The Parish Register Part 1

The Parish Register.

by George Crabbe.

PART I.

Tum porro puer (ut saevis projectus ab undis, Navita) nudus humi jacet infans indigus omni Vitali auxilio, - Vagituque loc.u.m lugubri complet, ut aequum est, Cui tantum in vita restat transire malorum.

LUCRETIUS, De Rerum Natura, lib.5

THE ARGUMENT.

The Village Register considered, as containing princ.i.p.ally the Annals of the Poor--State of the Peasantry as meliorated by Frugality and Industry--The Cottage of an industrious Peasant; its Ornaments--Prints and Books--The Garden; its Satisfactions--The State of the Poor, when improvident and vicious--The Row or Street, and its Inhabitants--The Dwellings of one of these--A Public House-- Garden and its Appendages--Gamesters; rustic Sharpers &c.-- Conclusion of the Introductory Part.

BAPTISMS.

The Child of the Miller's Daughter, and Relation of her Misfortune-- A frugal Couple; their Kind of Frugality--Plea of the Mother of a natural Child; her Churching--Large Family of Gerard Ablett: his apprehensions: Comparison between his state and that of the wealthy Farmer his Master: his Consolation--An Old Man's Anxiety for an Heir: the Jealousy of another on having many--Characters of the Grocer Dawkins and his Friend; their different Kinds of Disappointment--Three Infants named--An Orphan Girl and Village School-mistress--Gardener's Child: Pedantry and Conceit of the Father: his botanical Discourse: Method of fixing the Embryo-fruit of Cuc.u.mbers--Absurd Effects of Rustic Vanity: observed in the names of their Children--Relation of the Vestry Debate on a Foundling: Sir Richard Monday--Children of various Inhabitants--The poor Farmer--Children of a Profligate: his Character and Fate-- Conclusion.

The year revolves, and I again explore The simple Annals of my Parish poor; What Infant-members in my flock appear, What Pairs I bless'd in the departed year; And who, of Old or Young, or Nymphs or Swains, Are lost to Life, its pleasures and its pains.

No Muse I ask, before my view to bring The humble actions of the swains I sing. - How pa.s.s'd the youthful, how the old their days; Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise; Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts, What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their parts; By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd, Full well I know-these Records give the rest.

Is there a place, save one the poet sees, A land of love, of liberty, and ease; Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness; Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state, Or keeps the suns.h.i.+ne from the cottage-gate; Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng, And half man's life is holiday and song?

Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears, By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears; Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd, Auburn and Eden can no more be found.

Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill And power to part them, when he feels the will!

Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few, Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.

Behold the Cot! where thrives th' industrious swain, Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain; Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray Smiles on the window and prolongs the day; Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop, And turn their blossoms to the cas.e.m.e.nt's top: All need requires is in that cot contain'd, And much that taste untaught and unrestrain'd Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace, In one gay picture, all the royal race; Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings; The print that shows them and the verse that sings.

Here the last Louis on his throne is seen, And there he stands imprison'd, and his Queen; To these the mother takes her child, and shows What grateful duty to his G.o.d he owes; Who gives to him a happy home, where he Lives and enjoys his freedom with the free; When kings and queens, dethroned, insulted, tried, Are all these blessings of the poor denied.

There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules, Who proved Misfortune's was the best of schools: And there his Son, who, tried by years of pain, Proved that misfortunes may be sent in vain.

The Magic-mill that grinds the gran'nams young, Close at the side of kind G.o.diva hung; She, of her favourite place the pride and joy, Of charms at once most lavish and most coy, By wanton act the purest fame could raise, And give the boldest deed the chastest praise.

There stands the stoutest Ox in England fed; There fights the boldest Jew, Whitechapel bred; And here Saint Monday's worthy votaries live, In all the joys that ale and skittles give.

Now, lo! on Egypt's coast that hostile fleet, By nations dreaded and by NELSON beat; And here shall soon another triumph come, A deed of glory in a deed of gloom; Distressing glory! grievous boon of fate!

The proudest conquest at the dearest rate.

On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock, Of cottage reading rests the chosen stock; Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind For all our wants, a meat for every mind.

The tale for wonder and the joke for whim, The half-sung sermon and the half-groan'd hymn.

No need of cla.s.sing; each within its place, The feeling finger in the dark can trace; "First from the corner, farthest from the wall,"

Such all the rules, and they suffice for all.

There pious works for Sunday's use are found; Companions for that Bible newly bound; That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved, Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved; Has choicest notes by many a famous head, Such as to doubt have rustic readers led; Have made them stop to reason WHY? and HOW?

