Chapter VI: Part 6

Genius! thou gift of Heav'n! thou light divine! Amid what dangers art thou doom'd to shine! Oft will the body's weakness check thy force, Oft damp thy vigour, and impede thy course; And trembling nerves compel thee to restrain Thy nobler efforts, to contend with pain; Or want (sad guest!) will in thy presence come, And breathe around her melancholy gloom: To life's low cares will thy proud thought confine, And make her sufferings, her impatience, thine. Evil and strong, seducing passions prey On soaring minds, and win them from their way, Who then to Vice the subject spirits give, And in the service of the conqu'ror live; Like captive Samson making sport for all, Who fear'd their strength, and glory in their fall. Genius, with virtue, still may lack the aid Implored by humble minds, and hearts afraid; May leave to timid souls the shield and sword Of the tried Faith, and the resistless Word; Amid a world of dangers venturing forth, Frail, but yet fearless, proud in conscious worth, Till strong temptation, in some fatal time, Assails the heart, and wins the soul to crime, When left by honour, and by sorrow spent, Unused to pray, unable to repent, The nobler powers, that once exalted high Th' aspiring man, shall then degraded lie: Reason, through anguish, shall her throne forsake, And strength of mind but stronger madness make. When Edward Shore had reach'd his twentieth year, He felt his bosom light, his conscience clear; Applause at school the youthful hero gain'd, And trials there with manly strength sustain'd: With prospects bright upon the world he came, Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame: Men watch'd the way his lofty mind would take, And all foretold the progress he would make. Boast of these friends, to older men a guide, Proud of his parts, but gracious in his pride; He bore a gay good-nature in his face, And in his air were dignity and grace; Dress that became his state and years he wore, And sense and spirit shone in Edward Shore. Thus, while admiring friends the Youth beheld, His own disgust their forward hopes repell'd; For he unfix'd, unfixing, look'd around, And no employment but in seeking found; He gave his restless thoughts to views refined, And shrank from worldly cares with wounded mind. Rejecting trade, awhile he dwelt on laws, "But who could plead, if unapproved the cause?" A doubting, dismal tribe physicians seem'd; Divines o'er texts and disputations dream'd, War and its glory he perhaps could love, But there again he must the cause approve. Our hero thought no deed should gain applause Where timid virtue found support in laws; He to all good would soar, would fly all sin, By the pure prompting of the will within; "Who needs a law that binds him not to steal," Ask'd the young teacher, "can he rightly feel? To curb the will, or arm in honour's cause, Or aid the weak--are these enforced by laws? Should we a foul, ungenerous action dread, Because a law condemns th' adulterous bed? Or fly pollution, not for fear of stain, But that some statute tells us to refrain? The grosser herd in ties like these we bind, In virtue's freedom moves th' enlighten'd mind." "Man's heart deceives him," said a friend.--"Of course," Replied the Youth; "but has it power to force? Unless it forces, call it as you will, It is but wish, and proneness to the ill." "Art thou not tempted?"--"Do I fall?" said Shore. "The pure have fallen."--"Then are pure no more. While reason guides me, I shall walk aright, Nor need a steadier hand, or stronger light; Nor this in dread of awful threats, design'd For the weak spirit and the grov'ling mind; But that, engaged by thoughts and views sublime, I wage free war with grossness and with crime." Thus look'd he proudly on the vulgar crew, Whom statutes govern, and whom fears subdue. Faith, with his virtue, he indeed profess'd, But doubts deprived his ardent mind of rest; Reason, his sovereign mistress, fail'd to show Light through the mazes of the world below: Questions arose, and they surpass'd the skill Of his sole aid, and would be dubious still; These to discuss he sought no common guide, But to the doubters in his doubts applied; When all together might in freedom speak, And their loved truth with mutual ardour seek. Alas! though men who feel their eyes decay Take more than common pains to find their way, Yet, when for this they ask each other's aid, Their mutual purpose is the more delay'd: Of all their doubts, their reasoning clear'd not one, Still the same spots were present in the sun: Still the same scruples haunted Edward's mind, Who found no rest, nor took the means to find. But though with shaken faith, and slave to fame, Vain and aspiring on the world he came, Yet was he studious, serious, moral, grave, No passion's victim, and no system's slave: Vice he opposed, indulgence he disdain'd, And o'er each sense in conscious triumph reign'd. Who often reads will sometimes wish to write, And Shore would yield instruction and delight: A serious drama he design'd, but found 'Twas tedious travelling in that gloomy ground; A deep and solemn story he would try, But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid it by; Sermons he wrote, but they who knew his creed, Or knew it not, were ill-disposed to read; And he would lastly be the nation's guide, But, studying, fail'd to fix upon a side; Fame he desired, and talents he possess'd, But loved not labour, though he could not rest, Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind, That, ever working, could no centre find. 