books. Wherever these books of mine may be dispersed,
there is not one among them that w ill ever be more com-
fortably lodi;ed, or more highly pri/.ed by its possessor ; and
geni'rations niav piiss awav before some of them will a:;ain
lind a reader. It is well that we do not moralise too much
upon such subjects —
' For foresight is a melancholy gif^.
Which bares the bald, and speeds the all-too-sw i fl.'
■ And, lock'd witliin Iiih boHom, bears about
' A mental charm for every rare without.**
• VW'W in the pangs of each domestic grief,
' Or health or vigorous liope affords relief;
' And every wrerit tlie scorn they meet from little men.
With cautious freedom if the numbers flow,
Not wildly high, nor jiitifully low ;
If vice alone their honest aims oppose.
Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their
foes ?
Happy for men in every age and clime,
If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme.
(Jo on, then. Son of \'ision ! still jnirsue
Thy airy e brought together here
among the Cumberland mountains I Not a few of these
volumes have been cast up from the wreck of the family or
convent libraries during the late revolution I am sorry
when I see the name of a former owner obliterated in a lx)ok,
or the plate of his arms defaced. I'oor memorials though
they be, yet they are something saved for a while from ob-
livion ; and I should he almost as unwilling to destroy them,
as to ellace the Hie jacet of a tomlistone. Tliere may l>e some-
times a pleasure in recognising them, sometimes a salutary
sadness." — South e v.]
5< [Cliarles, fourth Duke of Rutland, died in 1787. See
nnle, p. 31. The foUowini; eulogium on his Grace was
delivered by Bishop Watson, in the House of Peers : — " Tlie
dead, my lords, listen not to the commendation of the living ;
or, greatly as I loved him, I would not now have praised him.
'I'lie world was not aware of half his ability — was not conscious
of half his worth. I hail long and intimate experienci- of
them both. His judgment in the conduct of public affairs
was, I verily believe, equalled by few men of his age ; his
probity and disinterestedness were exceeded by none. .\U
the letters which I received from him respecting the public
state of Ireland (and they were not a fesv") were written with
profound good sense ; they all breathe the s-ime liberal spirit,
have all the same common tendency : not that of aggran-
dising Great Hritain by the ruin of Ireland— not that of
benelitini; Irelaml at the expense of Great Hritain — but that
of promotini; the united interests of both countries, as essen-
tial p,irts of the common empire. In private life, I know that
he had a strong sense of relit'ion : he showed it in imitating
his illustrious father in one of its most characteristic parts,
that of being alive to every impulse of compassion. His
family, his friends, his dependants, all his connections, can
witness for me the warmth and sincerity of his personal attach-
ments. Kver since he was admitted as a pupil under me at
Cambridge, I have loved him with the alTeciion of a brother.
His memory, I trust, will be long revered by the people of
this countrv — long held dear by "the people of Ireland — and
by myself 1 know it will be held most dear as lonj as I live."'
From the introduction of the Duke of Rutland's name in
" The Library," it may be inferred that Mr. Burke had pre-
sented Mr. Crabbe to his Grace at least a year before his ap-
pointment as Domestic Chaplain at Belvoir.]
" Go on ! and, while the sons of care complain,
'' Be wisely gay and innocently vain ;
" While serious souls are by their fears undone,
'■ Blow sj)ortive bladders in the beamy sun,
55 [On the appearance of " The Library" in 1781, it was pro-
nounced by tlie Monthly Review to be " the production of no
common pen :" and the Critical Review said — " A vein of
good sense and philosophic reflection runs through this little
performance, which distinguishes it from most modern poems.
The rhymes are correct, and the versification smooth and har-
monious. It is observable that the author, in his account of
all the numerous volumes in every science, has never charac-
•• And call them worlds ! and bid the greatest show
" More radiant colours in their worlds below :
•' Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,
•' And tell them. Such are all the toys they love." *^
tensed or entered into the merits of any particular writer,
though he had so fair an opportunity from the nature of his
subject." The reader of Mr. Crabbe'sLife Can be at no loss to
account for his abstinence from such details as are here alluded
to. The author, when he wrote this poem, had probably
never seen any considerable collection of books, except in liis
melancholy visits to the shops of booksellers in London in
17^:0-81.]
114
CIIA HUE'S WORKS.
TIIK VILLAGE.
IN TMO BOOKS.
1H)()K 1.'
Tlie Suliject proposed — Ui-inarks upon I'astor.il Poetry — A
Tnict of Country near tlii- C^oast ilrscribfit — An impoverislieil
lJoronf;li— Sinuy;;U'rs and their Assistants — lliide Manners
of the Inhat)itants — Kuinous Kllects of a high Tide — The
Villa;;e Life more generally considered : Kvils of it — 'Hie
youthful Labourer — The old Man : his Soliloquy — The
I'arish Workhouse : its Inhabitants — The sick Poor :
their Apothecary — The dying Pauper — The Village Priest.
The Villnf^c T.ifc, and every care that reigns
O'er youtlif'iil peasants and declining swains ;
^Vllat labour yields, and wliat. that labour past,
Age, in its lioiir of languor, finds at last ;
\Vhat form the real Picture of the I'oor,
Demand a song — the Muse can give no more.
Fletl are those times, when, in harmonious strains,
The rustic poet praised his native plains :
No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty or their nymphs rehearse ; ^
' [Tlie first edition of " The Village" appeared in May, 1 783.
See ante, p. 31, and the Author's preface, p. 'J6.]
'' [Strep/um. " In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the sliady grove.
Hut Delia always ; absent from her sight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.
Diiphnis. Sylvia 's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
More bright than noon, yet fresh as ' early
day,'' &c. — Poi'E.]
' [" In order to form a right judgment of pastoral poetry,
it will be necessary to oast back our eyes on the first ages of
the world. The abundance they were possessed of, secured
them from avarice, ambition, or envy ; they could scarce have
any anxieties or contentions, where every one had more than
he could tell what to do with. Love, indeed, might occasion
st)me rivalships amongst them, because manv lovers lix upon
one subject, for the loss of which they will 'be satisfied with
no compensation. Otherwise it was a state of ease, innocence,
nnd contentment ; where plenty begot pleasure, and plea-
sure begot singing, and singing begot poetrv, and poetrv
begot pleasure again. An author, therefore, thiit would write
pastorals should form in his fancy a rural scene of perfect
ease and tranquillity, where innocence, simplicity, and joy
alx>und. It is not enough that he writes about the country";
he must give us wh.it is agreeable in that scene, and hide
what is wretched. Let the tranquillity of the pastoral life
appear full and plain, but hide the meanness of it ; represent
its simplicity as c ear as vou please, but cover its misery. As
there is no con so small as by no means to impair
the distinguished merit of the author." — Crokeb's Bostccll,
vol. V. p. 65.]
* [Stephen Duck, the poetical thresher. " It wras his lot,''
says Mr. Southey, " to be duck-peck'd by his lawful wife,
who told all the neighbourhood that her husland dealt with
the devil, or was going mad ; for he did nothing but talk to
himself and tell his fingers." Some of his verses having lieen
shown to Queen Caroline, she settled twelve shillings a week
upon him, and appointed him keeper of her select library at
Kichmond, called Merlin's Cave. He afterwards took orders,
and obtained the living of Byfleet, in Surrey. Gay, in a let-
Or the great labours of the field degrade,
With the new peril of a poorer trade ? ^
From this chief cause these idle praises spring,
That themes so easy few forbear to sing ;
For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask ;
To sing of shepherds is an easy task : ^
The happy youth assumes the common sti'ain,
A nymph his mistress, and liimself a swain ;
With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer,
But all, to look like her, is painted fair.
I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms
For him that grazes or for him that farms ;
But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace
The poor laborious natives of the place.
And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray.
On their bare heads and dewy temples play ;
While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts.
Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts — ■
Then shall I dare these real ills to hide
In tinsel trappings of poetic pride ?
No ; cast by Fortune on a frowning coast,
Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast ; ^
Where other cares than those the Muse relates,
And other shepherds dwell with other mates ;
By such examples taught, I paint the Cot,
As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not :
Nor you, ye Poor, of letter'd scorn complain.
To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain ;
O'ercome by labour, and bow'd down by time.
Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ?
Can j)oets soothe you, when you pine for bread.
By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed ?
Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower,
Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour ?
Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake
grown o'er.
Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring
poor ;
From thence a length of burning sand appears.
Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ;
Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye :
There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war ; ^
There floppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ;
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf.
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;
O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade ; '"
ter to Swift, says, " I do not envy Stephen Duck, who is the
favourite poet of the court ;" and Swift wrote upon him the
follow infj epigram : —
" The thresher. Duck, could o'er the Queen prevail ;
The proverlj says, ' no fence against a flail.'
From threshing corn, he turns to thresh his brains,
For which her Majesty allows him (/ruins ;
Though 't is confest, that those who ever saw
His poems, think them all not worth a straw.
Thrice happy Duck ! employ'd in threshing stubble.
Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double. "
Stephen's end was an unhappy one. Growing melancholv,
in 1750, he threw himself into the river near Reading, and
was drowned.]
6 [" Roliert Bloomfield had better liave remained a shoe-
maker, or even a farmer's boy ; for he would have been a
farmer perliaps in time ; and now he is an unfortunate poet."
— Crabbe's Juurnat, 1817.]
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendour vainly shines around.
So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn,
Betray'd by man, then left for man to scorn ;
Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose.
While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose ;
Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress,
Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.
Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race,
With sullen woe display'd in every face ;
Who, far from civil arts and social fly.
And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.
Here too the lawless merchant of the main
Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain ;
Want only claim'd the labour of the day,
But vice now steals his nightly rest away.
Where are the swains, who, daily labour done.
With rural games play'd down the setting sun ;
Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball.
Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall ;
While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong.
Engaged some artful strippling of the throng,
And fell beneath him, foil'd, while far around
Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks return'd the sound ?"
Where now are these ? — Beneath yon clilf they stand.
To show the freighted pinnace where to land ;
To load the ready steed with guilty haste.
To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste.
Or, when detected, in their straggling course,
To foil their foes by cunning or by force ;
Or, yielding part (which equal knaves demand).
To gain a lawless passport through the land.
Here, wand'ring long, amid these frowning fields,
I sought the simple life that Nature yields ;
Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her place.
And a bold, artful, surly, savage race ;
Who, only skill'd to take the finny tribe.
The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe.
Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high,
On the tost vessel bend their eager eye,
Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way ;
Theirs, or the ocean's, miserable prey.
As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows
stand,
And wait for favouring winds to leave the land ;
While still for flight the ready wing is spread :
So waited I the favouring hour, and fled ;
Fled from these shores where guilt and famine
reign.
And cried. Ah ! hapless they who still remain ;
' [Original edition : —
They ask no thought, require no deep design.
But swell the song, and liquefy the line.]
' [Aldborough was, half a century ago, a poor and wretched
place. It consisted of two parallel and unpaved streets, run-
ning between mean and scrambling houses, the abodes of sea-
faxing men, pilots, and fishers. . . . Such w,xs the squalid scene
that first opened on the author of " The Village." See a/it(",
p. :^.]
* [This picture was copied, in every respect, from the scene
of the poet's nativity and boyish days. See ante, p. 3.]
10 [" Xliis is a line drscription of that peculiar sort of bar-
renness which prevails along tlie sandy and thinly inhabited
sliores of the channel." — Jeffbev.]
11 [Original MS. :—
And foil'd beneath tlie young Ulysses fell,
When peals of praise the merry mischief tell ?]
(J 2
IIG
CRAIUJE'S WORKS.
Who Hi ill rciimin to hcnr the ocean rcmr,
Wlidso nici'dy waves devour the U'sseniiiti; sliore ;
'I'ill some tierce tiaiil in health,
Labour's fair child, tliat languishes with wealth?
(m) then ! and see them rising with the sun,
Tlirough a long course of daily toil to run ;
See them beneath the dog-star's raging lieat,
"When the knees tremble ami tlie temples beat;!*
Heboid them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er
The labour past, and toils to come explore ;
See tliem alternate suns and showers engage,
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age ;
Through fens and marsliy moors tlieir steps pursue,
When their warm pores Imbibe the evening dew ;
Tlien own that labour may as fatal be
To these tliy slaves, as tliine excess to thce.'^
Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride
Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide ;
There may you sec the youth of slender frame
Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame ;
Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield,
He strives to join his fellows of the field :
Till long-contending nature droops at last.
Declining health rejects liis poor repast,
llis cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
Ane powerful. In short, he shows us
something which we have all seen, or may see, in real life ;
and draws from it such feelings and such rellections, as every
human l)eing must acknowled;;e that it is calculated to excite.
He delights us by the truth, and vivid and picturesque
beauty, of his representiitions, and by the force and pathos of
the sensations with which we feel that they ought to be con-
nected." — Jefkrev.]
17 A pauper who, being nearly past his labour, is employed
by diflerent masters for a length of time, proportioned to
their occupations.
THE VILLAGE.
117
" To me the children of my youth are lords,
" Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words : '^
" Wants of their own demand their care ; and who
" Feels his own want and succours others too ?
'■ A lonely, ■wretched man. in pain 1 go,
" None need my help, and none relieve my woe ;
'' Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,
" And men forget the wretch they would not aid."
Thus groan the old, till by disease oppress'd,
They taste a tinal woe, and then they rest.
Theirs is j'on House that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ;
There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; —
There children dwell who know no parents' care ;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there !
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed ;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears.
And crippled age with more than childhood fears ;
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they !
The moping idiot, and the madman gay.'^
Here too the sick their final doom receive.
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve,
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,
Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below ;
Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man :
Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide.
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride ;
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride embitters Mhat it can't deny.
Say, ye, opprest by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose ;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance
With timid eye to read the distant glance ;
Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease,
To name the nameless ever new disease ;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone can cure ;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie.
Despised, neglected, left alone to die ?
18 [Original MS. :—
Slow in their gifts, but hasty in their words.]
19 [Tliis description of the Parish Poor-house, and that of the
Village Apothecary, lower down, were inserted by B'lrke in
tile Annual Register, and afterwards by Dr. Vicesimus Knox
in the Elegant Extracts, along with the lines on the old
romancers from " The Library." The effect produced by
these specimens has been already illustrated by a letter from
Sir \V. Scott to Mr. Crabbe, written in 1809. See ante, p. 53.
The poet Wordsworth, on reading that letter, has said : — " I
first became acquainted with Mr. Crabbe's works in the same
way, and about the same time, as did Sir Walter Scott, as
appears from his letter ; and the extracts made such an im-
pression upon me, that / can also repeat them. The two
lines, —
' The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they !
Tlie moping idiot, and the madman gay,' —
struck my youthful feelings particularly ; thou<.'h facts, as far
as they liad then come under my knowledge, did not support
the description ; inasmuch as idiots and lunatics, among the
humbler classes of society, were not to be found in work-
houses, in the parts of tlie north where I was brought up, but
were mostly at large, and too often the butt of tlioughtless
children. Any testimony from me to tlie merit of vour re-
%-ered father's works would, I feel, be superlluous,' if not
impertinent. They will last, from their combined merits as
Poetry and Truth, lull as long as anything that has been ex-
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath
Where all that 's \\Tetched paves the way for
death ? =0
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides ;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen.
And lath and mud are all that lie between ;
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives
way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day :
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread.
The drooping ^Tetch reclines his languid head ;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies.
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Or promise hope, till sickness wears a smile.
But soon a loud and hasty summons calls.
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls ;
Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and business, bustle and conceit ;
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe.
With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go,
He bids the gazing throng around him fly.
And carries fate and physic in his eye :
A potent quack, long versed in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills ;
Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect.
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.
Paid by the parish for attendance here.
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer ;
In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes ;
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door :
His drooping patient, long inured to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstance vain ;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man; and silent sinks into the grave. '^'
But ere his death some pious doubts arise,
Some simple fears, which '• bold bad " men despise ;
Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys above :
pressed in verse since they first made their appearance." —
Letter dated Feb. 1834.]
20 1^" There is a truth and a force in these descriptions of
rural life, which is calculated to sink deep into the memory ;
and, being confirmed by daily observation, they are recalled
upon innumerable occasions, when the ideal pictures of more
fanciful authors have lost all their interest. For ourselves at
least, we profess to be indebted to Mr. Crabbe for many of
tliese strong impressions ; and have known more tlian one of
our unpoetical acquaintances who declared they could never
pass by a parish workhouse without thinking of the descrip-
tion of it they had read at school in the ' Poetical Extracts.' "
— Edinburgh Review, 1807.
" The vulgar impression that Crabbe is throughout a gloomy
author, we ascribe to the choice of certain specimens of his
earliest poetry in the' Elegant Extracts,'— the only specimens
of him that had been at all iienerally known at the time when
most of those who have criticised his later works « ere young.
That exquisitely-finished, but heart-sickening description, in
particular, of the poor-house in ' The Village,' fixed itself on
every imagination ; and when ' The Register ' and ' liorough '
came out, the reviewers, unconscious, perhaps, of the early
prejudice that was influencing them, selected quotations
mainly of the same class." — Quarterly Riview, 1831.]
SI [" Tlie consequential apothecary, who gives an impatient
attendance in these abodes of misery, is admirably described."
— Jeffrey.]
118
CIIA HUE'S WORKS.
For this ho himhIs the iiiiinniiiiii^ nurse, v,\\t III', the |>iniis iiiiin, n|i|><'Mr,
lie, " passiii;; rirli, «itli Cnrly |miuiii|w a your ? " '"
Ah! no; u sli('|ilicnl of n liDlrrcnt stork,
Ami far niiliki- him. fccils this little tlock :
yV jovial youth, wlio thinks his Sunday's task
As much as [" Oh, laugh or mourn with me the niefnl jest,
.\ cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest !
\U)()K II.
There are fniiml, amid the ICviU of a lalxiriuiu Life, *omf!
ViewH of Traii>|iiillity and llappineiit — 'Hie I{e|HiM; and
I'liMumre of a Summer .Stiblmth : interru|iled by Inlnxicalion
niid Dispute — Village Ketraction — Ciimplaint* of the
'.Squire — Tlie Kvening Hiots — Justice— Keaiionii for thi«
iinpleaxant View of Kustic I-ife : the KlTect it «hould have
upon tlie Ix)wer ('la>is«'!i ; and the Ili:;hi-r — Tlie"fiii tlie f^iiard no more:
So Tiior, \vlien every virtue, every f;raoe,
Ixose in tliy smil, or shone within tliy lace;
A\hcu, tliougli the son of (iuANHv,'' tliou wert
known
Less by thy father's glory than thy own ;
'When Honour loved and gave thee every charm.
Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm ;
Then from our lofty hojx's and longing eyes,
l''ate and thy virtues call'd tliee to tlie skies;
Vet still we wonder at thy tow'ring fame,
And, losing thee, still dwell upon tliy name.
Oil! ever honour'd, ever valued ! saj',
What verse can i)raise thee, or what work repay ?
Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays,
Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days : —
Honours for thee thy country shall prepare,
Thee in their liearts, the good, the brave shall bear ;
To deeds like thine shall noblest cliiefs aspire,
The Muse shall mourn thee, and the world admire.
In future times, when sniit witli (ilory's charms,
The untried youth first quits a father's arms ; —
'■ Oil ! l)e like him," the weeping sire shall say ;
'■ Like j\[anneus walk, who walk'd in Honour's
w ay ;
'■ In danger foremost, yet in death sedate,
" Oh ! be like him in all things, but his fate ! "
If for tliat fate sucli puljlic tears be shed,
That Victory seems to die now thou art dead ;
How sliall a friend his nearer hope resign.
That friend a brother, and wliose soul was thine ?
By wliat bold lines shall we his grief express,
t)r by what soothing numbers make it less?
'Tis not, I know, tlie chiming of a song,
Nor all the powers tliat to the Muse belong,
Mords aj)tly cuU'd, and meanings well express'd,
Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast;
But ^'irtue, soother of the fiercest pains.
Shall heal that bosom, Kltland, where she reigns."
I.onl Koliort, after goin^ tlirongh tlie duties of liis profession
on bo.ird did'erent sliips, was made captain of the Resolution,
and commanded her in nine dilVerent actions, besides the last
niemnrable one on the 12th of April, \~xi>, when, in breakinf;
the French line of l)attle, he received the wounds which
terminated his life, in the twenty-fourth year of his afje. See
the .\nnual Register .—[This article in the Annual Kegistei
was written by .Mr. Crabbe, and is now reprinted as an .'\p-
pendi.K to " The Village."]
* [John, Marquess of Granby, the illustrious commander-
in-chief of the British forces in (Jerniany during the Seven
Years' War, died in 1770, before his father, the tliirteenth ICarl
and third Ouke of Rutland.]
[Original MS. :—
Hut RfTi.ANn's virtues shall his griefs restrain,
And join to Ileal the bosom where they reign.
See some anecdotes illustrative of the Duke's lender aflec-
tion for his gallant brother, ante, p. 33.]
' [Original edition : —
Victims victorious, who with him sh.all stand
In Fame's fair book, the guardians of the land.]
Yet hard the task to hcnl the bleeding heart,
To bid the still-recurriii;^ tlioughts depart,
'I'uiiie thefierce grief ami stem the rising sigh.
And curb rebellioiiK jiassion, with reply ;
Calmly to dwell on all that pleased liefore,
And yet to know that all shall jdeasc no more; —
Oh ! glorious labour of the soul, to save
Her captive powers, and bravely mourn tlie brave.
To sucli these thoughts will lasting comfort
give —
Life is not measured by the time we live:
'Tis not an even course of threescore years, —
A life of narrow views and jialtry fears,
(Jrey liairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring.
That take from Death tlie terrors or the sting ;
But 'tis tlie gen'rous spirit, mounting high
Above the world, tliat native of the sky;
The noble spirit, tliat, in dangers brave
Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave : —
Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath,
If in a glorious, then a timely death.
Cease then that grief, and let those tears subside ;
If Passion rule us, be that passion pride ;
If Reason, reason bids us strive to raise
Our fallen hearts, an cessit
I'ulsii mctu "
It was with great reluctance he sufTered himself to
be carried to the surgeon's apartment, and he ob-
jected to the amputation of his leg, because he
had conceived it would prevent his continuance on
board his ship ; but being assured to the contrary,
his objections ceasc K U."
TOTFIi: lUr.IlT IIONOt'RAliLF,
EDWARD LORD TIIURLOW,
LOUD niGIl CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN;* ONE OF IMS MAJESTV's MOST nONOURABLE
PBIVY COUNCIL, ETC., ETC.
Mv Lord,
Mv obligations to your Lordsliip, great as they arc, have not induced me to prefix your name to the
following poem : nor is it your Lordship's station, exalted as that is, which prevailed upon me to solicit
the honour of your protection for it. But when 1 considered your Lordship's great abilities and good
taste, so well known and so universally acknowledged, I became anxious for the privilege with which
you have indulged me ; well knowing that the Public would not be easily persuaded to disregard a
performance marked, in any degree, witli your l..ordship's approbation.
It is. My Lord, the province of superior rank, in general, to bestow this kind of patronage ; but
superior talents only can render it valuable. Of the value of your Lordship's I am fully sensible; and,
while I make my acknowledgments for that, and for many other favours. I cannot suppress the pride I
have in thus publishing my gratitude, and declaring how much I have the honour to be,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient,
JBelvoir Castle, most obliged, and devoted servant,
February 20, 178.5. George Cbabbe.
TO THE READER,
The Poem which I now offer to the public, is, I believe, the only one written on the subject ; at
least, it is the only one which 1 have any knowledge of: and, fearing there may not be found in it
many things to engage the IJeader's attention, I am willing to take the strongest hold I can upon
him, by otVeriug something which has the claim of novelty.
When the subject first occurred to lue, I meant, in a few lines only, to give some description of that
variety of dissociating articles which are huddled together in our Daily Papers. As the thought
dwelt upon me, I conceived this might be done methodically, and with some connectiou of parts, by
taking a larger scope; which notwithstanding I have done, I must still apologise for a want of union
and coherence in my poem. Subjects like this will not easily admit of them : we cannot slide from
' [Tliis poem was first piiblisheil in a thin quarto, in March, liis fellow-pupil in a Solicitor's chambers. See, in particular,
' ' . .r.. , .. .. , the stanzas —
" Round Tliurlow's head, in early youth,
.A,nd in his sportive days.
Fair Science pour'd the light of Trutli,
And Genius shed his rays," &c.]
17H5. Tlie dedication to Lord Thurlow, the preface, and some
of the author's foot-noti-s, omitted in the collection of 1807,
are now restored from the original edition ; wlii'h h.-is also
supplied several various roadiniis. The ol)li;,'ations under
which Mr. t'rabbe had been laid by Lor»l Thurlow, previous
to, and after, the publication of " The Newspaper," are de-
tailed (i)it(', pp. 32, 3-1. Thi\t the poet did not stoop to un-
worthy llattery, in the expressions he uses respecting the lite- ' Lonl Tliurlow was appointed Lord High Chancellor in
rary attainments of the t'hancellor, is suflicientlv proved by 1778, and continued in the situation till 1783 ; when, upon
the hiiih testimony of bishop Horsley, in his fessay on the the success of the Coalition ministry, he was ejected, and the
IVisotly of the (ireek and Latin Languages, and by the uni- s<'als put in commission; but, on the final triumph of Mr.
form warmth of the poet Cow per, when alluding to the , Pitt, in 17S4, he was reinstated, and possessed the seals till
splendid cjueer of the great man who had been, in early life, 1793. His Lordship died in 1806.]
THE NEWSPAPER.
125
theme to theme in an easy and graceful succession ; but on quitting one thought, there will be an
unavoidable hiatus, and in general an awkward transition into that which follows.
That, in writing upon the subject of our Newspapers, I have avoided everything which might
appear like the opinion of a party, is to be accounted for from the knowledge 1 have gained from them ;
since, the more of these Instructors a man reads, the less he will infallibly understand : nor would it
have been very consistent in me, at the same time to censure their temerity and ignorance, and to adopt
their rage.
I should have been glad to have made some discrimination in my remarks on these productions.
There is, indeed, some difference ; and I have observed, that one editor will sometimes convey his
abuse with more decency, and colour his falsehood with more appearance of probability, than another :
but until 1 see that paper wherein no great character is wantonly abused, nor groundless insinuation
wilfully disseminated, I shall not make any distinction in my remarks upon them.
It must, however, be confessed, that these things have their use ; and are, besides, vehicles of much
amusement: but this does not outweigh the evil they do to society, and the irreparable injury they
bring upon the characters of individuals. In the following poem I have given those good properties
their due weight : they have changed indignation into mirth, and turned what would otherwise have
been abhorrence, into derision.
February, 1785.*
THE NEWSPAPER.
E quibiis, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aiires :
Hi narrata ferunt alio ; mensuraque ficti
Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor :
Illic Credulitas, illic temerarius Krror,
Vanaque La>titia est, consternatique Timores,
Seditioque repens, dubioque auctore Susurri.
Ovid. Mtlamorph., lib. xii.^
This not a Time favourable to poetical Composition : and
why — Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general
Inlluence — Tlieir Numbers — The Sunday Monitor — Tlieir
general Character— Their Effect upon Individuals — upon
Society— in the Country— The Village Freeholder — ^yhat
Kind of Composition a Newspaper is ; and the Amusement
it affords — Of what Parts it is chiefly composed — Articles of
Intelligence : Advertisements : The Stage : Quacks: Puf-
fing — The Correspondents to a Newspaper, political and
poetical — Advice to the latter — Conclusion.
A TIME like this, a busy, bustling time,*
Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme :
Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong,
And mightier madness checks the flowing song :
3 [At this period party-spirit ran unusually high. Tlie
Coalition ministry, of which Mr. Burke was a member, had
recently been removed — the India bills both of Fox and Pitt
had been tlirown out, and the public mind was greatly in-
flamed by the events of the six weeks' Westminster election,
and the consequent scrutiny. Notwithstanding the philoso-
phical tone of his preface, it seems highly proliable that Mr.
Crabbe had been moved to take up the subject by the indig-
nation he felt on seeing Mr. Burke daily abused, at " this
busy, bustling time," by one set of party writers, w hile the
Duke of Rutland was equally the victim of another. Mr.
Burke had, at this time, become extremely unpopular, both
in and out of the House. ."Vt tlie opening of the new parlia-
ment, in May, 1784, so strong was the combination against
him, that the moment of his rising became a signal for
coughings, or other symptoms of pointed dislike. On one
occasion he stopped short in his argument to remark, that " he
could teach a pack of hounds to yelp with more melody and
equal comprehension."]
* [" The courts are fill'd w ith a tumultuous din
Of crowds, or issuing forth, or entering in
A thoroughfare of News : where some devise
Things never heard, some mingle truth with lies ;
The troubled air with empty sounds they beat,
Intent to hear, and eager to repeat.
Or, should we force the peaceful JIuse to
wield
Her feeble arms amid the furious field.
Where party-pens a wordy war maintain,
Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain ;
And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine,
Till serious vengeance pays an idle line :
For party-poets are like wasps, who dart
Death to themselves, and to their foes but
smart.
Hard then our fate : if general themes we
choose,
Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse ;
Or should we sing the subject of the day.
To-morrow's wonder puiFs our praise away.
More blest the bards of that poetic time,
When all found readers who could find a rhyme ; ^
Green grew the bays on every teeming head,
And Cibber was enthroned, ^ and Settle ^ read.
Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy de-
cline ;
Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine ?
Alas ! new charms the wavering many gain,
And rival sheets the reader's eye detain ;
Error sits brooding there, with added train
Of vain Credulity, and Joy as vain :
Suspicion, with Sedition joined, are near.
Ami Rumours raised, and Murmurs mix'd, and Fear."
Dryden.]
* The greatest part of this poem was written immediately
after the dissolution of the late parliament. — [The parliament
was dissolved in March, 1784. See ante, note 3.]
6 [" Happy the soil where bards like mushrooms rise.
And ask no culture but what IJyshe supplies!"
GiFFOKD.]
' [On the death of Eusden, in 1730, the laureateship was
bestowed on Cibber. When, in 1743, Pope puldislied a new-
edition of the Dunciad, he degraded Theobald from his pain-
ful pre-eminence as hero of the poem, and enthroned Cibber
in his stead : —
" Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise ;
He sleeps among the dull of ancient days :
Thou, Cibber, thou his laurel shalt support.
Folly, my son, has still a friend at court."]
•* [A poetaster who made some noise in his day by the vio-
lence of his writings. For his factious audacity he was made
126
C'RAIUUl'S WORKS.
A ilnily ssvarin, timt. Ixmisli cvt-ry .Mii>'r,
('nine Hying riulli, mid niortiils cull lliriii News:"
Fo|- llicsc, iiiircuil, the iiiil)lcst Miliiiiics lie;'"
For Uh'sc, in slici'ts unsiiil'd, ttic .Musch dio;
I'nlxm^^iit, unl)li'8t, the virgin fopii-H wait
In viiin for funic, and sink, unsoon, to frito.
Since, tlK'M, tilt! Town forsukcs ns for our foes,
The sinootlicst munlii'rs for the harshest prose;
Let lis, witli generous scorn, tiie taste deiiile,
And sing our rivals with a rival's pride.
Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain
That foul neglect is all your labours gain ;
That pity only chocks your growing si)itc
To erring ninn. and prompts you still to write;
That your choice works on humhie stalls are laid,
Or vainly grace the \\inilows of the tnide ; "
He ye my friends, if friendship e'er can waiin
Those rival hosoins whom the Muses charm;
Think of the common cause wiicreiu wc go,
Like gallant (Jrceks against the Trojan foe;
Nor let one peevisli cliief his leader Idame,
Till, crown'd witii conquest, we regain our fame;
And let us join our forces to subdue
This bold assuming but successful crew.
I sing of Ni;\vs, and all those vapid sheets
Tlie rattling hawker vends through gaping streets;'*
^Vllate'er their name, vvhatc'er tlie time they fly.
Damp from tlic press, to charm the reader's eye :
l-'or soon as Jlorning dawns vvitli roseate liue,
The Hekai.d of the morn arises too ;
Post after Post succeeds, and, all day long,
(iAZKTTES and Ledokrs swarm, a noisy throng.
When evening comes, she comes witli all lier train
Of Leugehs, CiiuoMCLES, and Posts again,
ttie city poet, whose anmuil oflice was to describe the f^lories
of the mayor's (lay. " Of these barils," says Or. .Tolinson,
" ho was the last, and seems not to have deserved even this
dofjree of regard ; for he afterwards wrote a pane{,'yric on the
virtiicsof Judge JelVreys." He died, in 1723, a pensioner in
llie Charterhouse.]
" [•' Quici^uid ajjunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voUiptas,
Uaudia, discursus, nostri farrago libelli. " — Jl'venai..
" Wliate'er the busy bustlinj; world employs.
Our wants and wishes, pleasures, cares, and joys,
These the historians of our times display,
And call it News — the hodjje-podge of a day."
BONNEI. TllORNTOX.]
I" [" Ilinv do I laugh when men of narrow souls.
Whom I-'oUy guides, and I'rejudiee controls;
Who, form'd to dullness from their very youth.
Lies of the day prefer to (iosjx'l trutli,
I'ick up their little knowledge from Iteviews,
And lay \ip all their stock of faith in News,
Had at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime,
And hold not truth as truth, if told in rhyme."
Ciii'inniii.i..]
' ' [Original edition : —
While your choice works on quiet shelves remain,
Or grace the windows of the trade in vain ;
Where e'en their fair and comely sculptures fail.
Engraved by Grignion, and design'd by Wale.]
'■^ [" We are indebted to the It.ilians for f he idea of news-
pajH-rs. The title of their Gazettas was, perhaps, derived from
Ga/,/era, a mag^iie or chatterer ; or, more prolwibly, from a
farthing coin, peculiar to the city of Venice, called (Jaietta,
which was the common price of the papers. Newspapers,
then, took their birth in that principal land of modern poli-
ticians, Italy, and under tlie government of that .aristocrat ical
republic. The lirst paper was a Venetian one, and only
Iyeen. At
present, tlie provision made for us is ample. There are morn-
ing papers for breakfast ; there are evening papers for supper,
— I beg pardon, I mean dinner ; and, lest during the interval,
wind should get into the stomach, there is a paper published,
by way of luncheon, about noon." — Bishop Horne, 1787.]
'* Tlie ephemera, or May fly, is an insect remarked by na-
turalists fur the very short time it lives after assuming its hist
and more perfict form.
'* [" No place is s.acred, not the church is free,
K'en Sunday sliines no Sabbath day to me." — Popk.]
" [The original edition reads here : —
Tlie Oor.io now appears, a rival name
Of bolder raanneis, though of younger fame.
Tlie Oglio here alluded to was a Sunday print, of brief dura-
tion, which beiian in October, KSl.]
THE NEWSPAPER.
1-27
This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow.
Nor give to Woodfall, or the world below. '^
But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish then,
What wondrous labours of the press and pen ;
Diurnal most, some thrice each week aflbrds,
Some only once, — O avarice of words !
When thousand starving minds such manna seek, '^
To drop the precious food but once a week.
Endless it were to sing the powers of all.
Their names, their numbers ; how they rise and
fall:
Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize,
Rush to the head, and poison where they please : ' ^
Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train,
They drop their maggots in the trifler's brain :
That genial soil receives the fruitful store.
And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.^"
Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose
A cause and party, as the bard his Muse ;
Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they crj'.
And through the to^\-n their dreams and omens
fly;
So the Sibylline leaves^' were blown about,
Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt ;
So idle dreams, the journals of the night.
Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle vrrong
with right. — •
Some champions for the rights that prop the crown.
Some sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down ;
Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught,
Wishing for war, but willing to be bought :
While some to every side and party go.
Shift every friend, and join with every foe ;
'" Henry Sarason Woodfall, proprietor of the Public Ad-
vertiser, in which Junius appeared, was the author of a
most important change in the character and influence of the
newspaper press. In the conduct of his journal he wasstrictly
impartial ; and, notwithstandinf; the great popularity of
Junius, by a reference to his papers of that day, it will be
seen that as many essays were admitted on the ministerial
side of the question as on that of the opposition. Mr. Wood-
fall was a man of high personal character ; he died in 1803.
See Nichols's Anfcdotes, vol. i. p. 301.]
1' [" I sit in window, dry as ark,
And on the drowning world remark;
Or to some coflee-house I stray
For news — the manna nfthe d'ly." — Green's Spleen.]
1^ [" If any read now-a-days, it is a play -book, or a pamphlet
of news." — Burton, 1614.]
■20 II" Penny-boy, jun. In truth they are dainty rooms; what
place is this ?
Cymbal. This is the outer room, where my clerks sit
And keep their sides, the Register in the midst ;
The Examiner, he sits private there witliin ;
And here I have my several rolls and liles
Of news by the alphabet, and all put up
Under their heads.
P.jun. But those, too, subdivided.'
Cymb. Into authentical and apocryphal —
Fitton. Or news of doubtful credit ; as barbers' news —
Cymb. And tailors' news, porters', and watermen's news —
Fit. Whereto, besides the Coranti and Gazetti
Cymb. I have the news of the season , . .
To;;ether with the names of special friends —
Fit. And men of correspondence in the country —
Cymb. Yes; of all ranks, and all religions —
Fit. Factors and agents —
Cymb. Liezers that lie out
Tlirough all the shires of the kingdom.
P.jini. This is fine!
Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strike
This side and that, the foes of both alike ;
A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times,
Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes.
Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail.
Fickle and false, they veer with every gale ; '^
As birds that migrate from a freezing shore
In search of warmer climes, come skimming o'er.
Some bold adventurers first prepare to try
The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky ;
But soon the growing Summer's certain sun
Wins more and more, till all at last are won :
So, on the early prospect of disgrace.
Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race ;
Instinctive tribes ! their failing food they dread.
And buy, with timely change, their future bread. -^
Such are our guides ; how many a peaceful head.
Born to be still, have they to wrangling led !
How many an honest zealot stol'n from trade.
And factious tools of pious pastors made !
With clews like these they thread the maze of
state.
These oracles explore, to learn our fate ;
Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive,
Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.
Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend rn ear,
(For we who will not speak are doom'd to hear) ;
While he, bewilder'd, tells his anxious thought.
Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught,
Or idiot hope ; for each his mind assails.
As Lloyd's court-light^* or Stockdale's ^^ gloom
prevails.
.\nd bears a brave relation ! But what says
Mercurius Britannicus to this?" &c. &c. — Ben Jonson's
Staple (if Neivs, 1623 ; Gift"ord's edit. vol. v. p. 183.
" Pamphlets are the weekly almanacks, showing what
weather is in the state, which, like the doves of Aleppo, carry
news to every part of the kingdom. They are tlie silent
traitors that affront majesty, and abuse all authority, under
tlie colour of an imprimatur. Uliiquitary flies, that liave, of
late, so blistered the ears of all men, that they cannot endure
any solid trutli. The echoes, whereby what is done in every
part of the kingdom is heard all over. They are like the mush-
rooms ; spring up in a night, and dead in a day : and such is
tlie greediness of man's nature (in these Athenian days) of
news, that thev will rather feign than want it" — 'J'. Ford,
1647.]
21 [" in foliis descripsit carmina Virgo ; —
et teneres turbavit janua frondes."
ViRO. yZ7n. lib. iii.j
■•^2 [Original edition : —
Soon as the chiefs, whom once they choo.sp, lie low,
Tlieir praise too slackens, and tlieir aid moves slow ;
Not so w hen leagued with rising powers, their rage
Then w ounds the unwary foe, and burns along the page.]
'•^3 [Original edition : —
C)r are tliere those, who ne'er their friends forsook,
Lured by no promise, by no danger sliook ?
Tlien bolder bribes the venal aid procuie,
,Vnd golden fetters make the faitliless sure ;
For those who deal in flattery or abuse,
W'ill sell them where they can the most produce.]
*■• [Lloyd's Evening Post — at this time a ministerial journal,
published three times a week.]
2* [Mr .Stockdale was, during the Coalition administration,
an opposition bookseller.]
Vet sliuid I imtinif wliilc liiif one (IcrldiinH,
< >r f^ivcs (lull coimrwiits on the s|)cccli lie limiinM :
Itiit oil ! }•<• .MiiMcs, keep jDiir votary's fi'ct
I'roin tavi'ru-liuiinf.M wlirrc politiciiiiiH meet;
Whore roctor, ilortor, niid nttoriKiy i>niino,
I'irHt on vnvh ]mrish, then oncli jmlilio cause :
Inilitecl roiulH, nn!• [(>ri;,'inal edition:—
Strive but for power, and parley but for place ;
Vet hopes, fjood man I " that all mjiy .still be well,"
And thanks the stars be has a vote tosell :
N\'hile thus he re.ids or raves, around him wait
\ rustic liand, and join in e.ich debate ;
J'artake his manly spirit, and delifjht
To praise or blame, to judge of wrong or right ;
Measures to mend, and ministers to make.
Till .■\11 go madding for their country's sake.]
*' [" The spirit of defamation, by which a newspaper is
olten possessed, has now found its own remedy in the diver-
sitv of them ; for though u gentleman mav read that he him-
self is a scoundrel and bis wife no better than she should be
to-day, lie will lie sure to read that Iwtb of them art> very good
sort of people to-morrow. In the same manner, if one paper,
through mistake or design, kill his friend, there is another
Not there the wine alone their entrance find,
Imparting useful light to mortals blind ;
But, blind themselves, these erring guiiles holdout
Alluring lights to lead us far about ;
Scrccn'd by such means, here Scanom side to side, with ready types they run.
The measure 's ended, and the work is done ;
Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest I
Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest.
To you all readers turn, and they can look
Pleased on a jiaper, who abhor a book ;
Those who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse.
Would think it hard to be denied their News ;
Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak,
Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek;
This, like the public inn, provides a treat.
Where each jiromiscuous guest sits down to eat ;
And such this mental food, as wo may call
Something to all men, and to some men all.*'
Next, in what rare production shall we trace
Such various subjects in so small a space ?
ready to fetch him to life ; nay, if he have good luck in the
order of his reading, he mav be informed that his friend is
alive again before he had perused the account of his death." —
Bishop Hohne.]
"" [Original edition : —
Studious we toil, correct, amend, retouch.
Take much away, yet mostly leave too much.]
'" " I low many hours lirini; alwut the ye.ar .'
How many days will furnish up the year?
IIoM many years a mortal man may live!"
Shakspeabe, Henri/ VI.
31 [" How shall I speak thee, or thv pow'r address,
Thou God of our idolatry, the I^ss?
By thee rt>ligion, liberty, and laws,'
Exert their inlUience, and advance their cause ;
By thee, worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befell,
IlilVused, make earth the vestibule of hell ;
Thou fount;un, at which drink the good and w ise ;
Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies ;
Like Ellen's dread probationary tree.
Knowledge of good and evil is from tliee 1
THE NEWSPAPER.
129
As the first ship upon the waters bore
Incongruous kinds who never met before ;
Or as some curious virtuoso joins
In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins,
Birds, beasts, and fishes ; nor refuses place
To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race ;
So here, compress'd within a single sheet,
Great things and small, the mean and mighty
meet.
'T is this which makes all Europe's business known,
Yet here a private man may place his o\^ti :
And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, he
May tell their honours that he sells rappee.
Add next th' amusement which the motley page
Affords to either sex and every age :
Lo ! where it comes before the cheerful fire, —
Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire
(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew),
Ere we can read the wonders that ensue :
Then eager every eye surveys the part
That brings its favourite subject to the heart ;
Grave politicians look for facts alone.
And gravely add conjectures of their own :
The sprightly nymph, who never broke her rest
For tottering crowns or mighty lands oppress'd,
Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all
For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball :
The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale
For '• ilonies wanted," and '• Estates on Sale ; " ^-
While some with equal minds to all attend.
Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an
end.^^
So charm the News ; but we, who far from to'mi
Wait till the postman ^* brings the packet down.
Once in the week, a vacant day behold.
And stay for tidings, till they 're three days old :
That day arrives ; no welcome post appears,
But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears :
AYe meet, but ah ! without our wonted smile,
To talk of headaches, and complain of bile ;
Sullen we ponder o'er a dull repast.
Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.
No will! enthusiast ever yet could rest.
Till half mankind were like liimself possessed ;
Pliilosophers, wlio darken and put out
Eternal truth by everlasting doubt ;
Cliurch quacks, with passions under no command,
^^'ho till the world with doctrines contraband,
Discoverers of they know not what, confined
Within no bounds — the blind that lead the blind ;
To streams of popular opinion drawn.
Deposit in those shallows all their spawn." — Cowpeb.]
32 [" Whilst the sages are puffing off our distempers in one
page of a newspaper, the auctioneers are pufling off our pro-
perty in another. If this island of ours is to be credited for
their description of it, it must pass for a terrestrial paradise :
it makes an English ear tingle to hear of the boundless va-
riety of lawns, groves, and parks ; lakes, rivers, and rivulets ;
decorated farms and fruitful gardens ; superb and matchless
collections of pictures, jewels, plate, furniture, and equipages ;
town houses and country houses ; hot-houses and ice-houses ;
observatories and conservatories ; offices attached and de-
tached ; with all the numerous et-ceteras that glitter down
the columns of our public prints. What is the harp of an
Orpheus compared to the hammer of an auctioneer?" — Cim-
BERLAND.]
•'^ [Original edition : —
While the sly widow, and the coxcomb sleek.
Dive deep for scandal through a hint oblique.]
A master-passion is the love of news.
Not music so commands, nor so the Muse :
Give poets claret, they grow idle soon ;
Feed the musician, and he 's out of tune ;
But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd,
Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest.^^
Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose
These rival sheets of politics and prose.
First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw,
A mutual theft that never fear'd a law ;
Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall,
And read it once, you read it through them all :
For this their runners ramble day and night,
To drag each lurking deed to open light ;
For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,
Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie :
Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring,- —
Industrious creatures ! ever on the wing ;
Home to their several cells they bear the store,
CuU'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.
No anxious virgin flies to " fair Tweed-side ; "
No injured husband mourns his faithless bride ;
No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed ;
But through the town transpires each vent'rous
deed.
Should some fair frail-one drive her prancing pair
Where rival peers contend to please the fair;
When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,
And beauty decks, with all that beauty buys :
Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,
Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels.
To these a thousand idle themes succeed.
Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed.
Here stocks, the state-barometers, we view,
That rise or fall by causes known to few ; ^^
Promotion's ladder who goes up or do'WTi ;
Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town ;
What new-born heir has made his father blest ;
What heir exults, his father now at rest ;
That ample list the Tjburn-horald gives.
And each known knave, who still forTyburn lives. ^'
31 [" He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks ;
News from all nations lumb'rini; at his back,
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful ; messenger of grief.
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some." &c. — Cowpek.]
35 [Original edition : —
Such restless passion is the love of News,
Worse than an itch for music or the Muse :
But the sick mind, of this disease possessed,
Has neither chance for cure nor intervals ot^ rest.
Such powers have things so vile, and they can boast
Tliat those peruse them who despise them most.]
36 [Original edition : —
Such tales as these w itli joy the many read,
And paraiH'aphs on paragraphs succeed ;
Tlien add the common themes that never cease,
The tide-like stocks, their ebb and their increase.]
3" [" From these daily registers, you may not only learn
when anybody is married or h.inged, but you have immediate
notice whenever his grace goes to Newmarket, or her lady-
ship sets out for Bath ; and but last week, at the same time
that the gentlemen of the law w ere told that the Lord Chan-
cellor could not sit in the Court of Chancery, people of
fashion had the melancholy news, that Signor Kiccirelli was
notable to sing. Nor is tliat partof the journal which is al-
So (^rows the work, nnd now tlm printer tricH
II in [)oNvi'rs no nioro, Imt IfiuiH on liin iillics.
^Vlu'n lo ! the advortisinp tribe Bucceed,
I'uy to 1)0 reml, yot fnitl but few will rciiil ;
Anil rliiof tir illustrious rnce, whose ilropsutHl pills
lliivc patent i)owers to vunipiish huniiin ills;
These, with their cures, n ronstinit iiid remain,
To bless the jialo eoMi])oser's fertile brain ;
Fertile it is. but still the noblest soil
Kequires some pause, some intervals from toil;
Anil they at least a certain ease obtain
From Kntterfelto's skill,-'" and (Iraham's glowing
strain.""
I too must nid, and pay to sec my name
Hun;; in those dirty avenues to fame ;
Nor pay in vain, il'auj,'ht the Muso has seen,
And suu^. Could make these avenues more clean;
Could stop one slander ore it found its way,
And gave to public scorn its helpless prey.
By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends.
Anil kindly tells the bamiuot she intends;
Thither from real life the many run,
^Vith Siddous'"' weep, or laugh with Abingdon ; ■*'
Pleased in fictitious joy or grief, to sec
The mimic passion with their own agree ;
To steal a few enchanted hours away
From self, and drop the curtain on the day.
But who can steal from self that wretched wight
■NVhose darling work is tried, some fatal night ?
JMost wretched man ! when, bane to every bliss,
He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss ;
Then groans succeed ; nor traitors on the wheel
Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel.
Nor end tliey here : next day he reads his fall
In every paper; critics are they all :
lie sees his branded name with wild affright,
And hears again the cat-calls of the night.
lotted to advertisements lests amusin;;. Not only are the
public transactions of auctioneers and horse-dealers, but the
most private concerns of pleasure and Kallantry carried on l)y
their means. Assignations are here made, and the most
secret intrigues formed, at the expense of two shillinsis. If a
genteel youns; lady, who can do all kinds of work, wants a
place, she will lie sure to hear of a master liy advertising.
I low many gentlemen have made open professions of the
strictest honour and secrecy ! And how many ladies dressed
in such a manner, and seen at such a place, have l>een de-
sired to leave a line for A. H. ! The Daily Advertiser is,
therefore, Iwcome the universal register for new faces." —
HiNNAi. Thornton.]
^^["Tlie science of adorning and beautifying the human
form seems to be systematically cultivated by many artists of
all denomin.itions. The professors of the cosmetic art offer
innumerable pastes, washes, pommades, and perfumes, by
which the ravages of time are prevented or counteracted.
Even our public spectacles bespeak a degree of improvement
hitherto unknown. Witness that wonderful wonder of all
wonders, the brave soldier and learned doctor Katterfelto,
whose courage and learning are only equalled by his honesty
anil love for this country, in remaining here unpensioned,
notwithstanding the many olTers from tlie CJueen of France,
the request of his friend and correspondent, l)r. Franklin, and
the positive commands of the King of ftussia."^GB0SB.]
** !: Captain Grose says—" Highly eminent in the class of
public exhibitors stands the learneil Dr. (iraham, whose phi-
losophic resciirches and lectures, at the same time th.-it they
tend to improve our future progenv, and to m.ake this king-
dom the region of health and beauty, serve also to destroy
that numraisf honte, or timid bashfubiess, so peculiar to the
Such help the sT.vfir. nffonls : ft larger space
Is fdl'd by iM ri-s and all the |)ufrnig roce.
Physic had once alone the lofty style,
The well-known boost, that ceased to raise a
smile :
Now all the province of that tribe invade.
And we abound in quacks of every trade.
The simple harber, once an honest name,
Cervantes fcnindcd. Fielding raised his fume: ■**
Barber no more — a gay perfumer comes,
On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms;
Here he appears, each simple mind to move,
And advertises beauty, grace, and love.
" Come, faded belles, who would your youth renew,
" And learn the wonders of Olympian dew;
" Restore the roses that begin to faint,
" Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint ;
" Your former features, airs, and arts assume,
" Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom.
" Come, batter'd beaux, whose locks are tum'd to
grey,
" And crop Discretion's lying badge away ;
" Head where they vend these smart engaging
things,
" These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs ;
" No female eye the fair deception sees,
" Not Nature's self so natural as these." *^
Such are their arts, but not confined to them,
The !Muse impartial must her sons condemn : '*''
For they, degenerate ! join the venal throng.
And pufF a lazy Pegasus along :
More guilty these, by Nature less design'd
For little arts that suit the vulgar kind.
That barbers' boj-s, who would to trade advance,
"Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from France;
That he who builds a chop-house, on his door
Paints •• The true old original Blue Boar I " —
English ladies ; for which he at least deserves the warmest
acknowledgments from all parents and husbands." The
beautiful creature, afterwanls so well knovm as Lord Nelson's
Lady Hamilton, used to personate the Goddess of Health at
this empiric's indecent exhibitions.]
*" [Mrs. Siddons made her first appearance on the London
boards in 1775, retired from tlie stage in 1812, and died in
1831. See ante, p. 35.]
■•I [Mrs. .Vbingdon appeared on the stage in 1751, and die«l
in 1815, at the age of eighty-four. For Mr. Crabbe's admii,i-
tion of her acting, see ante, p. 35.]
*' [See Don Quixote, and Tom Jones.]
■•' [" Cataracts of declamation thunder here ;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which .all comprehension wanders lost.
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
Tlie rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks.
And lilies for the brows of faded .age.
Teeth for th.' toothless, ringlets for the Irald,
Heav'n, earth, and ocean plundered of their sweets,
Nectareous essences, (llympian dews.
Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs,
Ethere.al journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread."
CoWPER.]
** [Original edition : —
Such are their pufl's, and would they all were such ;
Tlien should the verse no poet's laurel touch.]
THE NEWSPAPER.
131
These are the arts by which a thousand live,
Where Truth may smile, and Justice may for-
give : —
But when, amidst this rabble rout, vre find
A puffing poet to his honour blind :
Who slily drops quotations all about
Packet or post, and points their merit out ;
Who advertises what reviewers say.
With sham editions every second day ;
Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,
But hurries into fame with all his might ;
Although the verse some transient praise obtains.
Contempt is all the anxious poet gains.
Now Puffs exhausted. Advertisements past.
Their Correspondents stand exposed at last ;
These are a numerous tribe, to fame unkno\'\'n.
Who for the public good forego their own ;
Who volunteers in paper-war engage,-
With double portion of their party's rage :
Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear
Wooing the printer for admission here ;
Whose generous souls can condescend to pray
For leave to throw their precious time away.
Oh ! cruel Woodfall ! when a patriot draws
His gray-goose quill in his dear country's cause.
To vex and maul a ministerial race.
Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place ?
Alas! thou know'st not with what anxious heart
He longs his best-loved labours to impart ;
How he has sent them to thy brethren round,
And still the same unkind reception found :
At length indignant will he damn the state.
Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate.
These Koman souls, like Rome's great sons, are
known
To live in cells on labours of their own.
Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief,
Feeds, for his country's good, on legs of beef:
Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay,
Yet fights the public battles twice a day :
E'en now the godlike Brutus views his score
Scroll'd on the bar-board, swinging with the door :
Where, tippling punch, grave Cato's self you '11
see,
And Amor Patrice vending smuggled tea.
Last in these ranks, and least, their art's disgrace.
Neglected stand the Muses' meanest race ;
Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye
Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by :
■•5 [See ante, p. 7. " He had," (says Mr. Crabbe, speaking
of himself,) "witli youtlifiil indiscretion, written for publica-
tions wherein Damons and Delias began the correspondence
tliat does not always end tliere. and where diflidence is nursed
till it becomes presumption."]
<6 [On the first appearance of " Tlie Newspaper," in 1785,
tlie Critical Reviewers said, " Although tliis performance does
not appear so highly finished as ' The Village,' it is certainly
entitled to rank in the first class of modern productions;'"
and The Monthly Reviewers thus opened their Critique : —
" Tliis poem is a satire on tlie newspapers of tlie present day,
which are lashed by the autlior with much ingenuity. Tlie
This Poet's Comer is the place they choose,
A fatal nursery for an infant Muse ;
Unlike that Comer where true Poets lie.
These cannot live, and they shall never die ;
Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade,
And win to verse the talents due to trade.
Curb then, O youth ! these raptures as they rise.
Keep down the evil spirit and be wise ;
Follow your calling, think the Muses foes,
Nor lean upon the pestle and compose.
I know your day-dreams, and I know the snare
Hid in your flow'ry path, and cry " Beware !"
Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind,
A sudden couplet rushes on your mind ;
Here you may nameless print your idle rhj'mes.
And read your first-born work a thousand times ;
Th' infection spreads, your couplet grows apace,
Stanzas to Delia's dog or Celia's face : ■**
You take a name ; Philander's odes are seen.
Printed, and praised, in every magazine :
Diarian sages greet their brother sage.
And your dark pages please th' enlighten'd age. —
Alas ! what years you thus consume in vain,
Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain !
Go ! to your desks and counters all return ;
Your sonnets scatter, your acrostics burn ;
Trade, and be rich ; or, should your careful sires
Bequeath you wealth, indulge the nobler fires ;
Should love of fame your youthful heart betray.
Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way.
Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray.
Of all the good that mortal men pursue.
The Muse has least to give, and gives to few ;
Like some coquettish fair, she leads us on,
With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are gone ;
Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pair
Forget how constant one, and one how fair :
Meanwhile, Ambition, like a blooming bride.
Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side ;
And though she smiles not with such flattering
charms.
The brave will sooner win her to their arms.
Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the bands.
Go spread your country's fame in hostile lands ;
Her court, her senate, or her arms adorn,
And let her foes lament that you were born :
Or weigh her laws, their ancient rights defend,
Thotigh hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason's friend ;
Arm'd with strong powers, in their defence engage,
And rise the Thurlow of the future age."*^
versification is at once easy and forcible, and the rhymes are
chaste and carefuUv chosen. Mr. Crabbe seems to have se-
lected Pope as his "model, and many passages are strongly
marked imitations of the great poet. He lias introduced the
Alexandrine— we do not say the 'needless Alexandrine'—
too frequently ; a custom which prevails too much among
modern poets". But still the poem has uncommon merit, and
sufficiently evinces that the autlior is possessed of genius,
taste, and imagination."
It may be observed, that, in 1 784, the newspapers published
in Great" Britain and Ireland were only seventy-nine ; now
(1834), they amount to nearly fnur hundred.']
132
CRABBE'S WORKS.
AKISII REGISTER.
IN 'riii;i;F. pakts;^
TART 1.
Turn porri) piirr (lit sn-vis projoctiis ali umlis,
NiivitJi) iiiicliis liuiiii jaccl ial'aii.s indigiis omni
Vitiili aii\iHi>,
Vni;ituinii- liMMiin lii<»iil)ri complet, lit iL-quiim est,
Ciii taiittiiii ill vitii restnt transire maloriim.
Lucrkt. dc Xut. Rcrum, lib. D.^
The V'illage Refjistpr considered, as containinj; principally the
Annals of tlie I'oor — State of the Peasantry as meliorated
Iiy Fru;;ality and Industry — The Cottajje of an industrious
IVasant; its Ornaments —Prints and Hooks— The Garden ;
its Satisfactions — The State of the Poor, when improvident
and vicious— Tlie Row or Street, and its Inliabitants — Tlie
Dwellinffs of one of these — A Public House — Garden and
its Appendaj;es — Gamesters; rustic Sharpers, &c. — Conclu-
sion of the Introductory Piirt.
BAPTISMS.
Tlie Child of the Miller's Dau^'hter, and Relation of her Mis-
fortune — A frugal Couple : their Kind of Fruf,'ality — Plea
of the Mother of a natural Cliild : her Churcliing — I^rge
F'aniily of Gerard Ablett : his apprehensions : Comparison
between his state and that of the wealthy Farmer his Master :
his Consolation — An old Man's Anxiety for an Heir : the
.leiilousy of anotlier on having many — Characters of the
(Jrocer Hawkins and his Friend ; tlieir dilTerent Rinds of
Disappointment — Three Infants named — An Orphan Girl
and Village Solioolmistress — Gardener's Child : Pedantry
and Conceit of the Father : his botanical Discourse : Method
of fixing the Kmbryo-fruit of Cucumbers— Absurd Effects of
Rustic Vanity : observed in the names of tlieir Cliildren —
Relation of the Vestry Debate on a Foundling : Sir Richard
Monday — Children of various Inhabitants — Tlie poor
Farmer— Children of a Prolligate : his Character and Fate
— Conclusion.
Tin: year revolves, and I again explore
The simple Anuals of my Parish poor ;
• [" The Parish Register" was first published in the collec-
tion of IHin ; the preface to wliicli (see ante. pp. 9S, 9!') gives
some particulars respecting the revision of this poem, in MS.,
hy Mr. Turner and by Mr. Fox. A period of twenty-two
years had elapsed between the appearance of " The News-
paper" and tliat of "The Parish Register :"- a.s to this long
silence of the poet, see his Life, ante, pp. 47, .")! ; and the
Quarterly Review, No. C. p. 488.]
« ["This poem, like 'The Village," is dedicated to the de-
lineation of rural life and characters, and, upon a very simple
but singular plan, is divided into three parts, .\fter an intro-
ductory and general view of villa-.'e manners, the reverend
author proceeds to present his readers with an account of all
the remarkable baptisms, marria^'es, and funerdslhat appear
on his register for the preceding year, with a sketch of the
character and beliaviour of the respective parties, and such
reflections and exhortations as are suggested by the subject.
What Iiifant-mcmbcrs in my flock appear,
NNIiat Pairs I lilcss'd in the departed year;
And who, of Old or Youn};, or Nymphs or Swains,
Arc lost to Life, its pleasures ami its pains.
No Muse I ask, before my view to bring
The humble actions of the swains I sing. —
How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days ;
Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise ;
Tlieir tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts,
What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their
parts ;
By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd,
Full well 1 know — these Records give the rest.
Is there a place, save one the poet sees,
A land of love, of liberty and ease ;
Whore labour wearies not, nor cares suppress
Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness ;
Wlicre no proud mansion frowns in awful state,
Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate ;
Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng.
And half man's life is holiday and song ?
Vain search for scenes like tliese I no view appears.
By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears ;
Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd,
Aubiu'n ■* and Eden can no more be found.
Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill
And power to part them, when he feels the will !
Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few,
Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.*
Behokl the Cot ! where thrives th' industrious
swain.
Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain ;
Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray
Smiles on the window and prolongs the day ;
Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop,
-Vnd tiu-n their blossoms to the casement's top :
The poem consists, therefore, of a series of Portraits, taken
from the middlini; and lower ranks of rustic life, and de-
lineated on occasions at once more common and more
interesting than any other that could well be imagined.
They are selected with great judgment, and drawn with
inimitable accuracy and strength of colouring. Tliey are
tinished »itl\ much more minuteness and detail than the
m ^re general pictures in 'The Village.'" — .Ieffbev.]
' [■' A man, when first he leaves his prim'tive niglit,
Hreaks from his mother's womb to view tlie light ;
Like a poor carc.-u>« tumbled by the llood.
He falls weak, naked, destitute of foolni'ed ;
His rout of darkness on his loins he hrneed ;
His sword of Nliiir|iness in ids iniud lie took,
And off tiie heads of donj;lily j;iants stroke :
Tiicir ^'inriuj; eyes l)eiieid no nuirtal near;
No sound of feet ainrm'd file drowsy ear;
No l'',n}j;iisii i)iood tlieir l'aj;nn sense could smell.
But heads dropt headlong, wondering; wiiy they
fell.
These are tl>e Peasant's joy, when, placed at
ease,
Half his deiif^hted oflspring mount his knees.
To every cot the lord's iiiduif^ent mind
Has a small space for garden-};round assign'd ;
Here — till return of morn dismiss'd the farm —
Tiic careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,
Warm'd as he works, and casts his look around
On every foot of ttiat improving ground:
It is ills own he sees; Ins master's eye
Peers not about, some secret fault to spy ;
Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known ; —
Hoi)e, profit, pleasure, — they are all his own.
Here grow tlie humble civcs, and, hard by them.
The leek w ith crown globose and I'cedy stem ;
High climb Ids pulse in many an even row,
Deep strike tlie ponderous roots in soil below ;
And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste,
Give a warm relish to the night's repast.
Apples and cherries grafted by his liand.
And duster'd nuts for neiglibouring market stand.
Nor thus concludes his labour; near the cot.
The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot ;
AVhere rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes,
Proud liyacinths, the least some florist's prize,
Tulips tall-stenim'd and pounced auriculas rise.
Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends,
Meet and rejoice a family of friends;
All speak aloud, are happy anil are free,
And glad they seem, and gaily they agree.
What, tliough fastidious cars may shun the
speech,
"Wliere all are talkers, and where none can teach ;
"Where still the welcome and the words are old,
And the same stories are for ever told ;
Yet theirs is joy that, bursting from the heart.
Prompts the glad tongue these notliings to impart ;
That forms these tones of gladness we despise.
That lifts their steps, that sparkles in tlieir eyes;
That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays.
And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.
Fair scenes of peace I ye might detain us long,
But vice and misery uow demand the song ;
"'[Tlie lesend of the JVnndcring Jew — i.e. o'"an individtial
who, insulting our Saviour wlien on his wnv to (Jolsotlia, was,
in punishment, doomed to survive on eartli until the second
cominiiof .lesus Christ — was a lavounte tlienie ol'the monastic
litoraturo in tlie middle a«es, and lias been recently taken
up liy writers ot'yreat talent in several countries — for example,
liy Lewis, in " Tlie Monk "— l>v God win, in " St Leon " — in a
coem styled "The Wanderinii .lew," bv P. U. Shellev — and
lastly, by the Kev. Dr. Croly, in the romance of" " Sala-
And tuni our view from dwellings tdrnjily neat,
To tills infect(!il Kow, we t<;rm our Street.
Here, in calml, u disputatious crew
V.nch evening meet ; tiie sot, the cheat, the shrew ;
Riots arc niglilly lieani : — the curse, the cries
Of i)eaten wife, jierverse in her replies;
Wliile shrieking chililren hold each thrcat'iiing
hand.
And sometimes life, ami sometimes food demand:
Boys, in their first-stol'n rags, to swear begin.
And girls, who heed not dress, are skill'd in gin:
Snarers and smugglers here their gains divide;
lOnsnaring females here their victims liide ;
And here is one, the Sibyl of the Uow,
Who knows all secrets, or affects to know.
Seeking their fate, to her the simple run.
To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun ;
^Hsfress of worthless arts, depraved in will,
Her care unblest and unrepaid her skill,
Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops.
And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes.
Between the road-way and the walls, offence
Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense :
There lie, obscene, at every open door,
Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor,
And day by day the mingled masses grow.
As sinks are disembogued and kennels flow.
There liungry dogs from hungry children steal ;
There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal ;
Their dropsied infants wail without redress,
And all is want and woe and wretchedness ;
Yet should these boys, with bodies bronzed and bare,
High-swoln and liard, outlive that lack of care —
Forced on some farm, the une.\erted strength.
Though loth to action, is compcU'd at length.
When warm'd by health, as serpents in the spring.
Aside their slough of indolence they fling.
Yet, ere they go. a greater evil comes —
See ! crowded beds in those contiguous rooms ;
Beds but ill parted, by a paltry screen
Of paper'd lath, or curtain dropt between ;
Daughters and sons to yon comjiartments creep.
And parents here beside their children sleep :
Y'c who have power, these thoughtless people part.
Nor let the ear be first to taint the heart.
Come ! search within, nor sight nor smell regard ;*
The true physician walks the foulest ward.
See ! on the floor, what frousy patches rest !
What nauseous fragments on yon fractured chest !
What downy dust beneath j-on window-seat !
And round these posts that serve this bed for feet ;
This bed where all those tatter'd garments lie.
Worn by each se.\, and now perforce throwii by !
See I as we gaze, an infant lifts its head,
Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed ;
The Jlother-gossip has the love suppress'd
An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast ;
And daily prattles, as her round she takes,
(With strong resentment) of the want she makes.
thiel." Tlie ballads and chap-books on this subject arc innu-
merable.]
'• [" Life of the renowned Thomas Thumb the Great."]
"["History of Mr. Thomas Hickatlirift, afterwards Sir
Thomas Hickatlirilt, Knight."]
" [" History of J.ick tlie Giant Killer."]
Whence all these woes ? — From want of virtuous
will,
Of honest shame, of time-improving skill ;
From want of care t' employ the vacant hour,
And want of every kind but want of power.
Here are no wheels for either wool or flax,
But packs of cards — made up of sundry packs.
Here is no clock, nor will they turn the glass.
And see how swift th' important moments pass ;
Here are no books, but ballads on the wall,
Are some abusive, and indecent all ;
Pistols are here, unpair'd ; with nets and hooks,
Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks ;
An ample flask, that nightly rovers fill
With recent poison from the Dutchman's still ;
A box of tools, with wires of various size.
Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise,
And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize.
To every house belongs a space of ground.
Of equal size, once fenced with paling round ;
That paling now by slothful waste destroy'^.
Dead gorse and stumps of elder fill the void ;
Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay
Hide sots and striplings at their drink or i)lay :
Within, a board, beneath a tiled retreat,
Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat ;
Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows,
Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows ;
Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile.
The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile ;
Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door.
And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the
floor.
Here his poor bird th' inhuman Cocker brings,
Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings ;
With spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds.
And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds.-"
Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes.
The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies ;
Must faintly peck at his victorious foe.
And reel and stagger at each feeble blow :
When fallen, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes.
His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes ;
And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake,
And only bled and perish'd for his sake.'^^
20 |-<' -We should find it hard to vindicate the destroying of
any tiling that has life, merely out of wantonness; yet on this
principle our children are bred up, and one of the first
pleasures we allow them is, the licence of inflicting pain upon
poor animals; almost as soon as we are sensible what life is
ourselves, we make it our sport to take it from other crea-
tures." — Pope.]
''i [" There is nothing comparable with the above descrip-
tion, but some of the prose sketches of Mandeville." —
.Teffbey.]
22 [Burn's Justice of the Peace and Parish Oj^ictr.']
23 ["Crabbe is confessedly the most oriijinal and vivid painter
of the vast vari-tifs of common life, that England has ever
produced; and while several living poets possess a more
splendid and imposing representation, we are greatlv mis-
taken if he has not taken a firmer hold than any other, on the
melancholy convictions of men's hearts ruminating on the
good and evil of this mysterious world. Of all men of thisage,
he is the best Portrait-painter : he is never contented with a
single flowing sketch of a character — they must all be drawn
full-length — to the very life — and with all their most minute
and characteristic features, even of dress and manners. He
seems to have known them all personally ; and when lie
Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yield
Praise with relief, the fathers of the field ;
And these who take from our reluctant hands
What Burn advises '■'■^ or the Bench commands.
Our Farmers round, well pleased with constant
gain.
Like other farmers, flourish and complain. —
These are our groups ; our Portraits next appear,
And close our Exhibition for the year.-^
With evil omen we that year begin :
A Child of Shame, — stem Justice adds, of Sin,
Is first recorded ; — I would hide the deed.
But vain the wish ; I sigh and I proceed :
And could I well th' instructive truth convey,
'T would warn the giddy and awake the gay.
Of all the nymphs who gave our village grace,
The Miller's daughter had the fairest face :
Proud was the ^liller ; money was his pride ;
He rode to market, as our farmers ride.
And 't was his boast, inspired by spirits, there.
His favourite Lucj' should be rich as fair ;
But she must meek and still obedient prove.
And not presume, without his leave, to love.
A youthful Sailor heard him ; — " Ha !" quoth he,
'' This Miller's maiden is a prize for me ;
" Her charms I love, his riches I desire,
'• And all his threats but fan the kindling fire ;
'• My ebbing purse no more the foe shall fill,
" But Love's kind act and Lucy at the mill."
Thus thought the youth, and soon the chace
began,
Stretch'd all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan :
His trusty staff in his bold hand he took.
Like him and like his frigate, heart of oak ;
Fresh were his features, his attire was new ;
Clean was his linen, and his jacket blue :
Of finest jean, his trowsers, tight and trim,
Brush'd the large buckle at the silver rim.
He soon arrived, he traced the village-green.
There saw the maid, and was with pleasure seen ;
Then talk'd of love, till Lucy's yielding heart
Confess'd 't was painful, though 't was right to part.
describes them, he does so as if he thought that he would be
guilty of a kind of falsehood, in omitting the description of
a single peculiarity. Accustomed to look on men as they
exist and act, he not only does not fear, but he absolutely
loves to view their vices and their miseries ; and hence has his
poetry been accused of giving too dark a picture of life. IJut.
at the same time, we mu>t remember n hat those haunts of life
are into which his spirit has wandered. The power is almost
miraculous with which he has stirred up human nature from
its very dregs, and shown working in them the common spirit
of humanity. He lays before us scenes and characters from
which, in real life, we should turn our eyes with intolerant
disgust ; and yet he forces us to ow n, that on such scenes, and
by such characters, much the same kind of part is played that
ourselves play on another stage. He leaves it to other poets
to carry us into the company of shepherds and dalesmen, in
the heart of pastoral peace ; and sets us down in crowds of
fierce and sullen men, contending against each otlier, in
lawful or in lawless life, with all the energies of exasperated
passion. To us it appears, that until Crabbe wrote, we knew
not what direful tragedies are for ever steeping in tears or in
blood the footsteps of the humblest of our race ; and tliat he
has opened, as it were, a theatre, on which the homely actors
that pass before us assume no disguise — on which everv catas-
troplie borrows its terror from truth and everv scene seems
shifted by the very hands of nature." — Wilson.]
136
CIIAIJBE'S WORKS.
" l'(ir iili ! my father 1ms n Imiif^lity houI ;
" AVIioin lii'Ht lie lov('8, he loves Imt to eoiitrol;
" Ale to some cliiirl in l)iir);iiiii he '11 roiisij;n,
'' And make some tyrant of the parish mine :
" Colli is his heart, and he with looks severe
'• lias often I'oreeil imt never sheil tlie tear;
" Save, when my mother died, someilrops expressM
" A kinil of sorrow for a wife at rest : — ■
" To me a master's stern regard is shown,
" I 'm like his steed, ]>ri/ed hij;hly as his own ;
" Strokeil hut corrected, threatened when supjilied,
'• His slave and Itoast, his victim and his pride."
•• Clieer up, my hiss ! I 'II to thy father go,
'• The Miller cannot he the !>iailor's foe;
'' IJoth live liy Heaven's free gale, that j)lnys aloud
" In the stretch'd canvass and the jjiping shroud ;
'• The rush of winds, the flapping sails ahove,
'• And rattling planks w ithin. are sounds ire love;
" Calms are our dread ; when tempests plough the
deep,
'• We take a reef, and to the rocking sleep."
" Ha ! " quoth the Miller, moved at speech so
rash,
" Art thou like me ? then where thy notes and
casli ?
'* Away to AVapping, and a wife command,
" With all thy wealth, a guinea in thine hand;
*■ Tliere with thy messmates (juatf the muddy cheer,
" And leave my Lucy for thy betters here."
" Jtcvcngc ! revenge ! " the angry lover cried,
Then sought the nymph, and '• Be thou now my
l)ride."
Bride liad she been, hut they no priest could move
To hind in law, the couple bound by love.
Mhat sought these lovers then by day by night?
But stolen moments of disturb'd delight ;
Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly prized.
Transports that pain'd, and joys that agonised ;
Till the fond damsel, pleased with lad so trim.
Awed by her parent, and enticed by him.
Her lovely form from savage power to save.
Gave — not her hand — but all she could she gave.
Then came the day of shame, the grievous night,
The varying look, the wandering appetite ;
The joy assumed, while sorrow dinun'd the eyes.
The forced sad smiles that follow'd sudden sighs ;
And every art, long used, but used in vain.
To hide thy progress. Nature, and thy pain.
Too eager caution shows some danger 's near.
The bully's bluster proves the cowanl's fear ;
His sober step the ilrnnkard vainly tries.
And nymphs expose the failings they disguise.
First, whispering gossips were in parties seen,
Then louder Scandal walk'd the village-green ;
Ne.xt babbling FoUj- told the growing ill.
And busy Malice dropp'd it at the mill.
•• Co! to thy curse and mine," the Father said,
■' Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed;
'■ Want and a wailing brat thy portion be,
" Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me ; —
" Where skulks the villain?" —
'' On the ocean wide
" My William seeks a portion for his bride." —
" Vain be his search ! but, till the traitor come,
•' The higgler's cottage be thy future home ;
•• There with his ancient shrew and care abide,
'• And hide thy head, — thy shame thou canst not
hide."
Day after clay waH pnss'd in i)ains and grief;
W<'ek follow'd week, — and still wos no relief:
Her boy was born — no lads nor lasses came
'I'o grace the rite or give the ehilil a name ;
Nor grave conceited nurse, of oflice i)roud,
Bore the young Christian roaring through tlie
crowd :
In a small chamber was my office done,
Where blinks through jjaper'd panes the setting
sun ;
Where noisy sparrows, perch'd on penthouse neor,
Chirp tuneless joy, and mock the frequent tear;
Bats on their «fbl>y wings in darkness move,
And feebly shriek their melancholy love.
No Sailor came ; the months in terror fled !
Then news arrived — He fought, and he was »eai< I
At the lone cottage I-ney lives, and still
Walks for her weekly i)ittance to the mill ;
A mean seraglio there her father keeps.
Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps;
And sees the plenty, while compcll'd to stay,
Her father's pride, become his harlot's prey.
Throughout the lanes she glides, at evening's
close,
And softly lulls her infant to repose ;
Then sits and gazes, but with viewless look,
As gilds the moon the rippling of the brook ;
And sings her vespers, but in voice so low,
She hears their murmurs as the waters flow :
And she too murmurs, and begins to find
The solemn wanderings of a woimded mind.
Visions of terror, views of woe succeed.
The mind's impatience, to the body's need ;
By turns to that, by turns to this a prey,
She knows what reason yields, and dreads what
madness may.
Next, with their boj-, a decent couple came.
And call'd liim Itobert, 't was his father's name ;
Three girls preceded, all by time endear'd.
And future births were neither hoped nor fear'd :
Blest in each other, but to no excess,
Health, quiet, comfort, form'd their happiness;
Love all made up of torture and delight.
Was but mere madness in this couple's sight :
Susan could think, though not without a sigh.
If she were gone, who should her place sujiply ;
And Robert, half in earnest, half in jest.
Talk of her spouse when he should be at rest :
Yet strange would either think it to be told.
Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold.
Few were their acres. — but, w ith these content.
They were, each pay-day. ready with their rent :
And few their wishes— what their fann denied,
The neighbouring town, at trilling cost-, supplied.
If at the draper's window Susan cast
A longing look, as with her goods she pass'd,
And, w ith the produce of the wheel and churn,
Bought her a Sunday-robe on her return ;
True to her maxim, she would take no rest,
Till care repaid that portion to the chest :
Or if, when loitering at the Whitsun-fair,
Her Kobert spent some idle shillings there;
I'p at the barn, before the break of day.
He made his labour for th' indidgence pay :
Thus both — that w aste itself might work in
vain —
Wrought double tides, and all was well again.
/
THE PARISH REGISTER.
137
Yet, though so prudent, there were times of joy,
(The day they wed, the christening of the boy,)
Wlion to the wealthier farmers there was sliown
Welcome unfeign'd, and plenty like their own ;
For Susan served the great, and had some pride
Among our topmost people to preside :
Yet iu that plenty, in that welcome free,
There was the guiding nice frugality,
That, in the festal as the frugal day,
Has, in a different mode, a sovereign sway ;
As tides the same attractive influence know,
In the least ebb and in their proudest flow ;
The wise frugality, that does not give
A life to saving, but that saves to live ;
Sparing, not pinching, mindful though not mean,
O'er all presiding, yet in nothing seen.
Recorded next a babe of love I trace !
Of many loves, the mother's fresh disgrace. —
" Again, thou harlot ! could not all thy pain,
" All my reproof, thy wanton thoughts restrain ?"
" Alas ! ■ your reverence, wanton thoughts, I
grant,
" Were once my motive, now the thoughts of want ;
" Women, like me, as ducks in a decoy,
" Swim down a stream, and seem to swim in joy.
" Your sex pursue us, and our own disdain ;
" Keturn is dreadful, and escape is vain.
" Would men forsake us, and would women strive
" To help the fall'n, their virtue might revive." ^■*
For rite of churching soon she made her way,
In dread of scandal, should she miss the day : —
Two matrons came ! with them she humbly knelt.
Their action copied and their comforts felt,
From that great pain and peril to be free,
Though still in peril of that pain to be ;
Alas I what numbers, like this amorous dame.
Are quick to censure, but are dead to shame !
Twin-infants then appear ; a girl, a boy,
Th' o'erflowing cup of Gerard Ablett's joy :
One had I named in every year that passed
Since Gerard wed ! and twins behold at last !
Well pleased, the bridegroom smiled to hear — " A
vine
" Fruitful and spreading round tiie walls be thine,'*
" And branchdike be thine offspring!"— Gerard
then
Look'd joyful love, and softly said " Amen."
Now of that vine he 'd have no more increase,
Those playful branches now disturb his peace :
Them he beholds around his tables spread,
But finds, the more the branch, the less the bread ;
And while they run his humble walls about.
They keep the sunshine of good humour out.
Cease, man, to grieve ! thy master's lot survey.
Whom wife and children, thou and thine obey ;
A farmer proud, beyond a farmer's pride,
Of all around the envy or the guide ;
Who trots to market on a steed so fine.
That when I meet him, I 'm ashamed of mine ;
2* [" Let the libertine reflect a moment on the situation of
that woman, who, being forsaken by her betrayer, is reduced
to the necessity of turning prostitute for bread, and judge of
the enormity of his guilt by the evils which it produces.
Where can she hope for refuge ? ' The world k not her friend,
nor the world's law.' Surely those whom passion or interest
Whose board is high up-heaved with generous fare.
Which five stout sons and three tall daughters
share.
Cease, man, to grieve, and listen to his care.
A few years fled, and all thy boys shall be
Lords of a cot, and labourers like thee :
Thy girls unportion'd neighb'ring youths shall lead
Brides from my chui'ch, and thenceforth thou art
freed :
But then thy master shall of cares complain.
Care after care, a long connected train ;
His sons for farms shall ask a large supply,
For farmers' sons each gentle miss shall sigh ;
Thy mistress, reasoning well of life's decay,
Shall ask a chaise, and hardly brook delay ;
The smart young cornet, who with so much grace
Rode in the ranks and betted at the race.
While the vex'd parent rails at deed so rash.
Shall d — n his luck, and stretch his hand for cash.
Sad troubles, Gerard ! now pertain to thee.
When thy rich master seems from trouble free ;
But 't is one fate at different times assign'd.
And thou shalt lose the cares that he must find.
" Ah !" quoth our village Grocer, rich and old,
" Would I might one such cause for care behold '."
To whom his Friend, " Mine greater bliss would be,
" Would Heav'n take those my spouse assigns to
Aged were both, that Dawkins, Ditchem this.
Who much of marriage thought, and much amiss ;
Both would delaj', the one, till — riches gain'd,
The son he wish'd might be to honour train'd ;
His Friend— lest fierce intruding heirs should
come,
To waste his hoard and vex his quiet home.
Dawkins, a dealer once, on burthen'd back
Bore his whole substance in a pedlar's pack ;
To dames discreet, the duties yet unpaid.
His stores of lace and hyson he convey'd :
When thus enrich'd, he chose at home to stop,
And fleece his neighbours in a new-built shop ;
Then woo'd a spinster blithe, and hoped, when
wed.
For love's fair favours and a fruitful bed.
Not so his Friend ; — on widow fair and staid
He fix'd his eye, but he was much afraid ;
Yet woo'd ; while she his hair of silver hue
Demurely noticed, and her eye withdrew :
Doubtful he paused — ■' Ah ! were I sure," he cried,
" No craving children would my gains divide ;
" Fair as she is, I would my widow take,
" And live more largely for my partner's sake."
With such their views some thoughtful years
they pass'd.
And hoping, dreading, they were bound at last.
And what their fate ? Observe them as they go.
Comparing fear with fear and woe with woe.
" Humphrey !" said Dawkins, " envy in my breast
" Sickens to see thee in thy children blest ;
have already depraved, have some claim to compassion, from
beings equally frail and fallible witli themselves!"— Johnson.]
25 [" Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thy
house ; thy children like olive plants about thy table."—
Psalm exxviii. a.]
i:iH
CRABBE'S WORKS.
" 'I'licy nrc tliy joys, wliili' I f,'i) j,'ri('vinn lioiiic
" 'I'll II suil s|i(iusc, Mini iiiir cti'i'iiiil ^liiiiiii :
" We liiok ilrH|i()iiilciicy ; iki iiif'imt near,
" 'To l)l('ss tlif c)!' or will llic imrciit's ciir ;
" Our Hiiililoii liciits iiDil <|iinrrois to allay,
'■ And sootho tin' )ictty suH'criiins of tliu ilny :
■' Alike our want, yet both tlio want reprove;
■■ Where are, I cry, these pleilj^es of our love?
" When she, like .liiroli's wife, makes fierce reply,
■• Vet fund Oh! give nie children, or I die:'"
" And I return —still childless doom'd to live,
•' Like the vex'd patriarch —Are tlieymine to give?
" Ah ! nmcli I envy thee thy hoys, vvlio ride
" On poplar hrnnch. and canter at thy side;
" And (,'irls, whose cheeks thy chin's fierce fondness
know,
'• And with fresli heauty at tlie contact glow."
" Oh ! siini)le friend," said Ditchcm, " wouldst
thou gain
" A fatlier's pleasure by a liushand's pain?
" Alas ! what jdeasure — wlien some vif^'rous boy
'■ Should swell thy ])ride, some rosy girl thy joy ;
" Is it to doubt who grafted this sweet flower,
" Or whence arose that spirit and that power?
" Four years I 'vc wed ; not one has passed in
vain ;
•' Behold the fifth ! behold a babe again !
'■ .My wife's gay friends th' unwelcome imp admire,
■' And fill the room with gratulation dire :
'• While I in silence sate, revolving all
" That influence ancient men, or that befall ;
'• A. gay pert guest — lleav'n knows his business —
came ;
" A glorious boj' ! he cried, and what the name ?
" Angry I growl'd, — My spirit cease to tease,
'■ Name it yourselves, — Cain, .ludas, if you please ;
'• His father's give liim, — should you that explore,
'• The devil's or yours : — 1 said, and sought the
door.
'' My tender partner not a word or sigh
'■ Gives to my wrath, nor to my speech reply ;
'■ But takes her comforts, triumphs in my pain,
'• And looks undaunted for a birth again."
Heirs thus ilenied alHict the pining heart,
And thus atforded, jealous pangs impart ;
Let, therefore, none avoid, and none demand
These arrows number'd for the giant's liand.
Then with their infants three, the parents came.
And each assign'd — -'twas all they had — a name;
Mames of no mark or price ; of them not one
Slmll court our view on the sepulchral stone.
Or stop the clerk, th' engraven scrolls to spell,
Or keep the sexton from the sermon bell.
*'' [" Rnchnel said unto Jacob, Give me children, or else I
die." — Qeii. xxx. 1.]
*•" [A genus of plants, class 5, Pentandria.]
*■' [A plant so called, as the poefs feien, from Ilvaoynthiis,
aWaiilifiil youth, wlio, bein? accidentally killed by Apollo,
was changed into a (lower.]
'» [The deadly nightshade, the Atropa belladonna of Lin-
na-us.]
3" [In the Linnean system, a genus of plants, cUiss 5.]
" [Otherwise called laurel-bay.]
,\ii orplian-girl succccdB : ere she was bom
Her father tlied, her mother on that mom :
The j)ious mistress of the Hchixd sustains
Her jiareiits' Jiart, nor their all'ertion feigns,
But pitying feels : with iluc respect and joy,
1 trace the matron at her loved employ ;
Wliat time the striplings, wearied e'en with play,
I'art at the closing of the summer's day,
And each by different patli returns the well-known
way-
Then I behold her at her cottage-door.
Frugal of light; — her Bible laid before,
When on her double duty she proceeds.
Of time as frugal — knitting as she reads :
Her idle neighbours, who approach to tell
Some trifling talc, her serious looks compel
To hear reluctant, — while the lads who pass,
In pure respect, walk silent on the grass :
Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes,
Till solemn prayers the daily duties close.
But I digress, and lo ! an infant train
Appear, and call me to my task again.
" AVhy Lonicera wilt thou name thy cliild ?"
I asked the (hardener's wife, in accents mild :
" W^e have a right," replied the sturdy dame ; —
And Lonicera "•'^ was the infant's name.
H" next a son shall yichl our (Jardener joy.
Then Hyacinthus ■" sliall be that fair boy ;
And if a girl, they will at length agree
That Belladonna"''* that fair maid shall be.
High-sounding words our worthy Gardener
gets.
And at his club to wondering swains repeats ;
He then of Rhus ^^ and Rhododendron" speaks.
And Allium calls his onions and his leeks ;
Nor weeds are now, for whence arose the weed.
Scarce plants, fair herbs, and curious flowers pro-
ceed ;
Where Cuckoo-pints and Dandelions sprung,
(Gross names had they our plainer sires among.)
There Arums, there Leontodons we view.
And .\rtcmisia grows where wormwood grew.
But though no weed exists his garden round.
From Rume.\ ^^ strong our Gardener frees his
ground.
Takes soft Senecio ^^ from the yielding land,
And grasps the arm'd I'rtica ^* in his hand.
Kot Darwin's self had more delight to sing
Of floral courtsliip. in th' awaken'd Spring.
Than Peter Pratt, who simpering loves to tell
How rise the Stamens, as the Pistils swell ;
How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse,
And give and take the vegetable vows ; '*
" [Tlie Lapathum sylvestre of Pliny, when it grew wild.]
" [So called, because it grows hoary, like the hare, in the
spring.]
3< [The nettle :—
" Wide o'er the madd'ning throng Urtica flings
Her barbed shafts, and darts her poison'd slings."
Uarwix.]
" [" First the fall Canna lifts his curled brow
Krect to Heaven, and plishts his nuptial vow:
Round the chill fair he folds his crimson vest.
And clasps the timorous beauty to his breast."
Harwiv.]
THE PARISH REGISTER.
139
How those estcem'd of old but tips and chives,
Are tender husbands and obedient wives ;
Who live and love within the sacred bower, —
That bridal bed, the vulgar term a flower.
Hear Peter proudly, to some humble friend,
A wondrous secret, in his science, lend : —
" Would you advance the nuptial hour and bring
" The fruit of Autumn with the flowers of Spring ;
" View that light frame where Cucumis ^® lies
spread,
" And trace the husbands in their golden bed,
" Three powder'd Anthers ; ^'^ — then no more delay,
" But to the Stigma's tip their dust convey ;
" Then by thyself, from prying glance secure,
'• Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure ;
'• A long-abiding race the deed shall pay,
" Nor one unblest abortion pine away."
T' admire their friend's discourse our swains
agree,
And call it science and philosophy.
'Tis good, 'tis pleasant, through th' advancing
year.
To see unnumber'd growing forms appear ;
What leafy-life from Earth's broad bosom rise !
What insect-myriads seek the summer skies !
What scaly tribes in every streamlet move ;
What plumy people sing in every grove !
All with the year awaked to life, delight, and love.
Then names are good ; for how, without their
aid,
Is knowledge, gain'd by man, to man convey'd ?
But from that source shall all our pleasures flow ?
Shall all our knowledge be those names to know ?
Then he, with memory blest, shall bear away
The palm from Grew,^^ and Middleton,^^ and Kay ;■*"
No ! let us rather seek, in grove and field.
What food for wonder, what for use they yield ;
Some just remark from Nature's people bring.
And some new source of homage for her King.
Pride lives with all ; strange names our rustics
give
To helpless infants, that their own may live ;
Pleased to be known, they '11 some attention claim.
And find some by-way to the house of fame.
The straightest furrow lifts the ploughman's art.
The hat he gain'd has warmth for head and heart ;
The bowl that beats the greater number down
Of tottering nine-pins, gives to fame the clown ;
Or, foil'd in these, he opes his ample jaws.
And lets a frog leap down, to gain applause ;
Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week.
Or challenges a well-pinch'd pig to squeak :
Some idle deed, some child's preposterous name.
Shall make him known, and give his folly fame.
To name an infant meet our village sires,
Assembled all as such event requires ;
^ [The cucumber ]
■^7 [Formerly called chives.]
38 [A distinguished botanist, and author of the ' Anatomy
of Plants.']
39 [William Middleton, author of the ' Properties of Herbs,"
&c. Sec]
Frequent and full, the rural sages sate,
And speakers many urged the long debate, —
Some harden'd knaves, who roved the country
round.
Had left a babe within the parish-bound. — •
First, of the fact they question'd — " Was it true ? "
The child was brought — " What then remained to
do?"
" Was 't dead or living ? " This was fairly proved, —
'Twas pinch'd, it roar'd, and every doubt re-
moved.
Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call
Was long a question, and it posed them all ;
For he who lent it to a babe unknown.
Censorious men might take it for his own :
They look'd about, they gravely spoke to all,
And not one Richard answer'd to the call.
Next they inquired the day, when, passing by,
Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry :
This known, — how food and raiment they might
give,
Was next debated — for the rogue would live ;
At last, with all their words and work content,
Back to their homes the prudent vestry went.
And Richard Monday*^ to the workhouse sent.
There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and
fed.
And duly took his beatings and his bread ;
Patient in all control, in all abuse.
He found contempt and kicking have their use :
Sad, silent, supple ; bending to the blow,
A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low ;
His pliant soul gave way to all things base.
He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace.
It seem'd, so well his passions he suppress'd,
No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast ;
Him might the meanest paviper bruise and cheat.
He was a footstool for the beggar's feet ;
His were the legs that ran at all commands ;
They used on all occasions Richard's hands :
His very soul was not his own ; he stole
As others order'd, and without a dole ;
In all disputes, on either part he lied,
And freely pledged his oath on either side ;
In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest.
In all detections Richard first confess'd :
Yet, though disgraced, he watch'd his time so
well.
He rose in favour, when in fame he fell ;
Base was his usage, vile his whole employ.
And all despised and fed the pliant boy.
At length, " Tis time he should abroad be sent,"
Was whisper'd near him, — and abroad he went ;
One morn they call'd him, Richard answer'd not ;
They deem'd him hanging, and in time forgot, —
Yet miss'd him long, as each throughout the
clan
Found he " had better spared a better man." *^
<» [The eminent author of the ' Historia Plantarum." He
died in 1705.]
4' [" First I made him know his name should be FriHni/,
which was the day I saved his life, and I called him so for the
memory of the \.ime."—Rubinsun Crusoe. J
45 " Poor Jack ! farewell ;
I could have better spared a better man."
Henrij V. of Fahtnfn Shakspeare.
T 2
140
CIlAIMUrS WOllKS.
Now Uiclmrd's tnlents for the world were fit,
111- M IK) siimll (Miiitiin);, luul liml m>iiu- hiiiiiII wit;
lliid lliiit fiilm look «lii('li si'cin'd to nil iissciit,
Ami that comiilucciit siiccch which notliiiin ini'unt :
He M l>iit one cure, mid that lie strove to hide —
llowhesi for Kichanl Monday to jirovide.
Steel, throiif;!) opposin}; platen, the nia);iiet draws,
And steely atoms culls from dust nml straws;
And thus o>ir hero, to his interest true,
(Jold fhrouj^h all liars and from each trifle drew ;
But still more surely round the world to go,
This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe.
I. out; lost to us, at last our man we trace, —
" Sir Uichnrd Momlay died at Monday-place :"
His lady's worth, his dau^jhter's, we peruse,
And find his f^randsons nil as rich as Jews :
He ^nve reformiu'; charities a sum.
Ami l)ouf;ht the blessinj;s of the blind and dumb ;
IJeiineathed to missions money from the stocks.
And 15ildes issued from liis privnte box;
But to his native jjlace severely just,
He left a pittnncc bound in rijjid trust ; —
Two i)altry pounds, on every quarter's-day,
(At church produced) for forty loaves should
i>"y ;
A stinted gift, that to the parish shows
He kept in mind tlicir bounty and their blows !
To farmers three, the year has given a son,
Finch on the Moor, and French, and Middlelon.
Twice in this year a female Giles I see,
A S/xtlilini/ once, and once a Uarnabi/ : —
A humble man is he, and when they meet,
Our farmers find him on a distant seat ;
There for their wit lie serves a constant theme, —
'• They praise his dairy, they extol his team,
" They ask the price of each unrivall'd steed,
'" And whence his sheep, that admiral)le breed.
" His thriving arts they beg he would explain,
" And where he puts the money he must gain.
'' They have their daughters, but they fear their
friend
'• Would think his sons too much would con-
descend ; —
" They have their sons who would their fortunes
try,
" But fear his daughters will their suit deny."
So runs the joke, while James, with sigh profound,
And face of care, looks moveless on the ground ;
His cares, his sighs, provoke the insult more,
And point the jest — for Barnaby is poor.
Last in my list, five untaught lads appear ;
Their father dead, compassion sent them here, —
■•^ [The inndel poacher was drawn from a blacksmith
at Leiston, near .\ldlx>rouf,'h, wliom the autlior visited in
Ills capacity of surgeon, in 1779, and wliose hardened clia-
raclcr made a strong impression on his mind. Losing his
hand liy amput.-ition, he exclaimed, with a sneer, " I sup-
pose, l3octor Crablx', I shall get it again at the resurrco-
ti,.,,!"]
For Btill that rustic infldcl denied
To liave their names with solemn rite applieil :
His, a lone house, by Dea'linan's J)yke-way
stood ;
And his n nightly haunt, in Lonely-wood:
I'',nch village inn has heard the ruffian boast,
'I'hat he believed " in neither f jod nor ghost ;
" Thot when the sod upon the sinner press'd,
" lie, like the saint, had everlasting rest ;
" 'i'hnt never jiriest believed his doctrines true,
" But would, fe found in the Fairy Queen.
See the end of tlie First Book, and other places.
[" Now strike your sailes, ye jolly mariners!
For wee be come into a quiet rode,
Where we must land some of our passengers.
And light tiiis weary vessel of her lode," ^c]
THE PARISH REGISTER.
141
PART II.
Nubere si qua voles, quamvis properabitis ambo,
Difl'er ; habent parvae commoda magna morae.
Ovid. Fast. lib. iii.'
MARRIAGES.
Previous Consideration necessary : yet not too long Delay —
Imprudent Marriage of old Kirk and his Servant — Compa-
rison between an ancient and youthful Partner to a young
Man — Prudence of Donald the Gardener — Pairish Wedding :
the compelled Bridegroom : Day of Marriage, how spent —
Relation of the Accomplishments of Pha'be Dawson, a
riLstic Beauty : her Lover : his Courtship : tlieir Marriage
— Misery of Precipitation — Tlie wealthy Couple : Reluctance
in the Husband ; why ?— Unusually fair Signatures in the
Register : the common Kind— Seduction of Lucy Collins
by Footman Daniel : her rustic Lover : her Return to him
— An ancient Couple : Comparisons on the Occ^on —
More pleasant View of Village Matrimony : Farmers cele-
brating the Day of Marriage : their Wives — Reuben and
Rachael, a happy Pair : an example of prudent Delay —
Reflections on their State wlio were not so prudent, and its
Improvement towards the Termination of Life : an old
Man so circumstanced — Attempt to seduce a Village
Beauty : Persuasion and Reply : the Event.
Disposed to wed, e'en while you hasten, stay ;
There 's great advantage in a small delay :
Thus Ovid sang, and much the wise apjirove
This prudent maxim of the priest of Love ;
If poor, delay for future want prepares,
And eases humble life of half its cares ;
If rich, delay shall brace the thoughtful mind,
T' endure the ills that e'en the happiest find :
Delay shall knowledge yield on either part.
And show the value of the vanquish'd heart ;
The humours, passions, merits, failings prove,
And gently raise the veil that 's worn by Love ;
Love, that impatient guide I — too proud to think
Of vulgar wants, of clothing, meat and drink,
Urges our amorous swains their joys to seize.
And then, at rags and hunger frighten'd, flees -J —
Yet not too long in cold debate remain ;
Till age refrain not — ^but if old, refrain.
By no such rule would Gaffer Kirk be tried ;
First in the year he led a blooming bribe,
And stood a wither'd elder at her side.
Oh ! Nathan ! Kathan ! at thy years trepann'd,
To take a wanton harlot by the hand !
Thou, who wert used so tartly to express
Thy sense of matrimonial happiness.
Till every youth, whose bans at church were read,
Strove not to meet, or meeting, hung his head ;
And every lass forebore at thee to look,
A sly old fish, too cunning for the hook ;
' [" Let lovers now, who burn with equal fires,
Put off awhile t' accomplisli their desires :
A short delay will better omens give,
And you will more, and lasting joys receive."— Masse v.]
2 [" If thou have a fair wife, and a poor one ; if thine own
estate be not great, assure thyself that love abideth not with
want ; for she is the companion of plenty and honour." — Sir
W. Raleioh.]
And now at sixty, that pert dame to see.
Of all thy savings mistress, and of thee ;
Now will the lads, rememb'ring insults past.
Cry, " "What, the wise one in the trap at last !"
Fie I Nathan ! fie I to let an artful jade
The close recesses of thine heart invade ; ^
What grievous pangs ! what sufiering she '11 impart !
And fill with anguish that rebellious heart ;
For thou wilt strive incessantly, in vain,
By threatening speech thy freedom to regain :
But she for conquest married, nor will prove
A dupe to thee, thine anger or thy love ;
Clamorous her tongue will be : — of either sex.
She 'II gather friends around thee and perplex
Thy doubtful soul ; — thy money she will waste
In the vain ramblings of a vulgar taste ;
And will be happy to exert her power,
In every eye, in thine, at every hour.
Then wilt thou bluster — " No ! I will not rest,
" And see consumed each shilling of my chest : "
Thou wilt be valiant — " When thy cousins caU,
" I will abuse and shut my door on all :"
Thou wilt be cruel ! — " "What the law allows,
" That be thy portion, my ungrateful spouse !
" Nor other shillings shalt thou then receive ;
" And when I die — ^What ! may I this believe ?
" Are these true tender tears? and does my Kitty
grieve ?
" Ah ! crafty vixen, thine old man has fears ;
'• But weep no more I I 'm melted by thy tears ;
" Spare but my money ; thou shalt rule me still,
" And see thy cousins: — there ! I bum the will."
Thus, with example sad, our year began,
A wanton vixen and a weary man ;
" But had this tale in other guise been told,"
Young let the lover be, the lady old.
And that disparity of years shall prove
No bane of peace, although some bar to love :
'T is not the worst, our nuptial ties among.
That joins the ancient bride and bridegroom
young ;—
Young wives, like changing winds, their power
display
By shifting points and varying day by day ;
Now zephyrs mild, now whirlwinds in their force.
They sometimes speed, but often thwart our course ;
And much experienced should that pilot be,
"W' ho sails with them on life's tempestuous sea.
But like a trade-wind is the ancient dame,
Mild to your wish and every day the same ;
Steady as time, no sudden squalls you fear.
But set full sail and ^^ith assurance steer ;
TiU every danger in your way be past.
And then she gently, mildly breathes her last ;
Rich you arrive, in port awhile remain.
And for a second venture sail again.
For this, blithe Donald southward made his way.
And left the lasses on the banks of Tay ;
3 [Original edition : —
Fie, Nathan! fie! to let a sprightly jade
Leer on thy bed, then ask thee how 't was made,
And lingering walk around at head and feet,
To see thy nightly comforts all complete ;
Then waiting seek — nor h hat she said she sought,
And bid a penny for her master's tliought.]
142
CIIAIUJK'S WORKS.
Him to a Tioi;;li1)oiiriii(? ^nnlon fi)rtiinc sent,
^VIlllIn «•(■ l)cli('l(l, iis|(iriii^;ly coiitciit:
I'liticiit mill tnilit lie soii^'ht the iliiiiif to jilonflp,
Wlio nilcil tlic kitchen iiiul who horc the ItryH.
Fair l.ucy first, ttic Imindry's griirt' ami i)riilc,
AVith smiles and gracious looks, her tortnnc triod ;
IJiif all in vain she |)raised his " pawky eyno," *
NN'here never fondness was for Lucy seen:
Ilini tlie mild Susan, boast of dairies, loved,
And found him civil, cautious and unn)ove.'ow hid awhile and then exposed liis face ;
As shame alternately with anger strove,
The brain confused witli muddy ale, to move
In haste and stammering he perform'd his i)art.
And look'd the rage tliat rankled in his heart ;
(So will each lover inly curse liis fate.
Too soon made happy and made wise too late :)
I saw his features take a savage gloom.
And deeply threaten for the days to come.
Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the
while,
Look'd on the lad. and faintly tried to smile ;
'N\'ith soften'd speech and humbled tone she strove
To stir the embers of departed love :
^^'hile lie, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before.
Felt the poor purse, and sought the public door.
She sadly following, in submission went,
Antl saw the final shilling foully spent ;
Tlien to her father's hut the jiair withdrew.
And bade to love and comfort long adieu I ■"'
Ah ! tly temptation, youth, refrain I refrain !
I preach for ever ; but I preach in vain !
Two summers since, I saw at Lammas Fair
The sweetest tiower that ever blossom'd there,
"When riiabe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green,
In haste to see and happy to be seen :
Her air, her manners, all who saw admired;
Courteous though co}-, and gentle though retired ;
The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd,
I And ease of heart her every look convey'd ;
A native skill her simple robes express'ii.
As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd ;
The lads around admired so fair a sight.
And riia'be felt, and felt she gave, delight.
* [" Pawky, as applied to the eye, signifies wanton." —
Jamieson.J
* [" Tlie above picture is, we think, perfect in this style of
drawin);."- Jeffrev.]
Admirers soon of every nge she pain'd.
Her beauty won them and her worth retain'e more toucliin"
than the quiet suffering and solitary hysterics of this ill-faied
young woman." — Jekfrev.]
THE PARISH REGISTER.
143
For not alone that infant in her ai'ms,
But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.
AVith water burthen'd, then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay ;
Till, in mid-green, slie trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground ;
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes,
While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes:
For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.
And now her path, but not her peace, she gains.
Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains ;
Iler home she reaches, open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the floor.
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits :
In vain they come, she feels the inflating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd,
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies
AVith all the aid her poverty supplies ;
Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys.
Not led by profit, not allur'd by praise ;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease.
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress ! the mourner feels thy aid ;
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.
But who this child of weakness, want, and care ?
'T is Phwhe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair ;
"Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes.
Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies :
Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart,
For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart :
" And then his praj-ers ! they would a savage move,
" And win the coldest of the sex to love :"—
But ah ! too soon his looks success declared,
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repair'd ;
The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot,
A captious tyrant or a noisy sot :
If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd ;
If absent, spending what their labours gain'd ;
Till that fair form in want and sickness pined.
And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.
Then fly temptation, youth ; resist, refrain !
Kor let me preach for ever and in vain ! "^
Next came a well-dress'd pair, who left their
coach.
And made, in long procession, slow approach ;
For this gay bride Iwd many a female friend.
And youths were there, this favour'd youth t'
attend :
' [Tlie tale of Phoebe Dawson, as the preface {ante, p. 99)
shows, was one of the passages in the Parish Uefjister which
most interested Mr. Fox on his death-bed. The Montlily
Review of 1 807 observes : — " Tlie circumstance stated in the
preface to this poem, would, in our minds, communicate a
high degree of interest to compositions far inferior in
quality to tliose now before us It is no mean panegyric on a
literary- effort, that it could at any period of his life command
the applause of Mr. Fox; but, to have amused and occupied
the painful leisure of his last illness, is as honourable to the
powers as it must be delightful to the feelings of the author,
if the beautiful dramas of Terence derive an additional power
of pleasing, from our knowledge that they were sanctioned
by the approbation and assistance of Scipio and Laelius, Eng-
lishmen will feel a similar predilection for works that have
Silent, nor wanting due respect, the crowd
Stood humbly round, and gratulation bow'd ;
But not that silent crowd, in wonder fix'd.
Not numerous friends, who praise and envy mix'd,
Nor nymphs attending near to swell the pride
Of one more fair, the ever-smiling bride ;
Nor that gay bride, adorn'd with every grace.
Nor love nor joy triumphant in her face.
Could from the youth's sad signs of sorrow chase :
Why didst thou grieve ? wealth, pleasure, freedom
thine ;
Vex'd it thy soul, that freedom to resign ?
Spake Scandal truth ? " Thou didst not then intend
" So soon to bring thy wooing to an end ?"
Or, was it, as our prating rustics say.
To end as soon, but in a different way ?
'Tis told thy Phillis is a skilful dame,
Who play'd uninjured with the dangerous flame ;
That, while, like Lovelace, thou thy coat display'd,
And hid the snare for her aflection laid.
Thee, with her net, she found the means to catch.
And at the amorous see-saw won the match : *
Yet others tell, the Captain fix'd thy doubt ;
He 'd call thee brother, or he 'd call thee out : — ■
But rest the motive — all retreat too late,
Joy like thy bride's should on thy brow have sate ;
The deed had then appear'd thine ovm. intent,
A glorious day, by gracious fortune sent.
In each revolving year to be in triumph spent.
Then in few weeks that cloudy brow had been
Without a wonder or a whisper seen ;
And none had been so weak as to inquire,
" Why pouts my Lady ?" or " Why frowns the
Squire ?"
How fair these'names, how much unlike they look
To all the blurr'd subscriptions in my book :
The bridegroom's letters stand in row above,
Tapering yet stout, like pine-trees in his grove ;
While free and fine the bride's appear below.
As light and slender as her jasmines grow.
Mark now in what confusion stoop or stand
The crooked scrawls of many a clownish hand ;
Now out, now in, they droop, they fall, they rise.
Like raw recruits drawn forth for exercise ;
Ere yet reform'd and modell'd by the drill.
The free-born legs stand striding as they will.
Much have I tried to guide the fist along.
But still the blunderers placed their blottings
wrong :
Behold these marks uncouth ! how strange that
men
Who guide the plough, should fail to guide the
pen :
received praise and improvement from tlie mhis sapientin of
the most amiable among the great men recorded in their
historv ;" and Mr. Lockliart, in the Quarterly Review, No.
C, savs, " The last piece of poetry that soothed and occupied
the dving ear of Mr. Fox, was Crabbe's tale of l'ha>be Daw-
son ; and we are enabled to offer testimony, not more equi-
vocal, of the sincerity of Sir Walter Scott's worship of his
genius. Crabbe's poems were at all times more frequimtly in
his hands than any othei work whatever, except Shakspeare ;
and during the few intervals after his return to Abbotsford,
in 1 832, when he was sufficiently himself to ask liis family to
read aloud to him, the only boolis he ever called for were his
Bible and his Crabbe."]
s Clarissa, vol. vii. : Lovelace's Letters.
Ill
('l!.\I'.I',i;s WOIJKS.
For half ft milo the furrows even lie ;
For liftlfau iiicli the letters Htimd nwry; —
Our peiisiuitH, strou}^ iiiul Mtiirdy in the fleM,
Ciinuot tlu'se iiniis of iille stuileuts uield :
Like flieui, in I'eiuliil ilays, their viiliiint lords
Uesigu'd tlie pen and j,'nisp'd tlieir comiu'ring
swords ;
Thoy to robed clerks and poor de|)ondent men
Left the liglit duties of the jieaceful pen ;
Nor to their ladies wrote, hut sou};ht to ])rove,
J{y deeds of death, their hearts were fdl'd with love.
Hut yet. small arts have charnis for female eyes;
Our rustic nymjihs the heau and seholar i)rize ;
Hiiletter'd swains and plouj,'hmen coarse they sli>,'ht,
For those who dress, and amorous scrolls indite.
For Lucy Collins happier days had been,
Had Footman Daniel scorn'd his native green,
Or when he rame an idle coxcomb down,
Had he his love reserved for lass in town ;
To Stephen Hill she then had pledged her truth, —
A sturdy, sober, kind, unpolish'd youth;
]5ut from the day, that fatal day she spied
'I'he i)ride of Daniel, Daniel was her pride.
In all concerns was Stephen just and true ;
But coarse his doublet was and patch'd in view,
And felt his stockings were, and blacker than his
shoe ;
While Daniel's linen all was fine and fair, —
His master wore it, and he deign'd to wear :
(To wear liis livery, some respect might prove ;
To wear his linen, must be sign of love :)
IJlue was his coat, unsoil'd by spot or stain ;
His hose were silk, his shoes of Spanish grain ;
A silver knot his breadth of shoulder bore ;
A diamond buckle blazed his breast before —
Diamoml he swore it was ! and show'd it as he swore ;
Kings on his fingers shone ; his milk-white hand
Could pick-tooth case and box for snuff command :
And thus, with clouded cane, a fop complete,
He stalk'd, the jest and glory of the street.
Join'd with these powers, he could so sweetly sing,
Talk with such toss, and saunter with such swing ;
I.augh with such glee, and trifle with such art,
That Lucy's promise fail'd to shield lier heart.
Stephen, meantime, to ease his amorous cares,
Fix'd his full mind upon his farm's afiairs ;
Two pigs, a cow, and wetliers lialf a score,
Increased his stock, and still he look'd for more.
He, for his acres few, so duly paiil.
That yet more acres to his lot were laid ;
Till our chaste nymphs no longer felt disdain,
Antl prudent matrons praised the frugal swain ;
■NVho thriving well, through many a fruitful year,
Kow clothed himself anew, and acted overseer.
.Tust then poor I-ucy, from her friend in town
Fled in pure fear, and came a beggar do\m ;
Trembling, at Stephen's door she knock'd for
bread, —
Was chidden first, next pitied, and then fed ;
Then sat at Stephen's board, then shared in Ste-
phen's bed :
.Vll hope of marriage lost in her disgrace, •
He mourns a flame revived, and she a love of lace.
' [I.uigi ttalvani, professor of experimental pliilosopliy at
Bologna, from whom Oairanism takes its name, died in 1798.]
Now to be wed a well-mntchM couple come ;
Twice had old Loilqe hccn tierove
Til' indecent fondling of preposterous love ?
In spite of jiruflence, uncontroll'd by shame,
'J'lie amorous senior woos the toothless dame,
l{elatiug idly, at the closing eve.
The youthful follies he disdains to leave;
'J'ill youthful fVdIios wake a transient fire,
When arm in arm they totter and retire.
.So a fond i)air of solemn birds, all day
Blink in their seat and doze the hours away ;
Then by the moon awakeuM, forth they move.
And fright the songsters with their cheerless love:
So two sear trees, dry, stunted, and unsound.
Each other catch, when drojjping to the ground :
Kntwine their withcr'd arms 'gainst wind and
weather,
And shake their leafless lieails au'l drop together :
So two cold limbs, touch'd by (Jalvani's wire,"
jMove with new life, and feel awaken'd fire ;
Quivering awhile, their flaccid forms remain.
Then turn to cold torpidity again.
" But ever frowns your Hymen ? man and maid,
" .Vre all repenting, suffering, or betray'd ? "
Forbid it. Love ! we have our couples here
AVho hail the day in each revolving year:
These are with us, as in the world around ;
The J' are not frequent, but they may be found.
Our farmers too, what though thej' fail to prove,
In Hymen's bonds, the tenderest slaves of love,
(Nor, like those pairs whom sentiment unites,
Feel they the fervour of the mind's delights ;)
Yet coarsely kind and comfortably gay.
They heap the board and hail the happy daj' :
And though the bride, now freed from school, ad-
mits.
Of pride implanted there, some transient fits ;
Yet soon she casts her girlish flights aside,
And in substantial blessings rest her pride.
No more she moves in measured steps ; no more
Kuns, with bewilder'd ear, her music o'er ;
No more recites her French the liinds among,
But chiiles her maidens in her mother-tongue ;
Her tambour- frame she leaves and diet spare.
Plain work ami plenty with her house to share ;
Till, all her varnish lost in few short years,
In all her worth the farmer's wife appears.
Yet not the ancient kind ; nor she who gave
Her soul to gain — a mistress and a slave :
Who. not to sleep allow'd the needful time ;
To whom repose was loss, and sport a crime ;
Who. in her meanest room (and all were mean),
A noisy drudge, from morn till night was seen ; —
But she. the daughter, boasts a decent room.
Adorned with carpet, formed in Wilton's loom ;
Fair prints along the paper'd wall are spread ;
There, Werter sees the sportive children fed,'"
And Charlotte, here, bewails her lover dead.
'0 [" I saw six children, all jumping round a yo'.ing
woman, very elegantly shaped, and dressed in a plain \\ bite
THE PARISH REGISTER,
145
'T is here, assembled, while in space apart
Their husbands, drinking, warm the opening heart.
Our neighbouring dames, on festal days, unite.
With tongues more fluent and with hearts as
light ;
Theirs is that art, which English wives alone
Profess — a boast and privilege their own ;
An art it is where each at once attends
To all, and claims attention from her friends,
AVhen they engage the tongue, the eye, the ear,
Keply when list'ning, and when speaking hear :
The ready converse knows no dull delays,
" But double are the pains, and double be the
praise." "
Yet not to those alone who bear command
Heaven gives a heart to hail the marriage band ;
Among their servants, we the pairs can show,
"Who much to love and more to prudence owe :
EeAihen and Rachel, though as found as doves.
Were yet discreet and cautious in their loves ;
Nor would attend to Cupid's wild commands.
Till cool reflection bade them join their hands :
When both were poor, they thought it argued ill
Of hasty love to make them poorer still ;
Year after year, with savings long laid by,
They bought the future dwelling's full supply ;
Her frugal fancy cuU'd the smaller ware.
The weightier purchase ask'd her Reuben's care ;
Together then their last year's gain they threw.
And lo ! an auction'd bed, with curtains neat and
new.
Thus both, as prudence counsell'd, wisely stay'd.
And cheerful then the calls of Love obey'd :
What if, when Rachael gave her hand, 't was one
Embrown'd by Winter's ice and Summer's sun ?
What if, in Reuben's hair the female ej'e
Usurping grey among the black could spy ?
What if, in both, life's bloomy flush was lost.
And their full autumn felt the mellowing frost ?
Yet time, who blow'd the rose of youth away.
Had left the vigorous stem without decay ;
Like those tall elms in Farmer Frankford's ground,
They'll grow no more, — but all their growth is
sound ;
By time confirm'd and rooted in the land.
The storms they 've stood, still promise they shall
stand.
These are the happier pairs, their life has rest,
Their hopes are strong, their humble portion blest.
While those more rash to hasty marriage led.
Lament th' impatience which now stints their
bread :
When such their union, years their cares increase,
Their love grows colder, and their pleasures cease ;
In health just fed, in sickness just relieved ;
By hardships harass'd and by children grieved ;
In petty quarrels and in peevish strife
The once fond couple waste the spi'ing of life ;
But when to age mature those children grown,
Find hopes and homes and hardships of their own,
The harass'd couple feel their lingering woes
Receding slowly, till they find repose.
gown with pink ribands. She had a brown loaf in her hand,
and was cutting slices of bread and butter, which she distri-
buted, in a graceful manner, to the children. Each held up
Complaints and murmurs then are laid aside,
(By reason these subdued, and those by pride ;)
And, taught by care, the patient man and wife
Agree to share the bitter-sweet of life ;
(Life that has sorrow much and sorrow's cure.
Where they who most enjoy shall much endure :)
Their rest, their labours, duties, suifcrings, prayers.
Compose the soul, and fit it for its cares ;
Their graves before them and their griefs behind.
Have each a med'cine for the rustic mind ;
Nor has he care to whom his wealth shall go.
Or who shall labour with his spade and hoe ;
But as he lends the strength that yet remains.
And some dead neighbour on his bier sustains,
(One with whom oft he whirl'd the boimding flail,
Toss'd the broad coit, or took th' inspiring ale,)
" For me," (he meditates,) " shall soon be done
'' This friendly duty, when my race be run ;
" 'T was first in trouble as in error pass'd,
" Dark clouds and stormy cares whole years o'er-
cast,
" But calm my setting day, and sunshine smiles at
last:
" My vices punish'd and my follies spent,
" Not loth to die, but yet to live content,
" I rest :"■ — then casting on the grave his eye.
His friend compels a tear, and his own griefs a sigh.
Last on my list appears a match of love.
And one of virtue ; — happy may it prove ! —
Sir Edward Archer is an amorous knight.
And maidens chaste and lovely shun his sight ;
His bailiff's daughter suited much his taste.
For Fanny Price was lovely and was chaste ;
To her the Knight with gentle looks drew near.
And timid voice assumed to banish fear : — ■
" Hope of my life, dear sovereign of my breast,
" Which, since I knew thee, knows not joy nor
rest ;
" Know, thou art all that my delighted eyes,
" My fondest thoughts, my proudest wishes prize ;
" And is that bosom — (what on earth so fair !)
" To cradle some coarse peasant's sprawling heir,
" To be that pillow which some surly swain
" May treat with scorn and agonise with pain ?
" Art thou, sweet maid, a ploughman's Mants to
share,
" To dread his insult, to support his care ;
" To hear his follies, his contempt to prove,
" And (oh ! the torment !) to endure his love ;
" Till want and deep regret those charms destroy,
" That time would spare, if time were pass'd in
joy?
" With him, in varied pains, from morn till night,
" Your hours shall pass ; yourself a ruffian's
right ;
" Your softest bed shall be the knotted wool ;
•' Your purest drink'the waters of the pool ;
" Your sweetest food will but your life sustain,
" And your best pleasure be a rest from pain ;
" While, through each year, as health and strength
abate,
" You '11 weep your woes and wonder at your fate ;
its little hands," &c. &c.— Wkrter.]
" Spenser.
14U
CRAHBE'S WORKS.
" And cry, ' Boholil,' iiH life's Inst carcH como (in,
" ' iMy hurthens urowiii^ wlicn my strciiglh is
Koiu'.'
" Now fiirii witli mo, mid nil tlw younj? desire,
'• Tluil tiisto cnn I'orin, that fancy can rc(iiiirc ;
'• All that excites enjoyment, or procures
" Wealtli. health, respect, deliglit, and love, are
yours :
•■ Sparkliuf^, in cups of f^old, your wines slial! flow,
'• (Jrace that fair hand, in that dear hosoni f{low ;
" Fruits of each clime, and (lowers, through ail the
year,
" Sliall on your walls and in your walks appear:
" Where all heholding, shall your i>raise repent,
" No fruit so feniptin;,^ and no llowcr so sweet:
" 'I'he softest carpets in your rooms shall lie,
'• I'ictures of happiest love shall meet your eye,
" And tallest mirrors, reaching to the floor,
" Shall show you all the oliject I ailore ;
" Who, hy the hands of wealtli and fasliion drcss'd,
" I?y slaves nttemled and by friends caress'd,
" Shall move, a wonder, through the imhlic ways,
" And hear the whispers of adoring praise.
" Your female friends, though gayest of the
" Shall see you liappy, and shall, sighing, say,
" While smother'd envy rises in tlie breast, —
•• ■ Oh ! that we lived so beauteous and so blest ! '
" Come, then, my mistress, and my wife ; for
she,
" Who trusts my honour is the wife for mc ;
" Your slave, your husband, and your friend em-
ploy
" In search of pleasures we may both enjoy."
To this the Damsel, meekly firm, replied :
'• My mother loved, was married, toil'd. and died ;
'• With joys, she 'd griefs, had troubles in her
course,
" But not one grief was pointed by remorse :
'• My mind is fix'd, to Heaven I resign,
'■ And be her love, her life, her comforts mine."
Tyrants have wept ; and those witli hearts of
steel,
Unused the anguish of the lieart to heal.
Have yet the transient power of virtue known.
And felt th' imparted joy promote tlieir own.
Our Knight relenting, now befriends a youth,
Who to the yielding maid had vow'd his truth ;
And finds in that fair deed a sacred joy.
That will not perish, and that cannot cloy ; —
A living joy, that shall its spirits keep.
When every beauty fades, and all the passions
sleep.
' [" 'I'liat man wlio fcarotli not the fickle fates a strawe,
Tlie visage grim of .\clicront wliose eyes yet never
saw,
Tliat person is a prince's peere, and like the gods
in might." Newton, liSl.]
' ["There is nothing in history," says Addison, " which is
so improving to the reader iis tliose accounts which we meet
w ith III' tlie deaths of eminent persons, and of their behaviour
in that dreadful season. I may also add, that there are no
parts in history which affect and please the reader in so sen-
silile a manner. The reason I take to be this : there is no
otlier single circumstance in the story of any person, which
can passibly be the case of every one who reads it. The ge-
neral, the statesman, or the philosopher, are, perhaps, cha-
racters which we may never act in; but the dying man is one
PA RT HI.
Qui viiltun Aclierontiit airi,
Qui Stygia triiitem, non trixfiji, videl, —
I'ur ille Kcgi, par Supcriii erit.
SeNKCA in Aijnmrm,^
lUltlALS.
True Cliristian llesignation not frequently to \>f wen — Tlic
Uegistcr a melanclirdy Itecord — A ilying Man, who at
length sends for a I'riest : for what I'urpose? answered —
Old Ceen
so much perused as I>r. Sherlock's Discourse upon Death ;
tlioUi.'h, at the same time, I must own, that he who has not
perused tliis excellent piece has not read one of tlie strongest
persuasives to a religious life that ever was wTitten in any
language." — When .Addison found tlie end of his own useful
life approiiching, he directed his sonin-law, the Earl of War-
wick, to be called ; and when the young lord desired, with
great tenderness, to lie.ar his last injunctions, told him, " I
have sent for you, that you may see how a Christian can die."
In Tickell's beautiful elegy on his friend there are tliese lines
in allusion to this moving interview : —
" He taught us how to live ; and oh ! too high
The price of knowledge ! taught us how to die."]
THE PARISH REGISTER.
147
" Hope against hope," and wildly gaze around,
In search of help that never shall be found :
Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath.
Will they believe them in the jaws of Death !
When these my Records I reflecting read.
And find what ills these numerous births succeed ;
What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend ;
With what regret these painful journeys end ;
When from the cradle to the grave I look.
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.
Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas ! it is not on the village-green :—
I 've seldom known, though I have often read,
Of happy peasants on their dying-bed ;
Whose looks proclaim'd that sunshine of the breast.
