I will such freedoms take That he will fear to equal—there's my stake." "A match!" said Counter, much by wine inflamed; "But we are friends—let smaller stake be named: Wine for our future meeting, that will I Take and no more—what peril shall we try?" "Let's to Newmarket," Clubb replied; "or choose Yourself the place, and what you like to lose: And he who first returns, or fears to go, Forfeits his cash."—Said Counter, "Be it so." The friends around them saw with much delight The social war, and hail'd the pleasant night; Nor would they further hear the cause discuss'd, Afraid the recreant heart of Clubb to trust. Now sober thoughts return'd as each withdrew, And of the subject took a serious view: "'Twas wrong," thought Counter, "and will grieve my love;" "'Twas wrong," thought Clubb, "my wife will not approve: But friends were present; I must try the thing, Or with my folly half the town will ring." He sought his lady—"Madam, I'm to blame, But was reproach'd, and could not bear the shame; Here in my folly—for 'tis best to say The very truth—I've sworn to have my way; To that Newmarket—(though I hate the place, And have no taste or talents for a race, Yet so it is—well, now prepare to chide) - I laid a wager that I dared to ride: And I must go: by heaven, if you resist I shall be scorn'd, and ridiculed, and hiss'd; Let me with grace before my friends appear, You know the truth, and must not be severe: He too must go, but that he will of course: Do you consent?—I never think of force." "You never need," the worthy Dame replied; "The husband's honour is the woman's pride: If I in trifles be the wilful wife, Still for your credit I would lose my life. Go! and when fix'd the day of your return, Stay longer yet, and let the blockheads learn That though a wife may sometimes wish to rule, She would not make th' indulgent man a fool; I would at times advise—but idle they Who think th' assenting husband must obey." The happy man, who thought his lady right In other cases, was assured to-night; Then for the day with proud delight prepared, To show his doubting friends how much he dared. Counter—who grieving sought his bed, his rest Broken by pictures of his love distress'd - With soft and winning speech the fair prepared: "She all his councils, comforts, pleasures shared: She was assured he loved her from his soul, She never knew and need not fear control; But so it happen'd—he was grieved at heart It happen'd so, that they awhile must part A little time—the distance was but short, And business called him—he despised the sport; But to Newmarket he engaged to ride With his friend Clubb:" and there he stopp'd and sigh'd. Awhile the tender creature look'd dismay'd, Then floods of tears the call of grief obeyed: - "She an objection! No!" she sobb'd, "not one: Her work was finish'd, and her race was run; For die she must—indeed she would not live A week alone, for all the world could give; He too must die in that same wicked place; It always happen'd—was a common case; Among those horrid horses, jockeys, crowds, 'Twas certain death—they might bespeak their shrouds. He would attempt a race, be sure to fall - And she expire with terror—that was all; With love like hers she was indeed unfit To bear such horrors, but she must submit." "But for three days, my love! three days at most," "Enough for me; I then shall be a ghost." "My honour's pledged!"—"Oh! yes, my dearest life, I know your honour must outweigh your wife; But ere this absence have you sought a friend? I shall be dead—on whom can you depend? Let me one favour of your kindness crave, Grant me the stone I mention'd for my grave." "Nay, love, attend—why, bless my soul! I say I will return—there, weep no longer, nay!" "Well! I obey, and to the last am true, But spirits fail me; I must die; adieu!" "What, Madam! must?—'tis wrong—I'm angry—zounds Can I remain and lose a thousand pounds?" "Go then, my love! it is a monstrous sum, Worth twenty wives—go, love! and I am dumb; Nor be displeased—had I the power to live, You might be angry, now you must forgive: Alas! I faint—ah! cruel—there's no need Of wounds or fevers—this has done the deed." The lady fainted, and the husband sent For every aid—for every comfort went; Strong terror seized him: "Oh! she loved so well, And who th' effect of tenderness could tell?" She now recover'd, and again began With accent querulous—"Ah! cruel man!" Till the sad husband, conscience-struck, confess'd, 'Twas very wicked with his friend to jest; For now he saw that those who were obey'd, Could like the most subservient feel afraid: And though a wife might not dispute the will Of her liege lord, she could prevent it still. The morning came, and Clubb prepared to ride With a smart boy, his servant, and his guide; When, ere he mounted on his ready steed, Arrived a letter, and he stopped to read. "My friend," he read, "our journey I decline, A heart too tender for such strife is mine; Yours is the triumph, be you so inclined; But you are too considerate and kind: In tender pity to my Juliet's fears I thus relent, o'ercome by love and tears; She knows your kindness; I have heard her say, A man like you 'tis pleasure to obey: Each faithful wife, like ours, must disapprove Such dangerous trifling with connubial love; What has the idle world, my friend, to do With our affairs? they envy me and you: What if I could my gentle spouse command - Is that a cause I should her tears withstand? And what if you, a friend of peace, submit To one you love—is that a theme for wit? 'Twas wrong, and I shall henceforth judge it weak Both of submission and control to speak: Be it agreed that all contention cease, And no such follies vex our future peace; Let each keep guard against domestic strife, And find nor slave nor tyrant in his wife." "Agreed," said Clubb, "with all my soul agreed;" - And to the boy, delighted, gave his steed. "I think my friend has well his mind express'd, And I assent; such things are not a jest." "True," said the Wife, "no longer he can hide The truth that pains him by his wounded pride: Your friend has found it not an easy thing, Beneath his yoke this yielding soul to bring: These weeping willows, though they seem inclined By every breeze, yet not the strongest wind Can from their bent divert this weak but stubborn kind; Drooping they seek your pity to excite, But 'tis at once their nature and delight; Such women feel not; while they sigh and weep, 'Tis but their habit—their affections sleep; They are like ice that in the hand we hold, So very melting, yet so very cold; On such affection let not man rely, The husbands suffer, and the ladies sigh: But your friend's offer let us kindly take, And spare his pride for his vexation's sake; For he has found, and through his life will find, 'Tis easiest dealing with the firmest mind - More just when it resists, and, when it yields, more kind."



TALE XIX.



THE CONVERT.

A tapster is a good trade, and an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man, a fresh tapster. SHAKESPEARE, Merry Wives of Windsor.

A fellow, Sir, that I have known go about with troll-my-dames. A Winter's Tale.

I myself, sometimes leaving the fear of Heaven on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am forced to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch. Merry Wives of Windsor.

Yea, and at that very moment, Consideration like an angel came, And whipp'd th' offending Adam out of him. Henry V.

I have lived long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have. Macbeth.

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Some to our Hero have a hero's name Denied, because no father's he could claim; Nor could his mother with precision state A full fair claim to her certificate; On her own word the marriage must depend - A point she was not eager to defend: But who, without a father's name, can raise His own so high, deserves the greater praise; The less advantage to the strife he brought, The greater wonders has his prowess wrought; He who depends upon his wind and limbs, Needs neither cork nor bladder when he swims; Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along, As not himself—but in his helpers—strong. Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear, For call John Dighton, and he answer'd "Here!" But who that name in early life assign'd He never found, he never tried to find: Whether his kindred were to John disgrace, Or John to them, is a disputed case; His infant state owed nothing to their care - His mind neglected, and his body bare; All his success must on himself depend, He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend; But in a market-town an active boy Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ; Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began To show the talents of a thriving man. With spirit high John learn'd the world to brave, And in both senses was a ready knave; Knave as of old obedient, keen, and quick, Knave as of present, skill'd to shift and trick; Some humble part of many trades he caught, He for the builder and the painter wrought; For serving-maids on secret errands ran, The waiter's helper, and the ostler's man; And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose, His varying genius shone in blacking shoes: A midnight fisher by the pond he stood, Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood; At an election John's impartial mind Was to no cause nor candidate confined; To all in turn he full allegiance swore, And in his hat the various badges bore: His liberal soul with every sect agreed, Unheard their reasons, he received their creed: At church he deign'd the organ-pipes to fill, And at the meeting sang both loud and shrill: But the full purse these different merits gain'd, By strong demands his lively passions drain'd; Liquors he loved of each inflaming kind, To midnight revels flew with ardent mind; Too warm at cards, a losing game he play'd, To fleecing beauty his attention paid; His boiling passions were by oaths express'd, And lies he made his profit and his jest. Such was the boy, and such the man had been, But fate or happier fortune changed the scene; A fever seized him, "He should surely die—" He fear'd, and lo! a friend was praying by; With terror moved, this Teacher he address'd, And all the errors of his youth confess'd: The good man kindly clear'd the Sinner's way To lively hope, and counsell'd him to pray; Who then resolved, should he from sickness rise, To quit cards, liquors, poaching, oaths, and lies; His health restored, he yet resolved and grew True to his masters, to their Meeting true; His old companions at his sober face Laugh'd loud, while he, attesting it was grace, With tears besought them all his calling to embrace: To his new friends such convert gave applause, Life to their zeal, and glory to their cause: Though terror wrought the mighty change, yet strong Was the impression, and it lasted long; John at the lectures due attendance paid, A convert meek, obedient, and afraid; His manners strict, though form'd on fear alone, Pleased the grave friends, nor less his solemn tone, The lengthen'd face of care, the low and inward groan; The stern good men exulted when they saw Those timid looks of penitence and awe; Nor thought that one so passive, humble, meek, Had yet a creed and principles to seek. The Faith that Reason finds, confirms, avows, The hopes, the views, the comforts she allows - These were not his, who by his feelings found, And by them only, that his faith was sound; Feelings of terror these, for evil past, Feelings of hope to be received at last; Now weak, now lively, changing with the day - These were his feelings, and he felt his way. Sprung from such sources, will this faith remain While these supporters can their strength retain? As heaviest weights the deepest rivers pass, While icy chains fast bind the solid mass; So, born of feelings, faith remains secure, Long as their firmness and their strength endure; But when the waters in their channel glide, A bridge must bear us o'er the threat'ning tide; Such bridge is Reason, and there Faith relies, Whether the varying spirits fall or rise. His patrons, still disposed their aid to lend. Behind a counter placed their humble friend, Where pens and paper were on shelves display'd, And pious pamphlets on the windows laid: By nature active, and from vice restrain'd, Increasing trade his bolder views sustain'd; His friends and teachers, finding so much zeal In that young convert whom they taught to feel, His trade encouraged, and were pleased to find A hand so ready, with such humble mind. And now, his health restored, his spirits eased, He wish'd to marry, if the teachers pleased. They, not unwilling, from the virgin-class Took him a comely and a courteous lass; Simple and civil, loving and beloved, She long a fond and faithful partner proved; In every year the elders and the priest Were duly summon'd to a christening feast; Nor came a babe, but by his growing trade John had provision for the coming made; For friends and strangers all were pleased to deal With one whose care was equal to his zeal. In human friendships, it compels a sigh To think what trifles will dissolve the tie. John, now become a master of his trade, Perceived how much improvement might be made; And as this prospect open'd to his view, A certain portion of his zeal withdrew; His fear abated—"What had he to fear - His profits certain, and his conscience clear?" Above his door a board was placed by John, And "Dighton, Stationer," was gilt thereon; His window next, enlarged to twice the size, Shone with such trinkets as the simple prize; While in the shop with pious works were seen The last new play, review, or magazine: In orders punctual, he observed—"The books He never read, and could he judge their looks? Readers and critics should their merits try, He had no office but to sell and buy; Like other traders, profit was his care; Of what they print, the authors must beware." He held his patrons and his teachers dear, But with his trade they must not interfere. 'Twas certain now that John had lost the dread And pious thoughts that once such terrors bred; His habits varied, and he more inclined To the vain world, which he had half resign'd; He had moreover in his brethren seen, Or he imagined, craft, conceit, and spleen: "They are but men," said John, "and shall I then Fear man's control, or stand in awe of men? 'Tis their advice (their Convert's rule and law), And good it is—I will not stand in awe." Moreover Dighton, though he thought of books As one who chiefly on the title looks, Yet sometimes ponder'd o'er a page to find, When vex'd with cares, amusement for his mind; And by degrees that mind had treasured much From works his teachers were afraid to touch: Satiric novels, poets bold and free, And what their writers term philosophy; All these were read, and he began to feel Some self-approval on his bosom steal. Wisdom creates humility, but he Who thus collects it will not humble be: No longer John was fill'd with pure delight And humble reverence in a pastor's sight; Who, like a grateful zealot, listening stood, To hear a man so friendly and so good; But felt the dignity of one who made Himself important by a thriving trade: And growing pride in Dighton's mind was bred By the strange food on which it coarsely fed. Their Brother's fall the grieving Brethren heard - His pride indeed to all around appeared; The world, his friends agreed, had won the soul From its best hopes, the man from their control. To make him humble, and confine his views Within their bounds, and books which they peruse, A deputation from these friends select Might reason with him to some good effect; Arm'd with authority, and led by love, They might those follies from his mind remove. Deciding thus, and with this kind intent, A chosen body with its speaker went. "John," said the Teacher, "John, with great concern. We see thy frailty, and thy fate discern - Satan with toils thy simple soul beset, And thou art careless slumbering in the net: Unmindful art thou of thy early vow; Who at the morning meeting sees thee now? Who at the evening? 'Where is brother John?' We ask;—are answer'd, 'To the tavern gone.' Thee on the Sabbath seldom we behold; Thou canst not sing, thou'rt nursing for a cold: This from the churchmen thou hast learn'd, for they Have colds and fevers on the Sabbath-day; When in some snug warm room they sit, and pen Bills from their ledgers—world-entangled men, "See with what pride thou hast enlarged thy shop; To view thy tempting stores the heedless stop. By what strange names dost thou these baubles know, Which wantons wear, to make a sinful show? Hast thou in view these idle volumes placed To be the pander of a vicious taste? What's here? a book of dances!—you advance In goodly knowledge—John, wilt learn to dance? How! 'Go,' it says, and 'to the devil go! And shake thyself!' I tremble—but 'tis so; Wretch as thou art, what answer canst thou make? Oh! without question, thou wilt go and shake. What's here? 'The School for Scandal'—pretty schools! Well, and art thou proficient in the rules? Art thou a pupil? Is it thy design To make our names contemptible as thine? 'Old Nick, a novel!' oh! 'tis mighty well - A fool has courage when he laughs at hell; 'Frolic and Fun;' the Humours of Tim Grin;' Why, John, thou grow'st facetious in thy sin; And what?—'The Archdeacon's Charge!'