Chapter VI: Preface (5)

There was a worthy, but a simple pair,
Who nursed a daughter, fairest of the fair.
Sons they had lost, and she alone remain’d,
Heir to the kindness they had all obtain’d;
Heir to the fortune they design’d for all,
Nor had th’ allotted portion then been small;
But now, by fate enrich’d with beauty rare,
They watch’d their treasure with peculiar care.
The fairest features they could early trace, }
And, blind with love, saw merit in her face-- } 10
Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace; }
And Dorothea, from her infant years,
Gain’d all her wishes from their pride or fears;
She wrote a billet, and a novel read,
And with her fame her vanity was fed;
Each word, each look, each action was a cause
For flattering wonder, and for fond applause;
She rode or danced, and ever glanced around,
Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found.
The yielding pair to her petitions gave 20
An humble friend to be a civil slave;
Who for a poor support herself resign’d
To the base toil of a dependent mind.
By nature cold, our heiress stoop’d to art,
To gain the credit of a tender heart;
Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand,
To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand.
And now, her education all complete,
She talk’d of virtuous love and union sweet;
She was indeed by no soft passion moved, 30
But wish’d, with all her soul, to be beloved.
Here on the favour’d beauty fortune smiled;
Her chosen husband was a man so mild,
So humbly temper’d, so intent to please, }
It quite distress’d her to remain at ease, }
Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease. }
She tried his patience in a thousand modes,
And tired it not upon the roughest roads.
Pleasure she sought, and, disappointed, sigh’d
For joys, she said, “to her alone denied;” 40
And she was “sure her parents, if alive,
Would many comforts for their child contrive.”
The gentle husband bade her name him one;--
“No--that,” she answer’d, “should for her be done;
How could she say what pleasures were around?
But she was certain many might be found.”--
“Would she some sea-port, Weymouth, Scarborough, grace?”--
“He knew she hated every watering-place.”--
“The town?”--“What! now ’twas empty, joyless, dull?”
--“In winter?”--“No; she liked it worse when full.” 50
She talk’d of building--“Would she plan a room?”--
“No! she could live, as he desired, in gloom.”--
“Call then our friends and neighbours?”--“He might call, }
And they might come and fill his ugly hall; }
A noisy vulgar set, he knew she scorn’d them all.”-- }
“Then, might their two dear girls the time employ,
And their improvement yield a solid joy?”--
“Solid indeed! and heavy--oh! the bliss
Of teaching letters to a lisping Miss!”--
“My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say, 60
Can I oblige you?”--“You may go away.”
Twelve heavy years this patient soul sustain’d }
This wasp’s attacks, and then her praise obtain’d, }
Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace remain’d. }
Two daughters wept their loss: the one a child
With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild,
Who keenly felt the mother’s angry taunt,
“Thou art the image of thy pious aunt.”
Long time had Lucy wept her slighted face,
And then began to smile at her disgrace. 70
Her father’s sister, who the world had seen
Near sixty years when Lucy saw sixteen,
Begg’d the plain girl: the gracious mother smiled,
And freely gave her grieved but passive child;
And with her elder-born, the [beauty-bless’d,]
This parent rested, if such minds can rest.
No miss her waxen babe could so admire,
Nurse with such care, or with such pride attire;
They were companions meet, with equal mind,
Bless’d with one love, and to one point inclined: 80
Beauty to keep, adorn, increase, and guard,
Was their sole care, and had its full reward.
In rising splendor with the one it reign’d, }
And in the other was by care sustain’d, }
The daughter’s charms increased, the parent’s yet remain’d.-- }
Leave we these ladies to their daily care,
To see how meekness and discretion fare.
A village maid, unvex’d by want or love,
Could not with more delight than Lucy move;
The village-lark, high mounted in the spring, 90
Could not with purer joy than Lucy sing;
Her cares all light, her pleasures all sincere,
Her duty joy, and her companion dear;
In tender friendship and in true respect
Lived aunt and niece, no flattery, no neglect--
They read, walk’d, visited--together pray’d,
Together slept the matron and the maid.
There was such goodness, such pure nature seen
In Lucy’s looks, a manner so serene;
Such harmony in motion, speech, and air, 100
That without fairness she was more than fair;
Had more than beauty in each speaking grace,
That lent their cloudless glory to the face;
Where mild good sense in placid looks were shown,
And felt in every bosom but her own.
The one presiding feature in her mind,
Was the pure meekness of a will resign’d;
A tender spirit, freed from all pretence
Of wit, and pleased in mild benevolence;
Bless’d in protecting fondness she reposed, 110
With every wish indulged though undisclosed;
But love, like zephyr on the limpid lake, }
Was now the bosom of the maid to shake, }
And in that gentle mind a gentle strife to make. }
Among their chosen friends, a favour’d few,
The aunt and niece a youthful rector knew;
Who, though a younger brother, might address
A younger sister, fearless of success.
His friends, a lofty race, their native pride
At first display’d, and their assent denied; 120
But, pleased such virtues and such love to trace,
They own’d she would adorn the loftiest race.
The aunt, a mother’s caution to supply,
Had watch’d the youthful priest with jealous eye;
And, anxious for her charge, had view’d unseen
The cautious life that keeps the conscience clean.
In all she found him all she wish’d to find,
With slight exception of a lofty mind:
A certain manner that express’d desire,
To be received as brother to the ’squire. 130
Lucy’s meek eye had beam’d with many a tear,
Lucy’s soft heart had beat with many a fear,
Before he told (although his looks, she thought,
Had oft confess’d) that he her favour sought;
But when he kneel’d, (she wish’d him not to kneel,)
And spoke the fears and hopes that lovers feel;
When too the prudent aunt herself confess’d,
Her wishes on the gentle youth would rest;
The maiden’s eye with tender passion beam’d,
She dwelt with fondness on the life she schemed-- 140
The household cares, the soft and lasting ties
Of love, with all his binding charities;
Their village taught, consoled, assisted, fed,
Till the young zealot tears of pleasure shed.
But would her mother? Ah! she fear’d it wrong
To have indulged these forward hopes so long;
Her mother loved, but was not used to grant
Favours so freely as her gentle aunt.--
Her gentle aunt, with smiles that angels wear,
Dispell’d her Lucy’s apprehensive tear: 150
Her prudent foresight the request had made
To one whom none could govern, few persuade;
She doubted much if one in earnest woo’d
A girl with not a single charm endued;
The sister’s nobler views she then declared,
And what small sum for Lucy could be spared;
“If more than this the foolish priest requires,
Tell him,” she wrote, “to check his vain desires.”
At length, with many a cold expression mix’d,
With many a sneer on girls so fondly fix’d, 160
There came a promise--should they not repent, }
But take with grateful minds the portion meant, }
And wait the sister’s day--the mother might consent. }
And here, might pitying hope o’er truth prevail,
Or love o’er fortune, we would end our tale:
For who more bless’d than youthful pair removed
From fear of want--by mutual friends approved--
Short time to wait, and in that time to live
With all the pleasures hope and fancy give;
Their equal passion raised on just esteem, 170
When reason sanctions all that love can dream?
Yes! reason sanctions what stern fate denies:
The early prospect in the glory dies,
As the soft smiles on dying infants play
In their mild features, and then pass away.
The beauty died, ere she could yield her hand
In the high marriage by the mother plann’d:
Who grieved indeed, but found a vast relief
In a cold heart, that ever warr’d with grief.
Lucy was present when her sister died, 180
Heiress to duties that she ill supplied:
There were no mutual feelings, sister arts,
No kindred taste, nor intercourse of hearts;
When in the mirror play’d the matron’s smile,
The maiden’s thoughts were travelling all the while;
And, when desired to speak, she sigh’d to find
Her pause offended:--“Envy made her blind;
Tasteless she was, nor had a claim in life
Above the station of a rector’s wife;
Yet as an heiress, she must shun disgrace, 190
Although no heiress to her mother’s face:
It is your duty,” said th’ imperious dame, }
“(Advanced your fortune) to advance your name, }
And with superior rank, superior offers claim. }
Your sister’s lover, when his sorrows die,
May look upon you, and for favour sigh;
Nor can you offer a reluctant hand;
His birth is noble, and his seat is grand.”
Alarm’d was Lucy, was in tears--“A fool!
Was she a child in love?--a miss at school? 200
Doubts any mortal, if a change of state
Dissolves all claims and ties of earlier date?”
The rector doubted, for he came to mourn
A sister dead, and with a wife return.
Lucy with heart unchanged received the youth,
True in herself, confiding in his truth;
But own’d her mother’s change: the haughty dame
Pour’d strong contempt upon the youthful flame;
She firmly vow’d her purpose to pursue,
Judged her own cause, and bade the youth adieu! 210
The lover begg’d, insisted, urged his pain;
His brother wrote to threaten and complain;
Her sister, reasoning, proved the promise made,
Lucy, appealing to a parent, pray’d;
But all opposed th’ event that she design’d,
And all in vain--she never changed her mind;
But coldly answer’d in her wonted way,
That she “would rule, and Lucy must obey.”
With peevish fear, she saw her health decline,
And cried, “Oh! monstrous, for a man to pine; 220
But if your foolish heart must yield to love,
Let him possess it whom I now approve;
This is my pleasure.”--Still the rector came
With larger offers and with bolder claim;
But the stern lady would attend no more--
She frown’d, and rudely pointed to the door;
Whate’er he wrote, he saw unread return’d,
And he, indignant, the dishonour spurn’d;
Nay, fix’d suspicion where he might confide,
And sacrificed his passion to his pride. 230
Lucy, meantime, though threaten’d and distress’d,
Against her marriage made a strong protest.
All was domestic war: the aunt rebell’d
Against the sovereign will, and was expell’d;
And every power was tried and every art,
To bend to falsehood one determined heart;
Assail’d, in patience it received the shock,
Soft as the wave, unshaken as the rock;
But while th’ unconquer’d soul endures the storm
Of angry fate, it preys upon the form. 240
With conscious virtue she resisted still,
And conscious love gave vigour to her will;
