* * * * *

SHE IS GOING.

For their elder Sister's hair Martha does a wreath prepare Of bridal rose, ornate and gay; To-morrow is the wedding-day. She is going.

Mary, youngest of the three, Laughing idler, full of glee, Arm in arm does fondly chain her, Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her— But she's going.

Vex not, maidens, nor regret Thus to part with Margaret. Charms like yours can never stay Long within doors; and one day You'll be going.



SONNETS.

* * * * *

HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS.

By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk: The fair Maria, as a vestal, still; And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. With soft and Lady speech the first applies The mild correctives that to grace belong To her redundant friend, who her defies With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, What music from your happy discord rises, While your companion hearing each, and seeing, Nor this nor that, but both together, prizes; This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, That harmonies may be in things unlike!

* * * * *

WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE.

I was not train'd in Academic bowers, And to those learned streams I nothing owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow; Mine have been anything but studious hours. Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap; My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, And I walk gowned; feel unusual powers. Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain; And my skull teems with notions infinite. Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein, And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite.

* * * * *

TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN "THE BLIND BOY."

Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none, Canst execute with ease thy curious art, And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart, Unaided by the eye, expression's throne! While each blind sense, intelligential grown Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight: Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might,. All motionless and silent seem to moan The unseemly negligence of nature's hand, That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, O mistress of the passions; artist fine! Who dost our souls against our sense command, Plucking the horror from a sightless face, Lending to blank deformity a grace.

* * * * *

WORK.

Who first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down To the ever-haunting importunity Of business in the green fields, and the town— To plough, loom, anvil, spade—and oh! most sad To that dry drudgery at the—desk's dead wood? Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, That round and round incalculably reel— For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel— In that red realm from which are no returnings: Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.

* * * * *

LEISURE.

They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress: Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke, Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation— Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke— I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit: Fling in more days than went to make the gem That crown'd the white top of Methusalem: Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burden of eternity.

* * * * *

DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT.

* * * * *

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

Rogers, of all the men that I have known But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across My mind an image of the cordial tone Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest I more than once have sat; and grieve to think, That of that threefold cord one precious link By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest. Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem— A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer He kept in terror, could respect the Poor, And not for every trifle harass them, As some, divine and laic, too oft do. This man's a private loss, and public too.

* * * * *

THE GYPSY'S MALISON.

"Suck, baby, suck! mother's love grows by giving; Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

"Kiss, baby, kiss! mother's lips shine by kisses; Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.

"Hang, baby, hang! mother's love loves such forces, Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging; Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."

So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.



COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.

* * * * *

TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ. ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS.

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then Esteemed you a perfect specimen Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends, To teach us colder English how a friend's Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain, Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain; But nothing further had the gift to espy. Sudden you reappear. With wonder I Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene Only to his inferior in the clean Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art— Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. Almost without the aid language affords, Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, words, (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws Our tears on credit: and we find the cause Some two hours after, spelling o'er again Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns, Still snatch some new old story from the urns Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.

* * * * *

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,

PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL.

Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask Under the vizor of a borrow'd name; Let things eschew the light deserving blame: No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. "Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book; And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass; Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass, On the great world's antique glories we may look. No longer then, as "lowly substitute, Factor, or PROCTER, for another's gains," Suffer the admiring world to be deceived; Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains, And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.

* * * * *

TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK."

I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition's shown; And all that history—much that fiction—weaves.

By every sort of taste your work is graced. Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, With good old story quaintly interlaced— The theme as various as the reader's mind.

Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint— Yet kindly,—that the half-turn'd Catholic Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, And cannot curse the candid heretic.

Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page; Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold, And, proudly conscious of a purer age, Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.

Verse-honoring Phoebus, Father of bright Days, Must needs bestow on you both good and many, Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.

Dan Phoebus loves your book—trust me, friend Hone— The title only errs, he bids me say: For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, He swears,'tis not a work of every day.

* * * * *

TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ. ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS.

Consummate Artist, whose undying name With classic Rogers shall go down to fame, Be this thy crowning work! In my young days How often have I, with a child's fond gaze, Pored on the pictur'd wonders[1] thou hadst done: Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison! All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view; I saw, and I believed the phantoms true. But, above all, that most romantic tale[2] Did o'er my raw credulity prevail, Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things, That serve at once for jackets and for wings. Age, that enfeebles other men's designs, But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines. In several ways distinct you make us feel— Graceful as Raphael, as Watteau genteel. Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise; And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.

[Footnote 1: Illustrations of the British Novelists.]

[Footnote 2: Peter Wilkins.]

* * * * *

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.

What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate? Good sense—good humor;—these are trivial things, Dear M——, that each trite encomiast sings. But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt From every low-bred passion, where contempt, Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found A harbor yet; an understanding sound; Just views of right and wrong; perception full Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful, In life and manners; wit above her sex, Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks; Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth; A noble nature, conqueror in the strife Of conflict with a hard discouraging life, Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power Of those whose days have been one silken hour, Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense Alike of benefit, and of offence, With reconcilement quick, that instant springs From the charged heart with nimble angel wings; While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd By a strong hand, seemed burn'd into her mind. If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer Richer than land, thou hast them all in her; And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.

* * * * *

[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the "Lives of the Saints, written in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso Villegas, Divine, of the Order of St. Dominick, set forth in English by John Heigham, Anno 1630," bought at a Catholic book-shop in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found, carefully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly coeval with the book itself; and did not, for some time, discover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover to a very humble draught of a St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless the performance of some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.]

O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower, That shrines beneath her modest canopy Memorials dear to Romish piety; Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour The work perchance of some meek devotee, Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth, In this imperfect tracery might see Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal. Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold, That in their way approved the offerer's zeal. True love shows costliest, where the means are scant; And, in their reckoning, they abound, who want.

