Opening…

Preface

The very miscellaneous nature of the contents of this third and last volume of the present edition of Crabbe’s Poems obliges me to trouble the reader with a rather lengthy series of prefatory remarks. Before, however, entering on these, I should like to supplement what was said in the Preface to Vol. 1 with regard to the source of the earliest among the Juvenilia there printed. Since writing that Preface I have at last had an opportunity of examining the whole set of Vols. I-VI (for the years 1770–5) of the elusive Lady’s Magazine, of which Vol. I was published by Robinson and Roberts, and the remaining five volumes by Robinson. Curiously enough, the 1773 volume of this Magazine contains, in the February number, a long piece of verse, apparently a prize poem, entitled An Essay on Hope; but the six lines quoted by the younger Crabbe are not to be found in this poem any more than in that printed in the October number of the 1772 volume of the Magazine. By another coincidence, a poem called The Bee, signed “Louisa Broughton,” appears in the April number of the same Magazine for 1774. I may add, that the June number of the same volume contains a poem, in Shenstone’s manner, addressed “To Miss E——r M——,” and signed “G. C., Cambridge, May 2, 1774.” It has an apologetic introductory note, which might have been written by Crabbe.

To turn to the present volume. The Tales of the Hall (Bks. XII-XXII), which occupy its earlier pages are, like the previous Tales contained in Vol. II, printed from the edition of 1823; and the variants are taken from the first edition (1819) and from the “Original MS.” readings given as footnotes in the edition of 1834. The Posthumous Tales are printed from Vol. VIII of the Poetical Works of Crabbe edited by his son (1834). The sources of the variants in the Posthumous Tales will be indicated immediately.

With regard to the remaining contents of the present volume, it may be convenient if I here, in accordance with a promise made in the Preface to Vol. II of the present edition, furnish some account of the Crabbe MSS. now in the possession of the Cambridge University Press, as well as of certain other collections of MSS. of which I have been fortunate enough to be allowed to make use. In each case, I have, for purposes of reference, indicated the marks by which, in a list given at the end of the Bibliography included in the present volume, the previously unpublished pieces by Crabbe, here printed from transcripts of the originals in the several collections, have been distinguished.

The MS. books acquired by the Cambridge University Press (U.P.) are five in number. One of these, half-bound in red, is throughout in Crabbe’s handwriting, and contains, together with fragments of the Posthumous Tales I, III, VI, VII and X, and a version of Lines written at Warwick (p. 428), in each case offering some variants which have been duly noted, Joseph’s Dream (p. 521) and some other pieces now printed for the first time. The writing, partly in pen, partly in pencil, on the first and the last four pages of this volume, has been disregarded, as not sufficiently coherent to warrant an attempt at printing it. A note superscribed “Duchess of Rutland, Oct. 11th, 1824” (perhaps the lines in question were written in the Duchess’s album) states that the verses here entitled On a View of Barford (p. 505) refer to a picture drawn by Miss Bagot of that house, when occupied by Mr and Mrs Mills. This note further states that An Inscription at Guy’s Cliff which Crabbe has marked as “By ——,” and the verses added by him (p. 504) refer to a picture of Guy’s Cliff near Leamington, the property of Mr Bertie Greathead. Another note explains that the verses On a Drawing of Cadlands (p. 518) refer to a picture of Mr Drummond’s seat of that name by Lady Elizabeth Drummond; and that the “drawing by the Hon. Mrs. Smith (Eliza Forrester)” (p. 519) consisted of “a Landscape and other pieces.” This MS. book also contains an earlier copy of the lines entitled La Femme Jalouse (p. 507). The last three stanzas of the poem on a drawing of Brompton Park Cottage (p. 506) are added from the version given in this MS. book. From it are also taken a few readings in the stanzas For the Drawing of the Lady in the Green Mantle (p. 520). From it is also printed the fragment Joseph and Charles (p. 492), with which should be compared Vol. VIII, pp. 63 sq. of the edition of 1834, and indeed the whole tale of The Family of Love. It also contains a draft of The Equal Marriage (Posthumous Tales, III), with a few variants, noted among those printed at the end of the present volume; also a draft of Silford Hall (Posthumous Tales, I), with a considerable number of variants, of which the chief have been noted in the same place. There are also to be found here drafts of Lines written at Warwick (p. 428), and of the lines On a Drawing of the Elm Tree (p. 431), &c., there stated to be by Miss Chilibeen(?), both with variants. Finally, the same MS. book contains the lines which I have entitled Rest in the Lord (p. 523) and the unfinished lines And He said unto her, “Thy Sins are forgiven” (p. 524).

On the fly-leaf of a second Crabbe MS. book in the possession of the Cambridge University Press (U.P.) is written: “This MS. is by the Poet Crabbe and in his autograph. It is one of his Memorandum Books.” This book begins with three pages of almost illegible verse, which appear to contain an earlier draft of a portion of what follows. Then ensues the long MS. entitled Tracy, to which is prefixed, in Crabbe’s own handwriting, the date “1 Jan. 1813,” and which is interrupted at intervals by further illegible passages. On pp. “18–19” of this MS. book there is an account, only in part legible, of the beginning of the Lady’s Vision, which is continued in the portion printed in the present volume (from p. 450). The lines beginning “The good are happy,” appear to form no part of Tracy, though they have been inserted in the middle of it, and are therefore here printed as a separate piece, to which I have given the title Conscious Guiltiness (p. 498). The verses superscribed Jane Adair, which are similarly inserted in the text of Tracy, are likewise printed separately (p. 512), as are also those which I have respectively called Horatio (p. 513), Jacob and Rachel (p. 514), David and Saul (p. 515), Belief and Unbelief (p. 499), and The Task (p. 498). Then follows a version of the lines On receiving from a Lady a Present of a Ring (p. 432); then a version of Villars (Posthumous Tales, V); then the fragment of a tale, which I have entitled Susan and her Lovers (p. 462), interspersed with some illegible passages; then another fragment of a tale, Captain Godfrey (p. 468); then a further fragment, The Amours of G[eorge], which is obviously an early draft, in a different metre, of a large portion of The Elder Brother (Tales of the Hall, Bk. VII); then the Charade (Modesty) (p. 516); then a variant of the conclusion of the tale of Villars (see above); then the lines Tragic Tales, Why? a fragment (p. 474). Opening this volume at the other end, we find it to contain prose-sketches of certain of the Tales; a criticism of Gibbon and other miscellaneous matter; besides the verses on Miss Waldron’s Birthday (p. 502), and some partially illegible and quite incoherent fragments.

A third, small, MS. book (U.P.), of which the writing is throughout remarkably clear, and which has few variants from the text of the 1834 edition, contains, together with fifteen of the Posthumous Tales, The Funeral of the Squire, obviously designed as one of this series, and now printed for the first time (p. 489). There is nothing in this book that has not been previously printed except The Funeral.

A fourth, small, MS. book (U.P.) contains, together with some fragments of Tales of the Hall, Bks. VII and XI, of which the variants have been noted in Vol. II of this edition, and a version of the lines On the Death of Sir Samuel Romilly (p. 439), the stanzas entitled Matilda (p. 516). A number of pages in pencil have been unavoidably disregarded. In the same little book are a few fragmentary lines, hitherto unprinted, that must originally have been intended to form part of the Tales of the Hall (p. 473).

A fifth, also small, MS. book (U.P.) contains, besides a catalogue of Crabbe’s library at Trowbridge, and a few accounts, the two short pieces printed in the present volume under the titles Momentary Grief (p. 507) and Enigma (Sovereign) (p. 515). A number of pages at the end of this volume have been cut out.

Through the kind offices of the Vice-Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, Mr W. Aldis Wright, I was allowed to examine a MS. volume in the Trinity Library (T.C.) which bears the following inscription: “This volume, which formerly belonged to Crabbe the poet was given to the Library of Trinity College, Cambridge, by Edward FitzGerald, M.A., April, 1871.” The obverse of the volume contains a list of Plants, beginning with Cryptogamia. On a fly-leaf are written, in a tremulous hand (probably Crabbe’s), the lines which I have entitled A Fragment (p. 497). Then follow, in Crabbe’s ordinary writing, the lines printed in the present volume under the title of Poverty and Love (ib.); and towards the end of the book, are, in Crabbe’s handwriting, the lines here called The Curate’s Progress (ib.). The reverse of this MS. book, which is on the cover very neatly dated September 23, 1793, contains, besides another shorter list of plants and much miscellaneous matter, a scribbled page of verse, from which I was only able to extract the following entire couplet:

“The Sum on Dress by this fair Creature spent Would more than equal Colin’s yearly rent.”

Professor E. Dowden, LL.D., of Trinity College, Dublin, has added to previous obligations conferred on me in connexion with the present edition by allowing me the use of two small books belonging to him, in Crabbe’s handwriting (D.). One of these supplies the complete Tale of The Deserted Family, now for the first time printed (pp. 477–488). The other contains drafts of Posthumous Tales VI-XVI and XXII; the more important variants offered by these are inserted in the list at the end of the present volume. From this MS. book are also taken the verses entitled The Prodigal Going (p. 517).

The originals of certain pieces contained in the present volume are to be found in a book belonging to Mrs Mackay, of Trowbridge, which she has with the utmost liberality placed at my service. This interesting portion of Mrs Mackay’s collection (M.) contains a series of proof-engravings of Corbould’s, Westall’s and other illustrations of certain among the earlier editions of Crabbe’s Poems. It also includes a draft of a portion of The Sisters (Tales of the Hall, Bk. VIII; see Vol. II, and variants, ib.), and the lines To Lady Jersey (p. 435), in a version, of which the variants have been duly noted. From this book are taken the following poems: the stanzas called by me The Flowers of the Spring (p. 508), of which I have ventured to transpose the last two, and the fragment which I have named La Belle Dame sans Merci (p. 509). Both pieces are here printed for the first time. Mrs Mackay’s collection also contains, written on separate leaves, the blank-verse lines entitled by me The Passionate Pilgrim (p. 496), which are subscribed “Crabbe,” and of which the handwriting in several respects resembles that in Crabbe’s autograph of Midnight (see Vol. I), though less flowing than this; the couplets called by me Sorrow (p. 496), which are not in the handwriting of Crabbe; and, finally, the lines To the Hon. Mrs Spencer (p. 503), which are signed “Geo. Crabbe.”

Mr Buxton-Forman has most generously allowed me to print a series of pieces from his collection of MSS. (B.F.). It includes the verses which are entirely in Crabbe’s handwriting, as is perhaps the signature appended, and which I have called Hopeless Love (p. 510); the fragment David Jones (p. 476) of which the text may be, the title is certainly not, in Crabbe’s hand; and the fragment which I have called Robert and Catharine (p. 475), as to which it seems uncertain whether the text is in Crabbe’s hand. It is manifestly an early draft of The Cousins (Posthumous Tales, XXI); but the actual phraseology in the two versions is very rarely the same. The following pieces are also derived from the same collection: those called by me Union (p. 511) and Revival (ib.), of which latter the third stanza appears in a rather different form on a separate leaf; Metamorphosis (p. 512); and Contentment (p. 493), a fragment of a tale. Mr Buxton-Forman’s Crabbe MSS. also include memoranda for Tales and drafts of parts of The Will (Posthumous Tales, XX) and of Belinda Waters (ib. XV). In neither case are the variants offered by these drafts of importance.

Finally, the late Duke of Rutland was so kind as to allow several pieces of verse in Crabbe’s own handwriting preserved at Belvoir to be transcribed for insertion in the present edition (B). Some of these, I cannot but think, were transcribed by the Duke’s own hand. Most of them were exhibited at the Crabbe Celebration held at Aldborough in September, 1905, and successfully arranged and organised by Mr Charles Ganz. The Verses to the Duke of Rutland dated Belvoir, August, 1784, were most kindly transcribed for me after the death of the late Duke by his Grace’s Chaplain and Librarian, the Rev. F. W. Knox. Of these pieces, the Verses written for the Duke of Rutland’s Birthday (January 4, 1817) (p. 499) and the lines entitled La Femme Jalouse (Teniers) (p. 507) are here printed for the first time; to the latter a few variants have been furnished from an earlier copy in one of the MS. books in the possession of the University Press (U.P.). The stanzas For the Drawing of the Lady in the Green Mantle (p. 520), and Brompton Park Cottage (p. 506), are also printed for the first time, from transcripts made by the late Duke of Rutland, or by his Grace’s instructions, from the originals at Belvoir. In the former case the original states the “Fair Artist” who drew the picture to have been Miss Isabella Forrester. In the latter the drawing in question is stated to have been made by Lady Sophia Norman, the cottage having been lent to the Duke, when ill, by Mr Greenwood. In the former case the last three stanzas, and in the latter a few various readings, have been supplied from one of the Crabbe MS. books in the possession of the Cambridge University Press (U.P.). To the lines From Belvoir Castle (p. 389), Storm and Calm (p. 396), and To Sarah, Countess of Jersey, on her Birthday (p. 435), previously printed in the 1834 edition, variants have been supplied from the Duke’s transcripts.

Of the Miscellaneous Verses previously printed reprinted in the present volume the two Poetical Epistles (April, 1780) are, by the kind permission of Mr Buxton-Forman, owner of the MSS., and of Dr W. Robertson Nicoll and Mr T. J. Wise, editors of Literary Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century (1896), and of Messrs Hodder and Stoughton, reproduced at length from Vol. II of that work. Ten lines from the Epistle to Mira had already been printed in Vol. I (p. 67) from the Life (p. 58) in Vol. I of the 1834 edition.

From this edition also come, with the exception of the last but two and the last, all the remaining shorter pieces already published (some with variants, duly noted, from the University Press and Belvoir MSS., from the MSS. of Mrs Mackay, and from an article entitled Treasure Trove contributed by Miss M. Jourdain to The Book Monthly for May, 1906). This article, of which Miss Jourdain and her publishers (Messrs Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co.) kindly allowed me to make use, consists of pieces printed from transcripts made at Belvoir Castle. In Miss Jourdain’s article is included stanza v of The Friend in Love (p. 437), which is missing in the stanzas given in the Life (1834). A few variants in this version have been duly noted. I may add that between The World of Dreams and Sir Eustace Grey which in metre and otherwise are so closely associated with one another, no actual parallelisms either of sense or of form are noticeable. The exceptions referred to are the following. The Lines (Edinburgh, August 15, 1822) (p. 440) are printed, without variants, from a separately printed leaflet in my possession: and the Lines addressed to the Dowager Duchess of Rutland (p. 441) from The Casket (1829), with variants from Miss Jourdain’s article in The Book Monthly.

Of the Poems hitherto unpublished a list giving the source of each will be found at the close of the Bibliography in this volume. In the general sequence of these pieces I have so far as possible adopted a chronological order; the whole body of previously unpublished verse has however been divided into two groups—viz. tales and fragments of tales, and lyrical pieces; and, where there was no indication of date, the poems taken from the same collection of MSS. have been kept together.

