Tales by George Crabbe Part 5

Stillness reign'd all around; of late so full The busy scene, deserted now and dull: Stern is his nature who forbears to feel Gloom o'er his spirits on such trials steal; Most keenly felt our poet as he went From room to room without a fix'd intent; "And here," he thought, "I was caress'd; admired Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired.

The change how grievous!" As he mused, a dame Busy and peevish to her duties came; Aside the tables and the chairs she drew, And sang and mutter'd in the poet's view: - "This was her fortune; here they leave the poor; Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more; I had a promise"--here his pride and shame Urged him to fly from this familiar dame; He gave one farewell look, and by a coach Reach'd his own mansion at the night's approach.

His father met him with an anxious air, Heard his sad tale, and check'd what seem'd despair: Hope was in him corrected, but alive; My lord would something for a friend contrive; His word was pledged: our hero's feverish mind Admitted this, and half his grief resigned: But, when three months had fled, and every day Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away, The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull; He utter'd nothing, though his heart was full; Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks, And all forgetful of his Muse and books; Awake he mourn'd, but in his sleep perceived A lovely vision that his pain relieved: - His soul, transported, hail'd the happy seat, Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet; Where joys departed came in blissful view Till reason waked, and not a joy he knew.

Questions now vex'd his spirit, most from those Who are call'd friends, because they are not foes: "John?" they would say; he, starting, turn'd around, "John!" there was something shocking in the sound: Ill brook'd he then the pert familiar phrase, The untaught freedom and th' inquiring gaze; Much was his temper touch'd, his spleen provoked, When ask'd how ladies talk'd, or walk'd, or look'd?

"What said my Lord of politics! how spent He there his time? and was he glad he went?"

At length a letter came, both cool and brief, But still it gave the burden'd heart relief: Though not inspired by lofty hopes, the youth Placed much reliance on Lord Frederick's truth; Summon'd to town, he thought the visit one Where something fair and friendly would be done; Although he judged not, as before his fall, When all was love and promise at the hall.

Arrived in town, he early sought to know The fate such dubious friendship would bestow; At a tall building trembling he appear'd, And his low rap was indistinctly heard; A well-known servant came--"Awhile," said he, "Be pleased to wait; my Lord has company."

Alone our hero sat; the news in hand, Which though he read, he could not understand: Cold was the day; in days so cold as these There needs a fire, where minds and bodies freeze.

The vast and echoing room, the polish'd grate, The crimson chairs, the sideboard with its plate; The splendid sofa, which, though made for rest, He then had thought it freedom to have press'd; The shining tables, curiously inlaid, Were all in comfortless proud style display'd; And to the troubled feelings terror gave, That made the once-dear friend the sick'ning slave.

"Was he forgotten?" Thrice upon his ear Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near: Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke; Oft as a servant chanced the way to come, "Brings he a message?" no! he pa.s.sed the room.'

At length 'tis certain; "Sir, you will attend At twelve on Thursday!" Thus the day had end.

Vex'd by these tedious hours of needless pain, John left the n.o.ble mansion with disdain; For there was something in that still, cold place, That seemed to threaten and portend disgrace.

Punctual again the modest rap declared The youth attended; then was all prepared: For the same servant, by his lord's command, A paper offer'd to his trembling hand: "No more!" he cried: "disdains he to afford One kind expression, one consoling word?"

With troubled spirit he began to read That "In the Church my lord could not succeed;"

Who had "to peers of either kind applied, And was with dignity and grace denied; While his own livings were by men possess'd, Not likely in their chancels yet to rest; And therefore, all things weigh'd (as he my lord, Had done maturely, and he pledged his word), Wisdom it seem'd for John to turn his view To busier scenes, and bid the Church adieu!"

Here grieved the youth: he felt his father's pride Must with his own be shocked and mortified; But, when he found his future comforts placed Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced - In some appointment on the London quays, He bade farewell to honour and to ease; His spirit fell, and from that hour a.s.sured How vain his dreams, he suffer'd and was cured.

Our Poet hurried on, with wish to fly From all mankind, to be conceal'd, and die.

Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views Did that one visit to the soul infuse, Which cherished with such love, 'twas worse than death to lose.

Still he would strive, though painful was the strife, To walk in this appointed road of life; On these low duties duteous he would wait, And patient bear the anguish of his fate.

Thanks to the Patron, but of coldest kind, Express'd the sadness of the Poet's mind; Whose heavy hours were pa.s.s'd with busy men, In the dull practice of th' official pen; Who to superiors must in time impart; (The custom this) his progress in their art: But so had grief on his perception wrought, That all unheeded were the duties taught; No answers gave he when his trial came, Silent he stood, but suffering without shame; And they observed that words severe or kind Made no impression on his wounded mind: For all perceived from whence his failure rose, Some grief, whose cause he deign'd not to disclose.

A soul averse from scenes and works so new, Fear ever shrinking from the vulgar crew; Distaste for each mechanic law and rule.

Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool; A grieving parent, and a feeling mind, Timid and ardent, tender and refined: These all with mighty force the youth a.s.sail'd, Till his soul fainted, and his reason fail'd: When this was known, and some debate arose, How they who saw it should the fact disclose, He found their purpose, and in terror fled From unseen kindness, with mistaken dread.

Meantime the parent was distress'd to find His son no longer for a priest design'd; But still he gain'd some comfort by the news Of John's promotion, though with humbler views; For he conceived that in no distant time The boy would learn to scramble and to climb; He little thought his son, his hope and pride, His favour'd boy, was now a home denied: Yes! while the parent was intent to trace How men in office climb from place to place, By day, by night, o'er moor and heath, and hill, Roved the sad youth, with ever-changing will, Of every aid bereft, exposed to every ill.

Thus as he sat, absorb'd in all the care And all the hope that anxious fathers share, A friend abruptly to his presence brought, With trembling hand, the subject of his thought; Whom he had found afflicted and subdued By hunger, sorrow, cold, and solitude.

Silent he enter'd the forgotten room, As ghostly forms may be conceived to come; With sorrow-shrunken face and hair upright, He look'd dismayed, neglect, despair, affright; But dead to comfort, and on misery thrown, His parent's loss he felt not, nor his own.

The good man, struck with horror, cried aloud, And drew around him an astonish'd crowd; The sons and servants to the father ran, To share the feelings of the griev'd old man.

"Our brother, speak!" they all exclam'd "explain Thy grief, thy suffering:"--but they ask'd in vain: The friend told all he knew; and all was known, Save the sad causes whence the ills had grown; But, if obscure the cause, they all agreed From rest and kindness must the cure proceed: And he was cured; for quiet, love, and care, Strove with the gloom, and broke on the despair; Yet slow their progress, and as vapours move Dense and reluctant from the wintry grove; All is confusion, till the morning light Gives the dim scene obscurely to the sight; More and yet more defined the trunks appear, Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear; - So the dark mind of our young poet grew Clear and sedate; the dreadful mist withdrew; And he resembled that bleak wintry scene, Sad, though unclouded; dismal, though serene.

At times he utter'd, "What a dream was mine!

And what a prospect! glorious and divine!

Oh! in that room, and on that night to see Those looks, that sweetness beaming all on me; That syren-flattery--and to send me then, Hope-raised and soften'd, to those heartless men; That dark-brow'd stern Director, pleased to show Knowledge of subjects I disdain'd to know; Cold and controlling--but 'tis gone--'tis past; I had my trial, and have peace at last."

Now grew the youth resigned: he bade adieu To all that hope, to all that fancy drew; His frame was languid, and the hectic heat Flush'd on his pallid face, and countless beat The quick'ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore The slender form that soon would breathe no more.

Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain'd, And not a lingering thought of earth remain'd; Now heaven had all, and he could smile at Love, And the wild sallies of his youth reprove; Then could he dwell upon the tempting days, The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise; Victorious now, his worldly views were closed, And on the bed of death the youth reposed.

The father grieved--but as the poet's heart Was all unfitted for his earthly part; As, he conceived, some other haughty fair Would, had he lived, have led him to despair; As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt; While the strong faith the pious youth possess'd, His hope enlivening gave his sorrows rest; Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy For his aspiring and devoted boy.

Meantime the news through various channels spread, The youth, once favour'd with such praise, was dead: "Emma," the lady cried, "my words attend, Your syren-smiles have kill'd your humble friend; The hope you raised can now delude no more, Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore."

Faint was the flush of anger and of shame, That o'er the cheek of conscious beauty came: "You censure not," said she, "the sun's bright rays, When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze; And should a stripling look till he were blind, You would not justly call the light unkind: But is he dead? and am I to suppose The power of poison in such looks as those?"

She spoke, and pointing to the mirror, cast A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pa.s.s'd.

My Lord, to whom the poet's fate was told, Was much affected, for a man so cold: "Dead!" said his lordship, "run distracted, mad!

Upon my soul I'm sorry for the lad; And now no doubt th' obliging world will say That my harsh usage help'd him on his way: What! I suppose, I should have nursed his muse, And with champagne have brighten'd up his views; Then had he made me famed my whole life long, And stunn'd my ears with grat.i.tude and song.

Still should the father bear that I regret Our joint misfortune--Yes! I'll not forget."

Thus they: --the father to his grave convey'd The son he loved, and his last duties paid.

"There lies my Boy," he cried, "of care bereft, And heaven be praised, I've not a genius left: No one among ye, sons! is doomed to live On high-raised hopes of what the Great may give; None, with exalted views and fortunes mean, To die in anguish, or to live in spleen: Your pious brother soon escaped the strife Of such contention, but it cost his life; You then, my sons, upon yourselves depend, And in your own exertions find the friend."

TALE VI.

THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

Yes, faith, it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsy, and say, "Father, as it please you;" but for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, "Father, as it pleases me."

SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado about Nothing.

He cannot flatter, he!

An honest mind and plain--he must speak truth.

King Lear.

G.o.d hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another; you jig, you amble, you nick-name G.o.d's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance.

Hamlet.

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

Am I contemn'd for pride and scorn so much?

Much Ado about Nothing.

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire, Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher; Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow, Who knew the man could never cease to know: His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by, Had a firm presence and a steady eye; But with her husband dropp'd her look and tone, And Jonas ruled unquestion'd and alone.

He read, and oft would quote the sacred words, How pious husbands of their wives were lords; Sarah called Abraham Lord! and who could be, So Jonas thought, a greater man than he?

Himself he view'd with undisguised respect, And never pardon'd freedom or neglect.

They had one daughter, and this favourite child Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled; Soothed by attention from her early years, She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears; But Sybil then was in that playful time, When contradiction is not held a crime; When parents yield their children idle praise For faults corrected in their after days.

Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt, Where each his duty and his station felt: Yet not that peace some favour'd mortals find, In equal views and harmony of mind; Not the soft peace that blesses those who love, Where all with one consent in union move; But it was that which one superior will Commands, by making all inferiors still; Who bids all murmurs, all objections, cease, And with imperious voice announces--Peace!

They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew, Who, as their foes maintain, their Sovereign slew; An independent race, precise, correct, Who ever married in the kindred sect: No son or daughter of their order wed A friend to England's king who lost his head; Cromwell was still their Saint, and when they met, They mourn'd that Saints were not our rulers yet.

Fix'd were their habits; they arose betimes, Then pray'd their hour, and sang their party-rhymes: Their meals were plenteous, regular and plain; The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain; Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn - And, like his father, he was merchant born: Neat was their house; each table, chair, and stool, Stood in its place, or moving moved by rule; No lively print or picture graced the room; A plain brown paper lent its decent gloom; But here the eye, in glancing round, survey'd A small recess that seem'd for china made; Such pleasing pictures seem'd this pencill'd ware, That few would search for n.o.bler objects there - Yet, turn'd by chosen friends, and there appear'd His stern, strong features, whom they all revered; For there in lofty air was seen to stand The bold Protector of the conquer'd land; Drawn in that look with which he wept and swore, Turn'd out the Members, and made fast the door, Ridding the House of every knave and drone, Forced, though it grieved his soul, to rule alone.

The stern still smile each friend approving gave, Then turn'd the view, and all again were grave.

There stood a clock, though small the owner's need, For habit told when all things should proceed; Few their amus.e.m.e.nts, but when friends appear'd, They with the world's distress their spirits cheer'd; The nation's guilt, that would not long endure The reign of men so modest and so pure: Their town was large, and seldom pa.s.s'd a day But some had fail'd, and others gone astray; Clerks had absconded, wives eloped, girls flown To Gretna-Green, or sons rebellious grown; Quarrels and fires arose;--and it was plain The times were bad; the Saints had ceased to reign!

A few yet lived, to languish and to mourn For good old manners never to return.

Jonas had sisters, and of these was one Who lost a husband and an only son: Twelve months her sables she in sorrow wore, And mourn'd so long that she could mourn no more.

Distant from Jonas, and from all her race, She now resided in a lively place; There, by the sect unseen, at whist she play'd, Nor was of churchman or their church afraid: If much of this the graver brother heard, He something censured, but he little fear'd; He knew her rich and frugal; for the rest, He felt no care, or, if he felt, suppress'd: Nor for companion when she ask'd her Niece, Had he suspicions that disturb'd his peace; Frugal and rich, these virtues as a charm Preserved the thoughtful man from all alarm; An infant yet, she soon would home return, Nor stay the manners of the world to learn; Meantime his boys would all his care engross, And be his comforts if he felt the loss.

The sprightly Sybil, pleased and unconfined, Felt the pure pleasure of the op'ning mind: All here was gay and cheerful--all at home Unvaried quiet and unruffled gloom: There were no changes, and amus.e.m.e.nts few; - Here all was varied, wonderful, and new; There were plain meals, plain dresses, and grave looks - Here, gay companions and amusing books; And the young Beauty soon began to taste The light vocations of the scene she graced.

A man of business feels it as a crime On calls domestic to consume his time; Yet this grave man had not so cold a heart, But with his daughter he was grieved to part: And he demanded that in every year The Aunt and Niece should at his house appear.

"Yes! we must go, my child, and by our dress A grave conformity of mind express; Must sing at meeting, and from cards refrain, The more t'enjoy when we return again."

Thus spake the Aunt, and the discerning child Was pleased to learn how fathers are beguiled.

Her artful part the young dissembler took, And from the matron caught th' approving look: When thrice the friends had met, excuse was sent For more delay, and Jonas was content; Till a tall maiden by her sire was seen, In all the bloom and beauty of sixteen; He gazed admiring;--she, with visage prim, Glanced an arch look of gravity on him; For she was gay at heart, but wore disguise, And stood a vestal in her father's eyes: Pure, pensive, simple, sad; the damsel's heart, When Jonas praised, reproved her for the part.

For Sybil, fond of pleasure, gay and light, Had still a secret bias to the right; Vain as she was--and flattery made her vain - Her simulation gave her bosom pain.

Again return'd, the Matron and the Niece Found the late quiet gave their joy increase; The aunt infirm, no more her visits paid, But still with her sojourn'd the favourite maid.

Letters were sent when franks could be procured, And when they could not, silence was endured; All were in health, and if they older grew, It seem'd a fact that none among them knew; The aunt and niece still led a pleasant life, And quiet days had Jonas and his wife.

Near him a Widow dwelt of worthy fame, Like his her manners, and her creed the same; The wealth her husband left, her care retain'd For one tall Youth, and widow she remain'd; His love respectful all her care repaid, Her wishes watch'd, and her commands obey'd.

Sober he was and grave from early youth, Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth: In a light drab he uniformly dress'd, And look serene th' unruffled mind express'd; A hat with ample verge his brows o'erspread, And his brown locks curl'd graceful on his head; Yet might observers in his speaking eye Some observation, some acuteness spy; The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous deem'd it sly.

Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect, His actions all were, like his speech, correct; And they who jested on a mind so sound, Upon his virtues must their laughter found; Chaste, sober, solemn, and devout they named Him who was thus, and not of this ashamed.

Such were the virtues Jonas found in one In whom he warmly wish'd to find a son: Three years had pa.s.s'd since he had Sybil seen; But she was doubtless what she once had been, Lovely and mild, obedient and discreet; The pair must love whenever they should meet; Then ere the widow or her son should choose Some happier maid, he would explain his views: Now she, like him, was politic and shrewd, With strong desire of lawful gain embued; To all he said, she bow'd with much respect, Pleased to comply, yet seeming to reject; Cool and yet eager, each admired the strength Of the opponent, and agreed at length: As a drawn battle shows to each a force, Powerful as his, he honours it of course; So in these neighbours, each the power discern'd, And gave the praise that was to each return'd.

Jonas now ask'd his daughter--and the Aunt, Though loth to lose her, was obliged to grant: - But would not Sybil to the matron cling, And fear to leave the shelter of her wing?

No! in the young there lives a love of change, And to the easy they prefer the strange!

Then, too, the joys she once pursued with zeal, From whist and visits sprung, she ceased to feel: When with the matrons Sybil first sat down, To cut for partners and to stake her crown, This to the youthful maid preferment seem'd, Who thought what woman she was then esteem'd; But in few years, when she perceived, indeed, The real woman to the girl succeed, No longer tricks and honours fill'd her mind, But other feelings, not so well defined; She then reluctant grew, and thought it hard To sit and ponder o'er an ugly card; Rather the nut-tree shade the nymph preferr'd, Pleased with the pensive gloom and evening bird; Thither, from company retired, she took The silent walk, or read the fav'rite book.

The father's letter, sudden, short, and kind, Awaked her wonder, and disturb'd her mind; She found new dreams upon her fancy seize, Wild roving thoughts and endless reveries.

The parting came;--and when the Aunt perceived The tears of Sybil, and how much she grieved - To love for her that tender grief she laid, That various, soft, contending pa.s.sions made.

When Sybil rested in her father's arms, His pride exulted in a daughter's charms; A maid accomplish'd he was pleased to find, Nor seem'd the form more lovely than the mind: But when the fit of pride and fondness fled, He saw his judgment by his hopes misled; High were the lady's spirits, far more free Her mode of speaking than a maid's should be; Too much, as Jonas thought, she seem'd to know, And all her knowledge was disposed to show; "Too gay her dress, like theirs who idly dote On a young c.o.xcomb or a c.o.xcomb's coat; In foolish spirits when our friends appear, And vainly grave when not a man is near."

Thus Jonas, adding to his sorrow blame, And terms disdainful to a Sister's name: "The sinful wretch has by her arts denied The ductile spirit of my darling child."

"The maid is virtuous," said the dame--Quoth he, "Let her give proof, by acting virtuously: Is it in gaping when the Elders pray?

In reading nonsense half a summer's day?

In those mock forms that she delights to trace, Or her loud laughs in Hezekiah's face?