Tales by George Crabbe Part 2

He next related how he found a way, Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy-Bay: There in the woods he wrought, and there, among Some lab'ring seamen, heard his native tongue: The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain With joyful force; he long'd to hear again: Again he heard; he seized an offer'd hand, "And when beheld you last our native land!"

He cried, "and in what country? quickly say."

The seamen answer'd--strangers all were they; Only one at his native port had been; He, landing once, the quay and church had seen, For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew.

Still more to know, would Allen join the crew, Sail where they sail'd, and, many a peril past, They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast; But him they found not, nor could one relate Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.

This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd For England's coast, again his fate prevailed: War raged, and he, an active man and strong, Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.

By various sh.o.r.es he pa.s.s'd, on various seas, Never so happy as when void of ease. - And then he told how in a calm distress'd, Day after day his soul was sick of rest; When, as a log upon the deep they stood, Then roved his spirit to the inland wood; Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the trees: He gazed, he pointed to the scenes: --"There stand My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land.

See! there my dwelling--oh! delicious scene Of my best life: --unhand me--are ye men?"

And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.

He told of b.l.o.o.d.y fights, and how at length The rage of battle gave his spirits strength: 'Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost, And he was left half-dead upon the coast; But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men, A fair subsistence by his ready pen.

"Thus," he continued, "pa.s.s'd unvaried years, Without events producing hopes or fears."

Augmented pay procured him decent wealth, But years advancing undermined his health; Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew To England's sh.o.r.e, and scenes his childhood knew: He saw his parents, saw his fav'rite maid, No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd; And thus excited, in his bosom rose A wish so strong, it baffled his repose: Anxious he felt on English earth to lie; To view his native soil, and there to die.

He then described the gloom, the dread he found, When first he landed on the chosen ground, Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd, And how confused and troubled all appear'd; His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd, All views in future blighted and destroy'd: His were a medley of be wild'ring themes, Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.

Here his relation closes, but his mind Flies back again some resting-place to find; Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees His children sporting by those lofty trees, Their mother singing in the shady scene, Where the fresh springs burst o'er the lively green; - So strong his eager fancy, he affrights The faithful widow by its powerful flights; For what disturbs him he aloud will tell, And cry--"'Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!

Where are my children?"--Judith grieves to hear How the soul works in sorrows so severe; a.s.siduous all his wishes to attend, Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend; Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.

'Tis now her office; her attention see!

While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree, Careful, she guards him from the glowing heat, And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.

And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes Of his best days, amid the vivid greens.

Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where ev'ry gale Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring vale.

Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes The night-bird's music from the thick'ning glooms?

And as he sits with all these treasures nigh, Blaze not with fairy-light the phosphor-fly, When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by?

This is the joy that now so plainly speaks In the warm transient flus.h.i.+ng of his cheeks; For he is list'ning to the fancied noise Of his own children, eager in their joys: All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss Gives the expression, and the glow like this.

And now his Judith lays her knitting by, These strong emotions in her friend to spy For she can fully of their nature deem - But see! he breaks the long protracted theme, And wakes, and cries--"My G.o.d! 'twas but a dream."

TALE III.

THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

Pause then, And weigh thy value with an even hand; If thou beest rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough.

SHAKESPEARE, Merchant of Venice.

Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none: and the fine is (for which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor.

Much Ado about Nothing.

Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.

Macbeth.

His promises are, as he then was, mighty; And his performance, as he now is, nothing.

Henry VIII.

Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all, Who dwelt around, "the Gentleman" would call; Whether in pure humility or pride, They only knew, and they would not decide.

Far different he from that dull plodding tribe Whom it was his amus.e.m.e.nt to describe; Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod, But treading still as their dull fathers trod; Who lived in times when not a man had seen Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine!

He was of those whose skill a.s.signs the prize For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties; And who, in places where improvers meet, To fill the land with fatness, had a seat; Who in large mansions live like petty kings, And speak of farms but as amusing things; Who plans encourage, and who journals keep, And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.

Two are the species in this genus known; One, who is rich in his profession grown, Who yearly finds his ample stores increase, From fortune's favours and a favouring lease; Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns; Who drinks his wine, and his disburs.e.m.e.nts scorns; Who freely lives, and loves to show he can, - This is the Farmer made the Gentleman.

The second species from the world is sent, Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content; In books and men beyond the former read To farming solely by a pa.s.sion led, Or by a fas.h.i.+on; curious in his land; Now planning much, now changing what he plann'd; Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd, And ever certain to succeed the next; Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade, - This is the Gentleman, a farmer made.

Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew Early in life, his reasons known to few; Some disappointments said, some pure good sense, The love of land, the press of indolence; His fortune known, and coming to retire, If not a Farmer, men had call'd him 'Squire.

Forty and five his years, no child or wife Cross'd the still tenour of his chosen life; Much land he purchased, planted far around, And let some portions of superfluous ground To farmers near him, not displeased to say "My tenants," nor "our worthy landlord," they.

Fix'd in his farm, he soon display'd his skill In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, and the drill; From these he rose to themes of n.o.bler kind, And show'd the riches of a fertile mind; To all around their visits he repaid And thus his mansion and himself display'd.

His rooms were stately, rather fine than neat, And guests politely call'd his house a Seat; At much expense was each apartment graced, His taste was gorgeous, but it still was taste; In full festoons the crimson curtains fell, The sofas rose in bold elastic swell; Mirrors in gilded frames display'd the tints Of glowing carpets and of colour'd prints: The weary eye saw every object s.h.i.+ne, And all was costly, fanciful, and fine.

As with his friends he pa.s.s'd the social hours, His generous spirit scorn'd to hide its powers; Powers unexpected, for his eye and air Gave no sure signs that eloquence was there; Oft he began with sudden fire and force, As loth to lose occasion for discourse; Some, 'tis observed, who feel a wish to speak, Will a due place for introduction seek; On to their purpose step by step they steal, And all their way, by certain signals, feel; Others plunge in at once, and never heed Whose turn they take, whose purpose they impede; Resolved to s.h.i.+ne, they hasten to begin, Of ending thoughtless--and of these was Gwyn.

And thus he spake: - "It grieves me to the soul, To see how man submits to man's control; How overpower'd and shackled minds are led In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred; The coward never on himself relies, But to an equal for a.s.sistance flies; Man yields to custom, as he bows to fate, In all things ruled--mind, body, and estate; In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply To them we know not, and we know not why; But that the creature has some jargon read, And got some Scotchman's system in his head; Some grave impostor, who will health ensure, Long as your patience or your wealth endure, But mark them well, the pale and sickly crew, They have not health, and can they give it you?

These solemn cheats their various methods choose, A system fires them, as a bard his muse: Hence wordy wars arise; the learn'd divide, And groaning patients curse each erring guide.

"Next, our affairs are govern'd, buy or sell, Upon the deed the law must fix its spell; Whether we hire or let, we must have still The dubious aid of an attorney's skill; They take a part in every man's affairs, And in all business some concern is theirs; Because mankind in ways prescribed are found Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground.

Each abject nature in the way proceeds, That now to shearing, now to slaughter leads.

Should you offend, though meaning no offence, You have no safety in your innocence; The statute broken then is placed in view, And men must pay for crimes they never knew; Who would by law regain his plunder'd store, Would pick up fallen merc'ry from the floor; If he pursue it, here and there it slides, He would collect it, but it more divides; This part and this he stops, but still in vain, It slips aside, and breaks in parts again; Till, after time and pains, and care and cost, He finds his labour and his object lost.

But most it grieves me (friends alone are round), To see a man in priestly fetters bound; Guides to the soul, these friends of Heaven contrive, Long as man lives, to keep his fears alive: Soon as an infant breathes, their rites begin; Who knows not sinning, must be freed from sin; Who needs no bond, must yet engage in vows; Who has no judgment, must a creed espouse: Advanced in life, our boys are bound by rules, Are catechised in churches, cloisters, schools, And train'd in thraldom to be fit for tools: The youth grown up, he now a partner needs, And lo! a priest, as soon as he succeeds.

