Chapter II: Preface (1)

That the appearance of the present work before the public is occasioned by a favourable reception of the former two, I hesitate not to acknowledge; because, while the confession may be regarded as some proof of gratitude, or at least of attention from an author to his readers, it ought not to be considered as an indication of vanity. It is unquestionably very pleasant to be assured that our labours are well received; but, nevertheless, this must not be taken for a just and full criterion of their merit: publications of great intrinsic value have been met with so much coolness, that a writer who succeeds in obtaining some degree of notice should look upon himself rather as one favoured than meritorious, as gaining a prize from Fortune, and not a recompense for desert; and, on the contrary, as it is well known that books of very inferior kind have been at once pushed into the strong current of popularity, and are there kept buoyant by the force of the stream, the writer who acquires not this adventitious help may be reckoned rather as unfortunate than undeserving; and from these opposite considerations it follows, that a man may speak of his success without incurring justly the odium of conceit, and may likewise acknowledge a disappointment without an adequate cause for humiliation or self-reproach.

But were it true that something of the complacency of self-approbation would insinuate itself into an author’s mind with the idea of success, the sensation would not be that of unalloyed pleasure; it would perhaps assist him to bear, but it would not enable him to escape, the mortification he must encounter from censures, which, though he may be unwilling to admit, yet he finds himself unable to confute; as well as from advice, which, at the same time that he cannot but approve, he is compelled to reject.

Reproof and advice, it is probable, every author will receive, if we except those who merit so much of the former, that the latter is contemptuously denied them; now of these, reproof, though it may cause more temporary uneasiness, will in many cases create less difficulty, since errors may be corrected when opportunity occurs; but advice, I repeat, may be of such nature, that it will be painful to reject, and yet impossible to follow it; and in this predicament I conceive myself to be placed. There has been recommended to me, and from authority which neither inclination nor prudence leads me to resist, in any new work I might undertake, an unity of subject, and that arrangement of my materials which connects the whole and gives additional interest to every part; in fact, if not an Epic Poem, strictly so denominated, yet such composition as would possess a regular succession of events, and a catastrophe to which every incident should be subservient, and which every character, in a greater or less degree, should conspire to accomplish.

In a Poem of this nature, the principal and inferior characters in some degree resemble a general and his army, where no one pursues his peculiar objects and adventures, [but] pursues them in unison with the movements and grand purposes of the whole body; where there is a community of interests and a subordination of actors; and it was upon this view of the subject, and of the necessity for such distribution of persons and events, that I found myself obliged to relinquish an undertaking, for which the characters I could command, and the adventures I could describe, were altogether unfitted.

But if these characters which seemed to be at my disposal were not such as would coalesce into one body, nor were of a nature to be commanded by one mind, so neither on examination did they appear as an unconnected multitude, accidentally collected, to be suddenly dispersed; but rather beings of whom might be formed groups and smaller societies, the relations of whose adventures and pursuits might bear that kind of similitude to an Heroic Poem, which these minor associations of men (as pilgrims on the way to their saint, or parties in search of amusement, travellers excited by curiosity, or adventurers in pursuit of gain) have in points of connexion and importance with a regular and disciplined army.

Allowing this comparison, it is manifest that while much is lost for want of unity of subject and grandeur of design, something is gained by greater variety of incident and more minute display of character, by accuracy of description and diversity of scene: in these narratives we pass from gay to grave, from lively to severe, not only without impropriety, but with manifest advantage. In one continued and connected Poem, the reader is, in general, highly gratified or severely disappointed; by many independent narratives, he has the renovation of hope, although he has been dissatisfied, and a prospect of reiterated pleasure, should he find himself entertained.

I mean not, however, to compare these different modes of writing as if I were balancing their advantages and defects before I could give preference to either; with me the way I take is not a matter of choice, but of necessity; I present not my Tales to the reader as if I had chosen the best method of ensuring his approbation, but as using the only means I possessed of engaging his attention.

