Part 11 (2/2)

”His wors.h.i.+p ever was a churchman true, He held in scorn the Methodistic crew; 'May G.o.d defend the Church, and save the King,'

He'd pray devoutly and divinely sing.

Admit that he the holy day would spend As priests approved not, still he was a friend: Much then I blame the preacher, as too nice, To call such trifles by the name of vice; Hinting, though gently and with cautious speech, Of good example--'tis their trade to preach.

But still 'twas pity, when the worthy 'squire Stuck to the church, what more could they require?

'Twas almost joining that fanatic crew, To throw such morals at his honour's pew; A weaker man, had he been so reviled, Had left the place--he only swore and smiled.

”But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think, Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink; Conceive not--mounted on your Sunday-throne, Your firebrands fall upon your foes alone; They strike your patrons--and should all withdraw, In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw, You would the flower of all your audience lose, And spend your crackers on their empty pews.

”The father dead, the son has found a wife, And lives a formal, proud, unsocial life; - The lands are now inclosed; the tenants all, Save at a rent-day, never see the hall; No la.s.s is suffer'd o'er the walks to come, And if there's love, they have it all at home.

”Oh! could the ghost of our good 'squire arise, And see such change; would it believe its eyes?

Would it not glide about from place to place, And mourn the manners of a feebler race?

At that long table, where the servants found Mirth and abundance while the year went round; Where a huge pollard on the winter-fire, At a huge distance made them all retire; Where not a measure in the room was kept, And but one rule--they tippled till they slept - There would it see a pale old hag preside, A thing made up of stinginess and pride; Who carves the meat, as if the flesh could feel; Careless whose flesh must miss the plenteous meal; Here would the ghost a small coal-fire behold, Not fit to keep one body from the cold; Then would it flit to higher rooms, and stay To view a dull, dress'd company at play; All the old comfort, all the genial fare For ever gone! how sternly would it stare: And though it might not to their view appear, 'Twould cause among them la.s.situde and fear Then wait to see--where he delight has seen - The dire effect of fretfulness and spleen.

”Such were the worthies of these better days; We had their blessings--they shall have our praise.

”Of Captain Dowling would you hear me speak?

I'd sit and sing his praises for a week: He was a man, and man-like all his joy, - I'm led to question was he ever boy?

Beef was his breakfast;--if from sea and salt, It relish'd better with his wine of malt; Then, till he dined, if walking in or out, Whether the gravel teased him or the gout, Though short in wind and flannell'd every limb, He drank with all who had concerns with him: Whatever trader, agent, merchant, came, They found him ready, every hour the same; Whatever liquors might between them pa.s.s, He took them all, and never balk'd his gla.s.s: Nay, with the seamen working in the s.h.i.+p, At their request, he'd share the grog and flip.

But in the club-room was his chief delight, And punch the favourite liquor of the night; Man after man they from the trial shrank, And Dowling ever was the last who drank: Arrived at home, he, ere he sought his bed, With pipe and brandy would compose his head, Then half an hour was o'er the news beguiled, When he retired as harmless as a child.

Set but aside the gravel and the gout.

And breathing short--his sand ran fairly out.

”At fifty-five we lost him--after that Life grows insipid and its pleasures flat; He had indulged in all that man can have, He did not drop a dotard to his grave; Still to the last, his feet upon the chair, With rattling lungs now gone beyond repair; When on each feature death had fix'd his stamp, And not a doctor could the body vamp; Still at the last, to his beloved bowl He clung, and cheer'd the sadness of his soul; For though a man may not have much to fear, Yet death looks ugly when the view is near: - 'I go,' he said, 'but still my friends shall say, 'Twas as a man--I did not sneak away; An honest life with worthy souls I've spent, - Come, fill my gla.s.s;' he took it and he went.

”Poor Dolly Murray!--I might live to see My hundredth year, but no such la.s.s as she.

Easy by nature, in her humour gay, She chose her comforts, ratafia and play: She loved the social game, the decent gla.s.s, And was a jovial, friendly, laughing la.s.s; We sat not then at Whist demure and still, But pa.s.s'd the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille: Lame in her side, we plac'd her in her seat, Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet; As the game ended, came the gla.s.s around (So was the loser cheer'd, the winner crown'd).

Mistress of secrets, both the young and old In her confided--not a tale she told; Love never made impression on her mind, She held him weak, and all his captives blind; She suffer'd no man her free soul to vex, Free from the weakness of her gentle s.e.x; One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate, In cool discussion or in free debate.

”Once in her chair we'd placed the good old la.s.s, Where first she took her preparation-gla.s.s; By lucky thought she'd been that day at prayers, And long before had fix'd her small affairs, So all was easy--on her cards she cast A smiling look; I saw the thought that pa.s.s'd: 'A king,' she call'd--though conscious of her skill.

'Do more,' I answer'd--'More,' she said, 'I will;'

And more she did--cards answer'd to her call, She saw the mighty to her mightier fall: 'A vole! a vole!' she cried, ''tis fairly won, My game is ended and my work is done;' - This said, she gently, with a single sigh, Died as one taught and practised how to die.

”Such were the dead-departed; I survive, To breathe in pain among the dead-alive.”

The bell then call'd these ancient men to pray, ”Again!” said Benbow,--”tolls it every day?

Where is the life I led?”--He sigh'd and walk'd his way. {7}

LETTER XVII.

Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble.

PSALM xli, 1.

Quas dederis, solas semper habebis opes.

MARTIAL.

Nil negat, et sese vel non poscentibus offert.

CLAUDIAN.

Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno; Nam mihi jam notus dissimulator eris.

MARTIAL.

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