Chapter III: Preface (2)

Minutely trace man’s life; year after year,
Through all his days let all his deeds appear,
And then, though some may in that life be strange,
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change;
The links that bind those various deeds are seen,
And no mysterious void is left between.
But let these binding links be all destroy’d,
All that through years he suffer’d or enjoy’d;
Let that vast gap be made, and then behold--
This was the youth, and he is thus when old; 10
Then we at once the work of Time survey,
And in an instant see a life’s decay:
Pain[s] mix’d with pity in our bosoms rise,
And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.
Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair-- }
A sleeping man; a woman in her chair, }
Watching his looks with kind and pensive air; }
No wife, nor sister she, nor is the name
Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same;
Yet so allied are they, that few can feel 20
Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal,
Their years and woes, although they long have loved,
Keep their good name and conduct unreproved;
Thus life’s small comforts they together share,
And while life lingers for the grave prepare.
No other subjects on their spirits press,
Nor gain such int’rest as the past distress;
Grievous events that from the mem’ry drive
Life’s common cares, and those alone survive,
Mix with each thought, in every action share, 30
Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.
To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,
Allen his name, was more than common joy;
And as the child grew up, there seem’d in him
A more than common life in every limb;
A strong and handsome stripling he became,
And the gay spirit answer’d to the frame;
A lighter, happier lad was never seen,
For ever easy, cheerful, or serene;
His early love he fix’d upon a fair 40
And gentle maid--they were a handsome pair.
They at an infant-school together play’d,
Where the foundation of their love was laid;
The boyish champion would his choice attend
In every sport, in every fray defend.
As prospects open’d and as life advanced,
They walk’d together, they together danced;
On all occasions, from their early years,
They mix’d their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;
Each heart was anxious, till it could impart 50
Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;
As years increased, unnumber’d petty wars
Broke out between them; jealousies and jars;
Causeless indeed, and follow’d by a peace,
That gave to love--growth, vigour, and increase.
Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,
Domestic thoughts young Allen’s hours employ’d;
Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,
Rather intent the matron’s part to learn;
Thus early prudent and sedate they grew, 60
While lovers, thoughtful--and, though children, true.
To either parents not a day appear’d,
When with this love they might have interfered:
Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;
And strong at last, they saw restriction vain;
Nor knew they when that passion to reprove--
Now idle fondness, now resistless love.
So, while the waters rise, the children tread
On the broad estuary’s sandy bed;
But soon the channel fills, from side to side 70
Comes danger rolling with the deep’ning tide;
Yet none who saw the rapid current flow
Could the first instant of that danger know.
The lovers waited till the time should come
When they together could possess a home:
In either house were men and maids unwed,
Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.
Then Allen’s mother of his favourite maid
Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid:
“Dress and amusements were her sole employ,” 80
She said--“entangling her deluded boy;”
And yet, in truth, a mother’s jealous love
Had much imagined and could little prove;
Judith had beauty--and, if vain, was kind,
Discreet, and mild, and had a serious mind.
Dull was their prospect--when the lovers met,
They said, we must not--dare not venture yet:
“Oh! could I labour for thee,” Allen cried,
“Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied?
On my own arm I could depend, but they } 90
Still urge obedience--must I yet obey?” }
Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg’d delay. }
At length a prospect came that seem’d to smile,
And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle.
A kinsman there a widow’s hand had gain’d,
“Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain’d;
Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,
And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.”
The elder brothers, who were not in love,
Fear’d the false seas, unwilling to remove; 100
But the young Allen, an enamour’d boy,
Eager an independence to enjoy,
Would through all perils seek it--by the sea--
Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.
The faithful Judith his design approved;
For both were sanguine, they were young and loved.
The mother’s slow consent was then obtain’d;
The time arrived, to part alone remain’d.
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor’d in the bay. 110
From her would seamen in the evening come,
To take th’ advent’rous Allen from his home;
With his own friends the final day he pass’d,
And every painful hour, except the last.
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass;
Intent the mother look’d upon her son,
And wish’d th’ assent withdrawn, the deed undone;
The younger sister, as he took his way,
Hung on his coat, and begg’d for more delay: 120
But his own Judith call’d him to the shore,
Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more;--
And there he found her--faithful, mournful, true,
Weeping and waiting for a last adieu!
The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there
Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair:
Sweet were the painful moments--but how sweet,
And without pain, when they again should meet!
Now either spoke, as hope and fear impress’d
Each their alternate triumph in the breast. 130
Distance alarm’d the maid--she cried, “’Tis far!”
And danger too--“it is a time of war.
Then, in those countries are diseases strange,
And women gay, and men are prone to change;
What, then, may happen in a year, when things
Of vast importance every moment brings!
But hark! an oar!” she cried, yet none appear’d--
’Twas love’s mistake, who fancied what it fear’d;
And she continued--“Do, my Allen, keep
Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep; 140
Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail,
And stand in safety where so many fail;
And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,
Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;
Can I believe _his_ love will lasting prove,
Who has no rev’rence for the God I love?
I know thee well! how good thou art and kind;
But strong the passions that invade thy mind.--
Now, what to me hath Allen to commend?”--
“Upon my mother,” said the youth, “attend; 150
Forget her spleen, and in my place appear;
Her love to me will make my Judith dear:
Oft I shall think (such comfort lovers seek),
Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
Then write on all occasions, always dwell
