BOOK I.
THE HALL.
The Meeting of the Brothers, George and Richard—The Retirement of the elder to his native Village—Objects and Persons whom he found there—The Brother described in various Particulars—The Invitation and Journey of the younger—His Soliloquy and Arrival.
TALES OF THE HALL.
BOOK I.
THE HALL.
The Brothers met who many a year had past
Since their last meeting, and that seem’d their last;
They had no parent then or common friend
Who might their hearts to mutual kindness bend;
Who, touching both in their divided state,
Might generous thoughts and warm desires create;
For there are minds whom we must first excite
And urge to feeling, ere they can unite;
As we may hard and stubborn metals beat
And blend together, if we duly heat. 10
The elder, George, had past his threescore years,
A busy actor, sway’d by hopes and fears
Of powerful kind; and he had fill’d the parts
That try our strength and agitate our hearts.
He married not, and yet he well approved
The social state; but then he rashly loved;
Gave to a strong delusion all his youth,
Led by a vision till alarm’d by truth.
That vision past, and of that truth possest,
His passions wearied and disposed to rest, 20
George yet had will and power a place to choose,
Where Hope might sleep, and terminate her views.
He chose his native village, and the hill
He climb’d a boy had its attraction still;
With that small brook beneath, where he would stand,
And stooping fill the hollow of his hand,
To quench th’ impatient thirst—then stop awhile
To see the sun upon the waters smile,
In that sweet weariness when, long denied,
We drink and view the fountain that supplied 30
The sparkling bliss—and feel, if not express,
Our perfect ease in that sweet weariness.
The oaks yet flourish’d in that fertile ground,
Where still the church with lofty tower was found;
And still that Hall, a first, a favourite view,
But not the elms that form’d its avenue;
They fell ere George arrived, or yet had stood,
For he in reverence held the living wood,
That widely spreads in earth the deepening root,
And lifts to heaven the still aspiring shoot; 40
From age to age they fill’d a growing space,
But hid the mansion they were meant to grace.
It was an ancient, venerable hall,
And once surrounded by a moat and wall;
A part was added by a squire of taste,
Who, while unvalued acres ran to waste,
Made spacious rooms, whence he could look about,
And mark improvements as they rose without:
He fill’d the moat, he took the wall away,
He thinn’d the park, and bade the view be gay. 50
The scene was rich, but he who should behold
Its worth was poor, and so the whole was sold.
Just then our merchant from his desk retired,
And made the purchase that his heart desired—
The Hall of Binning, his delight a boy,
That gave his fancy in her flight employ.
Here, from his father’s modest home, he gazed,
Its grandeur charm’d him, and its height amazed,
Work of past ages; and the brick-built place
Where he resided was in much disgrace; 60
But never in his fancy’s proudest dream
Did he the master of that mansion seem.
Young was he then, and little did he know
What years on care and diligence bestow;
Now, young no more, retired to views well known,
He finds that object of his awe his own:
The Hall at Binning!—how he loves the gloom
That sun-excluding window gives the room;
Those broad brown stairs on which he loves to tread;
Those beams within; without, that length of lead, 70
On which the names of wanton boys appear,
Who died old men, and left memorials here—
Carvings of feet and hands, and knots and flowers,
The fruits of busy minds in idle hours.
Here, while our squire the modern part possess’d,}
His partial eye upon the old would rest;}
That best his comforts gave—this sooth’d his feelings best. }
Here, day by day, withdrawn from busy life,
No child t’ awake him, to engage no wife,
When friends were absent, not to books inclined, 80
He found a sadness steal upon his mind;
Sighing the works of former lords to see,
“I follow them,” he cried, “but who will follow me?”
Some ancient men whom he a boy had known
He knew again; their changes were his own.
Comparing now he view’d them, and he felt
That time with him in lenient mood had dealt;
While some the half-distinguish’d features bore }
That he was doubtful if he saw before,}
And some in memory lived, whom he must see no more. }90
Here George had found, yet scarcely hoped to find,
Companions meet, minds fitted to his mind;
Here, late and loth, the worthy rector came,
From college dinners and a fellow’s fame;
Yet, here when fix’d, was happy to behold
So near a neighbour in a friend so old.
Boys on one form they parted, now to meet
In equal state, their worships on one seat.
Here were a sister-pair, who seem’d to live
With more respect than affluence can give; 100
Although not affluent, they, by nature graced,
Had sense and virtue, dignity and taste;
Their minds by sorrows, by misfortunes tried,
Were vex’d and heal’d, were pain’d and purified.
Hither a sage physician came, and plann’d,
With books his guides, improvements on his land;
Nor less to mind than matter would he give
His noble thoughts, to know how spirits live,
And what is spirit; him his friends advised
To think with fear; but caution he despised; 110
And hints of fear provoked him till he dared
Beyond himself, nor bold assertion spared,
But fiercely spoke, like those who strongly feel,
“Priests and their craft, enthusiasts and their zeal.”
More yet appear’d, of whom as we proceed—
Ah! yield not yet to languor—you shall read.
But ere the events that from this meeting rose,
Be they of pain or pleasure, we disclose,
It is of custom, doubtless is of use,
That we our heroes first should introduce. 120
Come, then, fair Truth! and let me clearly see
The minds I paint, as they are seen in thee;
To me their merits and their faults impart;}
Give me to say, “frail being! such thou art,” }
And closely let me view the naked human heart. }
George loved to think; but, as he late began
To muse on all the grander thoughts of man,
He took a solemn and a serious view
Of his religion, and he found it true;
Firmly, yet meekly, he his mind applied 130
To this great subject, and was satisfied.
He then proceeded, not so much intent,
But still in earnest, and to church he went.
Although they found some difference in their creed,
He and his pastor cordially agreed,
Convinced that they who would the truth obtain
By disputation, find their efforts vain;
The church he view’d as liberal minds will view,
And there he fix’d his principles and pew.
He saw—he thought he saw—how weakness, pride, 140
And habit, draw seceding crowds aside:
Weakness, that loves on trifling points to dwell;
Pride, that at first from Heaven’s own worship fell;
And habit, going where it went before,
Or to the meeting or the tavern door.
George loved the cause of freedom, but reproved
All who with wild and boyish ardour loved:
Those who believed they never could be free,
Except when fighting for their liberty;
Who by their very clamour and complaint 150
Invite coercion or enforce restraint.
He thought a trust so great, so good a cause,
Was only to be kept by guarding laws;
For, public blessings firmly to secure,
We must a lessening of the good endure.
The public waters are to none denied;
All drink the stream, but only few must guide.
There must be reservoirs to hold supply,
And channels form’d to send the blessing by;
The public good must be a private care; 160
None all they would may have, but all a share.
So we must freedom with restraint enjoy;
What crowds possess they will, uncheck’d, destroy;
And hence, that freedom may to all be dealt,
Guards must be fix’d, and safety must be felt.
So thought our squire, nor wish’d the guards t’ appear
So strong, that safety might be bought too dear;
The constitution was the ark that he
Join’d to support with zeal and sanctity;
Nor would expose it, as th’ accursed son 170
His father’s weakness, to be gazed upon.
“I for that freedom make,” said he, “my prayer,
That suits with all, like atmospheric air;
That is to mortal man by heaven assign’d,
Who cannot bear a pure and perfect kind.
The lighter gas, that, taken in the frame,
The spirit heats, and sets the blood in flame:
Such is the freedom which when men approve,
They know not what a dangerous thing they love.”
George chose the company of men of sense, 180
But could with wit in moderate share dispense;
He wish’d in social ease his friends to meet,
When still he thought the female accent sweet;
Well from the ancient, better from the young,
He loved the lispings of the mother tongue.
He ate and drank, as much as men who think
Of life’s best pleasures, ought to eat or drink;
Men purely temperate might have taken less,
But still he loved indulgence, not excess;
Nor would alone the grants of fortune taste, 190
But shared the wealth he judged it crime to waste;
And thus obtained the sure reward of care—
For none can spend like him who learns to spare.
Time, thought, and trouble made the man appear—
By nature shrewd—sarcastic and severe;
Still, he was one whom those who fully knew
Esteem’d and trusted, one correct and true;
All on his word with surety might depend,
Kind as a man, and faithful as a friend.
But him the many [knew] not, knew not cause 200
In their new squire for censure or applause;
Ask them, “Who dwelt within that lofty wall?”
And they would say, “the gentleman was tall;
Look’d old when follow’d, but alert when met,
And had some vigour in his movements yet;
He stoops, but not as one infirm; and wears
Dress that becomes his station and his years.”
Such was the man who from the world return’d
Nor friend nor foe; he prized it not, nor spurn’d;
But came and sat him in his village down, 210
Safe from its smile, and careless of its frown:
He, fairly looking into life’s account,
Saw frowns and favours were of like amount;
And viewing all—his perils, prospects, purse—
He said, “Content! ’tis well it is no worse.”
Through ways more rough had fortune Richard led,
The world he traversed was the book he read;
Hence clashing notions and opinions strange
Lodged in his mind: all liable to change.
By nature generous, open, daring, free, 220
The vice he hated was hypocrisy.
Religious notions, in her latter years,
His mother gave, admonish’d by her fears;
To these he added, as he chanced to read
A pious work or learn a christian creed.
He heard the preacher by the highway side,
The church’s teacher, and the meeting’s guide;
And, mixing all their matters in his brain,
Distill’d a something he could ill explain;
But still it served him for his daily use, 230
And kept his lively passions from abuse;
For he believed, and held in reverence high,
The truth so dear to man—“not all shall die.”
The minor portions of his creed hung loose,
For time to shapen and an whole produce;
This love effected, and a favourite maid
With clearer views his honest flame repaid;
Hers was the thought correct, the hope sublime,
She shaped his creed, and did the work of time.
He spake of freedom as a nation’s cause, 240
And loved, like George, our liberty and laws;
But had more youthful ardour to be free,
And stronger fears for injured liberty.
With him, on various questions that arose,
The monarch’s servants were the people’s foes;
And, though he fought with all a Briton’s zeal,
He felt for France as Freedom’s children feel;
Went far with her in what she thought reform,
And hail’d the revolutionary storm;
Yet would not here, where there was least to win, 250
And most to lose, the doubtful work begin;
But look’d on change with some religious fear,
And cried, with filial dread, “Ah! come not here.”
His friends he did not as the thoughtful choose;
Long to deliberate was, he judged, to lose;
Frankly he join’d the free, nor suffered pride
Or doubt to part them, whom their fate allied;
Men with such minds at once each other aid;}
“Frankness,” they cry, “with frankness is repaid; }
If honest, why suspect? if poor, of what afraid?}260
Wealth’s timid votaries may with caution move;
Be it our wisdom to confide and love.”
So pleasures came, (not purchased first or plann’d)
But the chance pleasures that the poor command;
They came but seldom, they remain’d not long,
Nor gave him time to question “are they wrong?”
These he enjoy’d, and left to after time
To judge the folly or decide the crime;
Sure had he been, he had perhaps been pure
From this reproach—but Richard was not sure— 270
Yet from the sordid vice, the mean, the base,
He stood aloof—death frown’d not like disgrace.
With handsome figure, and with manly air,
He pleased the sex, who all to him were fair;
With filial love he look’d on forms decay’d,
And admiration’s debt to beauty paid;
On sea or land, wherever Richard went,
He felt affection, and he found content;
There was in him a strong presiding hope
In fortune’s tempests, and it bore him up. 280
But when that mystic vine his mansion graced,
When numerous branches round his board were placed,
When sighs of apprehensive love were heard—
Then first the spirit of the hero fear’d;
Then he reflected on the father’s part,
And all an husband’s sorrow touch’d his heart;
Then thought he, “Who will their assistance lend?
And be the children’s guide, the parent’s friend?
Who shall their guardian, their protector be?
I have a brother—Well!—and so has he.” 290
And now they met; a message—kind, ’tis true,
But verbal only—ask’d an interview;
And many a mile, perplex’d by doubt and fear,
Had Richard past, unwilling to appear—
“How shall I now my unknown way explore,
He proud and rich—I very proud and poor?
Perhaps my friend a dubious speech mistook,
And George may meet me with a stranger’s look;
Then to my home when I return again, }
How shall I bear this business to explain, }300
And tell of hopes raised high, and feelings hurt, in vain? }
“How stands the case? My brother’s friend and mine
Met at an inn, and sat them down to dine:
When, having settled all their own affairs,
And kindly canvass’d such as were not theirs,
Just as my friend was going to retire—
‘Stay!—you will see the brother of our squire,’
Said his companion; ‘be his friend, and tell
The captain that his brother loves him well,
And, when he has no better thing in view, 310
Will be rejoiced to see him. Now, adieu!’
Well! here I am; and, brother, take you heed,
I am not come to flatter you and feed;
You shall no soother, fawner, hearer find,
I will not brush your coat, nor smooth your mind;
I will not hear your tales the whole day long,
Nor swear you’re right if I believe you wrong.
Nor be a witness of the facts you state,
Nor as my own adopt your love or hate:
I will not earn my dinner when I dine, 320
By taking all your sentiments for mine;
Nor watch the guiding motions of your eye,
Before I venture question or reply;
Nor when you speak affect an awe profound,
Sinking my voice, as if I fear’d the sound;
Nor to your looks obediently attend,
The poor, the humble, the dependant friend;
Yet, son of that dear mother could I meet—
But lo! the mansion—’tis a fine old seat!”
The Brothers met, with both too much at heart 330
To be observant of each other’s part.
“Brother, I’m glad,” was all that George could say,
Then stretch’d his hand, and turn’d his head away;
For he in tender tears had no delight,
But scorn’d the thought, and ridiculed the sight;
Yet now with pleasure, though with some surprise,
He felt his heart o’erflowing at his eyes.
Richard, mean time, made some attempts to speak,
Strong in his purpose, in his trial weak;
We cannot nature by our wishes rule, 340
Nor at our will her warm emotions cool;—
At length affection, like a risen tide,
Stood still, and then seem’d slowly to subside;
Each on the other’s looks had power to dwell,
And Brother Brother greeted passing well.