Patience and sorrow stroveWho should express her goodliest.Shakspeare. Lear[Act iv. Sc. 3, ll. 16-7].
Patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest.
Shakspeare. Lear[Act iv. Sc. 3, ll. 16-7].
"No charms she now can boast,"—'tis true,But other charmers wither too:"And she is old,"—the fact I know,And old will other heroines grow;But not like them has she been laid,In ruin'd castle, sore dismay'd;Where naughty man and ghostly sprightFill'd her pure mind with awe and dread,Stalk'd round the room, put out the light,And shook the curtains round the bed.No cruel uncle kept her land;No tyrant father forced her hand;She had no vixen virgin-aunt,Without whose aid she could not eat,And yet who poison'd all her meat,With gibe and sneer and taunt.Yet of the heroine she'd a share:She saved a lover from despair,And granted all his wish, in spiteOf what she knew and felt was right;But heroine then no more,She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd,And humbly took the parish aid,And dwelt among the poor.
"No charms she now can boast,"—'tis true,
But other charmers wither too:
"And she is old,"—the fact I know,
And old will other heroines grow;
But not like them has she been laid,
In ruin'd castle, sore dismay'd;
Where naughty man and ghostly spright
Fill'd her pure mind with awe and dread,
Stalk'd round the room, put out the light,
And shook the curtains round the bed.
No cruel uncle kept her land;
No tyrant father forced her hand;
She had no vixen virgin-aunt,
Without whose aid she could not eat,
And yet who poison'd all her meat,
With gibe and sneer and taunt.
Yet of the heroine she'd a share:
She saved a lover from despair,
And granted all his wish, in spite
Of what she knew and felt was right;
But heroine then no more,
She own'd the fault, and wept and pray'd,
And humbly took the parish aid,
And dwelt among the poor.
The Widow's Cottage—Blind Ellen one—Hers not the Sorrows or Adventures of Heroines—What these are, first described—Deserted Wives; rash Lovers; courageous Damsels: in desolated Mansions; in grievous Perplexity—These Evils, however severe, of short Duration—Ellen's Story—Her Employment in Childhood—First Love; first Adventure; its miserableTermination—An idiot Daughter—A Husband—Care in Business without Success—The Man's Despondency and its Effect—Their Children: how disposed of—One particularly unfortunate—Fate of the Daughter—Ellen keeps a School and is happy—Becomes blind; loses her School—Her Consolations.
LETTER XX.
ELLEN ORFORD.
Observe yon tenement, apart and small,Where the wet pebbles shine upon the wall;Where the low benches lean beside the door,And the red paling bounds the space before;Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love[67]bloom—That humble dwelling is the widow's home.There live a pair, for various fortunes known,But the Blind Ellen will relate herown;—Yet, ere we hear the story she can tell,10On prouder sorrows let us briefly dwell.I've often marvel'd, when by night, by day,I've mark'd the manners moving in my way,And heard the language and beheld the livesOf lass and lover, goddesses and wives:That books, which promise much of life to give,Should show so little how we truly live.To me it seems, their females and their menAre but the creatures of the author's pen;Nay, creatures borrow'd and again convey'd20From book to book—the shadows of a shade.Life, if they'd search, would show them many a change,The ruin sudden and the misery strange!With more of grievous, base, and dreadful things,Than novelists relate or poet sings.But they, who ought to look the world around,Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground;Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold,And plots are laid and histories are told.Time have I lent—I would their debt wereless—30To flow'ry pages of sublime distress;And to the heroine's soul-distracting fearsI early gave my sixpences and tears:Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales,To Darnley-Cottages and Maple-Vales,And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born sigh,When Henry pass'd and gazed in passing by;Till I beheld them pacing in the park,Close by a coppice where 'twas cold and dark;When such affection with such fate appear'd,40Want and a father to be shunn'd and fear'd,Without employment, prospect, cot, or cash,That I have judged th' heroic souls were rash.Now shifts the scene—the fair, in tower confined,In all things suffers but in change of mind;Now woo'd by greatness to a bed of state,Now deeply threaten'd with a dungeon's grate;Till, suffering much and being tried enough,She shines, triumphant maid!—temptation-proof.Then was I led to vengeful monks, who mix50With nymphs and swains, and play unpriestly tricks;Then view'd banditti, who in forest wide,And cavern vast, indignant virgins hide;Who, hemm'd with bands of sturdiest rogues about,Find some strange succour, and come virgins out.I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls;I've stalk'd by moonlight through deserted halls;And, when the weary world was sunk to rest,I've had such sights as—may not be express'd.Lo! that chateau, the western tower decay'd,60The peasants shun it—they are all afraid;For there was done a deed!—could walls reveal,Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel!Most horrid was it:—for, behold, the floorHas stain of blood, and will be clean no more.Hark to the winds! which through the wide saloonAnd the long passage send a dismaltune—Music that ghosts delight in;—and now heedYon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the deed.See! with majestic sweep she swims alone70Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan;Though windows rattle, and though tap'stries shake,And the feet falter every step they take,}'Mid groans and gibing sprights she silent goes,}To find a something, which will soon expose}The villanies and wiles of her determined foes;And, having thus adventured, thus endured,Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured.Much have I fear'd, but am no more afraid,When some chaste beauty, by some wretch betray'd,80Is drawn away with such distracted speed,That she anticipates a dreadfuldeed;—Not so do I.—Let solid walls impoundThe captive fair, and dig a moat around;Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,And keepers cruel, such as never feel;With not a single note the purse supply,And when she begs, let men and maids deny;Be windows those from which she dares not fall,And help so distant, 'tis in vain to call;90Still means of freedom will some power devise,And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize.To Northern Wales, in some sequester'd spot,I've followed fair Louisa to her cot;Where, then a wretched and deserted bride,The injured fair-one wish'd from man to hide;Till by her fond repenting Belville found,By some kind chance—the straying of ahound—He at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain;For the relenting dove flew back again.}100There's something rapturous in distress, or, oh!}Could Clementina bear her lot of wo?}Or what she underwent could maiden undergo?The day was fix'd; for so the lover sigh'd,So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied;When, tale most dreadful! every hopeadieu—For the fond lover is the brother too:All other griefs abate; this monstrous griefHas no remission, comfort, or relief;Four ample volumes, through each pagedisclose—110Good Heaven protect us!—only woes on woes;Till some strange means afford a sudden viewOf some vile plot, and every wo adieu![68]Now, should we grant these beauties all endureSeverest pangs, they've still the speediest cure,}Before one charm be wither'd from the face,}Except the bloom, which shall again have place,}In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace;And life to come we fairly may supposeOne light, bright contrast to these wild dark woes.120These let us leave, and at her sorrows look,Too often seen, but seldom in a book;Let her who felt, relate them.—On her chairThe heroine sits—in former years the fair,Now aged and poor; but Ellen Orford knows,That we should humbly take what Heav'n bestows."My father died—again my mother wed,And found the comforts of her life were fled;Her angry husband, vex'd through half his yearsBy loss and troubles, fill'd her soul with fears;130Their children many, and 'twas my poor placeTo nurse and wait on all the infant-race;Labour and hunger were indeed my part,And should have strengthen'd an erroneous heart."Sore was the grief to see him angry come,And, teased with business, make distress at home;The father's fury and the children's criesI soon could bear, but not my mother's sighs;For she look'd back on comforts, and would say,'I wrong'd thee, Ellen,' and then turn away.140Thus for my age's good, my youth was tried,And this my fortune till my mother died."So, amid sorrow much and littlecheer—A common case—I pass'd my twentieth year;For these are frequent evils; thousands shareAn equal grief—the like domestic care."Then in my days of bloom, of health and youth,One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth.We often met, he dreading to be seen,And much I question'd what such dread might mean;150Yet I believed him true; my simple heartAnd undirected reason took his part.}"Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive?}Can I such wrong of one so kind believe,}Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when I grieve?"He dared not marry, but we met to proveWhat sad encroachments and deceits has love:Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew,I let him see that I was wretched too;When less my caution, I had still the pain160Of his or mine own weakness to complain."Happy the lovers class'd alike in life,Or happier yet the rich endowing wife;But most aggrieved the fond believing maid,Of her rich lover tenderly afraid.You judge th' event; for grievous was my fate,Painful to feel, and shameful to relate:Ah! sad it was my burthen to sustain,When the least misery was the dread of pain;When I have grieving told him my disgrace,170And plainly mark'd indifference in his face."Hard! with these fears and terrors to beholdThe cause of all, the faithless lover cold;Impatient grown at every wish denied,And barely civil, soothed and gratified;Peevish when urged to think of vows so strong,And angry when I spake of crime and wrong."All this I felt, and still the sorrow grew,Because I felt that I deserved it too,And begg'd my infant stranger to forgive180The mother's shame, which in herself must live."When known that shame, I, soon expell'd from home,With a frail sister shared a hovel's gloom;There barely fed—(what could I more request?)—My infant slumberer sleeping at my breast;I from my window saw his blooming bride,And my seducer smiling at her side;Hope lived till then; I sank upon the floor,And grief and thought and feeling were no more.Although revived, I judged that life would close,190And went to rest, to wonder that I rose:My dreams were dismal; wheresoe'er I stray'd,I seem'd ashamed, alarm'd, despised, betray'd;Always in grief, in guilt, disgraced, forlorn,Mourning that one so weak, so vile, was born;}The earth a desert, tumult in the sea,}The birds affrighted fled from tree to tree,}Obscured the setting sun, and every thing like me;But Heav'n had mercy, and my need at lengthUrged me to labour and renew'd my strength.200"I strove for patience as a sinner must,Yet felt th' opinion of the world unjust:There was my lover, in his joy, esteem'd,And I, in my distress, as guilty deem'd;Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belongTo her who feels and suffers for the wrong.The cheat at play may use the wealth he's won,But is not honour'd for the mischief done;The cheat in love may use each villain-art,And boast the deed that breaks the victim's heart.210"Four years were past; I might again have foundSome erring wish, but for another wound:Lovely my daughter grew, her face was fair;But no expression ever brighten'd there.I doubted long, and vainly strove to makeSome certain meaning of the words she spake;But meaning there was none, and I survey'dWith dread the beauties of my idiot-maid."Still I submitted;—Oh! 'tis meet and fitIn all we feel to make the heart submit;220Gloomy and calm my days, but I had then,It seem'd, attractions for the eyes of men.The sober master of a decent tradeO'erlook'd my errors, and his offer made;Reason assented;—true, my heart denied,'But thou,' I said, 'shalt be no more my guide.'"When wed, our toil and trouble, pains and care,Of means to live procured us humble share;Five were our sons,—and we, though careful, foundOur hopes declining as the year came round;230For I perceived, yet would not soon perceive,My husband stealing from my view to grieve;Silent he grew, and when he spoke he sigh'd,And surly look'd and peevishly replied.Pensive by nature, he had gone of lateTo those who preach'd of destiny and fate,Of things fore-doom'd, and of election-grace,And how in vain we strive to run our race;}That all by works and moral worth we gain}Is to perceive our care and labour vain;}240That still the more we pay, our debts the more remain;That he who feels not the mysterious call,Lies bound in sin, still grov'ling from the fall.My husband felt not;—our persuasion, prayer,And our best reason darken'd his despair;His very nature changed; he now reviledMy former conduct—he reproach'd my child;He talk'd of bastard slips, and cursed his bed,And from our kindness to concealment fled;}For ever to some evil change inclined,}250To every gloomy thought he lent his mind,}Nor rest would give to us, nor rest himself could find;His son suspended saw him, long bereftOf life, nor prospect of revival left."With him died all our prospects, and once moreI shared th' allotments of the parish poor;They took my children too, and this I knowWas just and lawful, but I felt the blow;My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boyWere left, a mother's misery and her joy.260"Three sons I follow'd to the grave, and one—Oh! can I speak of that unhappy son?Would all the memory of that time were fled,And all those horrors, with my child, were dead!Before the world seduced him, what a graceAnd smile of gladness shone upon his face!Then he had knowledge; finely would he write;Study to him was pleasure and delight;Great was his courage, and but few could standAgainst the sleight and vigour of his hand;270The maidens loved him;—when he came to die,No, not the coldest could suppress a sigh.Here I must cease—how can I say, my childWas by the bad of either sex beguiled?Worst of the bad—they taught him that the lawsMade wrong and right; there was no other cause;That all religion was the trade of priests,And men, when dead, must perish like thebeasts;—And he, so lively and so gaybefore—Ah! spare a mother—I can tell no more.280"Int'rest was made that they should not destroyThe comely form of my deludedboy—But pardon came not; damp the place and deepWhere he was kept, as they'd a tiger keep;For he, unhappy! had before them allVow'd he'd escape, whatever might befall."He'd means of dress, and dress'd beyond his means,And, so to see him in such dismal scenes,I cannot speak it—cannot bear to tellOf that sad hour—I heard the passing-bell!290"Slowly they went; he smiled and look'd so smart,Yet sure he shudder'd when he saw the cart,And gave a look—until my dying-day,That look will never from my mind away;Oft as I sit, and ever in my dreams,I see that look, and they have heard my screams."Now let me speak no more—yet all declaredThat one so young, in pity should be spared,And one so manly;—on his graceful neck,That chains of jewels may be proud to deck,300To a small mole a mother's lips have press'd—And there the cord—my breath is sore oppress'd."I now can speak again:—my elder boyWas that year drown'd—a seaman in a hoy.He left a numerous race; of these would someIn their young troubles to my cottage come;And these I taught—an humble teacherI—Upon their heavenly Parent to rely."Alas! I needed such reliancemore:—My idiot-girl, so simply gay before,310Now wept in pain; some wretch had found a time,Depraved and wicked, for that coward-crime;I had indeed my doubt, but I suppress'dThe thought that day and night disturb'd my rest;She and that sick-pale brother—but why striveTo keep the terrors of that time alive?"The hour arrived, the new, th' undreaded pain,That came with violence and yet came in vain.I saw her die; her brother too is dead,Nor own'd such crime—what is it that I dread?320"The parish-aid withdrawn, I look'd around,And in my school a bless'd subsistencefound—My winter-calm of life: to be of useWould pleasant thoughts and heavenly hopes produce;I loved them all; it soothed me to presageThe various trials of their riper age,Then dwell on mine, and bless the Power who gavePains to correct us, and remorse to save."Yes! these were days of peace, but they arepast—A trial came, I will believe, a last;330I lost my sight, and my employment gone,Useless I live, but to the day live on;Those eyes, which long the light of heaven enjoy'd,Were not by pain, by agony destroy'd;My senses fail not all; I speak, I pray;By night my rest, my food I take by day;And as my mind looks cheerful to my end,I love mankind and call my God my friend."
