TALE IX.
ARABELLA.
Thrice blessed they that master so their blood—
[........]
But earthly happier is the rose distill’d,
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act I. Scene 1.
[........]
But earthly happier is the rose distill’d,
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act I. Scene 1.
I [something] do excuse the thing I hate,
For his advantage whom I dearly love.
Measure for Measure, Act II. Scene 4.
For his advantage whom I dearly love.
Measure for Measure, Act II. Scene 4.
TALE IX.
ARABELLA.
Of a fair town, where Doctor Rack was guide,
His only daughter was the boast and pride;
Wise Arabella—yet not wise alone,
She like a bright and polish’d brilliant shone;
Her father own’d her for his prop and stay,
Able to guide, yet willing to obey;
Pleased with her learning while discourse could please,
And with her love in languor and disease.
To every mother were her virtues known,
And to their daughters as a pattern shown; 10
Who in her youth had all that age requires,
And, with her prudence, all that youth admires.
These odious praises made the damsels try
Not to obtain such merits, but deny;
For, whatsoever wise mammas might say,
To guide a daughter this was not the way;
From such applause disdain and anger rise,
And envy lives where emulation dies.
In all his strength contends the noble horse
With one who just precedes him on the course; 20
But when the rival flies too far before,
His spirit fails, and he attempts no more.
This reasoning maid, above her sex’s dread,
Had dared to read, and dared to say she read;
Not the last novel, not the new-born play;
Not the mere trash and scandal of the day;
But (though her young companions felt the shock)
She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes, and Locke:
Her mind within the maze of history dwelt,
And of the moral muse the beauty felt; 30
The merits of the Roman page she knew,
And could converse with Moore and Montagu:
Thus she became the wonder of the town,
From that she reap’d, to that she gave, renown;
And strangers, coming, all were taught t’ admire
The learned lady, and the lofty spire.
Thus fame in public fix’d the maid, where all
Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall;
A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen,
From tongues envenom’d, and from arms unseen; 40
A thousand eyes were fix’d upon the place,
That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace.
But malice vainly throws the poison’d dart,
Unless our frailty shows the peccant part;
And Arabella still preserved her name
Untouch’d, and shone with undisputed fame;
Her very notice some respect would cause,
And her esteem was honour and applause.
Men she avoided—not in childish fear,
As if she thought some savage foe was near; 50
Not as a prude, who hides that man should seek,
Or who by silence hints that they should speak;
But with discretion all the sex she view’d,
Ere yet engaged, pursuing, or pursued;
Ere love had made her to his vices blind,
Or hid the favourite’s failings from her mind.
Thus was the picture of the man portray’d,
By merit destined for so rare a maid;
At whose request she might exchange her state,
Or still be happy in a virgin’s fate. 60
He must be one with manners like her own,
His life unquestion’d, his opinions known;
His stainless virtue must all tests endure,
His honour spotless, and his bosom pure;
She no allowance made for sex or times,
Of lax opinion—crimes were ever crimes;
No wretch forsaken must his frailty curse,
No spurious offspring drain his private purse:
He at all times his passions must command,
And yet possess—or be refused her hand. 70
All this without reserve the maiden told,
And some began to weigh the rector’s gold;
To ask what sum a prudent man might gain,
Who had such store of virtues to maintain?
A Doctor Campbell, north of Tweed, came forth,
Declared his passion, and proclaim’d his worth;
Not unapproved, for he had much to say
On every cause, and in a pleasant way;
Not all his trust was in a pliant tongue,
His form was good, and ruddy he, and young. 80
But, though the Doctor was a man of parts,
He read not deeply male or female hearts;
But judged that all whom he esteem’d as wise
Must think alike, though some assumed disguise;
That every reasoning Bramin, Christian, Jew,
Of all religions took their liberal view;
And of her own, no doubt, this learned maid
Denied the substance, and the forms obey’d;
And thus persuaded, he his thoughts express’d
Of her opinions, and his own profess’d: 90
“All states demand this aid, the vulgar need
Their priests and pray’rs, their sermons and their creed;
And those of stronger minds should never speak
(In his opinion) what might hurt the weak.
A man may smile, but still he should attend }
His hour at church, and be the church’s friend,}
What there he thinks conceal, and what he hears commend.” }
Frank was the speech, but heard with high disdain,
Nor had the Doctor leave to speak again;
A man who own’d, nay gloried in deceit, 100
“He might despise her, but he should not cheat.”
Then Vicar Holmes appear’d; he heard it said
That ancient men best pleased the prudent maid;
And true it was her ancient friends she loved;
Servants when old she favour’d and approved;
Age in her pious parents she revered,
And neighbours were by length of days endear’d;
But, if her husband too must ancient be,
The good old Vicar found it was not he.
