LETTER XX.



THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

Patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. SHAKESPEARE.

"No charms she now can boast,"—'tis true, But other charmers wither too: "And she is old,"—the fact I know, And old will other heroines grow; But not like them has she been laid, In ruin'd castle sore dismay'd; Where naughty man and ghostly spright Fill'd her pure mind with awe and dread, Stalk'd round the room, put out the light, And shook the curtains round her bed. No cruel uncle kept her land, No tyrant father forced her hand; She had no vixen virgin-aunt, Without whose aid she could not eat, And yet who poison'd all her meat, With gibe and sneer and taunt. Yet of the heroine she'd a share, - She saved a lover from despair, And granted all his wish in spite Of what she knew and felt was right: But, heroine then no more, She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd And humbly took the parish aid, And dwelt among the poor.

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ELLEN ORFORD. {11}

The Widow's Cottage—Blind Ellen one—Hers not the Sorrows or Adventures of Heroines—What these are, first described—Deserted Wives; rash Lovers; courageous Damsels: in desolated Mansions; in grievous Perplexity—These Evils, however severe, of short Duration- -Ellen's Story—Her Employment in Childhood—First Love; first Adventure; its miserable Termination—An Idiot Daughter—A Husband— Care in Business without Success—The Man's Despondency and its Effect—Their Children: how disposed of—One particularly unfortunate—Fate of the Daughter - Ellen keeps a School and is happy—becomes Blind; loses her School—Her Consolations.

OBSERVE yon tenement, apart and small, Where the wet pebbles shine upon the wall; Where the low benches lean beside the door, And the red paling bounds the space before; Where thrift and lavender, and lad's-love bloom, - That humble dwelling is the widow's home; There live a pair, for various fortunes known, But the blind EUen will relate her own; - Yet ere we hear the story she can tell, On prouder sorrows let us briefly dwell. I've often marvell'd, when, by night, by day, I've mark'd the manners moving in my way, And heard the language and beheld the lives Of lass and lover, goddesses and wives, That books, which promise much of life to give, Should show so little how we truly live. To me, it seems, their females and their men Are but the creatures of the author's pen; Nay, creatures borrow'd and again convey'd From book to book—the shadows of a shade: Life, if they'd search, would show them many a change; The ruin sudden, and the misery strange! With more of grievous, base, and dreadful things, Than novelists relate or poet sings: But they, who ought to look the world around, Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground; Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold, And plots are laid and histories are told. Time have I lent—I would their debt were less - To flow'ry pages of sublime distress; And to the heroine's soul-distracting fears I early gave my sixpences and tears: Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales, To Darnley-Cottages and Maple-Vales, And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born sigh, When Henry pass'd and gazed in passing by; Till I beheld them pacing in the park Close by a coppice where 'twas cold and dark; When such affection with such fate appear'd, Want and a father to be shunn'd and fear'd, Without employment, prospect, cot, or cash; That I have judged th' heroic souls were rash. Now shifts the scene,—the fair in tower confined, In all things suffers but in change of mind; Now woo'd by greatness to a bed of state, Now deeply threaten'd with a dungeon's grate; Till, suffering much, and being tried enough, She shines, triumphant maid!—temptation-proof. Then was I led to vengeful monks, who mix With nymphs and swains, and play unpriestly tricks; Then view'd banditti who in forest wide, And cavern vast, indignant virgins hide; Who, hemm'd with bands of sturdiest rogues about, Find some strange succour, and come virgins out. I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls, I've stalk'd by moonlight through deserted halls, And when the weary world was sunk to rest, I've had such sights as may not be express'd. Lo! that chateau, the western tower decay'd, The peasants shun it,—they are all afraid; For there was done a deed!—could walls reveal, Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel! Most horrid was it: —for, behold, the floor Has stain of blood, and will be clean no more: Hark to the winds! which through the wide saloon And the long passage send a dismal tune, - Music that ghosts delight in; and now heed Yon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the deed; See! with majestic sweep she swims alone, Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan: Though windows rattle, and though tap'stries shake, And the feet falter every step they take, 'Mid moans and gibing sprights she silent goes, To find a something, which will soon expose The villanies and wiles of her determined foes: And, having thus adventured, thus endured, Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured. Much have I fear'd, but am no more afraid, When some chaste beauty, by some wretch betray'd, Is drawn away with such distracted speed, That she anticipates a dreadful deed: Not so do I—Let solid walls impound The captive fair, and dig a moat around; Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel, And keepers cruel, such as never feel; With not a single note the purse supply, And when she begs, let men and maids deny; Be windows those from which she dares not fall, And help so distant, 'tis in vain to call; Still means of freedom will some power devise, And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize. To Northern Wales, in some sequester'd spot, I've follow'd fair Louisa to her cot: Where, then a wretched and deserted bride, The injur'd fair-one wished from man to hide; Till by her fond repenting Belville found, By some kind chance—the straying of a hound, He at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain, For the relenting dove flew back again. There's something rapturous in distress, or oh! Could Clementina bear her lot of woe? Or what she underwent could maiden undergoe? The day was fix'd; for so the lover sigh'd, So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied; When, tale most dreadful! every hope adieu, - For the fond lover is the brother too: All other griefs abate; this monstrous grief Has no remission, comfort, or relief; Four ample volumes, through each page disclose, - Good Heaven protect us! only woes on woes; Till some strange means afford a sudden view Of some vile plot, and every woe adieu! Now, should we grant these beauties all endure Severest pangs, they've still the speediest cure; Before one charm be withered from the face, Except the bloom, which shall again have place, In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace; And life to come, we fairly may suppose, One light, bright contrast to these wild dark woes. These let us leave, and at her sorrows look, Too often seen, but seldom in a book; Let her who felt, relate them;—on her chair The heroine sits—in former years, the fair, Now aged and poor; but Ellen Orford knows That we should humbly take what Heaven bestows. "My father died—again my mother wed, And found the comforts of her life were fled; Her angry husband, vex'd through half his years By loss and troubles, filled her soul with fears: Their children many, and 'twas my poor place To nurse and wait on all the infant-race; Labour and hunger were indeed my part, And should have strengthen'd an erroneous heart. "Sore was the grief to see him angry come, And teased with business, make distress at home; The father's fury and the children's cries I soon could bear, but not my mother's sighs; For she look'd back on comforts, and would say, 'I wrong'd thee, Ellen,' and then turn away: Thus, for my age's good, my youth was tried, And this my fortune till my mother died. "So, amid sorrow much and little cheer - A common case—I pass'd my twentieth year; For these are frequent evils; thousands share An equal grief—the like domestic care. "Then in my days of bloom, of health, and youth, One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth: We often met, he dreading to be seen, And much I question'd what such dread might mean; Yet I believed him true; my simple heart And undirected reason took his part. "Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive? Can I such wrong of one so kind believe, Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when I grieve? "He dared not marry, but we met to prove What sad encroachments and deceits has love: Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew, I let him see that I was wretched too; When less my caution, I had still the pain Of his or mine own weakness to complain. "Happy the lovers class'd alike in life, Or happier yet the rich endowing wife; But most aggrieved the fond believing maid. Of her rich lover tenderly afraid: You judge th' event; for grievous was my fate, Painful to feel, and shameful to relate: Ah! sad it was my burthen to sustain, When the least misery was the dread of pain; When I have grieving told him my disgrace, And plainly mark'd indifference in his face. "Hard! with these fears and terrors to behold The cause of all, the faithless lover, cold; Impatient grown at every wish denied, And barely civil, soothed and gratified; Peevish when urged to think of vows so strong, And angry when I spake of crime and wrong. All this I felt, and still the sorrow grew, Because I felt that I deserved it too, And begg'd my infant stranger to forgive The mother's shame, which in herself must live. When known that shame, I, soon expell'd from home, With a frail sister shared a hovel's gloom; There barely fed—(what could I more request?) My infant slumberer sleeping at my breast, I from my window saw his blooming bride, And my seducer smiling at her side; Hope lived till then; I sank upon the floor, And grief and thought and feeling were no more: Although revived, I judged that life would close, And went to rest, to wonder that I rose: My dreams were dismal,—wheresoe'er I stray'd, I seem'd ashamed, alarm'd, despised, betray'd; Always in grief, in guilt, disgraced, forlorn, Mourning that one so weak, so vile, was born; The earth a desert, tumult in the sea, The birds affrighten'd fled from tree to tree, Obscured the setting sun, and every thing like me. But Heav'n had mercy, and my need at length Urged me to labour, and renew'd my strength. I strove for patience as a sinner must, Yet felt th' opinion of the world unjust: There was my lover, in his joy esteem'd, And I, in my distress, as guilty deemed; Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belong To her who feels and suffers for the wrong: The cheat at play may use the wealth he's won, But is not honour'd for the mischief done; The cheat in love may use each villain art, And boast the deed that breaks the victim's heart. "Four years were past; I might again have found Some erring wish, but for another wound: Lovely my daughter grew, her face was fair, But no expression ever brighten'd there; I doubted long, and vainly strove to make Some certain meaning of the words she spake; But meaning there was none, and I survey'd With dread the beauties of my idiot-maid. Still I submitted;—Oh! 'tis meet and fit In all we feel to make the heart submit; Gloomy and calm my days, but I had then, It seem'd, attractions for the eyes of men: The sober master of a decent trade O'erlook'd my errors, and his offer made; Reason assented: —true, my heart denied, 'But thou,' I said,'shalt be no more my guide.' "When wed, our toil and trouble, pains and care, Of means to live procured us humble share; Five were our sons,—and we, though careful, found Our hopes declining as the year came round: For I perceived, yet would not soon perceive, My husband stealing from my view to grieve: Silent he grew, and when he spoke he sigh'd, And surly look'd, and peevishly replied: Pensive by nature, he had gone of late To those who preach'd of destiny and fate, Of things foredoom'd, and of election-grace, And how in vain we strive to run our race; That all by works and moral worth we gain Is to perceive our care and labour vain; That still the more we pay, our debts the more remain; That he who feels not the mysterious call, Lies bound in sin, still grov'ling from the fall. My husband felt not: —our persuasion, prayer, And our best reason, darken'd his despair; His very nature changed; he now reviled My former conduct,—he reproach'd my child: He talked of bastard slips, and cursed his bed, And from our kindness to concealment fled; For ever to some evil change inclined, To every gloomy thought he lent his mind, Nor rest would give to us, nor rest himself could find; His son suspended saw him, long bereft Of life, nor prospect of revival left. "With him died all our prospects, and once more I shared th' allotments of the parish poor; They took my children too, and this I know Was just and lawful, but I felt the blow: My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boy Were left, a mother's misery and her joy. "Three sons I follow'd to the grave, and one - Oh! can I speak of that unhappy son? Would all the memory of that time were fled, And all those horrors, with my child, were dead! Before the world seduced him, what a grace And smile of gladness shone upon his face! Then, he had knowledge; finely would he write; Study to him was pleasure and delight; Great was his courage, and but few could stand Against the sleight and vigour of his hand; The maidens loved him;—when he came to die, No, not the coldest could suppress a sigh: Here I must cease—how can I say, my child Was by the bad of either sex beguiled? Worst of the bad—they taught him that the laws Made wrong and right; there was no other cause, That all religion was the trade of priests, And men, when dead, must perish like the beasts: - And he, so lively and so gay, before - Ah; spare a mother—I can tell no more. "Int'rest was made that they should not destroy The comely form of my deluded boy - But pardon came not; damp the place and deep Where he was kept, as they'd a tiger keep; For he, unhappy! had before them all Vow'd he'd escape, whatever might befall. He'd means of dress, and dress'd beyond his means, And so to see him in such dismal scenes, I cannot speak it—cannot bear to tell Of that sad hour—I heard the passing bell! "Slowly they went; he smiled, and look'd so smart, Yet sure he shudder'd when he saw the cart, And gave a look—until my dying day, That look will never from my mind away: Oft as I sit, and ever in my dreams, I see that look, and they have heard my screams. "Now let me speak no more—yet all declared That one so young, in pity, should be spared. And one so manly;—on his graceful neck, That chains of jewels may be proud to deck, To a small mole a mother's lips have press'd - And there the cord—my breath is sore oppress'd. "I now can speak again: —my elder boy Was that year drown'd,—a seaman in a hoy: He left a numerous race; of these would some In their young troubles to my cottage come, And these I taught—an humble teacher I - Upon their heavenly Parent to rely. "Alas! I needed such reliance more: My idiot-girl, so simply gay before, Now wept in pain: some wretch had found a time, Depraved and wicked, for that coward crime; I had indeed my doubt, but I suppress'd The thought that day and night disturb'd my rest; She and that sick-pale brother—but why strive To keep the terrors of that time alive? "The hour arrived, the new, th' undreaded pain, That came with violence, and yet came in vain. I saw her die: her brother too is dead; Nor own'd such crime—what is it that I dread? "The parish aid withdrawn, I look'd around, And in my school a bless'd subsistence found - My winter-calm of life: to be of use Would pleasant thoughts and heavenly hopes produce; I loved them all; it soothed me to presage The various trials of their riper age, Then dwell on mine, and bless the Power who gave Pains to correct us, and remorse to save. "Yes! these were days of peace, but they are past, - A trial came, I will believe, a last; I lost my sight, and my employment gone, Useless I live, but to the day live on; Those eyes which long the light of heaven enjoy'd, Were not by pain, by agony destroy'd: My senses fail not all; I speak, I pray; By night my rest, my food I take by day; And, as my mind looks cheerful to my end, I love mankind, and call my GOD my friend."



