Sed [quam] cæcus inest vitiis amor, omne futurumDespicitur; suadent brevem præsentia fructum,Et ruit in vetitum damni secura libido.Claudian. in Eutrop.[Lib. II. vv. 50-2].
Sed [quam] cæcus inest vitiis amor, omne futurum
Despicitur; suadent brevem præsentia fructum,
Et ruit in vetitum damni secura libido.
Claudian. in Eutrop.[Lib. II. vv. 50-2].
Nunquam parvo contenta peractaEt quæsitorum terrâ pelagoque ciborumAmbitiosa fames et lautæ gloria mensæ.
Nunquam parvo contenta peracta
Et quæsitorum terrâ pelagoque ciborum
Ambitiosa fames et lautæ gloria mensæ.
Et Luxus, populator Opum, [cui] semper adhærens,Infelix humili gressu comitatur Egestas.Claudian. in Rufinum[Lib. I. vv. 35-6].
Et Luxus, populator Opum, [cui] semper adhærens,
Infelix humili gressu comitatur Egestas.
Claudian. in Rufinum[Lib. I. vv. 35-6].
Behold what blessing[s] wealth to life can lend!Pope[Moral Essays, Ep. III. v. 297].
Behold what blessing[s] wealth to life can lend!
Pope[Moral Essays, Ep. III. v. 297].
Blaney, a wealthy Heir, dissipated, and reduced to Poverty—His Fortune restored by Marriage: again consumed—His Manner of living in the West Indies—Recalled to a larger Inheritance—His more refinedand expensive Luxuries—His Method of quieting Conscience—Death of his Wife—Again become poor—His Method of supporting Existence—His Ideas of Religion—His Habits and Connexions when old—Admitted into the Alms-House.
LETTER XIV.
LIFE OF BLANEY.
Observe that tall pale veteran! what a lookOf shame and guilt! who cannot read that book?Misery and mirth are blended in his face,Much innate vileness and some outward grace;There wishes strong and stronger griefs are seen,Looks ever changed, and never one serene:Show not that manner, and these features all,The serpent's cunning and the sinner's fall?Hark to that laughter!—'tis the way he takes10To force applause for each vile jest he makes;Such is yon man, by partial favour sentTo these calm seats to ponder and repent.Blaney, a wealthy heir at twenty-one,At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone:These years with grievous crimes we need not load,He found his ruin in the commonroad;—Gamed without skill, without inquiry bought,Lent without love, and borrowed without thought.But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower20Of a kind wealthy widow in his power;Then he aspired to loftier flights of vice,To singing harlots of enormous price;He took a jockey in his gig to buyA horse, so valued that a duke was shy;To gain the plaudits of the knowing few,Gamblers and grooms, what would not Blaney do?His dearest friend, at that improving age,Was Hounslow Dick, who drove the western stage.Cruel he was not.—If he left his wife,30He left her to her own pursuits in life;Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind;Profuse, not just, and careless, but not kind.Yet, thus assisted, ten long winters pass'dIn wasting guineas ere he saw his last;Then he began to reason, and to feelHe could not dig, nor had he learn'd to steal;And should he beg as long as he might live,He justly fear'd that nobody would give.But he could charge a pistol, and, at will,40All that was mortal by a bullet kill:And he was taught, by those whom he would callMan's surest guides—that he was mortal all.While thus he thought, still waiting for the day,When he should dare to blow his brains away,A place for him a kind relation found,Where England's monarch ruled, but far from English ground;He gave employ that might for bread suffice,Correct his habits and restrain his vice.Here Blaney tried (what such man's miseries teach)50To find what pleasures were within his reach;These he enjoy'd, though not in just the styleHe once possess'd them in his native isle;Congenial souls he found in every place,Vice in all soils, and charms in every race:His lady took the same amusing way,And laugh'd at Time till he had turn'd them grey:At length for England once again they steer'd,By ancient views and new designs endear'd;His kindred died, and Blaney now became60An heir to one who never heard his name.What could he now?—The man had tried beforeThe joys of youth, and they were joys no more;To vicious pleasure he was still inclined,But vice must now be season'd and refined;Thenas a swine he would on pleasure seize,Now common pleasures had no power to please:Beauty alone has for the vulgar charms,He wanted beauty trembling with alarms;His was no more a youthful dream of joy,70The wretch desired to ruin and destroy;He bought indulgence with a boundless price,Most pleased when decency bow'd down to vice,When a fair dame her husband's honour sold,And a frail Countess play'd for Blaney's gold."But did not conscience in her anger rise?"Yes! and he learn'd her terrors to despise;When stung by thought, to soothing books he fled,And grew composed and hardened as he read;Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight,80Pleased him and shone with their phosphoric light;Which, though it rose from objects vile and base,Where'er it came threw splendour on the place,And was that light which the deluded youth,And this grey sinner, deem'd the light of truth.He different works for different causeadmired—Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired;}To cheer the mind and raise a dormant flame,}He had the books, decreed to lasting shame,}Which those who read are careful not to name:90These won to vicious act the yielding heart,And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart.He heard of Blount, and Mandeville, and Chubb,How they the doctors of their day would drub;How Hume had dwelt on miracles so well,That none would now believe a miracle;And though he cared not works so grave to read,He caught their faith and sign'd the sinner's creed.Thus was he pleased to join the laughing side;Nor ceased the laughter when his lady died.100Yet was he kind and careful of her fame,And on her tomb inscribed a virtuous name:"A tender wife, respected, and soforth."—The marble still bears witness to the worth.He has some children, but he knows not where;Something they cost, but neither love nor care;A father's feelings he has never known,His joys, his sorrows, have been all his own.He now would build—and lofty seat he built,And sought, in various ways, relief from guilt.110Restless, for ever anxious to obtainEase for the heart by ramblings of the brain,He would have pictures, and of course a taste,And found a thousand means his wealth to waste.Newmarket steeds he bought at mighty cost;They sometimes won, but Blaney always lost.Quick came his ruin, came when he had stillFor life a relish, and in pleasure skill:By his own idle reckoning he supposedHis wealth would last him till his life was closed;120But no! he found his final hoard was spent,While he had years to suffer and repent.Yet at the last, his noble mind to show,And in his misery how he bore the blow,He view'd his only guinea, then suppress'dFor a short time, the tumults in his breast,And, moved by pride, by habit and despair,Gave it an opera-bird to hum an air.Come ye! who live for pleasure, come, beholdA man of pleasure when he's poor and old;130When he looks back through life, and cannot findA single action to relieve his mind;When he looks forward, striving still to keepA steady prospect of eternal sleep;When not one friend is left, of all the trainWhom 'twas his pride and boast toentertain—Friends now employ'd from house to house to runAnd say, "Alas! poor Blaney is undone!"—Those whom he shook with ardour by the hand,By whom he stood as long as he could stand,140Who seem'd to him from all deception clear,And who, more strange! might think themselves sincere.Lo! now the hero shuffling through the town,To hunt a dinner and to beg a crown;To tell an idle tale, that boys may smile;To bear a strumpet's billet-doux a mile;To cull a wanton for a youth of wealth,(With [reverent] view to both his taste and health);To be a useful, needy thing betweenFear and desire—the pander and the screen;150To flatter pictures, houses, horses, dress,The wildest fashion or the worst excess;To be the grey seducer, and enticeUnbearded folly into acts of vice;And then, to level every fence which lawAnd virtue fix to keep the mind in awe,}He first inveigles youth to walk astray,}Next prompts and soothes them in their fatal way,}Then vindicates the deed, and makes the mind his prey.Unhappy man! what pains he takes to state160(Proof of his fear!) that all below is fate;That all proceed in one appointed track,Where none can stop, or take their journey back!Then what is vice or virtue?—Yet he'll railAt priests till memory and quotation fail;He reads, to learn the various ills they've done,And calls them vipers, every mother's son.He is the harlot's aid, who wheedling triesTo move her friend for vanity's supplies;To weak indulgence he allures the mind,170Loth to be duped, but willing to be kind;And if successful—what the labour pays?He gets the friend's contempt and Chloe's praise,Who, in her triumph, condescends to say,"What a good creature Blaney was to-day!"Hear the poor dæmon when the young attend,And willing ear to vile experience lend;When he relates (with laughing, leering eye)The tale licentious, mix'd with blasphemy:No genuine gladness his narrations cause,180The frailest heart denies sincere applause;And many a youth has turn'd him half aside,And laugh'd aloud, the sign of shame to hide.Blaney, no aid in his vile cause to lose,Buys pictures, prints, and a licentious muse;He borrows every help from every art,To stir the passions and mislead the heart.But from the subject let us soon escape,Nor give this feature all its ugly shape:Some to their crimes escape from satire owe;190Who shall describe what Blaney dares to show?While thus the man, to vice and passion slave,Was, with his follies, moving to the grave,The ancient ruler of this mansion died,And Blaney boldly for the seat applied.Sir Denys Brand, then guardian, join'd his suit;"'Tis true," said he, "the fellow's quite abrute—A very beast; but yet, with all his sin,He has a manner—let the devil in."They half complied, they gave the wish'd retreat,200But raised a worthier to the vacant seat.Thus forced on ways unlike each former way,Thus led to prayer without a heart to pray,He quits the gay and rich, the young and free,Among the badge-men with a badge to be.He sees an humble tradesman raised to ruleThe grey-beard pupils of this moral school;Where he himself, an old licentious boy,Will nothing learn, and nothing can enjoy;In temp'rate measures he must eat and drink,210And, pain of pains! must live alone and think.In vain, by fortune's smiles, thrice affluent made,Still has he debts of ancient date unpaid;Thrice into penury by error thrown,Not one right maxim has he made his own;The old men shun him—some his vices hate,And all abhor his principles and prate;Nor love nor care for him will mortal show,Save a frail sister in the female row.
Observe that tall pale veteran! what a look
Of shame and guilt! who cannot read that book?
Misery and mirth are blended in his face,
Much innate vileness and some outward grace;
There wishes strong and stronger griefs are seen,
Looks ever changed, and never one serene:
Show not that manner, and these features all,
The serpent's cunning and the sinner's fall?
Hark to that laughter!—'tis the way he takes
10
To force applause for each vile jest he makes;
Such is yon man, by partial favour sent
To these calm seats to ponder and repent.
Blaney, a wealthy heir at twenty-one,
At twenty-five was ruin'd and undone:
These years with grievous crimes we need not load,
He found his ruin in the commonroad;—
Gamed without skill, without inquiry bought,
Lent without love, and borrowed without thought.
But, gay and handsome, he had soon the dower
20
Of a kind wealthy widow in his power;
Then he aspired to loftier flights of vice,
To singing harlots of enormous price;
He took a jockey in his gig to buy
A horse, so valued that a duke was shy;
To gain the plaudits of the knowing few,
Gamblers and grooms, what would not Blaney do?
His dearest friend, at that improving age,
Was Hounslow Dick, who drove the western stage.
Cruel he was not.—If he left his wife,
30
He left her to her own pursuits in life;
Deaf to reports, to all expenses blind;
Profuse, not just, and careless, but not kind.
Yet, thus assisted, ten long winters pass'd
In wasting guineas ere he saw his last;
Then he began to reason, and to feel
He could not dig, nor had he learn'd to steal;
And should he beg as long as he might live,
He justly fear'd that nobody would give.
But he could charge a pistol, and, at will,
40
All that was mortal by a bullet kill:
And he was taught, by those whom he would call
Man's surest guides—that he was mortal all.
While thus he thought, still waiting for the day,
When he should dare to blow his brains away,
A place for him a kind relation found,
Where England's monarch ruled, but far from English ground;
He gave employ that might for bread suffice,
Correct his habits and restrain his vice.
Here Blaney tried (what such man's miseries teach)
50
To find what pleasures were within his reach;
These he enjoy'd, though not in just the style
He once possess'd them in his native isle;
Congenial souls he found in every place,
Vice in all soils, and charms in every race:
His lady took the same amusing way,
And laugh'd at Time till he had turn'd them grey:
At length for England once again they steer'd,
By ancient views and new designs endear'd;
His kindred died, and Blaney now became
60
An heir to one who never heard his name.
What could he now?—The man had tried before
The joys of youth, and they were joys no more;
To vicious pleasure he was still inclined,
But vice must now be season'd and refined;
Thenas a swine he would on pleasure seize,
Now common pleasures had no power to please:
Beauty alone has for the vulgar charms,
He wanted beauty trembling with alarms;
His was no more a youthful dream of joy,
70
The wretch desired to ruin and destroy;
He bought indulgence with a boundless price,
Most pleased when decency bow'd down to vice,
When a fair dame her husband's honour sold,
And a frail Countess play'd for Blaney's gold.
"But did not conscience in her anger rise?"
Yes! and he learn'd her terrors to despise;
When stung by thought, to soothing books he fled,
And grew composed and hardened as he read;
Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight,
80
Pleased him and shone with their phosphoric light;
Which, though it rose from objects vile and base,
Where'er it came threw splendour on the place,
And was that light which the deluded youth,
And this grey sinner, deem'd the light of truth.
He different works for different causeadmired—
Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired;
}
To cheer the mind and raise a dormant flame,
}
He had the books, decreed to lasting shame,
}
Which those who read are careful not to name:
90
These won to vicious act the yielding heart,
And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart.
He heard of Blount, and Mandeville, and Chubb,
How they the doctors of their day would drub;
How Hume had dwelt on miracles so well,
That none would now believe a miracle;
And though he cared not works so grave to read,
He caught their faith and sign'd the sinner's creed.
Thus was he pleased to join the laughing side;
Nor ceased the laughter when his lady died.
100
Yet was he kind and careful of her fame,
And on her tomb inscribed a virtuous name:
"A tender wife, respected, and soforth."—
The marble still bears witness to the worth.
He has some children, but he knows not where;
Something they cost, but neither love nor care;
A father's feelings he has never known,
His joys, his sorrows, have been all his own.
He now would build—and lofty seat he built,
And sought, in various ways, relief from guilt.
110
Restless, for ever anxious to obtain
Ease for the heart by ramblings of the brain,
He would have pictures, and of course a taste,
And found a thousand means his wealth to waste.
Newmarket steeds he bought at mighty cost;
They sometimes won, but Blaney always lost.
Quick came his ruin, came when he had still
For life a relish, and in pleasure skill:
By his own idle reckoning he supposed
His wealth would last him till his life was closed;
120
But no! he found his final hoard was spent,
While he had years to suffer and repent.
Yet at the last, his noble mind to show,
And in his misery how he bore the blow,
He view'd his only guinea, then suppress'd
For a short time, the tumults in his breast,
And, moved by pride, by habit and despair,
Gave it an opera-bird to hum an air.
Come ye! who live for pleasure, come, behold
A man of pleasure when he's poor and old;
130
When he looks back through life, and cannot find
A single action to relieve his mind;
When he looks forward, striving still to keep
A steady prospect of eternal sleep;
When not one friend is left, of all the train
Whom 'twas his pride and boast toentertain—
Friends now employ'd from house to house to run
And say, "Alas! poor Blaney is undone!"—
Those whom he shook with ardour by the hand,
By whom he stood as long as he could stand,
140
Who seem'd to him from all deception clear,
And who, more strange! might think themselves sincere.
Lo! now the hero shuffling through the town,
To hunt a dinner and to beg a crown;
To tell an idle tale, that boys may smile;
To bear a strumpet's billet-doux a mile;
To cull a wanton for a youth of wealth,
(With [reverent] view to both his taste and health);
To be a useful, needy thing between
Fear and desire—the pander and the screen;
150
To flatter pictures, houses, horses, dress,
The wildest fashion or the worst excess;
To be the grey seducer, and entice
Unbearded folly into acts of vice;
And then, to level every fence which law
And virtue fix to keep the mind in awe,
}
He first inveigles youth to walk astray,
}
Next prompts and soothes them in their fatal way,
}
Then vindicates the deed, and makes the mind his prey.
Unhappy man! what pains he takes to state
160
(Proof of his fear!) that all below is fate;
That all proceed in one appointed track,
Where none can stop, or take their journey back!
Then what is vice or virtue?—Yet he'll rail
At priests till memory and quotation fail;
He reads, to learn the various ills they've done,
And calls them vipers, every mother's son.
He is the harlot's aid, who wheedling tries
To move her friend for vanity's supplies;
To weak indulgence he allures the mind,
170
Loth to be duped, but willing to be kind;
And if successful—what the labour pays?
He gets the friend's contempt and Chloe's praise,
Who, in her triumph, condescends to say,
"What a good creature Blaney was to-day!"
Hear the poor dæmon when the young attend,
And willing ear to vile experience lend;
When he relates (with laughing, leering eye)
The tale licentious, mix'd with blasphemy:
No genuine gladness his narrations cause,
180
The frailest heart denies sincere applause;
And many a youth has turn'd him half aside,
And laugh'd aloud, the sign of shame to hide.
Blaney, no aid in his vile cause to lose,
Buys pictures, prints, and a licentious muse;
He borrows every help from every art,
To stir the passions and mislead the heart.
But from the subject let us soon escape,
Nor give this feature all its ugly shape:
Some to their crimes escape from satire owe;
190
Who shall describe what Blaney dares to show?
While thus the man, to vice and passion slave,
Was, with his follies, moving to the grave,
The ancient ruler of this mansion died,
And Blaney boldly for the seat applied.
Sir Denys Brand, then guardian, join'd his suit;
"'Tis true," said he, "the fellow's quite abrute—
A very beast; but yet, with all his sin,
He has a manner—let the devil in."
They half complied, they gave the wish'd retreat,
200
But raised a worthier to the vacant seat.
Thus forced on ways unlike each former way,
Thus led to prayer without a heart to pray,
He quits the gay and rich, the young and free,
Among the badge-men with a badge to be.
He sees an humble tradesman raised to rule
The grey-beard pupils of this moral school;
Where he himself, an old licentious boy,
Will nothing learn, and nothing can enjoy;
In temp'rate measures he must eat and drink,
210
And, pain of pains! must live alone and think.
In vain, by fortune's smiles, thrice affluent made,
Still has he debts of ancient date unpaid;
Thrice into penury by error thrown,
Not one right maxim has he made his own;
The old men shun him—some his vices hate,
And all abhor his principles and prate;
Nor love nor care for him will mortal show,
Save a frail sister in the female row.
INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.
CLELIA.
She early found herself mistress of herself. All she did was right: all she said was admired. Early, very early, did she dismiss blushes from her cheek: she could not blush, because she could not doubt; and silence, whatever was the subject, was as much a stranger to her as diffidence.
Richardson.
Quo fugit Venus? heu! Quove color? decensQuo motus? Quid habes illius, illius,Quæ spirabat amores,Quæ me surpuerat mihi?Horatius, lib. iv, od. 13 [vv. 17-20].
Quo fugit Venus? heu! Quove color? decens
Quo motus? Quid habes illius, illius,
Quæ spirabat amores,
Quæ me surpuerat mihi?
Horatius, lib. iv, od. 13 [vv. 17-20].
Her lively and pleasant Manners—Her Reading and Decision—Her Intercourse with different Classes of Society—Her Kind of Character—The favoured Lover—Her Management of him: his of her—After one Period, Clelia with an Attorney: her Manner and Situation there—Anothersuch Period, when her Fortune still declines—Mistress of an Inn—A Widow—Another such Interval: she becomes poor and infirm, but still vain and frivolous—The fallen Vanity—Admitted into the House; meets Blaney.
LETTER XV.
CLELIA.
We had a sprightly nymph—in every townAre some such sprights, who wander up and down;She had her useful arts, and could contrive,In time's despite, to stay at twenty-five;—"Here will I rest; move on, thou lying year,This is mine age, and I will rest me here."Arch was her look, and she had pleasant waysYour good opinion of her heart to raise;Her speech was lively, and with ease express'd,10And well she judged the tempers she address'd:If some soft stripling had her keenness felt,She knew the way to make his anger melt;Wit was allow'd her, though but few could bringDirect example of a witty thing;'Twas that gay, pleasant, smart, engaging speech,Her beaux admired, and just within their reach;Not indiscreet, perhaps, but yet more freeThan prudish nymphs allow their wit to be.Novels and plays, with poems, old and new,20Were all the books our nymph attended to;Yet from the press no treatise issued forth,But she would speak precisely of its worth.She with the London stage familiar grew,And every actor's name and merit knew;She told how this or that their part mistook,And of the rival Romeos gave the look;Of either house 'twas hers the strength to see,Then judge with candour—"Drury-Lane for me."What made this knowledge, what this skill complete?30A fortnight's visit in Whitechapel-street.Her place in life was rich and poor between,With those a favourite, and with these a queen;She could her parts assume, and condescendTo friends more humble while an humble friend;And thus a welcome, lively guest could pass,Threading her pleasant way from class to class."Her reputation?"—That was like her wit,And seem'd her manner and her state to fit;Something there was—what, none presumed to say:40Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day—Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear,And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear.But of each sex a friendly number press'dTo joyous banquets this alluring guest.There, if, indulging mirth and freed from awe,If, pleasing all and pleased with all she saw,Her speech were free, and such as freely dweltOn the same feelings all around her felt;Or if some fond presuming favourite tried50To come so near as once to be denied;Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice,But that he ventured on denialtwice:—If these have been, and so has scandal taught,Yet malice never found the proof she sought.But then came one, the Lovelace of his day,Rich, proud, and crafty, handsome, brave, and gay;Yet loved he not those labour'd plans and arts,But left the business to the ladies' hearts,And, when he found them in a proper train,60He thought all else superfluous and vain.But in that training he was deeply taught,And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought;He knew how far directly on to go;How to recede and dally to and fro;}How to make all the passions his allies,}And, when he saw them in contention rise,}To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by surprise.Our heroine fear'd him not; it was her part,To make sure conquest of such gentleheart—70Of one so mild and humble; for she sawIn Henry's eye a love chastised by awe.Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime,Nor virtuous all her thoughts; 'twas now her timeTo bait each hook, in every way to please,And the rich prize with dext'rous hand to seize.She had no virgin-terrors; she could strayIn all love's maze, nor fear to lose her way;Nay, could go near the precipice, nor dreadA failing caution or a giddy head;80She'd fix her eyes upon the roaring flood,And dance upon the brink where danger stood.'Twas nature all, she judged, in one so young,To drop the eye and falter in the tongue;To be about to take, and then commandHis daring wish, and only view the hand:Yes! all was nature; it became a maidOf gentle soul t' encourage loveafraid.—He, so unlike the confident and bold,Would fly in mute despair to find her cold:90The young and tender germ requires the sunTo make it spread; it must be smiled upon.Thus the kind virgin gentle means devisedTo gain a heart so fond, a hand so prized;More gentle still she grew; to change her wayWould cause confusion, danger and delay:Thus, (an increase of gentleness her mode,)She took a plain, unvaried, certain road,And every hour believed success was near,Till there was nothing left to hope or fear.100It must be own'd that in this strife of hearts,Man has advantage—has superior arts.The lover's aim is to the nymph unknown,Nor is she always certain of her own;}Or has her fears, nor these can so disguise,}But he who searches, reads them in her eyes,}In the avenging frown, in the regretting sighs:These are his signals, and he learns to steerThe straighter course whenever they appear."Pass we ten years, and what was Clelia's fate?"110At an attorney's board alert she sate,Not legal mistress: he with other menOnce sought her hand, but other views were then;And when he knew he might the bliss command,He other [blessing] sought, without the hand;For still he felt alive the lambent flame,And offer'd her a home—and home she came.There, though her higher friendships lived no more,She loved to speak of what she sharedbefore—}"Of the dear Lucy, heiress of the hall—}120Of good Sir Peter—of their annual ball,}And the fair countess!—Oh! she loved them all!"The humbler clients of her friend would stare,The knowing smile—but neither caused her care;She brought her spirits to her humble state,And soothed with idle dreams her frowning fate."Ten summers pass'd, and how was Clelia then?"Alas! she suffer'd in this trying ten;The pair had parted: who to him attend,Must judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend;130But who on her would equal faith bestow,Would think him rash—and surely she must know.Then as a matron Clelia taught a school,But nature gave not talents fit for rule.Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen,Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen;Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay,And lively speech and elegant array.The Griffin's landlord these allured so far,He made her mistress of his heart and bar;140He had no idle retrospective whim,Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him.So far was well,—but Clelia thought not fit(In all the Griffin needed) to submit:Gaily to dress and in the bar preside,Soothed the poor spirit of degraded pride;But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crewOf noisy guests, were arts she never knew:Hence daily wars, with temporary truce,His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse;150And as their spirits wasted in the strife,Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life;But she with greater prudence—Harry triedMore powerful aid, and in the trial died;Yet drew down vengeance: in no distant time,Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wingssublime;—Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen,And show'd to frowning fate a look serene;Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired,Kind without love, and vain if not admired.160Another term is past; ten other yearsIn various trials, troubles, views, and fears.Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade;Houses she kept for widowers lately made;For now she said, "They'll miss th' endearing friend,And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend."And true a part was done as Cleliaplann'd—The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand.She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said,The dedication was the best he read;170But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'dThe public ear, that all her pains were lost.To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last,There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past.Now friendless, sick and old, and wanting bread,The first-born tears of fallen pride wereshed—True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride,Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd.Though now her tales were to her audience fit;Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit;180Though now her dress—(but let me not explainThe piteous patch-work of the needy-vain,The flirtish form to coarse materials lent,And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent;)Though all within was sad, without wasmean—Still 'twas her wish, her comfort to be seen:She would to plays on lowest terms resort,Where once her box was to the beaux a court;And, strange delight! to that same house where sheJoin'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee,190Now, with the menials crowding to the wall,She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball,And with degraded vanity unfold,How she too triumphed in the years of old.To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tellOn what a height she stood before she fell;At church she points to one tall seat, and "ThereWe sat," she cries, "when my papa was mayor."Not quite correct in what she now relates,She alters persons, and she forges dates;200And, finding memory's weaker help decay'd,She boldly calls invention to her aid.Touch'd by the pity he had felt before,For her Sir Denys op'd the alms-house door."With all her faults," he said, "the woman knewHow to distinguish—had a manner too;And, as they say she is allied to someIn decent station—let the creature come."Here she and Blaney meet, and take their viewOf all the pleasures they would still pursue.210Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hideOf vices past; their follies are their pride;What to the sober and the cool are crimes,They boast—exulting in those happy times;The darkest deeds no indignation raise,The purest virtue never wins their praise;}But still they on their ancient joys dilate,}Still with regret departed glories state,}And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate.
We had a sprightly nymph—in every townAre some such sprights, who wander up and down;She had her useful arts, and could contrive,In time's despite, to stay at twenty-five;—"Here will I rest; move on, thou lying year,This is mine age, and I will rest me here."Arch was her look, and she had pleasant waysYour good opinion of her heart to raise;Her speech was lively, and with ease express'd,10And well she judged the tempers she address'd:If some soft stripling had her keenness felt,She knew the way to make his anger melt;Wit was allow'd her, though but few could bringDirect example of a witty thing;'Twas that gay, pleasant, smart, engaging speech,Her beaux admired, and just within their reach;Not indiscreet, perhaps, but yet more freeThan prudish nymphs allow their wit to be.Novels and plays, with poems, old and new,20Were all the books our nymph attended to;Yet from the press no treatise issued forth,But she would speak precisely of its worth.She with the London stage familiar grew,And every actor's name and merit knew;She told how this or that their part mistook,And of the rival Romeos gave the look;Of either house 'twas hers the strength to see,Then judge with candour—"Drury-Lane for me."What made this knowledge, what this skill complete?30A fortnight's visit in Whitechapel-street.Her place in life was rich and poor between,With those a favourite, and with these a queen;She could her parts assume, and condescendTo friends more humble while an humble friend;And thus a welcome, lively guest could pass,Threading her pleasant way from class to class."Her reputation?"—That was like her wit,And seem'd her manner and her state to fit;Something there was—what, none presumed to say:40Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day—Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear,And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear.But of each sex a friendly number press'dTo joyous banquets this alluring guest.There, if, indulging mirth and freed from awe,If, pleasing all and pleased with all she saw,Her speech were free, and such as freely dweltOn the same feelings all around her felt;Or if some fond presuming favourite tried50To come so near as once to be denied;Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice,But that he ventured on denialtwice:—If these have been, and so has scandal taught,Yet malice never found the proof she sought.But then came one, the Lovelace of his day,Rich, proud, and crafty, handsome, brave, and gay;Yet loved he not those labour'd plans and arts,But left the business to the ladies' hearts,And, when he found them in a proper train,60He thought all else superfluous and vain.But in that training he was deeply taught,And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought;He knew how far directly on to go;How to recede and dally to and fro;}How to make all the passions his allies,}And, when he saw them in contention rise,}To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by surprise.Our heroine fear'd him not; it was her part,To make sure conquest of such gentleheart—70Of one so mild and humble; for she sawIn Henry's eye a love chastised by awe.Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime,Nor virtuous all her thoughts; 'twas now her timeTo bait each hook, in every way to please,And the rich prize with dext'rous hand to seize.She had no virgin-terrors; she could strayIn all love's maze, nor fear to lose her way;Nay, could go near the precipice, nor dreadA failing caution or a giddy head;80She'd fix her eyes upon the roaring flood,And dance upon the brink where danger stood.'Twas nature all, she judged, in one so young,To drop the eye and falter in the tongue;To be about to take, and then commandHis daring wish, and only view the hand:Yes! all was nature; it became a maidOf gentle soul t' encourage loveafraid.—He, so unlike the confident and bold,Would fly in mute despair to find her cold:90The young and tender germ requires the sunTo make it spread; it must be smiled upon.Thus the kind virgin gentle means devisedTo gain a heart so fond, a hand so prized;More gentle still she grew; to change her wayWould cause confusion, danger and delay:Thus, (an increase of gentleness her mode,)She took a plain, unvaried, certain road,And every hour believed success was near,Till there was nothing left to hope or fear.100It must be own'd that in this strife of hearts,Man has advantage—has superior arts.The lover's aim is to the nymph unknown,Nor is she always certain of her own;}Or has her fears, nor these can so disguise,}But he who searches, reads them in her eyes,}In the avenging frown, in the regretting sighs:These are his signals, and he learns to steerThe straighter course whenever they appear.
We had a sprightly nymph—in every town
Are some such sprights, who wander up and down;
She had her useful arts, and could contrive,
In time's despite, to stay at twenty-five;—
"Here will I rest; move on, thou lying year,
This is mine age, and I will rest me here."
Arch was her look, and she had pleasant ways
Your good opinion of her heart to raise;
Her speech was lively, and with ease express'd,
10
And well she judged the tempers she address'd:
If some soft stripling had her keenness felt,
She knew the way to make his anger melt;
Wit was allow'd her, though but few could bring
Direct example of a witty thing;
'Twas that gay, pleasant, smart, engaging speech,
Her beaux admired, and just within their reach;
Not indiscreet, perhaps, but yet more free
Than prudish nymphs allow their wit to be.
Novels and plays, with poems, old and new,
20
Were all the books our nymph attended to;
Yet from the press no treatise issued forth,
But she would speak precisely of its worth.
She with the London stage familiar grew,
And every actor's name and merit knew;
She told how this or that their part mistook,
And of the rival Romeos gave the look;
Of either house 'twas hers the strength to see,
Then judge with candour—"Drury-Lane for me."
What made this knowledge, what this skill complete?
30
A fortnight's visit in Whitechapel-street.
Her place in life was rich and poor between,
With those a favourite, and with these a queen;
She could her parts assume, and condescend
To friends more humble while an humble friend;
And thus a welcome, lively guest could pass,
Threading her pleasant way from class to class.
"Her reputation?"—That was like her wit,
And seem'd her manner and her state to fit;
Something there was—what, none presumed to say:
40
Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day—
Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear,
And mix'd reports no judge on earth could clear.
But of each sex a friendly number press'd
To joyous banquets this alluring guest.
There, if, indulging mirth and freed from awe,
If, pleasing all and pleased with all she saw,
Her speech were free, and such as freely dwelt
On the same feelings all around her felt;
Or if some fond presuming favourite tried
50
To come so near as once to be denied;
Yet not with brow so stern or speech so nice,
But that he ventured on denialtwice:—
If these have been, and so has scandal taught,
Yet malice never found the proof she sought.
But then came one, the Lovelace of his day,
Rich, proud, and crafty, handsome, brave, and gay;
Yet loved he not those labour'd plans and arts,
But left the business to the ladies' hearts,
And, when he found them in a proper train,
60
He thought all else superfluous and vain.
But in that training he was deeply taught,
And rarely fail'd of gaining all he sought;
He knew how far directly on to go;
How to recede and dally to and fro;
}
How to make all the passions his allies,
}
And, when he saw them in contention rise,
}
To watch the wrought-up heart, and conquer by surprise.
Our heroine fear'd him not; it was her part,
To make sure conquest of such gentleheart—
70
Of one so mild and humble; for she saw
In Henry's eye a love chastised by awe.