'Tis thus a sanguine reader loves to trace The Nile forth rushing on his glorious race; Calm and secure the fancied traveller goes Through sterile deserts and by threat'ning foes; He thinks not then of Afric's scorching sands, Th' Arabian sea, the Abyssinian bands; Fasils and Michaels, and the robbers all, {4} Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call: He of success alone delights to think, He views that fount, he stands upon the brink, And drinks a fancied draught, exulting so to drink. In his own room, and with his books around, His lively mind its chief employment found; Then idly busy, quietly employ'd, And, lost to life, his visions were enjoy'd: Yet still he took a keen inquiring view Of all that crowds neglect, desire, pursue; And thus abstracted, curious, still, serene, He, unemploy'd, beheld life's shifting scene: Still more averse from vulgar joys and cares, Still more unfitted for the world's affairs. There was a house where Edward ofttimes went, And social hours in pleasant trifling spent; He read, conversed, and reason'd, sang and play'd, And all were happy while the idler stay'd; Too happy one! for thence arose the pain, Till this engaging trifler came again. But did he love? We answer, day by day, The loving feet would take th' accustom'd way, The amorous eye would rove as if in quest Of something rare, and on the mansion rest; The same soft passion touch'd the gentle tongue, And Anna's charms in tender notes were sung; The ear, too, seem'd to feel the common flame, Soothed and delighted with the fair one's name; And thus, as love each other part possess'd, The heart, no doubt, its sovereign power confess'd. Pleased in her sight, the Youth required no more; Not rich himself, he saw the damsel poor; And he too wisely, nay, too kindly loved, To pain the being whom his soul approved. A serious Friend our cautious Youth possess'd, And at his table sat a welcome guest; Both unemploy'd, it was their chief delight To read what free and daring authors write; Authors who loved from common views to soar, And seek the fountains never traced before: Truth they profess'd, yet often left the true And beaten prospect, for the wild and new. His chosen friend his fiftieth year had seen, His fortune easy, and his air serene; Deist and atheist call'd; for few agreed What were his notions, principles, or creed; His mind reposed not, for he hated rest, But all things made a query or a jest; Perplex'd himself, he ever sought to prove That man is doom'd in endless doubt to rove; Himself in darkness he profess'd to be, And would maintain that not a man could see. The youthful Friend, dissentient, reason'd still Of the soul's prowess, and the subject-will; Of virtue's beauty, and of honour's force, And a warm zeal gave life to his discourse: Since from his feelings all his fire arose, And he had interest in the themes he chose. The Friend, indulging a sarcastic smile, Said, "Dear enthusiast! thou wilt change thy style, When man's delusions, errors, crimes, deceit, No more distress thee, and no longer cheat." Yet, lo! this cautious man, so coolly wise, On a young Beauty fix'd unguarded eyes; And her he married: Edward at the view Bade to his cheerful visits long adieu; But haply err'd, for this engaging bride No mirth suppress'd, but rather cause supplied: And when she saw the friends, by reasoning long, Confused if right, and positive if wrong, With playful speech, and smile that spoke delight, She made them careless both of wrong and right. This gentle damsel gave consent to wed, With school and school-day dinners in her head: She now was promised choice of daintiest food, And costly dress, that made her sovereign good; With walks on hilly heath to banish spleen, And summer-visits when the roads were clean. All these she loved, to these she gave consent, And she was married to her heart's content. Their manner this--the Friends together read, Till books a cause for disputation bred; Debate then follow'd, and the vapour'd child Declared they argued till her head was wild; And strange to her it was that mortal brain Could seek the trial, or endure the pain. Then, as the Friend reposed, the younger pair Sat down to cards, and play'd beside his chair; Till he, awaking, to his books applied, Or heard the music of th' obedient bride: If mild the evening, in the fields they stray'd, And their own flock with partial eye survey'd; But oft the husband, to indulgence prone, Resumed his book, and bade them walk alone. "Do, my kind Edward--I must take mine ease - Name the dear girl the planets and the trees: Tell her what warblers pour their evening song, What insects flutter, as you walk along; Teach her to fix the roving thoughts, to bind The wandering sense, and methodize the mind." This was obey'd; and oft when this was done, They calmly gazed on the declining sun; In silence saw the glowing landscape fade, Or, sitting, sang beneath the arbour's shade: Till rose the moon, and on each youthful face Shed a soft beauty and a dangerous grace. When the young Wife beheld in long debate Tho friends, all careless as she seeming sate, It soon appear'd there was in one combined The nobler person and the richer mind: He wore no wig, no grisly beard was seen, And none beheld him careless or unclean, Or watch'd him sleeping. We indeed have heard Of sleeping beauty, and it has appear'd; 'Tis seen in infants--there indeed we find The features soften'd by the slumbering mind; But other beauties, when disposed to sleep, Should from the eye of keen inspector keep: The lovely nymph who would her swain surprise, May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes; Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes, And all the homely features homelier makes: So thought our wife, beholding with a sigh Her sleeping spouse, and Edward smiling by. A sick relation for the husband sent; Without delay the friendly sceptic went; Nor fear'd the youthful pair, for he had seen The wife untroubled, and the friend serene; No selfish purpose in his roving eyes, No vile deception in her fond replies: So judged the husband, and with judgment true, For neither yet the guilt or danger knew. What now remain'd? but they again should play Th' accustom'd game, and walk th' accustom'd way; With careless freedom should converse or read, And the Friend's absence neither fear nor heed: But rather now they seem'd confused, constrain'd; Within their room still restless they remain'd, And painfully they felt, and knew each other pain'd. Ah, foolish men! how could ye thus depend, One on himself, the other on his friend? The Youth with troubled eye the lady saw, Yet felt too brave, too daring to withdraw; While she, with tuneless hand the jarring keys Touching, was not one moment at her ease: Now would she walk, and call her friendly guide, Now speak of rain, and cast her cloak aside; Seize on a book, unconscious what she read, And restless still to new resources fled; Then laugh'd aloud, then tried to look serene; And ever changed, and every change was seen. Painful it is to dwell on deeds of shame - The trying day was past, another came; The third was all remorse, confusion, dread, And (all too late!) the fallen hero fled. Then felt the Youth, in that seducing time, How feebly Honour guards the heart from crime: Small is his native strength; man needs the stay, The strength imparted in the trying day; For all that Honour brings against the force Of headlong passion, aids its rapid course; Its slight resistance but provokes the fire, As wood-work stops the flame, and then conveys it higher. The Husband came; a wife by guilt made bold Had, meeting, soothed him, as in days of old; But soon this fact transpired; her strong distress, And his Friend's absence, left him nought to guess. Still cool, though grieved, thus prudence bade him write - "I cannot pardon, and I will not fight; Thou art too poor a culprit for the laws, And I too faulty to support my cause: All must be punish'd; I must sigh alone, At home thy victim for her guilt atone; And thou, unhappy! virtuous now no more, Must loss of fame, peace, purity deplore; Sinners with praise will pierce thee to the heart, And saints, deriding, tell thee what thou art." Such was his fall; and Edward, from that time, Felt in full force the censure and the crime - Despised, ashamed; his noble views before, And his proud thoughts, degraded him the more: Should he repent--would that conceal his shame? Could peace be his? It perish'd with his fame: Himself he scorn'd, nor could his crime forgive; He fear'd to die, yet felt ashamed to live: Grieved, but not contrite, was his heart; oppress'd, Not broken; not converted, but distress'd; He wanted will to bend the stubborn knee, He wanted light the cause of ill to see, To learn how frail is man, how humble then should be; For faith he had not, or a faith too weak To gain the help that humble sinners seek; Else had he pray'd--to an offended God His tears had flown a penitential flood; Though far astray, he would have heard the call Of mercy--"Come! return, thou prodigal:" Then, though confused, distress'd, ashamed, afraid, Still had the trembling penitent obey'd; Though faith had fainted, when assail'd by fear, Hope to the soul had whisper'd, "Persevere!" Till in his Father's house, an humbled guest, He would have found forgiveness, comfort, rest. But all this joy was to our Youth denied By his fierce passions and his daring pride; And shame and doubt impell'd him in a course, Once so abhorr'd, with unresisted force, Proud minds and guilty, whom their crimes oppress, Fly to new crimes for comfort and redress; So found our fallen Youth a short relief In wine, the opiate guilt applies to grief, - From fleeting mirth that o'er the bottle lives, From the false joy its inspiration gives, - And from associates pleased to find a friend With powers to lead them, gladden, and defend, In all those scenes where transient ease is found, For minds whom sins oppress and sorrows wound. Wine is like anger; for it makes us strong, Blind, and impatient, and it leads us wrong; The strength is quickly lost, we feel the error long: Thus led, thus