The Parish Register Part 4

No stunted cripple hops the village round; Your hands are active and your heads are sound; My lads are all your fields and flocks require; My la.s.ses all those st.u.r.dy lads admire.

Can this proud leech, with all his boasted skill, Amend the soul or body, wit or will?

Does he for courts the sons of farmers frame, Or make the daughter differ from the dame?

Or, whom he brings into this world of woe, Prepares he them their part to undergo?

If not, this stranger from your doors repel, And be content to BE and to be WELL."

She spake; but, ah! with words too strong and plain; Her warmth offended, and her truth was vain: The many left her, and the friendly few, If never colder, yet they older grew; Till, unemploy'd, she felt her spirits droop, And took, insidious aid! th' inspiring cup; Grew poor and peevish as her powers decay'd, And propp'd the tottering frame with stronger aid, Then died! I saw our careful swains convey, From this our changeful world, the Matron's clay, Who to this world, at least, with equal care, Brought them its changes, good and ill, to share.

Now to his grave was Roger Cuff conveyed, And strong resentment's lingering spirit laid.

s.h.i.+pwreck'd in youth, he home return'd, and found His brethren three--and thrice they wish'd him drown'd.

"Is this a landsman's love? Be certain then, "We part for ever!"--and they cried, "Amen!"

His words were truth's:- Some forty summers fled, His brethren died; his kin supposed him dead: Three nephews these, one sprightly niece, and one, Less near in blood--they call'd him surly John; He work'd in woods apart from all his kind, Fierce were his looks and moody was his mind.

For home the sailor now began to sigh:- "The dogs are dead, and I'll return and die; When all I have, my gains, in years of care, The younger Cuffs with kinder souls shall share - Yet hold! I'm rich;--with one consent they'll say, 'You're welcome, Uncle, as the flowers in May.'

No; I'll disguise me, be in tatters dress'd, And best befriend the lads who treat me best."

Now all his kindred,--neither rich nor poor, - Kept the wolf want some distance from the door.

In piteous plight he knock'd at George's gate, And begg'd for aid, as he described his state:- But stern was George;--"Let them who had thee strong, Help thee to drag thy weaken'd frame along; To us a stranger, while your limbs would move, From us depart, and try a stranger's love:- "Ha! dost thou murmur?"--for, in Roger's throat, Was "Rascal!" rising with disdainful note.

To pious James he then his prayer address'd; - "Good-lack," quoth James, "thy sorrows pierce my breast And, had I wealth, as have my brethren twain, One board should feed us and one roof contain: But plead I will thy cause, and I will pray: And so farewell! Heaven help thee on thy way!"

"Scoundrel!" said Roger (but apart);--and told His case to Peter;--Peter too was cold; "The rates are high; we have a-many poor; But I will think,"--he said, and shut the door.

Then the gay niece the seeming pauper press'd; - "Turn, Nancy, turn, and view this form distress'd: Akin to thine is this declining frame, And this poor beggar claims an Uncle's name."

"Avaunt! begone!" the courteous maiden said, "Thou vile impostor! Uncle Roger's dead: I hate thee, beast; thy look my spirit shocks; Oh! that I saw thee starving in the stocks!"

"My gentle niece!" he said--and sought the wood, "I hunger, fellow; prithee, give me food!"

"Give! am I rich? This hatchet take, and try Thy proper strength, nor give those limbs the lie; Work, feed thyself, to thine own powers appeal, Nor whine out woes thine own right-hand can heal; And while that hand is thine, and thine a leg, Scorn of the proud or of the base to beg."

"Come, surly John, thy wealthy kinsman view,"

Old Roger said;--"thy words are brave and true; Come, live with me: we'll vex those scoundrel-boys, And that prim shrew shall, envying, hear our joys. - Tobacco's glorious fume all day we'll share, With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care; We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap, And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep."

Such was their life; but when the woodman died, His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied - In vain; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door, And dying, built a refuge for the poor, With this restriction, That no Cuff should share One meal, or shelter for one moment there.

My Record ends:- But hark! e'en now I hear The bell of death, and know not whose to fear: Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well; In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell: - Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes, For thrice they sound, with pausing s.p.a.ce, three times, "Go; of my s.e.xton seek, Whose days are sped? - What! he, himself!- and is old Dibble dead?"

His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay d, And rectors five to one close vault convey'd:- But he is gone; his care and skill I lose, And gain a mournful subject for my Muse: His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore, And kindly add,--"Heaven grant, I lose no more!"

Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance Appear'd at variance with his complaisance: For, as he told their fate and varying worth, He archly look'd,--"I yet may bear thee forth."

"When first"--(he so began)--"my trade I plied, Good master Addle was the parish-guide; His clerk and s.e.xton, I beheld with fear, His stride majestic, and his frown severe; A n.o.ble pillar of the church he stood, Adorn'd with college-gown and parish hood: Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about, He fill'd the seven-fold surplice fairly out!

But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer, He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair; For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceased, Th'expecting people view'd their slumbering priest; Who, dozing, died.--Our Parson Peele was next; 'I will not spare you,' was his favourite text; Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound; E'en me he mulct for my poor rood of ground; Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech, 'What should I do,' quoth he, 'but what I preach?'

His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store) Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor; His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke; His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke: But though so young and blest with spirits high, He died as grave as any judge could die: The strong attack subdued his lively powers, - His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear ours.

