The Father doubted - but to school was sent
The timid Stephen, weeping as he went:
There the rude lads compell’d the child to fight,
And 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 lie
Howling in torments, when they came to die.”
This was such comfort, that in high disdain
He 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 slate
With more success than many a hero sate;
He thought not much indeed - but what depends
On pains and care was at his fingers’ ends.
This had his Father’s praise, who now espied
A 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,
Easy 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 attend
To 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;
I 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, fly
The 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:
And now my blessing, not as any charm
Or 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.
The 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 text
For 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:
Be you a Joseph, and the time may be
When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee.”
“Nay,” said the Father - “Hush, my son!” replied
The 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 side
Was love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried;
Wild beasts and wax-work fill’d the happier part
Of Stephen’s varying and divided heart:
This 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 paid
To 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;
“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 walk
Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk;
While other ladies for their pleasure sing, -
Oh! ’tis a glorious and a happy thing:
They would despise me, did they understand
I 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 kept
His purpose secret, while his envy slept!
Virtue perhaps had conquer’d, or his shame
At least preserved him simple as he came.
A year elapsed before this Clerk began
To 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;
To 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 enlocked 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 knew
This was the first and only interview;
Nay, 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 murmurd at the money spent;
“He lov’d,” he said, “to buy, but not to spend -
They only talk awhile, and there’s an end.”
“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 find
The light break in upon your stagnant mind!”
The cooler Clerks exclaim’d, “In vain your art
To 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.”
“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 know
How money goes - now here is that to show:
And now” he cried, “I shall be pleased to get
Beyond the Bible - there I puzzle yet.”
He spoke abash’d - “Nay, nay!” the friend replied,
“You need not lay the good old book aside;
Antique and curious, I myself indeed
Read it at times, but as a man should read;.
A fine old work it is, and I protest
I hate to hear it treated as a jest:
The book has wisdom in it, if you look
Wisely upon it, as another book:
For superstition (as our priests of sin
Are pleased to tell us) makes us blind within;
Of this hereafter - we will now select
Some works to please you, others to direct;
Tales 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 papered 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 receive
From reverend men, and I in part believe -
Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs
This 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,
With 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 produce
Of Stephen’s books, how great might be the use!
But evil fate was theirs - survey’d, enjoy’d
Some happy months, and then by force destroyed:
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 week
He oped his lips, and made attempt to speak;
He fail’d indeed - but still his Friend confess’d
The 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,
The cramp may seize him, and impede his course.
Encouraged thus, our Clerk again essay’d
The 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,
The 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’d
To his good parent at the quarter’s end.
At first he sent those lines, the state to tell
Of his own health, and hoped his friends were well;
He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind,
And 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 need
For 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 once my duteous son, and now
My most obedient - this can I allow?
Can I with pleasure or with patience see
A 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 grown
A rake and coxcomb - this he grieved to own;
His cousin left his church, and spent the day
Lounging about in quite a heathen way;
Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace
To show the shame imprinted on his face:
I search’d his room, and in his absence read
Books 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 state
My 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;
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 mankind
To find a fault; what fault have you to find?
Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace?