Book XVI
LADY BARBARA; OR, THE GHOST.
The Brothers spoke of Ghosts—a favourite theme With those who love to reason or to dream; And they, as greater men were wont to do, Felt strong desire to think the stories true: Stories of spirits freed, who came to prove To spirits bound in flesh that yet they love; To give them notice of the things below, Which we must wonder how they came to know, Or known, would think of coming to relate To creatures who are tried by unknown fate. 10 “Warning,” said Richard, “seems the only thing That would a spirit on an errand bring; To turn a guilty mind from wrong to right A ghost might come; at least I think it might.” “But,” said the Brother, “if we here are tried, A spirit sent would put that law aside; It gives to some advantage others need, Or hurts the sinner, should it not succeed. ‘If from the dead,’ said Dives, ‘one were sent To warn my brethren, sure they would repent;’ 20 But Abraham answer’d, [‘If] they now reject The guides they have, no more would that effect; Their doubts too obstinate for grace would prove, For wonder hardens hearts it fails to move.’ “Suppose a sinner in an hour of gloom, And let a ghost with all its horrors come; From lips unmoved let solemn accents flow, Solemn his gesture be, his motion slow; Let the waved hand and threatening look impart Truth to the mind and terror to the heart; 30 And, when the form is fading to the view, Let the convicted man cry, ‘this is true!’ “Alas! how soon would doubts again invade The willing mind, and sins again persuade! I saw it—What?—I was awake, but how? Not as I am, or I should see it now: It spoke, I think—I thought, at least, it spoke— And look’d alarming—yes, I felt the look. “But then in sleep those horrid forms arise, That the soul sees,—and, we suppose, the eyes— 40 And the soul hears—the senses then thrown by, She is herself the ear, herself the eye; A mistress so will free her servile race For their own tasks, and take herself the place: In sleep what forms will ductile fancy take, And what so common as to dream awake? On others thus do ghostly guests intrude? Or why am I by such advice pursued? One out of millions who exist, and why They know not—cannot know—and such am I; 50 And shall two beings of two worlds, to meet, The laws of one, perhaps of both, defeat? It cannot be—But, if some being lives Who such kind warning to a favourite gives, Let him these doubts from my dull spirit clear, And once again, expected guest! appear. “And if a second time the power complied, } Why is a third, and why a fourth denied? } Why not a warning ghost for ever at our side? } Ah, foolish being! thou hast truth enough; 60 Augmented guilt would rise on greater proof; Blind and imperious passion disbelieves, Or madly scorns the warning it receives, Or looks for pardon ere the ill be done, Because ’tis vain to strive our fate to shun; In spite of ghosts, predestined woes would come, And warning add new terrors to our doom. “Yet there are tales that would remove our doubt— The whisper’d tales that circulate about; That in some noble mansion take their rise, 70 And told with secresy and awe, surprise. It seems not likely people should advance, For falsehood’s sake, such train of circumstance; Then the ghosts bear them with a ghost-like grace, That suits the person, character, and place. “But let us something of the kind recite: What think you, now, of Lady Barbara’s spright?”— “I know not what to think; but I have heard A ghost, to warn her or advise, appear’d; And that she sought a friend before she died 80 To whom she might the awful fact confide; Who seal’d and secret should the story keep Till Lady Barbara slept her final sleep, In that close bed, that never spirit shakes, Nor ghostly visitor the sleeper wakes.”— “Yes, I can give that story, not so well As your old woman would the legend tell, But as the facts are stated; and now hear How ghosts advise, and widows persevere.”
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When her lord died, who had so kind a heart, 90 That any woman would have grieved to part, It had such influence on his widow’s mind, That she the pleasures of the world resign’d, Young as she was, and from the busy town Came to the quiet of a village down: Not as insensible to joys, but still With a subdued but half-rebellious will; For she had passions warm, and feeling strong, With a right mind, that dreaded to be wrong.— Yet she had wealth to tie her to the place 100 Where it procures delight and veils disgrace; Yet she had beauty to engage the eye, A widow still in her minority; Yet she had merit worthy men to gain, And yet her hand no merit could obtain; For, though secluded, there were trials made, When he who soften’d most could not persuade; Awhile she hearken’d as her swain proposed, And then his suit with strong refusal closed. “Thanks, and farewell!—give credit to my word, 110 That I shall die the widow of my lord; ’Tis my own will, I now prefer the state— If mine should change, it is the will of fate.” Such things were spoken, and the hearers cried, “’Tis very strange,—perhaps she may be tried.” The lady past her time in taking air, In working, reading, charities, and prayer; In the last duties she received the aid Of an old friend, a priest, with whom she pray’d; And to his mansion with a purpose went, 120 That there should life be innocently spent; Yet no cold vot’ress of the cloister she: Warm her devotion, warm her charity; The face the index of a feeling mind, And her whole conduct rational and kind. Though rich and noble, she was pleased to slide Into the habits of her reverend guide, And so attended to his girls and boys, She seem’d a mother in her fears and joys; On her they look’d with fondness, something check’d 130 By her appearance, that engaged respect; For still she dress’d as one of higher race, And her sweet smiles had dignity and grace. George was her favourite, and it gave her joy To indulge and to instruct the darling boy; To watch, to soothe, to check the forward child, Who was at once affectionate and wild; Happy and grateful for her tender care, And pleased her thoughts and company to share. George was a boy with spirit strong and high, 140 With handsome face, and penetrating eye; O’er his broad forehead hung his locks of brown, That gave a spirit to his boyish frown; “My little man,” were words that she applied To him, and he received with growing pride; Her darling, even from his infant years, Had something touching in his smiles and tears; And in his boyish manners he began To show the pride that was not made for man; But it became the child, the mother cried, 150 And the kind lady said it was not pride. George, to his cost, though sometimes to his praise, Was quite a hero in these early days, And would return from heroes just as stout, Blood in his crimson cheek, and blood without. “What! he submit to vulgar boys and low, He bear an insult, he forget a blow! They call’d him Parson—let his father bear His own reproach, it was his proper care; He was no parson, but he still would teach 160 The boys their manners, and yet would not preach.” The father, thoughtful of the time foregone, } Was loth to damp the spirit of his son; } Rememb’ring he himself had early laurels won; } The mother, frighten’d, begg’d him to refrain, And not his credit or his linen stain. While the kind friend so gently blamed the deed, He smiled in tears, and wish’d her to proceed; For the boy pleased her, and that roguish eye } And daring look were cause of many a sigh, 170} When she had thought how much would such quick temper try; } And oft she felt a kind of gathering gloom, Sad, and prophetic of the ills to come. Years fled unmark’d; the lady taught no more Th’ adopted tribe, as she was wont before; But by her help the school the lasses sought, And by the vicar’s self the boy was taught; Not unresisting when that cursed Greek Ask’d so much time for words that none will speak. “What can men worse for mortal brain contrive 180 Than thus a hard dead language to revive! Heav’ns, if a language once be fairly dead, } Let it be buried, not preserved and read, } The bane of every boy to decent station bred. } If any good these crabbed books contain, Translate them well, and let them then remain; To one huge vault convey the useless store, Then lose the key, and never find it more.” Something like this the lively boy express’d, When Homer was his torment and his jest. 190 “George,” said the father, “can at pleasure seize The point he wishes, and with too much ease; And hence, depending on his powers and vain, He wastes the time that he will sigh to gain.” The partial widow thought the wasted days He would recover, urged by love and praise; And thus absolved, the boy, with grateful mind, Repaid a love so useful and so blind; Her angry words he loved, although he fear’d, And words not angry doubly kind appear’d. 200 George, then on manhood verging, felt the charms Of war, and kindled at the world’s alarms; Yet war was then, though spreading wide and far, A state of peace to what has since been war: ’Twas then some dubious claim at sea or land, That placed a weapon in a warrior’s hand; But in these times the causes of our strife Are hearth and altar, liberty and life. George, when from college he return’d, and heard His father’s questions, cold and shy appear’d. 210 “Who had the honours?”—“Honour!” said the youth, “Honour at college!—very good, in truth!”— “What hours to study did he give?”—“He gave Enough to feel they made him like a slave”— And the good vicar found, if George should rise, It would not be by college exercise. “At least the time for your degree abide, And be ordain’d,” the man of peace replied; “Then you may come and aid me while I keep, And watch, and shear, the hereditary sheep; 220 Choose then your spouse.”—That heard the youth, and sigh’d, Nor to aught else attended or replied. George had of late indulged unusual fears And dangerous hopes; he wept unconscious tears;— Whether for camp or college, well he knew He must at present bid his friends adieu; His father, mother, sisters,—could he part With these, and feel no sorrow at his heart? But from that lovely lady could he go? That fonder, fairer, dearer mother?—No! 230 For while his father spoke, he fix’d his eyes } On that dear face, and felt a warmth arise, } A trembling flush of joy, that he could ill disguise— } Then ask’d himself from whence this growing bliss, This new-found joy, and all that waits on this? Why sinks that voice so sweetly in mine ear? What makes it now a livelier joy to hear? Why gives that touch—Still, still do I retain The fierce delight that tingled through each vein— Why at her presence with such quickness flows 240 The vital current?—Well a lover knows. O! tell me not of years,—can she be old? } Those eyes, those lips, can man unmoved behold? } Has time that bosom chill’d? are cheeks so rosy cold? } No, she is young, or I, her love t’ engage, Will grow discreet, and that will seem like age: But speak it not; Death’s equalizing arm Levels not surer than Love’s stronger charm, That bids all inequalities be gone, That laughs at rank, that mocks comparison. 250 There is not young or old, if Love decrees; He levels orders, he confounds degrees; There is not fair, or dark, or short, or tall, Or grave, or sprightly—Love reduces all; From each, abundant good a portion takes, And for each want a compensation makes; Then tell me not of years—Love, power divine, Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine. And she, in truth, was lovely—Time had strown No snows on her, though he so long had flown; 260 The purest damask blossom’d in her cheek; The eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak; Her pleasing person she with care adorn’d, Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorn’d; Nor held it wrong these graces to renew, Or give the fading rose its opening hue; Yet few there were who needed less the art To hide an error, or a grace impart. George, yet a child, her faultless form admired, And call’d his fondness love, as truth required; 270 But now, when conscious of the secret flame, His bosom’s pain, he dared not give the name. In her the mother’s milder passion grew; Tender she was, but she was placid too; From him the mild and filial love was gone, And a strong passion came in triumph on. “Will she,” he cried, “this impious love allow? And, once my mother, be my mistress now? The parent-spouse? how far the thought from her, And how can I the daring wish aver? 280 When first I speak it, how will those dear eyes Gleam with awaken’d horror and surprise; Will she not, angry and indignant, fly From my imploring call, and bid me die? Will she not shudder at the thought, and say, My son! and lift her eyes to heaven and pray? Alas! I fear—and yet my soul she won While she with fond endearments call’d me son! Then first I felt—yet knew that I was wrong— This hope, at once so guilty and so strong; 290 She gave—I feel it now—a mother’s kiss, And quickly fancy took a bolder bliss; But hid the burning blush, for fear that eye Should see the transport, and the bliss deny. O! when she knows the purpose I conceal, } When my fond wishes to her bosom steal, } How will the angel fear? How will the woman feel? } “And yet perhaps this instant, while I speak, She knows the pain I feel, the cure I seek; Better than I she may my feelings know, 300 And nurse the passion that she dares not show. She reads the look,—and sure my eyes have shown To her the power and triumph of her own— And in maternal love she veils the flame That she will heal with joy, yet hear with shame. “Come, let me then—no more a son—reveal The daring hope, and for her favour kneel; Let me in ardent speech my meanings dress, And, while I mourn the fault, my love confess; And, once confess’d, no more that hope resign, 310 For she or misery henceforth must be mine. “O! what confusion shall I see advance On that dear face, responsive to my glance! Sure she can love!” In fact, the youth was right; She could, but love was dreadful in her sight; Love like a spectre in her view appear’d; The nearer he approach’d the more she fear’d. But knew she, then, this dreaded love? She guess’d That he had guilt—she knew he had not rest; She saw a fear that she could ill define, 320 And nameless terrors in his looks combine. It is a state that cannot long endure, And yet both parties dreaded to be sure. All views were past of priesthood and a gown, George, fix’d on glory, now prepared for town; But first this mighty hazard must be run, And more than glory either lost or won: Yet, what was glory? Could he win that heart And gain that hand, what cause was there to part? Her love afforded all that life affords— 330 Honour and fame were phantasies and words! But he must see her—She alone was seen In the still evening of a day serene; In the deep shade beyond the garden walk They met, and, talking, ceased and fear’d to talk. At length she spoke of parent’s love—and now He hazards all—“No parent, lady, thou! None, none to me! but looks so fond and mild Would well become the parent of my child.” She gasp’d for breath—then sat as one resolved 340 On some high act, and then the means revolved. “It cannot be, my George, my child, my son! The thought is misery!—Guilt and misery shun: Far from us both be such design, O, far! Let it not pain us at the awful bar, Where souls are tried, where known the mother’s part That I sustain, and all of either heart. “To wed with thee I must all shame efface, And part with female dignity and grace: Was I not told, by one who knew so well 350 This rebel heart, that it must not rebel? Were I not warn’d, yet Reason’s voice would cry, ‘Retreat, resolve, and from the danger fly!’ If Reason spoke not, yet would woman’s pride A woman’s will by better counsel guide; And should both Pride and Prudence plead in vain, } There is a warning that must still remain, } And, though the heart rebelled, would ever cry ‘Refrain.’” } He heard, he grieved—so checked, the eager youth Dared not again repeat th’ offensive truth, 360 But stopp’d, and fix’d on that loved face an eye Of pleading passion, trembling to reply; And that reply was hurried, was express’d With bursts of sorrow from a troubled breast; He could not yet forbear the tender suit, Yet dared not speak—his eloquence was mute. But though awhile in silence he supprest The pleading voice, and bade his passion rest, Yet in each motion, in each varying look, In every tender glance, that passion spoke.— 370 Words find, ere long, a passage; and once more He warmly urges what he urged before; He feels acutely, and he thinks, of course, That what he feels his language will enforce; Flame will to flame give birth, and fire to fire, And so from heart to heart is caught desire; He wonders how a gentle mind so long Resists the pleading of a love so strong— “And can that heart,” he cries, “that face belie, And know no softness? Will it yet deny?”— 380 “I tell thee, George, as I have told before, I feel a mother’s love, and feel no more; A child I bore thee in my arms, and how Could I—did prudence yield—receive thee now?” At her remonstrance hope revived, for oft He found her words severe, her accents soft; In eyes that threaten’d tears of pity stood, And truth she made as gracious as she could.— But, when she found the dangerous youth would seek His peace alone, and still his wishes speak, 390 Fearful she grew, that, opening thus his heart, He might to hers a dangerous warmth impart: All her objections slight to him appear’d— But one she had, and now it must be heard. “Yes, it must be! and he shall understand What powers, that are not of the world, command; So shall he cease, and I in peace shall live—” Sighing she spoke—“that widowhood can give!” Then to her lover turn’d, and gravely said, “Let due attention to my words be paid: 400 Meet me to-morrow, and resolve t’ obey;” Then named the hour and place, and went her way. Before that hour, or moved by spirit vain Of woman’s wish to triumph and complain, She had his parents summon’d, and had shown Their son’s strong wishes, nor conceal’d her own: “And do you give,” she said, “a parent’s aid } To make the youth of his strange love afraid; } And, be it sin or not, be all the shame display’d.” } The good old pastor wonder’d, seem’d to grieve, 410 And look’d suspicious on this child of Eve. He judged his boy, though wild, had never dared To talk of love, had not rebuke been spared; But he replied, in mild and tender tone, “It is not sin, and therefore shame has none.” The different ages of the pair he knew, And quite as well their different fortunes too: A meek, just man; but difference in his sight That made the match unequal made it right. “His son, his friend united, and become 420 Of his own hearth—the comforts of his home— Was it so wrong? Perhaps it was her pride That felt the distance, and the youth denied?” The blushing widow heard, and she retired, Musing on what her ancient friend desired; She could not, therefore, to the youth complain, That his good father wish’d him to refrain; She could not add, [‘Your] parents, George, obey, They will your absence’—no such will had they. Now, in th’ appointed minute met the pair, 430 Foredoom’d to meet: George made the lover’s prayer— That was heard kindly; then the lady tried For a calm spirit, felt it, and replied. “George, that I love thee why should I suppress? For ’tis a love that virtue may profess— Parental—frown not—tender, fix’d, sincere; } Thou art for dearer ties by much too dear, } And nearer must not be, thou art so very near. } Nay, do not reason, prudence, pride agree, Our very feelings, that it must not be? 440 Nay, look not so, I shun the task no more, But will to thee thy better self restore. “Then hear, and hope not; to the tale I tell Attend! obey me, and let all be well. Love is forbad to me, and thou wilt find All thy too ardent views must be resign’d; Then from thy bosom all such thoughts remove, And spare the curse of interdicted love. “If doubts at first assail thee, wait awhile, Nor mock my sadness with satiric smile; 450 For, if not much of other worlds we know, Nor how a spirit speaks in this below, Still there is speech and intercourse; and now } The truth of what I tell I first avow: } True will I be in all, and be attentive thou. }
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“I was a Ratcliffe, taught and train’d to live In all the pride that ancestry can give; My only brother, when our mother died, Fill’d the dear offices of friend and guide; My father early taught us all he dared, 460 And for his bolder flights our minds prepared: He read the works of deists, every book From crabbed Hobbes to courtly Bolingbroke; And when we understood not, he would cry, ‘Let the expressions in your memory lie, The light will soon break in, and you will find Rest for your spirits, and be strong of mind!’ “Alas! however strong, however weak, The rest was something we had still to seek! “He taught us duties of no arduous kind, 470 The easy morals of the doubtful mind; He bade us all our childish fears control, And drive the nurse and grandam from the soul; Told us the word of God was all we saw, And that the law of nature was his law; This law of nature we might find abstruse, But gain sufficient for our common use. “Thus, by persuasion, we our duties learn’d, And were but little in the cause concern’d. We lived in peace, in intellectual ease, 480 And thought that virtue was the way to please, And pure morality the keeping free From all the stains of vulgar villany. “But Richard, dear enthusiast! shunn’d reproach; He let no stain upon his name encroach; But fled the hated vice, was kind and just, That all must love him, and that all might trust. “Free, sad discourse was ours; we often sigh’d To think we could not in some truths confide. Our father’s final words gave no content; 490 We found not what his self-reliance meant. To fix our faith some grave relations sought, } Doctrines and creeds of various kind they brought, } And we as children heard what they as doctors taught. } “Some to the priest referr’d us, in whose book No unbeliever could resisting look; Others to some great preacher’s, who could tame The fiercest mind, and set the cold on flame; For him no rival in dispute was found Whom he could not confute or not confound. 500 Some mystics told us of the sign and seal, } And what the spirit would in time reveal, } If we had grace to wait, if we had hearts to feel: } Others, to reason trusting, said, [‘Believe] As she directs, and what she proves receive;’ While many told us, [‘It] is all but guess, Stick to your church, and calmly acquiesce.’ “Thus, doubting, wearied, hurried, and perplex’d, This world was lost in thinking of the next; When spoke my brother—‘From my soul I hate 510 This clash of thought, this ever doubting state; For ever seeking certainty, yet blind In our research, and puzzled when we find. “‘Could not some spirit, in its kindness, steal Back to our world, and some dear truth reveal? Say there is danger—if it could be done, Sure one would venture—I would be the one; And when a spirit—much as spirits might— I would to thee communicate my light!’ “I sought my daring brother to oppose, 520 But awful gladness in my bosom rose. I fear’d my wishes; but through all my frame A bold and elevating terror came; Yet with dissembling prudence I replied, ‘Know we the laws that may be thus defied? Should the free spirit to th’ embodied tell The precious secret, would it not rebel?’ Yet, while I spoke, I felt a pleasing glow Suffuse my cheek at what I long’d to know; And I, like Eve transgressing, grew more bold, 530 And wish’d to hear a spirit and behold. “‘I have no friend,’ said he, ‘to not one man Can I appear; but, love! to thee I can: Who first shall die’—I wept, but—‘I agree } To all thou say’st, dear Richard! and would be } The first to wing my way, and bring my news to thee.’ } “Long we conversed, but not till we perceived A gathering gloom—Our freedom gain’d, we grieved; Above the vulgar, as we judged, in mind, Below in peace, more sad as more refined; 540 ’Twas joy, ’twas sin—Offenders at the time, We felt the hurried pleasure of our crime With pain that crime creates, and this in both— Our mind united as the strongest oath. O, my dear George! in ceasing to obey, Misery and trouble meet us in our way! I felt as one intruding in a scene Where none should be, where none had ever been; Like our first parent, I was new to sin, But plainly felt its sufferings begin; 550 In nightly dreams I walk’d on soil unsound, And in my day-dreams endless error found. “With this dear brother I was doom’d to part, Who, with an husband, shared a troubled heart. My lord I honour’d; but I never proved The madd’ning joy, the boast of some who loved: It was a marriage that our friends profess’d Would be most happy, and I acquiesced; And we were happy, for our love was calm— Not life’s delicious essence, but its balm. 560 “My brother left us—dear, unhappy boy! He never seem’d to taste of earthly joy, Never to live on earth, but ever strove To gain some tidings of a world above. “Parted from him, I found no more to please; Ease was my object, and I dwelt in ease; And thus in quiet, not perhaps content, A year in wedlock, lingering time! was spent. “One night I slept not, but I courted sleep, And forced my thoughts on tracks they could not keep; 570 Till nature, wearied in the strife, reposed, And deep forgetfulness my wanderings closed. “My lord was absent—distant from the bed, A pendent lamp its soften’d lustre shed; But there was light that chased away the gloom, And brought to view each object in the room: These I observed ere yet I sunk in sleep, That, if disturb’d not, had been long and deep. “I was awaken’d by some being nigh, It seem’d some voice, and gave a timid cry— 580 When sounds, that I describe not, slowly broke On my attention——‘Be composed, and look!’— I strove, and I succeeded; look’d with awe, But yet with firmness, and my brother saw. “George, why that smile?—By all that God has done, } By the great Spirit, by the blessed Son, } By the one holy Three, by the thrice holy One, } I saw my brother—saw him by my bed, And every doubt in full conviction fled!— It was his own mild spirit—He awhile 590 Waited my calmness with benignant smile; So softly shines the veiled sun, till past The cloud, and light upon the world is cast. That look composed and soften’d I survey’d, And met the glance fraternal less afraid; Though in those looks was something of command, And traits of what I fear’d to understand. “Then spoke the spirit—George, I pray, attend— ‘First let all doubts of thy religion end— The word reveal’d is true: inquire no more; 600 Believe in meekness, and with thanks adore; Thy priest attend, but not in all rely, And to objectors seek for no reply: Truth, doubt, and error, will be mix’d below— Be thou content the greater truths to know, And in obedience rest thee—For thy life Thou needest counsel—now a happy wife, A widow soon! and then, my sister, then Think not of marriage, think no more of men;— Life will have comforts; thou wilt much enjoy 610 Of moderate good, then do not this destroy; Fear much, and wed no more; by passion led, } Shouldst thou again’—Art thou attending?—‘wed, } Care in thy ways will growl, and anguish haunt thy bed. } A brother’s warning on thy heart engrave: Thou art a mistress—then be not a slave! Shouldst thou again that hand in fondness give, What life of misery art thou doom’d to live! How wilt thou weep, lament, implore, complain! } How wilt thou meet derision and disdain! 620} And pray to heaven in doubt, and kneel to man in vain! } Thou read’st of woes to tender bosoms sent— Thine shall with tenfold agony be rent; Increase of anguish shall new years bestow, } Pain shall on thought and grief on reason grow, } And this, th’ advice I give, increase the ill I show.’ } “‘A second marriage!—No!—by all that’s dear!’ I cried aloud—The spirit bade me hear. “‘There will be trial—how I must not say, Perhaps I cannot—listen, and obey!— 630 Free is thy will—th’ event I cannot see, Distinctly cannot, but thy will is free. Come, weep not, sister—spirits can but guess, And not ordain—but do not wed distress; For who would rashly venture on a snare?’ ‘I swear!’ I answer’d.—‘No, thou must not swear,’ He said, or I had sworn; but still the vow Was past, was in my mind, and there is now: Never! O, never!—Why that sullen air? Think’st thou—ungenerous!—I would wed despair? 640 “Was it not told me thus?—and then I cried, ‘Art thou in bliss?’—but nothing he replied, Save of my fate; for that he came to show, Nor of aught else permitted me to know. “‘Forewarn’d, forearm thee, and thy way pursue, Safe, if thou wilt, not flow’ry—now, adieu!’ “‘Nay, go not thus,’ I cried, ‘for this will seem The work of sleep, a mere impressive dream; Give me some token, that I may indeed From the suggestions of my doubts be freed!’ 650 “‘Be this a token—ere the week be fled Shall tidings greet thee from the newly dead.’ “‘Nay, but,’ I said, with courage not my own, ‘O! be some signal of thy presence shown; Let not this visit with the rising day Pass, and be melted like a dream away.’ “‘O, woman! woman! ever anxious still To gain the knowledge, not to curb the will! Have I not promised?—Child of sin, attend— Make not a lying spirit of thy friend: 660 Give me thy hand!’—I gave it, for my soul Was now grown ardent, and above control; Eager I stretch’d it forth, and felt the hold Of shadowy fingers, more than icy cold: A nameless pressure on my wrist was made, And instant vanish’d the beloved shade! Strange it will seem, but, ere the morning came, I slept, nor felt disorder in my frame; Then came a dream—I saw my father’s shade, But not with awe like that my brother’s made; 670 And he began—‘What! made a convert, child? Have they my favourite by their creed beguiled? Thy brother’s weakness I could well foresee, But had, my girl, more confidence in thee. Art thou, indeed, before their ark to bow? I smiled before, but I am angry now. Thee will they bind by threats, and thou wilt shake At tales of terror that the miscreants make; Between the bigot and enthusiast led, Thou hast a world of miseries to dread: 680 Think for thyself, nor let the knaves or fools Rob thee of reason, and prescribe thee rules.’ “Soon as I woke, and could my thoughts collect, What can I think, I cried, or what reject? Was it my brother? Aid me, power divine! Have I not seen him, left he not a sign? Did I not then the placid features trace That now remain—the air, the eye, the face? And then my father—but how different seem These visitations—this, indeed, a dream! 690 “Then for that token on my wrist—’tis here, And very slight to you it must appear; Here, I’ll withdraw the bracelet—’tis a speck! No more! but ’tis upon my life a check.”— “O! lovely all, and like its sister arm! Call this a check, dear lady? ’tis a charm— A slight, an accidental mark—no more”—— Slight as it is, it was not there before; Then was there weakness, and I bound it——Nay! This is infringement—take those lips away! 700 “On the fourth day came letters, and I cried, } ‘Richard is dead,’ and named the day he died: } A proof of knowledge, true! but one, alas! of pride. } The signs to me were brought, and not my lord, But I impatient waited not the word; And much he marvell’d, reading of the night In which th’ immortal spirit took its flight. “Yes! I beheld my brother at my bed, } The hour he died! the instant he was dead— } His presence now I see! now trace him as he fled. 710} “Ah! fly me, George, in very pity, fly; Thee I reject, but yield thee reasons why; Our fate forbids—the counsel heaven has sent We must adopt, or grievously repent; And I adopt”——George humbly bow’d, and sigh’d, But, lost in thought, he look’d not nor replied; Yet feebly utter’d in his sad adieu, “I must not doubt thy truth, but perish if thou’rt true.” But when he thought alone, his terror gone Of the strange story, better views came on. 720 “Nay, my enfeebled heart, be not dismay’d! A boy again, am I of ghosts afraid? Does she believe it? Say she does believe, } Is she not born of error and of Eve? } O! there is lively hope I may the cause retrieve.” } “‘If you re-wed,’ exclaim’d the Ghost—For what Puts he the case, if marry she will not? He knows her fate—but what am I about? Do I believe?—’tis certain I have doubt, And so has she—what therefore will she do? 730} She the predicted fortune will pursue, } And by th’ event will judge if her strange dream was true; } The strong temptation to her thought applied Will gain new strength, and will not be denied; The very threat against the thing we love Will the vex’d spirit to resistance move; With vows to virtue weakness will begin, And fears of sinning let in thoughts of sin.” Strong in her sense of weakness, now withdrew The cautious lady from the lover’s view; 740 But she perceived the looks of all were changed— Her kind old friends grew peevish and estranged; A fretful spirit reign’d, and discontent From room to room in sullen silence went; And the kind widow was distress’d at heart To think that she no comfort could impart: “But he will go,” she said, “and he will strive In fields of glorious energy to drive Love from his bosom—Yes, I then may stay, And all will thank me on a future day.” 750 So judged the lady, nor appear’d to grieve, Till the young soldier came to take his leave; But not of all assembled—No! he found His gentle sisters all in sorrow drown’d; With many a shaken hand, and many a kiss, He cried, “Farewell! a solemn business this; Nay, Susan, Sophy!—heaven and earth, my dears! I am a soldier—What do I with tears?” He sought his parents;—they together walk’d, And of their son, his views and dangers, talk’d; 760 They knew not how to blame their friend, but still They murmur’d, “She may save us if she will; Were not these visions working in her mind Strange things—’tis in her nature to be kind.” Their son appear’d—He sooth’d them, and was bless’d, But still the fondness of his soul confess’d— And where the lady?—To her room retired! Now show, dear son, the courage she required. George bow’d in silence, trying for assent To his hard fate, and to his trial went: 770 Fond, but yet fix’d, he found her in her room; } Firm, and yet fearful, she beheld him come; } Nor sought he favour now—No! he would meet his doom. } “Farewell! and, Madam, I beseech you pray That this sad spirit soon may pass away; That sword or ball would to the dust restore This body, that the soul may grieve no more For love rejected——O! that I could quit The life I lothe, who am for nothing fit, No, not to die!”——“Unhappy, wilt thou make 780 The house all wretched for thy passion’s sake? And most its grieving object?”— “Grieving?—No! Or as a conqueror mourns a dying foe, That makes his triumph sure——Couldst thou deplore The evil done, the pain would be no more; But an accursed dream has steel’d thy breast, And all the woman in thy soul suppress’d.”— “O! it was vision, George; a vision true As ever seer or holy prophet knew.”— “Can spirits, lady, though they might alarm, 790 Make an impression on that lovely arm? A little cold the cause, a little heat, Or vein minute, or artery’s morbid beat; Even beauty these [admits].”— “I did behold My brother’s form.”— “Yes, so thy Fancy told, When in the morning she her work survey’d, And call’d the doubtful memory to her aid.”— “Nay, think! the night he died—the very night!”— } “’Tis very true, and so perchance he might; } But in thy mind—not, lady, in thy sight! 800} Thou wert not well; forms delicately made These dreams and fancies easily invade; The mind and body feel the slow disease, And dreams are what the troubled fancy sees.”— “O! but how strange that all should be combined!”— “True; but such combinations we may find; A dream’s predicted number gain’d a prize, } Yet dreams make no impression on the wise, } Though some chance good, some lucky gain may rise.” } “O! but those words, that voice so truly known!”—— 810 “No doubt, dear lady, they were all thine own; Memory for thee thy brother’s form portray’d; It was thy fear the awful warning made: Thy former doubts of a religious kind Account for all these wanderings of the mind.”— “But then, how different when my father came, These could not in their nature be the same!”— “Yes, all are dreams; but some as we awake Fly off at once, and no impression make; Others are felt, and ere they quit the brain 820 Make such impression that they come again, As half familiar thoughts, and half unknown, And scarcely recollected as our own. For half a day abide some vulgar dreams, And give our grandams and our nurses themes; Others, more strong, abiding figures draw Upon the brain, and we assert ‘I saw’; And then [will] fancy on the organs place A powerful likeness of a form and face. “Yet more—in some strong passion’s troubled reign, 830 Or when the fever’d blood inflames the brain, At once the outward and the inward eye The real object and the fancied spy. The eye is open, and the sense is true, And therefore they the outward object view; But, while the real sense is fix’d on these, The power within its own creation sees; And these, when mingled in the mind, create Those striking visions which our dreamers state; For knowing that is true that met the sight, 840 They think the judgment of the fancy right.—— Your frequent talk of dreams has made me turn My mind on them, and these the facts I learn. “Or should you say, ’tis not in us to take Heed in both ways, to sleep and be awake: Perhaps the things by eye and mind survey’d Are in their quick alternate efforts made; For by this mixture of the truth, the dream Will in the morning fresh and vivid seem. “Dreams are like portraits, and we find they please 850 Because they are confess’d resemblances; But those strange night-mare visions we compare To waxen figures—they too real are, Too much a very truth, and are so just To life and death, they pain us or disgust. “Hence, from your mind these idle visions shake, And O! my love, to happiness awake!”— “It was a warning, tempter! from the dead; And, wedding thee, I should to misery wed!”— “False and injurious! What! unjust to thee? 860 O! hear the vows of Love—it cannot be; What, I forbear to bless thee—I forego That first great blessing of existence? No! Did every ghost that terror saw arise With such prediction, I should say it lies; But none there are—a mighty gulf between Hides the ideal world from objects seen; We know not where unbodied spirits dwell, But this we know, they are invisible;— Yet I have one that fain would dwell with thee, 870 And always with thy purer spirit be.”— “O! leave me, George!”— “To take the field, and die: So leave thee, lady? Yes, I will comply; Thou art too far above me—Ghosts withstand My hopes in vain, but riches guard thy hand; For I am poor—affection and an heart To thee devoted, I but these impart: Then bid me go, I will thy words obey, But let not visions drive thy friend away.”— “Hear me, Oh! hear me—Shall I wed my son?”— 880 “I am in fondness and obedience one; And I will reverence, honour, love, adore, Be all that fondest sons can be—and more; And shall thy son, if such he be, proceed To fierce encounters, and in battle bleed? No; thou canst weep!”— “O! leave me, I entreat; } Leave me a moment—we shall quickly meet.”— } “No! here I kneel, a beggar at thy feet.”— } He said, and knelt—with accents, softer still, He woo’d the weakness of a failing will, 890 And erring judgment—took her hand, and cried, “Withdraw it not!—O! let it thus abide, Pledge of thy love—upon thy act depend My joy, my hope,—thus they begin or end! Withdraw it not!”——He saw her looks express’d Favour and grace—the hand was firmer press’d— Signs of opposing fear no more were shown; And, as he press’d, he felt it was his own. Soon through the house was known the glad assent; The night so dreaded was in comfort spent; 900 War was no more, the destined knot was tied, And the fond widow made a fearful bride.
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Let mortal frailty judge how mortals frail } Thus in their strongest resolutions fail, } And, though we blame, our pity will prevail. } Yet, with that Ghost—for so she thought—in view, When she believed that all he told was true; When every threat was to her mind recall’d, Till it became affrighten’d and appall’d; When Reason pleaded, ‘think! forbear! refrain!’ 910} And when, though trifling, stood that mystic stain, } Predictions, warnings, threats, were present all in vain. } Th’ exulting youth a mighty conqueror rose, And who hereafter shall his will oppose?— Such is our tale; but we must yet attend } Our weak, kind widow to her journey’s end; } Upon her death-bed laid, confessing to a friend } Her full belief, for to the hour she died } This she profess’d——“The truth I must not hide, } It was my brother’s form, and in the night he died. 920} In sorrow and in shame has pass’d my time, All I have suffer’d [follow’d] from my crime; I sinn’d with warning—when I gave my hand, A power within said, urgently—Withstand! And I resisted—O! my God, what shame, What years of torment from that frailty came. That husband-son!—I will my fault review; What did he not that men or monsters do? His day of love, a brief autumnal day, Ev’n in its dawning hasten’d to decay; 930 Doom’d from our odious union to behold How cold he grew, and then how worse than cold; Eager he sought me, eagerly to shun, Kneeling he woo’d me, but he scorn’d me won; The tears he caused served only to provoke His wicked insult o’er the heart he broke; My fond compliance served him for a jest, And sharpen’d scorn——‘I ought to be distress’d; Why did I not with my chaste ghost comply?’ And with upbraiding scorn he told me why;— 940 O! there was grossness in his soul; his mind Could not be raised, nor soften’d, nor refined. “Twice he departed in his rage, and went I know not where, nor how his days were spent; Twice he return’d a suppliant wretch, and craved, Mean as profuse, the trifle I had saved. “I have had wounds, and some that never heal, What bodies suffer, and what spirits feel; But he is gone who gave them, he is fled To his account! and my revenge is dead— 950 Yet is it duty, though with shame, to give My sex a lesson—let my story live; For, if no ghost the promised visit paid, } Still was a deep and strong impression made, } That wisdom had approved, and prudence had obey’d; } But from another world that warning came, And O! in this be ended all my shame! “Like the first being of my sex I fell, } Tempted, and with the tempter doom’d to dwell— } He was the master-fiend, and where he reign’d was hell.” 960}
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This was her last, for she described no more The rankling feelings of a mind so sore, But died in peace.—One moral let us draw, Be it a ghost or not the lady saw. If our discretion tells us how to live, We need no ghost a helping hand to give; But, if discretion cannot us restrain, It then appears a ghost would come in vain.
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XVII
THE WIDOW.
The Morning Walk—Village Scenery—The Widow’s Dwelling—Her Story related—The first Husband—His Indulgence—Its Consequence—Dies—The second—His Authority—Its Effects—His Death—A third Husband—Determinately indulgent—He dies also—The Widow’s Retirement.
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XVII
THE WIDOW.
Richard one morning—it was custom now— Walk’d and conversed with labourers at the plough; With thrashers hastening to their daily task; With woodmen resting o’er the enlivening flask; And with the shepherd, watchful of his fold Beneath the hill, and pacing in the cold. Further afield he sometimes would proceed, And take a path, wherever it might lead. It led him far about to Wickham Green, Where stood the mansion of the village queen; 10 Her garden yet its wintry blossoms bore, And roses graced the windows and the door— That lasting kind, that through the varying year, Or in the bud or in the bloom, appear; All flowers that now the gloomy days adorn Rose on the view, and smiled upon that morn. Richard a damsel at the window spied, Who kindly drew a useless veil aside, And show’d a lady who was sitting by, So pensive, that he almost heard her sigh; 20 Full many years she could, no question, tell, But in her mourning look’d extremely well. “In truth,” said Richard, when he told at night His tale to George, “it was a pleasant sight; She look’d like one who could, in tender tone, Say, ‘Will you let a lady sigh alone? See! Time has touch’d me gently in his race, And left no odious furrows in my face; See, too, this house and garden, neat and trim, Kept for its master——Will you stand for him?’ 30 “Say this is vain and foolish if you please, But I believe her thoughts resembled these. ‘Come!’ said her looks, ‘and we will kindly take The visit kindness prompted you to make.’ And I was sorry that so much good play } Of eye and attitude were thrown away } On one who has his lot, on one who had his day.” } “Your pity, brother,” George, with smile, replied, You may dismiss, and with it send your pride: No need of pity, when the gentle dame 40 Has thrice resign’d and reassumed her name; And be not proud—for, though it might be thine, She would that hand to humbler men resign. “Young she is not,—it would be passing strange If a young beauty thrice her name should change. Yes! she has years beyond your reckoning seen— Smiles and a window years and wrinkles screen; But she, in fact, has that which may command The warm admirer and the willing hand: What is her fortune we are left to guess, 50 But good the sign—she does not much profess. Poor she is not—and there is that in her That easy men to strength of mind prefer; She may be made, with little care and skill, Yielding her own, t’adopt an husband’s will. Women there are, who of a man will take The helm and steer—will no resistance make; Who, if neglected, will the power assume, And then what wonder if the shipwreck come? Queens they will be, if man allow the means, 60 And give the power to these domestic queens; Whom, if he rightly trains, he may create And make obedient members of his state.”
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Harriet at school was very much the same As other misses; and so home she came, Like other ladies, there to live and learn, To wait her season, and to take her turn. Their husbands maids as priests their livings gain: The best, they find, are hardest to obtain. On those that offer both awhile debate— 70 “I need not take it, it is not so late; Better will come if we will longer stay, And strive to put ourselves in fortune’s way:” And thus they wait, till many years are past, For what comes slowly—but it comes at last. Harriet was wedded,—but it must be said, The vow’d obedience was not duly paid. Hers was an easy man—it gave him pain To hear a lady murmur and complain; He was a merchant, whom his father made 80 Rich in the gains of a successful trade; A lot more pleasant, or a view more fair, Has seldom fallen to a youthful pair. But what is faultless in a world like this? In every station something seems amiss. The lady, married, found the house too small— “Two shabby parlours, and that ugly hall! Had we a cottage somewhere, and could meet One’s friends and favourites in one’s snug retreat; Or only join a single room to these, 90} It would be living something at our ease, } And have one’s self, at home, the comfort that one sees.” } Such powers of reason, and of mind such strength, Fought with man’s fear, and they prevail’d at length. The room was built—and Harriet did not know A prettier dwelling, either high or low; But Harriet loved such conquests, loved to plead With her reluctant man, and to succeed; It was such pleasure to prevail o’er one } Who would oppose the thing that still was done; 100} Who never gain’d the race, but yet would groan and run. } But there were times when love and pity gave Whatever thoughtless vanity could crave. She now the carriage chose with freshest name, And was in quite a fever till it came; But can a carriage be alone enjoy’d? The pleasure not partaken is destroy’d; “I must have some good creature to attend On morning visits as a kind of friend.” A courteous maiden then was found to sit 110 Beside the lady, for her purpose fit: Who had been train’d in all the soothing ways And servile duties from her early days; One who had never from her childhood known A wish fulfill’d, a purpose of her own. Her part it was to sit beside the dame, And give relief in every want that came; To soothe the pride, to watch the varying look, And bow in silence to the dumb rebuke. This supple being strove with all her skill 120 To draw her master’s to her lady’s will; For they were like the magnet and the steel, At times so distant that they could not feel. Then would she gently move them, till she saw That to each other they began to draw; And then would leave them, sure on her return In Harriet’s joy her conquest to discern. She was a mother now, and grieved to find The nursery window caught the eastern wind; What could she do, with fears like these oppress’d? 130 She built a room all window’d to the west; For sure in one so dull, so bleak, so old, She and her children must expire with cold. Meantime the husband murmur’d—“So he might; She would be judged by Cousins—Was it right?” Water was near them, and her mind afloat; The lady saw a cottage and a boat, And thought what sweet excursions they might make; } How they might sail; what neighbours they might take; } And nicely would she deck the lodge upon the lake. 140} She now prevail’d by habit; had her will, And found her patient husband sad and still. Yet this displeased; she gain’d, indeed, the prize, But not the pleasure of her victories; Was she a child to be indulged? He knew She would have right, but would have reason too. Now came the time, when in her husband’s face Care, and concern, and caution she could trace; His troubled features gloom and sadness bore; Less he resisted, but he suffer’d more; 150 His nerves were shook like hers; in him her grief Had much of sympathy, but no relief. She could no longer read, and therefore kept A girl to give her stories while she wept; Better for Lady Julia’s woes to cry, Than have her own for ever in her eye. Her husband grieved; and o’er his spirits came Gloom, and disease attack’d his slender frame; He felt a loathing for the wretched state Of his concerns, so sad, so complicate; 160 Grief and confusion seized him in the day, And the night pass’d in agony away. “My ruin comes!” was his awakening thought, And vainly through the day was comfort sought; “There, take my all!” he said, and in his dream Heard the door bolted, and his children scream. And he was right, for not a day arose That he exclaim’d not, “Will it never close?” “Would it were come!”—but still he shifted on, Till health, and hope, and life’s fair views were gone. 170 Fretful herself, he of his wife in vain For comfort sought—“He would be well again; Time would disorders of such nature heal! O! if he felt what she was doom’d to feel, Such sleepless nights! such broken rest! her frame Rack’d with diseases that she could not name! With pangs like hers no other was oppress’d!” Weeping, she said, and sigh’d herself to rest. The suffering husband look’d the world around, And saw no friend: on him misfortune frown’d; 180 Him self-reproach tormented; sorely tried By threats, he mourn’d, and by disease, he died. As weak as wailing infancy or age, How could the widow with the world engage? Fortune not now the means of comfort gave, Yet all her comforts Harriet wept to have. “My helpless babes,” she said, “will nothing know,” Yet not a single lesson would bestow; Her debts would overwhelm her, that was sure, But one privation would she not endure. 190 “We shall want bread! the thing is past a doubt.”— “Then part with Cousins!”—“Can I do without?”— “Dismiss your servants!”—“Spare me them, I pray!”- “At least your carriage!”—“What will people say?”— “That useless boat, that folly on the lake!”— “O! but what cry and scandal will it make!” It was so hard on her, who not a thing Had done such mischief on their heads to bring; This was her comfort, this she would declare; And then slept soundly on her pillow’d chair. 200 When not asleep, how restless was the soul Above advice, exempted from control; For ever begging all to be sincere, And never willing any truth to hear. A yellow paleness o’er her visage spread; Her fears augmented as her comforts fled; Views dark and dismal to her mind appear’d; And death she sometimes woo’d, and always fear’d. Among the clerks there was a thoughtful one, Who still believed that something might be done; 210 All in his view was not so sunk and lost, But of a trial things would pay the cost. He judged the widow, and he saw the way In which her husband suffer’d her to stray; He saw entangled and perplex’d affairs, And Time’s sure hand at work on their repairs; Children he saw; but nothing could he see, Why he might not their careful father be; And, looking keenly round him, he believed That what was lost might quickly be retrieved. 220 Now thought our clerk—“I must not mention love: That she at least must seem to disapprove; But I must fear of poverty enforce, And then consent will be a thing of course.” “Madam!” said he, “with sorrow I relate, That our affairs are in a dreadful state; I call’d on all our friends, and they declared They dared not meddle—not a creature dared; But still our perseverance chance may aid, And, though I’m puzzled, I am not afraid; 230 If you, dear lady, will attention give To me, the credit of the house shall live; Do not, I pray you, my proposal blame; It is my wish to guard your husband’s fame, And ease your trouble: then, your cares resign To my discretion—and, in short, be mine.”— “Yours! O! my stars!—Your goodness, sir, deserves My grateful thanks—take pity on my nerves; I shake and tremble at a thing so new, And fear ’tis what a lady should not do; 240 And then to marry upon ruin’s brink In all this hurry—What will people think?”— “Nay, there’s against us neither rule nor law, And people’s thinking is not worth a straw. Those who are prudent have too much to do With their own cares to think of me and you; And those who are not are so poor a race, That what they utter can be no disgrace.— Come! let us now embark; when time and tide Invite to sea, in happy hour decide; 250 If yet we linger, both are sure to fail, The turning waters and the varying gale. Trust me, our vessel shall be ably steer’d; Nor will I quit her, till the rocks are clear’d.” Allured and frighten’d, soften’d and afraid, The widow doubted, ponder’d, and obey’d. So were they wedded, and the careful man His reformation instantly began; Began his state with vigour to reform, And made a calm by laughing at the storm. 260 Th’ attendant-maiden he dismiss’d—for why? She might on him and love like his rely; She needed none to form her children’s mind— That duty nature to her care assign’d. In vain she mourn’d, it was her health he prized, And hence enforced the measures he advised; She wanted air; and walking, she was told, Was safe, was pleasant!—he the carriage sold; He found a tenant who agreed to take The boat and cottage on the useless lake; 270 The house itself had now superfluous room, And a rich lodger was induced to come. The lady wonder’d at the sudden change, That yet was pleasant, that was very strange. When every deed by her desire was done. She had no day of comfort—no, not one; When nothing moved or stopp’d at her request, Her heart had comfort, and her temper rest; For all was done with kindness—most polite Was her new lord, and she confess’d it right; 280 For now she found that she could gaily live On what the chance of common life could give: And her sick mind was cured of every ill, By finding no compliance with her will; For, when she saw that her desires were vain, She wisely thought it foolish to complain. Born for her man, she gave a gentle sigh To her lost power, and grieved not to comply; Within, without, the face of things improved, And all in order and subjection moved. 290 As wealth increased, ambition now began To swell the soul of the aspiring man. In some few years he thought to purchase land, And build a seat that Hope and Fancy plann’d; To this a name his youthful bride should give! Harriet, of course, not many years would live; Then he would farm, and every soil should show The tree that best upon the place would grow: He would, moreover, on the Bench debate On sundry questions—when a magistrate; 300 Would talk of all that to the state belongs, The rich man’s duties, and the poor man’s wrongs; He would with favourites of the people rank, And him the weak and the oppress’d should thank. ’Tis true those children, orphans then! would need Help, in a world of trouble to succeed! And they should have it—He should then possess All that man needs for earthly happiness. “Proud words, and vain!” said Doctor Young; and proud They are; and vain were by our clerk allow’d; 310 For, while he dream’d, there came both pain and cough, And fever never tamed, and bore him off; Young as he was, and planning schemes to live With more delight than man’s success can give; Building a mansion in his fancy vast, Beyond the Gothic pride of ages past! While this was plann’d, but ere a place was sought, The timber season’d, or the quarry wrought, Came Death’s dread summons; and the man was laid In the poor house the simple sexton made. 320 But he had time for thought when he was ill, And made his lady an indulgent will: ’Tis said he gave, in parting, his advice, “It is sufficient to be married twice;” To which she answer’d, as ’tis said, again, “There’s none will have you, if you’re poor and plain; And, if you’re rich and handsome, there is none Will take refusal—let the point alone.” Be this or true or false, it is her praise She mourn’d correctly all the mourning days; 330 But grieve she did not, for the canker grief Soils the complexion, and is beauty’s thief. Nothing, indeed, so much will discompose Our public mourning as our private woes; When tender thoughts a widow’s bosom probe, She thinks not then how graceful sits the robe; But our nice widow look’d to every fold, And every eye its beauty might behold! It was becoming; she composed her face, She look’d serenely, and she mourn’d with grace. 340 Some months were pass’d; but yet there wanted three Of the full time when widows wives may be— One trying year, and then the mind is freed, And man may to the vacant throne succeed. There was a tenant—he, to wit, who hired That cot and lake, that were so much admired; A man of spirit, one who doubtless meant, Though he delay’d awhile, to pay his rent; The widow’s riches gave her much delight, And some her claims; and she resolved to write. 350 “He knew her grievous loss, how every care Devolved on her, who had indeed her share; She had no doubt of him—but was as sure As that she breathed her money was secure; But she had made a rash and idle vow To claim her dues, and she must keep it now. So, if it suited——” And for this there came A civil answer to the gentle dame. Within the letter were excuses, thanks, And clean Bank paper from the best of banks; 360 There were condolence, consolation, praise, With some slight hints of danger in delays. With these good things were others from the lake: } Perch that were wish’d to salmon for her sake, } And compliment as sweet as new-born hope could make. } This led to friendly visits, social calls, And much discourse of races, rambles, balls; But all in proper bounds, and not a word Before its time—the man was not absurd, Nor was he cold; but, when she might expect, 370 A letter came, and one to this effect: “That, if his eyes had not his love convey’d, They had their master shamefully betray’d; But she must know the flame, that he was sure, Nor she could doubt, would long as life endure. Both were in widow’d state, and both possess’d Of ample means to make their union bless’d; That she had been confined he knew for truth, And begg’d her to have pity on her youth; Youth, he would say, and he desired his wife 380 To have the comforts of an easy life. She loved a carriage, loved a decent seat To which they might at certain times retreat; Servants indeed were sorrows—yet a few They still must add, and do as others do; She too would some attendant damsel need, To hear, to speak, to travel, or to read.” In short, the man his remedies assign’d For his foreknown diseases in the mind:— “First,” he presumed, “that in a nervous case 390 Nothing was better than a change of place;” He added, too, “’Twas well that he could prove That his was pure, disinterested love; Not as when lawyers couple house and land In such a way as none can understand: No! thanks to Him that every good supplied, He had enough, and wanted nought beside! Merit was all.” “Well! now, she would protest, This was a letter prettily express’d.” To every female friend away she flew 400 To ask advice, and say, “What shall I do?” She kiss’d her children—and she said, with tears, “I wonder what is best for you, my dears? How can I, darlings, to your good attend } Without the help of some experienced friend, } Who will protect us all, or, injured, will defend?” } The widow then ask’d counsel of her heart— In vain, for that had nothing to impart; But yet with that, or something, for her guide, She to her swain thus guardedly replied: 410 “She must believe he was sincere, for why Should one who needed nothing deign to lie? But though she could and did his truth admit, She could not praise him for his taste a bit; And yet men’s tastes were various, she confess’d, And none could prove his own to be the best; It was a vast concern, including all That we can happiness or comfort call; And yet she found that those who waited long Before their choice, had often chosen wrong. 420 Nothing, indeed, could for her loss atone, But ’twas the greater that she lived alone; She, too, had means, and therefore what the use Of more, that still more trouble would produce? And pleasure too she own’d, as well as care, Of which, at present, she had not her share. “The things he offer’d, she must needs confess, They were all women’s wishes, more or less; But were expensive—though a man of sense Would by his prudence lighten the expense. 430 Prudent he was, but made a sad mistake When he proposed her faded face to take; And yet ’tis said there’s beauty that will last When the rose withers and the bloom be past. “One thing displeased her—that he could suppose He might so soon his purposes disclose; Yet had she hints of such intent before, And would excuse him if he wrote no more. What would the world—and yet she judged them fools Who let the world’s suggestions be their rules; 440 What would her friends—Yet in her own affairs It was her business to decide, not theirs.— Adieu! then, sir,” she added; “thus you find } The changeless purpose of a steady mind, } In one now left alone, but to her fate resign’d.” } The marriage follow’d; and th’ experienced dame Consider’d what the conduct that became A thrice-devoted lady—She confess’d That when indulged she was but more distress’d; And, by her second husband when controll’d, 450 Her life was pleasant, though her love was cold; “Then let me yield,” she said, and with a sigh, “Let me to wrong submit, with right comply.” Alas! obedience may mistake, and they Who reason not will err when they obey; And fated was the gentle dame to find Her duty wrong, and her obedience blind. The man was kind, but would have no dispute, His love and kindness both were absolute. She needed not her wishes to express 460 To one who urged her on to happiness; For this he took her to the lakes and seas, } To mines and mountains, nor allow’d her ease; } She must be pleased, he said, and he must live to please. } He hurried north and south, and east and west, When age required they would have time to rest; He in the richest dress her form array’d, And cared not what he promised, what he paid; She should share all his pleasures as her own, And see whatever could be sought or shown. 470 This run of pleasure for a time she bore, And then affirm’d that she could taste no more; She loved it while its nature it retain’d, But, made a duty, it displeased and pain’d. “Have we not means?” the joyous husband cried; “But I am wearied out,” the wife replied. “Wearied with pleasure! Thing till now unheard— Are all that sweeten trouble to be fear’d? ’Tis but the sameness tires you—cross the seas, And let us taste the world’s varieties. 480 “’Tis said, in Paris that a man may live In all the luxuries a world can give; And in a space confined to narrow bound All the enjoyments of our life are found. There we may eat and drink, may dance and dress, And in its very essence joy possess; May see a moving crowd of lovely dames; May win a fortune at your favourite games; May hear the sounds that ravish human sense, And all without receding foot from thence.” 490 The conquer’d wife, resistless and afraid, To the strong call a sad obedience paid. As we an infant in its pain with sweets, Loved once, now loath’d, torment him till he eats, Who on the authors of his new distress Looks trembling with disgusted weariness: So Harriet felt, so look’d, and seem’d to say, “O! for a day of rest, an holiday!” At length, her courage rising with her fear, She said, “Our pleasures may be bought too dear!” 500 To this he answer’d—“Dearest! from thy heart Bid every fear of evil times depart; I ever trusted in the trying hour To my good stars, and felt the ruling power; When want drew nigh, his threat’ning speed was stopp’d, Some virgin aunt, some childless uncle dropped; In all his threats I sought expedients new, And my last, best resource was found in you.” Silent and sad the wife beheld her doom, And sat her down to see the ruin come, 510 And meet the ills that rise where money fails— Debts, threats and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs and jails. These was she spared; ere yet by want oppress’d, Came one more fierce than bailiff in arrest: Amid a scene where Pleasure never came, Though never ceased the mention of his name, The husband’s heated blood received the breath Of strong disease, that bore him to his death. Her all collected,—whether great or small The sum, I know not, but collected all— 520 The widow’d lady to her cot retired, And there she lives delighted and admired. Civil to all, compliant and polite, } Disposed to think, “whatever is, is right,” } She wears the widow’s weeds, she gives the widow’s mite. } At home awhile, she in the autumn finds The sea an object for reflecting minds, And change for tender spirits; there she reads, And weeps in comfort in her graceful weeds. What gives our tale its moral? Here we find 530 That wives like this are not for rule design’d Nor yet for blind submission: happy they, Who while they feel it pleasant to obey, Have yet a kind companion at their side } Who in their journey will his power divide, } Or yield the reins, and bid the lady guide; } Then points the wonders of the way, and makes The duty pleasant that she undertakes; He shows her objects as they move along, And gently rules the movements that are wrong: 540 He tells her all the skilful driver’s art, And smiles to see how well she acts her part; Nor praise denies to courage or to skill, In using power that he resumes at will.
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XVIII
ELLEN.
A Morning Ride—A Purchase of the Squire—The Way to it described—The former Proprietor—Richard’s Return—Inquiries respecting a Lady whom he had seen—Her History related—Her Attachment to a Tutor—They are parted—Impediments removed—How removed in vain—Fate of the Lover—Of Ellen.
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XVIII
ELLEN.
Bleak was the morn—Said Richard, with a sigh, } “I must depart!”—“That, Brother, I deny,” } Said George—“You may; but I perceive not why.” } This point before had been discuss’d, but still The guest submitted to the ruling will; But every day gave rise to doubt and fear— He heard not now, as he was wont to hear, That all was well!—though little was cxpress’d, It seem’d to him the writer was distress’d; Restrain’d! there was attempt and strife to please, 10 Pains and endeavour—not Matilda’s ease— Not the pure lines of love! the guileless friend In all her freedom—What could this portend? “Fancy!” said George, “the self-tormentor’s pain”;— And Richard still consented to remain. “Ride you this fair cool morning?” said the squire: } Do—for a purchase I have made inquire, } And with you take a will complacently t’admire: } Southward at first, dear Richard, make your way; Cross Hilton Bridge; move on through Breken Clay; 20 At Dunham Wood turn duly to the east, And there your eyes upon the ocean feast; Then ride above the cliff, or ride below, You’ll be enraptured, for your taste I know: It is a prospect that a man might stay, To his bride hastening on his wedding-day. At Tilburn Sluice once more ascend, and view } A decent house; an ample garden too, } And planted well behind—a lively scene, and new: } A little taste, a little pomp, display’d 30 By a dull man, who had retired from trade To enjoy his leisure—Here he came prepared To farm, nor cost in preparation spared; But many works he purchased, some he read, } And often rose with projects in his head, } Of crops in courses raised, of herds by matching bred. } We had just found these little humours out; Just saw—he saw not—what he was about; Just met as neighbours, still disposed to meet; Just learn’d the current tales of Dowling Street; 40 And were just thinking of our female friends, Saying—‘You know not what the man intends, A rich, kind, hearty’—and it might be true Something he wish’d, but had not time to do— A cold ere yet the falling leaf! of small Effect till then, was fatal in the fall; And of that house was his possession brief— Go; and guard well against the falling leaf. “But hear me, Richard: looking to my ease, Try if you can find something that will please. 50 Faults if you see, and such as must abide, Say they are small, or say that I can hide; But faults that I can change, remove, or mend, These like a foe detect—or like a friend. “Mark well the rooms, and their proportions learn; In each some use, some elegance discern; Observe the garden, its productive wall, And find a something to commend in all. Then, should you praise them in a knowing way, I’ll take it kindly—that is well—be gay. 60 “Nor pass the pebbled cottage as you rise Above the sluice, till you have fix’d your eyes On the low woodbined window, and have seen, So fortune favour you, the ghost within. Take but one look, and then your way pursue: It flies all strangers, and it knows not you.” Richard return’d, and by his Brother stood, Not in a pensive, not in pleasant mood; But by strong feeling into stillness wrought, As nothing thinking, or with too much thought; 70 Or like a man who means indeed to speak, But would his hearer should his purpose seek. When George—“What is it, Brother, you would hide? } Or what confess?”—“Who is she?” he replied, } That angel whom I saw, to whom is she allied? } Of this fair being let me understand, And I will praise your purchase, house and land. “Hers was that cottage on the rising ground, West of the waves, and just beyond their sound; ’Tis larger than the rest, and whence, indeed, 80 You might expect a lady to proceed; But O! this creature, far as I could trace, Will soon be carried to another place. “‘Fair, fragile thing!’ I said, when first my eye Caught hers, ‘wilt thou expand thy wings and fly? Or wilt thou vanish? beauteous spirit, stay!— For will it not’ (I question’d) ‘melt away?’ No! it was mortal—I unseen was near, And saw the bosom’s sigh, the standing tear! She thought profoundly, for I stay’d to look; 90 And first she read, then laid aside her book; Then on her hand reclined her lovely head, And seem’d unconscious of the tear she shed. “‘Art thou so much,’ I said, ‘to grief a prey?’ Till pity pain’d me, and I rode away. “Tell me, my Brother, is that sorrow dread For the great change that bears her to the dead? Has she connexions? does she love?—I feel Pity and grief; wilt thou her woes reveal?”— They are not lasting, Richard; they are woes 100 Chastised and meek! she sings them to repose; If not, she reasons; if they still remain, She finds resource, that none shall find in vain. “Whether disease first grew upon regret, Or nature gave it, is uncertain yet, And must remain; the frame was slightly made, That grief assail’d, and all is now decay’d! “But though so willing from the world to part, I must not call her case a broken heart; Nor dare I take upon me to maintain 110 That hearts once broken never heal again.”
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She was an only daughter, one whose sire Loved not that girls to knowledge should aspire; But he had sons, and Ellen quickly caught Whatever they were by their masters taught; This when the father saw—“It is the turn Of her strange mind,” said he, “but let her learn; ’Tis almost pity with that shape and face— But is a fashion, and brings no disgrace; Women of old wrote verse, or for the stage 120} Brought forth their works! they now are reasoners sage, } And with severe pursuits dare grapple and engage. } If such her mind, I shall in vain oppose; If not, her labours of themselves will close.” Ellen, ’twas found, had skill without pretence, And silenced envy by her meek good sense; That Ellen learnt, her various knowledge proved; Soft words and tender looks, that Ellen loved; For he who taught her brothers found in her A constant, ready, eager auditor; 130 This he perceived, nor could his joy disguise: It tuned his voice, it sparkled in his eyes. Not very young, nor very handsome he, But very fit an Abelard to be; His manner and his meekness hush’d alarm In all but Ellen—Ellen felt the charm. Hers was fond “filial love”; she found delight To have her mind’s dear father in her sight; But soon the borrow’d notion she resign’d! He was no father—even to the mind. 140 But Ellen had her comforts—“He will speak,” She said, “for he beholds me fond and weak; Fond, and he therefore may securely plead— Weak, I have therefore of his firmness need; With whom my father will his Ellen trust, Because he knows him to be kind and just.” Alas! too well the conscious lover knew The parent’s mind, and well the daughter’s too; He felt of duty the imperious call, Beheld his danger, and must fly or fall. 150 What would the parent, what his pupils think? O! he was standing on perdition’s brink: In his dilemma flight alone remain’d, And could he fly whose very soul was chain’d? He knew she loved; she tried not to conceal A hope she thought that virtue’s self might feel. Ever of her and her frank heart afraid, } Doubting himself, he sought in absence aid, } And had resolved on flight, but still the act delay’d; } At last so high his apprehension rose, 160 That he would both his love and labour close. “While undisclosed my fear each instant grows, And I lament the guilt that no one knows: Success undoes me, and the view, that cheers All other men, all dark to me appears!” Thus as he thought, his Ellen at his side Her soothing softness to his grief applied; With like effect as water cast on flame: For he more heated and confused became, And broke in sorrow from the wondering maid, 170} Who was at once offended and afraid; } Yet “Do not go!” she cried, and was awhile obey’d. } “Art thou then ill, dear friend?” she ask’d, and took His passive hand—“How very pale thy look! And thou art cold, and tremblest—pray thee tell Thy friend, thy Ellen, is her master well? And let her with her loving care attend To all that vexes and disturbs her friend.”— “Nay, my dear lady! we have all our cares, And I am troubled with my poor affairs: 180 Thou canst not aid me, Ellen; could it be, And might it, doubtless I would fly to thee; But we have sundry duties, and must all, Hard as it may be, go where duties call— Suppose the trial were this instant thine, Couldst thou the happiest of thy views resign At duty’s strong command?”—“If thou wert by,” } Said the unconscious maiden, “I would try!”— } And as she sigh’d she heard the soft responsive sigh. } And then, assuming steadiness, “Adieu!” 190 He cried, and from the grieving Ellen flew; And to her father with a bleeding heart He went, his grief and purpose to impart; Told of his health, and did in part confess That he should love the noble maiden less. The parent’s pride to sudden rage gave way— “And the girl loves! that plainly you would say— And you with honour, in your pride, retire!— Sir, I your prudence envy and admire.” But here the father saw the rising frown, 200 And quickly let his lofty spirit down. “Forgive a parent!—I may well excuse A girl who could perceive such worth and choose To make it hers; we must not look to meet } All we might wish;—Is age itself discreet? } Where conquest may not be, ’tis prudence to retreat.” } Then, with the kindness worldly minds assume, He praised the self-pronounced and rigorous doom; He wonder’d not that one so young should love, And much he wish’d he could the choice approve; 210 Much he lamented such a mind to lose, And begg’d to learn if he could aid his views, If such were form’d—then closed the short account, And to a shilling paid the full amount.— So Cecil left the mansion, and so flew } To foreign shores, without an interview; } He must not say, ‘I love’—he could not say, ‘Adieu!’ } Long was he absent—as a guide to youth, With grief contending, and in search of truth; In courting peace, and trying to forget 220 What was so deeply interesting yet. A friend in England gave him all the news— sad indulgence that he would not lose. He told how Ellen suffer’d; how they sent The maid from home, in sullen discontent, With some relation on the Lakes to live, In all the sorrow such retirements give; And there she roved among the rocks, and took Moss from the stone, and pebbles from the brook; Gazed on the flies that settled on the flowers, 230 And so consumed her melancholy hours. Again he wrote—The father then was dead; And Ellen to her native village fled, With native feeling—there she oped her door, Her heart, her purse, and comforted the poor, The sick, the sad—and there she pass’d her days, } Deserving much, but never seeking praise: } Her task to guide herself, her joy the fallen to raise. } Nor would she nicely faults and merits weigh, But loved the impulse of her soul t’ obey; 240 The prayers of all she heard, their sufferings view’d, Nor turn’d from any, save when Love pursued; For, though to love disposed, to kindness prone, She thought of Cecil, and she lived alone. Thus heard the lover of the life she past Till his return—and he return’d at last; For he had saved, and was a richer man Than when to teach and study he began; Something his father left, and he could fly To the loved country where he wish’d to die. 250 “And now,” he said, “this maid with gentle mind May I not hope to meet, as good, as kind, As in the days when first her friend she knew And then could trust—and he indeed is true. She knew my motives, and she must approve The man who dared to sacrifice his love And fondest hopes to virtue: virtuous she, Nor can resent that sacrifice in me.” He reason’d thus, but fear’d, and sought the friend In his own country, where his doubts must end. 260 They then together to her dwelling came, And by a servant sent her lover’s name— modest youth, whom she before had known, His favourite then, and doubtless then her own. They in the carriage heard the servants speak At Ellen’s door—“A maid so heavenly meek, Who would all pain extinguish! Yet will she Pronounce my doom, I feel the certainty!”— “Courage!” the friend exclaim’d, “the lover’s fear Grows without ground;” but Cecil would not hear: 270 He seem’d some dreadful object to explore, And fix’d his fearful eye upon the door, Intensely longing for reply—the thing That must to him his future fortune bring; And now it brought! like Death’s cold hand it came— “The lady was a stranger to the name!” Backward the lover in the carriage fell, Weak, but not fainting—“All,” said he, “is well! Return with me—I have no more to seek!” And this was all the woful man would speak. 280 Quickly he settled all his worldly views, And sail’d from home, his fiercer pains to lose And nurse the milder—now with labour less } He might his solitary world possess, } And taste the bitter-sweet of love in idleness. } Greece was the land he chose; a mind decay’d } And ruin’d there through glorious ruin stray’d; } There read, and walk’d, and mused—there loved, and wept, and pray’d. } Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live, But gave to study all his mind could give; 290 Till, with the dead conversing, he began To lose the habits of a living man, Save that he saw some wretched, them he tried To soothe—some doubtful, them he strove to guide; Nor did he lose the mind’s ennobling joy Of that new state that death must not destroy; What Time had done we know not—Death was nigh; } To his first hopes the lover gave a sigh; } But hopes more new and strong confirm’d his wish to die. } Meantime poor Ellen in her cottage thought 300 “That he would seek her—sure she should be sought She did not mean—It was an evil hour, Her thoughts were guardless, and beyond her power; And for one speech, and that in rashness made! Have I no friend to soothe him and persuade? He must not leave me—He again will come, And we shall have one hope, one heart, one home!” But when she heard that he on foreign ground Sought his lost peace, hers never more was found; But still she felt a varying hope that love 310 Would all these slight impediments remove:— “Has he no friend to tell him that our pride Resents a moment and is satisfied? Soon as the hasty sacrifice is made, A look will soothe us, and a tear persuade; Have I no friend to say ‘Return again, Reveal your wishes, and relieve her pain?’” With suffering mind the maid her prospects view’d, That hourly varied with the varying mood; As past the day, the week, the month, the year, 320 The faint hope sicken’d, and gave place to fear. No Cecil came!—“Come, peevish and unjust!” Sad Ellen cried, “why cherish this disgust? Thy Ellen’s voice could charm thee once; but thou Canst nothing see or hear of Ellen now!” Yes! she was right; the grave on him was closed, And there the lover and the friend reposed. The news soon reach’d her, and she then replied In his own manner—“I am satisfied!” To her a lover’s legacy is paid, 330 The darling wealth of the devoted maid; From this her best and favourite books she buys, From this are doled the favourite charities; And when a tale or face affects her heart, This is the fund that must relief impart. Such have the ten last years of Ellen been! Her very last that sunken eye has seen! That half-angelic being still must fade Till all the angel in the mind be made;— And now the closing scene will shortly come— 340 She cannot visit sorrow at her home; But still she feeds the hungry; still prepares The usual softeners of the peasant’s cares; And, though she prays not with the dying now, She teaches them to die, and shows them how.
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“Such is my tale, dear Richard, but, that told, I must all comments on the text withhold; What is the sin of grief I cannot tell, Nor of the sinners who have loved too well; But to the cause of mercy I incline, 350 Or, O! my Brother, what a fate is mine!”
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XIX
WILLIAM BAILEY.
Discourse on Jealousy—Of unsuspicious Men—Visit [to] William and his Wife—His Dwelling—Story of William and Fanny—Character of both—Their Contract—Fanny’s Visit to an Aunt—Its Consequences—Her Father’s Expectation—His Death—William a Wanderer—His Mode of Living—The Acquaintance he forms—Travels across the Kingdom—Whom he finds—The Event of their Meeting.
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XIX
WILLIAM BAILEY.
The letters Richard in a morning read To quiet and domestic comforts led; And George, who thought the world could not supply Comfort so pure, reflected with a sigh; Then would pursue the subject, half in play, Half earnest, till the sadness wore away. They spoke of Passion’s errors, Love’s disease, His pains, afflictions, wrongs, and jealousies; Of Herod’s vile commandment—that his wife Should live no more, when he no more had life; 10 He could not bear that royal Herod’s spouse Should, as a widow, make her second vows; Or that a mortal with his queen should wed, Or be the rival of the mighty dead. “Herods,” said Richard, “doubtless may be found, But haply do not in the world abound; Ladies, indeed, a dreadful lot would have, If jealousy could act beyond the grave: No doubt Othellos every place supply, Though every Desdemona does not die; 20 But there are lovers in the world, who live Slaves to the sex, and every fault forgive.” “I know,” said George, “a happy man and kind, Who finds his wife is all he wish’d to find: A mild, good man, who, if he nothing sees, Will suffer nothing to disturb his ease; Who, ever yielding both to smiles and sighs, } Admits no story that a wife denies— } She guides his mind, and she directs his eyes. } “Richard, there dwells within a mile a pair 30 Of good examples—I will guide you there: Such man is William Bailey—but his spouse Is virtue’s self since she had made her vows. I speak of ancient stories, long worn out, That honest William would not talk about; But he will sometimes check her starting tear, And call her self-correction too severe. “In their own inn the gentle pair are placed, Where you behold the marks of William’s taste. They dwell in plenty, in respect, and peace, 40 Landlord and lady of the Golden Fleece; Public indeed their calling—but there come No brawl, no revel to that decent room; All there is still, and comely to behold, Mild as the fleece, and pleasant as the gold. But, mild and pleasant as they now appear, They first experienced many a troubled year; And that, if known, might not command our praise, Like the smooth tenor of their present days. “Our hostess, now so grave and steady grown, 50 Has had some awkward trials of her own. She was not always so resign’d and meek— Yet can I little of her failings speak; Those she herself will her misfortunes deem, And slides discreetly from the dubious theme. But you shall hear the tale that I will tell, When we have seen the mansion where they dwell.” They saw the mansion,—and the couple made Obeisance due, and not without parade: “His honour, still obliging, took delight 60 To make them pleasant in each other’s sight; It was their duty—they were very sure It was their pleasure.” This they could endure, Nor turn’d impatient——In the room around Were care and neatness: instruments were found For sacred music, books with prints and notes By learned men and good, whom William quotes In mode familiar—Beveridge, [Doddridge,] Hall, Pyle, Whitby, Hammond—he refers to all. Next they beheld his garden, fruitful, nice, 70 And, as he said, his little paradise. In man and wife appear’d some signs of pride, Which they perceived not, or they would not hide— “Their honest saving; their good name, their skill; } His honour’s land, which they had grace to till; } And more, his favour shown, with all their [friends’] good will.” } This past, the visit was with kindness closed, And George was ask’d to do as he proposed. “Richard,” said he, “though I myself explore With no distaste the annals of the poor, 80 And may with safety to a brother show } What of my humble friends I chance to know: } Richard, there are who call the subjects low. } “The host and hostess of the Fleece—’tis base— Would I could cast some glory round the place! “The lively heroine once adorn’d a farm— And William’s virtue has a kind of charm; Nor shall we, in our apprehension, need Riches or rank—I think I may proceed. Virtue and worth there are who will not see 90 In humble dress; but low they cannot be.”
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The youth’s addresses pleased his favourite maid— } They wish’d for union, but were both afraid; } They saw the wedded poor—and fear the bliss delay’d; } Yet they appear’d a happier lass and swain Than those who will not reason or refrain. William was honest, simple, gentle, kind, Laborious, studious, and to thrift inclined; More neat than youthful peasant in his dress, And yet so careful that it cost him less. 100 He kept from inns, though doomed an inn to keep, And all his pleasures and pursuits were cheap. Yet would the youth perform a generous deed, When reason saw or pity felt the need; He of his labour and his skill would lend, Nay, of his money, to a suffering friend. William had manual arts—his room was graced With carving quaint, that spoke the master’s taste; But if that taste admitted some dispute, He charm’d the nymphs with flageolet and flute. 110 Constant at church, and there a little proud, He sang with boldness, and he read aloud; Self-taught to write, he his example took And form’d his letters from a printed book. I’ve heard of ladies who profess’d to see In a man’s writing what his mind must be; As Doctor Spurzheim’s pupils, when they look Upon a skull, will read it as a book— Our talents, tendencies, and likings trace, And find for all the measure and the place. 120 Strange times! when thus we are completely read By man or woman, by the hand or head! Believe who can—but William’s even mind All who beheld might in his writing find; His not the scratches where we try in vain Meanings and words to construe or explain. But with our village hero to proceed— He read as learned clerks are wont to read; Solemn he was in tone, and slow in pace, By nature gifted both with strength and grace. 130 Black parted locks his polish’d forehead press’d; His placid looks an easy mind confess’d; His smile content, and seldom more, convey’d— } Not like the smile of fair illusive maid, } When what she feels is hid, and what she wills betray’d. } The lighter damsels call’d his manner prim, And laugh’d at virtue so array’d in him; But they were wanton, as he well replied, And hoped their own would not be strongly tried: Yet was he full of glee, and had his strokes 140 Of rustic wit, his repartees and jokes; Nor was averse, ere yet he pledged his love, To stray with damsels in the shady grove; When he would tell them, as they walk’d along, How the birds sang, and imitate their song. In fact, our rustic had his proper taste; } Was with peculiar arts and manners graced— } And Absolon had been, had Absolon been chaste. } Frances, like William, felt her heart incline To neat attire—but Frances would be fine. 150 Though small the farm, the farmer’s daughter knew Her rank in life, and she would have it too: This, and this only, gave the lover pain, He thought it needless, and he judged it vain. Advice in hints he to the fault applied, And talk’d of sin, of vanity, and pride. “And what is proud,” said Frances, “but to stand Singing at church, and sawing thus your hand? Looking at heaven above, as if to bring The holy angels down to hear you sing? 160 And, when you write, you try with all your skill, And cry, no wonder that you wrote so ill! For you were ever to yourself a rule, And humbly add, you never were at school— Is that not proud?—And I have heard beside, The proudest creatures have the humblest pride. If you had read the volumes I have hired, You’d see your fault, nor try to be admired; For they who read such books can always tell The fault within, and read the mind as well.” 170 William had heard of hiring books before; He knew she read, and he inquired no more. On him the subject was completely lost; What he regarded was the time and cost; Yet that was trifling—just a present whim: “Novels and stories! what were they to him?” With such slight quarrels, or with those as slight, They lived in love, and dream’d of its delight. Her duties Fanny knew, both great and small, And she with diligence observed them all. 180 If e’er she fail’d a duty to fulfil, ’Twas childish error, not rebellious will; For her much reading, though it touch’d her heart, Could neither vice nor indolence impart. Yet, when from William and her friends retired, She found her reading had her mind inspired With hopes and thoughts of high mysterious things, Such as the early dream of kindness brings; And then she wept, and wonder’d as she read, And new emotions in her heart were bred. 190 She sometimes fancied that, when love was true, ’Twas more than she and William ever knew; More than the shady lane in summer-eve; More than the sighing when he took his leave; More than his preference when the lads advance And choose their partners for the evening dance; Nay, more than midnight thoughts and morning dreams, Or talk when love and marriage are the themes: In fact, a something not to be defined, } Of all subduing, all commanding kind, 200} That fills the fondest heart, that rules the proudest mind. } But on her lover Fanny still relied, } Her best companion, her sincerest guide, } On whom she could rely, in whom she would confide. } All jealous fits were past; in either now Were tender wishes for the binding vow. There was no secret one alone possess’d; There was no hope that warm’d a single breast: Both felt the same concerns their thoughts employ, And neither knew one solitary joy. 210 Then why so easy, William? why consent To wait so long? thou wilt at last repent; “Within a month,” does Care and Prudence say, If all be ready, linger not a day; Ere yet the choice be made, on choice debate; But, having chosen, dally not with fate. While yet to wait the pair were half content, And half disposed their purpose to repent, A spinster-aunt, in some great baron’s place, Would see a damsel, pride of all her race; 220 And Fanny, flatter’d by the matron’s call, Obey’d her aunt, and long’d to see the Hall. For halls and castles in her fancy wrought, And she accounts of love and wonder sought; There she expected strange events to learn, And take in tender secrets fond concern; There she expected lovely nymphs to view, } Perhaps to hear and meet their lovers too; } The Julias, tender souls! the Henrys kind and true. } There she expected plottings to detect, 230 And—but I know not what she might expect— All she was taught in books to be her guide, And all that nature taught the nymph beside. Now that good dame had in the castle dwelt So long that she for all its people felt; She kept her sundry keys, and ruled o’er all, Female and male, domestics in the hall; By her lord trusted, worthy of her trust; Proud but obedient, bountiful but just. She praised her lucky stars, that in her place 240 She never found neglect, nor felt disgrace; To do her duty was her soul’s delight, } This her inferiors would to theirs excite, } This her superiors notice and requite; } To either class she gave the praises due, And still more grateful as more favour’d grew. Her lord and lady were of peerless worth, In power unmatch’d, in glory and in birth; And such the virtue of the noble race, It reach’d the meanest servant in the place. 250 All, from the chief attendant on my lord To the groom’s helper, had her civil word; From Miss Montregor, who the ladies taught, To the rude lad who in the garden wrought; From the first favourite to the meanest drudge, Were no such women, heaven should be her judge; Whatever stains were theirs, let them reside In that pure place, and they were mundified; The sun of favour on their vileness shone, And all their faults like morning mists were gone. 260 There was Lord Robert! could she have her choice, From the world’s masters he should have her voice; So kind and gracious in his noble ways, It was a pleasure speaking in his praise; And Lady Catharine—O! a prince’s pride Might by one smile of hers be gratified; With her would monarchs all their glory share, And in her presence banish all their care. Such was the matron, and to her the maid Was by her lover carefully convey’d. 270 When William first the invitation read It some displeasure in his spirit bred; Not that one jealous thought the man possess’d: He was by fondness, not by fear, distress’d; But, when his Fanny to his mind convey’d The growing treasures of the ancient maid; The thirty years, come June, of service past; Her lasting love, her life that would not last; Her power! her place! what interest! what respect She had acquired—“and shall we her neglect?”— 280 “No, Frances, no!” he answer’d, “you are right; But things appear in such a different light!” Her parents blest her, and as well became Their love advised her, that they might not blame; They said, “If she should earl or countess meet She should be humble, cautious, and discreet; Humble, but not abased, remembering all Are kindred sinners—children of the fall; That from the earth our being we receive, And are all equal when the earth we leave.” 290 They then advised her in a modest way To make replies to what my lord might say; Her aunt would aid her, who was now become With nobles noble, and with lords at home. So went the pair; and William told at night Of a reception gracious and polite; He spake of galleries long and pictures tall; The handsome parlours, the prodigious hall; The busts, the statues, and the floors of stone; The storied arras, and the vast saloon, 300 In which was placed an Indian chest and screen, With figures such as he had never seen: He told of these as men enraptured tell, And gave to all their praise, and all was well. Left by the lover, the desponding maid Was of the matron’s ridicule afraid; But, when she heard a welcome frank and kind, The wonted firmness repossess’d her mind; Pleased by the looks of love her aunt display’d, Her fond professions, and her kind parade. 310 In her own room, and with her niece apart, She gave up all the secrets of her heart; And, grown familiar, bid her Fanny come, Partake her cheer, and make herself at home. Shut in that room, upon its cheerful board She laid the comforts of no vulgar hoard; Then press’d the damsel both with love and pride, For both she felt—and would not be denied. Grace she pronounced before and after meat, And bless’d her God that she could talk and eat; 320 Then with new glee she sang her patron’s praise—— “He had no paltry arts, no pimping ways; She had the roast and boil’d of every day, That sent the poor with grateful hearts away; And she was grateful——Come, my darling, think Of them you love the best, and let us drink.” And now she drank the healths of those above, Her noble friends, whom she must ever love; But not together, not the young and old, But one by one, the number duly told; 330 And told their merits too—there was not one Who had not said a gracious thing or done; Nor could she praise alone, but she would take A cheerful glass for every favourite’s sake, And all were favourites—till the rosy cheek Spoke for the tongue that nearly ceased to speak; That rosy cheek that now began to shine, And show the progress of the rosy wine. But there she ended—felt the singing head, Then pray’d as custom will’d, and so to bed. 340 The morn was pleasant, and the ancient maid With her fair niece about the mansion stray’d; There was no room without th’ appropriate tale Of blood and murder, female sprite or male; There was no picture that th’ historic dame Pass’d by and gave not its peculiar fame; The births, the visits, weddings, burials, all That chanced for ages at the noble Hall. These, and each revolution, she could state, And give strange anecdotes of love and hate; 350 This was her first delight, her pride, her boast; } She told of many an heiress, many a toast, } Of Lady Ellen’s flight, of Lord Orlando’s ghost; } The maid turn’d pale, and what should then ensue But wine and cake—the dame was frighten’d too. The aunt and niece now walk’d about the grounds, And sometimes met the gentry in their rounds; “Do let us turn!” the timid girl exclaim’d— “Turn!” said the aunt, “of what are you ashamed? What is there frightful in such looks as those? 360 What is it, child, you fancy or suppose? Look at Lord Robert, see if you can trace More than true honour in that handsome face! What! you must think, by blushing in that way, My lord has something about love to say; But I assure you that he never spoke Such things to me in earnest or in joke; And yet I meet him in all sorts of times, When wicked men are thinking of their crimes. There! let them pass——Why, yes, indeed ’tis true 370} That was a look, and was design’d for you; } But what the wonder when the sight is new? } For my lord’s virtue you may take my word, He would not do a thing that was absurd.” A month had pass’d; “And when will Fanny come?” The lover ask’d, and found the parents dumb; They had not heard for more than half the space, And the poor maiden was in much disgrace. Silence so long they could not understand— And this of one who wrote so neat a hand; 380 Their sister sure would send, were aught amiss; But youth is thoughtless—there is hope in this. As time elapsed, their wonder changed to wo: William would lose another day, and go. Yet, if she should be wilful and remain, He had no power to take her home again. But he would go.—He went, and he return’d— And in his look the pair his tale discern’d; Stupid in grief, it seem’d not that he knew How he came home, or what he should pursue. 390 Fanny was gone!—her aunt was sick in bed, } Dying, she said—none cared if she were dead; } Her charge, his darling, was decoy’d, was fled! } But at what time, and whither, and with whom, None seem’d to know—all surly, shy, or dumb. Each blamed himself, all blamed the erring maid; They vow’d revenge, they cursed their fate, and pray’d. Moved by his grief, the father sought the place, Ask’d for his girl, and talk’d of her disgrace; Spoke of the villain, on whose cursed head 400 He pray’d that vengeance might be amply shed; Then sought his sister, and beheld her grief, Her pain, her danger,—this was no relief. “Where is my daughter? bring her to my sight!”— “Brother, I’m rack’d and tortured day and night.”— “Talk not to me! What grief have you to tell, Is your soul rack’d, or is your bosom hell? Where is my daughter?”—“She would take her oath For their right doing, for she knew them both, And my young lord was honour.”—“Woman, cease! 410} And give your guilty conscience no such peace— } You’ve sold the wretched girl, you have betray’d your niece.”— } “The Lord be good! and O! the pains that come In limb and body—Brother, get you home! Your voice runs through me—every angry word, If he should hear it, would offend my lord.”— “Has he a daughter? let her run away With a poor dog, and hear what he will say! No matter what, I’ll ask him for his son”— “And so offend? Now, brother, pray be gone!” 420 My lord appear’d, perhaps by pity moved, And kindly said he no such things approved; Nay, he was angry with the foolish boy, Who might his pleasures at his ease enjoy; The thing was wrong—he hoped the farm did well— The angry father doom’d the farm to hell; He then desired to see the villain-son, Though my lord warn’d him such excess to shun; Told him he pardon’d, though he blamed such rage, And bade him think upon his state and age. 430 “Think! yes, my lord! but thinking drives me mad— Give me my child!—Where is she to be had? I’m old and poor, but I with both can feel, And so shall he that could a daughter steal! Think you, my lord, I can be so bereft And feel no vengeance for the villain’s theft? Old if I am, could I the robber meet I’d lay his breathless body at my feet— Was that a smile, my lord? think you your boy Will both the father and the child destroy?” 440 My lord replied—“I’m sorry, from my soul! But boys are boys, and there is no control.”— “So, for your great ones Justice slumbers, then! If men are poor they must not feel as men— Will your son marry?”—“Marry!” said my lord, “Your daughter?—marry—no, upon my word!” “What then, our stations differ!—but your son Thought not of that—his crime has made them one, In guilt united—She shall be his wife, Or I th’ avenger that will take his life!”— 450 “Old man, I pity and forgive you; rest } In hope and comfort—be not so distress’d; } Things that seem bad oft happen for the best. } The girl has done no more than thousands do, Nor has the boy—they laugh at me and you.”— “And this my vengeance—curse him!”—“Nay, forbear; I spare your frenzy, in compassion spare.”— “Spare me, my lord! and what have I to dread? O! spare not, heaven, the thunder o’er his head— The bolt he merits!”—— Such was his redress; 460 And he return’d to brood upon distress. And what of William?—William from the time Appear’d partaker both of grief and crime; He cared for nothing, nothing he pursued, But walk’d about in melancholy mood; He ceased to labour—all he loved before He now neglected, and would see no more; He said his flute brought only to his mind When he was happy, and his Fanny kind; And his loved walks, and every object near, 470 And every evening-sound she loved to hear, The shady lane, broad heath, and starry sky, Brought home reflections, and he wish’d to die. Yet there he stray’d, because he wish’d to shun The world he hated, where his part was done; As if, though lingering on the earth, he there Had neither hope nor calling, tie nor care. At length a letter from the daughter came, ‘Frances’ subscribed, and that the only name; She “pitied much her parents, spoke of fate, 480 And begg’d them to forget her, not to hate; Said she had with her all the world could give, And only pray’d that they in peace should live. That which is done is that we’re born to do— This she was taught, and she believed it true; True, that she lived in pleasure and delight, But often dream’d and saw the farm by night; The boarded room that she had kept so neat, And all her roses in the window-seat; The pear-tree shade, the jasmine’s lovely gloom, 490 With its long twigs that blossom’d in the room; But she was happy, and the tears that fell } As she was writing had no grief to tell; } We weep when we are glad, we sigh when we are well.” } A bill inclosed, that they beheld with pain And indignation, they return’d again; There was no mention made of William’s name, Check’d as she was by pity, love, and shame. William, who wrought for bread, and never sought More than the day demanded when he wrought, 500 Was to a sister call’d, of all his race The last, and dying in a distant place. In tender terror he approach’d her bed, Beheld her sick, and buried her when dead; He was her heir, and what she left was more Than he required, who was content before. With their minds’ sufferings, age, and growing pain, That ancient couple could not long remain, Nor long remain’d; and in their dying groan The suffering youth perceived himself alone; 510 For of his health or sickness, peace or care, He knew not one in all the world to share. Now every scene would sad reflections give, And most his home, and there he could not live; There every walk would now distressing prove, And of his loss remind him, and his love. With the small portion by his sister left He roved about as one of peace bereft; And by the body’s movements hoped to find A kind of wearied stillness in the mind, 520 And sooner bring it to a sleepy state, As rocking infants will their pains abate. Thus careless, lost, unheeding where he went, Nine weary years the wandering lover spent. His sole employment, all that could amuse, Was his companions on the road to choose; With such he travell’d through the passing day, Friends of the hour, and walkers by the way; And from the sick, the poor, the halt, the blind, He learn’d the sorrows of his suffering kind. 530 He learn’d of many how unjust their fate, For their connexions dwelt in better state; They had relations famous, great or rich, Learned or wise, they never scrupled which; But while they cursed these kindred churls, would try To build their fame, and for their glory lie. Others delighted in misfortunes strange, The sports of fortune in her love for change. Some spoke of wonders they before had seen, When on their travels they had wandering been: 540 How they had sail’d the world about, and found The sailing plain, although the world was round; How they beheld for months th’ unsetting sun; } What deeds they saw! what they themselves had done!— } What leaps at Rhodes!—what glory then they won! } There were who spoke in terms of high disdain Of their contending against power in vain; Suffering from tyranny of law long borne; And life’s best spirits in contentions worn. Happy in this, th’ oppressors soon will die, 550} Each with the vex’d and suffering man to lie— } And thus consoled exclaim, ‘And is not sorrow dry?’ } But vice offended: when he met with those Who could a deed of violence propose, And cry, “Should they what we desire possess? } Should they deprive us, and their laws oppress?” } William would answer, “Ours is not redress.”— } “Would you oppression, then, for ever feel?”— “’Tis not my choice; but yet I must not steal.”— “So, first they cheat us, and then make their laws 560 To guard their treasures and to back their cause: What call you then, my friend, the rights of man?”— “To get his bread,” said William, “if he can; And if he cannot, he must then depend } Upon a Being he may make his friend.”— } “Make!” they replied; and conference had end. } But female vagrants would at times express A new-born pleasure at the mild address; His modest wish, clothed in accent meek, That they would comfort in religion seek. 570 “I am a sinful being!” William cried; “Then, what am I?” the conscious heart replied; And oft-times ponder’d in a pensive way, “He is not happy, yet he loves to pray.” But some would freely on his thoughts intrude, And thrust themselves ’twixt him and solitude; They would his faith and of its strength demand, And all his soul’s prime motions understand. “How!” they would say, “such we and such belief, Such trust in heaven, and yet on earth such grief! 580 Thou art almost, my friend—thou art not all; Thou hast not yet the self-destroying call; Thou hast a carnal wish, perhaps a will Not yet subdued—the root is growing still. There is the strong man yet that keeps his own, Who by a stronger must be overthrown; There is the burden that must yet be gone, And then the pilgrim may go singing on.” William to this would seriously incline, And to their comforts would his heart resign; 590 It soothed, it raised him—he began to feel Th’ enlivening warmth of methodistic zeal; He learn’d to know the brethren by their looks— He sought their meetings, he perused their books; But yet was not within the pale and yoke, And as a novice of experience spoke; But felt the comfort, and began to pray For such companions on the king’s highway. William had now across the kingdom sped, To th’ Eastern ocean from St. David’s head; 600 And wandering late, with various thoughts oppress’d, ’Twas midnight ere he reach’d his place of rest— A village inn, that one way-faring friend Could from experience safely recommend: Where the kind hostess would be more intent On what he needed than on what he spent; Her husband, once a heathen, she subdued, And with religious fear his mind imbued; Though his conviction came too late to save An erring creature from an early grave. 610 Since that event, the cheerful widow grew } In size and substance—her the brethren knew— } And many friends were hers, and lovers not a few; } But either love no more could warm her heart, Or no man came who could the warmth impart. William drew near, and saw the comely look Of the good lady, bending o’er her book; Hymns it appear’d—for now a pleasing sound Seem’d as a welcome in his wanderings found. He enter’d softly, not as they who think 620 That they may act the ruffian if they drink, And who conceive, that for their paltry pence They may with rules of decency dispense; Far unlike these was William—he was kind, Exacting nothing, and to all resign’d. He saw the hostess reading,—and their eyes Met in good will, and something like surprise. It was not beauty William saw, but more, Something like that which he had loved before— Something that brought his Fanny to his view, 630 In the dear time when she was good and true; And his, it seem’d, were features that were seen } With some emotion—she was not serene; } And both were moved to ask what looks like those could mean. } At first, she colour’d to the deepest red, That hurried off, till all the rose was fled; She call’d a servant, whom she sent to rest, Then made excuse to her attentive guest; She own’d the thoughts confused—’twas very true, He brought a dear departed friend in view; 640 Then, as he listen’d, bade him welcome there } With livelier looks and more engaging air, } And stirr’d the fire of ling, and brush’d the wicker chair; } Waiting his order, with the cheerful look That proved how pleasant were the pains she took. He was refresh’d——They spake on various themes— } Our early pleasures, Reason’s first-drawn schemes, } Youth’s strong illusions, Love’s delirious dreams; } Then from her book he would presume to ask A song of praise, and she perform’d the task. 650 The clock struck twelve—He started—‘Must I go?’ His looks spoke plainly, and the lady’s, ‘No;’ So down he sat—and, when the clock struck one, There was no start, no effort to be gone; Nor stay’d discourse—— “And so your loves were cross’d, And the loved object to your wishes lost? But was she faithless, or were you to blame? I wish I knew her—Will you tell her name?”— “Excuse me—that would hurt her if alive; And, if no more, why should her fault survive?” 660 “But love you still?”— “Alas! I feel I do, When I behold her very looks in you!”— “Yet, if the frail one’s name must not be known, My friendly guest may trust me with his own.” This done, the lady paused, and then replied— It grieves me much to see your spirit tried;— But she was like me—how I came to know The lamb that stray’d I will hereafter show.— We were indeed as sisters——Should I state Her quiet end, you would no longer hate; 670 I see your heart—and I shall quickly prove, Though she deserved not, yet she priced your love: Long as she breathed was heard her William’s name— And such affection half absolves her shame. “Weep not, but hear me, how I came to know Thee and thy Frances—this to heaven I owe; And thou shalt view the pledge, the very ring, The birth-day token—well you know the thing; ‘This,’ if I ever—thus I was to speak, As she had spoken—but I see you weak: 680 She was not worthy——” “O! you cannot tell By what accursed means my Fanny fell! What bane, compulsion, threats—for she was pure; But from such toils what being is secure? Force, not persuasion, robb’d me——” “You are right; So has she told me, in her Maker’s sight: She loved not vice——” “O! no—her heart approved All that her God commanded to be loved; And she is gone”—— “Consider! death alone Could for the errors of her life atone.”— 690 “Speak not of them; I would she knew how dear I hold her yet!—But dost thou give the tear To my loved Frances?—No! I cannot part With one who has her face, who has her heart. With looks so pleasing, when I thee behold, She lives—that bosom is no longer cold— Then tell me—Art thou not—in pity speak— One whom I sought, while living meant to seek— Art thou my Fanny?—Let me not offend— Be something to me—be a sufferer’s friend— 700 Be more—be all! ——The precious truth confess— } Art thou not Frances?”—— } “O, my William! yes! } But spare me, spare thyself, and suffer less. } In my best days, the spring-time of my life, I was not worthy to be William’s wife; A widow now—not poor, indeed—not cast In outer darkness—sorrowing for the past, And for the future hoping—but no more: Let me the pledges of thy love restore, And give the ring thou gavest—let it be 710 A token still of my regard for thee— But only that—and to a worthier now Consign the gift.”—— “The only worthy thou!” Replied the lover; and what more express’d May be omitted—here our tale shall rest. This pair, our host and hostess of the Fleece, Command some wealth, and smile at its increase; Saving and civil, cautious and discreet, All sects and parties in their mansion meet; There from their chapels teachers go to share 720 The creature-comforts—mockery grins not there; There meet the wardens at their annual feast, With annual pun—‘the parish must be fleeced’; There traders find a parlour cleanly swept For their reception, and in order kept; And there the sons of labour, poor, but free, Sit and enjoy their hour of liberty. So live the pair—and life’s disasters seem In their unruffled calm a troubled dream; In comfort runs the remnant of their life— 730 He the fond husband, she the faithful wife.
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XX
THE CATHEDRAL-WALK.
George in his hypochondriac State—A Family Mansion now a Farmhouse—The Company there—Their Conversation—Subjects afforded by the Pictures—Doubts if Spirits can appear—Arguments—Facts—The Relation of an old Lady—Her Walks in a Cathedral—Appearance there.
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XX
THE CATHEDRAL-WALK.
In their discourse again the Brothers dwelt On early subjects—what they once had felt, Once thought, of things mysterious:—themes that all With some degree of reverence recall. George then reverted to the days of old, When his heart fainted, and his hope was cold; When by the power of fancy he was sway’d, And every impulse of the mind obey’d. “Then, my dear Richard,” said the ‘Squire, “my case Was call’d consumptive—I must seek a place 10 And soil salubrious, thither must repair, And live on asses’ milk and milder air. “My uncle bought a farm, and on the land The fine old mansion yet was left to stand, Not in this state, but old and much decay’d; Of this a part was habitable made; The rest—who doubts?—was by the spirits seized, Ghosts of all kinds, who used it as they pleased. “The worthy farmer tenant yet remain’d, Of good report—he had a fortune gain’d; 20 And his three daughters at their school acquired The air and manner that their swains admired; The mother-gossip and these daughters three Talk’d of genteel and social company, And, while the days were fine, and walks were clean, A fresh assemblage day by day were seen. “There were the curate’s gentle maids, and some From all the neighbouring villages would come; There, as I stole the yew-tree shades among, I saw the parties walking, old and young, 30 Where I was nothing—if perceived, they said, ‘The man is harmless, be not you afraid; A poor young creature, who, they say, is cross’d In love, and has in part his senses lost— His health for certain, and he comes to spend His time with us; we hope our air will mend A frame so weaken’d, for the learned tribe A change of air for stubborn ills prescribe; And doing nothing often has prevail’d When ten physicians have prescribed and fail’d; 40 Not that for air or change there’s much to say, But nature then has time to take her way; And so we hope our village will restore This man to health that he possess’d before. He loves the garden avenues, the gloom } Of the old chambers, of the tap’stried room; } And we no notice take, we let him go and come.’ } “So spake a gay young damsel; but she knew Not all the truth—in part her tale was true. Much it amused me in the place to be 50 This harmless cypher, seeming not to see, Yet seeing all—unnoticed to appear, Yet noting all; and not disposed to hear, But to go forth—break in on no one’s plan, And hear them speak of the forsaken man. “In scenes like these, a mansion so decay’d, With blighted trees in hoary moss array’d, And ivy’d walls around, for many an hour I walk’d alone, and felt their witching power; So others felt;—the young of either sex 60 Would in these walks their timid minds perplex By meeting terrors, and the old appear’d, Their fears upbraiding, like the young who fear’d. Among them all some sad discourse at night Was sure to breed a terrified delight: Some luckless one of the attentive dames Had figures seen like those within the frames, Figures of lords who once the land posses’d, And who could never in their coffins rest; Unhappy spirits! who could not abide 70} The loss of all their consequence and pride; } ’Twas death in all his power, their very names had died. } “These tales of terror views terrific bred, And sent the hearers trembling to their bed.”
* * * * *
In an autumnal evening, cool and still, The sun just dropp’d beneath a distant hill, The children gazing on the quiet scene, Then rose in glory Night’s majestic queen; And pleasant was the chequer’d light and shade Her golden beams and maple shadows made; 80 An ancient tree that in the garden grew, And that fair picture on the gravel threw. Then all was silent, save the sounds that make Silence more awful, while they faintly break; The frighten’d bat’s low shriek, the beetle’s hum, With nameless sounds we know not whence they come. Such was the evening; and that ancient seat The scene where then some neighbours chanced to meet. Up to the door led broken steps of stone, Whose dewy surface in the moonlight shone; 90 On vegetation, that with progress slow Where man forbears to fix his foot, will grow; The window’s depth and dust repell’d the ray Of the moon’s light and of the setting day; Pictures there were, and each display’d a face And form that gave their sadness to the place; The frame and canvas show’d that worms unseen, Save in their works, for years had working been; A fire of brushwood on the irons laid } All the dull room in fitful views display’d, 100} And with its own wild light in fearful forms array’d. } In this old Hall, in this departing day, Assembled friends and neighbours, grave and gay; When one good lady at a picture threw A glance that caused inquiry.—“Tell us who?” “That was a famous warrior; one, they said, That by a spirit was awhile obey’d; In all his dreadful battles he would say, ‘Or win or lose, I shall escape to-day’; And, though the shot as thick as hail came round, 110 On no occasion he received a wound; He stood in safety, free from all alarm, Protected, heaven forgive him, by his charm. But he forgot the date, till came the hour When he no more had the protecting power; And then he bade his friends around farewell! ‘I fall!’ he cried, and in the instant fell. “Behold those infants in the frame beneath! A witch offended wrought their early death; She form’d an image, made as wax to melt, 120 And each the wasting of the figure felt; The hag confess’d it when she came to die, And no one living can the truth deny. “But see a beauty in King William’s days, With that long waist, and those enormous stays; She had three lovers, and no creature knew The one preferr’d, or the discarded two; None could the secret of her bosom see; Loving, poor maid, th’ attention of the three, She kept such equal weight in either scale, 130 ’Twas hard to say who would at last prevail. Thus, you may think, in either heart arose A jealous anger, and the men were foes; Each with himself concluded, two aside, The third may make the lovely maid his bride: This caused their fate—It was on Thursday night The deed was done, and bloody was the fight; Just as she went, poor thoughtless girl! to prayers, Ran wild the maid with horror up the stairs; Pale as a ghost, but not a word she said, 140 And then the lady utter’d, ‘Coates is dead!’ “Then the poor damsel found her voice and cried, } ‘Ran through the body, and that instant died! } But he pronounced your name, and so was satisfied.’ } A second fell, and he who did survive Was kept by skill and sovereign drugs alive; ‘O! would she see me!’ he was heard to say, ‘No! I’ll torment him to his dying day!’ The maid exclaim’d; and every Thursday night Her spirit came his wretched soul to fright. 150 Once, as she came, he cried aloud ‘Forgive!’ ‘Never!’ she answer’d, ‘never while you live, Nor when you die, as long as time endures; You have my torment been, and I’ll be yours!’ That is the lady, and the man confess’d Her vengeful spirit would not let him rest.” “But are there ghosts?” exclaim’d a timid maid; “My father tells me not to be afraid; He cries, when buried we are safe enough, And calls such stories execrable stuff.” 160 “Your father, child,” the former lady cried, “Has learning much, but he has too much pride; It is impossible for him to tell What things in nature are impossible, Or out of nature, or to prove to whom Or for what purposes a ghost may come; It may not be intelligence to bring, But to keep up a notion of the thing; And though from one such fact there may arise An hundred wild improbabilities, 170 Yet had there never been the truth, I say, The very lies themselves had died away.” “True,” said a friend; “Heaven doubtless may dispense A kind of dark and clouded evidence; God has not promised that he will not send A spirit freed to either foe or friend; He may such proof, and only such, bestow, Though we the certain truth can never know; And therefore, though such floating stories bring No strong or certain vouchers of the thing, 180 Still would I not, presuming, pass my word That all such tales were groundless and absurd.” “But you will grant,” said one who sate beside, “That all appear so when with judgment tried?” “For that concession, madam, you may call, When we have sate in judgment upon all.” An ancient lady, who with pensive smile Had heard the stories, and been mute the while, Now said, “Our prudence had been better shown By leaving uncontested things unknown; 190 Yet, if our children must such stories hear, Let us provide some antidotes to fear; For all such errors in the minds of youth, In any mind, the only cure is truth; And truths collected may in time decide Upon such facts, or prove, at least, a guide. If, then, permitted I will fairly state One fact, nor doubt the story I relate; I for your perfect acquiescence call, } ’Tis of myself I tell.”——“O! tell us all!” 200} Said every being there; then silent was the Hall. }
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“Early in life, beneath my parent’s roof, Of man’s true honour I had noble proof; A generous lover who was worthy found, Where half his sex are hollow and unsound. “My father fail’d in trade, and sorrowing died, When all our loss a generous youth supplied; And soon the time drew on when he could say, } ‘O! fix the happy, fix the early day!’ } Nor meant I to oppose his wishes, or delay. 210} But then came fever, slight at first indeed, Then hastening on and threatening in its speed; It mock’d the powers of medicine; day by day I saw those helpers sadly walk away; So came the hand-like cloud, and with such power And with such speed, that brought the mighty shower. “Him nursed I dying, and we freely spoke Of what might follow the expected stroke; We talk’d of spirits, of their unknown powers, And dared to dwell on what the fate of ours; 220 But the dread promise, to appear again, Could it be done, I sought not to obtain; But yet we were presuming—‘Could it be,’ He said, ‘O Emma! I would come to thee!’ “At his last hour his reason, late astray, Again return’d t’ illuminate his way. “In the last night my mother long had kept Unwearied watch, and now reclined and slept; The nurse was dreaming in a distant chair, And I had knelt to soothe him with a prayer; 230 When, with a look of that peculiar kind That gives its purpose to the fellow mind, His manner spoke—‘Confide—be not afraid— I shall remember’—this was all convey’d— ‘I know not what awaits departed man; But this believe—I meet thee if I can.’
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“I wish’d to die—and grief, they say, will kill; But you perceive ’tis slowly, if it will. That I was wretched you may well believe— I judged it right, and was resolved to grieve. 240 I lost my mother when there lived not one, Man, woman, child, whom I would seek or shun. “The Dean, my uncle, with congenial gloom, Said, ‘Will you share a melancholy home?’ For he bewail’d a wife, as I deplored My fate, and bliss that could not be restored. “In his cathedral’s gloom I pass’d my time Much in devotion, much in thought sublime; There oft I paced the aisles, and watch’d the glow Of the sun setting on the stones below, 250 And saw the failing light, that strove to pass Through the dim coating of the storied glass, Nor fell within, but till the day was gone The red faint fire upon the window shone. I took the key, and oft-times chose to stay Till all was vanish’d of the tedious day, Till I perceived no light, nor heard a sound, That gave me notice of a world around. “Then had I grief’s proud thoughts, and said, in tone Of exultation, ‘World, I am alone! 260 I care not for thee, thou art vile and base, And I shall leave thee for a nobler place.’ “So I the world abused—in fact, to me Urbane and civil as a world could be; Nor should romantic grievers thus complain, Although but little in the world they gain; But let them think if they have nothing done To make this odious world so sad a one; Or what their worth and virtue, that should make This graceless world so pleasant for their sake. 270 “But to my tale:—Behold me as I tread The silent mansions of the favour’d dead, Who sleep in vaulted chambers, till their clay, } In quiet dissolution, melts away } In this their bodies’ home—The spirits, where are they? } ‘And where his spirit?—Doors and walls impede The embodied spirit, not the spirit freed’. And, saying this, I at the altar knelt, And painful joys and rapturous anguish felt; Till strong, bold hopes possess’d me, and I cried, 280 ‘Even at this instant is he at my side; Yes, now, dear spirit! art thou by, to prove That mine is lasting, mine the loyal love!’ “Thus have I thought, returning to the Dean, As one who had some glorious vision seen. He ask’d no question, but would sit and weep, And cry, in doleful tone, ‘I cannot sleep!’ “In dreams the chosen of my heart I view’d, And thus th’ impression day by day renew’d; I saw him always, always loved to see, 290 For, when alone, he was my company; In company, with him alone I seem’d, And, if not dreaming, was as one who dream’d. “Thus, robb’d of sleep, I found, when evening came, A pleasing torpor steal upon my frame; But still the habit drew my languid feet To the loved darkness of the favourite seat; And there, by silence and by sadness press’d, I felt a world my own, and was at rest. “One night, when urged with more than usual zeal, 300 And feeling all that such enthusiasts feel, I paced the altar by, the pillars round, And knew no terror in the sacred ground; For mine were thoughts that banish’d all such fear— I wish’d, I long’d, to have that form appear; And, as I paced the sacred aisles, I cried, ‘Let not thy Emma’s spirit be denied The sight of thine; or if I may not see, Still by some token let her certain be!’ “At length the anxious thoughts my strength subdued, 310 And sleep o’erpower’d me in my solitude; Then was I dreaming of unearthly race, The glorious inmates of a blessed place; Where lofty minds celestial views explore, Heaven’s bliss enjoy, and heaven’s great King adore; Him there I sought whom I had loved so well— For sure he dwelt where happy spirits dwell! “While thus engaged, I started at a sound, Of what I knew not, but I look’d around; For I was borne on visionary wings, 320 And felt no dread of sublunary things; But rising, walk’d.—A distant window threw A weak, soft light, that help’d me in my view; Something with anxious heart I hoped to see, And pray’d, ‘O! God of all things, let it be! For all are thine, were made by thee, and thou Canst both the meeting and the means allow; Thou canst make clear my sight, or thou canst make More gross the form that his loved mind shall take, Canst clothe his spirit for my fleshly sight, 330 Or make my earthly sense more pure and bright.’ “So was I speaking, when without a sound There was a movement in the sacred ground: I saw a figure rising, but could trace No certain features, no peculiar face; But I prepared my mind that form to view, Nor felt a doubt—he promised, and was true! I should embrace his angel, and my clay, And what was mortal in me, melt away. “O! that ecstatic horror in my frame, 340 That o’er me thus, a favour’d mortal, came! Bless’d beyond mortals—and the body now I judged would perish, though I knew not how; The gracious power around me could translate And make me pass to that immortal state: Thus shall I pay the debt that must be paid, And dying live, nor be by death delay’d; And when so changed, I should with joy sustain The heavenly converse, and with him remain. “I saw the distant shade, and went with awe, 350 But not with terror, to the form I saw; Yet slowly went, for he I did believe Would meet, and soul to soul his friend receive; So on I drew, concluding in my mind, I cannot judge what laws may spirits bind; Though I dissolve, and mingle with the blest, } I am a new and uninstructed guest, } And ere my love can speak, he should be first address’d. } “Thus I began to speak—my new-born pride, My love, and daring hope, the words supplied. 360 “‘Dear, happy shade! companion of the good, The just, the pure, do I on thee intrude? Art thou not come my spirit to improve, To form, instruct, and fit me for thy love, And, as in love we parted, to restore The blessing lost, and then to part no more? Let me with thee in thy pure essence dwell, Nor go to bid them of my house farewell, But thine be ever!’—How shall I relate Th’ event that finish’d this ecstatic state? 370 Yet let me try.—It turn’d, and I beheld An hideous form, that hope and zeal expell’d: In a dim light the horrid shape appeared, That wisdom would have fled, and courage fear’d: Pale, and yet bloated, with distorted eyes } Distant and deep, a mouth of monstrous size, } That would in day’s broad glare a simple maid surprise. } He heard my words, and cried, with savage shout, ‘Bah!—bother!—blarney!—What is this about?’ “Love, lover, longing, in an instant fled,— 380 Now I had vice and impudence to dread; And all my high-wrought fancies died away To woman’s trouble, terror, and dismay. “‘What,’ said the wretch, ‘what is it you would have? Would’st hang a man for peeping in a grave? Search me yourself, and try if you can feel Aught I have taken—there was nought to steal: ’Twas told they buried with the corpse enough To pay the hazard—I have made the proof, Nor gain’d a tester—What I tell is true; 390} But I’m no fool, to be betray’d by you— } I’ll hazard nothing, curse me if I do!’ } “The light increased, and plainly now appear’d A knavish fool, whom I had often fear’d, But hid the dread; and I resolved at least Not to expose it to the powerful beast. “‘Come, John,’ I said, suppressing fear and doubt, ‘Walk on before, and let a lady out!’— ‘Lady!’ the wretch replied, with savage grin, ‘Apply to him that let the lady in: 400 What! you would go, I take it, to the Dean, And tell him what your ladyship has seen’. “When thus the fool exposed the knave, I saw } The means of holding such a mind in awe, } And gain my safety by his dread of law. } “‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘I fear the Dean like you, For I transgress, and am in trouble too. If it be known that we are here, as sure As here we are we must the law endure: Each other’s counsel therefore let us keep, 410 And each steal homeward to our beds and sleep,’ “‘Steal!’ said the ruffian’s conscience—‘Well, agreed; Steal on, and let us to the door proceed:’— Yet, ere he moved, he stood awhile, and took Of my poor form a most alarming look; ‘But, hark!’ I cried, and he to move began— Escape alone engaged the dreadful man; With eager hand I oped the ponderous door— The wretch rush’d by me, and was heard no more. “So I escaped,—and when my dreams came on, 420 I check’d the madness by the thoughts of John; Yet say I not what can or cannot be, But give the story of my ghost and me.”
TALES OF THE HALL.
Book XXI
SMUGGLERS AND POACHERS.
A Widow at the Hall—Inquiry of Richard—Relation of two Brothers—Their different Character—Disposition—Modes of thinking—James a Servant—Robert joins the Smugglers—Rachel at the Hall—James attached to her—Trade fails—Robert a Poacher—Is in Danger—How released—James and Rachel—Revenge excited—Association formed—Attack resolved—Preparation made for Resistance—A Night Adventure—Reflections.
TALES OF THE HALL.