The Borough Part 1

The Borough.

by George Crabbe.

LETTER I.

These did the ruler of the deep ordain, To build proud navies and to rule the main.

POPE, Homer's Iliad.

Such scenes has Deptford, navy-building town, Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch; Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown, And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich.

POPE, Imitation of Spencer.

. . . . . . . . . . . Et c.u.m coelestibus undis Aequoreae miscentur aquae: caret ignibus aether, Caecaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque; Discutient tamen has, praebentque micantia lumen Fulmina: fulmineis ardesc.u.n.t ignibus undae.

OVID, Metamorphoses.

GENERAL DESCRIPTION.

The Difficulty of describing Town Scenery--A Comparison with certain Views in the Country--The River and Quay--The Shipping and Business- -Shipbuilding--Sea-Boys and Port-Views--Village and Town Scenery again compared--Walks from Town--Cottage and adjoining Heath, &c.-- House of Sunday Entertainment--The Sea: a Summer and Winter View--A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects on Sh.o.r.e--Evening Amus.e.m.e.nts in the Borough--An Apology for the imperfect View which can be given of these Subjects.

"DESCRIBE the Borough"--though our idle tribe May love description, can we so describe, That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace, And all that gives distinction to a place?

This cannot be; yet moved by your request A part I paint--let Fancy form the rest.

Cities and towns, the various haunts of men, Require the pencil; they defy the pen: Could he who sang so well the Grecian fleet, So well have sung of alley, lane, or street?

Can measured lines these various buildings show, The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?

Can I the seats of wealth and want explore, And lengthen out my lays from door to door?

Then let thy Fancy aid me--I repair From this tall mansion of our last year's Mayor, Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach, And these half-buried buildings next the beach, Where hang at open doors the net and cork, While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work; Till comes the hour when fishing through the tide The weary husband throws his freight aside; A living ma.s.s which now demands the wife, Th' alternate labours of their humble life.

Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood, Thy upland forest, or thy valley's flood?

Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look, As it steals by, upon the bordering brook; That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering slow, Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow; Where in the midst, upon a throne of green, Sits the large Lily as the water's queen; And makes the current, forced awhile to stay, Murmur and bubble as it shoots away; Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream, And our broad river will before thee seem.

With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide, Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide; Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; Here Samphire-banks and Saltwort bound the flood, There stakes and sea-weeds withering on the mud; And higher up, a ridge of all things base, Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place.

Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, Urged on by pains, half-grounded, half afloat: While at her stern an angler takes his stand, And marks the fish he purposes to land; From that clear s.p.a.ce, where, in the cheerful ray Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.

Far other craft our prouder river shows, Hoys, pinks, and sloops: brigs, brigantines, and snows: Nor angler we on our wide stream descry, But one poor dredger where his oysters lie: He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide, Beats his weak arms against his tarry side, Then drains the remnant of diluted gin, To aid the warmth that languishes within; Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat His tingling fingers into gathering heat.

He shall again be seen when evening comes, And social parties crowd their favourite rooms: Where on the table pipes and papers lie, The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by; 'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around, They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound; And few themselves the savoury boon deny, The food that feeds, the living luxury.

Yon is our Quay! those smaller hoys from town, Its various ware, for country use, bring down; Those laden waggons, in return, impart The country-produce to the city mart; Hark! to the clamour in that miry road, Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessel's load; The lumbering wealth she empties round the place, Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case: While the loud seaman and the angry hind, Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.

Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks, Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks: See! the long keel, which soon the waves must hide; See! the strong ribs which form the roomy side; Bolts yielding slowly to the st.u.r.diest stroke, And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.

Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.

Dabbling on sh.o.r.e half-naked sea-boys crowd, Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud; Or in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play, And grow familiar with the watery way: Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are, They know what British seamen do and dare; Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy The rustic wonder of the village-boy.

Before you bid these busy scenes adieu, Behold the wealth that lies in public view, Those far extended heaps of coal and c.o.ke, Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke.

