The times have been,That, when the brains were out, the man would die,And there an end; but now they rise again,With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,And push us from our stools.Macbeth[Act III. Sc. 4. vv. 78-82].
The times have been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools.
Macbeth[Act III. Sc. 4. vv. 78-82].
The Father of Peter a Fisherman—Peter's early Conduct—His Grief for the old Man—He takes an Apprentice—The Boy's Suffering and Fate—A second Boy: how he died—Peter acquitted—A third Apprentice—A Voyage by Sea: the Boy does not return—Evil Report on Peter: he is tried and threatened—Lives alone—His Melancholy and incipientMadness—Is observed and visited—He escapes and is taken: is lodged in a Parish-house: Women attend and watch him—He speaks in a Delirium: grows more collected—His Account of his Feelings and visionary Terrors previous to his Death.
LETTER XXII.
PETER GRIMES.
}Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ;}His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy,}And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy.To town came quiet Peter with his fish,And had of all a civil word and wish.He left his trade upon the sabbath-day,And took young Peter in his hand to pray;But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose,At first refused, then added his abuse;10His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied,But, being drunk, wept sorely when he died.Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there cameMuch of his conduct, and he felt theshame:—How he had oft the good old man reviled,And never paid the duty of a child;How, when the father in his Bible read,He in contempt and anger left the shed;"It is the word of life," the parent cried;—"This is the life itself," the boy replied;20And while old Peter in amazement stood,Gave the hot spirit to his boilingblood;—How he, with oath and furious speech, beganTo prove his freedom and assert the man;And when the parent check'd his impious rage,How he had cursed the tyranny ofage;—Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blowOn his bare head, and laid his parent low;The father groan'd—"If thou art old," said he,"And hast a son—thou wilt remember me;30Thy mother left me in a happy time,Thou kill'dst not her—Heav'n spares the double crime."On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief,This he revolved, and drank for his relief.Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'dFrom constant pleasure, and he thought it hard;Hard that he could not every wish obey,But must awhile relinquish ale and play;Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,But must acquire the money he would spend.40With greedy eye he look'd on all he saw;He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law;On all he mark'd he stretch'd his ready hand;He fish'd by water, and he filch'd by land.Oft in the night has Peter dropp'd his oar,Fled from his boat and sought for prey on shore;}Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back}Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack,}Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack;And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose,50The more he look'd on all men as his foes.He built a mud-wall'd hovel, where he keptHis various wealth, and there he oft-times slept;But no success could please his cruel soul,He wish'd for one to trouble and control;He wanted some obedient boy to standAnd bear the blow of his outrageous hand;And hoped to find in some propitious hourA feeling creature subject to his power.Peter had heard there were in Londonthen—60Still have they being!—workhouse-clearing men,Who, undisturb'd by feelings just or kind,Would parish-boys to needy tradesmen bind;They in their want a trifling sum would take,And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make.Such Peter sought, and, when a lad was found,The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound.Some few in town observed in Peter's trapA boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap;But none inquired how Peter used the rope,70Or what the bruise, that made the stripling stoop;None could the ridges on his back behold,None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold;None put the question—"Peter, dost thou giveThe boy his food?—What, man! the lad must live:Consider, Peter, let the child have bread,He'll serve thee better if he's stroked and fed."None reason'd thus—and some, on hearing cries,Said calmly, "Grimes is at his exercise."Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, threaten'd, andabused—80His efforts punish'd and his food refused—Awake tormented—soon aroused fromsleep—Struck if he wept, and yet compell'd to weep:The trembling boy dropp'd down and strove to pray,Received a blow, and trembling turn'd away,Or sobb'd and hid his piteous face;—while he,The savage master, grinn'd in horrid glee:He'd now the power he ever loved to show,A feeling being subject to his blow.Thus lived the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,90His tears despised, his supplications vain.Compell'd by fear to lie, by need to steal,His bed uneasy and unbless'd his meal,For three sad years the boy his tortures bore;And then his pains and trials were no more.}"How died he, Peter?" when the people said,}He growl'd—"I found him lifeless in his bed;"}Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, "Poor Sam is dead."Yet murmurs were there, and some questionsask'd—How he was fed, how punish'd, and how task'd?100Much they suspected, but they little proved,And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmoved.Another boy with equal ease was found,The money granted, and the victim bound;And what his fate?—One night, it chanced he fellFrom the boat's mast and perish'd in her well,Where fish were living kept, and where the boy(So reason'd men) could not himself destroy.0.5(For he was idle both by night and day,)110He climb'd the main-mast and then fell below;"—Then show'd his corpse and pointed to theblow;—"What said the jury?"—They were long in doubt;But sturdy Peter faced the matter out:So they dismiss'd him, saying at the time,"Keep fast your hatchway, when you've boys who climb."This hit the conscience, and he colour'd moreThan for the closest questions put before.Thus all his fears the verdict set aside,And at the slave-shop Peter still applied.120Then came a boy, of manners soft and mild—Our seamen's wives with grief beheld the child;All thought (the poor themselves) that he was oneOf gentle blood, some noble sinner's son,Who had, belike, deceived some humble maid,Whom he had first seduced and thenbetray'd.—However this, he seem'd a gracious lad,In grief submissive and with patience sad.Passive he labour'd, till his slender frameBent with his loads, and he at length waslame;—130Strange that a frame so weak could bear so longThe grossest insult and the foulest wrong;But there were causes—in the town they gaveFire, food, and comfort, to the gentle slave;And though stern Peter, with a cruel hand,And knotted rope, enforced the rude command,Yet he consider'd what he'd lately felt,And his vile blows with selfish pity dealt.One day such draughts the cruel fisher madeHe could not vend them in his borough-trade,140But sail'd for London-mart; the boy was ill,But ever humbled to his master's will;And on the river, where they smoothly sail'd,He strove with terror and awhile prevail'd;But, new to danger on the angry sea,He clung affrighten'd to his master's knee.The boat grew leaky and the wind was strong,Rough was the passage and the time was long;His liquor fail'd, and Peter's wratharose—No more is known—the rest we must suppose,}150Or learn of Peter;—Peter says, he "spied}The stripling's danger and for harbour tried;}Meantime the fish, and then th' apprentice died."The pitying women raised a clamour round,And weeping said, "Thou hast thy 'prentice drown'd."Now the stern man was summon'd to the hall,To tell his tale before the burghers all.He gave th' account; profess'd the lad he loved,And kept his brazen features all unmoved.The mayor himself with tone severereplied,—160"Henceforth with thee shall never boy abide;Hire thee a freeman, whom thou durst not beat,But who, in thy despite, will sleep and eat.Free thou art now!