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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395927" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter XVIII: The Poor And Their</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dwellings<br>YES! we've our Borough-vices, and I know<br>How far they spread, how rapidly they grow;<br>Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,<br>Nor charity, the virtues crown and grace.<br>'Our Poor, how feed we?'--To the most we give<br>A weekly dole, and at their homes they live; -<br>Others together dwell,--but when they come<br>To the low roof, they see a kind of home,<br>A social people whom they've ever known,<br>With their own thoughts, and manners like their </div><div style="margin:10px 0">own.<br>At her old house, her dress, her air the same,<br>I see mine ancient Letter-loving dame:<br>'Learning, my child,' said she 'shall fame command;<br>Learning is better worth than house or land -<br>For houses perish, lands are gone and spent;<br>In learning then excel, for that's most excellent.'<br>'And what her learning?' 'Tis with awe to look<br>In every verse throughout one sacred book;<br>From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought;<br>This she has learned, and she is nobly taught.<br>If aught of mine have gain'd the public ear;<br>If RUTLAND deigns these humble Tales to hear;<br>If critics pardon what my friends approved;<br>Can I mine ancient Widow pass unmoved?<br>Shall I not think what pains the matron took,<br>When first I trembled o'er the gilded book?<br>How she, all patient, both at eve and morn,<br>Her needle pointed at the guarding horn;<br>And how she soothed me, when, with study sad,<br>I labour'd on to reach the final zad?<br>Shall I not grateful still the dame survey,<br>And ask the Muse the poet's debt to pay?<br>Nor I alone, who hold a trifler's pen,<br>But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men,<br>Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws;<br>They own the matron as the leading cause,<br>And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just </div><div style="margin:10px 0">applause:<br>To her own house is borne the week's supply;<br>There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">die.<br>With her a harmless Idiot we behold,<br>Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold:<br>These he preserves, with unremitted care,<br>To buy a seat, and reign the Borough's mayor:<br>Alas!--who could th' ambitious changeling tell,<br>That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?<br>Near these a Sailor, in that hut of thatch<br>(A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match),<br>Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat,<br>Large as he wishes--in his view complete:<br>A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch<br>That hold his stores, have room for twice as much:<br>His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box,<br>Lie all in view; no need has he for locks:<br>Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass,<br>He shows the shipping, he presents the glass;<br>He makes (unask'd) their ports and business known,<br>And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own,<br>Of noble captains, heroes every one, -<br>You might as soon have made the steeple run;<br>And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay,<br>He'll one by one the gallant souls display,<br>And as the story verges to an end,<br>He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to </div><div style="margin:10px 0">friend;<br>He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old,<br>As princes gen'rous and as heroes bold;<br>Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace<br>Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly face, -<br>And then a tear or two, which sting his pride;<br>These he will dash indignantly aside,<br>And splice his tale;--now take him from his cot,<br>And for some cleaner berth exchange his lot,<br>How will he all that cruel aid deplore?<br>His heart will break, and he will fight no more.<br>Here is the poor old Merchant: he declined,<br>And, as they say, is not in perfect mind;<br>In his poor house, with one poor maiden friend,<br>Quiet he paces to his journey's end.<br>Rich in his youth, he traded and he fail'd;<br>Again he tried, again his fate prevail'd;<br>His spirits low, and his exertions small,<br>He fell perforce, he seem'd decreed to fall:<br>Like the gay knight, unapt to rise was he,<br>But downward sank with sad alacrity.<br>A borough-place we gain'd him--in disgrace<br>For gross neglect, he quickly lost the place;<br>But still he kept a kind of sullen pride,<br>Striving his wants to hinder or to hide;<br>At length, compell'd by very need, in grief<br>He wrote a proud petition for relief.<br>'He did suppose a fall, like his, would prove<br>Of force to wake their sympathy and love;<br>Would make them feel the changes all may know,<br>And stir them up a due regard to show.'<br>His suit was granted;--to an ancient maid,<br>Relieved herself, relief for him was paid:<br>Here they together (meet companions) dwell,<br>And dismal tales of man's misfortunes tell:<br>''Twas not a world for them, God help them, they<br>Could not deceive, nor flatter, nor betray;<br>But there's a happy change, a scene to come,<br>And they, God help them! shall be soon at home.'