Chapter IV: Part 4

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire, Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher; Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow, Who knew the man could never cease to know: His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by, Had a firm presence and a steady eye; But with her husband dropp'd her look and tone, And Jonas ruled unquestion'd and alone. He read, and oft would quote the sacred words, How pious husbands of their wives were lords; Sarah called Abraham Lord! and who could be, So Jonas thought, a greater man than he? Himself he view'd with undisguised respect, And never pardon'd freedom or neglect. They had one daughter, and this favourite child Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled; Soothed by attention from her early years, She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears; But Sybil then was in that playful time, When contradiction is not held a crime; When parents yield their children idle praise For faults corrected in their after days. Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt, Where each his duty and his station felt: Yet not that peace some favour'd mortals find, In equal views and harmony of mind; Not the soft peace that blesses those who love, Where all with one consent in union move; But it was that which one superior will Commands, by making all inferiors still; Who bids all murmurs, all objections, cease, And with imperious voice announces--Peace! They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew, Who, as their foes maintain, their Sovereign slew; An independent race, precise, correct, Who ever married in the kindred sect: No son or daughter of their order wed A friend to England's king who lost his head; Cromwell was still their Saint, and when they met, They mourn'd that Saints were not our rulers yet. Fix'd were their habits; they arose betimes, Then pray'd their hour, and sang their party-rhymes: Their meals were plenteous, regular and plain; The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain; Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn - And, like his father, he was merchant born: Neat was their house; each table, chair, and stool, Stood in its place, or moving moved by rule; No lively print or picture graced the room; A plain brown paper lent its decent gloom; But here the eye, in glancing round, survey'd A small recess that seem'd for china made; Such pleasing pictures seem'd this pencill'd ware, That few would search for nobler objects there - Yet, turn'd by chosen friends, and there appear'd His stern, strong features, whom they all revered; For there in lofty air was seen to stand The bold Protector of the conquer'd land; Drawn in that look with which he wept and swore, Turn'd out the Members, and made fast the door, Ridding the House of every knave and drone, Forced, though it grieved his soul, to rule alone. The stern still smile each friend approving gave, Then turn'd the view, and all again were grave. There stood a clock, though small the owner's need, For habit told when all things should proceed; Few their amusements, but when friends appear'd, They with the world's distress their spirits cheer'd; The nation's guilt, that would not long endure The reign of men so modest and so pure: Their town was large, and seldom pass'd a day But some had fail'd, and others gone astray; Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls flown To Gretna-Green, or sons rebellious grown; Quarrels and fires arose;--and it was plain The times were bad; the Saints had ceased to reign! A few yet lived, to languish and to mourn For good old manners never to return. Jonas had sisters, and of these was one Who lost a husband and an only son: Twelve months her sables she in sorrow wore, And mourn'd so long that she could mourn no more. Distant from Jonas, and from all her race, She now resided in a lively place; There, by the sect unseen, at whist she play'd, Nor was of churchman or their church afraid: If much of this the graver brother heard, He something censured, but he little fear'd; He knew her rich and frugal; for the rest, He felt no care, or, if he felt, suppress'd: Nor for companion when she ask'd her Niece, Had he suspicions that disturb'd his peace; Frugal and rich, these virtues as a charm Preserved the thoughtful man from all alarm; An infant yet, she soon would home return, Nor stay the manners of the world to learn; Meantime his boys would all his care engross, And be his comforts if he felt the loss. The sprightly Sybil, pleased and unconfined, Felt the pure pleasure of the op'ning mind: All here was gay and cheerful--all at home Unvaried quiet and unruffled gloom: There were no changes, and amusements few; - Here all was varied, wonderful, and new; There were plain meals, plain dresses, and grave looks - Here, gay companions and amusing books; And the young Beauty soon began to taste The light vocations of the scene she graced. A man of business feels it as a crime On calls domestic to consume his time; Yet this grave man had not so cold a heart, But with his daughter he was grieved to part: And he demanded that in every year The Aunt and Niece should at his house appear. "Yes! we must go, my child, and by our dress A grave conformity of mind express; Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain, The more t'enjoy when we return again." Thus spake the Aunt, and the discerning child Was pleased to learn how fathers are beguiled. Her artful part the young dissembler took, And from the matron caught