LETTER XXI.



THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that, in the latter times, some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils. Epistle to Timothy.

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ABEL KEENE.

Abel, a poor man, Teacher of a School of the lower Order; is placed in the Office of a Merchant; is alarmed by Discourses of the Clerks; unable to reply; becomes a Convert; dresses, drinks, and ridicules his former conduct—The Remonstrance of his Sister, a devout Maiden- -Its Effect—The Merchant dies—Abel returns to Poverty unpitied; but relieved—His abject Condition—His Melancholy—He wanders about; is found—His own Account of himself and the Revolutions in his Mind.

A QUIET, simple man was Abel Keene, He meant no harm, nor did he often mean; He kept a school of loud rebellious boys, And growing old, grew nervous with the noise; When a kind merchant hired his useful pen, And made him happiest of accompting men; With glee he rose to every easy day, When half the labour brought him twice the pay. There were young clerks, and there the merchant's son, Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one; It must, no question, give them lively joy, Hopes long indulged to combat and destroy; At these they levelled all their skill and strength, - He fell not quickly, but he fell at length: They quoted books, to him both bold and new, And scorn'd as fables all he held as true; "Such monkish stories, and such nursery lies," That he was struck with terror and surprise. "What! all his life had he the laws obey'd, Which they broke through and were not once afraid? Had he so long his evil passions check'd, And yet at last had nothing to expect? While they their lives in joy and pleasure led, And then had nothing at the end to dread? Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd A part! a speech! for which the man was paid! And were his pious books, his solemn prayers, Not worth one tale of the admir'd Voltaire's? Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd, To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd, And on all pleasues, which his purse could give, Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live." Much time he pass'd in this important strife, The bliss or bane of his remaining life; For converts all are made with care and grief, And pangs attend the birth of unbelief; Nor pass they soon;—with awe and fear he took The flowery way, and cast back many a look. The youths applauded much his wise design, With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine; And much in private 'twould their mirth improve, To hear how Abel spake of life and love; To hear him own what grievous pains it cost, Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost, Ere his poor mind, with every deed alarm'd, By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd. For Abel enter'd in his bold career, Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear; Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went, Repenting now, now dreading to repent: With awkward pace, and with himself at war, Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far; Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise, And then proceed with blunders and delays: The young more aptly passions' calls pursue, But age and weakness start at scenes so new, And tremble, when they've done, for all they dared to do. At length example Abel's dread removed, With small concern he sought the joys he loved; Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame, And first their votary, then their wit became; His jest was bitter and his satire bold, When he his tales of formal brethren told; What time with pious neighbours he discuss'd, Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust: "Such were our dreams," the jovial elder cried; "Awake and live," his youthful friends replied. Now the gay clerk a modest drab despised, And clad him smartly, as his friends advised; So fine a coat upon his back he threw, That not an alley-boy old Abel knew; Broad polish'd buttons blazed that coat upon, And just beneath the watch's trinkets shone, - A splendid watch, that pointed out the time, To fly from business and make free with crime: The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose Rank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux: His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain, And light elastic locks encased his brain: More pliant pupil who could hope to find, Se deck'd in person and so changed in mind? When Abel walked the streets, with pleasent mien He met his friends, delighted to be seen; And when he rode along the public way, No beau so gaudy, and no youth so gay. His pious sister, now an ancient maid, For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd; Then thus in love and scorn her notions she convey'd. "Alas! my brother! can I see thee pace Hoodwink'd to hell, and not lament thy case, Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race? Lo! thou art bound; a slave in Satan's chain; The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain; His brother's blood against the murderer cried, Against thee thine, unhappy suicide! Are all our pious nights and peaceful days, Our evening readings and our morning praise, Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent, Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent, All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed, Are these for ever and for ever fled? "When in the years gone by, the trying years, When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears, Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not eat (Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat; When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe, Slow pass'd the days of the successless year; Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men: And when thy heart has felt its wish denied, What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied; Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed, By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed; Then I have seen thy lively looks express The spirit's comforts in the man's distress. "Then didst thou cry, exulting, 'Yes, 'tis fit, 'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit:' And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh Against such triumphs?—Oh? repent and pray. "What are thy pleasures?—with the gay to sit, And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit; All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain, And give a wicked pleasure to the vain; Thy long, lean frame by fashion to attire, That lads may laugh and wantons may admire; To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see, Unhappy maniac! that they laugh at thee "These boyish follies, which alone the boy Can idly act, or gracefully enjoy, Add new reproaches to thy fallen state, And make men scorn what they would only hate. "What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove A taste for follies which thou canst not love! Why do thy stiffening limbs the steed bestride - That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride? And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek) Dost thou by night in Diamond-Alley sneak? "Farewell! the parish will thy sister keep, Where she in peace shall pray and sing and sleep, Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, wandering sheep. When youth is fallen, there's hope the young may rise, But fallen age for ever hopeless lies; Torn up by storms, and placed in earth once more, The younger tree may sun and soil restore; But when the old and sapless trunk lies low, No care or soil can former life bestow; Reserved for burning is the worthless tree - And what, O Abel! is reserved for thee?" These angry words our hero deeply felt, Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt! To gain relief he took a glass the more, And then went on as careless as before; Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amusements he partook, And (save his ledger) saw no decent book; Him found the merchant punctual at his task, And that performed, he'd nothing more to ask; He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool, No master he, beyond the hours of school: Thus they proceeding, had their wine and joke, Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke, And, after struggling half a gloomy week, Left his poor clerk another friend to seek. Alas! the son, who led the saint astray, Forgot the man whose follies made him gay; He cared no more for Abel in his need, Than Abel cared about his hackney steed: He now, alas! had all his earnings spent, And thus was left to languish and repent; No school nor clerkship found he in the place, Now lost to fortune, as before to grace. For town-relief the grieving man applied, And begg'd with tears what some with scorn denied; Others look'd down upon the glowing vest, And frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd? Happy for him his country's laws are mild, They must support him, though they still reviled; Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd, Of God unmindful, and of man afraid, - No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to speak, His heart was sinking, and his frame was weak. His sister died with such serene delight, He once again began to think her right; Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay, And sweet assurance bless'd her dying-day: Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh, Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die. The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door, Just mention'd "Abel!" and then thought no more. So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn, Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn. And now we saw him on the beach reclined, Or causeless walking in the wintry wind; And when it raised a loud and angry sea, He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie: He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow, Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow: Sometimes his frame through many an hour he spread Upon a tombstone, moveless as the dead; And was there found a sad and silent place, There would he creep with slow and measured pace; Then would he wander by the river's side, And fix his eyes upon the falling tide; The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen, And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then: There, to his discontented thought a prey, The melancholy mortal pined away. The neighb'ring poor at length began to speak Of Abel's ramblings—he'd been gone a week; They knew not where, and little care they took For one so friendless and so poor to look. At last a stranger, in a pedlar's shed, Beheld him hanging—he had long been dead. He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times, Entitled thus—"My Groanings and my Crimes!" "I was a Christian man, and none could lay Aught to my charge; I walk'd the narrow way: All then was simple faith, serene and pure, My hope was stedfast and my prospects sure; Then was I tried by want and sickness sore, But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before, And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore: Alas! new foes assail'd me; I was vain, They stung my pride and they confused my brain: Oh! these deluders! with what glee they saw Their simple dupe transgress the righteous law; 'Twas joy to them to view that dreadful strife, When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life; So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart, Then with their logic they allay'd the smart; They proved (so thought I then) with reasons strong, That no man's feelings ever lead him wrong: And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice, The smooth career of unbelief and vice. Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and bold, Their witty tales of naughty priests unfold; 'Twas all a craft,' they said, 'a cunning trade; Not she the priests, but priests Religion made.' So I believed:"—No, Abel! to thy grief: So thou relinquish'dst all that was belief: - "I grew as very flint, and when the rest Laugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest; But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew, When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew; Yea! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too. "The mouse that trespass'd and the treasure stole, Found his lean body fitted to the hole; Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay, And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away: Ah ! worse for me—grown poor, I yet remain In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain. "At length I thought, although these friends of sin Have spread their net, and caught their prey therein; Though my hard heart could not for mercy call, Because though great my grief, my faith was small; Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely, The soul diseased may to a doctor fly. "A famous one there was, whose skill had wrought Cures past belief, and him the sinners sought; Numbers there were defiled by mire and filth, Whom he recovered by his goodly tilth: 'Come then,' I said, 'let me the man behold, And tell my case:'—I saw him and I told. "With trembling voice, 'Oh! reverend sir,' I said, 'I once believed, and I was then misled; And now such doubts my sinful soul beset, I dare not say that I'm a Christian yet; Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill, Inform my judgment and direct my will? Ah! give thy cordial; let my soul have rest, And be the outward man alone distress'd; For at my state I tremble.'—'Tremble more,' Said the good man, 'and then rejoice therefore! 'Tis good to tremble; prospects then are fair, When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair: Once thou wert simply honest, just, and pure, Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a cure: Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace, Now thou'rt an object meet for healing grace; No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief, Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief; The best, the only titles to relief.' 'What must I do,' I said, 'my soul to free?' - 'Do nothing, man; it will be done for thee.' 'But must I not, my reverend guide, believe?' - 'If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faith receive.' 'But I repent not.'—Angry he replied, 'If thou art call'd, though needest nought beside: Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree, The call will come,—if not, ah! woe for thee.' "There then I waited, ever on the watch, A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch; His words fell softly like the flakes of snow, But I could never find my heart o'erflow: He cried aloud, till in the flock began The sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man; They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry: To me no tokens of the call would come, I felt my sentence, and received my doom; But I complain'd—'Let thy repinings cease, Oh! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase; It bloweth where it listeth;—die in peace.' - In peace, and perish?' I replied; 'impart Some better comfort to a burthen'd heart.' 'Alas!' the priest return'd, 'can I direct The heavenly call?—Do I proclaim th' elect? Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will, But take thy part with sinners, and be still.' "Alas, for me! no more the times of peace Are mine on earth—in death my pains may cease. "Foes to my soul! ye young seducers, know What serious ills from your amusements flow; Opinions you with so much ease profess, Overwhelm the simple and their minds oppress: Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong, That make them wretched, prove their notions wrong; Let them proceed in that they deem the way, Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray: Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot, And so had Dives, but it help'd him not: And is it thus?—I'm full of doubts: —Adieu! Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too." {12}



LETTER XXII.



THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent, and every one did threat . . . SHAKESPEARE, Richard III.

The time hath been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end: but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools. SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth.

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PETER GRIMES.

The Father of Peter a Fisherman—Peter's early Conduct—His Grief for the old Man—He takes an Apprentice—The Boy's Suffering and Fate—A second Boy; how he died—Peter acquitted—A third Apprentice—A Voyage by Sea: the Boy does not return—Evil Report on Peter: he is tried and threatened—Lives alone—His melancholy and incipient Madness—Is observed and visited—He escapes and is taken: is lodged in a parish-house: Women attend and watch him—He speaks in a Delirium; grows more collected—His Account of his Feelings and visionary Terrors previous to his Death.

