LETTER XIX.

Bene paupertasHumili tecto contenta latet.Seneca[Octavia, Act V. vv. 895-6].

Bene paupertas

Humili tecto contenta latet.

Seneca[Octavia, Act V. vv. 895-6].

Omnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundæ, magi' sunt, nescio quo modo,Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis;Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi.Terent. in Adelph.Act 4. Sc. 3 [vv. 12-4].

Omnes quibu' res sunt minu' secundæ, magi' sunt, nescio quo modo,

Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis;

Propter suam impotentiam se semper credunt negligi.

Terent. in Adelph.Act 4. Sc. 3 [vv. 12-4].

Show not to the poor thy pride,Let their home a cottage be;Nor the feeble body hideIn a palace fit for thee;Let him not about him seeLofty ceilings, ample halls,Or a gate his boundary be,Where nor friend or kinsman calls.Let him not one walk behold,That only one which he must tread,Nor a chamber large and cold,Better far his humble shed,Where the aged and sick are led;Humble sheds of neighbours by,And the old and tatter'd bed,Where he sleeps and hopes to die.

Show not to the poor thy pride,

Let their home a cottage be;

Nor the feeble body hide

In a palace fit for thee;

Let him not about him see

Lofty ceilings, ample halls,

Or a gate his boundary be,

Where nor friend or kinsman calls.

Let him not one walk behold,That only one which he must tread,Nor a chamber large and cold,Better far his humble shed,Where the aged and sick are led;Humble sheds of neighbours by,And the old and tatter'd bed,Where he sleeps and hopes to die.

Let him not one walk behold,

That only one which he must tread,

Nor a chamber large and cold,

Better far his humble shed,

Where the aged and sick are led;

Humble sheds of neighbours by,

And the old and tatter'd bed,

Where he sleeps and hopes to die.

To quit of torpid sluggishness the [lair],And from the pow'rful arms of sloth [get] free,'Tis rising from the dead—Alas! it cannot be.Thomson's Castle of Indolence[Canto II. ll. 59-61].

To quit of torpid sluggishness the [lair],

And from the pow'rful arms of sloth [get] free,

'Tis rising from the dead—Alas! it cannot be.

Thomson's Castle of Indolence[Canto II. ll. 59-61].

The Method of treating the Borough Paupers—Many maintained at their own Dwellings—Some Characters of the Poor—The School-mistress, when aged—The Idiot—The poor Sailor—The declined Tradesman and his Companion—This contrasted with the Maintenance of the Poor in a common Mansion erected by the Hundred—The Objections to this Method: not Want, nor Cruelty, but the necessary Evils of this Mode—What they are—Instances of the Evil—A Return to the BoroughPoor—The Dwellings of these—The Lanes and By-ways—No Attention here paid to Convenience—The Pools in the Path-ways—Amusements of Sea-port Children—The Town-Flora—Herbs on Walls and vacant Spaces—A female Inhabitant of an Alley—A large Building let to several poor Inhabitants—Their Manners and Habits.

LETTER XVIII.

THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS.

Yes! we've our Borough-vices, and I knowHow far they spread, how rapidly they grow;Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,Nor charity, the virtues' crown and grace."Our poor how feed we?"—To the most we giveA weekly dole, and at their homes theylive;—Others together dwell—but when they comeTo the low roof, they see a kind of home,A social people whom they've ever known,10With their own thoughts and manners like their own.At her old house, her dress, her air the same,I see mine ancient letter-loving dame:"Learning, my child," said she, "shall fame command;Learning is better worth than house orland—For houses perish, lands are gone and spent;In learning then excel, for that's most excellent.""And what her learning?"—'Tis with awe to lookIn every verse throughout one sacred book;From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought:20This she has learn'd, and she is nobly taught.If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear;IfRutlanddeigns these humble Tales to hear;If critics pardon what my friends approved,Can I mine ancient widow pass unmoved?Shall I not think what pains the matron took,When first I trembled o'er the gilded book?How she, all patient, both at eve and morn,Her needle pointed at the guarding horn;And how she soothed me, when, with study sad,30I labour'd on to reach the final zad?Shall I not grateful still the dame survey,And ask the muse the poet's debt to pay?Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen,But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men,}Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws,}They own the matron as the leading cause,}And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause:To her own house is borne the week's supply;There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die.40With her a harmless idiot we behold,Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold;These he preserves, with unremitted care,To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor:Alas!—who could th' ambitious changeling tell,That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?Near these a sailor in that hut of thatch(A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match)Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat,Large as he wishes—in his view complete.50A lockless coffer and a lidless hutchThat hold his stores, have room for twice as much;His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box,Lie all in view; no need has he for locks.Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass,He shows the shipping, he presents the glass;He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known,And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own.Of noble captains—heroes everyone—You might as soon have made the steeple run:60And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay,He'll one by one the gallant souls display;And as the story verges to an end,He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend;He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old,As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold;Then will his feelings rise, till you may traceGloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manlyface—And then a tear or two, which sting his pride,These he will dash indignantly aside,70And splice his tale;—now take him from his cot,And for some cleaner [berth] exchange his lot,How will he all that cruel aid deplore?His heart will break, and he will fight no more.Here is the poor old merchant: he declined,And, as they say, is not in perfect mind;In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend,Quiet he paces to his journey's end.Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd;Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd;80His spirits low and his exertions small,He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall:Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he,But downward sank with sad alacrity.A borough-place we gain'd him—in disgraceFor gross neglect, he quickly lost the place;But still he kept a kind of sullen pride,Striving his wants to hinder or to hide.At length, compell'd by very need, in griefHe wrote a proud petition for relief.90"He did suppose a fall, like his, would proveOf force to wake their sympathy and love;Would make them feel the changes all may know,And stir them up a new regard to show."His suit was granted;—to an ancient maid,Relieved herself, relief for him was paid.Here they together (meet companions) dwell,And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell:"'Twas not a world for them, God help them! theyCould not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray;100But there's a happy change, a scene to come,And they, God help them! shall be soon at home."}If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain,}Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain;}They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain.The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh,Both when they know, and when they know not why;But we our bounty with such care bestow,That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.Your plan I love not;—with a number you110Have placed your poor, your pitiable few;There, in one house, throughout their lives tobe—The pauper-palace which they hate to see;That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour;Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:It is a prison, with a milder name,Which few inhabit without dread or shame.Be it agreed—the poor who hither come120Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;That airy rooms and decent beds are meantTo give the poor by day, by night, content;That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,By the stern looks of lordly overseer;Grant that the guardians of the place attend,And ready ear to each petition lend;That they desire the grieving poor to showWhat ills they feel, what partial acts they know,Not without promise, nay desire to heal130Each wrong they suffer and each wo they feel.—Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;They have no evil in the place to state,And dare not say, it is the house they hate:They own, there's granted all such place can give,But live repining, for 'tis there they live.}Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,}No more must nurse upon the trembling knee,}The lost loved daughter's infant progeny:140Like death's dread mansion, this allows not placeFor joyful meetings of a kindred race.Is not the matron there, to whom the sonWas wont at each declining day to run;He (when his toil was over) gave delight,By lifting up the latch, and one "good night"?Yes, she is here; but nightly to her doorThe son, still lab'ring, can return no more.Widows are here, who in their huts were left,Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;150Yet all that grief within the humble shedWas soften'd, soften'd in the humblebed;—But here, in all its force, remains the grief,And not one soft'ning object for relief.Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?Who learn the story current in the street?Who to the long-known intimate impartFacts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?—They talk indeed; but who can choose a friend,Or seek companions at their journey's end?160Here are not those whom they, when infants, knew;Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;Whom time and custom so familiar made,That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd:But here, to strangers, words nor looks impartThe various movements of the suffering heart;Nor will that heart with those alliance own,To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.170What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;Nothing to bring them joy, to make themweep—The day itself is, like the night, asleep;Or, on the sameness if a break be made,'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;180By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,Or justice come to see that all goes well;}Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl}On the black footway winding with the wall,}Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.Here too the mother sees her children train'd,Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd.Who govern here, by general rules must move,Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.Nations, we know, have nature's law transgressed.190And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast;But still for public good the boy was train'd,The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd:Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid;The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.Then too, I own, it grieves me to beholdThose ever virtuous, helpless now and old,By all for care and industry approved,For truth respected, and for temper loved;And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,200Gave want its worth and poverty its pride:I own it grieves me to behold them sentFrom their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment,To leave each scene familiar, every face,For a new people and a stranger race;For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame,From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;Men, just and guileless, at such manners start,And bless their God that time has fenced their heart,Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear210Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.Here the good pauper, losing all the praiseBy worthy deeds acquired in better days,Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led,Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.The grateful hunter, when his horse is old,Wills not the useless favourite to be sold;He knows his former worth, and gives him placeIn some fair pasture, till he runs his race.But has the labourer, has the seaman done220Less worthy service, thought not dealt to one?Shall we not, then, contribute to their ease,In their old haunts, where ancient objects please;That, till their sight shall fail them, they may traceThe well-known prospect and the long-loved face?The noble oak, in distant ages seen,With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green,Though now its bare and forky branches showHow much it lacks the vital warmthbelow—The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,230Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains;Much more shall real wants and cares of ageOur gentler passions in their causeengage.—Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years,What venerable ruin man appears!How worthy pity, love, respect, andgrief—He claims protection—he compelsrelief;—}And shall we send him from our view, to brave}The storms abroad, whom we at home might save,}And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave?240No!—we will shield him from the storm he fears,And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.Farewell to these; but all our poor to know,Let's seek the winding lane, the narrowrow—}Suburbian prospects, where the traveller stops}To see the sloping tenement on props,}With building yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops;Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms inviteLaborious men to taste their coarse delight;Where the low porches, stretching from the door,250Gave some distinction in the days of yore—Yet now, neglected, more offend the eyeBy gloom and ruin than the cottage by.Places like these the noblest town endures,The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,To give us shelter when compell'd to stop;But plashy puddles stand along the way,Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day;And these so closely to the buildings run,260That you must ford them, for you cannot shun;Though here and there convenient bricks are laid,And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid.Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around:There dwells a fisher; if you view his boat,With bed and barrel—'tis his house afloat;Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound,Tar, pitch, and oakum—'tis his boat aground:That space enclosed but little he regards,270Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards;}Fish by the wall on spit of elder rest,}Of all his food the cheapest and the best,}By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd.Here our reformers come not; none objectTo paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast;None heed the stagnant pools on either side,Where new-launch'd ships of infant sailors ride:280Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale.True to her port, the frigate scuds away,And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay:Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth,And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth;Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd,When inch-high billows vex the watery world.290There, fed by food they love, to rankest sizeAround the dwellings docks and wormwood rise;Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,Here the dull night-shade hangs her deadly fruit;On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen;At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;Above (the growth of many a year) is spreadThe yellow level of the stone-crop's bed;300In every chink delights the fern to grow,With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below[64]:These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,Form the contracted Flora[65]of the town.Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?Then will I lead thee down the dusty row,By the warm alley and the long closelane—There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass,We fear to breathe the putrefying mass.310But fearless yonder matron; she disdainsTo sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains;But mends her meshes torn, and pours her layAll in the stifling fervour of the day.Her naked children round the alley run,And, roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun;Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd,Woos the coy breeze, to fan the open breast.She, once a handmaid, strove by decent artTo charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart;320Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean,And fancy left to form the charms unseen.But, when a wife, she lost her former care,Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare;Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside;No rival beauty kept alive her pride:Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place;But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.See that long boarded building!—By these stairsEach humble tenant to that homerepairs—330By one large window lighted; it was madeFor some bold project, some design in trade.This fail'd—and one, a humorist in his way,(Ill was the humour), bought it in decay;Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down;'Tis his—what cares he for the talk of town?"No! he will let it to the poor—a homeWhere he delights to see the creatures come.""They may be thieves;"—"Well, so are richermen;"—"Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;"—"What then?"—340"Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;"—"They need the more his pity and the place,"Convert to system his vain mind has built,He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd,Are sexes, families, and agesmix'd—To union forced by crime, by fear, by need,And all in morals and in modes agreed:Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove;Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love;350And some grown old in idleness—the preyTo vicious spleen, still railing through the day;And need and misery, vice and danger bindIn sad alliance each degraded mind.That window view!—oil'd paper and old glassStain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom;When all those western rays, without so bright,Within become a ghastly glimmering light,360As pale and faint upon the floor they fall,Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall.That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplanedOr, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd;That wall, once whiten'd, now an odious sight,Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white;The only door is fastened by a pinOr stubborn bar, that none may hurry in:For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,At times contains what prudent men would hide.370Where'er the floor allows an even space,Chalking and marks of various games have place;Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing,On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring;While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,And the black beverage in the fractured ware.On swinging shelf are things incongruousstored—Scraps of their food; the cards and cribbage-board,With pipes and pouches; while on peg belowHang a lost member's fiddle and its bow,380That still reminds them how he'd dance and play,Ere sent untimely to the convicts' bay.Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care;Where some by day and some by night, as bestSuit their employments, seek uncertain rest;The drowsy children at their pleasure creepTo the known crib, and there securely sleep.Each end contains a grate, and these besideAre hung utensils for their boil'd andfried—390All used at any hour, by night, by day,As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.Above the fire, the mantel-shelf containsOf china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains;There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands,All placed by vanity's unwearied hands;For here she lives, e'en here she looks about,To find some small consoling objects out.Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, nor sit'Mid cares domestic—they nor sew nor knit;400But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars,With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars:These lead to present evils, and a cup,If fortune grant it, winds description up.High hung at either end, and next the wall,Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,}In all their force;—these aid them in their dress,}But, with the good, the evils too express,}Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.

Yes! we've our Borough-vices, and I know

How far they spread, how rapidly they grow;

Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,

Nor charity, the virtues' crown and grace.

"Our poor how feed we?"—To the most we give

A weekly dole, and at their homes theylive;—

Others together dwell—but when they come

To the low roof, they see a kind of home,

A social people whom they've ever known,

With their own thoughts and manners like their own.

At her old house, her dress, her air the same,

I see mine ancient letter-loving dame:

"Learning, my child," said she, "shall fame command;

Learning is better worth than house orland—

For houses perish, lands are gone and spent;

In learning then excel, for that's most excellent."

