Chapter XVIII: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (7)

_P._ I see no more within our borough’s bound
The name of DANVERS! Is it to be found?
Were the young pair in Hymen’s fetters tied,
Or did succeeding years the Friends divide?
_F._ Nay! take the story, as by time brought forth,
And of such Love and Friendship judge the worth.
While the lad’s love—his parents call’d it so—
Was going on, as well as love could go, 90
A wealthy Danvers, in a distant place,
Left a large fortune to this favour’d race.
To that same place the father quickly went,
And Richard only murmur’d weak dissent.
Of Richard’s heart the parent truly guess’d:—
“Well, my good lad! then do what suits thee best;
No doubt thy brothers will do all they can
T’ obey the orders of the good old man.
Well, I would not thy free-born spirit bind;
Take, Dick, the way to which thou’rt most inclined.” 100
No answer gave the youth; nor did he swear
The old man’s riches were beneath his care;
Nor that he would with his dear Phœbe stay,
And let his heartless father move away.
No! kind and constant, tender, faithful, fond—
Thus far he’d go—but not one step beyond!
Not disobedient to a parent’s will—
A lover constant—but dependent still.
Letters, at first, between the constant swain
And the kind damsel banish’d all their pain. 110
Both full and quick they were; for lovers write
With vast despatch, and read with vast delight—
So quick they were—for Love is never slow—
So full, they ever seem’d to overflow.
Their hearts are ever fill’d with grief or joy,
And these to paint is every hour’s employ;
Joy they would not retain, and, for their grief,
To read such letters is a sure relief.
But, in due time, both joy and grief supprest,
They found their comfort in a little rest. 120
Mails went and came without the accustom’d freight,
For Love grew patient, and content to wait—
Yet was not dead, nor yet afraid to die;
For, though he wrote not, Richard wonder’d why.
He could not justly tell how letters pass’d,
But, as to him appear’d, he wrote the last;
In this he meant not to accuse the maid—
Love, in some cases, ceases to upbraid.
Yet not indifferent was our Lover grown,
Although the ardour of the flame was flown; 130
He still of Phœbe thought, her lip, her smile—
But grew contented with his fate the while.
Thus, not inconstant were the youthful pair—
The Lad remembered still the Lass was fair;
And Phœbe still, with half-affected sigh,
Thought it a pity that such love should die;
And had they then, with this persuasion, met,
Love had rekindled, and been glowing yet.
But times were changed; no mention now was made
By the old Squire, or by the young, of trade. 140
The worthy Lady, and her children all,
Had due respect—The People at the Hall.
His Worship now read Burn, and talk’d with skill
About the poor-house, and the turnpike-bill;
Lord of a manor, he had serious claims,
And knew the poaching rascals by their names.
And, if the father thus improved his mind,
Be sure the children were not far behind:
To rank and riches what respect was due,
To them and theirs what deference, well they knew, 150
And, from the greatest to the least, could show
What to the favouring few the favour’d many owe.
The mind of man must have whereon to work,
Or it will rust—we see it in the Turk;
And Justice Danvers, though he read the news,
And all of law that magistrates peruse—
Bills about roads and charities—yet still
Wanted employ his vacant mind to fill;
These were not like the shipping, once his pride,
Now, with his blue surtout, laid all aside. 160
No doubt, his spirits in their ebb to raise,
He found some help in men’s respect and praise—
Praise of his house, his land, his lawn, his trees—
He cared not what—to praise him was to please:
Yet, though his rural neighbours called to dine,
And some might kindly praise his food and wine,
This was not certain, and, another day,
He must the visit and the praise repay.
By better motives urged—we will suppose—
He thus began his purpose to disclose 170
To his good lady:—“We have lived a year,
And never ask’d our friends the Rayners here.
Do let us ask them—as for Richard’s flame,
It went, we see, as idly as it came—
Invite them kindly—here’s a power of room,
And the poor people will be glad to come.
Outside and in, the coach will hold them all,
And set them down beside the garden wall.”
The Lady wrote, for that was all he meant,
Kind soul! by asking for his wife’s assent; 180
And every Rayner was besought to come
To dine in Hulver Hall’s grand dining-room.
About this time old Rayner, who had lost
His Friend’s advice, was by misfortune cross’d:
Some debtors fail’d, when large amounts were due,
So large, that he was nearly failing too;
But he, grown wary, that he might not fail,
Brought to in adverse gales, and shorten’d sail;
This done, he rested, and could now attend
The invitation of his distant Friend. 190
“Well! he would go; but not, indeed, t’ admire
The state and grandeur of the new-made Squire;
Danvers, belike, now wealthy, might impart
Some of his gold; for Danvers had a heart,
And may have heard, though guarded so around,
That I have lost the fortune he has found.
Yes! Dick is kind, or he and his fine seat
Might go to——where we never more should meet.”
Now, lo! the Rayners all at Hulver Place—
Or Hulver Hall—’tis not a certain case; 200
’Tis only known that Ladies’ notes were sent
Directed both ways, and they always went.
We pass the greetings, and the dinner pass,
All the male gossip o’er the sparkling glass,
And female, when retired.—The Squire invites
His Friend, by sleep refresh’d, to see his sights—
His land and lions, granary, barns, and crops, }
His dairy, piggery, pinery, apples, hops;— }
But here a hill appears, and Peter Rayner stops. }
“Ah! my old Friend, I give you joy,” he cries; 210
“But some are born to fall, and some to rise;
You’re better many a thousand, I the worse—
Dick, there’s no dealing with a failing purse;
Nor does it shame me (mine is all mischance)
To wish some friendly neighbour would advance”—
——But here the guest on such a theme was low.
His host, meantime, intent upon the show,
In hearing heard not—they came out to see—
And, pushing forward, “There’s a view,” quoth he;
“Observe that ruin, built, you see, to catch 220
The gazer’s eye; that cottage with the thatch—
It cost me—guess you what?”—that sound of _cost_