On hope’s fair prospects, and be kind and well,
And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style.”
She answer’d, “No,” but answer’d with a smile.
“And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime; 160
When with our youthful neighbours ’tis thy chance
To meet in walks, the visit or the dance,
When every lad would on my lass attend,
Choose not a smooth designer for a friend;
That fawning Philip!--nay, be not severe,
A rival’s hope must cause a lover’s fear.”
Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix’d some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!--it soon was full in sight;--
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night; 170
For, see!--his friends come hast’ning to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach;
“Adieu!--farewell!--remember!”--and what more
Affection taught, was utter’d from the shore!
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart!
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace,
Till all were silent!--for the youth she pray’d,
And softly then return’d the weeping maid. 180
They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Judith’s hours in pensive pleasure fled.
But when return’d the youth?--the youth no more
Return’d exulting to his native shore.
But forty years were past, and then there came }
A worn-out man with wither’d limbs and lame, }
His mind oppress’d with woes, and bent with age his frame: }
Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay, }
Was Allen landing in his native bay, }
Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. }
In an autumnal eve he left the beach, 191
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach.
He was alone; he press’d the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many a year, his mind
Turn’d mournful back, half sinking, half resign’d.
No one was present; of its crew bereft,
A single boat was in the billows left; 200
Sent from some anchor’d vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away.
O’er the black stern the moonlight softly play’d,
The loosen’d foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down;
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite:
“There,” he observed, and new emotions felt,
“Was my first home--and yonder Judith dwelt; 210
Dead! dead are all! I long--I fear to know,”
He said, and walk’d impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:
Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix’d, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory;--“Man! what cheer?”
A sailor cried; “Art thou at anchor here?” 220
Faintly he answer’d, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face;
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought;
Confused and trembling, he the dame address’d:
“The Booths! yet live they?” pausing and oppress’d;
Then spake again:--“Is there no ancient man,
David his name?--assist me, if you can.--
Flemmings there were--and Judith, doth she live?”
The woman gazed, nor could an answer give; 230
Yet wond’ring stood, and all were silent by,
Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
The woman musing said--“She knew full well
Where the old people came at last to dwell;
They had a married daughter and a son,
But they were dead, and now remain’d not one.”
“Yes,” said an elder, who had paused intent
On days long past, “there was a sad event;--
One of these Booths--it was my mother’s tale--
Here left his lass, I know not where to sail; 240
She saw their parting, and observed the pain;
But never came th’ unhappy man again.”
“The ship was captured”--Allen meekly said,
“And what became of the forsaken maid?”
The woman answer’d: “I remember now,
She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
And of her lover’s loss, and I have seen
The gayest hearts grow sad where she has been;
Yet in her grief she married, and was made
Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey’d 250
And early buried--but I know no more.
And hark! our friends are hast’ning to the shore.”
Allen soon found a lodging in the town,
And walk’d, a man unnoticed, up and down.
This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face
He sometimes could among a number trace;
Of names remember’d there remain’d a few,
But of no favourites, and the rest were new;
A merchant’s wealth, when Allen went to sea,
Was reckon’d boundless.--Could he living be? 260
Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business, and a fortune fair.
No! but that heir’s poor widow, from her shed,
With crutches went to take her dole of bread.
There was a friend whom he had left a boy,
With hope to sail the master of a hoy;
Him, after many a stormy day, he found
With his great wish, his life’s whole purpose, crown’d.
This hoy’s proud captain look’d in Allen’s face;--
“Yours is, my friend,” said he, “a woful case; 270
We cannot all succeed; I now command
The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land;
But when we meet, you shall your story tell
Of foreign parts--I bid you now farewell!”
Allen so long had left his native shore,
He saw but few whom he had seen before;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass’d:--
“The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
He dwelt among us in his early years; 280
We see the name engraved upon the stones,
Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones.”
Thus where he lived and loved--unhappy change!--
He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.
But now a widow, in a village near,
Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;
Old as she was, to Judith’s bosom came
Some strong emotions at the well-known name;
He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay’d
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid; 290
Then was she wedded, of his death assured,
And much of mis’ry in her lot endured;
Her husband died; her children sought their bread
In various places, and to her were dead.
The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,
Sickness or pain, their hearts could disengage:
Each had immediate confidence; a friend
Both now beheld, on whom they might depend:
“Now is there one to whom I can express
My nature’s weakness and my soul’s distress.” 300
Allen look’d up, and with impatient heart:--
“Let me not lose thee--never let us part;
So Heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,
It is not all distress to think and live.”
Thus Allen spoke--for time had not removed
The charms attach’d to one so fondly loved;
Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,
Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.
To her, to her alone, his various fate,
At various times, ’tis comfort to relate; 310
And yet his sorrow she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear.
First he related how he left the shore,
Alarm’d with fears that they should meet no more;
Then, ere the ship had reach’d her purposed course,
They met and yielded to the Spanish force;
Then ’cross th’ Atlantic seas they bore their prey,
Who grieving landed from their sultry bay;
And, marching many a burning league, he found
Himself a slave upon a miner’s ground: 320
There a good priest his native language spoke,
And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke;
