TALES OF THE HALL.
BOOK V.
RUTH.
Richard resumes his Narrative—Visits a Family in a Seaport—The Man and his Wife—Their Dwelling—Books, Number and Kind—The Friendship contracted—Employment there—Hannah, the Wife, her Manner; open Mirth and latent Grief—She gives the Story of Ruth, her Daughter—Of Thomas, a Sailor—Their Affection—A Press-gang— Reflections—Ruth disturbed in Mind—A Teacher sent to comfort her—His Fondness—Her Reception of him—Her Supplication— Is refused—She deliberates—Is decided.
TALES OF THE HALL.
BOOK V.
RUTH.
Richard would wait till George the tale should ask,
Nor waited long—He then resumed the task.
“South in the port, and eastward in the street,
Rose a small dwelling, my beloved retreat,
Where lived a pair, then old; the sons had fled
The home they fill’d; a part of them were dead,
Married a part, while some at sea remain’d,
And stillness in the seaman’s mansion reign’d;
Lord of some petty craft, by night and day,
The man had fish’d each fathom of the bay. 10
“My friend the matron woo’d me, quickly won,
To fill the station of an absent son
(Him whom at school I knew, and, Peter known,
I took his home and mother for my own).
I read, and doubly was I paid to hear
Events that fell upon no listless ear:
She grieved to say her parents could neglect
Her education!—’twas a sore defect;
She, who had ever such a vast delight
To learn, and now could neither read nor write:— 20
But hear she could, and from our stores I took,
Librarian meet! at her desire our book.
Full twenty volumes—I would not exceed
The modest truth—were there for me to read;
These a long shelf contain’d, and they were found
Books truly speaking, volumes fairly bound;
The rest—for some of other kinds remain’d,
And these a board beneath the shelf contain’d—
Had their deficiencies in part; they lack’d
One side or both, or were no longer back’d; 30
But now became degraded from their place,
And were but pamphlets of a bulkier race.
Yet had we pamphlets, an inviting store,
From sixpence downwards—nay, a part were more;
Learning abundance, and the various kinds
For relaxation—food for different minds;
A piece of Wingate—thanks for all we have—
What we of figures needed, fully gave;
Culpepper, new in numbers, cost but thrice
The ancient volume’s unassuming price, 40
But told what planet o’er each herb had power,
And how to take it in the lucky hour.
“History we had—wars, treasons, treaties, crimes,
From Julius Cæsar to the present times;
Questions and answers, teaching what to ask
And what reply—a kind, laborious task;
A scholar’s book it was, who, giving, swore
It held the whole he wish’d to know, and more.
“And we had poets, hymns and songs divine;
The most we read not, but allow’d them fine. 50
“Our tracts were many, on the boldest themes—
We had our metaphysics, spirits, dreams,
Visions and warnings, and portentous sights
Seen, though but dimly, in the doleful nights,
When the good wife her wintry vigil keeps,
And thinks alone of him at sea, and weeps.
“Add to all these our works in single sheets,
That our Cassandras sing about the streets.
These, as I read, the grave good man would say,
‘Nay, Hannah!’ and she answer’d ‘What is Nay? 60
What is there, pray, so hurtful in a song?
It is our fancy only makes it wrong;
His purer mind no evil thoughts alarm,
And innocence protects him like a charm.’
Then would the matron, when the song had past,
And her laugh over, ask an hymn at last;
To the coarse jest she would attention lend,
And to the pious psalm in reverence bend.
She gave her every power and all her mind
As chance directed, or as taste inclined. 70
“More of our learning I will now omit:}
We had our Cyclopædias of Wit, }
And all our works, rare fate, were to our genius fit. }
“When I had read, and we were weary grown
Of other minds, the dame disclosed her own;
And long have I in pleasing terror stay’d }
To hear of boys trepann’d, and girls betray’d; }
Ashamed so long to stay, and yet to go afraid. }
“I could perceive, though Hannah bore full well
The ills of life, that few with her would dwell, 80
But pass away, like shadows o’er the plain
From flying clouds, and leave it fair again;
Still every evil, be it great or small,
Would one past sorrow to the mind recal—
The grand disease of life, to which she turns,
And common cares and lighter suffering spurns.