* * * * *

THE SELF-ENCHANTED.

I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare, Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there, Stooping, like some enchanted theme, Over the marge of that crystal stream, Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind, With Self-love fond, had to waters pined, Ages had waked, and ages slept, And that bending posture still she kept: For her eyes she may not turn away, 'Till a fairer object shall pass that way— 'Till an image more beauteous this world can show, Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. Pore on, fair Creature! forever pore, Nor dream to be disenchanted more: For vain is expectance, and wish in vain, 'Till a new Narcissus can come again.

TO LOUISA M——, WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY."

Louisa, serious grown and mild, I knew you once a romping child, Obstreperous much and very wild. Then you would clamber up my knees, And strive with every art to tease, When every art of yours could please. Those things would scarce be proper now, But they are gone, I know not how, And woman's written on your brow. Time draws his finger o'er the scene; But I cannot forget between The Thing to me you once have been; Each sportive sally, wild escape,— The scoff, the banter, and the jape,— And antics of my gamesome Ape.



TRANSLATIONS.

FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE.

* * * * *

I.

THE BALLAD SINGERS.

Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[1] draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race: With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discolored Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. One a small infant at the breast does bear; And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken, Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns, Cherish'd the gift of Song, which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.— Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid, Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. He stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load. Hither and thither from the sevenfold road Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, They reunite, so these unite as fast. The older Songstress hitherto hath spent Her elocution in the argument Of their great Song in prose; to wit, the woes Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes— Ah! "Wandering He!"—which now in loftier verse Pathetic they alternately rehearse. All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes His right ear to the strain. The other hopes To catch it better with his left. Long trade It were to tell, how the deluded maid A victim fell. And now right greedily All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, That are so tragical; which She, and She, Deals out, and sings the while; nor can there be A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back His contribution from the gentle rack Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self, The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest, And boldly claims his ballad with the best. An old Dame only lingers. To her purse The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall, While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way; How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."

[Footnote 1: Seven Dials]

* * * * *

II.

TO DAVID COOK,

OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN.

For much good-natured verse received from thee, A loving verse take in return from me. "Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry; And to our David "twice as good," say I. Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer, Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear, Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night Fills half the world with shadows of affright, You with your lantern, partner of your round, Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound. The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall; Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all. But if the market gard'ner chance to pass, Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass, The gentle salesman you with candor greet, And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet. Announcing your approach by formal bell, Of nightly weather you the changes tell; Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet Of winter; and in alley, or in street, Relieve your midnight progress with a verse. What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse On your didactic strain—indulgent Night With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, And critics sleep while you in staves do sound The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim: Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name? Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine, And wish long days to all the Brunswick line! To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read; Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead; Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice: How death at last all ranks doth equalize; And, in conclusion, pray good years befall, With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all." For this and other tokens of good will On boxing-day may store of shillings fill Your Christmas purse; no householder give less, When at each door your blameless suit you press: And what you wish to us (it is but reason) Receive in turn—the compliments o' th' season!

* * * * *

III.

ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING.

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, May the repose unbroken be, Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, While thou enjoy'st along with it That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, Or counterfeit to mortal sense, The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!

* * * * *

IV.

EPITAPH ON A DOG. Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings, but would plant, Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there, The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs, And common portion in his feast of scraps; Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent With our long day and tedious beggary. These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side. But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

* * * * *

V.

THE RIVAL BELLS.

A tuneful challenge rings from either side Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride, Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy. Such harmony from the contention flows, That the divided ear no preference knows: Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, While one exceeds in number, one in weight.

* * * * *

VI.

NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.

Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt, Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet; But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, Discover'd properties to her unknown; Of A plus B, or minus, learn'd the use, Known Quantities from unknown to educe; And made—no doubt to that old dame's surprise— The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies. Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say, Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!

* * * * *

VII.

THE HOUSEKEEPER.

The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, Carries his house with him, where'er he goes; Peeps out—and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain. Touch but a tip of him, a horn—'tis well— He curls up in his sanctuary shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. Himself he boards and lodges; both invites, And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattels; himself is his own furniture, And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam— Knock when you will—he's sure to be at home.

* * * * *

VIII.

ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.[1]

[Footnote 1: Benjamin Ferrers—Died A. D. 1732.]

And hath thy blameless life become A prey to the devouring tomb? A more mute silence hast thou known, A deafness deeper than thine own, While Time was? and no friendly Muse, That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, Repair with quickening verse the breach. And write thee into light and speech? The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd; Who made the Hearing, without wrong Did rescue thine from Siren's song. He let thee see the ways of men, Which thou with pencil, not with pen, Careful Beholder, down didst note, And all their motley actions quote, Thyself unstain'd the while. From look Or gesture reading, more than book, In letter'd pride thou took'st no part, Contented with the Silent Art, Thyself as silent. Might I be As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!

* * * * *

IX.

THE FEMALE ORATORS.

Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named, So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs A name, allusive strictly to two Tongues[1] Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes, And gratis deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes. With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes, Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes. One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds, And one in literalities abounds; In mood and figure these keep up the din: Words multiply, and every word tells in. Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains; And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo, And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero. Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand, And from her sovereign station taints the land. Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar; Quacks scold; and Billingsgate infects the Bar.

[Footnote 1: Bilinguis in the Latin.]

* * * * *

PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL.

I.

Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, That sang the Pillory, In loftier strains to show A more sublime Machine Than that, where thou wert seen, With neck outstretcht and shoulders ill awry, Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below— A most unseemly show!

II.

