TALE X.



THE LOVER'S JOURNEY.

The sun is in the heavens, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton. SHAKESPEARE, King John.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet. Are of imagination all compact. Midsummer Night's Dream.

Oh! how this spring of love resembleth Th' uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all her beauty to the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away. Two Gentlemen of Verona.

And happily I have arrived at last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. Taming of the Shrew.

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It is the Soul that sees: the outward eyes Present the object, but the Mind descries; And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiff'rence rise: When minds are joyful, then we look around, And what is seen is all on fairy ground; Again they sicken, and on every view Cast their own dull and melancholy hue; Or, if absorb'd by their peculiar cares, The vacant eye on viewless matter glares, Our feelings still upon our views attend, And their own natures to the objects lend: Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure, Long as the passion reigns th' effects endure; But Love in minds his various changes makes, And clothes each object with the change he takes; His light and shade on every view he throws, And on each object what he feels bestows. Fair was the morning, and the month was June, When rose a Lover;—love awakens soon: Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while Of that day's meeting, and his Laura's smile: Fancy and love that name assign'd to her, Call'd Susan in the parish-register; And he no more was John—his Laura gave The name Orlando to her faithful slave. Bright shone the glory of the rising day, When the fond traveller took his favourite way; He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light, And all he saw was pleasing in his sight. "Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly, And bring on hours of bless'd reality; When I shall Laura see, beside her stand, Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand." First o'er a barren heath beside the coast Orlando rode, and joy began to boast. "This neat low gorse," said he, "with golden bloom, Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume; And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers, A man at leisure might admire for hours; This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip, That yields to nothing but my Laura's lip; And then how fine this herbage! men may say A heath is barren; nothing is so gay: Barren or bare to call such charming scene Argues a mind possess'd by care and spleen." Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat, Dust rose in clouds before the horse's feet; For now he pass'd through lanes of burning sand, Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured land; Where the dark poppy flourish'd on the dry And sterile soil, and mock'd the thin-set rye. "How lovely this!" the rapt Orlando said; "With what delight is labouring man repaid! The very lane has sweets that all admire, The rambling suckling, and the vigorous brier; See! wholesome wormwood grows beside the way, Where dew-press'd yet the dog-rose bends the spray; Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn, And snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn; No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall, They spring uncultured, and they bloom for all." The Lover rode as hasty lovers ride, And reach'd a common pasture wild and wide; Small black-legg'd sheep devour with hunger keen The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean: Such o'er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray, And there, with other black-legs, find their prey. He saw some scatter'd hovels; turf was piled In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild! A mill, indeed, was in the centre found, With short sear herbage withering all around; A smith's black shed opposed a wright's long shop, And join'd an inn where humble travellers stop. "Ay, this is Nature," said the gentle 'Squire; "This ease, peace, pleasure—who would not admire? With what delight these sturdy children play, And joyful rustics at the close of day; Sport follows labour; on this even space Will soon commence the wrestling and the race; Then will the village-maidens leave their home, And to the dance with buoyant spirits come; No affectation in their looks is seen, Nor know they what disguise aud flattery mean; Nor aught to move an envious pang they see, Easy their service, and their love is free; Hence early springs that love, it long endures, And life's first comfort, while they live, ensures: They the low roof and rustic comforts prize, Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes: Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, And learn what busier mortals feel and fear; Secure themselves, although by tales amazed Of towns bombarded and of cities razed; As if they doubted, in their still retreat, The very news that makes their quiet sweet, And their days happy—happier only knows He on whom Laura her regard bestows." On rode Orlando, counting all the while The miles he pass'd, and every coming mile; Like all attracted things, he quicker flies, The place approaching where th' attraction lies; When next appear'd a dam—so call the place - Where lies a road confined in narrow space; A work of labour, for on either side Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide, With dikes on either hand by ocean's self supplied: Far on the right the distant sea is seen, And salt the springs that feed the marsh between: Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten'd flood Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud; Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, That frets and hurries to th' opposing side; The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow, Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below, Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow: Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom, Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume: The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread Partake the nature of their fenny bed; Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume; Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh, And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh; Low on the ear the distant billows sound, And just in view appears their stony bound; No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun, Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun, Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run. "Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face," Exclaim'd Orlando: "all that grows has grace: All are appropriate—bog, and marsh, and fen, Are only poor to undiscerning men; Here may the nice and curious eye explore How Nature's hand adorns the rushy moor; Here the rare moss in secret shade is found, Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground; Beauties are these that from the view retire, But well repay th' attention they require; For these my Laura will her home forsake, And all the pleasures they afford partake." Again, the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet: While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try; Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes; Train'd but yet savage, in her speaking face He mark'd the features of her vagrant race; When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast: Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame The young designer, but could only trace The looks of pity in the trav'ller's face: Within, the Father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by. On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed, And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, Reclined the Wife, an infant at her breast; In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd; Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state, Cursing his tardy aid—her Mother there