Chapter XI: Preface (10)

Some to our hero have a hero’s name
Denied, because no father’s he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend--
A point she was not eager to defend.
But who, without a father’s name, can raise
His own so high, deserves the greater praise:
The less advantage to the strife he brought,
The greater wonders has his prowess wrought; 10
He who depends upon his wind and limbs,
Needs neither cork or bladder when he swims;
Nor will by empty breath be puff’d along,
As not himself--but in his helpers--strong.
Suffice it then, our hero’s name was clear,
For, call John Dighton, and he answer’d, “Here!”
But who that name in early life assign’d
He never found, he never tried to find;
Whether his kindred were to John disgrace,
Or John to them, is a disputed case; 20
His infant-state owed nothing to their care--
His mind neglected, and his body bare;
All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
But, in a market-town, an active boy
Appear’d, and sought in various ways employ;
Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began
To show the talents of a thriving man.
With spirit high John learn’d the world to brave,
And in both senses was a ready knave; 30
Knave [as of] old, obedient, keen, and quick,
Knave as at present, skill’d to shift and trick.
Some humble part of many trades he caught:
He for the builder and the painter wrought;
For serving-maids on secret errands ran,
The waiter’s helper, and the hostler’s man;
And, when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose,
His varying genius shone in blacking shoes.
A midnight fisher by the pond he stood;
Assistant poacher, he o’erlook’d the wood; 40
At an election John’s impartial mind
Was to no cause nor candidate confined;
To all in turn he full allegiance swore,
And in his hat the various badges bore;
His liberal soul with every sect agreed;
Unheard their reasons, he received their creed.
At church he deign’d the organ-pipes to fill,
And at the meeting sang both loud and shrill;
But the full purse these different merits gain’d,
By strong demands his lively passions drain’d; 50
Liquors he loved of each inflaming kind,
To midnight revels flew with ardent mind;
Too warm at cards, a losing game he play’d;
To fleecing beauty his attention paid;
His boiling passions were by oaths express’d,
And lies he made his profit and his jest.
Such was the boy, and such the man had been,
But fate or happier fortune changed the scene;
A fever seized him; “he should surely die--”
He fear’d, and lo! a friend was praying by. 60
With terror moved, this teacher he address’d,
And all the errors of his youth confess’d:
The good man kindly clear’d the sinner’s way
To lively hope, and counsell’d him to pray:
Who then resolved, should he from sickness rise,
To quit cards, liquors, poaching, oaths, and lies.
His health restored, he yet resolved, and grew
True to his masters, to their meeting true;
His old companions at his sober face }
Laugh’d loud, while he, attesting it was grace, } 70
With tears besought them all his calling to embrace. }
To his new friends such convert gave applause,
Life to their zeal, and glory to their cause;
Though terror wrought the mighty change, yet strong
Was the impression, and it lasted long;
John at the lectures due attendance paid,
A convert meek, obedient, and afraid.
His manners strict, though form’d on fear alone, }
Pleased the grave friends, nor less his solemn tone, }
The lengthen’d face of care, the low and inward groan. } 80
The stern good men exulted, when they saw
Those timid looks of penitence and awe;
Nor thought that one so passive, humble, meek,
Had yet a creed and principles to seek.
The faith that reason finds, confirms, avows,
The hopes, the views, the comforts she allows--
These were not his, who by his feelings found,
And by them only, that his faith was sound:
Feelings of terror these, for evil past,
Feelings of hope, to be received at last; 90
Now weak, now lively, changing with the day,
These were his feelings, and he felt his way.
Sprung from such sources, will this faith remain
While these supporters can their strength retain?
As heaviest weights the deepest rivers pass,
While icy chains fast bind the solid mass:
So, born of feelings, faith remains secure,
Long as their firmness and their strength endure;
But, when the waters in their channel glide,
A bridge must bear us o’er the threat’ning tide; 100
Such bridge is reason, and there faith relies,
Whether the varying spirits fall or rise.
His patrons, still disposed their aid to lend,
Behind a counter placed their humble friend;
Where pens and paper were on shelves display’d,
And pious pamphlets on the windows laid.
By nature active, and from vice restrain’d,
Increasing trade his bolder views sustain’d;
His friends and teachers, finding so much zeal
In that young convert whom they taught to feel, 110
His trade encouraged, and were pleased to find
A hand so ready, with such humble mind.
And now, his health restored, his spirits eased,
He wish’d to marry, if the teachers pleased.
They, not unwilling, from the virgin-class
Took him a comely and a courteous lass;
Simple and civil, loving and beloved,
She long a fond and faithful partner proved;
In every year the elders and the priest
Were duly summon’d to a christening feast; 120
Nor came a babe, but by his growing trade,
John had provision for the coming made;
For friends and strangers all were pleased to deal
With one whose care was equal to his zeal.
In human friendships, it compels a sigh,
To think what trifles will dissolve the tie.
John, now become a master of his trade,
Perceived how much improvement might be made;
And, as this prospect open’d to his view,
A certain portion of his zeal withdrew; 130
His fear abated--“What had he to fear--
His profits certain, and his conscience clear?”
Above his door a board was placed by John,
And “Dighton, stationer,” was gilt thereon;
His window next, enlarged to twice the size,
Shone with such trinkets as the simple prize;
While in the shop with pious works were seen
The last new play, review, or magazine.
In orders punctual, he observed--“The books
He never read, and could he judge their looks? 140
Readers and critics should their merits try,
He had no office but to sell and buy;
Like other traders, profit was his care;
Of what they print, the authors must beware.”
He held his patrons and his teachers dear,
But with his trade--they must not interfere.
’Twas certain now that John had lost the dread
And pious thoughts that once such terrors bred;
His habits varied, and he more inclined
To the vain world, which he had half resign’d: 150
He had moreover in his brethren seen,
Or he imagined, craft, conceit, and spleen;
“They are but men,” said John, “and shall I then
Fear man’s control, or stand in awe of men?
’Tis their advice (their convert’s rule and law),
And good it is--I will not stand in awe.”
Moreover Dighton, though he thought of books
As one who chiefly on the title looks,
Yet sometimes ponder’d o’er a page to find,
When vex’d with cares, amusement for his mind; 160
And by degrees that mind had treasured much
From works his teachers were afraid to touch.
Satiric novels, poets bold and free,
And what their writers term philosophy,
All these were read; and he began to feel
Some self-approval on his bosom steal.
Wisdom creates humility, but he
Who thus collects it, will not humble be.
No longer John was fill’d with pure delight
And humble reverence in a pastor’s sight, 170
Who, like a grateful zealot, listening stood,
To hear a man so friendly and so good;
But felt the dignity of one who made
Himself important by a thriving trade;
And growing pride in Dighton’s mind was bred
By the strange food on which it coarsely fed.
Their brother’s fall the grieving brethren heard,
The pride indeed to all around appear’d;
The world, his friends agreed, had won the soul
From its best hopes, the man from their control. 180
To make him humble, and confine his views
Within their bounds, and books which they peruse,
A deputation from these friends select,
Might reason with him to some good effect;
Arm’d with authority, and led by love,
They might those follies from his mind remove;
Deciding thus, and with this kind intent,
A chosen body with its speaker went.
“John,” said the teacher, “John, with great concern
We see thy frailty, and thy fate discern-- 190
Satan with toils thy simple soul beset,
And thou art careless, slumbering in the net;
Unmindful art thou of thy early vow;
Who at the morning-meeting sees thee now?
Who at the evening? where is brother John?
We ask--are answer’d, ‘To the tavern gone.’
Thee on the sabbath seldom we behold;
Thou canst not sing, thou’rt nursing for a cold:
This from the churchmen thou hast learn’d, for they
Have colds and fevers on the sabbath-day; 200
When in some snug warm room they sit, and pen
Bills from their ledgers, world-entangled men!
“See with what pride thou hast enlarged thy shop;
To view thy tempting stores the heedless stop;
By what strange names dost thou these baubles know,
Which wantons wear, to make a sinful show?
Hast thou in view these idle volumes placed
To be the pander of a vicious taste?
What’s here? a book of dances!--you advance
In goodly knowledge--John, wilt learn to dance? 210
How! ‘Go--’ it says, and ‘to the devil go!
And shake thyself!’ I tremble--but ’tis so----
Wretch as thou art, what answer canst thou make?
Oh! without question, thou wilt go and shake.
What’s here? ‘The School for Scandal’--pretty schools!
Well, and art thou proficient in the rules?
Art thou a pupil, is it thy design
To make our names contemptible as thine?
‘Old Nick, a Novel!’ oh! ’tis mighty well--
A fool has courage when he laughs at hell; 220
‘Frolic and Fun,’ ‘The humours of Tim Grin’;
Why, John, thou grow’st facetious in thy sin;
And what? ‘The Archdeacon’s Charge’--‘tis mighty well--
If Satan publish’d, thou wouldst doubtless sell;
Jests, novels, dances, and this precious stuff--
To crown thy folly we have seen enough;
We find thee fitted for each evil work---
Do print the Koran, and become a Turk!
“John, thou art lost; success and worldly pride }
O’er all thy thoughts and purposes preside, } 230
Have bound thee fast, and drawn thee far aside; }
Yet turn, these sin-traps from thy shop expel,
Repent and pray, and all may yet be well.
“And here thy wife, thy Dorothy, behold,
How fashion’s wanton robes her form infold!
Can grace, can goodness with such trappings dwell?
John, thou hast made thy wife a Jezebel.
See! on her bosom rests the sign of sin,
The glaring proof of naughty thoughts within;
What? ’tis a cross; come hither--as a friend, 240
Thus from thy neck the shameful badge I rend.”
“Rend, if you dare,” said Dighton; “you shall find
A man of spirit, though to peace inclined;
Call me ungrateful! have I not my pay
At all times ready for the expected day?--
To share my plenteous board you deign to come,
Myself your pupil, and my house your home;
And shall the persons who my meat enjoy
Talk of my faults, and treat me as a boy?
Have you not told how Rome’s insulting priests 250
Led their meek laymen like a herd of beasts;
And by their fleecing and their forgery made
Their holy calling an accursed trade?
Can you such acts and insolence condemn,
Who to your utmost power resemble them?
“Concerns it you what books I set for sale?
The tale perchance may be a virtuous tale;
And, for the rest, ’tis neither wise nor just
In you, who read not, to condemn on trust;
Why should th’ Archdeacon’s Charge your spleen excite?
He, or perchance th’ archbishop, may be right. 261
“That from your meetings I refrain, is true;
I meet with nothing pleasant--nothing new,
But the same proofs, that not one text explain,
And the same lights, where all things dark remain;
I thought you saints on earth--but I have found
Some sins among you, and the best unsound;
You have your failings, like the crowds below,
And at your pleasure hot and cold can blow.
When I at first your grave deportment saw, 270
(I own my folly,) I was fill’d with awe;
You spoke so warmly, and it [seemed] so well,
I should have thought it treason to rebel.
Is it a wonder that a man like me
Should such perfection in such teachers see;
Nay, should conceive you sent from Heav’n to brave
The host of sin, and sinful souls to save?
But, as our reason wakes, our prospects clear,
And failings, flaws, and blemishes appear.
“When you were mounted in your rostrum high, 280
We shrank beneath your tone, your frown, your eye;
Then you beheld us abject, fallen, low,
And felt your glory from our baseness grow;
Touch’d by your words, I trembled like the rest,
And my own vileness and your power confess’d:
These, I exclaim’d, are men divine, and gazed
On him who taught, delighted and amazed;
Glad, when he finish’d, if by chance he cast
One look on such a sinner, as he pass’d.
“But, when I view’d you in a clearer light, 290
And saw the frail and carnal appetite;
When, at his humble pray’r, you deign’d to eat,
Saints as you are, a civil sinner’s meat;
When, as you sat contented and at ease,
Nibbling at leisure on the ducks and peas,
And, pleased some comforts in such place to find,
You could descend to be a little kind;
And gave us hope, in Heaven there might be room
For a few souls beside your own to come;
While this world’s good engaged your carnal view, 300
And like a sinner you enjoy’d it too:
All this perceiving, can you think it strange
That change in you should work an equal change?”
“Wretch that thou art,” an elder cried, “and gone
For everlasting”----“Go thyself,” said John;
“Depart this instant, let me hear no more;
My house my castle is, and that my door.”
The hint they took, and from the door withdrew,
And John to meeting bade a long adieu;
Attach’d to business; he in time became 310
A wealthy man of no inferior name.
It seem’d, alas! in John’s deluded sight,
That all was wrong because not all was right;
And, when he found his teachers had their stains,
Resentment and not reason broke his chains.
Thus on his feelings he again relied,
And never look’d to reason for his guide.
Could he have wisely view’d the frailty shown,
And rightly weigh’d their wanderings and his own,
He might have known that men may be sincere, 320
Though gay and feasting on the savoury cheer;
That doctrines sound and sober they may teach,
Who love to eat with all the glee they preach;
Nay, who believe the duck, the grape, the pine,
Were not intended for the dog and swine.
But Dighton’s hasty mind on every theme
Ran from the truth, and rested in th’ extreme;
Flaws in his friends he found, and then withdrew
(Vain of his knowledge) from their virtues too;
Best of his books he loved the liberal kind, 330
That, if they improve not, still enlarge the mind;
And found himself, with such advisers, free
From a fix’d creed, as mind enlarged could be.
His humble wife at these opinions sigh’d,
But her he never heeded till she died;
He then assented to a last request,
And by the meeting-window let her rest;
And on her stone the sacred text was seen,
Which had her comfort in departing been.
Dighton with joy beheld his trade advance, 340
Yet seldom published, loth to trust to chance;
Then wed a doctor’s sister--poor indeed,
But skill’d in works her husband could not read;
Who, if he wish’d new ways of wealth to seek,
Could make her half-crown pamphlet in a week:
This he rejected, though without disdain,