And, where they once agreed, to cavil now.

Oh! rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun; Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons back, And guard the point no enemies attack.

Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that shelf upon; A genius rare but rude was honest John; Not one who, early by the Muse beguiled, Drank from her well the waters undefiled; Not one who slowly gained the hill sublime, Then often sipp'd and little at a time; But one who dabbled in the sacred springs, And drank them muddy, mix'd with baser things.

Here to interpret dreams we read the rules, Science our own! and never taught in schools; In moles and specks we Fortune's gifts discern, And Fate's fix'd will from Nature's wanderings learn.

Of Hermit Quarll we read, in island rare, Far from mankind and seeming far from care; Safe from all want, and sound in every limb; Yes! there was he, and there was care with him.

Unbound and heap'd, these valued tomes beside, Lay humbler works, the pedlar's pack supplied; Yet these, long since, have all acquired a name: The Wandering Jew has found his way to fame; And fame, denied to many a labour'd song, Crowns Thumb the Great, and Hickathrift the strong.

There too is he, by wizard-power upheld, Jack, by whose arm the giant-brood were quell'd: His shoes of swiftness on his feet he placed; His coat of darkness on his loins he braced; His sword of sharpness in his hand he took, And off the heads of doughty giants stroke: Their glaring eyes beheld no mortal near; No sound of feet alarm'd the drowsy ear; No English blood their Pagan sense could smell, But heads dropt headlong, wondering why they fell.

These are the Peasant's joy, when, placed at ease, Half his delighted offspring mount his knees.

To every cot the lord's indulgent mind Has a small s.p.a.ce for garden-ground a.s.sign'd; Here--till return of morn dismiss'd the farm - The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm, Warm'd as he works, and casts his look around On every foot of that improving ground : It is his own he sees; his master's eye Peers not about, some secret fault to spy; Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known; - Hope, profit, pleasure,--they are all his own.

Here grow the humble cives, and, hard by them, The leek with crown globose and reedy stem; High climb his pulse in many an even row, Deep strike the ponderous roots in soil below; And herbs of potent smell and pungent taste, Give a warm relish to the night's repast.

Apples and cherries grafted by his hand, And cl.u.s.ter'd nuts for neighbouring market stand.

Nor thus concludes his labour; near the cot, The reed-fence rises round some fav'rite spot; Where rich carnations, pinks with purple eyes, Proud hyacinths, the least some florist's prize, Tulips tall-stemm'd and pounced auriculas rise.

Here on a Sunday-eve, when service ends, Meet and rejoice a family of friends; All speak aloud, are happy and are free, And glad they seem, and gaily they agree.

What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech, Where all are talkers, and where none can teach; Where still the welcome and the words are old, And the same stories are for ever told; Yet theirs is joy that, bursting from the heart, Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart; That forms these tones of gladness we despise, That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes; That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays, And speaks in all their looks and all their ways.

Fair scenes of peace! ye might detain us long, But vice and misery now demand the song; And turn our view from dwellings simply neat, To this infected Row, we term our Street.

Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew Each evening meet; the sot, the cheat, the shrew; Riots are nightly heard: --the curse, the cries Of beaten wife, perverse in her replies; While shrieking children hold each threat'ning hand, And sometimes life, and sometimes food demand: Boys, in their first-stol'n rags, to swear begin, And girls, who heed not dress, are skill'd in gin: Snarers and smugglers here their gains divide; Ensnaring females here their victims hide; And here is one, the Sibyl of the Row, Who knows all secrets, or affects to know.

Seeking their fate, to her the simple run, To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun; Mistress of worthless arts, depraved in will, Her care unblest and unrepaid her skill, Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops, And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes.

Between the road-way and the walls, offence Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense; There lie, obscene, at every open door, Heaps from the hearth, and sweepings from the floor, And day by day the mingled ma.s.ses grow, As sinks are disembogued and kennels flow.

There hungry dogs from hungry children steal; There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal; Their dropsied infants wail without redress, And all is want and woe and wretchedness; Yet should these boys, with bodies bronzed and bare, High-swoln and hard, outlive that lack of care - Forced on some farm, the unexerted strength, Though loth to action, is compell'd at length, When warm'd by health, as serpents in the spring, Aside their slough of indolence they fling.

Yet, ere they go, a greater evil comes - See! crowded beds in those contiguous rooms; Beds but ill parted, by a paltry screen Of paper'd lath, or curtain dropt between; Daughters and sons to yon compartments creep, And parents here beside their children sleep: Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part, Nor let the ear be first to taint the heart.

Come! search within, nor sight nor smell regard; The true physician walks the foulest ward.