"Then were there golden times the village round; In his abundance all appear'd t'abound; Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread, E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed; Who wish'd and hoped,--and thought a man so kind A way to Heaven, though not their own, might find.

To them, to all, he was polite and free, Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to me!

'Ralph,' would he say, 'Ralph Dibble, thou art old; That doublet fit, 'twill keep thee from the cold: How does my s.e.xton?- What! the times are hard; Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.'

But most, his rev'rence loved a mirthful jest:- 'Thy coat is thin; why, man, thou'rt BARELY dress'd It's worn to th' thread: but I have nappy beer; Clap that within, and see how they will wear!'

"Gay days were these; but they were quickly past: When first he came, we found he couldn't last: A wh.o.r.eson cough (and at the fall of leaf) Upset him quite;--but what's the gain of grief?

"Then came the Author-Rector: his delight Was all in books; to read them or to write: Women and men he strove alike to shun, And hurried homeward when his tasks were done; Courteous enough, but careless what he said, For points of learning he reserved his head; And when addressing either poor or rich, He knew no better than his ca.s.sock which: He, like an osier, was of pliant kind, Erect by nature, but to bend inclined; Not like a creeper falling to the ground, Or meanly catching on the neighbours round: Careless was he of surplice, hood, and band, - And kindly took them as they came to hand, Nor, like the doctor, wore a world of hat, As if he sought for dignity in that: He talk'd, he gave, but not with cautious rules; Nor turn'd from gipsies, vagabonds, or fools; It was his nature, but they thought it whim, And so our beaux and beauties turn'd from him.

Of questions, much he wrote, profound and dark, - How spake the serpent, and where stopp'd the ark; From what far land the queen of Sheba came; Who Salem's Priest, and what his father's name; He made the Song of Songs its mysteries yield, And Revelations to the world reveal'd.

He sleeps i' the aisle,--but not a stone records His name or fame, his actions or his words: And truth, your reverence, when I look around, And mark the tombs in our sepulchral ground (Though dare I not of one man's hope to doubt), I'd join the party who repose without.

"Next came a Youth from Cambridge, and in truth He was a sober and a comely youth; He blush'd in meekness as a modest man, And gain'd attention ere his task began; When preaching, seldom ventured on reproof, But touch'd his neighbours tenderly enough.

Him, in his youth, a clamorous sect a.s.sail'd, Advised and censured, flatter'd,--and prevail'd.- Then did he much his sober hearers vex, Confound the simple, and the sad perplex; To a new style his reverence rashly took; Loud grew his voice, to threat'ning swell'd his look; Above, below, on either side, he gazed, Amazing all, and most himself amazed: No more he read his preachments pure and plain, But launch'd outright, and rose and sank again: At times he smiled in scorn, at times he wept, And such sad coil with words of vengeance kept, That our blest sleepers started as they slept.

'Conviction comes like light'ning,' he would cry; 'In vain you seek it, and in vain you fly; 'Tis like the rus.h.i.+ng of the mighty wind, Unseen its progress, but its power you find; It strikes the child ere yet its reason wakes; His reason fled, the ancient sire it shakes; The proud, learn'd man, and him who loves to know How and from whence those gusts of grace will blow, It shuns,--but sinners in their way impedes, And sots and harlots visits in their deeds: Of faith and penance it supplies the place; a.s.sures the vilest that they live by grace, And, without running, makes them win the race.'

"Such was the doctrine our young prophet taught; And here conviction, there confusion wrought; When his thin cheek a.s.sumed a deadly hue, And all the rose to one small spot withdrew, They call'd it hectic; 'twas a fiery flush, More fix'd and deeper than the maiden blush; His paler lips the pearly teeth disclosed, And lab'ring lungs the length'ning speech opposed.

No more his span-girth shanks and quiv'ring thighs Upheld a body of the smaller size; But down he sank upon his dying bed, And gloomy crotchets fill'd his wandering head.

'Spite of my faith, all-saving faith,' he cried, 'I fear of worldly works the wicked pride; Poor as I am, degraded, abject, blind, The good I've wrought still rankles in my mind; My alms-deeds all, and every deed I've done; My moral-rags defile me every one; It should not be:- what say'st thou! tell me, Ralph.'

Quoth I, 'Your reverence, I believe, you're safe; Your faith's your prop, nor have you pa.s.s'd such time In life's good-works as swell them to a crime.

If I of pardon for my sins were sure, About my goodness I would rest secure.'

"Such was his end; and mine approaches fast; I've seen my best of preachers,--and my last," - He bow'd, and archly smiled at what he said, Civil but sly:- "And is old Dibble dead?"

Yes; he is gone: and WE are going all; Like flowers we wither, and like leaves we fall; - Here, with an infant, joyful sponsors come, Then bear the new-made Christian to its home: A few short years and we behold him stand To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand: A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear His widow weeping at her husband's bier:- Thus, as the months succeed, shall infants take Their names; thus parents shall the child forsake; Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel, By love or law compell'd their vows to seal, Ere I again, or one like me, explore These simple Annals of the VILLAGE POOR.

1801.

Footnotes:

{1} Note: Indentation and Punctuation as original.

{2} Allusions of this kind are to be found in the Fairy Queen. See the end of the First Book, and other places.