Kindly advanced him in his master’s grace,
And he was station’d in an easier place.
There, hopeless ever to escape the land,
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand;
In cottage shelter’d from the blaze of day
He saw his happy infants round him play;
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o’er his seat, and soothed his reveries; 330
E’en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,
But his fond Isabel demanded, “Why?”
Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,
And wept in pity for the English maid:
Thus twenty years were pass’d, and pass’d his views
Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose.
His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint
“His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;
Make all his children infidels, and found
An English heresy on Christian ground.” 340
“Whilst I was poor,” said Allen, “none would care
What my poor notions of religion were;
None ask’d me whom I worshipp’d, how I pray’d,
If due obedience to the laws were paid:
My good adviser taught me to be still,
Nor to make converts had I power or will.
I preached no foreign doctrine to my wife,
And never mention’d Luther in my life;
I, all they said, say what they would, allow’d,
And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow’d; 350
Their forms I follow’d, whether well or sick,
And was a most obedient Catholic.
But I had money, and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound:
A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
Could not have read a more pernicious work;
To me pernicious, who if it were good
Or evil question’d not, nor understood:
Oh! had I little but the book possess’d,
I might have read it, and enjoy’d my rest.” 360
Alas! poor Allen, through his wealth was seen
Crimes that by poverty conceal’d had been:
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown
Are in an instant through the varnish shown.
He told their cruel mercy: how at last,
In Christian kindness for the merits past,
They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly,
Or for his crime and contumacy die;
Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight; }
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight, } 370
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his flight.}
He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay:
There in the woods he wrought, and there, among
Some lab’ring seamen, heard his native tongue.
The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain
With joyful force; he long’d to hear again;
Again he heard; he seized an offer’d hand,
“And when beheld you last our native land?”
He cry’d, “and in what county? quickly say!”-- 380
The seamen answer’d, strangers all were they;
One only at his native port had been;
He, landing once, the quay and church had seen,
For that esteem’d; but nothing more he knew.
Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,
Sail where they sail’d; and, many a peril past,
They at his kinsman’s isle their anchor cast;
But him they found not, nor could one relate
Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.
This grieved not Allen; then again he sail’d 390
For England’s coast, again his fate prevail’d:
War raged, and he, an active man and strong,
Was soon impress’d, and served his country long.
By various shores he pass’d, on various seas,
Never so happy as when void of ease.--
And then he told how, in a calm distress’d,
Day after day his soul was sick of rest;
When as a log upon the deep they stood,
Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;
Till, while awake, he dream’d, that on the seas 400
Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees.
He gazed, he pointed to the scenes:--“There stand
My wife, my children, ’tis my lovely land;
See! there my dwelling--oh! delicious scene
Of my best life--unhand me--are ye men?”
And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind
Brush’d the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.
He told of bloody fights, and how at length
The rage of battle gave his spirits strength.
’Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost, 410
And he was left half-dead upon the coast;
But living gain’d, ’mid rich aspiring men,
A fair subsistence by his ready pen.
“Thus,” he continued, “pass’d unvaried years,
Without events producing hopes or fears.”
Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,
But years advancing undermined his health;
Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew
To England’s shore, and scenes his childhood knew:
He saw his parents, saw his fav’rite maid, 420
No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay’d;
And, thus excited, in his bosom rose
A wish so strong, it baffled his repose;
Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;
To view his native soil, and there to die.
He then described the gloom, the dread he found,
When first he landed on the chosen ground,
Where undefined was all he hoped and fear’d,
And how confused and troubled all appear’d;
His thoughts in past and present scenes employ’d, 430
All views in future blighted and destroy’d:
His were a medley of bewild’ring themes,
Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.
Here his relation closes, but his mind
Flies back again, some resting-place to find;
Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees
His children sporting by those lofty trees,
Their mother singing in the shady scene,
Where the fresh springs burst o’er the lively green;--
So strong his eager fancy, he affrights 440
The faithful widow by its powerful flights;
For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,
And cry--“’Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!
Where are my children?”--Judith grieves to hear
How the soul works in sorrows so severe;
Assiduous all his wishes to attend,
Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;
Watch’d by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes
Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.
’Tis now her office; her attention see! 450
While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,
Careful she guards him from the glowing heat,
And pensive muses at her Allen’s feet.
And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes
Of his best days, amid the vivid greens,
Fresh with unnumber’d rills, where ev’ry gale
Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb’ring vale;
Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes
The night-bird’s music from the thickening glooms?
And as he sits with all these treasures nigh, } 460
Blaze not with fairy light the phosphor-fly, }
When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? }
This is the joy that now so plainly speaks
In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;
For he is list’ning to the fancied noise
Of his own children, eager in their joys:
All this he feels, a dream’s delusive bliss
Gives the expression, and the glow like this.
And now his Judith lays her knitting by,
These strong emotions in her friend to spy; 470
For she can fully of their nature deem---- }
But see! he breaks the long-protracted theme, }
And wakes and cries--“My God! ’twas but a dream.” }

