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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395915" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter VI: Professions--Law</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'TRADES and Professions'--these are themes the Muse,<br>Left to her freedom, would forbear to choose;<br>But to our Borough they in truth belong,<br>And we, perforce, must take them in our song.<br>Be it then known that we can boast of these<br>In all denominations, ranks, degrees;<br>All who our numerous wants through life supply,<br>Who soothe us sick, attend us when we die,<br>Or for the dead their various talents try.<br>Then have we those who live by secret arts,<br>By hunting fortunes, and by stealing hearts;<br>Or who by nobler means themselves advance,<br>Or who subsist by charity and chance.<br>Say, of our native heroes shall I boast,<br>Born in our streets, to thunder on our coast,<br>Our Borough-seamen? Could the timid Muse<br>More patriot ardour in their breasts infuse;<br>Or could she paint their merit or their skill,<br>She wants not love, alacrity, or will:<br>But needless all; that ardour is their own,<br>And for their deeds, themselves have made them known.<br>Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil!<br>Who from destruction save us; who from spoil<br>Protect the sons of peace, who traffic, or who toil;<br>Would I could duly praise you; that each deed<br>Your foes might honour, and your friends might read:<br>This too is needless; you've imprinted well<br>Your powers, and told what I should feebly tell:<br>Beside, a Muse like mine, to satire prone,<br>Would fail in themes where there is praise alone.<br>- Law shall I sing, or what to Law belongs?<br>Alas! there may be danger in such songs;<br>A foolish rhyme, 'tis said, a trifling thing,<br>The law found treason, for it touch'd the King.<br>But kings have mercy, in these happy times.<br>Or surely One had suffered for his rhymes;<br>Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold,<br>So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold;<br>But he escap'd,--nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I,<br>Who love my king, for such offence to die.<br>But I am taught the danger would be much,<br>If these poor lines should one attorney touch -<br>(One of those Limbs of Law who're always here;<br>The Heads come down to guide them twice a year.)<br>I might not swing, indeed, but he in sport<br>Would whip a rhymer on from court to court;<br>Stop him in each, and make him pay for all<br>The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall: -<br>Then let my numbers flow discreetly on,<br>Warn'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington, <br>Lest some attorney (pardon me the name)<br>Should wound a poor solicitor for fame.<br>One Man of Law in George the Second's reign<br>Was all our frugal fathers would maintain;<br>He too was kept for forms; a man of peace,<br>To frame a contract, or to draw a lease:<br>He had a clerk, with whom he used to write<br>All the day long, with whom he drank at night,<br>Spare was his visage, moderate his bill,<br>And he so kind, men doubted of his skill.<br>Who thinks of this, with some amazement sees,<br>For one so poor, three flourishing at ease;<br>Nay, one in splendour! see that mansion tall,<br>That lofty door, the far-resounding hall;<br>Well-furnish'd rooms, plate shining on the board,<br>Gay liveried lads, and cellar proudly stored:<br>Then say how comes it that such fortunes crown<br>These sons of strife, these terrors of the town?<br>Lo! that small Office! there th' incautious guest<br>Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest;<br>There in his web, th' observant spider lies,<br>And peers about for fat intruding flies;<br>Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum,<br>And feels them fluttering as they nearer come;<br>They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread<br>On the strong bird-lime of the utmost thread;<br>But when they're once entangled by the gin,<br>With what an eager clasp he draws them in;<br>Nor shall they 'scape, till after long delay,<br>And all that sweetens life is drawn away.<br>'Nay, this,' you cry, 'is common-place, the tale<br>Of petty tradesmen o'er their evening ale;<br>There are who, living by the legal pen,<br>Are held in honour,--'Honourable men''<br>Doubtless--there are who hold manorial courts,<br>Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports,<br>Or who, by labouring through a length of time,<br>Have pick'd their way, unsullied by a crime.<br>These are the few: in this, in every place,<br>Fix the litigious rupture-stirring race;<br>Who to contention as to trade are led,<br>To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread.<br>There is a doubtful Pauper, and we think<br>'Tis not with us to give him meat and drink;<br>There is a Child; and 'tis not mighty clear<br>Whether the mother lived with us a year:<br>A Road's indicted, and our seniors doubt<br>If in our proper boundary or without:<br>But what says our attorney? He, our friend,<br>Tells us 'tis just and manly to contend.<br>'What! to a neighbouring parish yield your cause,<br>While you have money, and the nation laws?<br>What! lose without a trial, that which, tried,<br>May--nay it must--be given on our side?<br>All men of spirit would contend; such men<br>Than lose a pound would rather hazard ten.<br>What! be imposed on? No! a British soul<br>Despises imposition, hates control:<br>The law is open; let them, if they dare,<br>Support their cause; the Borough need not spare.<br>All I advise is vigour and good-will:<br>Is it agreed then--Shall I file a bill?'<br>The trader, grazier, merchant, priest, and all,<br>Whose sons aspiring, to professions call,<br>Choose from their lads some bold and subtle boy,<br>And judge him fitted for this grave employ:<br>Him a keen old practitioner admits,<br>To write five years and exercise his wits:<br>The youth has heard--it is in fact his creed -<br>Mankind dispute, that Lawyers may be fee'd:<br>Jails, bailiffs, writs, all terms and threats of Law,<br>Grow now familiar as once top and taw;<br>Rage, hatred, fear, the mind's severer ills,<br>All bring employment, all augment his bills:<br>As feels the surgeon for the mangled limb,<br>The mangled mind is but a job for him;<br>Thus taught to think, these legal reasoners draw<br>Morals and maxims from their views of Law;<br>They cease to judge by precepts taught in schools,<br>By man's plain sense, or by religious rules;<br>No! nor by law itself, in truth discern'd,<br>But as its statutes may be warp'd and turn'd:<br>How they should judge of man, his word and deed,<br>They in their books and not their bosoms read:<br>Of some good act you speak with just applause;<br>'No, no!' says he, ''twould be a losing cause:<br>Blame you some tyrant's deed?--he answers 'Nay,<br>He'll get a verdict; heed you what you say.'<br>Thus to conclusions from examples led,<br>The heart resigns all judgment to the head;<br>Law, law alone for ever kept in view,<br>His measures guides, and rules his conscience too;<br>Of ten commandments, he confesses three<br>Are yet in force, and tells you which they be,<br>As Law instructs him, thus: 'Your neighbour's wife<br>You must not take, his chattles, nor his life;<br>Break these decrees, for damage you must pay;<br>These you must reverence, and the rest--you may.'<br>Law was design'd to keep a state in peace;<br>To punish robbery, that wrong might cease;<br>To be impregnable: a constant fort,<br>To which the weak and injured might resort:<br>But these perverted minds its force employ,<br>Not to protect mankind, but to annoy;<br>And long as ammunition can be found,<br>Its lightning flashes and its thunders sound.<br>Or Law with lawyers is an ample still,<br>Wrought by the passions' heat with chymic skill:<br>While the fire burns, the gains are quickly made,<br>And freely flow the profits of the trade;<br>Nay, when the fierceness fails, these artists blow<br>The dying fire, and make the embers glow,<br>As long as they can make the smaller profits flow:<br>At length the process of itself will stop,<br>When they perceive they've drawn out every drop.<br>Yet, I repeat, there are who nobly strive<br>To keep the sense of moral worth alive;<br>Men who would starve, ere meanly deign to live<br>On what deception and chican'ry give;<br>And these at length succeed; they have their strife,<br>Their apprehensions, stops, and rubs in life;<br>But honour, application, care, and skill,<br>Shall bend opposing fortune to their will.<br>Of such is Archer, he who keeps in awe<br>Contending parties by his threats of law:<br>He, roughly honest, has been long a guide<br>In Borough-business, on the conquering side;<br>And seen so much of both sides, and so long,<br>He thinks the bias of man's mind goes wrong:<br>Thus, though he's friendly, he is still severe,<br>Surly, though kind, suspiciously sincere:<br>So much he's seen of baseness in the mind,<br>That, while a friend to man, he scorns mankind;<br>He knows the human heart, and sees with dread,<br>By slight temptation, how the strong are led;<br>He knows how interest can asunder rend<br>The bond of parent, master, guardian, friend,<br>To form a new and a degrading tie<br>'Twixt needy vice and tempting villainy.<br>Sound in himself, yet when such flaws appear,<br>He doubts of all, and learns that self to fear:<br>For where so dark the moral view is grown,<br>A timid conscience trembles for her own;<br>The pitchy-taint of general vice is such<br>As daubs the fancy, and you dread the touch.<br>Far unlike him was one in former times,<br>Famed for the spoil he gather'd by his crimes;<br>Who, while his brethren nibbling held their prey,<br>He like an eagle seized and bore the whole away.<br>Swallow, a poor Attorney, brought his boy<br>Up at his desk, and gave him his employ;<br>He would have bound him to an honest trade,<br>Could preparations have been duly made.<br>The clerkship ended, both the sire and son<br>Together did what business could be done;<br>Sometimes they'd luck to stir up small disputes<br>Among their friends, and raise them into suits:<br>Though close and hard, the father was content<br>With this resource, now old and indolent:<br>But his young Swallow, gaping and alive<br>To fiercer feelings, was resolved to thrive: -<br>'Father,' he said, 'but little can they win,<br>Who hunt in couples where the game is thin;<br>Let's part in peace, and each pursue his gain,<br>Where it may start--our love may yet remain.'<br>The parent growl'd, he couldn't think that love<br>Made the young cockatrice his den remove;<br>But, taught by habit, he the truth suppress 'd,<br>Forced a frank look, and said he 'thought it best.'<br>Not long they'd parted ere dispute arose;<br>The game they hunted quickly made them foes.<br>Some house the father by his art had won<br>Seem'd a fit cause of contest to the son,<br>Who raised a claimant, and then found a way<br>By a staunch witness to secure his prey.<br>The people cursed him, but in times of need<br>Trusted in one so certain to succeed:<br>By Law's dark by-ways he had stored his mind<br>With wicked knowledge, how to cheat mankind.<br>Few are the freeholds in our ancient town;<br>A copyright from heir to heir came down,<br>From whence some heat arose, when there was doubt<br>In point of heirship; but the fire went out,<br>Till our attorney had the art to raise<br>The dying spark, and blow it to a blaze:<br>For this he now began his friends to treat;<br>His way to starve them was to make them eat,<br>And drink oblivious draughts--to his applause,<br>It must be said, he never starved a cause;<br>He'd roast and boil'd upon his board; the boast<br>Of half his victims was his boil'd and roast;<br>And these at every hour: --he seldom took<br>Aside his client, till he'd praised his cook;<br>Nor to an office led him, there in pain<br>To give his story and go out again;<br>But first the brandy and the chine where seen,<br>And then the business came by starts between.<br>'Well, if 'tis so, the house to you belongs;<br>But have you money to redress these wrongs?<br>Nay, look not sad, my friend; if you're correct,<br>You'll find the friendship that you'd not expect.'<br>If right the man, the house was Swallow's own;<br>If wrong, his kindness and good-will were shown:<br>'Rogue!' 'Villain!' 'Scoundrel!' cried the losers all:<br>He let them cry, for what would that recall?<br>At length he left us, took a village seat,<br>And like a vulture look'd abroad for meat;<br>The Borough-booty, give it all its praise,<br>Had only served the appetite to raise;<br>But if from simple heirs he drew their land,<br>He might a noble feast at will command;<br>Still he proceeded by his former rules,<br>His bait their pleasures, when he fished for fools -<br>Flagons and haunches on his board were placed,<br>And subtle avarice look'd like thoughtless waste:<br>Most of his friends, though youth from him had fled,<br>Were young, were minors, of their sires in dread;<br>Or those whom widow'd mothers kept in bounds,<br>And check'd their generous rage for steeds and hounds;<br>Or such as travell'd 'cross the land to view<br>A Christian's conflict with a boxing Jew:<br>Some too had run upon Newmarket heath<br>With so much speed that they were out of breath;<br>Others had tasted claret, till they now<br>To humbler port would turn, and knew not how.<br>All these for favours would to Swallow run,<br>Who never sought their thanks for all he'd done;<br>He kindly took them by the hand, then bow'd<br>Politely low, and thus his love avow'd -<br>(For he'd a way that many judged polite,<br>A cunning dog--he'd fawn before he'd bite) -<br>'Observe, my friends, the frailty of our race<br>When age unmans us--let me state a case:<br>There's our friend Rupert--we shall soon redress<br>His present evil--drink to our success -<br>I flatter not; but did you ever see<br>Limbs better turn'd? a prettier boy than he?<br>His senses all acute, his passions such<br>As Nature gave--she never does too much;<br>His the bold wish the cup of joy to drain,<br>And strength to bear it without qualm or pain.<br>'Now view his father as he dozing lies,<br>Whose senses wake not when he opes his eyes;<br>Who slips and shuffles when he means to walk,<br>And lisps and gabbles if he tries to talk;<br>Feeling he's none--he could as soon destroy<br>The earth itself, as aught it holds enjoy;<br>A nurse attends him to lay straight his limbs,<br>Present his gruel, and respect his whims:<br>Now shall this dotard from our hero hold<br>His lands and lordships? Shall he hide his gold!<br>That which he cannot use, and dare not show,<br>And will not give--why longer should he owe?<br>Yet, t'would be murder should we snap the locks,<br>And take the thing he worships from the box;<br>So let him dote and dream: but, till he die,<br>Shall not our generous heir receive supply?<br>For ever sitting on the river's brink?<br>And ever thirsty, shall he fear to drink?<br>The means are simple, let him only wish,<br>Then say he's willing, and I'll fill his dish.'<br>They all applauded, and not least the boy,<br>Who now replied, 'It fill'd his heart with joy<br>To find he needed not deliv'rance crave<br>Of death, or wish the Justice in the grave;<br>Who, while he spent, would every art retain,<br>Of luring home the scatter'd gold again;<br>Just as a fountain gaily spirts and plays<br>With what returns in still and secret ways.'<br>Short was the dream of bliss; he quickly found<br>His father's acres all were Swallow's ground.<br>Yet to those arts would other heroes lend<br>A willing ear, and Swallow was their friend;<br>Ever successful, some began to think<br>That Satan help'd him to his pen and ink;<br>And shrewd suspicions ran about the place,<br>'There was a compact'--I must leave the case.<br>But of the parties, had the fiend been one,<br>The business could not have been speedier done:<br>Still when a man has angled day and night,<br>The silliest gudgeons will refuse to bite:<br>So Swallow tried no more: but if they came<br>To seek his friendship, that remain'd the same:<br>Thus he retired in peace, and some would say<br>He'd balk'd his partner, and had learn'd to pray.<br>To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought<br>How Swallow felt, then said 'a change is wrought.'<br>'Twas true there wanted all the signs of grace,<br>But there were strong professions in their place;<br>Then, too, the less that men from him expect,<br>The more the praise to the converting sect;<br>He had not yet subscribed to all their creed,<br>Nor own'd a Call, but he confess'd the need:<br>His aquiescent speech, his gracious look,<br>That pure attention, when the brethren spoke,<br>Was all contrition,--he had felt the wound,<br>And with confession would again be sound.<br>True, Swallow's board had still the sumptuous treat;<br>But could they blame? the warmest zealots eat:<br>He drank--'twas needful his poor nerves to brace;<br>He swore--'twas habit; he was grieved--'twas grace:<br>What could they do a new-born zeal to nurse?<br>'His wealth's undoubted--let him hold our purse;<br>He'll add his bounty, and the house we'll raise<br>Hard by the church, and gather all her strays:<br>We'll watch her sinners as they home retire,<br>And pluck the brands from the devouring fire.'<br>Alas! such speech was but an empty boast;<br>The good men reckon'd, but without their host;<br>Swallow, delighted, took the trusted store,<br>And own'd the sum; they did not ask for more,<br>Till more was needed; when they call'd for aid -<br>And had it?--No, their agent was afraid:<br>'Could he but know to whom he should refund<br>He would most gladly--nay, he'd go beyond;<br>But when such numbers claim'd, when some were gone.<br>And others going--he must hold it on;<br>The Lord would help them.'--Loud their anger grew,<br>And while they threat'ning from his door withdrew,<br>He bow'd politely low, and bade them all adieu,<br>But lives the man by whom such deeds are done!<br>Yes, many such--But Swallow's race is run;<br>His name is lost,--for though his sons have name,<br>It is not his, they all escape the shame;<br>Nor is there vestige now of all he had,<br>His means are wasted, for his heir was mad:<br>Still we of Swallow as a monster speak,<br>A hard bad man, who prey'd upon the weak.</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>
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<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=395915" data-title="The Borough. Letter VI: Professions--Law de George Crabbe" data-description="'TRADES and Professions'--these are themes the Muse,
Left to her freedom, would forbear to choose;
But to our Borough they in truth belong,
And we, perforce, must take them in our song.
Be it then known that we can boast of these
In all denominati..."></div>
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