Tales by George Crabbe Part 20

Henry VI, 2.

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; And though a friendly Widow knew no rest, Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd; Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone Their hearts' concern to see him left alone, Jones still persisted in that cheerless life, As if 'twere 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; Left the departed infants--then their joy Is 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, An 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: Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and hard, Can hear such claims and show them no regard.

Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found By what strong foes he was encompa.s.s'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, a.s.sumed for Farmer Jones: "Three girls," the Widow cried, "a lively three To 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?

Can 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; And off his wonted guard, in some retreat Find from a foe prepared entire defeat: But he was prudent; for he knew in flight These 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 decrees Upon a small one, in its love, to seize - It vows in kindness, to protect, defend, And be the fond ally, the faithful friend; It therefore wills that humbler state to place Its 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: And each foresaw a thousand ills attend The man that fled from so discreet a friend; And pray'd, kind soul! that no event might make The 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.

The 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 weak In 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, The old are pleased e'en 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, From beasts he fled, for b.u.t.terflies he flew, And idly gazed about in search of something new.

The lambs indeed he loved, and wish'd to play With 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, And 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 pa.s.s in duty and respect: But more it grieved his worthy mind to see That Stephen never would a farmer be: In vain he tried the shiftless Lad to guide, And yet 'twas time that something should be tried: He at the village-school perchance might gain All that such mind could gather and retain; Yet the good Dame affirm'd her favourite child Was 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 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'a.s.sume 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 G.o.d, and nothing fear'd beside; While others daring, yet imbecile, fly The power of man, and that of G.o.d 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sions 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 coa.r.s.e, 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 b.o.o.by 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 superst.i.tion (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 pa.s.s'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 c.o.xcomb--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?

Inquire--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 see All these improvements; they are lost on me."

The Youth, though loth, obey'd, and soon he saw The Farmer-father, with some signs of awe; Who, kind, yet silent, waited to behold How one would act, so daring, yet so cold: And soon he found, between the friendly pair That secrets pa.s.s'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 show He 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 read The son's choice volumes, and his wonder fled; He saw how wrought the works of either kind On 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 thought How near a foe, with power and vengeance fraught.

And now the matron told, as tidings sad, What 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 view His 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, To count how often in the sacred book The sacred name appear'd, and could rehea.r.s.e Which 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 say Thy faith like water runneth fast away, The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiled The ready wit of my backsliding child."

On this, with lofty looks, our Clerk began His grave rebuke, as he a.s.sumed 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 describe The arts of priests, and all the canting tribe?

Your Bible mentions Egypt, where it seems Was Joseph found when Pharoah 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, p.r.o.ne (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 agreed To blind the victims, to defraud and lead; When joys above to ready dupes were sold, And h.e.l.l 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: This may surprise you; I myself began To 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 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."

"Oh! wicked! wicked! my unhappy child, How hast thou been by evil men beguiled!"

"How! wicked, say you? You can little guess The gain of that which you call wickedness; Why, sins you think it sinful but to name Have gain'd both wives and widows wealth and fame; And this because such people never dread Those threaten'd pains; h.e.l.l 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.

Nay, look not grave: am I commanded down To feed his cattle and become his clown?

Is such his purpose? Then he shall be told The 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 atone For all my sin"--In vain; stroke after stroke, On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke; Quick 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 receive My dying words; indeed I do believe.

The books are lying books, I know it well; There is a devil, oh! there is a h.e.l.l; 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 gives the mind distress To hear thy thoughts in their religious dress; Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain, Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain; But Job in patience must the man exceed Who could endure thee in thy present creed.

Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend The wicked cause a helping hand to lend?

Canst thou a judge in any question be?

Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee.