Chapter IV: Preface (3)

Love will expire; the gay, the happy dream
Will turn to scorn, indiff’rence, or esteem.
Some favour’d pairs, in this exchange, are bless’d,
Nor sigh for raptures in a state of rest;
Others, ill match’d, with minds unpair’d, repent
At once the deed, and know no more content;
From joy to anguish they, in haste, decline,
And with their fondness, their esteem resign.
More luckless still their fate, who are the prey
Of long-protracted hope and dull delay; 10
’Mid plans of bliss the heavy hours pass on,
Till love is wither’d, and till joy is gone.
This gentle flame two youthful hearts possess’d,
The sweet disturber of unenvied rest:
The prudent Dinah was the maid beloved,
And the kind Rupert was the swain approved.
A wealthy aunt her gentle niece sustain’d,
He, with a father, at his desk remain’d;
The youthful couple, to their vows sincere, }
Thus loved expectant; year succeeding year, } 20
With pleasant views and hopes, but not a prospect near. }
Rupert some comfort in his station saw,
But the poor virgin lived in dread and awe;
Upon her anxious looks the widow smiled,
And bade her wait, “for she was yet a child.”
She for her neighbour had a due respect,
Nor would his son encourage or reject;
And thus the pair, with expectations vain,
Beheld the seasons change and change again.
Meantime the nymph her tender tales perused, 30
Where cruel aunts impatient girls refused;
While hers, though teasing, boasted to be kind,
And she, resenting, to be all resign’d.
The dame was sick, and, when the youth applied
For her consent, she groan’d, and cough’d, and cried;
Talk’d of departing, and again her breath
Drew hard, and cough’d, and talk’d again of death:
“Here you may live, my Dinah! here the boy
And you together my estate enjoy.”
Thus to the lovers was her mind express’d, 40
Till they forbore to urge the fond request.
Servant, and nurse, and comforter, and friend,
Dinah had still some duty to attend;
But yet their walk, when Rupert’s evening call
Obtain’d an hour, made sweet amends for all;
So long they now each other’s thoughts had known,
That nothing seem’d exclusively their own;
But with the common wish, the mutual fear,
They now had travell’d to their thirtieth year.
At length a prospect open’d--but, alas!
Long time must yet before the union pass; 50
Rupert was call’d in other clime, t’increase
Another’s wealth, and toil for future peace;
Loth were the lovers; but the aunt declared
’Twas fortune’s call, and they must be prepared:
“You now are young, and for this brief delay,
And Dinah’s care, what I bequeath will pay;
All will be yours; nay, love, suppress that sigh;
The kind must suffer, and the best must die.”
Then came the cough, and strong the signs it gave
Of holding long contention with the grave. 60
The lovers parted with a gloomy view,
And little comfort but that both were true;
He for uncertain duties doom’d to steer,
While hers remained too certain and severe.
Letters arrived, and Rupert fairly told
“His cares were many, and his hopes were cold;
The view more clouded, that was never fair,
And love alone preserved him from despair.”
In other letters brighter hopes he drew, 70
“His friends were kind, and he believed them true.”
When the sage widow Dinah’s grief descried,
She wonder’d much why one so happy sigh’d;
Then bade her see how her poor aunt sustain’d
The ills of life, nor murmur’d nor complain’d.
To vary pleasures, from the lady’s chest
Were drawn the pearly string and tabby vest;
Beads, jewels, laces, all their value shown,
With the kind notice--“They will be your own.”
This hope, these comforts cherish’d day by day, 80
To Dinah’s bosom made a gradual way;
Till love of treasure had as large a part
As love of Rupert in the virgin’s heart.
Whether it be that tender passions fail
From their own nature, while the strong prevail;
Or whether av’rice, like the poison-tree[3],
Kills all beside it, and alone will be:
Whatever cause prevail’d, the pleasure grew
In Dinah’s soul--she loved the hoards to view;
With lively joy those comforts she survey’d, 90
And love grew languid in the careful maid.
Now the grave niece partook the widow’s cares;
Look’d to the great and ruled the small affairs;
Saw clean’d the plate, arranged the china show,
And felt her passion for a shilling grow.
Th’ indulgent aunt increased the maid’s delight,
By placing tokens of her wealth in sight;
She loved the value of her bonds to tell,
And spake of stocks, and how they rose and fell.
This passion grew, and gain’d at length such sway, 100
That other passions shrank to make it way;
Romantic notions now the heart forsook,
She read but seldom, and she changed her book;
And for the verses she was wont to send,
Short was her prose, and she was Rupert’s friend.
Seldom she wrote, and then the widow’s cough,
And constant call, excused her breaking off;
Who now, oppress’d, no longer took the air,
But sate and dozed upon an easy chair.
The cautious doctor saw the case was clear, 110
But judged it best to have companions near;
They came, they reason’d, they prescribed--at last,
Like honest men, they said their hopes were past;
Then came a priest--’tis comfort to reflect,
When all is over, there was no neglect;
And all was over--by her husband’s bones,
The widow rests beneath the sculptured stones,
