Ugly enough, poor soul! At ten yards' distance, you could hardly tell If it were man or woman, for her voice Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore A man's old coat and hat:- and then her face! There was a merry story told of her, How, when the press-gang came to take her husband, As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, Dress'd John up in her night-cap, and herself Put on his clothes, and went before the captain.

JANE.

And so they press'd a woman!

GRANDMOTHER.

'Twas 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.

GRANDMOTHER.

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 bed, 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,

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-
'Twas 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.

And met his death with fears that well might warn From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ. Westbury, 1798.

III.

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 stopp'd 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 discoloring 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 too 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 'twas 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 labor, knitting there with lifted arms, Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother Omitted no kind office, working for her, Albeit her hardest labor 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 done. The school-boys, as they sport

In the churchyard, for awhile might turn away From the fresh grave till grass should cover it; Nature would do that office soon; and none Who trod upon the senseless turf would think Of what a world of woes lay buried there!

Burton, near Christ Church, 1797.

IV.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

WOMAN.

SIR, for the love of God, some small relief To a poor woman!

TRAVELLER.

Whither are you bound? "Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, No house for miles around us, and the way Dreary and wild. The evening wind already

Tis a hard journey that I go upon To such a dismal end!

TRAVELLER.

He yet may live.

But if the worst should chance, why, you must bear

The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself, You will not in unpitied poverty

A child who said his prayers more regular,
Or answered readier through his Catechism.
If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing
We don't know what we're born to!

TRAVELLER.

But how came it

He chose to be a Sailor?

WOMAN.

You shall hear, Sir.

Remembers those who paid its price of blood,
And with a noble charity relieves
The widow and the orphan.

WOMAN.

God reward them! God bless them! It will help me in my age, – But, Sir! it will not pay me for my child!

TRAVELLER.

Was he your only child?

WOMAN.

My only one,

The stay and comfort of my widowhood,

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 'twas 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 neighbors too,
And never felt distress. So he grew up
A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed.
I taught him well; there was not in the parish

'Tis 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.

TRAVELLER.

The choice at least Was kindly left him; and for broken laws This was, methinks, no heavy punishment.

WOMAN.

So I was told, Sir. And I tried to think so;
But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used
To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child; —
Now, if the wind blew rough, it made me start,
And think of my poor boy tossing about
Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd
To feel that it was hard to take him from me
For such a little fault. But he was wrong,
Oh, very wrong,—a murrain on his traps !
See what they've brought him to!

TRAVELLER.

Well! well! take comfort. He will be taken care of, if he lives; And should you lose your child, this is a country Where the brave Sailor never leaves a parent To weep for him in want.

WOMAN.

Sir, I shall want No succor long. In the common course of years I soon must be at rest; and 'tis a comfort, When grief is hard upon me, to reflect It only leads me to that rest the sooner.

Westbury, 1798.

Some ointment over them, and then away
Out at the window! but 'tis worse than all
To worry the poor beast so.
Shame upon it
That in a Christian country they should let
Such creatures live!

FATHER.

And when there's such plain proof!

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 over 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! - Ay, nail it hard.

NATHANIEL.

I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! She'd curse the music!