OLD Peter Grimes made fishing his employ, His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy, And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy: To town came quiet Peter with his fish, And had of all a civil word and wish. He left his trade upon the Sabbath-day, And took young Peter in his hand to pray: But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose, At first refused, then added his abuse: His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied, But being drunk, wept sorely when he died. Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there came Much of his conduct, and he felt the shame, - How he had oft the good old man reviled, And never paid the duty of a child; How, when the father in his Bible read, He in contempt and anger left the shed: "It is the word of life," the parent cried; - "This is the life itself," the boy replied. And while old Peter in amazement stood, Gave the hot spirits to his boiling blood: - How he, with oath and furious speech, began To prove his freedom and assert the man; And when the parent check'd his impious rage, How he had cursed the tyranny of age, - Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow On his bare head, and laid his parent low; The father groan'd—"If thou art old," said he, "And hast a son—thou wilt remember me: Thy mother left me in a happy time, Thou kill'dst not her—heav'n spares the double crime." On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief, This he resolved, and drank for his relief. Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd From constant pleasures, and he thought it hard; Hard that he could not every wish obey, But must awhile relinquish ale and play; Hard! that he could not to his cards attend, But must acquire the money he would spend. With greedy eye he look'd on all he saw, He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law; On all he mark'd, he stretch'd his ready hand; He fish'd by water and he filch'd by land: Oft in the night has Peter dropp'd his oar, Fled from his boat, and sought for prey on shore; Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack, Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack; And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose, The more he look'd on all men as his foes. He built a mud-wall'd hovel, where he kept His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept; But no success could please his cruel soul, He wish'd for one to trouble and control; He wanted some obedient boy to stand And bear the blow of his outrageous hand; And hoped to find in some propitious hour A feeling creature subject to his power. Peter had heard there were in London then, - Still have they being!—workhouse-clearing men, Who, undisturb'd by feelings just or kind, Would parish-boys to needy tradesmen bind: They in their want a trifling sum would take, And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make. Such Peter sought, and when a lad was found, The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound. Some few in town observed in Peter's trap A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap; But none inquired how Peter used the rope, Or what the bruise that made the stripling stoop; None could the ridges on his back behold, None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold; None put the question,—"Peter, dost thou give The boy his food?—What, man! the lad must live: Consider, Peter, let the child have bread, He'll serve the better if he's stroked and fed." None reason'd thus—and some, on hearing cries, Said calmly, "Grimes is at his exercise." Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, threaten'd, and abused - His efforts punish'd and his food refused, - Awake tormented,—soon aroused from sleep, - Struck if he wept, and yet compell'd to weep, The trembling boy dropp'd down and strove to pray, Received a blow, and trembling turn'd away, Or sobb'd and hid his piteous face;—while he, The savage master, grinn'd in horrid glee: He'd now the power he ever loved to show, A feeling being subject to his blow. Thus lived the lad, in hunger, peril, pain, His tears despised, his supplications vain: Compe'lld by fear to lie, by need to steal, His bed uneasy and unbless'd his meal, For three sad years the boy his tortures bore, And then his pains and trials were no more. "How died he, Peter?" when the people said, He growl'd—"I found him lifeless in his bed;" Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, "Poor Sam is dead." Yet murmurs were there, and some questions ask'd - How he was fed, how punish'd, and how task'd? Much they suspected, but they little proved, And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmoved. Another boy with equal ease was found, The money granted, and the victim bound; And what his fate?—One night it chanced he fell From the boat's mast and perish'd in her well, Where fish were living kept, and where the boy (So reason'd men) could not himself destroy: - "Yes! so it was" said Peter, "in his play, (For he was idle both by night and day,) He climb'd the main-mast and then fell below;" - Then show'd his corpse, and pointed to the blow. "What said the jury?"—they were long in doubt, But sturdy Peter faced the matter out: So they dismissed him, saying at the time, "Keep fast your hatchway when you've boys who climb." This hit the conscience, and he colour'd more Than for the closest questions put before. Thus all his fears the verdict set aside, And at the slave-shop Peter still applied. Then came a boy, of manners soft and mild, - Our seamen's wives with grief beheld the child; All thought (the poor themselves) that he was one Of gentle blood, some noble sinner's son, Who had, belike, deceived some humble maid, Whom he had first seduced and then betray'd: - However this, he seem'd a gracious lad, In grief submissive, and with patience sad. Passive he labour'd, till his slender frame Bent with his loads, and he at length was lame: Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long The grossest insult and the foulest wrong; But there were causes—in the town they gave Fire, food, and comfort, to the gentle slave; And though stern Peter, with a cruel hand, And knotted rope, enforced the rude command, Yet he consider'd what he'd lately felt, And his vile blows with selfish pity dealt. One day such draughts the cruel fisher made, He could not vend them in his borough-trade, But sail'd for London-mart: the boy was ill, But ever humbled to his master's will; And on the river, where they smoothly sail'd, He strove with terror and awhile prevail'd; But new to danger on the angry sea, He clung affrighten'd to his master's knee: The boat grew leaky and the wind was strong, Rough was the passage and the time was long; His liquor fail'd, and Peter's wrath arose, - No more is known—the rest we must suppose, Or learn of Peter: —Peter says, he "spied The stripling's danger and for harbour tried; Meantime the fish, and then th' apprentice died." The pitying women raised a clamour round, And weeping said, "Thou hast thy 'prentice drown'd." Now the stern man was summon'd to the hall, To tell his tale before the burghers all: He gave th' account; profess'd the lad he loved, And kept his brazen features all unmoved. The mayor himself with tone severe replied, - "Henceforth with thee shall never boy abide; Hire thee a freeman, whom thou durst not beat, But who, in thy despite, will sleep and eat: Free thou art now!—again shouldst thou appear, Thou'lt find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe." Alas! for Peter not a helping hand, So was he hated, could he now command; Alone he row'd his boat, alone he cast His nets beside, or made his anchor fast: To hold a rope or hear a curse was none, - He toil'd and rail'd; he groan'd and swore alone. Thus by himself compell'd to live each day, To wait for certain hours the tide's delay; At the same time the same dull views to see, The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree; The water only, when the tides were high, When low, the mud half cover'd and half-dry; The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks, And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks; Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float, As the tide rolls by the impeded boat. When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day, Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way, Which on each side rose swelling, and below The dark warm flood ran silently and slow; There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide, There hang his head, and view the lazy tide In its hot slimy channel slowly glide; Where the small eels that left the deeper way For the warm shore, within the shallows play; Where gaping mussels, left upon the mud, Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood; - Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and trace How sidelong crabs had scrawi'd their crooked race, Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye; What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come. And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home, Gave from the salt ditch side the bellowing boom: He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce, And loved to stop beside the opening sluice; Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound, Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound; Where all, presented to the eye or ear, Oppresss'd the soul with misery, grief, and fear. Besides these objects, there were places three, Which Peter seem'd with certain dread to see; When he drew near them he would turn from each, And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach. A change of scene to him brought no relief, In town, 'twas plain, men took him for a thief: The sailor's wives would stop him in the street, And say, "Now, Peter, thou'st no boy to beat;" Infants at play when they perceived him, ran, Warning each other—"That's the wicked man;" He growl'd an oath, and in an angry tone Cursed the whole place and wish'd to be alone. Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view, And still more gloomy in his sight they grew: Though man he hated, yet employ'd alone At bootless labour, he would swear and groan, Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot, And gulls that caught them when his arts could not. Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame, And strange disease—he couldn't say the name; Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright, Waked by his view of horrors in the night, - Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze, Horrors that demons might be proud to raise: And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart, To think he lived from all mankind apart; Yet, if a man approach'd, in terrors he would start. A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town, And summer lodgers were again come down; These, idly curious, with their glasses spied The ships in bay as anchor'd for the tide, - The river's craft,—the bustle of the quay, - And sea-port views, which landmen love to see. One, up the river, had a man and boat Seen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat; Fisher he seem'd, yet used no net nor hook; Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took, But on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look: At certain stations he would view the stream, As if he stood bewilder'd in a dream, Or that some power had chain'd him for a time, To feel a curse or meditate on crime. This known, some curious, some in pity went, And others question'd—"Wretch, dost thou repent?" He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd His boat: new terror fill'd his restless mind; Furious he grew, and up the country ran, And there they seized him—a distemper'd man: - Him we received, and to a parish-bed, Follow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led. Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun, A lost, lone man, so harass'd and undone; Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel, Perceived compassion on their anger steal; His crimes they could not from their memories blot, But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot. A priest too came, to whom his words are told; And all the signs they shudder'd to behold. "Look! look!" they cried; "His limbs with horror shake And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make! How glare his angry eyes, and yet he's not awake: See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand, And how he clenches that broad bony hand." The Priest attending, found he spoke at times As one alluding to his fears and crimes; "It was the fall," he mutter'd, "I can show The manner how,—I never struck a blow:" - And then aloud,—"Unhand me, free my chain; On oath he fell—it struck him to the brain: - Why ask my father?—that old man will swear Against my life; besides, he wasn't there: What, all agreed?—Am I to die to-day? - My Lord, in mercy give me time to pray." Then as they watch'd him, calmer he became, And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame, But murmuring spake—while they could see and hear The start of terror and the groan of fear; See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise, And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes: Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force Seem'd with some fancied being to discourse: He knew not us, or with accustom'd art He hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart; 'Twas part confession and the rest defence, A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense. "I'll tell you all," he said, "The very day When the old man first placed them in my way: My father's spirit—he who always tried To give me trouble, when he lived and died - When he was gone he could not be content To see my days in painful labour spent, But would appoint his meetings, and he made Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade. "'Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene, No living being had I lately seen; I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net, But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get, - A father's pleasure, when his toil was done, To plague and torture thus an only son! And so I sat and look'd upon the stream, How it ran on and felt as in a dream: But dream it was not: No!—I fix'd my eyes On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise: I saw my father on the water stand, And hold a thin pale boy in either hand; And there they glided ghastly on the top Of the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop: I would have struck them, but they knew th' intent, And smiled upon the oar, and down they went. "Now, from that day, whenever I began To dip my net, there stood the hard old man - He and those boys: I humbled me and pray'd They would be gone; they heeded not, but stay'd: Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by, But, gazing on the spirits, there was I: They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to die: And every day, as sure as day arose, Would these three spirits meet me ere the close; To hear and mark them daily was my doom, And 'Come,' they said, with weak, sad voices, 'Come.' To row away, with all my strength I tried, But there were they hard by me in the tide, The three unbodied forms—and 'Come, still come,' they cried. "Fathers should pity—but this old man shook His hoary locks, and froze me by a look: Thrice when I struck them, through the water came A hollow groan, that weaken'd all my frame: 'Father!' said I, 'Have mercy:' he replied, I know not what—the angry spirit lied, - 'Didst thou not draw thy knife?' said he: —'Twas true, But I had pity and my arm withdrew: He cried for mercy, which I kindly gave, But he has no compassion in his grave. "There were three places, where they ever rose, - The whole long river has not such as those - Places accursed, where, if a man remain, He'll see the things which strike him to the brain; And there they made me on my paddle lean, And look at them for hours;—accursed scene! When they would glide to that smooth eddy-space, Then bid me leap and join them in the place; And at my groans each little villain sprite Enjoy'd my pains and vanish'd in delight. "In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain Was burning hot, and cruel was my pain, Then came this father-foe, and there he stood With his two boys again upon the flood: There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee In their pale faces, when they glared at me: Still they did force me on the oar to rest, And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd, He with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood, And there came flame about him mix'd with blood; He bade me stoop and look upon the place, Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face; Burning it blazed, and then I roar'd for pain, I thought the demons would have turn'd my brain. "Still there they stood, and forced me to behold A place of horrors—they can not be told - Where the flood open'd, there I heard the shriek Of tortured guilt—no earthly tongue can speak: 'All days alike! for ever!' did they say, 'And unremitted torments every day' - Yes, so they said"—But here he ceased and gazed On all around, affrighten'd and amazed; And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dread Of frighten'd females gathering round his bed; Then dropp'd exhausted, and appear'd at rest, Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd; Then with an inward, broken voice he cried, "Again they come!" and mutter'd as he died. {13}



LETTER XXIII.



Poena autem vehemens ac multo saevior illis, Quas et Caeditius gravis invenit aut Rhadamanthus, Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem. JUVENAL, Satire xiii.

. . . . Think my former state a happy dream, From which awaked, the truth of what we are Shows us but this,—I am sworn brother now To grim Necessity, and he and I Will keep a league till death. SHAKESPEARE, Richard II.

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PRISONS. {14}

The Mind of Man accommodates itself to all Situations; Prisons otherwise would be intolerable—Debtors: their different kinds: three particularly described; others more briefly—An arrested Prisoner: his Account of his Feelings and his Situation—The Alleviations of a Prison—Prisoners for Crimes—Two Condemned: a vindictive Female: a Highwayman—The Interval between Condemnation and Execution—His Feelings as the Time approaches—His Dream.

'TIS well—that Man to all the varying states Of good and ill his mind accommodates; He not alone progressive grief sustains, But soon submits to unexperienced pains: Change after change, all climes his body bears; His mind repeated shocks of changing cares: Faith and fair Virtue arm the nobler breast; Hope and mere want of feeling aid the rest. Or who could bear to lose the balmy air Of summer's breath, from all things fresh and fair, With all that man admires or loves below; All earth and water, wood and vale bestow, Where rosy pleasures smile, whence real blessings flow; With sight and sound of every kind that lives, And crowning all with joy that freedom gives? Who could from these, in some unhappy day, Bear to be drawn by ruthless arms away, To the vile nuisance of a noisome room, Where only insolence and misery come? (Save that the curious will by chance appear, Or some in pity drop a fruitless tear); To a damp Prison, where the very sight Of the warm sun is favour and not right; Where all we hear or see the feelings shock, The oath and groan, the fetter and the lock? Who could bear this and live?—Oh! many a year All this is borne, and miseries more severe; And some there are, familiar with the scene, Who live in mirth, though few become serene. Far as I might the inward man perceive, There was a constant effort—not to grieve: Not to despair, for better days would come, And the freed debtor smile again at home: Subdued his habits, he may peace regain, And bless the woes that were not sent in vain. Thus might we class the Debtors here confined, The more deceived, the more deceitful kind; Here are the guilty race, who mean to live On credit, that credulity will give; Who purchase, conscious they can never pay; Who know their fate, and traffic to betray; On whom no pity, fear, remorse, prevail. Their aim a statute, their resource a jail; - These are the public spoilers we regard, No dun so harsh, no creditor so hard. A second kind are they, who truly strive To keep their sinking credit long alive; Success, nay prudence, they may want, but yet They would be solvent, and deplore a debt; All means they use, to all expedients run, And are by slow, sad steps, at last undone: Justly, perhaps, you blame their want of skill, But mourn their feelings and absolve their will. There is a Debtor, who his trifling all Spreads in a shop; it would not fill a stall: There at one window his temptation lays, And in new modes disposes and displays: Above the door you shall his name behold, And what he vends in ample letters told, The words 'Repository,' 'Warehouse,' all He uses to enlarge concerns so small: He to his goods assigns some beauty's name, Then in her reign, and hopes they'll share her fame, And talks of credit, commerce, traffic, trade, As one important by their profit made; But who can paint the vacancy, the gloom, And spare dimensions of one backward room? Wherein he dines, if so 'tis fit to speak Of one day's herring and the morrow's steak: An anchorite in diet, all his care Is to display his stock and vend his ware. Long waiting hopeless, then he tries to meet A kinder fortune in a distant street; There he again displays, increasing yet Corroding sorrow and consuming debt: Alas! he wants the requisites to rise - The true connections, the availing ties: They who proceed on certainties advance, These are not times when men prevail by chance; But still he tries, till, after years of pain, He finds, with anguish, he has tried in vain. Debtors are these on whom 'tis hard to press, 'Tis base, impolitic, and merciless. To these we add a miscellaneous kind, By pleasure, pride, and indolence confined; Those whom no calls, no warnings could divert, The unexperienced, and the inexpert; The builder, idler, schemer, gamester, sot, - The follies different, but the same their lot; Victims of horses, lasses, drinking, dice, Of every passion, humour, whim, and vice. See! that sad Merchant, who but yesterday Had a vast household in command and pay; He now entreats permission to employ A boy he needs, and then entreats the boy. And there sits one improvident but kind, Bound for a friend, whom honour could not bind; Sighing, he speaks to any who appear, "A treach'rous friend—'twas that which sent me here: I was too kind,—I thought I could depend On his bare word—he was a treach'rous friend." A Female too!—it is to her a home, She came before—and she again will come: Her friends have pity; when their anger drops, They take her home;—she's tried her schools and shops - Plan after plan;—but fortune would not mend, She to herself was still the treach'rous friend; And wheresoe'er began, all here was sure to end: And there she sits, as thoughtless and as gay As if she'd means, or not a debt to pay - Or knew to-morrow she'd be call'd away - Or felt a shilling and could dine to-day. While thus observing, I began to trace The sober'd features of a well-known face - Looks once familiar, manners form'd to please, And all illumined by a heart at ease: But fraud and flattery ever claim'd a part (Still unresisted) of that easy heart; But he at length beholds me—"Ah! my friend! "And have thy pleasures this unlucky end?" "Too sure," he said, and smiling as he sigh'd; "I went astray, though Prudence seem'd my guide; All she proposed I in my heart approved, And she was honour'd, but my pleasure loved - Pleasure, the mistress to whose arms I fled, From wife-like lectures angry Prudence read. "Why speak the madness of a life like mine, The powers of beauty, novelty, and wine? Why paint the wanton smile, the venal vow, Or friends whose worth I can appreciate now; Oft I perceived my fate, and then could say, I'll think to-morrow, I must live to-day: So am I here—I own the laws are just - And here, where thought is painful, think I must: But speech is pleasant; this discourse with thee Brings to my mind the sweets of liberty, Breaks on the sameness of the place, and gives The doubtful heart conviction that it lives. "Let me describe my anguish in the hour When law detain'd me and I felt its power. "When, in that shipwreck, this I found my shore, And join'd the wretched, who were wreck'd before; When I perceived each feature in the face, Pinch'd through neglect or turbid by disgrace; When in these wasting forms affliction stood In my afiiicted view, it chill'd my blood; - And forth I rush'd, a quick retreat to make, Till a loud laugh proclaim'd the dire mistake: But when the groan had settled to a sigh, When gloom became familiar to the eye, When I perceive how others seem to rest, With every evil rankling in my breast, - Led by example, I put on the man, Sing off my sighs, and trifle as I can. "Homer! nay Pope! (for never will I seek Applause for learning—nought have I with Greek) Gives us the secrets of his pagan hell, Where ghost with ghost in sad communion dwell; Where shade meets shade, and round the gloomy meads They glide, and speak of old heroic deeds, - What fields they conquer'd, and what foes they slew, And sent to join the melancholy crew. When a new spirit in that world was found, A thousand shadowy forms came flitting round: Those who had known him, fond inquiries made, - 'Of all we left, inform us, gentle shade, Now as we lead thee in our realms to dwell, Our twilight groves, and meads of asphodel.' "What paints the poet, is our station here, Where we like ghosts and flitting shades appear: This is the hell he sings, and here we meet, And former deeds to new-made friends repeat; Heroic deeds, which here obtain us fame, And are in fact the causes why we came: Yes! this dim region is old Homer's hell, Abate but groves and meads of asphodel. Here, when a stranger from your world we spy, We gather round him and for news apply; He hears unheeding, nor can speech endure, But shivering gazes on the vast obscure: We smiling pity, and by kindness show We felt his feelings and his terrors know; Then speak of comfort—time will give him sight, Where now 'tis dark; where now 'tis woe—delight. 