Tales by George Crabbe Part 3

With such attention, who could long be ill?

Returning health proclaim'd the Doctor's skill.

Presents and praises from a grateful heart Were freely offer'd on the patient's part; In high repute the Doctor seem'd to stand, But still had got no footing in the land; And, as he saw the seat was rich and fair, He felt disposed to fix his station there: To gain his purpose he perform'd the part Of a good actor, and prepared to start; Not like a traveller in a day serene, When the sun shone and when the roads were clean; Not like the pilgrim, when the morning gray, The ruddy eve succeeding, sends his way; But in a season when the sharp east wind Had all its influence on a nervous mind; When past the parlour's front it fiercely blew, And Gwyn sat pitying every bird that flew, This strange physician said--"Adieu! Adieu!

Farewell!--Heaven bless you!--if you should--but no, You need not fear--farewell! 'tis time to go."

The Doctor spoke; and as the patient heard, His old disorders (dreadful train!) appear'd; "He felt the tingling tremor, and the stress Upon his nerves that he could not express; Should his good friend forsake him, he perhaps Might meet his death, and surely a relapse."

So, as the Doctor seem'd intent to part, He cried in terror--"Oh! be where thou art: Come, thou art young, and unengaged; oh! come, Make me thy friend, give comfort to mine home; I have now symptoms that require thine aid, Do, Doctor, stay:"--th' obliging Doctor stay'd.

Thus Gwyn was happy; he had now a friend, And a meek spouse on whom he could depend: But now possess'd of male and female guide, Divided power he thus must subdivide: In earlier days he rode, or sat at ease Reclined, and having but himself to please; Now if he would a fav'rite nag bestride, He sought permission--"Doctor, may I ride?"

(Rebecca's eye her sovereign pleasure told) - "I think you may, but guarded from the cold, Ride forty minutes."--Free and happy soul, He scorn'd submission, and a man's control; But where such friends in every care unite All for his good, obedience is delight.

Now Gwyn a sultan bade affairs adieu, Led and a.s.sisted by the faithful two; The favourite fair, Rebecca, near him sat, And whisper'd whom to love, a.s.sist, or hate; While the chief vizier eased his lord of cares, And bore himself the burden of affairs: No dangers could from such alliance flow, But from that law that changes all below.

When wintry winds with leaves bestrew'd the ground, And men were coughing all the village round; When public papers of invasion told, Diseases, famines, perils new and old; When philosophic writers fail'd to clear The mind of gloom, and lighter works to cheer; Then came fresh terrors on our hero's mind - Fears unforeseen, and feelings undefined.

"In outward ills," he cried, "I rest a.s.sured Of my friend's aid; they will in time be cured; But can his art subdue, resist, control These inward griefs and troubles of the soul?

Oh! my Rebecca! my disorder'd mind No help in study, none in thought can find; What must I do, Rebecca?" She proposed The Parish-guide; but what could be disclosed To a proud priest?--"No! him have I defied, Insulted, slighted--shall he be my guide?

But one there is, and if report be just, A wise good man, whom I may safely trust; Who goes from house to house, from ear to ear, To make his truths, his Gospel-truths, appear; True if indeed they be, 'tis time that I should hear: Send for that man; and if report be just, I, like Cornelius, will the teacher trust; But if deceiver, I the vile deceit Shall soon discover, and discharge the cheat."

To Doctor Mollet was the grief confess"d, While Gwyn the freedom of his mind expressed; Yet own'd it was to ills and errors p.r.o.ne, And he for guilt and frailty must atone.

"My books, perhaps," the wav'ring mortal cried, "Like men deceive; I would be satisfied; - And to my soul the pious man may bring Comfort and light: --do let me try the thing."

The cousins met, what pa.s.s'd with Gwyn was told: "Alas!" the Doctor said, "how hard to hold These easy minds, where all impressions made At first sink deeply, and then quickly fade; For while so strong these new-born fancies reign, We must divert them, to oppose is vain: You see him valiant now, he scorns to heed The bigot's threat'nings or the zealot's creed; Shook by a dream, he next for truth receives What frenzy teaches, and what fear believes; And this will place him in the power of one Whom we must seek, because we cannot shun."

