will I to evil deed consent; Or, if surprised, oh! how will I repent! Should gain be doubtful, soon would I restore The dangerous good, or give it to the poor; Repose for them my growing wealth shall buy, Or build—who knows?—an hospital like Guy. Yet why such means to soothe the smart within, While firmly purposed to renounce the sin?" Thus our young Trader and his Conscience dwelt In mutual love, and great the joy they felt; But yet in small concerns, in trivial things, "She was," he said, "too ready with the stings;" And he too apt, in search of growing gains, To lose the fear of penalties and pains: Yet these were trifling bickerings, petty jars, Domestic strifes, preliminary wars; He ventured little, little she express'd Of indignation, and they both had rest. Thus was he fix d to walk the worthy way, When profit urged him to a bold essay: - A time was that when all at pleasure gamed In lottery chances, yet a law unblamed: This Fulham tried; who would to him advance A pound or crown, he gave in turn a chance For weighty prize—and should they nothing share, They had their crown or pound in Fulham's ware; Thus the old stores within the shop were sold For that which none refuses, new or old. Was this unjust? yet Conscience could not rest, But made a mighty struggle in the breast, And gave th' aspiring man an early proof That should they war he would have work enough: "Suppose," said she, "your vended numbers rise The same with those which gain each real prize, (Such your proposal), can you ruin shun?" - "A hundred thousand," he replied, "to one." "Still it may happen."—"I the sum must pay." "You know you cannot."—"I can run away." "That is dishonest."—"Nay, but you must wink At a chance hit: it cannot be, I think. Upon my conduct as a whole decide, Such trifling errors let my virtues hide. Fail I at meeting? am I sleepy there? My purse refuse I with the priest to share? Do I deny the poor a helping hand? Or stop the wicked women in the Strand? Or drink at club beyond a certain pitch? Which are your charges? Conscience, tell me which?" "'Tis well," said she, "but—" "Nay, I pray, have done: Trust me, I will not into danger run." The lottery drawn, not one demand was made; Fulham gain'd profit and increase of trade. "See now," said he—for Conscience yet arose - "How foolish 'tis such measures to oppose: Have I not blameless thus my state advanced?" "Still," mutter'd Conscience, "still it might have chanced." "Might!" said our hero: "who is so exact As to inquire what might have been a fact?" Now Fulham's shop contain'd a curious view Of costly trifles, elegant and new: The papers told where kind mammas might buy The gayest toys to charm an infant's eye; Where generous beaux might gentle damsels please, And travellers call who cross the land or seas, And find the curious art, the neat device, Of precious value and of trifling price. Here Conscience rested, she was pleased to find No less an active than an honest mind; But when he named his price, and when he swore His Conscience check'd him that he ask'd no more, When half he sought had been a large increase On fair demand, she could not rest in peace; (Beside th' affront to call th' adviser in, Who would prevent, to justify the sin): She therefore told him that "he vainly tried To soothe her anger, conscious that he lied; If thus he grasp'd at such usurious gains, He must deserve, and should expect her pains." The charge was strong; he would in part confess Offence there was—But, who offended less? "What! is a mere assertion call'd a lie? And if it be, are men compell'd to buy? 'Twas strange that Conscience on such points should dwell, While he was acting (he would call it) well; He bought as others buy, he sold as others sell; There was no fraud, and he demanded cause Why he was troubled when he kept the laws?" "My laws!" said Conscience. "What," said he, "are thine? Oral or written, human or divine? Show me the chapter, let me see the text; By laws uncertain subjects are perplex'd: Let me my finger on the statute lay, And I shall feel it duty to obey." "Reflect," said Conscience, "'twas your own desire That I should warn you—does the compact tire? Repent you this?—then bid me not advise, And rather hear your passions as they rise: So you may counsel and remonstrance shun; But then remember it is war begun; And you may judge from some attacks, my friend, What serious conflicts will on war attend." "Nay, but," at length the thoughtful man replied, "I say not that; I wish you for my guide; Wish for your checks and your reproofs—but then Be like a conscience of my fellow-men; Worthy I mean, and men of good report, And not the wretches who with Conscience sport: There's Bice, my friend, who passes off his grease Of pigs for bears', in pots a crown apiece; His Conscience never checks him when he swears The fat he sells is honest fat of bears; And so it is, for he contrives to give A drachm to each—'tis thus that tradesmen live; Now why should you and I be over-nice? What man is held in more repute than Bice?" Here ended the dispute; but yet 'twas plain The parties both expected strife again: Their friendship cool'd, he look'd about and saw Numbers who seem'd unshackled by his awe; While like a schoolboy he was threatened still, Now for the deed, now only for the will: Here Conscience answered "To thy neighbour's guide Thy neighbour leave, and in thine own confide." Such were each day the charges and replies, When a new object caught the trader's eyes; A Vestry-patriot, could he gain the name, Would famous make him, and would pay the fame. He knew full well the sums bequeath'd in charge For schools, for almsmen, for the poor, were large; Report had told, and he could feel it true, That most unfairly dealt the trusted few; No partners would they in their office take, Nor clear accounts at annual meetings make. Aloud our hero in the vestry spoke Of hidden deeds, and vow'd to draw the cloak; It was the poor man's cause, and he for one Was quite determined to see justice done: His foes affected, laughter, then disdain, They too were Ioud; and threat'ning, but in vain; The pauper's friend, their foe, arose and spoke again; Fiercely he cried, "Your garbled statements show That you determine we shall nothing know; But we shall bring your hidden crimes to light, Give you to shame, and to the poor their right." Virtue like this might some approval ask - But Conscience sternly said, "You wear a mask!" "At least," said Fulham, "if I have a view To serve myself, I serve the public too." Fulham, though check'd, retain'd his former zeal, And this the cautious rogues began to feel: "Thus will he ever bark," in peevish tone An elder cried—"the cur must have a bone." They then began to hint, and to begin Was all they needed—it was felt within: In terms less veil'd an offer then was made; Though distant still, it fail'd not to persuade: More plainly then was every point proposed, Approved, accepted, and the bargain closed. The exulting paupers hail'd their Friend's success, And bade adieu to murmurs and distress. Alas! their Friend had now superior light, And, view'd by that, he found that all was right; "There were no errors, the disbursements small; This was the truth, and truth was due to all." And rested Conscience? No! she would not rest, Yet was content with making a protest: Some acts she now with less resistance bore, Nor took alarm so quickly as before: Like those in towns besieged, who every ball At first with terror view, and dread them all; But, grown familiar with the scenes, they fear The clanger less, as it approaches near; So Conscience, more familiar with the view Of growing evils, less attentive grew: Yet he, who felt some pain and dreaded more, Gave a peace-offering to the angry poor. Thus had he quiet—but the time was brief; From his new triumph sprang a cause of grief; In office join'd, and acting with the rest, He must admit the sacramental test. Now, as a sectary, he had all his life, As he supposed, been with the Church at strife: - No rules of hers, no laws had he perused, Nor knew the tenets he by rote abused; Yet Conscience here arose more fierce and strong Than when she told of robbery and wrong. "Change his religion! No! he must be sure That was a blow no Conscience eould endure." Though friend to Virtue, yet she oft abides In early notions, fix'd by erring guides; And is more startled by a call from those, Than when the foulest crimes her rest oppose: By error taught, by prejudice misled, She yields her rights, and Fancy rules instead; When Conscience all her stings and terror deals, Not as Truth dictates, but as Fancy feels: And thus within our hero's troubled breast, Crime was less torture than the odious test. New forms, new measures, he must now embrace, With sad conviction that they warr'd with grace; To his new church no former friend would come, They scarce preferr'd her to the Church of Rome; But thinking much, and weighing guilt and gain, Conscience and he commuted for her pain; Then promised Fulham to retain his creed, And their peculiar paupers still to feed; Their attic-room (in secret) to attend, And not forget he was the preacher's friend: Thus he proposed, and Conscience, troubled, tried, And wanting peace, reluctantly complied. Now, care subdued, and apprehensions gone, In peace our hero went aspiring on; But short the period—soon a quarrel rose, Fierce in the birth, and fatal in the close; With times of truce between, which rather proved That both were weary, than that either loved. Fulham e'en now disliked the heavy thrall, And for her death would in his anguish call, As Rome's mistaken friend exclaimed, 'Let Carthage fall,' So felt our hero, so his wish express'd, Against this powerful sprite—delenda est: Rome in her conquest saw not danger near, Freed from her rival and without a fear; So, Conscience conquer'd, men perceive how free, But not how fatal, such a state must be. Fatal, not free, our hero's; foe or friend, Conscience on him was destined to attend: She dozed indeed, grew dull, nor seem'd to spy Crime following crime, and each of deeper dye; But all were noticed, and the reckoning time With her account came on—crime following crime. This, once a foe, now Brother in the Trust, Whom Fulham late described as fair and just, Was the sole Guardian of a wealthy maid, Placed in his power, and of his frown afraid: Not quite an idiot, for her busy brain Sought, by poor cunning, trifling points to gain; Success in childish projects her delight, She took no heed of each important right. The friendly parties met—the Guardian cried, "I am too old; my sons have each a bride: Martha, my ward, would make an easy wife: On easy terms I'll make her yours for life; And then the creature is so weak and mild. She may be soothed and threaten'd as a child." "Yet not obey," said Fulham, "for your fools, Female and male, are obstinate as mules." Some points adjusted, these new friends agreed, Proposed the day, and hurried on the deed. "'Tis a vile act," said Conscience. "It will prove," Replied the bolder man, "an act of love: Her wicked guardian might the girl have sold To endless misery for a tyrant's gold; Now may her life be happy—for I mean To keep my temper even and serene." "I cannot thus compound," the spirit cried, "Nor have my laws thus broken and defied: This is a fraud, a bargain for a wife; Expect my vengeance, or amend your life." The Wife was pretty, trifling, childish, weak; She could not think, but would not cease to speak. This he forbade—she took the caution ill, And boldly rose against his sovereign will; With idiot-cunning she would watch the hour, When friends were present, to dispute his power: With tyrant-craft, he then was still and calm, But raised in private terror and alarm: By many trials, she perceived how far To vex and tease, without an open war; And he discovered that so weak a mind No art could lead, and no compulsion bind; The rudest force would fail such mind to tame, And she was callous to rebuke and shame; Proud of her wealth, the power of law she knew, And would assist him in the spending too: His threat'ning words with insult she defied, To all his reasoning with a stare replied; And when he begg'd her to attend, would say, "Attend I will—but let me have my way." Nor rest had Conscience: "While you merit pain From me," she cried, "you seek redress in vain." His thoughts were grievous: "All that I possess From this vile bargain adds to my distress; To pass a life with one who will not mend, Who cannot love, nor save, nor wisely spend, Is a vile prospect, and I see no end: For if we part, I must of course restore Much of her money, and must wed no more. "Is there no way?"—Here Conscience rose in power, - "Oh! fly the danger of this fatal hour; I am thy Conscience, faithful, fond, and true: Ah, fly this thought, or evil must ensue; Fall on thy knees, and pray with all thy soul, Thy purpose banish, thy design control: Let every hope of such advantage cease, Or never more expect a moment's peace." Th' affrighten'd man a due attention paid, Felt the rebuke, and the command obey'd. Again the wife rebell'd, again express'd A love for pleasure—a contempt of rest; "She whom she pleased would visit, would receive Those who pleased her, nor deign to ask for leave." "One way there is," said he; "I might contrive Into a trap this foolish thing to drive: Who pleased her, said she?—I'll be certain who." "Take heed," said Conscience "what thou mean'st to do; Ensnare thy wife?"—"Why, yes," he must confess, "It might be wrong, but there was no redress; Beside to think," said he, "is not to sin." "Mistaken man!" replied the power within. No guest unnoticed to the lady came, He judged th' event with mingled joy and shame; Oft he withdrew, and seem'd to leave her free, But still as watchful as a lynx was he; Meanwhile the wife was thoughtless, cool, and gay, And, without virtue, had no wish to stray. Though thus opposed, his plans were not resign'd; "Revenge," said he, "will prompt that daring mind; Refused supplies, insulted and distress'd, Enraged with me, and near a favourite guest - Then will her vengeance prompt the daring deed, And I shall watch, detect her, and be freed." There was a youth—but let me hide the name, With all the progress of this deed of shame; He had his views—on him the husband cast His net, and saw him in his trammels fast. "Pause but a moment—think what you intend," Said the roused Sleeper: "I am yet a friend. Must all our days in enmity be spent?" "No!" and he paused—"I surely shall repent:" Then hurried on—the evil plan was laid, The wife was guilty, and her friend betray'd, And Fulham gain'd his wish, and for his will was paid. Had crimes less weighty on the spirit press'd, This troubled Conscience might have sunk to rest; And, like a foolish guard, been bribed to peace, By a false promise, that offence should cease; Past faults had seem'd familiar to the view, Confused if many, and obscure though true; And Conscience, troubled with the dull account, Had dropp'd her tale, and slumber'd o'er th' amount: But, struck by daring guilt, alert she rose, Disturb'd, alarm'd, and could no more repose: All hopes of friendship and of peace were past, And every view with gloom was overcast. Hence from that day, that day of shame and sin, Arose the restless enmity within: On no resource could Fulham now rely, Doom'd all expedients, and in vain, to try; For Conscience, roused, sat boldly on her throne, Watch'd every thought, attack'd the foe alone, And with envenom'd sting drew forth the inward groan: Expedients fail'd that brought relief before, In vain his alms gave comfort to the poor, Give what he would, to him the comfort came no more: Not prayer avail'd, and when (his crimes confess'd) He felt some ease, she said, "Are they redress'd? You still retain the profit, and be sure, Long as it lasts, this anguish shall endure." Fulham still tried to soothe her, cheat, mislead, But Conscience laid her finger on the deed, And read the crime with power, and all that must succeed: He tried t'expel her, but was sure to find Her strength increased by all that he design'd; Nor ever was his groan more loud and deep Than when refresh'd she rose from momentary sleep. Now desperate grown, weak, harass'd, and afraid, From new allies he sought for doubtful aid; To thought itself he strove to bid adieu, And from devotions to diversions flew; He took a poor domestic for a slave (Though avarice grieved to see the price he gave); Upon his board, once frugal, press'd a load Of viands rich the appetite to goad; The long protracted meal, the sparkling cup, Fought with his gloom, and kept his courage up: Soon as the morning came, there met his eyes Accounts of wealth, that he might reading rise; To profit then he gave some active hours, Till food and wine again should renovate his powers: Yet, spite of all defence, of every aid, The watchful Foe her close attention paid; In every thoughtful moment on she press'd, And gave at once her dagger to his breast; He waked at midnight, and the fears of sin, As waters through a bursten dam, broke in; Nay, in the banquet, with his friends around, When all their cares and half their crimes were drown'd, Would some chance act awake the slumbering fear, And care and crime in all their strength appear: The news is read, a guilty victim swings, And troubled looks proclaim the bosom-stings: Some pair are wed; this brings the wife in view; And some divorced; this shows the parting too: Nor can he hear of evil word or deed, But they to thought, and thought to sufferings lead. Such was his life—no other changes came, The hurrying day, the conscious night the same; The night of horror—when he starting cried To the poor startled sinner at his side, "Is it in law? am I condemned to die? Let me escape!—I'll give—oh! let me fly - How! but a dream!—no judges! dungeon! chain! Or these grim men!—I will not sleep again - Wilt thou, dread being! thus thy promise keep? Day is thy time—and wilt thou murder sleep? Sorrow and want repose, and wilt thou come, Nor give one hour of pure untroubled gloom? "Oh! Conscience! Conscience! man's most faithful friend, Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend; But if he will thy friendly checks forego, Thou art, oh? woe for me, his deadliest foe?"