TALE III.

_THE GENTLEMAN FARMER_.

Pause [there . . .]
And weigh thy value with an even hand;
If thou beest rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough.
_Merchant of Venice_, Act II. Scene 7.

Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is (for which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor.

_Much Ado about Nothing_, Act I. Scene 1.

Throw physic to the dogs, I’ll none of it.
_Macbeth_, Act V. Scene 3.

His promises are, as he then was, mighty;
And his performance, as he now is, nothing.
_Henry VIII_. Act IV. Scene 2.

TALE III.

_THE GENTLEMAN FARMER._

Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all,
Who dwelt around, the Gentleman would call;
Whether in pure humility or pride,
They only knew, and they would not decide.
Far diff’rent he from that dull plodding tribe,
Whom it was his amusement to describe;
Creatures no more enliven’d than a clod,
But treading still as their dull fathers trod;
Who lived in times when not a man had seen
Corn sown by drill, or thresh’d by a machine: 10
He was of those whose skill assigns the prize
For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;
And who, in places where improvers meet,
To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;
Who in large mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms but as amusing things;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,
And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.
Two are the species in this genus known;
One, who is rich in his profession grown, 20
Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,
From fortune’s favours and a favouring lease;
Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns,
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can--
This is the farmer, made the gentleman.
The second species from the world is sent,
Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content;
In books and men beyond the former read,
To farming solely by a passion led, 30
Or by a fashion; curious in his land;
Now planning much, now changing what he plann’d;
Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex’d,
And ever certain to succeed the next;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade--
This is the gentleman, a farmer made.
Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew
Early in life, his reasons known to few;
Some disappointment said, some pure good sense,
The love of land, the press of indolence; 40
His fortune known, and coming to retire,
If not a farmer, men had call’d him ’squire.
Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross’d the still tenour of his chosen life;
Much land he purchased, planted far around,
And let some portions of superfluous ground
To farmers near him, not displeased to say,
“My tenants,” nor, “our worthy landlord,” they.
Fix’d in his farm, he soon display’d his skill
In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, and the drill; 50
From these he rose to themes of nobler kind,
And show’d the riches of a fertile mind;
To all around their visits he repaid,
And thus his mansion and himself display’d.
His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat,
And guests politely call’d his house a seat;
At much expense was each apartment graced,
His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste;
In full festoons the crimson curtains fell,
The sofas rose in bold elastic swell; 60
Mirrors in gilded frames display’d the tints
Of glowing carpets and of colour’d prints;
The weary eye saw every object shine,
And all was costly, fanciful, and fine.
As with his friends he pass’d the social hours,
His generous spirit scorn’d to hide its powers;
Powers unexpected, for his eye and air
Gave no sure signs that eloquence was there;
Oft he began with sudden fire and force,
As loth to lose occasion for discourse; 70
Some, ’tis observed, who feel a wish to speak,
Will a due place for introduction seek;
On to their purpose step by step they steal,
And all their way, by certain signals, feel;
Others plunge in at once, and never heed
Whose turn they take, whose purpose they impede;
Resolved to shine, they hasten to begin,
Of ending thoughtless--and of these was Gwyn.
And thus he spake:
----“It grieves me to the soul
To see how man submits to man’s control; 80
How overpower’d and shackled minds are led
In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred;
The coward never on himself relies,
But to an equal for assistance flies;
Man yields to custom as he bows to fate,
In all things ruled--mind, body, and estate;
In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply
To them we know not, and we know not why;
But that the creature has some jargon read,
And got some Scotchman’s system in his head; 90
Some grave impostor, who will health insure,
Long as your patience or your wealth endure;
But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew,
They have not health, and can they give it you?
These solemn cheats their various methods choose;
A system fires them, as a bard his muse:
Hence wordy wars arise; the learn’d divide,
And groaning patients curse each erring guide.
“Next, our affairs are govern’d, buy or sell,
Upon the deed the law must fix its spell; 100
Whether we hire or let, we must have still
The dubious aid of an attorney’s skill;
They take a part in every man’s affairs,
And in all business some concern is theirs;
Because mankind in ways prescribed are found,
Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground,
Each abject nature in the way proceeds,
That now to shearing, now to slaughter leads.
“Should you offend, though meaning no offence,
You have no safety in your innocence; 110
The statute broken then is placed in view,
And men must pay for crimes they never knew.
Who would by law regain his plunder’d store,
Would pick up fallen merc’ry from the floor;
If he pursue it, here and there it slides;
He would collect it, but it more divides;
This part and this he stops, but still in vain,
It slips aside, and breaks in parts again;
Till, after time and pains, and care and cost,
He finds his labour and his object lost. 120
“But most it grieves me, (friends alone are round,)
To see a man in priestly fetters bound;
Guides to the soul, these friends of Heaven contrive,
Long as man lives, to keep his fears alive;
Soon as an infant breathes, their rites begin;
Who knows not sinning, must be freed from sin;
Who needs no bond must yet engage in vows;
Who has no judgment, must a creed espouse:
Advanced in life, our boys are bound by rules, }
Are catechised in churches, cloisters, schools, } 130
And train’d in thraldom to be fit for tools; }
The youth grown up, he now a partner needs,
And lo! a priest, as soon as he succeeds.
What man of sense can marriage-rites approve?
What man of spirit can be bound to love?
Forced to be kind! compell’d to be sincere!
Do chains and fetters make companions dear?
Pris’ners indeed we bind; but though the bond
May keep them safe, it does not make them fond:
The ring, the vow, the witness, licence, prayers, 140
All parties known! made public all affairs!
Such forms men suffer, and from these they date
A deed of love begun with all they hate.
Absurd, that none the beaten road should shun,
But love to do what other dupes have done!
“Well, now your priest has made you one of twain,
Look you for rest? Alas! you look in vain.
If sick, he comes; you cannot die in peace,
Till he attends to witness your release;
To vex your soul, and urge you to confess 150
The sins you feel, remember, or can guess;
Nay, when departed, to your grave he goes,
But there indeed he hurts not your repose.
“Such are our burthens; part we must sustain,
But need not link new grievance to the chain.
Yet men like idiots will their frames surround
With these vile shackles, nor confess they’re bound;
In all that most confines them they confide,
Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their pride;
E’en as the pressure galls them, they declare, 160
(Good souls!) how happy and how free they are!
As madmen, pointing round their wretched cells,
Cry, ‘Lo! the palace where our honour dwells.’
“Such is our state: but I resolve to live
By rules my reason and my feelings give;
No legal guards shall keep enthrall’d my mind,
No slaves command me, and no teachers blind.
“Tempted by sins, let me their strength defy,
But have no second in a surplice by
No bottle-holder, with officious aid, 170
To comfort conscience, weaken’d and afraid:
Then if I yield, my frailty is not known;
And, if I stand, the glory is my own.
“When Truth and Reason are our friends, we seem
Alive! awake!--the superstitious dream.
“Oh! then, fair Truth, for thee alone I seek,
Friend to the wise, supporter of the weak;
From thee we learn whate’er is right and just;
Forms to despise, professions to distrust;
Creeds to reject, pretensions to deride, 180
And, following thee, to follow none beside.”
Such was the speech; it struck upon the ear
Like sudden thunder, none expect to hear.
He saw men’s wonder with a manly pride,
And gravely smiled at guest electrified;
“A farmer this!” they said, “Oh! let him seek
That place where he may for his country speak;
On some great question to harangue for hours,
While speakers hearing, envy nobler powers!”
Wisdom like this, as all things rich and rare, 190
Must be acquired with pains, and kept with care;
In books he sought it, which his friends might view,
When their kind host the guarding curtain drew.
There were historic works for graver hours,
And lighter verse, to spur the languid powers;
There metaphysics, logic there had place;
But of devotion not a single trace--
Save what is taught in Gibbon’s florid page,
And other guides of this inquiring age;
There Hume appear’d, and, near, a splendid book 200
Composed by Gay’s good Lord of Bolingbroke:
With these were mix’d the light, the free, the vain,
And from a corner peep’d the sage Tom Paine:
Here four neat volumes ‘Chesterfield’ were named,
For manners much and easy morals famed;
With chaste Memoirs of Females, to be read
When deeper studies had confused the head.
Such his resources, treasures where he sought
For daily knowledge till his mind was fraught:
Then, when his friends were present, for their use 210
He would the riches he had stored produce;
He found his lamp burn clearer, when each day
He drew for all he purposed to display.
For these occasions, forth his knowledge sprung,
As mustard quickens on a bed of dung;
All was prepared, and guests allow’d the praise,
For what they saw he could so quickly raise.
Such this new friend; and, when the year came round,
The same impressive, reasoning sage was found:
Then, too, was seen the pleasant mansion graced 220
With a fair damsel--his no vulgar taste:
The neat Rebecca--sly, observant, still;
Watching his eye, and waiting on his will;
Simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek,
Her smiles spoke for her, she would seldom speak;
But watch’d each look, each meaning to detect,
And (pleas’d with notice) felt for all neglect.
With her lived Gwyn a sweet harmonious life,
Who, forms excepted, was a charming wife.
The wives indeed, so made by vulgar law, 230
Affected scorn, and censured what they saw;
And what they saw not, fancied; said ’twas sin,
And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn.
But he despised their rudeness, and would prove
Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love;
“Fools as they were! could they conceive that rings
And parsons’ blessings were substantial things?”
They answer’d “Yes;” while he contemptuous spoke
Of the low notions held by simple folk;
Yet, strange that anger in a man so wise } 240
Should from the notions of these fools arise; }
Can they so vex us, whom we so despise? }
Brave as he was, our hero felt a dread
Lest those who saw him kind should think him led;
If to his bosom fear a visit paid,
It was, lest he should be supposed afraid.
Hence sprang his orders; not that he desired
The things when done: obedience he required;
And thus, to prove his absolute command,
Ruled every heart, and moved each subject hand; 250
Assent he ask’d for every word and whim,
To prove that _he alone was king of him_.
The still Rebecca, who her station knew,
With ease resign’d the honours not her due;
Well pleased, she saw that men her board would grace,
And wish’d not there to see a female face;
When by her lover she his spouse was styled,
Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled;
But when he wanted wives and maidens round
So to regard her, she grew grave, and frown’d; 260
And sometimes whisper’d--“Why should you respect
These people’s notions, yet their forms reject?”
Gwyn, though from marriage bond and fetter free,
Still felt abridgment in his liberty;
Something of hesitation he betray’d,
And in her presence thought of what he said.
Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk’d astray,
His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray;
To be at church, to sit with serious looks,
To read her Bible and her Sunday-books. 270
She hated all those new and daring themes,
And call’d his free conjectures “devil’s dreams;”
She honour’d still the priesthood in her fall,
And claim’d respect and reverence for them all;
Call’d them “of sin’s destructive power the foes,
And not such blockheads as he might suppose.”
Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes say,
“’Tis a kind fool, why vex her in her way?”
Her way she took, and still had more in view,
For she contrived that he should take it too. 280
The daring freedom of his soul, ’twas plain,
In part was lost in a divided reign:
A king and queen, who yet in prudence sway’d
Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey’d.
Yet such our fate that, when we plan the best,
Something arises to disturb our rest:
For, though in spirits high, in body strong,
Gwyn something felt--he knew not what--was wrong;
He wish’d to know, for he believed the thing,
If unremoved, would other evil bring: 290
She must perceive, of late he could not eat,
And when he walk’d, he trembled on his feet;
He had forebodings, and he seem’d as one
Stopp’d on the road, or threatened by a dun;
He could not live, and yet, should he apply
To those physicians--he must sooner die.”
The mild Rebecca heard with some disdain,
And some distress, her friend and lord complain:
His death she fear’d not, but had painful doubt
What his distemper’d nerves might bring about; 300
With power like hers she dreaded an ally,
And yet there was a person in her eye;--
She thought, debated, fix’d--“Alas!” she said,
A case like yours must be no more delay’d.
You hate these doctors; well! but were a friend
And doctor one, your fears would have an end.
My cousin Mollet--Scotland holds him now--
Is above all men skilful, all allow:
Of late a doctor, and within a while
He means to settle in this favour’d isle; 310
Should he attend you, with his skill profound,
You must be safe, and shortly would be sound.”
When men in health against physicians rail,
They should consider that their nerves may fail;
Who calls a lawyer rogue, may find, too late,
On one of these depends his whole estate;
Nay, when the world can nothing more produce,
The priest, th’ insulted priest, may have his use.
Ease, health, and comfort, lift a man so high,
These powers are dwarfs that he can scarcely spy; 320
Pain, sickness, languor, keep a man so low,
That these neglected dwarfs to giants grow.
Happy is he who through the medium sees
Of clear good sense--but Gwyn was not of these.
He heard and he rejoiced: “Ah! let him come,
And, till he fixes, make my house his home.”
Home came the doctor--he was much admired;
He told the patient what his case required;
His hours for sleep, his time to eat and drink;
When he should ride, read, rest, compose, or think. 330
Thus join’d peculiar skill and art profound,
To make the fancy-sick no more than fancy-sound.
With such attention, who could long be ill?
Returning health proclaim’d the doctor’s skill.
Presents and praises from a grateful heart
Were freely offer’d on the patient’s part;
In high repute the doctor seem’d to stand,
But still had got no footing in the land;
And, as he saw the seat was rich and fair,
He felt disposed to fix his station there. 340
To gain his purpose, he perform’d the part
Of a good actor, and prepared to start--
Not like a traveller in a day serene,
When the sun shone and when the roads were clean;
Not like the pilgrim, when the morning gray,
The ruddy eve succeeding, sends his way;
But in a season when the sharp east wind
Had all its influence on a nervous mind.
When past the parlour’s front it fiercely blew, }
And Gwyn sat pitying every bird that flew, } 350
This strange physician said--“Adieu! adieu! }
Farewell!--Heaven bless you!--if you should--but no,
You need not fear--farewell! ’tis time to go.”
The doctor spoke; and as the patient heard,
His old disorders (dreadful train!) appear’d;
He felt the tingling tremor, and the stress
Upon his nerves that he could not express;
Should his good friend forsake him, he perhaps
Might meet his death, and surely a relapse.”
So, as the doctor seem’d intent to part, 360
He cried in terror--“Oh! be where thou art:
Come, thou art young, and unengaged; oh! come,
Make me thy friend, give comfort to mine home;
I have now symptoms that require thine aid,
Do, doctor, stay”--th’ obliging doctor stay’d.
Thus Gwyn was happy; he had now a friend,
And a meek spouse on whom he could depend.
But now, possess’d of male and female guide,
Divided power he thus must subdivide:
In earlier days he rode, or sat at ease 370
Reclined, and having but himself to please;
Now, if he would a fav’rite nag bestride,
He sought permission--“Doctor, may I ride?”--
(Rebecca’s eye her sovereign pleasure told,)--
“I think you may; but, guarded from the cold,
Ride forty minutes.”--Free and happy soul!
He scorn’d submission, and a man’s control;
But where such friends in every care unite
All for his good, obedience is delight.
Now Gwyn, a sultan, bade affairs adieu, 380
Led and assisted by the faithful two;
The favourite fair, Rebecca, near him sat,
And whisper’d whom to love, assist, or hate;
While the chief vizier eased his lord of cares,
And bore himself the burden of affairs.
No dangers could from such alliance flow,
But from that law that changes all below.
When wint’ry winds with leaves bestrew’d the ground,
And men were coughing all the village round;
When public papers of invasion told, 390
Diseases, famines, perils new and old;
When philosophic writers fail’d to clear
The mind of gloom, and lighter works to cheer;
Then came fresh terrors on our hero’s mind--
Fears unforeseen, and feelings undefined.
“In outward ills,” he cried, “I rest assured
Of my friend’s aid; they will in time be cured:
But can his art subdue, resist, control
These inward griefs and troubles of the soul?
Oh! my Rebecca! my disorder’d mind 400
No help in study, none in thought can find;
What must I do, Rebecca?” She proposed
The parish-guide; but what could be disclosed
To a proud priest?--“No! him have I defied,
Insulted, slighted--shall he be my guide?
But one there is, and if report be just,
A wise good man, whom I may safely trust;
Who goes from house to house, from ear to ear, }
To make his truths, his Gospel truths, appear; }
True if indeed they be, ’tis time that I should hear. } 410
Send for that man; and if report be just,
I, like Cornelius, will the teacher trust;
But, if deceiver, I the vile deceit
Shall soon discover, and discharge the cheat.”
To Doctor Mollet was the grief confess’d,
While Gwyn the freedom of his mind express’d;
Yet own’d it was to ills and errors prone,
And he for guilt and frailty must atone.
“My books, perhaps,” the wav’ring mortal cried,
“Like men deceive--I would be satisfied; 420
And to my soul the pious man may bring
Comfort and light--do let me try the thing.”
The cousins met; what pass’d with Gwyn was told;
