Chapter VIII: Preface (7)

A vicar died, and left his daughter poor--
It hurt her not, she was not rich before:
Her humble share of worldly goods she sold,
Paid every debt, and then her fortune told;
And found, with youth and beauty, hope and health,
Two hundred guineas was her worldly wealth;
It then remain’d to choose her path in life,
And first, said Jesse, “Shall I be a wife?--
Colin is mild and civil, kind and just,
I know his love, his temper I can trust; 10
But small his farm, it asks perpetual care,
And we must toil as well as trouble share.
True, he was taught in all the gentle arts
That raise the soul, and soften human hearts,
And boasts a parent, who deserves to shine
In higher class, and I could wish her mine;
Nor wants he will his station to improve,
A just ambition waked by faithful love;--
Still is he poor--and here my father’s friend
Deigns for his daughter, as her own, to send; 20
A worthy lady, who it seems has known
A world of griefs and troubles of her own.
I was an infant, when she came, a guest
Beneath my father’s humble roof to rest;
Her kindred all unfeeling, vast her woes;
Such her complaint, and there she found repose;
Enrich’d by fortune, now she nobly lives,
And nobly, from the blest abundance, gives;
The grief, the want of human life, she knows,
And comfort there and here relief bestows; 30
But are they not dependants?--Foolish pride!
Am I not honour’d by such friend and guide?
Have I a home,” (here Jesse dropp’d a tear,)
“Or friend beside?”--A faithful friend was near.
Now Colin came, at length resolved to lay
His heart before her and to urge her stay;
True, his own plough the gentle Colin drove,
An humble farmer with aspiring love;
Who, urged by passion, never dared till now,
Thus urged by fears, his trembling hopes avow. 40
Her father’s glebe he managed; every year
The grateful vicar held the youth more dear;
He saw indeed the prize in Colin’s view,
And wish’d his Jesse with a man so true;
Timid as true, he urged with anxious air
His tender hope, and made the trembling prayer;
When Jesse saw, nor could with coldness see,
Such fond respect, such tried sincerity,
Grateful for favours to her father dealt,
She more than grateful for his passion felt; 50
Nor could she frown on one so good and kind,
Yet fear’d to smile, and was unfix’d in mind;
But prudence placed the female friend in view--
What might not one so rich and grateful do?
So lately, too, the good old vicar died, }
His faithful daughter must not cast aside }
The signs of filial grief, and be a ready bride: }
Thus, led by prudence, to the lady’s seat
The village-beauty purposed to retreat;
But, as in hard-fought fields the victor knows 60
What to the vanquish’d he, in honour, owes,
So, in this conquest over powerful love,
Prudence resolved a generous foe to prove;
And Jesse felt a mingled fear and pain
In her dismission of a faithful swain,
Gave her kind thanks, and when she saw his wo,
Kindly betray’d that she was loth to go.
But would she promise, if abroad she met }
A frowning world, she would remember yet }
“Where dwelt a friend?”--“That could she not forget.” }
And thus they parted; but each faithful heart 71
Felt the compulsion, and refused to part.
Now by the morning mail the timid maid
Was to that kind and wealthy dame convey’d;
Whose invitation, when her father died,
Jesse as comfort to her heart applied.
She knew the days her generous friend had seen--
As wife and widow, evil days had been;
She married early, and for half her life
Was an insulted and forsaken wife; 80
Widow’d and poor, her angry father gave,
Mix’d with reproach, the pittance of a slave;
Forgetful brothers pass’d her, but she knew
Her humbler friends, and to their home withdrew;
The good old vicar to her sire applied
For help, and help’d her when her sire denied;
When in few years death stalk’d through bower and hall,
Sires, sons, and sons of sons, were buried all;
She then abounded, and had wealth to spare
For softening grief she once was doom’d to share; 90
Thus train’d in misery’s school, and taught to feel,
She would rejoice an orphan’s woes to heal.
So Jesse thought, who look’d within her breast,
And thence conceived how bounteous minds are bless’d.
From her vast mansion look’d the lady down
On humbler buildings of a busy town;
Thence came her friends of either sex, and all
With whom she lived on terms reciprocal.
They pass’d the hours with their accustom’d ease,
As guests inclined, but not compell’d to please; 100
But there were others in the mansion found,
For office chosen, and by duties bound;
Three female rivals, each of power possess’d,
Th’ attendant-maid, poor friend, and kindred-guest.
To these came Jesse, as a seaman thrown
By the rude storm upon a coast unknown:
The view was flattering, civil seem’d the race,
But all unknown the dangers of the place.
Few hours had pass’d, when, from attendants freed,
The lady utter’d--“This is kind indeed; 110
Believe me, love! that I for one like you
Have daily pray’d, a friend discreet and true;
Oh! wonder not that I on you depend,
You are mine own hereditary friend:
Hearken, my Jesse, never can I trust
Beings ungrateful, selfish, and unjust;
But you are present, and my load of care
Your love will serve to lighten and to share.
Come near me, Jesse--let not those below
Of my reliance on your friendship know; 120
Look as they look, be in their freedoms free--
But all they say do you convey to me.”
Here Jesse’s thoughts to Colin’s cottage flew,
And with such speed she scarce their absence knew.
“Jane loves her mistress, and should she depart,
I lose her service, and she breaks her heart;
My ways and wishes, looks and thoughts she knows,
And duteous care by close attention shows;
But is she faithful? in temptation strong?
Will she not wrong me? ah! I fear the wrong. 130
Your father loved me; now, in time of need,
Watch for my good, and to his place succeed.