That yet record their fondness and their fame,
While all they left the virgin’s care became:
Stock, bonds, and buildings;--it disturb’d her rest, 120
To think what load of troubles she possess’d.
Yet, if a trouble, she resolved to take
Th’ important duty, for the donor’s sake;
She too was heiress to the widow’s taste,
Her love of hoarding, and her dread of waste.
Sometimes the past would on her mind intrude,
And then a conflict full of care ensued;
The thoughts of Rupert on her mind would press,
His worth she knew, but doubted his success;
Of old she saw him heedless; what the boy 130
Forbore to save, the man would not enjoy;
Oft had he lost the chance that care would seize,
Willing to live, but more to live at ease;
Yet could she not a broken vow defend,
And Heav’n, perhaps, might yet enrich her friend.
Month after month was pass’d, and all were spent
In quiet comfort and in rich content:
Miseries there were, and woes the world around,
But these had not her pleasant dwelling found;
She knew that mothers grieved, and widows wept, 140
And she was sorry, said her prayers, and slept.
Thus pass’d the seasons, and to Dinah’s board
Gave what the seasons to the rich afford;
For she indulged, nor was her heart so small,
That one strong passion should engross it all.
A love of splendour now with av’rice strove,
And oft appear’d to be the stronger love;
A secret pleasure fill’d the widow’s breast,
When she reflected on the hoards possess’d;
But livelier joy inspired th’ ambitious maid, 150
When she the purchase of those hoards display’d.
In small but splendid room she loved to see
That all was placed in view and harmony;
There, as with eager glance she look’d around,
She much delight in every object found;
While books devout were near her--to destroy,
Should it arise, an overflow of joy.
Within that fair apartment, guests might see
The comforts cull’d for wealth by vanity.
Around the room an Indian paper blazed, 160
With lively tint and figures boldly raised;
Silky and soft upon the floor below,
Th’ elastic carpet rose with crimson glow;
All things around implied both cost and care;
What met the eye was elegant or rare.
Some curious trifles round the room were laid,
By hope presented to the wealthy maid:
Within a costly case of varnish’d wood,
In level rows, her polish’d volumes stood;
Shown as a favour to a chosen few, 170
To prove what beauty for a book could do;
A silver urn with curious work was fraught;
A silver lamp from Grecian pattern wrought;
Above her head, all gorgeous to behold,
A time-piece stood on feet of burnish’d gold;
A stag’s-head crest adorn’d the pictured case,
Through the pure crystal shone th’ enamell’d face;
And, while on brilliants moved the hands of steel,
It click’d from pray’r to pray’r, from meal to meal.
Here as the lady sate, a friendly pair 180
Stept in t’ admire the view, and took their chair.
They then related how the young and gay
Were thoughtless wandering in the broad highway;
How tender damsels sail’d in tilted boats,
And laugh’d with wicked men in scarlet coats;
And how we live in such degen’rate times
That men conceal their wants, and show their crimes;
While vicious deeds are screen’d by fashion’s name,
And what was once our pride is now our shame.
Dinah was musing, as her friends discoursed, 190
When these last words a sudden entrance forced
Upon her mind, and what was once her pride
And now her shame, some painful views supplied;
Thoughts of the past within her bosom press’d,
And there a change was felt, and was confess’d.
While thus the virgin strove with secret pain,
Her mind was wandering o’er the troubled main;
Still she was silent, nothing seem’d to see,
But sate and sigh’d in pensive reverie.
The friends prepared new subjects to begin, 200
When tall Susannah, maiden starch, stalk’d in;
Not in her ancient mode, sedate and slow,
As when she came, the mind she knew to know;
Nor as, when list’ning half an hour before,
She twice or thrice tapp’d gently at the door;
But, all decorum cast in wrath aside,
“I think the devil’s in the man!” she cried;
“A huge tall sailor, with his tawny cheek,
And pitted face, will with my lady speak;
He grinn’d an ugly smile, and said he knew, 210
Please you, my lady, ’twould be joy to you;
What must I answer?”--Trembling and distress’d
Sank the pale Dinah, by her fears oppress’d;
When thus alarm’d, and brooking no delay,
Swift to her room the stranger made his way.
“Revive, my love!” said he, “I’ve done thee harm,
Give me thy pardon,” and he look’d alarm;
Meantime the prudent Dinah had contrived
Her soul to question, and she then revived.
“See! my good friend,” and then she raised her head, } 220
“The bloom of life, the strength of youth is fled; }
Living we die; to us the world is dead. }
We parted bless’d with health, and I am now
Age-struck and feeble, so I find art thou;
Thine eye is sunken, furrow’d is thy face,
And downward look’st thou--so we run our race;
And happier they, whose race is nearly run,
Their troubles over, and their duties done.”--
“True, lady, true, we are not girl and boy;
But time has left us something to enjoy.”-- 230
“What! thou hast learn’d my fortune?--yes, I live
To feel how poor the comforts wealth can give;
Thou too perhaps art wealthy; but our fate
