TALE XXI.THE LEARNED BOY.
THE LEARNED BOY.
Like one well studied in a sad ostent,To please his grandam.Merchant of Venice, Act II. Scene 2.And then the whining school-boy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school.As You Like It, Act II. Scene 7.He is a better scholar than I thought he was.—He [is] a good sprag memory.Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV. Scene 1.One that feedsOn objects, arts, and imitations,Which, out of use, and stal’d by other men,Begin his fashion.Julius Cæsar,Act IV. Scene 1.Oh! torture me no more—I will confess.2Henry VI.Act III. Scene 3.
Like one well studied in a sad ostent,To please his grandam.Merchant of Venice, Act II. Scene 2.And then the whining school-boy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school.As You Like It, Act II. Scene 7.He is a better scholar than I thought he was.—He [is] a good sprag memory.Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV. Scene 1.One that feedsOn objects, arts, and imitations,Which, out of use, and stal’d by other men,Begin his fashion.Julius Cæsar,Act IV. Scene 1.Oh! torture me no more—I will confess.2Henry VI.Act III. Scene 3.
Like one well studied in a sad ostent,To please his grandam.Merchant of Venice, Act II. Scene 2.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school.As You Like It, Act II. Scene 7.
He is a better scholar than I thought he was.—He [is] a good sprag memory.Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV. Scene 1.
One that feedsOn objects, arts, and imitations,Which, out of use, and stal’d by other men,Begin his fashion.Julius Cæsar,Act IV. Scene 1.
Oh! torture me no more—I will confess.2Henry VI.Act III. Scene 3.
TALE XXI.
THE LEARNED BOY.
An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;He did by all as all by him should do;Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,Yet famed for rustic hospitality.Left with his children in a widow’d state,The quiet man submitted to his fate;Though prudent matrons waited for his call,With cool forbearance he avoided all;Though each profess’d a pure maternal joy,By kind attention to his feeble boy.10And—though a friendly widow knew no rest,Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress’d,Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender toneTheir hearts’ concern to see him left alone—Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,As if t’were sin to take a second wife.Oh! ’tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,To find such numbers who will serve instead;And, in whatever state a man be thrown,’Tis that precisely they would wish their own.20Left the departed infants—then their joyIs to sustain each lovely girl and boy;Whatever calling his, whatever trade,To that their chief attention has been paid;His happy taste in all things they approve,His friends they honour, and his food they love;His wish for order, prudence in affairs,And equal temper, (thank their stars!) are theirs;In fact, it seem’d to be a thing decreed,And fix’d as fate, that marriage must succeed.30Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and hard,Can hear such claims, and show them no regard.Soon as our farmer, like a general, foundBy what strong foes he was encompass’d round—Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,He met the foe, and art opposed to art.Now spoke that foe insidious—gentle tones,And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:40“Three girls,” the widow cried, “a lively threeTo govern well—indeed it cannot be.”“Yes,” he replied, “it calls for pains and care;But I must bear it.”—“Sir, you cannot bear;Your son is weak, and asks a mother’s eye.”—“That, my kind friend, a father’s may supply.”—“Such growing griefs your very soul will tease.”—“To grieve another would not give me ease;I have a mother.”—“She, poor ancient soul!Can she the spirits of the young control?50Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care,Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share?Age is itself impatient, uncontroll’d.”—“But wives like mothers must at length be old.”—“Thou hast shrewd servants—they are evils sore.”—“Yet a shrewd mistress might afflict me more.”—“Wilt thou not be a weary wailing man?”—“Alas! and I must bear it as I can.”Resisted thus, the widow soon withdrew,That in his pride the hero might pursue;60And off his wonted guard, in some retreat,Find from a foe prepared entire defeat.But he was prudent, for he knew in flightThese Parthian warriors turn again and fight;He but at freedom, not at glory aim’d,And only safety by his caution claim’d.Thus, when a great and powerful state decreesUpon a small one, in its love, to seize—It vows in kindness to protect, defend,And be the fond ally, the faithful friend;70It therefore wills that humbler state to placeIts hopes of safety in a fond embrace:Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove,By kind rejection of such pressing love;Must dread such dangerous friendship to commence,And stand collected in its own defence.—Our farmer thus the proffer’d kindness fled,And shunn’d the love that into bondage led.The widow failing, fresh besiegers came,To share the fate of this retiring dame;80And each foresaw a thousand ills attendThe man that fled from so discreet a friend;And pray’d, kind soul! that no event might makeThe harden’d heart of Farmer Jones to ache.But he still govern’d with resistless hand,And where he could not guide he would command.With steady view in course direct he steer’d,And his fair daughters loved him, though they fear’d;Each had her school, and, as his wealth was known,Each had in time a household of her own.90The boy indeed was, at the grandam’s side,Humour’d and train’d, her trouble and her pride:Companions dear, with speech and spirits mild,The childish widow and the vapourish child.This nature prompts; minds uninform’d and weakIn such alliance ease and comfort seek;Push’d by the levity of youth aside,}The cares of man, his humour, or his pride, }They feel, in their defenceless state, allied. }The child is pleased to meet regard from age,100The old are pleased ev’n children to engage;And all their wisdom, scorn’d by proud mankind,They love to pour into the ductile mind,By its own weakness into error led,And by fond age with prejudices fed.The father, thankful for the good he had,Yet saw with pain a whining, timid lad;Whom he, instructing, led through cultured fields,To show what man performs, what nature yields;But Stephen, listless, wander’d from the view;}110From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew,}And idly gazed about, in search of something new. }The lambs indeed he loved, and wish’d to playWith things so mild, so harmless, and so gay;Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see,With whom he felt a sickly sympathy.Meantime, the dame was anxious, day and night,}To guide the notions of her babe aright,}And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering light; }Her Bible-stories she impress’d betimes,120And fill’d his head with hymns and holy rhymes;On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt,And the poor boy mysterious terrors felt;From frightful dreams, he, waking, sobb’d in dread,Till the good lady came to guard his bed.The father wish’d such errors to correct,But let them pass in duty and respect.But more it grieved his worthy mind to seeThat Stephen never would a farmer be;In vain he tried the shiftless lad to guide,130And yet ’twas time that something should be tried.He at the village-school perchance might gainAll that such mind could gather and retain;Yet the good dame affirm’d her favourite childWas apt and studious, though sedate and mild;“That he on many a learned point could speak,And that his body, not his mind, was weak.”The father doubted—but to school was sentThe timid Stephen, weeping as he went:There the rude lads compell’d the child to fight,140And sent him bleeding to his home at night;At this the grandam more indulgent grew,And bade her darling “shun the beastly crew;Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lieHowling in torments, when they