GREGORY. This comes of your great schools And college-breeding. Plague upon his guardians, If his poor father, Gregory, had but lived, A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman, Some hour from hence; Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth! When he came home from school at holidays, How I rejoiced to see him! he was sure By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. GREGORY. Well, well! my friend, "T is 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 To hear of their brave deeds! I used to think To come and ask of me what birds there were His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd JAMES. Changed! why, Gregory, T was 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. T was a noble Ox That smoked before us, and the old October Went merrily in everflowing cans; But it was 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. 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 I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down; Born on the estate, and now that I've outlived it, JAMES. But little, And that not well. But be he what he may GREGORY. 'T is, I think, some horsemen. Aye! they are the black cloaks; and now I see The white plumes on the hearse. JAMES. 'T is hid behind them now. GREGORY, She's notable enough; and as for temper 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? WOMAN. They 've no money. TRAVELLER. But both can work; and sure as cheerfully Between the trees; She 'd labour for herself as at the farm. Come twelve-months hence, I warrant them they'd go These haply may be happier. If all might be undone. TRAVELLER. An ill-match'd pair, So I conceive you. Youth perhaps and age? WOMAN. No,-both are young enough. WOMAN. Why for that I've had my share; some sickness and some sorrow: Than her wedding-peal, Sir, if I thought her fate TRAVELLER. Perhaps the man then, TRAVELLER. Sure, sure, good womas, Aye! idleness! the rich folks never fail these bells Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless A farmer once told the author of Malvern Hills, that he almost constantly remarked a gradation of changes in those men he had been in the habit of employing. Young men, he said, were generally neat in their appearance, active and cheerful, till they became married and had a family, when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles, and 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. Undone;-for sins, not one of which is mentioned STRANGER. You knew him then, it seems? TOWNSMAN. As all men know The virtues of hundred-thousanders; your They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. STRANGER. Nay, nay, uncharitable Sir! for often TOWNSMAN. We track the streamlet by the brighter green STRANGER. Yet even these Are reservoirs whence public charity Still keeps her channels full. TOWNSMAN. Now, Sir, you touch Upon the point. This man of half a million His alms were money put to interest In the other world,-donations to keep open When, for the trusted talents, strict account STRANGER. I must needs Believe you, Sir: these are your witnesses, These mourners here, who from their carriages Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute Bears not a face blanker of all emotion Than the old servant of the family! How can this man have lived, that thus his death Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief! TOWNSMAN. Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed BALLADS AND METRICAL TALES. MARY THE MAID OF THE INN. The subject of the following Ballad was related to me, when a school-boy, as a fact which had happened in the north of Eugland. Either Furnes or Kirkstall Abbey (I forget which) was named as the scene. It seems, however, to have been founded upon a story related in Dr Plot's History of Staffordshire. Amongst the unusual accidents, says this amusing author, that have attended the female sex in the course of their lives, I think I may also reckon the narrow escapes they have made from death. Whereof I met with one mentioned with admiration by every body at Leek, that happened not far off at the Black Meer of Morridge, which, though famous for nothing for which it is commonly reputed so (as that it is bottomless, no cattle will drink of it, or birds fly over or settle upon it, all which I found false), yet is so, for the signal deliverance of a poor woman, enticed thither in a dismal stormy night, by a bloody ruffian, who had first gotten her with child, and intended in this remote inhospitable place to have dispatched her by drowning. The same night (Providence so ordering it) there were several persons of inferior rank drinking in an ale-bouse at Leek, whereof one having been out, and observing the darkness and other ill circumstances of the weather, coming in again, said to the rest of his companions, that he were a stout man indeed that would venture to go to the black Meer of Morridge in such a night as that: to which one of them replying, that for a crown or some such sum he would undertake it, the rest joining their purses, said he should have his demand. The bargain being struck, away he went on his journey with a stick in his hand, which he was to leave there as a testimony of his pe formance. At length coming near the Meer, he heard the lamentable cries of this distressed woman, begging for mercy, which at first put him to a stand; but being a man of great resolution and some policy, he went boldly on, however, counterfeiting the presence of divers other persons, calling Jack, Dick, and Tom, and crying Here are the rogues we look'd for, etc.; which being heard by the murderer, he left the woman and fled; whom the other man found by the Meer side almost stript of her clothes, and brought her with him to Leek as an ample testimony of his having been at the Meer, and of God's providence 100.-P. 291. The metre is Mr Lewis's invention; and metre is one of the few things concerning which popularity may be admitted as a proof of merit. The Ballad has become popular owing to the metre and the story: as for every thing else, dum relego scripsisse pudet. It has however been made the subject of a fine picture by Mr Barker. WHO is fonder poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek; Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, The Traveller remembers who journey'd this way Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, was in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, <<'T is pleasant,» cried one, «seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without.» << What a night for the Abbey!» his comrade replied, « Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about. << I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear For this wind might awaken the dead! » «I'll wager a dinner,» the other one cried, <<That Mary would venture there now.»> << Then wager and lose!» with a sneer he replied, << I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow.»> « Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?» His companion exclaim'd with a smile; «I shall win,-for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle.»> With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear- The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, Of footsteps approaching her near. |