Still mocks our wishes, wealth is come too late.”--
“To me nor late nor early; I am come
Poor as I left thee to my native home:
Nor yet,” said Rupert, “will I grieve; ’tis mine
To share thy comforts, and the glory thine;
For thou wilt gladly take that generous part
That both exalts and gratifies the heart; 240
While mine rejoices.”--“Heavens!” return’d the maid,
“This talk to one so wither’d and decayed?
No! all my care is now to fit my mind
For other spousal, and to die resign’d.
As friend and neighbour, I shall hope to see
These noble views, this pious love in thee;
That we together may the change await,
Guides and spectators in each other’s fate;
When fellow-pilgrims, we shall daily crave
The mutual prayer that arms us for the grave.” 250
Half angry, half in doubt, the lover gazed
On the meek maiden, by her speech amazed.
“Dinah,” said he, “dost thou respect thy vows?
What spousal mean’st thou?--thou art Rupert’s spouse;
The chance is mine to take, and thine to give;
But trifling this, if we together live.
Can I believe, that, after all the past,
Our vows, our loves, thou wilt be false at last?
Something thou hast--I know not what--in view;
I find thee pious--let me find thee true.”-- 260
“Ah! cruel this; but do, my friend, depart;
And to its feelings leave my wounded heart.”--
“Nay, speak at once; and, Dinah, let me know,
Mean’st thou to take me, now I’m wreck’d, in tow?
Be fair; nor longer keep me in the dark;
Am I forsaken for a trimmer spark?
Heav’n’s spouse thou art not; nor can I believe
That God accepts her who will man deceive.
True, I am shatter’d; I have service seen,
And service done, and have in trouble been; 270
My cheek (it shames me not) has lost its red,
And the brown buff is o’er my features spread;
Perchance my speech is rude; for I among
Th’ untamed have been, in temper and in tongue;
Have been trepann’d, have lived in toil and care,
And wrought for wealth I was not doom’d to share;
It touch’d me deeply, for I felt a pride
In gaining riches for my destined bride.
Speak, then, my fate; for these my sorrows past,
Time lost, youth fled, hope wearied, and at last 280
This doubt of thee--a childish thing to tell,
But certain truth--my very throat they swell;
They stop the breath, and but for shame could I
Give way to weakness, and with passion cry;
These are unmanly struggles, but I feel
This hour must end them, and perhaps will heal.”--
Here Dinah sigh’d as if afraid to speak--
And then repeated--“They were frail and weak;
His soul she loved, and hoped he had the grace
To fix his thoughts upon a better place.” 290
She ceased;--with steady glance, as if to see
The very root of this hypocrisy,
He her small fingers moulded in his hard
And bronzed broad hand; then told her, his regard,
His best respect were gone, but love had still
Hold in his heart, and govern’d yet the will--
Or he would curse her;--saying this, he threw }
The hand in scorn away, and bade adieu }
To every lingering hope, with every care in view. }
Proud and indignant, suffering, sick, and poor, 300
He grieved unseen, and spoke of love no more--
Till all he felt in indignation died,
As hers had sunk in avarice and pride.
In health declining, as in mind distress’d,
To some in power his troubles he confess’d,
And shares a parish-gift;--at prayers he sees
The pious Dinah dropp’d upon her knees;
Thence as she walks the street with stately air,
As chance directs, oft meet the parted pair.
When he, with thickset coat of badge-man’s blue, 310
Moves near her shaded silk of changeful hue;
When his thin locks of grey approach her braid,
A costly purchase made in beauty’s aid;
When his frank air, and his unstudied pace, }
Are seen with her soft manner, air, and grace. }
And his plain artless look with her sharp meaning face: }
It might some wonder in a stranger move,
How these together could have talk’d of love.
Behold them now!--see, there a tradesman stands,
And humbly hearkens to some fresh commands; 320
He moves to speak, she interrupts him--“Stay,”
Her air expresses--“Hark to what I say!”
Ten paces off, poor Rupert on a seat
Has taken refuge from the noon-day heat,
His eyes on her intent, as if to find
What were the movements of that subtle mind;
How still! how earnest is he!--it appears
His thoughts are wand’ring through his earlier years;
Through years of fruitless labour, to the day
When all his earthly prospects died away. 330
“Had I,” he thinks, “been wealthier of the two, }
Would she have found me so unkind, untrue? }
Or knows not man, when poor, what man when rich will do? }
Yes, yes! I feel that I had faithful proved,
And should have soothed and raised her, bless’d and loved.”
But Dinah moves--she had observed before
The pensive Rupert at an humble door.
Some thoughts of pity raised by his distress,
Some feeling touch of ancient tenderness;
Religion, duty, urged the maid to speak 340
In terms of kindness to a man so weak;
But pride forbad, and to return would prove
She felt the shame of his neglected love;
Nor wrapp’d in silence could she pass, afraid
Each eye should see her, and each heart upbraid.
One way remain’d--the way the Levite took,
Who without mercy could on misery look,
(A way perceived by craft, approved by pride):
She cross’d, and pass’d him on the other side.

