<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395907" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tale XXI</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Learned Boy</div><div style="margin:10px 0">An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;<br>He did by all as all by him should do;<br>Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,<br>Yet famed for rustic hospitality:<br>Left with his children in a widow'd state,<br>The quiet man submitted to his fate;<br>Though prudent matrons waited for his call,<br>With cool forbearance he avoided all;<br>Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,<br>By kind attention to his feeble boy;<br>And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,<br>Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;<br>Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone<br>Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,<br>Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,<br>As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.<br>Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,<br>To find such numbers who will serve instead;<br>And in whatever state a man be thrown,<br>'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;<br>Left the departed infants--then their joy<br>Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:<br>Whatever calling his, whatever trade,<br>To that their chief attention has been paid;<br>His happy taste in all things they approve,<br>His friends they honour, and his food they love;<br>His wish for order, prudence in affairs,<br>An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;<br>In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,<br>And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:<br>Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">hard,<br>Can hear such claims and show them no regard.<br>Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found<br>By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,<br>Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,<br>But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;<br>With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,<br>He met the foe, and art opposed to art.<br>Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,<br>And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:<br>'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three<br>To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'<br>'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:<br>But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;<br>Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'<br>'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'<br>'Such growing griefs your very soul will tease;'<br>'To grieve another would not give me ease -<br>I have a mother,'--'She, poor ancient soul!<br>Can she the spirits of the young control?<br>Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care,<br>Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share?<br>Age is itself impatient, uncontroll'd:'<br>But wives like mothers must at length be old.'<br>Thou hast shrewd servants--they are evils sore?'<br>Yet a shrewd mistress might afflict me more.'<br>Wilt thou not be a weary, wailing man?'<br>Alas! and I must bear it as I can.'<br>Resisted thus, the Widow soon withdrew,<br>That in his pride the Hero might pursue;<br>And off his wonted guard, in some retreat<br>Find from a foe prepared entire defeat:<br>But he was prudent; for he knew in flight<br>These Parthian warriors turn again and fight;<br>He but at freedom, not at glory aim'd,<br>And only safety by his caution claim'd.<br>Thus, when a great and powerful state decrees<br>Upon a small one, in its love, to seize -<br>It vows in kindness, to protect, defend,<br>And be the fond ally, the faithful friend;<br>It therefore wills that humbler state to place<br>Its hopes of safety in a fond embrace;<br>Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove<br>By kind rejection of such pressing love;<br>Must dread such dangerous friendship to commence,<br>And stand collected in its own defence:<br>Our Farmer thus the proffer'd kindness fled,<br>And shunn'd the love that into bondage led.<br>The Widow failing, fresh besiegers came,<br>To share the fate of this retiring dame:<br>And each foresaw a thousand ills attend<br>The man that fled from so discreet a friend;<br>And pray'd, kind soul! that no event might make<br>The harden'd heart of Farmer Jones to ache.<br>But he still govern'd with resistless hand,<br>And where he could not guide he would command:<br>With steady view, in course direct he steer'd,<br>And his fair daughters loved him, though they </div><div style="margin:10px 0">fear'd;<br>Each had her school, and as his wealth was known,<br>Each had in time a household of her own.<br>The Boy indeed was at the Grandam's side<br>Humour'd and train'd, her trouble and her pride:<br>Companions dear, with speech and spirits mild,<br>The childish widow and the vapourish child;<br>This nature prompts; minds uninform'd and weak<br>In such alliance ease and comfort seek:<br>Push'd by the levity of youth aside,<br>The cares of man, his humour, or his pride,<br>They feel, in their defenceless state, allied;<br>The child is pleased to meet regard from age,<br>The old are pleased e'en children to engage;<br>And all their wisdom, scorn'd by proud mankind,<br>They love to pour into the ductile mind,<br>By its own weakness into error led,<br>And by fond age with prejudices fed.<br>The Father, thankful for the good he had,<br>Yet saw with pain a whining, timid Lad;<br>Whom he instructing led through cultured fields,<br>To show what Man performs, what Nature yields:<br>But Stephen, listless, wander'd from the view,<br>From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew,<br>And idly gazed about in search of something new.<br>The lambs indeed he loved, and wish'd to play<br>With things so mild, so harmless, and so gay;<br>Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see,<br>With whom he felt a sickly sympathy.<br>Meantime the Dame was anxious, day and night,<br>To guide the notions of her babe aright,<br>And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering </div><div style="margin:10px 0">light;<br>Her Bible-stories she impress'd betimes,<br>And fill'd his head with hymns and holy rhymes;<br>On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt,<br>And the poor Boy mysterious terrors felt;<br>From frightful dreams he waking sobb'd in dread,<br>Till the good lady came to guard his bed.