See on the floor, where frousy patches rest!

What nauseous fragments on yon fractured chest!

What downy dust beneath yon window-seat!

And round these posts that serve this bed for feet; This bed where all those tatter'd garments lie, Worn by each s.e.x, and now perforce thrown by!

See! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed; The Mother-gossip has the love suppress'd An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast; And daily prattles, as her round she takes (With strong resentment), of the want she makes.

Whence all these woes?--From want of virtuous will, Of honest shame, of time-improving skill; From want of care t'employ the vacant hour, And want of every kind but want of power.

Here are no wheels for either wool or flax, But packs of cards--made up of sundry packs; Here is no clock, nor will they turn the gla.s.s, And see how swift th' important moments pa.s.s; Here are no books, but ballads on the wall, Are some abusive, and indecent all; Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks, Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks; An ample flask, that nightly rovers fill With recent poison from the Dutchman's still; A box of tools, with wires of various size, Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise, And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize.

To every house belongs a s.p.a.ce of ground, Of equal size, once fenced with paling round; That paling now by slothful waste destroyed, Dead gorse and stumps of elder fill the void; Save in the centre-spot, whose walls of clay Hide sots and striplings at their drink or play: Within, a board, beneath a tiled retreat, Allures the bubble and maintains the cheat; Where heavy ale in spots like varnish shows, Where chalky tallies yet remain in rows; Black pipes and broken jugs the seats defile, The walls and windows, rhymes and reck'nings vile; Prints of the meanest kind disgrace the door, And cards, in curses torn, lie fragments on the floor.

Here his poor bird th' inhuman c.o.c.ker brings, Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings; With spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds, And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds.

Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes, The vanquished bird must combat till he dies; Must faintly peck at his victorious foe, And reel and stagger at each feeble blow: When fallen, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes, His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths a.s.sumes; And d.a.m.ns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake, And only bled and perished for his sake.

Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yield Praise with relief, the fathers of the field; And these who take from our reluctant hands What Burn advises or the Bench commands.

Our Farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, Like other farmers, flourish and complain. - These are our groups; our Portraits next appear, And close our Exhibition for the year.

WITH evil omen we that year begin: A Child of Shame,--stern Justice adds, of Sin, Is first recorded;--I would hide the deed, But vain the wish; I sigh, and I proceed: And could I well th'instructive truth convey, 'Twould warn the giddy and awake the gay.

Of all the nymphs who gave our village grace, The Miller's daughter had the fairest face: Proud was the Miller; money was his pride; He rode to market, as our farmers ride, And 'twas his boast, inspired by spirits, there, His favourite Lucy should be rich as fair; But she must meek and still obedient prove, And not presume, without his leave, to love.

A youthful Sailor heard him;--"Ha!" quoth he, "This Miller's maiden is a prize for me; Her charms I love, his riches I desire, And all his threats but fan the kindling fire; My ebbing purse no more the foe shall fill, But Love's kind act and Lucy at the mill."

Thus thought the youth, and soon the chase began, Stretch'd all his sail, nor thought of pause or plan: His trusty staff in his bold hand he took, Like him and like his frigate, heart of oak; Fresh were his features, his attire was new; Clean was his linen, and his jacket blue: Of finest jean his trousers, tight and trim, Brush'd the large buckle at the silver rim.

He soon arrived, he traced the village-green, There saw the maid, and was with pleasure seen; Then talk'd of love, till Lucy's yielding heart Confess'd 'twas painful, though 'twas right to part.

"For ah! my father has a haughty soul; Whom best he loves, he loves but to control; Me to some churl in bargain he'll consign, And make some tyrant of the parish mine: Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe Has often forced but never shed the tear; Save, when my mother died, some drops expressed A kind of sorrow for a wife at rest: - To me a master's stern regard is shown, I'm like his steed, prized highly as his own; Stroked but corrected, threatened when supplied, His slave and boast, his victim and his pride."

"Cheer up, my la.s.s! I'll to thy father go, The Miller cannot be the Sailor's foe; Both live by Heaven's free gale, that plays aloud In the stretch'd canva.s.s and the piping shroud; The rush of winds, the flapping sails above, And rattling planks within, are sounds we love; Calms are our dread; when tempests plough the deep, We take a reef, and to the rocking sleep."

"Ha!" quoth the Miller, moved at speech so rash, "Art thou like me? then where thy notes and cash?

Away to Wapping, and a wife command, With all thy wealth, a guinea in thine hand; There with thy messmates quaff the muddy cheer, And leave my Lucy for thy betters here."