strengthen'd, in an evil cause, For folly pleading, sought the Youth applause; Sad for a time, then eloquently wild, He gaily spoke as his companions smiled; Lightly he rose, and with his former grace Proposed some doubt, and argued on the case; Fate and foreknowledge were his favourite themes - How vain man's purpose, how absurd his schemes: "Whatever is, was ere our birth decreed; We think our actions from ourselves proceed, And idly we lament th' inevitable deed; It seems our own, but there's a power above Directs the motion, nay, that makes us move; Nor good nor evil can you beings name, Who are but rooks and castles in the game; Superior natures with their puppets play, Till, bagg'd or buried, all are swept away." Such were the notions of a mind to ill Now prone, but ardent and determined still: Of joy now eager, as before of fame, And screen'd by folly when assail'd by shame, Deeply he sank; obey'd each passion's call, And used his reason to defend them all. Shall I proceed, and step by step relate The odious progress of a Sinner's fate? No--let me rather hasten to the time (Sure to arrive!) when misery waits on crime. With Virtue, prudence fled; what Shore possessed Was sold, was spent, and he was now distressed: And Want, unwelcome stranger, pale and wan, Met with her haggard looks the hurried man: His pride felt keenly what he must expect From useless pity and from cold neglect. Struck by new terrors, from his friends he fled, And wept his woes upon a restless bed; Retiring late, at early hour to rise, With shrunken features, and with bloodshot eyes: If sleep one moment closed the dismal view, Fancy her terrors built upon the true: And night and day had their alternate woes, That baffled pleasure, and that mock'd repose; Till to despair and anguish was consign'd The wreck and ruin of a noble mind. Now seized for debt, and lodged within a jail, He tried his friendships, and he found them fail; Then fail'd his spirits, and his thoughts were all Fix'd on his sins, his sufferings, and his fall: His ruffled mind was pictured in his face, Once the fair seat of dignity and grace: Great was the danger of a man so prone To think of madness, and to think alone; Yet pride still lived, and struggled to sustain The drooping spirit and the roving brain; But this too fail'd: a Friend his freedom gave, And sent him help the threat'ning world to brave; Gave solid counsel what to seek or flee, But still would stranger to his person be: In vain! the truth determined to explore, He traced the Friend whom he had wrong'd before. This was too much; both aided and advised By one who shunn'd him, pitied, and despised: He bore it not; 'twas a deciding stroke, And on his reason like a torrent broke: In dreadful stillness he appear'd a while, With vacant horror and a ghastly smile; Then rose at once into the frantic rage, That force controlled not, nor could love assuage. Friends now appear'd, but in the Man was seen The angry Maniac, with vindictive mien; Too late their pity gave to care and skill The hurried mind and ever-wandering will: Unnoticed pass'd all time, and not a ray Of reason broke on his benighted way; But now he spurn'd the straw in pure disdain, And now laugh'd loudly at the clinking chain. Then, as its wrath subsided by degrees, The mind sank slowly to infantine ease, To playful folly, and to causeless joy, Speech without aim, and without end, employ; He drew fantastic figures on the wall, And gave some wild relation of them all; With brutal shape he join'd the human face, And idiot smiles approved the motley race. Harmless at length th' unhappy man was found, The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd; And all the dreadful tempest died away To the dull stillness of the misty day. And now his freedom he attain'd--if free The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be; His friends, or wearied with the charge, or sure The harmless wretch was now beyond a cure, Gave him to wander where he pleased, and find His own resources for the eager mind: The playful children of the place he meets, Playful with them he rambles through the streets; In all they need, his stronger arm he lends, And his lost mind to these approving friends. That gentle Maid, whom once the Youth had loved, Is now with mild religious pity moved; Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be; And as she trembling speaks, his lively eyes Explore her looks, he listens to her sighs; Charm'd by her voice, th' harmonious sounds invade His clouded mind, and for a time persuade: Like a pleased infant, who has newly caught From the maternal glance a gleam of thought, He stands enrapt, the half-known voice to hear, And starts, half conscious, at the falling tear. Rarely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, In darker mood, as if to hide his woes; Returning soon, he with impatience seeks His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and speaks; Speaks a wild speech with action all is wild - The children's leader, and himself a child; He spins their top, or, at their bidding, bends His back, while o'er it leap his laughing friends; Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more, And heedless children call him Silly Shore.

TALE XII.

'SQUIRE THOMAS; OR THE PRECIPITATE CHOICE.

Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords in twain. Too intrinsicate t'unloose. SHAKESPEARE, King Lear.

My other self, my counsel's consistory, My oracle, my prophet, I as a child will go by thy direction. Richard III.

If I do not have pitv upon her, I'm a villain: If I do not love her, I am a Jew. Much Ado about Nothing.

Women are soft, mild, pitiable, flexible; But thou art obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Henry VI.

He must be told of it, and he shall; the office Becomes a woman best; I'll take it upon me; If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister. Winter's Tale.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness.
Twelfth Night.

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'Squire Thomas flatter'd long a wealthy Aunt, Who left him all that she could give or grant; Ten years he tried, with all his craft and skill, To fix the sovereign lady's varying will; Ten years enduring at her board to sit, He meekly listen'd to her tales and wit: He took the meanest office man can take, And his aunt's vices for her money's sake: By many a threat'ning hint she waked his fear, And he was pain'd to see a rival near: Yet all the taunts of her contemptuous pride He bore, nor found his grov'ling spirit tried: Nay, when she wish'd his parents to traduce, Fawning he smiled, and justice call'd th' abuse: "They taught you nothing: are you not at best," Said the proud Dame, "a trifler, and a jest? Confess you are a fool!"--he bow'd and he confess'd. This vex'd him much, but could not always last: The dame is buried, and the trial past. There was a female, who had courted long Her cousin's gifts, and deeply felt the wrong; By a vain boy forbidden to attend The private councils of her wealthy friend, She vow'd revenge, nor should that crafty boy In triumph undisturb'd his spoils enjoy: He heard, he smiled, and when the Will was read, Kindly dismiss'd the Kindred of the dead; "The dear deceased" he call'd her, and the crowd Moved off with curses deep and threat'nings loud. The youth retired, and, with a mind at ease, Found he was rich, and fancied he must please: He might have pleased, and to his comfort found The wife he wish'd, if he had sought around, For there were lasses of his own degree, With no more hatred to the state than he; But he had courted spleen and age so long, His heart refused to woo the fair and young; So long attended on caprice and whim, He thought attention now was due to him; And as his flattery pleased the wealthy Dame, Heir to the wealth, he might the flattery claim: But this the fair, with one accord, denied, Nor waived for man's caprice the sex's pride. There is a season when to them is due Worship and awe, and they will claim it too: "Fathers," they cry, "long hold us in their chain, Nay, tyrant brothers claim a right to reign: Uncles and guardians we in turn obey, And husbands rule with ever-during sway; Short is the time when lovers at the feet Of beauty kneel, and own the slavery sweet; And shall we thus our triumph, this the aim And boast of female power, forbear to claim? No! we demand that homage, that respect, Or the proud rebel punish and reject." Our Hero, still too indolent, too nice, To pay for beauty the accustom'd price, No less forbore t'address the humbler maid, Who might have yielded with the price unpaid; But lived, himself to humour and to please, To count his money, and enjoy his ease. It pleased a neighbouring 'squire to recommend A faithful youth as servant to his friend; Nay, more than servant, whom he praised for parts Ductile yet strong, and for the best of hearts: One who might ease him in his small affairs, With tenants, tradesmen, taxes, and repairs; Answer his letters, look to all his dues, And entertain him with discourse and news. The 'Squire believed, and found the trusted youth A very pattern for his care and truth; Not for his virtues to be praised alone, But for a modest mien and humble tone; Assenting always, but as if he meant Only to strength of reasons to assent: For was he stubborn, and retain'd his doubt, Till the more subtle 'Squire had forced it out; Nay, still was right, but he perceived that strong And powerful minds could make the right the wrong. When the 'Squire's thoughts on some fair damsel dwelt, The faithful Friend