Such views of life are to the world convey’d—
As inspiration known
he could not; still, the more she sought
To hide her thoughts, the more of his she caught.
A hundred times she had these pictures named,
And never felt perplex’d, disturb’d, ashamed;
Yet now the feelings of a lad so young
Call’d home her thoughts and paralysed her tongue.
She pass’d the offensive pictures silent by, 410?
With one reflecting, self-reproving sigh;
Reasoning, how habit will the mind entice
To approach and gaze upon the bounds of vice,
As men, by custom, from some cliff’s vast height,
Look pleased, and make their danger their delight.
“Come, let us on!—see there a Flemish view,
A Country Fair, and all as Nature true.
See there the merry creatures, great and small,
Engaged in drinking, gaming, dancing all,
Fiddling or fighting—all in drunken joy!”— 420?
“But is this Nature?” said the wondering Boy.
“Be sure it is! and those Banditti there— }
Observe the faces, forms, the eyes, the air; }
See rage, revenge, remorse, disdain, despair!” }
“And is that Nature, too?” the stripling cried.—
“Corrupted Nature,” said the serious guide.
She then displayed her knowledge.—“That, my dear,
Is call’d a Titian, this a Guido here,
And yon a Claude—you see that lovely light,
So soft and solemn, neither day nor night.” 430?
“Yes!” quoth the Boy, “and there is just the breeze,
That curls the water, and that fans the trees;
The ships that anchor in that pleasant bay
All look so safe and quiet—Claude, you say?”
On a small picture Peter gazed and stood
In admiration—“’twas so dearly good.”
“For how much money think you, then, my Lad,
Is such a ‘dear good picture’ to be had?
’Tis a famed master’s work—a Gerard Dow,
At least the seller told the buyer so.” 440?
“I tell the price!” quoth Peter—“I as soon
Could tell the price of pictures in the moon;
But I have heard, when the great race was done,
How much was offer’d for the horse that won.”—
“A thousand pounds: but, look the country round,
And, may be, ten such horses might be found;
While, ride or run where’er you choose to go,
You’ll nowhere find so fine a Gerard Dow.”
“If this be true,” says Peter, “then, of course,
You’d rate the picture higher than the horse.” 450?
“Why, thou’rt a reasoner, Boy!” the lady cried;
“But see that Infant on the other side;
’Tis by Sir Joshua. Did you ever see
A Babe so charming?”—“No, indeed,” said he;
“I wonder how he could that look invent,
That seems so sly, and yet so innocent.”
In this long room were various Statues seen,
And Peter gazed thereon with awe-struck mien.
“Why look so earnest, Boy?”—“Because they bring
To me a story of an awful thing.”— 460?
“Tell then thy story.”——He, who never stay’d
For words or matter, instantly obey’d.—
“A holy pilgrim to a city sail’d,
Where every sin o’er sinful men prevail’d;
Who, when he landed, look’d in every street,
As he was wont, a busy crowd to meet;
But now of living beings found he none;
Death had been there, and turn’d them all to stone.
All in an instant, as they were employ’d,
Was life in every living man destroy’d— 470?
The rich, the poor, the timid, and the bold,
Made in a moment such as we behold.”
“Come, my good lad, you’ve yet a room to see.
Are you awake?”—“I am amazed,” said he;
I know they’re figures form’d by human skill,
But ’tis so awful, and this place so still!
“And what is this?” said Peter, who had seen
A long wide table, with its cloth of green,
Its net-work pockets, and its studs of gold—
For such they seem’d, and precious to behold. 480?
There too were ivory balls, and one was red,
Laid with long sticks upon the soft green bed,
And printed tables on the wall beside—
“Oh! what are these?” the wondering Peter cried.
“This, my good lad, is call’d the Billiard-room,”
Answer’d his guide; “and here the gentry come,
And with these maces and these cues they play,
At their spare time, or in a rainy day.”
“And what this chequer’d box?—for play, I guess?”—
“You judge it right; ’tis for the game of Chess. 490?