—again shouldst thou appear,Thou'lt find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe."Alas! for Peter not a helping hand,So was he hated, could he now command;Alone he row'd his boat; alone he castHis nets beside, or made his anchor fast;To hold a rope or hear a curse wasnone—170He toil'd and rail'd; he groan'd and swore alone.Thus by himself compell'd to live each day,To wait for certain hours the tide's delay;At the same times the same dull views to see,The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree;The water only when the tides were high;When low, the mud half-cover'd and half-dry;The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks,And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks;Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float,180As the tide rolls by the impeded boat.When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day,Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way,Which on each side rose swelling, and belowThe dark warm flood ran silently and slow:}There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,}There hang his head, and view the lazy tide}In its hot slimy channel slowly glide;Where the small eels that left the deeper wayFor the warm shore, within the shallows play;190Where gaping muscles, left upon the mud,Slope their slow passage to the fallenflood:—Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and traceHow sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked race;Or sadly listen to the tuneless cryOf fishing gull or clanging golden-eye;}What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come,}And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home,}Gave from the salt-ditch side the bellowing boom.He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,200And loved to stop beside the opening sluice;Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound;Where all presented to the eye or earOppress'd the soul with misery, grief, and fear.Besides these objects, there were places three,Which Peter seem'd with certain dread to see;When he drew near them he would turn from each,And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach[71].A change of scene to him brought no relief;210In town, 'twas plain, men took him for a thief:The sailors' wives would stop him in the street,And say, "Now, Peter, thou'st no boy to beat;"Infants at play, when they perceived him, ran,Warning each other—"That's the wicked man;"He growl'd an oath, and in an angry toneCursed the whole place and wish'd to be alone.Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view,And still more gloomy in his sight they grew.Though man he hated, yet employ'd alone220At bootless labour, he would swear and groan,Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot,And gulls that caught them when his arts could not.Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame,And strange disease—he couldn't say the name;Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright,Waked by his view of horrors in thenight—Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,Horrors that demons might be proud to raise;}And, though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,}230To think he lived from all mankind apart;}Yet, if a man approach'd, in terrors he would start.A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town,And summer-lodgers were again come down;These, idly curious, with their glasses spiedThe ships in bay as anchored for thetide—The river's craft—the bustle of thequay—And sea-port views, which landmen love to see.One, up the river, had a man and boatSeen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat;}240Fisher he seem'd, yet used no net nor hook;}Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took,}But on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look;At certain stations he would view the stream,As if he stood bewilder'd in a dream,Or that some power had chain'd him for a time,To feel a curse or meditate on crime.This known, some curious, some in pity went,And others question'd—"Wretch, dost thou repent?"He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd250His boat; new terror fill'd his restless mind;Furious he grew, and up the country ran,And there they seized him—a distemper'dman.—Him we received; and to a parish-bed,Follow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led.Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun,A lost, lone man, so harass'd and undone,Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel,Perceived compassion on their anger steal;His crimes they could not from their memories blot;260But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot.A priest too came, to whom his words are told;And all the signs they shudder'd to behold.}"Look! look!" they cried; "his limbs with horror shake,}And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make!}How glare his angry eyes, and yet he's not awake.See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,And how he clenches that broad bony hand."The priest, attending, found he spoke at timesAs one alluding to his fears and crimes:270"It was the fall," he mutter'd, "I can showThe manner how—I never struck ablow;"—And then aloud—"Unhand me, free my chain;On oath, he fell—it struck him to thebrain;—Why ask my father?—that old man will swearAgainst my life; besides, he wasn'tthere;—What, all agreed?—Am I to die to-day?—My Lord, in mercy, give me time to pray."Then, as they watch'd him, calmer he became,And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame,280But murmuring spake—while they could see and hearThe start of terror and the groan of fear;See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise,And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes;Nor yet he died, but with unwonted forceSeem'd with some fancied being to discourse.He knew not us, or with accustom'd artHe hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart;'Twas part confession and the rest defence,A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense.290"I'll tell you all," he said; "the very dayWhen the old man first placed them in my way:My father's spirit—he who always triedTo give me trouble, when he lived anddied—When he was gone, he could not be contentTo see my days in painful labour spent,But would appoint his meetings, and he madeMe watch at these, and so neglect my trade."'Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene;No living being had I lately seen;300I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net,But (such his pleasure) I could nothingget—A father's pleasure, when his toil was done,To plague and torture thus an only son!And so I sat and look'd upon the stream,How it ran on, and felt as in adream—But dream it was not; no!—I fix'd my eyesOn the mid stream and saw the spirits rise;I saw my father on the water stand,And held a thin pale boy in either hand;310And there they glided ghastly on the topOf the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop.I would have struck them, but they knew th' intent,And smiled upon the oar, and down they went."Now, from that day, whenever I beganTo dip my net, there stood the hard oldman—He and those boys; I humbled me and pray'dThey would be gone;—they heeded not, but stay'd.}Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by,}But gazing on the spirits, there was I;}320They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to die.And every day, as sure as day arose,Would these three spirits meet me ere the close;To hear and mark them daily was my doom,And 'Come,' they said, with weak, sad voices, 'come.'}To row away with all my strength I try'd;}But there were they, hard by me in the tide,}The three unbodied forms—and 'Come,' still 'come,' they cried."Fathers should pity—but this old man shookHis hoary locks, and froze me by a look.330Thrice, when I struck them, through the water cameA hollow groan that weakened all my frame;'Father!' said I, 'have mercy!'—He replied,I know not what—the angry spiritlied,—'Didst thou not draw thy knife?' said he;—'Twas true,But I had pity and my arm withdrew;He cried for mercy which I kindly gave,But he has no compassion in his grave."There were three places, where they everrose;—The whole long river has not such asthose—340Places accursed, where, if a man remain,He'll see the things which strike him to the brain;And there they made me on my paddle lean,And look at them for hours—accursed scene!When they would glide to that smooth eddy-space,Then bid me leap and join them in the place;And at my groans each little villain spriteEnjoy'd my pains and vanish'd in delight."In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brainWas burning hot and cruel was my pain,350Then came this father-foe; and there he stoodWith his two boys again upon the flood;There was more mischief in their eyes, more gleeIn their pale faces when they glared at me.Still did they force me on the oar to rest,And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd,He, with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood,And there came flame about him, mix'd with blood;He bade me stoop and look upon the place,Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face;360Burning it blazed, and then I roar'd for pain,I thought the demons would have turn'd my brain."Still there they stood, and forced me to beholdA place of horrors—they cannot betold—Where the flood open'd, there I heard the shriekOf tortured guilt no earthly tongue can speak:'All days alike! for ever!' did they say,'And unremitted torments every day!'—Yes, so they said;"—but here he ceased and gazedOn all around, affrighten'd and amazed;370And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dreadOf frighten'd females gathering round his bed;Then dropp'd exhausted and appear'd at rest,Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd;Then with an inward, broken voice he cried,"Again they come," and mutter'd as he died.
}
Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ;
}
His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy,
}
And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy.
To town came quiet Peter with his fish,
And had of all a civil word and wish.
He left his trade upon the sabbath-day,
And took young Peter in his hand to pray;
But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose,
At first refused, then added his abuse;
10
His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied,
But, being drunk, wept sorely when he died.
Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there came
Much of his conduct, and he felt theshame:—
How he had oft the good old man reviled,
And never paid the duty of a child;
How, when the father in his Bible read,
He in contempt and anger left the shed;
"It is the word of life," the parent cried;
—"This is the life itself," the boy replied;
20
And while old Peter in amazement stood,
Gave the hot spirit to his boilingblood;—
How he, with oath and furious speech, began
To prove his freedom and assert the man;
And when the parent check'd his impious rage,
How he had cursed the tyranny ofage;—
Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow
On his bare head, and laid his parent low;
The father groan'd—"If thou art old," said he,
"And hast a son—thou wilt remember me;
30
Thy mother left me in a happy time,
Thou kill'dst not her—Heav'n spares the double crime."
On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief,
This he revolved, and drank for his relief.
Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd
From constant pleasure, and he thought it hard;
Hard that he could not every wish obey,
But must awhile relinquish ale and play;
Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,
But must acquire the money he would spend.
40
With greedy eye he look'd on all he saw;
He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law;
On all he mark'd he stretch'd his ready hand;
He fish'd by water, and he filch'd by land.
Oft in the night has Peter dropp'd his oar,
Fled from his boat and sought for prey on shore;
}
Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back
}
Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack,
}
Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack;
And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose,
50
The more he look'd on all men as his foes.
He built a mud-wall'd hovel, where he kept
His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept;
But no success could please his cruel soul,
He wish'd for one to trouble and control;
He wanted some obedient boy to stand
And bear the blow of his outrageous hand;
And hoped to find in some propitious hour
A feeling creature subject to his power.
Peter had heard there were in Londonthen—
60
Still have they being!—workhouse-clearing men,
Who, undisturb'd by feelings just or kind,
Would parish-boys to needy tradesmen bind;
They in their want a trifling sum would take,
And toiling slaves of piteous orphans make.
Such Peter sought, and, when a lad was found,
The sum was dealt him, and the slave was bound.
Some few in town observed in Peter's trap
A boy, with jacket blue and woollen cap;
But none inquired how Peter used the rope,
70
Or what the bruise, that made the stripling stoop;
None could the ridges on his back behold,
None sought him shiv'ring in the winter's cold;
None put the question—"Peter, dost thou give
The boy his food?—What, man! the lad must live:
Consider, Peter, let the child have bread,
He'll serve thee better if he's stroked and fed."
None reason'd thus—and some, on hearing cries,
Said calmly, "Grimes is at his exercise."
Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, threaten'd, andabused—
80
His efforts punish'd and his food refused—
Awake tormented—soon aroused fromsleep—
Struck if he wept, and yet compell'd to weep:
The trembling boy dropp'd down and strove to pray,
Received a blow, and trembling turn'd away,
Or sobb'd and hid his piteous face;—while he,
The savage master, grinn'd in horrid glee:
He'd now the power he ever loved to show,
A feeling being subject to his blow.
Thus lived the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,
90
His tears despised, his supplications vain.
Compell'd by fear to lie, by need to steal,
His bed uneasy and unbless'd his meal,
For three sad years the boy his tortures bore;
And then his pains and trials were no more.
}
"How died he, Peter?" when the people said,
}
He growl'd—"I found him lifeless in his bed;"
}
Then tried for softer tone, and sigh'd, "Poor Sam is dead."
Yet murmurs were there, and some questionsask'd—
How he was fed, how punish'd, and how task'd?
100
Much they suspected, but they little proved,
And Peter pass'd untroubled and unmoved.
Another boy with equal ease was found,
The money granted, and the victim bound;
And what his fate?—One night, it chanced he fell
From the boat's mast and perish'd in her well,
Where fish were living kept, and where the boy
(So reason'd men) could not himself destroy.
0.5
(For he was idle both by night and day,)
110
He climb'd the main-mast and then fell below;"—
Then show'd his corpse and pointed to theblow;—
"What said the jury?"—They were long in doubt;
But sturdy Peter faced the matter out:
So they dismiss'd him, saying at the time,
"Keep fast your hatchway, when you've boys who climb."
This hit the conscience, and he colour'd more
Than for the closest questions put before.
Thus all his fears the verdict set aside,
And at the slave-shop Peter still applied.
120
Then came a boy, of manners soft and mild—
Our seamen's wives with grief beheld the child;
All thought (the poor themselves) that he was one
Of gentle blood, some noble sinner's son,
Who had, belike, deceived some humble maid,
Whom he had first seduced and thenbetray'd.—
However this, he seem'd a gracious lad,
In grief submissive and with patience sad.
Passive he labour'd, till his slender frame
Bent with his loads, and he at length waslame;—
130
Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long
The grossest insult and the foulest wrong;
But there were causes—in the town they gave
Fire, food, and comfort, to the gentle slave;
And though stern Peter, with a cruel hand,
And knotted rope, enforced the rude command,
Yet he consider'd what he'd lately felt,
And his vile blows with selfish pity dealt.
One day such draughts the cruel fisher made
He could not vend them in his borough-trade,
140
But sail'd for London-mart; the boy was ill,
But ever humbled to his master's will;
And on the river, where they smoothly sail'd,
He strove with terror and awhile prevail'd;
But, new to danger on the angry sea,
He clung affrighten'd to his master's knee.
The boat grew leaky and the wind was strong,
Rough was the passage and the time was long;
His liquor fail'd, and Peter's wratharose—
No more is known—the rest we must suppose,
}
150
Or learn of Peter;—Peter says, he "spied
}
The stripling's danger and for harbour tried;
}
Meantime the fish, and then th' apprentice died."
The pitying women raised a clamour round,
And weeping said, "Thou hast thy 'prentice drown'd."
Now the stern man was summon'd to the hall,
To tell his tale before the burghers all.
He gave th' account; profess'd the lad he loved,
And kept his brazen features all unmoved.
The mayor himself with tone severereplied,—
160
"Henceforth with thee shall never boy abide;
Hire thee a freeman, whom thou durst not beat,
But who, in thy despite, will sleep and eat.
Free thou art now!—again shouldst thou appear,
Thou'lt find thy sentence, like thy soul, severe."
Alas! for Peter not a helping hand,
So was he hated, could he now command;
Alone he row'd his boat; alone he cast
His nets beside, or made his anchor fast;
To hold a rope or hear a curse wasnone—
170
He toil'd and rail'd; he groan'd and swore alone.
Thus by himself compell'd to live each day,
To wait for certain hours the tide's delay;
At the same times the same dull views to see,
The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree;
The water only when the tides were high;
When low, the mud half-cover'd and half-dry;
The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks,
And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks;
Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float,
180
As the tide rolls by the impeded boat.
When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day,
Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way,
Which on each side rose swelling, and below
The dark warm flood ran silently and slow:
}
There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,
}
There hang his head, and view the lazy tide
}
In its hot slimy channel slowly glide;
Where the small eels that left the deeper way
For the warm shore, within the shallows play;
190
Where gaping muscles, left upon the mud,
Slope their slow passage to the fallenflood:—
Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and trace
How sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked race;
Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry
Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye;
}
What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come,
}
And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home,
}
Gave from the salt-ditch side the bellowing boom.
He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,
200
And loved to stop beside the opening sluice;
Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,
Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound;
Where all presented to the eye or ear
Oppress'd the soul with misery, grief, and fear.
Besides these objects, there were places three,
Which Peter seem'd with certain dread to see;
When he drew near them he would turn from each,
And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach[71].