And chose the old and certain way to gain.
Thus he proceeded; trade increased the while,
And fortune woo’d him with perpetual smile.
On early scenes he sometimes cast a thought, 350
When on his heart the mighty change was wrought;
And all the ease and comfort converts find
Was magnified in his reflecting mind;
Then on the teacher’s priestly pride he dwelt,
That caused his freedom, but with this he felt
The danger of the free--for since that day,
No guide had shown, no brethren join’d his way;
Forsaking one, he found no second creed,
But reading doubted, doubting what to read.
Still, though reproof had brought some present pain, 360
The gain he made was fair and honest gain;
He laid his wares indeed in public view,
But that all traders claim a right to do.
By means like these, he saw his wealth increase,
And felt his consequence, and dwelt in peace.
Our hero’s age was threescore years and five,
When he exclaim’d, “Why longer should I strive?
Why more amass, who never must behold
A young John Dighton to make glad the old?”
(The sons he had to early graves were gone, 370
And girls were burdens to the mind of John.)
“Had I [a] boy, he would our name sustain,
That now to nothing must return again;
But what are all my profits, credit, trade,
And parish-honours?--folly and parade.”
Thus Dighton thought, and in his looks appear’d
Sadness, increased by much he saw and heard.
The brethren often at the shop would stay,
And make their comments ere they walk’d away;
They mark’d the window, fill’d in every pane 380
With lawless prints of reputations slain;
Distorted forms of men with honours graced,
And our chief rulers in derision placed:
Amazed they stood, remembering well the days,
When to be humble was their brother’s praise;
When at the dwelling of their friend they stopp’d
To drop a word, or to receive it dropp’d;
Where they beheld the prints of men renown’d,
And far-famed preachers pasted all around;
(Such mouths! eyes! hair! so prim! so fierce! so sleek! 390
They look’d as speaking what is wo to speak):
On these the passing brethren loved to dwell--
How long they spake! how strongly! warmly! well!
What power had each to dive in mysteries deep,
To warm the cold, to make the harden’d weep;
To lure, to fright, to soothe, to awe the soul,
And list’ning flocks to lead and to control!
But now discoursing, as they linger’d near,
They tempted John (whom they accused) to hear
Their weighty charge--“And can the lost-one feel, 400
As in the time of duty, love, and zeal:
When all were summon’d at the rising sun,
And he was ready with his friends to run;
When he, partaking with a chosen few,
Felt the great change, sensation rich and new?
No! all is lost, her favours Fortune shower’d
Upon the man, and he is overpower’d;
The world has won him with its tempting store
Of needless wealth, and that has made him poor.
Success undoes him; he has risen to fall, 410
Has gain’d a fortune, and has lost his all;
Gone back from Sion, he will find his age
Loth to commence a second pilgrimage;
He has retreated from the chosen track;
And now must ever bear the burden on his back.”
Hurt by such censure, John began to find
Fresh revolutions working in his mind;
He sought for comfort in his books, but read
Without a plan or method in his head;
What once amused, now rather made him sad, 420
What should inform, increased the doubts he had;
Shame would not let him seek at church a guide,
And from his meeting he was held by pride;
His wife derided fears she never felt,
And passing brethren daily censures dealt;
Hope for a son was now for ever past,
He was the first John Dighton, and the last;
His stomach fail’d, his case the doctor knew,
But said, “he still might hold a year or two.”
“No more?” he said, “but why should I complain? 430
A life of doubt must be a life of pain.
Could I be sure--but why should I despair?
I’m sure my conduct has been just and fair;
In youth indeed I had a wicked will,
But I repented, and have sorrow still;
I had my comforts, and a growing trade
Gave greater pleasure than a fortune made;
And, as I more possess’d and reason’d more,
I lost those comforts I enjoy’d before,
When reverend guides I saw my table round, 440
And in my guardian guest my safety found.
Now sick and sad, no appetite, no ease,
Nor pleasure have I, nor a wish to please;
Nor views, nor hopes, nor plans, nor taste have I,
Yet sick of life, have no desire to die.”
He said, and died; his trade, his name is gone,
And all that once gave consequence to John.
Unhappy Dighton! had he found a friend,
When conscience told him it was time to mend!
A friend discreet, considerate, kind, sincere, 450
Who would have shown the grounds of hope and fear;
And proved that spirits, whether high or low,
No certain tokens of man’s safety show;
Had reason ruled him in her proper place,
And virtue led him while he lean’d on grace;
Had he while zealous been discreet and pure,
His knowledge humble, and his hope secure--
These guides had placed him on the solid rock,
Where faith had rested, nor received a shock;
But his, alas! was placed upon the sand, 460
Where long it stood not, and where none can stand.