'Have hope,' we say, 'and soon the place to thee Shall not a prison but a castle be: When to the wretch whom care and guilt confound, The world's a prison, with a wider bound; Go where he may, he feels himself confined, And wears the fetters of an abject mind.' "But now adieu! those giant-keys appear, Thou art not worthy to be inmate here: Go to thy world, and to the young declare What we, our spirits and employments, are; Tell them how we the ills of life endure, Our empire stable, and our state secure; Our dress, our diet, for their use describe, And bid them haste to join the gen'rous tribe: Go to thy world, and leave us here to dwell, Who to its joys and comforts bid farewell." Farewell to these; but other scenes I view, And other griefs, and guilt of deeper hue; Where Conscience gives to outward ills her pain, Gloom to the night, and pressure to the chain: Here separate cells awhile in misery keep Two doom'd to suffer: there they strive for sleep; By day indulged, in larger space they range, Their bondage certain, but their bounds have change. One was a female, who had grievous ill Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still: With death before her, and her fate in view, Unsated vengeance in her bosom grew: Sullen she was and threat'ning; in her eye Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die: But first a being in the world must leave - 'Twas once reproach; 'twas now a short reprieve. She was a pauper bound, who early gave Her mind to vice and doubly was a slave: Upbraided, beaten, held by rough control, Revenge sustain'd, inspired, and fill'd her soul: She fired a full-stored barn, confess'd the fact, And laugh'd at law and justified the act: Our gentle Vicar tried his powers in vain, She answer'd not, or answer'd with disdain; Th' approaching fate she heard without a sigh, And neither cared to live nor fear'd to die. Not so he felt, who with her was to pay The forfeit, life—with dread he view'd the day, And that short space which yet for him remain'd, Till with his limbs his faculties were chain'd: He paced his narrow bounds some ease to find, But found it not,—no comfort reach'd his mind: Each sense was palsied; when he tasted food, He sigh'd and said, "Enough—'tis very good." Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be As once it was—he seeing could not see, Nor hearing, hear aright;—when first I came Within his view, I fancied there was shame, I judged resentment; I mistook the air, - These fainter passions live not with despair; Or but exist and die: —Hope, fear, and love, Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move, But touch not his, who every waking hour Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power. "But will not mercy?"—No! she cannot plead For such an outrage;—'twas a cruel deed: He stopp'd a timid traveller;—to his breast, With oaths and curses, was the danger press'd: - No! he must suffer: pity we may find For one man's pangs, but must not wrong mankind. Still I behold him, every thought employ'd On one dire view!—all others are destroy'd; This makes his features ghastly, gives the tone Of his few words resemblance to a groan; He takes his tasteless food, and when 'tis done, Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one; For expectation is on time intent, Whether he brings us joy or punishment. Yes! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain, He hears the sentence and he feels the chain; He sees the judge and jury, when he shakes, And loudly cries, "Not guilty," and awakes: Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep, Till worn-out nature is compell'd to sleep. Now comes the dream again: it shows each scene, With each small circumstance that comes between - The call to suffering and the very deed - There crowds go with him, follow, and precede; Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn, While he in fancied envy looks at them: He seems the place for that sad act to see, And dreams the very thirst which then will be: A priest attends—it seems, the one he knew In his best days, beneath whose care he grew. At this his terrors take a sudden flight, He sees his native village with delight; The house, the chamber, where he once array'd His youthful person; where he knelt and pray'd: Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home, The days of joy; the joys themselves are come; - The hours of innocence;—the timid look Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took, And told his hope; her trembling joy appears, Her forced reserve and his retreating fears. All now is present;—'tis a moment's gleam Of former sunshine—stay, delightful dream! Let him within his pleasant garden walk, Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk. Yes! all are with him now, and all the while Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile: Then come his sister and his village-friend, And he will now the sweetest moments spend Life has to yield;—No! never will he find Again on earth such pleasure in his mind: He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, Love in their looks and honour on the tongue: Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows, The bloom is softer and more sweetly glows; - Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire For more than true and honest hearts require, They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed Through the green lane,—then linger in the mead, - Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, - And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum; Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass, And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass, Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread, And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed; Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way O'er its rough bridge—and there behold the bay! - The ocean smiling to the fervid sun - The waves that faintly fall and slowly run - The ships at distance and the boats at hand; And now they walk upon the sea-side sand, Counting the number and what kind they be, Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea: Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold The glitt'ring waters on the shingles roll'd: The timid girls, half dreading their design, Dip the small foot in the retarded brine, And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow, Or lie like pictures on the sand below; With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun Through the small waves so softly shines upon; And those live lucid jellies which the eye Delights to trace as they swim glittering by: Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire, And will arrange above the parlour fire, - Tokens of bliss!—"Oh! horrible! a wave Roars as it rises—save me, Edward! save!" She cries: —Alas! the watchman on his way Calls, and lets in—truth, terror, and the day!



LETTER XXIV.



Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, - We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight—and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill; The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, yet not destroy'd. The little ones unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once to kneel and draw The chalky ring and knuckle down at taw. This fond detachment to the well known place, When first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age and at our latest day. COWPER.

Tu quoque ne metuas, quamvis schola verbere multo Increpet et truculenta senex geret ora magister; Degeneres animos timor arguit; at tibi consta Intrepidus, nec te clamor plagaeque sonantes, Nec matutinis agitet formido sub horis, Quod sceptrum vibrat ferulae, quod multa supellex Virgea, quod molis scuticam praetexit aluta, Quod fervent trepido subsellia vestra tumultu, Pompa loci, et vani fugiatur scena timoris. AUSONIUS.

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SCHOOLS. {15}

Schools of every Kind to be found in the Borough—The School for Infants—The School Preparatory: the Sagacity of the Mistress in foreseeing Character—Day Schools of the lower Kind—A Master with Talents adapted to such Pupils: one of superior Qualifications— Boarding Schools; that for young Ladies; one going first to the Governess, one finally returning Home—School for Youth: Master and Teacher; various Dispositions and Capacities—The Miser-Boy—The Bully-Boy—Sons of Farmers: how amused—What Study will effect, examined—A College Life: one sent from his College to a Benefice; one retained there in Dignity—The Advantage in either Case not considerable—Where, then, the Good of a Literary Life?—Answered— Conclusion.

To every class we have a School assign'd, Rules for all ranks and food for every mind: Yet one there is, that small regard to rule Or study pays, and still is deem'd a School: That, where a deaf, poor, patient widow sits, And awes some thirty infants as she knits; Infants of humble, busy wives, who pay Some trifling price for freedom through the day: At this good matron's hut the children meet, Who thus becomes the mother of the street: Her room is small they cannot widely stray, - Her threshold high they cannot run away: Though deaf, she sees the rebel-heroes shout, - Though lame, her white rod nimbly walks about; With band of yarn she keeps offenders in, And to her gown the sturdiest rogue can pin: Aided by these, and spells, and tell-tale birds, Her power they dread and reverence her words. To Learning's second seats we now proceed, Where humming students gilded primers read; Or books with letters large and pictures gay, To make their reading but a kind of play - "Reading made easy," so the titles tell; But they who read must first begin to spell: There may be profit in these arts, but still Learning is labour, call it what you will; Upon the youthful mind a heavy load, Nor must we hope to find the royal road. Some will their easy steps to science show, And some to heav'n itself their by-way know; Ah! trust them not,—who fame or bliss would share, Must learn by labour, and must live by care. Another matron, of superior kind, For higher schools prepares the rising mind; Preparatory she her Learning calls, The step first made to colleges and halls. She early sees to what the mind will grow, Nor abler judge of infant-powers I know: She sees what soon the lively will impede, And how the steadier will in turn succeed; Observes the dawn of wisdom, fancy, taste, And knows what parts will wear, and what will waste: She marks the mind too lively, and at once Sees the gay coxcomb and the rattling dunce. Long has she lived, and much she loves to trace Her former pupils, now a lordly race; Whom when she sees rich robes and furs bedeck, She marks the pride which once she strove to check. A Burgess comes, and she remembers well How hard her task to make his worship spell; Cold, selfish, dull, inanimate, unkind, 'Twas but by anger he display'd a mind: Now civil, smiling, complaisant, and gay, The world has worn th' unsocial crust away: That sullen spirit now a softness wears, And, save by fits, e'en dulness disappears: But still the matron can the man behold, Dull, selfish, hard, inanimate, and cold. A Merchant passes,—"Probity and truth, Prudence and patience, mark'd thee from thy youth." Thus she observes, but oft retains her fears For him, who now with name unstain'd appears: Nor hope relinquishes, for one who yet Is lost in error and involved in debt; For latent evil in that heart she found, More open here, but here the core was sound. Various our Day-Schools: here behold we one Empty and still: —the morning duties done, Soil'd, tatter'd, worn, and thrown in various heaps, Appear their books, and there confusion sleeps; The workmen all are from the Babel fled, And lost their tools, till the return they dread: Meantime the master, with his wig awry, Prepares his books for business by-and-by: Now all th' insignia of the monarch laid Beside him rest, and none stand by afraid; He, while his troop light-hearted leap and play, Is all intent on duties of the day; No more the tyrant stern or judge severe, He feels the father's and the husband's fear. Ah! little think the timid trembling crowd, That one so wise, so powerful, and so proud, Should feel himself, and dread the humble ills Of rent-day charges, and of coalman's bills; That while they mercy from their judge implore, He fears himself—a knocking at the door; And feels the burthen as his neighbour states His humble portion to the parish-rates. They sit th' alloted hours, then eager run, Rushing to pleasure when the duty's done; His hour of leisure is of different kind, Then cares domestic rush upon his mind, And half the ease and comfort he enjoys, Is when surrounded by slates, books, and boys. Poor Reuben Dixon has the noisiest school Of ragged lads, who ever bow'd to rule; Low in his price—the men who heave our coals, And clean our causeways, send him boys in shoals; To see poor Reuben, with his fry beside, - Their half-check'd rudeness and his half-scorn'd pride, - Their room, the sty in which th' assembly meet, In the close lane behind the Northgate-street; T'observe his vain attempts to keep the peace, Till tolls the bell, and strife and troubles cease, - Calls for our praise; his labour praise deserves, But not our pity; Reuben has no nerves: 'Mid noise and dirt, and stench, and play, and prate, He calmly cuts the pen or views the slate. But Leonard!—yes, for Leonard's fate I grieve, Who loaths the station which he dares not leave: He cannot dig, he will not beg his bread, All his dependence rests upon his head; And deeply skill'd in sciences and arts, On vulgar lads he wastes superior parts. Alas! what grief that feeling mind sustains, In guiding hands and stirring torpid brains; He whose proud mind from pole to pole will move, And view the wonders of the worlds above; Who thinks and reasons strongly: —hard his fate, Confined for ever to the pen and slate: True, he submits, and when the long dull day Has slowly pass'd, in weary tasks, away, To other worlds with cheerful view he looks, And parts the night between repose and books. Amid his labours, he has sometimes tried To turn a little from his cares aside; Pope, Milton, Dryden, with delight has seized, His soul engaged and of his trouble eased: When, with a heavy eye and ill-done sum, No part conceived, a stupid boy will come; Then Leonard first subdues the rising frown, And bids the blockhead lay his blunders down; O'er which disgusted he will turn his eye, To his sad duty his sound mind apply, And, vex'd in spirit, throw his pleasures by. Turn we to Schools which more than these afford - The sound instruction and the wholesome board; And first our School for Ladies;—pity calls For one soft sigh, when we behold these walls, Placed near the town, and where, from window high, The fair, confined, may our free crowds espy, With many a stranger gazing up and down, And all the envied tumult of the town; May, in the smiling summer-eve, when they Are sent to sleep the pleasant hours away, Behold the poor (whom they conceive the bless'd) Employ'd for hours, and grieved they cannot rest. Here the fond girl, whose days are sad and few Since dear mamma pronounced the last adieu, Looks to the road, and fondly thinks she hears The carriage-wheels, and struggles with her tears: All yet is new, the misses great and small, Madam herself, and teachers, odious all; From laughter, pity, nay command, she turns, But melts in softness, or with anger burns; Nauseates her food, and wonders who can sleep On such mean beds, where she can only weep: She scorns condolence—but to all she hates Slowly at length her mind accommodates; Then looks on bondage with the same concern As others felt, and finds that she must learn As others learn'd—the common lot to share, To search for comfort and submit to care. There are, 'tis said, who on these seats attend, And to these ductile minds destruction vend; Wretches—(to virtue, peace, and nature, foes) - To these soft minds, their wicked trash expose; Seize on the soul, ere passions take the sway, And lead the heart, ere yet it feels, astray: Smugglers obscene!—and can there be who take Infernal pains the sleeping vice to wake? Can there be those by whom the thought defiled Enters the spotless bosom of a child? By whom the ill is to the heart conveyed, Who lend the foe, not yet in arms, their aid; And sap the city-walls before the siege be laid? Oh! rather skulking in the by-ways steal, And rob the poorest traveller of his meal; Burst through the humblest trader's bolted door; Bear from the widow's hut her winter-store; With stolen steed, on highways take your stand, Your lips with curses arm'd, with death your hand; - Take all but life—the virtuous more would say, Take life itself, dear as it is, away, Rather than guilty thus the guileless soul betray. Years pass away—let us suppose them past, Th' accomplish'd nymph for freedom looks at last; All hardships over, which a school contains, The spirit's bondage and the body's pains; Where teachers make the heartless, trembling set Of pupils suffer for their own regret; Where winter's cold, attack'd by one poor fire, Chills the fair child, commanded to retire; She felt it keenly in the morning-air, Keenly she felt it at the evening prayer. More pleasant summer; but then walks were made, Not a sweet ramble, but a slow parade; They moved by pairs beside the hawthorn-hedge, Only to set their feelings on an edge; And now at eve, when all their spirits rise, Are sent to rest, and all their pleasure dies; Where yet they all the town-alert can see, And distant plough-boys pacing o'er the lea. These and the tasks successive masters brought - The French they conn'd, the curious works they wrought; The hours they made their taper fingers strike Note after note, all dull to them alike; Their drawings, dancings on appointed days, Playing with globes, and getting parts of plays: The tender friendships made 'twixt heart and heart, When the dear friends had nothing to impart: - All! all! are over;—now th' accomplish'd maid Longs for the world, of nothing there afraid: Dreams of delight invade her gentle breast, And fancied lovers rob the heart of rest; At the paternal door a carriage stands, Love knits their hearts and Hymen joins their hands. Ah! world unknown! how charming is thy view, Thy pleasures many, and each pleasure new: Ah! world experienced! what of thee is told? How few thy pleasures, and those few how old! Within a silent street, and far apart From noise of business, from a quay or mart, Stands an old spacious building, and the din You hear without, explains the work within; Unlike the whispering of the nymphs, this noise Loudly proclaims a "Boarding-School for Boys;" The master heeds it not, for thirty years Have render'd all familiar to his ears; He sits in comfort, 'mid the various sound Of mingled tones for ever flowing round: Day after day he to his task