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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395918" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter X: Clubs And Social Meetings</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">YOU say you envy in your calm retreat<br>Our social Meetings;--'tis with joy we meet.<br>In these our parties you are pleased to find<br>Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind;<br>Composed of men who read, reflect, and write,<br>Who, when they meet, must yield and share delight.<br>To you our Book-club has peculiar charm,<br>For which you sicken in your quiet farm;<br>Here you suppose us at our leisure placed,<br>Enjoying freedom, and displaying taste:<br>With wisdom cheerful, temperately gay,<br>Pleased to enjoy, and willing to display.<br>If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom,<br>Give wings to fancy, and among us come.<br>We're now assembled; you may soon attend -<br>I'll introduce you--'Gentlemen, my friend.'<br>'Now are you happy? you have pass'd a night<br>In gay discourse, and rational delight.'<br>'Alas! not so: for how can mortals think,<br>Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and drink?<br>No! I confess when we had fairly dined,<br>That was no time for intercourse of mind;<br>There was each dish prepared with skill t'invite,<br>And to detain the struggling appetite;<br>On such occasions minds with one consent<br>Are to the comforts of the body lent;<br>There was no pause--the wine went quickly round,<br>Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound;<br>Wine is to wit as water thrown on fire,<br>By duly sprinkling both are raised the higher;<br>Thus largely dealt, the vivid blaze they choke,<br>And all the genial flame goes off in smoke.'<br>'But when no more your boards these loads </div><div style="margin:10px 0">contain,<br>When wine no more o'erwhelms the labouring brain,<br>But serves, a gentle stimulus; we know<br>How wit must sparkle, and how fancy flow.'<br>It might be so, but no such club-days come;<br>We always find these dampers in the room:<br>If to converse were all that brought us here,<br>A few odd members would in turn appear;<br>Who, dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out,<br>O'erlook the list, and toss the books about;<br>Or yawning read them, walking up and down,<br>Just as the loungers in the shops in town;<br>Till fancying nothing would their minds amuse,<br>They'd push them by, and go in search of news.<br>But our attractions are a stronger sort,<br>The earliest dainties and the oldest port;<br>All enter then with glee in every look,<br>And not a member thinks about a book.<br>Still, let me own, there are some vacant hours,<br>When minds might work, and men exert their powers:<br>Ere wine to folly spurs the giddy guest,<br>But gives to wit its vigour and its zest;<br>Then might we reason, might in turn display<br>Our several talents, and be wisely gay;<br>We might--but who a tame discourse regards,<br>When Whist is named, and we behold the Cards?<br>We from that time are neither grave nor gay;<br>Our thought, our care, our business is to play:<br>Fix'd on these spots and figures, each attends<br>Much to his partners, nothing to his friends.<br>Our public cares, the long, the warm debate,<br>That kept our patriots from their beds so late;<br>War, peace, invasion, all we hope or dread,<br>Vanish like dreams when men forsake their bed;<br>And groaning nations and contending kings<br>Are all forgotten for these painted things;<br>Paper and paste, vile figures and poor spots,<br>Level all minds, philosophers and sots;<br>And give an equal spirit, pause, and force,<br>Join'd with peculiar diction, to discourse:<br>'Who deals?--you led--we're three by cards--had you<br>Honour in hand?'--'Upon my honour, two.'<br>Hour after hour, men thus contending sit,<br>Grave without sense, and pointed without wit.<br>Thus it appears these envied Clubs possess<br>No certain means of social happiness;<br>Yet there's a good that flows from scenes like </div><div style="margin:10px 0">these -<br>Man meets with man at leisure and at ease;<br>We to our neighbours and our equals come,<br>And rub off pride that man. contracts at home;<br>For there, admitted master, he is prone<br>To claim attention and to talk alone:<br>But here he meets with neither son nor spouse;<br>No humble cousin to his bidding bows;<br>To his raised voice his neighbours' voices rise,<br>To his high look as lofty look replies;<br>When much he speaks, he finds that ears are closed,<br>And certain signs inform him when he's prosed;<br>Here all the value of a listener know,<br>And claim, in turn, the favour they bestow.<br>No pleasure gives the speech, when all would </div><div style="margin:10px 0">speak,<br>And all in vain a civil hearer seek.<br>To chance alone we owe the free discourse,<br>In vain you purpose what you cannot force;<br>'Tis when the favourite themes unbidden spring,<br>That fancy soars with such unwearied wing;<br>Then may you call in aid the moderate glass,<br>But let it slowly and unprompted pass;<br>So shall there all things for the end unite,<br>And give that hour of rational delight.