TALE XX.

_THE BROTHERS._

A brother noble,
Whose nature is so far from doing harms
That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty
My [practices] ride easy.
_King Lear_, Act I. Scene 2.

He lets me feed with [his] hinds; bars me the place of brother.
_As You Like It_, Act I. Scene 1.

’Twas I, but ’tis not I: I do not shame
To tell you what I was, [. . .
. . .] being [the thing] I am.
_As You Like It_, Act IV. Scene 3.

TALE XX.

_THE BROTHERS._

Than old George Fletcher on the British coast
Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast:
Kind, simple, and sincere--he seldom spoke,
But sometimes sang and chorus’d “_Hearts of Oak_;”
In dangers steady, with his lot content,
His days in labour and in love were spent.
He left a son so like him, that the old
With joy exclaim’d, “’Tis Fletcher we behold;”
But to his brother when the kinsmen came,
And view’d his form, they grudged the father’s name. 10
George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad,
With just the failings that his father had;
Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact,
With just the virtues that his father lack’d.
George lived at sea: upon the land a guest--
He sought for recreation, not for rest--
While, far unlike, his brother’s feebler form
Shrank from the cold, and shudder’d at the storm;
Still with the seaman’s to connect his trade,
The boy was bound where blocks and ropes were made. 20
George, strong and sturdy, had a tender mind,
And was to Isaac pitiful and kind;
A very father, till his art was gain’d,
And then a friend unwearied he remain’d.
He saw his brother was of spirit low,
His temper peevish, and his motions slow;
Not fit to bustle in a world, or make
Friends to his fortune for his merit’s sake:
But the kind sailor could not boast the art
Of looking deeply in the human heart; 30
Else had he seen that this weak brother knew
What men to court--what objects to pursue;
That he to distant gain the way discern’d,
And none so crooked but his genius learn’d.
Isaac was poor, and this the brother felt;
He hired a house, and there the landman dwelt;
Wrought at his trade, and had an easy home,
For there would George with cash and comforts come;
And, when they parted, Isaac look’d around,
Where other friends and helpers might be found. 40
He wish’d for some port-place, and one might fall,
He wisely thought, if he should try for all;
He had a vote--and, were it well applied,
Might have its worth--and he had views beside;
Old Burgess Steel was able to promote
An humble man who served him with a vote;
For Isaac felt not what some tempers feel,
But bow’d and bent the neck to Burgess Steel;
And great attention to a lady gave,
His ancient friend, a maiden spare and grave: 50
One whom the visage long and look demure
Of Isaac pleased--he seem’d sedate and pure;
And his soft heart conceived a gentle flame
For her who waited on this virtuous dame:
Not an outrageous love, a scorching fire,
But friendly liking and chastised desire;
And thus he waited, patient in delay,
In present favour and in fortune’s way.
George then was coasting--war was yet delay’d,
And what he gain’d was to his brother paid; 60
Nor ask’d the seaman what he saved or spent:
But took his grog, wrought hard, and was content;
Till war awaked the land, and George began
To think what part became a useful man:
“Press’d, I must go; why, then, ’tis better far
At once to enter like a British tar,
Than a brave captain and the foe to shun,
As if I fear’d the music of a gun.”
“Go not!” said Isaac--“You shall wear disguise.”
“What!” said the seaman, “clothe myself with lies?”-- 70
“Oh! but there’s danger.”--“Danger in the fleet?
You cannot mean, good brother, of defeat;
And other dangers I at land must share--
So now adieu! and trust a brother’s care.”
Isaac awhile demurr’d--but, in his heart,
So might he share, he was disposed to part:
The better mind will sometimes feel the pain }
Of benefactions--favour is a chain; }
But they the feeling scorn, and what they wish, disdain;-- }
While beings form’d in coarser mould will hate 80
The helping hand they ought to venerate.
No wonder George should in this cause prevail,
With one contending who was glad to fail:
“Isaac, farewell! do wipe that doleful eye; }
Crying we came, and groaning we may die. }
Let us do something ’twixt the groan and cry: }
And hear me, brother, whether pay or prize,
One half to thee I give and I devise;
For thou hast oft occasion for the aid
Of learn’d physicians, and they will be paid: 90
Their wives and children men support, at sea,
And thou, my lad, art wife and child to me:
Farewell!--I go where hope and honour call,
Nor does it follow that who fights must fall.”
Isaac here made a poor attempt to speak,
And a huge tear moved slowly down his cheek;
Like Pluto’s iron drop, hard sign of grace, }
It slowly roll’d upon the rueful face, }
Forced by the striving will alone its way to trace. }
Years fled--war lasted--George at sea remain’d, 100
While the slow landman still his profits gain’d.
A humble place was vacant--he besought
His patron’s interest, and the office caught;
For still the virgin was his faithful friend,
And one so sober could with truth commend,
Who of his own defects most humbly thought,
And their advice with zeal and reverence sought.
Whom thus the mistress praised, the maid approved,
And her he wedded whom he wisely loved.
No more he needs assistance--but, alas! 110
He fears the money will for liquor pass;
Or that the seaman might to flatterers lend,
Or give support to some pretended friend.
Still, he must write--he wrote, and he confess’d
That, till absolved, he should be sore distress’d;
But one so friendly would, he thought, forgive
The hasty deed--Heav’n knew how he should live;
“But you,” he added, “as a man of sense,
Have well consider’d danger and expense:
I ran, alas! into the fatal snare, 120
And now for trouble must my mind prepare;
And how, with children, I shall pick my way,
Through a hard world, is more than I can say:
Then change not, brother, your more happy state,
Or on the hazard long deliberate.”
George answer’d gravely, “It is right and fit,
In all our crosses, humbly to submit:
Your apprehensions are unwise, unjust;
Forbear repining, and expel distrust.”--
He added, “Marriage was the joy of life,” 130
And gave his service to his brother’s wife;
Then vow’d to bear in all expense a part,
And thus concluded, “Have a cheerful heart.”
Had the glad Isaac been his brother’s guide,
In these same terms the seaman had replied;
At such reproofs the crafty landman smiled,
And softly said--“This creature is a child.”
Twice had the gallant ship a capture made--
And when in port the happy crew were paid,
Home went the sailor, with his pocket stored, 140
Ease to enjoy, and pleasure to afford.
His time was short; joy shone in every face;
Isaac half fainted in the fond embrace;
The wife resolved her honour’d guest to please,
The children clung upon their uncle’s knees;
The grog went round, the neighbours drank his health,
And George exclaim’d--“Ah! what to this is wealth?
Better,” said he, “to bear a loving heart,
Than roll in riches----but we now must part!”
All yet is still--but hark! the winds o’ersweep 150
The rising waves, and howl upon the deep;
Ships, late becalm’d, on mountain-billows ride--
So life is threaten’d, and so man is tried.
Ill were the tidings that arrived from sea:
The worthy George must now a cripple be;
His leg was lopp’d; and, though his heart was sound,
Though his brave captain was with glory crown’d--
Yet much it vex’d him to repose on shore,
An idle log, and be of use no more.
True, he was sure that Isaac would receive 160
All of his brother that the foe might leave;
To whom the seaman his design had sent,
Ere from the port the wounded hero went;
His wealth and expectations told, he “knew
Wherein they fail’d, what Isaac’s love would do;
That he the grog and cabin would supply,
Where George at anchor during life would lie.”
The landman read--and, reading, grew distress’d:--
“Could he resolve t’ admit so poor a guest?
Better at Greenwich might the sailor stay, 170
Unless his purse could for his comforts pay;”
So Isaac judged, and to his wife appeal’d,
But yet acknowledged it was best to yield:
“Perhaps his pension, with what sums remain
Due or unsquander’d, may the man maintain;
Refuse we must not.”--With a heavy sigh
The lady heard, and made her kind reply:
“Nor would I wish it, Isaac, were we sure
How long his crazy building will endure;
Like an old house, that every day appears 180
About to fall--he may be propp’d for years;
For a few months, indeed, we might comply,
But these old batter’d fellows never die.”
The hand of Isaac George on entering took,
With love and resignation in his look;
Declared his comfort in the fortune past,
And joy to find his anchor safely cast;
“Call then my nephews, let the grog be brought,
And I will tell them how the ship was fought.”
Alas! our simple seaman should have known, } 190
That all the care, the kindness, he had shown, }
Were from his brother’s heart, if not his memory, }
flown: }
All swept away to be perceived no more,
Like idle structures on the sandy shore;
The chance amusement of the playful boy,
That the rude billows in their rage destroy.
Poor George confess’d, though loth the truth to find,
Slight was his knowledge of a brother’s mind:
The vulgar pipe was to the wife offence,
The frequent grog to Isaac an expense; 200
“Would friends like hers,” she question’d, “choose to come,
Where clouds of poison’d fume defiled a room?
This could their lady-friend, and Burgess Steel,
(Teased with his worship’s asthma) bear to feel?
Could they associate or converse with him--
A loud rough sailor with a timber limb?”
Cold as he grew, still Isaac strove to show,
By well-feign’d care, that cold he could not grow;