[3] Allusion is here made, not to the well-known species of _sumach,_ called the poison-oak, or _toxicodendron_, but to the _upas_, or poison-tree of Java; whether it be real or imaginary, this is no proper place for inquiry.

TALE V.

_THE PATRON._

It were all one,
That I should love a bright [particular] star,
And think to wed it; [he] is so much above me:
In [his] bright radiance and collateral heat
Must I be comforted, not in [his] sphere.
_All’s Well that Ends Well_, Act I. Scene 1.

Poor wretches, that depend
On greatness’ favours, dream as I have done,--
Wake, and find nothing.
_Cymbeline_, Act V. Scene 4.

And since . . .
Th’ affliction of my mind amends, with which
I fear a madness held me.
_[The] Tempest_, Act V.

TALE V.

_THE PATRON._

A borough-bailiff, who to law was train’d,
A wife and sons in decent state maintain’d;
He had his way in life’s rough ocean steer’d,
And many a rock and coast of danger clear’d;
He saw where others fail’d, and care had he
Others in him should not such failings see;
His sons in various busy states were placed,
And all began the sweets of gain to taste,
Save John, the younger; who, of sprightly parts,
Felt not a love for money-making arts. 10
In childhood feeble, he, for country air,
Had long resided with a rustic pair;
All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs,
Of lovers’ sufferings and of ladies’ wrongs;
Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight,
For breach of promise guilty men to fright;
Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with these,
All that on idle, ardent spirits seize;
Robbers at land and pirates on the main,
Enchanters foil’d, spells broken, giants slain; 20
Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers, }
Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice flowers, }
And all the hungry mind without a choice devours. }
From village-children kept apart by pride,
With such enjoyments, and without a guide,
Inspired by feelings all such works infused,
John snatch’d a pen, and wrote as he perused:
With the like fancy he could make his knight
Slay half an host and put the rest to flight;
With the like knowledge, he could make him ride 30
From isle to isle at Parthenissa’s side;
And with a heart yet free, no busy brain }
Form’d wilder notions of delight and pain, }
The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain. }
Such were the fruits of John’s poetic toil--
Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil.
He nothing purposed but with vast delight,
Let Fancy loose, and wonder’d at her flight;
His notions of poetic worth were high,
And of his own still-hoarded poetry.-- 40
These to his father’s house he bore with pride,
A miser’s treasure, in his room to hide;
Till, spurr’d by glory, to a reading friend
He kindly show’d the sonnets he had penn’d.
With erring judgment, though with heart sincere,
That friend exclaim’d, “These beauties must appear.”
In Magazines they claim’d their share of fame,
Though undistinguish’d by their author’s name;
And with delight the young enthusiast found
The muse of ‘Marcus’ with applauses crown’d. 50
This heard the father, and with some alarm;
“The boy,” said he, “will neither trade nor farm;
He for both law and physic is unfit;
Wit he may have, but cannot live on wit:
Let him his talents then to learning give,
Where verse is honour’d, and where poets live.”
John kept his terms at college unreproved,
Took his degree, and left the life he loved;
Not yet ordain’d, his leisure he employ’d
In the light labours he so much enjoy’d; 60
His favourite notions and his daring views
Were cherish’d still, and he adored the Muse.
“A little time, and he should burst to light,
And admiration of the world excite;
And every friend, now cool and apt to blame
His fond pursuit, would wonder at his fame.”
When led by fancy, and from view retired,
He call’d before him all his heart desired;
“Fame shall be mine, then wealth shall I possess,
And beauty next an ardent lover bless; 70
For me the maid shall leave her nobler state,
Happy to raise and share her poet’s fate.”
He saw each day his father’s frugal board
With simple fare by cautious prudence stored;
Where each indulgence was foreweigh’d with care,
And the grand maxims were to save and spare.
Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed,
All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled;
And bounteous Fancy for his glowing mind
Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind; 80
Slaves of the _ring_ and _lamp_! what need of you,
When Fancy’s self such magic deeds can do?
Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind,
To common subjects stoop’d our poet’s mind;
And oft, when wearied with more ardent flight,
He felt a spur satiric song to write;
A rival burgess his bold muse attack’d,
And whipp’d severely for a well-known fact;
For, while he seem’d to all demure and shy,
Our poet gazed at what was passing by; 90
And ev’n his father smiled when playful wit,
From his young bard, some haughty object hit.
From ancient times the borough where they dwelt
Had mighty contest at elections felt.
Sir Godfrey Ball, ’tis true, had held in pay
Electors many for the trying day;
But in such golden chains to bind them all
Required too much for e’en Sir Godfrey Ball.
A member died, and, to supply his place,
Two heroes enter’d for th’ important race; 100
Sir Godfrey’s friend and Earl Fitzdonnel’s son,
Lord Frederick Damer, both prepared to run;
And partial numbers saw with vast delight
Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight.
Our poet’s father, at a first request,
Gave the young lord his vote and interest,
And, what he could, our poet; for he stung
The foe by verse satiric, said and sung.
Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal,
And felt as lords upon a canvass feel; 110
He read the satire, and he saw the use }
That such cool insult, and such keen abuse, }
Might on the wavering minds of voting men produce; }
Then, too, his praises were in contrast seen,
“A lord as noble as the knight was mean.”
“I much rejoice,” he cried, “such worth to find;
To this the world must be no longer blind;
His glory will descend from sire to son,
The Burns of English race, the happier Chatterton.”
Our poet’s mind, now hurried and elate, 120
Alarm’d the anxious parent for his fate;
Who saw with sorrow, should their friend succeed,
That much discretion would the poet need.
Their friend succeeded, and repaid the zeal
The poet felt, and made opposers feel,
By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet!)
And invitation to his noble seat.
The father ponder’d, doubtful if the brain
Of his proud boy such honour could sustain;
Pleased with the favours offer’d to a son, 130
But seeing dangers few so ardent shun.
Thus, when they parted, to the youthful breast
The father’s fears were by his love impress’d:
“There you will find, my son, the courteous ease
That must subdue the soul it means to please;
That soft attention which ev’n beauty pays
To wake our passions, or provoke our praise;
There all the eye beholds will give delight,
Where every sense is flatter’d like the sight.
This is your peril; can you from such scene 140
Of splendour part, and feel your mind serene,
And in the father’s humble state resume
The frugal diet and the narrow room?”
To this the youth with cheerful heart replied,
Pleased with the trial, but as yet untried;
And while professing patience, should he fail,
He suffer’d hope o’er reason to prevail.
Impatient, by the morning mail convey’d,
The happy guest his promised visit paid;
And now, arriving at the hall, he tried 150
For air composed, serene and satisfied;
As he had practised in his room alone,
And there acquired a free and easy tone.
There he had said, “Whatever the degree
A man obtains, what more than man is he?”
And when arrived--“This room is but a room;
Can aught we see the steady soul o’ercome?
Let me in all a manly firmness show,
Upheld by talents, and their value know.”
This reason urged; but it surpass’d his skill 160
To be in act as manly as in will:
When he his lordship and the lady saw,
Brave as he was, he felt oppress’d with awe;
And spite of verse, that so much praise had won,
The poet found he was the bailiff’s son.
But dinner came, and the succeeding hours
Fix’d his weak nerves, and raised his failing powers;
Praised and assured, he ventured once or twice
On some remark, and bravely broke the ice;
So that at night, reflecting on his words, 170
He found in time, he might converse with lords.
Now was the sister of his patron seen--
A lovely creature, with majestic mien;
Who, softly smiling while she look’d so fair,
Praised the young poet with such friendly air;
Such winning frankness in her looks express’d,
And such attention to her brother’s guest,
That so much beauty, join’d with speech so kind,
Raised strong emotions in the poet’s mind;
Till reason fail’d his bosom to defend 180
From the sweet power of this enchanting friend.--
Rash boy! what hope thy frantic mind invades?
What love confuses, and what pride persuades?
Awake to truth! shouldst thou deluded feed
On hopes so groundless, thou art mad indeed.
What say’st thou, wise-one? “that all-powerful love
Can fortune’s strong impediments remove;
Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth,
The pride of genius with the pride of birth.”
While thou art dreaming thus, the beauty spies 190
Love in thy tremor, passion in thine eyes;
And, with th’ amusement pleased, of conquest vain,
She seeks her pleasure, careless of thy pain;
She gives thee praise to humble and confound,
Smiles to ensnare, and flatters thee to wound.
Why has she said that in the lowest state
The noble mind insures a noble fate?
And why thy daring mind to glory call?
That thou may’st dare and suffer, soar and fall.
Beauties are tyrants, and if they can reign, 200
They have no feeling for their subject’s pain;
Their victim’s anguish gives their charms applause,
And their chief glory is the woe they cause.
Something of this was felt, in spite of love,
Which hope, in spite of reason, would remove.
Thus lived our youth, with conversation, books,
And Lady Emma’s soul-subduing looks;
Lost in delight, astonish’d at his lot, }
All prudence banish’d, all advice forgot-- }
Hopes, fears, and every thought, were fix’d upon the spot.} 210
’Twas autumn yet, and many a day must frown
On Brandon-Hall, ere went my lord to town;
Meantime the father, who had heard his boy
Lived in a round of luxury and joy,
And, justly thinking that the youth was one
Who, meeting danger, was unskill’d to shun;
Knowing his temper, virtue, spirit, zeal,
How prone to hope and trust, believe and feel:
These on the parent’s soul their weight impress’d,
And thus he wrote the counsels of his breast. 220
“John, thou’rt a genius; thou hast some pretence,
I think, to wit, but hast thou sterling sense?
That which, like gold, may through the world go forth,
And always pass for what ’tis truly worth?
Whereas this genius, like a bill, must take
Only the value our opinions make.
“Men famed for wit, of dangerous talents vain,
Treat those of common parts with proud disdain;
The powers that wisdom would, improving, hide,
They blaze abroad with inconsid’rate pride; 230
While yet but mere probationers for fame,
They seize the honour they should then disclaim:
Honour so hurried to the light must fade;
The lasting laurels flourish in the shade.
“Genius is jealous; I have heard of some
Who, if unnoticed, grew perversely dumb;
Nay, different talents would their envy raise;
Poets have sicken’d at a dancer’s praise;
And one, the happiest writer of his time,
Grew pale at hearing Reynolds was sublime; 240
That Rutland’s duchess wore a heavenly smile--
And I, said he, neglected all the while!
“A waspish tribe are these, on gilded wings,
Humming their lays, and brandishing their stings;
And thus they move their friends and foes among,
Prepared for soothing or satiric song.
“Hear me, my boy; thou hast a virtuous mind--
But be thy virtues of the sober kind;
Be not a Quixote, ever up in arms
To give the guilty and the great alarms: 250
If never heeded, thy attack is vain;
And if they heed thee, they’ll attack again;
Then, too, in striking at that heedless rate,
Thou in an instant may’st decide thy fate.
“Leave admonition--let the vicar give
Rules how the nobles of his flock should live;
Nor take that simple fancy to thy brain,
That thou canst cure the wicked and the vain.
“Our Pope, they say, once entertain’d the whim,
Who fear’d not God should be afraid of him; 260
But grant they fear’d him, was it further said,
That he reform’d the hearts he made afraid?
Did Chartres mend? Ward, Waters, and a score
Of flagrant felons, with his floggings sore?
Was Cibber silenced? No; with vigour bless’d,
And brazen front, half earnest, half in jest,
He dared the bard to battle, and was seen
In all his glory match’d with Pope and spleen;
Himself he stripp’d, the harder blow to hit,
Then boldly match’d his ribaldry with wit; 270
The poet’s conquest Truth and Time proclaim,
But yet the battle hurt his peace and fame.
“Strive not too much for favour; seem at ease,
And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please:
Upon thy lord with decent care attend,
But not too near; thou canst not be a friend;
And favourite be not, ’tis a dangerous post--
Is gain’d by labour, and by fortune lost.
Talents like thine may make a man approved,
But other talents trusted and beloved. 280
Look round, my son, and thou wilt early see
The kind of man thou art not form’d to be.
“The real favourites of the great are they
Who to their views and wants attention pay,
And pay it ever; who, with all their skill,
Dive to the heart, and learn the secret will;
If that be vicious, soon can they provide
The favourite ill, and o’er the soul preside;
For vice is weakness, and the artful know
Their power increases as the passions grow; 290
If indolent the pupil, hard their task;
Such minds will ever for amusement ask;
And great the labour for a man to choose
Objects for one whom nothing can amuse!
For ere those objects can the soul delight,
They must to joy the soul herself excite;
Therefore it is, this patient, watchful kind
With gentle friction stir the drowsy mind;
Fix’d on their end, with caution they proceed,
And sometimes give, and sometimes take the lead; 300
Will now a hint convey, and then retire,
And let the spark awake the lingering fire;
Or seek new joys and livelier pleasures bring,
To give the jaded sense a quick’ning spring.
“These arts, indeed, my son must not pursue;
Nor must he quarrel with the tribe that do:
It is not safe another’s crimes to know,
Nor is it wise our proper worth to show.--
‘My lord,’ you say, ‘engaged me for that worth;’--
True, and preserve it ready to come forth: 310
If question’d, fairly answer--and, that done,
Shrink back, be silent, and thy father’s son;
For they who doubt thy talents scorn thy boast,
But they who grant them will dislike thee most.
Observe the prudent; they in silence sit,
Display no learning, and affect no wit;
They hazard nothing, nothing they assume,
But know the useful art of _acting dumb_.
Yet to their eyes each varying look appears,
And every word finds entrance at their ears. 320
“Thou art religion’s advocate--take heed,
Hurt not the cause thy pleasure ’tis to plead;
With wine before thee, and with wits beside,
Do not in strength of reas’ning powers confide;
What seems to thee convincing, certain, plain,
They will deny, and dare thee to maintain;
And thus will triumph o’er thy eager youth,
While thou wilt grieve for so disgracing truth.
“With pain I’ve seen, these wrangling wits among,
Faith’s weak defenders, passionate and young; 330
Weak thou art not, yet not enough on guard,
Where wit and humour keep their watch and ward:
Men gay and noisy will o’erwhelm thy sense,
Then loudly laugh at Truth’s and thy expense;
While the kind ladies will do all they can
To check their mirth, and cry, ‘_The good young man_!’
“Prudence, my boy, forbids thee to commend
The cause or party of thy noble friend;
What are his praises worth, who must be known
To take a patron’s maxims for his own? 340
When ladies sing, or in thy presence play,
Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away;
’Tis not thy part, there will be list’ners round,
To cry ‘_divine_!’ and dote upon the sound;
Remember too, that though the poor have ears,
They take not in the music of the spheres;
They must not feel the warble and the thrill,
Or be dissolved in ecstacy at will;
Beside, ’tis freedom in a youth like thee
To drop his awe, and deal in ecstacy! 350
“In silent ease, at least in silence, dine,
Nor one opinion start of food or wine:
Thou know’st that all the science thou canst boast
Is of thy father’s simple boil’d and roast;
Nor always these; he sometimes saved his cash,
By interlinear days of frugal hash.
Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou be so vain
As to decide on claret or champagne?
Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime,
Who order port the dozen at a time; 360
When (every glass held precious in our eyes)
We judged the value by the bottle’s size?
Then, never merit for thy praise assume,
Its worth well knows each servant in the room.
“Hard, boy, thy task, to steer thy way among
That servile, supple, shrewd, insidious throng;
Who look upon thee as of doubtful race,
An interloper, one who wants a place:
Freedom with these let thy free soul condemn,
Nor with thy heart’s concerns associate them. 370
“Of all be cautious--but be most afraid
Of the pale charms that grace my lady’s maid;
Of those sweet dimples, of that fraudful eye, }
The frequent glance, design’d for thee to spy; }
The soft bewitching look, the fond bewailing sigh. }
Let others frown and envy; she the while
(Insidious syren!) will demurely smile;
And, for her gentle purpose, every day
Inquire thy wants, and meet thee in thy way;
She has her blandishments, and, though so weak, 380
Her person pleases, and her actions speak.
At first her folly may her aim defeat;
But kindness shown at length will kindness meet.
Have some offended? them will she disdain,
And, for thy sake, contempt and pity feign;
She hates the vulgar, she admires to look
On woods and groves, and dotes upon a book;
Let her once see thee on her features dwell,
And hear one sigh--then, liberty, farewell.
“But, John, remember, we cannot maintain 390
A poor, proud girl, extravagant and vain.
“Doubt much of friendship: shouldst thou find a friend
Pleased to advise thee, anxious to commend;
Should he the praises he has heard report,
And confidence (in thee confiding) court;
Much of neglectful patrons should he say,
And then exclaim--‘How long must merit stay;’
Then show how high thy modest hopes may stretch,
And point to stations far beyond thy reach:
Let such designer, by thy conduct, see 400
(Civil and cool) he makes no dupe of thee;
And he will quit thee, as a man too wise
For him to ruin first, and then despise.
“Such are thy dangers;--yet, if thou canst steer
Past all the perils, all the quicksands clear,
Then may’st thou profit; but if storms prevail,
If foes beset thee, if thy spirits fail--
No more of winds or waters be the sport,
But in thy father’s mansion find a port.”
Our poet read.--“It is, in truth,” said he, 410
“Correct in part, but what is _this_ to me?
I love a foolish Abigail! in base
And sordid office! fear not such disgrace:
Am I so blind?”--“Or thou wouldst surely see
That lady’s fall, if she should stoop to thee.”--
“The cases differ.”--“True! for what surprise
Could from thy marriage with the maid arise?
But through the island would the shame be spread,
Should the fair mistress deign with thee to wed.”
John saw not this; and many a week had pass’d, 420
While the vain beauty held her victim fast;
The noble friend still condescension show’d,
And, as before, with praises overflow’d;
But his grave lady took a silent view
Of all that pass’d, and, smiling, pitied too.
Cold grew the foggy morn; the day was brief;
Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf;
The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods
Roar’d with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods;
All green was vanish’d, save of pine and yew, 430
That still display’d their melancholy hue;
Save the green holly with its berries red,
And the green moss that o’er the gravel spread.
To public views my lord must soon attend;
And soon the ladies--would they leave their friend?
The time was fix’d--approach’d--was near--was come,
The trying time that fill’d his soul with gloom.
Thoughtful our poet in the morning rose,
And cried, “One hour my fortune will disclose;
Terrific hour! from thee have I to date 440
Life’s loftier views, or my degraded state;
For now to be what I have been before
Is so to fall, that I can rise no more.”
The morning meal was past, and all around
The mansion rang with each discordant sound;
Haste was in every foot, and every look
The trav’ller’s joy for London-journey spoke.
Not so our youth; whose feelings, at the noise
Of preparation, had no touch of joys;
He pensive stood, and saw each carriage drawn, 450
With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn.
The ladies came; and John in terror threw
One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew;
Not with such speed, but he in other eyes
With anguish read--“I pity but despise--
Unhappy boy! presumptuous scribbler!--you
To dream such dreams!--be sober, and adieu!”
Then came the noble friend--“And will my lord
Vouchsafe no comfort? drop no soothing word?
Yes, he must speak:” he speaks, “My good young friend,--
You know my views; upon my care depend; 461
My hearty thanks to your good father pay,
And be a student.--Harry, drive away.”
Stillness reign’d all around; of late so full,
The busy scene deserted now and dull.
Stern is his nature who forbears to feel
Gloom o’er his spirits on such trials steal;
Most keenly felt our poet as he went
From room to room without a fix’d intent;
“And here,” he thought, “I was caress’d; admired 470
Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired:
The change how grievous!” As he mused, a dame
Busy and peevish to her duties came;
Aside the tables and the chairs she drew,
And sang and mutter’d in the poet’s view:--
“This was her fortune; here they leave the poor;
Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more;
I had a promise--” here his pride and shame
Urged him to fly from this familiar dame;
He gave one farewell look, and by a coach 480
Reach’d his own mansion at the night’s approach.
His father met him with an anxious air,
Heard his sad tale, and check’d what seem’d despair;
Hope was in him corrected, but alive;
My lord would something for a friend contrive;
His word was pledged; our hero’s feverish mind
Admitted this, and half his grief resign’d.
But when three months had fled, and every day
Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away,
The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull; 490
He utter’d nothing, though his heart was full.
Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks,
And all forgetful of his muse and books,
Awake he mourn’d, but in his sleep perceived
A lovely vision that his pain relieved;
His soul transported, hail’d the happy seat,
Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet;
Where joys departed came in blissful view,
Till reason wak’d, and not a joy he knew.
Questions now vex’d his spirit, most from those 500
Who are called friends, because they are not foes.
“John!” they would say; he, starting, turn’d around;
“John!” there was something shocking in the sound;
Ill brook’d he then the pert familiar phrase,
The untaught freedom, and th’ inquiring gaze;
Much was his temper touch’d, his spleen provoked,
When ask’d how ladies talk’d, or walk’d, or look’d?
What said my lord of politics? how spent
He there his time? and was he glad he went?”
At length a letter came, both cool and brief, 510
But still it gave the burthen’d heart relief:
Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the youth
Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick’s truth;
Summon’d to town, he thought the visit one
Where something fair and friendly would be done;
Although he judged not, as before his fall,
When all was love and promise at the hall.
Arrived in town, he early sought to know
The fate such dubious friendship would bestow;
At a tall building, trembling, he appear’d, 520
And his low rap was indistinctly heard;
A well-known servant came--“A while,” said he,
“Be pleased to wait; my lord has company.”
Alone our hero sate; the news in hand,
Which, though he read, he could not understand.
Cold was the day; in days so cold as these
There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze;
The vast and echoing room, the polish’d grate,
The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate;
The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest, 530
He then had thought it freedom to have press’d;
The shining tables, curiously inlaid,
Were all in comfortless proud style display’d;
And to the troubled feelings terror gave,
That made the once-dear friend the sick’ning slave.
“Was he forgotten?” Thrice upon his ear
Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near;
Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke
On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke;
Oft as a servant chanced the way to come, 540
“Brings he a message?” no! he pass’d the room.
At length ’tis certain; “Sir you will attend
At twelve on Thursday!” Thus the day had end.
Vex’d by these tedious hours of needless pain,
John left the noble mansion with disdain;
For there was something in that still, cold place,
That seem’d to threaten and portend disgrace.
Punctual again the modest rap declared
The youth attended; then was all prepared:
For the same servant, by his lord’s command, 550
A paper offer’d to his trembling hand.
“No more!” he cried; “disdains he to afford
One kind expression, one consoling word?”
With troubled spirit he began to read
That “In the church my lord could not succeed;”
Who had “to peers of either kind applied,
And was with dignity and grace denied;
While his own livings were by men possess’d,
Not likely in their chancels yet to rest;
And therefore, all things weigh’d (as he, my lord, 560
Had done maturely, and he pledged his word),
Wisdom it seem’d for John to turn his view
To busier scenes, and bid the church adieu!”
Here grieved the youth; he felt his father’s pride
Must with his own be shock’d and mortified;
But when he found his future comforts placed
Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced--
In some appointment on the London quays,
He bade farewell to honour and to ease;
His spirit fell; and, from that hour assured 570
How vain his dreams, he suffer’d and was cured.
Our poet hurried on, with wish to fly
From all mankind, to be conceal’d, and die.
Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views }
Did that one visit to the soul infuse, }
Which cherish’d with such love, ’twas worse than death to lose! }
Still he would strive, though painful was the strife,
To walk in this appointed road of life;
On these low duties duteous he would wait,
And patient bear the anguish of his fate. 580
Thanks to the patron, but of coldest kind,
Express’d the sadness of the poet’s mind;
Whose heavy hours were pass’d with busy men,
In the dull practice of th’ official pen;
Who to superiors must in time impart
(The custom this) his progress in their art.
But so had grief on his perception wrought,
That all unheeded were the duties taught;
No answers gave he when his trial came,
Silent he stood, but suffering without shame; 590
And they observed that words severe or kind
Made no impression on his wounded mind;
For all perceived from whence his failure rose--
Some grief whose cause he deign’d not to disclose.
A soul averse from scenes and works so new;
Fear, ever shrinking from the vulgar crew;