Was accidental, but it was not lost.
“Ah! my good Friend, be sure such things as these
Suit well enough a man who lives at ease.
Think what ‘The Betsy’ _cost_, and think the shock
Of losing her upon the Dodder-Rock!
The tidings reach’d me on the very day
That villain robb’d us, and then ran away.
Loss upon loss! now if”——
“Do stay a bit;” 230
Exclaim’d the Squire, “these matters hardly fit
A morning ramble—let me show you now
My team of oxen, and my patent plough.
Talk of your horses! I the plan condemn—
They eat us up—but oxen! we eat them;
For first they plough and bring us bread to eat,
And then we fat and kill them—there’s the meat.
What’s your opinion?”—
—“I am poorly fed,
And much afraid to want both meat and bread,”
Said Rayner, half indignant; and the Squire 240}
Sigh’d, as he felt he must no more require }
A man, whose prospects fail’d, his prospects to admire. }
Homeward they moved, and met a gentle pair,
The poor man’s daughter, and the rich man’s heir.
This caused some thought; but on the couple went,
And a soft hour in tender converse spent.
This pair, in fact, their passion roused anew,
Alone much comfort from the visit drew.
At home the Ladies were engaged, and all
Show’d or were shown the wonders of the Hall; 250
From room to room the weary guests went on,
Till every Rayner wish’d the show was done.
Home they return’d; the Father deeply sigh’d }
To find he vainly had for aid applied; }
It hurt him much to ask—and more to be denied. }
The younger Richard, who alone sustain’d
The dying Friendship, true to Love remain’d.
His Phœbe’s smiles, although he did not yet
Fly to behold, he could not long forget;
Nor durst he visit, nor was love so strong, 260
That he could more than think his Father wrong;
For, wrong or right, that father still profess’d
The most obedient son should fare the best.
So time pass’d on; the second spring appear’d,
Ere Richard ventured on the deed he fear’d.—
He dared at length; and not so much for love,
I grieve to add, but that he meant to prove
He had a will.—His father, in reply,
This known, had answer’d, “So, my son, have I.”
But Richard’s courage was by prudence taught, 270
And he his nymph in secret service sought.
Some days of absence—not with full consent, }
But with slow leave—were to entreaty lent; }
And forth the Lover rode, uncertain what he meant. }
He reached the dwelling he had known so long,
When a pert damsel told him, “he was wrong;
Their house she did not just precisely know,
But he would find it somewhere in _the Row_;
The Rayners now were come a little down,
Nor more the topmost people in the town.” 280
She might have added, they their life enjoy’d,
Although on things less hazardous employ’d.
This was not much; but yet the damsel’s sneer,
And the Row-dwelling of a lass so dear,
Were somewhat startling. He had heard, indeed,
That Rayner’s business did not well succeed:
“But what of that? They lived in decent style,
No doubt, and Phœbe still retain’d her smile;
And why,” he asked, “should all men choose to dwell
In broad cold streets?—the Row does just as well, 290
Quiet and snug;” and then the favourite maid
Rose in his fancy, tastefully array’d,
Looking with grateful joy upon the swain,
Who could his love in trying times retain.
Soothed by such thoughts, to the new house he came,
Surveyed its aspect, sigh’d, and gave his name.
But ere they opened, he had waited long,
And heard a movement—Was there somewhat wrong?
Nay, but a friendly party, he was told; }
And look’d around, as wishing to behold 300}
Some friends—but these were not the friends of old. }
Old Peter Rayner, in his own old mode,
Bade the Squire welcome to his new abode,
For Richard had been kind, and doubtless meant
To make proposals now, and ask consent.
Mamma and misses, too, were civil all;
But what their awkward courtesy to call,
He knew not; neither could he well express
His sad sensations at their strange address.
And then their laughter loud, their story-telling, 310
All seem’d befitting to that Row and dwelling;
The hearty welcome to the various treat
Was lost on him—he could nor laugh nor eat.
But one thing pleased him, when he look’d around,
His clearest Phœbe could not there be found:
“Wise and discreet,” he says, “she shuns the crew
Of vulgar neighbours, some kind act to do;
In some fair house, some female friend to meet,
Or take at evening prayer in church her seat.”
Meantime there rose, amid the ceaseless din, 320}
A mingled scent, that crowded room within, }
Rum and red-herring, Cheshire cheese and gin; }
Pipes, too, and punch, and sausages, with tea,
Were things that Richard was disturbed to see.
Impatient now, he left them in disdain,
To call on Phœbe, when he call’d again;
To walk with her, the morning fair and bright,
And lose the painful feelings of the night.
All in the Row, and tripping at the side
Of a young Sailor, he the nymph espied, 330
As, homeward hastening with her happy boy,
She went to join the party, and enjoy.
“Fie!” Phœbe cried, as her companion spoke,
Yet laugh’d to hear the fie-compelling joke;—
Then ’twas her chance to meet, her shame to know, }
Her tender Richard, moving sad and slow, }
Musing on things full strange, the manners of the Row. }
At first amazed, and then alarm’d, the fair
Late-laughing maid now stood in dumb despair.
As when a debtor meets in human shape 340
The foe of debtors, and cannot escape,
He stands in terror, nor can longer aim
To keep his credit, or preserve his name,
Stood Phœbe fix’d! “Unlucky time and place!
An earlier hour had kept me from disgrace!”
She thought—but now the sailor, undismay’d,
Said, “My dear Phœbe, why are you afraid?
The man seems civil, or he soon should prove
That I can well defend the girl I love.
Are you not mine?” She utter’d no reply:— 350}
“Thine I must be,” she thought; “more foolish I!” }
While Richard at the scene stood mute and wondering by. }
His spirits hurried, but his bosom light,
He left his Phœbe with a calm “good night!”
So Love like Friendship fell! The youth awhile
Dreamt, sorely moved, of Phœbe’s witching smile—
But learned in daylight visions to forego
The Sailor’s laughing Lass, the Phœbe of the Row.
Home turn’d young Richard, in due time to turn,
With all old Richard’s zeal, the leaves of Burn; 360
And home turned Phœbe—in due time to grace
A tottering cabin with a tattered race.

TALE XVIII.

_THE BOAT RACE._

I.

The man who dwells where party-spirit reigns,
May feel its triumphs, but must wear its chains;
He must the friends and foes of party take
For his, and suffer for his honour’s sake;
When once enlisted upon either side,
He must the rude septennial storm abide—
A storm that when its utmost rage is gone,
In cold and angry mutterings murmurs on;
A slow unbending scorn, a cold disdain—
Till years bring the full tempest back again. 10
Within our Borough two stiff sailors dwelt,
Who both this party storm and triumph felt;
Men who had talents, and were both design’d
For better things, but anger made them blind.
In the same year they married, and their wives
Had pass’d in friendship their yet peaceful lives,
And, as they married in a time of peace,
Had no suspicion that their love must cease.
In fact it did not; but they met by stealth,
And that perhaps might keep their love in health; 20
Like children watch’d, desirous yet afraid,
Their visits all were with discretion paid.
One Captain, so by courtesy we call
Our [hoys’] commanders—they are captains all—
Had sons and daughters many; while but one
The rival Captain bless’d—a darling son.
Each was a burgess to his party tied,
And each was fix’d, but on a different side;
And he who sought his son’s pure mind to fill
With wholesome food, would evil too instil. 30
The last in part succeeded—but in part—
For Charles had sense, had virtue, had a heart;
And he had soon the cause of Nature tried
With the stern father, but this father died;
Who on his death-bed thus his son address’d:—
“Swear to me, Charles, and let my spirit rest—
Swear to our party to be ever true,
And let me die in peace—I pray thee, do.”
With some reluctance, but obedience more,
The weeping youth reflected, sigh’d, and swore; 40
Trembling, he swore for ever to be true,
And wear no colour but the untainted Blue.
This done, the Captain died in so much joy,
As if he’d wrought salvation for his boy.
The female friends their wishes yet retain’d,
But seldom met, by female fears restrain’d;
Yet in such town, where girls and boys must meet,
And every house is known in every street,
Charles had before, nay since his father’s death,
Met, say by chance, the young Elizabeth; 50
Who was both good and graceful, and in truth
Was but too pleasing to th’ observing youth;
And why I know not, but the youth to her
Seem’d just that being that she could prefer.
Both were disposed to think that party-strife
Destroy’d the happiest intercourse of life;
Charles, too, his growing passion could defend—
His father’s foe he call’d his mother’s friend.
Mothers, indeed, he knew were ever kind;
But in the Captain should he favour find? 60
He doubted this—yet could he that command
Which fathers love, and few its power withstand.
The mothers both agreed their joint request
Should to the Captain jointly be address’d;
And first the lover should his heart assail, }
And then the ladies, and, if all should fail, }
They’d singly watch the hour, and jointly might prevail. }
The Captain’s heart, although unused to melt,
A strong impression from persuasion felt;
His pride was soften’d by the prayers he heard, 70
And then advantage in the match appear’d.
At length he answer’d—“Let the lad enlist
In our good cause, and I no more resist;
For I have sworn, and to my oath am true,
To hate that colour, that rebellious Blue.
His father once, ere master of the brig,
For that advantage turn’d a rascal Whig;
Now let the son—a wife’s a better thing—
A Tory turn, and say, God save the King!
For I am pledged to serve that sacred cause, 80
And love my country, while I keep her laws.”
The women trembled, for they knew full well
The fact they dare not to the Captain tell;
And the poor youth declared, with tears and sighs,
“My oath was pass’d; I dare not compromise.”
But Charles to reason made his strong appeal,
And to the heart—he bade him think and feel:
The Captain answering, with reply as strong—
“If you be right, then how can I be wrong?
You to your father swore to take his part; 90
I to oppose it ever, head and heart;
You to a parent made your oath, and I
To God! and can I to my Maker lie?
Much, my dear lad, I for your sake would do,
But I have sworn, and to my oath am true.”
Thus stood the parties, when my fortunes bore
Me far away from this my native shore;
And who prevail’d, I know not—Young or Old;
But, I beseech you, let the tale be told.

II.

_P._ How fared these lovers? Many a time I thought 100
How with their ill-starr’d passion Time had wrought.
Did either party from his oath recede,
Or were they never from the bondage freed?
_F._ Alas! replied my Friend—the tale I tell
With some reluctance, nor can do it well.
There are three females in the place, and they,
Like skilful painters, could the facts portray
In their strong colours—all that I can do }
Is to present a weak imperfect view; }
The colours I must leave—the outlines shall be true. 110}
Soon did each party see the other’s mind,
What bound them both, and what was like to bind;
Oaths deeply taken in such time and place,
To break them now was dreadful—was disgrace!
“That oath a dying father bade me take,
Can I—yourself a father—can I break?
“That oath which I, a living sinner, took
Shall I make void, and yet for mercy look?”
The women wept; the men, themselves distress’d,
The cruel rage of party zeal confess’d; 120
But solemn oaths, though sprung from party zeal,
Feel them we must, as Christians ought to feel.
Yet shall a youth so good, a girl so fair,
From their obedience only draw despair?
Must they be parted? Is there not a way
For them both love and duty to obey?
Strongly they hoped; and by their friends around
A way, at least a lover’s way, was found.
“Give up your vote; you’ll then no longer be
Free in one sense, but in the better free.” 130
Such was of reasoning friends the kind advice,
And how could lovers in such case be nice?
A man may swear to walk directly on,
While sight remains; but how, if sight be gone?
“Oaths are not binding when the party’s dead,
Or when the power to keep the oath is fled;
If I’ve no vote, I’ve neither friend nor foe,
Nor can be said on either side to go.”
They were no casuists:—“Well!” the Captain cried,
“Give up your vote, man, and behold your bride!” 140
Thus was it fix’d, and fix’d the day for both
To take the vow, and set aside the oath.
It gave some pain; but all agreed to say,
“You’re now absolved, and have no other way.
’Tis not expected you should love resign
At man’s commands, for love’s are all divine.”
When all is quiet and the mind at rest,
All in the calm of innocence are blest;
But when some scruple mixes with our joy,
We love to give the anxious mind employ. 150
In autumn late, when evening suns were bright,
The day was fix’d the lovers to unite;
But one before the eager Captain chose
To break, with jocund act, his girl’s repose,
And, sailor-like, said, “Hear how I intend
One day, before the day of days, to spend!
All round the quay, and by the river’s side,
Shall be a scene of glory for the bride.
We’ll have a RACE, and colours will devise
For every boat, for every man, a prize; 160
But that which first returns shall bear away
The proudest pendant—Let us name the day!”
They named the day; and never morn more bright
Rose on the river, nor so proud a sight;
Or, if too calm appear’d the cloudless skies,
Experienced seamen said the wind would rise.
To that full quay from this then vacant place
Thronged a vast crowd to see the promised Race.
Mid boats new painted, all with streamers fair,
That flagg’d or flutter’d in that quiet air— 170
The Captain’s boat that was so gay and trim,
That made his pride, and seem’d as proud of him—
Her, in her beauty, we might all discern,
Her rigging new, and painted on the stern,
As one who could not in the contest fail,
“Learn of _the little Nautilus_ to sail.”
So forth they started at the signal gun,
And down the river had three leagues to run;
This sail’d, they then their watery way retrace,
And the first landed conquers in the race. 180
The crowd await, till they no more discern;
Then, parting, say, “At evening we return.”
I could proceed; but you will guess the fate,
And but too well my tale anticipate.
_P._ True! yet proceed—
_F._ The lovers had some grief
In this day’s parting, but the time was brief;
And the poor girl, between his smiles and sighs,
Ask’d, “Do you wish to gain so poor a prize?”
“But that your father wishes,” he replied,
“I would the honour had been still denied: 190
It makes me gloomy, though I would be gay,
And oh! it seems an everlasting day.”
So thought the lass, and as she said, “Farewell!”
Soft sighs arose, and tears unbidden fell.
The morn was calm, and ev’n till noon the strong
Unruffled flood moved quietly along;
In the dead calm the billows softly fell,
And mock’d the whistling sea-boy’s favourite spell:
So rests at noon the reaper, but to rise
With mightier force and twofold energies. 200
The deep, broad stream moved softly, all was hush’d,
When o’er the flood the breeze awakening brush’d;
A sullen sound was heard along the deep,
The stormy spirit rousing from his sleep;
The porpoise rolling on the troubled wave,
Unwieldy tokens of his pleasure gave;
Dark, chilling clouds the troubled deep deform,
And, led by terror downward, rush’d the storm.
As evening came, along the river’s side,
Or on the quay, impatient crowds divide, 210
And then collect; some whispering, as afraid
Of what they saw, and more of what they said,
And yet must speak: how sudden and how great
The danger seem’d, and what might be the fate
Of men so toss’d about in craft so small,
Lost in the dark, and subject to the squall.
Then sounds are so appalling in the night,
And, could we see, how terrible the sight;
None knew the evils that they all suspect,
And Hope at once they covet and reject. 220
But where the wife, her friend, her daughter, where?
Alas! in grief, in terror, in despair—
At home, abroad, upon the quay. No rest
In any place, but where they are not, best.
Fearful they ask, but dread the sad reply,
And many a sailor tells the friendly lie—
“There is no danger—that is, we believe,
And think—and hope”—but this does not deceive,
Although it soothes them; while they look around,
Trembling at every sight and every sound. 230
Let me not dwell on terrors——It is dark,
And lights are carried to and fro, and hark!
There is a cry—“a boat, a boat at hand!” }
What a still terror is there now on land! }
“Whose, whose?” they all enquire, and none can understand. }
At length they come—and oh! how then rejoice
A wife and children at that welcome voice!
It is not theirs—but what have these to tell?
“Where did you leave the Captain—were they well?”
Alas! they know not, they had felt an awe 240
In dread of death, and knew not what they saw.
Thus they depart—The evening darker grows,
The lights shake wildly, and as wildly blows
The stormy night-wind; fear possesses all,
The hardest hearts, in this sad interval.
But hark again to voices loud and high!
Once more that hope, that dread, that agony,
That panting expectation! “Oh! reveal
What must be known, and think what pangs we feel!”
In vain they ask! The men now landed speak 250
Confused and quick, and to escape them seek.
Our female party on a sailor press, }
But nothing learn that makes their terror less; }
Nothing the man can show, or nothing will confess. }
To some, indeed, they whisper, bringing news
For them alone, but others they refuse;
And steal away, as if they could not bear
The griefs they cause and, if they cause, must share.
They too are gone! and our unhappy Three,
Half wild with fear, are trembling on the quay. 260
They can no ease, no peace, no quiet find,
The storm is gathering in the troubled mind;
Thoughts after thoughts in wild succession rise,
And all within is changing like the skies.
Their friends persuade them, “Do depart, we pray!” }
They will not, must not, cannot go away, }
But chill’d with icy fear, for certain tidings stay. }
And now again there must a boat be seen—
Men run together! It must something mean!
Some figure moves upon the [oozy] bound, 270
Where flows the tide—Oh! what can he have found—
What lost? And who is he?—The only one
Of the loved three—the Captain’s younger son.
Their boat was fill’d and sank—He knows no more,
But that he only hardly reach’d the shore.
He saw them swimming—for he once was near—
But he was sinking, and he could not hear;
And then the waves curl’d round him, but, at length,
He struck upon the boat with dying strength,
And that preserved him; when he turn’d around, 280}
Nought but the dark, wild, billowy flood was found— }
That flood was all he saw, that flood’s the only sound— }
Save that the angry wind, with ceaseless roar,
Dash’d the wild waves upon the rocky shore.
The Widows dwell together—so we call
The younger woman; widow’d are they all;
But she, the poor Elizabeth, it seems
Not life in her—she lives not, but she dreams;
She looks on Philip, and in him can find
Not much to mark in body or in mind— 290
He who was saved; and then her very soul
Is in that scene—her thoughts, beyond control,
Fix’d on that night, and bearing her along,
Amid the waters terrible and strong;
Till there she sees within the troubled waves
The bodies sinking in their wat’ry graves,
When from her lover, yielding up his breath,
There comes a voice,—“Farewell, Elizabeth!”
Yet Resignation in the house is seen,
Subdued Affliction, Piety serene, 300
And Hope, for ever striving to instil
The balm for grief—“It is the Heavenly will.”
And in that will our duty bids us rest,
For all that Heaven ordains is good, is best;
We sin and suffer—this alone we know,
Grief is our portion, is our part below;
But we shall rise, that world of bliss to see,
Where sin and suffering never more shall be.