“Blood doesn’t bind--that girl, who every day
Eats of my bread, would wish my life away;
I am her _dear relation_, and she thinks
To make her fortune, an ambitious minx!
She only courts me for the prospect’s sake,
Because she knows I have a will to make;
Yes, love! my will delay’d, I know not how--
But you are here, and I will make it now. 140
“That idle creature, keep her in your view,
See what she does, what she desires to do;
On her young mind may artful villains prey,
And to my plate and jewels find a way;
A pleasant humour has the girl; her smile
And cheerful manner tedious hours beguile;
But well observe her, ever near her be,
Close in your thoughts, in your professions free.
“Again, my Jesse, hear what I advise,
And watch a woman ever in disguise; 150
Issop, that widow, serious, subtle, sly--
But what of this?--I must have company.
She markets for me, and although she makes
Profit, no doubt, of all she undertakes,
Yet she is one I can to all produce,
And all her talents are in daily use;
Deprived of her, I may another find
As sly and selfish, with a weaker mind:
But never trust her, she is full of art,
And worms herself into the closest heart; 160
Seem then, I pray you, careless in her sight,
Nor let her know, my love, how we unite.
“Do, my good Jesse, cast a view around,
And let no wrong within my house be found;
That girl associates with--I know not who
Are her companions, nor what ill they do;
’Tis then the widow plans, ’tis then she tries
Her various arts and schemes for fresh supplies;
’Tis then, if ever, Jane her duty quits,
And, whom I know not, favours and admits: 170
Oh! watch their movements all; for me ’tis hard,
Indeed is vain, but you may keep a guard;
And I, when none your watchful glance deceive,
May make my will, and think what I shall leave.”
Jesse, with fear, disgust, alarm, surprise,
Heard of these duties for her ears and eyes;
Heard by what service she must gain her bread,
And went with scorn and sorrow to her bed.
Jane was a servant fitted for her place,
Experienced, cunning, fraudful, selfish, base; 180
Skill’d in those mean, humiliating arts
That make their way to proud and selfish hearts;
By instinct taught, she felt an awe, a fear,
For Jesse’s upright, simple character;
Whom with gross flattery she awhile assail’d,
And then beheld with hatred when it fail’d;
Yet, trying still upon her mind for hold,
She all the secrets of the mansion told;
And to invite an equal trust she drew
Of every mind a bold and rapid view; 190
But on the widow’d friend with deep disdain,
And rancorous envy, dwelt the treacherous Jane.--
In vain such arts; without deceit or pride,
With a just taste and feeling for her guide,
From all contagion Jesse kept apart,
Free in her manners, guarded in her heart.
Jesse one morn was thoughtful, and her sigh
The widow heard as she was passing by;
And--“Well!” she said, “is that some distant swain,
Or aught with us, that gives your bosom pain? 200
Come, we are fellow-sufferers, slaves in thrall,
And tasks and griefs are common to us all;
Think not my frankness strange: they love to paint
Their state with freedom, who endure restraint;
And there is something in that speaking eye
And sober mien, that prove I may rely.
You came a stranger; to my words attend,
Accept my offer, and you find a friend;
It is a labyrinth in which you stray,
Come, hold my clue, and I will lead the way. 210
“Good Heav’n! that one so jealous, envious, base,
Should be the mistress of so sweet a place;
She, who so long herself was low and poor,
Now broods suspicious on her useless store;
She loves to see us abject, loves to deal
Her insult round, and then pretends to feel;
Prepare to cast all dignity aside,
For know your talents will be quickly tried;
Nor think, from favours past, a friend to gain,
’Tis but by duties we our posts maintain: 220
I read her novels, gossip through the town,
And daily go, for idle stories, down;
I cheapen all she buys, and bear the curse
Of honest tradesmen for my niggard-purse;
And, when for her this meanness I display,
She cries, ’I heed not what I throw away;’
Of secret bargains I endure the shame,
And stake my credit for our fish and game;
Oft has she smiled to hear, ’her generous soul
Would gladly give, but stoops to my control’; 230
Nay! I have heard her, when she chanced to come
Where I contended for a petty sum,
Affirm ’twas painful to behold such care,
‘But Issop’s nature is to pinch and spare:’
Thus all the meanness of the house is mine,
And my reward--to scorn her, and to dine.
“See next that giddy thing, with neither pride
To keep her safe, nor principle to guide:
Poor, idle, simple flirt! as sure as fate
Her maiden-fame will have an early date. 240
Of her beware; for all who live below
Have faults they wish not all the world to know;
And she is fond of listening, full of doubt,
And stoops to guilt to find an error out.
“And now once more observe the artful maid,
A lying, prying, jilting, thievish jade;
I think, my love, you would not condescend
To call a low, illiterate girl your friend;
But in our troubles we are apt, you know,
To lean on all who some compassion show; 250
And she has flexile features, acting eyes,
And seems with every look to sympathise;
No mirror can a mortal’s grief express
With more precision, or can feel it less;
That proud, mean spirit, she by fawning courts,
By vulgar flattery, and by vile reports;
And by that proof she every instant gives
To one so mean, that yet a meaner lives.--
“Come, I have drawn the curtain, and you see
Your fellow-actors, all our company; 260
Should you incline to throw reserve aside,
And in my judgment and my love confide,
I could some prospects open to your view,
That ask attention--and, till then, adieu.”
“Farewell!” said Jesse, hastening to her room,
Where all she saw within, without, was gloom:
Confused, perplex’d, she pass’d a dreary hour,