It remains for me to return my sincere thanks to the possessors of Crabbe MSS. already mentioned, and to others who have in various ways aided me in making this concluding volume of Crabbe’s Poems, and therewith the edition as a whole, as complete as possible. I should like, in especial, to thank Professor MORFILL of Oxford for enriching the Bibliography at the close of this volume by enabling us to refer to two works which attest the very curious and significant fact of the interest in Crabbe taken in Russia.

The Bibliography itself has been drawn up by Mr A. T. BARTHOLOMEW, of Peterhouse and the University Library, who has again compiled the list of Variants, and to whom the present volume of this edition, like its predecessors, is throughout indebted for his continuous cooperation. It is a true pleasure to me to have been so zealously and efficiently aided in the performance of my task by a member of my own College.

A. W. WARD.

PETERHOUSE LODGE, CAMBRIDGE. December 10th, 1906.

CORRIGENDUM, CRABBE’S POEMS, VOL. III.

p. xviii, l. 6 from bottom } p. 414, l. 1 } for Mother’s read Wife’s. p. 567, last line }

Lines, addressed to the Dowager Duchess of Rutland 441

FRAGMENTS OF TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS VERSES NOT PREVIOUSLY PRINTED

Tracy 444

[Susan and her Lovers] 462

Captain Godfrey 468

The Amours of G[eorge] 471

[Fragments of Tales of the Hall] 473

Tragic Tales, Why? 474

[Robert and Catharine] 475

David Jones 476

The Deserted Family 477

The Funeral of the Squire 489

Joseph and Charles 492

[Contentment] 493

To His Grace the Duke of Rutland 493

[The Passionate Pilgrim] 496

[Sorrow] 496

[A Fragment] 497

[Poverty and Love] 497

[The Curate’s Progress] 497

[The Task] 498

[Conscious Guiltiness] 498

[Belief and Unbelief] 499

Verses written for the Duke of Rutland’s Birthday 499

Miss Waldron’s Birthday 502

To the Hon. Mrs. Spencer 503

An Inscription at Guy’s Cliff 504

[On a view of] Barford 505

Brompton Park Cottage 506

[Momentary Grief] 507

La Femme Jalouse (Teniers) 507

[The Flowers of the Spring] 508

[La Belle Dame Sans Merci] 509

[Hopeless Love] 510

[Union] 511

[Revival] 511

[Metamorphosis] 512

Jane Adair 512

[Horatio] 513

[Jacob and Rachel] 514

[David and Saul] 515

Enigma 515

Charade 516

[Matilda] 516

The Prodigal Going 517

On a drawing of Cadlands 518

[On] a drawing, by the Hon. Mrs. Smith (Eliza Forrester) 519

For the drawing of the Lady in the Green Mantle 520

Joseph’s Dream 521

[Rest in the Lord!] 523

And He said unto her “Thy sins are forgiven” 524

ERRATA 525

VARIANTS 526

BIBLIOGRAPHY 554

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XII

SIR OWEN DALE.

The Rector at the Hall—Why absent—He relates the Story of Sir Owen—His Marriage—Death of his Lady—His Mind acquires new Energy—His Passions awake—His Taste and Sensibility—Admires a Lady—Camilla—Her Purpose—Sir Owen’s Disappointment—His Spirit of Revenge—How gratified—The Dilemma of Love—An Example of Forgiveness—Its Effect.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XII

SIR OWEN DALE.

Again the Brothers saw their friend the priest, Who shared the comforts he so much increased; Absent of late—and thus the squire address’d, With welcome smile, his ancient friend and guest. “What has detain’d thee? some parochial case? Some man’s desertion, or some maid’s disgrace? Or wert thou call’d, as parish priest, to give Name to a new-born thing that would not live, That its weak glance upon the world had thrown, And shrank in terror from the prospect shown? 10 Or hast thou heard some dying wretch deplore, That of his pleasures he could taste no more, Who wish’d thy aid his spirits to sustain, And drive away the fears that gave him pain? For priests are thought to have a patent charm To ease the dying sinner of alarm. Or was thy business of the carnal sort, And thou wert gone a patron’s smile to court, And Croft or Cresswell would’st to Binning add, Or take, kind soul! whatever could be had? 20 Once more I guess: th’ election now is near; My friend, perhaps, is sway’d, by hope or fear, And all a patriot’s wishes, forth to ride, And hunt for votes to prop the fav’rite side?” “More private duty call’d me hence, to pay My friends respect on a rejoicing day,” Replied the rector; “there is born a son, Pride of an ancient race, who pray’d for one, And long desponded. Would you hear the tale— Ask, and ’tis granted—of Sir Owen Dale?” 30 “Grant,” said the Brothers, “for we humbly ask; Ours be the gratitude, and thine the task. Yet dine we first; then to this tale of thine, As to thy sermon, seriously incline; In neither case our rector shall complain Of this recited, that composed, in vain. Something we heard of vengeance, who appall’d, Like an infernal spirit, him who call’d, And, ere he vanished, would perform his part, Inflicting tortures on the wounded heart. 40 Of this but little from report we know; If you the progress of revenge can show, Give it, and all its horrors, if you please; We hear our neighbour’s sufferings much at ease. “Is it not so? For do not men delight— } We call them men—our bruisers to excite, } And urge with bribing gold, and feed them for the fight? } Men beyond common strength, of giant size, And threat’ning terrors in each other’s eyes; When in their naked, native force display’d, 50 Look answers look, affrighting and afraid; While skill, like spurs and feeding, gives the arm The wicked power to do the greater harm. Maim’d in the strife, the falling man sustains Th’ insulting shout, that aggravates his pains— Man can bear this; and shall thy hearers heed A tale of human sufferings? Come! proceed.” Thus urged, the worthy rector thought it meet Some moral truth, as preface, to repeat; Reflection serious—common-place, ’tis true; 60} But he would act as he was wont to do, } And bring his morals in his neighbour’s view. } “O! how the passions, insolent and strong, Bear our weak minds their rapid course along; Make us the madness of their will obey; Then die, and leave us to our griefs a prey!” Sir Owen Dale his fortieth year had seen, With temper placid, and with mind serene; Rich, early married to an easy wife, They led in comfort a domestic life. 70 He took of his affairs a prudent care, And was by early habit led to spare; Not as a miser, but in pure good taste, That scorn’d the idle wantonness of waste. In fact, the lessons he from prudence took Were written in his mind, as in a book: There what to do he read, and what to shun; And all commanded was with promptness done; He seem’d without a passion to proceed, Or one whose passions no correction need. 80 Yet some believed those passions only slept, And were in bounds by early habits kept; Curb’d as they were by fetters worn so long, There were who judged them a rebellious throng. To these he stood, not as a hero true, Who fought his foes, and in the combat slew, But one who all those foes, when sleeping, found, And, unresisted, at his pleasure bound. We thought—for I was one—that we espied Some indications strong of dormant pride: 90 It was his wish in peace with all to live; And he could pardon, but could not forgive; Nay, there were times when stern defiance shook The moral man, and threaten’d in his look. Should these fierce passions—so we reason’d—break Their long-worn chain, what ravage will they make! In vain will prudence then contend with pride, And reason vainly bid revenge subside; Anger will not to meek persuasion bend, Nor to the pleas of hope or fear attend; 100 What curb shall, then, in their disorder’d race, } Check the wild passions? what the calm replace? } Virtue shall strive in vain; and has he help in grace? } While yet the wife with pure discretion ruled, The man was guided, and the mind was school’d; But then that mind unaided ran to waste: He had some learning, but he wanted taste; Placid, not pleased—contented, not employ’d— He neither time improved, nor life enjoy’d. That wife expired, and great the loss sustain’d, 110 Though much distress he neither felt nor feign’d: He loved not warmly; but the sudden stroke Deeply and strongly on his habits broke. He had no child to soothe him, and his farm, His sports, his speculations, lost their charm; Then would he read and travel, would frequent Life’s busy scenes; and forth Sir Owen went. The mind, that now was free, unfix’d, uncheck’d, Read and observed with wonderful effect; And still, the more he gain’d, the more he long’d 120 To pay that mind his negligence had wrong’d; He felt his pleasures rise as he improved; And, first enduring, then the labour loved. But, by the light let in, Sir Owen found Some of those passions had their chain unbound; As from a trance they rose to act their part, And seize, as due to them, a feeling heart. His very person now appear’d refined, And took some graces from th’ improving mind; He grew polite without a fix’d intent, 130 And to the world a willing pupil went. Restore him twenty years—restore him ten— And bright had been his earthly prospect then; But much refinement, when it late arrives, May be the grace, not comfort, of our lives. Now had Sir Owen feeling: things of late Indifferent he began to love or hate; What once could neither good nor ill impart Now pleased the senses, and now touch’d the heart; Prospects and pictures struck th’ awaken’d sight, 140 And each new object gave a new delight. He, like th’ imperfect creature who had shaped A shroud to hide him, had at length escaped; Changed from his grub-like state, to crawl no more, But a wing’d being, pleased and form’d to soar. Now, said his friends, while thus his views improve, And his mind softens, what if he should love? True; life with him has yet serene appear’d, And therefore love in wisdom should be fear’d; Forty and five his years, and then to sigh 150 For beauty’s favour!—Son of frailty, fly! Alas! he loved; it was our fear, but ours, His friends’, alone. He doubted not his pow’rs To win the prize, or to repel the charm, To gain the battle, or escape the harm; For he had never yet resistance proved, Nor fear’d that friends should say—“Alas! he loved.” Younger by twenty years, Camilla found Her face unrivall’d when she smiled or frown’d; Of all approved; in manner, form, and air, 160 Made to attract; gay, elegant, and fair. She had, in beauty’s aid, a fair pretence To cultivated, strong intelligence; For she a clear and ready mind had fed With wholesome food; unhurt by what she read. She loved to please; but, like her dangerous sex, To please the more whom she design’d to vex. This heard Sir Owen, and he saw it true; } It promised pleasure, promised danger too; } But this he knew not then, or slighted if he knew. 170} Yet he delay’d, and would by trials prove That he was safe; would see the signs of love; Would not address her while a fear remain’d; But win his way, assured of what he gain’d. This saw the lady, not displeased to find A man at once so cautious and so blind; She saw his hopes that she would kindly show Proofs of her passion—then she his should know: “So, when my heart is bleeding in his sight, His love acknowledged will the pains requite; 180 It is, when conquer’d, he the heart regards; Well, good Sir Owen! let us play our cards.” He spake her praise in terms that love affords, By words select, and looks surpassing words. Kindly she listen’d, and in turn essay’d To pay th’ applauses—and she amply paid, A beauty flattering!—beauteous flatterers feel The ill you cause, when thus in praise you deal; For surely he is more than man, or less, When praised by lips that he would die to press, 190 And yet his senses undisturb’d can keep, Can calmly reason, or can soundly sleep. Not so Sir Owen; him Camilla praised, And lofty hopes and strong emotions raised; This had alone the strength of man subdued; But this enchantress various arts pursued. Let others pray for music—others pray’d In vain; Sir Owen ask’d, and was obey’d; Let others, walking, sue that arm to take— Unmoved she kept it for Sir Owen’s sake; 200 Each small request she granted, and though small, He thought them pledges of her granting all. And now the lover, casting doubt aside, Urged the fond suit that—could not be denied; Joy more than reverence moved him when he said; “Now banish all my fears, angelic maid!” And, as she paused for words, he gaily cried, “I must not, cannot, will not be denied.” Ah! good Sir Owen, think not favours, such As artful maids allow, amount to much; 210 The sweet, small, poison’d baits, that take the eye And win the soul of all who venture nigh. Camilla listen’d, paused, and look’d surprise, Fair witch! exulting in her witcheries! She turn’d aside her face, withdrew her hand, And softly said, “Sir, let me understand.” “Nay, my dear lady! what can words explain, If all my looks and actions plead in vain? I love”—She show’d a cool, respectful air; And he began to falter in his prayer, 220 Yet urged her kindness—-Kindness she confess’d; It was esteem; she felt it, and express’d, For her dear father’s friend; and was it right That friend of his—she thought of hers—to slight? This to the wond’ring lover strange and new, And false appear’d—he would not think it true. Still he pursued the lovely prize, and still Heard the cold words, design’d his hopes to kill; He felt dismay’d, as he perceived success Had inverse ratio, more obtaining less; 230 And still she grew more cool in her replies, And talk’d of age and improprieties. Then to his friends, although it hurt his pride, } And to the lady’s, he for aid applied; } Who kindly woo’d for him, but strongly were denied. } And now it was those fiercer passions rose, Urged by his love to murder his repose; Shame shook his soul to be deceived so long, And fierce revenge for such contemptuous wrong; Jealous he grew, and jealousy supplied 240} His mind with rage, unsooth’d, unsatisfied; } And grievous were the pangs of deeply wounded pride. } His generous soul had not the grief sustain’d, Had he not thought, “revenge may be obtain’d.” Camilla grieved, but grief was now too late; She hush’d her fears, and left th’ event to fate.— Four years elapsed, nor knew Sir Owen yet How to repay the meditated debt; The lovely foe was in her thirtieth year, Nor saw the favourite of the heart appear; 250 ’Tis sure, less sprightly the fair nymph became, And spoke of former levities with shame; But this, alas! was not in time confess’d, And vengeance waited in Sir Owen’s breast. But now the time arrives—the maid must feel And grieve for wounds that she refused to heal. Sir Owen, childless, in his love had rear’d A sister’s son; and now the youth appear’d In all the pride of manhood, and, beside, With all a soldier’s spirit and his pride; 260 Valiant and poor, with all that arms bestow, And wants that captains in their quarters know; Yet to his uncle’s generous heart was due The praise, that wants of any kind were few. When he appear’d, Sir Owen felt a joy Unknown before, his vengeance bless’d the boy— “To him I dare confide a cause so just; Love him she may—O! could I say, she must!” Thus fix’d, he more than usual kindness show’d, Nor let the captain name the debt he owed; 270 But when he spoke of gratitude, exclaim’d, “My dearest Morden! make me not ashamed; Each for a friend should do the best he can, The most obliged is the obliging man; But if you wish to give as well as take, You may a debtor of your uncle make.” Morden was earnest in his wish to know How he could best his grateful spirit show. Now the third dinner had their powers renew’d, And fruit and wine upon the table stood; 280 The fire brought comfort, and the warmth it lent A cheerful spirit to the feelings sent; When thus the uncle—“Morden, I depend On you for aid—assist me as a friend: Full well I know that you would much forego, And much endure, to wreak me on my foe. Charles, I am wrong’d, insulted—nay, be still, Nor look so fiercely—there are none to kill. “I loved a lady, somewhat late in life, Perhaps too late, and would have made a wife; 290 Nay, she consented; for consent I call The mark’d distinction that was seen of all, And long was seen; but when she knew my pain, Saw my first wish her favour to obtain, And ask her hand—no sooner was it ask’d, Than she the lovely Jezebel unmask’d; And by her haughty airs, and scornful pride, My peace was wounded—nay, my reason tried; I felt despised and fallen when we met, And she, O folly! looks too lovely yet; 300 Yet love no longer in my bosom glows, But my heart warms at the revenge it owes. “O! that I saw her with her soul on fire, Desperate from love, and sickening with desire; While all beheld her just, unpitied pain, Grown in neglect, and sharpen’d by disdain! Let her be jealous of each maid she sees, } Striving by every fruitless art to please, } And when she fondly looks, let looks and fondness tease! } So, lost on passion’s never resting sea, 310 Hopeless and helpless, let her think of me! Charles, thou art handsome, nor canst want the art To warm a cold or win a wanton heart; Be my avenger”—— Charles, with smile, not vain, Nor quite unmix’d with pity and disdain, Sate mute in wonder; but he sate not long Without reflection:—“Was Sir Owen wrong? So must I think; for can I judge it right To treat a lovely lady with despite, Because she play’d too roughly with the love 320 Of a fond man whom she could not approve? And yet, to vex him for the love he bore Is cause enough for his revenge, and more. “But, thoughts, to council!—Do I wear a charm That will preserve my citadel from harm? Like the good knight, I have a heart that feels The wounds that beauty makes and kindness heals: Beauty she has, it seems, but is not kind— So found Sir Owen, and so I may find. “Yet why, O! heart of tinder, why afraid? 330 Comes so much danger from so fair a maid? Wilt thou be made a voluntary prize To the fierce firing of two wicked eyes? Think her a foe, and on the danger rush, Nor let thy kindred for a coward blush. “But how if this fair creature should incline To think too highly of this love of mine, And, taking all my counterfeit address For sterling passion, should the like profess? “Nay, this is folly; or, if I perceive 340 Ought of the kind, I can but take my leave; And if the heart should feel a little sore, Contempt and anger will its ease restore. “Then, too, to his all-bounteous hand I owe All I possess, and almost all I know; And shall I for my friend no hazard run, Who seeks no more for all his love has done? “’Tis but to meet and bow, to talk and smile, To act a part, and put on love awhile; And the good knight shall see, this trial made, 350 That I have just his talents to persuade; For why the lady should her heart bestow } On me, or I of her enamour’d grow, } There’s none can reason give, there’s none can danger show.” } These were his rapid thoughts, and then he spoke. “I make a promise, and will not revoke; You are my judge in what is fit and right, And I obey you—bid me love or fight; Yet had I rather, so the act could meet With your concurrence, not to play the cheat; 360 In a fair cause”——“Charles, fighting for your king, Did you e’er judge the merits of the thing? Show me a monarch who has cause like mine, And yet what soldier would his cause decline?” Poor Charles or saw not, or refused to see, How weak the reasoning of our hopes may be, And said—“Dear uncle, I my king obey’d, And for his glory’s sake the soldier play’d; Now a like duty shall your nephew rule, And for your vengeance I will play the fool.” 370 ’Twas well; but ere they parted for repose, A solemn oath must the engagement close. “Swear to me, nephew, from the day you meet This cruel girl, there shall be no deceit; That by all means approved and used by man You win this dangerous woman, if you can; That, being won, you my commands obey, Leave her lamenting, and pursue your way; And that, as in my business, you will take My will as guide, and no resistance make: 380 Take now an oath—within the volume look, There is the Gospel—swear, and kiss the book.” “It cannot be,” thought Charles, “he cannot rest In this strange humour—it is all a jest, All but dissimulation—Well, sir, there; Now I have sworn as you would have me swear.” “’Tis well,” the uncle said in solemn tone; “Now send me vengeance, Fate, and groan for groan!” The time is come: the soldier now must meet Th’ unconscious object of the sworn deceit. 390 They meet; each other’s looks the pair explore, And, such their fortune, wish’d to part no more. Whether a man is thus disposed to break An evil compact he was forced to make, Or whether some contention in the breast Will not permit a feeling heart to rest; Or was it nature, who in every case Has made such mind subjected to such face: Whate’er the cause, no sooner met the pair Than both began to love, and one to feel despair. 400 But the fair damsel saw with strong delight Th’ impression made, and gloried in the sight. No chilling doubt alarm’d her tender breast, But she rejoiced in all his looks profess’d; Long ere his words her lover’s hopes convey’d, They warm’d the bosom of the conscious maid; One spirit seem’d each nature to inspire, And the two hearts were fix’d in one desire. “Now,” thought the courteous maid, “my father’s friend Will ready pardon to my fault extend; 410 He shall no longer lead that hermit’s life, But love his mistress in his nephew’s wife; My humble duty shall his anger kill, } And I who fled his love will meet his will, } Prevent his least desire, and every wish fulfil.” } Hail, happy power! that to the present lends Such views; not all on Fortune’s wheel depends: Hope, fair enchantress, drives each cloud away, And now enjoys the glad, but distant, day. Still fears ensued; for love produces fear.— 420 “To this dear maid can I indeed be dear? My fatal oath, alas! I now repent; Stern in his purpose, he will not relent; Would, ere that oath, I had Camilla seen! I had not then my honour’s victim been; I must be honest, yet I know not how, ’Tis crime to break, and death to keep my vow.” Sir Owen closely watch’d both maid and man, And saw with joy proceed his cruel plan; Then gave his praise—“She has it—has it deep 430} In her capricious heart—it murders sleep; } You see the looks that grieve, you see the eyes that weep; } Now breathe again, dear youth, the kindling fire, And let her feel what she could once inspire.” Alas! obedience was an easy task, So might he cherish what he meant to ask; He ventured soon, for Love prepared his way, He sought occasion, he forbad delay; In spite of vow foregone he taught the youth The looks of passion, and the words of truth; 440 In spite of woman’s caution, doubt, and fear, He bade her credit all she wish’d to hear; An honest passion ruled in either breast, And both believed the truth that both profess’d. But now, ’mid all her new-born hopes, the eyes Of fair Camilla saw through all disguise, Reserve, and apprehension—Charles, who now Grieved for his duty, and abhorr’d his vow, Told the full fact, and it endear’d him more; She felt her power, and pardon’d all he swore, 450 Since to his vow he could his wish prefer, And loved the man who gave his world for her. What must they do, and how their work begin, Can they that temper to their wishes win? They tried, they fail’d; and all they did t’ assuage The tempest of his soul provoked his rage; The uncle met the youth with angry look, And cried, “Remember, sir, the oath you took; You have my pity, Charles, but nothing more, Death, and death only, shall her peace restore; 460 And am I dying?—I shall live to view The harlot’s sorrow, and enjoy it too. “How! Words offend you? I have borne for years Unheeded anguish, shed derided tears, Felt scorn in every look, endured the stare Of wondering fools, who never felt a care; On me all eyes were fix’d, and I the while Sustain’d the insult of a rival’s smile. “And shall I now—entangled thus my foe— My honest vengeance for a boy forego? 470 A boy forewarn’d, forearm’d? Shall this be borne, And I be cheated, Charles, and thou forsworn? Hope not, I say, for thou mayst change as well } The sentence graven on the gates of hell— } Here bid adieu to hope—here hopeless beings dwell. } “But does she love thee, Charles? I cannot live Dishonour’d, unrevenged—I may forgive, But to thy oath I bind thee; on thy soul Seek not my injured spirit to control; Seek not to soften; I am hard of heart, 480} Harden’d by insult:—leave her now, and part, } And let me know she grieves while I enjoy her smart.” } Charles first in anger to the knight replied, Then felt the clog upon his soul, and sigh’d: To his obedience made his wishes stoop, And now admitted, now excluded hope; As lovers do, he saw a prospect fair, And then so dark, he sank into despair. The uncle grieved; he even told the youth That he was sorry, and it seem’d a truth; 490 But, though it vex’d, it varied not his mind; He bound himself, and would his nephew bind. “I told him this, placed danger in his view, Bade him be certain, bound him to be true; And shall I now my purposes reject, Because my warnings were of no effect?” Thus felt Sir Owen as a man whose cause Is very good—it had his own applause.

* * * * *

Our knight a tenant had in high esteem, His constant boast, when justice was his theme: 500 He praised the farmer’s sense, his shrewd discourse, Free without rudeness, manly, and not coarse; As farmer, tenant, nay, as man, the knight Thought Ellis all that is approved and right. Then he was happy, and some envy drew, For knowing more than other farmers knew; They call’d him learned, and it sooth’d their pride, While he in his was pleased and gratified. Still more t’ offend, he to the altar led The vicar’s niece, to early reading bred; 510 Who, though she freely ventured on the life, Could never fully be the farmer’s wife; She had a softness, gentleness, and ease, Sure a coarse mind to humble and displease. O! had she never known a fault beside, How vain their spite, how impotent their pride! Three darling girls the happy couple bless’d, Who now the sweetest lot of life possess’d; For what can more a grateful spirit move Than health, with competence, and peace, with love? 520 Ellis would sometimes, thriving man! retire To the town inn, and quit the parlour fire; But he was ever kind where’er he went, } And trifling sums in his amusements spent; } He bought, he thought, for her—she should have been content. } Oft, when he cash received at Smithfield mart, At Cranbourn-alley he would leave a part; And, if to town he follow’d what he sold, Sure was his wife a present to behold. Still, when his evenings at the inn were spent, 530 She mused at home in sullen discontent; And, sighing, yielded to a wish that some With social spirit to the farm would come. There was a farmer in the place, whose name, And skill in rural arts, was known to fame; He had a pupil, by his landlord sent, On terms that gave the parties much content: The youth those arts, and those alone, should learn; With aught beside his guide had no concern. He might to neighb’ring towns or distant ride, 540 And there amusements seek without a guide; With handsome prints his private room was graced, } His music there, and there his books were placed; } Men knew not if he farm’d, but they allow’d him taste. } Books, prints, and music, cease, at times, to charm, And sometimes men can neither ride nor farm; They look for kindred minds, and Cecil found, In Farmer Ellis, one inform’d and sound; But in his wife—I hate the fact I tell— A lovely being, who could please too well; 550 And he was one who never would deny Himself a pleasure, or indeed would try. Early and well the wife of Ellis knew Where danger was, and trembled at the view; So evil spirits tremble, but are still Evil, and lose not the rebellious will. She sought not safety from the fancied crime, “And why retreat before the dangerous time?” Oft came the student of the farm and read, And found his mind with more than reading fed: 560 This Ellis seeing, left them, or he staid, As pleased him, not offended nor afraid: He came in spirits with his girls to play, Then ask excuse, and, laughing, walk away: When, as he entered, Cecil ceased to read, He would exclaim, “Proceed, my friend, proceed!” Or, sometimes weary, would to bed retire, And fear and anger by his ease inspire. “My conversation does he then despise? Leaves he this slighted face for other eyes?” 570 So said Alicia; and she dwelt so long Upon that thought, to leave her was to wrong. Alas! the woman loved the soothing tongue, That yet pronounced her beautiful and young; The tongue that, seeming careless, ever praised; The eye that, roving, on her person gazed; The ready service, on the watch to please; And all such sweet, small courtesies as these. Still there was virtue, but a rolling stone On a hill’s brow is not more quickly gone; 580 The slightest motion—ceasing from our care— A moment’s absence—when we’re not aware— When down it rolls, and at the bottom lies, Sunk, lost, degraded, never more to rise! Far off the glorious height from whence it fell, With all things base and infamous to dwell. Friendship with woman is a dangerous thing— Thence hopes avow’d and bold confessions spring; Frailties confess’d to other frailties lead, And new confessions new desires succeed; 590 And, when the friends have thus their hearts disclosed, They find how little is to guilt opposed. The foe’s attack will on the fort begin, When he is certain of a friend within. When all was lost—or, in the lover’s sight, When all was won—the lady thought of flight. “What! sink a slave?” she said, “and with deceit The rigid virtue of a husband meet? No! arm’d with death, I would his fury brave, And own the justice of the blow he gave! 600 But thus to see him easy, careless, cold, And his confiding folly to behold; To feel incessant fears that he should read, In looks assumed, the cause whence they proceed, I cannot brook; nor will I here abide Till chance betrays the crime that shame would hide. Fly with me, Henry!” Henry sought in vain To soothe her terrors and her griefs restrain; He saw the lengths that women dared to go, And fear’d the husband both as friend and foe. 610 Of farming weary—for the guilty mind Can no resource in guiltless studies find— Left to himself, his mother all unknown, His titled father, loth the boy to own, Had him to decent expectations bred, A favour’d offspring of a lawless bed; And would he censure one who should pursue The way he took? Alicia yet was new; Her passion pleased him; he agreed on flight; They fix’d the method, and they chose the night. 620 Then, while the farmer read of public crimes, Collating coolly [Chronicle] and Times, The flight was taken by the guilty pair, That made one passage in the columns there. The heart of Ellis bled; the comfort, pride, The hope and stay of his existence, died; Rage from the ruin of his peace arose, And he would follow and destroy his foes; Would with wild haste the guilty pair pursue, And when he found—Good heaven? what would he do? 630 That wretched woman he would wildly seize, And agonize her heart, his own to ease; That guilty man would grasp, and in her sight Insult his pangs, and her despair excite; Bring death in view, and then the stroke suspend, And draw out tortures till his life should end; O! it should stand recorded in all time, How they transgress’d, and he avenged the crime! In this bad world should all his business cease, He would not seek—he would not taste of peace; 640 But wrath should live till vengeance had her due, And with his wrath his life should perish too. His girls—not his—he would not be so weak— Child was a word he never more must speak! How did he know what villains had defiled His honest bed?—He spurn’d the name of child: Keep them he must; but he would coarsely hide Their forms, and nip the growth of woman’s pride; He would consume their flesh, abridge their food, And kill the mother-vices in their blood. 650