This shall pa.s.s off, and you behold, instead, The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed; When from the Lighthouse brighter beams will rise, To show the shipman where the shallow lies.

Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene - Rich is that varied view with woods around, Seen from the seat within the shrubb'ry bound; Where shines the distant lake, and where appear From ruins bolting, unmolested deer; Lively the village-green, the inn, the place, Where the good widow schools her infant-race.

Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw, And village-pleasures unreproved by law: Then how serene! when in your favourite room, Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom; When from your upland paddock you look down, And just perceive the smoke which hides the town; When weary peasants at the close of day Walk to their cots, and part upon the way; When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook, And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook.

We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees, And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease, On the wide heath, or in the flowery vale, We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale; Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile, And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile; Our guarded fields a sense of danger show, Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow; Fences are form'd of wreck, and placed around, (With tenters tipp'd) a strong repulsive bound; Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run, And there in ambush lie the trap and gun; Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize, "Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies."

There stands a cottage with an open door, Its garden undefended blooms before: Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool, While the lone Widow seeks the neighb'ring pool: This gives us hope, all views of town to shun - No! here are tokens of the Sailor-son; That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check, And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck; Sea-spoils and sh.e.l.ls from many a distant sh.o.r.e, And furry robe from frozen Labrador.

Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between, Fen, marshes, bog, and heath all intervene; Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base, To some enrich th' uncultivated s.p.a.ce: For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush, The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush, Whose velvet leaf with radiant beauty dress'd, Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.

Not distant far, a house commodious made, (Lonely yet public stands) for Sunday-trade; Thither, for this day free, gay parties go, Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous; There humble couples sit in corner-bowers, Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours; Sailors and la.s.ses from the town attend, The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend; With all the idle social tribes who seek And find their humble pleasures once a week.

Turn to the watery world!--but who to thee (A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint--the Sea?

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms, Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun Shades after shades upon the surface run; Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene, In limpid blue, and evanescent green; And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie, Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.

Be it the summer--noon: a sandy s.p.a.ce The ebbing tide has left upon its place; Then just the hot and stony beach above, Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move; (For heated thus, the warmer air ascends, And with the cooler in its fall contends) Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps, Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand, Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand, Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, And back return in silence, smooth and slow.

Ships in the calm seem anchor'd; for they glide On the still sea, urged solely by the tide: Art thou not present, this calm scene before, Where all beside is pebbly length of sh.o.r.e, And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more?

Yet sometimes comes a ruffing cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake; As an awaken'd giant with a frown Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down.

View now the Winter-storm! above, one cloud, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud: Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before Had roll'd in view of boding men on sh.o.r.e; And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.

All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam, The breaking billows cast the flying foam Upon the billows rising--all the deep Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep, Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells: But nearer land you may the billows trace, As if contending in their watery chase; May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch; Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force, And then re-flowing, take their grating course, Raking the rounded flints, which ages past Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.

Far off the Petrel in the troubled way Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; She rises often, often drops again, And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach Of gunner's hope, vast flights of Wild-ducks stretch; Far as the eye can glance on either side, In a broad s.p.a.ce and level line they glide; All in their wedge-like figures from the north, Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.

In-sh.o.r.e their pa.s.sage tribes of Sea-gulls urge, And drop for prey within the sweeping surge; Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest.

Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind; But frights not him whom evening and the spray In part conceal--yon Prowler on his way: Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace, As if he fear'd companion in the chase; He sees his prize, and now he turns again, Slowly and sorrowing--"Was your search in vain?"

Gruffly he answers, "'Tis a sorry sight!

A seaman's body: there'll be more to-night!"

Hark! to those sounds! they're from distress at sea; How quick they come! What terrors may there be!

Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern; Others behold them too, and from the town In various parties seamen hurry down; Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread, Lest men so dear be into danger led; Their head the gown has hooded, and their call In this sad night is piercing like the squall; They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet, Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat.

See one poor girl, all terror and alarm, Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm; "Thou shalt not venture;" and he answers "No!

I will not:"--still she cries, "Thou shalt not go."

No need of this; not here the stoutest boat Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float, Yet may they view these lights upon the beach, Which yield them hope whom help can never reach.

From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws On the wild waves, and all the danger shows; But shows them beaming in her shining vest, Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dress'd!

This for a moment, and then clouds again Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.

But hear we not those sounds? Do lights appear?

I see them not! the storm alone I hear: And lo! the sailors homeward take their way; Man must endure--let us submit and pray.

Such are our Winter-views: but night comes on - Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone; Now parties form, and some their friends a.s.sist To waste the idle hours at sober whist; The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charm Unnumber'd moments of their sting disarm: Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite, To pa.s.s off one dread portion of the night; And show and song and luxury combined, Lift off from man this burthen of mankind.

Others advent'rous walk abroad and meet Returning parties pacing through the street, When various voices, in the dying day, Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way; When tavern-lights flit on from room to room, And guide the tippling sailor staggering home: There as we pa.s.s, the jingling bells betray How business rises with the closing day: Now walking silent, by the river's side, The ear perceives the rippling of the tide; Or measured cadence of the lads who tow Some entered hoy, to fix her in her row; Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bell To some departed spirit bids farewell!

Thus shall you something of our BOROUGH know, Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show.

Of Sea or River, of a Quay or Street, The best description must be incomplete; But when a happier theme succeeds, and when Men are our subjects and the deeds of men, Then may we find the Muse in happier style, And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.

LETTER II.

. . . . . . . . Festinat enim decurrere velox Flosculus angustae miseraeque brevissima vitae Portio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.

JUVENAL, Satires

And when at last thy Love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath?

Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death?

PERCY.

THE CHURCH.

Several Meanings of the word Church--The Building so called, here intended--Its Antiquity and Grandeur--Columns and Aisles--The Tower: the Stains made by Time compared with the mock antiquity of the Artist--Progress of Vegetation on such Buildings--Bells--Tombs: one in decay--Mural Monuments, and the Nature of their Inscriptions--An Instance in a departed Burgess--Churchyard Graves--Mourners for the Dead--A Story of a betrothed Pair in humble Life, and Effects of Grief in the Survivor.

"WHAT is a Church?"--Let Truth and Reason speak, They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek; From Christian folds, the one selected race, Of all professions, and in every place."

"What is a Church?"--"A flock," our Vicar cries, "Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise; Wherein are various states and due degrees, The Bench for honour, and the Stall for ease; That ease be mine, which, after all his cares, The pious, peaceful prebendary shares."

"What is a Church?"--Our honest s.e.xton tells, "'Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells; Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive To keep the ardour af their flock alive; That, by its periods eloquent and grave; This, by responses, and a well-set stave: These for the living; but when life be fled, I toll myself the requiem for the dead."

'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place Where slept our fathers when they'd run their race: We too shall rest, and then our children keep Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep; Meanwhile the building slowly falls away, And, like the builders, will in time decay.

The old Foundation--but it is not clear When it was laid--you care not for the year; On this, as parts decayed by time and storms, Arose these various disproportion'd forms; Yet Gothic all--the learn'd who visit us (And our small wonders) have decided thus:- "Yon n.o.ble Gothic arch," "That Gothic door;"

So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.

Here large plain columns rise in solemn style, You'd love the gloom they make in either aisle; When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pa.s.s (And shorn of splendour) through the storied gla.s.s, Faintly display the figures on the floor, Which pleased distinctly in their place before.

But ere you enter, yon bold tower survey, Tall and entire, and venerably gray, For time has soften'd what was harsh when new, And now the stains are all of sober hue; The living stains which Nature's hand alone, Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone: For ever growing; where the common eye Can but the bare and rocky bed descry; There Science loves to trace her tribes minute, The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit; There she perceives them round the surface creep, And while they meet their due distinction keep; Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains, And these are Nature's ever-during stains.