With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair; Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands, And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years, Each feature now the steady falsehood wears; With hard and savage eye she views the food, And grudging pinches their intruding brood; Last in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits Neglected, lost, and living but by fits: Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, And half protected by the vicious Son, Who half supports him; he with heavy glance Views the young ruffians who around him dance; And, by the sadness in his face, appears To trace the progress of their future years: Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat! What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain - Ere they like him approach their latter end, Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! But this Orlando felt not; "Rogues," said he, "Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be; They wander round the land, and be it true They break the laws—then let the laws pursue The wanton idlers; for the life they live, Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive." This said, a portion from his purse was thrown, And every heart seem'd happy like his own. He hurried forth, for now the town was nigh - "The happiest man of mortal men am I." Thou art! but change in every state is near (So while the wretched hope, the bless'd may fear): "Say, Where is Laura?"—"That her words must show," A lass replied; "read this, and thou shalt know!" "What, gone!—'Her friend insisted—forced to go: Is vex'd, was teased, could not refuse her'—No? 'But you can follow.' Yes! 'The miles are few, The way is pleasant; will you come?—Adieu! Thy Laura!' No! I feel I must resign The pleasing hope; thou hadst been here, if mine. A lady was it?—Was no brother there? But why should I afflict me, if there were? 'The way is pleasant.' What to me the way? I cannot reach her till the close of day. My dumb companion! Is it thus we speed? Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed; Still art thou doom'd to travel and to pine, For my vexation—What a fate is mine! "Gone to a friend, she tells me;—I commend Her purpose: means she to a female friend? By Heaven, I wish she suffer'd half the pain Of hope protracted through the day in vain. Shall I persist to see th' ungrateful maid? Yes, I will see her, slight her, and upbraid. What! in the very hour? She knew the time, And doubtless chose it to increase her crime." Forth rode Orlando by a river's side, Inland and winding, smooth, and full, and wide, That roll'd majestic on, in one soft-flowing tide; The bottom gravel, flow'ry were the banks, Tall willows waving in their broken ranks; The road, now near, now distant, winding led By lovely meadows which the waters fed; He pass'd the way-side inn, the village spire, Nor stopp'd to gaze, to question or admire; On either side the rural mansions stood, With hedge-row trees, and hills, high-crown'd with wood, And many a devious stream that reach'd the nobler flood. "I hate these scenes," Orlando angry cried, "And these proud farmers! yes I hate their pride, See! that sleek fellow, how he strides along, Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong; Can yon close crops a single eye detain But he who counts the profits of the grain? And these vile beans with deleterious smell, Where is there beauty? can a mortal tell? These deep fat meadows I detest; it shocks One's feelings there to see the grazing ox; - For slaughter fatted, as a lady's smile Rejoices man, and means his death the while. Lo! now the sons of labour! every day Employ'd in toil and vex'd in every way; Theirs is but mirth assumed, and they conceal, In their affected joys, the ills they feel: I hate these long green lanes; there's nothing sees In this vile country but eternal green; Woods! waters! meadows! Will they never end? 'Tis a vile prospect: —Gone to see a friend?" Still on he rode! a mansion fair and tall Rose on his view—the pride of Loddon Hall: Spread o'er the park he saw the grazing steer, The full-fed steed, and herds of bounding deer: On a clear stream the vivid sunbeams play'd, Through noble elms, and on the surface made That moving picture, checker'd light and shade; Th' attended children, there indulged to stray, Enjoy'd and gave new beauty to the day; Whose happy parents from their room were seen Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green. "Well!" said Orlando, "and for one so bless'd, A thousand reasoning wretches are distressed; Nay, these, so seeming glad, are grieving like the rest: Man is a cheat—and all but strive to hide Their inward misery by their outward pride. What do yon lofty gates and walls contain, But fruitless means to sooth unconquer'd pain? The parents read each infant daughter's smile, Form'd to seduce, encouraged to beguile; They view the boys unconscious of their fate, Sure to be tempted, sure to take the bait; These will be Lauras, sad Orlandos these - There's guilt and grief in all one hears and sees." Our Trav'ller, lab'ring up a hill, look'd down Upon a lively, busy, pleasant town; All he beheld were there alert, alive, The busiest bees that ever stock'd a hive: A pair were married, and the bells aloud Proclaim'd their joy, and joyful seem'd the crowd; And now, proceeding on his way, he spied, Bound by strong ties, the bridegroom and the bride, Each by some friends attended, near they drew, And spleen beheld them with prophetic view. "Married! nay mad!" Orlando cried in scorn; "Another wretch on this unlucky morn: What are this foolish mirth, these idle joys? Attempts to stifle doubt and fear by noise: To me these robes, expressive of delight, Foreshow distress, and only grief excite; And for these cheerful friends, will they behold Their wailing brood in sickness, want, and cold; And his proud look, and her soft languid air Will—but I spare you—go, unhappy pair!" And now, approaching to the Journey's end, His anger fails, his thoughts to kindness tend, He less offended feels, and rather fears t'offend: Now gently rising, hope contends with doubt, And casts a sunshine on the views without; And still reviving joy and lingering gloom Alternate empire o'er his soul assume; Till, long perplex'd he now began to find The softer thoughts engross the settling mind: He saw the mansion, and should quickly see His Laura's self—and angry could he be? No! the resentment melted all away - "For this my grief a single smile will pay," Our trav'ller cried;—"And why should it offend, That one so good should have a pressing friend? Grieve not, my heart! to find a favourite guest Thy pride and boast—ye selfish sorrows rest; She will be kind, and I again be bless'd." While gentler passions thus his bosom sway'd He reach'd the mansion, and he saw the maid; "My Laura!"—"My Orlando!—this is kind; In truth I came persuaded, not inclined: Our friends' amusement let us now pursue, And I to-morrow will return with you." Like man entranced the happy Lover stood - "As Laura wills, for she is kind and good; Ever the truest, gentlest, fairest, best - As Laura wills: I see her and am bless'd." Home went the Lovers through that busy place, By Loddon Hall, the country's pride and grace; By the rich meadows where the oxen fed, Through the green vale that form'd the river's bed; And by unnumber'd cottages and farms, That have for musing minds unnumbered charms; And how affected by the view of these Was then Orlando? did they pain or please? Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield—and why? The mind was fill'd, was happy, and the eye Roved o'er the fleeting views, that but appear'd to die. Alone Orlando on the morrow paced The well-known road; the gipsy-tent he traced; The dam high-raised, the reedy dikes between, The scatter'd hovels on the barren green, The burning sand, the fields of thin-set rye, Mock'd by the useless Flora blooming by; And last the heath with all its various bloom, And the close lanes that led the trav'ller home. Then could these scenes the former joys renew? Or was there now dejection in the view? - Nor one or other would they yield—and why? The mind was absent, and the vacant eye Wander'd o'er viewless scenes, that but appear'd to die.



