FOOTNOTES:[31]Methodists and Papists compared; Treatise on Grace, by Bishop Warburton, &c.[32]Barbar, in two Parts; Bond-Child; Cry of Little Faith; Satan's Lawsuit; Forty Stripes for Satan; Myrrh and Odour of Saints; the Naked Bow of God: Rule and Riddle; Way and Fare for Wayfaring Men; Utility of the Books and Excellency of the Parchments; Correspondence betweenNoctua,Aurita(the words so separated), andPhilomela, &c.[33]Marmion.
FOOTNOTES:
[31]Methodists and Papists compared; Treatise on Grace, by Bishop Warburton, &c.
[31]Methodists and Papists compared; Treatise on Grace, by Bishop Warburton, &c.
[32]Barbar, in two Parts; Bond-Child; Cry of Little Faith; Satan's Lawsuit; Forty Stripes for Satan; Myrrh and Odour of Saints; the Naked Bow of God: Rule and Riddle; Way and Fare for Wayfaring Men; Utility of the Books and Excellency of the Parchments; Correspondence betweenNoctua,Aurita(the words so separated), andPhilomela, &c.
[32]Barbar, in two Parts; Bond-Child; Cry of Little Faith; Satan's Lawsuit; Forty Stripes for Satan; Myrrh and Odour of Saints; the Naked Bow of God: Rule and Riddle; Way and Fare for Wayfaring Men; Utility of the Books and Excellency of the Parchments; Correspondence betweenNoctua,Aurita(the words so separated), andPhilomela, &c.
[33]Marmion.
[33]Marmion.
GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
These did the ruler of the deep ordain,To build proud navies, and to rule the main.Pope's Homer's Iliad, book vi. line 45. [?]
These did the ruler of the deep ordain,
To build proud navies, and to rule the main.
Pope's Homer's Iliad, book vi. line 45. [?]
Such [place hath] Deptford, navy-building town,Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich.Pope's Imitation of Spenser.
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich.
Pope's Imitation of Spenser.
Et cum cœlestibus undisÆquoreæ miscentur aquæ; caret ignibus æther,Cæcaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque;[Discutiunt] tamen has, præbentque micantia lumenFulmina; fulmineis ardescunt ignibus undæ.Ovid. Metamorph.lib. xi. [vv. 519-523].
Et cum cœlestibus undis
Æquoreæ miscentur aquæ; caret ignibus æther,
Cæcaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque;
[Discutiunt] tamen has, præbentque micantia lumen
Fulmina; fulmineis ardescunt ignibus undæ.
Ovid. Metamorph.lib. xi. [vv. 519-523].
The Difficulty of describing Town Scenery—A Comparison with certain Views in the Country—The River and Quay—The Shipping and Business—Ship-Building—Sea-Boys and Port-Views—Village and Town Scenery again compared—Walks from Town—Cottage andadjoining Heath, &c.—House of Sunday Entertainment—The Sea: a Summer and Winter View—A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects on Shore—Evening Amusements in the Borough—An Apology for the imperfect View which can be given of these Subjects.
LETTER I.
GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
"Describe the Borough."—Though our idle tribeMay love description, can we so describe,That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,And all that gives distinction to a place?This cannot be; yet, moved by your request,A part I paint—let fancy form the rest.Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,Require the pencil; they defy the pen.Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet,10So well have sung of alley, lane, or street?Can measured lines these various buildings show,The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,And lengthen out my lays from door to door?Then, let thy fancy aid me.—I repairFrom this tall mansion of our last-year's mayor,Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach,And these half-buried buildings next the beach;Where hang at open doors the net and cork,20While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work;Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the tide,The weary husband throws his freightaside—A living mass, which now demands the wife,Th' alternate labours of their humble life.Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood,Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood?Seek, then, thy garden's shrubby bound, and look,As it steals by, upon the bordering brook:That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow,30Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow;Where in the midst, upon her throne of green,Sits the large lily[34]as the water's queen;And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream,And our broad river will before thee seem.With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide,Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep40It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep;Here sampire-banks[35]and salt-wort[36]bound the flood;There stakes and sea-weeds, withering on the mud;And, higher up, a ridge of all things base,Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place.Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat,Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat;While at her stern an angler takes his stand,And marks the fish he purposes to land;From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray50Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.Far other craft our prouder river shows,Hoys, pinks and sloops; brigs, brigantines and snows:Nor angler we on our wide stream descry,But one poor dredger where his oysters lie:He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide,Beats his weak arms against his tarry side,Then drains the remnant of diluted gin,To aid the warmth that languishes within;Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat60His tingling fingers into gathering heat.He shall again be seen when evening comes,And social parties crowd their favourite rooms;Where on the table pipes and papers lie,The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by.'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around,They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound;And few themselves the savoury boon deny,The food that feeds, the living luxury.Yon is our quay! those smaller hoys from town.70Its various wares, for country-use, bring down;Those laden waggons, in return, impartThe country-produce to the city mart;Hark to the clamour in that miry road,Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessels' load;The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case;While the loud seaman and the angry hind,Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,80Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:See the long keel, which soon the waves must hide;See the strong ribs which form the roomy side;Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,And planks[37]which curve and crackle in the smoke.Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and farBear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd,Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;Or, in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,90And grow familiar with the watery way.Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are;They know what British seamen do and dare;Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoyThe rustic wonder of the village-boy.Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,Behold the wealth that lies in public view,Those far-extended heaps of coal and coke,Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke.This shall pass off, and you behold, instead,100The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed;When from the light-house brighter beams will rise,To show the shipman where the shallow lies.Thy walks are ever pleasant; every sceneIs rich in beauty, lively, or serene:Rich—is that varied view with woods around,Seen from the seat, within the shrubb'ry bound;Where shines the distant lake, and where appearFrom ruins bolting, unmolested deer;Lively—the village-green, the inn, the place110Where the good widow schools her infant race;Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw,And village-pleasures unreproved by law.Then, how serene—when in your favourite room,Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom;When from your upland paddock you look down,And just perceive the smoke which hides the town;When weary peasants at the close of dayWalk to their cots, and part upon the way;When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook,120And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook.We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees,And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease;On the wide heath, or in the flow'ry vale,We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale;Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile,And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile;Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow;Fences are form'd of wreck and placed around130(With tenters tipp'd), a strong repulsive bound;Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run,And there in ambush lie the trap and gun;Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize,"Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies."There stands a cottage with an open door,Its garden undefended blooms before;Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool,While the lone widow seeks the neighb'ring pool.This gives us hope all views of town toshun—140No! here are tokens of the sailor-son:That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check,And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck;Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore,And furry robe from frozen Labrador.Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,Fen, marshes, bog and heath all intervene;Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,To some enrich th' uncultivated space:For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush,150The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush,Whose velvet leaf, with radiant beauty dress'd,Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.Not distant far, a house, commodious made,Lonely yet public stands, for Sunday-trade;Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous;There humble couples sit in corner-bowers,Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours;Sailors and lasses from the town attend,160The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend;With all the idle social tribes who seekAnd find their humble pleasures once a week.Turn to the watery world!—but who to thee(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint—the sea?Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms;Its colours changing, when from clouds and sunShades after shades upon the surface run;Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,170In limpid blue, and evanescent green;And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye[38].Be it the summer-noon: a sandy spaceThe ebbing tide has left upon its place;Then, just the hot and stony beach above,Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,And with the cooler in its fall contends);Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps180An equal motion, swelling as it sleeps,Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,And back return in silence, smooth and slow.Ships in the calm seem anchored; for they glideOn the still sea, urged solely by the tide;}Art thou not present, this calm scene before,}Where all beside is pebbly length of shore,}And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more?190Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud, to makeThe quiet surface of the ocean shake;As an awaken'd giant with a frownMight show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down.View now the winter-storm, above, one cloud,Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud.Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day beforeHad roll'd in view of boding men on shore;And sometimes hid, and sometimes show'd, his form,Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.200All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam,The breaking billows cast the flying foamUpon the billows rising—all the deepIs restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells.But, nearer land, you may the billows trace,As if contending in their watery chase;May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;210Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force,And then, re-flowing, take their grating course,Raking the rounded flints, which ages pastRoll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.Far off, the petrel in the troubled waySwims with her brood, or flutters in the spray;She rises often, often drops again,And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.High o'er the restless deep, above the reachOf gunner's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks stretch;220Far as the eye can glance on either side,In a broad space and level line they glide;All in their wedge-like figures from the north,Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge,And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;}Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly}Far back, then turn, and all their force apply,}While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry;Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,230And in the restless ocean dip for rest.Darkness begins to reign; the louder windAppals the weak and awes the firmer mind;But frights not him, whom evening and the sprayIn part conceal—yon prowler on his way.Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,As if he fear'd companion in the chase;He sees his prize, and now he turns again,Slowly and sorrowing—"Was your search in vain?"Gruffly he answers, "'Tis a sorry sight!240A seaman's body; there'll be more to-night!"Hark to those sounds! they're from distress at sea:How quick they come! What terrors may there be!Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discernLights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern;Others behold them too, and from the townIn various parties seamen hurry down;Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread,Lest men so dear be into danger led;Their head the gown has hooded, and their call250In this sad night is piercing like the squall;They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet,Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat.See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm;"Thou shalt not venture;" and he answers "No!I will not"—still she cries, "Thou shalt not go."No need of this; not here the stoutest boatCan through such breakers, o'er such billows float;Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,260Which yield them hope, whom help can never reach.From parted clouds the moon her radiance throwsOn the wild waves, and all the danger shows;But shows them beaming in her shining vest,Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dress'd!This for a moment, and then clouds againHide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.But hear we now those sounds? Do lights appear?I see them not! the storm alone I hear:And lo! the sailors homeward take their way;270Man must endure—let us submit and pray.Such are our winter-views; but night comeson—Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone;Now parties form, and some their friends assistTo waste the idle hours at sober whist;The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charmUnnumber'd moments of their sting disarm;Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite,To pass off one dread portion of the night;And show and song and luxury combined280Lift off from man this burthen of mankind.Others advent'rous walk abroad and meetReturning parties pacing through the street;When various voices, in the dying day,Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way;When tavern-lights flit on from room to room,And guide the tippling sailor, staggering home:There as we pass, the jingling bells betrayHow business rises with the closing day:Now walking silent, by the river's side,290The ear perceives the rippling of the tide;Or measured cadence of the lads who towSome enter'd hoy, to fix her in her row;Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bellTo some departed spirit bids farewell!Thus shall you something of ourBoroughknow,Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show;Of sea or river, of a quay or street,The best description must be incomplete;But when a happier theme [succeeds], and when300Men are our subjects and the deeds of men;Then may we find the Muse in happier style,And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.
