confide; What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain, They will deny, 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 good young 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, or in thy presence play, Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away; 'Tis not thy part, there will be list'ners round, To cry Divine! and dote upon the sound; Remember, too, that though the poor have ears, They take not in the music of the spheres; They must not feel the warble and the thrill, Or be dissolved in ecstasy at will; Beside, 'tis 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 thy 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 eye, The frequent glance designed for thee to spy; 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, every 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 disdain, 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. "Doubt much of friendship: shouldst thou find a friend Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend; Should he the praises he has heard report, And confidence (in thee confiding) court; Much of neglected Patrons should he say, And then exclaim—'How long must merit stay!' Then show how high thy modest hopes may stretch, And point to stations far beyond thy reach; Let such designer, by thy conduct, see (Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee; And he will quit thee, as a man too wise For him to ruin first, and then despise. "Such are thy dangers: —yet, if thou canst steer Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear, Then may'st thou 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 That lady's fall, if she should stoop to thee!" "The cases differ." "True! for what surprise Could from thy marriage with the maid arise? But through the island would the shame be spread, Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed." John 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 overflowed; But his grave Lady took a silent view Of all that pass'd, and smiling, pitied too. Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief, Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf; The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods Roar'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 o'er 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 fill'd his soul with gloom: Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose, And cried, "One hour my fortune will disclose; Terrific hour! 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, that 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 every look The trav'ller's joy for London-journey spoke: Not so our youth; whose feelings at the noise Of preparation, had no touch of joys: He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn, With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn: The ladies came; and John in terror threw One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew; Not with such speed, but he in other eyes With anguish read—"I pity, but despise - Unhappy boy!—presumptuous scribbler!—you, To dream such dreams!—be sober, and adieu!" Then came the Noble Friend—"And will my Lord Vouchsafe no comfort; drop no soothing word? Yes, he must speak;" he speaks, "My good young friend, You know my views; upon my care depend; My hearty thanks to your good father pay, And be a student.—Harry, drive away." Stillness reign'd all around; of late so full The busy scene, deserted now and dull: Stern is his nature who forbears to feel Gloom o'er his spirits on such trials steal; Most keenly felt our poet as he went From room to room without a fix'd intent; "And here," he thought, "I was caress'd; admired Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired. The change how grievous!" As he mused, a dame Busy and peevish to her duties came; Aside the tables and the chairs she drew, And sang and mutter'd in the poet's view: - "This was her fortune; here they leave the poor; Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more; I had a promise"—here his pride and shame Urged him to fly from this familiar dame; He gave one farewell look, and by a coach Reach'd his own mansion at the night's approach. His father met him with an anxious air, Heard his sad tale, and check'd what seem'd despair: Hope was in him corrected, but alive; My lord would something for a friend contrive; His word was pledged: our hero's feverish mind Admitted this, and half his grief resigned: But, when three months had fled, and every day Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away, The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull; He utter'd nothing, though his heart was full; Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks, And all forgetful of his Muse and books; Awake he mourn'd, but in his sleep perceived A lovely vision that his pain relieved: - His soul, transported, hail'd the happy seat, Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet; Where joys departed came in blissful view Till reason waked, and not a joy he knew. Questions now vex'd his spirit, most from those Who are call'd friends, because they are not foes: "John?" they would say; he, starting, turn'd around, "John!" there was something shocking in the sound: Ill brook'd he then the pert familiar phrase, The untaught freedom and th' inquiring gaze; Much was his temper touch'd, his spleen provoked, When ask'd how ladies talk'd, or walk'd, or look'd? "What said my Lord of politics! how spent He there his time? and was he glad he went?" At length a letter came, both cool and brief, But still it gave the burden'd heart relief: Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the youth Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick's truth; Summon'd to town, he thought the visit one Where something fair and friendly would be done; Although he judged not, as before his fall, When all was love and promise at the hall. Arrived in town, he early sought to know The fate such dubious friendship would bestow; At a tall building trembling he appear'd, And his low rap was indistinctly heard; A well-known servant came—"Awhile," said he, "Be pleased to wait; my Lord has company." Alone our hero sat; the news in hand, Which though he read, he could not understand: Cold was the day; in days so cold as these There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze. The vast and echoing room, the polish'd grate, The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate; The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest, He then had thought it freedom to have press'd; The shining tables, curiously inlaid, Were all in comfortless proud style display'd; And to the troubled feelings terror gave, That made the once-dear friend the sick'ning slave. "Was he forgotten?" Thrice upon his ear Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near: Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke; Oft as a servant chanced the way to come, "Brings he a message?" no! he passed the room.' At length 'tis certain; "Sir, you will attend At twelve on Thursday!" Thus the day had end. Vex'd by these tedious hours of needless pain, John left the noble mansion with disdain; For there was something in that still, cold place, That seemed to threaten and portend disgrace. Punctual again the modest rap declared The youth attended; then was all prepared: For the same servant, by his lord's command, A paper offer'd to his trembling hand: "No more!" he cried: "disdains he to afford One kind expression, one consoling word?" With troubled spirit he began to read That "In the Church my lord could not succeed;" Who had "to peers of either kind applied, And was with dignity and grace denied; While his own livings were by men possess'd, Not likely in their chancels yet to rest; And therefore, all things weigh'd (as he my lord, Had done maturely, and he pledged his word), Wisdom it seem'd for John to turn his view To busier scenes, and bid the Church adieu!" Here grieved the youth: he felt his father's pride Must with his own be shocked and mortified; But, when he found his future comforts placed Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced - In some appointment on the London quays, He bade farewell to honour and to ease; His spirit fell, and from that hour assured How vain his dreams, he suffer'd and was cured. Our Poet hurried on, with wish to fly From all mankind, to be conceal'd, and die. Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views Did that one visit to the soul infuse, Which cherished with such love, 'twas worse than death to lose. Still he would strive, though painful was the strife, To walk in this appointed road of life; On these low duties duteous he would wait, And patient bear the anguish of his fate. Thanks to the Patron, but of coldest kind, Express'd the sadness of the Poet's mind; Whose heavy hours were pass'd with busy men, In the dull practice of th' official pen; Who to superiors must in time impart; (The custom this) his progress in their art: But so had grief on his perception wrought, That all unheeded were the duties taught; No answers gave he when his trial came, Silent he stood, but suffering without shame; And they observed that words severe or kind Made no impression on his wounded mind: For all perceived from whence his failure rose, Some grief, whose cause he deign'd not to disclose. A soul averse from scenes and works so new, Fear ever shrinking from the vulgar crew; Distaste for each mechanic law and rule. Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool; A grieving parent, and a feeling mind, Timid and ardent, tender and refined: These all with mighty force the youth assail'd, Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail'd: When this was known, and some debate arose, How they who saw it should the fact disclose, He found their purpose, and in terror fled From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread. Meantime the parent was distress'd to find His son no longer for a priest design'd; But still he gain'd some comfort by the news Of John's promotion, though with humbler views; For he conceived that in no distant time The boy would learn to scramble and to climb; He little thought his son, his hope and pride, His favour'd boy, was now a home denied: Yes! while the parent was intent to trace How men in office climb from place to place, By day, by night, o'er moor and heath, and hill, Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will, Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill. Thus as he sat, absorb'd in all the care And all the hope that anxious fathers share, A friend abruptly to his presence brought, With trembling hand, the subject of his thought; Whom he had found afflicted and subdued By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude. Silent he enter'd the forgotten room, As ghostly forms may be conceived to come; With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright, He look'd dismayed, neglect, despair, affright; But dead to comfort, and on misery thrown, His parent's loss he felt not, nor his own. The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud, And drew around him an astonish'd crowd; The sons and servants to the father ran, To share the feelings of the griev'd old man. "Our brother, speak!" they all exclam'd "explain Thy grief, thy 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, they all agreed From rest and kindness must the cure proceed: And he 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, though serene. At times he utter'd, "What a dream was mine! And what a prospect! glorious and divine! 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 then, Hope-raised and soften'd, to those heartless men; That dark-brow'd stern Director, pleased to show Knowledge of subjects I disdain'd to know; Cold and controlling—but 'tis gone—'tis 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 holy kind the 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 reprove; Then could he dwell upon the tempting days, The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise; Victorious now, his worldly views 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 part; As, he conceived, some other haughty fair Would, had he lived, have led him to despair; As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt; While the strong faith the pious youth possess'd, His hope enlivening gave his sorrows rest; Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful 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 lady 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 Lord, to whom the poet's fate was told, Was much affected, for a man so cold: "Dead!" said his lordship, "run distracted, mad! Upon my soul I'm sorry for the lad; And now no doubt th' obliging world will say That my harsh usage help'd him on his way: What! 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 bear that I regret Our joint misfortune—Yes! I'll 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; 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 curtsy, and say, "Father, as it please you;" but for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, "Father, as it pleases me." SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado about Nothing.

He cannot flatter, he! An honest 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 wantonness your ignorance. Hamlet.

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Am I contemn'd for pride and scorn so much? Much Ado about Nothing.

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Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire, Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher; Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow, 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 dropp'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; Soothed by attention from her early years, She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears; But Sybil 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, by making all inferiors still; Who bids all murmurs, all objections, cease, And with imperious voice announces—Peace! 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 they 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 him constant gain; Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn - And, like his father, he was merchant 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 round, 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 by chosen friends, and there appear'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. The stern still smile each friend approving gave, Then turn'd the view, and all again were grave. There stood a clock, though small the owner's need, For habit told when all things should proceed; Few their amusements, but when friends appear'd, They with the world's distress their spirits cheer'd; The nation's guilt, that 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 fail'd, and others gone astray; Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls flown To Gretna-Green, or sons rebellious grown; Quarrels and fires arose;—and it was plain The times were bad; the Saints had ceased to reign! A few yet lived, to languish and to mourn For good old manners never to return. Jonas had sisters, and of these was one Who 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 churchman or their church afraid: If much of this the 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 Sybil, pleased and unconfined, Felt the pure pleasure of the op'ning mind: All here was gay and cheerful—all at home Unvaried quiet and unruffled 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 demanded that in every year The Aunt and Niece should at his house appear. "Yes! we must go, my child, and by our dress A grave conformity of mind express; Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain, The more t'enjoy when we return again." Thus spake the Aunt, and the discerning child Was pleased to learn how fathers are beguiled. Her artful part the young dissembler took, And from the matron caught th' approving look: When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent For more delay, and Jonas was content; Till 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, And stood a vestal in her father's eyes: Pure, pensive, simple, sad; the damsel's heart, When Jonas 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 return'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 youth, Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth: In a light drab he uniformly dress'd, And look serene th' unruffled mind express'd; A hat with ample verge his brows o'erspread, And his brown locks curl'd graceful on his head; 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 mind 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 and 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 strong desire of lawful gain embued; 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 honours it of course; So in these neighbours, each the power discern'd, And gave the praise that was to each return'd. Jonas now ask'd his daughter—and the Aunt, Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant: - But would not Sybil 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 sprung, 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, No longer tricks and honours fill'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, from 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 denied 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 follies 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." "My 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 Youth Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth." "But will he love?" said Sybil; "I 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! That love is earthy; you the creature prize, And trust your feelings and believe your eyes: 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; At my forbidding frown his heart must ache, His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake: And if I grant him at my feet to kneel, What trembling, fearful pleasure must he feel; Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire, That reason's self must for a time retire." "Alas! for good Josiah," said the dame, "These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame; He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust! He cannot, child:"—the Child replied, "He must." They ceased: the matron left her with a frown; So Jonas met her when the Youth came down: "Behold," said he, "thy future spouse attends; Receive him, daughter, as the best of friends; Observe, respect him—humble be each word, That welcomes home thy husband and thy lord." Forewarn'd, thought Sybil, with a bitter smile, I shall prepare my manner and my style. Ere yet Josiah enter'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 with 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 returned 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 Youth, then hasten to retire; "Daughter, my friend—my daughter, friend," he cried, And gave a meaning look, and stepp'd aside: That look contained a mingled threat and prayer, "Do take him, child,—offend 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 pass'd: 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 something of the pride That indicates the wealth it seems to hide; And looks that were not, she conceived, exempt From a proud pity, or a sly contempt. Josiah's eyes had their employment too, Engaged and soften'd by so bright a view; A fair and meaning face, an eye of fire, That check'd the bold, and made the free retire: But then with these he marked 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; And if his mind the virgin's meaning caught, He saw a foe with treacherous purpose fraught - Captive the heart to take, and to reject it, caught. Silent they sat—thought Sybil, that he seeks Something, no doubt; I wonder if he speaks: Scarcely she wonder'd, when these accents fell Slow in her ear—"Fair maiden, art thou well?" "Art thou physician?" she replied; "my hand, My pulse, at least, shall be at thy command." She said—and saw, surprised, Josiah kneel, And gave his lips the offer'd pulse to feel; The rosy colour rising in her cheek, Seem'd that surprise unmix'd with wrath to speak; Then sternness she assumed, and—"Doctor, tell; Thy words cannot alarm me—am I well?" "Thou art," said he; "and yet thy dress so light, I do conceive, some danger must excite:" "In whom?" said Sybil, with a look demure: "In more," said he, "than I expect to cure; - I, in thy light luxuriant robe behold Want and excess, abounding and yet cold; Here needed, there display'd, in many a wanton fold; Both health and beauty, learned authors show, From a just medium in our clothing flow." "Proceed, good doctor; if so great my need, What is thy fee? Good doctor! pray proceed." "Large is my fee, fair lady, but I take None till some progress in my cure I make: Thou hast disease, fair maiden; thou art vain; Within that face sit insult and disdain; Thou art enamour'd of thyself; my art Can see the naughty malice of thy heart: With a strong pleasure would thy bosom move, Were I to own thy power, and ask thy love; And such thy beauty, damsel, that I might, But for thy pride, feel danger in thy sight, And lose my present peace in dreams of vain delight." "And can thy patients," said the nymph "endure Physic like this? and will it work a cure?" "Such is my hope, fair damsel; thou, I find, Hast the true tokens of a noble mind; But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys; Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around, That in thine own pure bosom should be found; Did all that world admire thee, praise and love, Could it the least of nature's pains remove? Could it for errors, follies, sins atone, Or give the comfort, thoughtful and alone? It has, believe me, maid, no power to charm Thy soul from sorrow, or thy flesh from harm: Turn then, fair creature, from a world of sin, And seek the jewel happiness within." "Speak'st thou at meeting?" said the nymph; "thy speech Is that of mortal very prone to teach; But wouldst thou, doctor, from the patient learn Thine own disease?—the cure is thy concern." "Yea, with good will."—"Then know 'tis thy complaint, That, for a sinner, thou'rt too much a saint; Hast too much show of the sedate and pure, And without cause art formal and demure: This makes a man unsocial, unpolite; Odious when wrong, and insolent if right. Thou mayst be good, but why should goodness be Wrapt in a garb of such formality? Thy person well might please a damsel's eye, In decent habit with a scarlet dye; But, jest apart—what virtue canst thou trace In that broad brim that hides thy sober face? Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? Then for thine accent—what in sound can be So void of grace as dull monotony? Love has a thousand varied notes to move The human heart: —thou mayest not speak of love Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside, And those becoming youth and nature tried: Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease, Prove it thy study and delight to please; Not till these follies meet thy just disdain, While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain." "This is severe!—Oh! maiden wilt not thou Something for habits, manners, modes, allow?" - "Yes! but allowing much, I much require, In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire!" "True, lovely Sybil; and, this point agreed, Let me to those of greater weight proceed: Thy father!"—"Nay," she quickly interposed, "Good doctor, here our conference is closed!" Then left the Youth, who, lost in his retreat, Pass'd the good matron on her garden-seat; His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild And calm, was hurried: —"My audacious child!" Exclaim'd the dame, "I read what she has done In thy displeasure—Ah! the thoughtless one: But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man Speak of the maid as mildly as you can: Can you not seem to woo a little while The daughter's will, the father to beguile? So that his wrath in time may wear away; Will you preserve our peace, Josiah? say." "Yes! my good neighbour," said the gentle youth, "Rely securely on my care and truth; And should thy comfort with my efforts cease, And only then,—perpetual is thy peace." The dame had doubts: she well his virtues knew, His deeds were friendly, and his words were true: "But to address this vixen is a task He is ashamed to take, and I to ask." Soon as the father from Josiah learn'd What pass'd with Sybil, he the truth discern'd. "He loves," the man exclaim'd, "he loves, 'tis plain, The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain? She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried, Born as she is of wilfulness and pride." With anger fraught, but willing to persuade, The wrathful father met the smiling maid: "Sybil," said he, "I long, and yet I dread To know thy conduct—hath Josiah fled? And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air, For his lost peace, betaken him to prayer? Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress By vile remarks upon his speech, address, Attire, and voice?"—"All this I must confess." "Unhappy child! what labour will it cost To win him back!"—"I do not think him lost." "Courts he then (trifler!) insult and disdain?" - "No; but from these he courts me to refrain." "Then hear me, Sybil: should Josiah leave Thy father's house?"—"My father's child would grieve." "That is of grace, and if he come again To speak of love?"—"I might from grief refrain." "Then wilt thou, daughter, our design embrace?" - "Can I resist it, if it be of Grace?" "Dear child in three plain words thy mind express: Wilt thou have this good youth?"—"Dear Father! yes."



TALE VII.



THE WIDOW'S TALE.

Ah me! for aught that I could ever read, Or ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But either it was different in blood, Or else misgrafted in respect of years, Or else it stood upon the choice of friends; Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. SHAKESPEARE, Midsummer Night's Dream.

Oh! thou didst then ne'er love so heartily, If thou rememberest not the slighest folly That ever love did make thee run into. As You Like It.

Cry the man mercy! love him, take his offer. As You Like It.

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To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down, His only daughter, 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 hunger's rage appeased; The air surcharged with moisture, flagg'd around, And the offended damsel sigh'd and frown'd; The 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; When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food; With bacon, mass saline, where 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 many a stain Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again - She could not breathe; but with a heavy sigh, Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended 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. - Arise betimes, our early meal prepare, And, this despatch'd, let business be your care; Look to the lasses, let there not be one Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done; In every household work your portion take, And what you make not, see that others make: At leisure times attend the wheel, and see The whit'ning web besprinkled on the lea; When thus employ'd, should our young neighbours view, A useful lass,—you may have more to do." Dreadful were these commands; but worse than these The parting hint—a Farmer could not please: 'Tis true she had without abhorrence seen Young Harry 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 swimming eyes the fretful nymph withdrew, And, deeply 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 earn By those small arts which they at school attain, That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?" 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 Nancy 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 course, '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." 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 shown: But let me warn you, that experience finds Few of the scenes that lively hope designs." "Mysterious all," said Nancy; "you, I know, Have suffered 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 flames 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 are 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? For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove; You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love; All would be safe, did we at first inquire - 'Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?' But quitting precept, let example show What joys from Love uncheck'd by prudence flow. "A Youth my father in his office placed, Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste; But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks: He studied much, and pored upon his books: Confused he was when seen, and when he saw Me or my sisters, would in haste withdraw; And had this youth departed with the year, His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear. "But with my father still the youth remain'd, And more reward and kinder notice gain'd: He often, reading, to the garden stray'd, Where I by books or musing was delay'd; This to discourse in summer evenings led, Of these same evenings, or of what we read: On such occasions we were much alone; But, save the look, the manner, and the tone, (These might have meaning,) all that we discuss'd We could with pleasure to a parent trust. "At length 'twas friendship—and my Friend and I Said we were happy, and began to sigh; My sisters first, and then my father, found That we were wandering o'er enchanted ground: But he had troubles in his own aifairs, And would not bear addition to his cares: With pity moved, yet angry, 'Child,' said he, 'Will you embrace contempt and beggary?' Can you endure to see each other cursed By want, of every human woe the worst? Warring for ever with distress, in dread Either of begging or of wanting bread; While poverty, with unrelenting force, Will your own offspring from your love divorce; They, through your folly, must be doom'd to pine, And you deplore your passion, or resign; For if it die, what good will then remain? And if it live, it doubles every pain.'" "But you were true," exclaim'd the Lass," and fled The tyrant's power who fill'd your soul with dread?" "But," said the smiling Friend, "he fill'd my mouth with bread: And in what other place that bread to gain We long consider'd, and we sought in vain: This was my twentieth year,—at thirty-five Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive; So many years in anxious doubt had pass'd." "Then," said the Damsel, "you were bless'd at last?" A smile again adorn'd the Widow's face, But soon a starting tear usurp'd its place. "Slow pass'd the heavy years, and each had more Pains and vexations than the years before. My father fail'd; his family was rent, And to new states his grieving daughters sent: Each to more thriving kindred found a way, Guests without welcome,—servants without pay; Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel The sad, sweet converse at our final meal; Our father then reveal'd his former fears, Cause of his sternness, and then join'd our tears: Kindly he strove our feelings to repress, But died, and left us heirs to his distress. The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose; I with a wealthy widow sought repose; Who with a chilling frown her friend received, Bade me rejoice, and wonder'd that I grieved: In vain my anxious lover tried his skill, To rise in life, he was dependent still: We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years: Our dying hopes and stronger fears between, We felt no season peaceful or serene; Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night, Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light; And then domestic sorrows, till the mind, Worn with distresses, to despair inclined; Add too the ill that from the passion flows, When its contemptuous frown the world bestows, The peevish spirit caused by long delay, When, being gloomy, we contemn the gay, When, being wretched, we incline to hate And censure others in a happier state; Yet loving still, and still compell'd to move In the sad labyrinth of lingering love: While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm, May wed—oh! take the Farmer and the Farm." "Nay," said the nymph, "joy smiled on you at last?" "Smiled for a moment," she replied, "and pass'd: My lover still the same dull means pursued, Assistant call'd, but kept in servitude; His spirits wearied in the prime of life, By fears and wishes in eternal strife; At length he urged impatient—'Now consent; With thee united, Fortune may relent.' I paused, consenting; but a Friend arose, Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose; From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream; By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired, And sail'd—was wounded—reach'd us—and expired! You shall behold his grave; and when I die, There—but 'tis folly—I request to lie." "Thus," said the lass, "to joy you bade adieu! But how a widow?—that cannot be true: Or was it force, in some unhappy hour, That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant's power?" "Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled, Is what a woman seldom has to dread; She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls, And seldom comes a lover though she calls: Yet, moved by fancy, one approved my face, Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace. "The man I married was sedate and meek, And spoke of love as men in earnest speak; Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought for years, A heart in sorrow and a face in tears: That heart I gave not; and 'twas long before I gave attention, and then nothing more: But in my breast some grateful feeling rose, For one whose love so sad a subject chose; Till long delaying, fearing to repent, But grateful still, I gave a cold assent. Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find, And he but one: my heart could not be kind: Alas! of every early hope bereft, There was no fondness in my bosom left; So had I told him, but had told in vain, He lived but to indulge me and complain: His was this cottage; he inclosed this ground. And planted all these blooming shrubs around; He to my room these curious trifles brought, And with assiduous love my pleasure sought; He lived to please me, and I ofttimes strove, Smiling, to thank his unrequited love: 'Teach me,' he cried, 'that pensive mind to ease, For all my pleasure is the hope to please.' Serene though heavy, were the days we spent, Yet kind each word, and gen'rous each intent; But his dejection lessen'd every day, And to a placid kindness died away: In tranquil ease we pass'd our latter years, By griefs untroubled, unassail'd by fears. Let not romantic views your bosom sway; Yield to your duties, and their call obey: Fly not a Youth, frank, honest, and sincere; Observe his merits, and his passion hear! 'Tis true, no hero, but a farmer, sues - Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views; With him you cannot that affliction prove, That rends the bosom of the poor in love: Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days, Your friends' approval, and your father's praise, Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late." The Damsel heard; at first th' advice was strange, Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change: "I have no care," she said, when next they met, But one may wonder, he is silent yet; He looks around him with his usual stare, And utters nothing—not that I shall care." This pettish humour pleased th' experienced Friend - None need despair, whose silence can offend; "Should I," resumed the thoughtful Lass, "consent To hear the man, the man may now repent: Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough, Or give one hint, that 'You may woo me now?'" "Persist, my love," replied the Friend, "and gain A parent's praise, that cannot be in vain." The father saw the change, but not the cause, And gave the alter'd maid his fond applause: The coarser manners she in part removed, In part endured, improving and improved; She spoke of household works, she rose betimes, And said neglect and indolence were crimes; The various duties of their life she weigh'd, And strict attention to her dairy paid; The names of servants now familiar grew, And fair Lucinda's from her mind withdrew; As prudent travellers for their ease assume Their modes and language to whose lands they come; So to the Farmer this fair Lass inclined, Gave to the business of the Farm her mind; To useful arts she turned her hand and eye; And by her manners told him—"You may try." Th' observing Lover more attention paid, With growing pleasure, to the alter'd maid; He fear'd to lose her, and began to see That a slim beauty might a helpmate be: 'Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address'd, And in his Sunday robe his love express'd: She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy, Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; But still she lent an unreluctant ear To all the rural business of the year; Till love's strong hopes endured no more delay, And Harry ask'd, and Nancy named the day. "A happy change! my Boy," the father cried: "How lost your sister all her school-day pride?" The Youth replied, "It is the Widow's deed; The cure is perfect and was wrought with speed. And comes there, Boy, this benefit of books, Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks? We must be kind—some offerings from the Farm To the White Cot will speak our feelings warm; Will show that people, when they know the fact, Where they have judged severely, can retract. Oft have I smiled, when I beheld her pass With cautious step as if she hurt the grass; Where, if a snail's retreat she chanced to storm, She look'd as begging pardon of the worm; And what, said I, still laughing at the view, Have these weak creatures in the world to do? But some are made for action, some to speak; And, while she looks so pitiful and meek, Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.' Soon told the village-bells the rite was done, That joined the school-bred Miss and Farmer's Son; Her former habits some slight scandal raised, But real worth was soon perceived and praised; She, her neat taste imparted to the Farm, And he, th' improving skill and vigorous arm.



TALE VIII.



THE MOTHER.

What though you have beauty, Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It.

I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed. As You Like It.

Wilt thou love such a woman? What! to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee!—Not to be endured. As You Like It.

Your son, As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know Her estimation hence. All's Well that Ends Well.

Be this sweet Helen's knell; He left a wife whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfections hearts that scorn'd to serve Humbly call'd Mistress. All's Well that Ends Well.

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There was a worthy, but a simple Pair, Who nursed a Daughter, fairest of the fair: Sons they had lost, and she alone remain'd, Heir to the kindness they had all obtain'd, Heir to the fortune they design'd for all, Nor had th' allotted portion then been small; And now, by fate enrich'd with beauty rare, They watch'd their treasure with peculiar care: The fairest features they could early trace, And, blind with love saw merit in her face - Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace; And Dorothea, from her infant years, Gain'd all her wishes from their pride or fears; She wrote a billet, and a novel read, And with her fame her vanity was fed; Each word, each look, each action was a cause For flattering wonder and for fond applause; She rode or danced, and ever glanced around, Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found, The yielding pair to her petitions gave An humble friend to be a civil slave, Who for a poor support herself resign'd To the base toil of a dependant mind: By nature cold, our Heiress stoop'd to art, To gain the credit of a tender heart. Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand, To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand: And now, her education all complete, She talk'd of virtuous love and union sweet; She was indeed by no soft passion moved, But wished with all her soul to be beloved. Here, on the favour'd beauty Fortune smiled; Her chosen Husband was a man so mild, So humbly temper'd, so intent to please, It quite distress'd her to remain at ease, Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease: She tried his patience on a thousand modes, And tried it not upon the roughest roads. Pleasure she sought, and disappointed, sigh'd For joys, she said, "to her alone denied;" And she was sure "her parents if alive Would many comforts for their child contrive:" The gentle Husband bade her name him one; "No—that," she answered, "should for her be done; How could she say what pleasures were around? But she was certain many might be found." "Would she some seaport, Weymouth, Scarborough, grace?" - "He knew she hated every watering-place." "The town?"—"What! now 'twas empty, joyless, dull?" "In winter?"—"No; she liked it worse when full." She talk'd of building—"Would she plan a room?" - "No! she could live, as he desired, in gloom." "Call then our friends and neighbours."—"He might call, And they might come and fill his ugly hall; A noisy vulgar set, he knew she scorn'd them all." "Then might their two dear girls the time employ, And their Improvement yield a solid joy." - "Solid indeed! and heavy—oh! the bliss Of teaching letters to a lisping miss!" "My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say, Can I oblige you?"—"You may go away." Twelve heavy years this patient soul sustain'd This wasp's attacks, and then her praise obtain'd, Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace remain'd. Two daughters wept their loss; the one a child With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild, Who keenly felt the Mother's angry taunt, "Thou art the image of thy pious Aunt:" Long time had Lucy wept her slighted face, And then began to smile at her disgrace. Her father's sister, who the world had seen Near sixty years when Lucy saw sixteen, Begg'd the plain girl: the gracious Mother smiled, And freely gave her grieved but passive child; And with her elder-born, the beauty bless'd, This parent rested, if such minds can rest: No miss her waxen babe could so admire, Nurse with such care, or with such pride attire; They were companions meet, with equal mind, Bless'd with one love, and to one point inclined; Beauty to keep, adorn, increase, and guard, Was their sole care, and had its full reward: In rising splendour with the one it reign'd, And in the other was by care sustain'd, The daughter's charms increased, the parent's yet remain'd. Leave we these ladies to their daily care, To see how meekness and discretion fare: - A village maid, unvex'd by want or love, Could not with more delight than Lucy move; The village lark, high mounted in the spring, Could not with purer joy than Lucy sing; Her cares all light, her pleasures all sincere, Her duty joy, and her companion dear; In tender friendship and in true respect Lived Aunt and Niece, no flattery, no neglect - They read, walk'd, visited—together pray'd, Together slept the matron and the maid: There was such goodness, such pure nature seen In Lucy's looks, a manner so serene; Such harmony in motion, speech, and air, That without fairness she was more than fair, Had more than beauty in each speaking grace, That lent their cloudless glory to the face; Where mild good sense in placid looks were shown, And felt in every bosom but her own; The one presiding feature in her mind Was the pure meekness of a will resign'd; A tender spirit, freed from all pretence Of wit, and pleased in mild benevolence; Bless'd in protecting fondness she reposed With every wish indulged though undisclosed; But love, like zephyr on the limpid lake, Was now the bosom of the maid to shake, And in that gentle mind a gentle strife to make. Among their chosen friends, a favoured few The aunt and niece a youthful Rector knew; Who, though a younger brother, might address A younger sister, fearless of success; His friends, a lofty race, their native pride At first display'd, and their assent denied: But, pleased such virtues and such love to trace, They own'd she would adorn the loftiest race. The Aunt, a mother's caution to supply, Had watch'd the youthful priest with jealous eye; And, anxious for her charge, had view'd unseen The cautious life that keeps the conscience clean: In all she found him all she wish'd to find, With slight exception of a lofty mind: A certain manner that express'd desire To be received as brother to the 'Squire. Lucy's meek eye had beam'd with many a tear, Lucy's soft heart had beat with many a fear, Before he told (although his looks, she thought, Had oft confess'd) that he her favour sought; But when he kneel'd, (she wish'd him not to kneel,) And spoke the fears and hopes that lovers feel; When too the prudent aunt herself confess'd Her wishes on the gentle youth would rest; The maiden's eye with tender passion beam'd, She dwelt with fondness on the life she schemed; The household cares, the soft and lasting ties Of love, with all his binding charities; Their village taught, consoled, assisted, fed, Till the young zealot tears of pleasure shed. But would her Mother? Ah! she fear'd it wrong To have indulged these forward hopes so long, Her mother loved, but was not used to grant Favours so freely as her gentle aunt. - Her gentle aunt, with smiles that angels wear, Dispell'd her Lucy's apprehensive tear: Her prudent foresight the request had made To one whom none could govern, few persuade; She doubted much if one in earnest woo'd A girl with not a single charm endued; The Sister's nobler views she then declared, And what small sum for Lucy could be spared; "If more than this the foolish priest requires, Tell him," she wrote," to check his vain desires." At length, with many a cold expression mix'd, With many a sneer on girls so fondly fix'd, There came a promise—should they not repent, But take with grateful minds the portion meant, And wait the Sister's day—the Mother might consent. And here, might pitying hope o'er truth prevail, Or love o'er fortune, we would end our tale; For who more bless'd than youthful pair removed From fear of want—by mutual friends approved - Short time to wait, and in that time to live With all the pleasures hope and fancy give; Their equal passion raised on just esteem, When reason sanctions all that love can dream? Yes! reason sanctions what stern fate denies: The early prospect in the glory dies, As the soft smiles on dying infants play In their mild features, and then pass away. The Beauty died ere she could yield her hand In the high marriage by the Mother plann'd; Who grieved indeed, but found a vast relief In a cold heart, that ever warr'd with grief. Lucy was present when her sister died, Heiress to duties that she ill supplied: There were no mutual feelings, sister arts, No kindred taste, nor intercourse of hearts: When in the mirror play'd the matron's smile, The maiden's thoughts were traveling all the while; And when desired to speak, she sigh'd to find Her pause offended; "Envy made her blind: Tasteless she was, nor had a claim in life Above the station of a rector's wife; Yet as an heiress, she must shun disgrace, Although no heiress to her mother's face: It is your duty," said th' imperious dame, "(Advanced your fortune,) to advance your name, And with superior rank, superior offers claim: Your sister's lover, when his sorrows die, May look upon you, and for favour sigh; Nor can you offer a reluctant hand; His birth is noble, and his seat is grand." Alarm'd was Lucy, was in tears—"A fool! Was she a child in love?—a miss at school? Doubts any mortal, if a change of state Dissolves all claims and ties of earlier date?" The Rector doubted, for he came to mourn A sister dead, and with a wife return: Lucy with heart unchanged received the youth, True in herself, confiding in his truth; But own'd her mother's change; the haughty dame Pour'd strong contempt upon the youthful flame; She firmly vow'd her purpose to pursue, Judged her own cause, and bade the youth adieu! The lover begg'd, insisted, urged his pain, His brother wrote to threaten and complain; Her sister reasoning proved the promise made, Lucy appealing to a parent pray'd; But all opposed the event that she design'd, And all in vain—she never changed her mind; But coldly answer'd in her wonted way, That she "would rule, and Lucy must obey." With peevish fear, she saw her health decline, And cried, "Oh! monstrous, for a man to pine! But if your foolish heart must yield to love, Let him possess it whom I now approve; This is my pleasure."—Still the Rector came With larger offers and with bolder claim; But the stern lady would attend no more - She frown'd, and rudely pointed to the door; Whate'er he wrote, he saw unread return'd, And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn'd: Nay, fix'd suspicion where he might confide, And sacrificed his passion to his pride. Lucy, meantime, though threaten'd and distress'd, Against her marriage made a strong protest: All was domestic war; the Aunt rebell'd Against the sovereign will, and was expell'd; And every power was tried, and every art, To bend to falsehood one determined heart; Assail'd, in patience it received the shock, Soft as the wave, unshaken as the rock: But while th' unconquer'd soul endures the storm Of angry fate, it preys upon the form; With conscious virtue she resisted still, And conscious love gave vigour to her will; But Lucy's trial was at hand; with joy The Mother cried—"Behold your constant boy - Thursday—was married: —take the paper, sweet, And read the conduct of your reverend cheat; See with what pomp of coaches, in what crowd The creature married—of his falsehood proud! False, did I say?—at least no whining fool; And thus will hopeless passions ever cool: But shall his bride your single state reproach? No! give him crowd for crowd, and coach for coach. Oh! you retire; reflect then, gentle miss, And gain some spirit in a cause like this." Some spirit Lucy gain'd; a steady soul, Defying all persuasion, all control: In vain reproach, derision, threats were tried; The constant mind all outward force defied, By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail'd by pride; Fix'd in her purpose, perfect in her part, She felt the courage of a wounded heart; The world receded from her rising view, When heaven approach'd as earthly things withdrew; Not strange before, for in the days of love, Joy, hope, and pleasure, she had thoughts above, Pious when most of worldly prospects fond, When they best pleased her she could look beyond; Had the young priest a faithful lover died, Something had been her bosom to divide; Now heaven had all, for in her holiest views She saw the matron whom she fear'd to lose; While from her parent, the dejected maid Forced the unpleasant thought, or thinking pray'd. Surprised, the mother saw the languid frame, And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame; Once with a frown she cried, "And do you mean To die of love—the folly of fifteen?" But as her anger met with no reply, She let the gentle girl in quiet die; And to her sister wrote, impell'd by pain, "Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain." Lucy meantime profess'd with joy sincere, That nothing held, employ'd, engaged her here. "I am an humble actor, doom'd to play A part obscure, and then to glide away: Incurious how the great or happy shine, Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine; In its best prospect I but wish'd for life, To be th' assiduous, gentle, useful wife; That lost, with wearied mind, and spirit poor, I drop my efforts, and can act no more; With growing joy I feel my spirits tend To that last scene where all my duties end." Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying gave, Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave; She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm, And said, "She left but little for the worm:" As toll'd the bell, "There's one," she said, "hath press'd Awhile before me to the bed of rest:" And she beside her with attention spread The decorations of the maiden dead. While quickly thus the mortal part declin'd, The happiest visions fill'd the active mind; A soft, religious melancholy gain'd Entire possession, and for ever reign'd: On Holy Writ her mind reposing dwelt, She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt; Till, in a bless'd and glorious reverie, She seem'd the Saviour as on earth to see, And, fill'd with love divine, th' attending friend to be; Or she who trembling, yet confiding, stole Near to the garment, touch'd it, and was whole; When, such the intenseness of the working thought, On her it seem'd the very deed was wrought; She the glad patient's fear and rapture found, The holy transport, and the healing wound; This was so fix'd, so grafted in the heart, That she adopted, nay became the part: But one chief scene was present to her sight, Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night; Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind Was to that scene, that hallow'd cave, confin'd - Where in the shade of death the body laid, There watch'd the spirit of the wandering maid; Her looks were fix'd, entranced, illumed, serene, In the still glory of the midnight scene: There at her Saviour's feet, in visions bless'd, Th' enraptured maid a sacred joy possess'd; In patience waiting for the first-born ray Of that all-glorious and triumphant day: To this idea all her soul she gave, Her mind reposing by the sacred grave; Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close, And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose. Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers Again restored, illumed the dying hours; But reason dwelt where fancy stray'd before, And the mind wander'd from its views no more; Till death approach'd, when every look express'd A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest. The mother lives, and has enough to buy The attentive ear and the submissive eye Of abject natures—these are daily told, How triumph'd beauty in the days of old; How, by her window seated, crowds have cast Admiring glances, wondering as they pass'd; How from her carriage as she stepp'd to pray, Divided ranks would humbly make her way; And how each voice in the astonish'd throng Pronounced her peerless as she moved along. Her picture then the greedy Dame displays; Touch'd by no shame, she now demands its praise; In her tall mirror then she shows a face, Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace; These she compares: "It has the form," she cries, "But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes; This, as a likeness, is correct and true, But there alone the living grace we view." This said, th' applauding voice the Dame requir'd, And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired.



TALE IX.



ARABELLA.

Thrice blessed they that master so their blood - But earthly happier is the rose distill'd, Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. SHAKESPEARE, Midsummer Night's Dream.

I something do excuse the thing I hate, For his advantage whom I dearly love. Measure for Measure.

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! Much Ado about Nothing.

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Of a fair town where Doctor Rack was guide, His only daughter was the boast and pride - Wise Arabella, yet not wise alone, She like a bright and polish'd brilliant shone; Her father own'd her for his prop and stay, Able to guide, yet willing to obey; Pleased with her learning while discourse could please, And with her love in languor and disease: To every mother were her virtues known, And to their daughters as a pattern shown; Who in her youth had all that age requires, And with her prudence all that youth admires: These odious praises made the damsels try Not to obtain such merits, but deny; For, whatsoever wise mammas might say, To guide a daughter, this was not the way; From such applause disdain and anger rise, And envy lives where emulation dies. In all his strength contends the noble horse With one who just precedes him on the course, But when the rival flies too far before, His spirit fails, and he attempts no more. This reasoning Maid, above her sex's dread, Had dared to read, and dared to say she read; Not the last novel, not the new-born play; Not the mere trash and scandal of the day; But (though her young companions felt the shock) She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes and Locke: Her mind within the maze of history dwelt, And of the moral Muse the beauty felt; The merits of the Roman page she knew, And could converse with More and Montague: Thus she became the wonder of the town, From that she reap'd, to that she gave renown; And strangers coming, all were taught t'admire The learned lady, and the lofty spire. Thus fame in public fix'd the Maid where all Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall: A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen, From tongues envenom'd, and from arms unseen; A thousand eyes were fix'd upon the place, That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace: But malice vainly throws the poison'd dart, Unless our frailty shows the peccant part; And Arabella still preserved her name Untouch'd, and shone with undisputed fame; Her very notice some respect would cause, And her esteem was honour and applause. Men she avoided; not in childish fear, As if she thought some savage foe was near; Not as a prude, who hides that man should seek, Or who by silence hints that they should speak; But with discretion all the sex she view'd, Ere yet engaged pursuing or pursued; Ere love had made her to his vices blind, Or hid the favourite's failings from her mind. Thus was the picture of the man portray'd, By merit destined for so rare a maid; At whose request she might exchange her state, Or still be happy in a virgin's fate: - He must 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 opinion—crimes were ever crimes; No wretch forsaken must his frailty curse, No spurious offspring drain his 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 had such store of virtues to maintain? A Doctor Campbell, north of Tweed, came forth, Declared his passion, and proclaim'd his worth; Not unapproved, for he had much to say On every cause, and in a pleasant way; Not all his trust was in a pliant tongue, His form was good, and ruddy he, and young: But though the doctor was a man of parts, He read not deeply male or female hearts; But judged that all whom he esteem'd as wise Must think alike, though some assumed disguise; That every reasoning Brahmin, Christian, Jew, Of all religions took their liberal view; And of her own, no doubt, this learned Maid Denied the substance, and the forms obey'd: And thus persuaded, he his thoughts express'd Of her opinions, and his own profess'd: "All states demand this aid, the vulgar need Their priests and prayers, their sermons 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." Frank was the speech, but heard with high disdain, Nor had the doctor leave to speak again; A man who own'd, nay gloried in deceit, "He might despise her, but he should not cheat." The Vicar Holmes appear'd: he heard it said That ancient men best pleased the prudent maid; And true it was her ancient friends she loved, Servants when old she favour'd and approved; Age in her pious parents she revered, And neighbours were by length of days endear'd; But, if her husband too must ancient be, The good old vicar found it was not he. On Captain Bligh her mind in balance hung - Though valiant, modest; and reserved, though young: Against these merits must defects be set - Though poor, imprudent; and though proud, in debt: In vain the captain close attention paid; She found him wanting, whom she fairly weigh'd. Then came a youth, and all their friends agreed That Edward Huntly was the man indeed; Respectful duty he had paid awhile, Then ask'd her hand, and had a gracious smile: A lover now declared, he led the fair To woods and fields, to visits, and to pray'r; Then whisper'd softly—"Will you name the day?" She softly whisper'd—"If you love me, stay." "Oh! try me not beyond my strength," he cried: "Oh! be not weak," the prudent Maid replied; "But by some trial your affection prove - Respect, and not impatience, argues love: And love no more is by impatience known, Than ocean's depth is by its tempests shown: He whom a weak and fond impatience sways, But for himself with all his fervour prays, And not the maid he woos, but his own will obeys; And will she love the being who prefers, With so much ardour, his desire to hers?" Young Edward grieved, but let not grief be seen; He knew obedience pleased his fancy's queen: Awhile he waited, and then cried—"Behold! The year advancing, be no longer cold!" For she had promised—"Let the flowers appear, And I will pass with thee the smiling year:" Then pressing grew the youth; the more he press'd, The less inclined the maid to his request: "Let June arrive." Alas! when April came, It brought a stranger, and the stranger, shame; Nor could the Lover from his house persuade A stubborn lass whom he had mournful made; Angry and weak, by thoughtless vengeance moved, She told her story to the Fair beloved; In strongest words th' unwelcome truth was shown, To blight his prospects, careless of her own. Our heroine grieved, but had too firm a heart For him to soften, when she swore to part; In vain his seeming penitence and pray'r, His vows, his tears; she left him in despair: His mother fondly laid her grief aside, And to the reason of the nymph applied: - "It well becomes thee, lady, to appear, But not to be, in very truth, severe; Although the crime be odious in thy sight, That daring sex is taught such things to slight, His heart is thine, although it once was frail; Think of his grief, and let his love prevail!" "Plead thou no more, "the lofty lass return'd; "Forgiving woman is deceived and spurn'd: Say that the crime is common—shall I take A common man my wedded lord to make? See? a weak woman by his arts betray'd, An infant born his father to upbraid; Shall I forgive his vileness, take his name, Sanction his error, and partake his shame? No! this assent would kindred frailty prove, A love for him would be a vicious love: Can a chaste maiden secret counsel hold With one whose crime by every mouth is told? Forbid it spirit, prudence, virtuous pride; He must despise me, were he not denied: The way from vice the erring mind to win Is with presuming sinners to begin, And show, by scorning them, a just contempt for sin." The youth, repulsed, to one more mild convey'd His heart, and smiled on the remorseless maid; The maid, remorseless, in her pride, the while Despised the insult, and return'd the smile. First to admire, to praise her, and defend, Was (now in years advanced) a virgin-friend: Much she preferr'd, she cried the single state, "It was her choice"—it surely was her fate; And much it pleased her in the train to view A maiden vot'ress, wise and lovely too. Time to the yielding mind his change imparts, He varies notions, and he alters hearts; 'Tis right, 'tis just to feel contempt for vice, But he that shows it may be over-nice: There are who feel, when young, the false sublime, And proudly love to show disdain for crime; To whom the future will new thoughts supply, The pride will soften, and the scorn will die; Nay, where they still the vice itself condemn, They bear the vicious, and consort with them: Young Captain Grove, when one had changed his side, Despised the venal turncoat, and defied; Old Colonel Grove now shakes him by the hand, Though he who bribes may still his vote command. Why would not Ellen to Belinda speak, When she had flown to London for a week, And then return'd, to every friend's surprise, With twice the spirit, and with half the size? She spoke not then—but, after years had flown, A better friend had Ellen never known: Was it the lady her mistake had seen? Or had she too on such a journey been? No: 'twas the gradual change in human hearts, That time, in commerce with the world, imparts; That on the roughest temper throws disguise, And steals from virtue her asperities. The young and ardent, who with glowing zeal Felt wrath for trifles, and were proud to feel, Now find those trifles all the mind engage, To soothe dull hours, and cheat the cares of age; As young Zelinda, in her quaker-dress, Disdain'd each varying fashion's vile excess, And now her friends on old Zelinda gaze, Pleased in rich silks and orient gems to blaze: Changes like these 'tis folly to condemn, So virtue yields not, nor is changed with them. Let us proceed: —Twelve brilliant years were past, Yet each with less of glory than the last. Whether these years to this fair virgin gave A softer mind—effect they often have; Whether the virgin-state was not so bless'd As that good maiden in her zeal profess'd; Or whether lovers falling from her train, Gave greater price to those she could retain, Is all unknown;—but Arabella now Was kindly listening to a Merchant's vow, Who offer'd terms so fair, against his love To strive was folly, so she never strove. - Man in his earlier days we often find With a too easy and unguarded mind; But by increasing years and prudence taught, He grows reserved, and locks up every thought: Not thus the maiden, for in blooming youth She hides her thought and guards the tender truth: This, when no longer young, no more she hides, But frankly in the favour'd swain confides: Man, stubborn man, is like the growing tree, That, longer standing, still will harder be; And like its fruit, the virgin, first austere, Then kindly softening with the ripening year. Now was the lover urgent, and the kind And yielding lady to his suit inclined: "A little time, my friend, is just, is right; We must be decent in our neighbours' sight:" Still she allow'd him of his hopes to speak, And in compassion took off week by week; Till few remain'd, when, wearied with delay, She kindly meant to take off day by day. That female Friend who gave our virgin praise For flying man and all his treacherous ways, Now heard with mingled anger, shame, and fear Of one accepted, and a wedding near; But she resolved again with friendly zeal To make the maid her scorn of wedlock feel; For she was grieved to find her work undone, And like a sister mourn'd the failing nun. Why are these gentle maidens prone to make Their sister-doves the tempting world forsake? Why all their triumph when a maid disdains The tyrant sex, aud scorns to wear its chains? Is it pure joy to see a sister flown From the false pleasures they themselves have known: Or do they, as the call-birds in the cage, Try, in pure envy, others to engage? And therefore paint their native woods and groves, As scenes of dangerous joys and naughty loves? Strong was the maiden's hope; her friend was proud, And had her notions to the world avow'd; And, could she find the Merchant weak and frail, With power to prove it, then she must prevail: For she aloud would publish his disgrace, And save his victim from a man so base. When all inquiries had been duly made, Came the kind Friend her burthen to unlade: - "Alas! my dear! not all our care and art Can thread the maze of man's deceitful heart; Look not surprised—nor let resentment swell Those lovely features, all will yet be well; And thou, from love's and man's deceptions free, Wilt dwell in virgin-state, and walk to Heaven with me." The Maiden frown'd, and then conceived "that wives Could walk as well, and lead as holy lives, As angry prudes who scorn'd the marriage-chain, Or luckless maids, who sought it still in vain." The Friend was vex'd—she paused; at length she cried, "Know your own danger, then your lot decide: That traitor Beswell, while he seeks your hand, Has, I affirm, a wanton at command; A slave, a creature from a foreign place, The nurse and mother of a spurious race; Brown ugly bastards (Heaven the word forgive, And the deed punish!) in his cottage live; To town if business calls him, there he stays In sinful pleasures wasting countless days. Nor doubt the facts, for I can witness call, For every crime, and prove them one and all." Here ceased th' informer; Arabella's look Was like a schoolboy's puzzled by his book; Intent she cast her eyes upon the floor, Paused—then replied - "I wish to know no more: I question not your motive, zeal, or love, But must decline such dubious points to prove. All is not true, I judge, for who can guess Those deeds of darkness men with care suppress? He brought a slave perhaps to England's coast, And made her free; it is our country's boast! And she perchance too grateful—good and ill Were sown at first, and grow together still; The colour'd infants on the village green, What are they more than we have often seen? Children half-clothed who round their village stray, In sun or rain, now starved, now beaten, they Will the dark colour of their fate betray: Let us in Christian love for all account, And then behold to what such tales amount." "His heart is evil," said the impatient Friend: "My duty bids me try that heart to mend," Replied the virgin; "we may be too nice And lose a soul in our contempt of vice; If false the charge, I then shall show regard For a good man, and be his just reward: And what for virtue can I better do Than to reclaim him, if the charge be true?" She spoke, nor more her holy work delay'd; 'Twas time to lend an erring mortal aid: "The noblest way," she judged, "a soul to win, Was with an act of kindness to begin, To make the sinner sure, and then t'attack the sin." {3}