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NATHANIEL.

What makes her sit there moping by herself. With no soul near her but that great black cat? And do but look at her!

CURATE.

Poor wretch; half blind And crooked with her years, without a child Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed To have her very miseries made her crimes! I met her but last week in that hard frost Which made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad And pick the hedges, just to keep herself From perishing with cold,.. because no neighbour Had pity on her age: and then she cried, And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, And wish'd that she were dead.

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FATHER.

I wish she was!

She has plagued the parish long enough!

CURATE.

Shame, Farmer!

That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit
The poor in sickness; but he don't believe
In witchcraft, and that is not like a Christian.

NATHANIEL.

And so old Margery's dying!

Is that the charity your Bible teaches ?

FATHER.

My Bible does not teach me to love witches. I know what's charity; who pays his tithes And poor-rates readier?

FATHER.

But you know

She may recover: so drive t'other nail in. Westbury, 1798.

CURATE.

Who can better do it?

You've been a prudent and industrious man, And God has blest your labour.

FATHER.

VI.

THE RUINED COTTAGE.

Ay, Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye; .. Why, thank God, Sir, This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch. I've had no reason to complain of fortune.

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Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower
Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock
That through the creeping weeds and nettles tall
Peers taller, lifting, column-like, a stem
Bright with its roseate blossoms. I have seen
Many an old convent reverend in decay,
And many a time have trod the castle courts
And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike
Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts
As this poor cottage. Look! its little hatch
Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof
Part moulder'd in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds,
House-leek, and long thin grass, and greener moss;
So Nature steals on all the works of man,
Sure conqueror she, reclaiming to herself
His perishable piles.

I led thee here,

Charles, not without design; for this hath been
My favourite walk even since I was a boy;
And I remember, Charles, this ruin here,
The neatest comfortable dwelling-place!
That when I read in those dear books which first
Woke in my heart the love of poesy,

How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,
And Calidore for a fair shepherdess

P

Forsook his quest to learn the shepherd's lore,
My fancy drew from this the little hut
Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love,
Or where the gentle Calidore at eve

Led Pastorella home. There was not then
A weed where all these nettles overtop

The garden-wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet
The morning air; rosemary and marjoram,

All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreathed

So lavishly around the pillar'd porch

Its fragrant flowers, that when I pass'd this way,
After a truant absence hastening home,

I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed
By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed
Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles !..
Theirs is a simple melancholy tale,..
There's scarce a village but can fellow it :
And yet, methinks, it will not weary thee,
And should not be untold.

A widow here

Dwelt with an orphan grandchild: just removed
Above the reach of pinching poverty,

She lived on some small pittance which sufficed,
In better times, the needful calls of life,
Not without comfort. I remember her
Sitting at even in that open doorway,

And spinning in the sun. Methinks I see her
Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles
To see the passer-by, yet ceasing not

To twirl her lengthening thread; or in the garden,

On some dry summer evening, walking round
To view her flowers, and pointing as she lean'd
Upon the ivory handle of her stick,

To some carnation whose o'erheavy head
Needed support; while with the watering-pot
Joanna follow'd, and refresh'd and trimm'd
The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,
As lovely and as happy then as youth
And innocence could make her.

Charles, it seems

As though I were a boy again, and all
The mediate years with their vicissitudes
A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid
So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,
Her bright brown hair, wreathed in contracting

curls;

And then her cheek! it was a red and white
That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome.
The countrymen who on their way to church
Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear
The bell's last summons, and in idleness
Watching the stream below, would all look up
When she pass'd by. And her old Grandam, Charles,..
When I have heard some erring infidel
Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,
Inspiring superstitious wretchedness,
Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love

The Sabbath-day; and many a time hath cross'd
These fields in rain and through the winter snows,
When I, a graceless boy, and cold of foot,
Wishing the weary service at its end,
Have wonder'd wherefore that good dame came there,
Who, if it pleased her, might have staid beside
A comfortable fire.

One only care

Hung on her aged spirit. For herself,
Her path was plain before her, and the close
Of her long journey near. But then her child
Soon to be left alone in this bad world,...
That was a thought which many a winter night
Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love
In something better than a servant's state
Had placed her well at last, it was a pang
Like parting life to part with her dear girl.

One summer, Charles, when at the holidays
Return'd from school, I visited again

My old accustom'd walks, and found in them
A joy almost like meeting an old friend,
I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds
Already crowding the neglected flowers.
Joanna, by a villain's wiles seduced,

Had play'd the wanton, and that blow had reach'd
Her grandam's heart. She did not suffer long;
Her age was feeble, and this mortal grief
Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes,
And think of other days. It wakes in me

A transient sadness; but the feelings, Charles,
Which ever with these recollections rise,
I trust in God they will not pass away.

Westbury, 1799.

VII.

THE LAST OF THE FAMILY.

JAMES.

WHAT, Gregory, you are come, I see, to join us On this sad business.

GREGORY.

Ay, James, I am come, But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man! Where shall we meet the corpse?

JAMES.

Some hour from hence; By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. This is not as it should be, Gregory, Old men to follow young ones to the grave! This morning when I heard the bell strike out, I thought that I had never heard it toll So dismally before.

GREGORY.