"Describe the Borough."—Though our idle tribe
May love description, can we so describe,
That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,
And all that gives distinction to a place?
This cannot be; yet, moved by your request,
A part I paint—let fancy form the rest.
Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,
Require the pencil; they defy the pen.
Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet,
10
So well have sung of alley, lane, or street?
Can measured lines these various buildings show,
The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?
Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,
And lengthen out my lays from door to door?
Then, let thy fancy aid me.—I repair
From this tall mansion of our last-year's mayor,
Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach,
And these half-buried buildings next the beach;
Where hang at open doors the net and cork,
20
While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work;
Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the tide,
The weary husband throws his freightaside—
A living mass, which now demands the wife,
Th' alternate labours of their humble life.
Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood,
Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood?
Seek, then, thy garden's shrubby bound, and look,
As it steals by, upon the bordering brook:
That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow,
30
Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow;
Where in the midst, upon her throne of green,
Sits the large lily[34]as the water's queen;
And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,
Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;
Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream,
And our broad river will before thee seem.
With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide,
Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;
Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep
40
It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep;
Here sampire-banks[35]and salt-wort[36]bound the flood;
There stakes and sea-weeds, withering on the mud;
And, higher up, a ridge of all things base,
Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place.
Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat,
Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat;
While at her stern an angler takes his stand,
And marks the fish he purposes to land;
From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray
50
Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.
Far other craft our prouder river shows,
Hoys, pinks and sloops; brigs, brigantines and snows:
Nor angler we on our wide stream descry,
But one poor dredger where his oysters lie:
He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide,
Beats his weak arms against his tarry side,
Then drains the remnant of diluted gin,
To aid the warmth that languishes within;
Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat
60
His tingling fingers into gathering heat.
He shall again be seen when evening comes,
And social parties crowd their favourite rooms;
Where on the table pipes and papers lie,
The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by.
'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around,
They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound;
And few themselves the savoury boon deny,
The food that feeds, the living luxury.
Yon is our quay! those smaller hoys from town.
70
Its various wares, for country-use, bring down;
Those laden waggons, in return, impart
The country-produce to the city mart;
Hark to the clamour in that miry road,
Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessels' load;
The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,
Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case;
While the loud seaman and the angry hind,
Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.
Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,
80
Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks:
See the long keel, which soon the waves must hide;
See the strong ribs which form the roomy side;
Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,
And planks[37]which curve and crackle in the smoke.
Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far
Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.
Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd,
Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;
Or, in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,
90
And grow familiar with the watery way.
Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are;
They know what British seamen do and dare;
Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy
The rustic wonder of the village-boy.
Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,
Behold the wealth that lies in public view,
Those far-extended heaps of coal and coke,
Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke.
This shall pass off, and you behold, instead,
100
The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed;
When from the light-house brighter beams will rise,
To show the shipman where the shallow lies.
Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene
Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene:
Rich—is that varied view with woods around,
Seen from the seat, within the shrubb'ry bound;
Where shines the distant lake, and where appear
From ruins bolting, unmolested deer;
Lively—the village-green, the inn, the place
110
Where the good widow schools her infant race;
Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw,
And village-pleasures unreproved by law.
Then, how serene—when in your favourite room,
Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom;
When from your upland paddock you look down,
And just perceive the smoke which hides the town;
When weary peasants at the close of day
Walk to their cots, and part upon the way;
When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook,
120
And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook.
We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees,
And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease;
On the wide heath, or in the flow'ry vale,
We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale;
Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile,
And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile;
Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,
Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow;
Fences are form'd of wreck and placed around
130
(With tenters tipp'd), a strong repulsive bound;
Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run,
And there in ambush lie the trap and gun;
Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize,
"Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies."
There stands a cottage with an open door,
Its garden undefended blooms before;
Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool,
While the lone widow seeks the neighb'ring pool.
This gives us hope all views of town toshun—
140
No! here are tokens of the sailor-son:
That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check,
And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck;
Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore,
And furry robe from frozen Labrador.
Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,
Fen, marshes, bog and heath all intervene;
Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,
To some enrich th' uncultivated space:
For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush,
150
The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush,
Whose velvet leaf, with radiant beauty dress'd,
Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.
Not distant far, a house, commodious made,
Lonely yet public stands, for Sunday-trade;
Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,
Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous;
There humble couples sit in corner-bowers,
Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours;
Sailors and lasses from the town attend,
160
The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend;
With all the idle social tribes who seek
And find their humble pleasures once a week.
Turn to the watery world!—but who to thee
(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint—the sea?
Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,
When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms;
Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun
Shades after shades upon the surface run;
Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,
170
In limpid blue, and evanescent green;
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,
Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye[38].
Be it the summer-noon: a sandy space
The ebbing tide has left upon its place;
Then, just the hot and stony beach above,
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move
(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends);
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
180
An equal motion, swelling as it sleeps,
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and slow.
Ships in the calm seem anchored; for they glide
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide;
}
Art thou not present, this calm scene before,
}
Where all beside is pebbly length of shore,
}
And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more?
190
Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud, to make
The quiet surface of the ocean shake;
As an awaken'd giant with a frown
Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down.
View now the winter-storm, above, one cloud,
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud.
Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before
Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore;
And sometimes hid, and sometimes show'd, his form,
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.
200
All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam,
The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising—all the deep
Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells.
But, nearer land, you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chase;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;
210
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force,
And then, re-flowing, take their grating course,
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.
Far off, the petrel in the troubled way
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray;
She rises often, often drops again,
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.
High o'er the restless deep, above the reach
Of gunner's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks stretch;
220
Far as the eye can glance on either side,
In a broad space and level line they glide;
All in their wedge-like figures from the north,
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.
In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge,
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;
}
Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly
}
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply,
}
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry;
Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,
230
And in the restless ocean dip for rest.
Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind
Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind;
But frights not him, whom evening and the spray
In part conceal—yon prowler on his way.
Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,
As if he fear'd companion in the chase;
He sees his prize, and now he turns again,
Slowly and sorrowing—"Was your search in vain?"
Gruffly he answers, "'Tis a sorry sight!
240
A seaman's body; there'll be more to-night!"
Hark to those sounds! they're from distress at sea:
How quick they come! What terrors may there be!
Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern;
Others behold them too, and from the town
In various parties seamen hurry down;
Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread,
Lest men so dear be into danger led;
Their head the gown has hooded, and their call
250
In this sad night is piercing like the squall;
They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet,
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat.
See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,
Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm;
"Thou shalt not venture;" and he answers "No!
I will not"—still she cries, "Thou shalt not go."
No need of this; not here the stoutest boat
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float;
Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,
260
Which yield them hope, whom help can never reach.
From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws
On the wild waves, and all the danger shows;
But shows them beaming in her shining vest,
Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dress'd!
This for a moment, and then clouds again
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.
But hear we now those sounds? Do lights appear?
I see them not! the storm alone I hear:
And lo! the sailors homeward take their way;
270
Man must endure—let us submit and pray.
Such are our winter-views; but night comeson—
Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone;
Now parties form, and some their friends assist
To waste the idle hours at sober whist;
The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charm
Unnumber'd moments of their sting disarm;
Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite,
To pass off one dread portion of the night;
And show and song and luxury combined
280
Lift off from man this burthen of mankind.
Others advent'rous walk abroad and meet
Returning parties pacing through the street;
When various voices, in the dying day,
Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way;
When tavern-lights flit on from room to room,
And guide the tippling sailor, staggering home:
There as we pass, the jingling bells betray
How business rises with the closing day:
Now walking silent, by the river's side,
290
The ear perceives the rippling of the tide;
Or measured cadence of the lads who tow
Some enter'd hoy, to fix her in her row;
Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bell
To some departed spirit bids farewell!
Thus shall you something of ourBoroughknow,
Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show;
Of sea or river, of a quay or street,
The best description must be incomplete;
But when a happier theme [succeeds], and when
300
Men are our subjects and the deeds of men;
Then may we find the Muse in happier style,
And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.
NOTES TO LETTER I.[34]Note 1, page 286, line 32.Sits the large lily as the water's queen.The white water-lily. Nymphæa alba.[35]Note 2, page 286, line 41.Sampire-banks.The jointed glasswortSalicorniais here meant, not the true sampire, thecrithmum maritimum.[36]Note 3, page 286, line 41.Salt-wort.The salsola of botanists.[37]Note 4, page 287, line 84.And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.The curvature of planks for the sides of a ship, &c. is, I am informed, now generally made by the power of steam. Fire is nevertheless still used for boats and vessels of the smaller kind.[38]Note 5, page 289, lines 171 and 172.And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.Of the effect of these mists, known by the name of fog-banks, wonderful and indeed incredible relations are given; but their property of appearing to elevate ships at sea, and to bring them in view, is, I believe, generally acknowledged.
NOTES TO LETTER I.
[34]Note 1, page 286, line 32.Sits the large lily as the water's queen.The white water-lily. Nymphæa alba.
[34]Note 1, page 286, line 32.
Sits the large lily as the water's queen.
Sits the large lily as the water's queen.
The white water-lily. Nymphæa alba.
[35]Note 2, page 286, line 41.Sampire-banks.The jointed glasswortSalicorniais here meant, not the true sampire, thecrithmum maritimum.
[35]Note 2, page 286, line 41.
Sampire-banks.
Sampire-banks.
The jointed glasswortSalicorniais here meant, not the true sampire, thecrithmum maritimum.
[36]Note 3, page 286, line 41.Salt-wort.The salsola of botanists.
[36]Note 3, page 286, line 41.
Salt-wort.
Salt-wort.
The salsola of botanists.
[37]Note 4, page 287, line 84.And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.The curvature of planks for the sides of a ship, &c. is, I am informed, now generally made by the power of steam. Fire is nevertheless still used for boats and vessels of the smaller kind.
[37]Note 4, page 287, line 84.
And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.
And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.
The curvature of planks for the sides of a ship, &c. is, I am informed, now generally made by the power of steam. Fire is nevertheless still used for boats and vessels of the smaller kind.
[38]Note 5, page 289, lines 171 and 172.And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.Of the effect of these mists, known by the name of fog-banks, wonderful and indeed incredible relations are given; but their property of appearing to elevate ships at sea, and to bring them in view, is, I believe, generally acknowledged.
[38]Note 5, page 289, lines 171 and 172.
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,
Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.
Of the effect of these mists, known by the name of fog-banks, wonderful and indeed incredible relations are given; but their property of appearing to elevate ships at sea, and to bring them in view, is, I believe, generally acknowledged.
THE CHURCH.
... Festinat enim decurrere veloxFlosculus angustæ miseræque brevissima vitæPortio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellasPoscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.Juvenal.Satir. ix. lin. 126.
... Festinat enim decurrere velox
Flosculus angustæ miseræque brevissima vitæ
Portio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas
Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.
Juvenal.Satir. ix. lin. 126.
And when at last thy love shall die,Wilt thou receive his parting breath?Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,And cheer with smiles the bed of death?Percy[?].
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
Percy[?].
Several Meanings of the wordChurch—The Building so called, here intended—Its Antiquity and Grandeur—Columns and Ailes—The Tower: the Stains made by Time compared with the mock Antiquity ofthe Artist—Progress of Vegetation on such Buildings—Bells—Tombs: one in decay—Mural Monuments, and the Nature of their Inscriptions—An Instance in a departed Burgess—Churchyard Graves—Mourners for the Dead—A Story of a betrothed Pair in humble Life, and Effects of Grief in the Survivor.
LETTER II.
THE CHURCH.
"What is a Church?"—Let Truth and Reason speak,They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek;From Christian folds the one selected race,Of all professions, and in every place.""What is a Church?"—"A flock," our vicar cries,"Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;Wherein are various states and due degrees,The bench for honour, and the stall for ease;That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,10The pious, peaceful prebendary shares.""What is a Church?"—Our honest sexton tells,"'Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells;Where priest and clerk with joint exertion striveTo keep the ardour of their flock alive:That, by his periods eloquent and grave;This, by responses, and a well-set stave.These for the living; but, when life be fled,I toll myself the requiem for the dead."'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place20Where slept our fathers, when they'd run their race.We too shall rest, and then our children keepTheir road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,And, like the builders, will in time decay.The old foundation—but it is not clearWhen it was laid—you care not for the year:On this, as parts decay'd by time and storms,Arose these various disproportion'd forms;Yet Gothic, all the learn'd who visit us30(And our small wonders) have decided thus:"Yon noble Gothic arch;" "That Gothic door;"So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.Here large plain columns rise in solemn style:You'd love the gloom they make in either aile,When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,Faintly display the figures on the floor,Which pleased distinctly in their place before.But, ere you enter, yon bold tower survey,40Tall and entire, and venerably gray;For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,And now the stains are all of soberhue—The living stains which Nature's hand alone,Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone,For ever growing; where the common eyeCan but the bare and rocky bed descry,There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;There she perceives them round the surface creep,50And, while they meet, their due distinction keep,Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,And these are Nature's ever-during stains.And would'st thou, artist, with thy tints and brush,Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?In three short hours shall thy presuming handTh' effect of three slow centuries command[39]?Thou may'st thy various greens and grays contrive:They are not lichens, nor like aughtalive.—But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,60Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost;When all thy work is done away as cleanAs if thou never spread'st thy gray and green:Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done,How slowly true she lays her colours on;When her least speck upon the hardest flintHas mark and form and is a living tint,And so embodied with the rock, that fewCan the small germ upon the substance view[40].Seeds, to our eye invisible, will find70On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind;There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,And spread th' enduring foliage;—then we traceThe freckled flower upon the flinty base;These all increase, till in unnoticed yearsThe stony tower as gray with age appears;With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,Coat above coat, the living on the dead.These then dissolve to dust, and make a way80For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay;The long-enduring ferns in time will allDie and depose their dust upon the wall,Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flowerShow Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.But ours yet stands, and has its bells renown'dFor size magnificent and solemn sound.Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell[41]—Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring90From ten loud coppers when their clappers swing.Enter'd the Church, we to a tomb proceed,Whose names and titles few attempt to read;Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt.Our sons shall see its more degraded state;The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,With all those ruff'd and painted pairsbelow—The noble lady and the lord who rest100Supine, as courtly dame and warrior dress'd—All are departed from their state sublime,Mangled and wounded in their war with time,Colleagued with mischief; here a leg is fled,And lo! the baron with but half a head;Midway is cleft the arch; the very baseIs batter'd round and shifted from its place.Wonder not, mortal, at thy quickdecay—See! men of marble piece-meal melt away;When whose the image we no longer read,110But monuments themselves memorials need[42].With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;But we have mural tablets, every size,That wo could wish, or vanity devise.Death levels man,—the wicked and the just,The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;And by the honours dealt to every name,The king of terrors seems to level fame.—See here lamented wives, and every wife120The pride and comfort of her husband's life;Here to her spouse, with every virtue graced,His mournful widow has a trophy placed;And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son,Or the good father, be in praise outdone.This may be nature; when our friends we lose,Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;And much we grieve, no longer trial made,130For that impatience which we then display'd;Now to their love and worth of every kindA soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;Virtues, neglected then, adored become,And graces slighted blossom on the tomb.'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believeThat we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)To all that praise which on the tomb is read,To all that passion dictates for the dead;But, more indignant, we the tomb deride,140Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.Read of this Burgess—on the stone appear,How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!}What wailing was there when his spirit fled,}How mourn'd his lady for her lord when dead,}And tears abundant through the town were shed;See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise,And free from all disgrace and all disguise;His sterling worth, which words cannot express,Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.150All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name,He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?—shame!What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;He ruled the Borough when his year came on,And some forget, and some are glad he's gone;For never yet with shilling could he part,But when it left his hand, it struck his heart.Yet, here will love its last attentions pay,And place memorials on these beds of clay.160Large level stones lie flat upon the grave,And half a century's sun and tempest brave;But many an honest tear and heart-felt sighHave follow'd those who now unnoticed lie;Of these what numbers rest on every side!Without one token left by grief or pride;Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and thenWill other hillocks rise o'er other men;Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust,And generations follow, "dust to dust."170Yes! there are real mourners—I have seenA fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expectPity for grief, or pardon for neglect.But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,She sought her place to meditate and weep:Then to her mind was all the past display'd,That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:180For then she thought on one regretted youth,Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;In ev'ry place she wander'd where they'd been,And sadly-sacred held the parting-scene,Where last for sea he took his leave—that placeWith double interest would she nightly trace;For long the courtship was, and he would say,Each time he sail'd,—"This once, and then the day."Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,He drew from pitying love a full consent.190Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;White was his better linen, and his checkWas made more trim than any on the deck;And every comfort men at sea can knowWas hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,How he should guard against the climate's cold;Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.200His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;For now he found the danger, felt the pain,With grievous symptoms he could not explain;Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sighA lover's message—"Thomas, I must die.Would I could see my Sally, and could restMy throbbing temples on her faithful breast,210And gazing go!—if not, this trifle take,And say, till death I wore it for her sake.Yes! I must die—blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!Give me one look, before my life be gone,Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,One last fond look—and now repeat the prayer."He had his wish, had more; I will not paintThe lovers' meeting: she beheld himfaint—With tender fears she took a nearer view,Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;220He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantimeWere interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.To her he came to die, and every dayShe took some portion of the dread away;With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head.She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;230Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gaveFresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgotThe care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,Yet said not so—"Perhaps he will not sink."A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,A sudden vigour in his voice washeard;—She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;240Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,The friendly many, and the favourite few;Nor one that day did he to mind recallBut she has treasured, and she loves them all;When in her way she meets them, they appearPeculiar people—death has made them dear.He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd,And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;""I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she foundHis hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!250Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,A dying look of love—and all was past!She placed a decent stone his grave above,Neatly engraved—an offering of her love;For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,Awake alike to duty and the dead;She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spareThe least assistance—'twas her proper care.Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;260But if observer pass, will take her round,And careless seem, for she would not be found;Then go again, and thus her hour employ,While visions please her, and while woes destroy.Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy ledTo hold mysterious converse with the dead;For sure at length thy [thoughts'], thy [spirit's] painIn this sad conflict will disturb thy brain.All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,But short the time, and glorious the reward:270Thy patient spirit to thy duties give;Regard the dead, but to the living live[43].
"What is a Church?"—Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek;
From Christian folds the one selected race,
Of all professions, and in every place."
"What is a Church?"—"A flock," our vicar cries,
"Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;
Wherein are various states and due degrees,
The bench for honour, and the stall for ease;
That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,
10
The pious, peaceful prebendary shares."
"What is a Church?"—Our honest sexton tells,
"'Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells;
Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive
To keep the ardour of their flock alive:
That, by his periods eloquent and grave;
This, by responses, and a well-set stave.
These for the living; but, when life be fled,
I toll myself the requiem for the dead."
'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place
20
Where slept our fathers, when they'd run their race.
We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And, like the builders, will in time decay.
The old foundation—but it is not clear
When it was laid—you care not for the year:
On this, as parts decay'd by time and storms,
Arose these various disproportion'd forms;
Yet Gothic, all the learn'd who visit us
30
(And our small wonders) have decided thus:
"Yon noble Gothic arch;" "That Gothic door;"
So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.
Here large plain columns rise in solemn style:
You'd love the gloom they make in either aile,
When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass
(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,
Faintly display the figures on the floor,
Which pleased distinctly in their place before.
But, ere you enter, yon bold tower survey,
40
Tall and entire, and venerably gray;
For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the stains are all of soberhue—
The living stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone,
For ever growing; where the common eye
Can but the bare and rocky bed descry,
There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;
There she perceives them round the surface creep,
50
And, while they meet, their due distinction keep,
Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,
And these are Nature's ever-during stains.
And would'st thou, artist, with thy tints and brush,
Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?
In three short hours shall thy presuming hand
Th' effect of three slow centuries command[39]?
Thou may'st thy various greens and grays contrive:
They are not lichens, nor like aughtalive.—
But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,
60
Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost;
When all thy work is done away as clean
As if thou never spread'st thy gray and green:
Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done,
How slowly true she lays her colours on;
When her least speck upon the hardest flint
Has mark and form and is a living tint,
And so embodied with the rock, that few
Can the small germ upon the substance view[40].
Seeds, to our eye invisible, will find
70
On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind;
There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,
Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,
And spread th' enduring foliage;—then we trace
The freckled flower upon the flinty base;
These all increase, till in unnoticed years
The stony tower as gray with age appears;
With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,
Coat above coat, the living on the dead.
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way
80
For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay;
The long-enduring ferns in time will all
Die and depose their dust upon the wall,
Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower
Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.
But ours yet stands, and has its bells renown'd
For size magnificent and solemn sound.
Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell[41]—
Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring
90
From ten loud coppers when their clappers swing.
Enter'd the Church, we to a tomb proceed,
Whose names and titles few attempt to read;
Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,
Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt.
Our sons shall see its more degraded state;
The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;
That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,
With all those ruff'd and painted pairsbelow—
The noble lady and the lord who rest
100
Supine, as courtly dame and warrior dress'd—
All are departed from their state sublime,
Mangled and wounded in their war with time,
Colleagued with mischief; here a leg is fled,
And lo! the baron with but half a head;
Midway is cleft the arch; the very base
Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.
Wonder not, mortal, at thy quickdecay—
See! men of marble piece-meal melt away;
When whose the image we no longer read,
110
But monuments themselves memorials need[42].
With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,
By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;
But we have mural tablets, every size,
That wo could wish, or vanity devise.
Death levels man,—the wicked and the just,
The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;
And by the honours dealt to every name,
The king of terrors seems to level fame.
—See here lamented wives, and every wife
120
The pride and comfort of her husband's life;
Here to her spouse, with every virtue graced,
His mournful widow has a trophy placed;
And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son,
Or the good father, be in praise outdone.
This may be nature; when our friends we lose,
Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;
What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
130
For that impatience which we then display'd;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;
Virtues, neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted blossom on the tomb.
'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe
That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)
To all that praise which on the tomb is read,
To all that passion dictates for the dead;
But, more indignant, we the tomb deride,
140
Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.
Read of this Burgess—on the stone appear,
How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!
}
What wailing was there when his spirit fled,
}
How mourn'd his lady for her lord when dead,
}
And tears abundant through the town were shed;
See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise,
And free from all disgrace and all disguise;
His sterling worth, which words cannot express,
Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.
150
All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name,
He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?—shame!
What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;
He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;
He ruled the Borough when his year came on,
And some forget, and some are glad he's gone;
For never yet with shilling could he part,
But when it left his hand, it struck his heart.
Yet, here will love its last attentions pay,
And place memorials on these beds of clay.
160
Large level stones lie flat upon the grave,
And half a century's sun and tempest brave;
But many an honest tear and heart-felt sigh
Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie;
Of these what numbers rest on every side!
Without one token left by grief or pride;
Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then
Will other hillocks rise o'er other men;
Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust,
And generations follow, "dust to dust."
170
Yes! there are real mourners—I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;
Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect.
But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
180
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting-scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave—that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd,—"This once, and then the day."
Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.
190
Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.
200
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message—"Thomas, I must die.
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
210
And gazing go!—if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake.
Yes! I must die—blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look—and now repeat the prayer."
He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld himfaint—
With tender fears she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
220
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head.
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;
230
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so—"Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice washeard;—
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
240
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people—death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;"
"I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
250
Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love—and all was past!
She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved—an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare
The least assistance—'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
260
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy [thoughts'], thy [spirit's] pain
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain.
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward:
270
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give;
Regard the dead, but to the living live[43].
NOTES TO LETTER II.[39]Note 1, page 296, lines 55 and 56.In three short hours shall thy presuming handTh' effect of three slow centuries command?If it should be objected, that centuries are not slower than hours, because the speed of time must be uniform, I would answer, that I understand so much, and mean that they are slower in no other sense, than because they are not finished so soon.[40]Note 2, page 296, line 68.Can the small germ upon the substance view.This kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the flint. The byssus jolithus of Linnæus (lepraria jolithus of the present system), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the substance on which it spread. A great variety of these minute vegetables are to be found in some parts of the coast, where the beach, formed of stones of various kinds, is undisturbed, and exposed to every change of weather; in this situation the different species of lichen, in their different stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and agreeable even to those who are ignorant of, and indifferent to, the cause.[41]Note 3, page 297, lines 87 and 88.Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell.The several purposes for which bells are used are expressed in two Latin verses of this kind.[42]Note 4, page 297, line 110.But monuments themselves memorials need.Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.Juvenal.Sat. x. I. 146.[43]Note 5, page 301, last line.Regard the dead, but to the living live.It has been observed to me, that in the first part of the story I have represented this young woman as resigned and attentive to her duties; from which it should appear that the concluding advice is unnecessary; but if the reader will construe the expression "to the living live," into the sense—"live entirely for them, attend to duties only which are real, and not those imposed by the imagination," I shall have no need to alter the line which terminates the story.
NOTES TO LETTER II.
[39]Note 1, page 296, lines 55 and 56.In three short hours shall thy presuming handTh' effect of three slow centuries command?If it should be objected, that centuries are not slower than hours, because the speed of time must be uniform, I would answer, that I understand so much, and mean that they are slower in no other sense, than because they are not finished so soon.
[39]Note 1, page 296, lines 55 and 56.
In three short hours shall thy presuming handTh' effect of three slow centuries command?
In three short hours shall thy presuming hand
Th' effect of three slow centuries command?
If it should be objected, that centuries are not slower than hours, because the speed of time must be uniform, I would answer, that I understand so much, and mean that they are slower in no other sense, than because they are not finished so soon.
[40]Note 2, page 296, line 68.Can the small germ upon the substance view.This kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the flint. The byssus jolithus of Linnæus (lepraria jolithus of the present system), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the substance on which it spread. A great variety of these minute vegetables are to be found in some parts of the coast, where the beach, formed of stones of various kinds, is undisturbed, and exposed to every change of weather; in this situation the different species of lichen, in their different stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and agreeable even to those who are ignorant of, and indifferent to, the cause.
[40]Note 2, page 296, line 68.
Can the small germ upon the substance view.
Can the small germ upon the substance view.
This kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the flint. The byssus jolithus of Linnæus (lepraria jolithus of the present system), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the substance on which it spread. A great variety of these minute vegetables are to be found in some parts of the coast, where the beach, formed of stones of various kinds, is undisturbed, and exposed to every change of weather; in this situation the different species of lichen, in their different stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and agreeable even to those who are ignorant of, and indifferent to, the cause.
[41]Note 3, page 297, lines 87 and 88.Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell.The several purposes for which bells are used are expressed in two Latin verses of this kind.
[41]Note 3, page 297, lines 87 and 88.
Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell.
Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell.
The several purposes for which bells are used are expressed in two Latin verses of this kind.
[42]Note 4, page 297, line 110.But monuments themselves memorials need.Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.Juvenal.Sat. x. I. 146.
[42]Note 4, page 297, line 110.
But monuments themselves memorials need.
But monuments themselves memorials need.
Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.
Juvenal.Sat. x. I. 146.
[43]Note 5, page 301, last line.Regard the dead, but to the living live.It has been observed to me, that in the first part of the story I have represented this young woman as resigned and attentive to her duties; from which it should appear that the concluding advice is unnecessary; but if the reader will construe the expression "to the living live," into the sense—"live entirely for them, attend to duties only which are real, and not those imposed by the imagination," I shall have no need to alter the line which terminates the story.
[43]Note 5, page 301, last line.
Regard the dead, but to the living live.
Regard the dead, but to the living live.
It has been observed to me, that in the first part of the story I have represented this young woman as resigned and attentive to her duties; from which it should appear that the concluding advice is unnecessary; but if the reader will construe the expression "to the living live," into the sense—"live entirely for them, attend to duties only which are real, and not those imposed by the imagination," I shall have no need to alter the line which terminates the story.
THE VICAR—THE CURATE, &c.