TALE XI.



EDWARD SHORE.

Seem they grave or learned? Why, so didst thou.—Seem they religious? Why, so didst thou; or are they spare in diet, Free from gross passion, or of mirth or anger, Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, Garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, Not working with the eye without the ear, And but with purged judgment trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem. SHAKESPEARE, Henry V.

Better I were distract, So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by strong imagination lose The knowledge of themselves. King Lear.

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Genius! thou gift of Heav'n! thou light divine! Amid what dangers art thou doom'd to shine! Oft will the body's weakness check thy force, Oft damp thy vigour, and impede thy course; And trembling nerves compel thee to restrain Thy nobler efforts, to contend with pain; Or want (sad guest!) will in thy presence come, And breathe around her melancholy gloom: To life's low cares will thy proud thought confine, And make her sufferings, her impatience, thine. Evil and strong, seducing passions prey On soaring minds, and win them from their way, Who then to Vice the subject spirits give, And in the service of the conqu'ror live; Like captive Samson making sport for all, Who fear'd their strength, and glory in their fall. Genius, with virtue, still may lack the aid Implored by humble minds, and hearts afraid; May leave to timid souls the shield and sword Of the tried Faith, and the resistless Word; Amid a world of dangers venturing forth, Frail, but yet fearless, proud in conscious worth, Till strong temptation, in some fatal time, Assails the heart, and wins the soul to crime, When left by honour, and by sorrow spent, Unused to pray, unable to repent, The nobler powers, that once exalted high Th' aspiring man, shall then degraded lie: Reason, through anguish, shall her throne forsake, And strength of mind but stronger madness make. When Edward Shore had reach'd his twentieth year, He felt his bosom light, his conscience clear; Applause at school the youthful hero gain'd, And trials there with manly strength sustain'd: With prospects bright upon the world he came, Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame: Men watch'd the way his lofty mind would take, And all foretold the progress he would make. Boast of these friends, to older men a guide, Proud of his parts, but gracious in his pride; He bore a gay good-nature in his face, And in his air were dignity and grace; Dress that became his state and years he wore, And sense and spirit shone in Edward Shore. Thus, while admiring friends the Youth beheld, His own disgust their forward hopes repell'd; For he unfix'd, unfixing, look'd around, And no employment but in seeking found; He gave his restless thoughts to views refined, And shrank from worldly cares with wounded mind. Rejecting trade, awhile he dwelt on laws, "But who could plead, if unapproved the cause?" A doubting, dismal tribe physicians seem'd; Divines o'er texts and disputations dream'd, War and its glory he perhaps could love, But there again he must the cause approve. Our hero thought no deed should gain applause Where timid virtue found support in laws; He to all good would soar, would fly all sin, By the pure prompting of the will within; "Who needs a law that binds him not to steal," Ask'd the young teacher, "can he rightly feel? To curb the will, or arm in honour's cause, Or aid the weak—are these enforced by laws? Should we a foul, ungenerous action dread, Because a law condemns th' adulterous bed? Or fly pollution, not for fear of stain, But that some statute tells us to refrain? The grosser herd in ties like these we bind, In virtue's freedom moves th' enlighten'd mind." "Man's heart deceives him," said a friend.—"Of course," Replied the Youth; "but has it power to force? Unless it forces, call it as you will, It is but wish, and proneness to the ill." "Art thou not tempted?"—"Do I fall?" said Shore. "The pure have fallen."—"Then are pure no more. While reason guides me, I shall walk aright, Nor need a steadier hand, or stronger light; Nor this in dread of awful threats, design'd For the weak spirit and the grov'ling mind; But that, engaged by thoughts and views sublime, I wage free war with grossness and with crime." Thus look'd he proudly on the vulgar crew, Whom statutes govern, and whom fears subdue. Faith, with his virtue, he indeed profess'd, But doubts deprived his ardent mind of rest; Reason, his sovereign mistress, fail'd to show Light through the mazes of the world below: Questions arose, and they surpass'd the skill Of his sole aid, and would be dubious still; These to discuss he sought no common guide, But to the doubters in his doubts applied; When all together might in freedom speak, And their loved truth with mutual ardour seek. Alas! though men who feel their eyes decay Take more than common pains to find their way, Yet, when for this they ask each other's aid, Their mutual purpose is the more delay'd: Of all their doubts, their reasoning clear'd not one, Still the same spots were present in the sun: Still the same scruples haunted Edward's mind, Who found no rest, nor took the means to find. But though with shaken faith, and slave to fame, Vain and aspiring on the world he came, Yet was he studious, serious, moral, grave, No passion's victim, and no system's slave: Vice he opposed, indulgence he disdain'd, And o'er each sense in conscious triumph reign'd. Who often reads will sometimes wish to write, And Shore would yield instruction and delight: A serious drama he design'd, but found 'Twas tedious travelling in that gloomy ground; A deep and solemn story he would try, But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid it by; Sermons he wrote, but they who knew his creed, Or knew it not, were ill-disposed to read; And he would lastly be the nation's guide, But, studying, fail'd to fix upon a side; Fame he desired, and talents he possess'd, But loved not labour, though he could not rest, Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind, That, ever working, could no centre find. 'Tis thus a sanguine reader loves to trace The Nile forth rushing on his glorious race; Calm and secure the fancied traveller goes Through sterile deserts and by threat'ning foes; He thinks not then of Afric's scorching sands, Th' Arabian sea, the Abyssinian bands; Fasils and Michaels, and the robbers all, {4} Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call: He of success alone delights to think, He views that fount, he stands upon the brink, And drinks a fancied draught, exulting so to drink. In his own room, and with his books around, His lively mind its chief employment found; Then idly busy, quietly employ'd, And, lost to life, his visions were enjoy'd: Yet still he took a keen inquiring view Of all that crowds neglect, desire, pursue; And thus abstracted, curious, still, serene, He, unemploy'd, beheld life's shifting scene: Still more averse from vulgar joys and cares, Still more unfitted for the world's affairs. There was a house where Edward ofttimes went, And social hours in pleasant trifling spent; He read, conversed, and reason'd, sang and play'd, And all were happy while the idler stay'd; Too happy one! for thence arose the pain, Till this engaging trifler came again. But did he love? We answer, day by day, The loving feet would take th' 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 ear, too, seem'd to feel the common flame, Soothed and delighted with the fair one's name; And thus, as love each other part possess'd, The heart, no doubt, its sovereign power confess'd. Pleased in her sight, the Youth required no more; Not rich himself, he saw the damsel poor; And 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; Authors 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; Perplex'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 that not a man could see. The youthful Friend, 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, And he had interest in the themes he chose. The Friend, indulging a sarcastic smile, Said, "Dear enthusiast! thou wilt change thy style, When man's delusions, errors, crimes, deceit, No more distress thee, and no longer cheat." Yet, lo! this cautious man, so coolly wise, On a young Beauty fix'd unguarded eyes; And her he married: Edward at the view Bade to his cheerful visits long adieu; But haply err'd, for this engaging bride No mirth suppress'd, but rather cause supplied: And when she saw the friends, by reasoning long, Confused if right, and positive if wrong, With playful speech, and smile that spoke 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 follow'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 his 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 her to fix the roving thoughts, to bind The wandering sense, and methodize 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 Tho friends, all careless as she seeming sate, It soon appear'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; 'Tis 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: The lovely nymph who 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 wife, 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! 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; I 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, tell 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 forgive; 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 light 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 humble sinners seek; Else had he pray'd—to an offended God His tears had flown a penitential flood; Though far astray, he would have heard the call Of mercy—"Come! return, 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!" 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 oppress, 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, in 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, nay, 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." Such were the notions of a mind to ill Now prone, but ardent and determined still: Of joy now eager, as before of fame, And screen'd by folly when assail'd by shame, Deeply he sank; obey'd each passion's call, And used his reason to defend them all. Shall I proceed, and step by step relate The odious progress of a Sinner's fate? No—let me rather hasten to the time (Sure to arrive!) when misery waits on crime. With Virtue, prudence fled; what Shore possessed Was sold, was spent, and he was now distressed: And Want, unwelcome stranger, pale and wan, Met with her haggard looks the hurried man: His pride felt keenly what he must expect From useless pity and from cold neglect. Struck by new terrors, from his friends he fled, And wept his woes upon a restless bed; Retiring late, at early hour to rise, With shrunken features, and with bloodshot eyes: If sleep one moment closed the dismal view, Fancy her terrors built upon the true: And night and day had their alternate woes, That baffled pleasure, and that mock'd repose; Till to despair and anguish was consign'd The wreck and ruin of a noble mind. Now seized for debt, and lodged within a jail, He tried his friendships, and he found them fail; Then fail'd his spirits, and his thoughts were all Fix'd on his sins, his sufferings, and his fall: His ruffled mind was pictured in his face, Once the fair seat of dignity and grace: Great was the danger of a man so prone To think of madness, and to think alone; Yet pride still lived, and struggled to sustain The drooping spirit and the roving brain; But this too fail'd: a Friend his freedom gave, And sent him help the threat'ning world to brave; Gave solid counsel what to seek or flee, But still would stranger to his person be: In vain! the truth determined to explore, He traced the Friend whom he had wrong'd before. This was too much; both aided and advised By one who shunn'd him, pitied, and despised: He bore it not; 'twas a deciding stroke, And on his reason like a torrent broke: In dreadful stillness he appear'd a while, With vacant horror and a ghastly smile; Then rose at once into the frantic rage, That force controlled not, nor could love assuage. Friends now appear'd, but in the Man was seen The angry Maniac, with vindictive mien; Too late their pity gave to care and skill The hurried mind and ever-wandering will: Unnoticed pass'd all time, and not a ray Of reason broke on his benighted way; But now he spurn'd the straw in pure disdain, And now laugh'd loudly at the clinking chain. Then, as its wrath subsided by degrees, The mind sank slowly to infantine ease, To playful folly, and to causeless joy, Speech without aim, and without end, employ; He drew fantastic figures on the wall, And gave some wild relation of them all; With brutal shape he join'd the human face, And idiot smiles approved the motley race. Harmless at length th' unhappy man was found, The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd; 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, Gave him to wander where he pleased, and find His own resources for the eager mind: The playful children of the place he meets, Playful with 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, whom 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 invade 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. Rarely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, In darker mood, as if to hide his woes; Returning soon, he with impatience seeks His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and speaks; Speaks a wild speech with action all is 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 Silly Shore.