On Captain Bligh her mind in balance hung— 110
Though valiant, modest; and reserved, though young:
Against these merits must defects be set—
Though poor, imprudent; and though proud, in debt:
In vain the Captain close attention paid;
She found him wanting, whom she fairly weigh’d.
Then came a youth, and all their friends agreed,
That Edward Huntly was the man indeed;
Respectful duty he had paid awhile,
Then ask’d her hand, and had a gracious smile:
A lover now declared, he led the fair 120
To woods and fields, to visits and to pray’r;
Then whisper’d softly—“Will you name the day?”
She softly whisper’d—“If you love me, stay.”—
“Oh! try me not beyond my strength,” he cried;—
“Oh! be not weak,” the prudent maid replied;
“But by some trial your affection prove—
Respect and not impatience argues love;
And love no more is by impatience known,
Than Ocean’s depth is by its tempests shown.
He whom a weak and fond impatience sways,}130
But for himself with all his fervour prays, }
And not the maid he woos, but his own will obeys; }
And will she love the being who prefers,
With so much ardour, his desire to hers?”
Young Edward grieved, but let not grief be seen;
He knew obedience pleased his fancy’s queen:
Awhile he waited, and then cried—“Behold!
The year advancing, be no longer cold!”
For she had promised—“Let the flowers appear,
And I will pass with thee the smiling year.” 140
Then pressing grew the youth; the more he press’d,
The less inclined the maid to his request:
“Let June arrive.”—Alas! when April came,
It brought a stranger, and the stranger, shame;
Nor could the lover from his house persuade
A stubborn lass whom he had mournful made;
Angry and weak, by thoughtless vengeance moved,
She told her story to the fair beloved;
In strongest words th’ unwelcome truth was shown,
To blight his prospects, careless of her own. 150
Our heroine grieved, but had too firm a heart
For him to soften, when she swore to part;
In vain his seeming penitence and pray’r,
His vows, his tears: she left him in despair.
His mother fondly laid her grief aside,
And to the reason of the nymph applied—
“It well becomes thee, lady, to appear,
But not to be, in very truth, severe;
Although the crime be odious in thy sight,
That daring sex is taught such things to slight: 160
His heart is thine, although it once was frail;
Think of his grief, and let his love prevail!—”
“Plead thou no more,” the lofty lass return’d;
“Forgiving woman is deceived and spurn’d.
Say that the crime is common—shall I take
A common man my wedded lord to make?
See! a weak woman by his arts betray’d,
An infant born his father to upbraid;
Shall I forgive his vileness, take his name,
Sanction his error, and partake his shame? 170
No! this assent would kindred frailty prove,
A love for him would be a vicious love:
Can a chaste maiden secret counsel hold
With one whose crime by every mouth is told?
Forbid it spirit, prudence, virtuous pride;
He must despise me, were he not denied.
The way from vice the erring mind to win}
Is with presuming sinners to begin, }
And show, by scorning them, a just contempt for sin.” }
The youth, repulsed, to one more mild convey’d 180
His heart, and smiled on the remorseless maid;
The maid, remorseless in her pride, the while
Despised the insult, and return’d the smile.
First to admire, to praise her, and defend,
Was (now in years advanced) a virgin friend:
Much she preferr’d, she cried, a single state,
“It was her choice”—it surely was her fate;
And much it pleased her in the train to view
A maiden vot’ress, wise and lovely too.
Time to the yielding mind his change imparts, 190
He varies notions, and he alters hearts;
’Tis right, ’tis just to feel contempt for vice,
But he that shows it may be over-nice:
There are who feel, when young, the false sublime,
And proudly love to show disdain for crime;
To whom the future will new thoughts supply,
The pride will soften, and the scorn will die;
Nay, where they still the vice itself condemn,
They bear the vicious, and consort with them.
Young Captain Grove, when one had changed his side, 200
Despised the venal turn-coat, and defied;
Old Colonel Grove now shakes him by the hand,
Though he who bribes may still his vote command.
Why would not Ellen to Belinda speak,
When she had flown to London for a week,
And then return’d, to every friend’s surprise,
With twice the spirit, and with half the size?
She spoke not then—but, after years had flown,
A better friend had Ellen never known:
Was it the lady her mistake had seen? 210
Or had she also such a journey been?
No: ’twas the gradual change in human hearts,
That time, in commerce with the world, imparts;
That on the roughest temper throws disguise,
And steals from virtue her asperities.
The young and ardent, who with glowing zeal
Felt wrath for trifles, and were proud to feel,
Now find those trifles all the mind engage,
To soothe dull hours, and cheat the cares of age;
As young Zelinda, in her quaker-dress, 220
Disdain’d each varying fashion’s vile excess,
And now her friends on old Zelinda gaze,
Pleased in rich silks and orient gems to blaze.
Changes like these ’tis folly to condemn,
So virtue yields not, nor is changed with them.
Let us proceed:—Twelve brilliant years were past,
Yet each with less of glory than the last;
Whether these years to this fair virgin gave
A softer mind—effect they often have;
Whether the virgin-state was not so bless’d 230
As that good maiden in her zeal profess’d;
Or whether lovers falling from her train,
Gave greater price to those she could retain,
Is all unknown;—but Arabella now
Was kindly listening to a merchant’s vow;
Who offer’d terms so fair, against his love
To strive was folly; so she never strove.—
Man in his earlier days we often find
With a too easy and unguarded mind;
But, by increasing years and prudence taught, 240
He grows reserved, and locks up every thought.
Not thus the maiden, for in blooming youth
She hides her thought, and guards the tender truth;
This, when no longer young, no more she hides,
But frankly in the favour’d swain confides.
Man, stubborn man, is like the growing tree,
That longer standing, still will harder be;
And like its fruit the virgin, first austere,
Then kindly softening with the ripening year.
Now was the lover urgent, and the kind 250
And yielding lady to his suit inclined:
“A little time, my friend, is just, is right;
We must be decent in our neighbours’ sight:”
Still she allow’d him of his hopes to speak,
And in compassion took off week by week;
Till few remain’d, when, wearied with delay,
She kindly meant to take off day by day.
That female friend who gave our virgin praise
For flying man and all his treacherous ways,
Now heard with mingled anger, shame and fear, 260
Of one accepted, and a wedding near;
But she resolved again with friendly zeal
To make the maid her scorn of wedlock feel;
For she was grieved to find her work undone,
And like a sister mourn’d the failing nun.
Why are these gentle maidens prone to make
Their sister-doves the tempting world forsake?
Why all their triumph when a maid disdains
The tyrant-sex, and scorns to wear its chains?
Is it pure joy to see a sister flown 270
From the false pleasures they themselves have known?
Or do they, as the call-birds in the cage,
Try, in pure envy, others to engage;
And therefore paint their native woods and groves,
As scenes of dangerous joys and naughty loves?
Strong was the maiden’s hope; her friend was proud,
And had her notions to the world avow’d;
And, could she find the Merchant weak and frail,
With power to prove it, then she must prevail;
For she aloud would publish his disgrace, 280
And save his victim from a man so base.
When all inquiries had been duly made,
Came the kind friend her burthen to unlade:—
“Alas! my dear! not all our care and art
Can tread the maze of man’s deceitful heart:
Look not surprise—nor let resentment swell
Those lovely features, all will yet be well;
And thou, from love’s and man’s deceptions free,
Wilt dwell in virgin-state, and walk to heav’n with me.”
The maiden frown’d, and then conceived “that wives 290
Could walk as well, and lead as holy lives
As angry prudes who scorn’d the marriage-chain,
Or luckless maids who sought it still in vain.”
The friend was vex’d—she paused, at length she cried:
“Know your own danger, then your lot decide;
That traitor Beswell, while he seeks your hand,
Has, I affirm, a wanton at command;
A slave, a creature from a foreign place,
The nurse and mother of a spurious race;
Brown, ugly bastards—(Heaven the word forgive, 300
And the deed punish!)—in his cottage live;
To town if business calls him, there he stays
In sinful pleasures wasting countless days;
Nor doubt the facts, for I can witness call
For every crime, and prove them one and all.”
Here ceased th’ informer; Arabella’s look
Was like a school-boy’s puzzled by his book;
Intent she cast her eyes upon the floor,
Paused—then replied—
“I wish to know no more:
I question not your motive, zeal, or love, 310
But must decline such dubious points to prove.—
All is not true, I judge, for who can guess
Those deeds of darkness men with care suppress?
He brought a slave perhaps to England’s coast,
And made her free; it is our country’s boast!
And she perchance too grateful—good and ill
Were sown at first, and grow together still;
The colour’d infants on the village-green,
What are they more than we have often seen?
Children half-clothed who round their village stray, }320
In sun or rain, now starved, now beaten, they}
Will the dark colour of their fate betray;}
Let us in Christian love for all account,
And then behold to what such tales amount.”
“His heart is evil,” said th’ impatient friend—
“My duty bids me try that heart to mend,”
Replied the virgin—“We may be too nice,
And lose a soul in our contempt of vice;
If false the charge, I then shall show regard
For a good man, and be his just reward; 330
And what for virtue can I better do
Than to reclaim him, if the charge be true?”
She spoke, nor more her holy work delay’d;
’Twas time to lend an erring mortal aid:
“The noblest way,” she judged, “a soul to win,}
Was with an act of kindness to begin,}
To make the sinner sure, and then t’ attack the sin[5].” }