—'tis mighty well - If Satan publish'd, thou wouldst doubtless sell: Jests, novels, dances, and this precious stuff To crown thy folly—we have seen enough; We find thee fitted for each evil work: Do print the Koran and become a Turk. "John, thou art lost; success and worldly pride O'er all thy thoughts and purposes preside, Have bound thee fast, and drawn thee far aside: Yet turn; these sin-traps from thy shop expel, Repent and pray, and all may yet be well. "And here thy wife, thy Dorothy behold, How fashion's wanton robes her form infold! Can grace, can goodness with such trappings dwell? John, thou hast made thy wife a Jezebel: See! on her bosom rests the sign of sin, The glaring proof of naughty thoughts within: What! 'tis a cross: come hither—as a friend, Thus from thy neck the shameful badge I rend." "Rend, if you dare," said Dighton; "you shall find A man of spirit, though to peace inclined; Call me ungrateful! have I not my pay At all times ready for the expected day? To share my plenteous board you deign to come, Myself your pupil, and my house your home: And shall the persons who my meat enjoy Talk of my faults, and treat me as a boy? Have you not told how Rome's insulting priests Led their meek laymen like a herd of beasts; And by their fleecing and their forgery made Their holy calling an accursed trade? Can you such acts and insolence condemn, Who to your utmost power resemble them? "Concerns it you what books I set for sale? The tale perchance may be a virtuous tale; And for the rest, 'tis neither wise nor just In you, who read not, to condemn on trust; Why should th' Archdeacon's Charge your spleen excite? He, or perchance th' Archbishop, may be right. "That from your meetings I refrain is true: I meet with nothing pleasant—nothing new; But the same proofs, that not one text explain, And the same lights, where all things dark remain; I thought you saints on earth—but I have found Some sins among you, and the best unsound: You have your failings, like the crowds below, And at your pleasure hot and cold can blow: When I at first your grave deportment saw, (I own my folly,) I was fill'd with awe; You spoke so warmly, and it seem'd so well, I should have thought it treason to rebel. Is it a wonder that a man like me Should such perfection in such teachers see - Nay, should conceive you sent from Heaven to brave The host of sin, and sinful souls to save? But as our reason wakes, our prospects clear, And failings, flaws, and blemishes appear. "When you were mounted in your rostrum high, We shrank beneath your tone, your frown, your eye: Then you beheld us abject, fallen, low, And felt your glory from our baseness grow; Touch'd by your words, I trembled like the rest, And my own vileness and your power confess'd: These, I exclaim'd, are men divine, and gazed On him who taught, delighted and amazed; Glad when he finish'd, if by chance he cast One look on such a sinner as he pass'd. "But when I view'd you in a clearer light, And saw the frail and carnal appetite; When at his humble pray'r, you deign'd to eat, Saints as you are, a civil sinner's meat; When, as you sat contented and at ease, Nibbling at leisure on the ducks and peas, And, pleased some comforts in such place to find, You could descend to be a little kind; And gave us hope in heaven there might be room For a few souls beside your own to come; While this world's good engaged your carnal view, And like a sinner you enjoy'd it too; All this perceiving, can you think it strange That change in you should work an equal change?" "Wretch that thou art," an elder cried, "and gone For everlasting!"—"Go thyself," said John; Depart this instant, let me hear no more; My house my castle is, and that my door." The hint they took, and from the door withdrew, And John to meeting bade a long adieu; Attached to business, he in time became A wealthy man of no inferior name. It seem'd, alas! in John's deluded sight, That all was wrong because not all was right: And when he found his teachers had their stains, Resentment and not reason broke his chains: Thus on his feelings he again relied, And never look'd to reason for his guide: Could he have wisely view'd the frailty shown, And rightly weigh'd their wanderings and his own, He might have known that men may be sincere, Though gay and feasting on the savoury cheer; That doctrines sound and sober they may teach, Who love to eat with all the glee they preach; Nay! who believe the duck, the grape, the pine, Were not intended for the dog and swine: But Dighton's hasty mind on every theme Ran from the truth, and rested in th' extreme: Flaws in his friends he found, and then withdrew (Vain of his knowledge) from their virtues too, Best of his books he loved the liberal kind That, if they improve not, still enlarge the mind; And found himself, with such advisers, free From a fix'd creed, as mind enlarged could be. His humble wife at these opinions sigh'd, But her he never heeded till she died: He then assented to a last request, And by the meeting-window let her rest; And on her stone the sacred text was seen, Which had her comfort in departing been. Dighton with joy beheld his trade advance, Yet seldom published, loth to trust to chance: Then wed a doctor's sister—poor indeed, But skill'd in works her husband could not read; Who, if he wish'd new ways of wealth to seek, Could make her half-crown pamphlet in a week: This he rejected, though without disdain. And chose the old and certain way to gain. Thus he proceeded: trade increased the while, And fortune woo'd him with perpetual smile: On early scenes he sometimes cast a thought, When on his heart the mighty change was wrought; And all the ease and comfort Converts find Was magnified in his reflecting mind: Then on the teacher's priestly pride he dwelt, That caused his freedom, but with this he felt The danger of the free—for since that day No guide had shown, no brethren join'd his way; Forsaking one, he found no second creed, But reading doubted, doubting what to read. Still, though reproof had brought some present pain, The gain he made was fair and honest gain; He laid his wares indeed in public view, But that all traders claim a right to do: By means like these, he saw his wealth increase, And felt his consequence, and dwelt in peace. Our Hero's age was threescore years and five, When he exclaim'd, "Why longer should I strive? Why more amass, who never must behold A young John Dighton to make glad the old?" (The sons he had to early graves were gone, And girls were burdens to the mind of John.) "Had I a boy, he would our name sustain, That now to nothing must return again; But what are all my profits, credit, trade, And parish honours?—folly and parade." Thus Dighton thought, and in his looks appeared Sadness, increased by much he saw and heard; The Brethren often at the shop would stay, And make their comments ere they walk'd away; They mark'd the window, fill'd in every pane With lawless prints of reputations slain; Distorted forms of men with honours graced, And our chief rulers in dirision placed: Amazed they stood, remembering well the days When to be humble was their brother's praise; When at the dwelling of their friend they stopped; To drop a word, or to receive it dropp'd; Where they beheld the prints of men renown'd, And far-famed preachers pasted all around, (Such mouths! eyes! hair! so prim! so fierce! so sleek! They look'd as speaking what is woe to speak): On these the passing brethren loved to dwell - How long they spake! how strongly! warmly! well! What power had each to dive in mysteries deep, To warm the cold, to make the harden'd weep; To lure, to fright, to soothe, to awe the soul, And listening locks to lead and to control! But now discoursing, as they linger'd near, They tempted John (whom they accused) to hear Their weighty charge—"And can the lost one feel, As in the time of duty, love, and zeal; When all were summon'd at the rising sun, And he was ready with his friends to run; When he, partaking with a chosen few, Felt the great change, sensation rich and new? No! all is lost; her favours Fortune shower'd Upon the man, and he is overpower'd; The world has won him with its tempting store Of needless wealth, and that has made him poor: Success undoes him; he has risen to fall, Has gain'd a fortune, and has lost his all; Gone back from Sion, he will find his age Loth to commence a second pilgrimage; He has retreated from the chosen track, And now must ever bear the burden on his back." Hurt by such censure, John began to find Fresh revolutions working in his mind; He sought for comfort in his books, but read Without a plan or method in his head; What once amused, now rather made him sad; What should inform, increased the doubts he had; Shame would not let him seek at Church a guide, And from his Meeting he was held by pride; His wife derided fears she never felt, And passing brethren daily censures dealt; Hope for a son was now for ever past, He was the first John Dighton and the last; His stomach fail'd, his case the doctor knew, But said, "he still might hold a year or two." "No more!" he said; "but why should I complain? A life of doubt must be a life of pain: Could I be sure—but why should I despair? I'm sure my conduct has been just and fair; In youth, indeed, I had a wicked will, But I repented, and have sorrow still: I had my comforts, and a growing trade Gave greater pleasure than a fortune made; And as I more possess'd, and reason'd more, I lost those comforts I enjoy'd before, When reverend guides I saw my table round, And in my guardian guest my safety found: Now sick and sad, no appetite, no ease, Nor pleasures have I, nor a wish to please; Nor views, nor hopes, nor plans, nor taste have I; Yet, sick of life, have no desire to die." He said, and died: his trade, his name is gone, And all that once gave consequence to John. Unhappy Dighton! had he found a friend When conscience told him it was time to mend - A friend descreet, considerate, kind, sincere, Who would have shown the grounds of hope and fear, And proved that spirits, whether high or low, No certain tokens of man's safety show - Had Reason ruled him in her proper place, And Virtue led him while he lean'd on grace - Had he while zealous been discreet and pure, His knowledge humble, and his hope secure; - These guides had placed him on the solid rock, Where Faith had rested, nor received a shock; But his, alas! was placed upon the sand, Where long it stood not, and where none can stand.