TALE XII.



'SQUIRE THOMAS; OR THE PRECIPITATE CHOICE.

Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain. Too intrinsicate t'unloose. SHAKESPEARE, King 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 pitv upon her, I'm a villain: If I do not love her, I am a Jew. Much Ado about Nothing.

Women are soft, mild, pitiable, flexible; But thou art obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Henry VI.

He must be told of it, and he shall; the office Becomes a woman best; I'll take it upon me; If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister. Winter's Tale.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness. Twelfth Night.

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'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: 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 ease, 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 own 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 waived 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, "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 thus our triumph, 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 ease. 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 praised 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; Nay, still was right, but he perceived that strong And powerful minds could make the right the wrong. When the 'Squire's thoughts on some fair damsel dwelt, The faithful Friend his apprehensions felt; It would rejoice his faithful heart to find A lady suited to his master's mind; But who deserved that master? who would prove That hers was pure, uninterested love? Although a servant, he would scorn to take A countess, till she suffer'd for his sake; Some tender spirit, humble, faithful, true, Such, my dear master! must be sought for you. Six months had pass'd, and not a lady seen, With just this love, 'twixt fifty and fifteen; All seem'd his doctrine or his pride to shun, All would be woo'd before they would be won; When the chance naming of a race and fair Our 'Squire disposed to take his pleasure there, The 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 there might be sport." "What! you of roads and starless nights afraid? You think to govern! you to be obey'd!" Smiling he spoke: the 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 From light to darkness, and the way was strange: Our hero soon grew peevish, then distress'd; He dreaded darkness, and he sigh'd for rest: Going, they pass'd a village; but alas! Returning 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, George, full of awe, was modest in reply - "The fault was his, 'twas folly to deny; And of his master's safety were he sure, There was no grievance he would not endure." This made his peace with the relenting 'Squire, Whose thoughts yet dwelt on supper and a fire; When, as they reach'd a long and pleasant green, Dwellings of men, and next a man, were seen. "My 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, 'tis he!" "How! Robin?" George replied, "and are we near My father's house? how strangely things appear! - Dear sir, though wanderers, we at last are right: Let us proceed, and glad my father's sight: We shall at least be fairly lodged and fed, I can ensure a supper and a bed; Let us this night as one of pleasure date, And of surprise: it is an act of Fate." "Go on," the 'Squire in happy temper cried; "I like such blunder! I approve such guide." They ride, they halt, the farmer comes in haste, Then tells his wife how much their house is graced; They bless the chance, they praise the lucky son. That caused the error—Nay! it was not one, But their good fortune: cheerful grew the 'Squire, Who found dependants, flattery, wine, 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 Adorn'd the blooming damsel's form and face; Then, too, such high 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 morn 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 stay—uncertain what he meant: He moved to part—they begg'd him first to dine; And who could then escape from Love and Wine? As 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 wonder'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 A letter, which his crafty master found; 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 droops, 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 offended, 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 from 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! 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: Well, sir! your answer."—Silent stood the 'Squire, As looks a miser at his house on fire; Where 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!—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! What 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 thy face, And call'd it spirit. Oh: I might have found Fraud and imposture all the kindred round! A nest of vipers" - "Sir, I'll not admit These wild effusions of your angry wit: Have you that value, that we all should 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; Who play'd for ten dull years a scoundrel part, To worm yourself into a Widow's heart? Now, when you guarded, with superior skill, That lady's closet, and preserved her Will, Blind in your craft, you saw not one of those Opposed by you might you in turn oppose, Or watch your motions, and by art obtain Share of that wealth you gave your peace to gain. Did conscience never" - "Cease, tormentor, cease - Or reach me poison;—let me rest in peace!" "Agreed—but hear me—let the truth appear." "Then state your purpose—I'll be calm and hear." "Know then, this wealth, sole object of your care, I had some right, without your hand, to share; My mother's claim was just—but soon she saw Your power, compell'd, insulted, to withdraw: 'Twas then my father, in his anger, swore You should divide the fortune, or restore. Long we debated—and you find me now Heroic victim to a father's vow; Like Jephtha's daughter, but in different state, And both decreed to mourn our early fate: Hence was my brother servant to your pride, Vengeance made him your slave, and me your bride. Now all is known—a dreadful price I pay For our revenge—but still we have our day: All that you love you must with others share, Or all you dread from their resentment dare: - Yet terms I offer—let contention cease; Divide the spoil, and let us part in peace." Our hero trembling heard—he sat, he rose - Nor could his motions nor his mind compose; He paced the room—and, stalking to her side, Gazed on the face of his undaunted bride, And nothing there but scorn and calm aversion spied. He would have vengeance, yet he fear'd the law; Her friends would threaten, and their power he saw; "Then let her go:" but, oh! a mighty sum Would that demand, since he had let her come; Nor from his sorrows could he find redress, Save that which led him to a like distress; And all his ease was in his wife to see A wretch as anxious and distress'd as he: Her strongest wish, the fortune to divide, And part in peace, his avarice denied; And thus it happen'd, as in all deceit, The cheater found the evil of the cheat; The Husband griev'd—nor was the Wife at rest; Him she could vex, and he could her molest; She could his passion into frenzy raise, But, when the fire was kindled, fear'd the blaze; As much they studied, so in time they found The easiest way to give the deepest wound; But then, like fencers, they were equal still, - Both lost in danger what they gain'd in skill; Each heart a keener kind of rancour gain'd, And, paining more, was more severely pain'd, And thus by both was equal vengeance dealt, And both the anguish they inflicted felt.