A change of scene to him brought no relief;
210
In town, 'twas plain, men took him for a thief:
The sailors' wives would stop him in the street,
And say, "Now, Peter, thou'st no boy to beat;"
Infants at play, when they perceived him, ran,
Warning each other—"That's the wicked man;"
He growl'd an oath, and in an angry tone
Cursed the whole place and wish'd to be alone.
Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view,
And still more gloomy in his sight they grew.
Though man he hated, yet employ'd alone
220
At bootless labour, he would swear and groan,
Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot,
And gulls that caught them when his arts could not.
Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame,
And strange disease—he couldn't say the name;
Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright,
Waked by his view of horrors in thenight—
Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,
Horrors that demons might be proud to raise;
}
And, though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,
}
230
To think he lived from all mankind apart;
}
Yet, if a man approach'd, in terrors he would start.
A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town,
And summer-lodgers were again come down;
These, idly curious, with their glasses spied
The ships in bay as anchored for thetide—
The river's craft—the bustle of thequay—
And sea-port views, which landmen love to see.
One, up the river, had a man and boat
Seen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat;
}
240
Fisher he seem'd, yet used no net nor hook;
}
Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took,
}
But on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look;
At certain stations he would view the stream,
As if he stood bewilder'd in a dream,
Or that some power had chain'd him for a time,
To feel a curse or meditate on crime.
This known, some curious, some in pity went,
And others question'd—"Wretch, dost thou repent?"
He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd
250
His boat; new terror fill'd his restless mind;
Furious he grew, and up the country ran,
And there they seized him—a distemper'dman.—
Him we received; and to a parish-bed,
Follow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led.
Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun,
A lost, lone man, so harass'd and undone,
Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel,
Perceived compassion on their anger steal;
His crimes they could not from their memories blot;
260
But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot.
A priest too came, to whom his words are told;
And all the signs they shudder'd to behold.
}
"Look! look!" they cried; "his limbs with horror shake,
}
And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make!
}
How glare his angry eyes, and yet he's not awake.
See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,
And how he clenches that broad bony hand."
The priest, attending, found he spoke at times
As one alluding to his fears and crimes:
270
"It was the fall," he mutter'd, "I can show
The manner how—I never struck ablow;"—
And then aloud—"Unhand me, free my chain;
On oath, he fell—it struck him to thebrain;—
Why ask my father?—that old man will swear
Against my life; besides, he wasn'tthere;—
What, all agreed?—Am I to die to-day?—
My Lord, in mercy, give me time to pray."
Then, as they watch'd him, calmer he became,
And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame,
280
But murmuring spake—while they could see and hear
The start of terror and the groan of fear;
See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise,
And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes;
Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force
Seem'd with some fancied being to discourse.
He knew not us, or with accustom'd art
He hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart;
'Twas part confession and the rest defence,
A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense.
290
"I'll tell you all," he said; "the very day
When the old man first placed them in my way:
My father's spirit—he who always tried
To give me trouble, when he lived anddied—
When he was gone, he could not be content
To see my days in painful labour spent,
But would appoint his meetings, and he made
Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade.
"'Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene;
No living being had I lately seen;
300
I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net,
But (such his pleasure) I could nothingget—
A father's pleasure, when his toil was done,
To plague and torture thus an only son!
And so I sat and look'd upon the stream,
How it ran on, and felt as in adream—
But dream it was not; no!—I fix'd my eyes
On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise;
I saw my father on the water stand,
And held a thin pale boy in either hand;
310
And there they glided ghastly on the top
Of the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop.
I would have struck them, but they knew th' intent,
And smiled upon the oar, and down they went.
"Now, from that day, whenever I began
To dip my net, there stood the hard oldman—
He and those boys; I humbled me and pray'd
They would be gone;—they heeded not, but stay'd.
}
Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by,
}
But gazing on the spirits, there was I;
}
320
They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to die.
And every day, as sure as day arose,
Would these three spirits meet me ere the close;
To hear and mark them daily was my doom,
And 'Come,' they said, with weak, sad voices, 'come.'
}
To row away with all my strength I try'd;
}
But there were they, hard by me in the tide,
}
The three unbodied forms—and 'Come,' still 'come,' they cried.
"Fathers should pity—but this old man shook
His hoary locks, and froze me by a look.
330
Thrice, when I struck them, through the water came
A hollow groan that weakened all my frame;
'Father!' said I, 'have mercy!'—He replied,
I know not what—the angry spiritlied,—
'Didst thou not draw thy knife?' said he;—'Twas true,
But I had pity and my arm withdrew;
He cried for mercy which I kindly gave,
But he has no compassion in his grave.
"There were three places, where they everrose;—
The whole long river has not such asthose—
340
Places accursed, where, if a man remain,
He'll see the things which strike him to the brain;
And there they made me on my paddle lean,
And look at them for hours—accursed scene!
When they would glide to that smooth eddy-space,
Then bid me leap and join them in the place;
And at my groans each little villain sprite
Enjoy'd my pains and vanish'd in delight.
"In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain
Was burning hot and cruel was my pain,
350
Then came this father-foe; and there he stood
With his two boys again upon the flood;
There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee
In their pale faces when they glared at me.
Still did they force me on the oar to rest,
And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd,
He, with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood,
And there came flame about him, mix'd with blood;
He bade me stoop and look upon the place,
Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face;
360
Burning it blazed, and then I roar'd for pain,
I thought the demons would have turn'd my brain.
"Still there they stood, and forced me to behold
A place of horrors—they cannot betold—
Where the flood open'd, there I heard the shriek
Of tortured guilt no earthly tongue can speak:
'All days alike! for ever!' did they say,
'And unremitted torments every day!'—
Yes, so they said;"—but here he ceased and gazed
On all around, affrighten'd and amazed;
370
And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dread
Of frighten'd females gathering round his bed;
Then dropp'd exhausted and appear'd at rest,
Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd;
Then with an inward, broken voice he cried,
"Again they come," and mutter'd as he died.
FOOTNOTES:[71]The reaches in a river are those parts which extend from point to point. Johnson has not the word precisely in this sense; but it is very common, and I believe used wheresoever a navigable river can be found in this country.
FOOTNOTES:
[71]The reaches in a river are those parts which extend from point to point. Johnson has not the word precisely in this sense; but it is very common, and I believe used wheresoever a navigable river can be found in this country.
[71]The reaches in a river are those parts which extend from point to point. Johnson has not the word precisely in this sense; but it is very common, and I believe used wheresoever a navigable river can be found in this country.
PRISONS.
Pœna autem vehemens ac multò sævior illis,Quas et Cæditius gravis invenit aut Rhadamanthus,Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem.Juvenal.Sat. 13. ll. 197-9.
Pœna autem vehemens ac multò sævior illis,
Quas et Cæditius gravis invenit aut Rhadamanthus,
Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem.
Juvenal.Sat. 13. ll. 197-9.
Think [our] former state a happy dream,From which awaked, the truth of what we areShows us but this,—I am sworn brother nowTo grim Necessity, and he and IWill keep a league till death.Richard II.[ActV.Sc. 1, ll. 18-22].