It may probably be remarked that Tales, however dissimilar, might have been connected by some associating circumstance to which the whole number might bear equal affinity, and that examples of such union are to be found in Chaucer, in Boccace, and other collectors and inventors of Tales, which, considered in themselves, are altogether independent; and to this idea I gave so much consideration as convinced me that I could not avail myself of the benefit of such artificial mode of affinity. To imitate the English poet, characters must be found adapted to their several relations, and this is a point of great difficulty and hazard; much allowance seems to be required even for Chaucer himself, since it is difficult to conceive that on any occasion the devout and delicate Prioress, the courtly and valiant Knight, and “the poure good Man the persone of a Towne,” would be the voluntary companions of the drunken Miller, the licentious Sompnour, and “the Wanton Wife of Bath,” and enter into that colloquial and travelling intimacy which, if a common pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Thomas may be said to excuse, I know nothing beside (and certainly nothing in these times) that would produce such effect. Boccace, it is true, avoids all difficulty of this kind, by not assigning to the ten relators of his hundred Tales any marked or peculiar characters; nor, though there are male and female in company, can the sex of the narrator be distinguished in the narration. To have followed the method of Chaucer might have been of use, but could scarcely be adopted, from its difficulty; and to have taken that of the Italian writer would have been perfectly easy, but could be of no service: the attempt at union therefore has been relinquished, and these relations are submitted to the public, connected by no other circumstance than their being the productions of the same author, and devoted to the same purpose, the entertainment of his readers.

It has been already acknowledged, that these compositions have no pretensions to be estimated with the more lofty and heroic kind of poems, but I feel great reluctance in admitting that they have not a fair and legitimate claim to the poetic character. In vulgar estimation, indeed, all that is not prose passes for poetry, but I have not ambition of so humble a kind as to be satisfied with a concession which requires nothing in the poet, except his ability for counting syllables, and I trust something more of the poetic character will be allowed to the succeeding pages than what the heroes of the Dunciad might share with the author; nor was I aware that by describing, as faithfully as I could, men, manners, and things, I was forfeiting a just title to a name which has been freely granted to many whom to equal, and even to excel, is but very stinted commendation.

In this case it appears that the usual comparison between poetry and painting entirely fails: the artist who takes an accurate likeness of individuals, or a faithful representation of scenery, may not rank so high in the public estimation as one who paints an historical event, or an heroic action; but he is nevertheless a painter, and his accuracy is so far from diminishing his reputation, that it procures for him in general both fame and emolument; nor is it perhaps with strict justice determined that the credit and reputation of those verses which strongly and faithfully delineate character and manners, should be lessened in the opinion of the public by the very accuracy which gives value and distinction to the productions of the pencil.

Nevertheless, it must be granted that the pretensions of any composition to be regarded as poetry will depend upon that definition of the poetic character which he who undertakes to determine the question has considered as decisive; and it is confessed also that one of great authority may be adopted, by which the verses now before the reader, and many others which have probably amused and delighted him, must be excluded: a definition like this will be found in the words which the greatest of poets, not divinely inspired, has given to the most noble and valiant Duke of Athens--

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as Imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation, and a name[1].”

[1] Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V. Scene 1.

Hence we observe the poet is one who, in the excursions of his fancy between heaven and earth, lights upon a kind of fairyland, in which he places a creation of his own, where he embodies shapes, and gives action and adventure to his ideal offspring; taking captive the imagination of his readers, he elevates them above the grossness of actual being, into the soothing and pleasant atmosphere of supra-mundane existence: there he obtains for his visionary inhabitants the interest that engages a reader’s attention without ruffling his feelings, and excites that moderate kind of sympathy which the realities of nature oftentimes fail to produce, either because they are so familiar and insignificant that they excite no determinate emotion, or are so harsh and powerful that the feelings excited are grating and distasteful.

Be it then granted that (as Duke Theseus observes) “such tricks hath strong Imagination,” and that such poets “are of imagination all compact;” let it be further conceded, that theirs is a higher and more dignified kind of composition, nay, the only kind that has pretensions to inspiration: still, that these poets should so entirely engross the title as to exclude those who address their productions to the plain sense and sober judgment of their readers, rather than to their fancy and imagination, I must repeat that I am unwilling to admit--because I conceive that, by granting such right of exclusion, a vast deal of what has been hitherto received as genuine poetry would no longer be entitled to that appellation.