TALE XIII.



JESSE AND COLIN.

Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. SHAKESPEARE, Merry Wives of Windsor.

She hath spoken that she should not, I am sure of that; Heaven knows what she hath known. Macbeth.

Our house is hell, and thou a merry devil. Merchant of Venice.

And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit of too much, as they that starve with nothing; it is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. Merchant of Venice.

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A Vicar died and left his Daughter poor - It hurt her not, she was not rich before: Her humble share of worldly goods she sold, Paid every debt, and then her fortune told; And found, with youth and beauty, hope and health, Two hundred guineas was her worldly wealth; It then remain'd to choose her path in life, And first, said Jesse, "Shall I be a wife? - Colin is mild and civil, kind and just, I know his love, his temper I can trust; But small his farm, it asks perpetual care, And we must toil as well as trouble share: True, he was taught in all the gentle arts That raise the soul and soften human hearts; And boasts a parent, who deserves to shine In higher class, and I could wish her mine; Nor wants he will his station to improve, A just ambition waked by faithful love; Still is he poor—and here my Father's Friend Deigns for his Daughter, as her own, to send: A worthy lady, who it seems has known A world of griefs and troubles of her own: I was an infant when she came a guest Beneath my father's humble roof to rest; Her kindred all unfeeling, vast her woes, Such her complaint, and there she found repose; Enrich'd by fortune, now she nobly lives, And nobly, from the bless'd abundance, gives; The grief, the want, of human life she knows, And comfort there and here relief bestows: But are they not dependants?—Foolish pride! Am I not honour'd by such friend and guide? Have I a home" (here Jesse dropp'd a tear), "Or friend beside?"—A faithful friend was near. Now Colin came, at length resolved to lay His heart before her, and to urge her stay: True, his own plough the gentle Colin drove, An humble farmer with aspiring love; Who, urged by passion, never dared till now, Thus urged by fears, his trembling hopes avow: Her father's glebe he managed; every year The grateful Vicar held the youth more dear; He saw indeed the prize in Colin's view, And wish'd his Jesse with a man so true: Timid as true, he urged with anxious air His tender hope, and made the trembling prayer, When Jesse saw, nor could with coldness see, Such fond respect, such tried sincerity; Grateful for favours to her father dealt, She more than grateful for his passion felt; Nor could she frown on one so good and kind, Yet fear'd to smile, and was unfix'd in mind; But prudence placed the Female Friend in view - What might not one so rich and grateful do? So lately, too, the good old Vicar died, His faithful daughter must not cast aside The signs of filial grief, and be a ready bride. Thus, led by prudence, to the Lady's seat The Village-Beauty purposed to retreat; But, as in hard-fought fields the victor knows What to the vanquish'd he in honour owes, So, in this conquest over powerful love, Prudence resolved a generous foe to prove, And Jesse felt a mingled fear and pain In her dismission of a faithful swain, Gave her kind thanks, and when she saw his woe, Kindly betray'd that she was loth to go; "But would she promise, if abroad she met A frowning world, she would remember yet Where dwelt a friend?"—"That could she not forget." And thus they parted; but each faithful heart Felt the compulsion, and refused to part. Now, by the morning mail the timid Maid Was to that kind and wealthy Dame conveyed; Whose invitation, when her father died, Jesse as comfort to her heart applied; She knew the days her generous Friend had seen - As wife and widow, evil days had been; She married early, and for half her life Was an insulted and forsaken wife; Widow'd and poor, her angry father gave, Mix'd with reproach, the pittance of a slave; Forgetful brothers pass'd her, but she knew Her humbler friends, and to their home withdrew: The good old Vicar to her sire applied For help, and help'd her when her sire denied. When in few years Death stalk'd through bower and hall, Sires, sons, and sons of sons, were buried all, She then abounded, and had wealth to spare For softening grief she once was doom'd to share; Thus train'd in misery's school, and taught to feel, She would rejoice an orphan's woes to heal: - So Jesse thought, who look'd within her breast, And thence conceived how bounteous minds are bless'd. From her vast mansion look'd the Lady down On humbler buildings of a busy town; Thence came her friends of either sex, and all With whom she lived on terms reciprocal: They pass'd the hours with their accustom'd ease, As guests inclined, but not compelled, to please; But there were others in the mansion found, For office chosen, and by duties bound; Three female rivals, each of power possess'd, Th' attendant Maid, poor Friend, and kindred Guest. To these came Jesse, as a seaman thrown By the rude storm upon a coast unknown: The view was flattering, civil seem'd the race, But all unknown the dangers of the place. Few hours had pass'd, when, from attendants freed The Lady utter'd, "This is kind indeed; Believe me, love! that I for one like you Have daily pray'd, a friend discreet and true; Oh! wonder not that I on you depend, You are mine own hereditary friend: Hearken, my Jesse, never can I trust Beings ungrateful, selfish, and unjust; But you are present, and my load of care Your love will serve to lighten and to share: Come near me, Jesse—let not those below Of my reliance on your friendship know; Look as they look, be in their freedoms free - But all they say do you convey to me." Here Jesse's thoughts to Colin's cottage flew, And with such speed she scarce their absence knew. "Jane loves her mistress, and should she depart, I lose her service, and she breaks her heart; My ways and wishes, looks and thoughts, she knows, And duteous care by close attention shows: But is she faithful? in temptation strong, Will she not wrong me? ah! I fear the wrong; Your father loved me; now, in time of need, Watch for my good, and to his place succeed. "Blood doesn't bind—that Girl, who every day Eats of my bread, would wish my life away; I am her dear relation, and she thinks To make her fortune, an ambitious minx! She only courts me for the prospect's sake, Because she knows I have a Will to make; Yes, love! my Will delay'd, I know not how - But you are here, and I will make it now. "That idle creature, keep her in your view, See what she does, what she desires to do; On her young mind may artful villains prey, And to my plate and jewels find a way: A pleasant humour has the girl; her smile, And cheerful manner, tedious hours beguile: But well observe her, ever near her be, Close in your thoughts, in your professions free. "Again, my Jesse, hear what I advise, And watch a woman ever in disguise; Issop, that widow, serious, subtle, sly - But what of this?—I must have company: She markets for me, and although she makes Profit, no doubt, of all she undertakes, Yet she is one I can to all produce, And all her talents are in daily use: Deprived of her, I may another find As 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 we 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 Are her companions, nor what ill they do; 'Tis then the Widow plans, 'tis then she tries Her various arts and schemes for fresh supplies; 'Tis then, if ever, Jane her duty quits, And, whom I know not, favours and admits: Oh! watch their movements all; for me 'tis 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 scorn 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 awhile assail'd, And then beheld with hatred when it fail'd; Yet, trying still upon her mind for hold, She all the secrets of the mansion told; And, to invite an equal trust, she drew Of every mind a bold and rapid view; But on the widow'd Friend 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 her guide, From all contagion Jesse kept apart, Free in her manners, guarded in her heart. Jesse one morn 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 are common to us all; Think not my frankness strange: they love to paint Their state with freedom, who endure restraint; And there is something in that speaking eye And sober mien that prove I may rely: You came a stranger; to my words attend, Accept my offer, and you find a friend; It is a labyrinth in which you stray, Come, hold my clue, and I will lead the way. "Good Heav'n! 