<br>Men to their Clubs repair, themselves to please,<br>To care for nothing, and to take their ease;<br>In fact, for play, for wine, for news they come:<br>Discourse is shared with friends or found at home.<br>But Cards with Books are incidental things;<br>We've nights devoted to these queens and kings:<br>Then if we choose the social game, we may;<br>Now 'tis a duty, and we're bound to play;<br>Nor ever meeting of the social kind<br>Was more engaging, yet had less of mind.<br>Our eager parties, when the lunar light<br>Throws its full radiance on the festive night,<br>Of either sex, with punctual hurry come,<br>And fill, with one accord, an ample room;<br>Pleased, the fresh packs on cloth of green they </div><div style="margin:10px 0">see,<br>And seizing, handle with preluding glee;<br>They draw, they sit, they shuffle, cut, and deal;<br>Like friends assembled, but like foes to feel:<br>But yet not all,--a happier few have joys<br>Of mere amusement, and their cards are toys;<br>No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they,<br>But while their friends are gaming, laugh and play.<br>Others there are, the veterans of the game,<br>Who owe their pleasure to their envied fame;<br>Through many a year with hard-contested strife,<br>Have they attain'd this glory of their life:<br>Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain<br>Would gout and fever on his couch detain;<br>And that large lady, who resolves to come,<br>Though a first fit has warn'd her of her doom!<br>These are as oracles: in every cause<br>They settle doubts, and their decrees are laws;<br>But all are troubled, when, with dubious look,<br>Diana questions what Apollo spoke.<br>Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain,<br>Rules in each heart, and works in every brain:<br>Alike the veteran-dames and virgins feel,<br>Nor care what graybeards or what striplings deal;<br>Sex, age, and station, vanish from their view,<br>And gold, their sov'reign good, the mingled crowd </div><div style="margin:10px 0">pursue.<br>Hence they are jealous, and as rivals, keep<br>A watchful eye on the beloved heap;<br>Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still,<br>And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will<br>Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,<br>They make their grief by their suspicions known,<br>'Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,<br>He'd rave to see you throw your cards away;<br>Not that I care a button--not a pin<br>For what I lose; but we had cards to win:<br>A saint in heaven would grieve to see such hand<br>Cut up by one who will not understand.'<br>'Complain of me! and so you might indeed<br>If I had ventured on that foolish lead,<br>That fatal heart--but I forgot your play -<br>Some folk have ever thrown their hearts away.'<br>'Yes, and their diamonds; I have heard of one<br>Who made a beggar of an only son.'<br>'Better a beggar, than to see him tied<br>To art and spite, to insolence and pride.'<br>'Sir, were I you, I'd strive to be polite,<br>Against my nature, for a single night.'<br>'So did you strive, and, madam! with success;<br>I knew no being we could censure less!'<br>Is this too much? Alas! my peaceful Muse<br>Cannot with half their virulence abuse.<br>And hark! at other tables discord reigns,<br>With feign'd contempt for losses and for gains;<br>Passions awhile are bridled: then they rage,<br>In waspish youth, and in resentful age;<br>With scraps of insult--'Sir, when next you play,<br>Reflect whose money 'tis you throw away.<br>No one on earth can less such things regard,<br>But when one's partner doesn't know a card -<br>I scorn suspicion, ma'am, but while you stand<br>Behind that lady, pray keep down your hand.'<br>'Good heav'n, revoke: remember, if the set<br>Be lost, in honour you should pay the debt.'<br>'There, there's your money; but, while I have </div><div style="margin:10px 0">life,<br>I'll never more sit down with man and wife;<br>They snap and snarl indeed, but in the heat<br>Of all their spleen, their understandings meet;<br>They are Freemasons, and have many a sign,<br>That we, poor devils! never can divine:<br>May it be told, do ye divide th' amount,<br>Or goes it all to family account?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">---------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Next is the Club, where to their friends in town<br>Our country neighbours once a month come down;<br>We term it Free-and-Easy, and yet we<br>Find it no easy matter to be free:<br>E'en in our small assembly, friends among,<br>Are minds perverse, there's something will be </div><div style="margin:10px 0">wrong;<br>Men are not equal; some will claim a right<br>To be the kings and heroes of the night;<br>Will their own favourite themes and notions start,<br>And you must hear, offend them, or depart.<br>There comes Sir Thomas from his village-seat,<br>Happy, he tells us, all his friends to meet;<br>He brings the ruin'd brother of his wife,<br>Whom he supports, and makes him sick of life;<br>A ready witness whom he can produce<br>Of all his deeds--a butt for his abuse;<br>Soon as he enters, has the guests espied,<br>Drawn to the fire, and to the glass applied -<br>'Well, what's the subject?--what are you about?<br>The news, I take it--come, I'll help you out:' -<br>And then, without one answer he bestows<br>Freely upon us all he hears and knows;<br>Gives us opinions, tells us how he votes,<br>Recites the speeches, adds to them his notes;<br>And gives old ill-told tales for new-born </div><div style="margin:10px 0">anecdotes:<br>Yet cares he nothing what we judge or think,<br>Our only duty's to attend and drink:<br>At length, admonish'd by his gout he ends<br>The various speech, and leaves at peace his </div><div style="margin:10px 0">friends;<br>But now, alas! we've lost the pleasant hour,<br>And wisdom flies from wine's superior power.<br>Wine like the rising sun, possession gains,<br>And drives the mist of dulness from the brains;<br>The gloomy vapour from the spirit flies,<br>And views of gaiety and gladness rise:<br>Still it proceeds; till from the glowing heat,<br>The prudent calmly to their shades retreat: -<br>Then is the mind o'ercast--in wordy rage<br>And loud contention angry men engage;<br>Then spleen and pique, like fireworks thrown in </div><div style="margin:10px 0">spite,<br>To mischief turn the pleasures of the night;<br>Anger abuses, Malice loudly rails,<br>Revenge awakes, and Anarchy prevails;<br>Till wine, that raised the tempest, makes its </div><div style="margin:10px 0">cease,<br>And maudlin Love insists on instant peace;<br>He, noisy mirth and roaring song commands,<br>Gives idle toasts, and joins unfriendly bands:<br>Till fuddled Friendship vows esteem and weeps,<br>And jovial Folly drinks and sings and sleeps.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">-----------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Club there is of Smokers--Dare you come<br>To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room?<br>When, midnight past, the very candles seem<br>Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam;<br>When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise,<br>And prosing topers rub their winking eyes;<br>When the long tale, renew'd when last they met,<br>Is spliced anew, and is unfinish'd yet;<br>When but a few are left the house to tire,<br>And they half sleeping by the sleepy fire;<br>E'en the poor ventilating vane that flew<br>Of late so fast, is now grown drowsy too;<br>When sweet, cold, clammy punch its aid bestows,<br>Then thus the midnight conversation flows: -<br>'Then, as I said, and--mind me--as I say,<br>At our last meeting--you remember'--'Ay?'<br>'Well, very well--then freely as I drink<br>I spoke my thought--you take me--what I think.<br>And, sir, said I, if I a Freeman be,<br>It is my bounden duty to be free.'<br>'Ay, there you posed him: I respect the Chair,<br>But man is man, although the man's a mayor;<br>If Muggins live--no, no!--if Muggins die,<br>He'll quit his office--neighbour, shall I try?'<br>'I'll speak my mind, for here are none but </div><div style="margin:10px 0">friends:<br>They're all contending for their private ends;<br>No public spirit--once a vote would bring,<br>I say a vote--was then a pretty thing;<br>It made a man to serve his country and his king:<br>But for that place, that Muggins must resign,<br>You've my advice--'tis no affair of mine.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">----------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Poor Man has his Club: he comes and spends<br>His hoarded pittance with his chosen friends;<br>Nor this alone,--a monthly dole he pays,<br>To be assisted when his health decays;<br>Some part his prudence, from the day's supply,<br>For cares and troubles in his age, lays by;<br>The printed rules he guards with painted frame,<br>And shows his children where to read his name;<br>Those simple words his honest nature move,<br>That bond of union tied by laws of love;<br>This is his pride, it gives to his employ<br>New value, to his home another joy;<br>While a religious hope its balm applies<br>For all his fate inflicts, and all his state </div><div style="margin:10px 0">denies.<br>Much would it please you, sometimes to explore<br>The peaceful dwellings of our Borough poor:<br>To view a sailor just return'd from sea,<br>His wife beside; a child on either knee,<br>And others crowding near, that none may lose<br>The smallest portions of the welcome news;<br>What dangers pass'd, 'When seas ran mountains high,<br>When tempest raved, and horrors veil'd the sky;<br>When prudence fail'd, when courage grew dismay'd,<br>When the strong fainted, and the wicked pray'd, -<br>Then in the yawning gulf far down we drove,<br>And gazed upon the billowy mount above;<br>Till up that mountain, swinging with the gale,<br>We view'd the horrors of the watery vale.'<br>The trembling children look with steadfast eyes,<br>And, panting, sob involuntary sighs:<br>Soft sleep awhile his torpid touch delays,<br>And all is joy and piety and praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">--------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Masons are ours, Freemasons--but, alas!<br>To their own bards I leave the mystic class;<br>In vain shall one, and not a gifted man,<br>Attempt to sing of this enlightened clan:<br>I know no Word, boast no directing Sign,<br>And not one Token of the race is mine;<br>Whether with Hiram, that wise widow's son,<br>They came from Tyre to royal Solomon,<br>Two pillars raising by their skill profound,<br>Boaz and Jachin through the east renown'd:<br>Whether the sacred Books their rise express,<br>Or books profane, 'tis vain for me guess:<br>It may be lost in date remote and high,<br>They know not what their own antiquity:<br>It may be, too, derived from cause so low,<br>They have no wish their origin to show:<br>If, as Crusaders, they combine to wrest<br>From heathen lords the land they long possess'd;<br>Or were at first some harmless club, who made<br>Their idle meetings solemn by parade;<br>Is but conjecture--for the task unfit,<br>Awe-struck and mute, the puzzling theme I quit:<br>Yet, if such blessings from their Order flow,<br>We should be glad their moral code to know;<br>Trowels of silver are but simple things,<br>And Aprons worthless as their apron-strings;<br>But if indeed you have the skill to teach<br>A social spirit, now beyond our reach;<br>If man's warm passions you can guide and bind,<br>And plant the virtues in the wayward mind;<br>If you can wake to Christian love the heart, -<br>In mercy, something of your powers impart.<br>But, as it seems, we Masons must become<br>To know the Secret, and must then be dumb;<br>And as we venture for uncertain gains,<br>Perhaps the profit is not worth the pains.<br>When Bruce, that dauntless traveller, thought he </div><div style="margin:10px 0">stood<br>On Nile's first rise, the fountain of the flood,<br>And drank exulting in the sacred spring,<br>The critics told him it was no such thing;<br>That springs unnumber'd round the country ran,<br>But none could show him where the first began:<br>So might we feel, should we our time bestow,<br>To gain these Secrets and these Signs to know;<br>Might question still if all the truth we found,<br>And firmly stood upon the certain ground;<br>We might our title to the Mystery dread,<br>And fear we drank not at the river-head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">---------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">G riggs and Gregorians here their meeting hold,<br>Convivial Sects, and Bucks alert and bold;<br>A kind of Masons, but without their sign;<br>The bonds of union--pleasure, song, and wine.<br>Man, a gregarious creature, loves to fly<br>Where he the trackings of the herd can spy;<br>Still to be one with many he desires,<br>Although it leads him through the thorns and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">briers.<br>A few! but few there are, who in the mind<br>Perpetual source of consolation find:<br>The weaker many to the world will come,<br>For comforts seldom to be found from home.<br>When the faint hands no more a brimmer hold,<br>When flannel-wreaths the useless limbs infold,<br>The breath impeded, and the bosom cold;<br>When half the pillow'd man the palsy chains,<br>And the blood falters in the bloated veins, -<br>Then, as our friends no further aid supply<br>Than hope's cold phrase and courtesy's soft sigh,<br>We should that comfort for ourselves ensure,<br>Which friends could not, if we could friends </div><div style="margin:10px 0">procure.<br>Early in life, when we can laugh aloud,<br>There's something pleasant in a social crowd,<br>Who laugh with us--but will such joy remain<br>When we lie struggling on the bed of pain?<br>When our physician tells us with a sigh,<br>No more on hope and science to rely,<br>Life's staff is useless then; with labouring breath<br>We pray for Hope divine--the staff of Death; -<br>This is a scene which few companions grace,<br>And where the heart's first favourites yield their </div><div style="margin:10px 0">place.<br>Here all the aid of man to man must end,<br>Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend:<br>The tenderest love must here its tie resign,<br>And give th' aspiring heart to love divine.<br>Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run,<br>Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun;<br>But though to this our weakness may be prone,<br>Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone.</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=395918" data-title="The Borough. Letter X: Clubs And Social Meetings de George Crabbe" data-description="YOU say you envy in your calm retreat
Our social Meetings;--'tis with joy we meet.
In these our parties you are pleased to find
Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind;
Composed of men who read, reflect, and write,
Who, when they meet, must y..."></div>
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