The Borough Part 15

Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that, in the latter times, some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils.

Epistle to Timothy.

ABEL KEENE.

Abel, a poor man, Teacher of a School of the lower Order; is placed in the Office of a Merchant; is alarmed by Discourses of the Clerks; unable to reply; becomes a Convert; dresses, drinks, and ridicules his former conduct--The Remonstrance of his Sister, a devout Maiden- -Its Effect--The Merchant dies--Abel returns to Poverty unpitied; but relieved--His abject Condition--His Melancholy--He wanders about; is found--His own Account of himself and the Revolutions in his Mind.

A QUIET, simple man was Abel Keene, He meant no harm, nor did he often mean; He kept a school of loud rebellious boys, And growing old, grew nervous with the noise; When a kind merchant hired his useful pen, And made him happiest of accompting men; With glee he rose to every easy day, When half the labour brought him twice the pay.

There were young clerks, and there the merchant's son, Choice spirits all, who wish'd him to be one; It must, no question, give them lively joy, Hopes long indulged to combat and destroy; At these they levelled all their skill and strength, - He fell not quickly, but he fell at length: They quoted books, to him both bold and new, And scorn'd as fables all he held as true; "Such monkish stories, and such nursery lies,"

That he was struck with terror and surprise.

"What! all his life had he the laws obey'd, Which they broke through and were not once afraid?

Had he so long his evil pa.s.sions check'd, And yet at last had nothing to expect?

While they their lives in joy and pleasure led, And then had nothing at the end to dread?

Was all his priest with so much zeal convey'd A part! a speech! for which the man was paid!

And were his pious books, his solemn prayers, Not worth one tale of the admir'd Voltaire's?

Then was it time, while yet some years remain'd, To drink untroubled and to think unchain'd, And on all pleasues, which his purse could give, Freely to seize, and while he lived, to live."

Much time he pa.s.s'd in this important strife, The bliss or bane of his remaining life; For converts all are made with care and grief, And pangs attend the birth of unbelief; Nor pa.s.s they soon;--with awe and fear he took The flowery way, and cast back many a look.

The youths applauded much his wise design, With weighty reasoning o'er their evening wine; And much in private 'twould their mirth improve, To hear how Abel spake of life and love; To hear him own what grievous pains it cost, Ere the old saint was in the sinner lost, Ere his poor mind, with every deed alarm'd, By wit was settled, and by vice was charm'd.

For Abel enter'd in his bold career, Like boys on ice, with pleasure and with fear; Lingering, yet longing for the joy, he went, Repenting now, now dreading to repent: With awkward pace, and with himself at war, Far gone, yet frighten'd that he went so far; Oft for his efforts he'd solicit praise, And then proceed with blunders and delays: The young more aptly pa.s.sions' calls pursue, But age and weakness start at scenes so new, And tremble, when they've done, for all they dared to do.

At length example Abel's dread removed, With small concern he sought the joys he loved; Not resting here, he claim'd his share of fame, And first their votary, then their wit became; His jest was bitter and his satire bold, When he his tales of formal brethren told; What time with pious neighbours he discuss'd, Their boasted treasure and their boundless trust: "Such were our dreams," the jovial elder cried; "Awake and live," his youthful friends replied.

Now the gay clerk a modest drab despised, And clad him smartly, as his friends advised; So fine a coat upon his back he threw, That not an alley-boy old Abel knew; Broad polish'd b.u.t.tons blazed that coat upon, And just beneath the watch's trinkets shone, - A splendid watch, that pointed out the time, To fly from business and make free with crime: The crimson waistcoat and the silken hose Rank'd the lean man among the Borough beaux: His raven hair he cropp'd with fierce disdain, And light elastic locks encased his brain: More pliant pupil who could hope to find, Se deck'd in person and so changed in mind?

When Abel walked the streets, with pleasent mien He met his friends, delighted to be seen; And when he rode along the public way, No beau so gaudy, and no youth so gay.

His pious sister, now an ancient maid, For Abel fearing, first in secret pray'd; Then thus in love and scorn her notions she convey'd.

"Alas! my brother! can I see thee pace Hoodwink'd to h.e.l.l, and not lament thy case, Nor stretch my feeble hand to stop thy headlong race?

Lo! thou art bound; a slave in Satan's chain; The righteous Abel turn'd the wretched Cain; His brother's blood against the murderer cried, Against thee thine, unhappy suicide!

Are all our pious nights and peaceful days, Our evening readings and our morning praise, Our spirits' comfort in the trials sent, Our hearts' rejoicings in the blessings lent, All that o'er grief a cheering influence shed, Are these for ever and for ever fled?

"When in the years gone by, the trying years, When faith and hope had strife with wants and fears, Thy nerves have trembled till thou couldst not eat (Dress'd by this hand) thy mess of simple meat; When, grieved by fastings, gall'd by fates severe, Slow pa.s.s'd the days of the successless year; Still in these gloomy hours, my brother then Had glorious views, unseen by prosperous men: And when thy heart has felt its wish denied, What gracious texts hast thou to grief applied; Till thou hast enter'd in thine humble bed, By lofty hopes and heavenly musings fed; Then I have seen thy lively looks express The spirit's comforts in the man's distress.

"Then didst thou cry, exulting, 'Yes, 'tis fit, 'Tis meet and right, my heart! that we submit:'

And wilt thou, Abel, thy new pleasures weigh Against such triumphs?--Oh? repent and pray.

"What are thy pleasures?--with the gay to sit, And thy poor brain torment for awkward wit; All thy good thoughts (thou hat'st them) to restrain, And give a wicked pleasure to the vain; Thy long, lean frame by fas.h.i.+on to attire, That lads may laugh and wantons may admire; To raise the mirth of boys, and not to see, Unhappy maniac! that they laugh at thee "These boyish follies, which alone the boy Can idly act, or gracefully enjoy, Add new reproaches to thy fallen state, And make men scorn what they would only hate.

"What pains, my brother, dost thou take to prove A taste for follies which thou canst not love!

Why do thy stiffening limbs the steed bestride - That lads may laugh to see thou canst not ride?

And why (I feel the crimson tinge my cheek) Dost thou by night in Diamond-Alley sneak?

"Farewell! the parish will thy sister keep, Where she in peace shall pray and sing and sleep, Save when for thee she mourns, thou wicked, wandering sheep.

When youth is fallen, there's hope the young may rise, But fallen age for ever hopeless lies; Torn up by storms, and placed in earth once more, The younger tree may sun and soil restore; But when the old and sapless trunk lies low, No care or soil can former life bestow; Reserved for burning is the worthless tree - And what, O Abel! is reserved for thee?"

These angry words our hero deeply felt, Though hard his heart, and indisposed to melt!

To gain relief he took a gla.s.s the more, And then went on as careless as before; Thenceforth, uncheck'd, amus.e.m.e.nts he partook, And (save his ledger) saw no decent book; Him found the merchant punctual at his task, And that performed, he'd nothing more to ask; He cared not how old Abel play'd the fool, No master he, beyond the hours of school: Thus they proceeding, had their wine and joke, Till merchant Dixon felt a warning stroke, And, after struggling half a gloomy week, Left his poor clerk another friend to seek.

Alas! the son, who led the saint astray, Forgot the man whose follies made him gay; He cared no more for Abel in his need, Than Abel cared about his hackney steed: He now, alas! had all his earnings spent, And thus was left to languish and repent; No school nor clerks.h.i.+p found he in the place, Now lost to fortune, as before to grace.

For town-relief the grieving man applied, And begg'd with tears what some with scorn denied; Others look'd down upon the glowing vest, And frowning, ask'd him at what price he dress'd?

Happy for him his country's laws are mild, They must support him, though they still reviled; Grieved, abject, scorn'd, insulted, and betray'd, Of G.o.d unmindful, and of man afraid, - No more he talk'd; 'twas pain, 'twas shame to speak, His heart was sinking, and his frame was weak.

His sister died with such serene delight, He once again began to think her right; Poor like himself, the happy spinster lay, And sweet a.s.surance bless'd her dying-day: Poor like the spinster, he, when death was nigh, a.s.sured of nothing, felt afraid to die.

The cheerful clerks who sometimes pa.s.s'd the door, Just mention'd "Abel!" and then thought no more.

So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn, Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn.

And now we saw him on the beach reclined, Or causeless walking in the wintry wind; And when it raised a loud and angry sea, He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie: He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow, Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow: Sometimes his frame through many an hour he spread Upon a tombstone, moveless as the dead; And was there found a sad and silent place, There would he creep with slow and measured pace; Then would he wander by the river's side, And fix his eyes upon the falling tide; The deep dry ditch, the rushes in the fen, And mossy crag-pits were his lodgings then: There, to his discontented thought a prey, The melancholy mortal pined away.

The neighb'ring poor at length began to speak Of Abel's ramblings--he'd been gone a week; They knew not where, and little care they took For one so friendless and so poor to look.

At last a stranger, in a pedlar's shed, Beheld him hanging--he had long been dead.

He left a paper, penn'd at sundry times, Ent.i.tled thus--"My Groanings and my Crimes!"

"I was a Christian man, and none could lay Aught to my charge; I walk'd the narrow way: All then was simple faith, serene and pure, My hope was stedfast and my prospects sure; Then was I tried by want and sickness sore, But these I clapp'd my s.h.i.+eld of faith before, And cares and wants and man's rebukes I bore: Alas! new foes a.s.sail'd me; I was vain, They stung my pride and they confused my brain: Oh! these deluders! with what glee they saw Their simple dupe transgress the righteous law; 'Twas joy to them to view that dreadful strife, When faith and frailty warr'd for more than life; So with their pleasures they beguiled the heart, Then with their logic they allay'd the smart; They proved (so thought I then) with reasons strong, That no man's feelings ever lead him wrong: And thus I went, as on the varnish'd ice, The smooth career of unbelief and vice.

Oft would the youths, with sprightly speech and bold, Their witty tales of naughty priests unfold; 'Twas all a craft,' they said, 'a cunning trade; Not she the priests, but priests Religion made.'

So I believed:"--No, Abel! to thy grief: So thou relinquish'dst all that was belief: - "I grew as very flint, and when the rest Laugh'd at devotion, I enjoy'd the jest; But this all vanish'd like the morning-dew, When unemploy'd, and poor again I grew; Yea! I was doubly poor, for I was wicked too.

"The mouse that trespa.s.s'd and the treasure stole, Found his lean body fitted to the hole; Till, having fatted, he was forced to stay, And, fasting, starve his stolen bulk away: Ah ! worse for me--grown poor, I yet remain In sinful bonds, and pray and fast in vain.

"At length I thought, although these friends of sin Have spread their net, and caught their prey therein; Though my hard heart could not for mercy call, Because though great my grief, my faith was small; Yet, as the sick on skilful men rely, The soul diseased may to a doctor fly.

"A famous one there was, whose skill had wrought Cures past belief, and him the sinners sought; Numbers there were defiled by mire and filth, Whom he recovered by his goodly tilth: 'Come then,' I said, 'let me the man behold, And tell my case:'--I saw him and I told.

"With trembling voice, 'Oh! reverend sir,' I said, 'I once believed, and I was then misled; And now such doubts my sinful soul beset, I dare not say that I'm a Christian yet; Canst thou, good sir, by thy superior skill, Inform my judgment and direct my will?

Ah! give thy cordial; let my soul have rest, And be the outward man alone distress'd; For at my state I tremble.'--'Tremble more,'

Said the good man, 'and then rejoice therefore!

'Tis good to tremble; prospects then are fair, When the lost soul is plunged in deep despair: Once thou wert simply honest, just, and pure, Whole, as thou thought'st, and never wish'd a cure: Now thou hast plunged in folly, shame, disgrace, Now thou'rt an object meet for healing grace; No merit thine, no virtue, hope, belief, Nothing hast thou, but misery, sin, and grief; The best, the only t.i.tles to relief.'

'What must I do,' I said, 'my soul to free?' - 'Do nothing, man; it will be done for thee.'

'But must I not, my reverend guide, believe?' - 'If thou art call'd, thou wilt the faith receive.'

'But I repent not.'--Angry he replied, 'If thou art call'd, though needest nought beside: Attend on us, and if 'tis Heaven's decree, The call will come,--if not, ah! woe for thee.'

"There then I waited, ever on the watch, A spark of hope, a ray of light to catch; His words fell softly like the flakes of snow, But I could never find my heart o'erflow: He cried aloud, till in the flock began The sigh, the tear, as caught from man to man; They wept and they rejoiced, and there was I Hard as a flint, and as the desert dry: To me no tokens of the call would come, I felt my sentence, and received my doom; But I complain'd--'Let thy repinings cease, Oh! man of sin, for they thy guilt increase; It bloweth where it listeth;--die in peace.'

- In peace, and perish?' I replied; 'impart Some better comfort to a burthen'd heart.'

'Alas!' the priest return'd, 'can I direct The heavenly call?--Do I proclaim th' elect?

Raise not thy voice against th' Eternal will, But take thy part with sinners, and be still.'

"Alas, for me! no more the times of peace Are mine on earth--in death my pains may cease.

"Foes to my soul! ye young seducers, know What serious ills from your amus.e.m.e.nts flow; Opinions you with so much ease profess, Overwhelm the simple and their minds oppress: Let such be happy, nor with reasons strong, That make them wretched, prove their notions wrong; Let them proceed in that they deem the way, Fast when they will, and at their pleasure pray: Yes, I have pity for my brethren's lot, And so had Dives, but it help'd him not: And is it thus?--I'm full of doubts: --Adieu!

Perhaps his reverence is mistaken too." {12}

LETTER XXII.

THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent, and every one did threat . . .

SHAKESPEARE, Richard III.

The time hath been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end: but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools.

SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth.

PETER GRIMES.

The Father of Peter a Fisherman--Peter's early Conduct--His Grief for the old Man--He takes an Apprentice--The Boy's Suffering and Fate--A second Boy; how he died--Peter acquitted--A third Apprentice--A Voyage by Sea: the Boy does not return--Evil Report on Peter: he is tried and threatened--Lives alone--His melancholy and incipient Madness--Is observed and visited--He escapes and is taken: is lodged in a parish-house: Women attend and watch him--He speaks in a Delirium; grows more collected--His Account of his Feelings and visionary Terrors previous to his Death.

OLD Peter Grimes made fis.h.i.+ng his employ, His wife he cabin'd with him and his boy, And seem'd that life laborious to enjoy: To town came quiet Peter with his fish, And had of all a civil word and wish.

He left his trade upon the Sabbath-day, And took young Peter in his hand to pray: But soon the stubborn boy from care broke loose, At first refused, then added his abuse: His father's love he scorn'd, his power defied, But being drunk, wept sorely when he died.

Yes! then he wept, and to his mind there came Much of his conduct, and he felt the shame, - How he had oft the good old man reviled, And never paid the duty of a child; How, when the father in his Bible read, He in contempt and anger left the shed: "It is the word of life," the parent cried; - "This is the life itself," the boy replied.

And while old Peter in amazement stood, Gave the hot spirits to his boiling blood: - How he, with oath and furious speech, began To prove his freedom and a.s.sert the man; And when the parent check'd his impious rage, How he had cursed the tyranny of age, - Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious blow On his bare head, and laid his parent low; The father groan'd--"If thou art old," said he, "And hast a son--thou wilt remember me: Thy mother left me in a happy time, Thou kill'dst not her--heav'n spares the double crime."

On an inn-settle, in his maudlin grief, This he resolved, and drank for his relief.

Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd From constant pleasures, and he thought it hard; Hard that he could not every wish obey, But must awhile relinquish ale and play; Hard! that he could not to his cards attend, But must acquire the money he would spend.

With greedy eye he look'd on all he saw, He knew not justice, and he laugh'd at law; On all he mark'd, he stretch'd his ready hand; He fish'd by water and he filch'd by land: Oft in the night has Peter dropp'd his oar, Fled from his boat, and sought for prey on sh.o.r.e; Oft up the hedge-row glided, on his back Bearing the orchard's produce in a sack, Or farm-yard load, tugg'd fiercely from the stack; And as these wrongs to greater numbers rose, The more he look'd on all men as his foes.

He built a mud-wall'd hovel, where he kept His various wealth, and there he oft-times slept; But no success could please his cruel soul, He wish'd for one to trouble and control; He wanted some obedient boy to stand And bear the blow of his outrageous hand; And hoped to find in some propitious hour A feeling creature subject to his power.