And when he saw his brother look distress’d,
He strove some petty comforts to suggest; 210
On his wife solely their neglect to lay,
And then t’ excuse it as a woman’s way;
He too was chidden when her rules he broke,
And then she sicken’d at the scent of smoke.
George, though in doubt, was still consoled to find
His brother wishing to be reckon’d kind.
That Isaac seem’d concern’d by his distress,
Gave to his injured feelings some redress;
But none he found disposed to lend an ear
To stories all were once intent to hear; 220
Except his nephew, seated on his knee,
He found no creature cared about the sea;
But George indeed--for George they call’d the boy,
When his good uncle was their boast and joy--
Would listen long, and would contend with sleep,
To hear the woes and wonders of the deep;
Till the fond mother cried--“That man will teach
The foolish boy his loud and boisterous speech.”
So judged the father--and the boy was taught
To shun the uncle, whom his love had sought. 230
The mask of kindness now but seldom worn,
George felt each evil harder to be borne;
And cried (vexation growing day by day),
“Ah! brother Isaac!--What! I’m in the way!”--
“No! on my credit, look ye, No! but I }
Am fond of peace, and my repose would buy }
On any terms--in short, we must comply: }
My spouse had money--she must have her will--
Ah! brother--marriage is a bitter pill.”--
George tried the lady--“Sister, I offend”-- 240
“Me?” she replied; “Oh no!--you may depend
On my regard--but watch your brother’s way,
Whom I, like you, must study and obey.”
“Ah!” thought the seaman, “what a head was mine,
That easy birth at Greenwich to resign!
I’ll to the parish”--but a little pride,
And some affection, put the thought aside.
Now gross neglect and open scorn he bore
In silent sorrow--but he felt the more;
The odious pipe he to the kitchen took, 250
Or strove to profit by some pious book.
When the mind stoops to this degraded state,
New griefs will darken the dependent’s fate;
“Brother!” said Isaac, “you will sure excuse
The little freedom I’m compell’d to use:
My wife’s relations--(curse the haughty crew)--
Affect such niceness, and such dread of you:
You speak so loud--and they have natures soft--
Brother----I wish----do go upon the loft!”
Poor George obey’d, and to the garret fled, 260
Where not a being saw the tears he shed.
But more was yet required, for guests were come,
Who could not dine if he disgraced the room.
It shock’d his spirit to be esteem’d unfit
With an own brother and his wife to sit;
He grew rebellious--at the vestry spoke
For weekly aid----they heard it as a joke:
So kind a brother, and so wealthy----you
Apply to us?----No! this will never do:
Good neighbour Fletcher,” said the overseer, 270
“We are engaged--you can have nothing here!”
George mutter’d something in despairing tone,
Then sought his loft, to think and grieve alone;
Neglected, slighted, restless on his bed,
With heart half broken, and with scraps ill fed;
Yet was he pleased that hours for play design’d
Were given to ease his ever-troubled mind;
The child still listen’d with increasing joy,
And he was soothed by the attentive boy.
At length he sicken’d, and this duteous child 280
Watch’d o’er his sickness, and his pains beguiled;
The mother bade him from the loft refrain,
But, though with caution, yet he went again;
And now his tales the sailor feebly told,
His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold:
The tender boy came often to entreat
His good kind friend would of his presents eat,
Purloin’d or purchased; for he saw, with shame,
The food untouch’d that to his uncle came:
Who, sick in body and in mind, received 290
The boy’s indulgence, gratified and grieved.
“Uncle will die!” said George--the piteous wife
Exclaim’d, “she saw no value in his life;
But sick or well, to my commands attend,
And go no more to your complaining friend.”
The boy was vex’d, he felt his heart reprove
The stern decree.--What! punish’d for his love!
No! he would go, but softly, to the room
Stealing in silence--for he knew his doom.
Once in a week the father came to say, 300
“George, are you ill?”--and hurried him away;
Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell,
And often cry, “Do use my brother well;”
And something kind, no question, Isaac meant,
Who took vast credit for the vague intent.
But, truly kind, the gentle boy essay’d
To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid;
But now the father caught him at the door,
And, swearing--yes, the man in office swore,
And cried, “Away! How! Brother, I’m surprised, 310
That one so old can be so ill advised.
Let him not dare to visit you again,
Your cursed stories will disturb his brain;
Is it not vile to court a foolish boy,
Your own absurd narrations to enjoy?
What! sullen!--ha! George Fletcher? you shall see,
Proud as you are, your bread depends on me!”
He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went,
Then cool’d and felt some qualms of discontent;
And thought on times when he compell’d his son 320
To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one;
But the wife’s wrath o’ercame the brother’s pain,
And shame was felt, and conscience rose in vain.
George yet stole up--he saw his uncle lie
Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh:
So he resolved, before he went to rest,
To comfort one so dear and so distress’d;
Then watch’d his time, but, with a child-like art,
Betray’d a something treasured at his heart.
Th’ observant wife remark’d, “the boy is grown 330
So like your brother, that he seems his own;
So close and sullen! and I still suspect
They often meet--do watch them and detect.”
George now remark’d that all was still as night,
And hasten’d up with terror and delight;
“Uncle!” he cried, and softly tapp’d the door;
“Do let me in”--but he could add no more;
The careful father caught him in the fact,
And cried, “You serpent! is it thus you act?
Back to your mother!” and, with hasty blow, 340
He sent th’ indignant boy to grieve below;
Then at the door an angry speech began:
“Is this your conduct--is it thus you plan?
Seduce my child, and make my house a scene
Of vile dispute--What is it that you mean?--
George, are you dumb? do learn to know your friends,
And think awhile on whom your bread depends.--
What! not a word? be thankful I am cool;
But, sir, beware, nor longer play the fool.--
Come! brother, come! what is that you seek 350
By this rebellion?--Speak, you villain, speak!--
Weeping! I warrant, sorrow makes you dumb;
I’ll ope your mouth, impostor! if I come.
Let me approach--I’ll shake you from the bed,
You stubborn dog----Oh God! my brother’s dead!----”
Timid was Isaac, and in all the past
He felt a purpose to be kind at last;
Nor did he mean his brother to depart,
Till he had shown this kindness of his heart:
But day by day he put the cause aside, 360
Induced by av’rice, peevishness, or pride.
But, now awaken’d, from this fatal time
His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime:
He raised to George a monumental stone,
And there retired to sigh and think alone;
An ague seized him, he grew pale, and shook--
“So,” said his son, “would my poor uncle look.”--
“And so, my child, shall I like him expire.”--
“No! you have physic and a cheerful fire.”--
“Unhappy sinner! yes, I’m well supplied 370
With every comfort my cold heart denied.”
He view’d his brother now, but not as one
Who vex’d his wife by fondness for her son;
Not as with wooden limb, and seaman’s tale,
The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale:
He now the worth and grief alone can view
Of one so mild, so generous, and so true:
The frank, kind brother, with such open heart,
And I to break it--’twas a dæmon’s part!”
So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels, 380
Nor his unkindness palliates or conceals.
“This is your folly,” said his heartless wife;
“Alas! my folly cost my brother’s life:
It suffer’d him to languish and decay, }
My gentle brother, whom I could not pay, }
And therefore left to pine, and fret his life away.” }
He takes his son, and bids the boy unfold
All the good uncle of his feelings told,
All he lamented--and the ready tear
Falls as he listens, soothed and grieved to hear. 390
“Did he not curse me, child?”--“He never cursed,
But could not breathe, and said his heart would burst”--
“And so will mine.”--“Then, father, you must pray;
My uncle said it took his pains away.”
Repeating thus his sorrows, Isaac shows }
That he, repenting, feels the debt he owes, }
And from this source alone his every comfort flows. }
He takes no joy in office, honours, gain;
They make him humble, nay, they give him pain;
“These from my heart,” he cries, “all feeling drove; 400
They made me cold to nature, dead to love.”
He takes no joy in home, but, sighing, sees
A son in sorrow, and a wife at ease;
He takes no joy in office--see him now,
And Burgess Steel has but a passing bow;
Of one sad train of gloomy thoughts possess’d, }
He takes no joy in friends, in food, in rest-- }
Dark are the evil days, and void of peace the best. }
And thus he lives, if living be to sigh, }
And from all comforts of the world to fly, } 410
Without a hope in life--without a wish to die. }

TALE XXI.

_THE LEARNED BOY._

Like one well studied in a sad ostent,
To please his grandam.
_Merchant of Venice_, Act II. Scene 2.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
_As You Like It_, Act II. Scene 7.

He is a better scholar than I thought he was.--He [is] a good sprag memory. _Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act IV. Scene 1.

One that feeds
On objects, arts, and imitations,
Which, out of use, and stal’d by other men,
Begin his fashion.
_Julius Cæsar,_ Act IV. Scene 1.

Oh! torture me no more--I will confess.
2 _Henry VI._ Act III. Scene 3.

TALE XXI.

_THE LEARNED BOY._