<br>The Father wish'd such errors to correct,<br>But let them pass in duty and respect:<br>But more it grieved his worthy mind to see<br>That Stephen never would a farmer be:<br>In vain he tried the shiftless Lad to guide,<br>And yet 'twas time that something should be tried:<br>He at the village-school perchance might gain<br>All that such mind could gather and retain;<br>Yet the good Dame affirm'd her favourite child<br>Was apt and studious, though sedate and mild;<br>'That he on many a learned point could speak,<br>And that his body, not his mind, was weak.'<br>The Father doubted--but to school was sent<br>The timid Stephen, weeping as he went:<br>There the rude lads compell'd the child to fight,<br>And sent him bleeding to his home at night;<br>At this the Grandam more indulgent grew;<br>And bade her Darling 'shun the beastly crew,<br>Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie<br>Howling in torments, when they came to die.'<br>This was such comfort, that in high disdain<br>He told their fate, and felt their blows again:<br>Yet if the Boy had not a hero's heart,<br>Within the school he play'd a better part;<br>He wrote a clean fine hand, and at his slate<br>With more success than many a hero sate;<br>He thought not much indeed--but what depends<br>On pains and care was at his fingers' ends.<br>This had his Father's praise, who now espied<br>A spark of merit, with a blaze of pride;<br>And though a farmer he would never make,<br>He might a pen with some advantage take;<br>And as a clerk that instrument employ,<br>So well adapted to a timid boy.<br>A London Cousin soon a place obtain'd,<br>Easy but humble--little could be gain'd:<br>The time arrived when youth and age must part,<br>Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart;<br>The careful Father bade his Son attend<br>To all his duties and obey his Friend;<br>To keep his church and there behave aright,<br>As one existing in his Maker's sight,<br>Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight.<br>'Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can,<br>T'assume the looks and spirit of a man;<br>I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true,<br>And this you may, and yet have courage too:<br>Heroic men, their country's boast and pride,<br>Have fear'd their God, and nothing fear'd beside;<br>While others daring, yet imbecile, fly<br>The power of man, and that of God defy:<br>Be manly, then, though mild, for, sure as fate,<br>Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate;<br>Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use<br>('Tis fairly stock'd) of what it will produce:<br>And now my blessing, not as any charm<br>Or conjuration; but 'twill do no harm.'<br>Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">down,<br>Now charm'd with promised sights in London-town,<br>Now loth to leave his Grandam--lost the force,<br>The drift and tenor of this grave discourse;<br>But, in a general way, he understood<br>'Twas good advice, and meant, 'My son be good;'<br>And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean<br>That lads should read their Bible, and be clean.<br>The good old Lady, though in some distress,<br>Begg'd her dear Stephen would his grief suppress:<br>'Nay, dry those eyes, my child--and, first of all.<br>Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall:'<br>Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text<br>For meditation till you hear the next;<br>Within your Bible night and morning look -<br>There is your duty, read no other book;<br>Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen,<br>And keep your conscience and your linen clean:<br>Be you a Joseph, and the time may be<br>When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee.'<br>'Nay,' said the Father--'Hush, my son!' replied<br>The Dame--'the Scriptures must not be denied.'<br>The Lad, still weeping, heard the wheels </div><div style="margin:10px 0">approach,<br>And took his place within the evening coach,<br>With heart quite rent asunder: on one side<br>Was love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried;<br>Wild beasts and wax-work fill'd the happier part<br>Of Stephen's varying and divided heart:<br>This he betray'd by sighs and questions strange,<br>Of famous shows, the Tower, and the Exchange.<br>Soon at his desk was placed the curious Boy,<br>Demure and silent at his new employ;<br>Yet as he could he much attention paid<br>To all around him, cautious and afraid;<br>On older Clerks his eager eyes were fix'd,<br>But Stephen never in their council mix'd:<br>Much their contempt he fear'd, for if like them,<br>He felt assured he should himself contemn;<br>'Oh! they were all so eloquent, so free,<br>No! he was nothing--nothing could he be:<br>They dress so smartly, and so boldly look,<br>And talk as if they read it from a book;<br>But I,' said Stephen, 'will forbear to speak,<br>And they will think me prudent and not weak.<br>They talk, the instant they have dropp'd the pen,<br>Of singing-women and of acting-men:<br>Of plays and places where at night they walk<br>Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies talk;<br>While other ladies for their pleasure sing, -<br>Oh! 'tis a glorious and a happy thing:<br>They would despise me, did they understand<br>I dare not look upon a scene so grand;<br>Or see the plays when critics rise and roar,<br>And hiss and groan, and cry--Encore! encore!<br>There's one among them looks a little kind;<br>If more encouraged, I would ope my mind.'<br>Alas! poor Stephen, happier had he kept<br>His purpose secret, while his envy slept!<br>Virtue perhaps had conquer'd, or his shame<br>At least preserved him simple as he came.<br>A year elapsed before this Clerk began<br>To treat the rustic something like a man;<br>He then in trifling points the youth advised,<br>Talk'd of his coat, and had it modernized;<br>Or with the lad a Sunday-walk would take,<br>And kindly strive his passions to awake;<br>Meanwhile explaining all they heard and saw,<br>Till Stephen stood in wonderment and awe;<br>To a neat garden near the town they stray'd,<br>Where the Lad felt delighted and afraid;<br>There all he saw was smart, and fine, and fair -<br>He could but marvel how he ventured there:<br>Soon he observed, with terror and alarm,<br>His friend enlocked within a Lady's arm,<br>And freely talking--'But it is,' said he,<br>'A near relation, and that makes him free;'<br>And much amazed was Stephen when he knew<br>This was the first and only interview;<br>Nay, had that lovely arm by him been seized,<br>The lovely owner had been highly pleased.<br>'Alas!' he sigh'd, 'I never can contrive<br>At such bold, blessed freedoms to arrive;<br>Never shall I such happy courage boast,<br>I dare as soon encounter with a ghost.'