Chapter XVII: Book XXII: The Visit Concluded (6)

Next, to a LADY I must bid adieu—
Whom some in mirth or malice call a “_Blue_.”
There needs no more—when that same word is said,
The men grow shy, respectful, and afraid;
Save the choice friends who in her colour dress,
And all her praise in words like hers express.
Why should proud man in man that knowledge prize,
Which he affects in woman to despise?
Is he not envious when a lady gains, }
In hours of leisure, and with little pains, 10}
What he in many a year with painful toil obtains? }
For surely knowledge should not odious grow,
Nor ladies be despised for what they know;
Truth, to no sex confined, her friends invites,
And woman, long restrain’d, demands her rights.
Nor should a light and odious name be thrown
On the fair dame who makes that knowledge known—
Who bravely dares the world’s sarcastic sneer,
And what she is, is willing to appear.
“And what she is not!” peevish man replies, 20
His envy owning what his pride denies.
But let him, envious as he is, repair
To this sage Dame, and meet conviction there!
MIRANDA sees her morning levee fill’d
With men, in every art and science skill’d—
Men who have gain’d a name, whom she invites,
Because in men of genius she delights.
To these she puts her questions, that produce
Discussion vivid, and discourse abstruse;
She no opinion for its boldness spares, 30
But loves to show her audience what she dares;
The creeds of all men she takes leave to sift,
And, quite impartial, turns her own adrift.
Her noble mind, with independent force,
Her Rector questions on his late discourse;
Perplex’d and pain’d, he wishes to retire
From one whom critics, nay, whom crowds, admire—
From her whose faith on no man’s dictate leans;
Who her large creed from many a teacher gleans;
Who for herself will judge, debate, decide, 40
And be her own “philosopher and guide.”
Why call a lady _Blue_? It is because
She reads, converses, studies for applause;
And therefore all that she desires to know
Is just as much as she can fairly show.
The real knowledge we in secret hide;
It is the counterfeit that makes our pride.
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”—
So sings the Poet, and so let him sing;
But, if from little learning danger rose, 50
I know not who in safety could repose.
The evil rises from our own mistake,
When we our ignorance for knowledge take;
Or when the little that we have, through pride
And vain poor self-love view’d, is magnified.
Nor is your deepest Azure always free
From these same dangerous calls of vanity.
Yet of the sex are those who never show,
By way of exhibition, what they know.
Their books are read and praised, and so are they, 60
But all without design, without display.
Is there not One who reads the hearts of men,
And paints them strongly with unrivall’d pen?
All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear;
Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear;
Looks in the close recesses of the mind,
And gives the finish’d portraits to mankind,
By skill conducted, and to Nature true—
And yet no man on earth would call JOANNA _Blue_!
Not so MIRANDA! She is ever prest 70
To give opinions, and she gives her best.
To these with gentle smile her guests incline,
Who come to hear, improve, applaud—and dine.
Her hungry mind on every subject feeds;
She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads;
Locke entertains her, and she wonders why
His famous Essay is consider’d dry.
For her amusement in her vacant hours
Are earths and rocks, and animals and flowers;
She could the farmer at his work assist, 80
A systematic agriculturist.
Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind,
Nor let us see that they themselves are blind;
But—thank our stars!—the liberal times allow,
That all may think, and men have rivals now.
Miranda deems all knowledge might be gain’d—
“But she is idle, nor has much attain’d;
Men are in her deceived: she knows at most
A few light matters, for she scorns to boast.
Her mathematic studies she resign’d— 90
They did not suit the genius of her mind.
She thought indeed the higher parts sublime,
But then they took a monstrous deal of time!”
Frequent and full the letters she delights
To read in part; she names not him who writes—
But here and there a precious sentence shows,
Telling what literary debts she owes.
Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come,
“Alas!” she cries, “and I must seal their doom.
Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain— 100
Ah! why must truth be told, or man be vain?”
Much she has written, and still deigns to write,
But not an effort yet must see the light.
“Cruel!” her friends exclaim; “unkind, unjust!”
But, no! the envious mass she will not trust;
Content to hear that fame is due to her,
Which on her works the world might not confer—
Content with loud applauses while she lives;
Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives.

II.