* * * * *

All this Sir Owen heard, and grieved for all; He with the husband mourn’d Alicia’s fall; But urged the vengeance with a spirit strong, As one whose own rose high against the wrong. He saw his tenant by this passion moved, Shared in his wrath, and his revenge approved. Years now unseen, he mourn’d this tenant’s fate, And wonder’d how he bore his widow’d state; Still he would mention Ellis with the pride Of one who felt himself to worth allied. 660 Such were his notions—had been long, but now He wish’d to see if vengeance lived, and how; He doubted not a mind so strong must feel Most righteously, and righteous measures deal. Then would he go, and haply he might find Some new excitement for a weary mind; Might learn the miseries of a pair undone, One scorn’d and hated, lost and perish’d one. Yes, he would praise to virtuous anger give, And so his vengeance should be nursed and live. 670 Ellis was glad to see his landlord come, } A transient joy broke in upon his gloom, } And pleased he led the knight to the superior room; } Where she was wont in happier days to sit, Who paid with smiles his condescending wit. There the sad husband, who had seldom been Where prints acquired in happier days were seen, Now struck by these, and carried to the past, A painful look on every object cast. Sir Owen saw his tenant’s troubled state, 680 But still he wish’d to know the offenders’ fate. “Know you they suffer, Ellis?”—Ellis knew; “’Tis well! ’tis just! but have they all their due? Have they in mind and body, head and heart, Sustain’d the pangs of their accursed part!”— “They have!”—“’Tis well!”—“and wants enough to shake The firmest mind, the stoutest heart to break.”— “But have you seen them in such misery dwell?”— “In misery past description.”—“That is well.” “Alas! Sir Owen, it perhaps is just; 690 Yet I began my purpose to distrust; For they to justice have discharged a debt, That vengeance surely may her claim forget.”— “Man, can you pity?”— “As a man I feel Miseries like theirs.”— “But never would you heal?”— “Hear me, Sir Owen:—I had sought them long, Urged by the pain of ever present wrong, Yet had not seen; and twice the year came round— Years hateful now—ere I my victims found. But I did find them, in the dungeon’s gloom 700 Of a small garret—a precarious home; For that depended on the weekly pay, And they were sorely frighten’d on the day. But there they linger’d on from week to week, Haunted by ills of which ’tis hard to speak; For they are many and vexatious all, The very smallest—but they none were small. “The roof, unceil’d in patches, gave the snow Entrance within, and there were heaps below; I pass’d a narrow region dark and cold, 710 The strait of stairs to that infectious hold; And, when I enter’d, misery met my view } In every shape she wears, in every hue, } And the bleak icy blast across the dungeon flew; } There frown’d the ruin’d walls that once were white; There gleam’d the panes that once admitted light; There lay unsavoury scraps of wretched food; And there a measure, void of fuel, stood. But who shall part by part describe the state Of these, thus follow’d by relentless fate? 720 All, too, in winter, when the icy air Breathed its bleak venom on the guilty pair. “That man, that Cecil!—he was left, it seems, Unnamed, unnoticed: farewell to his dreams! Heirs made by law rejected him of course, And left him neither refuge nor resource.— Their father’s? No; he was the harlot’s son } Who wrong’d them, whom their duty bade them shun; } And they were duteous all, and he was all undone. } “Now the lost pair, whom better times had led 730 To part disputing, shared their sorrow’s bed; Their bed!—I shudder as I speak—and shared Scraps to their hunger by the hungry spared.”— “Man! my good Ellis! can you sigh?”—“I can: In short, Sir Owen, I must feel as man; And could you know the miseries they endured, The poor, uncertain pittance they procured; When, laid aside the needle and the pen, Their sickness won the neighbours of their den, Poor as they are—and they are passing poor— 740 To lend some aid to those who needed more; Then, too, an ague with the winter came; } And, in this state—that wife I cannot name } Brought forth a famish’d child of suffering and of shame. } “This had you known, and traced them to this scene, Where all was desolate, defiled, unclean, A fireless room, and, where a fire had place, The blast loud howling down the empty space— You must have felt a part of the distress, Forgot your wrongs, and made their suffering less!”— 750 “Sought you them, Ellis, from the mean intent To give them succour?”— “What indeed I meant At first was vengeance; but I long pursued The pair, and I at last their misery view’d In that vile garret, which I cannot paint— The sight was loathsome, and the smell was faint; And there that wife, whom I had loved so well, And thought so happy, was condemn’d to dwell; The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad To see in dress beyond our station clad, 760 And to behold among our neighbours fine, More than perhaps became a wife of mine: And now among her neighbours to explore, And see her poorest of the very poor!— I would describe it, but I bore a part, Nor can explain the feelings of the heart; Yet memory since has aided me to trace The horrid features of that dismal place. There she reclined unmoved, her bosom bare To her companion’s unimpassion’d stare, 770 And my wild wonder—Seat of virtue! chaste, As lovely once! O! how wert thou disgraced! Upon that breast, by sordid rags defiled, Lay the wan features of a famish’d child;— That sin-born babe in utter misery laid, Too feebly wretched even to cry for aid; The ragged sheeting, o’er her person drawn, Served for the dress that hunger placed in pawn. “At the bed’s feet the man reclined his frame; Their chairs were perish’d to support the flame 780 That warm’d his agued limbs, and, sad to see, That shook him fiercely as he gazed on me. “I was confused in this unhappy view: My wife! my friend! I could not think it true; My children’s mother—my Alicia—laid On such a bed! so wretched—so afraid! And her gay, young seducer, in the guise Of all we dread, abjure, defy, despise, And all the fear and terror in his look, Still more my mind to its foundation shook. 790 At last he spoke:—‘Long since I would have died, } But could not leave her, though for death I sigh’d, } And tried the poison’d cup, and dropt it as I tried. } “‘She is a woman, and that famish’d thing Makes her to life, with all its evils, cling; Feed her, and let her breathe her last in peace, And all my sufferings with your promise cease!’ “Ghastly he smiled;—I knew not what I felt, But my heart melted—hearts of flint would melt, To see their anguish, penury, and shame, 800 How base, how low, how groveling they became. I could not speak my purpose, but my eyes And my expression bade the creature rise. “Yet, O! that woman’s look! my words are vain Her mix’d and troubled feelings to explain; True, there was shame and consciousness of fall, } But yet remembrance of my love withal, } And knowledge of that power which she would now recal. } “But still the more that she to memory brought, The greater anguish in my mind was wrought; 810 The more she tried to bring the past in view, She greater horror on the present threw; So that, for love or pity, terror thrill’d My blood, and vile and odious thoughts instill’d. “This war within, these passions in their strife, If thus protracted, had exhausted life; But the strong view of these departed years Caused a full burst of salutary tears; And, as I wept at large, and thought alone, I felt my reason re-ascend her throne.” 820 “My friend!” Sir Owen answer’d, “what became Of your just anger?—when you saw their shame, It was your triumph, and you should have shown Strength, if not joy—their sufferings were their own.”— “Alas, for them! their own in very deed! And they of mercy had the greater need; Their own by purchase, for their frailty paid— And wanted heaven’s own justice human aid? And seeing this, could I beseech my God For deeper misery, and a heavier rod?” 830 “But could you help them?”—“Think, Sir Owen, how I saw them then—methinks I see them now! She had not food, nor aught a mother needs, Who for another life and dearer feeds. I saw her speechless; on her wither’d breast The wither’d child extended, but not prest, Who sought, with moving lip and feeble cry, Vain instinct! for the fount without supply. “Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene, } Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean, 840} Foul with compell’d neglect, unwholesome, and unclean; } That arm—that eye—the cold, the sunken cheek— Spoke all, Sir Owen—fiercely miseries speak!”— “And you relieved?”— “If hell’s seducing crew Had seen that sight, they must have pitied too.”— “Revenge was thine—thou hadst the power, the right; To give it up was heaven’s own act to slight.”— “Tell me not, sir, of rights, and wrongs, or powers! I felt it written—Vengeance is not ours!”— “Well, Ellis, well!—I find these female foes, 850 Or good or ill, will murder our repose; And we, when Satan tempts them, take the cup, The fruit of their foul sin, and drink it up; But shall our pity all our claims remit, And we the sinners of their guilt acquit?”— “And what, Sir Owen, will our vengeance do? } It follows us when we our foe pursue, } And, as we strike the blow, it smites the smiters too.”— } “What didst thou, man?”— “I brought them to a cot Behind your larches—a sequester’d spot, 860 Where dwells the woman; I believe her mind Is now enlighten’d—I am sure, resign’d. She gave her infant, though with aching heart And faltering spirit, to be nursed apart.”— “And that vile scoundrel”—— “Nay, his name restore, And call him Cecil,—for he is no more. When my vain help was offer’d, he was past All human aid, and shortly breathed his last; But his heart open’d, and he lived to see Guilt in himself, and find a friend in me. 870 “Strange was their parting—parting on the day I offer’d help, and took the man away, Sure not to meet again, and not to live And taste of joy—He feebly cried, ‘Forgive! I have thy guilt, thou mine, but now adieu! } Tempters and tempted! what will thence ensue } I know not, dare not think!’—He said, and he withdrew.”— } “But, Ellis, tell me, didst thou thus desire To heap upon their heads those coals of fire?”— “If fire to melt, that feeling is confest,— 880 If fire to shame, I let that question rest; But if aught more the sacred words imply, I know it not—no commentator I.”— “Then did you freely from your soul forgive?”— “Sure as I hope before my Judge to live, Sure as I trust his mercy to receive, Sure as his word I honour and believe, Sure as the Saviour died upon the tree } For all who sin,—for that dear wretch and me,— } Whom never more on earth will I forsake or see.” 890}

* * * * *

Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn’d, Sir Owen quickly to his home return’d; And all the way he meditating dwelt On what this man in his affliction felt: How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave, His passion’s lord, and not his anger’s slave; And as he rode he seem’d to fear the deed Should not be done, and urged unwonted speed. Arrived at home, he scorn’d the change to hide, Nor would indulge a mean and selfish pride, 900 That would some little at a time recal Th’ avenging vow; he now was frankness all. He saw his nephew, and with kindness spoke— “Charles, I repent my purpose, and revoke; Take her—I’m taught, and would I could repay The generous teacher; hear me, and obey. Bring me the dear coquette, and let me vow On lips half perjured to be passive now: Take her, and let me thank the powers divine She was not stolen when her hand was mine, 910 Or when her heart—Her smiles I must forget, She my revenge, and cancel either debt.” Here ends our tale, for who will doubt the bliss Of ardent lovers in a case like this? And if Sir Owen’s was not half so strong, It may, perchance, continue twice as long.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XIII

DELAY HAS DANGER.

Morning Excursion—Lady at Silford, who?—Reflections on Delay—Cecilia and Henry—The Lovers contracted—Visit to the Patron—Whom he finds there—Fanny described—The yielding of Vanity—Delay—Resentment—Want of Resolution—Further Entanglement—Danger—How met—Conclusion.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XIII

DELAY HAS DANGER.

Three weeks had past, and Richard rambles now Far as the dinners of the day allow; He rode to Farley Grange and Finley Mere, That house so ancient, and that lake so clear: He rode to Ripley through that river gay, Where in the shallow stream the loaches play, And stony fragments stay the winding stream, And gilded pebbles at the bottom gleam, Giving their yellow surface to the sun, And making proud the waters as they run. 10 It is a lovely place, and at the side Rises a mountain-rock in rugged pride; And in that rock are shapes of shells, and forms Of creatures in old worlds, of nameless worms, Whole generations lived and died ere man, A worm of other class, to crawl began. There is a town call’d Silford, where his steed Our traveller rested—He the while would feed His mind by walking to and fro, to meet, He knew not what adventure, in the street— 20 A stranger there; but yet a window-view Gave him a face that he conceived he knew; He saw a tall, fair, lovely lady, dress’d As one whom taste and wealth had jointly bless’d; He gazed, but soon a footman at the door Thundering, alarm’d her, who was seen no more. “This was the lady whom her lover bound In solemn contract, and then proved unsound: Of this affair I have a clouded view, And should be glad to have it clear’d by you.” 30 So Richard spake, and instant George replied, I had the story from the injured side, But when resentment and regret were gone, And pity (shaded by contempt) came on. Frail was the hero of my tale, but still Was rather drawn by accident than will. Some without meaning into guilt advance, From want of guard, from vanity, from chance; Man’s weakness flies his more immediate pain, A little respite from his fears to gain, 40 And takes the part that he would gladly fly, If he had strength and courage to deny. “But now my tale; and let the moral say, When hope can sleep, there’s danger in delay. Not that for rashness, Richard, I would plead, For unadvised alliance—No, indeed. Think ere the contract—but, contracted, stand No more debating, take the ready hand. When hearts are willing, and when fears subside, Trust not to time, but let the knot be tied; 50 For when a lover has no more to do, } He thinks in leisure, what shall I pursue? } And then, who knows what objects come in view? } For when, assured, the man has nought to keep His wishes warm and active, then they sleep; Hopes die with fears; and then a man must lose All the gay visions, and delicious views, Once his mind’s wealth! He travels at his ease, Nor horrors now nor fairy-beauty sees. When the kind goddess gives the wish’d assent, 60 No mortal business should the deed prevent; But the blest youth should legal sanction seek Ere yet the assenting blush has fled the cheek. “And—hear me, Richard—man has reptile-pride That often rises when his fears subside; When, like a trader feeling rich, he now Neglects his former smile, his humble bow, And, conscious of his hoarded wealth, assumes New airs, nor thinks how odious he becomes. “There is a wandering, wavering train of thought 70 That something seeks where nothing should be sought, And will a self-delighted spirit move To dare the danger of pernicious love.”

