Fidelity: or, a Town to be let, unfurnished. A poem in six books

Front matter

FIDELITY FIDELITY; OR, A TOWN TO BE LET, UNFURNISHED. A POEM, IN SIX BOOKS. BY GEORGE HATTON. "A Town to Let, Unfubnished." This unique advertisement is the exact copy of one which actually appeared very recently on the walls of a populous manufacturing town in the north of England; and judging from the meagre and squalid looks of its inhabitants, its closed manufactories, its empty dwellings, together with the general air of utter desolation that pervaded the whole place, we fear the jest bore too near an approximation to truth for its fidelity to be questioned. LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO., STATIONERS' HALL COURT. MANCHESTER: LOVE AND BARTON, MARKET STREET. 1 84?.. Entered at Stationers' Hall. Cave and Sever, Printers, 18, St. Ann's Street, Manchester.

ADVERTISEMENT.

. The characters attempted to be sketched in the following pages having in most instances been drawn from life, the reader is requested not to be too hasty in forming an opinion as to their originals, by referring them to parties of whom the Author never dreamt. In some few instances, it is presumed, the portraitures may be found sufficiently correct to identify themselves. Individuals need not rashly take offence by ap plying to themselves unmerited censure; nothing can affect them but the true ; therefore, if innocent, they may be well assured the reproof, however applicable to some, was never intended for them. The Author offers no apology for his work. It is a simple stricture on the times, and no fiction. If any thing, it falls short of rather than exceeds the truth. Destitute of that patronage which is the life and ordi- Advertisement.

Book I

Not without pain my Muse takes up the pen, But how shall she keep longer silent, when Such dire assaults assail, on every side, My native land, my joy, my hope, my pride ! England ! in thy defence shall she not rise ? Yea, though her efforts all the world despise,— Yea, though her feeble voice sound not afar, — Yet shall she list in this inglorious war. A simple volunteer, of little might, In thy sad cause may valiantly fight — Fight unto death, defending what is right. The man we estimate at little worth Who rails against the country of his birth : u [Book I. FIDELITY. "Who silent hears his native land defamed, Without a blush, need blush and be ashamed For her, in this, that she could have produced A worthless wretch, who, hearing her traduced, Starts not in anger — nay, does not defy, And doom her base calumniators to die.

Ingratitude is man's worst attribute, 20 And levels him below the meanest brute. Why unto man superior wisdom given, If not to imitate the ways of Heaven ; — If not to practise those dear laws of love So admirably taught him from above ; — If not to feel — and, feeling, to obey — Immortal Nature's universal sway ; — If not to aid, with all the power he can, The everlasting happiness of man ? Poor, is my Country ? Oh, not half so poor 30 As his poor heart who prizes her no more ! No spot on earth so barren e'er was found, But home doth consecrate that holy ground. The wayworn pilgrim, in exhausted plight, Springs with alacrity when home's in sight ; — His burden vanishes ! — away with care ! — To Heaven he lifts his soul in secret prayer ; Once more he clasps his treasures to his heart, — What joy, what transport, does th' embrace impart!

His wife and little ones, in eager haste, 40 Flock round about, and equal pleasures taste. Not all the earth, in its expansive round, Can boast a rood, he thinks, of such like ground, Book L] FIDELITY. 3 So beautiful, in his enchanted eyes, As the dear valley where his homestead lies ; — Imagination even has not seen Retreat so picturesque, or clod so green. Now he resolves — resolves to roam no more, From that sequestered vale, and from his native shore. Who that has wandered o'er the world's domain, 50 And has not wished himself at home again ? Who that, in sorrowful or angry mood, Hath braved the perils of old Ocean's flood, And has not, in misfortune's stormy blast, Lamented his temerity at last ? The sheltered nook where his forefathers dwelt ; — The aged tree where he in childhood knelt, And first was taught his tiny hands to raise To Him who deigns to hear an infant's praise ; — The cottage which Ids ancestors had reared, GO By thousand sweet remembrances endeared ; — The village church, — the dingle and the dell, — The pranks of youth, — the friends he loved so well ; — All these — dear loadstars of his early years — Press on his thoughts, and melt him into tears ; While memory displays, in bright array, Shadows of pleasures faded long away ; — Again they breathe — they move — they live, — and he Is wrapt in a delicious ecstacy !

The fond associations of the past 70 With late privations does he now contrast ; Dear and more dear to him are they become, Since last he parted from his peaceful home. FIDELITY. [Book I, Sorrow hath taught him — what 'tis well to know — From our own hearts alone content must flow. He dreams of home, — disturb not his delight, Too soon reality his dream shall blight. Who that has lived even in self banishment, What trifling things have broken his content ! A common tune his sympathy awakes, 80 And now delirium his reason shakes. Home he revisits through the eye of faith, And, undeceived, perhaps dies a happy death. Home may be homely ; but where'er we roam, Rely upon it, — there's no place like home ! Hard is his fate, and destitute indeed, Who has no home, no country, and no creed. Who sells his birth-right for a paltry mess, Is not trust-worthy, nor deserves success.

Want of Fidelity is want of heart, — 90 Life's great essential, and most vital part. He is the truest patriot who adheres, Amid temptations and distracting fears, With greatest firmness to the badge he wears, And never his allegiance forswears. Who faithful is in one thing, is in most, And in due time arrives at honor's post. The base-born traitor who his trust betrays, Receives no better coin than that he pays. When Truth and Honesty go hand in hand, 100 All things shall flourish in our happy land. Virtue alone leads on to wealth and fame, — Virtue ! she does immortalize a name. Book I.] 5 FIDELITY. Who seeks for glory, honour, and renown, Let him make truth and virtue all his own. Fixed principles, and just, alone ensure The happiness which shall for life endure. Whatever's false cannot be permanent, Neither can good result from ill intent.

Who prostitutes his innocence of mind, 1 10 Deserves the degradation he shall find ; Who sacrifices, at whatever cost, Sincerity — his peace of mind is lost. How strange it is that Man, endowed with sense, Should commit deeds which admit no defence ; — That beings rational, reflective, kind, — Possessing all the attributes of mind In such perfection, under such control, With all that chastens and refines the soul, — Thought, action, understanding, feeling, will, — 120 The power to know and choose 'twixt good and ill, — Meek, humble, pure, affectionate, sincere, Full of compassion, shedding many a tear, — Even at the bare recital of distress, Impatient till the wronged obtain redress, — Happy themselves at sight of others' bliss ; — How strange, how unaccountable it is, That such like beings fretful are at times, Yea, guilty of unpardonable crimes ; Administering good in time of need, 130 Yet reckless, causing many a heart to bleed ; At times betraying guileless innocence, Ready at times to die in its defence ; At once the source of misery and joy, The gold of life, also its base alloy ; Loudly denouncing all who dare to cheat, Yet do they largely traffic in deceit ; Blind to self-weakness, faults in all they see, And ever act with inconsistency.

Like babes at play, the bauble once most prized Is now cast by, and utterly despised. 140 Trifles are oft foundations of discord, And many a quarrel rests upon a word. With trifles charmed, yet difficult to please, With love they melt, or with unkindness freeze, The mercury of their thermometer Rises or falls as passion gives the spur. Not more ferocious are the beasts of prey Than angry men enraged and set at bay ; A single spark enkindles endless wrath, — Fierce indignation pours its vial forth ; Madly they rush at any venture when They seek revenge. Revenge becomes not men, Yet do they life itself, even, disregard, — Obsequious Death delivers Honour's card. An injury we may inflict or brook, 150 But not the slightest insult overlook. The world's rough usage, villany, and rant, Kills many a tender, promising young plant.

Man is made up of contrarieties, 160 Full of conceits and strange anomalies ; Irresolute at best, capricious, weak, Choleric and rash, — all these do man bespeak. Though liable to change, not insincere,— Courageous, bold, but still alive to fear. Impelled by circumstance, how promptly he Adapts himself to sad necessity ! His mind's a prism, and view it as you will, The rays it darts are bright but variable : Inconstant ever, not unreasonably, 170 For now another medium strikes the eye ; Before he might be wrong, but this new light Convinces him that now he must be right. And thus he justifies his strangest acts, Never advancing anything but facts ; Prone to misjudge or take for granted, he Draws false conclusions most erroneously. His prejudice misleads, and oft betrays, And influences all he does or says ; Contracts his views, and binds him to a stake, 180 Where he'd be baited rather than forsake An old opinion, or yield up a point, Though he be racked and severed joint from joint.

Leave him awhile, still is he so disposed ? The antipodes cannot be more opposed. Hasty at times, at times a waverer, No fixity of soul, he does prefer Soft dalliance, and parleying with desire, Rather than quench at once unholy fire In the pure waters of eternal truth, — 190 Because his way is pleasant now, forsooth, Although he knows it may and does consume, And rob him of his innocence and bloom. He speaks, but soon repents what he hath spoken ; He vows, — the vow's no sooner made than broken ; Veering about, of most fantastic mind, He is, in truth, as fickle as the wind. To-day man purposes, but puts off till A more convenient season, to fulfil His great designs : the time proposed slips by, — 200 The work is unperformed, and he must die. Thus moves he in a circle of events, Nor much accomplishes of his intents.

For mightier ends than this was Man designed Were he less obstinate, nor quite so blind, — Had he the penetration to perceive His powers, what noble things he might achieve ! Pride, stubborn pride, round him her meshes knits, — This is the fatal rock on which he splits. Here may he sit, and contemplate at ease 210 The dangers of this Use's tempestuous seas. His fragile bark a shattered ruin lies, — His pride hath fallen, never more to rise. Oh, Man ! divest thyself of pride, and move Within thy proper sphere, — thy sphere is love. By Providence designed alone for good, Shake off, shake off this moral torpitude ; Unfurl the banner of celestial Truth, — Defend it valiantly, thou noble youth. Let moral rectitude thy breast inspire, 220 And warm thee with a warrior's warlike fire ! Haste to the combat, challenge to the field, — To thy superior prowess all must yield.

Book L] FIDELITY. 240 250 Virtue is irresistible, and thou Hast that imprinted on thy manly brow ; Vice is a coward ; see, the dastard runs — The tyrant slave the righteous conflict shuns ! Fear not the machinations of the unjust, In Heaven and a clear conscience be thy trust ; These shall prevail, — they are thy sword and spear ; 230 Thou shalt come off a might}- conqueror. Thy weapons are well tempered, trusty, tried ; Discreetly used, what needest thou beside ? Armed for the fight, it rests alone with thee To check each rising wrong propensity, And o'er thy passions gain the mastery. Carnal affections are the root of pain ; These must be utterly subdued and slain, Before the heart, enthralled in mystic night, Can possibly emerge to heavenly light. If to be happy is our present aim, On just pretensions let us ground our claim ; To pray for bliss were an unjust request, Did not our deeds sufficiently attest The true sincerity of our desires ; Even man from man this guarantee requires ; Ere we the raptures of the blessed partake, We must all evil practices forsake.

Within thy breast all vanity must cease, Thy breast shall be the mansion of sweet Peace ; But not until the temple's purified There will the maid contentedly abide. We must put off all habits that are bad, And in a chaster livery be clad ; The world's polluted garments bear a taint Enough to poison and corrupt a saint. All men are bound, by Nature's moral tie, To live aright, that they aright may die. He that would reap, yet be exempt from toil, Knows not the nature of a stubborn soil : 260 The heart of man is like a fallow field, Which if well tilled, a rich return shall yield. Under a course of rigid exercise, The mind, well disciplined, in time grows wise. Vice is a gross, insinuating weed, Which never should be suffered to bear seed ; Virtue w-ill flourish, as the tender plant Is cherished carefully, and kept from want.

But come, my Muse ! these idle dreams eschew, Let thoughtless triflers, trifling things pursue ; 270 A graver matter now have we in hand, Than commonly invites thy sister band: Our solemn theme demands a serious lay, Let us to battle with what skill we may; We leave the issue of our righteous cause To Him who judges by unerring laws ; If He approve, we care not who condemn, — They pity us — we also pity them. Censure is cheap, and those who most deride, To judge are often the least qualified ; 280 Convinced that our intentions are not wrong, We boldly venture on the tide of song. Ours is a pleasure yacht, we launch the boat 300 310 Brimful of Hope — Hope bids the vessel float ; It shall ! unless our energies are cramped, — It is too buoyant to be easy swamped. The stormy puffings of the critic fry, Who sit in judgment, shall not raise a sigh.

We spread our sail, and fearless put to sea, Courting no favour, dreading no enemy ; Justice we ask, and justice shall prevail, In spite of Envy's bleak and gusty gale. Your Prejudice is the great Bat of night, The brightest gem looks murky in her sight. She sits in council but she darkens it, By reason of her dull and doubtful wit. With pride, conceit, and arrogance o'ergrown, She has not an opinion of her own. In borrowed robes she imitates her betters, Thus ignorant knaves oft pass for men of letters They boldly criticise, abuse, condemn, On hearsay only — what is truth to them ? To learning they have not the least pretence, Nor the remotest claim to common sense. Happy is he whose intellectual mind In study does sweet recreation find ; Whose leisure moments he can well employ At Reason's shrine ! great is his mental joy !

He the vast labyrinths of ancient lore Can meditate, unfold, reveal, explore, And add continually to his dear store. Wisdom delights with her seductive charms, Kindness malignant criticism disarms. Beauty inspires him, and he loves to trace Nature's perfections, harmony, and grace. Rather another's failings he'd pass by, Than wound by searching with too nice an eye ; He knows that man is mortal, and that he Inherits weakness and infirmity ; He knows that all are liable to err — Shall any then perfection's claim prefer ? Who's to be judge ? He guilty is as them, — By what inherent right does man condemn His fellow man ? Who honestly conforms, And to ids best ability performs 320 The common law of equity and right, In justice taking pleasure and delight ; — Who reverences the decencies of life, Avoiding envy, enmity, and strife ; — Who well observes, with strict propriety, The usages that bind society ; — 330 Who lives in peace, having a spotless name, Shall any dare to blast so fair a fame ?

Not always he who censures others most, Possesses that of wherewithal to boast. All are not gifted equally, but then It follows not that weak are wicked men. Who does his best, though he may not excel, Can do no more, therefore he must do well. Society must have its different grades ; — In learning, as in men, what various shades ! Admitting small and great capacity, 340 So varies also opportunity : Book I.] 13 FIDELITY. 350 360 370 A patch of ground well cultivated yields Abundantly ; while the surrounding fields, Doomed to neglect, are barren, or they bear Foul weeds for want of reasonable care. Nature is bounteous, freely doth she give Talents to aU, and whereby all may live : 'Tis the neglect of these that entails woe, And hence our heaviest misfortunes flow. Whoever does industriously apply His natural gifts, for want shall never die ; 'Tis but the idle and the profligate Who do on hfe place a false estimate.

The ill-disposed find evil in all things, They cavil at whatever fortune brings ; Nothing is right, however wisely planned, Or well wrought out, by them 'tis falsely scanned Unprofitably passed, their heavy hours Move dolorous on. — Oh, what a waste of powers, For nobler purposes, and better, meant, Than thus to be so w-ofully mispent ! Man is accountable for every crime, And a self robbery is wasted time. Doubt and despondency fill them with dread, Their tedious moments are all winged with lead ; Gloomy and downcast, full of worrying cares, What an unenviable state is theirs ! Not so the lively, brisk, and cheerful man ; He of his portion makes the most he can ; With fortitude he struggles through his day, Remembering that sorrow paves the way [Book I. 14 FIDELITY. To joy.— But hold, my Muse ! this ambling speed, However pleasant, will not do, indeed ; We must break off, and take another tack, And keep henceforth within our proper track ; Lest we, on idle speculation bent, Lose sight of our original intent ; Lest we forget our melancholy theme, 380 And of debghts instead of sorrows dream.

Our Muse is not accustomed much to sigh, Yet with our wants she'll readily comply ; A playful smile adorns her lovely cheek, Yet can she mourn when anguish bids her speak And what bespeaks our text ? A sad discourse, A melancholy treatise on a corse ! Is not our definition understood ? We hope to make the proposition good. Mock not our speech, ye happy, happy few, 390 For our assertion's not more bold than true. Have ye not felt, or do ye yet survive This moral death? — If so, long may you live In comfortable ignorance, nor dream Of ndseries with which the world doth teem, Such as suggest our melancholy theme ! "A Town to let, Unfurnished," so there ran A recent jest. Ajest! sarcastic man, It was no jest, but a notorious truth; — A jest ! alas ! would it were so in sooth ! 400 Then had our Muse been spared these piteous tears, And worn a brighter aspect than she wears : Then had she chosen a more inviting scene, Book I.] FIDELITY. 15 410 420 430 Whereon to exercise her powers, I ween.

A jest ! Can there be cause for merriment, To see a people doomed to banishment ;— To witness their necessities and grief, Which must be borne, since there is no relief;— To see the emaciated wretches die For want of common sustenance ? Oh, fie ! He who could sport on such a sorry jest, Should be subjected to this dreadful test ; He well deserves the scourge of poverty, In all its bitterest severity. No animal of the most brutish kind Is dead to pity,— shall man rank behind The beasts that perish ? Oh, forbid it, Heaven ! Why unto man were sense and reason given, If not that he might sense and reason shew, By sympathising with another's woe ; — If not that he o'er creatures of a day Might his superiority display ; — If not that he invariably do prove A minister of joy, and peace, and love ;— If not that fond affection for his kind Sway every emotion of his mind ; — If not that he his dignity maintain, As the created lord of earth's domain ; — If not to cultivate assiduously The constant hope of immortality.

Oh, melancholy jest ! if such it were ; But being truth, how dreadful to infer A cause for this most horrible effect ! Where rests the cause ? In whom is the defect ? "A Town to let!" — a city doomed to die! A people banished! Heard'st thou their last sigh, As it came booming o'er the midnight air ? Oh, piercing shriek ! Oh, cry of wild despair ! How dismally it sounded o'er the sea, That swelling chorus of despondency ! 440 How many a tale of sorrow does it tell, The parting echo of that sad farewell ! Even Nature shudders at the very thought, So big with terror, with such misery fraught. When honest men axe forced to emigrate, It argues an ill regulated state : Either the Governed or the Government, Or both — we speak in no disparagement — Are guilty causes of the dire event. The rich may travel, and themselves transplant, 450 At home the poor must live, or die abroad from want.

"A Town to let!" dreadful reverse of fate ! How art thou fallen from thy pristine state! Thy ancient beauty, thy renown, thy trade, Thy wealth, thy population, all decayed, — All swept away at one disastrous tide, And but a wreck left of thy former pride ! Even hope, thy last reliance, is destroyed ! The pressing claims of want, who can conceal ? The stoutest heart grows faint at her appeal. 460 Who does not mourn ? What ! all thy blessings fled ! Who does not feel, where feeling is not dead ? Who does not sigh, and sympathise with thee ? Book I.] 17 FIDELITY. Who does not grieve such a catastrophe ? Fatal result ! whatever be the cause, That robbed thee of thy innocent repose ! How art thou stricken ! how art thou cast down, — How hushed and still, thou busy, bustling town ! No more, no more thy animating stir Enlivens now- !

Oh, what must we infer 470 From this dread sdence ? Yet dost thou survive, Or wilt thou from this lethargy revive ? The calm is ominous ! Does it portend Thy dissolution ? Sad shall be thy end ! Thy weeping children go about thy streets,— Sore lamentation now the traveller greets. Strains of sweet song used freely to abound, But now no more we hear their joyful sound A melancholy wail floats down the air, In solemn cadence, — 'tis the cry of care, 480 Prompted by nature, — how its chords strike home ! Listen ! again it sounds with thrilling boom, — How like the swelling murmur of the tide, Rolling impetuously in sullen pride ! What subdued agony there seems to dwell On each reverberating, dissonant swell ! Ye hungered, houseless, friendless, wandering poor, Who shall depict the sufferings you endure !

Who shall assuage your sorrows — who relieve ! All are recipients, — then who shall give ? 490 All are alike plunged in the depths of woe. Do you seek comfort ? whither will you go ? Misfortune's victims ! hapless is your doom, — r> Your only refuge is the silent tomb ! Starvation ! Oh, how horrible to await The dismal issue of so sad a fate ! Behold yon laboured monuments of skill, Reared by the magic of a people's will ; Costly and vast, when Commerce deigns to smile, These are the riches of Britannia's isle. 500 The busy hum of these stupendous hives Denotes prosperity, and how Trade thrives. Swarming with wealth, they yield a bounteous store, And from their lap rich streams perpetual pour. As when the bee revels in strange parterres, Extracting greedily what Heaven confers ; — Amid profusion freely scattered round, Temptation lurks — ebrieties abound.

The fluttering insect careless is of fate, While wanton thus, she can luxuriate. 510 Discretion leaves her — she forgets the past, Nor dreads the coming winter's pinching blast ; Lost in a labyrinth of sweets, she flies, Feeds till she surfeits, — surfeiting she dies. Too well the parable holds good, we fear, — Man is no better in his mad career ; Within his grasp he holds all human joys ; Dissatisfied, he barters them as toys ; Thinks least of that which he should prize the most, Nor knows its worth until the treasure's lost. 520 The winter of his days shall quickly come, And teach him the true value of a home. Who husbands not his means when he's the power, Book I.] 19 FIDELITY. Scarce deserves pity when misfortunes lower ; Who is industrious, yet unfortunate, Merits compassion and a better fate.

Man congregates in crowds — does he do well ? Let history and past experience tell. Time was when every individual hand By labour could a maintenance command ; 530 Not on the bankrupt schemes of one or two, Did thousands then depend, as now they do ; Not on the speculator's wold caprice — Oh, flimsy trust ! — hung then our bread and peace ; Each for himself, so all contrived to live, — The body's healthy when its members thrive. He is no better than a mere machine Who's mind's not in his avocation seen ; Yet do we witness men of all degrees Daily submit — to what ? Just what you please. 540 "A Town to let!" is it a jest to see Rank weeds and filthy grow spontaneously, Incumbering the earth, where formerly Were stirring multitudes busily seen, With smiling aspects and of happy mien ; — A jest to see yon desolate, poor place, — A jest, its gradual decline to trace, From step to step, from slow to swift decay ?

Is this a jest ? Describe it, ye who may, — Our gentle Muse has no such vicious fires ; 550 Her softer nature daintier food requires Than furnishes this pitiable jest. Would she had power to help yon poor distressed ! She can but weep, and sympathise with those ; Would she had power to mitigate their woes ! Who — who shall stay their most appalling cry ; — Who — who their craving appetite supply ? Is it a jest ? — it may to one well fed — To hear a famished people cry " Bread ! bread ! " Dreadful appeal ! Oh, dire calamity ! 560 My fatherland ! is it a jest to see Thy sons reduced to worse than slavery ? — A jest, to see one honestly inclined, Willing to work, could he employment find, Wandering a beggar through his native land, Obliged to wear the ignominious brand Of Vagrancy ? Oh, despicable thought !

To English hearts it is with horror fraught. A slave well fed endures not half thy woes, — At least his wretchedness a boundary knows. 570 His glossy, smooth, and jet-black skin betrays Comfort — whatever Interest falsely says ; Content lights up his ever-sparkling eye ; He's well provided for, then wherefore sigh ? His meagre sympathisers, maudlin, seem Fit representatives of that they dream. We oft compassionate and pity those Who feel not our imaginary woes ; Fancy transforms us to their awful state, Our bursting heart sinks under such a fate ; 580 Whereas the real actor in the case Is quite unconscious of the ills we trace. How few, whate'er their griefs — is it not strange ? — Book I. J FIDELITY. Would willingly their lot in life exchange ! Patient we bear the sorrows of the mind, When health prevails.

Passions become refined And delicate, when sickness is our doom ; Then all things wear an aspect of deep gloom. Sickly ourselves, we gaze with jaundiced eye, Even on the poor appearances of joy. 590 Doubtless there are exceptions to the fact, That does not from its general truth detract. Time will emancipate the slave at last, He leaps for joy — his drearyr term is past. Is his condition better than before ? He's free, at least, and shall he that deplore ? Never ! his day of servitude is o'er ! Now he's at liberty, and free to roam In quest of wealth, and happiness, and home. Rescued from his low and degraded state, 600 He holds himself for any man the mate ; Indeed what were emancipation worth, If y-et he's to be taunted with his birth ? Is he not of the fandly of Man ? Kings are his brethren, — deny it who can ; Superior he has none, and this confessed, He bears himself as proudly as the best.