Wisp had been ostler at a busy inn, Where he beheld and grew in dread of sin; Then to a Baptists' meeting found his way, Became a convert, and was taught to pray; Then preach'd; and, being earnest and sincere, Brought other sinners to religious fear: Together grew his influence and his fame, Till our dejected hero heard his name: His little failings were a grain of pride, Raised by the numbers he presumed to guide; A love of presents, and of lofty praise For his meek spirit and his humble ways; But though this spirit would on flattery feed, No praise could blind him and no arts mislead: - To him the Doctor made the wishes known Of his good patron, but conceal'd his own; He of all teachers had distrust and doubt, And was reserved in what he came about; Though on a plain and simple message sent, He had a secret and a bold intent: Their minds at first were deeply veil'd; disguise Form'd the slow speech, and oped the eager eyes; Till by degrees sufficient light was thrown On every view, and all the business shown.

Wisp, as a skilful guide who led the blind, Had powers to rule and awe the vapourish mind; But not the changeful will, the wavering fear to bind: And should his conscience give him leave to dwell With Gwyn, and every rival power expel (A dubious point), yet he, with every care, Might soon the lot of the rejected share; And other Wisps he found like him to reign, And then be thrown upon the world again: He thought it prudent then, and felt it just, The present guides of his new friend to trust: True, he conceived, to touch the harder heart Of the cool Doctor, was beyond his art; But mild Rebecca he could surely sway, While Gwyn would follow where she led the way: So to do good, (and why a duty shun, Because rewarded for the good when done?) He with his friends would join in all they plann'd, Save when his faith or feelings should withstand; There he must rest sole judge of his affairs, While they might rule exclusively in theirs.

When Gwyn his message to the teacher sent, He fear'd his friends would show their discontent; And prudent seem'd it to th' attendant pair, Not all at once to show an aspect fair: On Wisp they seem'd to look with jealous eye, And fair Rebecca was demure and shy; But by degrees the teacher's worth they knew, And were so kind, they seem'd converted too.

Wisp took occasion to the nymph to say, "You must be married: will you name the day?"

She smiled,--"'Tis well: but should he not comply, Is it quite safe th' experiment to try?" - "My child," the teacher said, "who feels remorse, (And feels not he?) must wish relief of course: And can he find it, while he fears the crime! - You must be married; will you name the time?"

Glad was the patron as a man could be, Yet marvell'd too, to find his guides agree; "But what the cause?" he cried; "'tis genuine love for me."

Each found his part, and let one act describe The powers and honours of th' accordant tribe: - A man for favour to the mansion speeds, And cons his threefold task as he proceeds; To teacher Wisp he bows with humble air, And begs his interest for a barn's repair: Then for the Doctor he inquires, who loves To hear applause for what his skill improves, And gives for praise, a.s.sent--and to the Fair He brings of pullets a delicious pair; Thus sees a peasant, with discernment nice, A love of power, conceit, and avarice.

Lo! now the change complete: the convert Gwyn Has sold his books, and has renounced his sin; Mollet his body orders, Wisp his soul, And o'er his purse the Lady takes control; No friends beside he needs, and none attend - Soul, body, and estate, has each a friend; And fair Rebecca leads a virtuous life - She rules a mistress, and she reigns a wife.

TALE IV.

PROCRASTINATION.

Heaven witness I have been to you ever true and humble.

SHAKESPEARE, Henry VIII.

Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had.

Merchant of Venice.

The fatal time Cuts off all ceremonies and vows of love, And ample interchange of sweet discourse, Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon.

Richard III.

I know thee not, old man; fall to thy prayers.

Henry IV.

Farewell, Thou pure impiety, thou impious purity, For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love.

Much Ado about Nothing.

Love will expire--the gay, the happy dream Will turn to scorn, indiff'rence, or esteem: Some favour'd pairs, in this exchange, are blest, Nor sigh for raptures in a state of rest; Others, ill match'd, with minds unpair'd, repent At once the deed, and know no more content; From joy to anguish they, in haste, decline, And, with their fondness, their esteem resign; More luckless still their fate, who are the prey Of long-protracted hope and dull delay: 'Mid plans of bliss the heavy hours pa.s.s on, Till love is withered, and till joy is gone.

