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

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* * * * *

III.

ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT
SLEEPING.

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep
Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep,
May the repose unbroken be,
Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,
While thou enjoy'st along with it
That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,
Or counterfeit to mortal sense,
The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!

* * * * *

IV.

EPITAPH ON A DOG.
Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,
His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,
Had he occasion for that staff, with which
He now goes picking out his path in fear
Over the highways and crossings, but would plant,
Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd
His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd:
To whom with loud and passionate laments
From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.
Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there,
The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.
I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive
At his kind hand my customary crumbs,
And common portion in his feast of scraps;
Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent
With our long day and tedious beggary.
These were my manners, this my way of life,
Till age and slow disease me overtook,
And sever'd from my sightless master's side.
But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,
Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,
Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
In long and lasting union to attest,
The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

* * * * *

V.

THE RIVAL BELLS.

A tuneful challenge rings from either side
Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride,
Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply
The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.
Such harmony from the contention flows,
That the divided ear no preference knows:
Betwixt them both disparting Music's State,
While one exceeds in number, one in weight.

* * * * *

VI.

NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.

Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,
Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet;
But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown,
Discover'd properties to her unknown;
Of A _plus_ B, or _minus_, learn'd the use,
Known Quantities from unknown to educe;
And made--no doubt to that old dame's surprise--
The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies.
Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say,
Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!

* * * * *

VII.

THE HOUSEKEEPER.

The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose,
Carries his house with him, where'er he goes;
Peeps out--and if there comes a shower of rain,
Retreats to his small domicile amain.
Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well--
He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites,
And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam--
Knock when you will--he's sure to be at home.

* * * * *

VIII.

ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.[1]

[Footnote 1: Benjamin Ferrers--Died A. D. 1732.]

And hath thy blameless life become
A prey to the devouring tomb?
A more mute silence hast thou known,
A deafness deeper than thine own,
While Time was? and no friendly Muse,
That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,
Repair with quickening verse the breach.
And write thee into light and speech?
The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd
Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd;
Who made the Hearing, without wrong
Did rescue thine from Siren's song.
He let thee _see_ the ways of men,
Which thou with pencil, not with pen,
Careful Beholder, down didst note,
And all their motley actions quote,
Thyself unstain'd the while. From look
Or gesture reading, more than _book_,
In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,
Contented with the Silent Art,
Thyself as silent. Might I be
As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!

* * * * *

IX.

THE FEMALE ORATORS.

Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed
Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,
So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs
A name, allusive strictly to _two Tongues_[1]
Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes,
And _gratis_ deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes.
With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,
Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.
One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,
And one in literalities abounds;
In mood and figure these keep up the din:
Words multiply, and every word tells in.
Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains;
And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins
In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo,
And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero.
Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand,
And from her sovereign station taints the land.
Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar;
Quacks scold; and Billingsgate infects the Bar.

[Footnote 1: _Bilinguis_ in the Latin.]

* * * * *

PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL.

I.

Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe,
That sang the Pillory,
In loftier strains to show
A more sublime Machine
Than that, where thou wert seen,
With neck outstretcht and shoulders ill awry,
Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below--
A most unseemly show!

II.

In such a place
Who could expose thy face,
Historiographer of deathless Crusoe!
That paint'st the strife
And all the naked ills of savage life,
Far above Rousseau?
Rather myself had stood
In that ignoble wood,
Bare to the mob, on holiday or high-day.
If nought else could atone
For waggish libel,
I swear on bible,
I would have spared him for thy sake alone,
Man Friday!

III.

Our ancestors' were sour days,
Great Master of Romance!
A milder doom had fallen to thy chance
In our days:
Thy sole assignment
Some solitary confinement,
(Not worth thy care a carrot,)
Where in world-hidden cell
Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well,
Only without the parrot;
By sure experience taught to know,
Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.

IV.

But stay! methinks in statelier measure--
A more companionable pleasure--
I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace,
(The subject of my song,
Delay'd however long,)
And some of thine own race,
To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along.
There with thee go,
Link'd in like sentence,
With regulated pace and footing slow,
Each old acquaintance,
Rogue--harlot--thief--that live to future ages;
Through many a labor'd tome,
Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages.
Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home!
Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack,
From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack.
Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags;
Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags,
There points to Amy, treading equal chimes,
The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.

V.