_P._ Now where the Learned Lady? Doth she live, 110
Her dinners yet and sentiments to give—
The Dean’s wise consort, with the many friends,
From whom she borrows, and to whom she lends
Her precious maxims?
_F._ Yes, she lives to shed
Her light around her; but her Dean is dead.
Seen her I have, but seldom could I see;
Borrow she could not, could not lend to me.
Yet I attended, and beheld the tribe
Attending too, whom I will not describe—
Miranda Thomson! Yes, I sometimes found 120
A seat among a circle so profound;
When all the science of the age combined
Was in that room, and hers the master-mind.
Well I remember the admiring crowd,
Who spoke their wonder and applause aloud;
They strove who highest should her glory raise,
And cramm’d the hungry mind with honied praise—
While she, with grateful hand, a table spread,
The Dean assenting—but the Dean is dead;
And, though her sentiments are still divine,
She asks no more her auditors to dine. 130
Once from her lips came wisdom; when she spoke,
Her friends in transport or amazement broke.
Now to her dictates there attend but few,
And they expect to meet attention too;
Respect she finds is purchased at some cost,
And deference is withheld, when dinner’s lost.
She, once the guide and glory of the place
Exists between oblivion and disgrace;
Praise, once afforded, now—they say not why, 140
They dare not say it—fickle men deny;
That buzz of fame a new Minerva cheers,
Which our deserted queen no longer hears.
Old, but not wise, forsaken, not resign’d,
She gives to honours past her feeble mind;
Back to her former state her fancy moves,
And lives on past applause, that still she loves;
Yet holds in scorn the fame no more in view, }
And flies the glory that would not pursue }
To yon small cot a poorly jointured _Blue_. 150}

TALE XIV.

_THE WIFE AND WIDOW._

I.

I leave SOPHIA; it would please me well,
Before we part, on so much worth to dwell.
’Tis said of one who lived in times of strife,
There was no boyhood in his busy life;
Born to do all that mortal being can,
The thinking child became at once the man;
So this fair girl in early youth was led,
By reasons strong in early youth, to wed.
In her new state her prudence was her guide,
And of experience well the place supplied; 10
With life’s important business full in view,
She had no time for its amusements too;
She had no practised look man’s heart t’ allure,
No frown to kill him, and no smile to cure;
No art coquettish, nothing of the prude;
She was with strong yet simple sense endued,
Intent on duties, and resolved to shun
Nothing that ought to be, and could be, done.
A Captain’s wife, with him she long sustain’d
The toil of war, and in a camp remain’d; 20
Her husband wounded, with a child in arms,
She nurst them both, unheeded all alarms;
All useless terror in her soul supprest—
None could discern in hers a troubled breast.
Her wounded soldier is a prisoner made—
She hears, prepares, and is at once convey’d
Through hostile ranks; with air sedate she goes,
And makes admiring friends of wondering foes.
Her dying husband to her care confides }
Affairs perplex’d; she reasons, she decides; 30}
If intricate her way, her walk discretion guides. }
Home to her country she returns alone,
Her health decay’d, her child, her husband, gone;
There she in peace reposes, there resumes
Her female duties, and in rest reblooms;
She is not one at common ills to droop,
Nor to vain murmuring will her spirit stoop.
I leave her thus: her fortieth year is nigh,
She will not for another captain sigh;
Will not a young and gay lieutenant take, 40
Because ’tis pretty to reform a rake;
Yet she again may plight her widow’d hand,
Should love invite, or charity demand,
And make her days, although for duty’s sake,
As sad as folly and mischance can make.

II.

_P._ Lives yet the WIDOW, whose firm spirit bore
Ills unrepining?—
_F._ Here she lives no more;
But where—I speak with some good people’s leave—
Where all good works their due reward receive;
Though, what reward to our best works is due, 50
I leave to them—and will my tale pursue.
Again she married, to her husband’s friend,
Whose wife was hers; whom going to attend,
As on her death-bed she, yet young, was laid,
The anxious parent took her hand and said:
“Prove _now_ your love; let these poor infants be
As thine, and find a mother’s love in thee!”—
“And must I woo their father?”—“Nay, indeed; }
He no encouragement but hope will need; }
In hope too let me die, and think my wish decreed!” 60}
The wife expires; the widow’d pair unite;
Their love was sober, and their prospect bright.
She train’d the children with a studious love,
That knew full well t’ encourage and reprove;
Nicely she dealt her praise and her disgrace;
Not harsh and not indulgent out of place;
Not to the forward partial—to the slow }
All patient, waiting for the time to sow }
The seeds that, suited to the soil, would grow. }
Nor watch’d she less the Husband’s weaker soul, 70
But learn’d to lead him who abhorr’d control;
Who thought a nursery, next a kitchen, best
To women suited—and she acquiesced;
She only begg’d to rule in small affairs,
And ease her wedded lord of common cares;
Till he at length thought every care was small,
Beneath his notice, and she had them all.
He on his throne the lawful monarch sate,
And she was by—the minister of state;
He gave assent, and he required no more, 80
But sign’d the act that she decreed before.
Again, her fates in other work decree
A mind so active should experienced be.
One of the name, who roved the world around,
At length had something of its treasures found,
And childless died, amid his goods and gain,
In far Barbadoes on the western main.
His kinsman heard, and wish’d the wealth to share,
But had no mind to be transported there:
“His Wife could sail—her courage who could doubt?— 90
And she was not tormented with the gout.”
She liked it not; but for his children’s sake,
And for their father’s, would the duty take.
Storms she encounter’d, ere she reach’d the shore,
And other storms when these were heard no more—
The rage of lawyers forced to drop their prey—
And once again to England made her way.
She found her Husband with his gout removed,
And a young nurse, most skilful and approved;
Whom—for he yet was weak—he urged to stay, 100
And nurse him while his consort was away:—
“She was so handy, so discreet, so nice,
As kind as comfort, though as cold as ice!
Else,” he assured his lady, “in no case,
So young a creature should have fill’d the place.”
It has been held—indeed, the point is clear—
“None are so deaf as those who will not hear;”
And, by the same good logic, we shall find,
“As those who will not see, are none so blind.”
The thankful Wife repaid th’ attention shown, 110
But now would make the duty all her own.
Again the gout return’d; but, seizing now
A vital part, would no relief allow.
The Husband died, but left a will that proved
He much respected whom he coolly loved.
All power was hers; nor yet was such her age
But rivals strove her favour to engage.
They talk’d of love with so much warmth and zeal,
That they believed the woman’s heart must feel;
Adding such praises of her worth beside, 120
As vanquish prudence oft by help of pride.
In vain! her heart was by discretion led—
She to the children of her Friend was wed;
These she establish’d in the world, and died,
In ease and hope, serene and satisfied.
And loves not man that woman who can charm
Life’s grievous ills, and grief itself disarm;
Who in his fears and troubles brings him aid,
And seldom is, and never seems, afraid?
No! ask of man the fair one whom he loves: 130
You’ll find her one of the desponding doves,
Who tender troubles as her portion brings,
And with them fondly to a husband clings—
Who never moves abroad, nor sits at home,
Without distress, past, present, or to come—
Who never walks the unfrequented street,
Without a dread that death and she shall meet:
At land, on water, she must guarded be,
Who sees the danger none besides her see,
And is determined by her cries to call 140
All men around her: she will have them all.
Man loves to think the tender being lives
But by the power that his protection gives:
He loves the feeble step, the plaintive tone,
And flies to help who cannot stand alone;
He thinks of propping elms and clasping vines,
And in her weakness thinks her virtue shines;
On him not one of her desires is lost,
And he admires her for this care and cost.
But, when afflictions come, when beauty dies, 150
Or sorrows vex the heart, or danger tries—
When time of trouble brings the daily care,
And gives of pain as much as he can bear:
’Tis then he wants, if not the helping hand,
At least a soothing temper, meek and bland;
He wants the heart that shares in his distress—
At least, the kindness that would make it less;
And when, instead, he hears th’ eternal grief
For some light want, and not for his relief—
And when he hears the tender trembler sigh 160
For some indulgence he cannot supply—
When, in the midst of many a care, his “dear”
Would like a duchess at a ball appear,
And, while he feels a weight that wears him down,
Would see the prettiest sight in all the town—
Love then departs; and, if some Pity lives,
That Pity half despises, half forgives;
’Tis join’d with grief, is not from shame exempt,
And has a plenteous mixture of contempt.

TALE XV.

_BELINDA WATERS._

I.

Of all the beauties in our favour’d place,
BELINDA WATERS was the pride and grace.
Say ye, who sagely can our fortunes read,
Shall this fair damsel in the world succeed?
A rosy beauty she, and fresh and fair,
Who never felt a caution or a care;
Gentle by nature, ever fond of ease,
And more consenting than inclined to please.
A tame good nature in her spirit lives—
She hates refusal for the pain it gives: 10
From opposition arguments arise,
And, to prevent the trouble, she complies.
She, if in Scotland, would be _fash’d_ all day,
If call’d to any work or any play;
She lets no busy, idle wish intrude,
But is by nature negatively good.
In marriage hers will be a dubious fate:
She is not fitted for a high estate—
There wants the grace, the polish, and the pride; }
Less is she fitted for a humble bride: 20}
Whom fair Belinda weds—let chance decide! }
She sees her father oft engross’d by cares,
And therefore hates to hear of men’s affairs.
An active mother in the household reigns,
And spares Belinda all domestic pains;
Of food she knows but this, that we are fed;
Though, duly taught, she prays for daily bread,
Yet, whence it comes, of hers is no concern—
It comes; and more she never wants to learn.
She on the table sees the common fare, 30
But, how provided, is beneath her care.
Lovely and useless, she has no concern
About the things that aunts and mothers learn;
But thinks, when married—if she thinks at all—
That what she needs will answer to her call.
To write is business, and, though taught to write,
She keeps the pen and paper out of sight;
What once was painful she cannot allow
To be enjoyment or amusement now.
She wonders why the ladies are so fond 40
Of such long letters, when they correspond;
Crowded and cross’d by ink of different stain,
She thinks to read them would confuse her brain;
Nor much mistakes; but still has no pretence
To praise for this, her critic’s indolence.
Behold her now! she on her sofa looks
O’er half a shelf of circulating books.
This she admired, but she forgets the name,
And reads again another, or the same.
She likes to read of strange and bold escapes, 50}
Of plans and plottings, murders and mishaps, }
Love in all hearts, and lovers in all shapes. }
She sighs for pity, and her sorrows flow
From the dark eyelash on the page below;
And is so glad when, all the misery past,
The dear adventurous lovers meet at last—
Meet and are happy; and she thinks it hard,
When thus an author might a pair reward—
When they, the troubles all dispersed, might wed—
He makes them part, and die of grief instead! 60
Yet tales of terror are her dear delight,
All in the wintry storm to read at night;
And to her maid she turns in all her doubt,—
“This shall I like? and what is that about?”
She had “Clarissa” for her heart’s dear friend—
Was pleased each well-tried virtue to commend.
And praised the scenes that one might fairly doubt
If one so young could know so much about.
Pious and pure, th’ heroic beauty strove
Against the lover and against the love; 70
But strange that maid so young should know the strife,
In all its views, was painted to the life!
Belinda knew not—nor a tale would read,
That could so slowly on its way proceed;
And, ere Clarissa reach’d the wicked town,
The weary damsel threw the volume down.
“Give me,” she said, “for I would laugh or cry,
‘Scenes from the Life,’ and ‘Sensibility;’
‘Winters at Bath,’—I would that I had one! }
‘The Constant Lover,’ the ‘Discarded Son,’ 80}
‘The Rose of Raby,’ ‘Delmore,’ or ‘The Nun.’ }
These promise something, and may please, perhaps,
Like ‘Ethelinda,’ and the dear ‘Relapse.’”
To these her heart the gentle maid resign’d,
And such the food that fed the gentle mind.

II.

_P._ Knew you the fair BELINDA, once the boast
Of a vain mother, and a favourite toast
Of clerks and young lieutenants, a gay set
Of light admirers?—Is she married yet?
_F._ Yes! she is married; though she waited long, 90
Not from a prudent fear of choosing wrong,
But want of choice.—She took a surgeon’s mate,
With his half-pay, that was his whole estate.
Fled is the charming bloom that nature spread }
Upon her cheek, the pure, the rosy red— }
This, and the look serene, the calm, kind look, are fled. }
Sorrow and sadness now the place possess,
And the pale cast of anxious fretfulness.
She _wonders_ much—as, why they live so ill;
Why the rude butcher brings his weekly bill; 100
She wonders why that baker will not trust,
And says, most truly says,—“Indeed, he must.”
She wonders where her former friends are gone—
And thus, from day to day, she wonders on.
Howe’er she can—she dresses gaily yet,
And then she wonders how they came in debt.
Her husband loves her, and in accent mild
Answers, and treats her like a fretted child;
But when he, ruffled, makes severe replies, }
And seems unhappy—then she pouts, and cries 110}
“She wonders when she’ll die!”—She faints, but never dies. }
“How well my father lived!” she says.—“How well,
My dear, your father’s creditors could tell!”
And then she weeps, till comfort is applied,
That soothes her spleen or gratifies her pride:
Her dress and novels, visits and success
In a chance-game, are soft’ners of distress.
So life goes on!—But who, that loved his life,
Would take a fair Belinda for his wife!
Who thinks that all are for their stations born, 120
Some to indulge themselves, and to adorn;
And some, a useful people, to prepare,
Not being rich, good things for those who are,
And who are born, it cannot be denied,
To have their wants and their demands supplied.
She knows that money is a needful thing,
That fathers first, and then that husbands bring;
Or, if those persons should the aid deny,
Daughters and wives have but to faint and die,
Till flesh and blood cannot endure the pain; 130
And then the lady lives and laughs again.
To wed an ague, and to feel, for life,
Hot fits and cold succeeding in a wife;
To take the pestilence with poison’d breath,
And wed some potent minister of death,
Is cruel fate—yet death is then relief;
But thus to wed is ever-during grief.
Oft have I heard, how blest the youth who weds
Belinda Waters!—rather he who dreads
That fate—a truth her husband well approves, 140
Who blames and fondles, humours, chides, and loves.

TALE XVI.

_THE DEALER AND CLERK._

I.

Bad men are seldom cheerful; but we see
That, when successful, they can merry be.
ONE, whom I leave, his darling money lends,
On terms well known, to his unhappy friends;
He farms and trades, and in his method treats
His guests, whom first he comforts, then he cheats.
He knows their private griefs, their inward groans,
And then applies his leeches and his loans
To failing, falling families—and gets,
I know not how, with large increase, their debts. 10
He early married, and the woman made
A losing bargain; she with scorn was paid
For no small fortune. On this slave he vents
His peevish slights, his moody discontents.
Her he neglects, indulging, in her stead,
One whom he bribed to leave a husband’s bed—
A young fair mother too, the pride and joy
Of him whom her desertion will destroy.
The poor man walks by the adulterer’s door,
To see the wife, whom he must meet no more; 20
She will not look upon the face of one
Whom she has blighted, ruined, and undone.
He feels the shame; his heart with grief is rent;
Hers is the guilt, and his the punishment.
The cruel spoiler to his need would lend
Unsought relief—his need will soon have end.
Let a few wint’ry months in sorrow pass,
And on his corse shall grow the vernal grass.
Neighbours, indignant, of his griefs partake,
And hate the villain for the victim’s sake; 30
Wond’ring what bolt within the stores of heaven
Shall on that bold, offending wretch be driven.
Alas! my grieving friends, we cannot know
Why Heaven inflicts, and why suspends, the blow.
Meanwhile the godless man, who thus destroys
Another’s peace, in peace his wealth enjoys,
And, every law evaded or defied,
Is with long life and prosperous fortune tried.
“How long?” the Prophet cried, and we, “how long?” }
But think how quick that Eye, that Arm how strong, 40}
And bear what seems not right, and trust it is not wrong! }
Does Heaven forbear? then sinners mercy find—
Do sinners fall? ’tis mercy to mankind.
ADIEU! can one so miserable be,
Rich, wretched man, to barter fates with thee?

II.

Yet, ere I go, some notice must be paid
To JOHN, his Clerk, a man full sore afraid
Of his own frailty—many a troubled day
Has he walk’d doubtful in some close by-way,
Beseeching Conscience on her watch to keep, 50
Afraid that she one day should fall asleep.
A quiet man was John; his mind was slow;
Little he knew, and little sought to know.
He gave respect to worth, to riches more,
And had instinctive dread of being poor.
Humble and careful, diligent and neat,
He in the Dealer’s office found a seat;
Happy in all things, till a fear began
To break his rest—He served a wicked man,
Who spurn’d the way direct of honest trade, 60
But praised the laws his cunning could evade.
This crafty Dealer of religion spoke,
As if design’d to be the wise man’s cloak,
And the weak man’s encumbrance, whom it awes,
And keeps in dread of conscience and the laws.
Yet, for himself, he loved not to appear
In her grave dress; ’twas troublesome to wear.
This Dealer played at games of skill, and won
Sums that surprised the simple mind of John;
Nor trusted skill alone; for well he knew, 70
What a sharp eye and dext’rous hand could do;
When, if suspected, he had always by
The daring oath to back the cunning lie.
John was distress’d, and said, with aching heart,
“I from the vile, usurious man must part;
For, if I go not—yet I mean to go—
This friend to me will to my soul be foe.
I serve my master: there is nought to blame;
But, whom he serves, I tremble but to name.”
From such reflections sprung the painful fear— 80
“The Foe of Souls is too familiar here;
My master stands between: so far, so good;
But ’tis at best a dangerous neighbourhood.”
Then livelier thoughts began this fear to chase—
“It is a gainful, a convenient place.
If I should quit—another takes the pen,
And what a chance for my preferment then?
Religion nothing by my going gains;
If I depart, my master still remains.
True, I record the deeds that I abhor, 90
But these that master has to answer for.
Then say, I leave the office: his success,
And his injustice, will not be the less;
Nay, would be greater—I am right to stay;
It checks him, doubtless, in his fearful way.
Fain would I stay, and yet be not beguiled;
But pitch is near, and man is soon defiled.”

III.

_P._ Such were the MAN and MASTER—and I now
Would know if they together live, and how.
To such enquiries, thus my Friend replied:— 100
_F._ The Wife was slain—or, say at least, she died.
But there are murders that the human eye
Cannot detect—which human laws defy.
There are the wrongs insulted fondness feels,
In many a secret wound that never heals;
The Savage murders with a single blow;
Murders like this are secret and are slow.
Yet, when his victim lay upon her bier,
There were who witness’d that he dropt a tear;
Nay, more, he praised the woman he had lost, 110
And undisputed paid the funeral cost.
The Favourite now, her lord and master freed,
Prepared to wed, and be a wife indeed.
The day, ’twas said, was fix’d, the robes were bought,
A feast was order’d; but a cold was caught,
And pain ensued, with fever—grievous pain,
With the mind’s anguish that disturb’d the brain—
Till nature ceased to struggle, and the mind
Saw clearly death before, and sin behind.
Priests and physicians gave what they could give; 120
She turn’d away, and, shuddering, ceased to live.
The Dealer now appeared awhile as one
Lost, with but little of his race to run,
And that in sorrow; men with one consent,
And one kind hope, said, “Bonner will repent.”
Alas! we saw not what his fate would be,
But this we fear’d—no penitence had he;
Nor time for penitence, nor any time,
So quick the summons, to look back on crime.
When he the partner of his sin entomb’d, 130
He paused awhile, and then the way resumed,
Ev’n as before; yet was he not the same:
The tempter once, he now the dupe became.
John long had left him, nor did one remain
Who would his harlot in her course refrain;
Obsequious, humble, studious of his ease,
The present Phœbe only sought to please.
“With one so artless, what,” said he, “to fear,
Or what to doubt, in one who holds me dear?
Friends she may have, but me she will not wrong; 140
If weak her judgment, yet her love is strong;
And I am lucky now in age to find
A friend so trusty, and a nurse so kind.”
Yet neither party was in peace; the man
Had restless nights, and in the morn began
To cough and tremble; he was hot and cold—
He had a nervous fever, he was told.
His dreams—’twas strange, for none reflected less
On his past life—were frightful to excess;
His favourite dinners were no more enjoy’d, 150
And, in a word, his spirits were destroy’d.
And what of Phœbe? She her measures plann’d;
All but his money was at her command;
All would be hers, when Heav’n her Friend should call;
But Heav’n was slow, and much she long’d for all:—
“Mine when he dies, mean wretch! and why not mine,
When it would prove him generous to resign
What he enjoys not!”—Phœbe, at command,
Gave him his brandy with a liberal hand.
A way more quick and safe she did not know, 160
And brandy, though it might be sure, was slow.
But more she dared not; for she felt a dread
Of being tried, and only wish’d him dead.
Such was her restless strife of hope and fear—
He might cough on for many a weary year;
Nay, his poor mind was changing, and, when ill, }
Some foe to her may wicked thoughts instil! }
Oh! ’tis a trial sore to watch a Miser’s will! }
Thus, though the pair appear’d in peace to live,
They felt that vice has not that peace to give. 170
There watch’d a cur before the Miser’s gate—
A very cur, whom all men seem’d to hate;
Gaunt, savage, shaggy, with an eye that shone
Like a live coal, and he possess’d but one;
His bark was wild and eager, and became }
That meagre body and that eye of flame; }
His master prized him much, and _Fang_ his name. }
His master fed him largely; but not that,
Nor aught of kindness, made the snarler fat.
Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay; 180
He bark’d, and snarl’d, and growl’d it all away.
His ribs were seen extended like a rack,
And coarse red hair hung roughly o’er his back.
Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore,
Now his sore body made his temper sore.
Such was the friend of him, who could not find,
Nor make him one, ‘mong creatures of his kind.
Brave deeds of Fang his master often told,
The son of Fury, famed in days of old,
From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they 190
In earlier times—each dog will have his day.
The notes of Fang were to his master known,
And dear—they bore some likeness to his own;
For both convey’d to the experienced ear,
“I snarl and bite, because I hate and fear.”
None pass’d ungreeted by the master’s door;
Fang rail’d at all, but chiefly at the poor;
And, when the nights were stormy, cold, and dark,
The act of Fang was a perpetual bark;
But though the master loved the growl of Fang, 200
There were who vow’d the ugly cur to hang;
Whose angry master, watchful for his friend,
As strongly vow’d his servant to defend.
In one dark night, and such as Fang before
Was ever known its tempests to outroar,
To his protector’s wonder now express’d
No angry notes—his anger was at rest.
The wond’ring master sought the silent yard,
Left Phœbe sleeping, and his door unbarr’d;
Nor more returned to that forsaken bed— 210
But lo! the morning came, and he was dead.
Fang and his master side by side were laid
In grim repose—their debt of nature paid!
The master’s hand upon the cur’s cold chest
Was now reclined, and had before been press’d,
As if he search’d how deep and wide the wound
That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;
And, when he found it was the sleep of death,
A sympathising sorrow stopp’d his breath.
Close to his trusty servant he was found, 220
As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.
We know no more; but who on horrors dwell
Of that same night have dreadful things to tell.
Of outward force, they say, was not a sign—
The hand that struck him was the Hand Divine;
And then the Fiend, in that same stormy night,
Was heard—as many thought—to claim his right;
While grinning imps the body danced about,
And then they vanish’d with triumphant shout.
So think the crowd, and well it seems in them, 230
That ev’n their dreams and fancies vice condemn;
That not alone for virtue Reason pleads,
But Nature shudders at unholy deeds;
While our strong fancy lists in her defence,
And takes the side of Truth and Innocence.

IV.

_P._ But, what the fortune of the MAN, whose fear
Inform’d his Conscience that the foe was near;
But yet whose interest to his desk confined
That sober CLERK of indecisive mind?
_F._ JOHN served his master, with himself at strife, 240
For he with Conscience lived like man and wife;
Now jarring, now at peace,—the life they led
Was all contention, both at board and bed:
His meals were troubled by his scruples all,
And in his dreams he was about to fall
Into some strong temptation—for it seems
He never could resist it in his dreams.
At length his MASTER, dealer, smuggler, cheat,
As John would call him in his temper’s heat,
Proposed a something—what, is dubious still— 230
That John resisted with a stout good-will.
Scruples like his were treated with disdain,
Whose waking conscience spurn’d the offer’d gain.
“Quit then my office, scoundrel, and begone!”
“I dare not do it,” said the affrighten’d John.
“What fear’st thou, driveller! can thy fancy tell?”
“I doubt,” said John—“I’m sure, there is a hell.”
“No question, wretch! thy foot is on the door;
To be in hell, thou fool! is to be poor.
Wilt thou consent?”—But John, with many a sigh, 260
Refused, then sank beneath his stronger eye,
Who with a curse dismiss’d the fool that dared
Not join a venture which he might have shared.
The worthy Clerk then served a man in trade,
And was his friend and his companion made—
A sickly man, who sundry wares retail’d,
Till, while his trade increased, his spirit fail’d.
John was to him a treasure, whom he proved,
And, finding faithful, as a brother loved.
To John his views and business he consign’d, 270
And forward look’d with a contented mind;
As sickness bore him onward to the grave,
A charge of all things to his friend he gave.
But neighbours talk’d—’twas idle—of the day
When Richard Shale should walk the dark highway—
And whisper’d—tatlers!—that the wife received
Such hints with anger, but she nothing grieved.
These whispers reach’d the man, who weak, and ill
In mind and body, had to make his will;
And, though he died in peace, and all resign’d, 280
’Twas plain he harbour’d fancies in his mind.
With jealous foresight, all that he had gain’d
His widow’s was, while widow she remain’d;
But, if another should the dame persuade
To wed again, farewell the gains of trade:
For if the widow’d dove could not refrain,
She must return to poverty again.
The man was buried, and the will was read,
And censure spared them not, alive or dead!
At first the Widow and the Clerk, her friend, 290
Spent their free days as prudence bade them spend.
At the same table they would dine, ’tis true,
And they would worship in the self-same pew:
Each had the common interest so at heart,
It would have griev’d them terribly to part;
And as they both were serious and sedate,
’Twas long before the world began to prate.
But when it prated—though without a cause,—
It put the pair in mind of breaking laws,
Led them to reason what it was that gave 300
A husband power, when quiet in his grave.
The marriage contract they had now by heart—
“Till death!”—you see, no longer—“do us part.”
“Well! death has loosed us from the tie, but still
The loosen’d husband makes a binding will;
Unjust and cruel are the acts of men.”
“Thus they—and then they sigh’d—and then—and then,
’Twas snaring souls,” they said; and how he dared
They did not know—they wonder’d—and were snared.
“It is a marriage, surely! Conscience might 310
Allow an act so very nearly right;
Was it not witness to our solemn vow,
As man and wife? it must the act allow.”
But Conscience, stubborn to the last, replied,
“It cannot be! I am not satisfied;
’Tis not a marriage: either dare be poor,
Or dare be virtuous—part, and sin no more!”
Alas! they many a fond evasion made;
They could relinquish neither love nor trade.
They went to church, but, thinking, fail’d to pray; 320
They felt not ease or comfort at a play.
If times were good—“We merit not such times;”
If ill—“Is this the produce of our crimes?”
When sick—“’Tis thus forbidden pleasures cease;”
When well—they both demand, “Had Zimri peace?
For though our worthy master was not slain,
His injured ghost has reason to complain.”
Ah, John! bethink thee of thy generous joy,
When Conscience drove thee from thy late employ;
When thou wert poor, and knew not where to run, 330
But then could say, “The will of God be done!”
When thou that will, and not thine own, obey’d—
Of Him alone, and not of man afraid.
Thou then hadst pity on that wretch, and, free
Thyself, couldst pray for him who injured thee;
Then how alert thy step, thyself how light
All the day long! thy sleep how sound at night!
But now, though plenty on thy board be found,
And thou hast credit with thy neighbours round,
Yet there is something in thy looks that tells, 340
An odious secret in thy bosom dwells.
Thy form is not erect, thy neighbours trace
A coward spirit in thy shifting pace.
Thou goest to meeting, not from any call,
But just to hear, that we are sinners all—
And equal sinners, or the difference made
’Twixt man and man has but the slightest shade;
That reformation asks a world of pains,
And, after all, must leave a thousand stains;
And, worst of all, we must the work begin 350
By first attacking the prevailing sin!—
These thoughts the feeble mind of John assail,
And o’er his reason and his fears prevail;
They fill his mind with hopes of gifts and grace, }
Faith, feelings!—something that supplies the place }
Of true conversion—this will he embrace; }
For John perceives that he was scarcely tried
By the first conquest, that increased his pride,
When he refused his master’s crime to aid,
And by his self-applause was amply paid. 360
But now he feels the difference—feels it hard
Against his will and favourite wish to guard;
He mourns his weakness, hopes he shall prevail
Against his frailty, and yet still is frail.
Such is his life! and such the life must be
Of all who will be bound, yet would be free;
Who would unite what God to part decrees—
The offended conscience, and the mind at ease:
Who think, but vainly think, to sin and pray,
And God and Mammon in their turn obey. 370
Such is his life!—and so I would not live
For all that wealthy widows have to give.

TALE XVII.

_DANVERS AND RAYNER._

I.

The purest Friendship, like the finest ware,
Deserves our praises, but demands our care.
For admiration we the things produce,
But they are not design’d for common use;
Flaws the most trifling from their virtue take,
And lamentation for their loss we make;
While common Friendships, like the wares of clay,
Are a cheap kind, but useful every day.
Though crack’d and damaged, still we make them do;
And, when they’re broken, they’re forgotten too. 10
There is within the world in which we dwell
A Friendship, answering to that world full well:
An interchange of looks and actions kind,
And, in some sense, an intercourse of mind;
A useful commerce, a convenient trade,
By which both parties are the happier made;
And, when the thing is rightly understood,
And justly valued, it is wise and good.
I speak not here of Friendships that excite
In boys at school such wonder and delight— 20
Of high, heroic Friends, in serious strife
Contending which should yield a forfeit life—
Such wondrous love, in their maturer days,
Men, if they credit, are content to praise.
I speak not here of Friendships true and just,
When friend can friend with life and honour trust;
Where mind to mind has long familiar grown,
And every failing, every virtue known.
Of these I speak not—things so rich and rare,
That we degrade with jewels to compare, 30
Or bullion pure and massy.—I intend
To treat of one whose Neighbour called him Friend,
Or called him Neighbour; and with reason good—
The friendship rising from the neighbourhood:
A sober kind, in common service known,
Not such as is in death and peril shown;
Such as will give or ask a helping hand,
But no important sacrifice demand;
In fact, a friendship that will long abide,
If seldom rashly, never strongly, tried. 40
Yes! these are sober friendships, made for use,
And much convenience they in life produce:
Like a good coat, that keeps us from the cold,
The cloth of frieze is not a cloth of gold;
But neither is it pyebald, pieced, and poor;
’Tis a good useful coat, and nothing more.
Such is the Friendship of the world approved,
And here the Friends so loving and so loved.—
DANVERS and RAYNER, equals, who had made
Each decent fortune, both were yet in trade; 50
While sons and daughters, with a youthful zeal,
Seem’d the hereditary love to feel;
And ev’n their wives, though either might pretend
To claim some notice, call’d each other friend.
While yet their offspring boys and girls appear’d,
The fathers ask’d, “What evil could be fear’d?”
Nor is it easy to assign the year,
When cautious parents should begin to fear.
The boys must leave their schools, and, by and by,
The girls are sure to grow reserved and shy; 60
And then, suppose a real love should rise,
It but unites the equal families.
Love does not always from such freedom spring;
Distrust, perhaps, would sooner cause the thing.
“We will not check it, neither will we force”—
Thus said the fathers—“Let it take its course.”
It took its course:—young Richard Danvers’ mind
In Phœbe Rayner found what lovers find—
Sense, beauty, sweetness; all that mortal eyes
Can see, or heart conceive, or thought devise. 70
And Phœbe’s eye, and thought, and heart could trace
In Richard Danvers every manly grace—
All that e’er maiden wish’d, or matron prized—
So well these good young people sympathised.
All their relations, neighbours, and allies,
All their dependants, visitors, and spies,
Such as a wealthy family caress,
Said here was love, and drank to love’s success.
’Tis thus I leave the parties, young and old,
Lovers and Friends. Will Love and Friendship hold? 80
Will Prudence with the children’s wish comply,
And Friendship strengthen with that new ally?

II.