Her thoughts of virtue were not all sublime,
Nor virtuous all her thoughts; 'twas now her time
To bait each hook, in every way to please,
And the rich prize with dext'rous hand to seize.
She had no virgin-terrors; she could stray
In all love's maze, nor fear to lose her way;
Nay, could go near the precipice, nor dread
A failing caution or a giddy head;
80
She'd fix her eyes upon the roaring flood,
And dance upon the brink where danger stood.
'Twas nature all, she judged, in one so young,
To drop the eye and falter in the tongue;
To be about to take, and then command
His daring wish, and only view the hand:
Yes! all was nature; it became a maid
Of gentle soul t' encourage loveafraid.—
He, so unlike the confident and bold,
Would fly in mute despair to find her cold:
90
The young and tender germ requires the sun
To make it spread; it must be smiled upon.
Thus the kind virgin gentle means devised
To gain a heart so fond, a hand so prized;
More gentle still she grew; to change her way
Would cause confusion, danger and delay:
Thus, (an increase of gentleness her mode,)
She took a plain, unvaried, certain road,
And every hour believed success was near,
Till there was nothing left to hope or fear.
100
It must be own'd that in this strife of hearts,
Man has advantage—has superior arts.
The lover's aim is to the nymph unknown,
Nor is she always certain of her own;
}
Or has her fears, nor these can so disguise,
}
But he who searches, reads them in her eyes,
}
In the avenging frown, in the regretting sighs:
These are his signals, and he learns to steer
The straighter course whenever they appear.
"Pass we ten years, and what was Clelia's fate?"110At an attorney's board alert she sate,Not legal mistress: he with other menOnce sought her hand, but other views were then;And when he knew he might the bliss command,He other [blessing] sought, without the hand;For still he felt alive the lambent flame,And offer'd her a home—and home she came.There, though her higher friendships lived no more,She loved to speak of what she sharedbefore—}"Of the dear Lucy, heiress of the hall—}120Of good Sir Peter—of their annual ball,}And the fair countess!—Oh! she loved them all!"The humbler clients of her friend would stare,The knowing smile—but neither caused her care;She brought her spirits to her humble state,And soothed with idle dreams her frowning fate.
"Pass we ten years, and what was Clelia's fate?"
110
At an attorney's board alert she sate,
Not legal mistress: he with other men
Once sought her hand, but other views were then;
And when he knew he might the bliss command,
He other [blessing] sought, without the hand;
For still he felt alive the lambent flame,
And offer'd her a home—and home she came.
There, though her higher friendships lived no more,
She loved to speak of what she sharedbefore—
}
"Of the dear Lucy, heiress of the hall—
}
120
Of good Sir Peter—of their annual ball,
}
And the fair countess!—Oh! she loved them all!"
The humbler clients of her friend would stare,
The knowing smile—but neither caused her care;
She brought her spirits to her humble state,
And soothed with idle dreams her frowning fate.
"Ten summers pass'd, and how was Clelia then?"Alas! she suffer'd in this trying ten;The pair had parted: who to him attend,Must judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend;130But who on her would equal faith bestow,Would think him rash—and surely she must know.Then as a matron Clelia taught a school,But nature gave not talents fit for rule.Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen,Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen;Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay,And lively speech and elegant array.The Griffin's landlord these allured so far,He made her mistress of his heart and bar;140He had no idle retrospective whim,Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him.So far was well,—but Clelia thought not fit(In all the Griffin needed) to submit:Gaily to dress and in the bar preside,Soothed the poor spirit of degraded pride;But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crewOf noisy guests, were arts she never knew:Hence daily wars, with temporary truce,His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse;150And as their spirits wasted in the strife,Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life;But she with greater prudence—Harry triedMore powerful aid, and in the trial died;Yet drew down vengeance: in no distant time,Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wingssublime;—Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen,And show'd to frowning fate a look serene;Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired,Kind without love, and vain if not admired.
"Ten summers pass'd, and how was Clelia then?"
Alas! she suffer'd in this trying ten;
The pair had parted: who to him attend,
Must judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend;
130
But who on her would equal faith bestow,
Would think him rash—and surely she must know.
Then as a matron Clelia taught a school,
But nature gave not talents fit for rule.
Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen,
Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen;
Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay,
And lively speech and elegant array.
The Griffin's landlord these allured so far,
He made her mistress of his heart and bar;
140
He had no idle retrospective whim,
Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him.
So far was well,—but Clelia thought not fit
(In all the Griffin needed) to submit:
Gaily to dress and in the bar preside,
Soothed the poor spirit of degraded pride;
But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crew
Of noisy guests, were arts she never knew:
Hence daily wars, with temporary truce,
His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse;
150
And as their spirits wasted in the strife,
Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life;
But she with greater prudence—Harry tried
More powerful aid, and in the trial died;
Yet drew down vengeance: in no distant time,
Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wingssublime;—
Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen,
And show'd to frowning fate a look serene;
Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired,
Kind without love, and vain if not admired.
160Another term is past; ten other yearsIn various trials, troubles, views, and fears.Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade;Houses she kept for widowers lately made;For now she said, "They'll miss th' endearing friend,And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend."And true a part was done as Cleliaplann'd—The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand.She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said,The dedication was the best he read;170But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'dThe public ear, that all her pains were lost.To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last,There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past.Now friendless, sick and old, and wanting bread,The first-born tears of fallen pride wereshed—True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride,Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd.Though now her tales were to her audience fit;Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit;180Though now her dress—(but let me not explainThe piteous patch-work of the needy-vain,The flirtish form to coarse materials lent,And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent;)Though all within was sad, without wasmean—Still 'twas her wish, her comfort to be seen:She would to plays on lowest terms resort,Where once her box was to the beaux a court;And, strange delight! to that same house where sheJoin'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee,190Now, with the menials crowding to the wall,She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball,And with degraded vanity unfold,How she too triumphed in the years of old.To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tellOn what a height she stood before she fell;At church she points to one tall seat, and "ThereWe sat," she cries, "when my papa was mayor."Not quite correct in what she now relates,She alters persons, and she forges dates;200And, finding memory's weaker help decay'd,She boldly calls invention to her aid.Touch'd by the pity he had felt before,For her Sir Denys op'd the alms-house door."With all her faults," he said, "the woman knewHow to distinguish—had a manner too;And, as they say she is allied to someIn decent station—let the creature come."Here she and Blaney meet, and take their viewOf all the pleasures they would still pursue.210Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hideOf vices past; their follies are their pride;What to the sober and the cool are crimes,They boast—exulting in those happy times;The darkest deeds no indignation raise,The purest virtue never wins their praise;}But still they on their ancient joys dilate,}Still with regret departed glories state,}And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate.
160
Another term is past; ten other years
In various trials, troubles, views, and fears.
Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade;
Houses she kept for widowers lately made;
For now she said, "They'll miss th' endearing friend,
And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend."
And true a part was done as Cleliaplann'd—
The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand.
She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said,
The dedication was the best he read;
170
But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'd
The public ear, that all her pains were lost.
To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last,
There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past.
Now friendless, sick and old, and wanting bread,
The first-born tears of fallen pride wereshed—
True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride,
Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd.
Though now her tales were to her audience fit;
Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit;
180
Though now her dress—(but let me not explain
The piteous patch-work of the needy-vain,
The flirtish form to coarse materials lent,
And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent;)
Though all within was sad, without wasmean—
Still 'twas her wish, her comfort to be seen:
She would to plays on lowest terms resort,
Where once her box was to the beaux a court;
And, strange delight! to that same house where she
Join'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee,
190
Now, with the menials crowding to the wall,
She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball,
And with degraded vanity unfold,
How she too triumphed in the years of old.
To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tell
On what a height she stood before she fell;
At church she points to one tall seat, and "There
We sat," she cries, "when my papa was mayor."
Not quite correct in what she now relates,
She alters persons, and she forges dates;
200
And, finding memory's weaker help decay'd,
She boldly calls invention to her aid.
Touch'd by the pity he had felt before,
For her Sir Denys op'd the alms-house door.
"With all her faults," he said, "the woman knew
How to distinguish—had a manner too;
And, as they say she is allied to some
In decent station—let the creature come."
Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view
Of all the pleasures they would still pursue.
210
Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide
Of vices past; their follies are their pride;
What to the sober and the cool are crimes,
They boast—exulting in those happy times;
The darkest deeds no indignation raise,
The purest virtue never wins their praise;
}
But still they on their ancient joys dilate,
}
Still with regret departed glories state,
}
And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate.
INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.
BENBOW.
Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp[....] ... If thou [wert] any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be by this fire. [....] a perpetual triumph, [ ...] Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking [with thee in the] night betwixt tavern and tavern ...
Shakspeare[Henry IV. Part I. Act III. Sc. 3].
Ebrietas tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atrisCirca te semper volitans Infamia pennis.Silius Italicus[Punica, Lib, V. vv. 96-7].
Ebrietas tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atris
Circa te semper volitans Infamia pennis.
Silius Italicus[Punica, Lib, V. vv. 96-7].
Benbow, an improper Companion for the Badgemen of the Alms-house—He resembles Bardolph—Left in Trade by his Father—Contracts useless Friendships—His Friends drink with him, and employ others—Called worthy and honest! Why—Effect of Wine on the Mind of Man—Benbow's common Subject—the Praise of departed Friends and Patrons—'Squire Asgill, at the Grange: his Manners, Servants, Friends—True to his Church: ought therefore to be spared—His Son's different Conduct—Vexation of the Father's Spirit if admitted to see the Alteration—Captain Dowling, a boon Companion, ready todrink at all Times, and with any Company; famous in his Club-room—His easy Departure—Dolley Murrey, a Maiden advanced in Years: abides by Ratafia and Cards—Her free Manners—Her Skill in the Game—Her Preparation and Death—Benbow, how interrupted; his Submission.
LETTER XVI.
BENBOW.
See yonder badgeman, with that glowing face,A meteor shining in this sober place!Vast sums were paid, and many years were past,Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast!Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore,Guiding his master to the tavern-door;There first that meteor rose, and there alone,In its due place, the rich effulgence shone.But this strange fire the seat of peace invades,10And shines portentous in these solemn shades.Benbow, a boon companion, long approvedBy jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved,Was judged as one to joy and friendship prone,And deem'd injurious to himself alone;Gen'rous and free, he paid but small regardTo trade, and fail'd; and some declared "'twas hard."These were his friends—his foes conceived the caseOf common kind; he sought and found disgrace;The reasoning few, who neither scorn'd nor loved,20His feelings pitied and his faults reproved.Benbow, the father, left possessions fair,A worthy name and business to his heir;Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold,And lost his credit, while he spent the gold.He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'dThe night with him; his day was unemploy'd;So, when his credit and his cash were spent,Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent;}Of late he came, with passions unsubdued,}30And shared and cursed the hated solitude,}Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous cares intrude.Known but in drink—he found an easy friend,Well pleased his worth and honour to commend;And, thus inform'd, the guardian of the trustHeard the applause and said the claim was just;A worthy soul! unfitted for the strife,Care and contention of a busylife;—Worthy, and why?—that o'er the midnight bowlHe made his friend the partner of his soul,40And any man his friend;—then thus in glee,"I speak my mind; I love the truth," quoth he;Till 'twas his fate that useful truth to find,'Tis sometimes prudent not to speak the mind.With wine inflated, man is all upblown,And feels a power which he believes his own;With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinksHis all the virtues all the while he drinks;But when the gas from the balloon is gone,When sober thoughts and serious cares come on,50Where then the worth that in himself he found?—Vanish'd—and he sank grov'ling on the ground.}Still some conceit will Benbow's mind inflate;}Poor as he is—'tis pleasant to relate}The joys he once possess'd: it soothes his present state.Seated with some grey beadsman, he regretsHis former feasting, though it swell'd his debts;Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days,Well he describes, and thinks description praise:Each hero's worth with much delight he paints;60Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints."Alas! alas!" Old England now may say,"My glory withers; it has had its day:We're fallen on evil times; men read and think;Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink."Then lived the good 'Squire Asgill—what a changeHas death and fashion shown us at the Grange!He bravely thought it best became his rank,That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank;He was delighted from his favourite room70To see them 'cross the park go daily home,Praising aloud the liquor and the host,And striving who should venerate him most.}"No pride had he, and there was difference small}Between the master's and the servants' hall;}And here or there the guests were welcome all.Of Heaven's free gifts he took no special care;He never quarrel'd for a simple hare;But sought, by giving sport, a sportsman's name,Himself a poacher, though at other game.80He never planted nor inclosed—his treesGrew like himself, untroubled and at ease;Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had feltChoked and imprison'd in a modern belt,Which some rare genius now has twined aboutThe good old house, to keep old neighbours out;Along his valleys, in the evening hours,The borough-damsels stray'd to gather flowers,Or by the brakes and brushwood of the park,To take their pleasant rambles in the dark.90"Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to callOn the kind females—favourites at the hall;But better natures saw, with much delight,The different orders of mankind unite;'Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait,Smile on his sister and receive her plate."His worship ever was a churchman true,He held in scorn the methodistic crew;'May God defend the Church, and save the King,'He'd pray devoutly and divinely sing.100Admit that he the holy day would spendAs priests approved not—still he was a friend.Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice,To call such trifles by the name of vice,Hinting, though gently and with cautious speech,Of good example—'tis their trade to preach;But still 'twas pity, when the worthy 'squireStuck to the church: what more could they require?'Twas almost joining that fanatic crew,To throw such morals at his honour's pew;110A weaker man, had he been so reviled,Had left the place—he only swore and smiled."But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think,Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink;Conceive not—mounted on your Sunday-throne,Your fire-brands fall upon your foes alone;They strike your patrons—and, should all withdrawIn whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw,You would the flower of all your audience lose,And spend your crackers on their empty pews,120"The father dead, the son has found a wife,And lives a formal, proud, unsociallife;—The lands are now enclosed; the tenants all,Save at a rent-day, never see the hall;No lass is suffer'd o'er the walks to come,And, if there's love, they have it all at home."Oh! could the ghost of our good 'squire arise,And see such change, would it believe its eyes?Would it not glide about from place to place,And mourn the manners of a feebler race?130At that long table, where the servants foundMirth and abundance while the year went round;Where a huge pollard on the winter-fireAt a huge distance made them all retire;Where not a measure in the room was kept,And but one rule—they tippled till they slept:There would it see a pale old hag preside,A thing made up of stinginess and pride;Who carves the meat, as if the flesh could feel,Careless whose flesh must miss the plenteous meal.140Here would the ghost a small coal-fire behold,Not fit to keep one body from the cold;Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stayTo view a dull, dress'd company at play;All the old comfort, all the genial fareFor ever gone! how sternly would it stare;And, though it might not to their view appear,'Twould cause among them lassitude and fear;Then wait to see—where he delight hasseen—The dire effect of fretfulness and spleen.150"Such were the worthies of these better days;We had their blessings—they shall have ourpraise.—"Of Captain Dowling would you hear me speak?I'd sit and sing his praises for a week:He was a man, and man-like all hisjoy,—I'm led to question, was he ever boy?Beef was his breakfast;—if from sea and salt,It relish'd better with his wine of malt;Then, till he dined, if walking in or out,Whether the gravel teased him or the gout,160Though short in wind and flannel'd every limb,He drank with all who had concerns with him:Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came,They found him ready, every hour the same;Whatever liquors might between them pass,He took them all, and never balk'd his glass;Nay, with the seamen working in the ship,At their request, he'd share the grog and flip.But in the club-room was his chief delight,And punch the favourite liquor of the night;170Man after man they from the trial shrank,And Dowling ever was the last who drank.Arrived at home, he, ere he sought his bed,With pipe and brandy would compose his head;Then half an hour was o'er the news beguiled,When he retired as harmless as a child.Set but aside the gravel and the gout,And breathing short—his sand ran fairly out."At fifty-five we lost him—after thatLife grows insipid and its pleasures flat;180He had indulged in all that man can have,He did not drop a dotard to his grave;Still to the last, his feet upon the chair,With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair;When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp,And not a doctor could the body vamp;Still at the last, to his beloved bowlHe clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul;For, though a man may not have much to fear,Yet death looks ugly, when the view is near.190—'I go,' he said, 'but still my friends shall say,'Twas as a man—I did not sneak away;An honest life with worthy souls I'vespent—Come, fill my glass;'—he took it, and hewent.—"Poor Dolly Murrey!—I might live to seeMy hundredth year, but no such lass as she.Easy by nature, in her humour gay,She chose her comforts, ratafia and play:She loved the social game, the decent glass;And was a jovial, friendly, laughing lass.200We sat not then at Whist demure and still,But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille;Lame in her side, we placed her in her seat,Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet;As the game ended, came the glass around,(So was the loser cheer'd, the winner crown'd.)Mistress of secrets, both the young and oldIn her confided—not a tale she told;Love never made impression on her mind,She held him weak, and all his captives blind;210She suffered no man her free soul to vex,Free from the weakness of her gentle sex;One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate,In cool discussion or in free debate."Once in her chair we'd placed the good old lass,Where first she took her preparation glass;By lucky thought she'd been that day at prayers,And long before had fix'd her small affairs;So all was easy—on her cards she castA smiling look; I saw the thought that pass'd:220'A king,' she call'd;—though conscious of her skill,'Do more,' I answer'd—'More?' she said; 'I will;'And more she did—cards answer'd to her call,She saw the mighty to her mightier fall:'A vole! a vole!' she cried, ''tis fairly won,My game is ended and my work isdone.'—This said, she gently, with a single sigh,Died as one taught and practised how to die."Such were the dead-departed; I survive,To breathe in pain among the dead-alive."}230The bell then call'd these ancient men to pray;}"Again!" said Benbow—"tolls it every day?}Where is the life I led?"—He sigh'd, and walk'd his way.
See yonder badgeman, with that glowing face,
A meteor shining in this sober place!
Vast sums were paid, and many years were past,
Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast!
Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore,
Guiding his master to the tavern-door;
There first that meteor rose, and there alone,
In its due place, the rich effulgence shone.
But this strange fire the seat of peace invades,
10
And shines portentous in these solemn shades.
Benbow, a boon companion, long approved
By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved,
Was judged as one to joy and friendship prone,
And deem'd injurious to himself alone;
Gen'rous and free, he paid but small regard
To trade, and fail'd; and some declared "'twas hard."
These were his friends—his foes conceived the case
Of common kind; he sought and found disgrace;
The reasoning few, who neither scorn'd nor loved,
20
His feelings pitied and his faults reproved.
Benbow, the father, left possessions fair,
A worthy name and business to his heir;
Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold,
And lost his credit, while he spent the gold.
He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'd
The night with him; his day was unemploy'd;
So, when his credit and his cash were spent,
Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent;
}
Of late he came, with passions unsubdued,
}
30
And shared and cursed the hated solitude,
}
Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous cares intrude.
Known but in drink—he found an easy friend,
Well pleased his worth and honour to commend;
And, thus inform'd, the guardian of the trust
Heard the applause and said the claim was just;
A worthy soul! unfitted for the strife,
Care and contention of a busylife;—
Worthy, and why?—that o'er the midnight bowl
He made his friend the partner of his soul,
40
And any man his friend;—then thus in glee,
"I speak my mind; I love the truth," quoth he;
Till 'twas his fate that useful truth to find,
'Tis sometimes prudent not to speak the mind.
With wine inflated, man is all upblown,
And feels a power which he believes his own;
With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks
His all the virtues all the while he drinks;
But when the gas from the balloon is gone,
When sober thoughts and serious cares come on,
50
Where then the worth that in himself he found?—
Vanish'd—and he sank grov'ling on the ground.
}
Still some conceit will Benbow's mind inflate;
}
Poor as he is—'tis pleasant to relate
}
The joys he once possess'd: it soothes his present state.
Seated with some grey beadsman, he regrets
His former feasting, though it swell'd his debts;
Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days,
Well he describes, and thinks description praise:
Each hero's worth with much delight he paints;
60
Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints.
"Alas! alas!" Old England now may say,
"My glory withers; it has had its day:
We're fallen on evil times; men read and think;
Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink.
"Then lived the good 'Squire Asgill—what a change
Has death and fashion shown us at the Grange!
He bravely thought it best became his rank,
That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank;
He was delighted from his favourite room
70
To see them 'cross the park go daily home,
Praising aloud the liquor and the host,
And striving who should venerate him most.
}
"No pride had he, and there was difference small
}
Between the master's and the servants' hall;
}
And here or there the guests were welcome all.
Of Heaven's free gifts he took no special care;
He never quarrel'd for a simple hare;
But sought, by giving sport, a sportsman's name,
Himself a poacher, though at other game.
80
He never planted nor inclosed—his trees
Grew like himself, untroubled and at ease;
Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt
Choked and imprison'd in a modern belt,
Which some rare genius now has twined about
The good old house, to keep old neighbours out;
Along his valleys, in the evening hours,
The borough-damsels stray'd to gather flowers,
Or by the brakes and brushwood of the park,
To take their pleasant rambles in the dark.
90
"Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to call
On the kind females—favourites at the hall;
But better natures saw, with much delight,
The different orders of mankind unite;
'Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait,
Smile on his sister and receive her plate.
"His worship ever was a churchman true,
He held in scorn the methodistic crew;
'May God defend the Church, and save the King,'
He'd pray devoutly and divinely sing.
100
Admit that he the holy day would spend
As priests approved not—still he was a friend.
Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice,
To call such trifles by the name of vice,
Hinting, though gently and with cautious speech,
Of good example—'tis their trade to preach;
But still 'twas pity, when the worthy 'squire
Stuck to the church: what more could they require?
'Twas almost joining that fanatic crew,
To throw such morals at his honour's pew;
110
A weaker man, had he been so reviled,
Had left the place—he only swore and smiled.