came to die.”This was such comfort, that in high disdainHe told their fate, and felt their blows again.Yet, if the boy had not a hero’s heart,Within the school he play’d a better part:He wrote a clean, fine hand, and at his slate150With more success than many a hero sate;He thought not much indeed—but what dependsOn pains and care was at his fingers’ ends.This had his father’s praise, who now espiedA spark of merit, with a blaze of pride;And, though a farmer he would never make,He might a pen with some advantage take;And as a clerk that instrument employ,So well adapted to a timid boy.A London cousin soon a place obtain’d,160Easy but humble—little could be gain’d.The time arrived when youth and age must part,Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart;The careful father bade his son attendTo all his duties, and obey his friend;To keep his church and there behave aright, }As one existing in his Maker’s sight,}Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight:}“Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can,T’ assume the looks and spirit of a man;170I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true,And this you may, and yet have courage too.Heroic men, their country’s boast and pride,Have fear’d their God, and nothing fear’d beside;While others daring, yet imbecile, flyThe power of man, and that of God defy.Be manly then, though mild, for, sure as fate,Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate;Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use(’Tis fairly stock’d) of what it will produce;180And now my blessing, not as any charmOr conjuration; but ’twill do no harm.”Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and down,Now charm’d with promised sights in London-town,Now loth to leave his grandam—lost the force,The drift and tenor of this grave discourse;But, in a general way, he understood’Twas good advice, and meant, “My son, be good;”And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean,That lads should read their Bible, and be clean.190The good old lady, though in some distress,Begg’d her dear Stephen would his grief suppress:“Nay, dry those eyes, my child—and, first of all,Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall;Hear the best preacher, and preserve the textFor meditation, till you hear the next;Within your Bible night and morning look—There is your duty, read no other book;Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen,And keep your conscience and your linen clean.200Be you a Joseph, and the time may be,When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee.”“Nay,” said the father——“Hush, my son,” repliedThe dame——“The Scriptures must not be denied.”The lad, still weeping, heard the wheels approach,And took his place within the evening coach,With heart quite rent asunder: On one sideWas love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried;Wild beasts and wax-work fill’d the happier partOf Stephen’s varying and divided heart;210This he betray’d by sighs and questions strange,Of famous shows, the Tower, and the Exchange.Soon at his desk was placed the curious boy,Demure and silent at his new employ;Yet, as he could, he much attention paidTo all around him, cautious and afraid.On older clerks his eager eyes were fix’d,But Stephen never in their council mix’d;Much their contempt he fear’d, for, if like them,He felt assured he should himself contemn:220“Oh! they were all so eloquent, so free,No! he was nothing—nothing could he be.They dress so smartly, and so boldly look,And talk as if they read it from a book;But I,” said Stephen, “will forbear to speak,And they will think me prudent, and not weak.They talk, the instant they have dropp’d the pen,Of singing-women and of acting-men;Of plays and places where at night they walkBeneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk;230While other ladies for their pleasure sing,Oh! ’tis a glorious and a happy thing.They would despise me, did they understandI dare not look upon a scene so grand;Or see the plays when critics rise and roar,And hiss and groan, and cry—‘Encore! encore!’—There’s one among them looks a little kind;If more encouraged, I would ope my mind.”Alas! poor Stephen, happier had he keptHis purpose secret, while his envy slept;240Virtue, perhaps, had conquer’d, or his shameAt least preserved him simple as he came.A year elapsed before this clerk beganTo treat the rustic something like a man;He then in trifling points the youth advised,Talk’d of his coat, and had it modernized;Or with the lad a Sunday-walk would take,And kindly strive his passions to awake;Meanwhile explaining all they heard and saw,Till Stephen stood in wonderment and awe.250To a neat garden near the town they stray’d,Where the lad felt delighted and afraid;There all he saw was smart, and fine, and fair—He could but marvel how he ventured there:Soon he observed, with terror and alarm,His friend enlock’d within a lady’s arm,And freely talking—“But it is,” said he,“A near relation, and that makes him free;”And much amazed was Stephen, when he knewThis was the first and only interview;260Nay, had that lovely arm by him been seized,The lovely owner had been highly pleased:“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I never can contrive,At such bold, blessed freedoms to arrive;Never shall I such happy courage boast;I dare as soon encounter with a ghost.”Now to a play the friendly couple went,But the boy murmur’d at the money spent;“He loved,” he said, “to buy, but not to spend—They only talk awhile, and there’s an end.”270“Come, you shall purchase books,” the friend replied;“You are bewilder’d, and you want a guide;To me refer the choice, and you shall findThe light break in upon your stagnant mind!”The cooler clerks exclaim’d, “In vain your artT’ improve a cub without a head or heart;Rustics, though coarse, and savages, though wild,Our cares may render liberal and mild;But what, my friend, can flow from all these pains?There is no dealing with a lack of brains.”—280“True I am hopeless to behold him man;But let me make the booby what I can:Though the rude stone no polish will display,Yet you may strip the rugged coat away.”Stephen beheld his books—“I love to knowHow money goes—now here is that to show;And now,” he cried, “I shall be pleased to getBeyond the Bible—there I puzzle yet.”He spoke abash’d—“Nay, nay!” the friend replied,“You need not lay the good old book aside;290Antique and curious, I myself indeedRead it at times, but as a man should read;A fine old work it is, and I protestI hate to hear it treated as a jest;The book has wisdom in it, if you lookWisely upon it, as another book;For superstition (as our priests of sinAre pleased to tell us) makes us blind within.—Of this hereafter—we will now selectSome works to please you, others to direct;300Tales and romances shall your fancy feed,And reasoners form your morals and your creed.”The books were view’d, the price was fairly paid,And Stephen read, undaunted, undismay’d—But not till first he paper’d all the row,And placed in order, to enjoy the show;Next letter’d all the backs with care and speed,Set them in ranks, and then began to read.The love of order,—I the thing receiveFrom reverend men, and I in part believe—310Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needsThis love but seldom in the world succeeds;And yet with this some other love must be,Ere I can fully to the fact agree.Valour and study may by order gain,By order sovereigns hold more steady reign;Through all the tribes of nature order runs,And rules around in systems and in suns;Still has the love of order found a place}With all that’s low, degrading, mean, and base,}320With all that merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace: }In the cold miser, of all change afraid;In pompous men, in public seats obey’d;In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones,Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones;Order to these is armour and defence,And love of method serves in lack of sense.For rustic youth could I a list produceOf Stephen’s books, how great might be the use;But evil fate was theirs—survey’d, enjoy’d330Some happy months, and then by force destroy’d.So will’d the fates—but these, with patience read,Had vast effect on Stephen’s heart and head.This soon appear’d—within a single weekHe oped his lips, and made attempt to speak;He fail’d indeed—but still his friend confess’dThe best have fail’d, and he had done his best.The first of swimmers, when at first he swims,Has little use or freedom in his limbs;Nay, when at length he strikes with manly force,340The cramp may seize him, and impede his course.Encouraged thus, our clerk again essay’dThe daring act, though daunted and afraid;Succeeding now, though partial his success,And pertness mark’d his manner and address,Yet such improvement issued from his books,That all discern’d it in his speech and looks.He ventured then on every theme to speak,And felt no feverish tingling in his cheek;His friend, approving, hail’d the happy change;350The clerks exclaim’d—“’Tis famous, and ’tis strange.”—Two years had pass’d; the youth attended still,(Though thus accomplish’d) with a ready quill;He sat th’ allotted hours, though hard the case,While timid prudence ruled in virtue’s place;By promise bound, the son his letters penn’dTo his good parent, at the quarter’s end.At first, he sent those lines, the state to tellOf his own health, and hoped his friends were well;He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind,360And needed nothing—then his name was sign’d;But now he wrote of Sunday walks and views,Of actors’ names, choice novels, and strange news;How coats were cut, and of his urgent needFor fresh supply, which he desired with speed.The father doubted, when these letters came,To what they tended, yet was loth to blame:“Stephen was oncemy duteous son, and nowMy most obedient—this can I allow?Can I with pleasure or with patience see370A boy at once so heartless, and so free?”But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told,That love and prudence could no more withhold:“Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grownA rake and coxcomb—this he grieved to own;His cousin left his church, and spent the dayLounging about in quite a heathen way;Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the graceTo show the shame imprinted on his face.I search’d his room, and in his absence read380Books that I knew would turn a stronger head:The works of atheists half the number made,The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade;Which neither man nor boy would deign to read,If from the scandal and pollution freed.I sometimes threaten’d, and would fairly stateMy sense of things so vile and profligate;But I’m a cit, such works are lost on me—They’re knowledge, and (good Lord!) philosophy.”“Oh, send him down,” the father soon replied;390“Let me behold him, and my skill be tried:If care and kindness lose their wonted use,Some rougher medicine will the end produce.”Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom—“Go to the farmer? to the rustic’s home?Curse the base threat’ning—” “Nay, child, never curse;Corrupted long, your case is growing worse.”—“I!” quoth the youth, “I challenge all mankindTo find a fault; what fault have you to find?Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace?400Inquire—my friends will tell it to your face;Have I been taught to guard his kine and sheep?A man like me has other things to keep;This let him know.”—“It would his wrath excite;But come, prepare, you must away to-night.”—“What! leave my studies, my improvements leave,My faithful friends and intimates to grieve!”—“Go to your father, Stephen, let him seeAll these improvements; they are lost on me.”The youth, though loth, obey’d, and soon he saw410The farmer-father, with some signs of awe:Who kind, yet silent, waited to beholdHow one would act, so daring, yet so cold;And soon he found, between the friendly pairThat secrets pass’d which he was not to share;But he resolved those secrets to obtain,And quash rebellion in his lawful reign.Stephen, though vain, was with his father mute;He fear’d a crisis, and he shunn’d dispute;And yet he long’d with youthful pride to show420He knew such things as farmers could not know;These to the grandam he with freedom spoke,Saw her amazement, and enjoy’d the joke.But, on the father when he cast his eye,Something he found that made his valour shy;And thus there seem’d to be a hollow truce,Still threat’ning something dismal to produce.Ere this the father at his leisure readThe son’s choice volumes, and his wonder fled;He saw how wrought the works of either kind430On so presuming, yet so weak, a mind;These in a chosen hour he made his prey,Condemn’d, and bore with vengeful thoughts away;Then in a close recess the couple near,He sat unseen to see, unheard to hear.There soon a trial for his patience came;Beneath were placed the youth and ancient dame,Each on a purpose fix’d—but neither thoughtHow near a foe, with power and vengeance fraught.And now the matron told, as tidings sad,440What she had heard of her beloved lad;How he to graceless, wicked men gave heed,And wicked books would night and morning read;Some former lectures she again began,And begg’d attention of her little man;She brought, with many a pious boast, in viewHis former studies, and condemn’d the new:Once he the names of saints and patriarchs old,Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told;Then he in winter-nights the Bible took,450To count how often in the sacred bookThe sacred name appear’d, and could rehearseWhich were the middle chapter, word, and verse,The very letter in the middle placed,And so employ’d the hours that others waste.“Such wert thou once; and now, my child, they sayThy faith like water runneth fast away;The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiledThe ready wit of my backsliding child.”On this, with lofty looks, our clerk began460His grave rebuke, as he assumed the man—“There is no devil,” said the hopeful youth,“Nor prince of devils; that I know for truth.Have I not told you how my books describeThe arts of priests and all the canting tribe?Your Bible mentions Egypt, where, it seems,Was Joseph found when Pharaoh dream’d his dreams.Now, in that place, in some bewilder’d head,(The learned write) religious dreams were bred;Whence through the earth, with various forms combined,They came to frighten and afflict mankind,471Prone (so I read) to let a priest invade}Their souls with awe, and by his craft be made }Slave to his will, and profit to his trade.}So say my books, and how the rogues agreedTo blind the victims, to defraud and lead;When joys above to ready dupes were sold,And hell was threaten’d to the shy and cold.“Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray?As if a Being heard a word we say!480This may surprise you; I myself beganTo feel disturb’d, and to my Bible ran;I now am wiser—yet agree in this,The book has things that are not much amiss;It is a fine old work, and I protestI hate to hear it treated as a jest:The book has wisdom in it, if you lookWisely upon it as another book.”—“Oh! wicked! wicked! my unhappy child,How hast thou been by evil men beguiled!”—490“How! wicked, say you? you can little guessThe gain of that which you call wickedness:Why, sins you think it sinful but to nameHave gain’d both wives and widows wealth and fame;And this, because such people never dreadThose threaten’d pains; hell comes not in their head.Love is our nature, wealth we all desire,And what we wish ’tis lawful to acquire;So say my books—and what beside they show’Tis time to let this honest farmer know.500Nay, look not grave; am I commanded downTo feed his cattle and become his clown?Is such his purpose? then he shall be toldThe vulgar insult——”——“Hold, in mercy hold—”“Father, oh! father! throw the whip away;I was but jesting, on my knees I pray—There, hold his arm—oh! leave us not alone;In pity cease, and I will yet atoneFor all my sin—” In vain: stroke after strokeOn side and shoulder quick as mill-wheels broke;510Quick as the patient’s pulse, who trembling cried,And still the parent with a stroke replied;Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt,And every bone the precious influence felt;Till all the panting flesh was red and raw,And every thought was turn’d to fear and awe;Till every doubt to due respect gave place—Such cures are done when doctors know the case.“Oh! I shall die—my father! do receiveMy dying words; indeed, I do believe;520The books are lying books, I know it well,There is a devil, oh! there is a hell;And I’m a sinner: spare me, I am young,My sinful words were only on my tongue;My heart consented not; ’tis all a lie:Oh! spare me then, I’m not prepared to die.”“Vain, worthless, stupid wretch!” the father cried,“Dost thou presume to teach? art thou a guide?Driveller and dog, it gave the mind distressTo hear thy thoughts in their religious dress;530Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain,Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain.But Job in patience must the man exceedWho could endure thee in thy present creed;Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretendThe wicked cause a helping hand to lend?Canst thou a judge in any question be?Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee.—“Lo! yonder blaze thy worthies; in one heapThy scoundrel-favourites must for ever sleep:540Each yields its poison to the flame in turn,Where whores and infidels are doom’d to burn;Two noble faggots made the flame you see,Reserving only two fair twigs for thee;That in thy view the instruments may stand,And be in future ready for my hand:The just mementos that, though silent, showWhence thy correction and improvements flow;Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power,And feel the shame of this important hour.550“Hadst thou been humble, I had first design’dBy care from folly to have freed thy mind;And, when a clean foundation had been laid,Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid.But thou art weak, and force must folly guide,And thou art vain, and pain must humble pride.Teachers men honour, learners they allure;}But learners teaching of contempt are sure;}Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only cure!” }
An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;He did by all as all by him should do;Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,Yet famed for rustic hospitality.Left with his children in a widow’d state,The quiet man submitted to his fate;Though prudent matrons waited for his call,With cool forbearance he avoided all;Though each profess’d a pure maternal joy,By kind attention to his feeble boy.10And—though a friendly widow knew no rest,Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress’d,Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender toneTheir hearts’ concern to see him left alone—Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,As if t’were sin to take a second wife.Oh! ’tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,To find such numbers who will serve instead;And, in whatever state a man be thrown,’Tis that precisely they would wish their own.20Left the departed infants—then their joyIs to sustain each lovely girl and boy;Whatever calling his, whatever trade,To that their chief attention has been paid;His happy taste in all things they approve,His friends they honour, and his food they love;His wish for order, prudence in affairs,And equal temper, (thank their stars!) are theirs;In fact, it seem’d to be a thing decreed,And fix’d as fate, that marriage must succeed.30Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and hard,Can hear such claims, and show them no regard.Soon as our farmer, like a general, foundBy what strong foes he was encompass’d round—Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,He met the foe, and art opposed to art.Now spoke that foe insidious—gentle tones,And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:40“Three girls,” the widow cried, “a lively threeTo govern well—indeed it cannot be.”“Yes,” he replied, “it calls for pains and care;But I must bear it.”—“Sir, you cannot bear;Your son is weak, and asks a mother’s eye.”—“That, my kind friend, a father’s may supply.”—“Such growing griefs your very soul will tease.”—“To grieve another would not give me ease;I have a mother.”—“She, poor ancient soul!Can she the spirits of the young control?50Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care,Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share?Age is itself impatient, uncontroll’d.”—“But wives like mothers must at length be old.”—“Thou hast shrewd servants—they are evils sore.”—“Yet a shrewd mistress might afflict me more.”—“Wilt thou not be a weary wailing man?”—“Alas! and I must bear it as I can.”Resisted thus, the widow soon withdrew,That in his pride the hero might pursue;60And off his wonted guard, in some retreat,Find from a foe prepared entire defeat.But he was prudent, for he knew in flightThese Parthian warriors turn again and fight;He but at freedom, not at glory aim’d,And only safety by his caution claim’d.Thus, when a great and powerful state decreesUpon a small one, in its love, to seize—It vows in kindness to protect, defend,And be the fond ally, the faithful friend;70It therefore wills that humbler state to placeIts hopes of safety in a fond embrace:Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove,By kind rejection of such pressing love;Must dread such dangerous friendship to commence,And stand collected in its own defence.—Our farmer thus the proffer’d kindness fled,And shunn’d the love that into bondage led.The widow failing, fresh besiegers came,To share the fate of this retiring dame;80And each foresaw a thousand ills attendThe man that fled from so discreet a friend;And pray’d, kind soul! that no event might makeThe harden’d heart of Farmer Jones to ache.But he still govern’d with resistless hand,And where he could not guide he would command.With steady view in course direct he steer’d,And his fair daughters loved him, though they fear’d;Each had her school, and, as his wealth was known,Each had in time a household of her own.90The boy indeed was, at the grandam’s side,Humour’d and train’d, her trouble and her pride:Companions dear, with speech and spirits mild,The childish widow and the vapourish child.This nature prompts; minds uninform’d and weakIn such alliance ease and comfort seek;Push’d by the levity of youth aside,}The cares of man, his humour, or his pride, }They feel, in their defenceless state, allied. }The child is pleased to meet regard from age,100The old are pleased ev’n children to engage;And all their wisdom, scorn’d by proud mankind,They love to pour into the ductile mind,By its own weakness into error led,And by fond age with prejudices fed.The father, thankful for the good he had,Yet saw with pain a whining, timid lad;Whom he, instructing, led through cultured fields,To show what man performs, what nature yields;But Stephen, listless, wander’d from the view;}110From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew,}And idly gazed about, in search of something new. }The lambs indeed he loved, and wish’d to playWith things so mild, so harmless, and so gay;Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see,With whom he felt a sickly sympathy.Meantime, the dame was anxious, day and night,}To guide the notions of her babe aright,}And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering light; }Her Bible-stories she impress’d betimes,120And fill’d his head with hymns and holy rhymes;On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt,And the poor boy mysterious terrors felt;From frightful dreams, he, waking, sobb’d in dread,Till the good lady came to guard his bed.The father wish’d such errors to correct,But let them pass in duty and respect.But more it grieved his worthy mind to seeThat Stephen never would a farmer be;In vain he tried the shiftless lad to guide,130And yet ’twas time that something should be tried.He at the village-school perchance might gainAll that such mind could gather and retain;Yet the good dame affirm’d her favourite childWas apt and studious, though sedate and mild;“That he on many a learned point could speak,And that his body, not his mind, was weak.”The father doubted—but to school was sentThe timid Stephen, weeping as he went:There the rude lads compell’d the child to fight,140And sent him bleeding to his home at night;At this the grandam more indulgent grew,And bade her darling “shun the beastly crew;Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lieHowling in torments, when they came to die.”This was such comfort, that in high disdainHe told their fate, and felt their blows again.Yet, if the boy had not a hero’s heart,Within the school he play’d a better part:He wrote a clean, fine hand, and at his slate150With more success than many a hero sate;He thought not much indeed—but what dependsOn pains and care was at his fingers’ ends.This had his father’s praise, who now espiedA spark of merit, with a blaze of pride;And, though a farmer he would never make,He might a pen with some advantage take;And as a clerk that instrument employ,So well adapted to a timid boy.A London cousin soon a place obtain’d,160Easy but humble—little could be gain’d.The time arrived when youth and age must part,Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart;The careful father bade his son attendTo all his duties, and obey his friend;To keep his church and there behave aright, }As one existing in his Maker’s sight,}Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight:}“Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can,T’ assume the looks and spirit of a man;170I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true,And this you may, and yet have courage too.Heroic men, their country’s boast and pride,Have fear’d their God, and nothing fear’d beside;While others daring, yet imbecile, flyThe power of man, and that of God defy.Be manly then, though mild, for, sure as fate,Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate;Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use(’Tis fairly stock’d) of what it will produce;180And now my blessing, not as any charmOr conjuration; but ’twill do no harm.”Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and down,Now charm’d with promised sights in London-town,Now loth to leave his grandam—lost the force,The drift and tenor of this grave discourse;But, in a general way, he understood’Twas good advice, and meant, “My son, be good;”And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean,That lads should read their Bible, and be clean.190The good old lady, though in some distress,Begg’d her dear Stephen would his grief suppress:“Nay, dry those eyes, my child—and, first of all,Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall;Hear the best preacher, and preserve the textFor meditation, till you hear the next;Within your Bible night and morning look—There is your duty, read no other book;Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen,And keep your conscience and your linen clean.200Be you a Joseph, and the time may be,When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee.”“Nay,” said the father——“Hush, my son,” repliedThe dame——“The Scriptures must not be denied.”The lad, still weeping, heard the wheels approach,And took his place within the evening coach,With heart quite rent asunder: On one sideWas love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried;Wild beasts and wax-work fill’d the happier partOf Stephen’s varying and divided heart;210This he betray’d by sighs and questions strange,Of famous shows, the Tower, and the Exchange.Soon at his desk was placed the curious boy,Demure and silent at his new employ;Yet, as he could, he much attention paidTo all around him, cautious and afraid.On older clerks his eager eyes were fix’d,But Stephen never in their council mix’d;Much their contempt he fear’d, for, if like them,He felt assured he should himself contemn:220“Oh! they were all so eloquent, so free,No! he was nothing—nothing could he be.They dress so smartly, and so boldly look,And talk as if they read it from a book;But I,” said Stephen, “will forbear to speak,And they will think me prudent, and not weak.They talk, the instant they have dropp’d the pen,Of singing-women and of acting-men;Of plays and places where at night they walkBeneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk;230While other ladies for their pleasure sing,Oh! ’tis a glorious and a happy thing.They would despise me, did they understandI dare not look upon a scene so grand;Or see the plays when critics rise and roar,And hiss and groan, and cry—‘Encore! encore!’—There’s one among them looks a little kind;If more encouraged, I would ope my mind.”Alas! poor Stephen, happier had he keptHis purpose secret, while his envy slept;240Virtue, perhaps, had conquer’d, or his shameAt least preserved him simple as he came.A year elapsed before this clerk beganTo treat the rustic something like a man;He then in trifling points the youth advised,Talk’d of his coat, and had it modernized;Or with the lad a Sunday-walk would take,And kindly strive his passions to awake;Meanwhile explaining all they heard and saw,Till Stephen stood in wonderment and awe.250To a neat garden near the town they stray’d,Where the lad felt delighted and afraid;There all he saw was smart, and fine, and fair—He could but marvel how he ventured there:Soon he observed, with terror and alarm,His friend enlock’d within a lady’s arm,And freely talking—“But it is,” said he,“A near relation, and that makes him free;”And much amazed was Stephen, when he knewThis was the first and only interview;260Nay, had that lovely arm by him been seized,The lovely owner had been highly pleased:“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I never can contrive,At such bold, blessed freedoms to arrive;Never shall I such happy courage boast;I dare as soon encounter with a ghost.”Now to a play the friendly couple went,But the boy murmur’d at the money spent;“He loved,” he said, “to buy, but not to spend—They only talk awhile, and there’s an end.”270“Come, you shall purchase books,” the friend replied;“You are bewilder’d, and you want a guide;To me refer the choice, and you shall findThe light break in upon your stagnant mind!”The cooler clerks exclaim’d, “In vain your artT’ improve a cub without a head or heart;Rustics, though coarse, and savages, though wild,Our cares may render liberal and mild;But what, my friend, can flow from all these pains?There is no dealing with a lack of brains.”—280“True I am hopeless to behold him man;But let me make the booby what I can:Though the rude stone no polish will display,Yet you may strip the rugged coat away.”Stephen beheld his books—“I love to knowHow money goes—now here is that to show;And now,” he cried, “I shall be pleased to getBeyond the Bible—there I puzzle yet.”He spoke abash’d—“Nay, nay!” the friend replied,“You need not lay the good old book aside;290Antique and curious, I myself indeedRead it at times, but as a man should read;A fine old work it is, and I protestI hate to hear it treated as a jest;The book has wisdom in it, if you lookWisely upon it, as another book;For superstition (as our priests of sinAre pleased to tell us) makes us blind within.—Of this hereafter—we will now selectSome works to please you, others to direct;300Tales and romances shall your fancy feed,And reasoners form your morals and your creed.”The books were view’d, the price was fairly paid,And Stephen read, undaunted, undismay’d—But not till first he paper’d all the row,And placed in order, to enjoy the show;Next letter’d all the backs with care and speed,Set them in ranks, and then began to read.The love of order,—I the thing receiveFrom reverend men, and I in part believe—310Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needsThis love but seldom in the world succeeds;And yet with this some other love must be,Ere I can fully to the fact agree.Valour and study may by order gain,By order sovereigns hold more steady reign;Through all the tribes of nature order runs,And rules around in systems and in suns;Still has the love of order found a place}With all that’s low, degrading, mean, and base,}320With all that merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace: }In the cold miser, of all change afraid;In pompous men, in public seats obey’d;In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones,Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones;Order to these is armour and defence,And love of method serves in lack of sense.For rustic youth could I a list produceOf Stephen’s books, how great might be the use;But evil fate was theirs—survey’d, enjoy’d330Some happy months, and then by force destroy’d.So will’d the fates—but these, with patience read,Had vast effect on Stephen’s heart and head.This soon appear’d—within a single weekHe oped his lips, and made attempt to speak;He fail’d indeed—but still his friend confess’dThe best have fail’d, and he had done his best.The first of swimmers, when at first he swims,Has little use or freedom in his limbs;Nay, when at length he strikes with manly force,340The cramp may seize him, and impede his course.Encouraged thus, our clerk again essay’dThe daring act, though daunted and afraid;Succeeding now, though partial his success,And pertness mark’d his manner and address,Yet such improvement issued from his books,That all discern’d it in his speech and looks.He ventured then on every theme to speak,And felt no feverish tingling in his cheek;His friend, approving, hail’d the happy change;350The clerks exclaim’d—“’Tis famous, and ’tis strange.”—Two years had pass’d; the youth attended still,(Though thus accomplish’d) with a ready quill;He sat th’ allotted hours, though hard the case,While timid prudence ruled in virtue’s place;By promise bound, the son his letters penn’dTo his good parent, at the quarter’s end.At first, he sent those lines, the state to tellOf his own health, and hoped his friends were well;He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind,360And needed nothing—then his name was sign’d;But now he wrote of Sunday walks and views,Of actors’ names, choice novels, and strange news;How coats were cut, and of his urgent needFor fresh supply, which he desired with speed.The father doubted, when these letters came,To what they tended, yet was loth to blame:“Stephen was oncemy duteous son, and nowMy most obedient—this can I allow?Can I with pleasure or with patience see370A boy at once so heartless, and so free?”But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told,That love and prudence could no more withhold:“Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grownA rake and coxcomb—this he grieved to own;His cousin left his church, and spent the dayLounging about in quite a heathen way;Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the graceTo show the shame imprinted on his face.I search’d his room, and in his absence read380Books that I knew would turn a stronger head:The works of atheists half the number made,The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade;Which neither man nor boy would deign to read,If from the scandal and pollution freed.I sometimes threaten’d, and would fairly stateMy sense of things so vile and profligate;But I’m a cit, such works are lost on me—They’re knowledge, and (good Lord!) philosophy.”“Oh, send him down,” the father soon replied;390“Let me behold him, and my skill be tried:If care and kindness lose their wonted use,Some rougher medicine will the end produce.”Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom—“Go to the farmer? to the rustic’s home?Curse the base threat’ning—” “Nay, child, never curse;Corrupted long, your case is growing worse.”—“I!” quoth the youth, “I challenge all mankindTo find a fault; what fault have you to find?Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace?400Inquire—my friends will tell it to your face;Have I been taught to guard his kine and sheep?A man like me has other things to keep;This let him know.”—“It would his wrath excite;But come, prepare, you must away to-night.”—“What! leave my studies, my improvements leave,My faithful friends and intimates to grieve!”—“Go to your father, Stephen, let him seeAll these improvements; they are lost on me.”The youth, though loth, obey’d, and soon he saw410The farmer-father, with some signs of awe:Who kind, yet silent, waited to beholdHow one would act, so daring, yet so cold;And soon he found, between the friendly pairThat secrets pass’d which he was not to share;But he resolved those secrets to obtain,And quash rebellion in his lawful reign.Stephen, though vain, was with his father mute;He fear’d a crisis, and he shunn’d dispute;And yet he long’d with youthful pride to show420He knew such things as farmers could not know;These to the grandam he with freedom spoke,Saw her amazement, and enjoy’d the joke.But, on the father when he cast his eye,Something he found that made his valour shy;And thus there seem’d to be a hollow truce,Still threat’ning something dismal to produce.Ere this the father at his leisure readThe son’s choice volumes, and his wonder fled;He saw how wrought the works of either kind430On so presuming, yet so weak, a mind;These in a chosen hour he made his prey,Condemn’d, and bore with vengeful thoughts away;Then in a close recess the couple near,He sat unseen to see, unheard to hear.There soon a trial for his patience came;Beneath were placed the youth and ancient dame,Each on a purpose fix’d—but neither thoughtHow near a foe, with power and vengeance fraught.And now the matron told, as tidings sad,440What she had heard of her beloved lad;How he to graceless, wicked men gave heed,And wicked books would night and morning read;Some former lectures she again began,And begg’d attention of her little man;She brought, with many a pious boast, in viewHis former studies, and condemn’d the new:Once he the names of saints and patriarchs old,Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told;Then he in winter-nights the Bible took,450To count how often in the sacred bookThe sacred name appear’d, and could rehearseWhich were the middle chapter, word, and verse,The very letter in the middle placed,And so employ’d the hours that others waste.“Such wert thou once; and now, my child, they sayThy faith like water runneth fast away;The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiledThe ready wit of my backsliding child.”On this, with lofty looks, our clerk began460His grave rebuke, as he assumed the man—“There is no devil,” said the hopeful youth,“Nor prince of devils; that I know for truth.Have I not told you how my books describeThe arts of priests and all the canting tribe?Your Bible mentions Egypt, where, it seems,Was Joseph found when Pharaoh dream’d his dreams.Now, in that place, in some bewilder’d head,(The learned write) religious dreams were bred;Whence through the earth, with various forms combined,They came to frighten and afflict mankind,471Prone (so I read) to let a priest invade}Their souls with awe, and by his craft be made }Slave to his will, and profit to his trade.}So say my books, and how the rogues agreedTo blind the victims, to defraud and lead;When joys above to ready dupes were sold,And hell was threaten’d to the shy and cold.“Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray?As if a Being heard a word we say!480This may surprise you; I myself beganTo feel disturb’d, and to my Bible ran;I now am wiser—yet agree in this,The book has things that are not much amiss;It is a fine old work, and I protestI hate to hear it treated as a jest:The book has wisdom in it, if you lookWisely upon it as another book.”—“Oh! wicked! wicked! my unhappy child,How hast thou been by evil men beguiled!”