What man of sense can marriage-rites approve?

What man of spirit can be bound to love?

Forced to be kind! compell'd to be sincere!

Do chains and fetters make companions dear?

Pris'ners indeed we bind; but though the bond May keep them safe, it does not make them fond: The ring, the vow, the witness, licence, prayers, All parties known! made public all affairs!

Such forms men suffer, and from these they date A deed of love begun with all they hate: Absurd! that none the beaten road should shun, But love to do what other dupes have done.

"Well, now your priest has made you one of twain, Look you for rest? Alas! you look in vain.

If sick, he comes; you cannot die in peace, Till he attends to witness your release; To vex your soul, and urge you to confess The sins you feel, remember, or can guess; Nay, when departed, to your grave he goes - But there indeed he hurts not your repose.

"Such are our burthens; part we must sustain, But need not link new grievance to the chain: Yet men like idiots will their frames surround With these vile shackles, nor confess they're bound; In all that most confines them they confide, Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their pride; E'en as the pressure galls them, they declare (Good souls!) how happy and how free they are!

As madmen, pointing round their wretched cells, Cry, 'Lo! the palace where our honour dwells.'

"Such is our state: but I resolve to live By rules my reason and my feelings give; No legal guards shall keep enthrall'd my mind, No Slaves command me, and no teachers blind.

Tempted by sins, let me their strength defy, But have no second in a surplice by; No bottle-holder, with officious aid, To comfort conscience, weaken'd and afraid: Then if I yield, my frailty is not known; And, if I stand, the glory is my own.

"When Truth and Reason are our friends, we seem Alive! awake!--the superst.i.tious dream.

Oh! then, fair truth, for thee alone I seek, Friend to the wise, supporter of the weak; From thee we learn whate'er is right and just: Forms to despise, professions to distrust; Creeds to reject, pretensions to deride, And, following thee, to follow none beside."

Such was the speech: it struck upon the ear Like sudden thunder none expect to hear.

He saw men's wonder with a manly pride, And gravely smiled at guest electrified.

"A farmer this!" they said, "Oh! let him seek That place where he may for his country speak; On some great question to harangue for hours, While speakers, hearing, envy n.o.bler powers!"

Wisdom like this, as all things rich and rare, Must be acquired with pains, and kept with care; In books he sought it, which his friends might view, When their kind host the guarding curtain drew.

There were historic works for graver hours, And lighter verse to spur the languid powers; There metaphysics, logic there had place; But of devotion not a single trace - Save what is taught in Gibbon's florid page, And other guides of this inquiring age.

There Hume appear'd, and near a splendid book Composed by Gay's "good lord of Bolingbroke:"

With these were mix'd the light, the free, the vain, And from a corner peep'd the sage Tom Paine; Here four neat volumes Chesterfield were named, For manners much and easy morals famed; With chaste Memoirs of females, to be read When deeper studies had confused the head.

Such his resources, treasures where he sought For daily knowledge till his mind was fraught: Then, when his friends were present, for their use He would the riches he had stored produce; He found his lamp burn clearer when each day He drew for all he purposed to display; For these occasions forth his knowledge sprung, As mustard quickens on a bed of dung: All was prepared, and guests allow'd the praise For what they saw he could so quickly raise.

Such this new friend; and when the year came round, The same impressive, reasoning sage was found: Then, too, was seen the pleasant mansion graced With a fair damsel--his no vulgar taste; The neat Rebecca--sly, observant, still, Watching his eye, and waiting on his will; Simple yet smart her dress, her manners meek, Her smiles spoke for her, she would seldom speak: But watch'd each look, each meaning to detect, And (pleased with notice) felt for all neglect.