* * * * *

First, be it granted all was duly said By the fond youth to the believing maid; Let us suppose with many a sigh there came The declaration of the deathless flame;— And so her answer—“She was happy then, Blest in herself, and did not think of men; And, with such comforts in her present state, 80 A wish to change it was to tempt her fate; That she would not; but yet she would confess } With him, she thought, her hazard would be less; } Nay more, she would esteem, she would regard express; } But, to be brief—if he could wait and see In a few years what his desires would be.”— Henry for years read months, then weeks, nor found The lady thought his judgment was unsound; “For months read weeks,” she read it to his praise, And had some thoughts of changing it to days. 90 And here a short excursion let me make, A lover tried, I think, for lovers’ sake; And teach the meaning in a lady’s mind, When you can none in her expressions find. Words are design’d that meaning to convey; } But often Yea is hidden in a Nay! } And, what the charmer wills, some gentle hints betray. } Then, too, when ladies mean to yield at length, They match their reasons with the lover’s strength, And, kindly cautious, will no force employ 100 But such as he can baffle or destroy. As, when heroic lovers beauty woo’d, And were by magic’s mighty art withstood, The kind historian, for the dame afraid, Gave to the faithful knight the stronger aid. A downright “No!” would make a man despair, Or leave for kinder nymph the cruel fair; But “No! because I’m very happy now; Because I dread th’ irrevocable vow; Because I fear papa will not approve; 110 Because I love not—No, I cannot love; Because you men of Cupid make a jest; Because——in short, a single life is best.” A “No!” when back’d by reasons of such force, Invites approach, and will recede of course. Ladies, like towns besieged, for honour’s sake, Will some defence or its appearance make; On first approach there’s much resistance made, And conscious weakness hides in bold parade; With lofty looks, and threat’nings stern and proud, 120 “Come, if you dare,” is said in language loud. But, if th’ attack be made with care and skill, “Come,” says the yielding party, “if you will;” Then each the other’s valiant acts approve, And twine their laurels in a wreath of love.— We now retrace our tale, and forward go,— Thus Henry rightly read Cecilia’s “No!” His prudent father, who had duly weigh’d, And well approved the fortune of the maid, Not much resisted—just enough to show 130 He knew his power, and would his son should know. “Harry, I will, while I your bargain make, That you a journey to our patron take. I know her guardian; care will not become A lad when courting; as you must be dumb, You may be absent; I for you will speak, And ask what you are not supposed to seek.” Then came the parting hour—and what arise When lovers part! expressive looks and eyes, Tender and tear-full—many a fond adieu, 140 And many a call the sorrow to renew; Sighs such as lovers only can explain, And words that they might undertake in vain. Cecilia liked it not; she had, in truth, No mind to part with her enamour’d youth; But thought it foolish thus themselves to cheat, And part for nothing but again to meet. Now Henry’s father was a man whose heart Took with his interest a decided part; He [knew] his lordship, and was known for acts 150 That I omit—they were acknowledged facts; An interest somewhere—I the place forget, And the good deed—no matter—’twas a debt. Thither must Henry, and in vain the maid Express’d dissent—the father was obey’d. But, though the maid was by her fears assail’d, Her reason rose against them, and prevail’d; Fear saw him hunting, leaping, falling—led, } Maim’d and disfigured, groaning to his bed; } Saw him in perils, duels—dying—dead. 160} But Prudence answer’d, “Is not every maid With equal cause for him she loves afraid?” And from her guarded mind Cecilia threw The groundless terrors that will love pursue. She had no doubts, and her reliance strong Upon the honour that she would not wrong. Firm in herself, she doubted not the truth Of him, the chosen, the selected youth; Trust of herself a trust in him supplied; } And she believed him faithful, though untried; 170} On her he might depend, in him she would confide. } If some fond girl express’d a tender pain Lest some fair rival should allure her swain: To such she answer’d, with a look severe, “Can one you doubt be worthy of your fear?” My lord was kind—a month had pass’d away, } And Henry stay’d—he sometimes named a day; } But still my lord was kind, and Henry still must stay. } His father’s words to him were words of fate— “Wait, ’tis your duty; ’tis my pleasure, wait!” 180 In all his walks, in hilly heath or wood, Cecilia’s form the pensive youth pursued; In the gray morning, in the silent noon, } In the soft twilight, by the sober moon, } In those forsaken rooms, in that immense saloon; } And he, now fond of that seclusion grown, There reads her letters, and there writes his own. “Here none approach,” said he, “to interfere, But I can think of my Cecilia here!” But there did come—and how it came to pass 190 Who shall explain?—a mild and blue-eyed lass.— It was the work of accident, no doubt— } The cause unknown—we say, “as things fall out”— } The damsel enter’d there, in wand’ring round about. } At first she saw not Henry; and she ran, As from a ghost, when she beheld a man. She was esteem’d a beauty through the hall, And so admitted, with consent of all; And, like a treasure, was her beauty kept From every guest who in the mansion slept; 200 Whether as friends who join’d the noble pair, Or those invited by the steward there. She was the daughter of a priest, whose life Was brief and sad: he lost a darling wife, And Fanny then her father, who could save But a small portion; but his all he gave, With the fair orphan, to a sister’s care, And her good spouse; they were the ruling pair— Steward and steward’s lady—o’er a tribe, Each under each, whom I shall not describe. 210 This grave old couple, childless and alone, Would, by their care, for Fanny’s loss atone: She had been taught in schools of honest fame; And to the hall, as to a home, she came, My lord assenting; yet, as meet and right, Fanny was held from every hero’s sight, Who might in youthful error cast his eyes On one so gentle as a lawful prize, On border land, whom, as their right or prey, A youth from either side might bear away. 220 Some handsome lover of th’ inferior class Might as a wife approve the lovely lass; Or some invader from the class above, } Who, more presuming, would his passion prove } By asking less—love only for his love. } This much experienced aunt her fear express’d, And dread of old and young, of host and guest. “Go not, my Fanny, in their way,” she cried; } “It is not right that virtue should be tried; } So, to be safe, be ever at my side.” 230} She was not ever at that side; but still Observed her precepts, and obey’d her will. But in the morning’s dawn and evening’s gloom She could not lock the damsel in her room; And Fanny thought, “I will ascend these stairs To see the chapel—there are none at prayers”; None, she believed, had yet to dress return’d, By whom a timid girl might be discern’d, In her slow motion, looking, as she glides, On pictures, busts, and what she met besides, 240 And speaking softly to herself alone, Or singing low in melancholy tone; And thus she rambled through the still domain, Room after room, again, and yet again. But, to retrace our story, still we say, To this saloon the maiden took her way; Where she beheld our youth, and frighten’d ran, And so their friendship in her fear began. But dare she thither once again advance, And still suppose the man will think it chance? 250 Nay, yet again; and what has chance to do With this?—I know not; doubtless Fanny knew. Now, of the meeting of a modest maid And sober youth why need we be afraid? And when a girl’s amusements are so few As Fanny’s were, what would you have her do? Reserved herself, a decent youth to find, And just be civil, sociable, and kind, And look together at the setting sun, Then at each other—What the evil done? 260 Then Fanny took my little lord to play, And bade him not intrude on Henry’s way. “O, he intrudes not!” said the youth, and grew Fond of the child, and would amuse him too; Would make such faces, and assume such looks— He loved it better than his gayest books. When man with man would an acquaintance seek, He will his thoughts in chosen language speak; And they converse on divers themes, to find If they possess a corresponding mind; 270 But man with woman has foundation laid, And built up friendship ere a word is said. ’Tis not with words that they their wishes tell, But with a language answering quite as well; And thus they find, when they begin t’explore Their way by speech, they knew it all before. And now it chanced again the pair, when dark, Met in their way, when wandering in the park; Not in the common path, for so they might, Without a wonder, wander day or night; 280 But, when in pathless ways their chance will bring A musing pair, we do admire the thing. The youth in meeting read the damsel’s face, As if he meant her inmost thoughts to trace; On which her colour changed, as if she meant To give her aid, and help his kind intent. Both smiled and parted, but they did not speak— The smile implied, “Do tell me what you seek.” They took their different ways with erring feet, And met again, surprised that they could meet; 290 Then must they speak—and something of the air Is always ready—“’Tis extremely fair!” “It was so pleasant!” Henry said; “the beam Of that sweet light so brilliant on the stream; And chiefly yonder, where that old cascade Has for an age its simple music made; All so delightful, soothing, and serene! Do you not feel it? not enjoy the scene? Something it has that words will not express, } But rather hide, and make th’ enjoyment less: 300} ’Tis what our souls conceive, ’tis what our hearts confess.” } Poor Fanny’s heart at these same words confess’d How well he painted, and how rightly guess’d; And, while they stood admiring their retreat, Henry found something like a mossy seat; But Fanny sat not; no, she rather pray’d That she might leave him, she was so afraid— “Not, sir, of you; your goodness I can trust; But folks are so censorious and unjust, They make no difference, they pay no regard 310 To our true meaning, which is very hard And very cruel; great the pain it cost To lose such pleasure, but it must be lost. Did people know how free from thought of ill One’s meaning is, their malice would be still.” At this she wept; at least a glittering gem Shone in each eye, and there was fire in them, For, as they fell, the sparkles, at his feet, He felt emotions very warm and sweet. “A lovely creature! not more fair than good; 320 By all admired, by some, it seems, pursued; Yet self-protected by her virtue’s force And conscious truth—What evil in discourse With one so guarded, who is pleased to trust Herself with me, reliance strong and just?” Our lover then believed he must not seem Cold to the maid who gave him her esteem; Not manly this; Cecilia had his heart, But it was lawful with his time to part. It would be wrong in her to take amiss 330 A virtuous friendship for a girl like this; False or disloyal he would never prove, But kindness here took nothing from his love. Soldiers to serve a foreign prince are known, When not on present duty to their own; So, though our bosom’s queen we still prefer, We are not always on our knees to her. “Cecilia present, witness yon fair moon, And yon bright orbs, that fate would change as soon As my devotion; but the absent sun 340 Cheers us no longer when his course is run; And then those starry twinklers may obtain A little worship till he shines again.” The father still commanded “Wait awhile;” And the son answer’d in submissive style, Grieved, but obedient; and obedience teased His lady’s spirit more than grieving pleased. That he should grieve in absence was most fit, But not that he to absence should submit; And in her letters might be traced reproof, 350 Distant indeed, but visible enough; This should the wandering of his heart have stay’d; Alas! the wanderer was the vainer made. The parties daily met, as by consent, And yet it always seem’d by accident; Till in the nymph the shepherd had been blind If he had fail’d to see a manner kind, With that expressive look, that seem’d to say, “You do not speak, and yet you see you may.” O! yes, he saw, and he resolved to fly, 360 And blamed his heart, unwilling to comply: He sometimes wonder’d how it came to pass, That he had all this freedom with the lass; Reserved herself, with strict attention kept, And care and vigilance that never slept: “How is it thus that they a beauty trust With me, who feel the confidence is just? And they, too, feel it; yes, they may confide;”— He said in folly, and he smiled in pride. ’Tis thus our secret passions work their way, 370 And the poor victims know not they obey. Familiar now became the wandering pair, And there was pride and joy in Fanny’s air; For, though his silence did not please the maid, She judged him only modest and afraid. The gentle dames are ever pleased to find Their lovers dreading they should prove unkind; So, blind by hope, and pleased with prospects gay, } The generous beauty gave her heart away } Before he said, “I love!”—alas! he dared not say. 380} Cecilia yet was mistress of his mind, But oft he wish’d her, like his Fanny, kind; Her fondness sooth’d him, for the man was vain, And he perceived that he could give her pain; Cecilia liked not to profess her love, But Fanny ever was the yielding dove; Tender and trusting, waiting for the word, And then prepared to hail her bosom’s lord. Cecilia once her honest love avow’d, To make him happy, not to make him proud; 390 But she would not, for every asking sigh, Confess the flame that waked his vanity; But this poor maiden, every day and hour, Would, by fresh kindness, feed the growing power; And he indulged, vain being! in the joy, That he alone could raise it, or destroy; A present good, from which he dared not fly, Cecilia absent, and his Fanny by. O! vain desire of youth, that in the hour Of strong temptation, when he feels the power, 400 And knows how daily his desires increase, Yet will he wait, and sacrifice his peace; Will trust to chance to free him from the snare, Of which, long since, his conscience said, beware! Or look for strange deliverance from that ill, That he might fly, could he command the will! How can he freedom from the future seek, Who feels already that he grows too weak? And thus refuses to resist, till time Removes the power, and makes the way for crime. 410 Yet thoughts he had, and he would think, “Forego My dear Cecilia? not for kingdoms! No! But may I, ought I, not the friend to be Of one who feels this fond regard for me? I wrong no creature by a kindness lent To one so gentle, mild, and innocent; And for that fair one, whom I still adore, By feeling thus I think of her the more”— And not unlikely, for our thoughts will tend To those whom we are conscious we offend. 420 Had Reason whisper’d, “Has Cecilia leave Some gentle youth in friendship to receive, And be to him the friend that you appear } To this soft girl?”—would not some jealous fear } Proclaim your thoughts, that he approach’d too near? } But Henry, blinded still, presumed to write Of one in whom Cecilia would delight: A mild and modest girl, a gentle friend, If, as he hoped, her kindness would descend— But what he fear’d to lose or hoped to gain 430 By writing thus, he had been ask’d in vain. It was his purpose, every morn he rose, The dangerous friendship he had made to close; It was his torment nightly, ere he slept, To feel his prudent purpose was not kept. True, he has wonder’d why the timid maid Meets him so often, and is not afraid; And why that female dragon, fierce and keen, } Has never in their private walks been seen; } And often he has thought, “What can their silence mean? 440} “They can have no design, or plot, or plan,— In fact, I know not how the thing began,— ’Tis their dependence on my credit here, And fear not, nor, in fact, have cause to fear.” But did that pair, who seem’d to think that all Unwatch’d will wander and unguarded fall, Did they permit a youth and maid to meet Both unreproved? were they so indiscreet? This sometimes enter’d Henry’s mind, and then, “Who shall account for women or for men?” 450 He said; “or who their secret thoughts explore? Why do I vex me? I will think no more.” My lord of late had said, in manner kind, “My good friend Harry, do not think us blind!” Letters had past, though he had nothing seen, His careful father and my lord between; But to what purpose was to him unknown— It might be borough business, or their own. Fanny, it seem’d, was now no more in dread; If one approach’d, she neither fear’d nor fled. 460 He mused on this—“But wherefore her alarm? She knows me better, and she dreads no harm.” Something his father wrote that gave him pain: “I know not, son, if you should yet remain;— Be cautious, Harry; favours to procure We strain a point, but we must first be sure. Love is a folly—that, indeed, is true— } But something still is to our honour due; } So I must leave the thing to my good lord and you.” } But from Cecilia came remonstrance strong: 470 “You write too darkly, and you stay too long; We hear reports; and, Henry—mark me well— I heed not every tale that triflers tell;— Be you no trifler; dare not to believe That I am one whom words and vows deceive: You know your heart, your hazard you will learn, And this your trial——instantly return.”— “Unjust, injurious, jealous, cruel maid! } Am I a slave, of haughty words afraid? } Can she who thus commands expect to be obey’d? 480} O! how unlike this dear assenting soul, Whose heart a man might at his will control!” Uneasy, anxious, fill’d with self-reproof, He now resolved to quit his patron’s roof; And then again his vacillating mind To stay resolved, and that her pride should find. Debating thus, his pen the lover took, And chose the words of anger and rebuke. Again, yet once again, the conscious pair Met, and “O, speak!” was Fanny’s silent prayer; 490 And, “I must speak,” said the embarrass’d youth, “Must save my honour, must confess the truth. Then, I must lose her; but, by slow degrees, She will regain her peace, and I my ease.” Ah! foolish man! to virtue true nor vice, He buys distress, and self-esteem the price; And what his gain?—a tender smile and sigh From a fond girl to feed his vanity. Thus, every day they lived, and every time They met, increased his anguish and his crime. 500 Still in their meetings they were ofttimes nigh The darling theme, and then past trembling by; On those occasions Henry often tried For the sad truth—and then his heart denied The utterance due: thus daily he became The prey of weakness, vanity, and shame. But soon a day, that was their doubts to close, On the fond maid and thoughtless youth arose. Within the park, beside the bounding brook, The social pair their usual ramble took; 510 And there the steward found them; they could trace News in his look, and gladness in his face. He was a man of riches, bluff and big, With clean brown broad-cloth, and with white cut wig: He bore a cane of price, with riband tied, And a fat spaniel waddled at his side. To every being whom he met he gave His looks expressive: civil, gay, or grave, But condescending all; and each declared How much he govern’d, and how well he fared. 520 This great man bow’d, not humbly, but his bow Appear’d familiar converse to allow. The trembling Fanny, as he came in view, Within the chestnut grove in fear withdrew; While Henry wonder’d, not without a fear, Of that which brought th’ important man so near. Doubt was dispersed by—“My esteem’d young man!” As he with condescending grace began—— “Though you with youthful frankness nobly trust Your Fanny’s friends, and doubtless think them just; 530 Though you have not, with craving soul, applied To us, and ask’d the fortune of your bride: Be it our care that you shall not lament That love has made you so improvident. “An orphan maid——Your patience! you shall have Your time to speak, I now attention crave— Fanny, dear girl! has in my spouse and me Friends of a kind we wish our friends to be, None of the poorest——nay, sir, no reply; You shall not need——and we are born to die; 540 And one yet crawls on earth, of whom I say That what he has he cannot take away— Her mother’s father, one who has a store Of this world’s good, and always looks for more; But, next his money, loves the girl at heart, And she will have it when they come to part.” “Sir,” said the youth, his terrors all awake, “Hear me, I pray, I beg—for mercy’s sake! Sir, were the secrets of my soul confess’d, Would you admit the truths that I protest 550 Are such——your pardon”—— “Pardon! good, my friend, I not alone will pardon, I commend: Think you that I have no remembrance left Of youthful love, and Cupid’s cunning theft? How nymphs will listen when their swains persuade, How hearts are gain’d, and how exchange is made?— Come, sir, your hand”—— “In mercy, hear me now!” “I cannot hear you, time will not allow. You know my station, what on me depends, For ever needed—but we part as friends; 560 And here comes one who will the whole explain, My better self—and we shall meet again.” “Sir, I entreat”—— “Then be entreaty made To her, a woman, one you may persuade; A little teasing, but she will comply, } And loves her niece too fondly to deny.” } “O! he is mad, and miserable I!” } Exclaim’d the youth; “But let me now collect My scatter’d thoughts; I something must effect.” Hurrying she came—“Now, what has he confess’d, 570 Ere I could come to set your heart at rest? What! he has grieved you! Yet he, too, approves The thing! but man will tease you, if he loves. “But now for business: tell me, did you think That we should always at your meetings wink? Think you, you walk’d unseen? There are who bring To me all secrets—O, you wicked thing! Poor Fanny! now I think I see her blush All red and rosy, when I beat the bush; And ‘hide your secret,’ said I, ‘if you dare!’ 580 So out it came, like an affrighten’d hare. “‘Miss!’ said I, gravely; and the trembling maid Pleased me at heart to see her so afraid; And then she wept;—now, do remember this, Never to chide her when she does amiss; For she is tender as the callow bird, And cannot bear to have her temper stirr’d;— ‘Fanny,’ I said, then whisper’d her the name, And caused such looks—Yes, yours are just the same; But hear my story—When your love was known 590 For this our child—she is, in fact, our own— Then, first debating, we agreed at last To seek my lord, and tell him what had past.” “To tell the earl?” “Yes, truly, and why not? And then together we contrived our plot.” “Eternal God!” “Nay, be not so surprised,— In all the matter we were well advised; We saw my lord, and Lady Jane was there, And said to Johnson, ‘Johnson, take a chair.’ True, we are servants in a certain way, 600} But in the higher places so are they; } We are obey’d in ours, and they in theirs obey.— } So Johnson bow’d, for that was right and fit, And had no scruple with the earl to sit— Why look you so impatient while I tell What they debated?—you must like it well. “‘Let them go on,’ our gracious earl began; ‘They will go off,’ said, joking, my good man: ‘Well!’ said the countess—she’s a lover’s friend— ‘What if they do? they make the speedier end.’—— 610 But be you more composed, for that dear child Is with her joy and apprehension wild: O! we have watch’d you on from day to day, ‘There go the lovers!’ we were wont to say— But why that look?”— “Dear madam, I implore A single moment!” “I can give no more: Here are your letters—‘that’s a female pen,’ Said I to Fanny—‘’tis his sister’s, then,’ Replied the maid.—No! never must you stray; Or hide your wanderings, if you should, I pray; 620 I know, at least I fear, the best may err, But keep the by-walks of your life from her: That youth should stray is nothing to be told, When they have sanction in the grave and old, Who have no call to wander and transgress, But very love of change and wantonness. “I prattle idly, while your letters wait, And then my lord has much that he would state, All good to you—do clear that clouded face, And with good looks your lucky lot embrace. 630 “Now, mind that none with her divide your heart, For she would die ere lose the smallest part; And I rejoice that all has gone so well, For who th’ effect of Johnson’s rage can tell? He had his fears when you began to meet, But I assured him there was no deceit. He is a man who kindness will requite, But, injured once, revenge is his delight; And he would spend the best of his estates To ruin, goods and body, them he hates; 640 While he is kind enough when he approves A deed that’s done, and serves the man he loves. Come, read your letters—I must now be gone, And think of matters that are coming on.” Henry was lost—his brain confused, his soul Dismay’d and sunk, his thoughts beyond control; Borne on by terror, he foreboding read Cecilia’s letter! and his courage fled; All was a gloomy, dark, and dreadful view, He felt him guilty, but indignant too:— 650 And as he read, he felt the high disdain Of injured men—“She may repent, in vain.” Cecilia much had heard, and told him all That scandal taught—“A servant at the hall, Or servant’s daughter, in the kitchen bred, Whose father would not with her mother wed, Was now his choice! a blushing fool, the toy, Or the attempted, both of man and boy; More than suspected, but without the wit Or the allurements for such creatures fit; 660 Not virtuous, though unfeeling; cold as ice, And yet not chaste; the weeping fool of vice; Yielding, not tender; feeble, not refined; Her form insipid, and without a mind. “Rival! she spurn’d the word; but let him stay, Warn’d as he was, beyond the present day: Whate’er his patron might object to this, The uncle-butler, or the weeping miss— Let him from this one single day remain, And then return he would to her in vain! 670 There let him then abide, to earn, or crave Food undeserved, and be with slaves a slave!” Had reason guided anger, govern’d zeal, Or chosen words to make a lover feel, She might have saved him—anger and abuse Will but defiance and revenge produce. “Unjust and cruel, insolent and proud!” He said, indignant; and he spoke aloud. “‘Butler’! and ‘servant’! Gentlest of thy sex, Thou wouldst not thus a man who loved thee vex; 680 Thou wouldst not thus to vile report give ear, } Nor thus enraged for fancied crimes appear— } I know not what, dear maid!—if thy soft smiles were here.” } And then, that instant, there appear’d the maid, By his sad looks in her approach dismay’d; Such timid sweetness, and so wrong’d, did more Than all her pleading tenderness before. In that weak moment, when disdain and pride, And fear and fondness, drew the man aside, In this weak moment—“Wilt thou,” he began, 690 “Be mine?” and joy o’er all her features ran; “I will!” she softly whisper’d; but the roar Of cannon would not strike his spirit more; Ev’n as his lips the lawless contract seal’d He felt that conscience lost her seven-fold shield, And honour fled; but still he spoke of love, And all was joy in the consenting dove. That evening all in fond discourse was spent, } When the sad lover to his chamber went, } To think on what had past, to grieve and to repent. 700} Early he rose, and look’d with many a sigh On the red light that fill’d the eastern sky; Oft had he stood before, alert and gay, To hail the glories of the new-born day; But now dejected, languid, listless, low, He saw the wind upon the water blow, And the cold stream curl’d onward as the gale From the pine-hill blew harshly down the dale. On the right side the youth a wood survey’d, With all its dark intensity of shade; 710 Where the rough wind alone was heard to move, In this, the pause of nature and of love, When now the young are rear’d, and when the old, Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold— Far to the left he saw the huts of men, Half hid in mist, that hung upon the fen; Before him swallows, gathering for the sea, Took their short flights, and twitter’d on the lea; And near the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest done, And slowly blacken’d in the sickly sun; 720 All these were sad in nature, or they took Sadness from him, the likeness of his look, And of his mind—he ponder’d for a while, Then met his Fanny with a borrow’d smile. Not much remain’d; for money and my lord Soon made the father of the youth accord; His prudence half resisted, half obey’d, And scorn kept still the guardians of the maid. Cecilia never on the subject spoke, She seem’d as one who from a dream awoke; 730 So all was peace, and soon the married pair Fix’d with fair fortune in a mansion fair. Five years had past, and what was Henry then? The most repining of repenting men; With a fond, teasing, anxious wife, afraid Of all attention to another paid; Yet, powerless she her husband to amuse Lives but t’ entreat, implore, resent, accuse; Jealous and tender, conscious of defects, She merits little, and yet much expects; 740 She looks for love that now she cannot see, And sighs for joy that never more can be; On his retirements her complaints intrude, And fond reproof endears his solitude; While he her weakness (once her kindness) sees, And his affections in her languor freeze; Regret, uncheck’d by hope, devours his mind, He feels unhappy, and he grows unkind. “Fool! to be taken by a rosy cheek, And eyes that cease to sparkle or to speak; 750 Fool! for this child my freedom to resign, When one, the glory of her sex, was mine; While from this burthen to my soul I hide, To think what Fate has dealt, and what denied. “What fiend possess’d me when I tamely gave My forced assent to be an idiot’s slave? Her beauty vanish’d, what for me remains? Th’ eternal clicking of the galling chains. Her person truly I may think my own, Seen without pleasure, without triumph shown: 760 Doleful she sits, her children at her knees, And gives up all her feeble powers to please; Whom I, unmoved, or moved with scorn, behold, Melting as ice, as vapid and as cold.” Such was his fate, and he must yet endure The self-contempt that no self-love can cure. Some business call’d him to a wealthy town When unprepared for more than Fortune’s frown; There at a house he gave his luckless name, The master absent, and Cecilia came. 770 Unhappy man! he could not, dared not speak, But look’d around, as if retreat to seek; This she allow’d not; but, with brow severe, Ask’d him his business, sternly bent to hear. He had no courage, but he view’d that face } As if he sought for sympathy and grace; } As if some kind returning thought to trace— } In vain; not long he waited, but, with air That of all grace compell’d him to despair, She rang the bell, and, when a servant came, 780 Left the repentant traitor to his shame; But, going, spoke, “Attend this person out, And if he speaks, hear what he comes about!” Then, with cool curtesy, from the room withdrew, That seem’d to say, “Unhappy man, adieu!” Thus will it be when man permits a vice First to invade his heart, and then entice; When wishes vain and undefined arise, And that weak heart deceive, seduce, surprise; When evil Fortune works on Folly’s side, 790 And rash Resentment adds a spur to Pride; Then life’s long troubles from these actions come, In which a moment may decide our doom.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XIV