TALE XV.



ADVICE; OR THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.

His hours fill'd up with riots, banquets, sports - And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration. SHAKESPEARE, Henry V.

I will converse with iron-witted fools, With unrespective boys: none are for me, Who look into me with considerate eyes. Richard III.

You cram these words into mine ears, against The stomach of my sense. Tempest.

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A wealthy Lord of far-extended land Had all that pleased him placed at his command; Widow'd of late, but finding much relief In the world's comforts, he dismiss'd his grief; He was by marriage of his daughters eased, And knew his sons could marry if they pleased; Meantime in travel he indulged the boys, And kept no spy nor partner of his joys. These joys, indeed, were of the grosser kind, That fed the cravings of an earthly mind; A mind that, conscious of its own excess, Felt the reproach his neighbours would express. Long at th' indulgent board he loved to sit, Where joy was laughter, and profaneness wit; And such the guest and manners of the hall, No wedded lady on the 'Squire would call: Here reign'd a Favourite, and her triumph gain'd O'er other favourites who before had reign'd; Reserved and modest seemed the nymph to be, Knowing her lord was charm'd with modesty; For he, a sportsman keen, the more enjoy'd, The greater value had the thing destroyed. Our 'Squire declared, that from a wife released, He would no more give trouble to a Priest; Seem'd it not, then, ungrateful and unkind That he should trouble from the priesthood find? The Church he honour'd, and he gave the due And full respect to every son he knew; But envied those who had the luck to meet A gentle pastor, civil and discreet; Who never bold and hostile sermon penned, To wound a sinner, or to shame a friend; One whom no being either shunn'd or fear'd: Such must be loved wherever they appear'd. Not such the stern old Rector of the time, Who soothed no culprit, and who spared no crime; Who would his fears and his contempt express For irreligion and licentiousness; Of him our Village Lord, his guests among, By speech vindictive proved his feelings stung. "Were he a bigot," said the 'Squire, "whose zeal Condemn'd us all, I should disdain to feel: But when a man of parts, in college train'd, Prates of our conduct, who would not be pain'd? While he declaims (where no one dares reply) On men abandon'd, grov'ling in the sty (Like beasts in human shape) of shameless luxury. Yet with a patriot's zeal I stand the shock Of vile rebuke, example to his flock: But let this Rector, thus severe and proud, Change his wide surplice for a narrow shroud, And I will place within his seat a youth, Train'd by the Graces to explain the Truth; Then shall the flock with gentle hand be led, By wisdom won, and by compassion fed." This purposed Teacher was a sister's son, Who of her children gave the priesthood one; And she had early train'd for this employ The pliant talents of her college-boy: At various times her letters painted all Her brother's views—the manners of the Hall; The rector's harshness, and the mischief made By chiding those whom preachers should persuade: This led the youth to views of easy life, A friendly patron, an obliging wife; His tithe, his glebe, the garden, and the steed, With books as many as he wish'd to read. All this accorded with the Uncle's will: He loved a priest compliant, easy, still; Sums he had often to his favourite sent, "To be," he wrote, "in manly freedom spent; For well it pleased his spirit to assist An honest lad, who scorn'd a Methodist." His mother, too, in her maternal care, Bade him of canting hypocrites beware: Who from his duties would his heart seduce, And make his talents of no earthly use. Soon must a trial of his worth be made - The ancient priest is to the tomb convey'd; And the Youth summon'd from a serious friend, His guide and host, new duties to attend. Three months before, the nephew and the 'Squire Saw mutual worth to praise and to admire; And though the one too early left his wine, The other still exclaim'd—"My boy will shine: Yes, I perceive that he will soon improve, And I shall form the very guide I love; Decent abroad, he will my name defend, And when at home, be social and unbend." The plan was specious, for the mind of James Accorded duly with his uncle's schemes; He then aspired not to a higher name Than sober clerks of moderate talents claim; Gravely to pray, and rev'rendly to preach, Was all he saw, good youth! within his reach: Thus may a mass of sulphur long abide, Cold and inert, but, to the flame applied, Kindling it blazes, and consuming turns To smoke and poison, as it boils and burns. James, leaving college, to a Preacher stray'd; What call'd he knew not—but the call obey'd; Mild, idle, pensive, ever led by those Who could some specious novelty propose; Humbly he listen'd, while the preacher dwelt On touching themes, and strong emotions felt; And in this night was fix'd that pliant will To one sole point, and he retains it still. At first his care was to himself confined; Himself assured, he gave it to mankind: His zeal grew active—honest, earnest zeal, And comfort dealt to him, he long'd to deal; He to his favourite preacher now withdrew, Was taught to teach, instructed to subdue, And train'd for ghostly warfare, when the call Of his new duties reach'd him from the Hall. Now to the 'Squire, although alert and stout, Came unexpected an attack of gout; And the grieved patron felt such serious pain, He never thought to see a church again: Thrice had the youthful rector taught the crowd, Whose growing numbers spoke his powers aloud, Before the patron could himself rejoice (His pain still lingering) in the general voice; For he imputed all this early fame To graceful manner and the well-known name; And to himself assumed a share of praise, For worth and talents he was pleased to raise. A month had flown, and with it fled disease; What pleased before, began again to please; Emerging daily from his chamber's gloom, He found his old sensations hurrying home; Then call'd his nephew, and exclaim'd, "My boy, Let us again the balm of life enjoy; The foe has left me, and I deem it right, Should he return, to arm me for the fight." Thus spoke the 'Squire, the favourite nymph stood by, And view'd the priest with insult in her eye; She thrice had heard him when he boldly spoke On dangerous points, and fear'd he would revoke: For James she ioved not—and her manner told, "This warm affection will be quickly cold:" And still she fear'd impression might be made Upon a subject nervous and decay'd; She knew her danger, and had no desire Of reformation in the gallant 'Squire; And felt an envious pleasure in her breast To see the rector daunted and distress'd. Again the Uncle to the youth applied - "Cast, my dear lad, that cursed gloom aside: There are for all things time and place; appear Grave in your pulpit, and be merry here: Now take your wine—for woes a sure resource, And the best prelude to a long discourse." James half obey'd, but cast an angry eye On the fair lass, who still stood watchful by; Resolving thus, "I have my fears—but still I must perform my duties, and I will: No love, no interest, shall my mind control; Better to lose my comforts than my soul; Better my uncle's favour to abjure, Than the upbraidings of my heart endure." He took his glass, and then address'd the 'Squire: "I feel not well, permit me to retire." The 'Squire conceived that the ensuing day Gave him these terrors for the grand essay, When he himself should this young preacher try, And stand before him with observant eye; This raised compassion in his manly breast, And he would send the rector to his rest; Yet first, in soothing voice—"A moment stay, And these suggestions of a friend obey; Treasure these hints, if fame or peace you prize, - The bottle emptied, I shall close my eyes. "On every priest a twofold care attends, To prove his talents, and insure his friends: First, of the first—your stores at once produce; And bring your reading to its proper use: On doctrines dwell, and every point enforce By quoting much, the scholar's sure resource; For he alone can show us on each head What ancient schoolmen and sage fathers said. No worth has knowledge, if you fail to show How well you studied and how much you know: Is faith your subject, and you judge it right On theme so dark to cast a ray of light, Be it that faith the orthodox maintain, Found in the rubric, what the creeds explain; Fail not to show us on this ancient faith (And quote the passage) what some martyr saith: Dwell not one moment on a faith that shocks The minds of men sincere and orthodox; That gloomy faith, that robs the wounded mind Of all the comfort it was wont to find From virtuous acts, and to the soul denies Its proper due for alms and charities; That partial faith, that, weighing sins alone, Lets not a virtue for a fault atone; That partial faith, that would our tables clear, And make one dreadful Lent of all the year; And cruel too, for this is faith that rends Confiding beauties from protecting friends; A faith that all embracing, what a gloom Deep and terrific o'er the land would come! What scenes of horror would that time disclose! No sight but misery, and no sound but woes; Your nobler faith, in loftier style convey'd, Shall be with praise and admiration paid: On points like these your hearers all admire A preacher's depth, and nothing more require. Shall we a studious youth to college send, That every clown his words may comprehend? 'Tis for your glory, when your hearers own Your learning matchless, but the sense unknown. "Thus honour gain'd, learn now to gain a friend, And the sure way is—never to offend; For, James, consider—what your neighbours do Is their own business, and concerns not you: Shun all resemblance to that forward race Who preach of sins before a sinner's face; And seem as if they overlook'd a pew, Only to drag a failing man in view: Much should I feel, when groaning in disease, If a rough hand upon my limb should seize; But great my anger, if this hand were found The very doctor's who should make it sound: So feel our minds, young Priest, so doubly feel, When hurt by those whose office is to heal. "Yet of our duties you must something tell, And must at times on sin and frailty dwell; Here you may preach in easy, flowing style, How errors cloud us, and how sins defile: Here bring persuasive tropes and figures forth, To show the poor that wealth is nothing worth; That they, in fact, possess an ample share Of the world's good, and feel not half its care: Give them this comfort, and, indeed, my gout In its full vigour causes me some doubt; And let it always, for your zeal, suffice That vice you combat, in the abstract—vice: The very captious will be quiet then; We all confess we are offending men: In lashing sin, of every stroke beware, For sinners feel, and sinners you must spare; In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves; But name th' offence, and you absolve the rest, And point the dagger at a single breast. "Yet are there sinners of a class so low, That you with safety may the lash bestow; Poachers, and drunkards, idle rogues, who feed At others' cost, a mark'd correction need: And all the better sort, who see your zeal, Will love and reverence for their pastor feel; Reverence for one who can inflict the smart, And love, because he deals them not a part. "Remember well what love and age advise: A quiet rector is a parish prize, Who in his learning has a decent pride; Who to his people is a gentle guide; Who only hints at failings that he sees; Who loves his glebe, his patron, and his ease, And finds the way to fame and profit is to please." The Nephew answer'd not, except a sigh And look of sorrow might be term'd reply; He saw the fearful hazard of his state, And held with truth and safety strong debate; Nor long he reason'd, for the zealous youth Resolved, though timid, to profess the truth; And though his friend should like a lion roar, Truth would he preach, and neither less nor more. The bells had toll'd—arrived the time of prayer, The flock assembled, and the 'Squire was there: And now can poet sing, or proseman say, The disappointment of that trying day? As he who long had train'd a favourite steed, (Whose blood and bone gave promise of his speed,) Sanguine with hope, he runs with partial eye O'er every feature, and his bets are high; Of triumph sure, he sees the rivals start, And waits their coming with exulting heart; Forestalling glory, with impatient glance, And sure to see his conquering steed advance: The conquering steed advances—luckless day! A rival's Herod bears the prize away, Nor second his, nor third, but lagging last, With hanging head he comes, by all surpass'd: Surprise and wrath the owner's mind inflame, Love turns to scorn, and glory ends in shame; - Thus waited, high in hope, the partial 'Squire, Eager to hear, impatient to admire; When the young Preacher, in the tones that find A certain passage to the kindling mind, With air and accent strange, impressive, sad, Alarm'd the judge—he trembled for the lad; But when the text announced the power of grace, Amazement scowl'd upon his clouded face At this degenerate son of his illustrious race; Staring he stood, till hope again arose That James might well define the words he chose: For this he listen'd—but, alas! he found The preacher always on forbidden ground. And now the Uncle left the hated pew, With James, and James's conduct, in his view; A long farewell to all his favourite schemes! For now no crazed fanatic's frantic dreams Seem'd vile as James's conduct, or as James: All he had long derided, hated, fear'd, This, from the chosen youth, the uncle heard; - The needless pause, the fierce disorder'd air, The groan for sin, the vehemence of prayer, Gave birth to wrath, that, in a long discourse Of grace triumphant, rose to fourfold force: He found his thoughts despised, his rules transgress'd, And while the anger kindled in his breast, The pain must be endured that could not be expressed: Each new idea more inflamed his ire, As fuel thrown upon a rising fire: A hearer yet, he sought by threatening sign To ease his heart, and awe the young divine; But James refused those angry looks to meet, Till he dismiss'd his flock, and left his seat: Exhausted then he felt his trembling frame, But fix'd his soul,—his sentiments the same; And therefore wise it seem'd to fly from rage, And seek for shelter in his parsonage: There, if forsaken, yet consoled to find Some comforts left, though not a few resign'd; There, if he lost an erring parent's love, An honest conscience must the cause approve; If the nice palate were no longer fed, The mind enjoy'd delicious thoughts instead; And if some part of earthly good was flown, Still was the tithe of ten good farms his own. Fear now, and discord, in the village reign, The cool remonstrate, and the meek complain; But there is war within, and wisdom pleads in vain. Now dreads the Uncle, and proclaims his dread, Lest the Boy-priest should turn each rustic head; The certain converts cost him certain woe, The doubtful fear lest they should join the foe: Matrons of old, with whom he used to joke, Now pass his Honour with a pious look; Lasses, who met him once with lively airs, Now cross his way, and gravely walk to prayers: An old companion, whom he long has loved, By coward fears confess'd his conscience moved; As the third bottle gave its spirit forth, And they bore witness to departing worth, The friend arose, and he too would depart: "Man," said the 'Squire, "thou wert not wont to start; Hast thou attended to that foolish boy, Who would abridge all comforts, or destroy?" Yes, he had listen'd, who had slumber'd long, And was convinced that something must be wrong: But, though affected, still his yielding heart, And craving palate, took the Uncle's part; Wine now oppress'd him, who, when free from wine, Could seldom clearly utter his design; But though by nature and indulgence weak, Yet, half converted, he resolved to speak; And, speaking, own'd, "that in his mind the Youth Had gifts and learning, and that truth was truth: The 'Squire he honour'd, and for his poor part, He hated nothing like a hollow heart: But 'twas a maxim he had often tried, That right was right, and there he would abide; He honoured learning, and he would confess The preacher had his talents—more or less: Why not agree? he thought the young divine Had no such strictness—they might drink and dine; For them sufficient—but he said before That truth was truth, and he would drink no more." This heard the 'Squire with mix'd contempt and pain; He fear'd the Priest this recreant sot would gain. The favourite Nymph, though not a convert made, Conceived the man she scorn'd her cause would aid, And when the spirits of her lord were low, The lass presumed the wicked cause to show; "It was the wretched life his Honour led, And would draw vengeance on his guilty head; Their loves (Heav'n knew how dreadfully distressed The thought had made her!) were as yet unbless'd: And till the church had sanction'd"—Here she saw The wrath that forced her trembling to withdraw. Add to these outward ills some inward light, That showed him all was not correct and right: Though now he less indulged—and to the poor, From day to day, sent alms from door to door; Though he some ease from easy virtues found, Yet conscience told him he could not compound, But must himself the darling sin deny, Change the whole heart,—but here a heavy sigh Proclaim'd, "How vast the toil! and, ah! how weak am I!" James too has trouble—he divided sees A parish, once harmonious and at ease; With him united are the simply meek, The warm, the sad, the nervous, and the weak; The rest his Uncle's, save the few beside, Who own no doctrine, and obey no guide; With stragglers of each adverse camp, who lend Their aid to both, but each in turn offend. Though zealous still, yet he begins to feel The heat too fierce that glows in vulgar zeal; With pain he hears his simple friends relate Their week's experience, and their woful state; With small temptation struggling every hour, And bravely battling with the tempting power: His native sense is hurt by strange complaints Of inward motions in these warring saints; Who never cast on sinful bait a look, But they perceive the devil at the hook: Grieved, yet compell'd to smile, he finds it hard Against the blunders of conceit to guard; He sighs to hear the jests his converts cause, He cannot give their erring zeal applause; But finds it inconsistent to condemn The flights and follies he has nursed in them: These, in opposing minds, contempt produce, Or mirth occasion, or provoke abuse; On each momentous theme disgrace they bring, And give to Scorn her poison and her sting.