Before her reason could exert its power;
To her all seem’d mysterious, all allied
To avarice, meanness, folly, craft, and pride; 270
Wearied with thought, she breathed the garden’s air,
Then came the laughing lass, and join’d her there.
“My sweetest friend has dwelt with us a week,
And does she love us? be sincere and speak;
My aunt you cannot--Lord! how I should hate
To be like her, all misery and state;
Proud, and yet envious, she disgusted sees
All who are happy, and who look at ease.
Let friendship bind us, I will quickly show
Some favourites near us you’ll be bless’d to know; 280
My aunt forbids it--but, can she expect,
To soothe her spleen, we shall ourselves neglect?
Jane and the widow were to watch and stay
My free-born feet; I watch’d as well as they;
Lo! what is this? this simple key explores
The dark recess that holds the spinster’s stores;
And led by her ill star, I chanced to see
Where Issop keeps her stock of ratafie;
Used in the hours of anger and alarm,
It makes her civil, and it keeps her warm; 290
Thus bless’d with secrets, both would choose to hide,
Their fears now grant me what their scorn denied.
“My freedom thus by their assent secured,
Bad as it is, the place may be endured;
And bad it is, but her estates, you know,
And her beloved hoards, she must bestow;
So we can slyly our amusements take,
And friends of dæmons, if they help us, make.”
“Strange creatures these,” thought Jesse, half inclined
To smile at one malicious and yet kind; 300
Frank and yet cunning, with a heart to love
And malice prompt--the serpent and the dove;
Here could she dwell? or could she yet depart?
Could she be artful? could she bear with art?--
This splendid mansion gave the cottage grace,
She thought a dungeon was a happier place;
And Colin pleading, when he pleaded best,
Wrought not such sudden change in Jesse’s breast.
The wondering maiden, who had only read
Of such vile beings, saw them now with dread; 310
Safe in themselves--for nature has design’d
The creature’s poison harmless to the kind;
But all beside who in the haunts are found
Must dread the poison, and must feel the wound.
Days full of care, slow weary weeks pass’d on;
Eager to go, still Jesse was not gone;
Her time in trifling or in tears she spent,
She never gave, she never felt content:
The lady wonder’d that her humble guest
Strove not to please, would neither lie nor jest; 320
She sought no news, no scandal would convey,
But walk’d for health, and was at church to pray;
All this displeased, and soon the widow cried:
“Let me be frank--I am not satisfied;
You know my wishes, I your judgment trust;
You can be useful, Jesse, and you must;
Let me be plainer, child--I want an ear,
When I am deaf, instead of mine to hear;
When mine is sleeping, let your eye awake;
When I observe not, observation take; 330
Alas! I rest not on my pillow laid,
Then threat’ning whispers make my soul afraid;
The tread of strangers to my ear ascends,
Fed at my cost, the minions of my friends;
While you, without a care, a wish to please,
Eat the vile bread of idleness and ease.”
Th’ indignant girl astonish’d answer’d--“Nay!
This instant, madam, let me haste away;
Thus speaks my father’s, thus an orphan’s, friend?
This instant, lady, let your bounty end.” 340
The lady frown’d indignant--“What!” she cried,
“A vicar’s daughter with a princess’ pride!
And pauper’s lot! but pitying I forgive;
How, simple Jesse, do you think to live?
Have I not power to help you, foolish maid?
To my concerns be your attention paid;
With cheerful mind th’ allotted duties take,
And recollect I have a will to make.”
Jesse, who felt as liberal natures feel,
When thus the baser their designs reveal, 350
Replied--“Those duties were to her unfit,
Nor would her spirit to her tasks submit.”
In silent scorn the lady sate awhile,
And then replied with stern contemptuous smile--
“Think you, fair madam, that you came to share
Fortunes like mine without a thought or care?
A guest, indeed! from every trouble free,
Dress’d by my help, with not a care for me.
When I a visit to your father made,
I for the poor assistance largely paid; 360
To his domestics I their tasks assign’d;
I fix’d the portion for his hungry hind;
And had your father (simple man!) obey’d
My good advice, and watch’d as well as pray’d,
He might have left you something with his prayers,
And lent some colour for these lofty airs.--
“In tears! my love! Oh, then my soften’d heart
Cannot resist--we never more will part;
I need your friendship--I will be your friend;
And thus determined, to my will attend.” 370
Jesse went forth, but with determined soul
To fly such love, to break from such control;
“I hear enough,” the trembling damsel cried;
“Flight be my care, and Providence my guide:
Ere yet a prisoner, I escape will make; }
Will, thus display’d, th’ insidious arts forsake, }
And, as the rattle sounds, will fly the fatal snake.” }
Jesse her thanks upon the morrow paid,
Prepared to go, determined though afraid.
“Ungrateful creature,” said the lady, “this 380
Could I imagine?--are you frantic, miss?
What! leave your friend, your prospects--is it true?”
This Jesse answer’d by a mild “Adieu!”
The dame replied, “Then houseless may you rove,
The starving victim to a guilty love;
Branded with shame, in sickness doom’d to nurse
An ill-form’d cub, your scandal and your curse;
Spurn’d by its scoundrel father, and ill fed
By surly rustics with the parish-bread!--
Relent you not?--speak--yet I can forgive; 390
Still live with me”--“With you,” said Jesse, “live?
No! I would first endure what you describe,
Rather than breathe with your detested tribe:
Who long have feign’d, till now their very hearts
Are firmly fix’d in their accursed parts;
Who all profess esteem, and feel disdain,
And all, with justice, of deceit complain;
Whom I could pity, but that, while I stay,
My terror drives all kinder thoughts away;
