Chapter II: Part 2

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

TALE IV.

PROCRASTINATION.

Heaven witness
I have been to you ever true and humble.
SHAKESPEARE, Henry VIII.

Gentle lady,
When I did first impart my love to you,
I freely told you all the wealth I had.
Merchant of Venice.

The fatal time Cuts off all ceremonies and vows of love, And ample interchange of sweet discourse, Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon. Richard III.

I know thee not, old man; fall to thy prayers.
Henry IV.

Farewell,
Thou pure impiety, thou impious purity,
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love.
Much Ado about Nothing.

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Love will expire--the gay, the happy dream Will turn to scorn, indiff'rence, or esteem: Some favour'd pairs, in this exchange, are blest, 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: 'Mid plans of bliss the heavy hours pass on, Till love is withered, 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, 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 expectation vain, Beheld the seasons change and change again; Meantime the nymph her tender tales perused, 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 may you live, my Dinah! here the boy And you together my estate enjoy:" Thus to the lovers was her mind expressed, 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 travelled to their thirtieth year. At length a prospect open'd--but alas! Long time must yet, before the union, pass. 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 prepar'd: "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. 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 remain'd 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, "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, 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, 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, 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, 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 oppressed, no longer took the air, But sat and dozed upon an easy chair. The cautious doctor saw the case was clear, 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, To think what load of troubles she possessed: 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 Forebore 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, And she was sorry, said her prayers, and slept: Thus passed 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 appeared 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, 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, 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, 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 the enamel'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 sat, a friendly pair 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, 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 sat and sigh'd in pensive reverie. The friends prepared new subjects to begin, 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, Please you, my lady, 't would 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, "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." "What! hast thou 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; While mine rejoices"--"Heavens!" return'd the maid, "This talk to one so wither'd and decay'd? No! all my care is now to fit my mind For other spousal, and to die resigned: 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." 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; That 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." "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? Heaven'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; 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 destin'd bride: Speak then my fate; for these my sorrows past, Time lost, youth fled, hope wearied, and at last 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 lov'd, and hoped he had the grace To fix his thoughts upon a better place." 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, 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 distressed, 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 badgeman's blue, Moves near her shaded silk of changeful hue; When his thin locks of gray 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; 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: "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, In terms of kindness to a man so weak: But pride forbade, 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 perceiv'd by craft, approved by pride), She cross'd and pass'd him on the other side.

TALE V.

THE PATRON.

It were all one, That I should love a bright peculiar star, And think to wed it; she is so much above me: In her bright radiance and collateral heat Must I be comforted, not in her sphere. SHAKESPEARE, All's Well that Ends Well.

Poor wretches, that depend
On greatness' favours, dream as I have done,
Wake and find nothing.
Cymbeline.

And since -
Th' affliction of my mind amends, with which
I fear a madness held me.
Tempest.

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