TALE XVI.



THE CONFIDANT.

Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicion? SHAKESPEARE, Othello.

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks, And given my treasure and my rights in thee To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy? Henry IV.

It is excellent To have a giant's strength, but tyrannous To use it as a giant. Measure for Measure.

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Anna was young and lovely—in her eye The glance of beauty, in her cheek the dye: Her shape was slender, and her features small, But graceful, easy, unaffected all: The liveliest tints her youthful face disclosed; There beauty sparkled, and there health reposed; For the pure blood that flush'd that rosy cheek Spoke what the heart forbade the tongue to speak, And told the feelings of that heart as well, Nay, with more candour than the tongue could tell. Though this fair lass had with the wealthy dwelt, Yet like the damsel of the cot she felt; And, at the distant hint or dark surmise, The blood into the mantling cheek would rise. Now Anna's station frequent terrors wrought, In one whose looks were with such meaning fraught, For on a Lady, as an humble friend, It was her painful office to attend. Her duties here were of the usual kind - And some the body harass'd, some the mind: Billets she wrote, and tender stories read, To make the Lady sleepy in her bed; She play'd at whist, but with inferior skill, And heard the summons as a call to drill; Music was ever pleasant till she play'd At a request that no request convey'd; The Lady's tales with anxious looks she heard, For she must witness what her Friend averr'd; The Lady's taste she must in all approve, Hate whom she hated, whom she lov'd must love; These, with the various duties of her place, With care she studied, and perform'd with grace: She veil'd her troubles in a mask of ease, And show'd her pleasure was a power to please. Such were the damsel's duties: she was poor - Above a servant, but with service more: Men on her face with careless freedom gaz'd, Nor thought how painful was the glow they raised. A wealthy few to gain her favour tried, But not the favour of a grateful bride; They spoke their purpose with an easy air, That shamed and frighten'd the dependent fair; Past time she view'd, the passing time to cheat, But nothing found to make the present sweet: With pensive soul she read life's future page, And saw dependent, poor, repining age. But who shall dare t'assert what years may bring, When wonders from the passing hour may spring? There dwelt a Yeoman in the place, whose mind Was gentle, generous, cultivated, kind; For thirty years he labour'd; fortune then Placed the mild rustic with superior men: A richer Stafford who had liv'd to save, What he had treasured to the poorer gave; Who with a sober mind that treasure view'd, And the slight studies of his youth renew'd: He not profoundly, but discreetly read, And a fair mind with useful culture fed; Then thought of marriage—"But the great," said he "I shall not suit, nor will the meaner me." Anna, he saw, admired her modest air; He thought her virtuous, and he knew her fair; Love raised his pity for her humble state, And prompted wishes for her happier fate; No pride in money would his feelings wound, Nor vulgar manners hurt him and confound: He then the Lady at the Hall address'd, Sought her consent, and his regard expressed: Yet if some cause his earnest wish denied, He begg'd to know it, and he bow'd and sigh'd. The Lady own'd that she was loth to part, But praised the damsel for her gentle heart, Her pleasing person, and her blooming health, But ended thus, "Her virtue is her wealth." "Then is she rich!" he cried with lively air; "But whence, so please you, came a lass so fair?" "A placeman's child was Anna, one who died And left a widow by afflictions tried; She to support her infant daughter strove, But early left the object of her love: Her youth, her beauty, and her orphan state Gave a kind countess interest in her fate: With her she dwelt and still might dwelling be, When the earl's folly caused the lass to flee; A second friend was she compell'd to shun, By the rude offers of an uncheek'd son; I found her then, and with a mother's love Regard the gentle girl whom you approve; Yet e'en with me protection is not peace, Nor man's designs nor beauty's trials cease: Like sordid boys by costly fruit they feel - They will not purchase, but they try to steal." Now this good Lady, like a witness true, Told but the truth, and all the truth she knew; And 'tis our duty and our pain to show Truth this good lady had not means to know. Yes, there was lock'd within the damsel's breast A fact important to be now confess'd; Gently, my muse, th' afflicting tale relate, And have some feeling for a sister's fate. Where Anna dwelt, a conquering hero came, - An Irish captain, Sedley was his name; And he too had that same prevailing art, That gave soft wishes to the virgin's heart: In years they differ'd; he had thirty seen When this young beauty counted just fifteen; But still they were a lovely lively pair, And trod on earth as if they trod on air. On love, delightful theme! the captain dwelt With force still growing with the hopes he felt But with some caution and reluctance told, He had a father crafty, harsh, and old; Who, as possessing much, would much expert, Or both, for ever, from his love reject: Why then offence to one so powerful give, Who (for their comfort) had not long to live? With this poor prospect the deluded maid, In words confiding, was indeed betray'd; And, soon as terrors in her bosom rose, The hero fled; they hinder'd his repose. Deprived of him, she to a parent's breast Her secret trusted, and her pains impress'd; Let her to town (so prudence urged) repair, To shun disgrace, at least to hide it there; But ere she went, the luckless damsel pray'd A chosen friend might lend her timely aid: "Yes! my soul's sister, my Eliza, come, Hear her last sigh, and ease thy Anna's doom." "'Tis a fool's wish," the angry father cried, But, lost in troubles of his own, complied; And dear Eliza to her friend was sent, T'indulge that wish, and be her punishment. The time arrived, and brought a tenfold dread; The time was past, and all the terror fled; The infant died; the face resumed each charm, And reason now brought trouble and alarm. Should her Eliza—no! she was too just, "Too good and kind—but ah! too young to trust." Anna return'd, her former place resumed, And faded beauty with now grace re-bloom'd; And if some whispers of the past were heard, They died innoxious, as no cause appear'd; But other cares on Anna's bosom press'd, She saw her father gloomy and distress'd; He died o'erwhelmed with debt, and soon was shed The filial sorrow o'er a mother dead: She sought Eliza's arms—that faithful friend was wed; Then was compassion by the countess shown, And all th' adventures of her life are known. And now, beyond her hopes—no longer tried By slavish awe—she lived a Yoeman's bride; Then bless'd her lot, and with a grateful mind Was careful, cheerful, vigilant, and kind: The gentle husband felt supreme delight, Bless'd by her joy, and happy in her sight; He saw with pride in every friend and guest High admiration and regard express'd: With greater pride, and with superior joy, He look'd exulting on his first-born boy; To her fond breast the wife her infant strain'd, Some feelings utter'd, some were not explain'd; And she enraptured with her treasure grew, The sight familiar, but the pleasure new. Yet there appear'd within that tranquil state Some threat'ning prospect of uncertain fate; Between the married when a secret lies, It wakes suspicion from enforced disguise: Still thought the Wife upon her absent friend, With all that must upon her truth depend. " There is no being in the world beside Who can discover what that friend will hide: Who knew the fact, knew not my name or state, Who these can tell cannot the fact relate; But thou, Eliza, canst the whole impart, And all my safety is thy generous heart." Mix'd with these fears—but light and transient these - Fled years of peace, prosperity, and ease; So tranquil all, that scarce a gloomy day For days of gloom unmix'd prepared the way: One eve, the Wife, still happy in her state, Sang gaily, thoughtless of approaching fate; Then came a letter, that (received in dread Not unobserved) she in confusion read; The substance this—"Her friend rejoiced to find That she had riches with a grateful mind; While poor Eliza had, from place to place, Been lured by hope to labour for disgrace; That every scheme her wandering husband tried, Pain'd while he lived, and perish'd when he died." She then of want in angry style complain'd, Her child a burthen to her life remain'd, Her kindred shunn'd her prayers, no friend her soul sustain'd. "Yet why neglected? Dearest Anna knew Her worth once tried, her friendship ever true; She hoped, she trusted, though by wants oppress'd, To lock the treasured secret in her breast; Yet, vex'd by trouble, must apply to one, For kindness due to her for kindness done." In Anna's mind was tumult, in her face Flushings of dread had momentary place: "I must," she judged, "these cruel lines expose, Or fears, or worse than fears, my crime disclose." The letter shown, he said, with sober smile, - "Anna, your Friend has not a friendly style: Say, where could you with this fair lady dwell, Who boasts of secrets that she scorns to tell?" "At school," she answer'd: he "At school!" replied; "Nay, then I know the secrets you would hide; Some early longings these, without dispute, Some youthful gaspings for forbidden fruit: Why so disorder'd, love? are such the crimes That give us sorrow in our graver times? Come, take a present for your friend, and rest In perfect peace—you find you are confess'd." This cloud, though past, alarm'd the conscious wife, Presaging gloom and sorrow for her life; Who to her answer join'd a fervent prayer That her Eliza would a sister spare: If she again—but was there cause?—should send, Let her direct—and then she named a friend: A sad expedient untried friends to trust, And still to fear the tried may be unjust: Such is his pain, who, by his debt oppress'd, Seeks by new bonds a temporary rest. Few were her peaceful days till Anna read The words she dreaded, and had cause to dread: - "Did she believe, did she, unkind, suppose That thus Eliza's friendship was to close? No, though she tried, and her desire was plain, To break the friendly bond, she strove in vain: Ask'd she for silence? why so loud the call, And yet the token of her love so small? By means like these will you attempt to bind And check the movements of an injured mind? Poor as I am, I shall be proud to show What dangerous secrets I may safely know: Secrets to men of jealous minds convey'd Have many a noble house in ruins laid; Anna, I trust, although with wrongs beset, And urged by want, I shall be faithful yet; But what temptation may from these arrive, To take a slighted woman by surprise, Becomes a subject for your serious care - For who offends, must for offence prepare." Perplex'd, dismay'd, the Wife foresaw her doom; A day deferr'd was yet a day to come; But still, though painful her suspended state, She dreaded more the crisis of her fate; Better to die than Stafford's scorn to meet, And her strange friend perhaps would be discreet. Presents she sent, and made a strong appeal To woman's feelings, begging her to feel; With too much force she wrote of jealous men, And her tears falling spoke beyond the pen; Eliza's silence she again implored, And promised all that prudence could afford. For looks composed and careless Anna tried; She seem'd in trouble, and unconscious sigh'd: The faithful Husband, who devoutly loved His silent partner, with concern reproved: "What secret sorrows on my Anna press, That love may not partake, nor care redress?" "None, none," she answer'd, with a look so kind That the fond man determined to be blind. A few succeeding weeks of brief repose In Anna's cheek revived the faded rose; A hue like this the western sky displays, That glows awhile, and withers as we gaze. Again the Friend's tormenting letter came - "The wants she suffer'd were affection's shame; She with her child a life of terrors led, Unhappy fruit, but of a lawful bed: Her friend was tasting every bliss in life, The joyful mother, and the wealthy wife; While she was placed in doubt, in fear, in want, To starve on trifles that the happy grant; Poorly for all her faithful silence paid, And tantalized by ineffectual aid: She could not thus a beggar's lot endure; She wanted something permanent and sure: If they were friends, then equal be their lot, And she were free to speak if they were not." Despair and terror seized the Wife, to find The artful workings of a vulgar mind: Money she had not, but the hint of dress Taught her new bribes, new terrors to redress; She with such feeling then described her woes That envy's self might on the view repose; Then to a mother's pains she made appeal, And painted grief like one compell'd to feel. Yes! so she felt, that in her air, her face, In every purpose, and in every place, In her slow motion, in her languid mien, The grief, the sickness of her soul, was seen. Of some mysterious ill, the Husband sure, Desired to trace it, for he hoped to cure; Something he knew obscurely, and had seen His wife attend a cottage on the green; Love, loth to wound, endured conjecture long, Till fear would speak, and spoke in language strong. "All I must know, my Anna—truly know Whence these emotions, terrors, trouble flow: Give me thy grief, and I will fairly prove Mine is no selfish, no ungenerous love." Now Anna's soul the seat of strife became, Fear with respect contended, love with shame: But fear prevailing was the ruling guide, Prescribing what to show and what to hide. "It is my friend," she said—"but why disclose A woman's weakness struggling with her woes? Yes, she has grieved me by her fond complaints, The wrongs she suffers, the distress she paints: Something we do—but she afflicts me still, And says, with power to help, I want the will; This plaintive style I pity and excuse, Help when I can, and grieve when I refuse; But here my useless sorrows I resign, And will be happy in a love like thine." The Husband doubted: he was kind but cool: - "'Tis a strong friendship to arise at school; Once more then, love, once more the sufferer aid, - I too can pity, but I must upbraid: Of these vain feelings then thy bosom free, Nor be o'erwhelm'd by useless sympathy." The Wife again despatch'd the useless bribe, Again essay'd her terrors to describe; Again with kindest words entreated peace, And begg'd her offerings for a time might cease. A calm succeeded, but too like the one That causes terror ere the storm comes on: A secret sorrow lived in Anna's heart, In Stafford's mind a secret fear of art; Not long they lasted—this determined foe Knew all her claims, and nothing would forego. Again her letter came, where Anna read, "My child, one cause of my distress, is dead: Heav'n has my infant."—"Heartless wretch!" she cried "Is this thy joy?"—"I am no longer tied: Now will I, hast'ning to my friend, partake Her cares and comforts, and no more forsake; Now shall we both in equal station move, Save that my friend enjoys a husband's love." Complaint and threats so strong the Wife amazed, Who wildly on her cottage-neighbour gazed; Her tones, her trembling, first betray'd her grief, When floods of tears gave anguish its relief. She fear'd that Stafford would refuse assent, And knew her selfish Friend would not relent; She must petition, yet delay'd the task, Ashamed, afraid, and yet compell'd to ask; Unknown to him some object fill'd her mind, And, once suspicious, he became unkind: They sat one evening, each absorb'd in gloom, When, hark! a noise; and, rushing to the room, The Friend tripp'd lightly in, and laughing said, "I come." Anna received her with an anxious mind, And meeting whisper'd, "Is Eliza kind?" Reserved and cool the Husband sought to prove The depth and force of this mysterious love. To nought that pass'd between the Stranger-friend And his meek partner seem'd he to attend; But, anxious, listened to the lightest word That might some knowledge of his guest afford, And learn the reason one to him so dear Should feel such fondness, yet betray such fear. Soon he perceived this uninvited guest, Unwelcome too, a sovereign power possess'd; Lofty she was and careless, while the meek And humbled Anna was afraid to speak: As mute she listen'd with a painful smile, Her friend sat laughing, and at ease the while, Telling her idle tales with all the glee Of careless and unfeeling levity. With calm good sense he knew his Wife endued, And now with wounded pride her conduct view'd; Her speech was low, her every look convey'd - "I am a slave, subservient and afraid." All trace of comfort vanish'd; if she spoke, The noisy friend upon her purpose broke; To her remarks with insolence replied, And her assertions doubted or denied: While the meek Anna like an infant shook, Woe-struck and trembling at the serpent's look. "There is," said Stafford, "yes, there is a cause - This creature frights her, overpowers, and awes." Six weeks had pass'd—"In truth, my love, this friend Has liberal notions; what does she intend? Without a hint she came, and will she stay Till she receives the hint to go away?" Confused the Wife replied, in spite of truth, "I love the dear companion of my youth." "'Tis well," said Stafford; "then your loves renew: Trust me, your rivals, Anna, will be few." Though playful this, she felt too much distress'd T'admit the consolation of a jest. Ill she reposed, and in her dreams would sigh, And, murmuring forth her anguish, beg to die; With sunken eye, slow pace, and pallid cheek, She look'd confusion, and she fear'd to speak. All this the Friend beheld, for, quick of sight, She knew the husband eager for her flight; And that by force alone she could retain The lasting comforts she had hope to gain. She now perceived, to win her post for life, She must infuse fresh terrors in the wife; Must bid to friendship's feebler ties adieu, And boldly claim the object in her view: She saw the husband's love, and knew the power Her friend might use in some propitious hour. Meantime the anxious Wife, from pure distress Assuming courage, said, "I will confess;" But with her children felt a parent's pride, And sought once more the hated truth to hide. Offended, grieved, impatient, Stafford bore The odious change, till he could bear no more: A friend to truth, in speech and action plain, He held all fraud and cunning in disdain; But fraud to find, and falsehood to detect, For once he fled to measures indirect. One day the Friends were seated in that room The Guest with care adorn'd, and named her home. To please the eye, there curious prints were placed, And some light volumes to amuse the taste; Letters and music on a table laid, The favourite studies of the fair betray'd; Beneath the window was the toilet spread, And the fire gleam'd upon a crimson bed. In Anna's looks and falling tears were seen How interesting had their subjects been: "Oh! then," resumed the Friend, "I plainly find That you and Stafford know each other's mind; I must depart, must on the world be thrown, Like one discarded, worthless, and unknown; But, shall I carry, and to please a foe, A painful secret in my bosom? No! Think not your Friend a reptile you may tread Beneath your feet, and say, the worm is dead; I have some feeling, and will not be made The scorn of her whom love cannot persuade: Would not your word, your slightest wish, effect All that I hope, petition, or expect? The power you have, but you the use decline - Proof that you feel not, or you fear not mine. There was a time when I, a tender maid, Flew at a call, and your desires obey'd; A very mother to the child became, Consoled your sorrow, and conceal'd your shame; But now, grown rich and happy, from the door You thrust a bosom-friend, despised and poor; That child alive, its mother might have known The hard, ungrateful spirit she had shown." Here paused the Guest, and Anna cried at length - "You try me, cruel friend! beyond my strength; Would I had been beside my infant laid, Where none would vex me, threaten, or upbraid!" In Anna's looks the Friend beheld despair; Her speech she soften'd, and composed her air; Yet, while professing love, she answer'd still - "You can befriend me, but you want the will." They parted thus, and Anna went her way, To shed her secret sorrows, and to pray. Stafford, amused with books, and fond of home, By reading oft dispell'd the evening gloom; History or tale—all heard him with delight, And thus was pass'd this memorable night. The listening Friend bestow'd a flattering smile: A sleeping boy the mother held the while; And ere she fondly bore him to his bed, On his fair face the tear of anguish shed. And now his task resumed, "My tale," said he, "Is short and sad, short may our sadness be!" "The Caliph Harun, as historians tell, {5} Ruled, for a tyrant, admirably well; Where his own pleasures were not touch'd, to men He was humane, and sometimes even then. Harun was fond of fruits and gardens fair, And woe to all whom he found poaching there: Among his pages was a lively Boy, Eager in search of every trifling joy; His feelings vivid, and his fancy strong, He sigh'd for pleasure while he shrank from wrong: When by the Caliph in the garden placed, He saw the treasures which he long'd to taste; And oft alone he ventured to behold Rich hanging fruits with rind of glowing gold; Too long he stay'd forbidden bliss to view, His virtue failing as his longings grew; Athirst and wearied with the noontide heat, Fate to the garden led his luckless feet; With eager eyes and open mouth he stood, Smelt the sweet breath, and touch'd the fragrant food; The tempting beauty sparkling in the sun Charm'd his young sense—he ate, and was undone; When the fond glutton paused, his eyes around He turn'd, and eyes upon him turning found; Pleased he beheld the spy, a brother-page. A friend allied in office and in age; Who promised much that secret he would be, But high the price he fix'd in secrecy: "'Were you suspected, my unhappy friend,' Began the boy, 'where would your sorrows end? In all the palace there is not a page The Caliph would not torture in his rage: I think I see thee now impaled alive, Writhing in pangs—but come, my friend! revive; Had some beheld you, all your purse contains Could not have saved you from terrific pains; I scorn such meanness; and, if not in debt, Would not an asper on your folly set.' "The hint was strong; young Osmyn search'd his store For bribes, and found he soon could bribe no more; That time arrived, for Osmyn's stock was small, And the young tyrant now possess'd it all; The cruel youth, with his companions near, Gave the broad hint that raised the sudden fear; Th' ungenerous insult now was daily shown, And Osmyn's peace and honest pride were flown; Then came augmenting woes, and fancy strong Drew forms of suffering, a tormenting throng; He felt degraded, and the struggling mind Dared not be free, and could not be resign'd; And all his pains and fervent prayers obtain'd Was truce from insult, while the fears remain'd. "One day it chanced that this degraded Boy And tyrant-friend were fixed at their employ; Who now had thrown restraint and form aside, And for his bribe in plainer speech applied: 'Long have I waited, and the last supply Was but a pittance, yet how patient I! But give me now what thy first terrors gave, My speech shall praise thee, and my silence save.' "Osmyn had found, in many a dreadful day, The tyrant fiercer when he seem'd in play: He begg'd forbearance: 'I have not to give; Spare me awhile, although 'tis pain to live: Oh! had that stolen fruit the power possess'd To war with life, I now had been at rest.' "'So fond of death,' replied the Boy, ''tis plain Thou hast no certain notion of the pain; But to the Caliph were a secret shown, Death has no pain that would be then unknown.' "Now," says the story, "in a closet near, The monarch seated, chanced the boys to hear; There oft he came, when wearied on his throne, To read, sleep, listen, pray, or be alone. "The tale proceeds, when first the Caliph found That he was robb'd, although alone, he frown'd; And swore in wrath that he would send the boy Far from his notice, favour, or employ; But gentler movements soothed his ruffled mind, And his own failings taught him to be kind. "Relenting thoughts then painted Osmyn young, His passion urgent, and temptation strong; And that he suffer'd from that villain-Spy Pains worse than death, till he desired to die; Then if his morals had received a stain, His bitter sorrows made him pure again: To reason, pity lent her powerful aid, For one so tempted, troubled, and betray'd: And a free pardon the glad Boy restored To the kind presence of a gentle lord; Who from his office and his country drove That traitor-Friend, whom pains nor pray'rs could move: Who raised the fears no mortal could endure, And then with cruel av'rice sold the cure. "My tale is ended; but, to be applied, I must describe the place where Caliphs hide." Here both the females look'd alarm'd, distress'd, With hurried passions hard to be express'd. "It was a closet by a chamber placed, Where slept a lady of no vulgar taste; Her friend attended in that chosen room That she had honour'd and proclaim'd her home; To please the eye were chosen pictures placed; And some light volumes to amuse the taste; Letters and music on a table laid, For much the lady wrote, and often play'd: Beneath the window was a toilet spread, And a fire gleamed upon a crimson bed." He paused, he rose; with troubled joy the Wife Felt the new era of her changeful life; Frankness and love appear'd in Stafford's face, And all her trouble to delight gave place. Twice made the Guest an effort to sustain Her feelings, twice resumed her seat in vain, Nor could suppress her shame, nor could support her pain. Quick she retired, and all the dismal night Thought of her guilt, her folly, and her flight; Then sought unseen her miserable home, To think of comforts lost, and brood on wants to come.



TALE XVII.



RESENTMENT.

She hath a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day for melting charity; Yet, notwithstanding, being incensed, is flint: Her temper, therefore, must be well observed. SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV, 2.

Three or four wenches where I stood cried—"Alas! good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts; but there is no heed to be taken of them; if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less. Julius Caesar.

How dost? Art cold? I'm cold myself.—Where is the straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. King Lear.

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Females there are of unsuspicious mind, Easy and soft and credulous and kind; Who, when offended for the twentieth time, Will hear the offender and forgive the crime: And there are others whom, like these to cheat, Asks but the humblest efforts of deceit; But they, once injured, feel a strong disdain, And, seldom pardoning, never trust again; Urged by religion, they forgive—but yet Guard the warm heart, and never more forget: Those are like wax—apply them to the fire, Melting, they take th' impressions you desire; Easy to mould and fashion as you please, And again moulded with an equal ease: Like smelted iron these the forms retain, But once impress'd, will never melt again. A busy port a serious Merchant made His chosen place to recommence his trade; And brought his Lady, who, their children dead, Their native seat of recent sorrow fled: The husband duly on the quay was seen, The wife at home became at length serene; There in short time the social couple grew With all acquainted, friendly with a few; When the good lady, by disease assail'd, In vain resisted—hope and science fail'd: Then spoke the female friends, by pity led, "Poor merchant Paul! what think ye? will he wed? A quiet, easy, kind, religious man, Thus can he rest?—I wonder if he can." He too, as grief subsided in his mind, Gave place to notions of congenial kind: Grave was the man, as we have told before; His years were forty—he might pass for more; Composed his features were, his stature low, His air important, and his motion slow: His dress became him, it was neat and plain, The colour purple, and without a stain; His words were few, and special was his care In simplest terms his purpose to declare; A man more civil, sober, and discreet, More grave and corteous, you could seldom meet: Though frugal he, yet sumptuous was his board, As if to prove how much he could afford; For though reserved himself, he loved to see His table plenteous, and his neighbours free: Among these friends he sat in solemn style, And rarely soften'd to a sober smile: For this, observant friends their reason gave - "Concerns so vast would make the idlest grave; And for such man to be of language free, Would seem incongruous as a singing tree: Trees have their music, but the birds they shield - The pleasing tribute for protection yield; Each ample tree the tuneful choir defends, As this rich merchant cheers his happy friends!" In the same town it was his chance to meet A gentle Lady, with a mind discreet; Neither in life's decline, nor bloom of youth, One famed for maiden modesty and truth: By nature cool, in pious habits bred, She look'd on lovers with a virgin's dread: Deceivers, rakes, and libertines were they, And harmless beauty their pursuit and prey; As bad as giants in the ancient times Were modern lovers, and the same their crimes: Soon as she heard of her all-conquering charms, At once she fled to her defensive arms; Conn'd o'er the tales her maiden aunt had told, And, statue like, was motionless and cold: From prayer of love, like that Pygmalion pray'd, Ere the hard stone became the yielding maid, A different change in this chaste nymph ensued, And turn'd to stone the breathing flesh and blood: Whatever youth described his wounded heart, "He came to rob her, and she scorn'd his art; And who of raptures once presumed to speak, Told listening maids he thought them fond and weak; But should a worthy man his hopes display In few plain words, and beg a yes or nay, He would deserve an answer just and plain, Since adulation only moved disdain - Sir, if my friends object not, come again." Hence, our grave Lover, though he liked the face, Praised not a feature—dwelt not on a grace; But in the simplest terms declared his state: "A widow'd man, who wish'd a virtuous mate; Who fear'd neglect, and was compell'd to trust Dependants wasteful, idle, or unjust; Or should they not the trusted stores destroy, At best, they could not help him to enjoy; But with her person and her prudence bless'd, His acts would prosper, and his soul have rest: Would she be his?"—"Why, that was much to say; She would consider; he awhile might stay: She liked his manners, and believed his word; He did not flatter, flattery she abhorr'd: It was her happy lot in peace to dwell - Would change make better what was now so well? But she would ponder." "This," he said, "was kind;" And begg'd to know "when she had fix'd her mind. Romantic maidens would have scorn'd the air, And the cool prudence of a mind so fair; But well it pleased this wiser maid to find Her own mild virtues in her lover's mind. His worldly wealth she sought, and quickly grew Pleased with her search, and happy in the view Of vessels freighted with abundant stores, Of rooms whose treasures press'd the groaning floors; And he of clerks and servants could display A little army on a public day: Was this a man like needy bard to speak Of balmy lip, bright eye, or rosy cheek? The sum appointed for her widow'd state, Fix'd by her friend, excited no debate; Then the kind lady gave her hand and heart, And, never finding, never dealt with art: In his engagements she had no concern; He taught her not, nor had she wish to learn; On him in all occasions she relied, His word her surety, and his worth her pride. When ship was launch'd, and merchant Paul had share, A bounteous feast became the lady's care; Who then her entry to the dinner made, In costly raiment, and with kind parade. Call'd by this duty on a certain day, And robed to grace it in a rich array, Forth from her room, with measured step she came, Proud of th' event, and stately look'd the dame; The husband met her at his study door - "This way, my love—one moment, and no more: A trifling business—you will understand - The law requires that you affix your hand; But first attend, and you shall learn the cause Why forms like these have been prescribed by laws." Then from his chair a man in black arose, And with much quickness hurried off his prose - That "Ellen Paul, the wife, and so forth, freed From all control, her own the act and deed, And forasmuch"—said she, "I've no distrust, For he that asks it is discreet and just; Our friends are waiting—where am I to sign? - There?—Now be ready when we meet to dine." This said, she hurried off in great delight, The ship was launch'd, and joyful was the night. Now, says the reader, and in much disdain, This serious Merchant was a rogue in grain; A treacherous wretch, an artful sober knave, And ten times worse for manners cool and grave: And she devoid of sense, to set her hand To scoundrel deeds she could not understand. Alas! 'tis true; and I in vain had tried To soften crime that cannot be denied; And might have labour'd many a tedious verse The latent cause of mischief to rehearse: Be it confess'd, that long, with troubled look, This Trader view'd a huge accompting-book; (His former marriage for a time delay'd The dreaded hour, the present lent its aid;) But he too clearly saw the evil day, And put the terror, by deceit, away; Thus, by connecting with his sorrows crime, He gain'd a portion of uneasy time. - All this too late the injur'd Lady saw: What law had given, again she gave to law; His guilt, her folly—these at once impress'd Their lasting feelings on her guileless breast. "Shame I can bear," she cried, "and want sustain, But will not see this guilty wretch again:" For all was lost, and he with many a tear Confess'd the fault—she turning scorn'd to hear. To legal claims he yielded all his worth. But small the portion, and the wrong'd were wroth, Nor to their debtor would a part allow; And where to live he know not—knew not how. The Wife a cottage found, and thither went The suppliant man, but she would not relent: Thenceforth she utter'd with indignant tone, "I feel the misery, and will feel alone." He would turn servant for her sake, would keep The poorest school, the very streets would sweep, To show his love. "It was already shown, And her affliction should be all her own: His wants and weakness might have touch'd her heart, But from his meanness she resolved to part." In a small alley was she lodged, beside Its humblest poor, and at the view she cried, "Welcome! yes! let me welcome, if I can, The fortune dealt me by this cruel man: Welcome this low-thatch'd roof, this shatter'd door, These walls of clay, this miserable floor; Welcome my envied neighbours; this to you Is all familiar—all to me is new: You have no hatred to the loathsome meal, Your firmer nerves no trembling terrors feel, Nor, what you must expose, desire you to conceal; What your coarse feelings bear without offence, Disgusts my taste and poisons every sense: Daily shall I your sad relations hear Of wanton women and of men severe; There will dire curses, dreadful oaths abound, And vile expressions shock me and confound: Noise of dull wheels, and songs with horrid words, Will be the music that this lane affords; Mirth that disgusts, and quarrels that degrade The human mind, must my retreat invade: Hard is my fate! yet easier to sustain, Than to abide with guilt and fraud again; A grave impostor! who expects to meet, In such gray locks and gravity, deceit? Where the sea rages and the billows roar, Men know the danger, and they quit the shore; But, be there nothing in the way descried, When o'er the rocks smooth runs the wicked tide - Sinking unwarn'd, they execrate the shock And the dread peril of the sunken rock." A frowning world had now the man to dread, Taught in no arts, to no profession bred; Pining in grief, beset with constant care Wandering he went, to rest he knew not where. Meantime the Wife—but she abjured the name - Endured her lot, and struggled with the shame; When, lo! an uncle on the mother's side, In nature something, as in blood allied, Admired her firmness, his protection gave, And show'd a kindness she disdain'd to crave. Frugal and rich the man, and frugal grew The sister-mind without a selfish view; And further still—the temp'rate pair agreed With what they saved the patient poor to feed: His whole estate, when to the grave consign'd, Left the good kinsman to the kindred mind; Assured that law, with spell secure and tight, Had fix'd it as her own peculiar right. Now to her ancient residence removed, She lived as widow, well endowed and loved; Decent her table was, and to her door Came daily welcomed the neglected poor: The absent sick were soothed by her relief, As her free bounty sought the haunts of grief; A plain and homely charity had she, And loved the objects of her alms to see; With her own hands she dress'd the savoury meat, With her own fingers wrote the choice receipt; She heard all tales that injured wives relate, And took a double interest in their fate; But of all husbands not a wretch was known So vile, so mean, so cruel as her own. This bounteous Lady kept an active spy, To search th' abodes of want, and to supply; The gentle Susan served the liberal dame - Unlike their notions, yet their deeds the same: No practised villain could a victim find Than this stern Lady more completely blind; Nor (if detected in his fraud) could meet One less disposed to pardon a deceit; The wrong she treasured, and on no pretence Received th' offender, or forgot th' offence: But the kind Servant, to the thrice-proved knave A fourth time listen'd and the past forgave. First in her youth, when she was blithe and gay; Came a smooth rogue, and stole her love away: Then to another and another flew, To boast the wanton mischief he could do: Yet she forgave him, though so great her pain, That she was never blithe or gay again. Then came a spoiler, who, with villain-art Implored her hand, and agonized her heart; He seized her purse, in idle waste to spend With a vile wanton, whom she call'd her friend; Five years she suffer'd—he had revell'd five - Then came to show her he was just alive; Alone he came, his vile companion dead, And he, a wand'ring pauper, wanting bread; His body wasted, wither'd life and limb, When this kind soul became a slave to him: Nay, she was sure that, should he now survive, No better husband would be left alive: For him she mourn'd, and then, alone and poor, Sought and found comfort at her Lady's door: Ten years she served, and mercy her employ, Her tasks were pleasure, and her duty joy. Thus lived the Mistress and the Maid, design'd Each other's aid—one cautious, and both kind: Oft at their window, working, they would sigh To see the aged and the sick go by; Like wounded bees, that at their home arrive Slowly and weak, but labouring for the hive. The busy people of a mason's yard The curious Lady view'd with much regard; With steady motion she perceived them draw Through blocks of stone the slowly-working saw; It gave her pleasure and surprise to see Among these men the signs of revelry: Cold was the season, and confined their view, Tedious their tasks, but merry were the crew; There she beheld an aged pauper wait, Patient and still, to take an humble freight; Within the panniers on an ass he laid The ponderous grit, and for the portion paid; This he re-sold, and, with each trifling gift, Made shift to live, and wretched was the shift. Now will it be by every reader told Who was this humble trader, poor and old. - In vain an author would a name suppress, From the least hint a reader learns to guess; Of children lost, our novels sometimes treat, We never care—assured again to meet: In vain the writer for concealment tries, We trace his purpose under all disguise; Nay, though he tells us they are dead and gone, Of whom we wot, they will appear anon; Our favourites fight, are wounded, hopeless lie, Survive they cannot—nay, they cannot die; Now, as these tricks and stratagems are known, 'Tis best, at once, the simple truth to own. This was the husband—in an humble shed He nightly slept, and daily sought his bread: Once for relief the weary man applied; "Your wife is rich," the angry vestry cried: Alas! he dared not to his wife complain, Feeling her wrongs, and fearing her disdain: By various methods he had tried to live, But not one effort would subsistence give: He was an usher in a school, till noise Made him less able than the weaker boys; On messages he went, till he in vain Strove names, or words, or meanings to retain; Each small employment in each neighbouring town, By turn he took, to lay as quickly down: For, such his fate, he fail'd in all he plann'd, And nothing prosper'd in his luckless hand. At his old home, his motive half suppress'd, He sought no more for riches, but for rest: There lived the bounteous Wife, and at her gate He saw in cheerful groups the needy wait; "Had he a right with bolder hope t'apply?" He ask'd—was answer'd, and went groaning by: For some remains of spirit, temper, pride, Forbade a prayer he knew would be denied. Thus was the grieving man, with burthen'd ass, Seen day by day along the street to pass: "Who is he, Susan? who the poor old man? He never calls—do make him, if you can." The conscious damsel still delay'd to speak, She stopp'd confused, and had her words to seek; From Susan's fears the fact her mistress knew, And cried—"The wretch! what scheme has he in view? Is this his lot?—but let him, let him feel - Who wants the courage, not the will, to steal." A dreadful winter came, each day severe, Misty when mild, and icy cold when clear; And still the humble dealer took his load, Returning slow, and shivering on the road: The Lady, still relentless, saw him come, And said—"I wonder, has the wretch a home?" - "A hut! a hovel!" "Then his fate appears To suit his crime."—"Yes, lady, not his years; - No! nor his sufferings—nor that form decay'd." "Well! let the parish give its paupers aid: You must the vileness of his acts allow." - "And you, dear lady, that he feels it now." "When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect, Can they the pity they refused expect? He that doth evil, evil shall he dread." - "The snow," quoth Susan, "falls upon his bed - It blows beside the thatch—it melts upon his head." "Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to feel." - "Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal; Through his bare dress appears his shrivell'd skin, And ill he fares without, and worse within: With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow, What cold, pain, peril, must the sufferer know!" "Think on his crime."—"Yes, sure 'twas very wrong; But look (God bless him!) how he gropes along." "Brought me to shame."—Oh! yes, I know it all - What cutting blast! and he can scarcely crawl: He freezes as he moves—he dies! if he should fall: With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet - And must a Christian perish in the street, In sight of Christians?—There! at last, he lies; - Nor unsupported can he ever rise: He cannot live." "But is he fit to die?" - Here Susan softly mutter'd a reply, Look'd round the room—said something of its state, Dives the rich, and Lazarus at his gate; And then aloud—"In pity do behold The man affrighten'd, weeping, trembling, cold: Oh! how those flakes of snow their entrance win Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within. His very heart seems frozen as he goes, Leading that starved companion of his woes: He tried to pray—his lips, I saw them move, And he so turn'd his piteous looks above; But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed, And, ere he spoke, the lips in misery closed: Poor suffering object! yes, for ease you pray'd, And God will hear—He only, I'm afraid." "Peace! Susan, peace! pain ever follows sin." - "Ah! then," thought Susan, "when will ours begin? When reach'd his home, to what a cheerless fire And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire! Yet ragged, wretched as it is, that bed Takes half the space of his contracted shed; I saw the thorns beside the narrow grate, With straw collected in a putrid state: There will he, kneeling, strive the fire to raise, And that will warm him, rather than the blaze: The sullen, smoky blaze, that cannot last One moment after his attempt is past; And I so warmly and so purely laid, To sink to rest—indeed, I am afraid." "Know you his conduct?"—"Yes, indeed I know, And how he wanders in the wind and snow; Safe in our rooms the threat'ning storm we hear, But he feels strongly what we faintly fear." "Wilful was rich, and he the storm defied; Wilful is poor, and must the storm abide," Said the stern Lady; "'tis in vain to feel; Go and prepare the chicken for our meal." Susan her task reluctantly began, And utter'd as she went—"The poor old man!" But while her soft and ever-yielding heart Made strong protest against her lady's part, The lady's self began to think it wrong To feel so wrathful and resent so long. "No more the wretch would she receive again, No more behold him—but she would sustain; Great his offence, and evil was his mind - But he had suffer'd, and she would be kind: She spurn'd such baseness, and she found within A fair acquittal from so foul a sin; Yet she too err'd, and must of Heaven expect To be rejected, him should she reject." Susan was summon'd—"I'm about to do A foolish act, in part seduced by you; Go to the creature—say that I intend, Foe to his sins, to be his sorrow's friend: Take, for his present comforts, food and wine, And mark his feelings at this act of mine: Observe if shame be o'er his features spread, By his own victim to be soothed and fed; But, this inform him, that it is not love That prompts my heart, that duties only move. Say, that no merits in his favour plead, But miseries only, and his abject need; Nor bring me grov'ling thanks, nor high-flown praise; I would his spirits, not his fancy, raise: Give him no hope that I shall ever more A man so vile to my esteem restore; But warn him rather, that, in time of rest, His crimes be all remember'd and confess'd: I know not all that form the sinner's debt, But there is one that he must not forget." The mind of Susan prompted her with speed To act her part in every courteous deed: All that was kind she was prepared to say, And keep the lecture for a future day; When he had all life's comforts by his side, Pity might sleep, and good advice be tried. This done, the mistress felt disposed to look, As self-approving, on a pious book; Yet, to her native bias still inclined, She felt her act too merciful and kind; But when, long musing on the chilling scene So lately past—the frost and sleet so keen - The man's whole misery in a single view - Yes! she could think some pity was his due. Thus fix'd, she heard not her attendant glide With soft slow step—till, standing by her side, The trembling servant gasp'd for breath, and shed Relieving tears, then utter'd, "He is dead!" "Dead!" said the startled Lady.—"Yes, he fell Close at the door where he was wont to dwell; There his sole friend, the Ass, was standing by, Half dead himself, to see his Master die." "Expired he then, good Heaven! for want of food?" - "No! crusts and water in a corner stood: - To have this plenty, and to wait so long, And to be right too late, is doubly wrong: Then, every day to see him totter by, And to forbear—Oh! what a heart had I!" "Blame me not, child; I tremble at the news." "Tis my own heart," said Susan, "I accuse: To have this money in my purse—to know What grief was his, and what to grief we owe; To see him often, always to conceive How he must pine and languish, groan and grieve, And every day in ease and peace to dine, And rest in comfort!—What a heart is mine!"



TALE XVIII.



THE WAGER.

'Tis thought your deer doth hold you at a bay.

I choose her for myself; If she and I are pleased, what's that to you?

Let's send each one to his wife, And he whose wife is most obedient Shall win the wager.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench, I love her ten times more than e'er I did. SHAKESPEARE, Taming of the Shrew.

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Counter and Clubb were men in trade, whose pains, Credit, and prudence, brought them constant gains; Partners and punctual, every friend agreed Counter and Clubb were men who must succeed. When they had fix'd some little time in life, Each thought of taking to himself a wife: As men in trade alike, as men in love, They seem'd with no according views to move; As certain ores in outward view the same, They show'd their difference when the magnet came. Counter was vain: with spirit strong and high, 'Twas not in him like suppliant swain to sigh: "His wife might o'er his men and maids preside, And in her province be a judge and guide; But what he thought, or did, or wish'd to do, She must not know, or censure if she knew; At home, abroad, by day, by night, if he On aught determined, so it was to be: How is a man," he ask'd, "for business fit, Who to a female can his will submit? Absent a while, let no inquiring eye Or plainer speech presume to question why: But all be silent; and, when seen again, Let all be cheerful—shall a wife complain? Friends I invite, and who shall dare t'object, Or look on them with coolness or neglect? No! I must ever of my house be head, And, thus obey'd, I condescend to wed." Clubb heard the speech—"My friend is nice, said he; A wife with less respect will do for me: How is he certain such a prize to gain? What he approves, a lass may learn to feign, And so affect t'obey till she begins to reign; A while complying, she may vary then, And be as wives of more unwary men; Beside, to him who plays such lordly part, How shall a tender creature yield her heart; Should he the promised confidence refuse, She may another more confiding choose; May show her anger, yet her purpose hide, And wake his jealousy, and wound his pride. In one so humbled, who can trace the friend? I on an equal, not a slave, depend; If true, my confidence is wisely placed, And being false, she only is disgraced." Clubb, with these notions, cast his eye around; And one so easy soon a partner found. The lady chosen was of good repute; Meekness she had not, and was seldom mute; Though quick to anger, still she loved to smile, And would be calm if men would wait a while: She knew her duty, and she loved her way, More pleased in truth to govern than obey; She heard her priest with reverence, and her spouse As one who felt the pressure of her vows; Useful and civil, all her friends confess'd - Give her her way, and she would choose the best; Though some indeed a sly remark would make - Give it her not, and she would choose to take. All this, when Clubb some cheerful months had spent, He saw, confess'd, and said he was content. Counter meantime selected, doubted, weigh'd, And then brought home a young complying maid; A tender creature, full of fears as charms, A beauteous nursling from its mother's arms; A soft, sweet blossom, such as men must love, But to preserve must keep it in the stove: She had a mild, subdued, expiring look - Raise but the voice, and this fair creature shook; Leave her alone, she felt a thousand fears - Chide, and she melted into floods of tears; Fondly she pleaded, and would gently sigh, For very pity, or she knew not why; One whom to govern none could be afraid - Hold up the finger, this meek thing obey'd; Her happy husband had the easiest task - Say but his will, no question would she ask; She sought no reasons, no affairs she knew, Of business spoke not, and had nought to do. Oft he exclaim'd, "How meek! how mild! how kind! With her 'twere cruel but to seem unkind; Though ever silent when I take my leave, It pains my heart to think how hers will grieve; 'Tis heaven on earth with such a wife to dwell, I am in raptures to have sped so well; But let me not, my friend, your envy raise, No! on my life, your patience has my praise." His Friend, though silent, felt the scorn implied - "What need of patience?" to himself he cried: "Better a woman o'er her house to rule, Than a poor child just hurried from her school; Who has no care, yet never lives at ease; Unfit to rule, and indisposed to please. What if he govern, there his boast should end; No husband's power can make a slave his friend." It was the custom of these Friends to meet With a few neighbours in a neighbouring street; Where Counter ofttimes would occasion seize To move his silent Friend by words like these: "A man," said he, "if govern'd by his wife, Gives up his rank and dignity in life; Now, better fate befalls my Friend and me." - He spoke, and look'd th' approving smile to see. The quiet partner, when he chose to speak, Desired his friend "another theme to seek; When thus they met, he judged that state-affairs And such important subjects should be theirs:" But still the partner, in his lighter vein, Would cause in Clubb affliction or disdain; It made him anxious to detect the cause Of all that boasting: —"Wants my friend applause? This plainly proves him not at perfect ease, For, felt he pleasure, he would wish to please. These triumphs here for some regrets atone - Men who are bless'd let other men alone." Thus made suspicious, he observed and saw His friend each night at early hour withdraw; He sometimes mention'd Juliet's tender nerves, And what attention such a wife deserves: "In this," thought Clubb, "full sure some mystery lies - He laughs at me, yet he with much complies, And all his vaunts of bliss are proud apologies." With such ideas treasured in his breast, He grew composed, and let his anger rest; Till Counter once (when wine so long went round, That friendship and discretion both were drown'd) Began, in teasing and triumphant mood, His evening banter: —"Of all earthly good, The best," he said, "was an obedient spouse, Such as my friend's—that every one allows: What if she wishes his designs to know? It is because she would her praise bestow; What if she wills that he remain at home? She knows that mischief may from travel come. I, who am free to venture where I please, Have no such kind preventing checks as these; But mine is double duty, first to guide Myself aright, then rule a house beside; While this our friend, more happy than the free, Resigns all power, and laughs at liberty." "By heaven!" said Clubb, "excuse me if I swear, I'll bet a hundred guineas, if he dare, That uncontroll'd