‘O! these are nothing,—they will never heed
Such idle contests who have fought indeed,
And have the wounds unclosed.’—I understood
My hint to speak, and my design pursued, 90
Curious the secret of that heart to find, }
To mirth, to song, to laughter loud inclined, }
And yet to bear and feel a weight of grief behind. }
How does she thus her little sunshine throw
Always before her?—I should like to know.
My friend perceived, and would no longer hide }
The bosom’s sorrow—Could she not confide }
In one who wept, unhurt—in one who felt, untried? }
‘Dear child, I show you sins and sufferings strange,
But you, like Adam, must for knowledge change 100
That blissful ignorance: remember, then,
What now you feel should be a check on men;
For then your passions no debate allow,
And therefore lay up resolution now.
’Tis not enough, that when you can persuade
A maid to love, you know there’s promise made;
’Tis not enough, that you design to keep
That promise made, nor leave your lass to weep:
But you must guard yourself against the sin,
And think it such to draw the party in; 110
Nay, the more weak and easy to be won,
The viler you who have the mischief done.
I am not angry, love; but men should know
They cannot always pay the debt they owe
Their plighted honour; they may cause the ill
They cannot lessen, though they feel a will;
For he had truth with love, but love in youth
Does wrong, that cannot be repair’d by truth.
Ruth—I may tell, too oft had she been told—
Was tall and fair, and comely to behold; 120
Gentle and simple, in her native place
Not one compared with her in form or face;
She was not merry, but she gave our hearth
A cheerful spirit that was more than mirth.
There was a sailor boy, and people said
He was, as man, a likeness of the maid;
But not in this—for he was ever glad,
While Ruth was apprehensive, mild, and sad;
A quiet spirit hers, and peace would seek
In meditation—tender, mild, and meek! 130
Her loved the lad most truly; and, in truth,
She took an early liking to the youth;
To her alone were his attentions paid,
And they became the bachelor and maid.
He wish’d to marry; but so prudent we
And worldly wise, we said it could not be.
They took the counsel—may be they approved—
But still they grieved and waited, hoped and loved.
Now, my young friend, when of such state I speak
As one of danger, you will be to seek: 140
You know not, Richard, where the danger lies
In loving hearts, kind words, and speaking eyes;
For lovers speak their wishes with their looks
As plainly, love, as you can read your books.
Then, too, the meetings and the partings, all
The playful quarrels in which lovers fall,
Serve to one end—each lover is a child,
Quick to resent and to be reconciled;
And then their peace brings kindness that remains,
And so the lover from the quarrel gains. 150
When he has fault that she reproves, his fear
And grief assure her she was too severe:
And that brings kindness—when he bears an ill, }
Or disappointment, and is calm and still, }
She feels his own obedient to her will:}
And that brings kindness—and what kindness brings
I cannot tell you;—these were trying things.
They were as children, and they fell at length;
The trial, doubtless, is beyond their strength
Whom grace supports not; and will grace support 160
The too confiding, who their danger court?
Then they would marry—but were now too late—
All could their fault in sport or malice state;
And though the day was fix’d, and now drew on,
I could perceive my daughter’s peace was gone;
She could not bear the bold and laughing eye }
That gazed on her—reproach she could not fly; }
Her grief she would not show, her shame could not deny; }
For some with many virtues come to shame,
And some that lose them all preserve their name. 170
“‘Fix’d was the day; but ere that day appear’d,
A frightful rumour through the place was heard;
War, who had slept awhile, awaked once more,
And gangs came pressing till they swept the shore:
Our youth was seized and quickly sent away,
Nor would the wretches for his marriage stay,
But bore him off, in barbarous triumph bore,
And left us all our miseries to deplore.
There were wives, maids, and mothers on the beach,
And some sad story appertain’d to each; 180
Most sad to Ruth—to neither could she go!
But sat apart, and suffer’d matchless wo!
On the vile ship they turn’d their earnest view, }
Not one last [look] allow’d,—not one adieu!}
They saw the men on deck, but none distinctly knew. }
And there she staid, regardless of each eye,
With but one hope, a fervent hope to die.
Nor cared she now for kindness—all beheld
Her, who invited none, and none repell’d;
For there are griefs, my child, that sufferers hide, 190
And there are griefs that men display with pride;
But there are other griefs that, so we feel,
We care not to display them nor conceal:
Such were our sorrows on that fatal day,
More than our lives the spoilers tore away;
Nor did we heed their insult—some distress }
No form or manner can make more or less,}
And this is of that kind—this misery of a press! }
‘They say such things must be—perhaps they must;
But, sure, they need not fright us and disgust; 200
They need not soul-less crews of ruffians send
At once the ties of humble love to rend.
A single day had Thomas stay’d on shore,
He might have wedded, and we ask’d no more;
And that stern man, who forced the lad away,
Might have attended, and have graced the day;
His pride and honour might have been at rest,
It is no stain to make a couple blest!
Blest!—no, alas! it was to ease the heart
Of one sore pang, and then to weep and part! 210
But this he would not.—English seamen fight
For England’s gain and glory—it is right;
But will that public spirit be so strong,
Fill’d, as it must be, with their private wrong?
Forbid it, honour, one in all the fleet
Should hide in war, or from the foe retreat!
But is it just, that he who so defends
His country’s cause, should hide him from her friends?
Sure, if they must upon our children seize,
They might prevent such injuries as these; 220
Might hours—nay, days—in many a case allow,
And soften all the griefs we suffer now.
Some laws, some orders might in part redress
The licensed insults of a British press,
That keeps the honest and the brave in awe,
Where might is right, and violence is law.
‘Be not alarm’d, my child; there’s none regard
What you and I conceive so cruel-hard:
There is compassion, I believe; but still
One wants the power to help, and one the will, 230
And so from war to war the wrongs remain,
While Reason pleads, and Misery sighs, in vain.
‘Thus my poor Ruth was wretched and undone,
Nor had an husband for her only son,
Nor had he father; hope she did awhile,
And would not weep, although she could not smile;
Till news was brought us that the youth was slain,
And then, I think, she never smiled again;
Or if she did, it was but to express
A feeling far, indeed, from happiness! 240
Something that her bewilder’d mind conceived,
When she inform’d us that she never grieved,
But was right merry, then her head was wild,
And grief had gain’d possession of my child.
Yet, though bewilder’d for a time, and prone
To ramble much and speak aloud, alone;
Yet did she all that duty ever ask’d
And more, her will self-govern’d and untask’d.
With meekness bearing all reproach, all joy
To her was lost; she wept upon her boy, 250
Wish’d for his death, in fear that he might live
New sorrow to a burden’d heart to give.
‘There was a teacher, where my husband went— }
Sent, as he told the people—what he meant }
You cannot understand, but—he was sent.}
This man from meeting came, and strove to win
Her mind to peace by drawing off the sin,
Or what it was, that, working in her breast,
Robb’d it of comfort, confidence, and rest.
He came and reason’d, and she seem’d to feel 260
The pains he took—her griefs began to heal;
She ever answer’d kindly when he spoke,
And always thank’d him for the pains he took;
So, after three long years, and all the while
Wrapt up in grief, she blest us with a smile,
And spoke in comfort; but she mix’d no more
With younger persons, as she did before.
‘Still Ruth was pretty; in her person neat;
So thought the teacher, when they chanced to meet.
He was a weaver by his worldly trade, 270
But powerful work in the assemblies made;
People came leagues to town to hear him sift
The holy text,—he had the grace and gift;
Widows and maidens flock’d to hear his voice;
Of either kind he might have had his choice;—
But he had chosen—we had seen how shy
The girl was getting, my good man and I;
That when the weaver came, she kept with us,
Where he his points and doctrines might discuss;
But in our bit of garden, or the room 280
We call our parlour, there he must not come.
She loved him not, and though she could attend
To his discourses as her guide and friend,
Yet now to these she gave a listless ear,
As if a friend she would no longer hear;
This might he take for woman’s art, and cried,
‘Spouse of my heart, I must not be denied!’—
Fearless he spoke, and I had hope to see
My girl a wife—but this was not to be.
‘My husband, thinking of his worldly store, 290
And not, frail man, enduring to be poor,
Seeing his friend would for his child provide
And hers, he grieved to have the man denied;
For Ruth, when press‘d, rejected him, and grew
To her old sorrow, as if that were new.
‘Who shall support her?’ said her father, ‘how
Can I, infirm and weak as I am now?
And here a loving fool’——this gave her pain
Severe, indeed, but she would not complain;
Nor would consent, although the weaver grew 300
More fond, and would the frighten’d girl pursue.
‘O! much she begg’d him to forbear, to stand
Her soul’s kind friend, and not to ask her hand:
She could not love him.—‘Love me!’ he replied,
‘The love you mean is love unsanctified,
An earthly, wicked, sensual, sinful kind,
A creature-love, the passion of the blind.’
He did not court her, he would have her know,
For that poor love that will on beauty grow;
No! he would take her as the prophet took 310
One of the harlots in the holy book;
And then he look’d so ugly and severe!
And yet so fond—she could not hide her fear.
This fondness grew her torment; she would fly
In woman’s terror, if he came but nigh;
Nor could I wonder he should odious prove,
So like a ghost that left a grave for love.
But still her father lent his cruel aid
To the man’s hope, and she was more afraid:
He said, no more she should his table share, 320
But be the parish or the teacher’s care.
‘Three days I give you: see that all be right}
On Monday-morning—this is Thursday-night— }
Fulfil my wishes, girl! or else forsake my sight!’ }
‘I see her now; and, she that was so meek
It was a chance that she had power to speak,
Now spoke in earnest—‘Father! I obey,
And will remember the appointed day!’
‘Then came the man: she talk’d with him apart,
And, I believe, laid open all her heart; 330
But all in vain—she said to me, in tears,
‘Mother! that man is not what he appears:
He talks of heaven, and let him, if he will,
But he has earthly purpose to fulfil;
Upon my knees I begg’d him to resign
The hand he asks—he said, ‘it shall be mine.
‘What! did the holy men of Scripture deign
To hear a woman when she said ‘refrain?’
Of whom they chose they took them wives, and these
Made it their study and their wish to please; 340
The women then were faithful and afraid,
As Sarah Abraham, they their lords obey’d,
And so she styled him; ’tis in later days
Of foolish love that we our women praise,
Fall on the knee, and raise the suppliant hand,
And court the favour that we might command.’
O! my dear mother, when this man has power,
How will he treat me—first may beasts devour!
Or death in every form that I could prove,
Except this selfish being’s hateful love.’ 350
I gently blamed her, for I knew how hard
It is to force affection and regard.
Ah! my dear lad, I talk to you as one
Who knew the misery of an heart undone;
You know it not; but, dearest boy, when man,
Do not an ill because you find you can.
Where is the triumph? when such things men seek,
They only drive to wickedness the weak.
Weak was poor Ruth, and this good man so hard,
That to her weakness he had no regard; 360
But we had two days peace; he came, and then
My daughter whisper’d, ‘Would there were no men!
None to admire or scorn us, none to vex
A simple, trusting, fond, believing sex;
Who truly love the worth that men profess,
And think too kindly for their happiness.’
Poor Ruth! few heroines in the tragic page
Felt more than thee in thy contracted stage;
Fair, fond, and virtuous, they our pity move,
Impell’d by duty, agonized by love; 370
But no Mandane, who in dread has knelt
On the bare boards, has greater terrors felt,
Nor been by warring passions more subdued
Than thou, by this man’s groveling wish pursued;
Doom’d to a parent’s judgment, all unjust,}
Doom’d the chance mercy of the world to trust, }
Or to wed grossness and conceal disgust. }
If Ruth was frail, she had a mind too nice
To wed with that which she beheld as vice;
To take a reptile, who, beneath a show 380
Of peevish zeal, let carnal wishes grow;
Proud and yet mean, forbidding and yet full
Of eager appetites, devout and dull;
Waiting a legal right that he might seize
His own, and his impatient spirit ease;
Who would at once his pride and love indulge,
His temper humour, and his spite divulge.
This the poor victim saw—a second time,
Sighing, she said, ‘Shall I commit the crime,
And now untempted? Can the form or rite 390
Make me a wife in my Creator’s sight?
Can I the words without a meaning say?
Can I pronounce love, honour, or obey?
And if I cannot, shall I dare to wed,
And go an harlot to a loathed bed?
Never, dear mother! my poor boy and I
Will at the mercy of a parish lie:
Reproved for wants that vices would remove,
Reproach’d for vice that I could never love,
Mix’d with a crew long wedded to disgrace, }400
A Vulgar, forward, equalizing race—}
And am I doom’d to beg a dwelling in that place?’ }
Such was her reasoning: many times she weigh’d
The evils all, and was of each afraid;
She loath’d the common board, the vulgar seat, }
Where shame, and want, and vice, and sorrow meet, }
Where frailty finds allies, where guilt insures retreat. }
But peace again is fled; the teacher comes,
And new importance, haughtier air assumes.
No hapless victim of a tyrant’s love 410
More keenly felt, or more resisting strove
Against her fate; she look’d on every side,
But there were none to help her, none to guide;—
And he, the man who should have taught the soul,
Wish’d but the body in his base control.
She left her infant on the Sunday morn,
A creature doom’d to shame! in sorrow born;
A thing that languished, nor arrived at age
When the man’s thoughts with sin and pain engage—
She came not home to share our humble meal, 420
Her father thinking what his child would feel
From his hard sentence—still she came not home.
The night grew dark, and yet she was not come;
The east-wind roar’d, the sea return’d the sound,
And the rain fell as if the world were drown’d;
There were no lights without, and my good man,
To kindness frighten’d, with a groan began
To talk of Ruth, and pray; and then he took
The Bible down, and read the holy book;
For he had learning; and when that was done 430
We sat in silence—whither could we run?
We said, and then rush’d frighten’d from the door,
For we could bear our own conceit no more;
We call’d on neighbours—there she had not been;
We met some wanderers—ours they had not seen;
We hurried o’er the beach, both north and south,
Then join’d, and wander’d to our haven’s mouth,
Where rush’d the falling waters wildly out:
I scarcely heard the good man’s fearful shout,
Who saw a something on the billow ride, 440
And ‘Heaven have mercy on our sins!’ he cried,
‘It is my child!’ and to the present hour
So he believes—and spirits have the power.
And she was gone! the waters wide and deep
Roll’d o’er her body as she lay asleep.
She heard no more the angry waves and wind,
She heard no more the threatening of mankind;
Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuse of the storm,
To the hard rock was borne her comely form!
But O! what storm was in that mind? what strife, 450
That could compel her to lay down her life?
For she was seen within the sea to wade,
By one at distance, when she first had pray’d;
Then to a rock within the hither shoal
Softly and with a fearful step she stole;
Then, when she gain’d it, on the top she stood
A moment still—and dropt into the flood!
The man cried loudly, but he cried in vain—
She heard not then—she never heard again!
She had—pray, Heav’n!—she had that world in sight, 460
Where frailty mercy finds, and wrong has right;
But, sure, in this her portion such has been,
Well had it still remain’d a world unseen!’
Thus far the dame: the passions will dispense
To such a wild and rapid eloquence—
Will to the weakest mind their strength impart,
And give the tongue the language of the heart.”