But Lucy’s trial was at hand; with joy
The mother cried--“Behold your constant boy--
Thursday--was married--take the paper, sweet,
And read the conduct of your reverend cheat;
See with what pomp of coaches, in what crowd
The creature married--of his falsehood proud!
False, did I say?--at least no whining fool;
And thus will hopeless passions ever cool: 250
But shall his bride your single state reproach?
No! give him crowd for crowd, and coach for coach.
Oh! you retire; reflect then, gentle miss,
And gain some spirit in a cause like this.”
Some spirit Lucy gain’d; a steady soul,
Defying all persuasion, all control:
In vain reproach, derision, threats were tried; }
The constant mind all outward force defied, }
By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail’d by pride. }
Fix’d in her purpose, perfect in her part, 260
She felt the courage of a wounded heart;
The world receded from her rising view,
When Heaven approach’d as earthly things withdrew;
Not strange before, for in the days of love,
Joy, hope, and pleasure, she had thoughts above;
Pious when most of worldly prospects fond,
When they best pleased her she could look beyond;
Had the young priest a faithful lover died,
Something had been her bosom to divide;
Now Heaven had all, for in her holiest views 270
She saw the matron whom she fear’d to lose;
While from her parent the dejected maid
Forced the unpleasant thought, or thinking pray’d.
Surprised, the mother saw the languid frame,
And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame.
Once with a frown she cried, “And do you mean
To die of love--the folly of fifteen?”
But as her anger met with no reply,
She let the gentle girl in quiet die;
And to her sister wrote, impell’d by pain, 280
“Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain.”
Lucy meantime profess’d with joy sincere,
That nothing held, employ’d, engaged her here.--
“I am an humble actor, doom’d to play
A part obscure, and then to glide away;
Incurious how the great or happy shine,
Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine;
In its best prospect I but wish’d, for life,
To be th’ assiduous, gentle, useful wife;
That lost, with wearied mind, and spirit poor, 290
I drop my efforts, and can act no more;
With growing joy I feel my spirits tend
To that last scene where all my duties end.”
Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying gave,
Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave;
She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm,
And said, she left but little for the worm.
As toll’d the bell, “There’s one,” she said, “hath press’d
Awhile before me to the bed of rest;”
And she beside her with attention spread 300
The decorations of the maiden dead.
While quickly thus the mortal part declined,
The happiest visions fill’d the active mind;
A soft, religious melancholy gain’d
Entire possession, and for ever reign’d;
On holy writ her mind reposing dwelt,
She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt;
Till in a bless’d and glorious reverie, }
She seem’d the Saviour as on earth to see, }
And, fill’d with love divine, th’ attending }
friend to be; } 310
Or she, who trembling, yet confiding, stole
Near to the garment, touch’d it, and was whole;
When, such th’ intenseness of the working thought,
On her it seem’d the very deed was wrought;
She the glad patient’s fear and rapture found,
The holy transport, and the healing wound;
This was so fix’d, so grafted in the heart,
That she adopted, nay became, the part.
But one chief scene was present to her sight:
Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night; 320
Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind
Was to that scene, that hallow’d cave, confined--
Where in the shade of death the body laid,
There watch’d the spirit of the wandering maid;
Her looks were fix’d, entranced, illumed, serene,
In the still glory of the midnight scene;
There at her Saviour’s feet, in visions bless’d,
Th’ enraptured maid a sacred joy possess’d;
In patience waiting for the first-born ray
Of that all-glorious and triumphant day. 330
To this idea all her soul she gave,
Her mind reposing by the sacred grave;
Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close,
And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose.
Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers,
Again restored illumed the dying hours;
But reason dwelt where fancy stray’d before,
And the mind wander’d from its views no more;
Till death approach’d, when every look express’d
A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest. 340
The mother lives, and has enough to buy
Th’ attentive ear and the submissive eye
Of abject natures--these are daily told,
How triumph’d beauty in the days of old;
How, by her window seated, crowds have cast
Admiring glances, wondering as they pass’d;
How from her carriage as she stepp’d to pray,
Divided ranks would humbly make her way;
And how each voice in the astonish’d throng
Pronounced her peerless as she moved along. 350
Her picture then the greedy dame displays;
Touch’d by no shame, she now demands its praise;
In her tall mirror then she shows a face,
Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace;
These she compares: “It has the form,” she cries,
“But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes;
This, as a likeness, is correct and true,
But there alone the living grace we view.”
This said, th’ applauding voice the dame required,
And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired. 360

TALE IX.

_ARABELLA._

Thrice blessed they that master so their blood--
[. . . . . . . .]
But earthly happier is the rose distill’d,
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, Act I. Scene 1.

I [something] do excuse the thing I hate,
For his advantage whom I dearly love.
_Measure for Measure_, Act II. Scene 4.

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!
_Much Ado about Nothing_, Act III. Scene 1.

TALE IX.

_ARABELLA._

Of a fair town, where Doctor Rack was guide,
His only daughter was the boast and pride;
Wise Arabella--yet not wise alone,
She like a bright and polish’d brilliant shone;
Her father own’d her for his prop and stay,
Able to guide, yet willing to obey;
Pleased with her learning while discourse could please,
And with her love in languor and disease.
To every mother were her virtues known,
And to their daughters as a pattern shown; 10
Who in her youth had all that age requires,
And, with her prudence, all that youth admires.
These odious praises made the damsels try
Not to obtain such merits, but deny;
For, whatsoever wise mammas might say,
To guide a daughter this was not the way;
From such applause disdain and anger rise,
And envy lives where emulation dies.
In all his strength contends the noble horse
With one who just precedes him on the course; 20
But when the rival flies too far before,
His spirit fails, and he attempts no more.
This reasoning maid, above her sex’s dread,
Had dared to read, and dared to say she read;
Not the last novel, not the new-born play;
Not the mere trash and scandal of the day;
But (though her young companions felt the shock)
She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes, and Locke:
Her mind within the maze of history dwelt,
And of the moral muse the beauty felt; 30
The merits of the Roman page she knew,
And could converse with Moore and Montagu:
Thus she became the wonder of the town,
From that she reap’d, to that she gave, renown;
And strangers, coming, all were taught t’ admire
The learned lady, and the lofty spire.
Thus fame in public fix’d the maid, where all
Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall;
A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen,
From tongues envenom’d, and from arms unseen; 40
A thousand eyes were fix’d upon the place,
That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace.
But malice vainly throws the poison’d dart,
Unless our frailty shows the peccant part;
And Arabella still preserved her name
Untouch’d, and shone with undisputed fame;
Her very notice some respect would cause,
And her esteem was honour and applause.
Men she avoided--not in childish fear,
As if she thought some savage foe was near; 50
Not as a prude, who hides that man should seek,
Or who by silence hints that they should speak;
But with discretion all the sex she view’d,
Ere yet engaged, pursuing, or pursued;
Ere love had made her to his vices blind,
Or hid the favourite’s failings from her mind.
Thus was the picture of the man portray’d,
By merit destined for so rare a maid;
At whose request she might exchange her state,
Or still be happy in a virgin’s fate. 60
He must be one with manners like her own,
His life unquestion’d, his opinions known;
His stainless virtue must all tests endure,
His honour spotless, and his bosom pure;
She no allowance made for sex or times,
Of lax opinion--crimes were ever crimes;
No wretch forsaken must his frailty curse,
No spurious offspring drain his private purse:
He at all times his passions must command,
And yet possess--or be refused her hand. 70
All this without reserve the maiden told,
And some began to weigh the rector’s gold;
To ask what sum a prudent man might gain,
Who had such store of virtues to maintain?
A Doctor Campbell, north of Tweed, came forth,
Declared his passion, and proclaim’d his worth;
Not unapproved, for he had much to say
On every cause, and in a pleasant way;
Not all his trust was in a pliant tongue,
His form was good, and ruddy he, and young. 80
But, though the Doctor was a man of parts,
He read not deeply male or female hearts;
But judged that all whom he esteem’d as wise
Must think alike, though some assumed disguise;
That every reasoning Bramin, Christian, Jew,
Of all religions took their liberal view;
And of her own, no doubt, this learned maid
Denied the substance, and the forms obey’d;
And thus persuaded, he his thoughts express’d
Of her opinions, and his own profess’d: 90
“All states demand this aid, the vulgar need
Their priests and pray’rs, their sermons and their creed;
And those of stronger minds should never speak
(In his opinion) what might hurt the weak.
A man may smile, but still he should attend }
His hour at church, and be the church’s friend, }
What there he thinks conceal, and what he hears commend.” }
Frank was the speech, but heard with high disdain,
Nor had the Doctor leave to speak again;
A man who own’d, nay gloried in deceit, 100
“He might despise her, but he should not cheat.”
Then Vicar Holmes appear’d; he heard it said
That ancient men best pleased the prudent maid;
And true it was her ancient friends she loved;
Servants when old she favour’d and approved;
Age in her pious parents she revered,
And neighbours were by length of days endear’d;
But, if her husband too must ancient be,
The good old Vicar found it was not he.
On Captain Bligh her mind in balance hung-- 110
Though valiant, modest; and reserved, though young:
Against these merits must defects be set--
Though poor, imprudent; and though proud, in debt:
In vain the Captain close attention paid;
She found him wanting, whom she fairly weigh’d.
Then came a youth, and all their friends agreed,
That Edward Huntly was the man indeed;
Respectful duty he had paid awhile,
Then ask’d her hand, and had a gracious smile:
A lover now declared, he led the fair 120
To woods and fields, to visits and to pray’r;
Then whisper’d softly--“Will you name the day?”
She softly whisper’d--“If you love me, stay.”--
“Oh! try me not beyond my strength,” he cried;--
“Oh! be not weak,” the prudent maid replied;
“But by some trial your affection prove--
Respect and not impatience argues love;
And love no more is by impatience known,
Than Ocean’s depth is by its tempests shown.
He whom a weak and fond impatience sways, } 130
But for himself with all his fervour prays, }
And not the maid he woos, but his own will obeys; }
And will she love the being who prefers,
With so much ardour, his desire to hers?”
Young Edward grieved, but let not grief be seen;
He knew obedience pleased his fancy’s queen:
Awhile he waited, and then cried--“Behold!
The year advancing, be no longer cold!”
For she had promised--“Let the flowers appear,
And I will pass with thee the smiling year.” 140
Then pressing grew the youth; the more he press’d,
The less inclined the maid to his request:
“Let June arrive.”--Alas! when April came,
It brought a stranger, and the stranger, shame;
Nor could the lover from his house persuade
A stubborn lass whom he had mournful made;
Angry and weak, by thoughtless vengeance moved,
She told her story to the fair beloved;
In strongest words th’ unwelcome truth was shown,
To blight his prospects, careless of her own. 150
Our heroine grieved, but had too firm a heart
For him to soften, when she swore to part;
In vain his seeming penitence and pray’r,
His vows, his tears: she left him in despair.
His mother fondly laid her grief aside,
And to the reason of the nymph applied--
“It well becomes thee, lady, to appear,
But not to be, in very truth, severe;
Although the crime be odious in thy sight,
That daring sex is taught such things to slight: 160
His heart is thine, although it once was frail;
Think of his grief, and let his love prevail!--”
“Plead thou no more,” the lofty lass return’d;
“Forgiving woman is deceived and spurn’d.
Say that the crime is common--shall I take
A common man my wedded lord to make?
See! a weak woman by his arts betray’d,
An infant born his father to upbraid;
Shall I forgive his vileness, take his name,
Sanction his error, and partake his shame? 170
No! this assent would kindred frailty prove,
A love for him would be a vicious love:
Can a chaste maiden secret counsel hold
With one whose crime by every mouth is told?
Forbid it spirit, prudence, virtuous pride;
He must despise me, were he not denied.
The way from vice the erring mind to win }
Is with presuming sinners to begin, }
And show, by scorning them, a just contempt for sin.” }
The youth, repulsed, to one more mild convey’d 180
His heart, and smiled on the remorseless maid;
The maid, remorseless in her pride, the while
Despised the insult, and return’d the smile.
First to admire, to praise her, and defend,
Was (now in years advanced) a virgin friend:
Much she preferr’d, she cried, a single state,
“It was her choice”--it surely was her fate;
And much it pleased her in the train to view
A maiden vot’ress, wise and lovely too.
Time to the yielding mind his change imparts, 190
He varies notions, and he alters hearts;
’Tis right, ’tis just to feel contempt for vice,
But he that shows it may be over-nice:
There are who feel, when young, the false sublime,
And proudly love to show disdain for crime;
To whom the future will new thoughts supply,
The pride will soften, and the scorn will die;
Nay, where they still the vice itself condemn,
They bear the vicious, and consort with them.
Young Captain Grove, when one had changed his side, 200
Despised the venal turn-coat, and defied;
Old Colonel Grove now shakes him by the hand,
Though he who bribes may still his vote command.
Why would not Ellen to Belinda speak,
When she had flown to London for a week,
And then return’d, to every friend’s surprise,
With twice the spirit, and with half the size?
She spoke not then--but, after years had flown,
A better friend had Ellen never known:
Was it the lady her mistake had seen? 210
Or had she also such a journey been?
No: ’twas the gradual change in human hearts,
That time, in commerce with the world, imparts;
That on the roughest temper throws disguise,
And steals from virtue her asperities.
The young and ardent, who with glowing zeal
Felt wrath for trifles, and were proud to feel,
Now find those trifles all the mind engage,
To soothe dull hours, and cheat the cares of age;
As young Zelinda, in her quaker-dress, 220
Disdain’d each varying fashion’s vile excess,
And now her friends on old Zelinda gaze,
Pleased in rich silks and orient gems to blaze.
Changes like these ’tis folly to condemn,
So virtue yields not, nor is changed with them.
Let us proceed:--Twelve brilliant years were past,
Yet each with less of glory than the last;
Whether these years to this fair virgin gave
A softer mind--effect they often have;
Whether the virgin-state was not so bless’d 230
As that good maiden in her zeal profess’d;
Or whether lovers falling from her train,
Gave greater price to those she could retain,
Is all unknown;--but Arabella now
Was kindly listening to a merchant’s vow;
Who offer’d terms so fair, against his love
To strive was folly; so she never strove.--
Man in his earlier days we often find
With a too easy and unguarded mind;
But, by increasing years and prudence taught, 240
He grows reserved, and locks up every thought.
Not thus the maiden, for in blooming youth
She hides her thought, and guards the tender truth;
This, when no longer young, no more she hides,
But frankly in the favour’d swain confides.
Man, stubborn man, is like the growing tree,
That longer standing, still will harder be;
And like its fruit the virgin, first austere,
Then kindly softening with the ripening year.
Now was the lover urgent, and the kind 250
And yielding lady to his suit inclined:
“A little time, my friend, is just, is right;
We must be decent in our neighbours’ sight:”
Still she allow’d him of his hopes to speak,
And in compassion took off week by week;
Till few remain’d, when, wearied with delay,
She kindly meant to take off day by day.
That female friend who gave our virgin praise
For flying man and all his treacherous ways,
Now heard with mingled anger, shame and fear, 260
Of one accepted, and a wedding near;
But she resolved again with friendly zeal
To make the maid her scorn of wedlock feel;
For she was grieved to find her work undone,
And like a sister mourn’d the failing nun.
Why are these gentle maidens prone to make
Their sister-doves the tempting world forsake?
Why all their triumph when a maid disdains
The tyrant-sex, and scorns to wear its chains?
Is it pure joy to see a sister flown 270
From the false pleasures they themselves have known?
Or do they, as the call-birds in the cage,
Try, in pure envy, others to engage;
And therefore paint their native woods and groves,
As scenes of dangerous joys and naughty loves?
Strong was the maiden’s hope; her friend was proud,
And had her notions to the world avow’d;
And, could she find the Merchant weak and frail,
With power to prove it, then she must prevail;
For she aloud would publish his disgrace, 280
And save his victim from a man so base.
When all inquiries had been duly made,
Came the kind friend her burthen to unlade:--
“Alas! my dear! not all our care and art
Can tread the maze of man’s deceitful heart:
Look not surprise--nor let resentment swell
Those lovely features, all will yet be well;
And thou, from love’s and man’s deceptions free,
Wilt dwell in virgin-state, and walk to heav’n with me.”
The maiden frown’d, and then conceived “that wives 290
Could walk as well, and lead as holy lives
As angry prudes who scorn’d the marriage-chain,
Or luckless maids who sought it still in vain.”
The friend was vex’d--she paused, at length she cried:
“Know your own danger, then your lot decide;
That traitor Beswell, while he seeks your hand,
Has, I affirm, a wanton at command;
A slave, a creature from a foreign place,
The nurse and mother of a spurious race;
Brown, ugly bastards--(Heaven the word forgive, 300
And the deed punish!)--in his cottage live;
To town if business calls him, there he stays
In sinful pleasures wasting countless days;
Nor doubt the facts, for I can witness call
For every crime, and prove them one and all.”
Here ceased th’ informer; Arabella’s look
Was like a school-boy’s puzzled by his book;
Intent she cast her eyes upon the floor,
Paused--then replied--
“I wish to know no more:
I question not your motive, zeal, or love, 310
But must decline such dubious points to prove.--
All is not true, I judge, for who can guess
Those deeds of darkness men with care suppress?
He brought a slave perhaps to England’s coast,
And made her free; it is our country’s boast!
And she perchance too grateful--good and ill
Were sown at first, and grow together still;
The colour’d infants on the village-green,
What are they more than we have often seen?
Children half-clothed who round their village stray, } 320
In sun or rain, now starved, now beaten, they }
Will the dark colour of their fate betray; }
Let us in Christian love for all account,
And then behold to what such tales amount.”
“His heart is evil,” said th’ impatient friend--
“My duty bids me try that heart to mend,”
Replied the virgin--“We may be too nice,
And lose a soul in our contempt of vice;
If false the charge, I then shall show regard
For a good man, and be his just reward; 330
And what for virtue can I better do
Than to reclaim him, if the charge be true?”
She spoke, nor more her holy work delay’d;
’Twas time to lend an erring mortal aid:
“The noblest way,” she judged, “a soul to win, }
Was with an act of kindness to begin, }
To make the sinner sure, and then t’ attack the sin[5].” }

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

TALE X.

_THE LOVER’S JOURNEY._

The sun is in the [heaven], and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton.
_King John_, Act III. Scene 3.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact.
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, Act V. Scene 2.

Oh! how the spring of love resembleth
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all her beauty to the sun,
And by and by a cloud bears all away.

And happily I have arrived at last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss.
_Taming of the Shrew_, Act V. Scene 1.

TALE X.

_THE LOVER’S JOURNEY._

It is the soul that sees; the outward eyes }
Present the object, but the mind descries; }
And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiff’rence rise: }
When minds are joyful, then we look around,
And what is seen is all on fairy ground;
Again they sicken, and on every view
Cast their own dull and melancholy hue;
Or, if absorb’d by their peculiar cares,
The vacant eye on viewless matter glares,
Our feelings still upon our views attend, 10
And their own natures to the objects lend;
Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure,
Long as the passion reigns th’ effects endure;
But love in minds his various changes makes,
And clothes each object with the change he takes;
His light and shade on every view he throws,
And on each object, what he feels, bestows.
Fair was the morning, and the month was June,
When rose a lover; love awakens soon;
Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while 20
Of that day’s meeting, and his Laura’s smile;
Fancy and love that name assign’d to her,
Call’d Susan in the parish-register;
And he no more was John--his Laura gave
The name Orlando to her faithful slave.
Bright shone the glory of the rising day,
When the fond traveller took his favourite way;
He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light,
And all he saw was pleasing in his sight.
“Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly, 30
And bring on hours of blest reality;
When I shall Laura see, beside her stand,
Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand.”
First o’er a barren heath beside the coast
Orlando rode, and joy began to boast.
“This neat low gorse,” said he, “with golden bloom,
Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume;
And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers,
A man at leisure might admire for hours;
This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip, 40
That yields to nothing but my Laura’s lip;
And then how fine this herbage! men may say
A heath is barren; nothing is so gay:
Barren or bare to call such charming scene
Argues a mind possess’d by care and spleen.”
Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat,
Dust rose in clouds before the horse’s feet;
For now he pass’d through lanes of burning sand,
Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured land;
Where the dark poppy flourished on the dry 50
And sterile soil, and mock’d the thin-set rye.
“How lovely this!” the rapt Orlando said;
“With what delight is labouring man repaid!
The very lane has sweets that all admire,
The rambling suckling and the vigorous brier;
See! wholesome wormwood grows beside the way,
Where dew-press’d yet the dog-rose bends the spray;
Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn,
And snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn;
No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall; 60
They spring uncultured and they bloom for all.”
The lover rode as hasty lovers ride,
And reach’d a common pasture wild and wide;
Small black-legg’d sheep devour with hunger keen
The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean;
Such o’er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray,
And there, with other _black-legs_ find their prey.
He saw some scatter’d hovels; turf was piled
In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild!
A mill, indeed, was in the centre found, 70
With short sear herbage withering all around;
A smith’s black shed opposed a wright’s long shop,
And join’d an inn where humble travellers stop.
“Ay, this is Nature,” said the gentle ’squire;
“This ease, peace, pleasure--who would not admire?
With what delight these sturdy children play,
And joyful rustics at the close of day;
Sport follows labour, on this even space
Will soon commence the wrestling and the race;
Then will the village-maidens leave their home, 80
And to the dance with buoyant spirits come;
No affectation in their looks is seen,
Nor know they what disguise or flattery mean;
Nor aught to move an envious pang they see--
Easy their service, and their love is free;
Hence early springs that love, it long endures,
And life’s first comfort, while they live, ensures.
They the low roof and rustic comforts prize,
Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes;
Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, 90
And learn what busier mortals feel and fear;
Secure themselves, although by tales amazed
Of towns bombarded and of cities razed;
As if they doubted, in their still retreat,
The very news that makes their quiet sweet,
And their days happy--happier only knows
He on whom Laura her regard bestows.”
On rode Orlando, counting all the while
The miles he pass’d and every coming mile;
Like all attracted things, he quicker flies, 100
The place approaching where th’ attraction lies;
When next appear’d a _dam_--so call the place--
Where lies a road confined in narrow space;
A work of labour, for on either side }
Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide, }
With dikes on either hand by ocean’s self supplied. }
Far on the right the distant sea is seen,
And salt the springs that feed the marsh between;
Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten’d flood
Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud; 110
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide,
That frets and hurries to th’ opposing side;
The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow, }
Bend their brown flow’rets to the stream below, }
Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow: }
Here a grave Flora[6] scarcely deigns to bloom,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;
The few dull flowers that o’er the place are spread
Partake the nature of their fenny bed;
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 120
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh,
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stony bound;
No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun, }
Birds, save a wat’ry tribe, the district shun, }
Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run. }
“Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face,”
Exclaim’d Orlando: “all that grows has grace; 130
All are appropriate--bog, and marsh, and fen,
Are only poor to undiscerning men;
Here may the nice and curious eye explore
How Nature’s hand adorns the rushy moor;
Here the rare moss in secret shade is found,
Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground;
Beauties are these that from the view retire,
But well repay th’ attention they require;
For these my Laura will her home forsake,
And all the pleasures they afford partake.” 140
Again the country was enclosed, a wide
And sandy road has banks on either side;
Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear’d,
And there a gipsy-tribe their tent had rear’d;
’Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun,
And they had now their early meal begun,
When two brown boys just left their grassy seat,
The early trav’ller with their pray’rs to greet.
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand,
He saw their sister on her duty stand; 150
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to try;
Sudden a look of languor he descries,
And well-feign’d apprehension in her eyes;
Train’d but yet savage, in her speaking face
He mark’d the features of her vagrant race;
When a light laugh and roguish leer express’d
The vice implanted in her youthful breast.
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seem’d offended, yet forbore to blame 160
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the trav’ller’s face;
Within, the father, who from fences nigh }
Had brought the fuel for the fire’s supply, }
Watch’d now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by; }
On ragged rug, just borrow’d from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dress’d,
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast;
In her wild face some touch of grace remain’d, 170
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain’d;
Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turn’d, and seem’d her wants to state,
Cursing his tardy aid--her mother there
With gipsy-state engross’d the only chair;
Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands,
And reads the milk-maid’s fortune in her hands,
Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years,
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears;
With hard and savage eye she views the food, 180
And, grudging, pinches their intruding brood;
Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious son,
Who half supports him; he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him dance;
And, by the sadness in his face, appears
To trace the progress of their future years:
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, 190
Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat!
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain--
Ere they like him approach their latter end,
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend!
But this Orlando felt not; “Rogues,” said he,
“Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be;
They wander round the land, and be it true,
They break the laws--then let the laws pursue
The wanton idlers; for the life they live, 200
Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive.”
This said, a portion from his purse was thrown,
And every heart seem’d happy like his own.
He hurried forth, for now the town was nigh--
“The happiest man of mortal men am I.”
Thou art! but change in every state is near,
(So, while the wretched hope, the blest may fear);
“Say, where is Laura!”--“That her words must show,”
A lass replied; “read this, and thou shalt know!”
“What, gone!”--Her friend insisted--forced to go-- 210
Is vex’d, was teased, could not refuse her!--“No?”--
“But you can follow;”--“Yes;”--“The miles are few,
The way is pleasant; will you come?--Adieu!
Thy Laura!” “No! I feel I must resign
The pleasing hope; thou hadst been here, if mine.
A lady was it?--Was no brother there?
But why should I afflict me if there were?
‘The way is pleasant.’”--What to me the way?
I cannot reach her till the close of day.
My dumb companion! is it thus we speed? 220
Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed;
Still art thou doom’d to travel and to pine,
For my vexation--What a fate is mine!
“Gone to a friend, she tells me; I commend
Her purpose; means she to a female friend?
By Heaven, I wish she suffer’d half the pain
Of hope protracted through the day in vain:
Shall I persist to see th’ ungrateful maid?
Yes, I will see her, slight her, and upbraid.
What! in the very hour? She knew the time, 230
And doubtless chose it to increase her crime.”
Forth rode Orlando by a river’s side, }
Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide, }
That roll’d majestic on, in one soft-flowing tide; }
The bottom gravel, flow’ry were the banks,
Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks;
The road, now near, now distant, winding led
By lovely meadows which the waters fed;
He pass’d the way-side inn, the village spire,
Nor stopp’d to gaze, to question, or admire; 240
On either side the rural mansions stood, }
With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crown’d with wood, }
And many a devious stream that reach’d the nobler flood. }
“I hate these scenes,” Orlando angry cried,
“And these proud farmers! yes, I hate their pride.
See! that sleek fellow, how he strides along,
Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong;
Can yon close crops a single eye detain
But his who counts the profits of the grain?
And these vile beans with deleterious smell, 250
Where is their beauty? can a mortal tell?
These deep fat meadows I detest; it shocks
One’s feelings there to see the grazing ox--
For slaughter fatted, as a lady’s smile
Rejoices man, and means his death the while.
Lo! now the sons of labour! every day
Employ’d in toil, and vex’d in every way;
Theirs is but mirth assumed, and they conceal,
In their affected joys, the ills they feel:
I hate these long green lanes; there’s nothing seen 260
In this vile country but eternal green;
Woods! waters! meadows! Will they never end?
’Tis a vile prospect.--Gone to see a friend!”--
Still on he rode! a mansion fair and tall
Rose on his view--the pride of Loddon-Hall:
Spread o’er the park he saw the grazing steer,
The full-fed steed, the herds of bounding deer;
On a clear stream the vivid sunbeams play’d, }
Through noble elms, and on the surface made }
That moving picture, checker’d light and shade; } 270
Th’ attended children, there indulged to stray,
Enjoy’d and gave new beauty to the day;
Whose happy parents from their room were seen
Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green.
“Well!” said Orlando, “and for one so bless’d, }
A thousand reasoning wretches are distress’d; }
Nay, these so seeming glad, are grieving like the rest: }
Man is a cheat--and all but strive to hide
Their inward misery by their outward pride.
What do yon lofty gates and walls contain, 280
But fruitless means to soothe unconquer’d pain?
The parents read each infant daughter’s smile,
Form’d to seduce, encouraged to beguile;
They view the boys unconscious of their fate,
Sure to be tempted, sure to take the bait;
These will be Lauras, sad Orlandos these--
There’s guilt and grief in all one hears and sees.”
Our trav’ller, lab’ring up a hill, look’d down
Upon a lively, busy, pleasant town;
All he beheld were there alert, alive, 290
The busiest bees that ever stock’d a hive:
A pair were married, and the bells aloud
Proclaim’d their joy, and joyful seem’d the crowd;
And now proceeding on his way, he spied,
Bound by strong ties, the bridegroom and the bride;
Each by some friends attended, near they drew,
And spleen beheld them with prophetic view.
“Married! nay, mad!” Orlando cried in scorn;
“Another wretch on this unlucky morn!
What are this foolish mirth, these idle joys? 300
Attempts to stifle doubt and fear by noise:
To me these robes, expressive of delight,
Foreshow distress, and only grief excite;
And for these cheerful friends, will they behold
Their wailing brood in sickness, want, and cold;
And his proud look, and her soft languid air
Will--but I spare you--go, unhappy pair!”
And now approaching to the journey’s end, }
His anger fails, his thoughts to kindness tend, }
He less offended feels, and rather fears t’ offend: } 310
Now gently rising, hope contends with doubt,
And casts a sunshine on the views without;
And still reviving joy and lingering gloom
Alternate empire o’er his soul assume;
Till, long perplex’d, he now began to find
The softer thoughts engross the settling mind.
He saw the mansion, and should quickly see
His Laura’s self--and angry could he be?
No! the resentment melted all away--
“For this my grief a single smile will pay,” 320
Our trav’ller cried;--“And why should it offend,
That one so good should have a pressing friend?
Grieve not, my heart! to find a favourite guest }
Thy pride and boast--ye selfish sorrows, rest; }
She will be kind, and I again be blest.” }
While gentler passions thus his bosom sway’d,
He reach’d the mansion, and he saw the maid;
“My Laura!”--“My Orlando!--this is kind;
In truth I came persuaded, not inclined.
Our friends’ amusement let us now pursue, 330
And I to-morrow will return with you.”
Like man entranced, the happy lover stood--
“As Laura wills, for she is kind and good;
Ever the truest, gentlest, fairest, best--
As Laura wills, I see her and am blest.”
Home went the lovers through that busy place,
By Loddon-Hall, the country’s pride and grace;
By the rich meadows where the oxen fed,
Through the green vale that form’d the river’s bed;
And by unnumber’d cottages and farms, 340
That have for musing minds unnumber’d charms,
And how affected by the view of these
Was then Orlando--did they pain or please?
Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield--and why? }
The mind was fill’d, was happy, and the eye }
Roved o’er the fleeting views, that but appear’d to die. }
Alone Orlando on the morrow paced
The well-known road; the [gipsy]-tent he traced;
The dam high-raised, the reedy dikes between,
The scatter’d hovels on the barren green, 350
The burning sand, the fields of thin-set rye,
Mock’d by the useless Flora, blooming by;
And last the heath with all its various bloom,
And the close lanes that led the trav’ller home.
Then could these scenes the former joys renew?
Or was there now dejection in the view?--
Nor one or other would they yield--and why? }
The mind was absent, and the vacant eye }
Wander’d o’er viewless scenes, that but appear’d to die. }

[6] The ditches of a fen so near the ocean are lined with irregular patches of a coarse and stained lava; a muddy sediment rests on the horse-tail and other perennial herbs, which in part conceal the shallowness of the stream; a fat-leaved pale-flowering scurvy-grass appears early in the year, and the razor-edged bull-rush in the summer and autumn. The fen itself has a dark and saline herbage; there are rushes and _arrow-head_, and in a few patches the flakes of the cotton-grass are seen, but more commonly the _sea-aster_, the dullest of that numerous and hardy genus; a _thrift_, blue in flower, but withering and remaining withered till the winter scatters it; the _saltwort_, both simple and shrubby; a few kinds of grass changed by their soil and atmosphere, and low plants of two or three denominations undistinguished in a general view of the scenery;--such is the vegetation of the fen when it is at a small distance from the ocean; and in this case there arise from it effluvia strong and peculiar, half-saline, half-putrid, which would be considered by most people as offensive, and by some as dangerous; but there are others to whom singularity of taste or association of ideas has rendered it agreeable and pleasant.

TALE XI.

_EDWARD SHORE._