THE NATURAL DEATH OF LOVE.

The Rector of the Parish—His Manner of teaching—Of living—Richard’s Correspondence—The Letters received—Love that survives Marriage—That dies in consequence—That is permitted to die for Want of Care—Henry and Emma, a Dialogue—Complaints on either Side—And Replies—Mutual Accusation—Defence of acknowledged Error—Means of restoring Happiness—The one to be adopted.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XIV

THE NATURAL DEATH OF LOVE.

Richard one month had with his brother been, And had his guests, his friends, his favourites seen; Had heard the rector, who with decent force, But not of action, aided his discourse: “A moral teacher!” some, contemptuous, cried; } He smiled, but nothing of the fact denied, } Nor, save by his fair life, to charge so strong replied. } Still, though he bade them not on aught rely } That was their own, but all their worth deny, } They call’d his pure advice his cold morality; 10} And though he felt that earnestness and zeal, That made some portion of his hearers feel, Nay, though he loved the minds of men to lead To the great points that form the Christian’s creed, Still he offended; for he would discuss Points that to him seem’d requisite for us, And urge his flock to virtue, though he knew The very heathen taught the virtues too. Nor was this moral minister afraid To ask of inspiration’s self the aid 20 Of truths by him so sturdily maintain’d, That some confusion in the parish reign’d. “Heathens,” they said, “can tell us right from wrong, But to a Christian higher points belong.” Yet Jacques proceeded, void of fear and shame, In his old method, and obtain’d the name Of Moral Preacher—yet they all agreed, Whatever error had defiled his creed, His life was pure, and him they could commend, Not as their guide, indeed, but as their friend; 30 Truth, justice, pity, and a love of peace, Were his—but there must approbation cease; He either did not, or he would not see, That, if he meant a favourite priest to be, He must not show, but learn of them, the way To truth—he must not dictate, but obey. They wish’d him not to bring them further light, But to convince them that they now were right, And to assert that justice will condemn All who presumed to disagree with them. 40 In this he fail’d; and his the greater blame, For he persisted, void of fear or shame. Him Richard heard, and by his friendly aid Were pleasant views observed and visits paid; He to peculiar people found his way, And had his question answer’d, “Who are they?” Twice in the week came letters, and delight Beam’d in the eye of Richard at the sight: Letters of love, all full and running o’er; The paper fill’d till it could hold no more; 50 Cross’d with discolour’d ink, the doublings full— No fear that love should find abundance dull; Love reads unsated all that love inspires; When most indulged, indulgence still requires; Looks what the corners, what the crossings tell, And lifts each folding for a fond farewell. George saw and smiled—“To lovers we allow All this o’erflowing, but a husband thou! A father too; can time create no change? Married, and still so foolish?—very strange! 60 What of this wife or mistress is the art?”— } “The simple truth, my brother, to impart, } Her heart, whene’er she writes, feels writing to a heart.”— } “Fortune, dear Richard, is thy friend—a wife Like thine must soften every care of life, And all its woes—I know a pair, whose lives Run in the common track of men and wives; And half their worth, at least, this pair would give Could they like thee and thy Matilda live. “They were, as lovers, of the fondest kind, 70 With no defects in manner or in mind; In habit, temper, prudence, they were those Whom, as examples, I could once propose; Now this, when married, you no longer trace, But discontent and sorrow in the place: Their pictures, taken as the pair I saw In a late contest, I have tried to draw: ’Tis but a sketch, and at my idle time I put my couple in the garb of rhyme. Thou art a critic of the milder sort, 80 And thou wilt judge with favour my report. “Let me premise, twelve months have flown away, Swiftly or sadly, since the happy day. “Let us suppose the couple left to spend Some hours without engagement or a friend; And be it likewise on our mind impress’d, } They pass for persons happy and at rest; } Their love by Hymen crown’d, and all their prospects bless’d. }

* * * * *

“Love has slow death and sudden: wretches prove That fate severe—the sudden death of love; 90 It is as if, on day serenely bright, Came with its horrors instantaneous night; Others there are with whom love dies away In gradual waste and unperceived decay. Such is that death of love that nature finds Most fitted for the use of common minds, The natural death; but doubtless there are some Who struggle hard when they perceive it come; Loth to be loved no longer, loth to prove To the once dear that they no longer love; 100 And some with not successless arts will strive To keep the weak’ning, fluttering flame alive. “But see my verse; in this I try to paint The passion failing, fading to complaint; The gathering grief for joys remember’d yet; The vain remonstrance, and the weak regret. First speaks the wife in sorrow; she is grieved T’ admit the truth, and would be still deceived.”

HENRY AND EMMA.

E. Well, my good sir, I shall contend no more; But, O! the vows you made, the oaths you swore— 110 H. To love you always—I confess it true; And do I not? If not, what can I do? Moreover think what you yourself profess’d, And then the subject may for ever rest. E. Yes, sir, obedience I profess’d; I know My debt, and wish to pay you all I owe— Pay without murmur; but that vow was made To you, who said it never should be paid.— Now truly tell me why you took such care To make me err? I ask’d you not to swear, 120 But rather hoped you would my mind direct, And say, when married, what you would expect. You may remember—it is not so long Since you affirm’d that I could not be wrong; I told you then—you recollect, I told The very truth—that humour would not hold; Not that I thought, or ever could suppose, } The mighty raptures were so soon to close— } Poetic flights of love all sunk in sullen prose. } Do you remember how you used to hang 130 Upon my looks? your transports when I sang? I play’d—you melted into tears; I moved— } Voice, words, and motion, how you all approved; } A time when Emma reign’d, a time when Henry loved. } You recollect? H. Yes, surely; and then why The needless truths? do I the facts deny? For this remonstrance I can see no need, Or this impatience—if you do, proceed. E. O! that is now so cool, and with a smile That sharpens insult—I detest the style; 140 And, now I talk of styles, with what delight You read my lines—I then, it seems, could write. In short, when I was present you could see But one dear object, and you lived for me; And now, sir, what your pleasure? Let me dress, Sing, speak, or write, and you your sense express Of my poor taste—my words are not correct; } In all I do is failing or defect— } Some error you will seek, some blunder will detect; } And what can such dissatisfaction prove? 150 I tell you, Henry, you have ceased to love. H. I own it not; but if a truth it be, It is the fault of nature, not of me. Remember you, my love, the fairy tale, Where the young pairs were spell-bound in the vale? When all around them gay or glorious seem’d, And of bright views and ceaseless joys they dream’d; Young love and infant life no more could give— They said but half, when they exclaim’d, “We live!” All was so light, so lovely, so serene, 160 And not a trouble to be heard or seen; Till, melting into truth, the vision fled, And there came miry roads and thorny ways instead. Such was our fate, my charmer! we were found A wandering pair, by roguish Cupid bound; All that I saw was gifted to inspire } Grand views of bliss, and wake intense desire } Of joys that never pall, of flights that never tire; } There was that purple light of love, that bloom, That ardent passions in their growth assume, 170 That pure enjoyment of the soul—O! weak Are words such loves and glowing thoughts to speak! I sought to praise thee, and I felt disdain Of my own effort; all attempts were vain. Nor they alone were charming; by that light All loved of thee grew lovely in my sight; Sweet influence not its own in every place Was found, and there was found in all things grace; Thy shrubs and plants were seen new bloom to bear; } Not the Arabian sweets so fragrant were, 180} Nor Eden’s self, if aught with Eden might compare. } You went the church-way walk, you reach’d the farm, And gave the grass and babbling springs a charm; Crop, whom you rode—sad rider though you be— Thenceforth was more than Pegasus to me. Have I not woo’d your snarling cur to bend To me the paw and greeting of a friend? And all his surly ugliness forgave, Because, like me, he was my Emma’s slave? Think you, thus charm’d, I would the spell revoke? 190 Alas! my love, we married, and it broke! Yet no deceit or falsehood stain’d my breast, } What I asserted might a saint attest; } Fair, dear, and good thou wert, nay, fairest, dearest, best. } Nor shame, nor guilt, nor falsehood I avow, But ’tis by heaven’s own light I see thee now; And if that light will all those glories chase, ’Tis not my wish that will the good replace. E. O! sir, this boyish tale is mighty well, But ’twas your falsehood that destroy’d the spell. 200 Speak not of nature; ’tis an evil mind } That makes you to accustom’d beauties blind; } You seek the faults yourself, and then complain you find. } H. I sought them not; but, madam, ’tis in vain The course of love and nature to restrain; Lo! when the buds expand the leaves are green, Then the first opening of the flower is seen; Then comes the honied breath and rosy smile, That with their sweets the willing sense beguile; But, as we look, and love, and taste, and praise, 210 And the fruit grows, the charming flower decays; Till all is gather’d, and the wintry blast Moans o’er the place of love and pleasure past. So ’tis with beauty—such the opening grace And dawn of glory in the youthful face; Then are the charms unfolded to the sight, Then all is loveliness and all delight; The nuptial tie succeeds, the genial hour, And, lo! the falling off of beauty’s flower; So, through all nature is the progress made— 220 The bud, the bloom, the fruit—and then we fade. Then sigh no more—we might as well retain The year’s gay prime as bid that love remain: That fond, delusive, happy, transient spell, That hides us from a world wherein we dwell, And forms and fits us for that fairy ground, Where charming dreams and gay conceits abound; Till comes at length th’ awakening strife and care, That we, as tried and toiling men, must share. E. O! sir, I must not think that heaven approves 230 Ungrateful man or unrequited loves; Nor that we less are fitted for our parts By having tender souls and feeling hearts. H. Come, my dear friend, and let us not refuse The good we have, by grief for that we lose; But let us both the very truth confess; This must relieve the ill, and may redress. E. O! much I fear! I practised no deceit; Such as I am I saw you at my feet; If for a goddess you a girl would take, 240 ’Tis you yourself the disappointment make. H. And I alone?—O! Emma, when I pray’d For grace from thee, transported and afraid, Now raised to rapture, now to terror doom’d— Was not the goddess by the girl assumed? Did not my Emma use her skill to hide— Let us be frank—her weakness and her pride? Did she not all her sex’s arts pursue, To bring the angel forward to my view? Was not the rising anger oft suppress’d? 250 Was not the waking passion hush’d to rest? And, when so mildly sweet you look’d and spoke, Did not the woman deign to wear a cloak? A cloak she wore, or, though not clear my sight, I might have seen her—Think you not I might? E. O! this is glorious!—while your passion lives, To the loved maid a robe of grace it gives; And then, unjust! beholds her with surprise, Unrobed, ungracious, when the passion dies. H. For this, my Emma, I to Heaven appeal, 260 I felt entirely what I seem’d to feel; Thou wert all precious in my sight, to me The being angels are supposed to be; And am I now of my deception told, Because I’m doom’d a woman to behold? E. Sir! in few words I would a question ask— Mean these reproaches that I wore a mask? Mean you that I by art or caution tried To show a virtue, or a fault to hide? H. I will obey you—When you seem’d to feel 270 Those books we read, and praised them with such zeal, Approving all that certain friends approved, Was it the pages, or the praise you loved? Nay, do not frown—I much rejoiced to find Such early judgment in such gentle mind; But, since we married, have you deign’d to look On the grave subjects of one favourite book? Or have the once-applauded pages power T’ engage their warm approver for an hour? Nay, hear me further—When we view’d that dell, 280 Where lie those ruins—you must know it well— When that worn pediment your walk delay’d, And the stream gushing through the arch decay’d; When at the venerable pile you stood, Till the does ventured on our solitude, We were so still! before the growing day Call’d us reluctant from our seat away— Tell me, was all the feeling you express’d The genuine feeling of my Emma’s breast? Or was it borrow’d, that her faithful slave 290 The higher notion of her taste might have? So may I judge, for of that lovely scene The married Emma has no witness been; No more beheld that water, falling, flow Through the green fern that there delights to grow. Once more permit me——Well, I know, you feel For suffering men, and would their sufferings heal, But when at certain huts you chose to call, At certain seasons, was compassion all? I there beheld thee, to the wretched dear 300 As angels to expiring saints appear When whispering hope—I saw an infant press’d And hush’d to slumber on my Emma’s breast! Hush’d be each rude suggestion!—Well I know, With a free hand your bounty you bestow, And to these objects frequent comforts send; But still they see not now their pitying friend. A merchant, Emma, when his wealth he states, Though rich, is faulty if he over-rates His real store; and, gaining greater trust 310 For the deception, should we deem him just? If in your singleness of heart you hide No flaw or frailty, when your truth is tried, And time has drawn aside the veil of love— We may be sorry, but we must approve; The fancied charms no more our praise compel, But doubly shines the worth that stands so well. E. O! precious are you all, and prizes too, Or could we take such guilty pains for you? Believe it not—As long as passion lasts, 320 A charm about the chosen maid it casts; And the poor girl has little more to do Than just to keep in sight as you pursue. Chance to a ruin leads her; you behold, And straight the angel of her taste is told; Chance to a cottage leads you, and you trace A virtuous pity in the angel’s face; She reads a work you chance to recommend, And likes it well—at least, she likes the friend; But, when it chances this no more is done, 330 She has not left one virtue—No! not one! But be it said, good sir, we use such art, Is it not done to hold a fickle heart, And fix a roving eye?—Is that design Shameful or wicked that would keep you mine? If I confess the art, I would proceed To say of such that every maid has need. Then, when you flatter—in your language, praise— In our own view you must our value raise; And must we not, to this mistaken man, 340 Appear as like his picture as we can? If you will call—nay, treat us as—divine, Must we not something to your thoughts incline? If men of sense will worship whom they love, Think you the idol will the error prove? What! show him all her glory is pretence, And make an idiot of this man of sense? Then, too, suppose we should his praise refuse, And clear his mind, we may our lover lose; In fact, you make us more than nature makes, 350 And we, no doubt, consent to your mistakes; You will, we know, until the frenzy cools, Enjoy the transient paradise of fools; But, fancy fled, you quit the blissful state, And truth for ever bars the golden gate. H. True! but how ill each other to upbraid, ’Tis not our fault that we no longer staid; No sudden fate our lingering love supprest; It died an easy death, and calmly sank to rest. To either sex is the delusion lent; 360} And, when it fails us, we should rest content; } ’Tis cruel to reproach, when bootless to repent. } E. Then wise the lovers who consent to wait, And always lingering, never try the state; But hurried on, by what they call their pain And I their bliss, no longer they refrain; To ease that pain, to lose that bliss, they run To the church magi, and the thing is done; A spell is utter’d, and a ring applied, And forth they walk a bridegroom and a bride, 370 To find this counter-charm, this marriage rite, Has put their pleasant fallacies to flight! But tell me, Henry, should we truly strive, May we not bid the happy dream revive? H. Alas! they say when weakness or when vice Expels a foolish pair from Paradise, The guardian power to prayer has no regard; The knowledge once obtain’d, the gate is barr’d; Or, could we enter, we should still repine, Unless we could the knowledge too resign.— 380 Yet let us calmly view our present fate, And make a humbler Eden of our state; With this advantage, that what now we gain, Experience gives, and prudence will retain. E. Ah! much I doubt—when you in fury broke That lovely vase by one impassion’d stroke, And thousand china-fragments met my sight, Till rising anger put my grief to flight: As well might you the beauteous jar repiece, As joy renew and bid vexation cease. 390 H. Why then ’tis wisdom, Emma, not to keep These griefs in memory; they had better sleep. There was a time when this heaven-guarded isle, Whose valleys flourish—nay, whose mountains smile— Was steril, wild, deform’d, and beings rude Creatures scarce wilder than themselves pursued. The sea was heard around a waste to howl; The night-wolf answer’d to the whooting owl; And all was wretched—Yet who now surveys The land, withholds his wonder and his praise? 400 Come, let us try and make our moral view Improve like this—this have we power to do. E. O! I’ll be all forgetful, deaf and dumb, And all you wish, to have these changes come. H. And come they may; if not as heretofore, We cannot all the lovely vase restore; What we beheld in Love’s perspective glass Has pass’d away—one sigh! and let it pass. It was a blissful vision, and it fled, And we must get some actual good instead: 410 Of good and evil that we daily find, That we must hoard, this banish from the mind; The food of Love, that food on which he thrives, To find must be the business of our lives; And when we know what Love delights to see, We must his guardians and providers be. As careful peasants, with incessant toil, Bring earth to vines in bare and rocky soil, And, as they raise with care each scanty heap, Think of the purple clusters they shall reap: 420 So those accretions to the mind we’ll bring, Whence fond regard and just esteem will spring; Then, though we backward look with some regret On those first joys, we shall be happy yet. Each on the other must in all depend, The kind adviser, the unfailing friend; Through the rough world we must each other aid, Leading and led, obeying and obey’d; Favour’d and favouring, eager to believe What should be truth—unwilling to perceive 430 What might offend—determined to remove } What has offended, wisely to improve } What pleases yet, and guard returning love. } Nor doubt, my Emma, but in many an hour Fancy, who sleeps, shall wake with all her power; And we shall pass—though not perhaps remain— To fairy-land, and feel its charm again.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XV

GRETNA GREEN.

Richard meets an Acquaintance of his Youth—The Kind of Meeting—His School—The Doctor Sidmere and his Family—Belwood, a Pupil—The Doctor’s Opinion of him—The Opinion of his Wife—and of his Daughter—Consultation—The Lovers—Flight to Gretna Green—Return no more—The Doctor and his Lady—Belwood and his Wife—The Doctor reflects—Goes to his Son-in-law—His Reception and Return.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XV

GRETNA GREEN.

“I met,” said Richard, when return’d to dine, “In my excursion, with a friend of mine; Friend! I mistake—but yet I knew him well, Ours was the village where he came to dwell; He was an orphan born to wealth, and then Placed in the guardian-care of cautious men; When our good parent, who was kindness all, Fed and caress’d him when he chose to call; And this he loved, for he was always one For whom some pleasant service must be done, 10 Or he was sullen—He would come and play At his own time, and at his pleasure stay; But our kind parent soothed him as a boy } Without a friend; she loved he should enjoy } A day of ease, and strove to give his mind employ. } She had but seldom the desired success, And therefore parting troubled her the less; Two years he there remain’d; then went his way— I think to school; and him I met to-day. “I heard his name, or he had past unknown; 20 And, without scruple, I divulged my own. His words were civil, but not much express’d, ‘Yes! he had heard I was my brother’s guest’; Then would explain, what was not plain to me, Why he could not a social neighbour be. He envied you, he said, your quiet life, And me a loving and contented wife; You, as unfetter’d by domestic bond, Me, as a husband and a father fond. I was about to speak, when to the right 30 The road then turn’d, and lo! his house in sight. “‘Adieu!’ he said, nor gave a word or sign Of invitation—‘Yonder house is mine; Your brother’s I prefer, if I might choose— But, my dear sir, you have no time to lose.’ “Say, is he poor? or has he fits of spleen? Or is he melancholy, moped, or mean? So cold, so distant——I bestow’d some pains Upon the fever in my Irish veins.”— “Well, Richard, let your native wrath be tamed; 40 The man has half the evils you have named: He is not poor, indeed, nor is he free From all the gloom and care of poverty.”— “But is he married?”—“Hush! the bell, my friend; That business done, we will to this attend; And, o’er our wine engaged, and at our ease, We may discourse of Belwood’s miseries; Not that his sufferings please me—No, indeed; But I from such am happy to be freed.” Their speech, of course, to this misfortune led 50 A weak young man improvidently wed. “Weak,” answer’d Richard; “but we do him wrong To say that his affection was not strong.” “That we may doubt,” said George; “in men so weak You may in vain the strong affections seek; They have strong appetites; a fool will eat As long as food is to his palate sweet; His rule is not what sober nature needs, But what the palate covets as he feeds; He has the passions, anger, envy, fear, 60 As storm is angry, and as frost severe; Uncheck’d, he still retains what nature gave, And has what creatures of the forest have. “Weak boys, indulged by parents just as weak, Will with much force of their affection speak; But let mamma th’ accustom’d sweets withhold, And the fond boys grow insolent and cold. “Weak men profess to love, and while untried May woo with warmth, and grieve to be denied; But this is selfish ardour—all the zeal 70 Of their pursuit is from the wish they feel For self indulgence—When do they deny } Themselves? and when the favourite object fly? } Or, for that object’s sake, with her requests comply? } Their sickly love is fed with hopes of joy, Repulses damp it, and delays destroy; Love, that to virtuous acts will some excite, In others but provokes an appetite. In better minds, when love possession takes And meets with peril, he the reason shakes; 80 But these weak natures, when they love profess, Never regard their small concerns the less. “That true and genuine love has Quixote-flights May be allow’d—in vision it delights; But, in its loftiest flight, its wildest dream Has something in it that commands esteem. But this poor love to no such region soars, But, Sancho-like, its selfish loss deplores; Of its own merit and its service speaks, And full reward for all its duty seeks.”— 90 “When a rich boy, with all the pride of youth, Weds a poor beauty, will you doubt his truth? Such love is tried—it indiscreet may be, But must be generous”— “That I do not see. Just at this time the balance of the mind Is this or that way by the weights inclined; In this scale beauty, wealth in that abides, In dubious balance, till the last subsides; Things are not poised in just the equal state, That the ass stands stock-still in the debate; 100 Though, when deciding, he may slowly pass And long for both—the nature of the ass; ’Tis but an impulse that he must obey, When he resigns one bundle of the hay.”

* * * * *

Take your friend Belwood, whom his guardians sent To Doctor Sidmere—full of dread he went; Doctor they call’d him—he was not of us, And where he was—we need not now discuss. He kept a school; he had a daughter fair, He said, as angels—say, as women—are. 110 Clara, this beauty, had a figure light; Her face was handsome, and her eyes were bright; Her voice was music, not by anger raised; And sweet her dimple, either pleased or praised; All round the village was her fame allow’d; She was its pride, and not a little proud. The ruling thought that sway’d her father’s mind Was this—I am for dignity design’d. Riches he rather as a mean approved, Yet sought them early, and in seeking loved; 120 For this he early made the marriage vow, But fail’d to gain—I recollect not how; For this his lady had his wrath incurr’d, But that her feelings seldom could be stirr’d; To his fair daughter, famed as well as fair, He look’d, and found his consolation there. The Doctor taught of youth some half a score, Well-born and wealthy—He would take no more; His wife, when peevish, told him, “Yes! and glad”— It might be so—no more were to be had. 130 Belwood, it seems, for college was design’d, But for more study he was not inclined; He thought of labouring there with much dismay, And motives mix’d here urged the long delay. He now on manhood verged, at least began To talk as he supposed became a man. “Whether he chose the college or the school Was his own act, and that should no man rule; He had his reasons for the step he took; Did they suppose he stay’d to read his book?” 140 Hopeless, the Doctor said, “This boy is one With whom I fear there’s nothing to be done.” His wife replied, who more had guess’d or knew, “You only mean there’s nothing he can do; Ev’n there you err, unless you mean indeed That the poor lad can neither think nor read.”— “What credit can I by such dunce obtain?”— “Credit? I know not—you may something gain; ’Tis true he has no passion for his books, But none can closer study Clara’s looks; 150 And who controls him? now his father’s gone, There’s not a creature cares about the son. If he be brought to ask your daughter’s hand, All that he has will be at her command; And who is she? and whom does she obey? Where is the wrong, and what the danger, pray? Becoming guide to one who guidance needs Is merit surely—If the thing succeeds, Cannot you always keep him at your side, And be his honour’d guardian and his guide? 160 And cannot I my pretty Clara rule? Is not this better than a noisy school?” The Doctor thought and mused; he felt and fear’d; Wish’d it to be—then wish’d he had not heard; But he was angry—that at least was right, And gave him credit in his lady’s sight;— Then, milder grown, yet something still severe, He said, “Consider, Madam, think and fear;” But, ere they parted, softening to a smile, “Farewell!” said he—“I’ll think myself awhile.” 170 James and his Clara had, with many a pause And many a doubt, infringed the Doctor’s laws; At first with terror, and with eyes turn’d round On every side for fear they should be found, In the long passage, and without the gate, They met, and talk’d of love and his estate; Sweet little notes, and full of hope, were laid Where they were found by the attentive maid; And these she answer’d kindly as she could, But still ‘I dare not’ waited on ‘I would;’ 180 Her fears and wishes she in part confess’d, Her thoughts and views she carefully suppress’d; Her Jemmy said at length, “He did not heed His guardian’s anger—What was he, indeed? A tradesman once, and had his fortune gain’d In that low way—such anger he disdain’d— He loved her pretty looks, her eyes of blue, Her auburn-braid, and lips that shone like dew; And did she think her Jemmy stay’d at school To study Greek?—What, take him for a fool? 190 Not he, by Jove! for what he had to seek He would in English ask her, not in Greek; Will you be mine? are all your scruples gone? Then let’s be off—I’ve that will take us on.” ’Twas true; the clerk of an attorney there Had found a Jew—the Jew supplied the heir. Yet had he fears—“My guardians may condemn The choice I make—but what is that to them? The more they strive my pleasure to restrain, The less they’ll find they’re likely to obtain; 200 For when they work one to a proper cue, What they forbid one takes delight to do.” Clara exulted—now the day would come Belwood must take her in her carriage home; “Then I shall hear what Envy will remark, When I shall sport the ponies in the park; When my friend Jane will meet me at the ball, And see me taken out the first of all; I see her looks when she beholds the men All crowd about me—she will simper then, 210 And cry with her affected air and voice, ‘O! my sweet Clara, how do I rejoice At your good fortune!’—‘Thank you, dear,’ say I; ‘But some there are that could for envy die.’” Mamma look’d on with thoughts to these allied; She felt the pleasure of reflected pride; She should respect in Clara’s honour find— But she to Clara’s secret thoughts was blind; O! when we thus design we do but spread Nets for our feet, and to our toils are led; 220 Those whom we think we rule their views attain, And we partake the guilt without the gain. The Doctor long had thought, till he became A victim both to avarice and shame; From his importance, every eye was placed On his designs—How dreadful if disgraced! “O! that unknown to him the pair had flown To that same Green, the project all their own! And, should they now be guilty of the act, Am not I free from knowledge of the fact? 230 Will they not, if they will?”—’Tis thus we meet The check of conscience, and our guide defeat. This friend, this spy, this counsellor at rest, More pleasing views were to the mind address’d. The mischief done, he would be much displeased, For weeks, nay, months, and slowly be appeased— Yet of this anger if they felt the dread, Perhaps they dare not steal away to wed; And, if on hints of mercy they should go, He stood committed—it must not be so. 240 In this dilemma either horn was hard— Best to seem careless, then, and off one’s guard; And, lest their terror should their flight prevent, His wife might argue—fathers will relent On such occasions—and that she should share The guilt and censure was her proper care. “Suppose them wed,” said he, “and at my feet, I must exclaim that instant—‘Vile deceit!’ Then will my daughter, weeping while they kneel, For its own Clara beg my heart may feel: 250 At last, but slowly, I may all forgive, And their adviser and director live.” When wishes only weak the heart surprise, Heaven, in its mercy, the fond prayer denies; But when our wishes are both base and weak, Heaven, in its justice, gives us what we seek. All pass’d that was expected; all prepared To share the comfort—What the comfort shared? The married pair, on their return, agreed That they from school were now completely freed; 260 Were man and wife, and to their mansion now Should boldly drive, and their intents avow: The acting guardian in the mansion reign’d, And, thither driving, they their will explain’d. The man awhile discoursed in language high, The ward was sullen, and made brief reply; Till, when he saw th’ opposing strength decline, He bravely utter’d—“Sir, the house is mine!” And, like a lion, lash’d by self-rebuke, His own defence he bravely undertook. 270 “Well! be it right or wrong, the thing is past; You cannot hinder what is tight and fast: The church has tied us; we are hither come To our own place, and you must make us room.” The man reflected—“You deserve, I know, Foolish young man! what fortune will bestow; No punishment from me your actions need, Whose pains will shortly to your fault succeed.” James was quite angry, wondering what was meant By such expressions—Why should he repent? 280 New trial came—The wife conceived it right To see her parents; “So,” he said, “she might, If she had any fancy for a jail, But upon him no creature should prevail; No! he would never be again the fool To go and starve, or study at a school!”— “O! but to see her parents!”—“Well! the sight Might give her pleasure—very like it might, And she might go; but, to his house restored, He would not now be catechised and bored.”— 290 “It was her duty”—“Well!” said he again, “There you may go—and there you may remain!” Already this?—Even so: he heard it said How rash and heedless was the part he play’d; For love of money in his spirit dwelt, And there repentance was intensely felt. His guardian told him he had bought a toy At tenfold price, and bargain’d like a boy; Angry at truth, and wrought to fierce disdain, He swore his loss should be no woman’s gain; 300 His table she might share, his name she must; But if aught more—she gets it upon trust. For a few weeks his pride her face display’d— He then began to thwart her, and upbraid; He grew imperious, insolent, and loud— His blinded weakness made his folly proud; He would be master—she had no pretence To counsel him, as if he wanted sense; He must inform her, she already cost More than her worth, and more should not be lost; 310 But still concluding, “if your will be so That you must see the old ones, do it—go!” Some weeks the Doctor waited, and the while His lady preach’d in no consoling style; At last she fear’d that rustic had convey’d Their child to prison—yes, she was afraid,— There to remain in that old hall alone With the vile heads of stags, and floors of stone. “Why did you, sir, who know such things so well, And teach us good, permit them to rebel? 320 Had you o’erawed and check’d them when in sight, They would not then have ventured upon flight— Had you”——“Out, serpent! did not you begin? What! introduce, and then upbraid, the sin? For sin it is, as I too well perceive; But leave me, woman, to reflection leave; Then to your closet fly, and on your knees Beg for forgiveness for such sins as these.” “A moody morning!” with a careless air Replied the wife—“Why counsel me to prayer? 330 I think the lord and teacher of a school Should pray himself, and keep his temper cool.” Calm grew the husband when the wife was gone— “The game,” said he, “is never lost till won. ’Tis true, the rebels fly their proper home, They come not nigh, because they fear to come; And for my purpose fear will doubtless prove Of more importance and effect than love.— Suppose me there—suppose the carriage stops: Down on her knees my trembling daughter drops; 340 Slowly I raise her, in my arms to fall, And call for mercy as she used to call; And shall that boy, who dreaded to appear Before me, cast away at once his fear? ’Tis not in nature! He who once would cower Beneath my frown, and sob for half an hour; He who would kneel with motion prompt and quick If I but look’d—as dogs that do a trick; He still his knee-joints flexible must feel, And have a slavish promptitude to kneel; 350 Soon as he sees me he will drop his lip, And bend like one made ready for the whip. O! come, I trifle, let me haste away— What! throw it up, when I have cards to play?” The Doctor went, a self-invited guest; He met his pupil, and his frown repress’d, For in those lowering looks he could discern Resistance sullen and defiance stern; Yet was it painful to put off his style Of awful distance, and assume a smile: 360 So between these, the gracious and the grand, Succeeded nothing that the Doctor plann’d. The sullen youth, with some reviving dread, Bow’d and then hang’d disconsolate his head; And, muttering welcome in a muffled tone, Stalk’d cross the park to meditate alone, Saying, or rather seeming to have said, “Go! seek your daughter, and be there obey’d.” He went—The daughter her distresses told, But found her father to her interests cold; 370 He kindness and complacency advised; She answer’d, “these were sure to be despised; That of the love her husband once possess’d Not the least spark was living in his breast; The boy repented, and grew savage soon; There never shone for her a honey-moon. Soon as he came, his cares all fix’d on one— Himself, and all his passion was a gun; And, though he shot as he did all beside, It still remained his only joy and pride. 380 He left her there—she knew not where he went— But knew full well he should the slight repent; She was not one his daily taunts to bear, He made the house a hell that he should share; For, till he gave her power herself to please, Never for him should be a moment’s ease.” “He loves you, child!” the softening father cried.— He loves himself, and not a soul beside. Loves me!—why, yes, and so he did the pears You caught him stealing—would he had the fears! 390 Would you could make him tremble for his life, And then to you return the stolen wife, Richly endow’d—but, O! the idiot knows The worth of every penny he bestows. “Were he but fool alone, I’d find a way To govern him, at least to have my day; Or were he only brute, I’d watch the hour, And make the brute-affection yield me power; But silly both and savage—O! my heart! It is too great a trial!—we must part.”— 400 “Oblige the savage by some act!”—“The debt, You find, the fool will instantly forget; Oblige the fool with kindness or with praise, And you the passions of the savage raise.”— “Time will do much.”—“Can time my name restore?”— “Have patience, child.”—“I am a child no more, Nor more dependent; but, at woman’s age, I feel that wrongs provoke me and enrage. Sir, could you bring me comfort, I were cool; But keep your counsel for your boys at school.” 410 The Doctor then departed—Why remain } To hear complaints, who could himself complain, } Who felt his actions wrong, and knew his efforts vain? } The sullen youth, contending with his fate, Began the darling of his heart to hate; Her pretty looks, her auburn braid, her face, All now remain’d the proofs of his disgrace; While, more than hateful in his vixen’s eyes, He saw her comforts from his griefs arise; Who felt a joy she strove not to conceal, 420 When their expenses made her miser feel. War was perpetual: on a first attack She gain’d advantage, he would turn his back; And, when her small-shot whistled in his ears, He felt a portion of his early fears; But, if he turn’d him in the battle’s heat, And fought in earnest, hers was then defeat; His strength of oath and curse brought little harm, But there was no resisting strength of arm. Yet wearied both with war, and vex’d at heart, 430 The slaves of passion judged it best to part. Long they debated, nor could fix a rate For a man’s peace with his contending mate; But mutual hatred, scorn, and fear, assign’d That price—that peace it was not theirs to find. The watchful husband lived in constant hope To hear the wife had ventured to elope; But, though not virtuous, nor in much discreet, He found her coldness would such views defeat; And thus, by self-reproof and avarice scourged, 440 He wore the galling chains his folly forged. The wife her pleasures, few and humble, sought, And with anticipated stipend bought; Without a home, at fashion’s call she fled To an hired lodging and a widow’d bed; Husband and parents banish’d from her mind, She seeks for pleasures that she cannot find; And grieves that so much treachery was employ’d To gain a man who has her peace destroy’d. Yet more the grieving father feels distress, 450 His error greater, and his motives less; He finds too late, by stooping to deceit, It is ourselves and not the world we cheat; For, though we blind it, yet we can but feel That we have something evil to conceal; Nor can we by our utmost care be sure That we can hide the sufferings we endure.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Book XVI

LADY BARBARA; OR, THE GHOST.

Introductory Discourse—For what Purpose would a Ghost appear?—How the Purpose would be answered—The Fact admitted, would not Doubts return?—Family Stories of Apparitions—Story of Lady Barbara—Her Widowhood—Resides with a Priest—His Family—A favourite Boy—His Education—His Fondness for the Lady—It becomes Love—His Reflections—His Declaration—Her Reply—Her Relation—Why she must not marry a second Time—How warned—Tokens of the Appearance—The Lover argues with the Lady—His Success—The Consequences of it.

TALES OF THE HALL.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us