<br>Now to a play the friendly couple went,<br>But the Boy murmurd at the money spent;<br>'He lov'd,' he said, 'to buy, but not to spend -<br>They only talk awhile, and there's an end.'<br>'Come, you shall purchase books,' the Friend </div><div style="margin:10px 0">replied;<br>'You are bewilder'd, and you want a guide;<br>To me refer the choice, and you shall find<br>The light break in upon your stagnant mind!'<br>The cooler Clerks exclaim'd, 'In vain your art<br>To improve a cub without a head or heart;<br>Rustics, though coarse, and savages, though wild,<br>Our cares may render liberal and mild:<br>But what, my friend, can flow from all these pains?<br>There is no dealing with a lack of brains.'<br>'True I am hopeless to behold him man,<br>But let me make the booby what I can:<br>Though the rude stone no polish will display,<br>Yet you may strip the rugged coat away.'<br>Stephen beheld his books--'I love to know<br>How money goes--now here is that to show:<br>And now' he cried, 'I shall be pleased to get<br>Beyond the Bible--there I puzzle yet.'<br>He spoke abash'd--'Nay, nay!' the friend replied,<br>'You need not lay the good old book aside;<br>Antique and curious, I myself indeed<br>Read it at times, but as a man should read;.<br>A fine old work it is, and I protest<br>I hate to hear it treated as a jest:<br>The book has wisdom in it, if you look<br>Wisely upon it, as another book:<br>For superstition (as our priests of sin<br>Are pleased to tell us) makes us blind within;<br>Of this hereafter--we will now select<br>Some works to please you, others to direct;<br>Tales and romances shall your fancy feed,<br>And reasoners form your morals and your creed.'<br>The books were view'd, the price was fairly </div><div style="margin:10px 0">paid,<br>And Stephen read undaunted, undismay'd:<br>But not till first he papered all the row,<br>And placed in order to enjoy the show:<br>Next letter'd all the backs with care and speed,<br>Set them in ranks, and then began to read.<br>The love of Order--I the thing receive<br>From reverend men, and I in part believe -<br>Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs<br>This love, but seldom in the world succeeds;<br>And yet with this some other love must be,<br>Ere I can fully to the fact agree;<br>Valour and study may by order gain,<br>By order sovereigns hold more steady reign;<br>Through all the tribes of nature order runs,<br>And rules around in systems and in suns:<br>Still has the love of order found a place,<br>With all that's low, degrading, mean, and base,<br>With all that merits scorn, and all that meets </div><div style="margin:10px 0">disgrace -<br>In the cold miser, of all change afraid;<br>In pompous men in public seats obey'd;<br>In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones,<br>Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones:<br>Order to these is armour and defence,<br>And love of method serves in lack of sense.<br>For rustic youth could I a list produce<br>Of Stephen's books, how great might be the use!<br>But evil fate was theirs--survey'd, enjoy'd<br>Some happy months, and then by force destroyed:<br>So will'd the Fates--but these with patience read<br>Had vast effect on Stephen's heart and head.<br>This soon appear'd: within a single week<br>He oped his lips, and made attempt to speak;<br>He fail'd indeed--but still his Friend confess'd<br>The best have fail'd, and he had done his best:<br>The first of swimmers, when at first he swims,<br>Has little use or freedom in his limbs;<br>Nay, when at length he strikes with manly force,<br>The cramp may seize him, and impede his course.<br>Encouraged thus, our Clerk again essay'd<br>The daring act, though daunted and afraid:<br>Succeeding now, though partial his success,<br>And pertness mark'd his manner and address,<br>Yet such improvement issued from his books,<br>That all discern'd it in his speech and looks:<br>He ventured then on every theme to speak,<br>And felt no feverish tingling in his cheek;<br>His friend, approving, hail'd the happy change,<br>The Clerks exclaim'd--''Tis famous, and 'tis </div><div style="margin:10px 0">strange.'<br>Two years had pass'd; the Youth attended still<br>(Though thus accomplish'd) with a ready quill:<br>He sat th' allotted hours, though hard the case,<br>While timid prudence ruled in virtue's place;<br>By promise bound, the Son his letters penn'd<br>To his good parent at the quarter's end.<br>At first he sent those lines, the state to tell<br>Of his own health, and hoped his friends were well;<br>He kept their virtuous precepts in his mind,<br>And needed nothing--then his name was sign'd:<br>But now he wrote of Sunday-walks and views,<br>Of actors' names, choice novels, and strange news;<br>How coats were cut, and of his urgent need<br>For fresh supply, which he desired with speed.<br>The Father doubted, when these letters came,<br>To what they tended, yet was loth to blame:<br>'Stephen was once my duteous son, and now<br>My most obedient--this can I allow?<br>Can I with pleasure or with patience see<br>A boy at once so heartless and so free?'<br>But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told,<br>That love and prudence could no more withhold:<br>'Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grown<br>A rake and coxcomb--this he grieved to own;<br>His cousin left his church, and spent the day<br>Lounging about in quite a heathen way;<br>Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace<br>To show the shame imprinted on his face:<br>I search'd his room, and in his absence read<br>Books that I knew would turn a stronger head.<br>The works of atheists half the number made,<br>The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade;<br>Which neither man nor boy would deign to read,<br>If from the scandal and pollution freed:<br>I sometimes threaten'd, and would fairly state<br>My sense of things so vile and profligate;<br>But I'm a cit, such works are lost on me -<br>They're knowledge, and (good Lord!) philosophy.'<br>'Oh, send him down,' the Father soon replied;<br>Let me behold him, and my skill be tried:<br>If care and kindness lose their wonted use,<br>Some rougher medicine will the end produce.'<br>Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom -<br>'Go to the farmer? to the rustic's home?<br>Curse the base threat'ning--' 'Nay, child, never </div><div style="margin:10px 0">curse;<br>Corrupted long, your case is growing worse.'<br>'I!' quoth the youth; 'I challenge all mankind<br>To find a fault; what fault have you to find?<br>Improve I not in manner, speech, and grace?<br>Inquire--my friends will tell it to your face;<br>Have I been taught to guard his kine and sheep?<br>A man like me has other things to keep;<br>This let him know.'--'It would his wrath excite:<br>But come, prepare, you must away to-night.'