his apprehensions felt; It would rejoice his faithful heart to find A lady suited to his master's mind; But who deserved that master? who would prove That hers was pure, uninterested love? Although a servant, he would scorn to take A countess, till she suffer'd for his sake; Some tender spirit, humble, faithful, true, Such, my dear master! must be sought for you. Six months had pass'd, and not a lady seen, With just this love, 'twixt fifty and fifteen; All seem'd his doctrine or his pride to shun, All would be woo'd before they would be won; When the chance naming of a race and fair Our 'Squire disposed to take his pleasure there, The Friend profess'd, "although he first began To hint the thing, it seem'd a thoughtless plan; The roads, he fear'd, were foul, the days were short, The village far, and yet there might be sport." "What! you of roads and starless nights afraid? You think to govern! you to be obey'd!" Smiling he spoke: the humble Friend declared His soul's obedience, and to go prepared. The place was distant, but with great delight They saw a race, and hail'd the glorious sight: The 'Squire exulted, and declared the ride Had amply paid, and he was satisfied. They gazed, they feasted, and, in happy mood, Homeward return'd, and hastening as they rode; For short the day, and sudden was the change From light to darkness, and the way was strange: Our hero soon grew peevish, then distress'd; He dreaded darkness, and he sigh'd for rest: Going, they pass'd a village; but alas! Returning saw no village to repass; The 'Squire remember'd too a noble hall, Large as a church, and whiter than its wall: This he had noticed as they rode along, And justly reason'd that their road was wrong, George, full of awe, was modest in reply - "The fault was his, 'twas folly to deny; And of his master's safety were he sure, There was no grievance he would not endure." This made his peace with the relenting 'Squire, Whose thoughts yet dwelt on supper and a fire; When, as they reach'd a long and pleasant green, Dwellings of men, and next a man, were seen. "My friend," said George, "to travellers astray Point out an inn, and guide us on the way." The man look'd up; "Surprising! can it be My master's son? as I'm alive, 'tis he!" "How! Robin?" George replied, "and are we near My father's house? how strangely things appear! - Dear sir, though wanderers, we at last are right: Let us proceed, and glad my father's sight: We shall at least be fairly lodged and fed, I can ensure a supper and a bed; Let us this night as one of pleasure date, And of surprise: it is an act of Fate." "Go on," the 'Squire in happy temper cried; "I like such blunder! I approve such guide." They ride, they halt, the farmer comes in haste, Then tells his wife how much their house is graced; They bless the chance, they praise the lucky son. That caused the error--Nay! it was not one, But their good fortune: cheerful grew the 'Squire, Who found dependants, flattery, wine, and fire; He heard the jack turn round; the busy dame Produced her damask; and with supper came The Daughter, dress'd with care, and full of maiden shame. Surprised, our hero saw the air and dress, And strove his admiration to express; Nay! felt it too--for Harriot was in truth A tall fair beauty in the bloom of youth; And from the pleasure and surprise, a grace Adorn'd the blooming damsel's form and face; Then, too, such high respect and duty paid By all--such silent reverence in the maid; Vent'ring with caution, yet with haste, a glance, Loth to retire, yet trembling to advance, Appear'd the nymph, and in her gentle guest Stirr'd soft emotions till the hour of rest; Sweet was his sleep, and in the morn again He felt a mixture of delight and pain: "How fair, how gentle," said the 'Squire, "how meek, And yet how sprightly, when disposed to speak! Nature has bless'd her form, and heaven her mind, But in her favours Fortune is unkind; Poor is the maid--nay, poor she cannot prove Who is enrich'd with beauty, worth, and love." The 'Squire arose, with no precise intent To go or stay--uncertain what he meant: He moved to part--they begg'd him first to dine; And who could then escape from Love and Wine? As came the night, more charming grew the Fair, And seem'd to watch him with a twofold care: On the third morn, resolving not to stay, Though urged by Love, he bravely rode away. Arrived at