<br>If these no pleasures nor enjoyments gain,<br>Still none their spirits nor their speech restrain;<br>They sigh at ease, 'mid comforts they complain,<br>The poor will grieve, the poor will weep and sigh,<br>Both when they know, and when they know not why;<br>But we our bounty with such care bestow,<br>That cause for grieving they shall seldom know.<br>Your Plan I love not; with a number you<br>Have placed your poor, your pitiable few:<br>There, in one house, throughout their lives to be,<br>The pauper-palace which they hate to see:<br>That giant-building, that high-bounding wall,<br>Those bare-worn walks, that lofty thund'ring hall,<br>That large loud clock, which tolls each dreaded </div><div style="margin:10px 0">hour,<br>Those gates and locks, and all those signs of </div><div style="margin:10px 0">power;<br>It is a prison, with a milder name,<br>Which few inhabit without dread or shame.<br>Be it agreed--the Poor who hither come<br>Partake of plenty, seldom found at home;<br>That airy rooms and decent beds are meant<br>To give the poor by day, by night, content;<br>That none are frighten'd, once admitted here,<br>By the stern looks of lordly Overseer:<br>Grant that the Guardians of the place attend,<br>And ready ear to each petition lend;<br>That they desire the grieving poor to show<br>What ills they feel, what partial acts they know;<br>Not without promise, nay desire to heal<br>Each wrong they suffer, and each woe they feel.<br>Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;<br>They've much to suffer, but have nought to tell;<br>They have no evil in the place to state,<br>And dare not say it is the house they hate:<br>They own there's granted all such place can give,<br>But live repining, for 'tis there they live.<br>Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,<br>No more must nurse upon the trembling knee,<br>The lost loved daughter's infant progeny:<br>Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place<br>For joyful meetings of a kindred race.<br>Is not the matron there, to whom the son<br>Was wont at each declining day to run?<br>He (when his toil was over) gave delight,<br>By lifting up the latch, and one 'Good night.'<br>Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door<br>The son, still lab'ring, can return no more.<br>Widows are here, who in their huts were left,<br>Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;<br>Yet all that grief within the humble shed<br>Was soften'd, softened in the humble bed:<br>But here, in all its force, remains the grief,<br>And not one softening object for relief.<br>Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet?<br>Who learn the story current in the street?<br>Who to the long-known intimate impart<br>Facts they have learn'd or feelings of the heart?<br>They talk indeed, but who can choose a friend,<br>Or seek companions at their journey's end?<br>Here are not those whom they when infants knew;<br>Who, with like fortune, up to manhood grew;<br>Who, with like troubles, at old age arrived;<br>Who, like themselves, the joy of life survived;<br>Whom time and custom so familiar made,<br>That looks the meaning in the mind convey'd:<br>But here to strangers, words nor looks impart<br>The various movements of the suffering heart;<br>Nor will that heart with those alliance own,<br>To whom its views and hopes are all unknown.<br>What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,<br>Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy?<br>'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,<br>With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;<br>Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep, -<br>The day itself is, like the night, asleep;<br>Or on the sameness if a break be made,<br>'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey'd;<br>By smuggled news from neighb'ring village told,<br>News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;<br>By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell,<br>Or justice come to see that all goes well;<br>Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl<br>On the black footway winding with the wall,<br>Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner </div><div style="margin:10px 0">call.<br>Here too the mother sees her children train'd,<br>Her voice excluded and her feelings pain'd:<br>Who govern here, by general rules must move,<br>Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love.<br>Nations we know have nature's law transgress'd,<br>And snatch'd the infant from the parent's breast;<br>But still for public good the boy was train'd,<br>The mother suffer'd, but the matron gain'd:<br>Here nature's outrage serves no cause to aid;<br>The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.<br>Then too I own, it grieves me to behold<br>Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,<br>By all for care and industry approved,<br>For truth respected, and for temper loved;<br>And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,<br>Gave want its worth and poverty its pride:<br>I own it grieves me to behold them sent<br>From their old home; 'tis pain, 'tis punishment,<br>To leave each scene familiar, every face,<br>For a new people and a stranger race;<br>For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame,<br>From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;<br>Men, just and guileless, at such manners start,<br>And bless their God that time has fenced their </div><div style="margin:10px 0">heart,<br>Confirm'd their virtue, and expell'd the fear<br>Of vice in minds so simple and sincere.<br>Here the good pauper, losing all the praise<br>By worthy deeds acquired in better days,<br>Breathes a few months, then, to his chamber led,<br>Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed.<br>The grateful hunter, when his horse is old,<br>Wills not the useless favourite to be sold;<br>He knows his former worth, and gives him place<br>In some fair pasture, till he runs his race:<br>But has the labourer, has the seaman done<br>Less worthy service, though not dealt to one?<br>Shall we not then contribute to their ease,<br>In their old haunts, where ancient objects please?<br>That, till their sight shall fail them, they may </div><div style="margin:10px 0">trace<br>The well-known prospect and the long-loved face.<br>The noble oak, in distant ages seen,<br>With far-stretch'd boughs and foliage fresh and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">green,<br>Though now its bare and forky branches show<br>How much it lacks the vital warmth below,<br>The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,<br>Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains:<br>Much more shall real wants and cares of age<br>Our gentler passions in their cause engage; -<br>Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of years,<br>What venerable ruin man appears!<br>How worthy pity, love, respect, and grief -<br>He claims protection--he compels relief; -<br>And shall we send him from our view, to brave<br>The storms abroad, whom we at home might save,<br>And let a stranger dig our ancient brother's grave?<br>No! we will shield him from the storm he fears,<br>And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">----------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Farew ell to these: but all our poor to know,<br>Let's seek the winding Lane, the narrow Row,<br>Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops<br>To see the sloping tenement on props,<br>With building-yards immix'd, and humble sheds and </div><div style="margin:10px 0">shops;<br>Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite<br>Laborious men to taste their coarse delight;<br>Where the low porches, stretching from the door,<br>Gave some distinction in the days of yore,<br>Yet now neglected, more offend the eye,<br>By gloom and ruin, than the cottage by:<br>Places like these the noblest town endures,<br>The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers.<br>Here is no pavement, no inviting shop,<br>To give us shelter when compell'd to stop;<br>But plashy puddles stand along the way,<br>Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day;<br>And these so closely to the buildings run,<br>That you must ford them, for you cannot shun;<br>Though here and there convenient bricks are laid -<br>And door-side heaps afford tweir dubious aid,<br>Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground,<br>With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around:<br>There dwells a Fisher: if you view his boat,<br>With bed and barrel--'tis his house afloat;<br>Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">abound,<br>Tar, pitch, and oakum--'tis his boat aground:<br>That space inclosed, but little he regards,<br>Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards:<br>Fish by the wall, on spit of elder, rest,<br>Of all his food, the cheapest and the best,<br>By his own labour caught, for his own hunger </div><div style="margin:10px 0">dress'd.<br>Here our reformers come not; none object<br>To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect;<br>None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,<br>That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast:<br>None heed the stagnant pools on either side,<br>Where new-launch'd ships of infant-sailors ride:<br>Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,<br>And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast.<br>They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,<br>They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale:<br>True to her port, the frigate scuds away,<br>And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay:<br>Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth,<br>And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth;<br>Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd,<br>When inch-high billows vex the watery world.<br>There, fed by food they love, to rankest size,<br>Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise;<br>Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root,<br>Here the dull nightshade hangs her deadly fruit:<br>On hills of dust the henbane's faded green,<br>And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen;<br>At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs,<br>With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings;<br>Above (the growth of many a year) is spread<br>The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed:<br>In every chink delights the fern to grow,<br>With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below;<br>These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down,<br>Form the contracted Flora of the town.<br>Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know?<br>Then will I lead thee down the dusty Row;<br>By the warm alley and the long close lane, -<br>There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,<br>Where flags the noon-tide air, and, as we pass,<br>We fear to breathe the putrefying mass:<br>But fearless yonder matron; she disdains<br>To sigh for zephyrs from ambrosial plains;<br>But mends her meshes torn, and pours her lay<br>All in the stifling fervour of the day.<br>Her naked children round the alley run,<br>And roll'd in dust, are bronzed beneath the sun,<br>Or gambol round the dame, who, loosely dress'd,<br>Woos the coy breeze to fan the open breast:<br>She, once a handmaid, strove by decent art<br>To charm her sailor's eye and touch his heart;<br>Her bosom then was veil'd in kerchief clean,<br>And fancy left to form the charms unseen.<br>But when a wife, she lost her former care,<br>Nor thought on charms, nor time for dress could </div><div style="margin:10px 0">spare;<br>Careless she found her friends who dwelt beside,<br>No rival beauty kept alive her pride:<br>Still in her bosom virtue keeps her place,<br>But decency is gone, the virtues' guard and grace.<br>See that long boarded Building!--By these stairs<br>Each humble tenant to that home repairs -<br>By one large window lighted--it was made<br>For some bold project, some design in trade:<br>This fail'd,--and one, a humourist in his way,<br>(Ill was the humour), bought it in decay;<br>Nor will he sell, repair, or take it down;<br>'Tis his,--what cares he for the talk of town?<br>'No! he will let it to the poor;--a home<br>Where he delights to see the creatures come:'<br>'They may be thieves;'--'Well, so are richer men;'<br>'Or idlers, cheats, or prostitutes;'--'What then?'<br>'Outcasts pursued by justice, vile and base;' -<br>'They need the more his pity and the place:'<br>Convert to system his vain mind has built,<br>He gives asylum to deceit and guilt.<br>In this vast room, each place by habit fix'd,<br>Are sexes, families, and ages mix'd -<br>To union forced by crime, by fear, by need,<br>And all in morals and in modes agreed;<br>Some ruin'd men, who from mankind remove;<br>Some ruin'd females, who yet talk of love;<br>And some grown old in idleness--the prey<br>To vicious spleen, still railing through the day;<br>And need and misery, vice and danger bind,<br>In sad alliance each degraded mind.<br>That window view!--oil'd paper and old glass<br>Stain the strong rays, which, though impeded, pass,<br>And give a dusty warmth to that huge room,<br>The conquer'd sunshine's melancholy gloom;<br>When all those western rays, without so bright,<br>Within become a ghastly glimmering light,<br>As pale and faint upon the floor they fall,<br>Or feebly gleam on the opposing wall:<br>That floor, once oak, now pieced with fir unplaned,<br>Or, where not pieced, in places bored and stain'd;<br>That wall once whiten'd, now an odious sight,<br>Stain'd with all hues, except its ancient white;<br>The only door is fasten'd by a pin,<br>Or stubborn bar that none may hurry in:<br>For this poor room, like rooms of greater pride,<br>At times contains what prudent men would hide.<br>Where'er the floor allows an even space,<br>Chalking and marks of various games have place;<br>Boys, without foresight, pleased in halters swing;<br>On a fix'd hook men cast a flying ring;<br>While gin and snuff their female neighbours share,<br>And the black beverage in the fractured ware.<br>On swinging shelf are things incongruous stored, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">-<br>Scraps of their food,--the cards and cribbage-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">board, -<br>With pipes and pouches; while on peg below,<br>Hang a lost member's fiddle and its bow;<br>That still reminds them how he'd dance and play,<br>Ere sent untimely to the Convicts' Bay.<br>Here by a curtain, by a blanket there,<br>Are various beds conceal'd, but none with care;<br>Where some by day and some by night, as best<br>Suit their employments, seek uncertain rest;<br>The drowsy children at their pleasure creep<br>To the known crib, and there securely sleep.<br>Each end contains a grate, and these beside<br>Are hung utensils for their boil'd and fried -<br>All used at any hour, by night, by day,<br>As suit the purse, the person, or the prey.<br>Above the fire, the mantel-shelf contains<br>Of china-ware some poor unmatched remains;<br>There many a tea-cup's gaudy fragment stands,<br>All placed by vanity's unwearied hands;<br>For here she lives, e'en here she looks about,<br>To find some small consoling objects out:<br>Nor heed these Spartan dames their house, not sit<br>'Mid cares domestic,--they nor sew nor knit;<br>But of their fate discourse, their ways, their </div><div style="margin:10px 0">wars,<br>With arm'd authorities, their 'scapes and scars:<br>These lead to present evils, and a cup,<br>If fortune grant it, winds description up.<br>High hung at either end, and next the wall,<br>Two ancient mirrors show the forms of all,<br>In all their force;--these aid them in their dress,<br>But with the good, the evils too express,<br>Doubling each look of care, each token of distress.</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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YES! we've our Borough-vices, and I know
How far they spread, how rapidly they grow;
Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,
Nor charity, the virtues crown and grace.
'Our Poor, how feed we?'--To the most we give
A weekly dole, and at..."></div>
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