That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.
What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life : ^
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure ;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure ;
At best a sad submission to the doom.
Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.*
Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,
His spirits vanquish'd and his strength decay'd ;
No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend —
" Call then a priest, and fit him for his end."
A priest is call'd ; 't is now, alas ! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate ;
Or time allow'd — he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind ;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.
" True I 'm a sinner," feebly he begins,
" But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins :"
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite !
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right !)
" I know mankind are frail, that God is just,
" And pardons those who in his mercy trust ;
" We 're sorely tempted in a world like this —
" All men have done, and I like all, amiss ;
" But now, if spared, it is my full intent
" On all the past to ponder and repent :
" Wrongs against me I pardon great and small,
" xVnd if I die, I die in peace with all."
His merits thus and not his sins confess'd,
He speaks his hopes, and leaves to Heaven the rest.
Alas ! are these the prospects, dull and cold.
That dying Christians to their priests unfold ?
' [" Surely, to the sincere believer, death woiild lie an ob-
ject of desire instead of dread, were it not for those ties — tliose
heart-strings— by which we are attached to life. Nor, indeed,
do I believe tliat it is natural to fear death, however generally
it may be thought so. From my own feelings I have little
right to judge ; for, althougli liahitually mindful tliat tliehour
Cometh, and even now may be, it has never appeared actually
near enougli to maly year,
Show'd the grim king by gradual steps brought
near :
'T was not less sudden ; in the night he died,
lie drank, ho swore, he jested, and he lied;
Tlius aiding folly with departing breath : — ■
" Beware, Lorenzo,^ the slow-sudden death." "
Next died the Widoir Ooe, an active dame.
Famed ten miles round, and worthy all her lame ;
She lost her hushand when their loves were young,
But kept her farm, her credit, and her tongue :
Full thirty years she ruled, with matchless skill,
"With guiding judgment and resistless will ;
Advice she scorn'd, rebellions she suppress'd,
And sons and servants bow'd at her behest.
Like that great man's, who to his Saviour came.
Were the strong words of this commanding dame ; —
" Come," if she said, they came ; if " Go," were
gone ; *
And if " Do this," — that instant it was done :
Her maidens told she w\as all eye and ear.
In darkness saw and could at distance hear ;
No parish-business in the place could stir,
"Without direction or assent from her ;
In turn she took each office as it fell.
Knew all their duties and discharged them well ;
The lazy vagrants in her presence shook.
And pregnant damsels fear'd her stern rebuke ;
She look'd on want with judgment clear and cool,
.Vnd felt with reason and hestow'd by rule;
She match'd both sons and daughters to lier mind,
And lent them eyes, for Love, she heard, was blind ;
Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive,
The working bee, in full or empty hive ;
Busy and careful, like that working bee.
No time for love nor tender cares had she ;
But when our farmers made their amorous vows,
She talk'd of market-steeds and patent-ploughs.
Not unemploy'd her evenings pass'd away.
Amusement closed, as business waked tlie day ;
"When to her toilet's brief concern she ran.
And conversation with her friends began,
"Who all were welcome, what thej' saw, to share ;
And joyous neighbours praised her Christmas tare.
That none around might, in their scorn, complain
Of Gossip Goc as greedy in her gain.
' ["Wiung'a Night Thoughts.]
" [" It has always appeared to me as one of the most strik-
ing passages in the visions of Qneveilo, that which stigmatises
those as fools wlio complain that thev failed of happiness
by sudden death. ' How," s,iys he, ' can deatli be sudden
to a being wlio always knew that he must die, and that tlie
time of his death was uncertain ? * " — Johnson.]
Thus long she reign'd, admired, if not approved ;
Praiseil, if not honour'd ; fear'd, if not beloved ; —
When, as the busy days of Spring drew near,
That call'd for all the forecast of the year ;
"When lively hojie the rising crops survey'd,
And April ])romised what September paid ;
When stray'd her lambs where gorse and grecnwecd
grow ;
When rose her grass in richer vales below ;
When pleased she look'd on all the smiling land,
And view'd the Jiinds, who wrought at her com-
mand ;
(Poultry in groups still follow'd where she went;)
Then dread o'ercame her, — that her days were
spent.
" Bless me ! I die, and not a warning giv'n, —
" With much to do on Farth, and all for Ueav'n! —
" No reparation for my soid's affairs,
'' No leave petition'd for the barn's repairs ;
■' Accounts perplex'd, my interest yet unpai, and lie goeth ; and to ano-
ther, Come, and he Cometh," — Matt. vlii. 9.]
'" Oerard .\blett, see antf, p. 137,
" [" ' Whom the gods love, die young,' was said of yore,
.■\nd many deaths do they escape by this :
Tlie death of friends, and tfiat which slays even more,
The death of friendsliip, love, youth, all that is
THE PARISH REGISTER.
149
All that now curb the passions when they rage,
The checks of youth and the regrets of age ;
All that now bid us hope, believe, endure.
Our sorrow's comfort and our vice's cure ;
AU that for Heaven's high joys the spirits train.
And charity, the crown of all, were vain.
Say, will you call the breathless infant blest.
Because no cares the silent grave molest ?
So would you deem the nursling from the wing
Untimely thrust and never train'd to sing ;
But far more blest the bird whose grateful voice
Sings its own joy and makes the woods rejoice,
Though, while untaught, ere yet he charm'd the
ear.
Hard were his trials and his pains severe !
Next died the Lady who yon Hall possess'd.
And here they brought her noble bones to rest.
In Town she dwelt ; — forsaken stood the Hall :
Worms ate the floors, the tap'stry fled the wall :
No fire the kitchen's cheerless grate display'd ;
No cheerful light the long-closed sash convey'd :
The crawling worm, that turns a summer fly.
Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die
The winter-death : — upon the bed of state.
The bat shrill shrieking woo'd his flickering mate ;
To empty rooms the curious came no more ;
From empty cellars turn'd the angry poor.
And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door.
To one small room the steward found his way,
Where tenants follow'd to complain and pay ;'^
Yet no complaint before the Lady came,
The feeling servant spared the feeble dame ;
Who saw her farms with his observing eyes,
And answer'd all requests with his replies : — •
She came not down, her falling groves to view ;
Why should she know, what one so faithful knew ?
Why come, from many clamorous tongues to hear.
What one so just might whisper in her ear ?
Her oaks or acres, why with care explore ;
Why learn the wants, the sufferings of the poor ;
When one so knowing all their worth could trace.
And one so piteous govem'd in her place ?'*
Lo ! now, what dismal Sons of Darkness come.
To bear this Daughter of Indulgence home ;
Tragedians all, and well-arranged in black !
Who nature, feeling, force, expression lack ;
Who cause no tear, but gloomily pass by.
And shake their sables in the wearied eye.
That turns disgusted from the pompous scene.
Proud without grandeur, with profusion, mean !
The tear for kindness past affection owes ;
For worth deceased the sigh from reason flows ;
E'en well-feign'd passion for our sorrows call.
And real tears for mimic miseries fall :
But this poor farce has neither truth nor art.
To please the fancy or to touch the heart ;
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore
Awaits at last even those who longest miss
The old archer's arrow, perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save."
Byron.]
12 ^" This description of the lady of the manor's deserted
mansion is very striking, and in tlie good old taste of Pope
and Dryden." — Jeffrey.]
" [ ' Absenteeism, all the world over, is the greatest of evils
that can befall a labouring population. " While," says Mr.
Unlike the darkness of the sky, that pours
On the dry ground its fertilising showers ;
Unlike to that which strikes the soul with dread.
When thunders roar and forky fires are shed ;
Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean.
With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene ;
Presents no objects tender or profound.
But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around.
When woes are feign'd, how ill such forms ap-
pear,
And oh ! how needless, when the woe 's sincere.
Slow to the vault they come, with heavy tread.
Bending beneath the Lady and her lead ;
A case of elm surrounds that ponderous chest.
Close on that case the crimson velvet 's press'd ;
Ungenerous this, that to the worm denies,
With niggard-caution, his appointed prize ;
For now, ere yet he works his tedious way.
Through cloth and wood and metal to his prey,
That prey dissolving shall a mass remain.
That fancy loathes and worms themselves dis-
dain.
But see ! the master-mourner makes his way,
To end his office for the coffin'd clay ;
Pleased that our rustic men and maids behold
His plate like silver, and his studs like gold.
As they approach to spell the age, the name.
And all the titles of the illustrious dame. — ■
This as (my duty done) some scholar read,
A Village-father look'd disdain and said :
" Away, my friends ! why take such pains to know
" What some brave marble soon in church shall
show ?
".Where not alone her gracious name shall stand,
" But how she lived — the blessing of the land ;
" How much we all deplored the noble dead,
" What groans we utter'd and what tears we shed ;
" Tears, true as those which in the sleepy eyes
•' Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise ;
•' Tears, true as those which, ere she found her
grave,
"The noble Lady to our sorrows gave."
Down by the church-way walk, and where the
brook
Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook ;
In that small house, with those green pales before.
Where jasmine trails on either side the door ;
Where those dark shrubs, that now grow wild at
will,
Were clipp'd in form and tantalised with skill ;
Where cockles blanch'd and pebbles neatly spread,
Form'd shining borders for the larkspurs' bed ; —
There lived a Lady, wise, austere, and nice.
Who show'd her virtue by her scorn of vice ;
In the dear fashions of her youth she drcss'd,
A pea-green Joseph '■* was her favourite vest ;
Lewis, "I fancied my attorney to be resident on my estate,
he was attending to one of his own. During his absence, an
overseer was left in absolute power, which he abused to such
a degree, that the property was nearly ruined. Yet, wliile all
this was going on, my attorney wrote me letters filled with as-
surances of his perpetual vigilance for the poor creatures' Mel-
fare ; nor, if I had not witnessed it myself, should I ever have
had the most distant idea how abominably they had been
misused." — QuarUrly Review, 1834.]
1^ [A lady's great-coat.]
Ilroct sho Rtooil, hIic wiilk'il willi stutcly tuicii,
'I'ij^lil \Mis lu>r Iriigth of Htiiys, mid mIio wum tiill nmi
Iran.
'I'luTi' limj; shp lived in mnidon-stntt' immurod,
From looks of love and trcaclicroiis man Hfciirod ;
'I'lioiif^h ovil liimr (lint that was lonj; before)
Had blown licr duliious blast at ( 'dt/irriiic's door :
A ('H|>tain thitlicr, rich from lnan,
Like its cold mistress, shuini'd the eye of man.
Her neat small room, adorii'd with maiden- taste,
A clijjpM French pi'lM'-V- fi'*'' of favourites, graced :
A parrot next, but dead and stuff M with art;
(For Foil, when living, lost the Lady's heart,
Ann){ our poor,
lie r<'(l iij;iiin, mill was a man onri' more.
As when a naiint niul liuni^ry fox is found,
l".iitrap)i'il alixc in some rich luiiit(M''H frround ;
l-'cd lor llic held, aIlliiiU{,'h caidi day 's a fcnst,
I'ltllin jiiu may, l>ut ni'vi'r lumr tlic hcnst ;
A housf protects him, savoury vinnils sustain ; — •
Hut loose his neck anil off he f;oes apiin :
So 8t(de our N'ajjraut from his warm retreat,
To rove a prowler and be deemed a cheat.
Hard was his fare ; for him at length we saw
In cart convey'd and laid supine on straw.
His feeble voice now s])oke a sinking heart ;
His groans now told the motions of the cart ;
.Vnd when it stopp'd, he tried in vain to stand;
Closed was his eye, and clcnch'd his clammy
hand ;
I,ife ebb'd apace, and our best aid no more
Could his weak sense or d} iug lieart restore:
Ihit now ho fell, a victim to tiie snare
That vile attorneys for the weak prepare ; —
'I'liey who, when profit or resentment call.
Heed not the groaning victim they enthrall.
Then died lamented, in tlic strength of life,
A valued Mother and a faithful Wife ;
Call'd not away when time had loosed each hold
On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold ;
I5ut when, to all that knit us to our kind.
She felt fast-bound, as charity can bind ; —
Kot when tlie ills of age, its pain, its care,
The droo})ing spirit for its fate prepare ;
And, each atl'ection failing, leaves the heart
Loosed from life's cliarm, and w illing to depart ;
But all lier ties the strong invader broke.
In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke !
Sudden and sw ift the eager pest came on.
Anil terror grew, till every hope was gone ;
Still those around ajipear'd for liope to seek !
But view'd the sick and were afraid to speak.
Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead ;
AVhen grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed,
INIy part began ; a crowd drew near the place,
Awe in each eye, alarm in every face :
So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind.
That fear with pity mingled in each mind ;
Friends with the husband came their griefs to
blend ;
For good-man Frauhford was to all a friend.
The last-bom boy they held above the bier,
He knew not grief, but cries express'd his fear ;
's [It has been told (ante, p. 29), that Mr. Crabbe, on
retnrnin<; to Aldlioroiigli, al^er| the publication of " Tlie
I.il)r;iry," found that his motlier Iiad died while he was in
London. " Tliat alTectionate p.irent, who wonld have lost all
sense of sickness and sulTerinf;, had slie witnessed his success,
w,->s no more : slie had sunk under the dropsy, in hisalisence,
with » fortitude of resignation closely resemblinj; that of his
own last hours. It happened that a friend and neighlwur
was slowly Yielding at the s,ime time to the same hopeless
disorder, and every morning she used to desire her daughter
to see if this sufferer's window was opened ; saying, cheer-
fully, ' She must make haste, or I shall be at rest before her.'
Each difTcrcnt ago and sex rcvcal'd its pain,
In now ft louder, now a lower strain ;
While the nwek father, listening to their toneB,
Swell'd the lull cadence of the grief by groanH.
'J'he elder sister strove her pangs to hide,
And soothing words to younger niinrlH a]i|)lied :
'' Be still, be ])atient ; " oft she strove to stay;
But lail'd as oft, and weejting tiini'd away.
Curious and sad, upf>n the fresh-dug hill
Th(! village lads stood melancholy still ;
.And idle chililren, wandering to and fro,
As Nature guided, took the tone of woe.
Arriv<'d at home, how then tliey gazed arriund
On every j)hic(! — where she — no more was found ; —
'i'he seat at table she wiis wont to fill ;
The fire-siile chair, still set, but vacant still ;
'i'he garden-walks, a labour all her own ;
The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'er-
grown ;
The Snnday-pew she fill'd with all her race. —
Each place of liers, was now a sacred jilace.'^
'J'hat, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes.
Pierced the full heart and forced them still to
rise.
Oh sacred sorrow ! by whom souls are tried,
Sent not to ])nnish mortals, but to guide ;
If thou art mine, (and who shall proudly dare
To tell his Maker, he has had his share ?)
Still let me feel for wliat thy pangs are sent,
And be my guide, and not my punishment !
Of Leah Cousins next the name appears,
AVith honours crown'd and blest with length of
years,
Save that she lived to feel, in life's decay,
The pleasure die, the honours drop away ;
A matron she, whom every village-wife
Yiew'd as the help and guardian of her life ;
Fathers and sons, indebted to her aid,
Kespect to her and her profession paid ;
"Who in the house of plentj' largely fed,
Yet took her station at the pauper's bed ;
?\or from that duty could be bribed again,
AVhile fear or danger urged her to remain :
In her experience all her friends relied.
Heaven was her help and nature was her guide.
Thus Leah lived ; long-trusted, much caress'd,
Till a Town-Dame a youthful Farmer bless'd ;
.\ gay vain bride, who woidd example give
To that poor village where she deign'd to live ;
Some few months past, she sent, in hour of need,
F\ir Doctor Glibh, who came with wond'rous speed :
Two days he waited, all his art applied,
To save the mother when her infant died : —
'■ 'Twas well 1 came," at last he deign'd to say ;
'■ 'T was wondrous well ; " — and proudly rode away.
My father has alluded to his feelings on this occasion in "The
I'arish Register : " —
-Arrived at home, how then he gazod around
tin every place — w here she — no more was found ;
And I find him recurring to the same theme in one of his
manuscript pieces : —
But oh ! in after-years
Were other deaths, that call'd for other tears : —
No, that I dare not, that I cannot paint !
Tlie patient sufferer! the enduring saint !
Holy and cheerful! hut all words are faint !]
THE PARISH REGISTER.
153
The news ran round ;^" How vast the Doctor's
pow'r ! "
" He saved the Lady in the trying hour ;
" Saved her from death, when she was dead to hope,
" And her fond husband had resign'd her up :
" So all, like her, may evil fate defy,
" If Doctor Glibb, with saving hand, be nigh."
Fame (now his friend), fear, novelty, and whim.
And fashion, sent the varying sex to him :
From this, contention in the village rose ;
And these the Dame espoused ; the Doctor those ;
The wealthier part to him and science went ;
With luck and her the poor remain'd content.
The Matron sigh'd ; for she was vex'd at heart,
With so much profit, so much fame, to part :
" So long successful in my art," she cried,
" And this proud man, so young and so untried ! "
" Nay," said the Doctor, " dare you trust your
wives,
" The joy, the pride, the solace of your lives,
" To one who acts and knows no reason why,
" But trusts, poor hag ! to luck for an ally ? — ■
" Who, on experience, can her claims advance,
" And own the powers of accident and chance ?
" A whining dame, who prays in danger's view,
" (A proof she knows not what beside to do ;)
" What 's her experience ? In the time that 's gone,
'■ Blundering she wrought and stiU she blunders
on :—
" And what is Nature ? One who acts in aid
" Of gossips half asleep and half afraid :
" With such allies I scorn my fame to blend,
" Skill is my luck and courage is my friend :
" No slave to Nature, 'tis my chief delight
" To win my way and act in her despite : —
" Trust then my art, that, in itself complete,
" Needs no assistance and fears no defeat."
Warm'd by her well-spiced ale and aiding pipe,
The angry IMatron grew for contest ripe.
'' Can j'ou," she said, "ungrateful and unjust,
" Before experience, ostentation trust !
" What is your hazard, foolish daughters, tell ?
" If safe, you 're certain ; if secure, you 're well :
" That I have luck must friend and foe confess,
" And what 's good judgment but a lucky guess ?
" He boasts, but what he can do : — will you run
" From me, your friend ! who, all he boasts, have
done ?
" By proud and learned words his powers are
known ;
" By healthy boys and handsome girls my ovm :
"Wives! fathers! children! by my help you live ;
'• Has this pale Doctor more than life to give ?
" No stunted cripple hops the village round ;
" Your hands are active and j'our heads are sound ;
" My lads are all your fields and flocks require ;
" My lasses all those sturdy lads admire.
" Can this proud leech, with all his boasted skill,
" Amend the soul or body, wit or will ?
" Does he for courts the sons of farmers frame,
" Or make the daughter differ from the dame ?
" Or, whom he brings into this world of woe,
" Prepares he them their part to undergo ?
" If not, this stranger from your doors repel,
" And be content to be and to be icell."
She spake ; but, ah ! with words too strong and
plain ;
Her warmth ofi'ended, and her truth was vain :
The many left her, and the friendly ^/ew.
If never colder, yet they older grew ;
Till, unemploy'd, she felt her spirits droop,
And took, insidious aid ! th' inspiring cup ;
Grew poor and peevish as her powers decay'd,
And propp'd the tottering frame with stronger aid,
Then died ! I saw our careful swains convey.
From this our changeful world, the Matron's clay,
Who to this world, at least, with equal care,
Brought them its changes, good and ill to share.
Now to his grave was JRoger Ciiffcon\ey'd,
And strong resentment's lingering sjjirit laid.
Shipwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found
His brethren three — and thrice they wish'd him
drown'd.
" Is this a landsman's love ? Be certain then,
" We part for ever ! " — and they cried, " Amen ! "
His words were truth's: — Some forty summers
fled.
His brethren died ; his kin supposed him dead :
Three nephews these, one sprightly niece, and one.
Less near in blood — they call'd him siirli/ John ;
He work'd in woods apart from aU his kind.
Fierce were his looks and moody was his mind.
For home the sailor now began to sigh : — •
" The dogs are dead, and I'll return and die ;
" When all I have, my gains, in years of care,
" The younger Cufis with kinder souls shall share —
" Yet hold ! I 'm rich ; — with one consent they '11 say,
" ' You 're welcome. Uncle, as the flowers in May.
" No ; I '11 disguise me, be in tatters dress'd,
" And best befriend the lads who treat me best."
Now all his kindred, — neither rich nor poor, — ■
Kept the wolf want some distance from the door.
In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate.
And begg'd for aid, as he described his state : —
But stern was George ; — " Let them who had thee
strong,
" Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along ;
" To us a stranger, while your limbs would move,
" From us depart, and try a stranger's love : —
" Ha ! dost thou murmur ?" — for, in Roger's throat.
Was " Rascal ! " rising with disdainful note.
To pious James he then his prayer address'd ; —
"Good-lack," quoth James, "thy sorrows pierce
my breast ;
" And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain,
" One board should feed us and one roof contain :
" But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray :
" And so farewell ! Heaven help thee on thy way !"
" Scoundrel !" said Roger (but apart) ; — and told
His case to Peter ; — Peter too was cold ■.—
" The rates are high ; we have a-many poor;
" But I will think," — he said, and shut the door.
Then the gay niece the seeming pauper prcss'd ; —
" Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd :
" Akin to thine is this declining frame,
" And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name."
" Avaunt I begone ! " the courteous maiden said,
" Thou vile impostor ! Uncle Roger's dead :
" I hate thee, beast ; thy look my spirit shocks ;
" Oh ! that I saw thee starving in the stocks ! "
" My gentle niece ! " he said — and sought the
wood. —
" I hunger, fellow ; prithee, give me food ! "
" Give ! am I rich ? This hatchet tak(-, and try
" Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie ;
154
CRABBE'S WORKS.
" Work, food (liyHclf, to tlilnp own powers appenl,
'* Nor wliiiii' out woc'H, tliiiie own riKl>t-i>i>iiity, ])raise, and promise, weri- u joke :
Hut though so young and blest with H]>iritu high,
He died as grave as any judge could die:
The strong attack subdued his lively powers, —
His was the grave, and Doctor (I'raiiilsjifiir nura.'''
" Then were there golden times the? village round;
In his abundance all api)ear'd t' abound ;
Liberal and rich, a jilenteous board he spread,
F'l'ii cool Dissenters at his table fed;
Who wish'd and hopcil, -and thought a man so
kind
A way to Heaven. though not their own, might find.
To them, to all, he was polite and free.
Kind to the poor, and, ah I most kind to me !
' Jidljj/i,' would he say, ' liulph Dibble, thou art
ohl;
' ' That doublet fit, 't will keep thee from the cold :
■'How does my sexton? — What! the times are
hard ;
■ ' Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.'
■ But most, his rev'rence loved a mirthful jest : —
• ' Thy coat is thin ; why, man, thou 'rt barely
dress'd ;
■ ' It 's worn to th' thread : but I have nappy beer ;
' ' Clap that within, and see how tht;y will wear I '
" Gay days were these ; but they were quickly-
past :
■ W'hen first he came, we found he cou'dn't last :
' A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf)
■ Upset him quite ;— but what 's the gain of grief?
"Then came the Author- Rector i^'^ his delight
■ W^as all in books ; to read them or to write :
• Women and men he strove alike to shun.
■ And hurried homeward when his tasks were
done ;
■ Courteous enough, but careless what he said,
■ For points of learning he reserved his head ;
' And when addressing either poor or rich,
' He knew no better than his cassock which :
■ He, like an osier, was of pliant kind,
■ Erect by nature, but to bend inclined ;
' Not like a creeper falling to the ground,
■ Or meanly catching on the neighbours round : —
' Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band.'-'- —
■ And kindly took them as they came to hand.
' Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat,
■ As if he sought for dignity in that :
• He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious rules;
■ Nor turn'd from gipsies, vagabonds, or fools ;
' It was his nature, but they thought it whim,
' And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him.
' Of questions, much he wrote, profound and
dark, —
• How spake the serpent, and where stopp'd the ark;
• From what far land the queen of Sheba came :
■ Who Salem's Priest, and what his father's name ;
■ He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield,
■ And Kevelations, to the world, revcal'd.
-' [The .\utIior-Rector is, at all points, the similitude
of Mr. Crabbe himself, except in the subject of his lucubra-
tions.]
-^ [See ante, p. 46.]
THE PARISH REGISTER.
]55
' He sleeps i' the aisle, — but not a stone records
' His name or fame, his actions or his words :
' And truth, j-our reverence, when I look around,
' And mark the tombs in our sepulchral ground
' (Though dare 1 not of one man's hope to doubt),
■ I 'd join the party who repose without.
" Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and in truth
■ He was a sober and a comely youth ;
' He blush'd in meekness as a modest man,
■ And gain'd attention ere his task began ;
■ When preaching, seldom ventured on reproof,
■ But touch'd his neighbours tenderly enough.
' Him, in his youth, a clamorous sect assail'd,
■ Advised and censured, flatter'd, — and prevail'd. —
' Then did he much his sober hearers vex.
Confound the simple, and the sad perplex ;
To a new style his reverence rashly took ;
Loud grew his voice, to threat'ningswell'd his look;
Above, below, on either side he gazed,
■ Amazing all, and most himself amazed :
No more he read his preachments pure and plain,
But launch'd outright, and rose and sank again :
At times he smiled in scorn, at times he wept,
' And such sad coil ^vith words of vengeance kept,
That our blest sleepers started as they slept.
" ' Conviction comes like lightning,' he would cry;
' In vain you seek it, and in vain you fly ;
' "T is like the rushing of the mighty wind,
■ ' Unseen its progress, but its power you find ;
' ' It strikes the child ere yet its reason wakes ;
' ' His reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes ;
' ' The j)roud, leam'd man, and him who loves to
know
' ' How and from whence these gusts of grace will
blow,
' ' It shuns, — ^but sinners in their way impedes,
■ ' And sots and harlots visits in their deeds :
■ ' Of faith and penance it supplies the place ;
' ' Assures the vilest that they live by grace,
' And, without running, makes them win the race.'
'• Such was the doctrine our young prophet
taught ;
And here conviction, there confusion wrought ;
23 [" Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground," &-c.
Pope's Horner.^
'•' [" On the whole, the Parish Register deserves very su-
perior commendation, as well for the tiow of verse and for tlie
language, wliich is manly and powerful, equally remote from
vicious ornament and the still more disgusting cant of idiot
simplicity, as for the sterling poetry, and original powers of
thought, of wliich it contains unquestionable proofs. One
remark we add with pleasure, as prophetic of a still Iiiglier
degree of excdlence which the author may hereafter attain :
his later productions are, in every respect, better and more
perfect than those by which he first became known as a
poet." — Muntltly Review, 1807.
" The characteristic of Crabbe is force, and truth of descrip-
tion, joined for the most part to great selection and condensa-
tion of expression ; that kind of strength and originality which
we meet with in Cowper, and that sort of diction and versili-
cation which we admire in Goldsmith. If he can be said to
have imitated the manner of any author, it is Goldsmith ; and
yet his general train of thinking, and his views of society, are
so extremely opposite, that, when ' The Village ' was first
published, it was commonly considered as an antidote, or
answer, to the more captivating representations of the ' De-
serted Village.' Compared with this celebrated author, lie
will be found to have more vigour and less delicacy ; and,
wliile he must be admitted to be inferior in the line linish
" When his thin cheek assumed a deadly hue,
\ " And aU the rose to one small spot withdrew,
I " They call'd it hectic ; 't was a fiery flush,
■ " More fix'd and deeper than the maiden blush ;
" His paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed,
" And lab'ring limgs the lenth'ning speech opposed.
"No more his span-girth shanks and quiv'ring thighs
" Upheld a body of the smaller size ;
" But down he sank upon his dying bed,
" And gloomy crotchets fiU'd his wandering head. —
1 " ' Spite of my faith, all-saving faith,' he cried,
" ' I fear of worldly %vorks the wicked pride ;
" ' Poor as I am, degraded, abject, bUnd,
" ' The good I 've wrought still rankles in my mind ;
" • My alms-deeds all, and every deed I've done ;
" ' My moral-rags defile me every one ;
" It should not be : — what say'st thou ! tell me,
Ralph.'
I " Quoth I, ' Your reverence, I believe, you 're safe ;
" ' Your faith 's your prop, nor have you pass'd
such time
'• ' In life's good-works as swell them to a crime.
'• ' If I of pardon for my sins were sure,
j " ' About my goodness I would rest secure.'
I " Such was his end ; and mine approaches fast ;
" I 've seen my best of preachers, — and my last." —
He bow'd, and archly smiled at what he said,
Civil but sly : — •" And is old Dibble dead ?"
Yes ; he is gone : and we are going all ;
Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall ;^* —
Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come.
Then bear the new-made Christian to its home :
A few short years and we behold him stand
To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand :
A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear
His widow weeping at her husband's bier : — ■
Thus, as the months succeed, shall infants take
Their names ; thus parents shall the child forsake ;
Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall
kneel.
By love or law compell'd their vows to seal.
Ere I again, or one like me, explore
These simple Annals of the ViLiiAGE Poor.
and uniform beauty of his composition, we cannot help con-
sidering him as superior both in the variety and the truth of
his pictures. Instead of that uniform tint of pensive tender-
ness which overspreads the whole poetry of Goldsmith, we
find in Mr. Crabbe many gleams of gaiety and humour.
Though his habitual views of life are more gloomy than those
of his rival, his poetical temperament seems more cheerful ;
and when the occasions of sorrow and rebuke are gone by, he
can collect himself for sarcastic pleasantries, or unbend in
innocent playfulness. . . .We part from him with regret ; but
we hope to meet him again. If his muse, to be sure, is pro-
lific onlv once in twenty-two years, we can scarcely expect to
live long enough to pass our judgment on his progeny ; but
we trust tliat a larger portion of public favour than has
hitherto been dealt to him, will encourage liim to greater
efforts ; and that he will soon appear again among the worthy
supporters of the old poetical establishment." — Jeffrey,
1807.
" Tliere be, who say, in these enlighten'd days.
That splendid lie's are all the Poet's praise ;
That strain'd invention, ever on the wing.
Alone impels the modern bard to sing :
'Tis true, that all who rhyme— nay, all who vrrMe,
Shrink from that fatal word to genius— trite ;
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires.
And decorate the verse herself inspires :
This fact, in Virtue's name, let Crabbe attest ;
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best."
BvRo.v, 1808.]
X 2
TUK Jilirril UF l-'J.ATTERV.
i
TUK BIUTII OF FLATTKllY.
Omnia Imbeo, nee qiiicquam habeo ;
(^iiii|(|iii!).
For tlie Author's account of his design in the piece, see Pre-
face, ante, p. 100.]
' [" With truth mingling the false."— IIeywoop, 1581 .]
PATIENT.
Who comes? — .\pproach I — 't is kindly done:
Aly leam'd physician, and a friend,
Their pleasures quit, to visit one
Who cannot to their ease attend,^
Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend.
As when I lived so Ijlcst, so well.
And dreamt not I must soon contend
With those malignant powers of hell.
PHYSICIAN.
Less warmth. Sir Eustace, or we go."
See ! I am calm as infant-love,
A very child, but one of woe.
Whom you should pity, not reprove :
But men at ease, who never strove
With passions wild, will calmly show
How soon we may their ills remove.
And masters of their madness grow.
Some twenty j'cars, I think, are gone, —
(Time flies I know not how, away,)
The sun upon no happier shone,
Nor prouder man, than Eustace Grey.
Ask where you would, and all would say,
The man admired and praised of all.
By rich and poor, by grave and gay,
Was the young lord of Greyling Hall.
Yes ! T had youth and rosj- health ;
Was nobly form'd, as man might be ;
For sickness, then, of all my wealth,
I never gave a single fee :
The ladies fair, the maidens free.
Were all accustom'd then to say,
Who would a handsome figure see
Should look upon Sir Eustace Grey.
3 [Original MS. :—
Who comes ? — Approach! — 't is hindly done-
'Hie worthy doctor, and a friend.
'T is more than kind to visit one
Who has not now to spare or spend,
As wlien I lived so blest, so well !]
SIR EUSTACE GREY.
163
He had a frank and pleasant look,
A cheerful eye and accent bland ;
His very speech and manner spoke
The generous heart, the open hand ;
About him all was gay or grand.
He had the praise of great and small ;
He bought, improved, projected, plann'd,
And reign'd a prince at Greyling Hall.
My lady ! — she was all we love ;
All praise (to speak her worth) is faint ;
Her manners show'd the yielding dove,
Her morals, the seraphic saint :
She never breath'd nor look'd complaint ;
No equal upon earth had she : —
Now, what is this fair thing I paint ?
Alas ! as all that live shall be.*
There was, beside, a gallant youth.
And him my bosom's friend I had ; —
Oh ! I was rich in very truth,
It made me proud — it made me mad ! — •
Yes, I was lost — but there was cause ! —
Where stood my tale ? — -I cannot find — •
But 1 had all mankind's applause,
And all the smiles of womankind.
There were two cherub-things beside,
A gracious girl, a glorious boy ;
Yet more to swell my full-blown pride,
To varnish higher my fading joy,
Pleasures were ours without alloy.
Nay, Paradise, — till my frail Eve
Our bliss was tempted to destroy —
Deceived and fated to deceive.
But I deserved ; — for all that time.
When I was loved, admired, caress'd.
There was within, each secret crime,
Unfelt, uncancell'd, unconfess'd :
I never then my God address'd.
In grateful praise or humble prayer ;
And if His Word was not my jest —
(Dread thought !) it never was my care.
I doubted : — fool I was to doubt !
If that all-piercing eye could see, — -
If He who looks all worlds throughout,
Would so minute and careful be
As to perceive and punish me : —
With man I would be great and high.
But with my God so lost, that He,
In his large view, should pass me by. 5
Thus blest with children, friend, and wife,
Blest far beyond the vulgar lot ;
Of all that gladdens human life.
Where was the good that I had not ?
* [Original MS. :—
Worms, doctor, worms, and so are we.]
[^ Here follows, in the original MS. : —
Madman! shall He who made tliis all,
The parts that form the whole reject ?
Is au.!ht with liim so great or small,
He cannot punish or protect ?
But my vile heart had sinful spot,
And Heaven beheld its deep'ning stain ;
Eternal justice I forgot.
And mercy sought not to obtain.
Come near,— I '11 softly speak the rest ! —
Alas ! 't is known to all the crowd,
Her guilty love was all confess'd ;
And his, who so much truth avow'd.
My faithless friend's. — In pleasure proud
I sat, when these cursed tidings came ;
Their guilt, their flight was told aloud.
And Envy smiled to hear my shame !
I call'd on Vengeance ; at the word
She came : — ^Can I the deed forget ?
I held the sword — the accursed sword
The blood of his false heart made wet ;
And that fair victim paid her debt.
She pined, she died, she loath'd to live ;
I saw her dying — see her yet :
Fair fallen thing ! my rage forgive I
Those cherubs still, my life to bless,
Were left ; could I my fears remove,
Sad fears that check'd each fond caress,
And poison'd all parental love ?
Yet that with jealous feelings strove.
And would at last have won my will.
Had I not, wretch ! been doom'd to prove
Th' extremes of mortal good and ill.
In youth ! health ! joy ! in beauty's pride !
They droop'd — as flowers when blighted bow ;
The dire infection came : — they died.
And I was cursed — as I am now ; — •
Nay, frown not, angry friend, — allow
That I was deeply, sorely tried ;
Hear then, and j'ou must wonder how
I could such storms and strifes abide."
Storms ! — not that clouds embattled make,
When they afflict this earthly globe ;
But such as with their terrors shake
Man's breast, and to the bottom probe ;
They make the hypocrite disrobe.
They try us all, if false or true ;
For this one Devil had power on Job ;
And I was long the slave of two.
PHYSICIAN.
Peace, peace, my friend ; these subjects fly ;
Collect thy thoughts — go calmly on. —
Man's folly may his crimes nef,'lect,
And hope the eye of (iod to shun ;
But tliere 's of all the account correct —
Not one omitted— no, not one ]
[MS. :— Nay, frown not— chide not— but allow
i'ity to one so sorely tried :
But I am calm — to fate I bow,
And all tlie storms of life abide.]
Y 2
164
CRABBE'S WORKS.
Anil simll I tlini tin- fiict deny?
I wns, — tlioii kiiow'.Ht, — I wns hof^oiic,
Like liiin wlio fillM tin- eastern tliroiii',
To wlioiii llu" Wiitclicr cried ulouil ;'
That royal wrctcli of Halijloii,
\\]u> was so Kuilty and ho proud.
l-ikr liiin, with Iinuglity, stubborn minil,
I, in njy atafi-, my comforts sou^iit ;
Delight and pniisc I hoped to find,
In wliat I huilded, ])lanted I bought!
Oh I arrofiance ! by misery taiij^ht —
Soon came n voice ! I felt it come ;
" Full be his cup, with evil frau^^ht,
" Demons his guides, and death his doom'.'
Then was I cast from out my state ;
Two fiends of darkness led my way;
They waked me early, watch'd mc late,
My dread by ni^ht, my plague by day !
Oh ! I was made tlieir sport, their ])lay,
Through many a stormy troubled year ;
And how they used their passive prey
Js sad to tell : — but you shall hear.
And first before they sent me forth,
Through this unpityiug world to run,
They robb'd Sir Eustace of his worth,
Lands, manors, lordships, every one ;
So was that gracious man undone.
Was spurn'd as vile, was scorn'd as poor,
Whom every former friend would shun.
And menials drove from every door.
Then those ill-favourM Ones,^ whom none
But my unliappy eyes could view,
Led me, witli wild emotion, on,
And, with resistless terror, drew.
Through lands we tied, o'er seas we flew,
And halted on a boundless plain ;
Where nothing fed. nor breathed, nor grew,
But silence ruled the still domain.
Upon that boundless jjlain, below,
The setting sun's last rays were shed.
And gave a mild and sober glow,
Where all were still, asleep, or dead ;
Vast ruins in the midst were spread,
Pillars and pediments sublime,
Where the grey moss had form'd a bed.
And clothed the crumbling spoils of time.
There was I fix'd, 1 know not how,
Condemn'd for untold years to stay :
Yet years were not ; — one dreadful IVow
Endured no change of night or day ;
7 "And the kinj (Nebuchadnezzar) saw a watcher and
an holy one come down from heaven," &c. — Dan. iv. 23.
" See Uunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.
' [" There is gre^xt force, both of lanjfiiai;e and conception,
in the wihl narralive Sir Eustace gives of liis frenzy ; though
we are not sure whether there is not something too elaborate,
and too much workodup in the picture."— Jeffrey.
" In fh? struggle of the passions, we delight to trace the
The name mihi evening's nlocping my
Shone Hoflly solemn ami Borene,
And all that time I gazed away,
The S(;tting sun's sad rays were Been.'
At length a moment's sleep stole on, —
Again came my commission'd foes;
Again through sea aiul land we're gone,
No peace, no respite, no repose :
Above the dark broad sea wo rose.
We ran through tileak ami frozen land ;
I had no strength their strength t' oppose,
An infant in a giant's hand.
They placed me where those streamers play.
Those nimble beams of brilliant light;
It would the stoutest heart dismay.
To see, to feel, tliat dreadful sight:
So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright.
They pierced my frame with icy wound ;
And all that half-year's polar night.
Those dancing streamers wrapp'd mc round.
Slowly that darkness pass'd away,
When down upon tlic earth I fell, —
Some hurried sleep was mine by day ;
But, soon as toll'd the evening bell.
They forced me on, where ever dwell
Far-distant men in cities fair.
Cities of whom no travellers tell.
Nor feet but mine were wanderers there.
Their watchmen stare, and stand aghast,
As on we hurry through the dark ;
The watch-light blinks as we go past,
The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark ;
The watch-tower's bell sounds shrill; and, hark I
The free wind blows — -we 've left the town —
A wide sepulchral ground I mark,
And on a tombstone place me down.
What monuments of mighty dead !
What tombs of various kind are found !
And stones erect their shadows shed
On humble graves, with wickers bound.
Some risen fresh, above the ground.
Some level with the native clay :
What sleeping millions wait the sound,
'* Arise, ye dead, and come away ! "
Alas ! they stay not for that call ;
Spare me this woe ! ye demons, spare I —
They come 1 the shrouded shadows all, —
'Tis more than mortal brain can bear;
Bustling they rise, they sternly glare
At man upheld by vital breath ;
Who, led by wicked fiends, should dare
To join the shadowy troops of death !
workings of the soul ; we love to mark the swell of every vein,
and the throb of every pulse ; every stroke that searches a
new source of pity and terror we pursue with a busy and in-
quisitive sympathy. It is from this cause that Mr. Crablie's
delineations of the passions are so just — so touching of the
gentle, and of the awful so tremendous. Remorse and mad-
ness have been rarely portrayed by a more powerful hand.
For feeling, imagery, and agitation of thoughts, the lines in
which Sir Eustace (Jrey fells tlie story of his insanity are
second to few modern productions. The contrast between the
state of the madness, and the evening scene on which he was
SIR EUSTACE GREY.
165
Yes. I have felt all man can feel,
Till he shall pay his nature's debt ;
Ills that no hope has strength to heal,
No mind the comfort to forget :
AVhatever cares the heart can fret.
The spirits wear, the temper gall,
Woe, want, dread, anguish, all beset
My sinful soul I — together all ! *'
Those fiends upon a shaking fen
FLx'd me, in dark tempestuous night ;
There never trod the foot of men,
There flock'd the fowl in wint'ry flight ;
There danced the moors deceitful light
Above the pool where sedges grow ;
And when the morning-sun shone bright,
It shone upou a field of snow.
They hung me on a bough so small,
The rook could built her nest no higher ;
They fix'd me on the trembling ball
That crowns the steeple's quiv'ring spire ;
They set me where the seas retire,
But drown with their returning tide ;
And made me flee the mountain's fire,
AVhen rolling from its burning side.
1 've hung upon the ridgy steep
Of cliffs, and held the rambling brier;
I "ve plunged below the billowy deep.
Where air was sent me to respire ;
I 've been where hungry wolves retire ;
And (to complete my woes) I 've ran
Where Bedlam's crazy crew conspire
Against the life of reasoning man.
I 've furl'd in storms the flapping sail.
By hanging from the topmast-head ;
I 've served the vilest slaves in jail,
And pick'd the dunghill's spoil for bread ;
I 've made the badger's hole my bed ;
I 've wander'd with a gipsy crew ;
I 've dreaded all the guilty dread.
And done what they would fear to do.''
On sand, where ebbs and flows the flood,
Midway they placed and bade me die ;
Propp'd on my staff, 1 stoutly stood
When the swift waves came rolling by ;
And high they rose, and still more high.
Till my lips drank the bitter brine ;
I sobb'd convulsed, then cast mine ej-e,
And saw the tide's re-flowing sign.
condemned to gaze, gives a tone of penetrating anguish to
these verses." — Gifford.]
1" [MS. : — Ills that no medicines can heal,
And griefs that no man can forget ;
MTiatever cares the mind can fret,
Tlie spirits wear, tlie bosom gall —
Pain, hunger, prison, duns, and debt,
Foul-fiends and fear, — I 've felt ye all.]
" [" There is great force in these two lines ; but that which
gives the last finish to this vision of despair is contained in
these words : —
And then, my dreams were such as nought
Could yield but my unhappy case ;
I 've been of thousand devils caught.
And thrust into that horrid place
Where reign dismay, despair, disgrace ;
Furies with iron fangs were there,
To torture that accursed race
Doom'd to dismay, disgrace, despair.
Harmless I was : yet hunted down
For treasons, to mj' soul unfit ;
I 've been pursued through many a to^\ii,
For crimes that petty knaves commit ;
I 've been adjudged t' have lost my wit.
Because 1 preached so loud and well ;
And thrown into the dungeon's pit,
For trampling on the pit of hell.
Such were the evils, man of sin,
That I was fated to sustain ;
And add to all, ^\-ithout — within,
A soul defiled with every stain
That man's reflecting mind can pain ;
That pride, wrong, rage, despair, can make ;
In fact, they 'd nearly touch'd my brain.
And reason on her throne would shake.
But pity will the vilest seek,
If punish'd guilt will not repine, —
I heard a heavenly Teacher speak.
And felt the Sun of Mercy shine :
I hailed the light ! the birth divine !
And then was seal'd among the few ;
Those angry fiends beheld the sign.
And from me in an instant flew.
Come hear how thus the charmers cry
To wandering sheep, the strays of sin.
While some the wicket-gate pass by.
And some will knock and enter in :
Full joyful 'tis a soul to win.
For he that winneth souls is wise ;
Now hark ! the holy strains begin,
And thus the sainted preacher cries ; '^ — •
" Pilgrim, burthen'd with thy sin,
" Come the way to Zion's gate,
" There, till Mercy let thee in,
" Knock and weep and watch and wait.
" Knock ! — He knows the sinner's cry :
" AVeep ! — He loves the mourner's tears :
" Watch I — for saving grace is nigh :
" Wait, — till heavenly light appears.
' And then, my dreams were such as naught
Could yield, but my unhappy case.' " — Gifford.]
12 It has been suggested to me, that this change from rest-
lessness to repose, in the mind of Sir Eustace, is wrought by
a metliodistic call ; and it is admitted to be such : a sober anS
rational conversion could not have happened wliile the dis-
order of tlie brain continued : yet the verses which follow, in
a different meas'ire, are not intended to make any religious
persuasion appear ridiculous ; they are to be supposed as the
effect of memory in tlie disordered mind of the speaker, and,
though evidently enthusiastic in respect to language, are not
meant to convey any impropriety of sentiment.
1G6
("MAI5I5KS WOIIKS.
Unrk ! it ih tlio Ilriilct^room'H voice :
WclcDiiK', |iii^riiii, to 111}' rest ;
Now «illiiii llic nalc rejoice,
Siite mill seiil'il mul l>oii};lit anil lilent !
" Safe — from nil the Uiros of viei,',
" Seftl'il -by Min'"!* *'"' flx'Nfn know,
" Hounlit 1>}- love anil life the price,
" Blest - the niifjlify ilebt to owe.
Holy Pilnrim ! wlint fur tlieo
In a woriil like this remain ?
I'rom thy nuanleil lirenst shall flee
Fear and shame, ami tlonlit ami j)Bin.
" Fear — -the hope of Heaven shall fly,
" Shame from f,'lory's view retire,
" Oouht — in ecrtnin rapture ilie,
•• Pain — in eiulless bliss expire."
But thougli my day of grace was come,
Yet still my days of grief 1 find ;
The former clouds' collected gloom
Still sadden the reflecting mind ;
The soul, to evil tilings consign'd.
Will of their evil some retain ;
The man will seem to earth inclined.
And will not look erect again.
Thus, though elect, I feel it hard
To lose what I posscss'd before,
To be from all my wealth debarr'd, —
The brave Sir Eustace is no more :
But old I wax, and passing poor,
Stern, rugged men my c^iaduct view ;
They chide my wish, they bar my door,
'Tis hard — 1 weep — -you see 1 do. —
Must you, my friends, no longer stay?
Thus quickly all my pleasures end ;
But I'll remember, when 1 pray,
My kind physician and his friend ;
And those sad hours, you deign to spend
■With me, 1 shall requite them all ;
Sir iMistace for his friends shall send,
And thank their love at Greyling Hall
The poor Sir F.ustace I - Y'et his hope
Leads him to think of joys again ;
And when his earthly visions rlroop.
His views of heaverdy kind remain :
But whence that meek and humbled strain.
That s])irit wcmndod, lost, resign'd ?
Would not so proud a soul disdain
The madness of the poorest mind ?
I'llVSiriAN.
No ! for the more he swoU'd with pride.
The more he felt misfortune's blow ;
Disgrace and grief he could not hide,
And poverty had laiil him low :
Thus shame and sorrow working slow.
At length this humble spirit gave ;
Madness on these began to grow.
And bound him to his fiends a slave.
Though the wild thoughts had touch'd his brain.
Then was he free : — So, forth he ran ;
To soothe or threat, alike were vain :
lie spake of fiends ; look'd w ild and wan ;
Year after year, the hurried man
Obey'd those fiends from place to place;
Till his religious change began
To form a frenzied child of grace.
For, as the fury lost its strength,
The mind reposed ; by slow degrees
Came lingering hope, and brought at length.
To the tormented spirit, ease :
This slave of sin, whom fiends could seize,
Felt or believed their power had end ; —
"'Tis faith," he cried, "my bosom frees,
" And now my Saviour is my friend."
But ah ! though time can yield relief.
And soften woes it cannot cure ;
Would we not suffer pain and grief.
To have our reason sound and sure ?
Then let us keep our bosoms pure,
Our fancy's favourite flights suppress ;
Prepare the body to endure.
And bend the mind to meet distress ;
And then iiis guardian care implore,
"Whom demons dread and men adore.
. 1
THE HALL OF JUSTICE. 167
THE HALL OF JUSTICE.
IN TWO
PAKTS.'
PART L
I saw the tempting food, and seized — •
My infant-sufferer found relief;
And, in the pilfer'd treasure pleased.
Smiled on my guilt, and hush'd my grief.
Confiteor facere hoc annos; sed et altera causa est,
Anxietas anirai, continuusque dolor. — Ovid.
But I have griefs of other kind.
Troubles and sorrows more severe ;
Give me to ease my tortured mind,
MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &;C.
Lend to my woes a patient ear ;
And let me — if I may not find
VAGRANT.
A friend to help — find one to hear.
Take, take away thy barbarous hand,
And let me to thy Master speak ;
Yet nameless let me plead— my name
Remit awhile the harsh command,
Would only wake the cry of scorn ;
And hear me, or my heart will break.
A child of sin, conceived in shame.
Brought forth in woe, to misery born
MAGISTRATE.
Fond wretch ! and what canst thou relate,
My mother dead, my father lost,
I wander'd with a vagrant crew;
But deads of sorrow, shame, and sin ?
A common care, a common cost ;
Thy crime is proved, thou know'st thy fate ;
Their sorrows and their sins I knew ;
But come, thy tale ! — begin, begin ! —
W^ith them, by want on error forced,
Like them, I base and guilty grew.
VAGRANT.
My crime ! This sick'ning child to feed.
Few are my years, not so my crimes :
I seized the food, your witness saw ;
The age, which these sad looks declare.
I knew your laws forbade the deed.
Is Sorrow's work, it is not Time's,
But yielded to a stronger law.^
And 1 am old in shame and care.^
Know'st thou, to Nature's great command
Taught to believe the world a place
AH human laws are frail and weak ?
Where every stranger was a foe.
Nay ! frown not — stay his eager hand,
Train'd in the arts that mark our race.
And hear me, or my heart will break.
To what new people could 1 go ?
Could I a better life embrace.
In this, th' adopted babe I hold
Or live as virtue dictates ? No ! —
With anxious fondness to my breast.
My heart's sole comfort I behold.
So through the land I wandering went,
More dear than life, when life was blest ;
And little found of grief or joy ;
I saw her pining, fainting, cold,
But lost my bosom's sweet content
I begg'd — but vain was my request.
When first I loved — the Gipsy-Boy.
' [See Preface, ante, p. 100.]
3 [Original MS. :—
2 [Original MS. :— Or,
My years, indeed, are sad and few,
What is my crime ? — a deed of love ;
'riiough weak these limbs, and shrunk this frame :
I fed my child with pilfer'd food :
For Grief has done what Time sliould do ;
Your laws will not the act approve;
And I am old in care and shame.]
The law of Nature deems it good.]
168
CIIA HUE'S WORKS.
A sturdy youth he was ami tall,
His liMiks wotilil all liis sduI ilcclarc ;
His piercing; eyes were ilcci) ami Hiiiail,
Ami strongly ciul'd his raven-hair.
Yo8, A A HON ha,
He scurct'ly foar'il his I'ntlu-r's arm,
And I' very otluT arm drfied. —
Oft, when tlipy prew in anpcr warm,
(Whom will not love and jjowcr divide?)
I rose, their wrathful souls to calm,
Not yet in sinful combat tried.
His father was our party's chief,
And dark and dreadful was his look ;
His presence fill'd my heart with grief,
Although to mc he kindly spoke.
"With Aaron I delighted went.
His favour was my bliss and pride ;
In growing liope our days we spent.
Love growing charms in either spied ;
It saw them all which Nature lent,
It lent them all which she denied.
Could I the father's kindness prize,
Or grateful looks on him bestow,
"Whom I beheld in wrath arise,
When Aaron sunk beneath his blow ?
He drove him down with wicked hand.
It was a dreadful sight to see ;
Then vex'd him, till he left the land,
And told his cruel love to me ;
The clan were all at his command,
Whatever his command might be.
The night was dark, the lanes were deep.
And one by one they took their way ;
He bade me lay me dowii and sleep,
I only wept and wish'd for day.
Accursed be the love he bore,
Accursed was the force he used.
So let him of his God implore
For mercy, and be so refused 1
You frown again, — to show my wTong
Can I in gentle language speak ?
My woes arc deep, my words are strong, —
And hear mc, or my heart will break.
MAGISTHATE.
I hear thy words, I feel thy pain ;
Forbear awhile to speak thy woes ;
Receive our aid, and then again
The story of thy life disclose.
For, though seduced and led astray.
Thou 'st travell'd far and wander'd long ;
Thy God hath seen thee all the way.
And all the turns that led thee wrong.
I'AIIT II.
Qtionilnm riilcnteii oculi, nunc fonte perenni
l)c|ilorant pna.i-inal MS. :—
CompoU'd to feast, in full delight.
When I was sad and wanted power.
Can I forset that dismal night?
Ah ! how did I survive the hour ?]
And thus he said : — " Will God allow,
" The great Avenger just and Good,
" A wife to break her marriage vow ?
" A son to shed his father's blood ?" ^
I trembled at the dismal sounds,
But vainly strove a word to say ;
So, pointing to his bleeding wounds,
The threat'ning spectre stalk'd away.^
I brought a lovely daughter forth,
His father's child, in Aaron's bed ;
He took her from me in his wrath,
" Where is my child ?" — " Thy child is dead.
'T was false — we wander'd far and wide,
Through town and country, field and fen.
Till Aaron, fighting, fell and died.
And I became a wife again.
I then was young ; — ^my husband sold
My fancied charms for wicked price ;
He gave me oft for sinful gold,
The slave, but not the friend of vice :—
Behold me. Heaven ! my pains behold,
And let them for my sins suffice !
The wretch who lent me thus for gain,
Despised me when my youth was fled ;
Then came disease, and brought me pain : —
Come, Death, and bear me to the dead !
For though I grieve, my grief is vain,
And fruitless all the tears I shed.
True, I was not to virtue train'd,
Yet well I knew my deeds were ill ;
By each oifence my heart was pain'd
I wept, but I offended still ;
My better thoughts my life disdain' d,
But yet the viler led my will.
My husband died, and now no more
My smile was sought, or ask'd my hand,
A widow'd vagrant, vile and poor.
Beneath a vagrant's vile command.
Ceaseless I roved the country round.
To win my bread by fraudful arts,
And long a poor subsistence found,
By spreading nets for simple hearts.
Though poor, and abject, and despised,
Their fortunes to the crowd I told ;
I gave the young the love they prized.
And promised wealth to bless the old.
Schemes for the doubtful I devised.
And charms for the forsaken sold.
At length for ai-ts like these confined
In prison with a lawless crew,
I soon perceived a kindred mind.
And there my long-lost daughter knew ;
5 [MS.:— Or,
And tliere ray father-husband stood—
I felt no words can tell you how —
As he was wont in angry mood,
And thus he cried, " Will God allow," S;c.]
15 The state of mind here described will account for a vision
His father's child, whom Aaron gave
To wander with a distant clan.
The miseries of the world to brave,
And be the slave of vice and man.
She knew my name — 'we met in pain.
Our parting pangs can I express ?
She sail'd a convict o'er the main,
And left an heir to her distress.
This is that heir to shame and pain,
For whom I only could descry
A world of trouble and disdain :
Yet, could I bear to see her die.
Or stretch her feeble hands in vain.
And, weeping, beg of me supply ?
No ! though the fate thy mother knew
Was shameful ! shameful though thy race
Have wander'd all a lawless crew.
Outcasts despised in every place ;
Yet as the dark and muddy tide.
When far from its polluted source,
Becomes more pure and purified.
Flows in a clear and happy course ;
In thee, dear infant ! so may end
Our shame, in thee our sorrows cease !
And thy pure course will then extend,
In floods of joy, o'er vales of peace.
Oh ! by the God who loves to spare,
Deny me not the boon I crave ;
Let this loved child your mercy share.
And let me find a peaceful grave ;
Make her yet spotless soul your care,
And let my sins their portion have ;
Her for a better fate prepare,
And punish whom 't were sin to save !
MAGISTRATE.
Recall the word, renounce the thought,
Command thy heart and bend thy knee.
There is to all a pardon brought,
A ransom rich, assured and free ;
'T is full when found, 't is found if sought.
Oh ! seek it, till 't is seal'd to thee.
VAGRANT.
But how my pardon shall I know ?
MAGISTRATE.
By feeling dread that 't is not sent,
By tears for sin that freely flow.
By grief, that all thy tears are spent,
By thoughts on that great debt we owe,
With all the mercy God has lent,
By suffering what thou canst not show,
Yet showing how thine heart is rent,
Till thou canst feel thy bosom glow,
And say, " My Saviour, I Rei-ent 1" 1
of tliis nature, without having recourse to any supernatural
appearance.
' ["The Hall of Justice, or the story of the Gipsy Convict,
is very nervous, — very shocking, — and very powerfully
represented. It is written with very unusual power of lan-
guage, and shows Mr. Crabbe to have great mastery over the
tragic passions of pity and horror." — Jeffrey.]
170
CRAHIJK'S WOKKS.
W MAN!
MU. I,KI>VAni>, AS QUOTED BY MUNOO TAKKi: IN HIS
TUAVELS INTO AFRICA : —
" To a Woman I never addressed myself in tlie language of
" decency and friendship, without receivini,' a decent and
" friendly answer. If I was liungry or tliirsty, wet-ftr sick,
" they did not hesitate, like Men, to perform a generous
" action : in so free and kind a manner did they contribute
" to my relief, that if I Wiia dry, 1 drank the sweetest
" draught, and if hungry, 1 ate the coarsest morsel with a
" doulile relisli."
Place the white man on Afric's coast.
Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,
AVho of their scorn to Europe boast,
And paint their very demons white :
There, while the sterner sex disdains
To soothe the woes they cannot feel,
"Woman will strive to heal his pains,
And weep for those she cannot heal :
Hers is warm pity's sacred glow;
From all her stores she bears a part,
And bids the spring of hope re-fiow,
That languish'd in the fainting heart.
" What though so pale his haggard face,
'• So sunk and sad his looks," — she cries;
" And far unlike our nobler race,
" With crisped locks and rolling eyes;
" Yet misery marks him of our kind :
" We see him lost, alone, afraid ;
" And pangs of body, griefs in mind,
*' Pronounce liim man, and ask our aid.
'• Perhaps in some far-distant shore
" There are who in these forms delight ;
" Whose milky features please them more,
" Than ours of jet thus burnished bright;
' [In Mr. Crabhe's note-book, which contains the original
draught of " Woman," tliere occur also the foUowin"
stanz IS : — "
A w;eary Traveller walkM his wa>-,
With grief and want and pain opprest :
His looks were sad, his locks were grey ;
He sought for food, he sigh'd for rest.
A wealthy gra/ier pass'd— " Attend,"
The sufferer cried— "some aid allow : "—
" Thou art not of my parish, Friend ;
Nor am I in mine office now."
He dront, and more impatient prav"d—
.\ mild adviser heard the word :'
" Of such may be his weeping wife,
" Such children for their sire may call,
" And if we spare his ebbing life,
" Our kindness may preserve them all."
Thus her compassion Woman shows :
Beneath the line her acts are these;
Nor the wide waste of Lapland-snows
Can her warm flow of pity freeze : —
" From some sad land the stranger comes,
" Where joys like ours are never found ;
" Let's soothe him in our happy homes,
" Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.
" 'T is good the fainting soul to cheer,
'• To sec the famish'd stranger fed ;
'•To milk for him the mother-deer,
" To smooth for him the furry bed.
" The powers above our Lapland bless
"With good no other people know;
" '1" enlarge the joys that we possess,
'■ By feeling those that we bestow I"
Thus in extremes of cold and heat.
Where wandering man may trace his kind ;
Wherever grief and want retreat.
In Woman they compassion find ;
She makes tlie female breast her seat.
And dictates mercy to the mind.
Man may the sterner virtues know,
Determined justice, truth severe ;
But female hearts with pity glow,
Antl Woman holds affliction dear;
For guiltless woes her sorrows flow.
And suffering vice compels her tear ;
'T is hers to soothe the ills below,
And bid life's fairer views appear :
To Woman's gentle kind we owe
What comforts and delights us here;
They its gay hopes on youth bestow,
Aid care they soothe, and age they cheer.'
" Be patient. Friend!" he kindly said,
" -Viid w ait the leisure of the Lord."
.Another comes ! — " Turn, stranger, turn I"
" Not so !" replied a voice : " I mean
" The candle of the Lord to burn
" Witli mine ow n Hock on Save-all Green.
" To w ar with Satan, thrust for thrust ;
" To gain my lamb he led astray ;
" The Spirit drives me : on I must —
" Yea, woe is me, if I delay! "
But Woman came ! by Heaven design'd
To ease the heart that throlis w itli pain —
She gave relief — abundant — kind —
.\iid bade him go in peace again.]
THE BOROUGH.
171
THE BOROUGH.
Piiulo majora canamus. — Virgil.
TO HIS GRACE
THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, MARQUIS OF GRANBY ;
recorder of cambridge and scarborough ;
lord'lieutenant and custos rotulorum of the count? of leicester ;
k.g. and ll.d.
My Lord,
The Poem for which I have ventured to solicit your Grace's attention was composed in a situation so
near to Belvoir Castle, that the author had all the advantage to be derived from prospects extensive
and beautiful, and from works of grandeur and sublimity : and though nothing of the influence arising
from such situation should be discernible in these verses, either from want of adequate powers in the
writer, or because his subjects do not assimilate with such views, yet would it be natural for him to
indulge a wish that he might inscribe his labours to the lord of a scene which perpetually excited his
admiration, and he would plead the propriety of placing the titles of the House of Rutland at the en-
trance of a volume written in the Vale of Belvoir. '■'
But, my Lord, a motive much more powerful than a sense of propriety, a grateful remembrance of
benefits conferred by the noble family in which you preside, has been the great inducement for me to
wish that I might be permitted to inscribe this work to your Grace : the honours of that time were to
me unexpected, they were unmerited, and they were transitory : but since I am thus allowed to make
public my gratitude, I am in some degree restored to the honour of that period ; I have again the
happiness to find myself favoured, and my exertions stimulated, by the condescension of the Duke of
Rutland.
It was my fortune, in a poem which yet circulates, to write of the virtues, talents, and heroic death of
Lord Robert Manners, and to bear witness to the affection of a brother whose grief was poignant, and
to be soothed only by remembrance of his worth whom he so deeply deplored.^ In a patron thus
favourably predisposed, my Lord, I might look for much lenity, and could not fear the severity of cri-
I [" Tlie Borough," which was begun while Mr. Crabbe
resided at Rendliam, was completed during a visit to his
native town of Aldborough, in the autumn of 1809, and pub-
lished in February, ISIO. In the preface he is found ascribing
this new appearance to flie extraordinary success of tlie
" Parisli Register ;" and Mr. Jeffrey commenced his review
of tlie " Borough ' in these terms (Edin. Rev. 1810) :— " We
are very glad to meet with Mr. Crabhe so soon again ; and
particularly glad to find that his early return has been occa-
sioned, in part, by the encouragement he received on his last
appearance. This late spring of public favour, we hope, he
will yet live to see ripen into mature fame. We scarcely
know any poet who deserves it better; and are quite certain
there is none who is more secure of keeping with posterity
whatever he may win from his contemporaries."]
•^ [Mr. Crabbe, in 1790, wrote, at Muston, an Essay on the
Natural History of the Vale of Belvoir, which he contributed
to Mr. Nichols's History of Leiceslershire. The motto is from
Drayton's Polyolbion : —
" Do but compare the country where I lie,
My hills and oulds will say, they are" the island's eye ;
Consider next my site, and say it doth excel ;
Then come unto my soil, and you shall see it well,
With everv grass arid grain that Britain forth can bring ;
I challenge any vale to show me but that thing
I cannot show to her, that truly is my own."]
3 [See ante, pp. 33, 119, 121.]
172
CIIAIMJK'S WORKS.
tlcal examiiiatiim : from your firncc, who, liappily, have no such impediment to justice, I must not look
for the Slime Itiiid of iiululmnice. I am nsHiircd, l)y those wlioso Hitiiatir)n gave tliem opportunity for
knowK'dfje, and wiuisc aliilitics and attention guarded them from error, that I must not expect my fail-
ings will escape detection from want of disreriiment, neither am 1 to fear that any merit will he undis-
tinguislied througli deficiency of taste. It is from this information, my Lord, and a consciousness of
much which needs forgiveness, tliat I entreat your firacc to read my verses, with a wish, I hav tlio nrtlcas mnnncrs or lowly virtues of his ptT-
soiift^'cs. Oil tile ciintrary. In' lias rcprescnleil liis villn),'iTS
and humble liiir;;li('rs as alti);,'«'tli(T ns dissipated, and more
dishonest and discontented, than the prollitjates of lii){lier
life; and, instead of comhictins; us tlirim;,'h liloominy groves
and pastoral meadows, luis led ns along liltliy lanes and
crowded wharfs, to hospitals, almshouses, and gin-shops. In
some of these delineations he may be considered as the satirist
of low life— an orcupalion sulliciently arduous, and in a great
degree new and original in our language. Hy the mere force
of his art, and the novelty of his style, he oompels us to
attend to objects that are usually neglected, and to enter into
feelings from which we are in general but too eager to
escape ; ami then trusts to nature for the elVect of the repre-
sentation. It is obvious that this is not a task for an ordinary
hand, and that many ingenious writers, who make a very
good figure with battles, nymphs, and moonlight landscapes,
produce such effect ; and this casting away so
lorgcly of our cargo, through fears of danger,
tliough it might lielp us to clear it, wrjiild render
our vessel of little wortli when she came into port.
I may likewise entertain a hope, that this very
variety, wliich gives scope to objection and censure,
will also afford a better chance for approval and
satisfaction.*
would Hnd themselves quite helplesa if set down among
streets, harbours, and taverns." — Jeffbev.]
* [In one of Mr. Crahbc'g note-I>ooks we find the following
olwervations relative to the Horough : — " I have chiefly, if not
exclusively, taken mv subjects and characters from that order
of society where the least display of vanity is generally to be
found, which is placed Iwtween the huml)le and the great.
It is in this class of mankind that more originality of cha-
racter, more variety of fortune, will ]>e met with ; becauw.on
the one hand, they do not live in the eye of the world, and
therefore are not kept in awe by the dread of observation and
indecorum ; neither, on the other, are they debarred by their
want of means from the cultivation of mind and the pursuits
of wealth and ambition, which are necessary to the develop-
ment of character displayed in the variety of situations to
which this class is liable."]
THE BOROUGH.
175
THE BOROUGH.
LETTER I.
Tliese diJ the ruler of tlie deep ordain,
To build proud navies, and to rule the main.
Pope'*' Homer's Iliad, b. vi
Such scenes has Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch ;
Sucli Lambetli, envy of each band and gown.
And Twickenham sucli, which fairer scenes enrich
Pope's Imitatiun uf Spenser.
Et cum coelestibus undis
iEquoreaB miscentur aquae : caret ignibus aether,
Csecaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque ;
Discutient tamen has, prsebentque micantia lumen
Fulmina : fulmineis ardescunt ignibus undae.
Ovid. Metamorph. lib. xi.'
GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
The Difficulty of descrilnng Town Scenery — A Comparison
with certain Views in the Country — The River and Quay —
The Shipping and Business — Ship-building — Sea- Boys and
Port-Views — Village and Town Scenery again compared —
Walks from Town— Cottage and adjoininj;; Heath, &;c. —
House of Sunday Entertainment — llie Sea : a Summer
and Winter View — A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects
on Shore — Evening Amusements in the Borough — An
Apology for the imperfect View which can be given of
these Subjects.
" Describe the Borough " — though our idle tribe
May love description, can we so describe,
That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,
And all that gives distinction to a place ?
This cannot be ; yet moved by your request
A. part I paint — let Fancy form the rest.
Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,
Require the pencil ; they defy the pen :
Could he who sang so well the Grecian fleet.
So well have sung of alley, lane, or street ?
Can measured lines these various buildings show.
The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row ?
' [" Sweet waters mingle with tlie briny main :
No star appears to lend his friendly light ;
Darkness and tempest make a double night :
But Hashing tires disclose the deep by turns.
And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns."
Dryden.]
2 [See ante, p. 56. Tlie parsonage at Muston, here alluded
to, looked full on the churchyard, by no i means like the
common forbidding receptacles of the dead, but truly orna-
mental ground ; for some fine elms partially concealed the
small beautiful church and its spire, while the eye, travelling
through their stems, rested on the lianks of a stream and a
Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,
And lengthen out my lays from door to door ?
Then let thy Fancy aid me — I repair
From this tall mansion of our last year's Mayor,
Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach,
And these half-buried buildings next the beach.
Where hang at open doors the net and cork,
While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work ;
Till comes the hour when fishing through the
tide
The weary husband throws his freight aside ;
A living mass which now demands the wife,
Th' alternate labours of their humble life.
Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy
wood,
Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood ?
Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look.
As it steals by, upon the bordering brook ; ^
That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering slow,
Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs
blow ;
Where in the midst, upon a throne of green.
Sits the large Lily ^ as the water's queen ;
And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,
Murmur and bubble as it shoots away ;
Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream.
And our broad river will before thee seem.
With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide.
Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide ;
Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep
It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep ;
Here Samphire-banks * and Salt- wort ^ bound the
flood.
There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud ;
And higher up, a ridge of all things base,
Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place.
Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat,
Urged on by pains, half-grounded, half afloat :
While at her stern an angler takes his stand.
And marks the fish he purposes to land ;
From that clear space, where, in the cheerful
ray
Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.
picturesque old bridge : tlie garden enclosed the other two
sides of this churchyard ; but the crow n of the whole was a
gothic archway, cut through a thick hedge and many boughs,
for through this opening, as in the deep fiarae of a picture,
appeared, in the centre of the aerial canvas, the unrivalled
lielvoir.]
3 The white water-lily, Nymphaca alba.
■< Tlie jointed glasswort, Salicornia, is here meant, not the
true samphire, the Crithmum maritiraum.
^ The Salsola of botanists.
Far other craft our prouder river shows,
Hoys," jiiuks,^ nnd sloupK : l)rigH, l)ri;^tiiitiiics,"
nnd snows : "
Nor angliT wo on our wide stroiim descry,
IJut one poor drcdfjor wlierc liis oysters lie :
He, cold and wet, iind driving; with tlie tide,
Heats liis weak arms aj^ainst his tarry side,
'I'lien drains tlic remnant of diluted K'"i
To aid the warintli tlnit Inn^uislies within ;
Kenewiu}!; oft liis jioor attem|)ts to heat
His tin^rlin;; flutters into f^atherinn heat.
He shall a;;ain he seen when evening comes,
And social parties crowroaHt,
Ami in tlio ri-stlcHs occiiii dip for rt'Ht.-'
i>iiri{iicss l>cf;iiiH to ri'inn ; tlic louilcr wiml
Aiipiils till" Nvoak Mini a\M's tlic tiriiicr niiinl ;
Hut frights not liini, wlioni pvcnin); (ind tiu- spray
In imrt c(iiu'tml~-you Prowler on IiIh wny :
l.o I lit" has siinictliinK seen ; he runs apace,
As it' lie i'curM ciinipnnion in tlio cliasc ;
lie sfi's his prize, and now lie turns aj^ain,
Slowly and sorrowing — " Was your Bearcli in vain ?"
(Miiflly lie answers, " 'T is a sorry sight !
" A seaman's body : tlierc '11 be more to-night ! "
Hark ! to those sounds ! they 're from distress at
sen :
How quick they come ! What terrors may there be !
Yes, 't is a driven vessel : I discern
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from tlie stern ;
Others behold them too, and from the town
In various jiarties seamen liurry down ;
Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread,
Lest men so dear be into danger led ;
'riicir head tlie gown lias hooded, and their call
In this sad night is piercing like the squall ;
They feel tlieir kinils of power, and when they meet,
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, tlirenten, or entreat.
See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,
Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm ;
" Thou shalt not venture ; " and he answers " No !
" I will not:" — still she cries, " Thou shalt not go."
No need of this ; not here the stoutest boat
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float,
Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,
AVhich yield them hope, whom help can never reach.
From jiarted clouds the moon her ratliance tlirows
On the wild waves, and all the danger shows ;
But shows them beaming in her shining vest,
Terrific splendour ! gloom in glory dress'd !
This for a moment, and then clouds again
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign. "■^^
But hear we not those sounds ? Do lights appear ?
T see them not', the storm alone I hear:
And lo ! the sailors homeward take their way ;
Man must endure — let us submit and pray.
Such are our Winter-views : but night comes on —
Now business sleeps, and daily cares arc gone ;
Now parties form, antl some their friends assist
To w asto the idle hours at sober whist ;
The tavern's jileasnre or the concert's cliarm
riuiumber'il nionients of tlieir sting disarm ;
Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite.
To pass off one dread portion of the night ;
>" [Water-fowl, in a peciiliiir manner, discover, in their
fli^'lit, some determined aim. Tliey eai;erly co.ist the river, or
return ti> the sea ; lient on some purpose oi" wliicli they never
losesiu'lit. Hut the evolutions of tlie yiiU appear capricious
and undirected, both wlien slie flies alone and in lar;;e com-
panies. The more, however, lier character suHers as a
loiterer, the more it is raised in picturesque value by her
continuins,' longer before the eye, and displaying;, in her ele-
gant sweeps alonf; the air, her sharp-pointed wings and her
bright silvery hue. She is beautiful, also, not only on the
win),', but when she floats, in numerous assemblies, on the
water ; or when she rests on the shore, dotting either one or
the other with white spots, which, minute as they ore, are
very picturesque. — Gu.pin.]
*■' [■' The siijnals of distress are heard— the inhabitants of
the Horough crowd to the strand; but the boisterousness of
the sea precludes all possibilitv of aflbrtling asiistance to tlie
crew of the distressed vessel. ' Vet,' observes the poet, in lines
of dreadful meaning, —
And show and Hong a)id luxury combined,
Lift (iff from man this biirtlieii of munkiniL
Others advcnt'rons walk abroad an|>liiig sailor staggering home:
There as we pass, the jingling Ixdis betray
How business rises with the closing doy :
Now walking silent, by the river's i-idc,
Tlie ear perceives the rippling of the tide;
Or measured cadence of the lails who tow
Some enter'd hoy, to fix her in her row ;
Or hollow soutiil, which from the jiarish-bell
To some dejiarted sjiirit bids farewfdl I
Thus shall you something of our Bukolgii know,
Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show.
Of Sea or Kiver, of a Quay or Street,
The best description must be incomplete,
But when a happier theme succeeds, and when
jMen are our subjects ami the deeds of men ;
Then may we find the Muse in happier style,
And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.*^
LETTER II.
.... Festinat enim decurrere velox
Flosculus anguslae miseni'que brevissima vitae
Portio! dum bibiraus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas
Poscimus, obrepit non intellects senectus. — Ji;v. Sat. ix.
And when at last thy Love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath ?
Wilt tliou repress each struggling sigli.
And cheer witli smiles the bed of death ? — Percy.
THE CHURCH.
Several Meanings of the Word Church — The Building so
called, here intended — Its Antiquity and (irandeuT —
Columns and Aisles — The Tower : the Stains made by Time
compared with the mock antiquity of the .\rtist — Progress
of Vegetation on such Buildings— Bells — Tombs: one in
decay — Mural Monuments, and tlie Nature of their In-
scriptions — -Vn Instance in a departed Burgess — Church-
yard Graves — Mourners for tlie Dead — .\ Story of a
betrothed Pair in humble Life, and LQects of Grief in the
Survivor.
" What is a Church ? " — Let Truth and Reason
speak,
They would reply, " The faithful, pure, and meek ;
' Yet may they view those lights upon tlie lieach,
Which jiild them hope, whom help can never reach.'
The sudden appearance of the moon, breaking at such a
moment from a cloud over the tempi-stuous waste, is super-
latively described. The imposing tumult of tliese scenes
scarcely permits us to remark how finely in these passages the
grandeur of the subject is supported bythat of the verse." —
GiFFORD.]
" Tliis promise to the reader, that he should both smile
and sigh in the perusal of the following Letters may appear
vain, and more than an author ought to promise ; but let it
be considered that the character assumed is that of a friend,
w ho gives an account of objects, persons, and events to his cor-
respondent, and who was therefore at liberty, without any
imputation of this kind, to suppose in what manner he would
l)e artccted by such descriptions.
' [" Lo I while we give the unregarded hour
To revelry and joy, in Pleasure's bower.
" From Christian folds, the one selected race,
" Of all professions, and in every place."
'• What is a Church?" — "A flock," our Yicar
cries,
" Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise ;
" Wherein are various states and due degrees,
" The Bench for honour, and the Stall for ease ;
" That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,
" The pious, peaceful prebendary shares."
" What is a Church ? " — Our honest Sexton tells,
" 'T is a tall building, with a Tower and bells ;
" Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive
" To keep the ardour of their flock alive ;
" That, by its periods eloquent and grave ;
" This, by responses, and a well-set stave :
" These for the living ; but when life be fled,
" I toll myself the requiem for the dead." ^
'T is to this Church I call thee, and that place
Where slept our fathers when they 'tl run their race :
We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep ;
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And, like the builders, will in time decay.
The old Foundation — but it is not clear
When it was laid — you care not for the year ;
On this, as parts decayed by time and storms,
Arose these various flisproportion'd forms ;
Yet Gothic all^ — the learn'd who visit us
(And our small wonders) have decided thus : —
•• Yon noble Gothic arch," "That Gothic door;"
So have they said ; of proof you '11 need no more.
Here large plain columns rise in solemn style.
You 'd love the gloom they make in either aisle ;
W^hen the sun's rays, enfeebled as thej' pass
(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,
Faintly display the figures on the floor.
Which pleased distinctly in their place before.
But ere you enter, yon bold Tower survey,"
Tall and entire, and venerably grey.
For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the stains are all of sober hue ;
While now, for rosy wreaths our brows to twine,
And now for nymphs we call, and now tor wine ;
The noiseless foot of Time steals swiftly by,
And ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh. —
" I believe that there was no translation of this satire in
Shakspeare's time ; yet he has given, with kindred genius, a
copy of uhrepit nun inteltecta senectus : —
' on our quick'st attempts,
The noiseless and inaudible foot of i'ime
Steals ere we can effect them.' " — Gifford.]
2 [The following description has always been considered a
correct one of Aldborough church, where Mr. Crabbe first
olliciated as a clergyman.]
3 Nothing, I trust, in this and the preceding paragraph,
which relates to the imitation of what are called weather-
stains on buildings, w ill seem to any invidious or offensive.
I wished to make a comparison between those minute and
curious bodies which cover the surface of some ediBces, and
those kinds of stains which are formed of boles and ochres,
and laid on with a brush. Now, as the work of time cannot
be anticipated in such cases, it may be very judicious to have
recourse to such expedients as will give to a recent structure
the venerable appearance of antiquity ; and in this case,
though I might still observe the vast difference between
the living varieties of nature and the distant imitation of the
artist, yet I could not forbear to make use of his dexterity,
because he could not clothe my freestone with mucor, lichen,
and 6yss!t--.— [There is much characteristic simplicity in this
apology. About the period at which this Letter was
The living stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone :
For ever growing ; where the common eye
C^n but the bare and rocky bed descry ;
There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit ;
There she perceives them rovmd the surface creep.
And while they meet their due distinction keep ;
Mi.x'd but not blended ; each its name retains,
And these are Nature's ever-during stains.
And wouldst thou. Artist ! with thy tints and
brush.
Form shades like these ? Pretender, where thy
blush ? ^
In three short hours shall thy presuming hand
Th' elFect of three slow centuries command ? *
Thou may'st thy various greens and greys con-
trive ;
They are not Lichens,^ nor like atight alive ; —
But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost.
Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost ;
When all thy work is done away as clean
As if thou never spread'st thy grey and green ;
Then maj^'st thou see how Nature's work is dune.
How slowly true she lays her colours on ;
When her least speck upon the hardest flint
Has mark and form, and is a living tint ;
And so embodied with the rock, that few
Can the small germ upon the substance view.®
Seeds, to our eyes invisible, will find
On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind ;
There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell.
Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell.
And spread th' enduring foliage ; — then we trace
The freckled flower upon the flinty base ;
These all increase, till in unnoticed years
The stony J;ower as grey with age appears ;
With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,
Coat above coat, the living on the dead :
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way
For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay :
written, Mr. Crabbe had called upon the Rev. ,T. Kendall,
rector of Barrowby, who had shown him an imitation on his
own walls, which', in the judgment of some, appear prefer-
able to the actual mucor. Sec]
■♦ If it should be objected, that centuries are not slowerthan
hours, because the speed of time must be uniform, I would
answer, that I understand so much, and mean that they are
slower in no other sense than because they are not finished so
soon.
5 [In botany, a genus of the class Cryptogamia. Since the
publication of' the Species Plantarum of Linnseus, in which he
described only eighty-one species of lichens, more than a
thousand new' ones have been discovered. Their places of
growth are various ; some on the most elevated and exposed
rocks, others on the trunks of trees, and some on the surface
of the ground.]
6 This kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones,
is very thin, and frequentlv not to be distinguished from the
surface of tlie flint. Tlie byssus jolithus of Linn.-Eus (lepraria
jolithus of the present svstem), an adhesive carmine crust on
rocks and old buildiugs,'was, even by scientific persons, taken
for the substance on wliich it spread A great variety of these
minute vegetables are to be found in some parts of the coast,
where the 'beach, formed of stones of various kinds, is undis-
turbed, and exposed to everv change of weather ; in this
situation the different speci'es of lichen, in their different
stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and
agreeable even to thase who are ignorant of, and indiffef«nt
to, the cause.
'I'lio long-cnduriiiK Ferns ^ in time ^^ill all
Die ami doposi' thoir ilnst iijxm the wall;
AVlicrc till' winu'd scrd may rt-Ht, till many a (lower
SIkiw I'Mcirn's triiimph o'er the falling tower.
Hut ours yet stands, and has its IJflls rcnown'd
For size niat;nilicent and solemn sound ;
Kaeli has its motto: some contrived to tell.
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a hell ;"
Such wond'rons ^ood, as few conceive could spring
From ten loud coppers when their dappers swing.
I'.nfer'd the Church — we to a tf)ml) proceed,
^Vhose names and titles few attempt to read ;
Old I'lnnlish letters, and those half pick'd out,
Leave us, unskilful reailers, much in doubt;
Our sons shall see its more dej^raded state;
The tomh of grandeur hastens to its fate ;
That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,
■With all those rul!"d ami paiiited pairs below ; -
The noble Lady and the Loi-d who rest
Supine, as courtly dame and warrior drcst ;
All are departed from their state sublime,
Maii|;led and \\oiind('(l in their war with Time
Colloagued with mischief; here a leg is fled,
And lo ! the Baron with but half a head :
Midway is cleft the arch; the very base
Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.
Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick ilccay —
See ! men of marble piecemeal melt away ;
When whose the image we no longer read.
But monuments themselves memorials need.*
"With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,
By wealth erected, is our Church supplied ;
But we liave mural tablets, every size,
That woe could wish, or vanity devise.
' [" We have the receipt of fern-seed ; we walk invisible."
Shakspeabe, Hen. IV.I
* [The baptism of church bells was anciently common in
England, and is still practised in many Roman Catholic
countries. " The priest," says Lord Kaimes, " assisted by
some of liis bretliren, mumbles over some prayers and
sprinkles the outside witli holy-water, wliile they wash the
inside with the same precious liquor. Tlie priest tlien draws
seven crosses on the outside, and four on the inside, with
consecrated oil. Tlien a censer of frankincense is put under
the l>pll to smoke it ; and the w hole concludes w ith a praver."
(Skitr'ics 11/ Man, vol. iv. p .381.) Tlie \te\\, thus christened
and consecrated, was esteemed to he endued w itii fjreat powers.
Its " lists " and faculties are six in number, whicli are thus
enumerated and translated by old Fuller : —
" Funera plango . . . Men's de.ith I tell by doleful knell.
Fulmina frango . . Lightninj; and thunder I bre.ak asunder.
Sabbata pango . . . On sabbath all to church I call.
Excito lentos . . . The sleepy head I raise from bed.
l)issipo ventos , . . The wine detected in the vast collection of English poetrj-.
It is sufficient for an author, tnat he uses not the words or ideas
of another without acknowledgment ; and this, and no more
than this, I mean, by disclaiming debts of the kind ; yet re-
semblances are sometimes so very striking, that it requires
faith in a reader to admit they were undeisigiied. A line in
this letter,
" And monuments themselves memorials need,"
was written long Iwfore the author, in an accidental recourse
to Juvenal, read —
" Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris '"*
Sy rancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dea"or sure at lenj^th thy thounhts, thy spirit's jiain,
In this sad contliet will disturb thy brain ;
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
IJut sliort the time, and [glorious the reward ;
'I'liy patient s|)iii( to thy duties {?ive,
IJegard the dead, but to the living live. ''
LETT Ell III.
And tellinij me tlie sov'rei),'n"st thing on earth
Was parmacity for an inward bruise.
Shakspkabe.— //(."niT/ //'. I'art I. .Vet I.
So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet,
So lit to prattle at a lady's feet.— Chukchi i.i..
Miioli are the precious hours of youth raispent
In climbing lcarnin^''s ru:,'ged, steep ascent ;
Wlien to the top the hold adventurer 's got,
lie reigns vain monarch of a barren spot;
Wliile in the vale of ignorance below.
Folly and v^ce to rank luxuriance grow ;
Honours and wealth pour in on every side,
And proud preferment rolls her golden tide. — Chukchill.
Tin-; VICAR— THE CUH.VTE, ETC.
The lately depiirted Minister of the Borough— His soothing
and supplicatory Manners — His cool and timid Affections
— No praise due to such neuative Virtue — Address to Clia-
racters of this kind — Tlie Vicai's Employments — Ilis
Talents and moderate .\mbition— His lli-.like of Innova-
tion — His mild but ineffectual Benevolence — A Summarv
of his Character.
Mode of paying the Borough-Minister — Tlie Curate has no
such Kesources — His Learning and Poverty — Erroneous
Idea of Ins Parent— His Feelings as a Husband and Father
— the Dutiful Regard of his numerous Family — His l'le;usure
as a Writer, how interrupted— No Resource in the I're^s —
Vulgar Insult — His Account of a Literary Society, ai.d a
Fund for the Relief of indigent Authors, &c.
THE VICAR.
WnKKE ends our chancel in a vaulted space,
Sleep the departed Vicars of the phice ;
'3 [" Longinns somewhere mentions, that it was a question
among the critics of his age whether the sublime couUl be
produced by tenderness. If this question had not been
already determined, this history would have gone far to bring
it to a decision." — Giffokd.
" Mr. Crablie has been called a gloomy, which must mean,
if any accusation is implied in the term, a false moralist.
No doubt, to persons who read his poetry superficially and
by snatches and glances, it may seem to give too dark a
picture of life ; but this, we are convinced, is not tlie feeling
which the study of the wlmlf awakens. Here and there he
presents us with imiiges of almost perfect beauty, innocence,
and happiness ; but as such things are seldom seen, and soon
disappear in real life, it seems to be Mr. Crabbe's opinion,
that so likew ise ought they to start out with sudden and tran-
sitory smiles, among the dark r, the more solemn, or the
gloomy pictures of his poelry. It is cert.ain that there arc. in
his writings, pa^s.iges of as pure and profound pathos as in
Of most, nil mention, memory, thought are past —
But take a slight memorial of the la.>tt.
To what fumed college; we our V'i('nr owe,
To what fair county, let liistc^rians show :
Few now remember when the mild yiil)lciissii)iis sunk in curly ••use ;
Nor one so old lias left this world of sin,
More like tlie bfinj; that lii- cntcT'd in."
TllK CUKATE.
Ask you wiiat lands our Pastor tithes? — Alas !
But few our acres, and hut short our grass :
Ir. some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,
May roll the single cow or favourite steed ;
Who, stable-fed, is lierc for jdeasure seen,
His sleek sides hathing in the dewy green;
But these, our hilly heath and common wide
Yield a slight jiortion for the parish-guide;
No crops luxuriant in our borders stand.
For here we plough the ocean, not the land ;
Still reason wills that we our Pastor pay,
And custom does it on a certain day :
Much is the duty, small the legal due.
And this with grateful minds we keep in view ;
Each makes his otTring, some by habit led.
Some by the thought that all men must be fed ;
Duty and love, and piety and pride.
Have each their force, and for the Priest provide.
Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe
Pious and just, and for whose fate tliey grieve ;
All see him poor, but e'en the vulgar know
He merits love, and their respect bestow.
A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see.
Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as lie ;^
Not grieved by years alone ; though his appear
Dark and more dark ; severer on severe :
Not in his need, — and yet we all must grant
How painful 'tis for feeling Age to want :
Nor in his body's sufferings ; yet we know
Where Time has ploughed, there Misery loves to
sow ;
But in the wearied mind, that all in vain
Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain.
His Father saw his powers — " I '11 give," quoth
he,
" My first-born learning ; 't will a portion be :"
Unhappy gift ! a portion for a son !
But all he had : — he learn'd, and was undone !
Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,
Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,
Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped.
And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped. ^
He once had hope — Hope, ardent, lively, light ;
His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright :
6 [" The Vicar is an admirable sketch of what miist be very
diflicult to draw ; a good, easy man, with no cliaracter at all.
His little, humble vanity ; his constant care to offend no
one ; liis mawkish and feeble gallantry, indolent good-nature,
and love of gossiping and trifling — are all very exactly and
very pleasingly delineated." — Jeffrey.]
" [Original edition : —
Oh ! had he learn'd to make the wig he wears,
To throw the shuttle, or command the sheers,
Or the strong boar-skin for the saddle shapeil,
What pangs, w hat terrors, had the M an escapeil !]
F.ager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,
Weigh'd the (ireck imge, and added note on note.
At morn, at evening, at his work was he.
And dreain'd what his F.iiripides would be.
Then care br-gan : — he loved, he woo'd, he wed ;
Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bicss'd his bed —
A curate's beil I then came the woful years ;
The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;
A wife grown feeble, mourning, jiining, vex'd
With wants and woes — by daily cares perj>lex'd ;
No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,
But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.
A kind jihysician, and without a fee.
Gave his o[)inion — '' Send her to the sea."
" Alas !" the good man answer'd, " can I send
" A friendless woman ? Can I find a friend ?
" No ; I must with her, in her need, repair
" To that new place ; the poor lie everywhere ; —
" Some priest will pay me for my pious pains :" —
He said, he came, and here he yet remains.
Behold his dwelling ! this poor hut he hires,
W'here he from view, though not from want, retires ;
Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing
sons.
Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns ;
All join their efforts, and in patience leam
To want the comforts they aspire to earn ;
For the sick mother something they 'd obtain.
To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain ;
For the sad father something they'd procure
To ease the burden they themselves endure.
Virtues like these at once delight and press
On the fond father with a proud distress ;
On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.
Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals,
And by himself an Author's pleasure feels :
Each line detains him ; he omits not one.
And all the sorrows of his state are gone.^ —
Alas ! even then, in that delicious hour.
He feels his fortune, and laments its power.
Some Tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,
Some scrawl for payment thrust 'twixt page and
page ;
Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door.
Some surly message he has heard before.
Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor.
An angry Dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,
Thinks of his bill, and. passing, raps aloud ;
The elder daughter meekly makes him way —
" I want my money, and I cannot stay :
" My mill is stopp'd : what. Miss I I cannot grind;
" Go tell your father he must raise the wind :"
Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid
Says, '' Sir I my father I" — and then stops afraid:
* [" There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns,
Th' expedients and inventions, multiform.
To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms
Tliough apt, \et coy, and difficult to win.
T" arrest the fleeting images th.'jt fill
The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast —
Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleiising, and that steal away the tliought
With such address from themes of sad import,
That, lost in his own musings, happy man!
He feels th' anxieties of life, denied
Their wonted entertainment, all retire." — Cowper.]
E'en his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears
Her voice with pity ; he respects her tears ;
His stubborn features half admit a smile,
And his tone softens — "Well ! I'll wait awhile."
Pitj' ! a man so good, so mild, so meek,
At such an age, should have his bread to seek ;
And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread.
That are more harrowing than the want of bread ;
Ah ! who shall whisper to that misery peace !
And say that want and insolence shall cease ?
" But why not publish ? " — those who know too
well.
Dealers in Greek, are fearful 't will not sell ;
Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,
Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show ;
The hope of fame may in his heart have place,
But he has dread and horror of disgrace ;
Nor has he that confiding, easy waj-,
That might his learning and himself display ;
But to his M-ork he from the world retreats.
And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets.
But see ! the Man himself: and sure I trace
Signs of new joy exulting in that face
O'er care that sleeps — we err, or we discern
Life in thy looks — the reason may we learn ?
" Yes," he replied, " I 'm happy, I confess,
" To learn that some are pleased -nith happiness
" Which others feel — there are who now combine
" The worthiest natures in the best design,
" To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as
mine.
" "We who more keenly feel the world's contempt,
'* And from its miseries are the least exempt ;
" Now Hope shall whisper to the wounded breast,
" And Grief, in soothing expectation, rest.
" Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel,
" Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal ;
*' Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties make
" The needy curse the benefits they take ;
" Not with the idle vanity that knows
" Only a selfish joy when it bestows ;
" Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain,
" Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain ;
" But these are men who yield such blest relief,
" That with the grievance they destroy the grief;
" Their timely aid the needy suff'erers find,
" Their generous manner soothes the sufi'ering
mind ;
" There is a gracious bounty, form'd to raise
" Him whom it aids ; their charity is praise ;
" A common bounty may relieve distress,
" But whom the vulgar succour they oppress ;
" This though a favour is an honour too,
" Though Mei'cj-'s duty, yet 't is Merit's due ;
" When our relief from such resources rise,
'' All painful sense of obligation dies ;
' Tlie wants and mortifications of a poor clerg^inan are the
subjects of one portion of this Letter ; and he Ijein;; repre-
sented as a stranger in tlie Borough, it may be necessary to
make some apoloj;y for his appearance in the poem. Previous
to a late meeting of a literary society, whose benevolent pur-
pose is well known to the public, I was induced by a friend
to compose a few verses, in which, with the general commen-
dation of the design, should be introduced a hint that the
bounty might be farther extended; these verses, a gentleman
did me the honour to recite at the meeting, and they were
printed as an extract from the poem, to which, in fact, they
may be called an appendage.
" And grateful feelings in the bosom wake,
" For 't is their offerings, not their alms we take.
" Long may these founts of Charity remain,
" And never shrink, but to be fill'd again ;
" True ! to the Author they are now confined,
" To him who gave the treasure of his mind,
" His time, his health, — and thankless found man-
kind :
" But there is hope that from these founts may flow
" A side-way stream, and equal good bestow;
" Good that my reach us, whom the day's distress
" Keeps from the fame and perils of the Press ;
" Whom Study beckons from the Ills of Life,
" And they from Study ; melancholy strife !
" Who then can say, but bounty now so free,
" And so diffused, may find its waj- to me ?
" Yes ! I may see my decent table yet
" Cheer'd with the meal that adds not to my debt ;
" May talk of those to whom so much we owe,
" And guess their names whom yet we may not
know ;
" Blest, we shall say, are those who thus can give,
■' And next who thus upon the bounty live ;
" Then shall I close with thanks my humble meal,
■' And feel so well— Oh, God ! how shall I feel ! " ^
LETTER IV.
INTRODDCTIOX.
I AM now arrived at that part of my work which
I may expect will Ijring upon me some animadver-
sion. Religion is a subject deeply interesting to
the minds of many, and when these minds are weak,
they are often led by a warmth of feeling into the
violence of causeless resentment : I am therefore
anxious that my purpose shall be understood ; and
1 wish to point out what things they are which an
author maj' hold up to ridicule and be blameless.
In referring to the two principal divisions of enthu-
siastical teachers, I have denominated them, as I
conceive they are generally called, Cahinistic and
Arminian ]Nlethodists. The Arminians. though
divided and perhaps subdivided, are still, when
particular accuracy is not intended, considered as
one body, having had, for many years, one head,
who is yet held in high respect by the varying
members of the present day : but the Calvinistic
societies are to be looked upon rather as separate
and independent congregations ; and it is to one of
these (unconnected, as is supposed, with any other)
[In tlie beginning of 1809, Dr. Cartwright having expressed
a wish that Mr. Cralibe would prepare some verses to be re-
peated at the ensuing meeting of the Literarj- Fund, and a
portion of" The Horough," then in progress,beingjud:;ed suit-
able fur the occasion, it was accordingly forwarded to the
Society, and recited at the anniversary, in April, by Matthew
Browne, Esq. In the May following, tlie council and com-
mittee resolved, that a learned and oflieiating clergyman in
distress, or an othciating clergyman, reduced and rendered in-
capable of duty, by age or infirmity, should be considered as
a claimant on the fund.]
18G
CRAnUE'S WORKS,
I iiiinc |>Mrtii'tiliirly iilluilr. Hut wliilr ( nin iiuik-
iii^ use of this ii, I iniisl I'litmit tli;tt I iiiiiy
not lit" rniisidcrcil iis one wlm takes ii|iuld ob-
serve, that there is something unusually daring in
the boast of this man, who claims the authority of
a messenger sent from (iod, and declares without
hesitation that liis call was immediate ; that he is
assisted by the sensible influence of the .Spirit, and
that miracles are perpetually wrought In his flavour
and for his convenience.
As it was and continues to be my desire to give
proof that I had advanced nothing respecting this
extraordinary person, his operations or assertions,
w Inch might not be readily justified by quotations
from his own writings, I had collected several of
these, and disposed them under certain heads ; but
I found that by this means a very disproportioned
sliare of attention must be given to the subject, and,
after some consideration, 1 have determined to re-
linquish the design ; and should any have curiosity
to search whether my representation of the temper
and disposition, the spirit and manners, the know-
ledge and capacity, of a very popular teacher be
correct, he is referred to about fourscore pam-
phlets." whose titles will be found on the covers
of the late editions of the Bunk of faith, itself a
He wants a new parsonic livery ; ' wherefore,' says he, ' in
humble prayer I told my most blessed Lonl ami master that
my year was out, and my apparel bad ; that I had nowhere to
go for these things but to him ; and as he had promised to give
his servants fooil and raiment, I hoped he would fullil his
promise to me, though one of tlie worst of tliem." So he
called upon a certain person, and the raggedness of his ap-
parel led to a conversation which ended in the offer of a new-
suit, and a great-coat to lioot. Being now in much request,
and having ' manv doors op-en to him for preaching the gospel
very w ide apart,' he l>egan to « ant a horse, then to w isli, and
lastly to pray for one. ' I used my prayers," he says, ' as
gunners use their swivels, turning them every way as the
v.-u-ioiLs cases required ;' l>efore the liay was over, he was pre-
sented with a horse. ' I told God,' says he. ' that I had more
work for my faith now than heretofore ; for the horse would
cost half as much to keep him as my whole family. In
answer to which, this scripture came to my mind with power
and romfort, ' Dwell in the land and do good, and verily thou
shall be fed.' This was a liank note put into the hand of my
faith, which, when I got poor, I pleaded before God, and he
answered it. ILaving now had my horse for some time, and
riding a great deal every week, I soon wore my breeches out,
so that they were not lit to ride in. I hope the reader will
wonderful performance, which (according to the
turn of mind in the reader) will either highly ex-
cite or totally extinguish curiosity. In these works
will be abundantly seen, abuse and contempt of the
Church of England and its ministers ; vengeance
and virulent denunciation against all olienders ;
scorn for morality and heathen virtue, with that
kind of learning which the author possesses, and
his peculiar style of composition. A few of the
titles placed below will give some information to
the reader respecting the merit and design of
those performances.^
As many of the preacher's subjects are contro-
verted and nice questions in divinity, he has some-
times allowed himself relaxation from the severity
of study, and favoured his admirers with the
effects of an humbler kind of inspiration, viz. that
of the Muse. It must be confessed that these flights
of fancy are very humble, and have nothing of that
daring and mysterious nature which the prose of
the author leads us to expect.* The Dimensions of
eternal Love is a title of one of his more learned
productions, with which might have been expected
(as a fit companion) 77/e Bounds of infinite Grace;
but no such work appears, and possibly the author
considered one attempt of this kind was suffi-
cient to prove the extent and direction of his
abilities.
Of the whole of this mass of inquiry and de-
cision, of denunciation and instruction (could we
suppose it read by intelligent persons), different
opinions would probably be formed : the more in-
dignant and severe would condemn the whole as
excuse ray mentioning the word breeches, whioh I should have
avoided, had not this passage of scripture obtruded into ray
mind, just as I had resolved in my own thoughts not to men-
tion tliis kind providence of God: 'And tliou slialt mair i>lil (lisliirl)'il till- ClinrclrM pi'nnvl'ul rei({n ;
Ami HI' can point cncli pcrioil of the linn'
Wlini (lii'v li tx'Ki't- I'"' I'rimc ;
Cini iiiliMiliitc liow lon^' lli' colipsf? eniliircil ;
\\ lin inlorposi-d ; wlinl (liKiti were olwrurcd ;
or all wliirh an- alri'iidy piuss'il away,
\Vr know tin,' rise, tlio proj»ri?8H, nnd docay,
Dkydkn. — Hiii't and I'nnl/ur.
Oil, said till' Mind, how many sons liavp you
W 111! call yon niothcr, whom yon ni'vi-r knew !
Unt most of tlivm who that relation plead
Are such uiif,'racions youths as wish you dead ;
'I'liey (jape at rich revenues whieh you hold,
And lain would nibble at your yrandame uold.
Hind and Ptiiit/ivr.
SKCrS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION.
Sects and Professions in Relij^ion are numerous and suc-
cessive — General Elfect of false Zeal — Deists — Fanatical Idea
of Church Reformers — The Church of Rome — Baptists —
Swedenborfjians — Universalists — Jews.
Methodists of two Kinds; Calvinistic and Arminian.
The Preaching' of a Calvinistic Enthusiast — His Contempt of
I,earnin^— Dislike to sound Morality : why — His Idea of
Conversion — Ilis Success and Pretensions to Humility.
The Arminian Teacher of the older Flock — Their Notions of
the Operations and Power of Satan — Description of his
Devices — Their Opinion of regular Ministers — Comparison
of these with tlie Preacher himself — A Rebuke to his
Hearers; introduces a Description of the powerful ElVects
of the Word in the early and awakening Days of
Methodism.
"Sects in Religion?" — Yes, of every race
"Wc nurse some portion in our favour'd place ;
Not one warm preacher of one growing sect
Can say our Borough treats him with neglect ;
parture from his own household of two servants, a woman
and a man, one of whom had been emploved by him for
twenty years. The man, a conceited jilou^'hrnan, set up for
a Hunlinf,'tonian preacher himself; aiul the woman, whose
moral character had been sadly deteriorated since her adoption
of the new li^'hts, was at last obli^'ed to be dismissed, in con-
sequence of intolerable insolence." — Anti'', p. 50.
On the passages in Letter IV., treating of Methodism, the
' Eclectic Review ' said :— " Mr. Crabbes representation of the
Methodists in general, as addressing,' the Creator with daring
tlights of unpremeditated aljsurdity, if intended to apply
indiscriminately, can only be excused by supposing the writer
ignorant and rash, instead of malicious and unprincipled.
There is too much truth in his strictures on the author of the
' Hank of Faith.' I'he .\rminian Methodists allord him as
much amusement as the Calvinists. He makes no scruple of
turning (heir internal conllicts, as well as the tenour and in-
lUience of their leader's preaching, into general and unquali-
fied ridicule. The ' truth divine ' is not secured from his
satire by the supreme authority of that ' Teacher ' who
thought proper to illustrate the spiritual change by this
striking figure ; and the evil spirit, solemnly descriln'd by an
apostle as ' a roaring lion seeking whom lie may devour," is
ludicrously exhibited in .Mr. Crabbe's verse as a dragon of
romance, '
' Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause,
.■Vnd force the wounded victim from his paws." "
With reference to the above strictures, the Poet added tlie
following note in his third edition of" The Borough :"— " Vn
objection is made to the levity with which the subject of
Frequent ns fa*ih!ona they with us appear,
Anrl you might ask, " how think we for the year? "
They come to us an riilerH in a trade,"
Anil with much art cxhihit ainl prTHiia'lo.
Miiiils are for Sects of various kinds decreed,
As diir'rent soils are formed for dilfreiit seed;
Some when cfmvorted sigh in sore amaze,
And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic hlaze ;
Others again will change to ea<;h extreme,
They know not why — as hurried in a dream;
Unstable, they, like water, take all forms,
Are (^uick ami stagnant ; have their calms and
storms ;
High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow,
Then muildily they move debased and slow ;
Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow.
Yet none the cool and prudent Teacher prize.
On him they dote who wakes their ecstasies;
With passions ready primed such guide they meet,
And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;
'T is he who wakes the nameless strong desire,
The melting rapture and the glowing fire ;
'Tis he wiio pierces deep the tortured breast,
And stirs the terrors never more to rest.
Opposed to these wc have a prouder kind,
Rash without heat, and witliout raptures blind ;
These our Glad TiditKjs unconcern'd peruse,
Search without awe, and without fear refuse;
The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,
Call forth their spleen, and e.xercise their wit ;
Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain.
The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain :
And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view.
Of that which must be tried, and doubtless may be
true.
Friends of our Faith we have, whom doubts like
these.
And keen remarks, and bold objections please ;
They grant such doubts have weaker minds
oppress'd.
Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest.
religion is said to be treated in this letter. Tliis the author
cannot admit : it is not religion, but what hurts religion,
what is injurious to all true devotion, ami at enmity with all
sober sense, which is thus uuceremoniously treated : false and
bigoted /.eai ; weak and obstinate enthusiasm ; ignorance that
presumes to teach, and intolerant pride that boasts of hu-
mility ; these alone are objects of his attack. .\n auth ir has
not the less reverence for religion l)ecause, in warring with
fanatic-ism, he uses the only weapons by which it is said to
be vulnerable ; and he doubts not but he shall 1>e excused
(nay, approved, so far as respects his intention) by the public
in general, and more especially by that pjirt of it (and that
by no means a small pirt\ who tliink the persons so de-
scribed, while they are themselves —
' Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,'
are the very people from whom, did their power correspond
with their wi-ihes, neither the l^^lpit nor the Throne (if the
Bar should escape) would remain in safety."]
* [" The fact is curious in the history of trade, and little
known, that the practice of travelling aliout the country to
solicit orders for goods, began among the Quakers, as an
incidental consequence of the life led by their errant-
preachers : Francis Bugg, of unsavoury name, tells us this :
'We no sooner had our liberty,' he say-s, ' but all our London
preachers spn-ad themselves, like locusts, all over Englaml
and Wales. Some went east, some west, yea, north and
south ; iind, l>eing generally tradesmen, we not only got our
quarters free, our horses free and well maintained in our
travels ; a silver wi\teh here, a lie.iver there, a piece of hair-
camblet, and sometimes other things ; but, moreover, we got
THE BOROUGH.
189
" But still," they cry, " let none their censures
spare,
" They but confirm the glorious hopes we share ;
" From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies,
" With five-fold triumph sacred Truth shall rise."
Yes ! I allow, so Truth shall stand at last.
And gain fresh glory by the conflict past : —
As Solvvay-Moss (a barren mass and cold.
Death to the seed, and poison to the fold),
The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid.
Choked the green sod, and kill'd the springing
blade ;
That, changed by culture, may in time be seen
Enrich'd by golden grain and pasture green ;
And these fair acres rented and enjoy'd
May those excel by Solway-Moss destroy'd.^
Still must have mourn'd the tenant of the day.
For hopes destroy'd, and harvests swept away ;
To him the gain of future years unknown,
The instant grief and sulfering were his own :
So must I grieve for many a wounded heart,
Chill'd by those doubts which bolder minds im-
part :
Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear,
But sad the darkness till those times appear ;
Contests for truth, as wars for freedom, yield
Glory and joy to those who gain the field :
But still the Christian must in pity sigh
For all who suffer, and uncertain die.
Here are, who all the Church maintains approve.
But yet the Church herself they will not love ;
In angry speech, they blame the carnal tie.
Which pure Religion lost her spirit by ;
What time from prisons, flames, and tortures led,
She slumber'd careless in a royal bed ;
To make, they add, the Church's glory shine.
Should Diocletian reign, not Constantino.
" In pomp,'' they cry, " is England's Church
array'd,
" Her cool Reformers wrought like men afraid ;
" We would have puU'd her gorgeous temples down,
" And spurn'd her mitre, and defiled her gown :
" We would have trodden low both bench and stall,
" Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small."
Let us be serious — -Should such trials come.
Are they themselves prepared for martyrdom ?
It seems to us that our reformers knew
Th' important work they undertook to do ;
into great trades ; and, by spreading ourselves in tlie country,
into great acquaintance, and thereby received orders of the
best of the country tradesmen for parcels, whilst t!ie Pro-
testant tradesmen in London, who liad not this advantage,
stood still, and in their sliops had little to do, whilst we filled
our coffers. Witness Thomas Greene, v.iiose wife would
scarce suffer him at home, she being willing (according to the
proverb), to make hay whilst the sun shines. Thomas died
worth, as is said, six or eight thousand pounds, who was a
poor mason when he set up for a preaching Quaker.' " —
SoUTHEY.]
' [" Solway-Moss is a flat area, about seven miles in cir-
cumference. The substance of it is a gross lluid, composed
of mud and the putrid tibres of heath, diluted by internal
springs, which arise in every part. The surface is a dry
crust, covered with moss and rushes, offering a fair appear-
ance over an unsound bottom. On the south, the Aloss is
bounded by a cultivated plain, which declines gently through
tlie space of a mile to the river Esk. This plain is lo^ver than
tlie moss, being separated from it by a breastwork, formed by
di;girg peat, which makes an irregular, tliough perpendicular,
lineol low black boundary. On tlie 13th of November, 1771,
An equal priesthood they were loth to try.
Lest zeal and care should with ambition die ;
To them it seem'd that, take the tenth away.
Yet priests must eat, and you must feed or pay :
Would they indeed, who hold such pay in scorn.
Put on the muzzle when they tread the corn ?
Would they all, gratis, watch and tend the fold.
Nor take one fieece to keep them from the
cold?
Men are not equal, and 't is meet and right
That robes and titles our respect excite ;
Order requires it ; 't is by vulgar pride
That such regard is censured and denied ;
Or by that false enthusiastic zeal.
That thinks the Spirit will the priest reveal.
And show to all men, by their powerful speech,
Who are appointed and inspired to teach :
Alas ! could we the dangerous rule believe.
Whom for their teacher should the crowd re-
ceive ?
Since all the varying kinds demand respect,
All press you on to join their chosen sect,
Although but in this single point agreed,
" Desert your churches and adopt our creed."
We know full well how much our forms ofiend
The burthen'd Papist and the simple Friend ;
Him, who new robes for every service takes.
And who in drab and beaver sighs and shakes ;
He on the priest, whom hood and band adorn,
Looks with the sleepy eye of silent scorn ;
But him I would not for my friend and guide,
Who views such things with spleen, or wears with
pride.
See next ouP several Sects, — but first behold
The Church of Rome, who here is poor and
old:
Use not triumphant rail'ry, or, at least.
Let not thy mother be a whore and beast ;
Great was her pride indeed in ancient times.
Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes ?
Exalted high above all earthly things.
She placed her foot upon the neck of kings ;
But some have deeply since avenged the crown,
And thrown her glory and her honours down ;
Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command,
Nor place a foot upon her own fair land.
Among her sons, with us a quiet few.
Obscure themselves, her ancient state review.
in a dark tempestuous night, the inhabitants of the plain
were alarmed with a dreadful crash ; many of them were then
in the fields watching their cattle, lest the Esk, which was
then rising violently in the storm, should carry them olT. In
the meantime, the enormous mass of lluid substance, which
had burst from the moss, moved on, spreading itself more
and more as it got possession of the plain. Some of the in-
habitants, through the terror of the night, could plainly dis-
cover it advancing like a moving hill. This wiLs, in fact, the
case ; for the gush of mud carried before it, through the first
two or three hundred yards of its course, a part of the breast-
work ; which, though low, was yet several feet in perpen-
dicular height; but it soon deposited this solid mass, and
became a heavy tluid. One house after another it spread
round, filled, and crushed into ruins, just giving time to the
terrified inhabitants to escape. Scarcely any thing was saved
except their lives ; nothing of their furniture, few of their
cattle. Tills dreadful inundation, though the first shock of it
was most tremendous, continued still spreading lor many
weeks, till it covered the whole plain, an area of five hundreil
acres, and like molten lead poured into a mould, filled all
the hollows of it, lying in some parts thiity or lorty feet deep,
reducing the whole to one level surface." — (iiLPiN.]
1!)0
CIlAHIU-rS WOKKS.
And fonil and melancholy plnncps cost
On power iiiMiiItod, and un triiinipli |mst :
Tlu'y look, tlu-y mu \<\\t look, with niimy ft ni}?'',
On sanrt'd i>nildiM)(H dooni'd in dust to lie;
" On scats," tlioy tell, " wIutc priests mid topers
dim
" Brentlicsed after the manner of
our cities, in streets, walks, and squares. I have had the
privilege to walk tlirough them, to e.>Lamiae ail around them.
'T is thclrtt to HOC around, about, above, —
llow spirits mingle thoughts, an« -piic Cniversalists teach the universal grace of God
towards all apostate men ; and consequently a universal
atonement, and a call to all men. They are divided into two
classes. Some ascribe to the means of grace which God
artortls, suflicient power to enlighten and sanctify all men;
and teach, that it depemls on the voluntary conduct of men,
whether the grace of >ioA shall produce its effects on them or
not. Others maititain, that Goo indeed wishes to make all
men happy, only on the condition of their belie^"ing ; and
that this faith originates from the sovereign and irresistible
operation of (jo<1.' — Mosheim.]
n [Some may object to this assertion ; to whom I beg leave
to answer that I do not use the wonl Jig^it in tlie sense of tlie
Jew MendoiUi.
THE BOROUGH.
191
Amazing race ! deprived of land and laws,
A general language and a public cause ;
With a religion none can now obey,
"With a reproach that none can take away :
A people still, whose common ties are gone ;
Who, mix'd with every race, are lost in none.
What said their Prophet ? — " Shouldst thou
disobey,
" The Lord shall take thee from thy land away ;
" Thou shalt a by-word and a proverb be,
" And all shall wonder at thy woes and thee ;
" Daughter and son, shalt thou, while captive, have,
" And see them made the bond-maid and the slave ;
" He, whom thou leav'st, the Lord thy God, shall
bring
" War to thy country on an eagle-wing.
" A people strong and dreadful to behold,
" Stern to the young, remorseless to the old ;
" ^Masters whose speech thou canst not understand,
" By cruel signs shall give the harsh command :
" Doubtful of life shalt thou by night, by day,
" For grief, and dread, and trouble pine away ;
" Thy evening wish, — Would God I saw the sun !
" Thy morning sigh, — Would God the day were
done ! '^
" Thus shalt thou suffer, and to distant times
" Eegret thy misery, and lament thy crimes."
A part there are, whom doubtless man might
trust,
Worthj' as wealthy, pure, religious, just ;
They who with patience, yet with rapture, look
On the strong promise of the Sacred Book :
'- See the Book of Deuteronomy, chap, xxviii. — [" If thou
■wilt not hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God, thou
shalt be removed into all the kingdoms of the earth ; and
thou shalt become an astonishment, a proverb, and a by-word
among all nations, whither the Lord shall lead thee. Thy
sons and thy daughters shall go into captivity. The Lord
shall bring a nation against thee from afar, as swift as the
eagle flieth ; a nation whose tongue thou shalt not understand ;
a nation of fierce countenance, whieli shall not regard the
person of the old, nor show favour to tlie young : and thy
life shall hang in doubt before thee ; and tliou shalt fear day
and night, and shalt have none assurance of thy lite ; in
the morning thou shalt say, Would God it were even ! and at
even thou shalt say, Would God it were morning !"]
'3 [When I turn my thoughts to the pa:jt and present situ-
ation of this peculiar people, I do not see how any Christian
nation, according to the spirit of their religion, cnii refuse ad-
mission to the Jews, who, in completion of those very pro-
phecies on which Christianity rests, are to be scattered and
disseminated amongst all people and nations over the face of
the earth. The sin and obduracy of their forefathers are
amongst the undoubted records of our gospel ; but I doubt if
this can be a sufficient reason why "e should hold tliem in
such general odium through so many ages, seeing how natu-
rally the son follows the faith of tlie father, aiid how much
too general a thing it is amongst mankind to profess any par-
ticular form of religion, tliat devolves upon them by inlieri-
tance, rather than by free election and conviction of reason,
founded upon examination. — Cumberland.]
'■• His boast, that he would rebuild the Temple of Jerusalem ;
his fate (whatever becomes of the miraculous part of the
story 'I, that he died before the foundation was laid. [" .\n
edict was issued by Julian for the rebuilding of the Temple
on Mount Moriah, and the restoration of tlie Jewish worship
in its original splendour. The whole Jewish world was in
commotion ; they crowded from the most distant quarters to
be present and assist in tlie great national work. Their wealth
was poured forth in lavish profusion. Men cheerfully sur-
rendered the hard-won treasures of their avarice; women
offered up tlie ornaments of their vanity. Already was the
As unfulfill'd th' endearing words they view.
And blind to truth, yet own their prophets true ; '^
Well pleased they look for Sion's coming state.
Nor think of Julian's boast and Julian's fate.'''
More might I add : I might describe the flocks
Made by Seceders from the ancient stocks ;
Those who will not to any guide submit.
Nor find one creed to their conceptions fit-
Each sect, they judge, in something goes astray,
And eveiy church has lost the certain way ! '*
Then for themselves they carve out creed and laws,
And weigh their atoms, and divide their straws.
A Sect remains, which, though divided long
In hostile parties, both are fierce and strong.
And into each enlists a warm and zealous throng.
Soon as they rose in fame, the strife arose.
The Calvinistic these, th' Arminian those ;
With Wesley some remaiu'd, the remnant Whitfield
chose.
Now various leaders both the parties take.
And the divided hosts their new divisions make.'*
See yonder Preacher ! '^ to his people pass,
Borne up and swell'd by tabernacle-gas :
Much he discourses, and of various points.
All unconnected, void of limbs and joints ;
He rails, persuades, explains, and moves the will
By fierce bold words, and strong mechanic skill.
" That Gospel, Paul with zeal and love main-
tain'd,
" To others lost, to you is now explain'd ;
" No worldly learning can these points discuss,
" Books teach them not as they are taught to us.
work commenced ; already had they dug down to a consider-
able depth, and were preparing to lay the foundation, when
suddenly flames of fire came bursting from the centre of the
hill, accompanied with terrific explosions. The aftrighted
workmen fled on all sides, and the laliours were suspended at
once by this unforeseen and awful sign. The discomfiture of
the Jews was completed ; and the resumption of their labours,
could they have recovered from their panic, was for ever
broken off by the death of Julian." — Mix-man.]
'5 [Original edition : —
True Independents : while they Calvin hate,
They heed as little what .Socinians state ;
They judge -■irminians, Antinomians stray,
Nor England's Church, nor Church on earth obey.]
'•> [While Weslev was actively engaged in establishing the
influence of tlie Methodists, and extending the number of
his converts, he received a painful wound in an unexpected
quarter, from the pertinacity with which Whitfield and a
considerable proportion of his disciples adhered to the pecu-
liar doctrine of Calvin, and opposed Wesley's extravagant
notion of the possibility of sinless perfection being attained
in the present life. They were, however, soon personally
reconciled ; but the difference remained as to doctrine ; their
respective followers were, according to custom, less charitable
than themselves: and never was man more bitterly reviled,
insulted, and misrepresented, than Wesley was through the
remainder of his life by the Calvinistic Methodists. —
SoUTHEV.]
1' [William Huntington was the son of a day-labourer in
the Weald of Kent. The early part of his life was passed in
menial service, and other humble occupations. Alter rioting
in every low vice for several years, he was, according to his
own account, suddenly and miraculously convtrted, and
liecame a preacher among tlie Calvinistic Methodists. Having
lost his first wife, he married the rich widow of Sir James
Sannderson, a London alderman, and passed the latter part
of his life in affluence. He died in 1813. See ante, p. 186,
and QuarUrly Review, vol. xxiv.]
192
CRAliRE'S WORKS.
'■ lllitcrntc call lis ! — let tlicir wisest mnn
'■ Diiiw f'nrtli Ills tliniisniids ns your Tenclicr rnn :
" 'I'liry f^ivc tlicir iriiiiiil ]iicc("])ts : so, tlipy say,
" Dill l^'-pictctiis once, iukI Scucra ;
" One was a uliivc, anil slaves we oil must be,
" llntil the Sjiirit cnines and sets us free.
" Yet lienr you nolliiiif; fmni such nutn hut works;
" They nuikc the Ciiristiiin service like the Turks.
" llnrk to the Churchninn: iliiy hy diiy he cries,
" ' Children of iMen, he virtuous and he wise:
" ' Seek i)atience, justice, tenip'rauce, meekness,
truth ;
" ' In n{!;e he courteous, 1)C sedate in youtli.' —
'' So they advise, and when such fhiuf^s he read,
" How can we wonder that their flocks ore dead?
" The Heathens wrote of Virtue ; they could
dwell
" On such light points : in them it might be well ;
" They might for virtue strive ; but I maintain,
" Our strife for virtue would be proud and vain.
" When Samson carried (iaza's gates so far,
" ],Hck'd he a lielping hand to bear the bar?
" Tluis the most virtuous must in bondage groan:
" Samson is grace, and carries all alone.'*
" Hear you not priests their feeble spirits spend,
" In bidding Sinners turn to God, aiul mend ;
" To clieck their passions and to walk aright,
" To run the Race, and fight the glorious Fight ?
" Nay more — -to pray, to study, to improve,
" To grow in goodness, to advance in love?
" Oh ! Babes and Sucklings, dull of heart and
slow,
" Can Grace be gradual ? Can Conversion grow ?
" The work is done by instantaneous call ;
" Converts at once are made, or not at all ;
" Notliing is left to grow, reform, amend,
" The first emotion is the Movement's end :
" If once forgiven. Debt can be no more ;
" If once adopted, will the heir be poor?
" The man who gains the twenty-thousand prize,
" Does he by little and by little rise?
" There can no fortune for the Soul be made,
" By peddling cares and savings in her trade.
'' A\hy are our sins forgiven ? — Priests reply,
" — Because by Faith on Mercy we rely;
" ' Because, believing, we repent and pray.'
" Is this their doctrine ? — then tliey go astray ;
" Me 're pardon'd neither for belief nor deed,
'* For faith nor practice, principle nor creed ;
" Nor for our sorrow for our former sin,
" Nor for our fears when better thoughts begin;
" Nor prayers nor penance in the cause avail,
" All strong remorse, all soft contrition fail:
"* Whoever has attended to the books or preaching of these
enthusiastic people, must have oliservcd much or this kind of
absurd and foolish application of scripture history ; it seems
to tliem as reasoning.
" [" A certain captain .lolin T'nderliill aflirmed, that,
having long l.iin under a spirit of bondage, be could get no
assurance ; till, at length, as be was taking a pipe of tobiicco,
the Spirit set home upon him an al>solute promise of free
grace, with such assurance and joy, that be h,id never since
doubted of bis good estate, neitlier should he, wbatever sins
he might fall into. And he endeavoured to prove, that, as
the Lord wa.s pleased to convert Saul wbile lie was perse-
cuting, so be might manifest himself to bim wbile making a
moderate use of the good cre.tture tobacco.'' — Bki,kx.\p"s i\t'ie
Hamps/iirt'.^
" It is the Call ! till that proclaims us free,
" In darkness, doubt, and bondage we must be;
" 'i'ill that assures us, we 've in vain r-ndiired,
" And all is over when we're once assured.'*
" This is Conversion : — First there cornes a cry
" W'liich utters, ' J^inner, thou 'rt condernn'd to die ;'
" Then the struck soul to every aiil re|mir8,
" To church aneer ; all shall eat and
drink on my score, and I will upparel them all in one liverv,
that they may agree like brothers ; and they shall all woreliip
me as their lord. — Shakspf.abe's Hunry I'l.
THE ELECTION.
Tlie Evils of the Contest, and how in part to be avoided — Tlie
Miseries endured by a Friend of the Candidate — The
various Liberties taken with him, who has no personal In-
terest in the Success — Tlie unreasonable Expectations of
Voters — The Censures of the opposing Party — The Vices as
well as Follies shown in such Time of Contest — Plans and
Cunning of Electors — Evils which remain after the Deci-
sion, opposed in vain by the Efforts of the Friendly, and
of the Successful ; among whom is the Mayor — Story of
his Advancement till he was raised to the Government of
the Borough — These Evils not to be placed in Balance w ith
the Liberty of the People, but are yet Subjects of just
Complaint.
Yes, our Election 's past, and we 've been free.
Somewhat as madmen without keepers be ;
And such desire of Freedom has been sho^vn,
That both the parties wish'd her all their own :
All our free smiths and cobblers in the town
Were loth to lay such pleasant freedom down ;
To put the bludgeon and cockade aside,
And let us pass unhurt and undefied.
