II. THE TIME-PIECE…

II. THE TIME-PIECE

THE ARGUMENT.

Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book--Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow--Prodigies enumerated--Sicilian earthquakes--Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin--God the agent in them--The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved--Our own late miscarriages accounted for--Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau--But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation--The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons--Petit-maître parson--The good preacher--Picture of a theatrical clerical coxcomb--Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved--Apostrophe to popular applause--Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with--Sum of the whole matter--Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement on the laity--Their folly and extravagance--The mischiefs of profusion--Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its principal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities.

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more! My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colour'd like his own; and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home:--then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. Sure there is need of social intercourse, Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid, Between the nations in a world that seems To toll the death-bell of its own decease, And by the voice of all its elements To preach the general doom.[808] When were the winds Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? Fires from beneath, and meteors[809] from above, Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, Have kindled beacons in the skies; and the old And crazy earth has had her shaking fits More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. Is it a time to wrangle, when the props And pillars of our planet seem to fail, And Nature[810] with a dim and sickly eye To wait the close of all? But grant her end More distant, and that prophecy demands A longer respite, unaccomplished yet; Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak Displeasure in his breast who smites the earth Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve And stand exposed by common peccancy To what no few have felt, there should be peace, And brethren in calamity should love. Alas for Sicily! rude fragments now Lie scatter'd where the shapely column stood. Her palaces are dust. In all her streets The voice of singing and the sprightly chord Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; While God performs upon the trembling stage Of his own works the dreadful part alone. How does the earth receive him?--with what signs Of gratulation and delight her King? Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads? She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot. The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke, For he has touch'd them. From the extremest point Of elevation down into the abyss His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, The rivers die into offensive pools, And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross And mortal nuisance into all the air, What solid was, by transformation strange, Grows fluid; and the fix'd and rooted earth, Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, Or with a vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on every side, And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted; and with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought To an enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that Voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throng That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep-- A prince with half his people! Ancient towers, And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume Life in the unproductive shades of death, Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, And, happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy The terrors of the day that sets them free. Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, That e'en a judgment, making way for thee, Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake. Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, And, in the furious inquest that it makes On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. The very elements, though each be meant The minister of man, to serve his wants, Conspire against him. With his breath he draws A plague into his blood; and cannot use Life's necessary means, but he must die. Storms rise to o'erwhelm him: or if stormy winds Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, And, needing none assistance of the storm, Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, Or make his house his grave: nor so content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. What then!--were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle Moved not, while theirs was rock'd, like a light skiff, The sport of every wave? No: none are clear, And none than we more guilty. But, where all Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark: May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he spared not them, Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! Happy the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that chequer life! Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns (since from the least The greatest oft originate;) could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan; Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; And, having found his instrument, forgets, Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men, That live an atheist life: involves the heaven In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury; bids a plague Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast. Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles; of causes, how they work By necessary laws their sure effects; Of action and re-action. He has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means To drown it? What is his creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught; And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. England, with all thy faults, I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy follies too; and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love. How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er With odours, and as profligate as sweet; Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight; when such as these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children. Praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter! They have fallen Each in his field of glory; one in arms, And one in council--Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling Victory that moment won, And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame! They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still Consulting England's happiness at home, Secured it by an unforgiving frown, If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act, That his example had a magnet's force, And all were swift to follow whom all loved. Those suns are set. Oh rise some other such! Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements and despair of new. Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, That no rude savour maritime invade The nose of nice nobility! Breathe soft, Ye clarionets; and softer still, ye flutes; That winds and waters, lull'd by magic sounds, May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore! True, we have lost an empire--let it pass. True; we may thank the perfidy of France, That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, With all the cunning of an envious shrew. And let that pass--'twas but a trick of state! A brave man knows no malice, but at once Forgets in peace the injuries of war, And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. And, shamed as we have been, to the very beard Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved Too weak for those decisive blows that once Ensured us mastery there, we yet retain Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast At least superior jockeyship, and claim The honours of the turf as all our own! Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, And show the shame ye might conceal at home In foreign eyes!--be grooms and win the plate, Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!-- 'Tis generous to communicate your skill To those that need it! Folly is soon learn'd: And under such preceptors who can fail! There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, The expedients and inventions multiform, To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-- To arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit till he has pencil'd off A faithful likeness of the forms he views: Then to dispose his copies with such art, That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less Than by the labour and the skill it cost; Are occupations of the poet's mind So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address from themes of sad import, That, lost in his own musings, happy man! He feels the anxieties of life, denied Their wonted entertainment, all retire. Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps Aware of nothing arduous in a task They never undertook, they little note His dangers or escapes, and haply find Their least amusement where he found the most. But is amusement all? Studious of song, And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, I would not trifle merely, though the world Be loudest in their praise who do no more. Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? It may correct a foible, may chastise The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; But where are its sublimer trophies found? What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaim'd By rigour? or whom laugh'd into reform? Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed: Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, That fear no discipline of human hands. The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)-- The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, Spent all his force, and made no proselyte)-- I say the pulpit (in the sober use Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, The most important and effectual guard, Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. There stands the messenger of truth: there stands The legate of the skies!--His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear. By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, And, arm'd himself in panoply complete Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war, The sacramental host of God's elect! Are all such teachers?--would to heaven all were! But hark--the doctor's voice!--fast wedged between Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy; and, defying shame, Announces to the world his own and theirs! He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd, And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer The adagio and andante it demands. He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use; transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware? Oh, name it not in Gath!--it cannot be, That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, Assuming thus a rank unknown before-- Grand caterer and drynurse of the church! I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause, To such I render more than mere respect, Whose actions say that they respect themselves, But loose in morals, and in manners vain, In conversation frivolous, in dress Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse; Frequent in park with lady at his side, Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes; But rare at home, and never at his books, Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; Constant at routs, familiar with a round Of ladyships--a stranger to the poor; Ambitious of preferment for its gold, And well prepared, by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love of world, To make God's work a sinecure; a slave To his own pleasures and his patron's pride: From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own-- Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master strokes, and draw from his design. I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, And natural in gesture; much impress'd Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men. Behold the picture! Is it like?--Like whom? The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again; pronounce a text; Cry--hem; and reading what they never wrote, Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene! In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust. What! will a man play tricks? will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form, And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his God? Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on his lily hand, And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, When I am hungry for the bread of life? He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames His noble office, and, instead of truth, Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock! Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare, And start theatric, practised at the glass! I seek divine simplicity in him Who handles things divine; and all besides, Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes and judgments ill inform'd, To me is odious as the nasal twang Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, Misled by custom, strain celestial themes Through the press'd nostril, spectacle-bestrid. Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, That task perform'd, relapse into themselves; And, having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye, Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not! Forth comes the pocket mirror.--First we stroke An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock; Then with an air most gracefully perform'd Fall back into our seat, extend an arm, And lay it at its ease with gentle care, With handkerchief in hand depending low: The better hand more busy gives the nose Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye With opera glass, to watch the moving scene, And recognise the slow-retiring fair.-- Now this is fulsome; and offends me more Than in a churchman slovenly neglect And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind May be indifferent to her house of clay, And slight the hovel as beneath her care; But how a body so fantastic, trim, And quaint, in its deportment and attire, Can lodge a heavenly mind--demands a doubt. He that negotiates between God and man, As God's ambassador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; To break a jest, when pity would inspire Pathetic exhortation; and to address The skittish fancy with facetious tales, When sent with God's commission to the heart! So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, And I consent you take it for your text, Your only one, till sides and benches fail. No: he was serious in a serious cause, And understood too well the weighty terms That he had taken in charge. He would not stoop To conquer those by jocular exploits Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vain. O popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; But, swell'd into a gust--who then, alas! With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power? Praise, from the rivell'd lips of toothless, bald Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean And craving Poverty, and in the bow Respectful of the smutch'd artificer, Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb The bias of the purpose. How much more, Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite, In language soft as Adoration breathes? Ah, spare your idol! think him human still. Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. All truth is from the sempiternal source Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome Drew from the stream below. More favour'd, we Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain-head. To them it flow'd much mingled and defiled With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams Illusive of philosophy, so call'd, But falsely. Sages after sages strove In vain to filter off a crystal draught Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred Intoxication and delirium wild. In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth And spring-time of the world; ask'd, Whence is man? Why form'd at all? and wherefore as he is? Where must he find his Maker? with what rites Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless? Or does he sit regardless of his works? Has man within him an immortal seed? Or does the tomb take all? If he survive His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? Knots worthy of solution, which alone A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague And all at random, fabulous and dark, Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, Defective and unsanction'd, proved too weak To bind the roving appetite, and lead Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd. 'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, Explains all mysteries, except her own, And so illuminates the path of life That fools discover it, and stray no more. Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, My man of morals, nurtured in the shades Of Academus--is this false or true? Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? If Christ, then why resort at every turn To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short Of man's occasions, when in him reside Grace, knowledge, comfort--an unfathom'd store? How oft, when Paul has served us with a text, Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully preach'd! Men that, if now alive, would sit content And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth, Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too! And thus it is.--The pastor, either vain By nature, or by flattery made so, taught To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt Absurdly, not his office, but himself; Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn; Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach; Perverting often, by the stress of lewd And loose example, whom he should instruct; Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace The noblest function, and discredits much The brightest truths that man has ever seen. For ghostly counsel--if it either fall Below the exigence, or be not back'd With show of love, at least with hopeful proof Of some sincerity on the giver's part; Or be dishonour'd in the exterior form And mode of its conveyance by such tricks, As move derision, or by foppish airs And histrionic mummery, that let down The pulpit to the level of the stage-- Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, While prejudice in men of stronger minds Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. A relaxation of religion's hold Upon the roving and untutor'd heart Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapp'd, The laity run wild.--But do they now? Note their extravagance, and be convinced. As nations, ignorant of God, contrive A wooden one, so we, no longer taught By monitors that mother church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask (If e'er posterity see verse of mine) Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, What was a monitor in George's days? My very gentle reader, yet unborn, Of whom I needs must augur better things, Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world Productive only of a race like ours, A monitor is wood--plank shaven thin. We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced And neatly fitted, it compresses hard The prominent and most unsightly bones, And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use Sovereign and most effectual to secure A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, From rickets and distortion, else our lot. But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect-- One proof at least of manhood! while the friend Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore, And by caprice as multiplied as his, Just please us while the fashion is at full, But change with every moon. The sycophant Who waits to dress us arbitrates their date; Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; Finds one ill made, another obsolete, This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; And, making prize of all that he condemns, With our expenditure defrays his own. Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavour. We have run Through every change that Fancy, at the loom Exhausted, has had genius to supply; And, studious of mutation still, discard A real elegance, a little used, For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. We sacrifice to dress, till household joys And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires; And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, Where peace and hospitality might reign. What man that lives, and that knows how to live, Would fail to exhibit at the public shows A form as splendid as the proudest there, Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? A man of the town dines late, but soon enough, With reasonable forecast and despatch, To ensure a side-box station at half-price. You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, His daily fare as delicate. Alas! He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet! The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws With magic wand. So potent is the spell, That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring, Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. There we grow early grey, but never wise; There form connexions, but acquire no friend; Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success; Waste youth in occupations only fit For second childhood, and devote old age To sports which only childhood could excuse. There they are happiest who dissemble best Their weariness; and they the most polite Who squander time and treasure with a smile, Though at their own destruction. She that asks Her dear five hundred friends contemns them all, And hates their coming. They (what can they less?) Make just reprisals; and, with cringe and shrug, And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace, Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass, To her, who, frugal only that her thrift May feed excesses she can ill afford, Is hackney'd home unlackey'd; who, in haste Alighting, turns the key in her own door, And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, On Fortune's velvet altar offering up Their last poor pittance--Fortune, most severe Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven.-- So fare we in this prison-house, the world; And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see So many maniacs dancing in their chains. They gaze upon the links that hold them fast With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, Then shake them in despair, and dance again! Now basket up the family of plagues That waste our vitals; peculation, sale Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds By forgery, by subterfuge of law, By tricks and lies as numerous and as keen As the necessities their authors feel; Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat At the right door. Profusion is the sire. Profusion unrestrain'd, with all that's base In character, has litter'd all the land, And bred, within the memory of no few, A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, A people such as never was till now. It is a hungry vice:--it eats up all That gives society its beauty, strength, Convenience, and security, and use: Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws Can seize the slippery prey: unties the knot Of union, and converts the sacred band, That holds mankind together, to a scourge. Profusion, deluging a state with lusts Of grossest nature and of worst effects, Prepares it for its ruin: hardens, blinds, And warps the consciences of public men, Till they can laugh at Virtue; mock the fools That trust them; and in the end disclose a face That would have shock'd Credulity herself, Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse-- Since all alike are selfish, why not they? This does Profusion, and the accursed cause Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. In colleges and halls, in ancient days, When learning, virtue, piety, and truth Were precious and inculcated with care, There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head, Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile Play'd on his lips; and in his speech was heard Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. The occupation dearest to his heart Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke The head of modest and ingenuous worth, That blush'd at its own praise; and press the youth Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew Beneath his care a thriving vigorous plant; The mind was well-inform'd, the passions held Subordinate, and diligence was choice. If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, That one among so many overleap'd The limits of control, his gentle eye Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke: His frown was full of terror, and his voice Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe As left him not, till penitence had won Lost favour back again, and closed the breach. But Discipline, a faithful servant long, Declined at length into the vale of years: A palsy struck his arm; his sparkling eye Was quench'd in rheums of age; his voice, unstrung, Grew tremulous, and moved derision more Than reverence in perverse rebellious youth. So colleges and halls neglected much Their good old friend; and Discipline at length, O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick, and died. Then Study languish'd, Emulation slept, And Virtue fled. The schools became a scene Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, His cap well lined with logic not his own, With parrot tongue perform'd the scholar's part, Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. Then Compromise had place, and Scrutiny Became stone blind; Precedence went in truck, And he was competent whose purse was so. A dissolution of all bonds ensued; The curbs invented for the mulish mouth Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts Grew rusty by disuse; and massy gates Forgot their office, opening with a touch; Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade, The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest, A mockery of the world! What need of these For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure, Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oftener seen With belted waist and pointers at their heels Than in the bounds of duty? What was learn'd, If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot; And such expense as pinches parents blue, And mortifies the liberal hand of love, Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name That sits a stigma on his father's house, And cleaves through life inseparably close To him that wears it. What can after-games Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon, Add to such erudition, thus acquired, Where science and where virtue are profess'd? They may confirm his habits, rivet fast His folly, but to spoil him is a task That bids defiance to the united powers Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. Now blame we most the nurslings or the nurse? The children, crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd, Through want of care; or her, whose winking eye And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood? The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge, She needs herself correction; needs to learn That it is dangerous sporting with the world, With things so sacred as a nation's trust, The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. All are not such. I had a brother once-- Peace to the memory of a man of worth, A man of letters, and of manners too! Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears, When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. He graced a college,[811] in which order yet Was sacred; and was honour'd, loved, and wept By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd With such ingredients of good sense and taste Of what is excellent in man, they thirst With such a zeal to be what they approve, That no restraints can circumscribe them more Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. Nor can example hurt them; what they see Of vice in others but enhancing more The charms of virtue in their just esteem. If such escape contagion, and emerge Pure from so foul a pool to shine abroad, And give the world their talents and themselves, Small thanks to those, whose negligence or sloth Exposed their inexperience to the snare, And left them to an undirected choice. See then the quiver broken and decay'd, In which are kept our arrows! Rusting there In wild disorder, and unfit for use, What wonder, if, discharged into the world, They shame their shooters with a random flight, Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with wine! Well may the church wage unsuccessful war, With such artillery arm'd. Vice parries wide The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, And stands an impudent and fearless mark. Have we not track'd the felon home, and found His birthplace and his dam? The country mourns, Mourns because every plague that can infest Society, and that saps and worms the base Of the edifice that Policy has raised, Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, And suffocates the breath at every turn. Profusion breeds them; and the cause itself Of that calamitous mischief has been found: Found too where most offensive, in the skirts Of the robed pedagogue! Else let the arraign'd Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge. So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm, And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth, Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plains Were cover'd with the pest; the streets were fill'd; The croaking nuisance lurk'd in every nook; Nor palaces, nor even chambers, 'scaped; And the land stank--so numerous was the fry.

[808] Alluding to the calamities in Jamaica.Return to passage

[809] August 18, 1783.Return to passage

[810] Alluding to the fog that covered both Europe and Asia during the whole summer of 1783.Return to passage

[811] Benet College, Cambridge.Return to passage

III. THE GARDEN

THE ARGUMENT.

Self-recollection and reproof--Address to domestic happiness--Some account of myself--The vanity of many of their pursuits who are reputed wise--Justification of my censures--Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philosopher--The question, What is truth? answered by other questions--Domestic happiness addressed again--Few lovers of the country--My tame hare--Occupations of a retired gentleman in his garden--Pruning--Framing--Greenhouse--Sowing of flower seeds--The country preferable to the town even in the winter--Reasons why it is deserted at that season--Ruinous effects of gaming, and of expensive improvement--Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis.

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes Entangled, winds now this way and now that His devious course uncertain, seeking home; Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd, And sore discomfited, from slough to slough Plunging, and half despairing of escape; If chance at length he finds a greensward smooth And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; So I, designing other themes, and call'd To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due, To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams, Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat Of academic fame (howe'er deserved,) Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, Courageous, and refresh'd for future toil, If toil awaits me, or if dangers new. Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflect Most part an empty ineffectual sound, What chance that I, to fame so little known, Nor conversant with men or manners much, Should speak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the satiric thong? 'Twere wiser far For me, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes, And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose, Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine, My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains; Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth; There, undisturb'd by Folly, and apprised How great the danger of disturbing her, To muse in silence, or at least confine Remarks that gall so many to the few, My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal'd Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise that has survived the fall! Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or tasting long enjoy thee! too infirm, Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup; Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored, That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support; For thou art meek and constant, hating change, And finding in the calm of truth-tried love Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made Of honour, dignity, and fair renown! Till prostitution elbows us aside In all our crowded streets; and senates seem Convened for purposes of empire less Than to release the adultress from her bond. The adultress! what a theme for angry verse! What provocation to the indignant heart, That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain The nauseous task, to paint her as she is, Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame! No:--let her pass, and, charioted along In guilty splendour, shake the public ways; The frequency of crimes has washed them white; And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, Whom matrons now, of character unsmirch'd, And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time, Not to be pass'd: and she, that had renounced Her sex's honour, was renounced herself By all that prized it; not for prudery's sake, But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. 'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, Desirous to return, and not received; But was a wholesome rigour in the main, And taught the unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whose loss was loss of all. Men too were nice in honour in those days, And judged offenders well. Then he that sharp'd, And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd, Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that sold His country, or was slack when she required His every nerve in action and at stretch, Paid, with the blood that he had basely spared, The price of his default. But now--yes, now We are become so candid and so fair, So liberal in construction, and so rich In Christian charity, (good-natured age!) That they are safe, sinners of either sex, Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, well bred, Well equipaged, is ticket good enough To pass us readily through every door. Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, (And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet,) May claim this merit still--that she admits The worth of what she mimics with such care, And thus gives virtue indirect applause; But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, Where Vice has such allowance, that her shifts And specious semblances have lost their use. I was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long since: with many an arrow deep infix'd My panting side was charged, when I withdrew, To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by One who had himself Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live. Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene; With few associates, and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may, With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come. I see that all are wanderers, gone astray Each in his own delusions; they are lost In chace of fancied happiness still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues; And still they dream that they shall still succeed; And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, And add two-thirds of the remaining half, And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay As if created only like the fly, That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon, To sport their season, and be seen no more. The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. Some write a narrative of wars, and feats Of heroes little known; and call the rant A history: describe the man, of whom His own coevals took but little note; And paint his person, character, and views, As they had known him from his mother's womb. They disentangle from the puzzled skein, In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, The threads of politic and shrewd design, That ran through all his purposes, and charge His mind with meanings that he never had, Or having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age. Some, more acute, and more industrious still, Contrive creation; travel nature up To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, And tell us whence the stars; why some are fix'd, And planetary some; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp In playing tricks with nature, giving laws To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. Is't not a pity, now, that tickling rheums Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight Of oracles like these? Great pity too, That, having wielded the elements, and built A thousand systems, each in his own way, They should go out in fume, and be forgot? Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are they But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke-- Eternity for bubbles proves at last A senseless bargain. When I see such games Play'd by the creatures of a Power who swears That he will judge the earth, and call the fool To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain; And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, And prove it in the infallible result So hollow and so false--I feel my heart Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd, If this be learning, most of all deceived. Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. Defend me therefore, common sense, say I, From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up! 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose, And overbuilt with most impending brows,-- 'Twere well, could you permit the world to live As the world pleases: what's the world to you? Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk As sweet as charity from human breasts. I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, And exercise all functions of a man. How then should I and any man that lives Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meandering there, And catechise it well: apply thy glass, Search it, and prove now if it be not blood Congenial with thine own: and, if it be, What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, To cut the link of brotherhood, by which One common Maker bound me to the kind? True; I am no proficient, I confess, In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath; I cannot analyse the air, nor catch The parallax of yonder luminous point, That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss: Such powers I boast not--neither can I rest A silent witness of the headlong rage, Or heedless folly by which thousands die, Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. God never meant that man should scale the heavens By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather, where his mercy shines. The mind indeed, enlighten'd from above, Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause The grand effect; acknowledges with joy His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. But never yet did philosophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of Observation, and discovers, else Not visible, his family of worlds, Discover him that rules them; such a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, And dark in things divine. Full often too Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her Author more; From instrumental causes proud to draw Conclusions retrograde and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man, Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days On all her branches: piety has found Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And his word sagacious. Such, too, thine, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, And sound integrity, not more than famed For sanctity of manners undefiled. All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him ignoble graves. Nothing is proof against the general curse Of vanity, that seizes all below. The only amaranthine flower on earth Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth. But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. And wherefore? will not God impart his light To them that ask it?--Freely--'tis his joy, His glory, and his nature to impart. But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. What's that which brings contempt upon a book, And him who writes it, though the style be neat, The method clear, and argument exact? That makes a minister in holy things The joy of many and the dread of more, His name a theme for praise and for reproach?-- That, while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own? What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, That learning is too proud to gather up; But which the poor, and the despised of all, Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? Tell me--and I will tell thee what is truth. O friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd! Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets; Though many boast thy favours, and affect To understand and choose thee for their own. But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, E'en as his first progenitor, and quits, Though placed in Paradise (for earth has still Some traces of her youthful beauty left,) Substantial happiness for transient joy. Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, By every pleasing image they present, Reflections such as meliorate the heart, Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight To fill with riot, and defile with blood. Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes We persecute, annihilate the tribes That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, Fearless and rapt away from all his cares; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Be quell'd in all our summer months' retreat; How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen, And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought, For all the savage din of the swift pack, And clamours of the field?--Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain; That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued With eloquence, that agonies inspire Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs? Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find A corresponding tone in jovial souls! Well--one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home, Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar; she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. Yes--thou mayest eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou mayest frolic on the floor At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd; For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged All that is human in me to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave; And, when I place thee in it, sighing say, "I knew at least one hare that had a friend." How various his employments whom the world Calls idle; and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, And Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad-- Can he want occupation who has these? Will he be idle who has much to enjoy? Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, Not slothful, happy to deceive the time, Not waste it, and aware that human life Is but a loan to be repaid with use, When He shall call his debtors to account, From whom are all our blessings, business finds E'en here: while sedulous I seek to improve, At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack Too oft, and much impeded in its work, By causes not to be divulged in vain, To its just point--the service of mankind. He, that attends to his interior self, That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life, Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve No unimportant, though a silent, task. A life all turbulence and noise may seem To him that leads it wise, and to be praised; But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still water and beneath clear skies. He that is ever occupied in storms, Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize. The morning finds the self-sequestered man Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. Whether inclement seasons recommend His warm but simple home, where he enjoys With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph Which neatly she prepares; then to his book Well chosen, and not sullenly perused In selfish silence, but imparted oft, As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment, digested well. Or if the garden, with its many cares, All well repaid, demand him, he attends The welcome call, conscious how much the hand Of lubbard Labour needs his watchful eye, Oft loitering lazily, if not o'erseen, Or misapplying his unskilful strength. Nor does he govern only or direct, But much performs himself. No works, indeed, That ask robust, tough sinews, bred to toil, Servile employ; but such as may amuse, Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees, That meet, no barren interval between, With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford; Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. These therefore are his own peculiar charge; No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, None but his steel approach them. What is weak, Distemper'd, or has lost prolific powers, Impair'd by age, his unrelenting hand Dooms to the knife: nor does he spare the soft And succulent, that feeds its giant growth, But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left That may disgrace his art, or disappoint Large expectation, he disposes neat At measured distances, that air and sun, Admitted freely, may afford their aid, And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, And hence e'en Winter fills his wither'd hand With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.[812] Fair recompense of labour well bestow'd, And wise precaution; which a clime so rude Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods Discovering much the temper of her sire. For oft, as if in her the stream of mild Maternal nature had reversed its course, She brings her infants forth with many smiles; But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. He therefore, timely warn'd himself, supplies Her want of care, screening and keeping warm The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft As the sun peeps, and vernal airs breathe mild, The fence withdrawn, he gives them every beam, And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, So grateful to the palate, and when rare So coveted, else base and disesteem'd-- Food for the vulgar merely--is an art That toiling ages have but just matured, And at this moment unassay'd in song. Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice, long since, Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard; And these the Grecian, in ennobling strains; And in thy numbers, Phillips, shines for aye, The solitary shilling. Pardon then, Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame, The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers, Presuming an attempt not less sublime, Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste Of critic appetite no sordid fare, A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. The stable yields a stercoraceous heap, Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, And potent to resist the freezing blast: For, ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf Deciduous, when now November dark Checks vegetation in the torpid plant Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. Warily therefore, and with prudent heed, He seeks a favour'd spot; that where he builds The agglomerated pile his frame may front The sun's meridian disk, and at the back Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread Dry fern or litter'd hay, that may imbibe The ascending damps; then leisurely impose, And lightly, shaking it with agile hand From the full fork, the saturated straw. What longest binds the closest forms secure The shapely side, that as it rises takes, By just degrees, an overhanging breadth, Sheltering the base with its projected eaves; The uplifted frame, compact at every joint, And overlaid with clear translucent glass, He settles next upon the sloping mount, Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure From the dash'd pane the deluge as it falls. He shuts it close, and the first labour ends. Thrice must the voluble and restless earth Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth, Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass Diffused, attain the surface: when, behold! A pestilent and most corrosive steam, Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, Asks egress; which obtain'd, the overcharged And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank; And, purified, rejoices to have lost Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage The impatient fervour, which it first conceives Within its reeking bosom, threatening death To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft The way to glory by miscarriage foul, Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch The auspicious moment, when the temper'd heat, Friendly to vital motion, may afford Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, And glossy, he commits to pots of size Diminutive, well fill'd with well prepared And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds. These on the warm and genial earth, that hides The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, He places lightly, and, as time subdues The rage of fermentation, plunges deep In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick, And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon, If fann'd by balmy and nutritious air, Strain'd through the friendly mats, a vivid green. Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, Cautious he pinches from the second stalk A pimple, that portends a future sprout, And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish; Prolific all, and harbingers of more. The crowded roots demand enlargement now, And transplantation in an ampler space. Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. These have their sexes; and when summer shines, The bee transports the fertilizing meal From flower to flower, and e'en the breathing air Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. Not so when winter scowls. Assistant Art Then acts in Nature's office, brings to pass The glad espousals, and ensures the crop. Grudge not, ye rich, (since Luxury must have His dainties, and the World's more numerous half Lives by contriving delicates for you,) Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, The vigilance, the labour, and the skill, That day and night are exercised, and hang Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, That ye may garnish your profuse regales With summer fruits brought forth by wintry suns. Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart The process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and steam, Moisture, and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies, Minute as dust, and numberless, oft work Dire disappointment, that admits no cure, And which no care can obviate. It were long, Too long, to tell the expedients and the shifts Which he that fights a season so severe Devises, while he guards his tender trust; And oft at last in vain. The learn'd and wise Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song Cold as its theme, and like its theme the fruit Of too much labour, worthless when produced. Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too. Unconscious of a less propitious clime, There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, While the winds whistle, and the snows descend. The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast Of Portugal and western India there, The ruddier orange, and the paler lime, Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, And seem to smile at what they need not fear. The amomum there with intermingling flowers And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Her crimson honours; and the spangled beau, Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long. All plants, of every leaf that can endure The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd bite, Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, Levantine regions these; the Azores send Their jessamine, her jessamine remote Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, They form one social shade, as if convened By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass But by a master's hand, disposing well The gay diversities of leaf and flower, Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, And dress the regular yet various scene. Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, A noble show! while Roscius trod the stage; And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he, The sons of Albion; fearing each to lose Some note of Nature's music from his lips, And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen In every flash of his far beaming eye. Nor taste alone and well contrived display Suffice to give the marshall'd ranks the grace Of their complete effect. Much yet remains Unsung, and many cares are yet behind, And more laborious; cares on which depends Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored. The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, And disappoints the roots; the slender roots Close interwoven, where they meet the vase, Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch Must fly before the knife; the wither'd leaf Must be detach'd, and where it strews the floor Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else Contagion, and disseminating death. Discharge but these kind offices (and who Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased, The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, Each opening blossom freely breathes abroad Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, All healthful, are the employs of rural life, Reiterated as the wheel of time Runs round; still ending and beginning still. Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll, That softly swell'd and gaily dress'd appears A flowery island, from the dark green lawn Emerging, must be deem'd a labour due To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. Here also grateful mixture of well match'd And sorted hues, (each giving each relief, And by contrasted beauty shining more,) Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought; the creature of a polish'd mind. Without it all is gothic as the scene To which the insipid citizen resorts Near yonder heath; where Industry misspent, But proud of his uncouth ill chosen task, Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons Of close ramm'd stones has charged the encumber'd soil, And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. He therefore, who would see his flowers disposed Sightly and in just order, ere he gives The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene Shall break into its preconceived display, Each for itself, and all as with one voice Conspiring, may attest his bright design. Nor even then, dismissing as perform'd His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. Few self-supported flowers endure the wind Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid Of the smooth shaven prop, and, neatly tied, Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, For interest sake, the living to the dead. Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair, Like virtue, thriving most where little seen; Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. All hate the rank society of weeds, Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust The impoverish'd earth; an overbearing race, That, like the multitude made faction-mad, Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. O blest seclusion from a jarring world, Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat Cannot indeed to guilty man restore Lost innocence, or cancel follies past; But it has peace, and much secures the mind From all assaults of evil; proving still A faithful barrier, not o'erleap'd with ease By vicious Custom, raging uncontroll'd Abroad, and desolating public life. When fierce temptation, seconded within By traitor Appetite, and arm'd with darts Temper'd in Hell, invades the throbbing breast, To combat may be glorious, and success Perhaps may crown us; but to fly is safe. Had I the choice of sublunary good, What could I wish, that I possess not here? Health, leisure, means to improve it, friendship, peace, No loose or wanton, though a wandering, muse, And constant occupation without care. Thus blest I draw a picture of that bliss; Hopeless indeed, that dissipated minds, And profligate abusers of a world Created fair so much in vain for them, Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe. Allured by my report: but sure no less That self-condemn'd they must neglect the prize, And what they will not taste must yet approve. What we admire we praise; and, when we praise, Advance it into notice, that, its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too. I therefore recommend, though at the risk Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, The cause of piety and sacred truth, And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd Should best secure them and promote them most, Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy'd. Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles, And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol. Not as the prince in Shushan, when he call'd, Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, To grace the full pavilion, His design Was but to boast his own peculiar good, Which all might view with envy, none partake. My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, And she that sweetens all my bitters too, Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form And lineaments divine I trace a hand That errs not, and finds raptures still renew'd, Is free to all men--universal prize. Strange that so fair a creature should yet want Admirers, and be destined to divide With meaner objects e'en the few she finds! Stripp'd of her ornaments, her leaves, and flowers, She loses all her influence. Cities then Attract us, and neglected Nature pines, Abandon'd, as unworthy of our love. But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed By roses; and clear suns, though scarcely felt; And groves, if unharmonious, yet secure From clamour, and whose very silence charms; To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse That metropolitan volcanoes make, Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long; And to the stir of Commerce, driving slow, And thundering loud, with his ten thousand wheels? They would be, were not madness in the head, And folly in the heart; were England now What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell To all the virtues of those better days, And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once Knew their own masters; and laborious hinds, Who had survived the father, serv'd the son. Now the legitimate and rightful lord Is but a transient guest, newly arrived, And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, Then advertised, and auctioneer'd away. The country starves, and they that feed the o'ercharged And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. The wings, that waft our riches out of sight, Grow on the gamester's elbows; and the alert And nimble motion of those restless joints, That never tire, soon fans them all away. Improvement too, the idol of the age, Is fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes! The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears! Down falls the venerable pile, the abode Of our forefathers--a grave whisker'd race, But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, But in a distant spot; where more exposed It may enjoy the advantage of the north, And aguish east, till time shall have transform'd Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn; Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise; And streams, as if created for his use, Pursue the track of his directing wand, Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades-- E'en as he bids! The enraptured owner smiles. 'Tis finish'd, and yet, finish'd as it seems, Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth, He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplish'd plan, That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day Labour'd, and many a night pursued in dreams, Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy! And now perhaps the glorious hour is come When, having no stake left, no pledge to endear Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause A moment's operation on his love, He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal, To serve his country. Ministerial grace Deals him out money from the public chest; Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse Supplies his need with a usurious loan, To be refunded duly, when his vote Well managed shall have earn'd its worthy price. O innocent, compared with arts like these, Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball Sent through the traveller's temples? He that finds One drop of Heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content, So he may wrap himself in honest rags At his last gasp; but could not for a world Fish up his dirty and dependent bread From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, Sordid and sickening at his own success. Ambition, avarice, penury incurr'd By endless riot, vanity, the lust Of pleasure and variety, despatch, As duly as the swallows disappear, The world of wandering knights and squires to town. London engulfs them all! The shark is there, And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leech That sucks him; there the sycophant, and he Who, with bareheaded and obsequious bows, Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail And groat per diem, if his patron frown. The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp Were character'd on every statesman's door, "BATTER'D AND BANKRUPT FORTUNES MENDED HERE." These are the charms that sully and eclipse The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe That lean hard-handed Poverty inflicts, The hope of better things, the chance to win, The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, That at the sound of Winter's hoary wing Unpeople all our counties of such herds Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose, And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind, And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see Much that I love, and more that I admire, And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair, That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I can laugh, And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee! Ten righteous would have saved a city once, And thou hast many righteous.--Well for thee-- That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour, Than Sodom in her day had power to be, For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain.

[812] Miraturque novos fructus et non sua poma.--Virg.Return to passage

IV. THE WINTER EVENING

THE ARGUMENT.

The post comes in--The newspaper is read--The world contemplated at a distance--Address to winter--The rural amusements of a winter evening compared with the fashionable ones--Address to evening--A brown study--Fall of snow in the evening--The wagoner--A poor family piece--The rural thief--Public houses--The multitude of them censured--The farmer's daughter: what she was; what she is--The simplicity of country manners almost lost--Causes of the change--Desertion of the country by the rich--Neglect of magistrates--The militia principally in fault--The new recruit and his transformation--Reflection on bodies corporate--The love of rural objects natural to all, and never to be totally extinguished.

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;-- He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks; News from all nations lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, Yet, careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn; And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But O the important budget! usher'd in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plumed And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh--I long to know them all; I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utterance once again. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed And bored with elbow points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge That tempts Ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes; He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft Meanders, lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs, Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives. Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; The dearth of information and good sense, That it foretells us, always comes to pass. Cataracts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost; While fields of pleasantry amuse us there With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks And lilies for the brows of faded age, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets, Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, Æthereal journeys, submarine exploits, And Katerfelto, with his hair on end At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold The tumult and am still. The sound of war Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride And avarice that make man a wolf to man; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, By which he speaks the language of his heart, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flower to flower, so he from land to land; The manners, customs, policy of all Pay contribution to the store he gleans; He sucks intelligence in every clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return--a rich repast for me. He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred heart Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; No powder'd pert proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair; A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page by one Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice, symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume closed, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal, Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg! Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth: Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliverance found Unlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply, More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumined, and with nobler truths, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng, To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? The self-complacent actor, when he views (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) The slope of faces from the floor to the roof (As if one master spring controll'd them all,) Relax'd into a universal grin, Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy Half so refined or so sincere as ours. Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks That idleness has ever yet contrived To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, To palliate dullness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound; But the World's Time is Time in masquerade! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged With motley plumes; and, where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form, Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be, and what was an hour-glass once, Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace Well does the work of his destructive scythe. Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleased when idle most; Whose only happy are their wasted hours. E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore The backstring and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school Of card-devoted Time, and, night by night Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? As he that travels far oft turns aside, To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower, Which seen delights him not; then, coming home, Describes and prints it, that the world may know How far he went for what was nothing worth; So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread, With colours mix'd for a far different use, Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thing That Fancy finds in her excursive flights. Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step slow moving, while the Night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorn'd, not needing aid, Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems; A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: And, whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, When they command whom man was born to please; I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. Not undelightful is an hour to me So spent in parlour twilight: such a gloom Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, The mind contemplative, with some new theme Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers, That never felt a stupor, know no pause, Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess, Fearless, a soul that does not always think. Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wild Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gazed, myself creating what I saw. Nor less amused, have I quiescent watch'd The sooty films that play upon the bars, Pendulous and foreboding, in the view Of superstition, prophesying still, Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach. 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose In indolent vacuity of thought, And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask Of deep deliberation, as the man Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost. Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hour At evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home The recollected powers; and, snapping short The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. How calm is my recess; and how the frost, Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear The silence and the warmth enjoy'd within! I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show; the meadows green, Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved, The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With verdure not unprofitable, grazed By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves, That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change! Which even now, though silently perform'd, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Of universal nature undergoes. Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes Descending, and with never ceasing lapse, Softly alighting upon all below, Assimilate all objects. Earth receives Gladly the thickening mantle; and the green And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. In such a world, so thorny, and where none Finds happiness unblighted; or, if found, Without some thistly sorrow at its side; It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Against the law of love, to measure lots With less distinguished than ourselves; that thus We may with patience bear our moderate ills, And sympathize with others suffering more. Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregated loads, adhering close To the clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong Forced downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on. One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. O happy; and, in my account, denied That sensibility of pain with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. The learned finger never need explore Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east, That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. Thy days roll on exempt from household care; Thy wagon is thy wife, and the poor beasts, That drag the dull companion to and fro, Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st, Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great, With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place, Humane as they would seem, not always show. Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. The few small embers left she nurses well; And, while her infant race, with outspread hands, And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil; Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end Just when the day declined; and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauce Of savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still; Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas, Where penury is felt the thought is chained, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care, Ingenious Parsimony takes, but just Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms From grudging hands; but other boast have none To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs Of knaves in office, partial in the work Of distribution; liberal of their aid To clamorous importunity in rags, But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blush To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse, Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth: These ask with painful shyness, and, refused Because deserving, silently retire! But be ye of good courage! Time itself Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase; And all your numerous progeny, well train'd, But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man who, when the distant poor Need help, denies them nothing but his name. But poverty with most, who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe; The effect of laziness or sottish waste. Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad For plunder; much solicitous how best He may compensate for a day of sloth By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong. Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge, Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stakes Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength, Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil, An ass's burden, and, when laden most And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away, Nor does the boarded hovel better guard The well-stack'd pile of riven logs and roots From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave Unwrench'd the door, however well secured, Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps In unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the perch, He gives the princely bird, with all his wives, To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, And loudly wondering at the sudden change. Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse, Did pity of their sufferings warp aside His principle, and tempt him into sin For their support, so destitute. But they Neglected pine at home; themselves, as more Exposed than others, with less scruple made His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst Of ruinous ebriety that prompts His every action, and imbrutes the man. O for a law to noose the villain's neck Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood He gave them in his children's veins, and hates And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love! Pass where we may, through city or through town, Village, or hamlet, of this merry land, Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff Of stale debauch, forth issuing from the styes That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. There sit, involved and lost in curling clouds Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman there Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil; Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike, All learned, and all drunk! the fiddle screams Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed Its wasted tones and harmony unheard: Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, Perch'd on the sign-post, holds with even hand Her undecisive scales. In this she lays A weight of ignorance; in that, of pride; And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound, The cheek distending oath, not to be praised As ornamental, musical, polite, Like those which modern senators employ, Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame! Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, Once simple, are initiated in arts, Which some may practise with politer grace, But none with readier skill!--'tis here they learn The road that leads from competence and peace To indigence and rapine; till at last Society, grown weary of the load, Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. But censure profits little: vain the attempt To advertise in verse a public pest, That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. The excise is fatten'd with the rich result Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, For ever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids! Gloriously drunk, obey the important call! Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;-- Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. Would I had fallen upon those happier days, That poets celebrate; those golden times, And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings, And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts That felt their virtues: Innocence, it seems, From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the groves; The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'd Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing) Then were not all effaced: then speech profane And manners profligate were rarely found, Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams Sat for the picture: and the poet's hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade, Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. Grant it:--I still must envy them an age That favour'd such a dream; in days like these Impossible, when Virtue is so scarce, That to suppose a scene where she presides, Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. No: we are polish'd now! The rural lass, Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, Her artless manners, and her neat attire, So dignified, that she was hardly less Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, Is seen no more. The character is lost! Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised, And magnified beyond all human size, Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand For more than half the tresses it sustains; Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form Ill propp'd upon French heels; she might be deem'd (But that the basket dangling on her arm Interprets her more truly) of a rank Too proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs. Expect her soon with footboy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care! The town has tinged the country; and the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs Down into scenes still rural; but, alas! Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now! Time was when in the pastoral retreat The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch To invade another's right, or guard their own. Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscared By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder was a wonder heard With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes. But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, And slumbers unalarm'd! Now, ere you sleep, See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care, And drop the night bolt;--ruffians are abroad; And the first 'larum of the cock's shrill throat May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. E'en daylight has its dangers; and the walk Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once Of other tenants than melodious birds, Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. Lamented change! to which full many a cause Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. The course of human things from good to ill, From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. Increase of power begets increase of wealth; Wealth luxury, and luxury excess; Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague, That seizes first the opulent, descends To the next rank contagious, and in time Taints downwarn all the graduated scale Of order, from the chariot to the plough. The rich, and they that have an arm to check The licence of the lowest in degree, Desert their office; and themselves, intent On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus To all the violence of lawless hands Resign the scenes their presence might protect. Authority herself not seldom sleeps, Though resident, and witness of the wrong. The plump convivial parson often bears The magisterial sword in vain, and lays His reverence and his worship both to rest On the same cushion of habitual sloth. Perhaps timidity restrains his arm; When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, Himself enslaved by terror of the band, The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind. Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove Less dainty than becomes his grave outside In lucrative concerns. Examine well His milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean-- But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'd Corruption! Whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. But faster far, and more than all the rest, A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark Of public virtue, ever wish'd removed, Works the deplored and mischievous effect. 'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd The heart of merit in the meaner class. Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, Seem most at variance with all moral good, And incompatible with serious thought. The clown, the child of nature, without guile, Blest with an infant's ignorance of all But his own simple pleasures; now and then A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair; Is balloted, and trembles at the news: Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears A bible-oath to be whate'er they please, To do he knows not what. The task perform'd, That instant he becomes the serjeant's care, His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. His awkward gait, his introverted toes, Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; He steps right onward, martial in his air, His form, and movement; is as smart above As meal and larded locks can make him; wears His hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace; And, his three years of heroship expired, Returns indignant to the slighted plough. He hates the field, in which no fife or drum Attends him; drives his cattle to a march; And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 'Twere well if his exterior change were all-- But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost His ignorance and harmless manners too. To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home, By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach, The great proficiency he made abroad; To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends; To break some maiden's and his mother's heart; To be a pest where he was useful once; Are his sole aim, and all his glory now. Man in society is like a flower Blown in its native bed: 'tis there alone His faculties, expanded in full bloom, Shine out; there only reach their proper use. But man, associated and leagued with man By regal warrant, or self-join'd by bond For interest sake, or swarming into clans Beneath one head for purposes of war, Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd, Contracts defilement not to be endured. Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues; And burghers, men immaculate perhaps In all their private functions, once combined, Become a loathsome body, only fit For dissolution, hurtful to the main. Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin Against the charities of domestic life, Incorporated, seem at once to lose Their nature; and, disclaiming all regard For mercy and the common rights of man, Build factories with blood, conducting trade At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe Of innocent commercial Justice red. Hence too the field of glory, as the world Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, With all its majesty of thundering pomp, Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for every vice. But slighted as it is, and by the great Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. I never framed a wish, or form'd a plan, That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice Had found me, or the hope of being free. My very dreams were rural; rural too The firstborn efforts of my youthful muse, Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age As twice seven years, his beauties had then first Engaged my wonder; and admiring still, And still admiring, with regret supposed The joy half lost, because not sooner found. There too, enamour'd of the life I loved, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit Determined, and possessing it at last, With transports, such as favour'd lovers feel, I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'd By modern lights from an erroneous taste, I cannot but lament thy splendid wit Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. I still revere thee, courtly though retired; Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends For a lost world in solitude and verse. 'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infused at the creation of the kind. And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of his hand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points--yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works, And all can taste them: minds that have been form'd And tutor'd, with a relish more exact, But none without some relish, none unmoved. It is a flame that dies not even there Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city life, Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate. The villas with which London stands begirt Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame! E'en in the stifling bosom of the town A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green Is still the livery she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling?[813] are they not all proofs That man, immured in cities, still retains His inborn inextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts, the best he may The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds, To range the fields and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct: over head Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands, A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there; Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardour he contrives A peep at Nature, when he can no more. Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys, And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life! Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honours, or emolument, or fame; I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to every man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life, and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill. To the deliverer of an injured land He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; To monarchs dignity; to judges sense; To artists ingenuity and skill; To me an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.

[813] Mignonette.Return to passage