All that kind of satire wherein character is skillfully delineated must (this criterion being allowed) no longer be esteemed as genuine poetry; and for the same reason many affecting narratives which are founded on real events, and borrow no aid whatever from the imagination of the writer, must likewise be rejected: a considerable part of the poems, as they have hitherto been denominated, of Chaucer, are of this naked and unveiled character; and there are in his Tales many pages of coarse, accurate, and minute, but very striking description. Many small poems in a subsequent age, of most impressive kind, are adapted and addressed to the common sense of the reader, and prevail by the strong language of truth and nature; they amused our ancestors, and they continue to engage our interest, and excite our feelings, by the same powerful appeals to the heart and affections. In times less remote, Dryden has given us much of this poetry, in which the force of expression and accuracy of description have neither needed nor obtained assistance from the fancy of the writer; the characters in his Absalom and Achitophel are instances of this, and more especially those of Doeg and Og in the second part: these, with all their grossness, and almost offensive accuracy, are found to possess that strength and spirit which has preserved from utter annihilation the dead bodies of Tate, to whom they were inhumanly bound, happily with a fate the reverse of that caused by the cruelty of Mezentius; for there the living perished in the putrefaction of the dead, and here the dead are preserved by the vitality of the living. And, to bring forward one other example, it will be found that Pope himself has no small portion of this actuality of relation, this nudity of description, and poetry without an atmosphere; the lines beginning, “In the worst inn’s worst room,” are an example, and many others may be seen in his Satires, Imitations, and above all in his Dunciad: the frequent absence of those “Sports of Fancy,” and “Tricks of strong Imagination,” have been so much observed, that some have ventured to question whether even this writer were a poet; and though, as Dr. Johnson has remarked, it would be difficult to form a definition of one in which Pope should not be admitted, yet they who doubted his claim, had, it is likely, provided for his exclusion by forming that kind of character for their poet, in which this elegant versifier, for so he must be then named, should not be comprehended.

These things considered, an author will find comfort in his expulsion from the rank and society of poets, by reflecting that men much his superiors were likewise shut out, and more especially when he finds also that men not much his superiors are entitled to admission.

But in whatever degree I may venture to differ from any others in my notions of the qualifications and character of the true poet, I most cordially assent to their opinion who assert that his principal exertions must be made to engage the attention of his readers; and further, I must allow that the effect of poetry should be to lift the mind from the painful realities of actual existence, from its every-day concerns, and its perpetually occurring vexations, and to give it repose by substituting objects in their place which it may contemplate with some degree of interest and satisfaction; but what is there in all this, which may not be effected by a fair representation of existing character? nay, by a faithful delineation of those painful realities, those every-day concerns, and those perpetually-occurring vexations themselves, provided they be not (which is hardly to be supposed) the very concerns and distresses of the reader? for, when it is admitted that they have no particular relation to him, but are the troubles and anxieties of other men, they excite and interest his feelings as the imaginary exploits, adventures, and perils of romance;--they soothe his mind, and keep his curiosity pleasantly awake; they appear to have enough of reality to engage his sympathy, but possess not interest sufficient to create painful sensations. Fiction itself, we know, and every work of fancy, must for a time have the effect of realities; nay, the very enchanters, spirits, and monsters of Ariosto and Spenser must be present in the mind of the reader while he is engaged by their operations, or they would be as the objects and incidents of a nursery tale to a rational understanding, altogether despised and neglected: in truth, I can but consider this pleasant effect upon the mind of a reader as depending neither upon the events related (whether they be actual or imaginary), nor upon the characters introduced (whether taken from life or fancy), but upon the manner in which the poem itself is conducted; let that be judiciously managed, and the occurrences actually copied from life will have the same happy effect as the inventions of a creative fancy;--while, on the other hand, the imaginary persons and incidents to which the poet has given “a local habitation, and a name,” will make upon the concurring feelings of the reader the same impressions with those taken from truth and nature, because they will appear to be derived from that source, and therefore of necessity will have a similar effect.

Having thus far presumed to claim for the ensuing pages the rank and title of poetry, I attempt no more, nor venture to class or compare them with any other kinds of poetical composition; their place will doubtless be found for them.

A principal view and wish of the poet must be to engage the mind of his readers, as, failing in that point, he will scarcely succeed in any other: I therefore willingly confess that much of my time and assiduity has been devoted to this purpose; but, to the ambition of pleasing, no other sacrifices have, I trust, been made, than of my own labour and care. Nothing will be found that militates against the rules of propriety and good manners, nothing that offends against the more important precepts of morality and religion; and with this negative kind of merit, I commit my book to the judgment and taste of the reader--not being willing to provoke his vigilance by professions of accuracy, nor to solicit his indulgence by apologies for mistakes.