Think [our] former state a happy dream,
From which awaked, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this,—I am sworn brother now
To grim Necessity, and he and I
Will keep a league till death.
Richard II.[ActV.Sc. 1, ll. 18-22].
The Mind of Man accommodates itself to all Situations; Prisons otherwise would be intolerable—Debtors; their different Kinds: three particularly described; others more briefly—Anarrested Prisoner: his Account of his Feelings and his Situation—The Alleviations of a Prison—Prisoners for Crimes—Two condemned: a vindictive Female: a Highwayman—The Interval between Condemnation and Execution—His Feelings as the Time approaches—His Dream.
LETTER XXIII.
PRISONS.
'Tis well that man to all the varying statesOf good and ill his mind accommodates;He not alone progressive grief sustains,But soon submits to unexperienced pains.Change after change, all climes his body bears,His mind repeated shocks of changing cares;Faith and fair virtue arm the nobler breast;Hope and mere want of feeling aid the rest.Or who could bear to lose the balmy air10Of summer's breath, from all things fresh and fair,}With all that man admires or loves below;}All earth and water, wood and vale bestow,}Where rosy pleasures smile, whence real blessings flow;With sight and sound of every kind that lives,And crowning all with joy that freedom gives?Who could from these, in some unhappy day,Bear to be drawn by ruthless arms awayTo the vile nuisance of a noisome room,Where only insolence and misery come?20(Save that the curious will by chance appear,Or some in pity drop a fruitless tear,)To a damp prison, where the very sightOf the warm sun is favour and not right;Where all we hear or see the feelings shock,The oath and groan, the fetter and the lock?Who could bear this and live?—Oh! many a yearAll this is borne, and miseries more severe;And some there are, familiar with the scene,Who live in mirth, though few become serene.30Far as I might the inward man perceive,There was a constant effort—not to grieve;Not to despair, for better days would come,And the freed debtor smile again at home;Subdued his habits, he may peace regain,And bless the woes that were not sent in vain.Thus might we class the debtors here confined,The more deceived, the more deceitful kind;Here are the guilty race, who mean to liveOn credit, that credulity will give;40Who purchase, conscious they can never pay;Who know their fate, and traffic to betray;On whom no pity, fear, remorse, prevail,Their aim a statute, their resource ajail;—These as the public spoilers we regard;No dun so harsh, no creditor so hard.A second kind are they, who truly striveTo keep their sinking credit long alive;Success, nay prudence, they may want, but yetThey would be solvent, and deplore a debt;50All means they use, to all expedients run,And are by slow, sad steps, at last undone.Justly, perhaps, you blame their want of skill,But mourn their feelings and absolve their will.There is a debtor, who his triflingallSpreads in a shop; it would not fill a stall:There at one window his temptation lays,And in new modes disposes and displays.Above the door you shall his name behold,And what he vends in ample letters told,60The wordsrepository,warehouse, allHe uses to enlarge concerns so small.He to his goods assigns some beauty's name,Then in her reign, and hopes they'll share her fame;And talks of credit, commerce, traffic, trade,As one important by their profit made;But who can paint the vacancy, the gloom,And spare dimensions of one backward room?Wherein he dines, if so 'tis fit to speak,Of one day's herring and the morrow's steak;70An anchorite in diet, all his careIs to display his stock and vend his ware.Long waiting hopeless, then he tries to meetA kinder fortune in a distant street;There he again displays, increasing yetCorroding sorrow and consuming debt:Alas! he wants the requisites torise—The true connexions, the availing ties;They who proceed on certainties advance;These are not times when men prevail by chance.80But still he tries, till, after years of pain,He finds, with anguish, he has tried in vain.Debtors are these on whom 'tis hard to press,'Tis base, impolitic, and merciless.To these we add a miscellaneous kind,By pleasure, pride, and indolence confined;Those whom no calls, no warnings could divert,The unexperienced and the inexpert;The builder, idler, schemer, gamester,sot—The follies different, but the same their lot;90Victims of horses, lasses, drinking, dice,Of every passion, humour, whim, and vice.See that sad merchant, who but yesterdayHad a vast household in command and pay;He now entreats permission to employA boy he needs, and then entreats the boy.And there sits one, improvident but kind,Bound for a friend, whom honour could not bind;Sighing, he speaks to any who appear,"A treach'rous friend—'twas that which sent me here:100I was too kind—I thought I could dependOn his bare word—he was a treach'rous friend."A female too!—it is to her a home;She came before—and she again will come.Her friends have pity; when their anger drops,They take her home;—she's tried her schools andshops—}Plan after plan;—but fortune would not mend,}She to herself was still the treach'rous friend;}And wheresoe'er began, all here was sure to end.}And there she sits as thoughtless and as gay,}110As if she'd means, or not a debt to pay—}Or knew to-morrow she'd be call'd away—}Or felt a shilling and could dine to-day.While thus observing, I began to traceThe sober'd features of a well-knownface—Looks once familiar, manners form'd to please,And all illumined by a heart at ease.But fraud and flattery ever claim'd a part(Still unresisted) of that easy heart;But he at length beholds me—"Ah! my friend!120And have thy pleasures this unlucky end?""Too sure," he said, and, smiling as he sigh'd:"I went astray, though prudence seem'd my guide;All she proposed I in my heart approved,And she was honour'd, but my pleasureloved—Pleasure, the mistress to whose arms I fled,From wife-like lectures angry prudence read."Why speak the madness of a life like mine,The powers of beauty, novelty, and wine?Why paint the wanton smile, the venal vow,130Or friends whose worth I can appreciate now?"Oft I perceived my fate, and then would say,'I'll think to-morrow, I must live to-day:'So am I here—I own the laws arejust—And here, where thought is painful, think I must.But speech is pleasant; this discourse with theeBrings to my mind the sweets of liberty;Breaks on the sameness of the place, and givesThe doubtful heart conviction that it lives,"Let me describe my anguish in the hour140When law detained me and I felt its power."When in that shipwreck, this I found my shore,And join'd the wretched, who were wreck'd before;When I perceived each feature in the facePinch'd through neglect or turbid by disgrace;When in these wasting forms affliction stoodIn my afflicted view, it chill'd myblood;—And forth I rush'd, a quick retreat to make,Till a loud laugh proclaim'd the dire mistake.But when the groan had settled to a sigh;150When gloom became familiar to the eye;When I perceive how others seem to rest,With every evil rankling in mybreast—Led by example, I put on the man,Sing off my sighs, and trifle as I can."Homer! nay, Pope! (for never will I seekApplause for learning—nought have I with Greek—)Gives us the secrets of his pagan hell,Where ghost with ghost in sad communion dwell;Where shade meets shade, and round the gloomy meads160They glide and speak of old heroic deeds—What fields they conquer'd, and what foes they slewAnd sent to join the melancholy crew."When a new spirit in that world was found,A thousand shadowy forms came flitting round;Those who had known him, fond inquiriesmade:—'Of all we left, inform us, gentle shade,Now as we lead thee in our realms to dwell,Our twilight groves, and meads of asphodel.'"What paints the poet, is our station here,170Where we like ghosts and flitting shades appear:This is the hell he sings, and here we meet,And former deeds to new-made friends repeat;Heroic deeds, which here obtain us fame,And are in fact the causes why we came.Yes! this dim region is old Homer's hell,Abate but groves and meads of asphodel."Here, when a stranger from your world we spy,We gather round him and for news apply;He hears unheeding, nor can speech endure,180But shivering gazes on the vast obscure.We, smiling, pity, and by kindness showWe felt his feelings and his terrors know;Then speak of comfort—time will give him sight,Where now 'tis dark; where now 'tis wo, delight."'Have hope,' we say, 'and soon the place to theeShall not a prison but a castle be;When to the wretch whom care and guilt confound,The world's a prison, with a wider bound;Go where he may, he feels himself confined,190And wears the fetters of an abject mind.'"But now adieu! those giant keys appear,Thou art not worthy to be inmate here;Go to thy world, and to the young declareWhat we, our spirits and employments, are;Tell them how we the ills of life endure,Our empire stable, and our state secure;Our dress, our diet, for their use describe,And bid them haste to join the gen'rous tribe:Go to thy world, and leave us here to dwell,200Who to its joys and comforts bid farewell."Farewell to these; but other scenes I view,And other griefs, and guilt of deeper hue;Where conscience gives to outward ills her pain,Gloom to the night, and pressure to the chain.Here separate cells awhile in misery keepTwo doom'd to suffer; there they strive for sleep;By day indulged, in larger space they range,Their bondage certain, but their bounds have change.One was a female, who had grievous ill210Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still.With death before her, and her fate in view,Unsated vengeance in her bosom grew;Sullen she was and threat'ning; in her eyeGlared the stern triumph that she dared to die;But first a being in the world mustleave—'Twas once reproach; 'twas now a short reprieve.She was a pauper bound, who early gaveHer mind to vice, and doubly was a slave;Upbraided, beaten, held by rough control,220Revenge sustain'd, inspired, and fill'd her soul.She fired a full-stored barn, confess'd the fact,And laugh'd at law and justified the act.Our gentle vicar tried his powers in vain,She answer'd not, or answer'd with disdain;Th' approaching fate she heard without a sigh,And neither cared to live nor fear'd to die.Not so he felt, who with her was to payThe forfeit, life—with dread he view'd the day,And that short space which yet for him remain'd,230Till with his limbs his faculties were chain'd.He paced his narrow bounds some ease to find,But found it not,—no comfort reached his mind.Each sense was palsied; when he tasted food,He sigh'd and said, "Enough—'tis very good."Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to beAs once it was—he seeing could not see,Nor hearing, hear aright;—when first, I cameWithin his view, I fancied there was shame,I judged, resentment; I mistook theair—240These fainter passions live not with despair,Or but exist and die;—Hope, fear, and love,Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move,But touch not his, who every waking hourHas one fix'd dread, and always feels its power."But will not mercy?"—No! she cannot pleadFor such an outrage;—'twas a cruel deed:He stopp'd a timid traveller;—to his breast,With oaths and curses, was the dangerpress'd:—No! he must suffer; pity we may find250For one man's pangs, but must not wrong mankind.Still I behold him, every thought employ'dOn one dire view!—all others are destroy'd;This makes his features ghastly, gives the toneOf his few words resemblance to a groan.He takes his tasteless food, and, when 'tis done,Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one;For expectation is on time intent,Whether he brings us joy or punishment.Yes! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain;260He hears the sentence and he feels the chain;He sees the judge and jury, when he shakes,And loudly cries, "Not guilty," and awakes.Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep,Till worn-out nature is compell'd to sleep.Now comes the dream again; it shows each scene,With each small circumstance that comesbetween—The call to suffering and the verydeed—There crowds go with him, follow, and precede;Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn,270While he in fancied envy looks at them.He seems the place for that sad act to see,And dreams the very thirst which then will be;A priest attends—it seems, the one he knewIn his best days, beneath whose care he grew.At this his terrors take a sudden flight,He sees his native village with delight;The house, the chamber, where he once array'dHis youthful person; where he knelt and pray'd.Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home,280The days of joy; the joys themselves are come—The hours of innocence—the timid lookOf his loved maid, when first her hand he tookAnd told his hope; her trembling joy appears,Her forced reserve and his retreating fears.All now is present;—'tis a moment's gleamOf former sunshine—stay, delightful dream!Let him within his pleasant garden walk,Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.Yes! all are with him now, and all the while290Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile:Then come his sister and his village-friend,And he will now the sweetest moments spendLife has to yield;—no! never will he findAgain on earth such pleasure in his mind:He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,Love in their looks and honour on the tongue;Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows,The bloom is softer and more sweetlygrows;—Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire300For more than true and honest hearts require,They feel the calm delight, and thus proceedThrough the green lane—then linger in themead—Stray o'er the heath in all its purplebloom—And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum;Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread,And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed;Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way310O'er its rough bridge—and there behold the bay!—The ocean smiling to the fervidsun—The waves that faintly fall and slowlyrun—The ships at distance and the boats at hand;And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,Counting the number and what kind they be,Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea;Now arm in arm, now parted, they beholdThe glitt'ring waters on the shingles roll'd;The timid girls, half dreading their design,320Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow,Or lie like pictures on the sand below;With all those bright red pebbles that the sunThrough the small waves so softly shines upon;And those live lucid jellies which the eyeDelights to trace as they swim glitt'ring by:Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire,And will arrange above the parlour-fire,—Tokens of bliss!—"Oh! horrible! a wave330Roars as it rises—save me, Edward! save!"She cries—Alas! the watchman on his wayCalls and lets in—truth, terror, and the day!
'Tis well that man to all the varying states
Of good and ill his mind accommodates;
He not alone progressive grief sustains,
But soon submits to unexperienced pains.
Change after change, all climes his body bears,
His mind repeated shocks of changing cares;
Faith and fair virtue arm the nobler breast;
Hope and mere want of feeling aid the rest.
Or who could bear to lose the balmy air
10
Of summer's breath, from all things fresh and fair,
}
With all that man admires or loves below;
}
All earth and water, wood and vale bestow,
}
Where rosy pleasures smile, whence real blessings flow;
With sight and sound of every kind that lives,
And crowning all with joy that freedom gives?
Who could from these, in some unhappy day,
Bear to be drawn by ruthless arms away
To the vile nuisance of a noisome room,
Where only insolence and misery come?
20
(Save that the curious will by chance appear,
Or some in pity drop a fruitless tear,)
To a damp prison, where the very sight
Of the warm sun is favour and not right;
Where all we hear or see the feelings shock,
The oath and groan, the fetter and the lock?
Who could bear this and live?—Oh! many a year
All this is borne, and miseries more severe;
And some there are, familiar with the scene,
Who live in mirth, though few become serene.
30
Far as I might the inward man perceive,
There was a constant effort—not to grieve;
Not to despair, for better days would come,
And the freed debtor smile again at home;
Subdued his habits, he may peace regain,
And bless the woes that were not sent in vain.
Thus might we class the debtors here confined,
The more deceived, the more deceitful kind;
Here are the guilty race, who mean to live
On credit, that credulity will give;
40
Who purchase, conscious they can never pay;
Who know their fate, and traffic to betray;
On whom no pity, fear, remorse, prevail,
Their aim a statute, their resource ajail;—
These as the public spoilers we regard;
No dun so harsh, no creditor so hard.
A second kind are they, who truly strive
To keep their sinking credit long alive;
Success, nay prudence, they may want, but yet
They would be solvent, and deplore a debt;
50
All means they use, to all expedients run,
And are by slow, sad steps, at last undone.
Justly, perhaps, you blame their want of skill,
But mourn their feelings and absolve their will.
There is a debtor, who his triflingall
Spreads in a shop; it would not fill a stall:
There at one window his temptation lays,
And in new modes disposes and displays.
Above the door you shall his name behold,
And what he vends in ample letters told,
60
The wordsrepository,warehouse, all
He uses to enlarge concerns so small.
He to his goods assigns some beauty's name,
Then in her reign, and hopes they'll share her fame;
And talks of credit, commerce, traffic, trade,
As one important by their profit made;
But who can paint the vacancy, the gloom,
And spare dimensions of one backward room?
Wherein he dines, if so 'tis fit to speak,
Of one day's herring and the morrow's steak;
70
An anchorite in diet, all his care
Is to display his stock and vend his ware.
Long waiting hopeless, then he tries to meet
A kinder fortune in a distant street;
There he again displays, increasing yet
Corroding sorrow and consuming debt:
Alas! he wants the requisites torise—
The true connexions, the availing ties;
They who proceed on certainties advance;
These are not times when men prevail by chance.
80
But still he tries, till, after years of pain,
He finds, with anguish, he has tried in vain.
Debtors are these on whom 'tis hard to press,
'Tis base, impolitic, and merciless.
To these we add a miscellaneous kind,
By pleasure, pride, and indolence confined;
Those whom no calls, no warnings could divert,
The unexperienced and the inexpert;
The builder, idler, schemer, gamester,sot—
The follies different, but the same their lot;
90
Victims of horses, lasses, drinking, dice,
Of every passion, humour, whim, and vice.
See that sad merchant, who but yesterday
Had a vast household in command and pay;
He now entreats permission to employ
A boy he needs, and then entreats the boy.
And there sits one, improvident but kind,
Bound for a friend, whom honour could not bind;
Sighing, he speaks to any who appear,
"A treach'rous friend—'twas that which sent me here:
100
I was too kind—I thought I could depend
On his bare word—he was a treach'rous friend."
A female too!—it is to her a home;
She came before—and she again will come.
Her friends have pity; when their anger drops,
They take her home;—she's tried her schools andshops—
}
Plan after plan;—but fortune would not mend,
}
She to herself was still the treach'rous friend;
}
And wheresoe'er began, all here was sure to end.
}
And there she sits as thoughtless and as gay,
}
110
As if she'd means, or not a debt to pay—
}
Or knew to-morrow she'd be call'd away—
}
Or felt a shilling and could dine to-day.
While thus observing, I began to trace
The sober'd features of a well-knownface—
Looks once familiar, manners form'd to please,
And all illumined by a heart at ease.
But fraud and flattery ever claim'd a part
(Still unresisted) of that easy heart;
But he at length beholds me—"Ah! my friend!
120
And have thy pleasures this unlucky end?"
"Too sure," he said, and, smiling as he sigh'd:
"I went astray, though prudence seem'd my guide;
All she proposed I in my heart approved,
And she was honour'd, but my pleasureloved—
Pleasure, the mistress to whose arms I fled,
From wife-like lectures angry prudence read.
"Why speak the madness of a life like mine,
The powers of beauty, novelty, and wine?
Why paint the wanton smile, the venal vow,
130
Or friends whose worth I can appreciate now?
"Oft I perceived my fate, and then would say,
'I'll think to-morrow, I must live to-day:'
So am I here—I own the laws arejust—
And here, where thought is painful, think I must.
But speech is pleasant; this discourse with thee
Brings to my mind the sweets of liberty;
Breaks on the sameness of the place, and gives
The doubtful heart conviction that it lives,
"Let me describe my anguish in the hour
140
When law detained me and I felt its power.
"When in that shipwreck, this I found my shore,
And join'd the wretched, who were wreck'd before;
When I perceived each feature in the face
Pinch'd through neglect or turbid by disgrace;
When in these wasting forms affliction stood
In my afflicted view, it chill'd myblood;—
And forth I rush'd, a quick retreat to make,
Till a loud laugh proclaim'd the dire mistake.
But when the groan had settled to a sigh;
150
When gloom became familiar to the eye;
When I perceive how others seem to rest,
With every evil rankling in mybreast—
Led by example, I put on the man,
Sing off my sighs, and trifle as I can.
"Homer! nay, Pope! (for never will I seek
Applause for learning—nought have I with Greek—)
Gives us the secrets of his pagan hell,
Where ghost with ghost in sad communion dwell;
Where shade meets shade, and round the gloomy meads
160
They glide and speak of old heroic deeds—
What fields they conquer'd, and what foes they slew
And sent to join the melancholy crew.
"When a new spirit in that world was found,
A thousand shadowy forms came flitting round;
Those who had known him, fond inquiriesmade:—
'Of all we left, inform us, gentle shade,
Now as we lead thee in our realms to dwell,
Our twilight groves, and meads of asphodel.'
"What paints the poet, is our station here,
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Where we like ghosts and flitting shades appear:
This is the hell he sings, and here we meet,
And former deeds to new-made friends repeat;
Heroic deeds, which here obtain us fame,
And are in fact the causes why we came.
Yes! this dim region is old Homer's hell,
Abate but groves and meads of asphodel.
"Here, when a stranger from your world we spy,
We gather round him and for news apply;
He hears unheeding, nor can speech endure,
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But shivering gazes on the vast obscure.
We, smiling, pity, and by kindness show
We felt his feelings and his terrors know;
Then speak of comfort—time will give him sight,
Where now 'tis dark; where now 'tis wo, delight.
"'Have hope,' we say, 'and soon the place to thee
Shall not a prison but a castle be;
When to the wretch whom care and guilt confound,
The world's a prison, with a wider bound;
Go where he may, he feels himself confined,
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And wears the fetters of an abject mind.'
"But now adieu! those giant keys appear,
Thou art not worthy to be inmate here;
Go to thy world, and to the young declare
What we, our spirits and employments, are;
Tell them how we the ills of life endure,
Our empire stable, and our state secure;
Our dress, our diet, for their use describe,
And bid them haste to join the gen'rous tribe:
Go to thy world, and leave us here to dwell,
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Who to its joys and comforts bid farewell."
Farewell to these; but other scenes I view,
And other griefs, and guilt of deeper hue;
Where conscience gives to outward ills her pain,
Gloom to the night, and pressure to the chain.
Here separate cells awhile in misery keep
Two doom'd to suffer; there they strive for sleep;
By day indulged, in larger space they range,
Their bondage certain, but their bounds have change.
One was a female, who had grievous ill
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Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still.
With death before her, and her fate in view,
Unsated vengeance in her bosom grew;
Sullen she was and threat'ning; in her eye
Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die;
But first a being in the world mustleave—
'Twas once reproach; 'twas now a short reprieve.
She was a pauper bound, who early gave
Her mind to vice, and doubly was a slave;
Upbraided, beaten, held by rough control,
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Revenge sustain'd, inspired, and fill'd her soul.
She fired a full-stored barn, confess'd the fact,
And laugh'd at law and justified the act.
Our gentle vicar tried his powers in vain,
She answer'd not, or answer'd with disdain;
Th' approaching fate she heard without a sigh,
And neither cared to live nor fear'd to die.
Not so he felt, who with her was to pay
The forfeit, life—with dread he view'd the day,
And that short space which yet for him remain'd,
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Till with his limbs his faculties were chain'd.
He paced his narrow bounds some ease to find,
But found it not,—no comfort reached his mind.
Each sense was palsied; when he tasted food,
He sigh'd and said, "Enough—'tis very good."
Since his dread sentence, nothing seem'd to be
As once it was—he seeing could not see,
Nor hearing, hear aright;—when first, I came
Within his view, I fancied there was shame,
I judged, resentment; I mistook theair—
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These fainter passions live not with despair,
Or but exist and die;—Hope, fear, and love,
Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move,
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power.
"But will not mercy?"—No! she cannot plead
For such an outrage;—'twas a cruel deed:
He stopp'd a timid traveller;—to his breast,
With oaths and curses, was the dangerpress'd:—
No! he must suffer; pity we may find
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For one man's pangs, but must not wrong mankind.
Still I behold him, every thought employ'd
On one dire view!—all others are destroy'd;
This makes his features ghastly, gives the tone
Of his few words resemblance to a groan.
He takes his tasteless food, and, when 'tis done,
Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one;
For expectation is on time intent,
Whether he brings us joy or punishment.
Yes! e'en in sleep the impressions all remain;
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He hears the sentence and he feels the chain;
He sees the judge and jury, when he shakes,
And loudly cries, "Not guilty," and awakes.
Then chilling tremblings o'er his body creep,
Till worn-out nature is compell'd to sleep.
Now comes the dream again; it shows each scene,
With each small circumstance that comesbetween—
The call to suffering and the verydeed—
There crowds go with him, follow, and precede;
Some heartless shout, some pity, all condemn,
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While he in fancied envy looks at them.
He seems the place for that sad act to see,
And dreams the very thirst which then will be;
A priest attends—it seems, the one he knew
In his best days, beneath whose care he grew.
At this his terrors take a sudden flight,
He sees his native village with delight;
The house, the chamber, where he once array'd
His youthful person; where he knelt and pray'd.
Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home,
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The days of joy; the joys themselves are come—
The hours of innocence—the timid look
Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took
And told his hope; her trembling joy appears,
Her forced reserve and his retreating fears.
All now is present;—'tis a moment's gleam
Of former sunshine—stay, delightful dream!
Let him within his pleasant garden walk,
Give him her arm, of blessings let them talk.
Yes! all are with him now, and all the while
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Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile:
Then come his sister and his village-friend,
And he will now the sweetest moments spend
Life has to yield;—no! never will he find
Again on earth such pleasure in his mind:
He goes through shrubby walks these friends among,
Love in their looks and honour on the tongue;
Nay, there's a charm beyond what nature shows,
The bloom is softer and more sweetlygrows;—
Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire
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For more than true and honest hearts require,
They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed
Through the green lane—then linger in themead—
Stray o'er the heath in all its purplebloom—
And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum;
Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass,
And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass,
Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread,
And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed;
Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their way
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O'er its rough bridge—and there behold the bay!—
The ocean smiling to the fervidsun—
The waves that faintly fall and slowlyrun—
The ships at distance and the boats at hand;
And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,
Counting the number and what kind they be,
Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea;
Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold
The glitt'ring waters on the shingles roll'd;
The timid girls, half dreading their design,
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Dip the small foot in the retarded brine,
And search for crimson weeds, which spreading flow,
Or lie like pictures on the sand below;
With all those bright red pebbles that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon;
And those live lucid jellies which the eye
Delights to trace as they swim glitt'ring by:
Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire,
And will arrange above the parlour-fire,—
Tokens of bliss!—"Oh! horrible! a wave
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Roars as it rises—save me, Edward! save!"
She cries—Alas! the watchman on his way
Calls and lets in—truth, terror, and the day!
SCHOOLS.
Tu quoque ne metuas, quamvis schola verbere multoIncrepet et truculenta senex geret ora magister;Degeneres animos timor arguit; at tibi constaIntrepidus, nec te clamor, plagæque sonantes,Nec matutinis agitet formido sub horis,Quod sceptrum vibrat ferulæ, quod multa supellexVirgea, quod molis scuticam prætexit aluta,Quod fervent trepido subsellia vestra tumultu;Pompa loci, et vani fugiatur scena timoris.Ausonius in Protreptico ad Nepotem[vv. 24-33].
Tu quoque ne metuas, quamvis schola verbere multo
Increpet et truculenta senex geret ora magister;
Degeneres animos timor arguit; at tibi consta
Intrepidus, nec te clamor, plagæque sonantes,
Nec matutinis agitet formido sub horis,
Quod sceptrum vibrat ferulæ, quod multa supellex
Virgea, quod molis scuticam prætexit aluta,
Quod fervent trepido subsellia vestra tumultu;
Pompa loci, et vani fugiatur scena timoris.
Ausonius in Protreptico ad Nepotem[vv. 24-33].
Be it a weakness, it deserves somepraise,—We love the play-place of our early days;The scene is touching, and the heart is stoneThat feels not at that sight—and feels at none.The wall on which we tried our graving skill;The very name we carved subsisting still;The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd,Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, yet not destroy'd.The little ones unbutton'd, glowing hot,Playing our games, and on the very spot;As happy as we once to kneel and drawThe chalky ring and knuckle down at taw.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .This fond attachment to the well-known place,When first we started into life's long race,Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.Cowper[Tirocinium, ll. 296-317].
Be it a weakness, it deserves somepraise,—
We love the play-place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight—and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill;
The very name we carved subsisting still;
The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd,
Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, yet not destroy'd.
The little ones unbutton'd, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot;
As happy as we once to kneel and draw
The chalky ring and knuckle down at taw.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This fond attachment to the well-known place,
When first we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
Cowper[Tirocinium, ll. 296-317].
Schools of every Kind to be found in the Borough—The School for Infants—The School Preparatory: the Sagacity of the Mistress in foreseeing Character—Day-Schools of the lower Kind—A Master with Talents adapted to such Pupils; one of superior Qualifications—Boarding-Schools: that for young Ladies: one going first to the Governess, one finally returning Home—School for Youth; Master and Teacher; various Dispositions andCapacities—The Miser-Boy—The Boy-Bully—Sons of Farmers: how amused—What Study will effect, examined—A College Life: one sent from his College to a Benefice; one retained there in Dignity—The Advantages in either Case not considerable—Where then the Good of a literary Life?—Answered—Conclusion.
LETTER XXIV.
SCHOOLS.