<br>'What! leave my studies, my improvements leave,<br>My faithful friends and intimates to grieve?'<br>'Go to your father, Stephen, let him see<br>All these improvements; they are lost on me.'<br>The Youth, though loth, obey'd, and soon he saw<br>The Farmer-father, with some signs of awe;<br>Who, kind, yet silent, waited to behold<br>How one would act, so daring, yet so cold:<br>And soon he found, between the friendly pair<br>That secrets pass'd which he was not to share;<br>But he resolved those secrets to obtain,<br>And quash rebellion in his lawful reign.<br>Stephen, though vain, was with his father mute;<br>He fear'd a crisis, and he shunn'd dispute;<br>And yet he long'd with youthful pride to show<br>He knew such things as farmers could not know;<br>These to the Grandam he with freedom spoke,<br>Saw her amazement, and enjoy'd the joke:<br>But on the father when he cast his eye,<br>Something he found that made his valour shy;<br>And thus there seem'd to be a hollow truce,<br>Still threat'ning something dismal to produce.<br>Ere this the Father at his leisure read<br>The son's choice volumes, and his wonder fled;<br>He saw how wrought the works of either kind<br>On so presuming, yet so weak a mind;<br>These in a chosen hour he made his prey,<br>Condemn'd, and bore with vengeful thoughts away;<br>Then in a close recess the couple near,<br>He sat unseen to see, unheard to hear.<br>There soon a trial for his patience came;<br>Beneath were placed the Youth and ancient Dame,<br>Each on a purpose fix'd--but neither thought<br>How near a foe, with power and vengeance fraught.<br>And now the matron told, as tidings sad,<br>What she had heard of her beloved lad;<br>How he to graceless, wicked men gave heed,<br>And wicked books would night and morning read;<br>Some former lectures she again began,<br>And begg'd attention of her little man;<br>She brought, with many a pious boast, in view<br>His former studies, and condemn'd the new:<br>Once he the names of saints and patriarchs old,<br>Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told;<br>Then he in winter-nights the Bible took,<br>To count how often in the sacred book<br>The sacred name appear'd, and could rehearse<br>Which were the middle chapter, word, and verse,<br>The very letter in the middle placed,<br>And so employ'd the hours that others waste.<br>'Such wert thou once; and now, my child, they say<br>Thy faith like water runneth fast away,<br>The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiled<br>The ready wit of my backsliding child.'<br>On this, with lofty looks, our Clerk began<br>His grave rebuke, as he assumed the man. -<br>'There is no devil,' said the hopeful youth,<br>'Nor prince of devils: that I know for truth.<br>Have I not told you how my books describe<br>The arts of priests, and all the canting tribe?<br>Your Bible mentions Egypt, where it seems<br>Was Joseph found when Pharoah dream'd his dreams:<br>Now in that place, in some bewilder'd head,<br>(The learned write) religious dreams were bred;<br>Whence through the earth, with various forms </div><div style="margin:10px 0">combined,<br>They came to frighten and afflict mankind,<br>Prone (so I read) to let a priest invade<br>Their souls with awe, and by his craft be made<br>Slave to his will, and profit to his trade:<br>So say my books, and how the rogues agreed<br>To blind the victims, to defraud and lead;<br>When joys above to ready dupes were sold,<br>And hell was threaten'd to the shy and cold.<br>'Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray?<br>As if a Being heard a word we say:<br>This may surprise you; I myself began<br>To feel disturb'd, and to my Bible ran:<br>I now am wiser--yet agree in this,<br>The book has things that are not much amiss;<br>It is a fine old work, and I protest<br>I hate to hear it treated as a jest:<br>The book has wisdom in it, if you look<br>Wisely upon it as another book.'<br>'Oh! wicked! wicked! my unhappy child,<br>How hast thou been by evil men beguiled!'<br>'How! wicked, say you? You can little guess<br>The gain of that which you call wickedness;<br>Why, sins you think it sinful but to name<br>Have gain'd both wives and widows wealth and fame;<br>And this because such people never dread<br>Those threaten'd pains; hell comes not in their </div><div style="margin:10px 0">head:<br>Love is our nature, wealth we all desire,<br>And what we wish 'tis lawful to acquire;<br>So say my books--and what beside they show<br>'Tis time to let this honest Farmer know.<br>Nay, look not grave: am I commanded down<br>To feed his cattle and become his clown?<br>Is such his purpose? Then he shall be told<br>The vulgar insult--Hold, in mercy hold! -<br>Father, oh! father! throw the whip away;<br>I was but jesting; on my knees I pray -<br>There, hold his arm--oh! leave us not alone:<br>In pity cease, and I will yet atone<br>For all my sin'--In vain; stroke after stroke,<br>On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke;<br>Quick as the patient's pulse, who trembling cried,<br>And still the parent with a stroke replied;<br>Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt,<br>And every bone the precious influence felt;<br>Till all the panting flesh was red and raw,<br>And every thought was turn'd to fear and awe;<br>Till every doubt to due respect gave place. -<br>Such cures are done when doctors know the case.<br>'Oh! I shall die--my father! do receive<br>My dying words; indeed I do believe.<br>The books are lying books, I know it well;<br>There is a devil, oh! there is a hell;<br>And I'm a sinner: spare me, I am young,<br>My sinful words were only on my tongue;<br>My heart consented not; 'tis all a lie:<br>Oh! spare me then, I'm not prepared to die.'<br>'Vain, worthless, stupid wretch!' the Father </div><div style="margin:10px 0">cried;<br>'Dost thou presume to teach? art thou a guide?<br>Driveller and dog, it gives the mind distress<br>To hear thy thoughts in their religious dress;<br>Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain,<br>Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain;<br>But Job in patience must the man exceed<br>Who could endure thee in thy present creed.<br>Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend<br>The wicked cause a helping hand to lend?<br>Canst thou a judge in any question be?<br>Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee.<br>'Lo! yonder blaze thy worthies; in one heap<br>Thy scoundrel favourites must for ever sleep:<br>Each yields its poison to the flame in turn,<br>Where whores and infidels are doomed to burn;<br>Two noble faggots made the flame you see,<br>Reserving only two fair twigs for thee;<br>That in thy view the instruments may stand,<br>And be in future ready for my hand:<br>The just mementos that, though silent, show<br>Whence thy correction and improvements flow;<br>Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power,<br>And feel the shame of this important hour.