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, - 'Tis but by duties we 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 heed not what I throw away;' 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 'twas 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. "See next that giddy thing, with neither pride To keep her safe, nor principle to guide: Poor, idle, simple flirt! 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, And she is fond of listening, full of doubt, And stoops to guilt to find an error out. "And now once more observe the artful Maid, A lying, prying, jilting, thievish jade; I 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 flexile features, acting eyes, And 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; And 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; Should you incline to throw reserve aside, And in my 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; Wearied with thought, she breathed the garden's air, Then came the laughing Lass, and join'd her thore. "My sweetest friend has dwelt with us a week, And does she love us? be sincere and speak; My Aunt you 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 and 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, I 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!) 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 friend, And, thus determined, to my Will attend." Jesse went forth, but with determined soul To fly such love, to break from such control: "I hear enough," the trembling damsel cried; Flight be my care, and Providence my guide: Ere yet a prisoner, I escape will make; Will, thus display'd, th' insidious arts forsake, And, as the rattle sounds, will fly the fatal snake." Jesse her thanks upon the morrow paid, Prepared to go, determined though afraid. "Ungrateful creature!" said the Lady, "this Could I imagine?—are you frantic, miss? What! leave your friend, your prospects—is it true?" This Jesse answer'd by a mild "Adieu?" The Dame replied "Then houseless may you rove, The starving victim to a guilty love; Branded with shame, in sickness doom'd to nurse An ill-form'd cub, your scandal and your curse; Spurn'd by its scoundrel father, and ill fed By surly rustics with the parish-bread! - Relent you not?—speak—yet I can forgive; Still live with me."—"With you," said Jesse, "live? No! I would first endure what you describe, Rather than breathe with your detested tribe; Who long have feign'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 thoughts 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 wretch!" 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 I'll make her feel what 'tis 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 road 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, Dress'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, Ere his last farm the 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 are poor, but thou hast never felt Pangs to thy father for his error dealt; Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain, For ever raised, and ever found in vain. He rose unhappy from his fruitless schemes, As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams; But thou wert then, my son, a playful child, Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild; Listening at times to thy poor mother's sighs With curious looks and innocent surprise; Thy father dying, thou my virtuous boy, My comfort always, waked my soul to joy; With the poor remnant of our fortune left, Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft: Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air, Have cast a smile on sadness and despair; Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace; And all around us wonder when they find Such taste and strength, such skill and power combined; There is no mother, Colin, no not one, But envies me so kind, so good a son; By thee supported on this failing side, Weakness itself awakes a parent's pride: I bless the stroke that was my grief before, And feel such joy that 'tis disease no more; Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth, And, soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health; The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise, And say, like thee were youth in earlier days; While every village-maiden cries, 'How gay, How smart, how brave, how good is Colin Grey!' "Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow; Fain would I think that Jesse still may come To share the comforts of our rustic home: She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid, When thou hast kindly brought the Vicar aid - When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain, Oh! I have seen her—she will come again." The Matron ceased; and Colin stood the while Silent, but striving for a grateful smile; He then replied—"Ah! sure, had Jesse stay'd, And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade, The tenderest duty and the fondest love Would not have fail'd that generous heart to move; A grateful pity would have ruled her breast, And my distresses would have made me bless'd. "But she is gone, and ever has in view Grandeur and taste,—and what will then ensue? Surprise and then delight in scenes so fair and new; For many a day, perhaps for many a week, Home will have charms, and to her bosom speak; But thoughtless ease, and affluence, and pride, Seen day by day, will draw the heart aside: And she at length, though gentle and sincere, Will think no more of our enjoyments here." Sighing he spake—but hark! he hears th' approach Of rattling wheels! and, lo! the evening coach; Once more the movement of the horses' feet Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat: Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight Drawn him to gaze beside his gate at night; And when with rapid wheels it hurried by, He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh; And could the blessing have been bought—what sum Had he not offer'd to have Jesse come! She came—he saw her bending from the door, Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more; Lost in his joy—the mother lent her aid T'assist and to detain the willing Maid; Who thought her late, her present home to make, Sure of a welcome for the Vicar's sake: But the good parent was so pleased, so kind, So pressing Colin, she so much inclined, That night advanced; and then, so long detain'd, No wishes to depart she felt, or feign'd; Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce remain'd. Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere; Here was content and joy, for she was here: In the mild evening, in the scene around, The Maid, now free, peculiar beauties found; Blended with village-tones, the evening gale Gave the sweet night-bird's warblings to the vale: The Youth, embolden'd, yet abash'd, now told His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold; The Mother smiling whisper'd, "Let him go And seek the licence!" Jesse answer'd "No:" But Colin went.—I know not if they live With all the comforts wealth and plenty give; But with pure joy to envious souls denied, To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride; And village-maids of happy couples say, "They live like Jesse Bourn and Colin Grey."



