Part 11 (1/2)

”Ten summers pa.s.s'd?, and how was Clelia then?” - Alas! she suffer d' in this trying ten; The pair had parted: who to him attend, Must judge the nymph unfaithful to her friend; But who on her would equal faith bestow, Would think him rash,--and surely she must know.

Then as a matron Clelia taught a school, But nature gave not talents fit for rule: Yet now, though marks of wasting years were seen, Some touch of sorrow, some attack of spleen; Still there was life, a spirit quick and gay, And lively speech and elegant array.

The Griffin's landlord these allured so far, He made her mistress of his heart and bar; He had no idle retrospective whim, Till she was his, her deeds concern'd not him: So far was well,--but Clelia thought not fit (In all the Griffin needed) to submit: Gaily to dress and in the bar preside, Soothed the poor spirit of degraded pride; But cooking, waiting, welcoming a crew Of noisy guests, were arts she never knew: Hence daily wars, with temporary truce, His vulgar insult, and her keen abuse; And as their spirits wasted in the strife, Both took the Griffin's ready aid of life; But she with greater prudence--Harry tried More powerful aid, and in the trial died; Yet drew down vengeance: in no distant time, Th' insolvent Griffin struck his wings sublime; - Forth from her palace walk'd th' ejected queen, And show'd to frowning fate a look serene; Gay spite of time, though poor, yet well attired, Kind without love, and vain if not admired.

Another term is past; ten other years In various trials, troubles, views, and fears: Of these some pa.s.s'd in small attempts at trade; Houses she kept for widowers lately made; For now she said, ”They'll miss th' endearing friend, And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend:”

And true a part was done as Clelia plann'd - The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand; She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said The dedication was the best he read; But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'd The public ear, that all her pains were lost.

To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last, There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past.

Now friendless, sick, and old, and wanting bread, The first-born tears of fallen pride were shed - True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride, Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd.

Though now her tales were to her audience fit; Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit, Though now her dress--(but let me not explain The piteous patchwork of the needy-vain, The flirtish form to coa.r.s.e materials lent, And one poor robe through fifty fas.h.i.+ons sent); Though all within was sad, without was mean, - Still 'twas her wish, her comfort, to be seen: She would to plays on lowest terms resort, Where once her box was to the beaux a court; And, strange delight! to that same house where she Join'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee, Now with the menials crowding to the wall She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball, And with degraded vanity unfold, How she too triumph'd in the years of old.

To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tell, On what a height she stood before she fell; At church she points to one tall seat, and ”There We sat,” she cries, ”when my papa was mayor.”

Not quite correct in what she now relates, She alters persons, and she forges dates; And finding memory's weaker help decay'd, She boldly calls invention to her aid.

Touch'd by the pity he had felt before, For her Sir Denys oped the Alms-house door: ”With all her faults,” he said, ”the woman knew How to distinguish--had a manner too; And, as they say she is allied to some In decent station--let the creature come.”

Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view Of all the pleasures they would still pursue: Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide Of vices past; their follies are their pride; What to the sober and the cool are crimes, They boast--exulting in those happy times; The darkest deeds no indignation raise, The purest virtue never wins their praise; But still they on their ancient joys dilate, Still with regret departed glories state, And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate.

LETTER XVI.

INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.

Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp: if thou wast any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be by tnis fire. Oh! thou'rt a perpetual triumph, thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking in a night betwixt tavern and tavern.

SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV.

Ebrietas tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atris Circa te semper volitans Infamia pennis.

SILVIUS ITALICUS.

BENBOW.

SEE! yonder badgeman with that glowing face, A meteor s.h.i.+ning in this sober place!

Vast sums were paid, and many years were past, Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast!

Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore, Guiding his master to the tavern door; There first that meteor rose, and there alone, In its due place, the rich effulgence shone: But this strange fire the seat of peace invades And s.h.i.+nes portentous in these solemn shades.

Benbow, a boon companion, long approved By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved, Was judged as one to joy and friends.h.i.+p p.r.o.ne, And deem'd injurious to himself alone: Gen'rous and free, he paid but small regard To trade, and fail'd; and some declared ”'twas hard:”

These were his friends--his foes conceived the case Of common kind; he sought and found disgrace: The reasoning few, who neither scorn'd nor loved, His feelings pitied and his faults reproved.

Benbow, the father, left possessions fair, A worthy name and business to his heir; Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold, And lost his credit, while he spent the gold: He was a jovial trader: men enjoy'd The night with him; his day was unemployed; So when his credit and his cash were spent, Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent; Of late he came, with pa.s.sions unsubdued, And shared and cursed the hated solitude, Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous cares intrude.

Known but in drink,--he found an easy friend, Well pleased his worth and honour to commend: And thus inform'd, the guardian of the trust Heard the applause, and said the claim was just, A worthy soul! unfitted for the strife, Care, and contention of a busy life; - Worthy, and why?--that o'er the midnight bowl He made his friend the partner of his soul, And any man his friend: --then thus in glee, ”I speak my mind, I love the truth,” quoth he; Till 'twas his fate that useful truth to find, 'Tis sometimes prudent not to speak the mind.

With wine inflated, man is all upblown, And feels a power which he believes his own; With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks His all the virtues all the while he drinks; But when the gas from the balloon is gone, When sober thoughts and serious cares come on, Where then the worth that in himself he found?

Vanish'd--and he sank grov'lling on the ground.

Still some conceit will Benbow's mind inflate, Poor as he is,--'tis pleasant to relate The joys he once possess'd--it soothes his present state.

Seated with some gray beadsman, he regrets His former feasting, though it swell'd his debts; Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days, Well he describes, and thinks description praise: Each hero's worth with much delight he paints; Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints.

”Alas! alas!” Old England now may say, ”My glory withers; it has had its day: We're fallen on evil times; men read and think; Our bold forefathers loved to fight and drink.

”Then lived the good 'Squire Asgill--what a change Has death and fas.h.i.+on shown us at the Grange!

He bravely thought it best became his rank That all his tenants and his tradesmen drank; He was delighted from his favourite room To see them 'cross the park go daily home Praising aloud the liquor and the host, And striving who should venerate him most.

”No pride had he, and there was difference small Between the master's and the servant's hall: And here or there the guests were welcome all.

Of Heaven's free gifts he took no special care, He never quarrell'd for a simple hare; But sought, by giving sport, a sportman's name, Himself a poacher, though at other game: He never planted nor inclosed--his trees Grew, like himself, untroubled and at ease: Bounds of all kinds he hated, and had felt Chok'd and imprison'd in a modern belt, Which some rare genius now has twined about The good old house, to keep old neighbours out.

Along his valleys, in the evening-hours, The borough-damsels stray'd to gather flowers, Or by the brakes and brushwood of the park, To take their pleasant rambles in the dark.

”Some prudes, of rigid kind, forbore to call On the kind females--favourites at the hall; But better nature saw, with much delight, The different orders of mankind unite: 'Twas schooling pride to see the footman wait, Smile on his sister and receive her plate.