Observe yon tenement, apart and small,
Where the wet pebbles shine upon the wall;
Where the low benches lean beside the door,
And the red paling bounds the space before;
Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love[67]bloom—
That humble dwelling is the widow's home.
There live a pair, for various fortunes known,
But the Blind Ellen will relate herown;—
Yet, ere we hear the story she can tell,
10
On prouder sorrows let us briefly dwell.
I've often marvel'd, when by night, by day,
I've mark'd the manners moving in my way,
And heard the language and beheld the lives
Of lass and lover, goddesses and wives:
That books, which promise much of life to give,
Should show so little how we truly live.
To me it seems, their females and their men
Are but the creatures of the author's pen;
Nay, creatures borrow'd and again convey'd
20
From book to book—the shadows of a shade.
Life, if they'd search, would show them many a change,
The ruin sudden and the misery strange!
With more of grievous, base, and dreadful things,
Than novelists relate or poet sings.
But they, who ought to look the world around,
Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground;
Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold,
And plots are laid and histories are told.
Time have I lent—I would their debt wereless—
30
To flow'ry pages of sublime distress;
And to the heroine's soul-distracting fears
I early gave my sixpences and tears:
Oft have I travell'd in these tender tales,
To Darnley-Cottages and Maple-Vales,
And watch'd the fair-one from the first-born sigh,
When Henry pass'd and gazed in passing by;
Till I beheld them pacing in the park,
Close by a coppice where 'twas cold and dark;
When such affection with such fate appear'd,
40
Want and a father to be shunn'd and fear'd,
Without employment, prospect, cot, or cash,
That I have judged th' heroic souls were rash.
Now shifts the scene—the fair, in tower confined,
In all things suffers but in change of mind;
Now woo'd by greatness to a bed of state,
Now deeply threaten'd with a dungeon's grate;
Till, suffering much and being tried enough,
She shines, triumphant maid!—temptation-proof.
Then was I led to vengeful monks, who mix
50
With nymphs and swains, and play unpriestly tricks;
Then view'd banditti, who in forest wide,
And cavern vast, indignant virgins hide;
Who, hemm'd with bands of sturdiest rogues about,
Find some strange succour, and come virgins out.
I've watch'd a wint'ry night on castle-walls;
I've stalk'd by moonlight through deserted halls;
And, when the weary world was sunk to rest,
I've had such sights as—may not be express'd.
Lo! that chateau, the western tower decay'd,
60
The peasants shun it—they are all afraid;
For there was done a deed!—could walls reveal,
Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel!
Most horrid was it:—for, behold, the floor
Has stain of blood, and will be clean no more.
Hark to the winds! which through the wide saloon
And the long passage send a dismaltune—
Music that ghosts delight in;—and now heed
Yon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the deed.
See! with majestic sweep she swims alone
70
Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan;
Though windows rattle, and though tap'stries shake,
And the feet falter every step they take,
}
'Mid groans and gibing sprights she silent goes,
}
To find a something, which will soon expose
}
The villanies and wiles of her determined foes;
And, having thus adventured, thus endured,
Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured.
Much have I fear'd, but am no more afraid,
When some chaste beauty, by some wretch betray'd,
80
Is drawn away with such distracted speed,
That she anticipates a dreadfuldeed;—
Not so do I.—Let solid walls impound
The captive fair, and dig a moat around;
Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,
And keepers cruel, such as never feel;
With not a single note the purse supply,
And when she begs, let men and maids deny;
Be windows those from which she dares not fall,
And help so distant, 'tis in vain to call;
90
Still means of freedom will some power devise,
And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize.
To Northern Wales, in some sequester'd spot,
I've followed fair Louisa to her cot;
Where, then a wretched and deserted bride,
The injured fair-one wish'd from man to hide;
Till by her fond repenting Belville found,
By some kind chance—the straying of ahound—
He at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain;
For the relenting dove flew back again.
}
100
There's something rapturous in distress, or, oh!
}
Could Clementina bear her lot of wo?
}
Or what she underwent could maiden undergo?
The day was fix'd; for so the lover sigh'd,
So knelt and craved, he couldn't be denied;
When, tale most dreadful! every hopeadieu—
For the fond lover is the brother too:
All other griefs abate; this monstrous grief
Has no remission, comfort, or relief;
Four ample volumes, through each pagedisclose—
110
Good Heaven protect us!—only woes on woes;
Till some strange means afford a sudden view
Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu![68]
Now, should we grant these beauties all endure
Severest pangs, they've still the speediest cure,
}
Before one charm be wither'd from the face,
}
Except the bloom, which shall again have place,
}
In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace;
And life to come we fairly may suppose
One light, bright contrast to these wild dark woes.
120
These let us leave, and at her sorrows look,
Too often seen, but seldom in a book;
Let her who felt, relate them.—On her chair
The heroine sits—in former years the fair,
Now aged and poor; but Ellen Orford knows,
That we should humbly take what Heav'n bestows.
"My father died—again my mother wed,
And found the comforts of her life were fled;
Her angry husband, vex'd through half his years
By loss and troubles, fill'd her soul with fears;
130
Their children many, and 'twas my poor place
To nurse and wait on all the infant-race;
Labour and hunger were indeed my part,
And should have strengthen'd an erroneous heart.
"Sore was the grief to see him angry come,
And, teased with business, make distress at home;
The father's fury and the children's cries
I soon could bear, but not my mother's sighs;
For she look'd back on comforts, and would say,
'I wrong'd thee, Ellen,' and then turn away.
140
Thus for my age's good, my youth was tried,
And this my fortune till my mother died.
"So, amid sorrow much and littlecheer—
A common case—I pass'd my twentieth year;
For these are frequent evils; thousands share
An equal grief—the like domestic care.
"Then in my days of bloom, of health and youth,
One, much above me, vow'd his love and truth.
We often met, he dreading to be seen,
And much I question'd what such dread might mean;
150
Yet I believed him true; my simple heart
And undirected reason took his part.
}
"Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive?
}
Can I such wrong of one so kind believe,
}
Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when I grieve?
"He dared not marry, but we met to prove
What sad encroachments and deceits has love:
Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew,
I let him see that I was wretched too;
When less my caution, I had still the pain
160
Of his or mine own weakness to complain.
"Happy the lovers class'd alike in life,
Or happier yet the rich endowing wife;
But most aggrieved the fond believing maid,
Of her rich lover tenderly afraid.
You judge th' event; for grievous was my fate,
Painful to feel, and shameful to relate:
Ah! sad it was my burthen to sustain,
When the least misery was the dread of pain;
When I have grieving told him my disgrace,
170
And plainly mark'd indifference in his face.
"Hard! with these fears and terrors to behold
The cause of all, the faithless lover cold;
Impatient grown at every wish denied,
And barely civil, soothed and gratified;
Peevish when urged to think of vows so strong,
And angry when I spake of crime and wrong.
"All this I felt, and still the sorrow grew,
Because I felt that I deserved it too,
And begg'd my infant stranger to forgive
180
The mother's shame, which in herself must live.
"When known that shame, I, soon expell'd from home,
With a frail sister shared a hovel's gloom;
There barely fed—(what could I more request?)—
My infant slumberer sleeping at my breast;
I from my window saw his blooming bride,
And my seducer smiling at her side;
Hope lived till then; I sank upon the floor,
And grief and thought and feeling were no more.
Although revived, I judged that life would close,
190
And went to rest, to wonder that I rose:
My dreams were dismal; wheresoe'er I stray'd,
I seem'd ashamed, alarm'd, despised, betray'd;
Always in grief, in guilt, disgraced, forlorn,
Mourning that one so weak, so vile, was born;
}
The earth a desert, tumult in the sea,
}
The birds affrighted fled from tree to tree,
}
Obscured the setting sun, and every thing like me;
But Heav'n had mercy, and my need at length
Urged me to labour and renew'd my strength.
200
"I strove for patience as a sinner must,
Yet felt th' opinion of the world unjust:
There was my lover, in his joy, esteem'd,
And I, in my distress, as guilty deem'd;
Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belong
To her who feels and suffers for the wrong.
The cheat at play may use the wealth he's won,
But is not honour'd for the mischief done;
The cheat in love may use each villain-art,
And boast the deed that breaks the victim's heart.
210
"Four years were past; I might again have found
Some erring wish, but for another wound:
Lovely my daughter grew, her face was fair;
But no expression ever brighten'd there.
I doubted long, and vainly strove to make
Some certain meaning of the words she spake;
But meaning there was none, and I survey'd
With dread the beauties of my idiot-maid.
"Still I submitted;—Oh! 'tis meet and fit
In all we feel to make the heart submit;
220
Gloomy and calm my days, but I had then,
It seem'd, attractions for the eyes of men.
The sober master of a decent trade
O'erlook'd my errors, and his offer made;
Reason assented;—true, my heart denied,
'But thou,' I said, 'shalt be no more my guide.'
"When wed, our toil and trouble, pains and care,
Of means to live procured us humble share;
Five were our sons,—and we, though careful, found
Our hopes declining as the year came round;
230
For I perceived, yet would not soon perceive,
My husband stealing from my view to grieve;
Silent he grew, and when he spoke he sigh'd,
And surly look'd and peevishly replied.
Pensive by nature, he had gone of late
To those who preach'd of destiny and fate,
Of things fore-doom'd, and of election-grace,
And how in vain we strive to run our race;
}
That all by works and moral worth we gain
}
Is to perceive our care and labour vain;
}
240
That still the more we pay, our debts the more remain;
That he who feels not the mysterious call,
Lies bound in sin, still grov'ling from the fall.
My husband felt not;—our persuasion, prayer,
And our best reason darken'd his despair;
His very nature changed; he now reviled
My former conduct—he reproach'd my child;
He talk'd of bastard slips, and cursed his bed,
And from our kindness to concealment fled;
}
For ever to some evil change inclined,
}
250
To every gloomy thought he lent his mind,
}
Nor rest would give to us, nor rest himself could find;
His son suspended saw him, long bereft
Of life, nor prospect of revival left.
"With him died all our prospects, and once more
I shared th' allotments of the parish poor;
They took my children too, and this I know
Was just and lawful, but I felt the blow;
My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boy
Were left, a mother's misery and her joy.
260
"Three sons I follow'd to the grave, and one—
Oh! can I speak of that unhappy son?
Would all the memory of that time were fled,
And all those horrors, with my child, were dead!
Before the world seduced him, what a grace
And smile of gladness shone upon his face!
Then he had knowledge; finely would he write;
Study to him was pleasure and delight;
Great was his courage, and but few could stand
Against the sleight and vigour of his hand;
270
The maidens loved him;—when he came to die,
No, not the coldest could suppress a sigh.
Here I must cease—how can I say, my child
Was by the bad of either sex beguiled?
Worst of the bad—they taught him that the laws
Made wrong and right; there was no other cause;
That all religion was the trade of priests,
And men, when dead, must perish like thebeasts;—
And he, so lively and so gaybefore—
Ah! spare a mother—I can tell no more.
280
"Int'rest was made that they should not destroy
The comely form of my deludedboy—
But pardon came not; damp the place and deep
Where he was kept, as they'd a tiger keep;
For he, unhappy! had before them all
Vow'd he'd escape, whatever might befall.
"He'd means of dress, and dress'd beyond his means,
And, so to see him in such dismal scenes,
I cannot speak it—cannot bear to tell
Of that sad hour—I heard the passing-bell!
290
"Slowly they went; he smiled and look'd so smart,
Yet sure he shudder'd when he saw the cart,
And gave a look—until my dying-day,
That look will never from my mind away;
Oft as I sit, and ever in my dreams,
I see that look, and they have heard my screams.
"Now let me speak no more—yet all declared
That one so young, in pity should be spared,
And one so manly;—on his graceful neck,
That chains of jewels may be proud to deck,
300
To a small mole a mother's lips have press'd—
And there the cord—my breath is sore oppress'd.
"I now can speak again:—my elder boy
Was that year drown'd—a seaman in a hoy.
He left a numerous race; of these would some
In their young troubles to my cottage come;
And these I taught—an humble teacherI—
Upon their heavenly Parent to rely.
"Alas! I needed such reliancemore:—
My idiot-girl, so simply gay before,
310
Now wept in pain; some wretch had found a time,
Depraved and wicked, for that coward-crime;
I had indeed my doubt, but I suppress'd
The thought that day and night disturb'd my rest;
She and that sick-pale brother—but why strive
To keep the terrors of that time alive?
"The hour arrived, the new, th' undreaded pain,
That came with violence and yet came in vain.
I saw her die; her brother too is dead,
Nor own'd such crime—what is it that I dread?
320
"The parish-aid withdrawn, I look'd around,
And in my school a bless'd subsistencefound—
My winter-calm of life: to be of use
Would pleasant thoughts and heavenly hopes produce;
I loved them all; it soothed me to presage
The various trials of their riper age,
Then dwell on mine, and bless the Power who gave
Pains to correct us, and remorse to save.
"Yes! these were days of peace, but they arepast—
A trial came, I will believe, a last;
330
I lost my sight, and my employment gone,
Useless I live, but to the day live on;
Those eyes, which long the light of heaven enjoy'd,
Were not by pain, by agony destroy'd;
My senses fail not all; I speak, I pray;
By night my rest, my food I take by day;
And as my mind looks cheerful to my end,
I love mankind and call my God my friend."
NOTES TO LETTER XX.[67]Note 1, page 470, line 5.Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love bloom.The lad's or boy's love of some counties is the plant southernwood, the artemisia abrotanum of botanists.[68]Note 2, page 473, line 112.Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu!As this incident points out the work alluded to, I wish it to be remembered, that the gloomy tenour, the querulous melancholy of the story, is all I censure. The language of the writer is often animated, and is, I believe, correct; the characters well drawn, and the manners described from real life; but the perpetual occurrence of sad events, the protracted list of teasing and perplexing mischances, joined with much waspish invective, unallayed by pleasantry or sprightliness, and these continued through many hundred pages, render publications, intended for amusement and executed with ability, heavy and displeasing;—you find your favourite persons happy in the end; but they have teased you so much with their perplexities by the way, that you were frequently disposed to quit them in their distresses.
NOTES TO LETTER XX.
[67]Note 1, page 470, line 5.Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love bloom.The lad's or boy's love of some counties is the plant southernwood, the artemisia abrotanum of botanists.
[67]Note 1, page 470, line 5.
Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love bloom.
Where thrift and lavender and lad's-love bloom.
The lad's or boy's love of some counties is the plant southernwood, the artemisia abrotanum of botanists.
[68]Note 2, page 473, line 112.Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu!As this incident points out the work alluded to, I wish it to be remembered, that the gloomy tenour, the querulous melancholy of the story, is all I censure. The language of the writer is often animated, and is, I believe, correct; the characters well drawn, and the manners described from real life; but the perpetual occurrence of sad events, the protracted list of teasing and perplexing mischances, joined with much waspish invective, unallayed by pleasantry or sprightliness, and these continued through many hundred pages, render publications, intended for amusement and executed with ability, heavy and displeasing;—you find your favourite persons happy in the end; but they have teased you so much with their perplexities by the way, that you were frequently disposed to quit them in their distresses.
[68]Note 2, page 473, line 112.
Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu!
Of some vile plot, and every wo adieu!
As this incident points out the work alluded to, I wish it to be remembered, that the gloomy tenour, the querulous melancholy of the story, is all I censure. The language of the writer is often animated, and is, I believe, correct; the characters well drawn, and the manners described from real life; but the perpetual occurrence of sad events, the protracted list of teasing and perplexing mischances, joined with much waspish invective, unallayed by pleasantry or sprightliness, and these continued through many hundred pages, render publications, intended for amusement and executed with ability, heavy and displeasing;—you find your favourite persons happy in the end; but they have teased you so much with their perplexities by the way, that you were frequently disposed to quit them in their distresses.
THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.
ABEL KEENE.
[Cœpisti] melius quam [desinis]: ultima primisCedunt. Dissimiles: hic vir et ille puer.Ovid. Deïanira Herculi[Heroid. VIII. vv. 23-4].
[Cœpisti] melius quam [desinis]: ultima primis
Cedunt. Dissimiles: hic vir et ille puer.
Ovid. Deïanira Herculi[Heroid. VIII. vv. 23-4].
Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that, in the latter times, some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils.
[I]Epistle to Timothy, [ch. IV. v. 1].
Abel, a poor Man, Teacher of a School of the lower Order; is placed in the Office of a Merchant; is alarmed by Discourses of the Clerks; unable to reply; becomes a Convert; dresses, drinks, and ridicules his former Conduct—The Remonstrance of his Sister, a devoutMaiden—Its Effect—The Merchant dies—Abel returns to Poverty unpitied; but relieved—His abject Condition—His Melancholy—He wanders about: is found—His own Account of himself, and the Revolutions in his Mind.
LETTER XXI.
ABEL KEENE.
A quiet simple man was Abel Keene;He meant no harm, nor did he often mean.He kept a school of loud rebellious boys,And growing old, grew nervous with the noise;When a kind merchant hired his useful pen,And made him happiest of accompting men;With glee he rose to every easy day,When half the labour brought him twice the pay.There were young clerks, and there the merchant's son,10Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one;It must, no question, give them lively joy,Hopes long indulged, to combat and destroy;At these they level'd all their skill andstrength—He fell not quickly, but he fell at length.They quoted books, to him both bold and new,And scorn'd as fables all he held astrue—"Such monkish stories and such nursery lies,"That he was struck with terror and surprise."What! all his life had he the laws obey'd,20Which they broke through and were not once afraid?Had he so long his evil passions check'd,And yet at last had nothing to expect?While they their lives in joy and pleasure led,And then had nothing, at the end, to dread?Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd,A part! a speech! for which the man was paid?And were his pious books, his solemn prayers,Not worth one tale of the admired Voltaire's?Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd,30To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd,And on all pleasures, which his purse could give,Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live."Much time he passed in this important strife,The bliss or bane of his remaining life;For converts all are made with care and grief,And pangs attend the birth of unbelief;Nor pass they soon;—with awe and fear he tookThe flow'ry way, and cast back many a look.The youths applauded much his wise design,40With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine;And much in private 'twould their mirth improve,To hear how Abel spake of life and love;To hear him own what grievous pains it cost,Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost;Ere his poor mind with every deed alarm'd,By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd.For Abel enter'd in his bold career,Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear;Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went,50Repenting now, now dreading to repent;With awkward pace, and with himself at war,Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far;Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise,And then proceed with blunders and delays.}The young more aptly passion's calls pursue,}But age and weakness start at scenes so new,}And tremble when they've done, for all they dared to do.At length example Abel's dread removed;With small concern he sought the joys he loved;60Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame,And first their votary, then their wit became;His jest was bitter and his satire bold,When he his tales of formal brethren told,What time with pious neighbours he discuss'd,Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust:"Such were our dreams," the jovial elder cried;"Awake and live," his youthful friends replied.Now the gay clerk a modest drab despised,And clad him smartly as his friends advised;70So fine a coat upon his back he threw,That not an alley-boy old Abel knew;Broad polish'd buttons blazed that coat upon,And just beneath the watch's trinketsshone—A splendid watch, that pointed out the time,To fly from business and make free with crime.The crimson waistcoat and the silken hoseRank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux;His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain,And light elastic locks encased his brain:80More pliant pupil who could hope to find,So deck'd in person and so changed in mind?When Abel walk'd the streets, with pleasant mienHe met his friends, delighted to be seen;And, when he rode along the public way,No beau so gaudy and no youth so gay.}His pious sister, now an ancient maid,}For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd;}Then thus in love and scorn her notions she convey'd:}"Alas! my brother! can I see thee pace}90Hoodwink'd to hell, and not lament thy case,}Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race?Lo! thou art bound; a slave in Satan's chain,The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain;His brother's blood against the murderer cried;Against thee thine, unhappy suicide!Are all our pious nights and peaceful days,Our evening readings and our morning praise,Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent,Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent,100All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed—Are these for ever and for ever fled?"When in the years gone by, the trying years,When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears,Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not eat(Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat;When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe,Slow pass'd the days of the successless year;Still in these gloomy hours, my brother thenHad glorious views, unseen by prosperous men:110And when thy heart has felt its wish denied,What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied;Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed,By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed;Then I have seen thy lively looks expressThe spirit's comforts in the man's distress."Then didst thou cry, exulting, 'Yes, 'tis fit,'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit;'And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weighAgainst such triumphs?—Oh! repent and pray.120"What are thy pleasures?—with the gay to sit,And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit;All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain,And give a wicked pleasure to the vain;Thy long lean frame by fashion to attire,That lads may laugh and wantons may admire;To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see,Unhappy maniac! that they laugh at thee."These boyish follies, which alone the boyCan idly act or gracefully enjoy,130Add new reproaches to thy fallen state,And make men scorn what they would only hate."What pains, my brother, dost thou take to proveA taste for follies which thou canst not love!Why do thy stiffening limbs the steedbestride—That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride?And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek)Dost thou by night in Diamond-Alley sneak?}"Farewell! the parish will thy sister keep,}Where she in peace shall pray and sing and sleep,}140Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, wandering sheep!When youth is fall'n, there's hope the young may rise,But fallen age for ever hopeless lies:Torn up by storms and placed in earth once more,The younger tree may sun and soil restore;But when the old and sapless trunk lies low,No care or soil can former life bestow;Reserved for burning is the worthless tree;And what, O Abel! is reserved for thee?"These angry words our hero deeply felt,150Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt!To gain relief he took a glass the more,And, then went on as careless as before;Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amusements he partook,And (save his ledger) saw no decent book;Him found the merchant punctual at his task,And, that perform'd, he'd nothing more to ask;He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool,No master he, beyond the hours of school:Thus they, proceeding, had their wine and joke,160Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke,And, after struggling half a gloomy week,Left his poor clerk another friend to seek.Alas! the son, who led the saint astray,Forgot the man whose follies made him gay;He cared no more for Abel in his need,[Than] Abel cared about his hackney steed;He now, alas! had all his earnings spent,And thus was left to languish and repent;No school nor clerkship found he in the place,170Now lost to fortune, as before to grace.For town-relief the grieving man applied,And begg'd with tears what some with scorn denied;Others look'd down upon the glowing vest,And, frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd?Happy for him his country's laws are mild,They must support him, though they still reviled;Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd,Of God unmindful, and of manafraid—No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to speak,180His heart was sinking and his frame was weak.His sister died with such serene delight,He once again began to think her right;Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay,And sweet assurance bless'd her dying-day;Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh,Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die.The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door,Just mention'd "Abel!" and then thought no more.So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn,190Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn.And now we saw him on the beach reclined,Or causeless walking in the wint'ry wind;And, when it raised a loud and angry sea,He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie;He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow;Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow.Sometimes his frame through many an hour he spreadUpon a tombstone, moveless as the dead;And, was there found a sad and silent place,200There would he creep with slow and measured pace.Then would he wander by the river's side,And fix his eyes upon the falling tide;The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen,And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then:There, to his discontented thoughts a prey,The melancholy mortal pined away.The neighb'ring poor at length began to speakOf Abel's ramblings—he'd been gone a week,They knew not where; and little care they took210For one so friendless and so poor to look;At last a stranger, in a pedler's shed,Beheld him hanging—he had long been dead.He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times,Intitled thus—"My Groanings and my Crimes!""I was a christian man, and none could layAught to my charge; I walk'd the narrow way:All then was simple faith, serene and pure,My hope was steadfast and my prospects sure;}Then was I tried by want and sickness sore,}220But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before,}And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore.Alas! new foes assail'd me; I was vain,They stung my pride and they confused my brain:Oh! these deluders! with what glee they sawTheir simple dupe transgress the righteous law;'Twas joy to them to view that dreadful strife,When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life;So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart,Then with their logic they allay'd the smart;230They proved (so thought I then) with reasons strong,That no man's feelings ever led him wrong;And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice,The smooth career of unbelief and vice.Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and bold,Their witty tales of naughty priests unfold;''Twas all a craft,' they said, 'a cunning trade,Not she the priests, but priests religion made:'So I believed;"—No, Abel! to thy grief,So thou relinquish'dst all that wasbelief;—240"I grew as very flint, and when the restLaugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest;}But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew,}When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew;}Yea! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too."The mouse that trespass'd and the treasure stole,Found his lean body fitted to the hole;Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay,And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away.Ah! worse for me—grown poor, I yet remain250In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain."At length I thought: although these friends of sinHave spread their net and caught their prey therein;Though my hard heart could not for mercy call,Because, though great my grief, my faith was small;Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely,The soul diseased may to a doctor fly."A famous one there was, whose skill had wroughtCures past relief, and him the sinners sought;Numbers there were denied by mire and filth,260Whom he recover'd by his goodly tilth:—'Come then,' I said, 'let me the man behold,And tell my case;'—I saw him and I told."With trembling voice, 'Oh! reverend sir,' I said,'I once believed, and I was then misled;And now such doubts my sinful soul beset,I dare not say that I'm a Christian yet;Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill,Inform my judgment and direct my will?Ah! give thy cordial; let my soul have rest,270And be the outward man alone distress'd;For at my state I tremble.'—'Tremble more,'Said the good man, 'and then rejoice therefore;'Tis good to tremble; prospects then are fair,When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair.Once thou wert simply honest, just and pure,Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a cure;Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace;Now thou'rt an object meet for healing grace;}No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief;}280Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief,}The best, the only titles to relief.'"'What must I do,' I said, 'my soul to free?''—Do nothing, man; it will be done for thee.''But must I not, my reverend guide, believe?''—If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faithreceive;'—'But I repent not.'—Angry he replied,'If thou art call'd, thou needest nought beside;Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree,The call will come—if not, ah! wo for thee.'290"There then I waited, ever on the watch,A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch;His words fell softly like the flakes of snow,But I could never find my heart o'erflow.He cried aloud, till in the flock beganThe sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man;They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I,Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry.To me no tokens of the call would come,I felt my sentence and received my doom;}300But I complain'd;—'Let thy repinings cease,}Oh! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase;}It bloweth where it listeth,—die in peace.'—'In peace, and perish?' I replied; 'impartSome better comfort to a burthen'dheart.'—'Alas!' the priest return'd, 'can I directThe heavenly call?—Do I proclaim th' elect?Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will,But take thy part with sinners and be still[69].'"Alas! for me, no more the times of peace310Are mine on earth—in death my pains may cease."Foes to my soul! ye young seducers, know,What serious ills from your amusements flow;Opinions you with so much ease professO'erwhelm the simple and their minds oppress:Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong,That make them wretched, prove their notions wrong;Let them proceed in that they deem the way,Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray.Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot;320And so had Dives, but it help'd him not.And is it thus?—I'm full of doubts:—Adieu!Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too."
A quiet simple man was Abel Keene;
He meant no harm, nor did he often mean.
He kept a school of loud rebellious boys,
And growing old, grew nervous with the noise;
When a kind merchant hired his useful pen,
And made him happiest of accompting men;
With glee he rose to every easy day,
When half the labour brought him twice the pay.
There were young clerks, and there the merchant's son,
10
Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one;
It must, no question, give them lively joy,
Hopes long indulged, to combat and destroy;
At these they level'd all their skill andstrength—
He fell not quickly, but he fell at length.
They quoted books, to him both bold and new,
And scorn'd as fables all he held astrue—
"Such monkish stories and such nursery lies,"
That he was struck with terror and surprise.
"What! all his life had he the laws obey'd,
20
Which they broke through and were not once afraid?
Had he so long his evil passions check'd,
And yet at last had nothing to expect?
While they their lives in joy and pleasure led,
And then had nothing, at the end, to dread?
Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd,
A part! a speech! for which the man was paid?
And were his pious books, his solemn prayers,
Not worth one tale of the admired Voltaire's?
Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd,
30
To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd,
And on all pleasures, which his purse could give,
Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live."
Much time he passed in this important strife,
The bliss or bane of his remaining life;
For converts all are made with care and grief,
And pangs attend the birth of unbelief;
Nor pass they soon;—with awe and fear he took
The flow'ry way, and cast back many a look.
The youths applauded much his wise design,
40
With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine;
And much in private 'twould their mirth improve,
To hear how Abel spake of life and love;
To hear him own what grievous pains it cost,
Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost;
Ere his poor mind with every deed alarm'd,
By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd.
For Abel enter'd in his bold career,
Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear;
Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went,
50
Repenting now, now dreading to repent;
With awkward pace, and with himself at war,
Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far;
Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise,
And then proceed with blunders and delays.
}
The young more aptly passion's calls pursue,
}
But age and weakness start at scenes so new,
}
And tremble when they've done, for all they dared to do.
At length example Abel's dread removed;
With small concern he sought the joys he loved;
60
Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame,
And first their votary, then their wit became;
His jest was bitter and his satire bold,
When he his tales of formal brethren told,
What time with pious neighbours he discuss'd,
Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust:
"Such were our dreams," the jovial elder cried;
"Awake and live," his youthful friends replied.
Now the gay clerk a modest drab despised,
And clad him smartly as his friends advised;
70
So fine a coat upon his back he threw,
That not an alley-boy old Abel knew;
Broad polish'd buttons blazed that coat upon,
And just beneath the watch's trinketsshone—
A splendid watch, that pointed out the time,
To fly from business and make free with crime.
The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose
Rank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux;
His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain,
And light elastic locks encased his brain:
80
More pliant pupil who could hope to find,
So deck'd in person and so changed in mind?
When Abel walk'd the streets, with pleasant mien
He met his friends, delighted to be seen;
And, when he rode along the public way,
No beau so gaudy and no youth so gay.
}
His pious sister, now an ancient maid,
}
For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd;
}
Then thus in love and scorn her notions she convey'd:
}
"Alas! my brother! can I see thee pace
}
90
Hoodwink'd to hell, and not lament thy case,
}
Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race?
Lo! thou art bound; a slave in Satan's chain,
The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain;
His brother's blood against the murderer cried;
Against thee thine, unhappy suicide!
Are all our pious nights and peaceful days,
Our evening readings and our morning praise,
Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent,
Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent,
100
All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed—
Are these for ever and for ever fled?
"When in the years gone by, the trying years,
When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears,
Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not eat
(Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat;
When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe,
Slow pass'd the days of the successless year;
Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then
Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men:
110
And when thy heart has felt its wish denied,
What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied;
Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed,
By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed;
Then I have seen thy lively looks express
The spirit's comforts in the man's distress.
"Then didst thou cry, exulting, 'Yes, 'tis fit,
'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit;'
And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh
Against such triumphs?—Oh! repent and pray.
120
"What are thy pleasures?—with the gay to sit,
And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit;
All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain,
And give a wicked pleasure to the vain;
Thy long lean frame by fashion to attire,
That lads may laugh and wantons may admire;
To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see,
Unhappy maniac! that they laugh at thee.
"These boyish follies, which alone the boy
Can idly act or gracefully enjoy,
130
Add new reproaches to thy fallen state,
And make men scorn what they would only hate.
"What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove
A taste for follies which thou canst not love!
Why do thy stiffening limbs the steedbestride—
That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride?
And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek)
Dost thou by night in Diamond-Alley sneak?
}
"Farewell! the parish will thy sister keep,
}
Where she in peace shall pray and sing and sleep,
}
140
Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, wandering sheep!
When youth is fall'n, there's hope the young may rise,
But fallen age for ever hopeless lies:
Torn up by storms and placed in earth once more,
The younger tree may sun and soil restore;
But when the old and sapless trunk lies low,
No care or soil can former life bestow;
Reserved for burning is the worthless tree;
And what, O Abel! is reserved for thee?"
These angry words our hero deeply felt,
150
Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt!
To gain relief he took a glass the more,
And, then went on as careless as before;
Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amusements he partook,
And (save his ledger) saw no decent book;
Him found the merchant punctual at his task,
And, that perform'd, he'd nothing more to ask;
He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool,
No master he, beyond the hours of school:
Thus they, proceeding, had their wine and joke,
160
Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke,
And, after struggling half a gloomy week,
Left his poor clerk another friend to seek.
Alas! the son, who led the saint astray,
Forgot the man whose follies made him gay;
He cared no more for Abel in his need,
[Than] Abel cared about his hackney steed;
He now, alas! had all his earnings spent,
And thus was left to languish and repent;
No school nor clerkship found he in the place,
170
Now lost to fortune, as before to grace.
For town-relief the grieving man applied,
And begg'd with tears what some with scorn denied;
Others look'd down upon the glowing vest,
And, frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd?
Happy for him his country's laws are mild,
They must support him, though they still reviled;
Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd,
Of God unmindful, and of manafraid—
No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to speak,
180
His heart was sinking and his frame was weak.
His sister died with such serene delight,
He once again began to think her right;
Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay,
And sweet assurance bless'd her dying-day;
Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh,
Assured of nothing, felt afraid to die.
The cheerful clerks who sometimes pass'd the door,
Just mention'd "Abel!" and then thought no more.
So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn,
190
Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn.
And now we saw him on the beach reclined,
Or causeless walking in the wint'ry wind;
And, when it raised a loud and angry sea,
He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie;
He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow;
Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow.
Sometimes his frame through many an hour he spread
Upon a tombstone, moveless as the dead;
And, was there found a sad and silent place,
200
There would he creep with slow and measured pace.
Then would he wander by the river's side,
And fix his eyes upon the falling tide;
The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen,
And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then:
There, to his discontented thoughts a prey,
The melancholy mortal pined away.
The neighb'ring poor at length began to speak
Of Abel's ramblings—he'd been gone a week,
They knew not where; and little care they took
210
For one so friendless and so poor to look;
At last a stranger, in a pedler's shed,
Beheld him hanging—he had long been dead.
He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times,
Intitled thus—"My Groanings and my Crimes!"
"I was a christian man, and none could lay
Aught to my charge; I walk'd the narrow way:
All then was simple faith, serene and pure,
My hope was steadfast and my prospects sure;
}
Then was I tried by want and sickness sore,
}
220
But these I clapp'd my shield of faith before,
}
And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore.
Alas! new foes assail'd me; I was vain,
They stung my pride and they confused my brain:
Oh! these deluders! with what glee they saw
Their simple dupe transgress the righteous law;
'Twas joy to them to view that dreadful strife,
When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life;
So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart,
Then with their logic they allay'd the smart;
230
They proved (so thought I then) with reasons strong,
That no man's feelings ever led him wrong;
And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice,
The smooth career of unbelief and vice.
Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and bold,
Their witty tales of naughty priests unfold;
''Twas all a craft,' they said, 'a cunning trade,
Not she the priests, but priests religion made:'
So I believed;"—No, Abel! to thy grief,
So thou relinquish'dst all that wasbelief;—
240
"I grew as very flint, and when the rest
Laugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest;
}
But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew,
}
When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew;
}
Yea! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too.
"The mouse that trespass'd and the treasure stole,
Found his lean body fitted to the hole;
Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay,
And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away.
Ah! worse for me—grown poor, I yet remain
250
In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain.
"At length I thought: although these friends of sin
Have spread their net and caught their prey therein;
Though my hard heart could not for mercy call,
Because, though great my grief, my faith was small;
Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely,
The soul diseased may to a doctor fly.
"A famous one there was, whose skill had wrought
Cures past relief, and him the sinners sought;
Numbers there were denied by mire and filth,
260
Whom he recover'd by his goodly tilth:—
'Come then,' I said, 'let me the man behold,
And tell my case;'—I saw him and I told.
"With trembling voice, 'Oh! reverend sir,' I said,
'I once believed, and I was then misled;
And now such doubts my sinful soul beset,
I dare not say that I'm a Christian yet;
Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill,
Inform my judgment and direct my will?
Ah! give thy cordial; let my soul have rest,
270
And be the outward man alone distress'd;
For at my state I tremble.'—'Tremble more,'
Said the good man, 'and then rejoice therefore;
'Tis good to tremble; prospects then are fair,
When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair.
Once thou wert simply honest, just and pure,
Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a cure;
Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace;
Now thou'rt an object meet for healing grace;
}
No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief;
}
280
Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief,
}
The best, the only titles to relief.'
"'What must I do,' I said, 'my soul to free?'
'—Do nothing, man; it will be done for thee.'
'But must I not, my reverend guide, believe?'
'—If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faithreceive;'—
'But I repent not.'—Angry he replied,
'If thou art call'd, thou needest nought beside;
Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree,
The call will come—if not, ah! wo for thee.'
290
"There then I waited, ever on the watch,
A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch;
His words fell softly like the flakes of snow,
But I could never find my heart o'erflow.
He cried aloud, till in the flock began
The sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man;
They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I,
Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry.
To me no tokens of the call would come,
I felt my sentence and received my doom;
}
300
But I complain'd;—'Let thy repinings cease,
}
Oh! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase;
}
It bloweth where it listeth,—die in peace.'
—'In peace, and perish?' I replied; 'impart
Some better comfort to a burthen'dheart.'—
'Alas!' the priest return'd, 'can I direct
The heavenly call?—Do I proclaim th' elect?
Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will,
But take thy part with sinners and be still[69].'
"Alas! for me, no more the times of peace
310
Are mine on earth—in death my pains may cease.
"Foes to my soul! ye young seducers, know,
What serious ills from your amusements flow;
Opinions you with so much ease profess
O'erwhelm the simple and their minds oppress:
Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong,
That make them wretched, prove their notions wrong;
Let them proceed in that they deem the way,
Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray.
Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot;
320
And so had Dives, but it help'd him not.
And is it thus?—I'm full of doubts:—Adieu!
Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too."
NOTE TO LETTER XXI.[69]Note 1, page 489, line 308.But take thy part with sinners and be still.In a periodical work for the month of June last, the preceding dialogue is pronounced to be a most abominable caricature, if meant to be applied to Calvinists in general, and greatly distorted, if designed for an individual. Now, the author in his preface has declared, that he takes not upon him the censure of any sect or society for their opinions; and the lines themselves evidently point to an individual, whose sentiments they very fairly represent, without any distortion whatsoever. In a pamphlet entitled "A Cordial for a Sin-despairing Soul," originally written by a teacher of religion, and lately re-published by another teacher of greater notoriety, the reader is informed that after he had full assurance of his salvation, the Spirit entered particularly into the subject with him; and, among many other matters of like nature, assured him that "his sins were fully and freely forgiven, as if they had never been committed: not for any act done by him, whether believing in Christ, or repenting of sin; nor yet for the sorrows and miseries he endured, nor for any service he should be called upon in his militant state, but for his own name and for his glory's sake[70]," &c. And the whole drift and tenour of the book is to the same purpose, viz. the uselessness of all religious duties, such as prayer, contrition, fasting, and good works: he shows the evil done by reading such books as the Whole Duty of Man, and the Practice of Piety; and complains heavily of his relation, an Irish bishop, who wanted him to join with the household in family prayer: in fact, the whole work inculcates that sort of quietism which this dialogue alludes to, and that without any recommendation of attendance on the teachers of the Gospel, but rather holding forth encouragement to the supineness of man's nature; by the information that he in vain looks for acceptance by the employment of his talents, and that his hopes of glory are rather extinguished than raised by any application to the means of grace.[70]Cordial, &c. page 87.
NOTE TO LETTER XXI.
[69]Note 1, page 489, line 308.But take thy part with sinners and be still.In a periodical work for the month of June last, the preceding dialogue is pronounced to be a most abominable caricature, if meant to be applied to Calvinists in general, and greatly distorted, if designed for an individual. Now, the author in his preface has declared, that he takes not upon him the censure of any sect or society for their opinions; and the lines themselves evidently point to an individual, whose sentiments they very fairly represent, without any distortion whatsoever. In a pamphlet entitled "A Cordial for a Sin-despairing Soul," originally written by a teacher of religion, and lately re-published by another teacher of greater notoriety, the reader is informed that after he had full assurance of his salvation, the Spirit entered particularly into the subject with him; and, among many other matters of like nature, assured him that "his sins were fully and freely forgiven, as if they had never been committed: not for any act done by him, whether believing in Christ, or repenting of sin; nor yet for the sorrows and miseries he endured, nor for any service he should be called upon in his militant state, but for his own name and for his glory's sake[70]," &c. And the whole drift and tenour of the book is to the same purpose, viz. the uselessness of all religious duties, such as prayer, contrition, fasting, and good works: he shows the evil done by reading such books as the Whole Duty of Man, and the Practice of Piety; and complains heavily of his relation, an Irish bishop, who wanted him to join with the household in family prayer: in fact, the whole work inculcates that sort of quietism which this dialogue alludes to, and that without any recommendation of attendance on the teachers of the Gospel, but rather holding forth encouragement to the supineness of man's nature; by the information that he in vain looks for acceptance by the employment of his talents, and that his hopes of glory are rather extinguished than raised by any application to the means of grace.
[69]Note 1, page 489, line 308.
But take thy part with sinners and be still.
But take thy part with sinners and be still.
In a periodical work for the month of June last, the preceding dialogue is pronounced to be a most abominable caricature, if meant to be applied to Calvinists in general, and greatly distorted, if designed for an individual. Now, the author in his preface has declared, that he takes not upon him the censure of any sect or society for their opinions; and the lines themselves evidently point to an individual, whose sentiments they very fairly represent, without any distortion whatsoever. In a pamphlet entitled "A Cordial for a Sin-despairing Soul," originally written by a teacher of religion, and lately re-published by another teacher of greater notoriety, the reader is informed that after he had full assurance of his salvation, the Spirit entered particularly into the subject with him; and, among many other matters of like nature, assured him that "his sins were fully and freely forgiven, as if they had never been committed: not for any act done by him, whether believing in Christ, or repenting of sin; nor yet for the sorrows and miseries he endured, nor for any service he should be called upon in his militant state, but for his own name and for his glory's sake[70]," &c. And the whole drift and tenour of the book is to the same purpose, viz. the uselessness of all religious duties, such as prayer, contrition, fasting, and good works: he shows the evil done by reading such books as the Whole Duty of Man, and the Practice of Piety; and complains heavily of his relation, an Irish bishop, who wanted him to join with the household in family prayer: in fact, the whole work inculcates that sort of quietism which this dialogue alludes to, and that without any recommendation of attendance on the teachers of the Gospel, but rather holding forth encouragement to the supineness of man's nature; by the information that he in vain looks for acceptance by the employment of his talents, and that his hopes of glory are rather extinguished than raised by any application to the means of grace.
[70]Cordial, &c. page 87.
[70]Cordial, &c. page 87.
THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.
PETER GRIMES.
——Was a sordid soul,Such as does murder for a meed;Who but for fear knows no control,Because his conscience, sear'd and foul,Feels not the import of the deed;One whose brute feeling ne'er aspiresBeyond his own more brute desires.Scott, Marmion[Canto II.].
——Was a sordid soul,
Such as does murder for a meed;
Who but for fear knows no control,
Because his conscience, sear'd and foul,
Feels not the import of the deed;
One whose brute feeling ne'er aspires
Beyond his own more brute desires.
Scott, Marmion[Canto II.].
Methought the souls of all that I had murder'dCame to my tent, and every one didthreat——Shakspeare. Richard III.[Act V. Sc. 3, vv. 204-5].
Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent, and every one didthreat——
Shakspeare. Richard III.[Act V. Sc. 3, vv. 204-5].