  Baptisms. The Child of the Miller’s Daughter, and relation of her Misfortune.—A frugal Couple: their kind of Frugality.—Plea of the Mother of a natural Child: her Churching.—Large Family of Gerard Ablett: his Apprehensions: Comparison between his State and that of the wealthy Farmer his Master: his Consolation.—An Old Man’s Anxiety for an Heir: the Jealousy of another on having many.—Characters of the Grocer Dawkins and his Friend: their different kinds of Disappointment.—Three Infants named.—An Orphan Girl and Village School-mistress.—Gardener’s Child: Pedantry and Conceit of the Father: his Botanical Discourse: Method of fixing the Embryo-fruit of Cucumbers.—Absurd effects of Rustic Vanity: observed in the Names of Tum porro puer (ut sÆvis projectus ab undis, Navita) nudus humi jacet infans indigus omni Vitali auxilio,—— Vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut Æquum est, Cui tantum in vit restat transire malorum. Lucret. de Nat. Rerum, lib. 5. The Year revolves, and I again explore The simple Annals of my Parish-poor; What Infant-members in my flock appear, What Pairs I blest in the departed year; And who, of Old or Young, or Nymphs or Swains, Are lost to Life, its Pleasures and its pains. No Muse I ask, before my view to bring The humble actions of the Swains I sing.— How pass’d the Youthful, how the Old their days, Who sank in sloth and who aspir’d to praise; Their Tempers, Manners, Morals, Customs, Arts, What parts they had, and how they ’employed their parts; By what elated, sooth’d, seduc’d, deprest, Full well I know—these Records give the rest. Is there a place, save one the Poet sees, A Land of Love, of Liberty and Ease; Th’ eternal flow of Rustic Happiness; Where no proud Mansion frowns in aweful State, Or keeps the Sunshine from the Cottage-gate; Where Young and Old, intent on pleasure throng, And half man’s life, is Holiday and Song? Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears, By sighs unruffled or unstain’d by tears; Since Vice the world subdued and Waters drown’d, Auburn and Eden can no more be found. Hence good and evil mix’d, but Man has skill And power to part them, when he feels the will; Toil, care, and patience bless th’ abstemious few, Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue. Behold the Cot! where thrives th’ industrious Swain, Source of his pride, his pleasure and his gain; Screen’d from the Winter’s wind, the Sun’s last ray Smiles on the window and prolongs the day; Projecting thatch the woodbine’s branches stop, And turn their blossoms to the casement’s top:— All need requires is in that Cot contain’d, And much that taste untaught and unrestrain’d Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace, In one gay picture all the Royal Race; Around the walls are Heroes, Lovers, Kings; The print that shews them and the verse that sings. And there he stands imprison’d and his Queen; To these the Mother takes her Child and shows What grateful Duty to his God he owes; Who gives to him, an happy Home and free, With life’s ennobling comfort, Liberty; When Kings and Queens, dethron’d, insulted, tried, Are all these Comforts of the Poor denied. There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules, Who prov’d Misfortune’s was the best of schools; And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain, Prov’d that misfortunes may be sent in vain. The Magic-mill that grinds the gran’nams young, Close at the side of kind Godiva hung; She, of her favourite place the pride and joy, Of charms at once most lavish and most coy; By wanton act, the purest fame could raise, And give the boldest deed, the chastest praise. There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed; There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel-bred; And here Saint Monday’s worthy votaries live, In all the joys that Ale and Skittles give. Now lo! in Egypt’s coast that hostile Fleet, By nations dreaded and by Nelson beat; And here shall soon another Triumph come, A deed of Glory in a day of Gloom; The proudest Conquest, at the dearest rate. On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock, Of Cottage-reading rests the chosen stock; Learning we lack, not Books, but have a kind For all our wants, a meat for every mind: The Tale for wonder and the Joke for whim, The half-sung Sermon and the half-groan’d Hymn. No need of classing; each within its place, The feeling finger in the dark can trace; “First from the corner, farthest from the wall,” Such all the rules and they suffice for all. There pious works for Sunday’s use are found, Companions for that Bible newly bound; That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly sav’d, Has choicest prints by famous Hands engrav’d; Has choicest notes by many a famous Head, Such as to doubt, have rustic readers led; Have made them stop to reason why? and how? And where they once agreed, to cavil now. Oh! rather give me Commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun; Who simple Truth with nine-fold reasons back, And guard the point, no enemies attack. A genius rare but rude was honest John; Not one who, early by the Muse beguil’d, Drank from her well, the waters undefil’d; Not one who slowly gain’d the Hill sublime, Then often sipp’d and little at a time; But one who dabbled in the sacred Springs, And drank them muddy, mix’d with baser things. Here to interpret Dreams we read the rules, Science our own! and never taught in schools; In Moles and Specks we Fortune’s gifts discern, And Fate’s fix’d will from Nature’s wanderings learn. Of Hermit Quarle we read in island rare, Far from Mankind and seeming far from Care; Safe from all want and sound in every limb; Yes! there was he and there was Care with him. Unbound and heap’d these valued works beside, Laid humbler works, the pedler’s pack supplied; Yet these, long since, have all acquir’d a name; The Wandering Jew has found his way to fame: And fame, denied to many a labour’d song, Crowns Thumb the great and Hickerthrift the strong. There too is he, by wizard-power upheld, Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell’d; His shoes of swiftness on his feet he plac’d; His coat of darkness on his loins he brac’d; And off the heads of doughty Giants stroke; Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near; No sound of feet alarm’d the drowsy ear; No English blood their pagan sense could smell, But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell. These are the Peasant’s joy, when, plac’d at ease, Half his delighted Offspring mount his knees. To every Cot the Lord’s indulgent mind, Has a small space for Garden-ground assign’d; Here—till return of morn dismiss’d the farm— The careful Peasant plies the sinewy arm, Warm’d as he works and casts his look around On every foot of that improving ground: It is his own he sees; his Master’s eye, Peers not about, some secret fault to spy; Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known;— Hope, profit, pleasure,—they are all his own. Here grow the humble Cives and hard by them, The tall Leek, tapering with his rushy stem; High climb his Pulse in many an even row, Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below, And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste, Give a warm relish to the Night’s repast. Apples and Cherries grafted by his hand, And cluster’d Nuts for neighbouring market stand. The Reed-fence rises round some favourite spot; Where rich Carnations, Pinks with purple eyes, } Proud Hyacinths, the least some Florist’s prize, } Tulips tall-stemm’d and pounc’d Auricula’s rise.} Here on a Sunday-eve, when Service ends, Meet and rejoice a Family of Friends; All speak aloud, are happy and are free, And glad they seem and gaily they agree. What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech, Where all are talkers and where none can teach; Where still the Welcome and the Words are old, And the same Stories are for ever told; Yet their’s is joy that bursting from the heart, Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart; That forms these tones of gladness we despise, That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes; That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays, And speaks in all their looks and all their ways. Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long, But Vice and Misery now demand the song; And turn our view from Dwellings simply neat, To this infected Row, we term our Street. Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew Each evening meet; the Sot, the Cheat, the Shrew; Of beaten Wife, perverse in her replies; While shrieking Children hold each threat’ning hand. And sometimes life, and sometimes food demand: Boys in their first stol’n rags, to swear begin, And girls, who heed not dress, are skill’d in gin: Snarers and Smugglers here their gains divide, Ensnaring females here their victims hide; And here is one, the Sybil of the Row, Who knows all secrets, or affects to know. Seeking their fate, to her the simple run, To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun; Mistress of worthless arts, deprav’d in will, Her care unblest and unrepaid her skill, Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops, And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes. Between the road-way and the walls, offence Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense; There lie, obscene, at every open door, Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor; And day by day the mingled masses grow, As sinks are disembogu’d and kennels flow. There hungry dogs from hungry children steal, There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal; There dropsied infants wail without redress, And all is want and woe and wretchedness: High-swoln and hard, outlive that lack of care— Forc’d on some farm, the unexerted strength, Though loth to action, is compell’d at length, When warm’d by health, as serpents in the spring, Aside their slough of indolence they fling. Yet ere they go, a greater evil comes— See! crowded beds in those contiguous rooms; Beds but ill parted, by a paltry screen, Of paper’d lath or curtain dropt between; Daughters and Sons to yon compartments creep, And Parents here beside their Children sleep: Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part, Nor let the Ear be first to taint the Heart. Come! search within, nor sight nor smell regard; The true Physician walks the foulest ward. See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest! What nauseous fragments on yon fractur’d chest! What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat! And round these posts that serve this bed for feet; This bed where all those tatter’d garments lie, Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by! See! as we gaze, an Infant lifts its head, Left by neglect and burrow’d in that bed; The Mother-gossip has the love supprest, An Infant’s cry once waken’d in her breast; (With strong resentment) of the want she makes. Whence all these woes?—From want of virtuous will, Of honest shame, of time-improving skill; From want of care t’ employ the vacant hour, And want of ev’ry kind but want of power. Here are no Wheels for either Wool or Flax, But packs of Cards—made up of sundry packs; Here is no Clock, nor will they turn the Glass, And see how swift th’ important moments pass; Here are no Books, but ballads on the wall, Are some abusive, and indecent all; Pistols are here, unpair’d; with Nets and Hooks, Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks; An ample flask that nightly rovers fill, With recent poison from the Dutchman’s still; A Box of Tools with wires of various size, } Frocks, Wigs, and Hats, for night or day disguise,} And Bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. } To every House belongs a space of Ground, Of equal size, once fenc’d with Paling round; That Paling now by slothful waste destroy’d, Dead Gorse and stumps of Elder fill the void; Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay, Hide Sots and Striplings at their drink and play; Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat; Where heavy Ale in spots like varnish shows, Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows; Black Pipes and broken Jugs the seats defile, The walls and windows, Rhymes and Reck’nings vile; Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door, And cards in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor. Here his poor Bird th’ inhuman Cocker brings, Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings; With spicy food th’ impatient spirit feeds, And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds; Struck through the brain, depriv’d of both his eyes, The vanquish’d bird must combat till he dies; Must faintly peck at his victorious foe, And reel and stagger at each feeble blow; When fall’n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes, His blood-stain’d arms, for other deaths assumes; And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake, And only bled and perish’d for his sake. Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yield Glories unsought, the Fathers of the Field; And these who take from our reluctant hands, What Burn advises or the Bench commands. Our Farmers round, well pleas’d with constant gain, Like other farmers, flourish and complain. And close our Exhibition for the Year. ============== With evil omen, we that Year begin: A Child of Shame,—stern Justice adds, of Sin, Is first recorded;—I would hide the deed, But vain the wish; I sigh and I proceed: And could I well th’ instructive truth convey, ’Twould warn the Giddy and awake the Gay. Of all the Nymphs, who gave our Village grace, The Miller’s Daughter had the fairest Face; Proud was the Miller; Money was his pride, He rode to Market, as our Farmers ride, And ’twas his boast, inspir’d by spirits, there, His favourite Lucy should be rich as fair; But she must meek and still obedient prove, And not presume, without his leave, to love. A youthful Sailor heard him;—“Ha!” quoth he, “This Miller’s Maiden is a prize for me; “Her Charms I love, his Riches I desire, “And all his threats but fan the kindling fire; “My ebbing purse, no more the Foe shall fill, “But Love’s kind act and Lucy at the Mill.” Thus thought the Youth, and soon the chace began, Stretch’d all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan: Like him and like his Frigate, Heart of Oak; Fresh were his features, his attire was new; Clean was his linen and his jacket blue; Of finest jean his trowsers tight and trim, Brush’d the large buckle at the silver rim. He soon arriv’d, he trac’d the Village-green, There saw the Maid, and was with pleasure seen; Then talk’d of Love, till Lucy’s yielding heart Confess’d ’twas painful, though ’twas right to part. “For ah! my Father has an haughty soul, “Whom best he loves, he loves but to controul; “Me to some churl in bargain he’ll consign, “And make some tyrant of the Parish, mine; “Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe, “Has often forc’d, but never shed the tear; “Save when my Mother died, some drops express’d “A kind of sorrow for a Wife at rest:— “To me a Master’s stern regard is shown, “I’m like his steed, priz’d highly as his own; “Stroak’d but corrected, threaten’d when supplied, “His slave and boast, his victim and his pride.” ‘Cheer up, my Lass! I’ll to thy Father go, ‘The Miller cannot be the Sailor’s foe; ‘Both live by Heaven’s free gale that plays aloud ‘In the stretch’d canvass and the piping shroud; ‘And rattling planks within, are sounds we love; ‘Calms are our dread; when Tempests plough the Deep. ‘We take a Reef, and to the rocking, sleep.’ “Ha!” quoth the Miller, mov’d at speech so rash, “Art thou like me? Then where thy Notes and Cash? “Away to Wapping, and a Wife command, “With all thy wealth, a Guinea, in thine hand; “There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer, “And leave my Lucy for thy Betters here.” ‘Revenge! Revenge!’ the angry Lover cried, Then sought the Nymph, and ‘Be thou now my Bride.’ Bride had she been, but they no Priest could move To bind in Law, the Couple bound by Love. What sought these Lovers then by day, by night? But stolen moments of disturb’d delight; Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly priz’d, Transports that pain’d and joys that agoniz’d: Till, the fond Damsel, pleas’d with Lad so trim, Aw’d by her Parent and entic’d by him; Her lovely form from savage power to save, Gave—not her Hand—but ALL she could, she gave. Then came the Day of shame, the grievous Night, The varying Look, the wandering Appetite; The Joy assum’d, while Sorrow dimm’d the eyes, The forc’d sad Smiles that follow’d sudden Sighs; To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain. Too eager caution shews some danger’s near, The Bully’s bluster proves the Coward’s fear; His sober step, the Drunkard vainly tries, And Nymphs expose the failings they disguise. First, whispering Gossips were in parties seen; Then louder Scandal walk’d the Village-green; Next babbling Folly told the growing ill, And busy Malice dropt it at the Mill. “Go! to thy curse and mine,” the Father said, “Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed; “Want and a wailing Brat thy Portion be, “Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me, “Where skulks the villain?”—— —‘On the Ocean wide, ‘My William seeks a portion for his Bride.’— “Vain be his search! But till the traitor come, “The Higler’s Cottage be thy future home; “There with his antient Shrew and Care abide, “And hide thy Head, thy Shame thou canst not hide.” Day after day were past in grief and pain, Week after week,—nor came the Youth again; Her Boy was born—no Lads nor Lasses came To grace the Rite or give the Child a name; Bore the young Christian roaring through the crowd; In a small chamber was my office done, Where blinks through paper’d panes the setting Sun; Where noisy Sparrows perch’d on penthouse near, Chirp tuneless joy and mock th e frequent tear; Bats on their webby wings in darkness move, And feebly shriek their melancholy love. No Sailor came; the months in terror fled! Then news arriv’d; He fought, and he was DEAD! At the lone Cottage Lucy lives, and still Walks, for her weekly pittance, to the Mill; A mean seraglio there her Father keeps, Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps: And sees the plenty, while compell’d to stay, Her Father’s pride, become his Harlot’s prey. Throughout the lanes, she glides at evening’s close, And softly lulls her Infant to repose; Then sits and gazes but with viewless look, As gilds the Moon the rimpling of the brook; And sings her vespers, but in voice so low, She hears their murmurs as the waters flow; And she too murmurs and begins to find The solemn wanderings of a wounded mind; Visions of terror, views of woe succeed, The mind’s impatience, to the body’s need; She knows what Reason yields and dreads what Madness may. Next with their Boy, a decent Couple came, And call’d him Robert, ’twas his Father’s name; Three Girls preceded, all by time endear’d, And future Births were neither hop’d nor fear’d; Blest in each other, but to no excess; Health, quiet, comfort, form’d their happiness; Love all made up of torture and delight, Was but mere madness in this Couple’s sight: Susan could think, though not without a sigh, If she were gone, who should her place supply? And Robert half in earnest, half in jest, Talk of her Spouse when he should be at rest; Yet strange would either think it to be told, Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold; Few were their Acres,—but they, well content, Were on each pay-day, ready with their rent; And few their wishes—what their Farm denied, The neighbouring town, at trifling cost, supplied; If at the Draper’s window, Susan cast A longing look, as with her goods she pass’d; And with the produce of the wheel and churn, Bought her a Sunday-robe on her return; True to her maxim, she would take no rest, Till care repay’d that portion to the Chest: Her Robert spent some idle shillings there; Up at the Barn, before the break of day, He made his labour for th’ indulgence pay; Thus both—that Waste itself might work in vain— Wrought double tides, and all was well again. Yet though so prudent, there were times of joy, (The Day they wed, the Christening of the Boy,) When to the wealthier Farmers there was shown, Welcome unfeign’d, and plenty like their own; For Susan serv’d the Great and had some pride, Among our topmost people to preside; Yet in that plenty, in that welcome free, There was the guiding nice Frugality; That in the festal as the frugal day, Has in a different mode, a sovereign sway: As tides the same attractive influence know In the least ebb and in their proudest flow; The wise Frugality that does not give, A life to saving but that saves to live, Sparing not pinching, mindful though not mean, O’er all presiding, yet in nothing seen. Recorded next a Babe of Love I trace! Of many Loves, the Mother’s fresh disgrace; “All my reproof, thy wanton thoughts restrain?” ‘Alas! your Reverence, wanton thoughts, I grant, ‘Were once my motive, now the thoughts of want; ‘Women like me, as ducks in a decoy, ‘Swim down a stream and seem to swim in joy; ‘Your Sex pursue us and our own disdain, ‘Return is dreadful and escape is vain. ‘Would Men forsake us and would Women strive ‘To help the fall’n, their Virtue might revive.’ For Rite of Churching soon she made her way, In dread of Scandal, should she miss the day:— Two Matrons came! with them she humbly knelt, Their action copied and their comforts felt, From that great pain and peril to be free, Though still in peril of that pain to be; Alas! what numbers like this amorous Dame, Are quick to censure but are dead to shame! Twin-Infants then appear, a Girl, a Boy, Th’ o’erflowing cup of Gerard Ablett’s joy: Seven have I nam’d, and but six years have past By him and Judith since I bound them fast; Well pleas’d, the Bridegroom smil’d to hear—“A Vine “Fruitful and spreading round the walls be thine, Look’d joyful love, and softly said, ‘Amen.’ Now of that Vine he would no more increase, Those playful Branches now disturb his peace; Them he beholds around his table spread, But finds, the more the Branch, the less the Bread; And while they run his humble walls about, They keep the sunshine of good-humour out. Cease, man, to grieve! thy Master’s lot survey, Whom Wife and Children, thou and thine obey; A Farmer proud, beyond a Farmer’s pride, Of all around the envy or the guide; Who trots to market on a steed so fine, That when I meet him, I’m asham’d of mine; Whose board is high up-heap’d with generous fare, } Which five stout Sons and three tall Daughters share:} Cease, man, to grieve, an rnaby; An humble man is he and when they meet, Our Farmers find him on a distant seat; There for their wit he serves a constant theme, “They praise his Dairy, they extol his Team, “They ask the price of each unrivall’d Steed, “And whence his Sheep, that admirable breed; “And where he puts the Money he must gain:— “They have their Daughters, but they fear their friend “Would think his Sons too much would condescend;— “They have their Sons who would their fortunes try, “But fear his Daughters will their suit deny.” So runs the joke, while James with sigh profound, And face of care, keeps looking on the ground; These looks and sighs provoke the insult more, And point the jest—for Barnaby is poor. Last in my List, five untaught Lads appear; Their Father dead, Compassion sent them here, For still that rustic Infidel denied, To have their Names with solemn Rite applied: His, a lone House, by Dead-man’s Dyke-way stood; And his, a nightly Haunt, in Lonely-wood; Each Village Inn has heard the ruffian boast, That he believ’d ‘in neither God nor Ghost; ‘That when the sod upon the Sinner press’d, ‘He, like the Saint, had everlasting rest; ‘That never Priest believ’d his Doctrines true, } ‘But would, for profit, own himself a Jew, } ‘Or worship Wood and Stone, as honest Heathen do;} ‘That fools alone on future Worlds rely, ‘And all who die for Faith, deserve to die. His own transcendant genius found the rest. Our pious Matrons heard and much amaz’d, Gaz’d on the Man and trembled as they gaz’d; And now his Face explor’d and now his Feet, Man’s dreaded Foe, in this Bad Man, to meet: But him our Drunkards as their Champion rais’d, Their Bishop call’d, and as their Hero prais’d; Though most when sober, and the rest, when sick, Had little question, whence his Bishoprick. But he, triumphant Spirit! all things dar’d, He poach’d the Wood and on the Warren snar’d; ’Twas his, at Cards, each Novice to trepan, And call the Wants of Rogues the Rights of Man; Wild as the Winds, he let his Offspring rove, And deem’d the Marriage-Bond the Bane of Love. What Age and Sickness for a Man so bold, Had done, we know not;—none beheld him old: By night as business urg’d, he sought the Wood, The ditch was deep, the rain had caus’d a flood; The foot-bridge fail’d, he plung’d beneath the Deep, And slept, if truth were his, th’ eternal sleep. These have we nam’d; on Life’s rough Sea they sail, With many a prosperous, many an adverse gale! While wearied Prudence with their Strength engage; Then each, in aid, shall some Companion ask, For Help or Comfort in the tedious task; And what that Help—what Joys from Union flow, What Good or Ill, we next prepare to show; And row, meantime, our weary Bark ashore, As Spencer his—but not with Spencer’s Oar |
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