With her lived Gwyn a sweet harmonious life, Who, forms excepted, was a charming wife: The wives indeed, so made by vulgar law, Affected scorn, and censured what they saw, And what they saw not, fancied; said 'twas sin, And took no notice of the wife of Gwyn: But he despised their rudeness, and would prove Theirs was compulsion and distrust, not love; "Fools as they were! could they conceive that rings And parsons' blessings were substantial things?"

They answer'd "Yes;" while he contemptuous spoke Of the low notions held by simple folk; Yet, strange that anger in a man so wise Should from the notions of these fools arise; Can they so vex us, whom we so despise?

Brave as he was, our hero felt a dread Lest those who saw him kind should think him led; If to his bosom fear a visit paid, It was, lest he should be supposed afraid: Hence sprang his orders; not that he desired The things when done: obedience he required; And thus, to prove his absolute command, Ruled every heart, and moved each subject hand; a.s.sent he ask'd for every word and whim, To prove that he alone was king of him.

The still Rebecca, who her station knew, With ease resign'd the honours not her due: Well pleased she saw that men her board would grace, And wish'd not there to see a female face; When by her lover she his spouse was styled, Polite she thought it, and demurely smiled; But when he wanted wives and maidens round So to regard her, she grew grave and frown'd; And sometimes whisper'd--"Why should you respect These people's notions, yet their forms reject?"

Gwyn, though from marriage bond and fetter free, Still felt abridgment in his liberty; Something of hesitation he betray'd, And in her presence thought of what he said.

Thus fair Rebecca, though she walk'd astray, His creed rejecting, judged it right to pray, To be at church, to sit with serious looks, To read her Bible and her Sunday-books: She hated all those new and daring themes, And call'd his free conjectures "devil's dreams:"

She honour'd still the priesthood in her fall, And claim'd respect and reverence for them all; Call'd them "of sin's destructive power the foes, And not such blockheads as he might suppose."

Gwyn to his friends would smile, and sometimes say, "'Tis a kind fool; why vex her in her way?"

Her way she took, and still had more in view, For she contrived that he should take it too.

The daring freedom of his soul, 'twas plain, In part was lost in a divided reign; A king and queen, who yet in prudence sway'd Their peaceful state, and were in turn obey'd.

Yet such our fate, that when we plan the best, Something arises to disturb our rest: For though in spirits high, in body strong, Gwyn something felt--he knew not what--was wrong, He wish'd to know, for he believed the thing, If unremoved, would other evil bring: "She must perceive, of late he could not eat, And when he walk'd he trembled on his feet: He had forebodings, and he seem'd as one Stopp'd on the road, or threaten'd by a dun; He could not live, and yet, should he apply To those physicians--he must sooner die."

The mild Rebecca heard with some disdain, And some distress, her friend and lord complain: His death she fear'd not, but had painful doubt What his distemper'd nerves might bring about; With power like hers she dreaded an ally, And yet there was a person in her eye; - She thought, debated, fix'd--"Alas!" she said, "A case like yours must be no more delay'd; You hate these doctors; well! but were a friend And doctor one, your fears would have an end: My cousin Mollet--Scotland holds him now - Is above all men skilful, all allow; Of late a Doctor, and within a while He means to settle in this favoured isle: Should he attend you, with his skill profound, You must be safe, and shortly would be sound."

When men in health against Physicians rail, They should consider that their nerves may fail; Who calls a Lawyer rogue, may find, too late, On one of these depends his whole estate; Nay, when the world can nothing more produce, The Priest, th' insulted priest, may have his use; Ease, health, and comfort lift a man so high, These powers are dwarfs that he can scarcely spy; Pain, sickness, langour, keep a man so low, That these neglected dwarfs to giants grow: Happy is he who through the medium sees Of clear good sense--but Gwyn was not of these.

He heard and he rejoiced: "Ah! let him come, And till he fixes, make my house his home."

Home came the Doctor--he was much admired; He told the patient what his case required; His hours for sleep, his time to eat and drink, When he should ride, read, rest, compose, or think.

Thus join'd peculiar skill and art profound, To make the fancy-sick no more than fancy-sound.