Tales by George Crabbe Part 7

In that neat case your books, in order placed, Soothe the full soul, and charm the cultur'd taste; And thus, while all about you wears a charm, How must you scorn the Farmer and the Farm!"

The Widow smiled, and "Know you not," said she, "How much these farmers scorn or pity me; Who see what you admire, and laugh at all they see?

True, their opinion alters not my fate, By falsely judging of an humble state: This garden you with such delight behold, Tempts not a feeble dame who dreads the cold; These plants which please so well your livelier sense, To mine but little of their sweets dispense: Books soon are painful to my failing sight, And oftener read from duty than delight; (Yet let me own, that I can sometimes find Both joy and duty in the act combined;) But view me rightly, you will see no more Than a poor female, willing to be poor; Happy indeed, but not in books nor flowers, Not in fair dreams, indulged in earlier hours, Of never-tasted joys;--such visions shun, My youthful friend, nor scorn the Farmer's Son."

"Nay," said the Damsel, nothing pleased to see A friend's advice could like a Father's be, "Bless'd in your cottage, you must surely smile At those who live in our detested style: To my Lucinda's sympathising heart Could I my prospects and my griefs impart;, She would console me; but I dare not show, Ills that would wound her tender soul to know: And I confess, it shocks my pride to tell The secrets of the prison where I dwell; For that dear maiden would be shock'd to feel The secrets I should shudder to reveal; When told her friend was by a parent ask'd, 'Fed you the swine?'--Good heaven! how I am task'd! - What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief That woos your pity and demands relief."

"Trifles, my love: you take a false alarm; Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm: Duties in every state demand your care, And light are those that will require it there.

Fix on the Youth a favouring eye, and these, To him pertaining, or as his, will please."

"What words," the La.s.s replied, "offend my ear!

Try you my patience? Can you be sincere?

And am I told a willing hand to give To a rude farmer, and with rustics live?

Far other fate was yours;--some gentle youth Admir'd your beauty, and avow'd his truth; The power of love prevail'd, and freely both Gave the fond heart, and pledged the binding oath; And then the rival's plot, the parent's power, And jealous fears, drew on the happy hour: Ah! let not memory lose the blissful view, But fairly show what love has done for you."

"Agreed, my daughter; what my heart has known Of Love's strange power, shall be with frankness shown: But let me warn you, that experience finds Few of the scenes that lively hope designs."

"Mysterious all," said Nancy; "you, I know, Have suffered much; now deign the grief to show, - I am your friend, and so prepare my heart In all your sorrows to receive a part."

The Widow answer'd: "I had once, like you, Such thoughts of love; no dream is more untrue; You judge it fated, and decreed to dwell In youthful hearts, which nothing can expel, A pa.s.sion doom'd to reign, and irresistible.

The struggling mind, when once subdued, in vain Rejects the fury or defies the pain; The strongest reason fails the flames t'allay, And resolution droops and faints away: Hence, when the destined lovers meet, they prove At once the force of this all-powerful love; Each from that period feels the mutual smart, Nor seeks to cure it--heart is changed for heart; Nor is there peace till they delighted stand, And, at the altar--hand is join'd to hand.

"Alas! my child, there are who, dreaming so, Waste their fresh youth, and waking feel the woe.

There is no spirit sent the heart to move With such prevailing and alarming love; Pa.s.sion to reason will submit--or why Should wealthy maids the poorest swains deny?

Or how could cla.s.ses and degrees create The slightest bar to such resistless fate?

Yet high and low, you see, forbear to mix; No beggars' eyes the heart of kings transfix; And who but am'rous peers or n.o.bles sigh, When t.i.tled beauties pa.s.s triumphant by?

For reason wakes, proud wishes to reprove; You cannot hope, and therefore dare not love; All would be safe, did we at first inquire - 'Does reason sanction what our hearts desire?'

But quitting precept, let example show What joys from Love uncheck'd by prudence flow.