Distaste for each mechanic law and rule,
Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool;
A grieving parent, and a feeling mind,
Timid and ardent, tender and refined: 600
These all with mighty force the youth assail’d,
Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail’d.
When this was known, and some debate arose
How they who saw it should the fact disclose,
He found their purpose, and in terror fled
From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread.
Meantime the parent was distress’d to find
His son no longer for a priest design’d;
But still he gain’d some comfort by the news
Of John’s promotion, though with humbler views; 610
For he conceived that in no distant time
The boy would learn to scramble and to climb.
He little thought a son, his hope and pride,
His favour’d boy, was now a home denied:
Yes! while the parent was intent to trace
How men in office climb from place to place,
By day, by night, o’er moor and heath and hill, }
Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will, }
Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill. }
Thus as he sate, absorb’d in all the care 620
And all the hope that anxious fathers share,
A friend abruptly to his presence brought,
With trembling hand, the subject of his thought,
Whom he had found afflicted and subdued
By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude.
Silent he enter’d the forgotten room
As ghostly forms may be conceived to come;
With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright,
He look’d dismay, neglect, despair, affright;
But, dead to comfort, and on misery thrown, 630
His parent’s loss he felt not, nor his own.
The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud,
And drew around him an astonish’d crowd;
The sons and servants to the father ran,
To share the feelings of the grieved old man.
“Our brother, speak!” they all exclaim’d; “explain
Thy grief, thy suffering;”--but they ask’d in vain:
The friend told all he knew; and all was known,
Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown.
But, if obscure the cause, they all agreed 640
From rest and kindness must the cure proceed:
And he was cured; for quiet, love, and care,
Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair.
Yet slow their progress; and, as vapours move
Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove;
All is confusion till the morning light
Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight;
More and yet more defined the trunks appear,
Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear--
So the dark mind of our young poet grew 650
Clear and sedate; the dreadful mist withdrew;
And he resembled that bleak wintry scene,
Sad, though unclouded; dismal, though serene.
At times he utter’d, “What a dream was mine!
And what a prospect! glorious and divine!
Oh! in that room, and on that night, to see
These looks, that sweetness beaming all on me;
That syren-flattery--and to send me then,
Hope-raised and soften’d, to those heartless men;
That dark-brow’d stern director, pleased to show 660
Knowledge of subjects I disdain’d to know;
Cold and controlling--but ’tis gone, ’tis past;
I had my trial, and have peace at last.”
Now grew the youth resign’d; he bade adieu
To all that hope, to all that fancy drew;
His frame was languid, and the hectic heat
Flush’d on his pallid face, and countless beat
The quick’ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore
The slender form that soon would breathe no more.
Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain’d, 670
And not a lingering thought of earth remain’d;
Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at love,
And the wild sallies of his youth reprove;
Then could he dwell upon the tempting days,
The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise;
Victorious now, his worldly views were closed,
And on the bed of death the youth reposed.
The father grieved--but, as the poet’s heart
Was all unfitted for his earthly part;
As, he conceived, some other haughty fair 680
Would, had he lived, have led him to despair;
As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out
All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt;
While the strong faith the pious youth possess’d,
His hope enlivening, gave his sorrows rest:
Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy
For his aspiring and devoted boy.
Meantime the news through various channels spread:
The youth, once favour’d with such praise, was dead.
“Emma,” the lady cried, “my words attend, 690
Your syren-smiles have kill’d your humble friend;
The hope you raised can now delude no more,
Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore.”
Faint was the flush of anger and of shame,
That o’er the cheek of conscious beauty came.
“You censure not,” said she, “the sun’s bright rays,
When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze;
And, should a stripling look till he were blind,
You would not justly call the light unkind.--
But is he dead? and am I to suppose 700
The power of poison in such looks as those?”
She spoke, and, pointing to the mirror, cast
A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass’d.
My lord, to whom the poet’s fate was told,
Was much affected, for a man so cold.
“Dead!” said his lordship, “run distracted, mad!
Upon my soul I’m sorry for the lad;
And now, no doubt, th’ obliging world will say
That my harsh usage help’d him on his way.
What! I suppose, I should have nursed his muse, 710
And with champagne have brighten’d up his views:
Then had he made me famed my whole life long,
And stunn’d my ears with gratitude and song.
Still, should the father hear that I regret
Our joint misfortune--Yes! I’ll not forget.”--
Thus they.--The father to his grave convey’d
The son he loved, and his last duties paid.
“There lies my boy,” he cried, “of care bereft,
And, Heav’n be praised, I’ve not a genius left:
No one among ye, sons! is doom’d to live 720
On high-raised hopes of what the great may give;
None, with exalted views and fortunes mean,
To die in anguish, or to live in spleen.
Your pious brother soon escaped the strife
Of such contention, but it cost his life;
You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend,
And in your own exertions find the friend.”

TALE VI.

_THE FRANK COURTSHIP._

Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, “Father, as it please you;” but [yet] for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, “Father, as it pleases me.” _Much Ado about Nothing,_ Act II. Scene 1.

He cannot flatter, he!
An honest mind and plain--he must speak truth.
_King Lear_, Act II. Scene 2.

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another;
you jig, you amble, [and you lisp, and] nick-name God’s creatures,
and make your wantonness your ignorance.
_Hamlet_, Act III. Scene 1.

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
[Stand I condemn’d] for pride and scorn so much?
_Much Ado about Nothing_, Act III. Scene 1.

TALE VI.

_THE FRANK COURTSHIP._