TALE XIX.

_MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD’S LOVE._

I.

I have remembrance of a BOY, whose mind
Was weak: he seem’d not for the world design’d;
Seem’d not as one who in that world could strive,
And keep his spirits even and alive—
A feeling BOY, and happy, though the less,
From that fine feeling, form’d for happiness.
His mother left him to his favourite ways,
And what he made his pleasure brought him praise.
Romantic, tender, visionary, mild,
Affectionate, reflecting when a child, 10
With fear instinctive he from harshness fled,
And gentle tears for all who suffer’d shed;
Tales of misfortune touch’d his generous heart,
Of maidens left, and lovers forced to part.
In spite of all that weak indulgence wrought,
That love permitted, or that flattery taught;
In spite of teachers who no fault would find,
The Boy was neither selfish nor unkind.
Justice and truth his honest heart approved,
And all things lovely he admired and loved. 20
Arabian Nights, and Persian Tales, he read,
And his pure mind with brilliant wonders fed.
The long Romances, wild Adventures fired
His stirring thoughts: he felt like Boy inspired.
The cruel fight, the constant love, the art
Of vile magicians, thrill’d his inmost heart:
An early Quixote, dreaming dreadful sights
Of warring dragons, and victorious knights—
In every dream some beauteous Princess shone,
The pride of thousands, and the prize of one. 30
Not yet he read, nor, reading, would approve
The Novel’s hero, or its ladies’ love.
He would Sophia for a wanton take,
Jones for a wicked, nay a vulgar rake.
He would no time on Smollett’s page bestow;
Such men he knew not, would disdain to know:
And if he read, he travell’d slowly on,
Teazed by the tame and faultless Grandison.
He in that hero’s deeds could not delight—
“He loved two ladies, and he would not fight.” 40
The minor works of this prolific kind
Presented beings he could never find:
Beings, he thought, that no man should describe,
A vile, intriguing, lying, perjured tribe,
With impious habits, and dishonest views;
The men he knew, had souls they feared to lose;
These had no views that could their sins controul,
With them nor fears nor hopes disturb’d the soul.
To dear Romance with fresh delight he turn’d,
And vicious men, like recreant cowards, spurn’d. 50
The Scripture Stories he with reverence read,
And duly took his Bible to his bed.
Yet Joshua, Samson, David, were a race
He dared not with his favourite heroes place.
Young as he was, the difference well he knew
Between the Truth, and what we fancy true:
He was with these entranced, of those afraid,
With Guy he triumph’d, but with David pray’d.

II.