Well, well! my friend, "Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, One born so well, who might have blest us all Many long years!..

JAMES.

And then the family Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name Only to be remember'd on a tomb-stone ! A name that has gone down from sire to son

So many generations!... Many a time

Poor master Edward, who is now a corpse,

When but a child, would come to me and lead me
To the great family-tree, and beg of me
To tell him stories of his ancestors,

Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land
With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry
Who fought at Cressy in King Edward's wars;
And then his little eyes would kindle so

To hear of their brave deeds! I used to think
The bravest of them all would not out-do
My darling boy.

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Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth!
When he came home from school at holidays,
How I rejoiced to see him! He was sure
To come and ask of me what birds there were
About my fields; and when I found a covey,
There's not a testy Squire preserves his game
More charily, than I have kept them safe
For Master Edward. And he look'd so well
Upon a fine sharp morning after them,
His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd
With such a wholesome ruddiness,.. ah, James,
But he was sadly changed when he came down
To keep his birth-day.

JAMES.

Changed! why, Gregory, 'Twas like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd

Out of the carriage. He was grown so thin,
His cheek so delicate sallow, and his eyes
Had such a dim and rakish hollowness;
And when he came to shake me by the hand,
And spoke as kindly to me as he used,
I hardly knew the voice.

GREGORY.

It struck a damp

On all our merriment. "Twas a noble Ox That smoked before us, and the old October Went merrily in overflowing cans;

But 'twas a skin-deep merriment. My heart
Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank
His health, the thought came over me what cause
We had for wishing that, and spoilt the draught.
Poor Gentleman! to think ten months ago
He came of age, and now!

JAMES.

I fear'd it then! He look'd to me as one that was not long For this world's business.

GREGORY.

When the Doctor sent him Abroad to try the air, it made me certain That all was over. There's but little hope, Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man When his own mother-country will not do. The last time he came down, these bells rung so

I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down; And now that dismal toll! I would have staid Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty:

I am an old tenant of the family,

Born on the estate, and now that I've outlived it,
Why 'tis but right to see it to the grave.
Have you heard ought of the new Squire?

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'Tis hid behind them now.

GREGORY.

Ay! now we see it, And there's the coaches following, we shall meet About the bridge. Would that this day were over! I wonder whose turn's next.

JAMES.

God above knows. When youth is summon'd what must age expect! God make us ready, Gregory, when it comes !

Westbury, 1799.

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Why for that

Why, Sir, for that I've had my share; some sickness and some sorrow; Well will it be for them to know no worse.

He always was a well-conditioned lad,
One who'd work hard and well; and as for drink,
Save now and then mayhap at Christmas time,
Sober as wife could wish.

TRAVELLER.

Then is the girl A shrew, or else untidy?.. one to welcome Her husband with a rude unruly tongue? Or drive him from a foul and wretched home To look elsewhere for comfort? Is it so?

WOMAN.

She's notable enough; and as for temper
The best good-humour'd girl! You see yon house,
There by the aspen tree, whose grey leaves shine
In the wind? she lived a servant at the farm.
And often, as I came to weeding here,
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows
So cheerfully,.. I did not like to hear her,
Because it made me think upon the days
When I had got as little on my mind,
And was as cheerful too. But she would marry,
And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her!

TRAVELLER.

Why Mistress, if they both are well inclined, Why should not both be happy?

Yet I had rather hear a daughter's knell

Than her wedding-peal, Sir, if I thought her fate Promised no better things.

TRAVELLER.

Sure, sure, good woman, You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes! All have their cares; those who are poor want wealth, They who have wealth want more; so are we all Dissatisfied, yet all live on, and each Has his own comforts.

WOMAN,

Sir! d'ye see that horse Turn'd out to common here by the way-side? He's high in bone, you may tell every rib Even at this distance. Mind him! how he turns His head, to drive away the flies that feed On his gall'd shoulder! There's just grass enough To disappoint his whetted appetite. You see his comforts, Sir!

TRAVELLER.

A wretched beast!

Hard labour and worse usage he endures
From some bad master. But the lot of the poor
Is not like his.

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Ay! idleness! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries! . . Is it idleness, I pray you,
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
From dry bread and potatoes turn away?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail

For growing wants?.. Six years agone, these bells
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told
What I might look for,.. but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir;
Knew never what it was to want a meal;

Lay down without one thought to keep me sleepless
Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday
My linen gown, and when the pedlar came
Could buy me a new ribbon... And my husband,..
A towardly young man and well to do,..
He had his silver buckles and his watch;
There was not in the village one who look'd
Sprucer on holidays. We married, Sir,
And we had children, but while wants increas'd
Wages stood still. The silver buckles went,
So went the watch; and when the holiday coat
Was worn to work, no new one in its place.
For me.. you see my rags! but I deserve them,
For wilfully, like this new-married pair,
I went to my undoing.

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When first I heard his death, that very wish Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts; And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave, There will not be the weight of wealth like his To sink me down.

STRANGER.

The camel and the needle,...

Is that then in your mind?

watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday's clothes became common without any other to supply their place,.. but," said he, "some good comes from this, for they will then work for whatever they can get."

Note to Cottle's Malvern Hills.

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