home, three pensive days he gave To feelings fond and meditations grave; Lovely she was, and, if he did not err, As fond of him as his fond heart of her; Still he delay'd, unable to decide, Which was the master-passion, Love or Pride: He sometimes wonder'd how his friend could make, And then exulted in, the night's mistake; Had she but fortune, "Doubtless then," he cried, "Some happier man had won the wealthy bride." While thus he hung in balance, now inclined To change his state, and then to change his mind, That careless George dropp'd idly on the ground A letter, which his crafty master found; The stupid youth confess'd his fault, and pray'd The generous 'Squire to spare a gentle maid, Of whom her tender mother, full of fears, Had written much--"she caught her oft in tears, For ever thinking on a youth above Her humble fortune--still she own'd not love; Nor can define, dear girl! the cherish'd pain, But would rejoice to see the cause again: That neighbouring youth, whom she endured before, She now rejects, and will behold no more; Raised by her passion, she no longer stoops To her own equals, but she pines and droops, Like to a lily on whose sweets the sun Has withering gazed--she saw and was undone; His wealth allured her not--nor was she moved By his superior state, himself she loved; So mild, so good, so gracious, so genteel, - But spare your sister, and her love conceal; We must the fault forgive, since she the pain must feel." "Fault!" said the 'Squire, "there's coarseness in the mind That thus conceives of feelings so refined; Here end my doubts, nor blame yourself, my friend, Fate made you careless--here my doubts have end." The way is plain before us--there is now The Lover's visit first, and then the vow, Mutual and fond, the marriage-rite, the Bride Brought to her home with all a husband's pride: The 'Squire receives the prize his merits won, And the glad parents leave the patron-son. But in short time he saw, with much surprise, First gloom, then grief, and then resentment rise, From proud, commanding frowns, and anger-darting eyes: "Is there in Harriot's humble mind this fire, This fierce impatience?" ask'd the puzzled 'Squire: "Has marriage changed her? or the mask she wore Has she thrown by, and is herself once more?" Hour after hour, when clouds on clouds appear, Dark and more dark, we know the tempest near; And thus the frowning brow, the restless form, And threat'ning glance, forerun domestic storm: So read the Husband, and, with troubled mind, Reveal'd his fears--"My Love, I hope you find All here is pleasant--but I must confess You seem offended, or in some distress: Explain the grief you feel, and leave me to redress." "Leave it to you?" replied the Nymph--"indeed! What to the cause from whence the ills proceed? Good Heaven! to take me from a place where I Had every comfort underneath the sky; And then immure me in a gloomy place, With the grim monsters of your ugly race, That from their canvas staring, make me dread Through the dark chambers, where they hang, to tread. No friend nor neighbour comes to give that joy Which all things here must banish or destroy. Where is the promised coach? the pleasant ride? Oh! what a fortune has a Farmer's bride! Your sordid pride has placed me just above Your hired domestics--and what pays me? Love! A selfish fondness I endure each hour, And share unwitness'd pomp, unenvied power. I hear your folly, smile at your parade, And see your favourite dishes duly made; Then am I richly dress'd for you t'admire, Such is my duty and my Lord's desire: Is this a life for youth, for health, for joy? Are these my duties--this my base employ? No! to my father's house will I repair, And make your idle wealth support me there. Was it your wish to have an humble bride, For bondage thankful? Curse upon your pride! Was it a slave you wanted? You shall see, That, if not happy, I at least am free: Well, sir! your answer."--Silent stood the 'Squire, As looks a miser at his house on fire; Where all he deems is vanish'd in that flame, Swept from the earth his substance and his name, So, lost to every promised joy of life, Our 'Squire stood gaping at his angry wife; - His fate, his ruin, where he saw it vain To hope for peace, pray, threaten, or complain; And thus, betwixt his wonder at the ill And his despair, there stood he gaping still. "Your answer, sir!