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The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4 written by Charles Lamb

C >> Charles Lamb >> The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4




_Sand_. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his
fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness
of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest
remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of
a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of
us.

_Marg_. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received
farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to
estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and
to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign
places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him
kindly and not painful ruminations.

_Sand_. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents
seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of
grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept with many
tears (which I had not before noted in him), and appeared to be
touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their
sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned
to his former inwardness of suffering.

_Marg_. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would
have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already
oppressed and sinking spirit. Meditating upon these intricate and
widespread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep.
How goes the night?--

_Sand_. An hour past sunset. You shall first refresh your limbs
(tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake
your no less wearied mind to repose.

_Marg_. A good rest to us all.

_Sand._ Thanks, lady.




ACT THE FIFTH.

JOHN WOODVIL. (_dressing_).

_John_. How beautiful (_handling his mourning_)
And comely do these mourning garments show!
Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here,
To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly
By outward types the serious man within.--
Alas! what part or portion can I claim
In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
Which other mourners use? as namely,
This black attire, abstraction from society,
Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles,
A cleaving sadness native to the brow,
All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
(That steal away the sense of loss almost,)
Men's pity and good offices
Which enemies themselves do for us then,
Putting their hostile disposition off,
As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.

[_Pauses, and observes the pictures_.

These pictures must be taken down:
The portraitures of our most ancient family
For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd,
To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,
Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,
And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
Repeat by course their worthy histories,
(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John:
Telling me, I must be his famous John.)
But that was in old times.
Now, no more
Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.
I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes,
Have backward tainted all their noble blood,
Razed out the memory of an ancient family,
And quite reversed the honors of our house.
Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes?
The secret history of his own times,
And fashions of the world when he was young:
How England slept out three-and-twenty years,
While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king:
The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,
Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,
And Beauties of the court of James the First.

MARGARET _enters_.

_John_. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?
O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,
And diminution of my honor's brightness.
You bring some images of old times, Margaret,
That should be now forgotten.

_Marg_. Old times should never be forgotten, John.
I came to talk about them with my friend.

_John_. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.

_Marg_. If John rejected Margaret in his pride,
(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse
Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being gone,
The offence no longer lives.
O Woodvil, those were happy days,
When we two first began to love. When first,
Under pretence of visiting my father,
(Being then a stripling night upon my age,)
You came a-wooing to his daughter, John.
Do you remember,
With what a coy reserve and seldom speech,
(Young maidens must be chary of their speech,)
I kept the honors of my maiden pride?
I was your favorite then.

_John_. O Margaret, Margaret!
These your submissions to my low estate,
And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil,
Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.
Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex,
Whom miseries of mine could never alienate,
Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries,
And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved
Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn,
Then when you left in virtuous pride this house,
Could not so separate, but now in this
My day of shame, when all the world forsake me,
You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

_Marg_. Dost yet remember the green arbor. John,
In the south gardens of my father's house,
Where we have seen the summer sun go down,
Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?
And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness,
And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,
There dwell

"Like hermit poor
In pensive place obscure."

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls
(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair;
And make confession seven times a day
Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret;
And I your saint the penance should appoint--
Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid
Aside, like an old fashion.

_John._ O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts;
My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
I have no part in any good man's love,
In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,
I fade and wither in my own esteem,
This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
I was not always thus. [_Weeps_.

_Marg_. Thou noble nature,
Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,
Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,
My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John!
Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.

_John_. What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'd Margaret?

_Marg_. That John would think more nobly of himself,
More worthily of high Heaven;
And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
The less offence, with image of the greater,
Thereby to work the soul's humility,
(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)
O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,
Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come--
John yet has many happy days to live;
To live and make atonement.

_John_. Excellent lady,
Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,
Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends,
Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?

_Marg_. (_rising_). Go whither, John?

_John_. Go in with me
And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

_Marg_. That I will, John.

[_Exeunt_.


SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_.

JOHN _is discovered kneeling_.--MARGARET _standing over him_.

_John_ (_rises_). I cannot bear
To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

_Marg_. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
And I must chide these pestilent humors from you.

_John_. They are gone.--
Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
I can smile too, and I almost begin
To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

_Marg_. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

_John_. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth,
(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.)
That were a sad indecency, you know.

_Marg_. Nay, never fear.
I will be mistress of your humors,
And you shall frown or smile by the book.
And herein I shall be most peremptory,
Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity;
This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,
But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

_John_. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

_Marg_. To give you in your stead a better self!
Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld
You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,
Sir Rowland my father's gift,
And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.
I was a young thing then, being newly come
Home from my convent education, where
Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
Returning home true protestant, you call'd me
Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
Did John salute his love, being newly seen!
Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
And praised it in a youth.