TALE XX.



THE BROTHERS.

A brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms, That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practice may ride easy. SHAKESPEARE, King Lear.

He lets me feed with hinds, Bars me the place of brother. As You Like It.

'Twas I, but 'tis not I: I do not shame To tell you what I was, being what I am. As You Like It.

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Than old George Fletcher, on the British coast Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast: Kind, simple and sincere—he seldom spoke, But sometimes sang and chorus'd—"Hearts of Oak:" In dangers steady, with his lot content, His days in labour and in love were spent. He left a Son so like him, that the old With joy exclaim'd, "'Tis Fletcher we behold;" But to his Brother, when the kinsmen came And view'd his form, they grudged the father's name. George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad, With just the failings that his father had; Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact, With just the virtues that his father lack'd. George lived at sea: upon the land a guest - He sought for recreation, not for rest; While, far unlike, his brother's feebler form Shrank from the cold, and shudder'd at the storm; Still with the Seaman's to connect his trade, The boy was bound where blocks and ropes were made. George, strong and sturdy, had a tender mind, And was to Isaac pitiful and kind; A very father, till his art was gain'd, And then a friend unwearied he remain'd; He saw his brother was of spirit low, His temper peevish, and his motions slow; Not fit to bustle in a world, or make Friends to his fortune for his merit's sake; But the kind sailor could not boast the art Of looking deeply in the human heart; Else had he seen that this weak brother knew What men to court—what objects to pursue; That he to distant gain the way discern'd, And none so crooked but his genius learn'd. Isaac was poor, and this the brother felt; He hired a house, and there the Landman dwelt, Wrought at his trade, and had an easy home, For there would George with cash and comforts come; And when they parted, Isaac look'd around Where other friends and helpers might be found. He wish'd for some port-place, and one might fall, He wisely thought, if he should try for all; He had a vote—and were it well applied, Might have its worth—and he had views beside; Old Burgess Steel was able to promote An humble man who served him with a vote; For Isaac felt not what some tempers feel, But bow'd and bent the neck to Burgess Steel; And great attention to a lady gave, His ancient friend, a maiden spare and grave; One whom the visage long and look demure Of Isaac pleased—he seem'd sedate and pure; And his soft heart conceived a gentle flame For her who waited on this virtuous dame. Not an outrageous love, a scorching fire, But friendly liking and chastised desire; And thus he waited, patient in delay, In present favour and in fortune's way. George then was coasting—war was yet delay'd, And what he gain'd was to his brother paid; Nor ask'd the Seaman what he saved or spent, But took his grog, wrought hard, and was content; Till war awaked the land, and George began To think what part became a useful man: "Press'd, I must go: why, then, 'tis better far At once to enter like a British tar, Than a brave captain and the foe to shun, As if I fear'd the music of a gun." "Go not!" said Isaac—"you shall wear disguise." "What!" said the Seaman, "clothe myself with lies!" "Oh! but there's danger."—"Danger in the fleet? You cannot mean, good brother, of defeat; And other dangers I at land must share - So now adieu! and trust a brother's care." Isaac awhile demurr'd—but, in his heart, So might he share, he was disposed to part: The better mind will sometimes feel the pain Of benefactions—favour is a chain; But they the feeling scorn, and what they wish, disdain; While beings form'd in coarser mould will hate The helping hand they ought to venerate: No wonder George should in this cause prevail, With one contending who was glad to fail: "Isaac, farewell! do wipe that doleful eye; Crying we came, and groaning we may die; Let us do something 'twixt the groan and cry: And hear me, brother, whether pay or prize, One half to thee I give and I devise; Por thou hast oft occasion for the aid Of learn'd physicians, and they will be paid; Their wives and children men support at sea, And thou, my lad, art wife and child to me: Farewell! I go where hope and honour call, Nor does it follow that who fights must fall," Isaac here made a poor attempt to speak, And a huge tear moved slowly down his cheek; Like Pluto's iron drop, hard sign of grace, It slowly roll'd upon the rueful face, Forced by the striving will alone its way to trace. Years fled—war lasted—George at sea remain'd, While the slow Landman still his profits gain'd: An humble place was vacant—he besought His patron's interest, and the office caught; For still the Virgin was his faithful friend, And one so sober could with truth commend, Who of his own defects most humbly thought, And their advice with zeal and reverence sought: Whom thus the Mistress praised, the Maid approved, And her he wedded whom he wisely loved. No more he needs assistance—but, alas! He fears the money will for liquor pass; Or that the Seaman might to flatterers lend, Or give support to some pretended friend: Still he must write—he wrote, and he confess'd That, till absolved, he should be sore distress'd; But one so friendly would, he thought, forgive The hasty deed—Heav'n knew how he should live; "But you," he added, "as a man of sense, Have well consider'd danger and expense: I ran, alas! into the fatal snare, And now for trouble must my mind prepare; And how, with children, I shall pick my way Through a hard world, is more than I can say: Then change not, Brother, your more happy state, Or on the hazard long deliberate." George answered gravely, "It is right and fit, In all our crosses, humbly to submit: Your apprehensions are unwise, unjust; Forbear repining, and expel distrust." He added, "Marriage was the joy of life," And gave his service to his brother's wife; Then vow'd to bear in all expense a part, And thus concluded, "Have a cheerful heart." Had the glad Isaac been his brother's guide, In the same terms the Seaman had replied; At such reproofs the crafty Landman smiled, And softly said, "This creature is a child." Twice had the gallant ship a capture made - And when in port the happy crew were paid, Home went the Sailor, with his pockets stored, Ease to enjoy, and pleasure to afford; His time was short, joy shone in every face, Isaac half fainted in the fond embrace: The wife resolved her honour'd guest to please, The children clung upon their uncle's knees; The grog went round, the neighbours drank his health, And George exclaimed, "Ah! what to this is wealth? Better," said he, "to bear a loving heart, Than roll in riches—but we now must part!" All yet is still—but hark! the winds o'ersweep The rising waves, and howl upon the deep; Ships late becalm'd on mountain-billows ride - So life is threaten'd and so man is tried. Ill were the tidings that arrived from sea, The worthy George must now a cripple be: His leg was lopp'd; and though his heart was sound, Though his brave captain was with glory crown'd, Yet much it vex'd him to repose on shore, An idle log, and be of use no more: True, he was sure that Isaac would receive All of his Brother that the foe might leave; To whom the Seaman his design had sent, Ere from the port the wounded hero went: His wealth and expectations told, he "knew Wherein they fail'd, what Isaac's love would do; That he the grog and cabin would supply, Where George at anchor during life would lie." The Landman read—and, reading, grew distress'd: - "Could he resolve t'admit so poor a guest? Better at Greenwich might the Sailor stay, Unless his purse could for his comforts pay." So Isaac judged, and to his wife appealed, But yet acknowledged it was best to yield: "Perhaps his pension, with what sums remain Due or unsquander'd, may the man maintain; Refuse we must not."