—490“How! wicked, say you? you can little guessThe gain of that which you call wickedness:Why, sins you think it sinful but to nameHave gain’d both wives and widows wealth and fame;And this, because such people never dreadThose threaten’d pains; hell comes not in their head.Love is our nature, wealth we all desire,And what we wish ’tis lawful to acquire;So say my books—and what beside they show’Tis time to let this honest farmer know.500Nay, look not grave; am I commanded downTo feed his cattle and become his clown?Is such his purpose? then he shall be toldThe vulgar insult——”——“Hold, in mercy hold—”“Father, oh! father! throw the whip away;I was but jesting, on my knees I pray—There, hold his arm—oh! leave us not alone;In pity cease, and I will yet atoneFor all my sin—” In vain: stroke after strokeOn side and shoulder quick as mill-wheels broke;510Quick as the patient’s pulse, who trembling cried,And still the parent with a stroke replied;Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt,And every bone the precious influence felt;Till all the panting flesh was red and raw,And every thought was turn’d to fear and awe;Till every doubt to due respect gave place—Such cures are done when doctors know the case.“Oh! I shall die—my father! do receiveMy dying words; indeed, I do believe;520The books are lying books, I know it well,There is a devil, oh! there is a hell;And I’m a sinner: spare me, I am young,My sinful words were only on my tongue;My heart consented not; ’tis all a lie:Oh! spare me then, I’m not prepared to die.”“Vain, worthless, stupid wretch!” the father cried,“Dost thou presume to teach? art thou a guide?Driveller and dog, it gave the mind distressTo hear thy thoughts in their religious dress;530Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain,Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain.But Job in patience must the man exceedWho could endure thee in thy present creed;Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretendThe wicked cause a helping hand to lend?Canst thou a judge in any question be?Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee.—“Lo! yonder blaze thy worthies; in one heapThy scoundrel-favourites must for ever sleep:540Each yields its poison to the flame in turn,Where whores and infidels are doom’d to burn;Two noble faggots made the flame you see,Reserving only two fair twigs for thee;That in thy view the instruments may stand,And be in future ready for my hand:The just mementos that, though silent, showWhence thy correction and improvements flow;Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power,And feel the shame of this important hour.550“Hadst thou been humble, I had first design’dBy care from folly to have freed thy mind;And, when a clean foundation had been laid,Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid.But thou art weak, and force must folly guide,And thou art vain, and pain must humble pride.Teachers men honour, learners they allure;}But learners teaching of contempt are sure;}Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only cure!” }
TO HER GRACETHE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND
Madam,
It is the privilege of those who are placed in that elevated situation to which your Grace is an ornament, that they give honour to the person upon whom they confer a favour. When I dedicate to your Grace the fruits of many years, and speak of my debt to the House of Rutland, I feel that I am not without pride in the confession nor insensible to the honour which such gratitude implies. Forty years have elapsed since this debt commenced. On my entrance into the cares of life, and while contending with its difficulties, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland observed and protected me—in my progress a Duke and Duchess of Rutland favoured and assisted me—and, when I am retiring from the world, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland receive my thanks, and accept my offering. All, even in this world of mutability, is not change: I have experienced unvaried favour—I have felt undiminished respect.
With the most grateful remembrance of what I owe, and the most sincere conviction of the little I can return, I present these pages to your Grace’s acceptance, and beg leave to subscribe myself,
May it please Your Grace,With respect and gratitude,Your Grace’sMost obedient, humble,And devoted servant,GEORGE CRABBE.
Trowbridge,June, 1819.
If I did not fear that it would appear to my readers like arrogancy, or if it did not seem to myself indecorous to send two volumes of considerable magnitude from the press without preface or apology, without one petition for the reader’s attention, or one plea for the writer’s defects, I would most willingly spare myself an address of this kind, and more especially for these reasons: first, because a preface is a part of a book seldom honoured by a reader’s perusal; secondly, because it is both difficult and distressing to write that which we think will be disregarded; and thirdly, because I do not conceive that I am called upon for such introductory matter by any of the motives which usually influence an author when he composes his prefatory address.
When a writer, whether of poetry or prose, first addresses the public, he has generally something to offer which relates to himself or to his work, and which he considers as a necessary prelude to the work itself, to prepare his readers for the entertainment or the instruction they may expect to receive; for one of these every man who publishes must suppose he affords—this the act itself implies, and in proportion to his conviction of this fact must be his feeling of the difficulty in which he has placed himself: the difficulty consists in reconciling the implied presumption of the undertaking, whether to please or to instruct mankind, with the diffidence and modesty of an untried candidate for fame or favour. Hence originate the many reasons an author assigns for his appearance in that character, whether they actually exist, or are merely offered to hide the motives which cannot be openly avowed: namely, the wantor the vanity of the man, as his wishes for profit or reputation may most prevail with him.
Now, reasons of this kind, whatever they may be, cannot be availing beyond their first appearance. An author, it is true, may again feel his former apprehensions, may again be elevated or depressed by the suggestions of vanity and diffidence, and may be again subject to the cold and hot fit of aguish expectation; but he is no more a stranger to the press, nor has the motives or privileges of one who is. With respect to myself, it is certain they belong not to me. Many years have elapsed since I became a candidate for indulgence as an inexperienced writer; and to assume the language of such writer now, and to plead for his indulgences, would be proof of my ignorance of the place assigned to me, and the degree of favour which I have experienced; but of that place I am not uninformed, and with that degree of favour I have no reason to be dissatisfied.
It was the remark of the pious, but on some occasions the querulous, author of theNight Thoughts, that he had “been so long remembered, he was forgotten”—an expression in which there is more appearance of discontent than of submission: if he had patience, it was not the patience thatsmiles at grief. It is not therefore entirely in the sense of the good Doctor that I apply these words to myself, or to my more early publications. So many years indeed have passed since their first appearance, that I have no reason to complain, on that account, if they be now slumbering with other poems of decent reputation in their day—not dead indeed, nor entirely forgotten, but certainly not the subjects of discussion or conversation as when first introduced to the notice of the public by those whom the public will not forget, whose protection was credit to their author, and whose approbation was fame to them. Still these early publications had so long preceded any other, that, if not altogether unknown, I was, when I came again before the public, in a situation which excused, and perhaps rendered necessary, some explanation; but this also has passed away, and none of my readers will now take the trouble of making any inquiries respecting my motives for writing or for publishing these Tales or verses of any description. Known to each other as readers and authors areknown, they will require no preface to bespeak their good will; nor shall I be under the necessity of soliciting the kindness which experience has taught me, endeavouring to merit, I shall not fail to receive.
There is one motive—and it is a powerful one—which sometimes induces an author, and more particularly a poet, to ask the attention of his readers to his prefatory address. This is when he has some favourite and peculiar style or manner which he would explain and defend, and chiefly if he should have adopted a mode of versification of which an uninitiated reader was not likely to perceive either the merit or the beauty. In such case it is natural, and surely pardonable, to assert and to prove, as far as reason will bear us on, that such method of writing has both; to show in what the beauty consists, and what peculiar difficulty there is, which, when conquered, creates the merit. How far any particular poet has or has not succeeded in such attempt is not my business nor my purpose to inquire: I have no peculiar notion to defend, no poetical heterodoxy to support, nor theory of any kind to vindicate or oppose—that which I have used is probably the most common measure in our language; and therefore, whatever be its advantages or defects, they are too well known to require from me a description of the one, or an apology for the other.
Perhaps still more frequent than any explanation of the work is an account of the author himself, the situation in which he is placed, or some circumstances of peculiar kind in his life, education, or employment. How often has youth been pleaded for deficiencies or redundancies, for the existence of which youth may be an excuse, and yet be none for their exposure. Age too has been pleaded for the errors and failings in a work which the octogenarian had the discernment to perceive, and yet had not the fortitude to suppress. Many other circumstances are made apologies for a writer’s infirmities: his much employment, and many avocations, adversity, necessity, and the good of mankind. These, or any of them, however availing in themselves, avail not me. I am neither so young nor so old, so much engaged by one pursuit, or by many—I am not so urged by want, or so stimulated by a desire of public benefit—that I canborrow one apology from the many which I have named. How far they prevail with our readers, or with our judges, I cannot tell; and it is unnecessary for me to inquire into the validity of arguments which I have not to produce.
If there be any combination of circumstances which may be supposed to affect the mind of a reader, and in some degree to influence his judgment, the junction of youth, beauty, and merit in a female writer may be allowed to do this; and yet one of the most forbidding of titles is “Poems by a very young Lady”—and this, although beauty and merit were largely insinuated. Ladies, it is true, have of late little need of any indulgence as authors, and names may readily be found which rather excite the envy of man than plead for his lenity. Our estimation of title also in a writer has materially varied from that of our predecessors; “Poems by a Nobleman” would create a very different sensation in our minds from that which was formerly excited when they were so announced. A noble author had then no pretensions to a seat so secure on the “sacred hill,” that authors not noble, and critics not gentle, dared not attack; and they delighted to take revenge, by their contempt and derision of the poet, for the pain which their submission and respect to the man had cost them. But in our times we find that a nobleman writes, not merely as well, but better than other men: insomuch that readers in general begin to fancy that the Muses have relinquished their old partiality for rags and a garret, and are become altogether aristocratical in their choice. A conceit so well supported by fact would be readily admitted, did it not appear at the same time, that there were in the higher ranks of society men who could write as tamely, or as absurdly, as they had ever been accused of doing. We may, therefore, regard the works of any noble author as extraordinary productions, but must not found any theory upon them; and, notwithstanding their appearance, must look on genius and talent as we are wont to do on time and chance, that happen indifferently to all mankind.
But, whatever influence any peculiar situation of a writer might have, it cannot be a benefit to me, who have no such peculiarity. I must rely upon the willingness of my readers tobe pleased with that which was designed to give them pleasure, and upon the cordiality which naturally springs from a remembrance of our having before parted without any feelings of disgust on the one side, or of mortification on the other.
With this hope I would conclude the present subject; but I am called upon by duty to acknowledge my obligations, and more especially for two of the following Tales—the Story of Lady Barbara, in Book XVI; and that of Ellen in Book XVIII. The first of these I owe to the kindness of a fair friend, who will, I hope, accept the thanks which I very gratefully pay, and pardon me if I have not given to her relation the advantages which she had so much reason to expect. The other story, that of Ellen, could I give it in the language of him who related it to me, would please and affect my readers. It is by no means my only debt, though the one I now more particularly acknowledge; for who shall describe all that he gains in the social, the unrestrained, and the frequent conversations with a friend, who is at once communicative and judicious—whose opinions, on all subjects of literary kind, are founded on good taste, and exquisite feeling? It is one of the greatest “pleasures of my memory” to recal in absence those conversations; and, if I do not in direct terms mention with whom I conversed, it is both because I have no permission, and my readers will have no doubt.
The first intention of the poet must be to please; for, if he means to instruct, he must render the instruction which he hopes to convey palatable and pleasant. I will not assume the tone of a moralist, nor promise that my relations shall be beneficial to mankind; but I have endeavoured, not unsuccessfully I trust, that, in whatsoever I have related or described, there should be nothing introduced which has a tendency to excuse the vices of man by associating with them sentiments that demand our respect, and talents that compel our admiration. There is nothing in these pages which has the mischievous effect of confounding truth and error, or confusing our ideas of right and wrong. I know not which is most injurious to the yielding minds of the young—to render virtue less respectable by making its possessors ridiculous, or by describing vice with somany fascinating qualities, that it is either lost in the assemblage, or pardoned by the association. Man’s heart is sufficiently prone to make excuse for man’s infirmity, and needs not the aid of poetry, or eloquence, to take from vice its native deformity. A character may be respectable with all its faults, but it must not be made respectable by them. It is grievous when genius will condescend to place strong and evil spirits in a commanding view, or excite our pity and admiration for men of talents, degraded by crime, when struggling with misfortune. It is but too true that great and wicked men may be so presented to us as to demand our applause, when they should excite our abhorrence; but it is surely for the interest of mankind, and our own self-direction, that we should ever keep at unapproachable distance our respect and our reproach.
I have one observation more to offer. It may appear to some that a minister of religion, in the decline of life, should have no leisure for such amusements as these; and for them I have no reply. But to those who are more indulgent to the propensities, the studies, and the habits of mankind, I offer some apology when I produce these volumes, not as the occupations of my life, but the fruits of my leisure—the employment of that time which, if not given to them, had passed in the vacuity of unrecorded idleness, or had been lost in the indulgence of unregistered thoughts and fancies, that melt away in the instant they are conceived, and “leave not a wreck behind.”
TALES OF THE HALL.