True '. you might then your party's sign produce.
And so escape with only half th' abuse :
With half the danger as you walk'd along,
With rage and threat'ning but from half the
throng.
This you might do, ami not your fortune mend,
For where you lost a foe, you gain'd a friend ;
And to distress you, vex you, and expose,
Election-friends are worse than any foes ;
art of inoculating his audience witli convulsions and frenzy,
surpassing the most extraordinary symptoms to which animal
magnetism has given rise. Violent outcries, howling, gnash-
ing of teeth, frightful convulsions, frenzy, epileptic and
apoplectic symptoms, were excited, in turn, on different indi-
viduals. Cries were heard as of people beina put to the
sword ; and the ravings o.'' despair, which seemed to arise
from an actual foretaste of torment, were stran:.'ely blended
with rapturous shouts of ' Glory 1 glory 1 ' — Socthet.]
*♦ [See the Life of Wesley by Southey, or John Wesley's
own .Tournals, passim. The reader will also find many curious
details of the extravagance of methodistical fanaticism, in its
first period, in the autobiography of the late excellent and
learned Dr. .A.dam Clarke.]
THE BOROUGH.
195
The party-curse is ■n-ith the canvass past,
But party-friendship, for your grief, will last.
Friends of all kinds ; the civil and the rude,
Who humbly wish, or boldly dare t' intrude :
These beg or take a liberty to come
(Friends should be free), and make your house
their home ;
They know that warmly you their cause espouse,
And come to make their boastings and their bows :
You scorn their manners, you their words mistrust,
But you must hear them, and they know you must.
One plainly sees a friendship firm and true.
Between the noble candidate and you ;
So humbly begs (and states at large the case),
" You'll think of Bobby and the little place."
Stifling his shame by drink, a wretch will come,
And prate your wife and daughter from the room :
In pain you hear him, and at heart despise,
Yet with heroic mind your pangs disguise ;
And still in patience to the sot attend,
To show what man can bear to serve a friend.
One enters hungry — not to be denied.
And takes his place and jokes — " We 're of a side."
Y'et worse, the proser who, upon the strength
Of his one vote, has tales of three hours' length ;
This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise
Start at his oaths, and sicken at his lies.
Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way
What the opponents in their anger say ;
All that through life has vex'd you, all abuse,
Will this kind friend in pure regard produce ;
And having through your own otTences run,
Adds (as appendage) what your friends have done.
Has any female cousin made a trip
To Gretna Green, or more vexatious slip ?
Has your wife's brother, or your uncle's son.
Done aught amiss, or is he thought t' have done ?
Is there of all your kindred some who lack
Vision direct, or have a gibbous back ?
From your unlucky name may quips and puns
Be made by these upbraiding Goths and Huns ?
To some great public character have you
Assign'd the fame to worth and talents due,
Proud of your praise ? — In this, in any case,
Where the brute-spirit may affix disgrace,
These friends will smiling bring it, and the while
You silent sit, and practise for a smile.
Vain of their power, and of their value sure,
They nearly guess the tortures you endure ;
Is or spare one pang — for they perceive your heart
Goes with the cause ; you 'd die before you 'd start ;
Do what they may, they 're sure you '11 not offend
Men who have pledged their honours to your friend.
Those friends indeed, who start as in a race,
May love the sport, and laugh at this disgrace ;
They have in view the glory and the prize,
Nor heed the dirty steps by which they rise :
But we their poor associates lose the fame.
Though more than partners in the toil and shame.
Were this the whole ; and did the time produce
But shame and toil, but riot and abuse ;
We might be then from serious griefs exempt,
And view the whole with pity and contempt.
Alas '. but here the vilest passions rule ;
' I am informed that some explanation is here necessan-,
though I am ifjnorant for what class of readers it can be re-
It is Seduction's, is Temptation's school ;
Where vices mingle in the oddest ways,
The grossest slander and the dirtiest praise ;
Flattery enough to make the vainest sick.
And clumsy stratagem, and scoundrel trick :
Nay more, your anger and contempt to cause.
These, while they fish for profit, claim applause ;
Bribed, bought, and bound, they banish shame and
fear;
Tell you they 're staunch, and have a soul sincere ;
Then talk of honour, and, if doubt 's express'd.
Show where it lies, and smite upon the breast.
Among these worthies, some at first declare
For whom they vote : he then has most to spare ;
Others hang off — when coming to the post
Is spurring time, and then he'll spare the most :
While some demurring, wait, and find at last
The bidding languish, and the market past ;
These will affect all bribery to condemn.
And be it Satan laughs, he laughs at them.
Some too are pious — One desired the Lord
To teach him where " to drop his little word ;
" To lend his vote where it will profit best ;
" Promotion came not from the east or west ;
" But as their freedom had promoted some,
" He should be glad to know which way 't would
come.
" It was a naughty world, and where to sell
" His precious charge, was more than he could tell."
" But you succeeded ? " — True, at mighty cost,
And our good friend, I fear, will think he 's lost :
Inns, horses, chaises, dinners, balls, and notes ;
What fiU'd their purses, and what drench'd their
throats ;
The private pension, and indulgent lease, —
Have all been granted to these friends who fleece ;
Friends who v.-i\\ hang like burs upon his coat,
And boundless judge the value of a vote.
And though the terrors of the time be pass'd,
There still remain the scatterings of the blast ;
The boughs are parted that entwined before,
And ancient harmony exists no more ;
The gusts of wrath our peaceful seats deform.
And sadly flows the sighing of the storm :
Those who have gain'd are sorry for the gloom,
But they who lost, unvi-illing peace should come ;
There open envy, here suppress'd delight,
Yet live till time shall better thoughts excite,
And so prepare us, by a six-years' tmce,
Again for riot, insult, and abuse.
Our worthy JIayor, on the victorious part,
Cries out for peace, and cries with all his heart ;
He, civil creature ! ever does his best
To banish wrath from every voter's breast ;
" For where," says he, with reason strong and plain,
" Where is the profit ? what will anger gain ? "
His short stout person he is wont to brace
In good brown broad-cloth, edg'd with two-inch lace,
When in his seat ; and still the coat seems new.
Preserved by common use of seaman's blue.
He was a fisher from his earliest day,
And placed his nets within the Borough's bay ;
Where, by his skates, his herrings, and his soles,
He lived, nor dream'd of Corporation-Doles;'
quired. Some corporate bodies have actual property, as
appears bv their receiving rents; and they obtain monev on
'2 2
196
CRABBE'S WORKS.
Hut toiling Raved, nnil snvinR, never censed
Till lie had box'd iij) twclveHCore {louiids ut least:
lie knew not money's j)f)wer, hut judj^cd it best
Safe in his trunk to let his treasure rest;
Yet to a friend eonipUiin'd : "SikI charj^e, to keep
" So niiiny ])efore taken his cash ; for which,
and for whase increase, he now indulged a belief tliat it was
indeed both promise and security.
THE BOROUGH.
197
Say, of our native heroes shall I boast,
Bom in our streets, to thunder on our coast,
Our Borough-seamen ? Could the timid Muse
More patriot-ardour in their breasts infuse ;
Or could she paint their merit or their skill,
She wants not love, alacritj', or will :
But needless all ; that ardour is their o-n^ti,
And for their deeds, themselves have made them
known.
Soldiers in arms ! Defenders of our soil !
Who from destruction save us ; who from spoil
Protect the sons of peace, who traffic, or who toil ;
Would I could duly praise you ; that each deed
Your foes might honour, and your friends might
read :
This too is needless ; you 've imprinted well
Your powers, and told what I should feebly tell :
Beside, a ]Muse like mine, to satire prone.
Would fail in themes where there is praise alone.
— Law shall I sing, or what to Law belongs ?
Alas ! there may be danger in such songs ;
A foolish rhj-me, 't is said, a trifling thing.
The law found treason, for it touch'd the King.'
But kings have mercy, in these happy times,
Or surely One^ had suffered for his rhymes ;
Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold,
So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold ;
But he escap'd, — nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I,
Who love my king, for such offence to die.
But I am taught the danger would be much.
If these poor lines should one attorney touch —
(One of those Limbs of Law who 're alwaj's here ;
The Heads come dovra to guide them twice a year.)
I might not swing, indeed, but he in sport
Would whip a rhjTner on from court to court ;
Stop him in each, and make him pay for all
The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall : —
Then let my numbers flow discreetly on,
Warn'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington,*
Lest some attorney (pardon me the name)
Should wound a poor solicitor for fame.
One Man of Law in George the Second's reign
Was all our frugal fathers would maintain ;
He too was kept for forms ; a man of peace,
To frame a contract, or to draw a lease :
' [" It stands on record, that in Richard's times
A man was hang'd for very honest rhymes." — Pope.]
2 [The poet no doubt alludes to Dr. Wolcot, who, under
the well-known appellation of Peter Pindar, published various
satires calculated to bring the person and character of George
the Third into contempt and hatred. He died in 1819.]
' The account of Coddrington occurs in " The Mirrour for
Magistrates." He suffered in the reign of Richard HI. [Tlie
execution of Collingbourne was under colour of rebellion, but
in reality on account of the doggerel couplet which he is
introduced as quoting in "Tlie Mirrour :" —
" Tliey murder'd mee, for metring things amisse ;
For w otst thou what ? I am that Collingbourne,
^^^lich made the ryme, whereof 1 well may mourn > —
' The Cat, the Rat, and I^avell our Dug,
' Do rule all England, under a Hug !'
M'hereof the meaning was so playne and true,
Tliat every fool perceived it at furst :
Most liked it ; for most that most things knew
In hugger-mugger, mutter'd what they durst ;
The tyraunt Prince of most was held accurst,
Both for his own and for his counsayl's faults,
Of whom were three, tlie nauglitiest of the naughts.
Catesby w as one, whom I called a Cat ;
A crafty lawyer, catching all hee could.
He had a clerk, with whom he used to write
All the day long, with whom he drank at night ,
Spare was his visage, moderate his bill.
And he so kind, men doubted of his skill.
Who thinks of this, with some amazement sees,
For one so poor, three flourishing at ease ;
Nay, one in splendour ! — see that mansion tall,
That lofty door, the far-resounding hall ;
Well-furnish'd rooms, plate shining on the board,
Gay liveried lads, and cellar proudly stored :
Then say how comes it that such fortunes crown
These sons of strife, these terrors of the town ?
Lo 1 that small Office ! there th' incautious guest
Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest ;
There in his web, th' observant spider lies.
And peers about for fat intruding flies ;
Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum.
And feels them fluttering as they nearer come ;
They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread
On the strong bird-lime of the utmost thread ;
But when they 're once entangled by the gin,
With what an eager clasp he draws them in ;
Nor shall they 'scape, till after long delay,
And all that sweetens life is drawn away.'*
" Nay, this," you cry, " is common-place, the
tale
" Of petty tradesmen o'er their evening ale ;
" There are who, living by the legal pen,
" Are held in honour, — ' honourable men.' "
Doubtless— there are who hold manorial courts.
Or whom the trust of powerful friends sujaports ;
Or who, by labouring through a length of time,
Have pick'd their way, unsullied by a crime.
These are the few — In this, in every place,
Fix the litigious rupture-stirring race ;
Who to contention as to trade are led.
To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread.
There is a doubtful Pauper, and we think
'T is not with us to give him meat and drink ;
There is a Child ; and 't is not mighty clear
Whether the mother lived with us a year :
A Road's indicted, and our seniors doubt
If in our proper boundary or without :
But what says our Attorney ? He, our friend,
Tells us 't is just and manly to contend.
The second Ratclifle, whom I named a Rat,
A cruel beast to gnawe on whom hee should ;
Lord Lovell barkt and bit whom Richard would.
Whom I therefore did rightly terme our Dog;
rFhcrewith to ryme I calde the King a Hog."
— Such are the verses headed " How Collingbourne was cruelly
executed for a foolish rhyme." The /io^ of the original rhyme
is, however, an allusion to the well-known Silver Buar of
Richard's cognizance ; w hence also Gray's lines : —
" Tlie bristled boar in infant gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade," &c. &c.]
* [" He that with injury is grieved
And goes to law to be relieved.
Is sillier than a sottish chouse,
Who, when a thief has robb'd his house.
Applies himself to cunning men,
To help him to his goods again.
Others believe no voice t' an organ
So sweet as lawyer's in his bar gown,
Until with subtle cobweb-cheats
They 're catched in knotted law, like nets;
In which, when once they are imbrangled,
Tlie more they stir, the more they're tangled."
Butler ]
198
CRAmiE'S WORKS.
" Wlmt I to a iicij^lilimiriiip; ])aiiHli yield yuur
cuusc,
'■ Wliilf you Iinvo moiipy, nnd fhn nation laws?
" Wtuit! lose williout a trial, tliat whicli, trioil,
" May — nny it must — l)o givon on our side?
" All men of spirit would rontond ; siirli mm
" Than lose a pound wouM ratluT liazaril ten.
■• W'lint ! 1)0 inipos(e bad ? Johnson : 'Sir,
you do not know it to be good or bad till the judge determines
it. 1 have said that you are to state facts fairly ; so that your
thinking, or what you call knowing, a cause to be bad, must be
from reasoning — must l>e from your supposing your arguments
to be weak and inconclusive. But, sir, that is not enough.
An argument which does notcon\Tnce yourself, may convince
the jud^'e to whom you urge it ; and if it does convince him,
why then, sir, you are wrong and he is right. It is his busi-
ness to judge ; and you are not to be confident in your own
opinion that a cause is bad, but to say all you can for vour
client, and then hear the judge's opinion.' BoswEi-i. : ' But,
sir, does not affecting a warmth when you have no warmth,
and appearing to be clearly of one opinion, whf n you are in
As Law instructs him, thus: " Your neighbour*!
wife
" You must not take, his chattels, nor his life ;
" Break these decrees, for damage you must pay;
" These you must reverence, and the rest — you
may." *
Law was design'il to keep a state ip peace ;
To ]>unish robbery, that wrong might ccaac ;
To be impregnable : a constant fort.
To which the weak and injured might resort:
But these perverted minds its force employ,
Not to protect mankiml, but to annoy ;
And long as ammunition can be found.
Its lightning flashes and its thunders sound.
Or law with lawyers is an ample still.
Wrought by the passions' heat with chymic skill :
While the fire bums, the gains are quickly made,
And freely flow the profits of the trade ;
Nay, when the fierceness fails, these artists blow
The dying fire, and make the embers glow,
As long as they can make the smaller profits flow :
At length the process of itself will stop,
When they perceive they 've drawn out every
drop.*
Yet, I repeat, there are. who nobly strive
To Jceep the sense of moral worth alive ;
Men who would starve, ere meanly deign to live
On what deception and chican'ry give ;
And these at length succeed ; they have their strife.
Their apprehensions, stops, and rubs in life ;
But honour, application, care, and skill.
Shall bend opposing fortune to their will.
Of such is Archer, he who keeps in awe
Contending parties by his threats of law :
He, roughly honest, has been long a guide
In Borough-business, on the conquering side ;
And seen so much of both sides, and so long,
He thinks the bias of man's mind goes wrong :
Thus, though he 's friendly, he is still severe.
Surly, though kind, suspiciouslj' sincere :
So much he 's seen of baseness in the mind.
That, while a friend to man. he scorns mankind ;
He knows the human heart, and sees with dread.
By slight temptation, how the strong are led ;
He knows how interest can asunder rend
The bond of parent, master, guardian, friend,
reality of another, does not such dissimulation impair one's
honesty ? Is there not some danger that a lawyer may put
on the same ma.sk in common life, in the intercourse with his
friends?' Johnson: ' Why, no, sir. Every Ixxiy knows you
are paid for affecting warmth for your client; and it is, there-
fore, no dissimulation ; the moment you come from the bar
you resume your usual l>ehaviour Sir, a man will no more
carry the artifice of the bar into the common intercourse of
society, than a man who is paid for tumbling upon his hands
will continue to tumble upon his hands when he should walk
on his feet.' " — Croker's Bustctll, vol. ii. p. 4S.]
" [" Not one of all the trade that I know
E'er faib to take the ready rhino,
Which haply if his purse receive.
No hum.in art can e'er retrieve ;
Sooner the d-iring wights who go
Pow n to the watery world below,
Shall force old Neptune to disgorge
And vomit up the Royal George,
Than he who hath his Iwirgain made.
And legally his cash convey'd,
Shall e'er his pocket reimburse
By diving in a lawyer's purse." — .\nstey.]
THE BOROUGH.
199
To form a new and a degrading tie
'Twixt needy vice and tempting villainy.
Sound in himself, yet when such flaws appear,
He doubts of all, and learns that self to fear :
For where so dark the moral view is grown,
A timid conscience trembles for her own ;
The pitchy-taint of general vice is such
As daubs the fancy, and you dread the touch.
Far unlike him was one in former times,
Famed for the spoil he gather'd by his crimes ;
"Who, while his brethren nibbling held their prey,
He like an eagle seized and bore the whole away.
Swallow, a poor Attorney, brought his boy
Tip at his desk, and gave him his employ ;
He would have bound him to an honest trade,
Could preparations have been duly made.
The clerkship ended, both the sire and son
Together did what business could be done ;
Sometimes they 'd luck to stir up small disputes
Among their friends, and raise them into suits :
Though close and hard, the father was content
With this resource, now old and indolent :
But his young Swallow, gaping and alive
To fiercer feelings, was resolved to thrive : —
" Father," he said, " but little can they win,
" Who hunt in couples where the game is thin ;
" Let 's part in peace, and each pursue his gain,
" Where it may start — our love may yet remain."
The parent growl'd, he couldn't think that love
Made the young cockatrice his den remove ;
But, taught by habit, he the truth suppress'd.
Forced a frank look, and said he " thought it
best."
Not long they 'd parted ere dispute arose ;
The game they hunted quickly made them foes :
Some house, the father by his art had won,
Seem'd a fit cause of contest to the son.
Who raised a claimant, and then found a way
By a staunch witness to secure his prey.
The people cursed him, but in times of need
Trusted in one so certain to succeed :
By Law's dark by-ways he had stored his mind
With \vicked knowledge, how to chea* mankind.
Few are the freeholds in our ancient town ;
A copyright from heir to heir came down.
From whence some heat arose, when there was
doubt
In point of heirship ; but the fire went out,
Till our Attorney had the art to raise
The dying spark, and blow it to a blaze :
For this he now began his friends to treat ;
His way to starve them was to make them eat,
And drink oblivious draughts — to his applause.
It must be said, he never starved a cause ;
He 'd roast and boil'd upon his board ; the boast
Of half his victims was his boil'd and roast ;
And these at every hour : — he seldom took
Aside his client, till he 'd praised his cook ;
Nor to an office led him, there in pain
To give his story and go out again ;
But first, the brandy and the chine were seen,
And then the business came by starts between.
" Well, if 't is so, the house to you belongs ;
" But have you money to redress these wrongs ?
" Nay, look not sad, my friend ; if you 're correct,
" You '11 find the friendship that you 'd not expect."
If right the man, the house was Swallow's own ;
If wrong, his kindness and good-will were shown :
" Rogue ! " " Villain ! " " Scoundrel ! " cried the
losers all :
He let them cry, for what would that recall?
At length he left us, took a village seat.
And like a vulture look'd abroad for meat ;
The Borough-booty, give it all its praise.
Had only served the appetite to raise ;
But if from simple heirs he drew their land.
He might a noble feast at will command ;
Still he proceeded by his former rules.
His bait, their pleasures, when he fished for fools —
Flagons and haunches on his board were placed.
And subtle avarice look'd like thoughtless waste :
Most of his friends, though youth from him had fled.
Were young, were minors, of their sires in dread ;
Or those whom widow'd mothers kept in bounds,
And check'd their generous rage for steeds and
hoimds ;
Or such as travell'd 'cross the land to view
A Christian's conflict with a boxing Jew : ^
Some too had run upon Newmarket heath
With so much speed that they were out of breath ;
Others had tasted claret, till they now
To humbler port would turn, and knew not how.
All these for favours would to Swallow run,
Who never sought their thanks for all he 'd done ;
He kindly took them by the hand, then bow'd
Politely low, and thus his love avow'd —
(For he 'd a way that many judged polite,
A cunning dog — he 'd fai^Ti before he 'd bite) —
" Observe, my friends, the frailty of our race
" When age unmans us — let me state a case :
" There 's our friend Rupert — we shall soon redress
" His present evil — drink to our success —
" I flatter not ; but did you ever see
" Limbs better tum'd ? a prettier boy than he ?
" His senses all acute, his passions such
" As nature gave — she never does too much ;
" His the bold wish the cup of joy to drain,
" And strength to bear it without qualm or pain.
" Now view his father as he dozing lies,
'■ Whose senses wake not when he opes his eyes ;
'• Who slips and shuffles when he means to walk,
" And lisps and gabbles if he tries to talk ;
" Feeling he 's none — he could as soon destroy
'• The earth itself, as aught it holds enjoy ;
" A nurse attends him to lay straight his limbs,
" Present his gruel, and respect his whims :
" Now shall this dotard from our hero hold
" His lands and lordships? Shall he hide his gold ?
" That which he cannot use, and dare not show,
" And ^"ill not give — why longer should he owe ?
" Yet, 't would be murder should we snap the locks,
" And take the thing he worships from the box ;
'• So let him dote and dream : but, till he die,
" Shall not our generous heir receive supply?
" For ever sitting on the river's brink ?
" And ever thirsty, shall he fear to drink ?
" The means are simple, let him only wish,
" Then say he 's willing, and I '11 fill his dish."
They all applauded, and not least the boy,
Who now replied, " It fill'd his heart with joy
" To find he needed not deliv'rance crave
" Of death, or wish the Justice in the grave ;
' [The boxing-match between Humphreys and the Jew
Mendoza took place in 1788, and has already been alluded to,
ante, p. 133.]
" Who, while ho spent, wouM every art retain,
" Of hiring lidnic the scattfrM K"''' iiK"'" I
" Just as u I'liiiiiliiin ^Niily s|>ii'lN and ]>lay.s
" Willi Nvliiit rctiiniH in still and secret ways."
Short was the drenin of hiiss ; he quickly found,
His father's acres all were Swallow's ground.
Yet to those arts would other heroes lend
A willing ear, and Swallow was their friuml ;
l'".ver successful, some hef^an to think
That Satan hely'd him to his pen and ink ;
And shrewd suspicions ran about the place,
" There was a compact " — I must leave the case.
But of the parties, had the fiend been one.
The business could not have been speedier done :
Still «hcn a man has an^'led day and nif^ht.
The silliest gudgeons will refuse to bite :
So Swallow tried no more : but if they came
To seek his friendship, that remain'd the same:
Thus he retired in peace, and some would say
Ile'd balk'd his j)artner, and had learn'd to pray.
To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought
How Swallow felt, then said " a change is wrought."
'T was true there wanted all the signs of grace,
But there were strong professions in their place ;
Then, too, the less that men from him expect,
Tlie more the praise to the converting sect ;
He had not yet subscribed to all their creed,
Nor o«Ti'd a Call, but he confess'd the need :
His acquiescent speech, his gracious look.
That pure attention, when the brethren spoke,
Was all contrition, — he had felt the wound,
And with confession would again be sound.
True, Swallow's board had still the sumptuous
treat ;
But could they blame ? the warmest zealots eat :
He drank — 't was needful his poor nerves to brace ;
He swore — 't was habit ; he was grieved — 't was
grace :
What could they do a new-bom zeal to nurse ?
" His wealth 's undoubted — let him hold our purse ;
" He '11 adil his bounty, and the house we '11 raise
" Hard by the church, and gather all her strays :
" W^e '11 watch her sinners as they home retire,
" And pluck the brands from the devouring fire."
Alas ! such speech was but an empty boast ;
The good men reckon'd, but witliout their host ;
Swallow, delighted, took the trusted store.
And own'd the sum : they did not ask for more.
Till more was needed ; when they call'd for aid —
And had it ? — No, their agent was afraid :
" Could he but know to whom he should refund,
" He would most gladly — nay, he 'd go beyond ;
" [" Tlie character of Archer, tlie honest but stern and sus-
picions attorney, and also that of the cunning and unprin-
cipled Srtallow, are admirably drawn; but in the latter Mr.
Crabbe takes c;ire to throw in some sarcasms on the zealots
who were too ready to claim him as a convert, and trust him
as their treasurer." — Eclectic Review.']
8 I entertain the stronfiest, because the most reasonable
hope, that no liberal pr.ictitioner in the Law will be otfended
by the notice taken of dishonourable and crafty attorneys.
The increased difliculty of entering into the profession will
in time render it much more free than it now is, from those
who disgr.ice it : at present such persons remain, and it would
not be difiicult to give instances of neglect, cruelty, oppres-
sion, and chicanery; nor are they by any means conlined to
one part of the country. Quacks and imposters are indeed
in every profession, as well with a licence as without one.
The character md actions of Swallow might doubtless be con-
' But when such numbers claim'd, when some were
gone,
" .\nd others grdng— lie must hold it on ;
" The I.onl would help them " — Loud their anger
grew,
,\ncl while they threat'ning from his door withdrew,
He bcw'd politely low, and bade them all adieu,*
But lives the man by wliom such deeds are done?
Yes, many such— but .Swallow's race is run ;
His name is lost, — for though his sons have name,
It is not his, they all escape the shame;
Nor is there vestige now of all he had,
FMs means are wasted, for his heir was mad:
Still we of Swallow as a monster speak,
A hard bad man, who prey'd upon the weak.'
LETTER VII.
Finirent multi letho mala ; crediila vitam
Spes alit, et melius eras fore semper ait. — TiBt7Li.cs.
He fell to juggle, cant, and cheat
For as those fowls that live in water
Are never wet, he did but smatter;
Whate'er he labour'd to appear,
His understanding still w.is clear.
A paltry wretch he had, half-starved,
Tliat him in place of zany served.— Botlxr's Hudibnu.
PROFESSIONS— PHYS IC.
The Worth and Excellence of the true Physician — Merit, not
the sole Cause of Success — Modes of ailvancing Reputation
— Motives of medical Men for publishing their Works —
Tlie great Evil of Quackery— Present State of advertising
Quacks — Their Hazard — Some fail, and why — Causes of
Success — How Men of understanding are prevailed upon
to have recourse to Empirics, and to permit their Names to
be advertised — Evils of Quackery : to nervous Females: to
Youth : to Infants — History of an advertising Empiric, &c.
Next, to a graver tribe we turn our view.
And yield the praise to worth and science due ;
But this with serious words and sober style.
For these are friends with whom we seldom smile :'
Helpers of men ^ they 're call'd, and we confess
Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess;
AVe own that numbers join with care and skill,
A temperate judgment, a devoted will :
Men who suppress their feelings, but who feel
The painful symptoms they delight to heal ; ^
trasteil by the delineation of an able and upright solicitor ;
but this letter is of sufficient length, and such persons, without
question, are already known to my readers.
1 [Original edition : —
From Law to Physic, stepping at our ease,
We find a way to' finish — by degrees ;
Forgive the quibble, and in graver style,
We '11 sing of these witli whom we seldom smile.]
* Opiferque per orbem dicor.
3 [" I feel not in me those sordid and unchristian desires
of my profession. I do not secretlv implore and wisli for
plagues, rejoice at famines, revolve ephemerides and
almanacks in expectation of malignant effects, fatal conjunc-
tions, and eclipses; I rejoice not at unwholesome springs,
nor unseasonable winters ; my prayer goes with the husband-
THE BOROUGH.
201
Patient in all their trials, they sustain
The starts of passion, the reproach of pain ;
With hearts atTected, but with looks serene.
Intent they wait through all the solemn scene ;
Glad if a hope should rise from nature's strife.
To aid their skill and save the lingering Ufe ;
But this must virtue's generous effort be,
And spring from nobler motives than a fee :
To the Physician of the Soul, and these.
Turn the distress'd for safety, hope, and ease.*
But as physicians of that nobler kind
Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind ;
So among these for knowledge most reno^\nied,
Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found :
Some, too, admitted to this honour'd name.
Have, without learning, found a way to fame ;
And some by learning — young physicians write,
To set their merit in the fairest light ;
"With them a treatise in a bait that draws
Approving voices — 't is to gain applause,
And to exalt them in the public view.
More than a life of worthy toil could do.
When 't is proposed to make the man renowTi'd,
In every age, convenient doubts abound ;
Convenient themes in every period start.
Which he may treat with all the pomp of art ;
Curious conjectures he may always make.
And either side of dubious questions take ;
He may a sj'stem broach, or, if he please,
Start new opinions of an old disease :
Or may some simple in the woodland trace,
And be its patron, till it runs its race ;
As rustic damsels from their woods are won.
And live in splendour till their race be run ;
It weighs not much on what their powers be shown,
When all his pui-pose is to make them known.
To show the world what long experience gains,
Requires not courage, though it calls for pains •,
But at life's outset to inform mankind.
Is a bold effort of a valiant mind.*
The great good man, for noblest cause displays
What many labours taught, and many days ;
man's. I desire every thing in its proper season, that neither
man nor the times be out of temper. Let me be sick myself
if sometimes tlie malady of my patient be not a disease to me.
I desire rather to cure his infirmities than my own necessi-
ties : where 1 do him no good, raethinks it is no honest gain,
tliough I confess it to be the worthy salary of our well-
intended endeavours; I iim not only ashamed, but heartily
sorry, that, besides death, there are diseases incurable, yet not
for mine ow n sake, but for the general cause and sake of hu-
manity, whose common cause I apprehend as mine own." —
Sir Thomas Browne.]
* [" I esteem it the office of a physician not only to restore
health, but to mitigate pain and dolours ; and not only when
such mitigation may conduce to recovery, but when'it riiay
serve to make a fair and easy passage ; for it is no small
felicity which Augustus Ca;sar was wont to wish to himself,
that same 'euthanasia;' and what was specially noted in the
death of Antoninus Pius, whose death was after the fashion
and semblance of a kindly and pleasant sleep. So it is writ-
ten of Epicurus, that, after his disease was judged desperate,
he drowned his stomach and senses with a large draught and
ingurgitation of wine ; whereupon the epigram was made : —
' Hinc Stygias ebrius hausit aquas.'
He was not sober enough to taste any bitterness of the Stygian
water. But the physicians, contrariwise, do make a kind of
simple religion to stay with the patient after the disease is
disclosed; whereas, in my judgment, they ought both to
inquire the skill, and to give the attendances, for the fa-
These sound instruction from experience give,
The others show us how they mean to live.
That they have genius, and they hope mankind
Will to its efforts be no longer blind.
There are, beside, whom powerful friends ad-
vance.
Whom fashion favours, person, patrons, chance :
And merit sighs to see a fortune made
By daring rashness or by dull parade.
But these are trifling evils ; there is one
Which walks uncheck'd, and triumphs in the sun :
There was a time, when we beheld the Quack,
On public stage, the licensed trade attack ;
He made his labour'd speech with poor parade,
And then a laughing zany lent him aid :
Smiling we pass'd him, but we felt the while
Pity so much, that soon we ceased to smile •,
Assured that fluent speech and flow'ry vest
Disguised the troubles of a man distress'd ; —
But now our Quacks are gamesters, and they
play
AVith craft and skill to ruin and betray ;
With monstrous promise they delude the mind,
And thrive on all that tortures human-kind.
Void of all honour, avaricious, rash.
The daring tribe compound their boasted trash —
Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill ;
All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill ; "
And twenty names of cobblers turn'd to squires,
Aid the bold language of these blushless liars.
There are among them those who cannot read.
And yet they '11 buy a patent, and succeed ;
Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid.
For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid ?
With cruel avarice still they recommend
More draughts, more syrup, to the journey's end :
" 1 feel it not;" — "Then take it every hour:"
" It makes me worse ;"' — " Why then it shows its
power :"
" I fear to die;" — " Let not your spirits sink,
" You 're always safe, while you believe and
drink."
cilltating and assuaging of the pains and agonies of death." —
Bacon.]
5 When I observe that the young and less experienced
physician will write rather with a view of making liimself
known than to investigate and publish some useful fact, I
would not be thought to extend this remark to all the publi-
cations of such men. I could point out a work containing
experiments the most judicious, and conclusions the most
interesting, made by a gentleman, then young, which would
have given just celebrity to a man after long practice. The
observation is nevertheless true : many opinions have been
adopted, and many books written, not that the theory might
be well defended, "out that a young physician might be better
known. [The gentleman here alluded to is Dr. Kdmund
Goodwyn. He was assistant-surgeon to Mr. Page of Wood-
bridge when the Poet was apprentice there, and published,
in 1788, an ' Experimental Enquiry into the Effects of Sub-
mersion, Strangulation, and several Kinds of noxious Airs on
Living Animals.']
<■ [" I have heard of a porter, who serves as a knight of the
post under one of these operators, and, though he was never
sick in his life, has been cured of all the diseases in the dis-
pensary. These are the men whose sagacity has invented
elixirs of all sorts, pills, and lozenges, and take it as an
affront if you come to tliem before you are given over liy
everybody else. Their medicines are infallible, and never
fail of success— that is, of enriching the doctor, and setting
the patient effectually at rest." — Bishop Pkarcf.]
How strange to add, in this nefarious trade,
Tlnit men of jmrts are ilujies liy dunces made : *
Tliat creatures, nature meant sliould clean our
streets,
Have iHirelinsed lands and mansions, ])arks and
seats;
Wretches with conscience so obtuse, they leave
Tlieir untiiu;;ht sons tlieir parents to deceive ;
And wlien they 're liiid upon tlieir ilyinj^-hed,
No tlioujrlit of murder conies into tlieir head,
Nor one reven},'ef'iil nhost to them appears,
To fill the soul with penitential fears.
Yet not the whole of this imposing train
Their gardens, scuts, and carriages obtain;
Cliiefly, indeed, they to the robbers fall,
Mho are most fitted to disgrace them all:
Hut there is hazard — patents must be bought.
Venders and pulfers for the poison sought ;
And then in many a paper through the year,
iMust cures and cases, oaths and proofs appear;
Men snatch'd from graves, as they were dropping
in.
Their lungs cough'd up, their bones pierced
through their skin ;
Their liver all one schirrus, and the frame
Poison'd with evils which they dare not name ;
INIcn who spent all upon physicians' fees.
Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease,
Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as
bees.^
If the sick gudgeons to the bait attend,
And come in shoals, the angler gains his end ;
But should the advertising cash be spent,
Ere yet the town has due attention lent.
Then bursts the bubble, and the hungry cheat
Pines for the bread lie ill deserves to eat ;
It is a lottery, and ho shares perhaps
The ricli man's feast, or begs the pauper's scraps.
' [" There is hardly a man in tlie world, one would think,
so i^'norant as not to know that the ordinary quack-doctors,
who publish their yreat abilities in little brown billets, dis-
tributed to all who pass by, are to a man impostors and mur-
derers. Yet such is the credulity of the vulgar, and the
impudence of those professors, that the affair still goes on,
and new promises, of what was never before done, are made
every day. NN'liat agjjravates the jest is, that even this promise
has been made as long as the memory of man can trace it, yet
nothing performed, and yet still prevails. .\s I was passing
along to-day, a paper given into my hand, by a fellow w ithout
a nose, tells us as follows: — ' In Uussel Court, over against
the Cannon Hall, 2
Alas ! in vain is my contempt cxprcss'il,
To stronj^cr \);iHsions iiri- tlioir words iicldressM ;
To piiin, to IV'iir, to torror flu'ir iiiipcai,
To tliosi! who, wciikly rciisonin^;, stronf^iy fed.
Wiiiit tlicn t>ur lioiH's ? -perliui)3 tlicrc may Iiy
law
Bo motlioil i'oiiiicl, tiirso posts to rurl) and awe;
Yet ill tills land of freedom law is slack
With any l)eiii;; to commence attack ;
Then let us trust to science — there arc those
Who can thoir falsehoods and their frauds disclose,
All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks
expose ;
Perhaps thoir numbers may in time confound
Thoir arts — as scorpions give themselves the
wound :
For when these curers dwell in every place,
While of tlie cured we not a man can trace.
Strong truth may then the public mind persuade,
And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade.
LETTER VIII.
Non possidentem multa vocaveris
Rocle beatum : rectius occiipat
Nomeii lieati, qui Deorum
Miinerilms sapienter uti,
Diiramque callet pauperiem pati.
lIoK. lib. iv. Ode 9.'
Non propter vitam laciunt patrimonia quidam,
Sed vitio ca,'ci propter patrimonia vivunt.
Juvenal, Sut. 12.^
TRADES.
No extensive manufactories in the Borou;;Ii ; yet considerable
Fortunes made there— HI Judgment of Parents in disposing
of their Sons— The best educated not the most likely to
succeed — Instance — Want of Success compensated by the
lenient Power of some Avocations— the Naturalist — The
Vv'eaver an Entomologist, &c. — A Priie Flower— Story of
Walter and William.
Or manufactures, trade, inventions rare,
Steam-towers and looms, you 'd know our Borough's
share —
' T is small : we boast not these rich subjects here,
Who hazard thrice ten thousand pounds a year ;
We've no huge buildings, where incessant noise
Is made by springs and spindles, girls and boys ;
Where, 'mid such thundering sounds, the maiden's
song
Is " Harmony in Uproar" ^ all day long.
but when men without skill, without education, without
knowledge eitlier of the distemper, or even of what they sell,
make merchandise of the miserable, and, from a dislionest
principle, trille with the pains of the unfortunate,— too often
witl\ their lives, and from the mere motive of a dishonest
Saiii,— every such instance of a person bereft of life bv tlie
hand of ignorance can be considered in no other light tlian a
murder." — Sterne.]
' [" Not he, of wealth immense possess'd.
Tasteless wlio piles his massy gold,
Among the number of the blest
Sliould have his glorious name enroU'd.
Still comm(m minds with us in common trade,
Have gain'd more wealth than ever Htudent made;
And yet a merchant, when he gives his son
II is college-learning, thinks his duty mul, rcllcct, iiml write,
Wlio, wlii'ii llii'y nu'ft, must yield iiuil share
(IcliKlit.
'I'o ydu our IJook-clul) hns peculiar charm,
For whirh ynu sicken in your riuiol farm ;
Mere you supjiose us at our leisure placed,
I'.njoyiu;^ IVeeiloiii, and displiiyini; taste :
Witii wisdom cliccilul, temperately Kay,
I'li-ased to enjoy, aud willing to display.
If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom,
(Jive wings to fancy, and among us come.
We're now nssemhlod ; you may soon attend —
1 'II introduce you — "(Jentlemen, my friend."
" Now are you happy? you have pass'd a nigkt
" In gay discourse, and rational delight."
" .VlasI not so: for how can mortals think,
'• Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and
drink ?
"No! I confess when we had fairly ilined,
" That was no time for intercourso of mind ;
" There was each dish prepared with skill t' invite,
" And to detain the struggling appetite ;
" On such occasions minds with one consent
" Are to the comforts of the body lent ;
" There was no pause — the wine went quickly
round,
" Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound ;
" Wine is to wit as water thrown on fire,
" By duly sprinkling both are raised the higher ;
" Thus largely dealt, the vivid bJaze they choke,
" And all the genial flame goes otf in smoke."
" But wlien no more your boards these loads
contain,
" When wine no more o'erwhehns the labouring
brain,
" But serves, a gentle stimulus ; we know
" How wit must sparkle, and how fancy fiow."
It might be so, but no such club-days come ;
AVe always find these damjiers in the room :
If to converse were all that brought us here,
A few odd members would in turn appear;
Who dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out,
O'erlook the list, and toss the books about ;
Or yawning read them, walking up and down.
Just as the loungers in the shops in town ;
Till fancying nothing would their minds amuse.
They M push them by, and go in search of news.
But our attractions are a stronger sort,
The earliest dainties and the oldest port ;
All enter then with glee in every look.
And not a member tliinks about a book.
Still, let me own, there are some vacant hours,
When minds might work, and men exert their
powers :
Ere wine to folly spurs the giddy guest.
But gives to wit its vigour and its zest ;
Then might we reason, might in turn display
Our several talents, and be wisely gnj' ;
We might — but wlio a tame discourse regards.
When Whist is named, and we behold the Cards ?
We from that time are neither grave nor gay ;
Our thought, our care, our business is to play :
Fix'd on these spots and figures, each attends
Much to his partners, nothing to his friends.
Our public cares, the long, the warm debate.
That kept our patriots from their beds so late ;
Wor, ppaco, invnRion, all we hope or dreud.
Vanish like dreams when men forsake their bed;
And groaning nations and ('onteiHling kings
Are all forgotten for these painted things:
Paper and ])aM(e, vile figures and poor spoLs,
Level all minds, philosophers and sots;
Ane's WTilin^'S.^JEFFBEY.]
THE BOROUGH.
213
And drank exulting in the sacred spring,
The critics told him it was no such thing ;
That springs unnumber'd round the country ran,
But none could show him where the first began :
So might we feef, should we our time bestow,
To gain these Secrets and these Signs to know ;
Might question still if all the truth we found,
And firmly stood upon the certain ground ;
We might our title to the Mystery dread,
And fear we drank not at the river-head.
Griggs and Gregorians here their meeting hold,
Convivial Sects, and Bucks alert and bold ;
A kind of Masons, but without their sign ;
The bonds of union — pleasure, song, and wiue.
Man, a gregarious creature, loves to fly
Where he the trackings of the herd can sjjy ;
Still to be one with many he desires,
Although it leads him through the thorns and
briers.
A few ! but few there are, who in the mind
Perpetual SQurce of consolation find :
The weaker many to the world will come,
For comforts seldom to be found from home.
When the faint hands no more a brimmer hold.
When flannel-wreaths the useless limbs infold,
The breath impeded, and the bosom cold ;
AVhen half the pillow'd man the palsy chains.
And the blood falters in the bloated veins, —
Then, as our friends no further aid supply
Than hope's cold phrase and courtesy's soft sigh.
We should that comfort for ourselves ensure.
Which friends could not, if we could friends pro-
cure.
Early in life, when we can laugh aloud,
There 's something pleasant in a social crowd.
Who laugh with us — but will such joy remain.
When we lie struggling on the bed of pain?
When our physician tells us with a sigh.
No more on hope and science to rely.
Life's staflf is useless then ; with labouring breath
We pray for Hope divine — the stafi" of Death; —
This is a scene which few companions grace.
And where the heart's first favourites yield their
place.
Here all the aid of man to man must end,
Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend :
The tenderest love must here its tie resign.
And give th' aspiring heart to love divine.
Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run.
Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun ;
But though to this our weakness may be prone,
Let 's learn to live, for we must die, alone.
" Sing, heavenly Musel
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,
A shilling, breeches and chimeras dire."
Philipss Splendid Shitiing.
" Lend me thy clarion, Goddess ! let me tiy
To sound the praise of merit ere it dies,
LETTER XI.
All the comforts of life in a Tavern are kno^vn,
'T is his home who possesses not one of his own ;
And to him who has rather too much of that one,
"T is the house of a friend where he 's welcome to run ;
The iristant you enter my door you 're my Lord,
With whose taste and whose pleasure I 'm proud to accord ;
And the louder you call, and the longer you stay,
The more I am ihappy to serve and obey.
To the house of a friend if you 're pleased to retire,
You must all things admit, you must all things admire ;
You must pay with observance the price of your treat,
You must eat what is praised, and must praise what you eat ;
But here you may come, and no tax we require,
You may loudly condemn what you greatly admire ;
You may growl at our wishes and pains to excel,
And may snarl at the rascals who please you so well.
At your wish we attend, and confess that your speech
On 'the nation's affairs might the minister teach ;
His views you may blame, and his measures oppose.
There 's no Tavern-treason— you 're under the Rose ;
Should rebellions arije in your own little state,
With me yon may safely their consequence wait ;
To recruit your lost spirits 'tis prudent to come,
And to fly to a friend when the devil 's at home.
That I've faults is confess'd ; but it won't be denied ,
"Tis my interest the faults of my neighbours lo hide ;
If 1 've sometimes lent Scandal occasion to prate,
I 've often conceald what she lov'd to relate ;
If to Justice's bar some have wander'd from mine,
'T was because the dull rogues wouldn't stay by their wine ;
And for brawls at my house, well the poet explains,
That men drink shallow draughts, and so madden their brains.
INNS.
A difficult Subject for Poetry — Invocation of the Muse— De-
scription of the principal Inn and those of the first Class—
The large deserted Tavern— Those of a second Order—
Their Company— One of particular Description— A lower
kind of Public-Houses ; yet distinguished among them-
selves—Houses on the Quays for Sailors— The Green Man ;
its Landlord, and the Adventure of his Marriage, &c.
Much do I need, and therefore will I ask,
A Muse to aid me in my present task ;
For then with special cause we beg for aid,
AVhen of our subject we are most afraid :
Inns are this subject — 't is an ill-drawn lot,
So, thou who gravely triflest, fail me not ;
Fail not, but haste, and to my memory bring
Scenes yet unsung, which few would choose to sing :
Thou mad'st a Shilling splendid ; ' thou hast thrown
On humble themes the graces all thine own ;
By thee the Mistress of a Village-school
Became a queen enthroned upon her stool ;*
.\nd far beyond the rest thou gav'st to shine
Belinda's Lock— that deathless work was thine.^
Come, lend thy cheerful light, and give to please.
These seats of revelry, these scenes of ease ;
Such as I oft have chau need to espy
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity."
Suenstone's Schoulmisiress.
" Tliis Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame.
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name."
Pope's Rape of the Lock.
214
CRAimE'S WORKS.
Who singB of Inns much danger hnn to ilrcad,
Ami iu'('(ls iissistanro from the t'ouiitaiii-licud.
Ili^li ill the street, o'erloiikin^C all the jilace,
The ram])aiit Linn shows his kiii>;ly I'are ;
Mis amiile jaws <'xteii(l from side to side,
His eyes ar<' nlariii(?, niiil his nostrils wide ;
In silver siia;? tin; sovereign form is dress'd,
A mane horrific, sweeps his ample ciiest ;
l'"date with pride, he seoms t' assert his rei^^n,
And stands the j^'oiy of ids wide domain.
Yet notluii^ dreadful to his friends tiie sij;ht,
But si^n and pled^jc of welcome and dcdij^ht.
To him the uohlest guest the town detains
Flies for repast, and in his court r(!muins ;
llim too the crowd witli longing looks adndre,
Sigh for his joys, and modestly retire;
Here not a comfort shall to them be lost
AVho never ask or never feel the cost.
The ample yanls on either side contain
Buildings where order and distinctiLidam ^^1y'ress, or his Worship's wife.
The mighty monarch, in theatric sack
Carries his whole regalia at his back ;
His royal consort heads the female band.
And leads the heir-apparent in her hand ;
The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride.
Bearing a future prince on either side." — Cudrcbili,.
THE BOROUGH.
217
No talk of pay shall yet on pleasure steal,
But kindest welcome bless the friendly meal ;
While o'er the social jug and decent cheer,
Shall be described the fortunes of the year.
Peruse these bills, and see what each can do, —
Behold ! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew ;
Change but the garment, and they '11 all engage
To take each part, and act in every age :
CuU'd from all houses, what a house are they !
Swept from all barns, our Borough-critics say ;
But with some portion of a critic's ire.
We all endure them ; there are some admire :
They might have praise, confined to farce alone ;
Full well they grin, they should not try to groan ;
But then our servants' and our seamen's wives
Love all that rant and rapture as their lives ;
He who 'Squire Richard's part could well sustain,^
Finds as King Richard he must roar amain —
" My horse ! my horse ! " — Lo ! now to their
abodes,*
Come lords and lovers, empresses and gods.
The master-mover of these scenes has made
No trifling gain in this adventurous trade ;
Trade we may term it, for he duly buys
Arms out of use and undirected eyes :
These he instructs, and guides them as he can.
And vends each night the manufactured man :
Long as our custom lasts they gladly staj'.
Then strike their tents, like Tartars ! and away !
The place grows bare where they too long remain,
But grass will rise ere they return again.
Children of Thespis, welcome ; knights and
queens !
Counts ! barons ! beauties ! when before your
scenes,
And mighty monarchs thund'ringfrom your throne;
Then step behind, and all your glory 's gone :
Of crown and palace, throne and guards bereft,
The pomp is vanish'd, and the care is left.*
Yet strong and lively is the joy they feel,
When the full house secures the plenteous meal ;
Flatt'ring and flatter'd, each attempts to raise
A brother's merits for a brother's praise :
For never hero shows a prouder heart,
Than he who proudly acts a hero's part ;
Nor without cause ; the boards, we know, can yield
Place for fierce contest, like the tented field.
Graceful to tread the stage, to be in turn
The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn ;
Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd.
The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud :
These are their parts, — and he who these sustains,
Deserves some praise and profit for his pains.
Heroes at least of gentler kind are they.
3 [In Vanbrugh's comedy of The Provoked Husband.']
< [" It is true, indeed, that the principal actors on our
rustic boards have most of them had their education in Covent
Garden or Drury Lane ; but they liave been employed in ttie
business of tlie drama in a degree but just above a scene-
shifter. The attendants on a monarch strut monarchs them-
selves, mutes find their voices, and message-bearers rise into
heroes. The humour of our best comedian consists in shrugs
and grimaces ; he jokes in a wry mouth, and repartees in a
grin ; in short, he practises on Congreve and Vanbrugh all
those distortions that gained him so much applause from tlie
galleries in the drubs which he was condemned to undergo
in pantomimes." — Thornhill.J
Against whose swords no weeping widows pray,
No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their
way.
Sad happy race ! soon raised and soon depress'd,
Your days all pass'd in jeopardy and jest;
Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain.
Not warn'd by misery, not enrich'd by gain ;
Whom Justice, pitying, chides from place to place,
A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race.
Whose cheerful looks assume, and play the f)arts
Of happy rovers with repining hearts ; ^
Then cast off care, and in the mimic pain
Of tragic woe feel spirits light and vain,
Distress and hope — the mind's, the body's wear,
The man's affliction, and the actor's tear :
Alternate times of fasting and excess
Are yours, ye smiling children of distress.
Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom
seems.
And with your varying views and restless schemes,
Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams.
Yet keen those griefs — ah ! what avail thy
charms,
Fair Juliet ! what that infant in thine arms ;
What those heroic lines thy patience learns,
What all the aid thy present Romeo earns.
Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain.
With all thy plaintive sisters to complain ?
Nor is there lack of labour — To rehearse.
Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse ;
To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite ;
To hide in rant the heart-ache of the night ;
To dress in gaudy patchwork, and to force
The mind to think on the appointed course ; —
This is laborious, and may be defined
The bootless labour of the thriftless mind.
There is a veteran Dame : I see her stand
Intent and pensive with her book in hand ;
Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part,
Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart ;
Across the room she paces, gets her tone,
And fits her features for the Danish throne ;
To-night a queen — I mark her motion slow,
I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother knoM'.
Methinks 't is pitiful to see her try
For strength of arms and energy of eye ;
With vigour lost, and spirits worn away,
Her pomp and pride she labours to display ;
And when awhile she 's tried her part to act,
To find her tlioughts arrested by some fact ;
When struggles more and more severe are seen,
In the plain actress than the Danish queen, —
At length she feels her part, she finds delight,
And fancies all the plaudits of the night :
■' In shabby state they strut, in tatter'd robe,
The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe :
No high conceits their moderate wishes raise,
Content with humble profit, humble praise.
Let dowdies simper, and let bumpkins stare.
The strolling pageant hero treads on air :
Pleased for his hour he to mankind gives law,
.'\nd snores the next out on a bed of straw."
Chubchill.
' He who to-night is seated on a throne.
Calls subjects, empires, kingdoms, all his own,
Who wears the diadem and regal robe,
IS'ext morning shall awake as poor as Job."
2 F
218
CR A HUE'S WORKS.
<)'(! MS she It, she Hiiiilcs nt ovory Bpecch,
And lliiiilcs nil yoiillil'iil j)urt beyond her reach ;
lint MS the mist nf Miiiily iiniiiii
Is lilowii away, by press of present puin,
Slid nnd in donbt she to licr purse applies
For eaiise of comfort, wlierc no comfort lies;
Then to her tusk slie si);iiing turns again —
"Oil! Iliindet, thou liiist cleft my licart in
twiiin ! " 7
And « iio that poor, consumptive, witlicr'd tiling,
Wiio strains lier sleniler throat and strives to sing ?
I'autiiif; for l)ruath and forced lier voice to drop,
And far unlike the inmate of the shop,
^\■here she, in youth and health, alert and gay,
I.augli'd oil' at ni;;lit tlie labours of the day;
^\'ith novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers.
And sister-converse pass'd the evening-hours:
But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong,
Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong;
The morning-call and counter were her dread,
And lier contempt the needle and the thread :
But when she read a gentle damsel's part.
Her woe, her wish !• — ^she liad them all by heart.
At length the hero of the boards drew nigh,
"Who spake of love till sigh rc-echo'd sigh ;
He told in honey 'd words his deathless flame,
And slie his own by tender vows became ;
Kor ring nor licence needed souls so fond,
Alfonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond :
And thus the simple girl, to shame betray'd,
Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay'd.
Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope,
See lier I the grief and scandal of the troop ;
A wretched martyr to a childish pride,
Her woe insulted, and her praise denied :
Her humble talents, though derided, used,
Her prospects lost, her confidence abused ;
All that remains — for she not long can brave
Increase of evils — is an early grave.
Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed
"What dreams you cherish, and what books ye read !
A decent sum had Peter Noltage made,
By joining bricks — to him a thriving trade :
Of his employment master and his wife.
This humble tradesman led a lordly life ;
The house of kings and heroes lack'd repairs.
And Peter, though reluctant, served the Players :
Connected thus, he heard in way polite, —
" Come, Master Nottage, see U8 play to-night."
At first 't was folly, nonsense, idle stutT,
But seen for nothing it grew well enough ;
And better now — now best, and every night,
In this fool's paradise he drank delight ;
And as he felt the bliss, he wish'd to know-
Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow ;
For if the seeing could such pleasure bring.
What must the feeling ? — feeling like a king ?
' [This was written, in 1799, soon after Mr. Crabbe had
seen a rehearsal at the " Tlieatre Royal," .MJborough. Tlie
" veteran dame " was the lady manaf;er, wlio, seated in lier
chair of state, corrected the rest, as t'iir as her evidently ab-
stracted attention would allow. Her husband enacted Othello,
and shouted lustily for the " /lankerc/ier."]
" [The historv of the stage mii,'ht alTord many instances of
those who, in tlie trade of death, mislit have slain men, yet
have condescended to deal counterfeit slaughter from their
right hands, and administer harmless bowls of poison. We
In vain liiflwifc, hiH uncle, and hiH friend,
Cried — " Peter ! Peter ! let mich follies j-nd ;
" 'T is well enough these vngubiiiidH to see,
" But would you jiartner with a showman be ?"
" Showman ! " said Peter, " did not Quin and
Clivc,
" And Uoscius-fJarrick, by tlie science thrive ?
" Showman ! — 't is scandal ; I 'in by genius led
" To join a class who 've Shakspearc at their
liead."
Poor Peter thus by cosy steps became
A dreaming candidate for scenic fame.
And, after years consumed, infirm and poor.
He sits and takes the tickets at the door.
Of various men these marching troops are made, —
Pen-si)urning clerks, am] lads contemning trade ;
Waiters and servants by confinement teased,
And youths of wealth by dissipation eased ;
With feeling nymphs, who, such resource at hand,
Scorn to obey the rigour of command ;
Some, who from higher views by vice are won,
And some of either se.x by love undone ;
The greater part lamenting as their fall,
What some an honour and advancement call.'
There are who names in shame or fear assume,
And hence our Bevilles and our Savilles come ;
It honours him, from tailor's board kick'd down,
As Mister Dormer to amuse the town ;
Falling, he rises : but a kind there are
Who dwell on former prospects, and despair ;
Justly but vainly they their fate deplore.
And mourn their fall who fell to rise no more.
Our merchant Tlwmps(jn. with his sons around,
Most mind and talent in his Frederick found :
He was so lively, that his mother knew,
If he were taught, that honour must ensue ;
The father's views were in a different line, —
But if at college he were sure to shine.
Then should he go — to prosper who could doubt ? —
When schoolboy stigmas would be all wash'd out.
For there were marks upon his youthful face,
'Twixt vice and error — a neglected case —
These would submit to skill ; a little time.
And none could trace the error or the crime ;
Then let him go, and once at college, he
Might choose his station — what would Frederick
be?
'Twas soon determined — He could not descend
To pedant-laws and lectures without end;
And then the chapel — night and morn to pray.
Or mulct and threaten'd if he kept away ;
No ! not to be a bishop — so he swore.
And at his college he was seen no more.
His debts all paid, the father, with a sigh.
Placed him in office — " Do, my Frederick, try :
" Confine thyself a few short months, and then — "
He tried a fortnight, and threw down the pen.
might read also of persons whose fists were intended to beat
' the drum ecclesiastic,' who have themselves become theatri-
c:d volunteers. In regard to the law, many who were origin-
ally designed to manifest their talents for elocution in West-
minster Hall, have displayed tliem in Ilrury Lane; and it
may be added, on theatrical autliority, that — '
" Not e'en Attorneys have this rage withstood.
Hut changed their pens for truncheons, ink for blood.
And, strange reverse ! — died for their country's good."
'fHORNHILl-.]
Again demands were hush'd : " My son, you 're
free,
" But you 're unsettled ; take your chance at sea :"
So in few days the midshipman, equipp'd,
Received the mother's blessing, and was shipp'd.
Hard was her fortune ! soon compeU'd to meet
The \\Tetched stripling staggering through the
street ;
For, rash, impetuous, insolent and vain.
The captain sent him to his friends again :
About the Borough roved th' unhappy boy,
And ate the bread of every chance-employ !
Of friends he borrow'd, and the parents yet
In secret fondness authorised the debt ;
The younger sister, still a child, was taught
To give with feign'd affright the pittance sought ;
For now the father cried — " It is too late
" For trial more — I leave him to his fate," —
Yet left him not : and with a kind of joy,
The mother heard of her desponding boy ;
At length he sicken'd, and he found, when sick.
All aid was ready, all attendance quick ;
A fever seized him, and at once was lost
The thought of trespass, error, crime, and cost :
Th' indulgent parents knelt beside the youth,
They heard his promise and believed his truth ;
And when the danger lessen'd on their view,
They cast off doubt, and hope assurance grew ; —
Nursed by his sisters, cherish'd by his sire,
Begg'd to be glad, encouraged to aspire.
His life, they said, would now all care repay,
And he might date his prospects from that day ;
A son, a brother to his home received,
They hoped for all things, and in all believed.
And now will pardon, comfort, kindness draw
The youth from vice ? will honour, duty, law ?
Alas ! not all : the more the trials lent.
The less he seem'd to ponder and repent ;
Headstrong, determined in his own career,
He thought reproof unjust and truth severe ;
The soul's disease was to its crisis come.
He first abused and then abjured his home ;
And when he chose a vagabond to be.
He made his shame his glory — " I "11 be free." *
Friends, parents, relatives, hope, reason, love.
With anxious ardour for that empire strove ;
In vain their strife, in vain the means applied,
They had no comfort, but that all were tried ;
One strong vain trial made, the mind to move,
"Was the last effort of parental love.
E'en then he watch'd his father from his home,
And to his mother would for pity come,
"Where, as he made her tender terrors rise.
He talk'd of death, and threaten'd for supplies.
Against a youth so vicious and undone.
All hearts M'ere closed, and every door but one :
The Players received him ; they with open heart
Gave him his portion and assign'd his part ;
And ere three days were added to his life.
He found a home, a duty, and a wife.
His present friends, though they were nothing
nice.
Nor ask'd how vicious he, or v/hat his vice,
' [Original edition : —
Vice, dreadful habit I when assumed so Ion?,
Becomes at length inveterately strong ;
Still they expected he should now attend
To the joint duty as a useful friend ;
The leader too declared, with frown severe,
That none should pawn a robe that kings might
wear ;
And much it moved him, when he Hamlet play'd,
To see his Father's Ghost so drunken made :
Then too the temper, the unbending pride
Of this ally, would no reproof abide : — ■
So leaving these, he march'd away and join'd
Another troop, and other goods purloin'd ;
And other characters, both gay and sage.
Sober and sad, made stagger on the stage.
Then to rebuke with arrogant disdain,
He gave abuse, and sought a home again.
Thus changing scenes, but with unchanging
vice.
Engaged by many, but with no one twice :
Of this, a last and poor resource, bereft,
He to himself, unhappy guide ! was left —
And who shall say where guided ? to what seats
Of starving villany ? of thieves and cheats ?
In that sad time of many a dismal scene
Had he a witness, not inactive, been ;
Had leagued with petty pilferers, and had crept
"Where of each sex degraded numbers slept :
"With such associates he was long allied,
"Where his capacity for ill was tried.
And that once lost, the \^Tetch was cast aside.
For now, though willing with the worst to act,
He wanted powers for an important fact ;
And while he felt as lawless spirits feel,
His hand was palsied, and he couldn't steal.
By these rejected, is their lot so strange.
So low ! that he could suffer by the change ?
Yes ! the new station as a fall we judge, —
He now became the harlots' humble drudge,
Their drudge in common ; they combined to save
Awhile from starving their submissive slave ;
For now his spirit left him, and his pride.
His scorn, his rancour, and resentment died ;
Few were his feelings — but the keenest these,
The rage of hunger, and the sigh for ease ;
He who abused indulgence, now became
By want subservient, and by misery tame ;
A slave, he begg'd forbearance ; bent with pain.
He shunn'd the blow, — " Ah ! strike me not
again."
Thus was he found : the master of a hoy
Saw the sad wretch whom he had known a boy ;
At first in doubt, but Frederick laid aside
All shame, and humbly for his aid applied :
He, tamed and smitten with the storms gone by,
Look'd for compassion through one living eye.
And stretch'd th' unpalsred hand : the seaman
felt
His honest heart with gentle pity melt,
And his small boon with cheerful frankness dealt ;
Then made inquiries of th' unliappy youth,
"Who told, nor shame forbade him, all the truth.
" Young Frederick Thompson, to a chandler's
shop
" By harlots order'd, and afraid to stop I —
As, more indulged, it gains the strength we lose,
Maintains its conquests and extends its views ;
Till, the whole soul submitting to its chains,
It takes possession, and for evir reigns.]
2 r 2
220
CllAUHE'S WORKS.
*' What 1 our gooil in(Tier day :
lie thoii'^ht, poor prodigal ! a father yet
His woes would pity ami his crimes forget;
Nor had he brother who with speech severe
Would check the pity or refrain the tear:
A lighter spirit in his bosom rose,
As near the road he sought an hour's repose.
And there he found it : he had left the town,
But buildings yet were scatter'd up and down ;
To one of these, half-rnin'd anTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.
Sed quia caecus inest vitiis amor, omne futurum
Despicitur ; suadent hrevem praesentia fructura,
Et ruit in vetitum damni secura libido.
Ci-AUD. m Eutrop.
Nunquam parvo contenta paratu,
Et quaesitorum terra pelagoque ciborura
Ambitiosa fames, et lautae gloria mensae. — Lijcan.
Et Luxus, populator Opum, tibi semper adhaerens,
Infelix humili gressu comitatur Ejjestas.
Claud, in Ri'f.
Behold what blessing wealth to life can lend.— Pope.
LIFE OF BLANEY.'
Blanej', a wealthy Heir, dissipated, and reduced to Poverty—
His fortune restored by Marriage ; again consumed — His
Manner of Living in the West Indies - Recalled to a larger
Inheritance — His more refined and expensive Luxuries —
His method of quieting Conscience — Death of his Wife —
Again become poor —His method of supporting Existence
— His Ideas of Religion — His Habits and Connections when
old — Admitted into the Alms-house.
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 I — ^"t is the way he takes
To force applause for each vile jest he makes ;
Such is yon man, by partial favour sent.
To these calm seats to ponder and repent.
Blanei/, 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 borrow'd wit'fiout thought.
But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower
Of a kind wealthy widow in his power :
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,
AVas 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 ;
many vears prepared for the public, whenever opportunity
might oiler, that I have at length given him place, and thougli
with his inferiors, yet as a ruler over them.
1 [This character is drawn from real life ; though the
extreme degradation is exaggerated. The original has been
long dead — leaving no relatives. He was a half-pay Major
in a garrison town on the eastern coast.]
Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind,
Profuse, not just, and rnrcIcsH, hut not kind.
Yet, tlius assislcd, ten ioiij^ winters ])a8s'd
In wasting guineas ere lie saw liis lust;
Then lie l)egan fo reason, and to feel
lie could not dig, nor had he Icarn'd to steal;
And should he lieg as long as he might live,
He. justly fear'd that nobody woulil give:
IJut lie eoidd ehnrge a jiistol, and at will,
All that was mortal, l>y a bullet kill :
And he was taught, by those whom he would call
Man's surest guides — that ho was mortal all.
^Vhilo thus he thought, still waiting for the day
"When he should dare to iilow his brains away,
A place lor him a kind relation found,
Where Kngland'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 ;
These he cnjoy'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 endcar'd ;
liis kindred died, and Blaney now became
An heir to one who never heard his name.^
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 s^-ine he would on pleasure seize.
Now common pleasures liad 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 ;
He bought indulgence with a boundless price,
Most pleased when decency bow'd tXovrn 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 hardcn'd as he read ;
Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight.
Pleased him, and shone with their phosphoric light ;
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, deemd the light of truth.
He different works for different ca\ise admired.
Some fi.x'd his judgment, some his passions fired ;
* [To tlie character of Rlaney we objfct, .is oflrensivp from its
extreme and impotent depravity. The first part of his his-
tory, however, is sketched witli a masterly liand, and afliirds
a good specimen of that sententious and antithetical manner
by which Mr. C'rabbe sometimes reminds us of tlie style and
versification of Pope. — Jeffket.]
' [The author of " Tlie Oracles of Reason,'" and of an infidel
treatise entitled "Anima Mundi." He put an end to his
existence by shooting himself, in 1693.]
To cheer the mind nml 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.
And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart.
He heard of Blount," and Wandevillc,* and
Chubb,"
How they the doctors of their day would drub ;
How Hume had dwelt on Miracles so wtdi,
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 ceaseiif;h Imt (Vw could bring
Pircct cxaiiiplc of a witty tiling;
"I" was that K'O't I'lcasaut, smart, cnj^nfjiiij^ speech,
I lor hcaiix admired, anil jnst within their reach;
Not indiscreet, perhaps, hut yet more free
Thau ])rudish n^'inphs allow their wit to be.
Novels and i)lnys, with poems old and new,
"Were all the hooks our nymph attended to;
Yet from the jiress no treatise issued forth,
But she would speak j)reciscly of its worth.
She with tlie J.oudon stage familiar grew,
And every actor's name and merit knew;
She told how this or tliat their part mistook,
And of the rival Itomeos gave the look ;
Of either house 't was hers the strength to see.
Then judge with candour — " Drury Lane for me."
AVhat made this knowledge, what this skill com-
plete ?
A fortnight's visit in Whitechapel Street.
Her place in life was ricli 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 liumble 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,—
Wliispers and hints which went from ear to ear.
And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear.
But of each se.\ 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 ;
Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice.
But that he ventured on denial twice : —
If these liavc 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 tlie ladies' hearts,
.\nd when he found them in a proper train,
He thouglit all else superfluous and vain :
But in tliat 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 tlie passions his allies,
.Vnd, when he saw thom in contention rise.
To watcli 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
In Henry's eye a love chastised by awe.
Iler thoughts of virtue were not all Hublimc,
Nor virtuous all her thoughts; 't was now her time
To bail eacli hook, in every way to please,
.\nd the rich prizr," with dext'rous hand to seize.
She had no virgin-terrors; she couhi utroy
In all lover's maze, nor fenr to lose her way;
Nay, could go near the jirecipicc, nor dread
A failii\g caution or a giddy head;
She 'd fix her eyes upon the; roaring flood,
And dance upon the Ijrink where danger stood.
'T was nature all, she judged, in one so young.
To drop the eye and falter in the tongue ;
To be about to take, ami then command
His daring wish, and oidy 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
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,
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.
Not legal mistress : he with other men
Once sought her liand. 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 ofler'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,
'• And the fair countess I — Oh I 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 ! slie sutTer'd in this trying ten ;
The pair had parted : who to him attend,
ilust judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend ;
But who on her would equal faith bestow.
Would tliink him rash. — and surely she must know.
Then as a matron Clelia taught a school.
But nature gave not talents fit for rule :
THE BOROUGH.
227
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 gaj^,
And lively speech and elegant array.
The GritBn's landlord these allured so far,
He made her mistress of his heart and bar ;
He had no idle retrospective whim,
Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him :
So far was well, — but Clelia thought not fit
(In all the Gritfin 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 temporarj^ truce,
His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse ;
And as their spirits wasted in the strife,
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
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 '11 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 ^\Tote a novel, and Sir Denys said
The dedication was the best he read ;
But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'd
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 ;
Tliough loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit.
Though now her dress — (but let me not explain
The piteous jjatchwork 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 't was 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,
"^ [" (Jlelia is another wortliless character that is drawn
with inlinite spirit, anJ a thornugh knowledge of human
nature. Slie began life as a sprightly, talking, flirting girl,
who passed for a wit and a beauty in the hall-bred circle of
the Borough, and who, in laying herself out to entrap a youth
of distinction, unfortunately fell a victim to his superior art,
aud forfeited her place in society. She then became the
Xow with the menials crowding to the wall,
She 'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball,
And with degraded vanity unfold,
How she too triumph'd in the years of old.
To her poor friends "t is 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,
She boldly calls invention to her aid.
Touch'd by the pity he had felt before,
For her Sir Denj's oped 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
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.^
c
LETTER XVI.
INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.
EbrietHS tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atris
Circa te semper volitans Infamia pennis.
SlLVIUS Italicvs
BENBOW.
Benbow, an improper Companion for the Badgemen of the
Almshouse— He resembles Bardolph— Left in Trade by
his Father— Contracts useless Fiiendships— 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 .\Ueration— Captain
Dowling, a boon Companion, ready to drink at all Times,
and with any Company : famous in his Club-room — His
easy Departure — Dolly Murray, a Maiden advanced in
Years : abides by Ratalia and Cards — Her free Manners—
Her Skill in the Game— Her Preparation and Death—
Benbow, how interrupted : his Submission.
See ! yonder badgeman with that glowing face,
A meteor shining in this sober place I
smart mistress of a dashing attorney— then tried to teach a
school— lived as the favourite of an innkeeper— let lodgings-
wrote novels — set up a toy-shop— and, finally, was admitted
into the alms-house, there is nothing very interesting,
perhaps, in such a story ; but the details of it show the won-
derful acL-uracy of the author's observation of character, and
I'ive it, and many of his other pieces, a value of the same
" ' O n '>
228
CRAIJUE'S WORKS.
Vast, sums were paid, and many years were past,
Ere gems so rich around tlieir radianrc cast!
Such was the fiery front that Hnrdolpli wore,
CiiidinK Ills master to tlie tavern door; '
Tlicre first tluit meteor rose, and there alone,
Jn its due ])Iare, tiie ricli ctrult;ence shone:
Ihit tills strunf;e fire the seat of i)eace invades
And sliiiies portentous in tlu'se soh'nm siiadcs.
/Iriihotr, a l)oon companion, h)nf; approveil
By jovial sets, and (as he thoU};lit) helovcd,
\Vas jud}:jed as one to joy and friendship prone.
And decm'd injurious to liimself ahine :
(u'n'rous and free, lie paid hut small regard
To trade, anil 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 liis faults reproved.
Benbow, the father, left possessions fair,
A worthy name and business to liis heir;
Benhow, the son, those fair possessions sold,
And lost liis credit, while he spent the gold :
He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'd
The night with him ; his day was unemployed ;
So when his credit and liis cash were spent,
Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent;
Of late he came, with passions unsubdued,
And shared and cursed the hated solitude,
Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous
cares intrude.
Known but in drink, — lie found an easy friend,
"Well pleased his worth and honour to commend :
And thus inform'd, tlie 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 i)artner of his soul,
And any man his friend : — then thus in glee,
" I speak my mind, I love the truth," quoth he ;
Till 't was his fate that useful truth to find,
'T is sometimes prudent not to speak the mind.
With wine inflated, man is all upblown,
And feels a power which he believes his own ;
AVith 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 tlien the worth that in himself he found ? —
Vanish'd — and he sank grov'ling on the ground.
Still some conceit will Benbow's mind inflate,
Poor as he is, — ^'t is 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 :
Kach hero's worth w ith much delight he paints ;
JIartyrs they were, and he would make them saints.
kind that some pictures iiro thou^lit to derive from the truth
and minuteness of the anatomy wliich they display. There
is something original, too, and well conceived, in the tenacity
with which lie represents this frivolous person as adhering to
her p.iltry cliaracteristics under every change of circum-
stances."— Jkffrk v.]
" Alas ! ttltts ! " Old Knglaml now may say,
" My glory withers ; it ha.s had its day :
" We 're fallen on evil times ; men rcail 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 Orange!
•' He bravely thought it best became his rank,
"' That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank ;
" He was delighted from his favourite room
" To sec them 'cross the jiark go daily home
" Praising aloud the liquor ami 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 enclosed — his trees
" Grew like himself, untroubled and at ease :
" Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt
" Chok'd and imprison'd in a modem 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, forliore to call
•' On the kind females — favourites at the hall ;
" But better nature saw, with much delight,
•■ The different orders of mankind unite :
" 'T was 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
'• 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 't was pity, when the worthy 'squire
'• Stuck to the church, what more could they
require ?
" 'T was almost joining that fanatic crew,
" To throw such morals at his honour's pew ;
•' A weaker man. had he been so reviled,
•• 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 — moimted on your Sundaj^-throne,
•' Your firebrands fall upon your foes alone ;
" They strike your patrons — and should all with-
draw,
•• In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw,
1 " Thou art the Knight of the Burninj Lamp • if thou
wast any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face ;
my oath should lie by this fire. Oh ! thou 'rt a perpetual
triumpli, thou hast sa ed me a thousand marks in links and
torches, w.tlking in a night betwixt tavern and tavern." —
Shakspeare.
THE BOROUGH.
229
' 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,
■ 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 suifer'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
■ 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,
■ Not fit to keep one body from the cold ;
' Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stay
■ To view a dull, dress'd companj' 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,
• 'T would 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 ;
• We had their blessings— they shall have our praise.
" Of Captain Dowling would you hear me s^jeak ?
• 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,
' 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,
' 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.
2 [Original edition ; —
She suffer'd no man her free soul to vex,
Her sex's pattern, without thoughts of sex ;
Our timid girls and lovers, half afraid,
All shunu'd the speeches of the frank old maid.]
" At fifty-five we lost him — after that
Life grows insipid and its pleasures flat ;
He had indulged in all that man can have.
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,
' 'T was 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 JIurray ! — 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.
But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille :
Lame in her side, we plac'd 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 suifer'd no man her free soul to vex.
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 loug before had fix'd her small afiairs ;
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,
■ ' 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, ' 't is 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 prny,
■ Again ! " said Benbow,— " tolls it every day ?
■ Where is the life 1 led?" — He sigh'd and walkM
his way.^
3 Benbow may be thouf;ht too low and despicable to be
admitted here ; but he is a borough-char-icter, and however
disgusting in some respects a picture may be, it will please
sorne, and be tolerated by many, if it can boast that one merit
of being a faithful likeness.
Il
LETTER XVII.
nU'sscd hp the mnn wlio provie various modes which have been dis-
cussed or adopted : of one metho
Nocte brevem si forte indulsit cnra soporem,
Kt toto vers.ita thoro jam membra quiescunt,
Continui") templum et violati .Niiminis aras,
Kt quod prxcipiiis mcniem sudoribug urgct,
Te videt in somnis ; tua sacra et major imago
Humana turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri.
Juv. Snt.xiu.''
TIIK P.VRISn-CLEIlK.
Tlie Parish-Clerk began his Duties with the late Vicar, a grave
and austere Man ; one fully orthodox ; a Detecter and Op-
poser of the Wiles of Satan— Ilis Opinion of his own For-
titude—The more frail ofTended by these Professions— His
good Advice gives further Provocation — They invent Strata-
gems 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 w ith Crime : is detected
— His Sufferings and Death.
With our late Vicar, and his age the same.
His Clerk, hight Jachiii, 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
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 't was allow'd that he should so behave
As in high seat, and be severely grave.
This book-taught man, to man's first foe pro-
fess' d
Defiance stern, and hate that knew not rest ; ^
* [.\t night, should sleep his harass'd limbs compose,
And steal him one short moment from his woes,
Then dreams invade ; suilden, before his eyes.
The violated fane and altar rise ;
.\nd (what disturbs him most) your injured shade,
In more than mortal majesty array'd.
Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treach'rous rest.
And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast.
GiFFOBD.]
' [Original edition : —
This book-taught man, with ready mind received
More than tlie Church commanded or believed.]
THE BOROUGH.
237
He held that Satan, since the -world began,
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 prospects clear ;
To smooth rough ways the constant pioneer ;
The ever-tempting, soothing, softening power,
Ready to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour.
" INIe has the sly Seducer oft withstood,"
Said pious Jachin, — " but he gets no good ;
" I pass the house where swings the tempting sign,
" 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/
" At feasts and banquets seldom am I found,
" 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 ;
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
j)lease :
" His are the spells — -they 're idleness and ease ;
" Magic of fatal kind he throws around,
'' AVhere 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 the insidious snare ;
" And caught my sinful eyes at the endang'ring
stare ;
" Till I was forced to smite my bounding breast
" With forceful blow, and bid the bold-one rest.
" Go not with crowds when they to pleasure
run,
" But public joj' 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 ;
* .Tohn 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.
" Then heed my counsel, shut thine ears and
eyes ;
" A few '«-ill hear me — for the few are wise."
Not Satan's friends, nor Satan's self could bear,
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? — 't was 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.
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 't was 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,
With tender tremblings and seducing tears ;
She might such charms of various kind displaj'.
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 't was 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,
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 plaj'ful Muse has lent her aid,
But now departs, of graver theme afraid ;
Her may we seek in more appropriate time, —
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 sliocs :
None, when they meet, would to his parts allow
(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 dei-ision 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,
And prompted base desires and baseless schemes.
238
CllA HUE'S WORKS.
Alas ! liow often orrinj^ mortalH keep
Tin- sti-fmfjest wiitch njraiiist tlic foes wlio Bleep ;
W'liilc tlie inoi'e wakeful, liold, and artful foe
Is) siid'er'il {fiiaidless and uiiinark'd to f^o.
Once in a inontli tlie aacraniental bread
Our Clerk with wine upon flie talde spread:
The custom tliis, that as (lie vicar reads,
III' for our (iH"rinj,'s round the churcii ])i'oeeC(l8 :
Tall spacious seats tlie wealthier people hid,
And none had view of what his neif^ldxiur did:
Laiil on the box and niin<;led when they fell,
Who should the worth of each oblation tell ?
Mow as j)oor Jachin took the usual round.
And saw the alms and heard the metal sound,
lie had a thouf^ht — 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 tlius,— " My merit could they know;
" And knew my need, how freely they 'd bestow ;
" But though tliey 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, —
'• 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 ? ISo. — I say,
" If such my mind, that I couhl plan a way ;
'' Let me reflect ; — I 'vc 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 't is safe and (all consider'd) just,
" The poor receive it, — 't is no breach of trust:
" 'J'he old and widows may their trifles miss,
" There must be evil in a good like this :
•' But 1 '11 be kind — the sick I '11 visit twice,
" When now but once, and freely give advice.
" Yet let me think again :" — Again he tried.
For stronger reasons on Ins passion's side,
And qtuckly these were found, yet slowly he com-
plied.
The morning came : the common service done,
Shut every door, — the solemn rite begun. —
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 ofTer'd piece, rejoicing as he fear'd :
Just bj' the pillar, as he cautious tripp'd,
.Vnd turn'd the aisle, he then a portion slipp'd
From the full store, and to the jiockct 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 :
Trembling he took it, for a moment stopp'd,
Then down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd ;
Amazed he started, for th' aflrightcd man,
Lost and bewilder'd, thought not of the bran.
But all were Hilcnt, all on things intent
Of liigh concern, none ear to money lent;
So on he walk'd, more cautious than before,
Ami gain'd the ]>urpoHcd sum and one piece more.
" Practice makes perfect :" when the month
came round,
He drojjp'il the rash, nor listen'd for a sound ;
But yet, when last of all t)i' assembled (lock
He ate and drank, — it gave th' electric shock:
Oft was he forced his reasons to rei)cat,
Kre he could kneel in quiet at liis seat ;
But custom soothed him — ere a single year
All this was done without restraint or fear :
Cool and collecte.]
240
CRABHE'S WORKS.
Willi more of griovous, basp, onil drcndfiil tliiiigH,
'riiuii iiovcliHts relate or jux-t sinjjM; *
Hut lliry, who oii^lit to look (lie woijil arDmid,
Spy out II siii;{U" spot in l'niry-^;roimil ;
AVIi( all, ill turn, iilcal torins Ix'liohl,
And plots arc Ini 1 and histories are fold.
Time liave 1 lent I wiiuld llieir deht wore less —
'l"o llow'ry |ia;;es of sulilinie distress ;
And to the heroine's sonl-distrai-tinj^ fears
1 early gave my six]ienres and tears :
Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales.
To I>anilri/-( '(ill(i(/cs'' and Altijilr- I'dlcs,"
.\nd watcli'd the iair-ono from the first-born sigh,
AVhen Henry pass'd and gaze
I,o ! that chateau, the western tower dccny'd,
The ])easants shun it, — they are all afraid ;
For there was done a deed ! — couM walls reveal,
Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel!
.Most horrid was it: — for, beliold, the f)<»or
JIas 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
deeingering, yet longing for the joy, he went.
Repenting now, now dreading to repent:
With awkward pace, and with himself at war.
Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far ;
1 [Your last deeds differ from your first success,
The infant makes the man appear the less.]
2 I 2
244
CRAHHE'S WORKS.
Oft for lii« oiforts lie M Bolicit |irniHc,
And tlicn proccoil witli liliiinlrr.H niid ilcliiyn :
Tlif yoting more iiptly |iiis.HiniiH' culh purwuc,
But am' mill wciikni'ss stnrt at Hcciics so new,
Anil tn-nilili', wlion tlivy 'vediinf, fur alt tlii-y dnrod
111 ili>.
At longtli oxnmi)lo Aliol's drond removed,
With HUiall roncorn he sou^^lit tlie joys he loved;
Not res(in(^ liore, he claini'd Ids share of fume.
And first their votary, then their wit hecame ;
His jest was iiitter and Ills satire lioid,
Wlien ho his tales of formal brethren told;
AVhat time witli jiinns nei^^hliours he disriiss'd.
Their hoasted treasure and tlieir i)oundless trust :
" ISueh were our dreams," the jovial elder eried ;
" Awake and live," liis youtliful friends replied.
Now tlie j;ay Clerk a modest drab despised.
And elad him smartly, as his friends advised ;
So fine a coat upon his bark lie threw,
That not an alley-boy old Abel knew ;
Broad polisli'd buttons blazed that coat upon,
And just beiieatJi the watch's trinkets shone, —
A splendid watch, that pointed out the time.
To tly from business and make free with crime :
The crimson waistcoat and the silken liose
Kank'd tlie lean man amonj; the Borough beau.x :
His raven hair ho cropp'd with fierce disdain.
And lifiht elastic locks encased his brain :
More pliant pupil wlio could hope to find,
So deck'd in person and so changed in mind ?
"When Abel walked 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 -Vbcl fearing, first in secret pray'd ;
Then thus in love and scorn her notions she con-
vey'd.
'• Alas ! my brother I can I see thee pace
'• HoodwinkM to hell, and not lament thy case,
" 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 WTotchcd Cain :
" His brother's blood against the murderer cried,
" .Vgaiiist thee thine, unhappy suicide !
" Are all our pious nights and jieacoful daj-s,
'' (hir 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,
" 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
feai-s,
" Tliy 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,
" ^low pass'd the days of the successless year ;
" Still in these gloomy liourn, my brother then
" Had gloriouH vi('WB, uuHeen by |)rohperouH men ;
" And when thy heart liaH felt ifH wish denied,
" What grariou.H textH hottt thou to grief ai)plied ;
" 'I'ill thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed,
'' By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed ;
" Then I hove seen thy lively looks cxprc»a
" The spirit's comforts in the roan's distress.
" Then didst thou cry, exulting, ' Yes, 't is fit,
'• ' 'T is meet ond right, my heart ! that we submit :'
" .\nd wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh
" Against such triumphs? — Oh ! repent and pray.
" What arc thy jileasures ? — with the gay to sit,
'• .Vnd thy ])oor brain torment for awkward wit;
'• .Vll thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to
restrain,
" -Vnd 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 I 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,
" .Vnd make men scorn what they would only bate.
" What pains, my brother, dost thou take to
prove
" A taste for follies which thou canst not love I
" Why do thy stiffening limbs the steed bestride —
'• That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride ?
" -Vnd 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 !
'• When youth is fallen, 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 !
To gain relief he took a glass the more,
.\nd then went on as careless as before ;
Thenceforth, unchock'd. amusements he partook,
.\nd (save his lodger) saw no decent book ;
Him found the Merchant punctual at his task,
.\nd 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.
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.
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; 't was pain, 't was shame to
speak.
His heart was sinking, and his frame was weak.
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.
And now we saw him on the beach reclined,
Or causeless walking in the wintry 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 ;
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 thought 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.
At last a stranger, in a pedlar's shed.
Beheld him hanging — he had long been dead.
He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times,
Entitled 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,
" 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 ;
" 'T was 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 j)roved (so thought I then) with reasons
strong,
" That no man's feelings ever lead 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 ;
" ' 'T was 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
" 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 pooi', 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.
" 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 belief, and him the sinners sought ;
" Numbers there were defiled by mire and filth,
" Whom he recover'd by his goodly tilth :
" ' Come then,' 1 said, ' let me tlie 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 Cliristian yet ;
" ' Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill,
" ' Inform my judgment and direct my will ?
" ' Ah ! give thy cordial ; let mj' soul have rest,
" ' And be the outward man alone distrcss'd ;
" ' For at my state 1 tremble.' — • Tremble more,'
" Said the good man, ' and then rejoice therefore !
" ' 'T is good to trcml)le ; 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 ;
246
CRAIJUK'S WORKS,
" ' No morit, thine, no virtiio, hope, hfliff,
" ' Notliini? hnsl thou, hut inispry, Hin, and grief;
" ' 'I'lii- t)ost, tho only lillo8 to relief.'
" ' Whnt must I ih),' I saiil, ' my soul to free ?' —
" ' Do nothing;, ninii ; it will he done for thee.'
" ' Uut niUNt 1 not, my i-c\ cicml guide, be-
lieve ?■ —
" ' If thou nrt enll'd, thuu «ilt tlic fnith receive'
" ' Hut I reiX'Ht not.' — Angry he replied,
" ' If thou art call'd, though needcHt nought beside :
" ' Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree,
" ' The cnll will come, — if not, ah ! woe for thee.'
" There then I waitcil, ever on the watch,
" A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch ;
" Mis words fell softly like the (lakes of snow,
'■ Hut I could never find tny heart o'ertlow :
" lie cried aloud, till in the (lock began
" The sigh, the tear, as caught from man toman;
" 'I'licy "cpt and they rejoiced, and tliere was I
'■ Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry:
" 'I"o ine no tokens of the call would come,
" 1 felt my sentence, and received my doom;
" Hut 1 complain'd— ' Let thy repiuings cease,
" ' Oh 1 man (d'sin, for they thy guilt increase;
'• ' It bloweth where it listetli ; — die in peace.'
" — ' In peace, and perish ? ' I replied ; ' iin})art
'■ ' 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.*
" Alas, for me ! no more the times of peace
" Aje mine on earth — in death my pains may cease.
" Foes to my soul ! ye young seducers, know
" AVhat serious ills from your amusements flow ;
'* Opinions you with so much ease profess,
'" O'erwhclm the simple and their minds oppress :
'■'In .1 periodical work [the Eclectic Keview for .lune, 1810,]
the preceilini; dialogue is pronounced to he a most abomin-
al)le 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, tliat he takes not upon
him the censure of anysect 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 '\ Cordial for a .Sin-
despairing Soul,' originally written bv a teacher of religion,
and lately republished by another teacher of greater notoriety,
the reader is informed that after he had full assurance of his
salvation, the Spirit entered particularly into ttie suliject with
him ; and, among many other matters of like nature, assured
him that " l\is 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 liis militant state, but for his own
name and for his glory's sake," i(:c. And the whole drift and
tenour of the book is to the ^ame purpase, viz. the uselessness
of all religious duties, such as priyer, contrition, fasting, and
good works: he shows the evil done bv reading such books as
the ' Whole Duty of Man,' and the ' ("ractice of I'iety,' and
complains heavily of liis relation, an Irish bishop, who wanted
him to join with the household in family prayer; in fact, the
whole work inculcates ttiat sort of quietism which this
dialogue alludes to, and that w ithout anv recommendation of
attendance on the teachers of the Uospcl, but rather holding
forth encouragement to the supineness of man's nature ; by
the information tliat he in vain looks for acceptance by the
" Let Huch bo happy, nr)r with reasons strong,
" That make them wretched, prove their notions
wrong ;
" I,ct them proceed in that they deem the way,
" Fast when they will, and ot their pleasure pray :
" Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot,
" And so had Dives, but it help'd him not:
" .Vnd is it thus? -I'm fidl (d' doubts : —Adieu !
" Perhaps his rcverenre is mistaken too." *
LETTER XXII.
THE POOR OF THE BOKOLOH.
Methotight the nouls of all that I had murder'd
Cume to my tfnt, and every one did threat
Shakspearc. Richard If I.
Tlie times have been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
.^nd there an end : but now they T\te again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns.
And push us from our atooU.
Macbeth.
PETER GRIMES."
The Father of I'eter a Fisherman — Peter's early Conduct —
His (irief for the old Man — He takes an Apprentice — The
Hoy's Suffering and Fate — .\ 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 in-
cipient 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.
Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ,
His wife he cabin'd with liim and liis boy,
And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy :
employment of Iiis talents, and tli.it his liopes of glory are
rather extinguished than raised by any application to the
means of grace.
' It has been a subject of greater vexation to me than such
trille ought to be, that I could not, without destroying all ap-
pearance of arrangement, separate tlu-se melancholy nar-
ratives, and place the fallen .Clerk in Office at a greater dis-
tance from tfie Clerk of the Parish, especially as they re-
sembled each other in several particulars ; Ixitli being tempted,
seduced, and wretched. Yet are there, I conceive, consider-
able marks of distinction : their guilt is of different kind ;
nor would either have committed the offence of the other.
The Clerk of the Parish could break the commandment, but
he could not have been induced to have disowned an article
of that creed for which he liad so bravely contended, and on
which he fully relied ; and the upright mind of the Clerk in
Oflice woulil h.ive secured him from l>eing guilty of wrong
and roblx-ry, though his weak and vacillating intellect could
not preserve him from inlidelity and profaneness. Their
melancholy is nearly alike, but not its consequences. Jachin
retained his belief, and though he hated life, he could never
be induced to quit it voluntarily ; but AM was driven to
terminate his misery in a way which the uniixedness of his
religious opinions rather accelerated than retarded. I am,
therefore, not without hope, that the more olwervant of my
readers will perceive many marks of discrimination in these
characters.
' [The original of Peter Grimes was an old fisherman of
THE BOROUGH.
•247
To town came quiet Peter w ith his fish,
And had of all a civil word and wish.
He left his trade upon the Sabbath-day,
And took young Peter in his hand to pray :
But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose,
At first refused, then added his abuse :
His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied,
But being drunk, wept sorely when he died.
Yes ! then he wept, and to his mind there came
Much of his conduct, and he felt the shame, —
How he had oft the good old man reviled,
And never paid the duty of a child ;
How, when the father in his Bible read.
He in contempt and anger left the shed :
" It is the word of life," the parent cried ;
— " This is the life itself," the boy replied.
And while old Peter in amazement stood,
Gave the hot spirit to his boiling blood : —
How he, with oath and furious speech, began
To prove his freedom and assert the man ;
And when the parent check'd his impious rage,
How he had cursed the tyranny of age, —
Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow
On his bare head, and laid his parent low ;
The father groan'd — " If thou art old," said he,
" And hast a son — thou wilt remember me :
" Thy mother left me in a happy time,
" Thou kill'dst not her — Heav'n spares the double
crime."
On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief.
This he revolved, and drank for his relief.
Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd
From constant pleasure, and he thought it hard ;
Hard that he could not every wish obey,
But must awhile relinquish ale and play ;
Hard ! that he could not to his cards attend.
But must acquire the money he would spend.
With greedy ej'e he look'd on all he saw,
He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law ;
On all he mark'd, he stretch'd his ready hand ;
He fish'd by water and he filch'd by land :
Oft in the night has Peter dropp'd his oar.
Fled from his boat, and sought for prey on shore ;
Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back
Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack.
Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack ;
And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose,
The more he look'd on all men as his foes.
He built a mud-wall'd hovel, where he kept
His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept ;
But no success could please his cruel soul.
He wish'd for one to trouble and control;
He wanted some obedient boy to stand
And bear the blow of his outrageous hand ;
And hoped to find in some propitious hour
A feeling creature subject to his power.
Peter had heard there were in London then, —
Still have they being ! — workhouse-clearing men,
Aldboroiigh, wliile Mr Crabbe was practising there as a sur-
fjeon. He had a succession of apprentices from London, and
a certain sum with each. As the boys all disappeared under
"Who, undisturb'd by feelings just or kind,
"Would parish-boys to needy tradesmen bind :
They in their want a tritiing sum would take.
And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make.
Such Peter sought, and when a lad was found,
The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound.
Some few in town observed in Peter's trap
A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap ;
But none inquired how Peter used the rope.
Or what the bruise that made the stripling stoop ;
None could the ridges on his back behold,
None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold ;
None put the question, — Peter, dost thou give
" The boy his food ? — What, man ! the lad must
live :
" Consider, Peter, let the child have bread,
" He '11 serve thee better if he 's stroked and fed."
None reason'd thus — and some, on hearing cries,
Said calmly, " Grimes is at his exercise."
Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch' d, threaten'd, and
abused — •
His efforts punish'd and his food refused, —
Awake tormented,— soon aroused from sleep, —
Struck if he wept, and yet compell'd to weep.
The trembling boy dropp'd down and strove to pray,
Received a blow, and trembling turn'd away.
Or sobb'd and hid his piteous face ; — while he.
The savage master, grinn'd in horrid glee :
He 'd now the power he ever loved to show,
A feeling being subject to his blow.
Thus lived the lad, in hunger, peril, pain.
His tears despised, his supplications vain :
Compell'd by fear to lie, by need to steal.
His bed uneasy and unbless'd his meal.
For three sad years the boy his tortures bore.
And then his pains and trials were no more.
" How died he, Peter ?" when the people said.
He growl'd — •" I found him lifeless in his bed ;"
Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, " Poor Sam
is dead."
Yet murmurs were there, and some questions
ask'd —
How he was fed, how punish'd, and how task'd ?
Much they suspected, but they little proved.
And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmoved.
Another boy with equal ease was found.
The money granted, and the victim bound ;
And what his fate ?^One night it chanced he fell
From the boat's mast and perish'd in her well.
Where fish were living kept, and where the boy
(So reason'd men) could not himself destroy : —
" Yes ! so it was," said Peter, " in his play,
" (For he was idle both by night and day,)
" He climb'd the main-mast and then fell be-
low ;" —
Then show'd his corpse, and pointed to the blow.
" What said the jury ?" — tliey were long in doubt,
But sturdy Peter faced the matter out :
circumstances of strong' suspicion, the man was warned by
some uf tlie principal inhabitants tliat if anotlier followed in
like manner, he should certainly be charged w ith murder.]
So tlioy dismissed liim, Hiiyiiij; iit llic time,
" Kei'p fiiMt your liiilchway when ymi 'vf l)oys wlio
climb."
This liit tlio coiisriciirp, niid he roloiir'il more
'rhnii t'nr the closest iiiicstioiis ]iiit hcCorc.
'I'Ims all his IVars the vonlirt set aside,
And at the Bluve-shoj) I'etor still u{i[>liod.
Then cume a hoy, of manners soft and mild, —
Our seamen's wives with grief heheld the child;
All thoiif^ht (the poor themselves) that he was one
Of (;entle hhxxl, some nohle sinner's son,
AVho hud, helike, deceived some hiimhle maid,
^Vh()m he had first seduced and then lietray'd : —
However this, he seem'd a {gracious lad,
In grief submissive, and witli patience sad.
Passive he lahour'd, till liis slender frame
Bent with his loads, and he ut length was lame :
Strange that a frame so weak could hear so long
Tlic grossest insult ami the foulest wrong ;
But there were causes — -in the town they gave
Fire, footions, on the 1 .inks of a river, wherein the cur-
sense ; but It is verv common, and, I believe, used where- rent flows in a straight uninterrupted course, as Woolwich
soever a navigable river can be found in this country. [" .-V Reach," &c. — Biknev.]
THE BOROUGH.
249
Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot,
And gulls that caught them when his arts could
not.
Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame,
And strange disease — he couldn't say the name;'
Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright.
Waked by his view of hon-ors in the night, —
Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,
Horrors that demons might be proud to raise :
And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,
To think he lived from all mankind apart ;
Yet, if a man approach'd, in terrors he would start.
A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town,
And summer lodgers were again come down ;
These, idly curious, with their glasses spied
The ships in bay as anchor'd for the tide, —
The river's craft, — the bustle of the quay, —
And sea-port views, which landmen love to see.
One, up the river, had a man and boat
Seen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat ;
Fisher he seem'd, yet used no net nor hook ;
Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took,
But on the gliding vvaves still fix'd his lazy look :
At certain stations he would view the stream.
As if he stood bewilder'd in a dream.
Or that some power had chain'd him for a time.
To feel a curse or meditate on crime.
This known, some curious, some in pity went.
And others question'd — " Wretch, dost thou re-
pent ? "
He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd
His boat : new terror fiU'd his restless mind ;
Furious he grew, and up the country ran,
And there they seized him — a distemper'd man : —
Him we received, and to a parish-bed,
Follow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led.
Here when they saw him, whom they used to
shun,
A lost, lone man, so harass"d and undone ;
Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel.
Perceived compassion on their anger steal ;
His crimes they could not from their memories
blot.
But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot.
A Priest too came, to whom his words are told ;
And all the signs they shudder'd to behold.
" Look ! look ! " they cried ; " his limbs with
horror shake,
" And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they
make !
" How glare his angry eyes, and yet he 's not
awake :
" See ! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,
" And how he clenches that broad bony hand."
The Priest attending, found he spoke at times
As one alluding to his fears and crimes ;
'■ It was the fall," he mutter'd, " I can show
" The manner how, — I never struck a blow : " —
And then aloud, — " Unhand me, free my chain ;
" On oath he fell — it struck him to the brain : —
" Why ask my father ? — that old man will swear
" Against my life ; besides, he wasn't there :
" What, all agreed ? — Am I to die to-day ? —
" My Lord, in mercy give me time to pray,"
Then as they watch'd him, calmer he became,
And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame.
But murmuring spake — Mhile they could see and
hear
The start of terror and the groan of fear ;
See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise,
And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes :
Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force
Seem'd with some fancied being to discourse :
He knew not us, or with accustom'd art
He hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart ;
'T was part confession and the rest defence,
A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense.
" I'll tell you all," he said, " the very day
'' When the old man first placed them in my way :
" My father's spirit — he who always tried
" To give me trouble, when he lived and died —
" When he was gone he could not be content
" To see my days in painful labour spent,
'• But would appoint his meetings, and he made
" jMe watch at these, and so neglect my trade.
" "T was one hot noon, all silent, still, serene,
" Xo living being had I lately seen ;
'• I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net,
" But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get, —
'• A father's pleasure, when his toil was done,
" To plague and torture thus an only son !
" And so I sat and lookd upon the stream,
" How it ran on, and felt as in a dream :
" But dream it was not : No ! — I fix'd my eyes
" On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise :
" I saw my father on the water stand,
" And hold a thin pale boy in either hand ;
" And there they glided ghastly on the top
" Of the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop :
" I would have struck them, but they knew th'
intent,
" And smiled upon the oar, and down they went.
" Now, from that day, whenever I began
" To dip my net, there stood the hard old man — •
" He and those boys : I humbled me and pray'd
" They would be gone ; they heeded not, but
stay'd :
" Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by,
" But, gazing on the spirits, there was 1 :
" They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to
die :
" And every day, as sure as day arose,
" Would these three spirits meet me ere the close;
" To hear and mark them daily was my doom,
" And ' Come,' they said, with weak, sad voices,
' come.'
'• To row away, with all my strength I tried,
'' But there were they, hard by me in the tide,
" The three unbodied forms — and ' Come,' still
' come,' they cried.
" Fathers should pity — but this old man shook
" His hoary locks, and froze me by a look :
2k
i
260
CRAHBE'S WORKS.
'riiricc, wlicii I Hiruck tln'in, IIiiohkIi tin- water
CUIIU'
A holtiiw (^ronn, tlint wcakcnM nil my framp :
' Father!' Haid I, ' liave mercy:' — lie replied,
I know not wlmt — the iin^ry spirit lied, —
' Didst thou not draw thy knife?' said he: —
"1" wns true,
But I had pity and my arm withdrew:
lie cried tor mercy, which 1 kindly i^avc,
Hut he has no compassion in his grave.
" There were three places, where they ever
rose, —
' The whole lonf? river has not sucli as those —
• Places accursed, where, if a man remain.
' He'll see the things whicli strike him to tlic
hrain ;
• And there they made me on my paddle lean,
■ And look at them for hours; — accursed scene !
■ When they would glide to that smooth eddy-
space.
Then hid n»c leap and join them in the place ;
' And at my groans each little villain sprite
Enjoy'd my pains and vaiiish'd in delight.
" In one fierce summer-day, when my poor hrain
Was hurning hot, and cruel was my pain,
Then came this father-foe, and there he stood
With his two boys again upon the flood :
There was more mischief in their eyes, more
glee
In their pale faces, when they glared at me : '
Still they did force me on the oar to rest.
And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd,
He with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood,
And there came flame about him mix'd with
blood ;
He bade me stoop and look upon the place,
Then tlung the hot-red liquor in my face ;
Burning it blazed, and then I roar'd for pain,
1 thought the demons would have turn'd my
brain.
'• Still there they stood, andlforced me to behold
A i)lace of horrors — they can not be told—
^ J-' Conlinuo temphim, et violati numinis aras," Sec.
Juv. Sat. xiii.
" sudden before liis eyes,
The violated f:ine and altar rise;
And (wliat disturlis liim most) that injured shade.
In more than mortal majesty arrav'd.
Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treacherous rest.
And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast."
GiFFOHn.]
* The character of Grimes, his obduracy and apparent want
of feeliny, his s^Ioomy kind of misantliropy, tlie proijress of
his madness, and tlie horrors of liis ima^'inatio'i, I must leave
to tlie judgment and observation of my readers. The mind
here exhibited is one untouched by pity, unslung liy remorse,
and uncorrected by shame ; yet is tliis hardihood of temper
and spirit broken by want, disease, solitude, and disappoint-
ment : and lie liccomes the victim of a distempered and hor-
ror-stricken fancy. It is evident, tlierefore, that no feeble
vision, no half-visible ghost, not the momentary glance of an
unlxidied being, nor the halfaudible voice of an invisilile
one, would be created by tlie continual workings of distress
on a mind so depraved and llinty. The rutlian of Mr. Scott*
has a mind of tliis nature ; he has no shame or remorse, but
the corrosion of hopeless want, the wasting of un!.b.-»ting
disease, and the gloom of unvaried solitude, will have their
elloct on every nature ; and the harder tliat nature is, and the
" Where the flood open'd, there I heard the shriek
" Of tortured guilt — no earthly tongue can Hpeak :
" ' All days alike I for ever!' eak of old heroic deeds, —
'■ What fields they comincrM, and what foes they
slew,
'' Anil sent to join the melancholy crew.''
" When a new spirit in that world wos fonnil,
" A thousand shadowy forms came flitting round :
" Those who had known him, fond inquiries
made, —
" ' Of all we left, inform us, gentle shade,
" ' Now as we lead thee in our realms to dwell,
" ' Our twilight groves, and meads of asphodel.' *
" What paints the poet, is our station here,
" Where we like ghosts and flitting shades appear:
" This is the hell he sings, and here we meet,
" And former deeds to new-made friends repeat ;
" Heroic deeds, which here obtain us fame,
" And are in fact the causes why we came :
" Yes ! this dim region is old Homer's hell,
" Abate but groves and meads of asphodel.
" Here, when a stranger from your world we spy,
" We gather round him and for news apply ;
" He hears unheeding, nor can speech endure,
" But shivering gazes on the vast obscure :
" We smiling pity, and by kindness show
" We felt his feelings and his terrors know ;
" Then speak of comfort — time will give him sight,
" AVhere now 't is dark ; where now 't is woe — -de-
light.
'■ ' Have hope,' we say, ' and soon the place to
thee
" ' Shall not a prison but a castle be :
•' ' When to the wretch whom care and guilt con-
found,
" ' The world 's a prison, with a wider bound ;
" ' Go where he may, he feels himself confined,
" ' And wears the fetters of an abject mind.'
" But now adieu ! those giant-keys appear,
'• Thou art not worthy to be inmate here :
" Go to thy world, and to the young declare
" What we. our spirits anil employments, are ;
" Tell them how we the ills of life endure,
" Our empire stable, and our state secure ;
" Our dress, our diet, for their use describe,
" And bid them haste to join the gcn'rous tribe :
" Go to thy world, and leave us here to dwell,
" Who to its joys and comforts bid farewell."
Farewell to these ; but other scenes I view,
.Vnd other griefs, and guilt of deeper hue ;
Where Conscience gives to outward ills her pain,
Gloom to the niglit, and pressure to the chain :
Here separate cells awhile in misery keep
Two doom'd to suffer: there they strive for sleep ;
By day indulged, in larger space they range.
Their bondage certain, but their bounds have
change.
* [•' By tlrnse happy souU who dwell
In yellow meads of asptjodel." — Pope.]
THE BOROUGH.
253
One was a female, who had grievous ill
"Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still :
"With death before her, and her fate in view,
Unsated vengeance in her bosom grew :
Sullen she was and threat'ning ; in her eye
Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die :
But first a being in the world must leave —
'T was once reproach ; 't was now a short reprieve.
She was a pauper bound, who early gave
Her mind to vice and doubly was a slave :
Upbraided, beaten, held by rough control,
Kevenge sustain'd, inspired, and fiU'd her soul :
She fired a full-stored barn, confess'd the fact,
And laugh'd at law and justified the act :
Our gentle Yicar tried his powers in vain.
She answer'd not, or answer'd with disdain ;
Th' approaching fate she heard without a sigh,
And neither cared to live nor fear'd to die.
Not so he felt, who with her was to pay
The forfeit, life — with dread he view'd the day.
And that short space which yet for him remain'd.
Till with his limbs his faculties were chain'd :
He paced his narrow bounds some ease to find.
But found it not, — no comfort reach'd his mind :
Each sense was palsied ; when he tasted food,
He sigh'd and said, " Enough — 't is very good."
Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be
As once it was — he seeing could not see.
Nor hearing, hear aright ; ' — when first I came
Within his view, 1 fancied there was shame,
I judged resentment ; I mistook the air,—
These fainter passions live not with despair ;
Or but exist and die : — Hope^ fear, and love,
Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move.
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power.
" But will not Mercy?" — No ! she cannot plead
For such an outrage ; — 't was a cruel deed :
He stopp'd a timid traveller; — to his breast.
With oaths and curses, was the danger press'd : —
No ! he must suffer : pity we may find
For one man's pangs, but must not wrong mankind.
Still I behold him, everj' thought employ'd
On one dire view I — all others are destroy'd;
This makes his features ghastly, gives the tone
Of his few words resemblance to a groan ;
He takes his tasteless food, and when 't is done.
Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one ;
For expectation is on time intent,
Whether he brings us joy or punishment.
Yes '. e'en in sleep the impressions all remain.
He hears the sentence and he feels the chain ;
He sees the judge and jury, when he shakes.
And loudly cries, " Not guilty," and awakes :
* [The tale of the Condemned Felon arose from the follow-
ing circumstances : — While Mr. Crabbe was struggling with
povertv in London, he had some reason to fear that the
brother of a very intimate friend, a wild and desperate cha-
racter, was in Newgate under condemnation for a robbery.
Having obtained permission to see the man, who bore the
same name, a glance at once relieved his mind from the
dread of beholding his friend's brother ; but still he never
Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep,
Till worn-out nature is compell'd to sleep.
Now comes the dream again : it shows each
scene.
With each small circumstance that comes be-
tween —
The call to suffering and the very deed —
There crowds go with him, follow, and precede ;
Some heartless shout, some pitj^, all condemn,
While he in fancied envy looks at them :
He seems the place for that sad act to see.
And dreams the very thirst which then will be :
A priest attends — it seems, the one he knew
lu his best days, beneath whose care he grew.
At this his terrors take a sudden flight.
He sees his native village with delight ;
The house, the chamber, where he once array'd
His youthful person ; where he knelt and pray'd :
Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home,
The days of joy; the joys themselves are come; —
The hours of innocence ; — the timid look
Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took.
And told his hope ; her trembling joy appears.
Her forced reserve and his retreating fears.
All now is present ; — 't is a moment's gleam
Of former sunshine — stay, delightful dream !
Let him within his pleasant garden walk.
Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.
Yes ! all are with him now, and all the while
Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile :
Then come his sister and his village-friend.
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield ; — No ! never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind :
He goes through shrubby walks these friends
among.
Love in their looks and honour on the tongue :
Nay, there 's a charm beyond what nature shows.
The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows ; —
Pierced by no crime, and urged bj' no desire
For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane, — then linger in the
mead, —
Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, —
And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum ;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they
pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse arc
spread,
And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed ;
Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their
way
O'er its rough bridge — and there behold the bay I —
forgot the being he then saw before him. Ho was pacing the
cell, or small yard, with a quick and liurried step : liis eye
was as glazed and abstracted as that of a corpse : —
" Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be
As once it was — he se -ing could not see.
Nor hearing, hear aright ....
Each sense was palsied ! "
See aiitr, p. 55.]
254
CRABBE'S WORKS.
The occnii Kitiilinpc to the fervid nun —
'I'lie waves that faintly full ami Hlo>vly run —
TIk* hIiIjih at ilistatire uiid tliVith all those brifjht red pebbles, that the sun
Tluou^h the small waves so softly shines upon;
And those live lucid jellies which the eye
Oelif^hts to trace as they swim {^littering by:
I'earl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour-fire, —
Tokens of bliss ! " — •" Oh ! horrible ! a wave
" Koars as it rises — save me, Jvlward ! save I''
She cries : — Alas ! the watchman on his way
Calls, nnd lets in — truth, terror, and the day !
ing
LETTER XXIV.
Tu quoque lie metuas, quamvis schola verbere multo
Increpet et truculenta senex geret ora magistcr ;
Df^i'iieres animos timor arguit ; at tibi consta
Intrepidus, nee te clamor plagieque sonantes,
Nee matiitinis agitet formiJo sub lioris,
Quuil sceptnim vibrat ferulap, quod multa supellex
Virgea, quoii molis scuticam pnetexit aluta.
Quod fervent trcpido subsellia vestra tumultu,
Porapa loci, et vani fugiatur seena timoris.
AusoNius in Priilrcptico ad Xrpvtem.
SCHOOLS.'
Schools of every Kind to be found in the Borough— Tlie
School for Infants — The School Preparatory : the Sagacity
of the Mistress in foreseeing Character — Uay-Schools of
the lower Kind — A Master with Talents adapted to such
PuplU : one of niipirrlor Qn«Ii(Ic»tion»— Hoardin((-.School« ;
ihiit for yoiinif Ladlfn ; one (("'"K ""' •" ^'"' C»uv' In every villavre mark'd with little spire,
Kmbower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame;
There dwells in lowly shed and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name ;
Who boasts unruly brats with lurch to tame.
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
.Awed by the power of this relentless dame ;
.Vnd oft-times, on vagaries idly bent.
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent."
Shexstone.
THE BOROUGH.
255
Another matron, of superior kind,
For higher schools prepares the rising mind ;
Preparatory she her Learning calls.
The step first made to colleges and halls.
She early sees to what the mind will grow,
Nor abler judge of infant-powers I know : ^
She sees what soon the lively will impede.
And how the steadier will in turn succeed ;
Observes the dawn of wisdom, fancy, taste.
And knows what parts wiU wear, and what will waste :
She marks the mind too lively, and at once
Sees the gay coxcomb and the rattling dunce.
Long has she lived, and much she loves to trace
Her former pupils, now a lordly race ;
Whom when she sees rich robes and furs bedeck.
She marks the pride which once she strove to check.
A Burgess comes, and she remembers well
How hard her task to make his worship spell ;
Cold, selfish, dull, inanimate, unkind,
'T was but by anger he display'd a mind :
Now civil, smiling, complaisant, and gay.
The world has worn th' unsocial crust away :
That sullen spii'it now a softness wears.
And, save by fits, e'en dulness disappears :
But still the matron can the man behold,
Dull, selfish, hard, inanimate, and cold.
A ]Merchant passes, — " Probity and truth,
" Prudence and patience, mark'd thee from thy
youth."
Thus she observes, but oft retains her fears
For him, who now with name unstain'd appears ;
Nor hope relinquishes, for one who yet
Is lost in error and involved in debt ;
For latent evil in that heart she found.
More open here, but here the core was sound.
Various our Day-Schools : here behold we one
Empty and still : — the morning duties done,
Soil'd, tatter'd, worn, and thrown in various heaps.
Appear their books, and there confusion sleeps ;
The workmen all are from the Babel fled,
And lost their tools, till the return they dread :
Meantime the master, with his wig awry,
Prepares his books for business by-and-by :
Now all th' insignia of the monarch laid
Beside him rest, and none stand by afraid ;
He, while his troop light-hearted leap and play.
Is all intent on duties of the day ;
No more the tyrant stern or judge severe,
He feels the father's and the husband's fear.
Ah ! little think the timid trembling crowd.
That one so wise, so powerful, and so proud,
Should feel himself, and dread the humble ills
Of rent-day charges and of coalman's bills ;
That while they mercy from their judge implore,
He fears himself — a knocking at the door ;
And feels the burthen as his neighbour states
His humble portion to the parish-rates.
They sit th' allotted hours, then eager run,
Rushing to pleasure when the duty 's done ;
" Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear I
E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
His hour of leisure is of different kind,
Then cares domestic rush upon his mind.
And half the ease and comfort he enjoys.
Is when siurrounded by slates, books, and boys.
Poor Reuben Dixon has the noisiest school
Of ragged lads, who ever bow'd to rule ;
Low in his price — the men who heave our coals.
And clean our causeways, send him boys in shoals ;
To see poor Reuben, with his fty beside, —
Their half-check'd rudeness and his half-scorn'd
pride, —
Their room, the sty in which th' assembly meet,
In the close lane behind the Northgate-street ;
T' observe his vain attempts to keep the peace,
Till tolls the bell, and strife and troubles cease, —
Calls for our praise ; his labour praise deserves,
But not our pity ; Reuben has no nerves :
'Mid noise and dirt, and stench, and play, and
prate.
He calmly cuts the pen or views the slate.
But Leonard ! — yes, for Leonard's fate I grieve,
Who loathes the station which he dares not leave :
He cannot dig, he will not beg his bread,
All his dependence rests upon his head ;
And deeply skill'd in sciences and arts,
On vulgar lads he wastes superior parts.
Alas ! what grief that feeling mind sustains.
In guiding hands and stirring torpid brains ;
He whose proud mind from pole to pole will move.
And view the wonders of the worlds above ;
Who thinks and reasons strongly : — hard his fate,
Confined for ever to the pen and slate :
True, he submits, and when the long dull day
Has slowly pass'd, in weary tasks, away.
To other worlds with cheerful view he looks.
And parts the night between repose and books.
Amid his labours, he has sometimes tried
To turn a little from his cares aside ;
Pope, Milton, Dryden, with delight has seized.
His soul engaged and of his trouble eased :
When, with a heavy ej'e and ill-done sum.
No part conceived, a stupid boy will come ;
Then Leonard first subdues the rising frown,
And bids the blockhead lay his blunders down ;
O'er which disgusted he will turn his eye,
To his sad duty his sound mind apply.
And, vex'd in spirit, throw his pleasures by.
Turn we to Schools which more than these
afford — •
The sound instruction and the wholesome board ;
And first our School for Ladies : — pity calls
For one soft sigh, when we behold these walls,
Placed near the town, and where, from window
high.
The fair, confined, may our free crowds espy.
With many a stranger gazing up and do'N'sni,
And all the envied tumult of the town ;
Anil here a chancellor in embryo,
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so."
Shenstone.
256
CRABBE'S WORKS.
May, in the smilinK Bumincr-ove, when they
Aro Hi'iif to Hlccp the |ilciisiiiit lioiirs awiiy,
IJcliold tlic ])o<>r (wlioiii tlicy •••mccivc llic hloHsM)
Ijiipliiy'il for hours, nixi j;i-i('vi'il tlicy cnntiot rt-st.
lIiTc tlic toiiil j;iil, ulinsc ihivs arc sad arnl tew
Since dear iiianinui |ii't thi' hist adieu,
I,ook.s til tlie luad, anil luiidly lliiidity, nay command, slic turns,
But melts in softness, or with anger burius ;
Nauseates lier food, and wonders who can slocp
On such mean lieds, where she can oidy weep:
She scorns condolence —hut to all she hates
Slowly at length her mind accommodates ;
Then looks on bondage with the same concern
As others felt, and finds that she must learn
As others learn'd — the common lot to share,
To searcli for comfort and submit to care.
There are, 't is said, who on those scats attend.
And to these ductile minds destruction vend ;
'Wretches — (to virtue, peace, and nature, foes) —
To these soft minds, their wicked trash expose ;
Seize on the soul, ere passions take the sway,
.\nd lead the heart, ere yet it feels, astray :
Smugglers obscene ! — and can there be who take
Infernal pains the sleeping vice to wake ?
Can there be tliosc by whom the thought defiled
Enters the spotless bosom of a child ?
By whom the ill is to tlie heart convey'd,
^\'ho lend the foe, not yet in arms, their aid.
And sap the city-walls before the siege bo laid ?
Oh ! rather skulking in the by-ways steal,
And rob the poorest traveller of his meal ;
Burst through the humblest trader's bolted door;
Bear from the widow's hut her winter-store ;
NVitli stolen steed, on highways take your stand,
Your lips with curses arm'd, with death your
hand ;—
Take all but life — the virtuous more would say,
Take life itself, dear as it is, away.
Bather than guilty thus the guileless soul betray.
Years pass away — let us suppose them past,
Th' accomplish'd nj-mph for freedom looks at last ;
All hardships over, which a scliool contains.
The spirit's bondage and the body's pains ;
M'here teachers make the heartless, trembling set
Of pupils suft'er for their own regret ;
Where winter's cold, attack'd by one poor fire,
C'liills the fair child, commanded to retire;
Slie felt it keenly in the morning-air,
Keenly she felt it at the evening prayer.
!More pleasant summer ; but then walks were made.
Not a sweet ramble, but a slow parade ;
They moved by pairs beside the hawthorn-hedge,
Only to set their feelings on an edge ;
* " He it a weakness, it deserves some praise,—
We love tlie play-plare of oiir early clays ;
The scene is toucliin;j, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that siitht— and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill ;
The very name we caived sulisisting still ;
Anil now at eve, when all their spirits riso,
Are Mcut to rest, and all their plcainre diew ;
Where yet they all the town alert can Hec,
.Vnd distant plough-boyH ]>ucing o'er the lea.
These and the taskn succcsnivc mosters brought —
'I'he French they conn'd, tlie curiouH work» they
wrought ;
The hours they made their tapc-r fingers strike
Note after note, all dull to them alike ;
Their drawings, dancings on a|)poiiiteil days,
I'laying with globes, and getting i)arts of plays:
The tender friendshijis made 'twixt heart and
heart.
When the dear friends had nothing to impart : —
All ! all ! are over ; — now th' accomplish'd maid
Longs for the world, of nothing there afraid ;
Dreams of delight invade her gentle breast,
And fancied lovers rob the heart of rest ;
At the jiatcrnal door a carriage stands,
Love knits their hearts and Hymen joins their
hands.
Ah ! — world unknown I how charming is thy
view.
Thy pleasures many, and each pleasure new :
All I — world experienced ! what of thee is told ?
How few thy pleasures, and those few how old !
Within a silent street, and far apart
From noise of business, from a quay or mart,
Stands an old spacious building, and the din
You hear without, explains the work within ;
Unlike the whispering of the nymphs, this noise
Loudly ])roclaims a " Boarding-School for Boys ;"
The master heeds it not, for thirty years
Have rendcr'd all familiar to his ears;
He sits in comfort, 'mid tlie various sound
Of mingled tones for ever flowing round :
Day after day he to his task attends, —
I'nvaried toil, and care that never ends:
Boys in their works proceed ; while his employ
.Vdmits no change, or changes but the boy ;
Y'et time has made it easy ; — he beside
Has power supreme, and power is sweet to pride :
But grant him pleasure ; what can teachers feel,
Dependent helpers always at the wheel ?
Their power despised, their compensation small,
Their labour dull, their life laborious all ;
Set after set the lower lads to make
Fit for the class which their superiors take ;
The road of learning for a time to track
In roughest state, and then again go back :
.lust the same way, on other troops to wait, —
Attendants fix'd at learning's lower gate.
The Day-tasks now are over — to their ground
Hush tlie gay crowd with joy-compelling sound ;
Cilad to elude the burthens of the tlay.
The eager parties hurry to their play :■*
Tlie bench on which we sat while deep employ'd.
Though mangled, hac-k'd, and hew"d, yet not destroy'd.
The little ones unbutton'd, glowing hot.
Playing our games, and on the very spot ;
As happy as we once to kneel and draw
Thj clialkv ring and knuckle dow n at taw.
THE BOROUGH.
Then in these hours of liberty we find
The native bias of the opening mind ;
They yet possess not skill the mask to place,
And hide the passions glowing in the face ;
Yet some are found — -the close, the sly, the mean.
Who know akeady all must not be seen.
Lo ! one who walks apart, although so young,
He lays restraint upon his eye and tongue,*
Nor will he into scrapes or dangers get.
And half the school are in the stripling's debt :
Suspicious, timid, he is much afraid
Of trick and plot : — he dreads to be betray'd :
He shuns all friendship, for he finds they lend,
When lads begin to call each other friend :
Yet self with self has war ; the tempting sight
Of fruit on sale provokes his appetite ; —
See ! how he walks the sweet seduction by ;
That he is tempted, costs him first a sigh, —
'T is dangerous to indulge, 't is grievous to deny !
This he will choose, and whispering asks the price.
The purchase dreadful, but the portion nice :
Within the pocket he explores the pence ;
Without, temptation strikes on either sense,
The sight, the smell ; — ^but then he thinks again
Of money gone ! while fruit nor taste remain.
Meantime there comes an eager thoughtless boy,
Who gives the price and only feels the joy :
Example dire ! the youthful miser stops
And slowly back the treasured coinage drops :
Heroic deed ! for should he now comply,
Can he to-morrow's appetite deny ?
Beside, these spendthrifts who so freely live,
Cloy'd with their purchase, will a portion give : —
Here ends debate, he buttons up his store.
And feels the comfort that it burns no more.
Unlike to him the Tyrant-boy,^ whose sway
All hearts acknowledge ; him the crowds obey :
At his command they break through every rule ;
Whoever governs, he conti'ols the school :
'T is not the distant emperor moves their fear,
But the proud viceroy who is ever near.
Verres could do that mischief in a day.
For which not Rome, in all its power, could pay ;
And these boy-tyrants will their slaves distress, ^
And do the wrongs no master can redress :
The mind they load with fear ; it feels disdain
For its own baseness ; yet it tries in vain
To shake th' admitted power : — the coward comes
again :
This fond attacliment to the well-known place,
When tirst we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it e'en in age and at our latest day."
COWPER.
5 [In this description Mr. Crabbe condescended to borrow,
though probably with some alterations and improvements,
the ideas and the language of his second son ; whose ' School
Eclogues,' written in boyhood, much struck and gratified his
father. Mr. John Crabbe has since written many imitations
of his father's poetry, some of which, it is hoped, may yet be
published.]
>' [Phis schoolboy despot was drawn, Mr. Crabbe said,
from a tyrant who was his own terror in the school at
Stow market.]
'T is more than present pain these tyrants give.
Long as we 've life some strong impressions live ;
And these young ruffians in the soul will sow
Seeds of all vices that on weakness grow.
Hark ! at his word the trembling younglings
flee.
Where he is walking none must walk but he ;
See ! from the winter fire the weak retreat.
His the warm corner, his the favourite seat.
Save when he yields it to some slave to keep
Awhile, then back, at his return, to creep :
At his command his poor dependants fly,
And humbly bribe him as a proud ally ;
Flatter'd by all, the notice he bestows,
Is gross abuse, and bantering and blows ;
Yet he 's a dunce, and, spite of all his fame
Without the desk, within he feels his shame :
For there the weaker boy, who felt his scorn,
For him corrects the blunders of the morn ;
And he is taught, unpleasant truth ! to find
The trembling body has the prouder mind.
Hark ! to that shout, that burst of empty noise,
From a rude set of bluff, obstreperous boj'S ;
They who, like colts let loose, with vigour bound,
And thoughtless spirit, o'er the beaten ground ;
Fearless they leap, and every youngster feels
His Alma active in his hands and heels.
These are the sons of farmers, and they come
With partial fondness for the joys of home ;
Their minds are coursing in their fathers' fields.
And e'en the dream a lively pleasure yields ;
They, much enduring, sit th' allotted hours.
And o'er a grammar waste their sprightly powers ;
They dance; but them can measured steps delight.
Whom horse and hounds to daring deeds excite ?
Nor could they bear to wait from meal to meal,
Did they not slily to the chamber steal.
And there the produce of the basket seize,
The mother's gift ! still studious of their ease.
Poor Alma, thus oppress' d forbears to rise.
But rests or revels in the arms and thighs. 7
" But is it sure that study will repay
" The more attentive and forbearing ?"— Nay !
The farm, the ship, the humble shop, have each
Gains which severest studies seldom reach.
At College place a youth, who means to raise
His state by merit and his name by praise ;
'' Should any of my readers find themselves at a loss in this
place, I beg leave to refer tliem to a poem of Prior, called
' Alma, or the Progress of the Mind :' —
" My simple system shall suppose
Tliat Alma enters at the toes ;
That then slie mounts, by jusc degrees.
Up to the ankles, legs, and knees ;
Next, as the sap of life does rise.
She lends her vigour to the thighs ;
And, all these under-regions pa.st.
She nestles somewhere near the waist ;
Gives pain or pleasure, grief or laughter,
As we shall sliow at length hereafter.
Mature, if not improved by time,
Up to the heart she loves to climb ;
From thence, compell'd by craft and age.
She makes the head lier latest stage."
258
CUABBE'S WORKS.
Still iiiucli lio liiiziirilH ; tlicrc is Hcrions Mlrife
111 till! coiitcnlioiis of a sdioliir's life :
Not nil tiu< niiiKl's atti-iitioii, care, iliHtrcss,
Nor (liligcncc itself, Piisuro success:
His jeitldiis liciirt ii riviil's powers miiy dreml,
'I'ill its stroll)^ feeliii;;s liiive coiil'iisecl liis lieiul.
And, after iliiys and inontiis, nay, yeiiis of pain,
lie finds just lost the object he would f^ain.
15ut (jrant liini this and nil sucli life can give,
For other prospects he begins to live;
IJegins to feel that man was form'd to look
And long for other ohjecls than a hook :
In his niinil's eye his house ami glebe he sees.
And farms and talks with fanners at his case;
And time is lost, till fortune sends him forth
To a rude world unconscious of his worth :
There in some petty ])arish to reside,
Tlie college-boast, then turn'd the village guide:
And tliough awhile his flock and dairy please,
He soon reverts to former joys and case.
Glad when a friend sluill come to break liis rest.
And speak of all the pleasures they posscss'd.
Of masters, fellows, tutors, all with whom
They shared those pleasures, never more to come ;8
Till both conceive the times by bliss endear'd,
AVhich once so dismal and so dull appear'd.
But fix our Scholar, and suppose liim crown'd
With all the glory gain'd on classic ground ;
Suppose the world without a sigh resign'd,
And to his college all his care confined ;
Give him all honours that such states allow.
The freshman's terror and the tradesman's bow ;
liCt liis apartments with his taste agree.
And all liis views be those he loves to see ;
Let him each day beliold the savoury treat,
For which he pays not, but is paid to eat ;
These joys and glories soon delight no more.
Although, withlield, tlic mind is vex'd and sore;
The honour too is to tlie place confined.
Abroad they know not cacli superior mind :
Strangers no irraiuilcrs in these figures see.
Nor give they worship to a high degree ;
Unlike the prophet's is the scholar's case,
His honour all is in his dwelling-place :
And there such honours are familiar things;
What is a monarch in a crowd of kings?
Like other sovereigns lie 's by forms address'd.
By statutes govcrn'd and with rules oppress'd.
AVhen all these forms and duties die away,
And the day passes like the former day.
Then of exterior things at once bereft,
He's to himself and one attendant left;
Nay, ,Iohn too goes;* nor aught of service more
Remains for him ; he gladly quits the door,
' [ " if chance some well-rememberM face,
Slime old companion of my early race.
Advanced to claim his friend, with honest joy,
My ryes, my heart, proilaimd me still a boy ;
The glitterina scene, the Ihitterini; groups around,
AVere quite forgotti-n when ray friend was found :
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear.
Could hardly charm me when that friend was near ;
My thoughts bewilder"d in the fond surprise.
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ;
And, as he whistleH to the college-gnte,
He kindly pities his ihiot niuHter'u fate.
Books cannot always jdeaso, liowf-ver good ;
Minds are not ever craving for their food ;
Hut sleep will soon the weary soul prepare
For cares to-morrow that were this day's cnre :
For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past,
And formal feasts that will for ever last.
" But then frcjm Stmly will no comforts rise ? " —
Yes ! such as studious minds alone can prize ;
Comforts, yea I— joys ineffable they find,
Who seek the prouder pleasures of the mind :
The soul, collected in those hapjiy hours.
Then makes her efforts, then enjoys her-powers ;
And in those seasons feels herself repaid.
For labours past and honours long delay'd.
No ! 't is not worldly gain, although by chance
The sons of learning may to wealth advance ;
Nor station high, though in some favouring hour
The sons of learning may arrive at power;
Nor is it glory, though the public voice
Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice :
But 'tis the mind's own feelings give the joy,
Pleasures she gathers in her own employ —
Pleasures that gain or praise cannot bestow.
Yet can dilate and raise them when thej' flow.
For this the Poet looks the world around,
"Where form and life and reasoning man are found ;
He loves the mind, in all its modes, to trace,
And all the manners of the changing race ;
Silent he walks the road of life along.
And views the aims of its tumultuous throng:
He finds what shapes the Proteus-passions take.
And w hat strange waste of life and joy they make.
Anil loves to show them in their varied ways.
With honest blame or with unflattering praise :
'Tis good to know, 'tis pleasant to impart.
These turns and movements of the human heart :
The stronger features of the soul to paint.
And make distinct the latent and the faint ;
jMan as iiK IS, to place in all men's view.
Yet none with rancour, none with scorn pursue :
Nor be it ever of mj' Portraits told —
'' Here the strong lines of malice we behold."
Tms let me hope, that when in public view
1 bring my Pictures, men may feci them true :
'■ This is a likeness." may they all declare,
" And 1 have seen him, but I know not where ;
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along,
I saw aiid joiii'd again the joyous throng.
Panting, again I traceon after sunrise, in a tine sum-
mer morning, they were seatevl in their respective vessels, and
started in gallant trim, tacking and manoeuvring on the
Ixjsom of the flickering water, as it winds gently towards its
junction with the sea, The freshness of the early dawn, the
anticipation of amusements at an unknown place, and no
little exultation in his father's crack vessel, " made it," he
said, " a morning of exquisite delight." .\mong his MSS. are
the following verses on this early incident. — Life, ante, p. -J.]
OCCASIONAL PIECES.
261
No ! IMemory cannot reach, with all her power,
To that new birth, that life-awakening hour.
No ! all the traces of her first employ
Are keen perceptions of the senses' joy,
And their distaste — what then could they im-
part ? —
That figs were luscious, and that rods had smart.
But, though the Memory in that dubious way
Recalls the dawn and twilight of her day.
And thus encounters, in the doubtful view,
With imperfection and distortion too ;
Can she not tell us, as she looks around.
Of good and evil, which the most abound ?
Alas ! and what is earthly good ? 't is lent
Evil to hide, to soften, to prevent.
By scenes and shows that cheat the wandering eye.
While the more pompous misery passes by ;
Shifts and amusements that awhile succeed.
And heads are turn'd, that bosoms may not bleed :
For what is Pleasure, that we toil to gain ?
'T is but the slow or rapid flight of Pain.
Set Pleasure by, and there would yet remain,
For every nerve and sense the sting of Pain :
Set Pain aside, and fear no more the sting.
And whence your hopes and pleasures can ye
bring ?
No ! there is not a joy beneath the skies,
That from no grief nor trouble shall arise.
Why does the Lover with such rapture fly
To his dear mistress ? — He shall show us why : —
Because her absence is such cause of grief.
That her sweet smile alone can yield relief.
Why, then, that smile is Pleasure : — True, yet
still
'T is but the absence of the former ill :
For, married, soon at will he comes and goes ;
Then pleasures die, and pains become repose.
And he has none of these, and therefore none of
those.
Yes ! looking back as eai'ly as I can,
I see the griefs that seize their subject Man,
That in the weeping Child their early reign began :
Yes ! though Pain softens, and is absent since.
He still controls me like my lawful prince.
Joys I remember, like phosphoric light,
Or squibs and crackers on a gala night.
Joys are like oil ; if thrown upon the tide
Of flowing life, they mix not, nor subside :
Griefs are like waters on the river thrown,
They mix entirely, and become its own.
Of all the good that grew of early date,
I can but parts and incidents relate :
A guest arriving, or a borrow' d day
From school, or schoolboy triumph at some play :
And these from Pain may be deduced ; for these
Removed some ill, and hence their power to please.
But it was misery stung me in the day
Death of an infant sister made a prey ;
3 [Mr. Crabbe's early religious impressions were strongly
influenced by those of his mother, wlio was a deeply devout
woman. Her mildness, Imraility, patient endurance of afflic-
For then first met and moved my early fears,
A father's terrors and a mother's tears.
Though greater anguish I have since endured, —
Some heal'd in part, some never to be cured ;
Yet was there something in that first-born ill,
So new, so strange, that memory feels it still I
Tliat my first grief: but, oh ! in after- j'ears
Were other deaths, that call'd for other tears.
No ! that I cannot, that I dare not, paint —
That patient sufferer, that enduring saint.
Holy and lovelj'^ — but all words are faint. ^
But here I dwell not — let me, while I can.
Go to the Child, and lose the suffering Man.
Sweet was the morning's breath, the inland tide.
And our boat gliding, where alone could glide
Small craft — and they oft touch'd on either side.
It was my first-born joy. I heard them say,
" Let the child go ; he will enjoy the day."
For children ever feel delighted when
They take their portion, and enjoy with men.
Give him the pastime that the old partake,
And he will quickly top and taw forsake.
The linnet chirp'd upon the furze as well.
To my young sense, as sings the nightingale.
Without was paradise — -because within
Was a keen relish, without taint of sin.
A town appear'd, — and where an infant went,
Could they determine, on themselves intent ?
I lost my way, and my companions me.
And all, their comforts and tranquillity.
Mid-day it was, and, as the sun declined.
The good, found early, I no more could find :
The men drank much, to whet the appetite ;
And, growing heavy, drank to make them light ;
Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite.
Their cheerfulness did but a moment last ;
Something fell short, or something overpast.
The lads play'd idly with the helm and oar.
And nervous women would be set on shore.
Till " civil dudgeon " grew, and peace would smile
no more.
Now on the colder water faintly shone
The sloping light — ^the cheerful day was gone ;
Frown'd every cloud, and from the gather'd frown
The thunder burst, and rain came pattering down.
My torpid senses now my fears obcy'd,
When the fierce lightning on the eye-balls play'd.
Now, all the freshness of the morning fled,
My spirits burden'd, and my heart was dead ;
The female servants show'd a child their fear.
And men, full wearied, wanted strength to cheer ;
And when, at length, the dreaded storm went
past.
And there was peace and quietness at last,
'T was not the morning's quiet — it was not
Pleasure revived, but ^lisery forgot :
It was not Joy that now commenced her reign.
But mere relief from wretchedness and Pain.
tions and sufferings, meek li.ibits, and devout spirit, strongly
recommended her example to her son. — Life, ante', pp.
29, 30.]
'2()2
('I{.\|{|!K'S WOlfKS.
So many a dny, in life's ndvnnro, I know ;
So tlicy coninu'ni'iMl, iiml so fiii'y imhIimI too.
All I'roniisf llicy — nil .loy iih tlicy l)(>);iin !
Hut Joy fji-j'W less, mill vanish'il ns flicy rnn !
I'jTors 1111(1 evils came in ninny a form, —
The niind'H delusion, luid the jiassions' storin.
The promisetl joy, that like this morning; rose,
IJroke on my view, then cloudeil at its close ;
K'en l.ove himself, that jiromiser of bliss,
Made his hest days of pleasure end like this:
lie niix'd his hitters in the cup of joy.
Nor gave a bliss uninjured by alloy.
THE M.VGNET.
W ii\ force the backward heart on love,
'I'liiit of itself the linmc mijjht feel?
^Vh('n you the Mas^net's power would prove,
Say, would you strike it ou the Steel ?
From common flints you may by force
Excite some transient sparks of fire ;
And so, in natures rude and coarse,
Compulsion may provoke desire.
But when, approaching by degrees,
The IMagnct to the Steel draws nigh,
At once they feel, each other seize,
And rest in mutual sympathy.
So must the Lover find his way
To move the heart he hopes to win —
INIust not in distant forms delay —
Must not in rude assaults begin.
For such attractive power has Love,
AVe justly each extreme may fear :
'T is lost when we too distant prove.
And when wc rashly press too near.
STORM AND CALM.
[fIJOM the ALnVM OF THE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.]
At sea when threatening tempests rise,
When angry winds the waves deform.
The seaman lifts to Heaven his eyes.
And deprecates the dreaded storm.
" Ye furious powers, no more contend ;
" Ye winds and seas, your conflict end ;
" And on the mild subsiding deep,
" Let Fear repose and Terror sleep !"
At length the waves are hush'd in peace.
O'er flying clouds the sun prevails;
The weary winds their elTorts cease,
And fill no more the flagging sails;
Fix'd to the deep the vessel rides
Obedient to the changing tides;
No holm she feels, no course she keeps.
But on the liquid marble sleeps.
Sick of a Calm the sailor lied.
Anil vicwH the Htill, reflecting seas;
Or, whistling to the burning Nkicfi,
He hnpes to wake the slumbering breeze :
'I'he silent noon, the Holenin night,
The same dull round of thoughts excite,
'i'ill, tired of the revolving train,
He wishes for the Storm again.
Thus, when I felt the force of Love,
When all the passion fill'il my breast, —
■\V'hen, trembling, with the strirm I strove,
And pray'd, but vainly pray'd, for rest:
'T was tempest all, a dreadful strife
For case, for joy, for more than life :
'T was every hour to groan and sigh
In grief, in fear, in jealousy.
1 sufTcr'il much, but found at length
Composure in my wounded heart ;
The mind attain'd its fonner strength.
And bade the lingering hopes depart :
Then Beauty smiled, and I was gay,
I view'd her as the cheerful day ;
And if she frown'd, the clouded sky
Had greater terrors for mine eye.
I slept, I waked, and morn and eve.
The noon, the night, appear'd the same ;
No thought arose the soul to grieve,
To me no thought of pleasure came ;
Doom'd the dull comforts to receive
Of wearied passions still and tame.
" Alas I" I cried, wlien years had Hown —
" Must no awakening joy be kno\\Ti ?
" Must never Hope's inspiring breeze
" Sweep off this dull and torpid ease —
" Must never Love's all-cheering ray
" Upon the frozen fancy play —
" Unless they seize the passive soul,
" And with resistless power control ?
'■ Then let me all their force sustain,
•• And bring me back the Storm again."
S A T I K E.
I LOVE not the satiric Muse :
No man on earth would I abuse ;
Nor with empoison'd verses grieve
The most offending son of Eve.
Leave him to law, if he have done
M'hat injures any other son :
It hardens man to see his name
Exposed to public mirth or shame ;
And rouses, as it spoils his rest,
The baser passions of his breast.
Attack a book — attack a song —
You will not do essential wrong;
You may their blemishes expose.
And yet not be the wTiter's foes.
But when the man you thus attack.
And him expose with critic art.
You put a creature to the rack —
You wring, you asionise, his heart.
OCCASIONAL PIECES.
263
No farther honest Satire can
In all her enmity proceed,
Than passing by the wicked Man,
To execrate the \i-icked Deed.
If so much virtue yet remain
That he would feel the sting and pain,
That virtue is a reason why
The Muse her sting should not apply :
If no such Virtue yet survive,
What is J'our angry Satire worth,
But to arouse the sleeping hive.
And send the raging Passions forth.
In bold, vindictive, angry flight.
To sting wherever they alight ?
BELVOm CASTLE.
[wRrTTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE DUCHESS
DOWAGER OF RUTLAND, AND INSCRIBED
IX HER ALBUM, 1812.]
"When native Britons British lands possess'd.
Their glory freedom — and their blessing rest —
A powerful chief this lofty Seat survey'd,
And here his mansion's strong foundation laid :
In his own ground the massy stone he sought,
From his own woods the rugged timbers brought ;
Eudeness and greatness in his work combined, —
An humble taste with an aspiring mind.
His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'erspread ;
Warriors and vassals at his table fed ;
Sons, kindred, servants, waited on his will.
And hailed his mansion on the mighty hill.
In a new age a Saxon Lord appear'd.
And on the lofty base his dwelling rear'd :
Then first the grand but threatening form was
known.
And to the subject-vale a Castle shown,
Where strength alone appear'd, — the gloomy wall
Enclosed the dark .recess, the frowning hall ;
In chilling rooms the sullen fagot gleam'd ;
On the rude board the common banquet steam'd ;
Astonish'd peasants fear'd the dreadful skill
That placed such wonders on their favourite hill :
The soldier praised it as he march'd around.
And the dark building o'er the valley frown'd.
A Norman Baron, in suceeeding times,
Here, while the minstrel sang heroic rhymes,
In feudal pomp appear'd. It was his praise
A loftier dome with happier skill to raise ;
His halls, still gloomy, yet with grandeur rose ;
Here friends were feasted, — here confined were
foes.
In distant chambers, with her female train.
Dwelt the fair partner of his awful reign :
Curb'd by no laws, his vassal-tribe he sway'd, —
The Lord commanded, and the slave obej-'d :
No soft'niug arts in those fierce times were found.
But rival Barons spread their terrors round ;
Each in the fortress of his power, secure.
Of foes was fearless, and of soldiers sure ;
Aud here the chieftain, for his prowess praised.
Long held the Castle that his might had raised.
Came gentler times : — the Barons ceased to
strive
With kingly power, yet felt their pomp survive ;
Impell'd by softening arts, by honour charm'd.
Fair ladies studied and brave heroes arm'd.
The Lord of Belvoir then his Castle view'd.
Strong without form, and dignified but rude ;
The dark long passage, and the chambers small.
Recess and secret hold, he banish'd all.
Took the rude gloom and terror from the place,
And bade it shine with majesty and grace.
Then arras first o'er rugged walls appear'd.
Bright lamps at eve the vast apartment cheer'd :
In each superior room were polish'd floors.
Tall ponderous beds, and vast cathedral doors :
All was improved within, and then below
Fruits of the hardier climes were taught to grow ;
The silver flagon on the table stood.
And to the vassal left the horn and wood.
Dress'd in his liveries, of his honours vain.
Came at the Baron's calf a menial train ;
Proud of their arms, his strength and their delight ;
Loud in the feast, and fearless in the fight.
Then every eye the stately fabric drew
To every part ; for all were fair to view :
The powerful chief the far-famed work descried.
And heard the public voice that waked his pride.
Pleased he began — " About, above, below,
" What more can wealth command, or science
show ?
" Here taste and grandeur join with massy strength;
" Slow comes perfection, but it comes at lengtli.
" StiU must I grieve : these halls and towers sub-
lime,
'• Like vulgar domes, must feel the force of time ;
" And, when decay'd, can future days repair
" What I in these have made so strong and fair ?
'• Mj^ future heirs shall want of power deplore,
" When Time destroys what Time can not restore."
Sad in his glory, serious in his pride.
At once the chief exulted and he sigh'd ;
Dreaming he sigh'd, and still in sleep profound,
His thoughts were fix'd within the favourite bound ;
When lo ! another Castle rose in view.
That in an instant all his pride o'erthrew.
In that he saw what massy strength bestows.
And what from grace and lighter beauty flows.
Yet all harmonious ; what was light and free,
Robb'd not the weightier parts of dignity —
Nor what was ponderous hid the work of grace.
But all were just, and all in proper place :
Terrace on terrace rose, and there was seen
Adorn'd with flowery knolls the sloping green.
Bounded by balmy shrubs from climes unknown.
And all the nobler trees that grace our own.
Above, he saw a giant-tower ascend.
That seem'd the neighbouring beauty to defend
Of some light graceful dome, — " And this," he
cried,
" Awakes my pleasure, though it wounds my pride."
264
CRABBE'S \Vr)IlKS.
Ho sow npiirlinciitH wlicri- iippcarM to rise
What si-c'in'(l iih iiumi, niid fix'il (ui liim their cycH—
I'icturi's that Hpiikc ; ami fhiTo wcro mirrors tall,
Doiililinj; oach wonder hy re(lectin« all.
lie saw the genial lionnl, llie massy plate,
(irace iinad'ecteil, imciiciimlicrM state ;
And Homethin)r reacli'd him of the social arts.
That soften manners, and lluit con(iuer hearts.
^Vral)t in amazement, as lie gazed lie saw
A form of lieav'iily kind, and how'd in awe :
The si)iiit view'd him with henijinant (fracc,
tnrcc :
'■ Tlien you rich Vale, far stretcliinj; to the west,
" Heyoiid thy hound, sliall he hy out' possess'd :
'• Then shall true grace and dignity accord —
■• 1 lien snail true grace and dignity accord —
" With splendour, ease — the Castle with its Lord.
The Baron waked, — " It was," he cried, " a view
Lively as truth, and 1 will think it true :
Some gentle spirit to my mind has brought
Forms of fair works to he hereafter wrought;
But yet of mine a part will then remain.
Nor will that Lord its humbler worth disdain;
^lix'd with his mightier pile shall mine he found,
By him protected, and with his renown'd ;
lie who its full destruction could command,
A part shall save from the destroying hand,
And say, ' It long has stood, — still honour'd let
it stand.' "
LINES IN LAURA'S ALBUM.
[Tliese lines were written at the desire of a young lady,
H lio requested some verses on a cameo in her possession.]
Ske with what ease the child-like god
Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod ;
How gaily, like a smiling boy,
lie seems his triumphs to enjoy,
And looks as innocently mild
As if he were indeed a cliild !
But in that meekness who shall tell
What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell ?
By him are tamed the fierce ;— the bold
Anil haughty are by him controll'd ;
The hero of th' ensanguined fieUl
Finds there is neither sword nor shield
Availing here. Amid his books
The student thinks how Laura looks ;
The miser's self, w ith heart of lead,
With all the nobler feelings tied.
Has thrown his darling treasures by,
.\nd sigh'd for something worth a sigh.
Love over gentle natures reigns
A gentle master; yet his pains
Are felt by tliem, are felt by all,
The bitter sweet, the honied gall.
Soft pleasing tearH, heart-Hoothing Nighii,
Sweet pain, and joyH that agonise.
Against a power like this, what arts,
What virtues, can Hfciirc our lieartB?
In vain are both — The good, the wise,
Have tender thrmghts and wanii(ls a lokoii of Iut ]iraisi' ;
Such as till' mm, with heart of .snow,
Ali^^lit on her confossor bosfow ;
Or whicli sonii" favourite nymph woiiM pay,
Tfpon her gran Isire's natal o more of giving rings:
Uemembcr, thirty years are gone,
Old friend ! since you presented one !
Well ! one there is, or one shall be,
To give a ring instead of me ;
And with it sacred vows for life
To love the fair — the angel-wife ;
In that one act may every grace,
And every blessing have tlioir })lace —
And give to future hours the bliss.
The charm of life, derived from this ;
And when even love no more supplies —
When weary nature sinks to rest ; —
May brighter, s eadier light arise.
And make the parting moment blest !
TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL
EXTRACTS.
Sav, shall thine eye, and with the eye the mind,
Dwell on a work for thee alone design'd ?
Traced by my liand, selected by my heart,
Will it not pleasure to a friend impart ;
And her dear smile an ample i)aymont i)rove
For this light labour of aspiring love ?
"1" is hers for woe Die Bullen Hmile to feign,
Ami Laughter lend to Knvy'« rankling pain ;
Soft I'ity'H look to Scorn, mild Friendship's to
Dittdaiii ;
Joy ini'XpresHive with her tear she veils,
And weeps her transport, where expression fails.
TO A LADY ON Ll.AMNG IIKU AT
SIDMOlTll.
Yes ! I must go — it is a part
That cruel Fortune has assign'd mc, —
Must go, and leave, with aching heart,
What most that heart adores, bcliind me.
Still I shall see thee on the sand
Till o'er the space the water rises.
Still shall in tliought behind thee stand.
And watch the look affection prizes.
But ah ! what youth attends thy side,
With eyes that speak his soul's devotion —
To thee as constant as the tide
That gives the restless wave its motion ?
Still in thy train must he appear,
For ever gazing, smiling, talking?
Ah ! would that he were sighing here,
And I were there beside thee walking !
Wilt thou to him that arm resign,
Who is to that dear heart a stranger,
And with those matchless looks of thine
The peace of this poor youth endanger ?
Away this fear that fancy makes
"\^■hcn night and death's dull image hide thee ;
In sleep, to thee my mind awakes ;
Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee.
Who could in absence bear the pain
Of all this fierce and jealous feeling,
But for the hope to meet again,
And see those smiles all sorrow healing?
Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart.
Lament that fate such friends should sever.
And I shall say — " We must not part ;"'
And thou wilt answer — '' Never, never ! "
Read, but with partial mind, the themes I
choose :
A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse :
This shall a charm to every verse impart,
And the cold line shall reach the willing heart :
For willing hearts the tamest song approve.
All read with pleasure when they read with love.
There are no passions to the iluse unknown, —
Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity, are her own :
She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power.
By varying moods to suit the varying hour;
She plays with each, and veils in changing robes
The grief she pities and the love she probes.
TO SAKAII, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON
HER BIRTHDAY.
Of all the subjects poetry commands.
Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow ;
'T is like the streams in Afric's burning sands,
Exhausted now, and now they overflow.
As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,
So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise ;
For when he would the cheerful warmth inspire,
He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.
OCCASIONAL PIECES.
267
How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,
And give the just proportion to my song ?
How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit.
Yet fear at once t' offend thee and to wTong ?
Sure to offend, if far the jNIuse should soar.
And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare ;
Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore —
That all confess what I must not declare.
Yet, on this day, in every passing year.
Poets the tribute of their praise may bring ;
Nor should thy virtues then be so severe
As to forbid us of thy worth to sing.
Still I forbear : for why should I portray
Those looks that seize — that mind that wins the
heart? —
Since all the world, on this propitious day,
Will tell how lovely and how good thou art.
TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES
AT PARTING.
Oh ! do not ask the Muse to show
Or how we met, or how we part :
The bliss, the pain, too well I know,
That seize in turn this faithful heart.
That meeting — it was tumult all—
The eye was pleased, the soul was glad ;
But thus to memory I recall.
And feel the parting doubly sad.
Yes, it was pleasant so to meet
For us, who fear'd to meet no more,
When every passing hour was sweet —
Sweeter, we thought, than all before.
When eye from eye new meanings steal,
When hearts approach, and thoughts unite-
Then is indeed the time to feel.
But, Laura I not a time to write.
And when at length compell'd to part.
When fear is strong, and fancy weak,
When in some distant good the heart
For present ease is forced to seek, —
When hurried spirits fall and rise.
As on the changing views we dwell,
How vainly then the sufferer tries
In studied verse his pains to tell !
Time brings, indeed, his slow relief,
In whom the passions live and die ;
He gives the bright'ning smile to grief,
And his the soft consoling sigh :
Till then, we vainly wish the power
To paint the grief or use the pen :
But distant far that quiet hour ;
And I must feel and grieve till then.
268 CRABTU:'
S WORKS.
THE WOULD
OF DUE AM S.
I.
And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep?
VI,
That female fiend ! — Why is she there ?
Thy senses, thy affections, fled ?
Alas ! I know her. — Oh, begone !
No i)lny of fancy thine, to keep
Why is that tainted bosom bare,
OMivioii from that grave, thy bed ?
Why fix'd on me that eye of stone ?
Then art tliou hut the breathing dead
Wliy have they left us thus alone ?
I envy, but I pity too :
I saw the deed — why then appear ?
The bravest may mij terrors dread,
Thou art not form'd of blood and bone 1
The happiest fain my joys pursue.
Come not, dread being, come not near !
II.
Soon as the real World I lose,
VII.
So ! all is quiet, calm, serene ;
Quick Fancy takes her wonted way,
I walk a noble mansion round —
Or Baxter's sprites my soul abuse —
From room to room, from scene to scene.
For how it is I cannot say.
I breathless pass, in gloom profound :
Nor to what powers a passive prey.
No human shape, no mortal sound —
I feel such bliss, I fear such pain ;
I feci an awe, I own a dread.
But all is gloom, or all is gay,
And still proceed ! — nor stop nor bound —
Soon as th' ideal World I gain.
And all is silent, all is dead.
III.
VIII.
Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep !
Now I'm hurried, borne along.
Vain troubles of the world, farewell !
All is business ! all alive !
Spirits of 111 I your distance keep —
Heavens ! how mighty is the throng,
And in your own dominions dwell.
Voices humming live a hive I
Ye, the sad emigrants from hell !
Through the swelling crowd I strive,
Watch, dear ^eraphic beings, round,
Bustling forth my way to trace :
And these black Enemies repel ;
Never fated to arrive
Safe be my soul, my slumbers sound
At the still-expected place.
In vain I pray ! It is my sin
IX.
Ah me ! how sweet the morning sun
That thus admits the shadowy throng.
Deigns on yon sleepy town to shine !
Oh ! now they break tumultuous in —
How soft those far-off rivers run —
Angels of darkness fierce and strong.
Those trees their leafy heads decline I
Oh ! I am borne of fate along ;
Balm-breathing zephyrs, all divine.
My soul, subdued, admits the foe,
Their health-imparting influence give :
Perceives and yet endures the wTong,
Now, all that earth allows is mine —
Resists, and yet prepares to go.
Now, now I dream not, but I live.
V.
Where am I now? and what to meet?
X.
My friend, my brother, lost in youth,
Where I have been entrapt before ;
I meet in doubtful, glad surprise.
The wicked city's vilest street, —
In conscious love, in fearless truth :
I know what 1 must now explore.
What pleasures in the meeting rise I
The dark-brow'd tlirong more near and more,
Ah I brief enjoyment I — Pleasure dies
With murderous looks are on me thrust,
E'en in its birth, and turns to pain :
And lo ! tliey ope the accursed door.
He meets me with hard glazed eyes I
And I must go — I know I must !
He quits me — spurns me — with disdain.
IHE WORLD OF DREAMS.
269
I sail the sea, I walk the land ;
In all the world am I alone :
Silent I pace the sea-worn sand,
Silent I view the princely throne ;
I listen heartless for the tone
Of winds and waters, but in vain ;
Creation dies without a groan !
And I without a hope remain !
Unnumber'd riches I behold,
Glorious untasted I survey :
My heart is sick, my bosom cold,
Friends ! neighbours ! kindred ! where arc
they?
In the sad, last, long, endless day !
When I can neither pray nor weep,
Doom'd o'er the sleeping world to stray.
And not to die, and not to sleep.
Beside the summer sea I stand,
Where^the slow billows swelling shine :
How beautiful this pearly sand,
That waves, and winds, and years refine ;
Be this delicious quiet mine !
The joy of youth ! so sweet before.
When I could thus my frame recline.
And watch th' entangled weeds ashore.
Yet, I remember not that sea.
That other shore on'yonder side :
Between them narrow bound must be,
If equal rise the opposing tide —
Lo ! lo ! they rise — and I abide
The peril of the meeting flood :
Away, away, my footsteps slide —
I pant upon the clinging mud !
Oh, let me now possession take
Of this — it cannot be a dream.
Yes ! now the soul must be awake —
These pleasures are — they do not seem.
And is it true ? Oh, joy extreme !
All whom I loved, and thought them dead,
Far down in Lethe's flowing stream,
And, with them, life's best pleasures fled :
Yes, many a tear for them I shed —
Tears that relieve the anxious breast ;
And now, by heavenly favour led,
We meet — and One, the fairest, best.
Among them — ever-welcome guest !
Within the room, that seem'd dcstroy'd — •
This room endear'd, and still posscss'd,
By this dear party still enjoy'd.
Speak to me ! speak ! that I may know
I am thus happy ! — dearest, speak I
Those smiles that haunt fond memory show 1
Joy makes us doubtful, wavering, weak ;
But yet 't is joy — And all I seek
Is mine '. What glorious day is this '
Now let me bear with spirit meek
An hour of pure and perfect bliss.
But do ye look indeed as friends ?
Is there no change ? Are not ye cold ?
Oh ! I do dread that Fortune lends
Fictitious good ! — that I behold.
To lose, these treasures, which of old
Were all my glory, all my pride :
May not these arms that form infold ?
Is all affection asks denied ?
Say, what is this ! — How are we tried.
In this sad world ! — I know not these —
All strangers, none to me allied —
Those aspects blood and spirit freeze :
Dear forms, my wandering judgment spare ;
And thou, most dear, these fiends disarm,
Resume thy wonted looks and air.
And break this melancholy charm.
And are they vanish'd ? Is she lost ?
Shall never day that form restore ?
Oh ! I am all by fears engross'd ;
Sad truth has broken in once more.
And I the brief delight deplore :
How durst they such resemblance take ?
Heavens ! with what grace the mask they wore !
Oh, from what visions I awake !
Once more, once more upon the shore !
Now back the rolling ocean flows :
The rocky bed now far before
On the receding water grows —
The treasures and the wealth it owes
To human misery — all in view ;
Fate all on me at once bestows.
From thousands robb'd and murder'd too.
But, lo ! whatever I can find
Grows mean and worthless as I view ;
They promise, but they cheat the mind,
As promises are born to do.
How lovely every form and hue,
Till seiz'd and mastcr'd — Then arise ;
For all that admiration drew.
All that our senses can despise !
Within the basis of a tower,
I saw a plant— it graced the spot ;
There was witliin nor wind nor shower.
And this had life that flowers have not.
I drew it forth — Ah, luckless lot !
It was the mandrake : and the sound
Of anguish deeply smother'd shot
Into my breast with pang profound.
270
CRABRE'S WORKS.
XXIV.
" I would I wore a sonriiiR bird,"
Said I'nlly, "and I llitti woidil fly:
.Some iiKx'tciiif; Muse or Fiiiry iicnrd —
" You can liut fall -suppose you try !
And tliou^li you may not mount flu; sky,
You will not grovel in the mire."
Hail, words of comfort 1 Now can I
Spurn earth, and to the air aspire.
And this, l)efore, might I have done
If I liad coui'age — that is all :
'Tis easier now to soar than run ;
Up! up! — we neither tire nor fall.
Children of dust, he yours to crawl
On the vile earth ! — while, luippier, I
Must listen to an inward call,
That bids mc mount, that makes me fly.
I tumble from the loftiest tower,
Y'et evil have I never found ;
Supported by some favouring power,
I come in safety to the ground.
I rest upon the sea, the sound
Of many waters in mine ear,
Yet have no dread of being drown'd,
But sec my way, and cease to fear.
Awake, there is no living man
Who may my fixed spirit shake ;
But, sleeping, there is one who can,
And oft docs he the trial make :
Against his might resolves I take.
And liim oppose with high disdain ;
But quickly all my powers forsake
My mind, and I resume my chain.
I know not how, but I am brought
Into a large and Gothic hall.
Seated with those I never sought —
Kings, Caliphs, Kaisers, — silent all ;
Pale as the dead ; enrobed and tall,
Majestic, frozen, solemn, still ;
They wake my fears, my wits appal.
And witli both scorn and terror fill.
Now are they seated at a board
In that cold grandeur — I am there.
But what can mummied kings afford ?
This is their meagre ghostly fare,
And proves what flosliloss things they stare !
Yes ! I am seated with the dead :
How great, and yet how mean tliey are I
Y'es ! I can scorn them while I dread.
They 're gone ! — and in their room I see
A fairy being, form and dress
Brilliimt as liglit ; nor can there be
On earth that lieavenly loveliness ;
Nor wordH can that Hwect look expresH,
Or tell what living gi'mH udom
That wond'rous beauty : who can guesH
Where such celestial channB were bom ?
Yet, as I wonder and admire.
The grace in gone, the glory dead ;
And now it is but mean attire
lijxin a shrivel'd Ijolilame spread,
Laid loathsome on a pauper's bed,
Where wretchedness ani, July 31, 1812. Geo. Crabbe.
' [First published in August, 1812. See ante, p. 56.]
'•' [See ante, p. 32.]
3 [On the death of the Duke of Rutland, in"1787, the
Duchess, desirous of retaining in the neighbourhood the
protc(/e of her lamented husband, gave Mr. Crabbe a letter to
the Lord Chancellor, earnestly requesting him to exchange
two small livings held bv the poet in Dorsetshire, for two of
superior value in the vale of Helvoir. Mr. Crabbe proceeded
to London, but was not, on this occasion, very courteously
received by Lord Thurlow. " No," he growled ; " by G— d,
I will not do this for any man in England." But he did it,
nevertheless, for a woman in England. The good Duchess,
on arriving in town, waited on him personally to renew her
request, and he yielded See ante, p. 38.]
I
272
CRAIJHE'S WORKS.
PREFACE.
'I'li.VT tlic appearance of t)ic present work before
tlie ])ul>lic is occnsioneil by a favourable rccci)tion
of the former two, I lu-sitate not to acknowledj^e ;
because, wliile the confession may be regarded as
some proof of gratitude, or at least of attention,
from an author to his readers, it ought not to be
considered as an indication of vanity. It is un-
questionably very pleasant to be assured that our
labours are well received ; but, nevertheless, this
must not be taken for a just and full criterion of
their merit : pul)Iieations of great intrinsic value
have been met with so much coolness, that a writer
who succeeds in obtaining some degree of notice
shoulil look upon himself ratlier as one favoured
than 7ncritorious, as gaining a prize from Fortune,
and not a recompense for desert ; and, on the con-
trary, as it is well known that books of very
inferior kind have been at once pushed into the
strong current of popularity, and are there kept
buoyant by the force of the stream, the writer
who acquires not this adventitious help may be
reckoned rather as unfortunate than undeserving :
and from these opposite considerations it follows,
that a man may speak of his success without in-
curring justly the odium of conceit, and may like-
wise acknowledge a disappointment without an
adequate cause for humiliation or self-reproach.
But were it true that something of the compla-
cency of self-approbation would insinuate itself
into an author's mind with the idea of success, the
sensation would not be that of unalloyed pleasure ;
it would perhaps assist liim to bear, but it would
not enable him to escape, the mortification he must
encounter from censures, which, though he may be
unwilling to admit, yet he finds himself unable to
confute ; as well as from advice, which, at the
same time that he cannot but approvcj he is com-
pelled to reject.
Reproof and advice, it is probable, every author
will receive, if we except those who merit so much
' [See Kdinburgh Review, vol. xvi. p. 5a. " \\'e own we
have a very stron;; desire to see Mr. Crabbe apply liis srreat
powers to the constnirtion of some interestinj; ami connected
story. He Ii.ts irreat talent for narration ; and that unrivalled
gift in the delineation of character, which is now used only
for the creation of detached portraits, might be txirned to ad-
mirable account in maintaining the interests and enhancing
the probability of an extended train of adventures."]
'["We did not," say the Edinburgh Reviewers, "wish
Mr. Crabbe to wri'e an Kpic— as he seems from his preface to
have imagined. We are perfectlv satisGeti with tlie length of
of the former, that the latter is contemptuously
denied them ; now, of these, rej)roof, though it
may cause more temporary uneasiness, will in
many cases create less difficulty, since errors may
be corrected when opportunity occurs : but advice,
I repeat, may be of such nature, that it will be
painful to reject and yet impossible to follow it ;
and in this predicament I conceive myself to be
placed. There has been recommended to me, and
from authority which neither inclination nor pru-
dence leads me to resist, in any new work I might
undertake, a unity of subject, and that arrange-
ment of my materials which connects the whole
and gives additional interest to every part ;' in
fact, if not an Epic Poem, strictly so denominated,
yet such composition as would possess a regular
succession of events, and a catastrophe to which
every incident should be subservient, and which
every character, in a greater or less degree, should
conspire to accomplish.''
In a Poem of this nature, the principal and in-
ferior characters in some degree resemble a general
and his army, where no one pursues his peculiar
objects and adventures, or pursues them in unison
with the movements and grand purposes of the
whole body ; wliere there is a community of in-
terests and a subordination of actors : and it was
upon this view of the subject, and of the necessity
for such distribution of persons and events, that I
found myself obliged to relinquish an undertaking,
for which the characters I could command, and
the adventures I could describe, were altogether
unfitted.
But if these characters which seemed to be at
my disposal were not such as would coalesce into
one body, nor were of a nature to be commanded
by one mind, so neither on examination did they
appear as an unconnected multitude, accidentally
collected, to be suddenly dispersed ; but rather
beings of whom might be formed groups and
the pieces he has "iven us, and delishte-2ii.]
PREFACE.
275
from any others in my notions of the qualifications
and character of the true Poet, I most cordially
assent to their opinion who assert, that his prin-
cipal exertions must be made to engage the atten-
tion of his readers ; and further, I must allow that
the effect of poetry should be to lift the mind from
the painful realities of actual existence, from its
everyday concerns, and its perpetually-occurring
vexations, and to give it repose bj' substituting
objects in their place which it may contemplate
with some degree of interest and satisfaction : but,
what is there in all this, which may not be efiected
by a fair representation of existing chai'acter ?
nay, by a faithful delineation of those painful
realities, those every-day concerns, and those per-
petually-occurring vexations themselves, provided
they be not (which is hardly to be supposed) the
very concerns and distresses of the reader ? for
when it is admitted that they have no particular
relation to him, but are the troubles and anxieties
of other men, they excite and interest his feelings
as the imaginary exploits, adventures, and perils
of romance ; — they soothe his mind, and keep his
curiosity pleasantly awake ; they appear to have
enough of reality to engage his sympathy, but
possess not interest sufficient to create painful sen-
sations. ? Fiction itself, we know, and every work
of fancy, must for a time have the effect of rea-
lities ; nay, the very enchanters, spirits, and
monsters of Ariosto and Spenser must be pi-esent
in the mind of the reader while he is engaged by
their operations, or they would be as the objects
and incidents of a nursery tale to a ratit)nal under-
standing, altogether despised and neglected : in
truth, I can but consider this pleasant efi'ect upon
the mind of a reader as depending neither upon
the events related (whether they be actual or
' [Mr. Crabbe often expressed great admiration of the fol-
lowing lines by Mr. Matthias : —
" The dread resistless pow'r
That works deep-felt at inspiration's hour,
He claims alone—
Who claims ?
The favour'd Bard,
Who, nobly conscious of his just reward,
With loftier soul, and undecaying might.
Paints what he feels, in characters of light.
He turns : and, instantaneous, all around,
Cliffs whiten, waters murmur, voices sound ;
Portentous forms in heaven's aerial hall
Appear, as at some great supernal call.
" Thence oft in tliought his steps ideal haste
To rocks and groves, the wilderness or waste ;
To plains, where Tadmor s regal ruins lie
In desolation's sullen majesty ;
Or where Carthusian spires the pilgrim draw.
And liow tlie soul with unresisted awe ;
Whence Bruno, from the mountain's pine-clad brow,
Survey'd tlie world's inglorious toil below ;
imaginary), nor upon the characters introduced
(whether taken from life or fancy), but upon the
the manner in which the poem itself is conducted ;
let that be judiciously managed, and the occur-
rences actually copied from life will have the same
happy effect as the inventions of a creative fancy ;
— while, on the other hand, the imaginary persons
and incidents to which the poet has given " a
local habitation and a name," will make upon the
concurring feelings of the reader the same impres-
sions with those taken from truth and nature,
because they will appear to be derived from that
source, and therefore of necessity will have a
similar effect.
Having thus far presumed to claim for the en-
suing pages the rank and title of poetry, I attempt
no more, nor venture to class or compare them
with any other kinds of poetical composition ;
their place will doubtless be found for them.
A principal view and wish of the poet must be
to engage the mind of his readers, as, failing in
that point, he will scarcely succeed in any other :
I therefore willingly confess that much of my time
and assiduity has been devoted to this purpose ;
but, to the ambition of pleasing, no other sacrifices
have, I trust, been made, than of my o\^-n labour
and care. Nothing will be found that militates
against the rules of propriety and good manners,
nothing that offends against the more important
precepts of morality and religion ; and with this
negative kind of merit, I commit my book to the
judgment and taste of the reader — not being will-
ing to provoke his vigilance by professions of
accuracy, nor to solicit his indulgence by apologies
for mistakes.
Then, as down ragged cliffs the torrent roar'd,
Prostrate great Nature's present God adored,
And bade, in solitude's extremes! bourn,
Religion hallow the severe sojourn.
" Thence musing, lo, he bends his weary eyes
On Life, and nil its sad realises ;
Marks how the prospect darkens in the rear,
Shade blends with shade, and fear succeeds to fear,
'Mid forms that rise, and flutter tlirough the gloom.
Till Death unbar the cold sepulchral room.
" Such is the Poet ; such his claim divine ! —
Imagination's ' charter'd libertine,'
He scorns, in apathy, to lloat or dream
On listless satisfaction's torpid stream.
But dares, ai.onf, in venturous bark to ride
Down turbulent Delight's tempestuous tide;
With thoughts encounfring thouglits in conflict strong,
The deep Pierian thunder of tlie song
Rolls o er his raptured sense ; the realms on high
For him disclose their varied majesty ;
He feels the call— then bold, beyond control.
Stamps on the immortal page the visions of his soul !"]
2.N 2
276
en AH HE'S wor;Fliug passions of humble life, with the same generous
testimony to their frequent existence, mixed up as before
with a reprobation sufficiently rigid, and a ridicule sutficientlv
severe, of tlieir excesses and affectations. If we were re'-
quired to make a comparative estimate of the merits of the
present woik, or to point out the shades of difference by
which It is distinguished from th..se that have iione before it,
we should say, that there are in it a greater number of in-
stances in which th > poet lias combined the n.itural language
and manners of humble life with the energy of true passion,
and the l>eauty of generous alleclion— in which he has traced
out the course of those rich and lovely veins even in the rude
and unpolished masses that lie at tlie bottom of society— and
Like timid trav'llcrs in the night, they fear
Th' assault of foes, when not a friend is near.
In contest mightj', and of conquest proud.
Was Justice Bolt,^ imjietuous, warm, and loud ;
His fame, his prowess all the countrj- knew.
And disputants, with one so fierce, were few :
He was a younger son, for law design'd,
"With dauntless look and persevering mind ;
M'hile yet a clerk, for disputation famed,
Is'o efforts tired him, and no conflicts tamed.
Scarcely he bade his master's desk adieu,
When both his brothers from the world withdrew.
An ample fortune he from them possess'd,
And was with saving care and prudence bless'd.
Now would he go and to the country give
Example how an English 'squire should live ;
How bounteous, yet how frugal man may be,
By a well-order'd hospitality ;
He would the rights of all so well maintain.
That none should idle be, and none complain.
All this and more he purposed — and what man
Could do, he did to realise his plan ;
But time convinced him that we cannot keep
A breed of reasoners like a flock of sheep ;
For they, so far from following as we lead,
]Make that a cause why they will not proceed,
^lan will not follow where a rule is shown,
But loves to take a method of his own :
Explain the way with all your care and skill.
This will he quit, if but to prove he will. —
unfolded, in the middling onlers of the people, the wori^ings
of those finer feelings, and the stirrings of those loftier
emotions, which the partiality of other poets had hitherto at-
tributed almost exclusively to actors on a higher scene. It
appears to us, that the volume now t)efore us is more uni-
formly and directly moral and beneficial in its tendency, than
any of those which Mr. Crabbe has hitherto given to the pub-
lic — consists less of mere curious specimens of description and
gratuitous dissections of character, but inculcates, for the most
part, some weighty and pnictical precept, and points right on
to the cheerful path by which duty leadU us forward to enjoy-
ment."— i'l/mfcuryA lievieu; I812.J
* These mottoes are many, because there is a reference in
them not only to the characters, but frequently to the inci-
dent.s also : and they are all taken from Shakspeare, because I
could more readily tind tliem in his scenes than in the works
of any other poet to whom I could have recourse.
^ priie original of Justice Bolt was Dr. Franks, of Alderton,
on the Norfolk coast — a truly worthy man, but a rather pom-
pous magistrate.]
TALES.— THE DUMB ORATORS.
277
Yet had our Justice honour — and the crowd,
Awed by his presence, their respect avow'd.
In later years he found his heart incline,
More than in youth, to gen'rous food and wine ;
But no indulgence check'd the powerful love
He felt to teach, to argue, and reprove.
Meetings, or public calls, he never miss'd —
To dictate often, always to assist.
Oft he the clergy join'd, and not a cause
Pertain'd to them but he could quote the laws ;
He upon tithes and residence display'd
A fund of knowledge for the hearer's aid ;
And could on glebe and farming, wool and grain,
A long discourse, without a pause, maintain.
To his experience and his native sense
He join'd a bold imperious eloquence ;
The grave, stern look of men inform'd and wise,
A full command of feature, heart, and eyes,
An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size.
"When at the table, not a guest was seen
With appetite so lingering, or so keen ;
But when the outer man no more required,
The inner waked, and he was man inspired.
His subjects then were those, a subject true
Presents in fairest form to public view ;
Of church and state, of law, with mighty strength
Of words he spoke, in speech of mighty length :
And now, into the vale of years declined,
He hides too little of the monarch-mind :
He kindles anger by untimely jokes,
And opposition by contempt provokes ;
Mirth he suppresses by his awful frown.
And humble spirits, by disdain, keeps down ;
Blamed by the mild, approved by the severe,
The prudent fly him, and the valiant fear.
For overbearing is his proud discourse.
And overwhelming of his voice the force ;
And overpowering is he when he shows
"What floats upon a mind that always overflows.
This ready man at every meeting rose.
Something to hint, determine, or propose ;
And grew so fond of teaching, that he taught
Those who insti'uction needed not or sought :
Happy our hero, when he could excite
Some thoughtless talker to the wordy fight :
Let him a subject at his pleasure choose,
Physic or law, religion or the muse ;
On all such themes he was prepared to shine, —
Physician, poet, lawyer, and divine.
Hemm'd in by some tough argument, borne do^^■n
By press of language and the awful frown,
In vain for mercy shall the culprit plead ;
His crime is past, and sentence must proceed :
Ah ! suffering man, have patience, bear thy woes —
For lo ! the clock — at ten the Justice goes.
This powerful man, on business, or to please
A curious taste, or weary grown of ease.
On a long journey travell'd many a mile
Westward, and halted midway in our isle ;
Content to view a city large and fair,
Though none had notice — what a man was there !
Silent two days, he tHen began to long
Again to try a voice so loud and strong ;
To give his favourite topics some new grace,
And gain some glory in such distant place ;
To reap some present pleasure, and to sow
Seeds of fair fame, in after-time to grow :
Here will men say, " We heard, at such an hour,
" The best of speakers — wonderful his power."
Inquiry made, he found that day would meet
A learned club, and in the very street :
Knowledge to gain and give, was the design ;
To speak, to hearken, to debate, and dine :
This pleased our traveller, for he felt his force
In either way, to eat or to discourse.
Nothing more easy than to gain access
To men like these, with his polite address :
So he succeeded, and first look'd around.
To view his objects and to take his ground ;
And therefore silent chose awhile to sit.
Then enter boldly by some lucky hit ;
Some observation keen or stroke severe,
To cause some wonder or excite some fear.
Now, dinner past, no longer he supprest
His strong dislike to be a silent guest ;
Subjects and words were now at his command —
When disappointment frown'd on all he plann'd ;
For, hark ! — he heard amazed, on every side,
His church insulted and her priests belied ;
The laws reviled, the ruling power abused,
The land derided, and its foes excused : —
He heard and ponder'd — What, to men so vile,
Should be his language? — For his thrcat'ning style
They were too many ; — if his speech were meek,
They would despise such poor attempts to speak :
At other times with every word at will.
He now sat lost, perplex'd, astonish'd, still.
Here were Socinians, Deists, and indeed
All who, as foes to England's church, agreed ;
But still with creeds unlike, and some without a
creed :
Here, too, fierce friends of libertj' he saw.
Who own'd no prince and who obey no law ;
There were reformers of each different sort,
Foes to the laws, the priesthood, and the court;
Some on their favourite plans alone intent,
Some purely angry and malevolent :
The rash were proud to blame their country's laws;
The vain, to seem supporters of a cause ;
One call'd for change, that he would dread to see ;
Another sigh'd for Gallic liberty !
And numbers joining witli the forward crew,
For no one reason — but that numbers do.
" How," said the Justice, "can this trouble rise,
" This shame and pain, from creatures 1 despise?"
And Conscience answcr'd — •"Tlie prevailing cause
" Is thy delight in listening to applause ;
" Here, thou art seated with a tribe, who spurn
" Thy favourite themes, and into laughter turn
" Thy fears and wishes : silent and obscure,
" Thyself, shalt thou the long harangue endure ;
" And learn, by feeling, what it is to force
" On thy Unwilling friends the long discourse :
" Wliat tlioiiuli thy thoughts be just, find these, it
seems,
" Aro trnitDrs' pnijocts, idiots' oiiipty KcliemeH;
" Yet minds, like hodies, rnimm'd, reject their food,
" Nor \\ill be I'oreed mid tortured Tor their good !"
At length, a slmrp, shrewd, Hiillow mnn nrose,
And ln-gg'd lie l)ri('tly might Ids mind discdosp;
" It WHS ids duty, in tlu'se worst of times,
" 'I" inform tlie govern'd of tiicir rulers' crimes: "
Tlds pleasant suiiject to attend, tliey each
Prepare to listen, and forl)ore to teiieh.
Then viduhle and fieroo the wordy mnn
Tlirough a long chain of favourite horrors ran : —
First of the Church, from whose enslaving power,
He was delivor'd, and lie bless'd the hour;
" Bishops and deans, ami prebendaries all,"
He said, " were cattle fatt'ning in the stall ;
" Slothful aufl jiursy, insolent and mean,
" Were every bishop, pr(d)enilar}', dean,
'' And weallhy rector: curates, poorly paid,
" Were only dull ; — he would not them upbraid."
From priests he turn'd to canons, creeds, and
prayers,
Rubrics and rules, and all our Cliurch affairs;
Churches themselves, desk, pulpit, altar, all
The Justice reverenced — and pronounced their fall.
Then from religion Hammond tum'd his view
To give our Kulers the correction due ;
Not one wise action had these triflcrs plann'd;
There was, it secm'd, no wisdom in the land,
Save in this patriot tribe, who meet at times
To show the statesman's errors and his crimes.
Now here was Justice Bolt compell'd to sit,
To hear the deist's scorn, the rebel's wit ;
The fact mis-stated, the cnvenom'd lie.
And, staring spell-bound, made not one reply.
Then were our T,aws abused — and with the laws,
All who prepare, defeml, or judge a cause :
" AVc liave no lawyer whom a man can trust,"
Proceeded Hammond — '• if the laws were just ;
" But they are evil ; 't is the savage state
" Is only good, and oui-s sophisticate !
" See ! the free creatures in their woods and plains,
" Where witliout laws each happy monarch reigns,
" King of himself — w bile we a number dread,
" By slaves commanded and by dunces led :
" Oh, let the name with either state agree —
" Savage our own we '11 name, and civil thcii-s shall
be."
The silent Justice still astonish'J sat,
And wonder'd much whom he was gazing at;
Twice he essay'd to speak — but in a cough.
The faint, indignant, dying speech went off:
" But who is this ? " thought he — *' a demon vile,
" With wicked meaning and a vulgar style:
" Hammond they call him : they can give the name
'■ Of man to devils. — Why nm I ho tame?
" Why crush I not the vi|)er?" — Fear replied,
" Watch him awhile, and let hiw Htrennth be tried:
" Ho will be foil'd, if man ; but if hi.s aid
" Be from bencatti, 'tis well to be afraid."
" We are rall'd free ! " said Hammond — " dole-
ful limes,
" When riders aild their insult to their crimes;
" For should our scorn expose each powerful vice,
" It would be libel, and we pay the price."
Thus witli licentious words the man went on,
Proving that lilierfy of speech was gone;
That all were slaves — nor had we better chance
For better times, than as allies to France.
Loud groan'd the Stranger — Why, he must
relate,
.\nd own'd, " In sorrow for his country's fate ; "
" Nay, she were safe," the ready man replied,
" Might patriots rule her, and could reasoners
guide ;
" When all to vote, to speak, to teach, are free,
" Whatc'er their creeds or their opinions be;
" When books of statutes are consumed in flames,
" And courts and copyholds are empty names :
" Then will bo times of joy — but ere they come,
" Havock, and war, and blood must be our doom."
The man here paused— then loudly for Reform
He call'd, ami hail'd the prospect of the storm :
The wholesome blast, the fertilising flood —
Peace gain'd by tumult, plenty bought with blood :
Sharp means, he own'd ; but when the land's disease
Asks cure complete, no raed'cines are like these.
Our Justice now, more led by fear than rage,
Saw it in vain with madness to engage ;
With imps of darkness no man seeks to fight.
Knaves to instruct, or set deceivers right :
Then as the daring speech ilenounced these woes,
Sick at the soul, the grieving Guest aros'e ;
Quick on the board his ready cash he threw.
And from the demons to his closet Hew :
There when secured, he pray'd with earnest zeal,
That all they wish'd. these patriot-souls might feel ;
" Let them to France, their darling country, haste,
" And all the comforts of a Frenchman taste ;
" Let them his safety, freedom, pleasure know,
" Feel all their rulers on the land bestow ;
" And be at length ilismiss'd by one unerring
blow, —
" Not hack'd and hew'd by one afraid to strike,
" But sliorn by that which sliears all men alike ;
'■ Nor, as in Britain, let them curse delay
" Of law, but borne without a form away —
" Suspected, tried, condemn'd. and carted in a day;
" Oh! let them taste what they so much approve,
" These strong fierce freedoms of the land they
love." •*
•• The reailer will perceive, in these ami the preceJin;; | alarm of the loyal magistrate on the occwion now related,
verses, allusions to the state of France, as that country was I and a suliseqiient event that further illustrates tlie remau-k
eircumstaiiceil some years since, ratlier tlian as it appears to i with which the narrative commences,
be in the present date ; several vejirs elapsini; lietween the I
TALES.— THE DUMB ORATORS.
279
Home came our hero, to forget no more
The fear he felt and ever must deplore :
For though he quickly join'd his friends again,
And could with decent force his themes maintain,
Still it occurr'd that, in a luckless time.
He fail'd to fight with heresy and crime ;
It was observed his words were not so strong,
His tones so powerful, his harangues so long,
As in old times — for he would often droj)
The lofty look, and of a sudden stop ;
When conscience whisper'd, that he once was still.
And let the wicked triumph at their will ;
And therefore now, when not a foe was near,
He had no right so valiant to appear.
Some years had pass'd, and he perceived his fears
Yield to the spirit of his earlier years —
When at a meeting, with his friends beside.
He saw an object that awaked his pride ;
His shame, wrath, vengeance, indignation — all
Man's harsher feelings did that sight recall.
For, lo ! beneath him fix'd, our Man of Law
That lawless man the Foe of Order saw ;
Once fear'd, now scorn'd ; once dreaded, now ab-
horr'd :
A wordy man, and evil every word :
Again he gazed — " It is," said he " the same ;
" Caught and secure : his master owes him shame :"
So thought our hero, who each instant found
His courage rising, from the numbers round.
As when a felon has escaped and fled.
So long, that law conceives the culprit dead ;
And back recall'd her myrmidons, intent
On some new game, and with a stronger scent ;
Till she beholds him in a place, where none
Could have conceived the culprit would have
gone ;
There he sits upright in his seat, secure.
As one whose conscience is correct and pure ;
This rouses anger for the old offence.
And scorn for all such seeming and pretence :
So on this Hammond look'd our hero bold,
Rememb'ring well that vile otfence of old ;
And now he saw the rebel dar'd t' intrude
Among the pure, the loyal, and the good ;
The crime provok'd his wrath, the folly stirr'd his
blood :
Nor wonder was it, if so strange a sight
Caused joy with vengeance, terror with delight ;
Terror like this a tiger might create,
A joy like that to see his captive state,
At once to know his force and then decree his
fate.
Hammond, much praised by numerous friends,
was come
To read his lectures, so admired at home ;
Historic lectures, where he loved to mix
His free plain hints on modern politics :
Here, he had heard, that numbers had design.
Their business finish'd, to sit down and dine ;
This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right
To show by day that he could speak at night.
Rash the design — for he perceived, too late,
Not one approving friend beside him sate ;
The greater number, whom he traced around,
W^ere men in black, and he conceived they frown'd.
"I will not speak," he thought; "no pearls of
mine
" Shall be presented to this herd of swine ;"
Not this avail'd him, when he cast his eye
On Justice Bolt ; he could not fight, nor fly :
He saw a man to whom he gave the pain.
Which now he felt must be return'd again ;
His conscience told him with what keen delight
He, at that time, enjoy'd a stranger's fright ;
That stranger now befriended — he alone,
For all his insult, friendless, to atone ;
Now he could feel it cruel that a heart
Should be distress'd, and none to take its part ;
" Though one by one," said Pride, " I would defy
" Much greater men, yet meeting every eye,
" I do confess a fear — but he will pass me by."
Vain hope ! the Justice saw the foe's distress,
With exultation he could not suppress ;
He felt the fish was hook'd — and so forbore,
In playful spite to draw it to the shore.
Hammond look'd round again ; but none were
near,
W^ith friendly smile to still his grovsing fear ;
But all above him seem'd a solemn row
Of priests and deacons, so they seem'd below ;
He wonder'd who his right-hand man might be —
Vicar of Holt cum Uppingham was he ;
And who the man of that dark frown possess'd —
Eector of Bradley and of Barton-west ;
" A pluralist," he growl'd — but check'd the word,
That warfare might not, by his zeal, be stirr'd.
But now began the man above to show
Fierce looks and threat'nings to the man below ;
Who had some thoughts his peace by flight to
seek —
But how then lecture, if he dar'd not speak 1 —
Now as the Justice for the war prepared,
He seem'd just then to question if he dared :
" He may resist, although his power be small,
" And growing desperate may defy us all ;
" One dog attack, and he prepares for flight —
" Resist another, and he strives to bite ;
" Nor can I say, if this rebellious cur
" Will fly for safety, or will scorn to stir."
Alarm'd by this, he lash'd his soul to I'age,
Burn'd with strong shame, and hurried to engage.
As a male turkey straggling on the green,
When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen,
He feels the insult of the noisy train
And skulks aside, though moved by much disdain;
But when that turkey, at his own barn-door,
Sees one poor straying puppy and no more,
(A fooHsh puppy who had left the pack,
Thoughtless what foe was threat'uing at his back,)
He moves about, as ship prepared to sail.
He hoists his proud rotundity of tail.
The half-seal'd eyes and cliangeful neck he shows.
Where, in its qiiick'ning colours, vengeance glows ;
From red to blue the pendent wattles turn.
Blue mix'd with red, as matches when they burn ;
And thus th' intrutling snarlcr to oppose,
Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes.
L
280
CRAUBE'S WORKS.
Sii Idok'd our licii) in liis wriitli, Ijis clict'ks
I'MusliM with IVi'sli liri'M aiul gl(nv'(l in tingling
streaks,
His brciitli I>y passion'H force awliile restrainM,
Like a stopp'il current greater force regain'd ;
So spoke, so look'il lie, every eye and car
Were fix'd to view liim, or were tiirn'd to hear.
" My friends, you know ino, you can witness all,
" How, urf^cd liy passion, I restrain my gall ;
" .\nd evey niotive to revenge witlistand —
" Save when I liear abused my native land.
" Is it not known, agreed, confirm'd, confess'd,
" That, of all people, wc arc govern'd best ?
'" 'We have the force of monarchies ; arc free,
" .Vs the most proud republicans can be ;
'■ .\iul have tliosc prudent counsels that arise
" In grave and cautious aristocracies ;
'• And live there those, in such all-glorious state,
" Traitors i)rotectcd in the land they hate?
" Uebels, still warring with the laws that give
'• To them subsistence ? — Yes, such wretches live.
" Ours is a Church reform'd, and now no more
" Is aught for man to mend or to restore ;
'' 'T is pure in doctrines, 't is correct in creeds,
" Has nought redundant, and it nothing needs ;
" No evil is therein — no \\riukle, si)ot,
'■ Stain, blame, or blemish : — I affirm there's not.
" All this you know — now mark what once
befell,
'• With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell :
'• 1 was entrapp'd — j-es, so it came to pass,
" "Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class ;
■■ Hach to his country bore a hellish mind,
'' Each like his neighbour was of cursed kind ;
•• The land that nursed them, they blasphemed ;
the laws,
" Their sovereign's glory, and their country's
cause :
" And wlio their mouth, their master-fiend, and
who
" Rebellion's oracle? You, caitiflf, you!"
He spoke, and standing stretch'd his mighty arm
And fix'd the Alan of "Words, as by a charm.
" How raved that railer ! Sure some hellish power
" Restrain'd my tongue in that delirious hour,
" Or 1 had hurl'd the shame and vengeance due
'• On him, the guide of that infuriate crew ;
•• But to mine eyes, such dreadful looks appear'd,
" Such mingled yell of lying words I hcaril,
" That I conceived around were demons all,
" And till I fled the house, I fear'd its fall.
" Oh ! could our country from our coasts expel
'■ Such foes ! to nourish those who wish her well :
' [This tale is not iudicioiisly placed at the portal to tempt
hesitating readers to go forward. The fault, however, is
entirely in tlie siilijecf, which commands no strong or general
interest ; for it is perfectly well conceived and executed.
The oliject of it is to show, t)iat a man's fluency and force and
intrepidity of speech depend very much upon his confidence
of the approbation of his auditors ; and, accordingly it ex-
" 'I'his her mild lawH forbid, but we may still
" From us ejfct them by our sovereign will;
" This let UH do." — ll(! said, and then began
A gentler feeling for the silent man ;
I'i'en in our hero's mighty soul arose
A touch of jtity for experienced woes ;
Ibjt this was transient, and with angry eye
He sternly look'd, and i)auscd for a reply.
'T was then the .'Man of many Words would
speak —
But, in his trial, had them all to seek:
To find a friend he look'd the circle round,
But joy or scorn in every feature found ;
He sipp'd his wine, but in those times of dread
Wine only adds confusion to the hcail ;
In doubt he reason'd with himself — " .\nd how
'■ Harangue at night, if 1 be silent now?"
From i)ride and praise received, be sought to
draw
Courage to speak, but still remain'd the awe ;
One moment rose he with a forced disdain.
And then, abash'd, sunk sadly down again ;
While in our hero's glance he secm'd to read,
" Slave and insurgent ! what hast thou to plead ?''
By desperation urged, he now began :
" I seek no favour — I — the rights of man !
'• Claim ; and I — nay 1 — but give me leave — and I
" Insist— a man — that is — and in reply,
" I speak." — Alas ! each new attempt was vain :
Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again ;
At length he growl'd defiance, sought the door.
Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more.
" Laud we," said Justice Bolt, " the Powers
above :
" Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove."
F.xulting now he gain'd new strength of fame,
And lost all feelings of defeat and shame.
" He dared not strive, you witness'd — dared not
lift
'• His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift :
" So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose
•' Our Church or State — thus be it to our foes."
He spoke, and, seated with his former air,
Look'd his full self, and fill'd his ample chair ;
Took one full bumper to each favourite cause,
And dwelt all night on politics and laws.
With high applauding voice, that gain'd him high
applause.*
hihits the orthodox, loy.">l, authorative Justice Bolt struck
quite dumb in an assembly of Jacobins into which he happens
to stray ; and tlie Jacobin orator, in like manner reduced to
stammering and imbecility, when detected at a dinner of
parsons. The description of Justice Bolt is admirable, and
may stand for a portrait of more than one provincial dictator.
— Jkffrev.^
TALE II.
THE PARTING HOUR.'
.... I did not take nay leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say : ere I could tell him
How I would think of him, at certain hours
Such thoughts and such ; — or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words — comes in my father
Cymbeline.
Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,
And careful hours with Time's deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures o'er my face.
C'umedy vf Errors.
Oh ! if tliou be the same Egean, speak.
And speak unto the same Emilia. — Comedy of Errors.
I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days
To the very moment that she bade me tell it,
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field ;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery. Othello.
An old man, broken with tlie storms of fate.
Is come to lay his weary bones among you ;
Give him a little earth for charity. Henry VIII,
Minutely trace man's life ; year after year,
Through all his days let all his deeds appear,
And then, though some may in that life be strange,
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change :
The links that bind those various deeds are seen,
And no mysterious void is left between.
But let these binding links be all destroy'd,
All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd :
Let that vast gap be made, and then behold —
This vras the youth, and he is thus when old ;
Then we at once the work of time survey,
And in an instant see a life's decay ;
Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise.
And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.
Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair —
A sleeping man ; a woman in her chair.
Watching his looks with kind and pensive air ;
Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the name
Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same ;
Yet so allied are they, that few can feel
Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal ;
Their years and woes, although they long have loved,
Keep their good name and conduct unreproved ;
Thus life's small comforts they together share,
And while life lingers for the grave prepare.
' [Mr. Crabbe's fourth brother, William, taking to a sea-
faring life, was made prisoner by the Spaniards : he was car-
ried to Mexico, where he became a silversmith, married, and
prospered, until his increasing riches attracted a charge of
Protestantism ; the consequence of which was mucli perse-
cution. He at last was obliged to abandon Mexico, his pro-
perty, and his family ; and was discovered, in the year 1803,
by an Aldborough sailor, on the coast of Honduras, where
again he seems to have found some success in business. This
No other subjects on their spirits press,
Nor gain such int'rest as the past distress :
Grievous events, that from the mem'ry drive
Life's common cares, and those alone survive.
Mix with each thought, in every action share,
Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.
To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,
Allen his name, was more than common joy ;
And as the child grew up, there seem'd in him
A more than common life in every limb ;
A strong and handsome stripling he became,
And the gay spirit answer'd to the frame ;
A lighter, happier lad was never seen,
For ever easy, cheerful, or serene ;
His early love he fix'd upon a fair
And gentle maid— they were a handsome pair.
They at an infant-school together play'd,
Where the foundation of their love was laid :
The boyish champion would his choice attend
In every sport, in every fray defend.
As prospects open'd, and as life advanced.
They walk'd together, they together danced ;
On all occasions, from their early years.
They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and
fears ;
Each heart was anxious, till it could impart
Its daily feelings to its kindred heart ;
As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars
Broke out between them ; jealousies and jars ;
Causeless indeed, and foUow'd by a peace,
That gave to love — growth, vigour, and increase.
Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void.
Domestic thoughts young Allen's hours employ'd.
Judith in gaining hearts had no concern.
Rather intent the matron's part to learn ;
Thus early prudent and sedate they grew.
While lovers, thoughtful — and though children,
true.
To either parents not a day appear'd.
When with this love they might have interfered.
Childish at first, they cared not to restrain ;
And strong at last, they saw restriction vain ;
Nor knew they when that passion to reprove,
Now idle fondness, now resistless love.
So while the waters rise, the children tread
On the broad estuary's sandy bed ;
But soon the channel fills, from side to side
Comes danger rolling with the deep'niiig tide ;
Yet none who saw the rapid current flow
Could the first instant of that danger know.
The lovers waited till the time should come
When they together could possess a home :
In either house were men and maids unwed,
Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.
sailor was the only person he had seen for many a year who
could tell him anv thing of Aldborough and his family ; and
great was his perplexity when he «as informed that his
eldest brother, Geori;e, was a clergyman. " This cannot be
owr George," said the wanderer — " he was a dochirl" This
was the first, and it was also the last, tidings that ever reached
Mr. Crabbe of bis brother William ; and, upon the Ald-
borough sailor's story of his casual interview, it is obvious that
he built this tale.— See autr, p. '.i.J
2 o
k
282
c;m,\|{I5k\s works.
Tlicn Allen's motlior of his favourite maid
Sjioice from tlio fcclinns of a mind nfriiiil :
" Dress and ainiiscincnts were lii-r soli' cniploy,"
Slu> said -" cntatiglini; tier driiidcd lioy ; "
Anil yi'f, in truth, a inotlu>r's jealous love
llail niucli imagined and could little prctvo ;
•luilith had heaiity — ami if vain, was kind,
Discreet and mild, and had a serious nund.
Dull was their prospect. — "When tlie lovers met,
They said, " We must not — dare not venture
y.-t."
'• Oh! could I labour for tliee," Allen cried,
'' AVhy should our friemls be thus dissatisfied ;
" On my own arm I could dopeml, but tliey
" Still urge obedience — must I yet obey ? "
Poor .luditli felt the grief, but grieving begg'd
delay.
At length a prospect came tliat scem'd to smile,
And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle ;
A kinsman tliere a widow's hand had gain'd,
" Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain'd ;
" WouKl some young Booth to liis alfairs attend,
" And wait awliile, he miglit exiiect a friend."
The elder brotliers, who were not in love,
Fear'd the false seas, unwilling to remove ;
But the young Allen, an enamour'd boy,
Eager an independence to enjoy,
"Would tlirough all perils seek it, — by the sea, —
Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.
The faithful Judith liis design approved.
For both were sanguine, they were young, and
loved.
Tlie mother's slow consent was then obtain'd ;
The time arrived, to part alone remain'd :
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor'd in tlie bay.
From her would seamen in the evening come,
To take th' adventurous Allen from his home ;
AVith his own friends the final day lie i>ass'd,
And every painful hour, except the last.
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass ;
Intent the mother look'd upon her son.
And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed un-
done ;
The younger sister, as he took his way.
Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay :
But his own Judith call'd him to the shore,
"Whom he must meet, for they might meet no
more ; — ■
And there he found her — faithful, mournful, true,
Weeping, ami waiting for a last atlieu !
The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there
Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair :
Sweet were the painful moments — but, how-
sweet.
And without pain, when they again should meet I
Now either spoke as hope and fear impress'd
Each their alternate triumph in the breast.
Distance alarm'd the maid — slie cried, *" "T is
far!"
And danger too — " it is a time of war :
'• Then in those countries are diseases strange,
" And women gay, and men are prone to change :
" "What then may happen In a year, when things
" Of vast importance every moment brings !
" But hark ! an oar I" she cried, yet none ap-
j)ear'd — •
'T was love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd ;
.\nd she continued — ^" Dr), my Allen, kc-cp
" Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;
" Believe it gooil, nay glorious, to prevail,
" And staml in safety where so many fail ;
" And dft not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,
" Thy faith abjure, or thy jirofession Iddc;
" Can 1 Ijelieve his love will lasting prove,
'* Who has no rev'reiice for the God I love ?
" I know thee well I how good thou art and
kind;
" But strong the passions that invade thy mind —
" Now, wliat to me hath Allen to commend ?" —
" Upon my mother," said the youth, " attend ;
" Forget her spleen, and, in my place appear,
" Her love to me will make my .ludith dear,
" Oft I shall think (such comforts lovers seek),
" Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak ;
" Then write on all occasions, always dwell
" On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and
well,
" And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style."
She answer'd, " IS"o," but answer'd with a smile.
" And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
" Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime ;
" "When with our youthful neighbours 't is thy
chance
" To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,
" When every lad would on my lass attend,
" Choose not a smooth designer for a friend :
" That fawning Philip ! — nay, be not severe,
" A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear."
Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh.
Now truly heard I — it soon was full in sight ; —
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night :
For see ! — his friends come hast'ning to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach :
" Adieu ! — farewell I — remember I" — and what
more
Affection taught, was utter'd from the shore.
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart.
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace.
Till all were silent I — for the youth she pray'd.
And softly then return'd the weeping maid.
They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Juditli's hours in pensive pleasure fled ;
But when roturu'd the youth ? — the youth no more
Keturn'd exulting to his native shore ;
But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man with wither'd limbs and lame,
His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age
his frame :
Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay.
Was Allen landing in his native bay.
Willing his breathless form should blend with
kindred clay.
In an autumnal eve he left the beach.
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach :
TALE II.— THE PARTING HOUR.
283
He was alone ; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace : '^
There stood his parents, there retired the maid.
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid ;
And on that spot, through many year, his mind
Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd.
No one was present ; of its crew bereft,
A single boat was in the billows left ;
Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away.
O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd.
The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade ;
All silent else on shore ; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down :
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite :
" There," he observed, and new emotions felt,
" Was my first home — and yonder Judith dwelt;
" Dead ! dead are all ! I long — -I fear to know,"
He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joj's :
Seamen returning to their ship, were come.
With idle numbers straying from their home ;
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold ;
While fancy aided memory : — " Man ! what
cheer ? "
A sailor cried ; " Art thou at anchor here ? "
Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face :
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought :
Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd :
" The Booths ! yet live they ? " pausing and
oppress'd ;
Then spake again : — " Is there no ancient man,
" David his name ? — assist me, if you can.—
'• Flemmings there were — and Judith, doth she
live ? "
The woman gazed, nor could an answer give ;
Yet wond'ring stood, and all were silent by.
Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
The woman musing said — •" She knew full well
" Where the old people came at last to dwell ;
" They had a married daughter, and a son,
" But they were dead, and now remaiu'd not
one."
' [Original MS. :—
In a clear eve the lover sail'd, and one
As clear and bright on aged Allen shone :
On the spot sanction'd by the last embrace
The old man stood 1 and sigh'd upon the place.]
5 [" Last summer I went down to my native town, where I
found the streets much narrower and shorter than I tliought
1 had left tliem. inhabited by a new race of people, to whom
I was very little known. My play-fellows were grown old,
and forced me to suspect I was no longer young. My only
remaining friend had clianged his principles, and was become
the tool of the predominant faction. I wandered about for
live days, and took tlie first convenient opportunity of
returning to a place where, if there is not much liappiness,
there is, at least, such a diversity of good and evil, that
slight vexations do not fix upon the heart." — Dr. Johnson.]
••[Original MS. : —
" Yes," said an elder, who had paused intent
On days long past, " there was a sad event ; —
" One of these Booths — it was my mother's tale —
" Here left his lass, I know not where to sail :
" She saw their parting, and observed the pain ;
" But never came th' unliappy man again :"
" The ship was captured " — Allen meekly said,
" And what became of the forsaken maid ? "
The woman answer'd : " I remember now,
" She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
" And of her lover's loss, and I have seen
" The gayest hearts grow sad where she has
been ;
" Yet in her grief she married, and was made
" Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,
" And early buried — but I know no more :
" And hark ! our friends are hast'ning to the
shore."
Allen soon found a lodging in the to^^'n,
And walk'd, a man unnoticed up and down.
This house, and this, he knew, and thought a
face
He sometimes could among a number trace :
Of names remember'd there remain'd a few.
But of no favourites, and the rest were new : ^
A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea.
Was reckon'd boundless. — Could he living be ?
Or lived his son ? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business, and a fortune fair.
No ! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed.
With crutches went to take her dole of bread :
There was a friend whom he had left a boy.
With hope to sail the master of a hoy •,
Him, after many a stormy day, he found
With his great wish, his life's whole purpose,
crown'd.
This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face, —
" Yours is, my friend," said he, "a woeful case ;
" We cannot all succeed : I now command
" The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land :
" But when we meet, you shall your story tell
" Of foreign parts — I bid you now farewell !"
Allen so long had left his native shore,*
He saw but few whom he had seen before ;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd —
" The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
" He dwelt among us in his early years :
Oft to his children had th« father told
Where he resided in the years of old ;
When, without thought, his feeling and his pride
The native town adorn'd and magnified ;
Tlie streets, the markets, and tlie quays were all
Spacious and grand, and every building tall :
The tower and church were sea-marks leaj^ues from land-
Men were amazed to si'e them look so (;randl
Mis father's house was tlien in Allen's eyes.
But far increased in beauty nnd in size ;
And their small area where tlie schoolboys play'd,
Room for an army had his fancy matle :
But now tlie dark and feeble mind debased.
Contracted, sulliey drill, or tliresh'd \>y a machine :
lie WHS of those whose skill assi;;ns the j)rize
For crealiires fed in (leiis, and stalls, and sties;
Anil who, in places w heri' improvers meet,
To (ill the land with fatness, had a sent ;
AVho in larj^c mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms hut as amusing things ;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,
Antl talk w ith lords about a breed of sheci).
Two are the species in this genus known ;
One, who is rich in his profession grown,
Who yearly fiuds his ample 8tt>rcs increase,
From fortune's favours and a favouring lease ;
Who rides his liunter, who his house adorns ;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns ;
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can, —
This is the Farmer made the Gentleman.
Tlie second species from the world is sent,
Tired with its strife, or with liis wealth content;
In books and men beyond tlie former read,
To farming solely by a passion led.
Or by a fashion ; curious in liis land ;
Now planning much, now changing what he plann'd ;
Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd.
And ever certain to succeed the next ;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade, —
This is the Gentleman, a Farmer made.
Gwjjn was of these ; he from tlie world with-
drew
Early in life, his reasons known to few ;
Some disappointment said, some pure good sense.
The love of land, the press of indolence ;
His fortune known, and coming to retire.
If not a Farmer, men liad call'd him 'Squire.
Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross'd the still tenour of liis chosen life ;
Much land he purchased, planted far around.
And let some portions of superfluous ground
To farmers near him, not displeased to say
'' My tenants," nor '' our worthy landlord," they.
Fix'd in his farm, he soon display'd his skill
In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, and the
drill ;
From these he rose to themes of nobler kind,
And show'd the riclies of a fertile mind ;
To all around their visits he repaid,
And thus his mansion and himself display'd.
His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat,
And guests politely call'il his house a Seat ;
-Vt much expense was each apartment graced.
His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste ;
In full festoons the crimson curtains fell.
The sofas i"ose in bold elastic swell ;
Jlirrors in gilded frames display'd the tints
Of glowing carpets and of colour'd prints ;
The weary eye saw every object shine.
And all was costly, fanciful, and fine.
As with his fricndH he pnHH'd the social hours,
HiH generous Hpirit scorn'd to hide itH power*;
Powers unexpected, for his eye and air
CJttVc no sure siguH that elo(pii-ncn for discourse ;
Some, 't is observed, who feel a wish to Hpca'i,
Will a dtu- place for introduction feek ;
On to their purpose step by steji they steal,
.\nd all their way, by certain signals, feel ;
Others plunge in at once, and never heed
Whose turn they take, whose purpose they impede ;
Hesolved to shine, they hasten to begin.
Of ending thoughtless — and of these was Gwyn.
And thus he spake : —
" It grieves mc to the soul,
" To sec how man submits to man's control ;
" How overpower'd and shackled minds arc led
" In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred ;
" The coward never on himself relics,
" But to an equal for assistance flies ;
" Man yields to custom, as he bows to fate,
" In all things ruled — mind, body, and estate ;
" In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply
" To them we know not, and we know not why ;
" But that the creature has some jargon read,
" And got some Scotchman's sj-stem in his head ;
" Some grave impostor, who will health ensure,
" Long as your patience or your wealth endure,
" But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew,
" They have not health, and can they give it you ?
" These solemn cheats their various methods
choose,
" A system fires them, as a bard his muse :
" Hence wordy wars arise ; the learn'd divide,
" And groaning patients curse each erring guide.
" Next, our affairs are govem'd, buy or sell,
" Upon the deed the law must fix its spell ;
" W'hether we hire or let, we must have still
" The dubious aid of an attorney's skill ;
" They take a part in every man's atfairs,
■' And in all business some concern is theirs ;
" Because mankind in ways prescribed are found
" Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground,
" Each abject nature in the way proceeds,
" That now to shearing, now to slaughter leads.'
" Should you oflend, though meaning no offence,
" You have no safety in your innocence ;
•' The statute broken then is placed in view,
" And men must pay for crimes they never knew;
•' Who would by law regain his plundcr'd store,
'■ Would pick up fallen merc'ry from the floor;
" If he pursue it, here and there it slides,
" He would collect it, but it more divides ;
" This part and this he stops, but still in vain,
" It slips aside, and breaks in parts again ;
" Till, after time and pains, and care and cost,
" He finds his labour and his object lost.
" But most it grieves me (friends alone are round),
" To see a man in priestly fetters bound ;
' [Original MS. : —
Bec.iuse in l)eaten ways we ever tread,
AnJ man by mm, as sheep by sheep, is leVell pleased she saw that men her board would
grace,
And wisli'd not there to see a female face ;
Wlieu by her lover she lus spouse was styled,
Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled ;
But when he wanted wives and maidens round
So to regard her, she grew grave and frown'd ;
And sometimes whisper'd — "Why should you
respect
" These people's notions, yet their forms reject ? "
Gwyn, thougli from marriage bond and fetter
free,
Still felt abridgment in his liberty ;
Something of hesitation he betray'd.
And in her presence thought of what he said.
Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk'd asti'ay,
His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray,
To be at church, to sit with serious looks,
To read her Bible and her Sunday-books :
Slie hated all those new and daring themes,
And eall'd his free conjectures "devil's dreams:"
She lionour'd still the priesthood in her fall.
And claim'd respect and reverence for them all ;
Call'd them " of sin's destructive power tlie foes,
" And not such blockheads as he miglit suppose."
Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes
say,
" 'T is a kind fool ; why vex her in her way ?"
Her way she took, and still had more in view,
For she contrived that he should take it too.
The daring freedom of his soul, 'twas plain.
In part was lost in a divided reign ;
A king and queen, who yet in prudence sway'd
Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey'd.
Yet such our fate, that when we plan the best.
Something arises to disturb our rest :
For though in spirits high, in body strong,
Gwyn something felt — he knew not what — was
wrong ;
He winliM to know-, for he believed the thing,
If unremoveil, would other evil bring :
" She must ]>erceive, of late he could not eat,
" And when he wnlk'd he trembled on his feet:
" He liad forebodings, anil he Bcem'd as one
" Stoi>p'd on the road, or threaten'd by a dun ;
" He could not live, an()(t()r, wiiH l)iyi)inl his mi ;
iSiil iiiilil Kcbi'ccii he coiilil suroly hwii}',
While (iwjii would follow whore .she led the wny :
So to do Hood, (imd why a duty hIiiiii,
J5ecaii.se rewarded for the good when done?)
He with his IViemls wouhl join in all they plnnnM,
Save when ids faith or feelings should withstand;
There he must rest sole judge of his affairs,
While they might rule exclusively in theirs.
When Owyn his message to the teacher sent,
lie fear'd his friends would show their discontent ;
And iirudent seem'd it to th' attendant pair,
Not all at once to show an aspect fair :
On Wisp they seem'd to look witli jealous eye,
And fair Ivebecca was demure and sliy ;
IJnt hy degrees the teacher's worth they knew,
And were so kind, they seem'd converted too.
Wisp took occasion to the nymph to say,
" You must be married : will you name the day ?"
She smiled, — " 'T is well : but should he not
comply,
" Is it quite safe th' experiment to try?" —
" My child," the teacher said, " who feels remorse,
" (And feels not he ?) must wish relief of course :
" And can he find it, while he fears the crime ? —
" You must be married ; will you name the time ?"
Glad was the patron as a man could be,
Yet marvell'd too, to find his guides agree ;
" But what the cause ?" he cried ; " 't is genuine
love for me."
Each found his part, and let one act describe
The powers and honours of th' accordant tribe : —
A man for favour to the mansion speeds.
And cons liis threefold task as he proceeds ;
To teacher Wisp he bows with humble air,
And begs his interest for a barn's repair:
Then for the Doctor lie inquires, who loves
To hear applause for what his skill improves,
And gives for praise, assent — and to the Fair
He brings of pullets a delicious pair ;
Thus sees a peasant, with discernment nice,
A love of power, conceit, and avarice.
Lo ! now the change complete : the convert
Gwyn
Has sold his books, and has renounced his sin ;
IMollet his body orders, AVisp his soul.
And o'er his purse the Lady takes control ;
l\'o friends beside lie needs, and none attend —
Soul, body, and estate, has each a friend ;
And fair Kebecca leads a virtuous life —
She rules a mistress, and she reigns a wife.^
3 [This tale is of a courser texture than the preceding ones,
thoiifjli full of acute observation and grapliio delineation of
ordinary characters. The hero is not a farmer turned gentle-
man, but a gentleman turned farmer — a conceited, active,
talking', domineering sort of person — wlio plants, and eats,
and drinks with great viijour — keeps a mistress, and speaks
with audacious scorn of the tyranny of wives, and the impo-
sitions of priests, lawyers, and physicians. Heing but a
shallow fellow, however, at bottom, his confidence in liis
opinions declines gradually as his health decays ; and being
T A L K IV.
I'JtOCU.VSTi N AT ION.'
Heaven ^»itnpM
I have been to vou ever true and Immhle.
Urnr;/ nil.
Gentle lady,
When I ilid first impart my love to you,
I freely told you all the Health I had.
Mercftttnt nf Venice.
The fatal time
Cuts olT all ceremonies and vows of love,
And ample interchange of sweet discourse,
Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon.
Richard III.
I know thee not, old man ; fall to thy prayers.
Henry I J'.
Farewell,
Thou pure impiety, thou impious purity, .
For thee I '11 lock up all tlie gates of love.
Much Ado about Nothing.
Love will expire —the gay, the happy dream
Will turn to scorn, iiidiff'rence, or esteem :
Some favour'd pairs, in this exchange, are blest.
Nor sigh for raptures in a state of rest ;
Others, ill match'd, with minds unpair'd, repent
At once tlie deed, and know no more content ;
From joy to anguish they, in haste, decline,
And, with their fondness, their esteem resign ;
More luckless still their fate, who are the prey
Of long-protracted hope and dull delay :
'Mid plans of bliss the heavy hours pass on.
Till love is wither'd, and till joy is gone.
This gentle flame two youthful hearts possess'd.
The sweet disturber of unenvied rest ;
The prudent Dinah was the maid beloved.
And the kind Rupert was the swain approved :
A wealthy Aunt her gentle niece sustain'd.
He. with a fatlier, at liis desk remain'd ;
The youthful couple, to their vows sincere.
Thus loved expectant : year succeeding year,
With pleasant views and hopes, but not a prospect
near.
Rupert some comfort in his station saw.
But the poor virgin lived in dread and awe ;
Upon her anxious looks the widow smiled,
.\nd bade her wait, " for she was yet a child."
She for her neighbour had a due respect,
Nor would his son encourage or reject ;
seized with some maladies in his stomach, he ends witli mar-
rying his mistress, and submitting to be triply governed by
three of her confederates, in the respective characters of a
quack doctor, a methodist preacher, and a projecting land*
steward. — Jeffbev.]
' [Mr. Crabbe's sons have no doubt but that their mother's
residence, at one time, with her rich old aunt, who was very
partial to her, and abounded in trinkets, su^'gested this su|>-
position.]
TALE IV.— PROCRASTINATION.
291
And thus the pair, with expectations vain,
Beheld tlie seasons change and change again :
Meantime the nymph lier tender tales perused,
Where cruel aunts impatient girls refused :
While hers, though teasing, boasted to be kind,
And she, resenting, to be all resign'd.
The dame was sick, and when the youth applied
For her consent, she groan'd, and cough'd, and
cried,
Talk'd of departing, and again her breath
Drew hard, and cough'd, and talk'd again of death :
" Here may you Uve, my Dinah ! here the boy
" And you together my estate enjoy :"
Thus to the lovers was her mind express'd,
Till they forbore to urge the fond request.
Servant, and nurse, and comforter, and friend,
Dinah had still some duty to attend ;
But yet their walk, when Rupert's evening call
Obtain'd an hour, made sweet amends for all ;
So long they now each other's thoughts had knowni,
That nothing seem'd exclusively their own :
But with the common wish, the mutual fear.
They now had travelled to their thirtieth year.
At length a prospect open'd — but alas !
Long time must yet, before the union, pass.
Rupert was call'd, in other cUme, t' increase
Another's wealth, and toil for future peace.
Loth were the lovers ; but the aunt declared
'T was fortune's call, and they must be prepared :
" You now are young, and for this brief delay,
" And Dinah's care, what I bequeath will pay ;
" All will be yours ; nay, love, suppress that sigh ;
" The kind must suffer, and the best must die :"
Then came the cough, and strong the signs it gave
Of holding long contention with the grave.
The lovers parted with a gloomy view.
And Uttle comfort, but that both were true ;
He for uncertain duties doom'd to steer.
While hers remain'd too certain and severe.
Letters arrived, and Rupert fairly told
" His cares were many, and his hopes were cold :
" The view more clouded, that was never fair,
" And love alone preserved him from despair ;"
In other letters brighter hopes he drew,
" His friends were kind, and he believed them true."
When the sage widow Dinah's grief descried.
She wonder'd much why one so happy sigh'd :
Then bade her see how her poor aunt sustain'd
The iOs of life, nor murmur'd nor complain'd.
2 Allusion is here made, not to the well-known species of
sumach, called the poison-oak, toxicodendron, but to the upas,
or poison-tree of Java : whether it be real or imaginary, this
is no proper place for inquiry.
5 [" Fierce in dread silence on the blasted heath
Fell Upas sits, the Hydra tree of death.
Lo ! from one root, the envenom'd soil below,
A thousand ve^'etative serpents fjrow ;
In shining rays the scaly monster spreads
O'er ten square leagues his far diverging heads,
Or in one trunk entwists his tangled form,
Looks o'er the clouds, and hisses in the storm," &c.
Darwin's Luves of the Plants.
To vary pleasures, from the lady's chest
Were drawn the pearly string and tabby vest ;
Beads, jewels, laces, all their value shown.
With the kind notice — " They will be your own."
This hope, these comforts, cherish'd day by day.
To Dinah's bosom made a gradual way ;
Till love of treasure had as large a part,
As love of Rupert, in the virgin's heart.
Whether it be that tender passions fail,
From their own nature, while the strong prevail ;
Or whether av'rice, like the poison-tree,"
Kills all beside it, and alone will be ; ^
Whatever cause prevail'd, the pleasure grew
In Dinah's soul, — she loved the hoards to view ;
With Lively joy those comforts she survcy'd.
And love grew languid in the careful maid.
Now the grave niece partook the widow's cares,
Look'd to the great, and ruled the small affairs ;
Saw clean'd the plate, arranged the china-show.
And felt her passion for a shilling grow :
Th' indulgent aunt increased the maid's delight,
By placing tokens of her wealth in sight ;
She loved the value of her bonds to tell,
And spake of stocks, and how they rose and fell.
This passion grew, and gain'd at length such
sway.
That other passions shrank to make it way ;
Romantic notions now the heart forsook.
She read but seldom, and she changed her book ;
And for the verses she was wont to send.
Short was her prose, and she was Rupert's friend.
Seldom she wrote, and then the widow's cough.
And constant call, excused her breaking off;
Who now oppressed, no longer took the air.
But sat and dozed upon an easy chair.
The cautious doctor saw the case was clear.
But judged it best to have companions near ;
They came, they reason'd, they prescribed, — at
last.
Like honest men, they said their hopes were past ;
Then came a priest — 't is comfort to reflect
When all is over, there was no neglect :
And all was over. — By her husband's bones.
The widow rests beneath the sculptured stones.
That yet record their fondness and their fame.
While all they left the virgin's care became ;
Stock, bonds, and buildings ; it disturb'd her rest.
To think what load of troubles she posscss'd :
Yet, if a trouble, she resolved to take
Th' important duty for the donor's sake ;
She too was heiress to the widow's taste.
Her love of hoarding, and her dread of wuste.
For an authentic refutation of the gross imposition prac-
tised on the people of Europe, by the romance of Foersch,
on the subject of this tree, see Kafliess History of Java, vol. i.,
p. 44. " Almost every one," says .Sir Thomas, " has heard of
its fabulous history--a history which, from its extrav.igant
nature, its susceptibility of poetical ornament, its allkince
with the cruelties of a despotic government, and tlie spark-
ling genius of Darwin, whose purpose it answered to adopt
and personify it as a maliiinant spirit, haj? obtained almost
equal currency witli the wonders of the I.erna liydra. the
Chimera, or "any other of the classic fictions of anti-
quity."]
2 r2
292
CRAHBE'S WORKS.
SoinctiincH tlio piist woiilil on lior inind iiitniilc,
Anil tliiMi a cotidict full of cure oiihiiciI ;
'I'lic tliou{;iits of Kiipcrt on her iniml would j)resH,
His worth hIio know, Imf. (loiil)t(!e seasons, and to Dinali's board
(iavc what the seasons to the rich afford ;
For she indulged, nor was her heart so small,
That one strong passion should engross it all.
A love of splendour now with av'rice strove,
And oft appeared to be the stronger love :
A secret pleasure fill'd the AVidow's breast,
Wlien she reflected on the hoards possess'd ;
But livelier joy inspired th' ambitious IMaid,
"When she the j)urchase of those hoards display'd :
In small but splendid room she loved to see
That all was placed in view and harmony.
There, as with eager glance slie look'd around.
She much delight in every object found .
While books devout were near her — to destroy,
Sliould it arise, an overflow of joy.
Within that fair apartment guests might sec
The comforts cuU'd for wealth by vanity :
Around the room an Indian paper blazed,
AVith lively tint and figures boldly raised ;
Silky and soft upon the floor below,
Th' elastic carpet rose with crimson glow ;
All things around implied both cost and care.
What met the eye was elegant or rare :
Some curious trifles round the room were laid.
By liope presented to the wcaltliy Alaid ;
Within a costly case of varnish'il wood.
In level rows, her polish'd volumes stood ;
Shown as a favour to a chosen few.
To prove what beauty for a book could do :
A silver urn with curious work was fraught;
A silver lamp from Grecian pattern wrought:
Above her head, all gorgeous to behold,
A time-piece stood on feet of burnish'd gold ;
A stag's-head crest adorn'd the pictured case.
Through the pure crystal shone the enamel'd face ;
And while on brilliants moved the hands of steel.
It click'd from pray'r to pray'r, from meal to meal.
Here as the lady sat. a friendly pair
Stept in t' admire the \-icw, and took their chair :
They then related how the young and gay
Were thoughtless wandering in the broad highway :
How tender damsels sail'd in tilted boats,
And laugh'd with wicked men in scarlet coats ;
And how we live in such degen'rate times,
Tliat men conceal their wants and show their
crimes ;
While viciouH deeiis are Bcroen'd by fnttldon'H numo,
And what was once our pride is now our Hhame.
Dinah was muHing, aH her friends iliscoursed.
When these last words a Hudden entrance forced
Upon her minil, and what was once her pride
And now her slianie, some ])ainful views HUp]ilicd ;
Thoughts of the i)ast within her bosom j)ress'd.
And there a change was felt, and was confess'd :
While thus the \irgin strove with secret pain,
Her mind was wandering o'er the troubled main ;
Still she was silent, nothing seem'd to sec.
But sat and sigh'd in pensive reverie.
The frienils i)reparel in her »phiTr.
ylll 's flrl/ t/„it Ends /nil.
I'oor wretches, tlint depend
On creiitness' favours, dream as 1 have done,^
\\iike and liiid nothing'. Ci/mbilinK.
And since
'I'll' aniiclion of my mind amends, with whirh
I foar a madness lield me. Tmiprst.
A iioKOicii-BAii.iFr, wlio to law was train'd,
A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd ;
lie liad his way in life's rough ocean steer'd,
And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd ;
lie saw wIuTC others fail'd, and care liad he,
Otliors in him sliould not such failings see :
His sons in various husy states were placed,
And all began the sweets of gain to taste,
Save John, the younger, who, of sprightly parts.
Felt not a love for money-making arts :
In childhood feeble, he, for country air,
Had long resided with a rustic pair;
All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs,
Of lovers' sufferings and of ladies' wrongs ;
Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight.
For breach of promise, guilty men to fright ;
Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, witli
these,
All that on idle, ardent spirits seize ;
Kobbers at land and pirates on the main.
Enchanters foil'd, spells broken, giants slain ;
Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers,
Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice
flowers,
And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.
From village-children kept apart by priile,
With such enjoyments, and without a guide,
have supplanted every warmer emotion in her bosom ; and,
seeretly hoping never more to see her youthful lover, jjives
herself up to comfortable gossiping and formal ostentatious
devotion. .\t last, when she is set in her line parlour, with
her cliina, and toys, and prayer-books around her, the im-
patient man bursts into her presence, and reclaims her vows.
She answers coldly, that she h.is now done witli the world,
and only studies how to prepare to die ; and exhorts him to
betake himself to the same needful mediti»tions. Nothing
can be more forcible or true to nature than the description of
the etVect of this cold-blooded cant on the warm and unsus-
pecting nature of her disappointed suitor. — Jeffrey.]
' [The numberless allusions to the nature of a literary de-
pendant's existence in a great lord's house which occur in
Mr. Crabl)e's writings, and especially in the tale of ' The
I'atron,' are quite enough to lead any one who knew his cha-
racter and feelings to the conclusion that, notwithstanding
the kindness and condescension of the Duke and Puchess of
Rutland, — which were uniform, and of which he always spoke
Inspired by feelings all nucli works infused,
.lohn Hnntch'fl n pen. and wrote ns he perused :
With tin- like fancy he ctmld make his knight
Slay half a host, niid ])iit the rest to fliglit ;
With the like knowledge he could make him ride
From isle to isle at /V/WAcniWy's ^ side;
And with a heart yet frr'C, no busy brain
Form'd wilder notirtns of dr-light atnl pain,
The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain.
Such were the fruits of John's poetic toil — ■
Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil :
He nothing purposed but with vast delight,
Let Fancy loose, and wonder'd at lier flight :
His notions of poetic worth were liigh.
And of his own still-hoarded poetry; —
These to his father's house he bore with pride,
A miser's treasure, in his room to hide;
Till spurr'd by glory, to a reading friend
He kindly show'd the sonnets he hod penn'd :
M'ith erring judgment, though with heart sincere,
That friend e.\claim'd, " These beauties must
appear."
In magazines they claim'd their share of fame,
Though luidistinguish'd by their author's name ;
And with delight the young enthusiast found
The muse of Marcus with applauses crown'd.
This lieard the father, and with some alarm ;
" The boy," said he, " will neither trade nor farm,
" He for both law and physic is unfit,
" Wit he may have, but cannot live on wit :
" Let him his talents tlien to learning give,
" Where verse is honour'd, and where poets live."
John kept his terms at college unrcproved.
Took his degree, and left the life he loved;
Not yet ordain'd, his leisure he employ'd
In the light labours he so much enjoy'd ;
His favourite notions and his daring views
Were cherish'd still, and he adored the Muse.
" A little time, and he should burst to light,
" And admiration of the world excite ;
" And every friend, now cool atid apt to blame
" His fond pursuit, would wonder at his fame."
When led bj" fancy, and from view retired.
He call'd before him all his heart desired ;
" F'ame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess,
" And beauty next an ardent lover bless ;
with gratitude, — the situation he filled at Belvoir was at-
tended with many painful circumstances, and productive in
his mind of some of the acutest sensations of wounded pride
that have ever lieen traced by any pen. — Li/e, ante, p. 3i.
" Did any of my sons show poetical talent, of which, to mv
great satisfaction, there .-ue no appearances, the first thing 1
I shoidd do would be to inculcate upon him the dutv of culti-
I vating some honourable profession, and qualifjing himself to
I plav a more respectable part in society than the mere poet.
And as the best corollary of my doctrine, I would make him
get your tale of 'The I'atron' by heart from beginning to
end." — Sir fTalter Scott to Mr. Crabbe. See (wJe, p. 57.]
' [Tlie title of a romance wTitten hv Roger Boyle, Earl of
Orrery, and published in lfii"5. " Bu<\gell, in his History of
the Hoyles, says that ' few who can relish any romance will
dislike this :' and Langbane tells us that ' it yields not, either
in beauty, language, or desi:,'n, to the works of the famous
Scuderi or Calprenade, however famous they may he amongst
the French for pieces of this nature.' " — B'niig. Brit.']
TALE v.— THE PATRON.
295
" For me the maid shall leave her nobler state,
" Happy to raise and share her poet's fate."
He saw each day his father's frugal board,
With simple fare by cautious prudence stored :
Where each indulgence was foreweigh'd with care,
And the grand maxims were to save and spare :
Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed,
All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled ;
And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind.
Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind :
Slaves of the ring and lamp ! * what need of you,
When Fancy's self such magic deeds can do ?
Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind,
To common subjects stoop'd our poet's mind ;
And oft when wearied with more ardent flight.
He felt a spur satiric song to write ;
A rival burgess his bold Muse attack'd.
And whipp'd severely for a well known fact ;
For while he seem'd to all demure and shy,
Our poet gazed at what was passing by ;
And e'en his father smiled when playful wit,
From his young bard, some haughty object hit.
From ancient times, the borough where they
dwelt
Had mighty contests at elections felt :
Sir Godfrey Ball, 't is true, had held in pay
Electors many for the trying day ;
But in such golden chains to bind them all
Required too much for e'en Sir Godfrey Ball.
A member died, and to supply his place
Two heroes enter'd for th' important race ;
Sir Godfrey's friend and Earl Fitzdonnel's son.
Lord Frederick Damer, both prepared to run ;
And partial numbers saw with vast delight
Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight.
Our poet's father, at a first request.
Gave the young lord his vote and interest ;
And what he could our poet, for he stung
The foe by verse satiric, said and sung.
Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal.
And felt as lords upon a canvass ieel ;
He read the satire, and he saw the use
That such cool insult, and such keen abuse.
Might on the wavering minds of voting men
produce ;
Then too his praises were in contrast seen,
" A lord as noble as the knight was mean."
" I much rejoice," he cried, " such worth to find ;
" To this the world must be no longer blind :
"His glory will descend from sire to son,
'■ The Burns of English race, the happier Chat-
terton."
Our poet's mind, now hurried and elate,
Alarm'd the anxious parent for his fate ;
Who saw with sorrow, should their friend succeed,
That much discretion would the poet need.
Their friend succeeded, and repaid the zeal
The poet felt, and made opposers feel.
By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet !)
An invitation to his noble seat.
■'' [See, in the Arabian Niglits' Entertainments, the History
of Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp.]
The father ponder'd, doubtful if the brain
Of his proud boy such honour could sustain ;
Pleased with the favours ofier'd to a son.
But seeing dangers few so ardent shun.
Thus when they parted, to the youthful breast
The father's fears were by his love impress'd :
" There -will you find, my son, the courteous ease
" That must subdue the soul it means to please ;
" That soft attention which e'en beauty pays
" To wake our passions, or provoke our praise :
" There all the eye beholds will give delight,
" Where every sense is flatter'd like the sight ;
" This is your peril ; can you from such scene
" Of splendour part, and feel your mind serene,
'' And in the father's humble state resume
" The frugal diet and the naiTow room ? "
To this the j-outh with cheerfid heart replied.
Pleased with the trial, but as yet untried ;
And while professing patience, should he fail.
He suffered hope o'er reason to prevail.
Impatient, by the morning mail conveyed,
The happy guest his promised visit paid ;
And now arriving at the Hall, he tried
For air-composed, serene, and satisfied ;
As he had practised in his room alone.
And there acquired a free and easy tone :
There he had said, " Whatever the degree
" A man obtains, what more than man is he ?"
And when arrived — " This room is but a room ;
" Can aught we see the steady soul o'ercome ?
" Let me in all a manly fiiunness show,
" Upheld by talents, and their value know."
This reason urged ; but it surpassed his skill
To be in act as manly as in will :
When he his Lordship and the Lady saw.
Brave as he was, he felt oppress'd with awe ;
And spite of verse, that so much praise had won,
The poet found he was the Bailifi's son.
But dinner came, and the succeeding hours
Fix'd his weak nerves, and raised his failing
powers ;
Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice
On some remark, and bravely broke the ice ;
So that, at night, reflecting on his words,
He found, in time, he might converse with lords.
Now was the Sister of his Patron seen —
A lovelj' creature, with majestic mien ;
Who, softly smiling, while she look'd so fair.
Praised the young poet with such friendly air ;
Such winning frankness in her looks express'd.
And such attention to her brother's guest ;
That so much beauty, join'd with speech so kind,
Eaised strong emotions in tlie poet's mind ;
Till reason fail'd his bosom to defend,
From the sweet power of this enchanting friend. —
Rash boy ! what hope thy frantic mind invades?
What love confuses, and what pride persuailcs ?
Awake to truth I shouldst thou deluded feed
On hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed.
What say'st thou, wise one ? — " that all powerful
Love
" Can fortune's strong impediments remove ;
29G
CRAKHE'S WORKS.
" Nor is it strange tlint wortli should wed to worth,
'' The pridf ofgcniiiH witli flic jiridc; of birth."
While thou art dreiiiuiiig fliiiH, the IJenuty Hiiit'S
l.ove in thy treniour. iiiisHion in thine «'yes ;
And with tii' iiiiiusenient jileiised, of comiuest vuin,
She seeks her j)leaHure, careless of thy j)iiin ;
She f;ives thee prnise to humhie and confound,
Smiles to ensiuire, and (luttcrs tliee to wound.
Why has she said that in the lowest state
The nohic mind ensures a noble fate ?
And why thy dariuf; mind to glory call? —
That thou nuiy'st dare and sutfer, soar and fall.
Heauties are tyrants, and if they can reign,
They have no fei'ling for their subjects' pain :
Their victim's anguish gives their clinnns applause,
And tlu'ir chief glory is the woe they cause:
Something of tliis was felt, in spite of love,
Wliich hope, in spite of reason, would remove.
Thus lived our youtli, with conversation, books.
And Lady Knuna's soul-subduing looks :
Lost in delight, astonisli'd at his lot.
All prudence banisli'd, all advice forgot —
Hopes, fears, and every thought, were fix'd upon
the spot.
'T was autumn yet, and many a day must frown
On Brandon-Hall, ere went my Lord to town ;
Meantime the father, who had heard his boy
Lived in a round of lu.\ury and joy,
And justly tliiuking that the youth was one
Wlio, meeting danger, was unskill'd to shun ;
Knowing his temper, virtue, spirit, zeal.
How prone to hope and trust, believe and feel;
These on tlie parent's soul their weight impress'd,
And thus he wrote the counsels of his breast : —
" John, thou 'rt a genius ; thou hast some
pretence,
'• I think, to wit, — but hast thou sterling sense?
•• That which, like gold, may through the world
go forth,
•■ And always pass for what "t is truly worth :
•• Whereas this genius, like a bill must take
•■ Only the value our opinions make.
" ^len famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain,
•• Treat those of common parts with proud disdain ;
" The ])ower8 that wisdom would, improving, hide,
" They blaze abroad with iiicon»id'rate pride ;
'■ While yet but mere [irobationers for fume,
'• 'I'hey seize the honour they should then disclaim :
" Honour so hurried to the light must fade,
" 'J'he lusting laurels flourish in the shade.
" Genius is Jealous : I have heanl of some
" Who, if, unnoticed, grew perversely dumb ;
" Nay, different talents would their envy raise ;
" Poets have sicken'd at a dancer's praise ;
" And one, the hai)piest writer of his time,*
*' Grew pale at hearing Ueynolds was sublime;
" That liutland's Duchess wore a heavenly smile —
" 'And I,' said he, 'neglected all the while I '
" A waspish tribe are these, on gilded wings,
" Humming their lays, and brandishing their
stings :
" And thus they move their friends and foes among,
" Prepared for soothing or satiric song.
" Hear me, my Boy ; thou hast a virtuous mind —
I " But be thy virtues of the sober kind ;
'' Be not a Quixote, ever up in arms
" To give the guilty and the great alarms:
" If never heeded, thy attack is vain ;
" Anil if they heed thee, they 'II attack again ;
" Then too in striking at that heedless rate,
" Thou in an instant may'st decide thy fate.
" Leave admonition — let the vicar give
" Rules how the nobles of his flock should live;
" Nor take that simple fancy to thy brain,
" That thou canst cure the wicked and the vain.
" Our Pope, they say, once entertain'd the wbim,
" Who fear'd not God should be afraid of him ; *
" But grant they fear'd him, was it further said,
" That he reform'd the hearts he made afraid ?
" Did Chartres mend ? * Ward,' Watcrs.*and a score
" Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore ?
'• W^as Cibber silenced ? No ; with vigour blest,
'■ And brazen front, half earnest, half in jest,
" He dared the bard to battle, and was seen
" In all his glory match'd with Pope and spleen ;
" Himself he stripp'd. the harder blow to hit,
" Then boldly match'd his ribaldry with wit ;
" The poet's conquest truth and time proclaim,
" But yet the battle hurt his peace and fame.*
* [Goldsmith. " Those wlio were in any way distinguished
excited envy in him to so ridiculous an excess, tliat tlie
instances of it are hardly credible." — Choker's Boswell,
vol. i. p. 4-'2.]
* [" Yes, I am proud ; I must lie proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me ;
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone."
Pope, Epilogue to SatiresA
^ fCliartres was a man infamous for all manner of vices.
He died in Scotland, in 1731. Tlie populace at his funeral
raised a great riot, almost tore the body out of the coffin, and
cast dead dogs, &c. into the grave along witli it.]
' [.Tolin Ward, of Hackney. Beini; convicted of forgery, he
was expelled the House of Commons, sulVered on the pillory,
and afterwards imprisoned. During his imprisonment, his
amusement was to give poison to dogs and cats, and see them
expire by slower or quicker torments.]
• [A dexterous attorney, who, by a diligent attendance on
the necessities of others, acquired an immense fortune, and
represented the borough of Bridport in parliament. He died
in 1745.]
9 [" Pope, in 1743, published a new edition of the Dunciad,
in which he degraded Tibbald from his p.^inful pre-eminence,
and enthroned Cibber in his stead. CoUey resented the
affront in a pamphlet, which, Pope said, ' would be as good as
a dose of harUhorn to him ; ' but his tongtie and his hear:
were at variance. I have heard Mr. Richardson relate that
he attended his father, the painter, on a visit, when Cibber's
pamphlet came into the hands of Pope, who said, ' these
things are my diversion.' They sat by him while he perused
if, and saw his features writhing with anguish ; and young
Richardson said to his father, when tliey returned, that he
hoped to be preserved from such diversion as had that day
been the lot of Pope." — JoHXSOX.j
TALE v.— THE PATRON.
297
" Strive not too much for favour ; seem at ease,
" And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please :
'' Upon thy lord with decent care attend,
" But not too near ; thou canst not be a friend ;
" And favourite be not, 't is a dangerous post —
" Is gain'd by labour, and by fortune lost :
" Talents like thine may make a man approved,
" But other talents trusted and beloved.
" Look round, my son, and thou wilt early see
'' The kind of man thou art not form'd to be.
" The real favourites of the great are they
" Who to their views and wants attention pay,
" And pay it ever ; who, with all their skill,
" Dive to the heart, and learn the secret will ;
" If that be vicious, soon can tliey provide
" The favourite ill, and o'er the soul preside ;
" For vice is weakness, and the artful know
■' Their power increases as the passions grow ;
'' If indolent the pupil, hard their task ;
" Such minds will ever for amusement ask ;
" And great the labour ! for a man to choose
" Objects for one whom nothing can amuse ;
" For ere those objects can the soul delight,
" They must to joy the soul herself excite ;
'■ Therefore it is, this patient, watchful kind
" With gentle friction stir the drowsy mind :
" Fix'd on their end, with caution they proceed,
" And sometimes give, and sometimes take the
lead ;
" Will now a hint convey, and then retire,
" And let the spark awake the lingering fire ;
" Or seek new joys, and livelier pleasures bring
" To give the jaded sense a quick'ning spring.
" These arts, indeed, my son must not pursue ;
" Nor must he quarrel with the tribe that do :
" It is not safe another's crimes to know,
" Nor is it wise our proper worth to show : —
" ' My lord,' you say,' engaged me for that worth ;' —
" True, and preserve it ready to come forth :
" If questioned, fairly answer, — and that done,
" Shrink back, be silent, and thy father's son ;
" For they who doubt thy talents scorn thy boast,
" But they who grant them will dislike thee most :
" Observe the prudent ; they in silence sit,
'■ Display no learning, and affect no wit ;
'' They hazard nothing, nothing they assume,
" But know the useful art of acting dumb.
" Yet to their eyes each varj-ing look appears,
" And every word finds entrance at their ears.
" Thou art Religion's advocate — take heed,
" Hurt not the cause, thy pleasure 't is to plead ;
" With wine before thee, and with wits beside, i
" Do not in strength of reasoning powers confide ;
" What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain,
" They will denj', and dare thee to maintain ;
" And thus will triumph o'er thy eager youth,
" While thou wilt grieve for so disgracing truth.
" With pain I 've seen, these wrangling wits
among,
" Faith's weak defenders, passionate and young ;
" Weak thou art not, yet not enough on guard,
" Where wit and humour keep their watch and
ward :
" Men gay and noisy will o'erwhelm thy sense,
" Then loudly laugh at truth's and thy expense ;
" While the kind ladies will do all they can
" To check their mirth, and cry, ' The govd yoiuuj
man .''
" Prudence, my Boy, forbids thee to commend
" The cause or party of thy noble friend ;
" What are his praises worth, who must be known
" To take a Patron's maxims for his own ?
" When ladies sing, on in thy presence play,
" Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away ;
" 'T is not thy part, there will be list'ners round,
" To cry Divine ! and dote upon the sound ;
" Remember, too, that though tlie poor have ears,
" They take not in the music of the spheres ;
" They must not feel the w arble and the thrill,
" Or be dissolved in ecstasy at will ;
" Beside, 't is freedom in a youth like thee
" To drop his awe, and deal in ecstasy !
" In silent ease, at least in silence, dine,
" Nor one opinion start of food or wine :
" Thou knowest that all the science thou can boast,
" Is of thy father's simple boil'd or roast ;
" Nor always these ; he sometimes saved his cash,
" By interlinear days of frugal hash :
" Wine hadst thou seldom ; wilt thou be so vain
'' As to decide on claret or champagne ?
" Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime,
" Who order port the dozen at a time ?
" When (every glass held precious in our eyes)
" We judged the value by the bottle's size :
" Then never merit for thy praise assume,
" Its worth well knows each servant in the room.
" Hard, Boy, thy task, to steer thj^ way among
" That servile, supple, shrewd, insidious throng ;
" Who look upon thee as of doubtful race,
" An interloper, one who wants a place :
" Freedom with these, let thy free soul condemn,
" Nor with thy heart's concerns associate them.
" Of all be cautious — but be most afraid
" Of the pale charms that grace My Lady's Maid ;
" Of those sweet dimples, of that fraudful ej'c,
" The frequent glance designed for thee to spj- ;
" The soft bewitching look, the fond bewailing
sigh :
■' Let others frown and envy ; she the while
•' (Insidious syren !) will demurely smile ;
•' And for her gentle purpose, everj' day
■' Inquire thy wants, and meet thee in thy way ;
■' She has her blandishments, and. though so weak.
■' Her person pleases, and her actions speak :
' At first her folly may her aim defeat ;
' But kindness shown, at length will kindness
meet :
' Have some offended? them will she ilisdain,
' And, for thy sake, contempt and pity feign ;
' She hates the vulgar, she admires to look
' On woods and groves, and dotes upon a book ;
' Let her once see thee on her features dwell,
' And hear one sigh, then liberty farewell.
" But, John, remember we cannot maintain
' A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain.
■2
298
('MAUDE'S WORKS.
" Doiilit iiiucli 111' tVicndsliii) : slioulilst tliou find
II trii'iiil
" IMcasfd to udvisi- tlici', anxious to roinniciid ;
'' Sliould he tin" prHisi'H lie has heard rt'port,
" And confidonco (in tlico confiilint;) court;
'■ Much of ni'uloctod I'atnmH siiould lie say,
" And then exclaim — ' 1 1 ovv loiij; inuHt merit stay ! '
" Then show liow high thy modest hopes may
stretch,
" And point to stations far beyond thy reach; —
'' Let such designer, h^' thy conduct, sec
" (Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee ;
" Ami he will quit thee, as a man too wise
" l''or him to ruin first, and tlien despise.
" Such are thy dangers : — yet, if thou canst
steer
" Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear,
" Then may'st tliou profit ; but if storms prevail,
" If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail, —
"No more of winds or waters be the sport,
" But in thy father's mansion find a port."
Our poet read. — " It is in truth," said he,
'■ Correct in part, but what is this to me ?
" I love a foolish Abigail ! in base
'• And sordid office ! fear not such disgrace :
" Am I so blind? " " Or thou wouldst surely see
'■ Tliat lady's fall, if she should stoop to thee 1 "
'• The cases differ.'' " True ! for what surpi'ise
'■ (\)uld from thy marriage witli the maid arise ?
'' But through the island would the shame be
spread,
" Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed."
Jolin saw not this ; and many a week had pass'd.
While the vain beauty held her victim fast ;
The Noble Friend still condescension show'd,
And, as before, with praises overfiow'd ;
But his grave Lady took a silent view
Of all that pass'd, and smiling, pitied too.
Cold grew the foggj' mom, the day was brief.
Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf;
The dew dwelt ever on the herb ; the woods
lloar'd with strong blasts, with mighty showers the
floods :
All green was vanish'd, save of pine and yew.
That still displayed their melancholy hue ;
Save the green holly with its berries red.
And the green moss that oer the gravel spread.
To public views my Lord must soon attend ;
And soon the ladies — would they leave their
friend ?
The time was fix'd — approach'd — was near — was
come ;
The trying time that fiU'd his soul with gloom :
Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose.
And cried, " One hour my fortune will disclose ;
" Terrific hour I from thee have I to date
'• Life's loftier views, or my degraded state ;
'' For now to be what I have been before
'• Is so to fall, tliat I can rise no more."
The morning meal was past ; and all around
The mansion rang with each discordant sound ;
Haste was in every foot, and everj' look
The trftv'llcr's joy for Londori-journ«-y spoke:
Not HO our youth ; whose feelings at the noi»e
Of prejiaration, had no touch of joys:
He jiensive Htood, and saw each carriage drawn,
With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn :
'J'he Ladies came ; bikI .lohn in terror tlircw
One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew ;
Not with such speed, but he in other eyes
Witli anguish read — " I ])ity, but despise —
" Unhai)py boy I — presumptuous scribbler I — you,
" To dream such dreams I — be sober, and adieu !"
Then came the Noble Friend — " An Q 2
300
CIIAHBK'S WORKS.
A IVii'iicl iibniptly to liis presence broiifjlit,
W illi treinhliii;; hnnd, flic siil)jcrt of tiis Hiduglit ;
AVIioin lie lull) iiimul alHictrtl anil siilxhu'il
15y liiiiif^cr, sDiTow, cidil, uiid siiliUnh'.
Silent lie cnlcrM llio forf^ottcn mom.
As (fhostly forms miiy l)c conciMvcil to romo ;
With sorrow-slininki-n fare and liair ui)rijilit,
IIo look'il ilisniiiy, m-i^'lcct, (U-spair, alfrij^ht ;
I5nt, (lead to comfort, and on misery thrown,
His parent's loss ho felt not, nor his own.
The {food man, struck with horror, cried aloud,
And drew around him an nstonisli'd crowd ;
The sons and servants to the father ran.
To share the feelings of the gricv'd old man.
'■ Our brother, speak ! " they nil cxclaim'd ;
'' e.\plain
'' Thy grief, tliy suffering :" — but they ask'd in
vain :
The friend told all he knew ; and all was known,
Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown ;
But, if obscure the cause, tliey all agreed
From rest and kindness must the cure proceed :
And lie was cured ; for quiet, love, and care.
Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair ;
Yet slow their progress, and, as vapours move
Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove ;
All is confusion, till the morning light
Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight ;
More and yet more defined the trunks appear,
Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear; —
So the dark mind of our young poet grew
Clear and sedate ; the dreadful mist withdrew ;
And he resembled that bleak wintry scene.
Sad, though unclouded ; dismal, thougli serene.
At times he utter'd, '•'What a dream was mine !
'• And what a prospect ! glorious and divine I
" Oh ! in that room, and on that night to see
'■ Those looks, that sweetness beaming all on me ;
" That syren-flattery- and to send me tlien,
'• llopc-raised and soften'd, to those heartless men ;
" That dark-brow'd stern Director, pleased to show
" Knowledge of subjects 1 disdain'd to know ;
" Cold and controlling — but 't is gone — 't is past ;
" I had my trial, and have peace at last."
Now grew the youth resigned : he bade adieu
To all that hope, to all that fancy drew ;
His frame was languid, and the hectic heat
Flush'd on his pallid face, and countless beat
The quick'ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore
The slender form that soon would breathe no more.
Then hope of holj- kind tlie soul sustain'd
And not a lingering thought of earth remain'd ;
Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at Love,
And the wild sallies of his youth repi-ove ;
'" [" Let every m.in of letters, who wislies for patronage,
read U'Alembert's ' Essay on Living with tlie Great,' before
he enters tlie house of a patron : and let him alvv.iys remeni-
lier the fate of Uacine, wi\o, havins; drawn up, at Madame de
^L^intenon's secret request, a memorial that strongly painted
I lie distresses of the French nation, the weight of their taxes,
and the expenses of the Court, she could not resist the im-
Thcn could he dwell \i\u>n the tempting days,
The prouil aspiring thought, the partial praiKC ;
Victorious now, bin worldly viewH were closed,
And on the bed of death the youth reposed.
The father grieved— but as the poet's heart
Was all unfitted for his earthly jiart ;
As, he conceived, some other haughty fair
Would, had he liveil, have led him to despair;
As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out
All feverish liopc, ami all tormenting doubt ;
While the strong faith the pious youth possess'd,
His hope enlivening, gave his soitows rest ;
Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mouniful joy
For his aspiring and devoted boy.