"And what her learning?"—'Tis with awe to look

In every verse throughout one sacred book;

From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought:

This she has learn'd, and she is nobly taught.

If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear;

IfRutlanddeigns these humble Tales to hear;

If critics pardon what my friends approved,

Can I mine ancient widow pass unmoved?

Shall I not think what pains the matron took,

When first I trembled o'er the gilded book?

How she, all patient, both at eve and morn,

Her needle pointed at the guarding horn;

And how she soothed me, when, with study sad,

I labour'd on to reach the final zad?

Shall I not grateful still the dame survey,

And ask the muse the poet's debt to pay?

Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen,

But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men,

}

Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws,

}

They own the matron as the leading cause,

}

And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause:

To her own house is borne the week's supply;

There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die.

With her a harmless idiot we behold,

Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold;

These he preserves, with unremitted care,

To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor:

Alas!—who could th' ambitious changeling tell,

That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?

Near these a sailor in that hut of thatch

(A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match)

Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat,

Large as he wishes—in his view complete.

A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch

That hold his stores, have room for twice as much;

His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box,

Lie all in view; no need has he for locks.

Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass,

He shows the shipping, he presents the glass;

He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known,

And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own.

Of noble captains—heroes everyone—

You might as soon have made the steeple run:

And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay,

He'll one by one the gallant souls display;

And as the story verges to an end,

He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend;

He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old,

As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold;

Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace

Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manlyface—

And then a tear or two, which sting his pride,

These he will dash indignantly aside,

And splice his tale;—now take him from his cot,

And for some cleaner [berth] exchange his lot,

How will he all that cruel aid deplore?

His heart will break, and he will fight no more.

Here is the poor old merchant: he declined,

And, as they say, is not in perfect mind;

In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend,

Quiet he paces to his journey's end.

Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd;

Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd;

His spirits low and his exertions small,

He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall:

Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he,

But downward sank with sad alacrity.

A borough-place we gain'd him—in disgrace

For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place;

But still he kept a kind of sullen pride,

Striving his wants to hinder or to hide.

At length, compell'd by very need, in grief

He wrote a proud petition for relief.

"He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove

Of force to wake their sympathy and love;

Would make them feel the changes all may know,

And stir them up a new regard to show."

His suit was granted;—to an ancient maid,

Relieved herself, relief for him was paid.

Here they together (meet companions) dwell,

And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell:

"'Twas not a world for them, God help them! they

Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray;

100

But there's a happy change, a scene to come,

And they, God help them! shall be soon at home."

}

If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain,

}

Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain;

}

They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain.

The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh,

Both when they know, and when they know not why;

But we our bounty with such care bestow,

That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.

Your plan I love not;—with a number you

110

Have placed your poor, your pitiable few;

There, in one house, throughout their lives tobe—

The pauper-palace which they hate to see;

That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,

Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall!

That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded hour;

Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:

It is a prison, with a milder name,

Which few inhabit without dread or shame.

Be it agreed—the poor who hither come

120

Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;

That airy rooms and decent beds are meant

To give the poor by day, by night, content;

That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,

By the stern looks of lordly overseer;

Grant that the guardians of the place attend,

And ready ear to each petition lend;

That they desire the grieving poor to show

What ills they feel, what partial acts they know,

Not without promise, nay desire to heal

130

Each wrong they suffer and each wo they feel.—

Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;

They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;

They have no evil in the place to state,

And dare not say, it is the house they hate:

They own, there's granted all such place can give,

But live repining, for 'tis there they live.

}

Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,

}

No more must nurse upon the trembling knee,

}

The lost loved daughter's infant progeny:

140

Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place

For joyful meetings of a kindred race.

Is not the matron there, to whom the son

Was wont at each declining day to run;

He (when his toil was over) gave delight,

By lifting up the latch, and one "good night"?

Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door

The son, still lab'ring, can return no more.

Widows are here, who in their huts were left,

Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;

150

Yet all that grief within the humble shed

Was soften'd, soften'd in the humblebed;—

But here, in all its force, remains the grief,

And not one soft'ning object for relief.

Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?

Who learn the story current in the street?

Who to the long-known intimate impart

Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?—

They talk indeed; but who can choose a friend,

Or seek companions at their journey's end?

160

Here are not those whom they, when infants, knew;

Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;

Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;

Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;

Whom time and custom so familiar made,

That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd:

But here, to strangers, words nor looks impart

The various movements of the suffering heart;

Nor will that heart with those alliance own,

To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.

170

What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,

Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?

'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,

With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;

Nothing to bring them joy, to make themweep—

The day itself is, like the night, asleep;

Or, on the sameness if a break be made,

'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;

By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,

News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;

180

By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,

Or justice come to see that all goes well;

}

Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl

}

On the black footway winding with the wall,

}

Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.

Here too the mother sees her children train'd,

Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd.

Who govern here, by general rules must move,

Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.

Nations, we know, have nature's law transgressed.

190

And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast;

But still for public good the boy was train'd,

The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd:

Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid;

The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.

Then too, I own, it grieves me to behold

Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,

By all for care and industry approved,

For truth respected, and for temper loved;

And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,

200

Gave want its worth and poverty its pride:

I own it grieves me to behold them sent

From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment,

To leave each scene familiar, every face,

For a new people and a stranger race;

For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame,

From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;

Men, just and guileless, at such manners start,

And bless their God that time has fenced their heart,

Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear

210

Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.

Here the good pauper, losing all the praise

By worthy deeds acquired in better days,

Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led,

Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.

The grateful hunter, when his horse is old,

Wills not the useless favourite to be sold;

He knows his former worth, and gives him place

In some fair pasture, till he runs his race.

But has the labourer, has the seaman done

220

Less worthy service, thought not dealt to one?

Shall we not, then, contribute to their ease,

In their old haunts, where ancient objects please;

That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace

The well-known prospect and the long-loved face?

The noble oak, in distant ages seen,

With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green,

Though now its bare and forky branches show

How much it lacks the vital warmthbelow—

The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,

230

Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains;

Much more shall real wants and cares of age

Our gentler passions in their causeengage.—

Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years,

What venerable ruin man appears!

How worthy pity, love, respect, andgrief—

He claims protection—he compelsrelief;—

}

And shall we send him from our view, to brave

}

The storms abroad, whom we at home might save,

}

And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave?

240

No!—we will shield him from the storm he fears,

And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.

Farewell to these; but all our poor to know,Let's seek the winding lane, the narrowrow—}Suburbian prospects, where the traveller stops}To see the sloping tenement on props,}With building yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops;Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms inviteLaborious men to taste their coarse delight;Where the low porches, stretching from the door,250Gave some distinction in the days of yore—Yet now, neglected, more offend the eyeBy gloom and ruin than the cottage by.Places like these the noblest town endures,The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,To give us shelter when compell'd to stop;But plashy puddles stand along the way,Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day;And these so closely to the buildings run,260That you must ford them, for you cannot shun;Though here and there convenient bricks are laid,And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid.Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around:There dwells a fisher; if you view his boat,With bed and barrel—'tis his house afloat;Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound,Tar, pitch, and oakum—'tis his boat aground:That space enclosed but little he regards,270Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards;}Fish by the wall on spit of elder rest,}Of all his food the cheapest and the best,}By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd.Here our reformers come not; none objectTo paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast;None heed the stagnant pools on either side,Where new-launch'd ships of infant sailors ride:280Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale.True to her port, the frigate scuds away,And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay:Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth,And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth;Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd,When inch-high billows vex the watery world.290There, fed by food they love, to rankest sizeAround the dwellings docks and wormwood rise;Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,Here the dull night-shade hangs her deadly fruit;On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen;At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;Above (the growth of many a year) is spreadThe yellow level of the stone-crop's bed;300In every chink delights the fern to grow,With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below[64]:These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,Form the contracted Flora[65]of the town.Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?Then will I lead thee down the dusty row,By the warm alley and the long closelane—There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass,We fear to breathe the putrefying mass.310But fearless yonder matron; she disdainsTo sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains;But mends her meshes torn, and pours her layAll in the stifling fervour of the day.Her naked children round the alley run,And, roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun;Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd,Woos the coy breeze, to fan the open breast.She, once a handmaid, strove by decent artTo charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart;320Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean,And fancy left to form the charms unseen.But, when a wife, she lost her former care,Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare;Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside;No rival beauty kept alive her pride:Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place;But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.See that long boarded building!—By these stairsEach humble tenant to that homerepairs—330By one large window lighted; it was madeFor some bold project, some design in trade.This fail'd—and one, a humorist in his way,(Ill was the humour), bought it in decay;Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down;'Tis his—what cares he for the talk of town?"No! he will let it to the poor—a homeWhere he delights to see the creatures come.""They may be thieves;"—"Well, so are richermen;"—"Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;"—"What then?"—340"Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;"—"They need the more his pity and the place,"Convert to system his vain mind has built,He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd,Are sexes, families, and agesmix'd—To union forced by crime, by fear, by need,And all in morals and in modes agreed:Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove;Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love;350And some grown old in idleness—the preyTo vicious spleen, still railing through the day;And need and misery, vice and danger bindIn sad alliance each degraded mind.That window view!—oil'd paper and old glassStain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom;When all those western rays, without so bright,Within become a ghastly glimmering light,360As pale and faint upon the floor they fall,Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall.That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplanedOr, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd;That wall, once whiten'd, now an odious sight,Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white;The only door is fastened by a pinOr stubborn bar, that none may hurry in:For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,At times contains what prudent men would hide.370Where'er the floor allows an even space,Chalking and marks of various games have place;Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing,On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring;While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,And the black beverage in the fractured ware.On swinging shelf are things incongruousstored—Scraps of their food; the cards and cribbage-board,With pipes and pouches; while on peg belowHang a lost member's fiddle and its bow,380That still reminds them how he'd dance and play,Ere sent untimely to the convicts' bay.Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care;Where some by day and some by night, as bestSuit their employments, seek uncertain rest;The drowsy children at their pleasure creepTo the known crib, and there securely sleep.Each end contains a grate, and these besideAre hung utensils for their boil'd andfried—390All used at any hour, by night, by day,As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.Above the fire, the mantel-shelf containsOf china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains;There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands,All placed by vanity's unwearied hands;For here she lives, e'en here she looks about,To find some small consoling objects out.Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, nor sit'Mid cares domestic—they nor sew nor knit;400But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars,With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars:These lead to present evils, and a cup,If fortune grant it, winds description up.High hung at either end, and next the wall,Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,}In all their force;—these aid them in their dress,}But, with the good, the evils too express,}Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.

Farewell to these; but all our poor to know,

Let's seek the winding lane, the narrowrow—

}

Suburbian prospects, where the traveller stops

}

To see the sloping tenement on props,

}

With building yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops;

Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite

Laborious men to taste their coarse delight;

Where the low porches, stretching from the door,

250

Gave some distinction in the days of yore—

Yet now, neglected, more offend the eye

By gloom and ruin than the cottage by.

Places like these the noblest town endures,

The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.

Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,

To give us shelter when compell'd to stop;

But plashy puddles stand along the way,

Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day;

And these so closely to the buildings run,

260

That you must ford them, for you cannot shun;

Though here and there convenient bricks are laid,

And door-side heaps afford their dubious aid.

Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,

With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around:

There dwells a fisher; if you view his boat,

With bed and barrel—'tis his house afloat;

Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound,

Tar, pitch, and oakum—'tis his boat aground:

That space enclosed but little he regards,

270

Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards;

}

Fish by the wall on spit of elder rest,

}

Of all his food the cheapest and the best,

}

By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd.

Here our reformers come not; none object

To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;

None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,

That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast;

None heed the stagnant pools on either side,

Where new-launch'd ships of infant sailors ride:

280

Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,

And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.

They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,

They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale.

True to her port, the frigate scuds away,

And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay:

Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth,

And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth;

Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd,

When inch-high billows vex the watery world.

290

There, fed by food they love, to rankest size

Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise;

Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,

Here the dull night-shade hangs her deadly fruit;

On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,

And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen;

At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,

With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;

Above (the growth of many a year) is spread

The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed;

300

In every chink delights the fern to grow,

With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below[64]:

These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,

Form the contracted Flora[65]of the town.

Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?

Then will I lead thee down the dusty row,

By the warm alley and the long closelane—

There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,

Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass,

We fear to breathe the putrefying mass.

310

But fearless yonder matron; she disdains

To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains;

But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay

All in the stifling fervour of the day.

Her naked children round the alley run,

And, roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun;

Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd,

Woos the coy breeze, to fan the open breast.

She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art

To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart;

320

Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean,

And fancy left to form the charms unseen.

But, when a wife, she lost her former care,

Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare;

Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside;

No rival beauty kept alive her pride:

Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place;

But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.

See that long boarded building!—By these stairs

Each humble tenant to that homerepairs—

330

By one large window lighted; it was made

For some bold project, some design in trade.

This fail'd—and one, a humorist in his way,

(Ill was the humour), bought it in decay;

Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down;

'Tis his—what cares he for the talk of town?

"No! he will let it to the poor—a home

Where he delights to see the creatures come."

"They may be thieves;"—"Well, so are richermen;"—

"Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;"—"What then?"—

340

"Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;"—

"They need the more his pity and the place,"

Convert to system his vain mind has built,

He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.

In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd,

Are sexes, families, and agesmix'd—

To union forced by crime, by fear, by need,

And all in morals and in modes agreed:

Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove;

Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love;

350

And some grown old in idleness—the prey

To vicious spleen, still railing through the day;

And need and misery, vice and danger bind

In sad alliance each degraded mind.

That window view!—oil'd paper and old glass

Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,

And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,

The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom;

When all those western rays, without so bright,

Within become a ghastly glimmering light,

360

As pale and faint upon the floor they fall,

Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall.

That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned

Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd;

That wall, once whiten'd, now an odious sight,

Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white;

The only door is fastened by a pin

Or stubborn bar, that none may hurry in:

For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,

At times contains what prudent men would hide.

370

Where'er the floor allows an even space,

Chalking and marks of various games have place;

Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing,

On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring;

While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,

And the black beverage in the fractured ware.

On swinging shelf are things incongruousstored—

Scraps of their food; the cards and cribbage-board,

With pipes and pouches; while on peg below

Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow,

380

That still reminds them how he'd dance and play,

Ere sent untimely to the convicts' bay.

Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,

Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care;

Where some by day and some by night, as best

Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest;

The drowsy children at their pleasure creep

To the known crib, and there securely sleep.

Each end contains a grate, and these beside

Are hung utensils for their boil'd andfried—

390

All used at any hour, by night, by day,

As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.

Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains

Of china-ware some poor unmatch'd remains;

There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands,

All placed by vanity's unwearied hands;

For here she lives, e'en here she looks about,

To find some small consoling objects out.

Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, nor sit

'Mid cares domestic—they nor sew nor knit;

400

But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars,

With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars:

These lead to present evils, and a cup,

If fortune grant it, winds description up.

High hung at either end, and next the wall,

Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,

}

In all their force;—these aid them in their dress,

}

But, with the good, the evils too express,

}

Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.

NOTES TO LETTER XVIII.[64]Note 1, p. 456, line 301.With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below.This scenery is, I must acknowledge, in a certain degree like that heretofore described in the Village; but that also was a maritime country:—if the objects be similar, the pictures must (in their principal features) be alike, or be bad pictures. I have varied them as much as I could, consistently with my wish to be accurate.[65]Note 2, page 456, line 303.Form the contracted Flora of the town.The reader unacquainted with the language of botany is informed, that the Flora of a place means the vegetable species it contains, and is the title of a book which describes them.

NOTES TO LETTER XVIII.

[64]Note 1, p. 456, line 301.With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below.This scenery is, I must acknowledge, in a certain degree like that heretofore described in the Village; but that also was a maritime country:—if the objects be similar, the pictures must (in their principal features) be alike, or be bad pictures. I have varied them as much as I could, consistently with my wish to be accurate.

[64]Note 1, p. 456, line 301.

With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below.

This scenery is, I must acknowledge, in a certain degree like that heretofore described in the Village; but that also was a maritime country:—if the objects be similar, the pictures must (in their principal features) be alike, or be bad pictures. I have varied them as much as I could, consistently with my wish to be accurate.

[65]Note 2, page 456, line 303.Form the contracted Flora of the town.The reader unacquainted with the language of botany is informed, that the Flora of a place means the vegetable species it contains, and is the title of a book which describes them.

[65]Note 2, page 456, line 303.

Form the contracted Flora of the town.

The reader unacquainted with the language of botany is informed, that the Flora of a place means the vegetable species it contains, and is the title of a book which describes them.

THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

THE PARISH-CLERK.

Nam dives qui fieri vult,Et citò vult fieri; sed quæ reverentia legum,Quis metus aut pudor est unquam properantis avari?Juvenal.Sat. 14 [vv. 176-8].

Nam dives qui fieri vult,

Et citò vult fieri; sed quæ reverentia legum,

Quis metus aut pudor est unquam properantis avari?

Juvenal.Sat. 14 [vv. 176-8].

Nocte brevem si forte indulsit cura soporem,Et toto versata thoro jam membra quiescunt,Continuò templum et violati Numinis aras,Et, quod præcipuis mentem sudoribus urget,Te videt in somnis; tua sacra et major imagoHumanâ turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri.Juvenal.Sat. 13 [vv. 217-22].

Nocte brevem si forte indulsit cura soporem,

Et toto versata thoro jam membra quiescunt,

Continuò templum et violati Numinis aras,

Et, quod præcipuis mentem sudoribus urget,

Te videt in somnis; tua sacra et major imago

Humanâ turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri.

Juvenal.Sat. 13 [vv. 217-22].

The Parish-Clerk began his Duties with the late Vicar, a grave and austere Man; one fully orthodox; a Detecter and Opposer of the Wiles of Satan—His Opinion of his own Fortitude—The more frail offended by these Professions—His good Advice gives further Provocation—They invent Stratagems to overcome hisVirtue—His Triumph—He is yet not invulnerable: is assaulted by Fear of Want, and Avarice—He gradually yields to the Seduction—He reasons with himself and is persuaded—He offends, but with Terror; repeats his Offence; grows familiar with Crime; is detected—His Sufferings and Death.

LETTER XIX.

THE PARISH-CLERK.

}With our late vicar, and his age the same,}His clerk, hight Jachin, to his office came:}The like slow speech was his, the like tall slender frame.But Jachin was the gravest man on ground,And heard his master's jokes with look profound;For worldly wealth this man of letters sigh'd,And had a sprinkling of the spirit's pride;But he was sober, chaste, devout, and just,One whom his neighbours could believe and trust:10Of none suspected, neither man nor maidBy him were wrong'd, or were of him afraid.There was indeed a frown, a trick of stateIn Jachin;—formal was his air and gait;But if he seem'd more solemn and less kindThan some light men to light affairs confined,Still 'twas allow'd that he should so behaveAs in high seat, and be severely grave.This book-taught man to man's first foe profess'dDefiance stern, and hate that knew not rest;20He held that Satan, since the world began,In every act had strife with every man;That never evil deed on earth was done,But of the acting parties he was one:The flattering guide to make ill prospers clear;To smooth rough ways the constant pioneer;The ever-tempting, soothing, softening power,Ready to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour."Me has the sly seducer oft withstood,"Said pious Jachin,—"but he gets no good;30I pass the house where swings the tempting sign,And, pointing, tell him, 'Satan, that is thine;'I pass the damsels pacing down the street,And look more grave and solemn when we meet;Nor doth it irk me to rebuke their smiles,Their wanton ambling and their watchful wiles.Nay, like the good John Bunyan, when I viewThose forms, I'm angry at the ills they do;That I could pinch and spoil, in sin's despite,Beauties, which frail and evil thoughts excite[66]!40"At feasts and banquets seldom am I found,And (save at church) abhor a tuneful sound;To plays and shows I run not to and fro,And where my master goes forbear to go."No wonder Satan took the thing amiss,To be opposed by such a man asthis—A man so grave, important, cautious, wise,Who dared not trust his feeling or his eyes;No wonder he should lurk and lie in wait,Should fit his hooks and ponder on his bait;50Should on his movements keep a watchful eye;For he pursued a fish who led the fry.With his own peace our clerk was not content;He tried, good man! to make his friends repent."Nay, nay, my friends, from inns and taverns fly;You may suppress your thirst, but not supply.A foolish proverb says, 'the devil's at home;'But he is there, and tempts in every room:Men feel, they know not why, such places please;His are the spells—they're idleness and ease;60Magic of fatal kind he throws around,Where care is banish'd but the heart is bound."Think not of beauty; when a maid you meet,Turn from her view, and step across the street;Dread all the sex: their looks create a charm,A smile should fright you and a word alarm.}E'en I myself, with all my watchful care,}Have for an instant felt th' insidious snare,}And caught my sinful eyes at th' endangering stare;Till I was forced to smite my bounding breast70With forceful blow and bid the bold-one rest."Go not with crowds when they to pleasure run,But public joy in private safety shun.}When bells, diverted from their true intent,}Ring loud for some deluded mortal sent}To hear or make long speech in parliament;What time the many, that unruly beast,Roars its rough joy and shares the final feast:Then heed my counsel, shut thine ears and eyes;A few will hear me—for the few are wise."80Not Satan's friends, nor Satan's self could bearThe cautious man who took of souls such care:An interloper—one who, out of place,Had volunteer'd upon the side of grace.There was his master ready once a weekTo give advice; what further need he seek?"Amen, so be it:"—what had he to doWith more than this?—'twas insolent and new;And some determined on a way to seeHow frail he was, that so it might not be.90First they essay'd to tempt our saint to sin,By points of doctrine argued at an inn;Where he might warmly reason, deeply drink,Then lose all power to argue and to think.In vain they tried; he took the question up,Clear'd every doubt, and barely touch'd the cup;By many a text he proved his doctrine sound,And look'd in triumph on the tempters round.Next 'twas their care an artful lass to find,Who might consult him, as perplex'd in mind;100She, they conceived, might put her case with fears,With tender tremblings and seducing tears;She might such charms of various kind display,That he would feel their force and melt away:For why of nymphs such caution and such dread,Unless he felt and fear'd to be misled?She came, she spake: he calmly heard her case,And plainly told her 'twas a want of grace;Bade her "such fancies and affections check,And wear a thicker muslin on her neck."110Abased, his human foes the combat fled,And the stern clerk yet higher held his head.They were indeed a weak, impatient set;But their shrewd prompter had his engines yet;Had various means to make a mortal trip,Who shunn'd a flowing bowl and rosy lip;And knew a thousand ways his heart to move,Who flies from banquets and who laughs at love.Thus far the playful Muse has lent her aid,But now departs, of graver theme afraid;120Her may we seek in more appropriate time—There is no jesting with distress and crime.Our worthy clerk had now arrived at fame,Such as but few in his degree might claim;But he was poor, and wanted not the senseThat lowly rates the praise without the pence:He saw the common herd with reverence treatThe weakest burgess whom they chanced to meet;While few respected his exalted views,And all beheld his doublet and his shoes;130None, when they meet, would to his parts allow(Save his poor boys) a hearing or a bow.To this false judgment of the vulgar mindHe was not fully, as a saint, resign'd;He found it much his jealous soul affect,To fear derision and to find neglect.The year was bad, the christening-fees were small,The weddings few, the parties paupers all:Desire of gain, with fear of want combined,Raised sad commotion in his wounded mind;140Wealth was in all his thoughts, his views, his dreams,And prompted base desires and baseless schemes.Alas! how often erring mortals keepThe strongest watch against the foes who sleep;While the more wakeful, bold and artful foeIs suffer'd guardless and unmark'd to go.Once in a month the sacramental breadOur clerk with wine upon the table spread;The custom this, that, as the vicar reads,He for our off'rings round the church proceeds.150Tall, spacious seats the wealthier people hid,And none had view of what his neighbour did;Laid on the box and mingled when they fell,Who should the worth of each oblation tell?Now as poor Jachin took the usual round,And saw the alms and heard the metal sound,He had a thought;—at first it was no moreThan—"these have cash and give it to the poor."A second thought from this to workbegan—"And can they give it to a poorer man?"160Proceeding thus—"My merit could they know,And knew my need, how freely they'd bestow;But though they know not, these remain the same;And are a strong, although a secret claim:To me, alas! the want and worth areknown;—Why then, in fact, 'tis but to take my own."Thought after thought pour'd in, a temptingtrain—"Suppose it done, who is it could complain?How could the poor? for they such trifles shareAs add no comfort, as suppress no care;170But many a pittance makes a worthy heap—What says the law? that silence puts tosleep;—Nought then forbids, the danger could we shun;And sure the business may be safely done."But am I earnest?—earnest? No.—I say,If such my mind, that I could plan a way;Let me reflect;—I've not allow'd me timeTo purse the pieces, and if dropp'd they'd chime."Fertile is evil in the soul ofman—He paused—said Jachin, "They may drop on bran.180Why then 'tis safe and (all consider'd) just;The poor receive it—'tis no breach of trust;The old and widows may their trifles miss,There must be evil in a good like this.But I'll be kind—the sick I'll visit twice,When now but once, and freely give advice.Yet let me think again,"—Again he triedFor stronger reasons on his passion's side;And quickly these were found, yet slowly he complied.The morning came: the common servicedone—190Shut every door—the solemn rite begun;And, as the priest the sacred sayings read,The clerk went forward, trembling as he tread;O'er the tall pew he held the box, and heardThe offer'd piece, rejoicing as he fear'd.Just by the pillar, as he cautious tripp'd,And turn'd the aile, he then a portion slipp'dFrom the full store, and to the pocket sent,But held a moment—and then down it went.The priest read on; on walk'd the man afraid,200Till a gold offering in the plate was laid;Trembling he took it, for a moment stopp'd,Then down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd;Amazed he started, for th' affrighted man,Lost and bewildered, thought not of the bran;But all were silent, all on things intentOf high concern; none ear to money lent;So on he walk'd, more cautious than before,And gain'd the purposed sum, and one piece more.Practice makes perfect;—when the month came round,210He dropp'd the cash, nor listen'd for a sound;But yet, when, last of all th' assembled flock,He ate and drank—it gave th' electric shock.Oft was he forced his reasons to repeat,Ere he could kneel in quiet at his seat;But custom soothed him.—Ere a single yearAll this was done without restraint or fear:Cool and collected, easy and composed,He was correct till all the service closed;Then to his home, without a groan or sigh,220Gravely he went, and laid his treasure by.Want will complain: some widows had express'dA doubt if they were favour'd like the rest;The rest described with like regret their dole,And thus from parts they reason'd to the whole;When all agreed some evil must be done,Or rich men's hearts grew harder than a stone.Our easy vicar cut the matter short;He would not listen to such vile report.}All were not thus—there govern'd in that year}230A stern stout churl, an angry overseer;}A tyrant fond of power, loud, lewd, and most severe.Him the mild vicar, him the graver clerk,Advised, reproved, but nothing would he mark,Save the disgrace; "and that, my friends," said he,"Will I avenge, whenever time may be."And now, alas! 'twas time;—from man to manDoubt and alarm and shrewd suspicions ran.With angry spirit and with sly intent,This parish ruler to the altar went;240A private mark he fix'd on shillings three,And but one mark could in the money see;Besides, in peering round, he chanced to noteA sprinkling slight on Jachin's Sunday-coat.All doubt was over:—when the flock were bless'd,In wrath he rose, and thus his mind express'd,"Foul deeds are here!" and, saying this, he tookThe clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook.His pocket then was emptied on the place;All saw his guilt; all witness'd his disgrace:250He fell, he fainted; not a groan, a look,Escaped the culprit; 'twas a finalstroke—A death-wound never to be heal'd—a fallThat all had witness'd, and amazed were all.As he recover'd, to his mind it came,"I owe to Satan this disgrace and shame."All the seduction now appear'd in view;"Let me withdraw," he said, and he withdrew;No one withheld him, all in union cried,E'en the avenger—"We are satisfied;"260For what has death in any form to give,Equal to that man's terrors, if he live?He lived in freedom, but he hourly sawHow much more fatal justice is than law;He saw another in his office reign,And his mild master treat him with disdain;He saw that all men shunn'd him, some reviled;The harsh pass'd frowning, and the simple smiled;The town maintain'd him, but with some reproof;"And clerks and scholars proudly kept aloof."270In each lone place, dejected and dismay'd,Shrinking from view, his wasting form he laid;Or to the restless sea and roaring windGave the strong yearnings of a ruin'd mind.On the broad beach, the silent summer day,Stretch'd on some wreck, he wore his life away;}Or where the river mingles with the sea,}Or on the mud-bank by the elder-tree,}Or by the bounding marsh-dyke, there was he;And when unable to forsake the town,280In the blind courts he sate desponding down—Always alone; then feebly would he crawlThe church-way walk, and lean upon the wall.Too ill for this, he lay beside the door,Compell'd to hear the reasoning of the poor:He look'd so pale, so weak, the pitying crowdTheir firm belief of his repentance vow'd;They saw him then so ghastly and so thin,That they exclaim'd, "Is this the work of sin?""Yes," in his better moments, he replied,290"Of sinful avarice and the spirit's pride;—While yet untempted, I was safe and well;Temptation came; I reason'd, and I fell.To be man's guide and glory I design'd,A rare example for our sinful kind;But now my weakness and my guilt I see,And am a warning—man, be warn'd by me!"He said, and saw no more the human face;To a lone loft he went, his dying place,And, as the vicar of his state inquired,300Turn'd to the wall and silently expired!