In such a place Who could expose thy face, Historiographer of deathless Crusoe! That paint'st the strife And all the naked ills of savage life, Far above Rousseau? Rather myself had stood In that ignoble wood, Bare to the mob, on holiday or high-day. If nought else could atone For waggish libel, I swear on bible, I would have spared him for thy sake alone, Man Friday!

III.

Our ancestors' were sour days, Great Master of Romance! A milder doom had fallen to thy chance In our days: Thy sole assignment Some solitary confinement, (Not worth thy care a carrot,) Where in world-hidden cell Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, Only without the parrot; By sure experience taught to know, Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.

IV.

But stay! methinks in statelier measure— A more companionable pleasure— I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace, (The subject of my song, Delay'd however long,) And some of thine own race, To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. There with thee go, Link'd in like sentence, With regulated pace and footing slow, Each old acquaintance, Rogue—harlot—thief—that live to future ages; Through many a labor'd tome, Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home! Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags; Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags, There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.

V.

Incompetent my song to raise, To its just height thy praise, Great Mill! That by thy motion proper (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill), Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, Turn'st out men's consciences, That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet As flour from purest wheat, Into thy hopper. All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, Or human, or divine.

VI.

Compared with thee, What are the labors of that Jumping Sect, Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? Thou dost not bump, Or jump, But walk men into virtue; betwixt crime And slow repentance giving breathing time, And leisure to be good; Instructing with discretion demi-reps How to direct their steps.

VII.

Thou best Philosopher made out of wood! Not that which framed the tub, Where sat the Cynic cub, With nothing in his bosom sympathetic; But from those groves derived, I deem, Where Plato nursed his dream Of immortality; Seeing that clearly Thy system all is merely Peripatetic. Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give Of how to live With temperance, sobriety, morality, (A new art,) That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, Each Tyro now proceeds A "Walking Stewart!"

* * * * *

GOING OR GONE.

I.

Fine merry franions, Wanton companions, My days are ev'n banyans With thinking upon ye! How Death, that last stinger, Finis-writer, end-bringer, Has laid his chill finger, Or is laying on ye.

II.

There's rich Kitty Wheatley, With footing it featly That took me completely, She sleeps in the Kirk House; And poor Polly Perkin, Whose Dad was still firking The jolly ale firkin, She's gone to the Work-house;

III.

Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter (In ten counties no smarter) Has ta'en his departure For Proserpine's orchards: And Lily, postilion, With cheeks of vermilion, Is one of a million That fill up the church-yards;

IV.

And, lusty as Dido, Fat Clemitson's widow Flits now a small shadow By Stygian hid ford; And good Master Clapton Has thirty years napt on, The ground he last hapt on, Entomb'd by fair Widford;

V.

And gallant Tom Dockwra, Of Nature's finest crockery, Now but thin air and mockery, Lurks by Avernus, Whose honest grasp of hand Still, while his life did stand, At friend's or foe's command, Almost did burn us.

VI.

Roger de Coverley Not more good man than he; Yet has he equally Push'd for Cocytus, With drivelling Worral, And wicked old Dorrell, 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, Whose end might affright us!—

VII.

Kindly hearts have I known; Kindly hearts, they are flown; Here and there if but one Linger yet uneffaced, Imbecile tottering elves, Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, These scarce are half themselves, With age and care crazed.

VIII.

But this day Fanny Hutton Her last dress has put on; Her fine lessons forgotten, She died, as the dunce died; And prim Betsey Chambers, Decay'd in her members, No longer remembers Things, as she once did;

IX.

And prudent Miss Wither Not in jest now doth wither, And soon must go—whither Nor I well, nor you know; And flaunting Miss Waller, That soon must befall her, Whence none can recall her, Though proud once as Juno!

* * * * *



FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS.

Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites; for my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, or for Handel.— Cannot a man live free and easy, Without admiring Pergolesi? Or through the world with comfort go, That never heard of Doctor Blow? So help me heaven, I hardly have; And yet I eat, and drink, and shave, Like other people, if you watch it, And know no more of stave or crotchet, Than did the primitive Peruvians; Or those old ante-queer-diluvians That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal, Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. I care no more for Cimarosa, Than he did for Salvator Rosa, Being no painter; and bad luck Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck! Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel, Had something in them; but who's Purcel? The devil, with his foot so cloven, For aught I care, may take Beethoven; And, if the bargain does not suit, I'll throw him Weber in to boot. There's not the splitting of a splinter To choose twixt him last named, and Winter. Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. I would not go four miles to visit Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?) No more I would for Bononcini. As for Novello, or Rossini, I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, Because they're living; so I leave 'em.



THE WIFE'S TRIAL;

OR,

THE INTRUDING WIDOW.

A Dramatic poem.

FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE'S TALE OF "THE CONFIDANT."

* * * * *

CHARACTERS.

MR. SELBY, A Wiltshire Gentleman. KATHERINE, Wife to Selby. LUCY, Sister to Selby. MRS. FRAMPTON, A Widow.

SERVANTS.

SCENE—At Mr. Selby's House, or in the grounds adjacent.

* * * * *

SCENE—A Library.

MR. SELBY. KATHERINE.

Selby. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife; I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself, And those too with allowance. I have not Been blest by thy fair side with five white years Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch With any strain of harshness on a string Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine, That to the lame performance of some vows, And common courtesies of man to wife, Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd To esteem as favors, what in that blest union Are but reciprocal and trivial dues, As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought Gently to reprehend.

Kath. In friendship's barter The riches we exchange should hold some level, And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys Demand some thanks thrown in. You look me, sir, To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom, An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm. Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden, Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.

Selby. But to divert the subject: Kate too fond, I would not wrest your meanings; else that word Accompanied, and full-accompanied too, Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives Haply did think their company too long; And over-company, we know by proof, Is worse than no attendance.

Kath. I must guess, You speak this of the Widow—

Selby. 'Twas a bolt At random shot; but if it hit, believe me, I am most sorry to have wounded you Through a friend's side. I know not how we have swerved From our first talk. I was to caution you Against this fault of a too grateful nature: Which, for some girlish obligations past, In that relenting season of the heart, When slightest favors pass for benefits Of endless binding, would entail upon you An iron slavery of obsequious duty To the proud will of an imperious woman.

Kath. The favors are not slight to her I owe.

Selby. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts Cancels all dues— [A voice within. even now I hear her call you In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate. Let her expect a brace of minutes or so. Say you are busy. Use her by degrees To some less hard exactions.

Kath. I conjure you, Detain me not. I will return—

Selby. Sweet wife, Use thy own pleasure— [Exit KATHERINE. but it troubles me. A visit of three days, as was pretended, Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given When she will go! I would this buxom Widow Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try My Katherine's constancy; make desperate love In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils, That she, not I, should be the first to warn The insidious guest depart.

Reenter KATHERINE.

So soon return'd! What was our Widow's will?

Kath. A trifle, sir.

Selby. Some toilet service—to adjust her head, Or help to stick a pin in the right place—

Kath. Indeed 'twas none of these.

Selby. Or new vamp up The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her Demand such service from thee, as her maid, Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red, And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond slave! And yet my dearest Kate!—This day at least (It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom, And will forget our Widow. Philip, our coach— Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs To the blest cottage on the green hill-side, Where first I told my love. I wonder much, If the crimson parlor hath exchanged its hue For colors not so welcome. Faded though it be, It will not show less lovely than the tinge Of this faint red, contending with the pale, Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side, That bears my Katherine's name.— Our carriage, Philip.

Enter a Servant.

Now, Robin, what make you here?

Servant. May it please you, The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton.

Selby. He had no orders—

Servant. None, sir, that I know of, But from the lady, who expects some letter At the next Post Town.

Selby. Go, Robin. [Exit Servant. How is this?

Kath. I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger—

Selby. It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton, This forward Widow. But a ride's poor loss Imports not much. In to your chamber, love, Where you with music may beguile the hour, While I am tossing over dusty tomes, Till our most reasonable friend returns.

Kath. I am all obedience. [Exit KATHERINE.

Selby. Too obedient, Kate, And to too many masters. I can hardly On such a day as this refrain to speak My sense of this injurious friend, this pest, This household evil, this close-clinging fiend, In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants Controll'd above me! orders countermanded! What next? [Servant enters and announces the Sister.

Enter LUCY.

Sister! I know you are come to welcome This day's return. 'Twas well done.

Lucy. You seem ruffled. In years gone by this day was used to be The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd So soon to gall?

Selby. Gall'd am I, and with cause, And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance, Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.

Lucy. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton.

Selby. She came at first a meek admitted guest, Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk, The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing, Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress, Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife; Who owes her some strange service, of what nature I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye, As spell-bound by some witch.

Lucy. Some mystery hangs on it. How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?

Selby. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought, A secret glance would tell me she could love, If I but gave encouragement. Before me She keeps some moderation; but is never Closeted with my wife, but in the end I find my Katherine in briny tears. From the small chamber, where she first was lodged, The gradual fiend by spacious wriggling arts Has now ensconced herself in the best part Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own; Commands my servants, equipage.—I hear Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon?

Enter MRS. FRAMPTON.

Mrs. F. O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death, With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks, And stoniest hard lanes in all the county, Till I was fain get out, and so walk back, My errand unperform'd at Andover.

Lucy. And I shall love the knave forever after. [Aside.

Mrs. F. A friend with you!

Selby. My eldest sister, Lucy, Come to congratulate this returning morn.— Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton.

Mrs. F. Pray, Be seated; for your brother's sake, you are welcome. I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion With the good couple, to whose hospitality I stand so far indebted. But your coming Makes it a feast.

Lucy. She does the honors naturally— [Aside.

Selby. As if she were the mistress of the house.— [Aside.

Mrs. F. I love to be at home with loving friends. To stand on ceremony with obligations, Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though, Of yours jumbles one strangely.

Selby. I shall order An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam—

Lucy. To drive her and her pride to Lucifer, I hope he means. [Aside.

Mrs. F. I must go trim myself; this humbled garb Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave For a short absence?—and your Katherine—

Selby. You'll find her in her closet—

Mrs. F. Fare you well, then. [Exit.

Selby. How like you her assurance?

Lucy. Even so well, That if this Widow were my guest, not yours, She should have coach enough, and scope to ride. My merry groom should in a trice convey her To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge, To pick her path through those antiques at leisure; She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints. O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise, That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart Secrets of any worth, especially Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught, My life upon't,'tis but some girlish story Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife Might modestly deny to a husband's ear, Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.

Selby. I think it is no more; and will dismiss My further fears, if ever I have had such.

Lucy. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother; And how the new trees thrive, I recommended. Your Katherine is engaged now—

Selby. I'll attend you.

[Exeunt.

SCENE.—Servants' Hall.

HOUSEKEEPER, PHILIP, and others, laughing.

Housekeeper. Our Lady's guest, since her short ride, seems ruffled, And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip, I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant.

Philip. Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper, And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions, We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger, And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries. We are wild things.

Butler. Good Philip, tell us all.

All. Ay, as you live, tell, tell—

Philip. Mad fellows, you shall have it. The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud—

Butler. I think that no one can mistake her ringing.

Waiting-maid. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to it, More of entreaty hath it than command.

Philip. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus. The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman Philip!"

I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office, "Drive me," quoth she, "to the next market-town, Where I have hope of letters." I made haste: Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd, And drove her—

Waiting-maid. By the straight high-road to Andover, I guess—

Philip. Pray, warrant things within your knowledge, Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings, And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.

Butler. He'll have his humor; best not interrupt him.

Philip. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the poor beasts, Meeting such droves of cattle and of people, May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled, Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd, And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest, By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam, In policy, to save the few joints left her, Betook her to her feet, and there we parted.

All. Ha! ha! ha!

Butler. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride.

Waiting-maid. I think she is a witch; I have tired myself out With sticking pins in her pillow; still she scapes them—

Butler. And I with helping her to mum for claret, But never yet could cheat her dainty palate.

Housekeeper. Well, well, she is the guest of our good Mistress, And so should be respected. Though, I think, Our master cares not for her company, He would ill brook we should express so much By rude discourtesies, and short attendance, Being but servants. (A Bell rings furiously.) 'Tis her bell speaks now; Good, good, bestir yourselves: who knows who's wanted?

Butler. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip coachman. [Exeunt.

* * * * *

SCENE.—Mrs. Selby's Chamber.

MRS. FRAMPTON, KATHERINE, working.

Mrs. F. I am thinking, child, how contrary our fates Have traced our lots through life.—Another needle, This works untowardly.—An heiress born To splendid prospects, at our common school I was as one above you all, not of you; Had my distinct prerogatives; my freedoms, Denied to you. Pray, listen—

Kath. I must hear, What you are pleased to speak—how my heart sinks here! [Aside.

Mrs. F. My chamber to myself, my separate maid, My coach, and so forth.—Not that needle, simple one, With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops! Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs, But I could make a shift to thread a smaller. A cable or a camel might go through this, And never strain for the passage.

Kath. I will fit you—— Intolerable tyranny! [Aside.

Mrs. F. Quick, quick; You were not once so slack.—As I was saying, Not a young thing among ye, but observed me Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to In all your dangers, all your little difficulties, Your girlish scrapes? I was the scape-goat still, To fetch you off; kept all your secrets, some, Perhaps, since then—

Kath. No more of that, for mercy, If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet, Cleave the cold earth for comfort. [Kneels.

Mrs. F. This to me? This posture to your friend had better suited The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days To the then rich heiress, than the wife of Selby, Of wealthy Mr. Selby, To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is. Come, come, 'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said; I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bedfellow! You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you. I'll make him give you up a night or so; In faith I will: that we may lie, and talk Old tricks of school-days over.

Kath. Hear me, madam—

Mrs. F. Not by that name. Your friend—

Kath. My truest friend, And savior of my honor!

Mrs. F. This sounds better; You still shall find me such.

Kath. That you have graced Our poor house with your presence hitherto, Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate. You have been pleased To accept some trivial hospitalities, In part of payment of a long arrear I owe to you, no less than for my life.

Mrs. F. You speak my services too large.

Kath. Nay, less; For what an abject thing were life to me Without your silence on my dreadful secret! And I would wish the league we have renew'd Might be perpetual—

Mrs. F. Have a care, fine madam! [Aside.

Kath. That one house still might hold us. But my husband Has shown himself of late—

Mrs. F. How, Mistress Selby?

Kath. Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him. He honors, and he loves, nay, he must love The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods, In which—

Mrs. F. I understand you;—in which husbands, And wives that love, may wish to be alone, To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance, After a five years' wedlock.

Kath. Was that well, Or charitably put? do these pale cheeks Proclaim a wanton blood? This wasting form Seem a fit theatre for Levity To play his love-tricks on; and act such follies, As even in Affection's first bland Moon Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks? I was about to say, that there are times, When the most frank and sociable man May surfeit on most loved society, Preferring loneness rather—

Mrs. F. To my company—

Kath. Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so. For solitude, I have heard my Selby say, Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions; And he would call it oft, the day's soft sleep.

Mrs. F. What is your drift? and whereto tends this speech, Rhetorically labor'd?

Kath. That you would Abstain but from our house a month, a week; I make request but for a single day.

Mrs. F. A month, a week, a day! A single hour Is every week, and month, and the long year, And all the years to come! My footing here, Slipt once, recovers never. From the state Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries, Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides, To the bare cottage on the withering moor, Where I myself am servant to myself, Or only waited on by blackest thoughts— I sink, if this be so. No; here I sit.

Kath. Then I am lost forever!

[Sinks at her feet—curtain drops.

SCENE—An Apartment contiguous to the last.

SELBY, as if listening.

Selby. The sounds have died away. What am I changed to? What do I here, list'ning like to an abject, Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good, If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your husband." It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery, And the solution with a vengeance comes. What can my wife have left untold to me, That must be told by proxy? I begin To call in doubt the course of her life past Under my very eyes. She hath not been good, Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun My wishes still with prompt and meek observance. Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced; her eyes Not like the dove's; all this as well may be, As that she should entreasure up a secret In the peculiar closet of her breast, And grudge it to my ear. It is my right To claim the halves in any truth she owns, As much as in the babe I have by her; Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look, Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow Some strange shame written.

Enter LUCY.

Sister, an anxious word with you. From out the chamber, where my wife but now Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard (Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance) A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone Of replication, such as the meek dove Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her. The high Widow Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard One threat pronounced—"Your husband shall know all." I am no listener, sister; and I hold A secret, got by such unmanly shift, The pitiful'st of thefts; but what mine ear, I not intending it, receives perforce, I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning Lurks in this fiend's behavior; which, by force, Or fraud I must make mine.

Lucy. The gentlest means Are still the wisest. What, if you should press Your wife to a disclosure?

Selby. I have tried All gentler means; thrown out low hints, which, though Merely suggestions still, have never fail'd To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to insist, Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal.

Lucy. Your own description gave that Widow out As one not much precise, nor over-coy, And nice to listen to a suit of love. What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on, (To work the secret from her easy faith,) For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming?

Selby. I see your drift, and partly meet your counsel. But must it not in me appear prodigious, To say the least, unnatural, and suspicious, To move hot love, where I have shown cool scorn, And undissembled looks of blank aversion?

Lucy. Vain woman is the dupe of her own charms, And easily credits the resistless power, That in besieging beauty lies, to cast down The slight-built fortress of a casual hate.

Selby. I am resolved—

Lucy. Success attend your wooing!

Selby. And I'll about it roundly, my wise sister. [Exeunt.

SCENE.—The Library.

MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON.

Selby. A fortunate encounter, Mistress Frampton. My purpose was, if you could spare so much From your sweet leisure, a few words in private.

Mrs. F. What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to me, Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness? Is the wind changed? I'll veer about with it, And meet him in all fashions. [Aside. All my leisure, Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here, Would not express a tithe of the obligements I every hour incur.

Selby. No more of that. I know not why, my wife hath lost of late Much of her cheerful spirits.

Mrs. F. It was my topic To-day; and every day, and all day long, I still am chiding with her. "Child," I said, And said it pretty roundly—it may be I was too peremptory—we elder school-fellows, Presuming on the advantage of a year Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much, In after years, much like to elder sisters, Are prone to keep the authoritative style, When time has made the difference most ridiculous—

Selby. The observation's shrewd.

Mrs. F. "Child," I was saying, "If some wives had obtain'd a lot like yours," And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit In corners moping, like to sullen moppets, That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps I said, their Selbys, "with proportion'd looks Of honest joy."

Selby. You do suspect no jealousy?

Mrs. F. What is his import? Whereto tends his Speech? [Aside. Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir?

Selby. I do not know, but women have their fancies; And underneath a cold indifference, Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd A growing fondness for a female friend, Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see, Before the friend had wit to find it out. You do not quit us soon?

Mrs. F. 'Tis as I find; Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir.— Means this man honest? Is there no deceit? [Aside.

Selby. She cannot choose.—Well, well, I have been thinking, And if the matter were to do again—

Mrs. F. What matter, sir?

Selby. This idle bond of wedlock; These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk; I might have made, I do not say a better, But a more fit choice in a wife.

Mrs. F. The parch'd ground, In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers More greedily than I his words! [Aside.

Selby. My humor Is to be frank and jovial; and that man Affects me best, who most reflects me in My most free temper.

Mrs. F. Were you free to choose, As jestingly I'll put the supposition, Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine, What sort of Woman would you make your choice?

Selby. I like your humor and will meet your jest. She should be one about my Katherine's age; But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity, One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it: No muling, pining moppet, as you said, Nor moping maid that I must still be teaching The freedoms of a wife all her life after: But one that, having worn the chain before, (And worn it lightly, as report gave out,) Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death, Took it not so to heart that I need dread To die myself, for fear a second time To wet a widow's eye.

Mrs. F. Some widows, sir, Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt To put strange misconstruction on your words, As aiming at a Turkish liberty, Where the free husband hath his several mates, His Penseroso, his Allegro wife, To suit his sober or his frolic fit.

Selby. How judge you of that latitude?

Mrs. F. As one, In European customs bred, must judge. Had I Been born a native of the liberal East, I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew A married man that took a second wife, And (the man's circumstances duly weigh'd, With all their bearings) the considerate world Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the deed.

Selby. You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed.

Mrs. F. An eye of wanton liking he had placed Upon a Widow, who liked him again, But stood on terms of honorable love, And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife— When to their ears a lucky rumor ran, That this demure and saintly-seeming wife Had a first husband living; with the which Being question'd, she but faintly could deny. "A priest indeed there was; some words had pass'd, But scarce amounting to a marriage rite. Her friend was absent; she supposed him dead; And, seven years parted, both were free to choose."

Selby. What did the indignant husband? Did he not With violent handlings stigmatize the cheek Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd Shame on their innocent babe?

Mrs. F. He neither tore His wife's locks nor his own; but wisely weighing His own offence with hers in equal poise, And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man, Came to a calm and witty compromise. He coolly took his gay-faced widow home, Made her his second wife; and still the first Lost few or none of her prerogatives. The servants call'd her mistress still; she kept The keys, and had the total ordering Of the house affairs; and, some slight toys excepted, Was all a moderate wife would wish to be.

Selby. A tale full of dramatic incident!— And if a man should put it in a play, How should he name the parties?

Mrs. F. The man's name Through time I have forgot—the widow's too;— But his first wife's first name, her maiden one, Was—not unlike to that your Katherine bore, Before she took the honor'd style of Selby.

Selby. A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks. One knot is yet unsolved; that told, this strange And most mysterious drama ends. The name Of that first husband—

Enter LUCY.

Mrs. F. Sir, your pardon— The allegory fits your private ear. Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk, We shall have leisure. [Exit.

Selby. Sister, whence come you?

Lucy. From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she droops In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps, And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks As she would pour her secret in my bosom— Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention Of some immodest act. At her request, I left her on her knees.

Selby. The fittest posture; For great has been her fault to Heaven and me. She married me with a first husband living, Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment Of any but indifferent honesty, Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow, Caught by my art, under a riddling veil Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all. Your coming in broke off the conference, When she was ripe to tell the fatal name That seals my wedded doom.

Lucy. Was she so forward To pour her hateful meanings in your ear At the first hint?

Selby. Her newly flatter'd hopes Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt; And with a female caution she stood off Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit, Which with such honest seeming I enforced, That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife, To seize the place of her betrayed friend— My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine.

Lucy. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes My simple project has conducted you— Were but my wit as skilful to invent A clue to lead you forth!—I call to mind A letter, which your wife received from the Cape, Soon after you were married, with some circumstances Of mystery too.

Selby. I well remember it. That letter did confirm the truth (she said) Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true, But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise She gave him out—a hot adventurous spirit— That had set sail in quest of golden dreams, And cities in the heart of Central Afric; But named no names, nor did I care to press My question further, in the passionate grief She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he?

Lucy. Tears were not all. When that first shower was past, With clasp'd hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n, As if in thankfulness for some escape, Or strange deliverance, in the news implied, Which sweeten'd that sad news.

Selby. Something of that I noted also—

Lucy. In her closet once, Seeking some other trifle, I espied A ring, in mournful characters deciphering The death of "Robert Halford, aged two And twenty." Brother, I am not given To the confident use of wagers, which I hold Unseemly in a woman's argument; But I am strangely tempted now to risk A thousand pounds out of my patrimony, (And let my future husband look to it, If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow Shall name the name that tallies with that ring.

Selby. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed— Rich in my rescued Kate—rich in my honor, Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept Your merry wager, with an aching heart For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour That I should meet my Widow in the walk, The south side of the garden. On some pretence Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight, Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give, (A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,) You'll know your wager won—then break upon us, As if by chance.

Lucy. I apprehend your meaning—

Selby. And may you prove a true Cassandra here, Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister. [Exeunt.

* * * * *

SCENE.—Mrs. Selby's chamber.

MRS. FRAMPTON. KATHERINE.

Mrs. F. Did I express myself in terms so strong?

Kath. As nothing could have more affrighted me.

Mrs. F. Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution Of a suspected cooling hospitality. And, for my staying here, or going hence, (Now I remember something of our argument,) Selby and I can settle that between us. You look amazed. What if your husband, child, Himself has courted me to stay?

Kath. You move My wonder and my pleasure equally.

Mrs. F. Yes, courted me to stay, waived all objections, Made it a favor to yourselves; not me, His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child, When I recall his flattering welcome, I Begin to think the burden of my presence Was—

Kath. What, for Heaven—

Mrs. F. A little, little spice Of jealousy—that's all—an honest pretext, No wife need blush for. Say that you should see, (As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms, Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal A kiss, while you were by,—not else, for virtue's sake.

Kath. I could endure all this, thinking my husband Meant it in sport—

Mrs. F. But if in downright earnest (Putting myself out of the question here) Your Selby, as I partly do suspect, Own'd a divided heart—

Kath. My own would break—

Mrs. F. Why, what a blind and witless fool it is, That will not see its gains, its infinite gains—

Kath. Gain in a loss. Or mirth in utter desolation!

Mrs. F. He doating on a face—suppose it mine, Or any other's tolerably fair— What need you care about a senseless secret?

Kath. Perplex'd and fearful woman! I in part Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke The worse than iron band, fretting the soul, By which you held me captive. Whether my husband Is what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy But dreams he is so, either way I am free.

Mrs. F. It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame; A very heroine while on its knees; Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista?

Kath. Not to thy wretched self these tears are falling; But to my husband, and offended Heaven, Some drops are due—and then I sleep in peace, Relieved from frightful dreams, my dreams though sad [Exit.

Mrs. F. I have gone too far. Who knows but in this mood She may forestall my story, win on Selby By a frank confession?—and the time draws on For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate, For which I play. A moment's difference May make it hers or mine. I fly to meet him. [Exit.

* * * * *

SCENE.—A garden.

MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON.

Selby. I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs. Frampton, Not to conjecture, that some passages In your unfinish'd story, rightly interpreted, Glanced at my bosom's peace; You knew my wife?

Mrs. F. Even from her earliest school-days—What of that? Or how is she concern'd in my fine riddles, Framed for the hour's amusement!

Selby. By my hopes Of my new interest conceived in you, And by the honest passion of my heart, Which not obliquely I to you did hint; Come from the clouds of misty allegory, And in plain language let me hear the worst. Stand I disgraced, or no?

Mrs. F. Then, by my hopes Of my new interest conceived in you, And by the kindling passion in my breast, Which through my riddles you had almost read, Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all. In her school years, then bordering on fifteen, Or haply not much past, she loved a youth—

Selby. My most ingenuous Widow—

Mrs. F. Met him oft By stealth, where I still of the party was—

Selby. Prime confidant to all the school, I warrant, And general go-between— [Aside.

Mrs. F. One morn he came In breathless haste. "The ship was under sail, Or in few hours would be, that must convey Him and his destinies to barbarous shores, Where, should he perish by inglorious hands, It would be consolation in his death To have call'd his Katherine his."

Selby. Thus far the story Tallies with what I hoped. [Aside.

Mrs. F. Wavering between The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him; And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged, Whom he had flatter'd with the bridemaid's part;—

Selby. I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this. [Aside.

Mrs. F. Briefly, we went to church. The ceremony Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted— He to his ship; and we to school got back, Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring.

Selby. And from that hour—

Mrs. F. Nor sight, nor news of him, For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd.

Selby. Like to a man that hovers in suspense Over a letter just received, on which The black seal hath impress'd its ominous token, Whether to open it or no, so I Suspended stand, whether to press my fate Further, or check ill curiosity, That tempts me to more loss.—The name, the name Of this fine youth?

Mrs. F. What boots it, if 'twere told?

Selby. Now, by our loves, And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day To be accomplish'd, give me his name!

Mrs. F. 'Tis no such serious matter. It was—Huntingdon.

Selby. How have three little syllables pluck'd from me A world of countless hopes!— [Aside. Evasive Widow.

Mrs. F. How, sir!—I like not this. [Aside.

Selby. No, no, I meant Nothing but good to thee. That other woman, How shall I call her but evasive, false, And treacherous?—by the trust I place in thee, Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name As you pronounced it?

Mrs. F. Huntingdon—the name, Which his paternal grandfather assumed, Together with the estates of a remote Kinsman: but our high-spirited youth—

Selby. Yes—

Mrs. F. Disdaining For sordid pelf to truck the family honors, At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style, And answer'd only to the name of—

Selby. What—

Mrs. F. Of Halford—

Selby. A Huntingdon to Halford changed so soon! Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells, As well as bad, and can by a backward charm Unruffle the foul storm she has just been raising. [Aside. He makes the signal.

My frank, fair-spoken Widow! let this kiss, Which yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks, Till I can think on greater.

Enter LUCY and KATHERINE.

Mrs. F. Interrupted!

Selby. My sister here! and see, where with her comes My serpent gliding in an angel's form, To taint the new-born Eden of our joys. Why should we fear them? We'll not stir a foot, Nor coy it for their pleasures. [He courts the Widow.

Lucy (to Katherine). This your free, And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me Forever to you; and it shall go hard, But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart, That now seems blindly straying; or, at worst, In me you have still a sister.—Some wives, brother, Would think it strange to catch their husbands thus Alone with a trim widow; but your Katherine Is arm'd, I think, with patience.

Kath. I am fortified With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs, If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me; Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest, As now I think he does it but in seeming, To that ill woman.

Selby. Good words, gentle Kate, And not a thought irreverent of our Widow. Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time, But most uncourteous on our wedding-day, When we should show most hospitable.—Some wine! [Wine is brought.

I am for sports. And now I do remember, The old Egyptians at their banquets placed A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them, With images of cold mortality, To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant. I like the custom well: and ere we crown With freer mirth the day, I shall propose, In calmest recollection of our spirits, We drink the solemn "Memory of the Dead,"—

Mrs. F. Or the supposed dead— [Aside to him.

Selby. Pledge me, good, wife— [She fills. Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er,

Kath. I catch the awful import of your words; And, though I could accuse you of unkindness, Yet as your lawful and obedient wife, While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading, Nor I much longer may have leave to use it) I calmly take the office you impose; And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness, Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended, Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness, I pledge you, sir—the Memory of the Dead! [She drinks kneeling.

Selby. 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like My former loving Kate.

Mrs. F. Does he relent? [Aside.

Selby. That ceremony past, we give the day To unabated sport. And, in requital Of certain stories and quaint allegories, Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend Her patient hearing, I will here recite A Parable; and, the more to suit her taste, The scene is laid in the East.

Mrs. F. I long to hear it. Some tale, to fit his wife. [Aside.

Kath. Now, comes my TRIAL.

Lucy. The hour of your deliverance is at hand, If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister.

Selby. "The Sultan Haroun"—Stay—O now I have it— "The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits, That he reserved them for his proper gust; And through the Palace it was Death proclaim'd To any one that should purloin the same."

Mrs. F. A heavy penance for so light a fault—

Selby. Pray you, be silent, else you put me out. "A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd, Detected in the act a brother page, Of his own years, that was his bosom friend; And thenceforth he became that other's lord, And like a tyrant he demean'd himself, Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse; And when that poor means fail'd, held o'er his head Threats of impending death in hideous forms; Till the small culprit on his nightly couch Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake."

Mrs. F. I like not this beginning—

Selby. Pray you, attend. "The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps, And took the youthful pleasures from his days, And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow, That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned To a pale skeleton of what he was; And would have died, but for one lucky chance."

Kath. Oh!

Mrs. F. Your wife—she faints—some cordial—smell to this.

Selby. Stand off. My sister best will do that office.

Mrs. F. Are all his tempting speeches come to this? [Aside.

Selby. What ail'd my wife?

Kath. A warning faintness, sir, Seized on my spirits, when you came to where You said "a lucky chance." I am better now: Please you go on.

Selby. The sequel shall be brief.

Kath. But, brief, or long, I feel my fate hangs on it. [Aside.

Selby. "One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid, Close by an arbor where the two boys talk'd, (As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns Would play the eavesdropper, to learn the truth. Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,) O'erheard their dialogue; and heard enough To judge aright the cause, and know his cue. The following day a Cadi was despatch'd To summon both before the judgment-seat; The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear, And the informing friend, who readily, Fired with fair promises of large reward, And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed."

Mrs. F. What did the Caliph to the offending boy, That had so grossly err'd?

Selby. His sceptred hand He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd, And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts, And he became once more his favorite page.

Mrs. F. But for that other—

Selby. He dismissed him straight, From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph's love, To the bare cottage on the withering moor. Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants, And widows, hide, who in a husband's ear Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth; And told him not that Robin Halford died Some moons before his marriage-bells were rung. Too near dishonor hast thou trod, dear wife, And on a dangerous cast our fates were set; But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest, Hath interposed to save it gracious too. Your penance is—to dress your cheek in smiles, And to be once again my merry Kate.— Sister, your hand. Your wager won makes me a happy man, Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds. The sky clears up after a dubious day. Widow, your hand. I read a penitence In this dejected brow; and in this shame Your fault is buried. You shall in with us, And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare: For, till this moment, I can joyful say, Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day.

THE END