"Revenge! revenge!" the angry lover cried, Then sought the nymph, and "Be thou now my bride."

Bride had she been, but they no priest could move To bind in law the couple bound by love.

What sought these lovers then by day by night?

But stolen moments of disturb'd delight; Soft trembling tumults, terrors dearly prized, Transports that pain'd, and joys that agonised; Till the fond damsel, pleased with lad so trim, Awed by her parent, and enticed by him, Her lovely form from savage power to save, Gave--not her hand--but ALL she could she gave.

Then came the day of shame, the grievous night, The varying look, the wandering appet.i.te; The joy a.s.sumed, while sorrow dimm'd the eyes, The forced sad smiles that follow'd sudden sighs; And every art, long used, but used in vain, To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain.

Too eager caution shows some danger's near, The bully's bl.u.s.ter proves the coward's fear; His sober step the drunkard vainly tries, And nymphs expose the failings they disguise.

First, whispering gossips were in parties seen, Then louder Scandal walk'd the village--green; Next babbling Folly told the growing ill, And busy Malice dropp'd it at the mill.

"Go! to thy curse and mine," the Father said, "Strife and confusion stalk around thy bed; Want and a wailing brat thy portion be, Plague to thy fondness, as thy fault to me; - Where skulks the villain?" - "On the ocean wide My William seeks a portion for his bride." - "Vain be his search; but, till the traitor come, The higgler's cottage be thy future home; There with his ancient shrew and care abide, And hide thy head,--thy shame thou canst not hide."

Day after day was pa.s.s'd in pains and grief; Week follow'd week,--and still was no relief: Her boy was born--no lads nor la.s.ses came To grace the rite or give the child a name; Nor grave conceited nurse, of office proud, Bore the young Christian roaring through the crowd: In a small chamber was my office done, Where blinks through paper'd panes the setting sun; Where noisy sparrows, perch'd on penthouse near, Chirp tuneless joy, and mock the frequent tear; Bats on their webby wings in darkness move, And feebly shriek their melancholy love.

No Sailor came; the months in terror fled!

Then news arrived--He fought, and he was DEAD!

At the lone cottage Lucy lives, and still Walks for her weekly pittance to the mill; A mean seraglio there her father keeps, Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps; And sees the plenty, while compell'd to stay, Her father's pride, become his harlot's prey.

Throughout the lanes she glides, at evening's close, And softly lulls her infant to repose; Then sits and gazes, but with viewless look, As gilds the moon the rippling of the brook; And sings her vespers, but in voice so low, She hears their murmurs as the waters flow: And she too murmurs, and begins to find The solemn wanderings of a wounded mind.

Visions of terror, views of woe succeed, The mind's impatience, to the body's need; By turns to that, by turns to this a prey, She knows what reason yields, and dreads what madness may.

Next, with their boy, a decent couple came, And call'd him Robert, 'twas his father's name; Three girls preceded, all by time endear'd, And future births were neither hoped nor fear'd: Blest in each other, but to no excess, Health, quiet, comfort, form'd their happiness; Love all made up of torture and delight, Was but mere madness in this couple's sight: Susan could think, though not without a sigh, If she were gone, who should her place supply; And Robert, half in earnest, half in jest, Talk of her spouse when he should be at rest: Yet strange would either think it to be told, Their love was cooling or their hearts were cold.

Few were their acres,--but, with these content, They were, each pay-day, ready with their rent: And few their wishes--what their farm denied, The neighbouring town, at trifling cost, supplied.

If at the draper's window Susan cast A longing look, as with her goods she pa.s.s'd, And, with the produce of the wheel and churn, Bought her a Sunday--robe on her return; True to her maxim, she would take no rest, Till care repaid that portion to the chest: Or if, when loitering at the Whitsun-fair, Her Robert spent some idle s.h.i.+llings there; Up at the barn, before the break of day, He made his labour for th' indulgence pay: Thus both--that waste itself might work in vain - Wrought double tides, and all was well again.

Yet, though so prudent, there were times of joy, (The day they wed, the christening of the boy.) When to the wealthier farmers there was shown Welcome unfeign'd, and plenty like their own; For Susan served the great, and had some pride Among our topmost people to preside: Yet in that plenty, in that welcome free, There was the guiding nice frugality, That, in the festal as the frugal day, Has, in a different mode, a sovereign sway; As tides the same attractive influence know, In the least ebb and in their proudest flow; The wise frugality, that does not give A life to saving, but that saves to live; Sparing, not pinching, mindful though not mean, O'er all presiding, yet in nothing seen.

Recorded next a babe of love I trace!