"A Youth my father in his office placed, Of humble fortune, but with sense and taste; But he was thin and pale, had downcast looks: He studied much, and pored upon his books: Confused he was when seen, and when he saw Me or my sisters, would in haste withdraw; And had this youth departed with the year, His loss had cost us neither sigh nor tear.

"But with my father still the youth remain'd, And more reward and kinder notice gain'd: He often, reading, to the garden stray'd, Where I by books or musing was delay'd; This to discourse in summer evenings led, Of these same evenings, or of what we read: On such occasions we were much alone; But, save the look, the manner, and the tone, (These might have meaning,) all that we discuss'd We could with pleasure to a parent trust.

"At length 'twas friendship--and my Friend and I Said we were happy, and began to sigh; My sisters first, and then my father, found That we were wandering o'er enchanted ground: But he had troubles in his own aifairs, And would not bear addition to his cares: With pity moved, yet angry, 'Child,' said he, 'Will you embrace contempt and beggary?'

Can you endure to see each other cursed By want, of every human woe the worst?

Warring for ever with distress, in dread Either of begging or of wanting bread; While poverty, with unrelenting force, Will your own offspring from your love divorce; They, through your folly, must be doom'd to pine, And you deplore your pa.s.sion, or resign; For if it die, what good will then remain?

And if it live, it doubles every pain.'"

"But you were true," exclaim'd the La.s.s," and fled The tyrant's power who fill'd your soul with dread?"

"But," said the smiling Friend, "he fill'd my mouth with bread: And in what other place that bread to gain We long consider'd, and we sought in vain: This was my twentieth year,--at thirty-five Our hope was fainter, yet our love alive; So many years in anxious doubt had pa.s.s'd."

"Then," said the Damsel, "you were bless'd at last?"

A smile again adorn'd the Widow's face, But soon a starting tear usurp'd its place.

"Slow pa.s.s'd the heavy years, and each had more Pains and vexations than the years before.

My father fail'd; his family was rent, And to new states his grieving daughters sent: Each to more thriving kindred found a way, Guests without welcome,--servants without pay; Our parting hour was grievous; still I feel The sad, sweet converse at our final meal; Our father then reveal'd his former fears, Cause of his sternness, and then join'd our tears: Kindly he strove our feelings to repress, But died, and left us heirs to his distress.

The rich, as humble friends, my sisters chose; I with a wealthy widow sought repose; Who with a chilling frown her friend received, Bade me rejoice, and wonder'd that I grieved: In vain my anxious lover tried his skill, To rise in life, he was dependent still: We met in grief, nor can I paint the fears Of these unhappy, troubled, trying years: Our dying hopes and stronger fears between, We felt no season peaceful or serene; Our fleeting joys, like meteors in the night, Shone on our gloom with inauspicious light; And then domestic sorrows, till the mind, Worn with distresses, to despair inclined; Add too the ill that from the pa.s.sion flows, When its contemptuous frown the world bestows, The peevish spirit caused by long delay, When, being gloomy, we contemn the gay, When, being wretched, we incline to hate And censure others in a happier state; Yet loving still, and still compell'd to move In the sad labyrinth of lingering love: While you, exempt from want, despair, alarm, May wed--oh! take the Farmer and the Farm."

"Nay," said the nymph, "joy smiled on you at last?"

"Smiled for a moment," she replied, "and pa.s.s'd: My lover still the same dull means pursued, a.s.sistant call'd, but kept in servitude; His spirits wearied in the prime of life, By fears and wishes in eternal strife; At length he urged impatient--'Now consent; With thee united, Fortune may relent.'

I paused, consenting; but a Friend arose, Pleased a fair view, though distant, to disclose; From the rough ocean we beheld a gleam Of joy, as transient as the joys we dream; By lying hopes deceived, my friend retired, And sail'd--was wounded--reach'd us--and expired!