<br>'Hadst thou been humble, I had first design'd<br>By care from folly to have freed thy mind;<br>And when a clean foundation had been laid,<br>Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid:<br>But thou art weak, and force must folly guide;<br>And thou art vain, and pain must humble pride:<br>Teachers men honour, learners they allure;<br>But learners teaching, of contempt are sure;<br>Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only </div><div style="margin:10px 0">cure!'<br>The Newspaper<br>A time like this, a busy, bustling time,<br>Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme:<br>Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong,<br>And mightier madness checks the flowing song:<br>Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield<br>Her feeble arms amid the furious field,<br>Where party-pens a wordy war maintain,<br>Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain;<br>And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine,<br>Till serious vengeance pays an idle line:<br>For party-poets are like wasps, who dart<br>Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart.<br>Hard then our fate: if general themes we </div><div style="margin:10px 0">choose,<br>Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse;<br>Or should we sing the subject of the day,<br>To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away.<br>More blest the bards of that poetic time,<br>When all found readers who could find a rhyme;<br>Green grew the bays on every teeming head,<br>And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read.<br>Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline;<br>Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?<br>Alas! new charms the wavering many gain,<br>And rival sheets the reader's eye detain;<br>A daily swarm, that banish every Muse,<br>Come flying forth, and mortals call them NEWS:<br>For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie;<br>For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die;<br>Unbought, unblest, the virgin copies wait<br>In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.<br>Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our foes,<br>The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose;<br>Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride,<br>And sing our rivals with a rival's pride.<br>Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain<br>That foul neglect is all your labours gain;<br>That pity only checks your growing spite<br>To erring man, and prompts you still to write;<br>That your choice works on humble stalls are laid,<br>Or vainly grace the windows of the trade;<br>Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm<br>Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm;<br>Think of the common cause wherein we go,<br>Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;<br>Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame,<br>Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame;<br>And let us join our forces to subdue<br>This bold assuming but successful crew.<br>I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid sheets<br>The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets;<br>Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly,<br>Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye:<br>For soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue,<br>The HERALD of the morn arises too;<br>POST after POST succeeds, and, all day long,<br>GAZETTES and LEDGERS swarm, a noisy throng.<br>When evening comes, she comes with all her train;<br>Of LEDGERS, CHRONICLES, and POSTS again.<br>Like bats, appearing when the sun goes down,<br>From holes obscure and corners of the town.<br>Of all these triflers, all like these, I write;<br>Oh! like my subject could my song delight,<br>The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise,<br>And all the Alley echo to his praise.<br>In shoals the hours their constant numbers </div><div style="margin:10px 0">bring,<br>Like insects waking to th' advancing spring;<br>Which take their rise from grubs obscene that lie<br>In shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky:<br>Such are these base ephemeras, so born<br>To die before the next revolving morn.<br>Yet thus they differ: insect-tribes are lost<br>In the first visit of a winters frost;<br>While these remain, a base but constant breed,<br>Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires </div><div style="margin:10px 0">succeed;<br>No changing season makes their number less,<br>Nor Sunday shines a sabbath on the press!<br>Then lo! the sainted MONITOR is born,<br>Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn:<br>As artful sinners cloak the secret sin,<br>To veil with seeming grace the guile within;<br>So moral Essays on his front appear,<br>But all is carnal business in the rear;<br>The fresh-coin'd lie, the secret whisper'd last,<br>And all the gleanings of the six days past.<br>With these retired through half the Sabbath-day,<br>The London lounger yawns his hours away:<br>Not so, my little flock! your preacher fly,<br>Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy;<br>But let the decent maid and sober clown<br>Pray for these idlers of the sinful town:<br>This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow,<br>Nor give to WOODFALL, or the world below.<br>But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish then,<br>What wondrous labours of the press and pen;<br>Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords,<br>Some only once,--O avarice of words!<br>When thousand starving minds such manna seek,<br>To drop the precious food but once a week.<br>Endless it were to sing the powers of all,<br>Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall:<br>Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize,<br>Rush to the head, and poison where they please:<br>Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train,<br>They drop their maggots in the trifler's brain:<br>That genia soil receives the fruitful store,<br>And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.<br>Now be their arts display'd, how first they </div><div style="margin:10px 0">choose<br>A cause and party, as the bard his Muse;<br>Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,<br>And through the town their dreams and omens fly;<br>So the Sibylline leaves were blown about,<br>Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt;<br>So idle dreams, the journals of the night,<br>Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with </div><div style="margin:10px 0">right.