TALE I.

_THE DUMB ORATORS_; OR, THE BENEFIT OF SOCIETY.

[In] fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe . . .
Full of wise saws and modern instances.
_As you Like it_, Act II. Scene 7.

Deep shame hath struck me dumb.
_King John_, Act IV. Scene 2.

He gives the bastinado with his tongue,
Our ears are cudgell’d.
_King John_, Act IV. Scene 1.

Let’s kill all the lawyers;
Now show yourselves men: ’tis for liberty:
We will not leave one lord or gentleman.
_2 Henry VI._ Act IV. Scene 2.

And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
_Twelfth Night_, Act V. Scene last.

TALE I. _THE DUMB ORATORS._

That all men would be cowards if they dare,
Some men we know have courage to declare;
And this the life of many an hero shows,
That like the tide, man’s courage ebbs and flows:
With friends and gay companions round them, then
Men boldly speak and have the hearts of men;
Who, with opponents seated, miss the aid
Of kind applauding looks, and grow afraid;
Like timid trav’llers in the night, they fear
Th’ assault of foes, when not a friend is near. 10
In contest mighty and of conquest proud
Was Justice Bolt, impetuous, warm, and loud;
His fame, his prowess all the country knew,
And disputants, with one so fierce, were few.
He was a younger son, for law design’d,
With dauntless look and persevering mind;
While yet a clerk, for disputation famed,
No efforts tired him, and no conflicts tamed.
Scarcely he bade his master’s desk adieu,
When both his brothers from the world withdrew. 20
An ample fortune he from them possess’d,
And was with saving care and prudence bless’d.
Now would he go and to the country give
Example how an English ’squire should live;
How bounteous, yet how frugal man may be,
By a well-order’d hospitality;
He would the rights of all so well maintain,
That none should idle be, and none complain.
All this and more he purposed--and what man
Could do, he did to realize his plan; 30
But time convinced him that we cannot keep
A breed of reasoners like a flock of sheep;
For they, so far from following as we lead,
Make that a cause why they will not proceed.
Man will not follow where a rule is shown,
But loves to take a method of his own;
Explain the way with all your care and skill,
This will he quit, if but to prove he will.--
Yet had our Justice honour--and the crowd,
Awed by his presence, their respect avow’d. 40
In later years he found his heart incline,
More than in youth, to gen’rous food and wine;
But no indulgence check’d the powerful love
He felt to teach, to argue, and reprove.
Meetings, or public calls, he never miss’d--
To dictate often, always to assist.
Oft he the clergy join’d, and not a cause
Pertain’d to them but he could quote the laws;
He upon tithes and residence display’d
A fund of knowledge for the hearer’s aid; 50
And could on glebe and farming, wool and grain,
A long discourse, without a pause, maintain.
To his experience and his native sense
He join’d a bold imperious eloquence;
The grave, stern look of men inform’d and wise, }
A full command of feature, heart, and eyes, }
An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size. }
When at the table, not a guest was seen
With appetite so ling’ring, or so keen;
But when the outer man no more required, 60
The inner waked, and he was man inspired.
His subjects then were those, a subject true
Presents in fairest form to public view;
Of Church and State, of Law, with mighty strength
Of words he spoke, in speech of mighty length;
And now, into the vale of years declined,
He hides too little of the monarch-mind;
He kindles anger by untimely jokes,
And opposition by contempt provokes;
Mirth he suppresses by his awful frown, 70
And humble spirits, by disdain, keeps down;
Blamed by the mild, approved by the severe,
The prudent fly him, and the valiant fear.
For overbearing is his proud discourse,
And overwhelming of his voice the force;
And overpowering is he when he shows
What floats upon a mind that always overflows.
This ready man at every meeting rose,
Something to hint, determine, or propose;
And grew so fond of teaching, that he taught 80
Those who instruction needed not or sought.
Happy our hero, when he could excite
Some thoughtless talker to the wordy fight:
Let him a subject at his pleasure choose,
Physic or Law, Religion or the Muse;
On all such themes he was prepared to shine,
Physician, poet, lawyer, and divine.
Hemm’d in by some tough argument, borne down
By press of language and the awful frown,
In vain for mercy shall the culprit plead; 90
His crime is past, and sentence must proceed:
Ah! suffering man, have patience, bear thy woes--
For lo! the clock--at ten the Justice goes.
This powerful man, on business or to please
A curious taste, or weary grown of ease,
On a long journey travell’d many a mile
Westward, and halted midway in our isle;
Content to view a city large and fair,
Though none had notice what a man was there!
Silent two days, he then began to long 100
Again to try a voice so loud and strong;
To give his favourite topics some new grace,
And gain some glory in such distant place;
To reap some present pleasure, and to sow
Seeds of fair fame, in after-time to grow:
Here will men say, “We heard, at such an hour,
The best of speakers--wonderful his power.”
Inquiry made, he found that day would meet
A learned club, and in the very street:
Knowledge to gain and give, was the design; 110
To speak, to hearken, to debate, and dine:
This pleased our traveller, for he felt his force
In either way, to eat or to discourse.
Nothing more easy than to gain access
To men like these, with his polite address:
So he succeeded, and first look’d around,
To view his objects and to take his ground;
And therefore silent chose awhile to sit,
Then enter boldly by some lucky hit,
Some observation keen or stroke severe, 120
To cause some wonder or excite some fear.
Now, dinner past, no longer he suppress’d
His strong dislike to be a silent guest;
Subjects and words were now at his command--
When disappointment frown’d on all he plann’d;
For, hark!--he heard, amazed, on every side,
His church insulted and her priests belied;
The laws reviled, the ruling power abused,
The land derided, and its foes excused:--
He heard and ponder’d.--What, to men so vile, 130
Should be his language? For his threat’ning style
They were too many;--if his speech were meek,
They would despise such poor attempts to speak:
At other times with every word at will,
He now sat lost, perplex’d, astonish’d, still.
Here were Socinians, Deists, and indeed }
All who, as foes to England’s church, agreed; }
But still with creeds unlike, and some without a creed: }
Here, too, fierce friends of liberty he saw,
Who own’d no prince and who obey no law; 140
There were Reformers of each different sort,
Foes to the laws, the priesthood, and the court;
Some on their favourite plans alone intent,
Some purely angry and malevolent:
The rash were proud to blame their country’s laws;
The vain, to seem supporters of a cause;
One call’d for change that he would dread to see;
Another sigh’d for Gallic liberty!
And numbers joining with the forward crew,
For no one reason--but that numbers do. 150
“How,” said the Justice, “can this trouble rise,
This shame and pain, from creatures I despise?”
And conscience answer’d--“The prevailing cause
Is thy delight in listening to applause;
Here, thou art seated with a tribe, who spurn
Thy favourite themes, and into laughter turn
Thy fears and wishes; silent and obscure,
Thyself, shalt thou the long harangue endure;
And learn, by feeling, what it is to force
On thy unwilling friends the long discourse. 160
What though thy thoughts be just, and these, it seems,
Are traitors’ projects, idiots’ empty schemes:
Yet minds like bodies cramm’d, reject their food,
Nor will be forced and tortured for their good!”
At length, a sharp, shrewd, sallow man arose,
And begg’d he briefly might his mind disclose;
“It was his duty, in these worst of times,
T’ inform the govern’d of their rulers’ crimes.”
This pleasant subject to attend, they each
Prepared to listen, and forbore to teach. 170
Then, voluble and fierce, the wordy man
Through a long chain of favourite horrors ran:--
First, of the church, from whose enslaving power
He was deliver’d, and he bless’d the hour;
“Bishops and deans, and prebendaries all,”
He said, “were cattle fatt’ning in the stall;
Slothful and pursy, insolent and mean,
Were every bishop, prebendary, dean,
And wealthy rector; curates, poorly paid,
Were only dull;--he would not them upbraid.” 180
From priests he turn’d to canons, creeds, and prayers,
Rubrics and rules, and all our church affairs;
Churches themselves, desk, pulpit, altar, all
The Justice reverenced--and pronounced their fall.
Then from religion Hammond turn’d his view,
To give our rulers the correction due;
Not one wise action had these triflers plann’d;
There was, it seem’d, no wisdom in the land;
Save in this patriot tribe, who meet at times
To show the statesman’s errors and his crimes. 190
Now here was Justice Bolt compell’d to sit,
To hear the deist’s scorn, the rebel’s wit;
The fact mis-stated, the envenom’d lie,
And staring, spell-bound, made not one reply.
Then were our laws abused--and with the laws,
All who prepare, defend, or judge a cause:
“We have no lawyer whom a man can trust,”
Proceeded Hammond--“if the laws were just;