Meantime the news through various channels
spread,
The youth, once favour'd with such praise, was
dead :
" Emma," the Ladj' cried. '' my words attend.
" Your syren-smiles have kill'd your humble friend ;
" The hope you raised can now delude no more,
'• Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore."
Faint was the flush of anger and of shame.
That o'er the cheek of conscious beauty came :
'• You censure not," said she, '' the sun's bright
rays,
" When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze ;
" And should a stripling look till he were blind,
" You would not justly call the light unkind :
" But is he dead ? and am I to suppose
" The power of poison in such looks as those ? "
She spoke, and, pointing to the mirror, cast
A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass'd.
My liord, to whom the poet's fate was told,
Was much afl'ected. for a man so cold :
'■ Dead ! " said his lordship, " run distracted, mad I
" Upon my soul I 'm sorry for the lad ;
" And now. no doubt, th' obliging world will say
" That my liarsh usage help'd him on his way :
"■' What I I suppose. I should have nursed his
muse,
'' And with champagne have brighten'd up his
views ;
'• Then had he made me famed my whole life long,
" And stunn'd my ears with gratitude and song.
•' Still should the father hear that I regret
■• Our joint misfortune — Yes ! I '11 not forget."
Thus they : — the father to his grave convey'd
The son he loved, and his last duties paid.
" There lies my Boy," he cried. '* of care bereft,
'■ And, Heaven be praised, I 've not a genius left :
" No one among ye, sons ! is doomed to live
'' On high-raised hopes of what the Great may
give ; '9
portunity of Louis XIV., but showed him her friend's paper,
against whom the king immediately conceived a violent
indignation, liecause a poet should dare to busy himself with
politics. Uacine had the weakness to take this anger so
much to heart, that it brought on a low fever, which hastened
his death." — Wartox.]
'' None, with exalted views and fortunes mean,
" To die in anguish, or to live in spleen :
■■ Your pious brother soon escaped the strife
'■ Of such contention, but it cost his life ;
" You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend,
'■ And in your own exertions find the friend." '^
TALE VI
THE FRANK COURTSHIP.
Yes, faith, it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsv, and sav,
" Father, as it please you ;" but for all that, cousin, let hiin
he a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say,
" Father, as it pleases me." — Much Adu ahuut Nuthhuj.
IFe cannot flatter, he!
An Iionest mind and plain— he must speak truth.
King Lear.
God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves
another ; you jig, you amble, you nick-name God's creatures,
and make your w antonness your ignorance. — Hamlet.
What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ?
Am 1 contemn'd for pride and scorn so much ?
3Iuch Adu about Nothing.
Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire,
Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher ;
Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slovs^.
Who knew the man could never cease to know :
His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by.
Had a firm presence and a steady eye ;
But with her husband droj)p'd her look and tone,
And Jonas ruled unquestion'd and alone.
He read, and oft would quote the sacred words.
How pious husbands of their wives were lords ;
Sarah called Abraham Lord ! and who could be.
So Jonas thought, a greater man than he ?
Himself he view'd with undisguised respect,
And never pardon'd freedom or neglect.
They had one daughter, and this favourite
child
Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled ;
" [' The Patron ' contains specimens of very various excel-
lence. The story is that of a young man of humble birth,
who shows an early genius for poetry ; and having been, with
some inconvenience to his parents, provided with a frugal,
but regular education, is at last taken notice of by a noble-
man in the neighbourhood, w ho promises to promote him in
the church, and invites him to pass an autumn with him at
his seat in the country. Here the youth, in spite of the ad-
mirable admonitions of his father, is eradually overcome by
a taste for elegant enjoyments, and allows himself to fall in
love with the enchanting sister of his protector. When the
family leave him with indifference, to return to town, he
feels the first pang of humiliation and disappointment ; and
afterwards, when he finds that all his noljle friend's fine pro-
mises end in obtaining for him a poor drudging place in the
Soothed by attention from her early years,
She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears :
But ifi/bil then was in that playful time.
When contradiction is not held a crime ;
When parents yield their children idle praise
For faults corrected in their after days.
Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt.
Where each his duty and his station felt :
Yet not that peace some favour'd mortals find.
In equal views and harmony of mind ;
Not the soft peace that blesses those who love,
Where all with one consent in union move ;
But it was that which one superior will
Commands, bj' making all inferiors still ;
Who bids all murmurs all objections cease.
And with imperious voice announces — Peace I
They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew.
Who, as their foes maintain, their Sovereign
slew ;
An independent race, precise, correct.
Who ever married in the kindred sect :
No son or daughter of their order wed
A friend to England's king who lost his head ;
Cromwell was still their Saint, and when thej- met.
They mourn'd that Saints' were not our rulers yet.
Fix'd were their habits : they arose betimes.
Then pray'd their hour, and sang their party-
rhymes :
Their meals were plenteous, regular and plain ;
The trade of Jonas brought liim constant gain ;
Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn —
And, like his father, he was mercliant born :
Neat was their house ; each table, chair, and
stool.
Stood in its place, or moving moved by rule ;
No lively print or picture graced the room;
A plain brown paper lent its decent gloom ;
But here the eye, in glancing rovmd, survey'd
A small recess that seem'd for china made ;
Such pleasing pictures seem'd this pencill'd ware.
That few would search for nobler objects there —
Yet, turn'd bj' chosen friends, and there appcar'd
His stern, strong features, whom they all revered ;
For there in lofty air was seen to stand
The bold Protector of the conquer'd land ;
Drawn in that look with which he wept and
swore,
Turn'd out the Members, and made fast the door.
Ridding the House of every knave and drone.
Forced, though it grieved his soul, to rule alone.
Customs, he pines and pines till he falls into insanity ; and
recovers, only to die prematurely in the arms of his disap-
pointed parents. The history of the poet's progress, the
father's warnings, the blandishments of the careless syren
by whom he was enchanted, are all excellent. The descrip-
tion of the breaking up of that enchantment cannot fail to
strike, if it had no other merit, from its mere truth and accu-
racy. The humiliation and irritability of the youth on his
first return home are also represented with a thorough know-
ledge of human nature. — Jeffkkv.]
' This appellation is here used not ironically, nor with
malignity ; but it is taken merely to designate a morosely
devout people, with peculiar austerity of manners.
302
CRABBE'S WORKS.
'I'lic stern slill smile eiieli IVieiiil iipproving Ravo,'
'I'lieii tnrn'd I lie \ lew, iiikI all iip;iiiii were grnvc."
'I'liere stodil II clock, llioiigli siiiiill tlio owiior's
IH'..,I,
For lialiil IdIiI ulieii nil tliin;;s stiiniM jirocopd ;
Vrw their nmuseiiieiits, Itiit when friemls ii|)|)enr'(l,
They with the world's distress their spirits (dieer'd ;
The nation's guilt, tiiat would not long endure
The reign of men so modest and so pure :
Their town was large, and seldom pass'd a day
But some had i'ail'd, and others gone astray ;
Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls Mown
To (iretna-CJreen, or sons rehellious grown ;
Quarrels and fires arose; and it «as plain
The times were bad ; the Saints liad ceased to
reign !
A few yet lived, to languish and to mourn
For good old manners never to return.
•Jonas had sisters, and of tliesc was one
AVho lost a husband and an only son :
Twelve months her sables she in sorrow wore,
And mourn'd so long that she could mourn no
more.
Distant from Jonas, and from all her race,
She now resided in a lively place ;
There, by the sect unseen, at whist she play'd,
Nor was of churchmen or their church afraid :
If much of this tlie graver brother heard.
He something censured, but he little fear'd ;
He knew her rich and frugal ; for the rest,
He felt no care, or, if he felt, suppress'd :
Nor for companion when she ask'd her Niece,
Had he suspicions that disturb'd his peace;
Frugal and rich, these virtues as a charm
Preserved the thoughtful man from all alarm ;
An infant yet, she soon would home return,
Nor stay the manners of the world to learn ;
Meantime his boys would all his care engross,
And be his comforts if he felt the loss.
The sprightly Si/hil, pleased and unconfined,
Felt the pure pleasure of the op'ning mind :
All here was gay and clieerful all at home
Unvaried (piiet and unrutHed gloom :
There were no changes, and amusements few ; —
Here all was varied, wonderful, and new ;
There were plain meals, plain dresses, and grave
looks —
Here, gay companions and amusing books ;
And the young Beauty soon began to taste
The light vocations of the scene she graced.
A man of business feels it as a crime
On calls domestic to consume his time ;
Yet this grave man had not so cold a heart.
But with his daughter he was grieved to part :
And he demantlod that in every year
The Aunt and Niece should at his house appear.
" Yes ! we must go, my cliild, and by our dress
" A grave conformity of mind express ;
' [Suoli \vi\s the actual consolation of a small knot of Pres-
byterians in a country town, about sixty years .iijo.]
" Must sing at meeting, anil from cards refrain,
" The mf>re t' enjoy whr^n we return again."
'I'hus spake the ,\nnf, and the rliHccrning child
Was i)l('ascd to learn how fatlK-rs are beguiled.
Her artful i)art the yf>ung dissembler took.
And from the matron caught th' approving look :
When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent
For more delay, and .lonas was content ;
'I'ill a tall maiden by her sire was seen.
In all the bloom and beauty of sixteen ;
He gazed admiring;- she, with visage prim,
Glanced an arch look of gravity on him ;
For she was gay at heart, but wore disguise,
.\nd stood a vestal in her father's eyes :
Pure, i)ensive, simi)le, sad ; the damsel's heart.
When .lonas praised, reproved her for the part ;
For Sybil, fond of pleasure, gay and light.
Had still a secret bias to the right ;
Vain as she was — and flattery made her vain —
Her simulation gave her bosom pain.
Again retuni'd, the Matron and the Niece
Found the late quiet gave their joy increase ;
The aunt infirm, no more her visits paid,
But still with her sojourn'd the favourite maid.
Letters were sent when franks could be procured.
And when they could not, silence was endured ;
All were in health, and if they older grew.
It seem'd a fact that none among them knew ;
The aunt and niece still led a pleasant life,
And quiet days had Jonas and his wife.
Near him a Widow dwelt of worthy fame,
Like his her manners, and her creed the same ;
The wealth her husband left, her care retain'd
For one tall Youth, and widow she remain'd ;
His love respectful all her care repaid.
Her wishes watch'd. and her commands obey'd.
Sober he was and grave from early j-outh.
Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth ;
In a light drab he uniformly drcss'd.
And look serene th' unrutfled mind express'd ;
A hat with ample verge his bn)ws o'erspread.
And his brown locks curl'd graceful on his bead ;
Yet might observers in his speaking eye
Some observation, some acuteness spy ;
The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous
deem'd it sly ;
Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect.
His actions all were, like his speech, correct ;
And they who jested on a mine so sound.
Upon his virtues must their laughter found ;
Chaste, sober, solemn, and devout they named
Him who was thus, and not of this ashamed.
Such were the virtues Jonas found in one
In whom he warmly wish'd to find a son :
Three years had pass'd since he had Sybil seen ;
But she was doubtless what she once had been.
Lovely anil mild, obedient and discreet :
The pair must love whenever they should meet ;
Then ere the widow or her son should choose
Some happier maid, he would explain his views :
Now she. like him. was politic and shrewd.
With stronir desire of lawful irain cmbued :
TALE VI.— THE FRANK COURTSHIP.
3C3
To all he said, she bow'd ■with much respect,
Pleased to comply, yet seeming to reject ;
Cool and yet eager, each admired the strength
Of the opponent, and agreed at length : [
As a drawn battle shows to each a force, ]
Powerful as his, he honoiu's it of course ;
So in these neighbours, each the power discern'd.
And gave the praise that was to each retum'd.
Jonas now ask'd his daughter — and the Aunt,
Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant : —
But Mould not Sj'bil to the matron cling,
And fear to leave the shelter of her wing ?
No ! in the young there lives a love of change,
And to the easy they prefer the strange !
Then, too, the joys she once pursued with zeal,
From whist and visits spi'ung, she ceased to feel :
"When with the matrons Sybil first sat down.
To cut for partners and to stake her crown,
This to the youthful maid preferment seem'd,
Who thought what woman she was then esteem'd ;
But in few years, when she perceived, indeed,
The real woman to the girl succeed,
'So longer tricks and honours till'd her mind.
But other feelings, not so well defined ;
She then reluctant grew, and thought it hard
To sit and ponder o'er an ugly card ;
Rather the nut-tree shade the nymph preferr'd,
Pleased with the pensive gloom and evening bird ;
Thither, ft-om company retired, she took
The silent walk, or read the fav'rite book.
The father's letter, sudden, short, and kind.
Awaked her wonder, and disturb'd her mind ;
She found new dreams upon her fancy seize,
Wild roving thoughts and endless reveries :
The parting came ; — and when the Aunt perceived
The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved —
To love for her that tender grief she laid,
That various, soft, contending passions made.
When Sybil rested in her father's arms.
His pride exulted in a daughter's charms ;
A maid accomplish'd he was pleased to find,
Nor seem'd the form more lovely than the mind :
But when the fit of pride and fondness fled.
He saw his judgment by his hopes misled ;
High were the lady's spirits, far more free
Her mode of speaking than a maid's should be ;
Too much, as Jonas thought, she seem'd to know,
And all her knowledge was disposed to show ;
" Too gay her dress, like theirs who idly dote
" On a young coxcomb, or a coxcomb's coat ;
'• In foolish spirits when our friends appear,
" And vainly grave when not a man is near."
Thus Jonas, adding to his sorrow blame,
And terms disdainful to a Sister's name : —
" The sinful wretch has by her arts defiled
" The ductile spirit of my darling child."
" The maid is virtuous," said the dame — Quoth
he,
" Let her give proof, by acting virtuously :
" Is it in gaping when the Elders pray ?
" In reading nonsense half a summer's day ?
" In those mock forms that she delights to trace,
" Or her loud laughs in Hezekiah's face ?
" She — O Susannah ! — to the world belongs ;
" She loves the folUes of its idle throngs,
" And reads soft tales of love, and sings love's
soft'ning songs.
" But, as our friend is yet delay'd in town,
" We must prepare her till the Youth comes down :
" You shall advise the maiden ; I will threat ;
" Her fears and hopes may yield us comfort yet."
Now the grave father took the lass aside,
Demanding sternly, "Wilt thou be a bride?"
She answer'd, calling up an air sedate,
" I have not vow'd against the holy state."
" No folly, Sybil," said the parent ; '• know
" What to their parents virtuous maidens owe :
" A worthy, wealthy youth, whom I approve,
" Must thou prepare to honour and to love.
" Formal to thee his air and dress may seem,
" But the good youth is worthy of esteem :
" Shouldst thou with rudeness treat him; of disdain
" Should he with justice or of slight complain,
" Or of one taunting speech give certain proof,
" Girl ! I reject thee from my sober roof."
"Mj' aunt," said Sybil, " will with pride protect
" One whom a father can for this reject ;
'■ Nor shall a formal, rigid, soul-less boy
" My manners alter, or my views destroy !"
Jonas then lifted up his hands on high,
And, utt'ring something 'twixt a groan and sigh,
Left the determined maid, her doubtful mother by.
" Hear me," she said ; " incline thy heart, my
child,
" And fix thy fancy on a man so mild :
" Thy father, Sybil, never could be moved
" By one who loved him, or by one he loved.
" Union like ours is but a bargain made
" By slave and tyrant — he will be obey'd :
" Then calls the quiet, comfort — but thy Y'outh
" Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth."
" But will he love ?" said Sybil; " 1 am told
" That these mild creatures are by nature cold."
" Alas !" the matron answer'd, " much I dread
" That dangerous love by which the young are led !
I " That love is earthy ; you the creature prize,
' " And trust your feelings and believe your eyes :
I " Can eyes and feelings inward worth descry ?
'• No ! my fair daughter, on our choice rely !
'■ Your love, like that display'd upon the stage.
Indulged is folly, and opposed is rage ; —
More prudent love our sober couples show.
All that to mortal beings, mortals owe ;
All flesh is grass — before you give a heart.
Remember, Sybil, that in death you part ;
And should your husband die before your love,
What needless anguish must a widow prove !
No ! my fair child, let all such visions cease ;
Yield but esteem, and only try for peace."
" I must be loved," said Sybil ; " I must see
The man in terrors who aspires to me ;
S04
CRABBE'S WORKS.
•' At my lorliiililiiig frown liis honrt must aclic,
" His toii-iiic must I'liltcr, and liis frame must
sliiiki' :
'• And il' I jxrnut him at my feet to kneel,
" What trciiihiinf;, (V'lirful pleasure must he feel;
" Niiy, such the ruptures that my smiles inspire,
" That reason's self must for a time retire."
'' Alas! for good Jusiah" said the dame,
" These wicked thoughts would fdl his soul with
shame ;
" lie kneel and tremldc at a tiling of dust I
" He cannot, child :" — the Child replied, " He
must."
They ceased : the matron left her with a frown ;
So .lonas met her when the Youth came down :
" Behold," said he, ''thy future spouse attends;
" Receive him, daughter, as the best of friends ;
" ()l)servc, respect him — humble be each word,
'• Tliat welcomes home thy husband and thy lord."
Forewarn'd, thought Sybil, viiih. a bitter smile,
I sliall prepare my mauner and my style.
Ere yet Josiah entcr'd on his task,
The father met him — " Deign to wear a mask
" A few dull days, Josiah — but a few —
" It is our duty, and the sex's due ;
" I wore it once, and every grateful wife
'' Repays it witli obedience through her life :
" Have no regard to Sybil's dress, have none
'■ To her pert language, to her flippant tone ;
" Henceforward thou shalt rule unquestion'd and
alone ;
" And she thy pleasure in thy looks shall seek —
" How she shall dress, and whether she may speak."
A sober smile return'd the Youth, and said,
" Can I cause fear, who am myself afraid ?"
Sybil, meantime, sat thoughtful in her room,
And often wonder'd — '" Will the creature come ?
" Nothing shall tempt, shall force me to bestow
" My hand upon him, — yet I wish to know."
The door unclosed, and she beheld her sire
Lead in the Y'outh. then hasten to retire ;
" Daughter, my friend — my daughter, friend,"
he cried,
.\nd gave a meaning look, and stepp'd aside :
Tiiat look eontain'd a mingled threat and prayer,
'■ Do take him, child — oficnd him, if you dare."
The couple gazed — were silent, and the maid
Look'd in his face, to make the man afraid ;
The man, unmoved, upon the maiden cast
A steady view — so salutation passd :
But in this instant Sybil's eye had seen
The tall fair person, and the still staid mien ;
The glow that temp'rance o'er the cheek had
spread,
Where the soft down half veil'd the purest red ;
And the serene deportment that proclaim'd
A heart unspotted, and a life unblamed :
But then with these she saw attire too plain.
The pale brown coat, though worn without a stain ;
The formal air, and sometliing of the pride
That indicates the weolth it «<-ems to hide;
And looks that were not, hlie conceived, exempt
From a proud pity, or a sly contempt.
Josiah's eyes had their employment too,
F.ngaged and soften'd by so bright a view ;
A fair and meaning face, an eye of (ire.
That check'd tlie bold, and made the free retire:
But then with these he mark'd the studied dress
And lofty air, that scorn or pride express;
With that insidious look, that seem'd to hide
In an affected smile the scorn and pride;
Any tale or history,
'I'lif cdiirsi- of true love never did run smooth ;
Hut eitlu'r it was different in Wood,
t)r else misjjrafted in respect of \enr« ,
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were n sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.
Midsuminir iVighl's Dream.
Oh I thou didst then ne'er love so heartily.
If thou remenilierest not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into.
As You Like It.
Cry the man mercy ! love him, take his offer.
As You Lihe It.
To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down,
His only Daugliter, from her school in town ;
A tender, timid maid ! who knew not how
To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow :
Smiling she came, with petty talents graced,
A fair complexion, and a slender waist.
Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure.
Her father's kitchen she could ill endure :
Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat,
And laid at once a pound upon his plate ;
Hot from the field, her eager brother seized
An equal part, and liunger's rage appeased ;
The air surcliargod with moisture, tlagg'd around,
And tlie otreiulod damsel sighM and frown'd ;
Tlie swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid,
-And fancy's sickness seized the loathing maid :
But when the men beside their station took.
The maidens with them, and with these the cook ;
Wlien one liugc wooden bowl before them stood,
Fill'd with luige balls of farinaceous food;
AN i til bacon, mass saline, where never lean
Koneath the brown and bristly rind was seen ;
When from a single horn the party drew
Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new ;
When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain
Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again —
She could not breathe ; but witli a heavy sigh,
Kein'd the fair neck, and sluit th" otlcnded eye ;
She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine.
And wonder' d much to see the creatures dine ;
When she resolved her father's heart to move,
If hearts of farmers were alive to love.
She now entreated by herself to sit
In the small parlour, if papa thought fit.
And there to dine, to read, to work alone : —
" No '." said the Farmer, in an angry tone ;
" These are your school-taught airs ; your mother's
pride
" Would send you there ; but I am now your
guide. —
" .Vrise betimes, our early meal prepare,
" And, this despatch'd, let business be your care ;
" Look to the Iohhos, let there not he one
" Who lacks atteritirin, till her tasks lie done ;
" In every lioiischold work your portion take,
" And what you make not, hoc that (ithers make :
" At leisure times attend the wheel, and see
" 'J'he whit'iiing web besprinkled on the lea ;
" When thus croploy'd, uhould our young neigh-
bours view,
" A useful lass, — you may have more to do."
Dreadful were these commands ; but worse than
these
The parting hint — a Farmer couM not please :
'T is true she had without abhorrence seen
Young tidrnj Carr, when he was smart and clean :
But, to be married — be a farmer's wife —
A slave ! a drudge ! — she could not, for her life.
With smimming eyes the fretful nymph with-
drew.
And, dcej)ly sighing, to her chamber flew ;
There on her knees, to Heaven she grieving pray'd
For change of prospect to a tortured maid.
Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire
Had left him all industrious men require.
Saw the pale Beauty, — and her shape and air
Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear:
" For my small farm what can the damsel do ?"
He said, — then stopp'd to take another view :
" Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn
" Of household cares, — for what can beauty cam
" By those small arts which they at school attain,
" That keep them useless, and yet make them
This luckless Damsel look'd the village round.
To find a friend, and one was quickly found :
A pensive Widow, whose mild air and dress
Pleased the sad nymph, who wish'd her soul's
distress
To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess.
" What Lady that ?" the anxious lass inquired,
Who then beheld the one she most admired :
" Here," said the Brother, " are no ladies seen —
" That is a widow dwelling on the Green ;
" A dainty dame, who can but barely live
" On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give ;
" She happier days has known, but seems at ease,
'■ And you may call her lady if you please :
•' But if you wish, good sister, to improve,
" You shall see twenty better worth your love."
These I^'ancj/ met ; but. spite of all they taught.
This useless Widow was the one she sought :
The father growl'd ; but said he knew no harm
In such connexion that could give alarm ;
'• And if we thwart the trifler in her cotirse,
" 'Tis odds against us she will take a worse."
Then met the friends; the Widow heard the
sigh
That ask'd at once compassion and reply : —
'• Would you, my child, converse with one so poor,
'■ Yours were the kindness — yonder is my door :
*' And. save the time that we in public pray.
'• From that poor cottage I but rarely stray."
TALE VII.— THE WIDOW'S TALE.
307
There went the nymph, and made her strong
complaints,
Painting her woe as injured feeling paints.
" Oh, dearest friend ! do think how one must
feel,
" Shock'd all day long, and sicken'd every meal ;
" Could you behold our kitchen (and to you
" A scene so shocking must indeed be new),
" A mind like yours, with true refinement graced,
" Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste :
" And yet, in truth, from such a polish'd mind
" All base ideas must resistance find,
" And sordid pictures from the fancy pass,
" As the breath startles from the polish'd glass.
" Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene,
" Without so pleasant, and within so clean ;
" These twining jess'mines, what delicious gloom
" And soothing fragrance yield they to the room !
" What lovely garden ! there you oft retire,
" And tales of woe and tenderness admire :
" In that neat case your books, in order placed,
" Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultur'd
taste ;
" And thus, while all about you wears a charm,
" How must you scorn the Farmer and the Farm ! "
The Widow smiled, and " Know you not," said
she,
" How much these farmers scorn or pity me ;
" Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they
see?
" True, their opinion alters not my fate,
" By falsely judging of an humble state :
" This garden you with such delight behold,
" Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold ;
" These plants which please so well your livelier
sense,
" To mine but little of their sweets dispense :
'■ Books soon are painful to my failing sight,
" And oftener read from duty than delight ;
" (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find
" Both joy and duty in the act combined ;)
" But view me rightly, you will see no more
" Than a poor female, willing to be poor ;
" Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers,
" Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours,
" Of never-tasted joys ; — such visions shun,
" My youthful friend, nor scorn the Farmer's Son."
" Nay," said the Damsel, nothing pleased to
see
A friend's advice could like a Father's be,
" Bless'd in your cottage, you must surely smile
" At those who live in our detested style :
" To my Lucinda's sympathising heart
" Could I my prospects and my griefs impart,
" She would console me ; but I dare not show
" Ills that would wound her tender soul to know :
" And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell
" The secrets of the prison where I dwell ;
" For that dear maiden would be shock'd to feel
" The secrets I should shudder to reveal ;
" When told her friend was by a parent ask'd,
" ' Fed you the swine ? ' — Good heaven ! how I
am task'd ! —
" What ! can you smile ? Ah ! smile not at the
grief
" That woos your pity and demands relief."
" Trifles, my love : you take a false alarm ;
" Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm :
" Duties in every state demand your care.
" And light are those that will require it there.
" Fix on the Youth a favouring eye, and these,
" To him pertaining, or as his, will please."
" What words," the Lass replied, " offend my
ear !
" Try you my patience ? Can you be sincere ?
" And am I told a willing hand to give
" To a rude farmer, and with rustics live ?
" Far other fate was yours ; — some gentle youth
" Admir'd your beauty, and avow'd his truth ;
" The power of love prevail'd, and freely both
" Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding
oath ;
" And then the rival's plot, the parent's power,
" And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour :
" Ah ! let not memory lose the blissful view,
" But fairly show what love has done for you."
" Agreed, my daughter ; what my heart has
known
" Of Love's strange power, shall be with frankness
showTi :
" But let me warn you, that experience finds
" Few of the scenes that lively hope designs."
" Mysterious all," said Nancy, " you, I know,
" Have sufTer'd much ; now deign the grief to
show ; —
" I am your friend, and so prepare my heart
" In all your sorrows to receive a part."
The Widow answer'd : " I had once, like you,
" Such thoughts of love ; no dream is more untrue ;
" You judge it fated, and decreed to dwell
" In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel,
" A passion doom'd to reign, and irresistible.
" The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain
" Rejects the fury or defies the pain ;
" The strongest reason fails the fiame t' allay,
" And resolution droops and faints away ;
" Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they
prove
" At once the force of this all-powerful love ;
" Each from that period feels the mutual smart,
" Nor seeks to cure it — heart is changed for heart ;
" Nor is there peace till they delighted stand,
•' And, at the altar — hand is join'd to hand.
" Alas ! my child, there arc who, dreaming so,
" Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the woe.
" There is no spirit sent the heart to move
" With such prevailing and alarming love ;
" Passion to reason will submit — or why
" Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny ?
" Or how could classes and degrees create
" The slightest bar to such resistless fate ?
" Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix ;
" No beggars' eyes the heart of kings transfix ;
" And who but am'rous peers or nobles sigh,
" When titled beauties pass triumphant by ?
•2 K 2
nofl
CR A HUE'S WORKS.
" Tor rciiHon wnkcH, proud wInIk'h f<> reprove ;
" You cniiiiot liopo, itiiil tliiTft'orc tlorc not lovo ;
" All woulil l)c nafi', dill wo at (iritf iii(|uirc
" ' Dom r«*iiHon miiii-tion wlint our licnrtH dc-Rirc ? '
" lliil <|uilliii(; proropt, Irt cxniniilc hIiow
" Wliiit joy8 from Love uiichcck'd by prudence
(low.
" A Youfli my fntlicr in IiIh ofllrc ]>lnced,
' Of lium)>|p fortune, hut with sense nnd fnste ;
' iiut hv wns tiiin nnrude, who hides that iiuiu siiould seek,
Or who liy silence hints that they should speak;
15ut with discretion all the sex she view'd,
J'lre yet oufjaf^od pursuiii}? or pursued ;
I'lre love had made her to his vices blind,
Or liid the favourite's failings from licr mind.
Tims was tlie picture of the man portray'd,
I5y merit destined for so rare a maid ;
At whose request she miglit exchange her state,
Or still be happy in a virgin's fate : —
He nuist be one with manners like her own,
His life unquestion'd, his opinions known ;
His stainless virtue must all tests endure,
His honour spotless, and his bosom pure;
She no allowance made for sex or times.
Of lax oj)iiiion — crimes were ever crimes;
No wretch forsaken must his frailty curse,
No sjuirious offspring drain liis private purse:
He at all times his passions must command.
And yet possess — or be refused her hand.
All this without reserve the maiden told,
And some began to weigh the rector's gold ;
To ask what sum a prudent man might gain,
Who liad sucli store of virtues to maintain ?
A Doctor Camphclh north of Tweed, came forth.
Declared his passion, and prochiim'd his worth ;
Not unapproved, for he had much to say
On every cause, and in a ])leasaut way ;
Not all liis trust was in a pliant tongue.
His form was good, aiul ruddy he, and young:
But though the doctor was a man of parts,
He reail not deeply male or female hearts;
But judged that all w honi he esteem'd as wise
]Must think alike, though some assumed disguise ;
That every reasoning Braniiu, Christian, Jew,
Of all religions took their liberal view;
And of lier own. no doubt, this learned JIaid
Denied the substance, and the forms obey'd :
And thus persuaded, lie his thoughts express'd
Of her oi)inions. and his own profess'd :
" All states demand this aid, the vulgar need
•• Their priests and pray'rs, their seiinons and
their creed ;
" And those of stronger minds should never speak
" (In his opinion) what might hurt the weak :
•• A man may smile, but still he should attend
•• His hour at church, and be the Church's friend,
'■ What there he thinks conceal, and what he hears
commend."
Trunk was the Hpeech, but heard with high dis-
>siiin f Viciiil ?
" (Iricvo nut, my ln'iirt I tn flml n fuvourilc mu-st
" Tliy pride iiiid lidiist -yc sclfisli .sorrowH, ri'St ;
" Slic will 1)1' iloytnfnt Cotinil ;
'riu'ii idly l)nsy, ([uiftly rniploy'd.
And, lost to lite. Ids visions wvrv cnjoy'd :
Vet still lif took a ki'cn iinjniiinf^ view
Of all that cnnvds nrgloct, desire, pursue ;
And thus abstracted, curious, still, serene,
He, uneniploy'd, beheld life's shifting scene ;
Still more averse from vulgar joys and cares,
Still more unfitted for the world's afiuirs.
There was a house \\liere I'.dward ofttimes
went.
And social hours in pleasant trifling spent ;
He read, cimversed, and reason'd, sang and play'd,
And all were hapi)y while the idler stay'd ;
Too happy one ! ft)r thence arose the pain,
'I'ill this engaging tritler came again.
But did he love ? We answer, day by day,
The loving feet would take tli' accustom'd way,
The amorous eye would rove as if in quest
Of something rare, and on the mansion rest;
The same soft passion touch'd the gentle tongue,
And Anna's charms in tender notes were sung;
The car, too, seeni'd to feel the common flame.
Soothed and deliglited with the fair one's name ;
And thus, as love each other part possess'd.
The heart, no doubt, its sovereign power con-
fess' d.
rieased in her sight, the Youth required no
more ;
Not rich himself, he saw the damsel poor ;
.Vnd he too wisely, nay, too kindly loved.
To pain the being whom his soul approved.
A serious Friend our cautious Youth possess'd.
And at his table sat a welcome guest :
Both unemploy'd, it was their chief delight
To read what free and daring authors write ;
.\uthors who loved from common views to soar,
And seek the fountains never traced before :
Truth they profess'd, yet often left the true
And beaten prospect, for the wild and new.
His chosen friend his fiftieth year had seen.
His fortune easy, and his air serene;
Deist and atheist call'd ; for few agreed
"What were his notions, principles, or creed ;
His mind reposed not, for he hated rest.
But all things made a query or a jest ;
I'erplex'd himself, he ever sought to prove
That man is doom'd in endless doubt to rove ;
Himself in darkness he profess'd to be.
And would maintain tliat not a man could see.
The youthful Frieud, dissentient, reason'd still
Of the soul's prowess, and the subject-will ;
Of virtue's beauty, and of honour's force,
And a warm zeal gave life to his discourse :
Since from his feelings all his fire arose,
.\nd he had interest in the themes he chose.
The Friend, indulging a Harctistic Bmile,
Suid, " Dour cntliusioal ! thou wilt change thy
style,
" When man's delusions, errors, crimes, deceit,
'• .No more distress thee, and no longer cheat."
Yet, lo ! this cautifius man, so coolly wise.
On a young Beauty fix'd unguarded eyes ;
And her he married : i'idward at the view
Bade to his cheerful visits long adieu ;
But haply crr'd, for this engaging bride
No mirth suppress'd, but rather cause supidied :
And when she saw the fri<-iids, by reasoning long.
Confused if right, and positive if wrong,
With playful speech, and smile that sprike delight.
She made them careless both of wrong and right.
This gentle damsel gave consent to wed.
With school and school-day dinners in her head :
She now was promised choice of daintiest food.
And costly dress, that made her sovereign good ;
With walks on hilly heath to banish spleen.
And summer-visits when the roads were clean.
All these she loved, to these she gave consent.
And she was married to her heart's content.
Their manner this — the Friends together read,
Till books a cause for disputation bred ;
Debate then foUow'd, and the vapour'd child
Declared they argued till her head was wild ;
And strange to her it was that mortal brain
Could seek the trial, or endure the pain.
Then, as the Friend reposed, the younger pair
Sat down to cards, and play'd beside his chair ;
Till he, awaking, to Ids books applied,
Or heard the music of th' obedient bride :
If mild the evening, in the fields they stray'd,
And their own flock with partial eye survey'd ;
But oft the husband, to indulgence prone.
Resumed his book, and bade them walk alone.
" Do, my kind Edward — I must take mine ease —
'' Name the dear girl the planets and the trees :
" Tell her what warblers pour their evening song,
" What insects flutter, as you walk along ;
" Teach lier to fix the roving thoughts, to bind
'• The wandering sense, and methodise the mind."
This was obey'd ; and oft when this was done.
They calmly gazed on the declining sun ;
In silence saw the glowing landscape fade.
Or, sitting, sang beneath the arbour's shade :
Till rose the moon, and on each youthful face
Shed a soft beauty and a dangerous grace.
When the young Wife beheld in long debate
The friends, all careless as she seeming sate.
It soon appcar'd there was in one combined
The nobler person and the richer mind :
He wore no wig. no grisly beard was seen,
-And none beheld him careless or unclean.
Or watch'd him sleeping. We indeed have heard
Of sleeping beauty, and it has appear'd ;
'T is seen in infants — there indeed we find
The features soften'd by the slumbering mind ;
But other beauties, when disposed to sleep.
Should from the eye of keen inspector keep :
TALE XL— EDWARD SHORE.
323
The lovely nymph ■nho would her swain surprise,
May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes ;
Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes,
And all the homely features homelier makes :
So thought our ^\'ife, beholding with a sigh
Her sleeping spouse, and Edward smiling by.
A sick relation for the husband sent ;
Without delay the friendly sceptic went ;
Nor fear'd the youthful pair, for he had seen
The wife untroubled, and the friend serene ;
No selfish purpose in his roving eyes,
No vile deception in her fond replies :
So judged the husband, and with judgment true,
For neither yet the guilt or danger knew.
What now remain'd ? but they again should play
Th' accustom'd game, and walk th' accustom'd
way;
With careless freedom should converse or read,
And the Friend's absence neither fear nor heed :
But rather now they seem'd confused, constrain'd ;
Within their room still restless they remain'd,
And painfully they felt, and knew each other
pain'd.
Ah, foolish men I how could ye thus depend,
One on himself, the other on his friend ?
The Youth with troubled eye the lady saw.
Yet felt too brave, too daring to withdraw ;
While she, with tuneless hand the jarring keys
Touching, was not one moment at her ease :
Now would she walk, and call her friendly guide,
Now speak of rain, and cast her cloak aside ;
Seize on a book, unconscious what she read.
And restless still to new resources fled ;
Then laugh'd aloud, then tried to look serene ;
And ever changed, and every change was seen.
Painful it is to dwell on deeds of shame —
The trying day was past, another came ;
The third was all remorse, confusion, dread,
And (all too late !) the fallen hero fled.
Then felt the Youth, in that seducing time,
How feebly Honour guards the heart from crime :
Small is his native strength ; man needs the stay.
The strength imparted in the trying day ;
For all that Honour brings against the force
Of headlong passion, aids its rapid course ;
Its slight resistance but provokes the fire,
As wood-work stops the flame, and then conveys it
higher.
The Husband came ; a wife by guilt made bold
Had, meeting, soothed him, as in days of old ;
But soon this fact transpired ; her strong distress.
And his Friend's absence, left him nought to guess.
Still cool, though grieved, thus prudence bade
him write —
" I cannot pardon, and I will not fight ;
" Thou art too poor a culprit for the laws,
" And I too faulty to support my cause :
" All must be punish'd ; 1 must sigh alone,
" At home thy victim for her guilt atone ;
" And thou, unhappy ! virtuous now no more,
" Must loss of fame, peace, purity deplore ;
" Sinners with praise will pierce thee to the heart,
" And saints, deriding, teU thee what thou art."
Such was his fall ; and Edward, from that time.
Felt in full force the censure and the crime-
Despised, ashamed ; his noble views before.
And his proud thoughts, degraded him the more :
Should he repent — would that conceal his shame ?
Could peace be his ? It perish'd with his fame :
Himself he scorn'd, nor could his crime foi-givc ;
He fear'd to die, yet felt ashamed to live :
Grieved, but not contrite, was his heart ; oppress'd.
Not broken ; not converted, but distress'd ;
He wanted will to bend the stubborn knee,
He wanted Ught the cause of ill to see.
To learn how frail is man, how humble then
should be ;
For faith he had not, or a faith too weak
To gain the help that humbled sinners seek ;
Else had he pray'd — to an offended God
His tears had flown a penitential flood ;
Though far astray, he would liave heard the call
Of mercy — " Come ! retuni, thou prodigal :"
Then, though confused, distress'd, ashamed, afraid,
Still had the trembling penitent obey'd ;
Though faith had fainted, when assail'd by fear,
Hope to the soul had whisper'd, " Persevere 1"
Till in his Father's house, an humbled guest,
He would have found forgiveness, comfort, rest.
But all this joy was to our Youth denied
By his fierce passions and his daring pride ;
And shame and doubt impell'd him in a course.
Once so abhorr'd, with unresisted force.
Proud minds and guilty, whom their crimes op-
press.
Fly to new crimes for comfort and redress ;
So found our fallen Youth a short relief
In wine, the opiate guilt applies to grief, —
From fleeting mirth that o'er the bottle lives.
From the false joy its inspiration gives,—
And from associates pleased to find a friend
With powers to lead them, gladden, and defend.
In all those scenes where transient ease is found.
For minds whom sins oppress and sorrows wound.
Wine is like anger ; for it makes us strong,
Blind, and impatient, and it leads us wrong ;
The strength is quickly lost, we feel the error
long: , .
Thus led, thus strengthen'd, m an evil cause,
For folly pleading, sought the Youth applause ;
Sad for a time, then eloquently wild.
He gaily spoke as his companions smiled ;
Lightly he rose, and with his former grace
Proposed some doubt, and argued on the case ;
Fate and foreknowledge were his favourite
themes —
How vain man's purpose, how absurd his schemes :
" Whatever is, was ere our birth decreed ;
" We think our actions from ourselves proceed,
" And idly we lament th' inevitable deed ;
" It seems our own, but there 's a power above
" Directs the motion, nny. that makes us move ;
" Nor good nor evil can you beings name,
" Who are but rooks and castles in the game ;
" Superior natures with their puppets play, ^^
" Till, bagg'd or buried, all are swept away.
324
CR ABBE'S WORKS.
Suili were tlic not inns oC ii mind tci ill
N(iu pniiu', liiit anlciil iiiul (Iclcriiiiiiccl still:
()l joy now Ciller, as lid'ori' of i'linic,
And Hcri-rn'd l>y folly when assiiU'd l)y shnmc,
Dt'cjily lu- Hnnk ; oboy'd t-ach |)as.sion's call,
And used his reason to defend tlicin all.
Shall I jirocccd, and step by step relate
The odious progress of a Sinner'8 fate ?
No — let me rather hasten to the time
(Sure to arrive I) when misery waits on crime.
With \ irtue, prudence fled; whot Shore pos-
sess'd
Was sold, was si)ent, and he was now distress'd :
.Vnd Want, unwelcome stranger, jjale and wan,
Met with her ha^riiard looks the hurried man :
His pride felt keenly what he must expect
From useless pity and from cold neglect.
Struck by new terrors, from Ins friends he fled,
Anil wejif his woes upon a restless bed ;
J{etiring late, at early hour to rise,
With slirunken features, and with bloodshot eyes:
If sleep one moment closed the dismal view,
Fancy her terrors built u])on the true :
And uijiht and urn'd the Btraw in jiure disdain,
And now laugh'd loudly at the clinking chain.
Then, as its wroth subsided by degrccB,
The mind sank slowly to infantine ease,
To ])layful folly, ami to caii-;eless joy,
S])eech without aim, and without end, employ ;
He drew fantastic figures on the wall.
And gave some wild relation of them all ;
"With Ijrutal shape he join'd the human face,
And idiot smiles approved the motley race.
Ilnrmless at length th' unhappy man was found,
The spirit settled, but the reason drownM ;
And all the dreadful tempest died away
To the dull stillness of the misty day.
And now his freedom he attain'd — if free
The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be ;
His friends, or wearied with the charge, or sure
The harmless wretch was now beyond a cure,
(iave him to wander where he pleased, and find
His own resources for the eager mind :
The playful cliililrcn of the place he meets.
Playful witli them he rambles through the streets ;
In all they need, his stronger arm he lends,
And his lost mind to these approving friends.
That gentle Maid, wliom once the Youth had
loved.
Is now with mild religious pity moved ;
Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he
Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be ;
And as she trembling speaks, his lively eyes
Explore her looks, he listens to her sighs ;
Charm'd by her voice, th' harmonious sounds in-
vade
His clouded mind, and for a time persuade :
Like a pleased infant, who has newly caught
From the maternal glance a gleam of thought,
He stands enrapt, the half-known voice to hear,
And starts, half conscious, at the falling tear.
This was too much ; both aided ond advised
By one who shunn'd him, pitied, and despised :
He bore it not ; 't was a deciding stroke,
And on his reason like a torrent broke :
In dreadful stillness he appear'il a while.
With vocaut horror and a ghastlj- smile ;
Then rose at once into the frantic rage.
That force controU'd not, nor could love assuage.
Friends now appear'd, but in the Man was seen
The angry Maniac, with vindictive mien ;
Barely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes,
In darker mood, as if to liide his woes ;
Returning soon, he with impatience seeks
His youthful friends, and sliouts. and sings, and
speaks ;
Speaks a wild speech with action all as wild —
The children's leader, and himself a child ;
He spins their top. or, at their bidding, bends
His back, while o'er it leap his laughing friends;
Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more.
And heedless children call him Silli/ S/iore.''
^ [riiis talf contains many passages of exquisite lnviuty.
The licro is a youns man of aspiring genius and enthusiastic
tfmpcr, witli an ardent lovp of virtue, luit no settled prin-
ciples eitlier of conduct or opinion. He first conceives an
attncliment for an amiable girl, who is captivated with his
conversation ; l>ut, being too poor to marry, soon comes to
spend more of his time in the family of an elderly sceptic of
liis acquaintance, who had recently married a yonng w ife, and
placed unbounded contidence in her virtue and the honour
of his friend. In a moment of temptation they abuse this
confidence. The husband renounces him with dignified com-
ptisure ; and he falls at once from the romantic pride of his
virtue. He then seeks the company of the dissipated and
gay, and ruins his health and fortune, without regaining his
TALE XII.-'SQUIRE THOMAS.
325
TALE XI L
'SQUIRE THOMAS; OR, THE PRECIPITATE
CHOICE.
Such smiling rogues as these,
Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain,
Too intrinsicate t' unloose. Lear.
My other self, my counsel's consistory.
My oracle, my prophet,
I as a child will go by thy direction.
Richard III.
If I do not have pity upon her, I'm a villain : If I do not
love her, I am a Jew. — Much Ada about Nothing.
Women are soft, mild, pitiable, flexible ;
But thou art obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Henry J'l.
lie must be told of it, and he shall ; the oflice
Becomes a woman best ; I'll take it upon me ;
If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister.
IFinter's Tale.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness.
Twelfth Night.
'Squire Thomas flatter 'd long a wealthy Aunt,
Who left him all that she could give or grant ;
Ten years he tried, with all his craft and skill,
To fix the sovereign lady's varying will ;
Ten years enduring at her board to sit,
He meekly listen'd to her tales and wit :
He took the meanest office man can take.
And his aunt's vices for her money's sake :
By many a threat'ning hint she waked his fear,
And he was pain'd to see a rival near :
Yet all the taunts of her contemptuous pride
He bore, nor found his grov'ling spirit tried ;
Nay, when she wish'd his parents to traduce.
Fawning he smiled, and justice call'd th' abuse :
" They taught you nothing : are you not, at best,"
Said the proud Dame, "a trifler, and a jest?
" Confess you are a fool ! " — he bow'd and he
confess'd.
This vex'd him much, but could not always last :
The dame is buried, and the trial past.
There was a female, who had courted long
Her cousin's gifts, and deeply felt the wrong ;
By a vain boy forbidden to attend
The private councils of her wealthy friend.
She vow'd revenge, nor should that crafty boy
In triumph undisturb'd his spoils enjoy :
tranquillity. When in gaol and miserable he is relieved liy
an unknown hand, and traces the benefaction to tlie friend
whose former kindness he had so ill repaid. Tliis luimiliation
falls upon his proud spirit and shattered nerves with an over-
whelming force, and his reason fails beneath it. He is for
some time a raving maniac, and then falls into a state of gay
and compassionable imbecility, which is described witli in-
He heard, he smiled, and when the "Will was read,
Kindly dismiss'd the Kindred of the dead ;
" The dear deceased " he call'd her, and the crowd
Moved off with curses deep and threat'nings loud.
The youth retired, and, with a mind at case,
Found he was rich, and fancied he must please :
He might have pleased, and to his comfort found
The wife he wish'd, if he had sought around;
For there were lasses of his o\«a degree,
With no more hatred to the state than he ;
But he had courted spleen and age so long,
His heart refused to woo the fair and young ;
So long attended on caprice and whim,
He thought attention now was due to him ;
And as his flattery pleased the wealthy Dame,
Heir to the wealth, he might the flattery claim :
But this the fair, with one accord, denied.
Nor waved for man's caprice the sex's pride.
There is a season when to them is due
Worship and awe, and they will claim it too :
" Fathers," they cry, ^j" long hold us in their
chain,
" Nay, tyrant brothers claim a right to reign ;
" Uncles and guardians we in turn obey,
" And husbands rule with ever-during sway ;
" Short is the time when lovers at the feet
" Of beauty kneel, and own the slavery sweet ;
" And shall we this our triinnph, this the aim
" And boast of female power, forbear to claim ?
" No ! we demand that homage, that respect,
" Or the proud rebel punish and reject."
Our Hero, still too indolent, too nice,
To pay for beauty the accustom'd price.
No less forbore t' address the humbler maid,
Who might have yielded with the price unpaid ;
But lived, himself to humour and to please,
To count his money, and enjoy his case.
It pleased a neighbouring 'squire to recommend
A faithful youth as servant to his friend ;
Nay, more than servant, whom he praised for
parts
Ductile yet strong, and for the best of hearts :
One who might ease him in his small affairs,
With tenants, tradesmen, taxes, and repairs ;
Answer his letters, look to all his dues.
And entertain him with discourse and news.
The 'Squire believed, and found the trusted
youth
A very pattern for his care and truth ;
Not for his virtues to be j)raispd alone,
But for a modest mien and humble tone ;
Assenting always, but as if he meant
Only to strength of reasons to assent :
For was he stubborn, and retain'd his doubt,
Till the more subtle 'Squire had forced it out ;
imitable beauty in the close of this story. The ultimate down-
fall of this lofty mind, with its agonising gleams of transitory
recollection, form a picture, than which we do not know if
the whole range of our poetry, rich as it is in representations
of disordered intellect, furnishes anything more toucliing, or
delineated with more truth and delicacy. — Jeffrey.]
I
326
CRABHE'S WOItKS.
Nny, still wns rijjlit, Imt lie |><'rcciv<'il dial Htr<»iif^
Ami |Mi\vi'rl'iil iiiiinls cnulil iiiakr tlir rif^'lit the
"roll};.
When tlic 'Siiiiirc'H tlioiifjlits on siime fiiir dnniscl
.hvclt,
Tiic fuitlil'iil Krionil hi.s npiirclicnsions felt ;
It woiilil rrjoirc Ills f'nitlit'ul heart to fiml
A lady suited to liis master's iniiiil ;
Hut who deserved that master ? who would jirovc
Tliiit hers was jiiire, uninterested love 'i
Allhouf;li a servant, lie would scorn to take
A eountess, till she sufler'd for his sake ;
Some tender sjiirit, humble, faithful, true,
Such, my dear master ! must be sought for you.
Si.x montliB had pnss'il, and not a lady seen,
With just this love, 'twi.xt fifty and fifteen ;
All seem'il his doctrine or his pride to shun.
All would be woo'd before they would be won;
AN'hen the chance naming of a race and fair
Our 'Siiuire dis()oscd to take his pleasure there,
Tlie Friend profess'd, '' although he first began
'• To hint the thing, it seem'd a thoughtless plan ;
" The roads, he fear'd, were foul, the days were
short.
" The village far, and yet tlicre might be sport."
" Wliat ! you of roads and starless nights afraid ?
" You think to govern ! you to be obey'd !"
Smiling lie spoke : tlie humble Friend declared
His soul's obedience, and to go prepared.
The place was distant, but with great delight
They saw a race, and hail'd the glorious sight :
The 'Squire exulted, and declared the ride
Had amply paid, and he was satisfied.
They gazed, they feasted, and, in happy mood.
Homeward return'd, and hastening as they rode;
For short the day, and sudden was the change
F'rom light to darkness, and the way was strange:
Our hero soon grew peevish, then ilistress'd ;
He dreaded darkness, and he sigh'd for rest:
Going, they pass'd a village ; but, alas !
Keturning saw no village to repass ;
The 'Squire remember'd too a noble hall.
Large as a church, and whiter than its wall :
This he had noticed as they rode along.
And justly reason'd that their road was wrong.
Oeoriji\ full of awe, was modest in reply —
" The fault was his, 't was folly to deny ;
" .\nd of his master's safety were he sure,
" There was no grievance he would not endure."
This made his peace with the relenting 'Squire,
AVliose thoughts yet dwelt on supper and a fii'e ;
When, as they reach'd a long and pleasant green,
Dwellings of men, and next a man, were seen.
" 'Sly friend," said George, " to travellers
astray
'■• Point out an inn, and guide us on the way."
The man look'd up ; " Surprising ! can it be
" My master's son ? as I 'm alive, 't is he !"
" How ! Robin ?" George replied, '" and are we near
" My father's house ? how strangely things ap-
pear I —
" Dear Mir, though wanderers, we at la.st arc
right :
" Let UH proceeil, and glnd my fatlier'H sight :
" We shall at least be fairly lodged and fed,
" I can eiiHiire a supper and n bed ;
" Let U8 tliis night ag one of pleaHure date,
" And of surprise : it is an act of Fate."
" (Jo on," the 'Sijuire in happy temper cried ;
" I like .such blunder ! I approve such guide."
They ride, they halt, the Fanner comes in haste,
Then tells his wifb how much their house is graced ;
They bless the chance, they praise the lucky son,
That caused the error — Nay ! it was not one.
Hut their gfiod fortune : clieerful grew the '.Squire,
Who found dependants, flattery, w ine. and fire ;
He heard the jack turn round ; the busy dame
Produced her damask ; and with supper came
The Daughter, dress'd with care, and full of maiden
shame.
Surprised, our hero saw the air and dress,
And strove his admiration to express ;
Nay ! felt it too — for Harriot was in truth
A tall fair beauty in the bloom of youth ;
And from the pleasure and surprise, a grace
Adoni'd the blooming damsel's form and face ;
Then, too, sucli higli respect and duty paid
By all — such silent reverence in the maid ;
Vent'ring with caution, yet with haste, a glance.
Loth to retire, yet trembling to advance,
Appear'd the nymph, and in her gentle guest
Stirr'd soft emotions till the hour of rest :
Sweet was his sleep, and in the mom again
He felt a mixture of delight and pain :
" How fair, how gentle," said the 'Squire, " how
meek,
" And yet how sprightly, when disposed to speak !
" Nature has bless'd her form, and Heaven her
mind,
" But in her favours Fortune is unkind ;~
" Poor is the maid — nay, poor she cannot prove
" Who is enrich'd with beauty, worth, and love."
The "Squire arose, with no precise intent
To go or staj' — uncertain what he meant :
He moved to part — they begg'd him first to dine;
.\nd who could then escape from Love and Wine.^
.\s came the night, more charming grew the Fair,
And seem'd to watch him with a twofold care :
On the third morn, resolving not to stay.
Though urged by Love, he bravely rode away.
Arrived at home, three pensive days he gave
To feelings fond and meditations grave ;
Lovely she was, and, if he did not err.
As fond of him as his fond heart of her ;
Still he delay'd, unable to decide,
Which was the master-passion, Love or Pride :
He sometimes wondcr'd how his friend could make,
And then exulted in, the night's mistake ;
Had she but fortune, " Doubtless then." he cried,'
" Some happier man had won the wealthy bride."
While thus he hung in balance, now inclined
To change his state, and then to change his mind.
That careless George dropp'd idly on the ground
.\ letter, which his crafty master found ;
TALE XII.— 'SQUIRE THOMAS.
The stupid youth confess'd his fault, and pray'd
The generous 'Squire to spare a gentle maid,
Of whom her tender mother, full of fears.
Had written much — "She caught her oft in
tears,
" For ever thinking on a youth above
" Her humble fortune — still she own'd not love ;
" Nor can define, dear girl '. the cherish'd pain,
'■ But would rejoice to see the cause again :
'• That neighbouring youth, whom she endured
before,
'' She now rejects, and will behold no more ;
" Raised by her passion, she no longer stoops
" To her own equals, but she pines and drooj)S,
'• Like to a lily, on whose sweets the sun
'• Has withering gazed — she saw and was undone :
" His wealth allured her not — nor was she moved
'• By his superior state, himself she loved ;
'• So mild, so good, so gracious, so genteel, —
" But spare your sister, and her love conceal ;
'• "We must the fault forgive, since she the pain
must feel."
" Fault ! " said the 'Squire, " there 's coarseness
in the mind
" That thus conceives of feelings so refined ;
" Here end my doubts, nor blame yourself, my
friend,
" Fate made you careless — here my doubts have
end."
The way is plain before us — there is now
The Lover's visit first, and then the vow.
Mutual and fond, the marriage-rite, the Bride
Brought to her home with all a husband's pride :
The 'Squire receives the prize his merits won,
And the glad parents leave the patron-son.
But in short time he saw, with much surprise.
First gloom, then grief, and then resentment rise.
From proud, commanding frowns, and anger-
darting eyes :
" Is there in Harriot's humble mind this fire,
" This fierce impatience ? " ask'd the puzzled
'Squire ;
" Has marriage changed her ? or the mask she
wore
" Has she thrown by, and is herself once more ? "
Hour after hour, when clouds on clouds appear.
Dark and more dark, we know the tempest near ;
And thus the frowning brow, the restless form,
And threat'ning glance, forerun domestic storm :
So read the Husband, and, with troubled mind,
Reveal'd his fears — '• My Love, I hope you find
" All here is pleasant— but I must confess
" You seem otfended, or in some distress :
" Explain the grief you feel, and leave me to
redress."
" Leave it to you ?" replied the Nymph —
" indeed !
" What ! to the cause from whence the ills proceed?
" Good Heaven ! to take me from a place where I
" Had every comfort underneath the sky ;
" And then immure me in a gloomy place,
" With the grim monsters of your ugly race,
" That, fi-om their canvas staring, make me dread
" Through the dark chambers, where they hang,
to tread !
" No friend nor neighbour comes to give that joy
" Which all things here must banish or destroy.
" Where is the promised coach ? the pleasant ride ?
" Oh ! what a fortune has a Farmer's bride 1
'' Your sordid pride has placed me just above
" Your hired domestics — and what pays me ?
Love !
'■ A selfish fondness I endure each hour,
" And share unwitness'd pomp, unenvied power.
" I hear your folly, smile at your parade,
" And see your favourite dishes duly made ;
" Then am I richly dress'd for you t' admire,
" Such is my duty and my Lord's desire :
'• Is this a life for youth, for health, for joy?
" Are these my duties — this my base employ ?
•• No ! to' my father's house will I repair,
'■ And make your idle wealth support me there.
" Was it your wish to have an humble bride,
" For bondage thankful ? Curse upon your pride !
" Was it a slave you wanted ? You shall see,
" That, if not happy, I at least am free :
" WeU, sir! your answer." — Silent stood the
'Squire,
As looks a miser at his house on fire ;
"WTiere all he deems is vanish'd in that flame.
Swept from the earth his substance and his name :
So, lost to every promised joy of life.
Our 'Squire stood gaping at his angry wife ; —
His fate, his ruin, where he saw it vain
To hope for peace, pray, threaten, or complain ;
And thus, betwixt his wonder at the ill
And his despair, there stood he gaping still.
" Your answer, sir I — Shall I depart a spot
" I thus detest?" — '-Oh, miserable lot!"
Exclaim'd the man. " Go, serpent ! nor remain
" To sharpen woe by insult and disdain :
" A nest of harpies was I doom'd to meet ;
" What plots, what combinations of deceit !
" I see it now — all plann'd, design'd, contrived ;
" Served by that villain — by this fury wived —
■• What fate is mine ! AVhat wisdom, virtue, truth,
•• Can stand, if demons set their traps for youth?
" He lose his way? vile dog! he cannot lose
" The way a villain through his life pursues ;
" And thou, deceiver ! thou afraid to move,
" And hiding close the serpent in the dove !
" I saw — but, fated to endure disgrace,
" Unheeding saw — the fury in tliy face,
" And call'd it spirit. Oh ! I might have found
" Fraud and imposture all the kindred round !
'• A nest of vipers "
'• Sir, I '11 not admit
" These wild effusions of your angry wit :
'• Have you that value, that we all sliould use
" Such mighty arts for such important views ?
" Are you such prize — and is my state so fair,
" That they should sell their souls to get me there ?
" Think you that we alone our thoughts disguise ?
" When, in pursuit of some contended prize,
" Mask we alone the heart, and soothe whom we
despise ?
" Speak you of craft and subtle schemes, who know
" That all your wealth you to deception owe ;
•.\>H
CIIABBES WORKS.
•' W lio playM i'lir ten dull years a Hcoiiiidrfl I>nrf,
" 'l'r yoiiii); iiiiixl may iirtt'iil villains pri-y,
" Anil to my jiliitc ami jcwi^ls find ii way :
" \ jiloasant liuniour Imih flw (j;irl ; her smile,
" And clu'crful manner, tedious hours Ix'^iiile :
" Hut well observe her, ever near her be,
" (.'lose in your thoughts, in your professions free.
" Again, my Jesse, heor v\hut 1 advise,
" And watch a woman ever in disguise ;
" Issop, that widow, serious, subtle, sly —
" But what of this ? — 1 must hove company :
" She markets for mo, and althfiugh she makes
" I'rofit, no doubt, of nil she undertakes,
'' Vet she is one 1 can to nil produce,
" And nil her talents nre in liaily use:
" Deprived (d" her, 1 may unotlier find
" .\s sly and selfish, with a weaker mind :
" But never trust her, she is full of art,
" And worms herself into the closest heart ;
'* Seem then, I pray you, careless in her sight,
" Nor let her know, my love, how wc unite.
'• Do, my good Jesse, cast a view around,
" And let no wrong within my house be found ;
" That Girl associates with I know not who
" Arc her companions, nor what ill they do ;
" 'Tis then the Widow plans, 't is then she tries
" Her various arts and schemes for fresh supplies:
" 'T is then, if ever, Jane lier duty quits,
" And, whom I know not, favours and admits :
" Oh ! watch their movements all ; for mc 't is
hard,
" Indeed is vain, but you may keep a guard ;
" And I, when none your watchful glance deceive,
" May make my Will, and think what I shall leave."
Jesse, with fear, disgust, alarm, .surprise,
Heard of these duties for her ears and eyes;
Heard by what service she must gain her bread,
And went with scoi-n and sorrow to her bed.
Jane was a servant fitted for her place.
Experienced, cunning, fraudful, selfish, base ;
Skill'd in those mean humiliating arts
That make their way to proud and selfish hearts :
By instinct taught, she felt an awe, a fear.
For Jesse's upright, simple character;
Whom with gross flattery she a while assail'd,
.\ikI then beheld witli liatred when it fail'd ;
Yet, trying still upon her mind for hold.
She all the secrets of the mansion told ;
And, to invito an eciual trust, she drew
Of every mind a bold and rapid view;
But on the widow'd Frienil with deep disdain.
And rancorous envy, dwelt the treacherous
Jane :
In vain such arts ; — without deceit or pride.
With a just taste and feeling for lier guide.
From all contagion Jesse kept apart.
Free in her manners, guarded in her heart.
Jesse one mom was thoughtful, and her sigh
The Widow heard as she was passing by ;
And — "Well!" she said, "is that some distant
swain,
" Or aught with us, that gives your bosom pain ?
Come, we are fellow-sufferers, slaves in thrall,
And tasks and griefs ore common to us all;
Think not my frankness strange : they love to
paint
Their state with freedom, wlio endure restraint ;
Anil there is something in thot speaking eye
And sober mien that j)rovc I may rely :
You came a stranger; to my words attend.
Accept my offer, and you finii a friend ;
It is a lal»yrintli in wliich you stray,
Come, hold my clue, and I will lead the way.
"Good Heav'nl that one so jealous, envious,
base,
Should be the mistress of so sweet a place ;
She, who so long herself was low and poor.
Now broods suspicious on her useless store ;
She loves to see us abject, loves to deal
Her insult round, and then pretends to feel :
Prepare to cast all dignity aside.
For know, your talents will be quickly tried ;
Nor think, from favours past, a friend to gain, —
'T is but by duties v^"e our posts maintain :
I read her novels, gossip through the town.
And daily go, for idle stories, down ;
I cheapen all she buys, and bear the curse
Of honest tradesmen for my niggard purse ;
And, when for her this meanness I display.
She cries, ' I hoed not what I throw aw ay ; '
Of secret bargains I endure the shame,
And stake my credit for our fish and game ;
Oft has she smiled to hear ' her generous soul
' Would gladly give, but stoops to my control : '
Nay ! I have heard her, when she chanced to
come
Where I contended for a petty sum.
Affirm 't was painful to behold such care,
' But Issop's nature is to pinch and spare : '
Thus all the meanness of the house is mine,
And my reward — to scorn her, and to dine.
" Sec next that giddy thing, w ith neither pride
" To keep her safe, nor principle to guide :
" Poor, idle, simple flirt 1 as sure as fate
" Her maiden-fame will have an early date:
" Of her beware ; for all who live below
" Have faults they wish not all the world to know ;
" .\nd she is fond of listening, full of doubt,
" And stoops to guilt to fiud an error out.
" .\nd now once more observe the artful Maid,
" A lying, prying, jilting, thievish jade ;
" 1 think, my love, you would not condescend
" To call a low, illiterate girl your friend :
" But in our troubles we are apt, you know,
" To lean on all who some compassion show ;
" And she has fle.xile features, acting eyes,
" .\nd seems with every look to sympathise ;
" No mirror can a mortal's grief express
" With more precision, or can feel it less ;
" That proud, mean spirit, she by fawning courts
" By vulgar flattery, and by vile reports ;
" .\nd by that proof she every instant gives
" To one so mean, that yet a meaner lives.
'' Come, I have drawn the curtain, and you see
" Your fellow-actors, all our company ;
TALE XIII.— JESSE AND COLIN.
331
" Should you incline to throw reserve aside,
" And in m)' judgment and my love confide,
" I could some prospects open to your view,
" That ask attention — and, till then, adieu."
" Farewell ! " said Jesse, hastening to her room,
Where all she saw within, without, was gloom :
Confused, perplex'd, she pass'd a dreary hour,
Before her reason could exert its power ;
To her all seem'd mysterious, all allied
To avarice, meanness, folly, craft, and pride ;
AVearied with thought, she breathed the garden's
air.
Then came the laughing Lass, and join'd her there.
" My sweetest friend has dwelt with us a week,
' And does she love us ? be sincere and speak ;
' My Aunt j'ou cannot — Lord ! how I should hate
' To be like her, all misery and state ;
' Proud, and yet envious, she disgusted sees
' All who are happy, and who look at ease.
' Let friendship bind us, I will quickly show
' Some favourites near us you'll be bless'd to know ;
' My aunt forbids it — but, can she expect,
' To soothe her spleen, we shall ourselves neglect ?
' Jane and the "Widow were to watch and stay
' My free-born feet ; I watch'd as well as they :
' Lo ! what is this ? — this simple key explores
' The dark recess that holds the Spinster's stores :
' And, led by her ill star, I chanced to see
' Where Issop keeps her stock of ratafie ;
• Used in the hours of anger and alarm,
•■ It makes her civil, and it keeps her warm :
' Thus bless'd with secrets both would choose to
hide,
" Their fears now grant me what their scorn
denied.
" My freedom thus by their assent secured,
" Bad as it is, the place may be endured ;
" And bad it is, but her estates, you know,
" And her beloved hoards, she must bestow ;
'* So we can slily our amusements take,
'' And friends of demons, if they help us, make."
" Strange creatures these," thought Jesse, half
inclined
To smile at one malicious and yet kind ;
Frank and yet cunning, with a heart to love
And malice prompt — the serpent and the dove ;
Here could she dwell ? or could she yet depart?
Could she be artful ? could she bear with art ? —
This splendid mansion gave the cottage grace,
She thought a dungeon was a happier place ;
And Colin pleading, when he pleaded best,
Wrought not such sudden change in Jesse's breast.
The wondering maiden, who had only read
Of such vile beings, saw them now with dread ;
Safe in themselves — for nature has design'd
The creature's poison harmless to the kind ;
But all beside who in the haunts are found
Must dread the poison, and must feel the wound.
Days full of care, slow weary weeks pass'd on.
Eager to go, still Jesse was not gone ;
Her time in trifling, or in tears, she spent.
She never gave, she never felt, content :
The Lady wonder'd that her humble guest
Strove not to please, would neither lie nor jest ;
She sought no news, no scandal would convey.
But walk'd for health, and was at church to pray :
All this displeased, and soon the Widow cried,
" Let me be frank — I am not satisfied ;
" You know my wishes, I your judgment trust ;
" You can be useful, Jesse, and you must ;
" Let me be plainer, child — I want an ear,
" When I am deaf, instead of mine to hear ;
" When mine is sleeping, let your eye awake ;
" When I observe not, observation take :
" Alas ! I rest not on my pillow laid,
" Then threat'ning whispers make my soul afraid ;
" The tread of strangers to my ear ascends,
" Fed at my cost, the minions of my friends ;
" While you, without a care, a wish to please,
" Eat the vile bread of idleness aud ease."
Th' indignant Girl, astonish'd, answer'd — '' Nay !
" This instant, madam, let me haste away :
" Thus speaks my father's, thus an orphan's
friend ?
" This instant, lady, let your bounty end."
The Lady frown'd indignant — " What !" she
cried,
" A vicar's daughter with a princess' pride
" And pauper's lot ! but pitying I forgive ;
" How, simple Jesse, do you think to live ?
" Have I not power to help you, foolish maid ?
" To my concerns be your attention paid ;
" With cheerful mind th' allotted duties take,
" And recollect I have a Will to make."
Jesse, who felt as liberal natures feel.
When thus the baser their designs reveal,
Replied — " Those duties were to her unfit,
" Nor would her spirit to her tasks submit."
In silent scorn the Lady sat awhile.
And then replied with stern contemptuous smile —
" Think you, fair madam, that you came to
share
" Fortunes like mine without a thought or care ?
" A guest, indeed ! from every trouble free,
" Dress'd by my help, with not a care for me ;
" When I a visit to your father made,
" 1 for the poor assistance largely paid ;
" To his domestics I their tasks assign'd,
' ' I fix'd the portion for his hungry hind ;
" And had your father (simple man I) obey'd
" My good advice, and watch'd as well as pray'd,
" He might have left you something with his
prayers,
" And lent some colour for these lofty airs. —
" In tears, my love ! Oh, then my soften'd
heart
" Cannot resist — we never more will part ;
" I need your friendship — I will be your fi iend,
" And, thus determined, to my Will attend."
• Jesse went forth, but with determined soul
To fiy such love, to break from such control :
" I hear enough," the trembling damsel cried ;
" Flight be my care, and Providence my guide :
•2 V 2
" Ere yot a jjrisonpr, I chciiiic will mnkc ;
" Will, tliiis (lisi)lay'il, tli' iiiHidioiiH urts forsnkp,
" And, iiM tli(> rattle Bounds, will fly the i'atui
snako."
JcHso lior tliimks upon tlif morrow ])niil.
Prepared to i^o, deti-rmiiu'cl tlioii);li alVniil.
" T'n^irntffiil rrcnturc !" sniil tlio I.ndy, "this
" Could I iiniij^iiu' ?- -arc yo\i friiiitic, miss ?
" What ! k'avc your friend, your prosjjccts — is it
true ?"
'I'liis .Icssc answcr'd by n mild '' Adieu!"
The Damo r(>pli«'d, " Thon liousck-ss may you
rove,
" The starvinj; victim to a puilty love ;
" Branded with shame, in sickness doom'd to nurse
" An ill-form'd cuh, your scandal and your curse ;
" Spurn'd hy its scoundrel father, and ill fed
'' By surly rustics with the parish-bread ! —
" Kelent you not? — speak — yet I can forjjive;
"Still live witli me." — ''With you," said Jesse,
" live ?
" No ! I would first endure what you describe,
" Rather than breathe with your detested tribe ;
" M'ho lonjj have feigu'd, till now- their very hearts
'• Are firmly fix'd in their accursed parts ;
" Who all profess esteem, and feel disdain,
'' And all, with justice, of deceit complain ;
" Whom I could pity, but that, while I stay,
" My terror drives all kinder thonglits away ;
" Grateful for this, that, when I think of you,
" I little fear what poverty can do."
The angry matron her attendant Jane
Summon'd in haste to soothe the fierce disdain : —
" A vile detested wTctch !" the Lady cried,
" Yet shall she be by many an effort tried,
" And, clogg'd with debt and fear, against her will
abide ;
" And, once secured, she never shall depart
'• Till I have proved the firmness of her heart :
" Then when she dares not, would not, cannot
go.
" 1 '11 make her feel what 't is to use me so."
The pensive Colin in his garden stray'd,
But felt not then the beauties it display'd ;
There many a pleasant object met his view,
A rising wood of oaks behind it grew;
A stream ran by it, and the village-green
And public roail were from the garden seen ;
Save where the pine and larch the bound'ry made,
And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade.
The Mother sat beside the garden-door,
T>ress"d as in times ere she and hers were poor;
The broad-laced cap was known in ancient days.
When madam's dress compell'd the village praise ;
And still she look'd as in the times of old,
F.re his last farm tlic erring husband sold ;
While yet the mansion stood in decent state.
And paupers waited at the well-known gate.
" Alas, my son'." the Mother cried, "and why
" That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh ?
True we arc poor, but thou hoot never felt
" PangH to thy father for liiH c-rror dealt ;
" Pangs from strong hopes of vihionary pain,
" For ever raiscil, and ever found in vain.
" He rose uiihap])y from bis fniitless srbc-mo?,
" As guilty wretches frfim their blissful ilrcams;
" But thou wert then, my son, a playful child,
" Won*t liiivf ii bone."
Tiu-y then he^^iui to hint, and to bcj^in
Wiis all thi-y ni-cdcil it was felt witliin :
In terms less veil'il an nll'er then was nmilc ;
'rii()u;^h ilistunt still, it fuilM not to persuade:
More pliiiiily then was every ])oint i)ro|)osed,
Aiiproveil. ai'eei)te(l, ami tiie bargain iloseiilitriil aid ;
To th()Uj;ht itself he strove to hid adieu,
And from devotions to diversions flew ;
He took a \nnn- domestic for a slave
(Thouj^h avarice grieved to see the price he gave) ;
I'pon his board, once frugal, press'd a load
Of viands licli, the appetite to goad ;
The long-protraeled meal, the sjiarkling cup.
Fought with his gloom, and kept his courage up :
Soon as the morning came, there met his eyes
Accounts of wealtii, that he might reailing rise;
To profit then he gave some active hours,
Till food and wine again should renovate his
powers :
Yet, spite of all defence, of every aid.
The watchful Foe her close attention paid ;
In every thoughtful moment on she press'd,
And gave at once her dagger to his breast ;
He waked at midnight, and the fears of sin,
As waters through a btirsten dam, broke in ;
Nay, in the banquet, with his friends around,
When all their cares and half their crimes were
drown'd.
Would some chance act awake the slumbering fear.
And care and crime in all their strength appear :
Tlic news is read, a guilty victim swings.
And troubled looks proclaim the bosom-stings :
Some pair are wed ; this brings the wife in view ;
And some divorced ; this shows the parting too ;
Nor can he hear of evil word or deed.
But they to thouglit, and thought to sufferings lead.
Such was liis life — no other changes came,
The hurrying tlay, the conscious night the same ;
The night of horror — -wlien he starting cried
To the poor startled sinner at his side,
" Is it in law ? am I condemn'd to die ?
" Let me escape ! 1 '11 give — oh ! let me fly —
" How ! but a dream I — no judges ! dungeon ! chain!
'• Or these grim men !— I will not sleep again. —
'" Wilt thou, dread being I thus thy promise keep?
" Day is thy time — and wilt thou nuirder sleep ?
" Sorrow and want repose, and wilt thou come,
" Nor give one liour of pure untroubled gloom ?
" Oh ! Conscience ! Conscience ! man's most
faithful friend,
" II im eanst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend ;
'• But if he will thy friendly checks forego,
" Tliou art, oh ! woe for me, his deadliest foe !" *
TALE XV.
^ [" Conscien7a I'assicura,
I.a buona compagna che I'uom francheggia
Sotto I'usbergo del esser puro." — Dante.
' He that has light within his own clear breast
ADVICK; OK, Till. 'StiUIKi: AND
Tin; riMKST.
Ilifi hours nW'il up with riotfi, banquets, sporta —
And ncviT noted in him any study,
Any rftirement, any sequestration. Henry I'.
I will converse with iron-witted fools,
Willi unrespectivp bovs ; none are for me,
Wlio look into rac with considerate eyes. — Richard III.
You cram these words into mine ears, against
The stomach of my sense. Tempest.
A WEALTHY Lord of far-extended land
Had all that pleased him placed at his command ;
Widow'd of late, but, finding much relief
In the world's comforts, he dismiss'd his grief;
He was by marriage of his daughters eased.
And knew his sons could marry if they pleased ;
Meantime in travel he indulged the boys,
And kept no spy nor partner of his joys.
These joys, indeed, were of the grosser kind.
That fed the cravings of an earthly mind ;
A mind that, conscious of its owni excess,
Felt the reproach his neighbours would express.
Long at th' indulgent board he loved to sit.
Where joy was laughter, and profaneness wit ;
And such the guest and manners of the Hall,
No wedded lady on the 'Squire would call :
Here reign'd a Favourite, and her triumph gain'd
O'er other favourites who before had reign'd ;
Reserved and modest seem'd the nymph to be.
Knowing her lord was charni'd with modesty ;
For he, a sportsman keen, the more enjoy'd,
The greater value had the thing destroy'd.
Our 'Squire declared, that, from a wife released,
He would no more give trouble to a Priest ;
Seem'd it not. then, ungrateful and unkind
That he should trouble from the priesthood find ?
The Church he honour'd, and he gave the due
And full respect to every son he knew ;
But envied those who had the luck to meet
.\ gentle pastor, civil, and discreet ;
Who never bold and hostile sermon penn'd.
To wound a sinner, or to shame a friend ;
One whom no being either shunn'd or fear'd :
Such must be loved wherever they appear'd.
Not such the stern old Rector of the time.
Who soothed no culprit, and who spared no crime ;
Who would his fears and his contempt express
For irreligion and licentiousness ;
May sit i" th' centre and enjoy bright day :
But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts.
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ;
Himself is his own dungeon." — Milton.]
TALE XV.— ADVICE; OR, THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.
339
Of him our A^illage Lord, his guests among,
By speech vindictive proved his feelings stung.
" "Were he a bigot," said the 'Squire, " whose
zeal
" Condemn'd us all, I should disdain to feel :
" But when a man of parts, in college train'd,
'• Prates of out conduct, who would not be pain'd ?
" While he declaims (where no one dares reply)
" On men abandon'd, grov'ling in the sty
" (Like beasts in human shape) of shameless
luxury.
" Yet with a patriot's zeal I stand the shock
" Of vile rebuke, example to his flock :
" But let this Rector, thus severe and proud,
" Change his wide surplice for a narrow shroud,
" And I will place within his seat a youth,
" Train'd by the Graces to explain the Truth ;
" Then shall the flock with gentle hand be led,
" By wisdom won, and by compassion fed."
This purposed Teacher was a sister's son,
Who of her children gave the priesthood one ;
And she had early train'd for this employ
The pliant talents of her college-boy :
At various times her letters painted all
Her brother's views — the manners of the Hall ;
The rector's harshness, and the mischief made
By chiding those whom preachers should persuade :
This led the youth to views of easy life,
A friendly patron, an obliging wife ;
His tithe, his glebe, the garden, and the steed.
With books as many as he wish'd to read.
All this accorded with the Uncle's will :
He loved a priest compliant, easy, still ;
Sums he had often to his favourite sent,
" To be," he wrote, " in manly freedom spent ;
" For well it pleased his spirit to assist
" An honest lad, who scorn'd a Methodist."
His mother, too, in her maternal care.
Bade him of canting hypocrites beware ;
Who from his duties would his heart seduce,
And make his talents of no earthly use.
Soon must a trial of his worth be made —
The ancient priest is to the tomb convey'd ;
And the Youth summon'd from a serious friend.
His guide and host, new duties to attend.
Three months before, the nephew and the
'Squire
Saw mutual worth to praise and to admire ;
And though the one too early left his wine.
The other still exclaim' d — " My boy will shine :
" Yes, I perceive that he will soon improve,
" And I shall form the very guide I love ;
" Decent abroad, he will my name defend,
" And when at home, be social and unbend."
The plan was specious, for the mind of James
Accorded duly with his uncle's schemes :
He then aspired not to a higher name
Than sober clerks of moderate talents claim ;
Gravely to pray, and rev'rendly to preach.
Was all he saw, good youth ! within his reach :
Thus may a mass of sulphur long abide,
Cold and inert, but, to the flame applied.
Kindling it blazes, and consuming turns
To smoke and poison, as it boils and burns.
James, leaving college, to a Preacher stray'd ;
What call'd he knew not — but the call obey'd :
Mild, idle, pensive, ever led by those
Who could some specious novelty propose ;
Humbly he listen'd, while the preacher dwelt
On touching themes, and strong emotions felt ;
And in this night was fix'd that j)liant will
To one sole point, and he retains it still.
At first his care was to himself confined ;
Himself assured, he gave it to mankind :
His zeal grew active — honest, earnest zeal.
And comfort dealt to him, he long'd to deal ;
He to his favourite preacher now withdrew.
Was taught to teach, instructed to subdue.
And train'd for ghostly warfare, when the call
Of his new duties reach'd him from the Hall.
Now to the 'Squire, although alert and stout.
Came unexpected an attack of gout ;
And the grieved patron felt such sei"ious pain.
He never thought to see a church again :
Thrice had the youthful rector taught the crowd,
AVhose growing numbers spoke his powers aloud,
Before the patron could himself rejoice
(His pain still lingering) in the general voice;
For he imputed all this early fame
To graceful manner and the well-known name ;
And to himself assumed a share of praise.
For worth and talents he was pleased to raise.
A month had flown, and with it fled disease ;
What pleased before, began again to please ;
Emerging daily from his chamber's gloom.
He found his old sensations hurrying home ;
Then call'd his nephew, and exclaim'd, " My boy,
" Let us again the balm of life enjoy ;
" The foe has left me, and I deem it right,
" Should he return, to arm me for the fight."
Thus spoke the 'Squire, the favourite nymph
stood by.
And view'd the priest with insult in her eye ;
She thrice had heard him when he boldly spoke
On dangerous points, and fear'd he would revoke :
For James she loved not — and her manner told,
" This warm aflcction will be quickly cold :"
And still she fear'd impression might be made
Upon a subject nervous and decay'd ;
She knew her danger, and had no desire
Of reformation in the gallant "Squire ;
And felt an envious pleasure in her breast
To see the rector daunted and distrcss'd.
Again the Uncle to the youth applied—
" Cast, my dear lad, that cursed gloom aside :
" There are for all things time and place ; appear
" Grave in your pulpit, and be merry here :
" Now take your wine— for woes a sure resource,
" And the best prelude to a long discourse."
James half obey'd, but cast an angry eye
On the fair lass, who still stood watchful by ;
Resolving thus, " I have my fears— but still
" I must perform my duties, and I will :
2x2
I
340
CRAHMK'S WORKS.
'' No love, no interest, hIuiII my niinil control;
'' Better to lose my comforts than my soul ;
'■ Better my uncle's fiivonr to alijure,
'' 'I'hnn the npl)rniilingH of" my heart eiulnre."
lie tociU Ills glass, nnil then addrcHsM the 'S<[uirc :
" 1 feel not well, permit me to retire."
Tlie 'Sijuire conceivcil that the ensuing dny
(iave him these terrors for the granil essay,
AViien he himself should this young i)reaclier try,
And stand before him with observant eye;
'J'his raised ccmipassion in his manly breast,
And he woulil send the rector to Ids rest:
Yet first, in soothing voice — "' A moment stay,
" And these suggestions of n friend obey ;
'' Treasure these hints, if fame or pence you
prize, —
'' The bottle emptied, I shall close my eyes.
" On every priest a twofold care attends,
" To prove his talents, and insure his friends :
" First, of the first — your stores at once produce ;
" Antl bring your reading to its proper use :
'• On doctrines dwell, and every point enforce
" By quoting much, the scholar's sure resource;
" l'"or he alone can show us on each head
'' Wliat ancient schoolmen and sage fathers said:
" No worth has knowledge, if you fail to show
'■ IIow well you studied and how mucli you know;
" Is faith your subject, and you judge it riglit
" On theme so dark to cast a ray of light,
" Be it tluit faith the orthodox maintain,
" Found in the rubric, what the creeds explain ;
'' Fail not to show us on this ancient faith
" (And quote the passage) what some martyr
saith :
'■ Dwell not one moment on a faith that shocks
" The minds of men sincere and orthodox ;
" That gloomy faith, that robs the wounded mind
" Of all the comfort it was wont to find
'• From virtuous acts, and to the soul denies
'■ Its proper due for alms and charities ;
" That partial faith, that, weighing sins alone,
" Lets not a virtue for a fault atone ;
'• That starving faith, that would our tables clear,
'• And make one dreadful Lent of all the year ;
•' And cruel too, for this is faith that rends
" Confiding beauties from protecting friends ;
" A faith that all embracing, what a gloom
'' Deep and terrific o'er the land would come !
" What scenes of horror would that time disclose !
" No sight but misery, and no sound but woes;
'• Your nobler faith, in loftier style convey'd,
'' Shall be witli praise and admiration paid :
'' On points like these your hearers all admire
" A preacher's depth, and nothing more require.
" Shall we a studious youth to college send.
'' That every clown liis words may comprehend?
" 'Tis for your glory, when your hearers own
" Y'our learning matchless, but the sense unknown.
" Thus honour gain'd, learn now to gain a
friend,
" And the sure way is — never to offend ;
For, .lames, consider — what your neighbours do
Is their own business, and concerns not you :
" Shun all resemblance to that forward race
•' Who preach of sins before a sinner's face ;
" And Hcem a« if they ovcrlookM a pew,
" Only to drag a failing man in view :
" Much Hhould I feel, when gronidng in fliseasc,
" If a rough hand upon my limb hiiould seize;
" But great my anger, if this haml were foun,
atithor of F.lia's Essavs,' &o. &c., in vol."xxiv. of HlackwomVs
Magazine, p. 764. Tlie version is so close that we need not
y\iid, at the ilistnnt hint or dark Nurmisc,
'J'he blood into the mantling cheek would rise.
Now Anna's station frequent tcrront wrought
In one whose looks were with such meaning fraught ;
For on a Lady, ns an humble friend,
It was her ])aiiiful ofhce to attend.
Her duties here were of the usual kind —
And some the body harass'd, some the mind :
Billets she wrote, anil tender stories read,
To make the Lady slee])y in her bed ;
She i)iay'd at whist, but with inferior skill,
Anil heard the summons as a call to drill;
Ulusic was ever pleasant till she jilay'd
At a request that no request convey'd ;
The Lady's talcs with an.xious looks she heard.
For she must witness what her Friend averr'd ;
The Lady's taste she must in all approve.
Hate whom slie hated, whom she lov'd must love;
These, with the various duties of her place,
AVith care she studied, and perform'd with grace :
She veil'd her troubles in a mask of ease.
And show'd her pleasure was a power to please.
Such were the damsel's duties : she was poor —
Above a servant, but with service more :
Men on her face with careless freedom gaz'd.
Nor thought how painful was the glow they raised.
A wealthy few to gain her favour tried,
But not the favour of a grateful bride;
They spoke their purpose with an easy air,
That shamed and frighten'd the dependent fair ;
Past time she view'd, the passing time to cheat.
But nothing found to make the present sweet :
With pensive soul she read life's future page.
And saw dependent, poor, repining age.
But who shall dare t' assert what years-may bring,
When wonders from the passing hour may spring ?
There dwelt a Yeoman in the place, whose mind
Was gentle, generous, cultivated, kind ;
For thirty years he labour'd ; fortune then
Placed the mild rustic with superior men :
A richer Stafl'ord who had liv'd to save.
What he had treasured to the poorer gave ;
Who with a sober mind that treasure view'd,
And the slight studies of his youth renew'd :
He not profoundly, but discreetlj- read,
And a fair mind with useful culture fed ;
Then thought of marriage — '' But the great," said
he,
" I shall not suit, nor will the meaner me."
Anna, he saw, admired her modest air ;
He thought her virtuous, and he knew her fair;
Love raised his pity for her humble state.
And prompted wishes for her happier fate ;
No pride in money would his feelings wonnd.
Nor vulgar manners hurt him and confound :
He then the Lady at the Hall address'd,
Sought her consent, and his regard express'd :
Y'et if some cause his earnest wish denied,
He begg'd to know it, and he bow'd and sigh'd.
quote specimens of it here ; but the whole will certainly !
rewiu-d an attentive penisal. Our wonder is, that so little use 1
lia^i hitherto been made of our poet's tales as materi.ils for I
dramatic composition.] I
TALE XVI.— THE CONFIDANT.
343
The Lady own'd that she was loth to part,
But praised the damsel for her gentle heart,
Her pleasing person, and her blooming health,
But ended thus, " Her virtue is her wealth."
" Then is she rich !" he cried with lively air ;
" But whence, so please you, came a lass so fair ?'
" A placeman's child was Anna, one who died
" And left a widow by afflictions tried ;
" She to support her infant daughter strove,
" But early left the object of her love :
" Her youth, her beauty, and her orphan state
" Gave a kind countess interest in her fate :
" With her she dwelt and still might dwelling be,
" When the earl's folly caused the lass to flee ;
" A second friend was she compell'd to shun,
" By the rude offers of an uncheck'd son ;
" I found her then, and with a mother's love
" Regard the gentle girl whom you approve :
" Yet e'en with me protection is not j)eace,
" Nor man's designs nor beauty's trials cease :
" Like sordid boys by costly fruit they feel —
" They will not purchase, but they try to steal."
Now this good Lady, like a witness true.
Told but the truth, and all the truth she knew ;
And 't is our duty and our pain to show
Truth this good lady had not means to know.
Yes, there was lock'd within the damsel's breast
A fact important to be now confess'd ;
Gently, my muse, th' afflicting tale relate,
And have some feeling for a sister's fate.
Where Anna dwelt, a conquering hero came, —
An Irish captain, Sedley was his name ;
And he too had that same prevailing art,
That gave soft wishes to the virgin's heart :
In years they difFer'd ; he had thirty seen
When this young beauty counted just fifteen ;
But still they were a lovely lively pair,
And trod on earth as if they trod on air.
On love, delightful theme ! the captain dwelt
With force still growing with the hopes he felt ;
But with some caution and reluctance told.
He had a father crafty, harsh, and old ;
Who, as possessing much, would much e.xpect,
Or both, for ever, from his love reject :
Why then offence to one so powerful give.
Who (for their comfort) had not long to live ?
With this poor prospect the deluded maid,
In words confiding, was indeed betray'd ;
And, soon as terrors in her bosom rose.
The hero fled ; they hinder'd his repose.
Deprived of him, she to a parent's breast
Her secret trusted, and her pains impress'd ;
Let her to town (so prudence urged) repair.
To shun disgrace, at least to hide it there ;
But ere she went, the luckless damsel pray'd
A chosen friend might lend her timely aid :
" Yes! my soul's sister, my Eliza, come,
" Hear her last sigh, and ease thy Anna's doom."
" 'T is a fool's wish," the angry father cried.
But, lost in troubles of his own, complied ;
And dear Eliza to her friend was sent,
T' indulge that wish, and be her punishment.
The time arrived, and brought a tenfold dread ;
The time was past, and all the terror fled ;
The infant died ; the face resumed each charm.
And reason now brought trouble and alarm.
Should her Eliza — no ! she was t«o just,
" Too good and kind — but ah ! too young to trust."
Anna return'd, her former place resumed.
And faded beauty with new grace re-bloom'd ;
And if some whispers of the past were heard,
They died innoxious, as no cause appear'd ;
But other cares on Anna's bosom press'd.
She saw her father gloomy and distress'd ;
He died o'erwhelm'd with debt, and soon was shed
The filial sorrow o'er a mother dead :
She sought Eliza's arms — that faithful friend was
wed;
Then was compassion by the countess shown.
And all th' adventures of her life are knoMii.
And now, beyond her hopes — no longer tried
By slavish awe — she lived a Yeoman's bride ;
Then bless'd her lot, and with a grateful mind
Was careful, cheerful, vigilant, and kind :
The gentle husband felt supreme delight,
Bless'd by her joy, and happy in her sight ;
He saw with pride in every friend and guest
High admiration and regard exj)ress'd :
With greater pride, and with superior joj',
He look'd exulting on his first-born boy ;
To her fond breast the wife her infant strain'd.
Some feelings utter'd, some were not explain'd ;
And she enraptured with her treasure grew,
The sight familiar, but the pleasure new.
Yet there appear'd within that tranquil state
Some threat'ning prospect of uncertain fate ;
Between the married when a secret lies.
It wakes suspicion from enforced disguise :
Still thought the Wife upon her absent friend.
With all that must upon her truth depend.
" There is no being in the world beside
" Who can discover what that friend will hide ;
" Who knew the fact, knew not my name or state,
" Who these can tell cannot the fact relate ;
" But thou, Eliza, canst the whole imjiart,
" And all my safety is thy generous heart."
Mix'd with these fears — but light and transient
these —
Fled years of peace, prosperitj-, and ease ;
So tranquil all, that scarce a gloomy day
For days of gloom unmix'd prepared the way :
One eve, the Wife, still happy in lier state,
Sang gaily, thoughtless of approaching fate ;
Then came a letter, that (received in dread
Not unobserved) she in confusion read ;
The substance this — " Her fricntl rejoiced to fiiul
" That she had riches with a grateful mind ;
" While poor Eliza had, from place to place,
" Been lured by hope to labour for disgrace ;
" That every scheme her wandering husband tried,
" Pain'd wliile he lived, and perish'd when he
died."
She then of want in angry style complain'd,
Her child a burthen to her life remain'd.
Her kindred sliunn'd her prayers, no friend lier
soul sustaiu'd.
" Yet why iicj^lcctccl ? |)cnrcst Anna knew
'' Ilcr wortli oiico tried, lier iVieiiiislii|i ever true;
" She hoped, she trusted, tliouf^li by wants op-
l)ressM,
" To lock th(! treasuretl seercf in lior l>roast ;
" Yet, vex'd by trouble, nnist iijiply to one,
'• For kindness due to her ibr kindness done."
in Anna's mind wns tuinidt, in her fnre
I""bisiiinj;s of dread liad inimirntary i>lace :
" I must," she )ud;;ed, '■thes<' cruel lines expose,
" Or fears, or worse tlinn fears, niycrime disclose."
The letter shown, he saiil, with sober smile, —
" Anna, your Friend has not a friendly style :
" Say, where could you with this fair lady dwell,
'■ 'NVlio boasts of secrets that she scorns to tell?"
" At school," she answer'd : he " At school !"
replied ;
" Nay, then 1 know the secrets you would hide ;
" Some early lonjrinjjs these, without dispute, |
" Some youthful gaspings for forbidden fruit : |
'• NVhy so disorder'd, love? arc such the crimes '.
" That give us sorrow in our graver times ?
'• Come, take a present for your friend, and rest
'■ In perfect peace — you find you arc confess'd."
This cloud, though past, alarm'd the conscious
wife.
Presaging gloom and sorrow for her life ;
AVho to her answer join'd a fervent prayer
That her Kliza would a sister spare :
If she again — but was tlierc cause? — should send,
I.ct her direct — and then she named a friend :
A saii a ta))lc laid,
'I'lu' favdiiriti' stmlics i>t" tin- fair lu'trnyM ;
lieiicntli the window was the toilet Hpread,
And the fiio gleam'd 141011 u crimson bed.
In Anna's looks and falling tears were seen
How interesting had their sniijccts been :
" Oh ! then," resumed the Frienil, " I jjlainlyfind
" That you and Stallord know each otiier's mind ;
" I must depart, must on the world be thrown,
'' Like one discarded, worthless, and unknown;
" 15ut, shall 1 carry, and to ))lcase a foe,
'" A painful secret in my bosom? No !
'' Think not your Friend a reptile you may tread
'• Beneath your feet, and say, the worm is dead ;
" I have some feeling, and will not be made
'■ The scorn of her whom love cannot persuade :
" Would not your word, your sliglitest wish, effect
" All that 1 hope, petition, or expect ?
'' The power you have, but you the use decline —
" Proof that you feel not, or you fear not mine.
'■ There was a time wlien I, a tender maid,
" Flew at a call, and your desires obey'd ;
" A very mother to the child became,
'■ Consoled your sorrow, and conceal'd your shame •
" But now, grown rich and happy, from tlie door
" You thrust a bosom-friend, despised and poor ;
" Tliat child alive, its mother might have known
'■ The liartl, ungrateful spirit she has shown."
Here paused the Guest, and Anna cried at
length —
'' You try me, cruel friend ! beyond my strength :
'* Would 1 had been beside my infant faid,
" Where none would vex me, tlircaten, or up-
braid ! ■'
In .\nna's looks the Friend beheld despair ;
Her speech she soften'd, and composed her air;
Yet, while professing love, she answer'd still—
" You can befriend me, but you want the will."
They parted thus, and Anna went her way.
To shed her secret sorrows, and to pray.
Stafford, amused with books, and fond of home,
By reading oft dispell'd the evening gloom ;
History or tale— all heard him with delight.
And thus was pass'd this memorable night.
The listening Friend bestow'd a flattering smile :
A sleeping boy the mother held the while ;
And ere she fondly bore him to his bed,
On his fair face the tear of anguish shed.
And now his task resumed, " My tale," said he.
" Is short and sad, short may our sadness be !"
" The Caliph Harun,* as historians tell,
" Ruled, for a tyrant, admirably well ;
Harun al Rascliid. who died early in the ninth century : he
' Wlicrc hiH own plcnsurcH were not touch'd, to men
'He was humane, and HometiineH even then.
' llnrun was fond of fruits anil gardens fair,
' ,\nd woe to all whont he found ]iourliing there:
' Among his pages was u lively Boy,
' Fnger in search of every trifling joy;
'His feelings vivid, anci liis fancy strong,
' He sigh'd for pleasure while he shrank from
w rong :
' Wlicn by the Caliph in the garden placed,
' He saw the treasures which he longM to taste;
' And oft alone he ventured to behold
' Hicli hanging fruits with rind of glowing gold;
' Too long lie stay'd forbidden bliss to view,
' His virtue failing as his longings grew ;
• .\thirst and wearied with the noontide heat,
' Fate to the garden led his luckless feet ;
' With eager eyes and open mouth he stood,
' Smelt the sweet breath, and touch'd the fragrant
food ;
' The tempting beauty sparkling in the sun
' Charm'd his young sense — he ate, and was un-
done ;
' When the fond glutton paused, his eyes around
' He turn'd, and eyes upon him turning found;
' Pleased he beheld the spy, a brother-page,
' A friend allied in office and in age;
' Who promised much that secret he would be,
• But high the price he fix'd on secrecy.
" ' Were you suspected, my unhappy friend,'
' Began the Boy, ' where would your sorrows end ?
' ' In all the palace there is not a page
' ' The Caliph would not torture in his rage :
' ' I think I see thee now impaled alive,
''Writhing in pangs — but come, my friend!
revive ;
' • Had some beheld you, all your purse contains
' • Coukl not have saved you from terrific pains ;
' ' I scorn such meanness ; and, if not in debt,
' ' Would not an asper on your folly set.'
" The hint was strong : young Osmyn search'd
his store
" For bribes, and found he soon could bribe no
more ;
" That time arrived, for Osmyn's stock was small,
" .\nd the young tyrant now possess'd it all ;
'" The cruel youth, with his companions near,
" Gave the broad hint that raised the sudden fear ;
'■ Th' ungenerous insult now was daily shown,
'■ And Osmyn's peace and honest pride were fiowTi ;
'■ Then came augmenting woes, and fancy strong
" Drew forms of suffering, a tormenting throng ;
" He felt degraded, and the struggling mind
" Dared not be free, and could not be resign'd ;
" .-Vnd all his pains and fervent prayers obtain'd
" Was truce from insult, while the fears remain'd.
•* One day it chanced that this degraded Boy
" And Tyrant-friond were fix'd at their employ ;
" Who now had thrown restraint and form aside,
" And for his bribe in plainer speech applied :
is often the hearer, and sometimes the hero, of a lale in tlie
Arabian Nigliu" Entertainments.
TALE XVII.-RESENTMENT.
347
' Long have I waited, and the last supply
' Was but a pittance, yet how patient I I
' But give nie now what thy first terrors gave,
' My speech shall praise thee, and my silence
" Osmyn had found, in many a dreadful day,
The tyrant fiercer when he seem'd iii play :
He begg'd forbearance : ' I have not to give ;
' Spare me awhile, although 't is pain to live :
' Oh ! had that stolen fruit the power possess'd
' To war with life, I now had been at rest.'
" ' So fond of death,' replied the Boy, ' 't is plain
" ' Thou hast no certain notion of the pain ;
'• ' But to the Caliph were a secret shown,
" ' Death has no pain that would be then un-
knowTi.'
" Now," says the story, " in a closet near,
" The monarch seated, chanced the boys to hear ;
" There oft he came, when wearied on his throne,
" To read, sleep, listen, pray, or be alone.
" The tale proceeds, when first the Caliph
found
" That he was robb'd, although alone, he frown'd ;
" And swore in wrath that he would send the boy
" Far from his notice, favour, or employ;
" But gentler movements soothed his ruffled mind,
" And his own failings taught him to be kind.
" Relenting thoughts then painted Osmyn young,
" His passion urgent, and temptation strong ;
" And that he suffer'd from that villain-Spy
" Pains worse than death, till he desired to die ;
" Then if his morals had received a stain,
'"His bitter sorrows made him pure again :
" To reason, pity lent her powerful aid,
" For one so tempted, troubled, and betray'd ;
" And a free pardon the glad Boy restored
'' To the kind presence of a gentle lord ;
'■ Who from his office and his country drove
" That traitor-Friend, whom pains nor pray'rs
could move :
" Who raised the fears no mortal could endure,
" And then with cruel av'rice sold the cure.
" My tale is ended ; but, to be applied,
" I must describe the place where Caliphs hide."
Here both the females look'd alarm'd, distress'd.
With hurried passions hard to be express'd.
" It was a closet by a chamber placed,
" Where slept a lady of no vulgar taste ;
3 [" ' The Confidant' is interesting, tliou!,'h not altogether
pleasing. A fair one makes a slip at the early age of tifteen.
which is concealed from every one but her mother and a
sentimental friend from whom she could conceal nothing.
Her after life is pure and exemplary ; and at twenty-five slie
is married to a worthy man, with whom she lives in perfect
innocence and concord for many happy years. At last the
confidant of her childhood, w hose lot has been less prosperous,
starts up and importunes her for money — not forgetting to
hint at tlie fatal secret of which she is the depository. After
agonizing and plundering her for years, she at last comes and
settles herself in her house, and embitters her whole existence
by her selfish threats and ungenerous extortions. The hus-
" Her friend attended in that chosen room
" That she had honour'd and proclaim'd her
home ;
" To please the eye were chosen pictures placed,
" And some light volumes to amuse the taste ;
" Letters and music on a table laid,
" For much the lady wrote, and often play'd :
" Beneath the window was a toilet spread,
" And a fire gleam'd upon a crimson bed."
He paused, he rose ; with troubled joy the Wife
Felt the new era of her changeful life ;
Frankness and love appeared in Stafford's face.
And all her trouble to delight gave place.
Twice made the Guest an effort to sustain
Her feelings, twice resumed her seat in vain.
Nor could suppress her shame, nor could support
her pain :
Quick she retired, and all the dismal night
Thought of her guilt, her folly, and her flight ;
Then sought unseen her miserable home.
To think of comforts lost, and brood on wants to
come.^
TALE XV IL
RESENTMENT.
She hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day for melting charity ;
Yet, notwithstanding, being incensed, is flint :
Her temper, therefore, must be well observed.
2 Henry If,
Three or four wenches where I stood cried — " Alas I good
soul !" and forgave him with all their hearts ; but there is
no heed to be taken of them ; if Caesar had stabbed their
mothers, they would have done no less." — Julius Ccei>ar.
How dost ? Art cold ?
I'm cold myself. — Where is the straw, my fellow ?
The art of our necessities is strange,
Tliat can make vile things precious. Lenr.
Females there are of unsuspicious mind,
Easy and soft, and credulous and kind ;
Who, when offended for the twentieth time.
Will hear th' oftender and forgive the crime :
And there are others whom, like these to cheat.
Asks but the humblest effort of deceit ;
band, who had been greatly disturbed at tlie change in his
wife's temper and spirits, at l:ist accidentally overhears enough
to put him in possession of the fact ; and resolving to forgixe
a fault so long past and so well repaired, takes occasion to
intimate his knowledge of it, and his disdain of the false
confidant, in an ingenious apologue,— wliich, however, is
plain enough to drive the pestilent visitor from his house,
and to restore peace and confidence to the bosom of his grate-
ful wife."— Jkffrkv.]
1 [It is understood that this tale was suggested by some
realities in the history of Mrs. Elmy, the mother of the
I'oefswife.]
2 Y 2
348
CRAUnK'S WDRKS.
IJut flioy, onco injured, foci n stronj^ disdniii,
And, seldom pardoning, never trust ii(;nin ;
Urged by religion, tliey forgive — hut yet
(luard the wiirni heart, and never more forget :
T/iiisi: are like wax — a|)]>ly them to the fire.
Melting, they take th' inipresnioiis you desire;
l')asy to mould and fashion as you please,
And again mouliled with an eipiMl ease:
Like smelted iron I/dsi' the forms retain,
Jiut, once inii>ri'ss'd, will ucvrr nirlt again.
A busy port a serious Merrhanf made
His clioseu place to recommence his trade;
And brought his Lady, who, their children dead,
Their native seat of recent sorrow flele was, ami to iier door
("anic daily welcoiiicd the nej^'lrcled poor:
'J'lie al>seiit sick were sootlied liy licr relief.
As lier free Ixmnty soiij;lit the liaiints of grief;
A plain and homely charily had she,
And loved the ohjects of her alms to see ;
^Vith her own hands slie dress'd the savoury meat,
AVith her own fingers wrote the choice receipt ;
She lieani all tales that injured wives relate.
Anil look a double interest in their fate ;
IJut of all liushands not a wretch was known
So vile, so mean, so cruel as her own.
This bounteous Lady kept an active spy.
To search th' abodes of want, and to supply;
The gentle Susaii served the liberal dame —
Unlike their notions, yet their tleeds the same:
No practised villain could a victim find
Than this stern Lady more completely blind ;
Nor (if detected in his fraud) could meet
One less disposed to pardon a deceit ;
The wrong she treasured, and on no pretence
Received tli' offender, or forgot th' offence :
But the kinil Servant, to the thrice-proved knave
A fourth time listcn'd, and the past forgave.
First in her youth, when she was blithe and gay,
Came a smooth rogue, and stole her love away ;
Then to another and anotlier flew,
To boast the wanton mischief he could do :
Yet she forgave him, though so great her pain,
That she was never blithe or gay again.
Then came a spoiler, who, with villain-art.
Implored her hand, and agonized lier heart ;
lie seized her purse, in idle waste to spend
AVith a vile wanton, whom she call'd her friend ;
Five years she suffer'd — he had revell'd five —
Then came to show her he was just alive ;
Alone he came, his vile companion deail.
And he, a wand'ring pauper, wanting bread ;
His body wasted, wither'd life and limb,
When this kind soul became a slave to him :
Nay, she was sure that, should he now survive,
No better husband would be left alive ;
For him she mourn'd, and then, alone and poor.
Sought and found comfort at her Lady's door :
Ten years she served, and, mercy her employ,
Her tasks were pleasure, and her duty joy.
Thus lived the Mistress and the Maid, design'd
Each other's aid — one cautious, and both kind :
Oft at their window, working, they would sigh
To see tlie aged and the sick go by ;
Like wounded bees, that at their home arrive
Slowly and weak, but labouring for the hive.
The busy people of a mason's yard
The curious Lacly view'd with much regard ;
AVith steady motion she perceived them draw
Through blocks of stone the slowly-working saw ;
It gave her pleasure and surprise to see
Among these men the signs of revelry :
Cold waH the HeoHon, anrl confined tlieir view,
TediouH their lawkH, but merry were the crew:
'I'here «he Ixdield an aged pau|)ca(l !" said tlic staiiicd I.mly. — " Yes, lie fidi
'' ridsc at llio door where lie wiis wont to dwell ;
" There his sole friend, the Ass, wns standin)r by,
'• Hull' dead himself, to see his .Master die"
" l",xj)irc]iliant swain to sigh :
" His wife might o'er his men and maids preside,
" And in her province be a judge and gui'le;
" But what he thought, or did, or wish'd to do,
" She must not know, or censure if she knew ;
" At home, al)road, by day, by night, if he
" On aught determined, so it was tf> be :
" How is a mati," he ask'd. " for business fit,
" Who to a female can his w ill submit ?
" Absent a wliile, let no inquiring eye
" Or plainer speech presume to question why :
" But all be silent ; and, when seen again,
" Let all be clieerful — shall a wife complain ?
'■ Friends I invite, and who shall dare t* object,
" Or look on them with coolness or neglect?
" No ! I must ever of my house be head,
" And, tluis obey'd, I condescend to wed."
Clubb heard the speech — " My friend is nice,
said he ;
" A wife with less respect will do for me :
" How is he certain such a prize to gain ?
" What he approves, a lass may learn to feign,
" And so aflf'ect t' obey till she begins to reign ;
" A while complying, she may vary then,
" And be as wives of more unwary men ;
" Beside, to him who plays such lordly part,
" How shall a tender creature yield her heart ;
'• Should he tlie promised confidence refuse,
" She may another more confiding choose ;
" ^lay show her anger, yet her purpose hide,
" And wake his jealousy, and wound his pride.
" In one so humbled, who can trace the friend ?
" I on an equal, not a slave, depend ;
" If true, my confidence is wisely placed,
" And being false, she only is disgraced."
Clubb. ■with these notions, cast his eye around.
And one so easy soon a partner found.
The lady chosen was of good repute ;
Meekness she had not, and was seldom mute :
Though quick to anger, still she loved to smile.
And would be calm if men would wait a while :
She knew her iluty, and she loved her way,
!More pleased in truth to govern than obey ;
^ [' Resentment' is one of the pieces in which Mr. Crabbe
has exercised liis extraordinary powers of giving pain, — though
not gratuitously in this instance, nor witliout inculcalinsj a
strong lesson of forgiveness and compassion. .\ middle-aged
merchant marries a lady of good fortune, and persuades lier
to make it all over to him when he is on tlie eve of
bankruptcy. He is reduced to utter b<"ggary : and his wile,
bitterly and deeply resenting the wrong he had done lier,
renounces all connection with him, and endures her o»n
reverses with magnanimity. At last a distant relation leaves
her his fortune ; and she returns to the enjoyment of mo-
derate wealtli, and the e.xercise of charity to all but her
miserable husband. Broken by age and disease, he now begs
the waste sand from the stone-cutters, and sells it on an ass
through the streets : —
" And from each trifling gift
Made shift to live — and wretched was the sliifl."
Tlie unrelenting wife descries hira creeping through the wet
at this miserable emplovment; but still withholds all relief,
in spite of the touching entreaties of her compassionate
handmaid, whose nature is as kind and yielding, as that of
her mistress is hard and inllexible. Of all the pictures
of mendicant poverty that have ever been brought forward
in prose or verse — in charity sermons or popular harangues
— we know of none half so moving or complete, so powerful,
and so true, as is contained in sundry passages of this tale. —
Jeffrey.]
TALE XVIII.— THE WAGER.
353
She heard her priest with reverence, and her
spouse
As one who felt the pressure of her vows ;
Useful and civil, all her friends confess'd — •
Give her her way, and she would choose the best ;
Though some indeed a sly remark would make —
Give it her not, and she would choose to take.
All this, when Clubb some cheerful months had
spent.
He saw, confess'd, and said he was content.
Counter meantime selected, doubted, weigh'd.
And then brought home a young complying maid ;
A tender creature, full of fears as charms,
A beauteous nursling from its mother's arms ;
A soft, sweet blossom, such as men must love,
But to preserve must keep it in the stove :
She had a mild, subdued, expiring look —
Raise but the voice, and this fair creature shook ;
Leave her alone, she felt a thousand fears — •
Chide, and she melted into floods of tears ;
Fondly she pleaded, and would gently sigh,
For very pity, or she knew not why ;
One whom to govern none could be afraid —
Hold up the finger, this meek thing obey'd ;
Her happy husband had the easiest task —
Say but his will, no question would she ask ;
She sought no reasons, no affairs she knew,
Of business spoke not, and had nought to do.
Oft he exclaim'd, " How meek ! how mild ! how
kind 1
" With her 'twere cruel but to seem unkind :
" Tliough ever silent when I take my leave,
" It pains my heart to think how hers will grieve ;
" 'T is heaven on earth with such a wife to dwell,
" I am in raptures to have sped so well ;
'■ But let me not, my friend, your envy raise,
" No ! on my life, your patience has my praise."
His Friend, though silent, felt the scorn im-
plied —
'• "What need of patience ? " to himself he cried :
" Better a woman o'er her house to rule,
" Than a poor child just hurried from her school ;
" Who has no care, yet never lives at ease ;
" Unfit to rule, and indisposed to please.
" What if he govern, there his boast should end ;
" No husband's power can make a slave his
friend."
It was the custom of these Friends to meet
With a few neighbours in a neighbouring street ;
AVhere Counter ofttimes would occasion seize
To move his silent Friend by words like these :
" A man," said he, " if govern'd by his wife,
" Gives up his rank and dignity in life ;
" Now, better fate befalls my Friend and me." —
He spoke, and look'd th' approving smile to see.
The quiet partner, when he chose to speak,
Desired his friend " another theme to seek ;
" When thus they met, he judged that state-affairs
" And such important subjects should be theirs : "
But still the partner, in his lighter vein.
Would cause in Clubb affliction or disdain ;
It made him anxious to detect the cause
Of all that boasting : — " Wants my friend applause ?
" This plainly proves him not at perfect ease,
" For, felt he pleasure, he would wish to please.
" These triumphs here for some regrets atone —
" Men who are bless'd let other men alone."
Thus made suspicious, he observed and saw
His friend each night at earl}' hour withdraw ;
He sometimes mention'd Juliet's tender nerves.
And what attention such a wife deserves :
'• In this," thought Clubb, " full sure some mystery
lies —
" He laughs at me, yet he with much complies,
" And all his vaunts of bliss are proud apologies."
With such ideas treasured in his breast.
He grew composed, and let his anger rest ;
Till Counter once (when wine so long went round.
That friendship and discretion both were drown'dj
Began, in teasing and triumphant mood.
His evening banter : — " Of all earthlj' good,
" The best," he said, " was an obedient spouse,
" Such as mj' friend's — -that every one allows :
" What if she wishes his designs to know ?
" It is because she would her praise bestow ;
" What if she wills that he remain at home ?
" She knows that mischief may from travel come.
" I, who am free to venture where I please,
" Have no such kind preventing checks as these ;
" But mine is double duty, first to guide
'• Myself aright, then rule a house beside ;
" While this our friend, more happy than the free,
" Resigns all power, and laughs at liberty."
" By Heaven !" said Clubb, " excuse me if I
swear,
" I 'U bet a hundred guineas, if he dare,
" That uncontroird I will such freedoms take
" That he will fear to equal — there 's my stake."
" A match I" said Counter, much by vrine in-
flamed ;
" But we are friends — let smaller stake be named :
" Wine for our future meeting, that will I
" Take and no more — what peril shall we try ?"
" Let 's to Newmarket," Clubb replied; " or choose
" Yourself the place, and what you like to lose ;
" And he who first returns, or fears to go,
" Forfeits his cash." — Said Counter, " Be it so."
The friends around them saw with much delight
The social war, and hail'd the pleasant night ;
Nor would they further hear the cause discuss'd,
Afraid the recreant heart of Clubb to trust.
Now sober thoughts rcturn'd as each %\-ithdrew.
And of the subject took a serious view ;
" 'T was wTong," thought Counter, " and will grieve
my love ;"
" 'T was wrong," thought Clubb, " my wife will not
approve :
" But friends were present ; I must try the thing,
" Or with my folly half the town will ring."
He sought his lady — " Madam, I 'm to blame,
" But was reproach'd, and could not bear the
shame ;
\
354
CRABBES WORKS.
" Here in my Colly for "t is best to any
" Tlu! very tnitli — I "vf Hworii to linvf my \vn y ;
" To tliat Ncwinnrkrt (tlioiit,'li I tiato tlic jiliicc,
" Ami Imvc no tiisic or talents for a race,
" Y("t so it is — well, now pri-parc to chide) —
" I laid a waKi'r that I dared to riIayful hoy.
That the rude billows in their rage destroy.
Poor George confcss'd, though loth the truth to
find.
Slight was his knowledge of a Brother's mind :
The vulgar i>ipe was to the wife otfeiice,
The frequent grog to Isaac an expense ;
Would friends like hers, she question'd, " choose
to come,
'• Where clouds of poison'd fume defiled a room?
'■ This could their Lady-friend, and Burgc-s Steel,
" (Teased with his worship's asthma,) bear to feel ?
" Could they associate or converse with him —
" A loud rough sailor with a timber limb ?"
Cold as he grew, still Isaac strove to show.
By well-feign'd care, that cold he could not grow ;
And wlien lie saw his brother look distress'd,
He strove some petty comforts to stiggest ;
On his wife solelj' tlieir neglect to lay.
And then t' excuse it, as a woman's wiiy ;
He too was chidden wlien her rules he broke,
And then she sicken'd at the scent of smoke.
George, though in doubt, was still consoled to find
His Brother wishing to be reckon'd kind :
That Isaac seem'd concern'd by his distress,
Gave to liis injured feelings some redress ;
But none he found disposed to lend an ear
To stories, all were once intent to hear :
Except his nephew, seated on his knee.
He found no creature cared about the sea ;
But George indeed - for George they call'd the boy,
^Vllen his good uncle was their boast and joy —
AVoulil listen long, and would contend with sleep,
To hear the woes and wonders of the deep ;
Till the fond mother cried — ^" That man will teach
" The foolish boy his loud and boisterous speech."
So judged the father — and the boy was taught
To shun the uncle, whom his love had sought.
The mask of kindness now but seldom worn,
George felt each evil harder to be borne ;
And cried (vexation gi-owing daj' by day),
'• Ah ! brother Isaac ! — AVhat ! I 'm in the way !"
'• No ! on my credit, look ye, No ! but I
" Am fond of peace, and my repose would buy
" On any terms — in short, we must comply :
'• Jly spouse had money — she must have her will —
" Ah ! Brother, marriage is a bitter pill."
George tried the ladj- — " Sister, I otTend."
!Me ?" she replied — '' Oh no I you may depend
" On my regard— but watch your Brother's way,
" Whom I, like you, must study and obey."
" Ah !" thought the Seaman, " what a head was
mine,
" That easy berth at Greenwich to resign !
'• I "11 to the parish " but a little pride,
And some allection, put the thought aside.
Now gross neglect and open scorn he bore
In silent sorrow — but lie felt the more :
The odious pijie he to the kitchen tf)ok.
Or strove to jjrofit by some pious book.
When the mintl stoops to this degraded state.
New griefs will darken the dependant's fate ;
" Brother ! " said Isaac, " you will sure excuse
'■ The little freedom I 'm compell'd to use :
'' My wife's relations — (curse the haughty crew!) —
" Affect such niceness, and such dread of you:
" You speak so loud — and they have nature§
soft —
" Brother 1 wish do go upon the loft 1"
Poor George obey'd, and to the garret fled.
Where not a being saw the tears he shed :
But more was yet rcfiuired, for guests were come,
^^'ho could not dine if he disgraced the room.
It shock'd liis spirit to be esteem'd unfit
With an own brother and liis wife to sit ;
He grew rebellious — at the vestry spoke
For weekly aid they heard it as a joke :
" So kind a brother, and so wealthy you
" Apply to us ? No I this will never do :
" Good neighbour Fletcher," said the Overseer,
" We are engaged — you can have nothing here 1"
George mutter'd something in despairing tone,
Then sought his loft, to think and grieve alone ;
Neglected, slighted, restless on his bed,
With heart half broken, and with scraps ill fed ;
Yet was he pleased that hours for play design'd
Were given to case his ever-troubled mind ;
The child still listen'd with increasing joy,
And he was sooth'd by the attentive boy.
At length he sicken'd, and tliis duteous child
Watch'd o'er his sickness, and his pains beguiled ;
The mother bade him from the loft refrain.
But, though with caution, yet he went again ;
And now his tales the Sailor feebly told,
Ilis heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold :
The tender boy came often to entreat
His good kind friend would of his presents eat ;
Purloin'd or purchased, for he saw, with shame.
The food untouch'd that to his uncle came ;
Who, sick in body and in mind, received
The boy's indulgence, gratified and grieved.
"Uncle will die I" said George : — the piteous
wife
Exclaim'd, " she saw- no value in his life ;
'■ But, sick or well, to my commands attend,
" And go no more to your complaining friend."
The boy was vex'd, he felt his heart reprove
The stern decree. — What I punish'd for his love I
No ! he would go, but softly, to the room.
Stealing in silence — for he knew his doom.
(^nce in a week the father came to say,
" George, are you ill ?" — and hurried him away ;
Y'et to his wife would on their duties dwell.
And often cry, '• Do use my brother well :"
And something kind, no question, Isaac meant.
Who took vast credit for the vague intent.
TALE XX.— THE BROTHERS.
363
But, truly kind, the gentle boy essay'd
To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid ;
But now tlie father caught him at the door.
And, swearing — yes, the man in office swore.
And cried, " Away ! How ! Brother, I 'm sur-
prised
" That one so old can be so ill advised :
I " Let him not dare to visit you again,
" Your cursed stories will disturb his brain ;
" Is it not vile to court a foolish boy,
" Your own absurd narrations to enjoy ?
" What ! sullen ! — ha, George Fletcher ! you shall
see,
" Proud as you are, your bread depends on me !"
He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went,
Then cool'd and felt some qualms of discontent :
And thought on times when he compell'd his son
To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one ;
But the wife's TVTath o'ercame the brother's pain.
And shame was felt, and conscience rose, in vain.
George yet stole up ; he saw his Uncle lie
Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh ;
So he resolved, before he went to rest.
To comfort one so dear and so distress'd ;
Then watch'd his time, but, with a child-like art,
Betray'd a something treasured at his heart :
Th' observant wife remark'd, " The boy is grown
" So like your brother, that he seems his own :
" So close and sullen I and I still suspect
" They often meet : — do watch them and detect."
George now remark'd that all was still as night,
And hasten'd up with terror and delight ;
" Uncle !" he cried, and softly tapp'd the door,
'' Do let me in" — but he could add no more ;
The careful father caught him in the fact.
And cried, — '" You serpent ! is it thus you act ?
'• Back to your mother ! " — and, with hasty blow,
He sent th' indignant boy to grieve below.
Then at the door an angry speech began — •
" Is this your conduct ? — Is it thus j-ou plan ?
" Seduce my child, and make my house a scene
" Of vile dispute What is it that you mean ?
" George, are you dumb ? do learn to know your
friends,
" And think awhile on whom your bread depends.
" What ! not a word ? be thankful I am cool —
" But, sir, beware, nor longer play the fool.
" Come ! brother, come ! what is it that you seek
" By this rebellion ? — -Speak, you villain, speak !
" Weeping ! I warrant — sorrow makes you dumb :
" I '11 ope your mouth, impostor ! if I come :
'■ Let me approach — I '11 shake you from the bed,
" You stubborn dog Oh God ! my Brother's
dead !"
Timid was Isaac, and in aU the past
He felt a purpose to be kind at last ;
Nor did he mean his brother to depart.
Till he had shown this kindness of his heart ;
2 [The characters in this tale, though humble, are admira-
bly drawn, and the baser of them, we fear, the most strikingly
natural. An open-hearted generous sailor liad a poor, sneak-
ing, cunning, selfish brother, to whom he remitted all his
But day by day he put the cause aside,
Induced by av'rice, peevishness, or pride.
But now awaken'd, from this fatal time
His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime :
He raised to George a monumental stone.
And there retired to sigh and think alone ;
An ague seized him, he grew pale, and shook —
•' So," said his son, " would my poor Uncle look."
" And so, my child, shall I like him expire."
" No ! you have physic and a cheerful fire."
" Unhappy sinner ! yes, I 'm well supplied
" With every comfort my cold heart denied."
He view'd his Brother now, but not as one
Who vex'd his wife by fondness for her son ;
Not as Mith wooden limb, and seaman's tale,
The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale :
He now the worth and grief alone can view
Of one so mild, so generous, and so true ;
" The frank, kind Brother, with such open heart, —
" And I to break it 't was a demon's part !"
So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels,
Nor his unkindness palliates or conceals ;
" This is your folly," said his heartless wife :
" Alas ! my folly cost my Brother's life ;
" It suff'er'd him to languish and decay —
" My gentle brother, wliom I could not pay,
" And therefore left to pine, and fret his life
away '."
He takes his Son, and bids the boy unfold
All the good Uncle of his feelings told,
All he lamented — ^and the ready tear
Falls as he listens, soothed, and grieved to hear.
" Did he not curse me, child ?" — " He never
cursed,
" But could not breathe, and said his heart would
burst."
" And so will mine :" — " Then, father, you must
pray :
" My uncle said it took his pains away."
Repeating thus his sorrows, Isaac shows
That he, repenting, feels the debt he owes,
And from this source alone his every comfort flows.
He takes no joy in office, honours, gain;
They make him humble, nay, they give him pain :
'• These from my heart," he cries, " all feeling
drove ;
" They made me cold to nature, dead to love."
He takes no joy in home, but sighing, sees
A son in sorrow, and a wife at ease ;
He takes no joy in office — sec him no%v,
And Burgess Steel has but a passing bow ;
Of one sad train of gloomy thoughts possess'd,
He takes no joy in friends, in food, in rest —
Dark are the evil days, and void of peace the best.
And thus he lives, if living be to sigh.
And from all comforts of the world to fly,
Without a hope in life^without a wish to die.*
prize-money, and gave all the arrears of his pay— receiving,
in return, vehement professions of gratitude and false pr..-
testations of regard. At last, the sailor is disabled in action,
and discharged just as his heartle&s brother has secured a
3 A 2
364
CRAnnE'S WORKS.
TALK XXI.
Tin: LEARNED BOY.
I.ike one" well sliidiod in a snd ostcnt,
'I'o pU'iise Ills grnndnin. Mrrc/innt of J'anrc.
And Mien tlie wliininK schoolboy, witli liis satchid
And sliinin}; morning lace, crcoimig, like snail,
Unwillingly to school. As You Like It.
Me is a. better scholar than I thought he was ; he has a good
spra;; momory.— .l/cir^ //'/irs of ll'indsur.
One that feeds
On objects, arts, and imitations,
Whidi out of use, and staled by other men,
Hcgin his lashion. Julim Cffsar.
Oil ! torture me no more— I will confess.— 2 Henri/ VI.
An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true ;
He did by all as all by him sliould do ;
(Jravc, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality :
Left with liis children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate ;
Th()ugli prudent matrons waited for liis call,
AVith cool forbearance he avoided all ;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy ;
And though a frienilly AVidow knew no rest,
"\yhilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd ;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
.Tones^ still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 't were sin to take a second wife.
Oh ! 't is a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead ;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'T is that precisely they would wish tlieir own ;
Left the departed infants — then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy :
AVhatever calling liis, whatever trade.
To that their chief attention has been paid ;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs.
An equal temper (thank tlieir stars !), are theirs ;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed.
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed :
small office by sycophancy, and made a prudent marriai;e with
a congenial temper. He seeks the shelter of his brothers
house as freely as he would have given it ; and does not at
lirst perceive the coldness of his reception. But mortifica-
tions grow upon him day bv day. His grog is expensive, and
Ins pipe makes the wife sick ; tlien his voice is so loud, and his
manners so rough, that her friends cannot visit her if he ap-
pears at table; so he is banished by desrrees to a garret,
w_bcre he (alls sick, and has no consolation but in the kindness
ol one of his nephews, a little boy, who administers to his com-
fort, and hstens to Ins stories with a delighted attention. This
too, however, is interdicted by his hard-hearted parents; and
Yet some, like Jones, with Htubborn hoartH and
hanl.
Can hear such chiimH and nhow them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, foimd
By what strong foes he was encompassM round.
Engage he dared not, and he could not (iy.
But saw his liojie in gentle jiarley lie;
Witli looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
lie met the foe, and art ojiposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insiilious — gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
" Three girls," the \\idow cried, " a lively three
" To govern well — indeed it cannot be."
" Yes," he replied, '• it calls for pains and care :
" But I must bear it." — " Sir, you cannot bear;
" Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye :"
'• That, my kind friend, a father's may supply."
" Such growing griefs your very soul will tease :"
" To grieve another would not give me ease —
" 1 have a mother " — " She, jioor ancient soul I
" Can she the spirits of the young control ?
" Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care,
" Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share ?
" Age is itself impatient, uncontroll'd :"
" But wives like mothers must at length be old."
" Thou hast shrewd servants — they are evils sore :"
" Yet a shrewd mistress might aflHict me more."
" Wilt thou not be a weary, wailing man?"'
" Alas ! and I must bear it as I can."
Resisted thus, the "Widow soon withdrew,
That in his pride the Hero might pursue ;
And olT his wonted guard, in some retreat.
Find from a foe prepared entire defeat :
But he was prudent ; for he knew in tlight
These Parthian warriors turn again and fight :'
He but at freedom, not at glory aim'd.
And only safety by his caution claim'd.
Thus, when a great and powerful state decrees
LTpon a small one, in its love, to seize —
It vows in kindiioss, to protect, defend.
And be the fond ally, the faithful friend ;
It therefore wills that humbler state to place
Its hopes of safety in a fond embrace ;
Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove.
By kind rejection of such pressing love ;
Must dread such dangerous friendship to commence.
And stand collected in its own defence :
Our Farmer thus tlie profl'or'd kindness fled,
.Vnd shunn'd the love tliat into bondage led.
The "Widow failing, fresh besiegers came,
To share the fate of this retiring dame :
the boy is obliged to steal privately to his disconsolate uncle.
One day his father catches him at his door ; and, after lieating
him back, proceeds to deliver a severe rebuke to his brother
for encouraging the child in disobedience, when he finds the
unconscious culprit released by death from his despicable in-
sults and reproaches. The great art of the story consists in
the plausible excuses with which the ungrateful brother
always contrives to cover his wickedness. .After the catastro-
phe, lie endures deserved remorse and anguish. — Jeffrey.]
' The Parthians were so skilled in the art of the bow, that
they could shoot with effect flving.
TALE XXI.— THE LEARNED BOY.
365
And each foresaw a thousand ills attend
The man that fled from so discreet a friend ;
And pray'd, kind soul ! that no event might make
The hardcn'd heart of Farmer Jones to ache.
But he still govern'd with resistless hand,
And where he could not guide he would command :
With steady view in course direct he steer'd,
And his fair daughters loved him, though they
fear'd ;
Each had her school, and as his wealth was known,
Each had in time a household of her own.
The Boy indeed was at the Grandam's side
Humour'd and train'd, her trouble and her pride :
Companions dear, with speech and spirits mild,
The childish widow and the vapourish child ;
This nature prompts ; minds uninform'd and weak
In such alliance ease and comfort seek :
Push'd by the levity of youth aside.
The cares of man, his humour, or his pride.
They feel, in their defenceless state, allied :
The child is pleased to meet regard from age,
The old are pleased e'en children to engage ;
And all their wisdom, scorn'd by proud mankind.
They love to pour into the ductile mind,
By its own weakness into error led.
And by fond age with prejudices fed.
The Father, thankful for the good he had,
Yet saw with pain a whining, timid Lad ;
Whom he instructing led through cultured fields.
To show what Man performs, what Nature jdelds :
But Stephen, listless, wander'd from the view,
From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew.
And idly gazed about in search of something new.
The lambs indeed he loved, and wish'd to play
With things so mild, so harmless, and so gay ;
Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see.
With whom he felt a sickly sympathy.
Meantime the Dame was anxious, day and night.
To guide the notions of her babe aright.
And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering
light ;
Her Bible-stories she impress'd betimes.
And fill'd his head with hymns and holy rhymes ;
On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt.
And the poor Boy mysterious terrors felt ;
From frightful dreams he waking sobb'd in dread,
Till the good lady came to guard his bed.
The Father wish'd such errors to correct.
But let them pass in duty and respect :
But more it grieved his worthy mind to see '
That Stephen never would a farmer be ;
In vain he tried the shiftless Lad to guide.
And yet 't was time that something should be
tried :
He at the village-school perchance might gain
All that such mind could gather and retain ;
Yet the good Dame atiirm'd her favourite child
Was apt and studious, though sedate and mild ;
" That he on many a learned point could speak,
" And that his body, not his mind, was weak."
The Father doubted — but to school was sent
The timid Stephen, weeping as he went :
There the rude lads compell'd the child to fight,
And sent him bleeding to his home at night ;
At this the Grandam more indulgent grew.
And bade her Darling " shun the beastly crew ;
" Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie
" Howling in torments, when they came to die."
This was such comfort, that in high disdain
He told their fate, and felt their blows again:
Yet if the Boy had not a hero's heart.
Within the school he play'd a better part ;
He wrote a clean fine hand, and at his slate
With more success than many a hero sate ;
He thought not much indeed — but what depends
On pains and care was at his fingers' ends.
This had his Father's praise, who now espied
A spark of merit, with a blaze of pride ;
And though a farmer he would never make.
He might a pen with some advantage take ;
And as a clerk that instrument employ.
So well adapted to a timid boy.
A London Cousin soon a place obtain'd.
Easy but humble — little could be gain'd :
The time arrived when youth and age must part.
Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart ;
The careful Father bade his Son attend
To all his duties and obey his Friend ;
To keep his church and there behave aright.
As one existing in his Maker's sight.
Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight :
" Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can,
" T' assume the looks and spirit of a man ;
" I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true,
" And this you may, and yet have courage too :
" Heroic men, their country's boast and pride,
" Have fear'd their God, and nothing fear'd beside ;
" While others daring, yet imbecile, fly
" The power of man, and that of God defy :
" Be manly, then, though mild, for, sure as fate,
" Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate ;
" Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use
" ('T is fairly stock'd) of what it will produce :
" And now my blessing, not as any charm
" Or conjuration ; but 't will do no harm."
Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and
down,
Now charm'd with promised sights in London-town,
Now loth to leave his Grandam — h)St the force,
The drift and tenor of this grave discourse ;
But, in a general way, he understood
'T was good advice, and meant, " My son, be
good ;"
And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean
That lads should read their Bible, and be clean.
The good old Lady, though in some distress,
Begg'd lier dear Stephen would his grief suppress :
" Nay, dry those eyes, my child — and. first of all,
" Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall :
" Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text
" For meditation till you hear the next ;
" AVithin your Bible night i>nd morning look —
" There is your duty, read no other book ;
" Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen,
" And keep your conscience and your linen clean :
nCG
CRARHFAS WORKS.
'' l?c you II J(>s('i)li, iiiid tlip time niny 1><'
" Wlicii kin^s uml rulers will be ruled l>y tlioc!."
'' Nny," snid tlic I'litlicr " IIusli, my son!"
ri'plipd
Tlio l>nmo '' tlic Scriptures must not lie di'-
uicii."
The l.inl, still \\i'i'i)ing, heard the wheels iip-
|)i()ii('li,
And took his place witliin the eveiuug conch,
\\ ith heart quite rent nsuniler: on one side
A\'as love, and grief, nuil fear, for scenes untried;
Mild-beasts and wax-work till'd the happier part
Of Stephen's varying and nid
To all around him, cautious and afraid ;
On older Clerks his eager eyes were fix'd.
But Stephen never in their council mix'd :
IMiich their contempt lie foar'd, for if like tliom,
He felt assured he should liimself contemn ;
" Oil ! they were all so eloquent, so free,
" No I lie was nothing— nothing could he he :
'• They dress so smartly, and so boldly look,
'* And talk as if tliey read it from a book ;
'■ But I," said Stejilicn, " will forbear to speak,
"And they will think me prudent and not weak.
" They talk, the instant they have dropp'd the
pen,
" Of singing-women and of acting-men ;
" Of plays and places where at night they walk
'' Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies tidk;
" AVhile other ladies for their pleasure sing, —
" Oh ! 't is a glorious and a happy thing :
" They would despise me. did they understand
'' I dare not look upon a scene so grand ;
" Or see the plays wlien critics rise and roar,
" And hiss and groan, and cry — Encore ! en-
core !
" There's one among them looks a little kind ;
'■ If more encouraged, I would ope my mind."
Alas ! poor Stephen, happier had lie kept
His purpose secret, while his envy slept ;
Virtue perhaps had conqucr'd, or his shame
At least preserved liim simple as he came.
A year elapsed before this Clerk hegan
To treat the rustic something like a man ;
He then in trifling points the j-outh advised,
Talk'd of his coat, and had it modernised ;
Or with the lad a Sunday-walk would take,
And kindly strive his passions to awake ;
Meanwhile explaining all they heard and saw.
Till Stephen stood in wonderment and awe;
To a neat garden near the town they stray'd,
"Where the Lad felt delighted and afraid ;
There all he saw was smart, and fine, and fair —
He could but marvel how he ventured there :
Soon he observed, with terror and alarm.
His friend enlocked within a Lady's arm,
And freely talking- " But it is," said he,
" A near relation, and that makes liim free ;"
And much amazed was Stejilien when he knew
This was the first and only interview:
Nny, linii that lovely ami by him been Heizcd,
The lovcdy owner hml been highly pleased.
" Alas I" he sigh'd, " I lu-ver can contrive
" ;Vt such bold, blessed freedoms to arrive ;
'■ Never shall I such happy courage boast,
" I dare as soon encounter with a ghost."
Now to a play the friendly coujilc went,
But the Boy murmur'il at the money spent ;
"He loved," he said, "to buy, but not to
sjicnd —
" They only talk awhile, and there 's an end."
" Come, you shall purchase books," the Friend
replied ;
" You are bcwilder'd, and j'ou want a guide ;
" To me refer the choice, and you shall find
" The light break in upon your stagnant mind I"
The cooler Clerks exclaim'd, " In vain your
art
" To improve a cub without a head or heart ;
" Rustics, though coarse, and savages, though
wild,
" Our cares may render liberal and mild ;
" But what, my friend, can flow from all these
pains ?
" There is no dealing with a lack of brains."
" True I am hopeless to behold him man,
" But let me make the booby what 1 can :
'• Though the rude stone no polish will display,
" Yet you may strip the rugged coat away."
Stephen beheld his books — " I love to know
" How money goes — now here is that to show :
" And now," he cried, " I shall be pleased to get
" Beyond the Bible — there I puzzle yet."
He spoke abash'd. — " Nay, nay I" the friend
replied,
" You need not lay the good old book aside ;
" Anti(iue and curious, I myself indeed
" Bead it at times, but as a man should read ;
" A fine old work it is, and I protest
" I hate to hear it treated as a jest ;
" The book has wisdom in it, if you look
" \\isely upon it, as another book :
" For superstition (as our priests of sin
" Are pleased to tell us) makes us blind within ;
" Of this hereafter — we will now select
" Some works to please you. others to direct :
" Tales and romances shall your fancy feed,
" And reasoners form your morals and your
creed."
The books were view'd, the price was fairly paid,
And Stephen read undaunted, undismay'd :
But not till first he papered all the row.
And placed in order to enjoy the show ;
Next letter'd all the backs with care and speed.
Set them in ranks, and then began to read.
The love of Order — I the thing receive
From reverend men, and I in part believe —
TALE XXI.— THE LEARNED BOY.
367
Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs
This love, but seldom in the world succeeds ;
And yet with this some other love must be,
Ere I can fully to the fact agree ;
Valour and study may by order gain.
By order sovereigns hold more steady reign ;
Through all the tribes of nature order runs.
And rules around in systems and in suns :
Still has the love of order found a place,
With all that 's low, degrading, mean, and base.
With all that merits scorn, and all that meets dis-
grace —
In the cold miser, of all change afraid ;
In pompous men in public seats obey'd ;
In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones,
Fanciei's of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones :
Order to these is armour and defence.
And love of method serves in lack of sense. ^
For rustic youth could I a list produce
Of Stephen's books, how great might be the use !
But evil fate was theirs— survey'd, enjoy'd
Some happy months, and then by force destroy'd :
So wiU'd the Fates — but these with patience read
Had vast effect on Stephen's heart and head.
This soon appear'd : within a single week
He oped his lips, and made attempt to speak ;
He fail'd indeed — but still his Friend confess'd
The best have fail'd, and he had done his best :
The first of swimmers, when at first he swims,
Has little use or freedom in his limbs ;
Nay, when at length he strikes with manly force,
The cramp may seize him, and impede his course.
Encouraged thus, our Clerk again cssay'd
The daring act, though daunted and afraid ;
Succeeding now, though partial his success.
And pertness mark'd his manner and address,
Yet such improvement issued from his books,
That all discern'd it in his speech and looks :
He ventured then on every theme to speak.
And felt no feverish tingling in his cheek ;
His friend, approving, liail'd the happy change.
The Clerks exclaim'd — " 'T is famous, and 't is
strange."
Two years had pass'd ; the Youth attended still
(Though thus accomplish'd) with a ready quill ;
He sat th' allotted hours, though hard the case.
While timid prudence ruled in virtue's place ;
By promise bound, the Son his letters penn'd
To his good parent at the quarter's end.
At first he sent those lines, the state to tell
Of his own health, and hoped his friends were
well ;
He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind.
And needed nothing — -then his name was sign'd :
2 [" Mr. Crabbe continued all through Iiis residence in
SufTolk the botanical and entomological studies to which he
had been so earlv devoted, 'i'his devotion appeared to pro-
ceed purely from the love of science and the increase of
knowledge ; at all events he never seemed to be captivated
with the mere beauty of natural objects, or even to catch any
taste lor tlie arrangement of his own specimens. Witliin the
house was a kind of scientific confusion ; in the garden the
usual sliowy foreigners gave place to the most scarce (lowers,
and especially to the rarer weeds, of Britain ; and these were
But now he wrote of Sunday-walks and views.
Of actors' names, choice novels, and strange news ;
How coats were cut, and of his urgent need
For fresh supply, wliich he desired with speed.
The Father doubted, when these letters came,
To what they tended, yet was loth to blame
'■ Stephen was once my duteous son, and now
" My most obedient — this can I allow ?
" Can I with pleasure or with patience see
" A boy at once so heartless and so free ?"
But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told,
That love and prudence could no more withhold :
" Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grown
" A rake and coxcomb — this he grieved to own ;
" His cousin left his church, and spent the day
" Lounging about in quite a heathen way ;
" Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace
" To show the shame imprinted on his face :
" I search'd his room, and in his absence read
" Books that I knew would turn a stronger head ;
" The works of atheists half the number made,
" The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade ;
" Which neither man nor boy would deign to read,
" If from the scandal and pollution freed :
" I sometimes threaten'd, and would fairlj' state
'■ My sense of things so vile and profligate ;
" But I 'm a cit, such works are lost on me —
" They 're knowledge, and (good Lord !) plii-
losophy."
" Oh, send him down," the Father soon replied ;
" Let me behold him, and my skill be tried :
" If care and kindness lose their wonted use,
" Some rougher medicine will the end produce."
Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom —
" Go to the farmer ? to the rustic's home ?
" Curse the base thrcat'ning — " " Nay, child,
never curse ;
" Corrupted long, your case is growing worse."
" I ! " quoth the youth ; " I challenge all man-
kind
" To find a fault ; what fault have you to find ?
" Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace ?
" Inquire— my friends will tell it to your face ;
" Have I been taught to guard his kine and sheep ?
" A man like me has other things to keep ;
" This let him know." — " It would his wrath
excite :
" But come, prepare, you must away to-night."
" What ! leave my studies, my improvements
leave,
" My faithful friends and intimates to grieve ?" —
" Go to your father, Stephen, let him see
" All these improvements ; they are lust on me."
scattered here and there only for preservation. In fact, he
neither loved order for it.s own sake, nor liad any very high
opinion of that passion in others : w itness his words, in the
tale of Stephen Jones, tlie ' Leiu-ned Hoy,' —
' The love of order — I the thing receive,' &c.
Whatever trutli there may be in'these lines, it is certain that
this insensibility to the beauty of order was a defect in Ui-'
own mind, arising from what I must call his want of taste." —
Life, imti; p. •llj.]
;ii;M
CRABBE'S WORKS.
'I'lic Vimtli, tli()ii;;li lolli, (ilny'il, and soimi Ik."
saw
'I'lic I'll nil cr-f at her, with soiiit- Hi^iis of awe ;
Who, kiiul, yet silent, waited to helioM
How one would act, so dariii};, yi-t so cold :
And soon he found, hotween the fiiendly pair
That secrets pass'd which he was not to share ;
Itiit he restdved those secrets to ohtain.
And ([uasli reliellioii in Ids lawful reign.
Stei)heu, tlioii';h vain, was with his father mute ;
lie fear'd a crisis, and he sininn'd dispute ;
And yet he h)ii(^'d with youthful pride to show
He knew sueli thinj^s as farmers could not know;
These to the (;randain he with freedom spoke,
Saw her aniazeirient, and eiijoy'd the joke:
Hut on the father when he cast his eye,
Something he found that made his valour shy ;
And thus there seem'd to be a hollow truce,
Still thrcat'ning something dismal to produce.
Ere this the Father at his leisure read
The son's clioice volumes, and his w^onder fled ;
He saw how wrought the works of either kind
On so presuming, yet so weak a mind ;
These in a chosen hour he made his prey,
Condemn'd, and bore with vengeful thoughts
away ;
Then in a close recess the couple near,
lie sat unseen to see, unheard to hear.
There soon a trial for his patience came ;
Beneath were placed the Youth and ancient Dame,
Each on a purpose fix'd — but neither thought
How near a foe, with power and vengeance
fraught.
And now the matron told, as tidings sad,
What slie had heard of her beloved lad ;
How lie to graceless, wicked men gave heed,
And wicked books would night and morning read ;
Some former lectures slie again began,
And begg'd attention of her little man ;
She brought, with many a pious boast, in view
His former studies, ancl condemn'd the new :
Once he the names of saints and patriarchs old,
Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told ;
Then he in winter-nights the Bible took.
To count how often in the sacred book
The sacred name appear'd, and could rehearse
Which were the middle chapter, word, and verse.
The very letter in the middle placeil.
And so employ'd the hours that others waste.
" Such wert thou once ; and now, my child, tliey
say
" Thy faith like water runneth fast away ;
'• The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiled
" The ready wit of my backsliding child."
On this, with lofty looks, our Clerk began
His grave rebuke, as he assumed the man. —
" There is no devil," said the hopeful youth,
" Nor prince of devils : that I know for truth.
" Have I not told you how my \)ooks describe
•' The arts of priests, and all the canting tribe ?
" Your Bible mentiouB Kjjrypt, where it Bccms
" Was JoHopli found when I'huruoh drcam'd hiH
dreams :
'' Now in that place, in some bewildcr'd head,
" (The learned writ(;,) religicjus dreumii were bred ;
" Whence through the earth, with various forms
combined,
" They came to frighten and afflict mankind,
" Prone (so I read) to let a priest invade
" Their souls with awe, and by liia craft be made
" Slave to his will, and i)rofit to hi.s trade :
" So say my books, and how the rogues agreed
" 'I'o blind the victims, to defraud and lead ;
•' When joys above to ready dupes were sohl,
" And hell was thrcaten'd to the shy and cold.
" Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray ?
" As if a Being lieard a word we say :
" This may surprise you ; 1 myself began
" To feel disturb'd, and to my Bible ran ;
" I now am wiser — yet agree in this,
" The book has things that are not much amiss ;
" It is a fine old work, and I protest
" I liate to hear it treated as a jest:
" The book has wisdom in it, if you look
'• Wisely upon it as another book."
" Oh ! wicked ! wicked ! my unhappy child,
" How hast thou been by evil men beguiled !"
" HoW' ! wicked, say you ? Y'ou can little guess
" The gain of that which you call wickedness :
" Why, sins you think it sinful but to name
" Have gain'd both wives and widows wealth and
fame ;
" And this because such people never dread
'' Those threaten'd pains; hell comes not in their
head :
" Love is our nature, wealth we all desire,
" And what we wish 't is lawful to acquire :
" So say my books — and what besiile they show
" 'T is time to let this honest Farmer know.
" Nay, look not grave ; am 1 commanded down
" To feed his cattle and become his clown ?
" Is such his purpose ? then he shall be told
" The vulgar insult —
Hold, in mercy hold ! —
•' Father, oh ! father ! throw the whip away ;
" 1 was but jesting ; on my knees 1 pray —
'• There, hold his arm — oh I leave us not alone :
" In pity cease, and 1 will yet atone
" For all my sin." In vain ; stoke after stroke.
On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke ;
Quick as the patient's pulse, who trembling cried,
And still the parent with a stroke replied ;
Till all tlie medicine he prepared was dealt,
And every bone the precious influence felt ;
Till all the pauting flesh was red and raw.
And evei'y thought was turn'd to fear and awe ;
Till every doubt to due respect gave place. —
Such cures are done when doctors know the case.
" Oh ! 1 shall die — my father ! do receive
*' My dying words ; indeed 1 do believe.
" The books are lying books, 1 know it well ;
" There is a devil, oh I there is a hell ;
" And I'm a sinner : spare me. I am young,
'• My sinful words were only on my tongue ;
TALE XXI.— THE LEARNED BOY.
369
My heart consented not ; 't is all a lie :
Oh ! spare me then, I 'm not prepared to die."
" Vain, worthless, stupid wretch !" the Father
cried ;
Dost thou presume to teach ? art thou a guide ?
Driveller and dog, it gave the mind distress
To hear thy thoughts in their religious dress ;
Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain,
Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain ;
But Job in patience must the man exceed
Who could endure thee in thy present creed.
Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend
The wicked cause a heljiing hand to lend ?
Canst thou a judge in any question be ?
Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee .
" Lo ! yonder blaze thy worthies ; in one heap
Thy scoundrel favourites must for ever sleep :
Each jdelds its poison to the flame in turn.
Where whores and infidels are doom'd to burn ;
" Two noble fagots made the flame you see,
" Reserving only two fair twigs for thee ;
" That in thy view the instruments may stand,
" And be in future ready for my hand :
" The just mementos that, though silent, show
'' Whence thy correction and improvements flow ;
" Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power,
" And feel the shame of this important hour.
" Hadst thou been humble, I had first design'd
'• By care from folly to have freed thy mind ;
'' And when a clean foundation had been laid.
'■ Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid :
" But thou art weak, and force must folly guide ;
'• And thou art vain, and paiu must humble
pride :
" Teachers men honour, learners they allure ;
" But learners teaching, of contempt are sure ;
" Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only
cure !"
END OF THE TALES.'
3 [The elegant and judicious critic of these Tales in the
' Edinburgh Review' for 1812 thus concludes liis article:—
" Tlie last tale is the history of a poor, weakly, paltry lad,
who is sent up from the country to be a clerk in town ; and
learns by slow degrees to affect freetliinking, and to practise
dissipation. Upon the tidings of whicli liappy conversion, his
father, a worthy old farmer, orders him down again to the
country, where he harrows up the soul of his pious grand-
mother by his infidel prating — and liis father reforms him at
once by burning his idol book, and treating him with a
vigorous course of horsewhipping. There is some humour in
this tale, and a great deal of nature and art, especially in the
delineation of this slender clerk's gradual corruption, and in
the constant and constitutional predominance of weakness
and folly in all his vice and virtue, his piety and profaneness.
" We have thus gone through these tales with minuteness.
Considering Mr. Crabbe as, upon the whole, the most original
writer that has ever come before us, and being at the same
time of opinion that his writings are destined to a still more
extensive popularity than they have yet obtained, we could
not resist the temptation of contributing our little aid to the
fulfilment of that destiny. It is chiefly for the same reason
that we have directed our remarks rather to the tnijral than
the literary qualities of his works — to his genius, at least,
rather than his taste — and to his thoughts rather than his
figures of speech. By far the most remarkable thing in his
writings is the prodigious mass of original observations and
reflections they everywhere exhibit, and that extraordinary
power of conceiving and representing an imaginary object,
whether physical or intellectual, with such a rich and com-
plete accompaniment of circumstances and details as few
ordinary observers either perceive or remember in realities —
a power which must for ever entitle him to the very first
rank among descriptive poets, and, when directed to worthy
objects, to a rank inferior to none in the highest departments
of poetry.
"We' think that many of Air. Cral)be's stories may be
ranked by the side of the inimitable tales of Miss Edgeworth,
and are calculated to do nearly as much good among that part
of the population with whicli they are principally occupied.
But it is not only on account of the tnijral benefit which we
think they may derive from them that we would peculiarly
recommend the writings of Mr. Cral)be to that great propor-
tion of our readers which must necessarily belong to the
middling or humbler classes of the community : we are
persuaded tliat they will derive more pleasure from them
than readers of any other description. Those who do not
belong to that rank of society with whicli this powerful
writer is chiefly conversant in his poetry, or who liave not at
least gone much among them, and attended diligently to
their characters and occupations, can neitlier be half aware
of tlie exquisite fidelity of his delineations, nor feel in their
full force the better part of the emotions wliich he has
suggested. Vehement passion, indeed, is of all ranks and
conditions, and its language and external indications nearly
the same in all. Like highly rectified spirit, it blazes and
inflames with equal force and brightness from whatever ma-
terials it is extracted. But all the softer and kindlier affec-
tions, all the social anxieties that mix with our daily hopes,
and endear our home, and colour our existence, wear a differ-
ent livery, and are written in a different character, in almost
every great amte or division of society ; and the heart is
warmed and the spirit is touched by their delineation, ex-
actly in the same proportion in which we are familiar with
the types by which they are represented. Wlien Burns, in
his better days, walked out on a fine summer morning w ith
Dugald Stew'art, and the latter observed to him wliat a beauty
the scattered cottages, with their white walls and curling
smoke shining in the silent sun, imparted to the landscape,
the peasant-poet observed that he felt that beauty ten times
more strongly than his companion, and that it was necessary
to be a cottager to know wliat pure and tranquil pleasures
nestled below those lowly roofs, or to read in their external
appearance the signs of so many heartfelt and long-remem-
bered enjovments. In the same way, the humble and patient
hopes, the depressing embarra-ssments, the little mortifica-
tions, the slender triumphs, and strange temptations which
occur in middling life, and are the theme of Mr. Crabbe's
finest and most touching representations, can only be guessed
at by those who glitter in the higher walks of existence;
while they must raise a tumultuous throb and many a fond
recollection in the breasts of those to whom they reflect so
truly the image of their own estate, and reveal so clearly tlie
secrets of their habitual sensations.
We cannot help thinking, therefore, that, though such
writings as are now before us must give pleasure to all per-
sons of taste and sensiljilifv, they will give by far the greatest
pleasure to those whose condition is least remote from that of
the beings with wliom thev are o.;cupied. But we think also
that it was wise and meritorious in Mr. Crabbe to occupy
himself with such beings. In this country there probably are
not less than ttto hundred t/uiusand persons who read for
amusement or instruction among the middling classes of so
ciety In the higher classes there are not as many as twenti/
thuusmd. It is easy to s-ee therefore which a poet should
choose to ple:ise for his own glory and emolument, and whicli
lie should wish to delight and amend out of mere philan-
thropy. The fact too, we believe, is, that a great part of the
larger" body are to the full as well educated and as liigli-
minded as 'the smaller ; and, though their taste may not be
so correct and fastidious, we are persuaded that their sensi-
bility is greater." ,
It ma\- be proper to observe, by the way, that, in anotlier
part of the same paper, the writer (probably Mr. JefTrey)
explains the sens.- he attaches to a vague phrase in the Last
of these interesting paragraphs. He says,-" By »Ac mtddhn;,
classes we mean almost all those who are below-^the sphere of
what is called fashionalde or pulilic life, and who do not aim
at distinction or notoriety beyond the circle of their equals in
fortune and situation."]
3 B
CIIAIUJE'S WORKS.
F L I U T A T I N
A DIALOCIUK.'
From her o\m room, in summer's softest eve,
Stepp'd ( 'clia f'ortli her Delia to receive,—
Joy in her looks, tliat half her tale declared.
C. — War and the waves my fav'rite Youth have
spared ;
Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,
My Charles will come Do give me joy, my dear.
D. — I give you joy, and so may he ; but still,
'T is right to question if 't is sure he will ;
A sailor's open honest heart we prize,
But honest sailors have their ears and eyes.
C — Oh ! but he surely •will on me depend,
Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.
I). — Be not secure ; the very best have foes,
And facts they would not to the world expose ;
And these he may be told, if he converse with
those.
C— Speak you in friendship ? — let it be sincere
And naked truth, — and what have I to fear ?
D. — I speak in friendship ; and I do confess.
If 1 were you, the Truth should wear a dress :
If Charles shouM doubt, as lovers do, though blind,
"Would you to him present the naked mind ?
If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks
One's joy to think that he may fancy specks;
And now. in five long j'ears, we scarcely know
How the mind gets them, and how large they grow.
Let woman be as rigid as a nun,
She cai.iiot censures and surmises shun.
Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells —
Your father's I'ooms were not like sisters' cells ;
Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars.
But well-dress'd captains and approving squires.
C-
-What these to me, admit th' account be
true ?
J). — Nay, that yourself describe — they came to
you !
' [Written in May, 1816.]
C. — Well ! to my friend I may the truth confess,
Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;
Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote
Those pretty verses, he began to dote ;
That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop
A moment with him, at my feet would drop ;
Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake,
I to my favour often used to take :
And was, vile world ! my character at stake ?
If such reports my Sailor's ear should reach,
What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach !
If without cause ill-judging men suspect,
What may not all these harmless truths efifect ?
And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail.
What must we fear if conscious we are frail ?
And well you know, my friend, nor fear t' impart,
The tender frailties of the yielding heart.
D. — Speak for yourself, fair lady I speak with
care ;
I, not j'oiir frailties, but your suffering share :
You may my counsel, if you will, refuse ;
But pray beware how you my name accuse.
C. — Accuse you ! No ! there is no need of one
To do what long the public voice has done I
What misses then at school forget the fall
Of Ensign Bloomer when he Icap'd the wall ?
That was a first exploit, and we were witness all ;
And that sad night, upon my faithful breast.
We wept together till we sank to rest ;
You own'd your love
D. — A girl, a chit, a child !
.\.m T for this, and by a friend, reviled ?
C. — Then lay your hand, fair creature I on your
heart.
And say how many there have had a part :
Six I remember ; and, if Fame be tnie.
The handsome Sei'jeant had his portion too.
D. — A Sei^eant I Madam, if I might advise,
Do use some small discretion in such Ues :
A Serjeant, CeUa ?
Yes I
C. — Handsome, smart, and clean,
and the fellow had a noble mien,
FLIRTATION-A DIALOGUE.
371
That might excuse you had you giv'n your hand, —
But this your father could not understand.
D. — Mercy ! how pert and flippant are you
grown,
As if you 'd not a secret of your own !
Yet would you tremble should your Sailor know
What I or my small cabinet could show :
He might suspect a heart with many a wound,
Shallow and deep, could never more be sound ;
That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled.
The feeling ceases and the love is dead ;
But sense exists, and passion serves instead.
C. — Injurious Delia ! cold, reproachful maid !
Is thus my confidential faith repaid ?
Is this the counsel that we two have held
When duty trembled and desire rebell'd ;
The sister-vows we made, through many a night,
To aid each other in the arduous fight
With the harsh-minded powers who never think
What nature needs, nor will at weakness wink?
And now, thou cruel girl ! is all forgot.
The wish oft whisper'd, the imagined lot,
The secret Hymen, the sequester'd cot ?
And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,
And join the world in censure of your friend ?
Oh ! 't is not right ! as all with scoru must see,
Although the certain mischief falls on me.
D. — Nay, never weep ! but let this kiss restore.
And make our friendship perfect as before ;
Do not our wiser selves ourselves condemn ?
And yet we dearly love their faults and them.
So our reproofs to tender minds are shown,
We treat their wanderings as we treat our own ;
We are each other's conscience, and we tell
Our friend her fault, because we wish her well ;
We judge, nay prejudge, what may be her case,
Fore-arm the soul, and shield her from disgrace.
Creatures in prison, ere the trying day,
Their answers practise, and their powers essay.
By means like these they guard against surprise.
And all the puzzling questions that may rise.
" Guilty or not ?" His lawyer thus address'd
A wealthy rogue. " Not guilty, I protest."
" Why, then, my friend, we 've nothing here to
say,
'■ But you 're in danger ! prithee heed your way :
" You know your truth, / where your error lies :
" From your ' Not guilty ' will your danger rise."
" Oh ! but I am, and I have here the gain
" Of wicked craft." — " Then let it here remain ;
" For we must guard it by a sure defence,
" And not professions of your innocence ;
" For that's the way, whatever you suppose,
" To slip your neck within the ready noose."
Thus, my beloved friend, a girl, if wise.
Upon her Prudence, not her Truth, relies.
It is confess'd, that not the good and pure
Are in this world of calumny secure ;
And therefore never let a lass rely
Upon her goodness and her chastity :
Her very virtue makes her heedless : youth
Reveals imprudent, nay injurious, truth ;
Whereas, if conscious that she merit blame.
She grows discreet, and well defends her fame ;
And thus, offending, better makes her way —
As Joseph Surface argues in the play —
Than when in virtue's strength she proudly stood.
So wrongly right, and so absurdly good.
Now, when your Charles shall be your judge,
and try
His own dear damsel — questioning how and why —
Let her be ready, arm'd with prompt reply ;
No hesitation let the man discern,
But answer boldly, then accuse in turn ;
Some trifling points with candid speech confess'd,
You gain a monstrous credit for the rest.
Then may you wear the Injured Lady frown,
And with your anger keep his malice down ;
Accuse, condemn, and make him glad at heart
To sue for pardon when you come to part ;
But let him have it ; let him go in peace,
And all inquiries of themselves will cease ;
To touch him nearer, and to hold him fast,
Have a few tears in petto at the last ;
But, this with care ! for 'tis a point of doubt.
If you should end with weeping or without.
'T is true you much affect him by your pain,
But he may want to prove his power again ;
And, then, it spoils the look, and hurts the eyes —
A girl is never handsome when she cries.
Take it for granted, in a general way.
The more you weep for men, the more you may.
Save your resources ; for though now you cry
With good effect, you may not by and by.
It is a knack ; and there are those that weep
Without emotion that a man may sleep ;
Others disgust — t' is genius, not advice,
That will avail us in a thing so nice.
If you should love him, you have greater need
Of all your care, and may not then succeed : —
For that 's our bane — we should be conquerors all
With hearts untouch'd — our feelings cause our fall.
But your experience aids you : you can hide
Your real weakness in your borrow'd pride.
But to the point : should so the Charge be laid,
That nought against it fairlj' can be said —
How would you act ? You would not then con-
fess?
C. — Oh ! never ! no ! — nor even my Trutli pro-
fess !
To mute contempt I would alone resort
For the Keporters, and for tlieir Ivcport.
If he profcss'd forgiveness, I would cry —
" Forgive such faithlessness ! so would not I.
" Such errors pardon ! he that so woidd act
" Would, I am sure, be guilty of tlie fact ;
" Charles, if 1 thought your spirit was so mean,
" I would not longer in your walks be seen :
" Could you such woman for a moment prize ?
" You might forgive her, but you must despise,"
D. — Bravo, my girl! 'tis tlien our sex com-
mand.
When we can seize the weapon in their hand.
When we their charge so manage, tliat "t is found
To save the credit it was meant to wound.
3 u 2
.172
CRABBE'S WORKS.
Tliose who l)y ronsons tlioir lu-qiiittal seek,
Make tlui wliolc sox coiiti'inplililc mid weak ;
'IMiis, too, observe — tliat nicii oI'sciisl' in lovo
Dupes more connileto tliiiii fools and l)locklicads
])r(>ve ;
For all tliat kiiowledj^e, lent tlieni as a guide,
(ioes od' entirely to the lady's side;
Wliercas the blockhead rather sees the more.
And gains jierception that he lack'd before.
His honest j)assi(>n blinds the man of sense,
^Vhile want of feeling is the fool's defence;
Arnr.— What I think of tliis ?
Why ! if he smile, it is not much amiss :
But there are humours ; and, by them possess'd,
A lover will not hearken to a jest.
Well, let this pass ! — but, for the next affair :
We know your father was indignant there ;
He hated Miller. Say ! if Charles should press
For explanation, what would you confess ?
You cannot there on his commands presume ;
Besides, you fainted in a public room ;
There own'd your flame, and, like heroic maid.
The sovereign impulse of your will obey'd.
What, to your thinking, was the world's disdain ?
You could retort its insolence again :
Your boundless passion boldly you avow'd,
And spoke the purpose of your soul aloud :
Associates, servants, friends, alike can prove
The world-defying force of Celia's love.
Did she not wish, nay vow, to poison her
Whom, some durst whisper, Damon could prefer ?
And then that frantic quarrel at the ball —
It must be known, and he will hear it all.
Nay ! never frowai, but cast about, in time,
How best to answer what he thinks a crime :
For what he thinks might have but little weight.
If you could answer —
C. — Then I '11 answer straight —
Not without Truth ; for who would vainly tell
A wretched lie, when Truth might serve as well ?
Had I not fever ? Is not that the bane
Of human wisdom ? Was I not insane ?
" Oh ! Charles, no more ! would you recall the
day
" When it pleased Fate to take my wits away ?
" How can I answer for a thousand things
" That this disorder to the sufferer brings?
" Is it not known, the men whom you dislike
" Are those whom now the erring fancy strike ?
" Nor would it much surprise me, if 'twere true,
" That in those days of dread I slighted you :
" When the poor mind, illumined by no spark
" Of reason's light, was wandering in the dark,
" You must not wonder, if the vilest train
" Of evil thoughts were printed on the brain ;
" Nor if the loyal and the faithful prove
" False to their king, and faithless to their
love."
Your thoughts on this ?
D. — With some you may succeed
By such bold strokes ; but they must love indeed.
C. — Doubt you his passion ? —
D. — But, in five long years
The passion settles — then the reason clears :
Turbid is love, and to ferment inclined.
But by and by grows sober and refined.
And peers for facts ; but if one can't rely
On truth, one takes one's chance — you can but
try.
Yet once again I must attention ask
To a new Charge, and then resign my task.
I would not hurt you ; but confess at least
That you were partial to that handsome Priest ;
Say what they will of his religious mind.
He was warm-hearted, and to ladies kind ;
Now, with his reverence you were daily seen.
When it was winter and the weather keen ;
Traced to the mountains when the winds were
strong.
And roughly bore you, arm in arm, along —
That wintry wind, inspired by love or zeal.
You were too faithful or too fond to feel.
Shielded from inward and from outward harm
By the strong spirit and the fleshly arm —
The w'inter-garden you could both admire.
And leave his sisters at the parlour fire ;
You trusted not your speech these dames among —
Better the teeth should chatter than the tongue !
Did not your father stop the pure delight
Of this perambulating Love at night ?
It is reported that his craft contrived
To get the Priest with expedition wived
And sent awaj' ; for fathers will suspect
Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect.
Patience, my dear ! your Lover will appear ;
At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer ?
" I hear," says he, — and he will look as grim
As if he heard his lass accusing him —
" I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks
" Kept the young Curate from his holy books ;
" Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray ;
" But 't is their duty — not the better they ;
" 'T is done for policy, for praise, for pay :
" Or, let the very best be understood,
" They 're men, you know, and men are flesh and
blood.
" Now, they do say — but let me not offend —
" You were too often with this pious friend,
" And spent your time"
, C. — " As people ought to spend.
" And, sir, if you of some divine woidd ask
" Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task ;
" But you — alas, the while ! — are not perplcx'd
" By the dark meaning of a thrcat'ning text ;
" You rather censure her who spends her time
" In search of Truth, as if it were a crime !
" Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel,
" To whom should I, in my distress, appeal ?
" A time there may be, Charles, indeed there
must,
" When you -will need a faithful Priest to trust,
" In conscience tender, but in coimsel just.
" Charles, for my Fame 1 would in prudence
strive,
" And, if I could, would keep your Love alive ;
" But there arc things that our attention claim.
" More near than Love, and more desired than
Fame !"
D. — " But ^\hy in secret?" he will ask you —
C— " Why ?
" Oh ! Charles, could you the doubting spirit spy,
" Had you such fears, all hearers yon would shun ;
" What one confesses should be heard by one.
374
CRABBE'S WORKS.
" '^dur mind is f^rosH, iind you liavo dwelt so loiif;
" With such ronipnnious, ttuit you will bi- wroii)^ :
" W'c fill our minds from thosi- with whom we live,
" Anil as your fenrs arc Nature's, I forj^ive ;
" But loam your jx-iicc inid my good name to
l)rize,
" And fears of fancy let ns both despise."
J). — Enough, my friend ! Now let the man
advance —
You are prepared, and notliing leave to chance :
'T is not sutlicient that we 're pure and just ;
The wise to nothing hut their wisdom trust.
\Vill he himself appear, or will he semi,
i)uteous as warm I and not alarm my friend ?
We need not ask — behold ! his servant comes :
His father's livery ! no fond heart presumes:
Thus he prej)areH you kindly gives you upacc
To arm your mind ami rectify your face.
Now, read your letter — -while my faithful lieart
Feels all that liis can dictate or imjtart.
Nay ! bless you, love I «)iat melancholy talc
Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale?
It is his sister's writing, but the seal
is red : he lives. What is it that you feel ?
C. — O ! my dear friend ! let us from man
retreat,
Or never triist liim if wc chance to meet —
The fickle wretch ! that from our presence flies
To any flirt that any place supplies,
.Vnd laughs at vows ! — but see the Letter I — here —
"Married at Guernsey!!!" — Oh! the Villaia,
dear I
TALES OF THE HALL.
375
TALES OF THE HAL L.'
TO HER GRACE
THE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.
Madam,
It is the privilege of those who are placed in that elevated situation to which your Grace is an
ornament, that they give honour to the person upon whom they confer a favour. When I dedicate to
your Grace the fruits of many years, and speak of my debt to the House of Rutland, I feel that I am
not without pride in the confession, nor insensible to the honour which such gratitude implies. Forty
years have elapsed since this debt commenced. On my entrance into the cares of Ufe, and while con-
tending with its difficulties, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland observed and protected me — in my pro-
gress, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland favoured and assisted me — and, when I am retiring from the
world, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland receive my thanks, and accept my offering. All, even in this
world of mutability, is not change. I hav'e experienced unvaried favour — I have felt undiminished
respect.
With the most grateful remembrance of what I owe, and the most sincere conviction of the
little I can return, I present these pages to your Grace's acceptance, and beg leave to subscribe
myself,
May it please your Grace,
With respect and gratitude,
Your Grace's
Most obedient and devoted servant,
Trowbridge, June, 1819. George Crabbe.^
' [Tlie ' Tales of the Hall' were first published in June
1819, by Mr. Murray, who gave for them, and the copyright
of tlie author's previous works, the sura of three thousand
pounds. The reader will find some interesting particulars
respecting this purchase in a letter by Mr. Moore, printed in
the present collection (pp. 7J-76).
These 'Tales' occupied Mr. Crabbe during the years 1817
and 1S18 ; and it appears, from a letter to Mrs. Leadbeater,
dated 30th October, 1817, that he originally designed to put
them forth under another title. — " I know not," he writes,
"how to descrilje the new, and probably (most probably)
the last work I shall publish. My friends decided that ' Re-
membrances ' should be the title. Though a villai;e is the
scene of meeting between ray two principal characters, and
gives occasion to other characters and relations in general,
yet I no more describe the manners of village inhabitants.
My people are of superior classes, though not the most ele-
vated, and, with a few exceptions, are of educated and
cultivated minds and habits. I do not know, on a general
view, whether my tragic or lighter Talcs, &c., are most in
number. Of those equally well executed, the tragic will, I
suppose, make the greater impression ; but I know not that
it requires more attention." — The title under which tlieTales
eventually appeared was suggested by Mr. Murray ; and tlie
reception of the work was highly favourable. — E.]
' [Lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter of Frederick, fifth Earl
of Carlisle. Her Grace died, at Belvoir Castle, in November,
1825. J
3 [The following is an extract of a letter written by Mr.
Crabbe to the Duke of Rutland early in 1 826 :— " I am always
glad of an occasion for repeating my most sincere acknow-
ledgments of the benefits your Grace li.%s conferred upon me :
you have given me all I could desire, and more than I could
expect; and though the painful disorder with which lam
afflicted allows me but short intervals of relief, and unfits
me for many of the enjoyments which I might otherwise take,
yet have I, by yourGrace's favour, all the comforts that decent
circumstances and a respectable situation can afford. Thtre
is a suhjcft upon whicli I dare not enter, though I have never
ceased to thinK of it — nor, pardon me, my Lord, if I add, !o
pray to ilie Giver of all good things for that consolation which
I trust will be granted "]
376
CRABBE'S WORKS.
V K J^: F A C E.
If I (lid not fear that it wouM appear to my
readers like nrrogniicy, or if it did not seem to
myself indecorous to send three volumes of eon-
Biderable magnitude from the press without pre-
face or apology, witliout one petition for the
reader's attention, or one plea for the writer's
defects, I would most willingly spare myself an
address of this kind, and more especially for these
reasons : first, because a preface is a part of a
book seldom honoured by a reader's perusal ;
secondly, because it is both difficult and distress-
ing to write that which we think will be disre-
garded ; and thirdly, because 1 do not conceive
that I am called upon for such introductory mat-
ter by any of the motives which usually in-
fluence an author when he composes his prefatory
address.
When a WTiter, whether of poetry or prose, first
addresses the public, he has generally sometliing
to offer which relates to himself or to his work,
and which he considers as a necessary prelude to
the work itself, to prepare his readers for the en-
tertainment or the instruction they may expect to
receive ; for one of these every man who pub-
lishes must suppose he affords. This the act it-
self implies ; and in proportion to his conviction
of this fact must be his feeling of the difficulty in
which lie has placed himself : the difficulty con-
sists in reconciling the implied presumption of
the undertaking, whether to please or to in-
struct mankind, with the diffidence and modesty
of an untried candidate for fame or favour.
Hence originate the many reasons an author as-
signs for his appearance in that character, whether
they actually exist or are merely offered to hide
the motives which cannot be openly avowed ;
namely, the want or the vanity of the man, as his
wishes for profit or reputation may most prevail
with liim.
Now, reasons of this kind, whatever they may
be, cannot be availing beyond their first appear-
ance. An author, it is true, may again feel his
' [The following is extracted from a letter of Mr. Criibtie's,
written in 1817 : — " There is, in Dr. Yoinig's life and charac-
ter, somethinj; not easily reconcilable with our respect and
veneration. That excessive gloom, with that play of words
and that false wit— the dreadful estimate of lite, with that per-
petual seeking after its emoluments — that strong aspiral ion
after the future enjoyments of the soul, with tliat choerful,
not to say light, spirit which led him into common and frivo-
lous society — all tliese have much of that incongruity which
former apprehensions, may again be elevated or
depressed by the suggestions of vanity and tliffi-
dencc, and may be again subject to the cold and
hot fit of aguish expectation ; but he is no more a
stranger to the press, nor has the motives or pri-
vileges of one who is. With respect to myself, it
is certain they belong not to me. .Many years
have elapsed since I became a candidate for in-
dulgence, as an inexperienced writer ; and to as-
sume the language of such writer now, and to
plead for his indulgences, would be proof of my ig-
norance of the place assigned to me, and the de-
gree of favour which I have experienced ; but of
that place 1 am not uninformed, and with that
degree of favour I have no reason to be dissatis-
fied.
It was the remark of the pious, but on some
occasions the queridous, author of the ' Night
Thoughts,' that he had " been so long remembered,
he was forgotten ;" an expression in which there
is more appearance of discontent than of sub-
mission ;' if he liad patience, it was not the
patience that smiles at (/rirfy It is not therefore
entirely in the sense of the good Doctor that I
apply these words to myself or to my more early
publications. So many years indeed have passed
since their first appearance, that I have no reason
to complain on that account if they be now slum-
bering with other poems of decent reputation in
their day — not dead indeed, nor entirely forgotten,
but certainly not the subjects of discussion or con-
versation, as when first introduced to the notice
of the public bj* those whom the public will not
forget, whose protection was credit to their author,
and whose approbation was fame to them. Still
these early publications had so long preceded any
other, that, if not altogether unknown, I was when
I came again before the public in a situation
which excused, and perhaps rendered necessary,
some explanation ; but this also has passed away,
and none of my readers will now take the trouble
of making any inquiries respecting my motives for
writing or for publisliing these Tales, or verses of
the children of infirmity possess, but from which we reason
ably expect some to !«•, in a great measure, free. Young tir<»s 1
in some of the later Nights, 1 think, but lie has tine pa.d the fate of his
brother-in-law, Mr. James Elmy, who died at an early age, a
few years after his sister's marriage, but not until he liad ex-
perienced much suffering. Having a stroni; predilection for
" No doubt," said .Jncqucn, " there are in mindx
the Heeds
" Of good and ill, the virtiicH anil the weeds;
'• But is it not of stuily tlie intent
'• This growth of evil nature to jirevcnt?
" 'I'o dieck the progress of each idle shoot
" That might relanl tlie ripening of the fruit?
" Our pur|)ose certain, anNith case, and take the eustomary seat.
" These," said tlie liost, for he perceived where
stray'd
His brother's eye, and wliat he now survey 'd, —
" These are tlie costly trifles that we buy,
■' Urged by tlie strong demands of vanity,
" The thirst and hunger of a mind diseased,
" That must with purchased flattery he appeased ;
'• But yet, 't is true, the things that you behold
" Serve to amuse us as we 're getting old : '
" These pictures, as I heard our artists say,
" Are genuine all, and I believe they may ;
•' They cost the genuine sums, and I should grieve
'• If, being willing, I could not believe.
" And there is music; when the ladies come,
'' 'With their keen looks they scrutinize the room
" To see what pleases, and I must expect
" To yield them pleasure, or to find neglect :
" For, as attractions from our person fly,
" Our purses, Richard, must the want supply ;
" Yet would it vex me could the triflers know
•■ That they can shut out comfort or bestow.'*
" But see this room : here, Richard, you will
find
•' Books for all palates, food for every mind ;
•• This readers term the ever-new delight,
" And so it is, if minds have appetite:
" Mine once was craving; great my joy, indeed,
" Hail 1 possess'd such food when 1 could feed;
■• ^Vhen at the call of every new-boni wish
•• I could have keenly relish'd every dish :
'• Now, Kichard, now I stalk around and look
•• I'pon the dress and title of a book,
'[Orlg. MS. :—
•' IJrolher," said George, " When I beheld you last,
"The time how distant! — ^^VelU the time is past —
" I liad not then these comforts yon behold,
" Things that amuse us when we 're gettin;; old :
'• These pictures now, experienced men will say
" They re genuine all, and so perhaps they may ;
" They cost tlie money, that I 'm sure is true,
" .Vnd therefore, Richard, I will say it too."]
■ fMS. : —
" Music you find ; for hither ladies come ;
" They make infernal upro.ir in the room.
'• I hear it. Why ? because I must expect
'• To pay for lionour, and I fear neglect.
" Try half a page, ami then ran taste no more,
" But the ilull volume to i(H place restore;
" Begin a nccouii slowly to jieruse,
" Tlien cast it liy, and look about for news;
" The news itself grows dull in long debates, —
" I skij), and see what the ronrlusion states;
" And many a s](cccli, with zcul and study made
" (,'old and resisting sjiirits to persuani]>lMiii :
" ' Nor would consent, altliou(^'li tlie weaver j^rew
" ' More fond, and would the iVigliten'd j;irl pursue.
" ' Oh ! much she hegj^'d liini to I'orhenr, to
stand
" ' Her soul's kind friend, and not tonsk her hand ;
"'She could not love him. — "Love me!" he
replied,
' " 'I'lie love you mean is love unsancfified,
' An earthly, wicked, sensual, sinful kind,
' A creature-love, the passion of the blind."
' lie did not court her, he would have her know,
' For that poor love that will on beauty grow ;
' No ! he wouM take her as the Prophet took
' One of the harlots in tlie holy book ;
' And then he look'd so ugly and severe !
' And yet so fond— she could not hide her fear.
" ' This fondness grew her torment; she would fly,
' In woman's terror, if he came but nigh ;
' Nor could I wonder he should odious prove,
' So like a ghost that left a grave for love.
" ' But still her father lent his cruel aid
• To the man's hope, and she was more afraid ;
'He said no more she should his table share,
' But be the parish or tlie Teacher's care.
' " Three days I give you : see that all be right
' On Monday morning — this is Thursday night —
' Fulfil my wishes, girl ! or else forsake my
sight !"
" ' I see her now ; and, she that was so meek,
' It was a chance that she had power to speak,
' Now spoke in earnest — " Father ! I obey,
' And will remember the appointed day ! "
" ' Then came the man: she talk'd with him
apart,
' And, I believe, laid open all her heart ;
' But ail in vain -she said to me, in tears,
• " Mother I that man is not what he appears:
' He talks of heaven, and let him, if he will,
' But he has earthly purpose to fulfil ;
' Upon my knees I begg'd him to resign
' The hand he asks : he said — It shall be mine :
• AVliat I did the lioly men of Scripture deign
• To hear a woman when she said Kefrain ?
' t)f whom they chose they took them wives,
and these
' 'Made it their study and their wish to please;
■ The women then were faithful and afraid ;
' As Sarah Abraham, they their lords obcy'd,
' And so she styled him ; 't is in later days
' Of foolish love that we our women praise,
• Fall on the knee, and raise the suppliant hand,
• Anil court the favour that we might command. —
" ' " O ! my dear mother, when this man has
power,
' How will he treat me : — first may beasts devour !
' Or death in every form that I could prove,
' Except this selfish being's hateful love."
" ' I gently blamed her, for I knew how hard
' It is to force aflection and regard.
" ' Ah ! my dear lad, I talk to you as one
" ' Who know the miHcry of a heart undone :
" ' You knows it not ; but, dearest boy, when man,
" ' Do not an ill because you find you can :
" ' Where is the triumph ? when such things men
seek,
" ' They only drive to wickedness the weak.
" ' Weak was poor Kutli, ami tliis good man bo
hard,
" ' That to her weakness he had no regard :
" ' But we liad two days' peace ; he came, and then
" ' JMy daugher whisper'd, " Would there were no
men !
" ' None to admire or scorn us, none to vex
" ' A simple, trusting, fond, believing sex ;
" ' Who truly love the worth that men profess,
" ' And think too kindly for their happiness." '
" Poor Ruth ! few heroines in the tragic page
" Felt more than thee in thy contracted stage ;
'• Fair, fond, and virtuous, they our pity move,
" Impell'd by • Containing much of both the false and true :
" But thou hast read it, and with profit too.
" Not dead, but sick, and I too weary grow
" Of reaping notliing from the things I sow.
" What is the pleasure — thou perhaps canst say —
" Of playing tunes, if no'ne can hear thee play !
" Timid and proud, the world I cannot court,
" Nor show my labours for tlie critic's sport.
" Hast thou the courage, Richard ? hast thou tried
" An author's perils ? hast tliou felt his pride ?
" For vain the eflorts, and they quickly tire,
" If we alone our precious things admire. '
" Not so," said Richard, and acquired a look
That some expn-ssion from bis feelings look ;
'• Oh ! mv dear Hrother, if this Muse of mine,
" Who prompts the idle thought, the trilling line,
" If she who calmly looks around, nor more
" Muse of the Mad,' the Foolish, and the Poor,
400
CRABBE'S WORKS.
" Come, tlioii, my UrotliiT, now tliy tulc com-
jili'te — •
" I know thy first emlmrkint^ in the licet,
" Tliy i-ntninro in tlic nrniy, ami thy ^iiin
■■ Of iilfntcuus liiiircis in tlio whim of Spain,
'• Villi what then folli)\v'(l ; liut I « isii to know
" When thou that lifart hailst coiira;?!.' to bestow,
" When to declare it gain'il, and when to wtand
'■ HeCorc the jjricst, and give the iilightcd hand ;
" So shall I boldness from thy frankness ^aiu
" To paint the frenzy that jiosscss'd my brain ;
'• For rather there than in my heart I found
'■ AVas my disease — a poison, not a wound,
" A madness, Hichard — but, I pray thee, tell
" AN honi hast thou loved so dearly and so well?"*
The younger man his gentle host obey'd,
For some respect, though not required, was paid ;
Perhaps, with all that imlependent pride.
Their ditferent states would to the memory glide ;
Yet was his manner unconstrain'd and free,
And notliing in it like servility.
Then lie ^began : — " "When first I reach'd the
land,
" I was so ill that death appear'd at hand ;
" And though the fever left mc, yet I grew
" So weak 'twas judged that life would leave me
too.
" I sought a village-priest, my mother's friend,
" And 1 believed witli him my days would end :
" The man was kind, intelligent, and mild,
" Careless and slirewd, yet simple as the child ;
" If she can plpasure — and she can— impart,
" Can wing the fancy, can enlarge the heart ;
" What must a Muse of strength, of force, of lire,
'■ In the true Poet's ample mind inspire ?
" What must lie feel, who can the soul express,
" Of saint or hero ? — he must be no less.
" Nor less of evil minds lie knows the pain,
" But quickly lost the anguish and the stain ;
" While with the wisest, happiest, purest, best,
" His soul assimilates and loves to rest.
" Crowns would I spurn, and empires would I lose,
" For inspiration from the sacred Muse."
" A song," said George, " and I mv secret store,
"Confined in dust and darkness, will explore.
" I'oet with poet, bard and critic too,.'
" We fear no censure, and dread no review,
" A judge so placed must be to errors kind,
" .\nd yield the mercy that he hopes to find.
" Begin then, Richard ; put thy fears aside ;
" Shall I condemn, who must myself be tried.' '
" In me at least my Brother may confide.
" In hope of wearing, I shall yield the bays,
" And my self-love shall give my rival praise."]
~ [la tlie origin,al MS. thus : —
" Wilt thou explain ? I shall not grieve to share
" A lover's sorrow, or a husband's care ?"
Kindness like this had moved a sterner man,
Richard much more. He smiled, and thus began :—
" No more I loved the sea ; that plunge had tamed
" My blood, by vouth in idleness inllamed :
" To my afiairs t forced my mind t' attend,
" And sought the town to counsel with a friend.
" Much we debated — Could I now resign
" My earthly views, and look to things divine?
" Could I to nierchandi/e my mind persuade,
" .'Vnd wait in patience for the gain of trade ?
For of the wisdom of t)ie world hJH Hhare
And mine were c(iual — neither had to Kjmro ;
KIsc — with his daughters, beautiful ami poor —
He woulil liave kept a sailor from his y, wlicii, iliil)i()us
licl.l
" Aii.l Ion;; (lie n;;lit, he S(M's tlic fuc rcpcllM.
" JJiit wliiit art' these, or wiuit (ire other joys,
'' That charm kiiij^s, coiKjuerors, beauteous nymphs,
and l)oys,
" Or greater yet, if (greater yet ho found,
" To that (leli^;lit wlien h)vo's dear hojjc is crown'd ?
" To the first beating of a htver's heart,
" When tlie loved maid endeavours to impart,
" Frankly yet faintly, fondly yet in fenr,
" Tlie kind confession that he holds so dear ?
" Now in the morn of our return how strnnpc
" Was this new feeling, this delicious change,
'' Tliat sweet delirium, when 1 gazeil in fear
" That all would yet be lost and disappear.
" Such was the blessing, that I sought for pain,
" In some degree to be myself again ;
" And when we met a sliei)herd old and lame,
'' Cold and diseased, it seem'd my blood to tame :
" And 1 was thankful for the moral sight,
" That soberised the vast and wild delight."
BOOK VII.
THE ELDER BROTHER.
Conversation — Story of the elder Brother — His romantic
Views and Habits — The Scene of liis Meditations — Tlieir
Nature — Interrupted hy an Adventure — The Consequences
of it — A stron;,' and permanent I'assion — Search of its
Olyect — Long inellectual — How found — The first Interview
— The second — End of the Adventure — Retirement.
" Thanks, my dear Richard, and 1 pray thee,
deign
" To speak the truth — does all this love remain,
" And all this joy ? for views and flights sublime,
" Ardent and tender, are subdued by time.
i " Speak'st thou of her to whom thou mad'st thy
vows,
" Of my fair sister, of thy lawful spouse ?
" Or art thou talking some frail love about,
" The rambling fit before tli' abiding gout ?"
" Nay, spare me, Brother, an adorer spare :
" Love ami the gout ! thou wouldst not tliese com-
pare ?"
" Yea, and correctly ; teasing ere they come,
" They then confine tlieir victim to his home :
" hi both arc previous feints and false attacks,
" Both place the grieving patient on their racks;
" They both are ours, with all they bring, for life,
'" 'T is not in us t' expel or gout or wife ;
" On man a kind of dignity they shed,
.\ sort of gloomy pomp about his bed :
" Then if he leaves them, go where'er he will,
" They have a claim upon his body still ;
" Nay, when they (piit him, as they sometimes do,
" What is tliere left t' enjoy or to jiursue ? —
" Hut dost thou love this woman?"
" O I beyond
" What I can tell thee of the true and fond :
" Math she not soothed mc, sick- enriclicd mc,
])oor —
" And Ijanish'd death and misery from my door?
" Mas she not cherish'd every moment's bliss,
" And made an Kden of a world like this?
" When Care would strive with us his watch to keep,
" Has she not sung the snarling fienil to sleep?
" .\nd when Distress has look'd us in the face,
" Has she not told him, ' Thou art not Disgrace ' ?"
" I must behold her, Richard ; I must see
" This patient spouse who sweetens misery.
" But didst thou need, and wouldst thou not
apply ?—
'• Nay, thou wert right — but then how wrong
was I !"
" My Indiscretion was "'
" No more repeat ;
" Would I were nothing worse than indiscreet ; —
" But still there is a plea that I could bring,
" Had I the courage to describe the thing."
" Then thou, too. Brother, couldst of weakness
tell;
" Thou, too, hast found the wishes that rebel
" Against the sovereign reason ; at some time
" Thou hast been fond, heroic, and sublime ;
" Wrote verse, it may be, and for one dear maid
" The sober purposes of life dclay'd ;
" From year to year the fruitless chase pursued,
" And hung enamour'd o'er the flying good :
" Then be thy weakness to a Brother shown,
" And give him comfort who displays his own."
" Ungenerous youth ! dost thou presuming ask
" A man so grave his failings to unmask ?
" What if I tell thee of a waste of time,
" That on my spirit presses as a crime,
" Wilt thou despise me ? — I, who. soaring, fell,
" So late to rise — Hear then the tale 1 tell :
" Who tells what thou shalt hear, esteems his hearer
well.
" Yes, my dear Richard, thou shalt hear me own
" Follies and frailties thou liast never known ;
" Thine was a frailty, — folly, if you please, —
'• But mine a flight, a madness, a disease.
" Turn with me to my twentieth year, for then
" The lover's frenzy ruled the poet's pen ;
'• When virgin reams were soil'd with lays of love,
" The flinty hearts of fancied nymphs to move :
" Then was I pleased in lonely ways to tread,
" And muse on tragic tales of lovers dead ;
'• For all the merit I could then descry
" In man or woman was for love to die.
'• I mused on charmers chaste, who pledged their
truth,
'■ And loft no more the once-accepted youth :
TALES OF THE HALL.
405
" Though he disloyal, lost, diseased, became,
" The widow'd turtle's was a deathless flame ;
" This faith, this feeling, gave my soul delight,
" Truth in the lady, ardour in the knight.
" I built me castles wondrous rich and rare,
" Few castle-builders could with me compare ;
'' The hall, the palace, rose at my command,
" And these I fiU'd with objects great and grand.
" Virtues sublime, that nowhere else would live,
" Glory and pomp, that I alone could give ;
" Trophies and thrones by matchless valour gain'd,
" Faith unreproved, and chastity unstain'd ;
" With all that soothes the sense and charms the
soul,
" Came at my call, and were inmy control.
" And who was I ? a slender youth and tall,
" In manner awkward, and with fortune small ;
" "With visage pale, my motions quick and slow,
" That fall and rising in the spirits show ;
" For none could more by outward signs express
" What wise men lock within the mind's recess ;
" Had I a mirror set before my view,
" I might have seen what such a form could do ;
" Had I within the mirror truth beheld,
" I should have such presuming thoughts repell'd :
" But, awkward as I was, without the grace
" That gives new beauty to a form or face,
" Still I expected friends most true to prove,
" And grateful, tender, warm, assiduous love.
" Assured of this, that love's delicious bond
" Would hold me ever faithful, ever fond ;
" It seem'd but just that I in love should find
" A kindred heart as constant and as kind.
" Give me, I cried, a beauty ; none on earth
" Of higher rank or nobler in her birth ;
" Pride of her race, her father's hope and care,
" Yet meek as children of the cottage are ;
" Nursed in the court, and there by love pursued,
" But fond of peace, and bless'd in solitude ;
" By rivals honour'd, and by beauties praised,
" Yet all unconscious of the envy raised ;
" Suppose her this, and from attendants freed,
" To want my prowess in a time of need,
" When safe and grateful she desires to show
" She feels the debt that she delights to owe,
" And loves the man who saved her in distress —
" So Fancy will'd, nor would compound for less.
" This was my dream. — In some auspicious hour,
" In some sweet solitude, in some green bower,
" Whither my fate should lead me, there, unseen,
" I should behold my fancy's gracious queen,
" Singing sweet song ! that I should hear a while,
" Then catch the transient glory of a smile ;
" Then at her feet with trembling hope should
kneel,
" Such as rapt saints and raptured lovers feel ;
" To watch the chaste unfoldings of her heart,
" In joy to meet, in agony to part,
" And then in tender song to soothe my grief,
" And hail, in glorious rhyme, my JMdij orlant kind,
I might the man of occupnlion find
In his retireim-nt, where h(' found repose
From the vexations that in business rose,
I found, though not with ease, this jirivate seat
Of soothing quiet, Wisdom's still retreat.
" The house was good, but not so pure and clean
As I had houses of retirement seen ;
Yet men, I knew, of meditation deep,
Love not their maidens should tlicir studies
sweep.
His room 1 saw, and must acknowledge there
Were not the signs of cleanliness or care :
A female servant, void of female grace,
Loose in attire, proceeded to the place ;
She stared intrusive on my slender frame,
And boldly ask'd my business and my name.
" I gave them both ; and, left to be amused.
Well as I might, the parlour I perused.
The shutters half unclosed, the curtains fell
Half down, and rested on the window-sill.
And thus, confusedly, made the room half visible.
Late as it was, the little parlour bore
Some tell-tale tokens of the night before :
There were strange sights and scents about the
room,
Of food high season'd, and of strong perfume ;
Two unmatch'd sofas ample rents display'd.
Carpet and curtains were alike decay'd ;
A large old mirror, with once-gilded frame,
Reflected prints that I forbear to name.
Such as a youth might jmrchase — but. in truth,
■ Not a sedate or sober-minded youth :
' The cinders yet were sleeping in the grate,
■ Warm from tlie fire, continued large and late.
' As left by careless folk, in their neglected state ;
' The chairs in haste seem'd whirl'd about the
room,
■ As when the sons of riot hurry home,
• And leave the troubled place to solitude and
gloom.
" All this, for I had ample time. I saw,
' And prudence question'd — should we not with-
draw ?
' For he who makes me thus on business wait
' Is not for business in a proper state ;
' But man there was not. was not he for whom
' To this convenient lodging 1 was come :
' No I but a lady's voice was heard to call
' On my attention — and she had it all ;
' For, lo I she enters, speaking ere in sight,
' ' Slonsieur I 1 shall not want the chair to-night —
' ' Where shall 1 sec him !'' — This dear hour atones
' For all afi'ection's hopeless sighs and gi-oans —
' Then turning to me — ' .\rt thou come at last?
' ' A thousand welcomes — be forgot the past ;
' ' Forgotten all the grief that absence brings,
' ' Fear that torments, and jealousy that stings —
' ' All that is cold, injurious, and unkind,
• ' Be it for ever banisli'd from the mind ;
TALES OF THE HALL.
409
" ' And in that mind and in that heart be now
" ' The soft endearment and the binding vow.'
" She spoke — and o'er the practised features
threw
" The looks that reason charm, and strength
subdue.
" "Will you not ask how I beheld that face,
" Or read that mind, and read it in that place ?
" I have tried, Richard, oft-times, and in vain,
" To trace my thoughts and to review their train —
" If train there were — that meadow, grove, and
stile,
" The fright, th' escape, her sweetness and her
smile ;
" Years since elapsed, and hope, from year to year,
" To find her free — and then to find her here !
" But is it she ? — O ! yes ; the rose is dead,
" All beauty, fragrance, freshness, glory fled :
'■ But yet 't is she — the same and not the same —
" Who to my bower a heavenly being came ;
" Who waked my soul's first thought of real bliss,
" Whom long I sought, and now 1 find her — this.
" I cannot paint her — something I had seen,
" So pale and slim, and tawdry and unclean ;
" With haggard looks, of vice and woe the ]5rey,
" Laughing in languor, miserably gay :
" Her face, where face appear'd, was amply spread,
" By art's coarse pencil, with ill-chosen red,
" The flower's fictitious bloom, the blushing of the
dead :
" But still the features were the same, and strange
" My view of both — the sameness and the change,
" That fix'd me gazing and my eye enchain'd,
" Although so little of herself remain'd ;
" It is the creature whom I loved, and yet
" Is far unlike her — Would I could forget
" The angel or her fall ; the once adored
" Or now despised ! the worshipp'd or deplored !
" ' O ! Rosabella !' I prepared to say,
" ' Whom I have loved !' but Prudence whisper'd
nay,
" And Folly grew ashamed — Discretion had her day.
" She gave her hand, which, as I lightly press'd,
" The cold but ardent grasp my soul oppress'd ;
" The ruin'd girl disturb'd me, and my eyes
" Look'd, I conceive, both sorrow and surprise.
" I spoke my business : ' He,' she answer'd, ' comes
" ' And lodges here — he has the backward rooms :
" ' He now is absent, and I chanced to hear
" ' Will not before to-morrow eve appear,
" ' And may be longer absent O ! the night
" ' When you preserved me in that horrid fright !
" ' A thousand, thousand times, asleep, awake,
" ' I thought of what you ventured for my sake —
" ' Now have you thought? — yet tell me so —
deceive
" ' Your Rosabella, willing to believe.
" ' O ! there is something in love's first-born pain
" ' Sweeter than bliss— it never comes again :
" ' But has your heart been faithful?' — Here my
pride,
" To anger rising, her attempt defied : —
" ' My faith must childish in your sight appear,
" ' Who have been faithful — to how many, dear?'
" If words had fail'd, a look explain'd their style ;
" She could not blush assent, but she could smile :
" ' Good Heaven !' I thought, ' have I rejected fame,
" ' Credit, and wealth, for one who smiles at
shame ?'
" She saw me thoughtful — saw it, as I guess'd,
" With some concern, though nothing she ex-
press'd.
' Come, my dear friend, discard that look of care.
' All things were made to be as all things are ;
' All to seek pleasure as the end design'd,
' The only good in matter or in mind ;
' So I was taught by one who gave me all
' That my experienced heart can wisdom call.
" ' I saw thee young, love's soft obedient slave,
' And many a sigh to my young lover gave ;
' And I had, spite of cowardice or cow,
' Return'd thy passion, and exchanged my vow :
' But while I thought to bait the amorous hook,
' One set for me my eager fancy took ;
' There was a crafty eye, that far could see,
' And through my failings fascinated me :
' Mine was a childish wish, to please my boy ;
' His a design, his wishes to enjoy.
' O ! we have both about the world been toss'd,
' Thy gain I know not— I, they cry, am lost :
' So let the wise ones talk ; they talk in vain,
' And are mistaken both in loss and gain ;
' 'T is gain to get whatever life afibrds,
' 'T is loss to spend our time in empty words.
" ' I was a girl, and thou a boy wert then,
' Nor aught of women knew, nor I of men ;
' But I have traffick'd in the world, and thou.
' Doubtless, canst boast of thy experience now ;
' Let us the knowledge we have gain'd produce,
' And kindly turn it to our common use.'
" Thus spoke the siren in voluptuous stylo.
While I stood gazing and pcrplex'd the while,
Chain'd by that voice, confounded by that smile.
And then she sang, and changed from grave to
gay.
Till all reproach and anger died away.
' My Damon was the first to wake
" ' The gentle flame that cannot die ;
' My Damon is the last to take
" ' The faitliful bosom's softest sigh :
' The life between is notliing worth,
'' ' O ! cast it from thy thmiglit away ;
' Think of the day that gave it birtli,
" ' And this its sweet returning day.
' Buried be all that has been done,
" ' Or say that nought is done amiss ;
' For who the dangerous path can slum
" ' In such bewildering world as this ?
;i f:
410
CRAIIBE'S WORKS.
" ' Btit love cnn evory fault forgive,
" ' Or witli (i t<'iiil('r look rf'i)r(>v(> ;
" ' And now let iioii){lit in memory live,
" ' IJut tliiit wc meet, nnil tliiit we love."
" And tlion she moved my ])ity ; for she wept,
And tohl lier miseries till resentment slejjt •,
l''or when she saw she could not renson hlind,
She pour'd her heart's whole sorrows on my
minil,
With features graven on my soul, with sighs
Seen but not heard, with soft imploring eyes,
And voice that needed not, but hail, the aid
Of powerful words to soften and persuade.
" ' O ! I repent me of the past ; and sure
' Grief and repentance make the bosom jmre ;
' Yet meet thee not with clean and single heart,
' As on tlie day we met !^ — and but to part,
' Ere I had drunk the cup that to my lip
' Was hcM, and press'd till I was forced to sip :
' I drank imleed, but never ceased to hate, —
' It poison'd, but could not intoxicate.
' T' excuse my fall I plead not love's excess,
' But a weak orplian's need and loneliness.
' I had no parent upon earth — no door
' Was oped to me — young, innocent, and poor,
' Vain, tender, and resentful — and my friend
' Jealous of one who must on her depend,
' ^Making life misery — Yon could witness then,
' That I was precious in the eyes of men ;
' So, made by them a goddess, and denied
' Respect and notice by the women's pride ;
' Here scorn'd, there worshipp'd — will it strange
appear,
' Allured and driven, that I settled here ?
' Yet loved it not ; and never have I pass'd
' One day, and wish'd another like the last.
" ' There was a fallen angel, I have read,
" ' For whom their tears the sister-angels shed,
" ' Because, although she ventured to rebel,
" ' She was not minded like a child of hell. —
" ' Such is my lot I and will it not be given
" ' To grief like mine, that 1 may think of heaven ?
" ' Behold how there the glorious creatures shine,
" ' And all my soul to grief and hope resign ?
" I wonder'd, doubting — and ' Is this a fact,'
" I thought ; ' or part thou art disposed to act?'
" ' Is it not written, He, wlio came to save
" ' Sinners, the sins of deepest dye forgave ?
'' ' That He his mercy to the sufferers dealt,
" ' And pardon'd error when tlie ill was felt ?
' Yes ! I would hope there is an eye that reads
" ' What is within, and sees the heart that
bleeds.
" ' But who on earth will one so lost deplore,'
" ' And who will help that lost one to restore ?
" ' Who will on trust the High of grief receive ;
" ' And^all things warring with belief — •believe?'
" Soften'd, I said, ' Be mine the hand and heart,
" ' If with your world you will consent to part.'
"She would — -she tried Alas! hIic did not
know
" How deej)Iy rooted evil habits grow :
" She felt the truth upon her sjiiritB press,
" But wanted ease, indulgence, show, excess,
" Voluptuous banquets, ])leasure9 — not refined,
" But such as soothe to sleej) th' opposing miml ;
'' She look') they abode, and so mii;ht still abide,
" Hut for a bliiiht ! it wounds me .at the heart,
" Tliat I have ^'riefand anpiish to impart," \c.]
TALES OF THE HALL.
415
" Bid the due heat each growing sweet refine,
" Made the sun's light with grosser fire combine,
" And to the Tropic gave the vigour of the Line.
" Yet, in the master of this wealth, behold
" A light vain coxcomb taken from his gold,
'' Whose busy brain was weak, whose boasting
heart was cold.
" Oh ! how he talk'd to that believing town,
" That he would give it riches and renown ;
" Cause a canal where treasures were to swim,
" And they should owe their opulence to him !
" In fact, of riches he ensured a crop,
" So they would give him but a seed to drop.
" As used the alchymist his boasts to make,
" ' I give you millions for the mite I take :'
" The mite they never could again behold,
" The millions all were Eldorado gold.
" By this professing man, the countrj' round
'■ Was search'd to see where money could be
found,
" The thriven farmer, who had lived to spare,
" Became an object of especial care ;
'• He took the frugal tradesman by the hand,
'• And wish'd him joy of what he might command ;
" And the industrious servant who had laid
" His saving by, it was his joy to aid ;
" Large talk and hints of some productive plan,
" Half named, won all his hearers to a man ;
'' Uncertain projects drew them wondering on,
" And avarice listen'd till distrust was gone.
" But when to these dear girls he found his way,
" All easy, artless, innocent were they ;
" When he compell'd his foolish wife to be
" At once so great, so humble, and so free ;
" Whom others sought, nor always with success !
" But they were both her pride and happiness;
" And she esteem'd them, but attended still
" To the vile purpose of her husband's will ;
." And when she fix'd his snares about their mind,
" Respected those whom she essay'd to blind:
" Nay, with esteem she some compassion gave
" To the fair victims whom she would not save.
" The Banker's wealth and kindness were her
themes,
" His generous plans, his patriotic schemes;
" What he had done for some, a favourite few,
" What for his favourites still he meant to do :
" Not that he always listen'd — which was hard —
" To her, when speaking of her great regard
" For certain friends — ' But you, as I may say,
" ' Are his own choice — I am not jealous, nay !'
" Then came the Man himself, and came with
speed,
" As just from business of importance freed,
" Or just escaping, came with looks of fire,
" As if he 'd just attain'd his full desire ;
" As if Prosperity and he for life
" Were wed, and he was showing off his wife ;
" Pleased to display his infiuencc, and to prove
" Himself the object of her partial love :
" Perhaps with this was join'd the latent fear,
" The time would come when he should not be dear.
" Jane laugh'd at all their visits and parade,
" And call'd it friendship in a hothouse made ;
" A style of friendship suited to his taste,
" Brought on, and ripen'd like his grapes, in haste ;
" She saw the wants that wealth in vain would hide,
'• And all the tricks and littleness of pride :
" On all the wealth would creep the vulgar stain,
" And grandeur strove to look itself in vain.
" Lucy perceived — but she replied, ' Why heed
" ' Such small defects ? — they 're very kind in-
deed ! '
" And kind they were, and ready to produce
" Their easy friendship, ever fit for use —
" Friendship that enters into all affairs,
" And daily wants, and daily gets, repairs.
" Hence at the cottage of the Sisters stood
" The Banker's steed — he was so very good ;
" Oft through the roads, in weather foul or fair,
" Their friend's gay carriage bore the gentle pair :
" His grapes and nectarines woo'd the virgins'
hand,
" His books and roses were at their command ;
" And costly flowers, — he took upon him shame
" That he could purchase what he could not name.
" Lucy was vex'd to have such favours slio\A-n,
" And they returning nothing of their own ;
" Jane smiled and begg'd her sister to believe, —
" ' We give at least as much as we receive.'
" Alas ! and more : they gave their ears and eyes ;
" His splendour ofttimes took them by surprise ;
" And if in Jane appear d a meaning smile.
" She gazed, admired, and paid respect the while.
" Would she had rested there ! deluded maid 1
" She saw not yet the fatal price she paid ;
" Saw not that wealth, though join'd with folly,
grew
" In her regard ; she smiled, but listen'd too ;
" Nay, would be grateful, slic would trust her all,
" Her funded source, to him — a matter small ;
" Taken for their sole use, and ever at their call —
" To be improved — he knew not how indeed,
" But he had methods — and they must succeed.
" This was so good, that Jane, in very pride,
" To spare him trouble, for a while denied ;
•' And Lucy's prudence, tliough it was alann'd,
'■ Was by the splendour of the Banker cliarni'd ;
" What was her paltry thousaml pounds to him,
" Who would expend five thousand on a whim ?
" And then the j)ortion of the wife was known ;
'• But not that she reserved it for her o^vn.
" Lucy her lover trusted with the fact,
" And frankly ask'd, if he approved the act.
" 'It promised well,' lie said ; ' he could not tell
" ' How it might end, but sure it promised well ;
'• ' He had himself a tritie in tie Bank.
" ' And should be sore uneasy if it sank.'
" Jane from her lover had no wish to hide
" Her deed, but was withheld by maiden pride ;
416
CRA DUE'S WORKS.
'I'o talk so early —as if one woro sure
or Ix'inn liis I she roulil ii<»t tliiit emiurc.
IJiit wlu'ii tlic sisters were apiirt, nml when
'I'liey freely spoke of their atliiirs iinil men,
They thouj^ht with pleasure of tlie sum improved,
And so presented to the men they loved.
" Things now proceeded in a quiet train ;
" No cause appear'd to murmur or complain :
'' The money'd man, his ever-smiling dame,
" And their young darlings, in their carriage came :
" .lane's sprightly lover smiled their pomp to sec,
'■ And ate their grapes with gratitude and glee,
'■ l?nt with the freedom there was nothing mean,
'■ Humble, or forward, in his freedom seen ;
" Mis was the frankness of a mind that shows
" It knows itself, nor fears for what it knows:
'' But JiUcy's ever humhle frienil was awed
'• !{}• the profusion he could not applaud ;
" He seem'd indeed reluctant to ])artake
'• Of the collation that he could not make ;
" And this was pleasant in the maiden's view —
'• AVas modesty — ^was moderation too ;
" Tliough Jane esteem'd it meanness ; and she saw
'' Fear in that prudence, avarice in that awe.
" But both the lovers now to town are gone,
" By business one is call'd, by dtlty one ;
'• While rumour rises — whether false or true
" The ladies knew not— it was known to few —
" But fear there was, and on their guardian friend
'■• They for advice and comfort would depend,
" When rose the day ; meantime from Belmont-
place
" Came vile report, predicting quick disgrace.*
" ' Twas told — the servants, who had met to
thank
" Their lord for placing money in his Bank —
" Their kind free master, who such wages gave,
" And then increased whatever they could save —
" They who had heard they should their savings
lose,
" Were weeping, swearing, drinking at the news ;
" Ajid still the more they drank, .the more they
wept,
" And swore, and rail'd, and threaten'd, till they
slept.
" The morning truth confirm'd the evening dread ;
'' The Bank was broken, and the Banker tied ;
'■ But left a promise that his friends should have,
'• To the last sliilling — -what his fortunes gave.
" The evil tidings reach'd the sister-pair,
'' And one like Sorrow^look'd, and one Despair:
" They from each other turu'd tli' alHictiug look,
" And loth and late the painful silence broke.
" ' The odious villain !' Jane in wrath began ;
" In pity Lucy, ' The unhappy man !
^ [Here follows in tlie original MS. : —
" Thus fill'il with fear, that eveninir they attend
" To his last home an ancient village-fiiend ;
" Ami they, rellectini; on the old man's days,
" Who liring had their love, and now their praise,
" ' When time and reason onr affliction heni,
" ' How will tlie uutin^r of our sufferingii feel ? '
" ' And let him feel, my sister, — let the wocB
" ' Tlnit he (^rentes be- bane to his repose I
" ' Let them be felt in his expiring hour,
" ' When death brings all his dread, and sin its
power :
" ' Then let the busy foe of mortal state
" ' The pangs he caused, his own to aggravate !
" ' Wretch ! when our life was glad, our prospects
" ' With savage hand to sweep them all away !
" ' And he must know it — know when he beguiled
" ' His easy victims — how the villain smiled !
" ' Oh ! my dear Lucy, could T see him crave
" ' The food denied, a beggar and a slave,
" ' To stony hearts he should with tears apply,
" ' And Pity's self withhold the struggling sigh ;
" ' Or if relenting weakness should extend
" ' Th' extorted scrap that justice would not lend,
" ' Let it be poison'd by tlie curses deep
" ' Of every wretch whom he compels to weep !'
" ' Nay, my sweet sister, if you thought such
pain
'• ' Were his, your pity would awake again :
" ' Your generous heart the wretch's grief would
feel,
" ' And you would soothe the pangs you could not
heal.'
" ' Oh ! never, never, — I would still contrive
' To keep the slave whom I abhorr'd alive ;
' His tortured mind with horrid fears to fill,
' Disturb his reason, and misguide his will ;
' Heap coals of tire, to lie like melted lead,
' Heavy and hot, on his accursed head ;
' Not coals that mercy kindles hearts to melt,
' But he should feel them hot as fires are felt ;
' Corroding ever, and through life the same,
' Strong self-contempt and ever-burning shame ;
' Let him so wretched live that he may fly
' To desperate thoughts, and be resolved to
die —
' And then let death such frightful visions give,
■ That he may dread the attempt, and beg to live I '
" So spake th' indignant maid, when Lucy
sigh'd,
" And, waiting softer times, no more replied.
" Barlow was then in town ; and there he
thought
" Of bliss to come, and bargains to be bought ;
" And was returning homeward — when he found
" The Bank was broken, and his venture drown'd.
" ' Ah ! foolish maid," he cried, • and what wilt
thou
" ' Say for thy friends and their excesses now ?
That good old man, w ith so much native sens",
' Such health and ease, such hope with competence ;
' Thev could but own, ifsuch should be their lot,
' Thev should be thankful I— It, alas! was not."]
TALES OF THE HALL.
417
" ' All now is brought completely to an end :
" ' What can the spendthrift now atFord to spend ?
'• ' Had my advice been — true, I gave consent ;
" ' The thing was purposed ; what could I pre-
vent ?
" ' Who Mill her idle taste for flowers supply ? —
" ' W^lio send her grapes and peaches ? let her
try :—
'• ' There's none will give her, and she cannot buy.
" ' Yet would she not be grateful if she knew
" ' What to my faith and generous love was due ?
" ' Daily to see the man who took her hand,
" ' When she had not a sixpence at command ;
" ' Could I be sure that such a quiet mind
" ' Would be for ever grateful, mild, and kind,
" ' I might comply — but how will Bloomer act
" ' When he becomes acquainted with the fact ?
" ' The loss to him is trifling — but the fall
" ' From independence, that to her is all :
" ' Now, should he marry, 't will be shame to me
" ' To hold myself from my engagement free ;
" ' And should he not, it will be double grace
" ' To stand alone in such a trying case.
" ' Come then, my Lucy, to thy faithful heart
" ' And humble love I will my views impart ;
" ' Will see the grateful tear that softly steals
" ' Down thy fair face, and all thy joy reveals ;
" ' And when I say it is a blow severe,
" ' Then will I add — Restrain, my love, the tear,
" ' And take this heart, so faithful and so fond,
" ' Still bound to thine— and fear not for that
bond.'
" He said ; and went with purpose, he believed,
'■ Of generous nature — so is man deceived.
'• Lucy determined that her lover's eye
'■ Should not distress nor supplication spy —
" That in her manner he should nothing find
" To indicate the weakness of her mind.
" He saw no eye that wept, no frame that shook,
" No fond appeal was made by word or look ;
" Kindness there was, but join'd with some re-
straint,
" And traces of the late event were faint.
" He look'd for grief deploring, but perceives
" No outward token that she longer grieves ;
" He had expected for his efforts praise,
" For he resolved the drooping mind to raise ;
" She would, he judged, be humble, and afraid
" That he might blame her rashness and upbraid ;
" And lo ! he finds her in a quiet state,
" Her spirit easy and her air sedate ;
" As if her loss was not a cause for pain,
" As if assured that he would make it gain.
" Silent a while, he told the morning news,
" And what he judged they might expect to lose ;
" He thought himself, wliatever some might boast,
" The composition would be small at most ;
" Some shabby matter, — she would see no more
" The tithe of what she held in hand before.
" How did her sister feel ? and did she think
" Bloomer was honest, and would never shrink ?
" ' But why that smile ? is loss like yours so light
" ' That it can aught like merriment excite ?
" ' Well, he is rich, we know, and can afford
" ' To please his fancy and to keep his word ;
'■ ' To him 't is nothing ; had he now a fear,
" ' He must the meanest of his sex appear;
'■ ' But the true honour, as I judge the case,
" ' Is both to feel the evil, and embrace.'
" Here Barlow stopp'd, a little vex'd to see
" No fear or hope, no dread or ecstasy :
" Calmly she spoke — ■' Your prospects, sir, and
. mine,
" ' Are not the same, — their union I decline ;
" ' Could I believe the hand for which you strove
" ' Had yet its value, — did you truly love, —
" ' I had with thanks address'd you, and replied,
" ' Wait till your feelings and my own subside ;
" ' Watch your affections, and, if still they live,
" ' What pride denies, my gratitude shall give ;
" ' E'en then, in yielding, 1 had first believed
" ' That I conferr'd the favour, not received.
" ' You I release — nay, hear me — I impart
" ' Joy to your soul, — I judge not of your heart.
" ' Think'st thou a being, to whom God has lent
" ' A feeling mind, will have her bosom rent
" ' By man's reproaches ? Sorrow will be thine,
" ' For all thy pity prompts thee to resign !
" ' Think'st thou that meekness' self would con-
descend
" ' To take the husband when she scorns the
friend ?
" ' Forgive the frankness, and rejoice for life,
" ' Thou art not burthen'd with so poor a wife.
" ' Go ! and be happy— tell, for the applause
" ' Of hearts like thine, we parted ; and the cause
" ' Give, as it pleases.' With a foolish look
" That a dull schoolboy fixes on his book
'• That he resigns, with mingled shame and joy,
'• So Barlow went, confounded like the boy.
" Jane, while she wept to think her sister's pain
" Was thus increased, felt infinite disdain ;
" Bound as she was, and wedded by the ties
" Of love and hojje, that care and craft despise,
" She could but wonder that a man, whose taste
'■ And zeal for money had a Jew disgraced,
'• Should love hor sister; yet with this surprise
'• She felt a little exultation rise ;
" Hers was a lover who had always held
'• This man as base, by generous scorn inipell'd ;
" And yet as one of whom, for Lucy's sake,
" He would a civil distant notice take.
" Lucy, with sadden'd heart and temper mild.
" Bow'd to correction, like an himibled child
" W^ho feels the parent's kindness, and who knows
" Such the correction he who loves bestows.
" Attending always, but attending more
" When sorrow ask'd his presence, than before,
" Tender and ardent, witli the kindest air,
" Came Bloomer, fortune's error to repair ;
'■ Words sweetly soothing spoke the happy youth,
" With all the tender earnestness of truth.
n II
418
CRABBE'S WORKS.
" Thorc wns no dotiltt of Iiis intent ion now —
He will liis ])uri)os(' witli liis love avow:
So jiiilf,'('il till- maid ; yot, wuitin|^, slic udniircd
His si ill (Irliijiiif; wliiit lie most (IcHin'd ;
'rill, IVoni her spirit's ii;;itation free,
Slu" mi^lit dctcrniini' wlicn the dny nliotdd he.
With such facility the partial mind
('an the l)ost motives for its favourites find.
Of this he sjiake not, Imt lie stay'd heyond
His usual hour —attentive still and fond ; —
The lianil yet firmer to the hand he press'd,
And the eye rested where it loved to rest;
'I'heii took he certain freedoms, yet so small
Tluit it was prudisli so tlie things to call ;
Thinj^s they were not — ' Describe ' — that none
can do.
They liad been nothing had tliey not liccn new ;
It was the manner and the look ; a maid,
Afraid of such, is foolishly afraid ;
For wliat could slie e.\i)laiu ? The piercing eye
Of jealous fear could nought amiss descry.
" But some concern now rose ; the youth would
seek
" Jane by herself, and then would nothing speak,
" Before not spoken ; there was still delay,
" Ve.\atious, wearying, wasting, day by day.
" ' He does not surely trifle !' Heaven forbid !
" She now should doubly scorn him if he did.
" Ah ! more than this, unlucky girl ! is thine ;
" Thou must the fondest views of life resign ;
" And in the very time I'esign them too,
" When they were brightening on the eager view.
" I will be brief, — nor have I heart to dwell
" On crimes they almost share who paint them
well.
" There was a moment's softness, and it scem'd
" Discretion slept, or so tlie lover dream'd ;
'■ And watching long the now confiding maid,
" lie though lier guardless, and grew less afraid;
'■ Led to the theme that he liad shunn'd before,
'' He used a language he must use no more —
" For if it answers, tliere is no more need,
" And no more trial should it not succeed.
" Then made lie that attempt, in wliich to fail
" Is shameful, — still more shameful to prevail.
" Then was there lightning in that eye that shed
" Its beams upon him, — and his frenzy fled ;
" Abject and trembling at her feet lie laid,
" Despised and scorn'd by the indignant maid,
'• "Whose spirits in their agitation rose,
" Him, and her own weak pity, to oppose :
" As liquid silver in the tube mounts high,
" Then shakes and settles as the storm goes by.
'' Wliilc yet the lover stay'd, the maid was
strong,
" But when he fled, she droop'd and felt the
wrong —
" Felt the alarming chill, th' enfeebled breath.
Closed the quick eye, and sank in transient
death.
" So Lucy found Iier; and then first that brcaBt
" Knew anger's power, and own'd the stranger
guest.
" ' And is this love? rngonerous ! Has lie too
' ' Been mean and abject? Is no being true ?'
' For IiUcy judged that, like her j)nident swain,
' Bloomer had talk'd of what a man might gain ;
' She did not think a man on earth was found,
' A wounded bosom, wliile it l>lceds, to wound ;
' Thought not that mortal could be so unjust
' As to deprive affliction of its trust ;
' Thought not a lover could the hope enjoy,
' That must the peace, he should promote, de-
stroy ;
' Thought not, in fact, that in the world were
those
' Who to their tendcrest friends are worse tlian
foes,
' Who win the heart, deprive it of its care,
' Then plant remorse and desolation there.
" Ah ! cruel he who can that heart deprive
' Of all tliat keeps its energy alive ;
' Can see consign'd to shame the trusting fair,
' And turn confiding fondness to despair ;
• To watch that time — a name is not assign 'd
' For crime so odious, nor shall learning find.
" Now, from that day, has Lucy laid aside
' Her proper cares, to be her sister's guide,
' Guard, and protector. At their uncle's farm
' They pass'd the period of their first alai-m.
But soon retired, nor was he grieved to learn
They made their own affairs their own concern.
" I knew not then their worth ; and, had I
known.
Could not the kindness of a friend have shown ;
For men they dreaded : — they a dwelling sought.
And there tlie children of the village taught ;
There, firm and patient, Lucy still depends
Upon her eftbrts, not upon her friends ;
She is with persevering strength endued,
And can be cheerful — for she will be good.
" Jane too will strive the daily tasks to share.
That so employment may contend with care:
Not power, but will, she shows, and looks about
On her small people, who come in and out ;
And seems of what they need, or she can do, in
doubt.
" There sits the chubby crew on seats around.
While she. all rueful at the sight and sound.
Shrinks from the free approaches of the tribe.
Whom she attempts lamenting to describe.
With stains the idlers gather'd in their way.
The simple stains of mud, and mould, and clay.
And compound of the streets, of what we dare
not say ;
With liajr uncomb'd, grimed face, and piteous
look,
Each heavy student takes the odious book,
And on the lady casts a glance of fear,
Who draws the garment close as he comes near ;
She then for Lucy's mild forbearance tries.
And from her pupils turns her brilliant eyes.
TALES OF THE HALL.
419
" Making new efforts, and with some success,
" To pay attention while the students guess ;
" Who to the gentler mistress fain would glide
" And dread their station at the lady's side.
" Such is their fate : — there is a friendly few
" Whom they receive, and there is chance for you ;
" Their school, and something gather'd from the
wreck
" Of that bad Bank, keeps poverty in check ;
" And true respect and high regard are theirs,
" The children's profit, and the parents' prayers.
" With Lucy rests the one peculiar care,
" That few must see, and none with her may share ;
" More dear than hope can be, more sweet than
pleasures are.
" For her sad sister needs the care of love
" That will direct her, that will not reprove,
" But waits to warn ; for Jane will walk alone,
" Will sing in low and melancholy tone ;
" Will read or write, or to her plants will run
" To shun her friends, — alas ! her thoughts to
shun.
" It is not love alone distirrbs her rest,
" But loss of all that ever hope possess'd ;
" Friends ever kind, life's lively pleasures, ease,
" When her enjoyments could no longer please —
" These were her comforts then ! she has no more
of these.
" Wrapt in such thoughts, she feels her mind
astray,
" But knows 't is true that she has lost her way ;
" For Lucy's smile will check the sudden flight,
" And one kind look let in the wonted light.
" Fits of long silence she endures, then talks
" Too much — with too much ardour, as she walks ;
" But still the shrubs that she admires dispense
" Their balmy freshness to the hurried sense,
" And she will watch their progress, and attend
" Her flowering favourites as a guardian friend ;
" To sun or shade she will her sweets remove,
" ' And here,' she says, ' I may with safety love.'
" But there are hours when on that bosom steals
" A rising terror, — then indeed she feels ; —
" Feels how she loved the promised good, and how
" She feels the failure of the promise now.
" ' That other spoiler did as robbers do,
" ' Made poor our state, but not disgraceful too.
" ' This spoiler shames me, and I look within
" ' To find some cause that drew him on to sin ;
" ' He and the wretch who could thy worth for-
sake
" ' Are the fork'd adder and the loathsome snake ;
'' ' Thy snake could slip in villain-fear away,
" ' But had no fang to fasten on his prey.
" ' Oh ! my dear Lucy, I had thought to live
'' ' With all the comforts easy fortunes give y
" ' A wife caressing and caress'd — a friend,
" ' Whom we would guide, advice, consult, de-
fend,
' And make his equal ; — then I fondly thought
' Among superior creatures to be brought ;
' And while with them, delighted to behold
' No eye averted, and no bosom cold ; —
' Then at my home, a mother, to embrace
' My Oh ! my sister, it was surely base !
' I might forget the wrong; I cannot the dis-
grace.
" ' Oh ! when I saw that triumph in his eyes,
' I felt my spirits with his own arise ;
' I call'd it joy, and said. The generous youth
' Laughs at my loss — no trial for his truth ;
' It is a trifle he can not lament,
' A sum but equal to his annual rent ;
' And yet that loss, the cause of every ill,
' Has made me poor, and him'
" ' Oh ! poorer still ;
' Poorer, my Jane, and far below thee now :
' The injurer he, — the injured sufferer thou ;
' And shall such loss aflflict thee ?' —
" 'Lose I not
' With him what fortune could in life allot ?
' Lose I not hope, life's cordial, and the views
' Of an aspiring spirit ? — O ! I lose
' Whate'er the happy feel, whate'er the sanguine
choose.
' Would I could lose this bitter sense of wrong,
' And sleep in peace ! — but it will not be long !
* And here is something, Lucy, in my brain,
' I know not what — it is a cure for pain,
' But is not death !— no beckoning hand I see,
' No voice I hear, that comes alone to me ;
' It is not death, but change ; I am not now
' As I was once, — nor can I tell you how ;
' Nor is it madness ; ask, and you shall find
' ' In my replies the soundness of my mind :
' ' O ! I should be a trouble all day long —
' ' A very torment — if my head were wrong !'
" At times there is upon her features seen,
' What moves suspicion— she is too serene.
' Such is the motion of a drunken man,
' Who steps sedately, just to show he can.
' Absent at times, she will her mother call,
' And cry at mid-day, ' Then good night to all.'
" But most she thinks there will some good ensue
' From something done, or what she is to do ;
Long wrapt in silence, she will then assume
An air of business, and sliake off her gloom ;
Then cry exulting, ' O I it must succeed,
' There are ten thousand readers— all men read :
' There are my writings,— you shall never spend
' Your precious moments to so poor an end ;
' Our peasants' children may be taught by those
' Who have no powers such \von my mind, «iii «(iiks lliiit caniiot die —
" ' Mdrmiiin imil /,'/;•(/ yoiKlcr in tho cnsu ;
■■ ' Anil SI) I put me in the poet's i)inrc.
" ' Still, lio not rri;,'IitcnM ; it is hut a drcnm ;
" ' I am not lost, iicwildorM, tliouf^h I seem ;
" ' I will obey thee — but siijuiross tliy fear —
" ' I am lit oaso, —then why that silly tear? ' ^
'• Jane, as those melancholy fits invade
" 'I'ho busy laucy, socks tlie deepest sliade ;
'■ She walks in ceaseless hurry, till her mind
'• Will short repose in verse and music find ;
'' Then her own songs to some soft tunes she sings,
" And laughs, and calls them melancholy things;
" Nd.t frenzy all; in some her erring Muse
" Will sad, alUicting, tender strains infuse:
" Sometimes on death she will her lines compose,
'■ Or give her serious page of solemn prose ;
" And still those favourite plants her fancy please,
" And give to care and anguish rest and case.
' Let me not have this gloomy view
" ' About my room, around my bed ;
' But morning roses, wet with dew,
" ' To cool my burning brows instead.
' As flow'rs that once in Eden grew,
" ' Let them their fragrant spirits shed,
' And every day the sweets renew,
" ' Till I, a fading flower, am dead.
' Oil ! let the herbs I loved to rear
" ' Give to my sense their perfumed breath ;
' Let them be placed about my bier,
" ' And grace the gloomy house of death.
' I '11 have my grave beneath a hill,
'' 'Where, only Lucy's self shall know;
' Wlicre runs the pure pellucid rill
" ' Upon its gravelly beil below ;
' There violets on the borders blow,
" ' And insects their soft light display,
' 'Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,
" ' The cold phosphoric fires decay.
' That is the grave to Lucy sho\^-n,
" ' The soil a pure and silver sand,
' The green cold moss above it grown,
" ' Unpluck'tl of all but maiden hand :
' In virgin earth, till tlien unturn'd,
" ' There let my maiden form be laid,
' Nor let my changelny,
" ' And Lucy tf) my grave resort,
" ' As innocent, but not so gay.
" ' I will not liave tlie churchyard ground,
" ' With bones all black and ugly grown,
" To press my sliivering body round,
" ' Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.
'' With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
" ' In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
" ' Through which the ringed earth-worms creep,
" ' And on the shrouded bosom prey ;
" ' I will not have the bell proclaim
" ' When those sad marriage rites begin,
" ' And boys, without regard or shame,
" ' Press the vile mouldering masses in.
" ' Say not, it is beneath my care ;
" ' I cannot these cold truths allow ;
" ' These thoughts may not afflict me there,
" ' But, O 1 they ve.x and tease me now.
" ' Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,
" ' That man a maiden's grave may trace,
" ' But thou, my Lucy, come alone,
" ' And let affection find the place.
" ' Oh ! take me from a world I hate,
" ' ^len cruel, selfish, sensual, cold ;
" ' And, in some pure and blessed state,
" ' Let me my sister minds behold :
" ' From gross and sordiil views refined,
" ' Our heaven of spotless love to share,
" ' For only generous souls design'd,
" ' And not a man to meet us there.' " ^
BOOK IX.
THE PRECEPTOR HUSBAND.
The Morning Ride — Conversation — Character of one whom
they meet — His early Halnts and Molt a cold fit, nnd was half ashamed ;
" But wo too far procoi-dod to revoke,
" Anil hail Itecn iiiiich to(» Hcrioiis for a joke :
" I shook away the fear that man annoys,
" And thought a little of the j^irls and boys.
" A week remnin'd, — for seven succeeding days
" Nor man nor woman miglit control my ways;
" For seven dear nights I might to rest retire
" At my own time, and none the cause retjuire ;
" For seven bless'd days 1 might go in ami out,
" And none demand, ' Sir, what are you about ?'
" For one wliole week 1 might at will discourse
" On any subject, with a freeman's force.
" Thus wliile I thought, 1 utter'd, as men sing,
" In under-voicc, reciting ' With this ring,'
'• That when the hour should come, I might not
dread
" These, or tlie words that follow'd, ' I thee wed.'
" Such was my state of mind, exulting now
" And then depress'd — I cannot tell you how —
" AVlien a poor lady, whom her friends could send
'' On any message, a convenient friend,
" Who had all feelings of her own o'ercome,
" And could pronounce to any man his doom ;
" Whose heart indeed was marble, but whose face
'• Assumed the look adapted to the case ;
" Enter'd my room, commission'd to assuage
" What was foreseen, my sorrow and my rage.
" It seem'd the lady whom I could prefer,
" And could my much-loved freedom lose for her,
" Had bold attempts, but not successful, made,
" The heart of some rich cousin to invade ;
" AVho, half resisting, half complying, kept
" A cautious distance, and the business slept.
" This prudent swain his own importance knew,
" And swore to part the now affianced two :
" Fill'd with insidious purpose, forth he went,
" Profess'd liis love, and woo'd her to consent :
" ' Ah I were it true I' she sigh'd ; he boldly
swore
" His love sincere, and mine was sought no more.
" All this the witch at dreadful length reveal'd,
" And begg'd me calmly to my fate to yield :
" !Much pains she took engagements old to state,
'■ And hoped to hear me curse my cruel fate,
" Thrcat'ning my luckless life ; and thought it
strange
" In me to bear the unexpected change :
" In my calm feelings she beheld disguise,
" And told of some strange wildness in my eyes.
" But there was nothing in the eye amiss,
" And the heart calmly bore a stroke like tliis :
•' Not so my mother ; though of gentle kind,
" She could no mercy for the creature find.
^ [" The ' Old Bachelor,' who had l>een five times on the
brink of matrimony, is mixed up of sorrow and mirth. Tlie
description of the first coming on of old age is admirable —
tlioiigii we feel assured, somehow, that this malicious oliserv.-r
" ' Vile plot!' Hhe said.—' But, madam, if tlu-y
plot,
" ' And you would have revenge, disturb tliom not.'
" ' What can wo do, my son ?' — ' Consult our onse,
" ' And do just nothing, madam, if you please.'
" ' What will be saiil ?' — ' We need not that
discuss ;
" ' Our friends and neighbours will do that for us.'
" ' Do you so lightly, son, your loss sustain ?' —
" ' Nay, my dear madam, but I count it gain.'
" ' The world will blame us, sure, if we be still.' —
" ' And, if we stir, you may be sure it will.'
" ' Not to such loss your father had agreed.' —
" ' No, for my father's had been loss indeed.'
" With gracious smile my mother gave assent,
" And let th' affair slip by with much content.
" Some old dispute the lover meant should rise,
" Some point of strife they could not compromise,
" Displeased the squire — he from the field with-
drew,
" Not quite conceal'd, not fully placed in view ;
" But half advancing, half retreating, kept
'' At his old distance, and the business slept.
" Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six,
" When Time began to play his usual tricks :
" The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,
" Locks of pure brown, display'd th' encroaching
white ;
" The blood once fervid now to cool began,
" And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man :
" I rode or walk"d as I was wont before,
" But now the bounding spirit was no more ;
" A moderate pace would now my body heat,
" A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
" I show'd my stranger-guest those hills sublime,
" But said, ' The view is poor, we need not climb.'
" At a friend's mansion I began to dread
" The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed ;
" At home I felt a more decided taste,
•' .\nd must have all things in mj- order placed ;
" I ceased to hunt, my horses pleased me less,
'' My dinner more ; I leam'd to play at chess ;
" I took my dog and gun, but saw the Virute
" Was disappointed that 1 did not shoot ;
•' My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
" And bless'd the shower that gave me not to
choose :
" In fact, I felt a languor stealing on ;
'■ Tlie active arm. the agile hand were gone ;
" Small daily actions into habits grew,
■■ And new dislike to forms and fashion new ;
■' I loved my trees in order to dispose,
" I number'd peaches, look'd how stocks arose,
" Told the same story oft — in short, began to
prose. ^
has mistaken the date of these uply symptoms, and brought
them into view nine or ten, or, at all events, six or seven
years too early." — Edinburgh Rerietr.']
TALES OF THE HALL.
429
" My books were changed ; I now preferred the
truth
" To the light reading of unsettled youth ;
'' Novels grew tedious, but, by choice or chance,
" I still had interest in the wild romance :
" There is an age, we know, when tales of love
" Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve ;
" Then as we read we feel, and are indeed,
" We judge, th' heroic men of whom we read ;
'' But in our after life these fancies fail,
" We cannot be the heroes of the tale ;
" The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles
play,
'• We cannot, — cannot be so smart and gay.
" But all the mighty deeds and matchless
powers
" Of errant knights we never fancied ours,
" And thus the prowess of each gifted knight
" IMust at all times create the same delight ;
" Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem,
" But Lancelot never, — that he could not dream ;
" Nothing reminds us, in the magic page
"' Of old romance, of our declining age :
" If once our fancy mightj^ dragons slew,
'• This is no more than fancy now can do ;
" But when the heroes of a novel come,
" Conquer'd and conquering, to a drawing-room,
" We no more feel the vanity that sees
" Within ourselves what we admire in these ;
" And so we leave the modern talc, to fly
" From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy.
" Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose
" That queens would call me to subdue their foes ;
" But, bj' a voluntary weakness sway'd,
" When fancy call'd, I willingly obey'd.
" Such I became, and I believed my heart
" Might j'et be pierced by some peculiar dart
" Of right heroic kind, and I could prove
" Fond of some peerless nymph who deign'd to
love,
" Some high-soul'd virgin, who had spent her time
" In studies grave, heroic, and sublime ;
" Who would not like me less that I had spent
" Years eight-and-forty, just the age of Kent,"*
'■ But not with Kent's discretion, for I grew
" Fond of a creature whom my fancy drew —
" A kind of beings who are never found
•• On middle-earth, but grow on fairy-ground.
'• These found I not ; but I had luck to find
'• A mortal woman of this fairy kind ;
" A thin, tall, upright, serious, slender maid,
'• Who in my own romantic regions stray'd ;
" From the world's glare to this sweet vale re-
tired,
" To dwell unseen, unsullied, unadmired ;
" In all her virgin excellence, above
'' The gaze of crowds and hopes of vulgar love.
" We spoke of noble deeds in happier times,
" Of glorious virtues, of debasing crimes :
[" Iiear. How old art tliou ?
Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for sinking ;
" Warm was the season, and the subject too.
" And therefore warm in our discourse we grew.
" Love made such haste, that, ere a month was flown
" Since first we met, he had us for his o'^^•n ;
" Kiches are trifles in a hero's sight,
" And lead to questions low and unpolite ;
" I nothing said of money or of land,
" But bent my knee, and fondly ask'd her hand ;
" And the dear lady, with a grace divine,
" Gave it, and frankly answer'd, ' It is thine.'
" Our reading was not to romance confined,
" But still it gave its colour to the mind —
" Gave to our studies something of its force,
" And made profound and tender our discourse ;
" Our subjects all, and our religion, took
" The grave and solemn spirit of our book :
" And who had seen us walk, or heard us read,
" Would saj', ' These lovers are sublime indeed.'
" I knew not why, but, when the day was named,
" My ardent wishes felt a little tamed ;
" My mother's sickness then awaked my grief,
" And yet, to own the truth, was some reUef ;
" It left uncertain that decisive time
" That made my feelings nervous and sublime.
" Still all was kindness, and at morn and eve
" I made a visit, talk'd, and took my leave :
" Kind were the ladj''s looks, her eyes were bright,
" And swam, I thought, in exquisite delight ;
" A lovely red suffused the virgin cheek,
" And spoke more plainly than the tongue could
speak ;
" Plainly all seem'd to promise love and joy,
" Nor fear'd we aught that might our bliss destroy.
" Engaged by business, I one morn delay'd
" My usual call on the accomplish'd maid ;
'' But soon, that small impediment removed,
" I paid the visit that decisive proved ;
" For the fair laily had, with grieving heart,
" So I believed, retired to sigh apart :
" I saw her friend, and begg'd her to entreat
" My gentle nymph her sighing swain to meet.
" The gossip gone — what demon, in his spite
" To love and man, could my frail mind excite,
" And lead me curious on, against all sense of
right ?
" There met my eye, unclosed, a closet's door —
'• Shame ! how could 1 the secrets there ex])lorc ?
" Pride, honour, friendship, love, condemn'd the
deed,
" And yet, in spite of all, I could proceed !
" I went, I saw — shall I describe the hoard
" Of precious worth in scal'd deposits stored
" Of sparkling hues ? F.nough - enough is told ;
" 'Tis not for man such mysteries to unfold.
" Thus far 1 dare : — Whene'er those orbits swam
" In that blue liijuid that restrain'd their flame.
nor so old. to dote on licr for anytliing : I liave years on
my back forty-eight." — Lkar.]
430
CRAHBE'S WORKS.
' \s showers tlu' Hiiiihcaiiis - \\li<'ii the ciirnsoii
gldVV
' Of till' rod ro8(> o'orapronil those cliceks of snow,
' I Hinv, hut not (lie muse — 't wiis not the red
'Of triiiisiciit hhish thiit o'er her fiiee wns
s|ireiMl ;
' "r A\iis not tlie ligliler res3 speuk ! lot tlmt prevail,
And 111' my IVuilty juilgo ns licings f'riiil.
My fatlicr, "lying, to my motlior left
An infiint cliiirgo, of all things else hcroft ;
Poor, l)ut oxiuTirncuil in tlio world, she knew
AVliiit others dill, iin llaini'
Of lilV iiDW fliLsliM, nnd fiiiiiti-r tlioii hcciunc ;
I inaiU- il pIriiHiiiif, aixl wiis iilcnHcd to si'C
A iiiirciit liKikin;,' iis a cliilil to me.
Aii'l iiiiw our liumhlc yhirc ^^^•c\\■ wonilrous gny ;
Cainc gallant i)crsonH in tlicir roil nrrny :
All straiigors welcome tlicro, extremely welcome
they.
'NVhen in the church I anw inquiring eyes
FixM on my face with jtleasure nnd surprise ;
And soon n knock iuf^ at my door was heard ;
And soon the lover of my youth nppear'd —
Frederick, in all his glory, glad to meet.
And say, " his happiness was now complete."
He tolil his flight from superstitious zeal ;
But first what torments he was doom'd to feel :
" The tender tears ho saw from women fall —
" The strong persuasions of the bretlircn nil —
'• The throats of crazed enthusiasts, l)ound to keep
'' The struggling niimi.nnd awe the straying sheep —
'* From these, their love, their curses, and their
creed,
" Was I by reason nnd exertion freed."
Then, like a man who often had been toM
And was convinced success attends the bold,
His former purpose he renew'd, and swore
He never loved me half so well before:
Before he felt a something to divide
The heart, that now liad not a love beside.
In earlier times had I myself amused,
And first my swain pcrplex'd, and then refused ; —
Cure for conceit ; — but now in purpose grave,
Strong and decisive the replj' I gave.
Still he wouKl come, and talk, as idlers do,
Both of his old associates and his new ;
Those who their dreams and reveries receive
For facts, and those wlio would not facts believe.
He now conceived the Truth was hidden, placed
He knew not wliere. she never could be traced ;
" But in that every place, the world around,
" JHght some resemblance of tlie nymph be found :
" Yet wise men knew these shadows to be vain,
'• Such as our true pliilosoi)hers disdain,—
" They laugh to sec what vulgar minds i)ursue —
" Truth, as a mistress, never in their view —
" But there the shadow flies, and that, they cry,
is true."
Thus, at tlie college and the meeting train'd,
My lover seem'd his acme to have gain'd ;
"\N ith some compassion I cssayM a cure :
" H' truth be hidden, wliy art thou so sure ?"
This he mistook for tenderness, and cried,
" H'surc of thee, I care not what beside !"
Compell'd to silence, I, in pure disdain,
AVithdrew from one so insolent and vain :
He then retired ; and I was kindly told,
" In pure compassion grew estranged and cold."
My mother died ; but, in my grief drew near
A bosom friend, who dried the useless tear :
M e livctl together : we combined our shares
Of the world's good, and learn'd to brave its cares :
We were " the T.ndieH of the Place," nnd found
Protection nnd reHpcct the country round ;
We gave, nnci largely, for wi? wisliM to live
In good rei>ute - for tliis 't is good to give;
Our nnuual present to the priirsf conveyM
Wns kinclly taken : — we in comfort prny'd ;
There none molested in the crimson pew
'J'h(! wortliy ladies whom the vicnr knew;
And we began to think that life might be,
Not happy all, but innocently free.
."My friend in enrly life was bound to one
Of gentle kimlred, but a j'oungor son.
He fortune's smile with perseverance woo'd,
And wealth beneath the burning sun pursued :
There, urged by love and youthful hope, he went,
Loth ; but 't was all his fortune could present.
From hence he wrote ; and, with a lover's fears,
And glr)omy fondness, talk'd of future years;
To her devoted, his Priscilla found
His faithful heart still suffering with its wound.
That would not heal. A second time she heard,
And then no more ; nor lover since appear'd :
Year after j-ear the country's fleet arrived,
Confirm'd her fear, and yet her love survived ;
It still was living ; yet her liopc was dead,
And youthful dreams, nay, youth itself, was fled ;
And he was lost : so urged her friends, so she
At length believed, and thus retired with me.
She would a dedicated vestal prove.
And give her virgin vows to heaven and love ;
She dwelt with fond regret on pleasures past,
With ardent hope on those that ever last ;
Pious and tender, every day she view'd
With solemn joy our perfect solitude ;
Her reading, that which most delighted her.
That soothed the passions, yet would gently stir ;
The tender, softening, melancholy strain,
That caused not pleasure, but that vanquish'd
pain,
In tears she read, and wept, and long'd to read
again.
But other worlds were her supreme delight,
And there it seem'd she long'd to take her flight :
Y'et patient, pensive, arm'd by thoughts sublime.
She watch'd the tardy steps of lingering time.
My friend, with face that most would handsome
call,
Posscss'd the charm that wins the heart of all ;
.\nd. thrice entreated by a lover's prayer,
She thrice refused him with determined air.
" >"o ! had the world one monarch, and was he
'■ All that the heart could wish its lord to be, —
" Lovely and loving, generous, brave, and true, —
'• Vain were his hopes to waken hers anew I"
For she was wedded to ideal views.
And fancy's prospects, that she would not lose,
Would not forego, to be a mortal's wife,
And wed the poor realities of life.
There was a day. ere yet the autumn closed,
AA'hcn, ere her wintry wars, the earth reposed ;
When from the yellow weed the feathery crown,
Light as the curling smoke, fell slowly down ;
When the wing'd insect settled in our sight.
And waited wind to recommence her flight ;
TALES OF THE HALL.
439
When the wide river was a silver sheet,
And on the ocean slept th' unanchor'd fleet ;
"When from our garden, as we look'd above.
There was no cloud, and nothing seem'd to move :
Then was my friend in ecstasies — she cried,
" There is, I feel there is, a world beside !
'• INIartha, dear Martha ! we shall hear not then
" Of hearts distress'd by good or evil men,
'■ But all will constant, tender, faithful be —
" So had I been, and so had one with me ;
" But in this world the fondest and the best
" Are the most tried, most troubled, and dis-
tress'd :
" This is the place for trial ; here we prove,
" And there enjoy, the faithfulness of love.
" Nay, were he here in all the pride of youth,
" With honour, valour, tenderness, and truth,
" Entirely mine, yet what could I secure,
" Or who one day of comfort could_ensure ?
" No ! all is closed on earth, and there is now
" Nothing to break th' indissoluble vow ;
'■ But in that world will be th' abiding bliss,
'• That pays for every tear and sigh in this."
Such her discourse, and more refined it grew,
Till she had all her glorious dream in view ;
And she would further in that dream proceed
Than I dare go, who doubtfully agreed ;
Smiling I ask'd, again to draw the soul
From flight so high, and fancy to control,
" If this be truth, the lover's happier way
" Is distant still to keep the purposed day ;
'' The real bliss would mar the fancied joy,
" And rnarriage all the dream of love destroy."
She softly smiled, and, as we gravely talk'd,
We saw a man who up the gravel walk'd.
Not quite erect, nor quite by age depress'd,
A travell'd man, and as a merchant dress'd :
Large chain of gold upon his watch he wore,
Small golden buckles on his feet he bore ;
A head of gold his costly cane display'd.
And all about him love of gold betray'd.
This comely man moved onward, and a pair
Of comely maidens met with serious air :
Till one exclaim'd, and wildly look'd around,
" O Heav'n, 't is Paul !" and dropp'd upon the
ground ;
But she recover'd soon, and you must guess
What then ensued, and how much happiness.
They parted lovers, both distress'd to part !
They met as neighbours, heal'd, and whole of
heart :
She in his absence look'd to heaven for bliss,
He was contented with a world like this ;
And she prepared in some new state to meet
The man now seeking for some snug retreat.
He kindly told her he was firm and true,
Nor doubted her, and bade her then adieu !
" What shall I do ?" the sighing maid began :
" How lost the lover ! O, how gross the man ! "
For the plain dealer had his wish declared.
Nor she, devoted victim ! could be spared :
He spoke as one decided — she as one
Who fear'd the love, and would the lover shun.
'' O Martha, sister of my soul I how dies
" Each lovely view ! for can I truth disguise,
" That this is he ? No ! nothing shall persuade ;
" This is a man the naughty world has made,
" An eating, drinking, buying, bargaining man —
" And can I love him ? No ! I never can.
" What once he was, what fancy gave beside,
" Full well I know, my love was then my pi'ide ;
" What time has done, what trade and travel
wrought,
" You see ! and yet your sorrowing friend is
sought ;
" But can I take him ?" — " Take him not," I cried,
" If so averse — but why so soon decide ?"
Meantime a daily guest the man appear'd,
Set all his sail, and for his purpose steer'd :
Loud and familiar, loving, fierce, and free.
He overpower'd her soft timidity ;
Who, weak and vain, and grateful to behold
The man was hers, and hers would be the gold ;
Thus sundry motives, more than I can name.
Leagued on his part, and she a wife became.
A home was ofFer'd, but I knew too well
What comfort was with married friends to dwell ;
I was resign'd, and, had I felt distress,
Again a lover offer'd some redress ;
Behold, a hero of the buskin liears
My loss, and with consoling love appears :
Fredei'ick was now a hero on the stage,
In all its glories, rhapsody, and rage ;
Again himself he olfer'd — offer'd all
That his a hero of the kind can call :
He for my sake would hope of fame resign,
And leave th' applause of all the world for mine.
Hard fate was Frederick's never to succeed.
Yet ever try — but so it was decreed :
His mind was weaken'd ; he would laugh and
weep.
And swore profusely I had " murder'd sleep,"
Had quite unmann'd him, cleft his heart in twain.
And he should never " be himself again."
He was himself; weak, nervous, kind, and poor,
111 dress'd and idle, he besieged my door,
Borrow'd, — or, worse, made verses on my charms.
And did his best to fill me witli alarms ;
I had some pity, and I sought the price
Of my repose — my hero was not nice ;
There was a loan, and promise I sliould be
From all the efforts of his fondness free.
From hunger's future claims, or those of vanity.
" Yet," said he, bowing, " do to study take !
" Oh ! what a Desdemona wouldst thou make I" *
Thus was my lover lost ; yet even now
He claims one thought, and this we will allow.
His father lived to an extreme old age,
But never kind ! — his son had left the stage,
[Original MS. : —
And then lie spouted— till I cried. Is lie
The man 1 loved ? Oil ! that could never be.
Mo! time upon the outward beauty preys,
And the mind's beauty in its vice decays J
440
CRA HUE'S WORKS.
And giiiiiM some ollici', Iml nii liiiiiil)lc |ilncc,
And tliiit lie lost ! Wimt slmii>cii'(l liis Or take, kind soul ! whatever coulj)lied ;
AVho kindly woo'd for him, but strongly were dc-
nie.l.
And now it was those fiercer passions rose,
I'rged hy his love, to murder his repose ;
Shame shook his sold to be deceived so long.
And fierce Kevenge for such contemptuous wrong;
Jealous he grew, and Jealousy supplied
His mind \\ith rage, unsoothed, unsatisfied :
And grievous were the pangs of deeply wounded
Pride.
His generous soid had not the grief sustain'd,
Had he not thought,"Kevenge may be obtain'd." '
Camilla griev'd, but grief was now too late ;
She hush'd her fears, and left tli' event to fate.
Four years elapsed, nor knew Sir Owen yet
How to repay the meditated debt ;
The lovely foe was in her thirtieth year,
Nor saw the favourite of the heart appear ;
'Tis sure less sjirightly the fair nymph became,
And spoke of former levities with shame :
But this, alas ! was not in time confess'd,
And vengeance waited in Sir Owen's breast.
But now the time arrives — the maid must feel
And grieve for wounds that she refused to Ileal.
Sir Owen, childless, in his love liad rear'd
A sister's son, and now the youth appear'd.
In all the pride of manhood, and, beside,
'With all a soldier's spirit and his jiride :
Valiant and poor, with all that arms bestow,
.Vnd wants tliat captains in their quarters know ;
Yet to his uncle's generous heart was due
The praise, that wants of any kind were few.
"When he appear'd. Sir Owen felt a joy
Fnknown before, his vengeance bless'd the boy —
'' To him I dare confide a cause so just ;
" Love him she may — Oh ! could 1 say she must I"
Thus fix'd, he more than usual kindness sliow'd,
Nor let the Cajitnin name the debt he owed ;
But when he spoke of gratitude, exclaim'd,
" My dearest Jlorden I make me not ashamed :
" Kacli for a friend should do the best he can,
'• The most obliged is the obliging man :
•' But if you wish to give as well as take,
" You may a debtor of your uncle make."
[Original MS. :—
Scarcely liis generous lieait the ills sustain'd.
Anil vows of vengeance for his ease remain'il,
The shapeless purpose of a soul that feels.
And half suppresses r.aire, and half reveals.]
Morden was earncHf in hiH wish to know
How he could best his grateful spiiit kIiow.
Now the third dinner had their powers rcncw'd,
And fruit and wine upon the table stood ;
The firc! brought comfort, and the warmth it lent
A cheerful spirit to the feelings sent,
When thus the I'nclc — " Morden, I depend
" On you for aiil assist me as a frienil :
" Full well 1 know that you uoulcl much forego,
" And much endure to wreak me on my foe.
" Charles, I am wrong'd, insulted — nay, be still,
" Nor look so fiercely, — there arc none to kill.
" I loved a lady, somewhat late in life —
" Perhaps too late — and would have mailc a wife :
" Nay, she consented ; for consent I call
" The mark'd distinction that was seen of all,
'■ And long was seen ; but w hen she knew my pain,
•' Saw my first wish her favour to obtain,
" And ask her hand — no sooner was it ask'd,
" Than she, the lovely Jezebel, unmask'd ;
'■' And by her haughty airs, and scornful pride,
" My peace was wounded — nay, my reason tried ;
" I felt despised and fallen when we met,
" And she, O folly I looks too lovely yet ;
" Y'et love no longer in my bosom glows,
'• But my heart warms at the revenge it owes.
" Oh ! that I saw her with her soul on fire,
" Desperate from love, and sickening with desire ;
" "While all beheld her just, unpitied pain,
" Grown in neglect, and sliarpen'd by disdain !
" Let her be jealous of each maid she sees,
" Striving by every fruitless art to please,
" And when she fondly looks, let looks and fondness
tease !
" So, lost on passion's never-resting sea,
" Hopeless and helpless, let her think of me !
" Charles, thou art handsome, nor canst want the
art
" To warm a cold or win a wanton heart :
" Be my avenger "
Charles, with smile, not vain,
Nor quite unnii.\'d with pity and disdain.
Sat mute in wonder ; but he sat not long
Without reflection : — AVas Sir Owen wrong ?
'• So must I think : for can I judge it right
■' To treat a lovely lady with despite.
" Because slie play'd too roughly with the love
" Of a fond man whom she could not approve ?
" And yet to vex him for the love he bore
" Is cause enough for his revenge, and more.
1 '■ But, thoughts, to council ! — Do I wear a charm
"' That will preserve my citadel from harm ?
" Like the good knight, I have a heart that feels
" The wounds that beauty makes and kindness
I heals :
'' Beauty she has. it seems, but is not kind —
" So found Sir Owen, and so I may find.
" Y'et why, O heart of tinder, why afraid ?
" Comes so much danger from so fair a maid ?
'' Wilt thou be made a voluntary prize
'* To the fierce firing of two wicked eyes?
" Think her a foe, and on the danger rush,
" Nor let thy kindred for a coward blush.
TALES OF THE HALL.
445
" But how if this fair creature should incline
" To think too highly of this love of mine,
" And, taking all my counterfeit address
" For sterling passion, should the like profess ?
" Nay, this is folly ; or, if I perceive
" Aught of the kind, I can but take my leave ;
" And if the heart should feel a little sore,
" Contempt and anger will its ease restore.
" Then, too, to his all-hountcous hand I owe
" All I possess, and almost all I know ;
" And shall I for my friend no hazard run,
" Who seeks no more for all his love has done ?
" 'T is but to meet and bow, to talk and smile,
" To act a part, and put on love a while :
" And the good knight shall see, this trial made,
" That I have just his talents to persuade ;
" For why the lady should her heart bestow
" On me, or I of her enamour'd grow,
" There 's none can reason give, there 's none can
danger show."
These were his rapid thoughts, and then he
spoke.
" I make a promise, and will not revoke :
" You are my judge in what is fit and right,
" And I obey you — bid me love or fight ;
" Yet had I rather, so the act could meet
" With your concurrence, not to play the cheat :
" In a fair cause "
" Charles, fighting for your king,
" Did you e'er judge the merits of the thing ?
" Show me a monarch who has cause like mine,
" And yet what soldier would his cause decline ?"
Poor Charles or saw not, or refused to see,
IIow weak the reasoning of our hopes may be,
Aud said — " Dear uncle, I my king obey'd,
" And for his glory's sake the soldier play'd ;
" Now a like duty shall your nephew rule,
" And for your vengeance 1 will play the fool."
'T was well ; but ere they parted for repose,
A solemn oath must the engagement close.
" Swear to me, nephew, from the day you meet
" This cruel girl, there shall be no deceit;
" That by all means approved and used by man
" You win this dangerous woman, if you can ;
" That, being won, you my commands obey,
" Leave her lamenting, and pursue your way ;
" And that, as in my business, you will take
" My will as guide, and no resistance make :
" Take now an oath — within the volume look —
" There is the Gospel — swear, and kiss the book."
" It cannot be," thought Charles, " he cannot rest
" In this strange humour, — it is all a jest,
" All but dissimulation. — Well, sir, there ;
" Now I have sworn as you would have me swear."
" 'T is well," the uncle said in solemn tone ;
" Now send me vengeance. Fate, and groan for
groan !"
The time is come : the soldier now must meet
Th' unconscious object of the sworn deceit.
They meet ; each other's looks the pair explore.
And, such their fortune, wish'u to part no more.
Whether a man is thus disposed to break
An evil compact he was forced to make.
Or whether some contention in the breast
Will not permit a feeling heart to rest ;
Or was it nature, who in every case
Has made such mind subjected to such face ;
Whate'er the cause, no sooner met the pair
Than both began to love, and one to feel despair.
But the fair damsel saw with strong delight
Th' impression made, and gloried in the sight :
No chilling doubt alarm'd her tender breast,
But she rejoiced in all his looks profess'd ;
Long ere his words her lover's hopes convey'd
The}' warm'd the bosom of the conscious maid ;
One spirit seem'd each nature to inspire.
And the two hearts were fix'd in one desire.
" Now," thought the courteous maid, " my
father's friend
" Will ready pardon to my fault extend ;
" He shall no longer lead that hermit's life,
" But love his mistress in his nephew's wife ;
" My humble duty shall his anger kill,
" And I who fled his love will meet his will,
" Prevent his least desire, and every wish fulfil."
Hail, happy power ! that to the present lends
Such views ; not all on Fortune's wheel depends ;
Hope, fair enchantress, drives each cloud away.
And now enjoys the glad but distant day.
Still fears ensued ; for love produces fear. —
" To this dear maid can I indeed l)e dear?
" My fatal oath, alas ! I now repent ;
" Stern in his purpose, he will not relent.
" Would, ere that oath, I had Camilla seen !
" I had not then my honour's victim been :
'' I must be honest, yet I know not how, —
" 'T is crime to break, and death to keep my vow."
Sir Owen closely watch'd both maid and man,
And saw with joy proceed his cruel plan :
Then gave his praise — " She has it — has it deep
" In her capricious heart, — it murders sleep;
" You see the looks that grieve, you see the eyes
that weep ;
" Now breathe again, dear youth, the kindling
fire,
" And let her feel what she could once inspire."
Alas ! obedience was an easy task.
So might he cherish what he meant to ask ;
He ventured soon, for Love prepared his way,
He sought occasion, he forbade delaj' ;
In spite of vow foregone he taught the youth
The looks of passion and the words of truth ;
In spite of woman's caution, doubt, and fear.
He bade her credit all she wish'd to hear ;
An honest passion ruled in cither breast.
And both believed the truth that both profess'd.
But now, 'mid all her new-born hopes, the eyes
Of fair Camilla saw through all disguise,
Reserve, and Mi)i)reli('nsi()n. Cliarlcs, who now
Grieved for his duty, and abhorr'd his vow.
Told the full fact, and it endear'd him more ;
She felt her power, and pardon'd all he swore,
446
CRAHBES WORKS.
Since to liis vow he could his wish prefer,
And loved the innn wlio gave his world for her.
What ititist they dr), ami liow tiieir work hogin ?
Can they thnt temper to their wishes win?
They tried, liiey liiil'd ; and nil tlwy did t' assuage
Tlie tempest of his sold ))rovoked his riij^e ;
The uncle met the youth with nn^rry look.
And cried, " Kenieuilier, sir, the onth you took;
" You have my jiity, Charles, but nothing more,
" Death, and death only, shall lier peace restore;
" Anil am I dying? — I shall live to view
" The harlot's sorrow, and enjoy it too.
" How! words olTeud you? I have borne for
years
" Unheeded anguish, shed derided tears,
" Felt scorn in every look, endured the stare
" Of wondering fools who never felt a care ;
" On me all eyes were fix'd, and 1 the wldle
'' Sustuiu'd the insult of a rival's smile.
•' And sliall I now — entangled thus my foe —
" My honest vengeance for a boy forego ?
" .V boy forewarn'd, forearm'd ? Shall this be
borne,
'■ And 1 be clieated, Charles, and thou forsworn?
" J lope not, 1 say, for thou mayst change as well
'■ The sentence graven on tlie gates of hell —
" Here bid adieu to hope, — here hopeless beings
dwell.'
" But does she love thee, Charles ? I cannot
live
'' Dishonour'd, unrcvenged — I may forgive.
" But to thy oath i bind thee ; on thy soul
" Seek not my injured spirit to control ;
" Seek not to soften, I am hard of heart,
" llardcu'd by insult :— leave her now, and part,
" And let me know she grieves, while I enjoy her
smart."
Charles first in anger to the knight replied.
Then felt the clog upon his soul, and sigh'd ;
To his obedience made his wishes stoop.
And now admitted, now excluded hope ;
As lovers do. he saw a prospect fair,
And then so dark, he sank into despair.
The uncle grieved ; he even told the youth
That he was sorry, and it seem'd a truth ;
But though it vex'd, it varied not his mind.
He bound himself, and would his nephew bind.
" I told him this, placed danger in his view,
" Bade him be certain, bound him to be true ;
" Antl shall 1 now my purposes reject,
" Because my warnings were of no effect?"
Thus felt Sir Owen as a man whose cause
Is very good — it had his own applause.
Our knight a tenant had in high esteem.
His constant boast, when justice was his theme :
He praised the farmer's sense, his shrewd dis-
course.
Free without rudeness, manly, and not coarse ;
As farmer, tenant, nay, as man, the knight
Thought Ellis all that is approved and right;
Then he was hnppy, and some onvy drew
For knowing more than other formcrH knew ;
They call'd 1dm learned, and it soothed their
pride,
Wlnlc he in his was pleased and gratified.
Still more t' offend, he to the altar led
The vicar's niece, to early reading bred ;
Who, though she freely ventured on the life,
Could never fully be the farmer's wife;
.She had a softness, gentleness, and ease,
Sure a coarse mind to humble and displease ;
Oh ! had she never known a fault beside.
How vain tlieir spite, how impotent their pride !
Three darling girls the happy couple bless'd,
"Who now the sweetest lot of life posscss'd ;
For what can more a grateful spirit move
Than health with competence, and peace with
love ?
Ellis would sometimes, thriving man ! retire
To the town inn, and quit the parlour fire ;
But he was ever kind where'er he went,
And trifling sums in his amusement spent ;
He bought, he thought for her — she should have
been content :
Oft, when he cash received at Smithfield mart.
At Cranbourn-alley he would leave a part ;
And, if to town he follow'd what he sold.
Sure was his wife a present to behold.
Still, when his evenings at the inn were spent.
She mused at liome in sullen discontent ;
And. sighing, yielded to a wish that some
With social spirit to the farm would come :
There was a farmer in the place, whose name,
And skill in rural arts, were known to fame :
He had a pupil, by his landlord sent.
On terms that gave the parties much content ;
The youth those arts, and those alone, should
learn, —
With aught beside his guide had no concern :
He miglit to ncighb'ring towns or distant ride.
And there amusements seek without a guide ;
With lianilsome prints his private room was graced,
His music there, and there his books were placed:
Men knew not if he farm'd, but they allow'd him
taste.
Books, prints, and music cease at times to
charm.
And sometimes men can neither ride nor farm ;
They look for kindred minds, and Cecil found,
In Farmer Ellis, one inform'd and sound ;
But in his wife — 1 hate the fact 1 tell —
A lovely being, who could please too well;
And he was one who never would deny
Himself a pleasure, or indeed would try.
I Early and well the wife of Ellis knew
M'here danger was. and trembled at the view ;
. So evil spirits tremble, but are still
Evil, ami lose not the rebellious will :
She sought not safety from the fancied crime,
" And why retreat before the dangerous time?"
TALES OF THE HALL.
447
Oft came the student of the farm and read,
And found his mind with more than reading fed :
This Ellis seeing, left them, or he stay'd.
As pleased him, not otfended nor afraid :
He came in spirits with his girls to play,
Then ask excuse, and, laughing, walk away :
AVhen, as he enter'd, Cecil ceased to read,
He would exclaim, " Proceed, my friend, proceed !"
Or, sometimes weary, would to bed retire,
And fear and anger by his ease inspire.
" My conversation does he then despise ?
" Leaves he tliis slighted face for other eyes ?"
So said Alicia ; and she dwelt so long
Upon that thought, to leave her was to wrong.
Alas ! the woman loved the soothing tongue
That yet pronounced her beautiful and young ;
The tongue that, seeming careless, ever praised ;
The eye that roving, on her person gazed ;
The ready service, on the watch to please ;
And all such sweet, small courtesies as these.
Still there was virtue, but a rolling stone
On a hill's brow is not more quickly gone :
The slightest motion,— ceasing from our care, —
A moment's absence, — when we 're not aware, — •
When down it rolls, and at the bottom lies.
Sunk, lost, degraded, never more to rise !
Far off the glorious height from whence it fell.
With all things base and infamous to dwell.
Friendship with woman is a dangerous thing —
Thence hopes avow'd and bold confessions spring ;
Frailties confess'd to other frailties lead,
And new confessions new desires succeed ;
And, when the friends have thus their hearts dis-
closed,
They find how little is to guilt opposed.
The foe's attack will on the fort begin.
When he is certain of a friend within.
When all was lost, — or, in the lover's sight.
When all was won, — the lady thought of flight.
" What ! sink a slave ?" she said, " and with
deceit
" The rigid virtue of a husband meet?
" No ! arm'd with death, I would his fury brave,
" And own the justice of the blow he gave !
" But thus to see him easy, careless, cold,
'' And his confiding folly to behold —
" To feel incessant fears that he should read,
" In looks assumed, the cause whence they pro-
ceed,
" I cannot brook ; nor will I here abide
" Till chance betrays the crime that shame would
hide :
" Fly with me, Henry !" Henry sought in vain
To soothe her terrors and her griefs restrain :
He saw the lengths that woman dared to go,
And fear'd the husband both as friend and foe.
Of farming weary — for the guilty mind
Can no resource in guiltless studies find —
Left to himself, his mother all unknown,
His titled father, loth the boy to own.
Had him to decent expectations bred,
A favour'd offspring of a lawless bed ;
And would he censure one who should pursue
The way he took ? Alicia yet was new :
Her passion pleased him : he agreed on flight :
They fix'd the method, and they chose the night.
Then, while the Farmer read of public crimes.
Collating coolly Chronicles and Times,
The flight was taken by the guilty pair.
That made one passage in the columns there.
The heart of Ellis bled ; the comfort, pride,
The hope and stay of his existence died ;
Kage from the ruin of his peace arose.
And he would follow and destroy his foes ;
Would with wild haste the guilty pair pursue.
And when he found — Good Heaven ! what would
he do ?
That wretched woman he would wildly seize,
And agonise her heart, his own to ease ;
That guilty man would grasp, and in her sight
Insult his pangs, and her despair excite ;
Bring death in view, and then the stroke suspend,
And draw out tortures till his life should end :
Oh ! it should stand recorded in all time,
How they transgress'd, and he avenged the crime !
In this bad world should all his business cease,
He would not seek — he would not taste of peace ;
But wrath should live till vengeance had her due.
And with his wrath his life should perish too.
His girls — not his — he would not be so weak —
Child was a word he never more must speak !
How did he know what villains had defiled
His honest bed ? — he spurn'd the name of child ;
Keep them he must ; but he would coarsely hide
Their forms, and nip the growth of woman's pride ;
He would consume their flesh, abridge their food.
And kill the mother-vices in their blood.
All this Sir Owen heard, and grieved for all ;
He with the husband mourn'd Alicia's fall ;
But urged the vengeance with a spirit strong,
As one whose own rose high against the wrong :
He saw his tenant by this passion moved.
Shared in his wrath, and his revenge approved.
Years now unseen, he mourn'd this tenant's fate.
And wonder'd how he bore his widow'd state :
Still he would mention Ellis with the pride
Of one who felt himself to worth allied :
Such were his notions — had been long, but now
He wish'd to see if vengeance lived, and how :
He doubted not a mind so strong must feel
Most righteously, and righteous measures deal.
Then would he go, and haply he might find
Some new excitement for a weary mind —
;Might learn the miseries of a pair undone.
One scorn'd and hated, lost and pcrish'd one ;
Yes, he would praise to virtuous anger give.
And so his vengeance should be nursed and live.
Ellis was glad to see his landlord come,
A transient joy broke in upon his gloom.
And pleased he led the knight to the superior room.
448
CRAUHE'S WORKS.
Where slio was wont in luiiniier dnyH fly,
'• I know it not — no comincntatur I."
" Then did you freely from your soul for-
give ?"—
" Sure as I hope before my Judge to live,
" Sure as I trust his mercy to receive,
" Sure ns his word I lionour and believe,
" Sure ns the Saviour died upon the tree
" For all who sin, — for that ilear wretch and me, —
" AVhoni never more on earth will 1 forsake or
see." ^
Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd.
Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd ;
And all the way lie meditating dwelt
On what this man in his affliction felt, —
How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave,
His passion's lord, and not his anger'3 slave :
And as he rode he seem'd to fear the deed
Should not be done, and urged unwonted speed.
Arrived at home, he scorn'd the change to
hide.
Nor would indulge a mean and selfish pride,
That would some little at a time recall
Th' avenging vow ; he now was frankness all :
He saw his nephew, and with kindness spoke : —
" Charles, I repent my purpose, and revoke ;
" Take her — I 'm taught, and would I could
rejjay
" The generous teacher ; hear me, and obey :
" Bring me the dear coquette, and let me vow
" On lips half perjured to be passive now :
" Take her, and let me thank the powers divine
" She was not stolen when her hand was mine,
" Or wlien her heart — Her smiles 1 must forget,
'' She my revenge, and cancel either debt."
Here ends our tale, for who will doubt the
bliss
Of ardent lovers in a case like this ?
And if Sir Owen's was not half so strong,
It may, perchance, continue twice as long.
' [" In the hands of ordinary writers, tales of seduction are
such maudlin tilings, that one almost loses his horror for the
wretclied criminals in pity of the still more wretched writers.
iJut CraWie bears us down with him into the depths of anony,
and terrifies us with a holy fear of the punishment which e\en
on earth eats into the adulterer's heart. Tlie story of Farmer
Ellis mi;,'ht, we tliink, have stood l>y itself, instcaii of being
introduced merely as part of another story ; but Mr. Crabbe
very frequently brings forward his very finest tilings «s il.us-
trations of others of inferior interest, or as accessaries to less
meritorious matter. Farmer Ellis is but a homely p<'rson, it
is true ; but he is an Englishman, and he behaves like one,
with the daiiger of grief festering in his heart. Nothing can
be more allVctini; than his conduct in !;rantiMg an ssvlum in
HOOK XIII.
iJKLAY ii.vs dan(;i:k.
.Morning Kxrnmlon— I^a/ly at Silfortl, who? — Redectlon* on
Delay — Cecilia and Henry — The Ij)ver» coritractercssivc lo(»k that sccm'd to Hay,
" Yon do not speak, and yet you sec you moy."
(). yps, he saw, and he resolved to fly.
And blamed liis licart, unwilling; to eoniply :
lie sometimes wonder'd how it came to pass
Thnt he had all this freedom with the lass ;
l{csorved herself, with strict attention kept,
And care and vigilance tiiat never slept:
" How is it thus that they a beauty trust
" With me, who feel the confidence is just ?
" And they, too, feel it; yes, they maj' confide," —
He said in folly, and he smiled in jjridc.
'T is thus our secret passions work their way.
And the poor victims know not they obey.
l-'nmilinr now became the wandering pair,
.\nd there was pride and joj' in Fanny's air;
For though his silence did not please the maid.
She judged him only modest and afraid :
'J'he gentle dames are ever pleased to find
Their lovers dreading they should prove unkind ;
So, blind by hope, and pleased witli prospects gay.
The generous beauty gave her lieart away
Before he said, " I love !" — alas ! he dared not say.
Cecilia yet was mistress of his mind,
But oft he wish'd her, like his Fanny, kind ;
Her fondness soothed him, for the man was vain,
And he perceived tliat he could give her pain :
Cecilia liked not to profess her love,
But Fanny ever was the yielding dove ;
1'ender and trusting, waiting for the word.
And tlieu prepared to hail lier bosom's lord.
Cecilia once her honest love avow'd,
To make liim happy, not to make him proud :
But she would not, for everj- asking sigh.
Confess the fiame that waked his vanity ;
But this poor maiden, every day and hour,
Would by fresh kindness feed the growing power ;
And he indulged vain being I — in the joy,
That he alone could raise it, or destroy :
A present good, from which he dared not fly,
Cecilia absent, and his Fanny by.
O ! vain desire of youth, that in the hour
Of strong temptation, when he feels the power,
And knows how daily his desires increase,
Yet will lie wait, and sacrifice his peace.
Will trust to chance to free him from the snare,
Of which long since his conscience said, Beware;
Or look for strange deliverance from that ill.
That he might tlj-. could he command the will !
How can he freedom from the future seek.
Who feels already that he grows too weak ?
And thus refuses to resist, till time
Removes the power, and makes the way for crime ;
Yet thoughts he had. and he would think, " Forego
*' My dear Cecilia ? not for kingdoms ! No !
" But may I. ought I not the friend to be
" Of one who feels this fond regard for me ?
" 1 wrong no creature by a kindness lent
** To one so gentle, mild, and innocent :
" Ami for that fair one whom I Htill adore,
" By feeling thus I think of her the more;"
And not uidikely, for our thonghtH will tend
To those whom we are conscious we offend.
I Had Iteason whisperM, " Has Cecilia b-nvc
I " Some gentle youth in friiiiilMlii|) to rccfive,
" And br- to him the frii-nd that yon Hj>|>('ar
" To this soft girl ? — Would not .Sf^me jealous fear
" Proclaim your thoughts that he approach'd too
near ?"
But Henry, blinded still, presumed to write
Of one in whom Cecilia would flelight :
A mild and modest girl, a gentle friend,
If, as he lioped, her kindness would descend —
But what he fear'd to lose or hoped to gain
By writing thus, he had been ask'd in vain.
I It was his purpose, every mom he rose,
The dangerous friendship he haf action, niilcd his discourse:
" A moral teacher !" some contemptuous cried ;
lie smileil, hut iiothinjj of tlie fact denied.
Nor, save by liis fair life, to charge so strong re-
plied.
Still, though he bade tlicm not on aught rely
That was their own, but all their worth deny,
They call'd liis pure advice liis cold morality ;
And tliough he felt that earnestness and zeal.
That made some portion of his hearers feel,
Tsay, though he loved the minds of men to lead
To the great points that form the Christian's
creed,
' [" Notwithstanding Mr. Crabbe's flattering reception
among the principal people of Trowbridge, he was far from
being much liked, for some years, by liis new parishioners in
general : nor, in truth, is it at all difficult to account for this.
His immediate predecessor, the curate of the previous rector,
had been endeared to the more serious inhabitants by warm
zeal and a powerful talent for preaching extempore, and had,
moreover, been so universally respected, that the town peti-
tioned the Duke of Rutland to give him the living. His
Grace's refusal had irritated many even of thase wlio took
little interest in the (jualilications of their pastor, and engen-
dered a feeling bordering on ill will towards Mr. Crabbe
liimself, whicli was heightened liy the prevalence of some
reports so ridiculous that 1 am almost ashamed to notice
them ; such as, that he wiis a dissipated man — a dandy —
even a gambler. And then, when he appeared among
them, the perfect openness of his nature,— that, perhaps,
impolitic frankness which made him at all times scorn the
assumption of a scruple which he did not really feel, led him
to violate, occasionally, what were considered, among many
classes in that neighbourhood, the settled laws of clerical
decorum. He might be seen occasionally at a concert, a 1 all,
or even a play. Then, even in the exercise of his unwearied
and extensive charity, he often so conducted himself as to
neutralise, in coarse and bad minds, all the natural move-
ments of gr.-ititude ; mixing the clergvman too much with
the almsgiver, and reading a lecture, tiie severity of which,
however just, was more thought of than the benefaction it
accompanied. He, moreover, soon after his arrival, espoused
the cause of a candidate for the county representation, to
whom the manufacturing interest, the prevalent one in his
parish, was extremely hostile. Lastly, to conclude this long
list, Mr. Crabbe, in a town remarkable for diversity of sects
and warmth of discussion, adhered for a season unchanged to
the same view of scriptural doctrines whicli had Latterly found
little favour even at simple Muston. As he has told lis of his
own Rector, in the Tales of tlie Hall —
' ' .7 moral teacher I ' some contemptuous cried ;
' He smiled, but nothing of the fact denied ;
' Nor, save by his fair life, to charge so strong replied.
Still he o(ren.leecame
generally and cordially esteemed. They who differed from
liim admitted that he had a right also to his own religious
and political opinions. His integrity and benevolence were
justly appreciated ; his talents acknowledged, and his dispo-
sition lovvd." — Life, ante, pp. 61, 62.]
TALES OF THE HALL.
459
He to peculiar people found his way,
And had his question answer'd, " Who are they ?"
Twice in the week came lettei's, and delight
Beam'd in the eye of Richard at the sight ;
Letters of love, all full and running o'er,
The paper fiU'd till it could hold no moi-e ;
Cross'd with discolour'd ink, the doublings full.
No fear that love should find abundance dull ;
Love reads unsated all that love inspires.
When most indulged, indulgence still requires ;
Looks what the corners, what the crossings tell,
And lifts each folding for a fond farewell.
George saw and smiled—" To lovers we allow
" All this o'erflowing, but a husband thou I
" A father too ; can time create no change ?
•' Married, and still so foolish ? — very strange !
'■ What of this wife or mistress is the art ?" —
" The simple truth, my Brother, to impart,
'• Her heart, whene'er she writes, feels writing to
a heart." —
'• Fortune, dear Richard, is thy friend — a wife
" Like thine must soften every care of life,
" And all its woes — I know a pair whose lives
" Run in the common track of men and wives ;
" And half their worth, at least, this pair would
give
" Could they like thee and thy Matilda live.
" They were, as lovers, of the fondest kind,
" With no defects in manner or in mind ;
" In habit, temper, prudence, they were those
" Whom, as examples, I could once propose ;
" Now this, when married, you no longer trace,
" But discontent and sorrow in the place :
" Their pictures, taken as the pair I saw
" In a late contest, I have tried to draw ;
" 'T is but a sketch, and at my idle time
" I put my couple in the grab of rhyme :
'■ Thou art a critic of the milder sort,
" And thou wilt judge with favour my report.
" Let me premise, twelve months have flown
away,
" Swiftly or sadly, since the happy day.
" Let us suppose the couple left to spend
'■ Some hours without engagement or a friend ;
" And be it likewise on our mind impress'd,
" They pass for persons happy, and at rest ;
" Their love by Hymen crown'd, and all their
prospects bless'd.
" Love has slow death and sudden : wretches
prove
That fate severe — the sudden death of love ;
It is as if, on day serenely bright.
Came with its horrors instantaneous night ;
Others there are with whom love dies away
In gradual waste and unperceived decay ;
Such is that death of love that nature finds
Most fitted for the use of common minds,
The natural death ; but doubtless there are
some
Who struggle hard when they perceive it come ;
" Loth to be loved no longer, loth to prove
" To the once dear that they no longer love :
" And some with not successless arts will strive
" To keej) the weak'ning, fluttering flame alive.
" But see my verse ; in this I try to paint
" The passion failing, fading to complaint,
" The gathering grief for joys remember'd yet,
" The vain remonstrance, and the weak regret :
" First speaks the wife in sorrow, she is grieved
" T' admit the truth, and would be still deceived."
HENRY AND EMMA.
E. Well, my good sir, I shall contend no more ;
But, O ! the vows you made, the oaths you swore !
H. To love you always : — I confess it true ;
And do I not ? If not, what can I do ?
Moreover, think what you yourself profess'd,
And then the subject may for ever rest.
E. Yes, sir, obedience I profess'd ; I know
My debt, and wish to pay you all I owe.
Pay without murmur ; but that vow was made
To you who said it never should be paid ; —
Now truly tell me why you took such care
To make me err ? I ask'd you not to swear.
But rather hoped you would my mind direct.
And say, when married, what you would expect.
You may remember — it is not so long
Since you affirm'd that I could not be wrong ;
I told you then — you recollect, I told
The very truth — -that humour would not hold ;
Not that I thought, or ever could suppose.
The mighty raptures were so soon to close —
Poetic flights of love all sunk in sullen prose.
Do you remember how you used to hang
Upon my looks ? your transports when I sang ?
I play'd — you melted into tears ; I moved —
Voice, words, and motion, how you all approved ;
A time when Emma reign'd, a time when Henry
loved :
You recollect ?
H. Yes, surely ; and then why
The needless truths ? do I the facts deny ?
For this remonstrance I can see no need,
Or this impatience — if you do, proceed.
E. O ! that is now so cool, and with a smile
That sharpens insult — I detest the style ;
And, now I talk of styles, with what delight
You read my lines —I tlien, it seems, could write ;
In short, when I was present, you could see
But one dear object, and you lived for me ;
And now, sir, what your pleasure ? Let me dress,
Sing, speak, or write, and you your sense express
Of my poor taste — my words are not correct ;
In all I do is failing or defect —
Some en-or you will seek, some blunder will de-
tect;
And what can such dissatisfaction prove ?
I tell you, Hem-y, you have ceased to love.
S x 2
//. I KWii it not; Imt iCii truth it lio,
it is tiii> taull of iinliirr, not of inc.
Kcmcnilicr you, my love, tin- fairy tnic,
^Vlu•rc• tlii> youu},' jiiiirs wore S|it'll-liouiituiiril, tlie H"*'" '" hurr'd ;
Or could we enter, we should still repine,
I'niess we could the knowledj^e too resign.
Yet let us cahuly view our ])resent fate,
And make a humhier Kden of our state ;
Willi this advantage, that what now we gain,
F.xjierience gives and prudence will retain.
/•.'. Ah ! much T doubt — when you in fury broke
That lovely vaso by one impassion'd stroke.
And thousand china fragments met my sight.
Till rising anger put my grief to flight ;
As well might you tlie beauteous jar repiece,
As joy renew and bid vexation cease.
H. Why, then 't is wisdom, Emma, not to keep
These griefs in memory ; they had better sleep.
There was a time when this heaven-guarded isle,
Whose valleys flourish — nay, whose mountains
smile —
Was sterile, wild, dcform'd, and beings rude
Creatures scarce wilder than themselves pursued ;
The sea was heard around a waste to howl,
The night-wolf answer'd to the whooting owl,
And all was wretched : — Yet who now surveys
The land withholds his wonder and his praise ?
Come, let us try and make our moral view
Improve like this — this have we power to do.
E. 0\ \ '11 be all forgetful, deaf and dumb,
And all you wish, to have these changes come.
//. And come tliey may, if not as heretofore,
We cannot all the lovely vase restore ;
What we beheUl in Love's perspective glass
Has pass'd awaj- — one sigh ! and let it pass :
It was a blissful vision, and it fled.
And we must get some actual good instead :
Of good and evil tliat we daily find, —
That we nuist lioard, this banish from the mind ;
The food of Love, that food on whicli he thrives,
To find must be the business of our lives ;
And when we know what Love delights to see,
We must his guardians and providers be.
As careful peasants, with incessant toil.
Bring earth to vines in bare and rocky soil,
And, as they raise with care each scanty heap,
Think of the purple clusters they shall reap ;
So those accretions to the mind we '11 bring.
Whence fond regard and just esteem will spring ;
Then, though we backward look with some regret
On those first joys, we shall be happy yet.
There were Ix>vc"s friends, — hope, joy, ami generous trust;
Here are his foes — care, caution, and dis^-iist.
There was the warm, conlidin;; soul of youth ;
Here doubt and care, and coM assent to truth.
Oh ! 't is bt-yond repair, beyond dispute.
That llower of promise lias this bitter fruit 1
Oh, 't is a ilisinal fruit ! I prithee strive
For the old [irospcot— bid the dream revive.]
Each on the other must in all depend.
The kind adviser, tlie unfailing friend;
Through the rough worhl we must c-ach other aid,
Lenditig aiici led, obeying and obey'd ;
Favour'd and favouring, eager to believe
What should be truth — unwilling tr> perceive
What might offend- determin«-d to remove
What has offeiideii ; wisely til the loii^? dcliiy.
lie now (in iniiiilKiixl vi'r;^i'(l, at least licgari
'I'd talk as he su|i)>(ihi'i1 liocainc a man.
\Vlictlicr lie clidsc the roUogc or tlic school
" Was liis own act, and tliat should no man rule;
'• lie had his reasons for (he step he took :
'' Did they sujipose he stny'd to read his I)ook?"
Hopeless, tlic Doctor snid, " Tliis boy is one .
" AVith whom I fear tlicrc 's notliing to be done."
Ilis wife replied, who more lind puess'd or knew,
" You only mean there 's nothing; he can do;
" l''/eii there you err, unless you mean inroper cue,
" What they forbid one takes delight to do."
Clara exulted : now the day would come
Belwood must take her in her carriage home :
" Then I shall hear what Knvy will remark
" When I shall sport the ponies in the Park ;
" When my friend Jane will meet me at the ball,
" And see me taken out the first of all ;
" I see her looks wlien she beholds the men
" All crowd about me — she w ill simper then,
" And cry with her affected air and voice,
'■ ' O ! my sweet Clara, how do I rejoice
" ' At your good fortune !' — ' Thank you, dear,'
say I;
" ' But some there are that could for envy die.' "
Mamma look'd on with thoughts to these allied ;
She felt the pleasure of reflected pride ;
She should respect in Clara's honour find.
But she to Clara's secret thoughts was blind.
O ! when we thus design, we do but spread
Nets for our feet, and to our toils arc led :
Those whom we think we rule, their views attain,
And we partake the guilt without the gain.
The Doctor long had thought, till he became
A victim both to avarice and shame ;
From his importance, every eye was placed
On his designs : How dreadful if disgraced I
" O ! that unknown to him the pair had flown
•• To that same Green, the project all their own I
'• And should they now be guilty of the act,
" Am not I free from knowledge of the fact?
'• Will they not, if they will ?" 'T is thus we meet
The check of conscience, and our guide defeat.
This friend, this spy, this counsellor at rest.
More pleasing views were to the mind addrcss'd.
The mischief done, he would be much displeased.
For weeks, nay, months, and slow ly be appeased ;
Y'et of this aiiger if they felt the dread.
Perhaps they dare not steal away to wed ;
And if on hints of mercy they should go,
He stood committed — it must not be so.
In this dilemma either horn was hard, —
Best to seem careless, then, and oflT one's guard ;
And, lest their terror should their flight prevent,
His wife might argue— fathers will relent
On such occasions ; and that she should share
The guilt and censure was her proper care.
" Suppose them wed." said he. '• and at my feet,
■' I must exclaim that instant. Vile deceit !
" Then will my daughter, weeping, while they
kneel,
" For its own Clara beg my heart may feel :
'' At last, but slowly. I may all forgive,
" And their adviser and director live."
TALES OF THE HALL.
465
"When wishes only weak the heart surprise,
Heaven, in its mercy, the fond prayer denies ;
But when our wishes are both base and weak,
Heaven, in its justice, gives us what we seek.
All pass'd that was expected, all prepared
To share the comfort. What the comfort shared ?
The married pair, on their return, agreed
That they from school were now completely freed —
"Were man and wife, and to their mansion now
Should boldly drive, and their intents avow :
The acting guardian in the mansion reign'd,
And, thither driving, they their will explain'd :
The man a while discoursed in language high,
The ward was sullen, and made brief reply ;
TiU, when he saw th' opposing strength decline,
He bravely utter'd — " Sir, the house is mine !"
And, like a lion, lash'd by self-rebuke.
His own defence he bravely undertook.
" Well ! be it right or wrong, the thing is past ;
'■ You cannot hinder what is tight and fast :
•• The church has tied us ; we are hither come
■' To our own place, and you must make us room."
The man reflected — " You deserve, I know,
" Foolish young man ! what fortune will bestow :
•' No punishment from me your actions need,
■' Whose pains will shortly to your faults succeed."
James was quite angry, wondering what was
meant
By such expressions — Why should he repent ?
New trial came. — The ■wife conceived it right
To see her parents ; — " So," he said, " she might,
" If she had any fancy for a jail,
" But upon him no creature should prevail;
" No ! he would never be again the fool
" To go and starve or study at a school !"
"O! but to see her parents !" — "Well! the
sight
" Might give her pleasure — very like it might,
" And she might go ; but to his house restored,
" He would not now be catechised and bored."
It was her duty ; — " Well !" said he again,
" There you may go — and there you may remain !"
Already this ? — Even so : he heard it said
How rash and heedless was the part he play'd ;
For love of money in his spirit dwelt.
And there repentance was intensely felt :
His guardian told him he had bought a toy
At tenfold price, and bargain'd like a boy:
Angry at truth, and wrought to fierce disdain.
He swore his loss should be no woman's gain :
His table she might share, his name she must,
But if aught more — she gets it upon trust.
For a few weeks his pride her face display'd —
He then began to thwart her and upbraid ;
He grew imperious, insolent, and loud —
His blinded weakness made his folly proud ;
He would be master, — she had no pretence
To counsel him, as if he wanted sense ;
He must inform her, she already cost
More than her worth, and more should not be lost ;
But stiU concluding, " If your will be so,
" That you must see the old ones ; do it — go I"
Some weeks the Doctor waited, and the while
His lady preach'd in no consoling style :
At last she fear'd that rustic had convey'd
Their child to prison — yes, she was afraid, —
There to remain in that old hall alone
With the vile heads of stags, and floors of stone.
" Why did you, sir, who know such things so
well,
" And teach us good, permit them to rebel ?
" Had you o'erawed and check'd them when in
sight,
" They would not then have ventured upon
flight ;
" Had you — -" — " Out, serpent I did not you
begin ?
" What! introduce, and then upbraid the sin?
" For sin it is, as I too well perceive :
" But leave me, woman, to reflection leave ;
" Then to your closet fly, and on your knees
" Beg for forgiveness for such sins as these."
" A moody morning !" with a careless air
Replied the \>-ife.— " Why counsel me to prayer ?
" I think the lord and teacher of a school
" Should pray himself, and keep his temper cool."
Calm grew the husband when the \vife was
gone ;
" The game," said he, " is never lost till won :
" 'T is true, the rebels fly their proper home,
" They come not nigh, because they fear to come :
" And for my purpose fear will doubtless prove
" Of more importance and effect than love ; —
" Suppose me there — suppose the carriage stops,
" Down on her knees my trembUng daughter
drops ;
" Slowly I raise her, in my arms to fall.
" And call for mercy as she used to call ;
" And shall that boy, who dreaded to appear
" Before me, cast away at once his fear ?
" 'T is not in nature ! — He who once would cower
" Beneath my frown, and sob for half an hour ;
" He who would kneel with motion prompt and
quick
" If I but look'd, as dogs that do a trick ;
" He still his knee-joints flexible must feel,
" And have a slavish promptitude to kneel •,^
" Soon as he sees me he will drop his lip,
" And bend like one made ready for the whip.
" O ! come, I trifle, let me haste away—
" What ! throw it up, when I have cards to play ?"
The Doctor went, a self-invited guest ;
He met his pupil, and his frown repress'd.
For in those lowering looks he could discern
Resistance sullen and defiance stern ;
Yet was it painful to put off his style
Of awful distance, and assume a smile :
So between these, the gracious and the grand,
Succeeded nothing that the Doctor plann'd.
The sullen youth, with some reviving dread,
Bow'd, and then hang'd disconsolate his head ;
3 o
4()()
CIIAUBE'S WORKS.
Ami, liiiitti'iiiif,' ^clcdinc in ii iriullh il loiip,
Stalk'd cToss llic ]inrk to nn'ilitiitc nlonc,
Siiyiiif;, or nitlu r sccmin;,' to liiivr siiiil,
" (io! si'fk your (iiiut;litiT, iinil l)f tin ri' ol)cy'(l."
lie went. — Tlic ii liis widow's militl,
'I'liat slu' llu' pleasures of the world reHij^n'd,
Yoimn IIS she was, and tVoiii the husy town
Came to the (luiet of a villa|^e down ;
Not as insensihie to joys, hut still
With a suhdued hut liulf-rehellious will;
For she had iiassions warm, and f'etdin^c stronj?,
Witli a ii^;ht mind, that dreaded to he wrong ; —
Yet she had wealth to tie her to tlic jjIucg
^\■llere it procures delight and veils disgrace;
Yet she had heauty to engngo tho eye,
A widow still in lier minority ;
Y'ot she had merit wortliy men to gain,
And yet her liand no merit could ohtain ;
For, though secluded, there were trials made,
^Vlu'n he who sol'ten'd most could not persuade;
A while she liearken'd as her swain projiosed.
And then his suit with strong refusal closed.
'• Thanks, and farewell ! — give credit to my
word,
" That 1 shall die the widow of my lord ;
" 'T is my own will, I now prefer tlie state, —
'■ If mine sliould change, it is the will of fate."
Such things were spoken, and the hearers cried,
" 'T is very strange, — perhaps she may be tried."
The lady pass'd her time in taking air.
In working, reading, charities, and prayer;
In the last duties she received the aid
Of an old friend, a priest, with whom she pray'd ;
And to his mansion with a purpose went.
That tliere should life be innocently spent ;
Yet no cold vot'rcss of the cloister she,
AVarm her devotion, warm her charity ;
Tho face the index of a feeling mind,
And her whole coniliict rational and kind.
Tliongh rich and noble, she was pleased to slide
Into the habits of her reverend guide,
And so attended to his girls and boys.
She seem'd a mother in her fears and joys ;
On her they look'd with fondness, something
check'd
By her appearance, that engaged respect ;
For still she dress'd as one of higher race,
And her sweet smiles had dignity and grace.
George was her favourite, and it gave her joy
To indulge and to instruct the darling boy ;
To watch, to soothe, to check the forward child.
Who was at once aftectionate and wild;
Happy and grateful for her tender care.
And pleased her thoughts and company to share.
George was a boy with spirit strong and high,
"With handsome face, and penetrating eye ;
O'er his broa\r\t -He a while
Waited my ralmncHS with benignant smile.
So softly shines tlie veiled sun, till past
The cloud, and light upon the world is cast :
That look composed and soften'd I survey'd,
And met the glance fraternal less afraid ;
Though in those looks was something of com-
mand.
And traits of what I feard to understand.
" Then spoke the spirit — George, I pray, at-
tend —
' First, let all doubts of thy religion end :
' The word reveal'd is true : inquire no more ;
' Believe in meekness, and with thanks adore :
' Thy priest attend, but not in all rely,
' And to objectors seek for no reply ;
' Truth, doubt, and error will be mi.x'd below —
' Be thou content the greater trutlis to know,
' And in obedience rest thee For thy life
' Thou needest counsel — now a happy wife,
' A widow soon I and then, my sister, then,
' Think not of marriage, think no more of men : —
' Life will have comforts ; thou wilt much enjoy
' Of moderate good ; then do not this destroy :
' Fear much, and wed no more ; by passion led,
' Shouldst thou again'— art thou attending? —
' wed,
' Care in thy ways will growl, and anguish haunt
thy bed :
' A brother's warning on thy heart engrave :
' Thou art a mistress — then be not a slave !
' Shouldst thou again that hand in fondness give,
' What life of misery art thou doom'd to live !
' How wilt thou weep, lament, implore, com-
plain !
' How wilt thou meet derision and disdain I
' And pray to Heaven in doubt, and kneel to
man in vain !
' Thou read'st of woes to tender bosoms sent —
' Thine shall w ith tenfold agony be rent ;
' Increase of anguish shall new years bestow,
' Pain shall on thought and grief on reason grow,
' And this th' advice I give increase the ill I
show.'
" ' A second marriage '. — No I — by all that 's
dear !"
I cried aloud — The spirit bade me hear.
• There will be trial, — how I must not say,
• Perliaps 1 cannot — listen, and obey !
' Free is thy will — th' event I cannot see,
• Distinctly cannot, but thy will is free.
• Come, weep not, sister— spirits can but guess,
' And not ordain — but do not w ed distress ;
' For who would rashly venture on a snare ?'
" ' I swear V I answer'd. — ' No, thou must not
swear,'
He said, or I had sworn ; but still the vow
Was past, was in my mind, and there is now :
TALES OF THE HALL.
473
•■ Never! O, never: — Why tliat sullen air?
•• Think'st thou — ungenerous ! — I would wed
despair ?
" Was it not told me thus ? — and then I cried,
" ' Art thou in bliss ?' — but nothing he replied,
'' Save of my fate, for that he came to show,
'• Nor of aught else permitted me to know.
'• ' Forewarn'd, forearm thee, and thy way pursue,
" ' Safe, if thou wilt, not flowery — now, adieu I'
" ' Nay, go not thus,' I cried, ' for this will
seem
" ' The work of sleep, a mere impressive dream ;
" ' Give me some token, that I may indeed
" ' From the suggestions of my doubts be freed !'
" ' Be this a token — ere the week be fled
'' ' Shall tidings greet thee from the newly dead.'
" ' Nay, but,' I said, with courage not my own,
" ' O ! be some signal of thy presence shown ;
'■ ' Let not this visit with the rising day
•• ' Pass, and be melted like a dream away.'
" ' O, woman ! woman ! ever anxious still
" ' To gain the knowledge, not to curb the will I
" ' Have I not promised ? — Child of sin, attend —
'■ ' Make not a lying spirit of thy friend :
" ' Give me thy hand !" 1 gave it. for my soul
■' Was now grown ardent, and above control ;
■' Eager I stretch'd it forth, and felt the hold
'■ Of shadowy fingers, more than icy cold :
" A nameless pressure on my wrist was made,
" And instant vanish'd the beloved shade !
" Strange it will seem, but, ere the morning came,
" I slept, nor felt disorder in my frame :
•' Then came a dream — I saw my father's shade,
■' But not with awe like that my brother's made ;
" And he began — ' What ! made a convert, child ?
" ' Have they my favourite by their creed be-
guiled ?
" ' Thy brother's weakness I could well foresee,
*• ' But had, mj' girl, more confidence in thee :
'' ' Art thou, indeed, before their ark to bow ?
" ' I smiled before, but I am angry now :
'' ' Thee will they bind by threats, and thou wilt
shake
" ' At tales of terror that the miscreants make :
•' ' Between the bigot and enthusiast led,
" ' Thou hast a world of miseries to dread.
'■ ' Think for thyself, nor let the knaves or fools
•' ' Rob thee of reason, and prescribe thee rules.'
" Soon as I woke, and could my thoughts
collect,
" What can I think, I cried, or what reject ?
" Was it my brother ? Aid me, power divine !
" Have I not seen him, left he not a sign ?
" Did I not then the placid features trace
" That now remain — the air, the eye, the face?
■' And then my father — but how different seem
" These visitations — this, indeed, a dream !
" Then for that token on my wrist — 't is here,
" And very slight to you it must appear ;
" Here, I'll withdraw the bracelet — 'tis a speck!
" No more ! but 't is upon my life a check."
" O ! lovely all, and like its sister arm !
" Call this a check, dear lady ? 't is a charm —
" A slight, an accidental mark — no more."
" Slight as it is, it was not there before :
" Then was there weakness, and I bound it
Nay!
" This is infringement — take those lips away !
" On the fourth day came letters, and I cried,
" Richard is dead, and named the day he died :
" A proof of knowledge, true ! but one, alas ! of
pride.
" The signs to me were brought, and not my lord,
" But I, impatient, waited not the word ;
" And much he marvell'd, reading of the night
" In which th' immortal spirit took its flight.
" Yes ! I beheld my brother at my bed
" The hour he died ! the instant he was dead —
" His presence now I see ! now trace him as he
fled.
" Ah ! fly me, George, in very pity, fly ;
" Thee I reject, but j-ield thee reasons why ;
" Our fate forbids, — the counsel Heaven has sent
" We must adopt, or grievously repent ;
" And I adopt." George humbly bow'd, and
sigh'd,
But, lost in thought, he look'd not nor replied ;
Yet feebly utter'd in his sad adieu,
" I must not doubt thy truth, but perish if thou 'rt
true."
But when he thought alone, his terror gone
Of the strange story, better views came on.
" Nay, my enfeebled heart, be not dismay'd !
" A boy again, am I of ghosts afraid ?
" Does she believe it ? Say she does believe ;
" Is she not born of error and of Eve ?
" Oh ! there is lively hope I may the cause retrieve.
" ' If you re-wed ' exclaim'd the Ghost.
For what
" Puts he the case, if marry she will not ?
" He knows her fate — but what am I about ?
" Do I believe ? — 't is certain I have doubt,
" And so has she, — what therefore will she do ?
" She the predicted fortune will pursue,
" And by th' event will judge if her strange
dream was true ;
" The strong temptation to her thought applied
" Will gain new strength, and will not be denied ;
" The very threat against the tiling we love
" Will the vex'd spirit to resistance move ;
'• With vows to virtue weakness will begin.
" And fears of sinning let in thoughts of sin."
Strong in her sense of weakness, now ^vithdrew
The cautious lady from the lover's view ;
But she perceived the looks of all were changed, —
Her kind old friends grew peevish and estranged :
A fretful spirit reign'd, and discontent
From room to room in sullen silence went ;
And the kind widow was distress'd at heart
To think that she no comfort could impart :
'■ But he will go," she said, "and he will strive
'• In fields of glorious energy to drive
3 p
474
CRABIJE'S WORKS.
" l,i)\c IVoiii liis l)()8(>m. — Yi'8, I tlicn may stny,
" Ami III! \\\\\ lluinlc UK" on ii fiitiirc iliiy."
So jinlj^cil the Imly, nor iiiipcnr'd to mii'vc,
Till I 111- younj^ snlilicr ciiiiio to tuke liis leave ;
Hnl not of all asHrinhlcil — No! hu found
His ^;cntl(' sisters all in sorrow drown'd ;
With ninny a sliakt>n hand, and many a kisB,
Ho cried, " r'nrewell ! a solemn business this ;
" Nay, Susan, Sophy ! — lieaven and earth, my
dears I
" I am a soldier what do I with tears?"
He sou^lit liis jiarents ; tliey together wntk'd.
And of their son, his views and danj^ers, talk'd ;
They knew not how to hlamc their friend, hut still
They munnur'd, " She may save us if she will :
" Were not these visions working in her mind
" Strange things — 't is in her nature to he kind."
Their son appear'd. — He soothed them, and was
l.lessM,
But still the fondness of his soul confess'd.
And where the lady ? — To her room retired !
" Now show, dear son, the courage she required."
George bow'd in silence, trying for assent
To his hard fate, and to his trial went :
Fond, hut yet fix'd, he found her in her room ;
Firm, and yet fearful, she beheld him come :
Nor sought ho favour now — No ! he would meet
liis doom.
" Farewell ! and, madam, I beseech you pray
" That this sad spirit soon may pass away ;
'' That sword or ball would to the dust restore
"' This body, that the soul may grieve no more
" For love rejected. — Oh ! that 1 could quit
" The life I loathe, who am for nothing fit,
'• No, not to die !" — " Unhappy, wilt thou make
" The house all wretched for thy passion's sake ?
" And most its grieving object ?" —
" Grieving ? — No !
" Or as a conqueror mourns a dying foe,
" That makes his triumph sure. — Couldst thou de-
plore
'• The evil done, the pain would be no more ;
'■ But an accursed dream has steeUd thy breast,
" And all the woman in tliy soul suppress'd."
" Oh ! it was vision, George ; a vision true
'' As ever seer or holy prophet knew."
" Can spirits, lady, though they might alarm,
" Make an impression on that lovely ann ?
" A little cold the cause, a little heat,
" Or vein minute, or artery's morbid beat,
" Even beauty these admit." —
" I did behold
" My brother's form."—
'■ Yes, so thy Fancy told,
" When in the morning she her work survey'd,
" And call'd the doubtful memory to her aid."
" Nay, think ! the night he died — the very
night !" —
" 'T is very true, and so perchance he might,
" But in tliy mind — not, lady, in thy sight !
" Thou wert not well ; forms dcflicotely made
'• Thes<' dreams and fanries easily invade ;
" 'i'he inind and body feel the slow diseahe,
" And dreiiins are what tlie troubled fancy seiH."
" Oil, but how strange that all should be com-
bined !"—
" True ; but such combinations we may find ;
" .\ dream's predicted number gain'd a jirizo,
" Yet dreams make no imj)res8ion on tlic wIhc,
" Though some chance good, some lucky gain may
rise."
" Oh I but those words, that voice so truly
known !" —
" No doubt, dear lady, they were all thine own ;
'' .Memory for thee thy brother's form portray'd ;
" It was thy fear the awful warning made :
" Thy former doubts of a religious kind
" Account for all these wanderings of the
mind."
" But then, how different when my'father came !
" These could not in their nature be the same I" —
" Yes, all are dreams ; but some as we awake
" Fly off at once, and no impression make :
" Others are felt, and ere they quit the brain
" Make such impression that they come again ;
" As half familiar thoughts, and half unknown,
" And scarcely recollected as our own ;
" For half a day abide some vulgar dreams,
" And give our grandams and our nurses themes;
" Others, more strong, abiding figures draw
" Upon the brain, and we assert, ' I saw ;'
" And then the fancy on the organs place
" A powerful likeness of a form and face.
" Yet more — in some strong passion's troubled
reign,
" Or when the fever'd blood inflames the brain,
" At once the outward and the inward eye
" The real object and the fancied spy ;
" Tlie eye is open, and the sense is true,
" And therefore they the outward object view;
" But while the real sense is fix'd on these,
" The power within its own creation sees :
" .\nd these, when mingled in the mind, create
" Those striking visions which our dreamers state :
" For, knowing that is true that met the sight,
" They think the judgment of the fancy right.
" Y'"our frequent talk of dreams has made me
turn
" Jly mind on them, and these the facts I learn.
" Or should j-ou say, 't is not in us to take
" Heed in both ways, to sleep and be awake,
" Perhaps the things bj* eye and mind survey'd
'' Are in their quick alternate eflbrts made ;
" For by this mi.xture of the truth, the dream
'• Will in the morning fresh and vivid seem.
" Dreams are like portraits, and we find they
please
" Because thej- are confess'd resemblances ;
" But those strange night-mare visions we compare
" To waxen figures — they too real are,
" Too much a very truth, and are so just
" To life and death, they pain us or disgust.
TALES OF THE HALL.
475
" Hence from your mind these idle visions
shake,
" And, O ! my love, to happiness awake !"
" It was a vraming, tempter ! from the dead :
" And wedding thee I should to misery wed !"
" False and injurious ! what ! unjust to thee ?
'• O ! hear the vows of Love — it cannot be :
" What ! I forbear to bless thee — I forego
'• That first great blessing of existence ? No !
" Did everj' ghost that terror saw arise
" With such prediction, I should say it lies :
" But none there are — a mighty gulf between
" Hides the ideal world from objects seen ;
'• We know not where unbodied spirits dwell,
'• But this we know, they are invisible ; —
" Yet I have one that fain would dwell with thee,
'' And always with thy purer spirit be."
" O ! leave me, George !" —
" To take the field, and die,
" So leave thee. Lady ? Yes, I will comply ;
■' Thou art too far above me — ghosts withstand
" My hopes in vain, but riches guard thy hand,
" For I am poor — affection and a heart
" To thee devoted, I but these impart ;
" Then bid me go, I will thy words obey,
" But let not visions drive thy friend away."
" Hear me, O ! hear me ! Shall I wed my son ?" — ■
" I am in fondness and obedience one ;
" And I will reverence, honour, love, adore,
" Be all that fondest sons can be — and more :
" And shall thy son, if such he be, proceed
" To fierce encounters, and in battle bleed?
" No I thou canst weep ! "
" O ! leave me, I entreat ;
" Leave me a moment — we shall quickly meet."
" No ! here I kneel, a beggar, at thy feet." —
He said, and knelt — with accents softer still.
He woo'd the weakness of a failing will
And erring judgment — took her hand and cried,
" Withdraw it not ! — O ! let it thus abide,
" Pledge of thy love — upon thy act depend
" My joy, my hope, — thus they begin or end !
" Withdraw it not." — He saw her looks express'd
Favour and grace — the hand was firmer press'd ;
Signs of opposing fear no more were shown.
And as he press'd, he felt it was his own.
Soon through the house was known the glad
assent,
The night so dreaded was in comfort spent ;
War was no more, the destined knot was tied,
And the fond widow made a fearful bi-ide.
[Originally : —
Such is our tale, and all tliat now remain
Are sad varieties of grief and pain.
The day of love, like an autumnal day,
E'en in its morning hasten'd to decay.
Who gave her hand determined not to give,
Was doom'd in anguish and regret to live ;
Let mortal frailty judge how mortals frail
Thus in their strongest resolutions fail.
And though we blame, our pity will prevail.
Yet with that Ghost — for she so thought— in
view !
When she believed that all he told was true ; —
When every threat was to her mind recall'd,
Till it became affrighten'd and appall'd ; —
AVhen Reason pleaded, Think^! forbear ! refrain !—
And when, though trifling, stood that mystic stain.
Predictions, warnings, threats, were present all in
vain.
Th' exulting youth a mighty conqueror rose,
And who hereafter shall his will oppose ?
Such is our tale : but we must yet attend
Our weak kind widow to her journey's end ; ^
Upon her death-bed laid, confessing to a friend
Her full belief, for to the hour she died
This she profess'd : —
" The truth I must not hide ;
" It was my brother's form, and in the night he
died ;
" In sorrow and in shame has pass'd my time,
" All I have sufier'd follow from my crime :
" I sinn'd with warning — when I gave my hand
" A power within said, urgently, — Withstand 1
" And I resisted — O ! my God, what shame,
" What years of torment, from that frailty came !
" That husband-son ! — I will my fault review —
" What did he not that men or monsters do ?
" His day of love, a brief autumnal day,
" E'en in its dawning hasten'd to decay ;
" Doom'd from our odious union to behold
" How cold he grew, and then how worse than
cold ;
" Eager he sought me, eagerly to shun,
" Kneeling he woo'd me, but he scorn'd me, won ;
•' The tears he caused served only to provoke
'• His wicked insult o'er the heart he broke ;
" My fond compliance served him for a jest,
" And sharpen'd scorn—' I ought to be distress'd ;
" ' Why did I not with my chaste ghost comply ?'
" And with upbraiding scorn he told me why.
" O ! there was grossness in his soul : his mind
" Could not be raised, nor soften'd, nor refined.
" Twice he departed in his rage, and went
" I know not where, nor how his days were spent ;
" Twice he return'd a suppliant wretch, and craved,
'• :Mean as profuse, the trifle I had saved. .
" I have had wounds, and some that never heal,
" What bodies suffer, and what spirits feel ;
" But he is gone who gave them, he is fled
" To his account ! and my revenge is dead :
For he who woo'd so warmly scorn'd lier won,
Baser he sought her, eagerly to shun.
He laugh'd at tears he caused himself to start,
And mock'd the sorrows of a breaking heart ;
While she a sad and sighing slave remaiu'd.
And to the dregs the cup of sorrow drain'd.j
3 I' 2
476
CIIAIJHE'S WORKS.
" Yot is it duty, tlioiii^li with KJinmc, to ^ivo
" My sex a lesson let my story live ;
" For if no giiost the promised visit jxiid.
Still wns a dei-p niid strmif^ im]iressi(>n iniid
" Tliiit wisdom liinl .ipiinived, and pniilriirc I
ohey'd ;
'• 15ut from another Morlil that warnini,' came,
" And, () ! in this be ended all my shame I
" liike the first l)einn <>*' '"y sex I fell,
" Tempted, and with the temiiter liiiil IK) iloiilil e wild,
" ' But hers were good, and so they would remain ;
" ' If not, alas ! who should their wills^ restrain? ' "j
TALES or THE HALL.
481
And by her second husband when controU'd,
Her life was pleasant, though her love was cold ;
" Then let me yield," she said, and with a sigh,
" Let me to wrong submit, with right comply."
Alas ! obedience may mistake, and they
"Who reason not will err when they obey ;
And fated was the gentle dame to find
Her duty wrong, and her obedience blind.
The man was kind, but would have no dispute ;
His love and kindness both were absolute :
She needed not her wishes to express
To one who urged her on to happiness ;
For this lie took her to the lakes and seas ;
To mines and mountains, nor allow'd her ease,
She must be pleased, he said, and he must live to
please.
He hurried north and south, and east and west ;
When age required, they would have time to rest :
He in the richest dress her form array'd,
And cared not what he promised, what he paid ;
She should share all his pleasures as her own.
And see whatever could be sought or shown.
This run of pleasure for a time she bore,
And then affirm'd that she could taste no more :
She loved it while its nature it retain'd.
But, made a duty, it displeased and pain'd :
" Have we not means ?" the joyous husband cried ;
" But I am wearied out," the wife replied :
" Wearied with pleasure ! Thing till now un-
lieard ! —
" Are all that sweeten trouble to be fear'd ?
'T is but the sameness tires you, — cross the seas,
" And let us taste the world's varieties.
" 'T is said, in Paris that a man may live
" In all the luxuries a world can give,
" And in a space confined to narrow bound
" All the enjoyments of our life are found ;
" There we may eat and drink, may dance and
dress,
" And in its very essence joy possess ;
" May see a moving crowd of lovely dames,
" May win a fortune at j'our favourite games ;
" May hear the sounds that ravish human sense,
'' And all without receding foot from thence."
The conquer'd wife, resistless and afraid,
To the strong call a sad obedience paid.
As we an infant in its pain, with sweets
Loved once, now loath'd, torment him till he eats,
s [In the original MS. : —
" Oil !" she cried, " stop, our means will never last ;"
For she had sad remembrance of the past.
" Hence with all carel" the husband cried, " away !
" Ilim have I shiinn'd and hated day by day ;
" Never would I his saucy frown allow,
" And shall I turn and meet the villain now ?
" In all my wants, I found expedients new,
" And my last, best resource, my dear, in you '"]
8 [Here follows in the original MS. : —
Tliese graceful weeds will soon be laid asid(! ;
Exchanged for all the glories of a bride.
Who on the authors of his new distress
Looks trembling with disgusted weariness,
So Harriet felt, so look'd, and seem'd to say,
" O ! for a day of rest, a holiday !"
At length, her courage rising with her fear.
She said, " Our jileasures may be bought too
dear !"
To
thy
this he answer' d — " Dearest ! fr(
heart
" Bid every fear of evil times depart ;
" I ever trusted in the trying hour
" To my good stars, and felt the ruling power ;
" When want drew nigh, his threat'niug speed
was stopp'd,
*' Some virgin aunt, some childless uncle dropp'd ;
" In all his threats I sought expedients new,
" And my last, best resource was found in you."*
Silent and sad the wife beheld her doom,
And sat her down to see the ruin come ;
And meet the ills that rise where money fails.
Debts, threats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and
jails.
These was she spared : ere yet by want op-
press'd.
Came one more fierce that bailiff in arrest ;
Amid a scene where Pleasure never came.
Though never ceased the mention of his name,
The husband's heated blood received the breath
Of strong disease, that bore him to his death.
Her all collected, — whether great or small
The sum, 1 know not, but collected all, —
The widow'd lady to her cot retired.
And there she lives delighted and admired :
Civil to all, compliant and polite.
Disposed to think " whatever is, is right :"
She wears the widow's weeds, she gives
Avidow's mite.
At home a while, she in the autumn finds
The sea an object for reflecting minds.
And change for tender spirits ; there she reads,
And weeps in comfort in her graceful weeds.®
the
What gives our tale its moral ? Here we find
That wives like this are not for rule design'd,
Nor yet for blind submission ; happy they,
Who, while they feel it pleasant to obey,
Have yet a kind companion at their side
Who in their journej' will his power divide,
Or yield the reins, and bid the lady guide ;
There all is chance! for she is form'd to take
The guiding liand, but not a guide to make.
As men of skill the ductile clay command
And warm and soften for the plastic hand,
Till, in each well-form'd feature of the face
He can the work of liis creation trace,
So may the future husband here survey
The mind he models— if he wills he may.
"Women, dear Richard, I orn to be rontroll'd,
Yet love the ensign of the power to hold,
And would the power itself — but, tliis deny,
And they with meek, wellorder'd minds complj
Tyrants, no doubt, if you resign the sway —
If you retain it, willing to obev.]
3q
482
CRAUBE'S WORKS.
'riicii ]i()ints the wonders of the wny, nnd makes
Tile tliity |ilciisiint timt she unilortakcs ;
He shows licr (il)j('cts as tlicy move along,
y\iited, some he rcaart confess
That he should love the noble maiden less.
3 u 2
484
CIIABBES WORKS.
The imroiit's i)rifty sjjirit down.
'' Fortjivc a parent 1-1 may well excuse
" A girl wiu) could perceive such worth and choose
" To make it hers : we must not look to meet
" \\\ we might wish ; — is age itself discreet?
" Where conquest may not be, 't is prudence to re-
treat."
Then, with (he kindness worMly minds assume,
lie praised the seli-prouounced and rigorous
doom ;
He woiKlerM not that one so young should love.
And nuich he wish'd he could the choice approve ;
Much lie lamented such a mind to lose,
And hegg'd to learn if he could aid his views.
If such were form'd — then closed the short ac-
count,
And to a shilling paid the full amount.
So Cecil left tlie mansion, and so flew
To foreign shores, without an interview :
lie must not say, I love — he could not say, Adieu !
I-ong was he absent ; as a guide to youth,
Witli grief contending, and in search of truth,
In courting peace, and trying to forget
What was so deeply interesting yet.
A friend in England gave him all the news,
A sad indulgence that he would not lose :
He told how Ellen suffer'd, how they sent
Tlie mnid from home in sullen discontent,
With some relation on the Lakes to live,
In all the sorrow such retirements give ;
And there she roved among the rocks, and took
Moss from the stone, and pebbles from the brook ;
Gazed on the flies that settled on the flowers.
And so consumed her melancholy hours.
Again he -nTote. — The father then was dead,
And Ellen to her native village fled.
With native feeling — there she oped her door.
Her heart, her purse, and comforted the poor.
The sick, the sad, — and there she pass'd her days.
Deserving much, but never seeking praise.
Her task to guide herself, her joy the fall'n to
raise.
Nor would she nicely faults and merits weigh,
But loved the impulse of her soul t' obey :
The prayers of all she heard, their sutferings
view'd,
Nor turn'd from any save when love pursued ;
For though to love disposed, to kindness prone,
She thought of Cecil, and she lived alone.
Thus heard the lover of the life she pass'd
Till his return, — and he return'd at last ;
Tor he had saved, and was a richer man
Than when to teacli and study he began ;
Something his father left, and he could fly
To the loved country where he wishM to die.
" And now," lie said, " thiH maid with gentle
mind
" May I not hope to meet, as good, os kind,
" As in tlie days when first her friend she knew
" And then could trust — and he indeed is true?
" .She knew my motives, and she must approve
" The man who dared to sacrifice his love
" Ami fondest hopes to virtue: virtuous she,
" Nor can resent that sacrifice in me."
He rcason'd thus, but fear'd, and sought the
friend
In his own country, where his doubts must end :
They then together to her dwelling came,
I And by a servant sent her lover's name,
i A modest youth, whom she before had known,
His favourite then, and doubtless then her own.
They in the carriage hoard the serv'ants speak
At Ellen's door — '• A maid so heavenly meek,
" Who would all pain extinguish I \'et will she
" Pronounce my doom, I feel the certainty I"
" Courage !" the friend exclaim'd ; " the lover's fear
" Grows without ground :" but Cecil would not
hear ;
He scem'd some dreadful object to explore,
And fix'd his fearful eye upon the door.
Intensely longing for reply— the thing
That must to him his future fortune bring ;
And now it brought I like Death's cold hand it
came —
" The lady was a stranger to the name !"
Backward the lover in the carriage fell.
Weak, but not fainting — " All," said he, " is well !
" Return with me — I have no more to seek I"
And this was all the woful man would speak.
Quickly he settled all his worldly views.
And sail'd from home, his fiercer pains to lose
And nurse the milder — now with labour less
He might his solitary world possess.
And taste the bitter-sweet of love in idleness.
Greece was the land he chose ; a mind decay'd
And ruin'd there through glorious ruin stray'd,
There read, and walk'd, and mused. — there loved,
and wept, and pray'd.
Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live.
But gave to study all his mind could give ;
Till, with the dead conversing, he began
To lose the habits of a living man.
Save that he saw some wretched, them he tried
To soothe.— some doubtful, them he strove to
guide ;
Nor did he lose the mind's ennobling joy
Of that new state that death must not destroy ;
What time had done we know not, — Death was
nigh,
To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh.
But hopes more new and strong confirm'd his wish
to die.
Meantime poor Ellen in her cottage thought
" That he would seek her — sure she should be
sought :
" She did not mean — it was an evil hour,
'■ Her thoughts were guardless, and beyond her
power ;
TALES OF THE HALL.
485
" And for one speech, and that in rashness made I
■' Have I no friend to soothe him and persuade ?
" He must not leave me — he again will come,
" And we shall have one hope, one heart, one
home !"
But when she heard that he on foreign ground
Sought his lost peace, hers never more was found ;
But still she felt a varying hope that love
Would all these slight impediments remove. —
" Has he no friend to tell him that our pride
" Kesents a moment and is satisfied ?
" Soon as the hasty sacrifice is made,
" A look will soothe us, and a tear persuade ;
" Have I no friend to say ' Return again,
'• ' Reveal your wishes, and relieve her pain ?' "
"With suffering mind the maid her prospects
view'd.
That hourly varied with the varying mood ;
As pass'd the day, the week, the month, the year,
The faint hope sicken'd, and gave place to fear.
No Cecil came ! — " Come, peevish and unjust !"
Sad Ellen cried, " why cherish this disgust ?
'• Thy Ellen's voice could charm thee once, but
thou
" Canst nothing see or hear of Ellen now !"
Yes ! she was right ; the grave on him was
closed.
And there the lover and the friend reposed.
The news soon reach'd her, and she then replied
In his ovm manner — '' I am satisfied !"
To her a lover's legacy is paid,
The darling wealth of the devoted maid ;
From this her best and favourite books she buys.
From this are doled the favourite charities ;
And when a tale or face affects her heart.
This is the fund that must relief impart.
Such have the ten last years of Ellen been !
Her very last that sunken eye has seen !
That half angelic being still must fade
Till all the angel in the mind be made ;
And now the closing scene will shortly come —
She cannot visit sorrow at her home ;
But still she feeds the hungry, still prepares
The usual softeners of the peasant's cares :
And though she prays not with the dying now.
She teaches them to die, and shows them how.
BOOK XIX.
" Such is my tale, dear Richard, but, that told,
'• I must all comments on the text withhold ;
" What is the sin of grief I cannot tell,
'■ Nor of the sinners who have loved too well ;
" But to the cause of mercy I incline,
" Or, O ! my Brother, what a fate is mine 1"'
1 [" Tin's little story is, we think, one of the most simple,
^'rat-efiit, and pathetic of all Mr. Crabl)e's compositions." —
Wilson.]
WILLIAM BAILEY.
Discourse on Jealousy — Of unsuspicious Men — Visit William
and his Wife— His Dwelling — Story of William and Fanny
— Character of both — Their Contract — Fanny's Visit to an
Aunt — Its Consequences — Her Father's Expectation — His
Death — William a Wanderer— His Mode of Living — The
Acquaintance he forms — Travels across the Kingdom—
Whom he finds — The Event of their Meeting.
The letters Richard in a morning read
To quiet and domestic comforts led ;
And George, who thought the world could not
supply
Comfort so pure, reflected with a sigh ;
Then would pursue the subject, half in play,
Half earnest, till the sadness wore away.
They spoke of Passion's errors. Love's disease,
His pains, afflictions, wrongs, and jealousies ;
Of Herod's vile commandment — that his wife
Should live no more, when he no more had life ;
He could not bear that royal Herod's spouse
Should, as a widow, make her second vows ;
Or that a mortal with his queen should wed,
Or be the rival of the mighty dead.
" Herods," said Richard, " doubtless may be
found,
" But haply do not in the world abound ;
'• Ladies, indeed, a dreadful lot would have,
" If jealousy could act beyond the grave:
" No doubt Othellos every place supply,
" Though every Desdemona does not die ;
" But there are lovers in the world who live
" Slaves to the sex, and every fault forgive."
" I know," said George, " a happy man and
kind,
" Who finds his wife is all he wish'd to find, —
" A mild, good man, who, if he nothing sees,
" Will suff"er nothing to disturb his case ;
" Who, ever yielding both to smiles and sighs,
" Admits no story that a wife denies, —
" She guides his mind, and she directs his eyes.
" Richard, there dwells within a mile a pair
" Of good examples, — I will guide j'ou there :
" Such man is William Bailey, — but his spouse
" Is virtue's self since she had made her vows.
" I speak of ancient stories, long worn out,
" That honest William would not talk about ;
" But he will sometimes check her starting tear,
j •■' And call her self-correction too severe. —
, " In their own inn the gentle pair are placed,
Where you behold the marks of William's taste :
They dwell in plenty, in respect, and peace.
Landlord and lady of the Golden Fleece :
Public indeed their calling, but there come
No brawl, no revel to that decent room;
All there is still, and comely to behoUl.
JHld as the fleece, and pleasant as the gold ;
But, mild and pleasant as they now appear.
They first experienced many a troubled year ;
486
CRAUnK'S \V()|{KS.
" And tliiit, if known, niiglit not cuinMiiinii uur
praise
'' I.ilic tlic snioolli tciioi' 111' tlicir prcsfnt rs sadly walk away ; —
'• So came the hand-like cloud, and with such
power,
" And with such speed, that brought the mighty
shower.
" Him nursed I dying, and we freely spoke
■• Of what might follow the expected stroke ;
" We talk'd of spirits, of their unknown powers,
'' And dared to dwell on what the fate of ours ;
" But the dread promise to appear again,
•• Could it be done, I sought not to obtain ;
" But yet we were presuming, — ' Could it be,'
" He said, ' O Emma ! 1 would come to thee '.'
" At liiH last hc nor fear,
" Nothing remains or cheerful or severe ;
" One day is like the past, the year's sweet prime
" Like the sad fall, — for Itachel heeds not time:
" Nothing remains to agitate her breast,
" Spent is the tempest, and the sky at rest ;
" But while it raged her peace its ruin met,
" And now the sun is on her prospects set ; —
" Leave her, and let us her distress explore,
" She heeds it not — she has been left before."
There were two lads call'd Shelley hither
brought,
But whence we know not — it was never sought ;
Their wandering mother left them, left her name,
And the boys throve and valiant men became :
Handsome, of more than common size, and tall,
And, no one's kindred, seem'd beloved of all :
All seem'd alliance by their deeds to prove.
And loved the youths who could not claim their love.
One was call'd James, the more sedate and grave.
The other Robert — names tlieir neighbours gave ;
They both were brave, but Robert loved to run
And meet his danger — James would rather shun
The dangerous trial, but, whenever tried,
He all his spirit to the act applied.
Robert would aid on any man bestow,
James woidd his man and the occasion know ;
For that was quick and prompt — this temperate
and slow.
Rohert would all things he desired pursue,
James would consider what was best to do ;
All spoke of Robert as a man they loved.
And most of James as valued and approved.
Both had some learning : Robert his acquired
By quicker parts, and was by praise inspired ;
James, as he was in his acquirements slow.
Would learn the worth of what he tried to know.
In fact, this youth was generous — that was just ;
The one you loved, the other you would trust :
Yet him you loved you would for truth approve,
And him you trusted you would likewise love.
Such were the brothers — James had found his
way
To Nether Hall, and there inclined to stay :
He could himself command, and therefore could
obey.
He with the keeper took his daily round,
A rival grew, and some unkindness found ;
But his superior farm'd ! the place was void.
And James guns, dogs, and dignity enjoy'd.
TALES OF THE HALL.
49^
Robert had scorn of service ; he would be
A slave to no man — happy were the free,
And only they : by such opinions led,
Robert to sundry kinds of tra4e was bred ;
Nor let us wonder if he sometimes made
An active partner in a lawless trade ;
Fond of adventure, wanton as the wave,
He loved the danger and the law to brave;
But these were chance-adventures, known to few, —
Not that the hero cared what people knew.
The brothers met not often — When they met,
James talk'd of honest gains and scorn of debt.
Of virtuous labour, of a sober life,
And what with credit would support a wife.
But Robert answer'd, — " How can men advise
" "Who to a master let their tongue and eyes ?
" Whose words are not their own ? whose foot and
hand
" Run at a nod, or act upon command ?
" Who cannot eat or drink, discourse or play,
" Without requesting others that they may?
" Debt you would shun ; but what advice to
give,
" Who owe your service every hour j-ou live !
" Let a bell sound, and from your friends you run,
" Although the darling of your heart were one ;
" But if the bondage fits you, I resign
" You to your lot — I am content with mine !"
Thus would the Lads their sentiments express,
And part in earnest, part in playfulness ;
Till Love, controller of all hearts and ej'es.
Breaker of bonds, of friendship's holy ties,
Awakener of new wills and slumbering sympathies.
Began his reign, — till Rachel, meek-eyed maid,
That form, those cheeks, that faultless face dis-
play'd.
That child of gracious nature, ever neat
And never fine ; a flow'ret simply sweet,
Seeming at least unconscious she was fair ;
Meek in her spirit, timid in her air,
And shrinking from his glance if one presumed
To come too near the beauty as it bloom'd.
Robert beheld her in her father's cot
Day after day, and bless'd his happy lot ;
He look'd indeed, but he could not offend
By gentle looks — he was her father's friend :
She was accustom'd to that tender look,
And frankly gave the hand he fondly took ;
She loved his stories, pleased she heard him play,
Pensive herself, she loved to see him gay.
And if they loved not yet, they were in Love's
highway.
But Rachel now to womanhood was grown,
And would no more her faith and fondness own ;
She call'd her latent prudence to her aid.
And grew observant, cautious, and afraid ;
She heard relations of her lover's guile.
And could believe the danger of his smile ;
With art insidious rival damsels strove
To show how false his speech, how feign'd his
love ;
And though her heart another story told.
Her speech grew cautious, and her manner cold.
Rachael had village fame, was fair and tall,
And gain'd a place of credit at the Hall ;
Where James beheld her seated in that place.
With a child's meekness, and an angel's face ;
Her temper soft, her spirit firm, her words
Simple and few as simple truth afibrds.
James could but love her, — he at church had
seen
The tall, fair maid, had met heron the green,
Admiring, always, nor surprised to find
Her figure often present to his mind ;
But now he saw her daily, and the sight
Gave him new pleasure and increased delight.
But James, still prudent and reserved, though
sure
The love he felt was love that would endure,
Would wait a while, observing what was fit.
And meet, and right, nor would himself commit ;
Then was he flatter'd — James in time became
Rich, both as slayer of the Baron's game
And as protector, — not a female dwelt
In that demesne who had not feign'd or felt
Regard for James ; and he from all had praise
Enough a young man's vanity to raise ;
With all these pleasures he of course must part.
When Rachel reign'd sole empress of his heart.
Robert was now deprived of that delight
He once experienced in his mistress' sight ;
For, though he now his frequent visits paid.
He saw but little of the cautious maid :
The simple common pleasures that he took
Grew dull, and he the wonted haunts forsook ;
His flute and song he left, his book and pen.
And sought the meetings of adventurous men ;
There was a love-born sadness in his breast.
That wanted stimulus to bring on rest ;
These simple pleasures were no more of use.
And danger only could repose produce ;
He join'd th' associates in their lawless trade.
And was at length of their profession made.
He saw connected \^-ith th' adventurous crew
Those whom he judged were sober men and true ;
He found that some, who should the trade pre-
vent,
Gave it by purchase their encouragement ;
He found that contracts could be made with those
Who had their pay these dealers to oppose ;
And the good ladies whom at church he saw
With looks devout, of reverence and awe.
Could change their feelings as they change their
place.
And, whispering, deal for spicery and lace :
And thus the craft and avarice of these
Urged on the youth, and gave his conscience ease.
Rachel, fondly loved,
in absence proved,
gers that she knew,
one so gay might do :
— she had often heard
and nothing wrong ap-
Him loved the maiden
As many a sigh and tear
And many a fear for dan
And many a doubt wliat
Of guilt she thought not.
They bought and sold,
pear'd ;
Her father's maxim this :
There was some ill, — but
she understood
he, she knew, was good
3 s
•19H
CIIABBE'S WORKS,
It was a trnfflo — but wns done by iiiKht—
If wroiip, how trndc? «liy sccrfcy, if right?
Hilt KiilxTt's consciciirc, slu- l)elii'V('(l, was pure —
Ami timt lif rcuil ]\is liihic she wus Hurc.
.Iiiincs, hcttcr taught, in confidi-nrc di'dnrcd
Ills j;rit'f for wliat liis guilty hrothiT dared ;
lit' sigli'd to think how near ho was akiu
To oiR' rcduci'il hy gtxllcss men to sin ;
\Vho, being always of the law in dread,
To other I'rinies were by the danger led —
And erinies with like excuse. — The Smuggler
eries,
'■ Wliat guilt is his who pays for what he buys?"
'i'he Poacher ([uestions, with perverted mind,
" Were not the gifts of Heaven for all design'd ?"
T/iix cries, " I sin not - take not till I pay ;" —
'J'/i(it, " My own hand brought down my proper
prey :"—
And while to such fond arguments they cling,
How fear they God? how honour they the king?
Such men assoeiiite, and each other aid,
Till all are guilty, rash, and desperate made ;
'fill to some lawless deed the wretches fly,
And in the act, or for the acting, die.
The maid was frighten'd, — but, if this was true,
Kobert for certain no such danger knew ;
He always pray'd ere he a trip began.
And was too happy for a wicked man :
How could a creature, who was alwaj's gay,
So kind to all men, so disposed to pray, —
How couKl he give his heart to such an evil way?
Yet slie had fears, — for she could not believe
That James could lie, or purpose to deceive ;
But still she found, though not witliout respect
For one so good, she must the man reject ;
For, simple though she was, full well she knew
What tliis strong friendship led him to pursue ;
And, let the man be honest as the light.
Love warps the mind a little from the right ;
And she proposed, against the trying day.
What in the trial she should think and say.
And now, their love avow'd, in both arose
Fear and disdain, — the orphan pair were foes.
Kobert, more generous of the two, avow'd
His scorn, defiance, and contempt aloud.
James talk'd of pity in a softer tone,
To Kachel speaking, and with her alone :
He knew full well, he said, to what must come
His ^\Tetched brother, what would be his doom :
Thus he her bosom fenced with dread about ;
But love he could not witli his skill drive out.
Still he effected something, — and that skill
Made the love wretched, though it could not kill ;
And Robert fail'd, though much he tried, to prove
He had no guilt — she granted he had love.
Thus they proceeded, till a winter came,
When the stern keeper told of stolen game :
Throughout the woods the poaching dogs had
been.
And from him nothing should the robbers screen.
From him and law, — he would all hazards run,
Kor spare a poacher, were his brother one, —
Love, favour, interest, tic of blood should fail,
Till vengeance bore him bleeding to the jail.
Poor Kachel shudder'd,— smuggling she could
name
Without confusion, for she felt not shame ;
But poa(dier» were her terror, and a wood
Which they frequentcil had been inark'd by blood ;
And though she thought her Itobert was secure
In better thoughts, yet could she not be sure.
James now was urgent, — it would break his
heart
With hope, with her, and with such views to part,
When one so wicked wouhl her hand possess,
And he a brother 1 — that was his distress,
And must be hers. — She heard him, and she
sigh'd.
Looking in doubt, — but nothing she replied.
There was a generous feeling in her mind.
That told her this was neither good nor kind :
James caused her terror, but he did no more —
Her love was now as it had been before.
Their traffic fail'd — and the adventurous crew
No more their profitless attempts renew :
Dig they will not, and beg they might in vain.
Had they not pride, and what can then remain ?
Now was the game destroy'd, and not a hare
Escaped at least the danger of the snare ;
Woods of their feather"d beauty were bereft.
The beauteous victims of the silent theft ;
The well-known shops received a large supply,
That they who could not kill at least might buy.
James was enraged, enraged his lord, and both
Confirm'd their threatening with a vengeful oath :
Fresh aid was sought, — and nightly on the lands_
Walk'd on their watch the strong, determined
bands :
Pardon was offer'd, and a promised pay,
To him who would the desperate gang betray.
Nor fail'd the measure, ^on a certain night
A few were seized — the rest escaped by flight ;
Yet they resisted boldly ere they fled.
And blows were dealt around, and blood was shed ;
Two groaning helpers on the earth were laid.
When more arrived the lawful cause to aid ;
Then four determined men were seized and bound,
And Kobert in this desperate number found :
In prison fetter'd, he deplored his fate.
And cursed the folly he perceived too late.
James was a favourite with his lord, — the zeal
He show'd was such as masters ever feel :
If he for vengeance on a culprit cried.
Or if for mercy, still his lord complied ;
And now, 't was said, he will for mercy plead.
For his own brother's was the guilty deed :
True, the hurt man is in a mending way,
But must be crippled to his dying day.
Now James had vow'd the law should take its
course.
He would not stay it, if he did not force ;
He could his witness, if he pleased, withdraw.
Or he could arm with certain death the law :
TALES OF THE HALL.
499
This he attested to the maid, and true,
If this he could not, yet he much could do.
How suffer'd then that maid ! — no thought she
had,
No view of days to come, that was not sad ;
As sad as life with all its hopes resigned,
As sad as aught but guilt can make mankind.
"With bitter grief the pleasure she review'd
Of early hope, with innocence pursued.
When she began to love, and he was fond and good.
He now must die, she heard from every tongue —
Die. and so thoughtless ! perish, and so young !
Brave, kind, and generous, tender, constant, true —
And he must die — " Then will I perish too !"
A thousand acts in everj' age will prove
Women are valiant in a cause they love ;
If fate the favour'd swain in danger place,
They heed not danger — perils they embrace ;
They dare the world's contempt, they brave their
name's disgrace ;
They on the ocean meet its wild alarms.
They search the dungeon with extended arms ;
The utmost trial of their faith they prove,
And yield the lover to assert their love.
James knew his power — his feelings were not
nice —
Mercy he sold, and she must pay the price :
If his good lord forbore to urge their fate,
And he the utmost of their guilt to state.
The felons might their forfeit lives redeem,
And in their country's cause regain esteem ;
But never more that man, whom he had shame
To call his brother, must she see or name.
Rachel was meek, but she had firmness too.
And reason'd much on what she ought to do :
In Robert's pla<;e, she knew what she should
choose —
But life was not the thing she fear'd to lose :
She knew that she could not their contract break,
Nor for her life a new engagement make ;
But he was man, and guilty, — death so near
jNIight not to his as to her mind appear ;
And he might wish, to spare that forfeit life.
The maid he loved might be his brother's wife.
Although that brother was his bitter foe,
And he must all the sweets of life forego.
This would she try, — intent on this alone,
She could assume a calm and settled tone :
She spake with firmness, — " I will Robert see,
" Know what he wishes, and what I must be ;"
For James had now discover'd to the maid
His inmost heart, and how he must be paid,
If he his lord would soften, and would hide
The facts that must the culprit's fate decide.
" Go not," he said, — for she her full intent
Proclaim'd — to go she purposed, and she went :
She took a guide, and went with purpose stern
The secret wishes of her friend to leam.
She saw him fetter'd, full of grief, alone.
Still as the dead, and he suppress'd a groan
At her appearance. — N o w she pray 'd for strength ;
And the sad couple could converse at length.
It was a scene that shook her to repeat, —
Life fought with love, both powerful, and both
sweet.
" Wilt thou die, Robert, or preserve thy life ?
" Shall I be thine own maid, or James's wife ?"
" His wife ! — No ! — never will I thee resign —
" No, Rachel, no !" — " Then am I ever thine :
" I know thee rash and guilty, — but to thee
" I pledged my vow, and thine will ever be.
" Yet think again, — the life that God has lent
" Is thine, but not to cast away — consent,
" If 't is thy wish ; for this I made my way
" To thy distress — command, and I obey."
" Perhaps my brother may have gain'd thy
heart ?"
" Then why this visit, if I vrish'd to part?
" Was it — ah, man ungrateful ! — wise to make
" Effort like this, to hazard for thj- sake
" A spotless reputation, and to be
" A suppliant to that stern man for thee !
" But I forgive, — thy spirit has been tried,
" And thou art weak, but still thou must decide.
" I ask'd thy brother James, wouldst thou
command,
" Without the loving heart, the obedient hand ?
" I ask thee, Robert, lover, canst thou part
" With this poor hand, when master of the heart ? —
" He answer'd, Yes I — I tarrj' thy reply,
" Resign'd with him to live, content with thee to
die."
Assured of this, with spirits low and tame,
Here life so purchased — there a death of shame ;
Death once his merriment, but now his dread.
And he with terror thought upon the dead :
" O ! sure 't is better to endure the care
" And pain of life, than go we know not where : —
" And is there not the dreaded hell for sin,
" Or is it only this I feel within ?
" That, if it lasted, no man would sustain,
" But would by any cliange relieve the pain :
" Forgive me, love ! it is a loathsome thing
" To live not thine ; but still this dreaded sting
" Of death torments me,— I to nature cling.
" Go, and be his — but love him not, be sure —
" Go, love him not,— and I will life endure :
" He, too, is mortal !" — Rachel deeply sigh'd,
But would no more converse : she had complied.
And was no longer free — she was his brother's
bride.
" Farewell !" she said, with kindness, but not
fond.
Feeling the pressure of the recent bond,
And put her tenderness apart to give
Advice to one who so desired to live :
She then departed, join'd the attending guide.
Reflected— wept — was sad— was satisfied.
James on her worth and virttie could depend, —
He listen'd gladly to her story's end :
3 s 2
500
CRAnilF/S WORKS.
Anniii lio promised Kohcrt'H lif(' to Have,
Anil cliiiinM tlie liainl tliiit slio in payiiiunt gave.
Kohcrt, when (Icatli no loTif^cr was in view,
ScornM wliat was iloiic, Icit coiijil not tliis undo :
'I'lii' day appointed tor the trial near
He view'd witli slianie, and not unmix'il with
four :
James might deceive Idin ; and, if not, the
scliomcs
Of men may fail. — "Can I depeml on'.Iames?"
He might; for now tlic grievous price was
paid —
.Tames to tlie altar led the vietim maiands, jud^ies, men.
' This will he read," I said, ' and I shall hear
Opinion wise, instructive, mild, sincere.
For I that mind respect, for I the man revere.'
" 1 had no boding fear, but thought to see
Those who were thine, wlio look'd for all to thee;
.\nd thou wert all ! there was, when thou wert by,
nilTused around the rare felicity
That wisdom, worth, and kindness can impart.
To form the mind and gratify tlie heart.
" Yes 1 1 was proud to speak of thee, as one
Who had approved the little I h=id done,
.\nd taught me what I should do!— Thou wouldst raise
My doubting spirit by a smile of praise,
.And words of comfort ! great was thy delight
Fear to expel, and ardour to excite.
To wrest th' oppressor's arm, and do the injured right.
" Thon hadst tlie tear for pity, and thy breast
Felt for the sad, tlie weary, tlie oppress'd !
.\nd now, afflicting change I all join with me,
.\nd feel, lamented Komii.i.v, for thee.' J
TALES OF THE HALL.
503
When, troubled long, we find our strength decay'd.
And cannot then recall our better aid ;
For to the mind, ere yet that aid has flown,
Grief has possess'd, and made it all his own ;
And patience suffers, till, with gather'd might,
The scatter'd forces of the soul unite.
But few and short such times of suffering were
In Lucy's mind, and brief the reign of care.
Jane had, indeed, her flights, but had in them
What we could pity, but must not condemn ;
For they were always pure, and oft sublime,
And such as triumph'd over earth and time,
Thoughts of eternal love that souls possess.
Foretaste divine of heaven's owii happiness.
Oft had he seen them, and esteem had sprung
In his free mind for maids so sad and young.
So good and grieving, and his place was high
In their esteem, his friendly brother's nigh.
But yet beneath ; and when he said adieu !
Their tone was kind, and was responsive too.
Parting was painful ; when adieu he cried,
" You will return ?" the gentle girls replied ;
" You must return ! your Brother knows you now,
" But to exist without you knows not how ;
" Has he not told us of the lively joy
" He takes — forgive us — in the Brother-boy ?
" He is alone and pensive ; you can give
" Pleasure to one by whom a number live
" In daily comfort — sure for this you met,
" That for his debtors you might pay a debt :
" The poor are call'd ungrateful, but you still
" Will have their thanks for this — indeed you
wiU."
Eichard but little said, for he of late
Held with himself contention and debate.
" My Brother loves me, his regard I know ;
" But will not such affection weary grow?
" He kindly says, ' Defer the parting day,'
" But yet may wish me in his heart away ;
" Nothing but kindness I in him perceive,
" In me 't is kindness then to take my leave ;
" Why should I grieve if he should weary be ?
" There have been visiters who wearied me ;
" He yet may love, and we may part in peace,
" Nay, in afiTection — novelty must cease —
" Man is but man ; the thing he most desires
" Pleases awhile — then pleases not — then tires :
" George to his former habits and his friends
" Will now return — and so my visit ends."
Thus Eichard communed with his heart ; but
still
He found opposed his reason and his will,
Found that his thoughts were busy in this train,
And he was striving to be calm in vain.
These thoughts were passing while he yet for-
bore
To leave the friends whom he might see no more.
Then came a chubby child and sought relief,
Sobbing in all the impotence of grief;
A full-fed girl she was, with ruddy cheek.
And features coarse, that grosser feelings speak,
To whom another miss, with passions strong.
And slender fist, had done some baby-wrong.
On Lucy's gentle mind had Barlow wrought
To teach this child, whom she had labouring
taught
With unpaid love — this unproductive brain
Would little comprehend, and less retain.
A farmer's daughter, with redundant health.
And double Lucy's weight and Lucy's wealth.
Had won the man's regard, and he with her
Possess'd the treasure vulgar minds prefer ;
A man of thrift, and thriving, he possess'd
What he esteem'd of earthly good the best ;
And Lucy's well-stored mind had not a charm
For this true lover of the well-stock'd farm.
This slave to petty wealth and rustic toil,
This earth-devoted wooer of the soil : —
But she with meekness took the wayward child.
And sought to make the savage nature mild.
But Jane her judgment with decision gave —
" Train not an idiot to oblige a slave."
Ajid where is Bloomer ? Eichard would have
said,
But he was cautious, feeling, and afraid ;
And little either of the hero knew.
And little sought — he might be married too.
Now to his home, the morning visits past,
Eeturn'd the guest — that evening was his last.
He met his Brother, and they spoke of those
From whom his comforts in the village rose ;
Spoke of the favourites, whom so good and kind
It was peculiar happiness to find :
Then for the sisters in their griefs they felt.
And, sad themselves, on saddening subjects dwelt.
But George was willing all this woe to spare,
And let to-morrow be to-morrow's care :
He of his purchase talk'd — a thing of course.
As men will boldly praise a new-bought horse.
Eichard was not to all its beauty blind,
And promised still to seek, with hope to find :
" The price indeed "
" Yes, that," said George, " is high ;
" But if I bought not, one was sure to buj',
" Who might the social comforts we enjoy,
" And every comfort, lessen or destroy.
" We must not always reckon what we give,
" But think how precious 'tis in peace to live;
" Some neighbour Nimrod might in very pride
" Have stirr'd my anger, and have then defied ;
" Or worse, have loved, and teased me to excess
■' Bj' his kind care to give me happiness ;
" Or might his lady and her daughters bring,
" To raise my spirits, to converse, and sing:
" 'T was not the benefit alone I view'd,
" But thought what horrid things I might exclude.
" Some partj" man might here have sat him down,
" Some country champion, railing at the crown.
504
CRAnUKS WORKS.
" Or some true courtier, botli jjrejiarcd to prove,
" Wlio loved not tliciu, could not their country
love:
" If" we liiivc \iiine for our licallli and eiise,
" Should we not buy ofl' eneinius like these ?''
So pnss'd the eveninj^ in a quiet way,
"When, lo ! the morning of the parting day.
F.och to the tahle went with cloudee select
the name wliich, if our Father had himself superintended their Publication, he would have been most
ambitious to connect with them.
We have the honour to be, Sin,
Your grateful and faitliful
Humble Servants,
George Chabbe.
AiKjuM, 183 1. John Crabbe.
ADVERTISEMENT.
ALTtiouGii, in a letter written shortly before his death, Mr. Crabbe mentioned the following pieces as
fully prepared for the press, and to withhold from the public what he had thus described could not
have been consistent witli filial reverence ; yet his executors must confess that, when they saw the first
pages of liis MS. reduced to type, they became very sensible that, had he himself lived to edit these
compositions, he woidd have considered it necessary to bestow on them a good deal more of revision
and correction before finally submitting thorn to the eye of the world. They perceived that his
language had not always efi'ected the complete development of his ideas ; that images were here and
there left imperfect — nay, trains of reflection rather hinted than expressed ; and that, in many places,
thoughts in themselves valuable could not have failed to derive much additional weight and point from
the last touches of his own pen.
Under such circumstances, it was a very great relief to their minds to learn that several persons of
the highest eminence in literature had read these poetical Remains before any part of them was com-
mitted to the printer; and that the verdict of such judges was, on the whole, more favourable than
they themselves had begun to anticipate : — that, in tlie opinion of those whose esteem had formed the
highest honour of tlioir father's life, his fame would not be tarnished by their compliance with the
terms of his literary be(|uest : that, though not so uniformly polislied as some of his previous per-
formances, these Posthumous Essays would still be found to preserve, in the main, the same character-
istics on which his reputation had been established ; nmch of the same quiet humour and keen obser-
vation ; the same brief and vivid description; the same unobtrusive pathos; the same prevailing
reverence for moral truth and rational religion ; and, in a word, not a few *" things which the world
would not willingly let die."
The following verses are therefore at length submitted to the public : not indeed without deep
anxiety, but still with some consitlerable hope that they may be received with a fair portion of favour
now, and allowed to descend to posterity as not, on the whole, unworthy of a place in their Author's
collective works.
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
509
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
TALE I.
SILFOKD HALL; OR, THE HAPPY DAY.
"Within a village, many a mile from town,
A place of small resort and no renown ; —
Save that it form'd a way and gave a name
To SiLroRD Hall,, it made no claim to fame ; —
It was the gain of some, the pride of all.
That travellers stopp'd to ask for Silford Hall.
Small as it was, the place could boast a School,
In which Nathaniel Perkin bore the rule.
Not mark'd for learning deep, or talents rare,
But for his varying tasks and ceaseless care :
Some forty boys, the sons of thrifty men,
He taught to read, and part to use the pen;
"While, by more studious care, a favourite few
Increased his pride — for if the Scholar knew
Enough for praise, say what the Teacher's due ? —
These to his presence, slates in hand, moved on.
And a grim smile their feats in figures won.
This Man of Letters woo'd in early life
The Vicar's maiden, whom he made his wife.
She too can read, as by her song she proves —
The song Nathaniel made about their loves :
Five rosy girls and one fair boy increased
The Father's care, whose labours seldom ceased.
No day of rest was his. If, now and then,
His boys for play laid by the book and pen.
For Lawyer Slow there was some deed to write.
Or some young farmer's letter to indite,
Or land to measure, or, with legal skill.
To frame some yeoman's widow's peevish will ;
And on the Sabbath, when his neighbours dress'd,
To hear their duties and to take their rest — •
Then, when the Vicar's periods ceased to flow,
"Was heard Nathaniel, in his seat below.
Such were his labours ; but the time is come
"When his son Peter clears the hours of gloom,
And brings him aid : though yet a boy, he shares
In staid Nathaniel's multifarious cares.
A king his father, he, a prince, has rule —
The first of subjects, viceroy of the school :
But though a prince within that realm he reigns,
Hard is the part his duteous soul sustains.
He with his father, o'er the furrow'd land.
Draws the long chain in his uneasy hand.
And neatly forms at home, Mhat there they rudely
plann'd.
Content, for all his labour if he gains
Some words of praise, and sixpence for his pains.
Thus many a hungry day the Boy has fared,
And would have ask'd a dinner had he dared.
When boys arc playing, he for hours of school
Has sums to set, and copy-books to rule :
"When all are met, for some sad dunce afraid,
He, by allowance, lends his timely aid —
Taught at the student's failings to connive,
Yet keep his father's dignity alive :
For e'en Nathaniel fears, and might ofiend,
If too severe, the farmer, now his friend ;
Or her, that farmer's lady, who well knows
Her boy is bright, and needs nor threats nor blows.
This seem'd to Peter hard ; and he was loth
T' obey and rule, and have the cares of both —
To miss the master's dignity, and yet
No portion of the schoolboy's play to get.
To him the Fiend, as once to Launcelot, cried,
" Run from thy* wrongs ;" — " Run where ?" his
fear replied :
" Run," said the Tempter; " if but hard thy fare,
" Hard is it now — it mai/ be mended there."
But still, though tempted, he refused to part.
And felt the mother clinging at his heart.
Nor this alone — he in that weight of care
Had help, and bore it as a man should bear.
A drop of comfort in his cup was thrown ;
It was his treasure, and it was his own.
His father's shelves contained a motley store
Of letter'd wealth ; and this he might explore.
A part his mother in her youth had gain'd,
A part Nathaniel from liis club obtain'd,
And part — a well-worn kind — from sire to son
remain'd.
He sought his Mother's hoard, and there he
found
Romance in sheets, and poetry unbound :
Soft Tales of Love, which never damsel read
Fut tears of pity stain'd her virgin bed.
There were Jane Shore and Rosamond the Fair ;
And humbler heroines frail as these were there ;
There was a tale of one forsaken INIaid,
"Who till her death the work of vengeance stay'd ;
>I()
CUAIJIJK'S WDItKS.
Ilor IdViT then at Hpn, wliilo round liiin nfofxl
A dauntless crew, tlie ftUf^ry gliost pursued :
In n small lioat, without an oar or sail,
She rami' to call him, nor wouM force avail.
Nor prayer; but, conscience-stricken, down lie
liapt,
And o'er liis corse the closiii}; billows slept;
All vatiishM then ! but of the crew were some,
'NVonderin^j; whose ghost would on the morrow
come.
A learned Hook was there, and in it srliemes
How to cast Fortunes and interpret Dreams ;
Hallads were tliere of Lover's bliss or bide,
The Kitchen Story, and the Nursery Tale.
His hungry mind disdain'd not humble food,
And reaw ; mirrors l)road and high
" Doubling each terror to the anxious eye ? —
" "1" is strange," thought I'etcr, " that such things
produce
" No fear in her: but there is much in use."
On that reflecting brightness, passing by,
'J"he boy one instant tix'd his restless eye —
And saw himself: he had before descried
His face in one his mother's store sui)plied ;
But here he could his whole dimensions view,
From the pale forehear'ntH, tin; giants of their tribe, whose prey
Arc giants too — a wild ox once a-day ;
Here the fierce tiger, and the desert's kings,
And all that move on feet, or fins, or wings —
Most rare aiii<»UH men ;
" Vainly we strive a fortiiiu' now to f{cf,
" So tiix'il l»y i>rivatc ciainiH arul pulilic dclit."
Slill lio proceeds -'• Yon make your prisons
li^'lif,
" Airy and clean, your r(d)I)ers to invite;
" And in such ways your pity show to vice,
" That you the rogues encourage, and entice."
For lenient measures James had no regard —
" Ilardshij)," lie said, " must work upon the hard :
" Labour and chains such desperate men rccjuire ;
" To soften iron you must use the fire."
Active himself, he labour'd to express,
Tn his strong words, his scorn of idleness ;
From him in vain tiie beggar sought relief —
" ^^'lH) will not labour is an idle thief,
" Stealing from those who will ;" he knew not how
For the untaught and ill-taught to allow.
Children of want and vice, inured to ill,
llnchain'd the passions, and uncurb'd the will.
Alas ! he look'd but to his own affairs,
Or to the rivals in his trade, and theirs :
Knew not the thousands who must all be fed,
Yet ne'er were taught to earn their daily bread :
"Whom crimes, misfortunes, errors only teach
To seek their food where'er within their reach,
"Who for their parents' sins, or for their own,
Are now as vagrants, wanderers, beggars known,
Hunted and hunting through the world, to share
Alms and contempt, and shame and scorn to bear ;
Whom Law condemns, and Justice, with a sigh,
Pursuing, shakes her sword and passes by. —
If to the prison we should these commit,
They for the gallows will be render'd fit.
But James had virtues — was estecm'd as one
\Vhom men look'd up to, and relied upon.
Kind to his equals, social when thcj' met —
If out of spirits, always out of debt ;
True to liis promise, he a lie disdain'd,
And, e'en when tempted in his trade, rcfrain'd ;
Frugal he was, and loved the cash to spare,
(iain'd by much skill, and nursed by constant care ;
Yet liked the social board, and when he spoke,
Some hail'd his wisdom, some enjoy'd his joke.
To him a Brother look'd as one to whom,
If fortune frown'd, he miglit in trouble come :
His Sisters view'd the important man with awe,
.\s if a parent in his place they saw :
All lived in Love ; none sought their private ends:
The Dysons were a Family of Friends.
Tlis brotlier David was a studious boy,
Yet could his sports as well as books enjoy.
K'en when a boy he was not quickly read,
If by the heart you judged him, or the head.
His father thought he was decreed to shine,
And be in time an eminent Divine ;
But if he ever to the Church inclined,
It is too certain that he changed his mind.
He -ipoko of scruples, but ^^lu> knew him best
Attirm'd no scrujilos broke on David's rest.
Physic and I^aw were eacli in turn proposed, —
He weigli'd them nicely, and with I'liysic closed.
He had a serious nir, n smooth address,
And a firm spirit that ensured huccchh.
He «at<-ti'd liis bri-lhren of the time, how they
itusc into fume, that he niiglit clioosc his way.
Some, he observed, a kind of roughness used,
And now their patients banter'd, now abused:
The awe-struck people were at once dismay'd.
As if they begg'd th' advice for which tlicy paid.
There are who hold that no disease is slight,
Who magnify the foe with whom they fight.
The sick was told that his was that disease
But rarely known on mortal frame to seize;
Which only skill profound, and full command
Of all the powers in nature, could withstand.
Then, if he lived, what fame the conquest gave I
And if he died — " No human power could save I"
Mere fortune sometimes, and a lucky case,
Will make a man the idol of a place —
Who last, advice to some fair duchess gave,
Or snatch'd a widow's darling from the grave.
Him first she honours of the lucky tribe,
F'ills him with praise, and woos him to prescribe.
In his own chariot soon he rattles on.
And half believes the lies that built him one.
But not of these was David : care and pain.
And studious toil, prepar'd his way to gain.
At first observed, then trusted, he became
At length respected, and acquired a name.
Keen, close, attentive, he could read mankind.
The feeble body, and the failing mind ;
And if his heart remain'd untouch'd, his eyes,
His air, and tone, with all could sympathise.
This brought him fees, and not a man was he
In weak compassion to refuse a fee.
Yet tliough the Doctor's purse was well supplied,
Though patients came, and fees were multiplied.
Some secret drain, that none presumed to know,
And few e'en guess'd, for ever kept it low.
Some of a patient spake, a tender fair.
Of whom the Doctor took peculiar care.
But not a fee : he rather largely gave,
Isor spared himself, 't was said, this gentle friend
to save.
Her case consumptive, with perpetual need
Still to be fed, and still desire to feed :
An eager craving, seldom known to cease,
And gold alone brought temporary peace.
So, rich he was not ; James some fear express'd.
Dear Doctor David would be yet distress'd ;
For if now poor, when so repaid his skill.
What fate were his if he himself were ill ?
In his religion. Doctor Dyson sought
To teach himself — " A man should not be taught.
" Should not by forms or creeds his mind debase,
" That keep in awe an unreflecting race.''
lie heeded not what Clarke and Paley say.
But thought himself as good a judge as they ;
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
519
Yet to the Church profess'd himself a friend,
And would the rector for his hour attend ;
Nay, praise the learn'd discourse, and learnedly
defend.
For since the common herd of men are blind,
He judged it right that guides should be assign'd ;
And that the few who could themselves direct
Should treat those guides with honour and re-
spect.
He was from all contracted notions freed,
But gave his Brother credit for his creed ;
And if in smaller matters he indulged,
'T was well, so long as they were not divulged.
Oft was the spirit of the Doctor tried.
When his grave Sister wish'd to be his guide.
She told him, " Ail his real friends were grieved
" To hear it said how little he believed :
" Of all who bore the name she never knew
" One to his pastor or his church untrue ;
" All have the truth with mutual zeal profess'd,
" And why, dear Doctor, differ from the rest?"
" 'T is my hard fate," with serious looks replied
The man of doubt, " to err with such a guide."
" Then why not turn from such a painful state ?" —
The doubting man replied, " It is my fate."
Strong in her zeal, by texts and reasons back'd,
In his grave mood the Doctor she attack'd :
CuU'd words from Scripture to announce his doom,
And bade him " think of dreadful things to come."
" If such," he answer'd, " be that state untried,
" In peace, dear JIartha, let me here abide ;
" Forbear t' insult a man whose fate is known,
" And leave to Heaven a matter all its own."
In the same cause the Merchant, too, would
strive ;
He ask'd, " Did ever unbeliever thrive ?
" Had he respect? could he a fortune make ?
" And why not then such impious meu forsake ?"
" Thanks, my dear James, and be assured I feel,
" If not your reason, yet at least your zeal ;
" And when those wicked thoughts, that keep me
poor,
" And bar respect, assail me as before
"^ "With force combin'd, you '11 drive the fiend
away,
" For you shall reason, James, and Martha pray."
But though the Doctor could reply with ease
To all such trivial arguments as these, —
Though he could reason, or at least deride.
There was a power that would not be defied :
A closer reasoner, whom he could not shun.
Could not refute, from whom he could not run ;
For Conscience lived within : she slept, 't is true.
But when she waked, her pangs awaken'd too.
She bade him think ; and as he thought, a sigh
Of deep remorse precluded all reply.
No soft insulting smile, no bitter jest.
Could this commanding power of strength divest.
But with reluctant fear her terrors lie confess'd.
His weak advisers he could scorn or slight,
But not their cause ; for, in their folly's spite.
They took the wiser part, and chose their way
aright.
Such was the Doctor, upon whom for aid
Had some good ladies call'd, but were afraid —
Afraid of one who, if report were just.
The arm of flesh, and that alone. Mould trust.
But these were few — the many took no care
Of what they judged to be his own affair ;
And if he them from their diseases freed.
They neither cared nor thought about his creed :
They said his merits would for much atone.
And only wonder'd that he lived alone.
The widow'd Sister near the Merchant dwelt.
And her late loss with lingering sorrow felt.
Small was her jointure, and o'er this she sigh'd,
That to her heart its bounteous wish denied,
"Which yet all common wants, but not her all, sup-
plied.
Sorrows like showers descend, and as the heart
For them prepares, they good or ill impart ;
Some on the mind, as on the ocean rain.
Fall and disturb, but soon are lost again ;
Some, as to fertile lands, a boon bestow.
And seed, that else had perish'd, live and grow ;
Some fall on barren soil, and thence proceed
The idle blossom, and the useless weed ;
But how her griefs the Widow's heart impress'd.
Must from the tenor of her life be guess' d,
Kigid she was, persisting in her grief,
Fond of complaint, and adverse to relief.
In her religion she was all severe.
And as she was, was anxious to appear.
When sorrow died, restraint usurp'd the place,
And sat in solemn state upon her face ;
Beading she loved not, nor would deign to waste
Her precious time on trifling works of taste ;
Though what she did with all that precious time
We know not, but to waste it was a crime —
As oft she said, when with a serious friend
She spent the hours as duty bids us spend ;
To read a novel was a kind of sin — ■
Albeit once Clarissa took her in ;
And now of late she heard with much surprise,
Novels there were that made a compromise
Betwixt amusement and religion ; these
Might charm the worldly, whom the stories please.
And please the serious, whom the sense would
charm.
And, thus indulging, be secured from harm —
A happy thought, when from the foe we take
His arms, and use them for religion's sake.
Her Bible she perused by day, by night ;
It was her task — she said 't was her delight ;
Found in her room, her chamber, and her pew.
For ever studied, yet for ever new —
All must be new that we cannot retain.
And new we find it when we read again.
The hardest texts she could with ease expound.
And meaning for the most mysterious found.
Knew which of dubious senses to prefer :
The want of Greek was not a want in her : —
520
CRAHBE'S WORKS.
liiHtiiic.tivc lifjjlit no aiil Trom Ilol)r('W needs —
Hut- full (•onviction \vitlu)Ut study breeds;
O'er iiiiirtiil i)(i\v<'rs \>y iiihoru Htren^jtli prevnils,
Wliere Reason treinbli's, iind wliere Leaniiuf; fails.
To the ( liureli strictly from her childhood hred,
She now her zeal with ])art,y-s))irit fed :
For hrother .lames she lively lio|)<;s express'd,
Hut for the Doctor's safety felt ilistress'd ;
Atul her lij^ht Sister, poor, ami deaf, and blind,
Fill'd her with fears of most tremendous kind.
IJiit David mock'd her for tlie i)aiiis she took,
.^iid Fanny };!ive resentment for rebuke ;
AVhile James approved the zeal, and praised the
call,
" That brought," he said, " a blessing on them all :
" Goodness like this to all the House extends,
" For were they not a Family of Friends?"
Their sister Frances, though her prime was past.
Had beauty still — nay, beauty form'd to last ;
'T was not the lily and the rose combined,
Nor must we say the beauty of the mind ;
IJut feature, form, and that engaging air
Tliat lives when ladies arc no longer fair.
Lovers she had, as she remember'd yet.
For who the glories of their reign forget?
Some she rejected in her maiden pride,
And some in maiden hesitation tried.
Unwilling to renounce, unable to decide.
One lost, another would her grace implore,
Till all were lost, and lovers came no more :
Nor had she that, in beauty's failing state,
"Which will recall a lover, or create ;
Hers was the slender portion, that supplied
Her real wants, but all beyond denied.
"When Fanny Dyson reach'd her fortieth year,
She would no more of love or lovers hear ;
But one dear Friend she chose, her guide, her
stay.
Anil to each other all the world were they ;
For all the world had grown to them imkind,
One sex censorious, and the other blind.
The Friend of Frances longer time liad known
The Morld's deceits, and from its follies tlown.
With her dear Friend life's sober joys to sliare
^\'as all that now became her wish and care.
They walk'd together, they conversed and read.
And tender tears for well-fcign'd sorrows shed :
And were so happy in their quiet lives,
They pitied sighing maids and weeping wives.
But Fortune to our state such change imparts.
That Fity stays not long in human hearts ;
When sad for others' woes our hearts are grown,
This soon gives place to sorrows of our own.
There was among our guardian Volunteers
A Major Bright — he rcckon'd fifty years :
A reading man of peace, but call'd to take
His sword and musket for his country's sake ;
Not to go forth and fight, but here to stay.
Invaders, should they come, to chase or slay.
llim had the elder Lady long admired.
As one from vain and trivial things retired ;
With him conversed ; but to a friend 8o dear
(iave not that plea.surc why, is not ho clear ;
But chance effected tliis : the Major now
(iave I>oth the time his iluties would allow;
In walks, in visits, when abrcmd, at liome.
The friendly .Major wouM to cither come.
He never spoke -for he was not a boy--
()f ladies' charms, or lovers' grief and joy ;
.Vll his discourses were of serious kind.
The heart they touch'd not, but they fiU'd the
mind.
Yet— oh, the ])ity ! from this grave good man
The cause of coolness in the Friends began.
The sage Soi)hronia — that the chosen name —
Now more polite and more estranged became.
She could l)ut feel that she had longer known
This valued friend — he was indeed her own ;
But Frances Dyson, to confess the truth.
Had more of softness —yes, and more of youth ;
And though he said such things had ceased to
please,
The worthy Major was not blind to these :
So, without thought, without intent, he paid
More frequent visits to the younger Maid.
Such the offence ; and though the Jlajor tried
To tic again the knot lie thus untied,
His utmost efforts no kind looks repaid, —
He moved no more the ine.'corable maid.
The Friends too parted, and the elder told
Talcs of false hearts, and friendships waxing cold ;
And wonder'd what a man of sense could see
In the light airs of wither'd vanity.
'T is said that Frances now the world reviews,
Unwilling all the little left to lose ;
She and the JIajor on the walks are seen.
And all the world is wondering wliat they mean.
Such were the four whom Captain Elliot drew
To his own board, as the selected few.
For why ? — they seem'd each other to approve.
And call'd themselves a Family of Love.
These were not all : there was a youth beside,
Left to his uncles when his parents died :
A Girl, their sister, by a Boy was led
To Scotland, where a boy and girl may wed —
And they return'd to seek for pardon, pence, and
bread.
Five years they lived to labour, weep, and pray.
When Death in mercy took them both away.
Uncles and aunts received this lively child.
Grieved at his fate, and at his follies smiled ;
But when the child to boy's estate grew on.
The smile was vanish'd, and the pity gone.
Slight was the burden, but in time increased,
Until at length both love and pity ceased.
Then Tom was idle ; he would find his way
To his aunt's stores, and make her sweets his prey :
By uncle Doctor on a message sent,
He stopp'd to play, and lost it as he went.
His grave aunt Martha, with a frown austere,
And a rough hand, produced a transient fear ;
But Tom, to whom his rude companions taught
Lansrnasre as rude, vindictive measures sought :
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
521
He used such words, that, when she wish'd to
speak
Of his offence, she had her words to seek.
The little wretch had call'd her — 't was a shame
To think such thought, and more to name such
name.
Thus fed and beaten, Tom was taught to pray
For his true friends : " But who," said he, " are
they ?"
By nature kind, when kindly used, the Boy
Hail'd the strange good with tears of love and joy ;
But, roughly used, he felt his bosom burn
With wrath he dared not on his uncles turn :
So with indignant spirit, still and strong.
He nursed the vengeance, and endured the wrong.
To a cheap school, far north, the boy was sent :
Without a tear of love or grief he went ;
Where, doom'd to fast and study, fight and play.
He stay'd five years, and wish'd five more to stay.
He loved o'er plains to run, up hills to climb.
Without a thought of kindred, home, or time ;
Till from the cabin of a coasting hoy.
Landed at last the thin and freckled boy,
With sharp keen eye, but pale and hollow cheek,
All made more sad from sickness of a week.
His aunts and uncles felt — nor strove to hide
From the poor boy their pity and their pride :
He had been taught that he had not a friend.
Save these, on earth, on whom he might depend ;
And such dependence upon these he had
As made him sometimes desperate, always sad.
" Awkward and weak, where can the lad be
placed,
" And we not troubled, censured, or disgraced?
" Do, Brother James, th' unhappy boy enrol
" Among your set ; you only can control."
James sigh'd, and Thomas to the Factory went,
Who there his daj's in sundry duties spent.
He ran, he wrought, he wrote — to read or play
lie had no time, nor much to feed or pray.
What pass'd without he heard not — or he heard
Without concern, what he nor wish'd nor fear'd ;
Told of the Captain and his wealth, he sigh'd,
And said, " How well his table is supplied:"
But with the sigh it caused the sorrow fled ;
He was not feasted, but he must be fed.
And he could sleep full sound, though not full soft
his bed.
But still ambitious thoughts his mind possess'd,
And dreams of joy broke in upon his rest.
Improved in person, and enlarged in mind.
The good he found not he could hope to find :
Though now enslaved, he hail'd the approaching
day
When he should break his chains and flee away.
Such were the Dysons : they were first of those
Whom Captain Elliot as companions chose ;
Them he invited, and the more approved,
As it appcar'd that each the other loved.
Proud of their brothers were the sister pair.
And if not proud, yet kind the brothers were.
This pleased the Captain, who had never known,
Or he had loved, such kindred of his own :
Them he invited, save the Orphan lad.
Whose name was not the one his Uncles had ;
No Dyson he, nor with the party came —
The worthy Captain never heard his name ;
Uncles and Aunts forbore to name the boy.
For then, of course, must follow his employ.
Though all were silent, as with one consent.
None told another what his silence meant.
What hers ; but each suppress'd the useless truth.
And not a word was mention'd of the youth.
Familiar grown, the Dysons saw their host,
With none beside them : it became their boast.
Their pride, their pleasure ; but to some it seem'd
Beyond the worth their talents were esteem'd.
This wrought no change within the Captain's
mind :
To all men courteous, he to them was kind.
One day with these he sat, and only these.
In a light humour, talking at his ease :
Familiar grown, he was disposed to tell
Of times long past, and what in them befell —
Not of his life their wonder to attract,
But the choice tale, or insulated fact.
Then, as it seem'd, he had acquired a right
To hear what they could from their stores recite.
Their lives, they said, were all of common kind ;
He could no pleasure in such trifles find.
They had an Uncle — 't is their father's tale —
Who in all seas had gone where ship can sail.
Who in all lands had been where man can live ;
" He could, indeed, some strange relations give,
" And many a bold adventure ; but in vain
" We look for him ; he comes not home again."
" And is it so ? why, then, if so it be,"
Said Captain Elliot, " you must look to me :
" I knew John Dyson" Instant every one
Was moved to wonder — " Knew my Uncle John !
" Can he be rich? be childless? He is old,
" That is most certain. — What ! can more be told ?
" Will he return, who has so long been gone,
" And lost to us ? Oh ! what of Uncle John ?"
This was aside : their unobservant friend
Seem'd on their thoughts but little to attend ;
A traveller speaking, he was more inclined
To tell his story than their thoughts to find.
" Although, my Friends, I love you well, 't is
true,
" "T was your relation turn'd my mind to you ;
" For we were friends of old, and friends like us
are few :
" And though from dearest friends a man will liide
" His private vices in his native pride,
" Yet such our friendship from its early rise,
" We no reserve admitted, no disguise ;
" But 'tis the story of my friend I tell,
" And to all others let me bid farewell.
" Take each your glass, and you shall hear how
John,
" My old companion, through the world has gone ;
" I can describe him to the very life,
" Him and his ways, his ventures, and his wife."
522
CRAIiDE'S WORKS.
" WiCc ! wliisiicrM nil ; " llicii wliiit lii.s lifV-
to us,
" His ways and venlnrps, if lie vcnturcMl tlius?"
'I'liis, too, iipiirf ; yt't wore tlioy nil intent,
And, gravely listening, sigli'd with one consent.
" My friend, your Uncle, was dcsign'd for
trade,
" To make a fortnne ns liis father maile ;
'' Hut early lie jierceived the house decliiU'1'I 'liics Fniiny «ij;li ?
" Or wants slic tlmt wliicli money cannot buy —
" Youtli and yoiiiif; hopes? — Ah! could my kin-
dred sliari!
" The lihernl mind's distress, and daily rare,
" 'I'lie ]uiintid toil to gain tlie ])e(ty fee,
" Tliey 'd hiess their stars, and join to pity mc.
'' Hard is his fate wlio would, witli eager joy,
" To save mankind ids every j)ower emjiioy ;
" Yet In Ids walk uniuimher'd insults meets,
" And pains 'mid scorn tlic food that chokes him
as he oats.
" Oh I Captain Fdliot, you who kiuiw mankind,
" AVith all tlie anguish of the feeling mind,
" Bear to our kind relation these the woes
" That e'en to you 't is misery to disclose.
" You can describe wliat I but faintly trace —
" A man of learning cannot bear disgrace ;
" Kefmenient sliar|)eiis woes that wants create,
" And 't is fresh grief such grievous things to
state ;
" Yet those so near me lot mc not reprove —
'■ I love them well, and they deserve my love ;
■' But want tliey know not — Oh ! that 1 could say
" I am in this as ignorant as they."
The Doctor thus. — The Captain, grave and kind.
To the sad tale witli serious looks inclined,
And promise made to keep th' important speech in
mind.
James and the Widow, how is yet unknown.
Heard of those visits, and would make their own.
All was not fair, they judged, and both agreed
To their good Friend together to proceed.
Forth then tliey went to see him, and persuade —
As warm a pair as ever Anger made.
The Widow Lady must the speaker be :
So James agreed ; for words at will had she :
And then her Brother, if she needed proof,
Should add, " 'T is truth :" — it was for him enough.
" Oh ! sir, it grieves me "— for we need not
dwell
On introduction, all was kind and well : —
" Oh ! sir, it grieves, it shocks us both to hear
" What has, with selfish purpose, gain'd your ear —
" Our very flesh and blood, and, as you know, how
dear.
" Doubtless they came your noble mind t' impress
" With strange descriptions of their own distress ;
" But I would to tlie Doctor's face declare
'■ That he has more to spend and more to spare,
'■ With all his craft, than we with all our care.
" And for our Sister, all she has she spends
" Upon herself; lierself alone befriends.
" She has the portion that our father loft,
" While me of mine a careless wretch bereft,
'■ Save a small part ; yet I could joyful live,
•• Had I my mite — the widow's mite — to give.
'' For this she cares not ; Francos does not know
" Their heartfelt joy, wlio largely can bestow.
'• Y'ou, Captain Elliot, feel the pure delight
" That our kind acts in tender hearts excite,
" When to the poor wo can our alms extend,
•' And make the Father of all C.ood our friend;
" And, I rr-peat, I could with j)lonsurc live,
" Had I my mite — the widow's mite —to give.
" We Bpcnk not thus, dear sir, with vile intent,
" Our nearest friends to wrong or circumvent ;
" But that our Fncle, worthy man 1 shouhi know
" How best his wealth, llcaven's blessing, to
bestow ;
" What widows need, and chiefly those wlio feel
" For all the sufferings which they cannot heal ;
" ,Vnd men in trade, with numbers in their pay,
" Who must be ready for the reckoning-day,
" Or gain or lose !" —
— " Thank Heaven," said James, " as yet
" I 've not been troubled by a dun or debt."
The Widow sigh'd, convinced tliat men so weak
Will ever hurt the cause for which they speak ;
However tempted to deceive, still they
Are ever blundering to the broad highway
Of very truth : — But Martha pass'd it by
With a slight frowu and half-distinguish'd sigh.
" Say to our Uncle, sir, how much I long
" To see him sit his kindred race among :
'■ To hear his brave exploits, to nurse his age,
'■ And cheer him in his evening's pilgrimage ;
'• How were 1 bless'd to guide him in the way
'• Whore the religious poor in secret pray,
'■ To be the humble means by which his heart
" And liberal hand might peace and joy impart !
" But now, farewell !" — And slowly, softly fell
The tender accents as she said " Farewell 1"
The Merchant stretch'd liis hand, his leave to
take.
And gave the Captain's a familiar shake,
Y'et seem'd to doubt if this was not too free ;
But, gaining courage, said, " Remember me."
Some daj's elapsed, the Captain did not ■\vritc.
But still was pleased the party to invite ;
And, as he walk'd, his custom every day,
.\ tall pale stripling met him on his waj',
Who made some efforts, but they proved too weak,
.\nd only show'd he was inclined to speak.
'• What wouldst thou, lad ?" the Captain ask'd, and
gave
The youth a power his purposed boon to crave,
Y^et not in terms direct — '" My name," quoth he,
" Is Thomas Bethel ; you have heard of me ?" —
" Not good nor evil, Thomas — had I need
•' Of so much knowledge : — but pray now pro-
ceed."
" Dyson my mother's name ; but I have not
" That interest with you, and the worse my lot.
" I serve my Uncle James, and run and write,
" And watch and work, from morning until night ;
" Confined among the looms, and webs, and wheels,
" Y'^ou cannot think liow like a slave one feels.
" 'T is said you have a ship at your command, —
" An' please you, sir, I 'm weary of the land ;
" And 1 have read of foreign parts such things
" As make me sick of Uncle's wheels and springs."
" But, Thomas, why to sea ? you look too slim
" For that rough work — and, Thomas, can you
swim ?■'
That he could not, but still he scorn'd a lie,
And boldly answer'd, " No, but I can tiy."
" Well, my good lad, but tell me, can you read ?"
Now, -with some pride he answer'd, " Yes, indeed !
'■ I construe Yirgil, and our usher said^
'' I might have been in Homer had I stay'd,'
" And he was sorrj"^ when I came away,
" And so was I, but Uncle would not paj' ;
" He told the master I had read enough,
" And Greek was all unprofitable stuff;
" So all my learning now is thrown away,
" And I 've no time for study or for play ;
" I 'm order'd here and there, above, below,
" And call'd a dunce for what I cannot know ;
" Oh, that I were but from this bondage free !
" Do, please your honour, let me go to sea."
" But why to sea ? they want no Latin there ;
" Hard is their work, and very hard their fare."
" But then," said Thomas, " if on land, I doubt
" My Uncle Dyson soon would find me out ;
" And though he tells me what I yearly cost,
" 'T is my belief he 'd miss me were I lost.
" For he has said that I can act as well
" As he himself — but this you must not tell."
" Tell, Thomas ! no, I scorn the base design ;
" Give me your hand, I pledge my word with mine ;
" And if I cannot do thee good, my friend,
" Thou mayst at least upon that word depend.
" And hark ye, lad, thy worthy name retain
" To the last hour, or I shall help in vain ;
'■ And then, the more severe and hard thy part,
'• Thine the more praise, and thine the happier art.
" "We meet again — farewell !" — and Thomas went
Forth to his tasks, half angry, half content.
" I never ask'd for help," thought he, " but
twice,
'■ And all they then would give me was advice ;
'■ My Uncle Doctor, when I begg'd his aid,
" Bade me work on, and never be afraid,
" But still be good ; and I 've been good so long,
" I'm half persuaded that they tell me wrong.
" And now this Captain still repeats the same ;
" But who can live upon a virtuous name,
" Starving and praised ? — ' Have patience — pa-
tience still !'
" He said, and smiled, and, if I can, I will."
So Thomas rested with a mind intent
On what the Captain by his kindness meant.
Again the invited party all attend,
These dear relations, on this generous Friend.
They ate, they drank, each striving to appear
Fond, frank, forgiving — above all, sincere.
Such kindred souls could not admit disguise,
Or envious fears, or jiainful jealousies ;
So each declared, and all in turn replied,
" 'T is just indeed, and cannot be denied."
Now various subjects rose, — the country's cause,
The war, the allies, the lottery, and the laws.
The widow'd Sister then advantage took
Of a short pause, and, smiling softly, spoke :
She judged what subject would his mind excite —
" Tell us, dear Captain, of that bloody fight,
" When our brave Uncle, bleeding at his gun,
" Gave a loud shout to see the Frenchmen run."
" Another day," — replied the modest host ;
" One cannot always of one's battles boast.
" Look not surprise — -behold the man in me !
" Another Uncle shall you never see.
" No other Dyson to this place shall come,
" Here end my travels, here I place my home ;
" Here to repose my shatter'd frame I mean,
" Until the last long journey close the scene."
The Ladies softly brush'd the tear away ;
James look'd surprise, but knew not what to say ;
But Doctor Dyson lifted up his voice.
And said, " Dear Uncle, how we all rejoice I"
" No question. Friends ! and I your joy approve ;
" We are, you know, a Family of Love."
So said the wary Uncle, but the while
Wore on his face a questionable smile.
That vanish'd, as he spake in grave and solemn
style : —
" Friends and relations ! let us henceforth seem
" Just as we are, nor of our virtues dream,
" That with our waking vanish. — What we are
" Full well we know — t' improve it be our care.
" Forgive the trial I have made : 't is one
" That has no more than I expected done.
" If, as frail mortals you, my Friends, appear,
" I look'd for no angelic beings here,
" For none that riches spurn'd as idle pelf,
" Or served another as he served himself.
" Deceived no longer, let us all forgive ;
" I 'm old, but yet a tedious time may live.
" This dark complexion India's suns bestow,
" These shrivell'd looks to years of care I owe ;
" But no disease ensures my early doom, — •
" And I may live — ^forgive me — years to come.
" But while I live, there may some good be done,
" Perchance to many, but at least to One."
Here he arose, retired, return'd, and brought
The Orphan boy, whom he had train'd and taught
For this his purpose ; and the happy boy.
Though bade to hide, could ill suppress, his joy.
" This young relation, with your leave, I take,
" That he his progress in the world may make —
" Not in my house a slave or spy to be,
" And first to flatter, tlicn to govern me ; —
" He shall not nurse me when my senses sleep,
" Nor shall the key of all my secrets keep,
" And be so useful, that a dread to part
" Shall make him master of my easy heart ; —
" But to be placed where merit may be proved,
" And all that now impedes his way removed.
" And now no more on these affairs I dwell,
" What I possess, that I alone can tell,
" And to that subject we will bid farewell.
" As go I must, when Heaven is pleased to call,
" What I shall leave will seem or large or small,
62G
CIIAIJUE'S WORKS.
As you slinll viow it. Wlicn tliis imlso is still,
You miiy Ijoliolil my wciiltli, und read my will.
" And now, ns Ciiptniu l",llime Defence.
The Youth was ever dress'd in dai)per style,
Wore spotless linen, and a ceaseless smile;
His step was measured, ami his air was nice —
They bought him high who had liira at the
price
That his own judgment and becoming pride,
And all the merit he assumed, implied.
A life he loved of liberty and case.
And all his pleasant labour was to please ;
Not call'd at present hostile men to slay.
He made the hearts of gentle dames his prey.
Hence tales arose, and one of sad report —
A fond, fair girl became his folly's sport, —
A cottage lass, who " knew the youth would
prove
" For ever true, and give her love for love ;
" Sure when he could, and that would soon be
known,
" He would be proud to show her as his own."
But still she felt the village damsels' sneer.
And her sad soul was fiU'd with secret fear ;
His love excepted, earth was all a void,
And he, the excepted man, her peace destroy'd.
AVhen tlic poor Jane was buried, we could hear
The threat of rustics whisper'd round her bier.
Stories like this were told, but yet, in time.
Fair ladies lost their horror at the crime ;
They knew that cottage girls were forward things,
AVho never heed a nettle till it stings ;
Then, too, the Captain had his fault confess'd,
And scorn'd to turn a murder fo a jest.
Away with murder I — This accomplish 'd swain
Beheld Maria, and confess'd her reign.
She came, invited by the rector's wife,
Who " never saw such sweetness iu her life."
Now, as the rector was the Uncle's friend,
It pleased the Nephew there his steps to bend,
Where the fair damsel then her visit paid.
And seem'd an unassuming rustic maid :
A face so fair, a look so meek, he found
Had pierced that heart no other nymph could
wound,
" Oh, sweet Maria " — so began the Youth
His meditations—'' thine the simple truth I
'• Thou hast no wicked wisdom of thy sex,
■■ No wish to gain a subject-heart — then vex.
" That heavenly bosom no proud passion swells,
" No serpent's wisdom with thy meekness dwells.
" Oh ! could I bind thee to my heart, and live
'• In love with thee, on what our fortunes give 1
•' Far from the busy world, in some dear spot,
" Where Love reigns king, we'd find some peaceful
cot.
J
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
527
" To wed, indeed, no prudent man would choose ;
" But, such a maid will lighter bonds refuse !"
And was this youth a rake ? — In very truth ;
Yet, feeling love, he felt it as a youth :
If he had vices, they were laid aside ;
He quite forgot the simple girl who died ;
With dear 3Iaria he in peace would live.
And what had pass'd, Maria would forgive.
The fair Coquette at first was pleased to find
A swain so knowing had become so blind ;
And she determined, with her utmost skill.
To bind the rebel to her sovereign will.
She heard the story of the old deceit.
And now resolved he should with justice meet ; —
" Soon as she saw him on her hook secure,
" He should the pangs of perjured man endure."
These her first thoughts — but as, from time to
time.
The Lover came, she dwelt not on his crime —
" Crime could she call it ? prudes, indeed, con-
demn
" These slips of youth — ^but she was not of them."
So gentler thoughts arose as, day by day,
The Captain came his passion to display.
When he display'd his passion, and she felt.
Not without fear, her heart began to melt —
Joy came with terror at a state so new ;
Glad of liis truth — if he indeed were true!
This she decided as the heart decides.
Resolved to be the happiest of brides.
" Not great my fortune — hence," said she, "'tis
plain
'• Me, and not mine, dear Youth ! he hopes to
gain :
" Nor has he much ; but, as he sweetly talks,
" We from our cot shall have delightful walks,
" Love, lord within it ! I shall smile to see
" My little cherubs on the father's knee."
Then sigh'd the nymph, and in her fancied lot
She all the mischiefs of the past forgot.
Such were their tender meditations ; thus
Would they the visions of the day discuss :
Each, too, the old sad habits would no more
Indulge ; both dare be virtuous and be poor.
They both had pass'd the year when law allows
Free-will to lover who would fain be spouse :
Yet the good youth his Uncle's sanction sought —
" Mari'y her, Bob ! and are you really caught?
'■ Then you 've exchanged, I warrant, heart for
heart —
" 'T is well ! I meant to warn her of your art :
" This Parson's Babe has made you quite a fool —
" But are you sure your ardour will not cool ?
" Have you not habits. Boy ? but take your
chance !
.' How will you live ? I cannot much advance.
4' But hear you not what through the village
flies,
" That this your dove is famed for her disguise ?
" Yet, say they not, she leads a gayish life ?
'' Art sure she '11 show the virtues of a wife ?"
" Oh, Sir, she 's all that mortal man can love !" —
" Then marry. Bob ! and that the fact will prove ;
" Yet in a kind of lightness folk agree." —
" Lightness in her ! indeed, it cannot be —
" 'T is Innocence alone that makes her manners
free."
" Well, my good friend ! then Innocence alone
" Is to a something like Flirtation prone :
" And I advise — but let me not offend —
" That Prudence should on Innocence attend,
" Lest some her sportive purity mistake,
" And term your angel more than half a rake."
The Nymph, now sure, could not entirely curb
The native wish her lover to disturb.
Oft he observed her, and could ill endure
The gentle coquetry of maid so pure :
Men he beheld press round her, and the Fair
Caught every sigh, and smiled at every prayer :
And grieved he was with jealous pains to see
The effects of all her wit and pleasantry.
" Yet why alarm'd ?" — he said ; " with so much
sense,
" She has no freedom, dashing, or pretence :
" 'T is her gay mind, and I should feel a pride
" In her chaste levities" — he said, and sigh'd.
Yet, when apart from company, he chose
To talk a little of his bosom's woes ;
But one sweet smile, and one soft speech, sup-
press'd
All pain, and set his feeling heart at rest.
Nay, in return, she felt, or feign'd, a fear, —
" He was too lively to be quite sincere ;
" She knew a certain lady, and could name
" A certain time." — So, even was the blame,
And thus the loving pair more deep in love be-
came.
They married soon — for why delay the thing
That such amazing happiness would bring ? — •
Now of that blissful state, O Muse of Hymen ! sing.
Love dies all kinds of death : in some so quick
It comes, he is not previously sick ;
But ere the sun has on the couple shed
The morning rays, the smile of Love is fled.
And what the cause ? for Love should not ex-
pire,
And none the reason of such fate require.
Both had a mask, that with such pains they wore.
Each took it off when it avail'd no more.
They had no feeling of each other's pain ;
To wear it longer had been crime in vain.
As in some pleasant eve we view the scene,
Though cool yet calm, if joyless yet serene, —
Who has not felt a quiet still delight
In the clear, silent, love-befriending night ?
The moon so sweetly bright, so softly fair.
That all but happy lovers would be there, — ■
Thinking there must be in her still domain
Something that soothes the sting of mortal pain :
While earth itself is dress'd in light so clear.
That they might rest contented to be here !
C>-2H
CIIABHES WORKS.
Sur.h is tli<> iiif^ht ; 1)ut wlioii tlic morn nwnkos,
Tlio storm arises, nn reply I in future I decline
" Dispute, and take my way." —
" And I, sir, mine."
Oh ! happy, happy, happy pair I both sought.
Both seeking — catching both, and caught !
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
5-29
TALE IV.
KACHEL.
It chanced we walk'd upon the heath, and met
A wandering woman ; her thin clothing wet
With morning fog : the little care she took
Of things like these was written in her look.
Not pain from pinching cold was in her face,
But hurrying grief, that knows no resting-place, —
Appearing ever as on business sent,
The wandering victim of a fix'd intent ;
Yet, in her fancied consequence and speed,
Impell'd to beg assistance for her need.
"When she beheld my friend and me, with eye
And pleading hand she sought our charity ;
More to engage our friendly thoughts the while.
She threw upon her miseries a smile.
That, like a varnish on a picture laid.
More prominent and bold the figures made ;
Yet was there sign of joy that we complied,
The moment's wish indulged and gratified.
" Where art thou wandering, Rachel ? whither
stray
" From thy poor heath in such unwholesome day ?"
Ask'd my kind friend, who had familiar grown
With Rachel's grief, and oft compassion shown ;
Oft to her hovel had in winter sent
The means of comfort — oft with comforts went.
Him well she knew, and with requests pursued,
Though too much lost and spent for gratitude.
" Where art thou wandering, Rachel? let me
hear." —
" The fleet! the fleet!" she answer'd, "will appear
" Within the bay, and I shall surely know
" The news to-night ! — turn tide, and breezes
blow !
" For if I lose my time, I must remain
" Till the next year before they come again !"
" What can they tell thee, Rachel ?" —
" Should I say,
" I must repent me to my dying day.
" Then I should lose the pension that they give :
" For who would trust their secrets to a sieve ?
" I must be gone !" — And with her wild, but keen
And crafty look, that would appear to mean.
She hurried on ; but turn'd again to say,
" All will be known : they anchor in the bay ;
" Adieu ! be secret ! — sailors have no home :
'■' Blow wind, turn tide ! — Be sure the fleet will
Grown wilder still, the frantic creature strode
With hurried feet upon the flinty road.
On her departing form I gazed with pain —
" And should you not," I cried, " her ways re-
strain ?
" What hopes the wild deluded wretch to meet?
" And means she aught by this expected fleet ?
" Knows she her purpose ? has she hope to see
" Some friend to aid her in her poverty ?
" Why leave her thus bewilder'd to pursue
" The fancy's good, that never comes in view?"
" Nay ! she is harmless, and, if more confined,
" Would more distress in the coercion find.
" Save at the times when to the coast she flies,
" She rests, nor shows her mind's obliquities,
" But ever talks she of the sea, and shows
" Her sympathy with every wind that blows.
" We think it, therefore, useless to restrain
" A creature of whose conduct none complain,
" Whose age and looks protect her, — should they
fail,
" Her craft and wild demeanour will prevail.
" A soldier once attack'd her on her way —
" She spared him not, but bade him kneel and
pray —
" Praying herself aloud : th' astonish'd man
" Was so confounded, that away he ran.
" Her sailor left her, with, perhaps, intent
" To make her his— 't is doubtful what he meant :
" But he was captured, and the life he led
" Drove all such young engagements from his
head.
" On him she ever thought, and none beside,
" Seeking her love, were favour'd or denied ;
" On her dear David she had fix'd her view,
" And fancy judged him ever fond and true —
" Nay, young and handsome — Time could not
destroy —
" No — he was still the same — her gallant boy !
" Labour had made her coarse, and her attire
" Show'd that she wanted no one to admire,
" None to commend her ; but she could conceive
" The same of him as when he took his leave,
" And gaily told what riches he would bring,
" And grace her hand with the symbolic ring.
" With want and labour was her mind subdued ;
" She lived in sorrow and in solitude.
" Religious neighbours, kindly calling, found
" Her thoughts unsettled, anxious, and unsound :
" Low, superstitious, querulous, and weak,
" She sought for rest, but knew not how to seek ;
" And their instructions, though in kindness meant,
" Were far from yielding the desired content.
" They hoped to give her notions of their own,
" And talk'd of ' feelings ' she had never known ;
" They ask'd of her ' experience,' and they bred
" In her weak mind a melancholy dread
" Of something wanting in her faith, of some —
" She knew not what — ' acceptance,' that should
come ;
" And, as it came not, she was much afraid
" That she in vain had served her God and
pray'd.
" She thought her Lover dead. In prayer she
named
" The erring Youth, and hoped he was reclaim'd.
" This she confess'd ; and, trembling, heard them
say
" ' Her prayers were sinful— so the papists pray.
" ' Her David's fate had been decided long,
" ' And prayers and wishes for his state were
wrong.'
3 Y
630
CRABKE'S WORKS.
'• IFnd those lier j^uides unittvl lovp nnd skill,
" 'I'licy iiiij;ht luive ruled ami rectirii'!oiisi'd the Miiiil, luiil slio, in very truth,
I/ovcd, in Culistii's love, the noble youth;
ISot like sweet .luliet, with thnt jmre delight,
I'Ond luiil yi't chaste, enra|>tiircd and yet right;
Psol like the t<'nder Imogen, eontined
To one, but one I the true, the weilded mind ;
True, one proferr'd our sighing nymph as these,
But thought not, like them, one alone could
please.
Time pass'J, nor yet the youthful peer proposed
To end his suit, nor his had Villnrs closed;
Fond hints the one, the other cruel bore ;
Tliat was more cautious, this was kind the more :
Both for soft moments waited- that to take
Of these advantage ; fairly this to make.
Tliesc moments came — or so my Lord believed —
He dropp'd his mask ; and hoth were undeceived.
She saw the vice that would no longer feign,
And he an angry beauty's pure disdain.
Yillars that night liad in my car confessM,
He thought himself her spaniel and her jest.
He saw his rival of his goddess sure,
" But then," he cried, " her virtue is secure ;
" Should he oflend, I haply may obtain
" The high reward of vigilance and pain ;
" Till then I take, and on my bended knee,
" Scraps from the banquet, gleanings of the tree."
Pitying, I smiled ; for I had known the time
Of Love insulted — constancy my crime.
Not thus our friend : for him the morning slione,
In tenfold glory, as for him alone ;
He wept, expecting still reproof to meet,
And all that was not cruel count as sweet.
Back he return'd, all eagerness and joy.
Proud as a prince, and restless as a boy.
He sought to speak, but could not aptly find
■\Vords for his use, they enter'd not his mind ;
So full of bliss, that wonder and delight
Seem'd in those happy moments to unite.
He was like one who gains, but dreads to lose,
A prize that seems to vanish as he views :
And in his look was wildness and alarm —
Like a sad conjuror wlio forgets his charm,
And, when the demon at the call appears,
Cannot command the spirit for his fears :
So Villars seem'd by his own bliss i)erplex'd.
And scarcely^ knowing what would happen next.
But soon, a witness to their vows, I saw
The maiden his, if not by love, by law ;
The bells proclaimed it — merry call'd by those
Who have no foresight of their neighbours' woes.
How proudly show'd the man his lovely bride,
Demurely pacing, pondering, at his side !
While all the loving maids around declared
That faith and constancj' deserved reward.
The bafHetl Lord retreated from the scene
Of so much gladness, with a world of spleen ;
And left the wedded couple, to protest
That he no fear, that she no love possess'd,
That all his vows were scorn'd, and all liis hope a
jest.
Then fell the oakn to let in liglit of day.
Then rose tlie manMion that we now Hurvcy,
Then all the world tlock'd gnily to the scene
Of so much spleinlour, and its Mjilendid rjucen ;
But wiiether all williin the gentle breast
Of him, of hiT, was hapjiy or at rest, —
Whether no lonely sigh confess'd regret,
Was then unknown, ami is a secret yet ;
And we may think, in common duty bound.
That no complaint is made where none is found.
Then came the Rival to his villa down.
Lost to the pleasures of the heartless town ;
Famous he grew, and he invited all
Whom he hail known to banquet at the Hall ;
Talk'd of his love, and saiil, with many a sigh,
" 'T is death to lose her, and I wish to die."
Twice met the parties ; but with cool disdain
In her, in liim with looks of awe and pain.
Villars had pity, and conceived it hard
That true regret should meet with no regard. —
" Smile, my Matilda ! virtue should inflict
" No needless pain, nor be so sternly strict."
The TIall was fumish'd in superior style.
And money wanted from our sister isle ;
The lady-mother to the husband sued — -
" Alas ! that care should on our bliss intrude !
" You must to Ireland ; our possessions there
" Require your presence, nay, demand your care.
'■ My pensive daughter begs with you to sail ;
" But spare your wife, nor let the wish prevail."
He went, and found upon his Irish land
Cases and griefs he could not understand.
Some glimmering light at first his prospect
cheer'd —
Clear it was not, but would in time be clear'd ;
But when his lawyers had their efforts made.
No mind in man the darkness could pervade;
'T was palpably obscure : week after week
He sought for comfort, but was still to seek.
At length, impatient to return, he strove
No more with law, but gave the rein to love ;
And to his Lady and their native shore
Vow'd to return, and thence to tuni no more.
While yet on Irish ground in trouble kept.
The Husband's terrors in his toils had slept ;
But he no sooner touch'd the British soil
Than jealous terrors took the place of toil. —
•• Where has she been? and how attended'? 'NN ho
" Has watch'd her conduct, and will vouch her
true ?
" She sigh'd at parting, but methought her sighs
" Were more profound than would from nature
rise ;
'• And though she wept as never wife before,
" Yet were her eyelids neither swell'd nor sore.
" Her ladj--mother has a good repute,
" As watchful dragon of forbidden fruit ;
" Y'et dragons sleep, and mothers have been
known
•' To guard a daughter's secret as their own ;
'• Nor can the absent in their travel see
•' How a fond wife and mother may agree.
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
533
" Suppose the lady is most virtuous ! — then,
'' What can she know of the deceits of men ?
" Of all they plan she neither thinks nor cares,
'' But keeps, good lady ! at her books and prayers.
" In all her letters there are love, respect,
" Esteem, regret, affection, all correct —
" Too much — she fears that I should see neglect ;
" And there are fond expressions, but unlike
" The rest, as meant to be observed and strike ;
" Like quoted words, they have the show of art,
'' And come not freely from the gentle heart —
" Adopted words, and brought from memory's
store,
" When the chill faltering heart' supplies no
more :
" 'T is so the hypocrite pretends to feel,
" And speaks the words of earnestness and zeal.
" Hers was a sudden, though a sweet consent ;
'■ May she not now as suddenly repent?
" My rival's vices drove him from her door ;
" But hates she vice as truly as before ?
" How do I know, if he should plead again,
" That all her scorn and anger would remain ?
" Oh ! words of folly — is it thus I deem
" Of the chaste object of my fond esteem ?
" Away with doubt ! to jealousy adieu !
" I know her fondness, and believe her true.
" Yet why that haste to furnish every need,
" And send me forth with comfort and with
speed ?
" Yes ; for she dreaded that the winter's rage
" And our frail hoy should on the seas engage.
" But that vile girl ! I saw a treacherous eye
'■ Glance on her mistress ! so demure and sly,
" So forward too — and would Matilda's pride
"■ Admit of that, if there was nought beside ?"
Such, as he told me, were the doubt, the dread,
By jealous fears on observations fed.
Home he proceeded : there remain'd to him
But a few miles — the night was wet and dim ;
Thick, heavy dews descended on the ground.
And all was sad and melancholy round.
While thinking thus, an inn's far-gleaming fire
Caused new emotions in the pensive Squire.
" Here I may learn, and seeming careless too,
" If all is well, ere I my way pursue.
" How fare you, landlord ? — how, my friend, are
all?—
" Have you not seen — my people at the hall ?
" Well, I may judge "
" Oh ! yes, your Honour, well,
" As Joseph knows; and he was sent to tell." —
" How ! sent — I miss'd him — Joseph, do you say ?
" Why sent, if well ? — I miss'd him on the way."
There was a poacher on the chimney-seat,
A gipsy, conjuror, smuggler, stroller, cheat.
The Squire had fined him for a captured hare,
Whipp'd and imprison'd — he had felt the fare,
And he remember'd : " Will your Honour know
" How does my Lady ? that myself can show.
" On Monday early — for your Honour sees
" The poor man must not slumber at his ease,
" Nor must he into woods and coverts lurk,
" Nor work alone, but must be seen to work ;
" 'T is not, your Honour knows, sufficient now
" For us to live, but we must prove it — how.
" Stay, please your Honour, — I was early up,
" And forth without a morsel or a sup.
" There was my Lady's carriage — Whew ! it drove
" As if the horses had been spurr'd by Love."
" A poet, John !" said Villars — feebly said.
Confused with fear, and humbled and dismay'd —
" And where this carriage ? — but, my heart,
enough —
" Why do I listen to the villain's stuff? —
" And where wert thou ? and what the spur of
thine
" That led thee forth ? — we surely may divine !"
" Hunger, your Honour ! I and my poor wife
" Have now no other in our wane of life.
" Were Phoebe handsome, and were I a Squire,
" I might suspect her, and young Lords admire." —
" What ! rascal " — " Nay, your Honour, on
my woi'd,
" I should be jealous of that fine young Lord ;
" Yet him my Lady in the carriage took,
" But innocent — I 'd swear it on the book."
" You villain, swear !" — for still he wish'd to
stay,
And hear what more the fellow had to say.
" ' Phcebe,' said I, ' a rogue that had a heart
" ' To do the deed would make his Honour smart.'
" Saj's Phcebe, wisely, ' Think you, would he go,
" ' If he were jealous, from my Lady ! — No.' "
This was too much ! poor Villars left the inn.
To end the grief that did but then begin.
" With my Matilda in the coach ! — what lies
" Will the vile rascal in his spleen devise ?
" Yet this is true, that on some vile pretence
" Men may entrap the purest innocence.
" He saw my fears — alas ! I am not free
" From every doubt — but, no ! it cannot be."
Villars moved slow, moved quick, as chcck'd by
fear.
Or urged by Love, and drew his mansion near.
Light burst upon him, yet he fancied gloom.
Nor came a twinkling from Matilda's room.
" What then? 'tis idle to expect that all
" Should be produced at jealous fancy's call ;
" How ! the park-gate wide open ! who would
dare
" Do this, if her presiding glance were there ?
" But yet, by chance — I know not what to think,
" For thought is hell, and I 'm upon the brink !
" Not for a thousand worlds, ten thousand lives,
" Would I Oh ! what depends upon our
wives !
" Pains, labours, terrors, all would I endure,
" Yes, all but this — and this, could I be sure."
634
CRAHUE'S WORKS.
.lust tlicii a lit,'lif witliiii (lie wiiiilow hIkiiic,
And sliowM a lady, wi-ciiiiif; mid iiloiu-.
His licnrt bent i'niidly on iiiiiitlicr view,
It bent more stri>ii;;ly, nml in terror too —
It was liis Sister I mid there now uppear'd
A servant ereejiinn like a man tliat t'ear'd.
He spoive witli terror " Sir, did .losepli tell?
" Have you not met liinii'" -
" Is your Lndy well ?"
" "Well? Sir- your Honour "
" Heaven niiil earth! what mean
" Yotir stn]>id etter, written in
1823, the poet says — " In my ' Farewell and Return' I sup-
pose a young maii to take leave of his native place, and to
exchanu'e/(irc(C(//$ with his friends and .icquaintance there-
in short, with as many characters as I have fincied I could
manage. These, and "their several situations and prospects,
being briellv sketched, an interval is supposed to elapse ;
Full fifteen months had pnsf'd, and we began
To have Home hope e'any, consists in the completion, more or less unex-
pected, of tlie history of each person to whom he had origin-
ally bidden farewell."
Tlie reader will find the Tales written on this plan
divided each into two or more sections; and will easily per-
ceive where tlieynrcirt// terminates, and the return begins.]
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
535
And let me seek it ; there 's the world around —
And if not sought it never can be found.
It will not come if I the chace decline ;
Wishes and wants will never make it mine.
Then let me shake these lingering fears away ;
"What one day must be, let it be to-daj' ;
Lest courage fail ere I the search commence,
And resolution pall upon suspense.
Yet while amid these well-known scenes I dwell.
Let me to friends and neighbours bid farewell.
First to our men of wealth — these are but few —
In duty bound I humbly bid adieu.
This is not painful, for they know me not,
Fortune in ditferent states has placed our lot ;
It is not pleasant, for full well I know
The lordly pity that the rich bestow —
A proud contemptuous pity, by whose aid
Their o^^^l triumphant virtues are display'd. —
" Going, you say ; and what intends the Lad ;
" To seek his fortune ? Fortune ? is he mad ?
" Has he the knowledge ? is he duly taught ?
'• I think we know how Fortune should be sought.
'■ Perhaps he takes his chance to sink or swim,
■■ Perhaps he dreams of Fortune's seeking him !
" Life is his lottery, and away he flies,
" Without a ticket, to obtain his prize :
" But never man acquired a weighty sum
■' "Without foreseeing whence it was to come."
Fortunes are made, if I the facts may state, —
Though poor myself, I know the fortunate :
First, there 's a knowledge of the way from whence
Good fortune comes^and that is sterhng sense :
Then perseverance, never to decline
The chace of riches till the prey is thine ;
And firmness, never to be drawn away
By any passion from that noble prey —
By love, ambition, study, travel, fame.
Or the vain hope that lives upon a name."
The whistling Boy that holds the plovigh,
Lured by the tale that soldiers tell,
Resolves to part, yet knows not how
To leave the land he loves so well.
He now rejects the thought, and now
Looks o'er the lea, and sighs " Farewell !
Farewell I the pensive Maiden cries.
Who dreams of London, dreams awake-
But when her favourite Lad she spies.
With whom she loved her way to take,
Then Doubts within her soul arise,
And equal Hopes her bosom shake !
Thus, like the Boy, and like the Maid,
I ^^^sh to go, yet tarry here.
And now resolved, and now afraid :
To minds disturb'd old views appear
In melancholy charms array'd,
And, once indifferent, now are dear.
How shall I go, my fate to learn —
And, oh ! how taught shall I return ?
II.
Yes ! — twenty years have pass'd, and I am come,
Unkno\vn, unwelcomed, to my early home —
A stranger, striving in my walks to trace
The youthful features in some aged face.
On as I move, some curious looks I read ;
We pause a moment, doubt, and then proceed :
They 're like what once I saw, but not the same ;
I lose the air, the features, and the name ;
Yet something seems like knowledge, but the
change
Confuses me, and all in him is strange :
That bronzed old Sailor, with his wig awry —
Sure he will know me ! No, he passes by.
They seem like me in doubt ; but they can call
Their friends around them ! I am lost to all.
The verj' place is alter'd. W'hat I left
Seems of its space and dignity bereft :
The streets are narrow, and the buildings mean ;
Did I, or Fancy, leave them broad and clean ?
The ancient church, in which I felt a pride,
As struck by magic, is but half as wide ;
The tower is sliorter, the sonorous bell
Tells not the hour as it was wont to teU ;
The market dwindles, every shop and stall
Sinks in my view ; there 's littleness in all.
Mine is the error ; prepossess'd I see ;
And all the change I mourn is change in me.
One object only is the same ; the sight
Of the wide Ocean by the moon's pale light,
With her long ray of glory, that we mark
On the wild waves when all beside is dark :
This is the work of Nature, and the eye
In vain the boundless prospect would descry ;
AVhat mocks our view cannot contracted be ;
We cannot lessen what we cannot see.
Would I could now a single Friend behold.
Who would the yet mysterious facts unfold.
That Time yet spares, and to a stranger show
Th' events he wishes, and yet fears, to know.
Much bj' myself I might in listening glean ;
Mix'd with the crowd, unmark'd, if not unseen.
Uninterrupted I might ramble on,
Nor cause an interest, nor a thought, in one ;
For who looks backward to a being toss'd
About the world, forgotten long, and lost ?
For whom departing not a tear was shed.
Who disappear'd, was missing, and was dead !
Save that he left no grave, where some might
pass.
And ask each other who that being was.
I, as a ghost invisible, can stray
Among the crowd, and cannot lose my way ;
My ways are where the voice of man is knoMii,
Though no occasion offers for my owii :
My eager mind to fill with food I seek.
And, like the ghost, await for one to speak.
See I not One whom I before have seen ?
That face, though now untroubled and serene,
5n()
CRABBE'S WORKS.
'I'liat air, tli()ii;,'h Hlciuly now, tliat look, tli()ii;^li
tainc,
Pertain to ono, wlioin tlioiigli I doubt to nnmc,
Yet was lie not a ilasiiiiif^ youth iiiiil wilil,
I'rouil as a man, nml liauntity wlioii a diiid?
'r.ilcuts wciH" liis; 111' was in nature kind.
With lofty, strong;, and indc}>iMid('nt mind;
His rather wealthy, hut, in very truth,
lie was a rash, untamed, expensive youth;
And, as I now reineinl)er tlie report.
Told how his father's money lie would sport:
Yet in his dress and manner now appears
No sif^n of faults that stain'd his earlier years ;
iVIildness there seems, and marks of sober sense,
That bear no token of that wild expense
Such as to ruin leads! — I may mistake,
Y'et may, perchance, a useful friendship make!
He looks as one whom I should not offend,
Address'd as him whom I would make a friend.
Men with respect attend liim. — lie proceeds
To yonder public room — why, then he reads.
Suppose me right — a mighty change is wrought ;
But Time ere now has care and caution taught.
May I address him? And yet, ■why afraid?
Deny he may, but he will not upbraid,
Nor must I lose him, for I want his aid.
Propitious fate ! beyond my hope I find
A being well-inform'd, and much inclined
To solve my many doubts, and ease my anxious
mind.
Now shall we meet, and he will give reply
To all I ask !— How full of fears am I ;
Poor, nervous, trembling ! — What have I to fear ?
Have I a wife, a child, one creature here,
■Whose health would bring me joy, whose death
would claim a tear ?
This is the time appointed, this the place :
Now shall I learn how some have run their race
With honour, some with shame ; and I shall know
How man behaves in Fortune's ebb and flow; —
Wliat wealth or want, what trouble, sorrow, joy,
Have been allotted to the girls and boy
Whom I left laughing at the ills of life, —
Now the grave father, or the awful wife.
Then shall I hear how tried the wise and good !
How fall'n the house that once in honour stood I
And moving accidents, from war and fii'e and flood I
These shall I hear, if to his promise true ;
His word is pledged to tell me all he knew
Of living men ; and memory then will trace
Those who no more with living men have place.
As they w ere borne to their last quiet homes —
This shall 1 learn ! — And lo ! my Teacher comes.
TALK V I I.
[FAiif-wr.M, AND itim;nN.3
TH K sen ()(»I,1F;I,I,<)W.
I.
y Es ! I must leave thee, brother of my heart ;
The world demands us, and at length we j)art :
Thou whom that heart, since first it felt,ai)j)roved —
I thought not why, nor (jucstion'd how, I loved ;
In my first thoughts, first notions, and first cares,
Associate ; partner in my mind's affairs.
In my young dreams, my fancies ill-cxpress'd,
But well-conceivcil, and to the heart address'd.
A fellow-reader in the books I reail,
A fellow-mourner in the tears I shed,
A friend, partaking every grief and joy,
A lively, frank, engaging, generous boy.
At school each other's prompters, day by day
Companions in the frolic or the fray ;
Prompt in disputes — we never sought the cause,
The laws of friendship were our only laws ;
We ask'd not how or wliy the strife began.
But David's foe was foe to Jonathan.
In after-years my Friend, the elder boy.
Would speak of Love, its tumult and its joy ;
A new and strong emotion, thus impress'd.
Prepared for pain to come the yielding breast ;
For though no object then the fancy found.
She dreamt of darts, and gloried at the wound ;
Smooth verse and tender tales the spirit moved,
And ere the Chloes came the Strephons loved.
This is the Friend I leave ; for he remains
Bound to his home by strong but viewless chains :
Nor need I fear that his aspiring soul
Will fail his adverse fortunes to control.
Or lose the fame he merits : yet awhile
The clouds may lower — but then his sun will smile.
Oh! Time, thou teller of men's fortunes, lend
Thy aid, and be propitious to my Friend !
Let me behold him prosperous, and his name
Enroll'd among the darling sons of Fame :
In love befriend him, and be his the bride.
Proud of her choice, and of her lord the pride.
" So shall my little bark attendant sail" —
(As Pope has sung) — and prosperous be the gale !
II.
He is not here : the Youth I loved so well
Dwells in some place where kindred spirits dwell :
But I shall learn. Oh I tell me of my Friend,
With whom I hoped life's evening-calm to spend ;
With whom was spent the morn, the happy morn.
When gay conceits and glorious views are born ;
With whom conversing I began to find
The early stirrings of an active mind.
That, done the tasks and lessons of the day.
Sought for new pleasures in our untried way ;
And stray'd in fairy land, where much we long'd
to stray.
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
537
Here he abides not ! could not surely fix
In this dull place, with these dull souls to mix :
He finds his place where lively spirits meet,
And loftier souls from baser kind retreat.
First, of my early Friend I gave the name,
Well known to me, and, as I judged, to Fame ;
My grave informer doubted, then replied,
" That Lad ! — why, yes ! — some ten years since he
died."
P. — Died ! and unkno\\Ti ! the man I loved so
well!
But is this all ? the whole that you can tell
Of one so gifted ? —
F.— Gifted ! why, in truth,
You puzzle me ; how gifted was the Youth ?
I recollect him, now — his long, pale face —
He dress'd in drab, and walk'd as in a race.
P. Good Heaven! what did I not of him
expect ?
And is this all indeed you recollect —
Of wit that charm'd me, with delightful ease —
And gay good-humour that must ever please—
His taste, his genius ! know you nought of these ?
F. — No, not of these : — but stop ! in passing
near,
I 've heard his flute — it was not much to hear :
As for his genius — let me not ofi'end —
I never had a genius for a friend.
And doubt of yours ; but still he did his best,
And was a decent Lad ; — there let him rest !
He lies in peace, with all his humble race,
And has no stone to mark his burial-place ;
Nor left he that which to the world might show
That he was one that world was bound to know,
For aught he gave it. — Here his story ends !
P. — And is this all? This character my
Friend's !
That may, alas ! be mine "a decent Lad!" —
The very phrase would make a Poet mad !
And he is gone ! — Oh ! proudly did I think
That we together at that fount should drink,
Together climb the steep ascent of Fame,
Together gain an ever-during name.
And give due credit to our native home —
Yet here he lies, without a name or tomb ;
Perhaps not honour'd by a single tear,
Just enter'd in a parish-register,
"With common dust, forgotten to remain :
And shall I seek what thou couldst not obtain —
A name for men when I am dead to speak ? —
Oh ! let me something more substantial seek ;
Let me no more on man's poor praise depend,
But learn one lesson from my buried Friend.
TALE VIII.
[farewell and return.]
BARNABY, THE SHOPMAN.
I.
FAREWEii! to him whom just across my way
I see his shop attending day by day ;
Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes
To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes.
Young though he is, yet careful there he stands,
Opening his shop with his own ready hands ;
Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves,
Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves,
But yet preserves not : in his zeal for trade
He has his shop an ark for all things made ;
And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye,
His sundry wares in strange confusion lie —
Delightful token of the haste that keeps
Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps ;
Yet ere he rests he takes them all away,
And order smiles on the returning day.
Most ready tradesman he of men ! alive
To all that turns to money — he must thrive.
Obsequious, civil, loath t' offend or trust,
And full of awe for greatness — thrive he must ;
For well he knows to creep, and he in time,
By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb.
Painstaking lad he was, and with his slate
For hours in useful meditation sate ;
Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand,
To make him — hard the labour ! — understand :
But when of learning he enough possess'd
For his affairs, who would might learn the rest ;
All else was useless when he had obtain'd
Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain'd.
He envied no man for his learning ; he
Who was not rich was poor with Barnaby :
But he for envy has no thought to spare,
Nor love nor hate — his heart is in his ware.
Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies
In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise !
To him how bright the opening day, how bless'd
The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest !
To him the nation's state is all unknown,
Whose watchful eye is ever on his own.
You talk of patriots, men who give up all,
Yea, life itself, at their dear country's call !
He look'd on such as men of other date.
Men to admire, and not to imitate ;
They as his Bible-Saints to him appear'd,
Lost to the world, but still to be revered.
Yet there 's a Widow, in a neighbouring street.
Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet ;
Hers house and land ; and these are more delight
To him than learning, in the proverb's spite.
The Widow sees at once the Trader's views,
And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse :
3 z
538
CRABBE'S WORKS.
Yet tlierc lire moments when a woman fuils
In such desif^ii, and su tlie man prevails.
Love slie has not, hut, in a (ruardless hour,
May lose lier jiurpose, and resinn lier power;
Yet all such hazard she resolves to run,
Pleased to be woo'd, and fearless to be won.
Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside,
Arc kept and shown to feed a woman's pride.
Old-fasliion'd, u-^ly, call them what she will,
'riiey serve as sij^ns of her importance still.
She tliinks tliey mi^^ht inferior forms adorn.
Anil does not love to liear them used with scorn;
Till on some day when she has need of dress,
And none at hand to serve her in distress,
She takes th' insulted robe, and turns about ;
Lont;-hidden beauties one by one peer out.
'' 'T is not so bad ! See, .Tenny — I declare
" 'T is pretty well, and tlien 't is lasting wear ;
" And wliat is fashion ? — if a woman 's wise,
" She will the substance, not the shadow, prize ;
" 'T is a choice silk, and, if I put it on,
" Off go these ugly trappings every one."
The dress is worn, a friendly smile is raised,
But the good lady for her courage praised —
Till wonder dies. The dress is worn with pride,
And not one trapping yet is cast aside.
^Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews,
And on the seventh he worships Heaven, and woos.
I leave thee, Barnaby ; and if I see
Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be.
II.
But how is this ? I left a thriving man,
Hight Barnaby ! when he to trade began —
Trade his delight and hope ; and, if alive.
Doubt I had none that Barnaby would thrive :
Yet here I see him, sweeping, as before,
The very dust from forth the very door.
So would a miser 1 but, methinks, the shop
Itself is meaner — has he made a stop ?
I thought I should at least a burgess see,
And lo ! 't is but an ohler Barnaby ;
With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare
As coats of his once begging kindred were ;
Brush'd to the thread tliat is distinctly seen,
And beggarly would be, but that 't is clean.
AVhy, how is this ? Upon a closer view,
The shop is narrow'd : it is cut in two.
Is all that business from its station tied ?
AVhy, Barnaby ! thy very shop is dead !
Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate —
And what the fall from that predicted fate.
F. A common cause : it seems his lawful gains
Came slowly forth, and came with care and pains.
These he, indeed, was willing to bestow,
But still his progress to his point was slow,
And might be quicken'd, '* could he cheat the ej-es
" Of all those rascal-officers and spies,
" The Customs' greedy tribe, the wolves of the
Excise."
Tea, coffee, spirits, laces, silks, and Bpicc,
And sundry drugs that bear a noble price,
Arc bought for little, but ere sold, the things
Are deeply charged for cluty of the king's.
Now, if the servants of this king wouhl keep
At a kind ilistanre, or would wink or sleep,
Just till the goods in safety were disposed,
AV'hy, then his labours would be quickly closed.
True I some have thriven, — but they the laws de-
fied,
And shunn'd the powers they should have satis-
fied!
Their way he tried, and, fino sinners fall ? — 't is mercy to mankind.
Adieu! can one so miserable be —
Uicli, wretched man ! — to barter fates with thee?
II.
Yet, ere I go, some notice must be paid
To .liiliu, bis Clerk, a man full sore afraid
Of bis own frailty — many a troubled day
Has be walk'd doul)tful in some close by-way,
Beseeching Conscience on her watch to keep,
Afraid tliat she one day should fall asleep.
A qiuet man was .Tolm : bis mind was slow ;
Little be knew, and little sought to know.
He gave respect to worth, to riches more,
And had instinctive dreabe, 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: —
" 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 Phcebe with a calm " Good night."
So Love like Friendship fell ! The youth a while
Dreamt, sorely moved, of Phoebe's witching
smile —
But learn'd in daylight visions to forego
The Sailor's laughing Lass, the Phoebe of the Row.
Home turn'd young Richard, in due time to
turn,
AVith all old Richard's zeal, the leaves of Burn ;
And home turned Phoebe — in due time to grace
A tottering cabin with a tatter'd race.
TALE XVIII.
[farewell and return.]
THE BOAT-RACE.
I.
The man who dwells where partj'-spirit reigns
INIay feel its triumphs, but must wear its chains ;
He must the friends and foes of party take
For his, and suffer for liis honour's sake ;
When once cnli.Htcil upon either side,
He must the rude scjttcnnial Htorm aliidc —
A Htorm that, when its utmost roge is gone,
In cold and angry mutteringH murmurs on:
[ A slow unbending scorn, a cold clisdain,
Till years liring the full tempest back again.
Witliin our Borough two stiff sailors dwelt,
Who both this party storm and trinmjih felt ;
Men who liad talents, and were both design'd
For better things, but anger made them blind.
In the same j'ear tliey married, and their wives
Had pass'd in friendsliip their yet peaceful lives,
-\nd, as they married in a time of peace,
Had no suspicion that their love must cease.
In fact it did not; hut they mot by stealth,
And that perhaps might keep their love in health ;
Like cliililren watch'd, desirous yet afraid,
Their visits all were with discretion paid.
One Captain, so by courtesy we call
Our 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.
The last in part succeeded — l)ut in part —
For CJiarhx 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 deathbed 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 tliee, do."
With some reluctance, but obedience more,
The weeping youth reflected, sigh'd, and swore ;
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 wTought salvation for his boy.
The female friends their wishes yet retain'd.
But seldom met. hy 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,
Who was both good and graceful, and in truth
Was but too pleasing to th' observing youth ;
And why I know not, but the youtli 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 ?
He doubted this — yet could he that command
Which fathers love, and few its power withstand.
The mothers both agreed their joint request
Should to the Captain jointly be address'd ;
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
557
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,
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 tui'n'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,
" 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 ;
" I to oppose it ever, head and heart ;
" You to a parent made your oath, and I
" To God ! and can 1 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,'! beseech you, let the tale be told.
II.
P. — How fared these lovers ? Many a time I
thought
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.
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 sinnei', took,
" Shall I make void, and yet for mercy look ?"
The women wept ; the men themselves, dis-
tress'd.
The cruel rage of party zeal confess'd :
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 '11 then no longer be
" Free in one sense, but in the better free."
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 :
" If 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 !"
Thus was it fix'd, and fi.x'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 :
" 'T is not expected you should love resign
" For 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 bless'd ;
But when some scruple mixes with our joy,
We love to give the anxious mind employ.
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 '11 have a Race, and colours will devise
" For every boat, for every man a prize :
" 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
Throng'd a vast crowd to see the promised Race.
Mid boats new painted, all with streamers fair.
That tlagg'd or flutter'd in that quiet air —
The Captain's boat that was so gay and ti'im,
That made his pride, and seem'd as proud of
him — ■
658
CRABBE'S WORKS.
Ilrr, in lior beauty, wp minht nil fliscrrn,
llcr ri^igiiij; lunv, and ]>aiiit(Ml on tin- stern,
As one wlio could not in the contest fail,
" Learn of tlir. Utile Nuiilihis to sail."
So fortli tlicy started at the sif^nal K""t
AthI down the river had three leaj^ues to run;
'I'liis sail'd, they then their watery way retrace,
And the first hiiided conijuers in the race.
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.
r. — True ! yet proceed.
/'. — The lovers had some grief
In tliis tlny'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 :
" 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 e'en 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
AVith mightier force and twofold energies.
The deep, broad stream moved softly, all was
hush'd.
When o'er the flood the breeze awakening
brush 'd ;
A sidlcn sound was heard along the deep.
The storm}' spirit rousing from his sleep;
The poritoise rolling on the troubled wave.
Unwieldy tokens of his pleasure gave :
Dark, chilling clouds the troubled deep defoi'm,
And, led by terror, downward rush'd the storm.
As evening came, along the river's side,
Or on the quay, impatient crowds divide.
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
Tlie danger scem'd, and what might be the fate
Of men so toss'd about in craft so small.
Lost 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.
But where the wife, her friend, her daughter,
where ?
Alas ! in grief, in terror, in despair —
At home, abroad, npon the quaj'. 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- tliat ih, we believe,
" And think, and hope " — but this does not
dec(?ive,
Although it soothes them ; while they look around,
Trembling at every sight and every sound.
Let mc not dwell on terrors It is dark.
And lights are carried to and fro, anil hnrk I
There is a cry — " A boat, a boat at hand !"
What a still terror is there now on land 1
" Whose, whose?" they all inquire, and none can
understand.
At lengtli they come and, oh I )iow then rejoice
A wife and children at that welcome voice :
It is not theirs — but wliat have these to tell ?
" Where did you leave the Captain— were they
well?"
Alas ! they know not, they had felt an awe
In dread of death, and knew not what they saw.
Thus tliey depart. — The evening darker grows,
The lights shake wildlj-, 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 I
Once more tliat hope, that dread, that agony,
That j)anting expectation ! " Oh ! reveal
" What must be known, and think what pangs we
feel !"
In vain they ask ! The men now landed speak
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.
To 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.
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 I
Some figure moves upon the ousy bound
Where flows the tide — Oh I 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 lie 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,
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
559
And that preserved him ; when he turn'd around,
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 j'ounger 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 —
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 ;
Till 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 I"
Yet Resignation in the house is seen,
Subdued Affliction, Piety serene.
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 sufi"ering never more shall be.
TALE XIX.
[farewell and return.]
MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD'S LOVE.
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,
Aff"ectionate, reflecting when a child,
With fear instinctive he from harshness fled,
And gentle tears for all who suff"er'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.
Arabian Nights and Persian Tales he read.
And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed.
The long Romances, wild Adventures fired
His 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 shown,
The pride of thousands and the prize of one.
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."
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 fear'd to lose ;
These had no views that could their sins control,
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.
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.
II.
P. — Such was the Boy, and what the man would
be
I might conjecture, but could not foresee.
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 liis judgment guides.
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 ;
jfiO
CllADBE'S WORKS.
lie lias III) visions now, no boyish plans;
All liis (Icsif^ns anil prosjicnts arc tliu man's —
Till' iiiiiii ofsiiiinil (liscrrlioii.
/'. — How so made ?
What coiilil his iniinl to chonge like this per-
siiaile ?
AVluit first awakc'iiM our romantic friend? —
For such he is.
F. — If you would know, attend.
In those gay years, when boys tlieir manhood
prove.
Because they talk of girls, and dream of love,
In William's way there came a maiden fair,
^Villl soft, meek look, and sweet retiring air;
NN'itli just the rosy tint upon her cheek,
"With sparkling eye, and tongue unused to speak ;
M'ith inaiiuor decent, quiet, cliaste, that one,
Modest liimself, might love to look upon.
As William look'd ; and thus tlic gentle Squire
Began the Nymph, albeit poor, t' admire.
Slie was, to wit, the gard'ner's niece ; her place
(iave to lier care the Lady's silks and lace :
With otlicr duties of an easy kind,
iViul 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 tlowers —
Myrtle and rose, of wliich slie took the care,
And was as sweet as pinks and lilies are.
Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld
With passion unencouraged, unrepell'd ;
For how encourage what was not in view ?
Or how repel what strove not to pursue ?
What liooks inspired, or glowing fancy wrought,
Wliat 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
The high-born beauty, changed and — out of place.
That William loved, mamma, with easy smile.
Would jesting say ; but love miyht grow the
while ;
The damsel's self, with unassuming pride,
With love, so led by fear, was gratified.
"VMiat 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
Wild feverish hopes, that tlourish'd, and then
Hed,
Like Fanny's sweetest tlower, and that was lost
In one cold hour, by one harsli morning frost.
In some soft evenings, mid the garden's bloom,
■\Vould 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 oct upon,
When motivcD of superior kind are gone.
There then they met, and Muster William's look
Was the less timid, for he held a book ;
And when the sweetness of i\\(: evening liours.
The fresh soft air, the bi'aiify 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 —
,\nd Fanny rises not to go away.
" Young Paris was the shepherds' pride,
As well the fair vEnone knew ;
They sat the mountain stream beside,
And o'er the bank a i)oplar 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 ;
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,
Aud 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.
By whom such treacherous deeds are done."
The Lines were read, and many an idle word
Pronounced witli emphasis, and underscored,
As if the writer had resolved that all
His 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
.\s if by listening she unfairly dealt :
For she, if not mamma, had rightly guess'd
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 ;
i The Boy o'ertook the damsel as she went
j 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;
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
561
But, or by prudence or by pity moved,
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 ;
But William's eye betray'd the anxious fear ;
The cause unseen !
But who, with giant-stride,
Bovmds o'er the brook, and is at Fanny's side ?
Who takes her arm ? and, oh ! what villain dares
To press those lips ? Not e'en 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.
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 ?"
" 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, —
" We shall be married soon, my pretty Boy !
" And dwell in Madam's cottage, where you '11 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.
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.
TALE XX.
[farewell and return.]
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.
" 'T is for himself each legal pale he breaks ;
" He joins the miser's spirit to the rake's :
" Like the worst Roman in the worst of times,
" He can be guilty of conflicting crimes ;
" Greedy of other's 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 : —
" 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
" Of 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
" 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 '11 make another Will before I sleep :
" But if I hear of some atrocious deed,
" That deed I '11 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 ;
4c
562
CRABHE'S WORKS.
Noh'ttcrs cMiiii' fVoin iiijurcil iiiiiii cir iniiiil,
No bills fVom \^(•al•i('ll duns lliat must lie jinid,
No (iiTcf ii'proaciics IViiin licscilcd fair,
Mix'd witli wild tenderness of di'sperate jirayer ;
So liope rose softly in tlie i>areiit's breast :
lie uld not the ^^Tetch pursue :
She sigh'il to find him false, herself so good and
true.
H
Now all his fears, at least the present, still — -
e talk'd, good man ! about his uncle's will :
All unexpected," he declared, — "surprised
M'as he — and his good uncle ill-advised :
He no such luck had look'd for, he was sure,
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."
nd he has proved it ! all his cares and schemes
ave 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.
Jamca, rcBtlcHS grown - for no xiich mind can
reHt —
Would build a houHe that should Iiih wealtli attest ;
In fact, he saw, in many a doudc-il face,
A certain token of his own disgrace;
And wish'd to overawe the murmurs of the place.
The finish'd building shf)w'd the master's wealth,
Anil noisy workmen drank his Honour's health —
" His and his heirs"— anrl at the thoughtless word
A strange commotion in his bosom sfirr'd.
" Heirs! said the icliots?" — and again that clause
In the strange AVill corrected their a])plausc.
Prophetic fears I 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 provicled — " If my son survive,
He shall inherit :" anil lo I Jack 's alive I
Yes ! he was that lost lad, preserved by fate,
And now was bent on finding his estate.
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
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 lier 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 —
" 'T was the good lady," they were told, and
bow'd.
The merry Seaman much the maid approv'd, —
Nor that alone — he like a seaman loved ;
Loved as a man who did not much complain,
I-oved 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.
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 1 the French were two to
one,
" And so, you see. they were ashamed to run ;
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
567
" 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 ;
" One minute sooner had been better luck :
" 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 :
" Not but that time would come when she must
prove
" That men are men, no matter how they love :" —
And she has proved 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 wTong'd woman pitying man so vile.
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 ;
Feels a keen pang, as he beholds the door
AVhere peace abides, and mutters, — " I am poor V
TALE XXI L
[farem'ell and return.]
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.
Like our Prince Hal, his company he chose
Among the lawless, of restraint the foes ;
But though to their poor pleasui'es 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.
Of stern, strong spirit : him the Youth with-
stood ;
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.
When 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 ?"
" 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
W"hom his strong sense and feeling must condemn,
And in their follies his amusement find,
Y'et 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 j'ou would know the man again ?
Yet hold in mind, he may have felt the press
Of grief or guilt, the withering of distress ;
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 shatter'd 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.
Hilt iniiy I (|ii('Hti()n ? Will \i)ii tliat mIIow?
'riici'o \Mis a ilid'criMicc, iiml there iiiust lie now;
Anil yet, jierniittivl, I vmimM K''"'ly '"-''T
NS'liat must liavi; pawsM in many a ti-oubied year.
F. — Tlien liear my talc ; hut I tlic price de-
mand :
That understood, I too must uny a. rebelljouH race ?
And, in your pride contending with disgrace.
Could you your hunger in your anger lose.
And call the ills you bear the way» you chuosc ?
Thus on myself depending, I began
To feel the pride of a neglerteil man :
Not yet correct, but still 1 could command
Unshaken nerves and a determined hand.
*' Lo ! men at work I I said, " and I, a man,
" Can work I I feel it is my pride, I can."
This said, 1 wanderM 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.
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 fcather'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 the enjoyment ; thus will 1 proceed,
" A man from man's detested favours freed."
Thus 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
" 'NVhat 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 wTought on ; again occurr'd the day.
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 1 for evil days reserved tli' excess.
Such day occurr'd not : quickly came there one.
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 1 had accounts to keep
(M' those vast Works where wonders never sleep,
Where spindles, bobbins, rovings. threads, and
pins.
Made up the complex mass that ever spins.
There, at my desk, in my six feet of room,
I noted every power of every loom ;
POSTHUMOUS TALES.
5G9
Sounds of all kinds I heard from mortal lungs —
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
" Your 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. — 'T is due, I own, but yet in mercy spare :
Alas ! no Uncle was my guide — my care
"Was all my own ; no guardian took a share.
I, like Columbus, for a world unknown —
'T was 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 tovni.
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 miglit be done ; but wonders I have
none.
All my adventures are of Self alone.
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.
It calls to dinner with invjting 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,
Ai\d tliauk our God that we can dine in peace.
570
CRAiinr.'.s WORKS.
APPENDIX.
No. I. INEBRIETY; A POEM.
Pl'HLI.SIIF.D AT IPSWICH, IN 177.").'
The mighty spirit, and its power, which stains ^
The bloodless clicek, and vivifies the brains,
I sing. Say, ye, its fiery vot'ries true,
The jovial curate, and the slirill-tongucd shrew ;
Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst,
Where bowl the second charms like bowl the first ;
Say how, and why, the sparkling ill is shed.
The heart which hardens, and which rules the head.
When winter stern his gloomy front uprears,
A sable void the barren earth appears ;
The meads no more their former verdure boast,
Fast bound their streams, and all their beautj' lost ;
The herds, the flocks, in icy garments mourn.
And wildly murmur for the spring's return ;
From snow-topp'd hills the whirlwinds keenly blow,
Howl through the woods, and pierce the vales below;
Through tlie sharp air a flaky torrent flies.
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies ;
The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,
And shed their substance on the floating air;
The floating air their downy substance glides
Through springing waters, and prevents their tides ;
Seizes the rolling waves, and, as a god,
Charms their swift race, and stops the refluent flood ;
The opening valves, which fill the venal road,
Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood ;
The labouring pulse a slower motion rules,
The tendons stiffen, and the spirit cools ;
F.ach asks the aid of Nature's sister. Art,
To clicer the senses, and to warm the heart.
The gentle fair on nervous tea relies,
Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes ;
An inoftcnsive scandal fluttering round,
Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound ;
Champagne the courtier drinks, the spleen to chase.
The colonel burgundy, and port his grace ;
Turtle and 'rrac the city rulers charm.
Ale and content the labouring peasants warm :
O'er the dull embers, happy Colin sits.
Colin, the prince of joke, and rural wits ;
^ ' For particulars respecting this juvenile production of Mr.
Crabbe, see tmte, p. 7. In the following reprint some couplets
are omitted, but nothing has been altered.
Whilst the wind whistles through the hollow panes,
He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains ;
And tells the tale, from sire to son retold,
Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold ;
Of moon-clad imps tliat tremble by the dew,
Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue :
The throng invisible that, doubtless, float
By mouldering tomljs, and o'er the stagnant moat :
Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain.
And all the dreadful nothing of the green.
Peace be to such, the happiest and the best,
Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest ;
Wlio wage no war with an avenger's rod,
Nor in the pride of reason curse their God.
When in the vaidted arch Lucina gleams,
And gaily dances o'er the azure streams ;
On silent ether when a trembling sound
Reverberates, and wildly floats around,
Breaking through trackless space upon the ear,
Conclude the Bacchanalian rustic near:
O'er hills and vales the jovial savage reels,
Fire in his head and frenzy at his heels ;
From paths direct the bending hero swerves.
And shapes his way in ill-proportioned curves.
Now safe arrived, his sleeping rib he calls,
And madly thunders on the muddy walls ;
The well-known sounds an equal fury move,
For rage meets rage, as love enkindles love :
In vain the waken'd infant's accents shrill,
The humble regions of the cottage fill ;
In vain the cricket chirps the mansion through,
'T is war, and blood, and battle must ensue.
As when, on humble stage, him Satan hight
Defies the brazen hero to the fight :
From twanging strokes what dire misfortunes rise,
What fate to maple arms and glassen eyes !
Here lies a leg of elm. and there a stroke
From ashen neck has whirl'd a head of oak.
So drops from either power, with vengeance big,
A remnant night-cap and an old cut wig ;
* " Tlie mighty Mother, and her son. «ho brings
The Smithtield muses to the ear of kings," Sec.
Poet's DuHcind.
Titles unmusical retorted round,
On cither ear with leaden vengeance sound ;
Till equal valour, equal wounds create.
And drowsy peace concludes the fell debate ;
Sleep in her woollen mantle wraps the pair,
And sheds her poppies on the ambient air ;
Intoxication flies, as fury fled,
On rooky pinions quits the aching head ;
Returning reason cools the fiery blood,
And drives from memory's seat the rosy god.
Yet still he holds o'er some his maddening rule,
Still sways his sceptre, and still knows his fool ;
Witness the livid lip, and fiery front.
With many a smarting trophy placed upon't ;
The hollow eye, which plays in misty springs,
And the hoarse voice, which rough and broken
rings ;
These are his triumphs, and o'er these he reigns,
The blinking deity of reeling brains.
See Inebriety ! her wand she waves.
And lo ! her pale, and lo ! her purple slaves !
Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape,
Of every order, station, rank, and shape :
The king, who nods upon his rattle throne ;
The staggering peer, to midnight revel prone ;
The slow-tongued bishop, and the deacon sly,
The humble pensioner, and gownsman dry ;
The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great.
Swell the dull throng, and stagger into state.
Lo ! proud Flaminius at the splendid board.
The easy chaplain of an atheist lord.
Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of
sense,
And clouds his brain in torpid elegance ;
In china vases, see ! the sparkling ill.
From gay decanters view the rosy rill ;
The neat-carved pipes in silver settle laid.
The screw by mathematic cunning made :
Oh, happy priest ! whose God, like Egypt's, lies
At once the deity and sacrifice.
But is Flaminius then the man alone
To whom the joys of swimming brains are known ?
Lo ! the poor toper whose untutor'd sense.
Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense ; *
Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer
Beyond the muddy ecstasies of beer ;
But simple nature can her longing quench,
Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench :
Some kitchen fire diffusing warmth around.
The semi-globe by hieroglj-phics erown'd ;
Where canvas purse displays the brass enroU'd,
Nor waiters rave, nor landlords thirst for gold ;
Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine.
He asks no limpid punch, no rosy wine ;
But sees, admitted to an equal share,
Each faithful swain the heady potion bear :
Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of taste.
Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest ;
Call vulgar palates what thou judgest so ;
Say beer is heavy, windy, cold, and slow ;
Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence.
Yet cry, when tortured, where is Providence ?
In various forms the madd'ning spirit moves.
This drinks and fights, another drinks and loves.
" Lo the poor IndianI wliose untutor'd mind,
Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind," X;c.
Pope's Essay oh Man.
A bastard zeal, of different kinds it shows,
And now with rage, and now religion glows :
The frantic soul bright reason's path defies.
Now creeps on earth, now triumphs in the skies ;
Swims in the seas of error, and explores.
Through midnight mists, the fluctuating shores ;
From wave to wave in rocky channel glides.
And sinks in woe, or on presumption slides ;
In pride exalted, or by shame deprest.
An angel-devil, or a human-beast.
Some rage in all the strength of folly mad ;
Some love stupidity, in silence clad.
Are never quarrelsome, ai-e never gay.
But sleep, and groan, and drink the night away :
Old Torpio nods, and as the laugh goes round.
Grunts through the nasal duct, and joins the
sound.
Then sleeps again, and, as the liquors pass.
Wakes at the friendly jog, and takes his glass :
Alike to him who stands, or reels, or moves,
The elbow chair, good wine, and sleep he loves ;
Nor cares of state disturb his easy head.
By grosser fumes and calmer follies fed ;
Nor thoughts of when, or where, or how to conio,
The canvass general, or the general doom ;
Extremes ne'er reach'd one passion of his soul,
A villain tame, and an unmettlcd fool ;
To half his vices he has but pretence.
For they usurp the place of common sense ;
To half his little merits has no claim,
For very idolence has raised his name ;
Happy in this, that, under Satan's sway.
His passions tremble, but will not obey.
The vicar at the table's front presides,
Whose presence a monastic life derides ;
The reverend wig, in sideway order placed.
The reverend band, by rubric stains disgraced.
The leering eye, in wayward circles roU'd,
Mark him the pastor of a jovial fold.
Whose various texts excite a loud applause.
Favouring the bottle, and the good old cause.
See ! the dull smile which fearfully appears,
When gross indecency her front uprears.
The joy conceal'd, the fiercer bums within.
As masks afford the keenest gust to sin ;
Imagination helps the reverend sire.
And spreads the sails of sub-divine desire ;
But when the gay immoral joke goes round,
When Bhame and all her blushing train are
drown'd,
Rather than hear his God blasphemed, he takes
The last loved glass, and then the board forsakes.
Not that religion prompts the sober thought.
But slavish custom has the practice taught ;
Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion
Has a true Levite bias for promotion.
Vicars must with discretion go astray.
Whilst bishops may be damn'd the nearest way :
So puny robbers individuals kill,
When hector-heroes murder as they will.
Good honest Curio elbows the divine,
And strives a social sinner how to shine ;
The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthen'd talo.
That Wilton farmers give you with their ale.
How midnight ghosts o'er vaults terrific pass.
Dance o'er the grave, and slide along the grass ;
Or how pale Cicely within the wood
Call'd Satan forth and bargain'd with her blood :
4 D 2
672
CRABBE'S WORKS.
ThcBc, lidncHt C'urio, nro tli'mc, nnd these
Are tliu (lull treasures oC a lirnin iit peace;
No %vit intoxicntea tliy gciith? Hkiill,
Of heavy, native, unwrought fully full :
15(i\v! upon lidwl in viiiii exert llicir force,
The lirciillrmjj; spiiit lakes a ilowiiwanl course,
Or vainly soariiiK UjiMards to the head,
Meets an ini|ien<'tral)le fence of lead.
Ilnst thou, oh reailer ! search'd o'er gentle Oay,
^VIlere various animals their powers display ?
In one strange group a chattering race are hurl'd,
Led by the monkey who had seen the world.
Like him Fabrieio steals from guardian's side,
Swims not in pleasure's stream, but sips the tide;
lie hates the bottle, yet but thinks it right
To boast next day the honours of the night;
None like your coward can describe a fight.
See him as down tlie sparkling potion goes,
Labour to grin away tlie horrid dose ;
In joy-fcign'd gaze his misty eyeballs float,
Th' uncivil spirit gurgling at his throat;
So looks dim Titan through a VNintry scene,
And faintly cheers tlie woe-foreboding swain.
Timon, limg practised in the school of art,
Has lost each finer feeling of the heart ;
Triumphs o'er shame, and, with delusive wiles
Laughs at the idiot he himself beguiles :
So matrons past the awe of censure's tongue,
Deride the blushes of the fair and young.
Few with more fire ou every subject spoke,
But chief he loved the gay immoral joke ;
The words most sacred, stole from holy writ,
He gave a newer form, and call'd them wit.
Vice never had a more sincere ally,
So bold no sinner, yet no saint so sly ;
Learn'd, but not wise, and without virtue brave,
A gay, deluding philosophic Irnave.
When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire,
They stir a new, but still a false desire ;
And to the comfort of each untaught fool,
Horace in English vindicates the bowl.
" The man," says Timon, " who is drunk is
blest,*
" No fears disturb, no cares destroy his rest ;
" In thoughtless joy ho reels owny liis life,
*' Nor dreadH that worst of iIIh, a noihy wife."
" Oh ! place me, Jove, where ntine but women come,
" And tliunderH worse than thine afflict the room,
" Where one et
To piles laborious science rear'd
For heroes brave, or tyrants fear'd ;
But quit Philosophy, and see
The Fountain of her works in Thee.
Fond man ! yon glassy mirror eye — -
Go, pierce the fiood, and there descry
The miracles that float between
The rainy leaves of wat'ry green ;
Old Ocean's hoary treasures scan ;
See nations swimming round a span.
Then wilt thou say — and rear no more
Thy monuments in m3'stic lore —
My God ! I quit my vain design,
And drop my work to gaze on Thine :
Henceforth I '11 frame myself to be,
Oh, Lord ! a monument of Thee.
THE WISH.
Aldbwough, 1778.
Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts !
The full design, complete in all its parts.
Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells the soul —
When swell'd too much, the judgment to control-
The happy ear that feels the flowing force
Of the smooth line's uninterrupted course ;
Give me, oh give ! if not in vain the prayer,
That sacred wealth, poetic worth to share —
Be it my boast to please and to improve.
To warm the soul to virtue and to love ;
To paint the passions, and to teach mankind
Our greatest pleasures are the most refined ;
The cheerful talc with fancy to rehearse.
And gild the moral with the charm of verse.
THE COMPARISON.
Parham, 177S.
Friendship is like the gold refined.
And all may weigh its worth ;
Love like the ore, brought undesign'd
111 virgin beauty forth.
Friendship may pass from age to age.
And yet remain the same ;
Love must in many a toil engage.
And melt in lambent flame.
GOLDSMITH TO THE AUTHOR.
" Fflix quern faciunt aliena pericula cautuni."
Aldborough, 1778.
You 're in love with the Muses ! Well, grant it be
true,
When, good Sir, were the Muses cnamour'd of you ?
Eead first, — if my lectures your fancy delight, —
Your taste is diseased : — can your cure be to ivrite '?
You suppose you 're a genius, that ought to engage
The attention of wits, and the smiles of the age :
Would the wits of the age their opinion make
known.
Why — every man thinks just the same of liis own.
You imagine that Pope — but yourself you beguile —
Would have wrote the same things, had he chose
the same style.
Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope, —
Had he chose the same style, he had never been
Pope.
You think of mi/ Muse with a friendly regard.
And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward ;
But let not his glory your spirits elate.
When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.
FRAGMENT.
" Lord, what is man, that tliou art miiull'iil of liim ?"
Aidbunmgli, 1778.
Proud, little Man, opinion's slave.
Error's fond child, too duteous to be free,
Say, from the cradle to the grave,
Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for
thee ?
574
CRAUBE'S WORKS.
This nlobc thnt ttiriis theo, on her iigilc whucl
Moves by (liH'p 8])i'iiigs, which thou canst ncvur
IVci :
Her tliiy nnd night, her centre and her sun,
riitrnceil hy tliee, tlu'ir a.inunl courses run.
A busy f\y, tliou sliarest tlie march divine.
And fhitlciing fancy calls the motion thine:
I'ntaught how soon some lianging grave may
burst,
And join thy flimsy substance to the dust.
THE RESURRECTION.
Aldhorough, 1778.
The wintry winds have ceased to blow,
And trembling leaves ajjpear ;
And fairest flowers succeed the snow,
And hail the infant year.
So, wlien the world and all its woes
Are vanish'd far away,
Fair scenes and wonderful repose
Shall bless the new-born day, —
AVhen, from the confines of the grave.
The body too shall rise ;
No more precarious passion's slave.
Nor error's sacrifice.
'T is but a sleep — and Sion's king
^ViIl call the many dead :
'T is but a sleep — -and then we sing,
O'er dreams of sorrow fled.
Yes! — wintrj' winds have ceased to blow.
And trembling leaves appear,
And nature has her types to show-
Throughout the varying year.
MY BIRTH-DAY.
Aldhorough, Dec. 2-1, 1778.
Through a dull tract of woe, of dread.
The toiling year has pass'd and fled :
And, lo ! in sad and pensive strain,
I sing my birth-day date again.
Trembling and poor, T saw the light.
New waking from unconscious night :
Trembling and poor, 1 still remain
To meet unconscious night again.
Time in my patliway strews few flowers.
To cheer or cheat the weary hours ;
And those few strangers, dear indeed.
Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.
TO ELIZA.
Beccles, 1779.
The Hebrew king, with spleen possest.
By David's harp was soothed to rest ;
Yet, when the magic song wan o'er,
The soft dcliiHion ehurm'd no more:
'i'he fonner fury fired the brain,
And every care return'd again.
But had he known Eliza's skill
To bless the sense and bind the will.
To bill the gloom of care retire.
And fan the flame of fond desire,
Remembrance then had kept the strain.
And not a care return'd again.
LIFE.
Al'Ux/rough, 1779.
TriiNK ye the joys that fill our early day.
Are the ]>oor prelude to some full repast?
Think you they promise ? — ah I believe they paif ;
The purest ever, they are j)ft the last.
The jovial swain that yokes the morning team,
And all the verdure of the field enjfiys.
See him, how languid ! when the noontide beam
Plays on liis brow, and all his force destroys.
So't is with us, when, love and pleasure fled.
We at the summit of our hill arrive :
Lo ! the gay lights of Youth are past — are dead.
But what still deepening clouds of Care sur-
vive !
THE SACRAMENT.
Aldhorough, 1779.
I SACRED gift of God to man,
A faith that looks above.
And sees the deep amazing plan
Of sanctifying love.
Thou dear and yet tremendous God,
Whose glory pride reviles ;
How did'st thou change thy awful rod
To pard'uing grace and smiles 1
Shut up with sin, with shame, below,
I trust, this bondage past,
A great, a glorious change to know,
And to be bless'd at last.
1 do believe, that, God of light !
Thou didst to earth descend.
With Satan and with Sin to fight —
Our great, our only friend.
I know thou did'st ordain for me.
Thy creature, bread and wine ;
The depth of grace I cannot see.
But worship the design.
NIGHT.
Aldhorough, 1779.
The sober stillness of the night,
That fills the silent air,
And all that breathes along the shore,
Invite to solemn prayer.
APPENDIX.
575
Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord !
Which points the saci-ed way,
And let thy creatures here below
Instruct me how to pray .
FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
Aldhoroiigh, 1779,
Oh, great Apollo ! by whose equal aid
The verse is -smtten, and the med'cine made ;
Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers.
In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours ?
Insulting quack ! on thy sad business go,
And land the stranger on this world of woe.
Still I pass on, and now before me find
The restless ocean, emblem of my mind ;
There wave on wave, here thought on thought suc-
ceeds,
Their produce idle works, and idle weeds :
Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea,
But not more dark than my sad views to me ;
Yet from the rising moon the light beams dance
In troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse ;
So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright,
The Muse pours comfort in a flood of light. —
Shine out, fair flood ! until the day-star flings
His brighter rays on all sublunar things.
" Why in such hast ? by all the powers of wit,
I have against thee neither bond nor WTit ;
If thou 'rt a poet, now indulge the flight
Of thy fine fancy in this dubious light ;
Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme,
And all things meet to fonn the true sublime," —
" Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place,
With abject rhj-mes a doctor's name disgrace ?
Nor doctor solely, in the healing art
I 'm all in all, and all in every part ;
Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be
Which gave me right to claim the golden fee :
Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due,
For mine th' advice and operation too ;
And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe,
I make myself the med'cines I prescribe ;
iline, too, the chemic art ; and not a drop
Goes to my patients from a vulgar shop.
But chief my fame and fortune I command
From the rare skill of this obstetric hand :
This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow,
With her wlio calls me from thy wonder now,"
TIME.
WRITTEN IN LONDON, FEBRUARY, 1780.
'' The clock struck one ! we take no tliouglit of
Time,"
Wrapt up in night, and meditating rhyme :
All l)ig with vision, we despise the powers
That vulgar beings link to days and hours ;
Those vile, mechanic things, that rule our hearts.
And cut our lives in momentary parts.
" That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift," said
Young :
.\.h. Doctor I better Time would Iiold his tongue :
What serves the clock ? " To warn the careless crew
How much in little space they have to do ;
To bid the busy world resign their breath.
And beat each moment a soft call for death —
To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man."
Support the assertion. Doctor, if you can :
It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait;
It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate ;
It tells my heart the paralysing tale.
Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail.
THE CHOICE.
WRITTEN IN LOKDON, FEBRUARY, 1780.
What vulgar title thus salutes the eye, — ■
The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy ?
The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse,
For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse ;
The duU description of a scribbler's brain.
And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain ;
A glowing chart of fairy-land estate.
Romantic scenes, and ^^sions out of date,
Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober
bowers.
Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming
flowers ?
Not thus ! too long have I in fancy wove
My slender Mebs of wealth, and peace, and love ;
Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want,
And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant ;
Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again.
And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain !
" Gain by the ]Muse ! " — alas I thou might'st as soon
Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon ;
As soon grow rich by ministerial nods.
As soon divine by dreaming of the gods.
As soon succeed by telling ladies truth,
Or preaching moral documents to youth :
To as much purpose, mortal I thy desires
As Tully's flourishes to countrj' squires ;
As simple truth within St. James's state.
Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate.
" Gain by the Muse ! " alas, preposterous hope !
Who ever gained by poetry — but Pope ?
And what art thou ? No St. John takes thy part ;
No potent Dean commends thy head or heart !
What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor ?
Thejf bribe no milkman to thy lofty door,
They \^ipe no scrawl from thy increasing score.
What did the iluse, or Fame, for Dryden, say ?
What for poor Butler ? what for honest Gay 'i
For Thomson, what ? or what to Savage give ?
Or how did Johnson — how did Otway live ?
Like thee ! dependent on to-morrow's good,
Their thin revenue never understood ;
Like thee, elate, at \\ hat thou canst not know ;
Like thee, repining at each puny blow ;
Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,
Upon their wits — but with a larger stock.
No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r,
With supple acts to supple minds repair;
Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal,
And deck thee with the livery genteel ;
Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite,
Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write.
570
CRABBE'S WORKS.
Writers, whom once fh' astonisliM viilgnr siiw,
(;ive nations lunf;iuinc, niid f;reiit cities law;
Wliom Rods, llu-y suid — and surely gods — in-
spired,
\Vtioni enip'rors liononr'd, nnd tlio world ndmirtMl —
N(»\v ('oninion (;ro\vn, they iiwc nmiikind no more,
But vussiiIh lire, who jiidj^cs were liet'ore :
ISIoekheads on wits tlieir little talents waste,
As tiles t;iiaw metal that they rannot tnstc ;
'I'hoiinh still some j^ood the trial may produrc,
To shape the usel'id to a nohler use.
Some few of these, a statue and a stone
Has Fame decreed — but deals out bread to none.
Unhappy art ! decreed thine owner's curse,
\'ile diaj^nostic of consumptive j)urse :
Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,
<;amesters l)y luck, by courage soldiers rise :
Beaux by the outside of tlieir heads may win.
And wily sergeants by the craft within ;
Who l»ut the race, by Fancy's demon led,
Starve liy the menus they use to gain their brca*! ?
Oft have I read, ami, rending, moum'd the fat«
Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;
Of children stinted in their daily rneal I —
The joke of wealthii'r wits, who could not feel;
Portentous spoke that l>ity in my breast 1
And pleaded self — who ever plead.s the best :
No ! thank my stars, my misery 's all my own, —
To friends — to family — to foes unknown :
Who hates my verse, and damns the mean TRODrCTORY ADDRESS OF THK AUTIIOn TO
HIS POEMS.
Malta quidpm nobis facimus mala Sippe poeta?,
(I't vineta cyomet cMpdam raea) cum tilii libriim
Sollicito damus, aut lesso, }te. IIoR. Lib. ii. Ep. 1.
Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care,
■Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where ?
As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote.
On the fair typo, or the embroider'd coat ;
Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly
"Where princely Popes and mighty Miltoxs lie?
Taught but to sing, and that in simple style.
Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile ; —
Go then ! and taste a yet unfelt distress.
The fear that guards the captivating press ;
Wliosc maddening region should ye once explore,
No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more.
But thus ye '11 grieve. Ambition's plumage stript,
" Ah, would to Heaven, we 'd died in manuscript ! "
Your unsoil'd page each yaw ning wit shall flee,
— For few will read, and none admire like me. —
Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe,
Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmorc's
.lob ;
Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform.
Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm ;
Then sent disgraced — the unpaid printer's bane —
To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane,
On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire,
Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire,
Who half reluctant has his care resign'd.
Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind.
Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth,
View the strange land, and tell us of its worth ;
And should he there barbarian usage meet.
The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat.
And thou, the first of thy eccentric race,
A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place.
Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard.
Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard ;
Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize.
The Muses yield, as the Hcsperides;
Who bribes the guardian, all his labour 's done,
For every maid is willing to be won.
Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand.
And beg our passage through the fairy land :
Beg more — to search for sweets each blooming
field.
And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield ,
To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow ;
And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow;
Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop.
Soothe without fear, and without trembling, hope.
' [For particuUtrs rospectin:,' the original edition of this Poem, see ante, p. 15.]
APPENDIX.
577
TO THE READEK.
The following Poem being itself of an introductory
nature, its author supposes it can require but
little preface.
It is published with a view of obtaining the
opinion of the candid and judicious reader on the
merits of the writer as a poet ; very few, he
apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently im-
partial to decide for themselves.
It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthly
Review, as to critics of acknowledged merit ; an
acquaintance with whose labours has afforded the
writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to
them in particular, and, he presumes, will yield to
others a just and sufficient plea for the preference.
Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be
much surprised to find he has mistaken his talent.
However, if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity,
he promises to his readers some entertainment, and
is assured that however little in the ensuing Poem
is worthy of applause, there is yet less that merits
contempt.
TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY
REVIEW.
The pious pilot, whom the Gods provide,
Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide,
Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep.
Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep ;
But whilst with nicest skill he steers his way.
The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray.
Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome.
The God relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb.
Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer,
I dread the storm that ever rattles here,
Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul
Has felt the Muse's soft but strong control,
Nor think enough that manly strength and ease,
Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please ;
But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow.
Here burn my incense, and here pay my vow ;
That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er.
And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no more.
And ye, whom authors dread or dare in vain.
Affecting modest hopes, or poor disdain,
Receive a bard, who, neither mad nor mean,
Despises each extreme, and sails between ;
"Who fears ; but has, amid his fears confess'd,
The conscious virtue of a Muse oppress'd ;
A Muse in changing times and stations nursed,
By nature honour'd, and by fortune cursed.
No servile strain of abject hope she brings.
Nor soars presumptuous, with unwearied wings,
But, pruned for flight — the future all her care —
Would know her strength, and, if not strong, for-
bear.
The supple slave to regal pomp bows down,
Prostrate to power, and cringing to a crown ;
The bolder villain spurns a decent awe.
Tramples on rule, and breaks through every law ;
But he whose soul on honest truth relies.
Nor meanly flatters power, nor madly flies.
Thus timid authors bear an abject mind.
And plead for mercy they but seldom find.
Some, as the desperate, to the halter run.
Boldly deride the fate they cannot shun ;
But such there are, whose minds, not taught to
stoop.
Yet hope for fame, and dare avow their hope.
Who neither brave the judges of their cause,
N«r beg in soothing strains a brief applause.
And such I 'd be ; — and ere my fate is past.
Ere clear'd with honour, or with culprits cast,
Humbly at Learning's bar I '11 state my case,
And welcome then distinction or disgrace !
When in the man the flights of fancy reign.
Rule in the heart, or revel in the brain.
As busy Thought her wild creation apes.
And hangs delighted o'er her varying shapes.
It asks a judgment, weighty and discreet.
To know where wisdom prompts, and where con-
ceit ;
Alike their draughts to every scribbler's mind
(Blind to their faults as to their danger blind) ; —
We write enraptured, and we write in haste.
Dream idle dreams, and call them things of taste,
Improvement trace in every paltry line.
And see, transported, every dull design ;
Are seldom cautious, all advice detest,
And ever think our o's^ti opinions best ;
Nor shows my Muse a muse-like spirit here,
Who bids me pause, before I persevere.
But she — who shrinks while meditating flight
In the wide way, whose bounds delude her sight,
Yet tired in her own mazes still to roam.
And cull poor banquets for the soul at home.
Would, ere she ventures, ponder on the way.
Lest dangers yet unthought-of flight betray ;
Lest her Icarian wing, by wits unplumed.
Be robb'd of all the honours she assumed ;
And DuLness swell, — a black and dismal sea,
Gaping her grave ; while censures madden me.
Such was his fate, who flew too near the sun,
Shot far beyond his strength, and was undone ;
Such is his fate, who creeping at the shore
The billow sweeps him, and he 's found no more.
Oh ! for some God, to bear my fortunes fair
Midway betwixt presumption and despair !
" Has then some friendly critic's former blow
" Taught thee a prudence authors seldom know ? "
Not so ! their anger and their love untried,
A woe-taught prudence deigns to tend my side :
Life's hopes ill-sped, the Muse's hopes grow poor,.
And though they flatter, yet they charm no more ;
Experience points where lurking dangers lay.
And as I run, throws caution in my way.
There was a night, when wintry winds did rage,
Hard by a ruin'd pile, I meet a sage ;
Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd.
Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard ;
4 E
678
CRABIJE'S WORKS.
\\ liosc riilc-liippM lirow, tlio IkU's iiiid boctlc'a
Shook, IIS the huntcil owl flew liootiiif; home.
1 1 is hrenst wiis bronzctl by lunny an eiistcrn blnst,
Ami fourscore winters seeniM lit! to have jmst ;
llis thread bare eoat tlie suiiiile osier Ixunul,
Anil with slow feet he jiressM the sodden ground,
Mhere, as he liearil the wiUl-wing'd Eurus blow,
lie shook, from locks as white, December's snow;
Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease,
But lock'd within him meditated peace.
Father, I sold — for silver hairs ins])ire,
And oft I call the bending i)easant Sire —
Tell me, as here beneath this ivy bower,
That works fantastic round its trembling tower,
^Ve hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders roar,
Tell me tlie pains an>l pleasures of the ]K)or ;
For Hope, just spent, requires a sad ailicu,
And Fear acquaints me 1 shall live with you.
There was a time when, by Delusion led,
A scene of sacred bliss around me spread,
On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood,
And saw my Canaan there, my promised good ;
A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd,
And wine and oil througli vision's valleys flow'd ;
As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd.
And gazed upon the good I ne'er possess'd :
On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand,
Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land.
" Son," said the Sage — " bo this thy care sup-
press'd ;
" The state the Gods shall choose thee is the best :
" Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more,
" And would thy patience w'hen they make thee
poor ;
'• But other thoughts within thy bosom reign,
" And other subjects vex tliy busy brain,
■' Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite,
" And thy sad stars have destined thee to write.
'■ Then since that task the ruthless fates decree,
" Take a few precepts from the Gods and me !
" Be not too eager in the arduous chace;
" Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race:
" Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth,
" And let thy labours one by one go forth :
'' Some happier scrap capricious wits may find
" On a fair day, and be profusely kind ;
" Which, buried in tlie rubbish of a throng,
" Had pleased as little as a new-year's song,
" Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet,
" Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet.
" Merit not always — -Fortune feeds the bard,
" And as the whim inclines bestows reward :
" None without wit, nor with it numbers gain ;
" To please is hard, but none shall please in
vain :
" As a coy mistress is the humoui-'d town,
" Loth every lover with success to crown;
" He who would win must every effort try,
" Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fiy ;
" Must gay or grave to every humour dress,
" And watch the lucky Moment of Success ;
" That caught, no more his eager hopes are
crost ;
'• But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost."
Thus said the God ; for now a God he grew.
His white locks changing to a golde^ line,
And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-
blue.
His softening eyes tlie winning rhnrm disclosed
Of dove-like l)clia when her doubts reposed ;
Mira's alone a softer lustre bear,
When woe beguiles them of an angel's tear;
Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood,
Then sought on airy wing liis blest abode.
Ah ! truth, distasteful in poetic theme,
Why is the Muse compfll'd to own her dream?
Whilst forward w its had sworn to every line,
I only wish to make its moral mine.
Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed.
May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed ?
Say, shall my name, to future song prefixed.
Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd ?
Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage.
My graver numbers move the silver'd sage,
^ly tender themes delight the lover's heart.
And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart?
For Oh ! thou Hope's, thou Thought's eternal
King,
Who gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing —
Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar,
And in mj' happier transports I adore ;
Mercy ! thy softest attribute proclaim.
Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name ;
That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray,
As the full moon-beam gilds the watery way.
And then too, Love, my soul's resistless lord.
Shall many a gentle, generous strain aflbrd.
To all the soil of sooty passions blind,
Pure as embracing angels and as kind :
Our Mira's name in future times shall shine,
And — though the harshest — Shepherds envy mine.
Then let me, (pleasing task !) however hard.
Join, as of old, the prophet and the bard ;
If not, ah ! shield me from the dire disgrace,
That haunts the wild and visionary race ;
Let me not draw my lengthen'd lines along,
And tire in untamed infamy of song.
Lest, in some dismal Dunciad's future page,
I stand the Cibber of this tuneless age ;
Lest, if another Pope th' indulgent skies
Should give, inspired by all their deities,
My luckless name, in his immortal strain.
Should, blasted, brand me as a second Cain ;
Doom'd iu that song to live against my will.
Whom all must scorn, and yet whom none could
kiU.
The youth, resisted by the maiden's art.
Persists, and time subdues her kindling heart ;
To strong entreaty yields the widow's vow.
As mighty walls to bold besiegers bow ;
Repeated prayers draw bounty from the sky,
And heaven is won by importunity ;
Ours, a projecting tribe, pui-sue in vain.
In tedious trials, an uncertain gain ;
Madly plunge on through every hope's defeat.
And with our ruin only find the cheat.
APPENDIX.
579
" And why then seek that luckless doom to
share ? "
AVho, I? — To shun it is my only care.
I grant it true, that others better tell
Of mighty Wolfe, who conquer'd as he fell ; '^
Of heroes born, their threaten'd realms to save,
Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose grave ;
Of crimson'd fields, where Fate, in dire array,
Gives to the breathless the short-breathing clay ;
Ours, a young train, by humbler fountains dream.
Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian stream ;
When Rodney's triumph comes on eagle-wing,
We hail the victor whom we fear to sing ;
Nor tell we how each hostile chief goes on.
The luckless Lee, or wary Washington ;
How Spanish bombast blusters — they were beat,
And French politeness dulcifies — defeat.
My modest Muse forbears to sjieak of kings,
Lest fainting stanzas blast the name she sings ;
For who— the tenant of the beechen shade.
Dares the big thought in regal breasts pervade ?
Or search his soul, whom each too-favouring God
Gives to delight in plunder, pomp, and blood ?
No ; let me free from Cupid's frolic round,
Rejoice, or more rejoice by Cupid bound ;
Of laughing girls in smiling couplets tell,
And paint the dark-brow'd grove, where wood-
nj'mphs dwell ;
Who bid invading youths their vengeance feel.
And pierce the votive hearts they mean to heal.
Such were the themes I knew in school-day ease,
When first the moral magic learn'd to please,
Ere Judgment told how transports warm'd the
breast.
Transported Fancy there her stores imprest ;
The soul in varied raptures learn'd to fly.
Felt all their force, and never question'd why ;
No idle doubts could then her peace molest,
She found delight, and left to heaven the rest ;
Soft joys in Evening's placid shades were born;
And where sweet fragrance wing'd the balmy morn,
When the wild thought roved vision's circuit o'er.
And caught the laptures, caught, alas ! no more :
No care did then a dull attention ask.
For study pleased, and that was every task ;
No guilty dreams stalk'd that heaven-favour' d
round.
Heaven-guarded, too, no Envy entrance found ;
Nor numerous wants, that vex advancing age,
Nor Flattery's silver tale, nor Sorrow's sage ;
Frugal Affliction kept each growing dart,
T' o'erwhelm in future daj-s the bleeding heart.
No sceptic art veil'd Pride in Truth's disguise.
But prayer unsoil'd of doubt besieged the skies ;
Ambition, avarice, care, to man retired,
Nor came desires more quick than joys desired.
A summer morn there was, and passing fair.
Still was the breeze, and health perfumed the air ;
The glowing east in crimson'd splendour shone,
What time the eye just marks the pallid moon,
2 I.MiT. — Scriberis Vario fortis, et Iiostium
Victor, Maeonii carminis alite,
Quam rem ciimque ferox iiavibus, aut equis
Miles, te duce, gesserit, &c. ic.
HoR. Lib. i. Oil. 8.
Vi'let-wing'd Zephyr fann'd each opening flower.
And brush'd from fragrant cups the limpid shower ;
A distant huntsman fill'd his cheerful horn,
The vivid dew hung trembling on the thorn.
And mists, like creeping rocks, arose to meet the
morn.
Huge giant shadows spread along the plain.
Or shot from towering rocks o'er half the main.
There to the slumbering bark the gentle tide
Stole soft, and faintly beat against its side ;
Such is that sound, which fond designs convey.
When, true to love, the damsel spetjds away ;
The sails unshaken, hung aloft unfurl'd.
And simpering nigh, the languid current curl'd ;
A crumbling ruin, once a city's pride,
The well-pleased eye through withering oaks
descried.
Where Sadness, gazing on time's ravage, hung,
And Silence to Destruction's trophy clung —
Save that as morning sonsgters swell'd their lays,
Awaken'd Echo humm'd repeated praise :
The lark on quavering pinion woo'd the day,
Less towering linnets fill'd the vocal spray.
And song-invited pilgrims rose to pray.
Here at a pine-press'd hill's embroider'd base
I stood, and hail'd the Genius of the place.
Then was it doom'd by fate, my idle heart,
Soften'd by Nature, gave access to Art ;
The Muse approach'd, her syren-song I heard.
Her magic felt, and all her charms revered :
E'er since she rules in absolute control,
And Mira only dearer to my soul.
Ah ! tell me not these empty joys to fly,
If they deceive, I would deluded die;
To the fond themes my heart so early wed,
So soon in life to blooming visions led.
So prone to run the vague uncertain course,
'T is more than death to think of a divorce.
What wills the poet of the favouring gods.
Led to their shrine, and blest in tlieir abodes ? ^
What when he fills the glass, and to each youth
Names his loved maid, and glories in his truth ?
Not India's spoils, the splendid nabob's pride.
Not the full trade of Hermes' own Cheapside,
Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves.
Or shrouds, well shrouded in his sacred waves ;
Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in trim array.
Which the more noble Thames bears far away ;
Let those whose nod makes sootj' subjects flee.
Hack with blunt steel the savory callipec ;
Let those whose ill-used wealth their countrj' fly,
Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy ;
Favour'd by Fate, let such in joy appear.
Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year ;
Disdaining these, for simpler food I '11 look.
And crop my beverage at the mantled brook,
O Virtue ! brighter than the noon-tide raj'.
My humble prayers with sacred joys repay !
Health to my limbs may the kind Gods impart.
And thy fair form delight my yielding heart !
3 I.MIT. — Qiiiil dedioatum poscit .\pollinem
Vates ? quid orat, de paterii novum
Fundens liquorem ? &c. S;c.
IIoR. Carm. xxxi. lib. i
4 K 2
580
CRABBE'S WORKS.
CJrnnt mc to slum each vile iiif^lorinuH road,
'J'o HOC thy wivy, and trnrc each inonil ^ood :
If more — lot Wisdom's sons my jjagc ])cru8C,
And decent credit deck my modest Muse.
Nor augh if you must^be candid as you can.
And when you lash the Poet, spare the Man.
INDEX.
581
INDEX.
' Aaron, or the Gipsy,' 100, 168.
' Benbow,' 227.
' Abel Keene,' 243.
Benett, John, Esq., 61, 62.
Abingdon, Mrs., 35, 130.
Bennett, Rev. Mr., 29.
Absenteeism, 149.
Besborough, Countess, 67, 69.
Actors, 216, 220.
Betrothed pair in humble life, story of, IS]
.
Actress, vanity of the aged, 217.
Binning, Lord (now Earl of Haddington), 1 1
Advertisements, 131.
70.
' Advice, or the Squire and the Priest,' 338.
' Birth of Flattery,' 156.
Age, 160, 428.
Black-legs, 317.
Aldborough, 3, 115.
Blacknell, Miss, 41.
' Allen Booth,' 281.
' Blane, Sir Hector,' 386.
' Alms-house, The,' 220.
' Blaney,' 223.
' Amusements,' 206.
Bloomfield, Robert, 69, 115.
' Ancient Mansion, The,' 540.
Boarding-schools for young ladies, 255 ;
for
' And wilt thou never smile again,' 63.
boys, 256.
' Andrew Collett,' 147.
' Boat Race, The,' 556.
Apparitions, 467, 493.
Bonnycastle, Mr., 15, 52, 58.
' Arabella,' 313.
Book-clubs, 210.
' Archer,' the worthy attorney, 198.
Books, 102, 105, 390.
Arminian Methodists, 185, 193.
' Borough, The,' 171.
Attorneys, increase of, 197.
Bowles, Rev. W. L., 61, 66, 76.
Author-Rector, 154.
Boxers, 442.
' A wanton chaos in my breast raged high,'
' Boy, The Patronised,' 386.
573.
Boy-bully, the, 257.
Boy-tyrant, 385.
' Brand, Sir Denys,' 221.
B.
Brereton, Miss, 6.
British Constitution, 381.
' Brother Burgesses, The,' 544.
' Bachelor, The Old,' 424.
' Brothers, The,' 360.
Bacon, Lord, 201.
Brougham, Henry, Esq. (now Lord), 67.
Baillie, Mrs. Joanna, 81, 85.
Browne, Sir Thomas, 200.
' Baptisms,' 132.
Bruce, the traveller, 212, 321.
Baptists, 190.
Brunton, Rev. Dr., 58.
' Barnaby, the Shopman,' 537.
Bunj'an, John, 133.
Barry, the painter, 97,
Burcham, Mrs. 14.
Beccles, 41.
' Burials,' 146.
Becket, Thomas, bookseller, 17, 18.
Burke, Right Hon. Edmund, 25, 33, 37, 63,
96,
Bedford, Duchess of, 67.
97.
' Belinda Waters,' 548.
, Mrs. 28, 52.
Bells, 180.
Burns, Robert, 48.
' Bel voir Castle,' 263.
Burrow, Mr. Reuben, 15.
Belvoir, Vale of, 37, 57, 171.
Byron, Lord, 68, 274.
582
INDEX.
C.
Caligula, 230.
Ciilvin, 105.
Ciilvinistic ontlmsiiist, prcarliiiig of a, 101.
Calviiiistic Methodists, 18G.
Cambridge, 48.
Cnmpbcll, Thomas, Esq., C7, 08.
' Candidate, The,' ,57G.
Cimning, Kiglit Hon. George, 53, 7(), 71.
' Captnin Dowling,' 229.
Curd-clubs, 210.
Care, 102, 112, 15G.
Cartwright, Dr. Edmund, 38.
Castle of Otranto, 240.
' Cathedral Walk, The,' 492.
Charity, 230.
Clmucer, 273.
' Choice, The, 575.
' Church, The,' 178.
Cliurch of Homo, 189.
Church Bells, 180.
Church Keformers, 189.
Church-yard graves, 181.
Cibber, Colley, 125, 296.
Clark, Norris, Esq., 80.
Claudian's Old Man, 151.
• Clelia,' 225.
' Clubs and Social Meetings,' 209.
Coddrington's offence, 197.
College life, 257.
Comedy, 109.
' Comparison, The,' 573.
' Condemned Felon,' 55, 253.
' Confidant, The,' 342.
Conscience, 333, 338, 363.
' Conscience, Struggles of,' 333.
Constitution, British, 381.
Controversy, 105.
' Convert, The,' 355.
Conway, Colonel, 10.
Corporation-doles, 195.
' Courtship, The Frank,' .301.
' Cousins, The,' 504.
Crabbe, George (poet's grandfather), 2.
, George (poet's father), 2, 3, 4, 9.
, Mrs. (poet's mother), 3, 9, 29.
, Robert (poet's brother), 2.
, John (poet's brother), 2.
, William (poet's brother), 2.
, Mary (poet's sister), afterwards Mrs.
Sparkes, 3, 41 .
Chabbe, George, his birth, parentage, and
early education, 1 ; his apprenticeship to a
surgeon, ; his attachment to Miss Elmy,
afterwards his wife, 6 ; his early attempts
at versification, 7 ; publishes ' Inebriety,' a
poem, 7 ; termination of hln opprcntircship
8 ; h'm first visit to London, 9 ; he m-tH up
" for himself at Aldborough, 10; failure of
his jilans there, 12; lie gives up business,
and i)roceeil8 to London os a literary arlven-
turer, 12; liis difficulties and distrcuses in
London, 14; he publishes ' The Candidate,'
15; his unsuccessful applications to Lord
North, Lord Shelburne, &c., 10; his 'Jour-
nal to Jlira,' 10; his letter to Burke, ami its
consequences, 25 ; publishes ' The Library,'
27 ; he is domesticated at Beaconsfield, 27 ;
takes orders, 28 ; is appointed curate at Aid-
borough, 29 ; oppointed domestic chaplain
to the Duke of Rutland, 31 ; removes to
Belvoir Castle, 32 ; publishes ' The Village,'
33 ; marries Miss Elmy, 30 ; he resides suc-
cessively at Belvoir Castle and Stathem,
30 ; increase of his family, 36 ; publishes
' The Kewspaper,' 37 ; his mode of life, oc-
cupations, and amusements, 37 ; becomes
rector of Muston, 38 ; visits and journeys,
39 ; his residence at Parham, 42 — at Glem-
ham, 44— and at Rendham, 47 ; his second
residence at JIuston, 50 ; publishes ' The
Parish Register,' 51 ; appearance of ' The
Borough,' 55 ; publishes the ' Tales in Verse,'
50 ; death of iMrs. Crabbe, 59 ; removal from
Leicestershire, 59 ; inducted to Trowbridge
church, 00 ; his residence and habits of life
at Trowbridge, 00 ; his correspondence with
Mary Leadbeater, 04 ; his journal during a
visit to London, 67 ; publishes ' Tales of the
Hall,' 73 ; his visit to Edinburgh, 70 ; closing
years of his life, 80 ; annual excursions. 80 ;
domestic habits, 80 ; visits to Pucklechurch,
85 ; his last tour to Clifton, Bristol, &c., 87 ;
his illness and death, 88 ; his funeral. 90.
Crabbe, Mrs. (the poet's wife), 30, 43, 45, 56,
59, 60.
Criticism, 111.
Croker, Right Hon. J. W'., 49.
Crowfoot, Dr., 03.
Cunning described, 150.
' Curate, The,' 184.
D.
Dalby, Mr. Isaac, 15.
' Dale, Sir Owen,' 441.
' Danvers and Rayncr,' 553.
Darwin, Dr., 100.
' David Booth," 281.
' Dawkins,' 137.
Day, the happy, 402.
Day-schools, 255.
INDEX. 583
' Dealer and Clerk, The,' 549.
Foscolo, tJgo, 68.
' Dean's Lady, The,' 545.
Foundling, vestry debate on a, 139.
Death, 180.
Fox, Right Hon. Charles James, 43, 51, 95, 98,
Debtors, different kinds of, 251.
143.
Deists, 189.
Mrs., 67.
Delay, 451.
' Fragment, written at Midnight,' 575.
' Delay has Danger,' 450.
' Frank Courtship, The,' 301.
' Dibble, Old,' the sexton, 154.
* Frederick Thompson,' 218.
' Dinah,' 290.
Free-and-easy club, 211.
Divinity, 105.
Freedom, 380.
' Doctor Glibb,' 152.
Freemasons' club, 212.
' Doctor Mollet,' 288.
Friendship, 553.
Dodsley, Robert, bookseller, 17, 27.
' Frugal Merchant, The,' 220.
' Dolly Murray,' 229.
Fry, Mrs., 437.
' Donald, The Gardener,' 141.
Donn, Mr. James, 48.
G.
Drayton's Polyolbion, 171, 17.3.
Dreams, 71.
Genius, 296, 320, 387.
' Dreams, The World of,' 268.
' Gentleman Farmer, The,' 285.
Dryden, 274.
' Gerard Ablett,' 137.
Duck, Stephen, 114.
' Ghost ; Lady Barbara, or The,' 466.
' Dumb Orators ; or the Benefit of Society,' 276.
Ghosts, 466, 493.
Duncan, John, Esq., 85, 90.
Gipsy-tribe, 318.
Glemham, 43, 60.
' Give me, ye powers that rule in gentle hearts,'
E.
573.
' Glibb, Dr.,' 152.
Edinburgh, 77.
Goldsmith, Oliver, 17, 296.
Education, 254.
' Goldsmith to the Author, 573.
' Edward Huntly,' 314.
Goodwyn, Dr. Edmund, 201.
' Edward Shore,' 320.
Gordon. Dr , 42.
' Election, The,' 194.
Graham, Dr., 130.
' Ellen,' 482.
AT ■^f*/' ^r ^«...i-
, iurs. iuaria t^now lurs. Calcott), / 0.
' Ellen Orford,' 239.
' Grandspear, Dr.,' 154.
' Ellis,' 446.
Great, distresses peculiar to the, 119.
Elmy, Miss Sarah, afterwards the poet's wife,
, favourites of the, 297.
6, 10, 11, 29, 31, 36, 40. See Crabbe, Mrs.
Green Man, landlord of the, 215.
Empiric, history of an advertising, 203.
' Gregorians,' 213.
Englefield, Sir Harry, 70, 71.
' Gretna Green,' 462.
' Entomologist, the AVeaver,' 205.
' Gret, Sir Eustace,' 162.
Envy described, 157.
Grey, Earl, 52.
' Epistle to a Friend,' 22.
Griggs, 213.
' Epistle to Prince William Henry,' 16.
' Gwyn, the Gentleman Farmer,' 283.
' Equal Marriage, The,' 526.
Guy of Warwick, 264.
' Eusebius," 230.
H.
F.
Habit, 380, 383.
' Family of Love, The,' 516.
Haddon, Mr. Richard, 5.
' Fanny Price,' 145.
Halford, Sir Henry, 107, 147.
' Farewell and Ketorn,' 531.
' Hall of Justice,' 167.
' Farmer Ellis,' 446.
' Hammond,' 278.
Fen, picture of a, 318.
' Harry Bland,' 389.
Fiction, 110.
Hatto, Bishop, 514.
' Flattery, Birth of,' 156.
Hayward, Lieutenant, 10.
' Flirtation, a Dialogue,' 370.
' Henry and Emma,' 459.
Forgiveness, example of, 449.
Henry Carr, 306.
584
INDEX.
' iri;^li\vnyiniin, The Condpmiicd,' f)."), 250,
II istorimis, lO'J. *
History, 10'.).
llonrc, Snmucl, Esq., fill, Tfi, 8(».
Ilollaiul, I.onl, 51, ."ia, 74, , 99.
, Lady, 07, 69.
lldldfcMnca, 384.
llolyrood House, 77.
Honour, 323.
' Hospital, The,' 230.
Houses of Industry, 232.
Huntington, Kev. William, .5.5, 186, 191.
lluskisson, Right Hon. "William, 70.
I.
Idiot pauper, 233.
Impressment, 396.
Industry, Houses of, 232.
' Inebriety,' 7, 570.
' Infancy,' 260.
Infant schools, 254.
Infidel, the rustic, 140.
' Inns,' 213.
' Isaac Ashford,' 150.
J.
' .Tachin, the Parish Clerk,' 236.
' Jacob Holmes,' 181.
' Jane,' 539.
Jealousy, 402, 485.
Jeffrey, Francis, Esq. (now Sir Francis), 52, 77.
Jersey, Countess of. Lines on her Birthday,
266.
' Jesse and Colin,' 328.
Jews, 190.
' Jolin Dighton,' 355.
Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 28, 33, 97, 114.
' Jonas Kindred,' 301.
Jordan, Mrs., 35.
' Journal to Mira,' 16.
' Judith,' 281.
Julian, 191.
' Juliet Hart,' 215.
' Justice Bolt,' 276.
Katterfclto, Dr., 1.30.
Kensington Gardens, 68.
Kerrison, Dr., 81. ,
King, Mr., 44.
L.
Lackington, James, bookHellcr, 355, 3G0.
* Lad's Lovo,' 559.
' Ladies of the Lake,' 260.
* Lady Barbara ; or, the Ghost,' 466.
Lady of tlie Manor, 149.
Lake School of Toctry, 48.
Lamb, Lady Caroline, 70.
Lansdowne, Marquis of, 68, 69.
' Laughton,' 222.
Law, 108, 196, 198.
* Lay of the Last Minstrel,' 48.
Leadbeatcr, Mrs., 64, 65, 72, 76, 79, 80, 82.
' Leah Cousins, the parish midwife,' 152.
' Learned Boy, The,' 364.
Ledyard, Mr., 100, 170.
' Let me not have this gloomy view,' 420.
Levett, 'NVilliam Springhall, 6.
' LiBnARY, The,' 101.
' Life,' 574.
Lines in I-aura's Album, 264.
WTitten at Warwick, 264.
on a drawing of the elm tree under which
the Duke of Wellington stood during the
battle of Waterloo, 265.
on receiving from a lady a present of a
ring, 266.
to a Lady with some poetical extracts, 266.
to a Lady who desired some verses at
parting, 267.
on revisiting Glemham after the death of
Mrs. Crabbe, 60.
Liston, John, comedian, 58.
Literary Fund, 54, 185.
Literary life, good of, 258.
Literature, consolations of, 112.
Litigation, spirit of, how stirred up, 197.
London, 70, 71.
Loneliness, 258.
' Lover's Journey, The,' 316.
Lockhart, J. G., Esq., 76, 77-79.
Love, 411.
' Love, Natural Death of.' 458.
' Love! I have seen a tiger on his prey,' 411.
Love that survives marriage, 459 ; that dies in
consequence, 459.
' Lucy Collins,' 144.
Luther, 105.
Luxury, 108.
M.
Mackenzie, H-cnry, Esq.,
Mackintosh, Sir James, 7;
Madness, 100, 324.
' Magnet, The,' 262.
78.
INDEX.
585
' Maid's Story, The,' 431.
Maniac, 324.
Manners, Lord Robert, 33, 120-123.
Mansel, Rev. Dr. (afterwards Bishop of Bristol),
52.
' Mansion, The Ancient,' 540.
' ^Marriages,' 141.
Maskill, Mr., 9, 10.
' Master William ; or. Lad's Love,' 559.
Medicine, books of, their variety, 107.
' Merchant, The,' 542.
Methodists, 185, 191.
Miller's daughter, 135.
Mind accommodates itself to all situations, 250.
' Mira, Stanzas to,' 573.
Miser Boy, the, 257.
' MoUet, Doctor,' 288.
Montague, Mrs. Elizabeth, 97.
Monuments, 180.
Moore, Thomas, Esq., 67, 74.
' Mother, The,' 310.
Mural monuments, 180.
Murray, John, Esq., 67, 68, 73, 74, 375.
Music, 390.
Muston, 56.
' My Birthday,' 574.
• My Damon was the first to wake,' 409.
' My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped,' 7-
' My Mira, shepherds, is as fair,' 7.
N.
' Nathan Kirk,' 141.
' Natural Death of Love,' 458.
Naturalist, the, 204.
' Newspaper, The,' 124.
Newspapers, origin of, 126.
Nichols, John, Esq., 42.
' Night,' 574.
Normanston, 41.
North, Dudley, Esq., 13, 43, 58.
North, Lord, 21.
Novels, 44, 47.
o.
' Oh ! do not ask the Muse to show,' 267.
' Oh ! great Apollo ! by whose equal aid,' 575.
' Oh ! sacred gift of God to man !' 574.
' Oh, Thou ! who taught my infant eye,' 573.
Old age, first coming on of, 428.
' Old Bachelor, The,' 424.
O'Neil, Miss, 69.
Order, love of, 46, 366.
' Orlando,' 317.
Orphan girl, 138.
P..
Page, Mr., 6.
Pamphlets, 104, 127.
Parents, ill judgment of, in disposing of their
sons, 204.
Parham, 40, 42.
' Parish Register, The,' 99, 132.
Parish apothecary, 117.
' Parish Clerk, The,'- 236.
Parish priest, 117.
Parish sexton, 154.
Parish wedding, 142.
Parish workhouse, 117.
' Parting Hour, The,' 281.
Party spirit, 381.
Pastoral Poetry, 114.
' Patron, The,' 294.
Pauper, the dying, 117.
Peasant, cottage of an industrious, described,
132.
Peasantry, state of, as ameliorated by frugality
and industry, 132.
' Peter Grimes,' 246, 250.
' Peter Nottage,' 218.
' Peter Pratt, the pedantic gardener,' 138.
PhiUps' ' Spendid ShilUng,' 213.
Phillips, Thomas, Esq., R. A., 68, 70, 74.
, Mrs., 69.
Philosophy, 106.
' Phoebe Dawson,' 51, 99, 142, 143.
Physic, 107.
, profession of, 200.
Physician, worth and excellence of the true,
200.
Pictures, 390.
Players, 216, 217, 220.
Poet, character of the true, 275, 399, 400.
Poets' Club, 68. ,.
' Poet's Journal, The,' 16.
Poetry and Painting, 273.
Poetry, religious, 99.
Poison tree, 291.
' Poor, and their Dwellings,' 232.
Poor, state of the, when improvident, vicious,
134.
Poor Man's Club, 212.
Pope, Alexander, 274, 296.
Poverty, 156.
Prayers and Meditations, 12, 24.
' Preaching and Practice,' 567.
' Preceptor Husband, The,' 420.
' Precipitate Choice, The,' 325.
Preparatory schools, 255.
Press-gang, 396.
Prisons, 250, 254.
Prize-fights, 442.
4f
586 INDEX.
•
' Prorriistiimtion,' '2'M).
S.
' Profcssioiifi,' I'.Mi.
Progress of Kocicty, KlH.
Sabbath, pleasures of a summer, 1 18.
' I'roud, little Man, opinion's ulave,' 573.
' Sacrament, The,' 574.
PuIIh, i;io.
' Satire,' 202.
Sceptical authors, 106.
•
Schoolboys, 385.
Q.
' School-Fellow, The.' 536.
Schoolmaster, 255.
Qimckery, evils of, 2ni.
Quacks, advertising, 202.
Quay of SInughden, 3, 1 76.
' Quid juvat errores,' &C., 160.
Schoolmistress, 138, 213, 233.
' Schools,' 254, .385.
Scott, Sir ■Walter, 48, 5-3, 56, 58, 67, 76, 77
Sea, summer and winter views of, 177.
Sea productions, 207.
Sea-side walks, 207.
143.
' See with what ease the child-like god,'
264.
R.
' Sects and Professions in Religion,' 188,
Settle, Elkanah, 125.
• Rachel,' 529.
Shelburne, Lord, 22.
Keason, 106, 321, 356, 359.
Ship-building, 176.
Rector, the, 458.
Shipwreck at night, 178.
' Rejected Addresses,' 81.
Siddons, Mrs., 35, 130.
Religion, sects and professions in, 188.
' Silford Hall ; or, the Happy Day,' 509.
Religious Poetry, 99.
Simulation, 158.
' Resentment,' 347.
' Sir Denys Brand,' 221.
' Resurrection, The,' 574.
' SiH Eustace Grf.v,' 162.
Retirement, effect of, on the mind, 3;»1.
' Sir Owen Dale,' 441.
Revenge, 442, 534.
' Sisters, The,' 412.
' Reuben Dixon,' 255.
Slaughdcn Quay, 3, 176.
' Reuben and Rachel,' 145.
Slaughden Vale, 3.
Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 27, 33, 34, 97.
Smokers' Club, 212.
' Richard Monday,' 13,>.
Smugglers, 115.
Riches, 516.
' Smugglers and Poachers," 496.
Ring, on receiving from a lady, a present of a,
Society, progress of, 108.
266.
Sol way Moss, 189.
Riots in 1 780, account of, 23.
Sorrow, address to, 152.
* Robin Dingley,' 151.
Soul, the, 316.
Robinson, Right Hon. Frederick (now Earl of
Soothey, Robert, Esq., LL.D., 96.
Ripon), 70.
Spencer, Hon. William, 69.
' Roger Cuff,' 153.
Spenser, Edmund, 156.
'
Rogers, Samuel, Esq., 66, 68, 71, 75.
' Splendid Shilling,' 213.
, Miss, 68.
' Squire .\sgill,' 228.
Romances, ancient, 109.
' Squire Thomas ; or, the Precipitate Ch
oice,'
Rome. Church of, 189.
325.
Romilly, Sir Samuel, 502.
Stage, the, 109.
Rousseau, 437.
Stanzas to Mira, 573.
;
' Rupert,' 290.
Rustic life, reasons for the poet's unpleasant
i_ Ti: n- I
to a Lady, on leaving her at Sidmouth,
view of, 119.
266.
Rustic infidel, 140.
*, 41,., ^- i. r 1 -
her
10 me L ountess oi Jersey, on
' Ruth,' 395.
Birthday, 266.
Rutland, Charles, fourth Duke of, 31, 33. 35,
' Storm and Calm.' 262.
1
3S, 98, 112, 120.
' Struggles of Conscience," .3.33.
1
, .Tolin-llcury, fifth Duke of, 48, 55. 60,
Students, 385,
1
79. 171.
Study, comforts arising from. 258,
j . Mary-Isabella, Duchess of, 32, 38.
Summer Sabbath, pleasures of. 118.
I . Elizabeth, Duchess of, 375.
Suspense, 403.
INDEX.
ss:
Sutton, Right Hon. Charles :^^anners, 70.
' Swallow,' the knavish attorney, 199.
Swedenborgians, 190.
' Sybil Kindred,' 301.
T.
Tales, 271.
' Tales of the Ha_ll,' 73, 375.
Taverns, 213.
' The hour arrived ! I sigh'd and said,' 13.
' The sober stillness of the night,' 574.
' The whistling boy that holds the plough,' 535.
' Think ye the joys that fill our early day,' 574.
Thoroton, Mr. Robert, 33.
Thurlow, Lord Chancellor, 29, 31, 34, 38, 124.
Timbrill, Thomas, Esq., 63.
Time, 160.
Tombs, 180.
Tories, 50, 381.
Tovell, Mr., 10, 11, 40, 42.
, Mrs, 11, 41, 42.
Town scenery, difficulty of describing, 175.
' Trades,' 204.
Tragedy, 109.
Travelling for orders, origin of the practice,
188.
Tulip mania, 204.
Turner, Rev. Richard, 43, 47, 50, 51, 55, 99.
. Dawson, Esq., 86.
, Mrs. Dawson, 86.
Tyrant boy, the, 257.
u.
' Unhappy is the wretch who feels,' 63.
Universalists, 190.
Upas, or poison tree, 291.
Vale of Belvoir, 37, 57, 171.
Yega, Lope de, 96, 99.
Vengeance, 534.
Vestry debate on a foundling, 13"
' Vicar, The,' 182.
Vickery, Mr., 14.
' Village, The,' 33, 96, 114.
Village apothecary, 117.
detraction, 119.
justice, 119.
Village life, 116, 118, 110.
priest, 117.
schoolmistress, 138.
' Villars,' 530.
Voltaire, 224.
w.
' Wager, The,' 352.
Waldron, W. Esq., 60.
, Miss, 41, 81.
' Walter and "William,' story of, 205.
Weather-stains, 179.
Weaver entomologist, the, 205.
Wellington, Duke of. Lines on a drawing of
the elm tree, under which he stood during
the battle of Waterloo, 265.
Wesley, Rev. John, 41, 51, 191, 193, 194.
' When all the fiercer passions cease,' &c., 160.
Whigs, 50, 381.
Whist table, 211.
Whitfield, Rev. George, 191.
' Widow, The,' 476.
' Widow Goe,' 148.
' Widow's Tale, The,' 306.
' Wife and Widow, The,' 546.
Wilbraham, Roger, Esq., 53, 69.
' Will, The,' 561.
' William Bailey,' 485.
Wilson, John, Esq., 77.
Wine, 228, 323.
Winstanley, Rev. Thomas, 19.
' Wish, The,' 7, 573.
' Woman !' 170.
' Woman,' 100.
Woodfall, Henry Samson, 127.
Wordsworth, William, Esq., his character of
Crabbe's poetry, 117.
' Workhouse, parish,' 117.
' World of Dreams,' 268.
Y.
' Ye gentle gales, that softly move,' &c., 572.
' Yes ! I must go — it is a part,' 266.
' Yes, I behold again the place,' 60.
' Young Paris was the shepherds' pride,' 560.
Young, Dr., his ' ^'ight Thoughts,' 376.
z.
Zeal, efTects of false, 188.
THE END.
4 f- 2
LONDON:
Printed by William Clowes and
Stamford Street.
. ^^ THE LIBRARY
^5 I C UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
A ^ Cl^Q Santa Barbara
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE
STAMPED BELOW.
AVAII.ABI.I': FOR
CIRCULATION .M'TriC
//y^l^ 131964
v^en 1967
^m
i676ij^r
F T'D
20m-8,'61(02084s4)476
w
YnOb 02042 7934
UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY
A A 001 433 100
UND BY *^
IV''l!
1'
1
If'
h
1
, : 1
I J HI I IM