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JANE.

And so they prest a woman!

GRANDMOTHER.

'T was a trick

She dearly loved to tell; and all the country Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel For miles around. All weathers and all hours She cross'd the hill, as hardy as her beasts, Bearing the wind and rain and drifting snow. And if she did not reach her home at night, She laid her down in the stable with her asses, And slept as sound as they did.

HARRY.

With her asses!

GRANDMOTHER.

Yes; and she loved her beasts. For though, poor wretch, She was a terrible reprobate, and swore

Like any trooper, she was always good

To the dumb creatures; never loaded them
Beyond their strength; and rather, I believe,

Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want,
Because she said they could not ask for food.

I never saw her stick fall heavier on them

Than just with its own weight. She little thought
This tender-heartedness would cause her death!
There was a fellow who had oftentimes,
As if he took delight in cruelty,

Ill-used her beasts. He was a man who lived
By smuggling, and,-for she had often met him
Crossing the down at night,-she threaten'd him,
If ever he abused them more, to inform

Of his unlawful ways. Well-so it was

'T was what they both were born to! he provoked her: She laid an information; and one morning

They found her in the stable, her throat cut

From ear to ear, till the head only hung
Just by a bit of skin.

JANE.

Oh dear! oh dear! HARRY.

I hope they hung the man!

GRANDMOTHER.

They took him up; There was no proof, no man had seen the deed, And he was set at liberty. But God, Whose eye beholdeth all things, he had seen The murder; and the murderer knew that God Was witness to his crime. He fled the place,— But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand Of Heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest; A guilty conscience haunted him; by day,

By night, in company, in solitude,

Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him
The weight of blood! Her cries were in his ears;
Her stifled groans, as when he knelt upon her,
Always he heard; always he saw her stand
Before his eyes; even in the dead of night
Distinctly seen as though in the broad sun,
She stood beside the murderer's hed, and yawn'd
Her ghastly wound; till life itself became
A punishment at last he could not bear,
And he confess'd it all, and gave himself
To death; so terrible, he said, it was
To have a guilty conscience!

HARRY.

Was he hung, then?

GRANDMOTHER.

Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man,
Your uncles went to see him on his trial;
He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed,
And such a horror in his meagre face,
They said he look'd like one who never slept.
He begg'd the prayers of all who saw his end,
And met his death with fears that well might warn
From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ.

HANNAH.

PASSING across a green and lonely lane

A funeral met our view. It was not here
A sight of every day, as in the streets
Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd
Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl,
They answer'd, of the village, who had pined
Through the long course of eighteen painful months
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the time. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
Which makes the eye turn inward: hearing then
Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead;
I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains,
And he who should have cherish'd her, far off
Sail'd on the seas. Left thus, a wretched one,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues
Were busy with her name. She had to bear
The sharper sorrow of neglect from him
Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,
But only once that drop of comfort came
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness;

And when his parents had some tidings from him,
There was no mention of poor Hannah there,
Or 't was the cold inquiry, more unkind
Than silence. So she pined and pined away,
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd,
Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest
From labour, knitting there with lifted arms,
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother
Omitted no kind office, working for her,
Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd
Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay
On the sick bed of poverty, worn out

With her long suffering and those painful thoughts
Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak,
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant; and the child,
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her,
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too
Had grown indifferent to all things of earth,
Finding her only comfort in the thought
Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest.
There had she now, in that last home, been laid,
And all was over now,-sickness and grief,
Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence:
Their work was dope. The school-boys as they sport
In the churchyard, for awhile might turn away

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Yes, Sir; and they should show no mercy to them
For making use of such unchristian arms.

The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: one in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be right and humane to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies; but to use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon the sufferers in war, is cruel and wicked.

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A dear good boy!-when first he went to sea

I felt what it would come to,-something told me I should be childless soon. But tell me, Sir,

If it be true that for a hurt like his

There is no cure? Please God to spare his life
Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful!
I can remember there was a blind man
Lived in our village, one from his youth up
Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man,
And he had none to tend on him so well
As I would tend my boy!

TRAVELLER.

Of this be sure,

His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help
The land affords, as rightly is his due,
Ever at hand. How happen'd it he left you?
Was a seafaring life his early choice?

WOMAN.

No, Sir! poor fellow,-he was wise enough
To be content at home, and 't was a home
As comfortable, Sir! even though I say it,
As any in the country. He was left
A little boy when his poor father died,
Just old enough to totter by himself,

And call his mother's name. We two were all,
And as we were not left quite destitute,
We bore up well. In the summer time I work'd
Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting,
And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel
Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too,
And never felt distress. So he grew up
A comely lad, and wonderous well disposed;
I taught him well; there was not in the parish
A child who said his prayers more regular,
Or answer'd readier through his Catechism.
If I had foreseen this! but 't is a blessing
We dont't know what we're born to!

TRAVELLER.

But how came it

He chose to be a Sailor?

WOMAN.

You shall hear, Sir;

As he grew up he used to watch the birds
In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done.
'T is an idle sort of task; so he built up

A little hut of wicker-work and clay
Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain :
And then he took, for very idleness,

To making traps to catch the plunderers;
All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make,-
Propping a stone to fall and shut them in,
Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe
Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly,-
And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased
To see the boy so handy. You may guess
What follow'd, Sir, from this unlucky skill.
He did what he should not when he was older:
I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught
In wiring hares at last, and had his choice,
The prison or the ship.

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FATHER.

Here's the Curate coming,

He ought to rid the parish of such vermin!
In the old times they used to hunt them out,
And hang them without mercy; but, Lord bless us!
The world is grown so wicked!

CURATE.

Good day, Farmer!

Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold?

NATHANIEL.

A horse-shoe, Sir; 't is good to keep off witchcraft,
And we 're afraid of Margery.

CURATE.

Poor old woman!

What can you fear from her?

FATHER.

What can we fear!

Who lamed the Miller's boy? who raised the wind
That blew my old barn's roof down? who d' ye think
Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the hounds?
But let me catch her at that trick again,
And I've a silver bullet ready for her,
One that shall iame her, double how she will.

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, 't is 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.

FATHER.

I wish she was! She has plagued the parish long enough!

CURATE.

FATHER.

Shame, Farmer!

My Bible does not teach me to love witches.

I know what's charity; who pays his tithes
And poor-rates readier?

CURATE.

Who can better do it?

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

And when there's such plain proof! Is that the charity your Bible teaches?
I did but threaten her because she robb'd
Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind
That made me shake to hear it in my bed!
How came it that that storm unroof'd my barn,
And only mine in the parish?-Look at her,
And that's enough; she has it in her face!-
A pair of large dead eyes, sunk in her head,
Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles round;
A nose and chin that scarce leave room between
For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff;
And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven
Croak at my door!-She sits there, nose and knees
Smoke-dried and shrivell'd o'er a starved fire,
With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes
Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure
It must be one of his imps!-Aye, nail it hard.

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THE RUINED COTTAGE.

AY, Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye!-
This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch,
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 the broad rose-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
Ilis 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

Forgot 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 past this way,
After a truant absence hastening home,

I could not choose 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 evening in that open door-way,
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 Mother, 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, wishing myself
By the fire-side, have wonder'd why she came
Who might have sate at home.

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

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