}

With our late vicar, and his age the same,

}

His clerk, hight Jachin, to his office came:

}

The like slow speech was his, the like tall slender frame.

But Jachin was the gravest man on ground,

And heard his master's jokes with look profound;

For worldly wealth this man of letters sigh'd,

And had a sprinkling of the spirit's pride;

But he was sober, chaste, devout, and just,

One whom his neighbours could believe and trust:

Of none suspected, neither man nor maid

By him were wrong'd, or were of him afraid.

There was indeed a frown, a trick of state

In Jachin;—formal was his air and gait;

But if he seem'd more solemn and less kind

Than some light men to light affairs confined,

Still 'twas allow'd that he should so behave

As in high seat, and be severely grave.

This book-taught man to man's first foe profess'd

Defiance stern, and hate that knew not rest;

He held that Satan, since the world began,

In every act had strife with every man;

That never evil deed on earth was done,

But of the acting parties he was one:

The flattering guide to make ill prospers clear;

To smooth rough ways the constant pioneer;

The ever-tempting, soothing, softening power,

Ready to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour.

"Me has the sly seducer oft withstood,"

Said pious Jachin,—"but he gets no good;

I pass the house where swings the tempting sign,

And, pointing, tell him, 'Satan, that is thine;'

I pass the damsels pacing down the street,

And look more grave and solemn when we meet;

Nor doth it irk me to rebuke their smiles,

Their wanton ambling and their watchful wiles.

Nay, like the good John Bunyan, when I view

Those forms, I'm angry at the ills they do;

That I could pinch and spoil, in sin's despite,

Beauties, which frail and evil thoughts excite[66]!

"At feasts and banquets seldom am I found,

And (save at church) abhor a tuneful sound;

To plays and shows I run not to and fro,

And where my master goes forbear to go."

No wonder Satan took the thing amiss,

To be opposed by such a man asthis—

A man so grave, important, cautious, wise,

Who dared not trust his feeling or his eyes;

No wonder he should lurk and lie in wait,

Should fit his hooks and ponder on his bait;

Should on his movements keep a watchful eye;

For he pursued a fish who led the fry.

With his own peace our clerk was not content;

He tried, good man! to make his friends repent.

"Nay, nay, my friends, from inns and taverns fly;

You may suppress your thirst, but not supply.

A foolish proverb says, 'the devil's at home;'

But he is there, and tempts in every room:

Men feel, they know not why, such places please;

His are the spells—they're idleness and ease;

Magic of fatal kind he throws around,

Where care is banish'd but the heart is bound.

"Think not of beauty; when a maid you meet,

Turn from her view, and step across the street;

Dread all the sex: their looks create a charm,

A smile should fright you and a word alarm.

}

E'en I myself, with all my watchful care,

}

Have for an instant felt th' insidious snare,

}

And caught my sinful eyes at th' endangering stare;

Till I was forced to smite my bounding breast

With forceful blow and bid the bold-one rest.

"Go not with crowds when they to pleasure run,

But public joy in private safety shun.

}

When bells, diverted from their true intent,

}

Ring loud for some deluded mortal sent

}

To hear or make long speech in parliament;

What time the many, that unruly beast,

Roars its rough joy and shares the final feast:

Then heed my counsel, shut thine ears and eyes;

A few will hear me—for the few are wise."

Not Satan's friends, nor Satan's self could bear

The cautious man who took of souls such care:

An interloper—one who, out of place,

Had volunteer'd upon the side of grace.

There was his master ready once a week

To give advice; what further need he seek?

"Amen, so be it:"—what had he to do

With more than this?—'twas insolent and new;

And some determined on a way to see

How frail he was, that so it might not be.

First they essay'd to tempt our saint to sin,

By points of doctrine argued at an inn;

Where he might warmly reason, deeply drink,

Then lose all power to argue and to think.

In vain they tried; he took the question up,

Clear'd every doubt, and barely touch'd the cup;

By many a text he proved his doctrine sound,

And look'd in triumph on the tempters round.

Next 'twas their care an artful lass to find,

Who might consult him, as perplex'd in mind;

100

She, they conceived, might put her case with fears,

With tender tremblings and seducing tears;

She might such charms of various kind display,

That he would feel their force and melt away:

For why of nymphs such caution and such dread,

Unless he felt and fear'd to be misled?

She came, she spake: he calmly heard her case,

And plainly told her 'twas a want of grace;

Bade her "such fancies and affections check,

And wear a thicker muslin on her neck."

110

Abased, his human foes the combat fled,

And the stern clerk yet higher held his head.

They were indeed a weak, impatient set;

But their shrewd prompter had his engines yet;

Had various means to make a mortal trip,

Who shunn'd a flowing bowl and rosy lip;

And knew a thousand ways his heart to move,

Who flies from banquets and who laughs at love.

Thus far the playful Muse has lent her aid,

But now departs, of graver theme afraid;

120

Her may we seek in more appropriate time—

There is no jesting with distress and crime.

Our worthy clerk had now arrived at fame,

Such as but few in his degree might claim;

But he was poor, and wanted not the sense

That lowly rates the praise without the pence:

He saw the common herd with reverence treat

The weakest burgess whom they chanced to meet;

While few respected his exalted views,

And all beheld his doublet and his shoes;

130

None, when they meet, would to his parts allow

(Save his poor boys) a hearing or a bow.

To this false judgment of the vulgar mind

He was not fully, as a saint, resign'd;

He found it much his jealous soul affect,

To fear derision and to find neglect.

The year was bad, the christening-fees were small,

The weddings few, the parties paupers all:

Desire of gain, with fear of want combined,

Raised sad commotion in his wounded mind;

140

Wealth was in all his thoughts, his views, his dreams,

And prompted base desires and baseless schemes.

Alas! how often erring mortals keep

The strongest watch against the foes who sleep;

While the more wakeful, bold and artful foe

Is suffer'd guardless and unmark'd to go.

Once in a month the sacramental bread

Our clerk with wine upon the table spread;

The custom this, that, as the vicar reads,

He for our off'rings round the church proceeds.

150

Tall, spacious seats the wealthier people hid,

And none had view of what his neighbour did;

Laid on the box and mingled when they fell,

Who should the worth of each oblation tell?

Now as poor Jachin took the usual round,

And saw the alms and heard the metal sound,

He had a thought;—at first it was no more

Than—"these have cash and give it to the poor."

A second thought from this to workbegan—

"And can they give it to a poorer man?"

160

Proceeding thus—"My merit could they know,

And knew my need, how freely they'd bestow;

But though they know not, these remain the same;

And are a strong, although a secret claim:

To me, alas! the want and worth areknown;—

Why then, in fact, 'tis but to take my own."

Thought after thought pour'd in, a temptingtrain—

"Suppose it done, who is it could complain?

How could the poor? for they such trifles share

As add no comfort, as suppress no care;

170

But many a pittance makes a worthy heap—

What says the law? that silence puts tosleep;—

Nought then forbids, the danger could we shun;

And sure the business may be safely done.

"But am I earnest?—earnest? No.—I say,

If such my mind, that I could plan a way;

Let me reflect;—I've not allow'd me time

To purse the pieces, and if dropp'd they'd chime."

Fertile is evil in the soul ofman—

He paused—said Jachin, "They may drop on bran.

180

Why then 'tis safe and (all consider'd) just;

The poor receive it—'tis no breach of trust;

The old and widows may their trifles miss,

There must be evil in a good like this.

But I'll be kind—the sick I'll visit twice,

When now but once, and freely give advice.

Yet let me think again,"—Again he tried

For stronger reasons on his passion's side;

And quickly these were found, yet slowly he complied.

The morning came: the common servicedone—

190

Shut every door—the solemn rite begun;

And, as the priest the sacred sayings read,

The clerk went forward, trembling as he tread;

O'er the tall pew he held the box, and heard

The offer'd piece, rejoicing as he fear'd.

Just by the pillar, as he cautious tripp'd,

And turn'd the aile, he then a portion slipp'd

From the full store, and to the pocket sent,

But held a moment—and then down it went.

The priest read on; on walk'd the man afraid,

200

Till a gold offering in the plate was laid;

Trembling he took it, for a moment stopp'd,

Then down it fell, and sounded as it dropp'd;

Amazed he started, for th' affrighted man,

Lost and bewildered, thought not of the bran;

But all were silent, all on things intent

Of high concern; none ear to money lent;

So on he walk'd, more cautious than before,

And gain'd the purposed sum, and one piece more.

Practice makes perfect;—when the month came round,

210

He dropp'd the cash, nor listen'd for a sound;

But yet, when, last of all th' assembled flock,

He ate and drank—it gave th' electric shock.

Oft was he forced his reasons to repeat,

Ere he could kneel in quiet at his seat;

But custom soothed him.—Ere a single year

All this was done without restraint or fear:

Cool and collected, easy and composed,

He was correct till all the service closed;

Then to his home, without a groan or sigh,

220

Gravely he went, and laid his treasure by.

Want will complain: some widows had express'd

A doubt if they were favour'd like the rest;

The rest described with like regret their dole,

And thus from parts they reason'd to the whole;

When all agreed some evil must be done,

Or rich men's hearts grew harder than a stone.

Our easy vicar cut the matter short;

He would not listen to such vile report.

}

All were not thus—there govern'd in that year

}

230

A stern stout churl, an angry overseer;

}

A tyrant fond of power, loud, lewd, and most severe.

Him the mild vicar, him the graver clerk,

Advised, reproved, but nothing would he mark,

Save the disgrace; "and that, my friends," said he,

"Will I avenge, whenever time may be."

And now, alas! 'twas time;—from man to man

Doubt and alarm and shrewd suspicions ran.

With angry spirit and with sly intent,

This parish ruler to the altar went;

240

A private mark he fix'd on shillings three,

And but one mark could in the money see;

Besides, in peering round, he chanced to note

A sprinkling slight on Jachin's Sunday-coat.

All doubt was over:—when the flock were bless'd,

In wrath he rose, and thus his mind express'd,

"Foul deeds are here!" and, saying this, he took

The clerk, whose conscience, in her cold-fit, shook.

His pocket then was emptied on the place;

All saw his guilt; all witness'd his disgrace:

250

He fell, he fainted; not a groan, a look,

Escaped the culprit; 'twas a finalstroke—

A death-wound never to be heal'd—a fall

That all had witness'd, and amazed were all.

As he recover'd, to his mind it came,

"I owe to Satan this disgrace and shame."

All the seduction now appear'd in view;

"Let me withdraw," he said, and he withdrew;

No one withheld him, all in union cried,

E'en the avenger—"We are satisfied;"

260

For what has death in any form to give,

Equal to that man's terrors, if he live?

He lived in freedom, but he hourly saw

How much more fatal justice is than law;

He saw another in his office reign,

And his mild master treat him with disdain;

He saw that all men shunn'd him, some reviled;

The harsh pass'd frowning, and the simple smiled;

The town maintain'd him, but with some reproof;

"And clerks and scholars proudly kept aloof."

270

In each lone place, dejected and dismay'd,

Shrinking from view, his wasting form he laid;

Or to the restless sea and roaring wind

Gave the strong yearnings of a ruin'd mind.

On the broad beach, the silent summer day,

Stretch'd on some wreck, he wore his life away;

}

Or where the river mingles with the sea,

}

Or on the mud-bank by the elder-tree,

}

Or by the bounding marsh-dyke, there was he;

And when unable to forsake the town,

280

In the blind courts he sate desponding down—

Always alone; then feebly would he crawl

The church-way walk, and lean upon the wall.

Too ill for this, he lay beside the door,

Compell'd to hear the reasoning of the poor:

He look'd so pale, so weak, the pitying crowd

Their firm belief of his repentance vow'd;

They saw him then so ghastly and so thin,

That they exclaim'd, "Is this the work of sin?"

"Yes," in his better moments, he replied,

290

"Of sinful avarice and the spirit's pride;—

While yet untempted, I was safe and well;

Temptation came; I reason'd, and I fell.

To be man's guide and glory I design'd,

A rare example for our sinful kind;

But now my weakness and my guilt I see,

And am a warning—man, be warn'd by me!"

He said, and saw no more the human face;

To a lone loft he went, his dying place,

And, as the vicar of his state inquired,

300

Turn'd to the wall and silently expired!

FOOTNOTES:[66]John Bunyan, in one of the many productions of his zeal, has ventured to make public this extraordinary sentiment, which the frigid piety of our clerk so readily adopted.

FOOTNOTES:

[66]John Bunyan, in one of the many productions of his zeal, has ventured to make public this extraordinary sentiment, which the frigid piety of our clerk so readily adopted.

THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

ELLEN ORFORD.

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