This gentle flame two youthful hearts possess'd, The sweet disturber of unenvied rest; The prudent Dinah was the maid beloved, And the kind Rupert was the swain approved: A wealthy Aunt her gentle niece sustain'd, He, with a father, at his desk remain'd; The youthful couple, to their vows sincere, Thus loved expectant; year succeeding year, With pleasant views and hopes, but not a prospect near.

Rupert some comfort in his station saw, But the poor virgin lived in dread and awe; Upon her anxious looks the widow smiled, And bade her wait, "for she was yet a child."

She for her neighbour had a due respect, Nor would his son encourage or reject; And thus the pair, with expectation vain, Beheld the seasons change and change again; Meantime the nymph her tender tales perused, Where cruel aunts impatient girls refused: While hers, though teasing, boasted to be kind, And she, resenting, to be all resign'd.

The dame was sick, and when the youth applied For her consent, she groan'd, and cough'd, and cried, Talk'd of departing, and again her breath Drew hard, and cough'd, and talk'd again of death: "Here may you live, my Dinah! here the boy And you together my estate enjoy:"

Thus to the lovers was her mind expressed, Till they forbore to urge the fond request.

Servant, and nurse, and comforter, and friend, Dinah had still some duty to attend; But yet their walk, when Rupert's evening call Obtain'd an hour, made sweet amends for all; So long they now each other's thoughts had known, That nothing seem'd exclusively their own: But with the common wish, the mutual fear, They now had travelled to their thirtieth year.

At length a prospect open'd--but alas!

Long time must yet, before the union, pa.s.s.

Rupert was call'd, in other clime, t'increase Another's wealth, and toil for future peace.

Loth were the lovers; but the aunt declared 'Twas fortune's call, and they must be prepar'd: "You now are young, and for this brief delay, And Dinah's care, what I bequeath will pay; All will be yours; nay, love, suppress that sigh; The kind must suffer, and the best must die:"

Then came the cough, and strong the signs it gave Of holding long contention with the grave.

The lovers parted with a gloomy view, And little comfort, but that both were true; He for uncertain duties doom'd to steer, While hers remain'd too certain and severe.

Letters arrived, and Rupert fairly told "His cares were many, and his hopes were cold: The view more clouded, that was never fair, And love alone preserved him from despair;"

In other letters brighter hopes he drew, "His friends were kind, and he believed them true."

When the sage widow Dinah's grief descried, She wonder'd much why one so happy sigh'd: Then bade her see how her poor aunt sustain'd The ills of life, nor murmur'd nor complain'd.

To vary pleasures, from the lady's chest Were drawn the pearly string and tabby vest; Beads, jewels, laces, all their value shown, With the kind notice--"They will be your own."

This hope, these comforts, cherish'd day by day, To Dinah's bosom made a gradual way; Till love of treasure had as large a part, As love of Rupert, in the virgin's heart.

Whether it be that tender pa.s.sions fail, From their own nature, while the strong prevail; Or whether av'rice, like the poison-tree, Kills all beside it, and alone will be; Whatever cause prevail'd, the pleasure grew In Dinah's soul,--she loved the h.o.a.rds to view; With lively joy those comforts she survey'd, And love grew languid in the careful maid.

Now the grave niece partook the widow's cares, Look'd to the great, and ruled the small affairs; Saw clean'd the plate, arranged the china-show, And felt her pa.s.sion for a shilling grow: Th' indulgent aunt increased the maid's delight, By placing tokens of her wealth in sight; She loved the value of her bonds to tell, And spake of stocks, and how they rose and fell.

This pa.s.sion grew, and gain'd at length such sway, That other pa.s.sions shrank to make it way; Romantic notions now the heart forsook, She read but seldom, and she changed her book; And for the verses she was wont to send, Short was her prose, and she was Rupert's friend.

Seldom she wrote, and then the widow's cough, And constant call, excused her breaking off; Who now oppressed, no longer took the air, But sat and dozed upon an easy chair.

The cautious doctor saw the case was clear, But judged it best to have companions near; They came, they reason'd, they prescribed,--at last, Like honest men, they said their hopes were past; Then came a priest--'tis comfort to reflect When all is over, there was no neglect: And all was over.--By her husband's bones, The widow rests beneath the sculptured stones, That yet record their fondness and their fame, While all they left the virgin's care became; Stock, bonds, and buildings; it disturb'd her rest, To think what load of troubles she possessed: Yet, if a trouble, she resolved to take Th' important duty for the donor's sake; She too was heiress to the widow's taste, Her love of h.o.a.rding, and her dread of waste.

Sometimes the past would on her mind intrude, And then a conflict full of care ensued; The thoughts of Rupert on her mind would press, His worth she knew, but doubted his success: Of old she saw him heedless; what the boy Forebore to save, the man would not enjoy; Oft had he lost the chance that care would seize, Willing to live, but more to live at ease: Yet could she not a broken vow defend, And Heav'n, perhaps, might yet enrich her friend.

Month after month was pa.s.s'd, and all were spent In quiet comfort, and in rich content; Miseries there were, and woes the world around, But these had not her pleasant dwelling found; She knew that mothers grieved, and widows wept, And she was sorry, said her prayers, and slept: Thus pa.s.sed the seasons, and to Dinah's board Gave what the seasons to the rich afford; For she indulged, nor was her heart so small, That one strong pa.s.sion should engross it all.

A love of splendour now with av'rice strove, And oft appeared to be the stronger love: A secret pleasure fill'd the Widow's breast, When she reflected on the h.o.a.rds possess'd; But livelier joy inspired th' ambitious Maid, When she the purchase of those h.o.a.rds display'd: In small but splendid room she loved to see That all was placed in view and harmony.

There, as with eager glance she look'd around, She much delight in every object found.

While books devout were near her--to destroy, Should it arise, an overflow of joy.

Within that fair apartment guests might see The comforts cull'd for wealth by vanity: Around the room an Indian paper blazed, With lively tint and figures boldly raised; Silky and soft upon the floor below, Th' elastic carpet rose with crimson glow; All things around implied both cost and care, What met the eye was elegant or rare: Some curious trifles round the room were laid, By hope presented to the wealthy Maid; Within a costly case of varnish'd wood, In level rows, her polish'd volumes stood; Shown as a favour to a chosen few, To prove what beauty for a book could do: A silver urn with curious work was fraught; A silver lamp from Grecian pattern wrought: Above her head, all gorgeous to behold, A time-piece stood on feet of burnish'd gold; A stag's-head crest adorn'd the pictured case, Through the pure crystal shone the enamel'd face; And while on brilliants moved the hands of steel, It click'd from pray'r to pray'r, from meal to meal.

Here as the lady sat, a friendly pair Stept in t'admire the view, and took their chair: They then related how the young and gay Were thoughtless wandering in the broad highway: How tender damsels sail'd in tilted boats, And laugh'd with wicked men in scarlet coats; And how we live in such degen'rate times, That men conceal their wants and show their crimes; While vicious deeds are screen'd by fashion's name, And what was once our pride is now our shame.

Dinah was musing, as her friends discoursed, When these last words a sudden entrance forced Upon her mind, and what was once her pride And now her shame, some painful views supplied; Thoughts of the past within her bosom press'd, And there a change was felt, and was confess'd: While thus the Virgin strove with secret pain, Her mind was wandering o'er the troubled main; Still she was silent, nothing seem'd to see, But sat and sigh'd in pensive reverie.

The friends prepared new subjects to begin, When tall Susannah, maiden starch, stalk'd in; Not in her ancient mode, sedate and slow, As when she came, the mind she knew, to know; Nor as, when list'ning half an hour before, She twice or thrice tapp'd gently at the door; But all decorum cast in wrath aside, "I think the devil's in the man!" she cried; "A huge tall sailor, with his tawny cheek And pitted face, will with my lady speak; He grinn'd an ugly smile, and said he knew, Please you, my lady, 't would be joy to you: What must I answer?"--Trembling and distress'd Sank the pale Dinah by her fears oppress'd; When thus alarm'd and brooking no delay, Swift to her room the stranger made his way.

"Revive, my love!" said he, "I've done thee harm; Give me thy pardon," and he look'd alarm: Meantime the prudent Dinah had contrived Her soul to question, and she then revived.