th' approving look: When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent For more delay, and Jonas was content; Till a tall maiden by her sire was seen, In all the bloom and beauty of sixteen; He gazed admiring;--she, with visage prim, Glanced an arch look of gravity on him; For she was gay at heart, but wore disguise, And stood a vestal in her father's eyes: Pure, pensive, simple, sad; the damsel's heart, When Jonas praised, reproved her for the part. For Sybil, fond of pleasure, gay and light, Had still a secret bias to the right; Vain as she was--and flattery made her vain - Her simulation gave her bosom pain. Again return'd, the Matron and the Niece Found the late quiet gave their joy increase; The aunt infirm, no more her visits paid, But still with her sojourn'd the favourite maid. Letters were sent when franks could be procured, And when they could not, silence was endured; All were in health, and if they older grew, It seem'd a fact that none among them knew; The aunt and niece still led a pleasant life, And quiet days had Jonas and his wife. Near him a Widow dwelt of worthy fame, Like his her manners, and her creed the same; The wealth her husband left, her care retain'd For one tall Youth, and widow she remain'd; His love respectful all her care repaid, Her wishes watch'd, and her commands obey'd. Sober he was and grave from early youth, Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth: In a light drab he uniformly dress'd, And look serene th' unruffled mind express'd; A hat with ample verge his brows o'erspread, And his brown locks curl'd graceful on his head; Yet might observers in his speaking eye Some observation, some acuteness spy; The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous deem'd it sly. Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect, His actions all were, like his speech, correct; And they who jested on a mind so sound, Upon his virtues must their laughter found; Chaste, sober, solemn, and devout they named Him who was thus, and not of this ashamed. Such were the virtues Jonas found in one In whom he warmly wish'd to find a son: Three years had pass'd since he had Sybil seen; But she was doubtless what she once had been, Lovely and mild, obedient and discreet; The pair must love whenever they should meet; Then ere the widow or her son should choose Some happier maid, he would explain his views: Now she, like him, was politic and shrewd, With strong desire of lawful gain embued; To all he said, she bow'd with much respect, Pleased to comply, yet seeming to reject; Cool and yet eager, each admired the strength Of the opponent, and agreed at length: As a drawn battle shows to each a force, Powerful as his, he honours it of course; So in these neighbours, each the power discern'd, And gave the praise that was to each return'd. Jonas now ask'd his daughter--and the Aunt, Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant: - But would not Sybil to the matron cling, And fear to leave the shelter of her wing? No! in the young there lives a love of change, And to the easy they prefer the strange! Then, too, the joys she once pursued with zeal, From whist and visits sprung, she ceased to feel: When with the matrons Sybil first sat down, To cut for partners and to stake her crown, This to the youthful maid preferment seem'd, Who thought what woman she was then esteem'd; But in few years, when she perceived, indeed, The real woman to the girl succeed, No longer tricks and honours fill'd her mind, But other feelings, not so well defined; She then reluctant grew, and thought it hard To sit and ponder o'er an ugly card; Rather the nut-tree shade the nymph preferr'd, Pleased with the pensive gloom and evening bird; Thither, from company retired, she took The silent walk, or read the fav'rite book. The father's letter, sudden, short, and kind, Awaked her wonder, and disturb'd her mind; She found new dreams upon her fancy seize, Wild roving thoughts and endless reveries. The parting came;--and when the Aunt perceived The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved - To love for her that tender grief she laid, That various, soft, contending passions made. When Sybil rested in her father's arms, His pride exulted in a daughter's charms; A maid accomplish'd he was pleased to find, Nor seem'd the form more lovely than the mind: But when the fit of pride and fondness fled, He saw his judgment by his hopes misled; High were the lady's spirits, far more free Her mode of speaking than a maid's should be; Too much, as Jonas thought, she seem'd to know, And all her knowledge was disposed to show; "Too gay her dress, like theirs who idly dote On a young coxcomb or a coxcomb's coat; In foolish spirits when our friends appear, And vainly grave when not a man is near." Thus Jonas, adding to his sorrow blame, And terms disdainful to a Sister's name: "The sinful wretch has by her arts denied The ductile spirit of my darling child." "The maid is virtuous," said the dame--Quoth he, "Let her give proof, by acting virtuously: Is it in gaping when the Elders pray? In reading nonsense half a summer's day? In those mock forms that she delights to trace, Or her loud laughs in Hezekiah's face? She--O Susannah!--to the world belongs; She loves the follies of its idle throngs, And reads soft tales of love, and sings love's soft'ning songs. But, as our friend is yet delay'd in town, We must prepare her till the Youth comes down: You shall advise the maiden; I will threat; Her fears and hopes may yield us comfort yet." Now the grave father took the lass aside, Demanding sternly, "Wilt thou be a bride?" She answer'd, calling up an air sedate, "I have not vow'd against the holy state." "No folly, Sybil," said the parent; "know What to their parents virtuous maidens owe: A worthy, wealthy youth, whom I approve, Must thou prepare to honour and to love. Formal to thee his air and dress may seem, But the good youth is worthy of esteem: Shouldst thou with rudeness treat him; of disdain Should he with justice or of slight complain, Or of one taunting speech give certain proof, Girl! I reject thee from my sober roof." "My aunt," said Sybil," will with pride protect One whom a father can for this reject; Nor shall a formal, rigid, soul-less boy My manners alter, or my views destroy!" Jonas then lifted up his hands on high, And, utt'ring something 'twixt a groan and sigh, Left the determined maid, her doubtful mother by. "Hear me," she said; "incline thy heart, my child, And fix thy fancy on a man so mild: Thy father, Sybil, never could be moved By one who loved him, or by one he loved. Union like ours is but a bargain made By slave and tyrant--he will be obey'd; Then calls the quiet, comfort--but thy Youth Is mild by nature, and as frank as truth." "But will he love?" said Sybil; "I am told That these mild creatures are by nature cold." "Alas!" the matron answer'd, "much I dread That dangerous love by which the young are led! That love is earthy; you the creature prize, And trust your feelings and believe your eyes: Can eyes and feelings inward worth descry? No! my fair daughter, on our choice rely! Your love, like that display'd upon the stage, Indulged is folly, and opposed is rage; - More prudent love our sober couples show, All that to mortal beings, mortals owe; All flesh is grass--before you give a heart, Remember, Sybil, that in death you part; And should your husband die before your love, What needless anguish must a widow prove! No! my fair child, let all such visions cease; Yield but esteem, and only try for peace." "I must be loved," said Sybil; "I must see The man in terrors who aspires to me; At my forbidding frown his heart must ache, His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake: And if I grant him at my feet to kneel, What trembling, fearful pleasure must he feel; Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire, That reason's self must for a time retire." "Alas! for good Josiah," said the dame, "These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame; He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust! He cannot, child:"--the Child replied, "He must." They ceased: the matron left her with a frown; So Jonas met her when the Youth came down: "Behold," said he, "thy future spouse attends; Receive him, daughter, as the best of friends; Observe, respect him--humble be each word, That welcomes home thy husband and thy lord." Forewarn'd, thought Sybil, with a bitter smile, I shall prepare my manner and my style. Ere yet Josiah enter'd on his task, The father met him--"Deign to wear a mask A few dull days, Josiah--but a few - It is our duty, and the sex's due; I wore it once, and every grateful wife Repays it with obedience through her life: Have no regard to Sybil's dress, have none To her pert language, to her flippant tone: Henceforward thou shalt rule unquestion'd and alone; And she thy pleasure in thy looks shall seek - How she shall dress, and whether she may speak." A sober smile returned the Youth, and said, "Can I cause fear, who am myself afraid?" Sybil, meantime, sat thoughtful in her room, And often wonder'd--"Will the creature come? Nothing shall tempt, shall force me to bestow My hand upon him,--yet I wish to know." The door unclosed, and she beheld her sire Lead in the Youth, then hasten to retire; "Daughter, my friend--my daughter, friend," he cried, And gave a meaning look, and stepp'd aside: That look contained a mingled threat and prayer, "Do take him, child,--offend him if you dare." The couple gazed--were silent, and the maid Look'd in his face, to make the man afraid; The man, unmoved, upon the maiden cast A steady view--so salutation pass'd: But in this instant Sybil's eye had seen The tall fair person, and the still staid mien; The glow that temp'rance o'er the cheek had spread, Where the soft down half veil'd the purest red; And the serene deportment that proclaim'd A heart unspotted, and a life unblamed: But then with these she saw attire too plain, The pale brown coat, though worn without a stain; The formal air, and something of the pride That indicates the wealth it seems to hide; And looks that were not, she conceived, exempt From a proud pity, or a sly contempt. Josiah's eyes had their employment too, Engaged and soften'd by so bright a view; A fair and meaning face, an eye of fire, That check'd the bold, and made the free retire: But then with these he marked the studied dress And lofty air, that scorn or pride express; With that insidious look, that seem'd to hide In an affected smile the scorn and pride; And if his mind the virgin's meaning caught, He saw a foe with treacherous purpose fraught - Captive the heart to take, and to reject it, caught. Silent they sat--thought Sybil, that he seeks Something, no doubt; I wonder if he speaks: Scarcely she wonder'd, when these accents fell Slow in her ear--"Fair maiden, art thou well?" "Art thou physician?" she replied; "my hand, My pulse, at least, shall be at thy command." She said--and saw, surprised, Josiah kneel, And gave his lips the offer'd pulse to feel; The rosy colour rising in her cheek, Seem'd that surprise