Incompetent my song to raise,
To its just height thy praise,
Great Mill!
That by thy motion proper
(No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill),
Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will,
Turn'st out men's consciences,
That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet
As flour from purest wheat,
Into thy hopper.
All reformation short of thee but nonsense is,
Or human, or divine.

VI.

Compared with thee,
What are the labors of that Jumping Sect,
Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect?
Thou dost not bump,
Or jump,
But _walk_ men into virtue; betwixt crime
And slow repentance giving breathing time,
And leisure to be good;
Instructing with discretion demi-reps
How to direct their steps.

VII.

Thou best Philosopher made out of wood!
Not that which framed the tub,
Where sat the Cynic cub,
With nothing in his bosom sympathetic;
But from those groves derived, I deem,
Where Plato nursed his dream
Of immortality;
Seeing that clearly
Thy system all is merely
Peripatetic.
Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give
Of how to live
With temperance, sobriety, morality,
(A new art,)
That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds,
Each Tyro now proceeds
A "Walking Stewart!"

* * * * *

GOING OR GONE.

I.

Fine merry franions,
Wanton companions,
My days are ev'n banyans
With thinking upon ye!
How Death, that last stinger,
Finis-writer, end-bringer,
Has laid his chill finger,
Or is laying on ye.

II.

There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
With footing it featly
That took me completely,
She sleeps in the Kirk House;
And poor Polly Perkin,
Whose Dad was still firking
The jolly ale firkin,
She's gone to the Work-house;

III.

Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter
(In ten counties no smarter)
Has ta'en his departure
For Proserpine's orchards:
And Lily, postilion,
With cheeks of vermilion,
Is one of a million
That fill up the church-yards;

IV.

And, lusty as Dido,
Fat Clemitson's widow
Flits now a small shadow
By Stygian hid ford;
And good Master Clapton
Has thirty years napt on,
The ground he last hapt on,
Entomb'd by fair Widford;

V.

And gallant Tom Dockwra,
Of Nature's finest crockery,
Now but thin air and mockery,
Lurks by Avernus,
Whose honest grasp of hand
Still, while his life did stand,
At friend's or foe's command,
Almost did burn us.

VI.

Roger de Coverley
Not more good man than he;
Yet has he equally
Push'd for Cocytus,
With drivelling Worral,
And wicked old Dorrell,
'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,
Whose end might affright us!--

VII.

Kindly hearts have I known;
Kindly hearts, they are flown;
Here and there if but one
Linger yet uneffaced,
Imbecile tottering elves,
Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,
These scarce are half themselves,
With age and care crazed.

VIII.

But this day Fanny Hutton
Her last dress has put on;
Her fine lessons forgotten,
She died, as the dunce died;
And prim Betsey Chambers,
Decay'd in her members,
No longer remembers
Things, as she once did;

IX.

And prudent Miss Wither
Not in jest now doth _wither_,
And soon must go--whither
Nor I well, nor you know;
And flaunting Miss Waller,
_That_ soon must befall her,
Whence none can recall her,
Though proud once as Juno!

* * * * *

FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT
COMPOSERS.

Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,
Just as the whim bites; for my part,
I do not care a farthing candle
For either of them, or for Handel.--
Cannot a man live free and easy,
Without admiring Pergolesi?
Or through the world with comfort go,
That never heard of Doctor Blow?
So help me heaven, I hardly have;
And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
Like other people, if you watch it,
And know no more of stave or crotchet,
Than did the primitive Peruvians;
Or those old ante-queer-diluvians
That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,
Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal
By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,
Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.
I care no more for Cimarosa,
Than he did for Salvator Rosa,
Being no painter; and bad luck
Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!
Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,
Had something in them; but who's Purcel?
The devil, with his foot so cloven,
For aught I care, may take Beethoven;
And, if the bargain does not suit,
I'll throw him Weber in to boot.
There's not the splitting of a splinter
To choose twixt him last named, and Winter.
Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido
Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.
I would not go four miles to visit
Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)
No more I would for Bononcini.
As for Novello, or Rossini,
I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,
Because they're living; so I leave 'em.

THE WIFE'S TRIAL;

OR,

THE INTRUDING WIDOW.

A Dramatic poem.

FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE'S TALE OF "THE CONFIDANT."

* * * * *

CHARACTERS.

MR. SELBY, _A Wiltshire Gentleman._
KATHERINE, _Wife to Selby_.
LUCY, _Sister to Selby_.
MRS. FRAMPTON, _A Widow_.

SERVANTS.

SCENE--_At Mr. Selby's House, or in the grounds adjacent_.

* * * * *

SCENE--_A Library_.

MR. SELBY. KATHERINE.

_Selby_. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife;
I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself,
And those too with allowance. I have not
Been blest by thy fair side with five white years
Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch
With any strain of harshness on a string
Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality
Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine,
That to the lame performance of some vows,
And common courtesies of man to wife,
Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd
To esteem as favors, what in that blest union
Are but reciprocal and trivial dues,
As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought
Gently to reprehend.

_Kath._ In friendship's barter
The riches we exchange should hold some level,
And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys
Demand some thanks thrown in. You look me, sir,
To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom,
An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm.
Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden,
Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.

_Selby._ But to divert the subject: Kate too fond,
I would not wrest your meanings; else that word
Accompanied, and full-accompanied too,
Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives
Haply did think their company too long;
And over-company, we know by proof,
Is worse than no attendance.

_Kath._ I must guess,
You speak this of the Widow--

_Selby._ 'Twas a bolt
At random shot; but if it hit, believe me,
I am most sorry to have wounded you
Through a friend's side. I know not how we have swerved
From our first talk. I was to caution you
Against this fault of a too grateful nature:
Which, for some girlish obligations past,
In that relenting season of the heart,
When slightest favors pass for benefits
Of endless binding, would entail upon you
An iron slavery of obsequious duty
To the proud will of an imperious woman.

_Kath_. The favors are not slight to her I owe.

_Selby_. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts
Cancels all dues-- [_A voice within_.
even now I hear her call you
In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses
Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate.
Let her expect a brace of minutes or so.
Say you are busy. Use her by degrees
To some less hard exactions.

_Kath_. I conjure you,
Detain me not. I will return--

_Selby_. Sweet wife,
Use thy own pleasure-- [_Exit_ KATHERINE.
but it troubles me.
A visit of three days, as was pretended,
Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given
When she will go! I would this buxom Widow
Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try
My Katherine's constancy; make desperate love
In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils,
That she, not I, should be the first to warn
The insidious guest depart.

_Reenter_ KATHERINE.

So soon return'd!
What was our Widow's will?

_Kath_. A trifle, sir.

_Selby_. Some toilet service--to adjust her head,
Or help to stick a pin in the right place--

_Kath_. Indeed 'twas none of these.

_Selby._ Or new vamp up
The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her
Demand such service from thee, as her maid,
Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red,
And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond slave!
And yet my dearest Kate!--This day at least
(It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom,
And will forget our Widow. Philip, our coach--
Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you
An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs
To the blest cottage on the green hill-side,
Where first I told my love. I wonder much,
If the crimson parlor hath exchanged its hue
For colors not so welcome. Faded though it be,
It will not show less lovely than the tinge
Of this faint red, contending with the pale,
Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek
An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side,
That bears my Katherine's name.--
Our carriage, Philip.

_Enter a Servant._

Now, Robin, what make you here?

_Servant._ May it please you,
The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton.

_Selby._ He had no orders--

_Servant._ None, sir, that I know of,
But from the lady, who expects some letter
At the next Post Town.

_Selby._ Go, Robin. [_Exit Servant._
How is this?

_Kath._ I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger--

_Selby._ It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton,
This forward Widow. But a ride's poor loss
Imports not much. In to your chamber, love,
Where you with music may beguile the hour,
While I am tossing over dusty tomes,
Till our most reasonable friend returns.

_Kath_. I am all obedience. [_Exit_ KATHERINE.

_Selby_. Too obedient, Kate,
And to too many masters. I can hardly
On such a day as this refrain to speak
My sense of this injurious friend, this pest,
This household evil, this close-clinging fiend,
In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants
Controll'd above me! orders countermanded!
What next? [_Servant enters and announces the Sister._

_Enter_ LUCY.

Sister! I know you are come to welcome
This day's return. 'Twas well done.

_Lucy_. You seem ruffled.
In years gone by this day was used to be
The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd
So soon to gall?

_Selby_. Gall'd am I, and with cause,
And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance,
Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.

_Lucy_. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton.

_Selby_. She came at first a meek admitted guest,
Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment
Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk,
The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing,
Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress,
Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it
In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife;
Who owes her some strange service, of what nature
I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek
And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye,
As spell-bound by some witch.

_Lucy_. Some mystery hangs on it.
How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?

_Selby_. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares
For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought,
A secret glance would tell me she could love,
If I but gave encouragement. Before me
She keeps some moderation; but is never
Closeted with my wife, but in the end
I find my Katherine in briny tears.
From the small chamber, where she first was lodged,
The gradual fiend by spacious wriggling arts
Has now ensconced herself in the best part
Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own;
Commands my servants, equipage.--I hear
Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon?

_Enter_ MRS. FRAMPTON.

_Mrs. F._ O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death,
With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip
Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks,
And stoniest hard lanes in all the county,
Till I was fain get out, and so walk back,
My errand unperform'd at Andover.

_Lucy_. And I shall love the knave forever after.
[_Aside_.

_Mrs. F._ A friend with you!

_Selby_. My eldest sister, Lucy,
Come to congratulate this returning morn.--
Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton.

_Mrs. F._ Pray,
Be seated; for your brother's sake, you are welcome.
I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion
With the good couple, to whose hospitality
I stand so far indebted. But your coming
Makes it a feast.

_Lucy._ She does the honors naturally--
[_Aside._

_Selby._ As if she were the mistress of the house.--
[_Aside._

_Mrs. F._ I love to be at home with loving friends.
To stand on ceremony with obligations,
Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though,
Of yours jumbles one strangely.

_Selby._ I shall order
An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam--

_Lucy._ To drive her and her pride to Lucifer,
I hope he means. [_Aside._

_Mrs. F._ I must go trim myself; this humbled garb
Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave
For a short absence?--and your Katherine--

_Selby._ You'll find her in her closet--

_Mrs. F._ Fare you well, then.
[_Exit._

_Selby._ How like you her assurance?

_Lucy._ Even so well,
That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,
She should have coach enough, and scope to ride.
My merry groom should in a trice convey her
To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge,
To pick her path through those antiques at leisure;
She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints.
O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise,
That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this
Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart
Secrets of any worth, especially
Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught,
My life upon't,'tis but some girlish story
Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife
Might modestly deny to a husband's ear,
Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.

_Selby_. I think it is no more; and will dismiss
My further fears, if ever I have had such.

_Lucy_. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother;
And how the new trees thrive, I recommended.
Your Katherine is engaged now--

_Selby_. I'll attend you.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE.--_Servants' Hall_.

HOUSEKEEPER, PHILIP, _and others, laughing_.

_Housekeeper_. Our Lady's guest, since her short ride, seems ruffled,
And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip,
I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks
Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant.

_Philip_. Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper,
And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions,
We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger,
And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries.
We are wild things.

_Butler_. Good Philip, tell us all.

_All_. Ay, as you live, tell, tell--

_Philip_. Mad fellows, you shall have it.
The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud--

_Butler_. I think that no one can mistake her ringing.

_Waiting-maid_. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to it,
More of entreaty hath it than command.

_Philip_. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus.
The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice
More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman Philip!"

I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office,
"Drive me," quoth she, "to the next market-town,
Where I have hope of letters." I made haste:
Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd,
And drove her--

_Waiting-maid_. By the straight high-road to Andover,
I guess--

_Philip_. Pray, warrant things within your knowledge,
Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings,
And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.

_Butler_. He'll have his humor; best not interrupt him.

_Philip_. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the poor beasts,
Meeting such droves of cattle and of people,
May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled,
Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd,
And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest,
By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions
We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam,
In policy, to save the few joints left her,
Betook her to her feet, and there we parted.

_All_. Ha! ha! ha!

_Butler_. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride.

_Waiting-maid_. I think she is a witch; I have tired myself out
With sticking pins in her pillow; still she scapes them--

_Butler_. And I with helping her to mum for claret,
But never yet could cheat her dainty palate.

_Housekeeper_. Well, well, she is the guest of our good Mistress,
And so should be respected. Though, I think,
Our master cares not for her company,
He would ill brook we should express so much
By rude discourtesies, and short attendance,
Being but servants. (_A Bell rings furiously._)
'Tis her bell speaks now;
Good, good, bestir yourselves: who knows who's wanted?

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