_John_. Now Margaret weeps herself.

(_A noise of bells heard_.)

_Marg_. Hark the bells, John.

_John_. Those are the church-bells of St. Mary Ottery.

_Marg_. I know it.

_John_. St. Mary Ottery, my native village
In the sweet shire of Devon.
Those are the bells.

_Marg._ Wilt go to church, John?

_John._ I have been there already.

_Marg._ How canst say thou hast been there already?
The bells are only now ringing for morning service,
And hast thou been at church already?

_John._ I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,
And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is)
From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
And the first object I discern'd
Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

_Marg._ Well, John.

_John._ Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath day.
Immediately a wish arose in my mind,
To go to church and pray with Christian people.
And then I check'd myself, and said to myself,
"Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,
(Not having been at church in all that time,)
And is it fit, that now for the first time
Thou shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people
With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?
Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts,
And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray,
With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?"
And then I at my own presumption smiled;
And then I wept that I should smile at all,
Having such cause of grief! I wept outright:
Tears like a river flooded all my face,
And I began to pray, and found I could pray;
And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.
"Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."
So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,
Or was about to act unlawful business
At that dead time of dawn,
I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open.
(Whether by negligence I knew not,
Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,
For all things felt like mystery.)

_Marg_. Yes.

_John_. So entering in, not without fear,
I passed into the family pew,
And covering up my eyes for shame,
And deep perception of unworthiness,
Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
Where I so oft had kneel'd,
A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
More poignant than the first;
But afterwards was greatly comforted.
It seem'd the guilt of blood was passing from me
Even in the act and agony of tears,
And all my sins forgiven.




THE WITCH;

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

* * * * *

CHARACTERS.

OLD SERVANT _in the Family of_ SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. STRANGER.

* * * * *

_Servant_. One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced,
Was pacing to and fro in the avenue
That westward fronts our house,
Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted
Three hundred years ago,
By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.
Being o'ertasked in thought, he heeded not
The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,
And begg'd an alms.
Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
With angry chiding; but I can never think
(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
That he could use a woman, an old woman,
With such discourtesy; but he refused her--
And better had he met a lion in his path
Than that old woman that night;
For she was one who practised the black arts,
And serv'd the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.
She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him,
And with a frightful noise,
('Twas partly like a woman's voice,
And partly like the hissing of a snake,)
She nothing said but this
(Sir Francis told the words):--

A mischief, mischief, mischief,
And a nine-times killing curse,
By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,
Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,
And shuts up the womb of his purse.
And still she cried--

A mischief,
And a ninefold withering curse:
For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,
Both all that thou fearest and worse.

So saying, she departed,
Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath
Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
So he described it.

_Stranger_. A terrible curse! What follow'd?

_Servant_. Nothing immediate, but some two months after,
Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,
And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay,
And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,
And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin
As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing.
And sure I think
He bore his death-wound like a little child;
With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy
He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,
Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,
Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;
And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid
His hand upon his heart to show the place,
Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
And prick'd him with a pin.--
And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind
The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
And begg'd an alms.

_Stranger_. But did the witch confess?

_Servant_. All this and more at her death.

_Stranger_. I do not love to credit tales of magic.
Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung,
And this brave world
(The mystery of God) unbeautified,
Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.




ALBUM VERSES,

WITH A FEW OTHERS.




DEDICATION.

* * * * *

TO THE PUBLISHER.

DEAR MOXON,


I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly
due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were
desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the _manner_ in which
Publications, intrusted to your future care, would appear. With more
propriety, perhaps, the "Christmas," or some other of your own
simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose.
But I forget--you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my
hands sundry Copies of Verses written for _Albums_--

Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show
Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know--

or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen in
this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication.
They are simply--_Advertisement Verses_.

It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our
honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a Publisher. May
that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his
patronage justified? I venture to predict that your habits of
industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world.

I am, Dear Moxon,

Your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,

CHARLES LAMB.

ENFIELD, _1st June_, 1839.




ALBUM VERSES

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

* * * * *

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W----.

* * * * *

Had I a power, Lady, to my will,
You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill
Your leaves with Autographs--resplendent names
Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames,
Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand
The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band--
Who in their Courts of Law or Equity
Have best upheld Freedom and Property.
These should moot cases in your book, and vie
To show their reading and their Sergeantry.
But I have none of these; nor can I send
The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd
In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours
Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.
The lack of curious Signatures I moan,
And want the courage to subscribe my own.

* * * * *

TO DORA W----.

ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM.

An Album is a Banquet: from the store,
In his intelligential Orchard growing,
Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing:
One shaking of the Tree--'twould ask no more
To set a Salad forth, more rich than that
Which Evelyn[1] in his princely cookery fancied:
Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced,
Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat.
But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast,
Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax,
From his less wealthy neighbors he exacts;
Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast.
Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am,
A zealous, meek, _contributory_ LAMB.

[Footnote 1: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706.]

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.

An Album is a Garden, not for show
Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.
A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where
No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.
A Chapel, where mere ornamental things
Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings.
A List of living friends; a holier Room
For names of some since mouldering in the tomb,
Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive;
And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live.
Such, and so tender, should an Album be;
And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S----.

In Christian world MARY the garland wears!
REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear;
Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear;
And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears.
Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines!
What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round!
How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound!
Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines
Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff
Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. But can
You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN?
And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?
Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q----.

A passing glance was all I caught of thee,
In my own Enfield haunts at random roving.
Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving;
Time short: and salutations cursory,
Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name
Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me
Thoughts--what the daughter of that Man should be,
Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame
A growing Maiden, who, from day to day
Advancing still in stature, and in grace,
Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface,
And his paternal cares with usury pay.
I still retain the phantom, as I can;
And call the gentle image--Quillinan.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.

CANADIA! boast no more the toils
Of hunters for the furry spoils;
Your whitest ermines are but foils
To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst
From climes with rigorous winter curst!--
We bless you, that so kindly nurst
This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display
Of lake--wood--vast Niagara;
Your greatest pride we've borne away.
How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,
To your reproach no more we tell:
Canadia, you repaid us well
With rearing Catherine Orkney.

O Britain, guard with tenderest care
The charge allotted to your share:
You've scarce a native maid so fair,
So good, as Catherine Orkney.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.

Little Book, surnamed of _white_,
Clean as yet, and fair to sight,
Keep thy attribution right.

Never disproportion'd scrawl;
Ugly blot, that's worse than all;
On thy maiden clearness fall!

In each letter, here design'd,
Let the reader emblem'd find
Neatness of the owner's mind.

Gilded margins count a sin,
Let thy leaves attraction win
By the golden rules within;

Sayings fetch'd from sages old;
Laws which Holy Writ unfold,
Worthy to be graved in gold:

Lighter fancies not excluding:
Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,
Sometimes mildly interluding

Amid strains of graver measure:
Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure
In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.

Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
Darker meanings of offence;
What but _shades_--be banish'd hence.

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,
Candid meanings, best express
Mind of quiet Quakeress.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS.

Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown
The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace,
How shall I find fit matter? with what face
Address a face that ne'er to me was shown?
Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not,
Conjecturing, I wander in the dark.
I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke!
But at that name my cold muse waxes hot,
And swears that thou art such a one as he,
Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness,
Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness
From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be
The pure reverse of this, and I mistake--
Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ----.


I.

Such goodness in your face doth shine,
With modest look without design,
That I despair, poor pen of mine
Can e'er express it.
To give it words I feebly try;
My spirits fail me to supply
Befitting language for't, and I
Can only bless it!


II.

But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse
A bashful Maiden's ear with news
Of her own virtues. She'll refuse
Praise sung so loudly.
Of that same goodness you admire,
The best part is, she don't aspire
To praise--nor of herself desire
To think too proudly.

* * * * *

IN MY OWN ALBUM.

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white,
A young probationer of light,
Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friend and foe, in foul or fair,
Have "written strange defeatures" there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates--he can't recall;

And error gilding worst designs--
Like speckled snake that strays and shines--
Betrays his path by crooked lines;

And vice hath left his ugly blot;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began--but finish'd not;

And fruitless, late remorse doth trace--
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace--
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit
Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look--
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.




MISCELLANEOUS.

* * * * *

ANGEL HELP[1]

[Footnote 1: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles
Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female
Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedrid mother,
has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In
another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the emblem
of purity.]

This rare tablet doth include
Poverty with sanctitude.
Past midnight this poor maid hath spun,
And yet the work is not half done,
Which must supply from earnings scant
A feeble bedrid parent's want.
Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
And Holy hands take up the task;
Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
And do her earthly drudgery.
Sleep, saintly poor one! sleep, sleep on;
And, waking, find thy labors done.
Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,
Angelic presence testifying,
That round her everywhere are flying;
Ostents from which she may presume,
That much of heaven is in the room.
Skirting her own bright hair they run,
And to the sunny add more sun:
Now on that aged face they fix,
Streaming from the Crucifix;
The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,
Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
Prelibations, foretastes high,
And equal thoughts to live or die.
Gardener bright from Eden's bower,
Tend with care that lily flower;
To its leaves and root infuse
Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.
'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge,
Of a crowning privilege.
Careful as that lily flower,
This maid must keep her precious dower;
Live a sainted maid, or die
Martyr to virginity.