—With a heavy sigh The lady heard, and made her kind reply: - "Nor would I wish it, Isaac, were we sure How long this crazy building will endure; Like an old house, that every day appears About to fall, he may be propp'd for years; For a few months, indeed, we might comply, But these old batter'd fellows never die." The hand of Isaac, George on entering took, With love and resignation in his look; Declared his comfort in the fortune past, And joy to find his anchor safely cast: "Call then my nephews, let the grog be brought, And I will tell them how the ship was fought." Alas! our simple Seaman should have known That all the care, the kindness, he had shown, Were from his Brother's heart, if not his memory, flown: All swept away, to be perceived no more, Like idle structures on the sandy shore, The chance amusement of the playful boy, That the rude billows in their rage destroy. Poor George confess'd, though loth the truth to find, Slight was his knowledge of a Brother's mind: The vulgar pipe was to the wife offence, The frequent grog to Isaac an expense; Would friends like hers, she question'd, "choose to come Where clouds of poison'd fume defiled a room? This could their Lady-friend, and Burgess Steel (Teased with his worship's asthma), bear to feel? Could they associate or converse with him - A loud rough sailor with a timber limb?" Cold as he grew, still Isaac strove to show, By well-feign'd care, that cold he could not grow; And when he saw his brother look distress'd, He strove some petty comforts to suggest; On his wife solely their neglect to lay, And then t'excuse it, as a woman's way; He too was chidden when her rules he broke, And when she sicken'd at the scent of smoke. George, though in doubt, was still consoled to find His Brother wishing to be reckoned kind: That Isaac seem'd concern'd by his distress, Gave to his injured feelings some redress; But none he found disposed to lend an ear To stories, all were once intent to hear: Except his nephew, seated on his knee, He found no creature cared about the sea; But George indeed—for George they call'd the boy, When his good uncle was their boast and joy - Would listen long, and would contend with sleep, To hear the woes and wonders of the deep; Till the fond mother cried—"That man will teach The foolish boy his rude and boisterous speech." So judged the father—and the boy was taught To shun the uncle, whom his love had sought. The mask of kindness now but seldom worn, George felt each evil harder to be borne; And cried (vexation growing day by day), "Ah! brother Isaac! What! I'm in the way!" "No! on my credit, look ye, No! but I Am fond of peace, and my repose would buy On any terms—in short, we must comply: My spouse had money—she must have her will - Ah! brother, marriage is a bitter pill." George tried the lady—"Sister, I offend." "Me?" she replied—"Oh no! you may depend On my regard—but watch your brother's way, Whom I, like you, must study and obey." "Ah!" thought the Seaman, "what a head was mine, That easy berth at Greenwich to resign! I'll to the parish"—but a little pride, And some affection, put the thought aside. Now gross neglect and open scorn he bore In silent sorrow—but he felt the more: The odious pipe he to the kitchen took, Or strove to profit by some pious book. When the mind stoops to this degraded state, New griefs will darken the dependant's fate; "Brother!" said Isaac, "you will sure excuse The little freedom I'm compell'd to use: My wife's relations—(curse the haughty crew!) - Affect such niceness, and such dread of you: You speak so loud—and they have natures soft - Brother—I wish—do go upon the loft!" Poor George obey'd, and to the garret fled, Where not a being saw the tears he shed: But more was yet required, for guests were come, Who could not dine if he disgraced the room. It shock'd his spirit to be esteem'd unfit With an own brother and his wife to sit; He grew rebellious—at the vestry spoke For weekly aid—they heard it as a joke: "So kind a brother, and so wealthy—you Apply to us?—No! this will never do: Good neighbour Fletcher," said the Overseer, "We are engaged—you can have nothing here!" George mutter'd something in despairing tone, Then sought his loft, to think and grieve alone; Neglected, slighted, restless on his bed, With heart half broken, and with scraps ill fed; Yet was he pleased that hours for play design'd Were given to ease his ever-troubled mind; The child still listen'd with increasing joy, And he was sooth'd by the attentive boy. At length he sicken'd, and this duteous child Watch'd o'er his sickness, and his pains beguiled; The mother bade him from the loft refrain, But, though with caution, yet he went again; And now his tales the Sailor feebly told, His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold: The tender boy came often to entreat His good kind friend would of his presents eat; Purloin'd or purchased, for he saw, with shame, The food untouch'd that to his uncle came; Who, sick in body and in mind, received The boy's indulgence, gratified and grieved. "Uncle will die!" said George: —the piteous wife Exclaim'd, "she saw no value in his life; But, sick or well, to my commands attend, And go no more to your complaining friend." The boy was vex'd, he felt his heart reprove The stern decree.—What! punish'd for his love! No! he would go, but softly, to the room, Stealing in silence—for he knew his doom. Once in a week the father came to say, "George, are you ill?" and hurried him away; Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell, And often cry, "Do use my brother well:" And something kind, no question, Isaac meant, Who took vast credit for the vague intent. But, truly kind, the gentle boy essay'd To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid; But now the father caught him at the door, And, swearing—yes, the man in office swore, And cried, "Away! How! Brother, I'm surprised That one so old can be so ill advised: Let him not dare to visit you again, Your cursed stories will disturb his brain; Is it not vile to court a foolish boy, Your own absurd narrations to enjoy? What! sullen!—ha, George Fletcher! you shall see, Proud as you are, your bread depends on me!" He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went, Then cool'd and felt some qualms of discontent: And thought on times when he compell'd his son To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one; But the wife's wrath o'ercame the brother's pain, And shame was felt, and conscience rose, in vain. George yet stole up; he saw his Uncle lie Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh; So he resolved, before he went to rest, To comfort one so dear and so distressed; Then watch'd his time, but, with a child-like art, Betray'd a something treasured at his heart: Th' observant wife remark'd, "The boy is grown So like your brother, that he seems his own: So close and sullen! and I still suspect They often meet: —do watch them and detect." George now remark'd that all was still as night, And hasten'd up with terror and delight; "Uncle!" he cried, and softly tapp'd the door, Do let me in"—but he could add no more; The careful father caught him in the fact, And cried,—"You serpent! is it thus you act? "Back to your mother!"—and, with hasty blow, He sent th' indignant boy to grieve below; Then at the door an angry speech began - "Is this your conduct?—Is it thus you plan? Seduce my child, and make my house a scene Of vile dispute—What is it that you mean? George, are you dumb? do learn to know your friends, And think a while on whom your bread depends. What! not a word? be thankful I am cool - But, sir, beware, nor longer play the fool. Come! brother, come! what is it that you seek By this rebellion?—Speak, you villain, speak! Weeping! I warrant—sorrow makes you dumb: I'll ope your mouth, impostor! if I come: Let me approach—I'll shake you from the bed, You stubborn dog—Oh God! my Brother's dead!" Timid was Isaac, and in all the past He felt a purpose to be kind at last: Nor did he mean his brother to depart, Till he had shown this kindness of his heart; But day by day he put the cause aside, Induced by av'rice, peevishness, or pride. But now awaken'd, from this fatal time His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime: He raised to George a monumental stone, And there retired to sigh and think alone; An ague seized him, he grew pale, and shook - "So," said his son, "would my poor Uncle look." "And so, my child, shall I like him expire." "No! you have physic and a cheerful fire." "Unhappy sinner! yes, I'm well supplied With every comfort my cold heart denied." He view'd his Brother now, but not as one Who vex'd his wife by fondness for her son; Not as with wooden limb, and seaman's tale, The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale: He now the worth and grief alone can view Of one so mild, so generous, and so true; "The frank, kind Brother, with such open heart, - And I to break it—'twas a demon's part!" So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels, Nor his unkindness palliates or conceals; "This is your folly," said his heartless wife: "Alas! my folly cost my Brother's life; It suffer'd him to languish and decay - My gentle Brother, whom I could not pay, And therefore left to pine, and fret his life away!" He takes his Son, and bids the boy unfold All the good Uncle of his feelings told, All he lamented—and the ready tear Falls as he listens, soothed, and grieved to hear. "Did he not curse me, child?"—"He never cursed, But could not breathe, and said his heart would burst." "And so will mine:"—"Then, father, you must pray: My uncle said it took his pains away." Repeating thus his sorrows, Isaac shows That he, repenting, feels the debt he owes, And from this source alone his every comfort flows. He takes no joy in office, honours, gain; They make him humble, nay, they give him pain: "These from my heart," he cries, "all feeling drove; They made me cold to nature, dead to love." He takes no joy in home, but sighing, sees A son in sorrow, and a wife at ease; He takes no joy in office—see him now, And Burgess Steel has but a passing bow; Of one sad train of gloomy thoughts possess'd, He takes no joy in friends, in food, in rest - Dark are the evil days, and void of peace the best. And thus he lives, if living be to sigh, And from all comforts of the world to fly, Without a hope in life—without a wish to die.



TALE XXI.



THE LEARNED BOY.

Like one well studied in a sad ostent, To please his grandam. SHAKESPEARE, Merchant of Venice.

And then the whining schoolboy with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping, like a snail, Unwillingly to school. As You Like it.

He is a better scholar than I thought he was; he has a good sprag memory. Merry Wives of Windsor.

One that feeds On objects, arts, and imitations, Which out of use, and staled by other men, Begin his fashion. Julius Caesar.

Oh! torture me no more—I will confess. Henry VI, 2.

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An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true; He did by all as all by him should do; Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he, Yet famed for rustic hospitality: Left with his children in a widow'd state, The quiet man submitted to his fate; Though prudent matrons waited for his call, With cool forbearance he avoided all; Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy, By kind attention to his feeble boy; And though a friendly Widow knew no rest, Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd; Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone Their hearts' concern to see him left alone, Jones still persisted in that cheerless life, As if 'twere sin to take a second wife. Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead, To find such numbers who will serve instead; And in whatever state a man be thrown, 'Tis that precisely they would wish their own; Left the departed infants—then their joy Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy: Whatever calling his, whatever trade, To that their chief attention has been paid; His happy taste in all things they approve, His friends they honour, and his food they love; His wish for order, prudence in affairs, An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs; In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed, And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed: Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and hard, Can hear such claims and show them no regard. Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found By what strong foes he was encompass'd round, Engage he dared not, and he could not fly, But saw his hope in gentle parley lie; With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart, He met the foe, and art opposed to art. Now spoke that foe insidious—gentle tones, And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones: "Three girls," the Widow cried, "a lively three To govern well—indeed it cannot be." "Yes," he replied, "it calls for pains and care: But I must bear it."—"Sir, you cannot bear; Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:" "That, my kind friend, a father's may supply." "Such growing griefs your very soul will tease;" "To grieve another would not give me ease - I have a mother,"—"She, poor ancient soul! Can she the spirits of the young control? Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care, Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share? Age is itself impatient, uncontroll'd:" But wives like mothers must at length be old." Thou hast shrewd servants—they are evils sore?" Yet a shrewd mistress might afflict me more." Wilt thou not be a weary, wailing man?" Alas! and I must bear it as I can." Resisted thus, the Widow soon withdrew, That in his pride the Hero might pursue; And off his wonted guard, in some retreat Find from a foe prepared entire defeat: But he was prudent; for he knew in flight These Parthian warriors turn again and fight; He but at freedom, not at glory aim'd, And only safety by his caution claim'd. Thus, when a great and powerful state decrees Upon a small one, in its love, to seize - It vows in kindness, to protect, defend, And be the fond ally, the faithful friend; It therefore wills that humbler state to place Its hopes of safety in a fond embrace; Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove By kind rejection of such pressing love; Must dread such dangerous friendship to commence, And stand collected in its own defence: Our Farmer thus the proffer'd kindness fled, And shunn'd the love that into bondage led. The Widow failing, fresh besiegers came, To share the fate of this retiring dame: And each foresaw a thousand ills attend The man that fled from so discreet a friend; And pray'd, kind soul! that no event might make The harden'd heart of Farmer Jones to ache. But he still govern'd with resistless hand, And where he could not guide he would command: With steady view, in course direct he steer'd, And his fair daughters loved him, though they fear'd; Each had her school, and as his wealth was known, Each had in time a household of her own. The Boy indeed was at the Grandam's side Humour'd and train'd, her trouble and her pride: Companions dear, with speech and spirits mild, The childish widow and the vapourish child; This nature prompts; minds uninform'd and weak In such alliance ease and comfort seek: Push'd by the levity of youth aside, The cares of man, his humour, or his pride, They feel, in their defenceless state, allied; The child is pleased to meet regard from age, The old are pleased e'en children to engage; And all their wisdom, scorn'd by proud mankind, They love to pour into the ductile mind, By its own weakness into error led, And by fond age with prejudices fed. The Father, thankful for the good he had, Yet saw with pain a whining, timid Lad; Whom he instructing led through cultured fields, To show what Man performs, what Nature yields: But Stephen, listless, wander'd from the view, From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew, And idly gazed about in search of something new. The lambs indeed he loved, and wish'd to play With things so mild, so harmless, and so gay; Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see, With whom he felt a sickly sympathy. Meantime the Dame was anxious, day and night, To guide the notions of her babe aright, And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering light; Her Bible-stories she impress'd betimes, And fill'd his head with hymns and holy rhymes; On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt, And the poor Boy mysterious terrors felt; From frightful dreams he waking sobb'd in dread, Till the good lady came to guard his bed. The Father wish'd such errors to correct, But let them pass in duty and respect: But more it grieved his worthy mind to see That Stephen never would a farmer be: In vain he tried the shiftless Lad to guide, And yet 'twas time that something should be tried: He at the village-school perchance might gain All that such mind could gather and retain; Yet the good Dame affirm'd her favourite child Was apt and studious, though sedate and mild; "That he on many a learned point could speak, And that his body, not his mind, was weak." The Father doubted—but to school was sent The timid Stephen, weeping as he went: There the rude lads compell'd the child to fight, And sent him bleeding to his home at night; At this the Grandam more indulgent grew; And bade her Darling "shun the beastly crew, Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie Howling in torments, when they came to die." This was such comfort, that in high disdain He told their fate, and felt their blows again: Yet if the Boy had not a hero's heart, Within the school he play'd a better part; He wrote a clean fine hand, and at his slate With more success than many a hero sate; He thought not much indeed—but what depends On pains and care was at his fingers' ends. This had his Father's praise, who now espied A spark of merit, with a blaze of pride; And though a farmer he would never make, He might a pen with some advantage take; And as a clerk that instrument employ, So well adapted to a timid boy. A London Cousin soon a place obtain'd, Easy but humble—little could be gain'd: The time arrived when youth and age must part, Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart; The careful Father bade his Son attend To all his duties and obey his Friend; To keep his church and there behave aright, As one existing in his Maker's sight, Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight. "Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can, T'assume the looks and spirit of a man; I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true, And this you may, and yet have courage too: Heroic men, their country's boast and pride, Have fear'd their God, and nothing fear'd beside; While others daring, yet imbecile, fly The power of man, and that of God defy: Be manly, then, though mild, for, sure as fate, Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate; Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use ('Tis fairly stock'd) of what it will produce: And now my blessing, not as any charm Or conjuration; but 'twill do no harm." Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and down, Now charm'd with promised sights in London-town, Now loth to leave his Grandam—lost the force, The drift and tenor of this grave discourse; But, in a general way, he understood 'Twas good advice, and meant, "My son be good;" And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean That lads should read their Bible, and be clean. The good old Lady, though in some distress, Begg'd her dear Stephen would his grief suppress: "Nay, dry those eyes, my child—and, first of all. Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall:' Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text For meditation till you hear the next; Within your Bible night and morning look - There is your duty, read no other book; Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen, And keep your conscience and your linen clean: Be you a Joseph, and the time may be When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee." "Nay," said the Father—"Hush, my son!" replied The Dame—"the Scriptures must not be denied." The Lad, still weeping, heard the wheels approach, And took his place within the evening coach, With heart quite rent asunder: on one side Was love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried; Wild beasts and wax-work fill'd the happier part Of Stephen's varying and divided heart: This he betray'd by sighs and questions strange, Of famous shows, the Tower, and the Exchange. Soon at his desk was placed the curious Boy, Demure and silent at his new employ; Yet as he could he much attention paid To all around him, cautious and afraid; On older Clerks his eager eyes were fix'd, But Stephen never in their council mix'd: Much their contempt he fear'd, for if like them, He felt assured he should himself contemn; "Oh! they were all so eloquent, so free, No! he was nothing—nothing could he be: They dress so smartly, and so boldly look, And talk as if they read it from a book; But I," said Stephen, "will forbear to speak, And they will think me prudent and not weak. They talk, the instant they have dropp'd the pen, Of singing-women and of acting-men: Of plays and places where at night they walk Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk; While other ladies for their pleasure sing, - Oh! 'tis a glorious and a happy thing: They would despise me, did they understand I dare not look upon a scene so grand; Or see the plays when critics rise and roar, And hiss and groan, and cry—Encore! encore! There's one among them looks a little kind; If more encouraged, I would ope my mind." Alas! poor Stephen, happier had he kept His purpose secret, while his envy slept! Virtue perhaps had conquer'd, or his shame At least preserved him simple as he came. A year elapsed before this Clerk began To treat the rustic something like a man; He then in trifling points the youth advised, Talk'd of his coat, and had it modernized; Or with the lad a Sunday-walk would take, And kindly strive his passions to awake; Meanwhile explaining all they heard and saw, Till Stephen stood in wonderment and awe; To a neat garden near the town they stray'd, Where the Lad felt delighted and afraid; There all he saw was smart, and fine, and fair - He could but marvel how he ventured there: Soon he observed, with terror and alarm, His friend enlocked within a Lady's arm, And freely talking—"But it is," said he, "A near relation, and that makes him free;" And much amazed was Stephen when he knew This was the first and only interview; Nay, had that lovely arm by him been seized, The lovely owner had been highly pleased. "Alas!" he sigh'd, "I never can contrive At such bold, blessed freedoms to arrive; Never shall I such happy courage boast, I dare as soon encounter with a ghost." Now to a play the friendly couple went, But the Boy murmurd at the money spent; "He lov'd," he said, "to buy, but not to spend - They only talk awhile, and there's an end." "Come, you shall purchase books," the Friend replied; "You are bewilder'd, and you want a guide; To me refer the choice, and you shall find The light break in upon your stagnant mind!" The cooler Clerks exclaim'd, "In vain your art To improve a cub without a head or heart; Rustics, though coarse, and savages, though wild, Our cares may render liberal and mild: But what, my friend, can flow from all these pains? There is no dealing with a lack of brains." "True I am hopeless to behold him man, But let me make the booby what I can: Though the rude stone no polish will display, Yet you may strip the rugged coat away." Stephen beheld his books—"I love to know How money goes—now here is that to show: And now" he cried, "I shall be pleased to get Beyond the Bible—there I puzzle yet." He spoke abash'd—"Nay, nay!" the friend replied, "You need not lay the good old book aside; Antique and curious, I myself indeed Read it at times, but as a man should read;. A fine old work it is, and I protest I hate to hear it treated as a jest: The book has wisdom in it, if you look Wisely upon it, as another book: For superstition (as our priests of sin Are pleased to tell us) makes us blind within; Of this hereafter—we will now select Some works to please you, others to direct; Tales and romances shall your fancy feed, And reasoners form your morals and your creed." The books were view'd, the price was fairly paid, And Stephen read undaunted, undismay'd: But not till first he papered all the row, And placed in order to enjoy the show: Next letter'd all the backs with care and speed, Set them in ranks, and then began to read. The love of Order—I the thing receive From reverend men, and I in part believe - Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs This love, but seldom in the world succeeds; And yet with this some other love must be, Ere I can fully to the fact agree; Valour and study may by order gain, By order sovereigns hold more steady reign; Through all the tribes of nature order runs, And rules around in systems and in suns: Still has the love of order found a place, With all that's low, degrading, mean, and base, With all that merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace - In the cold miser, of all change afraid; In pompous men in public seats obey'd; In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones, Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones: Order to these is armour and defence, And love of method serves in lack of sense. For rustic youth could I a list produce Of Stephen's books, how great might be the use! But evil fate was theirs—survey'd, enjoy'd Some happy months, and then by force destroyed: So will'd the Fates—but these with patience read Had vast effect on Stephen's heart and head. This soon appear'd: within a single week He oped his lips, and made attempt to speak; He fail'd indeed—but still his Friend confess'd The best have fail'd, and he had done his best: The first of swimmers, when at first he swims, Has little use or freedom in his limbs; Nay, when at length he strikes with manly force, The cramp may seize him, and impede his course. Encouraged thus, our Clerk again essay'd The daring act, though daunted and afraid: Succeeding now, though partial his success, And pertness mark'd his manner and address, Yet such improvement issued from his books, That all discern'd it in his speech and looks: He ventured then on every theme to speak, And felt no feverish tingling in his cheek; His friend, approving, hail'd the happy change, The Clerks exclaim'd—"'Tis famous, and 'tis strange." Two years had pass'd; the Youth attended still (Though thus accomplish'd) with a ready quill: He sat th' allotted hours, though hard the case, While timid prudence ruled in virtue's place; By promise bound, the Son his letters penn'd To his good parent at the quarter's end. At first he sent those lines, the state to tell Of his own health, and hoped his friends were well; He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind, And needed nothing—then his name was sign'd: But now he wrote of Sunday-walks and views, Of actors' names, choice novels, and strange news; How coats were cut, and of his urgent need For fresh supply, which he desired with speed. The Father doubted, when these letters came, To what they tended, yet was loth to blame: "Stephen was once my duteous son, and now My most obedient—this can I allow? Can I with pleasure or with patience see A boy at once so heartless and so free?" But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told, That love and prudence could no more withhold: "Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grown A rake and coxcomb—this he grieved to own; His cousin left his church, and spent the day Lounging about in quite a heathen way; Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace To show the shame imprinted on his face: I search'd his room, and in his absence read Books that I knew would turn a stronger head. The works of atheists half the number made, The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade; Which neither man nor boy would deign to read, If from the scandal and pollution freed: I sometimes threaten'd, and would fairly state My sense of things so vile and profligate; But I'm a cit, such works are lost on me - They're knowledge, and (good Lord!) philosophy." "Oh, send him down," the Father soon replied; Let me behold him, and my skill be tried: If care and kindness lose their wonted use, Some rougher medicine will the end produce." Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom - "Go to the farmer? to the rustic's home? Curse the base threat'ning—" "Nay, child, never curse; Corrupted long, your case is growing worse." "I!" quoth the youth; "I challenge all mankind To find a fault; what fault have you to find? Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace? Inquire—my friends will tell it to your face; Have I been taught to guard his kine and sheep? A man like me has other things to keep; This let him know."—"It would his wrath excite: But come, prepare, you must away to-night." "What! leave my studies, my improvements leave, My faithful friends and intimates to grieve?" "Go to your father, Stephen, let him see All these improvements; they are lost on me." The Youth, though loth, obey'd, and soon he saw The Farmer-father, with some signs of awe; Who, kind, yet silent, waited to behold How one would act, so daring, yet so cold: And soon he found, between the friendly pair That secrets pass'd which he was not to share; But he resolved those secrets to obtain, And quash rebellion in his lawful reign. Stephen, though vain, was with his father mute; He fear'd a crisis, and he shunn'd dispute; And yet he long'd with youthful pride to show He knew such things as farmers could not know; These to the Grandam he with freedom spoke, Saw her amazement, and enjoy'd the joke: But on the father when he cast his eye, Something he found that made his valour shy; And thus there seem'd to be a hollow truce, Still threat'ning something dismal to produce. Ere this the Father at his leisure read The son's choice volumes, and his wonder fled; He saw how wrought the works of either kind On so presuming, yet so weak a mind; These in a chosen hour he made his prey, Condemn'd, and bore with vengeful thoughts away; Then in a close recess the couple near, He sat unseen to see, unheard to hear. There soon a trial for his patience came; Beneath were placed the Youth and ancient Dame, Each on a purpose fix'd—but neither thought How near a foe, with power and vengeance fraught. And now the matron told, as tidings sad, What she had heard of her beloved lad; How he to graceless, wicked men gave heed, And wicked books would night and morning read; Some former lectures she again began, And begg'd attention of her little man; She brought, with many a pious boast, in view His former studies, and condemn'd the new: Once he the names of saints and patriarchs old, Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told; Then he in winter-nights the Bible took, To count how often in the sacred book The sacred name appear'd, and could rehearse Which were the middle chapter, word, and verse, The very letter in the middle placed, And so employ'd the hours that others waste. "Such wert thou once; and now, my child, they say Thy faith like water runneth fast away, The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiled The ready wit of my backsliding child." On this, with lofty looks, our Clerk began His grave rebuke, as he assumed the man. - "There is no devil," said the hopeful youth, "Nor prince of devils: that I know for truth. Have I not told you how my books describe The arts of priests, and all the canting tribe? Your Bible mentions Egypt, where it seems Was Joseph found when Pharoah dream'd his dreams: Now in that place, in some bewilder'd head, (The learned write) religious dreams were bred; Whence through the earth, with various forms combined, They came to frighten and afflict mankind, Prone (so I read) to let a priest invade Their souls with awe, and by his craft be made Slave to his will, and profit to his trade: So say my books, and how the rogues agreed To blind the victims, to defraud and lead; When joys above to ready dupes were sold, And hell was threaten'd to the shy and cold. "Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray? As if a Being heard a word we say: This may surprise you; I myself began To feel disturb'd, and to my Bible ran: I now am wiser—yet agree in this, The book has things that are not much amiss; It is a fine old work, and I protest I hate to hear it treated as a jest: The book has wisdom in it, if you look Wisely upon it as another book." "Oh! wicked! wicked! my unhappy child, How hast thou been by evil men beguiled!" "How! wicked, say you? You can little guess The gain of that which you call wickedness; Why, sins you think it sinful but to name Have gain'd both wives and widows wealth and fame; And this because such people never dread Those threaten'd pains; hell comes not in their head: Love is our nature, wealth we all desire, And what we wish 'tis lawful to acquire; So say my books—and what beside they show 'Tis time to let this honest Farmer know. Nay, look not grave: am I commanded down To feed his cattle and become his clown? Is such his purpose? Then he shall be told The vulgar insult—Hold, in mercy hold! - Father, oh! father! throw the whip away; I was but jesting; on my knees I pray - There, hold his arm—oh! leave us not alone: In pity cease, and I will yet atone For all my sin"—In vain; stroke after stroke, On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke; Quick as the patient's pulse, who trembling cried, And still the parent with a stroke replied; Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt, And every bone the precious influence felt; Till all the panting flesh was red and raw, And every thought was turn'd to fear and awe; Till every doubt to due respect gave place. - Such cures are done when doctors know the case. "Oh! I shall die—my father! do receive My dying words; indeed I do believe. The books are lying books, I know it well; There is a devil, oh! there is a hell; And I'm a sinner: spare me, I am young, My sinful words were only on my tongue; My heart consented not; 'tis all a lie: Oh! spare me then, I'm not prepared to die." "Vain, worthless, stupid wretch!" the Father cried; "Dost thou presume to teach? art thou a guide? Driveller and dog, it gives the mind distress To hear thy thoughts in their religious dress; Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain, Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain; But Job in patience must the man exceed Who could endure thee in thy present creed. Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend The wicked cause a helping hand to lend? Canst thou a judge in any question be? Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee. "Lo! yonder blaze thy worthies; in one heap Thy scoundrel favourites must for ever sleep: Each yields its poison to the flame in turn, Where whores and infidels are doomed to burn; Two noble faggots made the flame you see, Reserving only two fair twigs for thee; That in thy view the instruments may stand, And be in future ready for my hand: The just mementos that, though silent, show Whence thy correction and improvements flow; Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power, And feel the shame of this important hour. "Hadst thou been humble, I had first design'd By care from folly to have freed thy mind; And when a clean foundation had been laid, Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid: But thou art weak, and force must folly guide; And thou art vain, and pain must humble pride: Teachers men honour, learners they allure; But learners teaching, of contempt are sure; Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only cure!"



Footnotes:

{1} NOTE: Indentation and hyphenation as original.

{2} The reader will perceive, in these and the preceding verses, allusions to the state of France, as that country was circumstanced some years since, rather than as it appears to be in the present date; several years elapsing between the alarm of the loyal magistrate on the occasion now related, and a subsequent event that further illustrates the remark with which the narrative commences.

{3} As the author's purpose in this tale may be mistaken, he wishes to observe that conduct like that of the lady's here described must be meritorious or consurable just as the motives to it are pure or selfish; that these motives may in a great measure be concealed from the mind of the agent; and that we often take credit to our virtue for actions which spring originally from our tempers, inclinations, or our indifference. It cannot therefore be improper, much less immoral, to give an instance of such self-deception.

{4} Fasil was a rebel chief, and Michael the treacherous general of the royal army in Abyssinia, when Mr Bruce visited that country.

{5} The sovereign here meant is the Haroun Alraschid or Harun al Raschid, who died early in the ninth century: he is often the hearer, and sometimes the hero, of a tale in the Arabian Nights Entertainments.

THE END