--Shall I depart a spot I thus detest?"--"Oh, miserable lot!" Exclaim'd the man. "Go, serpent! nor remain To sharpen woe by insult and disdain; A nest of harpies was I doom'd to meet; What plots, what combinations of deceit! I see it now--all plann'd, design'd, contrived; Served by that villain--by this fury wived - What fate is mine! What wisdom, virtue truth, Can stand if demons set their traps for youth? He lose his way? vile dog! he cannot lose The way a villain through his life pursues; And thou, deceiver! thou afraid to move, And hiding close the serpent in the dove! I saw--but, fated to endure disgrace, Unheeding saw--the fury in thy face, And call'd it spirit. Oh: I might have found Fraud and imposture all the kindred round! A nest of vipers" - "Sir, I'll not admit These wild effusions of your angry wit: Have you that value, that we all should use Such mighty arts for such important views? Are you such prize--and is my state so fair, That they should sell their souls to get me there? Think you that we alone our thoughts disguise? When, in pursuit of some contended prize, Mask we alone the heart, and soothe whom we despise? Speak you of craft and subtle schemes, who know That all your wealth you to deception owe; Who play'd for ten dull years a scoundrel part, To worm yourself into a Widow's heart? Now, when you guarded, with superior skill, That lady's closet, and preserved her Will, Blind in your craft, you saw not one of those Opposed by you might you in turn oppose, Or watch your motions, and by art obtain Share of that wealth you gave your peace to gain. Did conscience never" - "Cease, tormentor, cease - Or reach me poison;--let me rest in peace!" "Agreed--but hear me--let the truth appear." "Then state your purpose--I'll be calm and hear." "Know then, this wealth, sole object of your care, I had some right, without your hand, to share; My mother's claim was just--but soon she saw Your power, compell'd, insulted, to withdraw: 'Twas then my father, in his anger, swore You should divide the fortune, or restore. Long we debated--and you find me now Heroic victim to a father's vow; Like Jephtha's daughter, but in different state, And both decreed to mourn our early fate: Hence was my brother servant to your pride, Vengeance made him your slave, and me your bride. Now all is known--a dreadful price I pay For our revenge--but still we have our day: All that you love you must with others share, Or all you dread from their resentment dare: - Yet terms I offer--let contention cease; Divide the spoil, and let us part in peace." Our hero trembling heard--he sat, he rose - Nor could his motions nor his mind compose; He paced the room--and, stalking to her side, Gazed on the face of his undaunted bride, And nothing there but scorn and calm aversion spied. He would have vengeance, yet he fear'd the law; Her friends would threaten, and their power he saw; "Then let her go:" but, oh! a mighty sum Would that demand, since he had let her come; Nor from his sorrows could he find redress, Save that which led him to a like distress; And all his ease was in his wife to see A wretch as anxious and distress'd as he: Her strongest wish, the fortune to divide, And part in peace, his avarice denied; And thus it happen'd, as in all deceit, The cheater found the evil of the cheat; The Husband griev'd--nor was the Wife at rest; Him she could vex, and he could her molest; She could his passion into frenzy raise, But, when the fire was kindled, fear'd the blaze; As much they studied, so in time they found The easiest way to give the deepest wound; But then, like fencers, they were equal still, - Both lost in danger what they gain'd in skill; Each heart a keener kind of rancour gain'd, And, paining more, was more severely pain'd, And thus by both was equal vengeance dealt, And both the anguish they inflicted felt.

TALE XIII.

JESSE AND COLIN.

Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. SHAKESPEARE, Merry Wives of Windsor.

She hath spoken that she should not, I am sure of that; Heaven knows what she hath known. Macbeth.

Our house is hell, and thou a merry devil.
Merchant of Venice.

And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit of too much, as they that starve with nothing; it is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. Merchant of Venice.

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