Grateful for this, that when I think of you, 400
I little fear what poverty can do.”
The angry matron her attendant Jane
Summon’d in haste to soothe the fierce disdain.
“A vile detested wretch!” the lady cried, }
“Yet shall she be, by many an effort, tried, }
And, clogg’d with debt and fear, against her will abide; }
And, once secured, she never shall depart
Till I have proved the firmness of her heart;
Then when she dares not, would not, cannot go,
I’ll make her feel what ’tis to use me so.” 410
The pensive Colin in his garden stray’d,
But felt not then the beauties it display’d;
There many a pleasant object met his view,
A rising wood of oaks behind it grew;
A stream ran by it, and the village-green
And public road were from the gardens seen;
Save where the pine and larch the bound’ry made,
And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade.
The mother sat beside the garden-door,
Dress’d as in times ere she and hers were poor; 420
The broad-laced cap was known in ancient days,
When madam’s dress compell’d the village praise;
And still she look’d as in the times of old,
Ere his last farm the erring husband sold;
While yet the mansion stood in decent state,
And paupers waited at the well-known gate.
“Alas! my son!” the mother cried, “and why
That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh?
True, we are poor, but thou hast never felt
Pangs to thy father for his error dealt; 430
Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain,
For ever raised, and ever found in vain.
He rose unhappy! from his fruitless schemes,
As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams;
But thou wert then, my son, a playful child,
Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild;
Listening at times to thy poor mother’s sighs,
With curious looks and innocent surprise;
Thy father dying, thou, my virtuous boy,
My comfort always, waked my soul to joy; 440
With the poor remnant of our fortune left,
Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft:
Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air,
Have cast a smile on sadness and despair;
Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space
The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace;
And all around us wonder when they find
Such taste and strength, such skill and power combined;
There is no mother, Colin, no not one,
But envies me so kind, so good a son; 450
By thee supported on this failing side,
Weakness itself awakes a parent’s pride;
I bless the stroke that was my grief before,
And feel such joy that ’tis disease no more;
Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth--
And, soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health;
The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise,
And say, like thee were youth in earlier days;
While every village-maiden cries, ’How gay,
How smart, how brave, how good is Colin Grey!’ 460
“Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know
Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow;
Fain would I think that Jesse still may come
To share the comforts of our rustic home:
She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid,
When thou hast kindly brought the vicar aid--
When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain,
Oh! I have seen her--she will come again.”
The matron ceased; and Colin stood the while
Silent, but striving for a grateful smile; 470
He then replied--“Ah! sure, had Jesse stay’d,
And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade,
The tenderest duty and the fondest love
Would not have fail’d that generous heart to move;
A grateful pity would have ruled her breast,
And my distresses would have made me blest.
“But she is gone, and ever has in view }
Grandeur and taste--and what will then ensue? }
Surprise and then delight in scenes so fair and new; }
For many a day, perhaps for many a week, 480
Home will have charms, and to her bosom speak;
But thoughtless ease, and affluence, and pride,
Seen day by day, will draw the heart aside:
And she at length, though gentle and sincere,
Will think no more of our enjoyments here.”
Sighing he spake--but hark! he hears th’ approach
Of rattling wheels! and lo! the evening-coach;
Once more the movement of the horses’ feet
Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat;
Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight 490
Drawn him to gaze beside his gate at night;
And when with rapid wheels it hurried by,
He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh;
And could the blessing have been bought--what sum
Had he not offer’d, to have Jesse come!
She came--he saw her bending from the door,
Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more;
Lost in his joy--the mother lent her aid
T’ assist and to detain the willing maid;
Who thought her late, her present home to make, 500
Sure of a welcome for the vicar’s sake.
But the good parent was so pleased, so kind,
So pressing Colin, she so much inclined,
That night advanced; and then so long detain’d, }
No wishes to depart she felt, or feign’d; }
Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce remain’d. }
Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere;
Here was content and joy, for she was here:
In the mild evening, in the scene around,
The maid, now free, peculiar beauties found; 510
Blended with village-tones, the evening-gale
Gave the sweet night-bird’s warblings to the vale;
The youth embolden’d, yet abash’d, now told
His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold;
The mother smiling whisper’d--“Let him go
And seek the licence!” Jesse answer’d, “No:”
But Colin went, I know not if they live
With all the comforts wealth and plenty give;
But with pure joy to envious souls denied,
To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride; 520
And village-maids of happy couples say,
“They live like Jesse Bourn and Colin Grey.”

TALE XIV.

_THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE._

I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not;
Fool! of thyself speak well:--Fool! do not flatter.
My Conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale.
_Richard III._ Act V. Scene 3.

My Conscience is but a kind of hard Conscience. . . . The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. _Merchant of Venice_, Act II. Scene 2.

Thou hast it now. . . .
. . . and I fear
Thou play’dst most foully [for’t].
_Macbeth_, Act III. Scene 1.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Rase out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
_Macbeth_, Act V. Scene 3.

Soft! I did but dream--
Oh! coward Conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
_Richard III._ Act V. Scene 3.

TALE XIV.

_THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE._

A serious toyman in the city dwelt,
Who much concern for his religion felt;
Reading, he changed his tenets, read again,
And various questions could with skill maintain;
Papist and quaker if we set aside,
He had the road of every traveller tried;
There walk’d awhile, and on a sudden turn’d
Into some by-way he had just discern’d:
He had a nephew, Fulham--Fulham went
His uncle’s way, with every turn content; 10
He saw his pious kinsman’s watchful care, }
And thought such anxious pains his own might spare, }
And he, the truth obtain’d, without the toil, might share. }
In fact, young Fulham, though he little read,
Perceived his uncle was by fancy led;
And smiled to see the constant care he took,
Collating creed with creed, and book with book.
At length the senior fix’d; I pass the sect
He call’d a church, ’twas precious and elect;
Yet the seed fell not in the richest soil, 20
For few disciples paid the preacher’s toil;
All in an attic-room were wont to meet,
These few disciples at their pastor’s feet;
With these went Fulham, who, discreet and grave,
Follow’d the light his worthy uncle gave;
Till a warm preacher found a way t’ impart
Awakening feelings to his torpid heart:
Some weighty truths, and of unpleasant kind,
Sank, though resisted, in his struggling mind;
He wish’d to fly them, but, compell’d to stay, 30
Truth to the waking Conscience found her way;
For though the youth was call’d a prudent lad,
And prudent was, yet serious faults he had;
Who now reflected--“Much am I surprised,
I find these notions cannot be despised;
No! there is something I perceive at last,
Although my uncle cannot hold it fast;
Though I the strictness of these men reject,
Yet I determine to be circumspect:
This man alarms me, and I must begin 40
To look more closely to the things within;
These sons of zeal have I derided long,
But now begin to think the laughers wrong;
Nay, my good uncle, by all teachers moved, }
Will be preferr’d to him who none approved: }
Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.” }
Such were his thoughts, when Conscience first began
To hold close converse with th’ awaken’d man.
He from that time reserved and cautious grew,
And for his duties felt obedience due; 50
Pious he was not, but he fear’d the pain
Of sins committed, nor would sin again.
Whene’er he stray’d, he found his Conscience rose, }
Like one determined what was ill t’ oppose, }
What wrong t’ accuse, what secret to disclose; }
To drag forth every latent act to light,
And fix them fully in the actor’s sight:
This gave him trouble, but he still confess’d
The labour useful, for it brought him rest.
The uncle died, and when the nephew read 60
The will, and saw the substance of the dead--
Five hundred guineas, with a stock in trade--
He much rejoiced, and thought his fortune made;
Yet felt aspiring pleasure at the sight,
And, for increase, increasing appetite.
Desire of profit idle habits check’d,
(For Fulham’s virtue was to be correct);
He and his Conscience had their compact made--
“Urge me with truth, and you will soon persuade;
But not,” he cried, “for mere ideal things 70
Give me to feel those terror-breeding stings.”
“Let not such thoughts,” she said, “your mind confound;
Trifles may wake me, but they never wound;
In them indeed there is a wrong and right,
But you will find me pliant and polite;
Not like a Conscience of the dotard kind,
Awake to dreams, to dire offences blind.
Let all within be pure; in all beside
Be your own master, governor, and guide;
Alive to danger, in temptation strong-- 80
And I shall sleep our whole existence long.”
“Sweet be thy sleep,” said Fulham; “strong must be
The tempting ill that gains access to me;
Never will I to evil deed consent,
Or, if surprised, oh! how will I repent!
Should gain be doubtful, soon would I restore
The dangerous good, or give it to the poor;
Repose for them my growing wealth shall buy--
Or build--who knows?--an hospital like Guy.--
Yet why such means to soothe the smart within, 90
While firmly purposed to renounce the sin?”
Thus our young Trader and his Conscience dwelt
In mutual love, and great the joy they felt;
But yet in small concerns, in trivial things,
“She was,” he said, “too ready with the stings;”
And he too apt, in search of growing gains,
To lose the fear of penalties and pains:
Yet these were trifling bickerings, petty jars,
Domestic strifes, preliminary wars;
He ventured little, little she express’d 100
Of indignation, and they both had rest.
Thus was he fix’d to walk the worthy way,
When profit urged him to a bold essay.--
A time was that when all at pleasure gamed
In lottery-chances, yet of law unblamed;
This Fulham tried: who would to him advance
A pound or crown, he gave in turn a chance
For weighty prize--and should they nothing share,
They had their crown or pound in Fulham’s ware;
Thus the old stores within the shop were sold 110
For that which none refuses, new or old.
Was this unjust? Yet Conscience could not rest
But made a mighty struggle in the breast;
And gave th’ aspiring man an early proof,
That should they war he would have work enough:
“Suppose,” said she, “your vended numbers rise
The same with those which gain each real prize,
(Such your proposal,) can you ruin shun?”
“A hundred thousand,” he replied, “to one.”--
“Still it may happen.”--“I the sum must pay.”-- 120
“You know you cannot.”--“I can run away.”--
“That is dishonest.”--“Nay, but you must wink
At a chance-hit; it cannot be, I think.
Upon my conduct as a whole decide,
Such trifling errors let my virtues hide;
Fail I at meeting? am I sleepy there?
My purse refuse I with the priest to share?
Do I deny the poor a helping hand?
Or stop the wicked women in the Strand?
Or drink at club beyond a certain pitch? 130
Which are your charges? Conscience, tell me which.”
“’Tis well,” said she, “but--” “Nay, I pray, have done:
Trust me, I will not into danger run.”
The lottery drawn, not one demand was made;
Fulham gain’d profit and increase of trade.
“See now,” said he--for Conscience yet arose--
“How foolish ’tis such measures to oppose:
Have I not blameless thus my state advanced?”--
“Still,” mutter’d Conscience, “still it might have chanced.”--
“Might!” said our hero, “who is so exact 140
As to inquire what might have been a fact?”
Now Fulham’s shop contain’d a curious view
Of costly trifles, elegant and new:
The papers told where kind mammas might buy
The gayest toys to charm an infant’s eye;
Where generous beaux might gentle damsels please,
And travellers call who cross the land or seas,
And find the curious art, the neat device,
Of precious value and of trifling price.
Here Conscience rested: she was pleased to find 150
No less an active than an honest mind;
But, when he named his price, and when he swore,
His Conscience check’d him, that he ask’d no more--
When half he sought had been a large increase
On fair demand--she could not rest in peace
(Beside th’ affront to call th’ adviser in,
Who would prevent, to justify the sin.)
She therefore told him, that “he vainly tried
To soothe her anger, conscious that he lied;
If thus he grasp’d at such usurious gains, 160
He must deserve, and should expect, her pains.”
The charge was strong; he would in part confess
Offence there was--but, who offended less?
“What! is a mere assertion call’d a lie?
And if it be, are men compell’d to buy?
’Twas strange that Conscience on such points should dwell, }
While he was acting (he would call it) well; }
He bought as others buy, he sold as others sell: }
There was no fraud, and he demanded cause
Why he was troubled, when he kept the laws?” 170
“My laws?” said Conscience: “What,” said he, “are thine?
Oral or written, human or divine?
Show me the chapter, let me see the text;
By laws uncertain subjects are perplex’d;
Let me my finger on the statute lay,
And I shall feel it duty to obey.”
“Reflect,” said Conscience, “’twas your own desire
That I should warn you--does the compact tire?
Repent you this? then bid me not advise,
And rather hear your passions as they rise; 180
So you may counsel and remonstrance shun,
But then remember it is war begun;
And you may judge from some attacks, my friend,
What serious conflicts will on war attend.”
“Nay, but,” at length the thoughtful man replied,
“I say not that; I wish you for my guide;
Wish for your checks and your reproofs--but then
Be like a Conscience of my fellow-men;
Worthy I mean, and men of good report,
And not the wretches who with conscience sport. 190
There’s Bice, my friend, who passes off his grease
Of pigs for bears’, in pots a crown apiece;
His Conscience never checks him when he swears
The fat he sells is honest fat of bears;
And so it is, for he contrives to give
A drachm to each--’tis thus that tradesmen live:
Now why should you and I be over-nice;
What man is held in more repute than Bice?”
Here ended the dispute; but yet ’twas plain
The parties both expected strife again. 200
Their friendship cool’d, he look’d about and saw
Numbers who seem’d unshackled by his awe;
While like a school-boy he was threaten’d still,
Now for the deed, now only for the will;
Here Conscience answer’d, “To thy neighbour’s guide
Thy neighbour leave, and in thine own confide.”
Such were each day the charges and replies,
When a new object caught the trader’s eyes;
A vestry-patriot, could he gain the name,
Would famous make him, and would pay the fame. 210
He knew full well the sums bequeath’d in charge
For schools, for alms-men, for the poor, were large;
Report had told, and he could feel it true,
That most unfairly dealt the trusted few;
No partners would they in their office take,
Nor clear accounts at annual meetings make;
Aloud our hero in the vestry spoke
Of hidden deeds, and vow’d to draw the cloak;
It was the poor man’s cause, and he for one
Was quite determined to see justice done. 220
His foes affected laughter, then disdain, }
They too were loud and threat’ning, but in vain; }
The pauper’s friend, their foe, arose and spoke again. }
Fiercely he cried, “Your garbled statements show
That you determine we shall nothing know;
But we shall bring your hidden crimes to light,
Give you to shame, and to the poor their right.”
Virtue like this might some approval ask--
But Conscience sternly said, “You wear a mask!”
“At least,” said Fulham, “if I have a view 230
To serve myself, I serve the public too.”
Fulham, though check’d, retain’d his former zeal,
And this the cautious rogues began to feel.
“Thus will he ever bark,” in peevish tone
An elder cried--“the cur must have a bone.”
They then began to hint--and to begin
Was all they needed: it was felt within;
In terms less veil’d an offer then was made,
Though distant still, it fail’d not to persuade;
More plainly then was every point proposed, 240
Approved, accepted, and the bargain closed.
“Th’ exulting paupers hail’d their friend’s success,
And bade adieu to murmurs and distress.”
Alas! their friend had now superior light,
And, view’d by that, he found that all was right;
“There were no errors, the disbursements small;
This was the truth, and truth was due to all.”
And rested Conscience? No! she would not rest,
Yet was content with making a protest.
Some acts she now with less resistance bore, 250
Nor took alarm so quickly as before;
Like those in towns besieged, who every ball
At first with terror view, and dread them all;
But, grown familiar with the scenes, they fear
The danger less, as it approaches near:
So Conscience, more familiar with the view
Of growing evils, less attentive grew;
Yet he who felt some pain, and dreaded more,
Gave a peace-offering to the angry poor.
Thus had he quiet--but the time was brief, 260
From his new triumph sprang a cause of grief;
In office join’d, and acting with the rest,
He must admit the sacramental test.
Now, as a sectary, who had all his life,
As he supposed, been with the church at strife
(No rules of hers, no laws had he perused,
Nor knew the tenets he by rote abused);
Yet Conscience here arose more fierce and strong,
Than when she told of robbery and wrong;
“Change his religion! No! he must be sure 270
That was a blow no conscience could endure.”
Though friend to virtue, yet she oft abides
In early notions, fix’d by erring guides,
And is more startled by a call from those,
Than when the foulest crimes her rest oppose;
By error taught, by prejudice misled,
She yields her rights, and fancy rules instead;
When Conscience all her stings and terror deals,
Not as truth dictates, but as fancy feels;
And thus within our hero’s troubled breast, 280
Crime was less torture than the odious test.
New forms, new measures, he must now embrace,
With sad conviction that they warr’d with grace;
To his new church no former friend would come,
They scarce preferr’d her to the church of Rome.
But, thinking much, and weighing guilt and gain,
Conscience and he commuted for her pain;
Then promised Fulham to retain his creed,
And their peculiar paupers still to feed;
Their attic-room (in secret) to attend, 290
And not forget he was the preacher’s friend;
Thus he proposed, and Conscience, troubled, tried,
And wanting peace, reluctantly complied.
Now care subdued, and apprehensions gone,
In peace our hero went aspiring on;
But short the period--soon a quarrel rose,
Fierce in the birth, and fatal in the close;
With times of truce between, which rather proved
That both were weary, than that either loved.
Fulham ev’n now disliked the heavy thrall, } 300
And for her death would in his anguish call, }
As Rome’s mistaken friend exclaim’d, }
_Let Carthage fall_! }
So felt our hero, so his wish express’d,
Against this powerful sprite--_delenda est_.
Rome in her conquest saw not danger near,
Freed from her rival, and without a fear;
So, Conscience conquer’d, men perceive how free,
But not how fatal, such a state must be.
Fatal, not free, our hero’s: foe or friend,
Conscience on him was destined to attend; 310
She [dozed] indeed, grew dull, nor seem’d to spy
Crime following crime, and each of deeper dye;
But all were noticed, and the reckoning time
With her account came on--crime following crime.
This, once a foe, now brother in the trust,
Whom Fulham late described as fair and just,
Was the sole guardian of a wealthy maid,
Placed in his power, and of his frown afraid:
Not quite an idiot, for her busy brain
Sought, by poor cunning, trifling points to gain; 320
Success in childish projects her delight,
She took no heed of each important right.
The friendly parties met--the guardian cried,
“I am too old; my sons have each a bride:
Martha, my ward, would make an easy wife;
On easy terms I’ll make her yours for life;
And then the creature is so weak and mild,
She may be soothed and threaten’d as a child--”
“Yet not obey,” said Fulham, “for your fools,
Female and male, are obstinate as mules.” 330
Some points adjusted, these new friends agreed,
Proposed the day, and hurried on the deed.
“’Tis a vile act,” said Conscience;--“It will prove,”
Replied the bolder man, “an act of love;
Her wicked guardian might the girl have sold
To endless misery for a tyrant’s gold;
Now may her life be happy--for I mean
To keep my temper even and serene.”
“I cannot thus compound,” the spirit cried,
“Nor have my laws thus broken and defied; 340
This is a fraud, a bargain for a wife;
Expect my vengeance, or amend your life.”
The wife was pretty, trifling, childish, weak;
She could not think, but would not cease to speak.
This he forbad--she took the caution ill,
And boldly rose against his sovereign will;
With idiot-cunning she would watch the hour,
When friends were present, to dispute his power:
With tyrant-craft, he then was still and calm,
But raised in private terror and alarm: 350
By many trials, she perceived how far
To vex and tease, without an open war;
And he discover’d that so weak a mind
No art could lead, and no compulsion bind;
The rudest force would fail such mind to tame,
And she was callous to rebuke and shame;
Proud of her wealth, the power of law she knew,
And would assist him in the spending too.
His threat’ning words with insult she defied,
To all his reasoning with a stare replied; 360
And when he begg’d her to attend, would say,
“Attend I will--but let me have my way.”
Nor rest had Conscience: “While you merit pain
From me,” she cried, “you seek redress in vain.”
His thoughts were grievous: “All that I possess
From this vile bargain adds to my distress;
To pass a life with one who will not mend, }
Who cannot love, nor save, nor wisely spend, }
Is a vile prospect, and I see no end; }
For if we part, I must of course restore 370
Much of her money, and must wed no more.
“Is there no way?”--here Conscience rose in power,
“Oh! fly the danger of this fatal hour;
I am thy Conscience, faithful, fond, and true,
Ah, fly this thought, or evil must ensue;
Fall on thy knees, and pray with all thy soul,
Thy purpose banish, thy design control;
Let every hope of such advantage cease,
Or never more expect a moment’s peace.”
Th’ affrighten’d man a due attention paid, 380
Felt the rebuke, and the command obey’d.
Again the wife rebell’d, again express’d
A love for pleasure--a contempt of rest;
“She, whom she pleased, would visit, would receive
Those who pleased her, nor deign to ask for leave.”
“One way there is,” said he; “I might contrive
Into a trap this foolish thing to drive:
Who pleased her, said she?--I’ll be certain who--”
“Take heed,” said Conscience, “what thou mean’st to do:
Ensnare thy wife?”--“Why yes,” he must confess, 390
“It might be wrong--but there was no redress;
Beside, to think,” said he, “is not to sin.”
“Mistaken man!” replied the power within.
No guest unnoticed to the lady came,
He judged th’ event with mingled joy and shame;
Oft he withdrew, and seem’d to leave her free.
But still as watchful as a lynx was he;
Meanwhile the wife was thoughtless, cool, and gay,
And, without virtue, had no wish to stray.
Though thus opposed, his plans were not resign’d; 400
“Revenge,” said he, “will prompt that daring mind;
Refused supplies, insulted and distress’d,
Enraged with me, and near a favourite guest--
Then will her vengeance prompt the daring deed,
And I shall watch, detect her, and be freed.”
There was a youth--but let me hide the name,
With all the progress of this deed of shame;
He had his views--on him the husband cast
His net, and saw him in his trammels fast.
“Pause but a moment--think what you intend,” 410
Said the roused sleeper; “I am yet a friend;
Must all our days in enmity be spent?”
“No!” and he paused--“I surely shall repent:”
Then hurried on--the evil plan was laid, }
The wife was guilty, and her friend betray’d, }
And Fulham gain’d his wish, and for his will was paid. }
Had crimes less weighty on the spirit press’d,
This troubled Conscience might have sunk to rest;
And, like a foolish guard, been bribed to peace,
By a false promise, that offence should cease; 420
Past faults had seem’d familiar to the view,
Confused if many, and obscure though true;
And Conscience, troubled with the dull account,
Had dropp’d her tale, and slumber’d o’er th’ amount.
But, struck by daring guilt, alert she rose,
Disturbed, alarm’d, and could no more repose;
All hopes of friendship, and of peace, were past,
And every view with gloom was overcast.
Hence from that day, that day of shame and sin,
Arose the restless enmity within; 430
On no resource could Fulham now rely,
Doom’d all expedients, and in vain, to try;
For Conscience, roused, sat boldly on her throne, }
Watch’d every thought, attack’d the foe alone, }
And with envenom’d sting drew forth the inward groan: }
Expedients fail’d that brought relief before, }
In vain his alms gave comfort to the poor: }
Give what he would, to him the comfort came no more. }
Not prayer avail’d, and when (his crimes confess’d)
He felt some ease, she said--“are they redress’d? 440
You still retain the profit, and be sure,
Long as it lasts, this anguish shall endure.”
Fulham still tried to soothe her, cheat, mislead; }
But Conscience laid her finger on the deed, }
And read the crime with power, and all that must succeed. }
He tried t’ expel her, but was sure to find
Her strength increased by all that he design’d;
Nor ever was his groan more loud and deep,
Than when refresh’d she rose from momentary sleep.
Now desperate grown, weak, harass’d, and afraid, 450
From new allies he sought for doubtful aid;
To thought itself he strove to bid adieu,
And from devotions to diversions flew;
He took a poor domestic for a slave,
(Though Avarice grieved to see the price he gave);
Upon his board, once frugal, press’d a load
Of viands rich, the appetite to goad;
The long-protracted meal, the sparkling cup,
Fought with his gloom, and kept his courage up;
Soon as the morning came, there met his eyes 460
Accounts of wealth, that he might reading rise;
To profit then he gave some active hours,
Till food and wine again should renovate his powers.
Yet, spite of all defence, of every aid,
The watchful foe her close attention paid;
In every thoughtful moment, on she press’d,
And gave at once her dagger to his breast;
He waked at midnight, and the fears of sin,
As waters through a bursten dam, broke in;
Nay, in the banquet, with his friends around, 470
When all their cares and half their crimes were drown’d,
Would some chance act awake the slumbering fear,
And care and crime in all their strength appear:
The news is read, a guilty victim swings,
And troubled looks proclaim the bosom-stings;
Some pair are wed; this brings the wife in view,
And some divorced: this shows the parting too;
Nor can he hear of evil word or deed,
But they to thought, and thought to sufferings lead.
Such was his life--no other changes came, 480
The hurrying day, the conscious night the same;
The night of horror--when he, starting, cried
To the poor startled sinner at his side:
“Is it in law? am I condemn’d to die?
Let me escape!--I’ll give--oh! let me fly--
How! but a dream--no judges! dungeon! chain!
Or these grim men!--I will not sleep again.--
Wilt thou, dread being! thus thy promise keep?
Day is thy time--and wilt thou murder sleep?
Sorrow and want repose, and wilt thou come, 490
Nor give one hour of pure untroubled gloom?
“Oh! Conscience! Conscience! man’s most faithful friend,
Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend;
But if he will thy friendly checks forego,
Thou art, oh! woe for me, his deadliest foe!”

TALE XV.

_ADVICE_; OR, THE ’SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.

His hours fill’d up with riots, banquets, sports----
And never noted in him any study,
Any retirement, any sequestration.
_Henry V_. Act I. Scene 1.

I will converse with iron-witted fools,
With unrespective boys; none are for me,
Who look into me with considerate eyes.
_Richard III._ Act IV. Scene 2.

You cram these words into mine ears, against
The stomach of my sense.
_Tempest_, Act II. Scene 1.

TALE XV.

_THE ’SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST._