6

news;

How coats were cut, and of his urgent need
For fresh supply, which he desired with speed.
The father doubted, when these letters came,
To what they tended, yet was loth to blame :
Stephen was once my duteous son, and now
My most obedient-this can I allow ?
Can I with pleasure or with patience see
A boy at once so heartless, and so free?
But soon the kinsman heavy tidings told,
That love and prudence could no more with-
hold:

Stephen, though steady at his desk, was grown

A rake and coxcomb-this he grieved to own;
His cousin left his church, and spent the day
Lounging about in quite a heathen way;
Sometimes he swore, but had indeed the grace
To show the shame imprinted on his face:
I search'd his room, and in his absence read
Books that I knew would turn a stronger
head;

The works of atheists half the number made,
The rest were lives of harlots leaving trade;
Which neither man nor boy would deign to
read,

If from the scandal and pollution freed:
I sometimes threaten'd, and would fairly state
My sense of things so vile and profligate;
But I'm a cit, such works are lost on me-
They're knowledge, and (good Lord!)
philosophy.'

'Oh, send him down,' the father soon
replied;

'Let me behold him, and my skill be tried: If care and kindness lose their wonted use, Some rougher medicine will the end produce.' Stephen with grief and anger heard his doom

'Go to the farmer? to the rustic's home? Curse the base threat'ning-''Nay, child,

excite :

But come, prepare, you must away to-night.' 'What! leave my studies, my improvements leave,

My faithful friends and intimates to grieve!'-
Go to your father, Stephen, let him see
All these improvements; they are lost on me.'
The youth, though loth, obey'd, and soon

he saw

The farmer-father, with some signs of awe;
Who kind, yet silent, waited to behold
How one would act, so daring, yet so cold:
And soon he found, between the friendly pair
That secrets pass'd which he was not to share;
But he resolved those secrets to obtain,
And quash rebellion in his lawful reign.
Stephen, though vain, was with his father
mute;

He fear'd a crisis, and he shunn'd dispute ;
And yet he long'd with youthful pride to show
He knew such things as farmers could not
know;

These to the grandam he with freedom spoke,
Saw her amazement, and enjoy'd the joke:
But on the father when he cast his eye,
Something he found that made his valour shy;
And thus there seem'd to be a hollow truce,
Still threat'ning something dismal to produce.
Ere this the father at his leisure read
The son's choice volumes, and his wonder fled;
He saw how wrought the works of either kind
On so presuming, yet so weak a mind;
These in a chosen hour he made his prey,
Condemn'd, and bore with vengeful thoughts
away;

Then in a close recess the couple near,
He sat unseen to see, unheard to hear.

There soon a trial for his patience came; Beneath were placed the youth and ancient dame,

Each on a purpose fix'd-but neither thought How near a foe, with power and vengeance fraught.

And now the matron told, as tidings sad, What she had heard of her beloved lad; How he to graceless, wicked men gave heed, And wicked books would night and morning read;

Some former lectures she again began,
And begg'd attention of her little man ;
She brought, with many a pious boast, in view
His former studies, and condemn'd the new :

Judges and kings, and chiefs and prophets, told;

Then he in winter-nights the Bible took,
To count how often in the sacred book
The sacred name appear'd, and could rehearse
Which were the middle chapter, word, and
verse,

The very letter in the middle placed,
And so employ'd the hours that others waste.
'Such wert thou once; and now, my child,
they say

Thy faith like water runneth fast away;
The prince of devils hath, I fear, beguiled
The ready wit of my backsliding child.'
On this, with lofty looks, our clerk began
His grave rebuke, as he assumed the man-
'There is no devil,' said the hopeful youth,
'Nor prince of devils; that I know for truth:
Have I not told you how my books describe
The arts of priests and all the canting tribe?
Your Bible mentions Egypt, where it seems
Was Joseph found when Pharaoh dream'd his
dreams :

Now in that place, in some bewilder'd head, (The learned write,) religious dreams were bred; Whence through the earth, with various forms combined,

They came to frighten and afflict mankind,
Prone (so I read) to let a priest invade
Their souls with awe, and by his craft be made
Slave to his will, and profit to his trade :
So say my books, and how the rogues agreed
To blind the victims, to defraud and lead;
When joys above to ready dupes were sold,
And hell was threaten'd to the shy and cold.
'Why so amazed, and so prepared to pray?
As if a Being heard a word we say :
This may surprise you; I myself began
To feel disturb'd, and to my Bible ran;
I now am wiser-yet agree in this,
The book has things that are not much amiss ;
It is a fine old work, and I protest
I hate to hear it treated as a jest:
The book has wisdom in it, if you look
Wisely upon it as another book.'-

'Oh! wicked! wicked! my unhappy child,

How hast thou been by evil men beguiled!' How! wicked, say you? you can little guess

The gain of that which you call wickedness:

And this because such people never dread Those threaten'd pains; hell comes not in their head:

Love is our nature, wealth we all desire,
And what we wish 'tis lawful to acquire;
So say my books—and what beside they show
'Tis time to let this honest farmer know.
Nay, look not grave; am I commanded down
To feed his cattle and become his clown?
Is such his purpose? then he shall be told
The vulgar insult-

'Hold, in mercy hold-' 'Father, oh! father! throw the whip away; I was but jesting, on my knees I pray— There, hold his arm-oh! leave us not alone : In pity cease, and I will yet atone For all my sin-' In vain; stroke after stroke,

On side and shoulder, quick as mill-wheels broke ;

Quick as the patient's pulse, who trembling cried,

And still the parent with a stroke replied; Till all the medicine he prepared was dealt, And every bone the precious influence felt; Till all the panting flesh was red and raw, And every thought was turn'd to fear and awe; Till every doubt to due respect gave placeSuch cures are done when doctors know the

case.

'Oh! I shall die-my father! do receive My dying words; indeed I do believe; The books are lying books, I know it well, There is a devil, oh! there is a hell; And I'm a sinner: spare me, I am young, My sinful words were only on my tongue; My heart consented not; 'tis all a lie : Oh! spare me then, I'm not prepared to die.' 'Vain, worthless, stupid wretch!' the

father cried,

Dost thou presume to teach? art thou a guide?

Driveller and dog, it gave the mind distress
To hear thy thoughts in their religious dress;
Thy pious folly moved my strong disdain,
Yet I forgave thee for thy want of brain :
But Job in patience must the man exceed
Who could endure thee in thy present creed;
Is it for thee, thou idiot, to pretend
The wicked cause a helping hand to lend ?

Canst thou a judge in any question be? Atheists themselves would scorn a friend like thee.

'Lo! yonder blaze thy worthies; in one heap

Thy scoundrel-favourites must for ever sleep:
Each yields its poison to the flame in turn,
Where whores and infidels are doom'd to burn;
Two noble faggots made the flame you see,
Reserving only two fair twigs for thee;
That in thy view the instruments may stand,
Ánd be in future ready for my hand :
The just mementos that, though silent, show
Whence thy correction and improvements

flow;

Beholding these, thou wilt confess their power, And feel the shame of this important hour. 'Hadst thou been humble, I had first design'd

By care from folly to have freed thy mind; And when a clean foundation had been laid, Our priest, more able, would have lent his aid:

But thou art weak, and force must folly guide, And thou art vain, and pain must humble pride:

Teachers men honour, learners they allure; But learners teaching, of contempt are sure; Scorn is their certain meed, and smart their only Cure!'

MADAM,

IT is the privilege of those who are placed in that elevated situation to which your Grace is an ornament, that they give honour to the person upon whom they confer a favour. When I dedicate to your Grace the fruits of many years, and speak of my debt to the House of Rutland, I feel that I am not without pride in the confession nor insensible to the honour which such gratitude implies. Forty years have elapsed since this debt commenced. On my entrance into the cares of life, and while contending with its difficulties, a Duke and Duchess of Rutland observed and protected me-in my progress a Duke and Duchess of Rutland favoured and assisted me-and, when I am retiring from the world, a Duke and Duchess of

Rutland receive my thanks, and accept my offering. All, even in this world of mutability, is not change: I have experienced unvaried favour-I have felt undiminished respect.

With the most grateful remembrance of what I owe, and the most sincere conviction of the little I can return, I present these pages to your Grace's acceptance, and beg leave to subscribe myself,

May it please your Grace,
With respect and gratitude,
Your Grace's
Most obedient and devoted Servant,
GEORGE CRABBE.

Trowbridge, June, 1819.

IF I did not fear that it would appear to my readers like arrogancy, or if it did not seem to myself indecorous to send two volumes of considerable magnitude from the press without preface or apology, without one petition for the reader's attention, or one plea for the writer's defects, I would most willingly spare myself an address of this kind, and more especially for these reasons; first, because a preface is a part of a book seldom honoured by a reader's perusal; secondly, because it is both difficult and distressing to write that which we think will be disregarded, and thirdly, because I do not conceive that I am called upon for such introductory matter by any of the motives which usually

influence an author when he composes his prefatory address.

When a writer, whether of poetry or prose, first addresses the public, he has generally something to offer which relates to himself or to his work, and which he considers as a necessary prelude to the work itself, to prepare his readers for the entertainment or the instruction they may expect to receive, for one of these every man who publishes must suppose he affords-this the act itself implies; and in proportion to his conviction of this fact must be his feeling of the difficulty in which he has placed himself: the difficulty consists in reconciling the implied presumption of the undertaking, whether to please or

to instruct mankind, with the diffidence and modesty of an untried candidate for fame or favour. Hence originate the many reasons an author assigns for his appearance in that character, whether they actually exist, or are merely offered to hide the motives which cannot be openly avowed; namely, the want or the vanity of the man, as his wishes for profit or reputation may most prevail with him.

Now, reasons of this kind, whatever they may be, cannot be availing beyond their first appearance. An author, it is true, may again feel his former apprehensions, may again be elevated or depressed by the suggestions of vanity and diffidence, and may be again subject to the cold and hot fit of aguish expectation; but he is no more a stranger to the press, nor has the motives or privileges of one who is. With respect to myself, it is certain they belong not to me. Many years have elapsed since I became a candidate for indulgence as an inexperienced writer; and to assume the language of such writer now, and to plead for his indulgences, would be proof of my ignorance of the place assigned to me, and the degree of favour which I have experienced; but of that place I am not uninformed, and with that degree of favour I have no reason to be dissatisfied.

It was the remark of the pious, but on some occasions the querulous, author of the Night Thoughts, that he had been so long remembered, he was forgotten; an expression in which there is more appearance of discontent than of submission: if he had patience, it was not the patience that smiles at grief. It is not therefore entirely in the sense of the good Doctor that I apply these words to myself, or to my more early publications. So many years indeed have passed since their first appearance, that I have no reason to complain, on that account, if they be now slumbering with other poems of decent reputation in their day-not dead indeed, nor entirely forgotten, but certainly not the subjects of discussion or conversation as when first introduced to the notice of the public, by those whom the public will not forget, whose protection was credit to their author, and whose approbation was fame to them. Still these early publications had so long preceded any other, that, if not altogether

unknown, I was, when I came again before the public, in a situation which excused, and perhaps rendered necessary some explanation; but this also has passed away, and none of my readers will now take the trouble of making any inquiries respecting my motives for writing or for publishing these Tales or verses of any description: known to each other as readers and authors are known, they will require no preface to bespeak their good will, nor shall I be under the necessity of soliciting the kindness which experience has taught me, endeavouring to merit, I shall not fail to receive.

There is one motive-and it is a powerful one-which sometimes induces an author, and more particularly a poet, to ask the attention of his readers to his prefatory address. This is when he has some favourite and peculiar style or manner which he would explain and defend, and chiefly if he should have adopted a mode of versification of which an uninitiated reader was not likely to perceive either the merit or the beauty. In such case it is natural, and surely pardonable, to assert and to prove, as far as reason will bear us on, that such method of writing has both; to show in what the beauty consists, and what peculiar difficulty there is, which, when conquered, creates the merit. How far any particular poet has or has not succeeded in such attempt is not my business nor my purpose to inquire: I have no peculiar notion to defend, no poetical heterodoxy to support, nor theory of any kind to vindicate or oppose

that which I have used is probably the most common measure in our language; and therefore, whatever be its advantages or defects, they are too well known to require from me a description of the one, or an apology for the other.

Perhaps still more frequent than any explanation of the work is an account of the author himself, the situation in which he is placed, or some circumstances of peculiar kind in his life, education, or employment. How often has youth been pleaded for deficiencies or redundancies, for the existence of which youth may be an excuse, and yet be none for their exposure! Age too has been pleaded for the errors and failings in a work which the octogenarian had the discernment to perceive, and yet had not the