"But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think,
Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink;
Conceive not—mounted on your Sunday-throne,
Your fire-brands fall upon your foes alone;
They strike your patrons—and, should all withdraw
In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw,
You would the flower of all your audience lose,
And spend your crackers on their empty pews,
120
"The father dead, the son has found a wife,
And lives a formal, proud, unsociallife;—
The lands are now enclosed; the tenants all,
Save at a rent-day, never see the hall;
No lass is suffer'd o'er the walks to come,
And, if there's love, they have it all at home.
"Oh! could the ghost of our good 'squire arise,
And see such change, would it believe its eyes?
Would it not glide about from place to place,
And mourn the manners of a feebler race?
130
At that long table, where the servants found
Mirth and abundance while the year went round;
Where a huge pollard on the winter-fire
At a huge distance made them all retire;
Where not a measure in the room was kept,
And but one rule—they tippled till they slept:
There would it see a pale old hag preside,
A thing made up of stinginess and pride;
Who carves the meat, as if the flesh could feel,
Careless whose flesh must miss the plenteous meal.
140
Here would the ghost a small coal-fire behold,
Not fit to keep one body from the cold;
Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stay
To view a dull, dress'd company at play;
All the old comfort, all the genial fare
For ever gone! how sternly would it stare;
And, though it might not to their view appear,
'Twould cause among them lassitude and fear;
Then wait to see—where he delight hasseen—
The dire effect of fretfulness and spleen.
150
"Such were the worthies of these better days;
We had their blessings—they shall have ourpraise.—
"Of Captain Dowling would you hear me speak?
I'd sit and sing his praises for a week:
He was a man, and man-like all hisjoy,—
I'm led to question, was he ever boy?
Beef was his breakfast;—if from sea and salt,
It relish'd better with his wine of malt;
Then, till he dined, if walking in or out,
Whether the gravel teased him or the gout,
160
Though short in wind and flannel'd every limb,
He drank with all who had concerns with him:
Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came,
They found him ready, every hour the same;
Whatever liquors might between them pass,
He took them all, and never balk'd his glass;
Nay, with the seamen working in the ship,
At their request, he'd share the grog and flip.
But in the club-room was his chief delight,
And punch the favourite liquor of the night;
170
Man after man they from the trial shrank,
And Dowling ever was the last who drank.
Arrived at home, he, ere he sought his bed,
With pipe and brandy would compose his head;
Then half an hour was o'er the news beguiled,
When he retired as harmless as a child.
Set but aside the gravel and the gout,
And breathing short—his sand ran fairly out.
"At fifty-five we lost him—after that
Life grows insipid and its pleasures flat;
180
He had indulged in all that man can have,
He did not drop a dotard to his grave;
Still to the last, his feet upon the chair,
With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair;
When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp,
And not a doctor could the body vamp;
Still at the last, to his beloved bowl
He clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul;
For, though a man may not have much to fear,
Yet death looks ugly, when the view is near.
190
—'I go,' he said, 'but still my friends shall say,
'Twas as a man—I did not sneak away;
An honest life with worthy souls I'vespent—
Come, fill my glass;'—he took it, and hewent.—
"Poor Dolly Murrey!—I might live to see
My hundredth year, but no such lass as she.
Easy by nature, in her humour gay,
She chose her comforts, ratafia and play:
She loved the social game, the decent glass;
And was a jovial, friendly, laughing lass.
200
We sat not then at Whist demure and still,
But pass'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille;
Lame in her side, we placed her in her seat,
Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet;
As the game ended, came the glass around,
(So was the loser cheer'd, the winner crown'd.)
Mistress of secrets, both the young and old
In her confided—not a tale she told;
Love never made impression on her mind,
She held him weak, and all his captives blind;
210
She suffered no man her free soul to vex,
Free from the weakness of her gentle sex;
One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate,
In cool discussion or in free debate.
"Once in her chair we'd placed the good old lass,
Where first she took her preparation glass;
By lucky thought she'd been that day at prayers,
And long before had fix'd her small affairs;
So all was easy—on her cards she cast
A smiling look; I saw the thought that pass'd:
220
'A king,' she call'd;—though conscious of her skill,
'Do more,' I answer'd—'More?' she said; 'I will;'
And more she did—cards answer'd to her call,
She saw the mighty to her mightier fall:
'A vole! a vole!' she cried, ''tis fairly won,
My game is ended and my work isdone.'—
This said, she gently, with a single sigh,
Died as one taught and practised how to die.
"Such were the dead-departed; I survive,
To breathe in pain among the dead-alive."
}
230
The bell then call'd these ancient men to pray;
}
"Again!" said Benbow—"tolls it every day?
}
Where is the life I led?"—He sigh'd, and walk'd his way.
THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS.
Blessed be the man [that] provideth for the sick and needy: the Lord shall deliver him in [the] time of trouble.
[Communion Service, [Ps. xli. v. Prayer Book Version].]
Quas dederis, solas semper habebis opes.Martial[Lib. v. Epigr. xliii.].
Quas dederis, solas semper habebis opes.
Martial[Lib. v. Epigr. xliii.].
Nil negat, et sese vel non poscentibus offert.Claudian[in Eutrop.Lib. i. v. 365].
Nil negat, et sese vel non poscentibus offert.
Claudian[in Eutrop.Lib. i. v. 365].
Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno;Nam mihi jam notus dissimulator eris.Martial[Lib. iv. Epigr. lxxxix.].
Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno;
Nam mihi jam notus dissimulator eris.
Martial[Lib. iv. Epigr. lxxxix.].
Christian Charity anxious to provide for future as well as present Miseries—Hence the Hospital for the Diseased—Description of a recoveredPatient—The Building: how erected—The Patrons and Governors—Eusebius—The more active Manager of Business a moral and correct Contributor—One of different Description—Good the Result, however intermixed with Imperfection.
LETTER XVII.
THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS.
An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,That we the wants of pleading man supply;That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal.Not these suffice—to sickness, pain, and wo,The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,10But seeks the duty—nay, prevents the need;Her utmost aid to every ill applies,And plans relief for coming miseries.Hence yonder building rose: on either sideFar stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide;And every ward has beds by comfort spread,And smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed.There have all kindness, most relief—for someIs cure complete—it is the sufferer's home:Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains,20Each accidental mischief man sustains;Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and lame,With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame,}Have here attendance—here the sufferers lie}(Where love and science every aid apply),}And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort die.See one relieved from anguish, and to-dayAllow'd to walk and look an hour away;Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain,He comes abroad and is himself again:30'Twas in the spring, when carried to the place,The snow fell down and melted in his face.'Tis summer now; all objects gay and new;Smiling alike the viewer and the view:He stops as one unwilling to advance,Without another and another glance;With what a pure and simple joy he seesThose sheep and cattle browzing at their ease;Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or movesBut he would cherish—all that lives he loves:40Observing every ward as round he goes,He thinks what pain, what danger they enclose;Warm in his wish for all who suffer there,At every view he meditates a prayer:No evil counsels in his breast abide,There joy, and love, and gratitude reside.The wish that Roman necks in one were found,That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound,This man had never heard; but of the kind,Is that desire which rises in his mind;50He'd have all English hands (for further heCannot conceive extends our charity),All but his own, in one right-hand to grow,And then what hearty shake would he bestow!"How rose the building?"—Piety first laidA strong foundation, but she wanted aid;To Wealth unwieldy was her prayer address'd,Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd.Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew,And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew.60Then busy Vanity sustain'd her part,"And much," she said, "it moved her tender heart;To her all kinds of man's distress were known,And all her heart adopted as its own."Then Science came—his talents he display'd,And Charity with joy the dome survey'd;Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame,And Piety, the joy that makes no claim.Patrons there are, and governors, from whomThe greater aid and guiding orders come;70Who voluntary cares and labours take,The sufferers' servants for the service' sake.Of these a part I give you—but apart—Some hearts are hidden; some have not a heart.First let me praise—for so I best shallpaint—That pious moralist, that reasoning saint!Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak?The man is willing, but the muse isweak;—'Tis thine to wait on wo! to soothe! to heal!With learning social, and polite with zeal:80In thy pure breast although the passions dwell,They're train'd by virtue and no more rebel;But have so long been active on her side,That passion now might be itself the guide.Law, conscience, honour, all obey'd; all giveTh' approving voice, and make it bliss to live;While faith, when life can nothing more supply,Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die.He preaches, speaks and writes with manlysense—No weak neglect, no laboured eloquence;90Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways,The rude revere him and the wicked praise.Upon humility his virtues grow,And tower so high because so fix'd below;As wider spreads the oak his boughs around,When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground.By him, from ward to ward, is every aidThe sufferer needs with every care convey'd.Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth,And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth;100Meek as the poorest Publican is he,And strict as lives the straitest Pharisee;Of both, in him unite the betterpart—The blameless conduct and the humble heart.Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wiseIn carnal things, and loves to moralize;Others can doubt, if all that Christian careHas not its price—there's something he may share.But this, and ill severer, he sustains,As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains;110When most reviled, although he feels the smart,It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart,As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit,Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot.A second friend we have, whose care and zealBut few can equal—few indeed can feel.He lived a life obscure, and profits madeIn the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.His brother, master of a hoy, he lovedSo well, that he the calling disapproved:120"Alas! poor Tom!" the landman oft would sigh,When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high;And when they parted, with a tear he'd say,"No more adventure!—here in safety stay."Nor did he feign; with more than half he had,He would have kept the seaman, and been glad.Alas! how few resist, when strongly tried!—A rich relation's nearer kinsman died;He sicken'd, and to him the landman went,And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent.130This Thomas heard, and cared not: "I," quoth he,"Have one in port upon the watch for me."So Ephraim died, and, when the will was shown,Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own:Who to his brother sent a moderate purse,Which he return'd, in anger, with his curse;Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong,He died before he could forgive the wrong.The rich man built a house, both large and high,He enter'd in and set him down to sigh;140He planted ample woods and gardens fair,And walk'd with anguish and compunction there:The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat,He saw with pain, and he refused to eat;His daintiest food, his richest wines, were allTurn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall:The softest down, by living body press'd,The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest;But care had thorns upon his pillow spread,And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed.150Nervous he grew—would often sigh and groan,He talk'd but little, and he walk'd alone;Till by his priest convinced, that from one deedOf genuine love would joy and health proceed;He from that time with care and zeal beganTo seek and soothe the grievous ills of man;And, as his hands their aid to grief apply,He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh.Now he can drink his wine and taste his food.And feel the blessings Heav'n has dealt are good;160And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door,He sleeps as soundly as when young and poor.Here much he gives—is urgent more to gain;He begs—rich beggars seldom sue in vain;Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to move,And never wearies in the work of love;He rules all business, settles all affairs,He makes collections, he directs repairs;And if he wrong'd one brother—Heav'n forgiveThe man by whom so many brethren live!170Then, 'mid our signatures, a name appearsOf one for wisdom famed above his years;And these were forty: he was from his youthA patient searcher after useful truth:To language little of his time he gave,To science less, nor was the muse's slave;Sober and grave, his college sent him down,A fair example for his native town.Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air,You'd think a Socrates or Solon there,180For though a Christian, he's disposed to drawHis rules from reason's and from nature's law."Know," he exclaims, "my fellow mortals, know,Virtue alone is happiness below;And what is virtue? Prudence, first to chooseLife's real good—the evil to refuse;Add justice then, the eager hand to hold,To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold;Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health insures,And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures."190He speaks, and lo!—the very man you see:Prudent and temperate, just and patient he;By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep,No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap:He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives;Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives;By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd,His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd;Temp'rate in every place—abroad, at home,Thence will applause, and hence will profit come;200And health from either he in time preparesFor sickness, age, and their attendant cares,But not for fancy's ills;—he never grievesFor love that wounds or friendship that deceives;His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains,But neither feels nor fears ideal pains."Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?"—Alas!—I think he wants infirmities;He wants the ties that knit us to ourkind—The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind,210That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite,And make the virtues he approves delight;What dying martyrs, saints, and patriotsfeel—The strength of action and the warmth of zeal.Again attend!—and see a man whose caresAre nicely placed on either world'saffairs.—Merchant and saint, 'tis doubtful if he knowsTo which account he most regard bestows;Of both he keeps his ledger:—there he readsOf gainful ventures and of godly deeds;220There all he gets or loses find a place—A lucky bargain and a lack of grace.The joys above this prudent man inviteTo pay his tax—devotion!—day and night;The pains of hell his timid bosom awe,And force obedience to the church's law:Hence that continual thought, that solemn air,Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer.All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraidTo think how avarice calls and is obey'd)230He in his journal finds, and for his griefObtains the transient opium of relief."Sink not, my soul!—my spirit, rise and lookO'er the fair entries of this precious book:Here are the sins, our debts;—this fairer sideHas what to carnal wish our strength denied;Has those religious duties every dayPaid—which so few upon the sabbath pay;Here too are conquests over frail desires,Attendance due on all the church requires;240Then alms I give—for I believe the wordOf holy writ, and lend unto theLord—And, if not all th' importunate demand,The fear of want restrains my ready hand;—Behold what sums I to the poor resign,Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as mine!Rest, then, my spirit!—fastings, prayers, and alms,Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms,And, weigh'd against our frailties, set in viewA noble balance in our favour due.250Add that I yearly here affix my name,Pledge for large payment—not from love of fame,But to make peace within;—that peace to make,What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake!Cheer up, my heart!—let's cast off every doubt,Pray without dread, and place our money out."Such the religion of a mind that steersIts way to bliss, between its hopes and fears;Whose passions in due bounds each other keep,And, thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep;260Whose virtues all their certain limits know,Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow;Who for success and safety ever tries,And with both worlds alternately complies.Such are the guardians of this bless'd estate;Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate;That they are men, and have their faults, is true,But here their worth alone appears in view:The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,Has something of the secrets there express'd,270But yet in charity;—and, when she seesSuch means for joy or comfort, health or ease,And knows how much united minds effect,She almost dreads their failings to detect;But truth commands:—in man's erroneous kind,Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind;Happy, when fears to public spirit move,And even vices to the work of love!
An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,That we the wants of pleading man supply;That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal.Not these suffice—to sickness, pain, and wo,The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,10But seeks the duty—nay, prevents the need;Her utmost aid to every ill applies,And plans relief for coming miseries.Hence yonder building rose: on either sideFar stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide;And every ward has beds by comfort spread,And smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed.There have all kindness, most relief—for someIs cure complete—it is the sufferer's home:Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains,20Each accidental mischief man sustains;Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and lame,With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame,}Have here attendance—here the sufferers lie}(Where love and science every aid apply),}And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort die.See one relieved from anguish, and to-dayAllow'd to walk and look an hour away;Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain,He comes abroad and is himself again:30'Twas in the spring, when carried to the place,The snow fell down and melted in his face.'Tis summer now; all objects gay and new;Smiling alike the viewer and the view:He stops as one unwilling to advance,Without another and another glance;With what a pure and simple joy he seesThose sheep and cattle browzing at their ease;Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or movesBut he would cherish—all that lives he loves:40Observing every ward as round he goes,He thinks what pain, what danger they enclose;Warm in his wish for all who suffer there,At every view he meditates a prayer:No evil counsels in his breast abide,There joy, and love, and gratitude reside.The wish that Roman necks in one were found,That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound,This man had never heard; but of the kind,Is that desire which rises in his mind;50He'd have all English hands (for further heCannot conceive extends our charity),All but his own, in one right-hand to grow,And then what hearty shake would he bestow!"How rose the building?"—Piety first laidA strong foundation, but she wanted aid;To Wealth unwieldy was her prayer address'd,Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd.Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew,And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew.60Then busy Vanity sustain'd her part,"And much," she said, "it moved her tender heart;To her all kinds of man's distress were known,And all her heart adopted as its own."Then Science came—his talents he display'd,And Charity with joy the dome survey'd;Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame,And Piety, the joy that makes no claim.Patrons there are, and governors, from whomThe greater aid and guiding orders come;70Who voluntary cares and labours take,The sufferers' servants for the service' sake.Of these a part I give you—but apart—Some hearts are hidden; some have not a heart.First let me praise—for so I best shallpaint—That pious moralist, that reasoning saint!Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak?The man is willing, but the muse isweak;—'Tis thine to wait on wo! to soothe! to heal!With learning social, and polite with zeal:80In thy pure breast although the passions dwell,They're train'd by virtue and no more rebel;But have so long been active on her side,That passion now might be itself the guide.Law, conscience, honour, all obey'd; all giveTh' approving voice, and make it bliss to live;While faith, when life can nothing more supply,Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die.He preaches, speaks and writes with manlysense—No weak neglect, no laboured eloquence;90Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways,The rude revere him and the wicked praise.Upon humility his virtues grow,And tower so high because so fix'd below;As wider spreads the oak his boughs around,When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground.By him, from ward to ward, is every aidThe sufferer needs with every care convey'd.Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth,And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth;100Meek as the poorest Publican is he,And strict as lives the straitest Pharisee;Of both, in him unite the betterpart—The blameless conduct and the humble heart.Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wiseIn carnal things, and loves to moralize;Others can doubt, if all that Christian careHas not its price—there's something he may share.But this, and ill severer, he sustains,As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains;110When most reviled, although he feels the smart,It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart,As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit,Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot.A second friend we have, whose care and zealBut few can equal—few indeed can feel.He lived a life obscure, and profits madeIn the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.His brother, master of a hoy, he lovedSo well, that he the calling disapproved:120"Alas! poor Tom!" the landman oft would sigh,When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high;And when they parted, with a tear he'd say,"No more adventure!—here in safety stay."Nor did he feign; with more than half he had,He would have kept the seaman, and been glad.Alas! how few resist, when strongly tried!—A rich relation's nearer kinsman died;He sicken'd, and to him the landman went,And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent.130This Thomas heard, and cared not: "I," quoth he,"Have one in port upon the watch for me."So Ephraim died, and, when the will was shown,Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own:Who to his brother sent a moderate purse,Which he return'd, in anger, with his curse;Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong,He died before he could forgive the wrong.The rich man built a house, both large and high,He enter'd in and set him down to sigh;140He planted ample woods and gardens fair,And walk'd with anguish and compunction there:The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat,He saw with pain, and he refused to eat;His daintiest food, his richest wines, were allTurn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall:The softest down, by living body press'd,The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest;But care had thorns upon his pillow spread,And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed.150Nervous he grew—would often sigh and groan,He talk'd but little, and he walk'd alone;Till by his priest convinced, that from one deedOf genuine love would joy and health proceed;He from that time with care and zeal beganTo seek and soothe the grievous ills of man;And, as his hands their aid to grief apply,He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh.Now he can drink his wine and taste his food.And feel the blessings Heav'n has dealt are good;160And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door,He sleeps as soundly as when young and poor.Here much he gives—is urgent more to gain;He begs—rich beggars seldom sue in vain;Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to move,And never wearies in the work of love;He rules all business, settles all affairs,He makes collections, he directs repairs;And if he wrong'd one brother—Heav'n forgiveThe man by whom so many brethren live!
An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,
The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove;
'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,
That we the wants of pleading man supply;
That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,
Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal.
Not these suffice—to sickness, pain, and wo,
The Christian spirit loves with aid to go;
Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,
10
But seeks the duty—nay, prevents the need;
Her utmost aid to every ill applies,
And plans relief for coming miseries.
Hence yonder building rose: on either side
Far stretch'd the wards, all airy, warm, and wide;
And every ward has beds by comfort spread,
And smooth'd for him who suffers on the bed.
There have all kindness, most relief—for some
Is cure complete—it is the sufferer's home:
Fevers and chronic ills, corroding pains,
20
Each accidental mischief man sustains;
Fractures and wounds, and wither'd limbs and lame,
With all that, slow or sudden, vex our frame,
}
Have here attendance—here the sufferers lie
}
(Where love and science every aid apply),
}
And heal'd with rapture live, or soothed by comfort die.
See one relieved from anguish, and to-day
Allow'd to walk and look an hour away;
Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain,
He comes abroad and is himself again:
30
'Twas in the spring, when carried to the place,
The snow fell down and melted in his face.
'Tis summer now; all objects gay and new;
Smiling alike the viewer and the view:
He stops as one unwilling to advance,
Without another and another glance;
With what a pure and simple joy he sees
Those sheep and cattle browzing at their ease;
Easy himself, there's nothing breathes or moves
But he would cherish—all that lives he loves:
40
Observing every ward as round he goes,
He thinks what pain, what danger they enclose;
Warm in his wish for all who suffer there,
At every view he meditates a prayer:
No evil counsels in his breast abide,
There joy, and love, and gratitude reside.
The wish that Roman necks in one were found,
That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound,
This man had never heard; but of the kind,
Is that desire which rises in his mind;
50
He'd have all English hands (for further he
Cannot conceive extends our charity),
All but his own, in one right-hand to grow,
And then what hearty shake would he bestow!
"How rose the building?"—Piety first laid
A strong foundation, but she wanted aid;
To Wealth unwieldy was her prayer address'd,
Who largely gave, and she the donor bless'd.
Unwieldy Wealth then to his couch withdrew,
And took the sweetest sleep he ever knew.
60
Then busy Vanity sustain'd her part,
"And much," she said, "it moved her tender heart;
To her all kinds of man's distress were known,
And all her heart adopted as its own."
Then Science came—his talents he display'd,
And Charity with joy the dome survey'd;
Skill, Wealth, and Vanity, obtain the fame,
And Piety, the joy that makes no claim.
Patrons there are, and governors, from whom
The greater aid and guiding orders come;
70
Who voluntary cares and labours take,
The sufferers' servants for the service' sake.
Of these a part I give you—but apart—
Some hearts are hidden; some have not a heart.
First let me praise—for so I best shallpaint—
That pious moralist, that reasoning saint!
Can I of worth like thine, Eusebius, speak?
The man is willing, but the muse isweak;—
'Tis thine to wait on wo! to soothe! to heal!
With learning social, and polite with zeal:
80
In thy pure breast although the passions dwell,
They're train'd by virtue and no more rebel;
But have so long been active on her side,
That passion now might be itself the guide.
Law, conscience, honour, all obey'd; all give
Th' approving voice, and make it bliss to live;
While faith, when life can nothing more supply,
Shall strengthen hope, and make it bliss to die.
He preaches, speaks and writes with manlysense—
No weak neglect, no laboured eloquence;
90
Goodness and wisdom are in all his ways,
The rude revere him and the wicked praise.
Upon humility his virtues grow,
And tower so high because so fix'd below;
As wider spreads the oak his boughs around,
When deeper with his roots he digs the solid ground.
By him, from ward to ward, is every aid
The sufferer needs with every care convey'd.
Like the good tree he brings his treasure forth,
And, like the tree, unconscious of his worth;
100
Meek as the poorest Publican is he,
And strict as lives the straitest Pharisee;
Of both, in him unite the betterpart—
The blameless conduct and the humble heart.
Yet he escapes not; he, with some, is wise
In carnal things, and loves to moralize;
Others can doubt, if all that Christian care
Has not its price—there's something he may share.
But this, and ill severer, he sustains,
As gold the fire, and as unhurt remains;
110
When most reviled, although he feels the smart,
It wakes to nobler deeds the wounded heart,
As the rich olive, beaten for its fruit,
Puts forth at every bruise a bearing shoot.
A second friend we have, whose care and zeal
But few can equal—few indeed can feel.
He lived a life obscure, and profits made
In the coarse habits of a vulgar trade.
His brother, master of a hoy, he loved
So well, that he the calling disapproved:
120
"Alas! poor Tom!" the landman oft would sigh,
When the gale freshen'd and the waves ran high;
And when they parted, with a tear he'd say,
"No more adventure!—here in safety stay."
Nor did he feign; with more than half he had,
He would have kept the seaman, and been glad.
Alas! how few resist, when strongly tried!—
A rich relation's nearer kinsman died;
He sicken'd, and to him the landman went,
And all his hours with cousin Ephraim spent.
130
This Thomas heard, and cared not: "I," quoth he,
"Have one in port upon the watch for me."
So Ephraim died, and, when the will was shown,
Isaac, the landman, had the whole his own:
Who to his brother sent a moderate purse,
Which he return'd, in anger, with his curse;
Then went to sea, and made his grog so strong,
He died before he could forgive the wrong.
The rich man built a house, both large and high,
He enter'd in and set him down to sigh;
140
He planted ample woods and gardens fair,
And walk'd with anguish and compunction there:
The rich man's pines, to every friend a treat,
He saw with pain, and he refused to eat;
His daintiest food, his richest wines, were all
Turn'd by remorse to vinegar and gall:
The softest down, by living body press'd,
The rich man bought, and tried to take his rest;
But care had thorns upon his pillow spread,
And scatter'd sand and nettles in his bed.
150
Nervous he grew—would often sigh and groan,
He talk'd but little, and he walk'd alone;
Till by his priest convinced, that from one deed
Of genuine love would joy and health proceed;
He from that time with care and zeal began
To seek and soothe the grievous ills of man;
And, as his hands their aid to grief apply,
He learns to smile and he forgets to sigh.
Now he can drink his wine and taste his food.
And feel the blessings Heav'n has dealt are good;
160
And, since the suffering seek the rich man's door,
He sleeps as soundly as when young and poor.
Here much he gives—is urgent more to gain;
He begs—rich beggars seldom sue in vain;
Preachers most famed he moves, the crowd to move,
And never wearies in the work of love;
He rules all business, settles all affairs,
He makes collections, he directs repairs;
And if he wrong'd one brother—Heav'n forgive
The man by whom so many brethren live!
170Then, 'mid our signatures, a name appearsOf one for wisdom famed above his years;And these were forty: he was from his youthA patient searcher after useful truth:To language little of his time he gave,To science less, nor was the muse's slave;Sober and grave, his college sent him down,A fair example for his native town.Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air,You'd think a Socrates or Solon there,180For though a Christian, he's disposed to drawHis rules from reason's and from nature's law."Know," he exclaims, "my fellow mortals, know,Virtue alone is happiness below;And what is virtue? Prudence, first to chooseLife's real good—the evil to refuse;Add justice then, the eager hand to hold,To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold;Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health insures,And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures."190He speaks, and lo!—the very man you see:Prudent and temperate, just and patient he;By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep,No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap:He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives;Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives;By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd,His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd;Temp'rate in every place—abroad, at home,Thence will applause, and hence will profit come;200And health from either he in time preparesFor sickness, age, and their attendant cares,But not for fancy's ills;—he never grievesFor love that wounds or friendship that deceives;His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains,But neither feels nor fears ideal pains."Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?"—Alas!—I think he wants infirmities;He wants the ties that knit us to ourkind—The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind,210That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite,And make the virtues he approves delight;What dying martyrs, saints, and patriotsfeel—The strength of action and the warmth of zeal.Again attend!—and see a man whose caresAre nicely placed on either world'saffairs.—Merchant and saint, 'tis doubtful if he knowsTo which account he most regard bestows;Of both he keeps his ledger:—there he readsOf gainful ventures and of godly deeds;220There all he gets or loses find a place—A lucky bargain and a lack of grace.The joys above this prudent man inviteTo pay his tax—devotion!—day and night;The pains of hell his timid bosom awe,And force obedience to the church's law:Hence that continual thought, that solemn air,Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer.All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraidTo think how avarice calls and is obey'd)230He in his journal finds, and for his griefObtains the transient opium of relief."Sink not, my soul!—my spirit, rise and lookO'er the fair entries of this precious book:Here are the sins, our debts;—this fairer sideHas what to carnal wish our strength denied;Has those religious duties every dayPaid—which so few upon the sabbath pay;Here too are conquests over frail desires,Attendance due on all the church requires;240Then alms I give—for I believe the wordOf holy writ, and lend unto theLord—And, if not all th' importunate demand,The fear of want restrains my ready hand;—Behold what sums I to the poor resign,Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as mine!Rest, then, my spirit!—fastings, prayers, and alms,Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms,And, weigh'd against our frailties, set in viewA noble balance in our favour due.250Add that I yearly here affix my name,Pledge for large payment—not from love of fame,But to make peace within;—that peace to make,What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake!Cheer up, my heart!—let's cast off every doubt,Pray without dread, and place our money out."Such the religion of a mind that steersIts way to bliss, between its hopes and fears;Whose passions in due bounds each other keep,And, thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep;260Whose virtues all their certain limits know,Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow;Who for success and safety ever tries,And with both worlds alternately complies.Such are the guardians of this bless'd estate;Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate;That they are men, and have their faults, is true,But here their worth alone appears in view:The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,Has something of the secrets there express'd,270But yet in charity;—and, when she seesSuch means for joy or comfort, health or ease,And knows how much united minds effect,She almost dreads their failings to detect;But truth commands:—in man's erroneous kind,Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind;Happy, when fears to public spirit move,And even vices to the work of love!
170
Then, 'mid our signatures, a name appears
Of one for wisdom famed above his years;
And these were forty: he was from his youth
A patient searcher after useful truth:
To language little of his time he gave,
To science less, nor was the muse's slave;
Sober and grave, his college sent him down,
A fair example for his native town.
Slowly he speaks, and with such solemn air,
You'd think a Socrates or Solon there,
180
For though a Christian, he's disposed to draw
His rules from reason's and from nature's law.
"Know," he exclaims, "my fellow mortals, know,
Virtue alone is happiness below;
And what is virtue? Prudence, first to choose
Life's real good—the evil to refuse;
Add justice then, the eager hand to hold,
To curb the lust of power and thirst of gold;
Join temp'rance next, that cheerful health insures,
And fortitude unmoved, that conquers or endures."
190
He speaks, and lo!—the very man you see:
Prudent and temperate, just and patient he;
By prudence taught his worldly wealth to keep,
No folly wastes, no avarice swells the heap:
He no man's debtor, no man's patron lives;
Save sound advice, he neither asks nor gives;
By no vain thoughts or erring fancy sway'd,
His words are weighty, or at least are weigh'd;
Temp'rate in every place—abroad, at home,
Thence will applause, and hence will profit come;
200
And health from either he in time prepares
For sickness, age, and their attendant cares,
But not for fancy's ills;—he never grieves
For love that wounds or friendship that deceives;
His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains,
But neither feels nor fears ideal pains.
"Is aught then wanted in a man so wise?"—
Alas!—I think he wants infirmities;
He wants the ties that knit us to ourkind—
The cheerful, tender, soft, complacent mind,
210
That would the feelings, which he dreads, excite,
And make the virtues he approves delight;
What dying martyrs, saints, and patriotsfeel—
The strength of action and the warmth of zeal.
Again attend!—and see a man whose cares
Are nicely placed on either world'saffairs.—
Merchant and saint, 'tis doubtful if he knows
To which account he most regard bestows;
Of both he keeps his ledger:—there he reads
Of gainful ventures and of godly deeds;
220
There all he gets or loses find a place—
A lucky bargain and a lack of grace.
The joys above this prudent man invite
To pay his tax—devotion!—day and night;
The pains of hell his timid bosom awe,
And force obedience to the church's law:
Hence that continual thought, that solemn air,
Those sad good works, and that laborious prayer.
All these (when conscience, waken'd and afraid
To think how avarice calls and is obey'd)
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He in his journal finds, and for his grief
Obtains the transient opium of relief.
"Sink not, my soul!—my spirit, rise and look
O'er the fair entries of this precious book:
Here are the sins, our debts;—this fairer side
Has what to carnal wish our strength denied;
Has those religious duties every day
Paid—which so few upon the sabbath pay;
Here too are conquests over frail desires,
Attendance due on all the church requires;
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Then alms I give—for I believe the word
Of holy writ, and lend unto theLord—
And, if not all th' importunate demand,
The fear of want restrains my ready hand;
—Behold what sums I to the poor resign,
Sums placed in Heaven's own book, as well as mine!
Rest, then, my spirit!—fastings, prayers, and alms,
Will soon suppress these idly-raised alarms,
And, weigh'd against our frailties, set in view
A noble balance in our favour due.
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Add that I yearly here affix my name,
Pledge for large payment—not from love of fame,
But to make peace within;—that peace to make,
What sums I lavish! and what gains forsake!
Cheer up, my heart!—let's cast off every doubt,
Pray without dread, and place our money out."
Such the religion of a mind that steers
Its way to bliss, between its hopes and fears;
Whose passions in due bounds each other keep,
And, thus subdued, they murmur till they sleep;
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Whose virtues all their certain limits know,
Like well-dried herbs that neither fade nor grow;
Who for success and safety ever tries,
And with both worlds alternately complies.
Such are the guardians of this bless'd estate;
Whate'er without, they're praised within the gate;
That they are men, and have their faults, is true,
But here their worth alone appears in view:
The Muse indeed, who reads the very breast,
Has something of the secrets there express'd,
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But yet in charity;—and, when she sees
Such means for joy or comfort, health or ease,
And knows how much united minds effect,
She almost dreads their failings to detect;
But truth commands:—in man's erroneous kind,
Virtues and frailties mingle in the mind;
Happy, when fears to public spirit move,
And even vices to the work of love!
THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS.