The Borough Part 13

Widows are here, who in their huts were left, Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft; Yet all that grief within the humble shed Was soften'd, softened in the humble bed: But here, in all its force, remains the grief, And not one softening object for relief.

Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?

Who learn the story current in the street?

Who to the long-known intimate impart Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?

They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend, Or seek companions at their journey's end?

Here are not those whom they when infants knew; Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew; Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived; Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived; Whom time and custom so familiar made, That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd: But here to strangers, words nor looks impart The various movements of the suffering heart; Nor will that heart with those alliance own, To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.

What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy, Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?

'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view, With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new; Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep, - The day itself is, like the night, asleep; Or on the sameness if a break be made, 'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd; By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told, News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old; By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell, Or justice come to see that all goes well; Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl On the black footway winding with the wall, Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call.

Here too the mother sees her children train'd, Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd: Who govern here, by general rules must move, Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.

Nations we know have nature's law transgress'd, And s.n.a.t.c.h'd the infant from the parent's breast; But still for public good the boy was train'd, The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd: Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid; The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.

Then too I own, it grieves me to behold Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old, By all for care and industry approved, For truth respected, and for temper loved; And who, by sickness and misfortune tried, Gave want its worth and poverty its pride: I own it grieves me to behold them sent From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment, To leave each scene familiar, every face, For a new people and a stranger race; For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame, From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came; Men, just and guileless, at such manners start, And bless their G.o.d that time has fenced their heart, Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.

Here the good pauper, losing all the praise By worthy deeds acquired in better days, Breathes a few months, then, to his chamber led, Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.

The grateful hunter, when his horse is old, Wills not the useless favourite to be sold; He knows his former worth, and gives him place In some fair pasture, till he runs his race: But has the labourer, has the seaman done Less worthy service, though not dealt to one?

Shall we not then contribute to their ease, In their old haunts, where ancient objects please?

That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace The well-known prospect and the long-loved face.

The n.o.ble oak, in distant ages seen, With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and green, Though now its bare and forky branches show How much it lacks the vital warmth below, The stately ruin yet our wonder gains, Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains: Much more shall real wants and cares of age Our gentler pa.s.sions in their cause engage; - Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years, What venerable ruin man appears!

How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief - He claims protection--he compels relief; - And shall we send him from our view, to brave The storms abroad, whom we at home might save, And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave?

No! we will shield him from the storm he fears, And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.

Farewell to these: but all our poor to know, Let's seek the winding Lane, the narrow Row, Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops To see the sloping tenement on props, With building-yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops; Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite Laborious men to taste their coa.r.s.e delight; Where the low porches, stretching from the door, Gave some distinction in the days of yore, Yet now neglected, more offend the eye, By gloom and ruin, than the cottage by: Places like these the n.o.blest town endures, The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.

Here is no pavement, no inviting shop, To give us shelter when compell'd to stop; But plashy puddles stand along the way, Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day; And these so closely to the buildings run, That you must ford them, for you cannot shun; Though here and there convenient bricks are laid - And door-side heaps afford tweir dubious aid, Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground, With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around: There dwells a Fisher: if you view his boat, With bed and barrel--'tis his house afloat; Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound, Tar, pitch, and oak.u.m--'tis his boat aground: That s.p.a.ce inclosed, but little he regards, Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards: Fish by the wall, on spit of elder, rest, Of all his food, the cheapest and the best, By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd.

Here our reformers come not; none object To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect; None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast, That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast: None heed the stagnant pools on either side, Where new-launch'd ships of infant-sailors ride: Rodneys in rags here British valour boast, And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.

They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail, They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale: True to her port, the frigate scuds away, And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay: Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth, And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth; Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd, When inch-high billows vex the watery world.

There, fed by food they love, to rankest size, Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise; Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root, Here the dull nightshade hangs her deadly fruit: On hills of dust the henbane's faded green, And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen; At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs, With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings; Above (the growth of many a year) is spread The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed: In every c.h.i.n.k delights the fern to grow, With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below; These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down, Form the contracted Flora of the town.

Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?

Then will I lead thee down the dusty Row; By the warm alley and the long close lane, - There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane, Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pa.s.s, We fear to breathe the putrefying ma.s.s: But fearless yonder matron; she disdains To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains; But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay All in the stifling fervour of the day.

Her naked children round the alley run, And roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun, Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd, Woos the coy breeze to fan the open breast: She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart; Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean, And fancy left to form the charms unseen.

But when a wife, she lost her former care, Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could spare; Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside, No rival beauty kept alive her pride: Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place, But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.

See that long boarded Building!--By these stairs Each humble tenant to that home repairs - By one large window lighted--it was made For some bold project, some design in trade: This fail'd,--and one, a humourist in his way, (Ill was the humour), bought it in decay; Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down; 'Tis his,--what cares he for the talk of town?

"No! he will let it to the poor;--a home Where he delights to see the creatures come:"

"They may be thieves;"--"Well, so are richer men;"

"Or idlers, cheats, or prost.i.tutes;"--"What then?"

"Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;" - "They need the more his pity and the place:"

Convert to system his vain mind has built, He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.

In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd, Are s.e.xes, families, and ages mix'd - To union forced by crime, by fear, by need, And all in morals and in modes agreed; Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove; Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love; And some grown old in idleness--the prey To vicious spleen, still railing through the day; And need and misery, vice and danger bind, In sad alliance each degraded mind.

That window view!--oil'd paper and old gla.s.s Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pa.s.s, And give a dusty warmth to that huge room, The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom; When all those western rays, without so bright, Within become a ghastly glimmering light, As pale and faint upon the floor they fall, Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall: That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned, Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd; That wall once whiten'd, now an odious sight, Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white; The only door is fasten'd by a pin, Or stubborn bar that none may hurry in: For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride, At times contains what prudent men would hide.

Where'er the floor allows an even s.p.a.ce, Chalking and marks of various games have place; Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing; On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring; While gin and snuff their female neighbours share, And the black beverage in the fractured ware.

On swinging shelf are things incongruous stored, - Sc.r.a.ps of their food,--the cards and cribbage-board, - With pipes and pouches; while on peg below, Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow; That still reminds them how he'd dance and play, Ere sent untimely to the Convicts' Bay.

Here by a curtain, by a blanket there, Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care; Where some by day and some by night, as best Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest; The drowsy children at their pleasure creep To the known crib, and there securely sleep.

Each end contains a grate, and these beside Are hung utensils for their boil'd and fried - All used at any hour, by night, by day, As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.

Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains Of china-ware some poor unmatched remains; There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands, All placed by vanity's unwearied hands; For here she lives, e'en here she looks about, To find some small consoling objects out: Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, not sit 'Mid cares domestic,--they nor sew nor knit; But of their fate discourse, their ways, their wars, With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars: These lead to present evils, and a cup, If fortune grant it, winds description up.

High hung at either end, and next the wall, Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all, In all their force;--these aid them in their dress, But with the good, the evils too express, Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.

LETTER XIX.

THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

Nam dives qui fieri vult, Et cito vult fieri; sed quae reverentia legum, Quis metus, aut pudor est unquam properantis avari?

JUVENAL, Satire xiv.

Nocte brevem si forte indulsit cura soporem, Et toto versata thoro jam membra quiesc.u.n.t, Continuo templum et violati Numinis aras, Et quod praecipuis mentem suboribus urget, Te videt in somnis; tua sacra et major imago Humana turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri.

JUVENAL, Satire xiii.

THE PARISH-CLERK.

The Parish-Clerk began his Duties with the late Vicar, a grave and austere Man; one fully orthodox; a Detecter and Opposer of the Wiles of Satan--His opinion of his own Fort.i.tude--The more frail offended by these Professions--His good advice gives further Provocation-- They invent stratagems to overcome his Virtue--His Triumph--He is yet not invulnerable: is a.s.saulted by fear of Want, and Avarice--He gradually yields to the Seduction--He reasons with himself, and is persuaded--He offends, but with Terror; repeats his Offence; grows familiar with Crime: is detected--His Sufferings and Death.

WITH our late Vicar, and his age the same, His clerk, hight Jachin, to his office came; The like slow speech was his, the like tall slender frame: But Jachin was the gravest man on ground, And heard his master's jokes with look profound; For worldly wealth this man of letters sigh'd, And had a sprinkling of the spirit's pride: But he was sober, chaste, devout and just, One whom his neighbours could believe and trust: Of none suspected, neither man nor maid By him were wrong'd, or were of him afraid.

There was indeed a frown, a trick of state In Jachin;--formal was his air and gait: But if he seem'd more solemn and less kind, Than some light men to light affairs confined, Still 'twas allow'd that he should so behave As in high seat, and be severely grave.

This book-taught man, to man's first foe profess'd Defiance stern, and hate that knew not rest; He held that Satan, since the world began, In every act, had strife with every man; That never evil deed on earth was done, But of the acting parties he was one; The flattering guide to make ill prospects clear; To smooth rough ways the constant pioneer; The ever-tempting, soothing, softening power, Ready to cheat, seduce, deceive, devour.

"Me has the sly Seducer oft withstood,"

Said pious Jachin,--"but he gets no good; I pa.s.s the house where swings the tempting sign, And pointing, tell him, 'Satan, that is thine:'

I pa.s.s the damsels pacing down the street, And look more grave and solemn when we meet; Nor doth it irk me to rebuke their smiles, Their wanton ambling and their watchful wiles: Nay, like the good John Bunyan, when I view Those forms, I'm angry at the ills they do; That I could pinch and spoil, in sin's despite, Beauties, which frail and evil thoughts excite. {10} "At feasts and banquets seldom am I found, And (save at church) abhor a tuneful sound; To plays and shows I run not to and fro, And where my master goes, forbear to go."

No wonder Satan took the thing amiss, To be opposed by such a man as this - A man so grave, important, cautious, wise, Who dared not trust his feeling or his eyes; No wonder he should lurk and lie in wait, Should fit his hooks and ponder on his bait; Should on his movements keep a watchful eye; For he pursued a fish who led the fry.

With his own peace our Clerk was not content; He tried, good man! to make his friends repent.

"Nay, nay, my friends, from inns and taverns fly; You may suppress your thirst, but not supply: A foolish proverb says, 'the devil's at home;'

But he is there, and tempts in every room: Men feel, they know not why, such places please; His are the spells--they're idleness and ease; Magic of fatal kind he throws around, Where care is banish'd, but the heart is bound.

"Think not of beauty;--when a maid you meet, Turn from her view and step across the street; Dread all the s.e.x: their looks create a charm, A smile should fright you and a word alarm: E'en I myself, with all my watchful care, Have for an instant felt the insidious snare; And caught my sinful eyes at the endang'ring stars; Till I was forced to smite my bounding breast With forceful blow, and bid the bold-one rest.

"Go not with crowds when they to pleasure run, But public joy in private safety shun: When bells, diverted from their true intent, Ring loud for some deluded mortal sent To hear or make long speech in parliament; What time the many, that unruly beast, Roars its rough joy and shares the final feast?

Then heed my counsel, shut thine ears and eyes; A few will hear me--for the few are wise."

Not Satan's friends, nor Satan's self could bear, The cautious man who took of souls such care; An interloper,--one who, out of place, Had volunteered upon the side of grace: There was his master ready once a week To give advice; what further need he seek?

"Amen, so be it:"--what had he to do With more than this?--'twas insolent and new; And some determined on a way to see How frail he was, that so it might not be.

First they essay'd to tempt our saint to sin, By points of doctrine argued at an inn; Where he might warmly reason, deeply drink, Then lose all power to argue and to think.

In vain they tried; he took the question up, Clear'd every doubt, and barely touch'd the cup: By many a text he proved his doctrine sound, And look'd in triumph on the tempters round.

Next 'twas their care an artful la.s.s to find, Who might consult him, as perplex'd in mind; She they conceived might put her case with fears, With tender tremblings and seducing tears; She might such charms of various kind display, That he would feel their force and melt away: For why of nymphs such caution and such dread, Unless he felt, and fear'd to be misled?

She came, she spake: he calmly heard her case, And plainly told her 'twas a want of grace; Bade her "such fancies and affections check, And wear a thicker muslin on her neck."

Abased, his human foes the combat fled, And the stern clerk yet higher held his head.

They were indeed a weak, impatient set, But their shrewd prompter had his engines yet; Had various means to make a mortal trip, Who shunn'd a flowing bowl and rosy lip; And knew a thousand ways his heart to move, Who flies from banquets and who laughs at love.

Thus far the playful Muse has lent her aid, But now departs, of graver theme afraid; Her may we seek in more appropriate time, - There is no jesting with distress and crime.

Our worthy Clerk had now arrived at fame, Such as but few in his degree might claim; But he was poor, and wanted not the sense That lowly rates the praise without the pence: He saw the common herd with reverence treat The weakest burgess whom they chanced to meet; While few respected his exalted views, And all beheld his doublet and his shoes: None, when they meet, would to his parts allow (Save his poor boys) a hearing or a bow: To this false judgment of the vulgar mind, He was not fully, as a saint, resign'd; He found it much his jealous soul affect, To fear derision and to find neglect.

The year was bad, the christening-fees were small, The weddings few, the parties paupers all: Desire of gain with fear of want combined, Raised sad commotion in his wounded mind; Wealth was in all his thoughts, his views, his dreams, And prompted base desires and baseless schemes.

Alas! how often erring mortals keep The strongest watch against the foes who sleep; While the more wakeful, bold, and artful foe Is suffer'd guardless and unmark'd to go.

Once in a month the sacramental bread Our Clerk with wine upon the table spread: The custom this, that as the vicar reads, He for our off'rings round the church proceeds; Tall s.p.a.cious seats the wealthier people hid, And none had view of what his neighbour did: Laid on the box and mingled when they fell, Who should the worth of each oblation tell?

Now as poor Jachin took the usual round, And saw the alms and heard the metal sound, He had a thought--at first it was no more Than--"these have cash and give it to the poor."

A second thought from this to work began - "And can they give it to a poorer man?"

Proceeding thus,--"My merit could they know; And knew my need, how freely they'd bestow; But though they know not, these remain the same, And are a strong, although a secret claim: To me, alas! the want and worth are known; Why then, in fact, 'tis but to take my own."

Thought after thought pour'd in, a tempting train: - "Suppose it done,--who is it could complain?

How could the poor? for they such trifles share, As add no comfort, as suppress no care; But many a pittance makes a worthy heap, - What says the law? that silence puts to sleep: - Nought then forbids, the danger could we shun, And sure the business may be safely done.

"But am I earnest?--earnest? No.--I say, If such my mind, that I could plan a way; Let me reflect;--I've not allow'd me time To purse the pieces, and if dropp'd they'd chime:"

Fertile is evil in the soul of man. - He paused,--said Jachin, "They may drop on bran.

Why then 'tis safe and (all consider'd) just, The poor receive it,--'tis no breach of trust: The old and widows may their trifles miss, There must be evil in a good like this: But I'll be kind--the sick I'll visit twice, When now but once, and freely give advice.

Yet let me think again:"--Again he tried, For stronger reasons on his pa.s.sion's side, And quickly these were found, yet slowly he complied.