But they are evil; ’tis the savage state
Is only good, and ours sophisticate! 200
See! the free creatures in their woods and plains,
Where without laws each happy monarch reigns,
King of himself--while we a number dread,
By slaves commanded and by dunces led;
Oh, let the name with either state agree--
Savage our own we’ll name, and civil theirs shall be.”
The silent Justice still astonish’d sate,
And wonder’d much whom he was gazing at;
Twice he essay’d to speak--but in a cough
The faint, indignant, dying speech went off: 210
“But who is this?” thought he--“a dæmon vile,
With wicked meaning and a vulgar style:
Hammond they call him; they can give the name
Of man to devils.--Why am I so tame?
Why crush I not the viper?”--Fear replied,
“Watch him awhile, and let his strength be tried;
He will be foil’d, if man; but if his aid
Be from beneath, ’tis well to be afraid.”
“We are call’d free!” said Hammond--“doleful times
When rulers add their insult to their crimes; 220
For, should our scorn expose each powerful vice,
It would be libel, and we pay the price.”
Thus with licentious words the man went on,
Proving that liberty of speech was gone;
That all were slaves--nor had we better chance
For better times than as allies to France.
Loud groan’d the stranger--Why, he must relate,
And own’d, “In sorrow for his country’s fate.”
“Nay, she were safe,” the ready man replied,
“Might patriots rule her, and could reasoners guide; 230
When all to vote, to speak, to teach, are free,
Whate’er their creeds or their opinions be;
When books of statutes are consumed in flames,
And courts and copyholds are empty names;
Then will be times of joy--but ere they come,
Havock, and war, and blood must be our doom.”
The man here paused--then loudly for reform
He call’d, and hail’d the prospect of the storm;
The wholesome blast, the fertilizing flood--
Peace gain’d by tumult, plenty bought with blood: 240
Sharp means, he own’d; but when the land’s disease
Asks cure complete, no med’cines are like these.
Our Justice now, more led by fear than rage,
Saw it in vain with madness to engage;
With imps of darkness no man seeks to fight,
Knaves to instruct, or set deceivers right.
Then, as the daring speech denounced these woes,
Sick at the soul, the grieving guest arose;
Quick on the board his ready cash he threw,
And from the dæmons to his closet flew. 250
There when secured, he pray’d with earnest zeal,
That all they wish’d these patriot-souls might feel;
“Let them to France, their darling country, haste,
And all the comforts of a Frenchman taste;
Let them his safety, freedom, pleasure know, }
Feel all their rulers on the land bestow; }
And be at length dismiss’d by one unerring blow; }
Not hack’d and hew’d by one afraid to strike,
But shorn by that which shears all men alike;
Nor, as in Britain, let them curse delay } 260
Of law, but borne without a form away-- }
Suspected, tried, condemn’d, and carted in a day; }
Oh! let them taste what they so much approve,
These strong fierce freedoms of the land they love[2].”
Home came our hero, to forget no more
The fear he felt and ever most deplore:
For, though he quickly join’d his friends again,
And could with decent force his themes maintain,
Still it occurr’d that, in a luckless time,
He fail’d to fight with heresy and crime; 270
It was observed his words were not so strong,
His tones so powerful, his harangues so long,
As in old times--for he would often drop
The lofty look, and of a sudden stop;
When conscience whisper’d, that he once was still,
And let the wicked triumph at their will;
And therefore now, when not a foe was near,
He had no right so valiant to appear.
Some years had pass’d, and he perceived his fears
Yield to the spirit of his earlier years-- 280
When at a meeting, with his friends beside,
He saw an object that awaked his pride;
His shame, wrath, vengeance, indignation--all
Man’s harsher feelings did that sight recall.
For lo! beneath him fix’d, our man of law
That lawless man the foe of order saw--
Once fear’d, now scorn’d; once dreaded, now abhorr’d;
A wordy man, and evil every word.
Again he gazed--“It is,” said he, “the same;
Caught and secure: his master owes him shame:” 290
So thought our hero, who each instant found
His courage rising, from the numbers round.
As when a felon has escaped and fled,
So long, that law conceives the culprit dead;
And back recall’d her myrmidons, intent
On some new game, and with a stronger scent;
Till she beholds him in a place, where none
Could have conceived the culprit would have gone;
There he sits upright in his seat, secure,
As one whose conscience is correct and pure; 300
This rouses anger for the old offence,
And scorn for all such seeming and pretence:
So on this Hammond look’d our hero bold,
Rememb’ring well that vile offence of old;
And now he saw the rebel dared t’ intrude }
Among the pure, the loyal, and the good; }
The crime provoked his wrath, the folly stirr’d his blood. }
Nor wonder was it if so strange a sight
Caused joy with vengeance, terror with delight;
Terror like this a tiger might create, } 310
A joy like that to see his captive state, }
At once to know his force and then decree his fate. }
Hammond, much praised by numerous friends, was come
To read his lectures, so admired at home:
Historic lectures, where he loved to mix
His free plain hints on modern politics.
Here, he had heard, that numbers had design,
Their business finish’d, to sit down and dine;
This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right
To show by day, that he could speak at night. 320
Rash the design--for he perceived, too late,
Not one approving friend beside him sate;
The greater number, whom he traced around,
Were men in black, and he conceived they frown’d.
“I will not speak,” he thought; “no pearls of mine
Shall be presented to this herd of swine;”
Not this avail’d him, when he cast his eye
On Justice Bolt; he could not fight, nor fly.
He saw a man to whom he gave the pain,
Which now he felt must be return’d again; 330
His conscience told him with what keen delight
He, at that time, enjoy’d a stranger’s fright;
That stranger now befriended--he alone,
For all his insult, friendless, to atone;
Now he could feel it cruel that a heart
Should be distress’d, and none to take its part;
“Though one by one,” said Pride, “I would defy }
Much greater men, yet meeting every eye, }
I do confess a fear--but he will pass me by.” }
Vain hope! the Justice saw the foe’s distress, 340
With exultation he could not suppress;
He felt the fish was hook’d--and so forbore,
In playful spite, to draw it to the shore.
Hammond look’d round again; but none were near,
With friendly smile, to still his growing fear;
But all above him seem’d a solemn row
Of priests and deacons, so they seem’d below;
He wonder’d who his right-hand man might be--
Vicar of Holt cum Uppingham was he;
And who the man of that dark frown possess’d-- 350
Rector of Bradley and of Barton-west;
“A pluralist,” he growl’d--but check’d the word,
That warfare might not, by his zeal, be stirr’d.
But now began the man above to show
Fierce looks and threat’nings to the man below;
Who had some thoughts his peace by flight to seek--
But how then lecture, if he dared not speak!--
Now as the Justice for the war prepared,
He seem’d just then to question if he dared:
“He may resist, although his power be small, 360
And growing desperate may defy us all;
One dog attack, and he prepares for flight--
Resist another, and he strives to bite;
Nor can I say, if this rebellious cur
Will fly for safety, or will scorn to stir.”
Alarm’d by this, he lash’d his soul to rage,
Burn’d with strong shame, and hurried to engage.
As a male turkey straggling on the green,
When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen,
He feels the insult of the noisy train, 370
And sculks aside, though moved by much disdain;
But when that turkey, at his own barn-door,
Sees one poor straying puppy and no more,
(A foolish puppy who had left the pack,
Thoughtless what foe was threat’ning at his back,)
He moves about, as ship prepared to sail,
He hoists his proud rotundity of tail,
The half-seal’d eyes and changeful neck he shows,
Where, in its quick’ning colours, vengeance glows;
From red to blue the pendant wattles turn, 380
Blue mix’d with red, as matches when they burn;
And thus th’ intruding snarler to oppose,
Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes.
So look’d our hero in his wrath, his cheeks
Flush’d with fresh fires and glow’d in tingling streaks;
His breath by passion’s force awhile restrain’d,
Like a stopp’d current, greater force regain’d;
So spoke, so look’d he, every eye and ear
Were fix’d to view him, or were turn’d to hear.
“My friends, you know me, you can witness all, 390
How, urged by passion, I restrain my gall;
And every motive to revenge withstand--
Save when I hear abused my native land.
“Is it not known, agreed, confirm’d, confess’d,
That of all people, we are govern’d best?
We have the force of monarchies; are free,
As the most proud republicans can be;
And have those prudent counsels that arise
In grave and cautious aristocracies;
And live there those, in such all-glorious state, 400
Traitors protected in the land they hate?
Rebels, still warring with the laws that give
To them subsistence?--Yes, such wretches live.
“Ours is a church reform’d, and now no more
Is aught for man to mend or to restore;
’Tis pure in doctrines, ’tis correct in creeds,
Has nought redundant, and it nothing needs;
No evil is therein--no wrinkle, spot,
Stain, blame, or blemish:--I affirm there’s not.
“All this you know--now mark what once befell, 410
With grief I bore it, and with shame I tell;
I was entrapp’d--yes, so it came to pass,
’Mid heathen rebels, a tumultuous class;
Each to his country bore a hellish mind,
Each like his neighbour was of cursèd kind;
The land that nursed them they blasphemed; the laws,
Their sovereign’s glory, and their country’s cause;
And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and who
Rebellion’s oracle?----You, caitiff, you!”
He spoke, and standing stretch’d his mighty arm, 420
And fix’d the man of words, as by a charm.
“How raved that railer! Sure some hellish power
Restrain’d my tongue in that delirious hour,
Or I had hurl’d the shame and vengeance due
On him, the guide of that infuriate crew;
But to mine eyes such dreadful looks appear’d,
Such mingled yell of lying words I heard,
That I conceived around were dæmons all,
And till I fled the house, I fear’d its fall.
“Oh! could our country from our coasts expel 430
Such foes! to nourish those who wish her well:
This her mild laws forbid, but we may still
From us eject them by our sovereign will;
This let us do.”--He said, and then began
A gentler feeling for the silent man;
Ev’n in our hero’s mighty soul arose
A touch of pity for experienced woes;
But this was transient, and with angry eye
He sternly look’d, and paused for a reply.
’Twas then the man of many words would speak-- 440
But, in his trial, had them all to seek:
To find a friend he look’d the circle round,
But joy or scorn in every feature found;
He sipp’d his wine, but in those times of dread
Wine only adds confusion to the head;
In doubt he reason’d with himself--“And how
Harangue at night, if I be silent now?”
From pride and praise received he sought to draw
Courage to speak, but still remain’d the awe;
One moment rose he with a forced disdain, 450
And then, abash’d, sunk sadly down again;
While in our hero’s glance he seem’d to read,
“Slave and insurgent! what hast thou to plead?”--
By desperation urged, he now began:
“I seek no favour--I--the Rights of Man!
Claim; and I--nay!--but give me leave--and I
Insist--a man--that is--and, in reply,
I speak.”--Alas! each new attempt was vain:
Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again;
At length he growl’d defiance, sought the door, 460
Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more.
“Laud we,” said Justice Bolt, “the Powers above;
Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove.”
Exulting now he gain’d new strength of fame,
And lost all feelings of defeat and shame.
“He dared not strive, you witness’d--dared not lift
His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift:
So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose
Our church or state--thus be it to our foes.”
He spoke, and, seated with his former air, 470
Look’d his full self, and fill’d his ample chair;
Took one full bumper to each favourite cause, }
And dwelt all night on politics and laws, }
With high applauding voice, that gain’d him high applause. }

[2] The reader will perceive in these and the preceding verses allusions to the state of France, as that country was circumstanced some years since, rather than as it appears to be in the present date; several years elapsing between the alarm of the loyal magistrate on the occasion now related, and a subsequent event that farther illustrates the remark with which the narrative commences.

TALE II.

_THE PARTING HOUR._

I did not take my leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him
How I would think of him, at certain hours,
Such thoughts and such [. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . .] or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words--comes in my father--
_Cymbeline_, Act I. Scene 3.

Grief hath changed me since you saw me last,
And careful hours with Time’s deformèd hand
Have written strange defeatures [in] my face.
_Comedy of Errors_, Act V. Scene 1.

Oh! if thou be the same [Ægeon], speak,
And speak unto the same [Æmilia].
_Comedy of Errors_, Act V. Scene 1.

I ran it through, ev’n from my boyish days
To the very moment that [he bade] me tell it,
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood, and field;
Of being taken by [the] insolent foe
And sold to slavery.
_Othello_, Act I. Scene 3.

An old man, broken with the storms of [state],
Is come to lay his weary bones among [ye];
Give him a little earth for charity.
_Henry VIII._ Act IV. Scene 2.

TALE II.

_THE PARTING HOUR._