unmix'd with wrath to speak; Then sternness she assumed, and--"Doctor, tell; Thy words cannot alarm me--am I well?" "Thou art," said he; "and yet thy dress so light, I do conceive, some danger must excite:" "In whom?" said Sybil, with a look demure: "In more," said he, "than I expect to cure; - I, in thy light luxuriant robe behold Want and excess, abounding and yet cold; Here needed, there display'd, in many a wanton fold; Both health and beauty, learned authors show, From a just medium in our clothing flow." "Proceed, good doctor; if so great my need, What is thy fee? Good doctor! pray proceed." "Large is my fee, fair lady, but I take None till some progress in my cure I make: Thou hast disease, fair maiden; thou art vain; Within that face sit insult and disdain; Thou art enamour'd of thyself; my art Can see the naughty malice of thy heart: With a strong pleasure would thy bosom move, Were I to own thy power, and ask thy love; And such thy beauty, damsel, that I might, But for thy pride, feel danger in thy sight, And lose my present peace in dreams of vain delight." "And can thy patients," said the nymph "endure Physic like this? and will it work a cure?" "Such is my hope, fair damsel; thou, I find, Hast the true tokens of a noble mind; But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys; Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around, That in thine own pure bosom should be found; Did all that world admire thee, praise and love, Could it the least of nature's pains remove? Could it for errors, follies, sins atone, Or give the comfort, thoughtful and alone? It has, believe me, maid, no power to charm Thy soul from sorrow, or thy flesh from harm: Turn then, fair creature, from a world of sin, And seek the jewel happiness within." "Speak'st thou at meeting?" said the nymph; "thy speech Is that of mortal very prone to teach; But wouldst thou, doctor, from the patient learn Thine own disease?--the cure is thy concern." "Yea, with good will."--"Then know 'tis thy complaint, That, for a sinner, thou'rt too much a saint; Hast too much show of the sedate and pure, And without cause art formal and demure: This makes a man unsocial, unpolite; Odious when wrong, and insolent if right. Thou mayst be good, but why should goodness be Wrapt in a garb of such formality? Thy person well might please a damsel's eye, In decent habit with a scarlet dye; But, jest apart--what virtue canst thou trace In that broad brim that hides thy sober face? Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? Then for thine accent--what in sound can be So void of grace as dull monotony? Love has a thousand varied notes to move The human heart: --thou mayest not speak of love Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside, And those becoming youth and nature tried: Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease, Prove it thy study and delight to please; Not till these follies meet thy just disdain, While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain." "This is severe!--Oh! maiden wilt not thou Something for habits, manners, modes, allow?" - "Yes! but allowing much, I much require, In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire!" "True, lovely Sybil; and, this point agreed, Let me to those of greater weight proceed: Thy father!"--"Nay," she quickly interposed, "Good doctor, here our conference is closed!" Then left the Youth, who, lost in his retreat, Pass'd the good matron on her garden-seat; His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild And calm, was hurried: --"My audacious child!" Exclaim'd the dame, "I read what she has done In thy displeasure--Ah! the thoughtless one: But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man Speak of the maid as mildly as you can: Can you not seem to woo a little while The daughter's will, the father to beguile? So that his wrath in time may wear away; Will you preserve our peace, Josiah? say." "Yes! my good neighbour," said the gentle youth, "Rely securely on my care and truth; And should thy comfort with my efforts cease, And only then,--perpetual is thy peace." The dame had doubts: she well his virtues knew, His deeds were friendly, and his words were true: "But to address this vixen is a task He is ashamed to take, and I to ask." Soon as the father from Josiah learn'd What pass'd with Sybil, he the truth discern'd. "He loves," the man exclaim'd, "he loves, 'tis plain, The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain? She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried, Born as she is of wilfulness and pride." With anger fraught, but willing to persuade, The wrathful father met the smiling maid: "Sybil," said he, "I long, and yet I dread To know thy conduct--hath Josiah fled? And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air, For his lost peace, betaken him to prayer? Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress By vile remarks upon his speech, address, Attire, and voice?"--"All this I must confess." "Unhappy child! what labour will it cost To win him back!"--"I do not think him lost." "Courts he then (trifler!) insult and disdain?" - "No; but from these he courts me to refrain." "Then hear me, Sybil: should Josiah leave Thy father's house?"--"My father's child would grieve." "That is of grace, and if he come again To speak of love?"--"I might from grief refrain." "Then wilt thou, daughter, our design embrace?" - "Can I resist it, if it be of Grace?" "Dear child in three plain words thy mind express: Wilt thou have this good youth?"--"Dear Father! yes."

TALE VII.

THE WIDOW'S TALE.

Ah me! for aught that I could ever read, Or ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But either it was different in blood, Or else misgrafted in respect of years, Or else it stood upon the choice of friends; Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. SHAKESPEARE, Midsummer Night's Dream.

Oh! thou didst then ne'er love so heartily, If thou rememberest not the slighest folly That ever love did make thee run into. As You Like It.

Cry the man mercy! love him, take his offer.
As You Like It.

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To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down, His only daughter, from her school in town; A tender, timid maid! who knew not how To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow: Smiling she came, with petty talents graced, A fair complexion, and a slender waist. Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure, Her father's kitchen she could ill endure: Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat, And laid at once a pound upon his plate; Hot from the field, her eager brother seized An equal part, and hunger's rage appeased; The air surcharged with moisture, flagg'd around, And the offended damsel sigh'd and frown'd; The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid, And fancy's sickness seized the loathing maid: But when the men beside their station took, The maidens with them, and with these the cook; When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food; With bacon, mass saline, where never lean Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen; When from a single horn the party drew Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new; When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again - She could not breathe; but with a heavy sigh, Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye; She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine, And wonder'd much to see the creatures dine; When she resolved her father's heart to move, If hearts of farmers were alive to love. She now entreated by herself to sit In the small parlour, if papa thought fit, And there to dine, to read, to work alone - "No!" said the Farmer in an angry tone; "These are your school-taught airs; your mother's pride Would send you there; but I am now your guide. - Arise betimes, our early meal prepare, And, this despatch'd, let business be your care; Look to the lasses, let there not be one Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done; In every household work your portion take, And what you make not, see that others make: At leisure times attend the wheel, and see The whit'ning web besprinkled on the lea; When thus employ'd, should our young neighbours view, A useful lass,--you may have more to do." Dreadful were these commands; but worse than these The parting hint--a Farmer could not please: 'Tis true she had without abhorrence seen Young Harry Carr, when he was smart and clean: But, to be married--be a farmer's wife - A slave! a drudge!--she could not for her life. With swimming eyes the fretful nymph withdrew, And, deeply sighing, to her chamber flew; There on her knees, to Heaven she grieving pray'd For change of prospect to a tortured maid. Harry, a youth whose late-departed sire Had left him all industrious men require, Saw the pale Beauty,--and her shape and air Engaged him much, and yet he must forbear: "For my small farm what can the damsel do?" He said,--then stopp'd to take another view: "Pity so sweet a lass will nothing learn Of household cares,--for what can beauty earn By those small arts which they at school attain, That keep them useless, and yet make them vain?" This luckless Damsel look'd the village round, To find a friend, and one was quickly found: A pensive Widow, whose mild air and dress Pleased the sad nymph, who wish'd her soul's distress To one so seeming kind, confiding, to confess. "What Lady that?" the anxious lass inquired, Who then beheld the one she most admired: "Here," said the Brother, "are no ladies seen - That is a widow dwelling on the Green; A dainty dame, who can but barely live On her poor pittance, yet contrives to give; She happier days has known, but seems at ease, And you may call her lady if you please: But if you wish, good sister, to improve, You shall see twenty better worth your love." These Nancy met; but, spite of all they taught, This useless Widow was the one she sought: The father growl'd; but said he knew no harm In such connexion that could give alarm; "And if we thwart the trifler in her course, 'Tis odds against us she will take a worse." Then met the friends; the Widow heard the sigh That ask'd at once compassion and reply: - "Would you, my child, converse with one so poor, Yours were the kindness--yonder is my door: And, save the time that we in public pray, From that poor cottage I but rarely stray." There went the nymph, and made her strong complaints, Painting her woe as injured feeling paints. "Oh, dearest friend! do think how one must feel, Shock'd all day long, and sicken'd every meal; Could you behold our kitchen (and to you A scene so shocking must indeed be new), A mind like yours, with true refinement graced, Would let no vulgar scenes pollute your taste: And yet, in truth, from such a polish'd mind All base ideas must resistance find, And sordid pictures from the fancy pass, As the breath startles from the polish'd glass. "Here you enjoy a sweet romantic scene, Without so pleasant, and within so clean; These twining jess'mines, what delicious gloom And soothing fragrance yield they to the room! What lovely garden! there you oft retire, And tales of woe and tenderness admire. In that neat case your books, in order placed, Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultur'd taste; And thus, while all about you wears a charm, How must you scorn the Farmer and the Farm!" The Widow smiled, and "Know you not," said she, "How much these farmers scorn or pity me; Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see? True, their opinion alters not my fate, By falsely judging of an humble state: This garden you with such delight behold, Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold; These plants which please so well your livelier sense, To mine but little of their sweets dispense: Books soon are painful to my failing sight, And oftener read from duty than delight; (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find Both joy and duty in the act combined;) But view me rightly, you will see no more Than a poor female, willing to be poor; Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers, Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours, Of never-tasted joys;--such visions shun, My youthful friend, nor scorn the Farmer's Son." "Nay," said the Damsel, nothing pleased to see A friend's advice could like a Father's be, "Bless'd in your cottage, you must surely smile At those who live in our detested style: To my Lucinda's sympathising heart Could I my prospects and my griefs impart;, She would console me; but I dare not show, Ills that would wound her tender soul to know: And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell The secrets of the prison where I dwell; For that dear maiden would be shock'd to feel The secrets I should shudder to reveal; When told her friend was by a parent ask'd, 'Fed you the swine?'--Good heaven! how I am task'd! - What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief That woos your pity and demands relief." "Trifles, my love: you take a false alarm; Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm: Duties in every state demand your care, And light are those that will require it there. Fix on the Youth a favouring eye, and these, To him pertaining, or as his, will please." "What words," the Lass replied, "offend my ear! Try you my patience? Can you be sincere? And am I told a willing hand to give To a rude farmer, and with rustics live? Far other fate was yours;--some gentle youth Admir'd your beauty, and avow'd his truth; The power of love prevail'd, and freely both Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding oath; And then the rival's plot, the parent's power, And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour: Ah! let not memory lose the blissful view, But fairly show what love has done for you." "Agreed, my daughter; what my heart has known Of Love's strange power, shall be with frankness shown: But let me warn you, that experience finds Few of the scenes that lively hope designs." "Mysterious all," said Nancy; "you, I know, Have suffered much; now deign the grief to show, - I am your friend, and so prepare my heart In all your sorrows to receive a part." The Widow answer'd: "I had once, like you, Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue; You judge it fated, and decreed to dwell In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel, A passion doom'd to reign, and irresistible. The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain Rejects the fury or defies the pain; The strongest reason fails the flames t'allay, And resolution droops and faints away: Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they prove At once the force of this all-powerful love; Each from that period feels the mutual smart, Nor seeks to cure it--heart is changed for heart; Nor is there peace till they delighted stand, And, at the altar--hand is join'd to hand. "Alas! my child, there are who, dreaming so, Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the woe. There is no spirit sent the heart to move With such prevailing and alarming love; Passion to reason will submit--or why Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny? Or how could classes and degrees create The slightest bar to such resistless fate? Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix; No beggars' eyes the heart of kings transfix; And who but am'rous peers or nobles sigh, When titled beauties pass triumphant by? For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove; You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love; All would be safe, did we at first inquire - 'Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?' But quitting precept, let example show What joys from Love uncheck'd by prudence flow. "A Youth my father in his office placed, Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste; But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks: He studied much, and pored upon his books: Confused he was when seen, and when he saw Me or my sisters, would in haste withdraw; And had this youth departed with the year, His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear. "But with my father still the youth remain'd, And more reward and kinder notice gain'd: He often, reading, to the garden stray'd, Where I by books or musing was delay'd; This to discourse in summer evenings led, Of these same evenings, or of what we read: On such occasions we were much alone; But, save the look, the manner, and the tone, (These might have meaning,) all that we discuss'd We could with pleasure to a parent trust. "At length 'twas friendship--and my Friend and I Said we were happy, and began to sigh; My sisters first, and then my father, found That we were wandering o'er enchanted ground: But he had troubles in his own aifairs, And would not bear addition to his cares: With pity moved, yet angry, 'Child,' said he, 'Will you embrace contempt and beggary?' Can you endure to see each other cursed By want, of every human woe the worst? Warring for ever with distress, in dread Either of begging or of wanting bread; While poverty, with unrelenting force, Will your own offspring from your love divorce; They, through your folly, must be doom'd to pine, And you deplore your passion, or resign; For if it die, what good will then remain? And if it live, it doubles every pain.'" "But you were true," exclaim'd the Lass," and fled The tyrant's power who fill'd your soul with dread?" "But," said the smiling Friend, "he fill'd my mouth with bread: And in what other place that bread to gain We long consider'd, and we sought in vain: This was my twentieth year,--at thirty-five Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive; So many years in anxious doubt had pass'd." "Then," said the Damsel, "you were bless'd at last?" A smile again adorn'd the Widow's face, But soon a starting tear usurp'd its place. "Slow pass'd the heavy years, and each had more Pains and vexations than the years before. My father fail'd; his family was rent, And to new states his grieving daughters sent: Each to more thriving kindred found a way, Guests without welcome,--servants without pay; Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel The sad, sweet converse at our final meal; Our father then reveal'd his former fears, Cause of his sternness, and then join'd our tears: Kindly he strove our feelings to repress, But died, and left us heirs to his distress. The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose; I with a wealthy widow sought repose; Who with a chilling frown her friend received, Bade me rejoice, and wonder'd that I grieved: In vain my anxious lover tried his skill, To rise in life, he was dependent still: We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years: Our dying hopes and stronger fears between, We felt no season peaceful or serene; Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night, Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light; And then domestic sorrows, till the mind, Worn with distresses, to despair inclined; Add too the ill that from the passion flows, When its contemptuous frown the world bestows, The peevish spirit caused by long delay, When, being gloomy, we contemn the gay, When, being wretched, we incline to hate And censure others in a happier state; Yet loving still, and still compell'd to move In the sad labyrinth of lingering love: While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm, May wed--oh! take the Farmer and the Farm." "Nay," said the nymph, "joy smiled on you at last?" "Smiled for a moment," she replied, "and pass'd: My lover still the same dull means pursued, Assistant call'd, but kept in servitude; His spirits wearied in the prime of life, By fears and wishes in eternal strife; At length he urged impatient--'Now consent; With thee united, Fortune may relent.' I paused, consenting; but a Friend arose, Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose; From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream; By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired, And sail'd--was wounded--reach'd us--and expired! You shall behold his grave; and when I die, There--but 'tis folly--I request to lie." "Thus," said the lass, "to joy you bade adieu! But how a widow?--that cannot be true: Or was it force, in some unhappy hour, That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant's power?" "Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled, Is what a woman seldom has to dread; She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls, And seldom comes a lover though she calls: Yet, moved by fancy, one approved my face, Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace. "The man I married was sedate and meek, And spoke of love as men in earnest speak; Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought for years, A heart in sorrow and a face in tears: That heart I gave not; and 'twas long before I gave attention, and then nothing more: But in my breast some grateful feeling rose, For one whose love so sad a subject chose; Till long delaying, fearing to repent, But grateful still, I gave a cold assent. Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find, And he but one: my heart could not be kind: Alas! of every early hope bereft, There was no fondness in my bosom left; So had I told him, but had told in vain, He lived but to indulge me and complain: His was this cottage; he inclosed this ground. And planted all these blooming shrubs around; He to my room these curious trifles brought, And with assiduous love my pleasure sought; He lived to please me, and I ofttimes strove, Smiling, to thank his unrequited love: 'Teach me,' he cried, 'that pensive mind to ease, For all my pleasure is the hope to please.' Serene though heavy, were the days we spent, Yet kind each word, and gen'rous each intent; But his dejection lessen'd every day, And to a placid kindness died away: In tranquil ease we pass'd our latter years, By griefs untroubled, unassail'd by fears. Let not romantic views your bosom sway; Yield to your duties, and their call obey: Fly not a Youth, frank, honest, and sincere; Observe his merits, and his passion hear! 'Tis true, no hero, but a farmer, sues - Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views; With him you cannot that affliction prove, That rends the bosom of the poor in love: Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days, Your friends' approval, and your father's praise, Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late." The Damsel heard; at first th' advice was strange, Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change: "I have no care," she said, when next they met, But one may wonder, he is silent yet; He looks around him with his usual stare, And utters nothing--not that I shall care." This pettish humour pleased th' experienced Friend - None need despair, whose silence can offend; "Should I," resumed the thoughtful Lass, "consent To hear the man, the man may now repent: Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough, Or give one hint, that 'You may woo me now?'" "Persist, my love," replied the Friend, "and gain A parent's praise, that cannot be in vain." The father saw the change, but not the cause, And gave the alter'd maid his fond applause: The coarser manners she in part removed, In part endured, improving and improved; She spoke of household works, she rose betimes, And said neglect and indolence were crimes; The various duties of their life she weigh'd, And strict attention to her dairy paid; The names of servants now familiar grew, And fair Lucinda's from her mind withdrew; As prudent travellers for their ease assume Their modes and language to whose lands they come; So to the Farmer this fair Lass inclined, Gave to the business of the Farm her mind; To useful arts she turned her hand and eye; And by her manners told him--"You may try." Th' observing Lover more attention paid, With growing pleasure, to the alter'd maid; He fear'd to lose her, and began to see That a slim beauty might a helpmate be: 'Twixt hope and fear he now the lass address'd, And in his Sunday robe his love express'd: She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy, Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; But still she lent an unreluctant ear To all the rural business of the year; Till love's strong hopes endured no more delay, And Harry ask'd, and Nancy named the day. "A happy change! my Boy," the father cried: "How lost your sister all her school-day pride?" The Youth replied, "It is the Widow's deed; The cure is perfect and was wrought with speed. And comes there, Boy, this benefit of books, Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks? We must be kind--some offerings from the Farm To the White Cot will speak our feelings warm; Will show that people, when they know the fact, Where they have judged severely, can retract. Oft have I smiled, when I beheld her pass With cautious step as if she hurt the grass; Where, if a snail's retreat she chanced to storm, She look'd as begging pardon of the worm; And what, said I, still laughing at the view, Have these weak creatures in the world to do? But some are made for action, some to speak; And, while she looks so pitiful and meek, Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.' Soon told the village-bells the rite was done, That joined the school-bred Miss and Farmer's Son; Her former habits some slight scandal raised, But real worth was soon perceived and praised; She, her neat taste imparted to the Farm, And he, th' improving skill and vigorous arm.

TALE VIII.

THE MOTHER.

What though you have beauty, Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It.

I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed. As You Like It.

Wilt thou love such a woman? What! to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee!--Not to be endured. As You Like It.

Your son,
As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
Her estimation hence.
All's Well that Ends Well.

Be this sweet Helen's knell; He left a wife whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfections hearts that scorn'd to serve Humbly call'd Mistress. All's Well that Ends Well.

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