-<br>Some champions for the rights that prop the crown,<br>Some sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down;<br>Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught,<br>Wishing for war, but willing to be bought:<br>While some to every side and party go,<br>Shift every friend, and join with every foe;<br>Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strike<br>This side and that, the foes of both alike;<br>A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times,<br>Fear'd for their force, and courted for their </div><div style="margin:10px 0">crimes.<br>Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail,<br>Fickle and false, they veer with every gale;<br>As birds that migrate from a freezing shore<br>In search of warmer climes, come skimming o'er,<br>Some bold adventurers first prepare to try<br>The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky;<br>But soon the growing Summer's certain sun<br>Wins more and more, till all at last are won:<br>So, on the early prospect of disgrace,<br>Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race;<br>Instinctive tribes! their failing food they dread,<br>And buy, with timely change, their future bread.<br>Such are our guides; how many a peaceful head,<br>Born to be still, have they to wrangling led!<br>How many an honest zealot stol'n from trade,<br>And factious tools of pious pastors made!<br>With clews like these they thread the maze of </div><div style="margin:10px 0">state,<br>These oracles explore, to learn our fate;<br>Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive,<br>Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.<br>Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend an ear,<br>(For we who will not speak are doom'd to hear);<br>While he, bewilder'd, tells his anxious thought,<br>Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught,<br>Or idiot hope; for each his mind assails,<br>As LLOYD'S court-light or STOCKDALE'S gloom </div><div style="margin:10px 0">prevails.<br>Yet stand I patient while but one declaims,<br>Or gives dull comments on the speech he maims:<br>But oh! ye Muses, keep your votary's feet<br>From tavern-haunts where politicians meet;<br>Where rector, doctor, and attorney pause,<br>First on each parish, then each public cause:<br>Indited roads, and rates that still increase;<br>The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace;<br>Election zeal and friendship, since declined;<br>A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind;<br>The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife;<br>Dull port and poachers vile; the serious ills of </div><div style="margin:10px 0">life.<br>Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleased to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">guide<br>His little club, and in the chair preside.<br>In private business his commands prevail,<br>On public themes his reasoning turns the scale;<br>Assenting silence soothes his happy ear,<br>And, in or out, his party triumphs here.<br>Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops,<br>But flits along from palaces to shops;<br>Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,<br>And spread their plague and influenzas round;<br>The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant plain,<br>Breeds the Whig farmer and the Tory swain;<br>Brookes' and St Alban's boasts not, but, instead,<br>Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney's Head:-<br>Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he<br>Who owns the little hut that makes him free;<br>Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile<br>Of mightier men, and never waste the while;<br>Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate,<br>A little prop and pillar of the state.<br>Here he delights the weekly news to con,<br>And mingle comments as he blunders on;<br>To swallow all their varying authors teach,<br>To spell a title, and confound a speech:<br>Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,<br>And claims his nation's licence to abuse;<br>Then joins the cry, 'That all the courtly race<br>Are venal candidates for power and place;'<br>Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice,<br>That his own vote will bring its wonted price.<br>These are the ills the teeming Press supplies,<br>The pois'nous springs from learning's fountain </div><div style="margin:10px 0">rise;<br>Not there the wise alone their entrance find,<br>Imparting useful light to mortals blind;<br>But, blind themselves, these erring guides hold out<br>Alluring lights to lead us far about;<br>Screen'd by such means, here Scandal whets her </div><div style="margin:10px 0">quill,<br>Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she will;<br>Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive,<br>And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe.<br>Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye trust;<br>So wise their counsel, their reports so just!-<br>Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure,<br>Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure;<br>Merit they have to mightier works unknown,<br>A style, a manner, and a fate their own.<br>We, who for longer fame with labour strive,<br>Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive;<br>Studious we toil, with patient care refine,<br>Nor let our love protect one languid line.<br>Severe ourselves, at last our works appear,<br>When, ah! we find our readers more severe;<br>For, after all our care and pains, how few<br>Acquire applause, or keep it if they do!<br>Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate,<br>Praised through their day, and but that day their </div><div style="margin:10px 0">date;<br>Their careless authors only strive to join<br>As many words as make an even line;<br>As many lines as fill a row complete;<br>As many rows as furnish up a sheet:<br>From side to side, with ready types they run,<br>The measure's ended, and the work is done;<br>Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest!<br>Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest,<br>To you all readers turn, and they can look<br>Pleased on a paper, who abhor a book;<br>Those who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse,<br>Would think it hard to be denied their News;<br>Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak,<br>Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek;<br>This, like the public inn, provides a treat,<br>Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat;<br>And such this mental food, as we may call<br>Something to all men, and to some men all.