attends, - Unvaried toil, and care that never ends: Boys in their works proceed; while his employ Admits no change, or changes but the boy; Yet time has made it easy;—he beside Has power supreme, and power is sweet to pride: But grant him pleasure; what can teachers feel, Dependent helpers always at the wheel? Their power despised, their compensation small, Their labour dull, their life laborious all; Set after set the lower lads to make Fit for the class which their superiors take; The road of learning for a time to track In roughest state, and then again go back: Just the same way, on other troops to wait, - Attendants fix'd at learning's lower gate. The Day-tasks now are over—to their ground Rush the gay crowd with joy-compelling sound; Glad to elude the burthens of the day, The eager parties hurry to their play: Then in these hours of liberty we find The native bias of the opening mind; They yet possess not skill the mask to place, And hide the passions glowing in the face; Yet some are found—the close, the sly, the mean, Who know already all must not be seen. Lo! one who walks apart, although so young, He lays restraint upon his eye and tongue, Nor will he into scrapes or dangers get, And half the school are in the stripling's debt: Suspicious, timid, he is much afraid Of trick and plot: —he dreads to be betray'd: He shuns all friendship, for he finds they lend When lads begin to call each other friend: Yet self with self has war; the tempting sight Of fruit on sale provokes his appetite; - See! how he walks the sweet seduction by; That he is tempted, costs him first a sigh, - 'Tis dangerous to indulge, 'tis grievous to deny! This he will choose, and whispering asks the price, The purchase dreadful, but the portion nice: Within the pocket he explores the pence; Without, temptation strikes on either sense, The sight, the smell;—but then he thinks again Of money gone! while fruit nor taste remain. Meantime there comes an eager thoughtless boy, Who gives the price and only feels the joy: Example dire: the youthful miser stops And slowly back the treasured coinage drops: Heroic deed! for should he now comply, Can he tomorrow's appetite deny? Beside, these spendthrifts who so freely live, Cloy'd with their purchase, will a portion give: - Here ends debate, he buttons up his store, And feels the comfort that it burns no more. Unlike to him the Tyrant-boy, whose sway All hearts acknowledge; him the crowds obey: At his command they break through every rule; Whoever governs, he controls the school: 'Tis not the distant emperor moves their fear, But the proud viceroy who is ever near. Verres could do that mischief in a day, For which not Rome, in all its power, could pay; And these boy-tyrants will their slaves distress, And do the wrongs no master can redress: The mind they load with fear; it feels disdain For its own baseness; yet it tries in vain To shake th' admitted power: —the coward comes again: 'Tis more than present pain these tyrants give, Long as we've life some strong impressions live; And these young ruffians in the soul will sow Seeds of all vices that on weakness grow. Hark! at his word the trembling younglings flee, Where he is walking none must walk but he; See! from the winter fire the weak retreat, His the warm corner, his the favourite seat, Save when he yields it to some slave to keep Awhile, then back, at his return, to creep: At his command his poor dependants fly, And humbly bribe him as a proud ally; Flatter'd by all, the notice he bestows, Is gross abuse, and bantering and blows; Yet he's a dunce, and, spite of all his fame Without the desk, within he feels his shame: For there the weaker boy, who felt his scorn, For him corrects the blunders of the morn; And he is taught, unpleasant truth! to find The trembling body has the prouder mind. Hark! to that shout, that burst of empty noise, From a rude set of bluff, obstreperous boys; They who, like colts let loose, with vigour bound, And thoughtless spirit, o'er the beaten ground; Fearless they leap, and every youngster feels His Alma active in his hands and heels. These are the sons of farmers, and they come With partial fondness for the joys of home; Their minds are coursing in their fathers' fields, And e'en the dream a lively pleasure yields; They, much enduring, sit th' allotted hours, And o'er a grammar waste their sprightly powers; They dance; but them can measured steps delight, Whom horse and hounds to daring deeds excite? Nor could they bear to wait from meal to meal, Did they not slily to the chamber steal, And there the produce of the basket seize, The mother's gift! still studious of their ease. Poor Alma, thus oppress'd forbears to rise, But rests or revels in the arms and thighs. "But is it sure that study will repay The more attentive and forbearing?"—Nay! The farm, the ship, the humble shop, have each Gains which severest studies seldom reach. At College place a youth, who means to raise His state by merit and his name by praise; Still much he hazards; there is serious strife In the contentions of a scholar's life: Not all the mind's attention, care, distress, Nor diligence itself, ensure success: His jealous heart a rival's powers may dread, Till its strong feelings have confused his head, And, after days and months, nay, years of pain, He finds just lost the object he would gain. But grant him this and all such life can give, For other prospects he begins to live; Begins to feel that man was form'd to look And long for other objects than a book: In his mind's eye his house and glebe he sees, And farms and talks with farmers at his ease; And time is lost, till fortune sends him forth To a rude world unconscious of his worth; There in some petty parish to reside, The college boast, then turn'd the village guide: And though awhile his flock and dairy please, He soon reverts to former joys and ease, Glad when a friend shall come to break his rest, And speak of all the pleasures they possess'd, Of masters, fellows, tutors, all with whom They shared those pleasures, never more to come; Till both conceive the times by bliss endear'd, Which once so dismal and so dull appear'd. But fix our Scholar, and suppose him crown'd With all the glory gain'd on classic ground; Suppose the world without a sigh resign'd, And to his college all his care confined; Give him all honours that such states allow, The freshman's terror and the tradesman's bow; Let his apartments with his taste agree, And all his views be those he loves to see; Let him each day behold the savoury treat, For which he pays not, but is paid to eat; These joys and glories soon delight no more, Although, withheld, the mind is vex'd and sore; The honour too is to the place confined, Abroad they know not each superior mind: Strangers no wranglers in these figures see, Nor give they worship to a high degree; Unlike the prophet's is the scholar's case, His honour all is in his dwelling-place: And there such honours are familiar things; What is a monarch in a crowd of kings? Like other sovereigns he's by forms address'd, By statutes governed and with rules oppress'd. When all these forms and duties die away, And the day passes like the former day, Then of exterior things at once bereft, He's to himself and one attendant left; Nay, John too goes; nor aught of service more Remains for him; he gladly quits the door, And, as he whistles to the college-gate, He kindly pities his poor master's fate. Books cannot always please, however good; Minds are not ever craving for their food; But sleep will soon the weary soul prepare For cares to-morrow that were this day's care: For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past, And formal feasts that will for ever last. "But then from Study will no comforts rise?" - Yes! such as studious minds alone can prize; Comforts, yea!—joys ineffable they find, Who seek the prouder pleasures of the mind: The soul, collected in those happy hours, Then makes her efforts, then enjoys her powers; And in those seasons feels herself repaid, For labours past and honours long delay'd. No! 'tis not worldly gain, although by chance The sons of learning may to wealth advance; Nor station high, though in some favouring hour The sons of learning may arrive at power; Nor is it glory, though the public voice Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice: But 'tis the mind's own feelings give tho joy, Pleasures she gathers in her own employ - Pleasures that gain or praise cannot bestow, Yet can dilate and raise them when they flow. For this the Poet looks thy world around, Where form and life and reasoning man are found; He loves the mind, in all its modes, to trace, And all the manners of the changing race; Silent he walks the road of life along, And views the aims of its tumultuous throng: He finds what shapes the Proteus-passions take, And what strange waste of life and joy they make, And loves to show them in their varied ways, With honest blame or with unflattering praise: 'Tis good to know, 'tis pleasant to impart, These turns and movements of the human heart: The stronger features of the soul to paint, And make distinct the latent and the faint; MAN AS HE IS, to place in all men's view, Yet none with rancour, none with scorn pursue: Nor be it ever of my Portraits told - "Here the strong lines of malice we behold." ——————————- This let me hope, that when in public view I bring my Pictures, men may feel them true: "This is a likeness," may they all declare, "And I have seen him, but I know not where:" For I should mourn the mischief I had done, If as the likeness all would fix on one. ——————————- Man's Vice and Crime I combat as I can, But to his GOD and conscience leave the Man; I search (a Quixote!) all the land about, To find its Giants and Enchanters out, - (The Giant-Folly, the Enchanter-Vice, Whom doubtless I shall vanquish in a trice;) - But is there man whom I would injure?—No! I am to him a fellow, not a foe, - A fellow-sinner, who must rather dread The bolt, than hurl it at another's head. No! let the guiltless, if there such be found, Launch forth the spear, and deal the deadly wound. How can I so the cause of Virtue aid, Who am myself attainted and afraid? Yet as I can, I point the powers of rhyme, And, sparing criminals, attack the crime.