TALE XIV.



THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE.

I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not: Fool! of thyself speak well: —Fool! do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale. SHAKESPEARE, Richard III.

My conscience is but a kind of hard conscience . . . The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. Merchant of Venice.

Thou hast it now—and I fear Thou play'dst most foully for it. Macbeth.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Rase out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? Macbeth.

Soft! I did but dream. Oh! coward conscience, how thou dost afflict me. Richard III.

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A serious Toyman in the city dwelt, Who much concern for his religion felt; Reading, he changed his tenets, read again, And various questions could with skill maintain; Papist and Quaker if we set aside, He had the road of every traveller tried; There walk'd a while, and on a sudden turn'd Into some by-way he had just discern'd: He had a nephew, Fulham: —Fulham went His Uncle's way, with every turn content; He saw his pious kinsman's watchful care, And thought such anxious pains his own might spare, And he the truth obtain'd, without the toil, might share. In fact, young Fulham, though he little read, Perceived his uncle was by fancy led; And smiled to see the constant care he took, Collating creed with creed, and book with book. At length the senior fix'd; I pass the sect He call'd a Church, 'twas precious and elect; Yet the seed fell not in the richest soil, For few disciples paid the preacher's toil; All in an attic room were wont to meet, These few disciples, at their pastor's feet; With these went Fulham, who, discreet and grave, Follow'd the light his worthy uncle gave; Till a warm Preacher found the way t'impart Awakening feelings to his torpid heart: Some weighty truths, and of unpleasant kind, Sank, though resisted, in his struggling mind: He wish'd to fly them, but, compell'd to stay, Truth to the waking Conscience found her way; For though the Youth was call'd a prudent lad, And prudent was, yet serious faults he had - Who now reflected—"Much am I surprised; I find these notions cannot be despised: No! there is something I perceive at last, Although my uncle cannot hold it fast; Though I the strictness of these men reject, Yet I determine to be circumspect: This man alarms me, and I must begin To look more closely to the things within: These sons of zeal have I derided long, But now begin to think the laugher's wrong! Nay, my good uncle, by all teachers moved, Will be preferr'd to him who none approved; - Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved." Such were his thoughts, when Conscience first began To hold close converse with th' awaken'd man: He from that time reserved and cautious grew, And for his duties felt obedience due; Pious he was not, but he fear'd the pain Of sins committed, nor would sin again: Whene'er he stray'd, he found his Conscience rose, Like one determined what was ill t'oppose, What wrong t'accuse, what secret to disclose; To drag forth every latent act to light, And fix them fully in the actor's sight: This gave him trouble, but he still confess'd The labour useful, for it brought him rest. The Uncle died, and when the Nephew read The will, and saw the substance of the dead - Five hundred guineas, with a stock in trade - He much rejoiced, and thought his fortune made; Yet felt aspiring pleasure at the sight, And for increase, increasing appetite; Desire of profit idle habits check'd (For Fulham's virtue was to be correct); He and his Conscience had their compact made - "Urge me with truth, and you will soon persuade; But not," he cried, "for mere ideal things Give me to feel those terror-breeding stings." "Let not such thoughts," she said, "your mind confound; Trifles may wake me, but they never wound; In them indeed there is a wrong and right, But you will find me pliant and polite; Not like a Conscience of the dotard kind, Awake to dreams, to dire offences blind: Let all within be pure, in all beside Be your own master, governor, and guide; Alive to danger, in temptation strong, And I shall sleep our whole existence long." "Sweet be thy sleep," said Fulham; "strong must be The tempting ill that gains access to me: Never