<br>Next, in what rare production shall we trace<br>Such various subjects in so small a space?<br>As the first ship upon the waters bore<br>Incongruous kinds who never met before;<br>Or as some curious virtuoso joins<br>In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins,<br>Birds, beasts, and fishes; nor refuses place<br>To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race;<br>So here compress'd within a single sheet,<br>Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet.<br>'Tis this which makes all Europe's business known,<br>Yet here a private man may place his own:<br>And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, he<br>May tell their honours that he sells rappee.<br>Add next th' amusement which the motley page<br>Affords to either sex and every age:<br>Lo! where it comes before the cheerful fire,-<br>Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire<br>(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew),<br>Ere we can read the wonders that ensue:<br>Then eager every eye surveys the part<br>That brings its favourite subject to the heart;<br>Grave politicians look for facts alone,<br>And gravely add conjectures of their own:<br>The sprightly nymph, who never broke her rest<br>For tottering crowns or mighty lands oppress'd,<br>Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all<br>For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball:<br>The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale<br>For 'Monies wanted,' and 'Estates on Sale;'<br>While some with equal minds to all attend,<br>Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an end.<br>So charm the news; but we who, far from town,<br>Wait till the postman brings the packet down,<br>Once in the week, a vacant day behold,<br>And stay for tidings, till they're three days old:<br>That day arrives; no welcome post appears,<br>But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears:<br>We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,<br>To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;<br>Sullen we ponder o'er a dull repast,<br>Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.<br>A master passion is the love of news,<br>Not music so commands, nor so the Muse:<br>Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;<br>Feed the musician and he's out of tune;<br>But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd,<br>Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest.<br>Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose<br>These rival sheets of politics and prose.<br>First, from each brother's hoard a part they </div><div style="margin:10px 0">draw,<br>A mutual theft that never feared a law;<br>Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall,<br>And read it once, you read it through them all:<br>For this their runners ramble day and night,<br>To drag each lurking deed to open light;<br>For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,<br>Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie:<br>Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring,-<br>Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;<br>Home to their several cells they bear the store,<br>Cull'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.<br>No anxious virgin flies to 'fair Tweed-side;'<br>No injured husband mourns his faithless bride;<br>No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed;<br>But through the town transpires each vent'rous </div><div style="margin:10px 0">deed.<br>Should some fair frail one drive her prancing pair<br>Where rival peers contend to please the fair;<br>When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,<br>And beauty decks, with all that beauty buys:<br>Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,<br>Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels.<br>To these a thousand idle themes succeed,<br>Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed.<br>Here stocks, the state barometers, we view,<br>That rise or fall by causes known to few;<br>Promotion's ladder who goes up or down;<br>Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town;<br>What new-born heir has made his father blest;<br>What heir exults, his father now at rest;<br>That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives,<br>And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives.<br>So grows the work, and now the printer tries<br>His powers no more, but leans on his allies.<br>When lo! the advertising tribe succeed,<br>Pay to be read, yet find but few will read;<br>And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">pills<br>Have patent powers to vanquish human ills:<br>These, with their cures, a constant aid remain,<br>To bless the pale composer's fertile brain;<br>Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil<br>Requires some pause, some intervals from toil;<br>And they at least a certain ease obtain<br>From Katterfelto's skill, and Graham's glowing </div><div style="margin:10px 0">strain.<br>I too must aid, and pay to see my name<br>Hung in these dirty avenues to fame;<br>Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen,<br>And sung, could make these avenues more clean;<br>Could stop one slander ere it found its way,<br>And give to public scorn its helpless prey.<br>By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends,<br>And kindly tells the banquet she intends;<br>Thither from real life the many run,<br>With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon;<br>Pleased in fictitious joy or grief, to see<br>The mimic passion with their own agree;<br>To steal a few enchanted hours away<br>From self, and drop the curtain on the day.<br>But who can steal from self that wretched wight<br>Whose darling work is tried some fatal night?<br>Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss,<br>He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss;<br>Then groans succeed; nor traitors on the wheel<br>Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel.<br>Nor end they here: next day he reads his fall<br>In every paper; critics are they all:<br>He sees his branded name with wild affright,<br>And hears again the cat-calls of the night.<br>Such help the STAGE affords: a larger space<br>Is fill'd by PUFFS and all the puffing race.<br>Physic had once alone the lofty style,<br>The well-known boast, that ceased to raise a smile:<br>Now all the province of that tribe invade,<br>And we abound in quacks of every trade.<br>The simple barber, once an honest name,<br>Cervantes founded, Fielding raised his fame:<br>Barber no more--a gay perfumer comes,<br>On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms;<br>Here he appears, each simple mind to move,<br>And advertises beauty, grace, and love.<br>'Come, faded belles, who would your youth renew,<br>And learn the wonders of Olympian dew;<br>Restore the roses that begin to faint,<br>Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint;<br>Your former features, airs, and arts assume,<br>Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom.<br>Come, battered beaux, whose locks are turned to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">gray,<br>And crop Discretion's lying badge away;<br>Read where they vend these smart engaging things,<br>These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs;<br>No female eye the fair deception sees,<br>Not Nature's self so natural as these.'<br>Such are their arts, but not confined to them,<br>The muse impartial most her sons condemn:<br>For they, degenerate! join the venal throng,<br>And puff a lazy Pegasus along:<br>More guilty these, by Nature less design'd<br>For little arts that suit the vulgar kind.<br>That barbers' boys, who would to trade advance,<br>Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from France:<br>That he who builds a chop-house, on his door<br>Paints 'The true old original Blue Boar!'-<br>These are the arts by which a thousand live,<br>Where Truth may smile, and Justice may forgive:-<br>But when, amidst this rabble rout, we find<br>A puffing poet to his honour blind;<br>Who slily drops quotations all about<br>Packet or post, and points their merit out;<br>Who advertises what reviewers say,<br>With sham editions every second day;<br>Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,<br>But hurries into fame with all his might;<br>Although the verse some transient praise obtains,<br>Contempt is all the anxious poet gains.<br>Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past,<br>Their Correspondents stand exposed at last;<br>These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown,<br>Who for the public good forego their own;<br>Who volunteers in paper-war engage,<br>With double portion of their party's rage:<br>Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear<br>Wooing the printer for admission here;<br>Whose generous souls can condescend to pray<br>For leave to throw their precious time away.<br>Oh! cruel WOODFALL! when a patriot draws<br>His gray-goose quill in his dear country's cause,<br>To vex and maul a ministerial race,<br>Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place?<br>Alas! thou know'st not with what anxious heart<br>He longs his best-loved labours to impart;<br>How he has sent them to thy brethren round,<br>And still the same unkind reception found:<br>At length indignant will he damn the state,<br>Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate.<br>These Roman souls, like Rome's great sons, are </div><div style="margin:10px 0">known<br>To live in cells on labours of their own.<br>Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief,<br>Feeds, for his country's good, on legs of beef:<br>Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay,<br>Yet fights the public battles twice a-day:<br>E'en now the godlike Brutus views his score<br>Scroll'd on the bar-board, swinging with the door:<br>Where, tippling punch, grave Cato's self you'll </div><div style="margin:10px 0">see,<br>And Amor Patriae vending smuggled tea.<br>Last in these ranks, and least, their art's </div><div style="margin:10px 0">disgrace,<br>Neglected stand the Muses' meanest race;<br>Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye<br>Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by:<br>This Poet's Corner is the place they choose,<br>A fatal nursery for an infant Muse;<br>Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie,<br>These cannot live, and they shall never die;<br>Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade,<br>And win to verse the talents due to trade.<br>Curb then, O youth! these raptures as they rise,<br>Keep down the evil spirit and be wise;<br>Follow your calling, think the Muses foes,<br>Nor lean upon the pestle and compose.<br>I know your day-dreams, and I know the snare<br>Hid in your flow'ry path, and cry 'Beware!'<br>Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind,<br>A sudden couplet rushes on your mind;<br>Here you may nameless print your idle rhymes,<br>And read your first-born work a thousand times;<br>Th'infection spreads, your couplet grows apace,<br>Stanzas to Delia's dog or Celia's face:<br>You take a name; Philander's odes are seen,<br>Printed, and praised, in every magazine:<br>Diarian sages greet their brother sage,<br>And your dark pages please th' enlightened age.-<br>Alas! what years you thus consume in vain,<br>Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain!<br>Go! to your desks and counters all return;<br>Your sonnets scatter, your acrostics burn;<br>Trade, and be rich; or, should your careful sires<br>Bequeath your wealth, indulge the nobler fires;<br>Should love of fame your youthful heart betray,<br>Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way,<br>Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray.<br>Of all the good that mortal men pursue,<br>The Muse has least to give, and gives to few;<br>Like some coquettish fair, she leads us on,<br>With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are </div><div style="margin:10px 0">gone.<br>Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pair<br>Forget how constant one, and one how fair:<br>Meanwhile Ambition, like a blooming bride,<br>Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side;<br>And though she smiles not with such flattering </div><div style="margin:10px 0">charms,<br>The brave will sooner win her to their arms.<br>Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the bands,<br>Go spread your country's fame in hostile lands;<br>Her court, her senate, or her arms adorn,<br>And let her foes lament that you were born:<br>Or weigh her laws, their ancient rights defend,<br>Though hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason's friend;<br>Arm'd with strong powers, in their defence engage,<br>And rise the THURLOW of the future age.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395907" data-title="Tale XXI de George Crabbe" data-description="The Learned Boy An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true; He did by all as all by him should do; Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he, Yet famed for rustic hospitality: Left with his children in a widow'd state, The quiet man submitted t..."></div> </div> </div>

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