You shall behold his grave; and when I die, There--but 'tis folly--I request to lie."

"Thus," said the la.s.s, "to joy you bade adieu!

But how a widow?--that cannot be true: Or was it force, in some unhappy hour, That placed you, grieving, in a tyrant's power?"

"Force, my young friend, when forty years are fled, Is what a woman seldom has to dread; She needs no brazen locks nor guarding walls, And seldom comes a lover though she calls: Yet, moved by fancy, one approved my face, Though time and tears had wrought it much disgrace.

"The man I married was sedate and meek, And spoke of love as men in earnest speak; Poor as I was, he ceaseless sought for years, A heart in sorrow and a face in tears: That heart I gave not; and 'twas long before I gave attention, and then nothing more: But in my breast some grateful feeling rose, For one whose love so sad a subject chose; Till long delaying, fearing to repent, But grateful still, I gave a cold a.s.sent.

Thus we were wed; no fault had I to find, And he but one: my heart could not be kind: Alas! of every early hope bereft, There was no fondness in my bosom left; So had I told him, but had told in vain, He lived but to indulge me and complain: His was this cottage; he inclosed this ground.

And planted all these blooming shrubs around; He to my room these curious trifles brought, And with a.s.siduous love my pleasure sought; He lived to please me, and I ofttimes strove, Smiling, to thank his unrequited love: 'Teach me,' he cried, 'that pensive mind to ease, For all my pleasure is the hope to please.'

Serene though heavy, were the days we spent, Yet kind each word, and gen'rous each intent; But his dejection lessen'd every day, And to a placid kindness died away: In tranquil ease we pa.s.s'd our latter years, By griefs untroubled, una.s.sail'd by fears.

Let not romantic views your bosom sway; Yield to your duties, and their call obey: Fly not a Youth, frank, honest, and sincere; Observe his merits, and his pa.s.sion hear!

'Tis true, no hero, but a farmer, sues - Slow in his speech, but worthy in his views; With him you cannot that affliction prove, That rends the bosom of the poor in love: Health, comfort, competence, and cheerful days, Your friends' approval, and your father's praise, Will crown the deed, and you escape their fate Who plan so wildly, and are wise too late."

The Damsel heard; at first th' advice was strange, Yet wrought a happy, nay, a speedy change: "I have no care," she said, when next they met, But one may wonder, he is silent yet; He looks around him with his usual stare, And utters nothing--not that I shall care."

This pettish humour pleased th' experienced Friend - None need despair, whose silence can offend; "Should I," resumed the thoughtful La.s.s, "consent To hear the man, the man may now repent: Think you my sighs shall call him from the plough, Or give one hint, that 'You may woo me now?'"

"Persist, my love," replied the Friend, "and gain A parent's praise, that cannot be in vain."

The father saw the change, but not the cause, And gave the alter'd maid his fond applause: The coa.r.s.er manners she in part removed, In part endured, improving and improved; She spoke of household works, she rose betimes, And said neglect and indolence were crimes; The various duties of their life she weigh'd, And strict attention to her dairy paid; The names of servants now familiar grew, And fair Lucinda's from her mind withdrew; As prudent travellers for their ease a.s.sume Their modes and language to whose lands they come; So to the Farmer this fair La.s.s inclined, Gave to the business of the Farm her mind; To useful arts she turned her hand and eye; And by her manners told him--"You may try."

Th' observing Lover more attention paid, With growing pleasure, to the alter'd maid; He fear'd to lose her, and began to see That a slim beauty might a helpmate be: 'Twixt hope and fear he now the la.s.s address'd, And in his Sunday robe his love express'd: She felt no chilling dread, no thrilling joy, Nor was too quickly kind, too slowly coy; But still she lent an unreluctant ear To all the rural business of the year; Till love's strong hopes endured no more delay, And Harry ask'd, and Nancy named the day.

"A happy change! my Boy," the father cried: "How lost your sister all her school-day pride?"

The Youth replied, "It is the Widow's deed; The cure is perfect and was wrought with speed.

And comes there, Boy, this benefit of books, Of that smart dress, and of those dainty looks?

We must be kind--some offerings from the Farm To the White Cot will speak our feelings warm; Will show that people, when they know the fact, Where they have judged severely, can retract.

Oft have I smiled, when I beheld her pa.s.s With cautious step as if she hurt the gra.s.s; Where, if a snail's retreat she chanced to storm, She look'd as begging pardon of the worm; And what, said I, still laughing at the view, Have these weak creatures in the world to do?

But some are made for action, some to speak; And, while she looks so pitiful and meek, Her words are weighty, though her nerves are weak.'

Soon told the village-bells the rite was done, That joined the school-bred Miss and Farmer's Son; Her former habits some slight scandal raised, But real worth was soon perceived and praised; She, her neat taste imparted to the Farm, And he, th' improving skill and vigorous arm.

TALE VIII.

THE MOTHER.

What though you have beauty, Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?

SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It.

I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed.

As You Like It.

Wilt thou love such a woman? What! to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee!--Not to be endured.

As You Like It.

Your son, As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know Her estimation hence.

All's Well that Ends Well.

Be this sweet Helen's knell; He left a wife whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfections hearts that scorn'd to serve Humbly call'd Mistress.

All's Well that Ends Well.

There was a worthy, but a simple Pair, Who nursed a Daughter, fairest of the fair: Sons they had lost, and she alone remain'd, Heir to the kindness they had all obtain'd, Heir to the fortune they design'd for all, Nor had th' allotted portion then been small; And now, by fate enrich'd with beauty rare, They watch'd their treasure with peculiar care: The fairest features they could early trace, And, blind with love saw merit in her face - Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace; And Dorothea, from her infant years, Gain'd all her wishes from their pride or fears; She wrote a billet, and a novel read, And with her fame her vanity was fed; Each word, each look, each action was a cause For flattering wonder and for fond applause; She rode or danced, and ever glanced around, Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found, The yielding pair to her pet.i.tions gave An humble friend to be a civil slave, Who for a poor support herself resign'd To the base toil of a dependant mind: By nature cold, our Heiress stoop'd to art, To gain the credit of a tender heart.

Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand, To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand: And now, her education all complete, She talk'd of virtuous love and union sweet; She was indeed by no soft pa.s.sion moved, But wished with all her soul to be beloved.

Here, on the favour'd beauty Fortune smiled; Her chosen Husband was a man so mild, So humbly temper'd, so intent to please, It quite distress'd her to remain at ease, Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease: She tried his patience on a thousand modes, And tried it not upon the roughest roads.

Pleasure she sought, and disappointed, sigh'd For joys, she said, "to her alone denied;"

And she was sure "her parents if alive Would many comforts for their child contrive:"

The gentle Husband bade her name him one; "No--that," she answered, "should for her be done; How could she say what pleasures were around?

But she was certain many might be found."

"Would she some seaport, Weymouth, Scarborough, grace?" - "He knew she hated every watering-place."

"The town?"--"What! now 'twas empty, joyless, dull?"

"In winter?"--"No; she liked it worse when full."

She talk'd of building--"Would she plan a room?" - "No! she could live, as he desired, in gloom."

"Call then our friends and neighbours."--"He might call, And they might come and fill his ugly hall; A noisy vulgar set, he knew she scorn'd them all."

"Then might their two dear girls the time employ, And their Improvement yield a solid joy." - "Solid indeed! and heavy--oh! the bliss Of teaching letters to a lisping miss!"

"My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say, Can I oblige you?"--"You may go away."

Twelve heavy years this patient soul sustain'd This wasp's attacks, and then her praise obtain'd, Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace remain'd.

Two daughters wept their loss; the one a child With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild, Who keenly felt the Mother's angry taunt, "Thou art the image of thy pious Aunt:"