There! take your time, examine what you will,
There’s King, Queen, Knight—it is a game of skill:
And these are Bishops; you the difference see.”—
“What! do they make a game of them?” quoth he.—
“Bishops, like Kings,” she said, “are here but names;
Not that I answer for their Honours’ games.”
All round the house did Peter go, and found
Food for his wonder all the house around.
There guns of various bore, and rods, and lines,
And all that man for deed of death designs, 500?
In beast, or bird, or fish, or worm, or fly— }
Life in these last must means of death supply; }
The living bait is gorged, and both the victims die. }
“God gives man leave his creatures to destroy.”—
“What! for his sport?” replied the pitying Boy.—
“Nay,” said the Lady, “why the sport condemn?
As die they must, ’tis much the same to them.”
Peter had doubts; but with so kind a friend
He would not on a dubious point contend.
Much had he seen, and every thing he saw }
And some in maiden hesitation tried— }
Unwilling to renounce, unable to decide. 410}
One lost, another would her grace implore,
Till all were lost, and lovers came no more.
Nor had she that, in beauty’s failing state,
Which will recall a lover, or create;
Hers was the slender portion, that supplied
Her real wants, but all beyond denied.
When Fanny Dyson reach’d her fortieth year,
She would no more of love or lovers hear;
But one dear Friend she chose, her guide, her stay
And to each other all the world were they; 420?
For all the world had grown to them unkind,
One sex censorious, and the other blind.
The Friend of Frances longer time had known
The world’s deceits, and from its follies flown.
With her dear Friend life’s sober joys to share
Was all that now became her wish and care.
They walk’d together, they conversed and read,
And tender tears for well-feign’d sorrows shed:
And were so happy in their quiet lives,
They pitied sighing maids, and weeping wives. 430?
But Fortune to our state such change imparts,
That Pity stays not long in human hearts;
When sad for others’ woes our hearts are grown,
This soon gives place to sorrows of our own.
There was among our guardian Volunteers
A Major Bright—he reckoned fifty years:
A reading man of peace, but call’d to take
His sword and musket for his country’s sake;
Not to go forth and fight, but here to stay,
Invaders, should they come, to chase or slay. 440?
Him had the elder Lady long admired,
As one from vain and trivial things retired;
With him conversed; but to a Friend so dear
Gave not that pleasure—Why? is not so clear.
But chance effected this; the Major now
Gave both the time his duties would allow;
In walks, in visits, when abroad, at home,
The friendly Major would to either come.
He never spoke—for he was not a boy—
Of ladies’ charms, or lovers’ grief and joy. 450?
All his discourses were of serious kind,
The heart they touch’d not, but they fill’d the mind.
Yet—oh, the pity! from this grave good man
The cause of coolness in the Friends began.
The sage Sophronia—that the chosen name—
Now more polite, and more estranged became.
She could but feel that she had longer known
This valued friend—he was indeed her own;
But Frances Dyson, to confess the truth,
Had more of softness—yes, and more of youth; 460?
And, though he said such things had ceased to please,
The worthy Major was not blind to these:
So without thought, without intent, he paid
More frequent visits to the younger Maid.
Such the offence; and, though the Major tried
To tie again the knot he thus untied,
His utmost efforts no kind looks repaid—
He moved no more the inexorable maid.
The Friends too parted, and the elder told
Tales of false hearts, and friendships waxing cold; 470?
And wonder’d what a man of sense could see
In the light airs of wither’d vanity.
’Tis said that Frances now the world reviews,
Unwilling all the little left to lose;
She and the Major on the walks are seen,
And all the world is wondering what they mean.
Such were the four whom Captain Elliot drew
To his own board, as the selected few.
For why? they seem’d each other to approve,
And called themselves a Family of Love. 480?
These were not all: there was a Youth beside,
Left to his uncles when his parents died;
A Girl, their sister, by a Boy was led }
To Scotland, where a boy and girl may wed— }
And they return’d to seek for pardon, pence, and bread. }
Five years they lived to labour, weep, and pray,
When Death, in mercy, took them both away.
Uncles and aunts received this lively child,
Grieved at his fate, and at his follies smiled;
But, when the child to boy’s estate grew on, 490?
The smile was vanish’d, and the pity gone.
Slight was the burden, but in time increased,
Until at length both love and pity ceased.
Then Tom was idle; he would find his way
To his aunt’s stores, and make her sweets his prey;
By uncle Doctor on a message sent,
He stopp’d to play, and lost it as he went.
His grave aunt Martha, with a frown austere
And a rough hand, produced a transient fear;
But Tom, to whom his rude companions taught 500?
Language as rude, vindictive measures sought;
He used such words that, when she wish’d to speak
Of his offence, she had her words to seek.
The little wretch had call’d her—’twas a shame
To think such thought, and more to name such name.
Thus fed and beaten, Tom was taught to pray
For his true friends; “but who,” said he, “are they?”
By nature kind, when kindly used, the Boy
Hail’d the strange good with tears of love and joy;
But, roughly used, he felt his bosom burn 510?
With wrath he dared not on his uncles turn;
So with indignant spirit, still and strong,
He nursed the vengeance, and endured the wrong.
To a cheap school, far north, the boy was sent:
Without a tear of love or grief he went;
Where, doom’d to fast and study, fight and play,
He staid five years, and wish’d five more to stay.
He loved o’er plains to run, up hills to climb,
Without a thought of kindred, home, or time;
Till from the cabin of a coasting hoy, 520?
Landed at last the thin and freckled boy,
With sharp keen eye, but pale and hollow cheek,
All made more sad from sickness of a week.
His aunts and uncles felt—nor strove to hide
F
is cold.
His smile assumed has not the real glow
Of love!—a sunbeam shining on the snow. 830?
Children he has; but are they causes why
He should our pleas resist, our claims deny?
Our father left the means by which he thrives,
While we are labouring to support our lives—
We, need I say? my widow’d Sister lives
On a large jointure; nay, she largely gives;—
And Fanny sighs—for gold does Fanny sigh?
Or wants she that which money cannot buy—
Youth and young hopes?—Ah! could my kindred share
The liberal mind’s distress, and daily care, 840?
The painful toil to gain the petty fee—
They’d bless their stars, and join to pity me.
Hard is his fate, who would, with eager joy,
To save mankind, his every power employ;
Yet in his walk unnumber’d insults meets
And gains ‘mid scorn the food that chokes him as he eats.
“Oh, Captain Elliot! you who know mankind,
With all the anguish of the feeling mind,
Bear to our kind relation these the woes
That e’en to you ’tis misery to disclose. 850?
You can describe what I but faintly trace—
A man of learning cannot bear disgrace;
Refinement sharpens woes that wants create,
And ’tis fresh grief such grievous things to state;
Yet those so near me let me not reprove—
I love them well, and they deserve my love;
But want they know not—Oh! that I could say
I am in this as ignorant as they.”
The Doctor thus.—The Captain grave and kind, }
To the sad tale with serious looks inclined, 860}
And promise made to keep th’ important speech in mind. }
James and the Widow, how is yet unknown,
Heard of these visits, and would make their own.
All was not fair, they judged, and both agreed
To their good Friend together to proceed.
Forth then they went to see him, and persuade—
As warm a pair as ever Anger made.
The Widow lady must the speaker be:
So James agreed; for words at will had she;
And then her Brother, if she needed proof, 870?
Should add, “’Tis truth;”—it was for him enough.
“Oh, sir! it grieves me”—for we need not dwell
On introduction: all was kind and well—
Oh, sir! it grieves, it shocks us both to hear }
What has, with selfish purpose, gain’d your ear— }
Our very flesh and blood, and, as you know, how dear. }
Doubtless they came your noble mind t’ impress
With strange descriptions of their own distress;
But I would to the Doctor’s face declare, }
That he has more to spend and more to spare, 880}
With all his craft, than we with all our care. }
“And for our Sister, all she has she spends
Upon herself; herself alone befriends.
She has the portion that our father left,
While me of mine a careless wretch bereft,
Save a small part; yet I could joyful live,
Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give.
For this she cares not; Frances does not know
Their heartfelt joy who largely can bestow.
You, Captain Elliot, feel the pure delight, 890?
That our kind acts in tender hearts excite,
When to the poor we can our alms extend,
And make the Father of all Good our friend;
And, I repeat, I could with pleasure live,
Had I my mite—the widow’s mite—to give.
“We speak not thus, dear Sir, with vile intent,
Our nearest friends to wrong or circumvent;
But that our Uncle, worthy man! should know
How best his wealth, Heaven’s blessing, to bestow:
What widows need, and chiefly those who feel 900?
For all the sufferings which they cannot heal;
And men in trade, with numbers in their pay,
Who must be ready for the reckoning-day,
Or gain or lose!”—
—“Thank Heaven,” said James, “as yet
I’ve not been troubled by a dun or debt.”
—The Widow sigh’d, convinced that men so weak
Will ever hurt the cause for which they speak;
However tempted to deceive, still they
Are ever blundering to the broad high-way
Of very truth.—But Martha pass’d it by 910?
With a slight frown, and half-distinguish’d sigh.—
“Say to our Uncle, sir, how much I long
To see him sit his kindred race among;
To hear his brave exploits, to nurse his age,
And cheer him in his evening’s pilgrimage.
How were I blest to guide him in the way
Where the religious poor in secret pray;
To be the humble means by which his heart
And liberal hand might peace and joy impart!
But now, farewell!”—and slowly, softly fell 920?
The tender accents as she said “farewell!”
The Merchant stretch’d his hand, his leave to take,
And gave the Captain’s a familiar shake;
Yet seem’d to doubt if this was not too free;
But, gaining courage, said, “Remember me.”
Some days elaps’d; the Captain did not write,
But still was pleased the party to invite;
And, as he walk’d, his custom every day,
A tall pale stripling met him on his way,
Who made some efforts, but they proved too weak, 930?
And only show’d he was inclined to speak.
“What would’st thou, lad?” the Captain ask’d, and gave
The youth a power his purposed boon to crave,
Yet not in terms direct—“My name,” quoth he,
“Is Thomas Bethel; you have heard of me”—
“Not good nor evil, Thomas—had I need
Of so much knowledge;—but pray now proceed.”—
“Dyson’s my mother’s name; but I have not
That interest with you, and the worse my lot.
I serve my Uncle James, and run and write, 940
="line in2">“With want and labour was her mind subdued;
She lived in sorrow and in solitude.
Religious neighbours, kindly calling, found
Her thoughts unsettled, anxious, and uns
ine">That led thee forth?—we surely may divine!”
“Hunger, your Honour! I and my poor wife
Have now no other in our wane of life.
Were Phoebe handsome, and were I a Squire,
I might suspect her, and young Lords admire.”—
What, rascal!——”—“Nay, your Honour, on my word,
I should be jealous of that fine young Lord;
Yet him my Lady in the carriage took,
But innocent—I’d swear it on the book.”—
“You villain, swear!”—for still he wish’d to stay, 350?
And hear what more the fellow had to say.—
“‘Phoebe,’ said I, ‘a rogue that had a heart
To do the deed would make his Honour smart.’—
Says Phoebe, wisely, ‘Think you, would he go,
If he were jealous, from my Lady?—No.’”
This was too much! poor Villars left the inn,
To end the grief that did but then begin.
“With my Matilda in the coach!—what lies
Will the vile rascal in his spleen devise?
Yet this is true, that on some vile pretence 360?
Men may entrap the purest innocence.
He saw my fears—alas! I am not free
From every doubt—but, no! it cannot be!”
Villars moved slow, moved quick, as check’d by fear
Or urged by Love, and drew his mansion near.
Light burst upon him, yet he fancied gloom,
Nor came a twinkling from Matilda’s room.—
What then? ’tis idle to expect that all
Should be produced at jealous fancy’s call;
How! the park-gate wide open! who would dare 370?
Do this, if her presiding glance were there?
But yet, by chance—I know not what to think,
For thought is hell, and I’m upon the brink!
Not for a thousand worlds, ten thousand lives,
Would I——Oh! what depends upon our wives!
Pains, labours, terrors, all would I endure,
Yes, all but this—and this, could I be sure——”
Just then a light within the window shone,
And show’d a lady, weeping and alone.
His heart beat fondly—on another view, 380?
It beat more strongly, and in terror too—
It was his Sister!—and there now appear’d
A servant, creeping like a man that fear’d.
He spoke with terror—“Sir, did Joseph tell?
Have you not met him?”—
“Is your Lady well?”
Well? Sir—your Honour——”
“Heaven and earth! what mean
Your stupid questions? I have nothing seen,
Nor heard, nor know, nor—Do, good Thomas, speak!
Your mistress——”
“Sir, has gone from home a week—
My Lady, Sir, your sister”—— But, too late 390?
Was this—my Friend had yielded to his fate.
He heard the truth, became serene and mild,
Patient and still, as a corrected child;
At once his spirit with his fortune fell
To the last ebb, and whisper’d—‘It is well.’
Such was his fall; and grievous the effect! }
From henceforth all things fell into neglect— }
The mind no more alert, the form no more erect. }
Villars long since, as he indulged his spleen
By lonely travel on the coast, had seen 400?
A large old mansion suffer’d to decay
In some law-strife, and slowly drop away.
Dark elms around the constant herons bred;
Those the marsh dykes, the neighbouring ocean, fed;
Rocks near the coast no shipping would allow,
And stubborn heath around forbad the plough;
Dull must the scene have been in years of old,
But now was wildly dismal to behold—
One level sadness! marsh, and heath, and sea,
And, save these high dark elms, nor plant nor tree. 410?
In this bleak ruin Villars found a room,
Square, small, and lofty—seat of grief and gloom.
A sloping skylight on the white wall threw,
When the sun set, a melancholy hue;
The Hall of Vathek has a room so bare,
So small, so sad, so form’d to nourish care.
“Here,” said the Traveller, “all so dark within,
And dull without, a man might mourn for sin,
Or punish sinners—here a wanton wife
And vengeful husband might be cursed for life.” 420?
His mind was now in just that wretched state
That deems Revenge our right, and crime our fate.
All other views he banish’d from his soul,
And let this tyrant vex him and control;
Life he despised, and had that Lord defied,
But that he long’d for Vengeance e’er he died.
The law he spurn’d, the combat he declined,
And to his purpose all his soul resign’d.
Full fifteen months had pass’d, and we began
To have some hope of the returning man; 430?
Now to his steward of his small affairs
He wrote, and mention’d leases and repairs;
But yet his soul was on its scheme intent,
And but a moment to his interest lent.
His faithless wife and her triumphant peer
Despised his vengeance, and disdained to fear;
In splendid lodgings near the town they dwelt,
Nor fears from wrath, nor threats from conscience, felt.
Long time our friend had watch’d, and much had paid
For vulgar minds, who lent his vengeance aid. 440?
At length one evening, late returning home,
Thoughtless and fearless of the ills to come,
The Wife was seized, when void of all alarm
And vainly trusting to a footman’s arm.
Death in his hand, the Husband stood in view,
Commanding silence, and obedience too;
Forced to his carriage, sinking at his side,
Madly he drove her—Vengeance was his guide.
All in that ruin Villars had prepared,
And meant her fate and sorrow to have shared; 450?
There he design’d they should for ever dwell,
The weeping pair of a monastic cell.