"See! my good friend," and then she raised her head, "The bloom of life, the strength of youth is fled; Living we die; to us the world is dead; We parted bless'd with health, and I am now Age-struck and feeble--so I find art thou; Thine eye is sunken, furrow'd is thy face, And downward look'st thou--so we run our race; And happier they whose race is nearly run, Their troubles over, and their duties done."

"True, lady, true--we are not girl and boy, But time has left us something to enjoy."

"What! hast thou learn'd my fortune?--yes, I live To feel how poor the comforts wealth can give: Thou too perhaps art wealthy; but our fate Still mocks our wishes, wealth is come too late."

"To me nor late nor early; I am come Poor as I left thee to my native home: Nor yet," said Rupert, "will I grieve; 'tis mine To share thy comforts, and the glory thine: For thou wilt gladly take that generous part That both exalts and gratifies the heart; While mine rejoices"--"Heavens!" return'd the maid, "This talk to one so wither'd and decay'd?

No! all my care is now to fit my mind For other spousal, and to die resigned: As friend and neighbour, I shall hope to see These n.o.ble views, this pious love in thee; That we together may the change await, Guides and spectators in each other's fate; When fellow pilgrims, we shall daily crave The mutual prayer that arms us for the grave."

Half angry, half in doubt, the lover gazed On the meek maiden, by her speech amazed; "Dinah," said he, "dost thou respect thy vows?

What spousal mean'st thou?--thou art Rupert's spouse; That chance is mine to take, and thine to give: But, trifling this, if we together live: Can I believe, that, after all the past, Our vows, our loves, thou wilt be false at last?

Something thou hast--I know not what--in view; I find thee pious--let me find thee true."

"Ah! cruel this; but do, my friend, depart; And to its feelings leave my wounded heart."

"Nay, speak at once; and Dinah, let me know, Mean'st thou to take me, now I'm wreck'd, in tow?

Be fair; nor longer keep me in the dark; Am I forsaken for a trimmer spark?

Heaven's spouse thou art not; nor can I believe That G.o.d accepts her who will man deceive: True I am shatter'd, I have service seen, And service done, and have in trouble been; My cheek (it shames me not) has lost its red, And the brown buff is o'er my features spread: Perchance my speech is rude; for I among Th' untamed have been, in temper and in tongue; Have been trepann'd, have lived in toil and care, And wrought for wealth I was not doom'd to share; It touch'd me deeply, for I felt a pride In gaining riches for my destin'd bride: Speak then my fate; for these my sorrows past, Time lost, youth fled, hope wearied, and at last This doubt of thee--a childish thing to tell, But certain truth--my very throat they swell: They stop the breath, and but for shame could I Give way to weakness, and with pa.s.sion cry; These are unmanly struggles, but I feel This hour must end them, and perhaps will heal."

Here Dinah sigh'd, as if afraid to speak - And then repeated--"They were frail and weak: His soul she lov'd, and hoped he had the grace To fix his thoughts upon a better place."

She ceased;--with steady glance, as if to see The very root of this hypocrisy, - He her small fingers moulded in his hard And bronzed broad hand; then told her his regard, His best respect were gone, but love had still Hold in his heart, and govern'd yet the will - Or he would curse her: --saying this, he threw The hand in scorn away, and bade adieu To every lingering hope, with every care in view.

Proud and indignant, suffering, sick, and poor, He grieved unseen: and spoke of love no more - Till all he felt in indignation died, As hers had sunk in avarice and pride.

In health declining, as in mind distressed, To some in power his troubles he confess'd, And shares a parish-gift; at prayers he sees The pious Dinah dropp'd upon her knees; Thence as she walks the street with stately air As chance directs, oft meet the parted pair; When he, with thickset coat of badgeman's blue, Moves near her shaded silk of changeful hue; When his thin locks of gray approach her braid, A costly purchase made in Beauty's aid; When his frank air, and his unstudied pace, Are seen with her soft manner, air, and grace; And his plain artless look with her sharp meaning face; It might some wonder in a stranger move, How these together could have talk'd of love.

Behold them now!--see there a tradesman stands, And humbly hearkens to some fresh commands; He moves to speak, she interrupts him--"Stay,"