_P._ Such was the Boy, and what the man would be,
I might conjecture, but could not foresee. 60
_F._ He has his trials met, his troubles seen,
And now deluded, now deserted, been.
His easy nature has been oft assail’d
By grief assumed, scorn hid, and flattery veil’d.
_P._ But has he, safe and cautious, shunn’d the snares
That life presents?—I ask not of its cares.
_F._ Your gentle Boy a course of life began
That made him, what he is, the gentle-man,
A man of business. He in courts presides
Among their Worships, whom his judgment guides. 70
He in the Temple studied, and came down
A very lawyer, though without a gown;
Still he is kind, but prudent, steady, just,
And takes but little that he hears on trust.
He has no visions now, no boyish plans;
All his designs and prospects are the man’s,
The man of sound discretion—
_P._ How so made?
What could his mind to change like this persuade—
What first awaken’d our romantic friend—
For such he is—
_F._ If you would know, attend. 80
In those gay years, when boys their manhood prove,
Because they talk of girls, and dream of love,
In William’s way there came a maiden fair,
With soft, meek look, and sweet, retiring air;
With just the rosy tint upon her cheek,
With sparkling eye, and tongue unused to speak;
With manner decent, quiet, chaste, that one,
Modest himself, might love to look upon.
As William look’d; and thus the gentle Squire
Began the Nymph, albeit poor, t’admire. 90
She was, to wit, the gardener’s niece; her place
Gave to her care the Lady’s silks and lace;
With other duties of an easy kind, }
And left her time, as much she felt inclined, }
T’adorn her graceful form, and fill her craving mind; }
Nay, left her leisure to employ some hours
Of the long day, among her uncle’s flowers—
Myrtle and rose, of which she took the care,
And was as sweet as pinks and lilies are.
Such was the damsel whom our Youth beheld 100
With passion unencouraged, unrepell’d;
For how encourage what was not in view,
Or how repel what strove not to pursue?
What books inspired, or glowing fancy wrought;
What dreams suggested, or reflection taught;
Whate’er of love was to the mind convey’d—
Was all directed to his darling maid.
He saw his damsel with a lover’s eyes,
As pliant fancy wove the fair disguise;
A Quixote he, who in his nymph could trace 110
The high-born beauty, changed and—out of place,
That William loved, mamma, with easy smile,
Would jesting say; but love _might_ grow the while;
The damsel’s self, with unassuming pride,
With love so led by fear was gratified.
What cause for censure? Could a man reprove
A child for fondness, or miscall it love?
Not William’s self; yet well inform’d was he,
That love it was, and endless love would be.
Month after month the sweet delusion bred 120
Wild, feverish hopes, that flourish’d, and then fled,
Like Fanny’s sweetest flower—and that was lost
In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost.
In some soft evenings, mid the garden’s bloom,
Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come;
And Fanny came, by chance it may be; still,
There was a gentle bias of the will,
Such as the soundest minds may act upon,
When motives of superior kind are gone.
There then they met, and Master William’s look 130
Was the less timid, for he held a book;
And when the sweetness of the evening hours,
The fresh soft air, the beauty of the flowers,
The night-bird’s note, the gently falling dew,
Were all discuss’d, and silence would ensue,
There were some lovely Lines—if she could stay—
And Fanny rises not to go away.

* * * * *

“Young Paris was the shepherd’s pride,
As well the fair Œnone knew;
They sat the mountain stream beside, 140
And o’er the bank a poplar grew.

“Upon its bark this verse he traced:
‘Bear witness to the vow I make;
Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste,
E’er I my matchless maid forsake.

“‘No prince or peasant lad am I,
Nor crown nor crook to me belong;
But I will love thee till I die,
And die before I do thee wrong.’

“Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run, 150
Paris is now a prince of Troy;
He leaves the Fair his flattery won,
Himself and country to destroy.

“He seizes on a sovereign’s wife,
The pride of Greece, and with her flies;
He causes thus a ten years’ strife,
And with his dying parent dies.

“Oh! think me not this Shepherd’s Boy,
Who from the Maid he loves would run:
Oh! think me not a Prince of Troy, 160
By whom such treacherous deeds are done.”

* * * * *

The Lines were read, and many an idle word
Pronounced with emphasis, and underscored,
As if the writer had resolved that all
His nouns and verbs should be emphatical
But what they were the damsel little thought;
The sense escaped her, but the voice she caught,
Soft, tender, trembling; and the gipsy felt
As if by listening she unfairly dealt;
For she, if not mamma, had rightly guess’d, 170
That William’s bosom was no seat of rest.
But Love’s young hope must die.—There was a day
When nature smiled, and all around was gay;
The Boy o’ertook the damsel, as she went
The village road—unknown was her intent;
He, happy hour, when lock’d in Fanny’s arm,
Walk’d on enamour’d, every look a charm!
Yet her soft looks were but her heart’s disguise,
There was no answering love in Fanny’s eyes;
But, or by prudence or by pity moved, 180
She thought it time his folly was reproved;
Then took her measures, not perchance without
Some conscious pride in what she was about.
Along the brook with gentle pace they go,
The Youth unconscious of th’ impending woe;
And oft he urged the absent Maid to talk,
As she was wont in many a former walk;
And still she slowly walk’d beside the brook,
Or look’d around—for what could Fanny look?
Something there must be! What, did not appear; 190
But William’s eye betray’d the anxious fear,
The cause unseen!——
But who, with giant-stride,
Bounds o’er the brook, and is at Fanny’s side?
Who takes her arm? and oh! what villain dares
To press those lips? Not even her lips he spares!
Nay, she herself, the Fanny, the divine,
Lip to his lip can wickedly incline!
The lad, unnerved by horror, with an air
Of wonder quits her arm and looks despair;
Nor will proceed. Oh no! he must return, 200
Though his drown’d sight cannot the path discern.
“Come, Master William! come, Sir, let us on.
What can you fear? You’re not afraid of John?”
“What ails our youngster?” quoth the burly swain,
Six feet in height—but he inquires in vain.
William, in deep resentment, scans the frame
Of the fond giant, and abhors his name;
Thinks him a demon of th’ infernal brood,
And longs to shed his most pernicious blood.
Again the monster spake in thoughtless joy,— 210
“We shall be married soon, my pretty Boy!
And dwell in Madam’s cottage, where you’ll see
The strawberry-beds, and cherries on the tree.”
Back to his home in silent scorn return’d
Th’ indignant Boy, and all endearment spurn’d.
Fanny perforce with Master takes her way,
But finds him to th’ o’erwhelming grief a prey,
Wrapt in resentful silence, till he came
Where he might vent his woes, and hide his shame.
Fierce was his strife, but with success he strove, 220
And freed his troubled breast from fruitless love;
Or what of love his reason fail’d to cool
Was lost and perish’d in a public school—
Those seats and sources both of good and ill,
By what they cure in Boys, and what they kill.

TALE XX.

_THE WILL._

I.

Thus to his Friend an angry Father spoke—
Nay, do not think that I the WILL revoke.
My cruel Son in every way I’ve tried, }
And every vice have found in him but pride; }
For he, of pride possess’d, would meaner vices hide. }
Money he wastes, I will not say he spends; }
He neither makes the poor nor rich his friends— }
To those he nothing gives, to these he never lends. }
“’Tis for himself each legal pale he breaks;
He joins the miser’s spirit to the rake’s. 10
Like the worst Roman in the worst of times,
He can be guilty of conflicting crimes;
Greedy of others’ wealth, unknown the use,
And of his own contemptuously profuse.
“To such a mind shall I my wealth confide,
That you to nobler, worthier ends, may guide?
No! let my Will my scorn of vice express,
And let him learn repentance from distress.”
So said the Father; and the Friend, who spurn’d
Wealth ill-acquired, his sober speech return’d— 20
“The youth is faulty, but his faults are weigh’d
With a strong bias, and by wrath repaid;
Pleasure deludes him, not the vain design
Of making vices unallied combine.
He wastes your wealth, for he is yet a boy;
He covets more, for he would more enjoy.
For, my good friend, believe me, very few, }
At once are prodigals and misers too— }
The spendthrift vice engrafted on the Jew. }
Leave me one thousand pounds; for I confess 30
I have my wants, and will not tax you less.
But your estate let this young man enjoy:
If he reforms, you’ve saved a grateful boy;
If not, a father’s cares and troubles cease,
You’ve done your duty, and may rest in peace.”
The Will in hand, the Father musing stood,
Then gravely answered, “Your advice is good;
Yet take the paper, and in safety keep;
I’ll make another Will before I sleep;
But, if I hear of some atrocious deed, 40
That deed I’ll burn, and yours will then succeed.
Two thousand I bequeath you. No reproof!
And there are small bequests—he’ll have enough;
For, if he wastes, he would with all be poor;
And, if he wastes not, he will need no more.”
The Friends then parted; this the Will possess’d,
And that another made—so things had rest.
George, who was conscious that his Father grew
Sick and infirm, engaged in nothing new.
No letters came from injured man or maid; 50
No bills from wearied duns, that must be paid;
No fierce reproaches from deserted fair,
Mixed with wild tenderness of desperate prayer;
So hope rose softly in the parent’s breast; }
He, dying, called his son and fondly blest, }
Hailed the propitious tear, and mildly sunk to rest. }
Unhappy Youth! e’er yet the tomb was closed,
And dust to dust convey’d in peace repos’d,
He sought his father’s closet, search’d around,
To find a Will: the important Will was found. 60
Well pleased he read, “These lands, this manor, all,
Now call me master!—I obey the call.”
Then from the window look’d the valley o’er,
And never saw it look so rich before.
He viewed the dairy, view’d the men at plough, }
With other eyes, with other feelings now, }
And with a new-formed taste found beauty in a cow. }
The distant swain who drove the plough along
Was a good useful slave, and passing strong!
In short, the view was pleasing, nay, was fine: 70
“Good as my father’s, excellent as mine!”
Again he reads—but he had read enough;
What followed put his virtue to a proof.
[How’s] this? to David Wright two thousand pounds! }
A monstrous sum! beyond all reason!—zounds! }
This is your friendship running out of bounds! }
“Then here are cousins Susan, Robert, Joe— }
Five hundred each. Do they deserve it? No! }
Claim they have none—I wonder if they know }
What the good man intended to bestow! 80}
This might be paid—but Wright’s enormous sum
Is—I’m alone—there’s nobody can come—
’Tis all his hand, no lawyer was employ’d
To write this prose, that ought to be destroy’d!
To no attorney would my father trust:
He wished his son to judge of what was just;
As if he said, ‘My boy will find the Will,
And, as he likes, destroy it or fulfil.’
This now is reason, this I understand—
What was at his, is now at my, command. 90
As for this paper, with these cousiny names,
I—’tis _my_ Will—commit it to the flames.
Hence! disappear! now am I lord alone:
They’ll groan, I know; but, curse them, let them groan.
Who wants his money like a new made heir,
To put all things in order and repair?
I need the whole the worthy man could save,
To do my father credit in his grave:
It takes no trifle to have squires convey’d
To their last house with honour and parade. 100
All this, attended by a world of cost,
Requires, demands, that nothing should be lost.
These fond bequests cannot demanded be—
Where no Will is, can be no legacy;
And none is here! I safely swear it—none!—
The very ashes are dispersed and gone.
All would be well, would that same sober Friend, }
That Wright, my father on his way attend; }
My fears—but why afraid?—my troubles then would end.” }
In triumph, yet in trouble, meets our Squire 110}
The friends assembled, who a Will require. }
“There is no Will,” he said.—They murmur and retire. }
Days pass away, while yet the Heir is blest
By pleasant cares, and thoughts that banish rest;
When comes the Friend, and asks, in solemn tone,
If he may see the busy Squire alone.
They are in private—all about is still—
When thus the Guest:—“Your father left a Will,
And I would see it.”—Rising in reply,
The youth beheld a fix’d and piercing eye, 120
From which his own receded; and the sound
Of his own words was in disorder drown’d.
He answered softly—“I in vain have spent
Days in the search; I pray you be content;
And, if a Will”—— The pertinacious Man, }
At ‘if’ displeased, with steady tone began— }
“There _is_ a Will—produce it, for you can.”— }
“Sir, I have sought in vain, and what the use?
What has no being, how can I produce?”—
“Two days I give you; to my words attend,” 130
Was the reply, “and let the business end.”
Two days were past, and still the same reply
To the same question—“Not a Will have I.”
More grave, more earnest, then the Friend appear’d;
He spoke with power, as one who would be heard—
“A Will your father made! I witness’d one.”
The Heir arose in anger—“Sir, begone!
Think you my spirit by your looks to awe?
Go to your lodgings, friend, or to your law.
To what would you our easy souls persuade? 140
Once more I tell you, not a Will was made;
There’s none with me, I swear it—now, deny
This if you can!”—
“That, surely, cannot I;
Nay, I believe you, and, as no such deed
Is found with you, _this_ surely will succeed!”—
He said, and from his pocket slowly drew }
Of the first testament a copy true, }
And held it spread abroad, that he might see it too. }
“Read, and be sure; your parent’s pleasure see—
Then leave this mansion and these lands to me.” 150
He said, and terror seized the guilty youth;
He saw his misery, meanness, and the truth;
Could not before his stern accuser stand,
Yet could not quit that hall, that park, that land;
But, when surprise had pass’d away, his grief
Began to think in law to find relief.
“While courts are open, why should I despair?
Juries will feel for an abandon’d heir.
I will resist,” he said, impell’d by pride—
“I must submit,” recurring fear replied. 160
As wheels the vane when winds around it play,
So his strong passions turn’d him every way;
But growing terrors seized th’ unhappy youth:
He knew the Man, and more, he knew—the Truth;
When, stung by all he fear’d, and all he felt,
He sought for mercy, and in terror knelt.
Grieved, but indignant—“Let me not despise
Thy father’s son,” replied the Friend; “arise!
To my fix’d purpose your attention lend,
And know, your fate will on yourself depend. 170
“Thou shalt not want, young man! nor yet abound,
And time shall try thee, if thy heart be sound;
Thou shalt be watch’d till thou hast learn’d to know
Th’ All-seeing Watcher of the world below,
And worlds above, and thoughts within; from Whom
Must be thy certain, just, and final doom.
Thy doors all closely barr’d, thy windows blind,
Before all silent, silent all behind—
Thy hand was stretch’d to do whate’er thy soul
In secret would—no mortal could—controul. 180
Oh, fool! to think that thou thy act could’st keep
From that All-piercing Eye, which cannot sleep!
“Go to thy trial! and may I—with thee
A fellow-sinner, who to mercy flee—
That mercy find, as justly I dispense
Between thy frailty and thy penitence!
“Go to thy trial! and be wise in time,
And know that no man can conceal a crime.
God and his Conscience witness all that’s done,
And these he cannot cheat, he cannot shun. 190
What, then, could fortune, what could safety, give,
If [he] with these at enmity must live?
“Go!”—and the young man from his presence went, }
Confused, uncertain of his own intent— }
To sin, if pride prevail’d; if soften’d, to repent. }

II.

_P._ Lives yet the Friend of that unhappy Boy,
Who could the WILL that made him rich destroy,
And made him poor? And what the after-plan,
For one so selfish, of that stern, good man?
_F._ “Choose,” said this Friend, “thy way in life, and I 200
Will means to aid thee in thy work supply.”
He will the army, thought this guardian, choose,
And there the sense of his dishonour lose.
Humbly he answer’d—“With your kind consent,
Of your estate I would a portion rent,
And farm with care”——
“Alas! the wretched fruit
Of evil habit! he will hunt and shoot!”
So judged the Friend, but soon perceived a change,
To him important, and to all men strange.
Industrious, temperate, with the sun he rose, 210
And of his time gave little to repose:
Nor to the labour only bent his will,
But sought experience, and improved with skill;
With cautious prudence placed his gains to use,
Inquiring always, “What will this produce?”
The Friend, not long suspicious, now began
To think more kindly of the alter’d man—
In his opinion alter’d; but, in truth,
The same the spirit that still ruled the youth.
That dwelt within, where other demons dwell, 220
Avarice unsated and insatiable.
But this Wright saw not; he was more inclined
To trace the way of a repenting mind;
And he was now by strong disease assail’d,
That quickly o’er the vital powers prevail’d:
And now the son had all, was rich beyond
His fondest hope, and he, indeed, was fond.
His life’s great care has been his zeal to prove,
And time to dotage has increased his love.
A Miser now, the one strong passion guides 230
The heart and soul; there’s not a love besides.
Where’er he comes, he sees in every face
A look that tells him of his own disgrace.
Men’s features vary, but the mildest show—
“It is a tale of infamy we know.”
Some with contempt the wealthy miser view,
Some with disgust, yet mix’d with pity too;
A part the looks of wrath and hatred wear,
And some, less happy, lose their scorn in fear.
Meanwhile, devoid of kindness, comfort, friends, 240
On his possessions solely he depends.
Yet is he wretched; for his fate decrees
That his own feelings should deny him ease.
With talents gifted, he himself reproves,
And can but scorn the vile pursuit he loves;
He can but feel that there abides within
The secret shame, the unrepented sin,
And the strong sense, that bids him to confess
He has not found the way to happiness.
But ’tis the way where he has travell’d long— 250
And turn he will not, though he feels it wrong;
Like a sad traveller, who, at closing day,
Finds he has wander’d widely from his way,
Yet wanders on, nor will new paths explore,
Till the night falls, and he can walk no more.

TALE XXI.

_THE COUSINS._

I.