“Alas!” the doctor said; “how hard to hold
These easy minds, where all impressions made
At first sink deeply, and then quickly fade;
For while so strong these new-born fancies reign,
We must divert them, to oppose is vain.
You see him valiant now, he scorns to heed
The bigot’s threat’nings or the zealot’s creed; 430
Shook by a dream, he next for truth receives
What frenzy teaches, and what fear believes;
And this will place him in the power of one
Whom we must seek, because we cannot shun.”
Wisp had been ostler at a busy inn,
Where he beheld and grew in dread of sin;
Then to a Baptists’ meeting found his way,
Became a convert, and was taught to pray;
Then preach’d; and, being earnest and sincere,
Brought other sinners to religious fear. 440
Together grew his influence and his fame,
Till our dejected hero heard his name;
His little failings were a grain of pride,
Raised by the numbers he presumed to guide:
A love of presents, and of lofty praise
For his meek spirit and his humble ways;
But though this spirit would on flattery feed,
No praise could blind him and no arts mislead.
To him the doctor made the wishes known
Of his good patron, but concealed his own; 450
He of all teachers had distrust and doubt,
And was reserved in what he came about;
Though on a plain and simple message sent,
He had a secret and a bold intent.
Their minds at first were deeply veil’d; disguise
Form’d the slow speech, and op’d the eager eyes;
Till by degrees sufficient light was thrown
On every view, and all the business shown.
Wisp, as a skilful guide who led the blind, }
Had powers to rule and awe the vapourish mind, } 460
But not the changeful will, the wavering fear to bind; }
And, should his conscience give him leave to dwell
With Gwyn, and every rival power expel,
(A dubious point,) yet he, with every care,
Might soon the lot of the rejected share,
And other Wisps be found like him to reign,
And then be thrown upon the world again.
He thought it prudent, then, and felt it just,
The present guides of his new friend to trust;
True, he conceived, to touch the harder heart 470
Of the cool doctor, was beyond his art;
But mild Rebecca he could surely sway,
While Gwyn would follow where she led the way:
So, to do good, (and why a duty shun,
Because rewarded for the good when done?)
He with his friends would join in all they plann’d,
Save when his faith or feelings should withstand;
There he must rest, sole judge of his affairs,
While they might rule exclusively in theirs.
When Gwyn his message to the teacher sent, 480
He fear’d his friends would show their discontent;
And prudent seem’d it to th’ attendant pair,
Not all at once to show an aspect fair.
On Wisp they seem’d to look with jealous eye,
And fair Rebecca was demure and shy;
But by degrees the teacher’s worth they knew,
And were so kind, they seem’d converted too.
Wisp took occasion to the nymph to say,
“You must be married: will you name the day?”
She smiled,--“’Tis well; but, should he not comply, 490
Is it quite safe th’ experiment to try?”--
“My child,” the teacher said, “who feels remorse,
(And feels not he?) must wish relief of course;
And can he find it, while he fears the crime?--
You must be married; will you name the time?”
Glad was the patron as a man could be, }
Yet marvell’d too, to find his guides agree; }
“But what the cause?” he cried; “’tis genuine love for me.” }
Each found his part, and let one act describe
The powers and honours of th’ accordant tribe:-- 500
A man for favour to the mansion speeds,
And cons his threefold task as he proceeds;
To teacher Wisp he bows with humble air,
And begs his interest for a barn’s repair;
Then for the doctor he inquires, who loves
To hear applause for what his skill improves,
And gives, for praise, assent,--and to the fair
He brings of pullets a delicious pair;
Thus sees a peasant, with discernment nice,
A love of power, conceit, and avarice. 510
Lo! now the change complete: the convert Gwyn
Has sold his books, and has renounced his sin;
Mollet his body orders, Wisp his soul,
And o’er his purse the lady takes control;
No friends beside he needs, and none attend--
Soul, body, and estate, has each a friend;
And fair Rebecca leads a virtuous life--
She rules a mistress, and she reigns a wife.

TALE IV.

_PROCRASTINATION._

Heaven witness
I have been to you [a true and humble wife.]
_Henry VIII_. Act II. Scene 4.

Gentle lady,
When first I did impart my love to you,
I freely told you all the wealth I had.
_Merchant of Venice_, Act III. Scene 2.

[The leisure and the fearful time]
Cuts off [the ceremonious] vows of love,
And ample interchange of sweet discourse,
Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon.
_Richard III_. Act V. Scene 3.

I know thee not, old man; fall to thy prayers.
2 _Henry IV_. Act V. Scene 5.

Farewell,
Thou pure impiety [and] impious purity;
For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love.
_Much Ado about Nothing_, Act IV. Scene 1.

TALE IV.

_PROCRASTINATION._